note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) a dream of the north sea by james runciman author of _past and present_, _among the north sea trawlers_, _skippers and shellbacks_, etc. london: james nisbet and co., , berners street, w. dedication to the queen. madam, this book is dedicated to your majesty with the respectful admiration of one who is proud to have been associated with an effort to make the world more hopeful and beautiful for men who not long ago knew little hope and felt no beauty. in the wild weather, when the struggle for life never slackens from hour to hour on the trawling grounds, the great work of the mission to deep sea fishermen, like some mighty pharos, sheds light on the troubled darkness, and brave men, in hundreds, are thankful for its wise care and steady helpfulness. perhaps, of all the tribe of writers, i know most minutely the scope and significance of that mission--"as well for the body as the soul"--of which your majesty is the patron; and it is my earnest conviction that no event in your brilliant and beneficent reign could well be appraised at a higher value than the despatch of hospital cruisers to the smacksmen, which your gracious and practical sympathy has done so much to bring about. permit me to subscribe myself, madam, your majesty's most humble, obedient servant, james runciman. kingston-on-thames, may , . preface. one of the greatest of english classics--great by reason of his creative power, simplicity, and pathos--has built the superstructure of his famous allegory upon the slender foundations of a dream. but just as the immortal work of john bunyan had a very real support in truths and influences of the highest power and the deepest meaning, so the pages which record mr. runciman's "dream of the north sea," have an actual, a realistic, and a tragic import in the daily toil, sufferings, and hardships of the deep sea trawlers. moreover, the blessed work of healing the bodies, cheering the minds, and enlightening the souls of these storm-beaten labourers is not altogether a dream, for the extended operations which are now undertaken by the mission to deep sea fishermen furnish material for one of the brightest and most interesting records of present-day beneficence. but so much remains to be done, so great are the trials and the sorrows that still brood on the lone north sea, that mr. runciman's dream in vivid story and deft literary art, goes forth with a strong appeal to every thoughtful reader. the greatness of the work yet to be undertaken may to some extent be conceived from the marvellous results which have already been accomplished. i have elsewhere said that to this issue many persons have contributed, from the queen on the throne down to the humble and pious smacksman in the north sea, but that, so far as human skill and genius can achieve a conspicuous success in any human and benevolent enterprise, it has fallen to the lot of the founder of the mission to deep sea fishermen to accomplish such a success. no one can now write or think or "dream" of the trawlers on the german ocean, without referring, and referring again, to mr. e.j. mather, either _in propria persona_, or--as the author of "waverley" might have said--in the guise of some _eidolon_ suited to a vision of the north sea. this leads me to explain that though it had been originally announced that the introductory notice to this book would be from the pen of mr. mather, that gentleman, in view of the apparent references to himself throughout the tale, shrank from the task, with the result that the honour and the privilege have fallen upon me. i close by expressing a hope that mr. runciman's dream of the future may, when it reaches its accomplishment, add fresh lustre to a work which was begun by mr. mather in courage and in hope, and by him carried to a unique success. alexander gordon. contents. book i. i. the dreamer ii. the breeze iii. the second gale iv. a near thing v. after the storms vi. the mission hall book ii. i. january in the north sea ii. a crucial test iii. the plotter iv. the denouement appendix a appendix b * * * * * book i. chapter i. the dreamer. so many of my dreams have come true, that i sometimes incline to believe that dreams are in reality the only truths. i fancy this dream, at any rate, will be fulfilled. * * * * * a hard gale rushed over a torn sea, and the drift was swept so that the moon was obscured with every fresh gust. high overhead a clear, steely sky was flecked here and there with fleecy white, and, ever and again, the moon slipped her mantle of cloud from her rounded shoulder, and looked around her with large, calm glances. but there was an evil-looking sky away to the eastward, and the black wreaths 'of cloud crept steadily upward, obscuring little by little the fair, glittering sky. the swift waves gathered volume, and soon their hollows were like great panpipes through which the gale blew with many doleful sounds. everything to be seen on sea or sky promised a wild night, and the powerful schooner yacht which was charging along over the running seas was already reefed down closely. light bursts of spray came aboard aft like flying whip-lashes, and the man at the wheel stolidly shook his head as the jets cut him. right forward a slight sea sometimes came over with a crash, but the vessel was in no trouble, and she looked as if she could hold her own in a much worse breeze. i believe that only poets and landsmen are fond of bad weather; and the steersman occasionally threw a demure, quizzical glance at a young girl who was hanging on by one hand to the companion hatch. the wind had heightened her colour, and the chance gleams of the moon showed the girl's face as a flash of warm brightness in the chill dreariness of the night. it was a strange place and strange weather for a young lady to be out in, for the autumn was far advanced, and the deadly gales might be expected at any time; but this young person was in no way discomposed. there was something almost weird in the sight of that glowing young face, placid amid the fitful drifts; the screaming gusts caught at tiny stray curls of her dark hair; the vessel advanced with short plunges, and the flashing broad stream went past with that eerie moan which always makes me think of dire things. the girl looked quietly forward, and it seemed as if her spirit was unmoved by the tumult. she looked almost stern, for her broad brows were a little bent, but her mouth was firm and kindly, and her very impassivity gave sign of even temper. i do not like the miniature style of portrait-painting, so i shall not catalogue the features of this girl in the orthodox fashion. she would have drawn your eye in any crowd, for she had that look of slight abstraction which always marks those who are used at intervals to forget material things; and the composed mouth and rather square chin hinted at a certain capacity for practical affairs. the storm stirred her blood, and she murmured at last, "terrors take hold on him as waters; a tempest stealeth him away in the night. the east wind carrieth him away, and he departeth; and as a storm hurleth him out of his place." i would have ventured to tell you a good deal about that young lady's character, had i never heard her speak another word. the association, the choice of words, the sombre music of the old english--all were enough to show the bent of her mind. at last she turned, and said, "when do you think we shall sight them?" the man at the wheel shouted, "somewheres towards midnight, miss. we're a-goin' through it middling smart, and we can always draw on them." then the girl went below into the warm glow of the saloon. a sweet-faced lady smiled softly, and said, "is it poetry to-night, or a new scheme for regenerating everything?" the tone was caressing and half-admiring, and the younger lady's still smile in reply was like a revelation; it showed that she accepted banter, but was too serious to return it. marion dearsley and her aunt, mrs. walton, understood each other: the matron pretended to laugh at her niece's gravity, but the genuine relation between the pair was that of profound mutual confidence and fondness. the soft gleam of the lamps showed a very pleasant group in the roomy, comfortable saloon. a stout, black-bearded man lounged carelessly on a sofa, supporting himself with one huge hand as the vessel kicked awkwardly. he looked as if he had been born with a smile, and every line of his great face was disposed so as to express vast contentment and good-humour. you could not call him finely bred, but when he observed, in terrific bass tones, "hah! miss dearsley, you have gazed on the what's-his-name; you love the storm; you find it fahscinating--oh! fahscinating; ah! fahscinating! i like an ignoble cabin and a pipe, but the what's-his-name is fahscinating--ah! fahscinating." his infectious good-humour was better than any graces. then his pride in his phrases was very fine to behold, and he regarded his repetition of his sonorous adjective as quite an original thing in the way of pure rhetoric. tom lennard was by inheritance a merchant, by choice a philanthropist; he was naturally religious, but he could not help regarding his philanthropic work as a great frolic, and he often scandalized reformers of a more serious disposition. the excellent joseph naylor, who was never seen to smile, and who was popularly supposed to sleep in his black frock-coat and high stock, once met tom on a platform. when tom was introduced to the prim, beneficent joseph his enthusiasm overcame him; he brought his colossal paw down on mr. naylor's shoulder so that the poor man showed signs of shutting up like a concertina inside the frock-coat; he squeezed joseph's hand so fervently that the poor victim looked like a dentist's patient, and thomas roared like an amiable bull of bashan, "bah! aw'm glad to see this day, sir. to think we should meet at last! ah! fahscinating!--oh! fahscinating." mr. naylor bore the shock like a true philosopher, but at home that evening he mildly observed, "my dear, our new ally, mr. lennard, is most friendly, most cordial, quite impressively cordial; but do you know i should not like to sign a cheque just now. his cordiality has had distinct effect on my joints, and i wish really that his left hand were lighter. social intercourse can only be carried on with difficulty when you feel as if a large sack had fallen on you from the third floor of a warehouse." the good joseph always drew back with a timid air of maidenly modesty when tom approached him, and i quite sympathize with this bashfulness. it has never been my fortune to exchange courtesies with a large and healthy polar bear, so i cannot describe the operation, but i should imagine that tom's salute would aid one's imagination. this delightful rough diamond called on miss dearsley to choose the lee side, and then he addressed himself to a superb young fellow who was leaning against the wainscot, and easily following the pitching of the ship. "look here, ferrier, you can't find one bigot in this ship's company, but we've all had a lot of experience, and we find that religion's your only blasting-powder to break up the ugly old rocks that we used to steer among. we find that we must have a clear passage; we fix our charge. whoof! there you are; good sailing-room; bee-yootiful--oh! fahscinating." "i quite follow you, and i sympathize with you so far as i am concerned personally; but when fullerton persuaded me to come out i only thought of the physical condition of your people, and that is why i asked for mr. blair's yacht so that i might have a genuine, fair show. you see, i fear i am wanting in imagination, and the sight of physical pain touches me so directly, that i never can spare a very great deal of sympathy for that obscure sort of pain that i cannot see; i'm hand and glove with you, of course, and i shall go through with the affair to the finish; but you must doctor the souls, and let me attend to the bodies for the present." the speaker was a powerful, broad fellow, with a kind of military carriage; his tall forehead was crossed by soft lines of tranquil thought, and he had the unmistakable look of the true student. lewis ferrier came south to cambridge after he had done well at edinburgh. he might have been senior wrangler had he chosen, but he read everything that he should not have read, and he was beaten slightly by a typical examinee of the orthodox school. still, every one knew that ferrier was the finest mathematician of his year, and there was much muttering and whispering in academic corners when he decided at last to go in for medicine. he said, "i want something practical," and that was all the explanation he ever gave to account for his queer change. he took a brilliant medical degree, and he decided to accept a professorship of biology before attempting to practise. his reasons for being out on the north sea in an autumn gale will come out by degrees. a gentle-looking man stepped up to ferrier and laid a white hand on his arm. "we shall never interfere with you in the least degree, my dear ferrier. we'll take such help as you can give. we need all we can get. when you are fairly in the thick of our work you will perhaps understand that we have vital need of religion to keep us up at all. you can't tell what an appalling piece of work there is before us; but i give you my word that if religion were not a vital part of my being, if i did not believe that god is watching every action and leading us in our blind struggles, i should faint at my task; i should long for extinction, though only cowards seek it of their own accord." a quiet, short man broke in here. he had sat smiling softly as the talk went on. his face was gently humorous, and all the signs of a placid and pure life were there. this smiling philosopher said, "that's right, fullerton. ferrier's like my old mare used to be in the days when she was a little peacocky and fiery--she always wanted to rush her journeys. she steps soberly now. we'll teach him something before we've done with him. you know, my dear boy, you must understand that the greater number of these men are, well--uncultivated, do you understand. they're not so squalid, perhaps, as lapps or esquimaux, but they're mostly as dense. we've fought hard for a long time, and we're making some headway; but we can do little, and if we could not get at our men by religion we couldn't manage at all. i've brought you into a queer country, and you must be prepared for a pretty set of surprises. my sister and my niece have been out before, and i persuaded mrs. walton and miss dearsley to take a turn. as soon as my people have got over their troubles we'll all make a dead set at you, you audacious young materialist that you are." then john blair smiled gently once more, and there was a certain pride visible as his sad eyes twinkled on his young favourite. this company of kind folks were all of the sort called evangelical, and they were bound on a strange errand, the like of which had brought one of the men out to sea many times before. the yacht was now chasing one of the great north sea trawling fleets, and fullerton's idea was to let the gallant young doctor see something of the wild work that goes on among the fishing-boats when the weather is ugly. the dark, solemn young lady sat very still while the men talked, and her face had that air of intense attention which is so impressive when it is not simulated. i think she was a spiritual relative of joan of arc and madame roland. it seems dreadful to say so, but i am not sure that she would not have played charlotte corday's part had occasion arisen. in low, full tones she asked, "did no one ever work among the fishers before mr. fullerton found them out?" "no one, except the fellows who sold vile spirits, my dear," said blair. "not a single surgeon?" "not one. that's why we decided to kidnap ferrier. we want to give him a proper school of surgery to practise in--genuine raw material, and plenty of it, and you must help us to keep him in order. fancy his trying to convert us; he'll try to convert you next, if you don't mind!" the girl paid no heed to the banter. she went on as if in a reverie. "it is enough to bring a judgment on a nation, all the idle women and idle men. mamma told me that a brewer's wife paid two thousand pounds for flowers in one month. why cannot you speak to women?" "we mustn't blame the poor ladies," said fullerton: "how could they know? plenty of people told them about timbuctoo, and jerusalem, and madagascar, and north and south america, but this region's just a trifle out of the way. a lady may easily sign a cheque or pack a missionary's medicine-chest, but she could not come out here among dangers and filth and discomfort, and the men ashore are not much pluckier. no; in my experience of english people i've always found them lavish with their help, only you must let them know what to help. there's the point." "and you've begun, dear mr. fullerton, have you not?" "yes; but the end is far off. we were so late--so late in beginning, and i must pass away, and my place will know me no more; and many and many another will pass away. oh, yes! we shall travel from gulf to gulf; but i think, sometimes, that my soul will be here on the wild nights. i must be near my men--my poor men!--and i'll meet them when their voyage is over." the enthusiast spoke solemnly, and his queer diction somehow was not unbecoming or grotesque. i suppose george fox and savonarola did not use quite the ordinary language of their day and generation. the doctor listened with a kind look on his strong face, and when the dark young girl quietly whispered "amen!" our professor quite simply repeated the word. tom lennard had been going through a most complicated series of acrobatic movements, and he now broke in-- "ah! harry fullerton, if you're not an angel, you're pretty near one. ah! that eloquence is of the most--the most--a kind of--ah! fahscinating--oh-h-h! fahscinating! but i believe this vessel has a personal spite against me, or else the sea's rising." "it is, indeed," said mr. blair, who had peeped out from the companion. "we're actually running up to the fleet, and the rocket has gone up for them to haul trawls. it looks very bad, very bad. you're not frightened, mrs. walton, i hope?" the reserved, silent lady said-- "oh, no! marion and i seem to take kindly to bad weather. i believe if she could wear a sou'-wester she would hang on to the rigging. it's her combative instinct. but i do hope there is no danger for the poor fishermen?" mr. blair very quietly said-- "if their vessels were like ours there would be no fear. we haven't an unsound rope or block, but many of the smacks are shockingly ill-found, and one rope or spar may cost a crew their lives if it's faulty. the glass has gone down badly, and we are in for a gale, and a heavy one. but my ship would be quite comfortable in the bay of biscay." a trampling on deck sounded. "see if the ladies can look from the companion," said tom lennard. "the sight should be splendid. you and i must shove on oilskins, blair and see if we can keep our legs." this was almost the end of the night's conversation. those good mission-folks, as has been seen, contrived to get on without saying either clever things or bitter things, and persons who possess the higher intellect may fancy that this was a sign of a poor spirit. perhaps; and yet i have read somewhere that the poor in spirit may not fare so very badly in the long run. chapter ii. the breeze. the spectacle on deck was appalling, and the sounds were appalling also. the blast rushed by with a deep ground note which rose in pitch to a yell as the gust hurled itself through the cordage; each sea that came down seemed likely to be the last, but the sturdy yacht--no floating chisel was she--ran up the steep with a long, slow glide, and smashed into the black hollow with a sharp explosive sound. marion dearsley might have been pardoned had she shown tremors as the flying mountains towered over the vessel. once a great black wall heaved up and doubled the intensity of the murky midnight by a sinister shade; there came a horrible silence, and then, with a loud bellow, the wall burst into ruin and crashed down on the ship in a torrent which seemed made up of a thousand conflicting streams. the skipper silently dashed aft, flung his arms round tom lennard, and pinned him to the mast; mr. blair hung on, though he was drifted aft with his feet off the deck until he hung like a totally new description of flying signal; the ladies were drenched by the deluge which rushed down below, and the steward, when he saw the water swashing about over his cabin floor, exclaimed with discreet bitterness on the folly of inviting ladies to witness such a spectacle as a north sea gale. tom observed: "the grandeur is--ah! fahscinating, but it's rather damp grandeur. it's only grandeur fit for heroes. give me all my grandeur dry, if you please." "yes, sir," said the streaming skipper, "that was a near thing for you and me when she shipped it. if i hadn't been on the right side of the mast, both on us must have gone." dawn rose slowly; the sky became blotched with snaky tints of dull yellow and livid grey; the gale kept on, and the schooner was hove-to to meet a sea of terrifying speed and height. two of the ladies were below, only craving to be left alone even by the stewardess; but the hideous fascination of the storm drew marion dearsley again and again, and she sheltered herself under the hatch, and looked with awe at the mad turmoil which could be seen astern. here and there, far up on the rushing sides of the foaming mountains, stray smacks hung like specks; the schooner shipped very little water now, and ferrier kept the deck with some difficulty. events succeeded each other with the terrifying suddenness of shocking dreams, and when the skipper said, "thank god for a good vessel under us, sir; many a good man has gone to meet his maker this night," ferrier had quite a new sensation, which i might almost say approached terror, were i not writing about an absolutely courageous fellow. still the series of moving accidents went on. a smack hove up under the stern of the schooner, and our skipper said gravely, "that brixham man's mad to try sailing that vessel. if one puff comes any harder than the last, he'll be hove down." then the skipper turned to look forward, and ferrier followed him. a low, strangled moan made them both start and look down the companion. marion dearsley, pointing with convulsively rigid arm, exclaimed, "the vessel--oh, the poor men!" that smack was hove down, and her mainsail was held by the weight of water. "i expect we must carry away something, but i'm going down to him. jump to the wheel, sir, and cast that lashing. when i wave, shove it hard a-starboard. that way, sir. the men and i must manage forrad. you must go below at once, miss. jim, shove those bolts in." there was a shock, and ferrier thought the mainsheet had parted; then three strongish seas hit the schooner until she shuddered and rolled under the immense burden. it was a fearful risk, but the vessel freed herself and drove to the smack. one man was hanging on over the starboard side which was hove up; the schooner swept on in cruel danger, and the skipper might well look stern and white. "we sha'n't save it," he growled. then ferrier groaned, "oh, god," for the keel of the smack at last heaved up, and she went down, down, slowly down, while her copper showed less and less, till the last fatal sea completed the work of wrath and ruin. ferrier felt that sensation of sickness which i have so often seen shown by strong men. the skipper said: "we'll heave her to again. you'd better get below. your pluck's all right, but an unlucky one might catch you, and you ain't got the knack of watching for an extra drop o' water same as us." lewis ferrier went below and found all his friends looking anxious. indeed, the clamour was deafening, and the bravest man or woman had good reason for feeling serious. marion dearsley looked at ferrier with parted lips, and he could see that she was unable to speak; but her eyes made the dread inquiry which he expected. he bowed his head, and the girl covered her face with a tearing sob: "oh, the fatherless! o lord, holy and true, how long? bless the fatherless!" the poor prostrate ladies in the further cabin added their moanings to that dreadful wail, and you may guess that no very cheerful company were gathered in that dim saloon. of course they would have been swamped had not the skylights been covered in, and the low light was oppressive. at six in the morning the skipper came with a grin and beckoned mr. blair into the crew's cabin. "i pretended to laugh, sir," said he, "but it's not quite laughing now. the fog's coming over, and we're just going into cloud after cloud of it. don't let either of the ladies peep up again on any account. i'm afeared o' nothing but collision, but it's regular blind man's holiday when one o' them comes down." "i'll see my sister right, freeman, and i'll come and try if i can have a peep from your ladder." then blair saw a thing which always seems more impressive than anything else that can be witnessed at sea--except, perhaps, a snowstorm. a mysterious portent came rolling onward; afar off it looked like a pale grey wall of inconceivable height, but as it drew nearer, the wall resolved itself into a wild array of columns, and eddies, and whirlpools, and great full-bosomed clouds, that rolled and swam and rose and fell with maddening complexity. then came a breath of deadly chillness, and then a horror of great darkness--a darkness that could be felt. the skipper himself took to the fore rigging, and placed one of the watch handy to the wheel; finally he called all hands up very quietly, and the men hung on anyhow. one drift after another passed by in dim majesty, and the spectacle, with all its desolation, was one never to be forgotten. after half an hour or so, blair glanced up and noticed a dim form sliding down the shrouds; then the skipper rushed aft, for the helmsman could not see him, and then came a strange dark cloud of massive texture looming through the delirious dance of the fog-wreaths. first a flare was tried, then the bell was rung with trebled vigour. "down below, sir, and call all up. he's yawed into us." blair saw the shape of a large vessel start out in desperate closeness; and running through to the saloon, cried quickly, "all up on deck! ferrier, fullerton, tom, lend a hand with the ladies." a yell was heard above; the poor sick folk came out in piteously thin wrappings, moaning as they walked, and all the company got on deck just in time to see a big barque go barely clear. the youngest girl fainted, and marion dearsley attended to her with a steady coolness that earned the admiration of her assistant--the doctor. the serried ranks of the wreaths ceased to pour on, and the worn-out landsfolk went below. right on into the next night the unwearied gale blew; significant lumps of wreckage drifted past the schooner, and two floating batches of fish-boxes hinted at mischief. the frightful sea made it well-nigh impossible for those below to lie down with any comfort; they hardly had the seaman's knack of saving themselves from muscular strain, and they simply endured their misery as best they could. the yelling of wind and the volleying of tortured water made general conversation impossible; but tom went from one lady to another and uttered ear-splitting howls with a view of cheering the poor things up. indeed, he once described the predicament as distinctly fahscinating, but this example of poetic license was too much even for thomas, and he withdrew his remark in the most parliamentary manner. ferrier was more useful; his resolute, cheerful air, the curt, brisk coolness of his chance remarks, were exactly what were wanted to reassure women, and he did much to make the dreary day pass tolerably. his services as waiter-general were admirably performed, and he really did more by resolute helpfulness than could have been done by any quantity of exhortation. he ventured to take a long view at sundown, and he found the experience saddening. the enormous chequered floor of the sea divided with turbulent sweep two sombre hollow hemispheres. lurid red, livid blue, cold green shone in the sky, and were reflected in chance glints of horror from the spume of the charging seas. cold, cold it was all round; cold where the lowering black cloud hung in the east; cold where the west glowed with dull coppery patches; cold everywhere; and ah! how cold in the dead men's graves down in the darkling ooze! ferrier was just thinking, "and the smacksmen go through this all the winter long!" when the skipper came up. "it'll blow itself out now, sir, very soon, and a good job. we've had one or two very near things, and i never had such an anxious time since i came to sea." "i suppose we didn't know the real danger?" "not when we shipped that big 'un sir. however, praise the lord, we're all safe, and i wish i could say as much for our poor commerades. it'll take two days to get the fleet together, and then we shall hear more." at midnight a lull became easily perceptible, and the bruised, worn-out seafarers gathered for a little while to hold a prayer-meeting after their fashion. they were dropping asleep, but they offered their thanks in their own simple way; and when ferrier said, "i've just had a commonplace thought that was new, however, to me: the fishermen endure this all the year, and do their work without having any saloons to take shelter in," then fullerton softly answered, "thank god to hear you say that. you'll be one of us now, and i wish we could only give thousands the same experience, for then this darkened population might have some light and comfort and happiness." and now let me close a plain account of a north sea gale. when the weather is like that, the smacksmen must go on performing work that needs consummate dexterity at any time. our company of kindly philanthropists had learned a lesson, and we must see what use they make of the instruction. i want our good folk ashore to follow me, and i think i may make them share lewis ferrier's new sensation. chapter iii. the second gale. in thirty-six hours the gale had fined off, and the scattered and shattered vessels of the fleet began to draw together; a sullen swell still lunged over the banks, but there was little wind and no danger. fullerton said, "now, ferrier, we have an extra medicine-chest on board, besides blair's stock, and you've seen the surgery. you'll have plenty of work presently. after a gale like this there are always scores of accidents that can't be treated by rough-and-tumble methods. a skipper may manage simple things; we need educated skill. the men are beginning to know blair's boat, and i wish we had just twelve like her. you see we've got at a good many of the men with our ordinary vessels, and that has worked marvels, but all we've done is only a drop in the sea. we want you fellows, and plenty of you. hullo! what cheer, my lads! what cheer!" a smack lumbered past with her mainsail gone, and her gear in a sadly tangled condition. "can you send us help, sir? we'm got a chap cruel bad hurt." "we've got a doctor on board; he shall come." all round, the rolling sea was speckled with tiny boats that careered from hill to hollow, and hollow to hill, while the two cool rowers snatched the water with sharp dexterous strokes. after the wild ordeal of the past two days these fishers quietly turned to and began ferrying the fish taken in the last haul. while the boat was being got ready, ferrier gave mrs. walton and miss dearsley an arm each, and did his best to convey them along the rearing deck. the girl said-- "is that the steam-carrier i have heard of? how fearful! it makes me want to shut my eyes." to marion dearsley's unaccustomed sight the lurching of the carrier was indeed awful, and she might well wonder, as i once did, how any boat ever got away safely. i have often told the public about that frantic scene alongside the steamers, but words are only a poor medium, for not hugo, nor even clark russell, the matchless, could give a fair idea of that daily survival of danger, and recklessness, and almost insane audacity. the skipper was used to put in his word pretty freely on all occasions, for blair's men were not drilled in the style of ordinary yachtsmen. freeman, like all of the schooner's crew, had been a fisherman, and he grinned with pleasing humour when he heard the young lady's innocent questions. "bless you, miss, that's nothing. see 'em go in winter when you can't see the top of the steamboat's mast as she gets behind a sea. many and many's the one i've seen go. they're used to it, but i once seen a genelman faint--he was weak, poor fellow--and we took aboard a dose of water that left us half-full. he would come at any risk, and when we histed him up on the cutter's deck, and he comes to, he shudders and he says, 'that is too horrible. am i a-dreaming?' but it's all use, miss. even when some poor fellows is drowned, the men do all they can; and if they fail, they forget next day." "could you edge us towards the cutter, skipper?" said fullerton. "oh, yes. bear up for the carrier, bill; mind this fellow coming down." the beautiful yacht was soon well under the steamer's lee, and the ladies watched with dazed curiosity the work of the tattered, filthy, greasy mob who bounded, and strained, and performed their prodigies of skill on the thofts and gunwales of the little boats. life and limb seemed to be not worth caring for; men fairly hurled themselves from the steamer into the boats, quite careless as to whether they landed on hands or feet, or anyhow. fullerton exclaimed-- "just to think that of all those splendid, plucky smacksmen, we haven't got one yet! i've been using the glass, and can't see a face that i know. how can we? we haven't funds, and we cannot send vessels out." miss dearsley's education was being rapidly completed. her strong, quick intelligence was catching the significance of everything she saw. the smack with the lost mainsail was drawing near, and the doctor was ready to go, when a boat with four men came within safe distance of the schooner's side. "can you give us any assistance, sir? our mate's badly wounded--seems to a' lost his senses like, and don't understand." a deadly pale man was stretched limply on the top of a pile of fish-boxes. mrs. walton said-- "pray take us away--we cannot bear the sight." and indeed marion dearsley was as pale as the poor blood-smeared fisherman. ferrier coolly waited and helped tom and fullerton to hoist the senseless, mangled mortal on deck. the crew did all they could to keep the boat steady, but after every care the miserable sufferer fell at last with a sudden jerk across the schooner's rail. he was too weak to moan. "don't take him below yet," said ferrier. "lennard, you help me. why, you've let his cap get stuck to his head, my man. warm water, steward". the man was really suffering only from extreme loss of blood; a falling block had hit him, and a ghastly flap was torn away from his scalp. that steady, deft scotchman worked away, in spite of the awkward roll of the vessel, like lightning. he cut away the clotted hair, cleansed the wound; then he said sharply-- "how did you come to let your shipmate lose so much blood?" "why, sir, we hadn't not so much as a pocket-handkerchief aboard. we tried a big handful of salt, but that made him holler awful before he lost his senses, and the wessel was makin' such heavy weather of it, we couldn't spare a man to hould him when he was rollin' on the cabin floor." "yes, sir; lord, save us!" said another battered, begrimed fellow. "if he'd a-rolled agen the stove we couldn't done nothin'. we was hard put to it to save the wessel and ourselves." "i see now. steward, my case. this must be sewn up." ferrier had hardly drawn three stitches through, when one of the seamen fainted away, and this complication, added to the inexorable roll of the yacht, made ferrier's task a hard one; but the indomitable scot was on his mettle. he finished his work, and then said-- "now, my lads, you cannot take your mate on board again. i'm going to give him my own berth, and he'll stay here." "how are we to get him again, sir?" "that i don't know. i only know that he'll die if he has to be flung about any more." "well, sir, you fare to be a clever man, and you're a good 'un. we're not three very good 'uns, me and these chaps isn't, but if you haves a meetin' sunday we're goin' to be here." then came the usual handshaking, and the two gentlemen's palms were remarkably unctuous before the visitors departed. "look here, lennard, if i'd had slings something like those used in the troopships for horses, i should have got that poor fellow up as easily as if he'd been a kitten. and now, how on earth are we to lower him down that narrow companion? we must leave it to freeman and the men. neither of us can keep a footing. what a pity we haven't a wide hatchway with slings! that twisting down the curved steps means years off the poor soul's life." the gentle sailors did their best, but the patient suffered badly, and ferrier found it hard to force beef-tea between the poor fellow's clenched teeth. lucky tom betts! had he been sent back to the smack he would have died like a dog; as it was, he was tucked into a berth between snowy sheets, and tom lennard kept watch over him while ferrier went off to board the disabled smack. all the ladies were able to meet in the saloon now, and even the two invalids eagerly asked at short intervals after the patient's health. lucky tom betts! marion dearsley begged that she might see him, and tom gave gracious permission when he thought his charge was asleep. miss dearsley was leaning beside the cot. "like to an angel bending o'er the dying who die in righteousness, she stood," when she and lennard met with a sudden surprise. the wounded man opened his great dark eyes that showed like deep shadows on the dead white of his skin; he saw that clear, exquisite face with all the divine fulness of womanly tenderness shining sweetly from the kind eyes, and he smiled--a very beautiful smile. he could speak very low, and the awe-stricken girl murmured-- "oh, hear him, mr. lennard, hear him!" the man spoke in a slow monotone. "its all right, and i'm there arter all. i've swoor, and ive drunk, and yet arter all i'm forgiven. that's because i prayed at the very last minute, an' he heerd me. the angel hasn't got no wings like what they talked about, but that don't matter; i'm here, and safe, and i'll meet the old woman when her time comes, and no error; but it ain't no thanks to _me_." then the remarkable theologian drew a heavy sigh of gladness, and passed into torpor again. tom lennard, in a stage whisper which was calculated to soothe a sick man much as the firing of cannon might, said-- "well, of all the what's-his-names, that beats every book that ever was." tears were standing in the lady's sweet eyes, and there was something hypocritical in the startling cough whereby thomas endeavoured to pose as a hard and seasoned old medical character. meanwhile ferrier was slung on board the smack which hailed first, and his education was continued with a vengeance. "down there, sir!" lewis got half way down when a rank waft of acrid and mephitic air met him and half-choked him. he struggled on, and when he found his bearings by the dim and misty light he sat down on a locker and gasped. the atmosphere was heated to a cruel and almost dangerous pitch, and the odour!--oh, zola! if i dared! a groan from a darkened corner sounded hollow, and ferrier saw his new patient. the skipper came down and said-- "there he is, sir. when our topmast broke away it ketches him right in the leg, and we could do nothin'. he has suffered some, he has, sir, and that's true." ferrier soon completed his examination, and he said-- "it's a mercy i'm well provided. this poor soul must have a constitution like a horse." an ugly fracture had been grinding for forty-eight hours, and not a thing could be done for the wretched fellow. quickly and surely ferrier set and strapped up the limb; then disposing the patient as comfortably as possible in an unspeakably foul and sloppy berth, he said-- "let that boy stand by this man, and take care that he's not thrown from side to side. i must breathe the air, or i shall drop down." when on deck he said, "now, my man, what would you have done if you hadn't met us?" "pitched him on board the carrier, sir." "with an unset fracture!" "well, sir, what could we do? none on us knows nothin' about things of that sort, and there isn't enough of mr. fullerton's wessels for one-half of our men. i twigged a sight on him as we run up to you, and i could a-gone on these knees, though i'm not to say one o' the prayin' kind." "but how long would the carrier be in running home?" "forty-eight hours; p'raps fifty-six with a foul wind." "well, that man will have a stiff leg for life as it is, and he would have died if you hadn't come across me." "likely so, sir, but we don't have doctors here. which o' them would stop for one winter month? mr. doctor can't have no carriage here; he can't have no pavement under his foot when he goes for to pay his calls and draw his brass. he'd have to be chucked about like a trunk o' fish, and soft-skinned gents don't hold with that. no, sir. we takes our chance. a accident is a accident; if you cops it, you cops it, and you must take your chance on the carrier at sea, and the workus at home. look at them wessels. there's six hundred hands round us, and every man of 'em would pay a penny a week towards a doctor if the governors would do a bit as well. i'm no scholard, but six hundred pennies, and six hundred more to that, might pay a man middlin' fair. but where's your man?" ferrier's education was being perfected with admirable speed. the yacht came lunging down over the swell, and freeman shaved the smack as closely as he dared. the skipper hailed: "are you all right, sir? we must have you back. the admiral says we're in for another bad time. glass falling." fender sang out, "i cannot leave my man. you must stand by me somehow or other and take me off when you can." the ladies waved their farewells, for people soon grow familiar and unconventional at sea. blair shouted, "lennard's a born hospital nurse, but he'll overfeed your patient." then amid falling shades and hollow moaning of winds the yacht drove slowly away with her foresail still aweather, and the fleet hung around awaiting the admiral's final decision. the night dropped down; the moon had no power over the rack of dark clouds, and the wind rose, calling now and again like the banshee. a very drastic branch of lewis ferrier's education was about to begin. dear ladies! kindly men! you know what the softly-lit, luxurious sick-room is like. the couch is delicious for languorous limbs, the temperature is daintily adjusted, the nurse is deft and silent, and there is no sound to jar on weak nerves. but try to imagine the state of things in the sick-room where ferrier watched when the second gale came away. the smack had no mainsail to steady her, but the best was done by heaving her to under foresail and mizen. she pitched cruelly and rolled until she must have shown her keel. the men kept the water under with the pumps, and the sharp jerk, jerk of the rickety handles rang all night. "she do drink some," said the skipper. ferrier said, "yes, she smells like it." down in that nauseating cabin the young man sat, holding his patient with strong, kind hands. the vessel flung herself about, sometimes combining the motions of pitching and rolling with the utmost virulence; the bilge water went slosh, slosh, and the hot, choking odours came forth on the night. coffee, fish, cheese, foul clothing, vermin of miscellaneous sorts, paraffin oil, sulphurous coke, steaming leather, engine oil--all combined their various scents into one marvellous compound which struck the senses like a blow that stunned almost every faculty. oh, ladies, have pity on the hardly entreated! once or twice ferrier was obliged to go on deck from the fetid kennel, and he left a man to watch the sufferer. the shrill wind seemed sweet to the taste and scent, the savage howl of tearing squalls was better than the creak of dirty timbers and the noise of clashing fish-boxes; but the young man always returned to his post and tried his best to cheer the maimed sailor. "does the rolling hurt you badly, my man?" "oh! you're over kind to moither yourself about me, sir. she du give me a twist now and then, but, lord's sake, what was it like before you come! i doan't fare to know about heaven, but i should say, speakin' in my way, this is like heaven, if i remember yesterday." "have you ever been hurt before?" "little things, sir--crushed fingers, sprained foot, bruises when you tumbles, say runnin' round with the trawl warp. but we doan't a-seem to care for them so much. we're bred to patience, you see; and you're bound to act up to your breedin'. that is it, sir; bred to patience." "and has no doctor been out here yet?" "what could he du? he can't fare to feel like us. when it comes a breeze he wants a doctor hisself, and how would that suit?" "have you eaten anything?" "well, no, sir. i was in that pain, sir, and i didn't want to moither my shipmets no more'n you, so i closes my teeth. it's the breed, sir--bred to patience." "well, the skipper must find us something now, at any rate." there was some cabbage growing rather yellow and stale, some rocky biscuit, some vile coffee, some salt butter, and one delicious fish called a "latchet." with a boldness worthy of the victoria cross, lewis set himself to broil that fish over the sulphurous fire. he cannot, of course, compute the number of falls which he had; he only knows that he imbued his very being with molten butter and fishy flavours. but he contrived to make a kind of passable mess (of the fish as well as of his clothing), and he fed his man with his own strong hand. he then gave him a mouthful or two of sherry and water, and the simple fellow said-- "god bless you, sir! i can just close my eyes." reader, lewis ferrier's education is improving. chapter iv. a near thing. ferrier was anything but a fatalist, yet he had a happy and useful way of taking short views of life. in times of extreme depression he used to say to himself, "things seem black just now, but i know when i get over the trouble i shall look over the black gap of misery and try to imagine what is on the other side." it is a good plan. many a suicide would have been averted if the self-slain beings had chosen to take a short view instead of harbouring visions of huge banked-up troubles. no young fellow was ever in a much more awkward position than that of ferrier. the _haughty belle_ smack, in spite of her highly fashionable name, was one of the ramshackle tubs which still contrive to escape the censure of the board of trade; and bill larmor, the skipper, skilful as he was, could not do himself justice in a craft that wallowed like a soaked log. then poor withers, the maimed man, was a constant care; all the labour of two hands at the pumps was of little avail, and, last of all, the unhappy little boy could hardly count at all as a help. but the bricklayer's saying, "it's dogged as does it," holds all over the world, and brave men drive death and despair back to their fastnesses. ferrier thought, "i'm all well except for the active inhabitants of the cabin. they seem to be colonizing my person and bringing me under cultivation; barring that i'm not so ill off. if i can ease my patient, that is something to the good." so he claimed the boy's assistance for the night, and determined to divide his time between soothing withers and lending a hand on deck. skipper larmor was composed, as men of his class generally are; you rarely hear them raise their voices, and they seldom show signs of being flurried. as quietly as though he had been wishing his passenger good evening, he said-- "we're blowing away from them, sir, and we can't du much. i hope the yacht will be able to stand by us. later on we'll show them a few flares, and if things get over and above bad i must send some rockets up." "i'm mainly anxious about my man below. if we only had any kind of easy mattress for him i should not be so anxious, but he's thrown about, and every bad jerk that comes wakes him out of his doze. a healthy life-guardsman would be helpless after one night like this!" "as i said, sir; lord, help us; we must bear what's sent." the _haughty belle_ became more and more inert, and the breeze grew more and more powerful. the mediterranean is like a capricious woman; the north sea is like a violent and capricious man. the foredoomed smack was almost like a buoy in a tideway; the sea came over her, screaming as it met her resistance, like the back-draught among pebbles. ferrier found to his dismay that, even if he wanted to render any assistance, he was too much of a landsman to keep his feet in that inexorable cataract, and he saw, too, that the vessel was gradually rolling more and more to starboard. the pumps were mastered, and even on deck the ugly squelch, squelch of the mass of water below could be heard. every swing of that liquid pendulum smote on our young man's heart, and he learned, in a few short hours, the meaning of death. can a seaman be other than superstitious or religious? the hamper of ropes that clung round the mainmast seemed to gibber like a man in fever as the gale threaded the mazes; the hollow down-draught from the foresail cried in boding tones; it seemed like some malignant elf calling "woe to you! woe for ever! darkness is coming, and i and death await you with cold arms." every timber complained with whining iteration, and the boom of the full, falling seas tolled as a bell tolls that beats out the last minutes of a mortal's life. the cockney poet sings-- "a cheer for the hard, glad weather, the quiver and beat of the sea!" shade of rodney! what does the man know about it? if his joints were aching and helpless with the "hardness," he would not think the weather so "glad"; if the "beat of the sea" made every nerve of him quiver with the agony of salt-water cracks, i reckon he would want to go home to his bath and bed; and if the savage combers gnashed at him like white teeth of ravenous beasts, i take it that his general feelings of jollity would be modified; while last of all, if he saw the dark portal--goal of all mortals--slowly lifting to let him fare on to the halls of doom, i wager that poet would not think of rhymes. if he had to work!--but no, a real sea poet does not work. ferrier was a good and plucky man, but the moments went past him, leaving legacies of fear. was he to leave the kindly world? oh! thrilling breath of spring, gladness of sunlight, murmur of trees, gracious faces of women! were all to be seen no more? every joyous hour came back to memory; every ungrateful thought spoken or uttered was now remembered with remorse. have you looked in the jaws of death? i have, and ferrier did so. when the wheels of being are twirling slowly to a close, when the animal in us is cowed into stupor, then the spirit craves passionately for succour; and let a man be never so lightsome, he stretches lame hands of faith and gropes, even though he seem to gather but dust and chaff. roar on roar, volley on volley, sweep on sweep of crying water--so the riot of the storm went on; the skipper waited helplessly like a dumb drudge, and a hand of ice seemed to clutch at ferrier's heart. he went down to see withers and found him patient as before. "she du seem to have got a lot of water in her, sir. i never felt quite like this since once i was hove down. say, here, sir." the man spoke with a husky voice. "if so be you has to try the boat, don't you mind me. if you try to shove me aboard you'll lose your lives. i've thought it round, and, after all, they say it's only three minutes." "but, my man, we won't leave you; besides, she's not gone yet. a tub will float in a seaway; why shouldn't the vessel?" "i knows too much, sir, too much. excuse me, sir, have you done what they call found christ? i'm not much in that line myself, but don't you think maybe an odd word wouldn't be some help like in this frap? i'm passin' away, and i don't want to leave anything out." lewis slipped up on deck and signed for larmor. "our man wants to pray. don't you think we may all meet? you can do nothing more than let the vessel drift. leave one hand here ready to show a flare, and come down." "i don't much understand it, sir; but bob and me will come." then, knee deep in water, the forlorn little company prayed together. i do not care to report such things--it verges on vulgarism; but i will tell you a word or two that came from the maimed man. "o lord, give me a chance if you see fit; but let me go if any one is to go, and save my commerades. i've been a bad 'un, and i haven't no right to ask nothing. save the others, and, if i have no chance in this world of a better life, give me a look in before you take me." who could smile at the gruff, innocent familiarity? a very great poet has said, "consort much with powerful uneducated persons." fellows like withers make one believe this. the prayer was not, perhaps, intelligent; but he who searches the hearts would rightly appraise those words, "i've been a bad 'un." ferrier felt lightened, and he shook hands with larmor before they once more faced the war of the night. the fire was out, it was bitter chill, yet hope was left--- a faint sparkle--but still a stay for the soul of the tempest-tossed men. the climax of the breeze seemed approaching at four o'clock; and, as larmor said, "it couldn't be very much worse." the skipper was then hanging as he best could to the mizen rigging; lewis had his arms tightly locked on the port side round the futtock shrouds, and was cowering to get clear of the scourging wind. there was a wild shriek forward. "water, skipper!" lewis looked up. there it was, as high as the mast-head, compact as a wall, and charging with the level velocity of a horse regiment. the doctor closed his eyes and thought, "now for the grand secret." then came the immense pressure--the convulsive straining, the failing light, the noise in the ears. first the young man found himself crushed under some strangling incubus; then, with a shrieking gasp, he was in the upper air. but he was under a hamper of ropes that strung him down as if he were in a coop, and his dulled senses failed for a moment to tell what ailed him. at last, after seconds that seemed like ages, it dawned on him; the masts had snapped like carrots, both were over the side, and the hulk was only a half-sunken plaything for the seas to hurl hither and thither. larmor? gone! how long? these things chased each other through his dim mind; he slipped his arm out and crept clear; then a perception struck him with the force of a material thing; a return wave leaped up with a slow, spent lunge on the starboard side, and a black something--wreckage? no. a shudder of the torn nerves told the young man what it was. he slid desperately over and made his clutch; the great backwash seemed as though it would tear his arm out of the socket, but he hung on, and presently a lucky lift enabled him to haul larmor on board! all this passed in a few lying instants, but centuries--- aeons--could not count its length in the anguish-stricken human soul. i once knew a sailor who was washed through a port in a biscay gale; the return sea flung him on board again. i asked, "what did you think?" he answered, "i thought, 'i'm overboard.'" "and when you touched deck again, what did you think?" "i thought, 'blowed if i'm not aboard again.'" "did the time seem long?" "longer than all my lifetime." not more than half a minute had passed since the hulk shook herself clear, but larmor and lewis had lived long. the doctor took out the handy flask and put it to the skipper's lips; the poor man's eyes were bright and conscious, but his jaw hung. he pointed to his chin, and the doctor knew that the blow of falling mast or wreckage had dislocated the jaw. in all the wide world was there such another drama of peril and tenor being enacted? lewis's hands almost refused their office; he was unsteady on his legs, but he gathered his powers with a desperate effort of the will, and set the man's jaw. "stop, stop! you mustn't speak. wait." with a dripping handkerchief and his own belt ferrier bound larmor's jaw up; then for the first time he looked for the fellows forward. both gone! oh! friends who trifle cheerily with that dainty second course, what does your turbot cost? reckon it up by rigid arithmetic, and work out the calculation when you are on your knees if you can. all over the north sea that night there were desolate places that rang to the cry of parting souls; after vain efforts and vain hopes, the drowning seamen felt the last lethargy twine like a cold serpent around them; the pitiless sea smote them dumb; the pitiless sky, rolling over just and unjust, lordly peer and choking sailor, gave them no hope; there was a whole tragedy in the breasts of all those doomed ones--a tragedy keen and subtle as that enacted when a kaiser dies. you may not think so, but i know. forlorn hope of civilization, they met the onset of the sea and quitted themselves like men; and, when the proud sun rose at last, the hurrying, plundering, throbbing, straining world of men went on as usual; the lovers spoke sweet words; the strong man rejoiced exceedingly in his strength; the portly citizen ordered his fish for dinner, and the dead fishermen wandered hither and thither in the dark sea-depths, their eyes sealed with the clammy ooze. that is an item in the cost of fish which occurs to a prosaic arithmetician. lewis ferrier had certainly much the worst so far in his defensive battle with wind and wave. here was a landsman on a swept hulk with a dumb captain, a maimed man; two hands overboard, and a boy as the available ship's company. never mind. he got larmor below, and the dogged skipper made signs by hissing and moving his fist swiftly upward. "the rockets?" larmor nodded, and pointed to a high locker. lewis found the rockets easily enough; he also found a ginger-beer bottle full of matches; but of what use would matches be in that torrent of blown spray? the cabin was worse awash than ever, and there was no possibility of making a fire. ferrier felt in his inside breast pocket. ah! the tin box of fusees was there--all dry and sound inside. he beckoned larmor, and signed to him expressively; then he crouched under the hatch and pressed the flaming ball to the root of the rocket. one swing, and the rushing messenger was through the curtain of drift, and away in the upper air. larmor clapped his poor hands and bowed graciously. two minutes, three minutes, five minutes they waited; no reply came. with steadiness born of grim despair the doctor sent away another rocket. with fiercely eager eyes he and larmor strove to pierce the lashing mist, and then!--oh, yes, the long crimson stream flew, wavered in the gale, and broke into scattered star-drift. larmor and the doctor put their arms round each other and sobbed. then they told poor death-like withers, and his wan eyes flickered with the faint image of a smile. ferrier gave him the remainder of the wine, and the helpless seaman patted his benefactor's hand like a pleased child. the gale dropped as suddenly as it had risen, but it left an immense smooth sea behind, for the whole impetus of two successive breezes had set the surface water hurling along, and it mostly takes a day to smooth the tumult down. to say that the _haughty belle_ was in danger would be to put the matter mildly; the wonder was that she did not settle sooner. the only hope was that the wind might bring the signalling vessel down before it fell away altogether. larmor pointed to the boat (which had remained sound for a mercy), and the doctor saw that he wanted her got ready. he sung out to the boy, "ask withers to steady himself the best way he can, and you come up and tell me how to clear the boat." only one of the wire ropes needed to be thrown off; then the boy squeaked shrilly, "make the painter fast to a belaying-pin for fear a sea lifts the boat over," and then ferrier was satisfied. his strength was like the strength of madness, and he felt sure that he could whirl the boat over the side himself without the aid of the falls. his evolutions while he was working on the swashing deck were not graceful or dignified, but he was pleased with himself; the fighting spirit of young england was roused in him, and, in spite of numbing cold, the bite of hunger, and all his bruises, he sang out cheerily, "never mind, skipper; i'll live to be an old salt yet." only one quarter of an hour passed, and then a vessel came curtseying gracefully down. "what's that?" shouted ferrier. larmor pointed to the questioner. "do you mean it's the yacht?" the skipper nodded. the doctor would have fallen had he not brought all his force to bear; the strain was telling hard, and soon lewis ferrier's third stage of education was too be completed. the schooner swam swiftly on, like a pretty swan. ah! sure no ship come to bear the shipwrecked men to fairyland could have seemed lovelier than that good, solid yacht. right alongside she came, on the leeward quarter of the hulk. _four_ ladies were on deck. "ah! the invalid ghosts are up. _that_ ship hasn't suffered very much," said lewis. when tom lennard caught sight of ferrier he gathered his choicest energies together for the production of a howl. this vocal effort is stated by competent critics to have been the most effective performance ever achieved by the gifted warbler. he next began a chaste but somewhat too vigorous war-dance, but this original sign of welcome was soon closed by a specially vindictive roll of the vessel, and thomas descended to the scuppers like another icarus. ah! blessed sight! the boat, the good, friendly faces of the seamen; and there, in the stern sheets, the pallid, spiritual face of henry fullerton, looking, as ferrier thought, like a vision from a stormless world of beatified souls. "two of you men must come and help to lug my patient up." could you only have seen that gallant simpleton's endurance of grinding pain, and his efforts to suppress his groans, you would have had many strange and perhaps tender thoughts. mr. blair was watching the operations from the yacht, and he said-- "yes, lennard, the doctor is right; we need a hospital here. look at that poor bundle of agonies coming over the side. how easy it would be to spare him if we only had the rudiments of proper apparatus here! yes, we must have a hospital." tom answered: "yes, and look at the one with the head broken. he'll suffer a bit when he jumps." and indeed he did, but he bore the jar like the trojan that he was--the good, simple sea-dog. "hurry away now, all. i wouldn't give the poor old _belle_ another half-hour," said the mate. in a minute or two the cripples were safe, and ferrier was in the power of blair and lennard, who threatened to pull his bruised arms away. the two gentlemen pretended to be in an uproarious state of jollity, and to hear them trying to say, "ha! ha!" like veritable war-horses, while the tears rolled down their cheeks, was a very instructive experience. and now i must speak of a matter which may possibly offend the finer instincts of a truly moral age. mrs. walton totally forgot matronly reserve; she stepped up to mr. ferrier, and, saying, "my brave fellow" (it is a wicked world, and i must speak truth about it)--yes, she said, "my brave fellow!" and then she kissed him! blair's sister, mrs. hellier, was more scotch in accent than her brother, and she crowned the improprieties of this most remarkable meeting by giving the modest young savant _two_ kisses--i am accurate as to the number--and saying, "my bonny lad, you needn't mind me; i have three sons as big as yourself." then the battered hero was welcomed by two joyous girls, and the young scotch niece said, "we fairly thought you were gone, mr. ferrier, and all of us cried, and miss dearsley worst of all." half dazed, starving, weary to the edge of paralysis, the young doctor staggered below, ate cautiously a little bread and milk, bathed himself, and ended this phase of his lesson with an ecstatic stretch on a couch that was heavenly to his wrenched limbs. before he sank over into the black sleep of exhausted men, he saw henry fullerton's beautiful eyes bent on him. the evangelist patted the young doctor's shoulder and said, "god has sent a sign to show that you are a chosen worker; you durst not reject it; you have gone through the valley of the shadow of death, and you must not neglect the sign lest you displease the one who made you his choice. i've heard already what the men say about you. now sleep, and i'll bring you some soup when you wake." like all the men who move the world, fullerton was a practical man doubled with a mystic. a mystic who has a wicked and supremely powerful intellect may move the nations of men and dominate them--for a time--yes, for a time. your napoleon, wallenstein, strafford have their day, and the movement of their lips may at any time be the sign of extinction for thousands; the murder-shrieks of nations make the music that marks their progress; strong they are and merciless. but they lean on the sword; they pass into the night, leaving no soul the better for their tremendous pilgrimage. but the good mystic plants influences like seed, and the goodly growths cover the waste places of the earth with wealth of fruit and glory of bloom. i think of a few of the good mystics, and i would rather be one of them than rule over an empire. penn, george fox, and general gordon--these are among the salt of the earth. so the young man slept on, and the good folk who had come through peril as well, talked of him until i think his dreams must have been coloured with their praises. the wounded seamen were carefully bestowed, and tom betts crawled out to greet them. when marion went down to see withers, she said, "i was so grieved to see how you had to be thrown about; but never mind, i have made up my mind that very few more men shall suffer like that. now sleep, and the doctor shall see you when he has rested--at least, i know he will." then withers took miss dearsley's hand in his brown, ragged, cracked paw, and kissed it--which is offence number three against the proprieties. but then you know the soldiers used to kiss florence nightingale's shadow! didn't they? chapter v. after the storms. it was very pleasant on the third day that followed the gale; the sky once more took its steel-grey shade, the sharp breezes stole over gentle rollers and covered each sad-coloured bulge with fleeting ripples. that blessed breeze, so pure, so crisp, so potently shot through with magic savours of iodine and ozone, exhilarates the spirits until the most staid of men break at times into schoolboy fun. do you imagine that religious people are dull, or dowie, as the scotch say? not a bit of it. they are the most cheerful and wholesome of mortals, and i only wish my own companions all my life had been as genial and merry. how often and often have i been in companies where men had been feeding--we won't say "dining," because that implies something delicate and rational. the swilling began, and soon the laughter of certain people sounded like the crackling of thorns under a pot, and we were all jolly--so jolly. the table was an arena surrounded by flushed persons with codfishy eyes, and all the diners congratulated themselves on being the most jovial fellows under the moon. but what about next morning? at that time your thoroughly jovial fellow who despises saintly milksops is usually a dull, morose, objectionable person who should be put in a field by himself. give me the man who is in a calmly genial mood at six in the morning. that was the case with all our saintly milksops on board the yacht. at six blair and tom were astir; soon afterwards came the ladies and the other men, and the company chatted harmlessly until the merry breakfast hour was over; their palates were pure; their thoughts were gentle, and, although a cape buffalo may be counted as rather an unobtrusive vocalist in comparison with mr. lennard, yet, on the whole, the conversation was profitable, and generally refined. tom's roars perhaps gave soft emphasis to the quieter talkers. in the middle of the bright, sharp morning the whole of our passengers gathered in a clump aft, and desultory chat went on. said blair, "i notice that the professor's been rather reticent since we mariners rescued him." "i am not quite a hero, and that last night on the _haughty belle_ isn't the kind of thing that makes a man talkative. then that poor silly soul down below gave me a good deal to think about. he must have suffered enough to make the rack seem gentle, and yet the good blockhead only thought of telling us to leave him alone in case the vessel went. did you ever know, miss dearsley, of a man doing such a thing before? and you see he hasn't said anything since he came aboard, except that he never knowed what a real bed was afore. these things take me. we spend hundreds of thousands on the merest wastrels in the slums, and the finest class that we've got are left neglected. i would rather see every racecourse loafer from whitechapel and southwark blotted out of the world than i would lose ten men like that fellow withers." marion dearsley said, "i don't think the neglect is really blameworthy. for instance, i'm sure that my uncle knows nothing about what we have seen in the last few days. he is charitable on system, and he weighs and balances things so much that we tease him. he never gives a sixpence unless he knows all the facts of the case, and i'm sure when i tell him he'll be willing to assist mr. fullerton. then i'm as ignorant as my uncle. i can guess a great deal, of course, but really i've only seen about half a dozen men, after all. it's terrible to watch the ships in bad weather, but for our purpose--i mean mr. fullerton's purpose--we might as well have been looking at stanfield's pictures." "never mind. you fahscinate your uncle, miss dearsley, and we'll show you what we can do. what do you think, miss ranken?" miss lena ranken, mr. blair's niece, creased her brow in pert little wrinkles: "i'm not sure that i know anything; marion there studies questions of all sorts, but an ordinary girl has to do without knowledge. i know that when auntie and i were wishing you would drop us over into the water, i thought of the men who use the same damp bed for two months instead of having changes and all that." "what is your idea now, ferrier, about the business? i'm not asking you for a gratis lecture, but i want to see how far you would go." "well, frankly, at present i think that fullerton's the best guide for all of us. i should be a mock-modest puppy if i pretended not to know a good deal about books, because books are my stock-in-trade; but i've just seen a new corner of life, and i've learned how little i really know. head is all well in its way; a good head may administer, but great thoughts spring from the heart." "very good, professor. oh, bee-yootiful! great thoughts spring from the heart." fullerton broke in with dreamy distinctness, "i think the doctor will agree with me that you must never frame a theory from a small number of instances. i never even ventured to hint what i should like to any of our friends until i had been at sea here for a long time. i'm convinced now that there is much misery all over the fishing banks, and i have a conviction that i shall help to remove it. i am called to make the effort, but i never listen to sentiment without also hearing what common sense has to say. perhaps we should all see the everyday life of the men, and see a good deal of it before we begin theorizing. look at that smack away on our port bow. i'll be bound one or two are hurt in some way there. that's one of sail that we saw; multiply by , and then you have the number of vessels that we must attend under this crackbrained scheme of ours. all the ledger and daybook men say we are crackbrained. now, if we can go on doing just a little with our ordinary dispensaries, is it wise to risk playing at magnificence? you see i am taking the side of mr. commonsense against my own ideas." "i certainly think you may succeed," said miss dearsley. "so do i; and now you see my point. we want to persuade other people as quickly as possible to think as we do. to persuade, we must back all our talkee-talkee by facts, and to get facts we must work and endure in patience. you see what an amazingly clear political economist i am. wait till we run into the fleet; we shall be sure to catch them before the trawls go down for the night, and, unless i'm mistaken, some of us will be astonished. i never go into a new fleet without seeing what a little weir we have at present to check a niagara of affliction." mrs. walton had much to do with many philanthropic movements, and men were always glad to hear her judgments--mainly because she was not a platform woman. she turned an amused look on fullerton, and said, "of course a woman can't deal with logic and common sense and all those dreadful things, and i know what a terribly rigid logician mr. fullerton is. i think, even without seeing any more misery and broken bones and things, that we have no very great difficulty before us. the case is as simple as can be--to a woman. there is an enormous fund set aside by the public for charity, and everybody wants to see a fair distribution. if a slater comes off a roof and breaks a limb, there is a hospital for him within half an hour's drive in most towns. if one of our men here breaks his arm, there is no hospital within less than two days' steam. we don't want the public to think the fisher is a more deserving man than the slater; we want both men to have a fair chance. charitable men can see the slater, so they help him; they can't see the fisher without running the chance of being bruised and drenched, so they don't help him--at present. they don't want good feeling; they want eyes, and we must act as eyes for them. women can only be useful on shore; you gentlemen must do everything that is needed out here. i'm very glad i've seen the north sea in a fury, but i should not care to be a mere coddled amateur, nor would any one else that i work with." "quite right, madam," said the professor, nodding his head with the gravity of all cambridge; "and i should like to see women taking part in the management of our sea hospitals if the scheme is ever to be any more than a dream. the talking women are like the talking men: they squabble, they recriminate, they screech and air their vanity, and they mess up every business they touch. but if you have committee work to do, and want economy and expedition, then give me one or two lady members to assist." then blair called, "come along, skipper; she's going easy. bring up one or two of the men and we'll have some singing." now the ordinary sailor sings songs with the merriest or most blackguard words to the most dirge-like tunes; but our fishermen sing religious words to the liveliest tunes they can learn. i notice they are fonder of waltz rhythms than of any others. the merchant sailor will drawl the blackguard "i'll go no more a-roving" to an air like a prolonged wail; the fisherman sings "home, beautiful home" as a lovely waltz. blair always encouraged the men to sing a great deal, and therein he showed the same discretion as good merchant mates. i cannot describe freeman's ecstasies, and i wish i could only give an idea of the helmsman's musical method. this latter worthy had easy steering to do, so he joined in; he was fond of variety, and he sang some lines in a high falsetto which sounded like the whistling of the gaff (with perhaps a touch of razor-grinding added); then just when you expected him to soar off at a tangent to patti's topmost a, he let his voice fall to his boots, and emitted a most bloodcurdling bass growl, which carried horrid suggestions of midnight fiends and ghouls and the silent tomb. still, his mates thought he was a musical prodigy; he was entranced with the sweetness and power of his own performance, and the passengers were more than amused, so every one was satisfied. the gentlemen who vary my slumbers by howling "the rollicking rams" in eight different keys at four in the morning would call the ship's company of that schooner soft. there are opinions and opinions. at any rate the hours passed softly away until the yacht ran clean into the thick of the fleet, and the merry, eldritch exchange of salutes began. the second breeze had been worse than the first, and many men had gone; but the smacksmen, by a special mercy, have no time for morbid brooding. they will risk their lives with the most incredible dauntlessness to save a comrade. the albert medal is, i make bold to say, deserved by a score of men in the north sea every year. the fellows will talk with grave pity about jim or jack, who were lost twenty years ago; they remember all his ways, his last words, his very relatives; but, when a breeze is over, they make no moan over the lost ones until they gather in prayer-meetings. "watch now, and you'll soon see something," said blair to ferrier. the boats began to flit round on the quiet sea, and the lines of them converged towards the schooner or towards a certain smart smack, which fullerton eyed with a queer sort of paternal and proprietary interest. the men knew that the yacht was free to them as a dispensary, and the care they took to avoid doing unnecessary damage was touching. when you are wearing a pair of boots weighing jointly about three stone, you cannot tread like a fairy. blair knew this, and, though his boat was scrupulously clean, he did not care for the lady's boudoir and oak floor business. lewis had his hands full--so full that the ladies went below. the great scholar's mind was almost paralyzed by the phenomena before him. could it be possible that, in wealthy, christian england there ever was a time when no man knew or cared about this saddening condition of affairs? the light failed soon, and the boats durst not hang about after the fleet began to sail; but, until the last minute, one long, slow, drizzle of misery seemed to fall like a dreary litany on the surgeon's nerves. the smashed fingers alone were painful to see, but there were other accidents much worse. every man in the fleet had been compelled to fight desperately for life, and you cannot go through such a battle without risks. there were no malingerers; the bald, brutal facts of crushed bones, or flayed scalp, or broken leg, or poisoned hand were there in evidence, and the men used no extra words after they had modestly described the time and circumstances under which they met with their trouble. ferrier worked as long as he could, and then joined the others at tea--that most pleasant of all meetings on the sombre north sea. the young man was glum in face, and he could not shake off his abstraction. at last he burst out, in answer to fullerton, "i feel like a criminal. i haven't seen fifty per cent of the men who came, and i've sent back at least half a dozen who have no more right to be working than they have to be in penal servitude. it is ghastly, and yet what can we do? i have no mawkish sentiment, but i could have cried over one fellow. his finger was broken, and then blood-poisoning set in. up to the collar-bone his arm is discoloured, and the glands are blackish-blue here and there. he smiled as he put out his hand, and he said, 'he du hurt, sir. i've had hardly an hour's sleep since the first breeze, and, when i du get over, i fare to feel as if cats and dogs and fish and things was bitin'.' then i asked him if he had stuck to work. yes; he had helped to haul as late as this last midnight. now he's gone back, and i must see him, at any price, to-morrow, or i cannot save that arm. i couldn't hurry like a butcher, and so there will be many a man in pain this night." marion dearsley was deeply stirred. "i wish i could go round with you to-morrow and search out any bad cases." "i must tell you that, so far as i can see, almost every conceivable kind of accident happens during a violent gale--everything, from death to a black eye. but, all the same, i wish you _could_ come with me." blair burst into his jolly laugh; he was such a droll dog was blair, and he _would_ have his joke, and he _would_ set up sometimes, as a sly rascal, don't you know--though he was the tenderest and kindest of beings. "this is what your fine scheme has come to, is it? oh! i see a grand chance for the novel-writers." oh, blair was indeed a knowing customer. he made ferrier look a little foolish; but the ladies knew him, tom lennard adored him, and the grand, calm marion smiled gently on him. in the case of any other man it would have seemed like sacrilege to talk of a sentimental flirtation before that young woman; but then she sometimes called him uncle john and sometimes mr. blair, according to the company they were in; so what would you have? after tea came the men's time for smoking; the bitter night was thick with stars; the rime lay on the bulwarks, and, when the moon came out, the vessel was like a ghostly fabric. ferrier took charge of the two girls, and tom entertained the elder ladies with voluminous oratory. the surgeon was uneasy; the sudden splendour of the moon was lost on him, and he only thought of her as he might of a street lamp. "i'm glad the moon has come, miss dearsley. if there is no chance of her clouding over, i shall ask the skipper to slip us into the thick of the fleet, and i'll take the boat." "you are very good to take the risk after that dreadful time." "i'm afraid i only follow a professional instinct. one thing is certain, i shall stay out here for the winter and do what i can." girls are tied by conventions; they cannot even express admiration in fitting language; they may giggle or cackle so that every ripple of laughter and every turn of a phrase sounds nauseously insincere. marion dearsley durst not talk frankly with this fine fellow, but she said enough. "i'm not sure that you will not be better here than spending time in society--that is, if you have no pressing ambition, as most men have. i mean ambition for personal success and praise, and position. my brother always spoke of parliament, and i suppose you would aim at the royal society. girls have little scope, but i should imagine you must suffer." "maisie, you're the dearest old preacher in the world. why don't you persuade mr. ferrier to be a great man on shore instead of coming out here to be bruised, and drowned, and sent home, and all that kind of thing?" then miss lena thoughtfully added, as in soliloquy-- "but he might come to be like old professor blabbs who makes a noise with his soup, or sir james brennan with the ounce of snuff round his studs. no. perhaps maisie's right." "i have plenty of ambition--i am burning with it, and i have an intuition that this is one of the widest and finest fields in the world--for impersonal ambition, that is, ambition above money, and so forth." then ferrier, with a touch of pride quite unusual in him, said-- "i'm not persuaded that i've done so badly in the ambitious way up to now. this should be a fair change." then they stopped and watched the shadowy vessels stealing away into the luminous gloom. i hope they loved the sight; the thought of it makes all beethoven sing over my nerves. the water was lightly crisped, and every large sigh of the low wind seemed to blow a sheet of diamonds over the quivering path of the moon; the light clouds were fleeting, fleeting; the shadows were fleeting, fleeting; and, ah me! the hours of youth were fleeting, fleeting to the gulf. the girls never spoke; but ferrier thought of one of them that her fateful silence was more full of eloquence than any spoken words could be. she seemed to draw solemn music from every nerve of his body. oh, droll john blair! did those placid, good blue eyes see anything? the deep contralto note of marion dearsley's voice broke the entranced silence. "it seems a waste of one's chances to leave this, but we must go. lena and i must trouble you to help us, though i'm sure i don't know why. i shall never forget that sight." "nor i," thought ferrier; but he was not an accomplished lady's man, so he did not speak his thought. then lewis and mr. blair fell into one of their desultory conversations, with tom as explanatory chorus, and fullerton brooding alongside in profound reverie. the breeze was enough to send the schooner past the trawlers, but her foresail had been put against her so that she kept line. an hour before the trawls were hauled ferrier suggested that the yacht should be allowed to sail, just to see if a case could be picked up. said the enthusiast tom-- "i'll go with you. i can step into the boat now, but when you have sixteen stone to drop on the top of a tholepin, i assure you it makes you cautious. in my wild days i should have used terms, sir--oh, distressing! oh, harrowing! to-night i'm ready for a thingumbob on 'the blue, the fresh, the ever free.' ah! entrancing! oh-h-h! bewitching!" freeman sailed his craft and threaded the lines of the dragging trawlers with stealthy speed. a hail came at last. "yacht ahoy! have you still got the doctor aboard?" the weird answer rang amid the shrill treble of the gaffs. "then come aboard of us if you can. it's bad." two men were down in the boat in a moment, and the yacht edged her way toward the smack. when lewis and tom went down below, the burly comedian's true character soon became apparent. a handsome young fellow was twisting and gasping on the floor in pain cruel to see. "he've eat somethin's disagreed with him, sir. we've tried gregory, what my mate had, and we give him some pills what i had, would a'most done for me. 'tisn't a morsel o' good." tom lennard picked the poor fellow off the floor--so gently, so very gently; he eased him up and put the man's head against his breast. a slight swing of the vessel followed, and the lad shrieked and gasped. instantly ferrier saw what had happened. "help me to take his clothes off, lennard." they stripped the patient to the skin; then ferrier glanced once, touched just lightly enough to make the young man draw breath with a whistling sound, then the deft, steady fingers ran carefully down, and lewis said-- "tom, keep him as easy as you can till i come back from the yacht. skipper, you didn't think to strip him." "no, sir; why?" "well, he has three ribs broken, that is all." "eh! he said he had a tumble agin the anchor in the breeze." "yes, and i cannot tell how his lung has escaped." when lewis returned he strapped the sufferer up like an artist, and then said-- "now, skipper, you must run home as soon as the trawl is up." "home! an' lose my woyage maybe?" "can't help that. you have no place for him here. see, he's off to sleep now his pain's gone, but where will he be if the sea rises?" the skipper groaned; it seemed hard. lewis thought a little and said-- "will you let me take him aboard of us now while it's smooth, and i'll see if we can find you a man? if larmor of the _haughty belle_ will come, can you work with him?" "like a shot." larmor's jaw was better, and he said-- "i'd be a bad 'un if i wouldn't oblige you, sir, anyway. my jaw's main sore, but i can do little things." "you see, lennard," quietly observed lewis, after larmor had gone, "i'm making an experiment. if that lad had been left without such a mattress as ours, he would have died, surely. and now i'll guarantee that i send him back able to steer and do light work in ten days." "that's where the hospital would come in. well, you'll soon teach us instead of us teaching you. oh! surprising! oh-h-h! paralyzing! oh-h-h! majestic! majestic!" tom was right in his exclamatory way, as we shall see by and by. chapter vi. the mission hall. and now you know what our people have been driving at all the time. i have reported their talk, and we shall have very little space for more of it, as the time must shortly come for swift action. from the moment when ferrier groaned with despair, a lightning thought shot into marion's brain and settled there. she had a grand idea, and she was almost eager to get ashore: one indefinite attraction alone held her. ferrier was almost as eager to return, for his electric nature was chafed by the limitations that bound him; he knew he could do nothing without further means and appliances, and, in the meantime, he was only half doing work of supreme importance. he wished to glance slightly at the social and spiritual work of the fleet, but his heart was in his own trade. the weather held up nicely, and on the morning after ferrier saved the broken-ribbed youngster, the schooner had a rare crowd on board. the men tumbled over the side with lumbering abandonment, and met each other like schoolboys who gather in the common-room after a holiday. as blair said, they were like a lot of newfoundland puppies. poor tom betts came up among the roistering crowd--pale, weary, and with that strange, disquieting smile which flits over sick men's faces; he was received as an interesting infant, and his narratives concerning the marvellous skill of the doctor were enough to supply the fleet with gossip for a month. none of the "weeds" of the fleet were on board, and the assembly might be taken as representing the pick of the north sea population. with every observant faculty on the stretch ferrier strolled from group to group, chatting with man after man; no one was in the least familiar, but the doctor was struck with the simple cordiality of all the fellows. a subtle something was at work, and it gradually dawned on the young student that these good folk had the sentiment of brotherhood which is given by a common cause and a common secret. the early christians loved one another, and here, on that grey sea, our sceptic saw the early christian movement beginning all over again, with every essential feature reproduced. all types were represented; the grave man, the stern man, the sweet-faced dreamy man--even the comic man. the last-named here was much beloved and admired on account of his vein of humour, and he was decidedly the sydney smith of the fleet. his good-temper was perfect; a large fellow of the jutish type lifted him with one huge arm, and hung him over the side; the humorist treated this experience as a pleasant form of gentle exercise, and smiled blandly until he was replaced on deck. when he was presented with a cigar, he gave an exposition of the walk and conversation of an extremely haughty aristocrat, and, on his saying, "please don't haddress me as bill. say 'hahdeyedoo, colonel,'" the burly mob raised such a haw-haw as never was heard elsewhere, and big fellows doubled themselves up out of sheer enjoyment, the fun was so exquisite. lewis was struck by the men's extraordinary _isolation_ of mind; you may not understand his thought now, but, when you visit the north sea, the meaning will flash on you. _isolation_--that is the word; the men know little of the world; they are infantine without being petty; they have no curiosity about the passage of events on shore, and their solid world is represented by an area of feet by . they are always amusing, always suggestive, and always superhumanly ignorant of the commonest concerns that affect the lives of ordinary men. when your intellect first begins to measure theirs, you feel as if you had been put down in a strange country, and had to adapt your mind and soul to such a set of conditions as might come before you in a dream. i, the transcriber of this history, felt humiliated when a good man, who had been to sea for thirty-three years on a stretch, asked me whether "them things is only made up"; them things being a set of spirited natural history pictures. i reckon if i took mr. herbert spencer, or mr. grant allen, or mr. lang out to the fleets, i could give them a few shrewd observations regarding the infancy of the human mind. there was a fair amount of room for a religious service, the men packed themselves into their places with admirable and silent politeness, and the yacht was transformed into a mission hall. as to the fishermen's singing, one can never talk of it sufficiently. ferrier was stirred by the hoarse thunder of voices; he seemed to hear the storming of that gale in the cordage once more, and he forgot the words of the hymn in feeling only the strong passion and yearning of the music. then fullerton and blair prayed, and the sceptic heard two men humbly uttering petitions like children, and, to his humorous scotch intellect, there was something nearly amusing in the naïve language of these two able, keen men. they seemed to say, "some of our poor men cannot do so much as think clearly yet; we will try to translate their dumb craving." charles dickens, that good man, that very great man, should have heard the two evangelists; he would have altered some of the savage opinions that lacerated his gallant heart. to me, the talk and the prayers of such men are entrancing as a merely literary experience; the balanced simplicity, and the quivering earnestness are so exactly adapted to the one end desired. blair's sermon was brief and straightforward; he talked no secondhand formalities from the textbooks; he met his hearers as men, and they took every word in with complete understanding. when i hear a man talking to the fishers about the symbolism of an ephod, i always want to run away. what is needed is the human voice, coming right from the human heart: cut and dried theological terms only daze the fisherman; he is too polite to look bored, but he suffers all the same. i fancy blair's little oration might be summed up thus: fear god and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man--and i do not know that you can go much further. the wild kurd in the desert will say to you, "i cannot do that. it is a shame"; he has no power of reasoning, but he _knows_; and i take it that the fishers are much like him when their minds are cleared alike of formalism and brutality. many of the men were strongly moved as blair went on, and lewis saw that our smiling preacher had learned to cast away subtleties. fullerton's preaching was like newman's prose style; it caught at the nerves of his hearers, and left them in a state of not unhealthy tension. it seemed impossible for them to evade the forcible practical application by the second speaker of points in the discourse to which they had already listened; nor could they soon--if ever--forget the earnest words with which he closed--"bear in mind, my friends, that christianity does not consist in singing hymns or saying prayers, but in a personal knowledge of jesus christ as your saviour; and when you have learned to know him thus, your one object in life will be to glorify him. it is right and well both to sing and to pray, but let us take care that these exercises are the expression in words of the heart's devotion to its divine lord and master." they were ripe for the "experience" meeting, and this quaintest of all religious exercises gave ferrier data for much confused meditation. apparently a man _must_ unbosom himself, or else his whole nature becomes charged with perilous stuff, so these smacksmen had, in some instances, substituted the experience meeting for the confessional. in italy you may see the sailors creeping into the box while the priest crouches inside and listens to whispers; on the north sea a sailor places a very different interpretation upon the divine command, "confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another that ye may be healed." he goes first to his saviour, and afterwards stands up before all his mates and makes his confession boldly: every new confidence nails him to his vows; he knows that the very worst of his past will never be brought up against him, and he is supported by the sympathy of the rough fellows who punctuate his utterances with sighs and kindly handshaking. when the penitent sits down his mind is eased; the mysterious sympathy of numbers cheers him, the sense of divine forgiveness has given him power, and he is ready to face life again with new heart. ferrier caught the note of formality again and again, but he could see that the phrases had not putrefied into cant. just as the soul can only be made manifest through the body, so a thought can only be made manifest by means of words. an importunate, living thought is framed in a perfect phrase which reflects the life of the thought. then you have genuine religious utterance. the conditions change and the thought is outworn: if the phrase that clothed the old thought remains and is used glibly as a verbal counter, then you have cant, and the longer the phrase is parrotted by an unbeliever, the more venomous does the virus of cant become. to the fishers--childlike men--many of the old methodist turns of speech are vital; to a cultured man the husk of words may be dry and dead, but if he is clever and indulgent he will see the difference between his own mental state and that of the poor fisher to whom he listens. the experiences were as varied as possible; some were awe-striking, some were pitiful, some verged on comedy. the comfortable thing--the beautiful thing--about the confessions, was that each man seemed tacitly to imply a piteous prayer, "my brothers help me to keep near my saviour. i may fall unless you keep by me;" while the steady-going, earnest men took no praise to themselves for keeping straight, but generally ended with some such phrase as, "praise the blessed lord; it's all along o' his grace as i've been walkin' alongside o' him." one fine man, with stolid, hard face, rose and steadied himself against a beam. his full bass tones were sad, and he showed no sign of that self-satisfied smirk which sometimes makes the mind revolt against a convert. "my friends, i'm no great speaker, but i can tell you plain how i come to be where i am. i was a strongish, rough young chap, and thought about nothing but games. i would fight, play cards, and a lot of more things that we don't want to talk about here. when i married, i drank and thought of nothing but my own self. once i took every penny i had off a voyage to the public-house, and i stopped there and never had my boots off till i went to sea again. every duty was neglected, my wife went cold in the bad weather, and my children were barefooted. when you're drinking and fooling you can see nothing at all, and you think you're a-doing all right, and everybody else is wrong when they try to help you. out at sea i gambled and drunk when i could get the money; i made rare game of religious men, and lived as if i had never to die. then i was persuaded by one of my mates to visit the mission ship, the very first as ever come, and i wish there was twenty. i'd had a bad time ashore, and my children was frightened of my ways, though i was kind enough when sober, and i'd left the wife to pick up a living how she could. then i heard what mr. fullerton said; god bless him! and i says to myself, 'tom barling, you're no better than a pig you're not.' but i was proud, and i needed to be brought low. i went again and again and talked with old john about the mission ship, but, bless you, i couldn't see nothing. but some kind of a--what i may say a voice kept a-saying, 'tom barling, you're not a good 'un,' and at last i got what i wanted, and i bursts out crying for joy, for i had learned to trust my blessed saviour, whose blood cleanses from all sin. and now by his grace i've dropped the drink, and them fits of bad temper, and my family looks well, and i'm so quiet in my breast here like, as i can walk for hours on deck and pray quiet, and never think of no drink, nor cards, nor excitement, and i never nags at any man that's wrong as i was, but i says 'i wish you were happy as me, mate, and you may be if you'll come to the dear lord.' and that's all. i bless god for the mission, because there's many a chap like me that would like to do right but he don't know how. i was a bad chap, and i went on doing bad things because i knew no better; and so, brothers, when you see a mate going wrong just coax him. and god bless you, gentlemen and ladies, and all on us." every variety of story was told, and, in the exaltation of the hour, the men sang rapturously. some of the speakers moved the doctor with terrible pathos. (i, who chronicle these things, have heard tales which come to me in wild dreams, and make me tremble with pity and terror.) there was no showing off, and even those who used the stereotyped phrase, "when i was in the world," did it with a simple modesty which our learned friend found charming. apparently not one of those poor fellows felt a single prompting of conceit, and if their very innermost feeling had been translated it would come out like this: "brothers, through mercy we've all slipped away from an ugly fate; we're on safe ground; let's hang together and help each other nearer to god, lest we should get adrift and make shipwreck." lewis was particularly pleased with their kindly mode of talking about backsliders. "come, old lads," said one fair-haired scandinavian, "let's all say a word for poor old joe banks. he's a backslider just now, through that dreadful drink. let's all pray as he may see his sin against his saviour, and come right back to him. he's too good to lose, and we won't let go on him." then the excitement gathered, and the meeting really developed into what might be fairly termed a service of praise. the men almost roared their choruses, then they prayed passionately, then they sang again, and the rush of harmless excitement went on hour by hour, until the strongest enthusiasts had to obey the signal given by the darkness. on deck there were merry partings, and the newfoundland puppy business was resumed with exceeding vigour. tom lennard was exalting his popularity, and he knew the history of the father, the mother, the wife, the children (down to the last baby), of every man with whom he talked. the wind was still, the moon made silver of the air; the fleet hung like painted ships on painted ocean,--and the men delayed their partings like affectionate brothers whom broad seas must soon divide. the distant adoration paid to the ladies would have amused some indifferent shoregoers. you know the story of the miners who filled a scotch emigrant's hand with gold dust and "nuts" on condition that he let his wife look out from the waggon? i can believe the tale. great fourteen-stone men lifted their extraordinary hats and trembled like children when our good ladies talked to them; the sweetness of the educated voice, the quiet naturalness of the thorough lady, are all understood by those seadogs in a way which it does one good to remember. the fellows are gentlemen; that is about the fact. their struggles after inward purity are reflected in their outward manners, and to see one of them help a lady to a seat on deck is to learn something new about fine breeding. marion dearsley was watched with a reverence which, never became sheepish, and ferrier at last said to himself, "one might do anything with these men! the noblest raw material in the world." "good-night; good-night. god bless you." one weird sound after another came from boats that swam in the quivering moonbeams. then came the silence, broken only by the multitudinous whistling of the gaffs, and the gentle moan of the timbers. the nightly talk came off as usual; and also as usual the great mathematician was forced to take the leading part, while blair quizzed, and the ladies, after the fashion of their sex, stimulated the men to range from topic to topic. fullerton was watching ferrier, just as i have seen a skilful professor of chemistry watching a tube for the first appearance of the precipitate. this quiet thinker knew men, and he knew how to use them; moreover, he thought he saw in ferrier a born king, and he strove to attract him just as he had striven to fascinate miss dearsley. it was for the cause. "what do you think of our work so far, ferrier?" "good. but i want more." then, of course, blair must needs have one of those wonderful jokes of his. "ha! i want more! a sort of scientific oliver. i want more! what a bashaw! and what does his highness of many tails want?" "mr. ferrier mustn't be too exorbitant. science wears the seven-league boots, but we have to be content with modest lace-ups and balmorals," quietly observed mrs. walton. "oh! beautiful! a regular flash of--the real thing, don't you know. an epigram. most fahscinating! oh-h!" poor tom's elephantine delight over anything like a simile was always emphatic, no matter whether he saw the exact point or not, and i'm afraid that brilliant folk would have thought him perilously like a fool. happily his companions were ladies and gentlemen who were too simple to sneer, and they laughed kindly at all the big man's floundering ecstasies. ferrier said, "when i have got what i want, i shall vary your programme if you will permit me. do you know, it struck me that those good souls are very like a live lizard cased in the dry clay? he fits his mould, but he doesn't see out of it. i should like to give the men a little wider horizon." "isn't heaven wide enough?" "but your men are always staring _up_ at heaven. could you not give them a chance of looking _round_ a bit?" "what are you driving at?" "mr. ferrier means that they do not employ all their faculties. they are going cheerfully through a long cave because they see the sun at the mouth; but they don't know anything about the earth on the top of the cave." this was a surprisingly long speech for marion dearsley. "you take me exactly. now, fullerton, i'm going to stay the winter out here." "you're what?" interjected blair. "yes, i'm going to see the winter through; and i mean to lay some plans before you." "the bashaw has some glimmerings of sense. yes, the scientific creature has. go on, oh! many-tailed one." "you miss the secular side a little. you cannot expect those grand, good-humoured fellows of yours to be always content with devotional excitement." "but we don't. our secular work, our care for the men's bodies, is just as great as our care for their souls," said fullerton, warmly. "we simply cannot do everything; we lack means, and that must be our plea, no matter how sordid it may seem to you. but you must clearly understand that for my part, while i hold tenaciously to the primary duty of 'holding forth the word of life'--for it is 'the entrance of thy word giveth light _and understanding to the simple_'--yet i am entirely with you in feeling that we need to cultivate the intellect of these men. go on, ferrier." "well; i meant to say that you must let the men know something of the beauty of the world, and the wonder of it as well. look here, blair: do you mean to say that i couldn't make a regular fairy tale out of the geology of these banks? pray, ladies, excuse just a little shop; i can't help it. give me just one tooth of an elephant, dredged up off scarborough, and if i don't make those men delighted, then i may leave the royal society." "but, my good bashaw," said blair, "if you blindfold one of the skippers, and tell him the soundings from time to time, he'll take you from point to point, and pick up his marks just as surely as you could touch your bedroom-door in the dark." "exactly. that's empirical knowledge; but when you explain _causes_, you give a man a new pleasure. it _clinches_ his knowledge. then, again, supposing i were to tell those men something accurate about the movement of the stars? don't you think that would be interesting? if i could not make it like a romance, then all the years i spent in learning were thrown away." "could you get them to care for anything of the kind? do you know that a seaman is the most absolutely conservative of the human race?" "we must begin. you give the men light, and i'll be bound that some of us will make them like sweetness. if miss dearsley were to read 'rizpah,' or 'big tom,' or any other story of pathos or self-sacrifice, she would do the men good. why, if i had the chance, i'd bring off my friend tom gale, and let him make them laugh till they cried by reading about mr. peggotty of great yarmouth and the lobster; or mrs. gummidge and the drown-ded old-'un." mrs. walton had been very quiet. she turned to the staid and taciturn mrs. hellier and asked, "how do you find your readings suit at your mission-room?" "they please the women, and i suppose they would please men. our people are quite happy when we have a good reader. i'm a failure, because i always begin to cry at the critical points; but lena has no feelings at all, and she can keep the room hushed for a whole hour." mrs. walton smiled placidly. "you see, mr. blair, there may be something in mr. ferrier's idea after all. i believe that sweet, simple stories, or poetry, or pictures, would please the men. see how pleased that great grimsby man was with the girl's picture-book that you gave him. i'm almost converted. besides, now i remember it, i heard a gentleman who had been public orator at cambridge make a crowd of east-end people cry by reading 'enoch arden'--of all the incredible things in the world." "thank you, madam; and when i have got that hospital for you, i shall insist on having one room for pleasure, and pleasure alone; and i'll take good care my patients are not disturbed in any way. fullerton is already on our side, so you and i will take blair in hand, and curb that unruly scepticism of his. he is a most unblushing, scoffing sceptic, is he not, madam?" blair shook his jolly sides and rose, muttering something about a fahscinating young puppy;--whereby it may be perceived that he was thinking of mocking tom. the night was splendid, and when a sharp air of wind set all the smacks gliding, our voyagers had once more an experience that is one of the most memorable for those to whom it comes seldom. the seaman tramps smartly; cocks an eye at the topsail, swings round, and rolls back till he is abreast of the wheel; then _da capo_, and so on all night. but the reflective landsman gathers many sheaves for the harvest of the soul. happy is he if he learns to know what the dense seaman's life is like. there are nights when the joy of living will not let one sleep. do i not know them? ferrier held a little chat with the girls before the scattered party finally broke up, and marion dearsley pleased him mightily by saying, "you were quite right about the pleasure-room. only wait till we've begun our work, and we shall make that dreadful mr. blair ashamed of himself." "what's this? scandal and tittle-tattle begun on board? i shall exert my authority as admiral." "i knew you were behind me, and that is why i reproved you, sir. we think the same about the matter, and so does lena." then ferrier and blair and tom talked until the air of the small hours drove them below, and they saw the yacht skimming among the quiet fleet. there was enough wind to move the trawls, but the lonely procession did not travel as on that tremendous night when lewis first learnt what a regular hustler was like. all the days that followed went by pleasantly enough, though ferrier could not help chafing. he was constantly busy with lancet, bandages, splints; he kept a diary of his cases, and after he had cruised among the fleet for three weeks he came to the conclusion that, if the average of injuries and ailments were the same all the year round, every man in the fleet must be under treatment at least _three times a year_. it sounds queer, but i can back it with facts--definite cases. november opened finely, and the weather, except for sharp breezes in the chill of the early morning, left it possible to visit vessel after vessel daily. ferrier never had an uncivil word. one rough customer whom he asked to board the yacht grinned and answered, "no, sir; i don't hold with bethel ships. but," he added remorsefully, "i've heard i reckon fifty times about you and your ladies and gentlemen, and if you was capsized out o' that eer boat, i'd have mine out and take her arter you my own self if the seas was a comin' over that there mast-head." then lewis shook hands with his frank opponent, who grinned affably and waved until the boat was nearly out of sight. when the time for parting came, blair told the admiral, and the bold fellow said humbly, "well, you've done us good. if you only knew, sir, what it is for _us_--_us_, you know, to have people like you among us, why you'd go and give such a message as would make the gentlemen ashore feel regular funny. when i first come to sea we was brutes, and we was treated as brutes. we know you can't do everything, but just the thought of you being about makes a difference. it makes men prouder and more ready to take care o' themselves--if you'll excuse me saying so." "we'll do far more yet, admiral," interposed fullerton. "we're learning to walk at present. wait till you see us in full going order, and none of you will know yourselves." "well, good-bye, sir. and i want to ask you particular, sir--_very_ particular. if the wind suits, don't run for home till just about dusk to-morrow evening, and go through us. the glass is firm, and i think we shall do well for days to come. mind you oblige us, sir." and next morning, as the boats met by the side of the carrier, there was much gossip, and many mysterious messages passed. blair told skipper freeman what the admiral wanted, and the good man grinned hard. "right, sir; your time's your own. i'll manage." the dusk drooped early; a fair breeze was blowing, and the swift schooner loitered with the smacks. freeman sent up a rocket, the schooner's foresail was let over, and she rustled away through the squadron of brown-sailed craft. "what's that, freeman?" asked blair, as a rocket shot up from the admiral's vessel. "you'll see, sir, presently." the schooner lay hard over when the big topsails were put on her, and drew past one smack after another. then a dingy vessel broke suddenly into spots of fire; then another, then another. flares, torches--every kind of illumination was set going; the hands turned up, and a roar that reverberated from ship to ship was carried over the water. the very canopy of light haze looked fiery; the faces of the men flashed like pallid or scarlet phantoms; the russet sails took every tint of crimson and orange and warm brown, and from point to point of the horizon a multitude of flames threw shaking shafts of light that glimmered far down and splendidly incarnadined the multitudinous sea. every ship's company cheered vociferously, and the yacht tore on amid clamour that might have scared timid folk. "why, the good fellows, they're giving us an illumination," said fullerton. "hah! very modest, i'm sure. i should just think they _were_ giving us an illumination, sir. i should venture to say that they possibly _were_ doing a little in that way, sir. yes, sir. hah! oh! no-o-oble, sir. picturesque, sir, in extreme! i'll write a poem descriptive of this, sir. and, thank god," said tom at last, with real feeling, "thank god there are some people in the world who know what gratitude is like. hah! i'm glad i lived to see this day." the last cheer rattled over the waves. "that's the grandest thing i ever saw, miss dearsley," whispered lewis. "i was about to say those very words." still the schooner tore on; still the light failed more and more; and then once again, with stars and sea-winds in her raiment, night sank on the sea. the yacht was bound for home, and every one on board had a touch of that sweet fever that attacks even the most callous of sailors when the vessel's head is the right way. we shall see what came of the trip which i have described with dogged care. end of book i. book ii. chapter i. january in the north sea! a bitter morning, with light, powdery snow spotting here and there a livid background; grey seas travelling fast, and a looming snow-cloud gradually drooping down. the gulls are mad with hunger, and a cloud of them skirl harshly over the taffrail of a stout smack that forges fast through the bleak sea. the smack is coated with ice from the mast-head to the water's edge; there is not much of a sea, but when a wave does throw a jet of water over the craft it freezes like magic, and adds yet another layer to a heap which is making the deck resemble a miniature glacier. the smack has a flag hoisted, but alas! the signal that should float bravely is twisted into a shabby icicle, and it would be lowered but for the fact that the halliards will not run through the lump of ice that gathers from the truck to the mast-head. all round to the near horizon a scattered fleet of snow-white smacks are lingering, and they look like a weird squadron from a land of chilly death. on the deck of the smack that has the flag a powerful young man is standing, and by his side--by all that is astounding--is an enormous man with an enormous beard and a voice that booms through the arctic stillness. that is our new scene. * * * * * i am not going to play at mystery, for you know as well as i do that the young man named in that gloomy overture was lewis ferrier, and that his companion was good tom lennard;--though what brought the giant out into the frozen desolation i shall not say just yet. yes, lewis kept his word, and at the time of which we are speaking he had been three weeks at work on the bank. he had now three cloth coats on over his under-wear, and, over all, a leather coat made at cronstadt, and redolent of russia even after weeks of hard wear. with all this he could not do much more than keep warm. tom was equipped in similar fashion, and both men wore that air of stoical cheerfulness which marks our maligned race, and which tells of the spirit that has sent our people as masters over all the earth. "let's come down and have coffee with the men, tom. i'm going to have a try at that lowestoft smack if the snow only keeps away." "right, my adventurer; i'm with you. but i'm not going to let you run any more risks of that life of yours, my bold mariner. hah! i'm here to take care of you, and you've got to be very meek, or i'll set up an opposition shop. don't you think i can? didn't i do up that skipper's arm in his sling after you took off his finger? eh! beware of a rival. ah-h!" "yes, thomas, but if you administer turpentine for pleurisy, as you did to the big yarmouth fellow, we shall have to turn on a special coroner to attend on you." "my good what's-his-name?--admirable hitchin--ah-h admirable crichton! that child of nature took the turpentine of his own accord. i left it with orders that the application should be external, and it was to be rubbed in until we got back with the emulsion and the proper liniment; he tastes it, and finds it hot; he swallows the lot by degrees, and he doesn't die--he gets well. how am i to blame! i take credit for a magnificent cure, sir. if you say two words, i'll advertise lennard's miraculous emulsion in every journal in town when we get back." "coffee, skipper, coffee. the shipwrecked mariners demand refreshment," boomed thomas. ah! that coffee! thick, bitter-sweet, greasy with long stewing! what a fluid it is--or rather what a solid! its insolent stodginess has only a surface resemblance to a fluid; yet it is a comfort on snowy mornings, and our wanderers took to it kindly. lewis had laid himself out to be merry, and several grinning faces peered from the bunks with kindly welcome as he took his seat on a rickety fish-box. the skipper asked, "shall the steward fetch your bread in here, sir? you can't manage ours." "all right. how are the men aft?" "the young fellow from the _achilles_ was jabbering a bit again. by the way, you knew tom betts had come away in the old _achilles_, didn't you, sir?" "what tom betts? oh yes. man with concussion of the brain, wasn't it?" "so i heerd, sir. he told everybody at home how you saved him, and when he said how he thought he'd gone to heaven he set all the women in the mission hall a-pipin' of their eye. he's on the lord's side now, sir. you done that." "well, i'm a queer customer to do anything of the kind, skipper. i'm only glad i got him sewed up soon enough, but my business ends there." "you're jest as good as some as makes a frap about bein' good. i think, sir, you put's on some of that light-come-go-away kind of a game." "never mind; we'll only hope we'll have no more cases like that exactly. i don't know how we should have managed if there had been such another last week." "that was a strongish sea, and we're sure of more." you never can get a north sea man to own that any weather is very bad. years after a really bad gale he may give the wind credit for being in earnest, but usually he talks in a patronizing way of the elements, using diminutives, and trying to make light of the trouble so long as it lasts. there had been hard weather since lewis came out, and, though he had ample stores and appliances now, he found that he was hampered by the limitations of space as he was on board the schooner. life had been very rough for the young fellow and his burly worshipper since they came out, and they only kept each other up by a mutual sham of the most elaborate character. after breakfast, lewis gave orders to run as close as might be safe to the thick of the fleet; the smack was practically under his command, and he took her where he thought he might be most needed. one of his patients in the after-cabin was muttering uneasily, for there was some feverishness; the other man had come down with a crash on the icy deck, and the shock had apparently caused concussion of the spine, for he could not move, and he was fed as if he were a child. lewis bent over the helpless seaman, and spoke kindly. the man sighed, "thank god i am where i am, sir. that long plaister begins to burn a bit, but i a'most like it. there's little funny feelings runs down my arms and legs." "all right! you'll soon be better. did you work all through the gale?" "we was about for two nights and a day, sir, and every one of us with the ulcers right up the arms. it was warm business, i can tell you, sir. my ulcers are all going away now, with this warm cabin, but they were throbbing all night before. when i come down such a crack i was makin' a run for the taickle, for fear we might let the gear drop, and i saw a flash in my eyes, and nothing more till i was aboard here." "you were trawling when that breeze started?" "yes. we mustn't mind weather when the market's to be considered. tell me now, sir--you've got time, haven't you, sir? talkin' of the market, and i've been nearly dead, and not out o' the muck yet--does the people know what us chaps gets for fish?" "they never think. the fish comes, and the milk comes, and they pay the fishmonger's bill and the milkman's, and they think one's the same as the other, my man." "eh! i was thinkin' about a gentleman as came from this mission vessel aboard of us. he saw our twelve o'clock haul, and he says, 'bad breeze last night, my man. did you work through it?' well, there was nothing much of a wind--just enough to make us reef her; so i answers, and he says, 'i suppose this is your night's work. now, what is your share?' so i said my share would likely be tenpence. well, he gives a reg'lar screech; and then i reckoned up the price of all the lot as well as i could guess, and he screeched again. 'why,' says he, 'old mother baubo, that keeps the shop in my district at home, would charge me eight shillings for that turbot, four-and-six for that, eightpence for each of those sixty haddocks, and nobody knows what for the rest.' now, i've thought of that gentleman and his screech many a time since, and when i felt the light a-comin' to my eyes here, i thought again. do you think i shall die, sir? excuse me." "die! no. fact is, i'm too good-natured a doctor. i shall have to stop you from talking. die! we'll make a man of you, and send you on board soon. go on, i can stay another five minutes." "well, sir, when i thought of death, i thought what people would say if they knew how much i got for risking this smash. that night i was over the rail on to the trawl-beam twice; i was at the pumps an hour; i pulled and hauled with both arms raw, and the snow freezing with the salt as soon as it came on my ulcers, and then i got the smash. and all for about eightpence. and that screeching gentleman told me as how his mother baubo, as he calls her, drives a broom and two horses, or a horse and two brooms--i'm mixed. no, 'twas a land-oh and two horses, and a broom and one horse. and i gets eightpence for a-many hours and a smash. i never mind the fellows that tells us on sundays when we're ashore to rise and assirk our rights or something, but there's a bit wrong somewhere, sir. it don't seem the thing." "well, you see people would say you needn't be a fisherman; you weren't forced to come." "but i was, sir. i knew no more what i was coming to than a babe, and once you're here, you stays here." "well, never mind for the present, my man. why, you're a regular lawyer, you rascal; i shall have to mind my p's and q's with you. now don't talk any more, or you'll fidget, and that won't do your back any good. will you have bread and milk, or beef-tea and toast, you luxurious person? and i must be your valet." "i don't know about vally, sir. it's vally enough for me. to think as i should have a gentleman waitin' on me as if he was a cabin-boy! anything _you_ like, sir. the sight of you makes me better." the man's tears were flowing; he was weak, poor fellow, and wanting in the item of well-bred reticence. lewis fed one patient, trimmed the other's bed, put on a woollen helmet, sou'-wester, two pairs of gloves, and the trusty russian coat; then he was slung into the boat like a bundle of clothes; landed springily on a thole, and departed over seas not much bigger than an ordinary two-storey house. it was quite moderate weather, and the sprightly young savant had lost that feeling which makes you try to double yourself into knots when you watch a wave gradually shutting away the outer world and preparing to fold its livid gloom about you. "what would the cowes fellows say to this, i wonder?" thought the irreverent young pioneer. then he chuckled over the thought of the reckless seadogs who march in nautical raiment on the pier. those wild, rollicking seadogs! how the north sea men would envy them and their dower of dauntlessness! the seadog takes his frugal lunch at the club; he begins with a sole, and no doubt he casts a patronizing thought towards the other seadogs who trawled for the delicate fish. they are not so like seamen in appearance as is the cowes seadog; they do not wear shiny buttons; the polish on their boots is scarcely brilliant; they wear unclean jumpers, and flannel trousers fit to make an aesthetic seadog faint with emotion of various sorts. no! they are not pattern seadogs at all--those north sea workers. would that they could learn a lesson from the hardy cowes rover. well, the rover tries a cutlet after his fish, then he has cheese and a grape or two, and he tops up his frugal meal with a pint of british imperial. a shilling cigar brings his lunch up to just sixteen shillings--as much as a north sea amateur could earn in a week of luck--and then he prepares to face the terrors of the deep. does he tremble? do the thoughts of the past arise in his soul? nay, the seadog of cowes is no man to be the prey of womanish tremors; he goes gaily like a true mariner to confront the elements. the boat is ready, and four gallant salts are resting on their oars; the seadog steps recklessly on board and looks at the weather. ha! there is a sea of at least two inches high running, and that frail boat must traverse that wild space. no matter! the man who would blench at even two hundred yards of water, with waves even three inches high is totally, unworthy of the name of a british seadog! one thought of friends and mother dear; one last look at the club where that sole was served, and then, with all the ferocious determination of his conquering race, the seadog bids the men give way. it is an awful sight! four strokes, and the bow man receives as nearly as possible half a pint of water on his jersey! steady! no shirking, my sons of the sea-kings. twenty strokes more--the peril is past; and the seadog bounds on to the deck of his stout vessel. he is saved. a basket with a turbot is in the stern-sheets; that turbot will form part of the seadog's humble evening meal. it cost a guinea, and the north sea amateurs, who received two shillings of that amount, would doubtless rejoice could they know that they risked their lives in a tearing august gale to provide for the wants of a brother seadog. by the time lewis had finished his heroic reverie, he was nicely sheeted with ice, for the spray froze as it fell, and he was alongside of the smack that he wanted--which was more to the purpose. in a few minutes he was engaged in dealing with a prosaic, crushed foot. a heavy boat had jammed his patient against the iron side of the steam-carrier. the man was stoical, like the rest of his mates, but he was in torture, for the bones were all huddled into a twisted mass--a gruesome thing, ladies, and a common thing, too, if you would but think it. ferrier had to use the knife first, for the accident was not so recent as he could have wished; then for near half an hour he was working like some clever conjurer, while the vessel heaved slowly, and the reek of the cabin coiled rankly round him. what a picture! that man, the pride of his university, the rising hope of the royal society, the professor whom students would have idolized, was bending his superb head over a poor, groaning sailorman, and performing a hard operation amid air that was merely volatile sewage! a few men looked on; they are kind, but they all suffer so much that the suffering of others is watched with passive callousness. "brandy now, my man. this is your first and last drink, and you may make it a good one. don't give him any more, skipper, even if you have it on board. you know why? ah! the colour's coming back again. now, my lad, we're going to make your bed up on the cabin floor. hand me a flannel; and you, my man, some water out of the kettle. now for a clean place. i'll set up as a housemaid when i go ashore." "excuse _me_, sir, but if you thinks you're goin' to be let to scrub that ar plank, sir, you're mistaken. i'm skipper here, and i'll do that jest to show you how we thinks of your politeness, mister. hand over that scrubber." "all right, you obstinate mule; of course you'll have your own way. let me see his mattress, then. won't do! which of you durst come with the boat, and i'll send a cocoanut-fibre one for him?" "we never talks about durst here, sir. not many on us doesn't. we'll go, when you goes." so lewis cheerily ended his task, and when his man was laid out, with a dry bundle of netting under his head, the doctor bent over him only to smile in his face quietly. he never looked at himself in a glass excepting to part his hair; but he had learned that something in his look tended to hearten his patients, so he gazed merrily at the cripple and said, "now, when you're better, tell your friends professor ferrier said you were the pluckiest fellow he ever saw. i couldn't have borne what you did. you are a real good, game bit of stuff! and don't let any one tell me otherwise." this unconscionable young doctor was picking up the proper tone for the north sea; he had no airs, and, when his boat was reeling away to his own vessel again over the powdery crests of the sea, an aldeburgh fisherman said, "well, joe, be sewer, he's a wunnerful fine gent, that is! he's the wunnerfullest, finest gent ever _i_ fared for to see. and that he is--solid." "yes, jimmy," said the skipper. "it's my belief, in a way o' speakin', that if that theer mizen-boom catched you and knocked your head off, that theer wunnerful young gent 'ud come, and he'd have his laugh, and he'd up and he'd mend you, same as if you'd never come adrift, not one little bit. what a thing is larnin', to _be_ sewer. yes, sir, he'd mend you. nobody knows what he can dew, and nobody knows what he can't dew. if we puts to this night--and i don't know why not, for we're sailin'--if we gets a turbot i'll pay for it, and he'll have that theer fish if i swims for it." "you've always got a good way o' puttin' things, skipper, and i says i holds 'long o' you." the patient slumbered blissfully in the dreary cabin, which could only be likened to a bewitched laundry in which things were always being washed and never cleaned; the men awaited the admiral's signal; the snow thickened into ponderous falling masses;--and the professor jumped on deck, to be met with a loud boom of gratification by tom, who had begun to dread the snow. i like to think of that young gentleman faring over the treacherous lulls of sad water amid the sinister eddies of the snowstorm. i wonder if any other country could produce a gently-nurtured young scholar who would make a similar journey. it seems doubtful, and more than doubtful. tom had been reading to the paralyzed fisherman, and, although his ordinary tones had too much of the minute-gun about them to suit small apartments, he could lower his voice to a quiet deep bass which was anything but unpleasant, and he had completely charmed the poor helpless one by reading--or rather intoning--"evangeline." seafaring folk _will_ have sentiment in their literature and music; humour must be of the most obvious sort to suit them--in fact they usually care only for the horseplay of literature--but pathos of any sort they accept at once, and tom had tears of pride in his eyes when he told lewis how the man had understood the first part of the poem, and how he had talked for a good half-hour about the eviction of the acadians, and its resemblance to the fate of various fishermen's wives who had got behind with their rents. the evening closed in a troublous horror of great darkness, and the anxious night began. ferrier always made up his mind to stay below at night, and he amused himself either by snatching a chat with the skipper, or by reading one or two good novels which he had brought. but imagine the desolation, the sombre surroundings, the risks to be run every hour--every second--and you will understand that those two english gentlemen had something in them passing self-interest, passing all that the world has to offer. ferrier never dreamed of becoming a nautical recluse; he was too full of the joy of life for that: but he had a purpose, and he went right at his mark like a bullet from a rifle. once that evening he went on deck and tried to peer through the wall of trembling darkness that surrounded him; the view made him feel like the victim in poe's awful inquisition story--the walls seemed to be closing in. faintly the starboard light shone, so that the snowflakes crossed its path like dropping emeralds that shone a little in glory and then fell dark; on the other side a fitful stream of rubies seemed to be pouring; the lurid gleam from the cabin shone up the hatchway;--and, for the rest, there was cold, darkness, the shadow of dread, and yet the lookout-men were singing a duet as if death were not. the freezing drift was enough to stop one's breath, but the lads were quite at ease, and, to the air of a wicked old shanty, they sang about weathering the storm and anchoring by and by. ferrier was not a conscious poet;--alas! had he the fearful facility which this sinful writer once possessed, i shudder to think of the sufferings of his friends when he described the brooding weariness of this night in verse. he bottled up his verses and turned them all into central fire; but he had poetry in every fibre all the same. tom remarked, "this is very much like being iced for market. i wonder what we could possibly do, if anything came into us as that barque did? let's talk about home." "pleasant indoors now; i can see the fire on the edges of the furniture. the very thought of a hearthrug seems like a heathen luxury. what will you do first when you get home, tom?" "turkish bath." "and then?" "oysters." "then?" "dinner." "and after?" "i'll spend the whole evening in pretending to myself i'm on the north sea again, and waking up to find that i've got my armchair under me." "can you see anything, jim, just a point or so abaft the beam." this was an ugly interruption to the barmecides, who had begun to set forth shadowy feasts. that is the way in thick weather; you are no sooner out of one scrape than you blunder into another. "yes, sir, she'll go clear," sang out the man. "she won't, i'm afraid," said lewis, under his breath. it was most puzzling; there was no guide; the snow made distances ridiculous, and the black shadow came nearer. "up, all of you, and set your fenders. doctor, show him a flare." it was a smack, and her lights had gone wrong somehow; she was moving but slowly, and she let the mission vessel off with a hole in the mizen. the scrimmage would have meant death had any breeze been blowing; but the men took it coolly after the one dread minute of anxiety was over. if we were all able to imagine our own deaths as possible--to _really_ imagine it, i mean--then one snowy night on the banks would drive any man mad; no brain could stand it. we all know we shall die, but none of us seem to believe it, or else no one would ever go to sea a second time in winter. a steady opiate is at work in each man's being--blurring his vision of extinction, and thus our seamen go through a certain performance a dozen times over in a winter, and this performance is much like that of a blindfold man driving a hansom cab from cornhill to marble arch on a saturday evening during a november fog. the man who shoved the cork fender over the side had received a graze which sent a big flap of skin over his eye and blinded him with blood. he laughed when lewis dressed him, and said, "that was near enough for most people, sir. i've seen two or three like that in a night." "well, i like to see you laugh, but i thought all was over when i saw he was going to give us the stem." "so did i, sir; but fishermen has to git used to being drowned." as lennard and the doctor sat filling the crew's cabin with billows of smoke, the former said--"there's a kind of frolicsome humour about these men that truly pleases me. frolicsome! isn't it?" "well, we've stood another dreary day out; but think of those poor beggars aft, lying in pain and loneliness. tom, let's say our prayers; i don't know that there's much good in it, but when i think of twelve thousand men bearing such a life as we've had, i think there must--there must be some power that won't let it last for ever. mind, when we've done praying, no more sentiment; we'll smoke and laugh after we've put in a word for the fishermen--and ourselves." "and somebody else." "who?" "i'll write and ask mr. cassall. that's miss dearsley's uncle." i have seen our englishmen fool on in that aimless way during all sorts of peril and trouble. i want you to understand that the evangelist and the sceptic both were prepared to hear the scraunch of the collision on that deadly night; they had seen two entire ships' companies lost since they came out, yet they would not give in or look serious altogether. they had come to found a hospital for the mangled hundreds of fishermen, and they were going through with their task in the steady, dogged, light-hearted british way. foreigners and foreigneering englishmen say it is blockheaded denseness. is it? chapter ii. a crucial test. "when you sailed away in the yarmouth ships, i waved my hand as you passed the pier; it was just an hour since you kissed my lips, and i'll never kiss you no more, my dear. * * * * * "for now they tell me you're dead and gone, and all the world is nothing to me; and there's the baby, our only one, the bonny bairn that you'll never see." ("the mate's wife," by j. runciman.) suffering--monotonous, ceaseless suffering; gallant endurance; sordid filth; unnamed agonies; gnawing, petty pains; cold--and the chance of death. that was the round of life that lewis ferrier gazed upon until a day came that will be remembered, as flodden field was in scotland, as gettysburg is in america, as january th, , is in yarmouth. ferrier had stuck to his terrible routine work, and, as sir everard romfrey observes: "to stick to work _after_ the great effort's over--that's what shows the man." the man never flinched, though he had tasks that might have wearied brain and heart by their sheer nastiness; the healer must have no nerves. a little break in the monotony came at last, and mr. ferrier and mr. t. lennard had an experience which neither will forget on this side of the grave. contrary to the fashion of mere novelists, who are not dreamers and who consequently cannot see the end of things, i tell you that both men were kept alive, but they had something to endure. the day had been fairly pleasant considering the time of year, and our friends were kept busy in running from vessel to vessel, looking after men with slight ailments. there was no snow, but some heavy banks hung in the sky away to the eastward. when the sun sank, the west was almost clear, and tom and lewis were electrified by the most extraordinary sunset that either had ever seen. the variety of colour was not great; all the open spaces of the sky were pallid green, and all the wisps of cloud were leprous blue: it was the intensity of the hues that made the sight so overpowering, for the spaces of green shone with a clear glitter exactly like the quality of colours which you see on crookes's tubes when a powerful electric current is passed through. "that's very artistic, and everything else of the sort; it's ah-h better than any painting i ever saw, but there's something about it that reminds me of snakes and things of that kind. snakes! if you saw a forked tongue come out of that blue you wouldn't be surprised." "you're getting to be quite an impressionist, tom. the sky is horrible. i see all our vessels are getting their boats in; we'd better follow suit. how's the glass, skipper?" "never saw anything like it, sir. this night isn't over yet, and i reckon what's coming is coming from the nor'-east. we're going to reef down. i haven't seen anything like this since , and i remember we had just such another evening." as usual, the gulls were troubled in their minds, and wailed piercingly, for they seem to be mercurial in temperament, and no better weather prophets can be seen. the two ambulance-service men went below, declining to show any misgivings, and they had a good, desultory chat before anything happened to call them on deck. they talked of the poor bruised fellows whom they had seen; then of home; then of the splendid future when men would be kinder, and no fisherman with festering wounds would ever be permitted to die like a dog in a stinking kennel. pleasant, honest talk it was, for the talkers were pleasant and honest. no bad man can talk well. our two gentlemen had learned a long lesson of unselfishness, and each of them seemed to become gentler and more worthy in proportion as he gave up more and more of his comfort and his labour to serve others. at last ferrier said, "well, tom, we had a heavy turn in the autumn. if we go this time we'll go together, and i've often wondered what that could be like. what do men say when they meet the last together? whew-w! how i hate death. the monster! the beastly cold privation. to leave even a north sea smack must be bitter." the patients were listening; the man with concussion was gone, cured, and his place was held by a burly man who had tried (as heavy fellows will) to haul his own fourteen stone up to the main-boom during a breeze, in order to repair a reef-earring. the vessel came up to the wind, and the jar flung poor ebenezer mutton clash on to the deck. luckily he did not land on his skull, but he had a dislocated ankle. ebenezer whispered, "i heern you talkin' about the gale, sir, and you're right; we've got somethin' to come. i have a left arm that can beat any glass ever was seen. i come down from the jaws of the gaff just when we was snuggin' her before the gale in ' , and my arm went in four places. ever since then that there arm tells every change as plain as plain can be. yes, sir, it's hard to die, even out off a north sea smack, as you say. just before the ' breeze i used often to think, 'shall i go overboard?' but when we was disabled, and skipper told us 'twas every man for hisself, i looked queer. my arm says there's bad a-comin', and i know you don't skeer easy, or a wouldn't tell you." a hollow sound filled the whole arch of the sky; it was a great, bewildering sound like a cry--an immense imprecation of some stricken titan. "what can that be?" murmured lennard, with his bold face blanched. "that caps everything." the masterful sound held on for a little, and then sank into a tired sort of moan. "callin' them together, sir,--that's what some o' the west country chaps calls the king o' the winds speakin'. it's only snow gettin' locked in the sky, and you'll see it come away in a little." "i don't know what it is, ebenezer, but i don't like it." on deck the night was black, the splendid green of the west had burnt out, and a breeze was making little efforts from time to time, with little hollow moans. "bad, bad, bad, bad, sir," barked the skipper, angrily. the vanward flights of twirling flakes came on then, as if suddenly unleashed, the wind sprang up, and the great fight began. if you, whoever you may be, and two more strong men had tried to shut an ordinary door in the teeth of that first shock, you would have failed, for the momentum was like that of iron. "steady, and look out," the skipper yelled. the third hand was lifted off his feet and dashed into the lee channels. ferrier fought hard, but he was clutched by the hand of the wind, and held against the mizen-mast; he could just clutch the rest in which a lifebuoy was hanging, and that alone saved him from being felled. the lord is a man of war! surely his hosts were abroad now. no work of man's hands could endure the onset of the forces let loose on that bad night. the sea jumped up like magic, and hurried before the lash of the wind. then, with a darkening swoop, came the snowstorm, hurled along on wide wings; the last remnants of light fled; the vessel was shut in, and the devoted company on board could only grope in the murk on deck. no one would stay below, for the sudden, unexampled assault of the hurricane had touched the nerve of the coolest. i am told by one who was on a wide heath at the beginning of that hurricane, that he was coated with solid ice from head to foot on the windward side; his hair and beard were icicles; his spaniel cowered and refused to move; and a splendid, strong horse, which was being driven right in the teeth of the wind, suddenly put its nose to the ground, set its forelegs wide apart, and refused to go on. not far from the horse was a great poplar, and this tree suddenly snapped like a stick of macaroni; the horse started, whirled round, and galloped off with the wind behind. what must it have been at sea? men durst not look to windward, for a hard mass seemed to be thrust into nostrils and eyes, so that one was forced to gasp and choke. as for the turmoil!--all gravelotte, with half a million men engaged, could not have made such a soul-quelling, overmastering sound. every capacity of sound, every possible discordant vibration of the atmosphere was at work; and so, with bellow on bellow, crash on crash, vast multitudinous shriek on shriek, that fateful tempest went on. ferrier found that unless he could get under the lee of something or other, he must soon be sheathed in a coat of ice that would prevent him from stirring at all. oddly enough, he found afterwards that the very fate he dreaded had befallen several forlorn seamen: the icy missiles of the storm froze them in; the wind did not chill them, it throttled them, and they were found frozen rigid in various positions. the mate came and whispered in ferrier's ear (for shouting was useless), "the skipper would like a word with you. we'll keep some sort of a look-out, but it isn't much good at present. come into our cabin." lewis was not sorry, for the waves began to take the vessel without "noticing" her, as it were, just as a good hunter takes an easy ditch in his stride. if one came perpendicularly upon her, it was easy to see what must happen. the skipper said, "i want you gentlemen to assist me. i'm ordered to obey _you_, but i know this sea, and i tell you that i'm doubtful whether i shall save the vessel. i can't keep her hove-to much longer, for this simple reason as she'll bury herself and us. i've got two hundred and forty-four miles to run home. will you let me run her? if so, i'll take her in under storm canvas. she's splendid before wind and sea, and i can save her that way; if we stop as we are, i fear we drown. i've seen so many years of it that i don't so much mind, but having you is a terrible thing. hishht, a sea's coming!--i can tell by the lull." then the two landsmen cowered involuntarily, and looked in each other's eyes with a wild surmise, for a shock came which made the vessel quiver like a tuning-fork in every fibre; the very pannikins on the cabin floor rattled, and all the things in the pantry went like rapidly chattering teeth. it was not like an ordinary blow of the sea. the skipper rushed aft, hoping to get on deck through ferrier's cabin, but he met a cataract of water which blinded him, and he came back saying, "i doubt her deck won't stand another like that. now, gentlemen, it's for you to decide." "skipper, send bill up to help me with the boat. that last's drove her abreast the skylight." the one look-out man had saved himself. how, only a smacksman can tell. the skipper came down again. "now, gentlemen, shall i run or not?" "well, skipper, if we get through this we shall be more needed than ever." "yes, sir; but if that last sea hadn't glanced a bit on our starboard bow, we _shouldn't_ have got through. we've saved the boat, but she was snapped from the grips like a rotten tooth." "but, skipper, we may be pooped in running, or we may do some damage to the rudder and broach-to. then we should be worse off than here." "very well, gentlemen. i'm not concerned for myself. my duty's done now, and i'll do my best. i advise you to take some coffee, and try to get a few hours' rest before the pinch comes. you'll not get much rest then." another sea came, and another; the sound of the wind paralyzed thought and made speech impossible. had any one said, "the end of the world has come," you would have felt only a mild surprise, for even the capacity for fear or apprehension was stunned as the brain is stunned by a blow. "i can't stand this any longer, tom. even brandy wouldn't do much good for more than an hour. do you hear me?" tom nodded in a dazed way. "well, then, let's go into the open somehow. perhaps the skipper's strong, hot coffee _will_ wake us. anyhow, let us try a cup." oh! that indescribable night! to know that death was feasting in that blackness; to feel that vigilance was of no avail; to turn away convulsed from the iron push of the demoniac force which for the time seemed to have taken the place of an atmosphere. smash! rattle. then a wild whistling; a many lashes, that flapped and cracked; then the fall of the spar, and the deep, quick sigh from lennard as it whizzed close by him. the gaff of the mizen had broken away, halliards and all, as if a supernatural knife had been drawn across by a strong hand. the men were hanging on, while a bellying, uncontrollable canvas buffeted them as if it had volition and sense, and strove to knock their senses out of them. a canvas adrift is like an unruly beast. all hands came through the after-cabin, and attacked the thundering sail. "for your lives now, chaps, before another sea comes! i can't slack away these halliards. bob, out knife, and up in the rings; cut them away." the gaff had fallen, but it was not clear yet. in some mysterious fashion the mizen halliards had yielded and slipped for some distance after a sudden shock had cut the gaff halliards and let the jaws of the gaff free; so now the sail would neither haul up nor come down. like a cat bob sprang up the remaining rings, and hacked at the gear; the sail fell--and so did bob, with a dull thud. "oh! skipper, that's a bad 'un." "cast a line round him till we've stowed. jim, take hold of her; she's falling off! shove her to the wind again till we're done! now, lads, all of you on to the sheet! haul! oh, haul! slack away them toppin' lifts. so; now we've got her! where's bob?" "doctor's got him below, skipper." poor bob had tried to save himself with his right arm, and his hand had been bent backwards over, and doubled back on his forearm. bob was settled for the rest of the gale. lewis soon had the broken limb put up, and bob stolidly smoked and pondered on the inequalities of life. why was he, and not another, told off to spring up that reeling mizen into a high breeze that ended by mastering him, and flinging him as if he had been a poor wrestler matched with a champion? here he was--crippled. "well, bob, if this is a specimen, we shall see something when it clears." "yes, doctor; you may say that, you may. i never see nothing like it. if you give a man ten hundred thousand goulden sovereigns, and you says, 'tell me directly you see anything comin',' he couldn't. when i was on the look-out, i held this 'ere hand, as is broken, up before my eyes, and i couldn't see it, sir--and that's the gospel, as i'm here!" "do you think we're out of the track of ships?" "i know no more than adam, sir. hello! what's that?" "up here, sir--up, quick!" ferrier's heart jumped as he thought--"tom." "haul on here, sir, with us. god be praised, he took his rope over with him. haul, for the lord's sake! now! now!" ferrier lashed at his work in a fury of effort: a sea sent him on his knees, and yet he lay hack against the inrush of water, and hauled with all the weight of body and arms. "haul, my men! a good life is at the end of that line. haul! the ice may congeal his pulses before you get at him! haul! oh, haul!" the skipper sprang to the grating abaft the wheel. "here he is. glory be to god! are you right, sir?" no answer. "my god! are you sure, skipper?" "sure. look!" ferrier saw an object like a mass of seaweed, but the night was so pitchy that no outline could be made out. "who durst try to pass a line under his arms?" "hand here, skipper; i will." "oh, lewis! keep nerve and eye steady. the graves are twenty fathoms below." lennard was inert, and no one could tell how he held on until he was flung on the deck. "lend us that binnacle lamp, jim. turn it on him." then it was seen that tom might have been hauled up without putting ferrier in peril, for the rope was twice coiled under his arms and loosely knotted in front; he had taken that precaution after seeing bob fall. moreover, strange to say, his teeth were locked in the rope, for he had laid hold with the last effort of despair. the wind volleyed; the darkness remained impenetrable, and every sea that came was a niagara; yet the gallant smack stood to it, and tom lennard slumbered after the breath came back to him. his ribs had stood the strain of that rope, but he had really been semi-strangled, and he was marked with two lurid, extravasated bands round his chest. he never spoke before falling asleep; he only pressed ferrier's hand and pointed, with a smile, upward. "if it goes on like this, sir, there won't be many of us left by the morning." "no, skipper. i hope the men will secure themselves like us. mr. lennard had a near thing. he has a jaw like a walrus, or his teeth must have gone." so, in fitful whispers, the grim scraps of talk went on while the blare of the trumpets of the night was loosened over the sea. "look--over the port-side, there. it's beginning." ferrier could make out nothing until the skipper gave him the exact line to look on. then he saw a something that seemed to wallow darkly on a dark tumble of criss-cross seas. "he's bottom up, sir. if we'd been running and gone into him, we should have been at rest soon." "how beautifully we are behaving, skipper. i suppose there's no chance of our going like that?" "not without something hits our rudder. we seem to have got away from the track now. while you were below, you see, i got her mainsail in, and that strip of sail has no more pull than a three-cloth jib. please god, we may get through. if anything happens to my mainmast i shall give in--but it's a good spar." ferrier's mind went wandering with a sort of boding fierceness; he framed dramatic pictures of all that was passing in the chaotic ruin of shattered seas that rushed and seethed around. he had often spoken of the gigantic forces of nature, but the words had been like algebraic formulae; now he saw the reality, and his rebellious mind was humbled. "to-morrow, or next day, i shall have to see the misery that this causes. but why should i talk of misery? the word implies a complaint. a hundred smacksmen die to-night. pitiful! but if this hurricane and all the lesser breezes did not blow, then millions would die who live now in healthy air. if the sea were not lashed up and oxygenated, we should have a stagnant pest-hole like an old rotten fishpond all round the world. england would be like sierra leone, and there would soon be no human race. who talks of kindness and goodness in face of a scene like this? we know nothing. the hundred fishermen die, and the unpoisoned millions live. we are shadows; we have not a single right. if i die to-night, i shall have been spent by an almighty power that has used me. will he cast me to nothingness after i have fulfilled my purpose? never. there is not a gust of this wind that does not move truly according to eternal law; there can be no injustice, for no one can judge the judge. if i suffer the petty pang of death while a great purpose is being wrought out, i have no more reason to complain than if i were a child sharply pushed out of the way to let a fireengine pass. the great purpose is everything, and i am but an instrument--just as this hurricane is an instrument. i shall be humble and do the work next my hand, and i will never question god any more. if a man can reckon his own individuality as anything after seeing this sight, he is a human failure; he is an abortion that should be wiped out. and now i'll try to pray." so in sharp, short steps the scholar's thought strode on, and the sombre storming of the gale made an awful accompaniment to the pigmy's strenuous musings. ferrier's destiny was being settled in that cataclysm, had he only known it; his pride was smitten, and he was ready to "receive the kingdom of god as a little child," to begin to learn on a level with the darkened fishermen whom he had gently patronized. as soon as he had resolved that night on self-abnegation, as soon as the lightning conviction of his own insignificance had flashed through him, he humbly but "boldly" came "to the throne of grace." like every one else who thus draws near to god through the saviour's merit, he learned what it is to "obtain mercy"; a brooding calm took possession of his purified soul, and he was born again into a world where pride, egotism, angry revolt, and despair are unknown. there would be no good in prolonging the story of this wrestle; there was a certain sameness in every phase, though the dangers seemed to change with such protean swiftness. for three days it lasted, and on the third day tom lennard, ferrier, the patients, and the crew, were far more interested in the steward's efforts to boil coffee than they were in the arrowy flight of the snow-masses or the menace of towering seas. ferrier attended his men, and varied that employment by chatting with lennard, who was now able to sit up. tom was much shaken and very solemn; he did not like talking of his late ordeal. "lewis, my dear friend, i have looked on the eternal majesty, and now death has no more terror for me. he will hide me in the shadow of his wings. i have seen what was known to them of old time; i knew when the gun seemed to go off inside my head, and i could feel nothing more, i knew that i should live: and that was the last light i saw in this world until you saved me--god bless you! we won't ever speak of it again." thus spoke tom, with a fluency and correctness of diction which surprised himself. and he has never dilated on his mishap throughout his life so far. it is not uncommon--that same awe-stricken reticence. this writer knows a man, a great scholar, a specimen of the best aristocratic class, a man fitted to charm both men and women. long ago, he and two others slid two thousand feet down an alpine slope. for two days and two nights the living man rested on a glacier--tied to the dead. "oh! wretched man that i am, who shall deliver me from the body of this death!" my subject knows all about this; he has gazed on the unutterable, and he has never mentioned his soul-piercing experience to any creature. there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. * * * * * the worst of the ordeal was over; the snow ceased, the hurricane fined off, and only the turbulent water rushing in discoloured mountains under the last impetus of the wind--only that cruel water persisted in violence. it seemed as if for days the sea were sentient, and could not forget its long torture. then came a griping frost and a hard sky, with slight breeze and a quiet sea. oh, the marks of ruin and annihilation! the sea was strewn with wreckage; masses of timber swung around in loose rafts; vessels, bottom up, passed the smack from day to day; the fleet was dispersed, and only a few battered and ragged vessels could be seen rolling here and there in disorganized isolation. "goodness knows when we shall ever see our people again, sir. we can't do nothin'; i'll keep a sharp look-out all through daylight, and we'll pick them up if we can, but i fancy most of them have run for home or the humber. before we settle to work again i was thinking of a little thanksgiving service. we're saved for some good purpose, sir, and it's only fit we should say a word humbly to our blessed father in heaven." and all on board met in the simple north sea fashion, and even the patients had their say. only tom lennard remained impenetrably silent; he knew too much; he was a past-master in the mystery of mysteries. the people used to say in ravenna, "behold, there is the man who has been in hell," when they saw the awful face of dante; poor, loose-brained tom lennard had also seen that which may not be made known. "there's some on 'em right ahead, skipper, i think. joe questor's there, i know. he hasn't lost his new mainsail. see 'em, skipper?" a few dark grey shadows like slim poles were all that ferrier could see; but the man was right, and when the deft fingers--those miraculous fingers--of the seaman had set the mizen right, the smack was sailed with every stitch on, until she buried herself in the sulky, slow bulges of the ground swell. ferrier said, "you see, skipper, it's better to risk carrying away something, than to have some poor smashed customer waiting helpless." and the skipper cracked on with every rag he could show until, on a sealing frosty morning, he shot in among the dismal remains of the gallant fleet. ferrier's vessel would have pleased certain lovers of the picturesque if they had studied her appearance, but she was in a dreadful state from the prosaic seaman's point of view. every wave had been laid under tribute by the frost, and a solid hillock had gathered forward; the anchor was covered in like a candied fruit; the boat was entirely concealed by a hard white mass; while as for the ropes--they cannot be described fittingly. would any one imagine that a half-inch rope could be made the centre of a column of ice three inches in diameter? would any one imagine that a small block could be the nucleus of a lump as large as a pumpkin? from stem to stern the vessel was caked in glossy ice, and from her gaffs and booms hung huge icicles like the stalagmites of the dropping cave. all the other smacks were in the same plight, and it was quite clear that no fishing could be done for awhile, because every set of trawl-gear was banked in by a slippery, heavy rock. there was something dismal and forlorn in the sound of the salutations as ferrier ran past each vessel; the men were in low spirits despite their deliverance, for there was damage visible in almost every craft, and, moreover, the shadow of death was there. when lewis came alongside of the admiral he sang out "what cheer?" and the answer came, "very bad. we shall be a fortnight before we get them together." "do you think many are lost?" "i knows of seven gone down, but there may be more for all i know. some that ran for home would get nabbed on the winterton or the scrowby." "up with our flag, skipper, and see about the boat." ferrier knew that his task would soon be upon him, and he helped like a titan, with axe and pick, to clear away the ice. a spell of two hours' labour, and the expenditure of dozens of kettles of hot water, freed the boat, and she was put out, regardless of the chance of losing her. (by the way, the men care very little about a boat's being swamped so long as the painter holds. i have seen three go under astern of one vessel during the delivery of fish. the little incident only caused laughter.) the chapter of casualties was enough to curdle the blood of any one but a doctor--a doctor with perfect nerve and training. all kinds of violent exertions had been used to save the vessels, and men had toiled with sacks sewn round their boots to avoid slipping on a glassy surface which froze like a mirror whenever it was exposed for a few seconds to the air between the onrushes of successive waves. ferrier carried his life in his hand for three days as he went from vessel to vessel; the sea was unpleasant; the risk involved in springing over icy bulwarks on to slippery decks was miserable, and the most awkward operations had to be performed at times when it needed dexterity merely to keep a footing. one man had the calf of his leg taken clean away by a topmast which came down like a falling spear; the frost had caught the desperate wound before ferrier came on the scene, and the poor mortal was near his last. the young man saw that the leg must go; he had never ventured to think of such a contingency as this, and his strained nerve well-nigh failed him. a grim little conversation took place in the cabin between the skipper, the doctor, and the patient. i let the talk explain itself, so that people may understand that ferrier's proposed hospital was not demanded by a mere faddist. the man was stretched on a moderately clean tablecloth laid on the small open space in the close dog-hutch below; a dull pallor appeared to shine from _underneath_, and glimmered through the bronze of the skin. he was sorely failed, poor fellow. the skipper stood there--dirty, unkempt, grim, compassionate. ferrier put away a bucket full of stained muslin rags (he had tried his best to save the limb), and then he said softly, "now, my son, i think i can save you; but you must take a risk. we can't send you home; i can't take you with me until we get a turn of smooth water; if i leave you as you are, there is no hope. do you consent to have the leg taken off?" "better chance it, frank, my boy. i dursn't face your old woman if i go home without you." "will it give me a chance? can i stand the pain?" "you'll have no pain. you'll never know, and it all depends upon _afterwards_." "i stand or fall with you, doctor. i have some little toebiters at home i don't want to leave yet." "very good. now, skipper, stand by him till i come back; i have some things to bring." two wild journeys had to be risked, but the doctor's luck held, and he once more came on that glassy deck. sharply and decisively he made his preparations. "have you nerve enough to assist me, skipper?" "i'll be as game as i can, doctor." "then kneel here, and take this elastic bag in your hand; turn this rose right over my hands as i work, and keep the spray steadily spirting on the place. you understand? now, frank, my man, when i put this over your face, take a deep breath." * * * * * ferrier was pale when frank asked "where am i?" he waved the skipper aside, and set himself to comfort the brave man who had returned from the death-in-life of chloroform. "bear down on our people and let my men take the boat back. i'm going to stop all night with you, skipper." "well, of all the----well, there sir, if you ain't. lord! what me and frank'll have to tell them if we gets home! why, it's a story to last ten year, this 'ere. and on this here bank, in a smack!" "never mind that, old fellow. get my men out of danger." the extraordinary--almost violent--hospitality of the skipper; his lavishness in the matter of the fisherman's second luxury--sugar; his laughing admiration, were very amusing. he would not sleep, but he watched fondly over doctor and patient. ferrier was fortified now against certain insect plagues which once afflicted him, and the brilliant professor laid his head on an old cork fender and slept like an infant. he did not return until next evening; he went without books, tobacco, alcohol, and conversation, and he never had an afterthought about his own privations. frank seemed so cool and easy when his saviour left him, that ferrier determined to give him a last word of hope. "good-bye, my man. no liquor of any sort. you'll get well now. bear up for four days more, because i must have you near me; then either you'll run home with me, or i'll order your skipper to take you." nothing that the middle ages ever devised could equal that suffering seaman's unavoidable tortures during the next few days. he should have been on a soft couch; he was on a malodorous plank. he should have been still; he was only kept from rolling over and over by pads of old netting stuffed under him on each side. luxury was denied him; and the necessities of life were scarce indeed. poor frank! his sternly-tender surgeon did not desert him, and he was at last sent away in his own smack. he lived to be an attendant in a certain institution which i shall not yet name. after much sleepless labour, which grew more and more intense as the stragglers found their way up, ferrier summarized his work and his failures. he had treated frostbite--one case necessitating amputation; he had cases of sea-ulcers; cracks in the hand. stop! the outsider may ask why a cracked hand should need to be treated by a skilled surgeon. well, it happens that the fishermen's cracked hands have gaps across the inside bends of the fingers which reach the bone. the man goes to sleep with hands clenched; as soon as he can open them the skin and flesh part, and then you see bone and tendon laid bare for salt, or grit, or any other irritant to act upon. i have seen good fellows drawing their breath with sharp, whistling sounds of pain, as they worked at the net with those gaping sores on their gnarled paws. one such crack would send me demented, i know; but our men bear it all with rude philosophy. ferrier learned how to dress these ugly sores with compresses surrounded by oiled silk. men could then go about odd jobs without pain, and some of them told the surgeon that it was like heaven. well, there were half a score smashed fingers, a few severe bruises, several poisoned hands, a crushed foot, and many minor ailments caused by the incessant cold, hunger, and labour. ten men should have been sent home; one died at sea; ten more might have saved their berths if they could have had a week of rest and proper treatment. my hero was downcast, but his depression only gave edge and vigour to his resolution in the end. he had learned the efficacy of prayer now--prayer to a loving and all-powerful father; and he always had an assured sense of protection and comfort when he had told his plain tale and released his heart. i, the writer, should have smiled at him in those days, but i am not so sure that i could smile with confidence now. lennard stuck to his favourite with helpful gallantry, and became so skilled a nurse that ferrier was always content to leave him in charge. both men tried to cheer each other; both were sick for home, and there is no use in disguising the fact. when ferrier one day came across the simple lines-- "perhaps the selfsame song has found a path to the sad heart of ruth, when, sick for home, she stood in tears amid the alien corn," he came near to imitating ruth. he knew his duty well enough, but the affections and the spirit are strong. then the almost ceaseless bad weather, and the many squalid conditions of life, were wearing to body and soul. an abominable day broke soon after frank had sailed for home, and a sea got up which threatened to shake the spars out of our smack. half a gale blew; then a whole gale; then a semi-hurricane, and at last all the ships had to take in the fourth reef in the mainsail. the two samaritans were squatting on the floor in the cabin (after they had nailed canvas strips across the sides of the berths to prevent the patients from falling out), for no muscular power on earth could have enabled its possessor to keep his place on a high seat in that maddening jump. it was enough to jerk the pipe from one's mouth. the deck was all the time in a smother of half-frozen slush, and the seas were so wall-sided that the said slush fell in great plumps from side to side with a force which plucked the men off their legs several times. again and again it appeared as if the smack must fall off the sides of the steep seas, as the long screw colliers sometimes do in the bay of biscay when the three crossing drifts meet. it was a heartbreaking day, and, at the very worst, a smack bore down as if he meant to come right into the mission vessel. sweeping under the lee and stopping his vessel, the smack's skipper hailed. "got the doctor on board?" down went the newcomer into the trough, leaving just a glimpse of his truck. up again with a rolling wave. "yes. what's up?" "we've got a man dying here, and not one of my white-livered hounds will go in the small boat." "can't you persuade them?" "no. they'll forfeit their voyage first." "edge away from us, and i'll see." by this time the two smacks were almost in collision, but they went clear. the skipper went below and stated the case. ferrier listened grimly. "what do you think, skipper?" "your life's precious, sir. you've come to be like the apple of my eye; i'd rather die myself than you should go." "are your men game enough?" "i'm going myself if you go. if i die i shall be in my master's service." "is it so very bad?" "very." "what's our chance?" "ten to one against us ever coming back." "it's long odds. shove the boat out." "stop a bit, sir. don't smile at an old man. let's put it before the lord. i never found that fail. come, sir, and i'll pray for you." "all cant," do you say, reader? maybe, my friend, but i wish you and i could only have the heart that the words came from. the skipper bared his good grey head, and prayed aloud. "lord, thou knowest we are asked to risk our lives. we are in thine hands, and our lives are nothing. say, shall we go? we shall know in our hearts directly if you tell us. spare us, if it be thy will; if not, still thy will be done. we are all ready." after a pause the skipper said, "we'll do it, sir. shove on your life-jacket. i'll take two life-buoys." lennard had kneeled with the others, and he said, "shall i go?" "you're too heavy, tom. you'll over-drive the boat. i'll chance all." even to get into that boat was a terrible undertaking, for the smack was showing her keel, and the wall-siders made it likely that the boat would overbalance and fall backward like a rearing horse. six times ferrier had his foot on the rail ready to make his lithe, flying bound into the cockleshell; six times she was spun away like a foambell--returning to crash against the side as the smack hove up high. at last the doctor fairly fell over the rail, landed astride on the boat's gunwale, and from thence took a roll to the bottom and lay in the swashing water. then delicately, cautiously, the skipper and his man picked their way with short, catchy strokes--mere dabs at the boiling foam. "god bless you," tom sang out, and the big fellow was touched when he heard the weak voices of the patients below, crying "god bless you!" with a shrillness that pierced above the hollow rattle of the wind, "there goes the boat up, perpendicularly as it appears. ah! that's over her. no; it's broken aside. what a long time she is in coming up. here's a cross sea! ferrier's baling. oh! it's too much. oh! my poor friend! here's a screamer! god be praised--she's topped it! will the smack hit her? go under his lee if you love me. they've got the rope now. in he goes, smash on his face! just like him, the idiot--lord bless his face and him!" thomas hung on to the rigging and muttered thus, to his own great easement. when ferrier got up, he said, "skipper, only once more of that for me. once more, and no more after. if a raw hand had been there we should never have lived. thank goodness you came! you deserve the albert medal, and you shall have it too, if i can do anything." the new patient was gasping heavily, and the whites of his eyes showed. the skipper explained: "you see, sir, he's got cold through with snow-water, and he sleeps in his wet clothes same as most of us; but he's not a strong chap, and it's settled him. he's as hard as a stone all round, and sometimes he's hot and sometimes he's cold." "has he sweated?" "no, sir; and he's got cramps that double him up." "has he spoken lately?" "not a word." "well now, give me every blanket you can rake up or steal, or get anyhow." when the blankets were brought, ferrier said, "now i'm going to make him sweat violently, and then i shall trap him up, as some of you say, and you must do your best to keep him warm afterwards, or else you may lose him. when he has perspired enough you must rub him dry, with some muslin that i'll give you, and then merely wait till he's well." in that wretched, reeking hole ferrier improvised a russian bath with a blanket or two, a low stool, and a lamp turned down moderately low. he helped to hold up his man until the sweat came, first in beads, and then in a copious downpour; he wrapped him up, and did not leave till the patient professed himself able to get up and walk about. the men merely gaped and observed the miraculous revival with faith unutterable. then our young man bade good-bye, merely saying, "you'll keep your berth for a couple of days, and then signal us if you want me." the sky was ragged and wild with the tattered banners of cloud; the sea was inky dark, and the wind had an iron ring. the mission vessel had dropped to leeward of the fishing smack, and the boat had about three hundred yards to go. but what a three hundred yards! great black hills filled up the space and flowed on, leaving room for others equally big and equally black. the sides of these big hills were laced with lines of little jumping hillocks, and over all the loud wind swept, shearing off tearing storm-showers of spray. an ugly three hundred yards! "well, how is it now, skipper?" "neck or nothing, sir. you can stop here if you like." "oh, no! mr. lennard would have apoplexy. let us try. it can't be worse than it was in coming." "good-bye, sir. i'm sorry my comrades hadn't the risk instead of you. i'll take good care you don't attend one of _them_." home, happiness, fame! the face of marion dearsley. images of peace and love.--all these things passed through lewis ferrier's mind as he prepared for that black journey. a dark wave swung the boat very high. "will she turn turtle?" no. but she was half full. "bale away, sir." whirr, went the wind; the liquid masses came whooping on. one hundred yards more would have made all safe, though the boat three times pitched the oars from between the tholepins. a big curling sea struck her starboard quarter too sharply, and for a dread halfminute she hung with her port gunwale in the water as she dropped like a log down the side of the wave. it was too cruel to last. ferrier heard an exclamation; then a deep groan from the skipper; and then to the left he saw a great slate-coloured thing rushing down. the crest towered over them, bent, shattered with its own very velocity, and fell like a crumbling dark cavern over the boat. there was a yell from both smacks; then the boat appeared, swamped, with the men up to their necks; then the boat went, sucking the men down for a time, and then lewis ferrier and his two comrades were left spinning in the desperate whirls of the black eddies. "run to them!" yelled tom. "never mind if you carry everything away. only keep clear of the other smack." ferrier found the water warm, and he let himself swing passively. his thoughts were in a hurly-burly. was this the end of all--youth, love, brave days of manhood? nay, he would struggle. had they not prayed before they set out? all must come right--it must. and yet that spray was choking. he could not see his companions. a yell. "lewis, my son, i'll come over." but tom was held back; the smack was brought up all shaking. first the skipper caught a rope. good, noble old man! he was half senseless when they hauled him on board. then lewis heard, as in a torpid reverie, a great voice, "lay hold, lewis, and i _will_ come if you're bothered." what was he doing? mechanically he ran the rope under the sleeve of his life-jacket; a mighty jerk seemed likely to pull him in halves as the smack sheered; then a heavy, dragging pain came--he was being torn, torn, _torn_. he woke in the cabin before the fire, and found tom lennard blubbering hard over him. "warm it seems, thomas? reckon i almost lost my number that time." "my good lewis! no more. i had to strip you, and i've done everything. the skipper's dead beat, and if bob couldn't steer we should be in a pickle. let me put you in a hot blanket now, and you'll have some grog." then, with his own queer humour, lewis ferrier said, "tom, all this is only a lesson. if we'd had a proper boat, a proper lift for sick men, and a proper vessel to lift them into, i should have been all right. we won't come back to have these baths quite so often. we'll have a _ship_ when we come again, and not merely a thing to sail. and now give me just a thimble-full of brandy, and then replace the bottle amongst the other poisonous physic! i'm getting as lively as a grasshopper. a nautical--a nautical taste, thomas!" and then ferrier went off to sleep just where he was, after very nearly giving a most convincing proof in his own person of the necessity for a hospital vessel. lennard brooded long, and at last he went to the skipper and asked, "old man, shall bob shove her head for home?" the skipper nodded. and now you may see why i purposely made this chapter so long. you have an accurate picture of what goes on during all the snowy months on that wild north water! chapter iii. the plotter. an old gentleman and a tall girl were walking in the secluded grounds of a great house that had once belonged to an unhappy prince. the place was very near london, yet that suggestive hum of the city never seemed to pierce the deep glades of the park; the rooks talked and held councils, and tried culprits, and stole, and quarrelled as freely as they might have done in the wilds of surrey or wiltshire; the rabbits swarmed, and almost every south-country species of wild bird nested and enjoyed life in the happy, still woods and shrubberies. modern--very modern--improvements had been added to the body of the old house, but there was nothing vulgar or ostentatious. everything about the place, from the old red palace to the placid herd of alderney cows that grazed in a mighty avenue, spoke of wealth--wealth solid and well-rooted. there was no sign of shoddy anywhere; the old gentleman had bought the place at an enormous price, and he had left all the ancient work untouched; but he would have stables, laundry, tennis-court, and so on through the offices and outside buildings, fitted out according to rational principles of sanitation, and, if the truth be told, he would rather have seen healthy ugly stables than the most quaint and curious of living-rooms that ever spread typhoid. mr. cassall was a man of peculiarly modern type. from his youth upward he had never once acknowledged himself beaten, though he had known desperate circumstances; he saw that, as our civilization goes, money is accounted a rough gauge of merit, and a man's industry, tenacity, sobriety, self-control, and even virtue, are estimated and popularly assessed according to the amount of money which he owns, and he resolved that, let who will fail, he at least would have money and plenty of it. he bent his mind on one end for forty years; he was unscrupulous in all respects so long as he could keep within the law; he established a monopoly in his business on the ruins of scores of small firms which he crushed by weight of metal; he had no pity, no consideration, no remorse, in business hours; and he succeeded just as any other man of ability will succeed if he gives himself up body and soul to money-making. he never was proud; he was only hard. to his niece, whom he passionately loved, he would say, "never be ashamed, my dear, to tell people that your uncle was a wholesale draper and hosier. your mother was a little ashamed of it, and i had some trouble to cure her. don't you be so silly. people think all the more of you for owning frankly that you or your relations have risen from the ranks, as they call it." when he retired his wealth was colossal. smart men would say that bob cassall's name was good for a million anywhere; and indeed it was good for two millions, and more even than that. he never felt the burden of great riches; as soon as he was safe he seemed to change his nature, and became the most dexterously benevolent of men. he abhorred a cadger; he abhorred the very sight of the begging circulars which so appreciably increase the postman's daily burden. he was a sensible reader, and, when he heard of a traveller who was something more than a mere lion, he would make his acquaintance in the most respectful and unobtrusive way, and he managed to learn much. his shrewd innocence and piquant wit pleased those whom he questioned, and as he was always willing to place his house, horses, boats, and game, at the disposal of any traveller who pleased him, he was reckoned rather a desirable acquaintance. his prejudice against missions to the lower tribes was derived solely from men who had lived and worked among the negroes, and, like all his other prejudices, it was violently strong. he would say, "have we not good white men here who are capable of anything? i don't want to assist your polish jew in the east, nor quashee nigger in africa. show me a plucky fellow that is ready to work at anything for any hours, and i'll help him. but instead of aiding our own kindly white race, you fool away millions on semi-baboons; you send out men at £ a year and ask them to play at being st. paul, and you don't convert a hundred niggers a year--and those who are converted are often very shady customers. your indian men drive about in buggies, and the 'cute natives laugh at them. do you know what a bengali baboo or a pathan is really like? the one is three times as clever as your missionary; the other is a manly fanatic and won't have him at any price. you're a maritime nation, and you've got ten thousand good british seamen out of work. why not assist _them_?" so this quaint and shockingly heterodox millionaire would rave on, for he was a most peppery old person. one dark and terrible legend is current concerning him, but i hardly dare repeat it. an affable gentleman from a foreign mission called on him one day, and obtained admission (i am bound to add without any subterfuge). bob heard the visitor's story, and knitted his beetling bushy brows. he said: "well, sir, you've spoken very fairly. now just answer me one or two questions. how much money have you per year?" "half a million." "good. does any one supervise your missionaries?" "we have faith in their integrity, and we credit them with industry." "you trust them five hundred miles up country?" "certainly, sir." "how many missionaries' wives died in the last ten years?" "i think probably about eighty." "eighty sweet english girls condemned to death. good." the grizzled old fellow rose in dignified fashion, and said: "you will perhaps lunch alone, and i shall be pleased if you will be good enough to make this your final visit." then the story goes on to say that mr. cassall placed a kennel on the lawn with a very large and truculent brindled bulldog as tenant; over the kennel he coiled a garden hose, and above the bulldog's portal appeared the words, "for foreign missions." this seems too shocking to be true, and i fancy the whole tale was hatched in the city. certainly mr. cassall was scandalously unjust to the missionaries--an injustice which would have vanished had he personally known the glorious results for god and humanity achieved by self-denying missionaries and their devoted wives who carry the gospel of christ to far-off heathen lands--but then where is the man who has not his whims and oddities? this man, according to his lights, spread his benefactions lavishly and wisely on public charities and private cases of need. he liked above all things to pick out clever young men and set them up in retail businesses with money lent at four per cent. not once did he make a blunder, and so very lucky was he that he used to tell his niece that with all his enormous expenditure he had not touched the fringe of his colossal capital. if he assisted any advertised charity he did so in the most princely way, but only after he had personally held an audit of the books. if the committee wanted to have the chance of drawing ten thousand pounds, let them satisfy him with their books; if they did not want ten thousand pounds, or thought they did not deserve it, let them leave it alone. this was robert cassall, who was marion dearsley's uncle. his grim, grizzled head was stooping a little as he bent towards his niece on this soft winter day, and he himself looked almost like the human type of a hard, wholesome, not unkindly winter. his high roman nose, penthouse brows, quick jetty eye, square well-hung chin, and above all his sturdy, decided gait--all marked him for a man every inch, and he did not belie his appearance, for no manlier being walks broad england than robert cassall. he was listening a little fretfully to his niece, but her strength and sweetness kept him from becoming too touchy. the deep contralto that we know, said-- "well then, you see, uncle dear, these men cannot help themselves. they are--oh! such magnificent people--that is the country-born ones, for some of the town men are not nice at all; but the east coast men are so simple and fine, but then, you know, they are so poor. our dear mr. fullerton told me that in very bad weather the best men cannot earn so much as a scavenger can on shore." "yes, yes, my girl. you know i listen carefully to everything you say. i value your talk immensely, but don't you observe, my pet, that if i help every one who cannot help himself i may as well shorten matters by going into the street and saying to each passer-by, 'please accept half a crown as _your_ share of my fortune'?" "but the reasons are peculiar here, uncle. oh! i do so wish mrs. walton could see you. she has logic, and she reasons where i dream." "hah! would you? what? turn mrs. walton loose at me? no ladies here, miss, i warn you." "now, please be good while i go on. i want to repeat dr. ferrier's reasoning if i can. you have fish every day--mostly twice?" "yes, but i don't give charity to my butcher. the rascal is able to tip _me_, if the truth were known." "true, uncle, and you don't need to give anything to your fishmonger. why, you silly dear, you think you are a commercial genius, and yet the fishmonger probably charges you ever so much per cent over and above what the fishermen receive, because of the great expense of railway carriage and distribution of the fish. i know that, because mr. fullerton told me; so you see i've corrected you, even you, on a point of finance." how prettily this stern, composed young woman could put on artful airs of youthfulness when she chose! how she had that firm, far-seeing old man held in position, ready to be twirled round her rosy finger! which of us is not held in bondage by some creature of the kind? unhappy the man who misses that sweet and sacred slavery. mr. cassall wrinkled his grim face not unpleasantly. "go on; go on. you're a lawyer, neither more nor less. by the way, who is this--this what's-the-name--the doctor, that you mentioned?" "oh! he is a very clever young man who has chosen to become a surgeon instead of being a university professor. he's now out on the north sea in all this bad weather. he was so much struck with the need of a hospital, that he made up his mind to risk a winter so that he may tell people exactly what he has seen. he doesn't do things in a half-hearted way. "what a long, pretty description of mr. ferrier. you seem to have taken a good deal of notice of the fortunate youth. well, proceed." marion was a little flushed when she resumed, but her uncle did not observe anything at all unusual. "where was i?--oh, yes! you hold it right to give money in charity to deserving objects. now these men out at sea were left for years, perhaps for centuries, to live as a class without hope or help. dear good creatures like my own uncle actually never knew that such people were in existence. they were far worse off than savages who have plantains and pumpkins and cocoanuts, and they were our own good flesh and blood, yet we neglected them." "so we do the east enders, and the lancashire operatives and the dock labourers." "true. but we are doing better now. then you see the east end has been discovered a long time, and visitors can walk; but the poor north sea men were left alone, until lately, by everybody." "still, we haven't come to why _i_ should help them." "oh! uncle, you are a commercial man. look at selfish reasons alone. you know how much we depend on sailors, and you often say the country is so very, very ill-provided with them. and these men are--oh! such splendid seamen. fancy them staying out for two months with a gale of wind per week, and doing it in little boats about eighty feet long. you should see a hundred of them moving about in mazes and never running into any trouble. oh! uncle, it _is_ wonderful. well, now, these men would be all ready for us if we were in national danger. i heard mr. fullerton say that hundreds of them are in the naval reserve, and as soon as they learned their way about an ironclad, they would take to the work by instinct. there is nothing they don't understand about the sea, and wind and weather. would any negro help us? why, lord wolseley told your friend sir james roche that a thousand fantees ran away from fifty painted men of some other tribe; and lord wolseley said that you can only make a negro of that sort defend himself by telling him that he will die if he runs away. you wouldn't neglect our own men who are so brave. why they might have to defend london, where all your money is, and they would do it too." (oh! the artful minx!) "and we send missions to nasty, brutal fantees who run away from enemies, and we leave our own splendid creatures far worse off than dogs." "well, if i'm not having the law laid down to me, i should like to know who ever had. but i'm interested. let's go round by the avenue, through the kitchen garden, and then round to the front by road, and make the walk as long as you can. why on earth didn't blair tell me something of this before? most wonderful. he talks enough, heaven knows, about anything and everything, but he never mentioned that. why?" "now don't be a crusty dear. i don't know what good form is, but he told me he thought it would hardly be good form to bring up the subject in your company, as it might seem as though he were hinting at a donation. now that's plain." "good. now never mind the preaching. i understand you to say that's done good." "perfectly wonderful. you remember how we were both insulted and hooted at burslem, only because we were strangers! well, now, in all the time that we were away we never heard one uncivil word. not only they were civil, and so beautifully courteous to us, but they were so kindly among themselves, and it is all because they take their christianity without any isms." that wicked puss! she knew how robert cassall hated the fights of the sects, and she played on him, without in the least letting him suspect what she was doing. he snorted satisfaction. "that's good! that's good! no isms. and you say they've dropped drink?" "entirely, uncle, and all through the preaching without any isms. it is such a blessed, beautiful thing to think that hundreds of men who used to make themselves and every one about them wretched, are now calm, happy fellows. and they do not cant, uncle. all of them know each other's failings, and they are gentle and forgiving to each other." "what a precious lot of saints--much too good to live, i should fancy." "don't sneer, you graceless. yes it's quite true. do you know, dear, the early christian movement is being repeated on the sea." "umph. early christians! the later christians have made a pretty mess of it. now, just give me, without any waste words, all you have to say about this hospital business. don't bring in preachee-preachee any more." "very good, dear. stop me if i go wrong. i'm going round about. you know, you crabby dear, you wouldn't neglect an old dog or an old pony after it had served you. you wouldn't say, 'oh, ponto had his tripe and biscuit, and bob had his hay;' you would take care of them. now wouldn't you? of course you would. and these fishers get their wages, but still they give their lives for your convenience just as the dog and the pony do." "yes, yes. but come to the hospital ship. you dance round as if you were a light-weight boxer sparring for breath." "hus-s-sh! i won't have it. the fishermen, then, are constantly being dreadfully hurt: i don't mean by such things as toothache, though many hundreds of them have to go sleepless for days, until they are worn out with pain;--i mean really serious, violent hurts. why, we were not allowed to see several of the men who came to dr. ferrier for treatment. the wounds were too shocking. nearly eight thousand of them are already relieved in various ways every year. just fancy. and i assure you i wonder very much that there are no more." "what sort of hurts?" then marion told him all about the falling spars, the poisoned ulcers, the great festers, the poisoned hands caused by venomous fishes accidentally handled in the dark, wild midnights; the salt-water cracks, the thousand and one physical injuries caused by falls, or the blow of the sea, or the prolonged fighting with heavy gales. the girl had become eloquent; she had _seen_, and, as she was eloquent as women generally are, she was able to make the keen old man see exactly what she wanted him to see. then she told how ferrier stuck to the sinking smack and saved his patient, and robert cassall muttered, "that sounds like a man's doings;" and then with every modesty she spoke of tom betts's mistake. there never was such a fluent, artful, mock-modest, dramatic puss in the world! "hah! mistook you for an angel. eh? not much mistake when you like to be good, but when you begin picking my pocket, there's not much of the angel about that, i venture to say." so spoke the old gentleman; but the anecdote delighted him so much that for two or three days he snorted "angel!" in various keys all over the house, until the servants thought he must have turned atheist or republican, or something generally contemptuous and sarcastic. the girl had him in her toils, and the fascination was too much for him. she could look grand as a greek goddess, calm and inscrutably imposing as the venus of milo; but she could also play _perdita_, and dance with her enslaved ones like a veritable little witch. robert cassall was captured--there could not be much error about that. he asked, with a sudden snap of teeth and lips which made his niece start: "and how much do you want to coax out of me, miss molly. give me an idea. of course i'm to be the uncle in the play, and 'bless you, me chee-ill-dren,' and the rest. oh yes!" "oh, one vessel could be kept up for £ , ." "what! per year?" "no. the interest on £ , in north western railway stock would support a vessel well. _you_ could easily support two." "this girl's got bitten by a money-spending tarantula. why you'd dance a million away in no time. _why_, in the name of common sense, why should i support two vessels and their hulking crews--who chew tobacco, of course, don't they? to be sure, and hitch their slacks! why should i support all these manly tars!" "now! i'll be angry. i'll tell you why. you know you have more money than you can ever spend. you promise me some, and you're very good, but i'd almost rather live on my own than have too much. well, i can't bear to think of your dying--but you must die, my own good dear, and you will have to divide your money before you go. there will be a lot of heart-burning, and i'm afraid poor me won't come off very lightly if i am left behind you. you will want a memorial." "you remember me and do as i would like you to do, and we sha'n't trouble our minds much about memorials. i thought of almshouses, though." "oh! uncle dear, and then the charity commissioners may come in, and give all your money to fat, comfortable tradesmen's children, or well-to-do professional men, instead of to your old people, and the clergyman will be master of your money; and the old people will not be grateful, and all will go wrong, and my dear uncle will be forgotten. oh! no." "i say, come, come; you're too knowing. you're trying to knock a pet scheme of mine on the head." the old man was genuinely concerned, and he felt as if some prop had been knocked away from him. but his sweet niece soon brought him round. she had scared his vanity on purpose, and she now applied the antidote. "supposing you give us two ships, you give yourself a better memorial than poor alleyn of dulwich, or roan of greenwich. dear uncle, a charity which can be enjoyed by the idle is soon forgotten, and the pious founder is no more than a weed round the base of his own monument; he has not even a name. but you may actually see your own memorial working good long, long before you die, and you may see exactly how things will go on when your time is over. when you make out your deed of gift, exact the condition that one vessel must always be called after you, no matter how long or how often the ships are renewed. sir james roche can advise you about that. place your portrait in the ship, and make some such provision as that she shall always carry a flag with your name, if you want to flaunt it, you proud thing! then something like, at any rate, three thousand sufferers will associate your name with their happiness and cure every year; and they will say in every port in england, 'i was cured on the _robert cassall,'_ or 'i should have lost that hand,' or 'i was dying of typhoid and our skipper thought i needed salts, but they cured me on the _robert cassall_.' and the great ships will pass your beautiful ship, and when people ask 'what is that craft, and who is cassall?' they will say that cassall gave of his abundance during his lifetime, so that seamen might be relieved of bitter suffering; and those brave men will be so very grateful. and oh! uncle, fancy going out to sea in your own monument, and watching your own wealth working blessedness before your eyes. why, you will actually have all the pleasures of immortality before you have lost the power of seeing or knowing anything. oh, uncle dear, think if you can only see _one_ sailor's limbs saved by means of your money! think of having a hundred living monuments of your goodness walking about in the beautiful world--saved and made whole by you!" the girl frightened the plucky old gentleman. his voice trembled, and he said, "why, we must send you to parliament! you can beat most of those dull sconces. why, you're a no-mistake born orator--a talkee-talkee shining light! but if you go in for woman's rights and take to short hair, i shall die, after burning my will! and now you kiss me, my darling, and don't scare me any more with that witch's tongue." was ever millionaire in such manner wooed? was ever millionaire in such fashion won? the gipsy's eyes glowed, and her heart beat in triumph. was this the diana of ferrier's imagination? was this the queen of whom that athletic young gentleman was silently dreaming as he swung over the pulsing mountains of the north sea? this slyboots! this most infantile coax! i wish some half-dozen of the most charming young ladies in england would only begin coaxing, and coax to as good purpose! i would go out next summer and willingly end my days in work on the water, if i thought my adorable readers would only take marion dearsley's hint, and help to blot out a little misery and pain from this bestained world. while mr. cassall was standing, with his teacup, before the glowing wood fire, he said, "be my secretary for half an hour, molly, my pet. write and ask blair, and that other whom i don't know--fullerton. yes; ask them to dinner. and, let me see, you can't ask mr. phoenix the sawbones?" "who, uncle?" "why, the young doctor that performs such prodigies, of course." "he's out on the sea now, dear, and i expect that he's in some abominable cabin--" "catching smallpox to infect cleanly people with?" "no, dear. he is most likely tending some helpless tatterdemalion, and moving about like a clever nurse. he is strong--so strong. he pulled a man through a wave with one hand while he held the rigging with the other, and the man told me that it was enough to tear the strongest man to pieces" "here, stop the catalogue. why, sawbones must be phoebus apollo! if you talk much more i shall ask him a question or two. go on with your secretary's duties, you naughty girl." so ended the enslavement of robert cassall, and so, i hope, began his immortality. oh! marion dearsley; sweet english lady. this is what you were turning over in your maiden meditations out at sea. demure, deep, delicious plotter. what a _coup_! all the mischievous north sea shall be jocund for this, before long. surely they must name _one_ vessel after _you_! you are a bloodless judith, and you have enchanted a perfectly blameless holofernes. i, your laureate, have no special song to give you just now, but i think much of you, for the sake of darkened fishers, if not for your own. mr. cassall invited sir james roche to meet the other men. sir james was the millionaire's physician and friend, and cassall valued all his judgments highly, for he saw in the fashionable doctor a money-maker as shrewd as himself; and, moreover, he had far too much of the insular briton about him to undervalue the kind of prestige which attaches to one who associates with royal personages and breathes the sacred atmosphere of money. sir james was an apple-faced old gentleman, who had been a miser over his stock of health and strength. he was consequently ruddy, buoyant, strong, and his good spirits were infectious. he delighted in the good things of the world; no one could order a dinner better; no one could better judge a picture; no one had a more pure and hearty liking for pretty faces;--and it must be added, that few men had more worldly wisdom of the kind needed for everyday use. he could fool a humbug to the top of his bent, and he would make use of humbugs, or any other people, to serve his own ends; but he liked best to meet with simple, natural folks, and cassall always took his fancy from the time of their first meeting onward. sir james spent the afternoon in driving with his host, and they naturally chatted a great deal about mr. cassall's new ideas. the physician listened to his friend's version of miss dearsley's eloquence, and then musingly said, "i don't know that you can do better than take your niece's advice. the fact is, my dear fellow, you have far too much money. i have more than i know how to use, and mine is like a drop in that pond compared with yours. if you leave a great deal to the girl, you doom her to a life of anxiety and misery and cynicism; she will be worse off than a female cashier in a draper's shop. if she marries young, she will he picked up by some embarrassed peer; if she waits till she is middle-aged, some boy will take her fancy and your money will be fooled away on all kinds of things that you wouldn't like. this idea, so far as it has gone in my mind, seems very reasonable. i'm not thinking of the fishermen at all; that isn't my business at present. i am thinking of you, and i fancy that you may do a great deal of good, and, at the same time, raise your position in the eyes of your countrymen. the most modest of us are not averse to that. then, again, some plutocrats buy honours by lavishing coins in stinking, rotten boroughs. your honours if they should come to you, will be clean. at any rate, let us both give these men a fair hearing, and perhaps our worldly experience may aid them. an enthusiast is sometimes rather a fiddle-headed chap when it comes to business." "i don't want my money to be fought over, and i won't have it. if i thought that people were going to screech and babble over my money, i'd leave the whole lot to the dogs' home." "we'll lay our heads together about that, and i reckon if we two can't settle the matter, there is no likelihood of its ever being settled at all." the harsh, wintry afternoon came to a pleasant close in the glowing drawing-room. sir james had coaxed marion until she told him all about the gale and the rest of it. he was very much interested by her description of ferrier. "i've heard of that youngster," he said. "he began as a very scotch mathematician, and turned to surgery. i heard that he had the gold medal when he took his fellowship. he must be a fine fellow. you say he is out at sea now? i heard a little of it, and understood he wasn't going to leave until the end of december. but it never occurred to me that he was such a friend of yours. you must let me know him. we old fogies often have a chance of helping nice young fellows." mrs. walton and miss ranken arrived with blair and fullerton, and everybody was soon at ease. sir james particularly watched fullerton, and at last he said to himself, "that fellow's no humbug." the dinner passed in the usual pleasant humdrum style; nobody wanted to shine; that hideous bore, the professional talker, was absent, and the company were content with a little mild talk about miss ranken's seclusion at sea during the early days of the autumn voyage. the girl said, "well, never mind, i would go through it all again to see what we saw. i never knew i was alive before." instinctively the ladies refrained from touching on the business which they knew to be nearest the men's minds, and they withdrew early. then cassall came right to the point in his usual sharp, undiplomatic way. "my niece has been telling me a great deal about your mission, mr. fullerton, and she says you want a floating hospital. i've thought about the matter, but i have so few details to go upon that i can neither plan nor reason. i mean to help if i can, merely because my girl has set her mind on it; but i intend to know exactly where i am going, and how far. i understand you have twelve thousand men that you wish to influence and help. how many men go on board one vessel?" "from five to seven, according to the mode of trawling." "that gives you, roughly, say two thousand sail. marion tells me you have now about eight thousand patients coming on board your ships yearly. now, if you manage to cover the lot, you must attend on a great many more patients." "we can only _dabble_ at present. we have little pottering dispensaries, and our men manage slight cases of accident, but i cannot help feeling that our work is more or less a sham. people don't think so, but i want so much that i am discontented." sir james broke in, "your vessels have to fish, haven't they?" "they did at first. we hope to let them all be clear of the trawl for the future." mr. cassall looked at sir james. "i say, doctor, how would you like one of your men to operate just after he had been handling fish? do they clean the fish, mr. fullerton? they do? what charming surgeons!" "we have gone on the principle of trying to do our best with any material. our skippers are not first-rate pulpit orators, but we have been obliged to let them preach. both their preaching and their surgery have done an incredible amount of good, but we want more." "exactly. now, i'm a merchant, mr. fullerton, and i know nothing about ships, but i understand your vessels are all sailers. is that the proper word? you depend on the wind entirely. how would you manage if you took a man on board right up, or down, the north sea?--i don't know which is up and which is down; but, any way, you want to run from one end to the other. how would you manage if you had a very foul wind after your man got cured?" "we must take our chance. as a matter of experience, we find that our vessels do get about very well. the temperatures of the land on each side of the sea vary so much, that we are never long without a breeze." "still, you depend on chance. is that not so? now i never like doing things by halves. tell me frankly, mr. fullerton, what _would_ you do if you took off a smallpox case, and got becalmed on the run home?" fullerton laughed. "you are a remarkably good devil's advocate, mr. cassall, but if i had ever conjured up obstacles in my own mind, there would have been no mission--would there, blair? and i venture to think that the total amount of human happiness would have been less by a very appreciable quantity." besides, it is absolutely against rules to take infectious cases on board the mission vessels. "cassall isn't putting obstacles in your way," interposed sir james. "i know what he's driving at, but strangers are apt to mistake him. he means to draw out of you by cross-examination the fact that quick transport is absolutely necessary for your hospital scheme. take an instance. miss dearsley tells me the men stay out eight weeks, and then run home. now suppose your cruiser meets one of the home-going vessels, and the captain of this vessel says, 'there's a dying man fifty miles n.w. (or s.w., or whatever it is) from here. you must go soon, or he won't be saved. what are you going to do if you have a foul wind or a calm?" "but that dying man would probably be in a _fleet_, and what i wish to see is not a single cruising hospital, but that _all_ our mission vessels in future should be of that type, _i.e.,_ one with every fleet." cassall broke in, "yes, yes, by all means; but, i say, could you not try steam as well? why not go in at once for a steamer as an experiment, and then you can whisk round like a flash, and time your visits from week to week." blair rose in his seat wearing a comic expression of despair and terror. "why, we're driven silly now by people who offer us ships, without saying anything about ways and means for keeping the ships up. my dear cassall, you do not know what a devourer of money a vessel is. every hour at sea means wear and tear somewhere, and if we are to make our ships quite safe we must be constantly renewing. it's the _maintenance_ funds that puzzle us. if you give us a ship without a fund for renewals of gear, wages, and so on, it is exactly as though you graciously made a city clerk a present of a couple of irish hunters, and requested him not to sell them. the vessel fullerton has in his mind will need an outlay of £ , a year to keep her up. suppose we invest the necessary capital in a good, sound stock, we shall get about per cent for money, so that we require £ , for a sailing ship alone. as to the steamer, whew-w-w!" "a very good little speech, blair, but i think i know what i'm talking about. after all, come now, the steamer only needs extra for coal, engineers, and stokers. you don't trust to chance at all; you don't care a rush for wind or tide, and you can go like an arrow to the point you aim at. then, don't you see, my very good nautical men--blair is an absolutely insufferable old salt since he came home--you can always disengage your propeller when there is a strong, useful wind, and you bank your fires. brassey told me that, and he said he could always get at least seven knots' speed out of his boat if there was the least bit of a breeze. then, if you're in a hurry, down goes your propeller, and off you go. the wards must be in the middle--what you call it, blair, the taffrail?--oh, amidships. the wards must be amidships, and you must be able to lay on steam so as to work a lift. you shove down a platform in a heavy sea, lower a light cage, put your wounded man in it, and steam away. there you are; you may make your calls like the postman. bill buncle breaks his leg on sunday; his mates say, 'all right, william, the doctor's coming to-morrow.' you take me? tell me, how will you manage if you have a vessel short of hands to work her?" "we propose to have several spare hands on board our hospital vessels. hundreds will be only too glad to go, and we shall always have a sound man to take the place of the patient." "exactly. well, with steam you can deposit your men and take them off with all the regularity of an ordinary railway staff on shore." "but the money. it is too colossal to think of." the falcon-faced old merchant waved his hand. "blair and i, and you too, mr. fullerton, not to mention roche, are all business men, and we don't brag about money. but you know that if i fitted out and endowed _ten_ steamers, i should still be a fairly comfortable man. if you can't keep a steamer going with £ , a year, you don't deserve to have one, and if i choose to put down one hundred thousand, and you satisfy me as to the management, why should i not gratify my whimsy?" "and i don't mean to be behindhand if i satisfy myself as to the quality of the work to be done," added sir james. "cassall and i will arrange as to how many beds--roche beds, you understand--i shall be permitted to endow." fullerton sat dumb; a flush came and went over his clear face, and his lips moved. cassall proceeded: "my idea is to have a sailing vessel _and_ a steamer. you have told us, mr. fullerton, that you must, in time, fit up half a dozen cruisers, if you mean to work efficiently, and our preliminary experiment will decide whether sail or steam is the better. now, blair, you must let me fit up your boat for a cruise." "and pray why, croesus? you talk as if you meant going a-buccaneering." "i don't know what you call it, but i'm going round among those fleets with my niece, and i shall start in a week. if i'm satisfied, you shall hear from me." "and i'm going to play truant and go with you, cassall," said sir james. "all right; that being so, we'll join the ladies." henry fullerton and blair walked to the station together that night, and the enthusiast said, "i pray that my brain may be able to bear this." "your fiddlestick, bear this! i wish some one would give me £ , to carry out my pet fad. i'd bear it, and go on bearing it, quite gallantly, i assure you, my friend." a very happy pair of people were left to chat in cassall's drawing-room as the midnight drew near. sir james had retired early after the two good old boys had addressed each other as buccaneers and shellbacks, and made all sorts of nautical jokes. the discussion as to who should be admiral promised to supply a month's fun, but cassall pretended to remember that phoenix sawbones would certainly wish to be commander, on account of the young puppy's experience. marion whispered to her uncle, "i do believe you will make yourself very happy;" and the old gentleman answered, "it really seems to be more like a question of making _you_ happy, you little jilt." the little jilt, who was not much shorter than her uncle, looked demure, and the _séance_ closed very happily. next day, mr. cassall began fitting out in a style which threatened an arctic voyage of several winters at least; he was artfully encouraged by the little jilt, and he was so intensely pleased with his yachting clothes that he wore them in the grounds until he went away, which proceeding raised unfeigned admiration among the gardeners and the maids. chapter iv. the denouement. the stout-hearted old gentlemen ran out from the colne in blair's schooner, and freeman had orders to take the schelling, ameland, nordeney, and all the other banks in order. i need not go over the ground again in detail, but i may say that sir james was never unobservant; he made the most minute notes and sought to provide against every difficulty. the bad weather still held, and there were accidents enough and illness enough, in all conscience. cassall proposed to hang somebody for permitting the cabins of the smacks to remain in such a wildly unsanitary state; but beyond propounding this totally unpractical suggestion he said little, and contented himself with steady observation. one day he remarked to sir james, "a lazy humbug would have a fine time in our cruiser if he liked. who, among us landsmen, durst face weather like this constantly?" "yes; i've been thinking of that. you must have a regular masterful tartar of a surgeon, and make him bear all responsibility. pick out a good man, and give him a free hand; that seems the best thing to be done." the two observers saw all that ferrier had seen, and suffered a little of what he had suffered. before they had their vessel's head pointed for home, cassall remarked: "that young sawbones must have a reasonable pluck, mind you, roche. i find it hard enough to keep my feet, without having to manage delicate operations; and you notice that we've heard at least fifty of the men talk about this ferrier's skill with his hands." "that's your man, cassall, if you only knew it. i shall make a point of meeting him. you haven't seen my plans, have you? well, i've employed myself since we came out in trying to design every kind of fitting that you're likely to need. i used to be very good at that kind of thing, and i'm very glad my hand hasn't forgot its cunning. i shall test young ferrier's judgment over my drawings, and that will be a good pretext for meeting him." "the spring is on us now, roche. we must use that youngster to get at people. he must have some kind of personal magnetism. did you notice how that fellow choked and sobbed when he told us how the youngster refused to leave him during the gale? a good sign that. we must have parties to meet him, and let him do the talkee-talkee lecturing business. i shouldn't wonder if my girl found the nerve to speak. if you had only heard her oration delivered for my private gratification, you would have been pretty much amazed. she shall spout if she likes." "i see you've set up a new hobby, my friend, and i can back you to ride hard. seriously speaking, i never knew any cause that i would assist sooner than this. that fellow fullerton was once described to me by a jew as 'hare-brained.' it needed a curious sort of hare-brain to build up such an organization as we have seen. i may tell you a little secret, as we are alone. when i was fighting my way up, i was very glad to attend a working man, and i starved genteelly for a long time in a big fishing-port. i assure you that in those days a fisherman was the most ill-conditioned dog on god's earth. he knew less of goodness than a dog does, and i think you could see every possible phase of hoggishness and cruel wickedness on a saturday night in that town. it used to be a mere commonplace to say that no one should venture into the fishermen's quarter after dark. there is a big change. you snarl at parsons a good deal, i know, but you can't snarl at what we have seen. you are quite right, and i mean to help spur your new hobby as hard as i can." * * * * * after robert cassall had been some days at home, mr. fullerton received the following letter:-- dear sir,--as arranged at our last meeting, i went out to view your work among the north sea fishermen, and i am satisfied that i may assist your admirable efforts. in this letter i merely sketch my proposals in an informal manner, but my solicitors, messrs. bowles and gordon, gresham buildings, will be ready at any time to meet a deputation from the council of the mission, so that my wishes may be accurately stated, and all business settled in strict legal form. . i propose to build a steam cruiser of tons, and i am now engaged in consulting with practical men concerning those technical details of which i have scanty knowledge. . this cruiser i wish to support entirely at my own expense; and, after my decease, the capital sum set aside for the maintenance of the vessel will pass into the hands of the council. . i should naturally desire to have some voice in the appointment of trustees, and also in the selection of the medical staff; but no doubt my solicitors will arrange that to the satisfaction of all parties. . my niece, miss marion dearsley, is intensely interested in your work, and, as a very large sum of money belonging to that lady remains at my disposal as her trustee, i have, with her approval, transferred to the mission £ , great northern railway ordinary shares, with which we desire to found a maintenance fund for a vessel of tons. this transaction has been carried out at the urgent desire of my niece. i am informed that this sailing cruiser must be schooner-rigged on account of her tonnage, which would require an unworkable spread of canvas if she were rigged as a ketch. these matters i leave entirely to the experts whom i have retained. . should you agree to my terms, and should you also come to a thoroughly clear understanding with my legal representatives, the building of the vessels may proceed at once. i will have nothing but the _best_, and therefore i will ask you to let me act directly and indirectly as superintendent of the construction of the ships. i have already taken the liberty of engaging a practical and scientific seaman--a merchant captain--who will, with your permission, watch over the building of the vessels to the last rivet. . we learn that mr. ferrier has returned. could you and he make it convenient to come to us from saturday next until monday? in that time we may have much useful talk. . in conclusion, you will perhaps not be displeased if an old man, who has not your strong faith, ventures nevertheless to ask god's blessing on you and your mission. with much admiration and regard, i am, dear sir, your obedient servant, robert cassall. h. fullerton, esq. committees of charitable organizations are not usually wanting in complaisance toward gentlemen who can spare lump sums of £ , ; so mr. cassall and his lawyers had very much of their own way. on the day when the last formal business was completed, fullerton and our young savant, both in a state of bewildered exaltation of spirit, paid their visit to mr. cassall. ferrier was strangely dumb in presence of miss dearsley, but he made up amply for his silence when he was alone with the men. robert cassall observed, however, that the youngster never spoke of himself. once or twice the old man delicately referred to certain little matters which had occurred during the january gales--the amputation, the rescue of lennard, the rough trips from smack to smack, the swamping of the small boat: but ferrier was too eager for other people's good; he had so utterly forgotten himself that he hardly recognized mr. cassall's allusions. on the first evening at dinner mr. cassall said: "now, marion, you and miss lena must stay with us. she's not an orator like you; she was meant for a mouse, but you can do all the talk you like. and now, gentlemen, let me lay a few statements before you. i shall talk shorthand style if i can. first, i want mr. ferrier to be our first medical director, and i wish him to take the steamer on her first cruise. after that, if he likes to be a sort of inspector-general, we can arrange it. next, i want to draw some more people into mr. fullerton's net. excuse the poaching term. mr. ferrier and mr. fullerton can teach us, and i wish to begin with a big party here as soon as possible. after that, our young friend must go crusading. i'll provide every kind of expense, and we'll regard his engagement as beginning to-day if he likes. next, i may tell you that i have already arranged for men to work night and day in relays on both my vessels--or rather your vessels. mr. director-general must see his hospital wards fitted out to the last locker, and i've taken another liberty in that direction. there's your cheque-book, and you are to draw at yarmouth or london for any amount that you may think necessary. and now i fancy that is about all i need say." then mr. cassall smiled on his dumb-foundered hearers. ferrier said, "i must eventually stay on shore, i fear. i have resigned the professorship which i had hoped to keep; but i do not need to practise, and i am ready to see your venture well started." then the host finally insisted on hearing all about the cruise; he could understand every local allusion now, and the narrative touched him far more than any romance could have done. the girls dropped in a word here and there, for they claimed to be among the initiated, and thus an evening was spent in piling fresh fuel on the old gentleman's newborn fire of enthusiasm. there never was such an elderly tornado of a man. after church on sunday he packed the girls off in the pony-carriage, and then took his guests for a most vehement walk, during which he asked questions in a voice as vehement as his gait, and set forth projects with all the fine breadth of conception and heedlessness of cost which might be expected from an inspired man with a practically inexhaustible fund at his disposal. the good henry fullerton had long walked in darkness; doubts had been presented to him; jibes and sneers had hailed upon him; all sorts of mean detractors had tried to label him as visionary, or crackbrain, or humbug, or even as money-grub: and now the clouds that obscured the wild path along which he had fared with such forlorn courage were all lifted away, and he saw the fulfilment of the visions which had tantalized him on doleful nights, when effort seemed vain and hope dead. he maintained his serenity, and calmly calculated pounds and shillings with all the methodic coolness of a banker's clerk. on the sunday evening he was asked to confer privately with mr. cassall, and ferrier was left free. of course lewis proposed a stroll in the grounds--what young man would have missed the opportunity?--and he listened delightedly to that musical, girlish talk for which he had longed during his tremendous vigils on the sea of storms. miss ranken was in a flutter of exultation. "did you ever know any one so clever as marion?" she inquired, with quite the air of an elderly person accustomed to judge intellects. "we knew she could do anything with mr. cassall, but we never expected this. and now, mr. ferrier, you won't go and get drowned in nasty cabins any more, and you'll have your sailors all under your eye, and no more degenerate sea-sick ladies to plague you. why, now we've made a start, we must capture some more millionaires, and we'll have a vessel with every fleet, and no sick men lying on grimy floors. by the way, what a capital association that would be--the royal society for the capture of millionaires. president and organizing director, marion dearsley; treasurer, lena ranken; general agent for great britain and the colonies, lewis ferrier! wouldn't that be splendid? i begin to feel quite like an administrator." this was the very longest speech that miss ranken was ever known to make, and she was applauded for her remarkable excursion into practical affairs. "you must tell us a little more about your winter, mr. ferrier. lena hasn't heard half enough," observed the stately "little jilt" when the cataract of miss ranken's eloquence had ceased flowing. "better wait until the meeting, miss dearsley. then, if you are satisfied, i may be able to do something in different places." "but you will tell us how tom betts fared in the end?" "he was well and at work when we left his fleet, and he had established a sort of elaborate myth, with you as central figure. i'm afraid you would never recognize your own doings if you heard his version of them. tom's imagination is distinctly active. we had no bad mishaps with our men, but it was a dreadful time." "i think you seem to be more solemn and older than when you went away first, mr. ferrier," remarked the treasurer of the capturers. "one ages fast there; i really lived a good deal. one life isn't enough for that work. i suppose the englishmen began working on the banks two hundred years ago, and we have all that time of neglect to make up." "yes. i wonder now what was the use of our ancestors. my brother says that no philosopher has ever discovered the ultimate uses of babies; i wonder if any one can tell the uses of those blundering, silly old ancestors of ours. as far as i can see, we have to put up with all sorts of horrid things, and you have to go and get wet on dirty fishing-boats, just because our ancestors neglected their proper business and stayed lazy at home." "you mustn't start a society for the abolition of ancestors, miss ranken. we have to make up all lost ground, and we can't help it. i'm sorry almost that i take it all so seriously. i feel so very much like a middle-aged prig. perhaps, miss dearsley, we may grow more cheerful when your uncle and i (and you) are fairly at work and clear of brooding. at present i seem to exude lectures and serious precepts." "you go to yarmouth after the meeting, mr. ferrier?" "yes; we must all of us copy you, and humour your uncle. i can see he feels time going very fast, and i shall play at being in a hurry all the time i am looking after the new vessels." "my uncle says i must speak to our meeting." "why not? if you like, i can bring some good lady orators to keep you in countenance." "i shall consider. i don't think we ought to talk; but we cannot afford to neglect any fancy of uncle's." ferrier never heard so queer a speech from a girl before. she had evidently made up her mind to face an ordeal which would stagger the nerves of the "young person" of the drawing-room; and her deliberate acceptance of a strained and unnatural situation pleased him. he thought, "if she ever does take to the platform, the capture of the millionaires is sure to begin." cassall and fullerton looked very solemn and satisfied during the evening, and both of them were just a little tiresome in recurring to their new and exhaustless topic. the old man was off to yarmouth long before his guests were astir, for a fever of haste was upon him. he returned in the evening, and until saturday he was employed with his beautiful secretary in making the most lordly preparations for the great meeting--the first of the series which was to revolutionize rich people's conceptions of duty and necessity. a very brilliant company assembled; the old man was an artist in his way, and he had spread his lures with consummate tact. how on earth he got hold of eminent pressmen, i cannot tell; but then, eminent pressmen, like the rest of our world, are distinctly susceptible to the blandishments of amiable millionaires. sir john rooby, the ex-lord mayor, appeared in apoplectic importance; lady glendower, who had expended a fortune on the conversion of the siamese, also waited with acute curiosity; every name on every card there was known more or less to secretaries, to missionary societies, to begging-letter writers--to all the people who run on the track of wealth. the great saloon, which reached from the front, right across the mansion to the windows that overlooked the park, was filled fairly; and ferrier was not a little perturbed by the sight of his audience. mr. cassall soon ended all suspense by coming to the point in his quick fashion. (he would not have succeeded as a parliamenteer, for he had a most uncultivated habit of never using forty words where five would serve.) "sir john, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen,--i have lately returned from a voyage in the north sea among the fishing fleets. that was perhaps a foolish trip for an old man to make, in a world of rheumatics and doctors' fees; but i'm very glad i made it. most people are very ready to point out the faults of others: i have to point out my own. i learned that i had been unwittingly neglecting a duty, and now i blame myself for remissness. it's very pleasant to blame yourself, because it gives you such a superior sense of humility, and i am enjoying the luxury to the full. i saw a great deal of beautiful and promising work going on, and i saw ever so much pain, and squalor, and unnecessary unhappiness. i needn't tell you that i've made up my mind to assault that pain and squalor and unhappiness, and try to drive them out of the field; i needn't tell you, because the newspapers have done that for me. they always know my business as well as i know it myself. now it struck me that many men are as ignorant as i was. i know that some people continually go about imagining evil; but there are others who are constantly seeking for chances of doing good, and they jump at their chance the moment they clap eye on it. that is why i arranged this meeting. i cannot describe things, nor put out anything very lucidly--except a balance-sheet; but i have a young friend here, who has been at sea all winter in those ugly gales that made us so uncomfortable on shore, and he will tell us something. then we have also mr. fullerton, who has been working and speechifying to some purpose for years. while i was pur-blind, this gentleman was clear-sighted; and, if you could go where i have been, and see the missionary work that i have seen, you would never speak ill of a missionary again. i do not believe ill of men. some one among our statesmen summed up his ideas of life by saying, 'men are very good fellows, but rather vain.' i should say, 'men are mixtures; but few can resist the temptation to do a good action if they are shown how to do it.' now, we're all very comfortable here--or i hope so, at all events; and it will do us good to hear of strong, useful men who never know what comfort means--and that through no fault of their own, but only through the strange complications of civilized society. i call on mr. fullerton to address this meeting." fullerton rose and faced his audience like a practised hand. his trance-like intensity of gaze might have led you to think that he was going to pour out a lengthy speech: but he had tact; he knew that he would please cassall and the audience by letting them hear the words of a new man, and he merely said: "for years i have addressed many meetings, and i have worked and prayed day and night. help has risen up for me, and now i am content to be a humble member of the company who have agreed in their hundreds to aid in my life's work. i am but an instrument to be laid aside when my weary day is over and my master's behests fulfilled. i see light spreading, darkness waning, kindness growing warmer, purity and sobriety become the rule in quarters where they were unknown; and i am thankful--not proud, only thankful--to have helped in a work which, i believe, is of god. we are now near the attainment of a long dream of mine, thanks to robert cassall; and, when the fulfilment is complete, i care not when i may be called on to say my 'nunc dimittis.' and now i will not stand longer between you and mr. ferrier." thus, with one dexterous push ferrier found himself projected into the unknown depths of his speech. he was easy enough before students, but the quick whispers, the lightning flash of raised eye-glasses, the calm, bovine stare of certain ladies, rather disconcerted him at first. but he warmed to his work, and in deliberate, mathematical fashion wrought through his subject. he told of the long night; the dark age of the north sea. the little shivering cabin-boy lay on his dank wooden couch, and curled under the wrench of the bitter winter nights; he had to bear a hard struggle for existence, and, if he were a weakling, he soon went under. alas! there had been instances, only too well authenticated, of boys being subjected to the most shocking treatment--though we would not saddle upon the majority of fishermen the responsibility for this cruelty on the part of a few. "what could a boy know of good?" said the speaker, with a sharp ring of the voice. "why, the very name of god was not so much as a symbol to him; it was a sound to curse with--no more; and it might have seemed to a man of bitter soul that god had turned away his face from those of his human works that lived, and sinned, and suffered and perished on the grey sea." then ferrier showed how the light of new faith, the light of new kindness, had suddenly shot in on the envenomed darkness, like the purifying lightning that leaps and cleans the obscured face of a murky sky. he told of the incredulity which greeted the first missionaries, and he explained that the men could not think it possible that any one should care to show them human sympathy; he traced the gradual growth of belief, and passionate gratitude, and he then turned dexterously off and asked, "but how could you touch men's souls with transforming effect, where the poor body--the humble mask through which the soul gazes--was torn with great pain, or perplexed with pettier ills? my lords, ladies, and gentlemen, i have seen, in one afternoon, suffering home with sombre acquiescence, suffering the very sight of which in all its manifold dreariness would have driven you homeward shuddering from this beautiful place. till this good man--i will say this great man--carried his baffling compound of sacred zeal and keen sense into that weary country, those toiling sailors were hopeless, loveless, comfortless, joyless, and--i say it with awe--heavenless; for scarcely a man of them had knowledge or expectation of a life wherein the miseries of this one may be redressed in some far land where time is not." then the youngster coldly, gravely told of his surgical work, and it seemed as if he were drawing an inexorable steel edge across the nerves of his terrified hearers. he watched the impression spread, and then sprang at his peroration with lightning-footed tact. "we english are like barbarians who have been transferred from a chilly land to a kind of hot-house existence. we are too secure; no predatory creature can harm us, and we cultivate the lordlier and lazier vices. our middle class, as bismarck says, has 'gone to fat,' and is too slothful to look for the miseries of others. the middle-class man, and even the aristocrat, are both too content to think of looking beyond their own horizon. and yet we are good in essentials, and no tale of pity is unheeded--if only it be called forth loudly enough. let us wake our languid rich folk. they suffer from a surfeit--an apoplexy--of money. an eager, wakeful, nervous american plutocrat, thinks nothing of giving a large fortune to endow a hospital or an institute for some petty western town. are we meaner or more griping than the americans? never. our men only want to know. here is a work for you. i do not call our fishermen stainless; they are rude, they are stormy in passions, they are lacking in self-control; but they are worth helping. it is not fitting that these lost children of civilization should draw their breath in pain. help us to heal their bodies, and maybe you will see a day when their strength will be your succour, and when their rescued souls shall be made in a glory of good deeds and manly righteousness." there was no mistake about the effect of this simple speech. i cannot give the effect of the timbre of ferrier's voice, but his virility, his majestic seriousness, just tinctured by acuteness, and his thrill of half-restrained passion, all told heavily. slowly the party dispersed to the tents on the lawn, and many were the languidly curious inquiries made about the strange young professor who had turned missionary. the man himself was captured by lady glendower, who explained her woe at the perfidious behaviour of myung yang, the most interesting convert ever seen, who was now in penal servitude for exercising his imitative skill on my lady's signature. "and i expended a fortune, mr. ferrier, on those ungrateful people. is it not enough to make one misanthropic?" "your ladyship must begin again on a new line." "after hearing you, and all about those charmingly horrid accidents, i am almost tempted to take your advice." ferrier was invited to address at least a dozen more drawing-room meetings, and sir john rooby grunted, "young man! i'm ready to put a set of engines in that boat of cassall's, and you can have so much the more money for her maintenance." before ferrier went to yarmouth he heard that fullerton was astounded at the number of financial sheep who had followed the plucky bell-wether. said he, "we shall never turn our backs now. there will be three hospital cruisers on the stocks before the autumn, and your steamer will serve to supply them when we have them at work. if i were not fixed on god's firm ground, i should think i had passed away and was dreaming blissfully." oh! the fury and hurry around that steamer! men were toiling without cessation during all night and all day; one shift relieved another, and cassall employed two superintendents instead of one. the way the notion came to him was this:--he had an abrupt but most essentially pleasant way of getting into conversation with casual strangers of all ranks, and he always managed to learn something from them. "nice smack that on the stocks," he remarked to a bronzed, blue-eyed man who was standing alert on a certain quay. "yes, sir. that's honest oak. i like that. but that other's not so honest." "you mean the steamer?" "yes, sir. i don't like the way things goes along. the surveyor's been down. he and the manager are having champagne together now, and you may bet there's some skulking work going on in the dark corners. i know the ocean tramps, sir. many's the time i've seen the dishonest rivets start out of 'em like buttons of a woman's bodice if it's too tight. if i was an owner, and building a vessel, i'd test every join and every rivet myself. you force a faulty plate into place, and the first time your vessel gets across a sea she buckles, and there's an end of all." "you understand shipbuilding?" "only a sailor does, sir. he has the peril; the builders have the money." "what are you?" "merchant captain, sir," said the stout man, turning on the questioner a clear, light blue eye that shone with health and evident courage. "are you in a situation?" "my vessel's laid up, sir, and i'm waiting to take her again." "i'm not impertinent, but tell me your wages." "ten pound a month, and good enough too, these bad times." "then if you'll superintend the building of a vessel for me, i'll give you £ a year--or at that rate, and you shall have a smaller vessel afterwards, if you care to sail a mere smack." and so the bargain was struck, and captain powys was employed as bulldog, a special clause being inserted in the contract to that effect. "men won't like it," said the builder. "they'll lead him a life." "tell them, if they do, you lose your contract and they lose their work." so the splendid little steamer grew apace; she was composite, and cassall took care that she should be strong. the most celebrated living designer of yachts had offered to make the drawings for nothing, out of mere fondness for cassall, but the old gentleman paid his heavy fee. if any one can design a good and safe vessel it is the yacht-builder, whose little thirty tonners are expected to run quite securely across the bay in the wild autumn. the _robert cassall_ had not a nail or bolt in her that was not scrutinized by a stern critic. "never mind fancy work or fancy speed. give me perfect collision bulk-heads; perfect watertight compartments; make her unsinkable, and i don't care if you only make her travel ten knots--that's good enough for the north sea." powys asked and obtained an assistant to take a turn on the day or night shifts, and the british workmen were held hard in hand by two acute and most critical mariners. robert cassall had value for every penny of his money, but he certainly did not spare the place. his friend the yacht-builder twice came to see how the work was going on, and he said, "you'll be able to run her round the horn if you like. you see i took care that she shouldn't kick like those steam-carriers. you'll find her as stiff as they make them." sir john rooby resolved that the peerless engines which he provided should be fitted under cover, so, as soon as the hull was completed, the engineers began their work; and as it turned out, the experiment of launching a boat with all engines complete was an entire success. sir james eoche came and watched the fitting of all the appliances designed by him, and it seemed that he was as exquisite in mechanical skill as he was sagacious in treatment of disease. ferrier was afraid that the vehement old man would wear him out, but he bottled his impatience, and sought repose in the gentle society of sir james. the two medicos pottered on with pulleys and wheels and inclined planes with much contentment, and they satisfied themselves at last that a man might be picked up in any sea, and swiftly placed under cover, without sustaining a jar severe enough to hurt even a gouty subject. cassall did not like the workmen to be discontented over his incessantly vigilant superintendents, so, with his inexhaustible good-humour and resolution, he hit on a mode of conciliation. he met both shifts on a friday, and said, "now, men, i'm not a bad sort even if i _am_ determined not to have a scamped nail in my vessel. now you're working hard, and we'll show the prettiest vessel in england presently, so to-morrow we'll have two brakes here at eleven o'clock, all who like will drive to a certain little place that i know of, and we'll have a rare good dinner together, and come home in the evening. we'll have no spirits, and no shaky hands for monday. plenty of good, pure spring water with orange champagne for those who like it." this was a very successful announcement, and robert presided at table with extreme satisfaction on account of his own machiavellian astuteness. oh! those millionaires. what chances they have! the scene at the launch of the _robert cassall_ was imposing. the queen, it was thought, would be present; but an intensely exciting and close general election had just taken place, and her majesty was occupied with relays of the gentlemen who are good enough to carry on the operation known as governing the country; so that the bunting and the manifold decorations served to grace the progress of a royal duke, who brought his august mother's message. i have nothing to do with the speeches this time; i only know that the steamer looked superb, with her gay stripe, and her beautiful trim on the water. the town was in a state of excitement until nightfall, and the people who had tickets to view the fisherman's palace passed in a steady and orderly procession over the broad deck; through the smart main ward with its polished oak floor; through the operating-room, and through the comfortable, unostentatious club-room, which had been designed by lewis ferrier. robert cassall was silently ecstatic now that the pinch of his work was over; and he had good reason to be proud, for no prettier or more serviceable piece of work was ever bought with money, and no man on earth need have grudged to exchange the costly obscurity of the monumental stone, for this beautiful memorial which promised to be the pride of the north sea. the riggers went hard at work; the captain and crew were sent on board to assist, and thus before the autumn storms broke once more, the _robert cassall_ was ready for sea. the whole fabric seemed to have risen like a vision, and the most hopeful of those who endured that cruel gale the year before could hardly believe that they were not deceived by some uneasy, uncanny dream. the steamer surged away past the pier on her first trip, and a dense black crowd cheered and shouted blessings after her. "ah! they jeered me the first time i sailed from here under that flag. thank god for the wonderful change," said fullerton. "never mind bygones. there's a good stiff sea outside. let us watch how she takes it." the sturdy old man was triumphant, satisfied with himself and his work, and he only wished to see how the contrivance of his audacious, teeming brain would succeed. tom lennard was on board again; and he only recovered from a congestion of adjectives on the brain, after he had fairly freed his nerves by smoking a pipe. he was still subdued, and he never let loose that booming laugh of his except on supremely important occasions. he attached himself much to miss dearsley, and, as he was passionately fond of talking about lewis ferrier, his company was surprisingly grateful to the young lady. blair could not be with them, but he religiously promised to give ferrier a lively time in the spring. the party of five were enough in themselves, and they watched with all the pride of successful people as their vessel, the offspring of dreams, flew over the seas without plunging or staggering. the captain came aft. "well, sir, this is better than wind-jamming. i think she's doing elevens easily, and, if the wind comes round a bit, she shall have the try-sails, and i warrant she does twelve." "you'll go right for the short blues, as we arranged?" "we shall pick them up in eighteen hours from now, sir, and i'll be glad if we haven't to work your patent sling, though i'd like to see it tried." when the night came, and the men were smoking in ferrier's room, the young man suddenly said, "mr. cassall, i hope you'll live to see at least six of these ships knocking about. in the meantime i'd sooner have your memorial than that awful, costly abortion of byron's. i mean the one with a cat, or a puppy or something, sprawling at the man's feet." cassall slowly smiled. "not bad; not bad. but wait till i'm done, my lad; wait till i'm done. i've managed a beginning; i've designed a scheme for a ship, and now i'm bent on something bigger. wait. i mean to move the conscience of your plutocrats, and i shall do it the hard, city style; see if i don't." "hah-h! meantime this, sir, is, as i may say, _recherché_, unique, fahscinating." "i must set _my_ watch now," laughed the surgeon, and he whistled for the male nurses. he had drilled them to perfection in a week or two, and they had no easy time with him, for he was resolved to have naval precision and naval smartness on board the _cassall_; and tom was thankful that a man whose cheek showed chubby signs of containing a quid of tobacco, was not instantly suspended from the gaff. that was what he said, at any rate. the _robert cassall_ picked up the fleet just when the boarding was at its height, and her arrival caused a wild scene. work and discipline were forgotten for a while: men set off flares which were absurdly ineffective in daylight; they jumped on the thofts of boats, ran up the rigging, and performed all sorts of clumsy antics out of sheer goodwill, as the beautiful steamer worked slowly along, piling up a soft, snowy scuffle of foam at her forefoot. the spare hands who had been brought out for the cruise yelled salutations to friends, and one of them casually remarked: "if this had happened before the drink was done away with, there would have been a funny old booze in some o' them ar smacks, just for excitement like." there were no patients from the first fleet excepting one man with that hideous poisoned hand which, like death, cometh soon or late to every north sea fisher. he was sent back for his kit; one of the _cassal's_ hands was sent in his place, and the steamer rushed away after leaving a stock of tobacco with the mission smack. in the next fleet the same scenes made things in general lively. the skipper of the ordinary mission smack came on board, and joyously cried: "i'm main glad you're come, sir. we've got one case that beats me. i can't do anything at all." sir james eoche's boat with the balanced stretcher was sent, and a crippled man was whipped up and slid along the boarding-stage before he had time to recover from his surprise. he had a broken patella--a nasty case--and he had gained the distinction of being the first man put to bed in that airy, charming ward. he will probably claim this honour with more or less emphasis during the rest of his lifetime. i fear that curiosity of an aggravated kind caused one or two gentlemen to be suddenly afflicted with minor complaints; but ferrier had a delightful way of dealing with doubtful martyrs, and the vessel was soon cleared of them. so the _robert cassall_ scoured the north sea like a phantom, sometimes crawling in the wake of the fleet when the gear was down, sometimes flying from one bank to another. in the course of two long, sweeping rounds she proved that she was worth all the other cruisers put together--for medical and surgical purposes alone. danger was reduced to a minimum, and the sick men were, one by one, returned safely to their own vessels. when, on a rather calm day, a tubular boat was tried, and a prostrate man was seen flying over the water with what intelligent constables call "no visible means of support," the general opinion of the smacksmen was that no one never knowed what would come next. some gentlemen threatened to be gormed if they did not discover a solution of this new and awful problem; others, more definite, were resolved to be blowed; and all the oldsters were agreed that only a manifest injustice could have caused them to be born so soon. robert cassall was at length assured by experience that his enterprise had quadrupled the power of the mission, and he only longed to see how his little miracle would succeed in winter. as for lewis, he set himself to make a model hospital; his men were made to practise ambulance work daily; they had practical lectures in the evening, and, in a month, before the coals had given out, the mere attendants could have managed respectably if their adored martinet had given in from any cause. one last picture before the _bobert cassall_ makes her brief scurry home. the long sea was rolling very truly; the sick men in the wards were resting--clean, quiet, attentive; the nurses lounged at the dispensary door; tom lennard leaned his great bulk against the elaborately solid machinery which ferrier had designed for purposes of dentistry, and the grim, calm old man sat with a tender smile in his eyes which contrasted prettily with the habitual sternness of his mouth. a deep contralto voice was intoning a certain very noble fragment of poetry from a book that the men loved to hear when its words were spoken by that stately dame, who now read on from psalm to psalm: "for i said in my haste, i am cut off from before thine eyes; nevertheless, thou heardest the voice of my supplications when i cried unto thee." "amen," said fullerton. "amen," added the other three men. "amen," said the sick sailors; and the amen rustled softly above the lower rustle of the water that fled past the sides of the swift vessel. we shall see this brave hospital ship again, for i want to dream of her for long and many a day. meantime, adieu, sweet lady; adieu. appendix a. since i set down a picture of my north sea dream, i have passed through a valley of shadows. the world of men seemed to be shut out; the past was forgotten, or, through the dark, vague trouble, death smiled on me coldly, as if to warn me that my pulses must soon be touched with ice. in that strange trance my petty self was forgotten, and i waited quietly till i should be bathed in the flood of bliss to which death is but the portal. as from some dim, far land there came echoes of storm and stress, and then swift visions of the sea flitted past my eyes. while gazing languidly on the whirl of the snow, or listening to the thunder of winds in the clamorous night, i thought, as it were in flashes, about the fishermen who people the grey country that i used to know. nevermore, oh! nevermore shall i see the waves charging down on the gallant smacks. all is gone: but my little share of a good work is done; i have warmed both hands before the fire of life; it sinks, and i am ready to depart. the dream has begun to come true in a way which is rather calculated to astound most folks: a hospital vessel, the _queen victoria_, is actually at work, and has gone out on the wintry sea just at the time when the annual record of suffering reaches its most intense stage; a scheme at which grave men naturally shook their heads has been shown to be practicable, and we see once more that the visionary often has the most accurate insight into the possibilities of action. to those who do not go to sea i will give one hint; if a man is sent home on the long journey over the north sea, he not only suffers grievously but he loses his employment, and his family fare badly. _if he be transferred to the hospital ship his place is filled for a little while by one of the spare hands whom the mission sends out, and his berth is saved for him._ i do not deny that the scheme is rather impressive in the magnitude of its difficulty; but then no man breathing--except its originator--would ever have fancied, five years ago, that the mission would become one of the miracles of modern social progress. if comfortable folks at home could only see how those gallant, battered fishermen suffer under certain circumstances of toil and weather, they would hardly wonder at my putting forward the hospital project so urgently. by rights i ought to have spoken about other branches of the mission's work, but the importance of the healing department has overshadowed all other considerations in my mind. to dare, and dare again, and dare always, is the one plan that leads to success in philanthropy as surely as it leads to success in politics or war. those who have undertaken to civilize our deep sea fishermen must continue to dare without ceasing; they must _educate_ the thousands of good men and women whose sacred impulses lead them to aim at bettering this blind and struggling world; spiritual enthusiasm must be backed by material force, and the material force can only be gained when the great, well-meaning, puzzled masses are enlightened. we all know the keen old saying about the man who makes two blades of grass grow where one grew before. how much more worthy of thankfulness is the man who gives us a harmless, devout citizen in place of a ruffian, a hale and capable seaman in place of an agonized cripple, a quiet abstainer in place of a dangerous debauchee, a seemly well-spoken friend of society in place of a foul-mouthed enemy of society? up till very recent years the fishermen were a rather debauched set, and those who had money or material to barter for liquor could very easily indulge their taste. sneaking vessels--floating grogshops--crept about among the fleets, and an exhausted fisherman could soon obtain enough fiery brandy to make him senseless and useless. the foreigners could bring out cheap tobacco, and the men usually went on board for the tobacco alone. but the shining bottles were there, the sharp scent of the alcohol appealed to the jaded nerves of men who felt the tedium of the sea, and thus a villainous agency obtained a terrible degree of power. i have, in a pamphlet, explained how the founder of the mission contrived to defeat and ruin the foreign liquor trade, and i may do so again in brief fashion. our customs authorities at that date would not let the mission vessels take tobacco out of bond, and mr. mather was, for a long time, beaten. but he has a somewhat unusual capacity for mastering obstacles, and he contrived to sweep the copers off the sea by the most audacious expedient that i have heard of in the commercial line. a great firm of manufacturers offered tobacco at cost price; the tobacco was carried by rail from bristol to london; it was then sent to ostend, whence a cruiser belonging to the mission cleared it out, and it was carried to the banks and distributed among the fleets. a fisherman could buy this tobacco at a shilling per pound. the copers were undersold, and they found it best to take themselves off. no one can better appreciate this most dashingly beneficial action than the smack-owners, for their men are more efficient and honest; the fishermen themselves are grateful, because few of them really craved after drink, and the general results are obvious to anybody who spends a month in the north sea. we know the six governments most intimately concerned have seen the wisdom of this action, and one of the best of modern reforms has been consummated. the copers did a great amount of mischief indirectly, apart from the traffic in spirits. if some of our reformers at home could only see the prints and pictures and models which were offered for sale, they would own, i fancy, that if the mission had done no more than abolish the traffic in literary and other abominations, it has done much. a few somewhat particular folk object to supplying the men with cheap tobacco, but any who knows what intense relief is given to an overworked man by the pipe will hardly heed the objection much. after a heavy spell of work, a seaman smokes for a few minutes before the slumberous lethargy creeps round his limbs, and he is all the better for the harmless narcotic. in this land of plethoric riches there are crowds of people who treat philanthropy as a sort of investment; they place money in a sinking fund and they forego all interest. we want to show them one line of investment wherein they may at least see plenty of results for their money. speaking for myself, i should like to see money which is amassed by englishmen concentrated for the benefit of other englishmen. looking at the matter from a cool and business-like point of view, i can see that every effort made to keep our fishermen in touch with the mass of their countrymen, is a step towards national insurance--if we put it on no higher ground. in the old days the fisher had no country; he knew his own town, but the idea of britain as a power--as a mother of nations--never occurred to him; the swarming millions of inland dwellers were nothing to him, and he could not even understand the distribution of the wares which he landed. the mission to deep sea fishermen has brought him into friendly contact with much that is best among his countrymen; he is no longer exiled for months together among thousands of ignorant celibates like himself; he finds that his fortunes are matters for vivid interest with numbers of people whose very existence was once like a hazy dream to him; and, above all, he is brought into contact during long days with sympathetic and refined men, who incidentally teach him many things which go far beyond the special subjects touched by amateur or professional missionaries. a gentleman of breeding and education meets half a dozen smacksmen in a little cabin, and the company proceed to talk informally. well, at one time the seamen's conversation ran entirely on trivialities--or on fish. as soon as the subject of fish was exhausted, the exiles growled their comments on joe's new mainsail, or the lengthening of jimmy's smack; but nowadays the men's horizon is widened, and the little band of half a dozen who meet the missionary are eager to learn, and eager to express their own notions in their own simple fashion. the gentleman, of course, shows his fine manners by granting attention to all his rough friends when they talk, and the smacksmen find that, instead of a preacher only, a man who withdraws himself to his private cabin when his discourse has been delivered, they have among them a kindly fellow-worker, who enters with the true spirit of _camaraderie_ into all that interests or concerns them, and gives counsel and cheery chat without a sign of patronage. then, after the little meeting is over, and the evening begins to fall, the fascinating landsman will stroll on the deck for a few minutes, until the smack's boats come over the great seas to bear away the visitors; all his gossip is like a revelation to the rude, good-hearted creatures, and his words filter from vessel to vessel; his very accent and tone are remembered; and when the hoarse salute "god bless you!" sounds over the sea, as the boats go away, you may be sure that the fishers utter their blessing with sincere fervour. then there are the great meetings on calm, happy sundays, when the cultured clergyman who has snatched a brief rest from his parochial duties, or five or six amateurs (many of them university men) stroll about among the congregation before the formal service begins. the roughs who come on board for the first time are inclined to exhibit a sort of resentful but sheepish reserve, until they find that the delicate courtesy of these christian gentlemen arises from sheer goodwill; then they become friendly and confidential. well, all this intercourse is gradually knitting together the upper and middle classes on shore and the great seagoing population; the fishers feel that they are cared for, and the defiant blackguardism of the outcast must by and by be nearly unknown. i feel it almost a duty to mention one curious matter which came to my notice. an ugly morning had broken with half a gale of wind blowing; the sea was not dangerous, but it was nasty--perhaps nastier than it looked. i was on board a steam-carrier, a low-built, powerful iron vessel that lunges in the most disturbing manner when she is waiting in the trough of the sea for the boats which bring off the boxes of fish. the little boats were crashing, and leaping like hooked salmon, and grinding against the sides of the steamer, and i could not venture to walk about very much on that reeling iron deck. the crowd of smacksmen who came were a very wild lot, and, as the breeze grew stronger, they were in a hurry to get their boxes on board. since one of the trunks of fish weighs lbs., i need hardly say that the process of using such a box as a dumb-bell is not precisely an easy one, and, when the dumb-bell practice has to be performed on a kind of stage which jumps like a bucking broncho, the chances of bruises and of resulting bad language are much increased. the bounding, wrenching, straining, stumbling mob in the boats did not look very gentle or civilized; their attire was quite fanciful and varied, but very filthy, and they were blowzy and tired after their wild night of lashing rain and chill hours of labour. a number of the younger fellows had the peculiar street arab style of countenance, while the older men were not of the very gentle type. in that mad race against wind and tide, i should have expected a little of the usual cursing and fighting from a mob which included a small percentage of downright roughs. but a tall man, dressed in ordinary yachtman's clothes, stood smoking on deck, and that was the present writer. the rough englishmen did not know that i had been used to the company of the wildest desperadoes that live on earth. they only knew that i came from the mission ship, and they passed the word. every rowdy that came up was warned, and one poor rough, who chanced to blurt out a very common and very nasty billingsgate word, was silenced by a moralist, who observed, "cheese it. don't cher see the mission ship bloke?" i watched like a cat, and i soon saw that the ordinary hurricane curses were restrained on my account, simply because i came from the vessel where all are welcome--bad and good. for four hours i was saluted in all sorts of blundering, good-humoured ways by the men as they came up. little scraps of news are always intensely valued at sea, and it pleased me to see how these rude, kind souls tried to interest me by giving me scraps of information about the yacht which i had just left. "she was a-bearing away after the admiral, sir, when we passed her. it's funny old weather for her, and i see old jones a-bin and got the torps'l off on her"--and so on. several of the fellows shouted as they went, "gord bless you, sir. we wants you in the winter." no doubt some of them would, at other times, have used a verb not quite allied to bless; but i could see that they were making an attempt to show courtesy toward an agency which they respect, and though i remained like a silent lama, receiving the salutes of our grimy, greasy friends, i understood their thoughts, and, in a cynical way, i felt rather thankful to know that there are some men at least on whom kindness is not thrown away. the captain of the carrier said, "i never seen 'em so quiet as this for a long time, but that was because they seed you. they cotton on to the mission--the most on 'em does." this seems to me a very pretty and significant story. any one who knows the british rough--especially the nautical rough--knows that the luxury of an oath is much to him, yet here a thorough crowd of wild and excited fellows become decorous, and profuse of civilities, only because they saw a silent and totally emotionless man smoking on the deck of a steam-carrier. on board the steamer, i noticed that the same spirit prevailed; the men treated me like a large and essentially helpless baby, who must be made much of. alas! do not i remember my first trip on a carrier, when i was treated rather like a bundle of coarse fish? the reason for the alteration is obvious, and i give my very last experience as a most significant thing of its kind. observe that the roughest and most defiant of the irreligious men are softened by contact with an agency which they regard as being too fine or too tiresome for their fancy, and it is these irregular ruffians who greet the mission smacks with the loudest heartiness when they swing into the midst of a fleet. now, i put it to any business man, "is not this a result worth paying for, if one wants to invest in charitable work?" i repeat that the mission is indirectly effecting a national insurance; the men think of england, and of the marvellous army of good english folk who care for them, and they are so much the better citizens. we hear a dolorous howl in parliament and elsewhere about the dearth of seamen; experts inform us that we could not send out much more than half our fleet if a pinch came, because we have not enough real sailors. is it not well for us, as britons, to care as much as we can for our own hardy flesh and blood--the finest pilots, the cleverest seamen, the bravest men in the world? they would fight in the old norse fashion if it came to that, and they would be the exact sort of ready-made bluejackets needed to man the swarms of _wasps_ which must, some day, be needed to defend our coasts. so far for purely utilitarian considerations. again, supposing you take on board a hospital ship a man who is enduring bitter suffering; supposing you heal him, bring him under gentle influences, lead him to know the lord jesus christ and to follow him, and send him away with his personality transformed--is not all that worth a little money, nay, a great deal? i am fully aware that it is a good thing to convert a jew or a bechuana, or even a fantee--their rescue from error is a distinct boon; but, while honouring all missions to savage nations, i like to plead a little for our own kindly breed of englishmen. already we see what may be done among them; good-hearted amateurs are willing to work hard, and the one hospital cruiser--one! among so many!--is succeeding splendidly. give the english seamen a chance, then. the interesting west african is clearly a proper object for pity as to his spiritual condition, but, to my mind, he has, in some respects, the jolliest, easiest life imaginable. give him enough melon, and he will bask blissfully in the sun all day; you cannot get him to work any more than you can get him to fight for his own safety:--he is a happy, lazy, worthless specimen of the race, and life glides pleasantly by for him. spend thousands on the poor fantee by all means, but think also of our own iron men who do _not_ lead easy lives; think of the terror of the crashing north sea; think of the cool, imperturbable, matchless braves who combat that sea and earn a pittance by providing necessaries (or luxuries) for you and for me. save as many souls as you can--"preach the gospel to _every creature;_" heal as many bodies as you can; but, since the world's resources are narrow, consider carefully which bodies are to have your first consideration. years ago i had no conception of the amount of positive suffering which the fishermen endure. i was once on board a merchant steamer during a few months, and i was installed as surgeon-in-chief. we had a few cases which were pretty tiresome in their way, but then the utmost work our men had to do was the trifle of pulling and hauling when the try-sails were put on her, and the usual scraping and scrubbing and painting which goes on about all iron ships. but the smacksman runs the risk of a hurt of some kind in every minute of his waking life. he must work with his oilskins on when rain or spray is coming aboard, and his oilskins fray the skin when the edges wear a little; then the salt water gets into the sore and makes a nasty ulcer, which eats its way up until you may see men who dare not work at the trawl without having their sleeves doubled to the elbow. then there are the salt water cracks which cut their way right to the bone. these, and toothache, the fisherman's great enemy, are the ailments which may be cured or relieved by the skippers of the mission smacks. in a single year nearly eight thousand cases have been treated in the floating dispensaries, and i may say that i never saw a malingerer come on board. what would be the use? it is only the stress of positive pain that makes the men seek help, and their hard stoicism is very fine to see. a man unbinds an ugly poisoned hand, and quietly lets you know that he has gone about his work for a week with that throbbing fester paining him; another will simply say that he kept about as long as he could with a broken finger. then there are cases of a peculiarly distressing nature--scalp wounds caused by falling blocks, broken limbs in various stages of irritation, internal injuries caused by violent falls in bad weather, and for all these there is ready and hearty help aboard the mission vessel. scarcely one of the north sea converts has turned out badly, for they usually have the stern stuff of good men in them; they have that manly and passionate gratitude which only the true and honest professor, free from taint of humbug or hypocrisy, can maintain, and i say deliberately that every man of them who is brought to lead a pure, sober, religious life, represents a distinct gain to our best national wealth--a wealth that is far above money. i know that my dream may be translated into fact, for have we not the early success of the superb hospital smack to reassure us? let us go a little farther and complete the work; let us make sure that no poor, maimed seaman shall be without a chance of speedy relief when his hard fate overtakes him on that savage north sea. the fishers are the forlorn hope in the great army of labour; they risk life and limb every day--every moment--in our behoof; surely the luckier children of civilization may remember their hardly entreated brethren? no sentiment is needed in the business, and gush of any sort is altogether hateful. god forbid that i should hinder, those who feel led to aid the members of an unknown tribe in a dark continent, for in so doing i should be contravening the divine injunction to evangelize all nations: but, on the other hand, i will discharge myself of what has lain as a burden on my conscience ever since i first visited the smacksmen; i will cry aloud for _help_ to our own kith and kin, more, _more_ help than has ever yet been given to them! these men are splendid specimens of english manhood; their country is not far away; you can visit it for yourself and see what human nerve and sinew can endure, and if you do you will return, as i did, filled with a sense of shame that you had spent so many years in ignorance of your indebtedness to the fine fellows in whose behalf my tale is written. i am as grateful as our brave souls on the sea for all that has been done, but i incontinently ask for more, and i entreat those to whom money is as nothing to give the mission to deep sea fishermen its hospital ship, for every fleet that scours the trawling grounds, but especially a fast or steam cruiser--a _robert cassall_--so that the wounded fisherman, in the hour of his need and his utter helplessness, may be as sure of relief as are the wapping labourer or the mortlake bargeman. james runciman. appendix b. mission to deep sea fishermen. instituted in august, . the mission was designed, in humble dependence upon the blessing of almighty god,-- . to carry the glad tidings of god's love, mercy, and salvation in our lord jesus christ to the thousands of fishermen employed in trawling and other modes of fishing in the north sea and elsewhere, and in every possible way to promote and minister to their spiritual welfare. . to mitigate the hard lot, and improve the condition of the fishermen, physically and mentally, by all practicable means, and meet many urgent needs for which, heretofore, there has been no provision, especially in supplying medicine and simple surgical appliances, books, mufflers, mittens, &c. for the above purposes medical mission vessels are stationed with ten fishing fleets, and numerous clerical and lay missionaries and agents have visited the smacksmen. it is, however, generally conceded that the time has arrived for effecting a large development of the medical work. no fewer than , sick and injured fishermen received assistance during at the hands of the sixteen surgeons in the service of the society, or from the dispensaries in charge of the mission skippers, and the experience of this and previous years warrants the substitution in every fleet of a cruising hospital, carrying a resident surgeon, for the type of vessel hitherto in use. the _queen victoria,_ the pioneer hospital ship, is now at work, while the _albert_, a sister ship, is being constructed at a cost of £ , ; but it is of urgent importance that these should be efficiently maintained, and that other vessels should be provided for similar service. to meet this need the full price [£ , ] of a _third_ hospital ship, to be named the _john sidney hall_, has now been paid to the mission, and £ , towards the cost of a _fourth_, to be named the _alice fisher_. a further sum of £ , is required upon this latter fund. form of bequest. "i give and bequeath to the treasurer for the time being of the mission to deep sea fishermen, whose offices are now at bridge house, , queen victoria street, london, e.c., for the general purposes of that mission, the sum of----pounds [state in words]. and i declare that the said legacy shall be paid free from legacy duty, and that the same, and the legacy duty thereon, shall be paid exclusively out of such part of my personal estate as may be lawfully bequeathed for charitable purposes, and in priority to all other payments thereout." mission to deep sea fishermen. patron. her majesty the queen. founder. e.j. mather, esq. council. thomas b. miller, esq., chairman and treasurer. w.f.a. archibald, esq. r.m. ballantyne, esq. c. arthur barclay, esq. rev. w. addington bathurst, m.a. henry a. campbell, esq. thomas gray, esq., c.b., chairman of finance committee. f.j.s. hopwood, esq. r. scott moncrieff, esq. thomas robertson, esq. rev. joseph e. rogers, m.a. a.t. schofield, esq., m.d. t. gilbart-smith, esq., m.d., f.r.g.p. frederick treves, esq., m.a., f.r.c.s., &c., chairman of hospital committee. hon. naval architect henry e. brown, esq., m.i.n.a. editor. g.a. hutchison, esq. auditors. messrs. beddow & son. solicitors. james curtis, esq. messrs. seagrove & woods. bankers. lloyds bank, limited, , lombard street, e.c. messrs. gurneys & co., great yarmouth. secretary. alexander gordon, esq. offices. bridge house, , queen victoria street, london, e.c. "i rejoice to know that this most important and blessed effort has already achieved such good results out on the stormy seas. it rests with us to contribute liberally to its maintenance."--the archbishop of dublin. "the undertaking is a blessed one, and will be accepted by our heavenly father as an offering of true devotion."--the bishop of london. "i desire to express my most cordial sympathy with the active efforts of the mission, and my earnest hope that the public will liberally support it."--the bishop of norwich. "it does one's heart good to watch the benefit conferred by these mission smacks. god bless them! they go forth in the fulness of the blessing of the gospel of christ."--the bishop of exeter. "i have myself heard smacksmen speak in most grateful terms of what the mission has done for their class; and i recently heard one of the largest owners state publicly that his employés had become 'better servants, better men, better husbands and fathers, better in every way,' through the work carried on amongst them while at sea."--the duke of grafton, k.g. "the only effectual attempt that has been made to counteract the work of the _coper_ has been carried on through the agency of the mission smacks. it is not, as a rule, easy to estimate how much or how little practical good is effected by missionary agencies, but here the case is clear. i gladly add my own testimony to that of others, and say that, at present, the mission affords the only relief from the temptation and the only remedy to the evils of the _copering_ system."--w. burdett coutts, esq., m.p. "i look upon the mission vessel as a blessing to the trade of the port."--the mayor of great grimsby. "it is indeed an advantage for our fishermen at sea by means of these vessels to enjoy the same privileges as we ourselves do on shore."--the mayor of great yarmouth. distributed proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net tales of the fish patrol by jack london author of "the sea-wolf," "people of the abyss," "the call of the wild," etc. _with illustrations by george varian_ new york the macmillan company london: macmillan & co., ltd. _all rights reserved_ copyright, , by perry mason company. copyright, , by the macmillan company. set up and electrotyped. published september, . reprinted december, . norwood press j. s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith co. norwood, mass., u.s.a. [illustration: "i put my hand to my hip pocket."] works of jack london the game the sea-wolf the call of the wild the children of the frost people of the abyss the faith of men and other stories war of the classes the kempton-wace letters tales of the fish patrol published by the macmillan company contents page i. white and yellow ii. the king of the greeks iii. a raid on the oyster pirates iv. the siege of the "lancashire queen" v. charley's coup vi. demetrios contos vii. yellow handkerchief illustrations "i put my hand to my hip pocket" _frontispiece_ facing page map "he saw fit to laugh and sneer at us, before all the fishermen" "the centipede and the porpoise doubled up on the cabin in paroxysms of laughter" "i suddenly arose and threw the grappling iron" "the consternation we spread among the fishermen was tremendous" "there, in the stern, sat demetrios contos" "i went aft and took charge of the prize" tales of the fish patrol i white and yellow [illustration: map] san francisco bay is so large that often its storms are more disastrous to ocean-going craft than is the ocean itself in its violent moments. the waters of the bay contain all manner of fish, wherefore its surface is ploughed by the keels of all manner of fishing boats manned by all manner of fishermen. to protect the fish from this motley floating population many wise laws have been passed, and there is a fish patrol to see that these laws are enforced. exciting times are the lot of the fish patrol: in its history more than one dead patrolman has marked defeat, and more often dead fishermen across their illegal nets have marked success. wildest among the fisher-folk may be accounted the chinese shrimp-catchers. it is the habit of the shrimp to crawl along the bottom in vast armies till it reaches fresh water, when it turns about and crawls back again to the salt. and where the tide ebbs and flows, the chinese sink great bag-nets to the bottom, with gaping mouths, into which the shrimp crawls and from which it is transferred to the boiling-pot. this in itself would not be bad, were it not for the small mesh of the nets, so small that the tiniest fishes, little new-hatched things not a quarter of an inch long, cannot pass through. the beautiful beaches of points pedro and pablo, where are the shrimp-catchers villages, are made fearful by the stench from myriads of decaying fish, and against this wasteful destruction it has ever been the duty of the fish patrol to act. when i was a youngster of sixteen, a good sloop-sailor and all-round bay-waterman, my sloop, the _reindeer_, was chartered by the fish commission, and i became for the time being a deputy patrolman. after a deal of work among the greek fishermen of the upper bay and rivers, where knives flashed at the beginning of trouble and men permitted themselves to be made prisoners only after a revolver was thrust in their faces, we hailed with delight an expedition to the lower bay against the chinese shrimp-catchers. there were six of us, in two boats, and to avoid suspicion we ran down after dark and dropped anchor under a projecting bluff of land known as point pinole. as the east paled with the first light of dawn we got under way again, and hauled close on the land breeze as we slanted across the bay toward point pedro. the morning mists curled and clung to the water so that we could see nothing, but we busied ourselves driving the chill from our bodies with hot coffee. also we had to devote ourselves to the miserable task of bailing, for in some incomprehensible way the _reindeer_ had sprung a generous leak. half the night had been spent in overhauling the ballast and exploring the seams, but the labor had been without avail. the water still poured in, and perforce we doubled up in the cockpit and tossed it out again. after coffee, three of the men withdrew to the other boat, a columbia river salmon boat, leaving three of us in the _reindeer_. then the two craft proceeded in company till the sun showed over the eastern skyline. its fiery rays dispelled the clinging vapors, and there, before our eyes, like a picture, lay the shrimp fleet, spread out in a great half-moon, the tips of the crescent fully three miles apart, and each junk moored fast to the buoy of a shrimp-net. but there was no stir, no sign of life. the situation dawned upon us. while waiting for slack water, in which to lift their heavy nets from the bed of the bay, the chinese had all gone to sleep below. we were elated, and our plan of battle was swiftly formed. "throw each of your two men on to a junk," whispered le grant to me from the salmon boat. "and you make fast to a third yourself. we'll do the same, and there's no reason in the world why we shouldn't capture six junks at the least." then we separated. i put the _reindeer_ about on the other tack, ran up under the lee of a junk, shivered the mainsail into the wind and lost headway, and forged past the stern of the junk so slowly and so near that one of the patrolmen stepped lightly aboard. then i kept off, filled the mainsail, and bore away for a second junk. up to this time there had been no noise, but from the first junk captured by the salmon boat an uproar now broke forth. there was shrill oriental yelling, a pistol shot, and more yelling. "it's all up. they're warning the others," said george, the remaining patrolman, as he stood beside me in the cockpit. by this time we were in the thick of the fleet, and the alarm was spreading with incredible swiftness. the decks were beginning to swarm with half-awakened and half-naked chinese. cries and yells of warning and anger were flying over the quiet water, and somewhere a conch shell was being blown with great success. to the right of us i saw the captain of a junk chop away his mooring line with an axe and spring to help his crew at the hoisting of the huge, outlandish lug-sail. but to the left the first heads were popping up from below on another junk, and i rounded up the _reindeer_ alongside long enough for george to spring aboard. the whole fleet was now under way. in addition to the sails they had gotten out long sweeps, and the bay was being ploughed in every direction by the fleeing junks. i was now alone in the _reindeer_, seeking feverishly to capture a third prize. the first junk i took after was a clean miss, for it trimmed its sheets and shot away surprisingly into the wind. by fully half a point it outpointed the _reindeer_, and i began to feel respect for the clumsy craft. realizing the hopelessness of the pursuit, i filled away, threw out the main-sheet, and drove down before the wind upon the junks to leeward, where i had them at a disadvantage. the one i had selected wavered indecisively before me, and, as i swung wide to make the boarding gentle, filled suddenly and darted away, the swart mongols shouting a wild rhythm as they bent to the sweeps. but i had been ready for this. i luffed suddenly. putting the tiller hard down, and holding it down with my body, i brought the main-sheet in, hand over hand, on the run, so as to retain all possible striking force. the two starboard sweeps of the junk were crumpled up, and then the two boats came together with a crash. the _reindeer's_ bowsprit, like a monstrous hand, reached over and ripped out the junk's chunky mast and towering sail. this was met by a curdling yell of rage. a big chinaman, remarkably evil-looking, with his head swathed in a yellow silk handkerchief and face badly pock-marked, planted a pike-pole on the _reindeer's_ bow and began to shove the entangled boats apart. pausing long enough to let go the jib halyards, and just as the _reindeer_ cleared and began to drift astern, i leaped aboard the junk with a line and made fast. he of the yellow handkerchief and pock-marked face came toward me threateningly, but i put my hand into my hip pocket, and he hesitated. i was unarmed, but the chinese have learned to be fastidiously careful of american hip pockets, and it was upon this that i depended to keep him and his savage crew at a distance. i ordered him to drop the anchor at the junk's bow, to which he replied, "no sabbe." the crew responded in like fashion, and though i made my meaning plain by signs, they refused to understand. realizing the inexpediency of discussing the matter, i went forward myself, overran the line, and let the anchor go. "now get aboard, four of you," i said in a loud voice, indicating with my fingers that four of them were to go with me and the fifth was to remain by the junk. the yellow handkerchief hesitated; but i repeated the order fiercely (much more fiercely than i felt), at the same time sending my hand to my hip. again the yellow handkerchief was overawed, and with surly looks he led three of his men aboard the _reindeer_. i cast off at once, and, leaving the jib down, steered a course for george's junk. here it was easier, for there were two of us, and george had a pistol to fall back on if it came to the worst. and here, as with my junk, four chinese were transferred to the sloop and one left behind to take care of things. four more were added to our passenger list from the third junk. by this time the salmon boat had collected its twelve prisoners and came alongside, badly overloaded. to make matters worse, as it was a small boat, the patrolmen were so jammed in with their prisoners that they would have little chance in case of trouble. "you'll have to help us out," said le grant. i looked over my prisoners, who had crowded into the cabin and on top of it. "i can take three," i answered. "make it four," he suggested, "and i'll take bill with me." (bill was the third patrolman.) "we haven't elbow room here, and in case of a scuffle one white to every two of them will be just about the right proportion." the exchange was made, and the salmon boat got up its spritsail and headed down the bay toward the marshes off san rafael. i ran up the jib and followed with the _reindeer_. san rafael, where we were to turn our catch over to the authorities, communicated with the bay by way of a long and tortuous slough, or marshland creek, which could be navigated only when the tide was in. slack water had come, and, as the ebb was commencing, there was need for hurry if we cared to escape waiting half a day for the next tide. but the land breeze had begun to die away with the rising sun, and now came only in failing puffs. the salmon boat got out its oars and soon left us far astern. some of the chinese stood in the forward part of the cockpit, near the cabin doors, and once, as i leaned over the cockpit rail to flatten down the jib-sheet a bit, i felt some one brush against my hip pocket. i made no sign, but out of the corner of my eye i saw that the yellow handkerchief had discovered the emptiness of the pocket which had hitherto overawed him. to make matters serious, during all the excitement of boarding the junks the _reindeer_ had not been bailed, and the water was beginning to slush over the cockpit floor. the shrimp-catchers pointed at it and looked to me questioningly. "yes," i said. "bime by, allee same dlown, velly quick, you no bail now. sabbe?" no, they did not "sabbe," or at least they shook their heads to that effect, though they chattered most comprehendingly to one another in their own lingo. i pulled up three or four of the bottom boards, got a couple of buckets from a locker, and by unmistakable sign-language invited them to fall to. but they laughed, and some crowded into the cabin and some climbed up on top. their laughter was not good laughter. there was a hint of menace in it, a maliciousness which their black looks verified. the yellow handkerchief, since his discovery of my empty pocket, had become most insolent in his bearing, and he wormed about among the other prisoners, talking to them with great earnestness. swallowing my chagrin, i stepped down into the cockpit and began throwing out the water. but hardly had i begun, when the boom swung overhead, the mainsail filled with a jerk, and the _reindeer_ heeled over. the day wind was springing up. george was the veriest of landlubbers, so i was forced to give over bailing and take the tiller. the wind was blowing directly off point pedro and the high mountains behind, and because of this was squally and uncertain, half the time bellying the canvas out, and the other half flapping it idly. george was about the most all-round helpless man i had ever met. among his other disabilities, he was a consumptive, and i knew that if he attempted to bail, it might bring on a hemorrhage. yet the rising water warned me that something must be done. again i ordered the shrimp-catchers to lend a hand with the buckets. they laughed defiantly, and those inside the cabin, the water up to their ankles, shouted back and forth with those on top. "you'd better get out your gun and make them bail," i said to george. but he shook his head and showed all too plainly that he was afraid. the chinese could see the funk he was in as well as i could, and their insolence became insufferable. those in the cabin broke into the food lockers, and those above scrambled down and joined them in a feast on our crackers and canned goods. "what do we care?" george said weakly. i was fuming with helpless anger. "if they get out of hand, it will be too late to care. the best thing you can do is to get them in check right now." the water was rising higher and higher, and the gusts, forerunners of a steady breeze, were growing stiffer and stiffer. and between the gusts, the prisoners, having gotten away with a week's grub, took to crowding first to one side and then to the other till the _reindeer_ rocked like a cockle-shell. yellow handkerchief approached me, and, pointing out his village on the point pedro beach, gave me to understand that if i turned the _reindeer_ in that direction and put them ashore, they, in turn, would go to bailing. by now the water in the cabin was up to the bunks, and the bed-clothes were sopping. it was a foot deep on the cockpit floor. nevertheless i refused, and i could see by george's face that he was disappointed. "if you don't show some nerve, they'll rush us and throw us overboard," i said to him. "better give me your revolver, if you want to be safe." "the safest thing to do," he chattered cravenly, "is to put them ashore. i, for one, don't want to be drowned for the sake of a handful of dirty chinamen." "and i, for another, don't care to give in to a handful of dirty chinamen to escape drowning," i answered hotly. "you'll sink the _reindeer_ under us all at this rate," he whined. "and what good that'll do i can't see." "every man to his taste," i retorted. he made no reply, but i could see he was trembling pitifully. between the threatening chinese and the rising water he was beside himself with fright; and, more than the chinese and the water, i feared him and what his fright might impel him to do. i could see him casting longing glances at the small skiff towing astern, so in the next calm i hauled the skiff alongside. as i did so his eyes brightened with hope; but before he could guess my intention, i stove the frail bottom through with a hand-axe, and the skiff filled to its gunwales. "it's sink or float together," i said. "and if you'll give me your revolver, i'll have the _reindeer_ bailed out in a jiffy." "they're too many for us," he whimpered. "we can't fight them all." i turned my back on him in disgust. the salmon boat had long since passed from sight behind a little archipelago known as the marin islands, so no help could be looked for from that quarter. yellow handkerchief came up to me in a familiar manner, the water in the cockpit slushing against his legs. i did not like his looks. i felt that beneath the pleasant smile he was trying to put on his face there was an ill purpose. i ordered him back, and so sharply that he obeyed. "now keep your distance," i commanded, "and don't you come closer!" "wha' fo'?" he demanded indignantly. "i t'ink-um talkee talkee heap good." "talkee talkee," i answered bitterly, for i knew now that he had understood all that passed between george and me. "what for talkee talkee? you no sabbe talkee talkee." he grinned in a sickly fashion. "yep, i sabbe velly much. i honest chinaman." "all right," i answered. "you sabbe talkee talkee, then you bail water plenty plenty. after that we talkee talkee." he shook his head, at the same time pointing over his shoulder to his comrades. "no can do. velly bad chinamen, heap velly bad. i t'ink-um--" "stand back!" i shouted, for i had noticed his hand disappear beneath his blouse and his body prepare for a spring. disconcerted, he went back into the cabin, to hold a council, apparently, from the way the jabbering broke forth. the _reindeer_ was very deep in the water, and her movements had grown quite loggy. in a rough sea she would have inevitably swamped; but the wind, when it did blow, was off the land, and scarcely a ripple disturbed the surface of the bay. "i think you'd better head for the beach," george said abruptly, in a manner that told me his fear had forced him to make up his mind to some course of action. "i think not," i answered shortly. "i command you," he said in a bullying tone. "i was commanded to bring these prisoners into san rafael," was my reply. our voices were raised, and the sound of the altercation brought the chinese out of the cabin. "now will you head for the beach?" this from george, and i found myself looking into the muzzle of his revolver--of the revolver he dared to use on me, but was too cowardly to use on the prisoners. my brain seemed smitten with a dazzling brightness. the whole situation, in all its bearings, was focussed sharply before me--the shame of losing the prisoners, the worthlessness and cowardice of george, the meeting with le grant and the other patrol-men and the lame explanation; and then there was the fight i had fought so hard, victory wrenched from me just as i thought i had it within my grasp. and out of the tail of my eye i could see the chinese crowding together by the cabin doors and leering triumphantly. it would never do. i threw my hand up and my head down. the first act elevated the muzzle, and the second removed my head from the path of the bullet which went whistling past. one hand closed on george's wrist, the other on the revolver. yellow handkerchief and his gang sprang toward me. it was now or never. putting all my strength into a sudden effort, i swung george's body forward to meet them. then i pulled back with equal suddenness, ripping the revolver out of his fingers and jerking him off his feet. he fell against yellow handkerchief's knees, who stumbled over him, and the pair wallowed in the bailing hole where the cockpit floor was torn open. the next instant i was covering them with my revolver, and the wild shrimp-catchers were cowering and cringing away. but i swiftly discovered that there was all the difference in the world between shooting men who are attacking and men who are doing nothing more than simply refusing to obey. for obey they would not when i ordered them into the bailing hole. i threatened them with the revolver, but they sat stolidly in the flooded cabin and on the roof and would not move. fifteen minutes passed, the _reindeer_ sinking deeper and deeper, her mainsail flapping in the calm. but from off the point pedro shore i saw a dark line form on the water and travel toward us. it was the steady breeze i had been expecting so long. i called to the chinese and pointed it out. they hailed it with exclamations. then i pointed to the sail and to the water in the _reindeer_, and indicated by signs that when the wind reached the sail, what of the water aboard we would capsize. but they jeered defiantly, for they knew it was in my power to luff the helm and let go the main-sheet, so as to spill the wind and escape damage. but my mind was made up. i hauled in the main-sheet a foot or two, took a turn with it, and bracing my feet, put my back against the tiller. this left me one hand for the sheet and one for the revolver. the dark line drew nearer, and i could see them looking from me to it and back again with an apprehension they could not successfully conceal. my brain and will and endurance were pitted against theirs, and the problem was which could stand the strain of imminent death the longer and not give in. then the wind struck us. the mainsheet tautened with a brisk rattling of the blocks, the boom uplifted, the sail bellied out, and the _reindeer_ heeled over--over, and over, till the lee-rail went under, the deck went under, the cabin windows went under, and the bay began to pour in over the cockpit rail. so violently had she heeled over, that the men in the cabin had been thrown on top of one another into the lee bunk, where they squirmed and twisted and were washed about, those underneath being perilously near to drowning. the wind freshened a bit, and the _reindeer_ went over farther than ever. for the moment i thought she was gone, and i knew that another puff like that and she surely would go. while i pressed her under and debated whether i should give up or not, the chinese cried for mercy. i think it was the sweetest sound i have ever heard. and then, and not until then, did i luff up and ease out the main-sheet. the _reindeer_ righted very slowly, and when she was on an even keel was so much awash that i doubted if she could be saved. but the chinese scrambled madly into the cockpit and fell to bailing with buckets, pots, pans, and everything they could lay hands on. it was a beautiful sight to see that water flying over the side! and when the _reindeer_ was high and proud on the water once more, we dashed away with the breeze on our quarter, and at the last possible moment crossed the mud flats and entered the slough. the spirit of the chinese was broken, and so docile did they become that ere we made san rafael they were out with the tow-rope, yellow handkerchief at the head of the line. as for george, it was his last trip with the fish patrol. he did not care for that sort of thing, he explained, and he thought a clerkship ashore was good enough for him. and we thought so, too. ii the king of the greeks big alec had never been captured by the fish patrol. it was his boast that no man could take him alive, and it was his history that of the many men who had tried to take him dead none had succeeded. it was also history that at least two patrolmen who had tried to take him dead had died themselves. further, no man violated the fish laws more systematically and deliberately than big alec. he was called "big alec" because of his gigantic stature. his height was six feet three inches, and he was correspondingly broad-shouldered and deep-chested. he was splendidly muscled and hard as steel, and there were innumerable stories in circulation among the fisher-folk concerning his prodigious strength. he was as bold and dominant of spirit as he was strong of body, and because of this he was widely known by another name, that of "the king of the greeks." the fishing population was largely composed of greeks, and they looked up to him and obeyed him as their chief. and as their chief, he fought their fights for them, saw that they were protected, saved them from the law when they fell into its clutches, and made them stand by one another and himself in time of trouble. in the old days, the fish patrol had attempted his capture many disastrous times and had finally given it over, so that when the word was out that he was coming to benicia, i was most anxious to see him. but i did not have to hunt him up. in his usual bold way, the first thing he did on arriving was to hunt us up. charley le grant and i at the time were under a patrolman named carmintel, and the three of us were on the _reindeer_, preparing for a trip, when big alec stepped aboard. carmintel evidently knew him, for they shook hands in recognition. big alec took no notice of charley or me. "i've come down to fish sturgeon a couple of months," he said to carmintel. his eyes flashed with challenge as he spoke, and we noticed the patrolman's eyes drop before him. "that's all right, alec," carmintel said in a low voice. "i'll not bother you. come on into the cabin, and we'll talk things over," he added. when they had gone inside and shut the doors after them, charley winked with slow deliberation at me. but i was only a youngster, and new to men and the ways of some men, so i did not understand. nor did charley explain, though i felt there was something wrong about the business. leaving them to their conference, at charley's suggestion we boarded our skiff and pulled over to the old steamboat wharf, where big alec's ark was lying. an ark is a house-boat of small though comfortable dimensions, and is as necessary to the upper bay fisherman as are nets and boats. we were both curious to see big alec's ark, for history said that it had been the scene of more than one pitched battle, and that it was riddled with bullet-holes. we found the holes (stopped with wooden plugs and painted over), but there were not so many as i had expected. charley noted my look of disappointment, and laughed; and then to comfort me he gave an authentic account of one expedition which had descended upon big alec's floating home to capture him, alive preferably, dead if necessary. at the end of half a day's fighting, the patrolmen had drawn off in wrecked boats, with one of their number killed and three wounded. and when they returned next morning with reënforcements they found only the mooring-stakes of big alec's ark; the ark itself remained hidden for months in the fastnesses of the suisun tules. "but why was he not hanged for murder?" i demanded. "surely the united states is powerful enough to bring such a man to justice." "he gave himself up and stood trial," charley answered. "it cost him fifty thousand dollars to win the case, which he did on technicalities and with the aid of the best lawyers in the state. every greek fisherman on the river contributed to the sum. big alec levied and collected the tax, for all the world like a king. the united states may be all-powerful, my lad, but the fact remains that big alec is a king inside the united states, with a country and subjects all his own." "but what are you going to do about his fishing for sturgeon? he's bound to fish with a 'chinese line.'" charley shrugged his shoulders. "we'll see what we will see," he said enigmatically. now a "chinese line" is a cunning device invented by the people whose name it bears. by a simple system of floats, weights, and anchors, thousands of hooks, each on a separate leader, are suspended at a distance of from six inches to a foot above the bottom. the remarkable thing about such a line is the hook. it is barbless, and in place of the barb, the hook is filed long and tapering to a point as sharp as that of a needle. these hooks are only a few inches apart, and when several thousand of them are suspended just above the bottom, like a fringe, for a couple of hundred fathoms, they present a formidable obstacle to the fish that travel along the bottom. such a fish is the sturgeon, which goes rooting along like a pig, and indeed is often called "pig-fish." pricked by the first hook it touches, the sturgeon gives a startled leap and comes into contact with half a dozen more hooks. then it threshes about wildly, until it receives hook after hook in its soft flesh; and the hooks, straining from many different angles, hold the luckless fish fast until it is drowned. because no sturgeon can pass through a chinese line, the device is called a trap in the fish laws; and because it bids fair to exterminate the sturgeon, it is branded by the fish laws as illegal. and such a line, we were confident, big alec intended setting, in open and flagrant violation of the law. several days passed after the visit of big alec, during which charley and i kept a sharp watch on him. he towed his ark around the solano wharf and into the big bight at turner's shipyard. the bight we knew to be good ground for sturgeon, and there we felt sure the king of the greeks intended to begin operations. the tide circled like a mill-race in and out of this bight, and made it possible to raise, lower, or set a chinese line only at slack water. so between the tides charley and i made it a point for one or the other of us to keep a lookout from the solano wharf. on the fourth day i was lying in the sun behind the stringer-piece of the wharf, when i saw a skiff leave the distant shore and pull out into the bight. in an instant the glasses were at my eyes and i was following every movement of the skiff. there were two men in it, and though it was a good mile away, i made out one of them to be big alec; and ere the skiff returned to shore i made out enough more to know that the greek had set his line. "big alec has a chinese line out in the bight off turner's shipyard," charley le grant said that afternoon to carmintel. a fleeting expression of annoyance passed over the patrolman's face, and then he said, "yes?" in an absent way, and that was all. charley bit his lip with suppressed anger and turned on his heel. "are you game, my lad?" he said to me later on in the evening, just as we finished washing down the _reindeer's_ decks and were preparing to turn in. a lump came up in my throat, and i could only nod my head. "well, then," and charley's eyes glittered in a determined way, "we've got to capture big alec between us, you and i, and we've got to do it in spite of carmintel. will you lend a hand?" "it's a hard proposition, but we can do it," he added after a pause. "of course we can," i supplemented enthusiastically. and then he said, "of course we can," and we shook hands on it and went to bed. but it was no easy task we had set ourselves. in order to convict a man of illegal fishing, it was necessary to catch him in the act with all the evidence of the crime about him--the hooks, the lines, the fish, and the man himself. this meant that we must take big alec on the open water, where he could see us coming and prepare for us one of the warm receptions for which he was noted. "there's no getting around it," charley said one morning. "if we can only get alongside it's an even toss, and there's nothing left for us but to try and get alongside. come on, lad." we were in the columbia river salmon boat, the one we had used against the chinese shrimp-catchers. slack water had come, and as we dropped around the end of the solano wharf we saw big alec at work, running his line and removing the fish. "change places," charley commanded, "and steer just astern of him as though you're going into the shipyard." i took the tiller, and charley sat down on a thwart amidships, placing his revolver handily beside him. "if he begins to shoot," he cautioned, "get down in the bottom and steer from there, so that nothing more than your hand will be exposed." i nodded, and we kept silent after that, the boat slipping gently through the water and big alec growing nearer and nearer. we could see him quite plainly, gaffing the sturgeon and throwing them into the boat while his companion ran the line and cleared the hooks as he dropped them back into the water. nevertheless, we were five hundred yards away when the big fisherman hailed us. "here! you! what do you want?" he shouted. "keep going," charley whispered, "just as though you didn't hear him." the next few moments were very anxious ones. the fisherman was studying us sharply, while we were gliding up on him every second. "you keep off if you know what's good for you!" he called out suddenly, as though he had made up his mind as to who and what we were. "if you don't, i'll fix you!" he brought a rifle to his shoulder and trained it on me. "now will you keep off?" he demanded. i could hear charley groan with disappointment. "keep off," he whispered; "it's all up for this time." i put up the tiller and eased the sheet, and the salmon boat ran off five or six points. big alec watched us till we were out of range, when he returned to his work. "you'd better leave big alec alone," carmintel said, rather sourly, to charley that night. "so he's been complaining to you, has he?" charley said significantly. carmintel flushed painfully. "you'd better leave him alone, i tell you," he repeated. "he's a dangerous man, and it won't pay to fool with him." "yes," charley answered softly; "i've heard that it pays better to leave him alone." this was a direct thrust at carmintel, and we could see by the expression of his face that it sank home. for it was common knowledge that big alec was as willing to bribe as to fight, and that of late years more than one patrolman had handled the fisherman's money. "do you mean to say--" carmintel began, in a bullying tone. but charley cut him off shortly. "i mean to say nothing," he said. "you heard what i said, and if the cap fits, why--" he shrugged his shoulders, and carmintel glowered at him, speechless. "what we want is imagination," charley said to me one day, when we had attempted to creep upon big alec in the gray of dawn and had been shot at for our trouble. and thereafter, and for many days, i cudgelled my brains trying to imagine some possible way by which two men, on an open stretch of water, could capture another who knew how to use a rifle and was never to be found without one. regularly, every slack water, without slyness, boldly and openly in the broad day, big alec was to be seen running his line. and what made it particularly exasperating was the fact that every fisherman, from benicia to vallejo, knew that he was successfully defying us. carmintel also bothered us, for he kept us busy among the shad-fishers of san pablo, so that we had little time to spare on the king of the greeks. but charley's wife and children lived at benicia, and we had made the place our headquarters, so that we always returned to it. "i'll tell you what we can do," i said, after several fruitless weeks had passed; "we can wait some slack water till big alec has run his line and gone ashore with the fish, and then we can go out and capture the line. it will put him to time and expense to make another, and then we'll figure to capture that too. if we can't capture him, we can discourage him, you see." charley saw, and said it wasn't a bad idea. we watched our chance, and the next low-water slack, after big alec had removed the fish from the line and returned ashore, we went out in the salmon boat. we had the bearings of the line from shore marks, and we knew we would have no difficulty in locating it. the first of the flood tide was setting in, when we ran below where we thought the line was stretched and dropped over a fishing-boat anchor. keeping a short rope to the anchor, so that it barely touched the bottom, we dragged it slowly along until it stuck and the boat fetched up hard and fast. "we've got it," charley cried. "come on and lend a hand to get it in." together we hove up the rope till the anchor came in sight with the sturgeon line caught across one of the flukes. scores of the murderous-looking hooks flashed into sight as we cleared the anchor, and we had just started to run along the line to the end where we could begin to lift it, when a sharp thud in the boat startled us. we looked about, but saw nothing and returned to our work. an instant later there was a similar sharp thud and the gunwale splintered between charley's body and mine. "that's remarkably like a bullet, lad," he said reflectively. "and it's a long shot big alec's making." "and he's using smokeless powder," he concluded, after an examination of the mile-distant shore. "that's why we can't hear the report." i looked at the shore, but could see no sign of big alec, who was undoubtedly hidden in some rocky nook with us at his mercy. a third bullet struck the water, glanced, passed singing over our heads, and struck the water again beyond. "i guess we'd better get out of this," charley remarked coolly. "what do you think, lad?" i thought so, too, and said we didn't want the line anyway. whereupon we cast off and hoisted the spritsail. the bullets ceased at once, and we sailed away, unpleasantly confident that big alec was laughing at our discomfiture. and more than that, the next day on the fishing wharf, where we were inspecting nets, he saw fit to laugh and sneer at us, and this before all the fishermen. charley's face went black with anger; but beyond promising big alec that in the end he would surely land him behind the bars, he controlled himself and said nothing. the king of the greeks made his boast that no fish patrol had ever taken him or ever could take him, and the fishermen cheered him and said it was true. they grew excited, and it looked like trouble for a while; but big alec asserted his kingship and quelled them. carmintel also laughed at charley, and dropped sarcastic remarks, and made it hard for him. but charley refused to be angered, though he told me in confidence that he intended to capture big alec if it took all the rest of his life to accomplish it. "i don't know how i'll do it," he said, "but do it i will, as sure as i am charley le grant. the idea will come to me at the right and proper time, never fear." and at the right time it came, and most unexpectedly. fully a month had passed, and we were constantly up and down the river, and down and up the bay, with no spare moments to devote to the particular fisherman who ran a chinese line in the bight of turner's shipyard. we had called in at selby's smelter one afternoon, while on patrol work, when all unknown to us our opportunity happened along. it appeared in the guise of a helpless yacht loaded with seasick people, so we could hardly be expected to recognize it as the opportunity. it was a large sloop-yacht, and it was helpless inasmuch as the trade-wind was blowing half a gale and there were no capable sailors aboard. [illustration: "he saw fit to laugh sneer at us, before all the fishermen."] from the wharf at selby's we watched with careless interest the lubberly manoeuvre performed of bringing the yacht to anchor, and the equally lubberly manoeuvre of sending the small boat ashore. a very miserable-looking man in draggled ducks, after nearly swamping the boat in the heavy seas, passed us the painter and climbed out. he staggered about as though the wharf were rolling, and told us his troubles, which were the troubles of the yacht. the only rough-weather sailor aboard, the man on whom they all depended, had been called back to san francisco by a telegram, and they had attempted to continue the cruise alone. the high wind and big seas of san pablo bay had been too much for them; all hands were sick, nobody knew anything or could do anything; and so they had run in to the smelter either to desert the yacht or to get somebody to bring it to benicia. in short, did we know of any sailors who would bring the yacht into benicia? charley looked at me. the _reindeer_ was lying in a snug place. we had nothing on hand in the way of patrol work till midnight. with the wind then blowing, we could sail the yacht into benicia in a couple of hours, have several more hours ashore, and come back to the smelter on the evening train. "all right, captain," charley said to the disconsolate yachtsman, who smiled in sickly fashion at the title. "i'm only the owner," he explained. we rowed him aboard in much better style than he had come ashore, and saw for ourselves the helplessness of the passengers. there were a dozen men and women, and all of them too sick even to appear grateful at our coming. the yacht was rolling savagely, broad on, and no sooner had the owner's feet touched the deck than he collapsed and joined the others. not one was able to bear a hand, so charley and i between us cleared the badly tangled running gear, got up sail, and hoisted anchor. it was a rough trip, though a swift one. the carquinez straits were a welter of foam and smother, and we came through them wildly before the wind, the big mainsail alternately dipping and flinging its boom skyward as we tore along. but the people did not mind. they did not mind anything. two or three, including the owner, sprawled in the cockpit, shuddering when the yacht lifted and raced and sank dizzily into the trough, and between-whiles regarding the shore with yearning eyes. the rest were huddled on the cabin floor among the cushions. now and again some one groaned, but for the most part they were as limp as so many dead persons. as the bight at turner's shipyard opened out, charley edged into it to get the smoother water. benicia was in view, and we were bowling along over comparatively easy water, when a speck of a boat danced up ahead of us, directly in our course. it was low-water slack. charley and i looked at each other. no word was spoken, but at once the yacht began a most astonishing performance, veering and yawing as though the greenest of amateurs was at the wheel. it was a sight for sailormen to see. to all appearances, a runaway yacht was careering madly over the bight, and now and again yielding a little bit to control in a desperate effort to make benicia. the owner forgot his seasickness long enough to look anxious. the speck of a boat grew larger and larger, till we could see big alec and his partner, with a turn of the sturgeon line around a cleat, resting from their labor to laugh at us. charley pulled his sou'wester over his eyes, and i followed his example, though i could not guess the idea he evidently had in mind and intended to carry into execution. we came foaming down abreast of the skiff, so close that we could hear above the wind the voices of big alec and his mate as they shouted at us with all the scorn that professional watermen feel for amateurs, especially when amateurs are making fools of themselves. we thundered on past the fishermen, and nothing had happened. charley grinned at the disappointment he saw in my face, and then shouted: "stand by the main-sheet to jibe!" he put the wheel hard over, and the yacht whirled around obediently. the main-sheet slacked and dipped, then shot over our heads after the boom and tautened with a crash on the traveller. the yacht heeled over almost on her beam ends, and a great wail went up from the seasick passengers as they swept across the cabin floor in a tangled mass and piled into a heap in the starboard bunks. but we had no time for them. the yacht, completing the manoeuvre, headed into the wind with slatting canvas, and righted to an even keel. we were still plunging ahead, and directly in our path was the skiff. i saw big alec dive over-board and his mate leap for our bowsprit. then came the crash as we struck the boat, and a series of grinding bumps as it passed under our bottom. "that fixes his rifle," i heard charley mutter, as he sprang upon the deck to look for big alec somewhere astern. the wind and sea quickly stopped our forward movement, and we began to drift backward over the spot where the skiff had been. big alec's black head and swarthy face popped up within arm's reach; and all unsuspecting and very angry with what he took to be the clumsiness of amateur sailors, he was hauled aboard. also he was out of breath, for he had dived deep and stayed down long to escape our keel. the next instant, to the perplexity and consternation of the owner, charley was on top of big alec in the cockpit, and i was helping bind him with gaskets. the owner was dancing excitedly about and demanding an explanation, but by that time big alec's partner had crawled aft from the bowsprit and was peering apprehensively over the rail into the cockpit. charley's arm shot around his neck and the man landed on his back beside big alec. "more gaskets!" charley shouted, and i made haste to supply them. the wrecked skiff was rolling sluggishly a short distance to windward, and i trimmed the sheets while charley took the wheel and steered for it. "these two men are old offenders," he explained to the angry owner; "and they are most persistent violators of the fish and game laws. you have seen them caught in the act, and you may expect to be subpoenaed as witness for the state when the trial comes off." as he spoke he rounded alongside the skiff. it had been torn from the line, a section of which was dragging to it. he hauled in forty or fifty feet with a young sturgeon still fast in a tangle of barbless hooks, slashed that much of the line free with his knife, and tossed it into the cockpit beside the prisoners. "and there's the evidence, exhibit a, for the people," charley continued. "look it over carefully so that you may identify it in the court-room with the time and place of capture." and then, in triumph, with no more veering and yawing, we sailed into benicia, the king of the greeks bound hard and fast in the cockpit, and for the first time in his life a prisoner of the fish patrol. iii a raid on the oyster pirates of the fish patrolmen under whom we served at various times, charley le grant and i were agreed, i think, that neil partington was the best. he was neither dishonest nor cowardly; and while he demanded strict obedience when we were under his orders, at the same time our relations were those of easy comradeship, and he permitted us a freedom to which we were ordinarily unaccustomed, as the present story will show. neil's family lived in oakland, which is on the lower bay, not more than six miles across the water from san francisco. one day, while scouting among the chinese shrimp-catchers of point pedro, he received word that his wife was very ill; and within the hour the _reindeer_ was bowling along for oakland, with a stiff northwest breeze astern. we ran up the oakland estuary and came to anchor, and in the days that followed, while neil was ashore, we tightened up the _reindeer's_ rigging, overhauled the ballast, scraped down, and put the sloop into thorough shape. this done, time hung heavy on our hands. neil's wife was dangerously ill, and the outlook was a week's lie-over, awaiting the crisis. charley and i roamed the docks, wondering what we should do, and so came upon the oyster fleet lying at the oakland city wharf. in the main they were trim, natty boats, made for speed and bad weather, and we sat down on the stringer-piece of the dock to study them. "a good catch, i guess," charley said, pointing to the heaps of oysters, assorted in three sizes, which lay upon their decks. pedlers were backing their wagons to the edge of the wharf, and from the bargaining and chaffering that went on, i managed to learn the selling price of the oysters. "that boat must have at least two hundred dollars' worth aboard," i calculated. "i wonder how long it took to get the load?" "three or four days," charley answered. "not bad wages for two men--twenty-five dollars a day apiece." the boat we were discussing, the _ghost_, lay directly beneath us. two men composed its crew. one was a squat, broad-shouldered fellow with remarkably long and gorilla-like arms, while the other was tall and well proportioned, with clear blue eyes and a mat of straight black hair. so unusual and striking was this combination of hair and eyes that charley and i remained somewhat longer than we intended. and it was well that we did. a stout, elderly man, with the dress and carriage of a successful merchant, came up and stood beside us, looking down upon the deck of the _ghost_. he appeared angry, and the longer he looked the angrier he grew. "those are my oysters," he said at last. "i know they are my oysters. you raided my beds last night and robbed me of them." the tall man and the short man on the _ghost_ looked up. "hello, taft," the short man said, with insolent familiarity. (among the bayfarers he had gained the nickname of "the centipede" on account of his long arms.) "hello, taft," he repeated, with the same touch of insolence. "wot 'r you growlin' about now?" "those are my oysters--that's what i said. you've stolen them from my beds." "yer mighty wise, ain't ye?" was the centipede's sneering reply. "s'pose you can tell your oysters wherever you see 'em?" "now, in my experience," broke in the tall man, "oysters is oysters wherever you find 'em, an' they're pretty much alike all the bay over, and the world over, too, for that matter. we're not wantin' to quarrel with you, mr. taft, but we jes' wish you wouldn't insinuate that them oysters is yours an' that we're thieves an' robbers till you can prove the goods." "i know they're mine; i'd stake my life on it!" mr. taft snorted. "prove it," challenged the tall man, who we afterward learned was known as "the porpoise" because of his wonderful swimming abilities. mr. taft shrugged his shoulders helplessly. of course he could not prove the oysters to be his, no matter how certain he might be. "i'd give a thousand dollars to have you men behind the bars!" he cried. "i'll give fifty dollars a head for your arrest and conviction, all of you!" a roar of laughter went up from the different boats, for the rest of the pirates had been listening to the discussion. "there's more money in oysters," the porpoise remarked dryly. mr. taft turned impatiently on his heel and walked away. from out of the corner of his eye, charley noted the way he went. several minutes later, when he had disappeared around a corner, charley rose lazily to his feet. i followed him, and we sauntered off in the opposite direction to that taken by mr. taft. "come on! lively!" charley whispered, when we passed from the view of the oyster fleet. our course was changed at once, and we dodged around corners and raced up and down side-streets till mr. taft's generous form loomed up ahead of us. "i'm going to interview him about that reward," charley explained, as we rapidly overhauled the oyster-bed owner. "neil will be delayed here for a week, and you and i might as well be doing something in the meantime. what do you say?" "of course, of course," mr. taft said, when charley had introduced himself and explained his errand. "those thieves are robbing me of thousands of dollars every year, and i shall be glad to break them up at any price,--yes, sir, at any price. as i said, i'll give fifty dollars a head, and call it cheap at that. they've robbed my beds, torn down my signs, terrorized my watchmen, and last year killed one of them. couldn't prove it. all done in the blackness of night. all i had was a dead watchman and no evidence. the detectives could do nothing. nobody has been able to do anything with those men. we have never succeeded in arresting one of them. so i say, mr.---- what did you say your name was?" "le grant," charley answered. "so i say, mr. le grant, i am deeply obliged to you for the assistance you offer. and i shall be glad, most glad, sir, to co-operate with you in every way. my watchmen and boats are at your disposal. come and see me at the san francisco offices any time, or telephone at my expense. and don't be afraid of spending money. i'll foot your expenses, whatever they are, so long as they are within reason. the situation is growing desperate, and something must be done to determine whether i or that band of ruffians own those oyster beds." "now we'll see neil," charley said, when he had seen mr. taft upon his train to san francisco. not only did neil partington interpose no obstacle to our adventure, but he proved to be of the greatest assistance. charley and i knew nothing of the oyster industry, while his head was an encyclopædia of facts concerning it. also, within an hour or so, he was able to bring to us a greek boy of seventeen or eighteen who knew thoroughly well the ins and outs of oyster piracy. at this point i may as well explain that we of the fish patrol were free lances in a way. while neil partington, who was a patrolman proper, received a regular salary, charley and i, being merely deputies, received only what we earned--that is to say, a certain percentage of the fines imposed on convicted violators of the fish laws. also, any rewards that chanced our way were ours. we offered to share with partington whatever we should get from mr. taft, but the patrolman would not hear of it. he was only too happy, he said, to do a good turn for us, who had done so many for him. we held a long council of war, and mapped out the following line of action. our faces were unfamiliar on the lower bay, but as the _reindeer_ was well known as a fish-patrol sloop, the greek boy, whose name was nicholas, and i were to sail some innocent-looking craft down to asparagus island and join the oyster pirates' fleet. here, according to nicholas's description of the beds and the manner of raiding, it was possible for us to catch the pirates in the act of stealing oysters, and at the same time to get them in our power. charley was to be on the shore, with mr. taft's watchmen and a posse of constables, to help us at the right time. "i know just the boat," neil said, at the conclusion of the discussion, "a crazy old sloop that's lying over at tiburon. you and nicholas can go over by the ferry, charter it for a song, and sail direct for the beds." "good luck be with you, boys," he said at parting, two days later. "remember, they are dangerous men, so be careful." nicholas and i succeeded in chartering the sloop very cheaply; and between laughs, while getting up sail, we agreed that she was even crazier and older than she had been described. she was a big, flat-bottomed, square-sterned craft, sloop-rigged, with a sprung mast, slack rigging, dilapidated sails, and rotten running-gear, clumsy to handle and uncertain in bringing about, and she smelled vilely of coal tar, with which strange stuff she had been smeared from stem to stern and from cabin-roof to centreboard. and to cap it all, _coal tar maggie_ was printed in great white letters the whole length of either side. it was an uneventful though laughable run from tiburon to asparagus island, where we arrived in the afternoon of the following day. the oyster pirates, a fleet of a dozen sloops, were lying at anchor on what was known as the "deserted beds." the _coal tar maggie_ came sloshing into their midst with a light breeze astern, and they crowded on deck to see us. nicholas and i had caught the spirit of the crazy craft, and we handled her in most lubberly fashion. "wot is it?" some one called. "name it 'n' ye kin have it!" called another. "i swan naow, ef it ain't the old ark itself!" mimicked the centipede from the deck of the _ghost_. "hey! ahoy there, clipper ship!" another wag shouted. "wot's yer port?" we took no notice of the joking, but acted, after the manner of greenhorns, as though the _coal tar maggie_ required our undivided attention. i rounded her well to windward of the _ghost_, and nicholas ran for'ard to drop the anchor. to all appearances it was a bungle, the way the chain tangled and kept the anchor from reaching the bottom. and to all appearances nicholas and i were terribly excited as we strove to clear it. at any rate, we quite deceived the pirates, who took huge delight in our predicament. [illustration: "the centipede and the porpoise doubled up on the cabin in paroxysms of laughter."] but the chain remained tangled, and amid all kinds of mocking advice we drifted down upon and fouled the _ghost_, whose bowsprit poked square through our mainsail and ripped a hole in it as big as a barn door. the centipede and the porpoise doubled up on the cabin in paroxysms of laughter, and left us to get clear as best we could. this, with much unseamanlike performance, we succeeded in doing, and likewise in clearing the anchor-chain, of which we let out about three hundred feet. with only ten feet of water under us, this would permit the _coal tar maggie_ to swing in a circle six hundred feet in diameter, in which circle she would be able to foul at least half the fleet. the oyster pirates lay snugly together at short hawsers, the weather being fine, and they protested loudly at our ignorance in putting out such an unwarranted length of anchor-chain. and not only did they protest, for they made us heave it in again, all but thirty feet. having sufficiently impressed them with our general lubberliness, nicholas and i went below to congratulate ourselves and to cook supper. hardly had we finished the meal and washed the dishes, when a skiff ground against the _coal tar maggie's_ side, and heavy feet trampled on deck. then the centipede's brutal face appeared in the companionway, and he descended into the cabin, followed by the porpoise. before they could seat themselves on a bunk, another skiff came alongside, and another, and another, till the whole fleet was represented by the gathering in the cabin. "where'd you swipe the old tub?" asked a squat and hairy man, with cruel eyes and mexican features. "didn't swipe it," nicholas answered, meeting them on their own ground and encouraging the idea that we had stolen the _coal tar maggie_. "and if we did, what of it?" "well, i don't admire your taste, that's all," sneered he of the mexican features. "i'd rot on the beach first before i'd take a tub that couldn't get out of its own way." "how were we to know till we tried her?" nicholas asked, so innocently as to cause a laugh. "and how do you get the oysters?" he hurried on. "we want a load of them; that's what we came for, a load of oysters." "what d'ye want 'em for?" demanded the porpoise. "oh, to give away to our friends, of course," nicholas retorted. "that's what you do with yours, i suppose." this started another laugh, and as our visitors grew more genial we could see that they had not the slightest suspicion of our identity or purpose. "didn't i see you on the dock in oakland the other day?" the centipede asked suddenly of me. "yep," i answered boldly, taking the bull by the horns. "i was watching you fellows and figuring out whether we'd go oystering or not. it's a pretty good business, i calculate, and so we're going in for it. that is," i hastened to add, "if you fellows don't mind." "i'll tell you one thing, which ain't two things," he replied, "and that is you'll have to hump yerself an' get a better boat. we won't stand to be disgraced by any such box as this. understand?" "sure," i said. "soon as we sell some oysters we'll outfit in style." "and if you show yerself square an' the right sort," he went on, "why, you kin run with us. but if you don't" (here his voice became stern and menacing), "why, it'll be the sickest day of yer life. understand?" "sure," i said. after that and more warning and advice of similar nature, the conversation became general, and we learned that the beds were to be raided that very night. as they got into their boats, after an hour's stay, we were invited to join them in the raid with the assurance of "the more the merrier." "did you notice that short, mexican-looking chap?" nicholas asked, when they had departed to their various sloops. "he's barchi, of the sporting life gang, and the fellow that came with him is skilling. they're both out now on five thousand dollars' bail." i had heard of the sporting life gang before, a crowd of hoodlums and criminals that terrorized the lower quarters of oakland, and two-thirds of which were usually to be found in state's prison for crimes that ranged from perjury and ballot-box stuffing to murder. "they are not regular oyster pirates," nicholas continued. "they've just come down for the lark and to make a few dollars. but we'll have to watch out for them." we sat in the cockpit and discussed the details of our plan till eleven o'clock had passed, when we heard the rattle of an oar in a boat from the direction of the _ghost_. we hauled up our own skiff, tossed in a few sacks, and rowed over. there we found all the skiffs assembling, it being the intention to raid the beds in a body. to my surprise, i found barely a foot of water where we had dropped anchor in ten feet. it was the big june run-out of the full moon, and as the ebb had yet an hour and a half to run, i knew that our anchorage would be dry ground before slack water. mr. taft's beds were three miles away, and for a long time we rowed silently in the wake of the other boats, once in a while grounding and our oar blades constantly striking bottom. at last we came upon soft mud covered with not more than two inches of water--not enough to float the boats. but the pirates at once were over the side, and by pushing and pulling on the flat-bottomed skiffs, we moved steadily along. the full moon was partly obscured by high-flying clouds, but the pirates went their way with the familiarity born of long practice. after half a mile of the mud, we came upon a deep channel, up which we rowed, with dead oyster shoals looming high and dry on either side. at last we reached the picking grounds. two men, on one of the shoals, hailed us and warned us off. but the centipede, the porpoise, barchi, and skilling took the lead, and followed by the rest of us, at least thirty men in half as many boats, rowed right up to the watchmen. "you'd better slide outa this here," barchi said threateningly, "or we'll fill you so full of holes you wouldn't float in molasses." the watchmen wisely retreated before so overwhelming a force, and rowed their boat along the channel toward where the shore should be. besides, it was in the plan for them to retreat. we hauled the noses of the boats up on the shore side of a big shoal, and all hands, with sacks, spread out and began picking. every now and again the clouds thinned before the face of the moon, and we could see the big oysters quite distinctly. in almost no time sacks were filled and carried back to the boats, where fresh ones were obtained. nicholas and i returned often and anxiously to the boats with our little loads, but always found some one of the pirates coming or going. "never mind," he said; "no hurry. as they pick farther and farther away, it will take too long to carry to the boats. then they'll stand the full sacks on end and pick them up when the tide comes in and the skiffs will float to them." fully half an hour went by, and the tide had begun to flood, when this came to pass. leaving the pirates at their work, we stole back to the boats. one by one, and noiselessly, we shoved them off and made them fast in an awkward flotilla. just as we were shoving off the last skiff, our own, one of the men came upon us. it was barchi. his quick eye took in the situation at a glance, and he sprang for us; but we went clear with a mighty shove, and he was left floundering in the water over his head. as soon as he got back to the shoal he raised his voice and gave the alarm. we rowed with all our strength, but it was slow going with so many boats in tow. a pistol cracked from the shoal, a second, and a third; then a regular fusillade began. the bullets spat and spat all about us; but thick clouds had covered the moon, and in the dim darkness it was no more than random firing. it was only by chance that we could be hit. "wish we had a little steam launch," i panted. "i'd just as soon the moon stayed hidden," nicholas panted back. it was slow work, but every stroke carried us farther away from the shoal and nearer the shore, till at last the shooting died down, and when the moon did come out we were too far away to be in danger. not long afterward we answered a shoreward hail, and two whitehall boats, each pulled by three pairs of oars, darted up to us. charley's welcome face bent over to us, and he gripped us by the hands while he cried, "oh, you joys! you joys! both of you!" when the flotilla had been landed, nicholas and i and a watchman rowed out in one of the whitehalls, with charley in the stern-sheets. two other whitehalls followed us, and as the moon now shone brightly, we easily made out the oyster pirates on their lonely shoal. as we drew closer, they fired a rattling volley from their revolvers, and we promptly retreated beyond range. "lot of time," charley said. "the flood is setting in fast, and by the time it's up to their necks there won't be any fight left in them." so we lay on our oars and waited for the tide to do its work. this was the predicament of the pirates: because of the big run-out, the tide was now rushing back like a mill-race, and it was impossible for the strongest swimmer in the world to make against it the three miles to the sloops. between the pirates and the shore were we, precluding escape in that direction. on the other hand, the water was rising rapidly over the shoals, and it was only a question of a few hours when it would be over their heads. it was beautifully calm, and in the brilliant white moonlight we watched them through our night glasses and told charley of the voyage of the _coal tar maggie_. one o'clock came, and two o'clock, and the pirates were clustering on the highest shoal, waist-deep in water. "now this illustrates the value of imagination," charley was saying. "taft has been trying for years to get them, but he went at it with bull strength and failed. now we used our heads...." just then i heard a scarcely audible gurgle of water, and holding up my hand for silence, i turned and pointed to a ripple slowly widening out in a growing circle. it was not more than fifty feet from us. we kept perfectly quiet and waited. after a minute the water broke six feet away, and a black head and white shoulder showed in the moonlight. with a snort of surprise and of suddenly expelled breath, the head and shoulder went down. we pulled ahead several strokes and drifted with the current. four pairs of eyes searched the surface of the water, but never another ripple showed, and never another glimpse did we catch of the black head and white shoulder. "it's the porpoise," nicholas said. "it would take broad daylight for us to catch him." at a quarter to three the pirates gave their first sign of weakening. we heard cries for help, in the unmistakable voice of the centipede, and this time, on rowing closer, we were not fired upon. the centipede was in a truly perilous plight. only the heads and shoulders of his fellow-marauders showed above the water as they braced themselves against the current, while his feet were off the bottom and they were supporting him. "now, lads," charley said briskly, "we have got you, and you can't get away. if you cut up rough, we'll have to leave you alone and the water will finish you. but if you're good, we'll take you aboard, one man at a time, and you'll all be saved. what do you say?" "ay," they chorused hoarsely between their chattering teeth. "then one man at a time, and the short men first." the centipede was the first to be pulled aboard, and he came willingly, though he objected when the constable put the handcuffs on him. barchi was next hauled in, quite meek and resigned from his soaking. when we had ten in our boat we drew back, and the second whitehall was loaded. the third whitehall received nine prisoners only--a catch of twenty-nine in all. "you didn't get the porpoise," the centipede said exultantly, as though his escape materially diminished our success. charley laughed. "but we saw him just the same, a-snorting for shore like a puffing pig." it was a mild and shivering band of pirates that we marched up the beach to the oyster house. in answer to charley's knock, the door was flung open, and a pleasant wave of warm air rushed out upon us. "you can dry your clothes here, lads, and get some hot coffee," charley announced, as they filed in. and there, sitting ruefully by the fire, with a steaming mug in his hand, was the porpoise. with one accord nicholas and i looked at charley. he laughed gleefully. "that comes of imagination," he said. "when you see a thing, you've got to see it all around, or what's the good of seeing it at all? i saw the beach, so i left a couple of constables behind to keep an eye on it. that's all." iv the siege of the "lancashire queen" possibly our most exasperating experience on the fish patrol was when charley le grant and i laid a two weeks' siege to a big four-masted english ship. before we had finished with the affair, it became a pretty mathematical problem, and it was by the merest chance that we came into possession of the instrument that brought it to a successful termination. after our raid on the oyster pirates we had returned to oakland, where two more weeks passed before neil partington's wife was out of danger and on the highroad to recovery. so it was after an absence of a month, all told, that we turned the _reindeer's_ nose toward benicia. when the cat's away the mice will play, and in these four weeks the fishermen had become very bold in violating the law. when we passed point pedro we noticed many signs of activity among the shrimp-catchers, and, well into san pablo bay, we observed a widely scattered fleet of upper bay fishing-boats hastily pulling in their nets and getting up sail. this was suspicious enough to warrant investigation, and the first and only boat we succeeded in boarding proved to have an illegal net. the law permitted no smaller mesh for catching shad than one that measured seven and one-half inches inside the knots, while the mesh of this particular net measured only three inches. it was a flagrant breach of the rules, and the two fishermen were forthwith put under arrest. neil partington took one of them with him to help manage the _reindeer_, while charley and i went on ahead with the other in the captured boat. but the shad fleet had headed over toward the petaluma shore in wild flight, and for the rest of the run through san pablo bay we saw no more fishermen at all. our prisoner, a bronzed and bearded greek, sat sullenly on his net while we sailed his craft. it was a new columbia river salmon boat, evidently on its first trip, and it handled splendidly. even when charley praised it, our prisoner refused to speak or to notice us, and we soon gave him up as a most unsociable fellow. we ran up the carquinez straits and edged into the bight at turner's shipyard for smoother water. here were lying several english steel sailing ships, waiting for the wheat harvest; and here, most unexpectedly, in the precise place where we had captured big alec, we came upon two italians in a skiff that was loaded with a complete "chinese" sturgeon line. the surprise was mutual, and we were on top of them before either they or we were aware. charley had barely time to luff into the wind and run up to them. i ran forward and tossed them a line with orders to make it fast. one of the italians took a turn with it over a cleat, while i hastened to lower our big spritsail. this accomplished, the salmon boat dropped astern, dragging heavily on the skiff. charley came forward to board the prize, but when i proceeded to haul alongside by means of the line, the italians cast it off. we at once began drifting to leeward, while they got out two pairs of oars and rowed their light craft directly into the wind. this manoeuvre for the moment disconcerted us, for in our large and heavily loaded boat we could not hope to catch them with the oars. but our prisoner came unexpectedly to our aid. his black eyes were flashing eagerly, and his face was flushed with suppressed excitement, as he dropped the centreboard, sprang forward with a single leap, and put up the sail. "i've always heard that greeks don't like italians," charley laughed, as he ran aft to the tiller. and never in my experience have i seen a man so anxious for the capture of another as was our prisoner in the chase that followed. his eyes fairly snapped, and his nostrils quivered and dilated in a most extraordinary way. charley steered while he tended the sheet; and though charley was as quick and alert as a cat, the greek could hardly control his impatience. the italians were cut off from the shore, which was fully a mile away at its nearest point. did they attempt to make it, we could haul after them with the wind abeam, and overtake them before they had covered an eighth of the distance. but they were too wise to attempt it, contenting themselves with rowing lustily to windward along the starboard side of a big ship, the _lancashire queen_. but beyond the ship lay an open stretch of fully two miles to the shore in that direction. this, also, they dared not attempt, for we were bound to catch them before they could cover it. so, when they reached the bow of the _lancashire queen_, nothing remained but to pass around and row down her port side toward the stern, which meant rowing to leeward and giving us the advantage. we in the salmon boat, sailing close on the wind, tacked about and crossed the ship's bow. then charley put up the tiller and headed down the port side of the ship, the greek letting out the sheet and grinning with delight. the italians were already half-way down the ship's length; but the stiff breeze at our back drove us after them far faster than they could row. closer and closer we came, and i, lying down forward, was just reaching out to grasp the skiff, when it ducked under the great stern of the _lancashire queen_. the chase was virtually where it had begun. the italians were rowing up the starboard side of the ship, and we were hauled close on the wind and slowly edging out from the ship as we worked to windward. then they darted around her bow and began the row down her port side, and we tacked about, crossed her bow, and went plunging down the wind hot after them. and again, just as i was reaching for the skiff, it ducked under the ship's stern and out of danger. and so it went, around and around, the skiff each time just barely ducking into safety. by this time the ship's crew had become aware of what was taking place, and we could see their heads in a long row as they looked at us over the bulwarks. each time we missed the skiff at the stern, they set up a wild cheer and dashed across to the other side of the _lancashire queen_ to see the chase to windward. they showered us and the italians with jokes and advice, and made our greek so angry that at least once on each circuit he raised his fist and shook it at them in a rage. they came to look for this, and at each display greeted it with uproarious mirth. "wot a circus!" cried one. "tork about yer marine hippodromes,--if this ain't one, i'd like to know!" affirmed another. "six-days-go-as-yer-please," announced a third. "who says the dagoes won't win?" on the next tack to windward the greek offered to change places with charley. "let-a me sail-a de boat," he demanded. "i fix-a them, i catch-a them, sure." this was a stroke at charley's professional pride, for pride himself he did upon his boat-sailing abilities; but he yielded the tiller to the prisoner and took his place at the sheet. three times again we made the circuit, and the greek found that he could get no more speed out of the salmon boat than charley had. "better give it up," one of the sailors advised from above. the greek scowled ferociously and shook his fist in his customary fashion. in the meanwhile my mind had not been idle, and i had finally evolved an idea. "keep going, charley, one time more," i said. and as we laid out on the next tack to windward, i bent a piece of line to a small grappling hook i had seen lying in the bail-hole. the end of the line i made fast to the ring-bolt in the bow, and with the hook out of sight i waited for the next opportunity to use it. once more they made their leeward pull down the port side of the _lancashire queen_, and more once we churned down after them before the wind. nearer and nearer we drew, and i was making believe to reach for them as before. the stern of the skiff was not six feet away, and they were laughing at me derisively as they ducked under the ship's stern. at that instant i suddenly arose and threw the grappling iron. it caught fairly and squarely on the rail of the skiff, which was jerked backward out of safety as the rope tautened and the salmon boat ploughed on. a groan went up from the row of sailors above, which quickly changed to a cheer as one of the italians whipped out a long sheath-knife and cut the rope. but we had drawn them out of safety, and charley, from his place in the stern-sheets, reached over and clutched the stern of the skiff. the whole thing happened in a second of time, for the first italian was cutting the rope and charley was clutching the skiff, when the second italian dealt him a rap over the head with an oar. charley released his hold and collapsed, stunned, into the bottom of the salmon boat, and the italians bent to their oars and escaped back under the ship's stern. the greek took both tiller and sheet and continued the chase around the _lancashire queen_, while i attended to charley, on whose head a nasty lump was rapidly rising. our sailor audience was wild with delight, and to a man encouraged the fleeing italians. charley sat up, with one hand on his head, and gazed about him sheepishly. "it will never do to let them escape now," he said, at the same time drawing his revolver. on our next circuit, he threatened the italians with the weapon; but they rowed on stolidly, keeping splendid stroke and utterly disregarding him. "if you don't stop, i'll shoot," charley said menacingly. [illustration: "i suddenly arose and threw the grappling iron."] but this had no effect, nor were they to be frightened into surrendering even when he fired several shots dangerously close to them. it was too much to expect him to shoot unarmed men, and this they knew as well as we did; so they continued to pull doggedly round and round the ship. "we'll run them down, then!" charley exclaimed. "we'll wear them out and wind them!" so the chase continued. twenty times more we ran them around the _lancashire queen_, and at last we could see that even their iron muscles were giving out. they were nearly exhausted, and it was only a matter of a few more circuits, when the game took on a new feature. on the row to windward they always gained on us, so that they were half-way down the ship's side on the row to leeward when we were passing the bow. but this last time, as we passed the bow, we saw them escaping up the ship's gangway, which had been suddenly lowered. it was an organized move on the part of the sailors, evidently countenanced by the captain; for by the time we arrived where the gangway had been, it was being hoisted up, and the skiff, slung in the ship's davits, was likewise flying aloft out of reach. the parley that followed with the captain was short and snappy. he absolutely forbade us to board the _lancashire queen_, and as absolutely refused to give up the two men. by this time charley was as enraged as the greek. not only had he been foiled in a long and ridiculous chase, but he had been knocked senseless into the bottom of his boat by the men who had escaped him. "knock off my head with little apples," he declared emphatically, striking the fist of one hand into the palm of the other, "if those two men ever escape me! i'll stay here to get them if it takes the rest of my natural life, and if i don't get them, then i promise you i'll live unnaturally long or until i do get them, or my name's not charley le grant!" and then began the siege of the _lancashire queen_, a siege memorable in the annals of both fishermen and fish patrol. when the _reindeer_ came along, after a fruitless pursuit of the shad fleet, charley instructed neil partington to send out his own salmon boat, with blankets, provisions, and a fisherman's charcoal stove. by sunset this exchange of boats was made, and we said good-by to our greek, who perforce had to go into benicia and be locked up for his own violation of the law. after supper, charley and i kept alternate four-hour watches till daylight. the fishermen made no attempt to escape that night, though the ship sent out a boat for scouting purposes to find if the coast were clear. by the next day we saw that a steady siege was in order, and we perfected our plans with an eye to our own comfort. a dock, known as the solano wharf, which ran out from the benicia shore, helped us in this. it happened that the _lancashire queen_, the shore at turner's shipyard, and the solano wharf were the corners of a big equilateral triangle. from ship to shore, the side of the triangle along which the italians had to escape, was a distance equal to that from the solano wharf to the shore, the side of the triangle along which we had to travel to get to the shore before the italians. but as we could sail much faster than they could row, we could permit them to travel about half their side of the triangle before we darted out along our side. if we allowed them to get more than half-way, they were certain to beat us to shore; while if we started before they were half-way, they were equally certain to beat us back to the ship. we found that an imaginary line, drawn from the end of the wharf to a windmill farther along the shore, cut precisely in half the line of the triangle along which the italians must escape to reach the land. this line made it easy for us to determine how far to let them run away before we bestirred ourselves in pursuit. day after day we would watch them through our glasses as they rowed leisurely along toward the half-way point; and as they drew close into line with the windmill, we would leap into the boat and get up sail. at sight of our preparation, they would turn and row slowly back to the _lancashire queen_, secure in the knowledge that we could not overtake them. to guard against calms--when our salmon boat would be useless--we also had in readiness a light rowing skiff equipped with spoon-oars. but at such times, when the wind failed us, we were forced to row out from the wharf as soon as they rowed from the ship. in the night-time, on the other hand, we were compelled to patrol the immediate vicinity of the ship; which we did, charley and i standing four-hour watches turn and turn about. the italians, however, preferred the daytime in which to escape, and so our long night vigils were without result. "what makes me mad," said charley, "is our being kept from our honest beds while those rascally lawbreakers are sleeping soundly every night. but much good may it do them," he threatened. "i'll keep them on that ship till the captain charges them board, as sure as a sturgeon's not a catfish!" it was a tantalizing problem that confronted us. as long as we were vigilant, they could not escape; and as long as they were careful, we would be unable to catch them. charley cudgelled his brains continually, but for once his imagination failed him. it was a problem apparently without other solution than that of patience. it was a waiting game, and whichever waited the longer was bound to win. to add to our irritation, friends of the italians established a code of signals with them from the shore, so that we never dared relax the siege for a moment. and besides this, there were always one or two suspicious-looking fishermen hanging around the solano wharf and keeping watch on our actions. we could do nothing but "grin and bear it," as charley said, while it took up all our time and prevented us from doing other work. the days went by, and there was no change in the situation. not that no attempts were made to change it. one night friends from the shore came out in a skiff and attempted to confuse us while the two italians escaped. that they did not succeed was due to the lack of a little oil on the ship's davits. for we were drawn back from the pursuit of the strange boat by the creaking of the davits, and arrived at the _lancashire queen_ just as the italians were lowering their skiff. another night, fully half a dozen skiffs rowed around us in the darkness, but we held on like a leech to the side of the ship and frustrated their plan till they grew angry and showered us with abuse. charley laughed to himself in the bottom of the boat. "it's a good sign, lad," he said to me. "when men begin to abuse, make sure they're losing patience; and shortly after they lose patience, they lose their heads. mark my words, if we only hold out, they'll get careless some fine day, and then we'll get them." but they did not grow careless, and charley confessed that this was one of the times when all signs failed. their patience seemed equal to ours, and the second week of the siege dragged monotonously along. then charley's lagging imagination quickened sufficiently to suggest a ruse. peter boyelen, a new patrolman and one unknown to the fisher-folk, happened to arrive in benicia, and we took him into our plan. we were as secret as possible about it, but in some unfathomable way the friends ashore got word to the beleaguered italians to keep their eyes open. on the night we were to put our ruse into effect, charley and i took up our usual station in our rowing skiff alongside the _lancashire queen_. after it was thoroughly dark, peter boyelen came out in a crazy duck boat, the kind you can pick up and carry away under one arm. when we heard him coming along, paddling noisily, we slipped away a short distance into the darkness and rested on our oars. opposite the gangway, having jovially hailed the anchor-watch of the _lancashire queen_ and asked the direction of the _scottish chiefs_, another wheat ship, he awkwardly capsized himself. the man who was standing the anchor-watch ran down the gangway and hauled him out of the water. this was what he wanted, to get aboard the ship; and the next thing he expected was to be taken on deck and then below to warm up and dry out. but the captain inhospitably kept him perched on the lowest gangway step, shivering miserably and with his feet dangling in the water, till we, out of very pity, rowed in from the darkness and took him off. the jokes and gibes of the awakened crew sounded anything but sweet in our ears, and even the two italians climbed up on the rail and laughed down at us long and maliciously. "that's all right," charley said in a low voice, which i only could hear. "i'm mighty glad it's not us that's laughing first. we'll save our laugh to the end, eh, lad?" he clapped a hand on my shoulder as he finished, but it seemed to me that there was more determination than hope in his voice. it would have been possible for us to secure the aid of united states marshals and board the english ship, backed by government authority. but the instructions of the fish commission were to the effect that the patrolmen should avoid complications, and this one, did we call on the higher powers, might well end in a pretty international tangle. the second week of the siege drew to its close, and there was no sign of change in the situation. on the morning of the fourteenth day the change came, and it came in a guise as unexpected and startling to us as it was to the men we were striving to capture. charley and i, after our customary night vigil by the side of the _lancashire queen_, rowed into the solano wharf. "hello!" cried charley, in surprise. "in the name of reason and common sense, what is that? of all unmannerly craft did you ever see the like?" well might he exclaim, for there, tied up to the dock, lay the strangest-looking launch i had ever seen. not that it could be called a launch, either, but it seemed to resemble a launch more than any other kind of boat. it was seventy feet long, but so narrow was it, and so bare of superstructure, that it appeared much smaller than it really was. it was built wholly of steel, and was painted black. three smokestacks, a good distance apart and raking well aft, arose in single file amidships; while the bow, long and lean and sharp as a knife, plainly advertised that the boat was made for speed. passing under the stern, we read _streak_, painted in small white letters. charley and i were consumed with curiosity. in a few minutes we were on board and talking with an engineer who was watching the sunrise from the deck. he was quite willing to satisfy our curiosity, and in a few minutes we learned that the _streak_ had come in after dark from san francisco; that this was what might be called the trial trip; and that she was the property of silas tate, a young mining millionaire of california, whose fad was high-speed yachts. there was some talk about turbine engines, direct application of steam, and the absence of pistons, rods, and cranks,--all of which was beyond me, for i was familiar only with sailing craft; but i did understand the last words of the engineer. "four thousand horse-power and forty-five miles an hour, though you wouldn't think it," he concluded proudly. "say it again, man! say it again!" charley exclaimed in an excited voice. "four thousand horse-power and forty-five miles an hour," the engineer repeated, grinning good-naturedly. "where's the owner?" was charley's next question. "is there any way i can speak to him?" the engineer shook his head. "no, i'm afraid not. he's asleep, you see." at that moment a young man in blue uniform came on deck farther aft and stood regarding the sunrise. "there he is, that's him, that's mr. tate," said the engineer. charley walked aft and spoke to him, and while he talked earnestly the young man listened with an amused expression on his face. he must have inquired about the depth of water close in to the shore at turner's shipyard, for i could see charley making gestures and explaining. a few minutes later he came back in high glee. "come on, lad," he said. "on to the dock with you. we've got them!" it was our good fortune to leave the _streak_ when we did, for a little later one of the spy fishermen appeared. charley and i took up our accustomed places, on the stringer-piece, a little ahead of the _streak_ and over our own boat, where we could comfortably watch the _lancashire queen_. nothing occurred till about nine o'clock, when we saw the two italians leave the ship and pull along their side of the triangle toward the shore. charley looked as unconcerned as could be, but before they had covered a quarter of the distance, he whispered to me: "forty-five miles an hour...nothing can save them...they are ours!" slowly the two men rowed along till they were nearly in line with the windmill. this was the point where we always jumped into our salmon boat and got up the sail, and the two men, evidently expecting it, seemed surprised when we gave no sign. when they were directly in line with the windmill, as near to the shore as to the ship, and nearer the shore than we had ever allowed them before, they grew suspicious. we followed them through the glasses, and saw them standing up in the skiff and trying to find out what we were doing. the spy fisherman, sitting beside us on the stringerpiece, was likewise puzzled. he could not understand our inactivity. the men in the skiff rowed nearer the shore, but stood up again and scanned it, as if they thought we might be in hiding there. but a man came out on the beach and waved a handkerchief to indicate that the coast was clear. that settled them. they bent to the oars to make a dash for it. still charley waited. not until they had covered three-quarters of the distance from the _lancashire queen_, which left them hardly more than a quarter of a mile to gain the shore, did charley slap me on the shoulder and cry: "they're ours! they're ours!" we ran the few steps to the side of the _streak_ and jumped aboard. stern and bow lines were cast off in a jiffy. the _streak_ shot ahead and away from the wharf. the spy fisherman we had left behind on the stringer-piece pulled out a revolver and fired five shots into the air in rapid succession. the men in the skiff gave instant heed to the warning, for we could see them pulling away like mad. but if they pulled like mad, i wonder how our progress can be described? we fairly flew. so frightful was the speed with which we displaced the water, that a wave rose up on either side our bow and foamed aft in a series of three stiff, up-standing waves, while astern a great crested billow pursued us hungrily, as though at each moment it would fall aboard and destroy us. the _streak_ was pulsing and vibrating and roaring like a thing alive. the wind of our progress was like a gale--a forty-five-mile gale. we could not face it and draw breath without choking and strangling. it blew the smoke straight back from the mouths of the smoke-stacks at a direct right angle to the perpendicular. in fact, we were travelling as fast as an express train. "we just _streaked_ it," was the way charley told it afterward, and i think his description comes nearer than any i can give. as for the italians in the skiff--hardly had we started, it seemed to me, when we were on top of them. naturally, we had to slow down long before we got to them; but even then we shot past like a whirlwind and were compelled to circle back between them and the shore. they had rowed steadily, rising from the thwarts at every stroke, up to the moment we passed them, when they recognized charley and me. that took the last bit of fight out of them. they hauled in their oars and sullenly submitted to arrest. "well, charley," neil partington said, as we discussed it on the wharf afterward, "i fail to see where your boasted imagination came into play this time." but charley was true to his hobby. "imagination?" he demanded, pointing to the _streak_. "look at that! just look at it! if the invention of that isn't imagination, i should like to know what is." "of course," he added, "it's the other fellow's imagination, but it did the work all the same." v charley's coup perhaps our most laughable exploit on the fish patrol, and at the same time our most dangerous one, was when we rounded in, at a single haul, an even score of wrathful fishermen. charley called it a "coop," having heard neil partington use the term; but i think he misunderstood the word, and thought it meant "coop," to catch, to trap. the fishermen, however, coup or coop, must have called it a waterloo, for it was the severest stroke ever dealt them by the fish patrol, while they had invited it by open and impudent defiance of the law. during what is called the "open season" the fishermen might catch as many salmon as their luck allowed and their boats could hold. but there was one important restriction. from sun-down saturday night to sun-up monday morning, they were not permitted to set a net. this was a wise provision on the part of the fish commission, for it was necessary to give the spawning salmon some opportunity to ascend the river and lay their eggs. and this law, with only an occasional violation, had been obediently observed by the greek fishermen who caught salmon for the canneries and the market. one sunday morning, charley received a telephone call from a friend in collinsville, who told him that the full force of fishermen was out with its nets. charley and i jumped into our salmon boat and started for the scene of the trouble. with a light favoring wind at our back we went through the carquinez straits, crossed suisun bay, passed the ship island light, and came upon the whole fleet at work. but first let me describe the method by which they worked. the net used is what is known as a gill-net. it has a simple diamond-shaped mesh which measures at least seven and one-half inches between the knots. from five to seven and even eight hundred feet in length, these nets are only a few feet wide. they are not stationary, but float with the current, the upper edge supported on the surface by floats, the lower edge sunk by means of leaden weights. this arrangement keeps the net upright in the current and effectually prevents all but the smaller fish from ascending the river. the salmon, swimming near the surface, as is their custom, run their heads through these meshes, and are prevented from going on through by their larger girth of body, and from going back because of their gills, which catch in the mesh. it requires two fishermen to set such a net,--one to row the boat, while the other, standing in the stern, carefully pays out the net. when it is all out, stretching directly across the stream, the men make their boat fast to one end of the net and drift along with it. as we came upon the fleet of law-breaking fishermen, each boat two or three hundred yards from its neighbors, and boats and nets dotting the river as far as we could see, charley said: "i've only one regret, lad, and that is that i haven't a thousand arms so as to be able to catch them all. as it is, we'll only be able to catch one boat, for while we are tackling that one it will be up nets and away with the rest." as we drew closer, we observed none of the usual flurry and excitement which our appearance invariably produced. instead, each boat lay quietly by its net, while the fishermen favored us with not the slightest attention. "it's curious," charley muttered. "can it be they don't recognize us?" i said that it was impossible, and charley agreed; yet there was a whole fleet, manned by men who knew us only too well, and who took no more notice of us than if we were a hay scow or a pleasure yacht. this did not continue to be the case, however, for as we bore down upon the nearest net, the men to whom it belonged detached their boat and rowed slowly toward the shore. the rest of the boats showed no sign of uneasiness. "that's funny," was charley's remark. "but we can confiscate the net, at any rate." we lowered sail, picked up one end of the net, and began to heave it into the boat. but at the first heave we heard a bullet zip-zipping past us on the water, followed by the faint report of a rifle. the men who had rowed ashore were shooting at us. at the next heave a second bullet went zipping past, perilously near. charley took a turn around a pin and sat down. there were no more shots. but as soon as he began to heave in, the shooting recommenced. "that settles it," he said, flinging the end of the net overboard. "you fellows want it worse than we do, and you can have it." we rowed over toward the next net, for charley was intent on finding out whether or not we were face to face with an organized defiance. as we approached, the two fishermen proceeded to cast off from their net and row ashore, while the first two rowed back and made fast to the net we had abandoned. and at the second net we were greeted by rifle shots till we desisted and went on to the third, where the manoeuvre was again repeated. then we gave it up, completely routed, and hoisted sail and started on the long wind-ward beat back to benicia. a number of sundays went by, on each of which the law was persistently violated. yet, short of an armed force of soldiers, we could do nothing. the fishermen had hit upon a new idea and were using it for all it was worth, while there seemed no way by which we could get the better of them. about this time neil partington happened along from the lower bay, where he had been for a number of weeks. with him was nicholas, the greek boy who had helped us in our raid on the oyster pirates, and the pair of them took a hand. we made our arrangements carefully. it was planned that while charley and i tackled the nets, they were to be hidden ashore so as to ambush the fishermen who landed to shoot at us. it was a pretty plan. even charley said it was. but we reckoned not half so well as the greeks. they forestalled us by ambushing neil and nicholas and taking them prisoners, while, as of old, bullets whistled about our ears when charley and i attempted to take possession of the nets. when we were again beaten off, neil partington and nicholas were released. they were rather shamefaced when they put in an appearance, and charley chaffed them unmercifully. but neil chaffed back, demanding to know why charley's imagination had not long since overcome the difficulty. "just you wait; the idea'll come all right," charley promised. "most probably," neil agreed. "but i'm afraid the salmon will be exterminated first, and then there will be no need for it when it does come." neil partington, highly disgusted with his adventure, departed for the lower bay, taking nicholas with him, and charley and i were left to our own resources. this meant that the sunday fishing would be left to itself, too, until such time as charley's idea happened along. i puzzled my head a good deal to find out some way of checkmating the greeks, as also did charley, and we broached a thousand expedients which on discussion proved worthless. the fishermen, on the other hand, were in high feather, and their boasts went up and down the river to add to our discomfiture. among all classes of them we became aware of a growing insubordination. we were beaten, and they were losing respect for us. with the loss of respect, contempt began to arise. charley began to be spoken of as the "olda woman," and i received my rating as the "pee-wee kid." the situation was fast becoming unbearable, and we knew that we should have to deliver a stunning stroke at the greeks in order to regain the old-time respect in which we had stood. then one morning the idea came. we were down on steamboat wharf, where the river steamers made their landings, and where we found a group of amused long-shoremen and loafers listening to the hard-luck tale of a sleepy-eyed young fellow in long sea-boots. he was a sort of amateur fisherman, he said, fishing for the local market of berkeley. now berkeley was on the lower bay, thirty miles away. on the previous night, he said, he had set his net and dozed off to sleep in the bottom of the boat. the next he knew it was morning, and he opened his eyes to find his boat rubbing softly against the piles of steamboat wharf at benicia. also he saw the river steamer _apache_ lying ahead of him, and a couple of deck-hands disentangling the shreds of his net from the paddle-wheel. in short, after he had gone to sleep, his fisherman's riding light had gone out, and the _apache_ had run over his net. though torn pretty well to pieces, the net in some way still remained foul, and he had had a thirty-mile tow out of his course. charley nudged me with his elbow. i grasped his thought on the instant, but objected: "we can't charter a steamboat." "don't intend to," he rejoined. "but let's run over to turner's shipyard. i've something in my mind there that may be of use to us." and over we went to the shipyard, where charley led the way to the _mary rebecca_, lying hauled out on the ways, where she was being cleaned and overhauled. she was a scow-schooner we both knew well, carrying a cargo of one hundred and forty tons and a spread of canvas greater than any other schooner on the bay. "how d'ye do, ole," charley greeted a big blue-shirted swede who was greasing the jaws of the main gaff with a piece of pork rind. ole grunted, puffed away at his pipe, and went on greasing. the captain of a bay schooner is supposed to work with his hands just as well as the men. ole ericsen verified charley's conjecture that the _mary rebecca_, as soon as launched, would run up the san joaquin river nearly to stockton for a load of wheat. then charley made his proposition, and ole ericsen shook his head. "just a hook, one good-sized hook," charley pleaded. "no, ay tank not," said ole ericsen. "der _mary rebecca_ yust hang up on efery mud-bank with that hook. ay don't want to lose der _mary rebecca_. she's all ay got." "no, no," charley hurried to explain. "we can put the end of the hook through the bottom from the outside, and fasten it on the inside with a nut. after it's done its work, why, all we have to do is to go down into the hold, unscrew the nut, and out drops the hook. then drive a wooden peg into the hole, and the _mary rebecca_ will be all right again." ole ericsen was obstinate for a long time; but in the end, after we had had dinner with him, he was brought round to consent. "ay do it, by yupiter!" he said, striking one huge fist into the palm of the other hand. "but yust hurry you up with der hook. der _mary rebecca_ slides into der water to-night." it was saturday, and charley had need to hurry. we headed for the shipyard blacksmith shop, where, under charley's directions, a most generously curved hook of heavy steel was made. back we hastened to the _mary rebecca_. aft of the great centre-board case, through what was properly her keel, a hole was bored. the end of the hook was inserted from the outside, and charley, on the inside, screwed the nut on tightly. as it stood complete, the hook projected over a foot beneath the bottom of the schooner. its curve was something like the curve of a sickle, but deeper. in the late afternoon the _mary rebecca_ was launched, and preparations were finished for the start up-river next morning. charley and ole intently studied the evening sky for signs of wind, for without a good breeze our project was doomed to failure. they agreed that there were all the signs of a stiff westerly wind--not the ordinary afternoon sea-breeze, but a half-gale, which even then was springing up. next morning found their predictions verified. the sun was shining brightly, but something more than a half-gale was shrieking up the carquinez straits, and the _mary rebecca_ got under way with two reefs in her mainsail and one in her foresail. we found it quite rough in the straits and in suisun bay; but as the water grew more land-locked it became calm, though without let-up in the wind. off ship island light the reefs were shaken out, and at charley's suggestion a big fisherman's staysail was made all ready for hoisting, and the main-topsail, bunched into a cap at the masthead, was overhauled so that it could be set on an instant's notice. we were tearing along, wing-and-wing, before the wind, foresail to starboard and mainsail to port, as we came upon the salmon fleet. there they were, boats and nets, as on that first sunday when they had bested us, strung out evenly over the river as far as we could see. a narrow space on the right-hand side of the channel was left clear for steam-boats, but the rest of the river was covered with the wide-stretching nets. the narrow space was our logical course, but charley, at the wheel, steered the _mary rebecca_ straight for the nets. this did not cause any alarm among the fishermen, because up-river sailing craft are always provided with "shoes" on the ends of their keels, which permit them to slip over the nets without fouling them. "now she takes it!" charley cried, as we dashed across the middle of a line of floats which marked a net. at one end of this line was a small barrel buoy, at the other the two fishermen in their boat. buoy and boat at once began to draw together, and the fishermen to cry out, as they were jerked after us. a couple of minutes later we hooked a second net, and then a third, and in this fashion we tore straight up through the centre of the fleet. the consternation we spread among the fishermen was tremendous. as fast as we hooked a net the two ends of it, buoy and boat, came together as they dragged out astern; and so many buoys and boats, coming together at such breakneck speed, kept the fishermen on the jump to avoid smashing into one another. also, they shouted at us like mad to heave to into the wind, for they took it as some drunken prank on the part of scow-sailors, little dreaming that we were the fish patrol. the drag of a single net is very heavy, and charley and ole ericsen decided that even in such a wind ten nets were all the _mary rebecca_ could take along with her. so when we had hooked ten nets, with ten boats containing twenty men streaming along behind us, we veered to the left out of the fleet and headed toward collinsville. we were all jubilant. charley was handling the wheel as though he were steering the winning yacht home in a race. the two sailors who made up the crew of the _mary rebecca_, were grinning and joking. ole ericsen was rubbing his huge hands in child-like glee. [illustration: "the consternation we spread among the fishermen was tremendous."] "ay tank you fish patrol fallers never ban so lucky as when you sail with ole ericsen," he was saying, when a rifle cracked sharply astern, and a bullet gouged along the newly painted cabin, glanced on a nail, and sang shrilly onward into space. this was too much for ole ericsen. at sight of his beloved paintwork thus defaced, he jumped up and shook his fist at the fishermen; but a second bullet smashed into the cabin not six inches from his head, and he dropped down to the deck under cover of the rail. all the fishermen had rifles, and they now opened a general fusillade. we were all driven to cover--even charley, who was compelled to desert the wheel. had it not been for the heavy drag of the nets, we would inevitably have broached to at the mercy of the enraged fishermen. but the nets, fastened to the bottom of the _mary rebecca_ well aft, held her stern into the wind, and she continued to plough on, though somewhat erratically. charley, lying on the deck, could just manage to reach the lower spokes of the wheel; but while he could steer after a fashion, it was very awkward. ole ericsen bethought himself of a large piece of sheet steel in the empty hold. it was in fact a plate from the side of the _new jersey_, a steamer which had recently been wrecked outside the golden gate, and in the salving of which the _mary rebecca_ had taken part. crawling carefully along the deck, the two sailors, ole, and myself got the heavy plate on deck and aft, where we reared it as a shield between the wheel and the fishermen. the bullets whanged and banged against it till it rang like a bull's-eye, but charley grinned in its shelter, and coolly went on steering. so we raced along, behind us a howling, screaming bedlam of wrathful greeks, collinsville ahead, and bullets spat-spatting all around us. "ole," charley said in a faint voice, "i don't know what we're going to do." ole ericsen, lying on his back close to the rail and grinning upward at the sky, turned over on his side and looked at him. "ay tank we go into collinsville yust der same," he said. "but we can't stop," charley groaned. "i never thought of it, but we can't stop." a look of consternation slowly overspread ole ericsen's broad face. it was only too true. we had a hornet's nest on our hands, and to stop at collinsville would be to have it about our ears. "every man jack of them has a gun," one of the sailors remarked cheerfully. "yes, and a knife, too," the other sailor added. it was ole ericsen's turn to groan. "what for a svaidish faller like me monkey with none of my biziness, i don't know," he soliloquized. a bullet glanced on the stern and sang off to starboard like a spiteful bee. "there's nothing to do but plump the _mary rebecca_ ashore and run for it," was the verdict of the first cheerful sailor. "and leaf der _mary rebecca_?" ole demanded, with unspeakable horror in his voice. "not unless you want to," was the response. "but i don't want to be within a thousand miles of her when those fellers come aboard"--indicating the bedlam of excited greeks towing behind. we were right in at collinsville then, and went foaming by within biscuit-toss of the wharf. "i only hope the wind holds out," charley said, stealing a glance at our prisoners. "what of der wind?" ole demanded disconsolately. "der river will not hold out, and then...and then..." "it's head for tall timber, and the greeks take the hindermost," adjudged the cheerful sailor, while ole was stuttering over what would happen when we came to the end of the river. we had now reached a dividing of the ways. to the left was the mouth of the sacramento river, to the right the mouth of the san joaquin. the cheerful sailor crept forward and jibed over the foresail as charley put the helm to starboard and we swerved to the right into the san joaquin. the wind, from which we had been running away on an even keel, now caught us on our beam, and the _mary rebecca_ was pressed down on her port side as if she were about to capsize. still we dashed on, and still the fishermen dashed on behind. the value of their nets was greater than the fines they would have to pay for violating the fish laws; so to cast off from their nets and escape, which they could easily do, would profit them nothing. further, they remained by their nets instinctively, as a sailor remains by his ship. and still further, the desire for vengeance was roused, and we could depend upon it that they would follow us to the ends of the earth, if we undertook to tow them that far. the rifle-firing had ceased, and we looked astern to see what our prisoners were doing. the boats were strung along at unequal distances apart, and we saw the four nearest ones bunching together. this was done by the boat ahead trailing a small rope astern to the one behind. when this was caught, they would cast off from their net and heave in on the line till they were brought up to the boat in front. so great was the speed at which we were travelling, however, that this was very slow work. sometimes the men would strain to their utmost and fail to get in an inch of the rope; at other times they came ahead more rapidly. when the four boats were near enough together for a man to pass from one to another, one greek from each of three got into the nearest boat to us, taking his rifle with him. this made five in the foremost boat, and it was plain that their intention was to board us. this they undertook to do, by main strength and sweat, running hand over hand the float-line of a net. and though it was slow, and they stopped frequently to rest, they gradually drew nearer. charley smiled at their efforts, and said, "give her the topsail, ole." the cap at the mainmast head was broken out, and sheet and downhaul pulled flat, amid a scattering rifle fire from the boats; and the _mary rebecca_ lay over and sprang ahead faster than ever. but the greeks were undaunted. unable, at the increased speed, to draw themselves nearer by means of their hands, they rigged from the blocks of their boat sail what sailors call a "watch-tackle." one of them, held by the legs by his mates, would lean far over the bow and make the tackle fast to the float-line. then they would heave in on the tackle till the blocks were together, when the manoeuvre would be repeated. "have to give her the staysail," charley said. ole ericsen looked at the straining _mary rebecca_ and shook his head. "it will take der masts out of her," he said. "and we'll be taken out of her if you don't," charley replied. ole shot an anxious glance at his masts, another at the boat load of armed greeks, and consented. the five men were in the bow of the boat--a bad place when a craft is towing. i was watching the behavior of their boat as the great fisherman's staysail, far, far larger than the topsail and used only in light breezes, was broken out. as the _mary rebecca_ lurched forward with a tremendous jerk, the nose of the boat ducked down into the water, and the men tumbled over one another in a wild rush into the stern to save the boat from being dragged sheer under water. "that settles them!" charley remarked, though he was anxiously studying the behavior of the _mary rebecca_, which was being driven under far more canvas than she was rightly able to carry. "next stop is antioch!" announced the cheerful sailor, after the manner of a railway conductor. "and next comes merryweather!" "come here, quick," charley said to me. i crawled across the deck and stood upright beside him in the shelter of the sheet steel. "feel in my inside pocket," he commanded, "and get my notebook. that's right. tear out a blank page and write what i tell you." and this is what i wrote: telephone to merryweather, to the sheriff, the constable, or the judge. tell them we are coming and to turn out the town. arm everybody. have them down on the wharf to meet us or we are gone gooses. "now make it good and fast to that marlinspike, and stand by to toss it ashore." i did as he directed. by then we were close to antioch. the wind was shouting through our rigging, the _mary rebecca_ was half over on her side and rushing ahead like an ocean greyhound. the seafaring folk of antioch had seen us breaking out topsail and staysail, a most reckless performance in such weather, and had hurried to the wharf-ends in little groups to find out what was the matter. straight down the water front we boomed, charley edging in till a man could almost leap ashore. when he gave the signal i tossed the marlinspike. it struck the planking of the wharf a resounding smash, bounced along fifteen or twenty feet, and was pounced upon by the amazed onlookers. it all happened in a flash, for the next minute antioch was behind and we were heeling it up the san joaquin toward merryweather, six miles away. the river straightened out here into its general easterly course, and we squared away before the wind, wing-and-wing once more, the foresail bellying out to starboard. ole ericsen seemed sunk into a state of stolid despair. charley and the two sailors were looking hopeful, as they had good reason to be. merryweather was a coal-mining town, and, it being sunday, it was reasonable to expect the men to be in town. further, the coal-miners had never lost any love for the greek fishermen, and were pretty certain to render us hearty assistance. we strained our eyes for a glimpse of the town, and the first sight we caught of it gave us immense relief. the wharves were black with men. as we came closer, we could see them still arriving, stringing down the main street, guns in their hands and on the run. charley glanced astern at the fishermen with a look of ownership in his eye which till then had been missing. the greeks were plainly overawed by the display of armed strength and were putting their own rifles away. we took in topsail and staysail, dropped the main peak, and as we got abreast of the principal wharf jibed the mainsail. the _mary rebecca_ shot around into the wind, the captive fishermen describing a great arc behind her, and forged ahead till she lost way, when lines were flung ashore and she was made fast. this was accomplished under a hurricane of cheers from the delighted miners. ole ericsen heaved a great sigh. "ay never tank ay see my wife never again," he confessed. "why, we were never in any danger," said charley. ole looked at him incredulously. "sure, i mean it," charley went on. "all we had to do, any time, was to let go our end--as i am going to do now, so that those greeks can untangle their nets." he went below with a monkey-wrench, unscrewed the nut, and let the hook drop off. when the greeks had hauled their nets into their boats and made everything ship-shape, a posse of citizens took them off our hands and led them away to jail. "ay tank ay ban a great big fool," said ole ericsen. but he changed his mind when the admiring townspeople crowded aboard to shake hands with him, and a couple of enterprising newspaper men took photographs of the _mary rebecca_ and her captain. vi demetrios contos it must not be thought, from what i have told of the greek fishermen, that they were altogether bad. far from it. but they were rough men, gathered together in isolated communities and fighting with the elements for a livelihood. they lived far away from the law and its workings, did not understand it, and thought it tyranny. especially did the fish laws seem tyrannical. and because of this, they looked upon the men of the fish patrol as their natural enemies. we menaced their lives, or their living, which is the same thing, in many ways. we confiscated illegal traps and nets, the materials of which had cost them considerable sums and the making of which required weeks of labor. we prevented them from catching fish at many times and seasons, which was equivalent to preventing them from making as good a living as they might have made had we not been in existence. and when we captured them, they were brought into the courts of law, where heavy cash fines were collected from them. as a result, they hated us vindictively. as the dog is the natural enemy of the cat, the snake of man, so were we of the fish patrol the natural enemies of the fishermen. but it is to show that they could act generously as well as hate bitterly that this story of demetrios contos is told. demetrios contos lived in vallejo. next to big alec, he was the largest, bravest, and most influential man among the greeks. he had given us no trouble, and i doubt if he would ever have clashed with us had he not invested in a new salmon boat. this boat was the cause of all the trouble. he had had it built upon his own model, in which the lines of the general salmon boat were somewhat modified. to his high elation he found his new boat very fast--in fact, faster than any other boat on the bay or rivers. forthwith he grew proud and boastful: and, our raid with the _mary rebecca_ on the sunday salmon fishers having wrought fear in their hearts, he sent a challenge up to benicia. one of the local fishermen conveyed it to us; it was to the effect that demetrios contos would sail up from vallejo on the following sunday, and in the plain sight of benicia set his net and catch salmon, and that charley le grant, patrolman, might come and get him if he could. of course charley and i had heard nothing of the new boat. our own boat was pretty fast, and we were not afraid to have a brush with any other that happened along. sunday came. the challenge had been bruited abroad, and the fishermen and seafaring folk of benicia turned out to a man, crowding steamboat wharf till it looked like the grand stand at a football match. charley and i had been sceptical, but the fact of the crowd convinced us that there was something in demetrios contos's dare. in the afternoon, when the sea-breeze had picked up in strength, his sail hove into view as he bowled along before the wind. he tacked a score of feet from the wharf, waved his hand theatrically, like a knight about to enter the lists, received a hearty cheer in return, and stood away into the straits for a couple of hundred yards. then he lowered sail, and, drifting the boat sidewise by means of the wind, proceeded to set his net. he did not set much of it, possibly fifty feet; yet charley and i were thunderstruck at the man's effrontery. we did not know at the time, but we learned afterward, that the net he used was old and worthless. it _could_ catch fish, true; but a catch of any size would have torn it to pieces. charley shook his head and said: "i confess, it puzzles me. what if he has out only fifty feet? he could never get it in if we once started for him. and why does he come here anyway, flaunting his law-breaking in our faces? right in our home town, too." charley's voice took on an aggrieved tone, and he continued for some minutes to inveigh against the brazenness of demetrios contos. in the meantime, the man in question was lolling in the stern of his boat and watching the net floats. when a large fish is meshed in a gill-net, the floats by their agitation advertise the fact. and they evidently advertised it to demetrios, for he pulled in about a dozen feet of net, and held aloft for a moment, before he flung it into the bottom of the boat, a big, glistening salmon. it was greeted by the audience on the wharf with round after round of cheers. this was more than charley could stand. "come on, lad," he called to me; and we lost no time jumping into our salmon boat and getting up sail. the crowd shouted warning to demetrios, and as we darted out from the wharf we saw him slash his worthless net clear with a long knife. his sail was all ready to go up, and a moment later it fluttered in the sunshine. he ran aft, drew in the sheet, and filled on the long tack toward the contra costa hills. by this time we were not more than thirty feet astern. charley was jubilant. he knew our boat was fast, and he knew, further, that in fine sailing few men were his equals. he was confident that we should surely catch demetrios, and i shared his confidence. but somehow we did not seem to gain. it was a pretty sailing breeze. we were gliding sleekly through the water, but demetrios was slowly sliding away from us. and not only was he going faster, but he was eating into the wind a fraction of a point closer than we. this was sharply impressed upon us when he went about under the contra costa hills and passed us on the other tack fully one hundred feet dead to windward. "whew!" charley exclaimed. "either that boat is a daisy, or we've got a five-gallon coal-oil can fast to our keel!" it certainly looked it one way or the other. and by the time demetrios made the sonoma hills, on the other side of the straits, we were so hopelessly outdistanced that charley told me to slack off the sheet, and we squared away for benicia. the fishermen on steamboat wharf showered us with ridicule when we returned and tied up. charley and i got out and walked away, feeling rather sheepish, for it is a sore stroke to one's pride when he thinks he has a good boat and knows how to sail it, and another man comes along and beats him. charley mooned over it for a couple of days; then word was brought to us, as before, that on the next sunday demetrios contos would repeat his performance. charley roused himself. he had our boat out of the water, cleaned and repainted its bottom, made a trifling alteration about the centre-board, overhauled the running gear, and sat up nearly all of saturday night sewing on a new and much larger sail. so large did he make it, in fact, that additional ballast was imperative, and we stowed away nearly five hundred extra pounds of old railroad iron in the bottom of the boat. sunday came, and with it came demetrios contos, to break the law defiantly in open day. again we had the afternoon sea-breeze, and again demetrios cut loose some forty or more feet of his rotten net, and got up sail and under way under our very noses. but he had anticipated charley's move, and his own sail peaked higher than ever, while a whole extra cloth had been added to the after leech. it was nip and tuck across to the contra costa hills, neither of us seeming to gain or to lose. but by the time we had made the return tack to the sonoma hills, we could see that, while we footed it at about equal speed, demetrios had eaten into the wind the least bit more than we. yet charley was sailing our boat as finely and delicately as it was possible to sail it, and getting more out of it than he ever had before. of course, he could have drawn his revolver and fired at demetrios; but we had long since found it contrary to our natures to shoot at a fleeing man guilty of only a petty offence. also a sort of tacit agreement seemed to have been reached between the patrolmen and the fishermen. if we did not shoot while they ran away, they, in turn, did not fight if we once laid hands on them. thus demetrios contos ran away from us, and we did no more than try our best to overtake him; and, in turn, if our boat proved faster than his, or was sailed better, he would, we knew, make no resistance when we caught up with him. with our large sails and the healthy breeze romping up the carquinez straits, we found that our sailing was what is called "ticklish." we had to be constantly on the alert to avoid a capsize, and while charley steered i held the main-sheet in my hand with but a single turn round a pin, ready to let go at any moment. demetrios, we could see, sailing his boat alone, had his hands full. but it was a vain undertaking for us to attempt to catch him. out of his inner consciousness he had evolved a boat that was better than ours. and though charley sailed fully as well, if not the least bit better, the boat he sailed was not so good as the greek's. "slack away the sheet," charley commanded; and as our boat fell off before the wind, demetrios's mocking laugh floated down to us. charley shook his head, saying, "it's no use. demetrios has the better boat. if he tries his performance again, we must meet it with some new scheme." this time it was my imagination that came to the rescue. "what's the matter," i suggested, on the wednesday following, "with my chasing demetrios in the boat next sunday, while you wait for him on the wharf at vallejo when he arrives?" charley considered it a moment and slapped his knee. "a good idea! you're beginning to use that head of yours. a credit to your teacher, i must say." "but you mustn't chase him too far," he went on, the next moment, "or he'll head out into san pablo bay instead of running home to vallejo, and there i'll be, standing lonely on the wharf and waiting in vain for him to arrive." on thursday charley registered an objection to my plan. "everybody'll know i've gone to vallejo, and you can depend upon it that demetrios will know, too. i'm afraid we'll have to give up the idea." this objection was only too valid, and for the rest of the day i struggled under my disappointment. but that night a new way seemed to open to me, and in my eagerness i awoke charley from a sound sleep. "well," he grunted, "what's the matter? house afire?" "no," i replied, "but my head is. listen to this. on sunday you and i will be around benicia up to the very moment demetrios's sail heaves into sight. this will lull everybody's suspicions. then, when demetrios's sail does heave in sight, do you stroll leisurely away and up-town. all the fishermen will think you're beaten and that you know you're beaten." "so far, so good," charley commented, while i paused to catch breath. "and very good indeed," i continued proudly. "you stroll carelessly up-town, but when you're once out of sight you leg it for all you're worth for dan maloney's. take the little mare of his, and strike out on the county road for vallejo. the road's in fine condition, and you can make it in quicker time than demetrios can beat all the way down against the wind." "and i'll arrange right away for the mare, first thing in the morning," charley said, accepting the modified plan without hesitation. "but, i say," he said, a little later, this time waking _me_ out of a sound sleep. i could hear him chuckling in the dark. "i say, lad, isn't it rather a novelty for the fish patrol to be taking to horseback?" "imagination," i answered. "it's what you're always preaching--'keep thinking one thought ahead of the other fellow, and you're bound to win out.'" "he! he!" he chuckled. "and if one thought ahead, including a mare, doesn't take the other fellow's breath away this time, i'm not your humble servant, charley le grant." "but can you manage the boat alone?" he asked, on friday. "remember, we've a ripping big sail on her." i argued my proficiency so well that he did not refer to the matter again till saturday, when he suggested removing one whole cloth from the after leech. i guess it was the disappointment written on my face that made him desist; for i, also, had a pride in my boat-sailing abilities, and i was almost wild to get out alone with the big sail and go tearing down the carquinez straits in the wake of the flying greek. as usual, sunday and demetrios contos arrived together. it had become the regular thing for the fishermen to assemble on steamboat wharf to greet his arrival and to laugh at our discomfiture. he lowered sail a couple of hundred yards out and set his customary fifty feet of rotten net. "i suppose this nonsense will keep up as long as his old net holds out," charley grumbled, with intention, in the hearing of several of the greeks. "den i give-a heem my old-a net-a," one of them spoke up, promptly and maliciously. "i don't care," charley answered. "i've got some old net myself he can have--if he'll come around and ask for it." they all laughed at this, for they could afford to be sweet-tempered with a man so badly outwitted as charley was. "well, so long, lad," charley called to me a moment later. "i think i'll go up-town to maloney's." "let me take the boat out?" i asked. "if you want to," was his answer, as he turned on his heel and walked slowly away. demetrios pulled two large salmon out of his net, and i jumped into the boat. the fishermen crowded around in a spirit of fun, and when i started to get up sail overwhelmed me with all sorts of jocular advice. they even offered extravagant bets to one another that i would surely catch demetrios, and two of them, styling themselves the committee of judges, gravely asked permission to come along with me to see how i did it. but i was in no hurry. i waited to give charley all the time i could, and i pretended dissatisfaction with the stretch of the sail and slightly shifted the small tackle by which the huge sprit forces up the peak. it was not until i was sure that charley had reached dan maloney's and was on the little mare's back, that i cast off from the wharf and gave the big sail to the wind. a stout puff filled it and suddenly pressed the lee gunwale down till a couple of buckets of water came inboard. a little thing like this will happen to the best small-boat sailors, and yet, though i instantly let go the sheet and righted, i was cheered sarcastically, as though i had been guilty of a very awkward blunder. when demetrios saw only one person in the fish patrol boat, and that one a boy, he proceeded to play with me. making a short tack out, with me not thirty feet behind, he returned, with his sheet a little free, to steamboat wharf. and there he made short tacks, and turned and twisted and ducked around, to the great delight of his sympathetic audience. i was right behind him all the time, and i dared to do whatever he did, even when he squared away before the wind and jibed his big sail over--a most dangerous trick with such a sail in such a wind. he depended upon the brisk sea breeze and the strong ebb tide, which together kicked up a nasty sea, to bring me to grief. but i was on my mettle, and never in all my life did i sail a boat better than on that day. i was keyed up to concert pitch, my brain was working smoothly and quickly, my hands never fumbled once, and it seemed that i almost divined the thousand little things which a small-boat sailor must be taking into consideration every second. it was demetrios who came to grief instead. something went wrong with his centre-board, so that it jammed in the case and would not go all the way down. in a moment's breathing space, which he had gained from me by a clever trick, i saw him working impatiently with the centre-board, trying to force it down. i gave him little time, and he was compelled quickly to return to the tiller and sheet. the centre-board made him anxious. he gave over playing with me, and started on the long beat to vallejo. to my joy, on the first long tack across, i found that i could eat into the wind just a little bit closer than he. here was where another man in the boat would have been of value to him; for, with me but a few feet astern, he did not dare let go the tiller and run amidships to try to force down the centre-board. unable to hang on as close in the eye of the wind as formerly, he proceeded to slack his sheet a trifle and to ease off a bit, in order to outfoot me. this i permitted him to do till i had worked to windward, when i bore down upon him. as i drew close, he feinted at coming about. this led me to shoot into the wind to forestall him. but it was only a feint, cleverly executed, and he held back to his course while i hurried to make up lost ground. he was undeniably smarter than i when it came to manoeuvring. time after time i all but had him, and each time he tricked me and escaped. besides, the wind was freshening constantly, and each of us had his hands full to avoid capsizing. as for my boat, it could not have been kept afloat but for the extra ballast. i sat cocked over the weather gunwale, tiller in one hand and sheet in the other; and the sheet, with a single turn around a pin, i was very often forced to let go in the severer puffs. this allowed the sail to spill the wind, which was equivalent to taking off so much driving power, and of course i lost ground. my consolation was that demetrios was as often compelled to do the same thing. the strong ebb-tide, racing down the straits in the teeth of the wind, caused an unusually heavy and spiteful sea, which dashed aboard continually. i was dripping wet, and even the sail was wet half-way up the after leech. once i did succeed in outmanoeuvring demetrios, so that my bow bumped into him amidships. here was where i should have had another man. before i could run forward and leap aboard, he shoved the boats apart with an oar, laughing mockingly in my face as he did so. we were now at the mouth of the straits, in a bad stretch of water. here the vallejo straits and the carquinez straits rushed directly at each other. through the first flowed all the water of napa river and the great tide-lands; through the second flowed all the water of suisun bay and the sacramento and san joaquin rivers. and where such immense bodies of water, flowing swiftly, clashed together, a terrible tide-rip was produced. to make it worse, the wind howled up san pablo bay for fifteen miles and drove in a tremendous sea upon the tide-rip. conflicting currents tore about in all directions, colliding, forming whirlpools, sucks, and boils, and shooting up spitefully into hollow waves which fell aboard as often from leeward as from windward. and through it all, confused, driven into a madness of motion, thundered the great smoking seas from san pablo bay. i was as wildly excited as the water. the boat was behaving splendidly, leaping and lurching through the welter like a race-horse. i could hardly contain myself with the joy of it. the huge sail, the howling wind, the driving seas, the plunging boat--i, a pygmy, a mere speck in the midst of it, was mastering the elemental strife, flying through it and over it, triumphant and victorious. and just then, as i roared along like a conquering hero, the boat received a frightful smash and came instantly to a dead stop. i was flung forward and into the bottom. as i sprang up i caught a fleeting glimpse of a greenish, barnacle-covered object, and knew it at once for what it was, that terror of navigation, a sunken pile. no man may guard against such a thing. water-logged and floating just beneath the surface, it was impossible to sight it in the troubled water in time to escape. the whole bow of the boat must have been crushed in, for in a few seconds the boat was half full. then a couple of seas filled it, and it sank straight down, dragged to bottom by the heavy ballast. so quickly did it all happen that i was entangled in the sail and drawn under. when i fought my way to the surface, suffocating, my lungs almost bursting, i could see nothing of the oars. they must have been swept away by the chaotic currents. i saw demetrios contos looking back from his boat, and heard the vindictive and mocking tones of his voice as he shouted exultantly. he held steadily on his course, leaving me to perish. there was nothing to do but to swim for it, which, in that wild confusion, was at the best a matter of but a few moments. holding my breath and working with my hands, i managed to get off my heavy sea-boots and my jacket. yet there was very little breath i could catch to hold, and i swiftly discovered that it was not so much a matter of swimming as of breathing. i was beaten and buffeted, smashed under by the great san pablo whitecaps, and strangled by the hollow tide-rip waves which flung themselves into my eyes, nose, and mouth. then the strange sucks would grip my legs and drag me under, to spout me up in some fierce boiling, where, even as i tried to catch my breath, a great whitecap would crash down upon my head. it was impossible to survive any length of time. i was breathing more water than air, and drowning all the time. my senses began to leave me, my head to whirl around. i struggled on, spasmodically, instinctively, and was barely half conscious when i felt myself caught by the shoulders and hauled over the gunwale of a boat. for some time i lay across a seat where i had been flung, face downward, and with the water running out of my mouth. after a while, still weak and faint, i turned around to see who was my rescuer. and there, in the stern, sheet in one hand and tiller in the other, grinning and nodding good-naturedly, sat demetrios contos. he had intended to leave me to drown,--he said so afterward,--but his better self had fought the battle, conquered, and sent him back to me. "you all-a right?" he asked. i managed to shape a "yes" on my lips, though i could not yet speak. "you sail-a de boat verr-a good-a," he said. "so good-a as a man." a compliment from demetrios contos was a compliment indeed, and i keenly appreciated it, though i could only nod my head in acknowledgment. we held no more conversation, for i was busy recovering and he was busy with the boat. he ran in to the wharf at vallejo, made the boat fast, and helped me out. then it was, as we both stood on the wharf, that charley stepped out from behind a net-rack and put his hand on demetrios contos's arm. "he saved my life, charley," i protested; "and i don't think he ought to be arrested." a puzzled expression came into charley's face, which cleared immediately after, in a way it had when he made up his mind. "i can't help it, lad," he said kindly. "i can't go back on my duty, and it's plain duty to arrest him. to-day is sunday; there are two salmon in his boat which he caught to-day. what else can i do?" "but he saved my life," i persisted, unable to make any other argument. [illustration: "there, in the stern, sat demetrios contos."] demetrios contos's face went black with rage when he learned charley's judgment. he had a sense of being unfairly treated. the better part of his nature had triumphed, he had performed a generous act and saved a helpless enemy, and in return the enemy was taking him to jail. charley and i were out of sorts with each other when we went back to benicia. i stood for the spirit of the law and not the letter; but by the letter charley made his stand. as far as he could see, there was nothing else for him to do. the law said distinctly that no salmon should be caught on sunday. he was a patrolman, and it was his duty to enforce that law. that was all there was to it. he had done his duty, and his conscience was clear. nevertheless, the whole thing seemed unjust to me, and i felt very sorry for demetrios contos. two days later we went down to vallejo to the trial. i had to go along as a witness, and it was the most hateful task that i ever performed in my life when i testified on the witness stand to seeing demetrios catch the two salmon charley had captured him with. demetrios had engaged a lawyer, but his case was hopeless. the jury was out only fifteen minutes, and returned a verdict of guilty. the judge sentenced demetrios to pay a fine of one hundred dollars or go to jail for fifty days. charley stepped up to the clerk of the court. "i want to pay that fine," he said, at the same time placing five twenty-dollar gold pieces on the desk. "it--it was the only way out of it, lad," he stammered, turning to me. the moisture rushed into my eyes as i seized his hand. "i want to pay--" i began. "to pay your half?" he interrupted. "i certainly shall expect you to pay it." in the meantime demetrios had been informed by his lawyer that his fee likewise had been paid by charley. demetrios came over to shake charley's hand, and all his warm southern blood flamed in his face. then, not to be outdone in generosity, he insisted on paying his fine and lawyer's fee himself, and flew half-way into a passion because charley refused to let him. more than anything else we ever did, i think, this action of charley's impressed upon the fishermen the deeper significance of the law. also charley was raised high in their esteem, while i came in for a little share of praise as a boy who knew how to sail a boat. demetrios contos not only never broke the law again, but he became a very good friend of ours, and on more than one occasion he ran up to benicia to have a gossip with us. vii yellow handkerchief "i'm not wanting to dictate to you, lad," charley said; "but i'm very much against your making a last raid. you've gone safely through rough times with rough men, and it would be a shame to have something happen to you at the very end." "but how can i get out of making a last raid?" i demanded, with the cocksureness of youth. "there always has to be a last, you know, to anything." charley crossed his legs, leaned back, and considered the problem. "very true. but why not call the capture of demetrios contos the last? you're back from it safe and sound and hearty, for all your good wetting, and--and--" his voice broke and he could not speak for a moment. "and i could never forgive myself if anything happened to you now." i laughed at charley's fears while i gave in to the claims of his affection, and agreed to consider the last raid already performed. we had been together for two years, and now i was leaving the fish patrol in order to go back and finish my education. i had earned and saved money to put me through three years at the high school, and though the beginning of the term was several months away, i intended doing a lot of studying for the entrance examinations. my belongings were packed snugly in a sea-chest, and i was all ready to buy my ticket and ride down on the train to oakland, when neil partington arrived in benicia. the _reindeer_ was needed immediately for work far down on the lower bay, and neil said he intended to run straight for oakland. as that was his home and as i was to live with his family while going to school, he saw no reason, he said, why i should not put my chest aboard and come along. so the chest went aboard, and in the middle of the afternoon we hoisted the _reindeer's_ big mainsail and cast off. it was tantalizing fall weather. the sea-breeze, which had blown steadily all summer, was gone, and in its place were capricious winds and murky skies which made the time of arriving anywhere extremely problematical. we started on the first of the ebb, and as we slipped down the carquinez straits, i looked my last for some time upon benicia and the bight at turner's shipyard, where we had besieged the _lancashire queen_, and had captured big alec, the king of the greeks. and at the mouth of the straits i looked with not a little interest upon the spot where a few days before i should have drowned but for the good that was in the nature of demetrios contos. a great wall of fog advanced across san pablo bay to meet us, and in a few minutes the _reindeer_ was running blindly through the damp obscurity. charley, who was steering, seemed to have an instinct for that kind of work. how he did it, he himself confessed that he did not know; but he had a way of calculating winds, currents, distance, time, drift, and sailing speed that was truly marvellous. "it looks as though it were lifting," neil partington said, a couple of hours after we had entered the fog. "where do you say we are, charley?" charley looked at his watch. "six o'clock, and three hours more of ebb," he remarked casually. "but where do you say we are?" neil insisted. charley pondered a moment, and then answered, "the tide has edged us over a bit out of our course, but if the fog lifts right now, as it is going to lift, you'll find we're not more than a thousand miles off mcnear's landing." "you might be a little more definite by a few miles, anyway," neil grumbled, showing by his tone that he disagreed. "all right, then," charley said, conclusively, "not less than a quarter of a mile, not more than a half." the wind freshened with a couple of little puffs, and the fog thinned perceptibly. "mcnear's is right off there," charley said, pointing directly into the fog on our weather beam. the three of us were peering intently in that direction, when the _reindeer_ struck with a dull crash and came to a standstill. we ran forward, and found her bowsprit entangled in the tanned rigging of a short, chunky mast. she had collided, head on, with a chinese junk lying at anchor. at the moment we arrived forward, five chinese, like so many bees, came swarming out of the little 'tween-decks cabin, the sleep still in their eyes. leading them came a big, muscular man, conspicuous for his pock-marked face and the yellow silk handkerchief swathed about his head. it was yellow handkerchief, the chinaman whom we had arrested for illegal shrimp-fishing the year before, and who, at that time, had nearly sunk the _reindeer_, as he had nearly sunk it now by violating the rules of navigation. "what d'ye mean, you yellow-faced heathen, lying here in a fairway without a horn a-going?" charley cried hotly. "mean?" neil calmly answered. "just take a look--that's what he means." our eyes followed the direction indicated by neil's finger, and we saw the open amid-ships of the junk, half filled, as we found on closer examination, with fresh-caught shrimps. mingled with the shrimps were myriads of small fish, from a quarter of an inch upwards in size. yellow handkerchief had lifted the trap-net at high-water slack, and, taking advantage of the concealment offered by the fog, had boldly been lying by, waiting to lift the net again at low-water slack. "well," neil hummed and hawed, "in all my varied and extensive experience as a fish patrolman, i must say this is the easiest capture i ever made. what'll we do with them, charley?" "tow the junk into san rafael, of course," came the answer. charley turned to me. "you stand by the junk, lad, and i'll pass you a towing line. if the wind doesn't fail us, we'll make the creek before the tide gets too low, sleep at san rafael, and arrive in oakland to-morrow by midday." so saying, charley and neil returned to the _reindeer_ and got under way, the junk towing astern. i went aft and took charge of the prize, steering by means of an antiquated tiller and a rudder with large, diamond-shaped holes, through which the water rushed back and forth. by now the last of the fog had vanished, and charley's estimate of our position was confirmed by the sight of mcnear's landing a short half-mile away. following along the west shore, we rounded point pedro in plain view of the chinese shrimp villages, and a great to-do was raised when they saw one of their junks towing behind the familiar fish patrol sloop. the wind, coming off the land, was rather puffy and uncertain, and it would have been more to our advantage had it been stronger. san rafael creek, up which we had to go to reach the town, and turn over our prisoners to the authorities, ran through wide-stretching marshes, and was difficult to navigate on a falling tide, while at low tide it was impossible to navigate at all. so, with the tide already half-ebbed, it was necessary for us to make time. this the heavy junk prevented lumbering along behind and holding the _reindeer_ back by just so much dead weight. "tell those coolies to get up that sail" charley finally called to me. "we don't want to hang up on the mud flats for the rest of the night." i repeated the order to yellow handkerchief, who mumbled it huskily to his men. he was suffering from a bad cold, which doubled him up in convulsive coughing spells and made his eyes heavy and bloodshot. this made him more evil-looking than ever, and when he glared viciously at me, i remembered with a shiver the close shave i had had with him at the time of his previous arrest. his crew sullenly tailed on to the halyards, and the strange, outlandish sail, lateen in rig and dyed a warm brown, rose in the air. we were sailing on the wind, and when yellow handkerchief flattened down the sheet the junk forged ahead and the tow-line went slack. fast as the _reindeer_ could sail, the junk outsailed her; and to avoid running her down i hauled a little closer on the wind. but the junk likewise outpointed, and in a couple of minutes i was abreast of the _reindeer_ and to windward. the tow-line had now tautened, at right angles to the two boats and the predicament was laughable. "cast off!" i shouted. charley hesitated. "it's all right," i added. "nothing can happen. we'll make the creek on this tack, and you'll be right behind me all the way up to san rafael." at this charley cast off, and yellow handkerchief sent one of his men forward to haul in the line. in the gathering darkness i could just make out the mouth of san rafael creek, and by the time we entered it i could barely see its banks. the _reindeer_ was fully five minutes astern, and we continued to leave her astern as we beat up the narrow, winding channel. with charley behind us, it seemed i had little to fear from my five prisoners; but the darkness prevented my keeping a sharp eye on them, so i transferred my revolver from my trousers pocket to the side pocket of my coat, where i could more quickly put my hand on it. yellow handkerchief was the one i feared, and that he knew it and made use of it, subsequent events will show. he was sitting a few feet away from me, on what then happened to be the weather side of the junk. i could scarcely see the outlines of his form, but i soon became convinced that he was slowly, very slowly, edging closer to me. i watched him carefully. steering with my left hand, i slipped my right into my pocket and got hold of the revolver. i saw him shift along for a couple of inches, and i was just about to order him back--the words were trembling on the tip of my tongue--when i was struck with great force by a heavy figure that had leaped through the air upon me from the lee side. it was one of the crew. he pinioned my right arm so that i could not withdraw my hand from my pocket, and at the same time clapped his other hand over my mouth. of course, i could have struggled away from him and freed my hand or gotten my mouth clear so that i might cry an alarm, but in a trice yellow handkerchief was on top of me. i struggled around to no purpose in the bottom of the junk, while my legs and arms were tied and my mouth securely bound in what i afterward found out to be a cotton shirt. then i was left lying in the bottom. yellow handkerchief took the tiller, issuing his orders in whispers; and from our position at the time, and from the alteration of the sail, which i could dimly make out above me as a blot against the stars, i knew the junk was being headed into the mouth of a small slough which emptied at that point into san rafael creek. in a couple of minutes we ran softly alongside the bank, and the sail was silently lowered. the chinese kept very quiet. yellow handkerchief sat down in the bottom alongside of me, and i could feel him straining to repress his raspy, hacking cough. possibly seven or eight minutes later i heard charley's voice as the _reindeer_ went past the mouth of the slough. "i can't tell you how relieved i am," i could plainly hear him saying to neil, "that the lad has finished with the fish patrol without accident." here neil said something which i could not catch, and then charley's voice went on: "the youngster takes naturally to the water, and if, when he finishes high school, he takes a course in navigation and goes deep sea, i see no reason why he shouldn't rise to be master of the finest and biggest ship afloat." it was all very flattering to me, but lying there, bound and gagged by my own prisoners, with the voices growing faint and fainter as the _reindeer_ slipped on through the darkness toward san rafael, i must say i was not in quite the proper situation to enjoy my smiling future. with the _reindeer_ went my last hope. what was to happen next i could not imagine, for the chinese were a different race from mine, and from what i knew i was confident that fair play was no part of their make-up. after waiting a few minutes longer, the crew hoisted the lateen sail, and yellow handkerchief steered down toward the mouth of san rafael creek. the tide was getting lower, and he had difficulty in escaping the mud-banks. i was hoping he would run aground, but he succeeded in making the bay without accident. as we passed out of the creek a noisy discussion arose, which i knew related to me. yellow handkerchief was vehement, but the other four as vehemently opposed him. it was very evident that he advocated doing away with me and they were afraid of the consequences. i was familiar enough with the chinese character to know that fear alone restrained them. but what plan they offered in place of yellow handkerchief's murderous one, i could not make out. my feelings, as my fate hung in the balance, may be guessed. the discussion developed into a quarrel, in the midst of which yellow handkerchief unshipped the heavy tiller and sprang toward me. but his four companions threw themselves between, and a clumsy struggle took place for possession of the tiller. in the end yellow handkerchief was over-come, and sullenly returned to the steering, while they soundly berated him for his rashness. not long after, the sail was run down and the junk slowly urged forward by means of the sweeps. i felt it ground gently on the soft mud. three of the chinese--they all wore long sea-boots--got over the side, and the other two passed me across the rail. with yellow handkerchief at my legs and his two companions at my shoulders, they began to flounder along through the mud. after some time their feet struck firmer footing, and i knew they were carrying me up some beach. the location of this beach was not doubtful in my mind. it could be none other than one of the marin islands, a group of rocky islets which lay off the marin county shore. when they reached the firm sand that marked high tide, i was dropped, and none too gently. yellow handkerchief kicked me spitefully in the ribs, and then the trio floundered back through the mud to the junk. a moment later i heard the sail go up and slat in the wind as they drew in the sheet. then silence fell, and i was left to my own devices for getting free. i remembered having seen tricksters writhe and squirm out of ropes with which they were bound, but though i writhed and squirmed like a good fellow, the knots remained as hard as ever, and there was no appreciable slack. in the course of my squirming, however, i rolled over upon a heap of clam-shells--the remains, evidently, of some yachting party's clam-bake. this gave me an idea. my hands were tied behind my back; and, clutching a shell in them, i rolled over and over, up the beach, till i came to the rocks i knew to be there. rolling about and searching, i finally discovered a narrow crevice, into which i shoved the shell. the edge of it was sharp, and across the sharp edge i proceeded to saw the rope that bound my wrists. the edge of the shell was also brittle, and i broke it by bearing too heavily upon it. then i rolled back to the heap and returned with as many shells as i could carry in both hands. i broke many shells, cut my hands a number of times, and got cramps in my legs from my strained position and my exertions. while i was suffering from the cramps, and resting, i heard the familiar halloo drift across the water. it was charley, searching for me. the gag in my mouth prevented me from replying, and i could only lie there, helplessly fuming, while he rowed past the island and his voice slowly lost itself in the distance. i returned to the sawing process, and at the end of half an hour succeeded in severing the rope. the rest was easy. my hands once free, it was a matter of minutes to loosen my legs and to take the gag out of my mouth. i ran around the island to make sure it _was_ an island and not by chance a portion of the mainland. an island it certainly was, one of the marin group, fringed with a sandy beach and surrounded by a sea of mud. nothing remained but to wait till daylight and to keep warm; for it was a cold, raw night for california, with just enough wind to pierce the skin and cause one to shiver. to keep up the circulation, i ran around the island a dozen times or so, and clambered across its rocky backbone as many times more--all of which was of greater service to me, as i afterward discovered, than merely to warm me up. in the midst of this exercise i wondered if i had lost anything out of my pockets while rolling over and over in the sand. a search showed the absence of my revolver and pocket-knife. the first yellow handkerchief had taken; but the knife had been lost in the sand. i was hunting for it when the sound of rowlocks came to my ears. at first, of course, i thought of charley; but on second thought i knew charley would be calling out as he rowed along. a sudden premonition of danger seized me. the marin islands are lonely places; chance visitors in the dead of night are hardly to be expected. what if it were yellow handkerchief? the sound made by the rowlocks grew more distinct. i crouched in the sand and listened intently. the boat, which i judged a small skiff from the quick stroke of the oars, was landing in the mud about fifty yards up the beach. i heard a raspy, hacking cough, and my heart stood still. it was yellow handkerchief. not to be robbed of his revenge by his more cautious companions, he had stolen away from the village and come back alone. i did some swift thinking. i was unarmed and helpless on a tiny islet, and a yellow barbarian, whom i had reason to fear, was coming after me. any place was safer than the island, and i turned immediately to the water, or rather to the mud. as he began to flounder ashore through the mud. i started to flounder out into it, going over the same course which the chinese had taken in landing me and in returning to the junk. yellow handkerchief, believing me to be lying tightly bound, exercised no care, but came ashore noisily. this helped me, for, under the shield of his noise and making no more myself than necessary, i managed to cover fifty feet by the time he had made the beach. here i lay down in the mud. it was cold and clammy, and made me shiver, but i did not care to stand up and run the risk of being discovered by his sharp eyes. he walked down the beach straight to where he had left me lying, and i had a fleeting feeling of regret at not being able to see his surprise when he did not find me. but it was a very fleeting regret, for my teeth were chattering with the cold. what his movements were after that i had largely to deduce from the facts of the situation, for i could scarcely see him in the dim starlight. but i was sure that the first thing he did was to make the circuit of the beach to learn if landings had been made by other boats. this he would have known at once by the tracks through the mud. convinced that no boat had removed me from the island, he next started to find out what had become of me. beginning at the pile of clam-shells, he lighted matches to trace my tracks in the sand. at such times i could see his villanous face plainly, and, when the sulphur from the matches irritated his lungs, between the raspy cough that followed and the clammy mud in which i was lying, i confess i shivered harder than ever. the multiplicity of my footprints puzzled him. then the idea that i might be out in the mud must have struck him, for he waded out a few yards in my direction, and, stooping, with his eyes searched the dim surface long and carefully. he could not have been more than fifteen feet from me, and had he lighted a match he would surely have discovered me. he returned to the beach and clambered about over the rocky backbone, again hunting for me with lighted matches. the closeness of the shore impelled me to further flight. not daring to wade upright, on account of the noise made by floundering and by the suck of the mud, i remained lying down in the mud and propelled myself over its surface by means of my hands. still keeping the trail made by the chinese in going from and to the junk, i held on until i had reached the water. into this i waded to a depth of three feet, and then i turned off to the side on a line parallel with the beach. the thought came to me of going toward yellow handkerchief's skiff and escaping in it, but at that very moment he returned to the beach, and, as though fearing the very thing i had in mind, he slushed out through the mud to assure himself that the skiff was safe. this turned me in the opposite direction. half swimming, half wading, with my head just out of water and avoiding splashing. i succeeded in putting about a hundred feet between myself and the spot ashore where the chinese had begun to wade ashore from the junk. i drew myself out on the mud and remained lying flat. again yellow handkerchief returned to the beach and made a search of the island, and again he returned to the heap of clam-shells. i knew what was running in his mind as well as he did himself. no one could leave or land without making tracks in the mud. the only tracks to be seen were those leading from his skiff and from where the junk had been. i was not on the island. i must have left it by one or other of those two tracks. he had just been over the one to his skiff, and was certain i had not left that way. therefore i could have left the island only by going over the tracks of the junk landing. this he proceeded to verify by wading out over them himself, lighting matches as he came along. when he arrived at the point where i had first lain, i knew, by the matches he burned and the time he took, that he had discovered the marks left by my body. these he followed straight to the water and into it, but in three feet of water he could no longer see them. on the other hand, as the tide was still falling, he could easily make out the impression made by the junk's bow, and could have likewise made out the impression of any other boat if it had landed at that particular spot. but there was no such mark; and i knew that he was absolutely convinced that i was hiding somewhere in the mud. but to hunt on a dark night for a boy in a sea of mud would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack, and he did not attempt it. instead he went back to the beach and prowled around for some time. i was hoping he would give up and go, for by this time i was suffering severely from the cold. at last he waded out to his skiff and rowed away. what if this departure of yellow handkerchief's were a sham? what if he had done it merely to entice me ashore? the more i thought of it the more certain i became that he had made a little too much noise with his oars as he rowed away. so i remained, lying in the mud and shivering. i shivered till the muscles of the small of my back ached and pained me as badly as the cold, and i had need of all my self-control to force myself to remain in my miserable situation. it was well that i did, however, for, possibly an hour later, i thought i could make out something moving on the beach. i watched intently, but my ears were rewarded first, by a raspy cough i knew only too well. yellow handkerchief had sneaked back, landed on the other side of the island, and crept around to surprise me if i had returned. after that, though hours passed without sign of him, i was afraid to return to the island at all. on the other hand, i was equally afraid that i should die of the exposure i was undergoing. i had never dreamed one could suffer so. i grew so cold and numb, finally, that i ceased to shiver. but my muscles and bones began to ache in a way that was agony. the tide had long since begun to rise, and, foot by foot, it drove me in toward the beach. high water came at three o'clock, and at three o'clock i drew myself up on the beach, more dead than alive, and too helpless to have offered any resistence had yellow handkerchief swooped down upon me. but no yellow handkerchief appeared. he had given up and gone back to point pedro. nevertheless, i was in a deplorable, not to say a dangerous, condition. i could not stand upon my feet, much less walk. my clammy, muddy, garments clung to me like sheets of ice. i thought i should never get them off. so numb and lifeless were my fingers, and so weak was i, that it seemed to take an hour to get off my shoes. i had not the strength to break the porpoise-hide laces, and the knots defied me. i repeatedly beat my hands upon the rocks to get some sort of life into them. sometimes i felt sure i was going to die. but in the end,--after several centuries, it seemed to me,--i got off the last of my clothes. the water was now close at hand, and i crawled painfully into it and washed the mud from my naked body. still, i could not get on my feet and walk and i was afraid to lie still. nothing remained but to crawl weakly, like a snail, and at the cost of constant pain, up and down the island. i kept this up as along as possible, but as the east paled with the coming of dawn i began to succumb. the sky grew rosy-red, and the golden rim of the sun, showing above the horizon, found me lying helpless and motionless among the clam-shells. as in a dream, i saw the familiar mainsail of the _reindeer_ as she slipped out of san rafael creek on a light puff of morning air. this dream was very much broken. there are intervals i can never recollect on looking back over it. three things, however, i distinctly remember: the first sight of the _reindeer's_ mainsail; her lying at anchor a few hundred feet away and a small boat leaving her side; and the cabin stove roaring red-hot, myself swathed all over with blankets, except on the chest and shoulders, which charley was pounding and mauling unmercifully, and my mouth and throat burning with the coffee which neil partington was pouring down a trifle too hot. but burn or no burn, i tell you it felt good. by the time we arrived in oakland i was as limber and strong as ever,--though charley and neil partington were afraid i was going to have pneumonia, and mrs. partington, for my first six months of school, kept an anxious eye upon me to discover the first symptoms of consumption. time flies. it seems but yesterday that i was a lad of sixteen on the fish patrol. yet i know that i arrived this very morning from china, with a quick passage to my credit, and master of the barkentine _harvester_. and i know that to-morrow morning i shall run over to oakland to see neil partington and his wife and family, and later on up to benicia to see charley le grant and talk over old times. no; i shall not go to benicia, now that i think about it. i expect to be a highly interested party to a wedding, shortly to take place. her name is alice partington, and, since charley has promised to be best man, he will have to come down to oakland instead. [illustration: "oh let him go!" said a voice] the harbor of doubt by frank williams author of the wilderness trail illustrations by g. w. gage new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, , by w. j. watt & company contents i maliciously accused ii the red peril iii the test iv refugees v startling news vi the island decides vii a stranger viii jimmie thomas's strategy ix on the course x a mystery xi in the fog bank xii out of freekirk head xiii nat burns shows his hand xiv a discovery xv the catch of the rosan xvi a staggering blow xvii trawlers xviii treachery xix ellinwood takes a hand xx among the home folks xxi a prisoner xxii a recovered treasure xxiii surprises xxiv the siren xxv the guilt fixed xxvi wetting their salt xxvii the reward of evil xxviii the race xxix a fatal letter xxx elsa's triumph xxxi peace and prosperity the harbor of doubt chapter i maliciously accused "let them think what they like. if i had died i would have been a hero; because i lived i suppose there is nothing in the history of crime that i have not committed." young captain code schofield sprang out of the deep, luxurious chair and began to pace up and down before the fire. he did not cast as much as a glance at the woman near him. his mind was elsewhere. he had heard strange things in this talk with her. "well, captain, you know how it is on an island like this. the tiny thing of everyday life becomes a subject for a day's discussion. that affair of six months ago was like dropping a tombstone in a mud-puddle--everything is profoundly stirred, but no one gets spattered except the one who dropped it. in this case yourself." schofield stopped in his tracks and regarded his hostess with a look that was mingled surprise and uneasiness. she lay back in a _chaise-longue_, her hands clasped behind her head, smiling up at the young man. the great square room was dark except for the firelight, and her yellow dress, gleaming fitfully in it, showed the curving lissomeness of her young body. "mrs. mallaby," he said, "when you say clever things like that i don't know what to do. i'm not used to it." he laughed as though half-ashamed of the confession. "appreciate them," she directed shortly with a fleeting glance from her great dark eyes. "do you demand all my time?" he asked and flushed. the well-turned compliment caught her unawares and she admitted to herself that perhaps she had underrated this briny youth who was again beginning to interest her extremely. but with the sally he seemed to have forgotten it and recommenced pacing the floor, his hands in his pockets and his brows knit. his mind had gone off again to this other vastly important thing. she noticed it with a twinge of vexation. she vastly preferred the personal. "what was it old jed martin said to you this afternoon?" he asked. "that if the opinions of old sailors were of any account nat burns could get up a pretty good case against you for the loss of the _may schofield_." "i suppose he meant his own opinion. he's an old sailor now, but if he lives to be a hundred and fifty he'll never be a good one. i could beat his vessel if i was on a two-by-four with a pillow-case for a mains'l. i can't understand why he has turned against me." "it isn't only he, it's--" "i know it!" he burst out passionately. "it's the whole island of grande mignon from freekirk head to southern cross. not a man nor woman but has turned against me since that awful day. "great god! what do they think? that i wrecked the poor old _may_ for the fun of the thing? that i enjoyed fighting for my life in that sea and seeing the others drown with my very eyes? don't they suppose i will carry the remembrance of that all my life? my heaven, elsa, that was six months ago and i have just begun to sleep nights without the nightmare of it riding me!" "poor boy!" her voice calmed him like a touch on a restive horse, and yet he unconsciously resented the fact that it did. "i haven't been blind, code, and i have heard and seen this thing growing. it is hard for a fisherman to lose his ship and not suffer for it afterward at the hands of inferior sailors. i've known you all my life, code, and i believe in you now just as i did that day in school you took the whipping i should have got for passing you a note. "you haven't heard the last of the _may schofield_, and you won't until you lay the ghost that has come out of its grave. but whatever you do or wherever you are, i want you to remember that i stand ready to help you in every way i can. all this"--she swept her arm about the richly furnished room--"is worthless to me now that jim is gone, unless i can do some good for those i like. please, code, will you feel free to call on me if you need help?" the flush that had receded returned with a flood of color that made his face beneath its fair hair appear very dark. "really, elsa," he stammered, "that's awfully handsome of you, but i hope things won't go so far as that. i can never forget what you have said." elsa mallaby had always been like that to him. even when she married "hard-luck" jim mallaby she had always seemed to regard code schofield as the one man in freekirk head. but jim, being too busy with his strange affairs, had not noticed. jim it was who, after twenty years of horrible poverty and ill-luck, had caught the largest halibut ever taken off the banks and made thousands of dollars exhibiting it alive. and it was this same jim who, for the remaining ten years of his life, turned to gold everything he touched. mallaby house was his real monument, for here, on the great green hill that overlooked the harbor, he had erected a mansion that made his name famous up and down the bay of fundy. and here, seven years ago, he had brought elsa fuller as his bride--elsa fuller who was the belle of freekirk head, and had been to boston to boarding-school. it was to mallaby house that code schofield had come to dinner this night. he had not wanted to come and had only agreed when she bribed him with a promise of something very important she might reveal. the revelation was hardly a pleasure. nothing had been a pleasure to him since that day six months ago when his old schooner, dismasted and leaking in a gale, had foundered near the wolves, two sharp-toothed islands near grande mignon. four islanders had been lost that day, and he alone had lived through the surf. "what else did old jed martin say, elsa?" he asked suddenly. she knitted her brows and stared into the fire. why would he always go back to that? "he said that the _may schofield_ should have been able to live out that gale easily if she had been handled right, old as she was. she _was_ pretty old, wasn't she?" "fifty years. she was twenty when dad got her--he sailed her twenty-eight and i had her for two." "you got a good deal of insurance out of her, didn't you, code?" "ten thousand dollars--her full value." "and you bought the _charming lass_ with that, didn't you?" "yes--that and two thousand that dad had saved. why?" "old jed martin said something about that, too." schofield's face paled slightly and his mouth closed tightly, exhibiting the salience of his jaw. "so that's it, eh? thinks i ran her under for the insurance--the old barnacle. is that around the island, too?" "i guess it must be, or i shouldn't have heard about it. you didn't, of course, did you, code?" "i hardly expected you would ask that, elsa. why, i loved that old schooner like i love--well, my mother." "i believe you, code; you don't need to ask that. i just wanted to hear you deny it. but you know there were some queer things about her sinking just then, when she was supposed to be in good condition. nat burns--" "ha! so he is in it, too. what does he say?" "he says that her insurance policy was just about to run out. is that so?" "yes." there was a tone of defiance in his answer that caused her to look up at him quickly. his blue eyes were narrowed and his face hard. "and it wasn't such a hard gale, was it?" "no. i've weathered lots worse with the _may._ i can't explain why she sank." "and michael burns, who was aboard of her, was the insurance inspector, wasn't he?" "yes." the reply was more a groan than a spoken word. he laughed harshly. "i can see nat burns's hand in all this," he cried. "why didn't i think of it before? he will dog me till i die because his father lost his life aboard my schooner. oh, i had no idea it was as bad as this!" he sank down into the chair again and stared gloomily into the fire. "i'm glad i came to-night," he said at last. "i didn't know all these things. how long has this talk been going round?" "not long, code." her voice was all sympathy. "it is simply the result of brooding among our people who have so little in their lives. i'm sorry. what will you do? go away somewhere else?" he looked at her quickly--scorn written upon his face. "go away," he repeated, "and admit my own guilt? well, hardly. i'll stay here and see this thing through if i have to do it in the face of all of them." "splendid, code!" she cried, clapping her hands. "just what i knew you would say. and, remember, i will help you all i can and whenever you need me." he looked at her gratefully and she thrilled with triumph. at last there was something more in his glance than the purely impersonal; he had awakened at last, she thought, to what she might mean to him. there followed one of those pauses that often occur when two people are thinking intensely on different subjects. for perhaps five minutes the cheerful fire crackled on uninterrupted. then, suddenly recollecting himself, code sprang to his feet and held out his hand. "half-past ten," he said, glancing at the mahogany chime-clock on the mantelpiece. "i must really go. it has been kind of you to have me up to-night and tell me all these--" "inner secrets of your own life that you never suspected before?" she laughed. "exactly. you have done me a service like the good old friend you always were." she took his hand, and he noticed that hers was a trifle cold. they started toward the hallway. from the broad veranda of mallaby house the view extended a dozen miles to sea. beneath the hill on which the mansion stood the village of freekirk head nestled against the green. now the dim, yellow lights of its many lamps glowed in the darkness and edged the crescent of stony beach where washed the cold waters of flag's cove. to the left at one tip of the crescent the flash of swallowtail light glowed and died like the fire in a gigantic cigarette. to the right, at the other, could be seen the faint lamps of castalia, three miles away. for a minute they stood drinking in the superb beauty of it all. then elsa left him with a conventional word, and schofield heard the great front door close softly behind her. silently he descended the steps, when suddenly from the town below came the hideous, raucous shriek of a steam-whistle. he stood for a minute, astonished, for the whistle was that of the steamer _grande mignon_, that daily plied between the island and the mainland. now the vessel lay at her dock and code, as well as all the island, knew that her wild signaling at such an hour foreboded some dire calamity. swiftly buttoning his coat, he started on a run down the winding, rocky path that led from mallaby house. he cast one more glance toward the roofs of the village before he plunged among the pine and tamarack, and in that instant caught a red glow from the general direction of the fish wharfs. chapter ii the red peril five minutes of plunging and slipping brought him down to the main road that gleamed a dim gray in the blackness. a quarter of a mile east lay the wharfs, the general store, and some of the best dwellings in freekirk head. ahead of him in the road he could see lanterns bobbing, and the illuminated legs of the men who carried them running. behind he heard the muffled pound of boots in thick dust, and the hoarse panting of others racing toward the scene of the trouble. the frantic screeching of the steamer's whistle (that was not yet silent) had done its work well. freekirk head was up in arms. instinctively and naturally code schofield ran, just as he had run from his father's house since he was ten years old. his long, easy stride carried him quickly over the ground, and he passed two or three of those ahead with lanterns. they shouted at him. "hey, what's the trouble?" panted one. "know anything about it?" "no, but it might be the wharfs," he replied, without stopping. he veered out to the edge of the road so as to avoid any more queries. he looked with suspicion now on all these men. who of them, he wondered, was not, in his heart, convicting him of those things elsa mallaby had mentioned? his straightforward nature revolted against the hypocrisy in men that bade them treat him as they had done all his life, and yet think of him only as a criminal. suddenly the dull red that had glowed dimly against the sky burst into rosy bloom. a great tongue of fire leaped up and licked the heavens, while floating down the brisk breeze came the distant mingling of men's shouts. as he passed a white wooden gate he heard a woman on the porch crying, and a child's voice in impatient question. then for the first time he lost sight of his own distress and thought of the misery of his whole people. it was august, and the indians should soon be coming from the mainland to spear porpoises. the dulce-pickers on the back of the island reported a good yield from the rocks at low tide, but outside of these few there was wretchedness from anthony's nose to southern cross. the fish had failed. a hundred years and more had the grande mignon fishermen gone out with net and handline and trawl; and for that length of time the millions in the sea had fed, clothed, and housed the thousand on the island. when prices had been good there were even luxuries, and history tells of men who, in one haul from a weir, have made their twenty-five thousand dollars in an hour. this was all gone now. the fish had failed. day after day since early spring the men had put to sea in their sloops and motor-dories, trawling and hand-lining from twenty miles out in the atlantic to four and a half fathoms off dutch edge. the result was the same. the fish were poor and few. even at bulkhead rip, where the sixty-pounders played among the racing tides, there was scarcely a bite. a fisherman lives on luck, so for a month there was no remark upon the suddenly changed condition. but after that, as the days passed and not a full dory raced up to bill boughton's fish stand, muttered whispers and old tales went up and down the island. it was recalled that the fish left a certain norwegian coast once for a period of fifty years, and that the whole occupation of the people of that coast was changed. was that to be the fate of grande mignon? if so, what could they do? extensive farming on the rocky island was impossible, and not one ship had ever been built there for the trade. where would things end? so it had gone until now, in the middle of august, the people of freekirk head, seal cove, and great harbor, the main villages along the front or atlantic side of the island, were face to face with the question of actual life or death. so far the season's catch was barely up to that of a good month in normal times; credit was low, and salting and drying were almost useless, for the people ate most of their own catch. things were at a standstill. and now the fire on top of all! captain code schofield thought of all these things as he ran along the king's road toward the fire. now he was almost upon it, and could see that the fish stand and wharf of the two wealthiest men in the village were burning furiously. the roar of the flames came to him. a hundred yards back from the water stood bill boughton's general store, and next it, in a row, dwellings; typical white fishermen's cottages with green blinds and a flower-filled dory in the front yard. the king's road divided at bill boughton's store, the branch leading down to the wharfs, while the main road went on to swallowtail light. schofield plunged down the branch into the full glare of the fire, where a crowd of men had already gathered. as good luck would have it there was not a vessel tied up to the stand, the whole fleet being made fast to its moorings in the bay. code's first duty when he started running had been to make sure that his _laughing lass_ was riding safely at her anchorage. the burning wharfs faced south. the brisk breeze was southeast and bore a promise of possible rain. the steamer _grande mignon_, after giving the first warning, had steamed away from her perilous dockage to a point half a mile nearer the entrance to the bay, and now lay there shrieking until the frowning cliffs and abrupt hills echoed with the hideous noise. "how'd it happen?" asked schofield of the first man he met. "dunno exactly. cal'late some tanks in the oilroom caught first. can't do much with them wharfs, i guess." "who's in charge of things here?" "the squire." schofield hurried away in search of squire hardy, head man of the village, and local justice of the peace. he found him working like a trojan, his white whiskers ruffled into a circle about his face. "lend us a hand here, code," yelled the squire, who with three other men was attempting to get a great circular horse-trough under a huge pump with a handle long enough for three men to lay hold of. schofield fell to with a will and helped move the trough into place. the squire set the three men to the task of filling it and then went to code. "any chance to save those wharfs, d'ye think?" "no, squire. better leave them and the fish-houses and work on boughton's store and the cottages. they're right in the path of the wind. it'll be tough on nailor and thomas to lose their stand and houses, but you know what will happen if the fire gets into the dwellings." "i thought so all along--curse me if i didn't!" yelled the judge, and then, turning toward a crowd of men who were looking apprehensively here and there, he shouted: "all hands with the buckets now, lively!" suddenly the basement doors of boughton's store were thrown open and a huge, black-bearded man with a great voice appeared there. "buckets this way!" he bellowed, in a tone that rose clearly above the roar and crackle of the fire. as the men reached him he handed out the implements from great stacks at his feet--rubber buckets, wooden buckets, tin and iron buckets, new, old, rusty and galvanized. it was pete ellinwood, the fire marshal of the village and custodian of the apparatus. because in the hundred or more years of its existence there has never been water pressure in grande mignon, the fighting of a fire there with primitive means has become an exact and beautiful science. a few bold spirits had disputed the wisdom of squire hardy's orders to let the wharf and fish-house burn, and had attempted to give them a dousing. in less than five minutes they had retreated, singed and hairless, due to a sudden explosion of a drum of oil. "play on bill boughton's store!" came the order. already an iron ladder reached to the eaves of the building. two men galloped up its length, dragging behind them another ladder with a pair of huge hooks at the end. clinging like monkeys, they worked this up over their heads and up the shingles until the hooks caught squarely across the ridge-pole of the house. then, on hands and feet, they trotted up this and sat astride the ridge-pole. one of these was code schofield. other men now swarmed up the ladders, until there was one on every rung from the ground to the top of the house. below, a line of men extended from the foot of the ladder to the great circular horse-trough. another line extended from the opposite side of the store also to the horse-trough, where three men worked the great pump. back twenty yards, along the king's road, a white-faced row of women and children stood, ready to rush home and move their furniture into the fields. code, looking down, made out his mother and returned her friendly wave. their house was across the road not a hundred feet away. with a muffled roar another drum on the pier exploded. a great wave of molten fire shot out in the breeze, and the shingles on bill boughton's store, parched with the drought of a month, burst into quick flame. the squire ran back to the water-trough. "dip!" he yelled. big pete ellinwood, with the piles of buckets beside him, seized one and twitched it full. "pass!" screamed the squire as it came up dripping. ellinwood's great arm swung forward to meet the arm of the man a yard away. the bucket changed hands and went forward without losing a drop. up it went swiftly from one to another, to the eaves, to the two men at the top. now the fire sent branches out from the burning wharf along the low frames where some of the season's miserable catch was drying in the open air after salting. the fish curled and blackened in the fierce heat. only two men were not in the bucket brigade. they were nailor and thomas, who stood watching the destruction of their whole property. they knew the squire had done well in saving the village rather than their own buildings. it was the tacit understanding in freekirk head that a few should lose rather than the many. code schofield, from his perch on the boughton roof-tree, looked down again to where he had last seen his mother. once more he distinguished the tall figure with its white face looking anxiously up at him, and he waved his hand reassuringly. then his eye was caught by two other figures that lurked in the first shadows farther up the king's road. a moment later he made sure of their identity. they were nellie tanner and nat burns. for years there had been a dislike between the burnses and the schofields. old jasper schofield, code's father, and michael burns had become enemies over the same girl a quarter of a century before, and the breach had never been healed. old captain jasper had won, but he had never forgotten, and michael had never forgiven. quite unconsciously the feud had been passed on to the children of both (for michael had married within a few years), and from school-days code and nat had been the leaders of rival gangs. when they became young men they matched their season's catches and raced their father's schooners. they were the two natural leaders of the freekirk head young bloods, but they were never on the same side of an argument. schofield wondered why nat burns was not at the fire, as usual attempting to make himself leader of the battle without doing much of the work, and now the reason was apparent. he preferred to pursue his courting under the eyes of the village rather than to obey the unwritten law of service. and he was with nellie tanner! unlike most youths, there had never been a time in code's life when he had passed the favor of his affections around. since the time they were both five nellie tanner had supplied in full all the feminine requirements he had ever desired. and she did at this moment. but nat burns had seen a great deal of her in the last three months, he remembered, taking advantage of code's desperate search for fish. once in this train his thoughts bore him on and on. memories, speculations, and desires crowded his mind, and he forgot that beneath him the roof of boughton's store was burning more and more briskly. suddenly the man beside him on the ridge-pole shook his arm. "say, code!" he cried. "what's that burnin' over there? i didn't know the fire had gone across the street." schofield looked up quickly and followed the direction of the other's arm that pointed through the trees to the opposite side of king's road and a little to westward. "good lord!" he cried excitedly; "it's my own place, and my mother is all alone down there. quick! send somebody up here! i'm going!" chapter iii the test the man behind him climbed to the ridge-pole and code began the descent, necessarily slow and careful because the ladders were loaded with men passing buckets. when he reached the ground he started for home on the run. opposite boughton's general store was another shop that made a specialty of fishermen's "oilers," boots, and overalls. two houses to the westward of that was the old schofield place, a low, white house surrounded by a rickety fence and covered with ivy. once he reached the middle of the road code saw that he had been mistaken in the location of the fire, for his mother's place was intact. the flame was coming, however, from the house next but one--bijonah tanner's place. a crowd was gathering in the yard that was overgrown with dusty wire-grass, and the squire was pushing his way through to take charge. code knew that only two days before captain bijonah and his wife had sailed in the _rosan_ to st. john's for lumber, leaving nellie alone in charge of the three small tanners. he wondered where they all were now. he found his mother on the edge of the crowd that was helping to save the furniture, and learned that nellie and young burns had already arrived and were doing what they could. from the first it was apparent that the place was doomed, for although there were plenty of men eager to form a bucket brigade, the supply of water was limited, and most of the buckets were at the larger fire. but the squire was working wonders, and enlisted code to help him. in fifteen minutes the whole roof and attic were ablaze, and the men turned their attention to wetting down the near walls of the houses on each side. all the valuables and most of the simple furniture had been saved. at the earliest moment schofield escaped from the squire and sought out nellie. he found her, hysterical, surrounded by a group of women, and hovered over by nat burns. with each hand she held a child close to her. "bige! where is little bige?" she was crying as code came up. "tom and mary are here, but i've lost bige. oh, nat! where is bige?" "bless me if i know," stammered burns weakly. "last i saw of him he was under that cherry-tree where you told him to stay until you got the others. it wa'n't more'n five minutes ago i seen him there. he must be around somewheres. i'll look." without another word he hurried off in a frantic search, looking to left and right, behind every bush, and among the crowd, bellowing the boy's name at the top of his voice. code walked up to the frantic girl and went straight to the point. "hello, nellie!" he said. "where do you cal'late little bige might be? i hear you've lost him." "yes, i have, code. i stood him under that cherry-tree and told him not to move. when i got back he was gone. he was seven, and just old enough to run around by himself and investigate things. oh, i'm so afraid he's gone--" "listen!" code's sharp, masterful tone put a sudden end to her sobbing. "was there anything in the house he valued much?" suddenly she drew in her breath sharply. "yes, yes," she cried, "his mechanical train. he asked me if i had got it and i said i had. he must have gone over to the furniture and found it hadn't been brought down. oh, code, code--" "what's the matter, nellie?" it was nat burns's hard voice as he elbowed roughly past code and bent solicitously over the girl. he had heard her last words and the pleading in them, and his brow was dark with question and anger. "did you find him, nat?" queried nellie in an agony of suspense. "no, i don't know where the little beggar can be," he replied; "i've--" the girl screamed and fainted. "what's the matter here?" shouted burns. "what's the matter with her?" "the boy went back into the house for his toy engine and hasn't come out again," said code, facing the other and regarding him with a level eye. there was a dramatic pause. after nat's proprietary interest in nellie and her affairs it was distinctly his place to make the next move. everybody felt it, and code, subconsciously realizing this, said nothing. it required another moment for the situation to become clear to burns. then, when he realized what alternatives he faced, he gradually grew pale beneath his deep tan and looked defiantly from one to another of the group about him. "rot!" he cried suddenly. "the boy can't have gone back. it wasn't five minutes ago i saw him under the cherry-tree. i haven't looked in this direction. wait! i'll be back in a minute!" and again he was off in his frantic search, his voice rising above the roar of the fire. code waited no longer. snatching up a blanket from the ground, he raced toward the burning house. the lower floor was still almost intact, but the upper floor and the roof were practically consumed. the danger lay not in entering the house, but in remaining in it, for although the roof had fallen in, yet the second floor had not burned through and was in momentary danger of collapse. the spectators did not know what was in code schofield's mind until he had burst into the danger zone. then, with the blanket wound about his arm and shielding his face he plunged toward the open doorway. it was as though he stood suddenly before the open door of a vast furnace. the blast of heat seemed an impenetrable force, and he struggled against it with all his strength. one more look, a mighty effort, and he was in the temporary shelter of the doorway. he drew a long breath and plunged forward. he knew the plan of the tanner house as he knew his own, and he remembered that in the rear was a room where the children played. the hall ran straight back to the door of this room; but there was no egress from the rear except through the kitchen, which adjoined the play-room. the heat that beat down upon his head made him dizzy, and he could not see for the smoke that filled the hall. instinctively he went down on his hands and knees, discarding the blanket, and crawled toward the rear. he had scarcely reached the closed door of the play-room when, with a thunderous roar, the ceilings at the front of the house fell in, cutting off any escape in that quarter. he knew that at any moment the rest of the ceilings would collapse. half-strangled with the increasing smoke, he staggered to his feet and lunged against the door, forcing it open. the dim light from the one square-paned window showed a small form huddled on the floor, the mouth open, and a tiny locomotive gripped in one hand. a rush of smoke and flame followed the violent opening of the door, and code felt himself growing giddy. a swift glance behind showed a wall of fire where the hall had once been, and for the first time he realized the seriousness of the task he had taken upon himself. but there was no fear. rather there came a sense of gladness that a fighter feels when the battle has at last come to close grips. he swept the small form of bige up into his arms and leaped to the window that was built low in the wall and without weights. to raise it and manipulate the catch was out of the question. with all his strength he swung his foot against the pane squarely in the middle. panes and frame splintered outward, leaving the casement intact except for a few jagged edges of glass. then, suddenly, as he dropped the boy to the ground outside, there came a blast of fire on the back draft created by the opening. singed and strangling, with a last desperate effort he threw himself outward and fell on his shoulders beside little bige. men who had heard the crash of glass when the window went out rushed forward and dragged man and boy to safety. a quarter of an hour later, his head and neck bandaged with sweet-oil, code made his way weakly to where nellie sat among her belongings cradling in her arms the boy whom the doctor had just brought back to consciousness. "he's all right, is he?" asked schofield. she smiled up at him through her tears. "yes, the doctor says it was just too much smoke. oh, code, how can i thank you for this? and you are hurt! is it bad? can't i do anything?" she struggled to her feet, solicitude written on her face, for the moment even forgetting little bige, who had begun to howl. "no," said schofield, "you can't do anything. it isn't much. i'm only glad i succeeded. don't think anything about it." "father and mother will never forget this, and i'm sure will do what they can to make it right with you." he looked at her as though she had struck him. never in his life had she used that tone. before the mute query of his eyes she turned her head away. "what do you mean--by that?" he faltered, hardly knowing what he said. "nothing, code, only--only--" she could not finish. "what has happened, nellie?" he began, and then halted, his gaze riveted upon her hand. a single diamond glittered from the dirt and grime that soiled her finger. "that?" he gasped, stunned by a feeling of misery and helplessness. "nat and i are engaged," she said in a low voice without answering his question. "just since last night." there was nothing more to be said. the banal wishes for happiness would not rise to his lips. he looked at her intently for a moment, saw her eyes again drop, and walked away. he was suddenly tired and wanted to go home and rest. the reaction of his nervous and physical strain had set in. the hundred yards to his own gateway was a triumphal procession, but he scarcely realized it. somehow he answered the acclamations that were heaped upon him. he smiled, but he did not know how. at the gate some one was waiting for him. at first he thought it was his mother, but he suddenly saw that it was elsa mallaby. he told himself that she must have come down to the village to watch the fire, and wondered why she was in that particular place. "code," she cried, her face flushed with glad pride, "you were splendid! that was the bravest thing i ever heard of in my life. i knew you would do it!" he smiled mechanically, thanked her, and passed on while she gazed after him, hurt and struck silent by the cold misery in his face. "i wonder," she said to herself slowly, "whether something besides what i told him has happened to him to-night?" chapter iv refugees it was almost one o'clock in the morning when code went into the parlor of his mother's cottage and sank down upon the ancient plush sofa. his eyes ached, and the back of his head and neck, where the fire had singed him, were throbbing painfully. there was apparently no one at home. even little josie, the orphan that helped his mother, seemed to have been drawn out into the road by the excitement of the night, and the house, except for a single lamp burning on the table, was in darkness. he thought of going up-stairs to bed, but remembered that his mother was not in, and decided he would rest a little while and then go out and find her. suddenly it seemed very luxurious and grateful to be able to stretch at full length after so much labor, and within a few minutes this sense of luxury had become a pleasant oblivion. voices and a bright light woke him up. dazed and alarmed, he struggled to a sitting posture, but a gently firm hand pushed him down again and he heard his mother's voice. "lay down again, code," she said. "you must be pretty well beat out with all you've done to-night. we've just got some friends for the night. poor boy, let me see your burns!" schofield, who had guided schooners for years through the gales and shoals of the bay of fundy without a qualm, became red and ashamed at his mother's babying. rubbing his sleepy eyes, he sat up again determinedly and made an effort to greet the company who, he knew, had come into the room with his mother. across the room, near the old melodeon, sat nellie tanner, holding little bige and smiling wanly at him. the other two children leaned against her, asleep on either side. "don't get up, code," she said. "you've earned your rest more than any man in freekirk head to-night. i'm afraid, though, we're going to make more trouble for you. ma schofield wouldn't let me go anywhere else but here till the _rosan_ gets back from st. john's. "oh, i hate to think of their coming! they'll sail around flag point and look for the kiddies waving in front of the house. and they won't even see any house; but, thanks to you, code, they'll see the kiddies." he knew by the tense, strained tone of her voice that she was very near the breaking-point, and his whole being yearned to comfort her and try to make her happy. cursing himself for a lazy dolt, he sprang up and walked over toward her. "now, you just let me handle this, nellie," he said, "and we'll soon have tommie and mary and bige all curled up on that sofa like three kittens." with a sigh of ineffable relief she resigned the dead weight in her weary arms to him, and he, stepping softly, and holding him gently as a woman, soon had the boy more comfortable than he had been for hours. mary and tommie followed, and then nellie, free of her responsibility at last, bent forward, put her elbows on her knees, and wept. code, racked and embarrassed, looked around for his mother, but that mainstay was nowhere in sight. he thought of whistling, so as to appear unconscious of her tears, but concluded that would be merely rude. to take up a paper or book and read it in the face of a woman's weeping appeared hideous, although for the first time in many months, he felt irresistibly drawn to the ancient and dusty volumes in the glass-doored bookcase. he compromised by turning his back on the affecting sight, thrusting his hands in his pockets, and studying the remarkably straight line formed by the abrupt junction of the wall and the ceiling. "do you mind if i cry, c--code?" sobbed the girl, apparently realizing their position for the first time. "no! go right ahead!" he cried as heartily as though some one had asked for a match. he was intensely happy that the matter was settled between them. now the harder she cried the more he liked it, for they understood one another. so she cried and he walked softly about, his hands in his pockets and his lips puckered for the whistle that he did not dare permit himself. ma schofield interrupted this near-domestic scene by her arrival, carrying a tray, on which were several glasses covered with a film of frost and out of which appeared little green forests. code ceased to think about whistling. "oh, ma schofield, what have you done?" cried nellie, her tears for the moment forgetting to flow as her widening eyes took in the delights of the frosted glasses and piles of cake behind them. "done?" queried ma. "i haven't done anything but what my conscience tells me ought to be done. if yours cal'lates to disturb you some you can go right on up to your room, lamb, for you must be dead with lugging them children around." nellie's tears disappeared not to return. she shook her head. "no, ma," she said; "my conscience is just like them children--sleeping so hard it would take gabriel's trumpet to wake 'em up. it's more tired than i am." "all right," said ma, with finality; "we will now proceed to refresh ourselves." it was two o'clock before they separated for the remainder of the night. code's room, with its big mahogany double bed, was given over to nellie and the children while he gladly resigned himself to the humpy plush sofa. by this time they had received news from half a dozen neighbors that bill boughton's general store had been only half destroyed and that the contents had all been saved. the wharfs and fish-houses were at last burning and property on the leeward side of the flames was declared to be safe. a general exodus began along the king's road. men who had galloped up from great harbor, with an ax in one hand and a bucket in the other, mounted their horses and rode away. others from hayward's cove and castalia, who had driven in buggies and buckboards, collected their families and departed. the king's road was the scene of a long procession, as though the people of freekirk head were evacuating the town. a detachment of men under squire hardy's orders remained about the danger zone ready to check any further advance of the flames or to rouse the town to further resistance should this become necessary. but for the most part the people of the village returned to their homes. wide-awake and nervous, schofield lay open-eyed upon the couch while unbidden thoughts raced through his brain. the very fact of his sleeping on the plush couch was enough to bring to his mind the memory of one whom he had irretrievably lost on this memorable night. was she not at this moment under his own roof, miserable and nearly destitute? he knew that, as long as he might live, his humble room up-stairs would never be the same again. it had been made a place sweet and full of wonder by the very fact that she was in it. never again, he knew, could he enter it without its being faintly fragrant of her who, all his life, he had considered the divinest created thing on earth. by her presence she had sanctified it and made of it a shrine for his meditative and wakeful hours. ever since they had gone to school together, hand in hand, the names of nellie tanner and code schofield had been linked in the mouths of grande mignon busybodies. living all their lives two doors away, they had grown up in that careless intimacy of constant association that is unconscious of its own power until such intimacy is removed. to-night the shock had come. it was not that code had taken for granted that nellie would marry him. never in his life had he told her that he loved her. it is not the habit of men who rove the seas to keep those they love constantly supplied with literature or confectionery, or to waste too many words in the language of devotion. he admitted frankly to himself that he had always hoped to marry her when he had acquired the quarter interest in bill boughton's fishstand that had been promised him, but he had not told her so, nor did he know that she would accept him. the idea had been one to be thought of only at times of quietness and confidence in his future such as come to every man. but he had not reckoned on nat burns. he had not realized quite to what an extent burns had made progress. he recalled, now that it was brought forcibly home to him, that nat had been constantly at the tanners' for the last four or five months. but code had thought nothing of this, for nat had paid similar court at times to others of the girls of freekirk head. he was, in fact, considered the village beau. and nellie herself had told him nothing. there had been a modest shyness about her in their relations that had kept him at an exasperating and piquant distance. well, everything was over now, he told himself. he could take his defeat since nellie did not care for him. then he suddenly recalled burns's actions and manner of speaking during the harrowing moments of the fire. "i wonder if nat really loves her?" he asked himself. "and if not, why did he become engaged?" chapter v startling news the home-coming of captain bijonah tanner and his wife did not provide the thrill looked for by the more morbid inhabitants of freekirk head. in the excitement of the fire all hands had forgotten that cable communication between mignon and the mainland was unbroken. the operator, in the pursuance of his duty, had sent word of the fire to eastport, and then concocted some cable despatches for boston and portland papers that left nothing to be desired from the viewpoint of sensationalism. in his zeal for filling space and eking out his slender income, the operator left nothing standing on grande mignon except the eternal rocks and the lighthouse. it was such an account that bijonah tanner fed upon that morning in the tiny cabin of the _rosan_, and half an hour after he had read it he was under way. special mention had been made of code schofield's rescue of little bige, with a sentence added that the tanner place had been wiped out. with their minds filled with desperate scenes of cataclysm and ruin, the tanners raced the complaining _rosan_ around flag point six hours later, only to fall upon one another and dance for joy at the sight of the village nestling as of yore against the green mountains and gleaming white in the descending sun. an acrid smell and a smudge of smoke told of what had really been, and a black heap of ruins where the familiar house had stood for so long confirmed their fears for their own property; but to see the village content and smiling, except for a poor building or two, was joy enough to overbalance the personal loss. so those who expected a tearful and emotional home-coming were disappointed. code met the dory that rowed ashore after bijonah had made fast to his mooring in the little cove that was the roadstead for the fishing fleet. he had half expected to share the duty with nat burns since the recent change in his relations to the tanners, but burns did not put in an appearance, although it was three o'clock in the afternoon. bijonah shook hands with him, and ma tanner kissed him, the latter ceremony being a baptism of happy tears that all were safe and alive. bijonah cleared his voice and pulled hard at his beard. "understand you're quite a hero, code," he ventured bluffly, careful to conceal any emotion, but resolved to give the occasion its due. "oh, rot, captain!" said code equally bluffly, and the ceremony was over. but not so with ma tanner. she wept and laughed over the preserver of her offspring, and called him so many exalting names that he was glad to turn her over to nellie and his mother at the schofield gate. hot and flushed with the notoriety she had given him along the main road, he retired to the corner shop and drank wonderful cold ginger-beer out of a white stone jug until his temperature had returned to normal. but later he returned to the house, and found the tanners about to depart. the widow sprague, near the odd fellows' hall, who lived, as she expressed it, "all deserted and alone," had agreed to take the family into her rambling cottage. luke fraser had brought his truck-cart up alongside the rescued tanner belongings, and they were already half loaded. "can you come down to the widdy's to-night, code?" asked bijonah. "i've got somethin' to tell ye that ought to int'rest ye consid'able." "yes, i'll be there about eight," was the reply as schofield joined in loading the truck. he found the captain that night smoking a pipe on the low front porch of the widow sprague's cottage, evidently very much at home. bijonah motioned him to a chair and proffered a cigar with a slightly self-conscious air. inside the house, code could hear the sound of people moving about and the voice of a woman singing low, as though to a child. he told himself without question that this was nellie getting the kiddies to sleep. "a feller hears queer things over in st. john's sometimes," announced bijonah suddenly, sucking at his pipe. "yes." "an' this time i heard somethin' about you." "me? i don't know three people in st. john's." "guess i met one of the three, then." "where? how? who was it?" bijonah tanner coughed and shifted uneasily in his chair. "wal," he said, "i was takin' a little turn along the water-front, just a _leetle_ turn, as the wife will tell you, when i dropped into a--er--that is--a rum-shop and heard three men at the table next to mine talking about you." schofield smiled broadly in the darkness. bijonah's little turns along the water-front of st. john's or any other port had been the subject for much prayer and supplication in the hearts of many devout persons thoroughly interested in their neighbor's welfare. and of late years ma tanner had been making trips with him to supply stimulus to his conscience. "what were they talking about?" so far from being suspicious, code was merely idly curious of the gossip about him. "my boy," said tanner, suddenly grave, "i was the best friend your father had for forty years, and i'm goin' to try and be as good a friend to his son. but you mustn't mind what i tell ye." "i won't, captain. go ahead," said code, his interest awakening. "wal, them men was talkin' about the loss of the old _may schofield_, and one of 'em in particular allowed as how he didn't think it should have foundered when it did. what d'ye think of that?" schofield had stiffened in his chair as though undergoing a spasm of pain. the sentences smote him between the eyes of his sensibilities. had it come to this, that his name was being bandied dishonorably about the barrooms of st. john's? if so, how and why? "then i suppose you've heard the talk in grande mignon before this?" "yes, code, i have; and i've called every man a liar that said anything definite against you. i'm gettin' old, but there ain't very many men here able enough to shove that name back down my throat, an' i notice none of 'em tried. it's all idle talk, that's all; an' there ain't a soul that can prove a single thing against you, even cowardice. an' that's more'n can be said o' some men in this village." code was grateful, and he said so. it was something to find a friend so stanch and loyal that suspicion had never even found soil in his mind where it might take root. two such he had now: elsa mallaby and bijonah tanner. "what else did those men say?" he asked in conclusion. "if i remember right, an' i was perfectly clear at the time, this is what one said: 'fellers,' sez 'e to the other two, 'e sez--'fellers, that young captain schofield in freekirk head is goin' on the rocks, or i don't hear what's goin' on in my office.' "'then they're goin' to sue him to recover part of his insurance on the old schooner _may schofield_?' asks the second. "'if i didn't hear the chief say that this mornin' you can shoot me on sight!' the first answers. an' then for a while i couldn't hear any more, an' you can bet i was watchin' the door somethin' awful for fear ma would come in an' spoil it all by draggin' me off." "but who were these men?" asked code. "whom did they mean by the chief?" "i was just gettin' to that. after a while, from a little bit here an' a little there, i made out that the first young feller was private secretary to the president of the marine insurance company. that's the firm that carried the old _may_, isn't it?" "yes." "i thought so. they've got my _rosan_, too, though i wish mightily now that they hadn't. this feller is the private secretary to the president, an' the other two are clerks or something in the office. they may have been up to something crooked, and then again they may have just been talkin' things over as young fellers often do when they're interested in their work. anyway, there's enough in what they said to set you thinkin', i cal'late." "yes," said code slowly and grimly, "it is. i've only known that the island was talking since last night, and now i find st. john's is, too. it's spreading pretty fast, it seems; and i wonder where it will end?" he pondered silently for a while. "if they sue to recover, what'll you do?" ventured tanner hesitatingly. "god knows!" answered schofield and laughed bitterly. "i haven't got a thing on earth but the _charming lass_, an' this year i haven't caught enough fish to pay for my new mains'l. my credit is still good at bill boughton's, but that's all." "but the cottage--" "that is my mother's, and they could never get that. if they sue and i lose they must take the _lass_, and after they've subtracted the judgment from the sale price i suppose i'll get the rest--maybe enough to buy a second-hand sloop." "yes, but that isn't the worst part of it, code. as soon as they bring suit they will attach the schooner, so that even if the trial doesn't come up for weeks you still can't use her, and will have to sit around idle or go hand-lining in your dory. and you know what that means with winter comin' on." "i know." he had seen hard winters that had tried the resources of the village to the utmost, but he had never faced one that promised to be like the next. "well, what would you advise me to do, captain?" "get out!" snapped tanner. "get a crew and take the _lass_ to sea. there's one thing sure, a lawyer can't serve you with a summons or anything else if he has to look for you on the atlantic ocean." schofield smiled. the remedy called for was heroic, truly; but was it honorable? "i wonder if they can do that, anyway?" he asked. "after the _may_ was lost the insurance people settled without a complaint. can they rake up that matter again now?" "by jove! that reminds me. them fellers discussed that very thing; an' the secretary said that if the law had been broke at the time of the sinkin'--i mean, if the schooner wasn't fit or had been tampered with--that it was within the law. but, o' course, somebody's got to make the complaint." "that's just it," cried code, springing up and throwing away the stump of his cigar; "somebody has got to make the complaint! well, now, from what i can see, somebody's made it. all this talk could not have gone on in the island unless it started from somewhere. and the question is, where?" they were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. in the darkness the figure of a man appeared approaching the house. a moment later the newcomer stepped on the low veranda, and both men recognized him. it was nat burns. "is nellie here?" he asked without the formality of the usual greetings. "i cal'late she is, nat," replied tanner, rising to his feet. "wait a minute an' i'll call her." but he had not reached the door before the girl herself stepped out on the porch. she ran out eagerly, but stopped short when she saw code in the darkness. their meeting was obviously reserved. in the interim tanner walked to where schofield stood, silent. "i cal'late i can give you a pretty good idea where all this trouble started from," he growled in a low tone; but before he could go on nellie interrupted him. "father," she said, coming forward with nat, "i want to tell you something that we've all been too busy to discuss before this. nat and i are engaged. he gave me the ring night before last when you were in st. john's. i hope you are pleased, father." bijonah tanner remained silent for a moment, plainly embarrassed by the duty before him. between most men who follow the sea and their daughters there is much less intimacy than with those who are in other walks of life. long absences and the feeling that a mother is responsible for her girls are reasons for this; while in the case of boys, who begin to putter round the parental schooner from their earliest youth, a much closer feeling exists. tanner could not bridge the chasm between himself and his daughter. "did you tell your mother?" he asked finally. "yes." "and was she satisfied?" "yes, indeed; she was very happy about it, and told me to come right down and tell you." "wal, if it suits her it suits me," was the dry conclusion. "i hope you'll be happy. you've got a fine gal there, nat." "i know i have, captain," said burns warmly; "and i'll try to make her happy." "all right," grunted bijonah, and sank back into his chair. between praising one man who saved his youngest boy, and congratulating another who was to marry his eldest girl, captain tanner's day had been over full of ceremonial. face to face with the inevitable, code schofield offered sincere but embarrassed congratulations; and he was secretly glad that, when opportunity offered for him to shake nat burns's hand, that young gentleman was busy lighting a cigarette. the lovers went inside, and code stood dejectedly, leaning against the railing. tanner removed his pipe and spat over the railing. "it's too blamed bad!" he muttered. "what?" asked code, almost unconsciously. "it's too bad, i say. i used to think that mebbe nellie would like you, code. i've counted on it consid'able all my life. but it's too late now. young burns'll have to be one of the family from now on." "thanks, captain," said schofield with forced cheerfulness. "i had hoped so, too. but that's all past now. by the way, who was it you thought started all this trouble? i'd like to know that." "one of the family," muttered tanner, his thoughts still busy. then, recollecting schofield's question, he appeared about to speak, hesitated, and at last said: "bless my soul and body if i know! no, i wouldn't want to say what i thought, code. i never was one to run down any man behind his back!" code looked in amazement at the old man, but not for long. a moment's thought concerning tanner's recently acquired relation made his suspicion doubly sure that nat burns's name had been on bijonah's tongue. he immediately dropped the subject and after a little while took his departure. chapter vi the island decides in freekirk head, next morning, painted signs nailed to telegraph-poles at intervals along the king's road as far as castalia read: mass-meeting to-night odd fellows hall o'clock all come who had issued this pronunciamento, what it signified, and what was the reason for a town meeting nobody knew; and as the men trudged down to their dories drawn up on the stony beach near the burned wharfs, discussion was intense. finally the fact became known that a half-dozen of the wealthiest and best-educated men in the village, including squire hardy and the rev. adelbert bysshe, rector of the church of england chapel, had held a secret conclave the night before at the squire's house. it was believed that the signs were the result, and intimated in certain obscure quarters that pete ellinwood, who had always claimed literary aspirations, had printed them. odd fellows' hall was the biggest and most pretentious building in freekirk head. it was of two stories height, and on its gray-painted front bore the three great gilt links of the society. to one side of it stood a wreck of a former factory, and behind it was the tiny village "lockup." it marked the spot where the highway turned south at right angles on its wild journey southwest, a journey that ended in a leap into space from the three hundred foot cliffs of gull-haunted, perpendicular southern head. the interior of the hall was in its gala attire. two rows of huge oil-lamps extended down the middle from back to front; others were in brackets down the side walls, and three more above the low rostrum at the far end. the chairs were in place, the windows open, and the two young fishermen who acted as janitors of the hall stood at the rear, greeting those that arrived with familiar jocularity. into the hall, meant to accommodate two hundred, three hundred people were packed. the men in their rusty black, the women in their simple white or flowered dresses, the children brushed and pig-tailed, had all brought their sunday manners and serious, attentive faces. on the low platform presently appeared the rev. adelbert bysshe and squire hardy. the rector was a young man with a thin, ascetic face. his mouth was pursed into a small line, and he wore large, round spectacles to aid his faded blue eyes. his clerical garb could not conceal the hesitating awkwardness of his manner, and the embarrassment his hands and feet caused him seemed to be his special cross in life. when the audience had become quiet he rose and took his stand before them, lowering his head and peering over his glasses. "friends," he said, "we have gathered here to-night to discuss the welfare of grande mignon island and the village of freekirk head." a look of startled uncertainty swept over the simple, weather-beaten faces in front of him. "you know that i am not exaggerating," he continued, "when i say that we are face to face with the gravest problem that has ever confronted us. it has pleased god in his infinite providence so to direct the finny tribes that the denizens of the deep have altered the location of their usual fishing-grounds. "day after day you men have gone forth with nets and lines like the fishers of old; day after day, also like some of the fishers of old, you have returned empty-handed. the salting-bins are not filled, the drying-frames are bare, the shipments to st. john's have practically ceased. "i do not need to tell you that this spells destitution. this island depends on its fish, and, since cod and hake and pollock have left us, we must cast about for other means of support. "this meeting, then, after due deliberation last night and earnest supplication of the almighty for guidance, has been called to determine what course we shall pursue." mr. bysshe, warm now and perspiring freely, retired to his seat and mopped his face. across the audience, which had listened intently, there swept a murmur of low speech. it is not given to most fisherfolk to know any more than the bare comforts of life. theirs is an existence of ceaseless toiling, ceaseless danger, and very poor reward. hardship is their daily lot, and it requires a great incentive to bring them to a full stop in consideration of their future. here, then, in freekirk head were three hundred fishermen with their backs against the wall--mutely brave because it is bred in the bone--quietly preparing for a final stand against their hereditary enemies, hunger and poverty. the low murmur of awestruck conversation suddenly stopped, for squire hardy, with his fringe of white whiskers violently mussed, had risen to speak. "mr. bysshe has just about got the lobster in the pot," he declared, "but i want to say one thing more. things were bad enough up to a week ago, but since the fire they have been a great deal worse. mr. nailor and mr. thomas, who owned the fish stand that burned, have been cleaned out. they gave employment to about twenty of you men. "those men are now without any work at all because the owners of the other fish stands have all the trawlers and dorymen they need. even if they didn't have, there are hardly enough fish to feed all hands on the island. "more than that--and now i hope you won't mind what i am going to say, for we've all been in the same boat one time or another--mr. boughton can't be our last hope much longer. you and i and all of us have got long-standing credit at his store for supplies we paid for later from our fishing. the fire of the other night cost mr. boughton a lot, and, as most of his money is represented in outstanding credit, he cannot advance any more goods. "mr. boughton is not here himself, for he told me he would never say that word to people he has always trusted and lived with all his life. but i am saying it for him because i think i ought to, and you can see for yourselves how fair it is. "now, that's about all i've got to add to what mr. bysshe has said to you. yes, there's one thing more. great harbor and seal cove below us here are as bad if not worse off than we are. we cannot look for help in that direction, and i will be a lot thinner man than i am now before i ever appeal to the government. "we're not paupers, and we don't want city newspapers starting subscription-lists for us. so, as mr. bysshe has said, the only thing for us to do is to get our eyes out of the heavens and see what we can do for ourselves." the squire sat down, pulling at his whiskers and looking apprehensively at the rector, of whose polished periods he stood in some awe. the audience was silent now. the squire had brought home to these men and women some bald, hard facts that they had scarcely as yet admitted even to themselves. there was scarcely one among them whose account with bill boughton was fully satisfied, and now that this mainstay was gone the situation took on an entirely different aspect. for some minutes no one spoke. then an old man, bearded to the waist, got upon his feet. "i've seen some pretty hard times on this island," he said, "but none like this here. i've thought it over some, and i'd like to make a suggestion. my son will is over on the back of the island pickin' dulce. the market fer that is good--he's even got ten cents a pound this summer. this is the month of august and winter is consid'able ways off. how about all hands turnin' to an' pickin' dulce?" this idea was received in courteous silence. there were men there who had spent their summers reaping the harvest of salty, brown kelp from the rocks at low tide, and they knew how impractical the scheme was. although the island exported yearly fifteen thousand dollars' worth of the strange stuff, it was plain that should all the men devote themselves to it the return would by no means measure up to the labor. one after another, then, the fishermen got to their feet and discussed this project. in this cause of common existence embarrassment was forgotten and tongues were loosed that had never before addressed a public gathering. a proposition was put forward that the islanders should dispute the porpoise-spearing monopoly of the quoddy indians that were already sailing across the channel for their annual summer's sport, but this likewise met with defeat. a general exodus of men to the sardine canning-factories in lubec and eastport was suggested, and met with some favor until it was pointed out that the small sardine herring had fallen off vastly in numbers, and that the factories were hard put to it to find enough work for their regular employees. self-consciousness and restraint were forgotten in this struggle for the common preservation, and above the buzz of general intense discussion there rose always the voice of some speaker with an idea or suggestion. code schofield had come to the meeting with pete ellinwood and jimmie thomas, both dory mates at different times. they sat fairly well forward, and code, glancing around during the proceedings, had caught a friendly greeting from elsa mallaby, who, with some of her old girlhood friends, sat farther back. the solemn occasion for and spirit of the meeting had made a deep impression on him; but, as the time passed and those supposedly older and wiser delivered themselves merely of useless schemes, a plan that had come into his mind early in the evening began to take definite shape. as he sat there he pondered the matter over until it seemed to him the only really feasible idea. finally, after almost two hours of discussion with no conclusion reached, a pause occurred, and code, to the amazement of his companions, got upon his feet. as he did so he flushed, for he wondered how many of those eyes suddenly fixed upon him were eyes of hostility or doubt. the thought stung him to a greater determination. "i don't want to be considered bold after so many older men have spoken," he said, looking at the squire, "but i have a suggestion to make." "go ahead, make it," bellowed the squire cordially. "i wish more young men would give us their ideas." "thinking it over, i have come to this conclusion," proceeded schofield. "there is only one thing the men on this island do perfectly, and that is fish. therefore, it seems only common sense to me that they ought to go on fishing." a ripple of laughter ran around the room that was now hot and stuffy from the glare and smell of the great oil-lamps. code heard the laugh, and his brows drew down into a scowl. "of course, they cannot go on fishing here. but there are any number of places north and east of us where they can go on. i mean the grand banks and the cape shore in the gulf of st. lawrence. we have schooners and sloops, we have dories, and men, and can get provisions on credit, i should think, for such a cruise. "that, then, is my idea--that the captains of grande mignon fit out their vessels, hire their crews on shares, and go out on the banks for fish like the gloucester men and frenchmen. if we do it we're going against the best in the world, but i don't believe there is a fisherman here who doesn't believe we can hold our own." suddenly far back in the room a woman arose. she was young, and her face showed that once it might have been beautiful. her frame was large and angular, and her rusty black clothes sat awkwardly upon it. but youth and beauty and girlish charm had gone from her long since, as it does with those whose men battle with the sea. she was a widow, and a little girl clung sleepily to her dress. "code schofield," she cried, "what about the women? ye ain't goin' off to leave us fight the winter all alone, are ye? ye ain't goin' to sail them winter gales on the shoals, are ye? how many of ye do you s'pose will come back?" she shook off those near her who tried to pull her down into her seat. "last year they lost a hundred an' five out o' gloucester, an' every year they make widders by the dozen. if it was set in india's coral strand ye'd know it was a fishin' town by its widders; an' freekirk head'll be just like it. i lost my man in a gale--" her voice broke and she paused. "d'ye want us all to be widders? "how can ye go an' leave us? it's the women the sea kills with misery, not the men. what can we do when you're gone? there ain't any money nor much food. if there come a fire we'd all be cleaned out, for what could we do? if you'll only think of us a little--us women--mebbe you won't go." she sank down amid a profound silence. "poor thing!" rumbled pete ellinwood. "she shouldn't have come. al green was her man." sobbing sounded in another quarter of the hall, and the men looked at one another, disconcerted. still no one spoke. the matter hung in the balance, for all saw instantly that could the women be provided for this was the solution of the problem. though taken aback, code stood to his guns and remained on his feet. suddenly in the middle of the hall another woman rose. her motion was accompanied by the rustle of silk, and instantly there was silence, for elsa mallaby commanded considerable respect. code saw her with surprise as he turned. she noted his puzzled expression and flashed him a dazzling smile that was not lost, even in that thrilled and excited crowd. he answered it. "i consider that captain schofield has solved the problem," she said in a clear, level tone. "there is no question but that the men of grande mignon should fit out their ships and fish on the banks. there is also no question but that the objection mrs. green raised makes such a thing impossible. now, i want to tell you something. "i belong in freekirk head, and you have all known me since i was little. hard-luck jim mallaby belonged in freekirk head and made his money out of the island. jim's money is mine now, and you can rest assured that while the men are away fishing no woman or child on grande mignon shall go hungry while i am alive to hear of it. "some people hate me because i live in a big house and have everything. it is only natural and i expect it, but ever since jim left me i have wondered how i could do the most good with his money here. i would like to _give_ it; but if you won't have that, you can borrow it on a long-time loan without interest or security. now i will go out and you can talk it over freely." with a companion she walked up the aisle and to the door, but before she reached it code schofield was standing on a chair, his hat in his hand. "three cheers for mrs. mallaby!" he yelled, and the very building shook with the tumultuous response. it was five minutes before the squire, purple with shouting for order, could be heard above the noise. then, with hand upraised, he shouted: "all in favor of schofield's plan say ay!" and the "ay" was the greatest vocal demonstration ever given in freekirk head. chapter vii a stranger the ensuing week was one such as the village had never beheld. a visitor to the island might have thought that war had been declared and that a privateering expedition was being fitted out. on the railroad near flag point there was always some vessel being scraped or painted. supplies brought over from st. john's by the steamer _grande mignon_ were stowed in lazarets and below. rigging was overhauled, canvas patched or renewed, and bright, tawny ropes substituted for the old ones in sheet and tackle. every low tide was a signal for great activity among the vessels made fast alongside the wharfs, for the rise of the water was nearly twenty feet, and when it receded the ships stood upright on their keels and exposed their bottoms to scraper, calking mallet, and paint-brush. in every house where father or son was expecting soon to sail the women were busy with clothing and general outfit. there was a run on the store carrying oilskins, sea-boots, oil-lamps, stoves, and general paraphernalia. all these things were gotten on credit, for there is no such thing as a vessel returning empty-handed from the banks, and bill boughton stood sponsor for most of them. the owners of vessels divided their time between provisioning and overhauling their ships and the securing of crews. one rainy afternoon, when work had been generally suspended, a number of the men gathered inside bill boughton's store to wait for a let-up in the downpour, and the subject of crews was broached. "how you comin' with your crew, bige?" asked a tall, lanky man of captain tanner. "first rate. got a dozen men now an' that's about all the _rosan_ can take care of. at that somebody'll have to sleep on a locker, i cal'late." "you're doin' well, bige. i hear jed martin can't round up more'n eight, an' he's been as fur south as great harbor." "d'ye wonder?" put in a third. "jed ain't never set up grub that a shark would eat. i sailed with him once five year ago, an' that was enough fer me." "twelve men ain't much," put in tanner. "them gloucester men sail with sixteen or eighteen right along, and i've heard o' one feller put out of t-wharf, boston, carryin' twenty-eight dories. of course, them fellers lays to fill up quick and make short trips fer the fresh market. ain't many of them briners." "don't believe there's anybody'll carry sixteen men out of here, is they?" came a voice from over in the corner. "sure!" the rumble and bellow of the reply denoted pete ellinwood where he sat on a cracker-box, his six and a half feet of length sprawled halfway from one counter to the other. "there's nat burns's _hettie b._ she'll carry sixteen, and so will code schofield's _laughing lass_--mebbe more." "huh! yes, if he can git 'em," sneered a voice. "git 'em! o' course he'll git 'em. why not?" demanded ellinwood, turning upon the other belligerently. "wal," replied the other, "they do say there's men in this village, and farther south, too, that wouldn't sail with code, not fer a thousand dollars and all f'und." "them that says it are fools," declared ellinwood. "an' liars!" cut in bijonah tanner hotly. "why won't they sail with the lad? he can handle a schooner as well as you, burt, and better." "yas," said the other contemptuously; "nobody's ever forgot the way he handled the old _may schofield_. better not play with fire, bige, or you'll get your hands burned." pete ellinwood got upon his feet deliberately. he was the biggest and most powerful man in the village, despite his forty-five years, and his "ableness" in a discussion--physical or otherwise--was universally respected. "look here you, burt, an' all the rest of you fellers. i've got something to say. fer consid'able time now i've heard dirty talk about code and the _may schofield_--dirty talk an' nothin' more. now, if any of you can prove that code did anything but try and save the old schooner, let's hear you do it. if not, shut up! i don't want to hear no more of that talk." there was silence for a while as all hands sought to escape the gray, accusing eye that wandered slowly around the circle. then from back in the shadow somewhere a voice said sneeringly: "what ax you got to grind, pete?" a laugh went round, for it was common talk that, since the death of jasper schofield, pete had expressed his admiration for ma schofield in more than one way. "i got this ax to grind, andrew," replied ellinwood calmly, "that i'm signed on as mate in the _charming lass_, an' i believe the boy is as straight and as good a sailor as anybody on the island." this was news to the crowd, and the men digested it a minute in silence. "how many men ye got sailin' with ye?" asked one who had not spoken before. "five outside the skipper an' me," was the reply, "an' i cal'late we'll fill her up in a day or so. seven men can sail her like a witch, but they won't fill her hold very quick. she'll take fifteen hundred quintal easy, or i judge her wrong." a prolonged whistle from outside interrupted the discussion, and one man going to the door announced that it had stopped raining. all hands got up and prepared to go back to work. only bijonah tanner remained to buy some groceries from boughton. "steamer's early to-day," said the storekeeper, glancing at his watch. "she's bringin' me a lot of salt from st. john's, and i guess i can get it into the shed to-night." having satisfied tanner, he went out of the store the back way and left the captain alone filling his pipe. a short blast of the whistle told him that the steamer was tied up, and idly he lingered to see who had come to the island. the passengers, to reach the king's road, were obliged to go past the corner of the general store, and bijonah stood on the low, wooden veranda, watching them. some two dozen had gone when his eye was attracted by a pale, thin youth in a light-gray suit and panama hat. he thought nothing of him at first except to remark his clothes, but as he came within short vision tanner gave a grunt of astonishment and bit through the reed stem of his corn-cob pipe. he recognized the youth as the one he had seen in st. john's and had referred to as the secretary to the president of the marine insurance company. instantly the old man's mind flashed back to what he had heard only a week before, which he had told code. he stood looking after the stranger as though spell-bound, his slow mind groping vainly for some explanation of his presence in freekirk head. he felt instinctively that it must be in connection with the case of code schofield and the _may_, and his feeling was corroborated a moment later when, from behind the trunk of a big pine-tree, nat burns stepped forward and greeted the other. they had apparently met before, for they shook hands cordially and continued westward along the king's road. a few steps brought them opposite the gate to the schofield cottage, and bijonah, following their motions like a hawk, saw nat jerk his thumb in the direction of the house as they walked past. that was enough for tanner. he was convinced now that the insurance man had come to carry out the threat made in st. john's, and that nat burns was more intimately connected with the scheme than he had at first supposed. bijonah set down his package of groceries on the counter inside and turned away toward the wharf where the _charming lass_ was tied up for a final trimming. she already had her salt aboard and most of her provisions and was being given her final touches by pete ellinwood, jimmie thomas, and the other members of the crew that had signed on to sail in her. tanner hailed ellinwood from the wharf and beckoned so frantically that the big man swarmed up the rigging to the dock as though he were going aloft to reef a topsail in a half a gale. "code's in a pile of trouble," said the old man, and went on briefly to narrate the whole circumstance of the insurance company's possible move. "that feller came on the steamer this afternoon, an' if he serves code with the summons or attachment or whatever it is, it's my idea that the _lass_ will never round the swallowtail for the banks. where is the boy?" "went up to castalia to see a couple of men who he thought he might get for the crew, but i don't think burns or any one else knows it. he wanted to make the trip on the quiet an' get them without anybody's knowing it if he could. but what do you cal'late to do, bige?" "by the great snood, i don't know!" declared tanner helplessly. "wal," said pete reassuringly, "you just let me handle this little trouble myself. we'll have the skipper safe an' clear if we have to commit murder to do it. now, bige, you just keep your mouth shut and don't worry no more. i'll do the rest." feeling the responsibility to be in capable hands and secretly glad to escape events that might be too much for his years, captain tanner walked back to the road, secured his package of groceries at the store, and made his way home to the widow sprague's house. for five minutes pete ellinwood lounged indolently against a spile, engrossed in thought. then he put on his coat and crossed the king's road to the schofield cottage. he had hardly opened the gate when a strange youth in a gray suit and panama hat came out of the front door and down the path. pete recognized the newcomer from st. john's, and the newcomer evidently recognized him. "ha! captain code schofield, i presume," he announced, thrusting his hand nervously into his pocket and bringing out a fistful of papers. so eager and excited was he that, unnoticed, he dropped one flimsy sheet, many times folded, into the grass. "no, i'm not schofield," rumbled ellinwood from the depths of his mighty chest. "get along with you now!" "please accept service of this paper, captain schofield," said the other, extending a legal-looking document, and shrugging his shoulders as though to say that pete's denial of identity was, of course, only natural, but could hardly be indulged. "i'm not schofield!" bellowed pete, outraged. "my name's ellinwood, an' anybody'll tell you so. i won't take your durned paper. if you want schofield find him." the young man drew back, nonplussed, but might have continued his attentions had not a passer-by come to pete's rescue and sworn to his identity. only then did the young lawyer--for he was that as well as private secretary--withdraw with short and grudged apologies. pete, growling to himself like a great bear, was starting forward to the house when his eye was caught by the folded paper that had dropped from the packet in the lawyer's hand. he stooped, picked it up, and, with a glance about, to prove that the other was out of sight, opened it. as he read it his eyes widened and his jaw dropped with astonishment. twice he slowly spelled out the words before him, and then, with a low whistle and a gigantic wink, thrust the paper carefully into his pocket and pinned the pocket. "that will be news to the lad, sure enough," he said, continuing on his way toward the house. the little orphan girl josie admitted him. he found mrs. schofield on the verge of tears. she had just been through a long and painful interview with the newcomer, and had barely recovered from the shock of what he had to tell. code, since learning of what was in the air, had not told his mother, for he did not wish to alarm her unnecessarily, and was confident he would get away to the banks before the slow-moving st. john firm took action. pete, smitten mightily by the distress of the comely middle-aged widow, melted to a misery of unexpressible tenderness and solicitude. in his words and actions of comfort he resembled a great, loving st. bernard dog who had accidentally knocked down a toddling child and is desirous of making amends. ma schofield took note of his desire to lighten her burden, and presently permitted it to be lightened. then they talked over the situation, and pete finally said: "i'm sending jimmie thomas down to castalia in his motor-dory to find code. of course, the skipper took his own dory, and we may meet him coming back. what we want to do is head him off an' keep him away from here. now, there's no tellin' how long he might have to stay away, an' i've been figgerin' that perhaps if you was to take him a bundle of clothes it wouldn't go amiss." "i'll do it," announced ma sturdily. "just you tell jimmie to wait a quarter of an hour and i'll be along. now, pete ellinwood, listen here. what scheme have you got in your mind? i can see by your eyes that there is one." "may!" cried pete reproachfully. "how could i have anythin' in my mind without tellin' you?" nevertheless, when he walked out of the cottage door it was to chuckle enormously in his black beard and call himself names that he had to deceive may. he called jimmie thomas up from the duties of the paint-pot and brush, and gave him instructions as to what to do. they talked rapidly in low tones until mrs. schofield appeared; then jimmie helped her into the motor-dory and both men pushed off. "i cal'late i'll have it all worked out when you come back, jim," said pete as the engine caught the spark and the dory moved away. mrs. schofield turned around and fixed her sharp, blue eyes upon the giant ashore. "peter!" she cried. "i knew there was some scheme. when i get back--" but the rest was lost, for distance had overcome her voice. ellinwood stood and grinned benignly at his goddess. then he slapped his thigh with an eleven-inch hand and made a noise with his mouth like a man clucking to his horse. "sprightly as a gal, she is," he allowed. "dummed if she ain't!" chapter viii jimmie thomas's strategy on a chart the island of grande mignon bears the same relation to surrounding islands that a mother-ship bears to a flock of submarines. westward her coast is rocky and forbidding, being nothing but a succession of frowning headlands that rise almost perpendicularly from the sea. it is one of the most desolate stretches of coast in moderate latitudes, for no one lives there, nor has ever lived there, except a few hermit dulce-pickers during the summer months. along the east coast, that looks across the atlantic, are strung the villages, nestled in bays and coves. and it is out from this coast that the dozen little islands lie. first, and partially across the mouth of the bay where the fishing fleet lies, is long island. then comes high duck, low duck, and big duck. farther south there are ross's, whitehead, and big wood islands, not to mention spits, points, and ledges of rock innumerable and all honored with names. it was the fact of so many treacherous ledges and reefs to be navigated safely in a four-knot tide that was agitating the half-dozen "guests" at mis' shannon's boarding-house. it need hardly be said that mis' shannon was a widow, but her distinction lay in being called mis' instead of ma. she made a livelihood by putting up the "runners" who made periodical trips with their sample cases for the benefit of the local tradesmen, and took in occasional "rusticators," or summer tourists who had courage enough to dare the passage of the strait in the tiny steamer. the principal auditor of the harrowing tales that were flying about the table over the fish chowder was mr. aubrey templeton, the young lawyer from st. john's who had arrived on the steamer that afternoon. just opposite to mr. templeton at the table sat jimmie thomas, who, being a bachelor, had made his home with miss shannon for the last three years. and it was jimmie who had held the table spell-bound with his tales of danger and narrow escapes. he had just concluded a yarn, told in all seriousness, of how a shark had leaped over the back of a dory in whale cove and the two men in the dory had barely escaped with their lives. "and i know the two men it happened to," he concluded; "or i know one of 'em; the other's dead. ol' jasper schofield never got over the scare he got that day." the lawyer sat bolt upright in his chair. "do you know the schofields?" he demanded of thomas. "guess i ought to. i've been dorymate with code when the old man was skipper. a finer young feller ain't on this island." "do you happen to know where he is?" asked templeton. "i came to grande mignon on several important matters, and one of them was to see him. i've tried to locate the fellow, but he seems to have disappeared." "why, i seen him to-day myself in castalia!" cried thomas. "he's up there hirin' men to ship with him. said he was goin' to stay all night. i know the very house he's in." "you do?" "yes." "do you think i could get there to-night?" "you might." jimmie looked at his watch. "the seal cove mail-wagon's gone long ago, but i'll take you down in my motor-dory if you'll come right now." templeton did not even wait to finish his supper, but went out with thomas immediately. a few minutes' walk brought them to the little beach where the dory was drawn up and they were soon on their way. but before they left, templeton scribbled a message on a piece of paper and left it with mrs. shannon to be given to nat burns, who, he said, was to call for him at half-past seven. thomas kept the nose of his dory pointed to the lights of several houses that gleamed across the bay. they were not, however, the lights of castalia, which were almost invisible farther south. but templeton, who had never been on grande mignon before, sat blissfully ignorant of this circumstance. later, however, he remembered that his accommodating guide had chuckled inexplicably during most of the trip. twenty minutes' ride in the chill night air brought them to a long, low pier that extended out into the black water. above on the hillside the windows of the big fishing settlement on long island gleamed comfortable and yellow. thomas ran his dory close to the landing-stage and then reversed the engine so that at the time most convenient for templeton to step off the boat had lost all motion. the lawyer landed, but jimmie did not shut off his engine. instead he turned it on full speed and backed away from the dock. "hey, you, where are you going?" called templeton, vaguely alarmed for the first time. "back to the village," answered thomas, sending his motor into the forward speed. "i got something very important to do there." "but in which house is schofield?" cried the other. "you said you would show me." there was no reply, and it is possible that, due to the noise of the engine, thomas had not heard the protest at all. nat burns arrived at shannon's boarding-house slightly in advance of the time named, and read templeton's note saying that he had gone to castalia to nab code while he had the chance. "who did templeton go with?" he asked fearfully of the landlady. "mr. thomas," replied that worthy. "my god!" rapped out burns in such a tone of disgust and defeat that she shrank from him with uplifted hands. but he did not notice her. instead he rushed out of the house and along the road toward freekirk head. * * * * * the boarding-house was a full half-mile from the wharfs of the village, and after a hundred yards burns slowed down into a rapid walk. "the fool took the bait like a dogfish," he snarled. "lord knows where he is by this time. i'll bet schofield is at the bottom of this." he had not as yet found out where code was, and his first step when he reached the village was to go to the schofield cottage and verify templeton's note. josie, the orphan girl, was there alone, and was on the point of tears with having been left alone so long with night coming on. when questioned the girl admitted readily enough that mrs. schofield had taken a bundle of code's clothing and gone to castalia in the afternoon, she having overheard the conversation that took place between her mistress and pete ellinwood. when he had gained this information burns hurried from the house and toward the spot on the beach between the wharfs where his dory lay. he had not the remotest idea what had become of templeton, but he was reasonably sure that if thomas had taken him to castalia, schofield was no longer there. what thomas had really done did not occur to him, and his one idea was to get to the neighboring village as soon as possible and ascertain just what had taken place. his dory was beached alongside the pier where the _charming lass_ had lain for the past week. now, as he approached it, he suddenly stopped, rooted in his tracks. the _charming lass_ was gone. chapter ix on the course "all dories aboard? all hands set tops'ls! jimmie thomas, ease your mainsheet! now, boys, altogether! yo! sway 'em flat! yo! once more! yo! fine! stand by to set balloon jib!" it was broad daylight, and the early sun lighted the newly painted, slanting deck of the _charming lass_ as she snored through the gentle sea. on every side the dark gray expanse stretched unbroken to the horizon, except on the starboard bow. there a long, gray flatness separated itself from the horizon--the coast of southern nova scotia. there was a favorable following wind, and the clean, new schooner seemed to express her joy at being again in her element by leaping across the choppy waves like a live thing. while the crew of ten leaped to the orders, code schofield stood calmly at the wheel, easing her on her course, so as to give them the least trouble. under the vociferous bellow of pete ellinwood, the crew were working miracles in swiftness and organization. the sun had been up two hours, and now, as schofield glanced back at the wake that foamed and bubbled behind them, his eyes fell upon the white sails of a vessel far astern. even at the distance, it was plain that she was of schooner rig, and probably a fisherman. "wonder who she is?" asked code, pointing her out to ellinwood. "don't know. thought perhaps you'd seen her before, skipper. i've had my eye on her for an hour. fisherman, likely; you'll see 'em in all directions every day afore we're through." the explanation was simple and obvious, and it satisfied schofield. he promptly forgot her, as did every one else aboard the _lass_. and reason enough. the cook, sticking his head out of the galley, bawled: "mug-up! first ta-a-able!" and the first table made a rush below. when the five men sat down it was the first time they had been able to relax since the evening before, when, without lights, and under headsails only, the _charming lass_ had stolen out between the reefs of freekirk head to sea. "wal, boys, i cal'late we're safe!" ejaculated ellinwood with great satisfaction. "the _lass_ is doin' her ten knot steady, an' i guess we'll have left cape sable astern afore the sleepy heads at home find out what's become of us." "you saved the day, pete. if it hadn't been for you i would never have got beyond st. john's." it was code who spoke. "and you pretty near spoiled what i _did_ do," rumbled pete. "how's that?" interrupted thomas interestedly. "i don't know everything that happened to you fellers. i was busy at the time givin' a friend of ours a joy-ride. tell me about it!" "it wasn't me that nearly broke up the show, pete," protested code. "it was mother. of course, when jimmie was taking her over to castalia in his dory he told her what was in the wind. they found me at the pembroke place, and we all went into pembroke's ice-house, where i was to stay until after dark. then ma started in to find out everything. "she allowed it wasn't honorable for me to run away when the officer or lawyer was after me. she said it proved that i was guilty, and thought i ought to stay and be served with his paper. if i wasn't guilty of anything, it could be proven easily enough, she said. poor, honest mother! she forgot that the whole matter would take weeks, if not months, and that all that time i would be idle and discontented, and spending most of my time before boards of inquiry. "i suppose it _will_ look queer to a lot of people at the head because i've gone. they'll say right off: 'just as we thought! all this talk that has been going around is true,' and put me down for a criminal that ought to go to jail. that's what mother said, and the worst part of leaving her now is that she will have to stay and face the talk--and the looks that are worse than talk. "but, jimmie, i couldn't do it. grande mignon is in too bad a hole. she needs every man who owns a schooner or a sloop or a dory to go out and catch fish and bring 'em home. the old island's got her back against the wall, and i felt that when all the trouble and danger were over for her i would go to st. john's, and let those people try and prove their case. "they can't prove anything! but that doesn't say they won't get a judgment. i'm poor and unknown, and ignorant of law. the company is a big corporation, with lawyers and plenty of money. if somebody there is after me i haven't a chance, and they will gouge me for all they can get. you, jimmie, and pete know that this is so, and it was for all these reasons that i wouldn't stand my ground and let that feller serve me. "ma is dependent on me, and when i have sold fifteen hundred quintals of fish she will have enough to carry her along until that trouble is over. so i'm going out after the fifteen hundred quintals. now, that's my story. we've heard jimmie's; but how did you manage everything so well, pete?" ellinwood was flattered and coughed violently over the last of his victuals. "hey!" yelled some hungry member of the second half. "if you fellers eat any more you'll sink the ship. get up out o' there an' give yer betters a chance!" ellinwood rolled a forbidding eye toward the companionway. "some clam-splitter on deck don't seem to know that in this here packet the youth an' beauty is allus considered fust," he rumbled ominously. no reply being forthcoming, he turned to code. "when ol' bige tanner come to me shakin' like a leaf an' said they was a feller on the steamer that would attach yer schooner an' all that ye had, because of some business about the sinkin' of the ol' _may_, i says to myself, sez i: "'pete,' i sez, 'we don't allow nothin' like that to spoil our cruise an' keep the skipper ashore.' now, mignon isn't very big, an' i knew he would git you in a day or two if you didn't go back into the forest and hide. but i cal'lated you wouldn't want to do that, an' so i figgered the only way to beat that lawyer was to fool him before he got fair started on his search. "i knowed you was in castalia, an' so i thought your mother better get you some clothes an' bring 'em there. i found out that nat burns had taken the feller to mis' shannon's boardin'-house, an', knowin' that jimmie was livin' there, i got an idee. jimmie's told about that already. the feller bit, an' that was the end of him. "but that wasn't the wust of it. i knew we had to get out the same evenin' if we was to git out at all, so what did i do but get bill rockwell here to hitch up his big double buckboard an' go out after the five men that weren't on the job. "he had to drive clear to great harbor for one, but he got back with all hands about seven o'clock. everybody in town was at supper, an' didn't see us when we clumb aboard the _lass_. when it was pitch-black we cast off the lines, an' she drifted out on the ebb tide, which just there runs easy a knot an' a half. then we got up our headsails so as to get steerage-way on her, and bless my soul if the blocks made a creak! might have been pullin' silk thread through a fur mitten, for all the noise. "i was afraid fer a minute that the flash of swallowtail light would catch her topm'sts, but it didn't, and after an hour we were outside and layin' in sixteen fathom off big duck. the tide there runs three knot, and, with our headsails an' the light air o' wind, we just managed to hold her even. "of course, you fellers know the rest. as soon as jimmie landed his passenger on long island he came out an' straight south to where we was. i had told jimmie to tell code in the afternoon where to meet us; and so, when it was black enough, the skipper got into his motor-dory and came out, too. "when they climbed aboard we got up sail and laid a southwest course to round nova scoshy; an' here we are, nearin' cape race already, and dummed proud of ourselves, if i do say it." "proud of you, pete, you old fox," said schofield, getting up from the table with a sigh of immense relief. "come on; let the second half in." "all right, skipper," said pete, rising to his great height and wiping his mouth with the back of his huge hand. "but wait! i almost fergot this!" he unpinned the pocket of his waistcoat and drew forth the flimsy sheet of paper that he had picked up when templeton had mistakenly tried to serve him. briefly he told the skipper its history and handed it to him. schofield's eyes opened wide as he saw that the paper was that of the dominion cable office in freekirk head, and he read: "to a. templeton, "marine insurance company, "st. john's, n.b. "come at once with summons for cody albert schofield and attachment for schooner charming lass, as per former arrangements. "burnett." for a moment the signature puzzled him, and ellinwood, grinning, stood watching his puzzled efforts to solve it. "skipper, if it was a mule it would kick you in the face," he remarked. "if you can't see nat burns in that, i can. and now you've got an idea just who's at the bottom of this thing." code schofield went aft to his cabin companionway, and prepared to go below and open his log. kent took the wheel, and ellinwood lurched about with a critical eye upon the lashings, sheets, and general appearance of the deck. schofield, remembering the schooner that had attracted his eye before, looked astern for her. she had gained rapidly upon them in the half-hour he had been below. now he could see her graceful black hull, the shadows in the great sails, and the tiny men here and there upon her deck. "what a sailer!" he cried in involuntary admiration. "she must be an american!" it was clear that the other schooner, even in that moderate breeze, must be making the better side of twelve knots. schofield gave her a final admiring glance and went below. chapter x a mystery "august : "clear. wind w.s.w., canting to w. moderate breeze. knots logged to twelve, noon, . position, miles south, a little east of cape sable. end of this day." code closed the dirty and thumb-worn, paper-covered ledger that was the log of the charming lass and had been the log of the old may schofield for ten years before she went down. it was the one thing he had saved. he had been on deck, taken his sextant observation, and just completed working out his position. as he closed the old log his eye was caught by a crudely penned name near the bottom of the paper cover. the signature was nellie tanner's, and he remembered how, a dozen years ago, while they were playing together in the cabin of the old may, she had pretended she was captain and owned the whole boat, so that code would have to obey her orders. as he looked he caught the almost obliterated marks of a pencil beneath nellie's name, and, looking closer, discovered "nat burns" in boyish letters. for a moment he scowled blackly at the audacious words, and then, laughing at his foolishness, threw the book from him. then slowly the scowl returned, and he asked himself seriously why nat hated him so. that there had always been an instinctive dislike between them as boys, everybody in freekirk head knew, and several vicious fights to a finish had emphasized it. but since coming to manhood's estate code had left behind him much of the rancor and intolerance of his early youth, and had considered nat burns merely as a disagreeable person to be left heartily alone. but burns had evidently not arrived at this mature point of self-education. in fact, burns was a good example of a youth brought up without those powers of self-control that are absolutely necessary to any one who expects to take a reasonable position in society even as simple as that of freekirk head. code remembered that nat and his father had always been inseparable companions, and that it was due to this father more than any one else that the boy had been spoiled and indulged in every way. michael burns had risen to a position of considerable power in the humble life of the island. from a successful trawler he had become a successful fish-packer and shipper. then he had felt a desire to spread his affluent wings, gone in for politics, and been appointed the squire or justice of the peace. in this position he was commissioned by the marine insurance company of st. john's as its agent and inspector on grande mignon island. in his less successful days he had been a boat-builder in gloucester and bath, and knew much of ship construction. for more than half a year now code had been unable to think of michael burns or the old _may schofield_ without a shudder of horror. but now that nat was suddenly hot on the trail of revenge, he knew he must look at matters squarely and prepare to meet any trap which might be laid for him. it seemed evident that the first aim in nat's mind was the hounding of the man who had been the cause of his father's death; for that death had occurred at a most opportune time for the schofields. the heavy insurance on the fifty-year-old _may_ was about to run out, and it was almost a certainty that burns would not recommend its renewal except at a vastly increased premium. as a matter of fact, on a hurried trip that code had taken, he had picked up burns himself at st. john's, the inspector coming for the purpose of examining the schooner while under sail in a fairly heavy seaway. all the island knew this, and all the island knew that code was the only one to return alive. the inference was not hard to deduce, especially as the gale encountered had been one such as the _may_ had lived out a dozen times. had not all these things been enough to fire the impulsive, passionate burns with a sullen hatred, the next events would have been. for code received his insurance without a dispute and, not long afterward, while in boston for the purpose, had picked up the almost new _charming lass_ from a gloucester skipper who had run into debt. code now saw to what nat's uncontrolled brooding had brought him, and he realized that the battle would be one of wits. he got up to go on deck. he had only turned to the companionway when the great voice of pete ellinwood rumbled down to him. "come on deck, skipper, an' look over this schooner astern of us. there's somethin' queer about her. i don't like her actions." code took the steps at a jump, and a moment later stood beside ellinwood. the _lass_ was snoring along under full sail. the stranger, which at eight o'clock had been five miles astern, was now, at noon, less than a mile away. code instinctively shot a quick glance at the compass. the schooner was running dead east. "what's this, ellinwood?" demanded the skipper sharply. "you're away off your course." "yes, sir, and on purpose," replied the mate. "i've been watchin' that packet for a couple of hours back and it seemed to me she was a little bit too close on our track for comfort. 'what if she's from st. john's?' i sez to myself. 'then there'll be the devil to pay for the skipper.' "so, after you'd got your observation and went below i just put the wheel down a trifle. i hadn't been gone away from her five minutes when she followed. it's very plain, code, that she's tryin' to catch us." a sudden feeling of alarm took possession of schofield. that she was a wonderful speed craft she had already proven by overhauling the _lass_ so easily. the thought immediately came to him that nat burns, on discovering his absence, had sent the lawyer with the summons to st. john's, hired a fast schooner, and set out in pursuit. "maybe it was only an accident," he said. "she may be on the course to sable island. give her another trial. come about and head for halifax." "stand by to come about," bawled ellinwood. two young fellows raced up the rigging, others stood by to prevent jibing, and the mate put the wheel hard alee. the schooner's head swung sharply, there was a thunder and rattle of canvas, a patter of reef points, and the great booms swung over. the wind caught the sails, the _charming lass_ heeled and bore away on the new course. the men in the stern watched the movements of the stranger anxiously. ten minutes had hardly elapsed when she also came about and headed directly into the wake of the _lass_. schofield and ellinwood looked at each other blankly. "are you goin' to run fer it, skipper?" asked the mate. "i'll have the balloon jib and stays'l set in five minutes, if you say so." code thought for a minute. "it's no use," he said. "they'd catch us, anyway. let 'em come up and we'll find out what they want. take in your tops'ls. there's no use wasting time on the wrong course." under reduced sail the _lass_ slowed, and the pursuing vessel overhauled them rapidly. with a great smother of foam at her bows she ducked into the choppy sea and came like a race horse. in half an hour she was almost abreast on the port quarter. a man with a megaphone appeared on her poop deck and leveled the instrument at the little group by the wheel. "heave to!" he bawled. "we want to talk with ye." "heave to!" ordered code, and the _charming lass_ came up into the wind just as the stranger accomplished the same maneuver. they were now less than fifty yards away and the man again leveled his megaphone. "is that the _charming lass_ out of freekirk head?" he shouted. "yes." "captain code schofield in command?" "yes." "bound to the banks on a fishin' cruise?" "yes." "all right; that's all i wanted to know," said the man, and set down the megaphone. he gave some rapid orders to the crew, and his vessel swung around so as to catch the wind again. code and ellinwood looked at one another blankly. "hey there!" shouted schofield at the top of his voice. "who are you and what do you want?" the skipper of the other schooner paid no attention whatever, and schofield repeated his question, this time angrily. he might as well have shouted at the wind. the stranger's head fell off, her canvas caught the breeze, and she forged ahead. a minute later and she was out of earshot. "look for her name on the stern," commanded code. he plunged below into the cabin and raced up again with his glasses. the mysterious schooner was now nearly a quarter of a mile away, but within easy range of vision. code fixed his gaze on her stern, where her name should be, and saw with astonishment that it had carefully been painted out. then he swung his glasses to cover the dories nested amidships, and found that on them, too, new paint had obscured the name. he lowered the glasses helplessly. "do you recognize her, pete?" he asked. "i know most of the schooners out of freekirk head and st. john's, but i never saw her before." "me neither," admitted the mate, with conviction. "i wonder what all this means?" code could not answer. chapter xi in the fog bank "squid ho! squid ho! tumble up, all hands!" rod kent, the old salt who had for the past hour been experimenting over the side, leaned down the main cabin hatch and woke the port watch. behind him on the deck a queer marine creature squirmed in a pool of water and sought vainly to disentangle itself from the apparatus that had caught it. the shout brought all hands on deck, stupid with sleep, but eager to join in the sport. the squid is a very small edition of the giant devilfish or octopus. it has ten tentacles, a tapered body about ten inches long, and is armed with the usual defensive ink-sac, by means of which it squirts a cloud of black fluid at a pursuing enemy, escaping in the general murk. "how'd ye ketch him?" cried all hands, for the advent of squid was the most welcome news the men on the _charming lass_ had had since leaving home four days before. it meant that this favorite and succulent bait of the roaming cod had arrived on the banks, and that the catches would be good. "jigged him," replied kent laconically. he disengaged the struggling squid from the apparatus and examined the latter carefully. it was made of a single cork, through the lower edge of which pins had been thrust and bent back like the flukes of an anchor. to it was fastened a small shred of red flannel, the whole being attached to a line with a sinker. in five minutes code had unearthed from an old shoe-box in his cabin enough jigs to supply all hands, and presently both rails were lined with men hauling up the bait as fast as it was lured to close proximity by the color of the red flannel. once the creatures had wrapped themselves around the cork a sharp jerk impaled them on the pins, and up they came. but not without resistance. just as they left the water they discharged their ink-sacs at their captors, and the men on the decks of the _lass_ were kept busy weaving their heads from side to side, to avoid the assault. it was near evening of the second day after the mysterious schooner had hailed them and sailed away. since that time they had forged steadily northeast, along the coast of nova scotia. at last they had left cape breton at the tip of cape breton island behind them and approached the southern shores of newfoundland and that wonderful stretch of shoals called the grand banks. southeast for three hundred miles from newfoundland extends this under-sea flooring of rocky shelves, that run from ninety to five fathoms, being most shallow at virgin rocks. in reality this is a great submarine mountain chain that is believed at one time to have belonged to the continent of north america. the outside edge of it is in the welter of the shoreless atlantic, and from this edge there is a sheer drop into almost unsounded depths. these depths have got the name of the whale hole, and many a fishing skipper has dropped his anchor into this abyss and earned the laughter of his crew when he could find no ground. along the top and sides of this mountain range grow vegetable substances and small animalcules that provide excellent feeding for the vast hosts of cod that yearly swim across it. for four hundred years the cod have visited these feeding grounds and been the prey of man, yet their numbers show no falling off. to them is due the wealth of newfoundland, the miquelon islands, nova scotia, labrador, and prince edward island. the first manifestation of the annual visit is the arrival of enormous schools of caplin, a little silvery fish some seven inches long that invades the bays and the open sea. close upon them follow the cod, feeding as they come. the caplin last six weeks and disappear, to be superseded in august by the squid, of which the cod are very fond. up until fifty years ago mackerel were caught on the banks, and large quantities of halibut, but the mackerel disappeared suddenly, never to return, and the halibut became constantly more rare, until at last only the cod remained. aboard the _charming lass_ the squid "jigging" went on for a couple of hours. then suddenly the school passed and the sport ended abruptly. but the deck of the schooner was a mass of the bait, and the tubs of salt clams brought from freekirk head could be saved until later. rockwell, who had been looking out forward, suddenly called code's attention to a flock of sea-pigeons floating on the water a mile ahead. as the skipper looked he saw the fowl busily diving and "upending," and he knew they had struck the edge of the banks; for water-fowl will always dive in shoal water, and a skipper sailing to the banks from a distance always looks for this sign. an hour later, when the cook had sent out his call for the first half, code made ellinwood stay on deck and bring the schooner to an anchorage after sounding. the sounding lead is a long slug, something like a window-weight, at the bottom of which is a saucer-shaped hollow. the leadsman, a young fellow from freekirk head, took his place on the schooner's rail outside the forerigging. the lead was attached to a line and, as the schooner forged slowly ahead, close-hauled, the youth swung the lead in ever-widening semicircles. "let your pigeon fly!" cried pete, and the lead swung far ahead and fell with a sullen _plop_ into the dark blue water. the line ran out until it suddenly slackened just under the leadsman. he fingered a mark. "forty fathoms!" he called. five minutes later another sounding was taken and proved that the water was gradually shoaling. at thirty fathoms pete ordered the anchor let go and a last sounding taken. before the lead flew he rubbed a little tallow into the saucer, and this, when it came up, was full of sand, mud, and shells, telling the sort of bottom under the schooner. pete called code, and together they read it like a book--favorable fishing ground, though not the best. while the second half ate, the first half took in all canvas and reefed it with the exception of the mainsail. this was unbent entirely and stowed away. in its place was bent on a riding sail, for until their salt was all wet there would be very little occasion for any sort of sailing, their only progress being as they ambled leisurely from berth to berth. "dories overside!" sung out code. "starboard first." a rope made fast to a mainstay and furnished with a hook at its end was slipped into a loop of rope at one end of the dory. a similar device caught a similar loop at the other end. one strong pull and the dory rose out of the nest of four others that lay just aft of the mainmast. a hand swung her outboard and she was lowered away until she danced on the water. jimmie thomas leaped into her, received a tub of briny squid, a dinner-horn, and a beaker of water, besides his rectangular reels with their heavy cord, leads, and two hooks. "overside port dory!" came the command, and kent was sent on his way. thus one after another the men departed until on board the _lass_ there remained only the cook and a boy helper. code, as well as ellinwood, had gone out, for they wished to test the fishing. these dories were entirely different propositions from the heavy motor-boats that the men used almost entirely near the island. they were light, compact, and properly big enough for only one man, although they easily accommodated two. the motor dories of thomas and code were on board, nested forward, but they were of little use here, where only short distances are covered, and those by rowing. the nine dories drew away from the schooner, each in a different direction, until they were a mile or more apart. code threw over his little three-fluked anchor. then he baited his two hooks with bits of tentacle and threw them overboard. with the big rectangular reel in his left hand, he unwound as the leads drew down until they fetched bottom and the line sagged. unreeling a couple more fathoms of line, he cast the reel aside. then he hauled his leads up until he judged them to be some six feet off the bottom and waited. almost instantly there was a sharp jerk, and code, with the skill of the trained fisherman, instantly responded to it with a savage pull on the line and a rapid hand-over-hand as he looped it into the dory. the fish had struck on. the tough cord sung against the gunnel, and at times it was all the skipper could do to bring up his prize, for the great cod darted here and there, dove, rushed, and struggled to avert the end. thirty fathoms is a hundred and eighty feet, and, with a huge and desperate fish disputing every inch of the way, it becomes a seemingly endless labor. but at last code, straining his eyes over the side, caught a glimpse of quick circles of white in the green and reached for the maul that was stuck under a thwart. two more heaves and the cod, open-mouthed, thrashed on the surface. a smart rap on the head with the maul and he came into the dory quietly. there were little pink crabs sticking to him and he did not seem as fat as he should, although he topped the fifty-pound mark. "lousy!" said code. "lousy and hungry! it's good fishing." with a short, stout stick at hand he wrenched the hook out of the cod's mouth, baited up, and cast again. the descending bait was rushed and seized. this time both hooks bore victims. when there were no speckled cod on the hooks there were silvery hake, velvety black pollock, beautiful scarlet sea-perch that look like little old men, and an occasional ugly dogfish with his chinese jade eyes. when the dogfish came the men pulled up their anchors and rowed a mile or so away, for where the dogfish pursues all others fly. he has the shape and traits of his merciless giant brother, the tiger-shark, with the added menace of a horn full of poison in the middle of his back instead of a dorsal fin; an evil, curved horn, the thrust of which can be nearly fatal to a man. the bottom of the dory became covered with a flooring of liquid silver bodies that twined together and rolled with the roll of the dory. at five o'clock code wound his line on the reel (he usually used two at a time, but one had been plenty with such fishing), and started to pull for the distant _charming lass_. he was now fully five miles from her, and his nearest neighbor was bill kent, three miles away. all hands were drawing in toward her, for they knew they must take a quick mug-up and then dress down until the last cod lay in his shroud of salt. the schooner lay to the northeast of schofield, and as he bent to his work he did not see a strange, level mass of gray that advanced slowly toward him. from a distance to the lay observer this mass would have looked like an ordinary cloud-bank, but the experienced eyes of a fisherman would have discerned its ghastly gray hue and its flat contour. all the afternoon there had been a freshening breeze, and now schofield found himself rowing against a head sea that occasionally slapped over the high bow of the dory and ran aft over the half ton of fish that lay under his feet. he had not pulled for fifteen minutes when the whole world about him was suddenly obscured by the thick, woolly fog that swirled past on the wind. it was as though an impenetrable wall had been suddenly built up on all sides, a wall that offered no resistance to his progress and yet no egress. he immediately stopped rowing and rested his oars, listening. no sound came to him except the slap of the increasing waves and the occasional flap of a wet fish in its last struggles. he carried no pocket compass, and the light gave no hint of the direction of the sun. in the five minutes that he sat there the head of his dory swung around and, even had he known the exact compass direction of the _charming lass_ before the fog, he would have been unable to find it. the situation did not alarm him in the least, for he had experienced it often before. reaching into the bow, he drew out the dinner-horn that was part of the equipment of the dory and sent an ear-splitting blast out into the fog. it seemed as though the opaque walls about him held in the sound as heavy curtains might in a large room; it fell dead on his own ears without any of the reverberant power that sound has in traveling across water. once more he listened. he knew that the schooner, being at anchor, would be ringing her bell; but he hardly hoped to catch a sound of that. instead, he listened for the answering peal of a horn in one of the other dories. straining his ears, he thought he caught a faint toot ahead of him and to starboard. he seized his oars and rowed hard for several minutes in the direction of the sound. then he stopped, and, rising to his feet, sent another great blast brawling forth into the fog. once more he listened, and again it seemed as though an answering horn sounded in the distance. but it was fainter this time. a gust of wind, rougher than the others, swirled the fog about him in great ghostly sheets, turning and twisting it like the clouds of greasy smoke from a fire of wet leaves. the dory rolled heavily, and code, losing his balance, sprawled forward on the fish, the horn flying from his hand overboard as he tried to save himself. for a moment only it floated; and then, as he was frantically swinging the dory to draw alongside, it disappeared beneath the water with a low gurgle. the situation was serious. he was unable to attract attention, and must depend for his salvation upon hearing the horns of the other dories as they approached the schooner. rowing hard all the time, with frequent short pauses, he strained his ears for the welcome sound. sometimes he thought he caught a faint, mellow call; but he soon recognized that these were deceptions, produced in his ears by the memory of what he had heard before. impatiently he rowed on. after a while he stopped. since he could not get track of any one, it was foolish to continue the effort, for every stroke might take him farther and farther out of hearing. on the other hand, if he were headed in the right direction, another dory, trying to find the schooner, might cross his path or come within earshot. he was still not in the least worried by the situation. men in much worse ones had been rescued from them without thinking anything of them. but the rising wind and sea gave him something to think of. the waves found it a very easy matter to climb aboard the heavily laden dory, and occasionally he had to bail with the can in the bows provided for the purpose. an hour passed, and at the end of that time he found that he was bailing almost constantly. there was only one thing to do under the circumstances. the gaff lay under his hand. this is a piece of broom-handle, to the end of which a stout, sharp hook is attached, and the instrument is used in landing fish which are too heavy to swing inboard on the slender fishing-line. [illustration: by this time the wind was a gale] code took the gaff and commenced to throw the fish over the side one at a time. he hated the waste of splendid cod, but things had now got to a pass where his own comfort and safety were at stake. once the fish were gone, with the cleanliness of long habit, he swabbed the bottom and sides of the dory with an old rag and rinsed them with water which he afterward bailed out. the dory now rose high and dry on the waves; but code found it increasingly difficult to row because the water tended to "crab" his oars and twist them suddenly out of his hands. to keep his head to the wind he paddled slowly, listening for any sound of a boat. another hour passed and darkness began to come down. the pearly gray fog lost its color and became black, like smoke from a burning oil-tank. he knew the sun was below the horizon. he wondered if any of the other men had been caught. if none were gone but himself, he reasoned, the schooner would have come in search of him. so, from listening for the horn of a dory, he tried to catch the hoarse voice of a patent fog-horn that would be grinding on the forecastle head. by this time the wind was a gale, and he knew it was driving him astern, despite his rowing. the waves were no longer the little choppy seas that the _lass_ had encountered since leaving freekirk head, but hustling, slopping hills that attacked him in endless and rapid succession. his progress was a continuous climb to one summit, followed by a dizzying swoop into the following depth. each climb was punctuated at the top by a gallon or so of water slopped into the dory from the crest of the wave. these influxes became so frequent that he was obliged to bail very often. consequently he unshipped one oar and, crawling to the stern, shipped the other in the notch of the sternboard. here he sculled with one hand so as to keep the dory's head to the wind, and bailed with the other. being aft, his weight caused the water to run down to him, and he could thus perform the two operations at the same time. when pitch-blackness had come he knew that he was out of reach of the schooner's horn. his only chance lay in the fog's lifting or the passing of some schooner. his principal concern was for the wind. it was just the time of year for those "three-day" nor'-easters that harry the entire coast of north america. when the first excitement of his danger passed he was assailed by the fierce hunger of nervous and physical exhaustion, but there was no food aboard the dory. he had, of course, the breaker of water that was part of his regular equipment; but this was more for use during a long day of fishing than for the emergency of being lost at sea. he took a hearty drink and prepared for the long watch of the night. by a wax match several hours later he found that it was midnight. his struggle with wind and sea had now become unequal. he found it impractical to remain longer in the stern attempting to scull. so very cautiously he set about his last defensive measure. taking the two oars and the anchor, as well as the thwarts, he bound them together securely with the anchor roding. this drag he hove from the bow of the dory, and it swung the boat's head into the wind. schofield, with the bailer in one hand, lay flat in the bottom. with the increasing sea, water splashed steadily over the sides so that his exertions never ceased. the chill of the night penetrated his soaked garments, and this, with his exhaustion, produced a stupor. the whistle of the wind and the hiss of foaming crests became dream sounds. chapter xii out of freekirk head "oh, i wouldn't think of such a thing for a minute!" captain bijonah turner waved his hand with an air of finality and favored his daughter with a glare meant to be pregnant with parental authority. "but, father, listen to reason!" cried nellie; "here is mother to take care of the three small children, and here am i with nothing whatever to do. be sensible and let me go along. i certainly ought to be able to help in some way." "but," expostulated the captain, "girls don't go on fishing-trips." "suppose the cook should fall sick or be hurt, then i would come in handy, wouldn't i? but all this is not the real point. things are different with us than they have ever been before; we have no home, and mother and the children have to board with ma sprague. if i stayed here i should be a burden, and i couldn't stand that." bijonah scratched his head and looked at the girl helplessly. he had yet to score his first victory over her in an argument. "have you asked your mother?" he queried at last, seeking his time-worn refuge. "yes," said she, brightening at the imminence of victory, "and she says she thinks it will be just the thing." "all right," said bijonah weakly; "come along then. but mind, you'll find things different. your mother is boss of any land she puts her foot on, but once i get the _rosan_ past swallowtail _my_ word goes." "all right, daddy dear," laughed the girl; "i know you'll be just the finest captain i ever sailed with." she kissed him impulsively and ran up-stairs to tell her mother the good news. the departure of the fleet from grande mignon was a sad day in the history of the island. the sun had hardly shown red and dripping from the sea when all the inhabitants were astir. men from as far south as seal cove and great harbor clattered up the king's road in rickety vehicles, accompanied by their families and their dunnage. in freekirk head alone less than ten men would be left ashore. of these, one was bill boughton, the storekeeper, who was to arrange for the disposal of the catch; but the others were either incapacitated, sick, or old. the five aged fishermen, who subsisted on the charity of the town, formed a delegation on one stringpiece to wave the fleet farewell. altogether there were fifteen boats, ten schooners, and five sloops, carrying in all more than a hundred and twenty-five men. the whole resource of the island had been expended to provide tubs of bait and barrels of salt enough for all these, let alone the provisions. the men either shipped on shares or, if they were fearful of chance, at a fixed monthly wage "and all found," to be paid after the proceeds of the voyage were realized. there was not a cent of grande mignon credit left in the world, and there was no child too small to realize that on the outcome of this venture hung the fate and future of the island. it was a brilliant day, with a glorious blue sky overhead and a bracing breeze out of the east. just beyond long island a low stratum of miasmic gray was the only shred of the usual fog to be seen on the whole horizon. in the little roadstead the vessels, black-hulled or white, rode eagerly and gracefully at their moorings, the bright sun bringing out the red, yellow, green, blue, and brown of the dories nested amidships. at seven o'clock the steamer _grande mignon_ blew a great blast of her whistle, cast off her lines, and cleared for st. andrew's and st. stephens. tooting a long, last salute, she rolled out into fundy and out of sight around the point. for these men breakfast was long past, but there were the myriad last details that could not be left undone; and it was fully eight o'clock before the last dory was swung aboard and the last barrel stowed. then there came the clicking of many windlasses and the strain of many ropes, and to the women and girls who lined the shore these noises were as the beatings of the executioner's hand upon the cell-door of a condemned man. for the first time they seemed to realize what was about to happen. the young girls and the brides wept, but those with children at their skirts looked stonily to the vessel that bore their loved ones; for they were hardened in the fear of death and bereavement, and had become fatalists. the old women shook their heads, and if tears rolled down their faces they were the tears of dotage, and were shed perhaps for the swift and fleeting beauty of brides under the strain of their first long separation. of these last one stood apart, a shawl over her gray hair and her hands folded as though obedient to a will greater than her own. in all the color and pageant of departure may schofield wondered where her son might be, the son whom she felt had run away from his just responsibilities. two nights ago he had gone, and since that time the little cottage had seemed worse than deserted. somehow the story of the solicitor and his visit went swiftly around the village, and since that time code's mother had been the shrinking object of a host of polite but evidently pointed inquiries. to most of these there was really no adequate reply, and the good woman had grown more hurt and more shrinking with every hour of the day. now, with little orphan josie at her side, she came out to see the departure of the fleet. suddenly there came the squeaking of blocks and the rattle and scrape of rings as foresails were rushed up at peak and throat. headsails raced into position, and, with the anchors cat-headed; the vessels, with their captains at the wheels or tillers, swung into the wind and began to crawl ahead. behind them, as they forged toward the passage, lay the gray scimitar of stony beach half a mile long. beyond it were the white, contented-looking cottages built along the road, and back of all rose the vivid green mountains, covered with pine, tamarack, and silver birch, above whose tops at the line of the summit there appeared three terrific, puffy thunder-heads. as they moved toward flag point the gaily colored crowds moved with them past the post-office, the stores, the burned wharfs, and the fish stands. captain bijonah tanner, by right of seniority, led the way in the _rosan_ as commodore of the fleet. he stood to his tiller like a graven image, looking neither to right nor left, but gripping his pipe with all the strength of his remaining teeth. he hoped that his triumph would not be lost upon his wife. nor was it, for it was a month afterward before the neighbors ceased to hear how her bige was the best captain that ever sailed out of freekirk head. at swallowtail bijonah rounded the point, gave one majestic wave of his hat in farewell, and put the _rosan_ over on the starboard tack, for the course was southeast, and followed practically the wake of code schofield. one after another the schooners and sloops, closely bunched, came about as smartly as their crews could bring them--and the smartest of them all was nat burns's _nettie b._ nellie tanner, jealous for her father's prestige, could not but admire the splendid discipline and tactics that whipped the _nettie_ about on the tack and sent her flying ahead of the _rosan_ like a great seabird. once swallowtail was passed the voyage had begun, and the lead belonged to any one who could take it. at last the knifelike edge of long island shut them out completely, and seemed at the same instant to cut the last bonds and ties that had stretched from one to another as long as vision lasted. the men felt as released from a spell. one idea rushed into their minds suddenly and became an obsession. fish! chapter xiii nat burns shows his hand off cape sable the fleet was overhauled by a half-dozen schooners bound the same way, which displayed american flags at their main trucks as they came up. "gloucestermen!" said nat burns at the wheel of the _nettie b._ "set balloon jib and stays'l and we'll give 'em a try-out." the men jumped to the orders, and the _nettie_ gathered headway as the american schooners came up. but the gloucester craft crept up, passed, and with an ironical dip of their little flags raced on to the banks. cape sable was not yet out of sight when a topmast on the _rosan_ broke off short in a sudden squall. bijonah tanner immediately laid her to and set all hands to work stepping his spare spar, as he would not think of returning to a shipyard. nat burns, when he noticed the accident, laid to in turn and announced his intention of standing by the _rosan_ until she was ready to go on. as these were among the fastest vessels in the fleet, the others proceeded on their way, and nat seized the opportunity of the repairs to pay his _fiancée_ a visit and remain to supper on the _rosan_. he found nellie radiant and more beautiful than he had ever seen her. protected from the cool breeze by a frieze overcoat, she stood bareheaded by the forerigging, her cheeks red, her brown eyes bright like stars, and her soft brown hair blowing about her face in alluring wisps. he took her in a strong embrace. she struggled free after a moment, her cheeks flooded with color. "don't, nat!" she cried. "before all the men, too! please behave yourself!" this last a little nervously as she saw the gleam in his eyes. suddenly (for her) all the day seemed to have lost its exhilaration. she was always glad to see nat, but his insistent use of his _fiancé_ rights under all circumstances grated on the natural delicacy that was hers. his ardor dampened by this rebuke, the gleam in nat's eye became one of ugliness at his humiliation before the crew of the _rosan_. he scowled furiously and stood by her side without saying a word. it was in this unfortunate moment that nellie seized on the general topic of the day. "guess you'll have to get off and push the _nettie b._ before you can beat those gloucestermen, nat," she said, teasing him. "say, i've heard about all i want to hear about that!" he snarled, suddenly losing control of himself as they walked back to the little cabin. the girl looked at him in hurt amazement. never in all her life had a man spoken to her in such a tone. it was inconceivable that the man she was going to marry could address her so, if he even pretended to love her. "possibly you have," she returned, not without a touch of asperity; "but you know as well as i do that you will have to deal with a gloucester-built schooner before you are through with this voyage." in her efforts to placate him she had touched upon his sorest spot. his defeat by the american fishermen had been hard for his pride. "i suppose you mean that crooked schofield's boat?" he flashed back, his face darkening. "what do you mean by that?" they were below now in her father's little cabin, and she turned upon him with flashing eyes. "just what i said," he returned sullenly. "you say things then that have no foundation in fact," she retorted vigorously. "you have no right to say a thing like that about code schofield." "i haven't, eh?" he sneered, furious. "since when have you been takin' his side against me? no facts, eh? i'll show him an' you an' everybody else whether there's any foundation in fact! what do you suppose the insurance company is after him for if he isn't a crook?" like all the people in freekirk head, nellie had heard some of the rumors concerning code's possible part in the sinking of the _may schofield_. nat, for reasons of his own, had carefully refrained from enlarging on these to her, and in the absorption of her wooing by him she had let them go by unnoticed. now, for the first time, the consequences they might have in code's life were made clear to her. "i--i don't know," she faltered, unable to reply to his direct question. "but i know this, that all his life code has been an honest man and one of my best friends. i grew up with him just as i did with you, and i resent such talk about him as much as i would if it were about you." "yes," he sneered, "he has been entirely too much of a good friend. what was he always over to your place for, i'd like to know? and, even after he knew we were engaged, what was he doin' down at ma sprague's that night i called? an' what did you go to his place for after the fire when i tried to get you to come to mine?" the last question he roared out at the top of his voice, and the girl, now afraid of him, shrank back against the wall of the cabin. she knew it was useless to say that she and code had been like brother and sister all their lives, and that may schofield was a second mother to her. all reason was hopeless in the face of this unreasoning jealousy. after a moment she found her speech. "i guess, nat," she said, "you had better go back to your schooner until you are in a different mood." "afraid to answer, ain't you?" he cried. "when i face you down you're afraid to answer an' tell me i'd better go away. well, now let me tell _you_ something. you're entirely too friendly with that crook, an' i won't have it! you're engaged to me, and what i say goes. an' let me tell you something else. "the insurance company is after him because he sunk the _may schofield_ on purpose. but that ain't the worst of the things he did--" "what do you mean?" she flashed at him. "you'll find out quick enough, and so will he," he snarled. "i'm not saying what is goin' to happen to him, but when i'm through we'll see if your hero is such a fine specimen." from fear to anger her spirit had gone, and now under the lash it turned to cold disdain. with a swift motion of her right hand over her left she drew off the diamond ring he had given her and held it out to him. "take this, nat," she said, so coldly that for once his rage was checked. he looked stupidly at the glittering emblem of her love, and suddenly became aware of the extent to which he had driven her. the reaction was as swift as the rage. "please, nellie dear," he begged, "don't do that! take it back. forgive me. everything has piled up so to-day that i lost my temper. please don't do that!" but he had gone too far. he had shown her a new side to his character. "no, nat," she said calmly, but still with that icy inflection of disdain; "this has gone too far. take this ring. some time, when you have made amends for this afternoon, i may see you again." "i won't take it," he replied doggedly. "please, nellie, forgive--" "take it," she flashed, "or i will throw it into the ocean!" she had unconsciously submitted him to a final test. he was about to let her carry out her threat if she saw fit when his cupidity overcame him. he reached out his hand, and she dropped the ring into it. she stood silent, pale, and cold, waiting for him to go. he moved away. he had reached the foot of the companionway when he turned back. "he has brought me to this," he said so slowly and evilly that each word seemed a drop of venom. "but i'll make him pay. i'm goin' to st. john's, and when i get back it will be the sorriest day in his life and yours, too. his life won't be worth the thread it hangs on!" with that he went up the companionway and, not noticing the greeting of captain tanner, dropped into his yellow dory that swung and bumped against the _rosan's_ side. swiftly he rowed to the _nettie b._ and clambered aboard, bellowing orders to get up sail. in fifteen minutes the schooner was on the back track under every stitch of canvas she carried. bijonah tanner stared blankly after the retreating _nettie_. then, knowing that his daughter had been with nat, dropped down into the little cabin. he found nellie seated in the chair by the little table, and weeping. chapter xiv a discovery taken aback as he had been by the strange doings of nat's schooner, his dismay then was a feeble imitation of the panic that smote him now. it had long been a favorite formula of bijonah's that "a schooner's a gal you can understand. she goes where ye send her, an' ye know she'll come back when ye tell her to. she's a snug, trustin' kind of critter, an' she's man's best friend because she hain't got a grain o' sense. but woman!" here bijonah always ended, his hands, his voice, and his sentence suspended in mid air. now he was baffled completely. here was a girl who was deeply in love, crying. he tiptoed cautiously to the deck again and stole forward to the galley as though he had been detected in a suspicious action. after a while the storm passed, and nellie sat up, red-eyed and red-nosed, but with a measure of her usual tranquillity restored. "idiot!" she told herself. "to howl like that over _him_!" nellie finally regained her poise of mind and remembered that she had been at the point of writing a letter to her mother (to be mailed by the first vessel bound to a port) when nat had interrupted her. the table at which she sat was a rough, square one of oak, with one drawer that extended its whole width. she opened the drawer and found it stuffed with an untidy mass of paper, envelopes, newspapers, clippings, books, ink, and a mucilage-pot that had foundered in the last gale and spread its contents over everything. such was her struggle to find two clean sheets of paper and a pen that she finally dumped the contents of the drawer on top of the table and went to the task seriously. the very first thing that came under her hand was a heavy packet. turning it face up, she read, with surprise, a large feminine handwriting which said: mr. code schofield, kindness of captain b. tanner letter enclosed. at the right-hand side of the envelope was this: ---- s ---- s ---- s -------- $ nellie tanner stared at the envelope. it was the handwriting that held her. she had seen it before. she had once been honorary assistant treasurer of the church of england chapel, and it suddenly came to her that this was the handwriting that had adorned elsa mallaby's checks and subscriptions. she knew she had solved the problem the instant the answer came. elsa had been to boston to school, and the fact was very evident. she sat and stared at the black letters, flexing the packet filled with bills. "why should elsa mallaby be sending money to code schofield?" everybody in freekirk head knew that code schofield went up to elsa mallaby's to dinner occasionally. so did other people in the village, but not so often as he. there had been a little gossip concerning the two of them, but, while code was an excellent enough fellow, it was hardly probable that a rich widow like elsa would throw herself away on a poor _fisherman_. they _forgot_ that she had done so the first time she married, and that she had the sea in her blood. these shreds of gossip returned to nellie now with accrued interest, and she began to believe in the theory of fire being behind smoke. she also remembered the night of the mass-meeting in odd fellows hall when code had made his suggestion of going to the banks. there had flashed between elsa's velvet-dark eyes and code's blue ones a message of intimacy of which the town knew nothing. every one saw the look, and nearly every one talked about it, but they did not know that only a couple of nights before elsa had been the one to put code on guard against his enemies, and that he was more than grateful. "i'd just like to know what's in that letter so as to tease him the next time we meet," she said gaily to herself. she was now out of all mood for writing her letter home, and, stuffing the contents of the drawer back into place, she returned the latter to the table and went on deck. the sea was running higher. the new topmast was up, and within half an hour the _rosan_ heeled to the wind and plowed her way northward after the remainder of the fleet. chapter xv the catch of the rosan at the forecastle head of the _rosan_ stood a youth tolling the ship's bell. the windlass grunted and whined as the schooner came up on her hawser with a thump, and overhead a useless jib slatted and rattled. the youth could scarcely see aft of the foremast because of the thickness of the weather, but he could hear what was going on. there was a thump, a slimy slapping of wet fish, and a voice counting monotonously as its owner forked his forenoon's catch into the pen amidships. "forty-nine," said the voice. "all right, boys, swing her in." and a moment later the dory, hauled high, dropped down into her nest. immediately there was a slight bump against the side of the schooner, and the slapping and counting would begin again. "eighty-seven, and high line at that!" said the next man. "i'll bet that's the only halibut on the banks, and he's two hundred if he's an ounce." the great, flat fish was raised to the deck by means of the topping haul that swung in the dories. bijonah tanner, who stood by the pen watching the silver stream as it flowed over the side into the pen, mussed his beard and shook his head. the fish were fair, but not what should be expected at this time of year. he would sail along to another favorable anchorage. this was his first day on the banks and two days after nellie's discovery of elsa's packet. it was only noon, but bijonah was speculating, and when he saw the fog bank coming he refused to run any risk with his men, and recalled them to the schooner by firing his shotgun until they all replied to the signal by raising one oar upright. it must not be thought that it was the fog that induced bijonah to do this. dorymen almost always fish when a fog comes down, and trust to their good fortune in finding the schooner. bijonah wanted to look over the morning's catch and get in tune with the millions under his keel. by the time the last dory was in, the pile of fish in the pen looked like a heap of molten silver. the men stretched themselves after their cramped quarters, and greeted the cook's announcement with delight. "you fellers fix tables fer dressin' down while the fust half mugs up," said tanner. "everybody lively now. i cal'late to move just a little bit. the bottom here don't suit me yet." he went down from the poop and walked the deck, listening between clangings of the bell for any sound of an approaching vessel. the crew worked swiftly at dressing and salting the catch. "haul up anchor," he ordered when the work was done. the watch laid hold the windlass poles and hauled the vessel forward directly above her hook. then there was a concerted heave and the ground tackle broke loose and came up with a rush. under headsails and riding sail the _rosan_ swung into the light air that stirred the fog and began to crawl forward while the men were still cat-heading the anchor. the youth who had been ringing the bell now substituted the patent fog-horn, as marine law requires when vessels are under way. with his eyes on the compass, turner guided the ship himself. they seemed to move through an endless gray world. for an hour they sailed, the only sounds being the flap of the canvas, the creaking of the tiller ropes, and the drip of the fog. tanner was about to give the word to let go the anchor when, without warning, they suddenly burst clear of the fog and came out into the vast gray welter of the open sea. tanner suddenly straightened up, and slipping the wheel swiftly into the becket, he ran to the taffrail and looked over the side. "good god!" he cried. "what's this?" not fifty feet away lay a blue dory, heavy and loggy with water, and in the bottom the unconscious figure of a man. a second look at the face of the man and tanner cried: "wheelan and markle, overside with the starboard dory. here's code schofield adrift! lively now!" there was a rush aft, but tanner met the crew and drove them to the nested boats amidships. "over, i say!" he roared. the men obeyed him, and wheelan and markle were soon pulling madly to the blue dory astern. when they reached it one man clambered to the bow and cut the drag rope that code, in his extremity, had thrown over nearly two days before. then, fastening the short painter to a thwart in their own craft, they hauled the blue dory and its contents alongside the _rosan_. code schofield lay with his eyes closed, pale as wax, and seemingly dead. in his right hand he still gripped convulsively the bailing-can he had used until consciousness left him. man, boat, and all, the dory was hauled up and let gently down on the deck. then the eager hands lifted schofield from the water and laid him on the oiled boards. "take him into my cabin," ordered tanner. "johnson, bring hot water and rags. cookee, make some strong soup. if there's any life in him we'll bring it back. on the jump, there!" "wal," said one man, when code had been carried below, "i thought my halibut was high line to-day, but the skipper beat me out in the end." chapter xvi a staggering blow "here is something my father just asked me to give you." nellie held out to code the packet that she had discovered in the skipper's drawer several days before. code, seated on the roof of the cabin in the only loose chair aboard the _rosan_, and wrapped in blankets, took the sealed bundle curiously. he looked at the round, feminine handwriting across the envelope, and failed to evince any flash of guilt or intelligence. it was three days after code's rescue by the _rosan_ and the first that he had felt any of his old strength coming back to him. for the first twenty-four hours after being revived he did nothing but sleep, and awoke to find nellie tanner beside his bunk nursing him. since then it had been merely a matter of patience until his exhausted body had recuperated from the shock. for once nellie had command of the _rosan_, and everything stood aside for her patient. the delicacies that issued from the galley after she had occupied it an hour, and that went directly to code, almost had the result of inciting a mutiny among all hands; terms of settlement being the retirement of the old cook and installation of this new find. code ripped open the packet. he stared in amazement at the yellow bills. then he discovered the letter and began to read it. despite the healthy red of his weather-beaten face, a tide of color surged up over it. nellie turned her head away and looked over the oily gray sea to where the men of the _rosan_ were toiling in their dories. in the distance there was a sail here and there, for the _rosan_ was slowly overhauling the fleet from freekirk head. code stole a swift glance at her, and forgot to read his letter as he studied the fresh roundness and beauty of her face. he vaguely felt that there was a reserved manner between them. "the letter is from mrs. mallaby," he said. "yes? that is interesting." the girl's cool, level eyes met his, and he blushed again. "she has a good heart," he stumbled on, "and always thinks of others." "yes, she has," agreed the girl without enthusiasm, and code dropped the subject. "how did your father happen to have this for me?" he asked, after a pause. "well, you know, you surprised everybody by leaving the head before the rest of the fleet. elsa had it in mind to give you this packet, she _says_, before you left. but when you went so suddenly she asked father to give it to you. she said she expected the _rosan_ would catch the _lass_ on the banks. at least, this is the yarn dad told me." "she seems to know considerable about the banks and the ways of fishermen," he said, with an unconscious ring of enthusiasm in his tone. "yes; you'd think she pulled her own dory instead of being the richest woman in new brunswick." code looked at his old sweetheart in amazement. he had never seen her so disagreeable. his eye fell upon her left hand. for a moment his mind did not register an impression. then all of a sudden it flashed upon him that her ring was gone. "oh, _that_ explains everything!" he said to himself. "she has either lost it or quarreled with nat, and it's no wonder she is unhappy." nellie was saying to herself: "the letter must have been very personal or he would have told me about it. he never acted like this before. there _is_ something between them." suddenly astern of them sounded the flap of sails, rattle of blocks, and shouted orders. they turned in time to see a schooner come up into the wind all standing. she was clothed in canvas from head to foot, with a balloon-jib and staysail added, and made her position less than a hundred yards away. schofield gazed at the schooner curiously. then he leaned forward, his eyes alight. there were certain points about her that were familiar. with a fisherman's skill he had catalogued her every point. he looked at the trail-board along her bows, and where the name should have been there was a blank, painted-out space. it was the mystery schooner! once more all the fears that had assailed code's mind at her first appearance returned. he was certain that there was mischief in this. but he sat quiet as the vessel drifted down upon the anchored _rosan_. as he looked her over his eyes were drawn aloft to a series of wires strung between her topmasts. other wires ran down the foremast to a little cubby just aft of it. "by the great squid, they've got wireless!" he said. "this beats me!" at fifty yards the familiar man with the enormous megaphone made his appearance. "ahoy there!" he roared. "any one aboard the _rosan_ seen or heard anything of captain code schofield, of the grande mignon schooner _charming lass?_" code rose out of his chair, took off his hat ironically, and swung it before him as he made a low bow. "at your service!" he shouted. "i was picked up three days ago, adrift in my dory. what do you want with me?" this sudden avowal created a half panic aboard the mysterious schooner, and the man astern exchanged his megaphone for field-glasses. after a long scrutiny he went back to the megaphone. "congratulations, captain!" came the bellow. "when are you going to rejoin the _lass?_" "as soon the _rosan_ catches her," replied code, and then, exasperated by the unexpected maneuvers of this remarkable vessel, he cried: "who are you and what do you want that you chase me all over the sea?" instantly the man put down the megaphone and gave orders to the crew, and in five minutes she was on her way north into the very heart of the fleet. "i don't know who she is or why she is or who is aboard her," he told nellie, after recounting to her the previous visitation of the schooner. "she reminds me of a nervous old hen keeping track of a stray chick. pretty soon i won't be able to curse the weather without being afraid my guardian will hear me. i say guardian, and yet i don't know whether she is friendly or merely fixing up some calamity to break all at once. you know i have enemies. she may be working for them." the girl could offer no solution, nor could bijonah tanner, who had witnessed the incident from the forecastle head where he was smoking and anticipating the wishes of the cod beneath him. he had walked aft, and the three discussed the mystery. "ever see her before, captain?" asked code. if there was any man who knew schooners that had fished the banks or the bay of fundy, it was bijonah tanner. "don't cal'late i ever did. i've never saw _jest_ that set to a foregaff nor _jest_ that cut of a jumbo-jib afore." tanner watched the schooner as she scudded away. "mighty big hurry, i allow," he remarked. "but, jiminy, doesn't she sail! there ain't hardly an air o' wind stirrin' and yet look at her go! she's a mighty-able vessel." it was about four o'clock the next afternoon that the _rosan_ crept up in the middle of the fishing fleet. she had made a long berth overnight, dressed an excellent morning's catch, and knocked off half a day because bijonah did not feel it right to keep code longer away from his vessel. and tanner managed the thing with a good eye to the dramatic. when he reached the rear guard of the fleet he began to work his vessel gracefully in and out among the sloops and schooners. code, seated in his chair on the cabin roof, did not realize what was going on until the triumphal procession was well under way. through the fleet they went--a fleet that was wearing crape for him--and from every vessel received a volley of cheers. the _charming lass_ greeted him with open arms. pete ellinwood swung him up from the transferring dory with a great bellow of delight, and he was passed along the line until, battered, joyous, and radiant, he arrived exhausted by the wheel, where he sat down. when they all had drunk to the reunion from a rare old bottle, heavily cobwebbed, code told his story. then, while the men dressed down, he walked about, looking things over and counting the crew on his fingers. "pete!" he called suddenly, and the mate left the fish-pen. "where's arry duncan?" "wal, skipper, i didn't want to tell you fer fear you had enough on yer mind already, but arry never come back the same day you was lost." "my god! another one! i wondered how many would get caught that day!" "an' that ain't all. he had your motor-dory with him--the one you caught us with out of castalia." "how did he have that? i gave orders the motor-dories weren't to be used." "wal, cookee an' the boy--they was the only ones aboard--tell it this way: arry he struck a heavy school fust time he lets his dory rodin' go, an' most of his fish topped forty pound. in an hour his dory was full, and it was a three-mile pull back. "when he got in he argued them others into givin' him the motor-dory, 'cause it holds so much more. they helped him swing it over, an' that's the last they see of him." "but, if he had an engine, you'd think he could've made it back here or run foul of somebody or somethin'." "yas, you would think so; but he didn't, the more peace to him," was ellinwood's reply. "the poor feller!" said code. "i'm sorry for his wife. anything else happen while i was gone, pete?" "now, let me think!" the mate scratched his head. "oh, yes! curse me, i nearly forgot it! you know that quair schooner that chased us down one day an' asked the fool questions about you?" "yes. i saw that same schooner again yesterday. she asked more fool questions." "you did!" cried ellinwood in amazement. "i didn't see her, but i heard her, an' i got a message from her for you. it was night when they come up on us an' hailed. "they said they had news of you, an' would we send a dory over. would we? they was about six over in as many minutes. but they wouldn't let us aboard. no, sir; kept us off with poles an' asked for me. "when i got in clost they told me the _rosan_ had found you, and handed me an envelope with a message inside of it. just as i was goin' away there came the most awful clickin' an' flashin' amidships i ever saw--" "wireless," said code. "wal, i've heard of it, but i never see it before; an' i come away as quick as i could." "and the message?" asked code curiously. pete laboriously unpinned a waistcoat-pocket and produced an envelope which he handed to code. it was sealed, and the skipper tore away the end. the mystery and interest of the thing played upon his mind until he was in a tremble of nervous excitement. at last he would know what the schooner was and why. eagerly he opened the message. it was typewritten on absolutely plain paper and unsigned, further baffling his curiosity. after a moment he read: "captain schofield: "yesterday at st. andrew's suit was filed against you for murder in the first degree upon the person of michael burns, late of freekirk head, grande mignon island. plaintiff, nathaniel burns, son of the deceased. there is an order out for your arrest. this is a friendly warning and no more. you are now fore-armed!" chapter xvii trawlers schofield stood as one stupefied, staring blankly at the fateful words. murder in the first degree! had it not been for his thorough knowledge of nat burns's character he would have laughed at the absurdity of the thing and thrown the message over the side. but now he remained like one fast in the clutch of some horrible nightmare, unable to reason, unable to think coherently, unable to do anything but attempt to sound the depths of a hatred such as this. "for heaven's sake, what is it, skipper?" asked ellinwood. code passed the message to his mate without a word. his men might as well know the worst at once. ellinwood read slowly. "rot!" he snarled in his great rumbling voice. "murder? how does he get murder out of it?" "if i sank the old _may schofield_ for her insurance money, which is what every one believes, then i deliberately caused the death of the men with me, didn't i? pete, this is a pretty-serious thing. i didn't care when they set the insurance company on me, but this is different. if it goes beyond this stage i will carry the disgrace of jail and a trial all my life. that devil has nearly finished me!" code's voice broke, and the tears of helpless rage smarted in his eyes. "steady on, now!" counseled pete, looking with pity at the young skipper he worshiped. "he's done fer you true this time, but the end of things is a tarnal long ways off yet, an' don't you go losin' yer spunk!" "but what have i ever done to him that he should start this against me?" cried schofield. pete could not answer. "what do they do when a man is accused of murder?" asked code. "why, arrest him, i guess." pete scratched his chin reminiscently. "there was that bulwer case." he recounted it in detail. "yes," he went on, "they can't do nothin' until the man accused is arrested. "after that he gets a preliminary hearin', and, if things seem plain enough, then the grand jury indicts him. after that he's tried by a reg'lar jury. so the fust thing they've got to do is arrest you." "darn it, they sha'n't--i'll sail to africa first!" snarled code, his eyes blazing. he strode up and down the deck. "you say the word, skipper," rumbled pete loyally, "an' we crack on every stitch fer the north pole!" code smiled. "curse me if i don't like to see a man smile when he's in trouble," announced pete roundly. "skipper, you'll do. you're young, an' these things come hard, but i cal'late we'll drop all this talk about sailin' away to furrin parts. "now, there's jest two courses left fer you to sail. either we go on fishin' an' dodge the gunboat that brings the officer after you, or we go on fishin' an' let him get you when he comes. i'll stand by you either way. you've got yer mother to support, god bless her! an' you've got a right to fill yer hold with fish so's she can live when they're sold. that's one way of lookin' at it; the other's plain sailin'!" "no, pete; this is too serious. i guess the mother'll have to suffer this time, too. if they send a man after me i'll be here and i'll go back and take my medicine. i'll make you skipper, and you can select your mate. you'll get a skipper's share, and you can pay mother the regular amount for hiring the _lass_--" "she'll get skipper's share if i have to lick every hand aboard!" growled ellinwood. "an' you can rest easy on that." "that's fine," said code gently; "and i don't know what i'd do without you, pete." "you ain't supposed to do without me. what in thunder do you suppose i shipped with you fer if it wasn't to look after you, hey?" the men had finished dressing down and were cleaning up the decks. several of them, noticing that something momentous was being discussed, were edging nearer. pete observed this. "skipper," he said, "we've got four or five shots of trawl-line to pick. suppose you and i go out an' do the job? then we can talk in peace. feel able?" "never better in my life. get my dory over." "that blue one? never again! that's bad luck fer you. take mine." "all right. anything you say." several hands made the dory ready. into it they put three or four tubs or half casks in which was coiled hundreds of fathoms of stout line furnished with a strong hook every two or three feet. each hook was baited with a fat salt clam, for the early catch of squid had been exhausted by the dory fishing. there was also a fresh tub of bait, buoys, and a lantern. a youth aboard clambered up to the cross-trees, gave them the direction of the trawl buoy-light, and they started. it was a clear, starlit night with only a gentle sea running and no wind to speak of. there was not a hint of fog. the _charming lass_ lay now in the atlantic approximately along the forty-sixth parallel, near its intersection with the fifty-fifth of meridian; or eighty to a hundred miles southwest of cape race, newfoundland, and almost an equal distance southeast of the miquelon islands, france's sole remaining territorial possession in the new world. code and ellinwood easily found their trawl buoy by the glimmer of the light across the water. they immediately began to plant the trawl-lines in the tubs aboard the dory. the big buoy for the end of the line they first anchored to the bottom with dory roding. then, as ellinwood rowed slowly, code paid the baited trawl-line out of the tubs. as there are hooks every few feet, so are there big wooden buoys, so that the whole length of the line--sometimes twenty-five hundred feet--is floated near the surface. when the last had been paid out, a second anchor and large buoy was fixed, and their trawl was "set." next they turned their attention to picking the trawl already in the water. as the line came over the starboard gunnel code picked the fish off the hooks, passing the hooks to pete, who baited them and threw them over the port gunnel. thus they would work their way along the whole of the line. many of the hooks that came to code's hands still had the bait with which they were set. "must be in the bait," he told ellinwood. "the fish wouldn't touch it. this is no catch for five shots of trawl." but pete could not cast any light on the subject. it was certainly true that the catch from the trawl-line was small enough to be remarkable, but the men were helpless to explain the reason. for two hours they worked along the great line. "there's a bare chance that the message from the unknown schooner might be a fake, although i can't imagine why," said code as they were returning. "but if it is not, and the canadian gunboat comes after me, she'll find me here, willing to go back to st. andrew's and answer all charges. no escape and no dodging this time! and let me tell you something, pete. if nothing comes out of this except ugly rumor that i have to suffer for, i'm going to quit minding my own business; and i'll dig up something that will drive nat burns out of freekirk head forever. "a man of his character and nature has certainly got something he doesn't want known, and i shall bring it to light and make it so public that he'll wish he had never heard the name schofield. by heaven, i've reached the end of my patience!" if there was anything pete ellinwood loved it was a fight, and at this declaration of war he roared encouragement. "you'll do, skipper--you'll do! get after him! climb his frame! put him out of business. an' let me help you. that's all i want." "everything in good time, pete," grinned code. "first we've got to find out how much of this is in the wind and how much is not." arrived at the schooner, they pitched their fish into the pen for the first watch to dress and rolled aft for the night. code took off his coat and drew forth the packet that elsa had given him, looked at it for a moment, and threw it upon the table. "why in time did she send me that?" he asked himself, his voice very near disgust. "it must have looked mighty strange to nell for me to be getting money from elsa mallaby." he stopped short in the midst of pulling off one boot. the idea had never struck him forcibly before. now it seemed evident that nellie's reserve might have been due to the letter. "what a fool i was not to tell her all about it!" he cried. with one boot off he reached across to the packet under the swinging lamp and drew the letter out of it and read: "dear partner: "here is something that captain bijonah will hand to you when he catches the _lass_. there are supposed to be one hundred and fifty dollars in this packet (i never was much of a counter, as you know). now, dear friend, this isn't all for you unless you need it. it is simply a small reserve fund for the men of the fleet if they should need anything--a new gaff, for instance, or a jib, or grub. "it isn't much, but you never can tell when it might come in handy. it was your good scheme that sent the men off fishing, and you left the way open for me to do my little part here at the head. now i want to do just this much more for the sailors of the fleet, and i am asking you to be my treasurer. when you hear of a needy case just give him what you think he needs and say it is a loan from me if he won't take a gift. "if this is a trouble to you i am sorry, but we are all working for the good name and good times of grande mignon, and i hope you won't mind. good fishing to the _charming lass_, high line and topping full! may you wet your salt early and come home again to those who are longing to see you. "this is all done on the spur of the moment, so i have no time to ask your mother to enclose a line. but i know she sends her love. it has been a little hard for her here since you left, bless her heart; but she has been as brave as a soldier and helped me very much. we see a great deal of each other and you can rest assured i shall look after her. "always your old friend, "elsa." as code read the last paragraph his eyes softened. it was _white_ of elsa to look after his mother, particularly now when there would be much for her to face regarding himself. and it _was_ white of her to send the money for the sailors of the fleet. even she did not know, as code did, how nearly destitute some of the dorymen were. he would be glad to do what little work there might be in disbursing the sum. "sorry nellie didn't seem interested when i began to talk about elsa," he said to himself. "i suppose i should have told her, anyway, so there wouldn't be any misunderstanding. well, i'll do it next time." he turned the lamp low and rolled into his bunk. chapter xviii treachery next morning at breakfast, about four o'clock, code told his crew the situation. he knew his men thoroughly and had been friends with most of them all his life. "there's likely to be trouble, and i may be taken away, but if that happens pete will tell you what to do. don't sight swallowtail until your salt is all wet. bring home a topping load and you'll share topping." code did not go out that morning. instead, he tried to shake off his troubles long enough to study the fish--which was his job on the _charming lass_. while not a bijonah tanner, code bade fair to be his equal at bijonah's age. he came of a father with an instinct for fish, and he had inherited that instinct fully. under jasper he had learned much, but it was another matter to have some one on hand to read the signs rather than being cast upon his own resources. the fish, from the trawl-line and pete's reports of dory work, had been running rather big. this pleased him, but he knew it could not last; and he sat with his old chart spread out before him on the deck--a chart edged with his father's valuable penciled notes. suddenly, while in the almost subconscious state that he achieved when very "fishy," the persistent voice of the cook broke through the wall of unconsciousness. "smoke on the port quarter, skipper! smoke on the port quarter, skipper!" the phrase came with persistent repetition until code was fully alive to its meaning and glanced over his left shoulder. above the line of dark blue that was the ocean, and in the light blue that was the sky, was etched a tree-shaped brown smudge. steamer smudges were not an unusual sight, for not fifty miles east was the northern track of the great ocean steamers--a track which they were gradually approaching as they made their berths. but a steamer smudge over the port quarter, with the _lass's_ bow headed due north, was an entirely different thing. code went below and brought up an ancient firearm. this he discharged while the cook ran a trawl-tub to the truck. it was the prearranged signal for pete ellinwood to come in. as code waited he had no doubt that smoke was from a revenue cutter or cruiser from halifax with his arrest warrant. there was a stiff westerly breeze, and code, glancing up at the cloud formations, saw that there would be a beautiful racing half-gale on by noon. "what a chance to run for it!" he thought, but resolutely put the idea from his mind. pete came in with a scowl on his face, cursing everything under the sun, and especially a fisherman's life. when told of the smoke smudge he evinced comparatively little interest. "we'll find out what she is when she gets here. what i'd like to know is, what's the matter with our bait?" "bait gone wrong again?" asked code anxiously, his brows knitting. "that stuff on the trawl wasn't the only bad bait, then." "no. everybody's complainin' this mornin'. "not only can't catch fish, but ye can't hardly string the stuff on the hooks. an' that ain't all. it has a funny smell that i never found in any other clam bait i ever used." "why, what's the matter with your hands, pete?" cried code, pointing. ellinwood had removed his nippers, and the skin of his fingers and palms was a queer white and beginning to shred off as if immersed long in hot water. "by the great seine!" rumbled the mate, looking at his hands in consternation. code made a trumpet of his hands. "here, cookee, roll up a tub of that bait lively. i want to look at it. and fetch the hammer!" a suspicion based upon a long-forgotten fact had suddenly leaped into his mind. when the cook hove the tub of bait on deck code knocked off the top boards with the hammer and dipped up a handful of the clams. instead of the firm, fat shellfish that should have been in the clean brine, he found them loose and rotten. this time he himself detected a faint acrid odor quite different from the usual clean, salty smell. again he dipped to make sure the whole tub was ruined. then he looked at ellinwood in despair. "it's acid, pete," he said. "my father told me about this sort of thing being done sometimes in a close race among bankers for the last load of fish. if they're all like this we're done for until we can get more." ellinwood looked at him in amazement, his jaw sagging. "well, who in thunder would do this?" code laughed bitterly. "there's only one man i can think of, and that is the fellow who got my motor-dory under false pretenses. you remember how he made the cook and the boy help him get it over the side? well, her gasoline-tank was full and her batteries new. she was ready to go two hundred miles on a minute's notice." "but why should he do that--" "oh, think, pete, _think!_ don't you remember? he's one of the men i went up to castalia to get, the time that lawyer came to freekirk head. and he's the only man in the whole crew i don't know well. i see it all now. he sent me a note the night before asking to ship on the _lass_, and i went to get him before any of the other skippers got wind of it. you don't suppose he did this thing on his own account, do you?" "easy, skipper, easy! what's he got against you?" "_he's_ got nothing against me!" cried code passionately. "but he is working for the man who has. do you think that stupid ox would have sense enough to work a scheme like this? never! nat burns is behind this, and i'll bet my schooner on it!" schofield dumped the bait-tub over the deck and rolled it around, examining it. suddenly he stopped and peered closely. "look here!" he cried. "here's proof!" with a splitting knife that he snatched out of a cleat he pried loose a tiny plug in one of the bottom boards that had been replaced so carefully that it almost defied detection. "the whole thing is simple enough. he turned the tub upside down, cut out this plug, and inserted the acid. then he refitted the plug and set it right side up again. it's as plain as the nose on your face." "by thunder, i believe you're right, skipper!" said ellinwood solemnly. "the dirty dog! cookee, run that tub up to the truck again. we'll have to call the men in on this." "oh, he was foxy, that one!" said code bitterly. "going out in the fog that way so all hands would think he was lost! i never remembered until this minute that the motor-dory could be run. i guess she went, all right, and that scoundrel is ashore by this time." "had a bad name in castalia, didn't he?" "oh, a little more or less that i heard of, but what's that in a fisherman? when the men come in have them go through all the bait." pete fired the old rifle, and the crew at work began to pull in through the choppy sea. "hello!" cried the mate, looking behind him. "there's something going to be doin' here in a minute. it's the cutter from halifax, all right." code, his former danger forgotten for the time, glanced up. the smudge of smoke had quickly resolved itself into a stubby, gray steam-vessel with a few bright brass guns forward and a black cloud belching from her funnel. she was still some five miles away, but apparently coming at top speed. three miles before her, with all sails set, including staysail and balloon-job, raced a fishing schooner. there was a fresh ten-knot wind blowing a little south of west--a wind that favored the schooner, and she was putting her best foot forward, taking the green water over her bows in a smother of foam. "heavens! look at her go!" the exclamation was one of pure delight in the speed. "maybe she's an american that's been caught inside the three-mile limit, and is pullin' away from the gunboat," remarked pete. that she was pulling away there was little doubt. in the fifteen minutes that elapsed after her discovery she had widened the gap between herself and her pursuer. she was now within a mile of the _lass_. "why doesn't she shoot?" as code spoke a puff of white smoke thrust out from the blunt bows of the cutter, and the ball ricochetted from wave-top to wave-top to fall half a mile astern of the schooner. "out of range now, an' if the wind holds she'll be out of sight by nightfall," said pete, who was moved to great excitement and enthusiasm by the contest. "wonder who she is?" he plunged down the companionway to the cabin and emerged a moment later with code's powerful glasses. but code did not need any glasses to tell him who she was. his eye had picked out her points before this, and the only thing that interested him was the fact that her wireless was down. it was the mysterious schooner. he had never seen her equal for traveling, and he knew that she must be making a good fourteen knots, for the cutter was capable of twelve. she had reached her closest point of contact with code's vessel and had begun to bear away when pete leveled his glasses. it was on schofield's tongue to reveal the identity of the pursued when ellinwood yelled: "good heavens! skipper! she has _charming lass_ printed in new gold letters under her counter!" "what?" "as i live, code. _charming lass_, as plain as day! what's happening here to-day? what is this?" code snatched the glasses from pete's hand and then leveled them, trembling, at the flying schooner. for a time the foam and whirl of her wake obscured matters, but all at once, as she plunged down into a great hollow between waves, her stern came clear and pointed to heaven. there, in bright letters that glinted in the sun and were easily visible at a much greater distance, was printed the name: charming lass of freekirk head "no wonder she's goin'!" yelled pete, almost beside himself with excitement. "no wonder she's goin'! but let her go! more power to her! yah!" code stood with the glasses to his eyes and watched the mysterious schooner and the pursuing vessel disappear. chapter xix ellinwood takes a hand there were two things for code to do. one was to sail north into placentia bay, newfoundland, set seines, and catch the herring that were then schooling. the other was to run sixty miles or so northeast to st. pierre, miquelon, and buy bait. under ordinary circumstances he would not have hesitated. it would have been placentia bay without question. but his situation was now decidedly out of the ordinary. he was in a hurry to fill his hold with cod before the other men out of freekirk head; first, for the larger prices he would get; and secondly, because he yearned to come to grapples with nat burns. to seine for herring would lose him upward of a week; to buy it would take less than three days, including the round trip to st. pierre. but the money? code knew that in the french island herring seldom went below three dollars a barrel, and that the smallest amount he ought to buy would be twenty-five barrels. later on, if the fishing was good, he might send out a party to set the seines, but not now. he must buy. but the money! then he thought of the packet of money elsa mallaby had sent him. the cash was meant for any sailor who came to need it. and the men with him were willing to fight to the last ditch and to take their lot ungrumblingly as fishermen early learn to do. if he starved, they starved. so he decided he would not hesitate to use elsa's money when a dozen men and their families were dependent upon him and the success of the cruise. thus the matter was settled and the order roared down the decks: "set every stitch for st. pierre; we're going to bait up there. lively, now!" st. pierre, miquelon, is one of the quaintest towns in all of picturesque french canada. it is on the island of the same name (there are three miquelon islands), which is in itself a bold chunk of granite sticking up out of the ocean at a distance of some ten miles southwest of may point, newfoundland. rough and craggy, with few trees, sparse vegetation, and a very thin coating of soil, there is no agriculture, and the whole glory of the island is centered in the roaring city on its southeast side. it is a strange city, lost in the midst of busy up-to-date canada, with french roofs, narrow tilting streets, and ever the smell of fish. there is a good harbor, and there are wharfs where blackfaced men with blue stockings, caps, and gold earrings chatter the patois and smoke their pipes. in the busy time of year there are ten thousand men in the town and it is a scene of constant revelry and wildness. the _charming lass_ touched the port at the height of its season--early september--and, because of the shallowness of the harbor close in, anchored in the bay amid a crowd of old high-pooped schooners, filled with noisy, happy frenchmen. there were other nationalities, too, in the cosmopolitan bay--americans setting a new spar or nova scotians in on a good time. the _charming lass_ cast her anchor shortly before six o'clock, having made the run in five and a half hours with a good breeze behind. code and ellinwood immediately went over the side in the brown dory of the mate and pulled for the customhouse wharf. the rest of the crew were forbidden off the decks except to sleep under them, for it was intended, as soon as the bait was lightered aboard, to make sail to the banks again. the bait industry in st. pierre is one more or less open to examination. it is the delight of certain french dealers to go inside the english three-mile limit, load their vessels with barrels of herring, and return to st. pierre. here they sell them at magnificent profit to frenchmen, englishmen, and americans. and, as the british coat of arms is not stamped on herring at birth, no one can prove that they were not legally procured. but let a canadian revenue cutter catch a frenchman (or american either, for that matter), dipping herring in any out-of-the-way inlet, and the owner not only pays a heavy fine, but he often loses his schooner and his men go to jail for trying to hoist sail and escape at the last minute. code had not reached shore before he had been accosted by fully half a dozen of these bait pirates. but he passed them, and tying his dory at the wharf, went on up the street to a legitimate firm. immediately the business was finished, code and pete ellinwood started back to the wharf. the main street was ablaze with lights. cafés, saloons, music halls, catch-penny places--in fact, every device known to separate sailors from their wages was in operation. the sidewalks were crowded with men, jabbering madly in the different dialects of their home provinces (for many come here from france yearly). "queer lot, these frog-eaters," said pete, going into the street so as to avoid a thick, pushing crowd. "yes, they would come to a knifing over a count of fish and yet give their schooners to a friend in trouble. too bad they ain't better fishermen." "yeah, ain't it." among canadians and americans the frenchmen are held in contempt on account of their hooks, which are of soft metal and can be rebent and used again. the fish often get away with them, however, and these hidden hooks slit many a finger in dressing down. the two comrades loitered along, watching the changing crowds, gay with their colored caps and scarfs. some men were already in liquor, and all seemed to be headed in that general direction. suddenly, as code was about to urge pete along, he gave an exclamation and stopped short. "what's the matter, skipper?" "i wonder where he is now?" code's eyes were searching the crowd. "i saw him right over there." he pointed to a certain spot. "who? what? are you crazy, code?" "'arry duncan, the traitor that ruined our bait. i'd have sworn i saw him. it came all of a sudden and went away again. but i guess it couldn't have been anything but a close resemblance." he laughed nervously. "gave me the creeps for a minute, though." "lor-rd!" shivered pete, who had all the superstitions of the sea at his fingers' ends. "mebbe he's chasin' us around fer wrongly accusin' him. they do that sometimes, you know. he's probably dead an' that's his sperrit, ha'ntin' us." "oh, rot, pete!" growled code in his most forcible manner. "come along now or you'll be sidling into one of these doors and the _lass_ won't get out of port for a week." "my soul an' body! look at that frenchy. biggest i ever saw, code." they had returned to the sidewalk, and pete forgot that he himself rose fully as high above the crowds as this stranger. in fact, nearly every one turned to take a look at the huge islander, who, in reality, stood six feet four, barefoot. they were pushing down-street against the tide and making rather heavy going of it. code maneuvered so as to pass well to leeward of the big man who, he could see plainly, was just tipsy. but somehow the eyes of the two giants met, and the frenchman seemed to crush his way through the crowd in ellinwood's direction. "come on, pete; get out of here before there's any trouble," commanded code. he knew the mate's weakness for fighting. the big frenchman, who wore tremendous earrings, a bright scarlet cap with a blue tuft, and a gay sash, lurched through the crowd and against pete ellinwood with a malice only too plain. but his effort was attended with failure. not only did pete stand like a rock, but he thrust the other violently back with his shoulder, so that he recoiled upon those behind him, earning their loud-voiced curses. "_mille tonnerres!_" bellowed the frenchman. "you insult me, _cochon canadien_, canadian pig! the half of sidewalk is mine, eh? you push me off, eh? you fight, eh?" code urged ellinwood along and interceded personally, knowing that the big man would not touch him. but the frenchman would not be appeased. he was just drunk enough to become obsessed with the ugly idea that pete had laid a trap to insult him, and, regardless of code, kept after the mate. by this time, of course, a huge crowd had gathered and was following pete's retreat, yelling to both men to fight it out. many of the mob knew a few english words, and their taunts reached ellinwood's ears. he and code had not retreated a block before the mate suddenly swung around on his tormentors. "i won't stand for that, code. did you hear what that big devil called me?" he demanded. "what do you care what he called you? get along to the ship. what chance have we got with these men?" code grabbed pete's arm and kept him moving away. beneath his hand he could feel the muscles as hard as iron. but every foot the canadians retreated brought the big frenchman nearer, bawling with triumph. at an opportune moment, so close was the press, he slipped his foot between ellinwood's legs and gave him a push. pete stumbled, almost fell, and recovered himself, raging. "get back you!" he bawled, sending half a dozen men spinning with sweeps of his great arms. "i'll fight this frenchy. just let me at him!" code saw the rage in pete's eyes and recognized that he could do nothing more to avert the trouble. his part would have to be confined to seeing that his man got a fair deal. he and pete were unarmed except for their huge clasp-knives--much better kept out of sight under the circumstances. the crowd fell back, and the two giants stripped off their coats and shirts. the frenchman danced up and down, beating his great fists together in a fine frenzy, but pete, half-crouched, stepped forward on his toes, his hands hanging loose and ready at his sides. "_allez, donc!_" it was the starting word, and jean leaped in. pete met him with a crashing right to the ribs and dodged out of reach of the clutching hands that reached for his throat. they circled around a moment and again the frenchman came, this time in one great leap. on the instant ellinwood jumped in to meet him. there was a swift flying of arms, a pounding of the great fists, and pete suddenly shot back from the mêlée and landed on his back in the dirt. one of the frenchman's great swings had landed. but he was up in an instant and went after his opponent again. jean saw now that he had another man to deal with--unlike a frenchman, an anglo-saxon cannot fight without sufficient provocation. now all the battle was aroused in ellinwood, for aside from the shame of his downfall, the crowd was yelling at the top of its voice. jean began to run away, circling round and round the ring of spectators, pete after him. suddenly he made a stand, but the mate was ready for him. dodging the straight left, pete hurled himself forward and seized the burly frenchman in his arms. then, with a tug and a wrench, as though he were uprooting a tree, he lifted his opponent and crashed him down to the earth. jean, stunned, and with a broken arm, sought to get up. he gained his feet and, game to the last, staggered toward ellinwood. pete started to run in again, but some one on the edge of the crowd thrust a foot out and the big islander stumbled. code saw the man who interfered, and, his blood boiling, leaped for him. at the same instant there came a cry of "police! police!" but code did not hesitate. he plunged into the crowd after his man and, in an instant, found himself surrounded and fighting the whole mob. for a moment it lasted. there was a rain of heavy blows that blinded him, and then something that was hard and dull struck him on the head. everything began to whirl, and he found he could not lift his arms. dimly he heard a voice near him shout: "this way!" in english and felt himself gathered up by men and borne swiftly away. then consciousness left him. chapter xx among the home folks the village of freekirk head was a changed place. no longer of early mornings did the resounding _pop! pop!_ of motor-dories ring back from the rocks and headland as the trawlers and hand-liners put to sea. no longer did the groups of weary fishermen gather on the store steps for an evening pipe and chat or the young bloods chuck horseshoes at the foot of the chapel hill. it was a village of women. true, squire hardy, being too old to fish, had remained at home, and bill boughton, who was completing details for the immediate and profitable sale of the season's catch, was behind the counter of his general store. he dealt out supplies to the women and children, and wrote down against their fathers' shares the amount of credit extended. but others, day after day, found nothing set against them, and this was due to the promise of help that elsa mallaby kept. "it's useless to charge supplies to those who have nothing now with the idea of getting it back from their fishing profits," she said. "what they earn will just about pay for it, and then there they are back where they started--with nothing. better let me pay for everything until the men get back. then they will have something definite ahead to go on." no one but adelbert bysshe, the rector, bill boughton, and elsa mallaby herself knew exactly how much she paid out weekly toward the maintenance of the village. but all knew it to be an enormous sum (as reckoned on the island), and daily the worship of hard luck jim's widow grew, until she occupied a place in freekirk head parallel to a patron saint of the middle ages. but elsa mallaby was intensely human, and no one knew it better than herself, as, one late afternoon, she sat at her mahogany table, looking absently over the stubs in her check-book. she saw that she had disbursed a great deal of money--more, perhaps, than she would have under any other circumstances--but she frankly acknowledged that she did not mind that, if only she achieved the end toward which she was working. for elsa, more than any one on grande mignon, was a person of ways and means. she was one of those women who seem to find nothing in self-communion. hers was a nature destined for light and gaiety and happiness. to sit in a splendid palace and mope over what had happened was among the last things she cared to contemplate. being of the pure grande mignon stock, she looked no farther for a husband than among the men of freekirk head, good, honest, able men, all of them. and her eye fell with favor upon captain code schofield of the schooner _charming lass_, old schoolfellow, playmate, and lifelong friend. the money she had mailed to him had only been an excuse to write a letter; the favors to ma schofield were, in great part, to help further her plan; the whole business of helping support freekirk head was a flash of dramatic display, calculated to bring her ineradicably before code's eyes--and every one else's. as she sat near the window and saw the sunset glow die over the mountain ridge she asked herself what she had achieved. apparently very little. she felt the futility of human endeavor and desire. to her knowledge code was in love with nobody, although rumor had for years linked his name with nellie tanner's. that was exploded now, for nellie was engaged to nat burns. _why_ did he not respond? slowly her smile returned. he would respond when he had heard certain other things. then he would forget any one else but her--if there was any one else. her heart leaped at the thought. as it became dark she rang the bell. "light the candles in the drawing-room," she said to the servant who entered. "you remember that mrs. tanner is coming for dinner?" "yes, madam." "very well. that is all." the servant withdrew. there was nothing unusual in the fact of mrs. tanner coming for dinner in the evening to the big house. elsa simply could not eat all her meals alone, and her old friends at the village were constantly receiving invitations. mrs. tanner arrived at half-past six. it was her first visit since the departure of the fleet several weeks before, and there was plenty to talk about. but ma tanner wisely reserved her conversation until after the meal, for the "vittles" of mallaby house were famous the whole length of the new brunswick coast. afterward when they had retired to elsa's pink and gray boudoir, the eternal envy of grande mignon womanhood, the talk flowed freely. "it's this way, elsa," declared ma confidentially. "i think nellie is pretty well took care of. now young nat burns, as you know, is pretty well off, as the sayin' goes on the island. he really wouldn't have to fish if he didn't want to. his father didn't neglect _him_ when his time come." ma tanner did not see the change in elsa's expression. the pupils of her magnificent black eyes expanded and the delicate brows drew together over the bridge of her nose. the close mouth, with its ugly set, would not have been recognized by any but lifelong friends. "and nat's about's good as any boy," went on ma. "boys is turr'ble hard to fetch up so they don't disgrace ye and send ye to the grave with gray head bowed in sorter, as the poet says. nat ain't bad. he speaks sharp to his mother once in a while, but la--what boy don't? i think he'll treat nellie right and be a good man to her." "ma," said elsa, and her voice was quiet and intense as though she were keeping herself well in hand, "that's what _every one_ thinks about nat burns." "wal," asked the elder woman, slightly resentful, "don't you think so?" "what i think has nothing whatever to do with the question. but what i _know_ might have. i don't want nellie's life ruined, that's all." "look here, elsa, what're you drivin' at?" ma turner was becoming wrought up. she knew there must be something behind these hints or elsa would never venture on such thin ice with her. "ye be'n't by any means jealous o' nellie, be ye?" she asked, peering through her spectacles. "heavens, no!" cried elsa so convincingly that mrs. tanner was satisfied once and for all. "wal, what's all the fuss, then?" "any girl would ruin her life that threw herself away on nat burns. he's got a fine solid-gold case, but his works are very poor indeed, ma tanner." "don't go talkin' educated or i can't follow ye. d'ye mean he's all show an' nothin' in his mind or heart of christian goodness?" "yes, i mean that, and i mean more besides. he doesn't stop by being merely 'not good.' he is actively and busily downright bad." "they's several kinds of 'bad,' elsa mallaby." "well, i mean the kind that makes a girl break her engagement and keep it broken, and that drives a man out of a decent village." there was a long and pregnant pause while ma tanner got everything straight in her mind. "you don't mean that he has--" she inquired, her little mouth a thin, hard line. "yes, i do. exactly that. i knew the case myself in this very village before jim died. there are some men who instinctively take the correct course in a matter of that kind; others who don't care two pins as long as they get out of it with a whole skin. nat burns was that kind." "then you mean he ought already to be married?" "yes, or in jail." "why isn't he?" "it was entirely up to the girl and she refused to act." "gawd! my poor nellie!" the servant knocked, and, upon receiving permission to enter, handed elsa a telegram, evidently just delivered from the village telegraph office. unconsciously the girl reached into a glass-covered bookcase and drew forth a paper volume. then she tore open the message and commenced to read it with the aid of the book. mrs. tanner did not notice her. she sat staring into the future with a leaden heart. such a thing as elsa hinted at was unheard of in freekirk head, and she was overwhelmed. suddenly she asked: "why do you hate nat burns so? you couldn't have told me that if you hadn't hated him." elsa looked up from her book impatiently, quite oblivious to the wound she had caused. "because i was very fond of that girl!" she said, and went back to the translation of the message. suddenly she sprang to her feet with a little cry of dismay and rang the bell. "annette!" she cried. "annette!" the maid rushed in, frightened, from the adjoining room. "tell charles i am going to st. john's to-morrow, and to have the carriage at the door at half-past six. pack my steamer trunk immediately. great guns! why isn't there a night boat?" the maid flew out of the room, and elsa, still doubtful, retranslated the message. mrs. tanner, taken aback by these sudden activities, rose hurriedly to go. this sudden flurry was inexplicable to her. since the departure of the fleet elsa had not as much as hinted leaving freekirk head. now, in a moment, she was beside herself to go. "i hope it isn't bad news, elsa," she faltered. "well, it is, ma, it is, b-but only in a business way. a little trip will straighten it up, i think." and she was courteous but indefatigable in hastening the departure of her guest. chapter xxi a prisoner when code schofield came to himself his first sensation was one of oppression, such as is felt after sleeping in an unventilated room. it seemed difficult for him to breathe, but his body was quite free and uninjured, as he found by moving himself carefully in all directions before he even opened his eyes. presently the air became familiar. it was a perfect mixture of flavors; oilskins, stale tobacco-smoke, brine, burned grease, tar, and, as a background, fish. his ears almost immediately detected water noises running close by, and he could feel the pull of stout oak timber that formed the inner wall of where he lay. "fo'c'stle of a fishing schooner!" he announced, and then opened his eyes to prove that he was correct. he looked out into a three-cornered room occupied by a three-cornered table, and that ran as far back as the foremast. above, fastened to a huge square beam, hung a chain-lamp so swiveled that it kept itself level however much the schooner kicked and wriggled. on the table, swinging his legs, sat a large, unpleasant-looking man. "wal, how are ye?" asked this latter, seeing his charge had recovered consciousness. never having seen the man before, code did not consider it necessary to answer. so he wriggled to find out if any bones were broken, and, in the end, discovered a tender knob on the right side of his head. he soon recalled the visit to st. pierre, the purchase of the bait, pete ellinwood's fight, the general mix-up, and the blow on the head that had finished him. he sat up suddenly. "look here! what ship is this?" he demanded. "you'll find out soon enough when you go on deck. hungry? i got orders to feed ye." "you bet i'm hungry; didn't have any dinner last night in st. pierre." "two nights ago," said the other, beginning to fry salt pork. "nigh thirty-six hours you've laid here like a log." code doubted it, but did not argue. he was trying to puzzle out the situation. if this was a fishing schooner the men ought to be over the side fishing, and she would be at anchor. instead, feeling the long, steady heel to leeward and half-recover to windward, he knew she was flying on a course. breakfast swallowed, he made his way on deck. as he came up the companionway a man stood leaning against the rail. with a feeling of violent revulsion, code recognized nat burns. a glance at a near-by dory showed the lettering _nettie b._, and schofield at once recognized his position. he was nat burns's prisoner. "mornin'," said burns curtly. "thought you were goin' to sleep forever." "it's a hanging offense putting any one to sleep that long," retorted code cheerfully. "luck was with you, and i woke up." "you're hardly in a position to joke about hanging offenses," remarked nat venomously. "why not?" code had gone a sickly pallor that looked hideous through his tan. "because you're goin' home to st. andrew's to be tried for one." code glanced over his left shoulder. the sun was there. the schooner was headed almost directly southwest. nat had spoken the truth. they were headed homeward. "where's your warrant?" code could feel his teeth getting on edge with rage as he talked to this captor who bore himself with such insolence. "don't need a warrant for murder cases, and i'm a constable at freekirk head, so everything is being done according to law. the gunboat didn't find you, so i thought, as long as you were right to hand, i'd bring you along." "then you knew i was in st. pierre?" "yes; saw you come in. if it hadn't been so dark you'd have recognized the _nettie_ not far away." code, remembering the time of night they arrived, knew this to be impossible, for it is dark at six in september. he had barely been able to make out the lines of the nearest schooners. a man was standing like a statue at the wheel, and, as he put the vessel over on the port tack, his face came brightly into the sun. it was 'arry duncan. code had not been wrong, then, in thinking that he had seen the man's face in st. pierre. "fine traitor you've got there at the wheel," said schofield. "he'll do you brown some day." "i don't think so. just because he did you, doesn't prove anything. he was in my employ all the time, and getting real money for his work." "so it was all a plot, eh?" said code dejectedly. "i give you credit, burns, for more brains than i ever supposed you had. what's become of pete ellinwood and the _lass?_" "pete is back on the schooner and she's gone out to fish. you needn't worry about them. at the proper time they'll be told you are safe and unhurt." code said nothing for a while. with hands rammed into his pockets he stood watching the white and blue sea whirl by. in those few minutes he touched the last depth of failure and despair. for a brief space he was minded to leap overboard. he shivered as one with an ague and shook off the deadly influence of the idea. had he no more grit? he asked himself. had he come this far only to be beaten? was this insolent young popinjay to win at last? _no!_ then he listened, for nat was speaking. "if you give your word of honor not to try and escape you can have the run of the decks and go anywhere you like on the schooner. if not, you will be locked up and go home a prisoner." it was the last straw, the final piece of humiliation. code stiffened as a soldier might to rebuke. a deadly, dull anger surged within him and took possession of his whole being--such an anger as can only come to one who, amiable and upright by nature, is driven to inevitable revolt. "look here, burns," he said, his voice low, but intense with the emotion that mastered him, "i'll give no word of honor regarding anything. between you and me there is a lot to be settled. you have almost ruined me, and, by heaven, before i get through with you, you'll rue it! "i shall make every attempt to escape from this schooner, and if i do escape, look out! if i do not escape and you press these charges against me, i'll hunt you down for the rest of my life; or if i go to prison i will have others do it for me. "now you know what to expect, and you also know that when i say a thing i mean it. now do what you like with me." burns looked at schofield's tense white face. his eyes encountered those flaming blue ones and dropped sullenly. whether it was the tremendous force of the threat or whether it was a guilty conscience working, no one but himself knew, but his face grew gradually as pallid as that of his captive. suddenly he turned away. "boys," he called to the crew who were working near, "put schofield in the old storeroom. and one of you watch it all the time. he says he will escape if he can, so i hold you responsible." code followed the men to a little shanty seemingly erected against the foremast. it was of stout, heavy boards about long enough to allow a cot being set up in it. it had formerly been used for storing provisions and had never been taken down. when the padlock snapped behind him code took in his surroundings. there were two windows in the little cubby, one looking forward and the other to starboard. neither was large enough to provide a means of escape, he judged. at the foot of the cot was a plain wooden armchair, both pieces of furniture being screwed to the floor. for exercise there was a strip of bare deck planking about six feet long beside the bed, where he might pace back and forth. both the cot and chair appeared to be new. "had the room all ready for me," said code to himself. the one remaining piece of furniture was a queer kind of book-shelf nailed against the wall. it was fully five feet long and protruded a foot out above his bed. in its thirty-odd pigeonholes was jammed a collection of stuff that was evidently the accumulation of years. there were scores of cheap paper-bound novels concerning either high society or great detectives, old tobacco-boxes, broken pipes, string, wrapping-paper, and all the what-not of a general depository. with hours on his hands and nothing whatever to occupy him, code began to sort over the lurid literature with a view to his entertainment. he hauled a great dusty bundle out of one pigeonhole, and found among the novels some dusty exercise books. he inspected them curiously. on the stiff board cover of one was scrawled, "log schooner _m. c. burns_; m. c. burns, master." the novels were forgotten with the appearance of this old relic. _the m. c. burns_ was the original burns schooner when nat's father was still in the fish business at freekirk head. it was the direct predecessor of the _nettie b._, which was entirely nat's. on the death of the elder burns when the _may schofield_ went down, the _m. c. burns_ had been sold to realize immediate cash. and here was her log! code looked over pages that were redolent of the events in his boyhood, for michael was a ready writer and made notes regularly even when the _m. c._ was not on a voyage. he had spent an hour in this way when he came to this entry on one of the very last pages: "june : this day clear with strong e. s.-e. wind. this day nat, in the _m. c. burns_, raced code schofield in the _may schofield_ from quoddy head to moorings in freekirk head harbor. my boy had the worst of it all the way. i never saw such luck as that young schofield devil has. he won by half an hour. poor nat is heartbroken and swore something awful. he says he'll win next time or know why!" "just like old man burns!" thought code. "pities and spoils his rascal of a son. but the boy loved him." code had not thought of that race in years. how well he remembered it now! there had been money up on both sides, and the rules were that no one in either schooner should be over twenty except the skippers. what satisfaction it had been to give nat a good trimming in the fifty-year-old _may_. he could still feel an echo of the old proud thrill. he turned back to the log. "july : cloudy this day. hot. light s.-w. breeze. nat tells me another race will be sailed in just a week. swears he will win it. poor boy, what with losing yesterday and caroline fuller's leaving the head to work in lubec, he is hardly himself. i'm afraid the old _m. c._ won't show much speed till she is thoroughly overhauled. note--stmr. _may schofield's_ policy runs out july th. see about this, sure." there was very little pertaining to the next race until the entry for june , two days before the event. then he read: "nat is quite happy; says he can't lose day after to-morrow. i told him he must have fitted the _m. c._ with wings, but he only grinned. take the stmr. to st. john to-morrow to look after policies, including _may schofield's_. she's so old her rates will have to go up. won't be back till day after the race, but nat says he'll telegraph me. wonder what business that boy's got up his sleeve that makes him so sure he will win? oh, he's a clever one, that boy!" here the chronicle ended. little did michael burns know he would never write in it again. he went to st. john's, as he had said, and completed his business in time to return home the day of the race instead of the day after. the second race was never sailed, for code schofield received a telegram from st. john's, offering him a big price for a quick lighterage trip to grande mignon, st. john being accidentally out of schooners and the trip urgent. though loath to lose the race by default, the money offered was too good to pass by, and code had made the trip and loaded up by nightfall. it was then that he had met michael burns, and burns had expressed his desire to go home in the _may_ so as to watch her actions in a moderate sea and gale. neither he nor the _may_ ever saw dry land again. only code of the whole ship's company struggled ashore on the wolves, bruised and half dead from exposure. the end of the old log before him was full of poignant tragedy to code, the tragedy of his own life, for it was the unwritten pages from then on that should have told the story of a fiendishly planned revenge upon him who was totally innocent of any wrong-doing. the easy, weak, indulgence of the father had grown a crop of vicious and cruel deeds in the son. chapter xxii a recovered treasure for five days code yawned or rushed through the greater part of nat's stock of lurid literature. it was the one thing that kept him from falling into the black pit of brooding; sometimes he felt as though he must go insane if he allowed himself to think. he had not the courage to tear aside the veil of dull pain that covered his heart and look at the bleeding reality. he was afraid of his own emotions. it was impossible for him to go lower in the scale of physical events. nat was about to triumph, and code himself was forced to admit that this triumph was mostly due to nat's own wits. first he had stolen nellie tanner (code had thought a lot about that ring missing from nellie's hand), then he had attached the _charming lass_ in the endeavor to take away from him the very means of his livelihood. then something had happened. schofield did not know what it was, but something evidently very serious, for the next thing he knew nat had crushed his pride and manhood under a brutal and technical charge of murder. but this was not all. his victim escaping him with the schooner and the means of livelihood, burns had employed a traitor in the crew to poison the bait and force him to come ashore to replenish his tubs. once ashore, the shanghaiing was not difficult. code had no doubt whatever that the whole plan, commencing with the disappearance of the man in the motor-dory and ending with his abduction from st. pierre, was part and parcel of the same scheme. in this, his crowning achievement of skill and cunning, burns had showed himself an admirable plotter, playing upon human nature as he did to effect his ends. for it was nothing but a realization of peter ellinwood's weakness in the matter of his size and fighting ability that resulted in his (code's) easy capture. schofield had no shadow of a doubt but that the big frenchman had been hired to play his part, and that, in the howling throng that surrounded the fighters the crew of the _nettie b._ were waiting to seize the first opportunity to make the duel a _mêlée_ and effect their design in the confusion. their opportunity came when the frenchman tried to trip pete ellinwood after big jean had fallen and code rushed into the fray with the ferocity of a wildcat. some one raised the yell "police," he was surrounded by his enemies, some one rapped him over the head with a black-jack, and the job was done. it was clever business, and despite the helplessness of his position, code could not but admire the brilliance of such a scheming brain, while at the same time deploring that it was not employed in some legitimate and profitable cause. now he was in the enemy's hands, and st. andrew's was less than a dozen hours away; st. andrew's, with its jail, its grand jury, and its pen. life aboard the _nettie b._ had been a dead monotony. on the foremast above code's prison hung the bell that rang the watches, so that the passage of every half hour was dinged into his ears. three times a day he was given food, and twice a day he was allowed to pace up and down the deck, a man holding tightly to each arm. the weather had been propitious, with a moderate sea and a good quartering wind. the _nettie_ had footed it properly, and code's experienced eye had, on one occasion, seen her log her twelve knots in an hour. the fact had raised his estimation of her fifty per cent. it must not be supposed that, as code sat in his hard wooden chair, he forgot the diary that he had read the first afternoon of his incarceration. often he thought of it, and often he drew it out from its place and reread those last entries: "swears he will win second race," "says he can't lose day after to-morrow," "i wonder what the boy has got up his sleeve that makes him so sure he will win?" at first code merely ascribed these recorded sayings of nat burns to youthful disappointment and a sportsmanlike determination to do better next time. but not for long. he remembered as though it had been yesterday the look with which nat had favored him when he finally came ashore beaten, and the sullen resentment with which he greeted any remarks concerning the race. there was no sportsmanlike determination about him! code quickly changed his point of view. how could nat be so sure he was going to win? the thing was ridiculous on the face of it. the fifty-year-old _may_ had limped in half an hour ahead of the thirty-year-old _m. c. burns_ after a race of fifteen miles. how, then, could nat swear with any degree of certainty that he would win the second time. it was well known that the _m. c. burns_ was especially good in heavy weather, but how could nat ordain that there would be just the wind and sea he wanted? the thing was absurd on the face of it, and, besides, silly braggadocio, if not actually malicious. and even if it were malicious, code thanked heaven that the race had not been sailed, and that he had been spared the exhibition of nat's malice. he had escaped that much, anyway. however, from motives of general caution, code decided to take the book with him. nat had evidently forgotten it, and he felt sure he would get off the ship with it in his possession. now, as he drew near to st. andrews, he put it for the last time inside the lining of his coat, and fastened that lining together with pins, of which he always carried a stock under his coat-lapel. as schofield had not forgotten the old log of the _m. c. burns_, neither had he forgotten the threat he made to nat that he would try his best to escape, and would defy his authority at every turn. he had tried to fulfil his promise to the letter. twice he had removed one of the windows before the alert guard detected him, and once he had nearly succeeded in cutting his way through the two-inch planking of his ceiling before the chips and sawdust were discovered, and he was deprived of his clasp-knife. every hour of every day his mind had been constantly on this business of escape. even during the reading, to which he fled to protect his reason, it was the motive of every chapter, and he would drop off in the middle of a page into a reverie, and grow inwardly excited over some wild plan that mapped itself out completely in his feverish brain. now as they approached st. andrew's his determination was as strong as ever, but his resources were exhausted. double-guarded and without weapons, he found himself helpless. the fevered excitement of the past four days had subsided into a dull apathy of hurt in which his brain was as delicate and alert as the mainspring of a watch. he was resigned to the worst if it came, but was ready, like a panther in a tree, to spring at the slightest false move of his enemies. now for the last time he went over his little eight-by-ten prison. he examined the chair as though it were some instrument of the inquisition. he pulled the bed to pieces and handled every inch of the frame. he emptied every compartment of the queer hanging cabinet that had been stuffed with books and miscellanies; he examined every article in the room. he had done this a dozen times before, but some instinct drove him to repeat the process. there was always hope of the undiscovered, and, besides, he needed the physical action and the close application of his mind. so, mechanically and doggedly he went over every inch of his little prison. but in vain. the roof and walls were of heavy planking and were old. they were full of nicks as well as wood-knots, and the appearance of some of the former gave code an idea. he went carefully over the boards, sticking his thumb-nail into them and lifting or pressing down as the shape of the nick warranted. for they resembled very much the depressions cut in sliding covers on starch-boxes whereby such covers can be pushed in their grooves. at any other time he would have considered this the occupation of a madman, but now it kept him occupied and held forth the faint gleam of hope by which he now lived. suddenly something happened. he was lying across his immovable cot fingering the boards low down in the right rear corner when he felt something give beneath his thumb. a flash of hope almost stifled him, and he lay quiet for a moment to regain command of himself. then he put his thumb again in the niche and lifted up. with all his strength he lifted and, all at once, a panel rushed up and stuck, revealing a little box perhaps a foot square that had been built back from the rear wall of the old storeroom. that was all, except for the fact that something was in the box--a package done up in paper. for a while he did not investigate the package, but devoted his attention to sounding the rest of the near-by planks with the hope that they might give into a larger opening and furnish a means of egress. for half an hour he worked and then gave up. he had covered every inch of wall and every niche, and this was all! at last he turned to the contents of the box that he had uncovered. removing the package, he slid the cover down over the opening for fear that his guard, looking in a window, might become aware of what he had discovered. then, sitting on the bed, he unwrapped the package. it was a beautiful, clear mirror bound with silver nickel and fitted with screw attachments as though it were intended to be fastened to something. at first this unusual discovery meant nothing whatever to him. then, as he turned the object listlessly in his hands, his eyes fell upon three engraved letters, c. a. s., and a date, . then he remembered. when he was twenty years old his father had taught him the science of navigation, so that if anything happened code might sail the old _may schofield_. because of the fact that a position at sea was found by observing the heavenly bodies, code had become interested in astronomy, and had learned to chart them on a sky map of his own. the object in his hand was an artificial horizon, a mirror attached to the sextant which could be fixed at the exact angle of the horizon should the real horizon be obscured. this valuable instrument his father had given him on his twenty-first birthday because the old man had been vastly pleased with his interest in a science of which he himself knew little or nothing. code remembered that, for a year or two, he had pursued this hobby of his with deep interest and considerable success, and that his great object in life had been to some day have a small telescope of his own by which to learn more of the secrets of the heavens. but, after his father died, he had been forced to take up the active support of the family, and had let this passion die. but how did it happen that the mirror was here? he recalled that the rest of his paraphernalia had gone to the bottom with the _may schofield_. it was true that he had not overhauled his equipment for some time, and that it had been in a drawer in the _may's_ cabin, but that drawer had not been opened. he pursued the train of thought no farther. his brain was tired and his head ached with the strain of the last five days. his last hope of escape had only resulted in his finding a forgotten mirror, and his despair shut out any other consideration. he had not even the fire to resent the fact that it was in burns's possession, and concealed. it was his, he knew, and, without further thought of it, he thrust it into his pocket just as he heard the men outside his little prison talking together excitedly. "by george, she looks like a gunboat," said one. "i wonder what she wants?" "yes, there's her colors. you can see the sun shinin' on her brass guns forward." "there, she's signalin'. i wonder what she wants?" code walked idly to his windows and peered out, but could not see the vessel that the men were talking about. "she wants us to heave to, boys," sang out nat suddenly. "stand by to bring her up into the wind. hard down with your wheel, john!" as the schooner's head veered code caught a glimpse of a schooner-rigged vessel half a mile away with uniformed men on her decks and two gleaming brass cannon forward. then she passed out of vision. "she's sending a cutter aboard," said one man. chapter xxiii surprises fifteen minutes later a small boat, rowed smartly by six sailors in white canvas, came alongside the 'midships ladder of the _nettie b._ at a word from the officer the six oars rose as one vertically into the air, and the bowman staved off the cutter so that she brought up without a scratch. a young man in dark blue sprang out of the stern-sheets upon the deck. "_nettie b._ of freekirk head?" he asked. "captain burns commanding?" "yes," said nat, stepping forward, "i am captain burns. what do you want?" "i come from the gunboat _albatross_," said the officer, "and represent captain foraker. you have on board, have you not, a man named code schofield, also of freekirk head, under arrest for the murder of a man or men on the occasion of the sinking of his schooner?" nat scowled. "yes," he said. "i arrested him myself in st. pierre, miquelon. i am a constable in freekirk head." "just as we understood," remarked the officer blandly. "captain foraker desires me to thank you for your prompt and efficient work in this matter, though i can tell you on the side, captain burns, that the old man is rather put out that he didn't get the fellow himself. we chased up and down the banks looking for him, but never got within sight of as much as his main truck sticking over the horizon. "and the _petrel_--that's our steamer, you know--well, sir, maybe he didn't make a fool of her. payson, on the _petrel_, is the ugliest man in the service, and when this fellow schofield led him a chase of a hundred and fifty miles, and then got away among the islands of placentia bay, they say payson nearly had apoplexy. so your getting him ought to be quite a feather in your cap." "i consider that i did my duty. but would you mind telling me what you have signaled me for?" burns resented the gossip of this young whipper-snapper of the service who seemed, despite his frankness, to have something of a patronizing air. "certainly. captain foraker desires me to tell you that he wished the prisoner transferred to the _albatross_. we know that you are not provided with an absolutely secure place to keep the prisoner, and, as we are on our way to st. andrews on another matter, the skipper thinks he might just as well take the fellow in and hand him over to the authorities." "well, i don't agree with your skipper," snapped burns. "i got schofield, and i'm going to deliver him. he's safe enough, don't you worry. when you go back you can tell captain foraker that schofield is in perfectly good hands." the pleasant, amiable manner of the subaltern underwent a quick change. he at once became the stern, businesslike representative of the government. "i am sorry, captain burns, but i shall deliver no such message, and when i go back i shall have the criminal with me. those are my orders, and i intend to carry them out." he turned to the six sailors sitting quietly in the boat, their oars still in the air. "unship oars!" he commanded. the sweeps fell away, three on each side. "squad on deck!" the men scrambled up the short ladder and lined up in two rows of three. at his belt each man carried a revolver and cutlasses swung at their sides. "now," requested the officer amiably, "will you please lead me to the prisoner?" nat's face darkened into a scowl of black rage, and he cursed under his breath. it was just his luck, he told himself, that when he was about to triumph, some of these government loafers should come along and take the credit out of his hands. for a moment he thought of resistance. all his crew were on deck, drawn by curiosity. but he saw they were vastly impressed by the discipline of the visitors and by their decidedly warlike appearance. if he resisted there would be blood spilt, and he did not like the thought of that. he finally admitted to himself that the young officer was only carrying out orders, and orders that were absolutely just. "well, come along!" he snarled ungraciously, and started forward. the officer spoke a word of command, and the squad marched after him as he, in turn, followed nat. of all this code had been ignorant, for the conversation had taken place too far aft for him to hear. his first warning was when the sailors marched past the window and nat reluctantly opened the door of the old storeroom. "officers are here to get you, schofield," said the skipper of the _nettie b._ "come out." wonderingly, code stepped into the sunlight and open air and saw the officer with his escort. with the resignation that he had summoned during his five days of imprisonment he accepted his fate. "i am ready," he said. "let's go as soon as possible." "captain schofield," said the subaltern, "you are to be transferred, and i trust you will deem it advisable to go peaceably." catching sight of the six armed sailors, code could not help grinning. "there's no question about it," he said; "i will." "form cordon!" ordered the officer, and the sailors surrounded him--two before, two beside, and two behind. in this order they marched to the cutter. code was told to get in first and take a seat looking aft. he did so, and the officer dropped into the stern-sheets so as to face his prisoner. the sailors took their position, shipped their oars smartly, and the cutter was soon under way to the gunboat. arrived at the accommodation ladder, and on deck, code found a vessel with white decks, glistening brass work, and discipline that shamed naval authority. the subaltern, saluting, reported to the deck-officer that his mission had been completed, and the latter, after questioning code, ordered that he be taken to confinement quarters. these quarters, unlike the pen on the _nettie b._, were below the deck, but were lighted by a porthole. the room was larger, had a comfortable bunk, a small table loaded with magazines, a chair, and a sanitary porcelain washstand. the luxury of the appointments was a revelation. there was no question of his escaping from this room he very soon discovered. the door was of heavy oak and locked on the outside. the walls were of solid, smooth timber, and the porthole was too small to admit the possibility of his escaping through it. the roof was formed of the deck planks. he had hardly examined his surroundings when he heard a voice in sharp command on deck, and the running of feet, creaking of blocks, and straining of sheets as sail was got on the vessel. his room presently took an acute angle to starboard, and he realized that, with the fair gale on the quarter, they must be crowding her with canvas. he could tell by the look of the water as it flew past his port that the remainder of the trip to st. andrews would not take long. he knew the course there from his present position must be north, a little west, across the bay of fundy. the _nettie b._, when compelled to surrender her prisoner, had rounded nova scotia and was on the home-stretch toward quoddy roads. she was, in fact, less than thirty miles away from grande mignon island, and code had thought with a great and bitter homesickness of the joy just a sight of her would be. he longed for the white swallowtail lighthouse with its tin swallow above; for the tumbled green-clothed granite of the harbor approaches; for the black, sharp-toothed reefs that showed on the half-water near the can-buoy, and for the procession of stately headlands to north and south, fading from sight in a mantle of purple and gray. but most of all for the crescent of stony beach, the nestle of white cottages along the king's road, and the green background of the mountain beyond, with mallaby house in the very heart of it. this had been his train of thought when burns had opened the door to deliver him up to the gunboat, and now it returned to him as the stanch vessel under him winged her way across the blue afternoon sea. he wondered if the _albatross_ would pass close enough inshore for him to get a glimpse of mignon's tall and forbidding fog-wreathed headlands. just a moment of this familiar sight would be balm to his bruised spirit. he felt that he could gather strength from the sight of home. he had been among aliens so long! but no nearer than just a glimpse. he made a firm resolution never to push the prow of the _lass_ into flagg cove until he stood clear of the charges against him. he admitted that it might take years, but his resolution was none the less strong. his place of confinement was on the starboard side of the _albatross_, and he was gratified after a few minutes to see the sun pouring through his porthole. despair had left him now, and he was quietly cheerful. with something akin to pleasure that the struggle was over, and that events were out of his hands for the time being, he settled down in his chair and picked up a magazine. he had hardly opened it when a thought occurred to him. if the course was north a little west, how did it happen that the sun streamed into his room, which was on the east side of the ship on that course? he sprang to the port and looked out. the sun smote him full in the face. he strained his eyes against the horizon that was unusually clear for this foggy sea, and would have sworn that along its edge was a dark line of land. the conclusion was inevitable. the _albatross_ was flying directly south as fast as her whole spread of canvas could take her. schofield could not explain this phenomenon to himself, nor did he try. the orders that a man-of-war sailed under were none of his affair, and if the captain chose to institute a hunt for the north pole before delivering a prisoner in port, naturally he had a perfect right to do so. it was possible, code told himself, that another miserable wretch was to be picked up before they were both landed together. whatever course captain foraker intended to lay in the future his present one was taking him as far as possible away from grande mignon, st. andrew's, and st. john's. and for this meager comfort code schofield was thankful. the sun remained above the horizon until six o'clock, and then suddenly plumped into the sea. the early september darkness rushed down and, as it did so, a big tungsten light in the ceiling of code's room sprang into a brilliant glow, the iron cover to the porthole being shut at the same instant. a few moments later the door of his cell was unceremoniously opened and a man entered bearing an armful of fresh clothing. "captain schofield," he said, with the deference of a servant, "the captain wishes your presence at dinner. the ship's barber will be here presently. etiquette provides that you wear these clothes. i will fix them and lay them out for you. if you care for a bath, sir, i will draw it--" "say, look here," exclaimed our hero with a sudden and unexpected touch of asperity, "if you're trying to kid me, old side-whiskers, you're due for the licking of your life." he got deliberately upon his feet and removed the fishing-coat which he had worn uninterruptedly since the night at st. pierre. "i thought i'd read about you in that magazine or something, and had fallen asleep, but here you are still in the room. i'm going to see whether you're alive or not. no one can mention a bath to me with impunity." he made a sudden grab for the servant, who stood with mouth open, uncertain as to whether or not he was dealing with a lunatic. before he could move, code's hard, strong hands closed upon his arms in a grip that brought a bellow of pain. in deadly fear of his life, he babbled protests, apologies, and pleadings in an incoherent medley that would have satisfied the most toughened skeptic. code released him, laughing. "well, i guess you're real, all right," he said. "now if you're in earnest about all this, draw that bath _quick_. then i'll believe you." half an hour later code, bathed, shaved, and feeling like a different man, was luxuriating in fresh linen and a comfortable suit. "look here, martin," he said to the valet, "of course i know that this is no more the gunboat _albatross_ than i am. the canadian government isn't in the habit of treating prisoners in exactly this manner. what boat is this?" martin coughed a little before answering. in all his experience he had never before been asked to dress the skipper of a fishing vessel. "i was told to say, sir, in case you asked, that you are aboard the mystery schooner, sir." "what! the mystery schooner that led the steamer that chase?" "yes, sir." "well, by the great trawl hook! and i didn't know it!" "no, sir. remember we came up behind the _nettie b._, and when you were transferred you were made to sit facing away from this ship so you would not recognize her." "then all the guns were fakes, and the whole business of a man-of-war as well?" cried code, astonished almost out of his wits by this latest development in his fortunes. "yes, sir. the appearances were false, but as for seamanship, sir, this vessel could not do what she does were it not for the strict training aboard her, sir. i'll wager our lads can out-maneuver and outsail any schooner of her tonnage on the seas, gloucestermen included. the navy is easy compared to our discipline." "but what holds the men to it if it's so hard?" "double wages and loyalty to the captain." "captain foraker?" "yes, sir. there, sir, that tie is beautiful. now the waistcoat and coat. if you will permit me, sir, you look, as i might say, 'andsome, begging your pardon." code flushed and looked into the glass that hung against the wall of his cabin. he barely recognized the clean-shaven, clear-eyed, broad shouldered youth he saw there as the rough, salty skipper of the schooner _charming lass_. he wondered with a chuckle what pete ellinwood would say if he could see him. "and now, sir, if you're ready, just come with me, sir. dinner is at seven, and it is now a quarter to the hour." stunned by the wonders already experienced, and vaguely hoping that the dream would last forever, code followed the bewhiskered valet down a narrow passage carpeted with a stuff so thick that it permitted no sound. martin passed several doors--the passage was lighted by small electrics--and finally paused before one on the right-hand side. here he knocked, and apparently receiving an answer, peered into the room for a moment. withdrawing his head, he swung the door open and turned to schofield. "go right in, sir," he said, and code, eager for new wonders, stepped past him. the room was a small sitting-room, lighted softly by inverted bowl-shaped globes of glass so colored as to bring out the full value of the pink velours and satin brocades with which the room was hung and the furniture covered. for a moment he stared without seeing anything, and then a slight rustling in a far corner diverted his attention. he looked sharply and saw a woman rise from a lounge and come toward him with outstretched hands. she was elsa mallaby! chapter xxiv the siren he saw the glad smile on her lips, the light in her great, lustrous, dark eyes, and the beauty of her faultless body, and yet they all faded to nothing beside the astounding and inexplicable fact that she was in the mystery schooner. "you here!" he gasped, taking her hands in his big rough ones and gripping them tight. the impulse to draw her to him in an embrace was almost irresistible, for not only was she lovely in the extreme, but she was from freekirk head and home, and his soul had been starved with loneliness and the ceaseless repetition of his own thoughts. "yes," she replied in her gentle voice, "i am here. you are surprised?" "that hardly expresses it," he returned. "so many things have happened to-day that i expect anything now." "come, let us go in," she said, and led him through a doorway that connected with an adjoining room. in the center of it was a small table laid with linen and furnished with glittering silver and glass. "are you hungry?" she asked. "you know fishermen well enough not to ask that," he laughed, and they sat down. elsa did not make any tax upon his conversational powers. it was code himself who first put a pertinent question. "i take for granted your being here and your living like this," he said; "but i am bursting with curiosity. how do you happen to be in this schooner?" "it is my schooner; why shouldn't i be in it?" she smiled. "yours?" he was mystified. "but why should you have a vessel like this? you never used one before that i know of." "true, code; but i have always loved the sea, and--it amuses me. you remember that sometimes i have been away from freekirk head for a month at a time. i have been cruising in this schooner. once i went nearly as far as iceland; but that took longer. a woman in my position must do something. i _can't_ sit up in that great big house alone all the time." the intensity with which she said this put a decidedly new face on the matter. it was just like her to be lonely without jim, he thought. naturally a woman with all her money must do something. "but, elsa," he protested, "your having the schooner for your own use is all right enough; but why has it always turned up to help me when i needed help most? really, if i had all the money in the world i could never repay the obligations that you have put me under this summer." "i don't want you to repay me," she said quietly. "just the fact that i have helped you and that you appreciate it is enough to make me happy." he looked steadily into her brown eyes for a few moments. then her gaze dropped and a dull flush mounted from her neck until it suffused her face. he had never seen her look so beautiful. the wealth of her black hair was coiled about the top of her head like a crown, and held in its depths a silver butterfly. her gown was quaker gray in color, and of some soft clinging material that enhanced the lines of her figure. it was an evening gown, and cut just low enough to be at the same time modest and beautiful. code, without knowing why, admired her taste and told himself that she erred in no particular. her mode of life was, at the same time, elegant and feminine--exactly suited her. "you are easily made happy," he remarked, referring to her last sentence. "no, i'm not," she contradicted him seriously. "i am the hardest woman in the world to make happy." "and helping me does it?" "yes." "you are a good woman," he said gratefully, "and always seem to be doing for others. no one will ever forget how you offered to stand by the women of grande mignon while the men went fishing." again elsa blushed, but this time the color came from a different source. little did he know that her philanthropy was all a part of the same plan--to win his favor. "and the things i know you must have done for my mother," he went on. "those are the things that i appreciate more than any. it is not every woman who would even think of them, let alone do them." why would he force her into this attitude of perpetual lying? she thought. it was becoming worse and worse. why was he so straightforward and so blind? could he not see that she loved him? was he one of those cold and passionless men upon whom no woman ever exerts an intense influence? though she did not know it, she expressed the whole fault in her system. a man reared in a more complex community than a fishing village would have divined her scheme, and the result would have been a prolonged but most delightful duel of wits and hearts. but code, by the very directness of his honesty, and simplicity of his nature, cut through the gauzy wrappings of this delectable package and went straight to its heart. and there he found nothing, because what little of the deeply genuine there lay in this woman's restless nature was disguised and shifted at the will of her caprice. when code had experienced the pleasure of lighting a genuine clear havana cigar after many months of abstinence, she leaned across the table to him, her hands clasped before her. "code, what does loneliness represent to you?" she asked. "oh, i don't know," he temporized, taken aback. "i don't go in for loneliness much; but when i do, why all i want is--well, let me see, a good game of quoits with the boys in front of the church, or a talk with my mother about how rich we are going to be some day when i get that partnership in the fishstand. i'm too busy to be lonely." "and i'm too lonely to be busy!" he looked at her unbelievingly. "you!" he cried. "why, you have everything in the world; you can go anywhere, do anything, have the people about you that you want. you, lonely? i don't understand you." "well, i'll put it another way. did you ever want something so hard that it hurt, and couldn't get it?" "yes, i wanted my father back after he died," said code simply. "and i wanted jim after he died," added elsa. "those things are bad enough; but one gets used to them. what i mean especially is something we see about us all the time and have no chance of getting. did you ever want something like that, so that it nearly killed you, and couldn't get it?" code was silent. the one rankling hurt of his whole life, after seemingly being healed, broke out afresh--the engagement of nat burns and nellie tanner. he suddenly realized that, since seeing elsa, he had not as much as remembered nellie's existence, when usually her mental presence was not far from him. elsa, with all her luxury and alluring feminine charms, seemed to cast a spell that bound him helpless like the music in the fairy stories. he liked the spell, and, after all she had done, he confessed to an extraordinary feeling for the enchantress. now had come the memory of nellie--dear, frank-eyed, open-hearted nellie tanner--and the thought that her fresh wholesomeness was pledged to make glad the life of nat burns seared his heart. a cloud settled down on his brow. but in a moment he recalled himself. his hostess had asked him a question; he must answer it. "yes, i have wanted something--and couldn't get it." "yes," said elsa slowly, "a thing is bad enough; but it seems to me that the most hopeless thing in the world is to want a person in that way." her voice was dreamy and retrospective. its peculiar, vibrant timbre thrilled him with the thought that perhaps there was some hidden tragedy in her life that he had never suspected. any unpleasant sense that she was curious was overcome by the manner in which she spoke. "yes, it is," he answered solemnly. she looked up in astonishment at the sincerity of his tone, her heart tingling with a new emotion of delicious uncertainty. what if, after all, he had wanted some one in the way she wanted him? what if the some one were herself and he had been afraid to aspire to a woman of her wealth and position? she asked this without any feeling of conceit, for one who loves always dreams he sees signs of favor in the one beloved. "then you have wanted some one?" all her manner, her voice, her eyes expressed sympathy. she was the soul of tact and no mean actress at the same time. code, still in the depth of reminiscence and averted happiness, scarcely heard her, but he answered "yes, i have." then, coming to full realization of the confession, he colored and laughed uneasily. "but let's not talk of such personal things any more," he added. "you must think me very foolish to be mooning about like this." "can i help you?" she asked, half suffocated by the question. "perhaps there might be something i could do that would bring the one you want to you." it was the crucial point in the conversation. she held her breath as she awaited his answer. she knew he was no adept at the half-meanings and near-confessions of flirtation, and that she could depend upon his words and actions to be genuine. he looked at her calmly without the additional beat of a pulse. his color had died down and left him pale. he was considering. "you have done much for me," he said at last, "and i shall never forget it, but in this matter even _you_ could not help me. only the almighty could do it by direct intervention, and i don't believe he works that way in this century," code smiled faintly. as for elsa, she felt the grip as of an icy hand upon her heart. it was some one else that he meant. was it possible that all her carefully planned campaign had come to this miserable failure? had she come this far only to lose all? the expression of her features did not change, and she sought desperately to control her emotion, but she could not prevent two great tears from welling up in her eyes and slowly rolling down her cheeks. code sat startled and nonplused. only once before in his life had he seen a woman cry, and that was when nellie broke down in his mother's house after the fire. but the cause for that was evident, and the very fact of her tears had been a relief to him. now, apparently without rime or reason, elsa mallaby was weeping. the sight went to his heart as might the scream of a child in pain. he wondered with a panicky feeling whether he had hurt her in any way. "i say, elsa," he cried, "what's the matter? don't do that. if i've done anything--" he was on his feet and around the little table in an instant. he took her left hand in his left and put his right on her shoulder, speaking to her in broken, incoherent sentences. but his words, gentle and almost endearing, emphasized the feeling of miserable self-pity that had taken hold of her and she suddenly sobbed aloud. "elsa, dear," he cried, beside himself with uncertainty, "what is it? tell me. you've done so much for me, please let me do something for you if i can." "you can't, code," she said, "unless it's in your heart," and then she bowed her beautiful head forward upon her bare arms and wept. after awhile the storm passed and she leaned back. he kissed her suddenly. then he abruptly turned to the door and went out. schofield had suddenly come to his senses and disengaged himself from elsa's embrace. chapter xxv the guilt fixed it was the following afternoon before code schofield ventured on deck. when he did so it was to find that all naval uniforms had been laid aside, the imitation brass guns forward had been removed, and the schooner so altered that she would scarcely have been recognized as the _albatross_. the wireless had been erected again, and now the apparatus was spitting forth an almost constant series of messages. the crew, spotless in dungarees and without a vestige of a weapon, maneuvered the schooner as code had never in his life seen a vessel handled. at a word from the officer of the watch they jumped as one man. every order was executed on the run, and all sails were swayed as flat and taut as boards. code found elsa ensconced with a book under the awning amidships. big, comfortable wicker chairs were about and the deck so lately cleared for action had an almost homelike look. "did you sleep well?" asked the girl with an entire lack of self-consciousness, as though the episode of the night before had never occurred. code was very thankful for her tact and much relieved. it was evident that their relations for the remainder of the four days' journey north were to be impersonal unless he chose to make them otherwise. this he had no intention of doing--after his morning's battle with himself. "like a top, when i got started," he replied. "and you?" "splendidly, thanks. and you should have seen the breakfast i ate. i am a shameful gourmand when i am at sea." he took a chair and filled his pipe. "by the way, how long have you been out on this cruise? you weren't aboard, were you, the time the mystery schooner led the revenue steamer such a chase?" "no," she replied, "but i wish i had been. i nearly died when i heard about that; it was so funny. i have only been aboard about four days. i'll tell you the history of it. "i was having a very delightful dinner up at mallaby house with mrs. tanner, nellie's mother, you know"--she looked unconcernedly out to sea--"when i got a message, part wireless and part telegram, saying that nat burns had nabbed you in st. pierre and was racing with you to st. andrew's. "well, i've sworn all along that you shouldn't come to any harm through him, so i just left freekirk head the next morning on the steamer, took a train to halifax, and had the schooner pick me up there. off halifax they told me that the _nettie b._ was six hours ahead of us and going hard, so we had to wing it out for all there was in this one. i had provided all the naval fixings before, realizing that we would probably have to use them some time, and that's all there is to it." "well, elsa, i'll say this--that i don't believe that there was ever a schooner built that could outgame and outsail this one. she's a wonder!" for a while they talked of trite and inconsequential things. it was very necessary that they become firmly grounded on their new footing of genuine friendship before departing into personalities; and so, for two days, they avoided any but the most casual topics. as the weather was exceptionally warm, with a spicy salt breeze that seemed to bear the very germ of life in its midst, they had breakfast and luncheon on deck, dining below in the rosy little dining-room. thirty-six hours before they expected to catch the fishing fleet (it had been maneuvered so that code should be restored to the _charming lass_ after dark), elsa opened the subject of code's trouble with nat burns. it was morning, and his recent days of ease and mental refreshment had made him see things clearly that had before been obscured by the great strain under which he labored. code told her the whole thing from beginning to end, leaving out only that part of nat's cumulative scheme that had to do with nellie tanner. he showed elsa how his enemy had left no stone unturned to bring him back home a pauper, a criminal, and one who could never again lift his head among his own people even though he escaped years in prison. it was a brief and simple story, but he could see elsa's face change as emotions swept over it. her remarks were few, but he suddenly became aware that she was harboring a great and lasting hatred against nat. he did not flatter himself that it was on his own account, nor did he ask the reason for it, but the knowledge that such a hatred existed came to him as a decided surprise. when he had finished his narrative she sat for some little time silent. "and you think, then," she asked at last, "that his motive for all this is revenge, because his father happened to meet death on the old _may?_" "so far it has seemed to me that that can be the only possible reason. what else--but now wait a moment while i think." he went below into his room, secured the old log of the _m.c. burns_ and the artificial horizon. together they read the entries that michael burns had made. "now, elsa," said code by way of explanation, "it was a dead-sure thing that nat could never have beaten me in his schooner, and for two reasons: first, the _may_ was a naturally faster boat than the old _m.c._, although nat would never admit it. that is what really started our racing. secondly, i am only telling the truth when i say that i can outsail nat burns in any wind from a zephyr to a typhoon. "he is the kind of chap, in regard to sailing, who doesn't seem to have the 'feel' of the thing. there is a certain instinct of forces and balance that is either natural or acquired. nat's is acquired. why, i can remember just as well when i was eight years old my father used to let me take a short trick at the wheel in good weather, and i took to it naturally. once on the banks in a gale, when i was only eighteen, the men below said that my trick at the wheel was the only one when they got any sleep. "now, those two things being the case, elsa, how did nat burns expect to win the second race from the _may_?" "i don't know. it doesn't seem possible that he _could_ win." "of course it doesn't, and yet his father writes here that nat 'swears he can't lose.' well, now, you know, a man that swears he can't lose is pretty positive." "did he try to bet with you for the second race?" asked elsa. "did he? i had five hundred dollars at the bank and he tried to bet me that. i never bet, because i've never had enough money to throw it around. a good deal changed hands on the first race, but none of it was mine. i raced for sport and not for money, and i told nat so when he tried to bet with me. if i had raced for money i couldn't have withdrawn that day and gone to st. john for cargo the way i did." "then it seems to me that he must have _known_ he couldn't lose or he would not have tried to bet." "exactly." "but how _could_ he know it?" "that is what i would like to find out." code absently thrust his hand into his coat pocket and encountered the mirror he had found aboard the _nettie b._ he drew it out and polished its bright surface with his handkerchief. elsa was immediately interested and code told her of its unexpected discovery. "and he had it!" she cried, laughing. "of all things!" "yes, and he always wanted it. i remember when father first gave it to me and i was working out little problems in astronomy, nat used to take the thing and handle it and admire it. you see the back and edges are silver-plated and it is really quite valuable. he tried to get his father interested, but, so far as i know, never succeeded. "it was a strange thing, but that simple mirror appealed to nat tremendously, and you know how that would act on a man of his nature. he is and always has been utterly selfish, and if there was any object he wanted and could not have it increased his desire." "but how did he get it, i wonder?" asked the girl, taking the object and heliographing the bright sun's rays from the polished surface. "when did you have it last?" code knitted his brows and thought back carefully. he had an instinctive feeling that perhaps in this mirror lay the key to the whole situation, just as often in life the most unexpected and trivial things or events are pregnant with great moment. "i had it," he said slowly, thinking hard; "let me see: the last time i remember it was the day after my first race with nat. in the desk that stood in the cabin of the old _may_ i kept the log, my sextant, and a lot of other things of that kind. in a lower drawer was this mirror, and the reason i saw it was this: "when i had made fast to my moorings in the harbor i immediately went below to make the entry in the log about the race--naturally i couldn't leave that undone. i remember i looked in the top drawer for the book, but didn't find it. so then i looked in the other drawers and, in doing so, opened the one containing the mirror. "i distinctly remember seeing it, for the lamp was lighted and the glass flashed a blinding glare into my eyes. you see we raced in about the worst winter weather there was and the lamp had to be lighted very early. "the log-book wasn't there, and i found it somewhere or other later, but that hasn't anything to do with the case. i never saw the mirror after that--in fact, never looked for it. i took for granted it had gone down with the _may_, along with all my other things, except the log-book, which i saved and use now aboard the _lass_." "and you didn't take it out or give it to anybody?" "no. i am positive of that. i didn't touch it after seeing it that once." "then it is very plain, code, that if nat burns came into possession of it he must have taken it himself. he was very angry with you for winning, wasn't he?" "terribly. for once i thought he might be dangerous and kept out of his way until the thing had worn off a little." "just like him," said elsa in that tone of bitter hatred that code had heard her use before when speaking of burns. "he must have gone aboard the _may_ and taken it, because you prized it so much. a fine revenge!" "yes, but we don't do those things in freekirk head, elsa. you know that. we don't steal from one another's trawl-lines, and we don't prowl about other men's schooners. i can't understand his doing a thing like that." "perhaps not, but if not, explain how he got it." "you're right," code admitted after a moment's thought; "that's the only way." they were silent for a while, pondering over this new development and trying to discover where it might lead. under sharp commands the crew brought the schooner about on the starboard tack, for the wind was on the bow, and set a staysail between the fore and main masts. the splendid ship seemed to skim over the surface of the sea, touching only the tops of the waves. "no, it's no good!" broke out code suddenly. "much as i hate nat burns, i don't believe he would come aboard my schooner just for the purpose of stealing a silver-plated mirror. that isn't like him. he's too clever to do anything like that. and, besides, what kind of a revenge would that be for having lost the race?" "well, what can you suggest? how else did he get it?" elsa was frankly sceptical and clung to her own theory. "he might have come aboard for something else, mightn't he, and picked up the mirror just incidentally?" "he might have, yes, but what else would bring him there?" code sat rigid for a few minutes. he had such a thought that he scarcely dared consider it himself. "it's all clear to me now," he said in a low, hoarse voice. "nat came aboard to damage the schooner so that he would be sure to win the second race." "code!" the cry was one of involuntary horror as elsa remembered the tragedy of the _may_. hate nate though she might, this was an awful charge to lay at his door. "then he killed his own father, if what you say is true!" she added breathlessly. "oh, the poor wretch! the poor wretch!" "yes, that solves it," went on code, who had hardly heard her. "that solves the entries that michael burns made in his ship's log before he went to st. john on his last business trip. nat swore he could not lose, and the old man, who was honest enough himself, must have wondered what his son was up to. "this mirror proves that nat must have been aboard the schooner secretly; what he told his father and his eagerness to bet with me on a proposition that seemed foolhardy on the face of it clinch the thing in my mind. the misguided fool! that, elsa, is an example of how low a man will go who has been spoiled and brought up without the slightest idea of self-control." "why, you're preaching to me, code," laughed the girl, and he joined her. but she sobered in a moment. "this is all very fine theory," she said, "and i half believe it myself, but it's worthless; you haven't a grain of proof. tell me, have you ever thought over the details of the sinking of the _may?_" "only once," groaned schofield, "and i--i hate to do it, elsa. i'd rather not. every time i think of that awful day i sweat with sheer horror. every incident of it is engraved on my brain." "but listen, code, you must think about it for once, and think about it with all your mind. tell me everything that happened. it is vital to our case; it may save the whole thing from being worthless. even if we get nothing you must make the effort." code knew that what elsa said was true. with an effort he focused his mind back on that awful day and began. "there was a good sea that day," he said, "and more than half a gale out of the northeast. if it had been any other day i shouldn't have taken the old _may_ out at all, because she was loaded very deep. but the whole trip was a hurry call and they wanted me to get back to mignon with the salt as soon as i could. "old burns saw me on the wharf and asked if he could go along as passenger. i said he could, and we started early in the morning. now that day wasn't anything unusual, elsa. i've been in a lot worse gales in the _may_, but not with her so deep; but i didn't think anything would happen. "everything went all right for three hours, with the wind getting fresher all the time, and the vessel under four lowers, which was a pretty big strain on any schooner. as i say, she should have stood it, but all of a sudden, on a big lurch, the fore topm'st that hadn't a rag on her broke off short and banged down, hanging by the guys. with one swipe it smashed the foregaff to splinters, and half the canvas hung down flapping like a great wing. "i couldn't understand it. i knew the topm'st was in a weakened condition, but not as rotten as punk, and i supposed my foregaff was as solid a piece of timber as ever went into a vessel. "but listen!" as elsa started to speak. "that isn't all. the flapping canvas, with part of the gaff, pounded around like the devil let loose for the ten seconds before we couldn't loosen the halyards and lower away the wreckage, but in that time it had parted the mainstay in two like a woman snipping a thread. "mind that, elsa, a steel mainstay an inch thick. i never heard of one parting in my life before. things were happening so fast that i couldn't keep track of them, and now, just at the crucial minute, the old _may_ jibed, fell off from the wind, and went into the trough of the sea. a great wave came then, ripped her rudder off (i found this as soon as i tried to use the wheel) and swept the decks, taking one man. "meanwhile the mainmast, with one stay gone, was whipping from side to side like a great, loose stick. i put the wheel in the becket and in one jump released the mains'l throat-halyards, while another fellow released the peak. the sail came down on the run in the lazy jacks and the men jumped on it and began to crowd it into some kind of a furl. "i jumped back to the wheel and tried to bring her up into the wind, but i might as well have tried to steer an ocean liner with a sculling sweep. not only was her rudder gone, but the tiller ropes were parted on each side. it was damaged beyond repair! "once i read in school the funny poem of an american named holmes. it was called the 'one hoss shay,' and it told about an old chaise that, after a hundred years of service, suddenly went to pieces all at the same time and the same place. even, in that time of danger, the memory of the 'one hoss shay' came to me, and i thought that the _may schofield_ was doing exactly the same thing, although only half as old." "and then what happened?" asked elsa, who had sat breathless through code's narrative. "there's not much more to tell," he said, with an involuntary shudder. "it was too much for the old girl with that load in her. she began to wallow and drive toward the wolves that i had caught a glimpse of through the scud. she hadn't got halfway there when the mainmast came down (bringing nearly everything with it) and hung over the starboard quarter, dragging the vessel down like a stoat hanging to a duck's leg. "after that it was easy to see she was doomed. we chopped away at the tangle of wreckage whenever we got a chance, but that wasn't often, because, in her present position, the waves raked her every second and we had to hang on for dear life. "and then she began to go to pieces--which was the beginning of the end. all hands knew it was to be every man for himself. we had no life preservers, and our one big dory had been smashed when the wreckage came down." code's face was working with suppressed emotion, and elsa reached out her hand and touched his. "don't tell me any more," she said; "i know the rest. let's talk about the present." "thanks, elsa," he said, gratefully. "how long have you thought that the schooner was a second 'one hoss shay'?" "until this talk with you. i would never have thought anything else. it's the logical thing to think, isn't it? all my neighbors at freekirk head, except those who believe the evil they hear, have told me half a dozen times that that is what must have happened to the _may_. she had lived her life and that last great strain, combined with the race the week before, was too much for her. i simply could not explain those things happening." "yes, but you can now, can't you?" she asked coolly. reluctantly he faced the issue, but he faced it squarely. "yes, i can. nat expected me to sail the _may_ in a race, so he weakened my topm'st and mainstay. of course, when there is sport in it you set every kite you've got in your lockers and, you know, elsa, i never took my mains'l in yet while there was one standing in the fleet, even ordinary fishing days." "i know it; you've scared me half to death a dozen times with your sail-carrying." "and mind, elsa, i'd been warned by all the wiseacres in freekirk head that my sticks would carry away sometime in a gale o' wind. nat banked on that, too, and it shows how clever he was, forever since the _may_ sank i've had men tell me i shouldn't have carried four lowers that day. "he planned to weaken me where i needed sail most and he succeeded. why, elsa, that topm'st must have been sawed a quarter of the way through and that mainstay as much again. i don't really believe he did anything to the foregaff; it appeared to be the natural result of the topm'st's falling, but the damage he did resulted in the wreck of the schooner--" "and the death of his own father. yes, code, we've got him where he is probably the wretchedest man in the world. fury and hurt pride made him injure the _may_ so he would be sure to win the second time, and instead of that fate intervened, sent you on the cargo voyage, and killed his father. now it is perfectly plain to me why he is charging you with all these crimes." "why?" "nat is a weak nature, because uncontrolled, and when weak natures do wrong they suffer agonies of fear that they will be found out. nat committed this double crime in a momentary passion. then as the weeks passed by and the village talked of nothing else, he finally began to fear that he would be found out. "there was no one who _could_ have found him out, but there was that haunting terror of the weak nature. "somebody spoke a word, perhaps in jest, that you must have wanted a new schooner since the _may's_ policy was to run out so soon, and he seized the thought in a frenzy of joy and began to spread rumors. this grip on you gave him courage. he remembered that his revenge against you was still unsatisfied and it became clear to him that perhaps, after all, he could get one much more complete. "code, the picture of that man's mind is a terrible one to me. he may have hated you before, but just think how he must have hated you after knowing how he had wronged and was going to ruin you. it is only the one of two people who _does_ the injury whose hatred grows. an injured person who is sensible in regard to such matters, as you have been with nat all your life, throws them off and thinks nothing more about them. "so nat's hatred of you and the fear of discovery, preying on his mind, finally urged him into the course he has taken." "and he went into it with open eyes," rejoined code, "for his plans were perfect. he pays his crew double wages and they ask no questions. had it not been for you on two occasions i should have been in jail long before this." "yes, but now that is past--" "no," interrupted code, "it isn't, elsa. he has just as much power over me as he ever had. i am still a criminal at large to be arrested, and you can wager your last dollar that if he can bring it about i will be picked up by the first gunboat that finds me." "but after all this?" "yes, after all this. we have made a beautiful case against him and it fits, but, elsa, there's one thing we haven't got, and that is a single word of proof! we haven't enough to even bring a charge against him. do you realize that?" the girl sat back, unable to reply. code had expressed the situation in a sentence. despite all they had pieced together he, code, was still the man against whom the burden of circumstantial evidence rested. nat was, and always could go, scot free. "code, this is terrible!" she said. "but there may be a way out yet. no man with the right on his side has ever failed to triumph, however black things looked." "but how?" he cried despairingly. "i have racked my brains for some means of closing the net about him, but there seems no way." "now there is not," she returned, "but, code, you can rest assured that i will do everything i can." "god bless you," he said, taking her hand; "you are the best friend a man ever had." chapter xxvi wetting their salt pete ellinwood, alone except for the cook, who sat peeling potatoes just outside the galley, paced the quarter-deck of the _charming lass_. he seemed to be an older man than that night when, goaded beyond endurance by the taunts of the big frenchman, he had fought a fight that would long be remembered in the streets of the roaring town of st. pierre. he felt that he had broken his promise to ma schofield that he would keep guard over her boy. now, for all he knew, that boy was lying in jail at st. andrew's, or was perhaps defending his life in the murderer's pen. the night of the fight had been a wild one for ellinwood. at the cry of "police!" the crowd had seemed to melt away from him like the bank fog at the sweep of a breeze. a dozen comrades had seized the prostrate jean and hurried him away, and pete, with the instinct of self-preservation, had snatched up his clothes and dodged down a dark alley toward the dirty drinking-shops along the water-front. there, as he dressed himself, he first asked the question, "where is code?" then, in a frenzy of remorse, he returned to the street and began a wild and fruitless search all night. then he accidentally learned that the _nettie b._ had been in port two days and that her crew had been ashore on the night of the fracas. sorrowful, bedraggled, and bruised, he rowed out to the _charming lass_ just as the whole crew was setting out for shore to search for code and himself. during the night the barrels of fresh bait had been lightered to the _lass_, and there was nothing for it but to make sail and get back on the banks as soon as possible, leaving code to his fate but carrying on the work he had begun. in accordance with code's instructions, pete automatically became the skipper of the schooner, and he selected jimmie thomas as his mate. by nightfall they had picked up the fleet, and early the next morning the dories were out. then for eight days it had been nothing but fish, fish, fish. never in all his experience had pete seen such schools of cod. they were evidently herding together in thousands, and had found but scanty food for such great hosts, for they bit almost on the bare hook. now, as he looked around the still sea, the white or yellow sails of the fishing fleet showed on all sides in a vast circle. not five miles away was the _rosan_, and to the southward of her the _herring bone_ with mean old jed martin aboard. bijonah tanner had tried his best to shake martin, but the hard-fisted old skipper, knowing and recognizing tanner's "nose" for fish, had clung like a leech and profited by the other's sagacity. nor was this all the grande mignon fleet. there were gloucestermen among it, the champion fishers of the world, who spent their spare time in drifting past the english boats and hurling salty wit--at which pastime they often came off second best. there were frenchmen, too, from the miquelon islands, who worked in colored caps and wore sheath-knives in belts around their waists. pete often looked over their dirty decks and wondered if his late enemy were among them. there were also vessels called "toothpicks" that did an exclusive trawling business, never using dories except to underrun the trawls or to set them out. these vessels were built on yacht lines and, because they filled their holds quickly, made quick runs to port with their catches, thus getting in several trips in a season. also, there were the steam trawlers, the most progressive of the fleet, owned and operated by huge fish firms in boston or portland. these were not dependent on the vagaries of the wind and steamed wherever their skippers divined that fish might be. last of all were the seiners after herring and mackerel, schooners mostly, and out of gloucester or nova scotia ports, who secured their catch by encircling schools of fish that played atop of the water with nets a quarter of a mile long, and pursued them in by drawstrings much as a man closes a tobacco-pouch. this was the cosmopolitan city that lived on the unmarked lanes of the ocean and preyed upon the never-failing supplies of fish that moved beneath. among the grande mignon boats there was intense rivalry. in the holds the layers of salted fish rose steadily under the phenomenal fishing. the salt-barrels were emptied and crowded out by the cod, hake, and pollock. it was these boats that ellinwood watched with the eye of a hawk, for back in freekirk head he knew that bill boughton stood ready to pay a bonus for the first cargo to reach port. now was the time when the advance orders from the west indies were coming up, and, because of the failure of the season on the island itself, these orders stood unfilled. one or two of the smallest sloops had already wet their salt and weighed anchor for home, taking letters and messages; but these, pete knew, could only supply an infinitesimal portion of the demand. what boughton looked for was a healthy load of fifteen hundred to two thousand quintals all ready for drying. night and day the work went on. with the first signs of daylight the dories were swung outboard and the men took their positions. a catch of two hundred good-sized cod was now considered the usual thing for a handliner, and night after night the piles of silver fish in the pens amidships seemed to grow in size. now they dressed down under lantern light, sometimes aided by the moon, and the men stood to the tables until they fell asleep on their feet and split their fingers instead of the fish. then, after buckets of hot coffee, they would fall to again and never stop until the last wet body had been laid atop of its thousands of brothers. the men were constantly on the trawls. sometimes they did nothing all day but pick the fish and rebait, finding, after a trip to the schooner to unload, that a thousand others had struck on the long lines of sagging hooks while they were gone. it was fast and feverish work, and it seemed as though it would never end. the situation had resolved itself into a race between the schooners, and ellinwood was of no mind to come off second best. like a jockey before a race, he watched his rivals. he knew that foxy bijonah tanner, who sometimes looked like an old hump-backed cod himself, was his most dangerous rival. tanner said nothing, but his boats were out early and in late, and the lanterns on his deck over the dressing pens could sometimes be seen as late as ten o'clock at night. visits among the fleet had now ceased, both because there was no time for it, and because a man from another schooner was looked upon as a spy. at the start of the season it had been expected that nat burns in the _nettie b._ would prove a strong contender for premier honors, but, because of his ceaseless efforts to drive home his revenge, nat had done very little fishing and therefore could not possibly be in the market. other freekirk head men shrugged their shoulders at this. nat had the money, and could act that way if it pleased him, they said. but, nevertheless, he lost favor with a great many of his former friends, for the reason that the whole fishing expedition had been a concerted movement to save the people and credit of the island, and not an exploitation of individual desires. burns had, with his customary indifference to others, made it just exactly such an exploitation, and the sentiment that had been strong for him at the outset of the cruise was now turning decidedly the other way; although he little guessed this or would have been influenced had he done so. in reality, then, the race for fish was keenest between the _charming lass_, the _rosan_, and the _herring bone_, with three other schooners very close on their heels. at the end of the nine days there was little space beneath the deck planks of the _charming lass_, but every night pete would come up, slapping his hands free of salt, and say, "wal, boys, i guess we can crowd another day's work into her," and the exhausted men would gather themselves for another great effort as they rolled forward into their bunks. every twenty-four hours they did crowd another day's work into her, so that she carried nearly a hundred and fifty tons and the dripping brine had to be pumped out of the hold. it was the night of the day that opened this chapter. the lanterns by which the men had dressed down had been lifted from their supports, the cod livers dumped into the gurry-butt, and the tables removed from the rails. the two men on the first watch were sharpening the splitting knives on a tiny grindstone and walking forward occasionally to see that the anchor and trawl buoy lights were burning. the still air resounded with the snores of the exhausted men forward in the forecastle. silently out of the darkness a dory came toward the schooner, pulled by the brawny arms of two men. in the stern of the oncoming boat sat a solitary figure, who strained his eyes toward his destination. the dory was within fifty yards of the _lass_ before the men on deck became aware of its approach. then, fearing some evil work in connection with the last desperate days of fishing, they rushed to the bulwarks and challenged the newcomers. they did not see, a mile away, a schooner without lights gently rising and falling on the oily sea. "who is that?" demanded one man, but he received no answer except "a friend," and the boat continued its stealthy approach. it drew alongside the ladder in the waist, and the man in the stern-sheets rose. kent of the _lass's_ crew leaned over the side and threw the light of his lantern upon the man. "by god," he cried like one who has seen a ghost, "it's the skipper." chapter xxvii the reward of evil the _nettie b._ was surging north, nearing cape breton. nat burns sat moodily on the top of the house and watched the schooner take 'em green over her bows. within the last day a fog with a wind behind it had drifted across the lead-colored ocean; and now, although the fog was gone, the wind was still howling and bringing with it a rising sea. the equinoxes were not far off, and all skippers had a weather eye out, and paid especial attention to the stoutness of lashings and patched canvas. never had burns been in a blacker mood, and never had he better cause. he was three days from st. andrew's, and there he had become acquainted with several facts. the first was that no canadian gunboat by the name of _albatross_ had called at said port and left any prisoner by the name of code schofield--in fact, such gunboat had not called at all. investigation at the admiralty office proved to nat that the real _albatross_ had reported from st. john's, newfoundland, on the very day he supposed he had met her. as the waters near st. andrew's and st. john's are several hundreds of miles apart, nat was not long in forming the opinion that he had been duped. fuming with rage, he began to investigate. gradually he learned the story (from sailors in wine-shops and general hearsay) of the mysterious schooner that had twice saved code schofield from actual capture, and had aided him on one or two other occasions. one man said he had heard of a retired naval officer named foraker, who was supposed to be in command. as a matter of fact, there was a captain foraker aboard the schooner who navigated her and instilled the "run and jump" discipline that had so excited code's admiration. outside of this vague fact, nat's knowledge was scant. he was ignorant of who owned the swift vessel. he would never have connected elsa mallaby with her in ten years of hard thinking. all he did know was that some unknown agency was suddenly at work in behalf of the man he hated. he notified the admiralty that a strange schooner had impersonated the gunboat of h. i. m. george v, and gave a very accurate description of her. as this was a new offense for the vessel that had already interfered with justice twice, the skippers of all the revenue cutters along the coast bent their energies to capturing or sinking this semipiratical craft, upon the receipt of radiograms to that effect. not only had nat set the machinery of the law in motion against the mystery schooner, but he had provided against any future dabbling with his constabulary powers by the simple expedient of having with him an officer of the law who was empowered to bring the accused murderer of michael burns before the bar of justice without transfer. when the supposed gunboat had removed the prisoner from his deck and borne away (for a while) on the course to st. andrew's, nat, relieved of responsibility, ran over to grande mignon and into the harbor of freekirk head. his purpose in this was twofold, and treacherous in both cases. first he lost no time in spreading the details of how code schofield had been captured in a drunken brawl at st. pierre and was fighting the jailers in st. andrew's. secondly, he had a long private interview with bill boughton, in which he tried to get the storekeeper to sign a contract for his (burns's) fish at a certain price. while the former was meanness of a hideous kind, this latter move was one of treachery against the men of freekirk head. the worst part of it was that nat had about a hundred quintals of splendid-looking cod (every pound he had caught) in his hold, and these he handed over to boughton as a sample of what was to come from him very shortly. boughton was hard up for fish, for none had come from the banks, and bought them at a big price. but as to the signing of the contract, he demurred. when nat could not explain why he had caught so few fish in such a long time, the storekeeper became wary and refused to commit himself. finally he agreed to the price if nat would deliver a thousand quintals before any of the rest of the fleet arrived home. consequently it was up mainsail and sway 'em flat and a fast run north for the _nettie b._ during his day's stay in freekirk head he had received a great bag of mail for the men of the fleet from their women-folk at home, and this he had in his cabin, now all distributed and tied into bundles, one for each schooner, so that they could be easily sorted and thrown aboard as he met them. burns caught the fleet of a thursday morning, just as they had dropped anchors after making a night berth, and the dories were out sampling the ground and the fish. it was just three days after code had arrived aboard the _charming lass_ again. as nat worked his way in and out among the vessels, throwing their mail aboard attached to pieces of coal, he kept an eye out for the _rosan_. one very important piece of business that had brought him north was a reconciliation with nellie tanner, and he meant, while his men were out in the dories, to accomplish this first. at last he sighted her near the very front line of the fleet. the _charming lass_ he could not see, for code had taken a different direction from the _rosan_, and was one of the score of sails scattered around the horizon. but nat was in no great hurry to get him on the minute; if the mystery schooner were attended to, then it would be merely a matter of time until the capture of code. he ranged up astern of the _rosan_ with a cheery yell and let go his anchor, ordering the dories over the side in the same breath. but his aspirations received a chilling setback from none other than bijonah tanner himself. the old man had been sleepless for a week, trying to nose out the _lass_ for the top haul of the fleet, and here was a young scapegrace who came and cast anchor within a hundred yards of his chosen ground. nat laughed carelessly at the storm of abuse that rattled over the stern of the _rosan_ and rowed over to her in his dory with the package of mail. "forget it, papa," he said, easily insolent, as he climbed over the rail in the teeth of a broadside. "we're not goin' to foul your rodin' or steal your fish. i've just come to make a call and tell you the news from home." he handed bijonah a couple of letters and a package containing those of the men. two others he kept in his hand. for a few moments he chatted with the old man, telling him what had happened in freekirk head. then he asked for nellie, whom he had not seen. as he asked she came up out of the cabin, having just finished breakfast. she was dressed in white this morning; a white canvas blouse with a broad blue collar and v-neck held to modest stricture by a flowing blue tie, a white duck skirt and whitened shoes--a costume that set off her pink cheeks and bright eyes. since the violent emotions of the fire at the head, her courtship, and her self-analyzation since her split with nat, she had seemed to become more of a woman. nat had not the slightest doubt but that nellie by this time would have recovered from her angry pet of their last interview. he was very certain that their ruction had only been temporary. nellie was unfeignedly glad to see him. he stretched out his arms to her impulsively, but she refused him, and he laughed the rebuff off good-naturedly. "oh, did you bring any letters for me?" she cried eagerly. he held out the two he had kept in his hand. "oh, goodness, nat--only from mama and lutie bissell. you excited me so!" he spread a tarpaulin amid the clutter amidships and they sat down. she excused herself and began to read her letters, first opening the one from the girl friend, which, as such letters usually do, contained nothing of importance. then she opened the one from her mother. it was long, and she settled back to the pleasure of deciphering it. nat smoked and whistled and looked out to sea, waiting for her to finish. therefore he did not observe the changes that passed across her face. near the middle of the letter the color rose to her forehead in a hot wave, but at the end it had receded, leaving her pale. methodically she folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. "well, dearest," he said cheerfully, "all through? now i want to talk to you--" he reached for her hand, but she withdrew it beyond his reach and looked at him with the steady brown eyes whose level gaze he hated. "come on, now, nellie," he said impatiently, stung by her relentlessness, "you ain't goin' to be mad forever about that other time, are you? i was out of temper an' said things--" "mother was up to mallaby house for dinner a little while ago," interrupted nellie, as though she had not heard him. "yes? that's good. fine place, ain't it? as i was sayin', i forgot myself--" "they talked about us, too; mother says that's nearly all they talked about." "must've been short of conversation. an' i want to say, nellie, that i'll try never to speak like that to you again. i--" "mother says she learned things about you that she never had imagined before," persisted nellie, with quiet insistence. but again nat did not seem to have heard her. with an awkward motion he drew from his pocket the little glazed paper box that contained the engagement-ring. "please," he said, "i want you to take this again." he was in earnest. "it's strange elsa mallaby should be able to tell mother things about you." nat lost his patience. he had tried his best to make peace, and the girl was only baiting him for her own amusement. "what the deuce is all this about that mallaby woman?" he asked. "i should think you'd listen to me, nellie." "if you will listen to me first, then i'll listen to you as long as you like." "i agree," he said, thrusting the ring-box back into his pocket, "only make it short, will you, little girl?" "yes, i will," she promised, without smiling. "i merely said that mother and mrs. mallaby had discussed you and me, and our marriage, and that mrs. mallaby had said some things about you." "well, lots of people do that," he smiled. "yes--but they haven't said just this thing, nat." "what was that?" "i'm going to let you think. just suppose that mrs. mallaby hated you very much and wanted to do you harm. what would she tell my mother?" the girl, pale and on the verge of an hysterical outburst, watched his face out of her mask of self-control. the blood beneath his tan receded and was replaced by a sickly greenish hue. that flash had brought its memory--a memory that had lain buried beneath the events of his later life. did she know? how could she know? to the girl watching him there was confirmation enough. she was suddenly filled with inexpressible distaste for this man who had in days past smothered her with caresses and dinned into her ears speeches concerning a passion that he called love. "i see it is all true," she said quietly. "this is all i have to say. now i will listen to what you were going to tell me a few minutes ago--that is, if you still wish to say it." nat read his doom in those few calm words. the things that had been in his mind to say rose and choked his throat; the thought of the ring in his pocket seemed like profanation. he gulped twice and tried to speak, but the words clotted on his tongue. still she sat quietly looking at him, politely ready to listen. with a horrible croaking sound he got to his feet, looked irresolutely at her for a moment, and then went to the side where his dory lay. she next saw him rowing dazedly to the _nettle b._, and then she turned her face from the sight of him. and suddenly into her mind, long prepared, came the thought of code schofield. amid the chaos of her shattered ideals his face and figure rose more desirable than all the earth. "oh, heaven, give him to me--some time!" she breathed in a voice of humble prayer. nat burns went back to his schooner, squarely defeated for the first time in his life. humbled, and cringing like a whipped dog, he made his dory fast to the _nettie's_ rail and slunk aft to the solitude of his cabin. he was glad that even the cook was looking the other way. "she has flouted me, and the whole of grande mignon will know it," he said to himself. "then they will want to know why, but that is easy enough to lie about. hang that mallaby woman! who would ever think she'd squeal? yes, and schofield, the smug crook! they're the two that are doin' the damage to me." nat's lifelong knowledge of code's and nellie's affection returned to him now with a more poignant pang of memory than he had ever experienced. with the hopeless egotism of a totally selfish nature, he laid his calamity in love to activity on code's part. he was pretty well aware of elsa's extravagant favoritism of code, and he immediately figured that code had enlisted elsa on his side to the ruin of nat. "so i've got to beat 'em all now, have i?" he asked grimly, his jaw setting with an ugly click. "schofield and mallaby, and--yes--while i'm about it, tanner, too. the old man never liked me, the girl hates me, and i wouldn't mind giving 'em a dig along with the rest. just to show 'em that i'm not so easy an' peaceful as i look! but how?" for a considerable space of time he sat there, his head low on his breast, and his eyes half closed as his brain went over scheme after scheme. the detective that nat had brought from st. andrew's stuck his head down the cabin and remarked: "look here, captain, i want to arrest my man and get back. why don't you hunt up that ship and let me finish?" "i've got something a lot better on hand, durkee," remarked nat with a grin, rising from his chair, a plan having leaped full blown into his mind. "just stick along with me and you'll get your man, all right." he went outside and called the men in with a revolver-shot and a trawl tub run to the masthead. it was about noon when they came in, and, after eating, three o'clock passed before they had finished dressing down. "any of you boys run across a dory from the _night hawk?_" asked nat as the men came inboard with their shower of fish. "yes," said a youth, "i f'und one of 'em an' he told me the _hawk's_ luck was jonahed this trip." "where's the packet lyin'?" "about twelve mile sou'east near the edge of the bank." nat went to the wheel himself. "up jib an' fores'l," he sung out, "and sway 'em flat! mains'l and tops'ls after that! raymond, overhaul the balloon, stays'l, and trys'l! mebbe we'll drive her a little afore we're through." burns found the _night hawk_ in a patch of sea by herself, more or less deserted by the other schooners because of the jonah report that had gone abroad concerning her. her dories were just coming in from the day's work partially loaded with fish. "hello!" bawled nat. "is billy stetson aboard?" billy was the skipper. "yas; d'ye want to see him?" "yes, send him along over. it's mighty important, but i ain't goin' aboard no jonah boat. tell him he'll be glad he came." presently stetson came and the two retired into the cabin of the _nettie b._ chapter xxviii the race it was dawn of a heavy, dark day. there was a mighty sea rolling and a forty-mile wind off the cape shore that promised a three-day ruction. the _charming lass_ at her anchor reared and plunged like a nervous horse. weighty with fish, she struggled heroically up the great walls of water, only to plump her sharp bows into the hollow with a force that half buried her. between times she wriggled and capered like a dancing elephant and jerked at her cable until it seemed as though she would take her windlass out. in the midst of all this code schofield struggled aft and began hauling forth the mains'l that at the first edge of the bank had been relegated in favor of the triangular riding sail. pete ellinwood saw him, and in a great voice bawled down the hatchway to the fo'c's'le. "salt's wet, boys; the skipper's haulin' out the mains'l!" at which there broke forth the most extravagant sounds of jubilation and all hands tumbled up to help bend it on. the crew of the _lass_ did not know it, but bijonah tanner and the _rosan_ had actually been gone twelve hours, having stolen away from the fleet before dressing down the night before when darkness had fallen. and so successfully had jed martin stolen bijonah's thunder that he had left but three hours later--when the fish had been dressed. schofield was honest with himself, and he waited until morning to see if the great stacks of fish would not settle enough to allow of another day's work to be crowded in. but when he saw that space above the fish was very small he waited no longer. four men heaved on the windlass brakes, and the others got sail on her as fast as they could haul halyards. she started under jib, jumbo, fore and mains'l, with the wind a little on her port quarter and every fiber of her yearning to go. when the sails were apparently flat as boards schofield made ellinwood rig pulleys leading to the middle of the halyards so that the men could sway on them. she was fit as a racing yacht; her load was perfectly distributed and she trimmed to a hairbreadth. an hour later they snored down upon the _night hawk_, the last vessel at the edge of the fleet. "better hurry!" megaphoned stetson, tickled with himself. "burns cleared six hours ago for freekirk head with a thousand quintal. he's got boughton sewed up to buy 'em, too." "bring her to!" snarled code, and the _lass_, groaning and complaining at the brutality, whirled up into the wind enough to take her sticks out. "burns's going home, you say? and with fish? where'd he get 'em?" "from me. i sold him my whole load at a better price than i would have got if i had waited to fill the _hawk's_ belly and then gone home. gave me cash and threw in a lot of bait, so i'll stay right out here and get another load. petty good for a jonah--what? ha, ha!" the man roared exasperatingly. "damnation!" rapped out schofield. "lively now! tops'ls on her, and two of you stay aloft to shift tacks if we should need to come about." "hey, you!" bawled stetson as the _lass_ began to heel to the great sweep of the wind. "there's two ahead of him, bijonah tanner an' jed martin! better hurry if you're going to catch the market!" "hurry, is it?" growled code to himself. "i'll hurry so some people won't know who it is." it was the first time that code had had occasion to drive the _lass_, for the mignon fishermen heretofore had confined their labor to the shoals near home or, at farthest, on the nova scotia coast. the present occasion was different. between where he lay and the friendly sight of swallowtail light was more than eight hundred and fifty miles of wallowing, tumbling ocean. treacherous shoals underran it, biting rocks pierced up in saw-toothed reefs, the bitterest gales of all the seas swept in leaden wastes. it was a cutthroat business, this mighty pull for the market; but upon it not only depended the practical consideration of the highest market prices, but the honor and glory of owning the fastest schooner out of freekirk head. the task of the _charming lass_ was delightful in its simplicity, but fearful in its arduousness. jimmie thomas came aft and stood by the wheel on the port side. it took two men to handle her now, for the vast, dead weight in her hold flung her forward and sidewise, despite the muscular clutch on the wheel, and when she rolled down she came up sluggishly. "isn't she a dog, though, code?" exclaimed jimmie in admiration. "look at that now! rose to it like a duck. see her now jest a-playin' with them waves! jest a-playin'! oh, she's a dog, skipper--a dog, i tell ye! drive her! she loves it!" "i'll drive her, jimmie; don't you worry. before i get through some fellers i know'll wish they'd never heard of driving." he motioned pete ellinwood aft with a free hand. "tell the boys," said code, "that what sleepin' they do between here and home will be on their feet, for i want all hands ready to jump to orders. they can mug-up day and night, but let nobody get his boots off." "ay, ay, sir!" replied pete involuntarily. this bright-eyed, firm-mouthed skipper was a different being from the cheerful, careless boy he had been familiar with for years. there was the ring of confidence and command in his voice that inspired respect. "look out there! jump for it!" the head of the _lass_ went down with a sickening swoop and the sound of thunder. a great, gray-and-white wall boiled and raced over her bows. ellinwood leaped for the weather-rigging and the other two clutched the wheel as they stood waist-deep in the surge that roared over the taffrail and to leeward. "pass the life-lines, pete," ordered code, and all hands passed stout ropes from rigging to house to rail, forward and astern, so that there might be something to leap for when the _lass_ was boarded by a niagara. ellinwood got out two stout lines and made one fast around code's waist, leading it to the starboard bitt. the other fastened jimmie to the port bitt, so that if they were washed overboard they might be hauled back to safety and life again. "looks like she was blowin' up a little!" remarked pete later in the day as the _lass_ rolled down to her sheerpoles in a sudden rain squall. "better take in them tops'ls, hadn't ye, skipper?" "take in nothing!" snapped code across the cabin table. "any canvas that comes off this vessel between here and freekirk head blows off, unless we have passed all those schooners ahead of us. haven't raised any of 'em, have you?" "not yet, skipper; but we ought to by night," said ellinwood as though he felt he was personally to blame. "but let me tell you somethin', skipper. it's all right to carry sail, but if you get your sticks ripped out you won't be able to get anywhere at all." "if my sticks go, let 'em go, i'll take my medicine; but i'll tell you this much, pete, that nobody is going to beat me home while i've got a stick to carry canvas, unless they have a better packet than the _charming lass_--which i know well they haven't." "that's the spirit, skipper!" yelled ellinwood, secretly pleased. there is no telling exactly what speed certain fishing schooners have made on their great drives from the banks. some men go so far as to claim that the old china tea clippers have lost their laurels both for daily runs and for passages up to four thousand miles. one ambitious man hazards his opinion (and he is one who ought to know) that a fishing schooner has done her eighteen knots or upward for numerous individual hours, for fishermen, even on record passages, fail to haul the log sometimes for half a day at a time. schofield, however, took occasion to have the log hauled for one especially squally mile, and the figures showed that the _lass_ had covered fifteen knots in the hour--seventeen and a half land miles. she was booming along now, seeming to leap from one great crest to the next like a giant projectile driven by some irresistible force. she was canted at such an angle that her lee rail was invisible under the boiling white, and her deck planks seemed a part of the sea. the course was almost exactly southwest, and that first day the _lass_ roared down the atlantic, passing the wide mouth of cabot strait that leads between newfoundland and nova scotia into the gulf of st. lawrence. they passed one of the quebec and montreal liners, and took pleasure shooting the schooner under her flaring bows. the next morning at seven, twenty-four hours out, found them three hundred and fifty miles on their course, but what was better than all, showed three sails ahead. then did the crew of the _charming lass_ rejoice, climbing into the spray-lashed rigging, and yelling wildly against the tumult of the waters. nor did the wind subside. it had gone to forty-five miles an hour over night, and in landlocked harbors the skippers of big steel passenger vessels shook their heads and refused to venture out into the gale. as well as could be judged, the _nettie b._, _rosan_, and _herring bone_ were nearly on even terms twenty miles ahead, all with every stitch set and flying like leaves before a wind. "bend on balloon jib!" snapped schofield when he had considered the task before him. pete ran joyfully to execute the order, but some of the men hesitated. "up with her!" roared pete, and up she went, a great concave hollow of white like the half of a pear. the _lass's_ head went down, and now, instead of attempting to go over the waves, she went through them without argument. tons of divided water crashed down upon her decks and roared off over the rails, the men at the wheel were never less than knee-deep. the sheets strained, the timbers creaked, and the sails roared, and back of all were the wind and the north atlantic in hot pursuit. by noon it could be seen that the three vessels ahead were commencing to come back, but with terrible slowness. code, lashed in the weather-rigging, studied them for more than an hour through his glasses. then he leaped to the deck. "hell's bells! no wonder we can't catch 'em! burns has got stays'l set, and i think tanner has, too. couldn't see martin. set stays'l, all hands!" under the driving of ellinwood the staysail was set, and from then on the _charming lass_ sailed on her side. at every roll her sheerpoles were buried, and it seemed an open question whether she would ever come up or not. it was at this time that tip o'neill, a daring young buck of freekirk head, performed the highly dangerous feat of walking from her main to her forerigging along the weather run, which fact shows there was foothold on her uppermost side for a man crazy enough to desire it. that ellinwood and the daring jimmie thomas were thoroughly in accord with schofield's preposterous sail-carrying was a foregone conclusion. but others of the crew were not of the same mind. an hour more here or there seemed a small matter to them as compared to the chance of drowning and leaving a family unprotected and unprovided for. schofield sensed this feeling immediately it had manifested itself, and he called his lieutenants to him. he wished to provide against interference. "house the halyards aloft!" he commanded, and at this even those two daring souls stood aghast, for it meant that whatever the emergency no sail could be taken off the _charming lass_. with the end of the halyards aloft no man could reach them in time to avert a catastrophe. "you're sure drivin' her, skipper!" roared pete in amazed admiration. "up them halyards go. oh, lord, but she's a dog, an' she'll stand it." so up the halyards went, and with them went a warning that whoever jumped to loosen them would get a gaff-hook in his breeches and be hauled down ignominiously. this time when the log was hauled for the hour from three to four in the afternoon it showed a total of seventeen knots, or a fraction under twenty miles for the hour. and best of all, the three flying schooners had come back five miles. by ten o'clock that night code judged they had come back five more, and knew that the next day would bring the test. they were not in over-deep water here, for the coast of nova scotia is extended for miles out under the sea in excellent fishing shoals and banks. at artimon bank they switched their course to westward so as to pass inside of sable island and round cape sable in the shoalest water possible. down across western they roared, and almost to le have before midnight came. now it is one thing to sail like the flying dutchman with the sun up and one's eyes to use, but it is another to career through the night without taking in a stitch of canvas, trusting to luck and the providence that watches over fishermen that the compass is good and that no blundering coasters will get in the way. when dawn broke wild and dirty, the _charming lass_ was reeling through the water less than a quarter of a mile astern of the _rosan_ and the _herring bone_. through the murk code could see the _nettie b._ three miles ahead. an hour and she had drawn abreast of her two rivals; another hour and she had left them astern. day had fully broken now, and code, grinning over his shoulder at the defeated schooners, gave a cry of surprise. for no longer were there two only. another, plunging through the mist, had come into view; far back she was, but carrying a spread of canvas that gave indications enough of her speed. but code spent little time looking back. he gripped the wheel, set his teeth, and urged the _lass_ forward after the _nettie_ with every faculty of his power. after that terrible night the crew had lost their fear and worked with enthusiasm. some hands were always at the pumps, when they could be worked, for besides the brine from the fish gathering below, code feared the vessel had spewed some oakum and was taking a little water forward. now, too, the horrible stench of riled bilge-water floated over all--compared to which an aged egg is a bouquet of roses. at eight o'clock that morning they rounded cape sable at the tip of nova scotia, and laid a course a trifle west of north for the final beat home. there was a hundred miles to go, and burns still held his three-mile lead. by herself and loaded only with ballast, the _nettie_ was a better sailor in a beating game, for she was older and heavier than the _charming lass_. but now she had but a thousand quintal of fish compared to the sixteen hundred of her rival. this difference gave the _lass_ much needed stability without which she could never have hoped to win from the burns schooner. the two were, therefore, about equally matched, and it was evident that the contest would resolve itself into one of sail-carrying, seamanship, and nerve. "that other feller's comin' up fast!" said pete ellinwood, and code looked back to see the strange schooner looming larger and larger in his wake. he knew that no vessel in the grande mignon fleet could ever have caught the _lass_ the way he had been driving her, and yet she was not near enough for him to get a good view of her. "if she's a fisherman," said code, "i'll pull the _lass_ out of water before she beats us in." it was killing work, the last beat home. "hard a-lee!" would come the command, and some men would go down into the smother of the lee rail and haul in or slack away sheets, while others at the mastheads would shift top- and staysail tacks. her head would swing, there would be a minute of thrashing and roaring of gear, and the gale would leap into her sails and bend her down on her side again. then away she would go. the station of those on deck was a good two-handed grip on the ringbolts under the weather-rail, where, so great was the slope of the deck, they clung desperately for fear of sliding down and into the swirling torrent. hour after hour the _nettie_ and the _lass_ fought it out, and hour after hour the gale increased. hurricane warnings had been issued all along the coast, and not a vessel ventured out, but these stanch fishing vessels cared not a whit. it was evident, however, that something must give. human ingenuity had not constructed a vessel that could stand such driving. even pete ellinwood began to lose his heartiness as the _lass_ went down and stayed down longer with each vicious squall. "shut up, pete!" said code, when the mate started to speak. "no sail comes off but what blows off, and while there's all sail on the _nettie_ i carry all sail if i heave her down for it. watch him, he'll break. burns is yellow." the words were a prophecy. he had hardly uttered them when down came the great balloon jib of the _nettie b._ at once the _lass_ began to gain in great leaps and bounds. they were fifty miles from home and two miles only separated them. but fortune had not finished with code. half an hour later there came a great sound of tearing like the volley of small arms, and the _lass's_ balloon jib ripped loose and soared to heaven like some gigantic wounded bird. "let it go, curse it," growled code. "anyway, i didn't take it down." the loss of her big jib was the only thing that saved the _lass_ from being hove down completely, for two hours later the gale had reached its height, and she was laboring like a drunken man under her staysail, topsail, and four lowers. twenty miles from home and the two schooners were abreast, tacking together on the long leeward reaches and the short windward ones, as they made across the bay of fundy. "look at her comin' like a racehorse!" cried ellinwood again, and this time code recognized the vessel that was pursuing them. it was the mystery schooner, and in all his life at sea code had never seen a ship fly as that one was flying then. "wonder what she's up to now?" he asked vaguely. but he gave no further thought to the matter, for the _nettie b._ claimed all his attention. suddenly from between the masts of the burns schooner a great flutter of white appeared as though some one had hung a huge sheet from her stay. "ha, i told you he was yellow!" shouted code in glee. "somebody's cut away one edge of the stays'l. now we've got 'em!" and they had; for within a quarter of an hour they left the _nettie b._ astern, finally defeated, nat burns's last act of treachery gone for nothing. but the mystery schooner would not be denied. though the _lass_ made her seventeen knots, the wonderful mallaby schooner did her twenty, with everything spread in that gale; and when the white lighthouse of swallowtail point was in plain sight through the murk, she swept by like a magnificent racer and beat the _charming lass_ to moorings by twenty minutes. half an hour behind schofield came the burns boat, but in that time code schofield had already hurried ashore in his dory and clinched his sale price with bill boughton, who also assured him of the bonus offered for the first vessel in. like code, the first thing nat did, when his schooner had come up into the wind with jib and foresail on the run, was to take a dory ashore. in it, besides himself, was a man. these two encountered code just as he came out of boughton's store. the second, who was tall and broad-shouldered, threw back his coat and displayed a government shield. then he laid his hand on code's arm. "captain schofield," he said, "you are under arrest!" chapter xxix a fatal letter for the last of many days the light-housekeeper had watched from his aerie for the coming of the fleet--and had not been disappointed. his horse and buggy stood by the tower doorstep, and into it he leaped, whipping up the horse with the same motion. then down the road he had flown like paul revere rousing the villagers, and followed by an excited, half-hysterical procession of women and children. so thick had been the murk and scud that he had only caught sight of the approaching leader while she was a bare two miles off the point, and even when nat had landed the crowd was momentarily being augmented from all the houses along the king's road and as far south as castalia. when the officer of the law laid his hand on code's arm and spoke the words that meant imprisonment and disgrace in the very heart of the village festival, a groan went up that caused the officer to look sharply about him. despite the work nat had done on his brief stop at the head, code was the hero of the day, for he had come in with the first cargo of fish and had won the distinction of being the first to effect the salvation of the island. "oh, let him go!" said a voice. "he ain't goin' to run away!" nat, standing behind his captive, turned sharply upon the offender. "no, you bet he ain't!" he snapped. "he's been doin' that too long already. he's got somethin' to answer for this time." into the harbor at that moment swept the tanners' _rosan_, and abreast of her the steamer from st. john's. five minutes behind came jed martin's _herring bone_, and the first of the fleet was safely in. as the discontented and muttering mob followed code toward the little jail back of the odd fellows' hall, none noticed that the lovely schooner that had led the procession in was stealing quietly out again into the thick of the gale. and those who did notice it thought nothing of it in the excitement of the moment, probably judging her to be some coaster who had run in to look for a leak. she had been tied up just ten minutes at the mallaby wharf. as the sorry procession passed the schofield cottage, code's mother ran out sobbing and threw herself upon him. she had not seen her son before (although orphan josie had told her the _lass_ was in), for code had been closeted with boughton, and now her first glimpse of him was as an accused criminal. but, regardless of watching eyes and public opinion, she walked all the way to the jail with him and went inside; and the two were absolutely oblivious to their surroundings, so overjoyed were they to see each other and so intimate was their companionship. along the edge of the crowd great pete ellinwood slouched, looking with dimmed eyes at mother and son. "ain't she the mother, though?" he said to himself. "just like a girl she is--not a day past thirty by her looks!" the jailer, who was regularly employed as janitor of the free baptist church, opened the little house for his unexpected guest. it consisted of a room, fitted for sleeping, and a cell. these were not connected, but were side by side, facing the passage that ran through from front to back of the building. code was taken to the cell, and only his mother and pete stayed with him to talk over the situation. it was determined to have squire hardy come over in the evening (it was now five o'clock) and give his opinion on the legal situation. ma schofield went home and prepared her boy's supper herself, and brought it with her own hands for him to eat. code was in the best of spirits at his success of the afternoon, and had no fear whatever as to the outcome of his present situation. pete had gone away for an hour, and ma schofield had taken the dishes back home, when the detective came in, saying that a little girl who called herself josie had come with a message. code asked to see her, and the great-eyed, dark little thing wept bitterly over him, for to her fourteen years he represented all the heroes of romance. even as she passed him the message she knew that she could never love again and that she would shortly die of a broken heart. code kissed her, promptly forgot her presence, and opened the note. it was from elsa. "will be down to see you to-night at eight. have sent a note to nat in your name, telling him to be there, too. i think we have him on the hip, so be sure and have the squire and the officer present." code wondered vaguely how they had nat on the hip, as he had been unable to find a single iota of proof to push home the case he and elsa had built up against him. the note brought him stark awake and eager for the conference. he had begun to drowse after a good home dinner and sixty hours without sleep, but this acted like an electric shock. he was keen and alert, for he knew that this was the night of his destiny. either he should triumph as he had in the grueling race, or he should have to face the ignominy of transfer and legal proceedings at st. andrew's. at half-past seven squire hardy, his round, red face fringed by snowy whiskers, came in. he dragged a chair into the passageway in front of the bar and was beginning a long and laborious law opinion when the detective, who had been to mis' shannon's boarding-house for dinner, returned. the two began to fight the matter out between them when, at a quarter to eight, nat came in, dressed in his best clothes and smoking a land cigar. "well, what do you want of me, schofield?" he asked. "you sent for me, but you needn't try to beg off. i won't listen to it. now, go ahead." on the instant a feminine voice was heard outside, and a moment later elsa mallaby stepped into the little four-foot passage. "oh, how many there are here!" she said in a surprised voice. "perhaps, code, i had better wait until later." "hey, roscoe!" sung out code, hardly able to control his desire to grin. "bring mrs. mallaby a chair." roscoe obeyed and added two more, so that all were placed within a small compass just outside code's cell. from elsa mallaby's first entrance nat had observed her with a certain flicker of fear and hatred in his eyes. she, on the other hand, greeted him with the same formal cordiality she had used toward the others. though utterly incongruous in such surroundings, she seemed absolutely at her ease and instantly assumed command of the situation. "excuse me," said nat, who had not sat down and shifted from one foot to the other, "but schofield sent for me, an' i would like to find out what he wants. i've got to go along." "schofield didn't send for you--i sent for you. there are several things about this imprisonment of code that don't look right to me, and we may as well settle the whole business once and for all while we are here together. now, mr. durkee," she said, turning to the detective, "would you mind telling me what the charge is against captain schofield?" "to tell you the truth, ma'am," said he respectfully, "there are two charges out against him. one, by the insurance company, sues for recovery of money paid on the schooner _may schofield_, and charges that the said schooner was sunk intentionally, first because schofield wanted a newer boat, and second because the policy of the _may_ was to expire in a few days and could not have been renewed except at a much advanced rate." "and the other charge?" "is for murder in the first degree, growing out of the intentional sinking of the schooner. captain burns is the complainant." "thank you." she flashed one of her radiant smiles at him and made him a friend for life. "that was a great race to-day," she remarked irrelevantly, but with enthusiasm. "how much did you beat the _nettie b._, code?" "a half an hour," he replied, mystified at the turn of the conversation. "well, that _is_ a coincidence." she looked from one to the other. "it's exactly the same amount of time he beat you seven months ago when he raced the old _may_ against the _m. c. burns_, isn't it?" her glance shot to nat. "why, i believe it is, mrs. mallaby," he stammered. the quick transition to that painful and dangerous period had caught him off his guard. "that was a great race, too," she said cheerfully, "and it's too bad you never sailed the second one. especially after you wanted to bet so much. you thought you would win the second race, didn't you, nat?" she was sweetness itself. "why, yes, i thought so," he admitted guardedly. "but i don't see what all this has got to do--" "well, it hasn't very much," she said deprecatingly, "but i was just interested. what made you so sure you would win that second race that you tried to bet?" "oh, i don't know," he answered easily. "i just had confidence--" "in what, nat burns? your schooner had easily been beaten the first time and she was notoriously slower than the _may_. every one in the island knows that you can't sail a vessel like code schofield can, and that you are afraid to carry sail. to-day proved it. anybody with half an eye could see that that stays'l was cut with a knife and didn't blow off. all these things being so, what made you so sure that you would win that second race seven months ago?" nat looked at her steadily. his nervousness had gone, apparently, and he was his old crafty self once more. "that is none of your business, mrs. mallaby," he said insolently. "and now if you'll let me pass i'll keep an engagement." "mr. durkee," she said, "please keep mr. burns here until we have entirely finished." "yes, ma'am, i will," said the hypnotized man, and nat, after a glare around upon the unsympathetic audience slumped down into a chair and smoked sullenly. "steady as she goes my friend," broke in squire hardy, looking at nat. "answer the lady's question. what made you think you would win?" "i refuse to answer." "he really doesn't need to answer," said elsa. "i will answer for him. code kindly let me have the log of the _m. c. burns_." schofield drew the old book from his pocket and handed it through the bars. then elsa, opening it to the last pages, read aloud the few entries that code had discovered that day when he was a prisoner aboard the _nettie b._ as she read the silence was intense, but all eyes were upon nat, who, startled at the sudden appearance of this document he had so long forgotten, chewed savagely upon his dead cigar. his face had grown pale and his rough hands were clasped tightly together. "you see," said elsa, when she had finished, "that burns had determined upon the winning of his next race. it is perfectly clear, is it not?" the breathless circle nodded. it was a strange setting for the working out of the drama. overhead a suspended oil-lamp flamed and smelled. outside the crash of surf against the rocks came to them, and the wind whistled about the eaves of the little stone building. "now the mirror," she said to code, and, still wondering, he handed the trinket to her. "tell about this," she directed him with a smile and a long look from her deep dark eyes. and code told them. he told of the time his father first gave it to him, of his experiments in astronomy, and of nat's coveting the mirror. he told of that night after the first race when he had looked for the log-book of the _may_ and had seen the mirror in its drawer. he told of its final discovery in the secret box of the storeroom on the _nettie_. as he talked the memory of the wrongs against him flamed in his breast, and he directed his story at nat, who sat silent and immovable in the corner. "if i found this aboard the _nettie_ it proves that he must have come and got it!" he cried. "he boarded the old _may_, but it was not for this that he came!" "what, then?" asked hardy. "to damage the schooner so that she would break down under the strain of the next race," flared code, facing nat dramatically. burns only clenched his jaws tighter on his cigar. "you don't believe this, perhaps, squire, but listen and i'll tell you how the old _may_ sank." and once again he described the crashing calamity aboard the overloaded boat as she struggled home to freekirk head with the last of her strength. "you, squire, you've sailed your boats in your time! you know that never could have happened even to the old _may_ unless something had been done. and something _was_ done! burns had weakened the topm'st and the mainstay!" all eyes were fixed on nat, but he did not move. he was very pale now, but apparently self-possessed. suddenly, with a hand that appeared firm, he removed the cigar from his mouth and cast it on the floor. "that," he said with deadly coolness, "is a blasted fine plot that you have all worked out together. but every word of it is a lie, for the whole thing is without a single foundation in fact. prove it!" "i'll give you a last chance, burns," said elsa in a level voice that contained all the concentrated hatred that code had detected in her before. "dismiss these charges against code." "never!" the word was catapulted from him as though by a muscular convulsion. "he murdered my father, and he shall pay for it!" without a word elsa rose from her chair and walked back into the adjoining room. a moment later she reappeared, leading a beautiful girl who was perhaps twenty years old. the effect was electric. the people in the little group seemed frozen into the attitudes they had last assumed. only in nat burns was there a change. he seemed to have shrunk back into his clothes until he was but a little, wizened man. his face was ghastly and clammy perspiration glittered on his forehead in the lamplight. "caroline!" he cried in a hoarse voice that did not rise above a whisper. "yes, caroline," said elsa, her black eyes flashing fire. "you had forgotten her, hadn't you? you had forgotten the girl who loved you, that you drove away from the island! you had forgotten the girl that gave you everything and got nothing! but that has come back upon you now, and these people are here to see it. even your father, in his log-book, mentioned when my sister left grande mignon, apparently to work in the factory at lubec. as though my sister should ever work in a factory!" "so this explains why she went that time," said squire hardy gently. "we all wondered at it, elsa--we all wondered at it." "and well you might. but he is the cause! and he wouldn't marry her! i have waited for this chance of revenge, and now he shall pay." caroline fuller, who was even more beautiful than her sister, looked at nat in a kind of daze. suddenly there was a spasmodic working of her features. "oh, that i could ever have loved him!" she said in a faint voice. "here, elsa, read it to them all!" from under her cloak she drew a crumpled envelope which she passed to her sister. with a snarl like that of a wild animal nat leaped from his chair toward the girl, but durkee struck him violently and he reeled back into it. "you swore you burned them all!" muttered nat. "you swore it! you swore it!" "yes, and she did, the innocent child--all but this one that she had mislaid in a book you once sent her," cried elsa. "but i found it, burns. where do you think i've been all this while? at st. john's, where she lives with my aunt. and do you think there was no reason for that letter being saved? god takes care of things like this, and now you've got to pay, nat burns! i knew there would come a time. i knew there would!" she was still standing, and she drew the letter out of the envelope. "look, squire, code, any of you who know. is this nat's writing?" "yes," they all declared as the letter passed from hand to hand. "read it," said the squire, forcing caroline fuller to sit down in his chair. "i'll spare him hearing the first of it," said elsa. "it is what men write to women they love or feign to love, and it belongs to my sister. but here"--she turned the first sheet inside out--"listen to this." involuntarily they all leaned forward, all except durkee, who went over and stood beside nat. the latter gave no sign except a dry rattling sound in his throat as he swallowed involuntarily. "i've got him, caroline--i've got him!" she read. "he'll beat me again, will he? well, not if i know it! everybody in the head seems tickled to death that he won, but you know how little that means to me. it is simply another reason why i should beat him the next time. "dearest little girl, it's the easiest thing in the world. i've just come back from going over the _may_ (it's midnight), and the thing looks good. you know schofield is a great hand to carry sail. well, when you hear about the race, maybe you'll hear that his foretopmast came down in a squall. if you don't, i'll be much surprised, for i've attended to it myself, and i don't think it will take much of a squall. "maybe you'll hear, too, that his mainstay snapped and his sticks went into the water all because he carried too much sail. i shouldn't be surprised. i've attended to that, too. so i guess with his foretopmast cracked off and his mainstay snapped the old _m. c._ ought to romp home an easy victor, if she is an old ice-wagon. i tried to get schofield to bet, but he's so tight with his cash he wouldn't shake down a five-cent piece. good thing for him, though, he doesn't know it. nothing would do me more good than to get his roll, the virtuous old deacon!" she stopped reading as a rumble of mirth went round the circle. code in the rôle of a virtuous deacon was a novelty. even the hard lines of elsa's face relaxed and she smiled, albeit a trifle grimly. "that's all," she said, folding up the letter and putting it back into the envelope. "the rest is personal and not ours. now, mr. durkee, if you still care to consider captain schofield as the defendant in those two suits i want your arguments." "i don't, mrs. mallaby," said the detective, and called the freekirk head jailer. "but i know who is going to take schofield's place." he glared at nat burns, who cowered silent and miserable in his corner. despite his sailing as nat's guest he had never brought himself to like the man, and now he was glad to be well rid of him. code stepped out a free man, and his first action was to take both of elsa's hands and try to thank her. her eyes dropped and she blushed. when he had stammered through his speech he turned to caroline fuller and repeated it, but the sad smile she gave him tore at his heart. "i came because elsa asked me to save a friend," she said, "not because i wished to revenge myself on nat. i am glad it was you, for i would do anything on earth for elsa." code turned mystified eyes upon mrs. mallaby. "i thought you did this to revenge yourself on nat," he half whispered. "i did, partly," she replied. she lifted her eyes to his and he saw something in them that startled him--something that, in all his association with her, he had never seen before. he stood silent, amazed, overwhelmed while she turned her face away. chapter xxx elsa's triumph code schofield's appearance at his schooner the next morning to help the crew unload was the signal for a veritable native-son demonstration. not only had the story of code's sudden liberation and nat's as sudden imprisonment spread like wild-fire clear to southern head light, twenty miles away, but the tale was hailed with joy. for nat had come into his own in the hatred of his townsfolk. among the fleet he was heartily unpopular because he had not fished all season and then had tried to catch the first market with a purchased cargo, merely to revenge himself on code and the tanners. throughout his conduct had been utterly selfish, whereas others had worked for the island and for its salvation. with the landing of the two schooners from the fleet the women-folk were soon apprised of nat's action, and, had it not been for elsa's sensational disclosures in the little jail that made him the sudden occupant of a cell, there is no question but what the women of marblehead would have been equaled by the women of freekirk head; and skipper ireson would not have ridden down history alone in tarry glory. but now, since code was free, the whole town exulted, and there was a steady procession to the jail to look in upon the first real criminal the village had mustered in years. code, after checking the scale-tally all morning as his stalwart men swung the baskets of salted fish out of the hold, went along the road to squire hardy's house after dinner and interviewed that worthy man. "you've got him where you want him," said the squire, "but you can't get much except damages." "i don't want even damages," said code. "i want him to take all his things and go away from here and never come back. since he didn't do any _real_ damage to anybody i don't care what becomes of him so long as he leaves here." "well, all you must do is to withdraw your charges against him--they were put in your name so that mrs. mallaby's would not have to appear." "but even if i do, won't the state take it up. you know a murder case--" "yes, my boy, but this is no murder case now. on the face of it nat did not set out to murder his father; he did not set out really to _sink_ your schooner--merely to disable it; the proof is indisputable and self-evident by his own confession and letter. "well, now, in a private racing agreement between gentlemen, if both vessels are registered and rated seaworthy, nothing that happens to one can be laid to the other unless, as in the present case, one deliberately damages the other. the principal punishment is a moral one administered by the former friends of the dishonest man, but the victim can collect money damages. naturally the insurance company will change its charge so as to accuse nat instead of you. "they have a proven case against him already, and he will have to pay them nearly all they gave you--so that, in the end, he really pays you for the damage he did that day. then, i understand, he is going to pay an amount to the family of each man who lost his life in the _may_, on condition that they will never sue him." "whee-ew!" whistled code. "when he gets through he won't have much money left, i guess." "no, i guess he won't," agreed the judge, "and it serves him right. he'll probably have to sell his schooner and start life over again somewhere else. i hope he starts honestly this time. then you won't take any action against him, code?" "me? oh, no!" said schofield. "i've nothing against him now. let him go. but i'll tell you one thing, squire--he had better be smuggled away to-night quietly, because, if the crowd gets hold of him, it might not be good for his health." the squire agreed and code went back to his work. late that afternoon pete ellinwood swung the last basket of the catch to the scales and code completed his tally. "sixteen hundred and seventy quintal," he announced, "and forty-three pounds. at a hundred pounds a quintal that makes , pounds, and at three cents a pound totals to $ , . . not bad for a two months' cruise, but my soul and body, bill boughton, how the fish did run!" "it's a good catch, code, and fine fish," answered boughton, who had been writing. "how will you have the money--in a lump or individual checks?" "separate checks." boughton went back to his glass-surrounded desk to write them. code, being the sole owner of the _charming lass_, took two thousand dollars as his share, and the rest was divided almost equally among the other nine men, a trifle extra going to pete ellinwood for his services as mate. "it was a toppin' haul," declared pete jovially, slapping his well-filled pocket after a visit to the bank, "an' the rest of them poor devils won't get over two and a half a pound--some of 'em only two, when there's lots of fish. half a cent a pound is a pretty good bonus!" code had dinner with his mother that night, and appeared for it carefully dressed. what was his surprise to see his mother in her one silk dress. "i'm going up to mallaby house," he said in answer to her inquiring look. "but you! what's all this gaiety, mother?" "i am going to hear an account of how you behaved yourself on the voyage, code," she said, attempting severity. "by an eye-witness?" visions of ellinwood, painfully arrayed, danced in his head. "yes." "um-m. well, i won't be home until late, then, because it's a long story." "you rascal!" said his mother, and kissed him. on the way to mallaby house (it was up the old familiar path that he had raced down so recklessly the night of the great fire), he thought over the thing that his eyes had seen for an instant the night before in the jail. elsa loved him, he knew now, and she had always loved him. he cursed himself for a stupid fool in that it had taken him so long to find out, but he was relieved to know at last upon what footing to meet her. she was no longer a baffling and alluring creature of a hundred chameleon moods; she was a lonely girl. martin, who had been his body-servant while aboard the mystery schooner, opened the door, and bowed with decided pleasure at seeing his temporary master. he ventured congratulations that schofield was free of the law's shadow. "mrs. mallaby is up-stairs, sir," he said, taking code's hat. "just step into the drawing-room, sir, and i'll call her." it was a sample of elsa's taste that she illuminated all her rooms with the soft flame of candles or the mellow light of lamps. the mahogany furniture, much of it very old and historic among the island families, gleamed in the warm lights. there were built-in shelves of books against one wall, splendid engravings, etchings, and a few colored prints of the daughters of louis xv. presently elsa came down the broad staircase. her hair was parted simply in the middle and done into two wheels, one over each pink ear. her dress was a plain one of china silk with a square dutch neck. it fitted her splendid figure beautifully. never had she appeared to code so fresh and simple. the great lady was gone, the keen advocate had disappeared, the austere arbiter of freekirk head's destinies was no more. she seemed a girl. he arose and took her hand awkwardly. "i am glad you came so soon," she said; "but aren't you neglecting other people? i'm sure there must be friends who would like to see you." "perhaps so, but this time they must wait until i have paid my respects to you. as far as actions go, you are the only friend i have." "you are getting quite adept at turning a phrase," she said, smiling. "not as adept as you in turning heaven and earth to liberate an innocent man." "i have no answer to that," she replied. "but seriously, code, i hope you didn't come up to thank me again to-night. please don't. it embarrasses me. we know each other well enough, i think, to do little things without the endless social prating that should accompany them." "you've been a dear!" he cried, and took one of her hands in his. she did not move. "elsa, i want you for my wife!" "what can i say?" she began in a low voice. "you are noble and good, code, and i know what has actuated you to say this to me. some women would be resentful at your offer, but i am not. a week ago, even yesterday, i should have accepted it gladly and humbly, but to-day--no. "since last night i have thought, and somehow things have come clearer to me. i have tried to do too much. i have always loved you, code, but i can see now that you were not meant for me. i tried to win you because of that love, not considering you or others--only myself. and i defeated my own end. i overshot the mark." "i don't understand," said code. "perhaps not, but i will tell you. in the first place, i deliberately managed so that nat burns and nellie could never be married. i know now that they have separated for good. i hated burns for his part in my sister's life, and i resolved to wreck his happiness if his engagement to nellie was happiness. so now she is free and you can have her, i think, for the asking." "but," cried schofield in protest, "i have never said--" "you did not need to say that you loved some one," she told him, with a faint smile. "that night at dinner on the schooner with me proved it. i have talked to your mother since i came home, and she told me what nat's engagement meant to you, so that i know nellie is the girl you have always loved. isn't it so?" "yes," he replied gently. "now is it plain to you how i have undone my own plans? two things i desired more than anything else on earth, you, and burns's ruin. i ruined burns and paved the way for the loss of you, for, unscrupulous as i am in some things, i could never marry you when nellie was free and you loved her. i have wanted happiness so hard, code, that when i see others who have it within their grasp, i cannot stand in their way. "but i don't mind now--i really don't. that was all in the past, and it's over now. if you want to make me happy, be happy yourself. i see there are forces that guide our lives that must have their will whatever our own private plans may be, and, having learned that lesson, i feel that perhaps now i shall be happier, somehow, than i ever would have been if my own selfishness had triumphed." code lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. "what a splendid woman you are! i know that happiness and joy will come to you. one who has done what you have done cannot fail to realize it. this hour will always be a very sweet one in my memory, and i shall never forget it." "nor i," she said softly, "for, through you, i have begun to find myself." chapter xxxi peace and prosperity the village of freekirk head prospered once code schofield, bijonah tanner, and jed martin had started the ball rolling. inside a week another large consignment of fish arrived. boughton was ready for it, and for all that could come, he said, in the next two months. this was music to the ears of code schofield and the crack crew of the _charming lass_, and nine days after they had picked up their mooring in the little crescent harbor they were off again, salt and bait-laden, for the banks, expecting to do a little haddocking if they failed to load down with cod before they disappeared in october. seven schooners sailed with him that day, and, at the end of nine weeks, the _lass_ weighed anchor and charged home with the first halibut that had come into freekirk head in years. on this trip, when he was left in peace, code displayed all the remarkable "nose" for fish that his father had had before him. and when he had weighed out the last of his halibut bill boughton led him into the little office of the fishstand and offered him a quarter interest in the business. thereafter code was to make only such trips as he could spare time for, and pete was to have charge of the _lass_ on other occasions. he had proved himself worth his salt in the eyes of the whole village, and boughton needed some one to do the heavy work, while he collected most of the profits. this business future, and three thousand dollars in the bank, led code one day to send to st. john's for an architect, and to haggle with al green concerning the cost of a piece of land overlooking the blue bay. the very night that code and elsa had their last talk nat burns was smuggled aboard a motor sloop lying in whale cove and taken over to eastport, where he was turned loose in the united states. half of the value of the _nettie_ was eaten up by his debts and damage settlements, and so, the better to clear the whole matter up, he sold her at auction inside a week and departed with the remnants of his cash to parts unknown. since that time not a word or trace of him had been heard in freekirk head except once. that was when the st. john's paper printed a photograph of an automobile that made a trip across the hudson bay country. beside the machine stood a man in furs who was claimed by all who saw the picture to be nat burns. was he running a trap line in the wilds with the indians, or was he a passenger in the car under an assumed name? elsa mallaby did not even wait for the departure of the _charming lass_ on her second voyage before she acted on a determination that had come to her. she shut up mallaby house entirely, and, with caroline as her companion, started on a trip around the world, promising to be back in three years. but she did not go on the mystery schooner, nor did anybody ever see or hear of it again. it soon developed that the government officials were hard after the boat that had impersonated a gunboat, and would make it very hot both for owners and crew. elsa knew this the day she made her final triumphant dash into freekirk head, and that was the reason that the ship only stayed ten minutes. so quietly and skilfully was the whole thing managed that, in the excitement of code's arrest, every one thought elsa and her sister had come on the evening boat from st. john's. not three men in the island would have connected her with this strange craft, and two of those weren't sure enough of anything to speak above a whisper. the third was code schofield. captain foraker took the mystery schooner outside the harbor, pointed her nose straight south by the compass, and held her there for a matter of ten days. at the end of that time he was in danger of pushing haiti off the map, so he went to port-au-prince and sold the schooner at a bargain to the government, which, at that time, happened to need a first-class battle-ship. then captain foraker and the crew divided the money (by elsa's orders), and returned to the states. it was only after the return from his second cruise that code paid attention to nellie tanner. something in him that respected her trouble and elsa's confession at the same time had kept his lips sealed during that short stay at home. but one sunday after the second trip they climbed to the crest of the mountain back of the closed mallaby house, and code told her what had been in his heart all these years. for a while she said nothing. the sun was setting over the distant maine coast and the clouds all round the horizon were wonderful masses of short-lived rainbow texture. the sea was the pink and greenish blue of floating oil. "you get me a trifle shop-worn," she said at last, laughing uncertainly. "then i get you?" he had turned toward her with a flash of boyish eagerness. one look at her radiant face and shining eyes found the answer. "shop-worn?" he said after a while. "well, so am i, a trifle, but not in the way you mean. if having the down knocked off one and seeing things truer and better for it is being shop-worn, then thank god for the wearing. "it has been a roundabout way for us, little girl, but at last our paths have met, and from now on, god willing, they shall go together. come, i want to show you something." they walked through the woods until they found the place where the surveyors had laid out the foundation plan for the little house. there they found an interested couple gravely discussing a near-by excavation with the aid of a blue-print. presently the couple turned around, and the lovers clutched each other in amazement. "bless me," gasped code, "if it isn't ma and pete ellinwood!" the end john fox, jr's. stories of the kentucky mountains may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. the trail of the lonesome pine. illustrated by f. c. yohn. the "_lonesome pine_" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. the fame of the pine lured a young engineer through kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the _foot-prints of a girl_. and the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine." the little shepherd of kingdom come illustrated by f. c. yohn. this is a story of kentucky, in a settlement known as "kingdom come." it is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization. "chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better than anyone else in the mountains. a knight of the cumberland. illustrated by f. c. yohn. the scenes are laid along the waters of the cumberland, the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. the knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "the blight." two impetuous young southerners fall under the spell of "the blight's" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers. included in this volume is "hell fer-sartain" and other stories, some of mr. fox's most entertaining cumberland valley narratives. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york jack london's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. john barleycorn. illustrated by h. t. dunn. this remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazing experiences. this big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted with alcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against john barleycorn. it is a string of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an unforgetable idea and makes a typical jack london book. the valley of the moon. frontispiece by george harper. the story opens in the city slums where billy roberts, teamster and ex-prize fighter, and saxon brown, laundry worker, meet and love and marry. they tramp from one end of california to the other, and in the valley of the moon find the farm paradise that is to be their salvation. burning daylight. four illustrations. the story of an adventurer who went to alaska and laid the foundations of his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. bringing his fortunes to the states he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, and recovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. he then starts out as a merciless exploiter on his own account. finally he takes to drinking and becomes a picture of degeneration. about this time he falls in love with his stenographer and wins her heart but not her hand and then--but read the story! a son of the sun. illustrated by a.o. fischer and c.w. ashley. david grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came from england to the south seas in search of adventure. tanned like a native and as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. the life appealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy. the call of the wild. illustrations by philip r. goodwin and charles livingston bull. decorations by charles e. hooper. a book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be. here is excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color to transport the reader to primitive scenes. the sea wolf. illustrated by w. j. aylward. told by a man whom fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life into the power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. a novel of adventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will hail with delight. white fang. illustrated by charles livingston bull. "white fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozen north; he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, and surrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. thereafter he is man's loving slave. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york novels of frontier life by william macleod raine handsomely bound in cloth. illustrated. may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. mavericks. a tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. one of the sweetest love stories ever told. a texas ranger. how a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. wyoming. in this vivid story of the outdoor west the author has captured the breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. ridgway of montana. the scene is laid in the mining centers of montana, where politics and mining industries are the religion of the country. the political contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story great strength and charm. bucky o'connor. every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing fascination of style and plot. crooked trails and straight. a story of arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. the heroine is a most unusual woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly characteristic of the great free west. brand blotters. a story of the cattle range. this story brings out the turbid life of the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love interest running through its pages. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york zane grey's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. the light of western stars colored frontispiece by w. herbert dunton. most of the action of this story takes place near the turbulent mexican border of the present day. a new york society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. her loyal cowboys defend her property from bandits, and her superintendent rescues her when she is captured by them. a surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close. desert gold illustrated by douglas duer. another fascinating story of the mexican border. two men, lost in the desert, discover gold when, overcome by weakness, they can go no farther. the rest of the story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which the two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine. riders of the purple sage illustrated by douglas duer. a picturesque romance of utah of some forty years ago when mormon authority ruled. in the persecution of jane withersteen, a rich ranch owner, we are permitted to see the methods employed by the invisible hand of the mormon church to break her will. the last of the plainsmen illustrated with photograph reproductions. this is the record of a trip which the author took with buffalo jones, known as the preserver of the american bison, across the arizona desert and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of yellow crags, deep canons and giant pines." it is a fascinating story. the heritage of the desert jacket in color. frontispiece. this big human drama is played in the painted desert. a lovely girl, who has been reared among mormons, learns to love a young new englander. the mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the mormons-- well, that's the problem of this sensational, big selling story. betty zane illustrated by louis f. grant. this story tells of the bravery and heroism of betty, the beautiful young sister of old colonel zane, one of the bravest pioneers. life along the frontier, attacks by indians, betty's heroic defense of the beleaguered garrison at wheeling, the burning of the fort, and betty's final race for life, make up this never-to-be-forgotten story. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the heir of kilfinnan, by w.h.g. kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ the book opens with our hero, dermot o'neil, out fishing in a small boat that he usually went with his widowed mother in. the catch being good he went up to the nearby castle, the abode of the earl kilfinnan, where he easily sells his fish, and is asked to come back with more the next day. being a good-looking and well-mannered -year-old, he wins the admiration of the earl's daughter and her cousin, who offer to teach him to read. when they go back to london they get the local protestant minister to take him on, much to the annoyance of father o'rourke, who does not like his catholic parishioners to be able to read. eventually the boy goes to sea. at some point in his career he decides to give up his irish name, and takes an english one, denham. several incidents in which he distinguishes himself occur, and he is given the chance of becoming a midshipman, from which rank he duly rises by examination to lieutenant. meanwhile the earl has obtained a position in the west indies of lieutenant-governor of one of the islands, since he had been finding it hard to make ends meet from the revenues of his estates in ireland. there are occasions on which denham has to call on the earl and his family, but is not recognised. time goes on. the earl's son and heir dies of an illness and is much lamented: he had been at sea pretty much as an equal in promotion with denham. the earl's time in the west indies is up, and he and his family return to ireland. denham's ship visits kilfinnan bay, and he walks on shore, where it is possible he may have been recognised by o'rourke and by a demented woman, who is not as mad as she seems. after several more exciting events, which we will not spoil for you, the earl dies, and to everyone's surprise denham is not only revealed as our original young acquaintance, dermot, but the lawyer states that dermot's father was in the line of succession to the earldom. this makes dermot the new earl. cheers all round, but who wants to be saddled with a derilict castle and a bankrupt estate? a beautifully written book, one of kingston's best. it is very hard to see why it is so little known. ________________________________________________________________________ the heir of kilfinnan, by w.h.g. kingston. preface. the following tale contains materials for a full-sized novel, but my readers probably will not object to have them condensed into a single modest volume. the scene of a considerable portion of the story is laid on the coast of ireland, where the peasantry mostly speak the native irish, and i have therefore translated what my characters say into ordinary english rather than into the generally received brogue, which would be, coming from their lips, as inappropriate as spanish or dutch. when english is spoken, it sounds somewhat high-flown, but is certainly purer than the language of the same class in england. thus, my hero talks more like a well-educated young gentleman than a humble fisher lad. if that is considered a defect, i hope that it may be redeemed by the stirring incidents with which the tale abounds, and that old and young may alike find as much amusement as they expect in its perusal. whgk. chapter one. the west coast of ireland presents scenery of the most beautiful and romantic character. here grey peaks rise up amidst verdure of emerald green; trees of varied hue come feathering down close to the water; yellow sands line the shores of many lonely bays; dark rocks of fantastic shape extend out into the ocean, while deep blue lochs mirror on their bosoms the varied forms of the surrounding heights. on the south-west part of the coast a wide bay is to be found. at the extreme southern end, up a deep loch, a castle, the seat of an ancient family, reared its towers high above the waters. the bay came sweeping round at some places with a hard sandy beach; then, again, the ground rose, leaving but a narrow ledge between the foot of the cliffs and the waters. thus the shore extended on for some distance, forming a lofty headland, when it again sank to its former level. a reef of rocks ran out a considerable distance into the ocean, forming a natural breakwater to the bay. here and there to the north were several deep indentations, in which fishing-boats and several coasting craft might find shelter. in some of these little bays fishermen had formed their habitations, mostly out of the wrecks of stout ships which had been cast on their rocky shores. in some of the coves or bays several huts had been congregated together, but a short distance north of the promontory which has been spoken of stood a single hut. it was strongly built of ships' timbers and roofed with stout planks, kept down by heavy stones, so that, though the furious blasts which swept across the atlantic blew against it, it had hitherto withstood the rough shocks to which it had been exposed. the day was lovely; not a cloud dimmed the blue heavens, while the sun setting over the distant ocean shed a glow of light across the waters, rippled by a gentle westerly breeze. several boats were approaching the shore. in one of them sat a lad. no other person was to be seen on board. the dark nets were piled up in the centre of the boat, at the bottom of which a number of fish, still giving signs of life, showed that he had been successful in his calling. every now and then he looked up at the tanned sail to see that it drew properly, and then would cast his eye towards the shore to watch the point to which he was steering. he could scarcely have numbered twelve summers, though his figure was tall and slight. his trousers were rolled up above the knees, showing his well-turned legs and feet. his shirtsleeves were treated in the same manner, while the collar, thrown back, exhibited his broad and well-formed chest. his eyes were large and dark, and the hue of his skin gave indication that spanish blood was flowing in his veins; while his dark locks escaping from beneath his fisherman's red cap, gave a still more southern look to his well-chiselled features. his practical knowledge and activity seemed to have made up for his want of strength, for few boys of his age would have ventured forth to sea in a fishing-boat of that size by themselves. another and a larger boat had been for some time steering a course to approach him. "ah! dermot, me darlin'; and all alone too?" said a man from the boat which now overtook him. "yes! my mother was ill and unable to go off, so i went by myself; an' see, uncle shane, i have had a good haul for my pains." "i see, boy, an' sure i'm glad of it," said the first speaker; "but you are scarcely strong enough to go off alone, for should a gale spring up you would be unable to manage that boat by yourself." "och! an' haven't i managed her before now in heavy weather?" replied dermot. "but suppose, uncle shane, i was lost, would you take care of my mother? she's not so strong as she used to be; toil has worn her down, working hard for me when i ought to have been toiling for her." "i will," answered shane. "will you swear it, uncle, by the holy virgin and the blessed saints?" "i will, dermot, as i hope for mercy in the day of trouble. but why do you ask that question?" "because, uncle, as i was pulling up my nets i slipped and almost fell overboard. i thought that had my feet been entangled, as they might have been, i should have gone down an' been unable to regain the boat. we none of us know what may happen: but could i feel that my mother would be protected from want, it would nerve my arm, and make me feel more ready for whatever lot may be in store for me." "boy," observed the elder fisherman, looking at his nephew, "you are thoughtful above your years; but the saints will protect you, and i will not forget to make an offering to saint nicholas, that he may watch over you." thus conversing the old man and the lad steered their boats towards the shore side by side, the former hauling in his mainsail somewhat to lessen the speed of his boat. they parted to the northward of the promontory described, dermot steering for the little cove in which stood the solitary hut already spoken of, while his uncle continued along the shore a little further to the north. dermot ran his boat between two rocks, at the end of which was a small sandy beach, where a capstan being placed he was enabled to haul her up out of the water. as he approached, a woman was seen descending from the hut. the same dark eyes and raven hair, though somewhat streaked with white in her case, which characterised the boy, was observable in the woman. her figure was thin and wiry, giving indication of the severe toil to which she was exposed. she was dressed in a rough frieze petticoat, with a dark handkerchief drawn across her bosom, and the usual red cloak and hood worn at that time by most of the peasantry of the west of ireland was thrown over her shoulders. "mother!" exclaimed the boy, "see, i have done well; i have had a better haul than we have got for many a day." "and may be, dermot, we will have a better market too," observed the woman. "it is said the earl has come to the castle with many fine people, and they will be wanting fish to a certainty. it would be too late now to go, they would not see you; but to-morrow morning, as soon as the sun is up, you shall set forth, and to be sure they'll be glad to buy fish of my dermot." the woman drew herself up as she spoke, and looked towards the boy with a glance of pride, as if she would not exchange him for any of the highest born in the land. "how are you, mother?" asked dermot; "have all those aches of which you were complaining gone away? do you feel strong again?" "yes; the saints were merciful; i did not forget to pray to them, and they have heard me," answered the woman. with her, as with most of her countrywomen, superstition, if it had not altogether taken the place of religion, had been strangely mixed up with it; yet she spoke in a tone of simple and touching faith, at which no one with any feeling would have ventured to sneer. next morning, dermot, laden with the finest of his fish in a basket at his back, set off along the shores of the bay towards kilfinnan castle. the approach to it was wild and picturesque. a narrow estuary, having to be crossed by a bridge, almost isolated the castle from the mainland, for the ground on which the old fortress stood was merely joined to it by a rugged and nearly impassable ledge of rocks. the castle itself was of considerable size and strongly built, so that it could well withstand the gales which, from time to time, circled round it. dermot had but little natural timidity or shyness; yet he felt somewhat awed when, having missed the back approach used by the servants of the establishment, he found himself at the entrance-hall, in which a number of well-dressed persons were assembled on their way to the breakfast-room. some passed him carelessly. "oh, here, papa, is a fisher-boy with such fine fish," said a young and fair girl as she ran up to a tall and dignified man, who at that moment appeared. "why, boy, what brought you here?" asked the gentleman. "to sell some fish; i caught them myself," was dermot's answer. "they are fine and fresh. i will not bargain for the price, as i feel sure you will give me what they are worth." the gentleman seemed amused at the boy's composure, and stepping forward looked into the basket which dermot opened to exhibit his fish. "you are right, boy. send anderson here," he said, turning to a footman. "we will purchase your fish, and you may come whenever you can bring others as fine." several ladies of the party seeing the earl, for the gentleman who spoke was the owner of the castle, addressing the boy, came forward, and now, for the first time, remarked his handsome features and picturesque, though rough, costume. the little girl begged that the fish might be taken out of the basket to be shown to her, and seemed delighted with the brightness of their scales and their elegant forms. "look after the boy, anderson, and give him some breakfast," said the earl, as the head cook appeared, and dermot, finding himself more noticed than he was ever before in his life, was conducted down below to the servants' quarters. although they were town servants, and would certainly have disdained to speak to a mere beggar-boy, or to a young country clown, there was something in dermot's unaffected manner and appearance which won their regard, and they treated him with far more kindness and attention than would otherwise have been the case. highly delighted with this his first visit to the castle, dermot returned to his mother's hut to give her an account of what had occurred. that evening she was sufficiently recovered to accompany him on their usual fishing expedition. again they were successful, and the next morning dermot once more made his appearance at the castle. he was received much in the same manner as on the previous occasion. his fish were exhibited before being taken below, and greatly to his astonishment a lady of the party begged that he would stand where he was, with his basket in his hand, while she produced her sketch-book and made a portrait of him. dermot scarcely understood the process that was going forward, and was somewhat relieved when the breakfast bell sounding, the lady was compelled to abandon her undertaking. "but i must have you notwithstanding, young fisher-boy," said the lady. "you must come back after breakfast and hold one of those fish in your hand; i have only made the outline, and the drawing will not be perfect until it is well coloured." "he does not understand the honour that has been done him," observed an elderly dame to the fair artist; "still he looks intelligent, and perhaps when he sees himself on paper he will be better pleased than he appears to be at present." dermot scarcely understood all that was said, for though he spoke english very fairly, he could not comprehend the language when spoken rapidly. breakfast being concluded, he was again summoned to the hall, and to his utter astonishment he was made to stand with the fish in his hand, while the young lady continued her sketch. as a reward she exhibited it to him when it was finished. he blushed when he saw himself, for she was no mean artist, and she had done him ample justice. indeed he looked far more like the earl's son, dressed in a fisher-boy's costume, than what he really was. "could my mother see that picture?" he asked at length, "i am sure she would like it, she knows more about those things than i do, for i have never seen anything of that sort before." "what! have you never seen a picture before?" exclaimed the young lady in surprise, "nor a print, nor a painting?" dermot shook his head--"no, nothing of the sort. i did not think that anything so like life could be put on paper." "cannot you read?" asked the lady. "no," said dermot, "i have no book. the priest can read, but there are few people else in this part of the country who can do so." "oh! you must be taught to read, then," exclaimed the young lady. "it is a pity that you should be so ignorant. would you not like to learn?" "yes!" said the boy, looking up, "and to draw such figures as that. i should like to learn to place you on paper. you would make a far more beautiful picture than that is." the young lady smiled at the boy's unsophisticated compliment. "well, if you will come to the castle, i will try to teach you to read at all events," she answered. "i should like such a pupil, for i am sure you would learn rapidly." "and i must help you, lady sophy," said the little girl, who had been the first to draw attention to dermot. "i am sure i should teach him to read very quickly, should i not, little fisher-boy? you would like to learn of me, would you not?" "indeed i would," answered dermot, looking at her with an expression of gratitude. "you are very gentle and kind, but i would not learn of those who try to force me." "when will you begin?" asked lady sophy. "to-morrow. i long to gain the art you speak of," answered the boy eagerly. "the priest tells me many things i have not known. perhaps i shall be able to tell him some things he does not know." "so you wish to show this portrait to your mother?" observed lady sophy, in a kind tone. "i cannot trust you with it, but if you will tell me her name and where she lives, we will ride over some day and pay her a visit." "my mother is ellen o'neil, the widow o'neil, she is generally called, for my father is dead. she is a kind mother to me, and there are not many like her," answered the boy with a proud tone, showing how highly he prized his remaining parent. "but our hut is not fit for such noble ladies as you are to enter," he added, now gazing round the hall and for the first time comparing it with his own humble abode. "it is but a fisherman's hut, and my mother and i live there alone. you could scarcely indeed ride down to it without the risk of your horses falling. if you will let me have the picture i will promise you faithfully that i will bring it back." "no, no!" answered the young lady, laughing; "perhaps your mother might keep it, and i want to have an excuse for paying her a visit. so we will come, tell her, and we shall not mind how small the hut may be." dermot was at length compelled to explain where his mother's hut was to be found, though he again warned the ladies that the approach to it was dangerous, and entreated them to keep well to the right away from the sea as they crossed the downs. they promised to follow his injunction, and at length allowed him to take his departure. this he was anxious to do, as he knew that it was time to put off, to haul the nets which had been laid down in the morning. day after day, while the fine weather lasted and fish were to be procured, dermot paid a visit to the castle, and each morning after breakfast was over, the young ladies insisted on giving him his reading lesson. he made rapid progress, and after a few days, they gave him a book that he might take home and study by himself. hitherto lady sophy and her friends at the castle, had not paid their promised visit to the fisherman's cottage. at length, however, one evening just as dermot and his mother had landed, they heard voices on the downs above their hut, and looking up dermot espied the party from the castle. they were standing irresolute what path to take. he instantly climbed up the cliff by a pathway which speedily placed him by their side. he begged them to dismount, and undertook to conduct lady sophy and the little girl, whom he heard addressed as lady nora, down to the hut. "i have brought the drawing as i promised," said lady sophy, taking a portfolio from the groom who held their horses. "i will show it to your mother, and perhaps she will let me take hers also." there were other ladies and several gentlemen, and they expressed an intention of coming also down to the hut. lady sophy guessed that this would not be pleasant to the boy's mother, and begged them to continue their ride along the downs, promising in a short time to rejoin them. dermot was greatly relieved, for he knew his mother would be much annoyed at having so many visitors; at the same time he felt equally sure she would be pleased at seeing the two young ladies. widow o'neil had just reached her hut with a basket of fish on her shoulders. as the young ladies entered, conducted by dermot, she placed two three-legged stools and begged them to be seated, for there was no chair in the hut. "you have come to honour an old fishwife with a visit, ladies," she said; "you are welcome. if i lived in a palace you would be more welcome still. my boy has told me of your kindness to him. a mother's heart is grateful. i can give nothing in return, but again i say, you are welcome." "we came to show you a drawing i made of him," said lady sophy. "here, see, do you think it like him?" "oh! like him!" exclaimed the widow, lifting up her hands; "indeed, like him, and far more like him who has gone--his father--whose grave lies off there in the cold dark sea. i would that i could possess that drawing, i should prize it more than pearls!" "i will make you a copy," said lady sophy, "on one condition, that you allow me to make a drawing of yourself." "of me! of the old fishwife?" exclaimed the astonished widow. "there is little that would repay you for doing that, lady!" the young lady smiled as she gazed at the picturesque costume and the still handsome features of the woman, although the signs of age had already come upon them. her eyes were unusually bright, but her cheek and mouth had fallen in, and her figure having lost all the roundness of youth, was thin and wiry. "oh yes, you would make a beautiful picture," exclaimed the young lady, looking at her with the enthusiasm of an artist. "do sit still on that cask for a time with a basket of fish at your feet. you must let me draw you thus. remember, if you will not, i cannot promise to make a copy of your son's likeness for you." "as you will, ladies," answered the fishwife. "the bribe you offer is great. as for me, it matters little what you make of me. you are likely to give me qualities i do not possess." although she used appropriate terms, she spoke the english with some difficulty. it was unusual for any of the peasantry of that part of the coast in those days to speak english, and how she had acquired a knowledge of the language, and had been able to impart it to her son, it was difficult to say. perhaps her husband might have spoken it, or her younger days might have been passed in some distant part of the country, and yet she had the characteristic features of the people in the south-west of ireland, many of whom are descended from spanish settlers, who had crossed over in ancient days from the coast of spain. dermot stood by lady nora's side, watching with looks of astonishment the progress made by lady sophy's pencil. he hastened to bring her a cup of water that she asked for, to moisten her colours; still greater was his surprise when he saw the tints thrown in and gradually a very perfect portrait produced of his mother. he clapped his hands with delight. "it's her, it's her," he exclaimed; "i wish that thus she could always be. oh, lady, if you give my mother a likeness of me, i must ask you to give me a copy of that portrait. it's beautiful; it's like her in every respect. if i were away from her, i should think it could speak to me." "away from her," said the woman, looking up and speaking to herself. "oh, that so dark a day should ever arrive, and yet am i to keep him always by me, perhaps to share the fate of his father." the words scarcely reached the ears of those in the hut. at length dermot obtained a promise from lady sophy that she would give him a copy of the portrait she had just taken. he now accompanied her and her young companion to the spot where they had left the horses. "you must promise to come to-morrow, dermot," said the lady sophy; "we wish to push you on with your lessons, for we shall not be here much longer, and we probably shall not return until next year." chapter two. dermot promised lady sophy to read all the books she had given him. when they left his mother's hut he begged leave to accompany her and lady nora, in order that he might see them across the downs. he had discovered during his visits to the castle that the young lady nora was the earl of kilfinnan's only daughter. he had a son also; a noble little boy he had heard. he was away at school in england; his father being fully conscious that an irish castle in those days was not a place favourable to education. the earl had a great affection for his boy, the heir to his title and estates. the former, indeed, should the young lord fitz barry die without male descendants, would pass away, though the lady nora would inherit the chief part of his estate. lady sophy was a relation of his late wife's, for he was a widower, and she remained with him as a companion to his young daughter, though considerably older than she was. the rest of the persons seen at the castle were guests, with the exception of a lady of middle age, a mrs rollings, who acted as governess and chaperone to the young ladies. dermot continued his visits to the castle. sometimes the earl saw him, and seemed amused at the interest taken in him by his young niece and daughter. he observed also, that the boy was somewhat out of the common way, and he suggested that after they had left the west of ireland, he should be sent to obtain instruction from a neighbouring clergyman, a friend of his, and the only person capable of imparting it. at that time schools and missions were not known in the west of ireland. the priests, almost as ignorant as their flocks, had unbounded sway among the population. often the protestant clergyman was the only person for miles round who possessed any education whatever. the peasantry were consequently ignorant and superstitious, and easily imposed upon by any one who chose to go among them with that object. lady sophy was delighted with the suggestion made by the earl, and insisted on at once carrying out the arrangement. "yes, indeed it is a pity that so intelligent a boy should be left in ignorance," remarked the earl. "here is a five-pound note; do you take it from me to mr jamieson, and beg that he will do his best to instil some knowledge into the mind of the fisher-boy." there was a dash of romance, it must be owned, in the earl's composition, and he was besides a kind-hearted and liberal man. dermot o'neil might well have considered himself fortunate in having fallen among such friends. lady sophy and lady nora instantly set off to call upon mr jamieson, whose vicarage was about three miles distant from the castle, though somewhat nearer to dermot's abode. the clergyman was rather amused at first with the account given him by the young ladies. he promised, however, to follow out the earl's wishes, and begged that dermot might come to him directly they left the country; "and i shall be ready to undertake his education at once, lady sophy," he said. "no, no!" was the answer; "we cannot give him up yet; it is quite a pleasure teaching him. he already reads english with tolerable fluency, though we have not attempted yet to teach him to write. we must leave that to you." dermot, with a grief he had not expected to feel, saw the party take their departure from the castle. the young ladies kindly nodded to him as their carriage rolled past the spot where he stood. "there's a bright light gone from amongst us," he said to himself. "did i ever before dream that such creatures existed on earth." he returned to his home in a mood totally strange to him. his mother, however, had reason to congratulate herself on the earl's visit, for it enabled her, from the payment she received for her fish, to provide in a way she had never before done for the coming winter. this made her the more willingly consent that dermot should go over every day to obtain instruction from mr jamieson, the good clergyman, who was so pleased with the fisher-boy, that he took particular pains in instructing him, and not only was dermot in a short time able to read any book that was put into his hands, but he also learned to write with considerable ease. his mind naturally expanded with the books given him to study, and as he obtained information, he became greedy for more. although mr jamieson had at first only intended teaching him the simple rudiments of reading and writing, he became so interested in the progress made by his pupil, that he felt desirous of imparting all the knowledge dermot was capable of acquiring. thus the winter passed away. dermot, in spite of wind and rain, or sleet or cold, persevered in his visits to the vicarage. he gained also an acquaintance with religious truth, of which before he had been profoundly ignorant. it was not very perfect, perhaps, but mr jamieson put the bible into his hands, and he thus obtained a knowledge of its contents possessed by few of those around. had the neighbouring parish priest, father o'rourke, discovered whither he was going, and the change that was constantly taking place in him, he would probably have endeavoured to interfere, and prevent him from paying his visits to the protestant clergyman. although he might not have hindered dermot from doing as he chose, he probably would have alarmed his mother, who, though tolerably intelligent, was too completely under the influence of superstition to have understood clearly the cause of the priest's interference. in a certain sense, to dermot's mind, the advantage he possessed was not so great as at first sight might appear. as he advanced in knowledge he became less and less contented with his lot in life, or rather the wish increased that he might be able to raise himself above it. by what means, however, was this to be accomplished? he had no claim upon the earl, who, although wishing that he might be taught reading and writing, had not the slightest intention of raising him above his present occupation. mr jamieson gave him no encouragement; although perhaps, the idea had occurred to the worthy minister, that the boy was fitted for something above the mere life of an ordinary fisherman. still the matter had not as yet troubled dermot's mind. it probably only occasionally passed through his thoughts, that there was an existence, even in this world, something above that to which it appeared he was doomed. mr jamieson had now resided for a considerable number of years at the vicarage. he came there with high anticipations of the amount of good he was likely to effect in that neighbourhood. by degrees, however, he found that his efforts to raise the people out of the state of ignorance in which they had been brought up were likely to prove abortive. the parish priest did not indeed offer him any open opposition, but he set an under current to work, which silently, though effectually nullified all the vicar's efforts. not one proselyte had he made, and at length he abandoned his previous intentions in despair of success, and consoled himself with the thought that at least he would perform thoroughly all the duties of his station. to such a conclusion many persons in his position have arrived, whether rightly or wrongly it need not here be said. mr jamieson had an only niece, who had of late years come to reside with him. she was no longer very young, but was a gentle, quiet woman, whose great desire was to do any good to her fellow-creatures which lay in her power. miss o'reilly had been for some time aware that a severe affliction was about to overtake her. when she first arrived at the vicarage, she used to go among the neighbouring peasantry, carrying a basket to relieve the sick or starving, or to administer such comfort as she was able. she enjoyed the beautiful scenery by which she was surrounded. now, however, she found that when she took a book the letters were dim and indistinct, while all distant scenes were shut out from her view, as if a thick mist hung over them. blindness she felt was coming on. a journey to dublin was in those days a long and tedious, if not somewhat dangerous undertaking. still, at her uncle's desire, accompanied by him, she performed it. but no hope was given by the oculist whom she consulted, and she returned home with the knowledge that in a short time she would require some one to lead her by the hand whenever she might wish to move from the immediate neighbourhood of the house. dermot had made frequent visits to the vicarage before miss o'reilly was aware who he was. one day he met her while she was trying to find her way a short distance from the house. he had seen her and knew who she was. seeing her in doubt as to the path she was to take, he, with the native gallantry of the irish, sprang forward and begged that he might be allowed to lead her. "and who are you, boy?" she asked. "what brings you to the vicarage?" dermot told her his short history. "you are then a pupil of my uncle's?" "yes, his reverence has been teaching me, and i love to learn from him," answered dermot. this led to further conversation, and dermot told her of his mother, who lived down in the little cottage in blackwater cove. "and have you any brothers, sisters, or relations?" she asked. "except uncle shane, none that i know of," said dermot. "your mother, then, lives all alone." "yes, since my father's death, twelve years ago, she has lived by herself, with me alone to take care of, in her little hut." "and you never wish to leave your home, and go and see the great world?" asked miss o'reilly. why she put the question it was difficult to say. it might not have been a very judicious one, as far as the boy was concerned, and yet it was but natural to suppose that a boy of dermot's character would wish to go forth into the great world, that he might inspect its wonders. "it may be, lady; i may have wished to go and see the world, though not to leave my mother; for who would care for her if i was gone? uncle shane would, but he is old and couldn't protect her for long. besides you know that not a year passes but that some of the men on our coast lose their lives." "and does your mother know the truth? can she read the bible, boy?" asked miss o'reilly. "no, she cannot read the bible, but the priest takes care that she should know what he believes to be the truth, i am sure." "your mother loves you?" "oh! indeed she does," answered dermot; "she would spill her heart's blood for my sake, though she often sits melancholy and sad when alone, yet the moment i return, her eye brightens, and she opens her arms to receive me. yes, lady, my mother does love me, that i know." "i should like to come and talk to your mother," said the blind lady. "will you lead me to her some day? i should not be afraid to descend the cliff with so strong an arm as yours to rest on." a few days after this, dermot having finished his lesson with the vicar, met miss o'reilly close to the house, and expressed his readiness to take her to his mother's cottage, the sea at the time happening to be far too rough to allow their boat to go forth to fish. "i am ready to go with you," said the blind lady; "but remember you must lead me all the way back, dermot." "that will just double the honour, lady," was the young irishman's reply. dermot talked much of his mother to the blind lady, as he led her down to the cottage. the widow's voice pleased miss o'reilly, and all she said increased the interest she was inclined to take in her. perhaps more than all, was that deep love which she felt for her only boy, and which had become, as it were, part of her being. dermot carefully conducted miss o'reilly back to the vicarage, and this was the first of many visits which she afterwards paid to the fishwife's hut. dermot was never idle. he had no associates; indeed from his earliest days he had kept aloof from boys of his own age. it was not that he was morose, or proud or ill-tempered, but he appeared to have no sympathy with them, and thus, though possessed of many qualities which would have won him friends, he had not a single friend of his own rank or age in the neighbourhood. whenever he was not out fishing, he was engaged with his book, either at the vicarage or at home. he was thus employed one afternoon in his mother's hut, when father o'rourke, the parish priest, made his appearance at the door. "come in, your reverence," said the widow, placing a stool for him near the hearth; "it is a long day since your reverence has been seen down the cove." "may be you haven't seen me often enough," said father o'rourke, a stout broad-faced man, with a countenance of the ordinary low irish type. "how is it that dermot there has so many books? ah! i have heard about his doings; he often goes up, i am told, to the protestant minister's. what good can he get by going there?" "much good, your reverence," observed dermot; "i have been learning to read and write, and gain other knowledge such as i had no other means of obtaining." "such knowledge may be bad for one like you," said father o'rourke; "there is no good can come from the place where you go to get it." "pardon me, father o'rourke," said dermot, with spirit; "the knowledge i get there is good, and the gentleman who gives it is kind and good too. i will not hear him spoken against." "what, lad! do you dare to speak to me in that way?" exclaimed the priest. "you will be going over to the protestants, and then the curse of saint patrick and all the holy saints will rest upon you,--you too, who are born to be a priest of the holy faith. look; you were marked before you came into the world with the emblem of our faith, and if your mother had followed the wishes of her true friends, you would even now be training for the priesthood, instead of being a poor fisher-boy, as you now must be for ever, and nothing more." the priest as he spoke seized dermot's hand, and bared his arm to the shoulder. there, curiously enough, above the elbow, was a red mark which might easily have been defined as a cross. the boy drew away his hand indignantly: "i tell you, father o'rourke, i am as true a son of the holy church as ever i was. mr jamieson is no bigot; he gives me instruction, but does not ask me to turn to his faith, and yet, father o'rourke, i tell you, to my mind it is a pure and holy faith, whatever you may say to the contrary." the boy spoke boldly and proudly, as he again drew down the sleeve of his shirt. many years before, when the red mark on dermot's arm had first been seen by the neighbours, it was suggested that it was evidently placed there as a sign from heaven that he should become a priest, and that in all probability he would rise to be a bishop, if not a cardinal. when, however, dermot grew a little older, and the idea was suggested to him, he indignantly refused to accept the offers made him. in the first place, nothing would induce him to leave his mother, and in the second, he had no ambition to become like father o'rourke, for whom it must be confessed, that at a very early age the boy had entertained a considerable antipathy. even with the widow, though she was ignorant and superstitious, father o'rourke had never been a favourite; still when she could get so far as the chapel, she went to hear mass, and attended confession, as did her neighbours. the feeling which governed her was fear, rather than love for the parish priest. father o'rourke was excessively indignant at being thus addressed by the young fisher-boy. he turned from him, however, to his mother, and began to pour out his abuse on her head. he had not proceeded far, however, when dermot again sprang to his feet. "father o'rourke!" he exclaimed; "you may say what you like to me; you may curse me, and if you like you may threaten me with excommunication even, but do not lift up your tongue against my poor old mother. there are things a man can bear and some he ought not to bear, and i tell you, boy as i am, i will not have her spoken against. your words may frighten her, and she may fancy that your curses may fall upon her head, but i tell you when uttered against a poor helpless widow, they will fall back on him who dares to speak them. there, father o'rourke, i have had my say, and i defy you." the priest had never before been spoken to in this manner by one of his flock, and he found no words to reply. at first he felt inclined to anathematise both the widow and her son, but doubts as to the effects it might produce upon dermot restrained him, or perhaps a better feeling came into his heart. "very well, boy, remember i have warned you," he exclaimed, "i have told you that by going to that protestant minister, you may be led to turn heretic, and forsake our holy faith, and if you should, do not forget the heavy curses that will follow you. i do not wish you ill, nor do i wish your mother ill, but i cannot stand by and see one of my flock carried the downward way to destruction." having thus delivered himself, father o'rourke left the hut and took the path up the steep glen, which led inland from the sea. often dermot's mind reverted to the days when the castle was inhabited, and he thought of the beautiful and kind ladies he had seen there, and of the fair little girl who had smiled so sweetly when she spoke to him. he felt the immeasurable distance between them and him, and yet he longed for their return, that he might gaze on them at a distance, and again hear their voices. he was generally too much occupied to go to the castle to inquire when the earl was likely to return, because when not engaged in fishing, he was constantly at the house of mr jamieson. more than once he had ventured to ask him whether he thought the earl was likely to come back again, but the minister replied that he was ignorant of the earl's movements, and had not heard that any orders had been received at the castle to make preparations for the reception of the family. the time was approaching when they had come on the previous year, and dermot, though he scarcely acknowledged his feelings to himself, became more and more anxious for their arrival. after leaving mr jamieson, though the round was a long one, and he had to prepare his nets for the day's fishing, he could not resist the temptation of going to the castle before he returned home. from his frequent visits during the previous summer, he was not a stranger there, and the housekeeper, pleased with his good looks and his unaffected manner, was not sorry to see him. "wait a bit, boy, wait a bit, and i think i can tell you when the ladies will come back and make another likeness of you," she said, putting her hand on his head. "ah! they will spoil you if we don't take care, but do not be led away by them, boy. they look upon you, likely enough, as they do upon a pet dog, or any other animal, and when they are away, it is little they trouble their heads about you." these remarks were made in kindness by good mrs rafferty. she had heard all about the boy, and knew very well that if it became the custom to have him up at the castle, and to make much of him, as she thought was likely to be the case, he would inevitably be spoiled. "when you come we will buy your fish, no fear of that, and take my advice, get a supply of the finest you can by to-morrow or the day after, and may be when you come there will be mouths enough at the castle to eat them." "what! are the family coming so soon then?" exclaimed dermot, and a thrill of pleasure ran through his frame; "and the beautiful lady who draws so well, and all the others! i will go and catch the fish, never fear, mrs rafferty, and it will not be my fault if i don't bring a basket of as fine as ever were caught up to the castle to-morrow." "i did not say `to-morrow,' boy; i said the day after, and that will be time enough." mrs rafferty, to prove her kind feelings, took the boy into her own room, and placed before him several articles of food and delicacies, such as had never before passed his lips. she watched him while he ate. "it is strange if there's not gentle blood in that boy," she remarked to herself, "i have heard what the young ladies think about it, and by the way he sits at table and eats, i would never believe that he is a mere fisher-boy." dermot did not hear her remarks. having finished his repast, he rose and wishing her good-bye, hastened home with the good news to his mother. chapter three. the widow and her son devoted the next day to an active supervision of their nets. in the evening a gentle westerly breeze, which had brought in their boat safely to shore, was still blowing, and dermot having prepared the fish for the next day's market, ascended to the downs above the cottage. as he gazed over the ocean, he saw under all sail, standing in for the shore, a beautiful ship. she had royals set, and studding-sails below and aloft on either side. it was evident she wished to come to an anchor before dark, and he concluded from the course she was steering, that she proposed bringing up in the bay, a reef extending out, on the north side of it, affording her sufficient shelter from the wind then blowing. dermot watched the ship with intense interest. the masts seemed so tall, the canvas so white, and the yards extending so far on either side. on she came like a graceful swan, gliding over the azure bosom of the deep, surrounded as it were with the golden rays of the setting sun playing over the water in which she floated. dermot had not believed that any vessel so beautiful was to be found on the ocean. she seemed so graceful, so fairy-like. as she drew nearer her sides appeared highly polished, and all about her wore an air of perfect order. a distant strain of music reached his ear from the deck. on a sudden men were seen swarming up her rigging. every yard was covered. now the studding-sails came in as if by magic. the royals and the topgallant sails were handed, the topsails were furled, the courses brailed up, and in a few seconds she was under bare poles, when her anchor was let go with a loud rattling sound in the securest part of the bay, showing that those on board were well acquainted with the coast. as he looked down on the gallant frigate, for such she was, dermot's admiration increased more and more. he could not help wishing to be on board so fine a craft, and he determined to take the first opportunity of visiting her. on his return to the hut, he told his mother of the arrival of the frigate. "she comes as a friend, i hope," remarked the widow; "it is not many years ago that i have seen vessels in this bay, which came with very different intentions." no one was seen, however, to land from the strange frigate, but the widow, on further consideration, resolved to pay a visit on board, in the hopes of disposing of the fish they had just caught, calculating that a further supply might be obtained for the castle the following day. dermot was glad of an excuse for going on board: as it was now too late to visit her, it was arranged that they should go off the first thing on the following morning. although he and his mother could manage the boat by themselves, he did not know how she might be received on board; he therefore invited his uncle shane to accompany them, advising him to carry a supply of his own fish for sale. early the next morning the boat was alongside the frigate. the vendors of fish are generally welcomed by men-of-war's-men, and they very quickly disposed of all they possessed; the only complaint of the sailors being, that they had not brought off enough vegetables and other fresh productions. dermot was invited on board, and as he showed his curiosity in all he saw, he was allowed to go over the whole of the ship. great was his wonder as he examined her polished guns, the decks, white as snow, one below the other, the ropes on the upper deck so beautifully flemished down. the men were at breakfast, between decks. the tin mess utensils were spread out before them. dermot was shown how the hammocks were hung up at night, and where they were stowed in the hammock-nettings in the day time. he gazed aloft at the symmetrical yards and ropes, and wondered at the perfect order which reigned around; so different to what he had been accustomed to in the small fishing-vessels and coasters, the only craft with which he was acquainted. "would you like to come to sea, lad?" said a rough sailor, putting his hand on dermot's shoulder; "you would make an active young topman in a few years. there's something in you, i see. what do you say? will you ship aboard us? i can answer for it you would get a berth, for our captain likes such as you." dermot was pleased with the compliment paid him, though uttered in a rough way. "ah! if i had my heart's wish, i would do as you say," he answered; "but there's one i cannot leave, and i do not think you would if you were in my place." "who's that?" asked the sailor. "my mother, i am her only child," answered dermot. "i ran away from my mother, and yet i was her only son," replied the sailor, as he dashed a tear from his eye. "no, boy, i am not one to advise you to do as i did. i know not whether she is alive or dead, for never from that day to this, have i had the chance of returning home." the widow was highly pleased with the transactions on board, for whatever spice of romance there was in her, she never forgot the importance of making a good bargain for her fish. shane was delighted, and undertook to return on board the next day. another successful expedition enabled dermot to carry a supply of fish to mrs rafferty at the castle. his modesty induced him to enter by the back way, and on asking for her, after waiting some time, he was told he might go and see her in her room. the good lady told him that she expected the family every instant, and would take all the fish he had brought. dermot hurried away, fearful that they might arrive while he was in the castle, and that he might lose the opportunity of seeing them. he sat himself down by the side of the road which the carriages must pass, in the hopes of gaining a glimpse of the lady who had taken his portrait, as well as of the fair little girl her companion. he thought very little of the rest of the party. at length, after waiting some time, his patience was rewarded by seeing the carriages approach. not only were the ladies there, but they both saw him, and lady nora gave a half-nod of recognition, and then turned to her companion, as if to speak about him. dermot would gladly have found any excuse for returning to the castle, but as this was impossible, he hurried home, hoping to be able to visit it the next day with a further supply of fish. on his way he saw a boat pulling rapidly from the frigate towards the landing-place under the castle walls. in her stern-sheets sat an officer, who by the gold epaulets on his shoulders and his cocked hat, he naturally concluded was the captain. poor dermot had very little chance after this of attracting the attention of lady sophy. the boat reached the shore, when the captain sprang out, and hurried up to the castle. he was received with great courtesy and respect by the earl and his guests. "you are indeed welcome, falkner!" exclaimed the earl, cordially shaking him by the hand, "we little expected having the pleasure of seeing you. what fortunate chance brings you into our bay?" "we received information that there was some idea of a rising in this part of the country, and i was ordered to cruise off the coast," answered the captain of the frigate. "hearing also that you were about to return to kilfinnan castle, as it was in the way of duty, i took the opportunity of coming into the bay to visit you, and at the same time to make inquiries as to the truth of the report." "you are very welcome, captain falkner, and we are very happy to see you," said the earl, casting a significant glance towards lady sophy; "as to the rising, i rather think the government has been misled; however, it is as well to be prepared, and the appearance of the frigate on the coast may prevent the people from committing any act of folly." "i hope so, indeed," said captain falkner; "for the blood of too many of the misguided people has been shed already. they may bring much misery and suffering on themselves, and they may do a great deal of mischief in the country, but while england's fleet and england's army remain faithful, their wild schemes have not the remotest prospect of success." "no, indeed!" answered the earl, in a somewhat scornful tone, "unless men of character and true bravery were to lead them, they will always be defeated as they have hitherto been. for my own part i have not the slightest fear on the subject. however, i repeat that i am not sorry that any excuse should have brought you into our bay." captain falkner after this received the welcome of the rest of the guests, with most of whom he was acquainted. lady sophy blushed as she held out her hand, and the gallant captain took it with a look which showed there was a perfect understanding between them. he had already obtained a name which gave him rank among the bravest of england's naval heroes. they before long found an excuse for walking out together on a beautiful terrace, which extended under the cliffs, beyond the castle to the south. the conversation need not be repeated, it was very evident, however, that captain falkner was an accepted suitor of lady sophy's, although there were some impediments to their immediate union. he told her that he expected to be on the coast for some time, for he still believed, in spite of the earl's assertions, that there was a considerable number of persons disaffected in that part of the country, who would be induced to rise, should a leader make his appearance among them. "although i may sail away for a few days at a time, i shall constantly be on the watch, and the thought that you may be placed in danger, will certainly not make me the less vigilant," he observed, pressing lady sophy's hand. "but suppose you were to hear there would be a rising in this place, and another at some distance, to which would you then go?" asked lady sophy. "would it not place you in a difficulty?" "i tell you frankly, i would endeavour to forget in which place you were, and should steer for the one in which i believed my services were most imperatively demanded." "yes, i am sure you would act thus," she answered, casting on him a look of admiration and affection. "i do not value your love the less on that account, believe me." captain falkner had to return on board in the evening, but promised to visit the castle next day. he arrived just as dermot made his appearance with a basket of fish. "oh! that is the boy whose portrait you were admiring so much, captain falkner," said lady sophy, pointing to dermot as he was passing the hall-door. "come in, boy," said another lady; "we wish to see if your portrait has done you justice." dermot entered in his usual fearless manner, carrying his basket of fish. the portrait was produced, and another lady insisted that he should remain until she had taken a sketch of him for herself. "by-the-bye," said the earl, "have you got any good by going to the minister, boy?" "yes, indeed i have, sir," said dermot warmly, "there is many a book i have learned to read, and though i found writing more hard, i am able to copy whatever mr jamieson gives me, and while he reads i can write after him. and there is history and geography and many more things he has taught me." "ah, i must go over and thank him," said the earl. "and do you wish, boy, to continue under his instruction?" "indeed i do, sir," answered dermot. "oh, but we were teaching you," exclaimed lady nora, who had just then come into the hall. "you must come and let lady sophy and me give you lessons as we did before." "indeed i am honoured, ladies," answered dermot, with an air which none but an irish boy, even of much higher rank, could have assumed. "although i am grateful to the minister for all he has taught me, i should be thankful to receive further lessons from you." the earl was somewhat amused at the thoughts of his little daughter giving instruction to the young fisher-boy. at the same time, good-natured and thoughtless, he made not the slightest objection. indeed he never thwarted nora in anything she had taken it into her head to wish for, and certainly he was not likely to do so in a matter so trifling as this. dermot appeared, as he had been invited, to receive his lessons, but was somewhat surprised to find that lady nora was scarcely as advanced in some branches of knowledge as himself. "indeed you have made great progress," said lady sophy, who had undertaken to be the chief instructress. "if you persevere you will soon become as well educated as most young gentlemen of the day. i am acquainted with several, indeed, who don't know as much as you do." these remarks encouraged dermot to persevere, even with more determination than before. every moment he could spare from his duties, he was now engaged in reading. his poor mother looked on with astonishment that her boy should thus become so learned, and more than once it entered into her mind that it was a pity she had not allowed him to follow father o'rourke's suggestion, and become a priest. "he would have been a bishop to a certainty," she exclaimed to herself--"and only think to be a holy bishop, certain of heaven. what a great man he would have been made, a cardinal, and that he would have been, if his holiness the pope had ever become acquainted with him. i wonder now if it's too late, but i'm afraid after what he said to father o'rourke that his reverence will never give him a helping hand." such and similar thoughts frequently passed through the mind of the poor widow. more than once she ventured to broach the subject to her son, but he shook his head with a look of disgust. "if i am ever to be otherwise than what i am, i hope never to become like father o'rourke. no, no, mother i have other thoughts, and do not, i pray you, ever ask me again to become a priest." the next visit dermot paid to the castle, he was detained longer than usual by another lady insisting on taking his portrait. his feelings rather rebelled against this. he had been flattered when lady sophy had first taken it, but he did not much like the idea of being made a figure for the exercise of other fair artists' pencils, still his natural feelings of politeness prevented him from showing the annoyance he felt. while the lady was proceeding with her work, he gathered from the conversation around him that some one of importance was expected at the castle, and he at length made out that the young heir--lord fitz barry-- was looked for during the afternoon. dermot had never seen him, for during the previous summer, he had not returned home, having remained with his tutor in england. he found that the carriage had been sent for the young lord to the neighbouring town. as soon as the ladies dismissed him, dermot took his way along the road by which he would reach the castle. he had not long to wait before he saw an open carriage with the earl in it, and by his side a young boy bearing a strong resemblance to lady nora. there were the same blue eyes and the fair complexion and rich auburn air possessed by his sister, at the same time there was a manly look and expression in his countenance--boy as he was--which at once won dermot's respect. "ah, he has the old blood of his family in his veins," thought dermot, "and when he comes to man's estate, he'll prove, i hope, the same kind-hearted, honest man that his father is." well pleased with his morning visit to the castle, dermot returned to his humble cottage. did he ever draw a contrast between the two abodes? yes, but he was not discontented with his lot. he loved his mother, and he knew that his mother loved him above all earthly things, and that she would not exchange him, even to dwell in that lordly castle. still, as dermot advanced in knowledge and in age, he could not help discovering that his mother was ignorant and prone to superstition. indeed with pain he sometimes suspected that her mind was not altogether perfectly right. she would sit occasionally talking to herself, and now and then speak of strange events which had passed in her youth, of which she would give no explanation. he, however, quickly banished this latter idea, as too painful to be entertained. she loved him, what more could he desire? when he was anxious about her, he reflected that she had secured more than one friend in the neighbourhood. that his uncle shane was devoted to her, and that the kind miss o'reilly had promised always to watch over her. many wild thoughts and schemes passed frequently through dermot's mind. he dared not at first give utterance to them, not even to himself, and he would have found it impossible to mention them to any human being. mr jamieson, more than once, had spoken to him of the future, and hinted that if the way was open to him, he would scarcely fail, with the talents and application he possessed, of rising in life. it was very natural in mr jamieson to think this, for he knew that a fisher-boy's existence on the west coast of ireland was one of ill-requited toil, and of great danger. holding this opinion, he felt that the boy would not change for the worse, and would certainly improve his position in whatever calling he might engage. chapter four. one afternoon, when it was blowing too hard to allow dermot to put to sea in his boat, he had gone to the vicarage to obtain his usual instruction, carrying with him some fish he had caught, as a present to the vicar's niece. after he had received his instruction and was about to take his departure, miss o'reilly called him back to thank him for the fish which he had brought her. "by-the-bye!" observed mr jamieson, "dermot can take the pony which i wish to send for young lord fitz barry, and the cloak which he left here the other day." dermot had not often ridden; but where is the irish boy who would not undertake to mount the most fiery steed, if he was asked to do so? he gladly promised to take the pony and cloak to the castle. it was already late in the day, but he observed that "that did not matter," as it must be a dark night in which he could not find his way home. the pony was, however, in the field, and some more time elapsed before he was caught. miss o'reilly then bethought her, that dermot had been a long time without food, and insisted on his taking some before he set off in that blustering evening. it was thus almost dark before he left the vicarage for the castle. he looked down on the bay: the frigate still lay at anchor there, the wind being still from the north. "if the wind shifts a little more to the west, she will have to put to sea," thought dermot. "it will not do for her to remain in the bay with the wind blowing in from the west, and with such often rolls in here, enough to cast the stoutest ship high upon the beach, or to dash her to fragments should she touch the rocks." dermot rode on, not, however, very fast, as the little animal was unwilling to leave his own home, not guessing the comfortable quarters to which he was bound. the wind brought up a heavy shower of rain and hail; dermot was doubtful whether he ought to shelter himself under the young lord's cloak. "still," he thought, "it will not be the worse for being on my shoulders, and i shall be wet through and well-nigh frozen before i reach the castle, if i am to sit on this animal's back exposed to the storm." he wisely therefore, having overcome his scruples, put on the cloak, and continued his course as fast as the pony would condescend to go towards the castle. just as the frigate was hid from his view by some intervening downs, he thought he saw the men going aloft to loose the topsails, an indication of the ship being about to get under weigh. "it is the wisest thing that can be done," he thought to himself. "she can easily stand off until the summer gale is over, and run no risk of being driven on shore." he was already at no great distance from the castle, when suddenly from behind some rocks and bushes which lay near the road, a number of men sprang up and seized the bridle of his pony. he was too much astonished to cry out, or to ask what was their purpose in thus attacking him. by the expressions that they uttered, however, he soon discovered that they were under the impression that they had got possession of the young lord. "now," he thought to himself, with admirable presence of mind, "the best thing i can do is to hold my tongue, and just see what they intended to do with him. i would a great deal rather that they caught hold of me, to whom it matters not what harm they do, than the young lord. i would willingly save him for his sweet sister's sake, and for his too, for he is a kind boy, with a gentle heart. i am sure of that. there is no pride or haughtiness about him. if there were, i should not feel disposed to serve him. no, i could not do that. well, i will see what these men want to do with him. they will be rather surprised and enraged may be when they find whom they have got, instead of the young lord." these thoughts passed rapidly through dermot's mind, as he saw that he was surrounded by an armed band of men. they did not attempt to pull him from his pony, but turning round the animal's head, they led him across the country inland at a rapid rate, a man holding the rein on either side with a firm grasp, to prevent the little animal from falling over the rough ground they were traversing. dermot firmly kept to his resolution of saying nothing. the night was so dark, that had it not been for his knowledge of the direction from which the wind blew, he would have been unable to guess where he was going. in a short time, however, he found the wind blew directly in his teeth. he knew that they must be travelling north, and also, from the character of the ground, that they had already passed beyond the vicarage, and that they could be at no great distance from his own home. now they turned once more to the west, and he felt sure they were approaching the sea. the ground became more and more wild and rugged, and he guessed by feeling that they continued to ascend for some distance, that they had reached a range of wild hills which lay in that direction. all this time he had kept his senses wide awake, nor did he allow himself to feel the slightest fear of what was likely to happen. "no great harm can come to me," at length he thought to himself; "and if it does, what matters it? there are those who will look after my mother, and i shall have saved the young lord from some plot which these ruffians have formed against him." all this time the people round him were speaking the native irish, little supposing that their prisoner understood every word they said. he was at length able to gather from their conversation that they intended to hold the young lord as a hostage, threatening, if the demands they proposed making were not granted, that they would kill him in revenge. at length, he was ordered to dismount, and he found himself led forward through a narrow passage, with rocks on either side, which conducted them into the interior of a cave. it was of considerable size, the roof and sides covered apparently with smoke, probably the result of the illicit distillery which existed, or had existed there. it was dimly lighted by a lamp fixed on a projecting point of the rock. this enabled dermot to see that a number of arms were piled up along one side, muskets, pikes, and swords. there were two small field-pieces, and what he supposed to be cases of ammunition. had the light been greater he would probably have been at once discovered. as it was, however, he was led forthwith to the farther part of the cave, where he was told to take his seat on a rough bed-place. "we'll be after bringing your food directly," said a man, the first person who had spoken to him since his capture. "you will be quiet now, and not attempt to run away; for we should shoot you if you did without the slightest ceremony. you understand that? or stay, if we were to bind one of your feet to the leg of this bunk, we should have you more secure, i'm thinking." dermot, adhering to his resolution, said nothing in return, but allowed himself to be secured as the man proposed. he laughed, however, to himself at the thought of the ease with which he could immediately liberate himself should he wish to do so, and wrapping himself closely in the cloak, the better to conceal his figure and dress, should by chance a gleam of light fall upon him, he lay down on the bunk. other persons now continued to arrive, until the cave was full of men, the greater part of whom were peasants or small farmers; at least their comrades treated them with but little ceremony. as dermot, however, was watching what took place, he heard the men whispering to each other, "it's him! it's him; he's come to lead us, no fear now." just then a man appeared at the entrance of the cave. as he advanced with a confident, indeed somewhat swaggering step, towards the table in the centre, all the men rose from their seats and greeted him in various tones of welcome. he told them that he had been narrowly watched, that he had had no little difficulty in escaping his enemies and their enemies, that he was thankful to find himself among them, and prepared to undertake any enterprise, however hazardous, which might tend to forward their great and glorious cause--the overthrow of their saxon tyrants and the establishment of the irish race as the lords and rulers of their country. he said a great deal more to the same effect, which was eagerly listened to by the assembled rebels. "long life to the o'higgins, he's the boy for us," resounded through the cavern, or at least words to that effect in the native irish, the only language spoken by those present. the o'higgins spoke it, but dermot remarked that he did so with some difficulty. the conspirators seemed highly delighted at having made so valuable a prize, and began, in no subdued voices, to discuss their future plans and proceedings. dermot listened eagerly, anxious to catch every word that was uttered. he found that they were a band of united irishmen, as the rebels were generally called at that time, and that in spite of the ill-success of their undertaking in the north, they proposed carrying out a rising in that part of the country. their first object was to attack the castle of kilfinnan, where they hoped to find a supply of arms and a large amount of booty. they expected also to extract a considerable sum for the ransom of the prisoners they might capture in the castle, and, if not, they proposed putting them all to death, in revenge for the execution of their fellow-rebels, which had taken place in other parts of the country. the chief impediment to their plan was the continuance of the frigate on the coast. they were anxious to devise some plan by which she might be drawn off to another part of ireland, or induced, at all events, to put to sea. some of the boldest of the party proposed collecting a flotilla of boats, and taking possession of her, in the belief that they could land her guns and other arms, and thus obtain the means of better competing with the royal troops. these and many other schemes were freely discussed by the rebels. after some time another person entered the cavern. dermot looked up and saw by the light of the lamp, which fell on his countenance, that the new comer was no other than father o'rourke. he and the o'higgins greeted each other warmly. it was evident that they were looked upon as the leaders of the undertaking. the one active in a spiritual capacity, urging on the infatuated men the justice of their cause and promising them his own prayers and the protection of heaven, and telling them to go on and conquer; the other inviting them to follow him, and promising them the victory. father o'rourke particularly advocated the most energetic measures. he even advised that they should at once march towards the castle, and, exposing the young lord to view, threaten to hang him if the gates were not opened to admit them. this plan was, however, overruled by others, who declared that the frigate still lay in the bay, and that whatever the earl might do, their appearance on the shore would certainly bring the shot of her guns about their ears. "and what are you afraid of, comrades?" exclaimed father o'rourke. "if they do, cannot i give each of you the blessed picture of saint patrick, and won't that, worn about your neck, guard you from the shot of the enemy? ah, if you knew the value of those blessed amulets, you would all of you be anxious to purchase them. no soldier should ever think of going into battle without such a safeguard. have i not been offering up prayers day and night for the last month for your success, and are you such heretics as to believe that they have all been uttered in vain? no, trust me, let us go and attack the castle this night or to-morrow at farthest, and depend upon it, we shall gain such a victory as will make all the people in the country around rise up and join us. they only want to see a little success, and ireland shall have her own again. what, boys! are we to be kept down by the red-coats, and the vile heretics who call george the third king? no, i say again. ireland for the irish. may saint patrick and all the blessed saints fight for us, and we will have true liberty once more in the green isle of old erin!" while listening to the address of the priest, very similar to many others uttered then, and even at the present day, by the so-called pastors of the romish church in ireland, dermot was thinking over what he should attempt to do. he knew perfectly well from the way his feet had been tied to the bed, that he could liberate himself immediately; but how to steal out of the cavern without being observed was the difficulty; even should the chief body of the rebels go to sleep, it was not likely that they would leave the cavern without a guard. if he could escape, however, he thought his best plan would be to hasten off to the castle, to which he felt sure he could find his way, and give notice of the plans of the conspirators. "the earl probably does not dream of an attack being made on his residence, and will not certainly be prepared," thought dermot to himself. "perhaps the rebels will steal towards the chief door and break it open before any one within can stop them. the frigate, too, if she has not sailed already, will very likely go away, or be misled by the treacherous information those people will send on board. now, if i could steal away without their finding out who i am, they will not suspect that their plans are discovered as they know that the young lord would not understand what had been said." dermot's great desire therefore was to escape from the cavern. he found that not only was it expected that the country around would rise and attack all the protestant dwelling-houses in the neighbourhood, but that a french squadron with troops would come off the coast and support their cause. this, altogether, was terrible news, and dermot felt that it was most important it should be conveyed without delay to kilfinnan castle, the principal seat in that neighbourhood. dermot had never liked father o'rourke, and he had now still less cause to admire him. he guessed, too, from the character of the man, that although he would encourage the people round to rebel, he was not likely to run himself into danger. he was not surprised, therefore, after hearing him inflame the passions and ardour of his misguided countrymen, to see him quietly take his departure after uttering his blessing and promising them success if they would follow his injunctions. we must now return to the vicarage. scarcely had dermot left the house on the pony, than miss o'reilly began to regret that she had allowed him to go. she went to the door and felt the blast blowing keenly from the north, and knowing the lateness of the hour, she feared that he would be benighted long before he could reach the castle. she would willingly have despatched some one to him, but she had no person to send. while standing at the door, she heard a voice, singing one of the wild and plaintive airs of the country, down in the valley beneath the vicarage. she knew by the sounds that the singer was drawing nearer and nearer the house. "it is poor mad kathleen," she said to herself, "though she has but a small amount of brains, yet she is fleet of foot, and would soon overtake the lad, and bring him back to the house. it would be better to do that, than let him go on with the pony he ill knows how to bestride." the song continued, and in a short time the singer stood in front of the vicarage. "well, kathleen, what brings you here?" asked miss o'reilly, addressing her in a kind tone. "what brings me here takes me wherever i list to go, my own free will," answered the mad girl, who was still young, and possessed of an amount of beauty which made those who saw her feel even more sympathy and compassion than they might have done, had her appearance been less attractive. "you are good and kind, kathleen," said miss o'reilly; "you would do me a kindness, i know, if i were to ask you." "that i would, lady!" answered the girl, in the broken saxon which was spoken by not many of the peasantry in that part of ireland; "i would do anything to serve you, just say what it is." miss o'reilly, in a few words, explained to kathleen what she wished to have done. "you know him, you know young dermot o'neil?" "oh yes, i know him well; he is a gentle lad and a good one, and i would gladly serve him, as i would you, lady." miss o'reilly again endeavoured to impress upon the wandering mind of the poor girl what she was to do, and then begged her to hasten off to overtake dermot. however, neither she nor miss o'reilly were aware of the distance dermot would have got before kathleen could overtake him. the mad girl went singing on as was her wont for some time, till suddenly she became unusually silent. she had not gone far when she heard the loud talking of a body of men approaching her. "those voices at this time of the evening bode no good," she said to herself. "they are some of the rebels who they say are about the country. i never loved such. i will hide and watch to see what they are about." she accordingly concealed herself among the rocks and uneven ground with which the road was bounded. the tramp of feet approached, coming from the direction of the castle, and she saw some men leading a pony on which a lad was mounted, hurriedly proceeding towards the north. from what she had heard from miss o'reilly, she at once concluded that the person she had seen in the hands of the insurgents must be dermot himself. "now the next thing i have to do," she thought, "is to follow and try to find out where they are taking him to. surely they will not do him an injury, but still they have no right to carry him off; of that i am certain." gathering her cloak around her, she quickly followed the footsteps of the party she had seen pass. she had to keep at a cautious distance, lest in crossing any open space, she might have been discovered, but where a person in their right mind might have hesitated, she went on fearlessly. the road was rough and up and down hill, but she continued her pursuit till the party suddenly came to a halt. "oh!" she said to herself; "i know the spot where they have gone to; shall i go on, or shall i go back to miss o'reilly and tell her how i have been defeated in fulfilling her directions?" in spite of the distance she determined to follow the latter course. the astonishment of miss o'reilly was very great when, at a late hour in the evening, kathleen appeared and told her what had befallen young dermot. miss o'reilly instantly consulted her uncle, who fortunately was at home. "there is something wrong going forward, at all events," he observed. "but why the rebels should have made dermot prisoner is more than i can say. however, perhaps you can persuade kathleen to go back to the cave and endeavour to release him. i don't know what else we can do. in the morning i will ride over to the castle and consult with the earl. he should be informed that a rising of some sort is on foot through the country, though i do not suppose it is of much consequence." kathleen was perfectly ready to undertake the release of dermot if she could accomplish it, and she promised at all events to enter the cavern and to communicate with him. "he is a wise lad, and it will be a wise thing to do as he bids me," she observed. "but you must be weary, kathleen," said miss o'reilly; "you will want some refreshment before you set out again to-night." "no, no, when the mind's at work the body requires no food," said the mad girl, and she burst forth in a wild song which showed the excitement under which she was labouring. chapter five. without waiting for further directions, away went the mad girl over moorland and glen at a speed which, considering the darkness, scarcely a wild deer could have rivalled, and before long she stood at the entrance of the cavern. she waited for some time, in the hopes that the inmates would go to sleep, and that she could more easily find an entrance. listening, she heard voices within, and that of father o'rourke above all the rest. "where the priest is, there there's mischief," she said to herself. "if he's going to stay there's little i shall be able to do." she had not waited long, however, concealed behind a rock, when she saw father o'rourke issue forth and take his way down the hill. she waited some time longer, then quietly entered the cavern, gliding past the table and up to its further end. the men, who were still awake, gazed at her with astonishment, wondering what had brought her there, but none ventured to speak to her. she was held in a sort of superstitious reverence by the ignorant peasantry; and seeing her fearlessly enter, they fancied that she had authority for coming among them. no one suspected, indeed, that she would not prove faithful to their cause, had she discovered their intention. silently she passed up the cavern and sat herself down on a chest at the further end, where, concealed by the darkness, she yet could look forth on the objects lighted by the lamp, and make her observations. she had not been there long before she discovered dermot resting on his elbow on the bunk where he had been placed. she watched till those around her appeared to be asleep, and she then noiselessly glided up to where he lay. "i have come to look for you, dermot," she whispered. "have you any message to send to friends, or would you have me set you free? the message i might take, but if i were to try and set you free, i might be made prisoner myself." "i will send a message; that will be the safest plan," said dermot. "but how did you find me out?" she told him briefly. "stay, i can take a leaf from one of my books," he observed. "i will write it, it will be safer, and you will remember to deliver it, kathleen, if you wish to do me and others real service." "oh yes, dermot, write, you may trust me; it is better than putting it into my poor mind, though i can remember if it is not overcharged," she answered with a sigh. "but be quick, or some of these people will be suspecting us." dermot sat up. he had fortunately a pencil in his pocket, and taking a leaf from one of his books, he wrote a few lines, addressed to the earl, telling him of the intention of the rebels to attack his castle, and also of their purpose of getting the frigate out of the way. the note may not have been well written or very well expressed, but it was clear and to the purpose. after signing his name he added, "oh, trust me, my lord, i would come myself but i am a prisoner, and i pray heaven that this may reach you in time to be of service." kathleen placed the note in her bosom, hoping that she had not been observed. "now hasten away, kathleen," whispered dermot. "you can do as much good as i could have done had i been free, and providing those in the castle are preserved i care not what happens." kathleen returned to her former seat and began chanting one of the airs she was generally heard singing, and then, once more gliding down the centre of the cave, she took her departure unquestioned by any of the rebels. again in the open air she quickly descended the mountain, dark as it was, and in spite of the roughness of the way, she hastened forward at a rapid speed towards kilfinnan castle. all was silent as she approached the gates. in vain she walked round and round, she could find no means of making herself heard. the inmates, unsuspicious of danger, were all at rest. she looked down into the bay. the frigate was not there. "all my labours will be of no avail," she thought to herself, "if i cannot let the good lord know what is threatened." she had walked some way under the castle walls, when, looking up, she saw a light in a window. instantly she gave forth one of her wild songs. some of those within who had heard of the famed banshee were fully persuaded that it was a phantom visitor singing outside the gates, indicative of the speedy death of some one of consequence within. at length the window opened. "who's there?" asked a feminine voice. "surely it is some mortal, and not a spirit from another world." "i'm sure it is," said another voice. "it's the poor girl miss o'reilly was telling us about. what is it you want, kathleen?" asked the speaker in a tender tone. "is it you who calls me, my lady?" answered kathleen from below. "yes, it is i; what brings you here at this hour of the night?" "a message--a paper for the earl, my lady," said the mad girl. "it is from one who would serve him, and it is of great importance he told me. i cannot say more now; but if you will let me into the castle i will place it in your hands, and tell you all i know." "come round to the front door," said a voice, which was that of lady sophy. "we will come down with a light, and admit you." some time was occupied by the young ladies in putting on their dresses, and then arousing the earl with the information that a message of importance was brought for him, they hastened down stairs. at first, from the incoherent way in which poor kathleen spoke, lady sophy and nora could not understand what had occurred. at length the truth dawned upon them, and by the time the earl appeared, they were able to explain to him what they had learned. he at once clearly understood that dermot had been seized by those who intended to carry off his own son, and he felt not a little grateful to the young fisher-boy for the way he had behaved in the matter. he saw likewise that no time was to be lost, and that it would be necessary both to send off messengers to procure troops from the nearest place where they were quartered, and also immediately to put the castle into a state of defence. he regretted the absence of the frigate, and could only hope that she might return sooner than it had been captain falkner's intention of doing. in vain lady sophy pressed poor kathleen, after her exertions, to remain and rest at the castle. "no, no," she answered; "i will be back again at my home. if i am absent, they will suspect that i have taken a part in this matter; and though they can do me no harm, they may injure those i love." the poor girl could scarcely be persuaded to take any refreshment; and at length, having eaten a little which lady nora brought her, she hastened away towards the vicarage, singing in her usual strain as she went. the earl quickly aroused the inmates of the castle. messengers were sent off as he proposed, and all the people in the neighbourhood who could be trusted were summoned to come within the walls to aid in its defence. there were a few guns planted on the battlements, but they were more for show than use, that part of the country having hitherto been tranquil, and no idea being entertained that they would be required. there were, however, muskets and pistols in the armoury, and pikes, and numerous old weapons of warfare which were stored there, more as an exhibition on account of their antiquity than for use. still, the gates were strong, and it would require no small amount of force to break them open. the preparations for the defence occupied a considerable time; the lower windows had to be barricaded, and the doors strengthened by stout bars. a few holes were left for musketry in different parts, and a supply of large stones was brought up from the beach below to serve as missiles, should the rebels approach near enough to make them useful. the first streaks of daylight were appearing in the sky before all these preparations were made. soon after, while the little garrison were resting from the toil they had undergone, the tramp of feet was heard approaching the castle. chapter six. towards morning dermot was roused from the bunk on which he had been placed by the man who had before spoken, and an intimation given him that he must rise and prepare to move. he again saw the person who had been called o'higgins marshalling the rebels, giving various directions, and finally putting himself at their head, as in regular order they marched away from the cavern. on being led out of the cave dermot was placed on the pony and led between two men, and was conducted at a rapid pace towards the south. he knew this by finding the wind still in his back, and catching a glimpse through the gloom of the distant sea. "they must be going back to the castle," he thought, "and are about to make the attack they have been threatening. i hope kathleen arrived in time; if not, those beautiful young ladies and the kind earl will fall into their hands. oh, that i could have got away and made sure of giving them warning in time; and yet i do not think the people in the cave slept through the night, and i should have been found out to a certainty. even now, i don't think they know who i am, and they still believe they have got the young lord. well, they may hang me in their rage when they find out who i am, and it cannot be helped. kathleen will scarcely have failed in giving the notice i sent. but then, if they kill me, oh, what grief for my poor mother. that is the bitterest thing in the matter: for her sake, if i thought there was a chance of escaping i would make the attempt; but if god thinks right to call me out of the world, he knows what is best. still something may occur by which i may hope to escape, though i know these men about me are ready for any bloody work. what fearful oaths i heard them swear, and we know too well what dreadful things have been done in other parts of the country. the young and the fair, and the old and the helpless, have been murdered by their cruel hands. a fearful thing is this civil war. i used not to think much of it once, but i do now. and oh, that sweet young lady nora and her cousin, to think of the horrors to which they may be exposed." such were the thoughts which passed rapidly through dermot's brain in spite of the danger to which he himself was exposed. he heard the people as before speaking round him in the native irish, but he took good care to make no remarks; indeed, he felt sure that should he speak, his voice alone might betray him. had they indeed seen him in daylight they might have suspected, in spite of the cloak which covered him, that he was not the young lord. at length he knew by the appearance of the country, and the expressions he heard uttered round him, that they were drawing close to the castle, though they had arrived by a more inland route than that which he usually took. he judged that some hundreds of people comprised the force of rebels. they were armed in a variety of ways, but a considerable number had muskets and pistols. he discovered also that the two small field-pieces which he had seen in the cavern had been brought with them. not knowing the moderate powers of such pieces of ordnance, he was afraid that the insurgents with them would batter down the walls. this made him feel more alarmed than ever for the safety of his friends. the rebel force now drew up close round the castle, and a consultation was held among the chiefs as to how the attack should be commenced. dermot was led up on his pony close to where the leaders were assembled holding their consultation of war. one of them, with more sagacity than the rest, suggested that before they began the attack they should demand the surrender of the fortress, threatening that if this was not agreed to, they would immediately put to death the young lord whom they had in their power. one of their number was accordingly selected to act as herald, and directed to proceed to the front gate, and to demand a parley. the man thus honoured was a broad shouldered celt, evidently more accustomed to dig than to perform the part for which he had been appointed. he was furnished, however, with a stick and white handkerchief fastened to it, to act as a flag of truce, and urged to proceed at once on his mission. he evidently did not like the task imposed on him, for dermot heard him explain that he was doubtful whether he could muster a sufficient amount of saxon to speak to the garrison. "never fear that," was the answer; "there are many who know celtic inside, and they'll not fail to understand you." while these arrangements were being made the dawn broke. the herald appeared before the gate, and was considerably astonished when told, in reply to his demand, that the earl declined holding any communication with men in arms against their sovereign. "but if we hang the earl's son if they don't let us in, what will he say to that?" asked the herald. "you will commit any outrage at your own peril," was the answer. "the earl knows that you would not dare to hang his son, even if you had him in your power. do you expect to escape the vengeance of the whole nation should you venture to commit any such atrocity. go back from whence you came; the earl and all within this castle set you at defiance." the herald, unwilling to go back to his companions with such an answer, again asked if such was their ultimate resolution. "yes. you will only bring destruction on your own head if you remain where you are; and we again tell you, we defy you," answered the person within. at last the herald returned to the council of war, which was still sitting. the two guns were now brought forward and placed on an elevated situation, for it had not occurred to their possessors that the only service they could render would be to batter in the gates of the castle. the men who had muskets made their appearance in the front rank, thus to produce a more imposing effect. while these arrangements were being made some of the men had been cutting down young trees in a plantation close by. these they now fixed in a mound near the spot where the guns were posted, and to their tops they secured a cross beam. a rope was then produced. "we shall have to hang the boy if the earl does not give in," dermot heard some of the people round about him observe. "i would gladly have escaped the work," remarked another. "yet if it must be done, it must be." dermot watched these proceedings, and it would have been unnatural if he had not felt a sensation of horror creeping over him. should he endeavour to save his life by declaring that he was not the earl's son. it naturally occurred to him to do this, and yet it would probably no longer avail him. he nerved himself for the fate which seemed inevitable. the preparations had been seen from the castle. "if you commit murder," shouted a voice from one of the turrets, "you will bring down the vengeance of heaven and of your country on your heads." the chiefs continued their consultation. the discussion appeared to be a warm one. some of them got up and walked about, shaking their fists at the castle. "it must be done!" he heard several exclaim; "it will strike terror into the hearts of our saxon persecutors. the boy must die. if we let him escape they would declare that we were afraid, and that would make them tyrannise more than ever over us." several men now came to dermot and led him towards the gallows which he had seen erected. at the same time an attempt was made to fire the guns placed on the height, but neither of them went off. "the powder is bad," dermot thought to himself; "will it all be like that?" it was a curious thought at such a moment. he had nerved his heart for the worst. "again we ask, will you yield the castle?" exclaimed several voices from the height. "no, but if you injure that boy, vengeance will overtake you," was the answer. the men uttered a hoarse laugh with some fearful oaths. "we shall soon see that. bring him forward. now, boy, are you prepared for heaven? you will be there in a few minutes. but who are you?" exclaimed several voices. before dermot could reply, the cloak he had hitherto worn fell from his shoulders, and his dress and appearance showed that he was a very different person to the young lord, whom they fancied they had captured. none of those present, however, seemed to know him. "if he belongs to these parts he must understand what we have said," exclaimed o'higgins, "and if so, he may have gained more of our secrets than he should know, a sufficient reason, if there were no other, to hang him. who are you?" again asked o'higgins; "say, boy." "i am the son of widow o'neill," he answered, without trepidation, in the native irish in which he was addressed, "and i am her mainstay and support. if you hang me you will bring the malediction of heaven, and the widow's curse will rest upon you. if i know your secrets, i am not about to divulge them; i am too much of an irishman to do that, if i give you my promise that i will not." this answer seemed to have gained the good opinion of some of the bystanders, but suddenly a man who recognised dermot sprang up from among them. "he has become a young heretic; he goes to the house of the protestant minister, you can never trust him after that," he exclaimed. "he knows our secrets, and it is dangerous that he should possess them," observed two or three of the leaders, "and it is evidently necessary to put him out of the way." again there was a warm discussion among them, and the remarks of most of the speakers were evidently averse to him. "he must die--he must die!" exclaimed several voices, and dermot found himself once more hurried close up to the gallows. the brutal fellow who had been selected to act as herald, provoked by the reception he had met with, undertook to act as executioner. dermot's arms were bound tightly behind him, and he was again placed on the pony from which he had dismounted. the rope was secured to the beam, and the savage remorselessly prepared to adjust it round his neck. chapter seven. in another minute the young boy would have been put out of the world by his savage countrymen, when a loud cry was heard, and a woman was seen rushing towards the spot. a red cloak was over her shoulders; her long dark hair streamed in the wind. "who is it you are going to kill? hold, hold, you savages!" she exclaimed in native irish. "why, that is my own boy, the son of my bosom. what harm could one so young and innocent as he is have done to you? which of you will dare to take the widow's only child from her? which of you will dare to commit a crime at which the most cruel of savages would hesitate? dark curses will rest upon your bodies here, and on your souls for ever, if you dare to do so foul a deed. would any of you wish to bring down the bereaved widow's maledictions on your heads? let the boy go; he would never wish to harm one of you; a true-hearted irish lad." she rushed forward, no one venturing to stop her. like a tigress she flew at the man who held the rope in his hand, and cast it off the neck of her son. "now let him go," she exclaimed, throwing out her arm; "i defy you all. would any one dare to touch him?" with frantic gesture she released his arms which had been bound behind him. "now let the minister's pony return to its home; he is far too good a beast to serve any one of you. come with me, dermot," she exclaimed, as the boy threw himself from the animal and stood by her side. shielding her son with her cloak, she led him forward, stretching out her arm as if to drive back any who might venture to stop them, and unmolested they took their way towards their home. the same men who appeared thus abashed and confounded in the presence of a weak woman, now, at the order of o'higgins, began with all the ferocity of wild beasts, to assault the castle. again and again they fired their field-pieces with no apparent effect. the men with muskets, however, kept up a hot fire against every part of the building where they thought a bullet might enter. the besieged, however, did not reply to their fire. not a single person in the castle was to be seen; all apertures were closed, and the shot fell harmlessly against the stone walls. this determined silence somewhat disconcerted the rebels, who had expected resistance, and hoped to find some point which they might more easily assail. at length one of their leaders, with more military genius than the rest, proposed bringing the guns down to the front gate. in vain, however, the shots were fired against it; the gates were of iron backed by wood, and the shots made no impression on them. it was then determined to assault the castle by attempting to scale the walls, and the men eagerly set to work to form ladders out of the neighbouring woods. this, however, occupied some time, for although there were plenty of workmen, they had few tools or nails, and after two hours' labour, scarcely two dozen ill-constructed ladders had been formed. with these, however, a band of daring men might possibly gain the battlements. the object of the assailants was suspected by those within; they prepared accordingly to repel the attack whenever it might be made. it appeared to the leader of the rebels that by assaulting the south side of the castle they were most likely to prove successful. thither accordingly he led the main body of his men, while another party continued to assail the front gate, and the remainder, concealed among the walls and rough ground outside the castle, kept up a hot fire on the battlements. at length the assailants, jumping down into the ditch, placed their ladders against the walls. up they began to climb with loud shouts and imprecations on the heads of its defenders. unless this last attack should be met by a very determined resistance, there appeared every probability of their succeeding, for could they once gain a lodgment on the walls, they might easily drive the small number of opponents who were likely to be within before them. a determined band at last led the way, and reached the summit of the walls. they were there met, however, by a party of the defenders of the castle, led by the earl himself. unaccustomed to the use of swords, the assailants were ill-able to defend themselves, as they attempted to step upon the parapet, while the fire which their friends kept up from the opposite side of the bank, killed several of them, though the bullets failed to strike the defenders; they were therefore quickly hurled down again, and the leading men, falling, struck the others who were attempting to ascend, when all were precipitated into the ditch together, the ladders being dislodged, and thrown down upon the wounded and struggling mass. they had, however, too nearly succeeded to abandon their project. they retreated with their ladders, which were soon repaired, when with others in the meantime constructed, a still larger force attempted to scale the walls. had we followed the widow and her son, dermot would have been heard expressing his satisfaction at seeing the white sails of the frigate, which had so lately quitted the harbour, once more approaching the shore, aided by a strong breeze from the north, which still continued to blow. the insurgents were fortunately too much occupied in their attack on the castle to notice her; she was, however, seen by its defenders, and this greatly encouraged them in their resistance. again the rebels began to climb up their ladders,--this time fully believing they were sure of success. already a large number were near the summit threatening vengeance on the heads of all who opposed them, when there suddenly arose a cry in their rear, of "the red-coats! the red-coats." "ay, and the blue-jackets too!" shouted out a loud voice. "on lads, and drive the rascals into the sea." at this moment a strong party of blue-jackets, headed by captain falkner, was seen darting forward, while a body of marines followed with fixed bayonets ready to charge. the rebels did not stop to encounter them. those who were on the ladders leaped hastily down, crushing many below them, and then attempted to seek safety in flight. the marines and blue-jackets advanced in double quick-time, clearing all before them. very few of the rebels offered resistance, and those who did were immediately cut down. many were taken prisoners, o'higgins among them, and the rest throwing down their arms, headed by the rest of their chiefs, fled as fast as their legs could carry them into the country. they were pursued for some distance, when, unwilling to destroy more of the misguided men, captain falkner ordered the pursuit to cease, and returned with his followers to the castle. he was received with warm thanks by the earl. it was extraordinary that not a single person had been hurt within the walls of the castle, though the earl acknowledged had the rebels once succeeded in gaining the battlements, he could scarcely, with his small garrison, have hoped to defend it against the numbers which would have assailed them. captain falkner told him that after he had left the bay, a fishing-boat came alongside with only one man in her, who gave him the information of the proposed rising. although he did not believe that the castle would be attacked, he had in consequence been induced to return as quickly as possible to an anchorage in the bay, and he was thankful that he had not come back too late. part of the marines remained on shore to strengthen the garrison of the castle, and strong parties were sent out in all directions, to ascertain what had become of the rest of the rebels. a considerable number of the misguided men were captured, but most of their leaders, as is often the case under similar circumstances, managed to effect their escape. the state of the country made it dangerous to send the prisoners overland to cork, they were, therefore, placed on board the _cynthia_, to be conveyed there by sea. o'higgins had contrived to divest himself of part of his dress before he was captured, and, owing to this circumstance, he escaped being recognised as one of the leaders of the rebels. had dermot been called upon to do so, he would, of course, have been able to identify him; but, fortunately for him, no one thought of summoning the fishwife's young son to give evidence, and he was, therefore, allowed to remain quietly at home. o'higgins took the name of higson, and asserted that he was a pedlar travelling through the country, producing a licence in confirmation of his statement, but had been compelled by the rebels to join them. several of the other prisoners were found ready to swear to the truth of this statement. he, however, was found guilty; but instead of being condemned to transportation to botany bay, was allowed the privilege of entering as a seaman on board a man-of-war. he accepted the alternative, hoping before long to make his escape. he, however, was too narrowly watched to succeed in his object; and after being sent on board a receiving ship, was, curiously enough, transferred to the _cynthia_, on board which frigate we shall soon again hear of him. from the information captain falkner received he had reason to believe that this first attempt of the insurgents having so completely failed, and so many having been made prisoners, or killed, a further rising in that part of the country would not be attempted. still the disturbed state of the district prevented the ladies from riding about the country as had been their custom, and the earl would not allow his young son to go to any distance from the walls, nor even a short way without a strong escort. young fitz barry consoled himself, therefore, by frequent visits on board the frigate, where he soon became a great favourite with the officers. "ah!" he exclaimed, "i wish my father would let me become a midshipman. i would rather go to sea, than follow any other profession in the world." those were, perhaps, the most palmy days of england's navy. it was the time when her greatest heroes were flourishing, and the profession was looked upon as among the noblest a youth could follow. the oftener fitz barry visited the frigate, the more anxious he became to belong to her. the midshipmen, at first, encouraged him rather as a joke than in earnest; but as they loved the profession themselves, they were somewhat flattered by finding that the earl's son wished to join it also. on going on shore one day, he told his father that he had made up his mind to become a sailor. the earl at first laughed at him, but he had never been in the habit of thwarting his son, and when fitz barry assured him that he should pine and perhaps die, unless he was allowed to have his will, the earl declared that he was a very obstinate boy, but would not throw any objection in his way. still, as he was not certain that his father was in earnest, he went to nora and sophy, to get them to assist in pleading his cause. lady sophy having herself made up her mind to marry a sailor, thought that there was not a finer profession to be followed, and nora, who loved fitz barry with all her heart, could not think of doing otherwise than as he wished. besides, she confessed that a ship was a very beautiful thing, and that she thought her dear brother must be happy on board, for little did the young ladies know of the toils and dangers, the hardships and the sufferings to which sailors are exposed, whatever their rank. they had read to be sure of wrecks, of noble ships sinking or being burned, of men being castaway on desert islands, with little or no food on which to subsist, of boats long floating on the ocean, till one by one those on board had died of starvation or thirst, or from the exposure they were doomed to endure. to them all was bright and attractive, and fitz barry, therefore, by dint of importunity, at length prevailed upon his easy-going father, to allow him to join captain falkner's beautiful frigate, the _cynthia_, provided that officer would take him. that matter he had left in the hands of his cousin, sophy, and he had no doubt that she would induce the captain to receive him on board. he was perfectly right in his conjectures, for the captain, as many other captains would have been, was very ready to receive an earl's son among his midshipmen. it was necessary for the frigate to remain for some weeks after the late rising, to ascertain that all was quiet before she could venture to quit the bay. there was time, therefore, for barry to be fitted out for sea, and at length, just before the frigate sailed, he was received on board and rated as a midshipman. he was good-natured and unaffected, was intelligent and zealous in his new profession, had, moreover, plenty of money, and these qualities soon made him a favourite with most of the officers on board. captain falkner having landed his prisoners at cork, and remained there till their trial was concluded, proceeded on to plymouth, where the young midshipman was to be provided with the remainder of his outfit. the _cynthia_ was employed for some months as one of the channel fleet, and during that time had to pay several visits to the coast of ireland. captain falkner did not fail to look into kilfinnan bay, and accompanied by fitz barry, to pay a visit to the castle. great was his satisfaction at finding that the family were still there, as he had thus the opportunity of enjoying the society of lady sophy. alas, they little thought how long would be the separation they must after this endure. barry happened to inquire of his sister what had become of the young fisher-boy who was so nearly hung instead of himself, and he was told that he had disappeared from the place, and that no one knew what had become of him. such indeed was the case. not long after the attack of the rebels on the castle, one evening when the widow expected dermot to return, he did not make his appearance. in vain she waited the livelong night; no dermot came back to her. she watched and watched, now she went to the cottage door and stopped to listen; now she hastened down to the boat, that, however, was still moored in its accustomed place. she took her way up to the downs. in vain she called on dermot; no answer came to her calls. she returned home to mourn and to wonder what had become of her boy. he would not have left his mother without telling her. he loved her too well, she was sure of that, and yet who could have carried him away? had the rebels done so? that seemed but too likely, for they were too often wont to wreak their vengeance on the heads even of those who could do them no further harm. the morning came and found her still sitting at the open door, waiting for the return of her boy. the sun rose over the rugged hills and shed his rays down into the glen, tinging the points of the rocks on either side, and casting a bright glow over the ocean; still dermot did not appear. she determined to go forth and search for him, but whither should she go? he might have gone to the castle, but they surely would not have detained him beyond the night, and he must soon then come back. she waited all day, but when the night came on he had not appeared. weary and sad she sat down on the bench by the fireside, and there at length fell asleep. she awoke by being conscious that some one was present, and looking up saw by the light of the log which still blazed on the hearth, the figure of poor mad kathleen sitting before her. "you are sad, widow--you are sad," exclaimed the mad girl; "it is waiting for your son you are; and do you think that he will ever return? it may be he will, but you will have many weary years to wait until then." "what do you know of my boy?" exclaimed the widow. "tell me, kathleen, tell me, girl, has any harm happened to him?" "no; the harm is that he was weary of home, and has gone far away, so i understand, if my poor brain has not misled me. here, see, he gave me this, and told me to bring it to you. it will tell you far more than i can; it speaks words, though i cannot understand them." "no more can i," cried the widow in a tone of grief. "oh, that he should have gone away and left his poor mother; but maybe in these lines he will have told me why he has gone and when he will come back. still i do not know that i could have borne the parting from him even had he gone with my consent. but those lines, girl, let me have them; there are others can read them though i cannot. i wish it were the day, that i might go forth and find some one to help me." the widow took the paper which the mad girl gave her; it was a letter of considerable length. as dermot knew that his mother could not have read it herself, he must have trusted to her finding some person to perform that office for her. the widow begged kathleen to rest in her hut that night, hoping that she might, during the time, gather some more information from her about her son. all she could learn, however, was, that she had met dermot on the way to the south, some distance beyond the castle, and that he had given her that letter, which he intended otherwise to have sent by the post. poor kathleen then launched out in his praises, and declared that she had never seen a lord his equal in these parts. the widow's first impulse was to go and seek for father o'rourke, the person to whom the peasantry, whenever they had any document to be read, generally resorted. she remembered, however, his dislike to dermot and the words of anger with which they had parted from each other, and she therefore felt a repugnance to let him see what her dermot might have said to her. "then there is the blind lady," she thought to herself; "she cannot see to read, however. then there is the sweet young lady who came here from the castle one day, and the little girl, the earl's daughter, but they are too grand to care for what a poor boy like dermot has to say. i will go, therefore, to mr jamieson, and get him to read the letter. he is kind and gentle too, and may be he will give me a word of comfort about my boy. still i cannot understand why dermot should have gone away without saying a word of farewell to his poor old mother." kathleen, for a wonder, gladly consented to rest at the widow's cottage till the next morning. they then together took their way to the vicarage. the widow found mr jamieson about to leave the house, yet he kindly stopped to hear what she had to say to him. she presented the letter, and telling him that she had only received it on the previous evening, begged him to read it to her. he at once recognised the handwriting of his pupil. "ah, widow o'neill," he exclaimed, "i find by this that your son is away, and you must be prepared not to see him for some time. i scarcely like to say that the lad has acted wrongly in what he has done. he tells you, mrs o'neill, how he loves you, that he would die for you, and that his great object is to go into the world, and to make a fortune, and come home and support you. he says that he could not bring himself to go through the pain of wishing you farewell. he would rather go away without saying a word about it, or letting you know what were his intentions, for he is sure you would not have prevented him, and he would do anything to save you and himself from the agony of the parting moment. i believe him, widow. i am sure that he has a gentle and a loving heart, and that he speaks the truth when he gives that as his reason for going away without seeing you. yet it was to save you, rather than himself, for he must have known when he left his home, that he was gazing his last at you for many a day. of one thing i am certain, that his heart will not change, his love will not alter, and that wherever he goes, you will be the chief person he will always think of, and that he will look forward to seeing you again, as the greatest joy which can be allowed him on earth." the good minister believed that he spoke the truth, when he thus attempted to comfort the bereaved mother. the widow returned home feeling more consoled than could have been expected, for the loss of dermot. kind miss o'reilly continued to pay her frequent visits, and while the young ladies remained at the castle, they rode over under an escort several times to see her. they heard with surprise of dermot's departure, and at first were inclined to think him hard-hearted and ungrateful, but so ably did the widow defend her son, that they soon agreed with her it was but natural a boy like dermot should seek to see more of the world than he could in that remote part of ireland. the _cynthia_ had been stationed for some months on the irish coast, when she stood for the last time into the bay, before taking her departure. as captain falkner had had an opportunity of letting the earl know his purpose, a large party were collected at the castle, to bid him and the young hero farewell. those were the days of profuse irish hospitality; the gentlemen with their wives and families for many miles around had assembled. the morning was spent in all sorts of sports, and the evening in conviviality. frequently a stag was turned out from a neighbouring thicket, when a long run, sometimes across rivers, up and down hills, by the borders of lakes, and over the roughest imaginable ground, took place. many falls were the consequence, in spite of the sturdy character of the horses, and the admirable riding of the men, but few were present who had not seen a companion dislocate his shoulder, and not unfrequently terminate his career with a broken neck. it was not unusual to see a hundred horses stabled in the castle at a time, some of them belonging to the earl, but a considerable number to his guests, and the profuse hospitality of those days demanded that all the attendants should be well cared for within the walls of the castle. the dinner hour was somewhat early, that a longer period might be devoted to the after carousal. the cellars usually contained numerous hogsheads of claret, whilst stronger wines and whisky were on hand for those of less refined tastes. but the irish gentleman rather prided himself on the quantity of claret he could imbibe, and yet be able to retire with steady steps to bed, or if necessary to mount his horse and return home by cross roads without breaking his neck, or finding himself at sunrise just waking out of sleep in a dry ditch. although the earl himself did not over indulge in the pleasures of the table, he had been too long habituated to the custom to discourage it in others, and thus his legitimate income was inadequate to supply the expenses of the profuse hospitality he kept up. the ladies retired early from the table, when the slight restraint their presence imposed being removed, the bottle began to circulate even more freely than before. songs were sung, toasts were given, and the health of the young heir of kilfinnan was drunk with uproarious cheers. "may he be as fine a man as his father, and an honour to the noble profession he has chosen, though faith! i'd rather he followed it than i myself," exclaimed a red-nosed squire from the lower end of the table, "may he live to see his grandchildren around him, and may the old castle stand as long as the round world endures." "sure a finer young sailor never placed foot on the deck of a man-of-war," echoed another landowner of the same stamp. "may he come back a captain at the least, and take the lead in the field in many a hard day's run." similar compliments were uttered in succession for some time. fitz barry took them very quietly, indeed he at length became utterly weary of the proceedings. in truth also, the thoughts of leaving home and his sweet young sister and his cousin sophy, whom he loved like one, made him somewhat sad, and little able to enter into the conversation going forward. he did not, however, allow either sophy or nora to discover how much he felt. the next morning, farewells over, he went on board the frigate, without much prospect of returning home for three years or more. as she under all sail stood out of the bay, he cast many a lingering glance at the old castle, and the well-known bold outlines of the shore. at plymouth, to which port the frigate had been ordered to proceed, several fresh hands were entered to make up the complement of her proper crew. they were of all descriptions, but captain falkner soon discovered that there was scarcely a seaman among them. officers in those days, when men were scarce, had to form their crews out of the most heterogeneous materials. he was receiving a report of them from his first lieutenant. "here is a fellow, sir. he has been sent to us from the tender, and has entered under the name higson, and says he is an englishman, though he is evidently irish by his tongue, and the cut of his features and general appearance from head to foot. he knows little enough of a seaman's duties, but is a stout, strong fellow, and we may in time lick him into shape. i am advised to keep an eye on him while we remain in harbour, lest he should take french leave, and forget to return on board." "we must keep him," answered the captain; "we are bound for the west indies, you know, and shall require every man we can lay hold of." this settled the point--o'higgins the rebel leader, or rather higson, as he called himself, was regularly entered on the books of the _cynthia_. he, in vain, made several efforts to escape; once he narrowly escaped, being shot in the attempt. he had jumped into a boat at night, and was pulling away from the ship when he was overtaken, and being brought back was put into irons till the frigate sailed. had he been in cork harbour, he would have had little difficulty in effecting his purpose. hearing, however, that a son of the earl of kilfinnan was on board, he consoled, himself with the reflection that he should have an opportunity of wreaking his vengeance on the head of the midshipman. how the lad had in any way given him cause of offence, none but a distorted imagination could have supposed. he had certainly attempted for a very indefinite object of his own to burn down the earl's residence and to murder the inhabitants, and because he had been foiled in the attempt, captured and punished, he persuaded himself that he was fully justified in desiring to kill or injure the earl's unoffending son. such, however, was the style of reasoning in which so-called irish patriots of those days, and, perhaps, in later times, were apt to indulge. at length, powder and stores having been received on board, and two or three gun-room officers and several passed midshipmen having joined, the _cynthia_ made sail, and standing out of the harbour, a course was shaped for the west indies, her destined station. the frigate had been for some time at sea, and during a light wind she fell in with a homeward bound merchantman. these were the days of the press-gang, and under such circumstances every merchantman was visited, that the seamen on board who had not a protection might be carried off to serve in the royal navy. this was a cruel regulation, but, at the same time, it seemed the only feasible one to our forefathers for manning the king's ships. often good men were thus picked up, but more frequently bad and discontented ones. the merchant ship was ordered to heave to, and the second lieutenant, with a boat's crew armed to the teeth, went on board. the whole of the crew were directed to come upon deck. their names were called over, and three able seamen were found who did not possess a protection. they were immediately ordered to go over the side into the boat. "are there any others who wish to volunteer on board?" asked the lieutenant. there was some hesitation among them, when two youngsters stepped forward in front of the rest. the master endeavoured to prevent them from speaking; but the lieutenant telling them to say what they wished, they at once begged that they might be allowed to join the frigate. they were both fine active-looking lads, and seemed cut out to make first-rate seamen. the lieutenant eyed them with approbation. "you will do, my lads," he observed. "in a couple of years or less, you will make active top-men." the master was very indignant at being thus deprived of part of his crew; but he had no remedy, and was obliged to submit. "a pleasant voyage to you, captain dobson," said the lieutenant. "you will manage to find your way up channel without these few men i have taken from you, and depend upon it they will be better off than they would have been spending their time at wapping until all their money was gone;" a truth which even the master could not deny. the merchantman sailed on her way, and the boat having returned on board the frigate, was hoisted up again, when her sails being trimmed, the _cynthia_ once more stood on her course. the new-comers soon made themselves at home with the crew. those who watched the lads might have seen an expression of astonishment pass over the countenance of one of them when he found himself on board the _cynthia_. soon after this they were brought up before the first lieutenant, to undergo the usual examination. he soon finished with the men, who had the ordinary account to give of themselves. one of the young lads said he belonged to dartmouth in england, and that having run away from home he had joined the merchantman, from which he had volunteered, and he was entered by the name of ned davis. "and what is your name, my lad?" he asked, turning to the youngest of the two. "charles denham, sir," he answered. "that is an english name, and you speak with an irish accent." "my mother was an irish woman," answered the lad, with a blush on his face. "and who was your father, then?" asked the lieutenant. "sir, i came on board to serve his majesty, and i hope to do so faithfully," replied the lad, as if he had not heard the question put to him. "there is some of the true metal in that boy," observed the first lieutenant, turning to an officer near him. "i must keep an eye upon him. he will make a smart seaman in a short time. he is just one after the captain's own heart." the young volunteer did not hear these observations, or they would have given him the encouragement of which, he somewhat felt the want. the lads were told their numbers and the mess to which they would belong. ned davis and charles denham returned together to the lower deck. they found, after they had been some time below, that the crew were far from satisfied with their officers. they discovered that the ringleader was a certain john higson, who was ready to find fault with everything that took place. he was what is generally called at sea, "a king's hard bargain," or in other words, not worth his salt. he was one of those men who do a great deal of mischief on board a ship, and are generally known by the name of "a sea lawyer." the two lads, however, seemed resolved to do their duty in spite of anything that might occur. they had before, it appeared, heard captain falkner spoken of, and knew he had the character of being a just officer, though somewhat strict. it soon appeared, indeed, that he had a very unruly ship's company to deal with, and one that required a good deal of management to bring into order. had it not been for higson, and other men like him, this might easily have been accomplished; but whatever was done higson was sure to put a wrong interpretation upon it. still, the best men found themselves well treated, and spoken kindly to by their officers. by degrees flogging decreased, though occasionally some were brought up to suffer that punishment. in those days an officer might order it to be inflicted on any one of the crew, and sometimes this was done for slight offences. captain falkner, however, reserved it for those who seemed determined to neglect their duty, or to get drunk, or act disrespectfully to their officers. higson was himself too clever ever to get punished, though more than once he was the cause of others becoming sufferers. at length the west indies were reached, and the frigate brought up in kingston harbour, jamaica. unfortunately, captain falkner was taken ill, and it became necessary for him to go and reside on shore. the first lieutenant, though a kind officer, had not the talent of his superior, and thus the ship once more fell into the condition in which it had previously been. it being found that captain falkner did not recover, the admiral of the station ordered the _cynthia_ to put to sea under the command of the first lieutenant. she cruised for some time in search of an enemy, but none was to be found, and sickness breaking out on board, a good many of the men were laid up in their hammocks. meantime, young lord fitz barry had become a great favourite with his brother officers on board. indeed, from his youth he was somewhat of a pet among them. he was not a little made of by the first lieutenant and the other officers, not so much because he was a lord, but because he was a kind-hearted, generous little fellow. he had, however, been imbued by his captain with very strict notions of duty, and, young as he was, when sent away with a boat's crew he kept them in as strict order as any of the older midshipmen could have done. on one occasion when sent on shore to bring off wood and water from an uninhabited part of the southern shore of saint domingo, some of his boat's crew insisted on going up into the interior. his orders had been not to allow them to go out of sight of the boat, and should any person appear from the shore, immediately to shove off and return to the ship. when, however, they were told by fitz barry to remain where they were, they laughed at him, and began to move off into the country. he instantly drew a pistol from his belt, and hastened after them, threatening to shoot the nearest man if they did not instantly return. still they persevered, and according to his threat, the young lord fired his pistol, and hit one of the mutineers in the arm, and immediately drawing a second pistol, he threatened to treat another in the same way. this brought the mutineers to reason, and turning round they sulkily followed him towards the boat. here the wounded man insisted on having his revenge, and tried to persuade the rest of the boat's crew to throw the young lord overboard. the two lads who had come on board from the merchantman had been appointed to the boat, both of them by this time being strong enough to pull an oar. they, however, instead of siding with the rest of the crew, had remained in the boat, and declared that if a hand was laid upon lord fitz barry, they would denounce the rest to their commander. "and we will heave you youngsters overboard with him," exclaimed the men, enraged at being thus opposed. "at your peril," answered charles denham; "i am not one to be cowed by your threats. the man who was shot only got his deserts, and it will serve you all right if lord fitz barry reports you when he gets on board." this plain speaking still further enraged the rest of the boat's crew. at the same time, unless they had been prepared to kill their young officer and the two lads, they had no resource but to submit. they had pulled off some little distance from the shore when they again threatened to throw all three overboard, unless they would promise not to report them. this lord fitz barry refused to do. "no," he said, keeping the other pistol in his hand. "it is for me to command you. you disobeyed orders and now must take the consequences." he reflected that if he returned and let their conduct go unpunished, it might lead to still more serious disobedience. he, therefore, as soon as he got on board, reported the whole affair to the commanding officer, at the same time taking care to praise the two lads who had so bravely stood by him. the consequence was, that the whole of the boat's crew were brought to the gangway and severely flogged. chapter eight. the effect of the severe, though just, punishment inflicted on the boat's crew who had misbehaved themselves under the command of lord fitz barry was to produce much ill-will among a considerable number of the crew, increased, as before, by higson's instigations. the officers were not aware, however, of what was taking place. the men, although sometimes exhibiting sulky looks when ordered about their duty, continued to perform it as usual. the two young volunteers, it appeared, had been better brought up than the generality of seamen. both, from their earliest days, had been accustomed to offer up a prayer before turning in at night. this practice on board a man-of-war it was very difficult, if not almost impossible, to keep up. they agreed, however, that they would steal down when they could to the fore-part of the orlop deck, and there, in a quiet corner near the boatswain's store-room, they might have the opportunity of kneeling down together, and offering up their prayers in silence. this practice they had continued unsuspected for some time. in those days such a thing was almost unheard of on board a man-of-war. at the present time, however, there are not only many praying seamen on board ship, but prayer meetings are often held, and a very considerable number of some ships' crews are now able to join them. on one occasion, after it had been blowing hard, and the lads had been aloft for a considerable time, they were both very weary, and after kneeling down and offering up their prayers as usual, they leaned back, sitting on the coils of a cable, with the intention of talking together. in a short time, however, both fell asleep. how long they slept they did not know, but they were awoke by hearing voices near them. without difficulty they recognised the speakers. higson was among the principal of them. they listened attentively. had they been discovered, they felt sure, from what they heard, that their lives would have paid the forfeit. it was proposed to seize the ship and put the officers on shore, or should they offer any resistance to kill them, as had in another instance been done, and then after going on a buccaneering cruise, to carry the ship into an american port and sell her, the men hoping to get on shore to enjoy their ill-gotten booty. a few years before this a large portion of the english fleet had mutinied, but they had had many causes of complaint; still their crime was inexcusable. most of the ringleaders suffered punishment, and the crews were pardoned. this lesson seemed to be lost, however, upon higson and his associates. they had inflamed each other's minds with descriptions of the pleasures they would enjoy on shore, and of the hardships they had at present to undergo. the young lads dared not move. every moment they expected to be discovered. some of the mutineers, more sanguine than the rest, expressed their determination to wreak their vengeance upon those who had chiefly offended them, and young lord fitz barry, with several others, were singled out to undergo the punishment of death. the first lieutenant also was to be among their victims. the lads could not tell what hour it was, nor how long they would have to remain in their present position. they dreaded that the mutineers would instantly go on deck and carry out their nefarious plans. young denham's chief wish was to hurry off and warn those who had been chiefly threatened. "if the officers have time to show a bold front, the men will not dare to act against them," he thought; "but if they are taken by surprise, the mutineers will treat them as wild beasts treat the animals which they have caught in their clutches, and will be sure to tear them in pieces. if they once get the upper hand, they will kill them all, just as they did in the ship i have heard of, when scarcely one officer was allowed to escape." at length they heard the morning watch called, and not till then did the mutineers leave the place. the lads waited till they believed that everybody was on deck, and then cautiously climbing up the ladder, stole away to their own hammocks. as the middle watch was only then turning in, they were not observed, and they lay there till they concluded that all those surrounding them had gone to sleep. denham then proposed going and warning the officers. ned davis begged that he himself might go. "no," said denham, "i will go alone and tell the commander what i have heard." denham had scarcely got as far as the door of the captain's cabin, now occupied by the first lieutenant, when the sentry stopped him. "you cannot pass here," he said, putting him back as he, in his eagerness, pressed on. "but i tell you i have a matter of importance to speak to the commander about," said denham boldly. "it will be at your own risk if you stop me." "you can tell one of the other officers in the gun-room," said the sentry. "no; it is for the commanding officer alone," responded denham. "i will speak to him only." just then the first lieutenant himself appeared at the door. "i want to speak to you, sir," said denham eagerly. "come in. what is it about?" inquired the first lieutenant. "if you will go where no one else will hear me, i will tell you, sir." the lieutenant retired into the inner cabin. "now, what is it, my lad?" he asked. denham then told him of the plot to which he had become privy, for taking the ship from the officers. in later days such information would have been laughed at, but unhappily in those days such occurrences had become too frequent to allow the commanding officer to disbelieve his statements. "stay here, my lad," said the first lieutenant, "if you go forward again, and the men suspect you of having informed against them, you will be among the first victims." arming himself with a brace of pistols, and taking his sword in his hand, he went into the gun-room. he here aroused the officers, and telling them what he had heard, ordered them immediately to repair on deck, sending some of them to call up the midshipmen and the warrant officers. the marines were then ordered to muster on deck under arms, while several of the petty officers whom it was known could be trusted were also called aft; a guard was then placed over the magazine, and the two after guns were hauled in and trained forward. these preparations were made so suddenly and so quietly that even the watch on deck were scarcely aware of what was going forward. there was no time to lose, for while those preparations were going on, ned davis, who had been on the watch, made his way aft with the information that a number of the men were collecting together forward, armed with all the weapons they could lay hold of, and that from the threats they were uttering they evidently intended to make a sudden dash aft, in the expectation of surprising the officers before they had left their berths. it was very evident that they would have done so had it not been for the warning conveyed by denham. when the sun, as it does in those latitudes, suddenly burst above the waters, and darkness rapidly gave place to daylight, the officers and the marines were found drawn up on the quarter-deck, and the mutineers who, at that moment, made a sudden rush aft along the main deck, found themselves confronted by a body of marines, who issued from the gun-room; others who came along the upper deck also saw that their plot was discovered, and that they had not a hope of success. the drum then beat to quarters, and all hands were summoned on deck. the first lieutenant now stepping forward, exclaimed, "what is it you want, my lads? if you are treated with injustice, say so. if you have anything else to complain of, let me know, but, as you see, your mutinous intentions are discovered, and let me tell you that those who are guilty will receive the punishment which they merit." not a man spoke in return for some time. at length several coming aft, declared they knew nothing about the intentions of the rest, when it was found that the mutineers consisted chiefly of the irish rebels who had been put on board at cork, and of a few smugglers and gaol-birds who had been won over by higson. "some of you will grace the yard-arm before long," observed the first lieutenant, "but i intend to give you another trial. i have no wish that any man should die for this day's work, however richly some of you may deserve it. those who prove faithful to their duty will find that they are rewarded, and those who act as traitors to their king and country will discover, too late, that they will not go unpunished. now pipe below." the mutiny which at first threatened such serious consequences, by the determination of the first lieutenant was then happily quelled, and the ship soon after returned to port royal. here captain falkner was found sufficiently recovered to resume his command. the men soon discovered that he had been informed of the mutiny. he told the men so in very explicit terms. adding-- "you have brought disgrace on yourselves, men, and on the ship, in a way which makes me ashamed of you, but i hope before long, that we shall fall in with an enemy, and that then i shall find you wipe it out, by the gallantry of your conduct." the men on hearing these words, cheered their captain, and from that day forth he had no cause to complain of the general conduct of the ship's company. they were continually on the look-out for an enemy's cruiser. several merchant vessels were taken and sent into port, and a small brig-of-war was captured, without having fired a shot in her own defence. the midshipmen were always encouraged by their captain to exercise themselves by running aloft over the masthead, and sliding down by the different ropes which led on deck. sometimes the game of follow my leader was played; the most active lad leading the way. now to the mizen-mast-head, next to the main-topgallant-mast-head, and so on to the foremast, and finally, perhaps down to the bowsprit end. now like monkeys, they were seen to run out on the yard-arms, and it seemed wonderful that they could, at the rate they went, escape falling. on one occasion, during a game, both the midshipmen and the ship's boys were thus amusing themselves. several of the top-men were on the main-top-mast yard. a sudden splash was heard. "a man overboard!" was the cry. quick as lightning a ship's boy was seen gliding down a backstay. as he touched the hammock-nettings, instead of jumping down on deck, he plunged overboard. "a shark! a shark!" was heard, uttered in tones of horror by several voices on deck. the order was given to lower a boat. gratings and oars and spars were hove overboard. a short way from the ship, a young fair face was seen floating upwards, while charles denham, who it appeared had sprung overboard, was striking out rapidly towards him. the attention of all on board was directed to the spot. had it not been for fear of the voracious monster of the deep, many might have jumped overboard to assist, still they shouted and kept throwing in things, to distract, if possible, the attention of the shark, from the lad in the water. denham knowing well the enemy he had to contend with, continued striking the water with all his might with his feet, as he swam forward, shouting at the same time. but young lord fitz barry, for it was he who had tumbled overboard, lay perfectly unconscious, and it seemed too probable would become a prey to the monster. already its dark fin was seen not far off, but the boat had now touched the water, and an eager crew was pulling towards the lads. denham's hand was already under the head of the young lord, whom he supported, while he struck out with his feet and other hand. a shark, however ferocious, will seldom attack a person who is in constant movement, and by his shouts and splashing, denham thus contrived to keep the monster at a distance. the boat approached. those in the bows leant over to drag in the young lord. "never mind me," exclaimed denham, as he helped to lift him into the boat. "but we must mind you," answered a man, "or that brute will have you even now." denham's hands were on the gunnel of the boat, when the black fin, at a short distance off, disappeared under the water. a strong, tall topman was standing in the boat. he leaned over, and seizing denham in his arms lifted him up; but scarcely had his feet got above the surface, when the monster's enormous pair of jaws were seen to rise close to it. young denham was saved, but few have run a greater risk of losing their lives. in the meantime the young lord lay unconscious in the bow of the boat. "we must get him on board at once," exclaimed the officer who had come in her. "he is alive though, and must be put under the doctor's care." the boat immediately returned on board. it was found that lord fitz barry had fallen upon his side when dropping into the water, and that the whole of that part of his body was for the time paralysed. still, in a short time he returned to consciousness, but some time elapsed before he had recovered. his chief anxiety seemed to be to express his gratitude to the lad who had saved him. denham modestly replied that he had only done his duty, though he was not insensible of the young lord's kind feelings. when lord fitz barry was sufficiently recovered the captain invited him, as was the custom, to dine at his table, and the subject of his fall was alluded to. "if you can do me a favour, sir," he observed, "and in any way reward the boy who saved my life, i should indeed be grateful. there is something in him which prevents me from venturing to offer him money. i am sure he would prize promotion of some sort more than anything else. he seems to me as he walks the deck to be superior to all the other lads, and to be more like a gentleman than any of them." "we will keep an eye on him, fitz barry," answered the captain, with a smile. "i have watched him on many occasions; and if i understand rightly, this is not the first time he has rendered you a service. what do you say? shall we place him on the quarter-deck? what would your messmates say to that?" "there is not one of them who would not be pleased, sir," answered the young lord. "they all think well of him; and since that boat affair, when, i believe, if it had not have been for him, those villains would have hurled me overboard, they have all wished that he would get some reward." "he was the lad, sir, who gave me the information of the intended mutiny, so that really, i believe, he was the means of preserving all our lives, and preventing fearful disgrace being brought upon the service," observed the first lieutenant. "well, i do not like to make such promotions in a hurry," answered the captain; "but from what i have heard of the lad, if he is found to possess a fair amount of education, i shall be very glad to offer him the opportunity of being placed on the quarter-deck." "but he looks to me such a clever fellow," said lord fitz barry, "that i am sure he would soon learn to read and write, if he cannot now." the captain talked the matter over for some time with the first lieutenant, and it was arranged that the young volunteer should forthwith be placed in the midshipman's berth. to fitz barry's infinite satisfaction, next morning, after divisions, while all the officers were assembled on the quarter-deck, charles denham was summoned aft. "charles denham is, i believe, your name," said the captain. "you have on more than one occasion done good service since you joined this ship, besides which, your general conduct is unexceptionable. the other day, at the risk of your own life, you saved that of young lord fitz barry. now, i believe, had it been the youngest boy in the ship, you would have done the same; but lord fitz barry is very anxious, as i am, that you should receive some mark to show you that your conduct is appreciated. he is not able to reward you himself, i therefore ask you whether for the future you would like to walk the quarter-deck as an officer. through his majesty's bounty you will have the means of doing so, and i shall have myself the satisfaction of aiding you to support your new rank. to no one else need you be indebted, and i hope in a short time that you will, by obtaining promotion, be independent of any aid beyond what you yourself can obtain." then turning to the midshipmen, he asked them whether they would be glad to receive the young sailor among them as a messmate. three cheers was the answer given by the warm-hearted lads. "we are very sure that he will not only do us credit, but gain honour for our berth," exclaimed several of them; and again they cheered their new messmate warmly. it would be impossible to describe denham's feelings, and perhaps few among them knew how anxious he had been to obtain the rank which was now bestowed upon him. but few days had passed since denham had put on a uniform, and walked the quarter-deck as a midshipman, and yet in manner and appearance he was fully equal to any of his messmates. he carried on all his duties with the air of a young officer, and evidently understood them thoroughly. by his manners and conduct on all occasions, he quickly won his way in the esteem of his messmates, while his rise did not excite the envy of those below him. ned davis did not appear to wish to leave the position he himself occupied. indeed, he seemed rather anxious to be an humble follower of the young midshipman than to be raised to an equality with him. some months had passed away, and several very gallant actions had been performed by the officers and crew of the _cynthia_, mostly in cutting-out expeditions, when denham behaved with great gallantry. as he was much stronger, and more active than fitz barry, he always constituted himself the protector of the young lord whenever it was his duty to take a part in any of these expeditions. on one occasion the frigate was off one of the french islands, and in a harbour protected by a fort on either side, several privateers and other armed vessels were discovered at anchor. as they were craft likely to do much damage to english merchant shipping, captain falkner resolved, though it was an undertaking of considerable risk, to cut them out. he stood off from the land towards evening, so as to give the frenchmen the idea that he had gone away altogether. as evening approached, however, he once more stood back for the harbour. they hoped to avoid the observations of the sentries in the forts. full directions were given to officers in charge of each boat. the larger vessels were to be assailed first, and two boats were to board one vessel on either quarter at the same moment. mr evans had directed denham to attack the same vessel that he proposed boarding. there were six boats, so that three privateers would be attacked simultaneously. mr evans judged, by this means, that the enemy's attention being distracted, they would be prevented from coming to each other's assistance. a light breeze blew out of the harbour, which would enable them, as soon as the cables were cut, to carry the vessels off without difficulty. not a word was spoken. the muffled oars sent forth no sound till the boats pulled up before the forts. denham's heart beat high. he knew that he should now have an opportunity of distinguishing himself, especially under the eye of the first lieutenant, who had hitherto always proved his friend. gradually, through the gloom of night, the masts and spars of the vessels to be attacked rose up before them. leaving the line, he followed the boat of the first lieutenant towards a large brig which lay moored furthest out in the harbour. they were on the point of hooking on when shouts arose from her deck. they found that they were discovered; but this did not hinder them from an attempt to board. before the frenchmen could tell which part of the vessel they were about to attack, they sprang up the sides of the brig, and threw themselves on board. part of the french crew having had no time to arm themselves, fled before them to the fore-part of the vessel, where, however, having rallied, they again rushed aft, and a furious hand-to-hand encounter took place. fitz barry had followed denham on board, and the young lord, pistol in hand, was advancing by the side of his messmate. led by mr evans, the english crew dashed forward till they reached the forecastle, where the french, apparently determined to resist to the last, fought bravely. once more they pushed the english hard. pistol-shots were rapidly exchanged, and the clash of cutlasses was heard, echoed from the decks of the other vessels, which were now also fiercely attacked. some of the french crew who had gone down below now appeared on deck fully armed, and it appeared very doubtful whether even english courage, and english determination, would succeed in overcoming the enemy. the struggle continued. again the enemy, led by a huge frenchman, who appeared to be one of their officers, drove back the english some feet along the deck. he had singled out mr evans, the first lieutenant, apparently with the intention of cutting him down, being evidently himself a first-rate swordsman. already the english lieutenant's guard was thrown down, and the frenchman had lifted his cutlass and was about to bring it down on his head, when denham sprang forward and discharged his pistol at the frenchman. the bullet struck him on the right arm and the weapon fell to the deck. mr evans, recovering his sword, gave him a thrust, which sent him backwards among his men. the fall of their leader discouraged the french, who giving way, the english found themselves in possession of the brig. the cable, as had been agreed upon, was immediately cut. hands were sent aloft to loose the fore-topsail, and the head of the prize coming round, she was steered out towards the mouth of the harbour. denham now had time to look around and ascertain what had become of lord fitz barry, who was nowhere to be seen. he made inquiries of the men to learn when they had last seen him. no one knew. they had observed him on deck standing close to his brother midshipman, but after that, no one could give an account of him. denham began to be greatly alarmed, fearing that the young lord had been thrown overboard, or that he might in the melee have fallen down below; but at that moment he was unable to make any further inquiries; for, as the mouth of the harbour was approached, the forts on either side opened their fire on the prize. although the brig offered a better mark than the boats would have done, still, as the night continued very dark, and no noise was made on board, the gunners in the forts could not ascertain in which direction to fire. the french prisoners were as eager as the english to keep quiet, because the shots which fell on board were as likely to injure them as to hurt their captors. the same reason perhaps prevented them from attempting to regain the vessel while the english were engaged in steering her out of the harbour. at length she was got clear and stood for the frigate, which now showed a bright light for her guidance; the firing having given her notice that the exploit had been attempted, although captain falkner, at that time, could not have told whether it had been successful or not. mr evans now directed that the lantern should be lighted, in order that the french prisoners might be secured, and that it might be seen what damage had been done to the vessel. while going round the decks with a lantern, denham discovered between the guns the form of his young messmate. a feeling of dread came over his heart. could he have been killed and fallen down there? he lifted him up, and anxiously examined his countenance. "speak, speak. fitz barry," he exclaimed eagerly. "do tell me if you are hurt, or where you have been wounded." "yes, i am hurt, somewhat badly i am afraid," answered fitz barry, at length, in a faint voice. "i was thrown down there by the frenchmen we were fighting with, and i was unable after that to move. i did not like to cry out, remembering that we were passing the fort; and soon after that, i suppose, i fainted." "i thank heaven that you are able to speak thus," said denham, "and we shall soon be on board the frigate, and the doctor will look to your hurts." mr evans had the satisfaction of observing two other vessels following him out of the harbour, while a bright light which burst forth some way up it showed that the other boats had had time to set some merchantmen on fire. war is a fearful thing at all times, but more sad even is it when it compels the destruction of private property. no one, however, would have objected to the destruction of privateers. it is pretty well agreed they partake more of the character of pirates than honourable combatants; their only object is to rob the merchantmen of the enemy, so as to become themselves the possessors of their rich freight. they do not fight for honour or glory, and they care as little for the good of their country. it is true, however, that the privateers, by injuring the commerce of the enemy, frequently make that enemy more anxious to come to terms, but in most cases both parties are engaged in the same infamous system; both equally suffer, and both increase the horrors and sufferings of warfare. when morning dawned, the prizes were found collected round the frigate. denham's first care was to get the wounded young midshipman conveyed on board, that the doctor might immediately look at his hurts. he did not attempt to conceal his sorrow and anxiety. he seemed to feel that it was from his carelessness by some means or other the poor lad had been injured. mr evans had a very different account to give of him, however, and at once generously informed captain falkner that it was to his nerve and courage that he himself owed his life. the frenchmen were removed on board the frigate, and an english prize crew being placed on board each of the prizes, they and their captor steered a course for jamaica. captain falkner offered to place denham in command of one of the prizes, but his anxiety for young lord fitz barry made him beg that he might be allowed to remain on board the frigate. a considerable time had passed since the arrival of the _cynthia_ on the station. a season dreaded by all navigators of those seas was now approaching--the hurricane season. fearful is the devastation often produced on shore and on the ocean at that period. not many years before several line of battle ships and other vessels had either foundered with their crews, or had been driven on shore, where the larger number of the men belonging to them had perished. captain falkner was anxious, therefore, to get back without delay to port royal harbour. they were, however, within a couple of days' sail of jamaica when the frigate was becalmed; during the middle of the day, although a thick mist overspread the sky and hid the rays of the sun, the heat was excessive. below the ship was like an oven, on deck not a breath of air was to be obtained. the men, in their white shirts and trousers, moved languidly about, literally gasping for breath. the sails hung uselessly down against the masts, and the frigate's head went slowly round and round, now pointing in one direction and now in another, though it was difficult to say by what power she was moved. the heat affected young barry greatly. denham sat by his side whenever he could leave his duty on deck, anxiously watching his friend. ned davis also came where the wounded midshipman lay, and begged that he might be allowed to take denham's place by his side. it was curious to observe how denham had won the lad's affection and admiration. there seemed to have been no previous tie between them; they had met, it was understood, for the first time as shipmates on board the merchantman from which they had volunteered, and it was possible neither of them knew much about each other's previous history. no nurse could have administered the medicine prescribed by the doctor with more care and regularity than did denham and his volunteer assistant. "i hope i shall not die," said fitz barry, taking his hand, "i want very much again to see my kind father, and my dear little sister nora, whom i have told you about, and my cousin sophy; and do you know, i think i shall see them before long. the last letter i got from home, my father told me that he expected to obtain an appointment as governor of one of the west india islands. it is not a thing he would have accepted under ordinary circumstances, but the truth is, i suspect, that it has been very expensive living in ireland for the last few years, and he thinks it will be wise to economise a little. i do not know much about these things; he has supplied me liberally with money, and that is all i have to think about. i believe captain falkner expects to see him out here, for he spoke of him the other day, and you know, i do not mind telling you, that i believe our skipper is going to marry sophy one of these days. i am sure you would like her and my sister if you ever were to see them. i do not know which you would like best. nora is a very sweet little girl, or at least, by the bye, she must have grown since i left home a good deal. she is older than i am rather, and so fair and gentle, but she has not the spirit of sophy, or her cleverness; sophy is a wonderfully clever girl, she draws so well. she used to make such beautiful portraits of people. however, i must not praise her too much, or you may possibly be disappointed." denham told fitz barry that he should very much like to be introduced to his relations; "but you know," he observed, "i am afraid they will think very little of me when they hear that i was a boy before the mast. i tell you, barry, we are messmates, and therefore it is right that we should be equal; but from what i have learned, that will not do on shore; people think there a good deal about the difference of rank, and if i was to make my appearance among some of those great people, they might treat me in a way that i should not at all like. i have become very proud, i am afraid, since i have been placed on the quarter-deck, not for myself, perhaps, so much, but for the honour of the rank i bear, for the cloth, even though i am as yet but a midshipman." fitz barry smiled faintly, and answered languidly, "o, no fear of that; i am sure my father and sophy are not a bit proud; and as to nora, i don't think she has a particle of that sort of thing in her; so when they come, you must promise to let me make you known to them." denham did not wish to appear to refuse his friend, at the same time he resolved not in any way to push himself forward. the conversation appeared to be doing fitz barry good. though severely injured by the thrust of a pike in his side, and a blow on his head, which had knocked him down, the doctor assured captain falkner that he did not consider the boy's life in any peril. captain falkner and mr evans were holding a consultation on the deck. directly afterwards the latter shouted, "all hands on deck, and shorten sail." the men came rapidly tumbling up from below, some looking round astonished at hearing the order, seeing that the dog-vane was still hanging up and down the rigging. they sprang immediately aloft and the sails were rapidly furled. "starboard the helm," shouted the lieutenant, gazing round the horizon as he did so. "closely reef the fore-topsail," he added; "man the fore-topsail braces." the fore-topsail was the only sail now set. at that instant a dark line was seen sweeping rapidly over the water. as it approached it seemed to rise as it were above the surface and break into feathery-topped seas. on it came. a fierce blast struck the ship on the starboard side, and she heeled over till the guns on the other side dipped in the water. quickly recovering herself, however, the fore-topsail being braced sharp up, her head "paid off" before the wind. once more the topsail was squared, and away she flew before the wind. wonderful was the change. a few minutes before the sea appeared as smooth as polished glass; now it was one mass of broken waves, leaping and dancing madly around. on flew the frigate. the captain and master went below to examine the chart, and to see the direction in which she was driving. it might have availed them little, however, for it seemed impossible to steer her during the fierce gale which blew in any other direction than directly before it. on she went, the wind rapidly increasing; the seas rose higher and higher, and in a short time a fierce hurricane was raging. the stern-ports were secured, the hatches were battened down, and every preparation made to prepare her for the worst. probably in a short time she would not be able to run before the gale. "we have a clear sea before us," observed the captain to the master, as they leaned over the chart to which the former pointed; "that, unless the wind shifts, gives us a better hope of escaping. the ship, too, considering the number of years she has been at sea, is in a good state, and i do not think we need fear her springing a leak." the master seemed to agree with captain falkner, and once more they together returned on deck. denham, all the time he had been in the west indies, had never encountered such a hurricane. he gazed with admiration, allied with awe, on the vast seas which now rose up on every side around them. the stout frigate was tossed about as if she had been a cockle-shell, yet on she flew unharmed, now sinking into the deep trough of the sea, now rising to the summit of a mountainous billow. "i wish fitz barry had been able to come on deck; he was saying the other day how he should like to witness a real hurricane," he observed to one of his messmates. "oh, fitz barry fancies a great many things; but i wonder whether he would like the reality of this," was the answer. "he has as brave and true a heart as ever lived," answered denham warmly. "depend upon it, there is more in him than some of you suppose." "considering that he is a lord he is all very well," answered denham's messmate. "in my opinion he has been over-petted and spoiled." the frigate flew onward on her course. provided none of her rigging gave way, and no leak was sprung, it seemed probable she would escape without any misfortune. but everything at the present moment appeared to depend upon the rigging and the seaworthiness of her hull. still the captain and his officers often looked anxiously around. the fury of the hurricane was evidently increasing; it had not yet got to its height. the fore-topsail had hitherto stood, but as it tugged and tugged away it seemed as if it would fly from the bolt-ropes. the first lieutenant anxiously watched it. should it be carried away it was scarcely possible that another could be set, and though the ship might still scud under bare poles, there was a great risk of her broaching to, and if so, the seas breaking over her sides might disable her completely. suddenly there was a loud clap like that of thunder, and what looked for the moment like a white cloud was seen carried away before the blast. it was the fore-topsail which had been blown from the bolt-ropes. the few shreds that remained were quickly wrapped round and round the yard, whence it would be no easy matter to cut them. still the ship went on under bare poles. at length night approached, and as darkness came on the danger was greatly increased. even flying as she was before the wind those on board could scarcely keep their feet, and more than one remarked, "what must it be for poor people on shore? why, half the plantations in jamaica will be carried away." "worse still for those at sea who are on a lee shore," observed mr evans. "let us pray that we may not find ourselves in that position." the men generally behaved very well during the awful scene, but there were some skulkers who went below to hide themselves away. among them was john higson. he had been bold and boasting in fine weather, but he now showed himself to be the coward he really was. the second lieutenant, going his rounds on the lower deck, found him stowed away, hoping to be out of sight, with two or three others of the same character. he instantly ordered them up on deck to do their duty, though they very unwillingly obeyed. "do you think that the hurricane will soon be over, master?" asked captain falkner. "not for some hours, i fear," answered the master. "i have known such a one as this last twenty-four hours at least, and wonderful was the mischief it did in that time. however, as long as we can keep her from broaching to, we shall do well enough." while he was speaking there was a fearful crash. loud shrieks were heard. the main-yard had been carried from the slings, as it fell crushing several persons who stood below it. several of their messmates rushed to the spot to aid them. four or five were killed, and others were sadly mangled. still the frigate drove on. "a sail ahead," shouted the look-out. glasses were turned in that direction, and a large ship was seen now sinking in the trough of the sea, now rising to the summit of the waves. "she is a line-of-battle ship, i think," said mr evans to captain falkner, "and from the way she is rolling i fear she is in a bad condition." the blast which had carried away the frigate's main-yard appeared to be the last effort of the hurricane. the wind began to subside almost as rapidly as it commenced. in a short time, although the sea continued raging fiercely, the wind had dropped to a moderate gale. the wreck of the yard having been cleared away, sail was once more made on the frigate, and she steered towards the line-of-battle ship. as she approached every indication was observed that she had suffered fearfully in the hurricane. her ensign was hoisted reversed. the bowsprit and fore-topmast were gone, as was the mizen topmast, while it seemed as if in an instant the main-topmast would follow the other masts. all the quarter boats seemed to have been carried away, and as the frigate drew nearer a signal was hoisted, which, on being interpreted, was-- "come as close as you can; we have passengers on board, and are expecting every instant to go down." the roughness of the sea rendered the passage of boats between the two ships very dangerous. still captain falkner determined to risk them with the ordinary boats' crews; though, in such cases, volunteers are often called for. he immediately answered the signal-- "we will send boats; be prepared to lower your passengers into them." the first and second lieutenants went each to take command of a boat, and denham was directed to take charge of one in the place of one of the other officers who was ill. while the boats were passing between the two ships, two men were employed in each to bale out the water which broke into them. chapter nine. we must now take a glance at the events which had occurred on the shores of kilfinnan bay since young dermot o'neil left his mother's cottage. the earl had continued his course of hospitality, or extravagance, as it should more correctly have been denominated, such as was too much the custom among most irish gentlemen of those days, declaring that although his affairs at that time were in a rather embarrassed condition, he could not afford to commence a system of economy. his table, as usual, was amply spread, and the members of the neighbouring hunt pretty frequently in the season collected at the castle, which during the summer months was seldom otherwise than full of guests. lady nora, who was now growing into a beautiful young woman, saw with regret the lavish expenditure in which her father indulged, knowing very well from what she had heard, that it was more than his income could afford; still he always contrived to supply barry amply with money, and nora was allowed every luxury she could wish for. her tastes, however, were very simple, though in her visits with her father to the gay irish capital, she was compelled, much against her will, to mix in its frivolous society, when at the castle she was content to take her usual rides about the country, often with no other attendant than a young lad on a rough pony to hold her horse, should she wish to alight. lady sophy still continued to be for the greater part of the year her constant companion. occasionally, they looked in upon mr jamieson, the minister, and his blind niece, miss o'reilly. they did not forget either the old fishwife, the widow o'neil. whenever they saw her, they did not fail to inquire about her son; but she shook her head, with a melancholy look. "he will come back some day, i know he will. he promised me he would; but he does not write to me--he sends me no messages. perhaps, as he knows i cannot read, he thinks it will be no use writing; but, oh, he loves me dearly; and it is for no want of love he does not write. he will come back to me, dear young ladies, some day; and, oh, with what pride i shall have to bring him to you. he will be a fine, strong lad by that time. maybe you would not know him. he must be altered greatly since the day you took his picture, when he was a young fisher-boy." mr jamieson, however, was more surprised than any one else at not hearing from dermot. he had been fully prepared for dermot's going away, but he did not for one moment suppose, from what he knew of the lad, that he would not have kept up a correspondence with his friends at home. still, he had received no letter, and had seen none from him to any one else, since the epistle brought by mad kathleen a few days after his departure. had it not been for this, he would have supposed he had met with some foul treatment from the rebels, or that some fearful accident had befallen him. still, whenever miss o'reilly spoke to the widow, the old woman expressed her firm belief that dermot was living, and would most assuredly come back to her. that thought seemed to keep her alive, and to give her strength of mind and body to go through her accustomed duties. sometimes, however, it appeared to the blind lady, when she listened to the old woman, that her mind was not altogether right, for she spoke of strange things she had seen and done in her youth, the meaning of which miss o'reilly could not comprehend. she could not, however, listen to her speaking of dermot without feeling touched by the deep love which formed, as it were, a part of her being, for her young son. there was one person, however, who could have given more information about the matter than anybody else, if he had chosen-- that was father o'rourke. for purposes best known to himself, he had gained an undue influence over the authorities at the post-office, and thus he had the means of examining any letters which he thought it worth his while to look into. though such a thing might be impossible at the present day, at that time it was easy of execution. on one occasion when he was glancing over the letters, he found one, the superscription of which he examined carefully. taking it aside, he broke it open. "o, and so you recommend your mother to go and listen to the counsels of the heretic minister. is that your idea, master dermot?" he exclaimed to himself. "we shall see how that is carried out. and you declare your love to her; and you vow that, heaven protecting you, you will return, you trust, with wealth in your pockets, and that you will place her above want; and you hope that she has accepted the faith which you yourself now profess." the priest literally ground his teeth with anger. "you warn her to beware of one, your right and lawful spiritual adviser, do you? she shall, at all events, remain faithful to the true church. i will take care she does not set eyes upon that heretic, mr jamieson. well! well! you think yourself clever at forming a plot; but i will soon show you that i can counteract it. you tell her that you will write to mr jamieson, do you? i will take care he does not get a letter either. is my authority thus to be set at defiance by a--well, no matter what you are. i know more of your affairs than you do, or than your poor, ignorant, half-witted mother does herself; though she is cunning enough to hide away those documents which would, could i find them, place you and her, and some other persons, too, entirely in my power. i'll find them still, however, some day; but that english minister, by teaching you to read, has made the management of the business far more difficult than it would have been. however, i'll not be baulked. we see what folly it is to let any but the priests and the wealthy classes to be taught to read. they would be managed ten times more easily than they will be in a short time, if this sort of thing goes on. ah! i was thinking of that, lad. you may be clever, master dermot, but i will prove to you that there is one here cleverer than yourself. did i know where to write you, i would soon prove that; but, ere long, i doubt not that another of your letters will come under my inspection, and then i will quickly settle the matter." such were the thoughts--for they were not words--which passed through the mind of the romish priest. poor dermot! little did he think what was to be the fate of the loving letter he had written to his mother, the first he had had the opportunity of inditing after he had left the shores of england. days, and weeks, and months passed on and the widow had heard nothing of her son. the priest, however, after watching month after month, at length found a letter, which seemed to give him infinite satisfaction. its contents need not be revealed; but father o'rourke had at length found the means, so it appeared from his ejaculations, by which he could communicate with dermot. the day arrived when the earl and his family were to quit kilfinnan castle. their neighbours and friends, and the surrounding peasantry, turned out to bid them farewell. numberless were the expressions of affection and regard given utterance to, as persons of all ranks came forward to pay their adieux to the earl, but more especially to lady nora, and her cousin, lady sophy. lady nora shed many tears. she was bidding farewell to the spot she loved, where the gentle mother whom she could just recollect had breathed her last, and round which were centred all the pleasant recollections of her youth. she was going to a strange land, to a country where she had heard of pestilence stalking forth in the noonday, and her heart sank within her, to think of the dangers to which her father might be exposed. yet one thing consoled her--she hoped there to meet her brother, who was still, she knew, on the station, though a report had come that the ship was about to leave it. among the guests were mr jamieson and his blind niece. the earl shook them warmly by the hand. "if anything happens to me, jamieson, remember i charge you to look after my young boy. he is a good and a brave youth, but he requires a friend; and nora, miss o'reilly, i would rather you had charge of her than anybody on earth, and yet i am afraid she is growing too old to be under the guidance of any one; i suspect, too, she could only be led by the hand of love. she is a dear, sweet girl, and i often think if i am taken away, what is to become of her in this cruel world. jamieson, i need not conceal from you that i believe my affairs are cruelly disarranged. it is hard work, you know, to get in the rents, and of late years, my steward has told me, and i believe him, that it has been harder than ever. i do not like to press the tenants; i never yet had a distress executed, but without it i am afraid there are some of them who will never be ready to pay." "trust to our merciful father, my dear lord," answered mr jamieson. "do your duty and try to serve him. there is no use denying it, you are not free from blame for this state of things, and i am very certain, that may be said of the greater number of landlords of this country, so the only advice i can give is to retrench for the future, and when you come back, to set manfully to work to get your affairs in order." "thank you, jamieson, i think your advice is excellent," said the good-natured earl; "farewell, i will try and follow it out." numbers of gentlemen, and farmers, and peasantry, accompanied the carriages of the earl and his party on horseback, as they took their way towards cork, whence the line-of-battle ship which was to take them on board was to sail. chapter ten. we must now return to the west indies. at length the frigate's boat reached the line-of-battle ship. numbers of persons were looking through the ports. denham's boat was one of the first on the starboard side. "we must lower the ladies first," said a voice from the entrance port. "stand ready to receive them, there is no time to be lost." "all right," answered denham, looking up. at the same moment a chair was lowered from the entrance port. in an instant, the occupant, a young lady, was released and placed in the boat. again the chair ascended, and another was lowered in the same way. denham, giving one glance at her countenance, saw that she was fair and young, and having placed her in security, he had to attend to those who followed. three others were immediately lowered together. "now, my lord," said the voice of an officer, "you must go into the boat." "no, no, not till all the females are out of the ship," was the answer. "they are being placed in the other boats; there is no time to be lost; let me entreat you to descend," said the officer. "well, if i must go, i will obey you," answered the nobleman who had been addressed, "but i trust all on board here will escape." as he spoke he was lowered down into the boat. "come, some of you youngsters, follow him," said a voice; "there will be but little time for the boats to make many trips between the ships; come, i say, obey orders." at that moment five or six young midshipmen came tumbling into the boat, which now being more than sufficiently laden, pulled back to the frigate. "i am very glad you are here, lord kilfinnan," said one of them, "and i hope lady nora has not been very much frightened. it has been terrible work though, and i am afraid the old bark will not swim much longer." "give way, my lads, give way," shouted denham to his crew; "we must be back before the ship sinks, or i am afraid many a fine fellow will lose his life." the men rowed as hard as they could, and in a short time they again reached the frigate. no time was lost in handing up those on board. "whom have we here?" asked captain falkner. "lord kilfinnan, and his daughter, and niece," answered denham, "and several other ladies and midshipmen. but we must be back to the ship, for they expect every moment that she will go down." "mr evans," said captain falkner, "we must get out the launch and pinnace; the sea is calm enough now to allow us to do so." while the rest of the boats already in the water, having put those they carried on board the frigate, pulled back to the line-of-battle ship, the larger boats were cleared and hoisted out, though not without the risk of being stove alongside. the smaller boats had already made a couple of trips before they were ready to shove off for the ship. at length away they pulled, but as they reached the side of the ship the cry arose, "she is sinking--she is sinking." numbers of the brave fellows who had hitherto preserved their discipline now threw themselves headlong into the boats. the marines still remained drawn up on deck, where they had been posted to preserve order. already all the boats were full almost to sinking, and with their living freight they proceeded slowly back to the frigate; she, meantime, had been drawing nearer and nearer the ship. still the vast fabric floated above the waves; many yet remained on board. the gallant marines stood as if on parade; the officers who had refused to quit the ship clustered on the quarter-deck. who could have believed that all knew that in not many moments the planks on which they stood would be engulfed by the waves, yet so it was; british discipline triumphed above the fear of death. with frantic haste the men in the boats sprang up the side of the frigate, in order that they might speedily return to the ship. already they were half way between the two vessels when the line-of-battle ship lifted high her bows above the water, then down she plunged, still with many human beings standing on her decks, numbers, alas! sinking never to rise again. the boats dashed forward into the midst of the vortex caused by her sudden descent. it seemed for a moment that they also would be drawn down by it. on every side were human beings, some already dead it seemed, others crying out for assistance, while some, refusing to express their fears, were striking out boldly for life towards the boats. there were but few, alas! of the brave marines; it seemed as if they must have grasped their muskets to the last, and gone down with those heavy weights in their hands. eagerly the boats pulled backwards and forwards among their fellow-creatures still floating in the water; as rapidly as they could they pulled them on board, till at length all who appeared alive were rescued. but it was too certain that a very large number both of officers and crew had gone down in the sinking ship. such has been the fate of many a gallant crew in every part of the world. the survivors were carried on board the frigate, and treated with every kindness which the officers and crew were able to bestow. the gallant captain of the line-of-battle ship, two of his lieutenants, and several inferior officers, with nearly half of the marines, were lost. the frigate having once more hoisted her boats on board, made sail for port royal. the earl of kilfinnan, on discovering the name of the frigate by which he had been rescued, inquired at once for his son. his cheek turned pale when he did not see him with the midshipmen of the ship. the truth was told him that he had been wounded. "but he is doing well, my lord," said the surgeon to whom he was speaking; "before long i hope he will be able to return to his duty." lady sophy could with difficulty conceal her feelings when she heard that captain falkner commanded the ship to which she had been conveyed, while it would be impossible to describe the satisfaction which she experienced. nora insisted at once on going down and seeing poor barry, who was still unable to leave his cot. at first he would scarcely believe who it was who stood before him, and for some time he fancied himself in a dream, and asked whether he had not got an increase of fever. "o no, dear barry," answered nora, "in a short time you will be well, and it will be a good excuse for you to come and live on shore with us. i hear the place we are going to is very beautiful, high up on the side of a mountain, far above all the mists and vapours which bring the yellow fever into this part of the world. and papa, you know, is to be the governor, so that he will not feel the change from kilfinnan castle so great as he might have done, for, of course, the people will treat him with great respect, and that you know he likes, although he does not talk about it; and we shall have horses to ride about the country, and plenty of people to attend upon us, and there are a number of curious fruits and animals, and creatures of all sorts which we shall have to see. now i fully expect to be very interested, and so must you be, barry, and i daresay captain falkner will occasionally come and see dear sophy, and that will make her very happy." thus nora ran on in her light-hearted way, anxious to raise her brother's spirits. she felt somewhat sad, however, when she looked at him, for the bright glow in his cheeks was gone, and he looked pale and thin, that she began to fear he might be worse than the doctor said he was. after the hurricane the frigate had a fine passage to port royal. there, having landed all her supernumeraries by the orders of the admiral, she once more sailed to carry the earl to his destination. he was received with the usual honours of a lieutenant-governor, and carriages were in waiting to convey him to his country seat, on the side of the mountain which had been described by nora. it was a lovely spot, with streams gushing down from the side of the steep heights above the house, while the wide terrace in front afforded ample room for exercise. far below the white buildings of the chief town was to be seen the intermediate country, covered with the richest tropical vegetation, while in the distance was the deep blue sea, dotted here and there with the white sails of vessels of various sizes. barry of course had leave to accompany his father on shore, and he begged that his friend denham should be allowed to pay them a visit. "he has been watching over me so carefully while i was sick on board, that it would seem ungrateful in me if i did not ask him to come with us. besides, he is so excellent a fellow--so brave, and daring, and generous. i do not mean to say in the matter of money, because he has none of that, for he was only a few years ago placed on the quarter-deck, but i mean in his behaviour. he never takes offence, and never thinks ill of anybody, and he will never allow any of the younger fellows to be bullied by the elder, whom he is strong enough to keep in order, and there are not many who can beat him in any way." the next day, accordingly, the earl wrote a note to captain falkner, requesting that mr denham might be allowed to pay him a visit. captain falkner, who had been much pleased with the conduct of the young midshipman, was glad to accede to the earl's request, and told denham to prepare for a visit on shore. denham made some excuse with regard to his outfit. "oh, i will settle all that," answered the captain kindly, "i must be your banker, remember, and just go on shore at once, and we will get mr truefit to rig you out in the course of a few hours. they do not take long to do that sort of thing out here." thus all difficulties were overcome, and the following day denham found himself on his way to the new governor's house. chapter eleven. as soon as denham approached the government house, barry, who had seen him from the window, hastened forward to meet him, and after the first greetings, said that he must introduce him at once to the earl, and his sister, and cousin. "you will like the girls," he whispered to denham, "you must be entirely at your ease with them, remember, they are not fine, they have no nonsense about them, just as girls should be; if they were otherwise, i, for one, would not own them. i have no idea of girls giving themselves airs." saying this, barry led denham into the drawing-room. the young midshipman seemed to have the habit of blushing, for in spite of all he could do, the colour mounted to his cheeks when he made his bow, a very graceful one, by-the-bye, to the two young ladies. he conversed with ease, but the subjects of his conversation, as far as he selected them, were entirely confined to the scenes he had witnessed in the west indies, or to a few books which he had the opportunity of reading since he had been on board the frigate. as to england, or any other part of the world, he seemed to know nothing whatever, as far at least as his own experience went. he did not speak either of his family or of any friend he possessed, and they soon came to the conclusion that he was either a foundling or an orphan, without any relation whom he wished to own. still they were very much pleased with his general conversation. captain falkner, in the evening, came up to the government house, and he then said that the admiral had directed him to take a cruise for a few weeks, and that, at the end of the time, he would come back for his midshipmen. he was able, however, to remain at anchor two or three days, and, as will be supposed, he spent most of his time on shore in lady sophy's company. no one could watch the two without agreeing that they were admirably matched. she, gentle and intelligent, and affectionate; he, frank and brave, and open-hearted in his manner and bearing. he was known, too, as a just, brave, high-spirited officer, and a _very_ first-rate seaman, and more than that, to be a god-fearing and religious man. the two midshipmen, it should have been remarked, when last at jamaica, had passed their examination, which gave them the rank of masters' mates, as they were called in those days. they had been for some time on shore when, a mail arriving, the earl presented denham with a long official-looking letter. denham eagerly opened it. his heart beat quicker than usual; the colour rose to his cheeks, and his eyes beamed with pleasure, for he found that the document announced his being raised to the rank of lieutenant. the earl seemed to be aware of the fact, and soon after addressed him as "lieutenant denham." "but has not barry also got his promotion?" asked denham, looking at his friend. "yes," answered barry, "i am a lieutenant too, but i do not feel as you do, because i am sure i have not deserved it. you have done all sorts of gallant things, and i have done nothing." the earl laughed. "well," he said, "provided those who deserve promotion obtain it, the admiralty do not object to raise a few who have less to boast of." "but i am sure you would have done all sorts of gallant things if you had had the opportunity," said lady nora, turning to her brother with a smile. "i hope this will not remove me from the _cynthia_," said denham; "i should indeed be sorry to quit captain falkner and my old shipmates." "i think not," answered the earl. "from what i hear from the admiral who writes to me on the subject, the first lieutenant of the _cynthia_ has been promoted, and another officer has left the ship, so that you two will get the vacancies. i hope in the course of another month or so she will return from jamaica, and that barry will rejoin her with renewed health." the father's hope buoyed him up, while denham could not help acknowledging that he saw his friend every day growing weaker and weaker. it was evident that the injuries he had received in the cutting-out expedition had been more severe than had been supposed, and that his system had received a shock from which it had never recovered. nora, too, was scarcely aware of the danger of her brother. lady sophy, perhaps, had suspected it, but could not bring herself to speak of it to her cousin. barry himself declared that he felt better every day, though he showed, by his disinclination to take exercise, that he was much weaker than he was ready to acknowledge. at length the frigate came back, and the two young lieutenants rejoined her. when, however, lord barry came on board, the surgeon kindly told him that he thought he would be better off by remaining on shore a little longer with his father. the surgeon saw that a great change had taken place in him. barry declared he was fully capable of doing his duty, but the surgeon persisted in advising him to return home. "i am sure a little more rest will do you good," said captain falkner, looking at him compassionately; "we will manage to have your duty done on board, and we must hope that in a short time you will be sufficiently recovered to resume it yourself." the earl was somewhat surprised at seeing barry return, but captain falkner, who accompanied him, endeavoured to tranquillise his mind; and though he could not honestly say his son would recover, he remarked that youth and a good constitution often enable persons to gain strength when otherwise it might be hopeless. the _cynthia_ was ordered to cruise about the windward islands; a dangerous locality, but where she would have many places to visit. captain falkner observed that he should frequently have to call off the island, and that he hoped to see the earl and his family whenever he did so. it would be difficult to describe the beautiful scenery of the island now placed under the government of the earl. the ground is broken into hills and valleys, and here and there lofty mountains rise, towering high up into the blue sky. good roads, however, are cut across the island in every direction, and thus not only were the young ladies able to drive about, but they also had the pleasure of taking long rides to many scenes of beauty, accompanied by barry, who, though he did not appear to recover his strength, was still able to sit on horseback. a number of planters were settled about the island, many of whom were men of education, and all were glad to offer hospitality to the earl and his sick son. the earl hoped by travelling about, and by amusing barry's mind, to assist in the restoration of his health. they had on one occasion gone to a planter's house at the back of the island, a day's journey from the earl's country residence, and situated near the sea. the spot was a very beautiful one. in the background rose ranges of mountains, feathered to their very summits with green foliage. on one side of the grounds were plantations of coffee and sugar. the sandy beach stretched like a line of silver along the edge of the blue water, fringing the cane-fields, which formed a broad expanse of vivid green behind them. along the coast were lovely little coves and bays, enlivened by neatly laid out mansions of the planters, while numerous fishing and passage-boats, with their raking masts and latteen sails, added life and animation to the scene. a bright and sparkling stream, which found its way down from the mountains above, passed through the plantation, and added much to the refreshing coolness of the scene in that warm climate. a broad verandah ran round the house, on one side of which or the other shade could be obtained at all times of the day. a couple of days had been spent very pleasantly at this abode, when one evening, just as the sun was about to sink through a rain cloud into the distant horizon, an old whiteheaded slave came hurriedly into the presence of his master. "what is the matter, caesar," asked mr jefferson, the planter. the old man shook his head. "very bad, very bad." "speak, boy; have you lost your wits?" exclaimed the planter impatiently. "no, massa; but me hear there come one hundred caribs and many white men, and a whole lot of negroes, to burn the house this night and the plantations; and they swear that they will kill all the people." at first the planter was inclined to laugh at this information, so indeed was the earl; but, on a further examination, the statements of the negro were so clear--and he was so well able to explain how he obtained his knowledge--that they began to think more seriously. "it is too late now," observed the planter, "for your lordship to attempt to return to the town; indeed, you would be very likely to fall in with these rebels; but i have several trusty slaves on the estate who i am sure would be ready to lay down their lives for my sake. i will send caesar to summon them into the house, and as i know that we can make a better stand here than at the residences of any of the other planters, i shall be able to persuade several of them to come here with their families, and assist in the defence of the place." "in the mean time we must send off for assistance," observed the earl; "i am perfectly ready to agree to your proposition; indeed, i should be very unwilling to attempt to travel with my two young ladies and son at this hour; besides which we should probably be watched, and if we were so, we should eventually be captured by these people. but what could have caused them to think of rebelling?" "probably, my lord, emissaries from france have landed on the island, and also there are several discontented settlers of other nations, besides caribs and blacks, who are always ready for a disturbance, in the hopes of gaining something during it." "however," observed the earl, who in his youth had been a soldier, "we must make preparations for defending the place; i have had a little experience of that sort of thing in ireland, and i suspect there is not much difference between the characters we shall have to deal with and those i have been accustomed to in my native country." mr jefferson, as he had proposed, immediately sent out three of his most trusty household servants, with notes to the neighbouring planters, inviting them to take refuge in his house, while the other servants of the establishment were at once ordered to come in. a number of trees from the neighbouring woods were forthwith cut down and brought into the house, to assist in barricading the windows and doors. every available board, tops of tables and chests were broken up to close all the entrances, loop-holes being cut in them through which muskets could be fired at the advancing foe. neither lady sophy nor lady nora seemed much alarmed at seeing the preparations. "it reminds me very much of our younger days," observed lady sophy to her cousin. "you remember what work there was in defending the old castle, though that appeared to us to be a far better place to defend than this is. still as our friends do not appear to be alarmed i do not see why we should be." lord barry seemed aroused by the exertions he was called on to make, and set to work with zeal in assisting in fortifying the house; all languor had disappeared, and he was now full of animation. in a short time the gentlemen who had been summoned arrived at the house. most of them came attended by servants well armed, and several who had families brought them also, not forgetting to bring, at the same time, a supply of provisions. they all knew that some time might elapse before they could get assistance. indeed, if, as was not improbable, there was a general rising of the caribs and blacks on the island, the small number of troops stationed in the garrison would be fully occupied in attempting to put them down, and perhaps none could be spared to come to their relief. none of the party, however, appeared alarmed. they held the people it was expected would attack them in too much contempt not to feel perfectly secure with the preparations they had had time to make. the earl's chief annoyance arose in not having himself received information of the intended rising, as, of course, he felt himself responsible for the well-being of the country. he, however, took care to exhibit no doubt or hesitation, and did his utmost to keep up the resolution of those collected about him. it should have been said, that the day after the _cynthia_ left the harbour, a boat with several men had contrived to escape from the side of the ship. it happened in the following manner. during the latter part of the middle watch, while the night was excessively dark, there was a shout of a man overboard. the wind was light. a boat was ordered to be lowered, and to pull in the direction in which the man was supposed to have floated. there was no cry, however, though a splash was heard, and fears were therefore entertained that he had sunk, or had become the prey of a shark. there was far more confusion than usual on board at the time, and several voices were heard exclaiming, that he was crying out, and that the sound came from a different direction to that in which the first boat had gone. without waiting for orders, another boat was immediately lowered. it was known that several men had jumped into her, and shoved off without an officer. when it was, as on the present occasion, a matter of life and death, this was not of much consequence. away the boat pulled from the ship, and no officer took upon himself to call her back. at length, however, it appearing certain that the man must have sunk, or, what was too likely, been carried off by a shark, the boats were recalled on board. one only returned. in vain the other was summoned. no answer was made to the repeated calls of the boatswain. a gun was fired; still, after waiting a certain time, the boat did not return. it was strange that no one could tell in which direction she had gone. it was scarcely possible that any accident could have happened to her; for, even if she had filled with water, the men in her would certainly have cried out. the ship at the time was supposed to be about five or six leagues from the land, which had been seen at sundown over the weather quarter. since then the wind had been very light, and the ship had made but little way. the natural conclusion to which captain falkner came was, the boat must have pulled on shore, and made several tacks in that direction. a strong gale, however, coming on in a short time, he was unable to beat up to the island; and after making an attempt for some hours in vain, having despatches on board, he was obliged to bear up for his destination. he intended, however, on his return to make inquiries for the boat, in case she should have reached the shore. now, it happened that the mutineer, higson, had managed to win over six of the men to assist him in escaping from the ship. at his suggestion a log had been thrown into the water, and the cry was raised that a man was overboard. this done, he had no great difficulty in leaving the ship. while in harbour he had had frequent communications with various persons disaffected to the government. he had by chance fallen in with one of them when he was on shore, and this led to his communication with others. believing that the larger portion of the population would join in a rebellion, he entertained the idea of making himself of some importance in the country, fully believing that assistance would be gained from the french or dutch, and that the people might make themselves independent of england. with this object in view, he determined to leave the ship. his success was complete, and he managed before dawn to land safely on the island. here the boat was broken up, and a cave by the shore being found, the fragments were piled up in it and completely consumed; thus he hoped all trace of his landing was lost. he had some difficulty in finding the people with whom he had before communicated, but at length they met, and he at once entered seriously into the plans which had been proposed for overpowering the british troops, and taking possession of the country. he knew where the earl was living, and entertaining a personal grudge against him for the part he had played in sending him on board a man-of-war, he resolved on wreaking his vengeance in the first place on his head. on visiting the governor's country-house he discovered that the earl had gone to the plantation of mr jefferson, and he immediately determined, with such aid as he could collect, to attack it, in the hopes of at once either capturing the earl or destroying him and his family. happily, having to deal with people with whom he was little acquainted, his plans were not kept so secret as they might otherwise have been, and the faithful old caesar thus got information respecting them. chapter twelve. some hours passed quietly away at mr jefferson's country-house after all the preparations had been made for the reception of their expected assailants, and yet no enemy appeared. higson and the other leaders had some difficulty in bringing up their forces to the attack. they had discovered that the house had been fortified, and they were well aware that a victory could not be obtained without a considerable loss to themselves. higson had been on shore for some weeks before these preparations were made. sometimes his mind misgave him, especially when he saw that the british troops in the garrison were thoroughly disciplined, and always on the alert, and that even a regiment of black troops, whom it was hoped might be gained over, refused to desert their colours. the conspirators had then, not without considerable risk, to send to the french and other enemies of england to obtain their assistance. this was readily enough promised, but they were told that they must themselves commence the rebellion, and that then ample assistance would be forthcoming. at length higson and his associates gained courage, and they hoped by an attack on mr jefferson's house, and by the capture of so many persons of consequence, to obtain an influence over the rest of the people of the island, which would at once give them the upper hand. several hours of the night had passed away; lady sophy and lady nora, with the rest of the ladies, were advised to lie down, it being hoped, that perhaps after all, an attack might not be made. scouts were, however, sent out to watch for the approaching enemy. at length two of them came hurrying back, announcing that they heard the approach of feet up from the sea. this was the most assailable side of the house. the stream, which has been spoken of with its precipitous banks, circled round two sides, while a high cliff, the summit of which was inaccessible, formed another side of the grounds. in front also, the ground sloped rapidly down, so that unless by steps, which had been strongly barricaded, no one could approach up from the sea, even on that side, without considerable difficulty. the earl and his friends at length observed through certain look-out places, which had been formed on the roof of the upper story, that a large body of men were scaling the hill in a somewhat irregular manner. at first they came on in silence, but on a warm fire being opened upon them, they gave vent to loud shouts and shrieks, and rushed as rapidly up the hill as the nature of the ground would allow them. at the same time a number of persons in the rear lighted torches, which they bore in their hands, and shook them wildly about, as if to terrify those they came to attack. perhaps also, they believed that by this means they would distract the attention of the besieged, and prevent them taking a steady aim at those in the front. the sight of the torches raised in mr jefferson's mind an apprehension which he had not before entertained. he knew too well the combustible nature of his dwelling, and that if it entered the minds of the rebels, they might without difficulty set the house on fire. "if they do," he thought, "we must retreat by the back of the house and defend ourselves under the cliffs. we may still perhaps be able to hold our own against these fellows until assistance comes, but the poor ladies, i tremble for them." he did not, however, express these apprehensions to the earl, but, like a brave man, did his best to encourage those around him. as the enemy approached, they opened a fire at the doors and windows of the house, but as these had been well barricaded, the bullets fell harmlessly against them. a considerable number of the rebels were soon struck down, either killed or wounded. those in the house did not fire until the enemy approached near. the greater number of them were good marksmen. all knew, likewise, that they fought for their lives, and for the lives of those most dear to them. at length barry proposed sallying out and endeavouring to put the enemy to flight. "the time may come for that by and by," said mr jefferson. "in the meantime let us be content to hold our own till assistance can arrive from the town, or till the rebels have discovered that they are incapable of overcoming us." the men who were waving the torches had hitherto not ventured near the house, but had contented themselves with springing here and there and attempting to dazzle the eyes of the besieged party. higson, who had himself hitherto kept under shelter, now began to fear that his allies would give way, and the attack would altogether fail. he knew the nature of buildings in the west indies; and finding that the little garrison were not likely to be overcome by the present mode of attack, he determined to set fire to the house, and then to seize those who were likely to prove most valuable to him, as they were escaping from the burning building. he immediately issued an order to the men with torches to rush forward, at the same time directing others to collect all the dry brushwood they could find, and to pile it up in the verandah. those, however, who first advanced were received with so hot a fire that several were killed or wounded, and the rest sought safety in flight. again and again higson urged them to renew the attempt, and finding this did not avail, he ordered the main body to retreat, greatly to the relief of the garrison. the whole body of their enemies were seen descending the hill, and they began to congratulate themselves that they had gained an easy victory. no one had been killed within the house, although several had been struck by bullets which had found their way through the loop-holes or the too thinly planked windows. the earl and his friends were not left long in doubt about the intentions of the rebels. in a short time they were seen rushing up the hill again, numbers bearing bundles of reeds and other combustible substances, and others flaming torches in their hands. in spite of the hot fire with which they were received, they dashed forward and threw the bundles into the verandah. several fell in the attempt, but the great mass persevered, and the men with the torches now advancing, cast them amidst the heaps of brushwood. in a few seconds the whole was in a blaze. the woodwork of the building soon caught fire, and it became evident to the besieged that the house would not long be tenable. still, as long as any could remain on the front side, they continued to fire at the rebels. mr jefferson now called a council of war, and explained to his friends the plan he proposed for effecting their escape. the earl agreed that the undertaking was feasible, though they might be exposed to far greater peril than they had hitherto been; still it was the only one, since the house could no longer be held, for when once the flames had gained entire possession of it, the negroes and caribs would probably make a dash forward through the fire and put all they could meet with to death. hitherto none of the rebels had ventured to go round to the rear of the house. indeed, when any had tried to pass by either of the sides, they had met with so warm a fire that even the boldest had not dared to proceed, while many had been struck down in the attempt. "we must place the ladies in our centre and retreat to the cliff," said mr jefferson. lord fitz barry and three or four of the men agreed suddenly to burst open the door, and then lead the way in the direction mr jefferson had indicated. the plan was adopted, while some of the men continued to fire down upon their assailants. the ladies were carried safely out, surrounded by an armed party, to the rear of the house. not until they had been placed in comparative safety did the rest of the men withdraw from their now almost untenable position. at length the whole front of the house was in flames. the fire soon caught the rest of the building, and scarcely had the last defender left it, than the combustible roof fell in with a loud crash. the negroes shouted and shrieked with glee when they saw this, and rushed forward, as had been anticipated, in the hopes of gaining an easy victory over their now defenceless opponents. many of them were severely burnt, as they dashed forward into the building, and were glad again quickly to retreat. not till the whole edifice was one blazing heap, did they discover that the inmates had escaped them. by the light of the flames which continued burning brightly, the negroes perceived the lieutenant governor and the planters with their families posted at the side of the cliff. for some time, warned by the treatment they had received, they hesitated to advance, but at length higson, animated by the success which had already attended his efforts, rushed forward, calling to his men to follow him, and made a dash towards the earl. he thought that if he could once get him into his power, the victory would be gained. the negroes were perfectly ready to follow when others led, and thus a band of shouting, shrieking wretches, advanced close to where the european party had taken shelter. already many had begun to climb the heights, and a stout, black ruffian had actually got so close, that he was able to lay his hand upon the earl's shoulder. higson shouted to the man to drag forward the governor, in order to make him prisoner. at that moment fitz barry, seeing the danger that his father was in, sprang forward to his rescue, and with a blow of his cutlass, compelled the man to let go his hold. in the meantime, however, higson, with the runaway seamen, whom he had persuaded to follow him, made a dash at that part of the terrace where the ladies were collected. the dawn had now broken, so that they were soon found without the light from the burning house. lady nora, seeing the approach of the ruffians, cried to her brother for help. he, however, found himself surrounded by a number of blacks, who pressed him so hard that he was unable to reach her. in the meantime the planters continued to fire down upon their assailants, the great body of whom were kept at bay. higson at length turned, and ordered more of his followers to come to his assistance. he had already seized lady nora, well satisfied that should he fail to capture the earl, she, at all events, would prove a valuable prize. two other ladies were also carried off, and in vain did their defenders attempt by a bold dash to rescue them. higson, elated at his success, and at the same time fearful lest the bullets which were flying about might strike any of his captives, and probably glad himself to avoid them, made a wide circuit to gain the sea-shore. he was already separated from the main body of the insurgents, when suddenly he was startled with a loud shout close to him, and before he could turn round to defend himself, he was attacked by a body of seamen, led on by a lieutenant. the increasing light revealed to him several of his late shipmates, and the new lieutenant, mr denham. surprised by the attack, for the boat's crew had sprung upon them from behind a thicket, higson and his companions at once let go their captives. a blow from the cutlass of one of the men brought him to the ground, while the rest of his party--more than one half were either killed or wounded--sought safety in flight. they were not far from the sea-shore. "you must allow me, lady nora, to place you with the other ladies on board the boat," said denham. "you will there be in safety, and the crew will row off to a short distance, while i, with the rest of my men, go to the rescue of your father, and the remainder of the party." to these plans lady nora willingly agreed, and in a few minutes she found herself with her friends on board a man-of-war's boat, which, with four men, pulled off out of gun-shot from the shore. anxiously she watched what was taking place, as far as she could see. still the firing continued, and lieutenant denham and his party hurrying again up the hill, she soon lost sight of them amongst the woods. deep was her anxiety for her father and brother, and lady sophy, who remained with the planters and their friends, while she could not help feeling anxious for the risk to which the young lieutenant and his small party of men were exposed, in the presence of so large a body of rebels. the outhouses and other buildings on the estate had now caught fire, and their flames showed the insurgents still clustering round the side of the hill, though the continued discharge of musketry in the far distance, made her hope that the earl and his party were still defending themselves. now the fire of the english party seemed to slacken; now more dark forms were seen climbing up the hill. then again, the defenders of the height increased their fire, and even at that distance she fancied she could hear the shouts of the combatants. at length her attention was drawn off the scene, by hearing one of the crew exclaim, "here comes the frigate," and she saw rising above a woody point on one side of the bay, the snow white sails of the _cynthia_, as close-hauled she stood along the land. the sound of the firing must have reached her. she immediately hauled into the bay. the anchor was dropped, the sails furled, and several boats were seen to come off from her side. in a short time the boats approached, and the men informed the officers in them of the orders they had received from lieutenant denham, adding that they had three ladies in their boat. "take the ladies to the frigate," answered one of the officers; "give way, my lads, there is no time to be lost." the boats dashed on. nora thanked heaven for their arrival, hoping by this means those she dearly loved might be saved, as well as those friends, whose hospitality they had been enjoying. the boats quickly reached the beach, and the men, all well armed, dashed forward up the hill, led by their officers. attacking the enemy fiercely in the flank, the latter, who had apparently not seen their approach, were taken by surprise. those who resisted were cut down, the rest taking to flight along the shore. no one stopped to look behind him or see what had become of his neighbour. the seamen quickly scaled the heights, and reached the spot where the earl and his party still held their position. unhappily several had been badly wounded, among whom were two of the ladies, and three or four planters, while others had been killed. of the insurgents, a very considerable number had been struck down. the wounded now began to utter loud shrieks and groans, to excite the commiseration of their conquerors. at present, however, little could be done for them. those of the english who had been wounded were at once conveyed on board the frigate, where they could receive medical treatment. indeed so alarmed had the planters become, that they requested that they and their families might be taken on board with the earl. the frigate lay at anchor in the bay. as soon as those who had been wounded on the side of the planters had been cared for, the assistant-surgeon with a boat's crew was humanely sent on shore, to attend to the unhappy blacks and caribs who had been hurt. a few had in the meantime crawled off. others had died, but still a considerable number remained and required attention. among the dead was found the unhappy higson. no one knew what could have induced him to join in so mad a scheme, but those who had watched his conduct on board were not surprised at his behaviour. on the return of the frigate to the chief town, it was found that the garrison had been warned in time. a considerable number of troops had marched unmolested through the country, visiting the places which were said to be most disaffected, and in a few days the rebel forces had completely melted away. a few men who were caught and accused of leading the rebellion suffered the penalty of death, others had managed to make their escape from the island. it was found, however, that they had been instigated to the rebellion by foreign emissaries, and even the captive rebels themselves acknowledged they had few causes of complaint against the english government. chapter thirteen. the outbreak being thus speedily quelled, the earl was enabled very soon to return in safety to his country residence. he had there a severe affliction awaiting him. owing either to the over-exertions made by lord fitz barry on the night of the attack at the planter's house, or from some other cause, his disease from that time gained rapid ground. his friend denham now felt greatly alarmed at the change which he remarked in him, and saw too clearly that he was destined to remain but a short time longer on earth. the surgeon also, who had known him some years, was of the same opinion. captain falkner felt, though most reluctantly, that it was his duty to convey the sad information to his father and sister. the earl refused to believe it, but nora saw, with grief, the sad change which even a few days had made in her beloved brother. he could now only sit up for a short time in an armchair. in consequence of the rebellion the _cynthia_ had to remain for some time in the harbour, and accordingly denham was able to obtain leave to remain with his friend. he and nora, therefore, were constantly by the side of the dying youth. barry would not for some time believe that his own end was approaching. often, with tears in her eyes, nora spoke to him of that happy land to which all those who trust in the rock of ages are certainly bound. "there will be no more sorrow, no more suffering, no more fighting, no more wounds in that land, dear barry," she said, taking his hand. "still, life is sweet. i wish you could have remained with us; but we must bow to god's will. they say you have not many more days to remain on earth, barry; but surely we must feel the parting more severely--we who have to remain in this world exposed to so many dangers, than you should, who have to go to that land of joy and rest." the young lieutenant shook his head. "it is hard for me to acknowledge that, dear nora," he answered. "i care not for the dangers; and there are so many things to enjoy in this life, that i had hoped to remain in it to a good old age. i have everything to make life pleasant, and can you be surprised, then, that i should be unwilling to quit it without a sigh?" "o! no, no," she answered. "i know that; but still, remember, it is but to enter into a life of eternal joy that you leave this world of trials. because, let us deceive ourselves as we may, there are many causes which must bring us sorrow and pain. you remember how we grieved when our dear mother was taken from us, and then it was very sad to leave the old castle, and then, too, we have sorrowed on account of our father, that his property has suffered so much; and though we have been very lovingly dealt with by god, yet he has not allowed life to be so delightful to us that we should be willing to remain here for ever." denham spoke to his friend in the same strain. often did his heart swell within him as he had to address the dying youth, and many a time he dashed away from his eyes the fast-falling tears as he thought that in a few days they must part, never again to meet in this world. he had seen several of his shipmates cut down by the sword of the enemy. young as he was, death was no stranger to him. the saddest loss he had ever yet experienced was that of his brave and gentle friend, with his youth and rank and many noble qualities. even to the end, which came at last, the earl could not believe that his son was dying. it was daytime. the soft breeze came in through the open window. he sat, as usual, in his chair, with his sweet sister on one side and his friend denham on the other. his hands were placed in theirs. he felt that he was about to take his departure. "kiss me, nora," he said. denham felt him press his hand for an instant; then the fingers relaxed, and he sank back, and they both saw that his spirit had fled. nora did not give way to tears; her grief was too deep for that. denham felt that he could not venture to comfort her; he dared not even trust his voice in words. happily, sophy came in, and the attendants were summoned, and nora was led away to her chamber. denham's leave had just then expired. he went to pay his farewell respects to the earl; but lord kilfinnan entreated him to remain. "i will write to captain falkner," he said. "he will not insist upon your returning on board just now. i must have you with me. you are my son's dearest friend. i know that from the way he spoke of you. i cannot let you go. you must stop and comfort a broken-hearted old man. and poor nora, she will feel his death dreadfully. well, `god's will be done;' perhaps, after all, the poor lad would have found that he had but a scant inheritance to support his title." denham remained in the house as desired, having obtained leave from captain falkner to do so. he occasionally saw lady nora, who spoke to him kindly and gently, as she naturally would do to her late brother's friend. lady sophy was far more cordial in her manner. he, however, conversed but little with the earl. indeed, it was very evident that lord kilfinnan could not trust his voice to speak about his son. after the funeral denham once more returned on board. chapter fourteen. again the _cynthia_ sailed on a cruise. she had to visit various parts of the west indies; sometimes cruising off the leeward, and sometimes off the windward islands. now to convoy a fleet of merchant vessels from one port to another, and occasionally to accompany them part of the way across the atlantic, till they were clear of the region infested by the enemy's smaller privateers. several months were thus occupied in a somewhat tedious manner. small prizes had been taken; but these did not satisfy the ardent mind of the gallant captain, who appeared to be longing to meet an enemy the size of his own frigate, a more worthy competitor than any of the vessels he had hitherto encountered. at length, captain falkner and his young lieutenant were enabled once more to pay a visit to the earl and his family. denham was received as kindly as before; and it was very evident the affection existing between lady sophy and captain falkner had in no way decreased. during the last day of his stay on shore, however, a degree of melancholy seemed to weigh down his captain at times. occasionally he talked in his usual lively and animated manner, and spoke hopefully of the future, when, the war being ended, he might with honour sheath his sword and take up his abode on shore. "at present, however," he remarked, "while my country demands my services i am bound to remain afloat." the frigate, however, was again ordered to sea, and the lovers parted, hoping ere long to meet again. captain falkner was unusually silent during his drive to the port, and when he arrived on board he retired to his cabin, and it was not until the moment the ship had to get under weigh he appeared on deck. he was then as full of life and activity as usual, and issued his orders in that clear ringing voice by which he was so well-known. as the frigate under all sail stood out to sea, denham more than once observed his captain turning his glass towards the governor's house high up on the mountain side. in his mind's eye he probably saw her who had so deservedly won his brave heart, though the distance was in reality too great to have discovered any human being. denham felt very much inclined to imitate his commander's example; but though he lifted his telescope, he quickly lowered it again. "no, no; what folly in me to indulge in so idle a dream," he said to himself, turning away. "i was received as barry's friend, and treated with kindness accordingly; but i should only deservedly bring down scorn and ridicule on myself if i were ever to aspire to a greater intimacy than that which has hitherto been allowed me." "well, denham, we must not return without an enemy's frigate in tow," observed captain falkner, as he was one day walking the deck with his young lieutenant. "the frenchmen have several fine vessels out in these seas at present, and we must try and diminish their numbers. let us but catch sight of one of them, and, unless she has a very fast pair of heels, she shall be our prize before many hours are over." "no doubt of that, sir," answered denham, laughing. "we have now as fine a ship's company as were ever collected together, having cleared out the black sheep who were among them, and they are in as good temper as men need be." "a sail on the lee-bow," shouted the look-out from aloft. "what is she like?" asked the captain. "a full-rigged ship, sir," was the answer. there was a fresh northerly breeze at the time, and the frigate was under easy sail. "turn the hands up, mr hansom," observed the captain to the first lieutenant. "make all sail." "all hands on deck," shouted the boatswain, piping his whistle at the same time. the crew speedily made their appearance, and in a few seconds were seen clustering on the yards aloft. the ship was kept away, studding-sails and royals were set; and the frigate, gliding rapidly over the water, stood towards the stranger. the latter, though she must have seen her coming, showed no inclination to avoid her; but, on the contrary, hauled her wind, that they might the sooner meet. every spy-glass was in requisition on board the _cynthia_, and most of the officers went aloft, that they might take a better view of the stranger. in a short time she was pronounced to be a frigate of equal size to their own. some, however, thought her larger. that she might be so, and under an enemy's flag, was the wish of all. it is strange how eager men are to encounter those they consider it lawful to engage with in fight, to wound and slay each other. they think not of the pain and suffering they may inflict, or may themselves have to undergo. they eagerly seek for the excitement of the strife, the triumph of victory. they seem to forget entirely what far greater triumphs await those who labour on in civil life to advance the interests of humanity, to win the desert from barrenness, to make it smile as a fruitful garden, and the glorious triumph which is reserved for those who struggle on bravely in the service of their heavenly lord and master. still, we are describing men as they are, not as they should be; and probably on board that frigate there was not a single man who had the slightest doubt that the sentiments which animated his bosom were otherwise than right and noble, and superior to all others. a shout burst from the mouths of the crew of the _cynthia_ when the french flag was seen to be run up to the peak of the stranger. she was standing on with all plain sail set, and was manoeuvring in order to gain the weather-gauge. the _cynthia's_ studding-sails and more lofty canvas having been taken in, she also tacked in order not to let her antagonist gain this advantage. at length they approached sufficiently near each other to allow the bow guns of the _cynthia_ to take effect. "mr hansom, let us see if we cannot knock away some of her spars," observed the captain. "ay, ay, sir," answered mr hansom, going forward and taking the match in his hands. there was a good deal of sea running at the time, so that the aim, even of the best marksman, was likely to prove uncertain. he waited his opportunity however. as the bows of the frigate rose he applied the match, and some white splinters were seen to fly from the enemy's topmast. a cheer burst from the throats of the crew who saw the success of the experiment. it was looked upon as a good omen for the future. the cheer, however, was repressed by the officers. the men stood at their quarters. the captains of guns, with their matches in their hands, most of them stripped to the waist, to allow them the better to work the tackles, and also, should they be wounded, to escape the injury which any piece of clothing was sure to cause, should it be carried into their bodies by the shot. it was a scene which a painter might have delighted to copy, exhibiting the sturdy forms of the seamen, their countenances determined and bold, and utterly devoid of any appearance of fear. many, indeed, were passing rough and coarse jokes one from the other, and the slightest excuse gave cause to a hearty laugh. it would have been difficult for a stranger to believe, that the men who were before him were entering into a struggle for life and death, or that the combat between the two beautiful frigates now sailing in sight of each other, would probably end in the destruction of one of them. each sail was well set, every yard perfectly braced, and all the ropes taut and uninjured. thus they stood on, slowly nearing each other, till at length the frenchman attempted to haul across the _cynthia's_ bows, for the purpose of delivering a raking fire. this the latter avoided by hauling up. "fire," cried the captain, as the broadside of the frigate bore upon that of the enemy. a loud roar of artillery was the response. several shots seemed to take effect, some in the hull, others in the rigging. the _cynthia_ herself did not escape injury, and two of her crew were seen struggling in their death agonies on the deck. the two frigates now ran on side by side, firing their guns as rapidly as they could be loaded. again a shout burst from the throats of the english crew, as the frenchman's fore-topmast was seen to go over the side. it was evident, too, that their shots were taking effect upon the frenchman's hull, for several were seen to strike him between wind and water, which with the sea then running was very likely in a short time to reduce him into a sinking state. still the latter worked his guns with as much determination as at first, aided by musketry whenever the ships approached near enough for the bullets to take effect. by this means a considerable number of the crew of the english frigate were struck down, many of whom were killed, while others were carried bleeding below. the superior strength and activity of the english seamen soon told against that of the enemy, for while the latter was delivering two broadsides the english managed to fire three, their shot, too, being better directed. still the french ensign flew out at the enemy's peak, and there appeared to be no intention on his part of lowering it. the contest was evidently to be a severe and protracted one. the _cynthia_ had already lost nearly thirty of her crew, and in all probability the frenchman must have suffered in a far greater degree. at length they drew so close that the muzzles of their guns almost touched, when the enemy, putting down his helm, ran his bows into those of the british ship, the bowsprit coming directly across the foremast. captain falkner, calling to denham and those who were near him at the time, sprang forward and attempted to lash the bowsprit to the mast of his own ship. denham saw his faithful follower, ned davis, by his side. while the captain was in the act of passing a rope round the mast, a bullet, from the musket of a marine stationed in the frenchman's top, struck him on the breast. he fell back, and denham had just time to catch him in his arms to save him from falling heavily upon deck. davis had at that moment seized the rope which the captain had let go. "secure the bowsprit," cried the captain; "do not let the enemy sheer off. now place me on the deck; i fear that i am mortally wounded, but do not let the people know it. in a few minutes the frenchman's frigate will be ours. see, they are attempting to board, but drive them back and they will not long keep their flag flying. on! on! do not heed me." denham, calling to some of the crew, ordered them to take the captain below, while he flew to obey his dying orders. "boarders, repel boarders," he shouted, drawing his own sword, and springing towards the point where the frenchmen were seen clustering in their rigging about to spring on the deck of the _cynthia_. the latter, already disheartened by the loss of so many of their shipmates, were quickly driven back, while the _cynthia's_ guns continued pouring broadside after broadside into the hull of their ship. "see, see, down goes the french flag," cried the english crew, and little knowing the loss they had sustained, they once more gave forth that hearty british cheer which has so often sounded in the moment of victory. the dying captain heard it as denham reached his side. "tell her my last thoughts were about her," he murmured as the lieutenant took his hand, and sinking back, his eyes were in another moment closed by the hand of death. the two ships had parted in consequence of the heavy sea which had now got up. for the same reason the task of transferring the crew of the prize to the victor was one of considerable difficulty. the first lieutenant, now in command of the _cynthia_, hailed the enemy to send a boat on board; but his reply was that he had none which would swim, all having been injured in the engagement. fortunately most of the _cynthia's_ boats were in a better condition, and denham, taking the command, at once proceeded on board the prize. he found, though the frigate was french, that a dutch officer commanded her, who seemed much down-hearted at the loss of his ship. the young lieutenant had already been in several engagements, but never had he seen a deck present a more sad spectacle than that of the frenchman. in all directions lay the bodies of the slain, and several wounded men who had not yet been conveyed below. they were all of them too much injured to be removed to the _cynthia_, and they were therefore carried below. the prisoners were at once ordered to get up their bags, and to enter the boats, which immediately conveyed them on board their captor. some time was occupied, however, in this work, as the heavy sea which now ran prevented them from making a rapid passage. the dutch officer commanding the ship, had given up his sword to lieutenant denham, who remained on board, ready to take charge of the prize. he himself had not had time to go below, to observe the damages that the prize had sustained, but from the report made to him by the late commander, he was under the apprehension that they were very severe. indeed, from the peculiar way the ship rolled, he dreaded that she had taken in a large amount of water. he accordingly requested the dutchman, who spoke english very well, to send his carpenter below, to make a report of her condition. the man in a short time returned on deck with a pale face, declaring he did not believe she would float for many hours longer. by this time the wind had increased so much, and so heavy a sea was running, that it was a matter of danger to pass between the two ships, which were at some distance from each other. the boats, with the last cargo of the prisoners, had left her, and were close alongside of the _cynthia_. denham therefore ordered his own crew to make every effort to stop the leaks, but they soon found, from the amount of water which was pouring in, that this would be difficult, if not impossible. "well," he remarked to the dutchman, after every effort had been made to put a stop to the entrance of the water, "as soon as the boats return, we must, i fear, abandon the ship. you have defended her nobly, and perhaps have less cause to regret this occurrence than we have, who hoped to carry her into port in triumph." "you of course will return to your own ship as you please," answered the dutch officer; "but for my part i cannot desert my poor wounded fellows below, and unless there is time to remove them, should the ship sink beneath my feet, i must go down with her." chapter fifteen. in vain denham urged the brave dutchman to save his own life, and promised to use his best exertions in removing those who were least hurt among the wounded men. he was looking anxiously for the return of the boats. one, however, only was seen to put off from the side of the frigate with the remainder of the prize crew, mr hansom deeming it imprudent to allow more than necessary to make the passage. it was not without considerable difficulty that this boat reached the side of the prize. again denham urged the captain to quit her, but he refused on the same plea as before. indeed, it was very evident the boat herself would only carry in one trip the prize crew. denham had ordered all the men to go into the boat, and at length finding that the dutchman persisted in remaining on board, he could not bring himself to desert the brave fellow. "well," he said, "i will remain too, and assist the men on board to keep the ship afloat, for i feel i have no business to detain my own people with so great a risk." "if you remain, mr denham, so will i," exclaimed ned davis, who had followed his friend. "it may be, if we keep the pumps going, that the ship will float until there is time to get more boats alongside." before he allowed the boat to shove off denham wrote a short note to mr hansom, begging him, unless the sea continued to increase, to send boats to carry off the wounded people; "but," he concluded his note, "should it do so, run no risk of losing any lives--leave us to the care of god." the boat shoved off, and the sinking frigate was left to struggle alone amidst the fast-rising sea. the french crew, encouraged by the example of their gallant captain, exerted themselves to the utmost to stop the leak, while those not thus occupied stood manfully at the pumps. by this means the sorely battered frigate continued to keep afloat, but each time the well was sounded it was found that the water had gained somewhat upon her, in spite of all the efforts made to free her of water. ned davis was a host in himself, flying here and there, aiding in stopping shot-holes, and then returning to take his spell at the pumps. the young lieutenant anxiously looked out for any signs of change in the weather, but that continued as bad as ever, till it became too evident that the frigate could not much longer be made to swim. denham thought of suggesting that the wounded men should be brought on deck, to give them a better chance of escaping; but the doctor said they would thus to a certainty perish, and that if the ship went down it would be more merciful to them not to allow them to see the approach of their certain destruction. the ensign was hoisted upside down, as a sign chat the ship was in great distress, and guns were fired to draw the attention of the _cynthia_ to her. denham anxiously watched the progress of his frigate, feeling sure that from the mode in which the prize laboured in the sea she was not likely to float much longer. in a short time the _cynthia_ bore down upon her, but already the sea ran so high that it was evidently a risk to send a boat; and it would have been almost impossible to lower wounded people into her. again denham urged the brave dutchman, should a boat be sent, to accompany him on board the frigate. "no," he answered; "i have made up my mind to remain by these people, and nothing shall induce me to desert them." after some time a boat was seen approaching from the _cynthia_. denham now feeling it was his duty to save his own life as well as that of his people, ordered them to take the opportunity as she drew near of leaping into her. a few of the french crew, who were not wounded, followed their example. while denham remained davis refused to go into the boat. at length it was evident that at any moment the prize might sink. "now," he exclaimed to davis, "leap into her, and i will follow." he shook the dutchman warmly by the hand. "you are a brave man, my friend," he said; "and though i would stay by you if i could assist in saving your life, my duty to my men and to myself compels me to leave you." "farewell," answered the dutchman, seemingly unmoved. "no time to lose, sir," shouted davis from the boat. denham sprang from the side of the vessel; and scarcely had he reached the boat, and taken his seat in the stern-sheets, when the bow of the prize lifted high up above the sea, and then down she sank, lower and lower, till the water washed over her deck, and finally closed again above her masthead. the frigate's boat had barely time to pull away clear of the vortex. several people were seen struggling in the waves; among them denham observed the brave captain, and, though not without great risk, he ordered the boat to pull back, to endeavour to get him on board. once, as they neared the spot, he disappeared, and denham feared he was lost for ever. he again, however, rose, when ned davis, leaning over the bows, caught hold of his jacket and succeeded in hauling him on board. he was the only person among the prisoners who was saved, for before the boat could reach the others, all disappeared beneath the waves. happily the boat had no great distance to go, for it was only by great exertions and careful management that she was kept afloat. the whole of the wounded and many others of the french crew perished. the loss of their prize was a great disappointment to the officers and ship's company of the _cynthia_, as they had only the bare victory to boast of, without being able to show the prize when they returned into port; but far more did they mourn the death of their brave captain. no one felt it more than denham. to him he had been a warm and sincere friend, besides which he knew the agony and grief it would cause to one who was expecting his return. he dreaded having personally to communicate what had occurred, and he was greatly relieved by finding that the frigate was to put into port royal, jamaica, to refit after the action. mr hansom did not forget to mention him in his despatches, as having greatly contributed to gain the victory, by his courage in assisting to lash the enemy's bowsprit to the _cynthia's_ foremast. "depend upon it, denham," observed mr hansom, "this will be marked in your favour at the admiralty; and when you have served your time as lieutenant, you will obtain commander's rank. i wouldn't say this to others,--but i have a notion that you have a friend at court, and a word from the earl, with so good an excuse, will be sure to gain whatever he asks for you." on reaching port royal denham felt it was his duty to write to the earl, giving an account of the events that had occurred; but he did not allude even to anything he himself had done, nor did he ask for the earl's interest for himself at the admiralty. some few months after this lord kilfinnan gave up his appointment, and returned with his family to his native land. chapter sixteen. in a turret chamber in kilfinnan castle sat two young ladies. it was apparently their private boudoir. it had been elegantly furnished, but the drapery had somewhat faded, and the air of freshness it had once possessed had long since departed. the window out of which the ladies were gazing looked forth over the wide atlantic, and the eldest was dressed in deep mourning, apparently her usual costume, while the air of sadness in her countenance seemed to be habitual. the younger one was full of life and animation, though occasionally, as she looked up at her friend, she, too, became sad. "that is a strange story, sophy, you were reading just now from the newspaper," said the youngest,--"i mean about lord eden; i cannot understand how a man of his rank and position should condescend to marry a girl of low degree, however virtuous or excellent she might be. these _mesalliances_ can never answer. too soon the one of more refined habits and ideas discovers a degree of coarseness and vulgarity in the other, which must ultimately cause separation. no; my only notion of a happy union is, that where people are of the same rank and education, and all their sympathies are in unison--" "you know so little of life, dear nora, that i do not think you are capable of judging," answered her cousin sophy. "i do not say, however, that in the main you are not right, but there may be exceptions, in which true happiness may be found. i do not say lord eden is right in marrying this girl. at the same time, she may have more natural refinement than could be expected. i have heard of such instances." "i, on the contrary, sophy, remember hearing my father speak of a very different case, in which a country girl was taken out of her sphere, and educated, and, i think, became the wife of one of our ministers. as long as she was at rest, she appeared very elegant, but if she got at all excited, or, as was sometimes the case, lost her temper, she then exhibited her real condition; and if, as i consider, it is very bad for a man to marry a person of inferior rank, surely it is much worse for a lady to marry one who is her inferior." sophy smiled sadly. "no; i shall hold to my own opinion," said nora, "and i do not think that anybody would induce me to marry a person, however elegant and refined he might appear, unless i knew he was of gentle blood." the conversation of the young ladies was interrupted by sophy exclaiming-- "bring the glass, nora; i see a vessel standing in for the bay. her canvas looks very white and shining. i believe she is a man-of-war." the telescope, which stood on a stand, had been, for some purpose, removed from the window, and it was now brought to its usual place by nora. they both looked through it, one after the other. "yes, there can be no doubt of the matter," said nora; "her square yards, her tall masts and white canvas show at once what she is. she does not appear to me to be a frigate. i think she is a smaller vessel--a corvette,--and very beautiful vessels they are." while this conversation was going forward, the ship rapidly approached the shore, under a wide spread of canvas. they had soon an opportunity of ascertaining her character. at length she stood into the bay, and, furling her sails, came to an anchor. the wind was at that time sufficiently from the north to enable her to obtain perfect shelter, and she floated calmly on the smooth waters. it was still early in the day. they watched for a short time, but no boat could put off to approach the castle, though they fancied they saw one standing in for another part of the bay. at that time ireland was suffering, as she had long been, from her usual chronic disorder--discontent. disturbances had occurred here and there in the west and south among the riband men, or white boys, or united irishmen, by which names the rebels were at different times and places known. the government, therefore, had considered it necessary to send vessels of war to cruise up and down the coast, that their blue-jackets and marines might render such assistance as might be required. this was so generally the case at present, that the arrival of the corvette did not cause any unusual sensation among the inhabitants of the coast who lived near enough to the sea to observe her. several men-of-war had in the same way entered the bay of late, and, after remaining a few days, had taken their departure. the young ladies had arranged that, later in the day, they would take a ride over the downs, and, after calling on miss o'reilly, at the vicarage, look in upon some of the poor people whom they were in the habit of visiting. meantime, we must go to the other end of the bay, where an old man might be seen descending the narrow gorge which led down to the small cove where the widow o'neil resided. it was father o'rourke. he proceeded on in a somewhat meditative mood, until he reached the cottage. he opened the door, and found the widow sitting on the usual stool, employed in mending her nets. "and what brings you here, father o'rourke?" she said, looking up at him with a glance which showed that he was not a favourite of hers. "widow, i have come to speak about a matter of importance," he answered. "i hear, in spite of all my warnings, and all the instruction i have given you, by which you would be sure to find your way to heaven, that you still go to that heretic minister, mr jamieson, as you used to do when i before warned you. now, i tell you, widow, if you love your soul, you must go there no more. i am not going to be warning you for ever. do you hear my words? do you intend to obey them?" "father o'rourke," said the widow, looking calmly at him, "i have a great respect for your office, and for the holy religion of which you are a priest; there is nothing i have ever said against that. i am a good catholic, as i have always been, and you shall not be the person to throw a stone at me; but if i go to the vicarage, i go to hear the gentle words of that poor blind lady, and the minister never speaks anything to me but what is faithful and true. he is a good man, father o'rourke, and i wish i was as sure of going to heaven as he is: that is what i have got to tell you." "oh, widow o'neil, those are evil words you are speaking!" exclaimed the priest; "you are just disobeying the holy mother church; you are just doing what will bring you down the road to destruction, and i tell you, i believe it was your obstinacy, and your love for those heretics, that was the cause of the loss of your son. he is gone, and i hope he is gone to glory, for it is not for the want of me saying masses for his soul, if he has not; for sure i am, that, if he had remained here, and listened longer to the instruction of that false heretic, he would have gone the way you are so anxious to go, widow o'neil." the widow now stood up, throwing from her the nets, which had hitherto been on her knees. she stepped back a pace or two, and stretched out her hands. "father o'rourke," she exclaimed, "it is not the truth you are speaking to me! my boy never learned anything but what was good when he went to the vicarage: and more than that, though you say he has gone from this world, there is something deep down in my heart which tells me he is still alive. if he were dead, my heart would feel very different to what it does now. i tell you, father o'rourke, i believe my son is alive, and will come back some day to see me. i know he will. do you think i doubt his love? do i doubt my love for him? no. father o'rourke, you are a childless man yourself, and you do not know what the love of a mother is for her child, and i do not think you know what the love of a child is for its mother--a fond, loving mother, as i have been,--not such a child as mine. the day will come when dermot will stand here, as you are standing here; but he will not be blaming his old mother as you are blaming her. he will come to speak words of comfort and consolation into my ear. instead of that, father o'rourke, you have brought nothing but cursing. you tell me i am in the downward road to destruction. is that the way you should speak to a lone widow, because she loves her son, and likes those to speak who knew him, and who would talk about him to her and praise him, and who tell her what a noble, clever youth he was?" "widow o'neil!" exclaimed father o'rourke, an angry frown gathering on his brow, "year after year i have spoken to you as i am now speaking. i have warned you before, i have warned your boy dermot. i tell you, he would not take the warning, and he would have suffered the consequences of his disobedience, but i do care for your soul, and it is on account of that soul that i want you to put faith in the holy mother church. if you do, all will be right, but if you go and listen to the words of that protestant minister, all will be wrong, and you, widow o'neil, will have to go and live for ever with the accursed; ay, for ever and ever in fire and torment." with such force and energy did the priest speak, and so fierce did he look, that for the moment he made the poor old woman tremble and turn pale with fear. she quickly, however, recovered herself. "you may go, father o'rourke," she exclaimed. "once i was your slave, but i am your slave no longer. i am a poor ignorant woman, but i have had the truth told me, and that truth has made me free of you; say what you will, i do not fear you." the priest on hearing these words positively stamped on the ground, and gnashed his teeth with anger. he was not one of the polished fathers of the church, who have been taught from their youth to conceal their feelings. he was certainly not a trained disciple of ignatius loyola. again and again he stamped, and then uttering a fearful anathema on the occupant of the hut, he turned round, and slamming the door, left her as he had often before done, and hastened upwards towards the cliffs. while this scene was enacting below, a young naval officer, who had landed from a boat which had come from the corvette, lately brought up in the bay, had climbed to the summit of the downs, and was taking his way across them towards the gorge, up which the priest was hastening. he had, however, not got very far, when he heard a voice singing a wild and plaintive irish air. he stopped to listen, and as he did so, a figure, dressed in fantastic fashion, appeared from behind some broken ground in the neighbourhood of the downs. she advanced towards him, and then suddenly stopped, looking eagerly in his face. "who are you, stranger--who are you who come to these shores? it is not good for you to be alone here; if you come, come with armed men, with muskets on their shoulders and swords by their sides, for that slight weapon that you carry would avail you nothing against the enemies you are likely to meet here. go back, i tell you, the way you came. i may seem silly and mad, and mad and silly i am, but i can sing; few can sing like me. now listen stranger, listen to my song." she burst forth again in the same wild strains which at first attracted the young officer's attention. "but what reason could you give me why i should follow your advice? i like your song, however; can you not sing me another?" "yes," she answered, "mad kathleen has many a song in her head, but it does not always come when called for, it is only as the fit seizes her that she can bring it forth. never mind listening to my song, however, but follow my advice. there is your boat even now out in the bay; go, make a signal to it to come back to you, or evil will befall you." "i can scarcely suppose that, provided i do not leave the shore," answered the officer. "i thank you, however, for your advice, but i do not purpose wandering far from where i now am." "even here where you stand you are not safe; but i have warned you once, and i cannot warn you more," exclaimed the mad woman, as with wild gestures she retreated back to the spot from which she appeared to have come. the young officer watched her till she disappeared. a shade of melancholy came over his countenance. "i might have asked her about some of the people hereabouts," he said to himself. "her warning perhaps is not to be despised; i will sit down here, and wait till the boat returns." the officer was approaching the edge of the cliff when father o'rourke reached the downs; seeing the stranger, he advanced towards him. the temper of the priest had not calmed down, so it seemed, since his encounter with the poor widow. as he approached the young officer, he looked at him earnestly. "what brings you here?" he exclaimed. "what business have armed men to come upon our coasts, let me ask you?" "really, sir," said the officer, drawing himself up, "i bear his majesty's commission as commander of yonder sloop of war, and in the performance of my duty, i have landed on the shores of this bay; but i do not understand why i should be thus roughly spoken to by one especially, who, judging from his appearance, is a catholic priest." "you judge rightly, young man," answered father o'rourke, "but i am not to be deceived by appearances, and though you may call yourself what you will, i suspect you to be either the commander of a privateer, if not rather of a vile buccaneer. we have had visits before now from such gentry, and i should advise you to leave our shores without delay." "i cannot understand your meaning," exclaimed the officer; "i repeat, i came here in the performance of my duty, and i little expected to be treated thus by the first stranger i might meet." the priest seemed to think that he had proceeded too far; whatever might have been his motive in thus insulting one whom he must have known was a naval officer, or for some reason, he thought fit suddenly to change his tactics. "pardon me, sir," he said in a soothing voice, which he well knew how to assume, "i see that i was mistaken in my first supposition, and to prove my sincerity, i shall be happy if i can render to you any service in my power." "i willingly accept your apologies," answered the officer, regarding the priest intently, as if to ascertain whether he was to be trusted. "on my way along the shore, i intend visiting some of the little coves i see to the northward of these downs, and now, sir, perhaps you can inform me whether i am likely to find any people residing among them?" "but few, if any," answered the priest, "they are nearly all dead or gone away who once lived there; the curse of your country has been upon them. the aged and the young, the married and the single, the widow and her children, have all been swept away." "yes, i have heard that great changes have taken place in this neighbourhood of late years," answered the young officer, a shade of melancholy crossing his countenance. "and now, sir, in spite of the somewhat rough way in which you first addressed me, i wish you good morning, and thank you for your information." father o'rourke had, all the time he was speaking, been examining the countenance of the young officer. "ah, to be sure, i was somewhat irritated by a trifle just before i met you, but your politeness has conquered me," he answered blandly, "and i beg you, should you come near my humble abode, to believe that i shall be happy to receive you. we poor, oppressed catholics have little to offer our guests, but to such as i possess you will be welcome. our business is to look after the souls of our parishioners. if we can but show them the right way to heaven we should be content." the young officer seemed somewhat inclined to smile at these remarks of the priest. "i will not fail to avail myself of your invitation," he answered, "but at present i do not intend to extend my walk along the sea-shore." "well then, sir, as you have wished me good morning, i must wish you the same, and a pleasant walk to you, only let me advise you to be cautious where you go; it isn't just the safest part of the country for a king's officer to be found wandering in by himself. however, sir, i have given you a friendly warning, and now again farewell." the priest, somewhat to the surprise of the officer, considering the father's previous greeting, put out his hand, which he was too courteous not to take, then quickly turning round, father o'rourke proceeded up the gorge into the country. father o'rourke was not accustomed to explain to others the object of his proceedings. he had good reasons in his own estimation for everything that he did. they were possibly conscientious; but then his conscience might have been a very erring guide, and led him far wrong, as is the case with many other people in the world. "it cannot be helped," said the priest to himself, alluding to something which was passing in his own mind, "but no harm may come of it to me after all. the boys were to meet at o'keef's last night, and there will be plenty of them still about there; they will be glad enough of the chance of getting hold of a king's officer, and if he shows fight and some one gives him a knock on the head, or sends a pistol-bullet through him, it will settle the business. he is certain to be down in the cove, and if the boys are quick they will catch him there. i am pretty sure that i am not mistaken, but at all events he will be a valuable prize if he can be got hold of any way." such thoughts occupied the mind of the priest as turning off from the beaten path he took his way across a mountainous region which still remained in all its primitive wildness. after proceeding for some distance at a speed which was surprising considering his age, he reached some rude turf-covered huts, scarcely discernible from the rocks and grass amid which they stood. the priest gave a peculiar call, which soon brought out a number of shaggy-looking heads and eager faces with grey frieze-coats beneath them. father o'rourke did not take long to explain the object of his visit, which was quickly comprehended, nor did he wrongly estimate the inclinations of his hearers, who gleefully undertook to carry out the plan he proposed to them. all things being arranged to his satisfaction, he returned to his own abode, saying to himself, "i warned him of danger, so that if he is attacked and escapes, he cannot accuse me of having had anything to do in the matter." the officer was about to prosecute his intention of descending into the cove, when he heard merry voices near him. the speakers seemed to be climbing up the cliffs, and they soon made their appearance on its summit. touching their caps as they neared the officer-- "the boat has come for you, sir," said one of them. "very well," was the answer. "go down and amuse yourselves on the beach for a short time and i will join you. i am not ready to go off just yet." the young midshipmen receiving these orders managed to get down the cliffs in a way few but midshipmen could have done without breaking their necks. "i wonder what our captain's about," said one of them. "i should have thought that he would have gone to the castle. lord kilfinnan lives there, you know; and i remember hearing how constantly he used to be at his house out in the west indies. did you ever see lady nora?" "no," answered the other; "i do not remember having heard her spoken of." "oh, she is the earl's daughter, and a very beautiful girl she is, too," observed the first speaker. "there is lady sophy danvers, her cousin, too, who lives with her. she was engaged for a long time to that captain falkner, you know, who commanded the _cynthia_; but, i suppose her relations did not like her to marry him because he wasn't a lord, and intended her for a duke or a marquis perhaps." "i do not see why they should have done that," answered the other midshipman. "in my opinion, a naval officer is equal to any lord in the land; at all events, a post-captain is. if i were a post-captain, i know, i should not hesitate to pay my respects to any earl's daughter. why, just think, to have a fine frigate and three or four hundred men under one's orders, and, by-and-by, a line-of-battle ship, and then a post-captain becomes an admiral, remember; and many admirals have been made lords themselves. why, there is lord nelson; he was only a midshipman to begin with; and lord collingwood, and lord saint vincent, and lord howe, and many others; they were all midshipmen, just as you and i are. now, just look at our captain for instance; if any one deserves to be made a lord he does. what a gallant fellow he is. why, if it had not been for him, they say, the _cynthia_ would have been taken. it was he assisted in lashing the enemy's bowsprit to the frigate's foremast, and then repelling the boarders who were swarming on board; and then, there are no end of things he did in the west indies, and in other parts of the world. he has been in half-a-dozen cutting-out expeditions, and, since he has been a commander, has taken several prizes. did you ever hear how, when the french frigate was sinking, he refused to leave her, and stayed on board to assist the captain in keeping her afloat at the risk of his own life. now, that is the sort of thing to be proud of. i often think more of a man who has done those generous actions than one who has gained a hard-fought battle. however, what do you say to having a race along the sands? here, we will get most of the fellows on shore, and i am ready to give a prize to the best runner." "i will give my pocket-knife," said the midshipman; "that will be an encouragement to the men. they are good sort of fellows, and i like to afford them amusement. it is little we or they get these days, kept at sea month after month." as it may be supposed, the young midshipmen were great favourites on board the corvette, and for some time they kept their crew amused as they had proposed. at length they began to wonder that the captain did not appear, and they began to fear that some accident had befallen him. at last they proposed climbing up the cliff again to look for him. they reached the top at last, and looked round the downs on every side; no one was to be seen. then curiosity led them a short distance inland. suddenly, a figure which made them start rose up before them. "who are you looking for, young sirs?" exclaimed mad kathleen. "i know without your telling me. he is gone--gone away, and you must follow to find him; but listen, boys, i have a message for him. now, don't you fail to give it. tell him there are enemies watching for him, and that if ever he comes on shore by himself he will be sure to be set upon, and all his strength and courage will avail him nothing. he is a brave man, your captain, and i wish him well." "why, how do you know anything about him?" asked one of the midshipmen. "i did not know he had ever been here before." "mad kathleen knows more things than you wot of," answered the mad woman, with a loud laugh, whirling her hands as she spoke. "now, go to the castle as i bid you, and give him my message. he would run more risk by neglecting my warning than if he were to fight a dozen battles for his king and country." though the midshipmen were little inclined to put much belief in the message of the mad creature, they promised to deliver it as soon as they met their captain. after consulting together, they agreed that their proper course was to row along the bay towards the castle, in the hopes that he might have gone there. chapter seventeen. as the commander of the corvette was about to descend the glen, his attention was arrested by the faint tramp of horses' hoofs passing rapidly over the downs. he turned his head and at that instant saw a young lady on horseback, not far from him, cantering gaily along, while at a short distance behind her was another lady, followed by a groom. at that moment the figure of the mad woman, which had a short time before appeared to him, rose suddenly from behind the ground where he had last seen her. she uttered a wild shriek; the effect was to make the leading horse start and rear violently. the animal, apparently, was not well broken in. again and again it reared, backing down towards the edge of the cliff. the young officer saw the lady's danger, and in an instant sprang towards her. she uttered a shriek as she discovered how fearfully near the edge of the cliff her horse had carried her. the officer grasped her bridle, but in vain tried to draw back the frightened animal. it seemed resolved to throw itself over the precipice. in another moment the lady and her steed would have been carried to destruction. "throw yourself from your saddle, and trust to me," exclaimed the young officer imploringly. she cast herself forward and fell into his arms. alas! her habit caught in the stirrup. again the horse reared. "i will perish with her," exclaimed the young man mentally. happily, the skirt tore, and in another moment was disengaged; while the frightened animal, with one bound, leaped over the cliff. so extreme was the danger to which the young lady had been exposed, that scarcely knowing she had escaped it, she fainted. the young officer, with his precious burden, hurried up the downs, when her companion, jumping from her horse, came to his assistance. "o nora, nora," she exclaimed, "do tell me that you are alive! o that we had some water to give her, such a faint as this is dangerous. what can be done?" the groom, observing that there was a stream a few hundred yards on, dashed forward on his horse, and quickly returned with his hat full. lady sophy, loosening nora's dress round her neck, and holding her head on her knee, sprinkled the water over her face, which was turned in the direction of the wind. by this means she quickly returned to consciousness, and, opening her eyes, they fell on the countenance of the young officer. "oh, captain denham," she exclaimed, "i owe my life to you. in another moment i should have been dashed to pieces. i thought that i had gone over the precipice. how grateful my dear father will be to you!" "then that must be your ship," said lady sophy, pointing to the corvette. "you must come with us at once to the castle." captain denham, of course, could only express his very great satisfaction at having been the means of preserving the life of lady nora, though he could claim no credit for having done so. whatever had been his previous intentions, he could do nothing else than accompany the ladies till he had seen them safe at the castle. he made anxious inquiries after the earl, and found, from the account they gave him, that he was greatly broken in health, not having recovered from the effects of the west indian climate, or the loss of his son. in many respects the meeting could not fail to be a sad one. the sight of captain denham recalled painfully to lady sophy the death of her intended husband, while lady nora, naturally, could not help thinking of her young brother, who had been captain denham's friend. the distance to the castle was considerable, but lady nora declared her inability to mount a horse, even if one had been sent for; nor would she consent to take that of lady sophy. supported, however, by the arm of the captain, she proceeded towards home. they had many things to talk about. captain denham had to describe how he had been sent to the coast of ireland to render assistance to any of the loyal subjects of the king who might require it, whilst the ladies described their passage home, and the feelings with which they had returned once more to the old castle. "things are greatly changed," observed lady nora, "we have none of the gay society we used to have here; my father also is too much out of spirits to see company. occasionally a few neighbours look in upon us; or when any ship comes into the bay we see some of the officers, and mr jamieson and dear miss o'reilly come over to pay us a visit; but you, captain denham, will always be welcome." captain denham and his fair companions had arrived at the castle some time before the midshipmen with the boat appeared, having been joined in the meantime by the second lieutenant. the earl welcomed him warmly, and begged him to take up his residence at the castle; but this invitation he was compelled to decline, as he made it a point of duty never to sleep away from the ship at night. lady nora had sufficiently recovered to appear at dinner, to which denham's officers, who had come on shore, were also invited. just before dinner mr jamieson and his blind niece arrived. lady nora was delighted to see them, and introduced captain denham to them both. the blind lady seemed to take especial interest in him. she plied him with questions, asking him what part of the world he had visited, in what ship he had served, and in what actions he had been engaged. the earl had broken through the usual custom of sitting late at dinner; indeed the gentlemen present seemed in no way disposed to follow it. soon after the ladies had retired, mr jamieson and captain denham led the way to the drawing-room. captain denham approached lady nora and inquired anxiously if she felt perfectly recovered from the effects of her alarming accident. "oh, yes; indeed i am," she answered, glancing up at him with a look which might have made many men vain. "i dare not trust myself to thank you as i ought, or to speak about it. i cannot help thinking of what would have been my fate had you not been there to save me. how often have i crossed those downs without dreaming of danger; and indeed it was very curious how that poor mad woman should have startled my horse. i have met her often before, and she has done much the same sort of thing; but the poor animal was young, and had not been ridden for some days. sophy and i were on our way to visit some of the poor people we are accustomed to call upon, and i was anxious to see an old widow who lives in a little cove under where you saw me; but that can be a matter of no interest to you." as she spoke she again gazed up in his face. something strange seemed to flash across her mind. she cast another earnest, inquiring look at him. the colour mounted to his cheek. his eyes fell, then again he looked earnestly at her. nora's breath came and went rapidly; her bosom heaved. "what is the matter with nora?" exclaimed lady sophy, springing forward, "she is fainting. help! help!" in an instant lady sophy was by nora's side, and just in time to receive her as she fell fainting into her arms. captain denham stood for an instant so overwhelmed with some deep emotion, as scarcely to comprehend what had occurred. the bell was rung, and several attendants rushed in, and nora was borne fainting from the room. it was still daylight, but just at this moment dark clouds began to collect in the sky, casting a gloom over the landscape. the lieutenant of the corvette had gone to the window looking out over the ocean. he hurriedly came back, and while his commander was standing still bewildered it seemed by what had occurred, he came up to him, and said-- "sir, there is a change in the weather. the wind has increased considerably, and the bay in a short time will be no place for us." this address aroused captain denham. "you are right, matson," he answered, looking out at the window for an instant, "i will go on board immediately. we must bid farewell to the earl and be off. there is not a moment to lose, and i hope evans will get the ship under weigh without waiting for me." just as he was quitting the room lady sophy re-entered it, and assured him that lady nora had quickly recovered, though still unnerved by the danger she had gone through. "i trust that she will have perfectly recovered by to-morrow," she added. "and, believe me, captain denham, you will always be a welcome guest at the castle." she spoke earnestly, her looks giving expression to her words. "she is a dear, high-minded girl, and, believe me, i prize her, and will watch over her as a sister, or i should say rather, as a daughter." "thank you, thank you," answered the young captain, pressing lady sophy's hand; "you know my feelings for your cousin, but to no one else would i venture to acknowledge them. to her i feel that i have no right to speak of them. i leave myself, therefore, in your hands." "i trust to be so guided as to act for the best for you both," said lady sophy, "but i must not longer detain you. i hope that we may see you here again before many days have passed." well satisfied, as he had reason to be, with what lady sophy had said, captain denham followed his officers, who had already preceded him to the boats. he stepped in, and the order was given to shove off. the boats made the best of their way towards the corvette. the wind was already blowing strongly, and a heavy sea rolled into the bay. "it is as much as we shall do, if we manage to beat out of the bay this evening," observed the lieutenant to the midshipman in his boat, "i ought to have kept my eyes more about me, though it is natural enough the captain's should have been preoccupied." "yes, sir, indeed that is a lovely girl, lady nora; he will be a happy man who wins her." "that is a matter, mr merton, too delicate for me to pronounce on," answered the lieutenant; "but i was speaking of the difficulty of beating out of the bay." "oh yes, sir, i beg your pardon," said the midshipman; "still i believe we shall be able to carry all sail, and if so, the _ariadne_ will soon find her way out of this difficulty." "that is an ugly reef to the north," observed the lieutenant; "i would rather it were fifty miles away than where it is." "yet it affords us good shelter when the wind is as it was this morning." "so it does," answered the lieutenant, "but it is directly in our way when we have to beat out when the wind is in the west." the captain made no remark to the midshipman in his boat; he was too completely absorbed in his own thoughts, though he occasionally urged his crew to greater exertion by the usual exclamation of "give way, lads, give way." the boats were soon alongside. directly they were seen coming, the officer in command had begun to get the corvette under weigh, and when the captain stepped on board the anchor was hove up to the bows. the corvette, under topsails and top-gallant-sails, was now hauled close to the wind. she cast to the north, and stood directly towards the reef of rocks which appeared ahead. the captain took his place in the weather rigging, to con her, while scarcely had sail been made on the ship before the increase of wind made it doubtful whether she would carry what was already set. the dark clouds came rolling up in thick masses from the west overhead, while heavy seas, topped with foaming crests, rolled in from the same direction. the corvette heeled over until her lee ports were in the water, still it was not a moment for shortening sail. now the young commander gazed at the shore under his lee, now to the dark rocks ahead, and now at his masts and spars. "no higher," he had more than once to cry out, as the men at the helm, anxious to gain every advantage, kept her too close to the wind. "we cannot hope to weather the reef on this tack," he observed to the lieutenant, who was near him. the crew were all at their stations, attentive to obey the least sign from their commander. now a fiercer gust than ordinary made the ship heel lower in the water. now she rose again. it was a critical moment as she rushed forward with headlong speed towards the threatening reef, over which the sea was already furiously beating. still the young commander stood calm and collected. now his hand was raised, and as he glanced towards the helmsman, now he looked once more to the sails aloft. "hands about ship," he shouted in a clear, ringing voice, which every man heard fore and aft. "helm's-alee! tacks and sheets! main sail haul!" it seemed as if in another moment the beautiful vessel would spring forward upon the threatening rocks. she was in stays, but the slightest shift of wind to the south would have driven her to destruction. anxiously the commander looked at the fore-topsail still aback. for an instant the ship's head appeared not to be moving. then gradually the wind forced her round. "of all haul!" he shouted in a cheerful voice, as she sprang forward towards the opposite side of the bay. still she was not free. the headway she made was counteracted by the heavy seas which now rolled in upon the land, and forced her towards it. now she was standing towards kilfinnan castle. the commander turning, looked at the reef they had left; then once more casting his gaze ahead,--"we shall scarcely weather it the next tack," he said to himself. "if the wind holds as it does now, however, and if it does not increase much, the tight little ship will still work her way through it." anxiously those in the castle watched the progress of the corvette. they well knew the danger to which she was exposed, for although many a year had passed since any large ship had been cast away in their bay, yet there were traditions of men-of-war being driven on the coast, and the whole of their gallant crews perishing. numerous merchant vessels and smaller craft had also from time to time been dashed to pieces on the rocks, and many sad tales there were of lives being lost, when the persons on board the vessels appeared within but a short distance of the shore. nora had sufficiently recovered to go to the window and gaze forth upon the vessel. "o, what a beautiful fabric she is," she exclaimed; "how rapidly she draws near!" with the glass she could almost see those on board. "but will she, do you think, escape that reef to the north, when she once more tacks." "oh, yes, i trust so," answered lady sophy, "he who commands on board is an experienced seaman, you know, and if any human being could carry the ship out of the bay, he will do so." besides the young ladies, several other persons on shore were watching the progress of the corvette, as she endeavoured to beat out of the bay. far down below, in the sheltered cove, in front of her cottage, stood widow o'neil. her white locks, escaping from the band which generally bound them, streamed in the wind. the hood of her red cloak was thrown back, and while with one hand she steadied herself by one of the supports of the deep eaves of the cottage, she stretched forth the other towards the ocean, as if she would direct the course of the bark which struggled through the foaming waves. "they are brave men on board that craft," she exclaimed to herself, "but oh, it is hard work they will have, to get clear of the bay. proud and trim as that beautiful ship looked this morning, who can say but what before another sun rises, she will be a shattered wreck upon yonder cruel rocks. such a sight i have seen night after night as i lay on my couch, i know not whether asleep or awake; but, oh, may heaven protect those on board from such a fate, if their vessel, stout as she may be, is thrown upon yonder reef. "my boy, my boy! even now he may be on the stormy ocean, threatened with shipwreck, as are those in yonder beautiful vessel. may heaven protect him and them!" as she spoke, the fishwife stretched forth her neck more eagerly over the ocean, and again and again she offered up a prayer for the safety of those on board the ship which struggled below her. high up the glen, in a sheltered place, yet still commanding a view of the bay, sat another person. it was father o'rourke. he, too, was watching the ship, with a very different feeling animating his heart, to that which worked in the bosom of the widow. no prayer for the safety of those on board escaped his lips. he seemed to gaze with satisfaction on the fearful danger to which she was exposed. he more than once exclaimed to himself, "she cannot escape yonder rocks, and then that pert and daring youth who set me at defiance, with all his companions, will meet the fate which they and their saxon countrymen so well merit. curses on the heads of those who execute the behests of king george and his ministers. while we have red-coats and blue-jackets arrayed against us, what hope is there of liberty for old ireland? i hate them all. from the king on his throne to the meanest soldier who trails a pike in his service!" at a short distance on a high and projecting part of the cliff, stood a wild and fantastic figure. it was that of mad kathleen. she waved her arms round and round. now she shouted, as if she would warn those on board the ship of the danger they were approaching. again and again she cried out, as if encouraging them to perseverance in their bold attempt at beating out of the bay. sometimes she uttered blessings on their heads, especially that of their young commander. "a brave youth, a noble youth he is," she exclaimed; "even when i set eyes on him this morning i felt my heart drawn towards him. grievous would it be for him to lose that fine ship, his first command, and still more grievous were his life to be taken by the angry waves!" thus she continued for some time, until she was interrupted by a hand being placed on her shoulder. she turned round and saw miss o'reilly standing near her. "what, kathleen, are you trying to show yonder ship the way to beat out of our bay?" asked mr jamieson, in his usual kind voice. "i would i were on board, minister, that i might help to guide them," she answered, with a laugh. "there are many worse pilots than i am, and often in girlhood's days have i sailed with my father on yonder sea, sometimes, as now, tossed with waves, at other times calm and blue, like a young maiden's eye, void of guile and treachery." "but, tell me, kathleen, do you think the ship will manage to escape from the dangers by which she is surrounded?" asked miss o'reilly, in a somewhat agitated voice. "they say her captain is a brave and gallant officer, and it would be grievous if he were to lose that beautiful vessel, for so i am told she is." "god who guides the winds and gives them power alone knows whether yonder ship will gain the open sea in safety," answered kathleen; "but i will tell you, dear lady, if you stay by me, what progress she makes. if the prayer of a poor mad creature can save her, she is safe enough, and the wind will hold as it does now, sufficiently to the south to enable her to clear the reef. oh, miss o'reilly, even now she seems rushing forward to destruction." "whereabouts is she?" asked miss o'reilly eagerly. "not two hundred fathoms, it seems at this moment, from the reef," answered kathleen. "if she can come about without difficulty, she will escape, but if not, in a few minutes she will be cast on the rocks, and then you know too well what will happen." "tell me, good kathleen, tell me," said the blind lady, after a short silence; "has she gone about? is there once more a prospect of her escaping?" "again she is in stays!" exclaimed kathleen. "see, see! the wind seems to have caught her. oh, may merciful providence watch over her! it seems to me that her head is once more turning towards the dreadful rocks. alas, alas! no power can save her." "oh, may heaven protect them!" exclaimed the blind lady, turning her sightless eyes in the direction of the ship. "oh, may those brave men on board escape the fearful danger in which they are placed!" "your prayers are heard, lady! your prayers are heard!" shouted kathleen; "the wind has taken her head-sails, and once more she is on the starboard tack, standing away from that fearful reef." mr jamieson and his niece stood for some time watching the progress of the corvette, till the shades of evening, increased by the thick clouds which obscured the sky, hid her from their sight; but they could not persuade kathleen to leave the spot, for she declared that she could still see the ship through the mist. at length, the minister and his niece returned to their home, leaving poor kathleen still wildly waving her arms and shouting, until her voice was hoarse, as if she would address those on board the vessel. "see, see! she is once more about! surely her bowsprit is pointing more seaward than it was before, and if the wind was to shift a little more to the south, she would soon be clear of yonder fearful reef." the corvette once more going about, stood to the north. although the wind might have drawn a little more to the south, yet this advantage was counteracted by the fierceness with which it blew. the masts, with more sail on them than it would have, under other circumstances, been deemed prudent to set, bent with the unusual pressure. sometimes, indeed, as captain denham gazed up at them, they seemed like fishing-rods, so fearfully did they bend before the breeze. the first lieutenant and master were also looking up at them with not less anxiety than did the captain. "they will scarcely stand this pressure," observed the former; "what say you, master?" "we must keep the canvas set, at all events, and trust to providence," answered the master. "this is no moment for taking in a reef. if they go and the ship refuses to stay, we must bring up, though i fear the little vessel will scarcely hold her own against the heavy seas which come rolling into this bay; and, to my idea, both she, and some of us on board, will leave our bones to rot on the strand under our lee, if it comes to that." "let's hope for the best, master," answered the first lieutenant. "see how calm our captain looks. you would never suppose that he is aware of the danger in which we are placed." "he knows it pretty clearly, though," observed the master. "hold on, good sticks, hold on," he exclaimed, looking up at the masts. "they are tough spars, i know, and they are now giving good proof of their quality." sometimes, from the direction of the vessel's head, it appeared possible that she might weather the reef towards which she was approaching. then, again, she fell off, and it was evident that she must make another tack before there was a chance of her doing so. the commander seemed of this opinion, and was clearly unwilling to approach again as near as before to the reef. again he shouted, "hands about ship!" as before, the helm was put down, the tacks and sheets were raised, the men hauled with a will at the braces, and the ship's head, coming up to the wind, continued for some moments pointing west, to the open part of the bay. anxiously the commander watched her movements. at one time it seemed as if she had got stern way, and he opened his mouth about to give the order to let go the anchor and to shorten sail. those on board knew the order would have been followed by another, dreaded by all seamen--to cut away the masts, the only mode of proceeding to enable the corvette to ride out the gale. again and again the captain looked up at the head-sails. "she is paying off!" he exclaimed. a shout, though immediately suppressed, burst from the throats of the crew. for the moment they were safe from the threatened danger. again the corvette stood across the bay. the topmasts, as before, bent to the gale. "we shall easily clear that reef," observed the master. "well, it is a pleasure to see a man con a ship as our fine young skipper does. these are moments to try a man's mettle, and he has shown that he is of the true sort." the corvette flew across the bay, almost, it seemed, with lightning speed, so soon was she again on the opposite side. another critical moment had arrived, and it was only to be hoped that the gale would not come down with greater force than before while she was in stays, or very likely at that moment her topmasts would be carried away. again about she came; this time without difficulty, and now her head pointing seaward, she stood out from the bay, still as those on shore watched her through the fast gathering gloom of evening, she seemed to be drawing nearer and nearer to the reef. now once more she looked up to the west, then again to the north; still the masts and spars stood. yet, after all, she was nearer the reef than under such circumstances a seaman would wish to find his ship. "mr matson," said the commander, looking down at his first lieutenant, "we must at once take two reefs in the topsails; but it is a risk for the hands aloft, a fearful risk indeed," he added. "i am ready to lead the way, sir," exclaimed a young seaman, who was no other than ned davis, the commander's old companion. "give the orders then, matson," said the captain. "aloft, there," shouted the first lieutenant. scarcely, however, had the men sprang into the rigging, when there was a loud crash. the main-topmast had gone close to the cap. the straggling sail and wreck of the spars hanging over the side. "clear away the wreck," cried the captain. "not a moment to be lost. we must save the other masts." the men flew aloft, ned davis being among the first drawing out their knives from their pockets as they did so. in a few seconds the ropes were severed, and the mast and spar fell overboard, with the still loudly flapping sail. at the same moment the crew throwing themselves out on the fore-topsail yard, that sail was quickly reefed. "you must take another reef in it, mr matson," said the commander, "closely reef it, or that mast will go also." the mizen-topsail with greater ease was closely reefed. in consequence of the ship having been deprived even for that short time of the power which urged her through the seas, she had drifted down, it seemed, close upon the reef. once more the captain looked anxiously to leeward. "we shall still weather the reef," he exclaimed to the first lieutenant, who, after gazing at it, looked in his face as if to ask a question, "unless," the commander added, "the wind draws more out of the west." heeling over, however, less than she had before done to the blast, her head pointed seaward, clear of the reef, still, should she be making much leeway, it would be doubtful whether, after all, she would clear it. to tack close to it, crippled as she was, would be dangerous in the extreme. the commander stood, as before, at his post. "she will do it, matson," he said, speaking to his first lieutenant. "god grant she may," answered the officer. on she flew. the sea dashed in masses of foam high above the dark rocks which formed the extremity of the reef. on, on, she stood. a few seconds almost would decide her fate. many an eye glanced over the lee-bulwarks. the water washed up through the scuppers, and rose high on deck. the crew sheltered themselves as best they could under the weather-bulwarks, for the seas were breaking in masses of foam over the weather-bows, deluging the decks fore and aft. the commander gazed also anxiously at the reef. the corvette darted on. already the foam which flew over her seemed to unite with that which broke above the rocks. still, he did not turn pale, nor did his eye quiver. in another instant she would be hurled to destruction or be free. the crew watched the threatening reef, and many an old seaman felt that he had never been in greater danger. chapter eighteen. ned davis, when he came down from aloft, had taken his post again near his beloved commander. "i am a good swimmer," he said to himself, "and i will do my best to save the captain. if i fail i will perish with him." such were the thoughts which passed through his mind, as the most critical moment of all had arrived. nearer and nearer the corvette drew towards the rocks. now they appeared broad on the lee-bow--now they were right abeam--and at length many a bold seaman drew his breath more freely as they were seen over the quarter. the danger was passed. the beautiful little ship flew on, breasting bravely the foaming billows. at length she had clear room once more to make a tack. she came about before it might have been expected, crippled as she was, and now with her courses hauled up she stood out to sea. "pipe below," cried the captain, leaving the weather side of the poop, where he had stood since the ship had first got under weigh. "keep her south-west, mr matson," he observed, as he retired to his cabin; "and call me on deck should any change take place in the weather." it would be difficult to describe the feelings of those on shore who had watched for so long the manoeuvres of the corvette as she worked her way out of the bay. often lady nora lifted up her hands as if praying to heaven for the safety of those on board. each time, too the ship approached the dangerous reef, with the character of which she was so well acquainted, her cheek turned paler than usual, and her bated breath showed the agitation of her feelings. yet, did she love the young commander of the corvette? she would scarcely have acknowledged thus much to herself. he had not declared his affection, and yet she felt almost sure that he was truly attached to her. "i must remember that he was poor barry's friend," she said to herself; "yet barry did not pretend to know to what family he belonged; indeed, he would never tell us how he first became acquainted with him. that was very strange, for as often as i put the question he evaded it, and replied, `i value him for himself, for the noble qualities he possesses, and not for what he may possibly have been.' on board ship we think only of our rank in the service, and what sort of fellow a man shows himself to be by his conduct. so nora do not say anything more about the matter." at length, when the corvette, as far as she was able to judge in the thick gathering gloom of night, seemed to be clear of the land, nora could not refrain from giving vent to her pent-up feelings in tears, while a prayer of thankfulness went up from her heart to heaven. some time passed before she entirely recovered from the effects of the fearful danger in which she had been placed. she looked forward, day after day, for the return of the corvette, but in vain. she eagerly examined the newspapers, but none of them mentioned the _ariadne_. she might still be on the coast of ireland, or have been ordered elsewhere. from what captain denham had said before he took his departure, she was fully persuaded he would soon return; and it must be confessed, she longed to ask him many questions. there were various doubts passing through her mind which she was anxious to have solved. she scarcely, however, would trust herself to speak of them even to sophy. she was soon to have her mind occupied with other cares. her father, who had never recovered the loss of his son, or his visit to the west indies, was now very evidently declining in health. he could no longer follow the hounds, or ride out as before. he took little or no interest in public affairs. even his neighbours he declined seeing when they called, though he seemed always glad to have a visit from mr jamieson or his blind niece. he held frequent conversations with the steward about his affairs, which seemed greatly to trouble him. at length it was determined to send to dublin to request the presence of his family lawyer, mr finlayson, who, though now an old man, was sufficiently hale to undertake the journey. he had, it appeared, as had his father before him, managed for many years the kilfinnan property. nora willingly agreed to write to request his attendance, for she felt, that as he was a faithful friend of her father's, he would certainly be a comfort to him, and might also be able to suggest a means of placing the property in a more satisfactory state than it was in at present. she thought nothing of herself; it scarcely occurred to her that she was to become the heiress of it all. she knew that the title would become extinct at her father's death, but that caused her no regret. she supposed that her income would enable her and her cousin sophy to live as they had been accustomed. more she did not require. within a week mr patrick finlayson arrived in a chaise from dublin. in those days the journey was not performed as rapidly as at present, and the dangers to be encountered were not a few. he was a small, neatly made, active little man, with a clear complexion, which even his advanced age had scarcely succeeded in depriving of the hue of youth, though his hair was white as snow. his eyes were bright and intelligent, and his whole manner and appearance showed that he was still capable of a considerable amount of active exertion. his brown suit, knee breeches, and silk stockings, were set off by brightly polished steel buttons and diamond buckles. having paid his respects to the ladies of the family, and addressed lady nora in his usual easy, familiar style, which showed that he had from her earliest youth, claimed the honour of being one of her admirers and friends, he made more especial inquiries about the earl. "you will see a great change in my father," said nora, "but your coming will, i feel sure, do him good. you know more about our affairs than we do. i only hope things are not worse than he supposes, and if they are, i must ask you to conceal the truth from him; i am afraid it would do him no good to make him aware of it, and would only deeply grieve him. i care not so much if i only am the sufferer." "you need not be alarmed, my dear lady nora," answered the old man, taking her hand. "things are not worse than the earl supposes; on the contrary, i have of late seen the importance of not allowing him to believe that they were improving as much as they have been. you know, probably, your good father's disposition, and are aware, that had he discovered this, he would very quickly have launched out again into his old habits of extravagance, which, however, from the sad account you give of him, he is not now likely to do, and therefore i am prepared to tell him the whole truth. your affairs, lady nora, require nursing, i will confess to that, and careful management, but a few years of economy will, i hope, place them on a satisfactory footing." "this is indeed pleasant news you bring us, mr finlayson, i own when i heard that you had consented to come, that i feared things were rather worse than better, but i am indeed very grateful to you for coming; you have always been one of our truest friends, and i am sure at the present moment you will be a great comfort to my poor father. i will let the earl know of your arrival, and i am sure he will be glad to see you at once. during the last few days he has grown very much weaker, and his medical attendant will not tell me what he thinks of his case. he himself speaks very willingly to our friend and neighbour, mr jamieson, who, when i ask him what he thinks, always looks very grave, and replies, `that the lives of all of us are in god's hands, and that we should be prepared to lose those we love at any moment.' this makes me, as you may suppose, extremely anxious." while lady nora was speaking the old gentleman became very serious. "i should like to see the earl as soon as possible," he observed; "i have several matters of importance to consult him about, which i should not like to put off until he becomes still weaker than you tell me he is at present. you will excuse me, lady nora, when i say i should like to be alone with him for some time." "o yes, sir," said lady nora; "i know that whatever you have to say to my father you have the right to say to him; and i feel such perfect confidence in you that i have no desire to pry into any secrets you may have with him." nora having left the lawyer, soon returned with the information, that the earl was ready to receive him. mr finlayson found the earl sitting in an armchair, propped up with pillows, gazing out on the ocean, on whose blue and slightly ruffled waves the sunbeams were playing brilliantly. the earl smiled as his old friend entered, and held out his hand warmly to him. "sit down, finlayson; you have come at a sad moment. i feel a strange weakness creeping over me, and i am glad that you have not longer put off your visit. yes, i believe the moment is approaching for which we all should be prepared, when i must leave this world. i wish i could look back to all i have done during my life with satisfaction; but i cannot say that i can do that. i have been hospitable and generous, i own, according to the notion of people; but alas! finlayson, for the peasantry under my charge, for the multitudes of my poorer neighbours, how little have i done? i might have set them a better example; i might have obtained some education for them; and, perhaps, by going among them, restrained them from committing the excesses into which, from time to time, they have plunged." "very true," answered the lawyer; "i believe there are very few people who have not to say something like that, when they are about to leave the world; but we must not think of what we have done or left undone ourselves. you believe in the simple gospel; i am sure you do, or you would have listened to mr jamieson's preaching, as i have often seen you doing--in vain. we will speak of that by-and-by. i rather hope that you think worse of your case than you should do. i do not hear that the doctor is of the same opinion as you are, and so, my dear lord, there are certain points with regard to your property which i, as your legal adviser, would wish, in the first place, to discuss." mr finlayson then entered into particulars, which it is not here necessary to introduce. the earl seemed much relieved on hearing that his property was less encumbered than he had supposed. "but there is another point, my lord, on which i shall wish particularly to consult you." "well, the sooner we speak on anything of importance the better, finlayson. we know not what another day may bring forth," observed the earl. he already spoke with some difficulty. "well, my lord, at all events i should like to know your wishes on the subject," said the lawyer. "your lordship knows that your father had an elder brother." "yes," said the earl, in a somewhat surprised tone. "he was considerably older than your father," continued the lawyer. "he was a somewhat wild and extravagant man. your lordship may possibly remember that he engaged in one of the unhappy outbreaks of those days." "yes, yes," said the earl hastily. "i heard that he became a rebel against his king and country." "well, my lord, you know many honourable men joined with him on that occasion." "i fancy that he was found guilty of high-treason, was he not?" said the earl. "yes," answered the lawyer. "an act of attainder was passed against him, by which he lost both title and property. had it not been for the interest of your father, it would have been lost to the family altogether; but, as he had always proved loyal, he was allowed to inherit the property in the place of his brother, for your grandfather, if you remember, was alive at the time." "yes; but of what consequence is that at the present day?" asked the earl. "i am coming to that, my lord," said mr finlayson. "your uncle, it appeared, married and had a son and your father, who really loved his brother, being at that time a bachelor, petitioned the government, that in case of his death without an heir, his elder brother's guiltless child might succeed to the property, and regain the title of which his father had been deprived." "ah!" said the earl, "i was not aware of that; but had this relative of mine (this cousin i suppose i should call him) a son?" "that for a long time was a matter of doubt," said the lawyer. "it appeared, however, that he, when a young man, inherited many of his father's qualities, and was in all respects fully as wild and unmanageable as he had been, and he very soon, in consequence, brought himself within power of the law." "i hope he never committed any act unworthy of a gentleman or of his name and family," said the earl, with more animation than he had hitherto shown. "at least i trust one of the last scions of our race brought no disgrace on it." "no, my lord," said the lawyer, smiling; "he was only guilty of that gentlemanly act,--treason, having united himself with some of those unhappy people, who hoped to overthrow the authority of the government. he became a united irishman, and took part in the rebellion of that time. he was at length committed to prison, and to my great dismay i found that he had been condemned to death." "did he retain his own name, or had he assumed another?" asked the earl. "he had some time before dropped his family name, and wisely too, considering the position in which he was placed," answered the lawyer. "he had contrived, however, to make friends both within and outside the walls of the prison, and by their means he managed to escape. a price was of course set upon his head, and it was generally supposed that he had left the country. i thought so likewise for some time; but his father, who was then alive, had placed some sums of money in my hands, and empowered me to devote them to his assistance. i suppose he discovered this, for after a short time i received a letter from him, by which he led me to understand that he was still in the country, but in a position where it was not at all likely he would be discovered. he told me, moreover, that he had no intention of leaving ireland; that he had lately married a young country girl, and was very happy in his present position. he praised his wife as a most beautiful creature, and said that in her society he hoped in future to remain quiet, and refrain from any of the acts which had hitherto brought him into trouble. he had taken so many precautions that, notwithstanding all my exertions, i could not find out where he was. still he enabled me to remit the money he required. i should have told you that when your father had made the arrangement which i have been describing, he bound over his nephew and his son not to make any claim to the title, as long as an heir of his own line existed. but should he have no male heir, then the eldest of his descendants was allowed to put in a claim for the title. this document, and other legal proofs of his identity, your cousin had obtained possession of. he told me, i remember, in his letter, that he considered himself strictly bound to adhere to the agreement, and that as for himself, he had no wish ever to claim the title which had belonged to his ancestors; that he had sufficient to satisfy his wants; that he was tired of ambition; and that he was perfectly content to let his country go on in its present condition, without interfering in politics. i replied that his resolution was a wise one, and undertook whenever he desired to have the money forwarded to him, to send it immediately. i of course did my best to try and discover where he was and whom he had married. once or twice i was very near succeeding. i traced him to two or three places, but at length i entirely lost all clue to him. i suspect he was aware i was endeavouring to discover him, and thus, as he had already had much practice in playing the game of hide-and-seek, he was able completely to evade me." "that is a strange story you have told me," said the earl; "i had forgotten many of the circumstances to which you allude. alas! as long as my own boy lived it was a matter of no consequence. i felt very sure that my own patent was secure, and that he would inherit my title and estates; but now it seems that through this curious arrangement of my father, matters have altered; but surely should an heir appear, he could not deprive my daughter of kilfinnan castle, and the estates which belong to it." "in the unlikely event of a claimant establishing his right to the earldom, he would also inherit the kilfinnan estates," answered the lawyer; "but you will remember there are the estates in derry, which were formerly separated from the kilfinnan property, and according to the arrangements made by the late earl, they become the heritage of the females should there be no son to succeed. thus lady nora will at all events retain the derry estates, even though it may turn out that your long-missing cousin has left a son to inherit the title and kilfinnan property." the earl sighed deeply. "it matters very little to myself. my dear nora has no ambition, and as her tastes are simple, she will be perfectly content with the derry estates, where she will, i feel sure, devote herself to the care of the surrounding peasantry, and will avoid those extravagances which would injure her property, as alas! i have done." the lawyer sat for some time longer with his friend, but the earl at length, observing that he felt very faint, desired that his doctor, who was in the house, might be sent for. the man of medicine soon appeared, and feeling the earl's pulse instantly administered restoratives. in a short time the earl rallied, and desired that lady nora and his niece might be sent for. they came and sat with him for nearly an hour, when he begged that they would retire to their rooms, assuring them that he felt much better, and that he hoped the following day he should have more conversation with mr finlayson on the matters of business which he wished to discuss with him. chapter nineteen. evening approached, and nora and her cousin sat in the tower chamber overlooking the ocean. they neither of them felt disposed to go to sleep. the night was calm and lovely, the atmosphere unclouded. the stars shone forth brightly, and the light crescent moon was reflected in the waters below. the reef of rocks on the other side of the bay could be distinguished, and the lofty headlands beyond it stood out in bold relief against the sky, while to their extreme right they could see the whole sweep of the bay and the lofty downs above it. it is not surprising that they should have been unwilling to tear themselves away from such a scene. it calmed their agitated feelings, for nora could not conceal from herself that one of the kindest of fathers was about to be taken from her, while lady sophy, almost friendless as she was, felt that she was about to lose her best protector. she could, it was true, live on with her cousin nora, and watch over her, as she had ever done, like an elder sister over one far younger than herself. already, lady sophy's early beauty had completely departed. there was the same outline of feature, and the same elegant figure, but her countenance wore that sad expression (too often to be seen marking the features of the once young and lovely) of disappointed affection, of blighted hopes. thus they sat on, hour after hour. a dark shadow passed across the moon, and threw a gloom over the hitherto bright landscape. suddenly they were startled by a loud, wild shriek. it seemed to come from far away across the ocean. now it swelled into a high note of wailing; now it sank into a mournful tone of grief. again and again that strange sound struck their ears. "the banshee!" exclaimed nora, placing her hand on sophy's shoulder with alarm. "surely i have always believed that it was a mere superstition of the ignorant peasantry--a phantom of the imagination; but here is a dreadful reality. yes, it surely must be the banshee, and what does it forebode? sophy, you know too well, and so do i. perhaps it is sent in mercy, to warn and prepare us for that dreadful event. but ought we not to have been prepared already? the last words my dear father spoke to me were sufficient to make me feel he was aware of the great change about to take place. let us hasten to him. perhaps even now his spirit is departing, and i would be at his side at that awful moment." "stay, nora," said sophy; "i do not believe in the banshee, or any other being of the sort. i see no figure, and even did i, i should not be convinced that it was a being of another world. i know that many believe such things exist. some think they are sent in kindness; others, that they are rather evil spirits permitted to disturb the parting hours of the dying; but that, at all events, i am sure is not the case. let us watch a short time longer. depend upon it, we are deceived in some way." "oh, no, no!" exclaimed nora, pointing towards the nearest part of the beach which was visible. "see that phantom figure moving across the sands! surely that must be the banshee! what else?" "no, dear nora, calm yourself," answered sophy. "do not you recognise the figure of poor mad kathleen? she must have uttered those cries as she passed under the castle walls. she must have come to ask after the earl, and, as bad news flies fast, she has probably been told he is sinking rapidly. so, as she has received many a kindness from the family, she is giving vent to her grief in those wild, unearthly screams and cries." "you are right, sophy," answered nora, "but, for the moment, i could not help believing in the existence of the wild phantom we have read of and heard so often about in our younger days from the surrounding cottagers. yes, i see it is poor kathleen. i trust my poor father has not heard it, for, in his weak state, it might have a bad effect upon his nerves. yet he certainly does not believe in the existence of the banshee." the poor girls had not long to watch before they were again summoned, and this time it was to stand by the dying bed of the earl. holding the hand of his daughter, which he gently pressed, he breathed his last, with scarcely a sigh, and evidently without any pain or suffering. mr jamieson, who had been summoned, stood by him. "he rests in peace," he said; "he trusted in one all-powerful to save, though he made but little profession of his faith." poor nora was led from the death-bed of her father to her own room, but it was long before she could find vent for her grief in tears. her cousin sophy had long ceased to weep. those who have suffered great unhappiness, whose fondest affections have been blighted, as hers had been, often find it impossible again to gain relief by weeping. such was her case. she mourned the loss of the earl, as much as did her cousin, but it was in a different way. not a tear dropped from her eye. she found no vent for all she felt. nora, on the contrary, exhibited her grief far more violently, and thus, perhaps, the sooner regained tranquillity. mr finlayson, as he had promised the earl, acted the part of a kind father to her. he treated her as a petted child, spoke words of comfort to her on all occasions, and tried by every means to raise her spirits. often he succeeded in doing so, and she could not help expressing a wish that he could remain at the castle, instead of returning to dublin. "well, well," he answered, "i will do my best to please you, my dear young lady. i have a son and grandson well able to attend to my business, and as long as i am not required at home, you shall have the benefit of my company." in those days the burial of even a peasant was attended with much parade, and any family would have been thought mean unless the body of their deceased relative was properly waked. although the corpse of a protestant earl had not to go through this ceremony, yet it would have been looked upon as a great disgrace to the family had not all the neighbours been invited from far and near to attend the funeral, and be sumptuously feasted. had nora been consulted she would gladly have avoided anything of the sort. mr finlayson declared, however, that it was not the day to break through their old customs, and, for the credit of the family, they must issue the usual invitations. nora and sophy, however, begged that they might be allowed to keep their rooms, although nora had been anxious to attend her father to the grave. this it was arranged she should do in a private carriage. when the day arrived, however, from far and near came squires and squireens, and farmers and peasants, in all sorts of conveyances, the larger number being on horseback, while several friends of the deceased nobleman arrived from a distance to pay their last respects to his remains. it was a sad sight, even to nora; but she resolved to go through with what she thought was required of her, and then she hoped to be allowed to remain at rest for many a long day. the parish church, in which the tomb of the family was situated, was about three miles off; and after the guests had been regaled at breakfast with wines of all sorts for the upper classes, and whisky, which flowed in profusion, for the lower, they mounted their horses, and entered their conveyances, to follow the hearse decorated with the usual trappings of mourning. behind the hearse, in a mourning carriage, sat nora and her cousin, closely veiled. poor girls, how differently they felt to the mixed multitude who followed them. their guests gave way to their usual habit of talking and laughing as they rode along. the events of the day were discussed. the good qualities of the late earl; the prospects of his obtaining a son-in-law who might take his place and do the honours of the castle; the beauty of his fair daughter; and especially, the state of his finances. few would have supposed that the lively and animated collection of men, who rode along in every variety of costume, were assembled there to pay the last honours to a deceased noble. they were silent, however, as they assembled round the grave. some perhaps for the first time had then heard the burial service of the protestant church, as a large proportion of the guests were themselves romanists; some perhaps were struck with what they heard; others probably attended to little that was said. nora and her cousin stood close to the grave, closely veiled as before; and as nora gazed for the last time upon the coffin of her beloved father, her heart sank within her, and she felt a longing to follow him to his quiet resting-place. again they made for the castle, and all restraint now being removed, laughing and joking was the order of the day. some even, as the wine flowed faster, gave way to snatches of songs, while the last meets were fully discussed, and the prospects of the next year's harvest. it is scarcely necessary to describe the events which took place at the castle. a considerable number of the guests had no little difficulty in mounting their horses on their return home, from the generous liquor which they had imbibed out of the late earl's cellars. their great grief seemed to be, that there was no heir to succeed him, and to assist in keeping up the neighbouring hunt. at length the castle was once more at rest. mr finlayson set earnestly to work to arrange the affairs of the young heiress. the steward, and those who were employed by him, had generally acted honestly; but as he made inquiries about the tenants, many were in arrear with rent, and he saw that some effort must be made to compel them to pay. he called the steward in for a consultation. "you give very good advice, mr finlayson; but i will just ask you, as a scotchman said, `who is to bell the cat?' you know, surely, that to attempt to distrain for rent on some of these gentlemen would assuredly bring a bullet through your brain or mine. it is not an easy matter to get money out of an irishman when he is determined not to pay, and it is not for you or me, if we are wise men, to push the matter too hard. i will do my best and go among them, and put it to them, whether they would like to deprive the young heiress of her property. perhaps, though they will not yield to force, they may to persuasion, and i am thankful to say, we still retain in old ireland, the gift of blarney. you see, sir, we shall get much more out of them in that way. i will just ask them if they would like to attack a young lady and rifle her pockets. put it thus to them, and show them that if they keep back the money they are doing the same thing. now, we shall see, if i go on this plan, whether those who can pay will pay, while those who cannot pay, it is very evident, will not do so; but to my mind, there is no use turning a man adrift in the world if you can help it. a better day may come, and then he may prove a good tenant. if you turn him out of one property he will just build a hut in another corner of the land, and you will have him there starving before your eyes, and you will not be the better for the move." "well, well, o'connor, you are a wise man, i see. i will let you have your way in that respect. we will do nothing to create an ill-feeling against the dear young mistress, and it is for you and i who are engaged to serve her to look after her interests. i wish she had a good husband to help her; but it is my belief, from what i see here, that there is not a young man in the country at all fit for her. she is a good, gentle creature, and were she to wed one of the rollicking, harum-scarum young fellows who are her equals, he would break her heart; and staying at home as she does, she is not likely to meet any others, while even abroad she saw no one to care for, or, at least, no one appeared, so perhaps she will continue to live a maiden life, and if so, she will require your assistance and mine as long as i remain in the world." nora and sophy were relieved from much anxiety by the continued residence of the kind mr finlayson at the castle. he was so lively, so full of conversation and anecdotes, so kind and judicious at the same time. he raised their spirits more than any one else could have done. a young man would have been out of place. even kind, gentle miss o'reilly, when she came over, though she talked very pleasantly, could do little to animate them. mr jamieson performed his part as well as he could, but he was not very animated; he was more inclined to speak in a serious than lively strain. chapter twenty. happily human beings are so constituted, that grief with few, especially with the young, lasts long. after a time, lady nora and her cousin recovered their usual spirits, and began to ride about the country as before. their chief pleasure was to visit those they had long known, and to extend their search of others who might require relief. the surest means for those who are themselves in distress of obtaining comfort is to do good to their fellow-creatures. several times they paid a visit to the old fishwife, widow o'neil. she seemed to have grown more hardy and wiry than ever. it was wonderful what exertions she could go through. she often had the assistance of her brother shane, who was, however, advancing in life, and not so active as before, while she appeared to have retained all her strength and activity. they remarked, whenever they paid her a visit, the delight she took in speaking of her long-lost son. she never failed to tell them that she had seen him in her dreams. she knew, she declared, that he was thinking of her, and though she could not say why he was detained, he was, she felt certain, endeavouring to come back to her. sometimes she thought he was a slave in some foreign land; sometimes that he had been cast away on some desert island, and had to live there, unable to make his escape, and sometimes that he was in prison. she said she knew he was in far distant lands, as that alone would have kept him from her. they could not help being struck by the deep, the intense love and confidence in him which the old woman always expressed for her son, though they naturally had considerable doubts whether, if he really was alive, he could feel the same for her. "he was a handsome youth," observed lady sophy to her cousin, "but there was a wild, daring look in his eye, and he was a lad who, when once away, and having obtained a better position in life than that which he enjoyed in his early days, would very likely cast off all thoughts of his poor mother, and would have no wish to return to her humble cottage." "oh, no, no," said lady nora, "i could not think that of him; of course i do not recollect him clearly, except from the sketch you made of him, but yet i am sure from the expression of his countenance that he must have been as true and honest as he was handsome. no, i would rather suppose that he has long since been killed. just consider how many thousands of seamen have lost their lives within the last few years in the numberless battles in which our country has been engaged, and how likely it is that he was among them, and that is why no one has received any tidings of him." such was the conversation which took place as they climbed up the hill to return to their horses. they had promised widow o'neil to visit her again in a day or two. she had undertaken to supply them with shells which her brother shane had collected, and which they wished to send to a friend at a distance. when, however, the day arrived on which they were to pay their visit, the morning broke with a storm of rain and wind. the dark clouds chased each other over the sky, and the wind whistled round the towers of the castle. "it will be impossible for us to ride to widow o'neil's to-day," observed sophy when they met at breakfast. "i do not think mr finlayson will promise to accompany us; he would not like to face the bad weather." "perhaps the rain will clear off, and then he will not mind the wind any more than we shall," observed sophy. mr finlayson, who then entered the room, declared that should the weather clear, he was ready to mount the little cob which had been appropriated for his use, which was so steady, that occasionally the earl had gone out shooting on its back, and so sure-footed, it had never been known to stumble. "but, my dear lady nora, you must be more careful than you were once on a time, on a skittish young horse which nearly proved your death," observed the old lawyer. "a day like this tries an animal; and unless your steed is as steady as a rock i cannot sanction your going out." "oh, i will take care to ride one of the best behaved of our stud," answered nora, "and sophy shall have the next, as she is somewhat the better horsewoman. i am anxious to send off those beautiful shells to miss fitz-patrick, as she particularly begged to have them, and we may not have another opportunity of doing so for some time." it was thus arranged that the horses should be ordered in the forenoon, should the weather clear sufficiently, and that they would pay their visit to widow o'neil. in a short time the rain ceased falling, although the wind continued blowing as hard as ever; indeed, it was a complete summer gale. the clouds rushed rapidly along the sky, and the seas rolled in with all their force from across the wide atlantic. it wanted an hour or more to the time they had agreed to set out, and the two ladies retired to their turret boudoir. scarcely had they entered the room, when lady nora exclaimed that she saw a vessel in the north-west, at no great distance from the land. the glass was turned in the direction towards which she pointed. "she is a large ship," she observed, "but she seems to me to have lost most of her masts, there is but one standing; yes, i am sure of that, all the the rest are gone. with this fierce gale blowing on the shore, what a dangerous position she is in! i cannot make out what ship she is. do you look, sophy; what do you say to it?" sophy looked through the glass. "i cannot make out to a certainty, but from her appearance, i should judge her to be a man-of-war. yes, i am nearly sure of it; i should say that she is a frigate, for when i keep the telescope steady, i can almost count her ports." nora looked through the glass. "yes, you are right," she said; "she seems to be standing to the south, but she is evidently drifting fast towards the land. i see, though, she has got some after-sail set on the stump of the mizenmast, and i think i understand it; she wishes to weather the reef, and of course after that take shelter in the bay. yes, yes, that is clearly her object; she is struggling bravely with the seas, but oh, in what fearful peril she is placed." the ladies immediately ordered their horses round, proposing to watch the progress of the ship from the cliffs. "i daresay that mr finlayson will not object to come with us at once," said lady sophy, and she left the room in search of him. "willingly, my dear young lady," he answered; "you will find that i am no despicable cavalier when once i am in the saddle." the party were soon mounted and cantering across the downs in the direction of the struggling ship. mr finlayson was much less acquainted with nautical affairs than were his fair companions, still he knew enough to be aware that the ship was in great danger. the wind prevented them from making rapid progress along the downs, although they urged on their steeds as fast as they could go, anxious to meet some one who could give them further information about the ship. they determined to go on till they reached the widow's hut, as they knew that, should her brother be there, as he had promised to be, they would learn more from him than from anybody else as to the probability of the ship escaping destruction on the dangerous reef towards which she appeared to be drawing. still they hoped against hope, that she might struggle on and escape. as they approached the end of the cliff above widow o'neil's cottage, they recognised her standing on a high projecting point of land, gazing towards the ship. her actions gave them the idea that she, like poor kathleen, had lost her senses. wildly she waved her arm, sometimes clasping her hands, raising them towards heaven; then, again, she stretched them over the ocean. as the ladies and mr finlayson rode up to her, words of prayer were escaping from her lips. "what is the matter, mistress o'neil?" asked sophy, riding up to her. "why are you thus agitated this morning?" "it is on account of a dream i had last night," she answered. "that is no wonder, though, for every night as i lie on my bed i dream that my boy is coming back to me, though when i am about to clasp him to my heart he escapes away again; but last night i dreamed that he really had come back, and there he was lying in my arms, just as he was when an infant and smiling in my face. he must come back soon, too, for i am getting old, very old, and oh, he will scarcely know me now! there is not much time to lose; but he will come; yes, my lady, i know that he will come. he will not be as young, and beautiful, and strong, and happy as he was when he went away, so many, many years ago,--i know not how many; i have lost all count of them. oh, they have been years of grief and mourning to me--sad, sad years; but such have been the years of my life since one i loved was taken from me. ah, if you had known him, ladies, you would have said i had reason to love him: and now, my boy, my only boy, to have been thus long kept from me! but he is coming back, ladies. i tell you, i dreamed last night that he was coming back; and suppose he was to be on board yonder ship! ah, but i feel sure that he cannot be, for she will strike on yonder dark reef, and soon be a shattered wreck, to which no human being could cling and live. see how fiercely the seas roll in, and dash furiously over it! see, see how the brave frigate is drifting faster and faster towards the land! when i first saw her this morning she was a good two leagues away, and now there is not a quarter of a league between her and that rocky point. if once she strikes upon it, few of her sturdy crew will ever come ashore alive. few, do i say? none, none can live amid those breakers. oh, heaven protect them!" in spite of the strong gale which blew round them, neither the ladies nor mr finlayson could tear themselves from the spot where they stood, it being the best situation they could reach for watching the progress of the labouring frigate. chapter twenty one. we must for a time follow the fortunes of charles denham. those were days of rapid promotion, when an officer's name stood well at the admiralty. the young commander had not long served his time on board the corvette before he received his post rank. scarcely twelve years had passed since he first stepped on board a man-of-war as a young seaman before the mast, when he found himself in command of a fine frigate of thirty-six guns--the _isabel_. ned davis, who had followed him into every ship in which he served, now, by his advice, having applied for a warrant, was appointed boatswain to the _isabel_. although denham had attained what might be considered the height of his ambition, he hoped, while in command of the frigate, to make a still higher name for himself. opportunities of doing so were not likely to be wanting. england had enemies in all directions, and there was every probability that a fine dashing frigate like the _isabel_ would soon meet with a foe well worthy of her. she was, however, much to the disappointment of her commander and crew, sent to the mediterranean, which, by that time, had been pretty well cleared of all england's enemies. there was work, however, to be done, and whatever denham was ordered to do he performed it well. having, at length, come home with despatches, he was sent to the west indies, where he had already seen a good deal of service. during this time he had few opportunities of hearing from the earl of kilfinnan, to whom, however, he occasionally wrote, and got a kind answer in return. again, after nearly four years' service, he was on his way home. when about three parts across the atlantic, the weather for some time before having been very bad, a ship was reported right ahead. as the frigate approached her, she was seen to have her ensign downwards, as a signal of distress. she appeared to be a large merchantman. her topmasts were gone, and she had, in other ways, evidently suffered from the heavy weather. as soon as the frigate drew near enough, she was hove to, and a boat being lowered, she was sent on board the stranger. as the officer in command of the boat stepped on board the ship, he was struck by the fearful appearance it presented. a few of the crew, pale and emaciated, were dragging themselves about the deck, scarcely able to stand upright, while on mattresses placed close to the bulwarks were numerous human beings, some apparently dead, others dying, moaning fearfully and in plaintive voices, petitioning for water. it was a long time before the lieutenant could get any one to explain what had happened. the captain, it appeared, had died, and so had most of the officers and the passengers. their bodies had been thrown overboard. great was his horror when he at length ascertained that they were suffering from the yellow fever. the weather was very hot, and it was but too likely even that this short visit to the pest-infested ship might cause him to convey it to the crew of the frigate. what, however, was to be done? he could not leave the unfortunate people on board the merchantman to perish by themselves, without help; while, should he remain, he and those with him might catch the same complaint. he found on inquiry that several persons were down below who had hitherto escaped the pestilence. at length, uncertain how to act, he returned on board the _isabel_, to receive instructions from his captain. the surgeon of the frigate was of opinion that the only safe plan was thoroughly to fumigate the vessel, and put a prize crew on board, to navigate her to an english port, as it would be unsafe to take any of the people out of her. this plan was followed, and an officer with twelve men went on board to carry the ship to bristol. it was hoped that from the short time the lieutenant and his men were on board no infection could have been conveyed from her to the frigate. before two days, however, had passed these hopes were found to be fallacious. two of the men who had been on board the merchantman were seized with the fearful complaint, and the following day were corpses. several others in the course of a few hours were seized in the same manner. their illnesses in each case terminated fatally. as is often the case, a panic seized the whole crew, and men who would have faced an enemy boldly, trembled at the thoughts of the attacks of this unseen foe. the captain and officers had tried to encourage them and revive their spirits; but all seemed in vain. not a day passed without several of the men being committed to the deep, and no one knew who would be the next victim. the surgeon declared his belief that the seeds of the disease must have been contracted in the west indies, as it was impossible it could have been communicated by the people of the merchantman. "let the cause be what it may, the best hope we have of getting free of the fever is to meet an enemy of equal size to ourselves; and, then, while we are fighting him, i have no doubt that `yellow jack' will take to flight," observed the captain. at length a breeze sprang up, and although the disease had not altogether ceased, it had considerably decreased. a sharp look-out was kept at all hours for any sail which might appear on the horizon. at length one was observed in the south-west, and all sail was made in chase. for some time probably the _isabel_ was not seen by the vessel she was chasing. the latter, however, was at length seen to make sail, and to stand away to the west. the _isabel_ was a fast vessel, and every effort was now made to increase her speed. the sails were wetted, every stitch of canvas she could carry was set, and every other device adopted to urge her through the water. in those days the engagements which had taken place between english and french ships had terminated in most instances so disastrously to the latter, that napoleon, it was said, had ordered all his cruisers to avoid fighting if they possibly could. this might have accounted for the flight of the stranger; for as the _isabel_ drew nearer, she was discovered to be either a heavy frigate or a line-of-battle ship. on a still nearer approach the french ensign flew out from her peak, and it was ascertained, without doubt, that she was a large frigate, a worthy antagonist for the _isabel_. superior as the enemy might be in guns and in number of men, captain denham resolved to attack her. the engagement he knew would be a severe one; but he trusted for victory to the tried gallantry of his officers and crew, and the resolution with which they would work the guns. he had the weather-gauge, and he hoped by skilful manoeuvring to retain it. the enemy finding she could not escape, now hauled up her courses, and made every preparation for battle. the _isabel_, when she drew near enough, at once opened fire to cripple her antagonist, and to retain the position she now enjoyed. this first broadside considerably cut up the frenchman's rigging; but the fire the _isabel_ received in return did her still greater damage, badly wounding the fore-topmast. davis went aloft to examine it, and reported on his return that he feared it would not stand much longer. both the frigates now standing on a wind, continued to exchange broadsides; the english firing at the hull of their antagonist, while the frenchman seemed to aim more particularly at cutting up the masts and rigging of the english ship. "she seems to be full of men, and i suspect her object is to get alongside, and to take us by boarding," observed the captain to his first lieutenant. "we will show them what british steel can do if they make the attempt, sir," was the answer. the frenchman attempted to luff across the english ship's bow, in the hopes of raking her, but denham was too much on the watch to allow her to execute this manoeuvre successfully. a considerable number of the _isabel's_ men had been killed. still, her crew fought on with undaunted courage. at length, her fore-topmast, which had before been severely injured by a chain shot, came down with a crash upon the deck. the frenchmen shouted when they saw this, and another shout escaped them when they saw the main-topmast follow the fate of the other mast. "if they attempt to run us on board we will try to secure them, as we did in the _cynthia_," observed the captain. "if we let a few of the frenchmen come on board, we can quickly dispose of them, and then return the compliment." "ay, ay, sir," answered the lieutenant; "i will give the order to the men to prepare for boarding. they are ready enough for it." scarcely had he spoken, when the french frigate, luffing up, ran her bows against the quarter of the _isabel_. she was immediately secured there by davis and others; and now the frenchmen came rushing over the bows, expecting to make her an easy prize. "boarders, repel boarders," shouted the first lieutenant. "i will lead you, my men," cried the captain, springing to the side. a few frenchmen who had gained the deck of the _isabel_ were immediately cut down; and now the english in turn swarmed over the enemy's bows. in spite of all opposition, they worked their way aft. no power seemed capable of resisting them. although the frenchmen for some time stood their ground, they were driven back. step by step the british blue-jackets fought their way, and numbers sank before the sturdy blows of their cutlasses. many of the frenchmen were armed with pistols, by which several of the english were wounded. during this time davis had ever kept close by the side of his commander. captain denham was leading on his men, when suddenly his cutlass dropped from his hand, and he would have fallen had not davis supported him. at the same moment, a tall frenchman, with uplifted cutlass, was in the act of bringing it down upon his head, when davis, bringing his own weapon to the guard, saved his captain, and with a return cut sent the frenchman reeling backwards. "on, my lads, on," shouted the captain, again rising to his feet. "though i cannot use my sword, you can keep yours going instead." the energy with which he spoke was infused into his followers, and pushing onward they drove the frenchmen before them. the frenchmen, encouraged by their officers, attempted to rally; but no sooner had they done so, than, led by their gallant captain, the english made another dash forward, and again drove them back. meantime, the weather had been changing, and the moderate breeze which had hitherto been blowing, was followed by a heavy gale. although the _isabel_ was well-nigh dismantled, she was still more than a match for her opponent. in a short time, numbers of the frenchmen having fallen, an officer was seen to run aft and haul down the french flag. the prize was won. she mounted four more guns than did the _isabel_, with a far more numerous crew. the prospect of bad weather made it necessary at once to send a prize crew on board the captured frigate, and to remove the greater part of her own people, so that a few frenchmen only were left on board. great was the delight of the crew at finding, from the report of the surgeon, that their captain's wound was not likely to prove serious, though his arm might be disabled for some time. the second lieutenant was ordered on board to carry the prize into plymouth, she having suffered but little damage in her rigging, while her captor was in a far worse condition. some time was occupied in clearing away the wreck of the topmasts, and once more getting the ship into order. the gale, however, fearfully increased, and the frigate in an almost helpless condition, having lost sight of her prize, was driven towards the coast of ireland. happily, the yellow fever had completely disappeared; but captain denham had another cause of anxiety, lest his ship might be driven on that rocky shore on which so many a fine vessel has been lost. he anxiously looked out, therefore, for signs of the gale breaking, and that he might be able once more to make sail and beat off shore. his hopes, however, seemed likely to prove vain. the morning dawned, and far away to the east as the eye could stretch, appeared the high land of the irish coast. he had hoped to have hauled up sufficiently to have weathered cape clear. the gale continued till the frigate was close in with the coast. shipwreck now seemed inevitable, for no other sail could be set to enable her to beat off shore. there was a bay to the south, but that would now afford no shelter, and no other harbour was open to her. it seemed impossible that she could be saved. one only resource remained, to anchor and cut away the masts. orders were, therefore, given to prepare for this last alternative. the cables were ranged along the deck, and spare anchors got up from below. the dark seas came rolling in with unabated force from the west, while they broke with terrific force on the rocky shore under her lee. the spray dashed over her bows, flying fore and aft as she forced her way gallantly through the seas. the gale still continued with unabated force. masses of clouds came rushing by overhead, rapidly succeeding each other, while under her lee-bow appeared a long reef of rocks, the dangers of which were well-known to many on board. still, hopes were entertained that she might be able to weather it. the eyes of the master and other officers, indeed of most on board, were turned now seaward, now to the rocky shore, and now to the reef on the lee beam. there seemed to all but little prospect, unless by a sudden change of wind, of being able to weather the latter. "she would not stay if we were to attempt to go about," observed the first lieutenant, "and there is no room to wear, or it might be better if we were upon the other tack, so as to escape yonder threatening reef." "we may possibly weather the reef," observed the master; "but if we were to attempt either to stay or to wear, we should inevitably be driven upon the rocks." several of the best hands were at the helm, watching for the directions of the master. sometimes, after a slight shift in the wind, hopes were entertained that the reef might be escaped; but then, again, it was found she was making so much leeway that even this slight hope was abandoned. onward she rushed to her inevitable destruction, it seemed. meantime, the wounded commander had been lying in his cot. several times he had desired to be carried on deck, but the surgeon, who sat by his side, entreated him to stop where he was, fearing the excitement would be too great, and that his wounds, which had hitherto been going on favourably, might take a turn for the worse. "then send the master to me," he said, "that i may learn the exact position of the ship." the master made his appearance. "i wish she was in a better position than she is, sir," he observed; "but we are doing all that men can do to claw off shore, and if we had had our topmasts, there would have been no difficulty about the matter. she makes fearful leeway, and there is an ugly reef ahead, which i do not altogether like; but i have been in as bad a case before and escaped, and i pray heaven we may get clear this time." "doctor, you must let me go on deck, that i may see the worst. it is torture to lie here below," exclaimed the wounded captain. "but the master says, sir, that we have a prospect of hauling off shore, and i again repeat that you would only incur great danger by exposing yourself to the cold wind and spray that you would have to encounter. no, no, sir; stay where you are, and let us hope for the best." many more anxious minutes passed. the master returned to his duty on deck, and the captain, having full confidence in his judgment, would not again send for him. "come, doctor, there are many poor fellows want your aid besides me; go and look after them, i entreat you," he said at length. "they will give me notice in time enough when all hope is gone, or, i trust, i may soon hear that the ship has weathered the reef, and has brought up in the bay." scarcely had he spoken when a loud roar of breakers reached even to where he lay. a cry arose on deck, and the next instant there came a fearful crash. the frigate had struck on the reef. the captain was endeavouring to rise from his cot, when davis rushed into the cabin. "it is a bad case, captain!" he exclaimed; "but while i have life, you know i will stay by you. we are not far from the shore, and maybe, if the ship goes to pieces, some plank or timber may carry us there in safety." denham allowed himself to be carried on deck, where davis secured him to the only portion of the wreck over which the sea did not break. the captain gazed around. the ship had struck upon the much-dreaded reef. huge seas came rolling in, and, dashing against her with terrific force, had already begun to tear away her upper works, and it was evident she could not long remain in that position without going speedily to pieces. many of the crew had already been washed away; others were clinging to different parts of the wreck. some, including the officers, were endeavouring, not far from the captain, to form a raft, on which they hoped to reach the shore. it appeared, however, very doubtful whether they would succeed. "let us chance it, sir," said davis; "i will haul a grating here, and put you on it. maybe, we shall be safely washed on shore." "no, no, davis," answered the captain faintly; "you remember how the brave dutchman behaved when his ship was sinking. as long as two planks hold together i will stay by the frigate, or till every one has left her. you go, my friend; you are strong and unhurt, and, god protecting you, you may still save your own life." "what? leave you, sir? leave you, captain denham?" exclaimed davis. "i have not sailed with you for so many years to act thus at last. we swim or sink together. i have never feared death, and he is not now going to make me do a cowardly act." "well, well, davis, i fear there is no use urging you. perhaps, too, we run as little risk here as we should struggling in those boiling seas," said the captain. "right, sir; the frigate is new and strong, and maybe, she will hold together until the gale somewhat abates," answered the boatswain. "i wish those poor fellows would stay on board with us; it might be the better for them." "i would not order them to stay, davis," answered the captain. "these seas, if they continue long, must break up the stoutest ship, and it is a fearful thing to have to struggle among floating timbers, washed about round such rocks as these." while they were speaking, many of the crew, clinging to spars and planks, were seen drifting towards the shore. few, however, appeared to reach it. some, exhausted by their exertions, let go their hold and sank. others were cast upon the reef, mangled fearfully by the timbers which were thrown upon them. the rest, meantime, continued to work at the raft. the surviving officers then came to the captain, and urged him to allow them to place him upon it, but he remained firm to his resolution. "no, no," he answered; "do you leave the ship as you think best; but she was placed under my command, and nothing shall induce me to desert her as long as she holds together." chapter twenty two. mr finlayson and the two young ladies stood watching the progress of the labouring frigate. "heaven have mercy on them," exclaimed the widow o'neil, extending her clasped hands towards the ship. "see, see, she draws towards the reef! no hope! no hope! she has struck! she has struck!" the fishwife spoke but too truly. fearful seas came rolling in, and, meeting with an opposition not hitherto encountered, dashed in huge masses directly over her. in another instant, the foremast, hitherto standing, tottered and fell. stout as were her timbers, unable to resist such fierce assaults, they were in a brief space burst asunder, and scattered around in the troubled sea. a cry of horror escaped the young ladies as they witnessed the fearful catastrophe. "oh, how many brave men are at this moment carried into a watery grave!" exclaimed lady sophy. nora was silent. a fearful apprehension seized her. "the last time we heard from captain denham, he told us that he was appointed to a frigate!" she exclaimed suddenly. "oh, suppose that is the ship he commands?" "can no one go to the help of those poor men?" asked mr finlayson. "surely there are boats on the coast which might go off to them!" the fishwife turned as he spoke. "there are boats, sir, but it would be hard to find the men who would venture off in such a sea as that; but if, as i believe, the wind is falling, there is yet some hope; if it goes down as rapidly as it sometimes does in summer, frail as are our boats, we may be able to reach the frigate." the ship was too far off for those on shore to witness the dying struggles of those who were washed into the sea, but yet they could not tear themselves from the spot. gradually the gale abated, seemingly contented with the mischief it had caused. still, however, the seas rolled in with fearful force. suddenly, a thought seemed to seize widow o'neil. "i must go, i must go!" she exclaimed. "if no men are to be found, i, at least, will go off!" "why, you would not venture out in such a sea as that?" cried mr finlayson, calling after her as she began to descend the cliffs. "that i will, sir, and go alone if no men will accompany me." from the position of the coast in which the cottage was situated, it was easy to launch a boat, although the sea was agitated outside. on reaching her hut, the widow found her brother shane standing outside it. "shane," she exclaimed, "you promised to stand by me on all occasions, now prove your words. i am resolved to go out to yonder vessel; there may be some alive on board. my heart tells me there are, and we must save them. o stir up some of the other men, and bid them follow us, if they are worthy of the name of men." "i would go with you, sister," answered shane, "if i could get others to go, but they will not raise a finger to save any on board a king's ship." "but sure, they are our fellow-creatures, brother shane," exclaimed the fishwife. "shame on the cowards if they dare not come, and shame on you, brother, if you will not help me. listen now; i dreamed last night that he who has been so long away is coming back. it is not the first time i have dreamed it either, and you may say if you will, that this is only another fancy, but my days are numbered, and i know that before i die he will come back; he promised, and dermot was not the boy to break his word. come, shane, come. look, the sea has gone down, and you and i with your boy patrick, though he may have less sense than other lads, will go off to the ship." the widow's exhortations made shane promise to accompany her. her boat was ill-fitted for the task, yet for some distance they could pull out under shelter of a point which projected north of the cove. as the wind had hauled round somewhat more to the north also, it might be possible to set a sail, and with less difficulty reach the frigate. patrick was summoned, and with his father and the fishwife, the boat was launched. she was cleared of all superfluous lumber, while shane lashed under her thwarts several empty casks, which would assist in giving her buoyancy. it was a simple attempt at a life-boat, yet with all these precautions, the old fishing craft was but ill-fitted for the undertaking. the fishwife again and again urged her brother to hasten his work, so eager was she to reach the wreck. at length the boat was ready. the boy was placed at the helm, and the fishwife and her brother took the oars. they pulled boldly out of the cove, and then along the shore for some distance, where the water was rather smoother than further out. even there, however, the exertion was considerable, and those who looked on from above dreaded every moment to see the frail skiff overturned by the rough seas. now, however, the head of the boat was turned seaward. shane and his sister increased their exertions. often the waters broke on board, when patrick, steering with one hand, bailed it out with the other; still they continued their course. at length they succeeded in gaining a considerable distance from the shore, when the seas, as is sometimes the case, came with less force, and gradually sank in height. there was only one point where they could approach the wreck. just within sight was a small bay, or opening in the reef; the seas on every other side were dashing over the frigate, and would have immediately overwhelmed the frail boat. bravely they rowed on, and they might have put to shame many of the sturdy men who had collected on the shore. several times those who watched the progress of the boat from the cliff fancied she was overwhelmed. now she sank into the trough of the sea, and the huge wave seemed about to dash over her. again rising to the summit of a foam-crested wave, she was tossed for a few seconds ere she plunged into the watery vale below. more than once shane proposed setting a sail, but the widow declared that her arms were still strong enough to pull the boat, and that it would considerably prolong the time before they could reach the wreck, as it would thus be impossible to make a straight course. she seemed, indeed, endued with super-human strength, for even her brother's arms began to fail him. again and again she urged him to renewed exertions, with a voice tremulous with eagerness. "we shall reach the ship before long--we shall reach the ship," she kept exclaiming; "row, shane, row. oh, brother, if you have ever loved me, do not fail me now." thus they continued rowing on. not an hour before it would have been impossible for the boat to have made any progress; now, however, by the subsidence of the gale, the undertaking, though difficult and dangerous, was possible. as they drew near, even now several struggling forms were seen in the foaming waters, but ere they could reach them, one after another sank beneath the waves. a few, however were clinging to planks and spars, but the widow refused to go near them; it might have proved the destruction of the boat, had the attempt been made. "they are floating, and will in time reach the shore," she said to shane, "or if the sea goes down still more, we may return to pick them up. there are still some alive on board the ship; even just now, i saw an arm waving. row on, row on, we may yet be in time--we may yet be in time." the larger portion of the wreck had before this, however, been broken up, but the after-part and the starboard side of the quarter-deck remained entire. as the boat approached the wreck, broken planks and timbers continued to be washed away, till but a small portion appeared to remain. by persevering efforts, the boat, however, drew nearer and nearer, avoiding, though not without difficulty, the masses of wreck which floated by. as the fishwife and her brother looked up, they saw two human beings still clinging to the remaining fragments of the ship; one was waving his hand as if to urge them to greater speed. no other human beings were to be seen on board. a few had just before apparently committed themselves to a raft, and with this support were now approaching the shore. they had, however, passed at some little distance from the boat. sea after sea rolling in dashed against the wreck, sometimes the spray almost hiding those on board from view. larger and larger portions continued to give way; every sea which rolled in carried off the timbers or more planks from the sides. the boat was within fifty fathoms or so of the rocks, shane looking out anxiously for any part of the wreck by which it might be approached with least danger. it seemed scarcely possible for them to get near enough to aid those on board. "i fear, sister, we shall be too late," exclaimed shane; "even now yonder sea which comes in looks as if it were about to tear the remainder of the wreck to fragments." with a thundering sound the sea he pointed at broke against the wreck. in an instant the remaining masses of timber gave way, and were dashed forward into the boiling sea. "pull on, shane, pull on," cried the widow. "i see two men still struggling in the waves; one is supporting the other, and guarding him from the timbers which float around." "which timbers may stave in the boat, and drown us all," observed shane. "no matter, shane, pull on--pull on; let us not set our lives against those of the brave men who are floating yonder. what matters it after all if we are lost? death can come but once to any of us." it is impossible to give the force of those words, uttered, as they were, in the native tongue of the irish, which she spoke. "pull on, shane, pull on," again she cried. "boy, steer for those men; see, they are still floating above the waves." in spite of the masses of timber, which appeared to be thrown providentially on either side, the boat approached the two men, who still floated above the water. "save him, friends; never mind me," said a voice as they lifted the person he supported, and who, by his uniform appeared to be an officer, into the arms of shane, he himself holding on to the gunnel of the boat. the officer was quickly placed in the stern-sheets, when shane helped his companion on board, and then again grasping his oar, pulled the boat safely round before the sea had time to catch her on the beam and overturn her. the seaman hauled out of the water, the stimulus to exertion having ceased, sank down fainting by the side of his officer. the danger of returning was as great as that which they experienced in approaching the wreck. the spray flew over them, and it seemed that every billowy wave would overwhelm the frail bark. all this time they were watched eagerly by the young ladies and their old friend from the cliff above. on the boat came; now a vast sea threatened her with instant destruction, but the fishwife and her brother, rowing till the stout oars bent with their exertions, urged on their boat and escaped the danger. nearer and nearer she approached the shore; now a huge roller came thundering up close to her stern, and seemed about to turn her over and over, but it broke just before it reached her, and by vigorous strokes, forced ahead, she escaped its power. in another instant lifted on a foaming sea, she glided forward, arriving high up on the sandy beach of the little cove. "there are two people in her," exclaimed nora, who had been eagerly watching them. "we will go down and help them, for they evidently require assistance." "those two poor fellows must be nearly drowned," observed mr finlayson, as he accompanied the ladies to the hut. "i wish we had a medical man here, but for the want of one, i must take his place and prescribe for them. these fishermen are more likely to kill than to revive them by their rough treatment. come, i will push ahead and try to save the men before they press the breath out of their bodies." in spite, however, of the active movements of the lawyer, the young ladies kept up with him, and they arrived in front of the cottage just as shane and his son, aided by the widow, were lifting one of the men they had saved out of the boat. she insisted on taking the seaman first, and not till she had carried him up and placed him on her own bed would she help to carry the other. the lawyer, however, arrived in time to aid shane in carrying up the young officer, for such he appeared to be. as soon as they arrived at the hut, the apparently drowned man was placed by mr jamieson's orders in front of the fire, then, having taken off his coat, he knelt down and gently rubbed his chest. on the arrival of the young ladies, such blankets and clothes as the widow possessed were, by the lawyer's directions, placed to warm before the fire, that the half-drowned men might be wrapped in them. no sooner, however, did lady nora's eyes fall on the officer's countenance, than she uttered an agonised cry, and threw herself by his side. "oh, it is captain denham--it is captain denham!" she exclaimed, "and he is dead--he is dead." pale and trembling she hung over him. "no, my dear young lady," observed the lawyer, "he is still breathing, and i trust that he will soon recover,--i already indeed see signs of returning consciousness." while nora, regardless of all conventionalities, was assisting the lawyer and her cousin in rubbing the captain's hands and feet, the widow was bending over the inanimate form of the seaman. "shane," she exclaimed, "i told you my boy would come back, and here he is; i feel it, i know it. oh, dermot, dermot, speak to me," she exclaimed. "do not die now that you have come as you promised. surely it is not to break your old mother's heart that you have just returned to die in her arms?" hearing these exclamations, the old lawyer turned round, and went to the side of the widow. "you will be wiser, my good woman, if you were to place some hot clothes upon his chest, and chafe his hands and feet, instead of calling out in that way. there is no fear about him; he has over-exerted himself, and his immersion in salt water has for the time deprived him of his senses; but stay, i see you have a kettle boiling on the hearth. it is time now to pour some hot whisky and water down his throat. as i left the castle, i took the precaution of putting a flask into my pocket." saying this, the kind old man mixed a mug of spirits and water, which he at once applied to the sailor's lips. it slipped without difficulty down his throat. the effect was almost instantaneous; he opened his eyes and looked around with astonishment. "dermot, speak to me, my boy, my own boy," exclaimed the widow in irish, as she threw her arms around his neck. "what does she say?" he asked, in a faint voice. "dermot, dermot, speak to me," she again exclaimed, but this time she spoke in english. "that is not my name, good mother," answered the seaman; "you must be mistaken; i am not your son. i never was in these parts before except once, when i came with my captain, though i have often enough been off the coast with him and others." "not my son--not my son," ejaculated the widow, gazing at him, and putting back his hair, and again looking at his countenance. "oh, how have i been deceived, and do you again say that your name is not dermot o'neil?" exclaimed the widow, wringing her hands, "and i thought i had brought my boy safe on shore, and that he was to be folded once more in his mother's arms. oh, dermot o'neil--dermot o'neil, why are you thus keeping so long, long away from the mother who loves you more than her own life?" the young officer, who by this time had been revived by the application of the good lawyer's remedies, now wildly gazed around him. "that voice," he exclaimed, as if to himself; "i believed that she was long ago numbered with the dead, and yet it must be. oh! mother, mother, i am dermot o'neil," he cried out to her, "your long absent son." the widow rushed across the room, and patting aside those who kneeled around him, she threw herself by his side. "you dermot, you my son dermot?" she exclaimed, looking at him. "oh, how could i for a moment have been deceived?" she bent over him, and pressed many a kiss upon his brow. "yes, those eyes, i know them now, and those features, too; i cannot again be deceived. no, no, see here is the sign by which i should have known him, even though he had been given back to me as i dreaded, a lifeless corpse. but my dermot is alive, my dermot has come back to me." as she spoke she drew back the sleeve of his shirt, and there upon his arm she exhibited the blood-red cross with which her son had been born. during this scene, the countenance of lady nora exhibited many changes; now a deadly pallor overspread her face, then again the rich blood rushed back from her heart. still she kneeled by captain denham's side. his strength gradually returned, and supported in the arms of the old fishwife, he sat up. his face was turned away from nora, and his eyes rested on the features of the former. he took her hand between his. "mother," he whispered, "i have been cruelly deceived. the only letter i received from my native land told me that you were dead, and from henceforth i felt the tie which had bound me to it was severed. once i returned to it, and my fondest wish was to visit again the cottage where i was born, made sacred to me because it had been your dwelling. i was prevented from carrying out my intention, and from that day to this i have never had the opportunity of returning, but the life you have saved shall be henceforth devoted to watching over you, i have gained fame in my profession, and i prize it, but it is nothing compared to the joy of being restored to you. oh, mother, i have loved you as a son should his parent who has loved him as you have done me." "dermot, my boy, dear dermot, i never doubted your love. i have always said that you were true and faithful, and now you have proved it; but, my son, i shall not long require your care. my days are numbered; but i knew that you would come back, and i was not deceived. my prayers were heard in spite of all the threats and curses of father o'rourke. now i have pressed you to my heart once more, and when i have seen you strong and hearty, i shall be content to place my head under the green turf and sleep in peace." during this scene lady sophy and the lawyer had retired to the further end of the hut. mr finlayson had, in the meantime, suggested to shane, that he might assist the seaman, who was earnestly inquiring for his captain. "it is all right," he exclaimed, when told that captain denham was doing well. "heaven be praised that he is saved, when so many fine fellows have lost their lives. we were sadly short-handed on board the frigate, or i do not believe this would have happened; but the gale was cruelly against us. are we the only ones who have escaped from the wreck?" "i hope not," answered shane. "i saw a raft drifting towards the bay with several people on her, and many more may have been washed on shore on planks and spars." "then we should be up, and go and help them," exclaimed ned davis, endeavouring to haul on his wet jacket. "are we to let our shipmates perish and lie here idle? it is not what the captain would have thought of; and if he had not been wounded he would have been up now, and looking out to help them." this was the first intimation mr finlayson had that captain denham was wounded. "why, that must be looked to," he observed. "really, i do not think he can be attended to properly in this hut. we must manage to get a litter of some sort to carry him to the castle." this remark was made to lady sophy. she appeared to hesitate. "what will nora say?" she observed. "say! my dear lady! what possible difficulty can there be about the matter," exclaimed the lawyer. he might not have interpreted aright the agitation exhibited by lady nora on discovering the parentage of the rescued officer. chapter twenty three. when, however, mr finlayson's proposition was made to the fishwife, she at first refused to agree to it, declaring that her son would recover as rapidly in the hut as he could in the castle; but on the lawyer's assuring her that she was mistaken, she consented to let him be removed if he wished it. "let me ask him then," said mr finlayson. for after ned davis had vacated the widow's bed, captain denham (for so he must still be called) had been placed on it. in the meantime, knowing that the fresh air would benefit lady nora, her cousin had led her to the front of the hut, and made her rest on a bench which was fixed there. sitting down by her side, she took her hand. "nora," she said, "this is a strange tale we have heard. i can scarcely believe it. what do you think?" "i know not," answered nora faintly. "but can it be possible that he (captain denham i mean) whom we have known so long, who is so refined, so high-born in appearance and manners, can be the son of this wild-looking and ignorant fishwife? and yet, sophy, she claims him as her son, and he does not deny it; and you observed that mark upon his arm; when she saw it, all doubt vanished. oh, sophy, help me, guide me, advise me. what can i do? i did not know till now, when i thought him lost and then had him thus suddenly restored to life, how deeply i loved him. i tell you this, dear cousin, but i would not utter it to any other human being; but what can he be to me for the future? my heart, i feel, will break, sophy." "trials are sent us for our good, nora," said her cousin. "once i might have thought as you do, that unless his birth was high and noble, equal to your own, no man was worthy to become your husband; but, nora," and lady sophy heaved a deep sigh, "i have learned to prize a true and noble heart; and if such is his, i cannot tell you that i believe you would be right in discarding him on account of his birth. this is not worldly advice; but i again repeat that i believe, if he is what we have all hitherto supposed him, there is not sufficient cause to refuse him as your husband." nora threw herself into her cousin's arms. "oh, thank you, thank you, dear sophy," she exclaimed. "you are right. it was a fearful struggle; but i should have died had i been compelled to give him up. i feel how cruel, how wrong i should have been. i know he loves me, and what a bitter feeling it would have caused his noble heart." "then, nora, let me go in and tell him that we beg he will come to the castle. i am sure, that without your invitation he would not consent to be removed there." "oh, yes, do, do," exclaimed lady nora. "it will be dreadful for him to have to remain here; for his poor mother would certainly not know how to take proper care of him." while this conversation was going on, mr finlayson had despatched shane and ned davis, who insisted he was now strong enough for anything, followed by patrick, with all the ropes and spars they could collect, to go along the beach and assist in the rescue of any of the seamen who might still have escaped drowning, and be even now reaching the shore. he himself, meantime, undertook to ascend the cliff, and send the groom back for a litter on which to carry captain denham to the castle. at first, when the proposal was made, he declined leaving his mother's hut, and it was not till her entreaties had been joined to those of lady sophy he consented to place himself in their hands. "you would greatly disappoint my cousin nora if you refuse to comply with her request," whispered lady sophy. it is possible that this remark might have settled the question. "but does she know who i am?" he asked in a low trembling voice. "yes, yes," answered sophy. "do you suppose that to a true-hearted girl as she is that would make any real difference? oh, captain denham, ask your own heart. would you thus be ready to sacrifice any one you loved?" "may heaven reward her," he murmured. his feelings seemingly overcame him, for he could say no more. a considerable time elapsed before the arrival of the litter. meantime shane and davis, with their young companion, hastened along the shore. several other persons having seen the wreck had now collected on the beach. a few, fastening ropes round their waists, bravely rushed into the surf to assist in dragging the floating men on shore. some, however, it was very clear, were more eager to obtain any articles of value that might be washed up than to save human life. many were thus employed when shane and davis appeared. several persons were seen clinging to the masses of wreck, which, after having been tossed about for a considerable time in the bay, were now being washed ashore. the glitter upon the jackets of two of them showed that they were officers, and several persons, as they drifted near, rushed into the water to assist them, so it seemed. they brought them safely up the beach, but no sooner were they there, than, instead of rendering them further assistance, they began to rifle their pockets, and to take their watches and the rings from their fingers. davis caught sight of them as they were thus so eagerly employed, as not to observe his approach. he dashed forward, and with a blow of a broken spar which he had seized, he knocked aside two of the wreckers, and so ably did he wield it, that he put the rest to flight before they could secure their booty. the rescued officers were two midshipmen of the ship, and their first inquiry was for their commander. "he is all safe, sirs," exclaimed davis. "heaven be praised for it, but he was very nearly gone; however, it will not be long, i hope, before he is well again. it has been sad work; not a third, i fear, of our poor fellows have come on shore." "not so many, i am afraid," observed one of the midshipmen; "however, now we are safe ourselves, let us try to help others." several of the better disposed of the people now joined themselves to shane, and prevented the wreckers from continuing their barbarous proceedings. a raft approached near the beach, and though perhaps none on it would have been saved, had they not had assistance, by the aid of the strong body of men who rushed into the water, all were safely landed before it had the opportunity of turning over upon them. many dead bodies were cast ashore, and they were gradually collected and placed side by side. there were officers and men, and several poor boys, and a few of the marines. the survivors were undecided what to do when mr jamieson, who, hearing of the wreck, had come down to the beach, invited them to the vicarage, and the bodies of the drowned were conveyed by his direction to the church. before the shipwrecked men had proceeded far towards the vicarage, a messenger overtook them, from mr finlayson, with a request that they would all come to the castle, to which their captain was now on his way. every preparation was made for their reception. the medical man of the neighbourhood was also sent for, that he might attend to the captain and others who might have been injured. fortunately, the surgeon of the frigate had also escaped, and he was at once able to look to the captain's wound. lady nora felt a strange satisfaction at having all those belonging to the frigate thus collected beneath her roof. she had a trial to undergo; it was when at length the widow o'neil desired to speak to her. "oh, lady nora," exclaimed the old woman, "i have discovered what i little thought of. my bonnie son loves you, lady. it may be presumption on his part, and it makes me feel more and more that i am not worthy to be his mother, but i am, believe me, his true mother. it seems strange that the son of one like me should thus have gained such a name as he has, but there is one thing i would tell you, lady, i know my days are numbered. you will not have the old fishwife as your mother; if i thought so, i would gladly take myself away where you would never see or hear of me more. i would not stand between you and my son for all the world can give. you will not send him from you, lady?" "oh, do not speak thus, mistress o'neil," exclaimed nora, rising from her seat and taking the widow's hands in hers. "i do not deny that i love your son, for long i have done so, though only this day have i discovered how deeply i loved him. my delight and satisfaction will be to save you from any further toil and trouble. you have ever proved a loving mother to him, and it shall be our united happiness to care for you, and to shield you from all the troubles and hardships to which you have been so long exposed. we will have a suitable house prepared for you and your brave brother shane and his son, where you may live in comfort without toiling any more on the treacherous ocean." "you speak like a true and noble girl," exclaimed the widow, "and now there is a secret i have got to tell you. if my son had not been restored to me, it should never have passed my lips, but i have long had in my keeping some papers, preserved in an iron case. it has been hidden under the floor of my hut, for i believe there are those who would deprive me of them if they knew where they are. alas, i could not read them myself, but he who has gone, the father of my boy, bade me carefully keep them. to-morrow, lady, if that good gentleman who is with you, will come with the steward to assist him, i will place the case in his hands. if you had not confessed to me what you have now done, that my son is dear to you, i believe the contents of that box would have caused you much annoyance and pain, but now i feel it will only make you glad." lady nora would thankfully have obtained more information from mistress o'neil, but she either would not or could not give it. "in a few days i trust, in god's mercy, my son will have recovered, and then it may be time enough for you to examine the papers in the case," she answered. it was with difficulty that the old woman could be persuaded to occupy a room in the castle. she consented, however, to do so, when shane promised to return to the hut and take charge of it till the next day. the following morning mr finlayson set forth accompanied by mrs o'neil, for her cottage. shane was watching for them. the widow sent him for a spade, and some minutes were employed in digging, before the promised box was discovered, so deeply down in the earth had she hid it. "ah," she observed, as her brother was working, "it was father o'rourke who had an idea of this case, and i could not tell what use he might make of it, if he ever got hold of it, and he who has gone charged me never to let it pass out of my hands." at length an iron case was brought to light, which mr finlayson attempted eagerly to open. "i have never seen the inside of it," observed the widow, "and i do not know either how to get at it; but don't look at it here, mr finlayson, carry it to the castle, where you may look into it at your leisure." mistress o'neil having a few arrangements to make before leaving her hut, promised to follow mr finlayson to the castle. the lawyer, on his arrival, after examining the case for some time, not unaccustomed to the various devices employed for such purposes, discovered the spring by which it was opened. the whole evening was employed by him in looking over the documents with which it was filled, but he declined for the present to explain their contents to lady nora, assuring her that they were somewhat complicated, and that unless he had examined them thoroughly, he might mislead those whom they chiefly concerned. to no one else, indeed, did he divulge their contents for several days; by that time captain denham was once more able to appear in public. several guests had been invited to the castle, mr jamieson and his niece being among them. they were all assembled in the drawing-room, when the lawyer, as the captain entered the apartment, went up to him, and in a significant manner, took him by the hand. "i have to congratulate you, my dear lord, on obtaining a rank of which you are--" "do you address me?" exclaimed captain denham with surprise. "what, my dear sir, do you mean? you do not intend to mock me!" "i mean that you are the lawful earl of kilfinnan," answered the lawyer in a positive tone, as if his word had been called in question. "although the elder members of your family were deprived of the right to assume the title, as long as another branch existed, i have sufficient evidence to prove that in your generation the attainder has been removed. your father, the husband of the devoted woman whom you have always known as your mother--as she truly is--was, while living in the character of a fisherman, drowned off this coast. he was the grandson of the former earl." captain denham, or rather the new earl of kilfinnan, cast a glance, beaming with happiness and satisfaction, towards lady nora. "yes, indeed our kind friend, mr finlayson, is not mistaken," she said, taking his hand, "and though you know full well, my dear lord, that had it been otherwise, i had promised to become your wife, yet i rejoice to know that you can feel yourself with regard to rank in every respect my equal." it is not necessary to describe the happy marriage which afterwards took place. the widow o'neil enjoyed the comfort and luxuries which had been prepared for her by her affectionate children but for a few months. her nervous system had received a shock it never recovered, in the exertions she made in rescuing her son, but she had the satisfaction of knowing that she had saved his life, and that he was restored to the position his ancestors had enjoyed. he did not neglect his noble friend, ned davis, who continued, as before, his constant attendant, and ultimately, when he gave up the sea and came to live on shore, rose to the rank of his head bailiff. mr jamieson and the kind-hearted lawyer both lived to an old age, and soon after her uncle was removed from her, his blind niece was laid to rest in the churchyard by his side. father o'rourke went plotting and scheming on to the end of his days, and if he did not die in the odour of sanctity, having partaken of all the rites of his church, no qualms of conscience that he had not exactly fulfilled the duties of a missionary of the gospel, seem to have disturbed his last hours. finis. the eagle cliff, by r.m. ballantyne. ________________________________________________________________________ this is a truly delightful book by this prolific author. i know of no other of his books that leaves so many images in the mind, so fresh after many a year. the scene starts with a young man cycling on his penny-farthing towards london. on the way he has an accident, knocking down an elderly lady, but fleeing the scene when he sees a policeman coming. but when he gets home he finds a telegram informing him that his friends will be departing very soon in a yacht, to visit the islands on the north-west of britain, so he joins them. unfortunately there is a fog and the yacht is damaged but all the young men and their crew manage to get ashore, finding themselves in the neighbourhood of a large house, the residence of a gentleman and his family. they are invited to stay there as his guests, and it is at this point that the adventures begin, involving fishing, shooting, bird-watching, sailing and so forth. there is a charming young lady also staying in the house, and deploying her hobby of painting. our hero falls in love with her, but is very much taken aback when she is joined by her mother, who turns out to be none other than the elderly lady he had knocked down back in london. even more disastrous was the fire that destroyed the house. this is a brilliant book, and you will love it. as a footnote you may be surprised that one of the children is called junkie. this certainly does not mean that same as it does today: instead it is a nickname given to a favourite boy-child, and you will find several examples of this in ballantyne's books. ________________________________________________________________________ the eagle cliff, by r.m. ballantyne. chapter one. begins the tale--naturally. from the earliest records of history we learn that man has ever been envious of the birds, and of all other winged creatures. he has longed and striven to fly. he has also signally failed to do so. we say "failed" advisedly, because his various attempts in that direction have usually resulted in disappointment and broken bones. as to balloons, we do not admit that they fly any more than do ships; balloons merely float and glide, when not otherwise engaged in tumbling, collapsing, and bursting. this being so, we draw attention to the fact that the nearest approach we have yet made to the sensation of flying is that achieved by rushing down a long, smooth, steep hill-road on a well-oiled and perfect ball-bearings bicycle! skating cannot compare with this, for that requires exertion; bicycling down hill requires none. hunting cannot, no matter how splendid the mount, for that implies a certain element of bumping, which, however pleasant in itself, is not suggestive of the smooth swift act of flying. we introduce this subject merely because thoughts somewhat similar to those which we have so inadequately expressed were burning in the brain of a handsome and joyful young man one summer morning not long ago, as, with legs over the handles, he flashed--if he did not actually fly--down one of our middlesex hills on his way to london. urgent haste was in every look and motion of that young man's fine eyes and lithe body. he would have bought wings at any price had that been possible; but, none being yet in the market, he made the most of his wheel--a fifty-eight inch one, by the way, for the young man's legs were long, as well as strong. arrived at the bottom of the hill the hilarious youth put his feet to the treadles, and drove the machine vigorously up the opposite slope. it was steep, but he was powerful. he breathed hard, no doubt, but he never flagged until he gained the next summit. a shout burst from his lips as he rolled along the level top, for there, about ten miles off, lay the great city, glittering in the sunshine, and with only an amber-tinted canopy of its usual smoke above it. among the tall elms and in the flowering hedgerows between which he swept, innumerable birds warbled or twittered their astonishment that he could fly with such heedless rapidity through that beautiful country, and make for the dismal town in such magnificent weather. one aspiring lark overhead seemed to repeat, with persistent intensity, its trill of self gratulation that it had not been born a man. even the cattle appeared to regard the youth as a sort of ornithological curiosity, for the sentiment, "well, you are a goose!" was clearly written on their mild faces as he flew past them. over the hill-top he went--twelve miles an hour at the least--until he reached the slope on the other side; then down he rushed again, driving at the first part of the descent like an insane steam-engine, till the pace must have increased to twenty miles, at which point, the whirl of the wheel becoming too rapid, he was obliged once more to rest his legs on the handles, and take to repose, contemplation, and wiping his heated brow--equivalent this, we might say, to the floating descent of the sea-mew. of course the period of rest was of brief duration, for, although the hill was a long slope, with many a glimpse of loveliness between the trees, the time occupied in its flight was short, and, at the bottom a rustic bridge, with an old inn and a thatched hamlet, with an awkwardly sharp turn in the road beyond it, called for wary and intelligent guidance of this lightning express. swiftly but safely to the foot of the hill went john barret (that was the youth's name), at ever-increasing speed, and without check; for no one seemed to be moving about in the quiet hamlet, and the old english inn had apparently fallen asleep. a delicious undulating swoop at the bottom indicates the crossing of the bridge. a flash, and the inn is in rear. the hamlet displays no sign of life, nevertheless barret is cautious. he lays a finger on the brake and touches the bell. he is half-way through the hamlet and all goes well; still no sign of life except--yes, this so-called proof of every rule is always forthcoming, except that there is the sudden appearance of one stately cock. this is followed immediately by its sudden and unstately disappearance. a kitten also emerges from somewhere, glares, arches, fuffs, becomes indescribable, and--is not! two or three children turn up and gape, but do not recover in time to insult, or to increase the dangers of the awkward turn in the road which is now at hand. barret looks thoughtful. must the pace be checked here? the road is open and visible. it is bordered by grass banks and ditches on either side. he rushes close to the left bank and, careering gracefully to the right like an algerine felucca in a white squall, dares the laws of gravitation and centrifugal force to the utmost limitation, and describes a magnificent segment of a great circle. almost before you can wink he is straight again, and pegging along with irresistible pertinacity. just beyond the hamlet a suburban lady is encountered, with clasped hands and beseeching eyes, for a loose hairy bundle, animated by the spirit of a dog, stands in the middle of the road, bidding defiance to the entire universe! the hairy bundle loses its head all at once, likewise its heart: it has not spirit left even to get out of the way. a momentary lean of the bicycle first to the left and then to the right describes what artists call "the line of beauty," in a bight of which the bundle remains behind, crushed in spirit, but unhurt in body. at the bottom of the next hill a small roadside inn greets our cyclist. that which cocks, kittens, dangers, and dogs could not effect, the inn accomplishes. he "slows." in front of the door he describes an airy circlet, dismounting while yet in motion, leans the lightning express against the wall, and enters. what! does that vigorous, handsome, powerful fellow, in the flush of early manhood, drink? ay, truly he does. "glass of bitter, sir?" asks the exuberant landlord. "ginger," says the young man, pointing significantly to a bit of blue ribbon in his button-hole. "come far to-day, sir?" asks the host, as he pours out the liquid. "fifty miles--rather more," says barret, setting down the glass. "fine weather, sir, for bicycling," says the landlord, sweeping in the coppers. "very; good-day." before that cheery "good-day" had ceased to affect the publican's brain barret was again spinning along the road to london. it was the road on which the mail coaches of former days used to whirl, to the merry music of bugle, wheel, and whip, along which so many men and women had plodded in days gone by, in search of fame and fortune and happiness: some, to find these in a greater or less degree, with much of the tinsel rubbed off, others, to find none of them, but instead thereof, wreck and ruin in the mighty human whirlpool; and not a few to discover the fact that happiness does not depend either on fortune or fame, but on spiritual harmony with god in jesus christ. pedestrians there still were on that road, bound for the same goal, and, doubtless, with similar aims; but mail and other coaches had been driven from the scene. barret had the broad road pretty much to himself. quickly he ran into the suburban districts, and here his urgent haste had to be restrained a little. "what if i am too late!" he thought, and almost involuntarily put on a spurt. soon he entered the crowded thoroughfares, and was compelled to curb both steed and spirit. passing through one of the less-frequented streets in the neighbourhood of finchley road, he ventured to give the rein to his willing charger. but here fortune ceased to smile--and fortune was to be commended for her severity. barret, although kind, courteous, manly, sensitive, and reasonably careful, was not just what he ought to have been. although a hero, he was not perfect. he committed the unpardonable sin of turning a street corner sharply! a thin little old lady crossed the road at the same identical moment, slowly. they met! who can describe that meeting? not the writer, for he did not see it; more's the pity! very few people saw it, for it was a quiet corner. the parties concerned cannot be said to have seen, though they felt it. both went down. it was awful, really, to see a feeble old lady struggling with an athlete and a bicycle! two little street boys, and a ragged girl appeared as if by magic. they always do! "oh! i say! ain't he bin and squashed 'er?" such was the remark of one of the boys. "pancakes is plump to 'er," was the observation of the other. the ragged girl said nothing, but looked unspeakable things. burning with shame, trembling with anxiety, covered with dust and considerably bruised, barret sprang up, left his fallen steed, and, raising the little old lady with great tenderness in his arms, sat her on the pavement with her back against the railings, while he poured out abject apologies and earnest inquiries. strange to say the old lady was not hurt in the least--only a good deal shaken and very indignant. stranger still, a policeman suddenly appeared in the distance. at the same time a sweep, a postman, and a servant girl joined the group. young barret, as we have said, was sensitive. to become the object and centre of a crowd in such circumstances was overwhelming. a climax was put to his confusion, when one of the street arabs, observing the policeman, suddenly exclaimed:-- "oh! i say, 'ere's a bobby! what a lark. won't you be 'ad up before the beaks? it'll be a case o' murder." "no, it won't," retorted the other boy; "it'll be a case o' manslaughter an' attempted suicide jined." barret started up, allowing the servant maid to take his place, and saw the approaching constable. visions of detention, publicity, trial, conviction, condemnation, swam before him. "a reg'lar krismas panty-mime for nuffin'!" remarked the ragged girl, breaking silence for the first time. scarcely knowing what he did, barret leaped towards his bicycle, set it up, vaulted into the saddle, as he well knew how, and was safely out of sight in a few seconds. yet not altogether safe. a guilty conscience pursued, overtook, and sat upon him. shame and confusion overwhelmed him. up to that date he had been honourable, upright, straightforward; as far as the world's estimation went, irreproachable. now, in his own estimation, he was mean, false, underhand, sneaking! but he did not give way to despair. he was a true hero, else we would not have had anything to write about him. suddenly he slowed, frowned, compressed his lips, described a complete circle--in spite of a furniture van that came in his way--and deliberately went back to the spot where the accident had occurred; but there was no little lady to be seen. she had been conveyed away, the policeman was gone, the little boys were gone, the ragged girl, sweep, postman, and servant maid--all were gone, "like the baseless fabric of a vision," leaving only new faces and strangers behind to wonder what accident and thin old lady the excited youth was asking about--so evanescent are the incidents that occur; and so busily pre-occupied are the human torrents that rush in the streets of london! the youth turned sadly from the spot and continued his journey at a slower pace. as he went along, the thought that the old lady might have received internal injuries, and would die, pressed heavily upon him: thus, he might actually be a murderer, at the best a man-slaughterer, without knowing it, and would carry in his bosom a dreadful secret, and a terrible uncertainty, to the end of his life! of course he could go to that great focus of police energy--scotland yard--and give himself up; but on second thoughts he did not quite see his way to that. however, he would watch the daily papers closely. that evening, in a frame of mind very different from the mental condition, in which he had set out on his sixty miles' ride in the afternoon, john barret presented himself to his friend and old schoolfellow, bob mabberly. "you're a good fellow, barret; i knew you would come; but you look warm. have you been running?" asked mabberly, opening the door of his lodging to his friend. "come in: i have news for you. giles jackman has agreed to go. isn't that a comfort? for, besides his rare and valuable sporting qualities, he is more than half a doctor, which will be important, you know, if any of us should get ill or come to grief. sit down and we'll talk it over." now, it was a telegram from bob mabberly which led john barret to suddenly undertake a sixty miles' ride that day, and which was thus the indirect cause of the little old lady being run down. the telegram ran as follows:-- "come instanter. as you are. clothes unimportant. yacht engaged. crew also. sail, without fail, thursday. plenty more to say when we meet." "now, you see, bob, with your usual want of precision, or care, or some such quality--" "stop, barret. do be more precise in the use of language. how can the want of a thing be a _quality_?" "you are right, bob. let me say, then, that with your usual unprecision and carelessness you sent me a telegram, which could not reach me till late on wednesday night, after all trains were gone, telling me that you sail, without fail, on thursday, but leaving me to guess whether you meant thursday morning or evening." "how stupid! my dear fellow, i forgot that!" "just so. well to make sure of losing no time, instead of coming here by trains, which, as you know, are very awkward and slow in our neighbourhood, besides necessitating long waits and several changes, i just packed my portmanteau, gun, rods, etcetera, and gave directions to have them forwarded here by the first morning train, then took a few winks of sleep, and at the first glimmer of daylight mounted my wheel and set off across country as straight as country roads would permit of--and--here i am." "true, barret, and in good time for tea too. we don't sail till morning, for the tide does not serve till six o'clock, so that will give us plenty of time to put the finishing touches to our plans, allow your things to arrive, and permit of our making--or, rather, renewing--our acquaintance with giles jackman. you remember him, don't you?" "yes, faintly. he was a broad, sturdy, good-humoured, reckless, little boy when i last saw him at old blatherby's school." "just so. your portrait is correct. i saw him last month, after a good many years' interval, and he is exactly what he was, but considerably exaggerated at every point. he is not, indeed, a little, but a middle sized man now; as good-humoured as ever; much more reckless; sturdier and broader a great deal, with an amount of hair about his lip, chin, and head generally that would suffice to fit out three or four average men. he has been in india--in the woods and forests department, or something of that sort--and has killed tigers, elephants, and such-like by the hundred, they say; but i've met him only once or twice, and he don't speak much about his own doings. he is home on sick-leave just now." "sick-leave! will he be fit to go with us?" asked barret, doubtfully. "fit!" cried mabberly. "ay, much more fit than you are, strong and vigorous though you be, for the voyage home has not only cured him; it has added superabundant health. voyages always do to sick anglo-indians, don't you know? however ill a man may be in india, all he has to do is to obtain leave of absence and get on board of a ship homeward bound, and straightway health, rushing in upon him like a river, sends him home more than cured. so now our party is made up, yacht victualled, anchor tripped; and--`all's well that ends well.'" "but all is not ended, bob. things have only begun, and, as regards myself, they have begun disastrously," said barret, who thereupon related the incident of the little old lady being run down. "my dear fellow," cried mabberly, laughing, "excuse me, don't imagine me indifferent to the sufferings of the poor old thing; but do you really suppose that one who was tough enough, after such a collision, to sit up at all, with or without the support of the railings, and give way to indignant abuse--" "not abuse, bob, indignant looks and sentiments; she was too thorough a lady to think of abuse--" "well, well; call it what you please; but you may depend upon it that she is not much hurt, and you will hear nothing more about the matter." "that's it! that's the very thing that i dread," returned barret, anxiously. "to go through life with the possibility that i may be an uncondemned and unhung murderer is terrible to think of. then i can't get over the meanness of my running away so suddenly. if any one had said i was capable of such conduct i should have laughed at him. yet have i lived to do it--contemptibly--in cold blood." "contemptibly it may have been, but not in cold blood, for did you not say you were roused to a state of frenzied alarm at the sight of the bobby? and assuredly, although unhung as yet, you are not uncondemned, if self-condemnation counts for anything. come, don't take such a desponding view of the matter. we shall see the whole affair in the morning papers before sailing, with a report of the old lady's name and condition--i mean condition of health--as well as your unmanly flight, without leaving your card; so you'll be able to start with an easy--ha! a cab! yes, it's jackman. i know his manservant," said mabberly, as he looked out at the window. another moment and a broad-chested man, of about five-and-twenty, with a bronzed face--as far as hair left it visible--a pair of merry blue eyes, and a hearty manner, was grasping his old schoolfellows by the hand, and endeavouring to trace the likeness in john barret to the quiet little boy whom he used to help with his tasks many years before. "man, who would have thought you could have grown into such a great long-legged fellow?" he said stepping back to take a more perfect look at his friend, who returned the compliment by asking who could have imagined that he would have turned into a zambezian gorilla. "where'll i put it, sor?" demanded a voice of metallic bassness in the doorway. "down there--anywhere, quin," said jackman turning quickly; "and be off as fast as you can to see after that rifle and cartridges." "yes, sor," returned the owner of the bass voice, putting down a small portmanteau, straightening himself, touching his forehead with a military salute, and stalking away solemnly. "i say, giles, it's not often one comes across a zoological specimen like that. where did you pick him up?" asked mabberly. "in the woods and forests of course," said jackman, "where i have picked up everything of late--from salary to jungle fevers. he's an old soldier--also on sick-leave, though he does not look like it. he came originally from the west of ireland, i believe; but there's little of the irishman left, save the brogue and the honesty. he's a first-rate servant, if you know how to humour him, and, being a splendid cook, we shall find him useful." "i hope so," said mabberly, with a dubious look. "why, bob, do you suppose i would have offered him as cook and steward if i had not felt sure of him?" "of course not; and i would not have accepted him if i had not felt sure of you, giles, my boy; so come along and let's have something to eat." "but you have not yet told me, bob," said jackman, while the three friends were discussing their meal, "what part of the world you intend to visit. does your father give you leave to go wherever you please, and stay as long as you choose?" "no; he limits me to the western isles." "that's an indefinite limitation. d'you mean the isles of the western pacific?" "no; only those of the west of scotland. and, to tell you the truth, i have no settled or definite plan. having got leave to use the yacht all the summer on condition that i don't leave our own shores, i have resolved to begin by running at once to the wildest and farthest away part of the kingdom, leaving circumstances to settle the rest." "a circumstantial account of the matter, no doubt, yet rather vague. have you a good crew?" "yes; two men and a boy, one of the men being skipper, and the nearest approach to a human machine you ever saw. he is a highlander, a thorough seaman, hard as mahogany and about as dark, stiff as a poker, self-contained, silent, except when spoken to, and absolutely obedient." "and we set sail to-morrow, early?" asked barret. "yes; after seeing the morning papers," said mabberly with a laugh. this, of course, turned the conversation on the accident, much to the distress of barret, who feared that the jovial, off-hand reckless man from the "woods and forests" would laugh at and quiz him more severely than his friend bob. to his surprise and great satisfaction, however, he found that his fears were groundless, for jackman listened to the account of the incident quite gravely, betrayed not the slightest tendency to laugh, or even smile; asked a good many questions in an interested tone, spoke encouragingly as to the probable result, and altogether showed himself to be a man of strong sympathy as well as high spirits. next morning found our three adventurers dropping down the thames with the first of the ebb tide, and a slight breeze from the south-west; mabberly and jackman in the very small cabin looking after stores, guns, rods, etcetera; barret anxiously scanning the columns of a newspaper; quin and the skipper making each other's acquaintance with much of the suspicion observable in two bull-dogs who meet accidentally; the boy in the fore part of the vessel coiling ropes; and the remainder of the crew at the helm. "port! port! stiddy," growled the skipper. "port it is; steady," replied the steersman in a sing-song professional tone, as a huge steamer from the antipodes went slowly past, like a mighty leviathan of the deep. "is it to the north, south, east, or west we're bound for, captain?" asked quin, with a voice like that of a conciliatory bassoon. "i don't know where we're bound for," growled the skipper slowly. "starboard a bit; stiddy!" "steady!" sang out the man at the tiller. a few hours carried them into the german ocean. here quin thought he would try again for a little information. "sure it's nor'-east we're steerin', captain," he remarked in a casual way. "no, it's not," growled the skipper, very much through his nose; "she's headin' west." "it's to _somewhere_ that coorse will take us in the ind, no doubt, if we carry on?" suggested quin, interrogatively. "ay; oot to sea," replied the skipper. quin was obliged to give it up for the time being. for some time they were nearly becalmed; then, as the land dropped astern and the shades of night deepened, the wind fell altogether, and, when the stars came out, a profound calm prevailed over the gently undulating sea. the exuberant spirits of our three friends were subdued by the sweet influences around, and, as the hour for rest drew near, the conversation, which at first became fitful, dropped at last to silence. this was broken at length by jackman saying, to the surprise of his companions, "what d'you say to reading a chapter before turning in? i'm fond of striking what's called a key-note. if we begin this pleasure-trip with an acknowledgment of our dependence on god, we shall probably have a really pleasant time of it. what say you?" both mabberly and barret gladly agreed to their friend's proposal--for both had been trained in god-fearing families--though neither would have had the courage to make the proposal himself. the crew were invited to join, and thus family worship was established on board the _fairy_ from the first day. only one point is worthy of note in connection with this--although no one noted it particularly at the time, namely, that the portion of scripture undesignedly selected contained that oft-quoted verse, "ye know not what a day may bring forth." the truth of this was very soon thrust home upon them by stern experience. chapter two. the voyage auspiciously begun and promptly ended. a voyage up the east coast of great britain and through the pentland firth does not usually take a long time. when the vessel is a swift little schooner-yacht, and the breeze is stiff as well as fair, the voyage is naturally a brief one. everything favoured the little _fairy_. sun, moon, and stars cheered her, and winds were propitious, so that our voyagers soon found themselves skimming over the billows of the western sea. it was one part of mabberly's plan that he and his friends should do duty as part of the crew. he was himself accustomed to the handling of yachts, and barret he knew had been familiar with the management of boats from childhood. "you can steer, of course?" he had asked giles jackman almost as soon as they were fairly at sea. "well, ye-es, oh yes. no doubt i could steer if i were to try." "have you never tried?" asked his friend in surprise. "oh yes, i have tried--once. it was on an occasion when a number of us had gone on a picnic. we had to proceed part of the way to our destination by river in a small boat, which was managed by a regular old sea-dog--i forget his name, for we generally hailed him by the title of old salt. some of the impatient members of the party suggested a little preliminary lunch. there are always people ready to back up impatient suggestions! it was agreed to, and old salt was ordered to open the provision basket, which had been stowed away in the bows of the boat. `would you steer, sir?' said old salt to me, as he rose to go forward. `certainly, with pleasure,' said i, for, as you know, it's an old weakness of mine to be obliging! well, in a few minutes they were all eating away as if they'd had no breakfast, while we went merrily down the river, with the current and a light breeze in our favour. "suddenly old salt shouted something that was smothered in its passage through a bite of sandwich. i looked up, and saw a native canoe coming straight towards us. `port!' roared old salt, in an explosion that cleared away half the sandwich. `no, thankee; i prefer sherry,' said i. but i stopped there, for i saw intuitively from the yell with which he interrupted me that something was wrong. `_hard_ a-port!' he cried, jumping up and scattering his rations. i shoved the tiller hard to the side that suggested itself, and hoped for the best. the worst followed, for we struck the native canoe amidships, as it was steering wildly out of our way, and capsized it! there were only two men in it, and they could swim like ducks; but the river was full of alligators, and two sharp-set ones were on the scent instantly. it is my opinion that those two natives would, then and there, have been devoured, if we had not run in between and made such a splashing and hullaballoo with boat-hook, oars, and voices, that the monsters were scared away. i have never steered since that day." "i don't wonder; and, with my consent, you shall not steer now," said mabberly, laughing. "why, giles, i was under the impression that you understood everything, and could do almost anything!" "quite a mistake, bob, founded in error or superstition. you have confused the will with the deed. i am indeed willing to try anything, but my capacity for action is limited, like my knowledge. in regard to the higher mathematics, for instance, i know nothing. copper-mining i do not understand. i may say the same with reference to tartar mythology, and as regards the management of infants under two years i am densely ignorant." "but do you really know nothing at all about boats and ships, giles?" asked barret, who, being a good listener, did not always shine as a speaker. "how can you ask such a question? of course i know a great deal about them. they float, they sail and row, they steer--" "rather badly sometimes, according to your own showing!" remarked barret. having cleared the pentland firth, mabberly consulted the skipper one morning as to the prospects of the weather. "going to fall calm, i fear," he said, as mcpherson came aft with his hands in his pilot-coat pockets. "ay, sir, that iss true, what-e-ver." to pronounce the last word correctly, the central "e" must be run into a long-drawn, not an interjectional, sound. "more-o-ver," continued the skipper, in his drawling nasal tone, "it's goin' to be thick." being a weather-wise man, the skipper proved to be right. it did come thick; then it cleared, and, as we have said, things became favourable until they got further out to sea. then a fancy took possession of mabberly--namely, to have a "spin out into the atlantic and see how it looked!" it mattered not to jackman or barret what they did or where they went; the first being exuberantly joyous, the other quietly happy. so they had their run out to sea; but twenty-four hours of it sufficed-- it became monotonous. "i think we'd better go back now," suggested mabberly. "agreed," said his companions. "iss it goin' back you'll be?" asked the skipper. "yes. don't you think we may as well turn now?" said mabberly, who made it a point always, if possible, to carry the approbation of the skipper with him. "i think it wass petter if we had niver come oot." "why so, captain?" "because it's comin' on to plow. putt her roond, shames." james mcgregor, to whom the order was given, and who was the _other_ man of the crew, obeyed. the yacht, which had latterly been beating against a headwind, now ran gaily before it towards the scottish coast, but when night closed in no outlying islands were visible. "we wull hev to keep a sharp look-oot, shames," remarked the skipper, as he stopped in his monotonous perambulation of the deck to glance at the compass. "oo, ay," responded mcgregor, with the air of a man who knew that as well as his superior. "what do you fear?" asked mabberly, coming on deck at the moment to take a look at the night before turning in. "i fear naething, sir," replied mcpherson, gravely. "i mean, what danger threatens us?" "none that i ken o'; but we're makin' the land, an' it behooves us to ca' canny." it may be well to remark here that the skipper, having voyaged much on all parts of the scottish coast, had adopted and mixed up with his own peculiar english several phrases and words in use among the lowland scots. next morning, when mabberly again visited the deck, he found the skipper standing on the same spot where he had left him, apparently in the same attitude, and with the same grave, sleepless expression on his cast-iron features. the boy, robin tips, was at the helm, looking very sleepy. he was an english boy, smart, active, and wide-awake--in the slang sense--in which sense also we may add that he was "cheeky." but neither the skipper nor tips was very visible at the distance of three yards, owing to a dense fog which prevailed. it was one of those white, luminous, dry fogs which are not at all depressing to the spirits, though obstructive to the eyes, and which are generally, if not always, accompanied by profound calm. "has it been like this long?" asked mabberly, after the first salutations. "ay, sir, a coot while." "and have we made no progress during the night?" "oo, ay, a coot bit. we should nae be far off some o' the islands noo, but it's hard to say, wi' naither sun, moon, nor stars veesible to let us fin' oot where we are." jackman and barret came on deck at the moment, closely followed by quin, who, quietly ignoring the owner of the yacht, went up to his master and said-- "tay's riddy, sor." "breakfast, you mean," said mabberly, with a smile. "sure i wouldn't conterdick--ye, sor, av ye was to call it supper--but it was tay that i put in the pot." at breakfast the conversation somehow turned upon boats--ship's boats-- and their construction. "it is quite disgraceful," said jackman, "the way in which government neglects that matter of boats. some things, we know, will never be generally adopted unless men are compelled to adopt them. another biscuit, barret." "instance something, giles," said mabberly, "and pass the butter. i hate to hear sweeping assertions of an indefinite nature, which no one can either corroborate or confute." "well, there is the matter of lowering boats into the water from a ship's davits. now, i'll be bound that the apparatus for lowering your little punt astern is the ordinary couple of blocks--one at the stem, the other at the stern?" "of course it is. what then?" "why, then, don't you know what would happen if you were lowering that boat full of people in a rough sea, and the man at the bow failed to unhook his block at the exact same moment as the man at the stern?" "yes, i know too well, giles, for i have seen it happen. the boat, on the occasion i refer to, was hung up by one of the blocks, all the people were dropped into the water, and several of the women and children drowned. but how is government to remedy that?" "thus, bob, thus. there is a splendid apparatus invented by somebody which holds fast the two blocks. by means of an iron lever worked by _one_ man, the rod is disengaged from both blocks at the same instant. you cannot work it wrong if you tried to do so. now, the government has only to compel the adoption of that apparatus in the royal and merchant navies, and the thing is done." "then, again," continued jackman, devouring food more ravenously in proportion as he warmed with his subject, "look at the matter of rafts. how constantly it happens that boats get swamped and lost while being launched in cases of shipwreck at sea, and there is nothing left for the crews and passengers, after the few remaining boats are filled, save loose spars or a hastily and ill-made raft; for of course things cannot be well planned and constructed in the midst of panic and sudden emergency. now, it has been suggested, if not actually carried out, that mattresses should be made of cork, with bands and straps to facilitate buckling them together, and that a ship's chairs, tables, camp-stools, etcetera, should be so constructed as to be convertible into rafts, which might be the means of saving hundreds of lives that would, under present arrangements, inevitably be lost. why, i ask, does not government see to this? have a special committee appointed to investigate, find out the best plan, and compel its adoption? men will never do this. they are too obstinate. what's wanted is that our ladies should take it up, and howl with indignation till it is done." "my dear giles, ladies never howl," said barret, quietly tapping the end of an egg; "they smile, and gently insinuate--that is always sufficient, because irresistible!" "well, being a bachelor i cannot say much on that point," returned jackman. "but i was not aware that _you_ were married?" "neither am i; but i have a mother and sisters, aunts and cousins, and i know their ways." "if such are their ways, i must get you to introduce me to them," said the woods-and-forester. "come on deck, now, and i will give you a practical illustration of what might be done." jackman, being an enthusiast, always went at things, "with a will." "bring me a hen-coop, quin," he said to the steward, who, having so far completed his morning work, and consumed his morning meal, was smoking his pipe, seated on the rail beside tips. tips was an admirer of the irishman, and, in consequence, an imitator as far as he dared and was permitted. "lend a hand, ye spalpeen," said quin, going forward, and quickly returning with the coop, from which a cackling of strong remonstrance issued. "will ye have the other wan too, sor?" "yes, and the main-hatch besides, and a lot of spun-yarn. of course that's not strong enough for real service, but it will do for illustration." in a few minutes the two hen-coops were placed face to face and lashed firmly together, despite the remonstrative poultry. then the main-hatch was laid upon the top, and fixed there by means of the iron rings at its four corners. "now, quin, fetch four of the cabin chairs," said the operator, "and observe, gentlemen, how much more easily and quickly this would have been accomplished if the coops, and hatch, and chairs had been made to fit into each other, with a view to this very purpose, with strong straps and buckles in handy positions. now, then, for the chairs." at each corner of this extemporised raft jackman fastened one of the cabin chairs, pointing out, as he did so, that there was no limit to the extension of the raft. "you see," he continued, "all you would have to do, if the ship were properly fitted out, would be to add chair to chair, bench to bench, cork mattress to mattress, until your raft was as big as you wanted; or you could make two or three rafts, if preferable." "but sure, sor, it would be an unstiddy machine intirely, an' given to wobblin'," said quin, who was one of those privileged men who not only work for their wages, but generously throw their opinions into the bargain. "it would not be more unsteady than the waves, quin; and as to wobbling, that would be an advantage, for a rigid raft in a rough sea would be more liable to be damaged than one that was pliable." the discussion about rafts and ship's boats which thus began was continued with much interest till lunchtime, for it chanced that john barret was one of those men whose tendency of heart and mind is to turn everything to its best uses, and generally to strive after the highest point of perfection in everything, with a view to the advancement of human felicity. this tendency called into exercise his inventive faculties, inducing him to search after improvements of all descriptions. thus it was natural that he and jackman should enter into a keen controversy, as to what was the best method of constructing the raft in detail; and that, when the faithful quin announced lunch as being, "riddy, sor," the life-saving machine was left in an incomplete state on the deck. the interest attaching to this discussion had helped the three comrades and crew alike, to tide over what might otherwise have proved a tedious forenoon, for during the whole of that day the dense fog and profound calm continued. on returning to the deck the discussion was continued for a time, but gradually the interest flagged, then other subjects engaged attention, and the raft was finally allowed to lie undisturbed and forgotten. "i don't know how it is," said bob mabberly; "but somehow i always feel a depression of spirits in a fog at sea." "explanation simple enough," returned jackman; "are we not constantly reading in the papers of ships being run down in fogs? where there is risk there is always in some minds anxiety--in your case you call it depression of spirits." "your explanation, giles, uncomplimentary to me though it be, might have some force if we were just now in the channel, where being run down in fog is an event of frequent occurrence; but here, in a comparatively unfrequented sea, it would be strange indeed were i to be influenced by such possibilities. what say you, captain?" mcpherson, who had sauntered towards the group, gazed in the direction where the horizon would have been visible had the fog been absent, and said:-- "hm!--weel--" and then stopped, as if for the purpose of mature consideration. the audience waited for the announcement of the oracle's opinion. "oo ay--weel, ye see, many persons are strangely influenced by possibeelities, what-e-ver. there is a maiden aunt o' my own--she wass niver marrit, an' she wass niver likely to be, for besides bein' poor an' plain, an' mittle-aged, which are not in my opeenion objectionable, she had an uncommon bad temper. yet she wass all her life influenced by the notion that half the young men o' the place wass wantin' to marry her! though the possibeelities in her case wass fery small." "i should like to 'ave know'd that old gurl!" whispered tips to quin. "howld your tongue, ye spalpeen!" whispered his friend in reply. "have you any idea, captain, where we are now?" asked jackman. "oo ay, we're somewhere's wast'ard o' the lewis. but whether wast, nor'-wast, or sooth-wast, i could not say preceesely. the nicht, ye see, wass uncommon dark, an' when the fog came doon i' the mornin', i could na' feel sure we had keep it the richt coorse, for the currents hereaboots are strang. but we'll see whan it comes clear." "do you believe in presentiments, giles?" asked barret, in an unusually grave tone. "of course i do," answered jackman. "i have a presentiment just now that you are going to talk nonsense." barret was not, however, to be silenced by his friend's jest. "listen," he said, earnestly, as he rose and stood in an attitude of intense attention. "it may be imagination playing with the subjects of our recent conversation, but i cannot help thinking that i hear the beating of paddles." "keep a sherp look-oot, shames," cried the skipper, suddenly, as he went forward with unwonted alacrity. a few minutes more and the sound which had at first been distinguished only by barret's sharp ear, became audible to all--the soft regular patting of a paddle-wheel steamer in the distance, yet clearly coming towards them. presently a shrill sound, very faint but prolonged, was heard, showing that she was blowing her steam-whistle as a precaution. "strange, is it not, that the very thing we have been talking about should happen?" said mabberly. "nay," returned jackman, lightly, "we were talking about being run down, and we have not yet come to that." "the strangest thing of all to me," said barret, "is that, with a wide ocean all round, vessels should ever run into each other at all, at least on the open sea, for there is only one line, a few feet wide, in favour of such an accident, whereas there are thousands of miles against it." jackman, who was a great theorist, here propounded a reason for this. "if vessels would only hold straight on their courses, you see," he said, "the accident of collision would be exceedingly rare, for, although thousands of ships might pass near to each other, not one in ten thousand would meet; but when vessels come pretty near, their commanders sometimes become anxious, take fancies into their heads, as to each having forgotten the `rules of the road,' and each attempting to correct the other--as we do sometimes in the streets--they bring about the very disaster they are trying to avoid." "had we not better ring the bell, captain?" cried mabberly, in rising excitement. "oo ay, if you think so, sir. ring, poy!" the boy, who was getting alarmed, seized the tongue of the ship's bell, and rang with all his might. whether this had the effect to which jackman had referred, we cannot tell, but next moment what appeared to be a mountain loomed out of the mist. the steam-whistle had been silent for some time, but as soon as the bell was heard it burst forth with increased fury. from the instant her form was dimly seen the fate of the yacht was sealed. there was a wild shouting on board the steamer, but there was no time for action. "starboard hard!" was the cry. "starboard it is!" was the immediate answer. but before the helm could act, the great rushing mass struck the _fairy_ amidships, and literally cut her in two! the awful suddenness of a catastrophe, which those on board had just been arguing was all but impossible, seemed to have paralysed every one, for no one made the slightest effort to escape. perhaps the appearance of the wall-like bow of the steamer, without rope or projection of any kind to lay hold of, or jump at, might have conveyed the swift perception that their case was hopeless. at all events, they all went under with the doomed yacht, and nothing was left in the wake of the leviathan but a track of foam on the mist-encumbered sea. but they were not lost! one after another the wrecked party rose struggling to the surface, and all of them could swim except the boy. giles jackman was the first who rose. treading water and brushing the hair out of his eyes, he gazed wildly about. barret came up close beside him, almost a moment later. he had barely taken breath, when the others rose at various distances. a cry not far from him caused him to turn. it was poor robin tips, struggling for life. a few powerful strokes carried barret alongside. he got behind the boy, caught him under the armpits, and thus held him, at arm's length, until he could quiet him. "there is a spar, thank god! make for it, barret, while i see to quin," shouted jackman. as he spoke, they could hear the whistle of the steamer rushing away from them. barret, forcing himself breast-high out of the water, glanced quickly round, and caught sight of the floating spar, to which his companion had referred. although only a few yards off, the fog rendered it almost invisible. "are you quiet now?" demanded barret, in a stern voice, for the terrified boy still showed something like a hysterical determination to turn violently round, and grasp his rescuer in what would probably have turned out to be the grip of death. "yes, sir, oh! yes. but d-don't let me go! m-mind, i can't swim!" "you are perfectly safe if you simply do nothing but what i tell you," returned barret, in a quiet, ordinary tone of voice, that reassured the poor lad more than the words. by way of reply he suddenly became motionless, and as limp as a dead eel. getting gradually on his back, and drawing tips slowly on to his chest, so that he rested with his mouth upwards, and his head entirely out of the water, barret struck out for the spar, swimming thus on his back. on reaching it, he found to his surprise that it was the experimental raft, and that the captain, mabberly, and mcgregor were already clinging to it. "won't bear us all, i fear," said mabberly; "but thank god that we have it. put the boy on." in order to do this, barret had to get upon the raft, and he found that it bore him easily as well as the boy. "have you seen jackman?" asked mabberly. "yes," replied barret, rising and looking round. "here he comes, towing quin, i think, who seems to be stunned. hallo! this way--hi! giles!" but giles suddenly ceased to swim, turned over on his back, and lay as if dead. "rescue, bob, rescue!" shouted barret, plunging into the water. mabberly followed, and soon had hold of giles and his man by the hair. "all right!" said jackman, turning round; "i was only taking a rest. no one lost, i hope?" "no; all safe, so far." "you can tow him in now. i'm almost used up," said jackman, making for the raft. "he's only stunned, i think." it was found that the irishman had in truth been only stunned when they lifted him on to the raft, for he soon began to show signs of returning life, and a large bump on his head sufficiently explained the nature of his injury. but when the whole party had cautiously clambered up on the raft it sank so deep that they scarcely dared to move. to make matters worse, they clearly distinguished the steamer's whistle going farther and farther away, as if she were searching for them in a wrong direction. this was indeed the case, and although they all shouted singly and together, the whistle grew fainter by degrees, and finally died away. with feelings approaching to despair, the crew of the frail raft began to talk of the prospect before them, when they were silenced by a slight movement in the mist. the white curtain was lifted for a few yards, and revealed to their almost incredulous eyes a rocky shore, backed by a range of precipitous cliffs, with a wild mountainous region beyond. as the sea was still perfectly calm, there was no surf. our castaways, therefore, with the exception of quin and the boy, quietly slipped into the water, and, with thankful hearts, propelled the raft vigorously towards the shore. chapter three. the wreck is followed by repose, refreshment, surprise, and disaster. the distance from land was not more than a few hundred yards; nevertheless, it occupied a considerable time to pass over that space, the raft being ill-adapted for quick progression through the water. close to the shore there was a flat rock, to which, as they approached it, their attention was drawn by the appearance of what seemed to be living creatures of some sort. quin and robin tips, sitting on the raft, naturally saw them first. "i do belave it's men, for they're liftin' their hids an' lookin' at us. av it was the south says, now, i'd say they was saviges peepin' at us over the rocks." "p'raps they're boys a-bathin'," suggested tips. "are they white?" asked captain mcpherson, who, being chin-deep in the water and behind the raft, could not see the rock referred to. "no; sure they seem to be grey, or blue." "oo, they'll be seals," returned the skipper, nasally--a tone which is eminently well adapted for sarcastic remark without the necessity of elaborate language. "in coorse they is," said tips; "don't you see they're a-heavin' up their tails as well as their 'eads?" on advancing a few yards farther, all doubt upon the question was put at rest. the animals, of which about a dozen were enjoying themselves on the rock, raised themselves high on their flippers and gazed, with enormous eyes, at the strange-looking monster that was coming in from the sea! thus they remained, apparently paralysed with astonishment, until the raft was within pistol-shot, and then, unable to endure the suspense longer, they all slipped off into the sea. a few minutes later and the raft struck on the shore. and well was it for the party that the weather chanced to be so fine, for if there had been anything like a breeze, their frail contrivance would inevitably have been dashed to pieces. even a slight swell from the westward would have raised such a surf on that rugged shore that it would have been impossible for the best of swimmers to have landed without broken limbs, if not loss of life. as it was, they got ashore not only without difficulty, but even succeeded in hauling the raft up on the beach without much damage to its parts--though, of course, the unfortunate fowls in the hen-coops had all perished! while mabberly and the others were engaged in securing the raft, barret was sent off along shore with directions to ascertain whether there was any habitation near. to his right the high cliffs came down so close to the sea that it seemed very improbable that any cottage or hamlet could be found in that direction. he therefore turned towards the left, where the cliffs receded some distance from the shore, leaving a narrow strip of meadow land. hurrying forward about a quarter of a mile, he stopped and looked about him. the sun was still high in the heavens--for the days are long and nights brief in that region during summer--and its rays had so far scattered the mists that all the low-lying land was clear, though the mountain-range inland was only visible a short distance above its base. the effect of this was to enhance the weird grandeur of the view, for when the eye had traced the steep glens, overhanging cliffs, rugged water-courses, and sombre corries upward to the point where all was lost in cloud, the imagination was set free to continue the scenery to illimitable heights. the youth was still gazing upward, with solemnised feelings, when there was presented to him one of those curious aspects of nature which are sometimes, though rarely, witnessed in mountainous regions. suddenly an opening occurred in the clouds--or mist--which shrouded the mountain-tops, and the summit of a stupendous cliff bathed in rich sunshine, was seen as if floating in the air. although obviously part of the mountain near the base of which he stood, this cliff--completely isolated as it was--seemed a magical effect, and destitute of any real connection with earth. while he was looking in wonder and admiration at the sight, he observed a bird hovering about motionless in the blue vault high above the cliffs. although inexperienced in such scenery and sights, barret knew well enough that nothing but an eagle--and that of the largest size-- could be visible at all at such a distance. suddenly the bird sailed downwards with a grand circular sweep, and was lost among the shadows of the perpendicular rocks. a few minutes more and the mists drifted over the opening, causing the vision to disappear. this was barret's first view of the eagle cliff, which was destined to exercise a powerful and lasting influence upon his fortunes! a few yards beyond this the explorer came upon a sheep track, and a little farther on he found one of those primitive roads which are formed in wild out-of-the-way places by the passage of light country carts, with the aid of a few rounded stones where holes required to be filled up, or soft places strengthened. following it a short distance to a spot where it ran between a precipice and the shore, he came suddenly in sight of a wilderness of fallen rocks, which were varied in size from mere pebbles to masses the size of an omnibus. these had all fallen from a steep spur of the mountains which projected towards the sea of that place. the whole of the level land at the base of the spur was strewn with them; some being old, moss-covered and weather-worn, others fresh and sharp in outline, as if they had fallen only the previous winter, as probably they had, for the places from which they had been dislodged could be seen still fresh and light-coloured, nearly a thousand feet up on the riven cliffs. it was a species of desolation that powerfully recalled some scenes in dante's "inferno," and had a depressing effect on the youth's spirits, for nothing seemed more unlikely than the existence of a human habitation in such a place. a new view of the matter broke upon him, however, when he suddenly became aware that a spot in the confused scene which he had taken to be a clump of withered bracken was in reality a red cow! looking a little more narrowly at objects he soon perceived a hut among the rocks. it was so small and rude and rugged as almost to escape detection. a furious barking soon told that he had been seen, and two collie dogs rushed towards him with demonstrations that threatened him with immolation on the spot. the uproar put life into a few more clumps of red bracken, and produced a lively display of sheep and cattle throughout the region. barret walked straight up to the door of the hut, and the collies withdrew from the attack--as most noisy demonstrators do when treated with silent indifference. "is there any one inside?" he asked of a bare-legged, shaggy-headed boy, who came out and gazed at him, apparently with his mouth as well as his eyes. "na," answered the boy. "any other cottages or houses near this?" "ay; yonder." the boy pointed in the direction of the sea, where, in a stony nook between two jutting masses of rock, nestled about a dozen huts built of boulder stones gathered from the sea-shore. so small were these huts, and so stupendous the rocks around them, that they might easily have been overlooked by a careless eye. so might the half-dozen fishing-boats that lay in the little cove beside them. a stream or rivulet--better known in scotland as a burn--ran past the hamlet, formed a pool just below it, and dropped into the cove close to the place where the boats lay. rejoiced to find even the poorest kind of shelter in such a place, barret hastened down to the cove, and, tapping at the door of the largest of the cottages, was bidden "come in" by a soft voice. entering, he was surprised to find a neatly, though plainly, furnished room, which was evidently the kitchen of the house--indeed, the sole room, with the exception of an off-shoot closet. the large open fireplace contained a peat fire on the hearth, over which hung a bubbling pot. there were two box-beds opposite the fire, and in the wall which faced the door there was a very small window, containing four panes of glass, each of which had a knot in the middle of it. one of them also presented the phenomenon of a flattened nose, for the boy with the ragged head had rushed down and stationed himself there to observe the result of the unexpected and singular visit. beside the window, in a homely arm-chair, sat an invalid girl with pale thin cheeks, bright blue eyes, and long flaxen hair. if not pretty, she was, at all events, extremely interesting, and possessed the great charm of a winning smile. apologising for causing her alarm by his damp, dishevelled, and sudden appearance, barret asked if there were any men about the place. no, there were none there at the moment; most of them being out after the sheep and cattle, and some gathering peat, or away in the boats. "but surely they have not left you all by yourself?" said barret, struck not only by the appearance of the girl, but by the comparative refinement of her language. "oh no!" she replied, with a slight smile; "they look well after me. mrs anderson has only gone to fetch some peats. but where have you come from, sir? your clothes are all wet!" "you are right. i have just been saved from drowning, through god's mercy, along with my companions." here barret gave her a brief outline of the recent disaster, and then asked if mrs anderson was her mother. "no; she is my aunt, but she is very good to me; takes as much care of me as if i was her own daughter. i don't belong to this place. they have sent me here for my health." at this point they were interrupted by mrs anderson herself, who entered with a load of peat, which she flung down, shook her fist at the nose-flattener outside, and turned in astonishment to her visitor. of course our shipwrecked friend had to retail his story to the woman, and then learned from her that the island was a very large one, with a name unpronounceable by english lips, that it was very thinly inhabited, that it consisted almost entirely of pasture land, and that "the laird" owned a large portion of it, including the little fishing village of "cove." while the woman was speaking an elderly man entered, whom she introduced as her husband ian. to him barret had to re-repeat his story, and then asked if he and his friends could obtain shelter in the village for the night. "iss it shelter ye'll be wantin'? ye'll hev that an' welcome, though it will be of the poorest. but in the mornin' ye'll gang up to the hoose, for the laird wud be ill-pleased if we keepit ye here." "pray, who is this laird?" asked barret; "your wife has already mentioned him." "maister gordon is his name. he lives near the heed o' loch lossie. it iss over eight mile from here," said ian; "an' a coot shentleman he iss, too. fery fond o' company, though it iss not much company that comes this way, for the steam-poats don't veesit the loch reg'lar or often. he'll be fery glad to see you, sir, an' to help ye to git home. but we'd petter be goin' to tell your freen's that we can putt them up for the nicht. i'll go pack with ye, an we'll take the poy to help an' carry up their things." "you forget that we have been wrecked," returned barret with a laugh, "and have no `things' to carry, except our own damp carcases." "that's true, sir, but we'll be none the worse o' the poy, what-e-ver. come away, tonal'," said ian, as they started back along the shore. "it iss under the eagle cliff where ye came to laund, i make no doot?" "well, i suppose it was; at least, there is a range of cliffs close to the place where our raft struck." "oo ay--but it iss not the wee precipices, it iss the big hull behind them that we ca' the eagle cliff." "oh, indeed! i saw that cliff in a peculiar manner as i came along," said barret giving a description of the scene. "ay; it iss sometimes seen like that," said ian; "an' we often see the eagle, but it's no' possible to git a shot at that crater. the laird is real keen to bring it doon, for it plays the mischief among the lambs, an' him an' his freen's hes aften tried, but they hev not manicht it yet." thus chatting they soon reached the raft, and found the disconsolate party waiting impatiently for them. "shall we leave it where it lies, or drag it further up on the beach?" asked mabberly, referring to the raft. "ye petter haul it a wee higher up," said ian, examining the machine with much interest; "for when it comes on to plow there's a heavy sea here. weel, weel, but it iss a strange contrivance!" "ay; an' also a useful one," said the skipper, drily--at least as duly as was possible in the circumstance. "noo, shentlemen, i think we had petter be goin'." it was indeed time, for although the weather was warm and fine, the sun had set, and their damp garments began to feel uncomfortable. at the cove the whole party was accommodated in a single-roomed hut, which chanced to be empty at the time. here the hospitable fishermen spread nets for bedding, and with plaids made up for the lack of blankets. they also kindled a large peat fire, and put on a pot of potatoes, and some splendid sea-trout, while mrs anderson prepared oat-cakes at her own fire, and sent them in as required. "noo, shentlemen, ye'll tak a tram?" said ian, producing a black bottle. immeasurable was the astonishment of the highlander when the gentlemen refused a dram. "but--but, ye'll catch yer death o' cauld, if ye don't!" he said, remonstratively, as he stood bottle and glass in hand. "thanks, friend," replied jackman, "but we have taken in so much salt water during our swim to land that we are not sure whether the whisky would agree with it." "hoots! havers!" exclaimed ian, pouring out some of the liquid; "ye're jokin'." "in truth we are not, then," said mabberly; "for we are all total abstainers." "nonsense!" exclaimed ian, who could not understand the principles or feelings of men who, after a long exhausting swim in their clothes, were capable of refusing whisky! for it is to be remembered that, although the time we write of is comparatively recent, that remote island had not been visited by any apostle of temperance or total abstinence in regard to alcohol. of course ian had heard something of such principles, but he did not believe in them, and certainly did not practise them. "hooiver, shentlemen," he added, "if ye wunna tak it--here's wushin' your fery coot health!" raising the glass, he drained it without winking, as if the contents had been water, smacked his lips and put the bottle away. it must not be supposed that all the crew of the late unfortunate _fairy_ witnessed this proceeding unmoved, for, although they had all been engaged on the understanding that no strong drink was to be allowed or consumed while the voyage lasted, not one of them was a pledged abstainer, and now that the voyage was ended it did seem as if the laws of the voyage should no longer be binding. still there remained a feeling that, as long as they continued a united party, the spirit of the agreement should not be broken; therefore the skipper and "shames" let the bottle pass with a sigh, and quin followed suit with an undertoned remark to tips that, "he wouldn't have belaved tim'tation to be so strong av he hadn't wrastled wid it!" by that time most of the men of the hamlet had returned, and a rig out of fisher clothes was lent to each of the unfortunates, so that they were enabled to pass the night in comfort while their own garments were in front of a good fire. "is that sick girl your daughter, ian?" asked giles jackman that night, as he walked on the shore with his host before retiring to rest. "no, sir; she's a niece--the daughter of a brother o' mine who hes feathered his nest petter than me. he's a well-to-do grocer in oban, an' hes geen his bairn a pretty good edication; but it's my opeenion they hev all but killed her wi' their edication, for the doctor has telt them to stop it altogither, an' send her here for a change o' air." "indeed! an interesting child, and so well-mannered, too," remarked jackman. "humph! nae doot she is. they do say that it's because my brither has gotten an english wife. but for my pairt, oor weemen seem to me to be as weel mainered as the weemen sooth o' the tweed." "quite as well, i doubt not; though i have not seen much of your countrywomen, ian. besides, good manners are to be judged by varying standards. what is good in the opinion of the eskimo may be thought very bad by the hindoo, and _vice versa_. it is very much a matter of taste. the manners of your niece, at all events, are admirable. now it is time to turn in. good-night, ian." the sun was high next morning when the wrecked men awoke, and began to feel the outcries of nature with reference to breakfast. long before that time the men of cove had gone off to the hills, the peat-hags, or the sea, according to their respective callings. but mrs anderson had a sumptuous breakfast of oatmeal porridge and fresh milk ready for the strangers. "musha! but it'll make me mouth wather all the afthernoon thinkin' of it," said quin, on finishing his second plateful. "it's prime wittles," remarked tips, as he helped himself to more. "now, barret, have you finished?" asked mabberly. "no; why?" "because, in the first place, you are evidently eating too much for your health, and, in the second place, i want you to go up to what ian calls the hoose, as a deputation to the laird. you see, although we are forced, as it were, to throw ourselves on his hospitality, i don't quite like to descend on him all at once with the whole strength of our party. it will be better for one of us to break the ice, and as you are the best-looking and most hypocritically urbane, when you choose, i think we could not do better than devolve the duty upon you." "right, bob, as usual; but don't you think," said barret, helping himself to another ladleful of the porridge, "that my going may cut in two directions? doubtless the laird would be agreeably surprised to meet with me; but then that will raise his expectations so high, that he will be woefully disappointed on meeting with _you_!" "come, friends," cried jackman, "it is dangerous to play with edged tools immediately after a meal. my medical knowledge assures me of that. i quite approve of barret forming the deputation, and the sooner he starts off the better. the rest of us will assist ian to fish in his absence." thus authorised and admonished, barret finished breakfast, put on his own garments--which, like those of his companions, were semi-nautical-- and sallied forth for an eight miles' walk over the mountains to the mansion of the laird, which lay on the other side of the eagle's cliff ridge, on the shores of loch lossie. he was guided the first part of the journey by tonal' with the ragged head, who, with an activity that seemed inexhaustible, led him up into wild and rugged places such as he had never before dreamed of--rocky fastnesses which, looked at from below, seemed inaccessible, even to goats, but which, on being attempted, proved to be by no means beyond the powers of a steady head and strong limbs. reaching the summit of a heather-clad knoll that projected from a precipitous part of the mountain-side, barret paused to recover breath and look back at the calm sea. it lay stretched out far below him, looking, with its numerous islets in bird's-eye view, somewhat like a map. the mists had completely cleared away, and the sun was glittering on the white expanse like a line of light from the shore to the horizon. never before had our englishman felt so like a bird, both as to the point of vision from which he surveyed the glorious scene, and the internal sensation of joy which induced him not only to wish that he could fly, but to think that a very little more of such exultation of spirit would enable him to do so! "is that the cove down there?" he asked of the ragged companion who stood beside him. "ay, that's the cove!" "why, donald, it looks like a mere speck in the scene from here, and the men look no bigger than crows." as this observation called for no answer none was given, and donald seemed to regard his companion as one who was rather weak-minded. "have we come half-way yet, donald?" "no--no' near." "is it difficult to find the rest of the way from this point?" "no; but it wad be diffeecult to miss it." "well, donald, my boy, i have a strong desire to be alone--that is, to try if i cannot go the rest of the way without guidance; so, if you will just give me a little direction, i'll let you go home, and many thanks for coming thus far. now, point out the landmarks." he turned, as he spoke, towards the grand mountain that still towered behind him. "there's naethin' t' pint oot," returned the boy; "ye've only t' haud on by this sheep track till ee come close under the cliff yonder." "the eagle cliff?" "ay. it'll bring ee to a cairt road, an' ye've only to follow that through the pass, an' haud on till ee come to the hoose. ye can see the hoose frae the other side o' the pass." "and what is the `hoose' called?" asked barret. "kinlossie." "thank you. good-bye, my boy." a few coppers sent the youth of the ragged head away in high spirits. the young man watched him till he was concealed by a clump of small birch trees that hung like a fringe on the top of a neighbouring precipice. barret had just turned to continue the ascent to the eagle cliff, whose frowning battlements still rose high above him, when a wild shout from the boy made him turn and look anxiously back. the place which he had reached was strewn with great masses of rock that had fallen from the cliffs. he was about to clamber on to one of these, in order to obtain a better view, when the cause of the shout became obvious. a splendid stag, frightened from its lair by the boy, burst from the birchwood, and, with antlers laid well back, bounded up the slope towards him. it was closely followed by two does. barret crouched at once behind the mass of rock. the deer, thinking, doubtless, only of the danger behind, had failed to observe him. "oh for giles, with his rifle!" thought the youth, as the agile creatures passed within less than a hundred yards of him, and headed straight for the pass of the eagle cliff. scarcely had the thought occurred, when a flapping noise behind caused him to turn quickly. it was the eagle himself, sailing majestically and slowly overhead, as though he knew full well that an englishman without a gun was a harmless creature! considerably excited by these unexpected and, to him, stirring sights, barret pushed steadily upward, and soon reached a part of the pass whence he could see the valley beyond, with a house in the far distance--which, of course, must be kinlossie--standing in a clump of wood on the margin of an inlet of the sea, known by the name of loch lossie. but a far more astonishing sight than anything he had beheld that morning was yet in store for barret. on turning round a projecting rock at the foot of the eagle cliff, he suddenly came upon a young girl, lying on the road as if dead! springing towards her, he knelt and raised her head. there was no blood upon the face, which was deadly pale, and no apparent injury. she did not seem to breathe, but on feeling her pulse he fancied that he felt a flutter there. a feeling of desperate regret passed through him as he thought of his utter destitution alike of medical or surgical knowledge. but barret was not by any means a helpless man. running to one of the many streams of water which trickled from the cliff, he filled the top of his wideawake therewith, and, returning, laved the girl's face, and poured a little into her mouth. his efforts were successful. she recovered consciousness, opened her eyes, and asked, with a confused look, what was the matter. "you must have had a fall, dear child; but you'll be better presently. let me raise you." the girl tried to rise, but, with a sharp cry of pain, fell back again unconscious. barret soon ascertained that one of the poor girl's arms was severely bruised, perhaps broken. he knew not what to do, but he knew that the greatest present evil was delay. he therefore wrapped her in the shepherd's plaid which she wore, and raised her as gently as possible in his arms--making use of the plaid as a sort of sling, with part of it round his own neck. then, thanking god for the strong limbs and muscles with which he had been endowed, he set off with vigorous tread for kinlossie house. chapter four. the family at kinlossie. serenity was the prevailing feature in the character of old allan gordon, the laird of kinlossie; but when that amiable, portly, grand, silver-headed old gentleman suddenly met an unknown young man of fine proportions carrying his favourite niece, wrapped up as a bundle in his arms, all his serenity disappeared, and he stared, glared, almost gasped, with mingled astonishment and consternation. a very brief explanation, however, quickly sufficed to charge his susceptible spirit to overflowing with a compound of grave anxiety and heartfelt gratitude. "come in, my dear sir, come in; luckily our doctor is spending the day with me. but for you, my poor dear milly might have been--this way, to her own room. are you sure the arm is broken?" "i fear so," replied barret, entering the mansion; but before he could proceed farther his words were drowned in a shriek of surprise from four little gordons, aged from sixteen to four, who yelled rather than demanded to know what ailed their cousin--ranging from archie's, "what's wrong with cousin milly," to flora's, "wass wong wid cuzn miwy?" by that time mrs gordon, a pleasant-voiced lady, with benignity in her, looks, appeared on the scene, followed quickly by a man and several maid servants, all of whom added to the confusion, in the midst of which cousin milly was conveyed to her room and deposited on her bed. the family doctor, a rotund little man of fifty-five, was speedily in attendance. "so fortunate that the doctor happens to be here," said the laird, as he led barret to the library and offered him a glass of wine. "no! you don't drink? well, well, as you please. here, duncan, fetch milk, lemonade, coffee, hot, at once. you must be tired after carrying her so far, even though she _is_ a light weight. but, forgive me; in my anxiety about my poor niece i have quite forgotten to ask either your name or how you came here, for no steamer has been to the island for a week past. pray be seated, and, wherever you may be bound for ultimately, make up your mind that my house is to be your home for a week at least. we suffer no visitor ever to leave us under that period." "you are very kind," returned the young man, smiling, "and i accept your proffered hospitality most gladly. my name is john barret. i came to the other side of the island in a yacht, and swam on shore in my clothes with six companions, spent the night at cove, and have walked over here to make known these facts to you." "you speak in riddles, my young friend," returned the laird, with an amused look. "yet i speak the truth," returned barret, who thereupon gave a circumstantial account of the disaster that had befallen himself and his friends. "excuse me," said mr gordon, rising; throwing up the window he shouted to a man who was passing at the moment, "roderick, get the big waggonette ready to go to cove, and bring it round here as fast as you can. you see," he added to barret, "the road is considerably longer than the short cut by which you came, and we must have them all over here without delay. don't distress yourself about room. we have plenty of accommodation. but come, i'll take you to your own room, and when you have made yourself comfortable, we will talk over your future plans. just let me say, however, to prevent your mind running away on wrong ideas, that in the circumstances we won't allow you to leave us for two months. the post goes out to-morrow, so you can write to your father and tell him so." thus running on in a rich hearty voice, the hospitable allan gordon conducted barret to a room in the southern wing of the rambling old edifice, and left him there to meditate on his good fortune, and enjoy the magnificent prospect of the island-studded firth, or fiord, from which the mansion derived its name. while the waggonette was away for the rest of the wrecked party, the laird, finding that milly's arm was not actually broken, though severely bruised, sat down to lunch with restored equanimity, and afterwards drove barret in his dog-cart to various parts of his estate. "your friends cannot arrive for several hours, you see," he said on starting, "and we don't dine till seven; so you could not be better engaged than in making acquaintance with the localities of our beautiful island. it may seem a little wild to you in its scenery, but there are thousands of picturesque points, and what painters call `bits' about it, as my sweet little milly moss will tell you when she recovers; for she is an enthusiastic painter, and has made innumerable drawings, both in water-colour and oils, since she came to stay here. i cannot tell you how grateful i am to you, mr barret, for rescuing the poor girl from her perilous position." "i count myself fortunate indeed in having been led to the spot so opportunely," said barret; "and i sincerely hope that no evil effects may result from her injuries. may i ask if she resides permanently with you at kinlossie?" "i wish she did," said the laird, fervently; "for she is like a sunbeam in the house. no, we have only got the loan of her, on very strict conditions too, from her mother, who is a somewhat timid lady of an anxious temperament. i've done my best to fulfil the conditions, but they are not easy." "indeed! how is that?" "well, you see, my sister is firmly convinced that there is deadly danger in wet feet, and one of her conditions is that milly is not to be allowed to wet her feet. now you know it is not easy for a londoner to understand the difficulty of keeping one's feet dry while skipping over the mountains and peat-hags of the western isles." "from which i conclude that mrs moss is a londoner," returned barret, with a laugh. "she is. although a gordon, and born in the argyll highlands, she was sent to school in london, where she was married at the age of seventeen, and has lived there ever since. her husband is dead, and nothing that i have been able to say has yet tempted her to pay me a visit. she regards my home here as a wild, uninhabitable region, though she has never seen it, and besides, is getting too old and feeble to venture, as she says, on a long voyage. certes, she is not yet feeble in mind, whatever she may be in body; but she's a good, amiable, affectionate woman, and i have no fault to find with her, except in regard to her severe conditions about milly, and her anxiety to get her home again. after all, it is not to be wondered at, for milly is her only child; and i am quite sure if i had not gone to london, and made all sorts of promises to be extremely careful of milly and personally take her home again, she never would have let her come at all. see, there is one of milly's favourite views," said the laird, pulling up, and pointing with his whip to the scene in front, where a range of purple hills formed a fine background to the loch, with its foreground of tangle-covered stones; "she revels in depicting that sort of thing." barret, after expressing his thorough approval of the young girl's taste in the matter of scenery, asked if milly's delicate health was the cause of her mother's anxiety. "delicate health!" exclaimed the laird. "why, man, sylph-like though she appears, she has got the health of an amazon. no, no, there's nothing wrong with my niece, save in the imagination of my sister. we will stop at this cottage for a few minutes. i want to see one of my men, who is not very well." he pulled up at the door of a little stone hut by the roadside, which possessed only one small window and one chimney, the top of which consisted of an old cask, with the two ends knocked out. a bare-legged boy ran out of the hut to hold the horse. "is your brother better to-day?" asked the laird. "no, sir; he's jist the same." "mind your head," said the laird, as he stooped to pass the low doorway, and led his friend into the hut. the interior consisted of one extremely dirty room, in which the confined air was further vitiated by tobacco smoke, and the fumes of whisky. one entire side of it was occupied by two box-beds, in one of which lay a brawny, broad-shouldered man, with fiery red hair and scarcely less fiery red eyes, which seemed to glare out of the dark den in which he lay. "well, ivor, are ye not better to-day, man?" there was a sternness in mr gordon's query, which not only surprised but grieved his young companion; and the surprise was increased when the sick man replied in a surly tone-- "na, laird, i'm not better; an' what's more, i'll not be better till my heed's under the sod." "i'm afraid you are right, ivor," returned the laird, in a somewhat softer tone; "for when a man won't help himself, no one else can help him." "help myself!" exclaimed the man, starting up on one elbow, and gazing fiercely from under his shaggy brows. "help myself!" he repeated. and then, as if resolving suddenly to say no more, he sank down and laid his head on the pillow, with a short groan. "here, ivor, is a bottle o' physic that my wife sends to ye," said mr gordon, pulling a pint bottle from his pocket, and handing it to the man, who clutched it eagerly, and was raising it to his mouth when his visitor arrested his hand. "hoot, man," he said, with a short laugh, "it's not whisky! she bid me say ye were to take only half a glass at a time, every two hours." "poor't oot, then, laird--poor't oot," said the man, impatiently. "ye'll fin' a glass i' the wundy." fetching a wine-glass from the window mr gordon half filled it with a liquid of a dark brown colour, which the sick man quaffed with almost fierce satisfaction, and then lay down with a sigh. "it seems to have done ye good already, man," said the laird, putting the bottle and glass on that convenient shelf--the window-sill. "i've no idea what the physic is, but my good wife seems to know, and that's enough for me; and for you, too, i think." "ay, she's a good wumin. thank her for me," responded ivor. remounting the dog-cart the old gentleman explained, as they drove along, that ivor donaldson's illness was the result of intemperance. "he is my gamekeeper," said the laird; "and there is not a better or more trustworthy man in the island, when he is sober; but when he takes one of his drinking fits, he seems to lose all control over himself, and goes from bad to worse, till a fit of _delirium tremens_ almost kills him. he usually goes for a good while after that without touching a drop, and at such times he is a most respectful, painstaking man, willing to take any amount of trouble to serve one, but when he breaks down he is as bad as ever--nay, even worse. my wife and i have done what we could for him, and have tried to get him to take the temperance pledge, but hitherto without avail. my wife has even gone the length of becoming a total abstainer, in order to have more influence over him; but i don't quite see my way to do that myself." "then _you_ have not yet done all that you could for the man, though your wife has," thought barret; but he did not venture to say so. at this point in the conversation they reached a place where the road left the shores of the loch and ascended into the hills. being rather steep at its lower end, they alighted and walked; the laird pointing out, as they ascended, features in the landscape which he thought would interest his young guest. "yonder," he said, pointing to a wood on the opposite side of the valley, "yonder is a good piece of cover for deer. the last time we had a drive there we got three, one o' them a stag with very fine antlers. it was there that a young friend of mine, who was not much accustomed to sporting, shot a red cow in mistake for a deer! the same friend knocked over five or six of my tame ducks, under the impression that they were wild ones, because he found them among the heather! are you fond of sport?" "not particularly," answered barret; "that is, i am not personally much of a sportsman, though i have great enjoyment in going out with my sporting friends and watching their proceedings. my own tastes are rather scientific. i am a student of natural history--a botanist and geologist--though i lay no claim to extensive knowledge of science." "ah! my young friend, then you will find a powerful sympathiser in my niece milly--that is, when the poor child gets well--for she is half mad on botany. although only two weeks have passed since she came to us, she has almost filled her room with specimens of what she calls rare plants. i sometimes tease her by saying it is fortunate that bracken does not come under that head, else she'd pull it all up and leave no cover for the poor rabbits. she has also half-filled several huge books with gummed-in specimens innumerable, though i can't see that she does more than write their names below them." "and that is no small advance in the science, let me tell you," returned barret, who was stirred up to defend his co-scientist. "no one can succeed in anything who does not take the first steps, and undergo the drudgery manfully." "womanfully, in this case, my friend; but do not imagine that i underrate my little niece. my remark was to the effect that i do not see that she _does_ more, though i have no manner of doubt that her pretty little head _thinks_ a great deal more. now we will get up here, as the road is more level for a bit. d'you see the group of alders down in the hollow yonder, where the little stream that runs through the valley takes a sudden bend? there's a deep pool there, where a good many sea-trout congregate. you shall try it soon--that is, if you care for fishing." "oh, yes, i like fishing," said barret. "it is a quiet, contemplative kind of sport." "contemplative!" exclaimed the old gentleman with a laugh; "well, yes, it is, a little. sometimes you get down into the bed of the stream with considerable difficulty, and you have to contemplate the banks a long time, occasionally, before deciding as to which precipice is least likely to give you a broken neck. yes, it is a contemplative sport. as to quiet, that depends very much on what your idea of quietude may be. our burn descends for two or three miles in succession of leaps and bounds. if the roaring of cataracts is quieting to you, there is no end of it down there. see, the pool that i speak of is partly visible now, with the waterfall above it. you see it?" "yes, i see it." "we call it mac's pool," continued the laird, driving on, "because it is a favourite pool of an old school companion of mine, named macrummle, who is staying with us just now. he tumbles into it about once a week." "is that considered a necessary part of the process of fishing?" asked barret. "no, it may rather be regarded as an eccentric addition peculiar to macrummle. the fact is, that my good friend is rather too old to fish now; but his spirit is still so juvenile, and his sporting instincts are so keen, that he is continually running into dangerous positions and getting into scrapes. fortunately he is very punctual in returning to meals; so if he fails to appear at the right time, i send off one of my men to look for him. i have offered him a boy as an attendant, but he prefers to be alone." "there seems to be some one down at the pool now," remarked barret, looking back. "no doubt it is macrummle himself," said the laird, pulling up. "ay, and he seems to be making signals to us." "shall i run down and see what he wants?" asked barret. "do; you are active, and your legs are strong. it will do you good to scramble a little." leaping the ditch that skirted the road, the youth soon crossed the belt of furze and heather that lay between him and the river, about which he and his host had been conversing. being unaccustomed to the nature of the western isles, he was a little surprised to find the country he had to cross extremely rugged and broken, and it taxed all the activity for which the laird had given him credit, as well as his strength of limb, to leap some of the peat-hags and water-courses that came in his way. he was too proud of his youthful vigour to pick his steps round them! only once did he make a slip in his kangaroo-like bounds, but that slip landed him knee-deep in a bog of brown mud, out of which he dragged his legs with difficulty. gaining the bank of the river at last, he soon came up to the fisher, who was of sturdy build, though somewhat frail from age, and dressed in brown tweed garments, with a dirty white wideawake, the crown of which was richly decorated with casting-lines and hooks, ranging from small brown hackle to salmon-fly. but the striking thing about him was that his whole person was soaking wet. water dripped from the pockets of his shooting coat, dribbled from the battered brim of his wideawake, and, flowing from his straightened locks, trickled off the end of his roman nose. "you have been in the water, i fear," said barret, in a tone of pity. "and you have been in the mud, young man," said the fisher, in a tone of good-humoured sarcasm. the youth burst into a laugh at this, and the old fisherman's mouth expanded into a broad grin, which betrayed the fact that age had failed to damage his teeth, though it had played some havoc with his legs. "these are what i style highland boots," said the old man, pointing to the muddy legs. "indeed!" returned barret. "well, you see i have put them on at once, for i have only arrived a few hours since. my name is barret. i believe i have the pleasure of addressing mr macrummle?" "you have that pleasure, mr barret; and now, if you will do me the kindness to carry my rod and basket, i will lead you back to the dog-cart by a path which will not necessitate an additional pair of native boots! i would not have hailed you, but having tumbled into the river, as you see, i thought it would be more prudent to get driven home as quickly as possible." "you have a good basket of fish, i see, or rather, feel," remarked barret, as he followed the old man, who walked rather slowly, for his physical strength was not equal to his spirits. "ay, it is not so bad; but i lost the best one. fishers always do, you know! he was a grilse, a six-pounder at the least, if he was an ounce, for i had him within an inch of my gaff when i overbalanced myself, and shot into the stream head foremost with such force, that i verily believe i drove him to the very bottom of the pool. strange to say the rod was not broken; but when i scrambled ashore, i found that the grilse was gone!" "how unfortunate! you were not hurt, i hope?" "not in the least. there was plenty of depth for a dive; besides, i'm used to it." it became quite evident to john barret that his new friend was "used to" a good many more things besides tumbling into the river, for as they went slowly along the winding footpath that led them through the peat-hags, macrummle tripped over a variety of stumps, roots, and other excrescences which presented themselves in the track, and which on several occasions brought him to the ground. the old gentleman, however, had a fine facility in falling. being slow in all his movements, he usually subsided rather than fell; a result, perhaps, of laziness as well as of unwillingness to struggle against fate. his frequent staggerings, also, on the verge of dark peat holes, caused his companion many a shock of alarm and many a start forward to prevent a catastrophe, before they gained the high road. they reached it at last, however, rather breathless, but safe. macrummle's speech, like his movements, was slow. his personal courage, considering the dangers he constantly and voluntarily encountered, was great. "you've been in again, mac, i see," exclaimed the laird heartily, extending his hand to his old friend with the view of hauling him up on the seat beside him. "mind the step. now then!" "yes, i've been in, but the weather is warm! stop, stop! don't pull quite so hard, allan; mind my rheumatic shoulder. give a shove behind, mr barret--gently--there. thankee." the old man sat down with something of a crash beside his friend. barret handed him his rod, put the basket under his feet, and sprang up on the seat behind. returning at a swift pace by the road they had come, they soon reached kinlossie, where the laird drove into the back yard, so as to deliver the still dripping macrummle at the back door, and thus prevent his leaving a moist track from the front hall to his bedroom. having got rid of him, and given the dog-cart in charge to the groom, mr gordon led his young friend round to the front of the house. "i see your friends have already arrived," said the laird, pointing to the waggonette which stood in the yard. "no doubt we shall find them about somewhere." they turned the corner of the mansion as he spoke, and certainly did come on barret's friends, in circumstances, however, which seemed quite unaccountable at first sight, for there, in front of the open door, were not only bob mabberly, giles jackman, skipper mcpherson, james mcgregor, pat quin, and robin tips, but also mrs gordon, the two boy gordons-- named respectively, eddie and junkie--duncan, the butler, and little flora, with a black wooden doll in her arms, all standing in more or less awkward attitudes, motionless and staring straight before them as if petrified with surprise or some kindred feeling. barret looked at his host with a slight elevation of his eyebrows. "hush!" said the laird, softly, holding up a finger of caution. "my boy archie is behind that laurel bush. he's photographing them!" "that'll do," in a loud voice from archie, disenchanted the party; and while the operator rushed off to his "dark closet," the laird hurried forward to be introduced to the new arrivals, and give them hospitable greeting. that evening the host and his wife entertained their guests to a genuine highland feast in the trophied hall, and at a somewhat later hour duncan, the butler, and elsie, the cook, assisted by roderick, the groom, and mary, the housemaid, held their share of high revelry in the kitchen, with quin, tips, and "shames" mcgregor. "you have come to the right place for sport, gentlemen," said the laird, as he carved with vigour at a splendid haunch of venison. "in their seasons we have deer and grouse on the hills; rabbits, hares, partridges, and pheasants on the low grounds. what'll you have, mr mabberly? my dear, what have you got there?" "pigeon pie," answered mrs gordon. "mac, that will suit your taste, i know," cried the host with a laugh. "yes, it will," slowly returned macrummle, whose ruddy face and smooth bald head seemed to glow with satisfaction now that he had got into dry garments. "yes, i'm almost as fond of pie as my old friend robinson used to be. he was so fond of it that, strange though it may seem to you, gentlemen, he had a curious predilection for pie-bald horses." "come, now, mac, don't begin upon your friend robinson till after dinner." "has archie's photography turned out well?" asked mabberly at this point. "i do a little in that way myself, and am interested as to the result of his efforts to-day." "we cannot know that before to-morrow, i fear," replied mrs gordon. "did i hear you ask about archie's work, mabberly?" said the laird, interrupting. "oh! it'll turn out well, i have no doubt. he does everything well. in fact, all the boys are smartish fellows; a little self-willed and noisy, perhaps, like all boys, but--" a tremendous crash in the room above, which was the nursery, caused the laird to drop his knife and fork and quickly leave the room, with a look of anxiety, for he was a tender-hearted, excitable man; while his quiet and delicate-looking wife sat still, with a look of serenity not unmingled with humour. "something overturned, i suppose," she remarked. in a few minutes her husband returned with a bland smile. "yes," he said, resuming his knife and fork; "it was junkie, as usual, fighting with flo for the black doll. no mischief would have followed, i daresay, but archie and eddie joined in the scrimmage, and between them they managed to upset the table. i found them wallowing in a sea of porridge and milk--that was all!" chapter five. plans, prospects, and a great fight. there is something very enjoyable in awaking in a strange bedroom with a feeling of physical strength and abounding health about one, with a glorious, early sunbeam irradiating the room--especially if it does not shine upon one's face--with a window opposite, through which you can see a mountain rising through the morning mists, until its summit appears to claim kindred with the skies, and with the consciousness that work is over for a time, and recreation is the order of the day. some such thoughts and feelings caused john barret to smile as he lay flat on his back, the morning after his arrival, with his hands under his head, surveying the low-roofed but cosy apartment which had been allotted to him in the mansion of kinlossie. but the smile gave place to a grave, earnest expression as his eyes fell upon a framed card, on which was printed, in scarlet and blue and gold, "the earth is the lords and the fulness thereof." "so it is," thought the youth; "and my power to enjoy it comes from the lord--my health, my strength, myself. yet how seldom do i thank him for the mere fact of a happy existence. god forgive me!" although barret thus condemned himself, we would not have it supposed that he had been a careless unbeliever. his temperament was grave (not by any means gloomy) by nature, and a christian mother's love and teaching had, before her early death, deepened his religious impressions. he was beginning to wonder whether it was mrs gordon who had hung the text there, and whether it had been executed by milly moss, when the "get up" gong sent forth a sonorous peal, causing him to bound out of bed. the act brought before his eyes another bed--a small one--in a corner of the room reminding him of what he had forgotten, that, the house being full to overflow by the recent accession of visitors, little joseph, better known as junkie, shared the room with him. junkie was at the moment sleeping soundly, after the manner of the hedgehog--that is, curled up in the form of a ball. it was plain that neither dressing gongs nor breakfast-bells had any effect upon him, for he lay still in motionless slumber. "hallo! junkie, did you hear the gong?" said barret, pushing the boy gently. but junkie answered not, and he had to push him three or four times gently, and twice roughly, before he could awaken the youngster. uncoiling himself and turning on the other side, junkie heaved a deep sigh, and murmured,--"leave m' 'lone." "junkie! junkie! you'll be late for breakfast," shouted barret in his ear. "don'--wan'--any--br'kf'st," murmured the boy. "leave m' 'lone, i say-- or'll wallop you!" a laugh from barret, and a still severer shake, roused the boy so far as to make him sit up and stare about him with almost supernatural solemnity. then he yawned, rubbed his eyes, and smiled faintly. "oh! it's _you_, is it?" he said. "i thought it was eddie, and--" another yawn checked his utterance. then he suddenly jumped up, and began to haul on his clothes with surprising rapidity. it was evident that junkie had a will of his own, and was accustomed to exert it on all occasions. he continued to dress, wash himself, brush his hair and his teeth, without speaking, and with such vigour that he soon distanced his companion in the race. true, he did not do everything thoroughly. he did not render his little hands immaculately clean. he did not remember that the secret places behind his ears required to be particularly attended to, and, in brushing operations, he totally forgot that he was possessed of back-hair. indeed, it is just possible that he disbelieved that fact, for he neglected it entirely, insomuch that when he had completed the operation to his own entire satisfaction, several stiff and independent locks pointed straight to the sky, and two or three to the horizon. "that's a pretty text on the wall, junkie," observed barret, while the youngster was busy with the comb. "yes, it's pretty." barret wished to draw the boy out, but, like a tough piece of india-rubber, he refused to be drawn out. "it is beautifully painted. who did it?" asked the youth, making another attempt. he had accidentally touched the right chord this time. it vibrated at once. junkie looked up with sparkling eyes, and said that milly did it. "she does everything beautifully," he added, as he brushed away at his forelock--a remarkably obstinate forelock, considering that it was the most highly favoured lock of his head. "you like milly, i see," said his friend. "of _course_ i do. everybody does." "indeed! why does everybody like her so much?" "'cause she's so nice," said junkie, dropping his brush on the floor-- not accidentally, but as the easiest way of getting rid of it. "and she sometimes says that i'm good." "i'm glad to hear that, my boy, for if milly says so it must be true." "no, it's _not_ true," returned the boy promptly, as he fastened his necktie in a complex knot, and thrust his arm through the wrong hole of his little vest. "milly is mistaken, that's all. but i like her to say it, all the same. it feels jolly. but i'm bad--_awful_ bad! everybody says so. father says so, an' he must be right, you know, for he says he knows everything. besides, i _feel_ it, an' i know it, an' i don't care!" having given vent to this reckless statement, and wriggled into his jacket--the collar of which he left half down and half up--junkie suddenly plumped down on his knees, laid his head on his bed, and remained perfectly still for the space of about one quarter of a minute. then, jumping up with the pleased expression of one who felt that he had done his duty, he was about to rush from the room, when barret stopped him. "i'm glad to see that you say your prayers, at all events," he said. "but i wouldn't say them if it wasn't for milly," returned the urchin. "i do it to please her. an' i wash an' brush myself, an' all that, just 'cause she likes me to do it. i'd neither wash, nor pray, nor brush, nor anything, if it wasn't to please milly--and mother," he added, after a moment's reflection. "i like _them_, an' i don't care a button for anybody else." "what! for nobody else at all?" "well, yes, i forgot--i like ivor, too." "is that the sick gamekeeper, junkie?" "sick! no; he's the drunken keeper. drunken ivor, we call him--not to his face, you know. wouldn't we catch it if we did that! but i'm fond of drunken ivor, an' he's fond of me. he takes me out sometimes when he goes to shoot rabbits and fish. sometimes he's awful fierce, but he's never fierce to his old mother that lives in the hut close behind his--'cept when he's drunk. d'ee know"--the boy lowered his voice at this point and looked solemn--"he very nearly killed his mother once, when he was drunk, you know, an' when he came sober he cried--oh, just as our flo cries when she's bin whipped." at this point the breakfast-bell pealed forth with, so to speak, a species of clamorous enthusiasm by no means unusual in scottish country mansions, as if it knew that there was spread out a breakfast worth ringing for. at the first sound of it, junkie burst from the room, left the door wide open, clattered along the passage, singing, yelling vociferously as he went--and trundled downstairs like a retiring thunderstorm. the arrangements for the day at kinlossie were usually fixed at the breakfast hour, if they had not been settled the night before. there was, therefore, a good deal to consult about during the progress of the meal. "you see, gentlemen," said the host, when the demands of nature were partially satisfied, "friends who come to stay with me are expected to select their occupations or amusements for the day as fancy or taste may lead them. my house is `liberty hall.' sometimes we go together on the hills after grouse, at other times after red-deer. when the rivers are in order, we take our rods and break up into parties. when weather and wind are suitable, some go boating and sea-fishing. others go sketching or botanising. if the weather should become wet, you will find a library next to this room, a billiard-table in the west wing, and a smoking-room--which is also a rod and gun-room--in the back premises. we cannot take the men from their work to-day, so that a deer-drive is not possible, but that can be done any day. so, gentlemen, think over it, and make your choice." "how is milly this morning?" asked macrummle, who came down late to breakfast, as he always did, and consequently missed morning prayers. "better, much better than we could have expected. of course the arm is inflamed and very painful, but not broken, which is almost a miracle, considering the height from which she fell. but for you, mr barret, she might have lain there for hours before we found her, and the consequences might have been very serious. as it is, the doctor says she will probably be able to leave her room in a few days." "come, now, mac," continued the host, "we have been talking over plans for the day. what do you intend to do?" "try the river," said the old gentleman, with quiet decision, as he slowly helped himself to the ham and egg that chanced to be in front of him. "there's a three-pounder, if not a four, which rose in the middle pool yesterday, and i feel sure of him to-day." "why, mr macrummle," said mrs gordon smilingly, "you have seen that three-pounder or four-pounder every day for a month past." "i have, mrs gordon; and i hope to see him every day for a month to come, if i don't catch him to-day!" "whatever you do, mac, don't dive for him," said the laird; "else we will some day have to fish yourself out of the middle pool. have another cut of salmon, mr mabberly. in what direction do your tastes point?" "i feel inclined to make a lazy day of it and go out with your son archie," said mabberly, "to look at the best views for photographing. i had intended to photograph a good deal among the western isles, this summer; but my apparatus now lies, with the yacht, at the bottom of the sea." "yes, in company with my sixteen-shooter rifle," said giles jackman, with a rueful countenance. "well, gentlemen, i cannot indeed offer you much comfort as regards your losses, for the sea keeps a powerful hold of its possessions; but you will find my boy's camera a fairly good one, and there are plenty of dry plates. it so happens, also, that i have a new repeating rifle in the house, which has not yet been used; so, in the meantime, at all events, neither of you will suffer much from your misfortunes." it was finally arranged, before breakfast was over, that macrummle was to go off alone to his usual and favourite burn; that jackman and quin, under the guidance of junkie, should try the river for salmon and sea-trout; that barret, with ex-skipper mcpherson, shames mcgregor, robin tips, eddie gordon, the laird's second son--a boy of twelve--and ivor, the keeper--whose recoveries were as rapid as his relapses were sudden--should all go off in the boat to try the sea-fishing; and that bob mabberly, with archie, should go photographing up one of the most picturesque of the glens, conducted by the laird himself. as it stands to reason that we cannot accompany all of these parties, we elect to follow giles jackman, quin, and junkie up the river. this expedition involved a preliminary walk of four miles, which they all preferred to being driven to the scene of action in a dog-cart. junkie was a little fellow for his age, but remarkably intelligent, active, bright and strong. from remarks made by various members of the gordon family and their domestics, both jackman and his servant had been led to the conclusion that the boy was the very impersonation of mischief, and were more or less on the look out for displays of his propensity; but junkie walked demurely by their side, asking and replying to questions with the sobriety of an elderly man, and without the slightest indication of the latent internal fires, with which he was credited. the truth is, that junkie possessed a nature that was tightly strung and vibrated like an aeolian harp to the lightest breath of influence. he resembled, somewhat, a pot of milk on a very hot fire, rather apt to boil over with a rush; nevertheless, he possessed the power to restrain himself in a simmering condition for a considerable length of time. the fact that he was fairly out for the day with two strangers, to whom he was to show the pools where salmon and sea-trout lay, was a prospect so charming that he was quite content to simmer. "d'ee know how to fish for salmon?" he asked, looking gravely up in jackman's face, after they had proceeded a considerable distance. "oh, yes, junkie; i know how to do it. i used to fish for salmon before i went to india." "isn't that the place where they shoot lions and tigers and--and g'rillas?" "well, not exactly lions and gorillas, my boy; but there are plenty of baboons and monkeys there, and lots of tigers." "have you shot them?" asked junkie, with a look of keen interest. "yes; many of them." "did you ever turn a tiger outside in?" jackman replied, with a laugh, that he had never performed that curious operation on anything but socks--that, indeed, he had never heard of such a thing being done. "i knew it was a cracker," said junkie. "what d'you mean by a cracker, my boy?" inquired jackman. "a lie," said junkie, promptly. "and who told the cracker?" "ivor. he tells me a great, great many stories." "d'you mean ivor donaldson, the keeper?" "yes; he tells me plenty of stories, but some of them are crackers. he said that once upon a time a man was walkin' through the jungle--that's what they call the bushes, you know, in india--an' he met a great big tiger, which glared at him with its great eyes, and gave a tremendous roar, and sprang upon him. the man was brave and strong. he held out his right arm straight, so that when the tiger came upon him his arm went into its open mouth and right down its throat, and his hand caught hold of something. it was the inside end of the tiger's tail! the man gave an _awful_ pull, and the tiger came inside out at once with a _tremendous_ crack!" "sure, and that _was_ a cracker!" remarked quin, who had been listening to the boy's prattle with an amused expression, as they trudged along. "nevertheless, it may not be fair to call it a lie, junkie," said jackman. "did ivor say it was true?" "no. when i asked if it was, he only laughed, and said he had once read of the same thing being done to a walrus, but he didn't believe it." "just so, junkie. he meant you to understand the story of the tiger as he did the story of the walrus--as a sort of fairy tale, you know." "how could he mean that," demanded junkie, "when he said it was a _tiger's_ tail--not a _fairy's_ at all?" jackman glanced at quin, and suppressed a laugh. quin returned the glance, and expressed a smile. "better luck next time," murmured the servant. "did you ever see walruses?" asked junkie, whose active mind was prone to jump from one subject to another. "no, never; but i have seen elephants, which are a great deal bigger than walruses," returned jackman; "and i have shot them, too. i will tell you some stories about them one of these days--not `crackers', but true ones." "that'll be nice! now, we're close to the sea-pool; but the tide's too far in to fish that just now, so we'll go up to the next one, if you like." "by all means, my boy. you know the river, and we don't, so we put ourselves entirely under your guidance and orders," replied jackman. by this time they had reached the river at the upper end of the loch. it ran in a winding course through a level plain which extended to the base of the encircling hills. the pool next the sea being unfishable, as we have said, owing to the state of the tide, junkie conducted his companions high up the stream by a footpath. and a proud urchin he was, in his grey kilt and hose, with his glengarry cocked a little on one side of his curly head, as he strode before them with all the self-reliance of a highland chieftain. in a few minutes they came to the first practicable pool--a wide, rippling, oily, deep hole, caused by a bend in the stream, the appearance of which--suggestive of silvery scales--was well calculated to arouse sanguine hopes in a salmon fisher. here quin proceeded to put together the pieces of his master's rod, while jackman, opening a portly fishing-book, selected a casting line and fly. "have you been in india, too?" asked junkie of quin, as he watched their proceedings with keen interest. "sure, an' i have--leastways if it wasn't dhreamin' i've bin there." "an' have _you_ killed lions, and tigers, and elephants?" "well, not exactly, me boy, but it's meself as used to stand by an' howld the spare guns whin the masther was killin' them." "wasn't you frightened?" "niver a taste. och! thriflin' craters like them niver cost me a night's rest, which is more than i can say of the rats in kinlossie, anyhow." a little shriek of laughter burst from junkie on hearing this. "what are ye laughin' at, honey?" asked quin. "at you not bein' able to sleep for the rats!" returned the boy. "it's the way with everybody who comes to stay with us, at first, but they get used to it at last." "are the rats then so numerous?" asked jackman. "swarmin', all over! haven't you heard them yet?" "well, yes, i heard them scampering soon after i went to bed, but i thought it was kittens at play in the room overhead, and soon went to sleep. but they don't come into the rooms, do they?" "oh, no--i only wish they would! wouldn't we have a jolly hunt if they did? but they scuttle about the walls inside, and between the ceilings and the floors. and you can't frighten them. the only thing that scared them once was the bag-pipes. an old piper came to the house one day and played a great deal, and we heard nothing more of the rats for two or three weeks after that." "sensible bastes," remarked quin, handing the rod to his master; "an' a sign, too, that they've got some notion o' music." "why, quin, i thought you had bag-pipes in ireland," said jackman, as he fastened a large fly to his line. "an' that's what we have, sor; but the irish pipes are soft, mellow, gentle things--like the irish girls--not like them big scotch bellows that screech for all the world like a thousand unwillin' pigs bein' forced to go to markit." "true, quin; there's something in that. now then, both of you stand close to me--a little behind--so; it's the safest place if you don't want to be hooked, and be ready with the gaff, junkie," said the fisher, as he turned a critical eye on the water, and made a fine cast over what he deemed the most likely part of the pool. "father never rose a fish there," said junkie, with a demure look. the fisher paid no attention to the remark, but continued to cast a little lower down stream each time. "you're gettin' near the bit now," said junkie, in the tone of one whose expectations are awakened. "th-there! that's him!" "ay, and a good one, too," exclaimed jackman, as a fan-like tail disappeared with a heavy splash. again the fisher cast, with the same result. "he's only playin' wi' the fly," said junkie in a tone of disappointment. "that's often the way--no!--th-there! got 'im!" the rod bent like a hoop at that moment; the reel spun round to its own merry music, as the line flew out, and the fish finished its first wild rush with a leap of three feet into the air. "hooray!" yelled junkie, now fairly aflame, as he jumped like the fish, flourished the big hook round his head, and gaffed quin by the lappet of his coat! "have a care, you spalpeen," shouted the irishman, grasping the excited youngster by the collar and disengaging himself from the hook. "sure it might have been me nose as well as me coat, an' a purty objec' that would have made me!" junkie heeded not. when released he ran toward jackman who was struggling skilfully with the fish. "don't let him take you down the rapid," he shouted. "there's no good place for landin' him there. hold on, an' bring 'im up if you can. hi!" this last exclamation was caused by another rush of the fish. jackman had wound up his line as far as possible, and was in hopes of inducing the salmon to ascend the stream, for he had run perilously near to the head of the rapid against which the boy had just warned him. but to this the fish objected, and, finding that the fisher was obstinate, had, as we have said, made a sudden rush across the pool, causing the reel to spin furiously as the line ran out, and finishing off with another splendid jump. "a few more bursts like that will soon exhaust him," said jackman, as he wound in the line again and drew the fish steadily towards him. "yes, but _don't_ let him go down," said the boy earnestly. it seemed almost as if the creature had heard the warning, for it turned at the moment and made a straight rush for the head of the rapid. when a large salmon does this it is absolutely impossible to stop him. only two courses are open to the fisher--either to hold on and let him break the tackle; or follow him as fast as possible. the former alternative, we need hardly say, is only adopted when following is impracticable or involves serious danger. in the present case it was neither impossible nor dangerous, but it was difficult; and the way in which giles jackman went after that fish, staggering among pebbles, leaping obstructions, crashing through bushes and bounding over boulders, causing quin to hold his sides with laughter, and little junkie to stand transfixed and staring with admiration, was indescribable. for junkie had only seen his old father in such circumstances, and sometimes the heavy, rather clumsy, though powerful ivor donaldson. he had not till that day seen--much less imagined--what were the capacities of an indian "woods and forester" of athletic build, superb training, and fresh from his native jungles! "i say! _what_ a jumper he is!" exclaimed junkie, recovering presence of mind and dashing after him. the rapid was a short though rough one. the chief danger was that the line might be cut among the foam-covered rocks, or that the hook, if not firmly fixed, might tear itself away; also that the fisher might fall, which would probably be fatal to rod or line, to say nothing of elbows and shins. but jackman came triumphantly out of it all. the salmon shot into the pool below the rapid, and turned into the eddy to rest. the fisher, at the same moment, bounded on to a strip of sand there--minus only hat and wind--and proceeded to reel in the line for the next burst. but another burst did not occur, for the fish was by that time pretty well exhausted, and took to what is styled sulking; that is, lying at the bottom of a hole with its nose, probably, under a stone. while in this position a fish may recover strength to renew the battle. it is therefore advisable, if possible, to drive him or haul him out of his refuge by all or any means. a small fish may be hauled out if the tackle be strong, but this method is not possible with a heavy one such as that which jackman had hooked. "what's to be done now, junkie?" he said, after one or two vain efforts to move the fish. "bomb stones at him," said the urchin, without a moment's hesitation. "bomb away then, my boy!" junkie at once sent several large stones whizzing into the pool. the result was that the salmon made another dash for life, but gave in almost immediately, and came to the surface on its side. the battle is usually about ended when this takes place, though not invariably so, for lively fish sometimes recover sufficiently to make a final effort. in this case, however, it was the close of the fight. slowly and carefully the fisher drew the fish towards the shelving bank, where junkie stood ready with the gaff. another moment, and the boy bounded into the water, stuck the hook into the salmon's shoulder, and laid it like a bar of glittering silver on the bank. "a twenty-pounder," said junkie, with critical gravity. "twinty an' three-quarters," said quin, as he weighed it. "and a good job, too," returned the practical urchin; "for i heard mother say we'd have no fish for dinner to-morrow if somebody didn't catch something." chapter six. dangerous studies, peculiar art, and splendid fishing. there was a glass conservatory in one corner of the garden at kinlossie house, to which the laird was wont to retire regularly for the enjoyment of a pipe every morning after breakfast. in this retreat, which was rich in hot-house plants, he was frequently joined by one or more of the members of his family, and sometimes by the friends who chanced to be staying with him. thither john barret got into the way of going--partly for the sake of a chat with the old man, of whom he soon became very fond, and partly for the sake of the plants, in which he was scientifically interested, botany being, as mabberly said, his peculiar weakness. one morning--and a gloriously bright morning it was, such as induces one to thank god for the gift of sunshine and the capacity of enjoying it-- john barret sauntered down to the garden, after breakfast, to have a quiet chat with his host. he had decided to remain at home that morning for the purpose of writing a letter or two, intending in the afternoon to follow up some of his companions, who had gone off to the hills. entering the conservatory, he found that the laird was not there; but, in his usual rustic chair, there sat a beautiful girl, sound asleep, with her fair cheek resting on her little hand, and her nut-brown hair straggling luxuriantly over her shoulders. barret was spell-bound. he could not move for a few seconds. surprise may have had something to do with the sudden paralysis of his powers. it may have been curiosity, possibly admiration, certainly some sort of sensation that he could neither describe nor account for. he knew at a glance who the girl was, though he had not seen her since the day of her accident. even if he had been so obtuse as not to know, the arm in a sling would have revealed that it was milly moss who slumbered there; yet he found it hard to believe that the neat little woman, with the lovely, benignant countenance before him was in very truth the dishevelled, dusty, scratched, and blood-sprinkled being whom he had carried for several miles over the heather a short time before. as we have said, barret stood immovable, not knowing very well what to do. then it occurred to him that it was scarcely gallant or fair thus to take advantage of a sleeping beauty. staring at her was bad enough, but to awake her would be still worse; so he turned slowly about, as a cat turns when afraid of being pounced on by a glaring adversary. he would retire on tiptoe as softly as possible, so as not to disturb her. in carrying out this considerate intention, he swept a flower-pot off its stand, which fell with a mighty crash upon the stone floor. the poor youth clasped his hands, and glanced back over his shoulder in horror. the startled milly was gazing at him with mingled surprise and alarm, which changed, however, into a flush and a look of restrained laughter as she began to understand the situation. "never mind, mr barret," she said, rising, and coming forward with a gracious manner. "it is only one of the commonest plants we have. there are plenty more of them. you came, i suppose, in search of my uncle? excuse my left hand; the right, as you see, is not yet fit for duty." "i did indeed come here in search of mr gordon," said barret, recovering himself; "but permit me to lead you back to the chair; your strength has not quite returned yet, i see." he was right. although milly had recovered much more rapidly than the doctor had expected, she could not stand much excitement, and the shock given by the breaking flower-pot, coupled, perhaps, with the unexpected meeting with the man who had rescued her, from what might well have caused her death, somewhat overcame her. "excuse me," she said, with a fluttering sigh, as she sank down into the rustic chair, "i do feel rather faint. it does seem so strange! i--i suppose it is because i have had no experience of anything but robust health all my life till now. there--i feel better. will you kindly fetch me a glass of water? you will find a cistern with a tumbler beside it outside." the youth hurried out, and, on returning with the glass, found that the deadly pallor of the girl's face had passed away, and was replaced by a tint that might have made the blush rose envious. "you must understand," said milly, setting down the glass, while barret seated himself on a vacant flower-pot-stand beside her, "that this conservatory is a favourite haunt of mine, to which, before my accident, i have resorted every morning since i came here, in order to sit with uncle allan. the doctor thought me so much better this morning that he gave me leave to recommence my visits. this is why i came; but i had totally forgotten that uncle had arranged to go out with the shooting party to-day, so i sat down to enjoy my favourite plants, and paid them the poor compliment of falling asleep, owing to weakness, i suppose. but how does it happen, mr barret, that you have been left behind? they gave me to understand that you are a keen sportsman." "they misled you, then, for i am but a poor sportsman, and by no means enthusiastic. indeed, whether i go out with rod or gun, i usually convert the expedition into a search for plants." "oh, then, you are fond of botany!" exclaimed the girl, with a flush of pleasure and awakened interest. "i am so glad of that, because-- because--" "well, why do you hesitate, miss moss?" asked barret, with a surprised look and a smile. "well, i don't quite like to lay bare my selfishness; but the truth is, there are some rare plants in terribly inaccessible places, which can only be reached by creatures in male attire. in fact, i was trying to secure one of these on the eagle cliff when i fell, and was so nearly killed at the time you rescued me." "pray don't give the little service i rendered so dignified a name as `rescue.' but it rejoices me to know that i can be of further service to you--all the more that you are now so helpless; for if you found climbing the precipices difficult before, you will find it impossible now with your injured arm. by the way, i was very glad to find that i had been mistaken in thinking that your arm was broken. has it given you much pain?" "yes, a good deal; but i am very, very thankful it was no worse. and now i must show you some of the plants i have been trying to bring up since i came here," said milly, with animation. "of course, i cannot walk about to show them to you, so i will point them out, and ask you to fetch the pots--that is, if you have nothing better to do, and won't be bored." barret protested earnestly that he had nothing--_could_ have nothing-- better to do, and that even if he had he wouldn't do it. as for being bored, the idea of such a state of mind being possible in the circumstances was ridiculous. milly was rejoiced. here she had unexpectedly found a friend to sympathise with her intelligently. her uncle, she was well aware, sympathised with her heartily, but not intelligently; for his knowledge of botany, he told her frankly, was inferior to that of a tom-cat, and he was capable of little more in that line than to distinguish the difference between a cabbage and a potato. at it, therefore, the two young people went with real enthusiasm--we might almost say with red-hot enthusiasm--for botany was only a superstructure, so to speak, love being the foundation of the whole affair. but let not the reader jump to hasty conclusions. barret and milly, being young and inexperienced, were absolutely ignorant at that time of the true state of matters. both were earnest and straightforward--both were ardently fond of botany, and neither, up to that period, had known what it was to fall in love. what more natural, then, than that they should attribute their condition to botany? there is, indeed, a sense in which their idea was correct, for sympathy is one of the most precious seeds with which poor humanity is entrusted, and did not botany enable these two to unite in planting that seed, and is not sympathy the germ of full-blown love? if so, may they not be said to have fallen in love botanically? we make no assertion in regard to this. we merely, and modestly, put the question, leaving it to the intelligent reader to supply the answer--an exceedingly convenient mode of procedure when one is not quite sure of the answer one's self. to return. having got "at it," barret and milly continued at it for several hours, during which period they either forgot, or did not care to remember, the flight of time. they also contrived, during that time, to examine, discuss, and comment upon, a prodigious number of plants, all of which, being in pots or boxes, were conveyed by the youth to the empty stand at the side of the fair invalid. the minute examination with a magnifying glass of corolla, and stamen, and calyx, etcetera, rendered it necessary, of course, that these inquiries into the mysteries of nature should bring the two heads pretty close together; one consequence being that the seed-plant of sympathy was "forced" a good deal, and developed somewhat after the fashion of those plants which hindoo jugglers cause magically to sprout, blossom, and bloom before the very eyes of astonished beholders--with this difference, however, that whereas the development of the jugglers is deceptive as well as quick, that of our botanists was genuine and natural, though rapid. the clang of the luncheon gong was the first thing that brought them to their senses. "surely there must be some mistake! junkie must be playing with--no, it is indeed one o'clock," exclaimed milly, consulting in unbelief a watch so small that it seemed like cruelty to expect it to go at all, much less to go correctly. as she spoke, the door of the conservatory opened, and mrs gordon appeared with affected indignation on her usually mild countenance. "you naughty child!" she exclaimed, hurrying forward. "did i not warn you to stay no longer than an hour? and here you are, flushed, and no doubt feverish, in consequence of staying the whole forenoon. take my arm, and come away directly." "i pray you, mrs gordon, to lay the blame on my shoulders," said barret. "i fear it was my encouraging miss moss to talk of her favourite study that induced her to remain." "i would be only too glad to lay the blame on your shoulders if i could lay milly's weakness there too," returned the lady. "it is quite evident that you would never do for a nurse. strong men like you have not sympathy enough to put yourself in the place of invalids, and think how they feel. i would scold you severely, sir, if you were not my guest. as it is, i will forgive you if you promise me not to mention the subject of botany in the presence of my niece for a week to come." "the condition is hard," said barret, with a laugh; "but i promise--that is, if miss moss does not force the subject on me." "i promise that, mr barret; but i also attach a condition." "which is--?" "that you go to eagle cliff some day this week, and find for me a particular plant for which i have sought for a long time in vain, but which i am told is to be found there." "most willingly. nothing could give me greater pleasure," returned the youth, with an air of such eager enthusiasm that he felt constrained to add,--"you see, the acquisition of new and rare plants has been a sort of passion with me for many years, and i am quite delighted to find that there is a possibility of not only gratifying it here, but of being able at the same time to contribute to your happiness." they reached the house as he made this gallant speech, and milly went straight to her room. the only members of the household who sat down to luncheon that day were mrs gordon, archie, the enthusiastic photographer, and flo, with her black doll; and the only guest, besides barret, was mcpherson, the skipper of the lost yacht. the rest were all out rambling by mountain, loch, or stream. "milly won't appear again to-day," said the hostess, as she sat down. "i knew that she had overdone it. the shock to her system has been far too severe to admit of botanical discussions." barret professed himself overwhelmed with a sense of guilt, and promised to avoid the dangerous subject in future. "mother," exclaimed flo, who was a good but irrepressible child, "what d'ee t'ink? archie have pofografft dolly, an' she's as like as--as--two peas. isn't she, archie?" "quite as like as that, flo," replied archie, with a laugh; "liker, if anything." "by the way, how did you get on with your photographing yesterday afternoon, archie?" asked barret. "pretty well with some of the views; but i ruined the last one, because father would have me introduce captain mcpherson and his man mcgregor." "is that so, captain?" asked mrs gordon. "oo, ay; it iss true enough," answered the skipper, with a grim smile. "he made a queer like mess o' me, what-e-ver." "how was it, archie?" "well, mother, this is how it was. you know the waterfall at the head of raven's nook? well, i have long wanted to take that, so i went up with father and mr mabberly. we found the captain and mcgregor sitting there smoking their pipes, and when i was arranging the camera, the captain said to me--" "no, maister archie," interrupted the skipper; "i did not say anything to shames. you should be more parteekler. but shames said something to _me_, what-e-ver." "just so; i forgot," continued archie. "well, mcgregor said to the captain, `what would you think if we wass to sit still an' co into the pictur'?'" "oo, ay; that was just it, an' fery like him too," said the skipper, laughing at archie's imitation, though he failed to recognise the similarity to his own drawling and nasal tones. people always do thus fail. we can never see ourselves! "well," continued archie, "father insisted that i was to take them, though they quite spoiled the view. so i did; but in the very middle of the operation, what did the captain do but insist on changing his--" "not at all, maister archie," again interrupted the skipper; "you have not got the right of it. it wass shames said to me that he thought you had feenished, an' so i got up; an' then you roared like a wild bullock to keep still, and so what could i do but keep still? an so--" "exactly; that was it," cried archie, interrupting in his turn; "but you kept still _standing_, and so there were three figures in the picture when it was done, and your fist in the standing one came right in front of your own nose in the sitting one, for all the world as if you were going to knock yourself down. such a mess it was altogether!" "that iss fery true. it wass a mess, what-e-ver!" "you must show me this curious photograph, archie, after lunch," said barret; "it must be splendid." "but it is not so splendid as my dolly," chimed in flo. "i'll show you zat after lunch too." accordingly, after the meal was over, archie carried barret off to his workshop. then flo took him to the nursery, where she not only showed him the portrait of the nigger doll, which was a striking likeness--for dolls invariably sit well--but took special pains to indicate the various points which had "come out" so "bootifully"--such as the nails which junkie had driven into its wooden head for the purpose of making it behave better; the chip that junkie had taken off the end of its nose when he tried to convert that feature into a roman; the deep line drawn round the head close to the hair by junkie, when, as the chief of the micmac indians, he attempted to scalp it; and the hole through the right eye, by which junkie proposed to let a little more light into its black brain. having seen and commented on all these things, barret retired to the smoking-room, not to smoke, but to consult a bundle of newspapers which the post had brought to the house that day. for it must not be imagined that the interests and amusements by which he was surrounded had laid the ghost of the thin, little old lady whom he had mur--at least run down--in london. no; wherever he went, and whatever he did, that old lady, like nemesis, pursued him. when he looked down, she lay sprawling--a murdered, at least a manslaughtered, victim--at his feet. when he looked up, she hung, like the sword of damocles, by a single fibre of maiden's hair over his head. it was of no use that his friend jackman rallied him on the point. "my dear fellow," he would say, "don't you see that if you had really killed her, the thing would have been published far and wide all over the kingdom, with a minute description, and perhaps a portrait of yourself on the bicycle, in all the illustrated papers? even if you had only injured her severely, they would have made a sensation of it, with an offer, perhaps, of a hundred pounds for your capture, and a careful indication of the streets through which you passed when you ran away--" "ay, that's what makes the matter so much worse," barret would reply; "the unutterable meanness of running away!" "but you repented of that immediately," jackman would return in soothing tones; "and you did your utmost to undo it, though the effort was futile." barret was usually comforted a good deal by the remarks of his friend, and indeed frequently forgot his trouble, especially when meditating on botanical subjects with milly. still, it remained a fact that he was haunted by the little old lady, more or less, and had occasional bad dreams, besides becoming somewhat anxious every time he opened a newspaper. while barret and the skipper were thus taking what the latter called an easy day of it, their friend mabberly, with eddie and junkie and the seaman mcgregor, had gone over the pass in the waggonette to the village of cove for a day's sea-fishing. they were driven by ivor donaldson. "you'll not have been in these parts before, sir?" said ivor, who was a quiet, polite, and sociable man when not under the influence of drink. "no, never," answered mabberly, who sat on the seat beside him; "and if it had not been for our misfortune, or the carelessness of that unknown steamer, i should probably never have known of the existence of your beautiful island. at least, i would have remained in ignorance of its grandeur and beauty." "that proves the truth of the south-country sayin', sir,--`it's an ill wind that blaws nae guid.'" "it does, indeed; for although the loss of my father's yacht is a very considerable one, to have missed the hospitality of the laird of kinlossie, and the rambling over your magnificent hills, would have been a greater misfortune." the keeper, who cherished a warm feeling for old mr gordon, and admired him greatly, expressed decided approval of the young man's sentiments, as was obvious from the pleased smile on his usually grave countenance, though his lips only gave utterance to the expression, "fery true, sir; you are not far wrong." at the eagle pass they halted a few minutes to breathe the horses. eddie and junkie, of course, jumped down, followed by james mcgregor, with whom they had already formed a friendship. "come away, an' we'll show you the place where milly fell down. come along, quicker, shames," cried junkie, adopting the name that the skipper used; for the boy's love of pleasantry not infrequently betrayed him into impudence. with a short laugh, mabberly turned to ivor, and asked if shames was the gaelic for james. "no, sir" replied the keeper; "but james is the english for shames." "ha! you are quoting now--or rather, misquoting--from the lips of some irishman." "weel, sir, i never heard it said that quota-ashun wass a sin," retorted ivor; then, turning to the stupendous cliff that frowned above them, "hev ye heard of the prophecy, sir, aboot this cliff?" "no. what is it?" "it's said that the cliff is to be the scene of a ghost story, a love story, and a murder all at the same time." "is that all, ivor? did the prophet give no indication how the stories were to end, or who the murderer is to be, or the murdered one?" "never a word, sir; only they wass all to be aboot the same time. indeed, the prophet, whether man or wuman, is not known. noo, we better shump up." in a few minutes the waggonette was rattling down the slopes that led to cove, and soon afterwards they were exchanging greetings with old ian anderson, the fisherman. "iss it to fush, ye'll be wantin'?" asked ian, as he ushered the party into his cottage, where mrs anderson was baking oat-cakes, and aggy was busy knitting socks with her thin fingers as deftly and rapidly as if she had been in robust health. "yes, that is our object to-day," said mabberly. "good-day, mrs anderson; good-day, aggy. i'm glad to see you looking so much better, though i can't see very well for your cottage is none of the lightest," he said, glancing at the small window, where a ragged head, with a flattened white nose, accounted for the obscurity. "there might be _more_ light," said ian, seizing a thick thorn stick, and making a sudden demonstration towards the door, the instant effect of which action was an improvement in the light. it did not last long, however, for "tonal'," after watching at the corner of the cottage long enough to make sure that the demonstration was a mere feint, returned to his post of observation. "yes, sir," remarked mrs anderson; "aggy is much better. the fresh air is doin' her cood already, an' the peels that the shentleman--your friend--gave her is workin' wonders." "they usually do, of one sort or another," returned mabberly, with a peculiar smile. "i'm glad they happen to be wonders of the right sort in aggy's case. my friend has been out in india, and his prescriptions have been conceived in a warm climate, you see, which may account for their wonder-working qualities. can we have your boat to-day, mr anderson?" "oo, ay; ye can hev that, sir," said ian, summoning donald to his presence with a motion of his finger. "tonal'," he said, when ragged head stood at the open door, "hev we ony pait?" "ay, plenty." "co doon, then, an' git the poat ready." the boy disappeared without reply--a willing messenger. a few minutes more, and ivor and ian were rowing the boat towards a part of the sea which was deemed good fishing ground, while the rest of the party busied themselves arranging the lines. strong brown lines they were, wound on little square wooden frames, each with a heavy leaden sinker and a couple of strong coarse hooks of whitened metal attached to the lines by stout whipcord; for the denizens of those western waters were not the poddlies, coddlings, and shrimps that one is apt to associate with summer resorts by the sea. they were those veritable inhabitants of the deep that figure on the slabs of billingsgate and similar markets--plaice and skate of the largest dimensions, congers that might suggest the great sea serpent, and even sharks of considerable size. the surroundings were cognate. curlews and sandpipers whistled on the shore, complaining sea-mews sailed overhead, and the low-lying skerries outside were swarming with "skarts" and other frequenters of the wild north. "oh, _what_ a funny face!" exclaimed junkie, as a great seal rose head and shoulders out of the sea, not fifty yards off, to look at them. its observations induced it to sink promptly. "let co the anchor, tonal'," said ian; "the pottom should be cood here." "hand me the pait, junkie," said mcgregor. "shie a bit this way," shouted eddie. "there--i've broke it!" exclaimed junkie, almost whimpering, as he held up the handle of his knife in one hand, and in the other a mussel with a broken blade sticking in it. "never mind, junkie. you can have mine, and keep it," said mabberly, handing to the delighted boy a large buck-horn-handled knife, which bristled with appliances. "an' don't try it on again," said ian. "here iss pait for you, my poy." a few minutes more, and the lines were down, and expectation was breathlessly rampant. "hi!" burst from eddie, at the same moment that "ho!" slipped from mcgregor; but both ceased to haul in on finding that the "tugs" were not repeated. "hallo!" yelled "tonal'," who fished beside junkie, on feeling a tug worthy of a whale; and, "hee! hee!" burst from junkie, whose mischievous hand had caused the tug when ragged head was not looking. in the midst of these false alarms ivor drew up his line, and no one was aware of his success until a fish of full ten pounds' weight was floundering in the boat. the boys were yet commenting on it noisily, when ian put a large cod beside it. "_what_ a tug!" cried eddie, beginning to haul up in violent haste. "hev a care, or the line will pairt," said mcgregor. at the same moment "shames" himself gave a jerk, as if he had received an electric shock, and in a few seconds a large plaice and a small crab were added to the "pile!" "i've got _something_ at last," said mabberly, doing his best to repress excitement as he hauled in his line deliberately. the something turned out to be an eel about four feet long, which went about the boat as if it were in its native element, and cost an amazing amount of exertion, whacking, and shouting, to subdue. but this was nothing to the fish with which junkie began to struggle immediately after, and which proved to be a real shark, five feet long. after the united efforts of ian and donald had drawn it to the surface, junkie was allowed to strike the gaff into it, and a loud cheer greeted the monster of the deep as it was hurled into the bottom of the boat. thus, in expectation, excitation, and animation, they spent the remainder of that memorable day. chapter seven. amazing deeds and misdeeds at a deer-drive. to some casts of mind there is no aspect of nature so enchanting or romantic as that which is presented, on a fine summer day from the vantage ground of a ridge or shoulder high up on the mountains of one of our western isles. it may be that the union of the familiar and beautiful with the unfamiliar and wild is that which arouses our enthusiastic admiration. as we stand in the calm genial atmosphere of a summer day, surveying the land and sea-scape from a commanding height that seems to have raised us above the petty cares of life, the eye and mind pass like the lightning-flash from the contemplation of the purple heather and purple plants around--and from the home-feelings thereby engendered--to the grand, apparently illimitable ocean, and the imagination is set free to revel in the unfamiliar and romantic regions "beyond seas." some such thoughts were passing in the mind of giles jackman, as he stood alone, rifle in hand, on such a height one splendid forenoon, and contemplated the magnificent panorama. far down below--so far that the lowing of the red and black specks, which were cattle, and the bleating of the white specks, which were sheep, failed to reach him--a few tiny cottages could be seen, each in the midst of a green patch that indicated cultivation. farther on, a snow-white line told where the wavelets kissed the rugged shore, but no sound of the kiss reached the hunter's ear. beyond, as if floating on the calm water, numerous rocky islets formed the playground of innumerable gulls, skarts, seals, loons, and other inhabitants of the wild north; but only to the sense of vision were their varied activities perceptible. among these islets were a few blacker spots, which it required a steady look to enable one to recognise as the boats of fishermen; but beyond them no ship or sign of man was visible on the great lone sea, over, and reflected in which, hung a few soft and towering masses of cloudland. "if thus thy meaner works are fair, and beautiful beyond compare; how glorious must the mansions be where thy redeemed shall dwell with thee!" jackman murmured rather than spoke the words, for no human ear was there to hear. nevertheless there were human ears and tongues also, not far distant, engaged in earnest debate. it was on one of the ledges of the eagle cliff that our hunter stood. at another part of the same cliff, close to the pass where milly moss met with her accident, allan gordon stood with nearly all his visitors and several of his retainers around him. "higher up the pass you'll have a much better chance, mr barret. is it not so, ivor?" the keeper, who, in kilt, hose, and bonnet, was as fine a specimen of a tall athletic highlander as one could wish to see, replied that that was true. "nae doot," he said, "i hev put mr jackman in the best place of all, for, whativer way the deer come, they'll hev to pass close, either above or below him--an' that's maybe as weel for him wi' his queer new-fashioned rifle; but at the heed o' the pass is the next best place. the only thing is that ye'll hev to tak' sure aim, for there's more room for them to stray, an' ye may chance to git only a lang shot." "well, then, it is not the place for me, for i am a poor shot," said barret; "besides, i have a fancy to stay here, where i am. you say it is a very good spot, ivor, i understand?" "weel, it's no' that bad as a spote," answered the keeper, with a grim smile, for he had not much opinion of barret's spirit as a sportsman; "but it's ackward as the lawnd lies." "never mind. i'll stay here, and you know, laird, that i have some pleasant associations with it in connection with your niece." "that is more than milly has," returned the old gentleman, laughing. "however, have your way. now, gentlemen, we must place ourselves quickly, for the beaters will soon be entering the wood. i will take you, mr mabberly, to a spot beyond the pass where you will be pretty sure of a shot. and macrummle--where shall we place him?" "he can do nothing wi' the gun at a', sir," muttered the keeper, in a low voice, so that he might not be overheard. "i wad putt him doon at the white rock. he'll git a lang shot at them there. of course he'll miss, but that'll do weel enough for him--for he's easy pleased; ony way, if he tak's shootin' as he tak's fishin', a mere sight o' the deer, like the rise o' a salmon, 'll send him home happy." "very well, ivor, arrange as you think best. and how about captain mcpherson and mcgregor?" "i'll tak' care o' them mysel', sir." "ye need na' fash yer heed aboot us, laird," said the skipper. "bein' more used to the sea than the mountains, we will be content to look on. iss that not so, shames?" "that iss so--what-e-ver," returned the seaman. "well, come along then; the beaters must be at work now. how many did you get, ivor?" "i'm not exactly sure, sir," returned the keeper; "there's ian anderson an' tonal' from cove, an' mister archie an' eddie, an' roderick--that's five. oo, ay, i forgot, there's that queer english loon, robin tips-- he's no' o' much use, but he can mak' a noise--besides three o' mr grant's men." "that's plenty--now then--" "please, father," said junkie, who had listened with open eyes and mouth, as well as ears, for this was his first deer-stalk, "may i stop with mr barret?" "certainly, my boy, if mr barret does not object." of course mr barret did not object, though he was rather surprised at this mark of preference. "i say, me boy," whispered pat quin, "ask av i may stop wid ye." junkie looked at the irishman doubtfully for a moment, then said-- "father, quin says he wants to stop with me." "you mayn't do that, quin," returned the laird with a smile; "but you may go and stay with your master. i heard him say that he would like you to be with him to keep you out of mischief." "thankee, sor. i was used to attend on 'im in the jungles to carry his spare guns, for it's ellyphints, no less, that we was used to bag out there; but i make no question he can amuse himsilf wid deer an' things like that where there's nothin' better. he was always aisy to plaze, like mr macrummle." "just so, quin; and as macrummle knows the hill, and has to pass the place where mr jackman has been left, you had better follow him." this arranged, the different parties took up their positions to await the result of the beating of a strip of dwarf forest, several miles in extent, which clothed part of the mountain slopes below the eagle cliff. on reaching the spot where jackman was stationed, old macrummle explained to him the various arrangements that had just been made for the comfort of all. "i am sorry they gave me the best place," said jackman. "i suppose it is because the laird thinks my experience in india entitles me to it; but i would much rather that mabberly or barret had got the chance, for i'm used to this sort of thing, and, after bagging elephants, i can afford to lay on my oars and see my friends go in and win." "an' sure, aren't thim the very words i said, sor?" put in quin. "have they given you a good place?" asked jackman of macrummle, taking no notice of his man's remarks. "they've given me the worst," said the old man, simply; "and i cannot blame them, for, as the keeper truly remarked, i can do nothing with the gun,"--still less with the rifle, he might have added! "at the same time, i confess it would have added somewhat to the zest of the day if ivor had allowed me some degree of hope. he thought i didn't overhear him, but i did; for they give me credit for greater deafness than i deserve." there was something so pitiful, yet half amusing, in the way in which this was said, that jackman suddenly grasped the old gentleman's hand. "mr macrummle," he said firmly, "will you do me a favour?" "certainly, with pleasure--if i can." "you can--and you shall. it is this: change places and rifles with me." "my dear, kind sir, you don't know what you ask. my rifle is an old double-barrel muzzle loader, and at the white rock you wouldn't have the ghost of a chance. i know the place well, having often passed it in fishing excursions up the burns. besides, i never used a repeating rifle in my life. i couldn't manage it, even if i were to try." "mr macrummle, are you not a highlander?" "i believe i am!" replied the old man, drawing himself up with a smile. "and is not that equivalent to saying that you are a man of your word?" "well--i suppose it is so--at least it should be so." "but you will prove that it is not so, if you fail to do me a favour that lies in your power, after promising to do it. come now, we have no time to lose. i will show you how to use the repeater. see; it is empty just now. all you have to do is to take aim as you would with any ordinary rifle, and pull the trigger. when the shot is off, you load again by simply doing _this_ to the trigger-guard--so. d'you understand?" "yes, perfectly; but is that all? no putting in of cartridges anywhere?" "no, nothing more. simply do _that_ (open--and the cartridge flies out), and _that_ (shut--and you are loaded and ready to fire)! now, try it. that's it! capital! couldn't be better. why, you were born to be a sportsman!" "yes, with fish," remarked the gratified old man, as he went through the motions of loading and firing to perfection. "now, then, i will load it thus. watch me." as he spoke, he filled the chamber under the barrel with cartridge after cartridge to the amazement of macrummle and the amusement of quin, who looked on. "how many shots will it fire without reloading?" asked the old man at length. "sixteen," replied jackman. "what! sixteen? but--but how will i ever know how many i've let off?" "you don't require to know. just blaze away till it refuses to fire! now, i must be off. where is this white rock that i have to go to?" "there it is--look. a good bit down the hill, on the open ground near the forest. if you have good eyes, you can see it from here. look, just behind the ridge. d'you see?" "i see. great luck to you. do good work, and teach that rascal ivor to respect your powers with the rifle. come along, quin." "but really, my young friend, it is too good, too self-denying of you to--" he stopped, for jackman and quin were already striding down the mountain on their way to the white rock. macrummle had been somewhat excited by the enthusiasm of his young friend and the novelty of his situation. to say truth, he would much rather have been pottering along the banks of one of his loved highland streams, rod in hand, than crouching in the best pass of the eagle cliff in expectation of red-deer; but being an amiable and sympathetic man, he had been fired by the enthusiasm of the household that morning, and, seeing that all were going to the drive, including the laird, he made up his mind to brace himself up to the effort, and float with the current. his enthusiasm had not cooled when he reached the eagle cliff, and jackman's kindness, coupled with hope and the repeating rifle, increased it even to white heat. in which condition he sat down on a rock, removed his hat, and wiped his bald, perspiring head, while a benignant smile illuminated his glowing features. about the same time, barret and junkie having selected a convenient mass of rock as their outlook, so that they could command the pass for some distance in both directions without exposing themselves to view, rested the rifle against the cliff and began to talk. soon the young man discovered that the little boy, like many other mischievous boys, was of an exceedingly inquiring disposition. among other things, he not only began an intelligent inquiry about the locks of a rifle, but a practical inquiry with his fingers, which called for remonstrance. "do you know, junkie, that this is the very spot where your cousin milly fell?" said barret, by way of directing the urchin's thoughts into a safer channel. "is it? oh, dear, _what_ a thump she must have come down!" "yes, indeed, a dreadful thump--poor thing. she was trying to get flowers at the time. do you know that she is exceedingly fond of flowers?" "oh, don't i? she's got books full of them--all pasted in with names printed under them. i often wonder what she sees in flowers to be so fond of them. i don't care a button for them myself, unless they smell nice. but i often scramble after them for her." "there is a good deal to like in flowers besides the smell," said barret, assuming an instructive tone, which junkie resented on the spot. "oh, yes, i don't want to know; you needn't try to teach me," he said, firmly. "of course not. i wouldn't think of teaching you, my boy. you know i'm not a schoolmaster. i'm not clever enough for that, and when i was your age, i hated to be taught. but i could _show_ you some things about flowers and plants that would astonish you. only it would not be safe to do it just now, for the deer might come up and--" "no they won't," interrupted the boy; "it's a monstrous big wood they've got to pass through before they can come here, so we have time to look at some of the 'stonishin' things." "well, then, come. we will just go a little way up the cliff." leading junkie away among the masses of fallen rock, which strewed that ledge of the cliff, the wily youth began to examine plants and flowers minutely, and to gradually arouse in the boy's mind an interest in such parts of botanical science as he was capable of understanding. meanwhile the small army of beaters had extended themselves across the distant end of the forest, which, being some miles off, and on the other side of a great shoulder of the mountain, was not only out of sight, but out of hearing of the stalkers who watched the passes of the eagle cliff. all the beaters, or drivers, were well acquainted with the work they had to do, with the exception of robin tips, to whom, of course, it was quite new. but ian anderson put him under donald's care, with strict injunctions to look well after him. "now, tonal', see that ye don't draw together an' git ta-alkin' so as to forget what ye're about. keep him at the right distance away from ye, an' as much in line as ye can." "oo, ay," returned ragged head, in a tone that meant, when translated into familiar english, "don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs!" in a sequestered dell on the slope of the hills, a lordly stag and several hinds were enjoying themselves that morning among the bracken and bright mosses, partially screened from the sun by the over-arching boughs of birch and hazel, and solaced by the tinkling music of a neighbouring rill. thick underwood concealed the dell on all sides; grey lichen-covered boulders surrounded it; no sound disturbed it save the faint cry of the plover and curlew on the distant shore, or the flap of a hawk's wing as it soared overhead. altogether it looked like a safe and sure retreat, but it did not prove to be so. mingled with the plaintive cries of the wild fowl, there came a faint-- barely perceptible--sound of the human voice. the stag pricked up his ears, and raised his antlered head. it was by no means a new sound to him. the shepherd's voice calling to his collie on the mountain-side was a familiar sound, that experience had taught him boded no evil. the converse of friends as they plodded along the roads or foot-paths that often skirted his lairs, had a tone of innocence about it which only induced caution--not alarm. but there was nothing of this in the sounds that now met his ears. he raised himself higher, opened his nostrils wider, sniffed the tainted air, and then, turning his graceful head, made some remark--we presume, though we cannot be positive on this point--to his wives. these, meek and gentle--as females usually are, or ought to be--turned their soft inquiring gaze on their lord. thus they stood, as if spell-bound, while the sounds slowly but steadily increased in volume and approached their retreat. presently a shoulder of the mountain was turned by the drivers, and their discordant voices came down on the gentle breeze with unmistakable significance. we regret being unable to report exactly what the stag then said to his wives, but the result was that the entire family bounded from their retreat, and, in the hurry and alarm of the moment, scattered along various glades, all of which, however, trended ultimately towards those mountain fastnesses that exist about and beyond the eagle cliff. two of the hinds followed their lord in a direction which led them out of the wood within sight of, though a considerable distance from, the white rock behind which jackman and quin were concealed. the others fled by tracks somewhat higher on the hill-sides, where however, as the reader knows, the enemy was posted to intercept them. "sure it's a purty stag, afther all," whispered quin, who, in spite of elephantine-indian sport, was somewhat excited by this sudden appearance of the scottish red-deer. "but they're a long way off, sor." "not too far, if the rifle is true," said jackman, in a very low voice, as he put up the long-range sight. "you'll git a good chance at the stag whin he tops the hillock forenent you, sor," remarked the somewhat garrulous irishman. "i won't fire at the stag, quin," returned jackman, quietly. "you and i have surely killed enough of bigger game abroad. we can afford to let the stag pass on to our friends higher up, some of whom have never seen a red-deer before, and may never have a chance of seeing one again." all this was said by the sportsman in a low, soft voice, which could not have been heard three yards off, yet his sharp eye was fixed intently on the passing deer. seeing that there was no likelihood of their coming nearer, he raised his rifle, took steady but quick aim, and fired. one of the hinds dropped at once; the other followed her terrified lord as he dashed wildly up the slope. partial deafness is a slight disadvantage in deer-stalking. so, at least, macrummle discovered that day. after having wiped his forehead, as already described, he set himself steadily to fulfil the duties of his situation. these were not so simple as one might suppose, for, as had been explained to him by jackman, he had to watch two passes--one close above his post, the other close below it--either of which might bring the deer within easy reach of his rifle, but of course there was the uncertainty as to which of the two passes the deer would choose. as it was a physical impossibility to have his eyes on both passes at once, the old gentleman soon found that turning his head every few seconds from one side to the other became irksome. then it became painful. at last it became torture, and then he gave up this plan in despair, resolving to devote a minute at a time to each pass, although feeling that by so doing his chances were greatly diminished. when jackman fired his shot, macrummle's ears refused to convey the information to his brain. he still sat there, turning his head slowly to and fro, and feeling rather sleepy. one of the scattered deer, which had gone higher up the mountain, passed him by the upper track. macrummle was gazing at the lower track just then! having given the allotted time to it, he turned languidly and beheld the hind, trotting rather slowly, for it was somewhat winded. the sight sent sportsman-fire through the old gentleman's entire frame. he sprang, he almost tumbled up, but before he could fire, a jealous boulder intervened. rushing up a few yards, he was just in time to see the animal bound over a cliff and disappear. depressed beyond measure, he returned to his post and resumed the rapid head-motion which he had foolishly discontinued. this was fortunate, for it enabled him to see in time the stag and hind which jackman had sent bounding towards him. another moment, and the affrighted creatures were within range. macrummle sprang up, put the repeater to his shoulder, and then commenced a fusillade that baffles description. bang, bang, bang, went the repeater; bang, bang, double-bang, and banging everywhere went the startled echoes of the mountain. never since it sprang from the volcanic forces of nature had the eagle cliff sent forth such a spout of rattling reverberation. the old man took no aim whatever. he merely went through the operations of load and fire with amazing rapidity. each crack delivered into the arms of echo was multiplied a hundredfold. showers of bullets seemed to hail around the astounded quarry. smoke, as of a battle, enshrouded the sportsman. the rifle became almost too hot to hold, and when at last it ceased to respond to the drain upon its bankrupt magazine, the stag and hind lay dead upon the track, and macrummle lay exhausted with excitement and exertion upon the heather! this unwonted fusillade took the various parties higher up the hill by surprise. to ivor, indeed, it was quite a new experience, and he regarded it with a smile of grim contempt. "there iss noise enough--what-e-ver!" remarked skipper mcpherson, who sat beside the keeper with a double-barrelled gun charged with buckshot, which he had in readiness. "look! look!" exclaimed ivor, pointing to another part of the pass, "your friend mcgregor has got a fright!" "ay, that's true. shames would be troubled in his mind, i think." there was indeed some reason to suppose so. the worthy seaman, having got tired of waiting, had, against ivor's advice, wandered a few yards along the pass, where, seeing something farther on that aroused his curiosity, he laid down the single-barrelled fowling-piece with which he had been provided, and began to clamber. just as the repeater opened fire, two hinds, which had got ahead of the others, ran through the pass by different tracks. one of these mcgregor saw before it came up, and he rushed wildly back for his gun. it was this act that his comrades rightly attributed to mental perturbation. "look out!" whispered the keeper. as he spoke the other hind, doubling round a mass of fallen rock, almost leaped into mcgregor's arms. it darted aside, and the seaman, uttering a wild shout, half raised his gun and fired. the butt hit him on the chest and knocked him down, while the shot went whizzing in all directions round his comrades, cutting their garments, but fortunately doing them no serious injury. "oh, shames! ye was always in too great a hurry," remonstrated the skipper, oblivious of the fact that he himself had been too slow. "quick, man, fire!" cried ivor, testily. the captain tried to energise. in doing so he let off one barrel at the celestial orbs unintentionally. the other might as well have gone the same way, for all the execution it did. when he looked at the keeper, half apologetically, he saw that he was quietly examining his leg, which had been penetrated by a pellet. "eh! man, are 'ee shot?" cried the captain, anxiously. "oo, ay, but i'm none the worse o' it! i had a presentiment o' somethin' o' this sort, an' loaded his gun wi' small shot," replied the keeper. profound were the expressions of apology from mcgregor, on learning what he had done, and patronisingly cool were the assurances of ivor that the injury was a mere flea-bite. and intense was the astonishment when it was discovered that a stag and a hind had fallen to old macrummle with that "treemendious" repeater! and great was the laughter afterwards, at lunch time on the field of battle, when junkie gravely related that barret was upon a precipice, trying to reach a rare plant, when the deer passed, so that he did not get a shot at all! and confused was the expression of barret's face when he admitted the fact, though he carefully avoided stating that his mind was taken up at the time with a very different kind of dear! it was afternoon when the assembled party, including drivers, sat down to luncheon on the hill-side, and began to allay the cravings of appetite, and at the same time to recount or discuss in more or less energetic tones, the varied experiences of the morning. gradually the victuals were consumed, and the experiences pretty well thrashed out, including those of poor mabberly, who had failed to get even a chance of a shot. "an' sure it's no wonder at all," was pat quin's remark; "for the noise was almost as bad as that night when you an' me, sor, was out after the elephants in that great hunt in the north-western provinces of indy." "oh, _do_ tell us about that," cried junkie and his brothers, turning eagerly to jackman. "so i will, my boys; but not now. it will take too long. some other time, in the house, perhaps, when a bad day comes." "no, now, _now_!" cried junkie. seeing that most of those present had lighted their pipes, and that the laird seemed to wish it, jackman washed down his lunch with a glass of sparkling water, cleared his throat, and began. chapter eight. jackman's wonderful elephant story. "once upon a time," said jackman, glancing at junkie and robin tips, who sat before him open-mouthed and open-eyed, as if ready to swallow anything... "yes," murmured junkie, nodding, "that's the right way to begin." "but you must not interrupt, junkie." "no, i won't do it again; but first, tell me, is it true?" "yes, my boy; it is absolutely true in all its main points," replied jackman. "well, as i said, once upon a time, not very long ago, i was sent up to the north-west provinces of india, to a place near the base of the himalaya mountain-range. the country was swarming with elephants at that time. you see, previous to that, the elephants had been hunted and killed to such an extent that the government had been obliged to pass an elephant preservation act for their protection, and the act worked so well that the elephants multiplied very fast. they roamed at will through the forests, and frequently, leaving these, made raids upon the cultivated lands, to the great damage of property and danger of human life from the `rogues,' as old, solitary elephants which have been driven from the herds, are called. these `rogues' are extremely ill-natured and dangerous, so it was found necessary to take steps to kill some of them, and thin the herds by capturing some of the females, which might be tamed and made useful. "for this purpose of hunting and catching elephants a hunt upon a truly magnificent scale was instituted. now, as it is very difficult to kill such huge creatures, and still more difficult to catch them, men are obliged to call to their aid tame elephants, which are trained for the purpose of what is called khedda hunting. but i don't mean to tell you either about the killing or catching just now. i shall rather relate an extraordinary and thrilling incident that occurred before the hunt had properly begun. "great men from all parts of the country assembled at this hunt, some of them bringing troops of tame elephants and followers with them. there were governors and rajahs, and private secretaries, with some of their wives, military officers, forest officers, commissioners, collectors, superintendents, magistrates, surgeons, medical officers, and even clergymen, besides a host of smaller fry and servants. it was a regular army! the maharajah of bulrampore sent sixty-five catching elephants, and five koonkies or fighting elephants, among which was a famous warrior named chand moorut. along with these came a body of men trained to that special work. a good contingent also came from rampore. the rajah of khyrigarh came in person with thirteen elephants and a noted fighting animal, named berchir bahadur; other elephants were collected from the rajahs and native gentlemen around. among the koonkies, or gladiators, were two tremendous fellows, both as to colossal size and courage, named respectively raj mungul and isri pershad. "but far before them all in towering height and stupendous weight and unconquerable courage, as well as warlike tendency, was the mighty chand moorut, whom i first mentioned. this grand, slow-moving, sedate hero of a hundred fights, was a sort of elephantine bull-dog; a concentrated earthquake; an animal thunder-bolt; a suppressed volcano. nothing in the forests had yet been found which could stand before his onset. and when we saw him stalk solemnly into camp with his mahowt, or guide, looking like a small monkey on his great neck, and remembered his fame as a fighter and his eager thirst at all times for battle, we felt that the keystone had been put to the arch of our arrangements. "this great mixed multitude was put under the direction of a conservator of forests, a man celebrated for his exploits and daring adventures in the field, and it was as a friend of his that i joined the hunt with my man, pat quin there." "troth, sor, an' av it wasn't for chand moorut (blissin's on his great sowl, av he has wan, an' on his body av he hasn't) your man pat quin would have been left there as flat as a pancake. excuse me, sor, for spakin', but me feelin's overcomed me." "no doubt, quin, you had a narrow escape; i'll come to that soon. well, the spot at last chosen for pitching the camp was a splendid one, facing northward, where we had an extensive view of the great forests that stretched to the base of the irregular and rugged sawalick hills. behind these rose the mighty himalayas themselves, their grand peaks seeming to push up into the very heavens, where the sun shone with dazzling brilliancy on their everlasting snows. the camp covered an immense piece of ground, which was partly open and partly dotted with clumps of trees. it was so large that the tents, etcetera, were arranged in streets, and our director pitched his tent in the very centre of it, with all the tame elephants and their attendants around him. "you may easily fancy that it was a noisy camp, with so many hundreds of men and animals around, full of excitement, more or less, about the coming fight; for we had a number of men, called trackers, out in the woods, who had brought in news that a herd of wild elephants had just been discovered in the saharanpur and dun forests, on the banks of the ganges. "the glens in these forests were known to be well suited for hunting purposes, so our hopes and expectations were raised to a high pitch. towards evening we had got pretty well settled down, when a rumour got about the camp that one of the khedda elephants had killed a man, and that it was highly probable he would run _amuck_ to the great danger of every one. it happened thus:-- "a big tusker, named mowla buksh, was being taken by his mahowt to drink and bathe, according to custom, when it was observed that the elephant seemed to be out of temper. just then one of the fodder-cutters chanced to pass by. "`keep out of his way,' cried the mahowt, in a warning tone. `there's something wrong with him to-day. i won't bathe him, i think.' "`oh! he knows me well, and won't harm me,' returned the cutter. "the words were scarcely out of the man's mouth, when the brute rushed at him, knocked him down, gored him with his tusks, and kicked him after the fashion of enraged elephants. of course the poor man was instantly killed. when this deed was done, mowlah buksh seemed to feel that, having lost his character, he might as well go on in his course of mischief. he became wild with fury, and kept throwing his head back in a vain endeavour to seize his mahowt with his trunk and kill him also. in this effort he failed. the mahowt, though old, was active and strong. he managed to hold on and sit so far back on the elephant's hind quarters as to be just out of reach. luckily the brute did not think of shaking him off. "had he attempted that, he would soon have succeeded. the poor man would have fallen to the ground and been killed. finding that he could not accomplish his purpose, the infuriated animal rushed towards the camp, where the khedda or hunting elephants were, and where, as i have said, our director had pitched his tent. my own tent was close beside his. "the first i heard of what was going on was from quin, who came running into my tent, where i was sitting quietly at the time, cleaning my rifle. quin's eyes were starting out of his head, and there was, i assure you, nothing of the pleasant smile that rests on his face at this moment! "`och, sor!' gasped quin, `bowla muk--no--mowla buksh--has gone mad entoirely!' "i jumped up quickly, you may believe, for i didn't often see _that_ look on quin's face, and when i did, i knew well that something very serious was in the wind. "`where away is he?' i asked. "`sorrow wan o' me knows, sor,' said quin. "rushing out with no very fixed purpose in view, i soon found that the shouting in the camp was a sufficient guide to the spot where the mischief was going on. in a few minutes i came on a cordon of musketeers who had been hastily drawn up, so as to prevent mowla buksh from getting at the other elephants, for if he had succeeded in doing so, he would certainly have gone knocking about the smaller ones, perhaps maiming them, and killing every man who might chance to come in his path. on the other hand, if the musketeers managed to turn him, there was the danger of his making for the main camp, and killing every one he could lay hold of in that direction. "of course the thought of turning out the big fighting elephants to master him occurred to every one; but even here there would be risk, for these gladiators would not rest content without knocking mowla buksh off his legs, in which case the mahowt would assuredly be killed. besides, our director chanced to be in the forest at the time, and no one else seemed ready to take the responsibility of ordering them out. "when i came up to the musketeers, i saw the elephant rushing wildly about, trying to find a way through them, with the old mahowt sticking to his back like a burr. "the bulrampore men shouted to him to try and get the elephant to go to his standing-place, saying that if he could persuade him to sit down they would tie his legs up. after the brute had exhausted itself somewhat by rushing about, the mahowt did succeed in recovering control so far as to persuade him to move to his standing-place, which was not far distant, and to our great relief he sat down in the usual way. the bulrampore men were as good as their word. smart hands every one, they ran up with ropes and commenced tying up his hind legs. being experts at the work, they manipulated the thick ropes with amazing rapidity, and had the panting animal almost secured when he partially recovered, and began to understand what was being done to him. he started up indignantly, just before the knots were properly fastened, and struck out right and left with his trunk, scattering the men in all directions. "although the ropes had not been quite secured, they were sufficiently fast to impede his movements. he therefore took to venting his rage on the surrounding trees, and, really, until that day, i had not realised the prodigious strength of this king of beasts. he knocked and smashed them down right and left with the greatest possible ease, although, i do assure you, some of them were fully eight inches in diameter. all this time the old mahowt was clinging to his back, not daring to slip off. "the men now began to lay large rope-nooses about here and there, in the hope that he would accidentally put a foot into one of them. but mowla buksh was much too knowing to be caught in this way. whenever he came across one of these nooses, he took it up with his trunk and tossed it contemptuously aside. gradually he worked his way up to a cluster of trees, near the tent in which our director's wife had been seated all the time--with what feelings i will not pretend to guess. in this cluster he spent two hours, smashing down trees all the time, and occasionally, by way of variety, trying to lay hold of the poor mahowt, who was gradually becoming exhausted through terror and the exertion of holding on. "strange to say, now and then the man appeared to regain control over the beast, though only for a few seconds. during one of these intervals he even succeeded in making mowla buksh partially sit down. "`och! now or niver! off wid ye!' yelled a splitting voice close to my ear! i need not tell you whose voice that was, or that its owner was skipping about like a gorilla, almost as mad as the elephant!" "ah! sor," interrupted quin, "don't ye remimber how yourself was--but i'll have mercy on ye! go on, sor." "well, i confess," resumed jackman, "that i was a little excited. however, the bulrampore men echoed quin's advice in eagerly expressed hindustani. the mahowt took it, slipped to the ground, and ran for his life! fortunately the excited mowla either did not perceive or did not care. he rose up and recommenced his work of destruction. "all this time he had been freeing himself from the ropes, with which he was imperfectly bound. at last he detached them entirely, and began to make furious rushes in every direction. "at that critical moment our director arrived on the scene. seeing how matters stood he at once gave orders to have the fighting elephants brought to the front, as the only chance that remained to bring the mischief to an end. the orders were gladly and promptly obeyed. "before they arrived, however, mowla buksh, in one of his rushes, came straight to where quin and i were standing--" "skippin', sor, ye said." "well, skipping. but we stopped skipping at once, and took to running as hard as we could. we both ran through some soft reedy ground, where the brute overtook us. i glanced over my shoulder and saw him knock quin into the rushes and set his enormous foot on him--" "oh! was he killed?" exclaimed junkie with a look of consternation at the now heroic quin! there was a general burst of laughter, in which junkie joined, for he saw the absurdity of the question, which sudden anxiety had forced from him. "but why wasn't you killed?" he asked almost indignantly. "whisht! honey, an' ye'll hear, av ye'll howld your tongue." "you must know," continued jackman, "that the place he had tumbled into was wet, soft ground, and quin has a sharp way of looking after his life! although half stunned he rolled to one side, so that only the side of the great foot came down on his shoulder and thrust him deep into the mud. i stopped at once with a feeling of horror, but without the slightest conception of what i meant to do, and the horror was deepened as i saw the monster turn with the evident intention of completing his work. "at that terrible moment the colossal forms of raj mungul, isri pershad, and the mighty chand moorut appeared, coming towards us. mowla buksh did not carry out his deadly intentions. there was `method in his madness.' seeing the koonkies approach, he retreated at once to the shelter of the cluster of trees, and waited. "i rushed forward, expecting to find my man dead and flattened, but he rose slowly as i came up, and with an indescribable expression of countenance said, `arrah! then, but he _was_ heavy!'" "an' _that_ must have been true--what-ever" said mcgregor, unable to restrain a comment at this point. "what you remark is true likewise, shames," said the skipper. "go on--quick!" cried junkie, eagerly. "well, our director gave orders, to take raj mungul to the south side of the clump of trees, isri pershad to the west, and chand moorut to the east. it was impossible to let the last go in, though he was impatient to do so, for by that time it was getting dark, and his mahowt would have probably been swept off his back by the branches; and the risk of such a gladiator being let loose without a controlling hand was not to be thought of for a moment. "the difficulty was got over by means of a ruse. two men were sent to the north side of the clump with orders to talk and attract the attention of mowla. the plan succeeded. the moment the still fuming brute heard their voices, he went at them furiously! now was the chance for the heroic chand moorut; and that warrior was never known to let an opportunity slip. no british bull-dog ever gave or accepted a challenge with more hilarious alacrity than he. as soon as mowla came out of the trees, chand moorut went at him with a rush that seemed incredible in such a mountain of usually slow and dignified flesh. but darkness, coupled perhaps with haste, interfered. he missed his mark, and mowla buksh, turning round, dashed straight at the tent, in front of which our director and a friend were standing. the friend, who was a v.c. as well as a cool and intrepid sportsman, directed the light of a lantern full on the monster's face till it was close upon him, thus enabling the director to plant a bullet in his head. whether the shot gave him a headache or not, i cannot tell. the only certain effect it had was to turn the animal aside, and cause it to rush off in the direction of the main camp, closely followed by isri pershad and raj mungul. chand moorut was held back in reserve. happily raj mungul managed to outstrip and turn the runaway, and as mowla buksh came back, chand moorut got another chance at him. need i say that he took advantage of it? charging in like a live locomotive, he sent the mad creature flying--as if it had been a mere kitten--head over heels into a small hollow!" "well done! capital!" shouted junkie, at this point unable to restrain himself, as, with glittering eyes, he glanced round the circle of listeners. a laugh at his enthusiasm seemed to junkie to endorse his sentiment, so he turned to jackman and earnestly bade him to "go on." "there is not much to go on with now, my boy," continued the narrator; "for mowla buksh being down, the fighting elephants took good care to punish him well before they let him up again. but as the encounter had aroused the combative propensities of chand moorut, it was thought wise to remove him from the scene before he became too excited. this being managed by his mahowt, the punishing of the rebel was left to isri pershad and raj mungul, who did their work thoroughly. no sooner did the culprit scramble out of the hollow than isri pershad knocked him back into it, and pummelled him heartily with trunk and legs. again mowla buksh rose, and this time raj mungul gave him a tap on the forehead with his own ponderous head, which sent him into a bed of giant rushes, over the top of which his little tail was seen to wriggle viciously as he disappeared with a crash. "there he would probably have been content to lie still for a time, but his opponents had other views in regard to him. they went at him together, and so cuffed, kicked, bumped and pummelled him, that in about five minutes he was reduced to a pitiable state of humiliation. as quin truly remarked at the time, his own mother would have failed to recognise him. "just at this point, to my surprise, the old mahowt came forward, with tears in his eyes, and begged that his elephant might be spared! it had been punished quite sufficiently, he thought. i was much impressed with this display of a tender, forgiving spirit towards a brute that had done its very best to take his own life. but no one sympathised with him at the moment, and the punishment was continued until mowla buksh was thoroughly subdued, and compelled by his conquerors to return to his standing-place, where he was finally and firmly secured. thus, at last, ended this exciting and most unexpected commencement to our hunt, and the whole camp was soon after steeped in silence and repose. not a bad beginning, eh, junkie?" "yes, but go on wi' the hunt," said the boy with eager promptitude, a request which was loudly echoed by his brothers. "no, no, boys; you've had enough to digest for one day; besides, i see the cart coming up the road to fetch our deer. and perhaps your father has more work cut out for us." "well, not much," replied the laird, who had been quite as much interested in the elephant story as his sons. "there is another drive on the east side of the hill, which we have still time for, though i don't expect much from it. however, we can try it. come now, lads, we'll be going." "shames," said captain mcpherson, as the party moved away from the lunching-ground, "i wonder if a good thrashin' like that would make the elephant a better beast afterwards?" "weel now, captain mcphairson, i don't think it would," replied mcgregor after a pause for consideration. "you are right, shames," said ian anderson, the old fisherman, who was a deep-thinking man. "it has always appeared to me, that the object of poonishment, is a not to make us coot, but to make us obedient." "then what for are ye always poonishin' me, an' tellin' me to be coot, when ye say it won't make me coot?" asked donald. "because, tonal', it iss my duty to _tell_ ye to be coot, although i cannot _make_ ye coot, ye rascal!" answered the fisherman, sternly; "but i can make ye obey me by poonishin' you--ay, an' i wull do it too." donald knew too well from experience that it was not safe to attempt arguing the question, but he gave a peculiarly defiant shake of his ragged head, which said as plainly as words that the time was coming when "poonishment" would cease to secure even obedience--at least in his case! "you are right, ian," said jackman, turning round, for he had overheard the conversation. "punishment compelled mowla buksh to walk to his standing-place and submit to be tied up, for he did not dare to disobey with isri pershad and raj mungul standing guard over him, but it certainly did not make him good. i went, with many others, to see him the next morning. on the way over to the elephant camp, i saw the huge trees which he had smashed down in his rage lying about in all directions, and on reaching his standing-place, found him looking decidedly vicious and bad-tempered. it was quite evident that any one venturing within reach of his trunk would receive harsh treatment and no mercy. a small red spot in his great forehead showed that our director's aim had been a fairly good one, though it had not hit the deadly spot in the centre." "but i want to know," said junkie, who kept close to jackman's side, thirsting for every word that fell from his lips, "why did the bullet not go in and kill bowly muksh?" "because the head of mowla buksh was too thick," said jackman, laughing. "you see, to be a thick-head is not always a disadvantage." "there, you ought to take comfort from that, junkie," remarked his brother archie, with that fine spirit of tenderness which is so often observable in brothers. "ha! ha! ha!" yelled eddie, with that delicacy of feeling which is equally common. "hold your tongues!" growled junkie--the more classic "shut up" not having at that time found its way to the western isles. "you must know, junkie, that all parts of an elephant's head are not of equal thickness," said jackman in that kindly confidential tone which tends so powerfully to soothe a ruffled spirit. "the only point in an elephant's forehead that can be pierced by a rifle ball is exactly in the centre. it is about the size of a saucer, and if you miss that, you might as well fire against the eagle cliff itself, for the ball would only stick in the skull." with this explanation junkie was fain to rest content at the time, for the party had reached a part of the hill where it became necessary to station the guns at their several posts. in regard to this drive, we have only to say that it ended in nothing except heavy rain and a severe draft on the patience of the sportsmen, without any reward, save that which may be derived from mild martyrdom. now, when the events which we have described were taking place on the mountains of loch lossie, a very different scene was occurring in the nursery of kinlossie house. in that interesting apartment, which was one of the chief country residences of the spirits row and smash, little flora was seated all alone in the afternoon of that day. her seat was a low chair, before her was a low table to match. on the table sat her favourite doll, blackie, to whom she was administering counsel of the gravest kind, in tones the most solemn. the counsel, we need scarcely say, gave unquestionable proof that her mother's admonitions to herself had been thoroughly understood, though not always acted on. flo was in the midst of one of her most pathetic appeals to blackie to be "dood," when her mother entered hastily. "come with me, darling, to visit poor old mrs donaldson. she is not very well, i hear." flo required no second bidding, for she was extremely fond of the keeper's mother--and love needs no persuasion. as we have said, mrs donaldson's little cottage stood behind that of her son ivor. it was very small, consisting of only one apartment with a box bed and a few articles of old furniture, the most cherished of which was a little clock with a staring face, and a poor landscape on it. "what caused the bruise, maggie?" asked mrs gordon, after much talk on the subject of fomentations and bandages. the old woman hesitated to tell, but after a little pressing she said, in half apologetic tone,--"weel, mem, it was na ivor's fau't, but the day before yesterday he cam in--fou--ye ken he's fond o' his glass, mem, an' he was swingin' aboot his airms, poor falla, an' withoot the least intention, his haund cam doon wi' sik a ding on my heed that knockit me doon. but he kens na aboot it, so ye'll no speak o't to him--or to the laird." "you may depend upon it, poor maggie, that i will not. my mentioning it could do no good. and, as you say, ivor was not quite himself at the time." "thank'ee, mem, that's just it. an' he's the best sons to me--_whan he's sober_." soon afterwards a shout outside told that the sportsmen had returned from the hills, so, bidding the old woman good-bye, mrs gordon and her sympathetic child returned to the house. chapter nine. a quiet day with a stirring termination. what fisher does not know the charm, the calm delight, of a quiet day by the river-side, after, it may be, months of too much contact with society? on such an occasion a congenial comrade is an advantage, but unless the comrade be congenial, one is better alone. this may sound selfish to some ears, but is it really so? when a man has all but immolated himself for ten or eleven months, it may be, on the altar of business, art, and social duty, is a tremendous thirst for nature and solitude altogether selfish? we think not. and evidently macrummle thought not, as he wandered one soft, delightful morning, rod in hand, down to the river-side. the river-side! there is something restfully suggestive in the very words. the quiet pools, the gurgling deeps, the rushing rapids, the rippling shallows, the little cascades--what ardent hopes, what wild suggestions, what grand possibilities these have for the young; what gentle excitations, what pleasant, even though sad, memories for the old! of course the non-fisher knows nothing of all this. his terrestrial joys are limited, poor thing! the painter, indeed, has some part in the matter--as regards his own line, so to speak--and when he goes on what is vulgarly termed his own hook. we have profound sympathy with the painter. but for the poor fellow who neither fishes nor paints, alas! to be sure he may botanise. strange to say, we had almost forgotten that! and also geologise; but our concern at present is with fishers, or, rather, with that fishing enthusiast, macrummle. the sunshine of his face was second only to that of nature. his visage beamed with satisfaction; his eyes gleamed with hope, as he sat down on the bank near to his first pool, and began to select flies. we have probably given the impression that macrummle was alone, but this is not strictly correct. in his own estimation he was, indeed, in absolute solitude, and, so far, his felicity was unbroken; but his steps had been dogged that morning, and the dogger was junkie. that eccentric youngster possessed a mind which it is not easy to analyse or describe. one strong element in it, however, was curiosity. another was ambition. the blending of these two qualities produced wonder in junkie--wonder that he, though as ardent a sportsman as macrummle, should go forth frequently to fish and catch little or nothing, while the old gentleman went out and was wont to return with baskets full to overflowing. there must be a secret of some sort. he did not like to ask what that secret was, so he made up his mind to follow the old man and watch him--not of course with the slightest intention of doing anything sly or wrong, but secretly, because he was well aware that macrummle did not like to be distracted by company-- especially _his_ company! following, then, at a respectful distance, and relying for success very much on the fisher's partial blindness and deafness, junkie went out to have a day of it. he even went so far, in the matter of forethought, as to provide himself with a massive slice of bread and cheese to sustain him while carrying on his investigations. before he had got far from the house, however, he encountered donald of the ragged head, who had hung about the place in hopes of another deer-drive, and whom he styled "tonal'," in semi-sarcastic imitation of old ian. him he at once took into his confidence. "i'll co wuth ye," said donald. "come along, then. but mind, if you make a noise, or show yourself; if you so much as cough or sneeze, i'll punch your head an' tumble you into the river." "fery coot," said donald. and upon this clear understanding they advanced. the other members of the company at the house, meanwhile, had scattered in various directions to fish, shoot, paint or botanise, according to fancy. we may explain here that there were several trouting streams in the vicinity of the house, besides the "river" at the head of the loch. thus it was that macrummle had a stream all to himself. at first the fisher tried fly, to which he was partial, but success did not attend his efforts. the water was not in the best condition for fly, being rather swollen by recent rains. perseverance, however, was one of macrummle's strong qualities. he was not to be easily beaten. there was a certain big boulder about the size of a dog-cart near the mouth of the stream, which narrowed its bed considerably, and thus produced a formation of rock below water favourable to the shelter of fish. it also sent an oily ripple over the surface of the water, which was favourable to the operations of the fisher. the old gentleman seldom failed to raise or hook a good sea-trout there, and always made his first cast with eager expectation. but the fish were either obdurate or blind that morning. they could not or they would not see. with a slight, but by no means desponding, sigh, the old man changed his cast and tried again. he knew every stone and ledge of the pool, and cast again and again with consummate skill and unusual care. still, without result. "that's odd," he muttered, for, being naturally a sociable man, he found talking to himself an immense relief. "try once more, just at the tail o' yon swirl, dick, my boy." his christian name was richard. no one would have presumed to call him dick but himself. no result following this appeal to the tail of the swirl, he sat down on the bank and once more changed his hook. the nature of change might have been heard by the insects among the heather close by, if they were listening, for donald whispered to his companion,--"he's coin' to try pait!" "didn't i bid ye hau'd your tongue?" "ay." "do't then." macrummle dropped a worm gently into the head of the pool, and let it go with the current. instantly the line straightened, the rod bent, the reel spun, and from the other side of the pool there leaped a lovely bar of silver, which fell back to its native element with a considerable splash. "a two-pounder!" gasped donald, unable to restrain his excitable spirit, as he half rose. junkie had him by the throat in a moment, and crammed his ragged head down among the heather. "tonal'!" he whispered remonstratively. "i forgot," whispered donald, when the strong little hands relaxed. "i'll not do't again." "ye better no'," returned junkie, with a shake of his fist that required no explanation. by this time the fish had darted like a lightning flash twice up stream, once down, three times across, and twice into the air. at the same time the fisher had hurried up and down the bank, had tripped over two stumps and a root, had dropped his wideawake, and had very nearly gone head foremost into the pool; for his tackle was fine and his fish large. the fisher-boy gasped. "tonal'," said junkie, in very low tones, "if ye don't behave better, i'll send ye away." "it iss not easy, but i'll try," said he. donald could say no more. the best of men or boys could do no more than try. we may as well say here at once, however, that his efforts at self-control were crowned with success. he proved himself to be a great man in embryo by ruling his own spirit that day. in a few minutes the trout was landed by means of a miniature gaff, which the fisher carried in his basket, for the purpose of securing fish that were too heavy to be pulled out by the line. it was afterwards found to be a two-and-a-half pounder, which, being an unusually good fish for that stream, was the occasion of much rejoicing on the part of the old gentleman, as he stood wiping his forehead and commenting on it. "capital! not had such a fellow as that for more than a week. there's more where that came from; but you must give the pool a rest, dick. try the run higher up." in obedience to his own orders, macrummle went up to a part of the stream where a high cliff on one side and a steepish bank on the other caused it to flow in a deep channel, not much more than a couple of yards wide. at the head of the run was a ledge where fish were invariably captured. towards this spot the old man hurried eagerly. the two boys lay still in the heather, allowed him to pass, and then softly followed, bending low, and keeping as much as possible behind bushes and in hollows, until they were again close upon him. ensconcing themselves in a convenient mass of heather, they raised their heads and saw the fisher stepping carefully from rock to rock, as he approached the run. rounded boulders, large or small, are never safe to walk on, even for the young and active. macrummle found it so. his foot slipped, and he sat down, with undignified haste, in a small pool of water. down went the boys' heads, that they might explode their laughter as softly as possible among the roots of the heather. "wass it not funny?" whispered donald. "i hope he's not hurt," replied junkie, raising his head cautiously. he saw that macrummle had risen, and, with a rueful expression of face, was making insane and futile efforts to look at himself behind. a beaming smile overspread the boy's face as he glanced at his companion, for he knew well that the old gentleman cared little or nothing for water. and this was obviously the case, for, after squeezing as much water out of his nether garments as chose to come, he proceeded to the head of the runs and resumed fishing. "i'm beginnin' to see through't," murmured junkie, after watching for some time. "see! he has hooked another. ye see, tonal', it must be lettin' the hook drift away down under the ledges that does it. look! he's got 'im!" "i'm thinking ye are right, junkie. an' the creat thing to know iss where the ledges lie. he keeps well back from the watter also. there maun be somethin' in that, what-e-ver. ye wull be tryin' it yoursel' the morn, maype." to this junkie vouchsafed no reply, for the fisher, having secured his fish, was proceeding further up stream. when he was sufficiently far in advance, the boys rose to their feet, and again followed him. thus the trio occupied themselves all the forenoon--macrummle gradually filling his basket with fine sea-trout, junkie storing his inquisitive mind with piscatorial knowledge and "dodges," and donald enjoying himself in the mere act of wallowing about in heather and sunshine. about noon macrummle suddenly ceased to gaze intently on the water, and placed his hand upon his waistcoat. "time, dick?" he murmured, pulling out his watch. "i knew it. commend me to nature. it's the best time-keeper, after all--needs no regulating." he was wrong, as was frequently the case, but it mattered little, for there was no one to contradict him. "let me see," he muttered, taking off his basket, and drawing a newspaper parcel from the pocket of his coat--in which operation he was induced by memory to make a last futile attempt to see himself behind--"what have they put up for me?" the parcel, when opened, disclosed a tempting pile of meat sandwiches. the old gentleman spread them out on a flattish boulder, which served as an admirable table. having leaned his rod against a tree, he emptied the basket on a grassy spot, and arranged the silver bars in a row. then he sat down on his basket beside the table, and gave himself up to food and contemplation. "a goodly row," he muttered, as well as the ham sandwich would let him. "not a bad beginning; and such a splendid dish. there's comfort in that, for i hate useless work of any kind. a sort of an illustration, this, of the fitness of things!" apparently the peculiar unfitness of simultaneous mastication and speech struck him, for he paused a few moments, then continued,--"yes, fitness. supplies for the table absolutely needed. healthy exercise a consequence. result, felicity!" the supplies checking speech again, macrummle looked around him, with benignant good-will to man and beast expressed on his countenance. craning their necks over a bank, and seeing the old gentleman thus pleasantly engaged, the two boys sank into the heather, and disappeared from view as completely as did "clan alpine's warriors true," after they had been shown to fitz james by roderick dhu. like two sparrows in a purple nest they proceeded to enjoy themselves. "now, tonal', we will grub," said junkie. "why, what's the matter with you?" he asked, on observing a sudden fall in his companion's countenance. "the matter?" repeated the boy. "it iss the crub that's the matter, for i hev not a crumb with me." "now, isn't that awful?" said junkie, with a hypocritically woeful look. "we will just have to starve. but there's plenty of water," he added, in a consoling tone. "here, tonal', take this leather cup an' fill it. ye can git down to the river by the back o' the bluff without bein' noticed. see that ye make no noise, now. mind what i said to ye." while donald went at a slow, sad pace to fetch water, junkie spread his handkerchief on the ground, and on this tablecloth laid out the following articles, which he took from a small bag that he had carried, slung on his shoulder,--a very large piece of loaf bread, a thick slice of cheese, two hard biscuits, an apple, a bit of liquorice, a mass of home-made toffee, inseparably attached to a dirty bit of newspaper, three peppermint lozenges, and a gully knife with a broken blade. when donald returned and beheld this feast, he opened his eyes wide. then, opening his mouth, he was on the point of giving vent to a cheer, when junkie stopped him with a glance and an ominous shake of the fist. it is to this day an undecided question which of those feasters enjoyed himself most. "i always bring with me more than i can eat, tonal', so you're welcome to the half. `fair play,' as daddy says, although he sometimes keeps the fairest play to himself;" with which dutiful remark the urchin proceeded to divide the viands very justly. it did not take long to consume the whole. but macrummle was quicker even than they, possibly because he had enticing work still before him. the consequence was, that he had resumed his rod unnoticed by the boys, and in the process of his amusement, had reached that part of the bank on the top of which they lay concealed. their devotion to lunch had prevented his approach being perceived, and the first intimation they had of his near presence was the clatter of pebbles as he made a false step, and the swish of his flies above their heads as he made a cast. the boys gazed at each other for one moment in silence, then hastily stuffed the remnant of their feast into their pockets. suddenly the glengarry bonnet of junkie leaped mysteriously off his head, and dropped on the heather behind him. "hanked again!" growled macrummle from the river-bed below. every fisher knows the difficulty of casting a long line with a steep bank behind him. once already the old gentleman had hanked on the bank a little lower down, but so slightly that a twitch brought the flies away. now, however, the hank was too complicated to give way to a twitch, for the glengarry held hard on to the heather. in desperate haste, junkie, bending low, tried to extract the hook. it need scarcely be said that a hook refuses to be extracted in haste. before he could free it, the voice of macrummle was heard in sighs and gasps of mild exasperation as he scrambled up the bank to disentangle his line. there was no time for consideration. junkie dropped his cap, and, rolling behind a mass of rock, squeezed himself into a crevice which was pretty well covered with pendent bracken. donald vanished in a somewhat similar fashion, and both, remaining perfectly still, listened with palpitating hearts to macrummle's approach. "well, well!" exclaimed the fisher in surprise; "it's not every day i hook a fish like this. a glengarry! and junkie's glengarry! the small rascal! crumbs, too! ha! that accounts for it. he must have been having his lunch here yesterday, and was so taken up with victuals that he forgot his cap when he went away. foolish boy! it is like his carelessness; but he's not a bad little fellow, for all that." he chuckled audibly at this point. junkie did the same inaudibly as he watched his old friend carefully disengage the hook; but the expression of his face changed a little when he saw his cap consigned to the fisher's pocket, as he turned and descended to the stream. having given the fisher sufficient time to get away from the spot, junkie emerged from his hiding-place. "tonal'," he said, in a low voice, looking round, "ye may come oot noo, man. he's safe away." the ragged head, in a broad grin, emerged from a clump of bracken. "it wass awful amusin', junkie, wass it not?" "yes, tonal', it was; but it won't be very amusin' for me to go all the rest of the day bareheaded." donald sympathised with his friend on this point, and assured him that he would have divided his cap with him, as junkie had divided his lunch, but for the fact that he never wore a cap at all, and the ragged hair would neither divide nor come off. after this they resumed their work of dogging the fisher's steps. it would require a volume to relate all that was said and done on that lovely afternoon, if all were faithfully detailed; but our space and the reader's patience render it advisable to touch only on two points of interest. as the day advanced the heat became overpowering, and, to escape from the glare of the sun for a little, the fisher took shelter under some very tall bracken on the bank near a deep pool. in order to secure a slight feeling of pleasurable expectation while resting, he put on a bait-cast, dropped the worm into the deepest part of the pool, propped up his rod with several stones, and then lay down to watch. the turf happened to be soft and level. as a natural consequence the tired man fell sound asleep. "what's to be done noo, junkie?" "i don't know, tonal'." to make matters more exasperating, at that moment the rod began to bend and the reel to spin jerkily. "a fush!" exclaimed donald. "looks like it," returned his friend drily. "i better gee a yell an' wauken him," suggested donald. "ye'd better no'," said junkie, shaking his fist. "yonder iss the end o' yer bonnet stickin' oot o' his pooch, what-e-ver," said donald. "you'd better lie low an' keep still," said junkie; and, without further explanation of his intentions, he went softly down the bank and crept towards the sleeper, taking advantage of every stone and root and bush as he went along. really, for a first attempt, it was worthy of the child of a pawnee brave. macrummle was a heavy sleeper, so junkie had no difficulty in recovering his cap. putting it on, he returned the way he had come. "that wass cliver, man," said the admiring donald, when his friend rejoined him. junkie accepted the compliment with a dignified smile, and then sat down to wait; but it was a severe trial of patience to both of them, for the old man slept steadily on, and even snored. he seemed, in short, to have fairly gone to bed for the night. "what say ye to bomb stanes at 'um?" suggested donald. "an' kill 'im, maybe," returned junkie, with sarcasm in his eye. "heave divits at 'um, then." "ay; that's better." accordingly, the two urchins tore up a mass of turf which was much too heavy to heave. "let's row'd," suggested the active-minded donald. as this also met the approval of junkie, they carried the "divit," or mass of turf, to the bank just above the sleeper, and, taking a careful aim, let it go. the bank was not regular. a lump diverted the divit from its course, and it plunged into the pool, to the obvious discomposure of the fish, which was still at intervals tugging at the line. another divit was tried, but with similar result. a third clod went still further astray. the bombardment then became exciting, as every kind of effort does when one begins to realise the beneficial effect of practice. "i can see how it is," whispered junkie, as he carefully "laid" the next gun. "if we keep more to the right, it'll hit that lump o' grass, glance into the hollow, and--" he stopped abruptly, and both boys stood in crab-like attitudes of expectation, ready to fly, for the divit took the exact course thus indicated, and bounding down the bank, hit macrummle fair on his broad back. the guilty ones dived like rabbits into the bracken. "bless me!" exclaimed the old gentleman, jumping up and shaking the dry earth off. "this is most remarkable. i do believe i've been asleep. but why the bank should take to crumbling down upon me is more than i can understand. hallo! a fish! you don't deserve such luck, dick, my boy." winding in the line in a way which proved that the divit had done him no harm, he gave utterance to an exclamation of huge disgust as he drew an eel to the bank, with the line entangled hopelessly about its shiny body. this was too much for macrummle. unable to face the misery of disentanglement, he cut the line, despatched the eel, attached a new hook, and continued his occupation. at the head of the pool in question the bank was so precipitous and high that the boys could see only the top of the rod swinging gracefully to and fro as the patient man pursued his sport. suddenly the top of the rod described a wild figure in the air and disappeared. at the same moment a heavy plunge was heard. "hech! he's tum'led in the pool," gasped donald. they rushed to the overhanging edge of the cliff and looked down. sure enough macrummle was in the water. they expected to see him swim, for junkie knew he was an expert swimmer; but the poor man was floating quietly down with the current, his head under water. "banged his heed, what-e-ver!" cried donald, jumping up and bounding down the bank to the lower and shallow end of the pool. quick though he was, junkie outran him; but the unfortunate macrummle was unintentionally quicker than either, for they found him stranded when they got there. running into the water, they seized him by the hair and the collar of his coat, and dragged him into the shallow part easily enough, but they had not strength to haul him ashore. "fetch a divit, tonal'--a big one, an' i'll keep up his head." one of the masses of recent artillery was fetched, and the fisher's head was gently pillowed on it, so as to be well out of the water. "there's no cut that i can see," said junkie, inspecting the head critically; "he's only stunned, i think. noo, tonal', cut away to the hoose. run as ye never ran before and tell them. i'll stop beside him for fear his heed slips in again." donald went off like a shot. junkie went a few steps with him, intending to fetch another divit. looking back, he saw what made him sink into the heather, and give a low whistle. donald heard it, stopped, and also hid himself, for macrummle was seen trying to rise. he succeeded, and staggered to dry land, when, sitting down on a stone, he felt himself all over with an anxious expression. then he felt a lump on the back of his head, and smiled intelligently. after that he squeezed as much water out of his garments as he could, quietly took down his rod, ascertained that the fish in his basket were all right, then looked with some perplexity at the big divit lying in the shallow close to where he stood, and finally, with a highly contented expression of countenance, wended his way homeward. the two boys gave him time to get well out of sight in advance, and then followed his example, commenting sagely as they went, on the desirability of possessing pluck in old age, and on the value of the various lessons they had learned that day. chapter ten. a wildish chapter. it was the habit of our three friends--bob mabberly, john barret, and giles jackman--during their residence at kinlossie, to take a stroll together every morning before breakfast by the margin of the sea, for they were fond of each other's company, and mabberly, as a yachtsman, had acquired the habit of early rising. he had also learned to appreciate the early morning hours as being those which present nature in her sweetest, as well as her freshest, aspect--when everything seems, more than at other periods of the day, to be under the direct influence of a benignant creator. it was also the habit of captain mcpherson and his man, james mcgregor, to indulge daily in similar exercise at about the same hour, but, owing probably to their lives having been spent chiefly on the sea, they were wont to ramble up a neighbouring glen in preference to sauntering on the shore. one bright calm morning, however, when the sky was all blue and the loch was like a mirror, the two seamen took it into their heads to desert the glen and ramble along the shore. thus it came to pass that, on returning homeward, they encountered our three friends. "it iss fery strange that we should foregather this mornin', mr mabberly," said the skipper, after greeting the young men; "for shames an' me was jist speakin' aboot ye. we will be thinkin' that it iss foolishness for hum an' me to be stoppin' here wastin' our time when we ought to be at oor work." "nonsense, captain," said mabberly; "surely you don't think that taking a holiday in a pleasant place like this is wasting time. besides, i don't consider you free from your engagement to me. you were hired for the trip, and that includes land as well as water, so i won't give you your discharge till you have had a long rest, and recruited yourselves after the shock to your nervous systems occasioned by the wreck and the swim to shore!" a grim smile played on the skipper's iron features when reference was made to his nerves, and a flicker of some sort illumined the wooden visage of mcgregor. "you are fery kind, sir," returned the skipper; "but we don't like to be receivin' pay for doin' nothin'. you see, neither shames nor me cares much for fushin' in the burns, or goin' after the deer, an' there's no chance o' raisin' the yat from the pottom o' the sea, so, if you hev no objection, sir, we will be goin' by the steamer that arrives to-morrow. i thought i would speak to you to-day, for we will hev to start early in the mornin', before you're up, for it iss a long way we'll hev to go. iss it not so, shames?" "oo, ay," replied the seaman, with more than ever of the nasal twang; "it iss a coot many miles to where the poat comes in--so the poy tonal' wass tellin' me, what-e-ver." mabberly tried to persuade the men to remain a little longer, but they were obdurate, so he let them go, knowing well that his father, who was a wealthy merchant and shipowner, would see to the interests of the men who had suffered in his son's service. as they retraced their steps to the house the skipper gave giles jackman some significant glances, which induced him to fall behind the others. "you want to speak with me privately, i think, skipper?" "yes, sir, i do," replied the seaman, with some embarrassment. "but it iss not fery easy nor pleesant to do so. a man does not like to speak of another man's failin's, you see, but as i am goin' away i'm obleeged to do it. you will hev noticed, sir, that ivor tonalson iss raither fond of his tram?" "i'm afraid that i have observed that--poor fellow." "he is a goot man, sir, is tonalson--a fery goot man--when he iss sober, but he hes got no power to resist the tram. an' whiles he goes on the spree, an' then he gits wild wi' d.t. you know, sir. noo, ever since we cam' here, ivor an' me hes been great friends, an' it hes been heavy on my mind to see him like that, for he's a fine man, a superior person, is ivor, if he would only let alone the whusky. so i hev spoken to him wance or twice--serious like, you know. at first he was not pleased, but the last time i spoke, he took it kindly, an' said he would think aboot what i had been sayin'. noo, it's heavy on me the thoucht o' goin' away an' leavin' him in that state, so i thoucht that maybe ye would tak the metter up, sir, an' see what ye can do wi' him. git him, if ye can, to become a total abstainer, nothin' less than that wull do wi' a man in that condeetion." jackman was greatly surprised, not only at the tenor of the skipper's remarks, but at the evidently deep feeling with which he spoke, for up to that time the reticence and quiet coolness of the man had inclined him to think that his mind and feelings were in harmony with his rugged and sluggish exterior. it was, therefore, with something of warmth that he replied,--"i shall be only too happy to do as you wish, captain; all the more that i have had some serious thoughts and feelings in that direction. indeed, i have made up my mind, as it happens, to speak to ivor on that very subject, not knowing that you were already in the field. i am particularly sorry for his poor old mother, who has suffered a great deal, both mentally and physically, on his account." "ay, that's the warst o' it," said the skipper. "it wass the sicht o' the poor wumin ailin' in body an' broken heartit that first set me at ivor." "but how comes it, captain, that you plead so earnestly for _total_ abstinence?" asked jackman with a smile. "have i not heard you defend the idea of moderate drinking, although you consented to sail in a teetotal yacht?" "mr jackman," said the skipper, with almost stern solemnity, "it iss all fery weel for men to speak aboot moderate drinkin', when their feelin's iss easy an' their intellec's iss confused wi' theories an' fancies, but men will change their tune when it iss brought home to themselves. let a man only see his brither or his mither, or his faither, on the high road to destruction wi' drink, an' he'll change his opeenion aboot moderate drinkin'--at least for hard drinkers--ay, an' he'll change his practice too, unless he iss ower auld, or his stamick, like timothy's, canna git on withoot it. an' that minds me that i would tak it kind if ye would write an' tell me how he gets on, for i hev promised to become a total abstainer if _he_ wull." that very afternoon, while out shooting on the hills, jackman opened the campaign by making some delicate approaches to the keeper on the subject, in a general and indirect way, but with what success he could not tell, for ivor was respectfully reserved. about the same time john barret went off alone for a saunter in one of the nearest and most picturesque of the neighbouring glens. he had declined to accompany his comrades that day, for reasons best known to himself. after writing a few letters, to keep up appearances, and to prevent his being regarded as a mere idler, he went off, as we have said, to saunter in the glen. he had not sauntered far when he came upon a sight which is calculated, whenever seen, to arouse sentiments of interest in the most callous beholder--a young lady painting! it would be wrong to say he was surprised, but he was decidedly pleased, to judge from the expression of his handsome face. he knew who the lady was, for by that time he had studied the face and figure of milly moss until they had been indelibly photographed on his--well, on the sensitive-plate of his soul, wherever that lay. milly had quite recovered from her accident by that time and had resumed her favourite pursuits. "i'm very glad to have caught you at work at last, miss moss," he said, on coming up to the picturesque spot on which her easel was erected. "i wish much to receive that lesson which you so kindly promised to give me." "i thought it was just the other way. did you not say that you would teach me some of those perplexing rules of perspective which my book lays down so elaborately--and, to me, so incomprehensibly?" "i did, but did not you promise to show me how to manipulate oils--in regard to which i know absolutely nothing? and as practice is of greater importance than theory, you must be the teacher and i the pupil." upon this point they carried on a discussion until milly, declaring she was wasting her time and losing the effects of light and shade, went seriously to work on the canvas before her. barret, whose natural colour was somewhat heightened, stood at a respectful distance, looking on. "you are quite sure, i hope," said the youth, "that it does not disturb you to be overlooked? you know i would not presume to do so if you had not promised to permit me. my great desire, for many a day, has been to observe the process of painting in oils by one who understands it." how he reconciled this statement with the fact that he was not looking at the picture at all, but at the little white hand that was deftly applying the brush, and the beautiful little head that was moving itself so gracefully about while contemplating the work, is more than we can explain. soon the painter became still more deeply absorbed in her work, and the pupil more deeply still in the painter. it was a magnificent sweep of landscape that lay before them--a glen glowing with purple and green, alive with flickering sunlight and shadow, with richest browns and reds and coolest greys in the foreground; precipices, crags, verdant slopes of bracken, pine and birch woods hanging on the hillsides, in the middle distance, and blue mountains mingling with orange skies in the background, with macrummle's favourite stream appearing here and there like a silver thread, running through it all. but barret saw nothing of it. he only saw a pretty hand, a blushing cheek and sunny hair! the picture was not bad. there was a good deal of crude colour in the foreground, no doubt, without much indication of form; and there was also some wonderfully vivid green and purple, with impossible forms and amazing perspective--both linear and aerial--in places, and turneresque confusion of yellow in the extreme distance. but barret did not note that--though by means of some occult powers of comprehension he commented on it freely! he saw nothing but milly moss. it was a glorious chance. he resolved to make the most of it. "i had no idea that painting in oils was such a fascinating occupation," he remarked, without feeling quite sure of what he said. "i delight in it," returned the painter, slowly, as she touched in a distant sheep, which--measured by the rules of perspective, and regard being had to surrounding objects--might have stood for an average cathedral. milly did not paint as freely as usual that afternoon. there was something queer, she said, about the brushes. "i _can't_ get it to look right," she said at last, wiping out an object for the third time and trying again. "no doubt," murmured the youth, "a cottage like that must be difficult to--" "cottage!" exclaimed milly, laughing outright; "it is not a cottage at all; it's a cow! oh! mr barret, that is a very poor compliment to my work and to your own powers of discernment." "nay, miss moss," retorted the pupil, in some confusion, "but you have wiped it out twice, confessing, as you did so, that you could not paint it! besides, my remark referred to the cottage which i _thought_ you were going to paint--not to your unsuccessful representations of the cow." the poor youth felt that his explanation was so lame that he was somewhat relieved when the current of their thoughts was diverted by a loud shouting in the road farther down the glen. a shade of annoyance, however, rested for a moment on the face of his companion, for she recognised the voices, and knew well that the quiet _tete-a-tete_ with her willing and intelligent pupil must now be interrupted. "my cousins," she remarked, putting a touch on the cow that stamped that animal a _lusus naturae_ for all time coming. another whoop told that the cousins were drawing near. in a few minutes they appeared in the path emerging from a clump of hazel bushes. "they are evidently bent on a photographic expedition," remarked barret, as the boys approached, junkie waving his hat with hilarious good-will when he discovered the painters. "and flo is with them," said milly, "from which i conclude that they are having what junkie calls a day of it; for whenever they are allowed to take flo, they go in for a high holiday, carrying provisions with them, so as to be able to stay out from morning till night." the appearance of the young revellers fully bore out milly's statement, for they were all more or less burdened with the means or signs of enjoyment. archie carried his box of dry plates in his left hand, and his camera and stand over his right shoulder; eddie bore a colour-box and sketching-book; junkie wielded a small fishing-rod, and had a fishing-basket on his back; and flo was encircled with daisy chains and crowned with laurel and heather, besides which, each of the boys had a small bag of provisions slung on his shoulder. "hooray! hooray! out for the day!" sang, or rather yelled, junkie, as he approached. "ramble and roam-- never go home!" added archie, setting down his camera, and beginning to arrange it. "all of us must eat till we bust! "junkie teached me zat," said innocent flo, with a look of grave surprise at the peals of laughter which her couplet drew from her brothers. "yes, that's what we're goin' to do," said junkie; "we've had lunch at the foot of eagle glen, and noo we are going up to glen orrack to dine, and fish, an' paint, an' botanise. after that we'll cross over the swan's neck, an' finish off the bustin' business with supper on the sea-shore. lots of grub left yet, you see." he swung round his little wallet as he spoke, and held it up to view. "would you like some, cousin milly?" asked eddie, opening his bag. "all sorts here. bread, cheese, ginger snaps, biscuits, jam--oh! i say, the jam-pot's broken! whatever shall we do?" he dipped his fingers into his wallet as he spoke, and brought them out magenta! their hilarity was dissipated suddenly, and grave looks were bestowed on eddie's digits, until flo's little voice arose like a strain of sweet music to dissipate the clouds. "oh! never mind," she said; "i's got anuzzer pot in my bag." this had been forgotten. the fact was verified by swift examination, and felicity was restored. "what are you going to photograph?" asked milly, seeing that archie was busy making arrangements. "_you_, cousin milly. you've no notion what a splendid couple you and mr barret look--stuck up so picturesquely on that little mound, with its rich foreground of bracken, and the grey rock beside you, and the peep through the bushes, with big ben for a background; and the easel, too--so suggestive! there, now, i'm ready. by the way, i might take you as a pair of lovers!" poor milly became scarlet, and suddenly devoted herself to the _lusus naturae_! barret took refuge in a loud laugh, and then said: "really, one would suppose that you were a professional, archie; you order your sitters about with such self-satisfied presumption." "yes, they always do that," said milly, recovering herself, and looking calmly up from the cow--which now resembled a megatherium--"but you must remember, cousin archie, that i am a _painter_, and therefore understand about attitudes, and all that, much better than a mere photographer. so, if i condescend to sit, you must take your orders from _me_!" "fire away then with your orders," cried the impatient amateur. "see, sir, i will sit thus--as if painting," said milly, who was desperately anxious to have it over, lest archie should make some awkward proposition. "mr barret will stand behind me, looking earnestly at the picture--" "admiringly," interposed barret. "not so--earnestly, as if getting a lesson," said milly, with a teacher's severity; "and flo will sit thus, at my feet, taking care (hold it, dear,) of my palette." "more likely to make a mess of it," said junkie. "now, are you ready? steady! don't budge a finger," cried archie, removing the little leather cap. in her uncertainty as to which of her fingers she was not to budge, flo nervously moved them all. "you're movin', flo!" whispered junkie. "no, i'm not," said flo, looking round indignantly. "there, i knew you couldn't hold your tongue, junkie," cried the photographer, hastily replacing the cap. "however, i think i had it done before she moved." "and look--you've got the nigger in!" cried junkie, snatching up the black doll, which had been lying unobserved on its owner's knee all the time. "never mind, that'll do no harm. now, then, soldiers, form up, an' quick march," said archie, closing up his apparatus. "we have got plenty of work before us, and no time to waste." obedient to this rather inaccurately given word of command, archie's troops fell into line, and, with a whooping farewell, continued their march up the glen. during the remainder of that beautiful afternoon, the artist and pupil continued at their "fascinating" work. shall we take advantage of our knowledge to lift the curtain, and tell in detail how milly introduced a few more megatheriums into her painting, and violated nearly all the rules of perspective, to say nothing of colour and chiaro-oscuro? shall we reveal the multitude of absurd remarks made by the pupil, in his wild attempts at criticism of an art, about which he knew next to nothing? no; it would be unwarrantable--base! merely remarking that painter and pupil were exceedingly happy, and that they made no advance whatever in the art of painting, we turn to another scene in the neighbourhood of kinlossie house. it was a wide grass-field from which the haycocks had recently been removed, leaving it bare and uninteresting. nevertheless, there were two points of interest in that field which merit special attention. one was a small black bull, with magnificent horns, the shaggiest of coats, and the wickedest of eyes. the other was our friend macrummle, taking a short cut through the field, with a basket on his back, a rod in one hand, and an umbrella in the other. we may at once account for the strange presence of the latter article, by explaining that, on the day before--which was rainy--the laird, had with an umbrella, accompanied his friend to his first pool in the river, at which point their roads diverged; that he had stayed to see macrummle make his first two or three casts, during which time the sky cleared, inducing the laird to close his umbrella, and lean it against the bank, after which he went away and forgot it. returning home the next day our angler found and took charge of it. that he had been successful that day was made plain, not only by the extra stoop forward, which was rendered necessary by the weight of his basket, and the beaming satisfaction on his face, but by the protruding tail of a grilse which was too large to find room for the whole of itself, inside. "you're a lucky man to-day, dick," murmured the enthusiastic angler to himself, as he jogged across the field. had he known what was in store for him, however, he would have arrived at a very different estimate of his fortunes! the field, as we have said, was a large one. macrummle had reached the centre of it when the black bull, standing beside the wall at its most distant corner, seemed to feel resentment at this trespass on its domain. it suddenly bellowed in that low thunderous tone which is so awfully suggestive of conscious power. macrummle stopped short. he was naturally a brave man, nevertheless his heart gave his ribs an unwonted thump when he observed the bull in the distance glaring at him. he looked round in alarm. nothing but an unbroken flat for a hundred yards lay around him in all directions, unrelieved by bush, rock, or tree, and bounded by a five-foot wall, with only one gate, near to where the bull stood pawing the earth and apparently working itself into a rage. "now, dick," murmured the old gentleman, seriously, "it's do or die with you if that brute charges, for your legs are not much better than pipe-stems, and your wind is--eh! he comes!" turning sharply, he caused the pipe-stems to wag with amazing velocity-- too fast, indeed, for his toe, catching on something, sent him violently to the ground, and the basket flew over his head with such force that the strap gave way. he sprang up instantly, still unconsciously holding on to rod and umbrella. meanwhile, the bull, having made up its mind, came charging down the field with its eyes flashing and its tail on high. macrummle looked back. he saw that the case was hopeless. he was already exhausted and gasping. a young man could scarcely have reached the wall in time. suddenly he came to a ditch, one of those narrow open drains with which inhabitants of wet countries are familiar. the sight of it shot a blaze of hope through his despair! he stopped at once, dropped his rod, and, putting up his umbrella, laid it on the ground. it was a large cotton one of the gamp description. under the shelter of it he stepped quietly into the ditch, which was not much more than knee-deep, with very little water in it. placing the umbrella in such a position that it came between himself and the bull, he laid himself flat down in the drain. the opening was far too narrow to admit his broad shoulders, except when turned sidewise. the same treatment was not applicable to other parts of his person, but, by dint of squeezing and collapsing, he got down, nestled under the bank, and lay still. on came the bull till it reached the basket, which, with a deft toss, it hurled into the air and sent the silvery treasure flying. a moment more and it went head foremost into the umbrella. whether it was surprised at finding its enemy so light and unsubstantial, or at the slipping of one of its feet into the drain, we cannot tell, but the result was that it came down and turned a complete somersault over the drain, carrying the umbrella along with it in its mad career! when the bull scrambled to its feet again, and looked round in some surprise, it found that one of its legs and both its horns were through and entangled with the wrecked article. it was a fine sight to witness the furious battle that immediately ensued between the black bull and that cotton umbrella! rage at the man was evidently transmuted into horror at the article. the bull pranced and shook its head and pawed about in vain efforts to get rid of its tormenter. shreds of the wreck flapped wildly in its eyes. spider-like ribs clung to its massive limbs and poked its reeking sides, while the swaying handle kept tapping its cheeks and ears and nose, as if taunting the creature with being held and badgered by a thing so flimsy and insignificant! happily this stirring incident was not altogether unwitnessed. far up the valley it was observed by four living creatures, three of whom immediately came tearing down the road at racing speed. gradually their different powers separated them from each other. archie came first, eddie next, and junkie brought up the rear. on nearing the field the first wrenched a stake out of a fence; the second caught up a rake, that had been left by the haymakers; and the last, unscrewing the butt of his rod, broke the line, and flourished the weapon as a cudgel. they all three leaped into the field one after another, and bore courageously down on the bull, being well accustomed to deal with animals of the sort. separating as they drew near, they attacked him on three sides at once. short work would he have made with any of them singly; together they were more than his match. when he charged junkie, archie ran in and brought the stake down on his skull. when he turned on his assailant, eddie combed his sides with the rake. dashing at the new foe he was caught by the tail by junkie, who applied the butt of his rod vigorously, the reel adding considerable weight to his blows. at last the bull was cowed--if we may venture to say so--and driven ignominiously into a corner of the field, where he vented his rage on the remnants of the umbrella, while the victors returned to the field of battle. "but what's come of macrummle?" said the panting junkie as they gathered up the fish and replaced them in the basket. "i never saw him get over the wall. did you?" "no," replied archie, looking round in surprise. "i dare say he ran off while we were thumpin' the bull," suggested eddie. "i'm here, boys! i'm here, junkie," cried a strange sepulchral voice, as if from the bowels of the earth. "where?" asked the boys gazing down at their feet with expressions of awe. "he's i' the drain!" cried junkie with an expanding mouth. "ay--that's it! i'm in the drain! lend a hand, boys; i can hardly move." they ran to him instantly, but it required the united powers of all three to get him out, and when they succeeded he was found to be coated all over one side with thick mud. "what a muddle you've made of yourself, to be sure!" exclaimed junkie. "let me scrape you." but macrummle refused to be scraped until they had placed the five-foot wall between himself and the black bull. then he submitted with a profound sigh. chapter eleven. peculiar incidents of a sabbath among the western isles. one beautiful sunday morning while the party assembled in kinlossie house was at breakfast, a message was brought to the laird that he "wass wantit to speak wi' the poy tonal'." "well, donald, my lad, what want ye with me this fine morning?" asked the laird, on going out to the hall. "i wass telt to tell ye the'll be no kirk the day, for the minister's got to preach at drumquaich." "very well, donald. have you had breakfast?" "oo, ay." "go into the kitchen, then, and they will give you some more." "thenkee, sir." "i find," said the laird on returning to his friends, "that we are to have no service to-day in our little church, as our minister has to take the duty at drumquaich, on the other side of the loch. so those of you who are bent on going to church must make up your minds to cross the loch in the boat." "is drumquaich the little village close under the pine wood, that we see on doubling eagle point?" asked mabberly. "the same. the little church there, like our own, is not supplied regularly. sometimes a divinity student is sent down to them. occasionally they have a great gun from edinburgh." "i think some of the students are better than the great guns," remarked mrs gordon quietly. "true, my dear, and that is most natural, for it stands to reason that some at least of the students must be the great guns of the future in embryo; and they have the freshness of youth to set against the weight of erudition." "the student who preached to us here last sunday," observed barret, "must surely be an embryo great gun, for he treated his subject in a learned and masterly way that amazed me. from the look of him i would not have expected even an average discourse." "that was partly owing to his modest air and reticence," returned the laird. "if you heard him converse on what he would call metapheesical subjects, you would perhaps have been still more surprised." "well, i hope he will preach to-day," said barret. "from which i conclude that you will be one of the boat party. my wife and milly make three, myself four; who else?" "no--don't count me" interrupted the hostess; "i must stay with flo; besides, i must visit poor mrs donaldson, who is again laid up. but i'll be glad if you will take aggy anderson. ever since the poor girl came here for a little change of air she has been longing to go out in the boat. i really believe it is a natural craving for the free, fresh breezes of the sea. may she go?" "by all means; as many as the boat will hold," returned the laird. it was finally arranged that, besides those already mentioned, mabberly, jackman, macrummle, quin, the three boys, roderick the groom, and ian anderson, as boatman in charge, should cross over to the little church at drumquaich, about eight miles distant by water. while they were getting ready, mrs gordon and flo, with the beloved black dolly, paid a visit to old molly, the keeper's mother. they found her in her arm-chair, sitting by the large, open chimney, on the hearth of which a very small fire was burning--not for the sake of warmth, but for the boiling of an iron pot which hung over it. the old woman was enveloped in a large, warm shawl--a gift from the "hoose." she also wore a close-fitting white cap, or "mutch," which was secured to her head by a broad, black ribbon. the rims of her spectacles were of tortoiseshell, and she had a huge family bible on her knee, while her feet rested upon a three-legged stool. she looked up inquiringly as her visitors entered. "why, molly, i thought you were in bed. they told me you were ill." "na, mem, i'm weel eneuch in body; it's the speerit that's ill. and ye ken why." she spoke in a faint, quavering voice, for her old heart had been crushed by her wayward, self-indulgent son, and a few tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks; but she was too old and feeble to give way to demonstrative grief. little flo, whose heart was easily touched, went close to the poor old woman, and looked up anxiously in her face. "my bonny doo! it's a pleasure to look at ye," said the old woman, laying her hand on the child's head. mrs gordon drew in a chair and sat down by her side. "tell me about it," she said confidentially; "has he given way again, after all his promises to mr jackman?" "oo, ay; maister jackman's a fine man, but he canna change the hert o' my son--though it is kind o' him to try. no, the only consolation i hev is here." she laid her hand on the open bible. "where is he just now?" asked the lady. as she spoke, a fierce yell was heard issuing from the keeper's cottage, which, as we have said, stood close to his mother's abode. "ye hear till 'im," said the old woman with a sorrowful shake of the head. "he iss fery pad the day. whiles he thinks that horrible craters are crawlin' ower him, an' whiles that fearful bogles are glowerin' at him. sometimes he fancies that the foul fiend himsel' has gotten haud o' him, an' then he screeches as ye hear." "would it do any good, molly, if i were to go and speak to him, think you?" "na, ye'd better let him lie. he's no' hissel' the now, and there's no sayin' what he might do. oh! drink! drink!" cried the old creature, clasping her hands; "ye took my man awa', an' now ye're ruinin' my son! but," she added with sudden animation, "we can pray for him; though it iss not possible for you or maister jackman to change my bairn's hert, the lord can do it, for wi' him `a' things are possible.'" to this mrs gordon gave a hearty assent. sitting still as she was, with hand resting on the old woman's arm, she shut her eyes and prayed fervently for the salvation of the enslaved man. she was still engaged in this act of worship when another shriek was heard. at the same time the door of the keeper's cottage was heard to open, and ivor's feet were heard staggering towards his mother's cottage. poor flo took refuge in great alarm behind mrs donaldson, while her mother, rising quickly, drew back a few paces. next moment the small door was burst open, and the keeper plunged, almost fell, into the room with something like a savage cheer. he was a terrible sight. with wildly dishevelled hair, bloodshot eyes, and distorted features, he stood for a few seconds glaring at his mother; his tall figure swaying to and fro, while he held a quart bottle aloft in his right hand. he did not appear to observe the visitors, but continued to stare at his mother with an expression that perplexed her, accustomed though she was to his various moods. "see, mother," he shouted fiercely, "i have done wi' the accursed thing at last!" he dashed the bottle on the hearth with tremendous violence as he spoke, so that it vanished into minute fragments, while its contents spurted about in all directions. happily very little of it went into the fire, else the cottage would have been set ablaze. with another wild laugh the man wheeled round, staggered out of the cottage, and went his way. "you are not hurt, i trust?" said the lady, anxiously bending down over the poor old creature, who had remained calmly seated in her chair, without the slightest appearance of alarm. "no, i'm not hurt, thank the lord," she answered. "don't you think that that was an answer to our prayer?" asked the lady with some eagerness. old molly shook her head dubiously. "it may be so," she replied; "but i hev often seen 'im i' that mind, and he has gone back to it again and again, like the soo that was washed, to her wallowin' i' the mire. yet there did seem somethin' different aboot 'im the day," she added thoughtfully; "but it iss not the first time i hev prayed for him without gettin' an answer." "answers do not always come as we expect them," returned her visitor; "yet they may be granted even while we are asking. i don't know how it is, but i feel sure that jesus will save your son." poor little flo, who had been deeply affected by the terrible appearance of her favourite ivor, and who had never seen him in such a plight before, quietly slipped out of old molly's hut and went straight to that of the keeper. she found him seated on a chair with his elbows on his knees, his forehead resting on his hands, and his strong fingers grasping his hair as if about to tear it out by the roots. flo, who was naturally fearless and trustful, ran straight to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. he started and looked round. "bairn! bairn!" he said grasping her little head, and kissing her forehead, "what brings ye here?" "muzzer says she is _sure_ jesus will save you; so i came to tell you, for muzzer _never_ says what's not true." having delivered her consoling message, flo ran back at once to molly's cottage with the cheerful remark that it was all right now, for she had told ivor that he was going to be saved! while mrs gordon and flo were thus engaged on shore, the boat party were rowing swiftly down the loch to the little hamlet of drumquaich. the weather was magnificent. not a breath of air stirred the surface of the sea, so that every little white cloud in the sky was perfectly reproduced in the concave below. the gulls that floated on the white expanse seemed each to be resting on its own inverted image, and the boat would have appeared in similar aspect but for the shivering of the mirror by its oars. "most appropriate type of sabbath rest," said jackman. "ay, but like all things here pelow," remarked ian anderson, who possessed in a high degree the faculty of disputation, "it's not likely to last long." "what makes you think so, ian?" asked milly, who sat in the stern of the boat between john barret and aggy anderson. "well, you see, muss," began ian, in his slow, nasal tone, "the gless has bin fallin' for some time past, an'--tonal', poy, mind your helm; see where you're steerin' to!" donald, who steered, was watching with profound interest the operations of junkie, who had slily and gravely fastened a piece of twine to a back button of macrummle's coat, and tied him to the thwart on which he sat. being thus sternly asked where he was steering to, donald replied, "oo, ay," and quickly corrected the course. "but surely," returned milly, "there is no sign of a rapid change, at least if we may judge from the aspect of nature; and i am a fervent believer in nature, whatever the glass may predict." "i am not sure o' that, muss," said ian. "you needn't pull quite so hard, muster mabberly; we hev plenty o' time. tak it easy. well, as i wass sayin', muss, i hev seen it as calm as this i' the mornin' mony a time, an' plowin' a gale at nicht." "let us hope that that won't be our experience to-day," said the laird. "anyhow, we have a good sea-boat under us." "weel, the poat's no' a pad wan, laird, but i hev seen petter. you see, when the wund iss richt astern, she iss given to trinkin'." "that's like ivor," said junkie with a laugh; "only _he_ is given to drinkin', no matter how the wind blows." "what do you mean?" asked milly, much perplexed. barret here explained that a boat which takes in much water over the bow is said to be given to drinking. "i'm inclined that way myself," said jackman, who had been pulling hard at one of the oars up to that time. "has any one thought of bringing a bottle of water?" "here's a bottle," cried macrummle, laughing. "ah, sure, an' there seems to be a bottle o' milk, or somethin' white under the th'ort," remarked quin, who pulled the bow oar. "but that's milly's bottle of milk," shouted junkie. "and aggy's," chimed in eddie. "yes--no one must touch that," said junkie. "quite right, boys," said jackman; "besides, milk is not good for quenching thirst." on search being made, it was found that water had not been brought with them, so that the thirsty rowers had to rest content without it. "is that eagle cliff i see, just over the knoll there?" asked barret. "it is," answered the laird; "don't you see the eagle himself like a black speck hovering above it? my shepherd would gladly see the bird killed, for he and his wife make sad havoc among the lambs sometimes; but i can't say that i sympathise with the shepherd. an eagle is a noble bird, and there are none too many of them now in this country." "i agree with you heartily," said barret; "and i would regard the man who should kill that eagle as little better than a murderer." "_quite_ as bad as a murderer!" said milly with energy. "i am glad you speak out so clearly, mr barret; for i fear there are some among us who would not hesitate to shoot if the poor bird were to come within range." "pray don't look so pointedly at me, miss moss," said jackman; "i assure you i have no intention of attempting murder--at least not in that direction." "och! an' it's murder enough you've done already for wan man," said quin in an undertone. "oh! i say, that reminds me. do tell us the rest of the story of the elephant hunt, mr jackman," cried junkie. "not just now, my boy. it's a long story. besides, we are on our way to church! some other time i will tell it you." "it would take half the romance away from my mother's visit if the eagle were killed," remarked milly, who did not overhear the elephant parenthesis. "has your mother, then, decided to come?" asked barret. "yes. in spite of the sea, which she dreads, and steamers, which she hates, she has made up her mind to come and take me home." "how charming that will be!" said barret. "indeed!" returned milly, with a significant look and smile. "of _course_ i did not mean that," returned barret, laughing. "i meant that it would be charming for you to have your mother out here, and to return home in her company. is she likely to stay long?" "i cannot tell. that depends on so many things. but i am sure of one thing, that she longs to see and thank you for the great service you rendered me on the day of your arrival here." barret began to protest that the service was a comparatively small one, and such as any man might gladly render to any one, when the arrival of the boat at the landing-place cut him short. about thirty or forty people had assembled from the surrounding districts, some of whom had come four or even six miles to attend church. they formed a quiet, grave, orderly company of men and women in homespun garments, with only a few children among them. the arrival of the laird's party made a very considerable addition to the congregation, and, as the hour for meeting had already passed by a few minutes, they made a general move towards the church. the building was wonderfully small, and in the most severely simple style of architecture, being merely an oblong structure of grey stone, with small square windows, and a belfry at one end of the roof. it might have been mistaken for a cottage but for this, and the door being protected by a small porch, and placed at one end of the structure, instead of at the side. a few of the younger men remained outside in conversation, awaiting the advent of the minister. after a time, however, these dropped in and took their seats, and people began to wonder why the minister was so late. presently a boy with bare legs and a kilt entered the church and whispered to a very old man, who turned out to be an elder. having heard the boy's message, the elder crossed over to the pew in which the laird was seated and whispered to him, not so low, however, as to prevent giles jackman from hearing all that passed. the minister's horse had fallen, he said, and bruised the minister's legs so that he could not officiate. "very awkward," returned the laird, knitting his brows. "what's to be done? it seems absurd that so many of us should assemble here just to look solemn for a few minutes and then go home." "yes, sir, it iss akward," said the elder. "could you not gif us a discoorse yoursel', sir, from the prezenter's dask?" the latter part of the proposition was to guard himself from the imputation of having asked the laird to mount the _pulpit_. "me preach!" exclaimed the laird; "i never did such a thing in my life." "maype you'll read a chapter, what-e-ver," persisted the elder. "impossible! i never read a chapter since i was born--in public, i mean, of course. but why not do it yourself, man?" "so i would, sir, but my throat'll not stand it." "is there no other elder who could do it?" "not wan, sir. i'm afraid we will hev to dismiss the congregation." at this point, to the laird's relief and no little surprise, jackman leaned forward, and said in a low voice, "if you have no objection, i will undertake to conduct the service." the elder gave the laird a look which, if it had been translated into words, would probably have conveyed the idea--"is he orthodox?" "by all means, mr jackman," said the laird; "you will be doing us a great favour." accordingly jackman went quietly to the precentor's desk and mounted it, much to the surprise of its proper occupant, a man with a voice like a brass trumpet, who thereupon took his seat on a chair below the desk. profound was the interest of the congregation when they saw this bronzed, broad-shouldered, big-bearded young man pull a small bible out of his pocket and begin to turn over the leaves. and it was noted with additional interest by several of the people that the bible seemed to be a well-worn one. looking up from it after a few minutes, during which it was observed that his eyes had been closed, jackman said, in an easy, conversational tone, that quite took the people by surprise-- "friends, it has been my lot in life to wander for some years in wild and distant lands, where ministers of the gospel were few and far between, and where christians were obliged to conduct the worship of god as best they could. your minister being unable to attend, owing to an accident, which i trust may not turn out to be serious, i shall attempt, with the permission of your elder, to lead your thoughts godward, in dependence on the holy spirit. let us pray." the jealous ears of the rigorously orthodox heard him thus far without being able to detect absolute heresy, though they were sensitively alive to the unusual style and very unclerical tone of the speaker's voice. the same ears listened reverently to the prayer which followed, for it was, after the pattern of the lord's prayer, almost startlingly short; still it was very earnest, extremely simple, and, all things considered, undeniably orthodox. relieved in their minds, therefore, the people prepared themselves for more, and the precentor, with the brazen but tuneful voice, sang the first line of the psalm which the young preacher gave out--"i to the hills will lift mine eyes"--with rasping energy. at the second line the congregation joined in, and sang praise with reverent good-will, so that, when a chapter of the word had been read and another psalm sung, they were brought to a state of hopeful expectancy. the text still further pleased them, when, in a quiet voice, while turning over the leaves of the well-used bible, jackman said, "in all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths." laying down his little bible, and looking at the people earnestly and in silence for a few moments, the preacher said-- "i have travelled in italy, france, germany, switzerland, and other places, and i never yet went in these countries without a guide-book. more than that, never in all my experience have i seen men or women travelling in these countries without a guide-book. the travellers always carried their guide-books in their hands, or in their pockets, and consulted them as they went along. in the evenings, round the tables or on the sofas of the salons, they would sometimes sit poring over the pages of their guide-books, considering distances and the best routes, and the cost of travelling and board. any man who would have travelled without a guide-book, or who, having one, neglected to use it, would have been considered weak-minded at the least. still further, i have noted that such travellers _believed_ in their guide-books, and usually acted on the advice and directions therein given. "but one journey i can tell of in which all this seems to be reversed-- the journey from earth towards heaven. and here is our guide-book for that journey," said the preacher, holding up the little bible. "how do we treat it? i do not ask scoffers, who profess not to believe in the bible. i ask those who _call themselves_ christians, and who would be highly offended if we ventured to doubt their christianity. is it not true that many of us consult our guide-book very much as a matter of form and habit, without much real belief that it will serve us in all the minute details of life? we all wish to get on in life. the most obstinate and contradictory man on earth admits that. even if he denies it with his lips, all his actions prove that he admits it. well, what says our guide-book in regard to what is called `getting on'? `in all thy ways acknowledge him, and he will direct thy paths.' now, what could be simpler--we might even say, what could be easier--than this? him whom we have to acknowledge is defined in the previous verse as `the lord'--that is, jesus, immanuel, or god with us." from this point the sunburnt preacher diverged into illustration, leaning over the desk in a free-and-easy, confidential way, and thrilling his audience with incidents in his own adventurous career, which bore directly on the great truth that, as regards the great end of life, success and blessedness result from acknowledging the lord, and that failure and disaster inevitably await those who ignore him. while jackman proceeded with his discourse, the sky had become overcast, dark thunderclouds had been gathering in the nor'-east, rain had also begun to descend; yet so intently were the people listening to this unusual style of preacher, that few of them observed the change until a distant thunder-clap awoke them to it. quietly, but promptly, jackman drew his discourse to a close, and stepped out of the desk, remarking, in the very same voice with which he had preached, that he feared he had kept them too long, and that he hoped none of the congregation had far to go. "we hev that, sir," said the old elder, shaking him warmly by the hand; "but we don't heed that, an' we are fery glad that we came, what-e-ver." as the wind had also risen, and it seemed as if the weather was not likely to improve, the laird hurried his party down to the boat. waterproofs were put on, umbrellas were put up, the sails were hoisted, and the boat put off. "i fear the sea is very rough," remarked milly moss, drawing close to aggy anderson, so as to shelter her somewhat from the driving rain. "oo, ay; it iss a wee rough," assented ian, who now took the helm; "but we wull soon rin ower. haud you the main sheet, mr mabberly, an' pe ready to let co when i tell ye. it iss a wee thing squally." it was indeed a little more than a "wee thing squally," for just then a vivid flash of lightning was seen to glitter among the distant crags of the eagle cliff. this was followed by a loud clap of thunder, which, leaping from cliff to crag, reverberated among the mountains with a succession of crashes that died away in ominous mutterings. at the same time a blue line towards the nor'-east indicated an approaching squall. "had we not better take in a reef, ian?" asked the laird anxiously. "we had petter weather the pint first," said the boatman; "efter that the wund wul pe in oor favour, an'--but, ye're richt. tak in a reef, roderick an' tonal'. mind the sheet, mr mabberly, an' sit low in the poat, poys." these orders were promptly obeyed, for the squall was rushing down the loch very rapidly. when it burst on them the boat leaned over till her lee gunwale almost ran under water, but ian was a skilful boatman, and managed to weather the point in safety. after that, as he had said, the wind was more favourable, enabling them to run before it. still, they were not out of danger, for a wide stretch of foaming sea lay between them and the shores of kinlossie, while a gathering storm was darkening the sky behind them. chapter twelve. stirring events of more kinds than one. the squall which blew the kinlossie boat round the eagle point was but the precursor of a succession of heavy squalls which quickly changed into a furious gale, compelling ian anderson to close reef his sails. even when this was done, the boat rushed through the foaming water with tremendous velocity, and exhibited that tendency to drinking, to which reference has already been made; for every time she plunged into the trough of the sea, a little water came over the bow. of course, going as they were at such a rate, the traversing of six or eight miles of water occupied but little time, and they were soon close to the bay, at the head of which kinlossie house nestled among its trees. "come aft, poys," shouted ian, whose voice, strong though it was, could scarcely be heard in the bow owing to the roaring of the gale; "she's trinkin' too much; come aft, an' look sherp!" the three boys obeyed with alacrity, being well accustomed to boats, and aware of the necessity of prompt obedience in circumstances of danger. thus lightened, the boat ceased drinking at the bow, but, being rather overweighted at the stern, she now and then took in a little water there. unfortunately the point of rocks which formed the southern end of kinlossie bay obliged ian to change his course a little in order to weather them. this was a critical operation. even the girls had some sort of idea of that, as their looks bore witness. john barret felt a strong inclination to slip his arm round milly's waist and whisper, "don't be afraid, beloved, _i'll_ take care of you!" but want of courage--to say nothing of a sense of propriety--kept his lips silent and his arm still. "noo, keep stiddy, all of ye," said ian, as he shifted the helm a little. an irrepressible shriek burst from aggy anderson, for the boat lay over so much that the hissing water rippled almost into her, and seemed about to swallow them up. "tak anither haul o' the sheet, maister mabberly," cried ian. assisted by jackman, mabberly obeyed, and the boat went, as quin said, "snorin'" past the rocks, which were now close under her lee, with the waves bursting wildly over them. another minute and the outermost rock was under their port bow. to the eyes of the girls it seemed as if destruction were inevitable. to make matters worse, at that moment a vivid flash was succeeded by a loud thunder-clap, which, mingling with the gale, seemed to intensify its fury, while a deluge of rain came down. but ian knew what he was about. with a firm hand on the tiller he steered past the point, yet so closely that it seemed as if an active man might have leaped upon the outermost rock, which rose, black and solid, amid the surging foam. another moment and the boat swept safely round into the bay, and was again put before the wind. "we're a' richt noo, what-e-ver," said ian with a grunt of satisfaction. never before did a self-sufficient boatman have his words more effectually or promptly falsified than on that occasion. the distance between boat and shore at that moment was only a few hundred yards; but the water all the way was deep, and the waves, in consequence, were large and wild. there were great possibilities within the brief space of distance and time that lay before them! "tak an oar, maister quin, an' help rodereek to fend off," cried the boatman. "hold ticht to the sheet, sir, an' pe ready to let co the moment i tell ye. are ye ready wi' the halyards, muster airchie?" "all right, ian," replied the boy, who stood ready to lower the sail. they could see that several men were standing on the beach, ready to render assistance, among them duncan, the butler, and ivor, the gamekeeper. the latter, who had evidently recovered himself, was standing waist-deep in the foam, as if anxious to grasp the boat when it grounded. "ivor is unusually keen to help us to-day," remarked the laird, with a peculiar look; but no one was sufficiently disengaged to listen to or answer him. at that critical moment junkie took it into his unaccountable head to scramble to the fore part of the boat, in order, as he said, to lend a hand with a rope. on reaching the bow he stumbled; the boat plunged heavily, as if to accommodate him, and he went overboard with a suddenly checked yell, that rose high and sharp above the roaring gale! of course every man near him sprang to the side and made a wild grasp at him. the gunwale went down, the sea rushed in, and, in a space of time brief as the lightning-flash, all the occupants of the boat were struggling in the waves! a great cry arose from the shore, and ivor, plunging into the surf, was seen to breast the billows with the force of a hercules. in the moment of upsetting, john barret's cowardice and scruples vanished. he seized milly by the arm, and held her up when they rose from the plunge. and now, for the first time in his life, our hero found the advantage of having trained himself, not only in all manly exercises, but in the noble art of rescuing life from the water. instead of rising to the wild discovery of helpless ignorance, as to what was the best way of using his great strength, he rose with the comfortable knowledge, first, that he was a powerful swimmer, and second, that he knew exactly what to do--at least to attempt. instead, therefore, of allowing himself to be hugged, and probably drowned, by the girl he loved, he held her off at arm's length until he managed to grasp her by both arms close to the shoulders, and with her back towards him--treading water while doing so. then, swimming on his own back, he gently drew her upon his breast, so that her head rested close to his chin. thus the girl's face was turned upwards and held well out of the water, and the youth was able to say almost in her ear, "trust in god, dearest, he will save us!" while he struck out vigorously with his legs. thus, swimming on his back, he headed for the shore. lest the reader should fancy that we are here merely inventing a mode of action, it may be well to state that we have conversed with a man styled "the rescue," whose duty it was to watch the boys of aberdeen while bathing on the dangerous coast there, and who told us that he had saved some hundreds of lives--many of them in the manner above described. every one in the boat was fortunately able to swim, more or less, except milly and aggie anderson. with the utmost anxiety to save the latter, her uncle ian made a desperate plunge when the boat upset, at the spot where, in the confusion, he thought he saw her go down. he grasped something under water, which clutched him violently in return. rising to the surface he found that he had got hold of giles jackman, who, animated by the same desire to rescue the same girl, had also made a plunge at her. flinging each other off almost angrily, they swam wildly about in search of her, for giles had observed that barret was sufficiently intent on milly. but poor aggie was in even better hands. ivor donaldson had kept his eyes on her from the moment that he could distinguish faces in the approaching boat. he was a splendid swimmer. even against wind and waves he made rapid headway, and in a few seconds caught the girl by the hair. in his case the absence of a plan of rescue was to some extent remedied by sheer strength of body, coupled with determination. the poor girl did her best to choke him, as drowning people will, but, happily, she was too weak for the purpose and he too strong! he suffered her to do her worst, and, with the arm which she left free made his way gallantly to the beach, where duncan and all the domestics were ready to receive them. barret and milly had landed just before them. immediately after archie and eddie were swept in amid the foam, and junkie himself--who, like his brothers, could swim like a cork--came careering in on the top of a wave, like a very water-imp! with all the energy of his nature he turned, the moment his feet touched ground, to lend a hand to his friend tonal', who was not far behind him. thus, one by one, the whole party got safely to land, for the laird, although old, was still vigorous, and, like the others, able to swim. macrummle came in last, and they had some difficulty in getting him out of the water, for he was rather sluggish, as well as heavy; but he was none the worse for his immersion, and to the anxieties afterwards expressed by his friends, he replied quietly that he had become pretty well used to the water by that time. it was a trying experience, however, for all of them, and, in the opinion of ian anderson, as he gave it to his wife when they met, "it was a queer way o' feenishin' off a fery extraor'nar sawbath tay--what-e-ver!" one morning, not long after this incident, the gentlemen made up a shooting party to try the summit of the hill for mountain hares--their hostess having twitted them with their inability to keep the household supplied with hare soup. "i will accompany you, gentlemen, to the shoulder of the first hill," observed their host, as he finished his breakfast, "but not farther, for i am not so young as i once was, and cannot be expected to keep pace with a `woods and forester.'" "that is not a good reason for your stopping short, laird," retorted jackman, with a smile, "because it is quite possible for the `woods and forester' to regulate his pace to that of the western isles." "well, we shall see," returned his host. "and what does my reckless milly intend to do with herself?" "i mean to have a little picnic--all by myself," said milly; "that is to say with nobody but me and aggy anderson." "d'you think that quite safe, so soon after her ducking?" asked mrs gordon. "quite safe, auntie, for she has not felt a bit the worse for that ducking; indeed, she seems much the better for it, and i am quite sure that hill air is good for her." "oh! then, you mean to have your very select picnic on the hills?" said the laird. "yes, but no one shall know to what part we are going, for, as i have said, we mean to have a day of it all to ourselves; only we will take junkie to protect us, and carry our provisions." there were two of the gentlemen who declined the shooting expedition. john barret said he would start with them, but would at a certain point drop behind and botanise. macrummle also preferred to make _one more_ effort to catch that grilse which had risen so often to him of late, but was still at large in the big pool under the fall. the result of the morning's discussion was that only mabberly and jackman proceeded to assault the hares on the mountain-top, accompanied by archie and eddie, with ivor donaldson to guide them. up in the nursery--that devastated region which suggested the idea of an hospital for broken furniture and toys--poor little neglected flo sat down on the floor, and, propping her favourite doll up against the remnant of a drum, asked that sable friend what she would like to do. receiving no answer, she said, in a cheery, confidential tone, which she had acquired from her mother, "i'll tell you what, miss blackie, you an' i will go for a picnic too. zere's plenty places for you an' me, as well as for cuzn miwy to go to, an' we will let muzzer go wid us--if she's dood. so go, like a dood chile', an' get your things on." as the day was particularly bright and warm, this minor picnic was splendidly carried into effect, in a little coppice close to the house. there mrs gordon knitted and sometimes read, and behaved altogether like a particularly "dood chile," while flo and blackie carried on high jinks around her. the eagle cliff was the spot which milly moss had fixed on for her select little picnic with the niece of the fisherman. strange to say, and without the slightest knowledge or suspicion of this fact (so he said), john barret had selected the very same spot for his botanical ramble. it must be remembered, however, that it was a wide spot. seated in a secluded nook, not long after noon, milly and aggy, with junkie, enjoyed the good things which were spread on a mass of flat rock in front of them. "now i call this jolly!" said junkie, as well as he could, with a mass of jam-tart stopping the way. "it is indeed," returned milly; "but i don't feel quite sure whether you refer to the splendour of the scenery or the goodness of the tart." "to both," returned the boy, inarticulately. "do you think you could eat any more?" asked milly with a grave, earnest look that made aggy giggle--for aggy was a facile giggler! "no, i don't," said junkie. "i'm stuffed!" "well, then, you are at leisure to fill the cup again at the spring; so run, like a good boy, and do it." "how hard you are on a fellow, cousin milly," grumbled the youngster, rising to do as he was bid; but the expression of his jammy face showed that he was no unwilling slave. "how old are you, aggy?" asked milly when he was gone. "sixteen last birthday," returned the girl. "ah! how i wish i was sixteen again!" said milly, with a profound sigh, as she gazed over the rim of a tartlet she happened to be eating, at the glittering sea and the far-off horizon. she was evidently recalling some very sad and ancient memories. "why?" asked her companion, who exhibited a very slight tendency to laugh. "because i was so light-hearted and happy at that age." "how old are you now, miss milly?" asked aggy, in a tone of increased respect. "nineteen," replied the other with a sigh. again aggy's pretty round face was rippled by a suppressed giggle, and it is highly probable that she would have given way altogether if junkie had not returned at the moment and rescued her. "here's the water, milly. now, aggy, have you had enough?" "yes, quite enough," laughed the highly convalescent invalid. "well, then, come along wi' me and i'll show you the place where cousin milly fell down. you needn't come, milly. i want to show it to aggy all by herself, an' we won't be long away." "very well, junkie, as you please. i daresay i shall manage to pass the time pleasantly enough till you return." she leant back on a thick heather bush as she spoke, and indulged herself in that most enjoyable and restful of occupations, on a bright warm day, namely, looking straight up into the sunny sky and contemplating the soft fleecy clouds that float there, changing their forms slowly but continually. now it so happened that john barret, in his botanical wanderings about the eagle cliff, in quest of the "rare specimens" that milly loved, discovered milly herself! this was not such a matter-of-course discovery as the reader may suppose, for the eagle cliff occupied a vast space of the mountain-side, among the rugged ramparts and knolls of which several persons might have wandered for hours without much chance of observing each other, unless they were to shout or discharge the echo-disturbing gun. whether it was the mysterious attraction or the occult discernment of love that drew him, we cannot tell, but certain it is that when barret, standing on the upper edge of the cliff, glanced from the eagle--which was watching him suspiciously--downward to the base of the cliff, where the sheep appeared like little buff spots on the green grass, his startled eyes alighted on milly, lying on her back, contemplating the heavens! at that distance she might have been a mole or a rabbit, as far as regards barret's power to discern her face or figure or occupation went; nevertheless, barret knew at once that it was she, as his look and colour instantly indicated. there is something in such matters which we cannot understand, and, perhaps, had better not attempt to comprehend. it is sufficient to say that the young man instantly forgot his occupation, and began to descend the cliff by break-neck routes in a way that must have surprised--if not alarmed--the very eagle himself. he even trod some exceedingly rare "specimens" under foot in his haste. in a few minutes he drew near to the spot where milly lay. then he suddenly stopped, for he remembered that she had that morning spoken of her picnic as a very private one; and was it not taking a base, unwarrantable advantage of her, thus to intrude on her privacy? but then--ah! how fatally, if not fortunately, that "but then" often comes in to seal our fate--"fix our flints," as backwoodsmen are fond of putting it!--but then, was not the opportunity unsought--quite accidental? would it not be utterly absurd, as well as disingenuous, to pass her and pretend not to see her, with his botanical box full of her own favourite plants and flowers? love is proverbially blind. the argument was more than sufficient. he shut his eyes, metaphorically, and rushed upon his fate. milly heard him rushing--in reality, walking--and knew his step! another instance of the amazing--well--she started up in some confusion, just in time to appear as if engaged in viewing with interest the majestic landscape spread out before her. swooping downwards, and hovering overhead on grand expanded pinions, the eagle seemed to watch with keen interest the result of this meeting. "pardon this intrusion, miss moss. i really did not know you were in this neighbourhood till a few minutes ago," said barret, sitting down on the heather beside her. "i accidentally observed you, and i have been so very fortunate in finding rare plants this morning, that i thought i might venture, just for a few minutes, to interrupt the privacy of your picnic. see, here!" he added, taking off the botanical box and opening it; "just look at all this!" "it is _very_ kind of you to take so much trouble on my account, mr barret," said milly, becoming deeply, almost too deeply-interested in the plants. "and, oh, _what_ a splendid specimen of the heliographipod. my dear mother will be so glad to get this, for she is quite as fond of botany as i am." "indeed! do you expect her soon?" "yes; her last letter leads me to expect her very soon now." milly looked up as she said this, but there was an expression on barret's face which induced her instantly to recur to scientific research. now, good reader, if you think we are going further, and expect us rudely to draw aside the curtain here, and betray confidences, you are mistaken. but there is no reason against--indeed, the development of our story supplies every reason in favour of--our taking note of certain facts which bear indirectly on the subject before us. far away on a shoulder of the mountain, which rose on the other side of the valley, lying between it and the eagle cliff, a grey speck might have been seen perched on a rock. even as the crow flies the distance was so great that the unassisted human eye could not have distinguished what it was. it might have been a grey cow, or a grew crow, or a grey rabbit, or a grey excrescence of the rock itself; but a telescope would have revealed the fact that it was allan gordon, the laird of kinlossie! serenity was stamped on the old man's brow, for he was amiable by nature, and he had been rendered more amiable that morning by having had a pleasant chat, while ascending the mountain, with mabberly and jackman. the latter he had begun facetiously to style the "woods and forester." the shooting party had left him there, according to previous arrangement, and the old gentleman had seated himself on the grey rock to rest and commune with nature for a short time, before beginning the descent of the steep mountain path, and wending his way homeward. from his commanding point of observation the entire range of the eagle cliff lay spread out before him, with the sea visible on the extreme of either hand. the great valley lay between, with impassable gulfs and gorges caused by its wild torrents, and its level patches, strewn with the fallen _debris_ of ages, out of which the larger masses of rock rose like islands in a grey ocean; but these huge masses became almost insignificant, owing to the overpowering impression of the cliff itself. for some time the laird gazed at it in silent admiration. presently a smile beamed on his countenance. "ha! my puss, is that you?" he muttered, as he took a binocular telescope from his pocket and adjusted it. "i guessed as much. the eagle cliff has powerful attractions for you, what with its grandeur and the `rare plants' you are so mad about. i _think_ it is _you_, though at such a distance i might easily mistake a sheep or a deer for you-- and, after all, that would be no mistake, for you _are_ a dear!" he did not condescend to smile at his own mild little joke, as he applied the telescope to his eyes. "yes, i'm right--and very comfortable you seem too, though i can't make out your party. both aggy and junkie seem to have left you. perhaps the rocks may hide them. it's so far off that--hallo!" a sudden frown clouded the laird's face as he gave vent to that hallo. "the rascal!" he muttered between his compressed lips. "he heard at breakfast, as well as the rest of us, that milly wanted no intruders. humph! i had given him credit for better taste than this implies. eh! come, sir, this is quite inexcusable!" the laird became excited as he continued to gaze, and his indignation deepened as he hastily wiped the glasses of the binocular. applying them again to his eyes, his frown became still darker. "for shame, you young scamp!" he continued to mutter, "taking advantage of your contemptible botany to bring your two heads together in a way that milly would never have permitted _but_ for that ridiculous science. ha! they've let the whole concern fall--serves 'em right--and--no! dropped it on purpose. what! do you _dare_ to grip my niece's hand, and--and--she lets you! eh! your arm round--stop!" shouted the wrathful man, springing up and almost hurling his binocular at the unconscious pair. but his shout, although fifty times louder, would have failed to cross the valley. like his anger, it was unavailing. thrusting the glass into its case with a bang, he strode down the mountain-side in rampant fury, leaving the solemn eagle to watch the lovers as they plighted their troth under the mighty cliff. happily they brought the momentous transaction to a close just before junkie and the highly convalescent aggy anderson re-appeared upon the scene. that afternoon, before dinner, john barret asked mr gordon to accord him the pleasure of a private interview in the library. "certainly, sir," said the laird sternly; "and all the more that i had very much desired some private conversation with _you_." barret was not a little surprised at the old man's tone and manner, but took no notice of it, and went alone with him into the library, where he made a full and frank confession of his love for milly, and of his having proposed to her and been accepted--on condition that her mother did not object. "and now, mr gordon," added the youth, earnestly, "i have come to apologise to you, to ask your forgiveness, in fact, and to express my extreme regret at the precipitancy of my conduct. it had been my full intention, i do assure you, to wait until i had mrs moss' sanction to pay my addresses to her daughter, but a--a--sudden opportunity, which i had not sought for or expected--for, of course, i knew nothing of the place where the picnic was to be--this--this--opportunity, i say, took me by surprise, and threw me off my guard--and--and--in short, love--oh! _you_ know well enough the power of love, mr gordon, and can make allowance for my acting precipitately!" the old gentleman was touched on a tenderer spot than the young man was aware of when he made this appeal to his own experience, for, in days gone by, young allan gordon had himself acted precipitately. but, although the appeal had touched him, he did not allow the fact to be seen, nor did he interrupt the youth's confession. "observe, mr gordon," continued barret, drawing himself up slightly, "the only wrong-doing for which i ask pardon is undue haste. my position, financially and otherwise, entitles me to marry, and darling milly has a right to accept whom she will. if it be thought that she is too young and does not know her own mind, i am willing to wait. if she were to change her mind in the meantime, i would accept the inevitable-- but i have no fear of _that_!" the laird's features had been relaxing while the enthusiastic youth proceeded, but the last speech upset his gravity altogether. "well, well, barret," he said, "since you have condemned yourself for acting hastily, it would ill become your host to overwhelm you with reproaches, and to say truth, after what you have said, i hope that the course of true love will in your case run smooth. but, my young friend," he added, in more serious tones, "i must strictly forbid any further reference to this with milly, till her mother comes. she is under my care and, being responsible for her, i must see that nothing further takes place till i am able to hand her, and all her affairs, over to her mother. i will explain this to milly, and give her to understand that you will behave to her in all respects as you did before the occurrence of this unfortunate picnic. meanwhile it may comfort you to know that her mother is already predisposed in your favour--naturally too, for she would be ungrateful, as well as eccentric, if she had no regard for the man who has twice saved her child's life. ah! there goes the dinner-bell, and i'm glad of it, for prolonged speaking fatigues me. come along." chapter thirteen. a chapter of catastrophes. it was the very next day after the conversation in the library that the waggonette was sent over to cove to meet the steamer and fetch mrs moss, who was expected to arrive. as ian anderson and donald with the ragged head had to return home that day, they were offered a lift by their friend roderick. "i wad raither waalk, rodereek," said ian; "but i dar' say i may as weel tak a lift as far as the cluff; chump up, tonal'." donald was not slow to obey. although active and vigorous as a mountain goat, he had no objection to repose under agreeable conditions. "what think ye o' the keeper _this_ time, rodereek?" asked the boatman as they drove away. "oo, it wull be the same as last time," answered the groom. "he'll haud on for a while, an' then he wull co pack like the soo to her wallowin' i' the mire." "i doubt ye're richt," returned ian, with a solemn shake of the head. "he's an unstiddy character, an' he hes naither the fear o' cod nor man pefore his eyes. but he's a plees'nt man when he likes." "oo, ay, but there iss not in him the wull to give up the trink. he hes given it up more than wance before, an' failed. he will co from pad to worse in my opinion. there iss no hope for him, i fear." "fery likely," and on the strength of that opinion ian drew a flask from his pocket, and the two cronies had what the groom called a "tram" together. farther up the steep road they overtook john barret and giles jackman, who saluted them with pleasant platitudes about the weather as they passed. curiously enough, these two chanced to be conversing on the very subject that had engaged the thoughts of ian and the groom. "they say this is not the first time that poor ivor has dashed his bottle to pieces," said barret. "i fear it has become a disease in this case, and that he has lost the power of self-control. from all i hear i have little hope of him. it is all the more sad that he seems to have gained the affections of that poor little girl, aggy anderson." "indeed!" exclaimed giles, laughing; "a fellow-feeling makes you wondrous sharp, i suppose, for i had not observed that interesting fact. but why do you speak in such pitiful tones of aggy?" "because she is an invalid, and her lover is a drunkard. sufficient reasons, i should think." "no, not quite, because she has almost recovered her usual health while here, and poor ivor is, after all, only one of the sinners for whom jesus christ died. i have great hopes of him." "i'm glad to hear you say so, jackman, though i don't see that the fact of our saviour's dying for us all proves his case to be hopeful. are there not hundreds of men of whom the same may be said, yet they are not delivered from drunkenness, and don't seem likely to be?" "that is unquestionably true," rejoined his friend; "but such men as you refer to have not been brought to the condition of renouncing self, and trusting _only_ in our saviour. they want to have some credit in the matter of their own salvation--hence they fail. ivor, i have good reason to believe, _has_ been brought to that condition--a condition which insures success--hence my great hopes of him. i became aware of his state of mind, partly from having had a long talk with him the other day, and partly from the report of his good old mother. she told me yesterday that ivor had come to her, laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, `mither, i've lost all hope o' mysel' noo,' to which the old woman answered, `that's the best news i've heard for mony a day, my son, for noo the lord wull let ye see what he can do for ye.' ivor's reply to that was, `i believe ye're richt, mither.' now i think that was a great deal to come from two such undemonstrative celts." at this point in the conversation they reached a part of the road where a footpath diverged down to the river, the road itself rising abruptly towards the eagle cliff. "we separate here," said jackman. "i need scarcely ask where you are going, or what going to do! botany, coupled with inaccessible cliffs, seems to be your mania just now. oh! john barret, my friend, may i not with truth, in your case, paraphrase a well-known couplet,-- "milly in the heart breeds milly in the brain, and this reciprocally that again?" "your paraphrases are about equal to your compositions, jackman, and, in saying that, i don't compliment you. pray, may i ask why you have forsaken your favourite weapon, the gun, and taken to the rod to-day?" "because of amiability--pure and simple. you know i don't care a rush for fishing, but, to my surprise, this morning macrummle expressed a wish to try my repeating rifle at the rabbits, and offered to let me try his rod, and--i might almost add--his river. wasn't it generous of him? so i'm off to have a try for `that salmon,' and he is off no one knows where, to send the terrified rabbits into their holes. good-bye, old fellow--a pleasant day to you." left alone, barret began to devote himself to the cliffs. it was arduous work, for the said cliffs were almost perpendicular, and plants grew in such high-up crevices, and on such un-get-at-able places, that it seemed as if "rare specimens" knew their own value, as well as the great demand for them, and selected their habitations accordingly. it was pleasant work, and our hero revelled in it! to be in such exceptional circumstances, with the grand cliffs above and below him, with no one near, save the lordly eagle himself, to watch his doings, with the wild sweeps of mountain-land everywhere, clothed with bracken, heather, and birch, and backed by the island-studded sea; with the fresh air and the bright sun, and brawling burns, and bleating sheep, and the objects of his favourite science around him, and the strong muscular frame and buoyant spirits that god had given to enable him to enjoy it all, was indeed enough to arouse a feeling of gratitude and enthusiasm; but when, in addition to this, the young man knew that he was not merely botanising on his own account, but working at it for milly, he felt as though he had all but attained to the topmost pinnacle of felicity! it is sad to think that in human affairs this condition is not unfrequently the precursor of misfortune. it is not necessarily so. happily, it is not always so. indeed, we would fain hope that it is not often so, but it was so on this occasion. barret had about half filled his botanical box with what he believed to be an interesting collection of plants that would cause the eyes of milly moss to sparkle, when the position of the sun and internal sensations induced him to think of his midday meal. it was tied up in a little square paper package. there was a spring at the bottom of the cliffs. it was near the stone where he had met milly, and had given way to precipitancy. not far from the spot also where he had made milly up into a bundle, with a plaid, and started with her towards kinlossie. no place could be better than that for his solitary luncheon. he would go there. descending the cliffs, he gained the road, and was walking along towards the selected spot, when the sound of wheels arrested him. looking up, he saw the waggonette turn sharp round the projecting cliff, and approach him at a walk. he experienced a little depression of spirit, for there was no one in it, only the groom on the box. milly would be sorely disappointed! "mrs moss has not come, i see," he said, as the groom reined up. "oo, ay, sir, she's come. but she iss a queer leddy. she's been chumpin' in an' oot o' the waginette a' the way up, like a whutret, to admire the scenery, as she says. when we cam' to the heed o' the pass she chumped oot again, an' telt me to drive on slow, an wait at the futt o' the first hull for her. she's no far ahint." "i'll go and meet her. you can drive on, slowly." barret hurried forward with feelings of considerable uncertainty as to whether this chance of meeting his mother-in-law to be (he hoped!) alone, and in these peculiar circumstances, would be an advantage or otherwise. she might be annoyed by a sudden interruption in "admiring the scenery." there would be the awkwardness of having to introduce himself, and she might be fatigued after all her "chumpin'" in and out of the waggonette. he was still pondering these points while he walked smartly forward, turned the projecting cliff above referred to, and all but overturned the identical little old lady whom he had run down on his bicycle, weeks before, in london! to say that these two drew back and gazed at each other intently--the lady quivering and pale, the youth aghast and red--is to give but a feeble account of the situation. "young man," she said, indignantly, in a low, repressed voice, "you have a peculiar talent for assaulting ladies." "madam," explained the youth, growing desperate, "you are right. i certainly have a talent--at least a misfortune--of that sort--" he stopped short, for, being quite overwhelmed, he knew not what to say. "it is sad," continued the little old lady in a tone of contempt, "that a youth like you should so much belie your looks. it was so mean of you to run away without a word of apology, just like a bad little boy, for fear of being scolded--not that i cared much for being run down with that horrid bicycle, for i was not hurt--though i _might_ have been killed--but it was the cowardly way in which you left me lying helpless among bakers, and sweeps, and policemen, and dirty boys. oh! it was disgraceful." poor barret became more and more overwhelmed as she went on. "spare me, madam," he cried, in desperation. "oh; if you only knew what i have suffered on your account since that unlucky day! believe me, it was not cowardice--well, i cannot say that exactly--but it was not the fear of your just reproaches that made me fly. it was the approach of the police, and the fear of being taken up, and a public trial, and the disgrace of--of--and--then i felt ashamed before i had fled more than a few hundred yards, and i returned to the spot, but you were gone, and i had no means of--of--" "that will do, young man. there is no need to keep me standing in this wild place. you are living somewhere in this neighbourhood, i suppose?" "yes. i am living in the neighbourhood," said barret bitterly. "well, i am going to stay at kinlossie house. you know kinlossie house, i suppose?" "oh, yes, i know it." "there is no occasion to look so fierce or bitter, young sir. i am going to be at kinlossie for some time. if you choose to call there, i shall be ready to listen to your explanations and apologies, for i have no desire to appear either harsh or unforgiving. meanwhile, i wish you good morning." saying which, and with a sweeping bow of a rather antiquated style, the offended lady passed on. for a considerable time barret stood motionless, with folded arms, "admiring the scenery" with a stony stare. a stone about the size of his fist lay at his foot. he suddenly kicked that violently into space. had it been the size of his head, he would probably not have kicked it! then he gave vent to a wild laugh, became suddenly grave, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and walked up the road with clenched teeth and a deadly stride. mrs moss heard the laugh as it echoed among the great cliffs. "what a dreadful young man!" she muttered, hurrying forward. she thought of asking her driver who he was, but she had found roderick to be a very taciturn highlander. he had not shown much disposition to converse on the way up, and his speech had not been very intelligible to her english--or anglicised--ears. she re-entered the waggonette, therefore, in silence. roderick drove on also in silence, although much surprised that the "young shentleman" had not returned with the "leddy." but that was none of his business "what-e-ver." as the little old lady brooded over the matter, she resolved to say nothing of the meeting to milly. she happened to possess a spice of humour, and thought it might be well to wait until the youth should call, and then, after forgiveness sought and obtained, introduce him at kinlossie as the young man who ran her down in london! meanwhile barret walked himself into a better state of mind, clambered to a nook on the face of one of the cliffs, and sat down to meditate and consider what was best to be done. although he had not gone out that day to shoot, but to botanise, he carried a light double-barrelled shot gun, in case he might get a chance at a hare, which was always acceptable to the lady of kinlossie. while the incidents just described were being enacted at the base of the eagle cliff higher up, on a distant part of the same cliff, macrummle might have been seen prowling among the grey rocks, with the spirit of nimrod, and the aspect of bacchus. it was the habit of macrummle, being half blind, to supplement his vision with that peculiar kind of glasses which support--or refuse to support--themselves on the human countenance by means of the nose. these, although admirably adapted for reading, and even for quietly fishing by the river-side, he found to be miserably unsuited for sporting among the cliffs, for they were continually tumbling off as he stumbled along, or were twitched off by his rifle when he was in the act of making false points. perseverance was, however, the strong point in the old man's character-- if it had a strong point at all. he replaced the glasses perpetually, and kept pointing persistently. he did little more than point, because the thing that he pointed at, whatever it was, usually got out of the way before macrummle obtained a reliable aim. with a shot gun he might have done better, for that weapon admits of snap-shooting, with some chance of success, even in feeble hands. but the old man was ambitious. his object was to "pot" something, as he expressed it, with a single ball. of course it was not all pointing. he did fire occasionally, with no other result than awaking the echoes and terrifying the rabbits. but the memory of his former success with the same weapon was strong upon him, and perseverance, as we have said, was rampant. on the whole, the fusillade that he kept up was considerable, much to the amusement of barret (before meeting mrs moss!), who rightly guessed the cause of all the noise. about midday, like barret, he prepared to comfort himself with lunch, and, unlike our unfortunate hero, he enjoyed it in comfort, sitting on a green patch or terrace, high up near the summit of the cliffs, and a full mile distant from the spot where the peculiar meeting took place. like a giant refreshed macrummle rose from lunch, a good deal more like bacchus, and much less like nimrod. a rabbit had been watching him from the cliff above nearly all the time he was eating. it moved quietly into its burrow when he rose, though there was no occasion to do so, because, although within easy rifle shot, macrummle did not see it. when the sportsman was past, the rabbit came out and looked after him. fixing his glasses firmly he advanced in that stooping posture, with the rifle at the "ready," which is so characteristic of keen sportsmen! next moment a rabbit stood before him--an easy shot. it sat up on its hind legs even, as if inviting its fate, and gazed as though uncertain whether the man was going to advance or not. he did not advance, but took a steady, deadly aim, and was on the point of pulling the trigger when the glasses dropped off. macrummle was wonderfully patient. he said nothing. he merely replaced his glasses and looked. the rabbit was gone. several surrounding rabbits saw it go, but did not follow its example. they evidently felt themselves safe. proceeding cautiously onward, the sportsman again caught sight of one of the multitude that surrounded him. it was seated on the edge of its burrow, ready for retreat. alas! for that rabbit, if macrummle had been an average shot, armed with a shot gun. but it was ignorant, and with the characteristic presumption of ignorance, it sat still. the sportsman took a careful and long--very long--aim, and fired! the rabbit's nose pointed to the world's centre, its tail to the sky, and when the smoke cleared away, it also was gone. "fallen into its hole! dead, i suppose," was the remark with which the sportsman sought to comfort himself. a bullet-mark on a rock, however, two feet to the left of the hole, and about a foot too high, shook his faith a little in this view. it was impossible, however, that a man should expend so much ammunition in a region swarming with his particular prey without experiencing something in the shape of a fluke. he did, after a time, get one shot which was effectual. a young rabbit sat on the top of a mound looking at him with an air of impudence which is sometimes associated with extreme youth. a fat old kinsman--or woman--was seated in a hollow some distance farther on. macrummle fired at the young one, missed it, and shot the kinsman through the heart. the disappointment of the old man when he failed to find the young one, and his joy on discovering the kinsman, we leave to the reader's imagination. thus he went on, occasionally securing something for the pot, continually alarming the whole rabbit fraternity, and disgusting the eagle, which watched him from a safe distance in the ambient atmosphere above. by degrees he worked his way along till he came to the neighbourhood of the place where poor john barret sat in meditative dejection. although near, however, the two friends could neither see nor get at each other, being separated by an impassable gulf--the one being in a crevice, as we have said, not far from the foot of the cliff, the other hidden among the crags near the summit. thus it came to pass that although barret knew of macrummle's position by his noise, the latter was quite ignorant of the presence of the former. "this is horrible!" muttered the youth in his crevice below. "now i call this charming!" exclaimed the old man on his perch above. such is life--viewed from different standpoints! ay, and correctly estimated, too, according to these different standpoints; for the old man saw only the sunny surrounding of the present, while the young one gazed into the gloomy wreck of the future. being somewhat fatigued, macrummle betook himself to a sequestered ledge among the cliffs, and sat down under a shrub to rest. it chanced to be a well concealed spot. he remained quietly there for a considerable time, discussing with himself the relative advantages of fishing and shooting. it is probable that his sudden disappearance and his prolonged absence induced the eagle to imagine that he had gone away, for that watchful bird, after several circlings on outstretched and apparently motionless wings, made a magnificent swoop downwards, and again resumed its floating action in the lower strata of its atmospheric world. there it devoted its exclusive attention to the young man, whose position was clearly exposed to its view. as he sat there in gloomy thought, barret chanced to raise his eyes, and observed the bird high above him--far out of gunshot. "fortunate creature!" he said aloud; "whatever may be the troubles of your lot, you are at least safe from exasperating _rencontres_ with your future mother-in-law!" we need not point out to the intelligent reader that barret, being quite ignorant of the eagle's domestic relations, indulged in mere assumptions in the bitterness of his soul. he raised his fowling-piece as he spoke, and took a long, deliberate aim at the bird. "far beyond range," he said, lowering the gun again; "but even if you were only four yards from the muzzle, i would not fire, poor bird! did not milly say you were noble, and that it would be worse than murder to kill you? no, you are safe from me, at all events, even if you were not so wary as to keep yourself safe from everybody. and yet, methinks, if macrummle were still up there, he would have the chance of giving you a severe fright, though he has not the skill to bring you down." now it is well-known to trappers and backwoodsmen generally that the most wary of foxes, which cannot by any means be caught by one trap, may sometimes be circumvented by two traps. it is the same with decoys, whether these be placed intentionally, or place themselves accidentally. on this occasion barret acted the part of a decoy, all unwittingly to that eagle or to macrummle. in its extreme interest in the youth's proceedings the great bird soared straight over his head, and slowly approached the old man's position. macrummle was not on the alert. he never was on the alert! but his eyes chanced to be gazing in the right direction, and his glasses happened to be on. he saw it coming--something big and black! he grasped his repeater and knocked his glasses off. "a raven, i think! i'll try it. i should like it as a trophy--a sort of memorial of--" bang! the man who was half blind, who had scarcely used gun or rifle all his life, achieved that which dead shots and ardent sportsmen had tried in vain for years--he shot the eagle right through the heart, and that, too, with a single bullet! straight down it fell with a tremendous flutter, and disappeared over the edge of its native cliff. macrummle went on his knees, and, craning his neck, replaced his glasses; but nothing whatever could be seen, save the misty void below. shrinking back from the giddy position, he rose and pulled out his watch. "let me see," he muttered, "it will take me a full hour to go round so as to reach the bottom. no; too late. i'll go home, and send the keeper for it in the morning. the eagle may have picked its bones by that time, to be sure; but after all, a raven is not much of a trophy." while he was thus debating, a very different scene was taking place below. barret had been gazing up at the eagle when the shot was fired. he saw the spout of smoke. he heard the crashing shot and echoes, and beheld the eagle descending like a thunder-bolt. after that he saw and heard no more, for, in reaching forward to see round a projecting rock that interfered with his vision, his foot slipped, and he fell headlong from the cliff. he had not far to fall, indeed, and a whin bush broke the force of the shock when he did strike; but he was rendered insensible, and rolled down the remainder of the slope to the bottom. there he lay bruised, bleeding, and motionless on the grass, close to the road, with his bent and broken gun beneath him, and the dead eagle not more than a dozen yards from his side! "it is not like barret to be late," observed the laird that evening, as he consulted his watch. "he is punctuality itself, as a rule. he must have fallen in with some unusually interesting plants. but we can't wait. order dinner, my dear, for i'm sure that my sister must be very hungry after her voyage." "indeed i am," returned the little old lady, with a peculiar smile. "sea-sickness is the best tonic i know of, but it is an awful medicine to take." "almost as good as mountain air," remarked macrummle, as they filed out of the drawing-room. "i do wish i had managed to bring that raven home." at first the party at dinner was as merry as usual. the sportsmen were graphic in recounting the various incidents of the day; mrs moss was equally graphic on the horrors of the sea; macrummle was eulogistic of repeating rifles, and inclined to be boastful about the raven, which he hoped to show them on the morrow, while milly proved herself, as usual, a beautiful and interested listener, as well as a most hearty laugher. but as the feast went on they became less noisy. then a feeling of uneasiness manifested itself, but no one ventured to suggest that anything might have occurred to the absentee until the evening had deepened into night. then the laird started up suddenly. "something _must_ have happened to our friend," he exclaimed, at the same time ringing the bell violently. "he has never been late before, and however far he may have gone a-field, there has been more than time for him to return at his slowest pace. duncan," (as the butler entered), "turn out all the men and boys as fast as you can. tell roderick to get lanterns ready--as many as you have. gentlemen, we must all go on this search without another moment's delay!" there is little need to say that barret's friends and comrades were not slow to respond to the call. in less than a quarter of an hour they were dispersed, searching every part of the eagle cliff, where he had been last seen by giles jackman. they found him at last, pale and blood-stained, making ineffectual efforts to crawl from the spot where he had fallen, both the eagle and the broken gun being found beside him. "no bones broken, thank god!" said giles, after having examined him and bound up his wounds. "but he is too weak to be questioned. now, lads, fetch the two poles and the plaid. i'll soon contrive a litter." "all right, old fellow! god bless you!" said barret, faintly, as his friend bent over him. roderick and ivor raised him softly, and, with the eagle at his side, bore him towards kinlossie house. soon after, their heavy tramp was heard in the hall as they carried him to his room, and laid him gently in bed. chapter fourteen. suspicions, revelations, and other matters. with a swelled and scratched face, a discoloured eye, a damaged nose, and a head swathed in bandages--it is no wonder that mrs moss failed to recognise in john barret the violent young man with the talent for assaulting ladies! she was not admitted to his room until nearly a week after the accident, for, although he had not been seriously injured, he had received a rather severe shock, and it was thought advisable to keep him quiet as a matter of precaution. when she did see him at last, lying on a sofa in a dressing-gown, and with his head and face as we have described, his appearance did not call to her remembrance the faintest resemblance to the confused, wild, and altogether incomprehensible youth, who had tumbled her over in the streets of london, and almost run her down in the eagle pass. of course barret feared that she would recognise him, and had been greatly exercised as to his precise duty in the circumstances; but when he found that she did not recognise either his face or his voice, he felt uncertain whether it would not be, perhaps, better to say nothing at all about the matter in the meantime. indeed, the grateful old lady gave him no time to make a "clean breast of it," as he had at first intended to do. "oh! mr barret," she exclaimed, sitting down beside him, and laying her hand lightly on his arm, while the laird sat down on another chair and looked on benignly, "i cannot tell you how thankful i am that you have not been killed, and how very grateful i am to you for all your bravery in saving my darling milly's life. now, don't say a word about disclaiming credit, as i know you are going to do--" "but, dear madam," interrupted the invalid, "allow me to explain. i cannot bear to deceive you, or to sail under false colours--" "sail under false colours! explain!" repeated mrs moss, quickly. "what nonsense do you talk? has not my daughter explained, and _she_ is not given to colouring things falsely." "excuse me, mrs moss," said barret; "i did not mean that. i only--" "i don't care what you mean, mr barret," said the positive little woman; "it's of no use your denying that you have behaved in a noble, courageous manner, and i won't listen to anything to the contrary; so you need not interrupt me. besides, i have been told not to allow you to speak much; so, sir, if i am to remain beside you at all, i must impose silence." barret sank back on his couch with a sigh, and resigned himself to his fate. so much for the mother. later in the same day the daughter sat beside his couch. the laird was not present on that occasion. they were alone. "milly," said the invalid, taking her small hand in his, "have you mentioned it yet to your mother?" "yes, john," replied milly, blushing in spite of--nay, rather more in consequence of--her efforts not to do so. "i spoke to her some days ago. indeed, soon after the accident, when we were sure you were going to get well. and she did not disapprove." "ay, but have you spoken since she has seen me--since this morning?" "yes, john." "and she is still of the same mind--not shocked or shaken by my appearance?" "she is still of the same mind," returned milly; "and not shocked in the least. my darling mother is far too wise to be shocked by trifles--i--i mean by scratches and bruises. she judges of people by their hearts." "i'm glad to hear that, milly, for i have something shocking to tell her about myself, that will surprise her, if it does nothing else." "indeed!" said milly, with the slightest possible rise of her pretty eyebrows. "yes. you have heard from your mother about that young rascal who ran into her with his bicycle in london some time ago?" "yes; she wrote to me about it," replied milly, with an amused smile. "you mean, i suppose, the reckless youth who, after running her down, had the cowardice to run away and leave her lying flat on the pavement? mother has more than once written about that event with indignation, and rightly, i think. but how came you to know about it, john?" "milly," said barret, holding her hand very tight, and speaking solemnly, "_i am that cowardly man_!" "now, john, you are jesting." "indeed--indeed i am not." "do you really mean to say that it was _you_ who ran against my--oh! you _must_ be jesting!" "again i say i am _not_. i am the man--the coward." "well, dear john," said milly, flushing considerably, "i must believe you; but the fact does not in the least reduce my affection for you, though it will lower my belief in your prudence, unless you can explain." "i will explain," said barret; and we need scarcely add that the explanation tended rather to increase than diminish milly's affection for, as well as her belief in, her lover! but when barret went on further to describe the meeting in the eagle pass, she went off into uncontrollable laughter. "and you are sure that mother has no idea that you are the man?" she asked. "not the remotest." "well, now, john, you must not let her know for some time yet. you must gain her affections, sir, before you venture to reveal your true character." of course barret agreed to this. he would have agreed to anything that milly proposed, except, perhaps, the giving up of his claim to her own hand. deception, however, invariably surrounds the deceiver with more or less of difficulty. that same evening, while milly was sitting alone with her mother, the conversation took a perplexing turn. there had been a pretty long pause, after a rather favourable commentary on the character of barret, when the thin little old lady had wound up with the observation that the subject of their criticism was a remarkably agreeable man, with a playfully humorous and a delightfully serious turn of mind--"and _so_ modest" withal! apparently the last words had turned her mind into the new channel, for she resumed-- "talking of insolence, my dear--" "_were_ we talking of insolence, mother?" said milly, with a surprised smile. "well, my love, i was thinking of the opposite of modesty, which is the same thing. do you know, i had a meeting on the day of my arrival here which surprised me very much? to say truth, i did not mention it sooner, because i wished to give you a little surprise. why do you change your seat, my love? did you feel a draught where you were?" "no--no. i--i only want to get the light a little more at my back--to keep it off my face. but go on, mother. what was the surprise about? i'm anxious to know." if milly did not absolutely know, she had at least a pretty good idea of what was coming! "well, of course you remember about that young man--that--that _cowardly_ young man who--" "who ran you down in london? yes, yes, _i_ know," interrupted the daughter, endeavouring to suppress a laugh, and putting her handkerchief suddenly to her face. "i remember well. the monster! what about him?" "you may well call him a monster! can you believe it? i have met him here--in this very island, where he must be living somewhere, of course; and he actually ran me down again--all _but_." she added the last two words in order to save her veracity. "you don't really mean it?" exclaimed milly, giving way a little in spite of herself. "with a bicycle?" it was the mother's turn to laugh now. "no, you foolish thing; even _i_ have capacity to understand that it would be impossible to use those hideous--frightful instruments, on the bad hill-roads of this island. no; but it seems to be the nature of this dis-disagreeable--i had almost said detestable--youth, to move only under violent impulse, for he came round a corner of the eagle cliff at such a pace that, as i have said, he _all but_ ran into my arms and knocked me down." "dreadful!" exclaimed milly, turning her back still more to the light and working mysteriously with her kerchief. "yes, dreadful indeed! and when i naturally taxed him with his cowardice and meanness, he did not seem at all penitent, but went on like a lunatic; and although what he said was civil enough, his way of saying it was very impolite and strange; and after we had parted, i heard him give way to fiendish laughter. i could not be mistaken, for the cliffs echoed it in all directions like a hundred hyenas!" as this savoured somewhat of a joke, milly availed herself of it, set free the safety-valve, and, so to speak, saved the boiler! "why do you laugh so much, child?" asked the old lady, when her daughter had transgressed reasonable limits. "well, you know, mother, if you _will_ compare a man's laugh to a hundred hyenas--" "i didn't compare the man's voice," interrupted mrs moss; "i said that the cliffs--" "that's worse and worse! now, mother, don't get into one of your hypercritical moods, and insist on reasons for everything; but tell me about this wicked--this dreadful young man. what was he like?" "like an ordinary sportsman, dear, with one of those hateful guns in his hand, and a botanical box on his back. i could not see his face very well, for he wore one of those ugly pot-caps, with a peak before and behind; though what the behind one is for i cannot imagine, as men have no eyes in the back of their heads to keep the sun out of. no doubt some men would make us believe they have! but it was pulled down on the bridge of his nose. what i did see of his face seemed to be handsome enough, and his figure was tall and well made, unquestionably, but his behaviour--nothing can excuse that! if he had only said he was sorry, one might have forgiven him." "did he _not_ say he was sorry?" asked milly in some surprise. "oh, well, i suppose he did; and begged pardon after a fashion. but what truth could there be in his protestations when he went away and laughed like a hyena." "you said a hundred hyenas, mother." "no, milly, i said the cliffs laughed; but don't interrupt me, you naughty child! well, i was going to tell you that my heart softened a little towards the young man, for, as you know, i am not naturally unforgiving." "i know it well, dear mother!" "so, before we parted, i told him that if he had any explanations or apologies to make, i should be glad to see him at kinlossie house. then i made up my mind to forgive him, and introduce him to you as the man that ran me down in london! this was the little surprise i had in store for you, but the ungrateful creature has never come." "no, and he never will come!" said milly, with a hearty laugh. "how do you know that, puss?" asked mrs moss, in surprise. fortunately the dinner-bell rang at that moment, justifying milly in jumping up. giving her mother a rather violent hug, she rushed from the room. "strange girl!" muttered mrs moss as she turned, and occupied herself with some mysterious--we might almost say captious--operations before the looking-glass. "the mountain air seems to have increased her spirits wonderfully. perhaps love has something to do with it! it may be both!" she was still engaged with a subtle analysis of this question--in front of the glass, which gave her the advantage of supposing that she talked with an opponent--when sudden and uproarious laughter was heard in the adjoining room. it was barret's sitting-room, in which his friends were wont to visit him. she could distinguish that the laughter proceeded from himself, milly, and giles jackman, though the walls were too thick to permit of either words or ordinary tones being heard. "milly," said mrs moss, severely, when they met a few minutes later in the drawing-room, "what were you two and mr jackman laughing at so loudly? surely you did not tell them what we had been speaking about?" "of course i did, mother. i did not know you intended to keep the matter secret. and it did so tickle them! but no one else knows it, so i will run back to john and pledge him to secrecy. you can caution mr jackman, who will be down directly, no doubt." as barret had not at that time recovered sufficiently to admit of his going downstairs, his friends were wont to spend much of their time in the snug sitting-room which had been apportioned to him. he usually held his levees costumed in a huge flowered dressing-gown, belonging to the laird, so that, although he began to look more like his former self, as he recovered from his injuries, he was still sufficiently disguised to prevent recognition on the part of mrs moss. nevertheless, the old lady felt strangely perplexed about him. one day the greater part of the household was assembled in his room when mrs moss remarked on this curious feeling. "i cannot tell what it is, mr barret, that makes the sound of your voice seem familiar to me," she said; "yet not exactly familiar, but a sort of far-away echo, you know, such as one might have heard in a dream; though, after all, i don't think i ever did hear a voice in a dream." jackman and milly glanced at each other, and the latter put the safety-valve to her mouth while barret replied-- "i don't know," he said, with a very grave appearance of profound thought, "that i ever myself dreamt a voice, or, indeed, a sound of any kind. as to what you say about some voices appearing to be familiar, don't you think that has something to do with classes of men? no man, i think, is a solitary unit in creation. every man is, as it were, the type of a class to which he belongs--each member possessing more or less the complexion, tendencies, characteristics, tones, etcetera, of his particular class. you are familiar, it may be, with the tones of the class to which i belong, and hence the idea that you have heard my voice before." "philosophically put, barret," said mabberly; "i had no idea you thought so profoundly." "h'm! i'm not so sure of the profundity," said the little old lady, pursing her lips; "no doubt you may be right as regards class; but then, young man, i have been familiar with all classes of men, and therefore, according to your principle, i should have some strange memories connected with mr jackman's voice, and mr mabberly's, and the laird's, and everybody's." "well said, sister; you have him there!" cried the laird with a guffaw; "but don't lug me into your classes, for i claim to be an exception to all mankind, inasmuch as i have a sister who belongs to no class, and is ready to tackle any man on any subject whatever, between metaphysics and baby linen. come now, barret, do you think yourself strong enough to go out with us in the boat to-morrow?" "quite. indeed, i would have begged leave to go out some days ago, but doctor jackman there, who is a very stern practitioner, forbids me. however, i have my revenge, for i compel him to sit with me a great deal, and entertain me with indian stories." "oh!" exclaimed junkie, who happened to be in the room, "he hasn't told you yet about the elephant hunt, has he?" "no, not yet, junkie," returned barret; "he has been faithful to his promise not to go on with that story till you and your brothers are present." "well, but tell it now, mr jackman, and i'll go an call eddie and archie," pleaded the boy. "you will call in vain, then," said his father, "for they have both gone up the burn, one to photograph and the other to paint. i never saw such a boy as archie is to photograph. i believe he has got every scene in the island worth having on his plates now, and he has taken to the cattle of late--what think ye was the last thing he tried? i found him in the yard yesterday trying to photograph himself!" "that must indeed have puzzled him; how did he manage?" asked macrummle. "well, it was ingenious. he tried to get pat quin to manipulate the instrument while he sat; but quin is clumsy with his fingers, at least for such delicate work, and, the last time, he became nervous in his anxiety to do the thing rightly; so, when archie cried `now,' for him to cover the glass with its little cap, he put it on with a bang that knocked over and nearly smashed the whole concern. so what does the boy do but sets up a chair in the right focus and arranges the instrument with a string tied to the little cap. then he sits down on the chair, puts on a heavenly smile, and pulls the string. off comes the cap! he counts one, two--i don't know how many--and then makes a sudden dash at the camera an' shuts it up! what the result may be remains to be seen." "oh, it'll be the same as usual," remarked junkie in a tone of contempt. "there's always something goes wrong in the middle of it. he tried to take boxer the other day, and _he_ wagged his tail in the middle of it. then he tried the cat, and she yawned in the middle. then flo, and she laughed in the middle. then me, an' i forgot, and made a face at flo in the middle. it's a pity it has got a middle at all; two ends would be better, i think. but won't you tell about the elephants to _us_, mr jackman? there's plenty of us here--please!" "nay, junkie; you would not have me break my word, surely. when we are all assembled together you shall have it--some wet day, perhaps." "then there'll be no more wet days _this_ year, if i've to wait for that," returned the urchin half sulkily. that same day, milly, barret, and jackman arranged that the mystery of the cowardly young man must be cleared up. "perhaps it would be best for miss moss to explain to her mother," said giles. "that will not i," said milly with a laugh. "i have decided what to do," said barret. "i was invited by her to call and explain anything i had to say, and apologise. by looks, if not by words, i accepted that invitation, and i shall keep it. if you could only manage somehow, milly, to get everybody out of the way, so that i might find your mother alone in--" "she's alone _now_," said milly. "i left her just a minute ago, and she is not likely to be interrupted, i know." "stay, then; i will return in a few minutes." barret retired to his room, whence he quickly returned with shooting coat, knickerbockers, pot-cap and boots, all complete. "`richard's himself again!' allow me to congratulate you," cried jackman, shaking his friend by the hand. "but, i say, don't you think it may give the old lady rather a shock as well as a surprise?" barret looked at milly. "i think not," said milly. "as uncle often says of dear mother, `she is tough.'" "well, i'll go," said barret. in a few minutes he walked into the middle of the drawing-room and stood before mrs moss, who was reading a book at the time. she laid down the book, removed her glasses, and looked up. "well, i declare!" she exclaimed, with the utmost elevation of her eyebrows and distension of her eyes; "there you are at last! and you have not even the politeness to take your hat off, or have yourself announced. you are the most singularly ill-bred young man, for your looks, that i ever met with." "i thought, madam," said barret in a low voice, "that you would know me better with my cap on--" he stopped, for the old lady had risen at the first sound of his voice, and gazed at him in a species of incredulous alarm. "forgive me," cried barret, pulling off his cap; but again he stopped abruptly, and, before he could spring forward to prevent it, the little old lady had fallen flat upon the hearth-rug. "quick! hallo! milly--giles! ass that i am! i've knocked her down _again_!" he shouted, as those whom he summoned burst into the room. they had not been far off. in a few more minutes mrs moss was reviving on the sofa, and alone with her daughter. "milly, dear, this has been a great surprise; indeed, i might almost call it a shock," she said, in a faint voice. "indeed it has been, darling mother," returned milly in sympathetic tones, as she smoothed her mother's hair; "and it was all my fault. but are you quite sure you are not hurt?" "i don't _feel_ hurt, dear," returned the old lady, with a slight dash of her argumentative tone; "and don't you think that if i _were_ hurt i should _feel_ it?" "perhaps, mother; but sometimes, you know, people are so _much_ hurt that they _can't_ feel it." "true, child, but in these circumstances they are usually unable to express their views about feeling altogether, which i am not, you see-- no thanks to that--th-to john barret." "oh! mother, i cannot bear to think of it--" "no wonder," interrupted the old lady. "to think of my being violently knocked down _twice--almost_ three times--by a big young man like that, and the first time with a horrid bicycle on the top of us--i might almost say mixed up with us." "but, mother, he _never_ meant it, you know--" "i should _think_ not!" interjected mrs moss with a short sarcastic laugh. "no, indeed," continued milly, with some warmth; "and if you only knew what he has suffered on your account--" "milly," cried mrs moss quickly, "is all that _i_ have suffered on _his_ account to count for nothing?" "of course not, _dear_ mother. i don't mean that; you don't understand me. i mean the reproaches that his own conscience has heaped upon his head for what he has inadvertently done." "recklessly, child, not inadvertently. besides, you know, his conscience is not _himself_. people cannot avoid what conscience says to them. its remarks are no sign of humility or self-condemnation, one proof of which is that wicked people would gladly get away from conscience if they could, instead of agreeing with it, as they should, and shaking hands with it, and saying, `we are all that you call us, and more.'" "well, that is exactly what john has done," said milly, with increasing, warmth. "he has said all that, and more to me--" "to _you_?" interrupted mrs moss; "yes, but you are not his conscience, child!" "yes, i am, mother; at least, if i'm not, i am next thing to it, for he says _everything_ to me!" returned milly, with a laugh and a blush. "and you have no idea how sorry, how ashamed, how self-condemned, how overwhelmed he has been by all that has happened." "humph! i have been a good deal more overwhelmed than he has been," returned mrs moss. "however, make your mind easy, child, for during the last week or two, in learning to love and esteem john barret, i have unwittingly been preparing the way to forgive and forget the cowardly youth who ran me down in london. now go and send mr jackman to me; i have a great opinion of that young man's knowledge of medicine and surgery, though he _is_ only an amateur. he will soon tell me whether i have received any hurt that has rendered me incapable of feeling. and at the same time you may convey to that coward, john, my entire forgiveness." milly kissed her mother, of course, and hastened away to deliver her double message. after careful examination and much questioning, "dr" jackman pronounced the little old lady to be entirely free from injury of any kind, save the smashing of a comb in her back-hair, and gave it as his opinion that she was as sound in wind and limb as before the accident, though there had unquestionably been a considerable shock to the feelings, which, however, seemed to have had the effect of improving rather than deranging her intellectual powers. the jury which afterwards sat upon her returned their verdict in accordance with that opinion. it was impossible, of course, to prevent some of all this leaking into the kitchen, the nursery, and the stable. in the first-mentioned spot, quin remarked to the housemaid,--"sure, it's a quare evint entirely," with which sentiment the housemaid agreed. "aunt moss is a buster," was junkie's ambiguous opinion, in which flo and the black doll coincided. "tonal'," said roderick, as he groomed the bay horse, "the old wumman iss a fery tough person." to which "tonal'" assented, "she iss, what-e-ver." chapter fifteen. elephants again--followed by something more awful. there came a rainy day at last at kinlossie house. such days will come at times in human experience, both in metaphor and fact. at present we state a fact. "it will bring up the fush," was roderick's remark, as he paused in the operation of cleaning harness to look through the stable door on the landscape; "an' that wull please maister macrummle." "it will pe good for the gress too, an' that will please muss mully," said donald, now permanently appointed to the stables. "h'm! she wull pe carin' less for the gress, poy, than she wass used to do," returned the groom. "it iss my opeenion that they wull pe all wantin' to co away sooth pefore long." we refer to the above opinions because they were shared by the party assembled in barret's room, which was still retained as a snuggery, although its occupant was fully restored to normal health and vigour. "you'll be sure to get `that salmon' next time you try, after all this rain, macrummle," said mabberly. "at least, i hope you will before we leave." "ay, and you must have another try with the repeater on the eagle cliff, mac. it would never do to leave a lone widdy, as quin calls it, after murdering the husband." "perhaps i _may_ have another day there," answered the old gentleman, with a pleased smile; for although they roasted him a good deal for mistaking an eagle for a raven, and only gave him credit for a "fluke," it was evident that he congratulated himself not a little on his achievement. "archie is having an awful time skinning and stuffing it," said eddie, who sat by the window dressing trout flies. junkie, who was occupied at another window, mending the top of his rod, remarked that nothing seemed to give archie so much pleasure as skinning and stuffing something. "he's always doing it," said the youngster. "whatever happens to die, from a tom-cat to a tom-tit, he gets hold of. i do believe if he was to die, he would try to skin and stuff himself!" at that moment archie entered the room. "i've got it nearly done now," he said, with a pleased expression, while he rubbed his not-over-clean hands. "i'll set him up to-night and photograph him to-morrow, with flo under his wings to show his _enormous_ size." "oh! that minds me o' the elephants," cried junkie, jumping up and running to jackman, who was assisting. barret to arrange plants for milly. "we are _all_ here now--an' you _promised_, you know." a heavy patter of rain on the window seemed to emphasise junkie's request by suggesting that nothing better could be done. "well, junkie, i have no objection," said the woods-and-forester, "if the rest of the company do not object." as the rest of the company did not object, but rather expressed anxiety to hear about the hunt, jackman drew his chair near to the fire, the boys crowded round him, and he began with,--"let me see. where was i?" "in india, of course," said junkie. "yes; but at what part of the hunt?" "oh! you hadn't begun the hunt at all. you had only made chand somethin' or other, isri per-what-d'ee-call-it, an' raj mung-thingumy give poor mowla buksh such an awful mauling." "just so. well, you must know that next day we received news of large herds of elephants away to the eastward of the ganges, so we started off with all our forces--hunters, matchlock-men, onlookers, etcetera, and about eighty tame elephants. chief among these last were the fighting elephants, to which junkie gave such appropriate names just now, and king of them all was the mighty chand moorut, who had never been known to refuse a fight or lose a victory since he was grown up. "it was really grand to see this renowned mountain of living flesh towering high above his fellows. like all heroes, he was calm and dignified when not in action--a lamb in the drawing-room, a lion in the field. even the natives, accustomed as they were to these giants, came to look at him admiringly that morning as he walked sedately out of camp. he was so big that he seemed to grow bigger while you looked at him, and he was absolutely perfect in form and strength--the very hercules of brutes. "the trackers had marked down a herd of wild elephants, not three miles distant, in a narrow valley, just suited to our purpose. on reaching the ground we learned that there was, in the jungle, a `rogue' elephant--that is, an old male, which had been expelled from the herd. such outcasts are usually very fierce and dangerous. this one was a tusker, who had been the terror of the neighbourhood, having killed many people, among them a forester, only a few days before our arrival. "as these `rogues' are always very difficult to overcome, and are almost sure to injure the khedda, or tame elephants of the hunt, if an attempt is made to capture them, we resolved to avoid him, and devote our attention entirely to the females and young ones. we formed a curious procession as we entered the valley--rajah and civilians, military men and mahowts, black and white, on pads and in howdahs--the last being the little towers that you see on elephants' backs in pictures. "gun-men had been sent up to the head of the valley to block the way in that direction. the sides were too steep for elephants to climb. thus we had them, as it were, in a trap, and formed up the khedda in battle array. the catching, or non-combatant elephants, were drawn up in two lines, and the big, fighting elephants were kept in reserve, concealed by bushes. the sides of the valley were crowded with matchlock-men, ready to commence shouting and firing at a given signal, and drive the herd in the direction of the khedda. "it was a beautiful forenoon when we commenced to move forward. all nature seemed to be waiting in silent expectation of the issue of our hunt, and not a sound was heard, the strictest silence having been enjoined upon all. rich tropical vegetation hung in graceful lines and festoons from the cliffs on either side, but there was no sign of the gun-men concealed there. the sun was--" "oh! bother the sun! come on wi' the fight," exclaimed the impatient junkie. "all in good time, my boy. the sun was blazing in my eyes, i was going to say, so, you see, i could not make out the distant view, and therefore, can't describe it," ("glad of it," murmured the impertinent junkie); "but i knew that the wild elephants were there, somewhere in the dense jungle. suddenly a shot was heard at the head of the valley. we afterwards learned that it had been fired over the head of a big tusker elephant that stood under a tree not many yards from the man who fired. being young, like junkie, and giddy, it dashed away down the valley, trumpeting wildly; and you have no conception how active and agile these creatures can be, if you have seen only the slow, sluggish things that are in our zoos at home! so terrible was the sound of this elephant's approach, that the ranks of the khedda elephants were thrown into some confusion, and the mahowts had difficulty in preventing them from turning tail and running away. our leader, therefore, ordered the gladiator, chand moorut, to the front. indeed, chand ordered himself to the front, for no sooner did he hear the challenge of the tusker, than he dashed forward alone to accept it, and his mahowt found it almost impossible to restrain him. fortunately the jungle helped the mahowt by hiding the tusker from view. "when the wild elephant caught sight of the line of the khedda, he went at it with a mighty rush, crashing through bush and brake, and overturning small trees like straws, until he got into the dry bed of a stream. there he stopped short, for the colossal chand moorut suddenly appeared and charged him. the wild tusker, however, showed the white feather. he could not, indeed, avoid the shock altogether, but, yielding to it, he managed to keep his legs, turned short round, and fled past his big foe. chand moorut had no chance with the agile fellow in a race. he was soon left far behind, while the tusker charged onward. the matchlock-men tried in vain to check him. as he approached the line, the khedda elephants fled in all directions. thrusting aside some, and overturning others that came in his way, he held on his course, amid the din of shouting and rattling of shots, and finally, got clear away!" "oh, _what_ a pity!" exclaimed junkie. "but that did not matter much," continued jackman; "for news was brought in that the herd we had been after were not in that valley at all, but in the next one, and had probably heard nothing of all the row we had been making; so we collected our forces, and went after them. "soon we got to the pass leading into the valley, and then, just beyond it, came quite suddenly on a band of somewhere about thirty wild elephants. they were taken quite by surprise, for they were feeding at the time on a level piece of ground of considerable extent. as it was impossible to surround them, away the whole khedda went helter-skelter after them. it was a tremendous sight. the herd had scattered in all directions, so that our khedda was also scattered. each hunting elephant had two men on its back--one, the nooseman, sitting on its neck, with a strong, thick rope in his hands, on which was a running noose; the other, the driver, who stood erect on the animal's back, holding on by a loop with one hand, and in the other flourishing an instrument called the _mungri_, with sharp spikes in it, wherewith to whip the poor animal over the root of his tail; for of course an ordinary whip would have had no more effect than a peacock's feather, on an elephant's hide! "i ordered my mahowt to keep near one of the noosemen, whom i knew to be expert in the use of the giant-lasso. his name was ramjee. both ramjee and his driver were screaming and yelling at the pitch of their voices, and the latter was applying his mungri with tremendous energy. the elephant they were after was a small female. it is always necessary that the chasing elephant should be much heavier than the one chased, else evil results follow, as we soon found. presently the khedda elephant was alongside. ramjee lifted the great loop in both hands, and leaned over till he almost touched the wild animal. frequently this noosing fails from various reasons. for one thing, the wild creatures are often very clever at evading the noose: sometimes they push it away with their trunks; occasionally they step right through it, and now and then get only half through it, so that it forms a sort of tow rope, and the other end of this rope being made fast to the neck of the tame elephant, the wild one drags it along violently, unless the tame one is much heavier than itself. this is exactly what happened to ramjee. he dropped the noose beautifully over the creature's head, but before it could be hauled tight--which was accomplished by checking the tame animal--the active creature had got its forelegs through. the loop caught, however, on its hind quarters, and away it went, dragging the tame elephant after it, ramjee shrieking wildly for help. two of the other tame elephants, not yet engaged, were sent to his assistance. these easily threw two more nooses over the wild creature, and, after a good run, she was finally exhausted, secured with ropes, and driven back to camp, there to be subjected to coercive treatment until she should become tame. "meanwhile, other captures were being made in the field. i was just moving off, after seeing this female secured, when a tremendous shouting attracted me. it was a party chasing a fine young tusker. he was very cunning, and ran about, dodging hither and thither, taking advantage of every tree and bush and inequality, while the mahowts failed again and again to noose him. i made my mahowt drive our animal so as to turn him back. we had no appliances to capture, as i was there only to look on and admire. at last a good throw noosed him, but he slipped through, all except one hind leg. on this the noose luckily held, and in a few minutes we had him secure. of course, in driving our prisoners to camp, the tame elephants were used to guide them, stir them up, push them on, and restrain or punish them, as the case might require. this was easy with the smaller females and young ones, but it was a very different matter with big males, especially with rogues, as we found out before the close of that day. "we were getting pretty well used up towards the afternoon, and had sent ten full-grown elephants and three calves into camp, when we received news that the rogue, which had been so long a terror to the district, was in the neighbouring valley. so we resolved to go for him. of course there was no possibility of noosing such a monster. the ordinary elephants could never have been brought to face him. our only hope therefore lay in our gladiators; and our plan was to make them knock him down repeatedly, until, at length, he should be tired out. "i need not waste time with details. it is sufficient to say that, after about an hour's search, we came upon the rogue in a dense part of the jungle. he was, as i have said, unusually big, as well as fierce. but our hero, chand moorut, had never yet met his match, so we resolved to risk an encounter. there was the dry bed of a river, which the rogue would have to cross when driven down the valley by the gun-men. here our gladiator was placed, partially concealed and ready to meet the rogue when he should appear. fifty yards back the other fighting elephants were placed in support, and behind these were drawn up the rest of the khedda in three lines. then the spectators, many of whom were ladies, were placed on a ledge of rock about forty feet above the river-bed, which commanded a good view of the proposed field of battle. "up to this time perfect silence had been maintained in our ranks. my elephant was stationed near the centre of the line, from which point i could see chand moorut standing calmly near the river-bed, with what i could almost fancy was a twinkle in his eye, as though he suspected what was coming. "suddenly a single shot was heard from up the valley. as it came echoing towards us, it was mingled with the spattering fire, shouting and yelling of the beaters, who began to advance. chand moorut became rigid and motionless, like a statue. he was evidently thinking! another instant, and the rogue's shrill trumpet-note of defiance rang high above the din. trembling and restive the ordinary khedda elephants showed every symptom of alarm; but the fighters stood still, with the exception of chand, who, becoming inflated with the spirit of war, made a sudden dash up the valley, intent on accepting the challenge! fifty yards were passed before his mahowt, with voice, limb, and prod managed to reduce the well-trained warrior to obedience. solemnly, and with stately gait, he returned to his position, his great heart swelling, no doubt, with anticipation. "scarcely had he taken up his position when the bushes higher up were seen to move, and the huge black form of the rogue appeared upon the scene. unlike the lively young elephant that had escaped us in the morning, this old rogue marched sedately and leisurely down the hill-side, apparently as much unconcerned about the uproar of shooting and shouting in his rear as if it had been but the buzzing of a few mosquitoes. i confess that doubts as to the issue of the combat arose in my mind when i first saw him, for he appeared to be nearly, if not quite, as big as chand moorut himself, and of course i knew that the hard and well-trained muscles of a wild elephant were sure to be more powerful than those of a tame one. i stupidly forgot, at the moment, that indomitable pluck counts for much in a trial of mere brute force. "ignorant of what was in store for him, with head erect, and an air of quiet contempt for all animate creation, the rogue walked into the dry bed of the river, and began to descend. expectation was now on tiptoe, when to our disgust he turned sharp to the right, and all but walked in amongst the spectators on the ledge above, some of whom received him with a volley of rifle balls. as none of these touched a vital spot, they might as well have been rhubarb pills! they turned him aside, however, and, breaking through the left flank of the khedda, he took refuge in the thickest jungle he could find. the whole khedda followed in hot pursuit, crashing through overgrowth of canes, creepers, and trees, in the midst of confusion and rumpus utterly inconceivable, therefore beyond my powers of description! we had to look out sharply in this chase, for we were passing under branches at times. one of these caught my man quin, and swept him clean off his pad. but he fell on his feet, unhurt, and was quickly picked up and re-seated. "in a short time we came in sight of the rogue, who suddenly turned at bay and confronted us. the entire khedda came to a most inglorious halt, for our heavy fighters had been left behind in the race, and the others dared not face the foe. seeing this, he suddenly dashed into the midst of us, and went straight for the elephant on which our director and his wife were seated! fortunately, a big tree, chancing to come in the rogue's way, interfered with his progress. he devoted his energies to it for a few moments. then he took to charging furiously at everything that came in his way, and was enjoying himself with this little game when chand moorut once more appeared on the scene! the rogue stopped short instantly. it was evident that he recognised a foeman, worthy of his steel, approaching. chand moorut advanced with alacrity. the rogue eyed him with a sinister expression. there was no hesitation on either side. both warriors were self-confident; nevertheless, they did not rush to the battle. like equally-matched veterans they advanced with grim purpose and wary deliberation. with heads erect, and curled trunks, they met, more like wrestlers than swordsmen, each seeming to watch for a deadly grip. suddenly they locked their trunks together, and began to sway to and fro with awful evidence of power, each straining his huge muscles to the uttermost--the conflict of leviathan and behemoth! "for only a few minutes did the result seem doubtful to the hundreds of spectators, who, on elephant-back or hill-side, gazed with glaring eyes and bated breath, and in profound silence. the slightly superior bulk and weight of our gladiator soon began to tell. the rogue gave way, slightly. chand moorut, with the skill of the trained warrior or the practised pugilist, took instant advantage of the move. with the rush of a thunder-bolt he struck the rogue with his head on the shoulder. the effect was terrific. it caused him to turn a complete somersault into the jungle, where he fell with a thud and a crash that could be heard far and near, and there he lay sprawling for a few moments, nothing but struggling legs, trunk, and tail being visible above the long grass!" "hooray!" shouted junkie, unable to restrain himself. "just what my man quin said," continued jackman. "only he added, `musha!' `thunder-an'-turf,' and `well, i niver!' and well he might, too, for none of us ever saw such a sight before. but the victory was not quite gained yet, for the rogue sprang up with amazing agility, and, refusing again to face such a terrible foe, he ran away, pursued hotly and clamorously by the whole khedda. i made my mahowt keep as close to chand moorut as possible, wishing to be in at the death. suddenly a louder uproar in advance, and a shrill trumpeting assured me that the rogue had again been brought to bay. "although somewhat exhausted and shaken by his flight and the tremendous knock down, he fought viciously, and kept all his smaller foes at a respectful distance by repeated charges, until chand moorut again came up and laid him flat with another irresistible charge. he staggered to his feet again, however, and now the other fighting elephants, raj mungul, isri pershad, and others, were brought into action. these attacked the rogue furiously, knocking him down when he attempted to rise, and belabouring him with their trunks until he was thoroughly exhausted. then one of the khedda men crept up behind him on foot, with thick ropes fitted for the purpose of tying him, and fixed them on the rogue's hind legs. but the brave man paid heavily for his daring. he was still engaged with the ropes when the animal suddenly kicked out and broke the poor fellow's thigh. he was quickly lifted up and taken to camp. "not so quickly, however, was the rogue taken to camp! as it was growing dark, some of us resolved to bivouac where the capture had been made, and tied our captive to a tree. next morning we let him go with only a hind leg hobbled, so that he might find breakfast for himself. then, having disposed of our own breakfast, we proceeded to induce our prisoner to go along with us--a dangerous and difficult operation. as long as he believed that he might go where he pleased, we could induce him to take a few steps, forward, but the moment he understood what we were driving at, he took the sulks, like an enormous spoilt child, and refused to move. the koonkies were therefore brought up, and raj mungul, going behind, gave him a shove that was irresistible. he lost temper and turned furiously on raj, but received such an awful whack on the exposed flank from isri pershad, that he felt his case to be hopeless, and sulked again. going down on his knees he stuck his tusks into the ground, like a sheet anchor, with a determination that expressed, `move me out o' this if you can!' "chand moorut accepted the unspoken challenge. he gave the rogue a shove that not only raised his hind legs in the air, but caused him to stand on his head, and finally hurled him on his back. as he rose, doggedly, he received several admonitory punches, and advanced a few paces. spearmen also were brought forward to prick him on, but they only induced him to curl his trunk round a friendly tree that came in his way, and hold on. neither bumping, pricking, nor walloping had now any effect. he seemed to have anchored himself there for the remainder of his natural life by an unnatural attachment. "in this extremity the khedda men had recourse to their last resource. they placed under him some native fireworks, specially prepared for such emergencies, and, as it were, blew him up moderately. being thus surprised into letting go his hold of the tree, he was urged slowly forward as before. you see, we did not want to kill the beast, though he richly deserved death, having killed so many natives, besides keeping a whole neighbourhood in alarm for years. we were anxious to take him to camp, and we managed it at last, though the difficulty was almost superhuman, and may to some extent be conceived when i tell you that, although we spent the whole of that day, from dawn to sunset, struggling with our obstinate captive, and with the entire force of the khedda, we only advanced to the extent of four or five hundred yards!" now, while this amazing story was being told by giles jackman to his friends in barret's room, a very different story was being told in the room above them. that room was the nursery, and its only occupants were little flo and her black doll. the rain had cleared off towards the afternoon, and a gleam of sunshine entering the nursery windows, had formed a spot of intense light on the nursery floor. this seemed to have suggested something of great interest to flo, for, after gazing at it with bright eyes for some time, she suddenly held the doll before her and said-- "blackie, i'm goin' to tell you a stowy--a bustingly intewestin' stowy." we must remind the reader here that flo was naturally simple and sweet, and that as junkie was her chief playmate, she was scarcely responsible for her language. "the stowy," continued flo, "is all 'bout doan of ak, who was bu'nt by some naughty men, long, long ago! d'you hear, blackie? it would make your hair stand on end--if you had any!" thereupon the little one set blackie on a stool, propped her against the wall, and gave her a fairly correct account of the death of the unfortunate joan of arc, as related by mrs gordon that morning. she wound up with the question,--"now, what you think of _zat_, blackie?" as blackie would not answer, flo had to draw on her own bank of imagination for further supplies of thought. "come," she cried, suddenly, with the eagerness of one whose cheque has just been honoured; "let's play at doan of ak! you will be doan, and i will be the naughty men. i'll bu'n you! you mustn't squeal, or kick up a wumpus, you know, but be dood." having made this stipulation, our little heroine placed the black martyr on an old-fashioned straw-bottomed chair near the window, and getting hold of a quantity of paper and some old cotton dresses, she piled the whole round blackie to represent faggots. this done, she stepped back and surveyed her work as an artist might study a picture. "you've dot your best muslin fock on, da'ling, an it'll be spoiled; but i don't care for zat. now, say your pays, doan." with this admonitory remark, flo screwed up a piece of paper, went to the fireplace, made a very long arm through the fender, and lighted it. next moment she applied the flame to the faggots, which blazed up with surprising rapidity. stepping quickly back, the dear little child gazed at her work with intense delight beaming from every feature. "now be dood, blackie. don't make a wumpus!" she said; and as she said it, the flames caught the window curtains and went up with a flare that caused flo to shout with mingled delight and alarm. "i wonder," remarked mrs gordon, who chanced to be in the drawing-room on the windward side of the nursery, "what amuses flo so much!" she arose and went, leisurely, to see. roderick, the groom, being in the harness-room on the lee side of the nursery at the time, made a remark with the same opening words. "i wonder," said he, "what _that_ wull pe!" a sniffing action of the nose told what "that" meant. "don't you smell a smell, tonal'?" donald sniffed, and replied that he did--"what-e-ver." "it wull pe somethin' on fire, tonal'," said the groom, dropping the harness-brush and running out to the yard. donald being of the same opinion, followed him. at the same moment a piercing shriek was heard to issue from the house and wild confusion followed. "fire! fire!" yelled a voice in the yard outside, with that intensity of meaning which is born of thorough conviction. who that has never been roused by "fire!" can imagine the sensations that the cry evokes, and who that really has experienced those sensations can hope to explain them to the inexperienced? we cannot. we will not try. but let us not plunge with undue haste into a fire! it will be remembered that we left jackman in barret's room, having just ended his elephant story, to the satisfaction of his friends, while mrs gordon was on her way to the nursery, bent on investigation. well, the voice that shrieked in the nursery was that of mrs gordon, and that which yelled in the yard was the voice of the groom, supplemented by donald's treble. of course the gentlemen sprang to their feet, on hearing the uproar, dashed from the room in a body, and made straight for the nursery. on the way they met mrs gordon with flo in her arms--all safe; not a hair of her pretty little head singed, but looking rather appalled by the consequences of what she had done. "safe! thank god!" exclaimed the laird, turning and descending with his wife and child, with some vague thoughts that he might be likely to find mrs moss in her favourite place of resort, the library. he was right. he found her there in a dead faint on the floor. he also found his three boys there, exerting themselves desperately to haul her out of the room by a foot and an arm and the skirt of her dress. "we knew she was here, daddy," gasped eddie, "and came straight to help her." "out o' the way!" cried the laird as he grasped mrs moss in his arms and bore her away. "mother and flo are safe, boys. look out for yourselves." "i'll go for the photographs! come, help me, ted," cried archie, as he ran up the now smoking stairs. "i'll go for milly!" cried the heroic junkie, as, with flashing eyes, he dashed towards her room. but barret had gone for milly before him! and without success. she was not in her room. "milly! milly!" he shouted, in tones of undisguised anxiety, as he burst out of the nursery, after finding, with his companions, that no one was there and that suffocation was imminent. then, as no milly replied, he rushed up to the garret in the belief that she might have taken refuge there or on the roof in her terror. just after he had rushed out of the nursery, junkie burst in. the boy was in his element now. we do not mean that he was a salamander and revelled in fire and smoke, but he had read of fires and heard of them till his own little soul was ablaze with a desire to save some one from a fire--any one--somehow, or anyhow! finding, like the rest, that he could scarcely breathe, he made but one swift circuit of the room. in doing so he tumbled on the chair on which the cause of all the mischief still sat smoking, but undeniably "dood!" "blackie!" he gasped, and seized hold of her denuded but still unconsumed wooden body. a few moments later he sprang through the entrance door and tumbled out on the lawn, where most of the females of the establishment were standing. "saved!" he cried, in a voice of choking triumph, as he rose and held up the rescued and smoking doll. "doan! my da'ling doan!" cried flo, extending her arms eagerly to receive the martyr. by that time the house was fairly alight in its upper storey, despite the utmost efforts of all the men to extinguish the fire with buckets of water. "no use, no use to waste time trying," said the laird, as he ran out among the females on the lawn. "is everybody safe? eh? milly--where's milly?" "milly! where's milly?" echoed a stentorian voice, as barret bounded out of the smoking house with singed hair and blackened face. "there--there she is!" cried several of the party, as they pointed towards the avenue leading to the house. all eyes were eagerly turned in that direction, and a general exclamation of thankfulness escaped, as milly was seen running towards the scene of action. she had been down seeing old mrs donaldson, and knew nothing of what had occurred, till she came in sight of the conflagration. chapter sixteen. two fires subdued. barret, half ashamed of the wild anxiety he displayed, turned at once, sprang back into the burning house, and began to expend his energies in helping his companions and the men of the establishment to save as much as possible of the laird's property. while this was being done and the attention of every one was directed exclusively to the work of salvage--in which work pat quin shone conspicuous for daring as well as for all but miraculous power to endure heat and swallow smoke, roderick, the groom, retired to the lawn for a few moments' respite. he was accompanied by donald, his faithful assistant, who was almost exhausted by his labours. "tonal', poy, what iss it that muster archie wull pe doin'?" "i think he wull pe takin' the hoose!" they had not time to make further inquiry, for just then the wind changed and blew the flames towards the part of the mansion that had been already burned, giving some hope that the other parts might yet be saved, and calling for the redoubled efforts of all hands. donald was right in his conjecture. archie was indeed "takin'" the house! he and eddie--having succeeded in rescuing the photographic apparatus, and, finding that no lives were in danger, and that enough people were already endeavouring to save the property--had calmly devoted themselves to taking photographs of the blazing scene from several points of view--a feat that was still possible, as daylight had not yet been diminished in power. the change of wind, however, brought their operations to an abrupt close, for no idlers were tolerated. even the women were summoned to stand in a row, and pass buckets from a neighbouring pond to the burning house. the proceedings now had been reduced to some degree of order by giles jackman, whose experience abroad had tended to develop his powers of organisation. the buckets were passed in uninterrupted succession from the pond to the house, where mabberly received them at the front door, that being deemed the point where danger and the need for unusual energy began. he passed them in through the smoke of the hall to macrummle, who handed them to roderick and the butler. these last stood in the dense smoke of the staircase, at the head of which the tall gamekeeper, jackman and barret, were engaged in close and deadly conflict with the flames, intense heat, falling _debris_, and partial suffocation. the rest of the people, headed by the laird, who seemed to have renewed his youth and become ubiquitous, continued the work of salvage. by that time the party of warriors who fought the flames was increased by the shepherds and a few small farmers who dwelt in the neighbourhood. these being stalwart and willing men, were a valuable accession to the force, and did good service not only in saving property, but in extinguishing the fire. so that, before night closed in, the flames were finally subdued, after about one-half of the mansion had been consumed. that half, however, was still a source of great danger, the walls being intensely hot and the fallen beams a mass of glowing charcoal, which the least breath of wind blew into a flame. a few of the shepherds were therefore stationed to watch these, and pour water on them continually. but the need for urgent haste was past, and most of the people had assembled on the lawn among the furniture when the stars began to glimmer in the darkening sky. "my dear," said the laird, on finding his wife in the group, "it is all safe now, so you had better get off to rest, and take all the women with ye. come, girls, be off to your beds," he added, turning with kindly smile to the domestics, and with the energetic manner that was habitual to him. "you've done good service, and stand much in need of rest, all of you. the men will keep a sharp look out on what's left o' the fire, so you have nothing to fear. off with you, an' get to sleep!" there was no hesitation in obeying the laird's commands. the female domestics went off at once to their dormitories, and these were fortunately in that part of the mansion which had escaped. some of the younger girls, however, made no effort to conceal a giggle as they glanced at their master who, with coat off, shirt torn, face blackened, hair dishevelled, and person dripping, presented rather an undignified appearance. but as worthy allan gordon had never set up a claim to dignity, the giggles only amused him. "duncan! duncan, man, where are ye?" he called out, when the ladies and female domestics had gone. "oh! there ye are--an' not much more respectable than myself!" he added, as the butler answered to his summons. "go and fetch the whisky bottle. we'll all be the better of a dram after such a fight. what say you, gentlemen? do you not relax your teetotal principles a little on an occasion like this?" "we never relax our _total abstinence_ principles," returned jackman, with a smile, as he wrung some of the water out of his garments. "i think i may speak for my companions as well as myself. friendship has been a sufficient stimulant while we were engaged in the work, and gratitude for success will suffice now that the work is done." "run, donald, boy, an' tell them to get some hot coffee ready at once! it's all very well, gentlemen," said the laird, turning again to his friends, "to talk of subsisting on friendship and gratitude; but although very good in their way, they won't do for present necessities. at least it would ill become me to express my gratitude to such good friends without offering something more. for myself," he added, filling and tossing off a glass of whisky, "i'm an old man, and not used to this kind of work, so i'll be the better of a dram. besides, the gordons--my branch of them, at least--have always taken kindly to mountain dew, in moderation, of course, in strict moderation!" there was a quiet laugh at this among some of the men who stood near, for it was well-known that not a few of the laird's ancestors had taken kindly to mountain dew without the hampering influence of moderation, though the good man himself had never been known to "exceed"--in the celtic acceptation of that term. "are ye laughing, you rascals?" he cried, turning to the group with a beaming, though blackened countenance. "come here an' have your share-- as a penalty!" nothing loath, the men came forward, and with a quiet word of thanks each poured the undiluted fiery liquid down his throat, with what the boy donald styled a "pech" of satisfaction. ivor donaldson chanced to be one of the group, but he did not come forward with the rest. "come, ivor, man, and have a dram," said the laird, pouring out a glass. but the keeper did not move. he stood with his arms crossed firmly on his broad chest, and a stern dogged expression on his handsome face. "ivor, hi!" exclaimed the old gentleman, in a louder voice, supposing that the man had not heard. "after work like this a dram will do you good." "oo, ay!" remarked one of the shepherds, who had probably began to feel the "good" by that time; "a tram of whusky iss a fery coot thing at _all_ times--specially when it is _coot_ whusky!" at this profound witticism there was a general laugh among the men, in the midst of which the laird repeated his invitation to ivor, saying that he seemed knocked up after his exertions (which was partially true), and adding that surely he was man enough to take a little for his good at such a time, without giving way to it. the laird did not mean this as a taunt, but it was taken as such by the keeper, who came forward quickly, seized the glass, and drained it. having done so he stood for a moment like one awaking from a dream. then, without a word of thanks, he dropped the glass, sprang into the shrubbery, and disappeared. the laird was surprised, and his conscience smote him, but he turned the incident off with a laugh. "now, lads," he said, "go to work again. it will take all your energies to keep the fire down, if it comes on to blow; and your comrades must be tired by this time." fortunately it did not come on to blow. the night was profoundly calm, so that a steady though small supply of water sufficed to quench incipient flames. meanwhile giles jackman had left the group on the lawn almost at the same moment with the gamekeeper; for, having been accustomed to deal with men in similar circumstances, he had a suspicion of what might follow. the poor man, having broken the resolve so recently and so seriously formed, had probably, he thought, become desperate. ivor was too active for him, however. he disappeared before jackman had followed more than a few yards. after a few moments of uncertainty, the latter made straight for old molly donaldson's cottage, thinking it possible that her unhappy son might go there. on the way he had to pass the keeper's own cottage, and was surprised to see a light in it and the door wide open. as he approached, the sound of the keeper's voice was heard speaking violently, mingled with blows, as if delivered with some heavy instrument against timber. a loud crash of breaking wood met jackman's ear as he sprang in. ivor was in the act of rending the remains of a door from a corner cupboard, while an axe, which he had just dropped, lay at his feet on the earthen floor. a black quart bottle, visible through the opening which had been made, showed the reason of his assault on the cupboard. if there had been any uncertainty on the point, it would have been dispelled by the wild laugh, or yell of fierce exultation, with which he seized the bottle, drew the cork, and raised it to his dry lips. before it reached them, however, jackman's strong hand seized the keeper's arm. a gasp from the roused giant, and the deadly pallor of his countenance, as he glanced round, showed that superstition had suddenly seized on his troubled soul; but no sooner did he see who it was that had checked him, than the hot blood rebounded to his face, and a fierce glare shot from his eyes. "thank god!--not too late!" exclaimed jackman, fervently. the thanksgiving was addressed to god, of course without reference to its influence on ivor; but no words, apparently, could have been used with better effect upon the keeper's spirit. his eyes lost their ferocity, and he stood irresolute. "break it, like a good fellow," said jackman, in a soft, kindly voice, as he pointed to the bottle. "i broke one before, sir," said ivor, in a despairing tone; "and you see how useless that was." "give it to me, then." as he spoke, he took the bottle from the man's grasp, and cast it through the open doorway, where it was shivered to atoms on the stones outside. striding towards a pitcher of water which stood in a corner of the room, the keeper seized it, put it to his lips, and almost drained it. "there!" he exclaimed; "that will drown the devil for a time!" "no, ivor, it won't; but it will _help_ to drown it," said jackman, in the same kindly, almost cheerful, voice. "neither cold water nor hottest fire can slay the evils that are around and within us. there is only one saviour from sin--jesus, `who died for the sins of the whole world.' he makes use of means, however, and these means help towards the great end. but it was not the saviour who told you to lock that bottle in that cupboard--was it?" an expression of perplexity came over the keeper's face. "you are right, sir; it was not. but, to my thinkin' it was not the devil either!" "very likely not. i think sometimes we are inclined to put many things on the devil's shoulders which ought to rest on our own. you know what the bible says about the deceitfulness of our hearts." "i do, sir, an' yet i don't quite see that it was that either. i did not put that bottle there to have it handy when i wanted it. i put it there when i made up my mind to fight this battle in christ's name, so as i might see if he gave me strength to resist the temptation, when it was always before me." "just so, ivor, my friend. that `if' shows that you doubted him! moreover, he has put into our mouths that prayer, `lead us not into temptation,' and you proposed to keep temptation always before your eyes." "no, sir, no, not quite so bad as that," cried the keeper, growing excited. "i shut the door an' locked the accursed thing out of my sight, and when i found i could _not_ resist the temptation, i took the key out and flung it into the sea." "would it not have been better to have flung the evil thing itself into the sea? you soon found another key!" said his friend, pointing to the axe. "you say truth, sir; but oh, you hev no notion o' the fight i hev had wi' that drink. the days an' nights of torment! the horrors! ay, if men could only taste the horrors _before_ they tasted the drink, i do believe there would be no drunkards at all! i hev lain on that bed, sir," he pointed to it as he spoke, while large drops stood on his pale brow at the very recollection, "and i hev seen devils and toads and serpents crawlin' round me and over me--great spiders, and hairy shapeless things, wi' slimy legs goin' over my face, and into my mouth, though i gnashed my teeth together--and glaring into my tight shut eyes, an' strangling me. oh! sir, i know not what hell may be, but i think that it begins on earth wi' some men!" "from all this jesus came to save us, ivor," said jackman, endeavouring to turn the poor man's mind from the terrible thoughts that seemed about to overwhelm him; "but god will have us to consent to be saved in _his_ _own_ way. when you put the temptation in the cupboard, you disobeyed him, and therefore were trying to be saved in _your own_ way. disobedience and salvation cannot go together, because salvation means deliverance from disobedience. you and i will pray, ivor, that god would give us his holy spirit, and then we shall fight our battles in future with more success." thereupon, standing as they were, but with bowed spirits and heads, they laid the matter in the hands of god in a brief but earnest prayer. while these two were thus engaged, the scene at the house had entered upon another phase. the weather, which all that day had been extremely changeable, suddenly assumed its gloomiest aspect, and rain began to fall heavily. gradually the fall increased in volume, and at last descended in an absolute deluge, rendering the use of water-buckets quite unnecessary, and accomplishing in a very few minutes what all the men at the place could not have done in as many hours. but that which prevented effectually the extension of the fire, caused, almost as effectually, the destruction of much of the property exposed on the lawn. the men were therefore set to work with all their energies to replace in the unburnt part of the mansion all that they had so recently carried out of it. in this work ivor donaldson found a sufficient outlet for the fierce unnatural energies which had been aroused within him. he went about heaving and hauling, and staggering under weights that in an ordinary state of body and mind he could scarcely have moved. little notice was taken of him, however, for every one else was, if not doing the same thing, at least working up to the utmost extent of his ability. before midnight all was over. the fire was what the cook termed black out. the furniture, more than half destroyed, was re-housed. the danger of a revival of the flames was past, and the warriors in the great battle felt themselves free to put off their armour and seek refreshment. this they did--the males at least--in the gun-room, which, being farthest from the fire, and, therefore, left untouched, had not been damaged either by fire or water. here the thoughtful laird had given orders to have a cold collation spread, and here, with his guests, men-servants, boys, and neighbouring farmers around him, he sat down to supper. chapter seventeen. conclusion. "we are a queer lot, what-e-ver!" remarked one of the farmers, with a deep sigh and a candid smile, as he looked round the company. the observation was incontrovertible, if charcoaled faces, lank hair, torn and dripping garments, and a general appearance of drowned-ratiness may be regarded as "queer." "my friends," said the laird, digging the carving fork into a cold turkey, "we are also a hungry lot, if i may judge of others by myself, so let me advise you to fall to. we can't afford to sit long over our supper in present circumstances. help yourselves, and make the most of your opportunities." "thank god," said giles jackman, "that we have the opportunity to sit down to sup under a roof at all." "amen to that," returned the laird; "and thanks to you all, my friends, for the help you have rendered. but for you, this house and all in it would have been burnt to ashes. i never before felt so strongly how true it is that we `know not what a day may bring forth.'" "what you say, sir, is fery true," remarked a neighbouring small farmer, who had a sycophantish tendency to echo or approve whatever fell from the laird's lips. "it is indeed true," returned his host, wiping the charcoal from his face with a moist handkerchief; "but it is the word that says it, not i. and is it not strange," he added, turning with a humorous look to barret, "that after all these years the influence of joan of arc should be still so powerful in the western isles? to think that she should set my house on fire in this nineteenth century!" "i am very glad she did!" suddenly exclaimed junkie, who, having been pretty well ignored or forgotten by everybody, was plying his knife and fork among the other heroes of the fight in a state of inexpressible felicity. "you rascal!" exclaimed his father; "you should have been in bed long ago! but why are you so glad that joan set the house on fire?" "because she gave me the chance to save blackie's life!" replied junkie, with supreme contentment. the company laughed, and continued their meal, but some of them recalled the proverb which states that "the boy is father to the man," and secretly prophesied a heroic career for junkie. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ten months passed away, during which period allan gordon retired to his residence in argyllshire while his mansion in the western island was being restored. during the same period archie produced innumerable hazy photographs of kinlossie house in a state of conflagration; eddie painted several good copies of the bad painting into which milly moss had introduced a megatherium cow and other specimens of violent perspective; and junkie underwent a few terrible paroxysms of intense hatred of learning in all its aspects, in which paroxysms he was much consoled by the approval and sympathy of dear little flo. during this period, also, mabberly applied himself to his duties in london, unaffected by the loss of the _fairy_, and profoundly interested in the success of his friend barret, who had devoted himself heart and head to natural history, with a view to making that science his profession, though his having been left a competence by his father rendered a profession unnecessary, from a financial point of view. as for giles jackman, that stalwart "woods-and-forester" returned to his adopted land, accompanied by the faithful quin, and busied himself in the activities of his adventurous career, while he sought to commend the religion of jesus alike to native and european, both by precept and example, proving the great truth that "godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life which now is, and of that which is to come." macrummle, during the same period, spent much time in his study, writing for publication an elaborate treatise on fishing, with a few notes on shooting, in the western isles. he was encouraged in this work by a maiden sister who worshipped him, and by the presence of an enormous stuffed eagle in a corner of his study. one day, towards the close of this period of ten months, a beautiful little woman and a handsome young man might have been seen riding in one of the quiet streets of london. they rode neither on horseback, nor in a carriage, still less in a cab! their vehicle was a tricycle of the form which has obtained the name of "sociable." "see, this is the corner, milly," said the young man. "i told you that one of the very first places i would take you to see after our marriage would be the spot where i had the good fortune to run _our_ mother down. so now i have kept my word. there is the very spot, by the lamp-post, where the sweep stood looking at the thin little old lady so pathetically when i was forced to rise and run away." "oh, john!" exclaimed milly, pointing with eager looks along the street; "and there is the thin little old lady herself!" "so it is! well, coincidences will never cease," said barret, as he stepped from the "sociable" and hurried to meet mrs moss, who shook her finger and head at him as she pointed to the pavement near the lamp-post. "i would read you a lecture now, sir," she said; "but will reserve it, for here is a letter that may interest you." it did indeed interest all three of them, as they sat together that afternoon in the sunshine of milly's boudoir, for it was a long and well-written epistle from old molly donaldson. we will not venture to weary the reader with all that the good old woman had to say, but it may perhaps be of interest to transcribe the concluding sentence. it ran thus,--"you will be glad to hear that my dear ivor is doing well. he was married in march to aggy anderson, an' they live in the old cottage beside me. ivor has put on the blue ribbon. the laird has put it on too, to the surprise o' everybody. but i think little o' that. i think more o' a bit pasteboard that hangs over my son's mantelpiece, on which he has written wi' his own hand the blessed words--`_saved by grace_.'" the end. the lively poll, by r.m. ballantyne. ________________________________________________________________________ the scene opens with one of the many north sea fishing fleets at work on its grounds. one of the boats is commanded by a man who is called the admiral of the fleet. he commands the other boats as to when and where they are to start working with their trawl nets, for if such control were not imposed there would be chaos, with a hundred or more boats crossing each other's paths and consequently entangling their nets. after a night's fishing the fish are gutted, filleted, and boxed. a steam vessel approaches, and takes their catches, so that they can be landed at the nearest fishing port, such as yarmouth and gorleston, and rushed to london and other great cities, to be fresh on tables the following day. but there is another type of vessel that trades with the "lively poll" and other ships of that fishing fleet--the dutch "coper", bringing goods to trade for fish, including tobacco and schnapps, for the demon drink is the ruination of many a good man. that is what this book is really all about, the ruination of some men, and the salvation of others, for even out at sea there are missionaries working to try and save souls. ________________________________________________________________________ the lively poll, by r.m. ballantyne. chapter one. the fleet. manx bradley was an admiral--"admiral of the fleet"--though it must be admitted that his personal appearance did not suggest a position so exalted. with rough pilot coat and sou'-wester, scarred and tarred hands, easy, rolling gait, and boots from heel to hip, with inch-thick soles, like those of a dramatic buccaneer, he bore as little resemblance to the popular idea of a lace-coated, brass-buttoned, cock-hatted admiral as a sea-urchin bears to a cockle-shell. nevertheless manx was a real admiral--as real as nelson, and much harder worked. his fleet of nearly two hundred fishing-smacks lay bobbing about one fine autumn evening on the north sea. the vessels cruised round each other, out and in, hither and thither, in all positions, now on this tack, now on that, bowsprits pointing north, south, east, and west, as if without purpose, or engaged in a nautical game of "touch." nevertheless all eyes were bent earnestly on the admiral's vessel, for it was literally the "flagship," being distinguishable only by a small flag attached to its fore stay. the fleet was hovering, awaiting orders from the admiral. a fine smart "fishing breeze" was blowing. the setting sun sparkled on the wave-crests; thin fleecy clouds streaked the sky; everything gave promise of a satisfactory night, and a good haul of fish in the morning. with the quiet air of an amiable despot manx nodded his venerable head. up went the signal, and in a few minutes the fleet was reduced to order. every smack swept round into position, and, bending over on the same tack, they all rushed like a shoal of startled minnows, away in the same direction--the direction signalled by the admiral. another signal from our venerable despot sent between one and two hundred trawl-nets down to the bottom of the sea, nets that were strong enough to haul up tons of fish, and rocks, and wreckage, and rubbish, with fifty-feet beams, like young masts, with iron enough in bands and chains to sink them, and so arranged that the beams were raised a few feet off the ground, thus keeping the mouths of the great nets open, while cables many fathoms in length held the gears to their respective vessels. so the north sea fishermen began the night's work--the _nancy_, the _coquette_, the _rattler_, the _truant_, the _faith_, the _playfellow_, the _cherub_, and all the rest of them. of course, although the breeze was fresh, they went along slowly, because of the ponderous tails that they had to draw. do you ask, reader, why all this order? why this despotic admiral, and all this unity of action? why not "every man for himself"? let me reply by asking you to think for a moment. wind blowing in one direction, perhaps you are aware, does not necessarily imply vessels sailing in the same direction. with variation of courses possible, nearly two hundred tails out astern, and no unity of action, there would arise the certainty of varied and striking incident. the _nancy_ would go crashing into the bows of the _coquette_, the bowsprit of the _rallier_ would stir up the cabin of the _truant_, the tail of the _faith_ would get entangled with that of the _cherub_, and both might hook on to the tail of the _playfellow_; in short, the awful result would be wreck and wretchedness on the north sea, howling despair in the markets of columbia and billingsgate, and no fish for breakfast in the great metropolis. there is reason for most things--specially good reason for the laws that regulate the fisheries of the north sea, the fleets of which are over twelve in number, and the floating population over twelve thousand men and boys. for several hours this shoal of vessels, with full sails and twinkling lights, like a moving city on the deep, continued to tug and plunge along over the "banks" of the german ocean, to the satisfaction of the fishermen, and the surprise no doubt of the fish. about midnight the admiral again signalled, by rocket and flares, "haul up," and immediately, with capstan, bar, and steam, the obedient crews began to coil in their tails. it is not our intention to trouble the reader with a minute account of this process or the grand result, but, turning to a particular smack, we solicit attention to that. she is much like the others in size and rig. her name is the _lively poll_. stephen lockley is her skipper, as fine a young fisherman as one could wish to see--tall, handsome, free, hearty, and powerful. but indeed all deep-sea fishermen possess the last quality. they would be useless if not physically strong. many a samson and hercules is to be found in the north sea fleets. "no better nursery or training-school in time of war," they say. that may be true, but it is pleasanter to think of them as a training-school for times of peace. the night was very dark. black clouds overspread the sky, so that no light save the dim rays of a lantern cheered the men as they went tramp, tramp, round the capstan, slowly coiling in the trawl-warp. sheets of spray sometimes burst over the side and drenched them, but they cared nothing for that, being pretty well protected by oilskins, sou'-westers, and sea-boots. straining and striving, sometimes gaining an inch or two, sometimes a yard or so, while the smack plunged and kicked, the contest seemed like a doubtful one between _vis inertiae_ and the human will. two hours and a half it lasted, until the great trawl-beam came to the surface, and was got up on the vessel's side, after which these indomitable men proceeded to claw up the huge net with their fingers, straining and heaving with might and main. "yo, ho!" cried the skipper, "heave her in, boys!" "hoy!" growled peter jay, the mate, giving a tug that should have torn the net to pieces--but didn't! "looks like as if we'd got hold of a lump o' wreck," gasped bob lumsden, the smack's boy, who was also the smack's cook. "no, no, lumpy," remarked david duffy, who was no respecter of names or persons, "it ain't a wreck, it's a mermaid. i've bin told they weigh over six ton when young. look out when she comes aboard--she'll bite." "i do believe it's old neptune himself," said jim freeman, another of the "hands." "there's his head; an' something like his pitchfork." "it does feel heavier than i ever knowed it afore," remarked fred martin. "that's all along of your bein' ill, fred," said the mate. "it may be so," returned martin, "for i do feel queer, an' a'most as weak as a baby. come heave away!" it was indeed a huge mass of wreck entangled with sea-weed which had rendered the net so heavy on that occasion, but there was also a satisfactory mass of fish in the "cod-end," or bag, at the extremity of the net, for, when, by the aid of the winch, this cod-end was finally got inboard, and the cord fastening the bottom of it was untied, fish of all kinds gushed over the wet decks in a living cataract. there were a few expressions of satisfaction from the men, but not much conversation, for heavy work had still to be done--done, too, in the dark. turbot, sole, cod, skate, and all the other treasures of the deep, had to be then and there gutted, cleaned, and packed in square boxes called "trunks," so as to be ready for the steam-carrier next morning. the net also had to be cleared and let down for another catch before daybreak. now it is just possible that it may never have occurred to the reader to consider how difficult, not to say dangerous, must be the operation of gutting, cleaning, and packing fish on a dark night with a smack dancing a north sea hornpipe under one's feet. among the dangers are two which merit notice. the one is the fisherman's liability, while working among the "ruck," to run a sharp fish-bone into his hand, the other to gash himself with his knife while attempting to operate on the tail of a skate. either accident may be slight or it may be severe. a sudden exclamation from one of the men while employed in this cleaning and packing work told that something had happened. "there goes martin," growled joe stubley; "you can always tell when it's him, 'cause he don't curse an' swear." stubley--or stubby, as his mates called him--did not intend this for a compliment by any means, though it may sound like one. being an irreligious as well as a stupid man, he held that all who professed religion were hypocritical and silly. manliness, in poor jo's mind, consisted of swagger, quiet insolence, cool cursing, and general godlessness. with the exception of fred martin, the rest of the crew of the _lively poll_ resembled him in his irreligion, but they were very different in character,--lockley, the skipper being genial; peter jay, the mate, very appreciative of humour, though quiet and sedate; duffy, jovial and funny; freeman, kindly, though reckless; and bob, the boy-cook, easy-going both as to mind and morals. they all liked martin, however, in spite of his religion, for he practised much and preached little. "what's wrong?" asked lockley, who stood at the tiller looking out for lights ahead. "only a bone into my left hand," replied martin, going on with his somewhat dirty labours. "well that it's no worse, boy," observed freeman, "for we've got no medicine-chest to fly to like that lucky short-blue fleet." "that's true, jim," responded martin; "i wish we had a gospel smack with our fleet, for our souls need repairing as well as our bodies." "there you go," growled stubley, flinging down a just finished fish with a flap of indignation. "a feller can't mention the name o' them mission craft without rousin' you up to some o' your hypocritical chaff. for my part, if it wasn't for the medicine-chest and the mittens, i think we'd be better by a long way without gospel ships, as ye call 'em. why, what good 'ave they done the short-blues? i'm sure _we_ doesn't want churches, or prayin', or psalm-singin' or book--" "speak for yourself, jo," interrupted puffy. "although your head may be as thick as a three-inch plank, through which nothin' a'most can pass either from books or anything else, you mustn't think we've bin all built on the same lines. i likes a good book myself, an', though i don't care about prayin' or psalm-singin', seein' i don't understand 'em, i say `good luck' to the mission smacks, if it was for nothin' else than the books, an' doctor stuff, an' mitts what the shoregoin' ladies--bless their hearts!--is so fond o' sendin' to us." "ay, an the cheap baccy, too, that they say they're a-goin' to send to us," added freeman. "p'r'aps they'll send us cheap grog at last," said puffy, with a laugh. "they'll hardly do that," remarked martin; "for it's to try an' keep us from goin' for our baccy to the _copers_ that they've started this new plan." "i wish 'em success," said lockley, in a serious tone. and there was good ground for that wish, for our genial and handsome skipper was peculiarly weak on the point of strong drink, that being to him a powerful, almost irresistible, temptation. when the fish-cleaning and packing were completed, the men went below to snatch a few hours' repose. wet, weary, and sleepy, but with a large stock of reserve strength in them, they retired to the little cabin, in which they could scarcely stand up without bumping their heads, and could hardly turn round without hitting their elbows on something or other. kicking off their long boots, and throwing aside oilskin coats and sou'-westers, they tumbled into their narrow "bunks" and fell asleep almost without winking. there was one among them, however, who did not sleep long that night. fred martin was soon awakened by the pain of his wound, which had begun to inflame, and by a feeling of giddiness and intense uneasiness with which he had been troubled for several days past. turning out at last, he sat down in front of the little iron stove that served to cook food as well as to warm the cabin, and, gazing into the embers, began to meditate on his strangely uncomfortable sensations. "hallo, martin, anything wrong?" asked the mate, who descended at that moment to relight his pipe. "i believe there is, mate. i never felt like this afore. i've fowt against it till i can hardly stand. i feel as if i was goin' to knock under altogether. this hand, too, seems gittin' bad. i do think my blood must be poisoned, or somethin' o' that sort. you know i don't easily give in, but when a feller feels as if little red-hot wires was twistin' about inside of him, an' sees things goin' round as if he was drunk, why--" "why, it's time to think of goin' home," interrupted jay, with a laugh. "but let's have a look at you, fred. well, there does seem to be some o' your riggin' slack. have you ever had the measles?" "not as i knows of." "looks like it," said the mate, lighting his pipe. "p'r'aps it'll be as well to send you into dock to refit. you'd better turn in again, anyhow, for a snooze would do you good." fred martin acted on this advice, while jay returned to the deck; but it was evident that the snooze was not to be had, for he continued to turn and toss uneasily, and to wonder what was wrong with him, as strong healthy men are rather apt to do when suddenly seized with sickness. at grey dawn the admiral signalled again. the order was to haul up the nets, which had been scraping the bottom of the sea since midnight, and the whole fleet set to work without delay. martin turned out with the rest, and tried to defy sickness for a time, but it would not do. the strong man was obliged to succumb to a stronger than he--not, however, until he had assisted as best as he could in hauling up the trawl. this second haul of the gear of the _lively poll_ illustrated one of those mishaps, to which all deep-sea trawlers are liable, and which are of frequent occurrence. a piece of wreck or a lost anchor, or something, had caught the net, and torn it badly, so that when it reached the surface all the fish had escaped. "a night's work for nothing!" exclaimed stephen lockley, with an oath. "_might_ have been worse," suggested martin. by that time it was broad daylight, and as they had no fish to pack, the crew busied themselves in removing the torn net from the beam, and fitting on a new one. at the same time the crews of the other smacks secured their various and varied hauls, cleaned, packed, and got ready for delivery. the smoke of the steam-carrier was seen on the horizon early in the forenoon, and all the vessels of the fleet made for her, as chickens make for their mother in times of danger. we may not pause here to describe the picturesque confusion that ensued--the arriving, congregating, tacking, crossing, and re-crossing of smacks; the launching of little boats, and loading them with "trunks;" the concentration of these round the steamer like minnows round a whale; the shipping of the cargo, and the tremendous hurry and energy displayed in the desire to do it quickly, and get the fish fresh to market. suffice it to say that in less than four hours the steamer was loaded, and fred martin, fever-stricken and with a highly inflamed hand and arm, started on a thirty-six hours' voyage to london. then the fleet sheered off and fell into order, the admiral issued his instructions, and away they all went again to continue the hard, unvarying round of hauling and toiling and moiling, in heat and cold, wet and dry, with nothing to lighten the life or cheer the heart save a game at "crib" or "all fives," or a visit to the _coper_, that terrible curse of the north sea. chapter two. accidents afloat and incidents ashore. now, although it is an undoubted fact that the skippers of the north sea trawling smacks are first-rate seamen, it is an equally certain fact that strong drink can render them unfit for duty. one of the skippers was, if we may say so, unmanned by drink at the time the fleet sheered off from the steam-carrier, as stated in the last chapter. he was named georgie fox--better known in the fleet as groggy fox. unfortunately for himself as well as others, skipper fox had paid a visit to one of the _copers_ the day before for the purpose of laying in a stock of tobacco, which was sold by the skipper of the floating grog-shop at shilling pence a pound. of course fox had been treated to a glass of fiery spirits, and had thereafter been induced to purchase a quantity of the same. he had continued to tipple until night, when he retired in a fuddled state to rest. on rising he tippled again, and went on tippling till his fish were put on board the steamer. then he took the helm of his vessel, and stood with legs very wide apart, an owlish gaze in his eyes, and a look of amazing solemnity on his visage. when a fleet sheers off from a steam-carrier after delivery of cargo, the sea around is usually very much crowded with vessels, and as these cross and re-cross or run past or alongside of each other before finally settling into the appointed course, there is a good deal of hearty recognition--shouting, questioning, tossing up of arms, and expressions of goodwill--among friends. several men hailed and saluted fox as his smack, the _cormorant_, went by, but he took no notice except with an idiotic wink of both eyes. "he's bin to the _coper_," remarked puffy, as the _cormorant_ crossed the bow of the _lively poll_. "i say, lumpy, come here," he added, as bob lumsden came on deck. "have 'ee got any o' that coffee left?" "no, not a drop. i gave the last o't to fred martin just as he was goin' away." "poor fred!" said puffy. "he's in for suthin' stiff, i doubt, measles or mulligrumps, if not wuss." "a great pity," remarked peter jay, who stood at the helm, "that martin couldn't hold out a week longer when our turn comes round to run for yarmouth." "it's well we got him shipped off to-day," said lockley. "that hand of his would have made him useless before another day was out. it's a long time for a man in his state to be without help, that run up to lun'on. port your helm a bit, jay. is it the _cormorant_ that's yawin' about there in that fashion?" "ay, it's the _cormorant_," replied jay. "i seed her just now a'most run foul o' the _butterfly_." "she'll be foul of us. hi! look out!" cried lockley, becoming excited, as he saw the _cormorant_ change her course suddenly, without apparent reason, and bear straight down upon his vessel. there was, indeed, no reason for the strange movements of the smack in question, except that there was at the helm a man who had rendered his reason incapable of action. with dull, fishy eyes, that stared idiotically at nothing, his hand on the tiller, and his mind asleep, georgie fox stood on the deck of the _cormorant_ steering. "starboard a bit, jay," said lockley, with an anxious look, "she'll barely clear us." as he spoke, fox moved his helm slightly. it changed the course of his vessel only a little, but that little sufficed to send the cutwater of the _cormorant_ straight into the port bows of the _lively poll_ with a tremendous crash, for a smart breeze was blowing at the time. the bulwarks were cut down to the deck, and, as the _cormorant_ recoiled and again surged ahead, the bowsprit was carried away, and part of the topmast brought down. deep and fierce was the growl that burst from lockley's lips at this disaster, but that did not mend matters. the result was that the _lively poll_ had to quit the fleet a week before her time of eight weeks afloat was up, and run to yarmouth for repairs. next day, however, it fell calm, and several days elapsed before she finally made her port. meanwhile fred martin reached london, with his feverish complaint greatly aggravated, and his undressed wound much worse. in london he was detained some hours by his employers, and then sent on to yarmouth, which he reached late in the afternoon, and ultimately in a state of great suffering and exhaustion, made his way to gorleston, where his mother lived. with his mind in a species of wild whirl, and acute pains darting through his wounded hand and arm, he wended his way slowly along the road that led to his mother's house. perhaps we should style it her attic, for she could claim only part of the house in which she dwelt. from a quaint gable window of this abode she had a view of the sea over the houses in front. part of fred's route lay along the banks of the yare, not far from its mouth. at a spot where there were many old anchors and cables, old and new trawl-beams, and sundry other seafaring rusty and tarry objects, the young fisherman met a pretty young girl, who stopped suddenly, and, with her large blue eyes expressing unspeakable surprise, exclaimed, "fred!" the youth sprang forward, seized the girl with his uninjured hand, and exclaimed, "isa!" as he drew her towards him. "fred--not here. behave!" said isa, holding up a warning finger. fred consented to behave--with a promise, however, that he would make up for it at a more fitting time and place. "but what is the matter!" asked isa, with an anxious look, laying her pretty little hands on the youth's arm. yes, you need not smile, reader; it is not a perquisite of ladies to have pretty little hands. isa's hands were brown, no doubt, like her cheeks, owing to exposure and sunshine, and they were somewhat roughened by honest toil; but they were small and well-shaped, with taper fingers, and their touch was very tender as she clasped them on her lover's arm. "nothing serious," replied the youth lightly; "only an accident with a fish-bone, but it has got to be pretty bad for want of attention; an' besides i'm out o' sorts somehow. no physic, you see, or doctors in our fleet, like the lucky dogs of the short-blue. i've been knocked up more or less for some weeks past, so they sent me home to be looked after. but i won't need either physic or doctor now." "no? why not?" asked the girl, with a simple look. "cause the sight o' your sweet face does away with the need of either." "don't talk nonsense, fred." "if that's nonsense," returned the fisherman, "you'll never hear me talk sense again as long as i live. but how about mother, isa? is she well!" "quite well. i have just left her puzzling herself over a letter from abroad that's so ill-written that it would bother a schoolmaster to read it. i tried to read it, but couldn't. you're a good scholar, fred, so you have come just in time to help her. but won't she be surprised to see you!" thus conversing, and walking rather slowly, the pair made their way to the attic of mrs martin, where the unexpected sight of her son threw the patient woman into a great flutter of surprise and pleasure. we use the word "patient" advisedly, for mrs martin was one of those wholesome-minded creatures who, having to battle vigorously for the bare necessaries of life in the face of many adverse circumstances, carry on the war with a degree of hearty, sweet-tempered resolution which might put to shame many who are better off in every way. mrs martin was a widow and a washerwoman, and had a ne'er-do-well brother, a fisherman, who frequently "sponged" upon her. she also had a mother to support and attend upon, as well as a "bad leg" to endure. true, the attendance on her mother was to the good woman a source of great joy. it constituted one of the few sunbeams of her existence, but it was not on that account the less costly, for the old woman could do nothing whatever to increase the income of the widow's household--she could not, indeed, move a step without assistance. her sole occupation was to sit in the attic window and gaze over the sands upon the sea, smiling hopefully, yet with a touch of sadness in the smile; mouthing her toothless gums, and muttering now and then as if to herself, "he'll come soon now." her usual attitude was that of one who listens expectantly. thirty years before granny martin had stood at the same attic window, an elderly woman even then, looking out upon the raging sea, and muttering anxiously the same words, "he'll come soon now." but her husband never came. he was lost at sea. as years flew by, and time as well as grief weakened her mind, the old woman seemed to forget the flight of time, and spent the greater part of every day in the attic window, evidently on the look-out for some one who was to come "soon." when at last she was unable to walk alone, and had to be half carried to her seat in the attic window by her strong and loving daughter, the sadness seemed to pass away, and her cheery spirit revived under the impression, apparently, that the coming could not be delayed much longer. to every one granny was condescendingly kind, especially to her grandchild fred, of whom she was very fond. only at intervals was the old woman's cheerfulness disturbed, and that was during the occasional visits of her ne'er-do-well son dick, for he was generally drunk or "half-seas-over" when he came. granny never mentioned his name when he was absent, and for a long time mrs martin supposed that she tried to forget him, but her opinion changed on this point one night when she overheard her mother praying with intense earnestness and in affectionate terms that her dear dick might yet be saved. still, however much or frequently granny's thoughts might at any time be distracted from their main channel, they invariably returned thereto with the cheerful assurance that "_he_ would soon come now." "you're ill, my boy," said mrs martin, after the first greetings were over. "right you are, mother," said the worn-out man, sitting down with a weary sigh. "i've done my best to fight it down, but it won't do." "you must have the doctor, fred." "i've had the doctor already, mother. i parted with isa wentworth at the bottom o' the stair, an' she will do me more good than dozens o' doctors or gallons o' physic." but fred was wrong. not long afterwards the _lively poll_ arrived in port, and stephen lockley hastened to announce his arrival to his wife. now it was the experience of martha lockley that if, on his regular return to land for his eight days' holiday, after his eight weeks' spell afloat, her handsome and genial husband went straight home, she was wont to have a happy meeting; but if by any chance stephen first paid a visit to the blue boar public-house, she was pretty sure to have a miserable meeting, and a more or less wretched time of it thereafter. a conversation that stephen had recently had with fred martin having made an impression on him--deeper than he chose to admit even to himself--he had made up his mind to go straight home this time. "i'll be down by daybreak to see about them repairs," he said to peter jay, as they left the _lively poll_ together, "and i'll go round by your old friend, widow mooney's, and tell her to expect you some time to-night." now peter jay was a single man, and lodged with widow mooney when on shore. it was not, however, pure consideration for his mate or the widow that influenced lockley, but his love for the widow's little invalid child, eve, for whose benefit that north sea skipper had, in the kindness of his heart, made a special collection of deep-sea shells, with some shreds of bright bunting. little eve mooney, thin, wasted, and sad, sat propped up with dirty pillows, in a dirty bed, in a dirtier room, close to a broken and paper-patched window that opened upon a coal-yard with a prospect rubbish-heap beyond. "oh, i'm _so_ glad it's you!" cried eve, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, as the fisherman entered. "yes, eve, my pretty. i'm back sooner than i expected--and look what i've brought you. i haven't forgot you." joy beamed in the lustrous eyes and on every feature of the thin face as the sick child surveyed the treasures of the deep that lockley spread on her ragged counterpane. "how good--how kind of you, stephen!" exclaimed eve. "kind!" repeated the skipper; "nothing of the sort, eve. to please you pleases me, so it's only selfishness. but where's your mother?" "drunk," said the child simply, and without the most remote intention of injuring her parent's character. indeed, that was past injury. "she's in there." the child pointed to a closet, in which stephen found on the floor a heap of unwomanly rags. he was unable to arouse the poor creature, who slumbered heavily beneath them. eve said she had been there for many hours. "she forgot to give me my breakfast before she went in, and i'm too weak to rise and get it for myself," whimpered eve, "and i'm _so_ hungry! and i got such a fright, too, for a man came in this morning about daylight and broke open the chest where mother keeps her money and took something away. i suppose he thought i was asleep, for i was too frightened to move, but i could see him all the time. please will you hand me the loaf before you go? it's in that cupboard." we need scarcely add that lockley did all that the sick child asked him to do--and more. then, after watching her till the meal was finished, he rose. "i'll go now, my pretty," he said, "and don't you be afeared. i'll soon send some one to look after you. good-bye." stephen lockley was unusually thoughtful as he left widow mooney's hut that day, and he took particular care to give the blue boar a wide berth on his way home. chapter three. the skipper ashore. right glad was mrs lockley to find that her husband had passed the blue boar without going in on his way home, and although she did not say so, she could not feel sorry for the accident to the _lively poll_, which had sent him ashore a week before his proper time. martha lockley was a pretty young woman, and the proud mother of a magnificent baby, which was bordering on that age when a child begins to have some sort of regard for its own father, and to claim much of his attention. "matty," said stephen to his wife, as he jolted his daughter into a state of wild delight on his knee, "tottie is becoming very like you. she's got the same pretty little turned-up nose, an' the same huge grey eyes with the wicked twinkle in 'em about the corners." "don't talk nonsense, stephen, but tell me about this robbery." "i know nothin' about it more than i've told ye, matty. eve didn't know the man, and her description of him is confused--she was frightened, poor thing! but i promised to send some one to look after her at once, for her drunken mother isn't fit to take care of herself, let alone the sick child. who can i send, think 'ee?" mrs lockley pursed her little mouth, knitted her brows, and gazed thoughtfully at the baby, who, taking the look as personal, made a face at her. finally she suggested isabella wentworth. "and where is she to be found?" asked the skipper. "at the martins', no doubt," replied mrs lockley, with a meaning look. "she's been there pretty much ever since poor fred martin came home, looking after old granny, for mrs martin's time is taken up wi' nursing her son. they say he's pretty bad." "then i'll go an' see about it at once," said stephen, rising, and setting tottie down. he found isa quite willing to go to eve, though mrs mooney had stormed at her and shut the door in her face on the occasion of her last visit. "but you mustn't try to see fred," she added. "the doctor says he must be kep' quiet and see no one." "all right," returned the skipper; "i'll wait till he's out o' quarantine. good day; i'll go and tell eve that you're coming." on his way to mrs mooney's hut stephen lockley had again to pass the blue boar. this time he did not give it "a wide berth." there were two roads to the hut, and the shorter was that which passed the public-house. trusting to the strength of his own resolution, he chose that road. when close to the blue monster, whose creaking sign drew so many to the verge of destruction, and plunged so many over into the gulf, he was met by skipper ned bryce, a sociable, reckless sort of man, of whom he was rather fond. bryce was skipper of the _fairy_, an iron smack, which was known in the fleet as the ironclad. "hullo! stephen. _you_ here?" "ay, a week before my time, ned. that lubber groggy fox ran into me, cut down my bulwarks, and carried away my bowsprit an' some o' my top-hamper." "come along--have a glass, an' let's hear all about it," said bryce, seizing his friend's arm; but lockley held back. "no, ned," he said; "i'm on another tack just now." "what! not hoisted the blue ribbon, eh!" "no," returned lockley, with a laugh. "i've no need to do that." "you haven't lost faith in your own power o' self-denial surely?" "no, nor that either, but--but--" "come now, none o' your `buts.' come along; my mate dick martin is in here, an' he's the best o' company." "dick martin in there!" repeated lockley, on whom a sudden thought flashed. "is he one o' your hands?" "in course he is. left the grimsby fleet a-purpose to j'ine me. rather surly he is at times, no doubt, but a good fellow at bottom, and great company. you should hear him sing. come." "oh, i know him well enough by hearsay, but never met him yet." whether it was the urgency of his friend, or a desire to meet with dick martin, that shook our skipper's wavering resolution we cannot tell, but he went into the blue boar, and took a glass for good-fellowship. being a man of strong passions and excitable nerves, this glass produced in him a desire for a second, and that for a third, until he forgot his intended visit to eve, his promises to his wife, and his stern resolves not to submit any longer to the tyranny of drink. still, the memory of mrs mooney's conduct, and of the advice of his friend fred martin, had the effect of restraining him to some extent, so that he was only what his comrades would have called a little screwed when they had become rather drunk. there are many stages of drunkenness. one of them is the confidential stage. when dick martin had reached this stage, he turned with a superhumanly solemn countenance to bryce and winked. "if--if you th-think," said bryce thickly, "th-that winkin' suits you, you're mistaken." "look 'ere," said dick, drawing a letter from his pocket with a maudlin leer, and holding it up before his comrade, who frowned at it, and then shook his head--as well he might, for, besides being very illegibly written, the letter was presented to him upside down. after holding it before him in silence long enough to impress him with the importance of the document, dick martin explained that it was a letter which he had stolen from his sister's house, because it contained "something to his advantage." "see here," he said, holding the letter close to his own eyes, still upside down, and evidently reading from memory: "`if mr frederick martin will c-call at this office any day next week between an' , h-he will 'ear suthin' to his ad-advantage. bounce and brag, s'licitors.' there!" "but _you_ ain't fred martin," said bryce, with a look of supreme contempt, for he had arrived at the quarrelsome stage of drunkenness. "right you are," said martin; "but i'm his uncle. same name c-'cause his mother m-married her c-cousin; and there ain't much difference 'tween dick and fred--four letters, both of 'em--so if i goes wi' the letter, an' says, `i'm fred martin,' w'y, they'll hand over the blunt, or the jewels, or wotiver it is, to me--d'ee see?" "no, i don't see," returned bryce so irritatingly that his comrade left the confidential stage astern, and requested to know, with an affable air, when bryce lost his eyesight. "when i first saw _you_, and thought you worth your salt," shouted bryce, as he brought his fist heavily down on the table. both men were passionate. they sprang up, grappled each other by the throat, and fell on the floor. in doing so they let the letter fall. it fluttered to the ground, and lockley, quietly picking it up, put it in his pocket. "you'd better look after them," said lockley to the landlord, as he paid his reckoning, and went out. in a few minutes he stood in widow mooney's hut, and found isa wentworth already there. "i'm glad you sent me here," said the girl, "for mrs mooney has gone out--" she stopped and looked earnestly in lockley's face. "you've been to the blue boar," she said in a serious tone. "yes, lass, i have," admitted the skipper, but without a touch of resentment. "i did not mean to go, but it's as well that i did, for i've rescued a letter from dick martin which seems to be of some importance, an' he says he stole it from his sister's house." he handed the letter to the girl, who at once recognised it as the epistle over which she and mrs martin had puzzled so much, and which had finally been deciphered for them by dick martin. "he must have made up his mind to pretend that he is fred," said isa, "and so get anything that was intended for him." "you're a sharp girl, isa; you've hit the nail fair on the head, for i heard him in his drunken swagger boast of his intention to do that very thing. now, will you take in hand, lass, to give the letter back to mrs martin, and explain how you came by it?" of course isa agreed to do so, and lockley, turning to eve, said he would tell her a story before going home. the handsome young skipper was in the habit of entertaining the sick child with marvellous tales of the sea during his frequent visits, for he was exceedingly fond of her, and never failed to call during his periodical returns to land. his love was well bestowed, for poor eve, besides being of an affectionate nature, was an extremely imaginative child, and delighted in everything marvellous or romantic. on this occasion, however, he was interrupted at the commencement of his tale by the entrance of his own ship's cook, the boy bob lumsden, _alias_ lumpy. "hullo, lumpy, what brings you here?" asked the skipper. but the boy made no answer. he was evidently taken aback at the unexpected sight of the sick child, and the skipper had to repeat his question in a sterner tone. even then lumpy did not look at his commander, but, addressing the child, said-- "beg parding, miss; i wouldn't have come in if i'd knowed you was in bed, but--" "oh, never mind," interrupted eve, with a little smile, on seeing that he hesitated; "my friends never see me except in bed. indeed i live in bed; but you must not think i'm lazy. it's only that my back's bad. come in and sit down." "well, boy," demanded the skipper again, "were you sent here to find _me_?" "yes, sir," said lumpy, with his eyes still fixed on the earnest little face of eve. "mister jay sent me to say he wants to speak to you about the heel o' the noo bowsprit." "tell him i'll be aboard in half an hour." "i didn't know before," said eve, "that bowsprits have heels." at this lumpy opened his large mouth, nearly shut his small eyes, and was on the point of giving vent to a rousing laugh, when his commander half rose and seized hold of a wooden stool. the boy shut his mouth instantly, and fled into the street, where he let go the laugh which had been thus suddenly checked. "well, she _is_ a rum 'un!" he said to himself, as he rolled in a nautical fashion down to the wharf where the _lively poll_ was undergoing repairs. "i think he's a funny boy, that," said eve, as the skipper stooped to kiss her. "yes, he _is_ a funny dog. good-bye, my pretty one." "stay," said eve solemnly, as she laid her delicate little hand on the huge brown fist of the fisherman; "you've often told me stories, stephen; i want to tell one to you to-night. you need not sit down; it's a very, very short one." but the skipper did sit down, and listened with a look of interest and expectation as the child began-- "there was once a great, strong, brave man, who was very kind to everybody, most of all to little children. one day he was walking near a river, when a great, fearful, ugly beast, came out of the wood, and seized the man with its terrible teeth. it was far stronger than the dear, good man, and it threw him down, and held him down, till--till it killed him." she stopped, and tears filled her soft eyes at the scene she had conjured up. "do you know," she asked in a deeper tone, "what sort of awful beast it was?" "no; what was it?" "a blue boar," said the child, pressing the strong hand which she detained. lockley's eyes fell for a moment before eve's earnest gaze, and a flush deepened the colour of his bronzed countenance. then he sprang suddenly up and kissed eve's forehead. "thank you, my pretty one, for your story, but it an't just correct, for the man is not quite killed _yet_ and, please god, he'll escape." as he spoke the door of the hut received a severe blow, as if some heavy body had fallen against it. when isa opened it, a dirty bundle of rags and humanity rolled upon the floor. it was eve's mother! lifting her up in his strong arms, lockley carried her into the closet which opened off the outer room, and laid her tenderly on a mattress which lay on the floor. then, without a word, he left the hut and went home. it is scarcely necessary to add that he took the longer road on that occasion, and gave a very wide berth indeed to the blue boar. chapter four. hardships on the sea. fly with us now, good reader, once more out among the breeze-ruffled billows of the north sea. it was blowing a fine, fresh, frosty fishing breeze from the nor'-west on a certain afternoon in december. the admiral--manx bradley--was guiding his fleet over that part of the german ocean which is described on the deep-sea fisherman's chart as the swarte, or black bank. the trawls were down, and the men were taking it easy--at least, as easy as was compatible with slush-covered decks, a bitter blast, and a rolling sea. if we had the power of extending and intensifying your vision, reader, so as to enable you to take the whole fleet in at one stupendous glance, and penetrate planks as if they were plate glass, we might, perhaps, convince you that in this multitude of deep-sea homes there was carried on that night a wonderful amount of vigorous action, good and bad--largely, if not chiefly bad--under very peculiar circumstances, and that there was room for improvement everywhere. strong and bulky and wiry men were gambling and drinking, and singing and swearing; story-telling and fighting, and skylarking and sleeping. the last may be classed appropriately under the head of action, if we take into account the sonorous doings of throats and noses. as if to render the round of human procedure complete, there was at least one man--perhaps more--praying. yes, manx bradley, the admiral, was praying. and his prayer was remarkably brief, as well as earnest. its request was that god would send help to the souls of the men whose home was the north sea. for upwards of thirty years manx and a few like-minded men had persistently put up that petition. during the last few years of that time they had mingled thanksgiving with the prayer, for a gracious answer was being given. god had put it into the heart of the present director of the mission to deep-sea fishermen to inaugurate a system of evangelisation among the heretofore neglected thousands of men and boys who toil upon the north sea from january to december. mission or gospel smacks were purchased, manned by christian skippers and crews, and sent out to the various fleets, to fish with them during the week, and supply them with medicine for body and soul, with lending libraries of wholesome christian literature, and with other elevating influences, not least among which was a floating church or meeting-house on sundays. but up to the time we write of, manx bradley had only been able to rejoice in the blessing as sent to others. it had not yet reached his own fleet, the twelve or thirteen hundred men and boys of which were still left in their original condition of semi-savagery, and exposure to the baleful influences of that pest of the north sea--the _coper_. "you see, jacob jones," said the admiral to the only one of his "hands" who sympathised with him in regard to religion, "if it warn't for the baccy, them accursed _copers_ wouldn't be able to keep sich a hold of us. why, bless you, there's many a young feller in this fleet as don't want no grog--especially the vile, fiery stuff the _copers_ sell 'em; but when the dutchmen offers the baccy so cheap as shilling pence a pound, the boys are only too glad to go aboard and git it. then the dutchmen, being uncommon sly dogs, gives 'em a glass o' their vile brandy for good-fellowship by way of, an' that flies to their heads, an' makes 'em want more--d'ee see? an' so they go on till many of 'em becomes regular topers--that's where it is, jacob." "why don't the mission smacks sell baccy too?" asked jacob, stamping his feet on the slushy deck to warm them, and beating his right hand on the tiller for the same purpose. "you're a knowing fellow," returned the admiral, with a short laugh; "why, that's just what they've bin considerin' about at the head office--leastwise, so i'm told; an' if they manage to supply the fleets wi' baccy at shilling a pound, which is pence less than the dutchmen do, they'll soon knock the _copers_ off the north sea altogether. but the worst of it is that _we_ won't git no benefit o' that move till a mission smack is sent to our own fleet, an' to the half-dozen other fleets that have got none." at this point the state of the weather claiming his attention, the admiral went forward, and left jacob jones, who was a new hand in the fleet, to his meditations. one of the smacks which drew her trawl that night over the swarte bank not far from the admiral was the _lively poll_--repaired, and rendered as fit for service as ever. not far from her sailed the _cherub_, and the _cormorant_, and that inappropriately named _fairy_, the "ironclad." in the little box of the _lively poll_--which out of courtesy we shall style the cabin--jim freeman and david duffy were playing cards, and stephen lockley was smoking. joe stubby was drinking, smoking, and grumbling at the weather; hawkson, a new hand shipped in place of fred martin, was looking on. the rest were on deck. "what's the use o' grumblin', stub?" said hawkson, lifting a live coal with his fingers to light his pipe. "don't `stub' me," said stubley in an angry tone. "would you rather like me to stab you?" asked hawkson, with a good-humoured glance, as he puffed at his pipe. "i'd rather you clapped a stopper on your jaw." "ah--so's you might have all the jawin' to yourself?" retorted hawkson. whatever reply joe stubley meant to make was interrupted by jim freeman exclaiming with an oath that he had lost again, and would play no more. he flung down the cards recklessly, and david duffy gathered them up, with the twinkling smile of a good-natured victor. "come, let's have a yarn," cried freeman, filling his pipe, with the intention of soothing his vanquished spirit. "who'll spin it?" asked duffy, sitting down, and preparing to add to the fumes of the place. "come, stub, you tape it off; it'll be better occupation than growlin' at the poor weather, what's never done you no harm yet though there's no sayin' what it may do if you go on as you've bin doin', growlin' an' aggravatin' it." "i never spin yarns," said stubley. "but you tell stories sometimes, don't you?" asked hawkson. "no, never." "oh! that's a story anyhow," cried freeman. "come, i'll spin ye one," said the skipper, in that hearty tone which had an irresistible tendency to put hearers in good humour, and sometimes even raised the growling spirit of joe stubley into something like amiability. "what sort o' yarn d'ee want, boys?" he asked, stirring the fire in the small stove that warmed the little cabin; "shall it be comical or sentimental?" "let's have a true ghost story," cried puffy. "no, no," said freeman, "a hanecdote--that's what i'm fondest of-- suthin' short an' sweet, as the little boy said to the stick o' liquorice." "tell us," said stubley, "how it was you come to be saved the night the _saucy jane_ went down." "ah! lads," said lockley, with a look and a tone of gravity, "there's no fun in that story. it was too terrible and only by a miracle, or rather--as poor fred martin said at the time--by god's mercy, i was saved." "was fred there at the time!" asked duffy. "ay, an' very near lost he was too. i thought he would never get over it." "poor chap!" said freeman; "he don't seem to be likely to git over this arm. it's been a long time bad now." "oh, he'll get over that," returned lockley; "in fact, it's a'most quite well now, i'm told, an' he's pretty strong again--though the fever did pull him down a bit. it's not that, it's money, that's keepin' him from goin' afloat again." "how's that?" asked puffy. "this is how it was. he got a letter which axed him to call on a lawyer in lun'on, who told him an old friend of his father had made a lot o' tin out in austeralia, an' he died, an' left some hundreds o' pounds--i don't know how many--to his mother." "humph! that's just like him, the hypercrit," growled joe stubley; "no sooner comes a breeze o' good luck than off he goes, too big and mighty for his old business. he was always preachin' that money was the root of all evil, an' now he's found it out for a fact." "no, fred never said that `money was the root of all evil,' you thick-head," returned duffy; "he said it was the _love_ of money. put that in your pipe and smoke it--or rather, in your glass an' drink it, for that's the way to get it clearer in your fuddled brain." "hold on, boys; you're forgettin' my yarn," interposed lockley at this point, for he saw that stubley was beginning to lose temper. "well, you must know it was about six years ago--i was little more than a big lad at the time, on board the _saucy jane_, black thomson bein' the skipper. you've heard o' black thomson, that used to be so cruel to the boys when he was in liquor, which was pretty nigh always, for it would be hard to say when he wasn't in liquor? he tried it on wi' me when i first went aboard, but i was too--well, well, poor fellow, i'll say nothin' against him, for he's gone now." "fred martin was there at the time, an' it was wonderful what a hold fred had over that old sinner. none of us could understand it, for fred never tried to curry favour with him, an' once or twice i heard him when he thought nobody was near, givin' advice to black thomson about drink, in his quiet earnest way, that made me expect to see the skipper knock him down. but he didn't. he took it well--only he didn't take his advice, but kep' on drinkin' harder than ever. whenever a _coper_ came in sight at that time thomson was sure to have the boat over the side an' pay him a visit. "well, about this time o' the year there came one night a most tremendous gale, wi' thick snow, from the nor'ard. it was all we could do to make out anything twenty fathom ahead of us. the skipper he was lyin' drunk down below. we was close reefed and laying to with the foresail a-weather, lookin' out anxiously, for, the fleet bein' all round and the snow thick, our chances o' runnin' foul o' suthin' was considerable. when we took in the last reef we could hardly stand to do it, the wind was so strong--an' wasn't it freezin', too! sharp enough a'most to freeze the nose off your face. "about midnight the wind began to shift about and came in squalls so hard that we could scarcely stand, so we took in the jib and mizzen, and lay to under the foresail. of course the hatchways was battened down and tarpaulined, for the seas that came aboard was fearful. when i was standin' there, expectin' every moment that we should founder, a sea came and swept fred martin overboard. of course we could do nothing for him--we could only hold on for our lives; but the very next sea washed him right on deck again. he never gave a cry, but i heard him say `praise the lord!' in his own quiet way when he laid hold o' the starboard shrouds beside me. "just then another sea came aboard an' a'most knocked the senses out o' me. at the same moment i heard a tremendous crash, an' saw the mast go by the board. what happened after that i never could rightly understand. i grabbed at something--it felt like a bit of plank--and held on tight, you may be sure, for the cold had by that time got such a hold o' me that i knew if i let go i would go down like a stone. i had scarce got hold of it when i was seized round the neck by something behind me an' a'most choked. "i couldn't look round to see what it was, but i could see a great black object coming straight at me. i knew well it was a smack, an' gave a roar that might have done credit to a young walrus. the smack seemed to sheer off a bit, an' i heard a voice shout, `starboard hard! i've got him,' an' i got a blow on my cocoanut that well-nigh cracked it. at the same time a boat-hook caught my coat collar an' held on. in a few seconds more i was hauled on board of the _cherub_ by manx bradley, an' the feller that was clingin' to my neck like a young lobster was fred martin. the _saucy jane_ went to the bottom that night." "an' black thomson--did he go down with her?" asked duffy. "ay, that was the end of him and all the rest of the crew. the fleet lost five smacks that night." "admiral's a-signallin', sir," said one of the watch on deck, putting his head down the hatch at that moment. lockley went on deck at once. another moment, and the shout came down--"haul! haul all!" instantly the sleepers turned out all through the fleet. oiled frocks, sou'-westers, and long boots were drawn on, and the men hurried on the decks to face the sleet-laden blast and man the capstan bars, with the prospect before them of many hours of hard toil--heaving and hauling and fish-cleaning and packing with benumbed fingers--before the dreary winter night should give place to the grey light of a scarcely less dreary day. chapter five. the tempter's victory. "i wouldn't mind the frost or snow, or anything else," growled joe stubley, pausing in the midst of his labours among the fish, "if it warn't for them sea-blisters. just look at that, jim," he added, turning up the hard sleeve of his oiled coat, and exposing a wrist which the feeble rays of the lantern showed to be badly excoriated and inflamed. "ay, it's an ugly bracelet, an' i've got one myself just begun on my left wrist," remarked jim freeman, also suspending labour for a moment to glance at his mate's wound. "if our fleet had a mission ship, like some o' the other fleets, we'd not only have worsted mitts for our wrists, but worsted helmets for our heads an' necks--to say nothin' of lotions, pills an' plasters." "if they'd only fetch us them things an' let alone tracts, bibles, an' religion," returned stubley, "i'd have no objection to 'em, but what's the use o' religion to a drinkin', swearin', gamblin' lot like us?" "it's quite clear that your notions about religion are muddled," said david duffy, with a short laugh. "why, what's the use o' physic to a sick man, stubs?" "to make him wuss," replied stubs promptly. "you might as well argify with a lobster as with joe stubs," said bob lumsden, who, although burdened with the cares of the cooking department, worked with the men at cleaning and packing. "what does a boy like you know about lobsters, 'cept to cook 'em?" growled stubley. "you mind your pots an' pans. that's all your brains are fit for--if you have brains at all. leave argification to men." "that's just what i was advisin' duffy to do, an' not waste his breath on the likes o' you," retorted the boy, with a grin. the conversation was stopped at this point by the skipper ordering the men to shake out a reef, as the wind was moderating. by the time this was accomplished daybreak was lighting up the eastern horizon, and ere long the pale grey of the cold sea began to warm up a little under the influence of the not yet visible sun. "goin' to be fine," said lockley, as he scanned the horizon with his glass. "looks like it," replied the mate. remarks were few and brief at that early hour, for the men, being pretty well fagged, preferred to carry on their monotonous work in silence. as morning advanced the fleet was clearly seen in all directions and at all distances around, holding on the same course as the _lively poll_. gradually the breeze moderated, and before noon the day had turned out bright and sunny, with only a few thin clouds floating in the wintry sky. by that time the fish-boxes, or trunks, were all packed, and the men availed themselves of the brief period of idleness pending the arrival of the steam-carrier from billingsgate to eat a hearty breakfast. this meal, it may be remarked, was a moveable feast, depending very much on the duties in hand and the arrival of the steamer. to get the fish ready and shipped for market is always regarded as his first and all-important duty by the deep-sea trawler, who, until it is performed, will not condescend to give attention to such secondary matters as food and repose. these are usually taken when opportunity serves. pipes and recreation, in the form of games at cards, draughts, dominoes, and yarns, are also snatched at intervals between the periods of severe toil. nevertheless, there are times when the fisherman's experience is very different. when prolonged calms render fishing impossible, then time hangs heavily on his hands, and--in regard to the fleet of which we write and all those similarly circumstanced--the only recreations available are sleeping, drinking, gambling, and yarn-spinning. true, such calms do not frequently occur in winter, but they sometimes do, and one of them prevailed on the afternoon of the particular winter's day, of which we treat. after the departure of the carrier that day, the wind fell so much that the admiral deemed it advisable not to put down the nets. before long the light air died away altogether, and the fleet was left floating idly, in picturesque groups and with flapping sails, on the glassy sea. among the groups thus scattered about, there was one smack which had quietly joined the fleet when the men were busy transhipping or "ferrying" the fish to the steam-carrier. its rig was so similar to that of the other smacks that a stranger might have taken it for one of the fleet but the fishermen knew better. it was that enemy of souls, that floating grog-shop, that pirate of the north sea, the _coper_. "good luck to 'ee," muttered joe stubley, whose sharp, because sympathetic, eye was first to observe the vessel. "it's bad luck to _you_ anyhow," remarked bob the cook, who chanced to pass at the moment. "mind your own business, lumpy, an' none o' your sauce, if you don't want a rope's-endin'," retorted the man. "ain't i just mindin' my own business? why, wot is sauce but part of a cook's business?" returned the boy. "i _won't_ go to her," thought stephen lockley, who overheard the conversation, and in whose breast a struggle had been going on, for he also had seen the _coper_, and, his case-bottle having run dry, he was severely tempted to have it replenished. "would it not be as well, skipper, to go aboard o' the _coper_, as she's so near at hand!" said the mate, coming aft at the moment. "well, no, peter; i think it would be as well to drop the _coper_ altogether. the abominable stuff the dutchmen sell us is enough to poison a shark. you know i'm not a teetotaller, but if i'm to be killed at all, i'd rather be killed by good spirits than bad." "right you are," replied jay, "but, you see, a lot of us are hard up for baccy, and--" "of course, of course; the men must have baccy," interrupted the skipper, "an' we don't need to buy their vile brandy unless we like. yes, get the boat out, jay, an' we'll go." stephen lockley was not the first man who has deceived himself as to his motives. tobacco was his excuse for visiting the floating den of temptation, but a craving for strong drink was his real motive. this craving had been created imperceptibly, and had been growing by degrees for some years past, twining its octopus arms tighter and tighter round his being, until the strong and hearty young fisherman was slowly but surely becoming an abject slave, though he had fancied himself heretofore as free as the breezes that whistled round his vessel. now, for the first time, lockley began to have uncomfortable suspicions about himself. being naturally bold and candid, he turned sharply round, and, as it were, faced _himself_ with the stern question, "stephen, are you sure that it's baccy that tempts you aboard of the _coper_? are you clear that schnapps has nothing to do with it?" it is one of the characteristics of the slavery to which we refer, that although strong-minded and resolute men put pointed questions of this sort to themselves not unfrequently, they very seldom return answers to them. their once vigorous spirits, it would seem, are still capable of an occasional heave and struggle--a sort of flash in the pan--but that is all. the influence of the depraved appetite immediately weighs them down, and they relapse into willing submission to the bondage. lockley had not returned an answer to his own question when the mate reported that the boat was ready. without a word he jumped into her, but kept thinking to himself, "we'll only get baccy, an' i'll leave the _coper_ before the lads can do themselves any harm. i'll not taste a drop myself--not a single drop o' their vile stuff." the dutch skipper of the _coper_ had a round fat face and person, and a jovial, hearty manner. he received the visitors with an air of open-handed hospitality which seemed to indicate that nothing was further from his thoughts than gain. "we've come for baccy," said lockley, as he leaped over the bulwarks and shook hands, "i s'pose you've plenty of that?" "ya," the dutchman had "plenty tabac--ver sheep too, an' mit sooch a goot vlavour!" he was what the yankees would call a 'cute fellow, that dutchman. observing the emphasis with which lockley mentioned tobacco, he understood at once that the skipper did not want his men to drink, and laid his snares accordingly. "com'," he said, in a confidential tone, taking hold of lockley's arm, "com' b'low, an' you shall zee de tabac, an' smell him yourself." our skipper accepted the invitation, went below, and was soon busy commenting on the weed, which, as the dutchman truly pointed out, was "_so_ sheep as well as goot." but another smell in that cabin overpowered that of the tobacco. it was the smell of hollands, or some sort of spirit, which soon aroused the craving that had gained such power over the fisherman. "have some schnapps!" said the dutch skipper, suddenly producing a case-bottle as square as himself, and pouring out a glass. "no, thank 'ee," said stephen firmly. "no!" exclaimed the other, with well-feigned surprise. "you not drink?" "oh yes, i drink," replied lockley, with a laugh, "but not to-day." "i not ask you to buy," rejoined the tempter, holding the spirits a little nearer to his victim's nose. "joost take von leetle glass for goot vellowship." it seemed rude to decline a proposal so liberally made, and with such a smiling countenance. lockley took the glass, drank it off and went hurriedly on deck, followed by the dutchman, with the case-bottle in one hand and the glass in the other. of course the men had no objection to be treated. they had a small glass all round. "that's the stuff for my money!" cried stubley, smacking his lips. "i say, old chap, let's have a bottle of it. none o' your thimblefuls for me. i like a good swig when i'm at it." "you'd better wait till we get aboard, joe, before you begin," suggested lockley, who was well aware of joe's tendencies. joe admitted the propriety of this advice, but said he would treat his mates to one glass before starting, by "way o' wetting their whistles." "ya, joost von glass vor vet deir vistles," echoed the dutchman, with a wink and a look which produced a roar of laughter. the glass was accepted by all, including lockley, who had been quite demoralised by the first glass. the victory was gained by the tempter for that time at least. the fishermen who went for baccy, remained for schnapps, and some of them were very soon more than half drunk. it was a fierce, maddening kind of spirit, which produced its powerful effects quickly. the skipper of the _lively poll_ kept himself better in hand than his men, but, being very sociable in disposition, and finding the dutchman a humorous and chatty fellow, he saw no reason to hurry them away. besides, his vessel was close alongside, and nothing could be done in the fishing way during the dead calm that prevailed. while he and his men were engaged in a lively conversation about nothing in particular--though they were as earnest over it as if the fate of empires depended on their judgment--the dutch skipper rose to welcome another boat's crew, which approached on the other side of the _coper_. so eager and fuddled were the disputants of the _lively poll_ that they did not at first observe the newcomers. it was the _fairy's_ boat, with dick martin in charge. "hallo, dick, mein boy; gif me your vlipper." a sign from martin induced the dutchman to lean over the side and speak in lower tones. "let's have a keg of it," said dick, with a mysterious look. "ned bryce sent me for a good supply, an' here's _fish_ to pay for it." the fish--which of course belonged to the owner of the _fairy_, not to ned bryce--were quickly passed up, and a keg of spirits passed down. then the dutchman asked if dick or his men wanted tabac or schnapps for themselves. "i vill take jersey, or vish, or sail, or boots, or vat you please in exchange. com' aboard, anyhow, an' have von leetle glass." dick and his men having thus smartly transacted their chief business, leaped on deck, made fast their painter, let the boat drop astern, and were soon smoking and drinking amicably with the crew of the _lively poll_. not long afterwards they were quarrelling. then dick martin, who was apt to become pugnacious over his liquor, asserted stoutly that something or other "was." joe stubley swore that it "_was not_," whereupon dick martin planted his fist on joe stubley's nose and laid its growly owner flat on the deck. starting up, joe was about to retaliate, when lockley, seizing him by the neck thrust him over the side into the boat, and ordered his more or less drunken crew to follow. they did so with a bad grace, but the order was given in a tone which they well understood must not be disobeyed. as they pushed off, stubley staggered and fell into the sea. another moment and he would have been beyond all human aid, but lockley caught a glimpse of his shaggy black head as it sank. plunging his long right arm down, and holding on to the boat with his left, he caught the drowning man by the hair. strong and willing arms helped, and stubley was hauled inboard--restored to life, opportunity, and hope--and flung into the bottom of the boat. the oars were shipped, and they pulled for the _lively poll_. as they rode away they saw that other boats were proceeding towards the _coper_. the men in them were all anxious to buy baccy. no mention was made of drink. oh dear no! they cared nothing for that, though, of course, they had no sort of objection to accept the wily dutchman's generous offer of "von leetle glass vor goot vellowship." chapter six. the power of sympathy. one fine afternoon, not long after the visit to the _coper_, bob lumsden, _alias_ lumpy, was called from his culinary labours to assist in hauling in the net. now it is extremely interesting to note what a wonderful effect the power of loving sympathy can have on a human being. lumpy was a human being--though some of his mates insisted that he must have been descended from a cod-fish, because his mouth was so large. no doubt it was, and when the boy laughed heartily he was, indeed, apt to remind one of that fish; nevertheless it was a good, well-shaped mouth, though large, with a kindly expression about it, and a set of splendid white teeth inside of it. but, whether human or fishy in his nature, bob lumsden had been overwhelmed by a flood of sympathy ever since that memorable day when he had first caught a glimpse of the sweet, pale face of the little invalid eve mooney. it was but a brief glimpse, yet it had opened a new sluice in lumpy's heart, through which the waters of tenderness gushed in a wild torrent. one of the curious results of this flood was that bob was always more prompt to the summons to haul up the trawl than he had ever been before, more energetic in clawing the net inboard, and more eager to see and examine the contents of the cod-end. the explanation is simple. he had overheard his skipper say how fond eve was of shells--especially of those which came from the bottom of the north sea, and of all sorts of pretty and curious things, wherever they came from. from that hour bob lumpy became a diligent collector of marine curiosities, and the very small particular corner of the vessel which he called his own became ere long quite a museum. they say that sympathy is apt to grow stronger between persons of opposite constitutions. if this be so, perhaps it was his nature--his bold, hearty, gushing, skylarking spirit, his strong rugged frame, his robust health, his carroty hair, his appley cheeks, his eagle nose, his flashing eyes--that drew him so powerfully to the helpless, tender little invalid, with her delicate frame and pale cheeks, straight little nose, bud of a mouth, and timid, though by no means cowardly, spirit. on another occasion bob overheard lockley again talking about eve. "i'm sorry for the poor thing," he said to peter jay, as they paced the deck together; "she's got such a wretched home, an' her mother's such a drunken bru--" lockley checked himself, and did not finish the sentence. "the doctor says," he resumed, "that if eve had only a bath-chair or suthin' o' that sort, to get wheeled about in the fresh air, she'd very likely get better as she growed older--specially if she had good victuals. you see, small as she is, and young as she looks, she's over fifteen. but even if she had the chair, poor thing! who would wheel it for her? it would be no use unless it was done regular, an' her mother can't do it--or won't." from that hour bob lumpy became a miser. he had been a smoker like the rest of the crew, but he gave up "baccy." he used to take an occasional glass of beer or spirits when on shore or on board the _copers_, but he became a total abstainer, much to his own benefit in every way, and as a result he became rich--in an extremely small way. there was a very small, thin, and dirty, but lively and intelligent boy in yarmouth, who loved bob lumsden better, if possible, than himself. his name was pat stiver. the affection was mutual. bob took this boy into his confidence. one day, a considerable time after bob's discovery of eve, pat, having nothing to do, sauntered to the end of gorleston pier, and there to his inexpressible joy, met his friend. before he had recovered sufficiently from surprise to utter a word, bob seized him by the arms, lifted him up, and shook him. "take care, lumpy," cried the boy, "i'm wery tender, like an over-young chicken. you'd better set me down before i comes in pieces." "why, stiver, you're the very man i was thinkin' of," said lumpy, setting the boy on the edge of the pier, and sitting down beside him. stiver looked proud, and felt six inches taller. "listen," said bob, with an earnest look that was apt to captivate his friends; "i want help. will you do somethin' for me?" "anything," replied the boy with emphasis, "from pitch and toss to manslaughter!" "well, look here. you know eve mooney?" "do i know the blessedest angel in all gorleston? in course i does. wot of her?" "she's ill--very ill," said lumpy. "you might as well tell me, when it's daytime, that the sun's up," returned pat. "don't be so awful sharp, stiver, else i'll have to snub you." "which you've on'y got to frown, bob lumpy, an' the deed's done." bob gave a short laugh, and then proceeded to explain matters to his friend: how he had been saving up his wages for some time past to buy a second-hand bath-chair for eve, because the doctor had said it would do her so much good, especially if backed up with good victuals. "it's the wittles as bothers me, stiver," said bob, regarding his friend with a puzzled expression. "h'm! well," returned the small boy seriously, "wittles has bothered me too, off an' on, pretty well since i was born, though i'm bound to confess i does get a full blow-out now an'--" "hold on, stiver; you're away on the wrong tack," cried bob, interrupting. "i don't mean the difficulty o' findin' wittles, but how to get eve to take 'em." "tell her to shut her eyes an' open her mouth, an' then shove 'em in," suggested pat. "i'll shove you into the sea if you go on talking balderdash," said bob. "now, look here, you hain't got nothin' to do, have you!" "if you mean in the way o' my purfession, bob, you're right. i purfess to do anything, but nobody as yet has axed me to do nothin'. in the ways o' huntin' up wittles, howsever, i've plenty to do. it's hard lines, and yet i ain't extravagant in my expectations. most coves require three good meals a day, w'ereas i'm content with one. i begins at breakfast, an' i goes on a-eatin' promiskoously all day till arter supper--w'en i can get it." "just so, stiver. now, i want to engage you professionally. your dooties will be to hang about mrs mooney's, but in an offhand, careless sort o' way, like them superintendent chaps as git five or six hundred a year for doin' nuffin, an' be ready at any time to offer to give eve a shove in the chair. but first you'll have to take the chair to her, an' say it was sent to her from--" "robert lumsden, esquire," said pat, seeing that his friend hesitated. "not at all, you little idiot," said bob sharply. "you mustn't mention my name on no account." "from a gentleman, then," suggested pat. "that might do; but i ain't a gentleman, stiver, an' i can't allow you to go an' tell lies." "i'd like to know who is if you ain't," returned the boy indignantly. "ain't a gentleman a man wot's gentle? an' w'en you was the other day a-spreadin' of them lovely shells, an' crabs, an' sea-goin' kooriosities out on her pocket-hankercher, didn't i _see_ that you was gentle?" "i'll be pretty rough on you, pat, in a minit, if you don't hold your jaw," interrupted bob, who, however, did not seem displeased with his friend's definition of a gentleman. "well, you may say what you like, only be sure you say what's true. an' then you'll have to take some nice things as i'll get for her from time to time w'en i comes ashore. but there'll be difficulties, i doubt, in the way of gettin' her to take wittles w'en she don't know who they comes from." "oh, don't you bother your head about that," said pat. "i'll manage it. i'm used to difficulties. just you leave it to me, an' it'll be all right." "well, i will, pat; so you'll come round with me to the old furnitur' shop in yarmouth, an' fetch the chair. i got it awful cheap from the old chap as keeps the shop w'en i told him what it was for. then you'll bring it out to eve, an' try to git her to have a ride in it to-day, if you can. i'll see about the wittles arter. hain't quite worked that out in my mind yet. now, as to wages. i fear i can't offer you none--" "i never axed for none," retorted pat proudly. "that's true pat; but i'm not a-goin' to make you slave for nuthin'. i'll just promise you that i'll save all i can o' my wages, an' give you what i can spare. you'll just have to trust me as to that." "trust you, bob!" exclaimed pat, with enthusiasm, "look here, now; this is how the wind blows. if the prime minister o' rooshia was to come to me in full regimentals an' offer to make me capting o' the horse marines to the hemperor, i'd say, `no thankee, i'm engaged,' as the young woman said to the young man she didn't want to marry." the matter being thus satisfactorily settled, bob lumsden and his little friend went off to yarmouth, intent on carrying out the first part of their plan. it chanced about the same time that another couple were having a quiet chat together in the neighbourhood of gorleston pier. fred martin and isa wentworth had met by appointment to talk over a subject of peculiar interest to themselves. let us approach and become eavesdroppers. "now, fred," said isa, with a good deal of decision in her tone, "i'm not at all satisfied with your explanation. these mysterious and long visits you make to london ought to be accounted for, and as i have agreed to become your wife within the next three or four months, just to please _you_, the least you can do, i think, is to have no secrets from _me_. besides, you have no idea what the people here and your former shipmates are saying about you." "indeed, dear lass, what do they say?" "well, they say now you've got well they can't understand why you should go loafing about doin' nothin' or idling your time in london, instead of goin' to sea." "idlin' my time!" exclaimed fred with affected indignation. "how do they know i'm idlin' my time? what if i was studyin' to be a doctor or a parson?" "perhaps they'd say that _was_ idlin' your time, seein' that you're only a fisherman," returned isa, looking up in her lover's face with a bright smile. "but tell me, fred, why should you have any secret from _me_?" "because, dear lass, the thing that gives me so much pleasure and hope is not absolutely fixed, and i don't want you to be made anxious. this much i will tell you, however: you know i passed my examination for skipper when i was home last time, and now, through god's goodness, i have been offered the command of a smack. if all goes well, i hope to sail in her next week; then, on my return, i hope to--to take the happiest. well, well, i'll say no more about that, as we're gettin' near mother's door. but tell me, isa, has uncle martin been worrying mother again when i was away?" "no. when he found out that you had got the money that was left to her, and had bought an annuity for her with it, he went away, and i've not seen him since." "that's well. i'm glad of that." "but am i to hear nothing more about this smack, not even her name?" "nothing more just now, isa. as to her name, it's not yet fixed. but, trust me, you shall know all in good time." as they had now reached the foot of mrs martin's stair, the subject was dropped. they found the good woman in the act of supplying granny martin with a cup of tea. there was obvious improvement in the attic. sundry little articles of luxury were there which had not been there before. "you see, my boy," said mrs martin to fred, as they sat round the social board, "now that the lord has sent me enough to get along without slavin' as i used--to do, i takes more time to make granny comfortable, an' i've got her a noo chair, and noo specs, which she was much in want of, for the old uns was scratched to that extent you could hardly see through 'em, besides bein' cracked across both eyes. ain't they much better, dear?" the old woman, seated in the attic window, turned her head towards the tea-table and nodded benignantly once or twice; but the kind look soon faded into the wonted air of patient contentment, and the old head turned to the sea as the needle turns to the pole, and the soft murmur was heard, "he'll come soon now." chapter seven. a rescue. never was there a fishing smack more inappropriately named than the _fairy_,--that unwieldy iron vessel which the fleet, in facetious content, had dubbed the "ironclad," and which had the honour of being commanded by that free and easy, sociable--almost too sociable--skipper, ned bryce. she was steered by dick martin on the day of which we now write. dick, as he stood at the helm, with stern visage, bloodshot eyes, and dissipated look, was not a pleasant object of contemplation, but as he played a prominent part in the proceedings of that memorable day, we are bound to draw attention to him. although he had spent a considerable portion of the night with his skipper in testing the quality of some schnapps which they had recently procured from a _coper_, he had retained his physical and mental powers sufficiently for the performance of his duties. indeed, he was one of those so-called seasoned casks, who are seldom or never completely disabled by drink, although thoroughly enslaved, and he was now quite competent to steer the _fairy_ in safety through the mazes of that complex dance which the deep-sea trawlers usually perform on the arrival of the carrying-steamer. what bryce called a chopping and a lumpy sea was running. it was decidedly rough, though the breeze was moderate, so that the smacks all round were alternately presenting sterns and bowsprits to the sky in a violent manner that might have suggested the idea of a rearing and kicking dance. when the carrier steamed up to the admiral, and lay to beside him, and the smacks drew towards her from all points of the compass, the mazes of the dance became intricate, and the risk of collisions called for careful steering. being aware of this, and being himself not quite so steady about the head as he could wish, skipper bryce looked at martin for a few seconds, and then ordered him to go help to launch the boat and get the trunks out, and send phil morgan aft. phil was not a better seaman than dick, but he was a more temperate man, therefore clearer brained and more dependable. soon the smacks were waltzing and kicking round each other on every possible tack, crossing and re-crossing bows and sterns; sometimes close shaving, out and in, down-the-middle-and-up-again fashion, which, to a landsman, might have been suggestive of the 'bus, cab, and van throng in the neighbourhood of that heart of the world, the bank of england. sounds of hailing and chaffing now began to roll over the north sea from many stentorian lungs. "what cheer? what cheer?" cried some in passing. "hallo, tim! how are 'ee, old man! what luck?" "all right, jim; on'y six trunks." "ha! that's 'cause ye fished up a dead man yesterday." "is that you, ted?" "ay, ay, what's left o' me--worse luck. i thought your mother was goin' to keep you at home this trip to mind the babby." "so she was, boy, but the babby fell into a can o' buttermilk an' got drownded, so i had to come off again, d'ee see?" "what cheer, groggy fox? have 'ee hoisted the blue ribbon yet?" "no, stephen lockley, i haven't, nor don't mean to, but one o' the fleet seems to have hoisted the blue flag." groggy fox pointed to one of the surrounding vessels as he swept past in the _cormorant_. lockley looked round in haste, and, to his surprise, saw floating among the smaller flags, at a short distance, the great twenty-feet flag of a mission vessel, with the letters mdsf (mission to deep-sea fishermen) on it, in white on a blue ground. "she must have lost her reckoning," muttered lockley, as he tried to catch sight of the vessel to which the flag belonged--which was not easy, owing to the crowd of smacks passing to and fro between it and him. just at that moment a hearty cheer was heard to issue from the admiral's smack, the _cherub_. at the same time the boat of the _lively poll_ was launched into the sea, duffy and freeman and another hand tumbled into her, and the skipper had to give his undivided attention to the all-important matter of transhipping the fish. dozens of boats were by that time bobbing like corks on the heaving sea, all making for the attendant steamer. other dozens, which had already reached her, were clinging on--the men heaving the fish-boxes aboard,-- while yet others were pushing off from the smacks last arrived to join the busy swarm. among these was the boat of the _fairy_, with dick martin and two men aboard. it was heavily laden--too heavily for such a sea--for their haul on the previous night had been very successful. north sea fishermen are so used to danger that they are apt to despise it. both bryce and martin knew they had too many trunks in the boat, but they thought it a pity to leave five or six behind, and be obliged to make two trips for so small a number, where one might do. besides, they could be careful. and so they were--very careful; yet despite all their care they shipped a good deal of water, and the skipper stood on the deck of the _fairy_ watching them with some anxiety. well he might, for so high were the waves that not only his own boat but all the others kept disappearing and re-appearing continually, as they rose on the crests or sank into the hollows. but skipper bryce had eyes for only one boat. he saw it rise to view and disappear steadily, regularly, until it was about half-way to the steamer; then suddenly it failed to rise, and next moment three heads were seen amid the tumultuous waters where the boat should have been. with a tremendous shout bryce sprang to the tiller and altered the vessel's course, but, as the wind blew, he knew well it was not in his power to render timely aid. that peculiar cry which tells so unmistakably of deadly disaster was raised from the boats nearest to that which had sunk, and they were rowed towards the drowning men, but the boats were heavy and slow of motion. already they were too late, for two out of the three men had sunk to rise no more--dragged down by their heavy boots and winter clothing. only one continued the struggle. it was dick martin. he had grasped an oar, and, being able to swim, kept his head up. the intense cold of the sea, however, would soon have relaxed even his iron grip, and he would certainly have perished, had it not been that the recently arrived mission vessel chanced to be a very short distance to windward of him. a slight touch of the helm sent her swiftly to his side. a rope was thrown. martin caught it. ready hands and eager hearts were there to grasp and rescue. in another moment he was saved, and the vessel swept on to mingle with the other smacks--for martin was at first almost insensible, and could not tell to which vessel of the fleet he belonged. yes, the bad man was rescued, though no one would have sustained much loss by his death; but in yarmouth that night there was one woman, who little thought that she was a widow, and several little ones who knew not that they were fatherless. the other man who perished was an unmarried youth, but he left an invalid mother to lifelong mourning over the insatiable greed of the cold north sea. little note was taken of this event in the fleet. it was, in truth, a by no means unusual disaster. if fish are to be found, fair weather or foul, for the tables on land, lives must be risked and lost in the waters of the sea. loss of life in ferrying the fish being of almost daily occurrence, men unavoidably get used to it, as surgeons do to suffering and soldiers to bloodshed. besides, on such occasions, in the great turmoil of winds and waves, and crowds of trawlers and shouting, it may be only a small portion of the fleet which is at first aware that disaster has occurred, and even these must not, cannot, turn aside from business at such times to think about the woes of their fellow-men. meanwhile dick martin had fallen, as the saying is, upon his feet. he was carried into a neatly furnished cabin, put between warm blankets in a comfortable berth, and had a cup of steaming hot coffee urged upon him by a pleasant-voiced sailor, who, while he inquired earnestly as to how he felt, at the same time thanked the lord fervently that they had been the means of saving his life. chapter eight. tells of more than one surprise. "was that your boat that went down?" shouted groggy fox of the _cormorant_, as he sailed past the _fairy_, after the carrying-steamer had left, and the numerous fishing-smacks were gradually falling into order for another attack on the finny hosts of the sea. they were almost too far apart for the reply to be heard, and possibly bryce's state of mind prevented his raising his voice sufficiently, but it was believed that the answer was "yes." "poor fellows!" muttered fox, who was a man of tender feelings, although apt to feel more for himself than for any one else. "i think dick martin was in the boat," said the mate of the _cormorant_, who stood beside his skipper. "i saw them when they shoved off, and though it was a longish distance, i could make him out by his size, an' the fur cap he wore." "well, the world won't lose much if he's gone," returned fox; "he was a bad lot." it did not occur to the skipper at that time that he himself was nearly, if not quite, as bad a "lot." but bad men are proverbially blind to their own faults. "he was a cross-grained fellow," returned the mate, "specially when in liquor, but i never heard no worse of 'im than that." "didn't you?" said fox; "didn't you hear what they said of 'im at gorleston?--that he tried to do his sister out of a lot o' money as was left her by some cove or other in furrin parts. an' some folk are quite sure that it was him as stole the little savin's o' that poor widdy, mrs mooney, though they can't just prove it agin him. ah, he is a bad lot, an' no mistake. but i may say that o' the whole bilin' o' the martins. look at fred, now." "well, wot of him?" asked the mate, in a somewhat gruff tone. "what of him!" repeated the skipper, "ain't he a hypocrite, with his smooth tongue an' his sly ways, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, an' now--where is he?" "well, _where_ is he!" demanded the mate, with increasing gruffness. "why, in course nobody knows where he is," retorted the skipper; "that's where it is. no sooner does he get a small windfall--leastwise, his mother gets it--than he cuts the trawlers, an' all his old friends without so much as sayin' `good-bye,' an' goes off to lunnon or somewheres, to set up for a gentleman, i suppose." "i don't believe nothin' o' the sort," returned the mate indignantly. "fred martin may be smooth-tongued and shy if you like, but he's no hypercrite--" "hallo! there's that mission ship on the lee bow," cried fox, interrupting his mate, and going over to the lee side of the smack, whence he could see the vessel with the great blue flag clearly. "port your helm," he added in a deep growl to the man who steered. "i'll give her a wide berth." "if she was the _coper_ you'd steer the other way," remarked the mate, with a laugh. "in course i would," retorted fox, "for there i'd find cheap baccy and brandy." "ay, bad brandy," said the mate; "but, skipper, you can get baccy cheaper aboard the mission ships now than aboard the _coper_." "what! at a shillin' a pound?" "ay, at a shillin' a pound." "i don't believe it." "but it's a fact," returned the mate firmly, "for simon brooks, as was in the short-blue fleet last week, told me it's a noo regulation-- they've started the sale o' baccy in the gospel ships, just to keep us from going to the _copers_." "that'll not keep _me_ from going to the _copers_," said groggy fox, with an oath. "nor me," said his mate, with a laugh; "but, skipper, as we are pretty nigh out o' baccy just now, an' as the mission ship is near us, an' the breeze down, i don't see no reason why we shouldn't go aboard an' see whether the reports be true. we go to buy baccy, you know, an' we're not bound to buy everything the shop has to sell! we don't want their religion, an' they can't force it down our throats whether we will or no." groggy fox vented a loud laugh at the bare supposition of such treatment of his throat, admitted that his mate was right, and gave orders to launch the boat. in a few minutes they were rowing over the still heaving but now somewhat calmer sea, for the wind had fallen suddenly, and the smacks lay knocking about at no great distance from each other. it was evident from the bustle on board many of them, and the launching of boats over their bulwarks, that not a few of the men intended to take advantage of this unexpected visit of a mission vessel. no doubt their motives were various. probably some went, like the men of the _cormorant_, merely for baccy; some for medicine; others, perhaps, out of curiosity; while a few, no doubt, went with more or less of desire after the "good tidings," which they were aware had been carried to several of the other fleets that laboured on the same fishing-grounds. whatever the reasons, it was evident that a goodly number of men were making for the vessel with the great blue flag. some had already reached her; more were on their way. the _cormorant's_ boat was among the last to arrive. "what does mdsf stand for?" asked skipper fox, as they drew near. "mission to deep-sea fishermen," answered the mate, whose knowledge on this and other points of the mission were due to his intercourse with his friend simon brooks of the short-blue. "but it means more than that," he continued. "when we are close enough to make 'em out, you'll see little letters _above_ the mdsf which make the words i've just told you, an' there are little letters _below_ the mdsf which make the words mighty deliverer, saviour, friend." "ay! that's a clever dodge," observed groggy fox, who, it need hardly be said, was more impressed with the ingenuity of the device than with the grand truth conveyed. "but i say, mate, they seems to be uncommonly lively aboard of her." this was obviously the case, for by that time the boat of the _cormorant_ had come so near to the vessel that they could not only perceive the actions of those on board, but could hear their voices. the curiosity of skipper fox and his men was greatly roused, for they felt convinced that the mere visit of a passing mission ship did not fully account for the vigorous hand-shakings of those on the deck, and the hearty hailing of newcomers, and the enthusiastic cheers of some at least of the little boats' crews as they pulled alongside. "seems to me as if they've all gone mad," remarked groggy fox, with a sarcastic grin. "i would say they was all drunk, or half-seas over," observed the mate, "if it was a _coper_, but in a gospel ship that's impossible, 'cause they're teetotal, you know. isn't that the boat o' the admiral that's pullin' alongside just now, skipper?" "looks like it, mate. ay, an' that's stephen lockley of the _lively poll_ close astarn of 'im--an' ain't they kickin' up a rumpus now!" fox was right, for when the two little boats referred to ranged alongside of the vessel, and the men scrambled up the side on to her deck, there was an amount of greeting, and hand-shaking, and exclaiming in joyful surprise, which threw all previous exhibitions in that way quite into the shade, and culminated in a mighty cheer, the power of which soft people with shore-going throats and lungs and imaginations cannot hope to emulate or comprehend! the cheer was mildly repeated with mingled laughter when the crowd on deck turned to observe the arrival of the _cormorant's_ boat. "why, it's the skipper o' the _ironclad_!" exclaimed a voice. "no, it's not. it's the skipper o' the _cormorant_," cried another. "what cheer? what cheer, groggy fox?" cried a third, as the boat swooped alongside, and several strong arms were extended. "who'd have looked for _you_ here? there ain't no schnapps." "all right, mates," replied fox, with an apologetic smile, as he alighted on the deck and looked round; "i've come for _baccy_." a short laugh greeted this reply, but it was instantly checked, for at the moment fred martin stepped forward, grasped the skipper's horny hand, and shook it warmly, as well as powerfully, for fred was a muscular man, and had fully recovered his strength. "you've come to the right shop for baccy," he said; "i've got plenty o' that, besides many other things much better. i bid you heartily welcome on board of the _sunbeam_ in the name of the lord!" for a few seconds the skipper of the _cormorant_ could not utter a word. he gazed at fred martin with his mouth partially, and his eyes wide, open. the thought that he was thus cordially received by the very man whose character he had so lately and so ungenerously traduced had something, perhaps, to do with his silence. "a-are--are _you_ the skipper o' this here wessel!" he stammered. "ay, through god's goodness i am." "a _mission_ wessel!" said fox, his amazement not a whit abated as he looked round. "just so, a gospel ship," answered fred, giving the skipper another shake of the hand. "you didn't mistake it for a _coper_, did 'ee?" asked david duffy, who was one of the visitors. the laugh which followed this question drowned groggy fox's reply. "and you'll be glad to hear," said fred, still addressing fox, "that the _sunbeam_ is a new mission ship, and has been appointed to do service for god in _this_ fleet and no other; so you'll always be able to have books and baccy, mitts, helmets, comforters, medicines, and, best of all, bibles and advice for body and soul, free gratis when you want 'em." "but where's the doctor to give out the medicines," asked fox, who began to moderate his gaze as he recovered self-possession. "well, mate," answered fred, with a bashful air, "i am doctor as well as skipper. indeed, i'm parson too--a sort of jack-of-all-trades! i'm not full fledged of course, but on the principle, i fancy, that `half a loaf is better than no bread,' i've been sent here after goin' through a short course o' trainin' in surgery--also in divinity; something like city missionaries and scripture-readers; not that trainin', much or little, would fit any man for the great work unless he had the love of the master in his heart. but i trust i have that." "you have, fred, thank god!" said the admiral of the fleet. "and now, skipper fox," continued fred facetiously, "as i'm a sort of doctor, you must allow me to prescribe something for your complaint. here, boy," he added, hailing one of his crew, "fetch skipper fox a draught o' that physic--the brown stuff that you keep in the kettle." "ay, ay, sir," answered a youthful voice, and in another minute pat stiver forced his way through the crowd, bearing in his hand a large cup or bowl of coffee. "it's not exactly the tipple i'm used to," said fox, accepting the cup with a grin, and wisely resolving to make the best of circumstances, all the more readily that he observed other visitors had been, or still were, enjoying the same beverage. "howsever, it's not to be expected that sick men shall have their physic exactly to their likin', so i thank 'ee all the same, dr martin!" this reply was received with much approval, and the character of groggy fox immediately experienced a considerable rise in the estimation of his comrades of the fleet. attention was drawn from him just then by the approach of another boat. "there is some genuine surgeon's work coming to you in that boat, fred, if i mistake not," remarked stephen lockley, as he stood beside his old friend. "hasn't that man in the stern got his head tied up?" "looks like it." "by the way, what of your uncle, dick martin?" asked the admiral. "it was you that picked him up, wasn't it?" this reference to the sad event which had occurred that morning solemnised the fishermen assembled on the _sunbeam's_ deck, and they stood listening with sympathetic expressions as fred narrated what he had seen of the catastrophe, and told that his uncle was evidently nothing the worse of it, and was lying asleep in the cabin, where everything had been done for his recovery and comfort. in the boat which soon came alongside was a fisherman who had met with a bad accident some days before. a block tackle from aloft had fallen on his head and cut it severely. his mates had bound it up in rough-and-ready fashion; but the wound had bled freely, and the clotted blood still hung about his hair. latterly the wound had festered, and gave him agonising pain. his comrades being utterly ignorant as to the proper treatment, could do nothing for him. indeed, the only effectual thing that could be done was to send the poor man home. this sudden and unexpected appearance of one of the mission ships was therefore hailed as a godsend, for it was well-known that these vessels contained medicines, and it was believed that their skippers were more or less instructed in the healing art. in this belief they were right; for in addition to the well-appointed medicine-chest, each vessel has a skipper who undergoes a certain amount of instruction, and possesses a practical and plain book of directions specially prepared under the supervision of the board of trade for the use of captains at sea. one can imagine, therefore, what a relief it was to this poor wounded man to be taken down into the cabin and have his head at last attended to by one who "knew what he was about." the operation of dressing was watched with the deepest interest and curiosity by the fishermen assembled there, for it was their first experience of the value, even in temporal matters, of a gospel ship. their ears were open, too, as well as their eyes, and they listened with much interest to fred martin as he tried, after a silent prayer for the holy spirit's influence, to turn his first operation to spiritual account in his master's interest. "tell me if i hurt you," he said, observing that his patient winced a little when he was removing the bandage. "go on," said the man quietly. "i ain't a babby to mind a touch of pain." the cabin being too small to hold them all, some of the visitors clustered round the open skylight, and gazed eagerly down, while a few who could not find a point of vantage contented themselves with listening. even dick martin was an observer at that operation, for, having been roused by the bustle around him, he raised himself on an elbow, and looking down from his berth, could both hear and see. "there now," said fred martin, when at last the bandage was removed and the festering mass laid bare. "hand the scissors, pat." pat stiver, who was assistant-surgeon on that occasion, promptly handed his chief the desired instrument, and stood by for further orders. "i'll soon relieve you," continued fred, removing the clotted hair, etcetera, in a few seconds, and applying a cleansing lotion. "i cut it off, you see, just as the great physician cuts away our sins, and washes us clean in the fountain of his own blood. you feel better already, don't you?" "there's no doubt about that," replied the patient looking up with a great sigh of relief that told far more than words could convey. we will not record all that was said and done upon that occasion. let it suffice to say that the man's wound was put in a fair way of recovery without the expense and prolonged suffering of a trip home. thereafter, as a breeze was beginning to blow which bid fair to become a "fishing breeze," it became necessary for the visitors to leave in haste, but not before a few books, tracts, and worsted mittens had been distributed, with an earnest invitation from the skipper of the _sunbeam_ to every one to repeat the visit whenever calm weather should permit, and especially on sundays, when regular services would be held on deck or in the hold. on this occasion bob lumpy and pat stiver had met and joined hands in great delight, not unmingled with surprise. "well, who'd ever have expected to find _you_ here?" said bob. "ah, who indeed?" echoed pat. "the fact is, i came to be near _you_, bob." "but how did it happen? who got you the sitivation? look alive! don't be long-winded, i see they're gittin' our boat ready." "this is 'ow it was, bob. i was shovin' eve about the roads in the bath-chair, as you know i've bin doin' ever since i entered your service, w'en a gen'lem'n come up and axed all about us. `would ye like a sitivation among the north sea fishermen?' says he. `the very ticket,' says i. `come to lun'on to-night, then,' says he. `unpossible,' says i, fit to bu'st wi' disappointment; `'cos i must first shove miss eve home, an' git hold of a noo shover to take my place.' `all right,' says he, laughin'; `come when you can. here's my address.' so away i goes; got a trustworthy, promisin' young feller as i've know'd a long time to engage for miss eve, an' off to lun'on, an'-- here i am!" "time's up," cried the admiral at this point, shaking hands with fred martin; while bob lumsden sprang from the side of his little friend, and there was a general move towards the boats. "good-bye, mate," said skipper fox, holding out his hand. "stop, friends," cried fred, in a loud voice; "that's not the way we part on board o' the _sunbeam_." taking off his hat and looking up,--a sign that all understood, for they immediately uncovered and bowed their heads,--the missionary skipper, in a few brief but earnest words, asked for a blessing on the work which he had been privileged that day to begin, that satan might be foiled, and the name of jesus be made precious among the fishermen of the north sea. thereafter the boats scattered towards their various smacks, their crews rejoicing in this latest addition to the fleet. even groggy fox gave it as his opinion that there might be worse things after all in the world than "mission wessels!" chapter nine. beginning of the good work. the breeze which had begun to blow freshened as the day advanced, and the admiral, directing his course to the nor'-east, made for the neighbourhood of the dogger bank. having reached what he deemed suitable fishing-ground, he changed his course and gave the signal to "put to." with the precision of well-trained troops the smacks obeyed, and let down their trawls. the _sunbeam_ also let down her net, and shaped her course like the rest, thus setting an example of attention to secular duty. she trawled for fish so as to help to pay expenses, until such time as suitable weather and opportunity offered for the main and higher duty of fishing for men. the first haul of the mission vessel was a great success, prophetic of the great successes in store, thought her skipper, as the cod-end was finally swung inboard in an almost bursting condition. when the lower end was opened, and the living fountain of fish gushed over the deck, there was a general exclamation of satisfaction, mingled with thanksgiving, from the crew, for fishes great and small were there in abundance of every sort that swims in the north sea. "all sorts and conditions of men" leaped into fred martin's mind, for he was thinking of higher things at the moment. "a good beginning and a good omen," he murmured. "_wot_ a haul!" exclaimed pat stiver, who was nearly swept off his legs, and to whom the whole thing was an entirely new experience. "use your eyes less and your hands more, my boy," said fink, the mate, setting the example by catching hold of a magnificent turbot that would have graced a lord mayor's feast, and commencing to clean it. pat was by no means a lazy boy. recovering from his surprise, he set to work with all the vigour of a man of purpose, and joined the rest of the crew in their somewhat disagreeable duty. they wrought with such goodwill that their contribution of trunks to the general supply was the largest put on board the steamer next day. calm and storm sometimes succeed each other rapidly on the north sea. it was so on the present occasion. before the nets could be cleared and let down for another take, the breeze had died away. the weather that was unsuited, however, for fishing, was very suitable for "ferrying" to the steamer; and when that all-important duty was done, the comparative calm that prevailed was just the thing for the work of the _sunbeam_. well aware of this, manx bradley and other like-minded skippers, kept close to the mission ship, whose great blue flag was waving welcome to all. boats were soon pulling towards her, their crews being influenced by a great variety of motives; and many men who, but for her presence, would have been gambling or drinking, or oppressed with having nothing to do, or whistling for a breeze, found an agreeable place of meeting on her deck. on this occasion a considerable number of men who had received slight injuries from accidents came on board, so that fred had to devote much of his time to the medical part of his work, while fink, his mate, superintended the distribution of what may be styled worsted-works and literature. "hallo, jim freeman!" said fred, looking round from the medicine shelves before which he stood searching for some drug; "you're the very man i want to see. want to tempt you away from skipper lockley, an' ship with me in the _sunbeam_." "i'm not worth much for anybody just now," said freeman, holding up his right hand, which was bound in a bloody handkerchief. "see, i've got what'll make me useless for weeks to come, i fear." "never fear, jim," said fred, examining the injured member, which was severely bruised and lacerated. "how got ye that?" "carelessness, fred. the old story--clapped my hand on the gunwale o' the boat when we were alongside the carrier." "i'd change with 'ee, jim, if i could," growled joe stubley, one of the group of invalids who filled the cabin at the time. there was a general laugh, as much at joe's lugubrious visage as at his melancholy tone. "why, what's wrong with _you_, stubs?" asked fred. "dt," remarked the skipper of the _cormorant_, who could hardly speak because of a bad cold, and who thus curtly referred to the drunkard's complaint of _delirium tremens_. "nothin' o' the sort!" growled joe. "i've not seed a _coper_ for a week or two. brandy's more in your way, groggy fox, than in mine. no, it's mulligrumps o' some sort that's the matter wi' me." "indeed," said fred, as he continued to dress the bruised hand. "what does it feel like, stubs?" "feel like?" exclaimed the unhappy man, in a tone that told of anguish, "it feels like red-hot thunder rumblin' about inside o' me. just as if a great conger eel was wallopin' about an' a-dinin' off my witals." "horrible, but not incurable," remarked fred. "i'll give you some pills, boy, that'll soon put you all to rights. now, then, who's next?" while another of the invalids stepped forward and revealed his complaints, which were freely commented on by his more or less sympathetic mates, fink had opened out a bale of worsted comforters, helmets, and mitts on deck, and, assisted by pat stiver, was busily engaged in distributing them. "here you are--a splendid pair of mitts, jack," he said, tossing the articles to a huge man, who received them with evident satisfaction. "too small, i fear," said jack, trying to force his enormous hand into one of them. "hold on! don't bu'st it!" exclaimed pat sharply; there's all sorts and sizes here. "there's a pair, now, that would fit goliath." "ah, them's more like it, little 'un," cried the big fisherman. "no more sea-blisters now, thanks to the ladies on shore," he added, as he drew the soft mittens over his sadly scarred wrists. "now then, who wants this?" continued fink, holding up a worsted helmet; "splendid for the back o' the head and neck, with a hole in front to let the eyes and nose out." "hand over," cried david duffy. "i say, wot's this inside?" exclaimed one of the men, drawing a folded paper from one of his mittens and opening it. "read, an' you'll maybe find out," suggested the mate. "`god, who giveth us richly all things to enjoy,'" said the fisherman, reading from the paper. "just so," said fink, "that's what the lady as made the mitts wants to let you know so's you may larn to think more o' the giver than the gifts." "i wish," said another of the men testily, as he pulled a tract from inside one of his mitts, and flung it on the deck, "i wish as how these same ladies would let religion alone, an' send us them things without it. we want the mitts, an' comforters, an' helmets, but we don't want their humbuggin' religion." "shame, dick!" said david duffy, as he wound a comforter round his thick neck. "you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. we're bound to take the things as they've been sent to us, an' say `thank 'ee.'" "if it wasn't for what you call `humbuggin' religion,'" remarked fink, looking dick straight in the face, "it's little that we'd see o' comforters, or books, or mission ships on the north sea. why, d'ee think that selfishness, or greed, or miserliness, or indifference, or godlessness would ever take the trouble to send all them things to us? can't you understand that the love of god in the heart makes men and women wish to try to keep god's commandments by bein' kind to one another, an' considering the poor, an' feedin' the hungry, an' clothin' the naked?" "right you are, fink," said lockley, with a nod of approval, which was repeated by several of those around. "but, i say, you spoke of books, mate," remarked bob lumsden, who came forward at the moment, much to the satisfaction of his little friend pat stiver; "you han't showed us any books yet." "one thing at a time, boy," returned the mate. "we've got lots o' books too. go below, pat, an' ask the skipper to send up that big case o' books; say i've about finished givin' out the mitts an' mufflers." "just so, boy," put in his friend bob; "say that the mate has distributed the soft goods, an' wants some hard facts now." "don't be cheeky, you young rascal!" cried the mate, hitting bob on the nose with a well aimed pair of mittens. "thankee! on'y them things was meant for the hands not for the nose. howsever, i won't quarrel with a gift, no matter what way it comes to me," retorted bob, picking up the mitts and putting them in his pocket. while he was speaking two men brought on deck a large box, which was quickly opened by the mate. the men crowded around with much interest and curiosity, for it was the first batch of books that had ever reached that fleet. the case was stuffed to the lid with old periodicals and volumes, of every shape, and size, and colour. "w'y, they've bin an' sent us the whole british museum, i do believe!" exclaimed david duffy, whose younger brother chanced to be a porter in our great storehouse of literature. "here you are, lads!" cried fink, going down on his knees and pulling out the contents. "wollum of _the leisure hour, sunday magazine_, odd numbers o' _the quiver_, wollum of _the boy's own paper, young england, home words_, and _good words_ (to smother our bad words, you know). there you are, enough to make doctors or professors of every man jack o' you, if you'll on'y take it all in." "professors!" growled joe stubley, who had come on deck, still suffering from his strange internal complaint. "more like to make fools on us. wot do _we_ want wi' books and larnin'!" "nothin' wotsumdever," answered pat stiver, with a look of the most patronising insolence. "you're right, joe, quite right--as you always are. smacksmen has got no souls, no brains, no minds, no hintellects." "they've got no use for books, bless you! all they wants is wittles an' grog--" the boy pulled up at this point, for stubley made a rush at him, but pat was too quick for him. "well said, youngster; give it him hot," cried one of the men approvingly, while the others laughed; but they were too much interested in the books to be diverted from these for more than a few seconds. many of them were down on their knees beside the mate, who continued in a semi-jocular strain--"now then, take your time, my hearties; lots o' books here, and lots more where these came from. the british public will never run dry. i'm cheap john! here they are, all for nothin', _on loan_; small wollum--the title ain't clear, ah!--_the little man as lost his mother_; big wollum--_shakespeare; pickwick_; books by hesba stretton; almanac; missionary williams; _polar seas an' regions; pilgrim's progress_--all sorts to suit all tastes--catechisms, noo testaments, _robinson crusoe_." "hold on there, mate; let's have a look at that!" cried bob lumsden eagerly--so eagerly that the mate handed the book to him with a laugh. "come here, pat," whispered bob, dragging his friend out of the crowd to a retired spot beside the boat of the _sunbeam_, which lay on deck near the mainmast. "did you ever read _robinson crusoe_?" "no, never--never so much as 'eard of 'im." "you can read, i suppose?" "oh yes; i can read well enough." "what have you read?" demanded bob. "on'y bits of old noospapers," replied pat, with a look of contempt, "an' i don't like readin'." "don't like it? of course you don't, you ignorant curmudgeon, if noospapers is all you've read. now, pat, i got this book, not for myself but a purpus for _you_." "thankee for nothin'," said pat; "i doesn't want it." "doesn't want it!" repeated bob. "d'ee know that this is the very best book as ever was written?" "you seems pretty cock-sure," returned pat, who was in a contradictory mood that day; "but you know scholards sometimes differ in their opinions about books." "pat i'll be hard upon you just now if you don't look out!" said bob seriously. "howsever, you're not so far wrong, arter all. people _does_ differ about books, so i'll only say that _robinson crusoe_ is the best book as was ever written, in _my_ opinion, an' so it'll be in yours, too, when you have read it; for there's shipwrecks, an' desert islands, an' savages, an' scrimmages, an' footprints, an'--see here! that's a pictur of him in his hairy dress, wi' his goat, an' parrot, an' the umbrellar as he made hisself, a-lookin' at the footprint on the sand." the picture, coupled with bob lumsden's graphic description, had the desired effect. his little friend's interest was aroused, and pat finally accepted the book, with a promise to read it carefully when he should find time. "but of that," added pat, "i ain't got too much on hand." "you've got all that's of it--four and twenty hours, haven't you?" demanded his friend. "true, bob, but it's the _spare_ time i'm short of. howsever, i'll do my best." while this literary conversation was going on beside the boat, the visitors to the _sunbeam_ had been provided with a good supply of food for the mind as well as ease and comfort for the body, and you may be very sure that the skipper and his men, all of whom were christians, did not fail in regard to the main part of their mission, namely, to drop in seeds of truth as they found occasion, which might afterwards bear fruit to the glory of god and the good of man. chapter ten. the first fight and victory. there was on board the _sunbeam_, on this her first voyage, a tall, broad-shouldered, but delicate-looking young man, with a most woebegone expression and a yellowish-green countenance. to look at him was to pronounce him a melancholy misanthrope--a man of no heart or imagination. never before, probably, did a man's looks so belie his true character. this youth was an enthusiast; an eager, earnest, hearty christian, full of love to his master and to all mankind, and a student for the ministry. but john binning had broken down from over-study, and at the time we introduce him to the reader he was still further "down" with that most horrible complaint, sea-sickness. even when in the depth of his woe at this time, some flashes of binning's true spirit gleamed fitfully through his misery. one of those gleams was on the occasion of dick martin being rescued. up to that period, since leaving yarmouth, binning had lain flat on his back. on hearing of the accident and the rescue he had turned out manfully and tried to speak to the rescued man, but indescribable sensations quickly forced him to retire. again, when the first visitors began to sing one of his favourite hymns, he leaped up with a thrill of emotion in his heart, but somehow the thrill went to his stomach, and he collapsed. at last however, neptune appeared to take pity on the poor student. his recovery--at least as regarded the sea-sickness--was sudden. he awoke, on the morning after the opening of the case of books, quite restored. he could hardly believe it. his head no longer swam; other parts of him no longer heaved. the first intimation that skipper martin had of the change was john binning bursting into a hymn with the voice of a stentor. he rose and donned his clothes. "you've got your sea legs at last, sir," said fred martin, as binning came on deck and staggered towards him with a joyful salutation. "yes, and i've got my sea appetite, too, mr martin. will breakfast be ready soon?" "just goin' on the table, sir. i like to hear that question. it's always a sure and good sign." at that moment pat stiver appeared walking at an acute angle with the deck, and bearing a dish of smoking turbot. he dived, as it were, into the cabin without breaking the dish, and set it on the very small table, on which tea, bread, butter, and a lump of beef were soon placed beside it. to this sumptuous repast the skipper, the student, and the mate sat down. after a very brief prayer for blessing by the skipper, they set to work with a zest which perhaps few but seafaring men can fully understand. the student, in particular, became irrepressible after the first silent and ravenous attack. "oh!" he exclaimed, "the sea! the sea! the open sea! if you are ill, go to sea. if you are fagged, go to sea! if you are used up, seedy, washed-out, miserable, go to sea! another slice of that turbot, please. thanks." "mind your cup, sir," said the skipper, a few minutes after, in a warning voice; "with a breeze like this it's apt to pitch into your lap. she lays over a good deal because i've got a press of sail on her this morning." "more than usual?" asked binning. "yes. you see i'm trying to beat a _coper_ that's close ahead of us just now. the _sunbeam_ is pretty swift on her heels, an' if the breeze holds--ha! you've got it, sir?" he certainly had got it, in his lap--where neither cup, saucer, nor tea should be. "you are right, skipper, and if your ready hands had not prevented it i should have got the teapot and sugar-basin also. but no matter. as i've had enough now, i'll go on deck and walk myself dry." on deck a new subject of interest occupied the mind of the rapidly reviving student, for the race between the _sunbeam_ and the _coper_ was not yet decided. they were trying which would be first to reach a group of smacks that were sailing at a considerable distance ahead on the port bow. at first the _coper_ seemed to have the best of it, but afterwards the breeze freshened and the _sunbeam_ soon left it far astern. seeing that the race was lost, the floating grog-shop changed her course. "ah, she'll steer for other fleets where there's no opposition," remarked the skipper. "to win our first race is a good omen," said john binning, with much satisfaction. "may the _copers_ be thus beaten from every fleet until they are beaten from the north sea altogether!" "amen to that," said fred martin heartily. "you feel well enough now, sir, to think of undertaking service to-morrow, don't you?" "think of it, my friend! i have done more than think," exclaimed the student; "i have been busy while in bed preparing for the sabbath, and if the master sends us calm weather i will surely help in the good work you have begun so well." and the master did send calm weather--so calm and so beautiful that the glassy sea and fresh air and bright blue sky seemed typical of the quiet "rest that remaineth for the people of god." indeed, the young student was led to choose that very text for his sermon, ignoring all his previous preparation, so impressed was he with the suitability of the theme. and when afterwards the boats of the various smacks came trooping over the sea, and formed a long tail astern of the _sunbeam_, and when the capacious hold was cleared, and packed as full as possible with rugged weather-beaten men, who looked at the tall pale youth with their earnest inquiring gaze, like hungering men who had come there for something and would not be content to depart with nothing, the student still felt convinced that his text was suitable, although not a single word or idea regarding it had yet struggled in his mind to get free. in fact the young man's mind was like a pent-up torrent, calm for the moment, but with tremendous and ever-increasing force behind the flood-gates, for he had before him men, many of whom had scarcely ever heard the gospel in their lives, whose minds were probably free from the peculiar prejudices of landsmen, whose lives were spent in harsh, hard, cheerless toil, and who stood sorely in need of spiritual rest and deliverance from the death of sin. many of these men had come there only out of curiosity; a few because they loved the lord, and some because they had nothing better to do. groggy fox was among them. he had come as before for "baccy," forgetting that the weed was not sold on sundays, and had been prevailed on to remain to the service. dick martin was also there, in a retired and dark corner. he was curious to know, he remarked, what the young man had to talk about. it was not till after prayer had been offered by the student that god opened the flood-gates. then the stream gushed forth. "it is," said the preacher--in tones not loud, but so deep and impressive that every soul was at once enthralled--"it is to the servants of the devil that the grand message comes. not to the good, and pure, and holy is the blessed gospel or good news sent, but, to the guilty, the sin-stricken, the bad, and the sin-weary god has sent by his blessed spirit the good and glorious news that there is deliverance in jesus christ for the chief of sinners. deliverance from sin changes godless men into the children of god, and there is _rest_ for these. do i need to tell toilers of the deep how sweet rest is to the tired-out body? surely not, because you have felt it, and know all about it better than i do. but it _is_ needful to tell you about rest for the soul, because some of you have never felt it, and know not what it is. is there no man before me who has, some time or other, committed some grievous sin, whose soul groans under the burden of the thought, and who would give all he possesses if he had never put out his hand to commit that sin? is there no one here under the power of that deadly monster-- strong drink--who, remembering the days when he was free from bondage, would sing this day with joy unspeakable if he could only escape?" "yes," shouted a strong voice from a dark corner of the hold. "thank god!" murmured another voice from a different quarter, for there were men in that vessel's hold who were longing for the salvation of other as well as their own souls. no notice was taken of the interrupters. the preacher only paused for an instant as if to emphasise the words--"jesus christ is able to save to the _uttermost_ all who come to god through him." we will not dwell on this subject further than to say that the prayer which followed the sermon was fervent and short, for that student evidently did not think that he should be "heard for his much speaking!" the prayer which was thereafter offered by the admiral of the fleet was still shorter, very much to the point, and replete with nautical phrases, but an uncalled-for petition, which followed that, was briefest of all. it came in low but distinct tones from a dark corner of the hold, and had a powerful effect on the audience; perhaps, also, on the hearer of prayer. it was merely--"god have mercy on me." whatever influence might have resulted from the preaching and the prayer on that occasion, there could be no doubt whatever as to the singing. it was tremendous! the well-known powers of wesleyan throats would have been lost in it. saint paul's cathedral organ could not have drowned it. many of the men had learned at least the tunes of the more popular of sankey's hymns, first from the admiral and a few like-minded men, then from each other. now every man was furnished with an orange-coloured booklet. some could read; some could not. it mattered little. their hearts had been stirred by that young student, or rather by the student's god. their voices, trained to battle with the tempest, formed a safety-valve to their feelings. "the lifeboat" was, appropriately, the first hymn chosen. manx bradley led with a voice like a trumpet, for joy intensified his powers. fred martin broke forth with tremendous energy. it was catching. even groggy fox was overcome. with eyes shut, mouth wide open, and book upside down, he absolutely howled his determination to "leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore." but skipper fox was not the only man whose spirit was touched on that occasion. many of the boats clung to the mission vessel till the day was nearly past, for their crews were loath to part. new joys, new hopes, new sensations had been aroused. before leaving, dick martin took john binning aside, and in a low but firm voice said--"you're right, sir. a grievous sin _does_ lie heavy on me. i robbed mrs mooney, a poor widdy, of her little bag o' savin's--twenty pounds it was." the latter part of this confession was accidentally overheard by bob lumsden. he longed to hear more, but bob had been taught somehow that eavesdropping is a mean and dishonourable thing. with manly determination, therefore, he left the spot, but immediately sought and found his little friend pat stiver, intent on relieving his feelings. "what d'ee think, pat?" he exclaimed, in a low whisper, but with indignation in his eye and tone. "i ain't thinkin' at all," said pat. "would you believe it, pat?" continued bob, "i've just heerd that scoun'rel dick martin say that it _was_ him as stole the money from mrs mooney--from the mother of our eve!" "you _don't_ say so!" exclaimed pat, making his eyes remarkably wide and round. "yes, i does, an' i've long suspected him. whether he was boastin' or not i can't tell, an' it do seem strange that he should boast of it to the young parson--leastwise, unless it was done to spite him. but now mark me, pat stiver, i'll bring that old sinner to his marrow-bones before long, and make him disgorge too, if he hain't spent it all. i give you leave to make an irish stew o' my carcase if i don't. ay, ay, sir!" the concluding words of bob lumsden's speech were in reply to an order from skipper lockley to haul the boat alongside. in a few minutes more the mission ship was forsaken by her strange sabbath congregation, and left with all the fleet around her floating quietly on the tranquil sea. chapter eleven. a consultation, a feast, and a plot. there was--probably still is--a coffee-tavern in gorleston where, in a cleanly, cheerful room, a retired fisherman and his wife, of temperance principles, supplied people with those hot liquids which are said to cheer without inebriating. here, by appointment, two friends met to discuss matters of grave importance. one was bob lumsden, the other his friend and admirer pat stiver. having asked for and obtained two large cups of coffee and two slices of buttered bread for some ridiculously small sum of money, they retired to the most distant corner of the room, and, turning their backs on the counter, began their discussion in low tones. being early in the day, the room had no occupants but themselves and the fisherman's wife, who busied herself in cleaning and arranging plates, cups, and saucers, etcetera, for expected visitors. "pat," said bob, sipping his coffee with an appreciative air, "i've turned a total abstainer." "w'ich means?" inquired pat. "that i don't drink nothin' at all," replied bob. "but you're a-drinkin' now!" said pat. "you know what i mean, you small willain; i drink nothin' with spirits in it." "well, i don't see what you gains by that, bob, for i heerd fred martin say you was nat'rally `full o' spirit,' so abstainin' 'll make no difference." "pat," said bob sternly, "if you don't clap a stopper on your tongue, i'll wollop you." pat became grave at once. "well, d'ee know, bob," he said, with an earnest look, "i do b'lieve you are right. you've always seemed to me as if you had a sort o' dissipated look, an' would go to the bad right off if you gave way to drink. yes, you're right, an' to prove my regard for you i'll become a total abstainer too--but, nevertheless, i _can't_ leave off drinkin'." "can't leave off drinkin'!" echoed bob. pat shook his head. "no--can't. 'taint possible." "why, wot _do_ you mean?" "well, bob, i mean that as i've never yet begun to drink, it ain't possible for me to leave it off, d'ee see, though i was to try ever so hard. howsever, i'll become an abstainer all the same, just to keep company along wi' you." bob lumsden gave a short laugh, and then, resuming his earnest air, said-- "pat, i've found out that dick martin, the scoun'rel, has bin to mrs mooney's hut again, an' now i'm sartin sure it was him as stole the 'ooman's money--not because i heerd him say so to mr binning, but because eve told me she saw him flattenin' his ugly nose against her window-pane last night, an' recognised him at once for the thief. moreover, he opened the door an' looked into the room, but seein' that he had given eve a terrible fright, he drew back smartly an' went away." "the willain!" exclaimed pat stiver, snapping his teeth as if he wanted to bite, and doubling up his little fists. it was evident that bob's news had taken away all his tendency to jest. "now it's plain to me," continued bob, "that the willain means more mischief. p'r'aps he thinks the old 'ooman's got more blunt hid away in her chest, or in the cupboard. anyhow, he's likely to frighten poor eve out of her wits, so it's my business to stop his little game. the question is, how is it to be done. d'ee think it would be of any use to commoonicate wi' the police?" the shaking of pat stiver's head was a most emphatic answer. "no," said he, "wotiver you do, have nothin' to do wi' the p'leece. they're a low-minded, pig-headed set, wi' their `move on's,' an' their `now then, little un's;' an' their grabbin's of your collars, without no regard to w'ether they're clean or not, an' their--" "let alone the police, pat," interrupted his friend, "but let's have your adwice about what should be done." after a moment's consideration, the small boy advised that mrs mooney's hut should be watched. "in course," he said, "dick martin ain't such a fool as to go an' steal doorin' the daytime, so we don't need to begin till near dark. you are big an' strong enough now, bob, to go at a man like dick an' floor him wi a thumpin' stick." "scarcely," returned bob, with a gratified yet dubious shake of his head. "i'm game to try, but it won't do to risk gettin' the worst of it in a thing o' this sort." "well, but if i'm there with another thumpin' stick to back you up," said pat, "you'll have no difficulty wotsumdever. an' then, if we should need help, ain't the `blue boar' handy, an' there's always a lot o' hands there ready for a spree at short notice? now, my adwice is that we go right off an' buy two thumpin' sticks--yaller ones, wi' big heads like jack the giant killer--get 'em for sixpence apiece. a heavy expense, no doubt, but worth goin' in for, for the sake of eve mooney. and when, in the words o' the old song, the shades of evenin' is closin' o'er us, we'll surround the house of eve, and `wait till the brute rolls by!'" "you're far too poetical, pat, for a practical man, said his friend. howsomediver, i think, on the whole, your adwice is not bad, so well try it on. but wot are we to do till the shades of evenin' comes on?" "amoose ourselves," answered pat promptly. "h'm! might do worse," returned his friend. "i s'pose you know i've got to be at widow martin's to take tea wi' fred an' his bride on their return from their weddin' trip. i wonder if i might take you with me, pat. you're small, an' i suppose you don't eat much." "oh, don't i, though?" exclaimed pat. "well, no matter. it would be very jolly. we'd have a good blow-out, you know; sit there comfortably together till it began to git dark, and then start off to--to--" "go in an' win," suggested the little one. having thus discussed their plans and finished their coffee, the two chivalrous lads went off to yarmouth and purchased two of the most formidable cudgels they could find, of the true jack-the-giant-killer type, with which they retired to the denes to "amoose" themselves. evening found them hungry and hearty at the tea-table of mrs martin-- and really, for the table of a fisherman's widow, it was spread with a very sumptuous repast; for it was a great day in the history of the martin family. no fewer than three mrs martins were seated round it. there was old granny martin, who consented to quit her attic window on that occasion and take the head of the table, though she did so with a little sigh, and a soft remark that, "it would be sad if he were to come when she was not watching." then there was widow martin, fred's mother--whose bad leg, by the way, had been quite cured by her legacy. and lastly, there was pretty mrs isa martin, fred's newly-married wife. besides these there were skipper lockley of the _lively poll_, and his wife martha--for it will be remembered martha was cousin to isa, and stephen's smack chanced to be in port at this time as well as the _sunbeam_ and the _fairy_, alias the _ironclad_, which last circumstance accounts for dick martin being also on shore. but dick was not invited to this family gathering, for the good reason that he had not shown face since landing, and no one seemed to grieve over his absence, with the exception of poor old granny, whose love for her "wandering boy" was as strong and unwavering as was her love to the husband, for whose coming she had watched so long. bob lumsden, it may be remarked, was one of the guests, because lockley was fond of him; and pat stiver was there because bob was fond of _him_! both were heartily welcomed. besides the improvement in mrs martin's health, there was also vast improvement in the furniture and general appearance of the attic since the arrival of the legacy. "it was quite a windfall," remarked mrs lockley, handing in her cup for more tea. "true, martha, though i prefer to call it a godsend," said mrs martin. "you see it was gettin' so bad, what wi' standin' so long at the tub, an' goin' about wi' the clo'es, that i felt as if i should break down altogether, i really did; but now i've been able to rest it i feel as if it was going to get quite strong again, and that makes me fit to look after mother far better. have some more tea, granny!" a mumbled assent and a pleased look showed that the old woman was fully alive to what was going on. "hand the butter to isa, pat. thankee," said the ex-washerwoman. "what a nice little boy your friend is, bob lumpy! i'm so glad you thought of bringin' him. he quite puts me in mind of what my boy fred was at his age--on'y a trifle broader, an' taller, an stouter." "a sort of lock-stock-an'-barrel difference, mother," said fred, laughing. "i dun know what you mean by your blocks, stocks, an' barrels," returned mrs martin, "but pat is a sight milder in the face than you was, an i'm sure he's a better boy." the subject of this remark cocked his ears and winked gently with one eye to his friend bob, with such a sly look that the blooming bride, who observed it, went off into a shriek of laughter. "an' only to think," continued mrs martin, gazing in undisguised admiration at her daughter-in-law, "that my fred--who seems as if on'y yesterday he was no bigger than pat, should have got isa wentworth--the best lass in all gorleston--for a wife! you're a lucky boy!" "right you are," responded fred, with enthusiasm. "i go wi' you there, mother, but i'm more than a lucky boy--i'm a highly favoured one, and i thank god for the precious gift; and also for that other gift, which is second only to isa, the command of a gospel ship on the north sea." a decided chuckle, which sounded like a choke, from granny, fortunately called for attentions from the bride at this point. "but do 'ee really think your mission smack will do much good?" asked martha lockley, who was inclined to scepticism. "i am sure of it," replied fred emphatically. "why, we've done some good work already, though we have bin but a short time wi' the fleet. i won't speak of ourselves, but just look at what has bin done in the way of saving drunkards and swearers by the _cholmondeley_ in the short-blue fleet, and by the old _ensign_ in the fleet started by mr burdett-coutts, the _columbia_ fleet, and in the other fleets that have got gospel ships. it is not too much to say that there are hundreds of men now prayin' to god, singin' the praises o' the lamb, an' servin' their owners better than they ever did before, who not long ago were godless drunkards and swearers." "men are sometimes hypocrites," objected martha; "how d'ee know that they are honest, or that it will last?" "hypocrites?" exclaimed fred, pulling a paper hastily from his pocket and unfolding it. "i think you'll admit that sharp men o' bussiness are pretty good judges o' hypocrites as well as of good men. listen to what one of the largest firms of smack-owners says: `our men have been completely revolutionised, and we gladly become subscribers of ten guineas to the funds of the mission.' another firm says, `what we have stated does not convey anything like our sense of the importance of the work you have undertaken.'" "ay, there's something in that," said martha, who, like all sceptics, was slow to admit truth. we say not this to the discredit of sceptics. on the contrary, we think that people who swallow what is called "truth" too easily, are apt to imbibe a deal of error along with it. doubtless it was for the benefit of such that the word was given--"prove all things. hold fast that which is good." fred then went to show the immense blessing that mission ships had already been to the north sea fishermen--alike to their souls and bodies; but we may not follow him further, for bob lumsden and pat stiver claim individual attention just now. when these enterprising heroes observed that the shades of evening were beginning to fall, they rose to take their leave. "why so soon away, lads?" asked fred. "we're goin' to see eve mooney," answered bob. "whatever are the boys goin' to do wi' them thick sticks?" exclaimed martha lockley. "fit main an fore masts into a man-o'-war, i suppose," suggested her husband. the boys did not explain, but went off laughing, and lockley called after them-- "tell eve i've got a rare lot o' queer things for her this trip." "and give her my dear love," cried mrs fred martin. "ay, ay," replied the boys as they hurried away on their self-imposed mission. chapter twelve. the enterprise fails--remarkably. the lads had to pass the "blue boar" on their way to widow mooney's hut, and they went in just to see, as bob said, how the land lay, and whether there was a prospect of help in that quarter if they should require it. besides a number of strangers, they found in that den of iniquity joe stubley, ned bryce, and groggy fox--which last had, alas! forgotten his late determination to "leave the poor old stranded wreck and pull for the shore." he and his comrades were still out among the breakers, clinging fondly to the old wreck. the boys saw at a glance that no assistance was to be expected from these men. stubley was violently argumentative, fox was maudlinly sentimental, and bryce was in an exalted state of heroic resolve. each sought to gain the attention and sympathy of the other, and all completely failed, but they succeeded in making a tremendous noise, which seemed partially to satisfy them as they drank deeper. "come, nothin' to be got here," whispered bob lumsden, in a tone of disgust, as he caught hold of his friend's arm. "we'll trust to ourselves--" "an' the thumpin' sticks," whispered pat, as they reached the end of the road. alas for the success of their enterprise if it had depended on those formidable weapons of war! when the hut was reached the night had become so nearly dark that they ventured to approach it with the intention of peeping in at the front window, but their steps were suddenly arrested by the sight of a man's figure approaching from the opposite direction. they drew back, and, being in the shadow of a wall, escaped observation. the man advanced noiselessly, and with evident caution, until he reached the window, and peeped in. "it's dick," whispered bob. "can't see his figure-head, but i know the cut of his jib, even in the dark." "let's go at 'im, slick!" whispered pat, grasping his cudgel and looking fierce. "not yet. we must make quite sure, an' nab him in the very act." as he spoke the man went with stealthy tread to the door of the hut, which the drunken owner had left on the latch. opening it softly, he went in, shut it after him, and, to the dismay of the boys, locked it on the inside. "now, pat," said bob, somewhat bitterly, "there's nothin' for it but the police." pat expressed strong dissent. "the p'leece," he said, "was useless for real work; they was on'y fit to badger boys an' old women." "but what can we do?" demanded bob anxiously, for he felt that time was precious. "you an' i ain't fit to bu'st in the door; an' if we was, dick would be ready for us. if we're to floor him he must be took by surprise." "let's go an' peep," suggested the smaller warrior. "come on, then," growled the big one. the sight that met their eyes when they peeped was indeed one fitted to expand these orbs of vision to the uttermost, for they beheld the thief on his knees beside the invalid's bed, holding her thin hand in his, while his head was bowed upon the ragged counterpane. bob lumsden was speechless. "hold me; i'm a-goin' to bu'st," whispered pat, by way of expressing the depth of his astonishment. presently eve spoke. they could hear her faintly, yet distinctly, through the cracked and patched windows, and listened with all their ears. "don't take on so, poor man," she said in her soft loving tones. "oh, i am _so_ glad to hear what you say!" dick martin looked up quickly. "what!" he exclaimed, "glad to hear me say that i am the thief as stole your mother's money! that i'm a low, vile, selfish blackguard who deserves to be kicked out o' the north sea fleet--off the face o' the 'arth altogether?" "yes," returned eve, smiling through her tears--for she had been crying--"glad to hear you say all that, because jesus came to save people like you; but he does not call them such bad names. he only calls them the `lost.'" "well, i suppose you're right, dear child," said the man, after a pause; "an' i do think the blessed lord has saved me, for i never before felt as i do now--hatred of my old bad ways, and an _awful_ desire to do right for his sake. if any o' my mates had told me i'd feel an' act like this a week ago, i'd have called him a fool. i can't understand it. i suppose that god must have changed me altogether. my only fear is that i'll fall back again into the old bad ways--i'm so helpless for anything good, d'ee see." "you forget," returned eve, with another of her tearful smiles; "he says, `i will never leave thee nor forsake thee'--" "no, i don't forget that," interrupted dick quickly; "that is what the young preacher in the mission smack said, an' it has stuck to me. it's that as keeps me up. but i didn't come here to speak about my thoughts an' feelin's," he continued, rising and taking a chair close to the bed, on which he placed a heavy bag. "i come here, eve, to make restitootion. there's every farthin' i stole from your poor mother. i kep' it intendin' to go to lun'on, and have a good long spree--so it's all there. you'll give it to her, but don't tell her who stole it. that's a matter 'tween you an' me an' the almighty. just you say that the miserable sinner who took it has bin saved by jesus christ, an' now returns it and axes her pardon." eve gladly promised, but while she was yet speaking, heavy footsteps were heard approaching the hut. the man started up as if to leave, and the two boys, suddenly awakening to the fact that they were eavesdropping, fled silently round the corner of the hut and hid themselves. the passer-by, whoever he was, seemed to change his mind, for the steps ceased to sound for a few moments, then they were heard again, with diminishing force, until they finally died away. a moment later, and the key was heard to turn, and the door of the hut to open and close, after which the heavy tread of the repentant fisherman was heard as he walked quickly away. the boys listened in silence till all was perfectly still. "well, now," said bob, drawing a long breath, "who'd have thought that things would have turned out like this?" "never heard of sich a case in _my_ life before," responded pat stiver with emphasis, as if he were a venerable magistrate who had been trying "cases" for the greater part of a long life. "why, it leaves us nothin' wotiver to do! even a p'leeceman might manage it! the thief has gone an' took up hisself, tried an' condemned hisself without a jury, pronounced sentance on hisself without a judge, an' all but hanged hisself without jack ketch, so there's nothin' for you an' me to do but go an' bury our thumpin' sticks, as red injins bury the war-hatchet, retire to our wigwams, an' smoke the pipe of peace." "wery good; let's go an' do it, then," returned bob, curtly. as it is not a matter of particular interest how the boys reduced this figurative intention to practice, we will leave them, and follow dick martin for a few minutes. his way led him past the "blue boar," which at that moment, however, proved to be no temptation to him. he paused to listen. sounds of revelry issued from its door, and the voice of joe stubley was heard singing with tremendous energy--"britons, never, never, never, shall be slaves," although he and all his companions were at that very moment thoroughly--in one or two cases almost hopelessly--enslaved to the most terrible tyrant that has ever crushed the human race! dick went on, and did not pause till he reached his sister's house. by that time the family party had broken up, but a solitary candle in the attic window showed that old granny martin was still on her watch-tower. "is that you, dick?" said his sister, opening to his tap, and letting him in; but there was nothing of welcome or pleasure in the widow's tone. the fisherman did not expect a warm welcome. he knew that he did not deserve it, but he cared not, for the visit was to his mother. gliding to her side, he went down on his knees, and laid his rugged head on her lap. granny did not seem taken by surprise. she laid her withered hand on the head, and said: "bless you, my boy! i knew you would come, sooner or later; praise be to his blessed name." we will not detail what passed between the mother and son on that occasion, but the concluding sentence of the old woman was significant: "he can't be long of coming _now_, dick, for the promises are all fulfilled at last, and i'm ready." she turned her head slowly again in the old direction, where, across the river and the sands, she could watch the moonbeams glittering on the solemn sea. three days later, and the skipper of the _sunbeam_ received a telegram telling him to prepare for guests, two of whom were to accompany him on his trip to the fleet. it was a bright, warm day when the guests arrived--a dozen or more ladies and gentlemen who sympathised with the mission, accompanied by the director. "all ready for sea, martin, i suppose?" said the latter, as the party stepped on board from the wharf, alongside of which the vessel lay. "all ready, sir," responded fred. "if the wind holds we may be with the fleet, god willing, some time to-morrow night." the _sunbeam_ was indeed all ready, for the duties on board of her had been performed by those who did their work "as to the lord, and not to men." every rope was in its place and properly coiled away, every piece of brass-work about the vessel shone like burnished gold. the deck had been scrubbed to a state of perfect cleanliness, so that, as jim freeman said, "you might eat your victuals off it." in short, everything was trim and taut, and the great blue mdsf flag floated from the masthead, intimating that the gospel ship was about to set forth on her mission of mercy, to fish for men. among the party who were conducted by fred and the director over the vessel were two clergymen, men of middle age, who had been labouring among all classes on the land: sympathising with the sad, rejoicing with the glad, praying, working, and energising for rich and poor, until health had begun to give way, and change of air and scene had become absolutely necessary. a week or so at the sea, it was thought, would revive them. and what change of air could be more thorough than that from the smoke of the city to the billows of the north sea? the director had suggested the change. men of god were sorely wanted out there, he said, and, while they renewed their health among the fresh breezes of ocean, they might do grand service for the master among the long-neglected fishermen. the reasoning seemed just. the offer was kind. the opportunity was good, as well as unique and interesting. the land-worn clergymen accepted the invitation, and were now on their way to the scene of their health-giving work, armed with waterproofs, sou'westers, and sea-boots. "it will do you good, sir, both body and soul," said skipper martin to the elder of the two, when presented to him. "you'll find us a strange lot, sir, out there, but glad to see you, and game to listen to what you've got to say as long as ever you please." when the visitors had seen all that was to be seen, enjoyed a cup of coffee, prayed and sung with the crew, and wished them god-speed, they went on shore, and the _sunbeam_, hoisting her sails and shaking out the blue flag, dropped quietly down the river. other smacks there were, very much like herself, coming and going, or moored to the wharves, but as the visitors stood on the river bank and waved their adieux, the thought was forced upon them how inconceivably vast was the difference between those vessels which laboured for time and this one which toiled for eternity. soon the _sunbeam_ swept out upon the sea, bent over to the freshening breeze, and steered on her beneficent course towards her double fishing-ground. chapter thirteen. the tide begins to turn, and death steps in. let us now, good reader, outstrip the _sunbeam_, and, proceeding to the fleet in advance of her, pay a night visit to one or two of the smacks. we are imaginative creatures, you see, and the powers of imagination are, as you know, almost illimitable. even now, in fact, we have you hovering over the dark sea, which, however, like the air above it, is absolutely calm, so that the numerous lanterns of the fishing-vessels around are flickering far down into the deep, like gleams of perpendicular lightning. it is saturday night, and the particular vessel over which we hover is the _lively poll_. let us descend into her cabin. a wonderful change has come over the vessel's crew since the advent of the mission smack. before that vessel joined the fleet, the chief occupation of the men during the hours of leisure was gambling, diversified now and then with stories and songs more or less profane. on the night of which we write almost universal silence pervaded the smack, because the men were profoundly engaged with book and pamphlet. they could all read, more or less, though the reading of one or two involved much spelling and knitting of the brows. but it was evident that they were deeply interested, and utterly oblivious of all around them. like a schoolboy with a good story, they could not bear to be interrupted, and were prone to explosive commentary. david duffy, who had fallen upon a volume of dickens, was growing purple in the face, because of his habit of restraining laughter until it forced its way in little squeaks through his nose. stephen lockley, who had evidently got hold of something more serious, sat on a locker, his elbows resting on his knees, the book in his hands, and a solemn frown on his face. hawkson was making desperate efforts to commit to memory a hymn, with the tune of which he had recently fallen in love, and the meaning of which was, unknown to himself, slowly but surely entering deep into his awakening soul. bob lumsden, who read his pamphlet by the binnacle light on deck, had secured an american magazine, the humorous style of which, being quite new to him, set him off ever and anon into hearty ripples of laughter. but they were not equally persevering, for joe stubley, to whom reading was more of a toil than a pleasure, soon gave in, and recurred to his favourite game of "checkers." the mate, peter jay, was slowly pacing the deck in profound meditation. his soul had been deeply stirred by some of the words which had fallen from the lips of john binning, and perplexities as well as anxieties were at that time struggling fiercely in his mind. "well done, little marchioness!" exclaimed david duffy, with eyes riveted on his book, and smiting his knee with his right palm, "you're a trump!" "shush!" exclaimed lockley, with eyes also glued to his book, holding up his hand as if to check interruption. "there's somethin' in this, although i can't quite see it yet." a roar of laughter on deck announced that bob lumsden had found something quite to his taste. "first-rate--ha! ha! i wonder if it's all true." "hold your noise there," cried hawkson; "who d'ee think can learn off a hymn wi' you shoutin' like a bo'sun's mate an' duffy snortin' like a grampus?" "ah, just so," chimed in stubley, looking up from his board. "why don't you let it out, david? you'll bu'st the b'iler if you don't open a bigger safety-valve than your nose." "smack on the weather beam, that looks like the gospel ship, sir," said the mate, looking down the hatchway. the skipper closed his book at once and went on deck, but the night was so dark, and the smack in question so far off, that they were unable to make her out among the numerous lights of the fleet. in another part of that fleet, not far distant, floated the _cormorant_. here too, as in many other smacks, the effects of the _sunbeam's_ beneficent influence had begun to tell. groggy fox's crew was noted as one of the most quarrelsome and dissipated in the fleet. on this particular saturday night, however, all was quiet, for most of the men were busy with books, pamphlets, and tracts. one who had, as his mate said, come by a broken head, was slumbering in his berth, scientifically bandaged and convalescent, and groggy himself, with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses on his nose, was deep in a book which he pronounced to be "one o' the wery best wollums he had ever come across in the whole course of his life," leaving it to be inferred, perhaps, that he had come across a very large number of volumes in his day. while he was thus engaged one of the men whispered in his ear, "a _coper_ alongside, sir." the skipper shut the "wery best wollum" at once, and ordered out the boat. "put a cask o' oysters in her," he said. usually his men were eager to go with their skipper, but on this night some of them were so interested in the books they were reading that they preferred to remain on board. others went, and, with their skipper, got themselves "fuddled" on the proceeds of the owner's oysters. if oysters had not been handy, fish or something else would have been used instead, for skipper fox was not particular--he was still clinging to "the poor old stranded wreck." it was dawn when, according to their appropriate phrase, they "tumbled" over the side of the _coper_ into their boat. as they bade the dutchman good night they observed that he was looking "black as thunder" at the horizon. "w-wat's wrong, ol' b-boy?" asked groggy. the dutchman pointed to the horizon. "no use for me to shtop here, mit _dat_ alongside!" he replied. the fishermen turned their drunken eyes in the direction indicated, and, after blinking a few seconds, clearly made out the large blue flag, with its letters mdsf, fluttering in the light breeze that had risen with the sun. with curses both loud and deep the dutchman trimmed his sails, and slowly but decidedly vanished from the scene. thus the tide began to turn on the north sea! the light breeze went down as the day advanced, and soon the mission vessel found herself surrounded by smacks, with an ever-increasing tail of boats at her stern, and an ever-multiplying congregation on her deck. it was a busy and a lively scene, for while they were assembling, fred martin took advantage of the opportunity to distribute books and medicines, and to bind up wounds, etcetera. at the same time the pleasant meeting of friends, who never met in such numbers anywhere else--not even in the _copers_--and the hearty good wishes and shaking of hands, with now and then expressions of thankfulness from believers-- all tended to increase the bustle and excitement, so that the two invalid clergymen began at once to experience the recuperative influence of glad enthusiasm. "there is plenty to do here, both for body and soul," remarked one of these to fred during a moment of relaxation. "yes, sir, thank god. we come out here to work, and we find the work cut out for us. a good many surgical cases, too, you observe. but we expect that. in five of the fleets there were more than two thousand cases treated last year aboard of the mission smacks, so we look for our share. in fact, during our first eight weeks with this fleet we have already had two hundred men applying for medicine or dressing of wounds." "quite an extensive practice, dr martin," said the clergyman, with a laugh. "ay, sir; but ours is the medical-missionary line. the body may be first in time, but the soul is first in importance with us." in proof of this, as it were, the skipper now stopped all that had been going on, and announced that the _real_ work of the day was going to begin; whereupon the congregation crowded into the hold until it was full. those who could not find room clustered on deck round the open hatch and listened--sometimes craned their necks over and gazed. it was a new experience for the invalid clergymen, who received another bath of recuperative influence. fervour, interest, intelligence seemed to gleam in the steady eyes of the men while they listened, and thrilled in their resonant voices when they sang. one of the clergymen preached as he had seldom preached before, and then prayed, after which they all sang; but the congregation did not move to go away. the brother clergyman therefore preached, and, modestly fearing that he was keeping them too long, hinted as much. "go on, sir," said the admiral, who was there; "it ain't every day we gets a chance like this." a murmur of assent followed, and the preacher went on; but we will not follow him. after closing with the hymn, "how sweet the name of jesus sounds in a believer's ear," they all went on deck, where they found a glory of sunshine flooding the _sunbeam_, and glittering on the still tranquil sea. the meeting now resolved itself into a number of groups, among whom the peculiar work of the day was continued directly or indirectly. it was indeed a wonderful condition of things on board of the gospel ship that sunday--wheels within wheels, spiritual machinery at work from stem to stern. a few, whose hearts had been lifted up, got out an accordion and their books, and "went in for" hymns. among these bob lumsden and his friend pat stiver took an active part. here and there couples of men leaned over the side and talked to each other in undertones of their saviour and the life to come. in the bow manx bradley got hold of joe stubley and pleaded hard with him to come to jesus, and receive power from the holy spirit to enable him to give up all his evil ways. in the stern fred martin sought to clear away the doubts and difficulties of ned bryce. elsewhere the two clergymen were answering questions, and guiding several earnest souls to a knowledge of the truth, while down in the cabin jim freeman prevailed on several men and boys to sign the temperance pledge. among these last was groggy fox, who, irresolute of purpose, was still holding back. "'cause why," said he; "i'll be sure to break it again. i can't keep it." "i know that, skipper," said fred, coming down at the moment. "in your own strength you'll _never_ keep it, but in god's strength you shall conquer _all_ your enemies. let's pray, lads, that we may all be enabled to keep to our good resolutions." then and there they all knelt down, and skipper fox arose with the determination once again to "leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore." but that was a memorable sunday in other respects, for towards the afternoon a stiff breeze sprang up, and an unusually low fall in the barometer turned the fishermen's thoughts back again to wordly cares. the various boats left the _sunbeam_ hurriedly. as the _lively poll_ had kept close alongside all the time, stephen lockley was last to think of leaving. he had been engaged in a deeply interesting conversation with one of the clergymen about his soul, but at last ordered his boat to be hauled alongside. while this was being done, he observed that another smack--one of the so-called "ironclads"--was sailing so as to cross the bows of his vessel. the breeze had by that time increased considerably, and both smacks, lying well over, were rushing swiftly through the water. suddenly some part of the ironclad's tackling about the mainsail gave way, the head of the vessel fell to leeward; next moment she went crashing into the _lively poll_, and cut her down to the water's edge. the ironclad seemed to rebound and tremble for a moment, and then passed on. the steersman at once threw her up into the wind with the intention of rendering assistance, but in another minute the _lively poll_ had sunk and disappeared for ever, carrying peter jay and hawkson along with her. of course several boats pushed off at once to the rescue, and hovered about the spot for some time, but neither the men nor the vessel were ever seen again. there was a smack at some distance, which was about to quit the fleet next morning and return to port. the skipper of it knew well which vessel had been run down, but, not being near enough to see all that passed, imagined that the whole crew had perished along with her. during the night the breeze freshened to a gale, which rendered fishing impossible. this vessel therefore left the fleet before dawn, and carried the news to gorleston that the _lively poll_ had been run down and sunk with all her crew. it was fred martin's wife who undertook to break this dreadful news to poor mrs lockley. only those who have had such duty to perform can understand the struggle it cost the gentle-spirited isa. the first sight of her friend's face suggested to mrs lockley the truth, and when words confirmed it she stood for a moment with a countenance pale as death. then, clasping her hands tightly together, the poor woman, with a cry of despair, sank insensible upon the floor. chapter fourteen. the last. but the supposed death of stephen lockley did not soften the heart of his wife. it only opened her eyes a little. after the first stunning effect had passed, a hard, rebellious state of mind set in, which induced her to dry her tears, and with stern countenance reject the consolation of sympathisers. the poor woman's heart was breaking, and she refused to be comforted. it was while she was in this condition that mrs mooney, of all people, took it into her head to visit and condole with her neighbour. that poor woman, although a sot, was warm-hearted, and the memory of what she had suffered when her own husband perished seemed to arouse her sympathies in an unusual degree. she was, as her male friends would have said, "screwed" when she knocked at mrs lockley's door. the poor creature was recovering from a burst of passionate grief, and turned her large dark eyes fiercely on the would-be comforter as she entered. "my dear mrs lockley," began mrs mooney, with sympathy beaming on her red countenance, "it do grieve me to see you like this--a'most as much as wen my--" "you're drunk!" interrupted mrs lockley, with a look of mingled sternness and indignation. "well, my dear," replied mrs mooney, with a deprecatory smile, "that ain't an uncommon state o' things, an' you've no call to be 'ard on a poor widdy like yourself takin' a little consolation now an' then when she can get it. i just thought i'd like to comfort--" "i don't want no comfort," cried mrs lockley in a sharp tone. "leave me. go away!" there was something so terrible in the mingled look of grief and anger which disturbed the handsome features of the young wife, that mrs mooney, partly awed and partly alarmed, turned at once and left the house. she did not feel aggrieved, only astonished and somewhat dismayed. after a few moments of meditation she set off, intending to relieve her feelings in the "blue boar." on her way she chanced to meet no less a personage than pat stiver, who, with his hands in his pockets and his big boots clattering over the stones, was rolling along in the opposite direction. "pat, my boy!" exclaimed the woman in surprise, "wherever did you come from?" "from the north sea," said pat, looking up at his questioner with an inquiring expression. "i say, old woman, drunk again?" "well, boy, who denyses of it?" "ain't you ashamed of yourself?" "no, i ain't. why should i? who cares whether i'm drunk or sober?" "who cares, you unnat'ral old bundle o' dirty clo'es? don't eve care? an' don't fred martin an' bob lumpy care? an' don't _i_ care, worse than all of 'em put together, except eve?" "you, boy?" exclaimed the woman. "yes, me. but look here, old gal; where are you goin'? to have a drink, i suppose?" "jus' so. that's 'xactly where i'm a-steerin' to." "well, now," cried pat, seizing the woman's hand, "come along, an' i'll give you somethin' to drink. moreover, i'll treat you to some noos as'll cause your blood to curdle, an' your flesh to creep, an' your eyes to glare, an your hair to stand on end!" thus adjured, and with curiosity somewhat excited, mrs mooney suffered herself to be led to that temperance coffee-tavern in gorleston to which we have already referred. "ain't it comf'r'able?" asked the boy, as his companion gazed around her. "now then, missis," he said to the attendant, with the air of an old frequenter of the place, "coffee and wittles for two--hot. here, sit down in this corner, old lady, where you can take in the beauties o' the place all at one squint." almost before he had done speaking two large cups of hot coffee and two thick slices of buttered bread lay before them. "there you are--all ship-shape. now drink, an' no heel-taps." mrs mooney drank in dumb surprise, partly at the energy and cool impudence of the boy, and partly at the discovery that there was more comfort in hot coffee than she had expected. "you've heard, in course, that the _lively poll_ is at the bottom of the north sea?" said pat. mrs mooney set down her cup with a sigh and a sudden expression of woe mingled with reproof, while she remarked that there was no occasion to be lighthearted on such a subject. "that's all _you_ know," retorted pat. "of course we was told the moment we came alongside the wharf this mornin', that somebody had bin blowin' half a gale o' lies about it, but stephen lockley ain't drownded, not he, an' don't mean to be for some time. he was aboard of the _sunbeam_ at the time his wessel went down an' all the rest of 'em, except poor jay an' hawkson, an' we've brought 'em all ashore. you see we got so damaged in a gale that came on to blow the wery next day that we've bin forced to run here for repairs. skipper lockley's away up at this here minit to see his wife--leastwise, he's waitin' outside till one o' the parsons goes and breaks the noos to her. the skipper didn't see no occasion for that, an' said he could break the noos to her hisself, but the parson said he didn't know what the consikences might be, so stephen he gave in, an'--. now, old girl, if you keep openin' of your mouth an' eyes at that rate you'll git lockjaw, an' never be able to go to sleep no more." there was, indeed, some ground for the boy's remark, for his "noos" had evidently overwhelmed mrs mooney--chiefly with joy, on account of her friend mrs lockley, to whom, even when "in liquor", she was tenderly attached. she continued to gaze speechless at pat, who took advantage of the opportunity to do a little private business on his own account. taking a little bit of blue ribbon with a pin attached to it from his pocket, he coolly fixed it on mrs mooney's breast. "there," said he gravely, "i promised bob that i'd make as many conwerts as i could, so i've conwerted _you_!" utterly regardless of her conversion, mrs mooney suddenly sprang from her seat and made for the door. "hallo, old gal! where away now!" cried the boy, seizing her skirt and following her out, being unable to stop her. "i'm a-goin' to tell eve, an' _won't_ she be glad, for she was awful fond o' lockley!" "all right, i'm with 'ee. cut along." "mother!" exclaimed eve, when the poor woman stood before her with eager excitement flushing her face to a ruddy purple. "have you _really_ put on the blue ribbon?" the poor child's thin pretty little race flushed with hope for a moment. "oh, it ain't that, dear," said mrs mooney, "but lockley ain't drownded arter all! he's--he's--" here pat stiver broke in, and began to explain to the bewildered girl. he was yet in the midst of his "noos," when the door was flung open, and mrs lockley hurried in. "forgive me, mrs mooney," she cried, grasping her friend's hand, "i shouldn't have spoke to you as i did, but my heart was very sore. oh, it is breakin'!" she sat down, covered her face with both hands, and sobbed violently. her friends stood speechless and helpless. it was obvious that she must have left her house to make this apology before the clergyman who was to break the news had reached it. before any one could summon courage to speak, a quick step was heard outside, and lockley himself entered. he had been waiting near at hand for the clergyman to summon him, when he caught sight of his wife entering the hut. mrs lockley sprang up--one glance, a wild shriek, but not of despair-- and she would have fallen to the ground had not her husband's strong arms been around her. it is believed that joy seldom or never kills. at all events it did not kill on this occasion, for mrs lockley and her husband were seen that same evening enjoying the hospitality of mrs martin, while their little one was being fondled on the knees of the old granny, who pointed through the attic window, and tried to arouse the child's interest in the great sea. when mrs mooney succeeded in turning her attention to the blue ribbon on her breast, she laughed heartily at the idea of such a decoration-- much to the sorrow of eve, who had prayed for many a day, not that her mother might put on that honourable badge, but that she might be brought to the saviour, in whom are included all things good and true and strong. nevertheless, it is to be noted that mrs mooney did not put the blue ribbon off. she went next day to have a laugh over it with mrs lockley. but the fisherman's wife would not laugh. she had found that while sorrow and suffering may drive one to despair in regard to god and self and all terrestrial things, joy frequently softens. surely it is the "goodness of god that leadeth to repentance." this life, as it were, from the dead proved to be life from death to herself, and she talked and prayed with her drunken friend until that friend gave her soul to jesus, and received the spirit of power by which she was enabled to "hold the fort,"--to adopt and keep the pledge of which her ribbon was but the emblem. although we have now described the end of the _lively poll_, it must not be supposed that the crew of that ill-fated smack was dispersed and swallowed up among the fishing fleets of the north sea. on the contrary, though separated for the time, they came together again,--ay, and held together for many a long day thereafter. and this is how it came about. one morning, a considerable time after the events we have just narrated, stephen lockley invited his old comrades to meet him in the gorleston coffee-tavern, and, over a rousing cup of "hot, with," delivered to them the following oration: "friends and former messmates. i ain't much of a speaker, so you'll excuse my goin' to the pint direct. a noble lady with lots o' tin an' a warm heart has presented a smack all complete to our deep-sea fishermen institootion. it cost, i'm told, about pounds, and will be ready to start as a gospel ship next week. for no reason that i knows on, 'xcept that it's the lord's will, they've appointed me skipper, with directions to choose my own crew. so, lads, i've got you here to ask if you're willin' to ship with me." "_i'm_ willin', of _course_," cried pat stiver eagerly, "an so's bob lumpy. i'll answer for him!" there was a general laugh at this, but bob lumsden, who was present, chose to answer for himself, and said he was heartily willing. so said david duffy, and so also said joe stubley. "i on'y wish," added the latter, "that jim freeman was free to j'ine, but fred martin's not likely to let _him_ go, for he's uncommon fond of him." "he's doin' good work for the master where he is," returned lockley, "and we'll manage to catch as true and able a man among the north sea fleets afore long. there's as good fish in the sea, you know, as ever came out of it. our mission smack is to be called the _welcome_." "at this rate," observed dick martin, who was one of the party, "we'll soon have a mission ship to every fleet in the north sea; that'll please our director, won't it?" "ay, it will," said lockley. "all the same, i heard the director say only the other day, he wished people would remember that the mission needed funds to keep the smacks a-goin' as well as to build an' launch 'em. howsever, we've no need to fear, for when the master sends the men and the work, he's sure to find the means." two weeks after the date on which this harmonious meeting was held, a new vessel, laden with spiritual treasure, unfurled her sails, shook out her mdsf ensign, and, amid the good wishes, silent prayers, and ringing cheers of sympathetic friends on shore, went forth as a beacon of love and light and hope to irradiate the toilers on the dark north sea. among those cheering and praying ones were mrs mooney--a brand plucked from the burning--and fragile eve, with her weak, thin, helpless body and her robust heart, chosen to do herculean and gladiator service of sympathy and rescue in the master's cause. and you may be sure that blooming isa martin was there, and her friend martha lockley; manx bradley, the admiral, who, with other fishermen, chanced to be having their spell on shore at that time, was also there. even old granny martin was there, in a sense, for she could see from her attic the great blue flag as it fluttered in the breeze, and she called her unfailing-- and no longer ailing daughter to come to the window and look at it and wish it god-speed; after which she turned her old eyes again to their wonted resting-place, where the great sea rolled its crested breakers beyond the sands. it remains but to add that the _welcome_ was received by the fleet to which she was sent with an enthusiasm which fully justified her name, and that her crew found her thenceforth, both as to her sea-going qualities and the nature of her blessed work, a marvellous improvement on their former home, the _lively poll_. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note. the office of the mission to deep-sea fishermen is queen victoria street, london, ec, at the date of publication of this book. the end. [illustration: "may i come aboard your vessel?"] el diablo _by_ brayton norton illustrated by dan sayre groesbeck indianapolis the bobbs-merrill company publishers copyright sunset magazine, inc. copyright the bobbs-merrill company _printed in the united states of america_ press of braunworth & co. book manufacturers brooklyn, n.y. _to_ my wife "sterling" contents chapter page i forbidden waters ii jetsam of the sea iii tangled threads iv the work of their fathers v the way of the gull vi the law of the fishermen vii you'll have to show me viii a declaration of independence ix diablo luck x salvage xi refusing to be bluffed xii a warning xiii the strike xiv the mother of invention xv business and pleasure xvi the baited pawn xvii the fangs of mascola xviii the cost of defeat xix rock follows up xx plans for a show-down xxi the gray ghost xxii strictly on the defensive xxiii battle of northwest harbor xxiv a fighting chance xxv the banker at the helm xxvi the value of publicity xxvii to solve the mystery xxviii the island's prisoner xxix under orders xxx the fight in the cave xxxi beneath the waters xxxii for all the world to know el diablo chapter i forbidden waters richard gregory stirred restlessly in his sleep vaguely aware of an unfamiliar sound, a faint tapping, insistent, disturbing. he wakened sharply and sat bolt upright, conscious of the fact that he was fully dressed. then he remembered. "all right, bill," he called softly. "coming." it took but a minute to shove his automatic into his pocket and secure his rifle from the corner. groping his way to the door he stood shivering on the threshold, staring into the thick gray fog which enveloped him. a hand touched his shoulder. strong fingers tightened on his arm. "this way," a low voice directed. "careful, don't scuff." gregory started to speak but a warning pressure of the big fingers restrained him. his companion led the way. he followed in silence. through the winding streets of the little fishing village they went, the familiar landmarks about them looming grotesque and mystical in the low-hanging fog. at length the acrid air of the sea assailed their nostrils and the silence of the night was broken by the noisy splashing of a marsh-loon. bill lang stopped suddenly. faintly through the gray void came the muffled gulping of an under-water exhaust. huddled together they stood listening. to richard gregory the sound indicated only the slow approach of a motor-boat. to the trained ear of the fisherman it meant that mexican joe was on time with the _sea gull_. lang led on down the loosely boarded wharf piled high with ill-smelling fish-boxes and paused at the head of a narrow gangway, looking back, listening. close by the dock gregory discerned the outline of a fishing-boat, magnified by the fog into whimsical proportions. descending cautiously, he followed lang aboard and groped his way into the protecting shelter of the engine-house. the cold mist clung to his flesh and he drew his coat closer about him. the soft breathing of the heavy-duty motor became more pronounced, more labored. the clutch was in. they were backing out into the stream. he glanced above him at the stay where the starboard side-lamp hung. but the grayness was unbroken by a single ray of green. lang was running dark. it was taking a long chance on such a night as this, gregory reflected. but then the whole business was a long chance. and lang knew his business. imbued with a fisherman's sixth sense of feeling his way along familiar channels rendered unfamiliar by fog, bill lang piloted his craft skilfully down the silent bay in the direction of the open sea. crouching in the bow, mexican joe sought with cat-like eyes to pierce the gray veil of blinding fog. narrowly averting collision with unlighted harbor-boats, bumping at times over sandy shoals, plowing through grass-grown mud-flats and skirting dangerous reefs with only the smallest margin of safety, they came at last to the jettied outlet of crescent bay. the roar of the breakers sounded ominously close through the gray canopy of fog. the little craft rocked briskly in the trough of the swell as lang threw the wheel over and headed out to sea. flashing a small light over the compass, which served as an improvised binnacle, he peered intently at the instrument. then he spoke softly to the man forward. "take the wheel, joe." when the mexican had relieved him lang bent low over the compass and examined his watch. then he joined gregory. "twelve o'clock," he announced. "we've got to make diablo before daybreak. sixty-five miles in less than four hours. that means hurry in weather like this." he turned to the man at the wheel. "crowd her, joe," he called. "we're taking chances to-night. if we hit anybody we might as well hit hard." "do you think we got out without being seen?" lang shook his head sagely in the darkness. "not much of a chance," he answered after a moment. "couldn't have had a better night, though. but it's mighty hard to slip anything over on the dago. if the fog would lift up it would be even shootin' you'd see one of mascola's outfit trailin' us astern. we've got him nervous, i tell you." "it's high time they were getting nervous," gregory rejoined. "when they try to browbeat american fishermen off the high seas and coastal waters it's time somebody was getting nervous." he was silent for a moment and lang as usual only grunted his assent. then gregory went on: "but there's something else that's making them nervous, lang. something they are doing around that devil-island. what kinds of laws they're breaking out there nobody knows. they may be doing anything from shooting fish to catching chicken-halibut or baby barracuda. we don't know what. but we do know they're mighty touchy on who cruises round el diablo. when our boats get around that infernal island something always happens. you know that." lang's grunt was emphatic and gregory concluded: "that's why it's up to us to find out what it is. it's hard enough to get the fish as it is without mascola staking out the water like he owned it and telling us to keep out." for some time the two men leaned together against the engine-house, each keeping his own counsel, each busied with his own thoughts. then gregory spoke: "if anything happens to me to-night, lang, keep all this business to yourself until my son comes home. tell him. no one else. we want to get to the bottom of this thing ourselves without any one else butting in to bungle the job. do you understand?" when lang had gone to relieve the mexican at the wheel richard gregory's thoughts turned to his son overseas. should he have waited until his return? he wondered. it was a young man's work, such a job as this,--and yet,--no, it was better to get to the bottom of the thing to-night. his head sank lower on his breast. perhaps he could snatch a few winks of sleep. he might need it. the muffled rattle of the anchor-chain caused him to waken sharply, stiff with cold. the motor was silent. the launch rocked lazily. through a rift in the fog he saw a rocky beach only a stone's throw away. they were anchored close by the shore. "hell-hole," announced lang in a whisper. gregory picked up his rifle. for a moment the big fisherman by his side hesitated. then he said: "why not stay on the _gull_, mr. gregory? let joe go ashore with me." "no." the answer was decisive. there were no explanations. lang knew it was final. assisted by the mexican, he swung the dory free and lowered it quietly into the water. helping gregory into the small boat he turned to the mexican and spoke rapidly in spanish. gregory could catch only the substance of a few sentences. lang was telling joe to stand by for a quick get-away. to watch the beach and start the anchor when he saw them coming. and above all he was to keep quiet. the bow of the dory grated on the beach. the two men stepped out and without a backward glance slowly disappeared into the fog. huddled in the bow, mexican joe waited by the anchor-chain, his eyes searching the little cove. for a long time he sat thus, not even daring to light a cigarette. once his straining ears caught the muffled exhaust of a motor-launch. it came very close but the fog guarded him well and he heard it pass on. what the two men were doing upon the island concerned mexican joe not at all. the devil-isle was filled with secrets. why should he try to fathom them? he was paid to obey and señor lang had twice saved his life. a sound from the shore caused joe to struggle to his feet and begin hauling on the chain. then he looked again, stopped and straightened up. there were three men coming along the beach, four,--five. joe dropped behind the rail and watched them climb over the rocks and halt by the empty dory. then he heard the sound of low voices in a foreign tongue, and shivered. the voices of the men on the beach grew fainter. they were minutely examining the dory. one lifted his arm and pointed seaward in the direction of the _sea gull_. the mexican crept to his sawed-off shotgun loaded with buck-shot. securing the weapon he made his way again to the bow and waited. the rock-bound cove was silent. the dory was still on the beach. but the men were gone. at length came the rattle of loose stones mingled with the sound of low-pitched voices. _gracious a dios_. it was señor lang and señor gregory. joe's hand leaped to the anchor-chain. there would be need to hurry. he tugged hard at the heavy cable, then he stopped, straightened and screamed a warning. gregory and lang whirled about only a few feet from the dory. from the shadowed crevices in the rocks, men leaped forward and hurled themselves to the beach. about the skiff bright jets of flame cut the fog. came the sharp report of an automatic, twice,--three times. mexican joe watched the unequal struggle, huddled against the rail. his eyes brightened with fear. twice he raised his gun, but his hand shook. at the distance the shot would scatter. there would be no use. he saw the two men fight their way to the dory. saw lang reach it, shove it into the water. the señor was safe. _gracious a dios_. but no, he was going back for señor gregory. _sangre de christo_, they would all be killed. the fog thickened. the struggling forms merged, grotesquely intermingled and became indistinct. from behind the gray curtain came the sound of heavy blows, muttered imprecations, groans. joe waited for the veil to lift, staring with straining eyes, cursing softly. _los señores_ were being murdered before his eyes and he could do nothing. through a rift in the fog he saw gregory with his back to the cliff fighting back the savage horde which were pressing hard upon him. he was using his rifle as a club. the men were falling away from him. lang had cleared the way to the skiff; was almost at his companion's side. from the overhanging ledge above, two dark figures leaped suddenly upon the man beneath, wrenching his gun from his hand, crushing him to the sand. lang fell upon the group of struggling figures, fighting like a madman. then he staggered, dropped to his knees and went down before the onslaught. again the gray pall drifted down from the tall crags above and blotted out the scene. joe staggered to his feet, grasping the wire-stays for support. then he stiffened and stood listening. the muffled purr of a high-powered motor disturbed the silence. from out the gloom to starboard he saw the bow of a big motor-boat cut the fog. the mexican shrieked a warning and tightened his clutch on the stays. the strange craft veered, the sharp bow swung over. with wide-open engines, she struck the _sea gull_ amidships, full on the beam. hurled to the deck by the impact the mexican heard the snapping and grinding of timbers. he was conscious of falling and the cool rush of waters about his head. then he remembered no more. wrapped in a clinging mantle of filmy fog, rock-bound, grim and mysterious, the island of el diablo frowned at the sea from behind the veil of silence. brave men had sought to fathom her secret but she had guarded it well. chapter ii jetsam of the sea john blair was worried. every line of his face, every movement of his nervous body showed it. he turned quickly to the bare-footed fisherman who blocked the doorway. "you combed the beach, you say? how far?" "san lucas to port angeles." "no signs of wreckage; nothing?" the fisherman shook his head. blair was silent for a moment. then he asked: "how far out to sea did you go?" "about three miles, 'dog-face' jones's workin' out san anselmo way. big jack left last night for diablo." blair started. "diablo," he repeated. "they surely wouldn't have gone out there." before the fisherman could reply there came an interruption. the door opened quickly and a young man strode into the room. "mr. gregory? is he in?" blair looked up quickly at the sound of the voice and ran his eyes over the clean-cut figure in the serge uniform. the impression, hastily formed, of having met the man before, was strengthened by the roving black eyes which were expectantly traveling about the room. "this is the legonia fish cannery, isn't it?" blair nodded. "yes," he said. "but mr. gregory is not here at present." "when will he be in?" the words came eagerly with the brusk assurance of an immediate answer. the crisp insistence had a decidedly familiar sound. blair regarded the clean-cut face of the young officer intently as he answered: "i don't know. will you call again or leave your name?" "i am mr. gregory's son." blair came to meet him with outstretched hands. "i might have known it," he said. "i am mr. blair, your father's manager. i'm glad to meet you. your father did not expect you so soon, did he?" the young man shook his head and smiled. "no," he answered. "dad thinks i'm still on the other side. i wanted to surprise him. i wrote a letter saying i would be home as soon as possible. i mailed the letter on the ship which brought me over." a boyish look crept into his eyes. "don't let on when dad comes back that you've seen me, will you, mr. blair? i have to go back to camp to-night and arrange about my discharge. it may be a week before i can be back." the black eyes grew suddenly wistful. "say, mr. blair, don't you think there's a chance of my seeing dad before i leave? i have until five o'clock to get my train." blair was unable to meet the steady gaze of his employer's son. should he tell the boy of his father's strange absence? voice his own fears and suspicions for the safety of gregory, sr.? by the time the young man returned the mystery might be solved. at least they would know something. "what is wrong, mr. blair?" the question was volleyed with quiet insistence. it demanded an answer. the boy would not be put off. he was his father's son. blair sought to put the matter in as favorable a light as possible under the circumstances. in a few words he told of the disappearance of richard gregory. kenneth gregory listened quietly, at times interrupting with rapid-fire questions. "when was he last seen?" "three days ago." "you knew nothing of his plans?" "nothing definite," blair evaded. "he might have gone out with the fishermen scouting for albacore. one of lang's boats turned up missing the next morning. lang himself is missing, too." "who is lang?" "your father's fishing captain. he recently bought him a number of new boats. they might have gone to try one of them out." "nothing has been heard of them since?" "not yet. you see it has been very foggy lately all along the coast. that has handicapped our search." "where can i get a boat?" blair shook his head. then he came closer and put his hand on kenneth gregory's arm. "all of the lang boats are out now, captain. everything is being done, i can assure you. it would be no use." "are there no other boats here than lang's?" "only the alien fleet." the man in uniform whirled about decisively. "then i'll get one of them. will you show me where they are?" "it would be no use. they wouldn't go. you see----" "let's try." with some reluctance blair consented. "we haven't been getting along any too well with mascola's outfit lately," he explained as they walked along. "i'll stop at lang's wharf first. maybe some of the boats are back." turning on to a small wharf they walked in silence over the loose boards down the lane of ill-smelling fish-boxes. at the end of the dock a narrow gangway led downward to a small float which rocked lazily in the capping swells thrown up by a passing fishing-boat. close by, another wharf jutted out into the bay. upon it were a number of swarthy fishermen, piling nets. blair stopped abruptly at the head of the gangway, his eyes searching the water. the fishing-boat was swinging up into the tide and edging closer. "is that one of the lang boats?" he heard gregory ask. a paroxysm of coughing prevented blair's immediate reply. the young officer looked eagerly at the approaching craft, upon the bow of which a dark-skinned man leaned carelessly against the wire-stays. he noticed that the man was tall and straight. upon his head a gaudy red cap rested with a rakish air. his eyes were upon the lang dock as he stood with folded arms and waited for the boat to nose up to the near-by wharf. gregory admitted to himself that there was something masterful about the red-capped stranger, at the same time, repellent. the crowd of aliens moreover, he noticed, fell away respectfully. the newcomer was evidently a personage in the community. gregory, watching him as he stepped from the launch, instinctively disliked him. "that's mascola." blair bit the words savagely. gregory surveyed the newcomer with interest. "he has a boat," he said. "let's go over and get it." blair put out a restraining hand. "there would be no use," he said. "mascola wouldn't let us have that boat to save our lives." gregory was already on his way to the italian dock. blair started to overtake him. then he glanced down the bay and his face brightened. "wait," he called. "here comes one of lang's boats now. perhaps they will know something." with the approach of the second fishing-boat came a crowd of curious fishing folk of all nationalities. men, women and children clustered about the dock, imbued with a lust for excitement and a morbid desire to learn the worst from the latest mystery of the sea. all eyes were held by the fishing-boat as it swung about and drew near the float. blair shoved his way through the crowd and led gregory down the gangway. upon the covered hatch of the launch blair's eye caught sight of two rolls of canvas, fashioned bundle-like. nets most likely. he looked eagerly at the fishermen aboard the incoming craft. their faces caused him to look again at the canvas bundles. then he turned quickly to the man by his side. "why not wait on the wharf until they come up?" he asked in a low voice in which he strove to conceal his agitation. kenneth gregory shook his head. he too had noticed the bundles on the hatch. in silence the launch tied up to the fleet. in silence two bare-footed fishermen lifted one of the bundles and carrying it carefully between them, stepped out upon the gently rocking float. the salt-stiffened canvas unrolled as the men laid their burden down, exposing the body of a huge fisherman. his face was battered and bruised and gregory noticed that his hair was red. blair's hand on gregory's arm tightened. "good god!" he exclaimed. "it's lang." kenneth gregory looked down into the face of the big fisherman. then he remembered the other bundle. blair sought to deter him. but he was too late to check the onward rush of the young man across the float. already he was boarding the boat. blair watched him raise the flap of canvas. saw his eyes searching the folds beneath. at length came voices. a man was speaking. "found them off diablo. went on the rocks at hell-hole in the fog. boat was smashed. bu'sted clean in two." gregory scarcely heard them as he knelt on the hatch looking down into the face of the one he had traveled seven thousand miles to see. blair led him away. as the little procession moved silently down the dock the crowd parted respectfully. eyes that were hard, softened. fishermen took off their hats, holding them awkwardly in their red hands. fisherwomen looked down at the rough boards and crossed themselves devoutly. the cortège passed on. turning from the dock they threaded their way down the narrow street leading to the town. as they neared the alien docks, the dusky fishermen uncovered and drew together, awed by the presence of the great shadow. gregory's arm brushed against a man leaning carelessly against the wharf-rail. raising his eyes from the ground, he beheld the one man of all the villagers who had remained unmoved, unsoftened by the spectacle. with his red cap shoved back upon his shining black hair the insolent stranger stood looking on with folded arms. gregory noticed that mascola had not even taken the trouble to remove the cigarette which hung damply from his lips. for an instant the two men looked deep into each other's eyes. then the procession passed on. chapter iii tangled threads the death of his father hurled kenneth gregory into a new world--a world of unfamiliar faces, of strange standards of value, of vastly different problems--the world of business. kenneth gregory had taken this world as he found it. there had been no time to moralize upon the situation into which the spinning of the wheel had plunged him. there was work to do. securing his discharge from the army he had turned to the task of settling up his father's estate. the fact that he was the sole heir and legal executor simplified matters. but there were complications. these he had unraveled with the aid of farnsworth, the attorney for the estate. then he had come to legonia and found plenty to do. blair, the former manager of the legonia fish cannery, had suffered an attack of pneumonia and was ill at a neighboring sanitarium. from him he could therefore learn nothing. the books of the company told him but little more. now he was going over the private papers in his father's office. "are you the boss?" kenneth gregory turned from his perusal of a file of letters and faced a young man standing in the doorway. gregory nodded. "i'm the owner," he replied pleasantly, noting the well-worn, much-patched service uniform of the stranger. "and for the time being, boss. my manager is sick. is there anything i can do for you?" "yes. you can give me a job." gregory smiled at the frankness of the answer. "i might at that," he said. "can you speak russian or italian?" the ex-soldier shook his head as gregory went on: "what i need more than anything else just now is an interpreter. i have a lot of foreigners working outside cleaning up. i've been having to make signs to them all morning." the soldier's brow wrinkled. "that's what they told me of this place in centerville," he said. "they said i was only wasting shoe-leather to come down here. that it was no place for an american." "maybe they're right," gregory cut in. then he added: "however, we may be able to change things. what can you do?" the youth's face assumed a more cheerful expression. "i'm a mechanic by trade," he answered. "i'll do anything right now." "know anything about marine motors?" "two or four cycle?" gregory pondered. 'twas best to be on the safe side. "both," he answered. the soldier shook his head. "you'll have to count me out on the two cycles," he said. "those little peanut-roasters and coffee-grinders are new to me. never had any experience with anything much but unions and standards. that's what most of the fishermen have in their boats." gregory's face cleared. "i may be able to take you on. i have a lot of motors which will need looking after before long. in the meantime if you want to go to work cleaning up the house, you can start any time you're ready. what do you say?" "i'll say you've hired a man. my name's barnes." gregory extended his hand. "and mine is gregory. when do you want to go to work?" "right away." together the two men went out into the fish-laden atmosphere of the cannery. walking down the aisles, flanked on both sides by huge vats and silent conveyers, they came upon a number of dark-skinned laborers whiling away the time with a scant pretense of work. stung into a semblance of action by the sudden appearance of the boss, the men abruptly postponed their conversation and tardily plied their scrubbing brooms, meanwhile eying the newcomer with frank disapproval. leaving barnes with the injunction to keep an eye on the men and, if possible, induce them to speed up, gregory returned to his work. passing through the outer office where he had met mr. blair upon the day of his arrival from overseas, he entered the little room which richard gregory had used for a private office. opening a small safe which stood in a corner, he resumed his examination of his father's papers. in a vague sort of way he regarded his legacy of the legonia fish cannery as a trust. in the atmosphere of this room this feeling was always enhanced, the trust more sacred. here richard gregory had worked, planned, worried. every detail of the room spoke eloquently from father to son. here was begun an unfinished work. richard gregory had believed in it; had given his life to it. farnsworth had said that the business had never paid. that his client had purchased it directly against his advice and had continued to throw good money after bad ever since. the lawyer advised selling at the first good opportunity. kenneth gregory absolutely refused to believe that his father had failed. the business had not prospered. that was true. but doubtless there were good and sufficient reasons. he continued his examination of the contents of the safe, methodically going through the various compartments and making notes concerning the papers found therein. at length he came to a memorandum which held his attention. it was the agreement his father had made with lang to purchase ten fully-equipped fishing-boats for the fisherman. gregory studied the penciled notes. his father had reposed untold confidence in lang's integrity. so much was shown by the loose phraseology of the document and the extreme latitude given the fisherman in compliance with its terms. that this confidence had evidently not been misplaced, was evidenced by the promptness with which lang met the payments as they fell due. farnsworth, gregory remembered, had regarded the chattel mortgage on lang's boats and equipment as a most doubtful asset. if lang had left a son the old lawyer had maintained, who would be competent to go on with his father's work, the situation would have appeared in a more favorable light. but lang had left no son. only a daughter. and, to quote the reputable farnsworth, what chance would any man stand of getting anything out of a woman on a loosely drawn contract like that? figure it profit and loss, my boy, he had concluded bruskly. like farnsworth, gregory too wished that lang had left a son. it would be easier dealing with a man, competent or incompetent, than a woman. well, he would say nothing to the girl for the time being at least. she had had enough to bear in the loss of her father. that much he could swear to. when she had defaulted the next payment he would make her a proposition to buy her boats. fishing was no business for a girl anyway. he glanced at the schedule of dates arranged by lang and his father for making the payments and turned to the calendar. one of them was already past due. five hundred dollars should have been paid the week before. so intent was gregory upon his study of the contract that he failed to hear the opening of the outer office door. his first intimation of the presence of a visitor came with a sharp knock upon his half-open door. "come in," he called. a wind-bronzed fisherman stood upon the threshold, dangling a red cap in his hand. he bowed gracefully and smiled. "you are mr. gregory?" gregory nodded, trying to remember where he had seen the man before. suddenly he remembered. it was on the day his father's body had been brought in. near the alien wharf a man had jostled against him. a man with a bright red cap, smoking a cigarette. "i am mascola." the visitor spoke the words slowly as if anxious that none of the importance of the introduction might be lost or passed over lightly. gregory looked mascola over carefully. the man's carelessness and seeming irreverence on that never-to-be-forgotten day might not have been intentional. he must not allow his prejudice to interfere with his judgment. that was not business. he resolved to hear what the man had to say. "what do you want?" he asked bluntly. mascola walked unbidden to a chair and seated himself before replying: "you will want fish before long, mr. gregory. i would like to contract for my men to get them for you." gregory was nettled by mascola's calm assurance. he had a mind to send him packing. blair, he remembered, had evidently had but little use for the italian. but blair too might have been prejudiced. it was business perhaps to hear the man's proposal. "what is your proposition?" he asked, hoping mascola would be brief. in this he was not disappointed. mascola plunged his hand into the pocket of his vest and drew forth a paper which he placed in gregory's hand. gregory ran his eye hastily over the typewritten sheet which contained the memorandum of four numbered clauses. they were briefly worded and to the point: . the fishermen to furnish albacore, tuna and sardines at the same price paid by the golden rule cannery. . the cannery to assume complete liability for all boats and equipment used by the fishermen in providing fish for it. . the cannery to agree to pay all fines, state and federal, for any violation of fishing or navigation laws. . the cannery to agree, under bonds, to hire no men who are not members of the fishermen's union. gregory looked up to meet mascola's dark eyes regarding him intently. "that is all," said the italian boss. "it's enough," commented gregory tersely, striving to hold his temper in check at the impudence of mascola's proposal. any one of the four clauses he realized would be amply sufficient to throw him into bankruptcy. the first would place him in the hands of his local competitor, a slavonian. the last would deliver all that was left to the fisherman's union, also foreigners. by the second clause his property would be placed in jeopardy to protect the carelessness or incompetence of others, aliens all. and the third, gregory did not clearly understand. to satisfy his curiosity he asked: "what do you mean by the cannery agreeing to pay the fines?" mascola smiled pityingly, exposing a fine set of even teeth. "you are a stranger here. i forgot. so you do not know that it is necessary for fishermen to break the law sometimes to get fish. the canneries must have them. they ask no questions. if we can get them without breaking the laws it is so much the better. but sometimes when you have steam up you want fish very bad. then you say, mascola, i must have fish. well, i get them for you. there are always fish to be caught in some way or other. they are worth a good deal to you at such a time. why should you not pay for the extra risk we run in getting them?" it was gregory's turn to smile. "rather ingenious," he commented. "do you find it necessary to go to such extremes often?" mascola sensed the sarcasm. a faint flush crept to his dark cheeks. he began to suspect that the young man was not taking either him or his proposition seriously. perhaps he had said too much. he answered the question with one word. "no." gregory studied mascola's face and his smile faded. his irritation at the italian's entrance had at first given place to amusement at the absurdity of the man's proposal. now came again the feeling of dislike which had assailed him on the occasion of his first meeting with mascola. "mascola," he said, "i'll keep your proposition in mind. that is just about all i ever will do with it, i guess, though i'll talk it over with blair." the italian frowned at the mention of blair. he had supposed blair to be gone. had not rossi reported the departure of the former manager more than a month ago? blair would be a stumbling-block to his scheme. blair knew too much. mascola realized that he had been too confident. he felt, moreover, that he had made a fool of himself. had not the young man smiled? his anger mounted at the recollection. he rose quickly, fighting it down. "all right, mr. gregory," he said smoothly. "i make my proposition. i come to you this time. you do not accept. it is all right. next time you come to me." bowing slightly and smiling to hide his anger, he went out. gregory turned again to his work, but found it hard to keep his mind from the italian's veiled threat. it angered him. mascola had appeared so sure of his ground. his irritation grew as his eye fell again on the lang contract. if he only had some one with whom he could talk. some one who knew something about fishing or running a cannery. some one who would understand what he was up against. his father evidently had few if any confidants. if he had only left some written word. from the cannery came the sound of excited voices, a jargon of unintelligible words. gregory sprang to his feet and hurried out. he met mascola coming to meet him. behind him trooped the alien laborers. the italian stopped abruptly and threw out his arm with a dramatic gesture. pointing in the direction of the solitary soldier who stood staring with open mouth, he said: "my men, they do not work with scabs, mr. gregory. you let that man go, or they quit." "let them quit." gregory spoke quickly and tried to smile. losing his temper would not help matters. that wasn't business. mascola spoke rapidly to the men in their own tongue, waving his arms and rolling his eyes. gregory noticed that every one seemed to be getting excited. with scowling faces, the alien laborers grouped themselves about their leader and glared at the offending soldier and his boss. gregory checked a quick impulse forcibly to show mascola the door. it was the right of every man to refuse to work if the job was not to his liking. there was, however, nothing to get excited over. he turned to mascola. "tell your men to come into the office and get their money," he said. his quiet manner disappointed the italian boss. he had hoped for a scene. an argument at least. his men expected more of him than this. gregory had calmly turned his back upon him and was walking away. mascola could stand no more. "all right, gregory," he called. "you go ahead and hire a scab crew. then you'll find out you're the same damn fool as your father." gregory whirled. mascola's hand leaped to his side, burying itself in the folds of his shirt. before he could bring it out, kenneth gregory was upon him. his fist caught mascola full on the chin. the italian's head snapped backward. his feet shot forward. he clutched at the air for support and strove to regain his balance. then he fell to the floor, rolled over like a cat, and rebounded to his feet, snarling. gregory heard a warning cry from barnes: "look out! he's got a knife." barnes looked vainly about for a weapon as he ran to his employer's assistance. the laborers pressed closer, their brown hands fingering their belts, their faces dark with passion. hemmed in on every side by the scowling aliens, gregory took a step forward and stood waiting. mascola advanced warily with peculiar sideling steps. his face was a mottled gray save in one place where his chin was flecked with blood. his left arm was extended guard-wise. his right was crooked loosely to his side, fingers covered. he crouched low and gathered. gregory measured the distance which separated him from the advancing italian. faintly to his ears came the sound of creaking boards behind him. perhaps mascola's men were pressing in from the rear. he dared not look to see. his eyes were held by mascola's crooked arm. that was what he must grab and break. mascola's dark eyes, shining with anger, flashed over gregory's shoulder to the door beyond. then they widened with surprise. he stopped suddenly. his extended arm drooped. for an instant he stood hesitating, wavering. he took a step backward. his crooked arm unbent, dropped slowly to his side. his eyes were held by the open door. chapter iv the work of their fathers "drop it, mascola." the sharp command drew the eyes of the laborers to the door and they stopped fingering their knives. shuffling closer together they looked to their leader for guidance. mascola's eyes darted about the floor, coming to rest upon a big vat only a few feet away. for an instant he hesitated. a faint metallic click from the doorway caused him to make up his mind. his body straightened as his hands traveled upward to the level of his shoulders. the palm of his right hand opened and a thin two-edged blade rattled to the floor. gregory took a step forward and shoved the knife away with his foot. keeping one eye fixed warily upon mascola, he shot a glance over his shoulder to determine the author of the interruption. he turned to see a trim little figure in loosely-fitting outing clothes striding across the floor. facing the light which streamed in from the open door, he could not distinguish the newcomer's face. he only noted the ease of the stranger's movements, the poise of the uptilted head and the nervous manner with which the italians fell away before the advancing figure. "what's the trouble?" gregory stared. it was a girl. she had turned into the light and was facing him. as he formed an answer to her question he saw that her sun-bronzed cheeks were flushed with red and her clear brown eyes were looking into his inquiringly. in her hand she held an automatic revolver. gregory strove to make his explanation brief. "these men refused to work. i told them to go. mascola and i had some trouble. he drew his knife. then you came." the girl nodded, dislodging a lock of red-gold hair from under her knitted cap. turning quickly to mascola, she commanded: "get out." mascola made no sign that he intended to comply with the order. with folded arms he looked insolently at the speaker. "when my men are paid, i will go. but first, i must have my knife." his eyes roved longingly in the direction of the dagger. the girl took a quick step backward and covered mascola's waist-line with the automatic. "you'll go now," she said. turning to gregory she added: "tell him you'll pay him down-town." gregory picked up the italian's knife before replying: "i'll be at the bank at two," he said, making no move to comply with mascola's request for his weapon. mascola clenched his hands. his face grew red with passion. for an instant he glared from gregory to the girl. then the color faded. turning to his men he spoke rapidly to them in their own tongue. the workmen retired sullenly and picking up their coats followed their leader to the door. mascola hesitated for a moment on the threshold. then, checking the angry threat which rose to his lips, he went out. gregory watched him go in silence. then he turned to the girl. "my name is gregory," he said. "you happened along just about right for me." the tense lines about the girl's mouth disappeared slowly as she passed a small brown hand across her forehead and replaced a truant lock. "i am dickie lang," she announced simply. shoving the automatic into her coat pocket, she extended her hand. "i knew your father well. i am glad to meet you." the frankness of the words was strengthened by the look of sincerity in the brown eyes as she stood calmly looking him over. gregory curbed his surprise with an effort which left him staring at the girl in awkward silence. when he had thought of lang's daughter at all, it had been only in the most abstract way. he had regarded her only a possible and very probable source of trouble, scarcely as a flesh and blood woman at all. never a girl like this. he wakened to the fact that he was a very stupid host. barnes, after staring at dickie lang for a moment, had retired to his work, leaving gregory alone with his guest in the middle of the receiving floor. "won't you come into the office?" the words came hesitatingly. he nodded in the direction of the screen-door. "yes. i would like to talk with you." again the direct straightforward manner of speaking. dickie lang started at once for the office, walking across the floor with quick impatient steps. gregory held the door open and as the girl brushed by him, he saw her flash a glance to the door of his father's office beyond. he led the way in silence to the room where he had been working and waited for his visitor to be seated. dickie lang's eyes roved swiftly about the room, taking in the familiar details. nothing had been changed. she could see her father leaning against the desk, his great shoulders hunched forward, his big hands nervously toying with the glass paper-weight, his blue eyes fixed upon the silent figure in the swivel-chair. again she could hear the voice of richard gregory: "all right, bill. i'll see you through. go ahead and get the boats." dickie realized with a start that the square-jawed, black-eyed young man before her was richard gregory's son. the past faded away. with simple directness she plunged into the object of her visit. "i've brought the money due on the boats. got into a squabble with the markets and they tied me up for a few days. otherwise i would have been here sooner." thrusting her hand into her pocket, she drew out a roll of bills and began to count them. gregory watched her as she thumbed the bank-notes. the dark brown corduroy was simply, if mannishly cut, and in a way it became her. her small feet and rounded ankles would have appeared to better advantage in high-heeled shoes and silk stockings than those blunt-nosed boots and canvas leggings. and why in the name of common sense would any woman with hair like that want to keep it tucked away under a close-fitting cap? she would have been beautiful in---- he roused himself from his examination of the girl's attire and strove to fix his mind on the object of her visit. he reached for the receipt-book as she finished counting the money. "tenth payment," she exclaimed. "five hundred. makes twelve thousand even. that right?" gregory ran over the money, consulting his notebook to verify the figures. "right," he answered. while he wrote the receipt she studied him. so this was the man whom richard gregory had designated as a red-blooded american. the father's praise of his absent son, she was forced to admit, had slightly prejudiced her against the young man. no single individual could possess all the sterling traits of character attributed to him by the late cannery owner. that was impossible. he would fall down somewhere. gregory handed the girl her receipt. "and now," he began, somewhat uncertain as to just how to proceed, "what do you intend to do about the boats?" dickie lang paused in the act of folding the paper and looked up quickly. for some reason she felt herself irritated by the question. her irritation crept into her voice as she answered: "i'm going to run them, of course." gregory straightened in his chair and faced about. "you're going to run them?" he repeated. "you don't mean yourself?" "sure. what else would i do with them?" she asked coldly. the man was caught for the moment unawares by the suddenness of the question. "i thought perhaps you would want to sell them," he answered bluntly. "why?" her voice had a belligerent ring and he noticed that her eyes were snapping. as he did not immediately reply, she flashed: "i know why. it's because i'm a woman. you think i can't make good. isn't that it?" gregory felt his cheeks burn at the feeling she threw into her words. he hadn't meant to make it quite so plain but if she insisted on the truth, why not? perhaps it was the best way. "you've guessed it," he answered slowly. "you may call it prejudice if you like, but that is just the way i feel." tapping the floor angrily with her foot, she interrupted: "it's worse than prejudice. it's just plain damn-foolishness. honestly, after all i've heard of you, i gave you credit for having more sense. your father wouldn't have said that. he believed there wasn't a thing in the world a man or woman couldn't do, if they tried hard enough. and he gave them the chance to make good. but i'll tell you right now, you've got a lot to learn before you'll be able to wear his hat." gregory sank deeper into his chair as dickie lang proceeded with his arraignment. nothing could be said until she was through. his silence gave the girl a free rein to express her feelings. "you think i don't know my game because i'm a woman. why, i've been on the sea since i was a kid. if my father hadn't made me go to school, i would have lived with him on the water. and don't you suppose in fishing with a man like bill lang, a person learns something? doesn't that more than make up for the handicap of being a woman?" the young man waited for a chance to put in a word but none came. becoming angrier each minute, she hurried on: "there isn't a man in legonia but you who would have said that. not even mascola. he hates me only because i do know my business. and you, a stranger, come down here and tell me----" "i didn't say you didn't know your business," gregory interjected as she drew a long breath. "no, but you thought it just the same. and what right have you to think things like that? what do you know about things here? you never saw the place until just a few weeks ago. and you've been gone ever since. i'll bet you were never in a fish cannery before in your life. i'll bet right now you don't know what you're going to do next. you're waiting for blair to get well and tell you. suppose he doesn't. he's a mighty sick man and it's a cinch if he does come back it won't be for a long time. what are you going to do in the meantime besides tell me i don't----" gregory held up his hand to check a further outburst. "listen," he said. "there is no use going on like this. our fathers were the best of friends. why can't we be the same? i'm willing to admit there is a lot of truth in what you say about my not knowing just what i'm going to do right now. i didn't select the position i'm in, but i'm going to make the best of things as they are and finish up the work which was begun by my father. and i want to say right now that i'm going to finish it. "in a way," he went on slowly, "our positions are somewhat similar. we each have a job to finish. i didn't think yours meant as much to you as mine does to me, though of course i might have, if i hadn't been thinking so much of myself. our fathers worked together and got along fine. it may be that we can do the same thing." the fire died slowly from the girl's eyes. in its place there came an expression, more wistful perhaps than anything else. when she spoke again the irritation was gone from her voice. "no," she answered. "there isn't any reason why we can't be friends. and there are a lot of reasons why we should be. i'm willing to do my part and i'll show you, mr. gregory, that i do know my business. it always makes me mad when any one thinks i don't know the sea. when dad wanted to tease me he always called me a 'land-lubber.' and even when a kid i would always fight at that." she paused a moment. then went on: "i'd like to do what i can for you for two reasons. your father did a lot for mine. he was one of my few friends. i'd like to give his son a hand if it would help. in the second place, it is to my interest in a business way to see your cannery succeed. it is a market for my fish. i won't sell to the golden rule and the dealers won't pay the express on canning fish. the sooner you start up the better it will be for me. i can tell you right now you have a lot to do." again she paused and looked down at her feet. when she spoke again it was with some hesitation. "if i were you i'd get hold of jack mccoy. he can do more for you than any one else. i wouldn't count too much on blair. i heard from him this morning and they didn't hold out much hope. he's completely run down and that's the kind pneumonia hits hard." gregory nodded. "i know," he said. then he asked: "mccoy was the foreman, wasn't he?" "yes. he's still in town. blair gave him a letter of recommendation but jack won't look for another job until he knows what blair is going to do. he says blair taught him all he knows and he's going to stick to him because he always treated him white." gregory wrote mccoy's address which the girl supplied and she continued: "one of the first things to be done, of course, will be to go all over the machinery. that won't take long. then the supplies and material will have to be checked over and the new stuff ordered. that will take a week for two men." gregory looked at the girl with more respect. apparently she knew something of his business as well as her own. doubtless her association with her father had brought her into close touch with the cannery. as she went on, dickie lang divulged the source of her information. "jack and i have talked you over a lot," she said soberly. "we are both anxious to see you get going." while she talked on concerning the re-opening of the cannery, gregory wondered to what extent her opinion of mccoy's ability was based by personal prejudice. of course it was nothing to him what dickie lang thought of mccoy or of himself either, for that matter. he decided to look mccoy up at once. "then you have to get your labor," she went on. "and that isn't as easy, i have found, as it seems. you see mascola has the bulge on the labor situation around here. he has the riff-raff of the world on his pay-roll. they speak in a dozen different languages. everything almost--but english. they are practically all aliens and there is nothing they won't do to keep a decent man out. blair had hard work to get a crew, i know, and harder work to keep it. he was always hiring and firing. things would go all right for a while. then there would come a row with mascola's outfit and a lot of the boys would get disgusted and leave." gregory interrupted: "i understand from my father's attorney, that one of the biggest things he had to contend with was the matter of getting fish." "i'm coming to that in a minute. let's finish up the labor question while we're on it. you've got to get a certain number of skilled men who can handle the machines. with a few others who have worked in a fish cannery you can go ahead, for the biggest percentage of your labor is unskilled anyway and has to be broken in. men like that are the hardest to get," she concluded, "they are mostly tramps. here to-day and gone to-morrow. you can't depend on them. if you can get a bunch to stick, you're mighty lucky." she paused and moved her chair nearer. then she broached the important subject. "about the fish, you can do one of three things. or rather two things," she corrected, "for i hardly think you'll tie up with mascola. you can fix up your own boats, try to man them and get your own fish. you have twenty-five boats. that's not enough even if they were all in good shape, which they're not." "what do you mean by trying to man my boats?" the girl smiled. "just what i say," she answered. "fishermen are scarce. my father was in business here for twenty years and most of the time he was running short-handed. you can get plenty of men to ride on your boats but they are not fishermen." noting the direction in which the conversation was drifting, gregory resolved to hasten the climax. "do you think you could furnish me with enough fish?" he asked bluntly. "i don't think anything about it. i know i could." "how do you know it?" she hesitated as she cast about in her active brain for a tangible argument to convince the obstinate, square-jawed man before her. of course she could get him the fish. but how could she make him believe it? "my fishermen know the coast for one thing," she began. "that's a whole lot around here. it's a treacherous shore-line and a man who doesn't know it can lose a boat mighty easy. then, i have ten new boats, just the kind you have to have for albacore and tuna. as a general rule you've got to go way out to sea to get them. sometimes as far as diablo. and that means trouble. if you've ever been out to that god-forsaken island you'll understand that it takes real men and boats. i have both." gregory said nothing, but waited for the girl to finish: "i know my game," she concluded, with no spirit of bravado, but merely as if it was only a plain statement of fact. "my men are used to holding their own against mascola. and i can tell you that is worth a lot." gregory nodded. then he said quietly: "your father was never able to supply mine with enough fish to keep this cannery going. isn't that right?" dickie lang was forced to admit the truth of the statement. then she qualified: "he hadn't had the big boats but a few months and they had a run of bad luck from the start." gregory considered her words carefully. "would you be willing to enter into a contract with me to keep the cannery supplied with fish?" he asked, watching her closely. for the first time he saw her show signs of receding from her original position. dickie lang hesitated. her fear of legal entanglements was hereditary. bill lang had settled his differences out of court and had warned his daughter on more than one occasion of the dangers which lurked in a contract. she shook her head. what did she know of this man, save the fact that he bore his father's name? "no," she answered, feeling, however, that she had weakened her previous statement by refusing to make it legally binding. "why not?" the girl realized that their positions were becoming reversed. it was she now who was on the defensive. "because," she answered slowly, "i wouldn't." ashamed that she had given the proverbial reason for feminine change of mind, she added quickly: "you see you may be all right. and then again you may not. i'd like a chance to size you up first." gregory smiled. "that was what i thought about you at the beginning of our talk," he said. his face became instantly serious. "we'll just have to size each other up before we can actually get down to cases. isn't that the truth?" she nodded. "yes. you think i can't make good." "and you just don't know about me," gregory finished for her. then he added: "how are we going to find out about each other?" dickie regarded him gravely. "the ocean is the best test for a man or a woman that i know. it doesn't play any favorites. when a girl goes out there all 'dolled-up' it washes off the paint and powder and shows her up for just what she is. and it shows a man up too. it's always waiting for him to make some mistake. when he does, he has to think and act at the same time. he can't hedge or make excuses. he's got to pay or play. a quitter has no chance with the sea." observing him closely, she concluded: "i could tell more about you on the sea in a minute than i could find out in here in a month." "and i could find out whether or not i thought you knew your business." they laughed together. "i'll be ready any time." dickie was on her feet at his words. "to-morrow morning then, at four o'clock. meet me at our dock and i'll show you i know what i'm talking about." gregory promised and the girl hurried out. for some time the young cannery owner scratched busily at the pad of paper before him, jotting down the substance of his interview with dickie lang. passing through the cannery he came upon the solitary remnant of his floor force whom he had forgotten for the time being. "i'm going down-town for a few minutes, barnes. if anybody asks for me, tell them i'll be back in half an hour." the ex-soldier's eyes brightened at the sight of his employer. "say, mr. gregory, you took me on quick and stayed by me, and i don't want you to think i don't appreciate it, for i do. now that you've canned the other gang, i wonder if there'd be any chance for a couple of my pals. we've been drifting around together and their shoes is worn out same as mine." "what can they do?" "one of them's a chauffeur. he ain't afraid of nothin'. and he can drive anything on wheels. the other one's a steam-fitter by trade, but he'll be glad to nurse a broom or anything else right now." gregory was on the point of telling barnes to wait until he had conferred with mccoy when he noticed the peculiar manner with which his employee held his broom. "what's the matter with your arm?" he asked quietly. barnes tapped the member in question and regarded him somewhat doubtfully. "nothin'," he said. gregory stepped nearer and examined the shoulder carefully. "why didn't you tell me your arm had been hurt?" he asked in a low voice. barnes met his eyes squarely. "because i was afraid it would queer me for a job," he said. "you see, gregory, when a man hires a fellow he figures he's all there. he kind of rents him all over and when he's shy on somethin', he kind of figures the fellow's holding back on him. i didn't want to slip anything over on you. because you were white to me from the start. but i was afraid when you saw my pin was faked you might change your mind." gregory's eyes were fixed intently on the soldier as he went on: "you see i got my insurance. but that ain't enough. my old man died while i was away. and my mother ain't any too well. so i just lets her have the money. but that ain't all there is to it. you see when a fellow's worked and hit the ball, he don't want to lay round and loaf." still gregory said nothing, and barnes, misconstruing his silence, continued: "it's wonderful what a fellow can do with what the doctors leave him when they get through cuttin'. you ought to go up to port angeles and see what the bureau's teaching the poor blind devils. it kind of seems like their eyes goes into their arms and legs, for they can do more with them now than they ever thought of doing before they lost their lamps." he extended his good arm and flexed the muscles until they stood out like lumps of whip-cord. "look at that," he exclaimed. "they's twice the pep in that one since they hacked up the other one. you don't need to be afraid of me not doing a day's work. i----" "are there many of the boys out of work?" gregory found his voice at last. barnes nodded. "scads of 'em. some of them went back to their old jobs. some of them found 'em gone and they was others that couldn't cut it like they used to. the government's tryin' to land 'em all jobs. but it's slow." gregory turned slowly about and retraced his steps in the direction of the office. then he remembered barnes's request. "you can tell your friends to come along," he said. barnes ran after him. "say," he exclaimed, "i forgot to tell you. one of 'em's leg's a little stiff and the other one's shy an eye." gregory whirled about. "they've got brains and hearts left, haven't they?" he challenged. "tell them to come along." walking rapidly to the office he entered and closed the door. when barnes came in at quitting time the room was thick with smoke. in the center of the smoke-screen gregory sat at a small table, hammering away at a typewriter. on a near-by chair, the ex-soldier caught a glimpse of a colored poster, glaringly captioned: jobs for soldiers shutting the door softly behind him he withdrew, smiling to himself. chapter v the way of the gull br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r. the alarm-clock announced the hour imperiously, triumphantly, the importance of the day being manifest in its resonant warning. kenneth gregory leaped from his bed and hastily donned a brand-new suit of overalls. a young man's first business engagement was not lightly to be passed over. particularly when it promised a chance for excitement and new adventure. he dressed quickly and hurried out into the street. with difficulty he stumbled through the dark streets and groped his way along the water-front to the lang wharf. all about him was darkness, opaque and impenetrable. "you're early." gregory found himself blinking into the white light of an electric torch. by his side stood dickie lang. "yes," he answered. "wasn't sure whether my clock was right so i set it half an hour ahead." still holding him in the rays of the light, the girl examined him critically. "all right but your shoes," she announced. "you'll break your neck in those leather soles. i'll see if i can rustle a pair of tennis-shoes." she vanished suddenly and a moment later he saw her light fall upon the burly figures of three bare-footed fishermen shuffling along the dock. she greeted the men familiarly. "got that coil for you, tom. cache it this time where those thieving devils won't beat you to it. coils are hard to get right now. bill, you'd better run down lucas way and scout around for barracuda. they were beginning to hit in there strong this time last year. how's the baby? i phoned to town last night for that medicine i told you about. they said they'd shoot it out on the first mail." as she spoke gregory saw other shadows draw near and hover for a moment in the circle of light. from the hillside above the town lights gleamed from the windows of the fishing colony, the intervening spaces of darkness narrowing second by second until the village stood out like a great checker-board of lights and shadows. against the background of lights he could see the slender figure of the girl passing among the huge fishermen who towered like giants above her. radiating energy wherever she went, criticizing some, commending others and joking away the early-morning grouch, she directed the movements of the constantly increasing stream of men who thronged the dock and despatched the boats one by one into the darkness. when she returned to gregory's side for a moment she held in her hand a tattered pair of rubber-soled shoes. "they're better than nothing," she explained. "when you are a full-fledged fisherman you won't need shoes. you'll get so you can use your toes like fingers and----" the rays of her flash-light, which swept the wharf as she spoke, suddenly brought into view the figure of a man lunging unsteadily along the dock. leaving her sentence unfinished, she was by his side in an instant. "nothing doing, jack. go home and go to bed. i know all about your wife's sick aunt. no time to listen now. if you're sober by afternoon you can go out with the boys drifting." the fisherman started to expostulate but she had already left him. mumbling that she didn't know what sickness was, he stumbled obediently away in the direction of the shore. "he's been drunk since tuesday," she announced as she rejoined gregory. "too bad, too. best man i've got in shallow water. you ought to see him handle a dory in the surf." again the light picked out a newcomer who stood hesitating a few feet away. "what's the trouble, pete? why aren't you on the job?" "i've got to have more money." the words were spoken boldly and in a tone which drew the attention of all about. a number of fishermen shuffled nearer the speaker and ranged themselves beyond the circle of light within easy hearing distance. "you want more money," dickie lang repeated slowly. "well about the only reason i could ever think of for paying you any more would be for your nerve in asking for it. why, i've lost more through your carelessness since you've been on the job than i could make on you in six months. the first shot out of the box you let a piece of barracuda-webbing go adrift and mascola's gang picked it up right before your eyes and you never cheeped. then you put one of my motors on the blink because you were too lazy to watch the oil-feed. where do you think i get off? how long could i run this outfit if all my men were like you? take a brace and come alive, pete. that's the way to get more money out of me or any one else. the harder you hit the ball the more you'll get. i don't want to hog it all. the boys will tell you i shoot square." the fisherman slunk sullenly away and joined his companions. dickie lang turned again to gregory. "that's one of the things i'm up against," she exclaimed in a low voice. "that fellow is a regular agitator. talking is his long suit. why, he didn't even know how to throw a bowline when he hit in here, flat broke and down on his uppers. i've taught him all he knows. and now he's trying to start something. if men weren't so scarce i'd can him in a minute." gregory watched the fleet embark, marveling at the manner in which the burly fishermen took orders from a mere slip of a girl. how it must go against their grain, he thought, to be bossed about by a woman. the last of the boats had cleared before the youthful commodore prepared to follow. "let's go," she exclaimed impatiently. "we're late now. mascola's outfit cleared two hours ago." leading the way she took gregory aboard a small fishing vessel which waited at the float below. the motor started the instant their feet touched the deck and a gruff voice growled: "we've got to go some to make the point by daybreak." the girl nodded to the dark form at the wheel. "you said it, tom. mascola's gang are mighty near down there by now." she cast off the lines and jumped again to the boat as the little craft backed from the slip and headed down the bay. while the boat gained headway under the rapid pulse of the powerful motor, she explained: "got a string of nets off long point. just put them out yesterday. but i've a pretty good idea we'll load up. that is unless mascola tries to sew us up. one of his fishing captains was cruising round last night when i left the set." "but if you had your nets out first," gregory began. a low laugh from the girl interrupted him. "you don't know how mascola does business," she said. "listen, i'll tell you. did you ever notice them throw garbage overboard from the deck of a steamer and see one lone gull flying in her wake? the minute he squawks and swoops down to pick it up there's a hundred of them come from all points of the compass to fight it out with him for the spoils. well, mascola's men are just like that. we may spot the fish first. we generally do. but that doesn't make the slightest bit of difference to mascola. it only saves him the trouble. when our nets are out and he sees we're getting a good haul, he lays around us and cuts us off. do you get the idea?" gregory nodded vaguely. "but can't you do something?" he asked. "i should think----" again the girl laughed. "you bet i can do something," she snapped. "you just watch me. that's what i brought you out here for this morning. if those devils try to lay around me, i'll show them a thing or two. i wish we had an earlier start though," she concluded. "they've got the best of it by a couple of hours." through the darkness they raced to the open sea. the cool morning breeze blew briskly in their faces and gregory noticed they were overhauling a few of the stragglers. "it oughtn't to take you long to catch up with them at this clip," he said admiringly. "are all of your boats as fast as this one?" "if they were it would break me up," the girl answered. "the _petrel's_ my flag ship. she's a gas-hog, but she can travel. she has fifty horse, and built on the lines she is, there aren't many of them around here that can make her run in their wake. only two in fact," she added. "mascola's speed-boat and rossi's fleet-tender." "who is rossi?" "mascola's fishing captain. next to his boss and old rock, one of the biggest crooks in town. he knows his business though," she supplemented half-admiringly, "and is a good man for mascola." "who's rock?" asked gregory. the girl faced about suddenly. "rock's the big man of a little town. he's in everything. the further you go without meeting with him the better off you'll be. he's president of the bank, the rock commercial company and several other concerns. he owns the controlling interest in the golden rule cannery besides. he has a finger in everything. he's a mighty busy man. but he's never too busy to meddle with other people's business. at least he tried to in mine." her teeth snapped in a vicious click. a number of questions crowded to gregory's mind, as they crossed the jettied inlet and headed down the coast. he asked them in rapid-fire order. "how many boats have you?" "twenty-five. using sixteen to-day." "why don't you run them all?" "can't get the men. that is, good ones. i'm hiring and firing all the time. paying thirty-eight now and that leaves me short-handed even with the boats i'm working." "how many boats has mascola?" the girl was silent for a moment. then she answered: "can't say. somewhere about fifty, maybe more. it's hard to check him up. his boats cruise a long way out and some of them don't put in to legonia at all." "what kind of fish are you catching now?" "halibut mostly, some barracuda. haven't tried for sardines or albacore since your cannery shut down." the _petrel_ rolled lazily in the trough of the swell as she sped down the coast. suddenly the darkness ahead was blurred by an indistinct shape and the man at the wheel put the vessel over sharply. as he did so he narrowly escaped a collision with an unlighted boat which loomed directly across their bow. "trawler fishing within the three-mile limit without lights," the girl explained to her passenger. gregory remembered dickie lang's words concerning alien interference. he knew that running without lights was illegal. why was the law not enforced? in answer to his question, the girl burst out: "you just wait. i couldn't take the time now to tell you of all the laws mascola breaks and if i did you wouldn't believe me." "how can he get by with it?" gregory asked. dickie lang walked to the rail and searched the dark water in the direction of the shore before she replied: "there are three different kinds of laws out here. the navigation laws are made by the government, the fishing laws by the state, and the law of the sea is made by the fishermen. if you break the pilot-rules they'll haul you up before the local inspector at port angeles and fine you, take away your license or put you in jail. but they've got to have the proof and that is hard to get. if you break the state's laws you run up against the fish commissioner. his deputies do their best to protect the fish and see that the fishermen use the right kind of gear. if they catch an outfit with the goods, they put them over. but it's hard to do." she stared away into the faintly graying darkness. "cut through the kelp, tom. it will save us a little and we're going to need it." "and the fisherman's law you spoke about. what is that?" gregory queried. she faced him suddenly. "i don't know how to explain it," she said. "every one has to learn it for himself. it's the law of the biggest and fastest boat. the law of the longest and strongest arm. the law of sand and a quick trigger." gregory felt his pulse quicken as she went on: "you see we have to depend on ourselves out here to settle our troubles. whatever happens, happens quick. generally there are not many witnesses. if you knew trouble was coming, you might get a deputy to come out, but the chances are ten to one they wouldn't. they would say it was only a fisherman's row and tell you to swear out a warrant. and if you go to law, mascola will bring five witnesses for each of yours and they'll outswear you every time for they can lie faster than a man can write it down." again she paused and searched the gray border of the receding curtain of night. far away gregory could hear the roar of the breakers. from out the gray dusk ahead appeared the shadowy outline of a rugged promontory jutting far out into the sea. "keep close in, tom. our last string's dead ahead, off peeble beach. when you get around the point swing on the outside of coward rocks and give her all she'll stand." she walked slowly about the deck with her eyes fixed on the wave-washed shore-line. "so you see each outfit makes its own laws and it's up to them to enforce them. our law is to mind our own business and get the fish. the only law we break is mascola's. he tries to tell us where to fish. he bullies the ones he can and fights the ones he can't in any way that is easiest and safest. he's a thief and a crook and he'd commit murder in a minute if he thought he could get by with it." the idea lodged in her brain. she leaned closer and exclaimed in a low voice: "and how do we know he doesn't get by with murder the way he does with everything else? there's many a man picked up along the coast as a 'floater' that nobody knows how he drowned." daybreak was upon them as they hugged the shore-line and slipped into the protecting shadow of long point. dickie lang's words sank deep into gregory's consciousness. a half-formed question found its way at last to his lips. "do you think," he began, but was interrupted by the man at the wheel. "can't make the inside channel. have to go round." he altered the helm as he spoke. dickie lang jumped to his side. "we've got to run the short-cut, tom. no use going round. they'd spot us a mile away in this light. if they're laying round my nets i want to surprise them. i'll take the boat." the fisherman surrendered the wheel and sidled out of the way. "she's your boat," he said with blunt emphasis. "but don't forget it's my license. i wouldn't take the chance." the girl nodded. "my license is hanging up in the engine-room," she retorted. "if anything happens, it's me that is responsible. i won't forget." she spun the wheel over as she spoke and the _petrel_ swerved like a gull and headed straight for the rugged cliff which towered high above the foaming water, bold and defiant of the angry waves which dashed relentlessly at its base. off the port bow gregory saw a narrow pathway of quiet water fringed on one side by white-toothed swells, on the other by the barnacled feet of the point itself. he leaned over the rail and followed the course of the ribbon-like path which wound like a snake among the curling waves and jagged rocks. could that be the channel the girl meant to take? dickie lang's eyes were fixed with his upon the devious waterway. the hand which held the wheel was steady and the _petrel_ plunged boldly on as if bent upon flinging its fragile shell upon the time-defying rocks of long point. gregory measured the distance to the overhanging ledge. what was the use of taking such a chance as this? it looked like one in a million. in another minute they would pile up. they were almost abreast of the thread-like channel when he saw the fingers on the wheel tighten. the steering gear whirred and the _petrel_ leaped forward to answer the master-hand at the helm. then came the miracle. the slim bow of the little craft swung about. for a second she wallowed in the trough of the ground-swell, rose high on its foaming crest and nestled slowly down in the quiet water of the rock-bound channel. and the distance to safety had been gained by the scant margin of only a few inches. a sharper or blunter turn would have ripped the vessel from bow to stern. was it luck? he shook his head slowly. then he began to understand why the fishermen took orders from dickie lang. he was recalled to himself by a laughing voice and he saw that the girl's eyes were sparkling, as she said without turning her head: "did you think you were going to have to swim ashore?" gregory laughed. "i could feel the water about my ears," he said. then he added: "do you do stunts like that often?" she shook her head. "sometimes it is necessary to take a chance," she answered. "you've got to catch mascola's bunch red-handed. when we round the 'bull-nose' we'll be right on top of our nets." her lips were firmly compressed and the little lines which suddenly appeared about her mouth were hard. with her eyes still held by the barnacled rocks, she snapped: "then you may see something." they were nearing the end of long point. throttling the throbbing motor until its soft breathing could be heard only a few boat-lengths, she nodded to the fisherman: "all right, tom. she's yours. plenty of water from here on. when you round 'bull-nose' head for the cove with all you've got." relieved from the wheel she dodged into the engine-room and returned with two rifles. flashing a glance shoreward to determine the _petrel's_ position she rejoined gregory and handed him one of the guns. gregory reached eagerly for the weapon. for the past hour he had been forced to sit by a spectator. now was a chance to do something. to play a game he knew. his fingers caressed the stock of the winchester as the girl exclaimed: "don't suppose there is any use telling you how to shoot. only at sea things are a little different. you have to count on the roll. sight full until you get on the range. distances are deceiving on the water. pull on the slow rise if you can. that's when she's steadiest." he noted her quiet manner of speaking and the businesslike way with which she handled her gun. what she meant for him to do he did not clearly understand. whatever it was, she would find him ready. he slipped a shell into the barrel from the magazine, and waited. he noticed that the girl was watching him closely as they came to the end of the winding channel. then she gave him brief instructions. "when we pass that big rock ahead we'll head in. then you will see a string of nets. you may see two strings, one laid around the other. if any of mascola's gang are hanging around i'm going to try to persuade them to give me sea-way." she set her lips grimly and tapped the rifle. drawing a pair of binocular-glasses from her pocket she focused them carefully. "don't shoot until i do. if they are trying to lay around i'll open up on them and start them moving. aim at the water-line and pump away as fast as you like. all right, tom. give her the gun." the _petrel_ leaped under the advancing throttle and raced for the curiously fashioned nub at the cliff's end. gregory crowded forward, striving to catch a glimpse of the water beyond. as they flashed by the "bull-nose" she saw silhouetted against the brightening light which streamed across the water from the beach, the sharp outline of a fishing-boat. then he heard a low exclamation from the girl. "he's laid around my string," she gritted, and again the glasses flashed to her eyes. she whirled on the fisherman. "look at that, tom! he's stripping my nets. i've got him with the goods this time and, so help me god, i'm going to make him pay. don't shoot," she cautioned gregory. "wait till we get closer. i want to get him with the deadwood. wide open, tom, we'll run him off his legs. i'll----" a puff of white smoke drifted upward from the deck of the launch ahead and floated lazily above the rigging. some fifty feet beyond the port bow of the _petrel_ the water leaped upward in a tiny spout. dickie's rifle sounded in gregory's ear and the report of his own prolonged the echoes. as he pumped in another cartridge he noted that the girl's eyes were shining and her red lips were parted in a smile. between shots he heard her mutter: "can you beat that? the dirty robbers are going to stay and fight?" chapter vi the law of the fishermen her decks spouting flame, the _petrel_ raced on to meet the enemy. gregory crowded close to the rail and dropped to his knee. the girl was right about the roll. he shoved the rifle through a cross-stay, sighted carefully and pulled the trigger. "i have the system now," he called. she nodded. "that's the stuff. aim for the engine-house. they're shooting from the ports." [illustration: "aim for the engine-house!"] the bullets from the alien craft were flying wide. the fusillade from the _petrel_ was evidently interfering with the enemy's marksmanship. "no expert riflemen there," gregory commented. dickie shook her head. "a knife's their long suit," she answered. "i never saw them shoot much before. don't believe they----" a jingle of breaking glass interrupted her and the starboard side-lamp toppled from the bracket and crashed to the deck. "get down," gregory commanded. "they're getting the range." the girl smiled and wiped away the blood which spurted from a small cut in her cheek. "just fool luck," she answered, leaning coolly against the stays and reloading her rifle. "that was only an accident." gregory was by her side in an instant. grasping her roughly by the arm he said harshly: "get down, i tell you." she jerked away her arm and started to speak. then she dropped to the deck. "maybe you're right at that," she admitted, a smile playing about her lips. the firing became brisker as the distance lessened between the two boats, while the enemy bullets became wilder and more desultory. dickie ceased firing and turned to the man at the wheel. "it's rossi with the _roma_. he's getting under way." she flung out an arm pointing in the direction of the stubby-nosed point which lay across the little bay. "head for the arch, tom. we'll cut him off." pointing to the fleeing boat she explained to gregory: "he's almost in shoal water right now. to get out he's got to follow the channel. it's dead low tide and he'll have to make a big bend to get out. we'll cut across and head him off. he has the speed of us and a quarter of a mile lead. but he has farther to go. if he opens up he's liable to pile up on the rocks. it's about an even bet he'll make it for he's clever. but if he does we'll be right on top of him when he comes out. then i'll teach him a lesson he won't forget in a hurry." the _petrel_ altered her course while she was speaking and sped off at a tangent. the _roma_, dashing shoreward, turned and angled sharply, running parallel to her pursuer. "he's sure pounding her," the girl observed as she noted the increasing distance which separated the two boats. "if he holds that clip when he comes to that figure s channel, he'll never make the turns." she shut her jaw tighter. "cut in a little closer, tom," she ordered. "we'll make him take all the chances there are." gregory climbed to the top of the engine-house and watched the _roma_ dodging among the rocks like a frightened rabbit. dickie lang was poised in the bow like a figurehead, one foot resting on the rail. her hair, jerked from her cap by the fingers of the dawn-wind, streamed out behind her in a shower of dull red gold. her eyes were shining with the joy of the chase. "he's almost at the turn," she called back. "he'll never make it on an outgoing tide. he's got to slow up. if he does, we've got him. if he doesn't----" she was interrupted by a muffled exclamation from the man at the wheel. the _roma's_ bow was rising from the water. for an instant she planed like a high-powered racing-boat. then, as if exhausted by the chase, she settled slowly to rest in the white water, her masts angling sharply toward the beach. "high and dry on mussel rocks," dickie lang announced. "it's a flood tide to-day and with the big ground swell she hasn't a chance." as they neared the wreck they saw the crew of the stranded vessel huddled together on the sloping deck. "don't go in any closer, tom," cautioned the girl. "the tide's turning. they can wade ashore and watch her break up." as they circled closer to make the turn, gregory noticed a red-shirted giant leap from the wreck of the fishing-boat into the shallow water, waving his arms wildly about his head. but the noise of the _petrel's_ motor drowned the voice of the infuriated fishing captain and his threats and curses were heard only by his own crew. "it isn't rossi, after all," dickie observed as she caught sight of the red-shirted figure. "it's boris, the crazy russian. i never knew mascola to trust him with a boat like the _roma_ before." the _petrel_ turned about and, burying her nose in the big swells, made haste to leave the dangerous water. "head for the nets," the girl ordered. "i'm not through with mascola yet. he has my fish on the _roma_. if i had a dory i'd go in there and get them. but it isn't good enough to risk the _petrel_." as they came nearer the two strings of nets, dickie explained: "i'm going to work the same game on mascola that the fish commissioner does when he catches them trawling within the three-mile limit. i'm going to salvage his nets and make him pay for his crooked work to get his property. lay to, tom, and we'll pull them aboard with mine." the fisherman drew alongside the row of bobbing corks with a grim smile playing about his lips. "have to rustle," he observed. "you know how mascola's boats follow up." the girl tossed her head. "i don't care if his whole fleet comes along. and him with them. i'm going to make him pay me for those fish boris stole from my nets. i can't take it into court but----" she paused in the middle of her sentence as her eyes swept the sea. focusing the binoculars on a small speck on the horizon, she announced: "here comes mascola now in his speed-boat. we'll haul them aboard, boys. then i'll talk business with the dago. get his nets first." falling to eagerly, gregory received his first lesson in pulling the nets. with straining back and smarting fingers he worked by the fisherman's side hauling the heavy webbing to the deck. as they reached the middle of the string the weight of the sagging nets increased and a number of glistening barracuda floundered from the water, gilled by the strong mesh. the girl observed the fish with darkening brow. "the dirty robbers," she exclaimed wrathfully. "look what they have already. i'll bet i'd have had a good haul if they had let me alone." gregory noticed as he straightened up that the distant speck on the water was fast assuming the proportions of a motor-launch. he noticed too that the approaching craft was coming at a high rate of speed and was swerving shoreward. tugging harder at the nets, he worked doggedly on, listening to the staccato bark of the speed-craft as mascola drew close. they were hauling at the last string when he came within hailing distance. "what's the matter?" he called. "you're pulling my nets." "don't pay any attention to him," admonished dickie lang. "i'm not going to hollow my head off. keep working and wait until he comes alongside." with his motor purring like an angry cat, mascola whirled his craft about in a wave-washed circle and drew abreast of the _petrel_. at the same instant gregory and the fisherman lifted the last piece of the italian's nets to the deck. gregory straightened his aching back and looked toward the early morning visitor, but his eyes did not get as far as mascola. they remained riveted on the launch. never had he seen such a boat. she poised on the waves like a gull, quivering with potential energy, ready for instant flight. from her sharply v-ed bow to her delicately molded stern, every line of the trim craft spoke eloquently of the plan of a master-designer who fashioned her with a single purpose--speed. "what's the matter i say? you're pulling my nets." gregory freed his eyes with an effort from the launch to survey its owner. mascola turned angrily on the leather cushion and glared at the _petrel's_ deck. dickie lang walked coolly to the rail. "sure i'm pulling your nets," she said. "i've got them all aboard. and that's where they're going to stay until you pay me for the fish your outfit took from my nets." "i never take your fish. i don't know----" "oh, yes you do, mascola. boris laid around me and robbed my nets. there's my webbing lying right where i put it out. i caught that crazy russian of yours with the goods and he lost his head and your boat. he's piled up over there on the beach." mascola rose hastily and followed the direction of her arm. in his anger at beholding dickie taking his nets from the water he had not noticed the wreck of the _roma_. a torrent of italian words burst from his lips. his cheeks purpled and his eyes grew hot with passion. when he controlled himself to speak in english he cried: "i'll have you arrested for stealing my nets. i'll get a warrant and search your wharf and your house." "but you won't find your nets." dickie lang supplied the words and went on: "listen, you crook, if you and i don't settle this thing up right now you won't find a piece of your nets big enough to swear what it is. i'm not trying to rob you like you robbed me. i just want what's coming to me. not a cent more. if you give me that i'll throw your webbing over. if you don't i'll trail them every inch of the way to legonia and cut them into ribbons with the propeller. it's up to you, mascola." the italian flashed a glance to the cove where the _roma's_ angling mast appeared against the beach. then he looked out to sea and his eyes brightened as the mast of a fishing-boat rounded the point and turned shoreward. it was ankovitch with the _lura_. his launch rode high on a capping swell and a puff of wind caused him to look anxiously at the beach. the tide was beginning to set in strong and the breeze was freshening. he snapped out his watch and scowled. whatever was done for the _roma_ must be done at once. "what do you want?" he flashed. "pay for the fish you stole from my nets. from what i saw in your nets i figure i had all of a ton." she glanced at the fish lying on the deck. "you've got about five hundred here. i'll allow you for that. you pay me the difference at three cents. that will be forty-five dollars." mascola glared. his hand crept slowly to his pocket. "none of that." the girl's words cut like a knife. the hand which lay in her pocket turned and the coat bulged outward. "i was getting my money," mascola growled. "all right. face about the other way when you get it." as the italian turned, dickie lang caught up a rifle and threw it loosely over her shoulder. mascola turned to look straight into the muzzle and drew back sharply. then he flourished a roll of bills. "quick," he said. "you have me at a disadvantage this time. i will pay. here is the money." he tossed the bills to the deck. "all right, mascola. that squares us for to-day. i'll dump your nets over right where they are as soon as i check up the money. and the next time you try to lay around me i'm going to run through your nets and cut them to pieces." mascola dropped to the cushioned seat and whirled half about. "i will not forget," he said. "to-day you win. next time----" his words were lost in the roar of his motor. the speed-boat shot forward like a horse at the touch of a spur. in a whirl of white water mascola sped away for the beach. chapter vii you'll have to show me the sky was reddening in the east when the last of the nets were pulled aboard. rounding long point, the _petrel_ took up the homeward track as the sun peeped over the low brown hills and caressed the sea. dickie lang looked back at the wreck of the _roma_ and the light of victory died slowly from her eyes. "i'm not sorry for mascola," she exclaimed. "he got only what was coming to him. but i am sorry for the little boat. she was a good little scout and she was game to the end. you'll find that boats are a good deal like people," she went on, "when you know them as well as i do. some of them are cranky and have to be coaxed along. others are just plain lazy and must be pounded on the back. and there are some that are treacherous and the minute they get you in a tight place, they will lay down cold." her last words gave her the cue to continue: "and the ocean is full of tight places. mascola found himself in one this morning. he had the sense to realize it and act before it was too late. it went against his grain to be beaten by a girl. but by cashing in when he did, he saved a boat perhaps. so he put his pride in his pocket. sometimes you've got to do that," she concluded seriously. "it hurts. but it's business." gregory's face showed his surprise at her annunciation of the business principle and, sensing that her admission might become embarrassing at some future time, the girl changed the subject abruptly. "did you see mccoy yesterday?" she asked. "yes. we had a long talk last night. he's coming to work for me as house-foreman." "that's fine," dickie commended. "you'll like him. he'll be just the man for you." gregory nodded. "yes," he answered. "i think we'll get on fine when we understand each other better." "what do you mean? you haven't had a row with jack already, have you?" "not exactly. just a difference of opinion. i had an idea i worked out yesterday. mccoy couldn't see it." "what was the idea?" "it was a plan i had for getting labor. i wanted to hire a certain class of men. mccoy didn't." "how did it come out?" "i'm going to hire them, of course. i told mccoy if he didn't like it, he could take the job or leave it. he decided to take it." "it's the foreman's job to hire the help," the girl observed. "what was your plan?" gregory looked the girl full in the eyes for a moment. then he began: "i'm going to organize my business on a cooperative basis, make my employees partners, pay them a graduated minimum wage and a share in the profits which will be held back as a bonus to make it worth their while to stick with me during the season." "and mccoy thought it wouldn't work?" "yes." "neither do i." "why not?" dickie knew the question was coming and was already prepared to give her reasons. "when a man works for you," she explained, "he wants his money every saturday night. he's earned it and he should have it. he may leave the minute it's in his fingers and hit the grit again. but he's worked a week at least and that's something. if he thinks you're holding out on him to get him to stick, he wouldn't even start." "that is what mccoy said. but you are both wrong. the men i am figuring on hiring will stick. that is why i am hiring them." "don't think much of a bunch like that," dickie commented. "a man that can't get a job to-day is a bum. and the fellow doesn't live that ever gets through knocking around. that is if he's a real man." "you're wrong again," gregory contradicted. "they are eighteen-carat men. i've tried them out already. i know." "where?" "in france." "you mean soldiers?" "yes. i called up a friend of mine last night in port angeles. he used to be first lieutenant in my company. he's a reporter on _the times_ now. hawkins told me a lot of the boys were out of work and he promised to look up a number of addresses of men in my old outfit. to-morrow i'm going to the city to round them up. they've stood by me before in many a tight place. it cost them a lot sometimes. but they stuck just the same. now i've got a chance to stick by them. and i'm going to do it because i know they'll come up to the scratch." the girl was impressed by the earnestness of his words. he meant well of course. it was a splendid idea but---- she voiced her objections. "you'll find business is a different game from war." "perhaps. but in both there is hard fighting. and when you are going into a scrap with all you've got, you want men behind you you can bank on." "i wouldn't bank on them too strong. a lot of the ones i've seen think they're too good to work at an ordinary job. they have an idea the war has made them worth a lot more money than they really are. they like to tell what great things they've done. but when it comes to----" "i've seen that kind, too. on both sides of the water. over there no one depended on them. they were shunted from pillar to post until they hit a place where they couldn't even hear the guns. when the war was over they came back. they were whole. and they talked." he paused for a moment and looked down at the deck. then he went on in a low voice: "the kind i'm figuring on are not whole. and they don't talk." dickie lang said no more. when a man spoke with such depth of feeling, what was the use of trying to talk him out of it. of course he was wrong. but he'd just have to find it out for himself. in silence they neared the entrance to the bay and threaded their way among the fishing-boats as they drew up to the lang wharf. gregory roused himself at the sight of the lang dock and turned to the girl. "you took me out this morning," he said, "to show me you knew your business. now it's up to me to show you i know mine. i'm going right to work. i expect a hard fight, but i'll tell you right now this idea of mine is going to win out." dickie smiled as they drew alongside the dock. "go to it," she said. "i won't say you're wrong. but you'll certainly have to show me." chapter viii a declaration of independence "what do you expect me to do with a bunch of cripples like that?" jack mccoy burst into the office of the legonia fish cannery and hurled the question angrily at his young employer. gregory looked hard at mccoy's flushed face and snapping gray eyes. then he said quietly: "i expect you to train them." "my god!" mccoy came a step closer. then he burst out: "don't you know it's hard enough to run a cannery with real men without----" gregory was on his feet in an instant. "don't say it," he gritted. "unless you want to hook up with me right now." mccoy sought to explain. "i'm not saying anything against them," he said. "but you don't understand. i wonder if you have any idea what it means to break in a bunch like that." "yes. that is why i hired you. i believed you could do it. if you can't, i'll find some one else who will." gregory leaned against the desk. "listen, mccoy," he said. "you and i have to get down to cases right now. there's no use flying off the handle. if you have anything to say, i'll hear it. anything except a word against those men out there. they've had enough already. you told me the other day," he went on, "you could break in anybody who'd stick. you showed me just the kind of work there is to do. these men i'll guarantee will stick and i think you'll get quite a jolt when you see what they've been taught to do. they're not all cripples. i've got some huskies for the strong-arm stuff. and there is a lot the other fellows can do. i want you to show them how. you are not taking much of a chance that i can see. you'll get your money the same as you always have, more if you stick through. and every dollar we make, you'll have a few cents of it at least. can you see anything wrong with that?" "i don't see where you're going to get off. you seem to think there is a fortune in this business. i'll tell you there isn't. it's hard sledding to make both ends meet as it is." "i know it. last night i sat up half the night going over the books. i found my father lost more money on account of labor trouble than from any other cause." "except not being able to get fish," corrected mccoy. "exactly. that's labor just the same. since this idea came to me it's getting bigger all the time. i'm going to extend it to the boats as well as the inside. i've got a plan to have miss lang take charge of the fishing end, train my men and run her boats for me on a flat rental and salary." mccoy began to show more interest. "is she in on the deal?" he asked. "i haven't had a chance to talk with her yet. i'm going to see her to-day." mccoy smiled. "i'd like to see dick's face when you spring the proposition of having her work for you," he said. "suppose she turns me down. has that anything to do with your working for me?" mccoy's face flushed. "don't know that it has," he admitted, "but----" the telephone interrupted further conversation and gregory turned to the instrument. "yes--mr. gregory at the phone. all right." mccoy watched the silent figure as he listened to the message; saw his jaws set tighter as he replaced the receiver and faced about. "i'd kind of like to talk this thing over with blair," mccoy began. "you see----" "i just received a telegram from the sanitarium. mr. blair died this morning at nine o'clock." mccoy crumpled in his chair and rested his head in his hands. "poor old john," he muttered brokenly, "i ought to have gone up last night when they phoned me he was so much worse." he raised his head and there were tears shining in his eyes. "they didn't make them any whiter than john blair," he said. gregory agreed. "i knew him only slightly," he said. "but i surely counted on him. his loss means a lot to me. i'll go up there right away and see if there is anything i can do. would you like to go with me?" mccoy could only nod and the two men left the building together. the hearts of men are tested in various crucibles. in a smoothly-moving world human paths diverge and the grooves are often widened by indifference. in times of stress, the diverse threads of commonplace existence may merge into a single strand. then it is that casual acquaintances become friends, when man rubs elbow with man and hearts beat together in mutual sympathy and understanding. jack mccoy returned to legonia saddened by the loss of an old friend; gladdened by the belief that he had found a new one. it was not what gregory had done that made the difference to mccoy; simply the way he had done it. any man with money could have defrayed the expenses of blair's sickness and funeral. but it took a real man to make the gratuity appear as a favor to the donor. when he met gregory at the cannery the morning after their return to legonia, mccoy was not slow in admitting that he was strong for the boss. "if we had time, jack," gregory was saying, "there is nothing i'd rather do right now than give you a week off on full pay. but you know what that would mean to us at this time. before we start in i want to make you another proposition." as the foreman said nothing, he asked bluntly: "how would you like the job as house manager?" "fine," mccoy answered. "do you think i could cut it?" "do you?" "yes," mccoy answered with no hesitation. "all right then," gregory answered in the same manner. "so do i. you've got a real job ahead of you. minutes are going to count in the next few days. the next batch of my service men are due to-morrow." mccoy jumped up. "that means a day's work for me," he exclaimed, and hurried out. gregory glanced at his watch. the next thing to be done was to see dickie lang. the matter of securing fish was of cardinal importance. the girl would be at the dock about this time. it would afford him a good chance to make his proposal while she was getting the fish ready for shipment. some time after gregory had left the cannery, barnes reported he was out of carborundum and mccoy set out at once for legonia. "they'd be all day sending it up," he said. "i've got to go down anyway and check over some stuff for us at the freight-house so it might as well be now." on nearing the lang dock he heard dickie's voice issuing from a pile of fish-boxes at the shore end. mccoy checked his steps involuntarily at the girl's words, and without meaning to--listened. "so you want to pay me a flat rate for my boats and hire me to train your men with my fishermen?" "yes. with a share in the profits." it was gregory's voice. mccoy noted the quiet tone used by the girl. he felt ashamed to eavesdrop. but he was torn with curiosity to hear dick's answer. "well, you've got your nerve, i'd say. and then some. do you think you can run my business better than i can myself?" "if i did, i'd try to buy you out. i'm asking you to run my boats as well as your own and----" "be your hired girl." dickie supplied the words and went on angrily: "say, the lang boats were here a long time before you came. and they'll be here as long after you go. they have gone on their own hook ever since they went into the water. and that's the way they are going to stay. my dad never took orders from anybody. he ran his boats the way he pleased. he was independent. i'm the same way. and i want to tell you right now, i wouldn't sell out my independence to you or any other man." mccoy crept back into the shadow of the fishing-boxes and making a wide detour went on into town. he was sorry he had listened. it wasn't a white thing to do. he liked gregory. he was his friend. then why, he asked himself, was he kind of glad that dick had turned down his proposition? chapter ix diablo luck busy days followed for kenneth gregory, and with the loyal support of jack mccoy, much was accomplished. the legonia fish cannery wakened from its long sleep and took on new life. from the receiving floor to the warehouse everything had been carefully overhauled and put into first-class shape. necessary repairs and alterations had been made. supplies and material were on hand. a nucleus of skilled labor had been carefully selected by mccoy and brought to train the service men who came to legonia on every incoming train. the sleepy little fishing village viewed the vanguard of the ex-soldiers with sullen indifference. silvanus rock had told them not to worry their heads over the "efforts of an impractical dreamer to turn the town upside down." and who knew, if rock didn't? as the days went by, however, and the invasion became more noticeable, the alien element of the fishing colony began to experience a feeling of sharp resentment against the new owner of the legonia cannery and his wild scheme. but again the foremost citizen had come to the fore and quieted their fears, turning them into open contempt and ridicule by his words: "what can he do with a bunch of crippled rag-a-muffins? look at them for yourselves. there's hardly a whole man among them. i give him a month to go to the wall. it's the old saying of a 'fool and his money.'" the opening of the new cannery presented every appearance of proving the truth of rock's prophecy and caused the aliens to laugh openly. "how can they run without fish?" sneered mascola as he checked the catch of the incoming boats. "they haven't had enough in a week to pay them to keep up steam." ten days after the opening gregory was asking jack mccoy the same question. "i tell you, mac, something has to be done. the lang boats are falling down on the job. you'll admit we haven't had a paying run since we started and expenses are climbing." mccoy nodded. "i know it," he agreed. "but dick has had hard luck. none of the boats have brought in much lately. the fish have taken out to sea. then mascola's men have been causing a lot of trouble." "that's just it," gregory interrupted. "the girl's tackled too big a job. i was afraid of it all the time. she's all right, jack. i'm not saying a word against her. but she was foolish to get on her 'high-horse' and turn down my proposition. it's a man's job to get all the fish we're going to need. not a woman's. of course i know she's doing her best," he went on. "but we can't go on this way. if she can't make good on her contract we'll have to take it out of her hands. i'm only going to give her a few more days." "then what?" mccoy questioned. "then we'll run things ourselves. i've been figuring on it for three or four days. that's why i'm having all our boats put in shape." "how will you man them?" asked mccoy quickly. "i've arranged for that too. the last time i was in the city i lined up a bunch of ex-navy men. they are fair sailors and have had some experience in handling launches and small boats. i'm going to bring them down here the same as i figured at first. if the girl wants to help me with her men, all right. if not, we'll go it alone. it's a ground-hog case. we've got to get the fish." "i wish dick wasn't so darned independent," observed mccoy. "if it was anybody else, they'd jump at your offer." "that's the trouble," gregory admitted. "she's a woman and she's mighty hard to talk out of an idea she sets her mind on. if i was dealing with a man i'd have come to a show-down long before this. as it is, i'm going to see her this afternoon and try to get down to brass tacks." a screech of the steam whistle interrupted further speech and the two men jumped to their feet and hurried out on the floor of the cannery at the signal to resume work. "only have enough to run about an hour," mccoy answered in response to gregory's question concerning the supply of fish on hand. and as he noticed the frown on his employer's face, he supplemented: "we've had enough the last few days to break the crew in anyway." "that's something, but it isn't good enough," gregory answered. "you're fixed right now to handle three times what we're getting. and i'm paying for it. i'm not worrying about things in here, mac. everything is going fine." he paused suddenly and his face glowed with enthusiasm as he walked nearer the cutting-bench. "look at the way those poor blind fellows are taking to their job, mac," he whispered. "they can't tell black from white but watch them work. they'll be doing as much in a week as a man with two good eyes. how are you coming, dorgan?" he addressed a cutter working at the nearest bench. the blind man turned quickly. "fine, capt. it's getting easier all the time. 'twon't be long before i'll be making real wages at this job." they passed from the blind cutters and came to the capping machine where a man with an artificial leg was being instructed in soldering the cans. again gregory's eyes expressed his satisfaction. "that's fine, carlson," he commended. "you're getting on fine." the man at the machine nodded. "nothing much to it," he answered cheerfully. "got kind of tired standing at first. but i don't notice it much now." kenneth gregory strove to express his appreciation of mccoy's work as they came to one of the empty warehouses, but the manager refused to take the credit. "it was your idea," he said, "you paid me to carry it out. at first i didn't think much of it. but now i believe it's going to work. the men are tickled to death. i never had a crew that tried so hard to learn or picked it up so quickly. i can handle an average run with them right now and they've only been working broken hours for a week." gregory turned quickly to mccoy and said earnestly: "it's a big idea, mac. it will work. it's got to work. it's getting bigger all the time. and i'll be damned if i'm going to have a girl hang me up by falling down on her job." he shut his lips tight as he drew a blue-print from his pocket and spread it out on an empty case. "now i want to go over these plans for making a bunk-house out of this building. the boys can't get a decent place to stay in the town. the contractor will be here in half an hour. after i've closed with him i'm going down to the lang dock and see the girl." * * * * * dickie lang paced the docks in nervous expectancy while she checked in her returning fleet and conferred with one of her fishing captains. "i'll tell you, tom, we've got to get them. i'm under contract to supply mr. gregory with fish and i can't fall down like this. look here." shoving a tally-sheet before his eyes, she pointed to the totals. "not enough there to last him half a day. he's beginning to eat them up. we've got to get more." "but if they ain't runnin', what you going to do?" "go after them," she snapped. "mascola's getting fish. he's going out to sea for them. he brought in a good haul yesterday from diablo. that's why i sent the big boats over there with the _petrel_ scouting ahead." the fisherman shook his head dubiously. "you're takin' a tall chance," he said slowly. "things happen out diablo way. your dad never could make it stick out there. he lost a heap around that devil-island. that's why he give up fishin' out there." "he didn't give it up," the girl flashed, "any more than i'm going to give it up. diablo's got your goats, and you know it. there's always fish around the island and i'll bet you two to one when the fleet comes back they'll have them to burn." turning with disgust, dickie walked to the end of the dock and sought to pierce the shifting curtain of mist which hung about the inlet. it came to her suddenly that in her anger at gregory's proposal, she had made a big promise. moreover she had entered into a contract which she was finding more difficult to fulfill than she had imagined. perhaps she was a fool not to have taken up the cannery-owner's proposition. at least it was worth considering. by accepting his terms all the worry would have been shifted to him and she would have been able to play safe. in a year she would have been out of debt. with her boats paid for, she could afford to be independent. now, she was going further behind each day. worse than that, she was falling down on her contract. * * * * * finishing his business with the contractor a half-hour before closing time, gregory hurried down to the lang wharf. he found the girl busied with her tally-sheets and stepped behind a row of fish-boxes and waited. from his position he could see the neighboring dock where a number of alien fishermen were at work mending nets. apart from the others was the huge figure of a red-shirted man standing motionless, scowling in the direction of the lang wharf. as he looked closer, he became conscious of the fact that he had seen the red-shirted giant before. boisterous laughter floated across the intervening strip of water and a scarlet sleeve flashed as the big man shook his fist threateningly at the rival dock. "they are kidding the russian about losing the _roma_ and getting canned by the boss," explained a fisherman who was passing by. "boris is sorer than a boiled owl at being run on the rocks by a girl." gregory watched the excited foreigner in silence. a man like that could cause a lot of trouble. suddenly he heard the sound of low voices on the other side of the lane of fish-boxes. "what's that got to do with it? we've got to live as well as she has. we ain't gettin' enough i tell you, and you know it. what's the use of bein' a damn fool?" the words died away in a low mumble as the men passed on. gregory emerged from his cover and looked after the two fishermen. then he noticed the girl had finished her calculations and hurried toward her. "i suppose you want to know what i have," she anticipated. "well, i haven't much yet. if you stay round a little while though i'll show you a real haul. i'm expecting my boats back at any minute from el diablo." gregory scarcely knew how to begin the interview. the girl was clearly unreasonable and flared up at the slightest intimation that she was unable to manage her own business. and yet it was perfectly clear that she could not. "fish is what we're needing right now," he said with blunt emphasis. "we're ready to go. mccoy has a good crew and he can handle them fast. a whole lot faster than we've been getting them," he added. she interrupted as he knew she would. "well, i'm doing my level darnedest," she retorted. "if i wasn't i guess i wouldn't have risked my best boats at diablo in a fog." as gregory said nothing in the way of argument, she challenged: "do you think you could do any better?" "yes," he answered without any hesitation, "i think i could. that is if you would help me. i think if we would pull together on this proposition we could do a whole lot. right now you are threatened with labor trouble." "you don't know what you're talking about. my men are loyal to me and always have been. they'll stick from start to finish." gregory related the conversation he had overheard a few minutes before. as he finished, he noted that a worried expression crept to the girl's eyes, though she said: "what's that amount to? there are always some who are dissatisfied and try to cause trouble. i'm well rid of a bunch like that anyway. there are not many of them." it was on gregory's tongue to broach his proposal when he saw the girl looking eagerly past him into the wall of fog. through the veil he caught the dim outline of an approaching fishing-boat. "here comes the _curlew_ back from diablo. before you say anything more wait until you see what luck they've had. if i don't miss my guess we'll have fish enough for you now all right." together they walked down the steep gangway to the swaying float. "if i can't get them at diablo, i can't get them anywhere," exclaimed dickie lang. then she shouted to the captain of the _curlew_: "what luck, jones?" from the gray void of fog a deep voice floated back: "diablo luck. never got nothin' and the _petrel_ was smashed to hell." chapter x salvage dickie lang was nonplussed. her best bet was thrown into the discard. her pride and independence had been at stake. for her most valued possessions, she had risked her all, and "stood pat" on the turn-up at the devil-island. her cards were all on the table. now she had lost. leaning against the sagging rail she watched the _curlew_ draw alongside the float. her slender fingers gripped the hand-rail and the sharp splinters bit into her hands. but what was that to the pain which gnawed at her heart? she hadn't made good. the taste of failure was a new and strange sensation. she had made her fight, done her best. but it wasn't good enough. but why was it necessary to take the little _petrel_? was diablo to beat her as it had beaten others? no, she must buck up. she was bill lang's daughter. "it's all in the game," she exclaimed to gregory. "as i told you, the sea plays no favorites." before the young man could answer, she had turned from him to meet the men who were climbing from the incoming vessel. "hello, boys. tough luck. but we can't help it. tell me what happened. make it short. i've got a lot to do." the fishermen grouped themselves about her as the quivering figure of a little mexican lunged through the circle and began to speak: "_dios, señorita_, it was very bad," he quavered. "we were lying close to shore. the fog was everywhere. we could not see. and the anchor, it would not hold. i was at the chain as you say i must when i hear a boat coming. _jesus de mi alma_, but she is coming fast. i can not leave as we are drifting and i say to pedro that he make a noise with the whistle. but he does not get a chance. as he jumped for the engine-house a big boat she come right out of the fog and before we can move, she smash us all to hell. i fall into the water with pedro and loose the dory. for a time we drift. then we are picked up by _señor_ jones." "did the _petrel_ sink right away?" dickie interrupted. another man crowded forward and answered the question. "she didn't sink at all, miss. she wasn't far from the shore and she drifted in with the tide that was settin' in strong. then she piled up on the rocks. she's layin' there now, high and dry on the beach." "didn't the boat that smashed them, lay to?" volleyed the girl. again the mexican began to speak excitedly: "_sangre de christo_, no," he chattered, "the boat, she was very big, _señorita_, and she did not stop." "nonsense, manuel. you were crazy with fright. don't talk like a fool. go home and go to bed. when you've had a good sleep, i'll talk with you again." stung into action by jones's statement that the hull of the _petrel_ was still on the beach, she turned suddenly to the wharf. "tom howard," she called sharply. when a voice answered, she ordered: "fill up the _pelican_ with oil and stock her with grub. you can get it from swanson. throw in a couple of deep-sea hooks and a lot of good hauser. mind it's new. be ready to pull out in an hour." she turned again to the men before her. "jones, i want you to get the _curlew_ ready. we may need two boats to pull her off. you know where they went ashore. take johnson and rasmussen with you. we've got to move lively. a boat won't hang together long out there." "rasmussen's sick. how about pete carlin? he was with me coming over." "don't want him, jones. got to have men who know the game round diablo in a fog. take sorenson." the fisherman nodded and lumbered up the gangway followed by others. dickie lang jammed her hands deep down into her pockets and shrugged her shoulders as she turned to gregory. "if it isn't one thing, it's another," she said quietly. "can you beat it? manuel saying he was run down? he was scared to death. i don't believe a thing touched him. he just went to sleep and drifted in on the rocks and made up that story to save his job. well, we'll know when i see the hull." gregory listened, scarcely hearing the girl's words. at her announcement of going to the island he began to make tentative plans to accompany her. there might be a lot he could do. and she sure needed help. he wondered if he could offer his assistance without again antagonizing her. "i'd like to go with you," he said bluntly. "i don't know much about the sea yet, but maybe i can do some of the strong-arm stuff and learn something. besides, i want to have a look at diablo." dickie regarded him approvingly. "how about the cannery?" she asked. "my boats will go on fishing just the same." "mccoy can take care of things all right until i get back. i'll learn a lot more over there than sticking around here." "you're the boss of that," she replied. then she added as an afterthought. "i'd be glad to have you." as they walked to the wharf gregory encountered mccoy and explained the situation. "so i'm going out there," he concluded. "while i'm away it's up to you." mccoy, he noticed, did not enthuse over the idea. "diablo's a dangerous place to be fooling around at this time of the year," he said. "if she can take the risk, i surely can," gregory answered promptly. "you're needed here," objected mccoy. "everything's new and there's liable to be something come up i don't know about." "then do the best you can. i'll back you up. you know a lot more about it anyway than i do." mccoy lapsed into silence while gregory hurried away to make ready for the trip. when they were ready to shove off, mccoy watched the two boats slide out into the fog with conflicting emotions. dick knew how to take care of herself all right. she could handle a boat in bad weather with the best of them. but, was that good enough? he reflected suddenly that bill lang _had_ been the best of them. and it was on just such a day as this that bill lang had met his death on diablo with gregory's father. leaning against the dripping rail, he cursed the circumstances which prevented his being at the girl's side if anything went wrong. he liked the boss or he would have told him to look for another man. and gregory's banking on him, tied him up. his inability to join the expedition gave to another the chance which should have been his. torn by anxiety for the girl's welfare and another emotion he was slower in analyzing, he listened to the faint gulping of the _pelican's_ exhaust until it was no longer audible. * * * * * the sun rose sullenly from a fog-spotted sea and glared wrathfully at the wreaths of low-lying mist which obscured his vision of the saw-toothed peaks of el diablo. under the warmth of his gaze, the white-fleeced clouds wavered, shifting about uncertainly. as if loath to leave the devil-island they had guarded throughout the long night, they contracted slowly, niggardly exposing a line of rugged cliffs which shone bleak and gray in the strengthening light of early morning. "it's breaking up at last. look!" dickie lang pointed to the dark blot on the horizon. "can't. if i take my eyes from this needle for a second the boat'll run all over the ocean." gregory continued to stare at the compass while the girl smiled at his earnestness. "tom will take her now," she said, nodding to howard to relieve him at the wheel. then she added: "you've done fine. we've been going all night on dead reckoning and we're not far off." gregory surrendered the wheel with a sigh of relief and followed the direction of the girl's extended arm. "that's diablo," she announced. "i'm mighty glad the fog is shifting. wouldn't have needed to have started so early if we had known. but that's the fun of the sea. you never know. there is no use trying to make it in there in a fog," she added. "it is bad enough when you can see." while she talked with johnson concerning the location of the wreck, gregory found time to note the towering cliffs which rose precipitously from the blue-green sea. somewhere along that rock-crusted coast, he reflected bitterly, diablo had claimed another of the lang boats only a few months ago. somewhere among the white-crested rocks his father and bill lang had met their death. he wondered where, but did not ask. perhaps the girl would speak of it. for some time he watched the mist-clouds flee before the brightening rays of the rising sun. then he noticed that dickie was standing by his side. her eyes too were held by the rugged coast. "the devil dumped it there," he heard her say in a low voice. "and when he saw what a hellish coast it was, he named it for himself. that's what dad used to say." she flung out her arm in the direction of a towering peak. "at the base of that highest cliff was where the _gull_ went on the rocks. they call it 'hell-hole.'" staring in silence at the saddle-backed mountain, their minds traveled into the past. then gregory asked: "does any one live on the island?" "it's a sheep-ranch. a man by the name of bandrist has it leased on long time from the government. he's swiss, i think. he farms a little of the land that isn't too rocky and runs his sheep over the rest. the island is about twenty miles long and over ten in the widest place." "is fishing good out here?" "fine," the girl answered. "only it's dangerous. fogs in spring and summer, and storms the rest of the time. lots of albacore and tuna. but it costs boats and sometimes men to get them. dad used to fish out here, but something was always sure to happen about the time he got well started. just like yesterday. diablo's a place," she said slowly, "where a man just can't make a mistake. if he does, he never lives to tell what happened." she pointed to the frowning cliffs which guarded the shore and extended far out into the water in a series of white-capped reefs. "no anchorage," she explained. "and a strong inshore current. when you get weather out here, it's nasty, and it hits you all in a bunch." as they neared the island the _pelican_ slowed down to wait for the _curlew_ which had been lagging astern. "jones must be having engine-trouble," commented dickie lang. "or else diablo's got him buffaloed too." "what do you mean?" gregory asked. lowering her voice so that it would not reach the two fishermen on the _pelican_, she said: "they all give diablo a wide berth. the fishermen are scared to death of the island. if you want to hear a lot of wild tales, just talk to some of my men at legonia. look at manuel. went clean out of his head and the funny part of it is the others all believed him. what's the matter, jones? having trouble?" she addressed the skipper of the _curlew_ as he brought his craft alongside. "been havin' it all the way over," the man replied. "compression's gettin' worse all the time." he drew a grimy hand across his blackened forehead and squinted in the direction of the island. "no place to be foolin' round with a cripple either, i can tell you," he growled. "reckon i'd better lay to until i can get patched up." the girl's brow wrinkled. "all right, jones. i'll go on. follow when you can. we'll be around that next point. can you beat that?" she exclaimed in a low voice to gregory. "his feet are getting cold too, and he's one of the best men i have." keeping well off the headland they rounded the point and turned shoreward. "in there." johnson jerked his head in the direction of a small cove which lay almost hidden beneath the brow of an overhanging cliff. "she lays just beyond that arch." dickie ordered a halt. "can't chance it in there with the big boat. throw out the hook and keep your motor warm, johnson. we may have to get out of here in a hurry. keep a good eye on the chain for if she starts to drift you'll be on the rocks before you can snub her up. put the dory over, tom, and we'll go ashore and take a look." under the powerful sweep of tom howard's oars, the small boat darted from the shadow of the launch and sped away toward the cove. rounding the natural arch by which the point projected itself into the sea, they entered the little cove which nestled at the base of the overhanging cliff. bisecting the cove, a rugged ledge of rock jutted out into the sea. dickie shaded her eyes with her hand and half rose from her seat. cradled between two jagged rocks at the extreme end of the ledge, her bow angling sharply, her stern washed by the lapping waves, bruised and broken, lay all that was left of her favorite vessel. only the girl's eyes mirrored her emotion as she stared at the wreck. "looks as if they made a clean job of it," she observed quietly. "land right in here, tom. we'll climb up on the ledge and walk over." pulling the dory up on the rocks they stumbled over the slippery eel-grass and approached the ill-fated craft. dickie lang examined the hull. "looks like manuel wasn't dreaming, at that," she ejaculated, pointing to the jagged hole in the _petrel's_ side. "somebody bumped him all right and it must have been almost in the cove or he would never have drifted in here." the further examination of the wreck went on in silence. the engine was half-submerged, gregory noticed, and the water poured from the splintered hull and splashed to the rocks in a series of tiny cataracts. "not much of a chance to save anything but the motor and the shaft," dickie observed. "and we'll have to work lively to do that on this ebb. she'll break up on the flood if there's any sea." as howard jerked his head in acquiescence with the girl's diagnosis, a shower of loose rocks rattled from the overhanging cliff. dickie walked around the _petrel's_ bow and scrambled to the ledge. "looks as if we were going to have company," she announced, pointing in the direction of the bluff, where three men were descending the trail to the beach. reaching the ledge the strangers walked steadily toward the wreck and halted within a few feet of the salvage party. as they jabbered in a french dialect, gregory listened intently. dickie's hand stole to the pocket of her coat. the men seemed bent on making trouble. it was best to take no chances. her fingers sought the handle of the colt in vain. cursing her negligence in leaving the automatic aboard the _pelican_, she stepped forward for a parley with the strangers. gregory and howard placed themselves about her as the men moved closer. "no sabe," exclaimed dickie lang. "what kind of lingo are they talking anyway." gregory was dividing his attention between the man with the red beard and the weasel-faced stranger who was gesticulating so wildly with his long arms. "red-beard says nobody's allowed here, or words to that effect," he interpreted. "weasel-face backs him up in it and says for us to beat it." "tell them what we're here for. and that when we get the boat stripped we'll go, and not before." the red-bearded man shook his heavy head with slow comprehension. weasel-face shuffled closer, his small eyes blinking malevolently. the third member of the party, a thick-set man with a face pitted by scars, motioned threateningly in the direction of the dory. dickie brushed forward. "i'll try them in dago," she said. gregory watched the strangers move closer to their leader as the girl began to speak; heard his low-voiced words, uttered in a harsh guttural; saw his arm flash out and grasp the girl roughly by the shoulder. leaping forward, gregory found his way blocked by weasel-face. the islander's hand was fumbling at his belt. gregory's fist snapped his head backward. the man's hands flew up, but not in time to block the vicious blow which caught him full on the chin. weasel-face's legs collapsed. without a sound he fell in a heap upon the rocks. holding dickie lang in his great arms, the red-bearded man saw his companion fall by his side. with a snarl he released the struggling girl and shoved her from him. before he could draw his knife kenneth gregory was upon him. chapter xi refusing to be bluffed dickie lang reeled backward as the red-bearded man shoved her from him. she felt the eel-grass slipping beneath her feet. striving vainly to regain her balance, she turned cat-like in the air and broke the fall with her hands. as she rebounded to her feet she could see gregory wrestling with the man who had precipitated the attack. close by his side, tom howard grappled with the scar-faced islander. the third man lay huddled on the rocks where he had fallen. dickie decided at once upon her course of action. gregory and howard were holding their own against the two men. it was up to her to see that the third of the islanders did not come to the rescue of his companions. the man might regain consciousness at any moment. then there would be three against two. she remembered suddenly that there was rope on the _petrel_. better than that there was a rifle. it was but a few steps to the launch. she covered it quickly, caught the main-stay and pulled herself aboard. * * * * * kenneth gregory realized at the outset that he was up against a hard fight. in his hurry to close with the red-bearded man, his foot had slipped on the slimy grass and he had been forced to clinch to save himself from falling. this placed him at a marked disadvantage. his opponent had the best of him in weight by at least twenty pounds and was heavily muscled. moreover he possessed a certain agility on the grass-covered rocks which rendered any attempt on gregory's part to force the battle, as extremely hazardous. the islander, at home on the slippery footing, from the start, became the aggressor. for a time gregory was content merely to hold his feet against red-beard's rushes and retain his hold on the islander's knife-arm, should he be possessed of a weapon. men of that type, he reasoned, were usually short-winded. in time the heavier man would exhaust himself. then his turn would come. ahead he noticed a clear space, free from grass. the solid rock would afford good footing. there he would have a better chance. if the islander was determined to crowd, he might as well crowd in the right direction. gregory changed front slowly, working his body around the heavier man, giving way before his bull-like rushes. when he reached the position he desired, he checked his circling movement and began to retreat steadily. keeping his feet wide apart, his body carefully balanced, he backed slowly in the direction of the spot where the grass would no longer slip beneath his feet. on the other side of the ledge, tom howard battled with the scar-faced man. of equal weight and strength, the struggle resolved itself into a question of endurance, as the two men rolled over each other on the barnacled rocks in an effort to break the other's grip and strengthen his own. unconscious of their surroundings, their heads locked close to their straining bodies, they grappled blindly, working closer to a deep crevice which lay across their path. for a brief instant they ceased struggling. their bodies stiffened. with each man seeking to pin the other beneath him they rolled to the crevice and dropped from view. * * * * * dickie, aboard the boat, flashed a glance at the gun-rack. the rifle was gone. the patent-clasp which held the weapon in place had been wrenched free. her eyes traveled to the empty provision-locker, which stood open. close by it lay a small monkey-wrench with which some one had battered the padlock. a wrench would be better than nothing. she caught it up and ran to the deck. securing a small coil of rope, she jumped to the rocks and raced in the direction of the spot where the weasel-faced man had fallen. as she ran she caught a glimpse of gregory giving way before the red-bearded man toward the table-like surface of the ledge which jutted out over the cove. of howard she could see nothing. she stopped suddenly as she came in view of the spot where the weasel-faced islander had sprawled upon the rocks. the man was gone. * * * * * solid rock beneath his feet at last--red-beard had forced him to the exact spot he desired to reach--gregory's muscles contracted with a jerk. he stopped retreating and began to slide around the islander. if he was successful in carrying out his plan it was best to have red-beard on the outside of the ledge. divining his purpose, the big man stiffened as he caught a glimpse of the sea over his shoulder. straining closer to each other's throbbing bodies, the two men redoubled their efforts to twist the other to the outside. red-beard's breath began to come in gasps. he opened his mouth and sucked in the air feverishly. his corded muscles were beginning to relax. gregory's feet shot under the islander's legs and the big man narrowly escaped falling. when he regained his balance he could not see the water. the cool air from the sea which had been blowing in his face now stirred the thick hair which covered his neck. he was on the outside of the ledge overlooking the cove. before he could recover from his surprise, red-beard felt the fingers on his arm relax. his opponent wriggled in his arms, stiffened and crushed against him. as the big man fought to regain his balance, gregory freed an arm and his fist flashed to the islander's ear. red-beard grunted for breath. again the rigidly flexed forearm cut under his guard and landed on his hairy chin. as he raised his big arms to protect his head, his antagonist twisted free. ducking under the clumsy fist which beat the air above his head, gregory swung again for the islander's chin. with a snarl of rage, the big man lowered his head. then his angry growl changed quickly to a grunt of pain as he took the blow full in the forehead. reeling dizzily, his hand sought his girdle. his fingers closed on the hilt of his knife and jerked it free. gregory hurled himself forward at the sight of the steel. grasping the uplifted arm he wrenched it inward, twisting the man half around. surprised at the suddenness of the move, the islander gave way in a series of staggering steps which carried him to the edge of the rock ledge overlooking the water. retaining his hold on the red-bearded man's wrist, gregory struck with all his force at the bulging chest. as the blow landed he felt the body crumple in his arms and the knife clattered to the rocks. the islander staggered backward with his assailant pressing close against him. in their struggle both men had for the moment forgotten the overhanging ledge. [illustration: both men had forgotten the overhanging ledge] gregory remembered it too late. red-beard's arms were still about him. suddenly he felt the dead weight of the islander's body. as he strove to break the man's hold he tottered on the brink of the ledge. he felt himself being dragged downward. before his eyes flashed the rock-dappled waters of the cove. his only chance lay in clearing the rocks below. his knees straightened with a jerk. shoving his body outward, he plunged over the ledge with the islander clinging to him. the warning scream died on dickie lang's lips as she ran toward them. checking her steps on the edge of the rocks overlooking the water, she stared at the ever-widening circles which rippled the water and the jagged rocks which shone ominously dark beneath the surface. she followed the center of the ripples mechanically. thank god, they had hit in a clear spot. but what chance would a man have throttled like that by another? the cool rush of air on his throbbing face gave place to a cooler one as the waters closed over kenneth gregory's head. he felt his body sinking like a stone. the arms about his body tightened. the blood pounded to his brain. to his mind flashed stories of swimmers who had been drowned by women with the fatal strangle-hold. he realized sharply that he was held by no woman, but a red-bearded giant, insane through fear, incapable of reason. whatever he did must be done at once. with an effort which left his lungs pressing hard against his ribs he freed an arm and worked it upward until he felt the matted hair of the islander's beard. from there it was only a span to the throat. that was what he must reach. the throat. the words raced through his brain. the throat. he must shut down on that and hang. his groping fingers searched for the elusive organ. perhaps red-beard had no throat. the grotesqueness of the idea caused him to want to laugh. it didn't matter much after all. not when.... there it was. he had found it at last. his fingers stiffened and slid on the slippery flesh. then they fastened, tightened and hung. * * * * * good god, would they never come up? dickie searched the faintly dimpled waters from her commanding elevation, but her closest scrutiny revealed no sign of the men beneath the surface. kenneth gregory was drowned as his father had been drowned at diablo. so intent was the girl upon her examination of the water that she failed to see a limping figure emerge cautiously from behind a pile of rocks and drop into a near-by crevice. * * * * * under the steady pressure of his fingers, gregory felt the body of the islander relax. then he became conscious in a vague sort of way, of movement. they were rising to the surface or sinking lower to the bottom. why couldn't he tell which? he freed his legs from the inert form which twined itself about him, and kicked weakly. the red-bearded man slipped from him at the effort and he narrowly escaped losing his hold upon his throat. he kicked again. if he could only get one gulp of air he could make it. in spite of the ever-increasing pressure on his lungs he found himself getting sleepy. he was tired, worn out. if he could only fill his lungs with something to stop that dull pain, he could go to sleep and rest. * * * * * dickie lang saw the dark blot of the two figures as they neared the surface. then she thought of the rope in her hand. she could weigh it with the wrench and throw it from where she stood. uncoiling it hastily, she measured the distance. too far, she realized bitterly. she looked to the water's edge. the distance would be shorter from there. shoving the wrench into her pocket and throwing the rope loosely about her neck, she crawled over the ledge and climbed downward. the ledge dipped sharply under the overhanging surface and extended shoreward in a narrow shelf, carpeted by kelp and washed by the sea. around that big boulder would be the best place. from there she could throw the rope to good advantage. she was about to shout encouragement when she heard the sharp splash of a stone falling into the water from the cliff. shrinking closer to the rocks, she listened. then crept silently on. * * * * * air to breathe at last! gregory lay passive on the surface, content to gulp it in in huge mouthfuls. nothing else mattered now. his head throbbed painfully and his eyeballs burned in their sockets. but he had air. and that was enough. as the pressure of blood on his brain lessened, he became conscious of the fact that he was still gripping the islander's throat. he released his fingers and the big head tilted forward until it rested face down on the water. with a start gregory realized that the air had come too late for red-beard. he must get the man ashore at once. he turned his head slowly and saw the rock ledge only a few feet away. by that big overhanging boulder would be the place to land. there he could crawl up on the soft kelp and rest. rolling the unconscious man to his back, he swam slowly for the ledge. * * * * * dickie reached the base of the projecting rock and wedging her slender body into a small fissure, peered cautiously through the cleft. so close that she could almost touch him, alert and motionless, stood the weasel-faced man. his small eyes were fixed upon the water. the hand which was nearest her held a knife. wriggling from the crevice she hastily retraced her steps. no use trying to squeeze through there. she would be in full view before she would have a chance. flashing a glance at the rugged surface of the boulder, she began to climb. * * * * * it was farther to the ledge than he thought. something was the matter with his legs. his arms had no strength. they had almost ceased to function. a sharp pain gripped his side and tore downward through his body. still gregory swam on. in another moment he could reach out and grip the kelp with his hand. he closed his eyes and swam mechanically. at length his extended fingers touched the sea-grass which fringed the ledge. twining them eagerly about it, he pulled his aching body closer and rested, clinging to the rocks. * * * * * hand over hand dickie lang crawled upward and outward until she could see the water lapping at the ledge beneath. from her vantage point she could see gregory swimming on with closed eyes in the direction of the rocks. his limbs were moving slowly and his face was drawn with pain. still he floundered on. straight for the kelp-covered ledge--and weasel-face. a sharp turn in the rocky pathway put the man in full view, only a few feet below. sheltered from sight of the struggling figure in the water, he waited in silence. if she called out to warn gregory to seek a new landing-place it was doubtful if he could make the beach in his exhausted condition. such a course, too, would make her presence known to the hatchet-faced man who as yet had not observed her. no, it was better to take the man unawares. she thought of the rope. perhaps she could loop it over his head. she gave up the idea at once. it could only fail. jamming her hands into her pockets, her fingers closed on the wrench. she jerked it out and balanced it in her hand. a feeling of confidence surged over her. she couldn't miss him from where she stood. her pastime of flinging stones at the gulls when a child would stand her in good stead now. if the man looked up, she would throw before he could recover from his surprise. * * * * * dragging his tired body wearily from the water, gregory pulled his unconscious companion after him. as he stretched the islander at full length on the soft kelp and knelt over him, he caught sight of a man's foot protruding from behind a rock. gregory stumbled to his feet. at the same instant he heard the sound of a muffled blow. a small wrench clattered to the rocks and fell with a splash into a pool of water. "i knew i could get him," a girlish voice called from above. dickie lang jumped down with shining eyes and made her way toward him. "buck up," he heard her say. but the voice trailed away into silence. when he regained consciousness, the girl was bending over him, rubbing his numbed limbs and slapping his cold flesh violently. "you'll be all right in a minute," she said. "don't try to talk now. lie still and rest. feel better?" he nodded. as he moved his head he noticed the two figures lying close beside him. noting the questioning look in his eyes, dickie explained: "they're all right or will be in a little while. i'm looking after them. when they come to, i'm going to tie them up." she flourished a small coil of rope. as his strength returned gregory began to pick up the loose threads. "howard?" he asked. she shook her head. "don't know where he is. couldn't see him. don't worry. chances are he's all right. he's hard as nails. when you can walk we'll go and look for him." they found the fisherman huddled against the rocks at the bottom of the small crevice. close by his side lay the scar-faced islander. both men were unconscious. gregory examined howard carefully. "his leg is broken," he announced. "and he's pretty well bruised up. he must have got an awful jolt when he fell on these rocks." jumping up, he exclaimed: "i'll go and get something for splints," he said. "make him as comfortable as you can." when he returned dickie noticed he carried a heavy oar which he had fashioned into a rude crutch, a number of small strips of wood and a piece of an old blanket. "found them on the _petrel_," he said as he set to work. dickie assisted gregory in caring for the wounded man. her respect for the young man increased as she noted the skilful manner with which he worked. soon howard's leg was set and after a time he opened his eyes and slowly regained consciousness. the sun was high overhead when they were able to move the injured men. while howard rested for a moment on the ledge, gregory carried the unconscious form of the other man to the soft sea-grass and stretched him at full length. then he thought of the two men they had left on the narrow shelf by the sea. "i'd better have a look at red-beard and the other fellow," he said suddenly. "the water might come in there and wash them off." dickie nodded. "i'll stay here," she said, and gregory hurried off. when he came back he shook his head. "gone," he announced. "washed off?" "don't think so. the water hadn't quite got to where we left them. i guess they sneaked." dickie's eyes searched the sea while he spoke. "i can't understand what is keeping the boys from the _curlew_," she said. "we'd better get tom aboard the _petrel_ where we can make him more comfortable. better bring the other fellow too. there's some whisky on the boat unless those devils have stolen it too. hello, what's that?" the quiet was broken by the sharp clatter of horses' hoofs. looking in the direction of the sound, gregory saw a number of horsemen riding over the crest of the bluff overlooking the cove. the fisherman glanced toward the dory which lay on the rocks at the extreme end of the ledge. "better beat it," he suggested. dickie lang shook her head stubbornly. "no," she said. "we'll leave that man here and the rest of us will get aboard. the _petrel's_ on tide land and i'll be damned if any one's going to bluff me out." chapter xii a warning from the _petrel's_ sloping deck they saw the horsemen appear in bold silhouette against the sky-line. swinging from their saddles they walked to meet a white-shirted rider who galloped over the ridge and drew rein among them. the newcomer remained astride his horse. resting an arm on the horn of his saddle, he stared into the little cove through his binoculars. satisfied apparently by what he saw, he dismounted and walked rapidly toward the trail leading to the beach, the men following after him. as they took their way down the cliff gregory noticed that some of the men carried rifles. when they reached the beach the white-shirted man walked on alone, and without a backward glance, traversed the rocks in the direction of the wreck. "he walks like a king," commented dickie lang. "i wonder if that is bandrist." gregory noted the clean-cut figure of the stranger carefully. the man was about his own height though of slighter build, the spareness of his figure being emphasized by the close-fitting riding-trousers and the thin silk shirt which fluttered about him as he strode along. the fair-haired stranger stopped abruptly when he reached the _petrel's_ side. flinging an arm upward with a careless gesture, and looking straight at the girl, he said quietly: "i am unarmed. may i come aboard your vessel?" only the slightest trace of the foreigner was discernible in his speech. dickie lang nodded. "come ahead," she said. "whoever you are, you can speak english at least." the visitor smiled as he caught the mast-stay and drew himself gracefully over the rail. "i am leo bandrist," he introduced. "i fear my men have caused you some annoyance. i am sorry." dickie rehearsed the incidents leading up to the trouble with the natives and when she had concluded, bandrist's forehead wrinkled in a frown. "i am very sorry," he repeated. "my men, you see, are very stupid. very ignorant. they understand but little english. then, too, i have been annoyed by others. you see, i have many sheep and wild goats upon the island. hunters come to shoot the goats, but they often mistake my sheep for them. fishermen also have caused me great trouble. i have fenced my lands to keep them out; put up the signs the law tells me i must to protect myself. but no, they disregard my rights. so i give my men instructions to keep them out. when my rangers are opposed they grow ugly. one of them tells me that one of your number began the attack. that angered them, you see, and they fought back. it was but natural. however, i am sorry. i trust that none of your party has been seriously injured." "small thanks to you," dickie snapped. "your men tried hard enough to commit murder." nodding in the direction of the unconscious islander, she added: "there's one of your outfit stretched out over there. another was half-drowned. the third tried to knife mr. gregory. i hit him in the head with a monkey-wrench. they both got away or were washed off the ledge." bandrist shot a quick glance at gregory as the girl mentioned the cannery owner's name. at the girl's reference to her part in the affair his eyes lighted with interest. then the frown came again to his face. "that is the trouble," he said quickly. "my men do not understand. they know only one way to fight. that is to win. if you will permit me, i shall summon the others to care for their companion." he waited for the girl's consent. then he waved his hand to the men on the beach. when they were within ear-shot, bandrist addressed them rapidly, nodding toward the spot indicated by dickie lang. as the men hurried away, he explained: "they come to me from many countries. some of them are bad and cause me much trouble. it is so lonesome out here that i can not keep good men. i tell my fence-riders only to keep people away so that they will not kill my sheep. some of them i arm as you see, because those who hunt also carry guns and are sometimes ugly." he spread out his slender fingers apologetically. "again i am sorry," he said. "if you desire to work now i will see that you are undisturbed, if you will promise to leave the island when you are through. you see i do not want any more trouble," he concluded with frank emphasis. "my men will be very angry when they find their wounded comrade. sometimes it is difficult for me to restrain them." the excited jargon of the islanders as they came upon their disabled fellow confirmed the truth of his words. jabbering to themselves, and casting sullen glances in the direction of the _petrel_, they carried the man over the ledge to the beach. "mr. bandrist," said dickie clearly. "i've as much right to be here as you have. you can't legally keep me from taking the engine out of this boat. she's on tide and you haven't any more claim to that than i have. you know that as well as i do. i'm going to take my time. when i get through, i'll go. and not before. if you are on the square you'll stay here until i do. we don't want trouble any more than you do. but we're not going to be bluffed out on this deal or any other." bandrist's eyes shone with unconcealed admiration. he inclined his head in response to her suggestion and exclaimed: "i shall be only too glad to remain here until you are ready to leave." dickie lang turned quickly to howard. "you keep off your feet, tom," she said. "i might as well start in. the boys from the _curlew_ ought to have been here long before this." gregory pressed forward. "tell me what to do," he said. the girl regarded him approvingly. "you can loosen the stud-bolts on the motor first. come on," she said. "i'll show you." bandrist followed after them. "may i help?" he asked. she shook her head with decision. "two's as many as can conveniently work around the engine," she answered. the work of tearing down the motor began at once. gregory wore the skin from his knuckles in loosening the stud-bolts while howard instructed him from the doorway how to take off the carburetor and rip up the feed-line. as they worked the girl made a rapid survey of the parts she desired to salvage. "some more of your friends?" bandrist pointed seaward where a dory was rounding the point and heading shoreward. the girl acknowledged his words with a curt nod. "here come the boys from the _curlew_," she announced. when the landing party reached the _petrel's_ side, jones and sorenson stared in silence at the white-shirted man leaning against the rail. "got things fixed up, jones? you were a long time coming." the skipper of the _curlew_ climbed aboard before replying. drawing the girl to one side, he said quietly: "thing's pretty well shot, miss. took her down and found this." he extended a blackened handkerchief covered with fine dust. dickie lang examined it carefully, rubbing the particles of black grit between her fingers. "emery dust?" jones nodded. "she's full of it," he answered. "don't dare and start her up. she'd cut herself to pieces." silently regarding the blackened particles, the girl asked: "carlin was with you yesterday you said, didn't you?" "yes. him and jacobs." "carlin's enough. i knew he was a dub. but i didn't think he had brains enough to be a crook. i know now. well, we've got enough trouble right here for a while without bothering about your boat. you rip up the motor and sorenson and mr. gregory can strip the deck. we've got to hustle. it will begin to rough up soon. then we'll have to run with what we have. she'll break up on the flood by the looks of things." pausing for a moment to partake of a meager lunch which dickie discovered had been overlooked by the robber of the _petrel_, all hands turned again to the work of salvaging the motor. through the long afternoon they worked in silence. as gregory stripped the iron chaulks from the deck and removed the stays, he noticed that bandrist leaned idly against the rail with his blue eyes following the movements of dickie lang with great interest. once, before gregory could surmise his purpose, he sprang to the girl's side and assisted her with a piece of shaft and the ease with which he handled the heavy brass caused the young man to marvel. a queer specimen of man was bandrist, he reflected, to be marooned in such a spot as this. gregory's work gave him a chance to study the islander without being observed. he was a figure who merited more than a passing glance. he would challenge attention in any environment. while he twisted the galvanized turn-buckles, rusted by the salt-air, gregory appraised the man carefully. trained to the minute and hard as nails, he catalogued the slender figure. the long smooth-lying muscles were those of an athlete. he could see them rippling at the open-throat and on the islander's wrist when he raised his arm. the features too were worthy of notice. line by line he studied them. from the high forehead which bulged over the clear blue eyes, to the delicately ovaled chin. the face was emotionless. only the curve of the thin lips showed the man beneath the mask. the lips were cruel as death. the tall crags cast their irregular shadows athwart the cove and a sudden puff of wind, which had freshened as the day wore on, ruffled the quiet waters and caused them to slap angrily at the base of the ledge. dickie lang cast a weather-eye to seaward and shook her head. "time we were getting in the clear, boys," she said. "the tide's beginning to set in strong and the breeze is freshening. we've got about all we dare fool with. i want to get clear of the diablo coast before the fog drifts any closer." the fishermen issued from the engine-house at her words and began to gather up the parts of the dissembled motor and carry them to the waiting skiffs. then they assisted howard to the dory. in a few moments they were ready to shove off. dickie stepped into the dory of the _pelican_ which jones shoved into the water. "i want to get tom to the launch and have her ready to get under way," she explained to gregory. "will you stay and help sorenson load the rest of the motor?" gregory nodded and set to work. bandrist's eyes followed the departing skiff until it disappeared around the point. then he motioned gregory to one side and began to speak: "do not let her come out here again," he said in a low voice. "diablo is not a safe place for fishermen, much less a woman. my men will not forget you. i was able to control them to-day. the next time i might not be so fortunate." however well meant the warning might have been, it rankled in gregory's breast. he felt his instinctive dislike of bandrist grow with the man's words. meeting the islander's eyes squarely, he said in a voice which only bandrist could hear: "if it is necessary for us to come to diablo again, mr. bandrist, we will come. if you are unable to handle your men, that will be up to you." for a moment the two men appraised each other in silence. then gregory turned and walked to the waiting dory. in the purpling dusk they embarked from diablo and sped across the rippling water to the launch which lay in the offing. looking back from the stern-seat, gregory saw the man on the ledge gazing after them with folded arms. on the deck of the _pelican_ the girl was issuing hasty orders for the return to the mainland. "kick her over, jones. johnson, stand by the hook. here comes the other skiff. get your stuff aboard, sorenson, as quick as you can," she called to the approaching dory, "and swing the boat on deck. we'll beat it out of here and take the _curlew_ in tow. make it lively, boys. we've got to be under way." swinging wide of the headland the _pelican_ plunged into the trough of the swell and skirting the coast raced on to pick up the disabled _curlew_. dickie lang looked back at the dim outline of the cliffs as they shadowed the sea. "poor little _pete_," she exclaimed softly. "it's tough. but it can't be helped." gregory alone heard her words. "it sure is," he said, feeling that the words were wholly inadequate. "and i'm mighty sorry," he added. the girl started. "i guess i was thinking aloud," she said. "i didn't know you heard." she set her lips together. "it's all in the game, i know," she went on, "but no one but me knows how i hate to lose the little _petrel_." when they picked up the _curlew_ the fitful wind died suddenly and the air grew heavy with moisture. the white clouds which scurried across the face of the heavens dropped lower and massing themselves together obscured the stars. piloting the _pelican_ and her tow safely to the high seas, the girl relinquished the wheel to johnson with a sigh of relief. "i'll rustle something to eat, bill," she said. "we'll stand two-hour watches. i'll take her next. i want to see if there is anything i can do for tom. i'll be in the cabin. call me if you sight anything or it gets thicker." turning to gregory, she exclaimed: "the next thing is to eat. i'm starved myself, and i'll bet you're worse." repairing to the cabin where the big fisherman was already asleep on the bunk, they ate their first real meal of the day in silence. there was much that they could have talked about, but one does not follow the sea long without learning that opportunities to eat are sometimes golden, and not lightly to be passed over or interfered with by conversation. it was not until the last morsel of food had been consumed, therefore, that gregory made an effort to voice his thoughts. "what do you think of bandrist?" he asked suddenly. the girl started, surprised that they should both be thinking of the same man. her forehead wrinkled slowly as she answered: "i think he's a crook. i don't know why exactly, but i just do. he's too smooth. too well educated for a sheep-man. he's up to something at diablo. don't know what. don't know that it is any of my business at that. but i don't like him." "neither do i," gregory admitted. "i sized him up as a mighty clever man. he has a hard outfit out there and he pretends he can't control them. that's the bunk. did you notice how they took orders from him without even talking back?" "yes. and he had most of them armed. with orders to keep people off of the island. why?" she asked suddenly. "i don't believe it's on account of the sheep." gregory shook his head emphatically. "that was bunk too," he said. "they knew we were not trying to hunt. i suppose they did get pretty sore when we roughed it with them, but that didn't give them any license to pull their knives and try to carve us up. that crazy fool would have had me in another minute if it hadn't been for you." dickie sought to minimize her part in the affair. "i didn't do much," she said. "i was just lucky. you did all of the hard work. i thought you were never coming up." "you were dead game," gregory cut in. "you saved me from that fellow's knife and you know it." dickie lang made no reply but sat with her arms resting on the cabin-table, looking off into space. again she saw herself huddled against the rocks, looking down into the sunlit water of the cove, waiting for the men to come to the surface. what a fight gregory must have had to have freed himself from that strangle-hold and save the life of the other man as well as his own. how skilfully he had worked over howard. he seemed to know just what to do. she raised her head sharply. not given to living in the past, she wondered why her mind had gone wool-gathering. perhaps it was because she was beginning to realize that this man was a man among men. and real men were scarce. he was speaking again. "there's something wrong at diablo. i'd give a lot to find out what it is." "it would cost a lot," she answered soberly. "and what business is it of ours? dad used to say that monkeying with other people's affairs was a luxury he never could afford." "but if they interfere with fishing, it is some of our business." "yes, but do they?" "i don't know. that is, not yet," he was forced to admit. "neither do i. until i do, i'm not looking for any more trouble than i can see ahead right now." silence for several moments. then, from the girl: "besides, you couldn't find out anything. the fishermen are scared stiff of diablo as it is. when this gets around, they'll be even worse. they're not looking for more excitement. they have enough." to gregory's mind recurred his plan of manning the girl's boats. here was an opportunity to justify it. "the bunch i'm figuring on wouldn't be afraid of it," he said. "in fact i think they would kind of enjoy finding out." dickie smiled. "aren't you speaking two words for yourself?" she asked. he smiled too. "i'll admit i have some curiosity," he answered. the girl laughed. "you've got into the habit of fighting," she retorted. "but the war is over now." "maybe you're right. but at legonia i've an idea it has just begun." it was just what she would have had him say. what she would have said herself if she had spoken her mind. she liked a man who wasn't afraid. they were the kind one could tie to. gregory's proposal again assailed her. it had its advantages. she would think it over while she was at the wheel. "boat off starboard quarter," a gruff voice announced from the doorway. dickie lang sprang to her feet and hurried on deck with gregory following close behind. from the gray gloom came the sharp exhaust of a high-powered motor, running at top speed. as they looked in the direction of the sound, which was fast changing to an angry roar, the shifting wall of filmy fog was pierced by a flash of green. "mascola!" gregory was barely able to catch the girl's words above the uproar of the gatlin-like exhaust. the next instant the green light flashed by and was swallowed up in the gloom. "i wonder what he's doing out here running like that?" dickie mused. "how do you know who it was?" she laughed. "there's only one boat anywhere around here with an exhaust like that," she answered. "that's the _fuor d'italia_. she's the fastest craft in southern waters of her kind. and no one ever runs her but mascola." gregory continued to listen to the rapid-fire exhaust as it died away in the distance. then he pictured himself driving the trim craft, plunging through the waves and hurling the spray into his face as he raced on. recalled to himself by the slow-moving _pelican_ burdened by her tow, he reflected that speed sometimes was everything. if he was going to oppose mascola he would have to get there first. dickie was speaking again. "joe barrows built her up at port angeles. mascola hasn't had her very long and he won't have her much longer if he pounds her like that. i wonder what he's going out to diablo for in such a hurry." gregory could not answer. but he made up his mind if he was ever going to find out, he would have to have a faster boat than the _fuor d'italia_. perhaps joe barrows could help him out. through the long night the _pelican_ crept into the thickening fog with the disabled _curlew_. daybreak found them at the entrance to crescent bay. when they reached the lang docks the masts of the fishing-fleet could be dimly discerned through the shifting mist like a forest of bare-trunked trees. dickie frowned. "the boys are late getting out," she observed. "i wonder what's the matter." as they drew alongside the wharf it was evident that something unusual was in the air. the pier was thronged with fishermen, gathered together in little groups, leaning idly against the empty fish-boxes. at the landing party's approach the low hum of conversation died away into a faint murmur. a solitary figure, standing apart from the others, hurried forward to meet the girl as she walked up the gangway. "hello, jack. what's the trouble?" mccoy nodded in the direction of the silent fishermen. "trouble enough," he whispered. "i'm mighty glad you've come, dick. there's a strike on. carlin's got them all riled up and there's hell to pay." chapter xiii the strike a strike at this of all times! and pete carlin at the bottom of it! with her nerves frayed raw by two nights of sleepless vigil and the memory of the _curlew's_ disabled motor rankling within her, dickie lang brushed by a group of men and confronted a bullet-headed man in a loose gray sweater. "carlin," she said clearly in a voice which all could hear, "you're fired. you're a crook. if you'd work the clock around i wouldn't have you on the job." turning to the fishermen she rapidly related the incident of the finding of the emery-dust in the _curlew's_ motor. "it's a lie," carlin interrupted, "i don't----" "it's the truth, pete carlin, and you know it." dickie moved closer to carlin and her eyes met his. "you can't look me in the eye and deny it," she challenged. as the man said nothing, she flashed: "get off my dock while you're still able to walk. if i was a man i'd knock you down." the man grinned but did not move. "but you ain't," he retorted. "i reckon i ain't goin' to have no fool girl tell me where to head in at. i reckon i----" a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and his sentence remained unfinished. gregory's eyes were snapping close to carlin's. "beat it," he said, "while the trail's open." carlin flashed a glance over his shoulder at the fishermen who stood looking on in stoical silence. then he decided to go. mumbling to himself, he turned sullenly from the men about him and walked slowly down the dock. dickie lang faced the silent fishermen. "now, boys, what is it? i'll hear what you've got to say. but i won't have any dealings with a crook." the men about her shuffled their feet and drew closer. then a man in a faded plaid jumper detached himself from the others and began to speak. "we ain't got nothin' against you, miss lang," he began uncertainly. "but we've all got to look out for ourselves. we got families and folks dependin' on us. livin' 's out of sight. so is clothes and everything. we----" "what's your proposition, blagg?" the fisherman hesitated at the directness of the question. then he recited: "straight time. eight-hour day for six dollars. double money for overtime and sundays." dickie started at the demand. carlin had done his work well to set such a limit as that. she wondered how far the seeds of discontent had spread among the others. as her eye traveled over the silent groups, blagg went on: "you see, miss, as i say we got families and the women-folks----" "don't blame the women, joe," interrupted the girl. "if they got half of what the saloons leave they'd have no kick coming. i'll bet they're not back of this. you've been listening to a half-baked fool who couldn't make a living if dollars grew on trees. all pete carlin can do is talk. you boys know he isn't a fisherman." she stepped closer and her voice dropped to a conversational tone. "it just isn't in the business, boys. if i promised to pay those wages i couldn't do it. i'd be broke with the first run of bad luck and you know it as well as i do, if you'd stop to think. the man doesn't live who can pay that around here and get out." blagg smiled knowingly at the fishermen. "you're wrong, miss," he said. "we've already got the offer for a job at them terms." "not here?" he nodded. "right here in town. we won't have to move nor nothin'." watching the effect of his words upon the girl, he went on, carried away by the importance of his announcement. "that's why we're puttin' it up to you. you've always shot pretty square with us. but money talks, and we all got to look out for number one. i reckon none of the boys is honein' to go to work for a furrinor, but we all knows his money's good as yours and that's what counts." "you mean you're going to ditch me for mascola?" blagg dropped his eyes to the planks of the wharf before the girl's steady gaze. "we don't aim to ditch nobody," he said awkwardly. "but we got to live. the dago's offered us six day straight with double for overtime and sundays. we ain't decided yet. we waited to give you a chance." dickie lang listened quietly, her eyes roaming among the knots of silent fishermen. some she noticed stood close and as their spokesman went on, shuffled closer. others held aloof. when blagg had concluded, she began to speak in a voice which carried to the detached groups of men standing in the back row. "i'm not going to say much. but what i do say i want it to sink in. come up closer all of you where we can see one another." when the fishermen ranged themselves about her, she looked hard into their weather-beaten faces and went on earnestly: "boys, you've known me since i was a kid. most of you knew my dad. if you did, you knew a man. he had to fight hard for a living. but he shot square every foot of the way. some of you were here when he came." she singled out a few of the older men and spoke directly to them: "do you think you'd be here now if it hadn't been for bill lang? what were the russians and austrians doing to you when he came? you were all down on your uppers and didn't know where your next meal was coming from. who was it that took up your fight? who backed you with boats and gear and taught you how to fish so you could hold your own against the outsiders? you know without my telling you." some of the older fishermen dropped their eyes to the rough board planks at the girl's words. there was no doubt that lang had been square. but as blagg had pointed out, a man had to look out for himself. "you think that hasn't anything to do with your quitting me to get more money? all right. i'll show you that it has. let me ask you some questions. what is mascola paying his own fishermen? why should he pay you fellows twice that much? does he think you'll rob more traps, lay round more nets and run more men off the beach with his seine? why should he pay you six dollars when he can load up with a gang that'll do what he says for three? is that business?" she paused and her lips compressed in a straight line as she went on: "you can answer those questions just as well as i can. you know what mascola's game is. he thinks he's going to put me out of business. he's trying to crowd me off the sea. what do you suppose will become of you if he makes good? how long will you get that six dollars a day with the lang fleet out of commission? you've been fighting his men for a square deal ever since you came here. and now you're figuring on helping them run you out of your own town." blagg noticed that several of the men were falling back and whispering among themselves. scenting signs of a break among his ranks, he felt it was up to him to say something. well, he had his trump card yet to play. "we ain't such fools as you think," he said. "we ain't gone at this thing without considering pretty careful and gettin' good advice. last night some of us had a meetin' and talked things over. mr. rock was there and he give us some mighty good advice. he says to the boys that it was every feller for himself and----" "rock's got a mortgage on your house, hasn't he, joe?" blagg flushed beneath his tan. "i reckon that ain't got nothing to do with it if he has," he challenged. "and you understand i ain't even sayin' he has. but he's a business man." "and a hypocrite," supplemented dickie lang. "nobody knows that any better than i. he lied to me and tried to flim-flam me out of my boats before my dad was buried a week. if i'd fallen for it he would have had me right where he's got you, joe. but i didn't. and when he found out i was going to stick to you boys, he called me a fool and said no white man could compete against mascola's men." as she paused for breath, gregory saw tom howard hobbling through the crowd, speaking in low tones with the fishermen. "one minute more and i'm through," the girl concluded. "we're up against a hard fight here at legonia. a fight for americans to fish their own waters. sounds foolish, but you know it's the truth. when my father and mr. gregory were drowned off diablo, mascola thought he had us beaten. rock thought so, too. but i'm telling you we're going to fool them both. there's something wrong around here, boys, when we can't get a fifty-fifty break on our own coast. and we're going to find out what it is." seeing that she had the ear of the men at last, she walked closer. "listen, boys, i've got a big proposition to offer you. one that will beat mascola's like an ace beats a deuce. because this one is on the square." the fishermen crowded closer while she went on: "you know what we've been up against here for years to get good help. you boys have been working short-handed most of the time. doing more work than it was up to you to do. i've got a plan now to get all the men you want. good men too. fellows who have been tried out, red-blooded men. fighters! i want you men to train them. show them how to fish. in a little while they'll be doing all the work and i'll pay you four dollars a day straight time with a dollar a day more if you stick through the season. but better than that i'll give you a share in the profits of not only my own business, but the legonia fish cannery as well." gregory gulped. it was dickie's voice all right. but the words were his own. there was some mistake somewhere. he strove to regain control of his scattered senses as blagg burst out: "you're figurin' to start somethin' you can't finish, ain't you? you ain't bought the cannery already, have you?" "don't you worry about that, blagg. i know what i'm talking about. mr. gregory and i are partners on this deal." blagg was taken back by the girl's announcement. almost as much so as gregory himself. "suppose there ain't no profits?" put in another fisherman. "that's your lookout as well as mine." again the girl took gregory's words and went on: "but there will be. i'm going to get a bunch of ex-navy men down here that mean business. they won't let mascola, rock or anybody else bluff them off the sea. all they want is a chance to learn the game. you boys can teach it to them right." blagg stepped back and began to whisper to the men about him. the other fishermen looked at one another and listened for bill lang's girl to go on: "you fellows all know the advantage it gives you to have enough boats and men. if you break down and get into any trouble, it's pretty good to have somebody standing by to give you a hand. and you know that mascola knows how to make trouble." turning to the older men, some of whom had already begun to feel their joints stiffening with rheumatism, she said: "fishing's a hard game, boys, for the best of us. and it doesn't get any easier as we get older. there's a lot of you who will have to go into dry-dock before long and get patched up. and there's some that can't afford to lay up. you've been working with your hands too long. you've got to ease up and use your brains. that's what i want to hire now. these young fellows are eager to help you. it will be up to you to show them what to do." could this be the girl who had angrily announced that she intended to run her business in her own way? gregory could only stare at dickie lang. so far, she had not even included him as being a partner to the idea, save by her pledge of the profits of his cannery. surely she would explain her sudden change of heart. listening intently, he heard her conclude: "think it over, boys. it's a chance that may never come again. if there are any questions you'd like to ask, shoot." blagg noted that her words were having a marked effect upon the silent fishermen. seeking to stem the tide of the reaction which he felt was setting in against him, he began to make objections. dickie lang met his arguments with painstaking explanations and the objections gradually became fewer, simmering down into more or less intelligent questions. gregory noticed that the fishermen began to retire and clustered together in little groups while they talked earnestly among themselves. still there came no explanation from the girl. she was championing his ideas as if they had been her own cherished plans. at length the various knots of men drew further apart and faced each other in two well-marked divisions. to the left stood joe blagg, about him clustering the younger and more radical element of the fishing colony. on the right the property-owners and heads of families for the most part, drew closer to big jack stuss, their acknowledged leader. dickie lang regarded the two factions carefully, striving to count their ranks. each was about evenly divided, she figured, with big jack's constituency slightly in the lead. blagg stepped forward and began to speak: "it's six straight for me and mine," he said. "them's our terms. the boys can't see your new-fangled proposition at all." "it's up to you," the girl replied coolly. "if that's the way you feel, you can get your money. but before you do, i'd advise you to talk it over at home. don't forget that i'm fighting for you--not against you. it might be pretty nice to remember some time that you tried to help yourselves. think it over before you get your checks." as she finished speaking, big jack got slowly under way. elbowing a path through the crowd he shuffled closer, hitching at the straining suspender to which was entrusted the task of holding in place his two pairs of baggy canvas trousers. shifting from one bowed knee to the other, he contemplated his great bare toes in silence while he drew in a deep breath which filled his huge lungs to the bursting point and caused the muscles of his neck to stand out in purpled knots. dickie waited, knowing full well that it was big jack's invariable preface for speech. when the big fisherman had secured enough compression to proceed, he boomed forth in a fog-horn voice: "me and my fellers has decided to stick. youse fellers can count on us if you shoot square. we's willin' to take a chanct." [illustration: "me and my fellers has decided to stick"] his sentences were interpolated with great gusts of surplus breath. as he finished speaking he lumbered away to rejoin his companions. "that's the stuff, boys. it's the way i like to hear men talk. it shows you've got the sand. take it from me, you'll never be sorry you stuck." she walked forward and passed familiarly among them while the blagg faction melted slowly away and straggled down the dock in the direction of the town. gregory stood with mccoy while the excitement quieted down and dickie despatched the fishing-boats on their accustomed morning cruise. "well, i'll say you've done wonders," mccoy was saying. "who would ever have thought that dick would have given in?" gregory nodded weakly. "i was rather surprised myself," he admitted. mccoy looked at his watch. "i must go," he said. "it's almost time to blow the whistle. coming up soon?" gregory promised to be on hand as soon as he got his breakfast and mccoy hurried off. when the last of her remaining men had left the dock, gregory noticed the girl coming toward him. now he would learn the reason for her sudden change of mind. he listened eagerly for the explanation. dickie lang passed a slim brown hand slowly over her forehead and replaced a tousled lock of red-brown hair. "now," she said calmly, "when can you get me my men?" chapter xiv the mother of invention everything was coming his way. kenneth gregory glanced again at his first balance-sheet. the cannery had been in operation but a single month and already the business was exceeding his fondest expectations. he glanced at the chart which hung by his side. forty-two completely equipped fishing-boats in the water and every one fully manned. he smiled as he thought of dickie lang's astonishment at the manner in which the ex-navy men had taken hold of the work. his smile broadened too as he noted the receipts from the fresh fish and the canned product. fishing had sure been good. and there had been little or no interference from mascola. since the day when dickie had accepted his proposition all had gone smoothly. gregory attributed his success to the carrying out of an idea. it had worked. it had to work. and it was _his_ idea. on the floor of the cannery, dickie lang was also analyzing the phenomenal success of the legonia fish cannery while she waited for the owner to accompany her on their daily cruise to the fishing grounds. "i'll tell you, jack, it gets my goat how things began to pick up the very minute i threw up my contract. he's had nothing but luck ever since." "i wouldn't say that, dick," mccoy objected. "the boss's idea was worth something. of course i----" "oh, rats! i'm sick of hearing everybody talking about an idea. all these fellows in here think that kenneth gregory can't make a mistake. they think that nobody else could have done what he did." "that's what you want fellows to think who are working for you, isn't it?" ventured mccoy. dickie gasped. had mccoy too fallen a victim to hero-worship? mccoy, who had been her loyal friend, and servant? she determined to find out to what extent he had transferred his allegiance. "do you think mr. gregory did any more than i could have done?" she flashed. mccoy endeavored to temporize. "well, in a way he didn't," he said, "and then again he did. you see----" but dickie refused to see. whirling angrily, she walked rapidly toward the office. anything to get away from hearing gregory's praises chanted from every lip. better be with the idol himself than his devout followers. she flung open the door and entered the office. gregory faced her with a smile. a self-satisfied smile, the girl thought. in his hand was a paper. "look at that," he exclaimed. "my idea has worked out a lot better than i anticipated." dickie glanced coldly at the sheet but made no effort to take it from his hand. looking him full in the eye, she observed: "i'm about caught up with that idea of yours. i don't see that there is anything in it to cause any one to get the swelled-head." "who's getting the swelled-head?" demanded gregory, the smile passing from his face. "well, i'm not," retorted the girl, laying special stress on the pronoun. "i've seen too much of this game to have my head turned by a little luck." gregory overlooked the implication and admitted soberly: "yes, we sure have had luck. there's no denying that. i never had any idea the boys would take to the game the way they have." "they wouldn't if it hadn't been for my fishermen taking all the trouble they did with them. why, a lot of those fellows were seasick when they first came down here. they were 'rocking-chair sailors.' my men made them what they are. i don't see any luck in that." gregory smiled provokingly. "no, i don't suppose there was," he said. "what i meant was i was lucky in getting hold of men who really wanted to learn. you've admitted several times that they got along faster than you had any idea they would." "anybody could catch fish the way they've been running the last few weeks," evaded dickie. "i never saw anything like it before. nearly every boat comes in with a good haul. and when the local market was glutted at port angeles, you shot them up north and just tumbled on to a good market as frisco was out of fish. that was nothing but luck," she challenged. "and now we have orders for all canned stuff we can turn out," gregory put in. "sure you have. from the western outfit. i wouldn't trust them out of sight with a case of fish. they'll eat the stuff up as long as you can throw it to them in big lots. that gives them a chance to beat you down on the price. the first bad run of luck you have, they'll drop you cold. i know. they did the same thing with your father the very first time he began to fall down on his output." "yes, but----" "you're not going to fall down." she took the words from his mouth and hurried on: "that is just what i was afraid of. your luck has gone to your head. you have an idea things are always going to be like this. i know better. and you'll know before you get through. the fish are liable to head out to sea any day." "you guessed wrong about what i was going to say," gregory announced. "i was going to tell you i had an order from winfield & camby for a shipment of albacore if we can get them out right away. suppose the fish do run to sea," he went on. "i'll back you to find them if any one can. and we're well equipped now to follow them up." dickie was somewhat mollified but she took care not to show it. "you're not figuring on mascola either," she began. "mascola," gregory repeated. "why, he's been decent enough the last two or three weeks." "i know it," she interrupted. "that's what has me guessing. it isn't like mascola to be that way. he's been checking up on us right along, but he hasn't bothered any of our boats since he lost the _roma_. it's about time he showed his hand." "we have nearly as many boats as he has now," gregory observed. "maybe he thinks----" again the girl anticipated his words. "get that out of your head," she snapped. "if you think mascola's quit, you're wrong. the more boats dad got, the harder mascola fought him. it's only when an outfit gets big enough to make a showing that he begins to get busy." "we'll have the rest of the cannery boats out the last of the week," gregory announced. "i'll have the boys rush them. we won't start anything, but just get good and ready. it's mascola's move. i've made it perfectly clear to all the men that we are not looking for trouble." dickie was silent for a moment. then she said: "i have an idea that rock gave mascola a 'bum steer' and that both of them are just beginning to find out their mistake." "what do you mean?" "i mean that rock guessed wrong. he told a lot of people around town when you opened up that you'd be broke in thirty days. he and mascola are pretty thick and the chances are he told mascola the same thing and the dago believed him. now they're beginning to find out they slipped up in not trying to cripple you before you got your men broken in. i've just got a hunch it won't be long before we hear from mascola. he's bringing more boats in here every day from down the coast and the islands." seeing they were getting nowhere by their talk, gregory tossed the balance sheet to the desk and got to his feet. "we'd better be on our way," he said. with dickie following, he lead the way out into the cannery where he stopped for a moment to speak to mccoy. "i'm going outside for a while, mac. if the western people call up, tell them we're shipping the last of those sardines to-day. sound them out on albacore prices in job lots." dickie turned away at the mention of the jobbers. gregory evidently thought very little of her advice. biting her lips, she walked to the door to wait on the receiving platform. mccoy watched his employer follow after her. dick was sore at him. he'd have to go up to the house this evening and try to square himself. she was evidently sore at gregory, too. and in that thought, mccoy derived some consolation. with the crisp sea air fanning their faces as they headed out to sea, dickie's irritability vanished. desirous of starting conversation after a protracted silence, she began: "who do you think i saw down-town the other day?" gregory could not guess. "i was in the bank," she began after a moment, hoping gregory would not notice that at times she did frequent rock's institution. "and that crazy fool, boris, was in there trying to borrow some money. he's been hanging round town ever since mascola fired him. when i've seen him he's been drunk on japanese _sake_. he has it in for me because all the fishermen kid him about being run on the rocks by a girl. when i stepped back from the teller's window, boris lunged against me and started to mumble something. but before he had hardly opened his mouth, a well-dressed man came from somewhere and threw him half across the room. and who do you think it was?" again gregory shook his head. "bandrist." as gregory voiced his surprise, the girl went on: "you wouldn't have known him. he was all dolled-up and looked like a different man. he knew me all right and he had the nerve to ask me if he could come to see me," she concluded. gregory's dislike of bandrist increased. "what did you tell him?" he asked. dickie laughed. "i told him i wasn't any more anxious to receive callers at my home than he was at his." gregory wondered if the caustic answer to bandrist might have been retailed for his own benefit. he reflected suddenly that dickie lang had never so much as intimated that he would be a welcome guest at her home. well, there was no use dwelling on it now. he had never bothered the girl, and never would. "bandrist is no ordinary sheep-man," she went on. "and i know it. he's working some kind of a game over there that he doesn't want people to butt in on." she paused abruptly and her eyes narrowed. "i wonder," she began, but left her sentence unfinished as she noticed that gregory was regarding her curiously. "what?" he prompted. "nothing," she said. "maybe some day i'll tell you. but not now." gregory knew her well enough to know that nothing could be gained by urging. during the silence that fell upon them the minds of both were working in parallel grooves, groping for a way of light to lighten the darkness of an unsolved mystery. when they reached the albacore banks and sighted the vanguard of the fishing fleet, both came back sharply, back from the maze of doubt and intangible suspicions which clouded their brains as the fog had clouded the island that held their thoughts. making the rounds of the albacore fishermen the truth of the girl's pessimistic prophecy became strikingly apparent. the fish had undoubtedly taken to sea. laying-to to check one of the last of the few remaining boats which rode at anchor, dickie consulted her tally-sheet and shook her head. "not much in this," she averred. "it's a losing game so far. and there's only big jack with the _albatross_ yet to hear from. we ought to find him cruising off the seal rocks. he's generally the first out and the last to come in. he never gives up while there's a chance left. i've seen him 'chumming' for albacore all day and then bring in a bunch hours after everybody else had given up." as they drew near the _albatross_ she hailed the fisherman: "how are the fish, jack?" big jack continued throwing the live bait from the tanks into the water. then he straightened up and hitched at his suspender. "they're beginnin' to come in like hell," he bellowed. the fisherman was right. gregory looked over the rail and gasped with wonderment. the sea about them was literally alive with fish. the lines which flashed over the side of the _albatross_ scarcely touched the water before the fish struck. dickie's eyes snapped at the sight. "put her about," she cried to gregory. "and beat it as fast as you can for home. we'll make a killing if we can just overhaul enough of the boys to get in on the run. load up, jack," she called as the vessel swung about. "cruise up and down and keep 'chumming' so we won't lose them. we're going after the fleet. pound her for all she'll stand," she instructed gregory. "every minute means money." they had been running only a few minutes when they sighted mascola's speed-boat astern. the girl frowned as the _fuor d'italia_ roared by in a swirl of white water. "this is where speed counts," she exclaimed. "if mascola tumbles on to big jack he'll have his gang around the _albatross_ before we can get within hailing distance of our nearest boat." gregory watched the rapidly disappearing speed-boat anxiously. it was on his tongue to tell the girl of the launch joe barrows was building for him at port angeles, a craft which the boat-builder guaranteed in the contract would beat the boat he had built for the italian. "keeping in close touch is everything in this business," dickie observed. "fish come in bunches. the ocean's spotted like a checker-board. you may have one boat loading up and another right around the next point doing nothing. that's where mascola wins out," she exclaimed. "he scouts round and tips his fleet off if you've anything good. then they're down on you like a flock of gulls." before they caught up with the stragglers of the cannery fleet they sighted the alien fishing-boats coming in their direction. dickie's brow was overcast. "just what i was afraid of," she cried. "he's tipped them off. we're going to lose a lot to-day on account of not being able to keep closer together and being shy on a fast boat. you might as well get the idea of filling that albacore order out of your head right now." as they overhauled the cannery boats and headed them back to the seal rocks, gregory considered the girl's words about keeping in closer touch. if he was going to beat mascola, he'd have to get there first. the speed-launch which barrows was building for him would serve as a signal boat, but even that would not serve to keep the other boats in constant touch with one another. before they reached the last of the available boats they met mascola coming back. while the girl stormed at their helplessness to cope with the situation, gregory spoke in monosyllables and wrestled with his problem. he considered the methods of communication employed by the army in connecting the various units. one by one he discarded them. the semaphore would serve only for short distances and then only when the boats were within sight of each other. the same argument would apply against the wig-wag. the heliograph would be useless in stormy weather or in fog. a fast launch would help out, but even that would not completely solve the difficulty. how did boats keep in touch with one another? the answer came at once. why hadn't he thought of it before? when they came in sight of the seal rocks they saw the masts of the two fleets clustered thickly about the _albatross_. "look at that," snapped the girl. "now, maybe you'll believe i know what i'm talking about. we were asleep and mascola's beat us to it. it won't take him long to fish them out with an outfit like that. he's got our boats on the outside now, taking what's left." gregory saw that she was right. mascola's boats were crowded closely about the _albatross_ and his own fleet was completely fenced off. "what did i tell you? he's got them already. look! he's ready to move. while we've been crawling along in this old tub, he's cleaned up." the alien fleet began to get under way as she spoke and headed about. darting past his boats came mascola. noting the tardy arrival of the oncoming launch, he made straight for them. slowing down, he drifted by with his white teeth flashing in an insolent smile. then he opened the throttle and the _fuor d'italia_ leaped forward and raced away with an angry roar. when they reached the _albatross_, big jack was apoplectic with rage. it was some minutes before he could master his speech sufficiently to explain the situation. mascola had arrived when they were hardly out of sight, had watched them pulling in the fish and had gone at once to summon his boats. the aliens had come upon him from around the point in ever-increasing numbers. had hedged him and taken his school. when the cannery boats arrived the albacore quit biting and took to other waters. dickie lang issued orders for the return of the fleet to legonia. then she vented her wrath on kenneth gregory. "so you thought you had mascola beaten, did you? what did i tell you? didn't i say he'd come back at the first chance? albacore fishing is where he's always been strong. and that's about all there is from now on. we've got to come alive and forget these ideas and get down to brass tacks. mascola beat us hands down and we couldn't lift a finger to stop him. what are you going to do about it? that's what i want to know." gregory curbed his rising anger and answered quietly: "before i tell you what i'm going to do, i'd like to ask you a question. what could we have done legally to break through mascola's fence?" "nothing. that's where he had us. he got there first. to get in to the fish we'd have had to ram his boats and he'd have you up before the local inspectors in no time if you had done that. if he had laid his nets around ours it would have been different. you could demand sea-way and run through them if he didn't move. but this way he had us over a barrel. and he knew it. it's a trick no white man would do. but i guess even you will admit now that there isn't a drop of white blood in that dago's body." "then about the only way we could have beaten him," pursued gregory, "would have been to have got there first and covered our own boats. is that right?" "yes. but that is not so easy as it sounds." "it is not so hard either," gregory went on. "i have an idea that i think will work out all right." dickie's eyes flashed. "forget your ideas!" she snapped. "you've got to have a whole lot more than ideas when you start out to beat mascola." gregory felt his patience oozing from him at her words. it was bad enough to lose an order from a firm he hoped to get in strong with, without the girl rubbing it in. "you haven't done anything yet but find fault," he said. "you have been at this game a lot longer than i have. maybe you have something to suggest." something in his voice caused dickie to quiet down. she began to cast about in her mind for an answer. "you've got to keep your boats in closer touch," she began. "so mascola can't work this same deal on us again." "that is exactly what i am going to do." "you'll have to show me." "i will. i'm going to show you and mascola both. by wireless." before she could interrupt, he hurried on: "listen. half of these navy men know the international code. the others can learn easy enough with some one to teach them who has worked at a radio key. i have several who have done that and can rig the sets." "you must think you're a millionaire. you aren't running a line of steamships. come down to----" "the sets won't cost much," gregory went on calmly. "if they did all these kids along the shore wouldn't have them. a fifty or one-hundred-mile radius would be enough for us. and it wouldn't take them long to pay for themselves. if we had had the boats equipped with radio outfits to-day we could have beaten mascola at his own game. when big jack 'chummed' up the albacore the rest of our boats would have known it before mascola got there. the fish he caught to-day would pay for quite a few sets." "it would pay for itself in another way if it would work," supplemented dickie, much to gregory's surprise. "lots of times a boat breaks down and drifts on to a reef. if she could get word to some one close by they could take her in tow or even pull her off before she was hurt much." discussing the pros and cons of the new idea, they took their way toward legonia. when they arrived at the lang wharf the girl grudgingly admitted that the plan might work. at least it might justify a trial. leaving dickie at her own dock gregory was about to proceed up the bay to the cannery wharf when she came over to the rail and exclaimed in a low voice: "oh, yes. another thing. i didn't have a chance to look at that statement you had this morning. if you're not too busy to-night, you might bring it up to the house." chapter xv business and pleasure alone in his little room in the fish cannery kenneth gregory found himself confronted by a new and unexpected problem. a hurried glance at his watch only served to aggravate the tense lines which creased his forehead. it was seven-thirty already. he was due at the lang residence at eight. and what was he going to wear? the seriousness of the situation became painfully apparent as he pawed over his wardrobe. his pre-war clothes had served nicely to wear about the cannery. but they were hopelessly out of style. why hadn't he taken the time to have had something decent made in port angeles instead of taking the first thing in 'hand-me-downs' which the salesman had offered? he surveyed the suit ruefully. then he reflected that his errand was purely one of business and hastily donned the garments. a nasty fit, he admitted to himself, as he looked into the mirror. he'd like to get his hands on the man who talked him into it. he looked at his shoes. they too caused him a commensurate amount of worry. built on lines of comfort they displayed a total disregard of fashion. the longer he examined his attire the more conscious he became of its defects. turning from the glass he walked with disgust from the room. the moon was shining bright when gregory reached the lang cottage. pausing on the graveled walk to reef in his vest, he walked up the steps and fumbled about for the bell. dickie welcomed him at the door. "i hardly knew you in those clothes," she began. "they do make a difference, don't they?" gregory pulled his coat closer about him and agreed that they did. then he noticed that the girl had discarded her man's attire and was clothed in a plain white dress. in the light of the little hallway her hair gleamed like dull gold. she led the way into a small living-room upon the floor of which a number of vari-colored rag rugs were scattered about. by a big sewing table sat a little woman in black. a light shawl draped her shoulders and a white cap covered her gray-threaded hair. at their entrance she laid aside her knitting and smiled. "this is mr. gregory, aunt mary," dickie announced in a loud voice. to gregory she added: "miss lang, my father's sister. she is very hard of hearing." gregory bowed as he took the hand miss lang extended. "i'm glad to know you," she said. "real glad. your father was one of my few friends. we enjoyed many pleasant games of checkers together." her keen gray eyes appraised him while she spoke and under the frankness of her stare, gregory felt his coat collar slowly pulling away from his neck. passing a hand nervously to the lapel he jerked the garment into place while he responded to her greeting. "richard all over again," announced miss lang when she had finished her inspection. "the same eyes, the square chin. even the same nervous manner of hitching at your clothes." "aunt mary!" dickie expostulated. "you're too personal. you----" but miss lang went on with a smile which put her guest wholly at his ease: "you won't mind what an old lady like me says, i'm sure. i always told your father just what i thought. and i'm going to do the same with you." gregory listened attentively while she told him of her first meeting with his father. while she spoke his eyes traveled curiously to the high-backed organ and the what-not beyond. richard gregory had described the lang home as a model of neatness and old-fashioned charm. his son went further. the room possessed a personality. it was not only livable but lovable as well. the very atmosphere breathed a benediction. "do you play checkers?" miss lang's voice recalled gregory to himself. he shook his head. "i'm sorry," he began. "no you're not," put in dickie quietly. "you're lucky. don't ever learn. aunt mary never gave your father a chance to say a word. she had her board out when she heard him in the hall." a knock on the front door interrupted miss lang's request for her checker-board and dickie hurried out. "i can teach you in no time," aunt mary was saying. but gregory was listening to the sound of a man's voice in the hallway. then came the girl's laugh. "i wasn't angry at all, jack. just cranky. but i'm glad you came up just the same and thanks for the candy." she reentered the room followed by mccoy. mccoy stopped with surprise as he caught sight of gregory. nodding casually, he went over to greet miss lang. aunt mary welcomed mccoy warmly. then she addressed her niece. "bring us the board, josephine. kenneth can watch and i'll explain the game as we go along." mccoy sank into a chair and passed a hand wearily over his eyes. "i have a headache," he shouted. "don't think i'd better play to-night." "you've been working too hard," aunt mary retorted. "nothing like a good game of checkers for relaxation." dickie was already on her way for the board. as she passed gregory he saw that her eyes were sparkling. "that's right, jack," she called back. "leave it to aunt mary to prescribe for your headache. she knows." as mccoy drew up to the board gregory noticed that he was attired in close-fitting clothes of ultra-fashionable cut. as he saw mccoy look him over he became ill at ease and moved his chair farther from the light. dickie sensed his embarrassment and noting that neither man appeared to enjoy himself, strove to make her guests feel more at home. both men she knew were vitally interested in the operation of the cannery. and gregory, at her request, had brought up the balance-sheet. a discussion of business affairs would relieve the situation and at the same time rescue mccoy from aunt mary's checker-board. the rapid termination of the first game gave her a chance to interrupt. "i asked mr. gregory to bring up a business statement to-night, aunt mary; you'd like to see it, wouldn't you? i know jack would." miss lang nodded and promptly laid aside the board. "very much," she answered. "i've always been interested in that business and i understand this young man is making it pay." mccoy heaved a sigh of relief to learn it was merely business which had brought gregory to see dickie lang. at the girl's reference to the object of his errand, gregory unbuttoned his coat and delved into his pocket for the paper. he must have put it in his vest. again his fingers failed to find the missing document. he became conscious of a prickly sensation creeping slowly over his flesh. where had he left that darned paper anyway? suddenly he remembered. in his mortification over his attire he had left the statement lying on his dresser. he looked up to meet all eyes fixed expectantly upon him. then he leaned back in his chair and tried to smile. "i guess the joke's on me," he said. "i came away in such a hurry i forgot it." dickie laughed at his discomfiture until the tears shone in her eyes, while mccoy regarded his employer with suspicion. aunt mary finished polishing her spectacles and settled back to listen. "i'm all ready to hear it," she announced. "perhaps you had better come nearer so you will not have to speak so loud." dickie came to gregory's rescue and explained the situation to her aunt. then she added in a low voice: "you must have been stung by another of those ideas of yours." during the remainder of his visit kenneth gregory was content to remain in the background. mccoy made a few efforts at conversation as he noted aunt mary's eyes roving longingly in the direction of the checker-board. then miss lang, much to every one's relief, began to monopolize the conversation. beckoning gregory closer, she said: "i want to give you just one bit of advice though i don't suppose you'll heed it coming from an old lady like me." as gregory encouraged her to go on, she exclaimed: "stay away from diablo island." seeing that she had aroused his interest, she went on: "you're going to ask me why, and i'll have to answer that i don't know except that it is a dangerous place and has been the cause of a number of strange accidents during the past few years. i used to warn my brother to stay away from there. he only laughed at my fears--at first. when he lost the _kingfisher_ at el diablo he called it bad luck. any boat was liable to be run down, he said. then came the wreck of the _crane_ off the south coast of the island and not a body ever recovered." "aunt mary thinks there's ghosts and everything else at diablo," dickie whispered. "if you give her any encouragement, she's as bad as my fishermen." gregory noticed that although the girl's words were intended to ridicule the idea, the expression of her face showed that her aunt's words were not regarded by her in the light of idle gossip. "for a time after that," miss lang continued, "my brother stayed away from diablo. when fish were scarce he went back. he hadn't had his nets out a week before he lost them all. no one ever knew what became of them. will was getting worried though he tried not to show it. he was about ready to give it up when your father bought the cannery and came to legonia. for a while after that fishing was good everywhere. as long as they stayed away from that accursed island things went well. but they were not satisfied. so they sent the _eagle_ over there. the last they heard of her she was anchored in northwest harbor." the room grew very still as the old lady continued: "that worried them. because they could not find out what became of her. the fishermen began to refuse to go there and i thanked god it was all over. then one night will and your father went out to diablo in the _gull_. why they went, heaven only will ever know." she rose slowly and walked to the door. "she won't sleep a wink to-night," exclaimed dickie as the door closed on her aunt. "i must look after her." when the girl returned a few minutes later she found gregory and mccoy discussing business. gregory remained on his feet at her entrance. "i must be going," he said. "i have a lot of work to do." bidding mccoy good night, he followed dickie to the hall. "i'm glad you came up even if you did forget the balance-sheet. come up again any time you're not too busy." with the girl's words in his ears, gregory walked into the moonlight. the evening had not been a complete failure after all. as he turned his steps in the direction of the town his mind was wholly engrossed with the events of the past two hours. how aunt mary did hate diablo. had the girl noticed how badly his clothes fit him in comparison with mccoy's? why had jack appeared so grouchy? he stopped short in his descent of the hill road as he saw a man walking unsteadily toward him. moving to one side he watched the drunken fisherman stumble on, heard the low mumbling of his voice. then the moonlight fell full upon the man's face. it was boris, the crazy russian. chapter xvi the baited pawn of all the many saloons that made up legonia's water-front the "red paint" was the favorite resort among the alien fishermen. the universal popularity of the establishment was due mainly to three causes. the boss owned the place and paid off there between moons. credit was freely given to all fishermen in good standing, and thirdly, mascola's emporium enjoyed full police protection. during the evening when gregory made his first call at the lang hill the tide of revelry at the "red paint" was at the flood. it was pay-day and the boss was in high good humor. either occurrence was always good for a number of rounds of free drinks. but when mascola was happy on pay-day, the liberality of the "red paint" was indeed prodigal. and mascola was happy. within the frosted glass enclosure that marked off his saloon-office from the bar, the italian sat at his desk in a genial glow of good humor. the glow was purely physical, superinduced by the rapidly disappearing contents of the slim-nosed bottle which stood at his elbow. the good humor was due to other causes. as he re-filled his glass, mascola smiled. it hadn't been such a bad day at that. he'd showed somebody something about albacore fishing. and he'd show them a lot more before he got through. things were coming his way too from other sources. he took out his leather wallet and ran over a number of bills of high denomination. then he took another drink and smiled at the ceiling. it had been such easy money. much easier than fishing. a knock sounded at the street-door. mascola shoved the wallet again into his pocket and hastily removed his bottle of amontillado. "come in," he called. boris entered, clumsily filling the doorway with his great bulk and bringing with him a strong odor of garlic and jap _sake_. for a moment he stood on the threshold, blinking stupidly. then he pulled the door closed with a bang. mascola's eyes grew hard as he dropped his hand into a drawer of his desk which stood open. "stay where you are," he commanded. "what do you want?" "job," muttered the russian thickly. mascola shook his head and an annoyed frown darkened his brow. "go home," he said. "you're drunk. you're no good. i fired you. don't want to talk." boris made no move to comply with his order. his small eyes roved restlessly about the room for a moment, then came to rest on the italian. "boys making fool with me all time," he said. "say i can no lick woman. i get damn mad. you give me job. i show you." mascola shook his head. leaning closer to the swaying figure, he said in a low voice: "show me first." boris's face became purple with rage as the import of mascola's answer filtered into his thick skull. he clenched his huge hands and raised them above his head, mumbling all the while in his own tongue. then his arms fell to his sides and his pig-like eyes gleamed with belated comprehension. licking his dry lips, he said: "give me drink. i show you to-night." the italian slipped a hand into his pocket and tossed him a two-dollar bill. stumbling to the door the russian found mascola close by his side. "wait," he commanded. "sit down. there." he pointed to a chair screened from the street entrance by a large steel safe. when boris had deposited his great bulk therein, mascola walked to the door and looked up and down the street. then he returned and grasped the russian by the arm. "go," he said. as boris reached the door he shoved him out with the whisper: "don't forget. you've got to show me." joe blagg was among the last of mascola's men to come for his money. and though he said nothing when he signed the pay-roll, blagg nursed a grouch against his employer. mascola had cursed him out that morning and no livin' dago could do that. he'd get square, or his name wasn't joe blagg. the bartender shoved a black bottle toward him as he pocketed his money. "boss's treat," he announced. blagg's animosity thawed sufficiently to permit him to accept the proffered drink, then flared again under the influence of the fiery liquor. he called for another and gulped it down. then mascola's whisky began to talk. he'd make the dago eat his words. that's what he'd do. two more drinks and he decided to have it out with mascola at once. "where's boss?" he inquired thickly. the bartender jerked his shorn head in the direction of the frosted glass enclosure. blagg drew back, his ardor somewhat chilled to find his quarry so near. perhaps it was better to figure out just what he was going to say before he tackled the boss. deciding that he could plan better in the open air, he walked unsteadily to the swinging doors and staggered across the street. there he leaned against the bulkhead and looked back at the red paint. a flash of light illumined the side-walk in front of the saloon office and blagg saw mascola's figure silhouetted in the open doorway. he was looking up and down the street. as the fisherman drew back into the shadow the italian disappeared to return a moment later shoving a burly figure before him. blagg became even more discreet as he recognized mascola's guest. boris was a bigger man by far than himself. and yet mascola was putting him out with no trouble at all. the observation had a sobering effect upon the fisherman. his militant air changed quickly to one of craft. he'd quit the boss and pull a lot of the boys along with him. he could hit the dago better that way. they were all pretty sore at being bossed around by a "furrinor" anyway. and work was plenty up around frisco. he'd round up a bunch of the boys right away. with that idea in view he walked along the water-front and turned again to the row of saloons. then he noticed that boris was lurching along ahead of him. he saw the russian push open the door of the "buffalo" and heard the derisive roar from within which greeted his entrance. scenting amusement at boris's expense, blagg followed. when he elbowed his way through the press of fishermen who thronged the "buffalo" bar, he saw the russian surrounded by a jeering crowd. "got a job yet, boris?" some one called. "he's workin' for the lang girl now," put in another. boris snarled and, flinging his tormentors away from him, made his way to the bar, jabbering excitedly in russian to pete ankovitch. blagg moved nearer. "what's he sayin', pete?" he asked. ankovitch laughed. "he say everybody go to hell," he interpreted. "he say he show mascola he ain't 'fraid of no woman." blagg strove to focus his mind on the russian's words. boris was sore as a boiled oil, crazy as a coot. and he had it in for the lang girl for causing him to get the can. the russian's reference to mascola caused the furrows in blagg's brow to deepen. both of them were sore at the girl. were they framing up? if they were he'd block the boss's game. he'd wise her. she'd always shot straight enough with him anyway, and he was a fool to have ever quit her. if mascola was baiting the russian to pull off some dirty work he'd---- blagg paused in his tentative plans for outwitting mascola as his eye fell on neilson. there was the man he wanted to see. swan could swing the swedes into quitting the dago. all thought of boris vanished from blagg's mind as he drew neilson aside and conferred confidentially with the big swede in a drunken whisper. when he looked about for the russian some time later, boris was gone. blagg drained the contents of his last glass with a wry face, and walked unsteadily to the door. colliding with a man on the sidewalk, he regained his poise by leaning heavily against a sandwich sign-board. "hello, blagg. seen any of my men inside?" blagg shoved back his cap and eyed the speaker with drunken suspicion. when he recognized the cannery owner, a furtive light crept into his eyes and he beckoned gregory closer. gregory noted the mysterious mien and promptly credited it to the man's state of intoxication. he was on the point of hurrying on when blagg's words stayed him. "tell lang girl t' look out for 'self." "what do you mean?" gregory grasped him by the arm and whirled him about. "was in s'loon," blagg muttered, striving to focus his bleary eyes upon his auditor. "damn russian there, too. boys's kiddin' him an' boris tol' 'em he was't 'fraid no woman. said he'd show 'em." "does he live over there?" gregory asked quickly, pointing toward the lang hill. blagg shook his head and nodded in the opposite direction. "down there," he corrected. "think he----" but gregory did not wait to hear what blagg thought. blagg looked after him stupidly. he had had no time to speak of his hatred or suspicion of mascola. but he'd show the dago yet. a crowd of fishermen lumbered along the sidewalk toward him, talking excitedly. leaning against the sign-board, blagg was able to gather from their conversation that a fight had just occurred at the red paint. some one had tried to get square with the boss and mascola had knifed him. cold sweat broke out on joe blagg's forehead. to his whirling brain came other instances he had heard of how mascola always got square with those who opposed him. blagg's whiskyfied courage began to ooze. perhaps he had gone too far. suppose neilson, with a desire to get in strong with the boss, should tell mascola that he, joe blagg, was trying to start a strike among the alien fishermen? and a swede liked to talk too. why not get out of town for a while till the thing blew over? he wasn't afraid of the dago and his whole crowd. but what was the use of starting a row? besides he was ready to move anyway. he reflected suddenly that the midnight train for frisco stopped at legonia on signal. that would give him time to throw his stuff together. he had already drawn his money. why not hit the grit? * * * * * as jack mccoy took his way down the hillside he was acutely conscious of the fact that the evening had been a distinct disappointment. why was gregory there anyway? that talk about his forgetting his papers sounded mighty thin. how many times had the boss been there before? what was the matter with dick to-night? she acted kind of funny, didn't seem to care whether he stayed any longer or not. mccoy stopped by the roadside as he caught sight of a man running hastily along one of the streets leading from the town. whoever the fellow was he was sure in a hurry the way he was cutting 'cross lots. as the runner came under the rays of the corner arc-light, mccoy started and peered intently after the departing figure. it sure looked like gregory. and he was angling in the direction of the lang hill. the idea clung tenaciously. when he reached his rooming-house it became an obsession. he decided to find out if the runner could have been his employer. calling up the cannery it was some time before a sleepy voice answered his summons. "boss ain't here. went out at eight and ain't been back since. want to leave message?" mccoy snapped up the receiver and walked slowly into his room. so it was gregory. where had he been going at this time of night? and on the run, too. the forgetting of the paper was only a frame-up. dick had acted funny. now he knew it was because she wanted to get rid of him. he sat on the bed, making no effort to remove his clothes. you're a poor fish, something whispered. why don't you go and find out if they're double-crossing you? mccoy tried not to listen. for a long time he stared moodily at the floor. then he rose and threw off his coat. hastily replaced it and hurried to the door. he was ashamed of his suspicions. but he simply had to find out. * * * * * there was a light still burning in the lang cottage when gregory turned into the walk. perhaps he was foolish to have returned. still it would do no harm to warn the girl. as he went up the steps he saw miss lang walking up and down the little hall. tapping loudly, he summoned her to the door. "could i speak to miss dickie a moment?" he shouted. "it is something important." aunt mary came out on the porch. "if you wait a moment," she said, "my niece will be back. she left some time ago to take some medicine over to one of our neighbor's sick babies." gregory's fears multiplied. "where did she go?" "to the swanson place just over the hill. it's the first place you'll come to before you reach the russian valley." "i'll go meet her." he turned quickly and hurried down the path. reaching the brow of the hill, he saw the lights of the swanson cottage and slowed down to a walk. his fears for the girl's safety were apparently groundless. the valley lay before him, steeped in moonlight. no sound disturbed the stillness save the far-off cry of the screaming gulls and the monotonous murmur of the distant sea. walking slowly down the road, grown high on both sides with sage and cactus, he caught a glimpse of a bulky figure in the path ahead. looking again to the cottage only a few hundred yards down the road, gregory saw the light flash out from an open door. for a moment it shone brightly, then disappeared. as the man in the roadway heard the sound of footsteps behind him, he stepped quickly to the brush and faced about. keeping well in the center of the path, gregory went steadily on with his eyes fixed upon the clump of sage which sheltered the disappearing figure. it was boris, without a doubt. no other man about legonia possessed the giant proportions of the big russian. boris glared sullenly from the brush as he saw the advancing figure hesitate and turn toward him. then he recognized the young cannery owner. what chance would he have to show mascola now? the intruder threatened the defeat of his cherished plans. the girl he sought was coming up the hill. a few minutes more and---- "what do you want, boris?" the russian's answer to gregory's question came in a guttural snarl as he staggered from the sage and flung himself upon the speaker. chapter xvii the fangs of mascola gregory leaped nimbly beyond reach of the russian's waving arms and placed his back to the moonlight. meeting the fisherman's blind rush with a quick blow to his heavy jaw, he sidestepped and struck again. boris blocked the fist with a sweep of his long arm and clinched. for an instant the bodies of the two men rocked in the gripping power of the embrace. then they fell to the roadway. * * * * * dickie lang stopped suddenly as she saw the struggling figures in the path. a fight between two drunken fishermen was the commonest thing in legonia. she'd better not get mixed up in it. they were not her men. she knew that. none of her fisherman lived up here but swanson, and the swede she knew was at home. making a wide detour through the brush which carried her beyond sight of the scuffle, she hurried on. * * * * * "where's dick, aunt mary?" there was a note in jack mccoy's voice which made miss lang regard him sharply before replying: "she's gone down to swanson's, john. one of the babies was sick." "has mr. gregory been back since i left? i'm looking for him." mccoy was ashamed of the question. still it was better to find out from aunt mary than to try to explain to her niece. "yes. he left only a few minutes ago. he inquired for josephine and when i told him where she had gone, he said he would go to meet her." shaking his head weakly at aunt mary's question if anything was wrong, mccoy turned slowly and walked down the path. everything was wrong. dick had ditched him for gregory. they'd framed it to get him out of the way. well, it was a cinch he wouldn't butt in. his reflections were cut short by the sight of a white figure walking toward him. "hello, jack. what's the matter?" mccoy stared. dickie lang was alone. "i'm looking for mr. gregory," he faltered. "haven't seen him since he left the house." the girl was by his side, looking anxiously into his face. "anything wrong, jack?" she asked quickly. mccoy shook his head. "no," he said. "i just wanted to talk to him about changing the pack in the morning. your aunt told me he came back and went to meet you." dickie's surprise entered into her voice as she said: "that's funny. i walked all the way from swanson's and i didn't meet him." as she ceased speaking came a sharp remembrance of the two figures battling in the roadway. could one of them have been kenneth gregory? she expressed her fears to mccoy. mccoy started at once for the hill. "go back to the house, dick," he called back. "i'll go down there and see what's the trouble." dickie followed after him. "i'm going too," she said. "i should have gone back and told swanson or----" her words were interrupted by the sharp report of a gun from over the hill. mccoy broke into a run. "go back," he cried. "hurry. get your gun. i'm going on." * * * * * boris looked stupidly into the white face of kenneth gregory as he knelt over him. then he staggered to his feet and looked up and down the road. as the possible consequences of his act began to filter through his consciousness, he jumped to cover in the brush and ran down the ravine in the direction of russian valley. when dickie lang reached the spot where she had seen the men fighting in the roadway, she found jack mccoy bending over the sprawling figure of kenneth gregory. "is he dead?" mccoy shook his head. "the bullet went into his side," he said. "he's losing a lot of blood but he's still conscious. run down to swanson's and phone for the doctor. then have bill come and help me move him." while mccoy worked to staunch the flow of blood, the girl ran to carry out his orders. remorse gripped her heart as she raced down the hill. she should have gone to gregory's aid. she might have done something. at least she could have discovered the identity of his assailant. if she had gone at once for swanson, he might have arrived in time to prevent the shot. when she reached the house she roused the swede and rushed to the telephone, giving hasty instructions to the fisherman to take a couple of oars and a blanket and go at once to mccoy's assistance. after an interminable period of waiting she was able to get in communication with doctor kent. instructing the physician to come at once to the lang cottage, she hurried away. on her way up the hill she met mccoy and swanson carrying gregory on the improvised stretcher. "where are you going?" she cried. the swede started to explain. his house was closest and they were quite welcome to bring the injured man there. the girl objected with decisive emphasis. "i've already told the doctor to come to our house. aunt mary is the best nurse in the country. besides, bill, you have your hands full to-night with hulda." * * * * * mascola paused on the threshold of his office at the red paint with his key grating in the lock. then he placed his back to the brick wall and drew his knife as he saw a bulky figure coming toward him. "stop where you are," he exclaimed sharply. "what do you want?" boris lunged forward and mascola caught him roughly by the arm. "get out, damn you," he cried. "i told you to beat it." "tried to get girl," boris panted. "gregory man there too. i kill him." mascola looked hastily about. when boris had ceased mumbling, the italian ordered after a moment's consideration: "shut up. go down to my dock the back way. get on the _lura_. wait there for me." as the russian slouched down the street, mascola reopened his door and went into his office. then he got ankovitch on the phone. "come down to the boat right away," he ordered. "i want you to get right out." * * * * * day was breaking when mccoy stood with dickie lang on the steps of the lang cottage. the bullet had been found and removed. kenneth gregory was resting as well as could be expected. there was danger only through blood-poisoning. the patient was young and strong and should recover. the doctor from centerville had just left after agreeing with the local physician's diagnosis. "and now," mccoy was saying, "as there is nothing more i can do here i'll go back to town. it will sure be up to me from now on." dickie put a hand on his arm and looked earnestly into his eyes. "it will be up to both of us, jack. we've simply got to keep things going for him. i might have saved him. now it's up to me to make good." as mccoy walked homeward through the brightening light, he strove to consider the events of the night in their proper sequence, but his brain rioted in a jumble of confused impressions. he owed kenneth gregory an apology. now that the boss was down and out it was up to every one to do their level-darnedest. he'd see that they did, too. he was sorry it had all happened. sorry that he had doubted. sorry too for other things which he would not admit, even to himself. and down in the bottom of his heart, loyal though it was, jack mccoy was sorry that kenneth gregory had not been taken to swanson's. chapter xviii the cost of defeat there are periods in every one's life when the standard measurements of time are hopelessly inadequate fittingly to express its passing. minutes may creep, or they may fly. an hour stretches into a day or a day contracts into an hour directly at the will of circumstance. kenneth gregory found this to be true during his period of convalescence at the lang cottage. as the days went by he found himself devising a simpler method for keeping track of time. there were hours when dickie lang was with him, and hours when she was not. his moments with the girl were always too short. and he was surprised to find that they never appeared to lengthen. his interest in dickie, he told himself, was purely impersonal. she told him of just the things he desired to hear most about. kept him in touch with his world. brought him news each day from the cannery; the business for which he hungered and fretted during each minute of his idle hours. it was dickie lang who had told him of the search which had been made for boris, a search which had ended in failure. the russian had fled, leaving no trace of his whereabouts. blagg also was missing, so nothing further could be learned from that source. gossip had been rife in the fishing village over the sudden disappearance of the two men. then the matter was apparently forgotten, giving place to the excitement caused by the installation of the first radio-set on one of the cannery fishing fleet. gregory, who had given orders for a trial equipment before the accident, was elated to learn from the girl that the innovation was proving a distinct success. other sets were installed and the practicability of the new idea was demonstrated beyond the shadow of a doubt. to quote the girl, all she had to do was to "spot the fish, click out the signal and the cannery boats would be round her like a flock of gulls." mascola, she told gregory, had regarded the new departure, at the outset, as something of a joke. rock too had ridiculed the idea openly. but when the cannery fleet got fish while the italian's boats came in but scantily-laden, mascola's laugh changed to a scowl and rock's flabby forehead was creased with worried lines. with the aid of the radio the "patchy" schools along the coast had been fished to good advantage while mascola's fleet were forced to cruise as far as diablo and san anselmo in order to obtain fish enough to supply the rival cannery. from mccoy's occasional visits gregory had learned that the plant was running to its full capacity. upon the subject, however, of sales and orders, the house-manager was extremely reticent. so it was that gregory passed the long days of his confinement, rejoicing with dickie lang over the growing success of the outside end and worrying over mccoy's evasion when he was questioned concerning the disposition of the finished product. and all the while longing for the time to come when he would be permitted to get back into the harness. "there's no use letting you go with instructions to take it easy," doctor kent had said. "i know your kind. when i turn you out i want you to be going strong." in that opinion, aunt mary concurred. but the time came at last when gregory was permitted to leave the lang cottage and return to the cannery. fearing a reversal of the verdict rendered in his favor, he set out at once. at some distance from the cannery he stopped and inhaled the fish-laden atmosphere with a singing heart. once, he remembered, the odor had sickened him. now it came like a breath from heaven. it stirred his soul, quickened his pulse. he sucked in the tinctured air greedily. it was life itself. a life that was full and free, teeming with opportunity, filled with work and fight. "long on fish, but short on sales." gregory expressed the state of his business with blunt accuracy as he stood with mccoy in the crowded warehouse. mccoy admitted the truth of the owner's statement. "we didn't want to worry you while you were sick," he explained, "but you can see just where we stand. something has sure gone wrong with the selling end. dick's getting the fish. i'm canning them. but we can't sell them." "what's the matter with the western people?" gregory asked quickly. "i thought they were strong for us." mccoy shrugged. "so did i," he answered. "but a few days after you got hurt they quit us cold with no explanation. when we fell down on that first big order of albacore, winfield & camby lost interest and i haven't been able to get a flutter out of them since. the other dealers seem to be afraid of us for some reason. they come down and look us over, but that is all." mccoy scowled at the huge stacks of shining tins and shook his head. "it's got me," he admitted. "we're putting out a first-class article but we can't unload it. i've got a hunch somebody's plugging against us." noting the worried lines which were finding their way to gregory's face at his words, he went on hastily: "i'm sorry to have you come back into such a tangle as this. i did my best but you see i didn't have a minute to get out and take care of the sales." "don't say a word, jack," gregory interrupted. "you've done more than your part. every man of you and every woman too," he added quickly. "i'll never forget it. this part of the game is up to me. i'm feeling fit now. keen to get going. i want to look things over for a few minutes in the office. then i'll talk with you again and let you know what i'm going to do first." a careful examination of his finances convinced gregory of the seriousness of the situation. there was only one thing to be done. he must visit the jobbers at once. he paused abruptly in his calculations at the staccato bark of a high-powered motor. mascola, he thought, as he rose and walked to the window. what he saw through the glass caused him to stand staring. speeding through the dancing waters of the sunlit bay came a speed-launch, heading in the direction of the cannery wharf. but it was not the _fuor d'italia_. his eyes followed the course of the oncoming stranger and a worried frown leaped to his brow. it couldn't be that joe barrows had completed the _richard_ already. he glanced at the calendar and his frown deepened. in all probability it was his boat. and if so, where was he going to get the money to pay for it? he walked to the wharf and with narrowing eyes watched the stranger's approach. something wrong somewhere, he reasoned. he had ordered a speed-boat. one that would beat mascola's. a craft with real lines and bird-like grace like the _fuor d'italia_. the oncoming launch, he observed bitterly, was the direct antithesis of his expectations. surely there could be no speed in that squatty packet with her sagging bow and queer looking box-affair for a stern. the strange craft drew abreast of the wharf and whirled about in a wave-washed circle. the motor hummed with contentment and the hull sank sullenly into the water as the man at the wheel guided the boat in the direction of the float. then gregory caught sight of the letters painted on the side: richard "can you tell me where i can find mr. gregory?" the man in the boat looked up questioningly. gregory walked slowly to the float. "i'm mr. gregory," he answered lifelessly. "i was almost wishing i wasn't if that's the launch i ordered." the driver of the craft rested his arms on the big steering wheel and laughed outright. "don't like her, eh?" he grinned. "can't say that i do," gregory answered. "it looks to me like mr. barrows misunderstood my orders." the stranger's face grew instantly serious. "you wanted a sea-going craft which could stand rough water and beat the _fuor d'italia_ we built for mascola," he said slowly. "and you left the lines and everything else entirely up to us. is that right?" gregory nodded. then a gleam of hope lighted his eye. "you think this one will fill the bill?" he questioned. "if she doesn't, it's up to us," the man answered. noting the skeptical look in gregory's face, he went on: "don't make the mistake of trying to judge a boat from the dock, mr. gregory. 'you can't tell by the looks of a frog how far he can jump,' or how fast either. barrows has been at the game long enough to quit guessing. when he tackles a proposition like yours, he wants your money, not your boat. i came down this morning to take you out for a trial. then if there's anything you want changed we can fix it up before we turn her over to you to beat mascola. if you can spare the time i'll take you back with me to port angeles. that will give you a good chance to see her perform in rough water as it's blowing up nasty off the breakwater." gregory's face cleared. the suggestion had two-fold value. by acting upon it at once he could combine business with pleasure. visit the jobbers in the city and at the same time test out the launch. "i'll be ready in half an hour," he answered. the boatman nodded. "i'll run down-town," he said, "and get a bite to eat. don't forget to bring a rain-coat with you. you're liable to get wet." gregory promised and hurried away. in the cannery he found mccoy and outlined his plans. mccoy objected. "better take it easy for a day or two," he counseled. "no use trying to hit the ball too hard at the start." gregory smiled brightly. "i'm feeling like a king, mac," he said. "i'll find out what the trouble is with the jobbers and be back sometime to-morrow." seeing that his advice was futile, mccoy left to put up a few samples while his employer hurried into the office. gregory turned at once to his desk. as he prepared the quotations for submission to the jobbers, a cheery voice interrupted him in his work. "welcome home." in the doorway stood dickie lang. he jumped hastily to his feet and put out his hands. "oh, if you only knew how good it was to be back," he began. then, as he noticed the girl's rapid change of expression at his words, he hastened to amend: "i don't mean i was glad to leave your house. i wasn't. it's the only home i've known for a long time. i was only trying to say how glad i am to be able to get back to work." dickie smiled at his enthusiasm. "i know," she said. "it's wonderful you were able to get back so soon." soon the talk turned to business and gregory explained his plans for visiting port angeles. like mccoy, dickie voiced her objections, but with more vehemence. seeing at last, however, that the young man could not be talked out of it, she exclaimed: "never let on to aunt mary that i knew you were going or she never would forgive me. she's kind of adopted you and she told me to look out for you." soon they were discussing the new speed-boat and its practicability at the present time should it be proved a success. "mascola ran across our trammels this morning with a dragnet," the girl explained. "if you had had that boat, you might have stopped them. he's getting pretty ugly lately and last night his men tried to crowd ours off the beach with their seine. if they try it again, there'll be trouble." remembering gregory's object in going to the city, dickie suggested: "while you're in port angeles you might look in at the fresh fish markets and find out what's the matter with them, too. they are bad enough at best, but they've been getting worse for a long time. now they are hardly yielding us enough to pay to ship." gregory promised and looking at his watch, saw he would have to leave at once. "i wish you could go up there with me," he exclaimed. "why couldn't you? i'll wait." a smile flashed to the girl's lips, then disappeared on the instant. "it wouldn't be proper," she said gravely. "port angeles is a city and people look at things differently in cities. aunt mary would have nervous prostration if i even suggested it." mccoy walked with dickie lang to the dock to bid gregory _bon voyage_ and wish him luck on his mission. then they caught sight of the launch nearing the float and their disappointment registered in their faces. gregory drew the girl aside. "you have the same idea about her that i had," he said. "but don't worry. barrows' man, i guess, knows what he's talking about and if she doesn't make good i don't take her." lowering his voice so that only dickie could hear, he met her eyes. "you'll notice," he said, "that i named her richard. but as boats are always called 'she,' you will understand that means 'dickie.'" before the girl could recover from her surprise he hurried away and dropped into the seat beside the driver. as the boatman threw in the clutch and the launch shot out into the stream, gregory looked back at the wharf and noted that dickie lang's cheeks were red beneath her tan. and jack mccoy, though he said nothing as he walked with the girl along the dock, wondered what the boss could have said to make dick blush like that. chapter xix rock follows up his first ride in a speed-boat. kenneth gregory leaned back on the cushions and watched the _richard_ drag her heavy hull through the quiet water of crescent bay. a feeling of disgust assailed him. the craft was utterly worthless for his purposes. she had no pick-up at all and was barely able to maintain her lead as she lumbered along ahead of one of the fastest of mascola's fishing-boats. the driver, who called himself bronson, appeared to be perfectly satisfied with the vessel's behavior and made no effort to crowd her by the fishing fleet. at length they reached the outlet and the _richard_ settled comfortably into the trough of the swell. then bronson turned to his passenger. "better put on your rain-coat," he suggested. "we'll be bucking the wind and it picks up the spray and throws it right back at us." as he spoke he slipped into his slicker and waited for gregory to don his mackintosh. "i'm ready when you are," gregory announced. "let her go." bronson looked cautiously over his shoulder. "want to keep an eye out for mascola," he said. "don't want him to see this one in action until we're good and ready. i won't open her up to-day. motor's too stiff yet and we're liable to burn out something." as he spoke he advanced the throttle and the _richard_ protested at his action in a series of spasmodic coughs. then the hood began to incline slowly and gregory felt the hull rising. perhaps the craft was not dead after all, but only sleeping. watching bronson's fingers on the spark and throttle, he noticed that the man was advancing them cautiously. "watch out for your hat," bronson admonished. gregory moved his hand carelessly to his head and caught his hat just in time. with an angry roar the _richard_ shot forward, raising her great hood higher and higher in air while the hull seemed scarcely to be in the water at all. the wind blew in their faces like a hurricane carrying with it great clouds of spray which drenched their skins and blinded gregory's eyes. gasping for breath, he noticed that the _richard_ was climbing higher. then bronson opened the cut-out and the craft sped away like an angry sea-bird. the roar of the exhaust was deafening and gregory was obliged to shout to the man beside him before he was able to make himself heard. "is she wide open?" he shrieked. bronson directed his gaze to the position of the throttle device and gregory saw with a gasp of astonishment that the throttle was only half open. on they sped, the hull rising from the water and hurling itself along the crest of the waves, tossing them to the sides in great clouds of whirling, blinding spray. could it be possible that the propeller was still in the water? suddenly he felt the _richard_ collapse and drop sullenly into the sea. the "machine-guns" had ceased firing and bronson was regarding him with a smile. the boatman's face was crusted with salt and his eyes were twinkling. "how about it?" he asked. "do you think barrows made any mistake?" when gregory recovered his breath, he observed: "yes. i wanted a motor-boat. not an aeroplane." bronson laughed. "easier to go through the air than the water," he said. "that's why we made your boat plane. it takes a lot of power to put her on her 'high horse.' but once she's there, she makes her speed on a minimum of horse-power. that's why we bank on the _richard_ to beat the _fuor d'italia_. your boat is heavier than mascola's, closer ribbed, but you have more power. we're backing this one against his in any weather and the rougher it is the better it will suit us." gregory glowed with satisfaction. the _richard_ was all boat. he noticed that she did not tremble like mascola's boat, but did her work in a businesslike way with no ostentation. he admired people like that, and as dickie lang had said and he was beginning to find out, boats were very much like people. for some time bronson instructed him in the proper operation of the craft. then he slowed down and threw up the hood, disclosing two complete multi-cylindered motors. "everything's double," he explained. "you can cut it all in or halve it as you please. and if anything goes wrong with one motor you're never hung up. you can always limp in at least." as they settled down to a good running speed, the talk gradually drifted to mascola. "the way things are going now," bronson observed, "it won't be long before we're building a new boat for mascola." "what do you mean by that? has he seen this one?" the boatman shook his head. "you needn't be afraid of that," he answered. "what i meant was that mascola is hammering the _fuor d'italia_ to pieces with his trips to diablo in that rough water." "does mascola go often to diablo?" gregory questioned quickly. bronson shrugged his shoulders non-committally. "can't say," he answered. "don't know how often he goes out there. but i do know that he brags that his boat can make it in two hours and a half. diablo's a bad place for the _fuor d'italia_. she's built too light to stand the gaff." the ride to port angeles proved all too short. bronson was communicative in the extreme and regaled him of many evidences of mascola's prosperity, chief among which was the italian's recent order to a firm of norwegian boat-builders at port angeles of twenty large fishing launches of the most improved pattern. these boats, according to bronson, were of sufficient tonnage and fuel capacity to enable them to cruise far down into mexican waters. as they rounded the light-house point and made for the breakwater, the wind increased, driving a choppy sea before it. then it was that the _richard_ rose to the occasion and demonstrated her natural ability to cope with a head-on sea. arriving at the municipal docks, gregory promised to call for the boat on the day following and hurried away to attend to his business. he had a real boat all right. just what he wanted. now all that remained to be done was to see the jobbers and get a few orders which he could convert into cash to pay for the _richard_. with elastic step he set out for the wholesale district imbued with a spirit of rosy optimism. the western was first on his list. the chances were he would have to go no farther. a short talk with mr. eby, the resident manager, convinced him otherwise. "can't quite see your quotations, gregory," that gentleman had crisply maintained. "we have been offered a similar line of goods at fully ten per cent. less." gregory was greatly surprised. mccoy, he knew, had figured a bed-rock, cash price and the extreme lowness of the quotation offered the western was influenced solely by the possibility of a quick sale in straight car lots. and still the man claimed he could beat it. "do you mind telling me who is offering you stuff at a lower figure?" he asked. mr. eby hesitated. it was to his interest to stimulate price cutting. the fact that the figure quoted was below cost was nothing to him. a cutthroat war between two rival canneries might result in still lower quotations which would give him a greater profit. "certainly not," he answered. "the figure quoted me was from the golden rule cannery." gregory felt his face growing hot under the influence of mr. eby's exasperating smile. "that figure is below cost and you know it," he said bluntly. the manager continued to smile. "possibly," he affirmed. "from your view-point. your cost and theirs may be two different things. your wage scale is much higher than theirs for one thing, and your system, in my mind, does not make in any way for low costs." gregory's anger mounted at the man's tone. "what do you know about my business?" he asked quickly. mr. eby shrugged. "it is our business to keep in close touch with our customers," he evaded. "i'm just giving you a friendly tip to do away with some of your more or less impractical ideas, and put your business on a plane with others. you can take it for what it's worth." gregory curbed his anger and started for the door. "my idea is working out all right, mr. eby," he said in parting. "and you are going to live to see you've overlooked a good bet." eby laughed. "go to it, young man," he said. "you'll just have to live and learn like the rest of us. when you get down to earth again, come in and see us." somewhat taken back by his interview, gregory sought the other jobbers. but at every place of business he was met by evasions and superficial excuses. brown & brown had heard he had gone out of business on account of ill-health. possibly they would send a man down when they got straightened out. the eureka people were overstocked and, on account of shortage of cars, were not buying any more for the present. davis incorporated were reorganizing and would do nothing until their plans were completed. others intimated they would submit bids if he cared to sell at auction and some broached the question of taking his output on consignment. but from no firm did he receive even a conditional order. the various interviews had a depressing effect upon gregory's spirits. weakened by his illness, he decided to call it a day and tackle the few remaining jobbers on the following morning. as he sought the hotel he remembered his friend hawkins, who was working on the _daily times_. bill had been his lieutenant overseas. he was a fighting fool and had always been an optimistic chap. in his present frame of mind, optimism was what he needed. accordingly he called hawkins up and invited him to dinner. some hours later the two men were conversing in gregory's room. the great war had been fought over again, mutual acquaintances checked up and the past thoroughly covered. "and so now you are a full-fledged business man," hawkins was saying, as the talk turned to the present, surveying gregory through the haze of his cigarette. "yes. and from the way it looks now i'm about due to be plucked by these thieving jobbers." hawkins smiled brightly. "nothing to it," he said. "you've overlooked two big things, that's all. when we get them straightened out, everything will be lovely." knowing that hawkins expected no reply, gregory waited for him to go on. "your idea is bully. i can't see any reason why it won't work out all right. but in order to make that possible you've got to stir up the animals. when you get an idea like that, the thing to be done is to capitalize it. why withhold it from the public? they would be interested. let them in on it." "you mean advertise?" gregory prompted. a slight frown passed over hawkins' face. "nothing so crude as that," he answered. "i mean publicity." the newspaperman's face glowed with the importance of his subject and he continued rapidly: "this is an age of publicity. with proper handling you can do most anything. even adverse publicity, so-called, has its value. lots of shows around here for instance are crowded to the doors every night by a mere suggestion that they are not all that they should be. the quickest way to kill a man or an idea in this country is by a 'campaign of silence.'" seeing that gregory did not quite get his drift, he went on: "your idea is o.k. it will write up well if it is handled right. moreover it is a little out of the ordinary, and all-american. that is a popular theme at present." he paused and puffed the air full of smoke-wreaths. in the smoke he could see a big story. why couldn't hard-headed business men realize the value of the thing he was trying to get at? why, kenneth gregory's idea would be a winner at the present time. he, bill hawkins, could make it so. "listen," he said quietly. "i have to be getting back to the office so i can't say much now. i put over a big story for the boss yesterday. shot myself to pieces over it. so he's giving me a week off on full pay to take it easy. i want a vacation. i'm a fan for fishing and if you'll give me an invitation to go back with you and will let me muss around on your boats, i'll see if i can't drop on to something that will look good in print. i have an idea i can have a few of the jobbers around here yelping at your heels for fish before i get back. in the morning i'll be off. then i'll go down to winfield & camby's with you. i know the boss there and think maybe i can get him to talk 'turkey.'" gregory jumped eagerly at hawkins' suggestion and immediately extended the desired invitation. the following morning saw the two men closeted at an early hour with mr. dupont, of winfield & camby. and under the warmth of hawkins' introduction, the manager's manner thawed perceptibly toward the young cannery owner. noting the change, gregory hastened to take advantage of it, and straightway put up his proposition. when he had concluded, mr. dupont took the floor. "in our dealings with our patrons, mr. gregory," he began, "we are nothing, if not frank. our firm is one of unimpeachable standing which follows as a natural result from years of square-dealing. we are, however, extremely conservative. we play, as the saying goes, no 'long-shots.' once convinced of the dependability of our producers, we give them every chance and stick by them to the limit." the manager removed his nose-glasses and polished them carefully before going on: "i had the pleasure of meeting your father, mr. gregory. from my observation of him, he was everything that one could expect in a man. but he was constantly hampered with labor troubles of one sort or another. consequently, he was unable to operate his plant in the way we like to see them operate. when we work up a trade for a particular brand, we like to be able to supply the demand which we create. if we were assured that you were able to make good in this respect, we would have no hesitation in sending a buyer down at once to inspect your pack." "but you do not?" gregory met the man's eyes squarely and the manager looked him over critically. "yes," he answered after a moment. "for some reason or other i believe i do. i think you are working along the right lines. that is," he amended with a smile, "if you do not carry your ideas of cooperation far enough to deal direct with the consumer and cut us out of it." as gregory shook his head, mr. dupont concluded: "i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll send mr. dalton down at once to look over your pack. how does that suit you?" gregory's face clearly expressed his satisfaction and a few moments later he hurried out into the street, leaving hawkins with the manager. "i'll meet you here at any time," hawkins called after him. promising to meet his friend at four o'clock, gregory started again on his rounds. passing a butcher-shop he stopped and surveyed the array of fish which were on display in the window. he noted the prices and hastily compared them with the figures he was getting from the markets in port angeles for his fresh fish. there was surely money going to waste somewhere. remembering that he had promised dickie to visit the wholesalers, he directed his steps to the water-front. the dealers he visited were scarcely civil and among them was none who spoke english without the accent of the foreigner. their observations in response to his questions concerning the prices they were offering, were short and to the point. if he did not like it, he need not ship to them. they were dumping fish every day as it was. the market was glutted. what was he going to do about it? gregory wondered himself. then a plan began to form in his brain, suggested no doubt by mr. dupont's jest about him carrying the cooperative idea far enough to include the consumer. why not? fish were being retailed at almost prohibitive figures. and the markets claimed they were dumping them. somebody was profiteering. who was it? certainly not himself. he was barely able to get enough from the dealers to pay express. the idea grew as he walked along the street. he decided to take up, with dickie lang, the matter of establishing a cooperative service-market and selling direct to the consumer. in mid-afternoon he found himself again among the jobbers. but the few he had not called upon the day previous, appeared even less interested in his proposition. as he came out of the pacific's establishment, he brushed against a heavy-set man with gray hair, who was just going in. excusing himself for his awkwardness, he glanced at the stranger's face. it was silvanus rock, of legonia. gregory passed on. rock apparently had not recognized him. yet surely he was not mistaken in the man's identity. the flabby face with its sagging folds of pink skin, the snake-like eyes and the long roman nose could not have been the inheritance of any other than the magnate of legonia. and yet, what business could rock have with the jobbers? gregory wondered as he walked up-town to get a box of candy for aunt mary and dickie lang. while he made his purchase, his mind was filled with his meeting with rock. in some vague way he began to associate rock's presence in the jobbing district with the failure of the dealers to become interested in his solicitation. when he reached the office of winfield & camby at four o'clock, the matter still filled his mind. "mr. hawkins just stepped out," mr. dupont informed him. then the manager cleared his throat and beckoned gregory to his private office. "it sometimes happens," he began, when the door closed, "that we are forced to change our plans, owing to an unexpected event. since you were here this morning, i feel that what has happened in the interim, warrants us in our decision. in view of that, i wish to say that for the present at least, we will not send mr. dalton to visit your cannery." "why not?" mr. dupont shoved an evening _times_ across his desk and pointed to a marked item that appeared therein. "that will explain for itself," he said. gregory read: riot among the fishermen at legonia this afternoon when the foreign fishermen were peaceably engaged with their seine, they were brutally attacked by a number of ex-soldiers and sailors employed by the legonia fish cannery, and driven from the beach. gregory read no further. "it's a lie, mr. dupont," he said hotly. "my men do not pick fights. a few nights ago the alien fishermen endeavored to crowd them off the beach and they----" mr. dupont interrupted with a peremptory wave of his hand. "you may be right," he said. "but i'm not interested. whatever the merits of the case are, the fact remains that you are mixed up in a labor brawl with foreigners. as i stated to you this morning, we are conservative and until you get matters adjusted amicably with your competitors, we do not care to go into your proposition further." he rose at once, showing the interview was at an end. gregory followed him to the door. in the outside office he found his friend waiting. hawkins, clad in outing clothes, was smiling broadly. the smile, however, quickly disappeared as he caught sight of his friend's face. "anything the matter?" he asked. gregory walked with him to the street before replying. then he bought a copy of _the times_ and the two men read the account of the fight with the aliens. "what of that?" hawkins queried. "your men licked them, didn't they?" "yes. but it cost me my chance with winfield & camby. mr. dupont called the whole thing off." "the devil he did!" hawkins' smile returned. "why, the old fool," he ejaculated. "can't he see that this will only be publicity for your brands. why, darn his crinkled old hide, i'll show him. and i'll bet i'll have him eating out of your hand in less than a week." he glanced curiously at the paper. "regular correspondence," he muttered, as he noticed the date-line of the news-item. "that means it comes from the little paper down there. what did you ever do to tommy black?" gregory shook his head blankly. "i don't even know who he is," he answered. hawkins laughed. "he seems to know you all right," he answered. then he explained: "black is the editor of _the legonia star_. a man by the name of rock owns it." chapter xx plans for a show-down shall the control of our fisheries pass into foreign hands? riot among legonia fishermen raises interesting question. ex-service men contest forcibly with aliens for freedom of the seas. show-down expected in the near future. "how does that strike you?" hawkins grinned and shoved the copy of _the times_ forward as "exhibit a" for publicity. "notice the date line," he exclaimed. "from our own correspondent." kenneth gregory read the news item carefully before replying. first came a true account of the fight with mascola's men on the beach which had ended in the decisive victory for the service men. followed, in chronological order, a review of past interferences suffered by the american fishermen at the hands of the foreigners. and lastly, glowingly outlined, came his plans for meeting the opposition by a cooperative organization of one hundred per cent. bona-fide americans. the article concluded: the public will watch with a great deal of interest the outcome of mr. gregory's fight to regain control of a lost industry in local waters. should the young cannery owner succeed, it will mean much to the people of port angeles in reducing the high cost of living. for mr. gregory has already under way, comprehensive plans for supplying the public with fresh fish at a greatly reduced price, through his system of establishing cooperative markets and dealing direct with the consumer. gregory's face was radiant with satisfaction. "you're there on that kind of stuff, bill," he exclaimed, gripping hawkins by the hand. "you surely put it over in great shape." hawkins frowned. "fell down on one thing," he observed. "the city editor blue-penciled my direct reference to your brands of canned stuff. claimed it was slapping the ad man right in the face. say, i'll tell you what to do," he went on. "let me write you up some good ads for your stuff and shoot them in right away to the advertising department. that will put you in strong with the paper and i can 'dead-head' a lot more dope through." gregory gave hawkins _carte blanche_. as hawkins set to work, dickie lang entered. "light haul all around," she announced. "the albacore are heading out. looks as if we were going to have a little weather." gregory's expression changed quickly at her news. "that means we've got to follow them up," he said. "we've got to have the fish. we've been putting it over on mascola for the past few weeks and we can't fall down now. the jobbers are watching us and we've got to show them we can deliver the goods. in addition to that i am going to enter into quite an extensive advertising campaign and when it begins to bear its fruit, we've got to have the stuff on hand to come across. there are a lot of people looking this way right now and we've got to make good." "that's the way to talk," encouraged hawkins. then he smiled at the girl and nodded toward his friend. "notice how i'm bringing him alive," he exclaimed. "he's quit 'shooting nickels' now. he's raised his sights already." they all smiled at hawkins' enthusiasm. then the girl's face became serious. "you know what going out to sea means," she said quietly. "it just about means diablo. that's where mascola's boats went this morning and i shouldn't wonder if they struck it out there. when they get back we'll know." "we've got to know before that," gregory averred. "why not send a bunch of the boys over right away?" dickie shook her head with great emphasis. "haven't the gear," she objected. "it's liable to be nasty around the island at this time of the year. we're shy on deep-sea hooks and heavy line." "we'll get it." gregory turned to the telephone. "i'll order it by express," he announced, as he put in his call for the ship-chandlers at port angeles. while he waited for the call, he addressed dickie lang. "we can send some over right away, can't we?" she considered. then nodded acquiescence. "the _pelican_ and the _curlew_ are outfitted for that kind of work," she stated. "we could get them moving in half an hour. they could go over and do the scouting. they both have the wireless, you know." gregory made up his mind at once. "will you give me a list of the stuff you need?" he asked. "as soon as i get this call through i'll come out and we'll get them started. we ought to get the stuff we need to-night, or early to-morrow. then the rest can clear." his face brightened. "i'll have the _richard_ to-morrow," he said. "bronson's going to bring her back and stay two or three days to put me on to the ropes. we'll get him to take us to diablo." "count me in on that too," exclaimed hawkins. "i've got it coming. haven't had a breath of salt air since i've been here." the girl completed her list of the required gear as the telephone rang. gregory turned to the instrument and gave the order. "what's that?" he concluded. "you'll have to have the cash? thirty days is customary on that kind of stuff, isn't it? well, i've got to have it.--all right, go ahead and draw on me if that's the way you feel about it.--but send the stuff." he turned wrathfully to the girl. "the robbers," he said. "they have me in a hole and they know it. we have to have that gear right away though heaven only knows where i'm going to raise the money to pay for it." the problem of raising approximately three thousand in cash before ten o'clock the following morning presented its difficulties. gregory decided to tackle the matter without delay. "i'll try the local bank," he declared. "and give old rock a chance to make good on his promise." dickie strove to dissuade him. "keep in the clear of that old hypocrite," she cautioned. "if he lets you have it at all it will be only with strings which will tangle you up later on." gregory was on his way to the door. "a man needing money like i do at present has to get it where he can," he answered. "will you see to getting the _pelican_ and _curlew_ started as soon as possible?" she promised and he hurried out. gregory found rock in his private office at the bank and was welcomed warmly by the financier. "growing more like your father every day you live," was the president's greeting. "how happy we would all be if he could have been spared to this community." gregory lost no time in preliminaries. "you told me if i ever got into a tight place, you'd see me through," he began. rock nodded and the corners of his thick lips turned downward. "i sincerely trust you have met with no business reverses, my young friend," he purred. "however, if such is the case, feel perfectly free to make me your confidant." briefly gregory stated his case, to which the old man listened attentively. when he had concluded, rock's eyes were on the ceiling, and his soft white hands caressed the desk noiselessly. "if you will accept a word of advice from a man old enough to be your father, and one who is entirely disinterested in you, save in a personal way as the son of my old friend, you will----" "what?" gregory cut short his rambling. "stay away from diablo island." rock's advice carried a mandatory note which was not lost upon his auditor. "why?" gregory asked quickly. rock searched the far corners of the room for the answer to the question. at length he replied: "it is an extremely dangerous place, particularly at this season of the year. storms are prevalent about diablo and by making the venture at this time, you place not only your capital in jeopardy, but the lives of your men as well." gregory realized he had little time for argument. "i've asked for a loan of three thousand for ten days, mr. rock. it's up to you. what will you do for me?" a slight frown passed over the bank president's forehead at the young man's insistence. for a moment he gave his entire attention to the blotter on the desk. then he said: "i will let you have the money you desire on one condition. that you confine your operations to coastal waters. your security will then be comparatively safe and----" "you forget, mr. rock, that i am not taking my cannery with me to el diablo," gregory broke in. "don't you regard the plant and the canned product on the floor as sufficient security for a temporary loan of three thousand dollars?" rock nodded. after a moment's silence he said: "then there is another thing. this is a time to speak plainly. otherwise i would make no mention of it. but as you are seeking a favor at the hands of this bank, it is my duty to inform you that we do not wish to countenance or encourage, in any way, your policy of stirring up trouble with our alien population." gregory rose angrily. "there is no use of my taking up your time or mine any further," he said. "my business is my own. and while we're on the subject i'll say that i intend to run it as i please. neither myself nor my men are seeking trouble with mascola's foreigners. but i'll tell you here and now that we are prepared to fight, if need be, for what the law says we can have. we want only a square deal, mr. rock, and you can take it from me we are going to get it." walking out of the bank president's office gregory observed a familiar figure leaning idly against one of the grated wickets. and though the man was dressed in the extreme of fashion, he had no difficulty in recognizing him. it was leo bandrist, the lord of el diablo. gregory returned the islander's nod and hurried to the street. as he walked to the cannery he found it hard to concentrate his thoughts on the problem of raising the desired funds. rock was a royal old hypocrite. of that he was sure now. the financier had used his influence among the jobbers to some purpose. he had knocked him through his local paper. and now he was telling him, almost threatening him, to stay away from el diablo. his mind flashed again to bandrist. what brought the man to rock's bank? business, no doubt. but what kind? was rock backing bandrist? were the two men in cahoots with mascola's gang? if so, for what purpose? the questions multiplied with astonishing rapidity. when gregory arrived at the cannery he had decided upon a definite course of action. he would wire farnsworth, the estate's attorney, to sell his bonds at a sacrifice if need be. they should bring enough, added to his own personal account, to pay for the equipment he desired. after that, he'd go to diablo and call rock's bluff, whatever it was. it was late that evening before he received an answer from the lawyer. farnsworth had regarded the instructions of his client as sheer idiocy and had taken no pains to conceal the fact. but he had sold the bonds and was forwarding the money. close upon the message from the attorney came one from the ship-chandlers at port angeles. they were shipping the gear in the early morning. gregory heaved two great sighs of relief which adequately expressed his feelings at the contents of the two respective messages. the day had ended better than he anticipated. the _pelican_ and the _curlew_ were at diablo by now. he should hear from them any minute. while he was waiting there was much that he could do. he took up his personal bank-book and began to balance it. a low rap at the office-door interrupted him. dickie lang entered with mccoy and hawkins. "we've been out for a walk," she announced. "thought we'd stop in and see if you'd heard anything from the boys yet." "not yet," gregory answered. "i'm going to keep a man at the key all night. we should have heard before this. they got a fairly early start and with good weather should have hit the island in time to get a good line on things before dark. i just got a wire from the ship-chandlers and they are shipping the stuff the first thing in the morning." as the talk turned to diablo, hawkins listened attentively though he said but little. at length the party rose to go. as gregory was bidding them good night one of the radio men entered with a message. gregory glanced at the meaningless jumble of words and shook his head. "too much for me," he announced. "i haven't savvied the code out well enough yet to read this one." the operator again took the message. "haven't been using it long," he answered. "but one of the boys dropped on to a little rig on one of the cliffs a little way from here, so we thought it was just as well to be careful." gregory nodded and the company drew closer to the operator as he bent over his work. when the message was decoded it read: off northwest harbor el diablo from: launch _pelican_. albacore tuna running close shore this end. slipped round mascola's boats by running round south shore. his fleet off hell-hole isthmus. spotted them hour ago. don't think he's wise we're here. can load up fleet if they get here quick and can dodge by mascola. what shall we do? the message was signed by tom howard. dickie beamed at the news. "i know right where he is," she said. "when you get them that close in at this time of the year it means they are running in bunches and there's pretty apt to be some weather." she glanced at her watch. "not much sleep for me to-night," she announced. "i've got a lot to do before morning. guess i'll be on my way. it will mean work to clear by to-morrow noon and every minute is going to count." "it will mean a scrap with mascola too, unless i miss my guess," put in mccoy. "when he finds we are hitting into his territory there's liable to be trouble." hawkins' eye brightened at the possibility. "that will mean a story for me," he contributed. "it will mean more than all that," gregory said slowly. "it means the thing we need most--money. fish in car-load lots. a chance to show the jobbers we know our business. it may mean a show-down with mascola. and if it does, we've got to be ready when it comes." chapter xxi the gray ghost ready to clear for diablo at last! gregory's lieutenants had done their work well. the gear from the ship-chandlers had arrived on the morning train. also the remittance from farnsworth. dickie lang had outfitted the fishing-boats in record time. crews of experienced men were selected and supplies taken aboard. one by one the launches were carefully examined by the girl and despatched singly on a course mapped out by herself, a course which would bring them to northwest harbor without skirting the shore of the island. the auxiliary supply boat, the last of the fleet to go, had cleared but an hour before. for the time being dickie lang was content to rest upon her oars. bronson was ready. in response to a night letter from gregory he had arrived on time with the _richard_, bringing with him a full equipment of heavy gear. tuned to the minute, the speed-craft waited impatiently at the cannery float for the signal to be under way. jack mccoy was ready. everything within the cannery was shipshape to handle a big run. depleted supplies had been hastily ordered. necessary additions to the floor force had been made and the house-manager was in possession of detailed instructions for the running of the plant during the owner's absence. even hawkins was ready. the advertisements had been written and checked over before being despatched to _the times_ to "farm out" among the other city dailies. in addition to that, the newspaperman had arranged to communicate with his paper _via_ the cannery wireless should he be fortunate enough to secure a big story. gregory himself was ready. the details of the embarkation had been covered to the minutest detail. a plan had been formulated in the early morning hours for the outwitting of mascola at el diablo, a plan to which dickie lang had given her hearty approbation before it was sent to howard over the radio. gregory turned for a last word with mccoy before giving the order which would send the _richard_ to sea. "we'll keep in close touch, jack," he said. "we'll expect you to do the same. this is friday. if we send in a lot of fish to-morrow it will mean a straight run over sunday. keep a man at the key day and night. and don't forget that we are low on cash. if you get any orders that look at all good, grab them until we can get 'out of the woods.' we're going up against a mighty stiff proposition. it's make or break, and the sooner we get down to cases with mascola the better it will be." he put out his hand and mccoy's fingers tightened over his. then mccoy watched him go down the gangway and take his place beside dickie lang in the _richard_. * * * * * "you don't mean to tell me that's diablo?" hawkins wiped his dripping face and stared at the misty blot on the purpling horizon. gregory and dickie lang looked up from their scrutiny of the small clock on the _richard's_ dash and smiled: "two hours and ten minutes to here," gregory announced. "we can make it easy in two hours and a half, and we've been bucking a head wind and sea all the way over. if the _fuor d'italia_ can do this well, mascola will certainly have to show me." bronson smiled but made no comment. as the island loomed across their track, dickie directed a change of course. "cut in close to that big cliff on the northeast corner and we'll work our way along close in to the shore." bronson complied. then the girl turned to gregory. "get my idea?" she asked. "you want to see if mascola has fallen for our scheme," gregory replied. "exactly. we'll cruise by his fleet and lay to by the _pelican_. then we'll find out if he's spotted the _curlew_ yet. if he hasn't, the boys can get in in the dark and 'chum' the fish. by that time we won't care what mascola does." the passing of a few minutes brought them in sight of the alien fleet grouped closely together off black point. "they've shifted," announced the girl. "tom's message said they were off the hell-hole." gregory said nothing but as they drew nearer he exclaimed: "look! they've got the _pelican_ sewed up tighter than a drum. looks like mascola hasn't tumbled on to the other boat yet." "can't tell." dickie searched the darkening water intently. then she observed: "i don't see mascola's boat anywhere. maybe he's cruising the island." throttling to the speed of an ordinary fishing craft they approached the fleet and dodged skilfully among the boats in the direction of the _pelican_. tom howard had but little news. he had put to sea from northwest harbor according to orders. had circled the island and appeared off the east coast at daybreak as if en route from the mainland. had stumbled on to a small school of albacore off black point and started fishing. mascola's fleet had moved down from hell-hole in the early morning. had "fenced" him. the italian's men had been drinking freely all day and had refused to give him sea-way to get out. of mascola himself he had seen but little. the italian boss had been down in the morning but had paid little attention to his men. after boarding but one of his boats he had returned with the _fuor d'italia_ in the direction of the hell-hole isthmus. he had not been back since. "is the _curlew_ still off northwest harbor?" inquired gregory. "don't know. haven't tried to reach them. didn't want to wise these fellows we had anybody else over here. 'sparks' says they've got a rig round here somewhere and have been trying to hail somebody all day. we've been getting a few messages from the boys. most of them are off the other side of the island now, waitin' for dark to pass the harbor." gregory and dickie were elated to find the fleet so near. at the same time both looked worried at the mention of another wireless equipment in the immediate vicinity. "i'll bet they're trying to reach that shore-set the boys spotted the other day," hazarded the girl. she looked at her watch and glanced toward the towering peaks which cast their shadows far out into the water. "well, if they are, we can't stop them," she observed. "what do you say we start along the north shore with an eye out for fish and mascola? maybe he's already nosing around northwest harbor." gregory agreed to the girl's suggestion. "running slowly will bring us up with the _curlew_ about dark," he said. "let's go." climbing again into the _richard_, bronson threw in the clutch and the speed-craft zigzagged her way through the fishing fleet and headed away from black point. at the same time one of the faster of the alien boats detached itself from the others and trailed along in their wake. "better slip that fellow," advised the girl. "we don't want him tagging. if we keep well in he won't be able to see us long." gregory gave bronson the necessary orders, and the _richard_ bounded away from her pursuer and raced into the shadows of the cliff. when they arrived at the point near the hell-hole isthmus, the speed-craft motor began to miss and bronson guided the _richard_ in the lea of the promontory and threw out an anchor. "good place to fix that right now," he said. "you see everything's new and i've been feeding too much oil. the plugs are all gummed up. 'twon't take but a minute to clean them." while he worked over the motor gregory's eyes roamed shoreward to the cliffs. it was quite dark now and only the sound of the lapping waves betokened the presence of the jagged rocks which projected above the surface of the water near the shore. it was almost here he remembered suddenly that the _sea gull_ had been wrecked. as he looked out into the darkness, he felt dickie's fingers tighten on his arm. "look!" she cried. "what's that behind us?" gregory turned about to see the black waters to the sternward were rippled with sparkling threads of silver-white. from out the darkness came a swiftly moving gray shadow. one glance astern caused bronson to slash the anchor-rope which held the _richard_. then he started the auxiliary motor and threw the speed-craft forward with a jerk. the same instant a long gray hull brushed by them and disappeared into the gloom as silently as she had come. bronson whirled the _richard_ about, gazing intently after the departing stranger. "a miss is as good as a mile," he observed. "if it hadn't been for the dual motor we'd have been out of luck." "i wouldn't say so," hawkins snapped. "a miss of a mile wouldn't give a man heart-failure. lord, i'm weak as a cat." kenneth gregory leaned closer and spoke in a voice which only the boatman could hear. bronson put about at his words and muffling down, followed silently after the gray boat. "cut out your lights." bronson threw the switch at gregory's command. "it's against the law," he muttered, "but i reckon it's safer with a bird like that." soon the strange craft was again dimly visible, appearing like a gray blot in the darkness ahead. off the hell-hole she turned shoreward and was lost to view. "tell him to stop the motor for a moment," whispered dickie lang. when bronson complied, the silence for the space of a few minutes was unbroken. then from the little cove came the muffled cough of a high-speed motor. "all right. head out." the _richard_ sped on her way at gregory's command. then he asked: "what did that sound like to you, bronson?" the boatman answered promptly: "that was the bird you're looking for. i've heard the _fuor d'italia's_ exhaust too many times to guess wrong." dickie lang nodded sagely in the darkness, while bronson volunteered: "i think i know the one that nearly run us down too. running dark's her long suit." for a moment he hesitated, then he added: "she looked a whole lot like the _gray ghost_." "interesting, if true," muttered hawkins, sliding nearer to the operator. then he asked aloud: "who's the _gray ghost_?" bronson noted the suppressed eagerness of the man's tone. then he remembered that hawkins was a newspaperman. reporters were a nosey class as a rule. perhaps it would be as well to keep still. after all, what did he, bronson, know about the _gray ghost_? what did anybody really know about her, for that matter? "the _gray ghost_ is a fishing-boat," he said quietly, "that was built by al stevenson. she's bigger and quieter than the average. she's supposed to be about as fast for her size as any of them. i heard the other day she was owned by a fellow by the name of----" he stopped abruptly. "i can't remember the man's name," he concluded. hawkins knew bronson was lying. straightway he decided to find out what he could about the ownership of the _gray ghost_. of the vessel herself, he had some knowledge though he gave no intimation that he had ever heard the name before. "mascola must own the _gray ghost_ himself, the way he's sticking around her," observed dickie lang. "he must have been waiting in there for her or he'd have been scouting around before this." gregory agreed. "tom said they were pretty well fished out down below," he contributed, "and mascola hadn't given them a new location. he's evidently got something on his mind that's more important to him than fishing." bronson said nothing but smiled grimly in the darkness. perhaps that wasn't such a wild guess, at that. but it was none of his business. his firm was building boats for the italian, so why should he say anything? the sky was dark overhead and a freshening breeze sprang up when they reached the tip of the island and headed shoreward. rounding devil's point they came in full view of the glimmering lights of the fishing fleet. "looks like home," commented dickie. "wonder how long the boys have been there." she checked up the lights rapidly, then announced: "they're all there but one. probably the supply-boat. she isn't due yet. that's pretty quick work i'd say." hailing the first of his fishing-boats, they learned that the voyage from the mainland had been without incident. the albacore were thick about the island. they were keeping the fish around with live bait. all of the fishermen predicted a record haul. proceeding to the _curlew_, bronson tied the _richard_ alongside and the party from the speed-launch climbed aboard. then the girl conferred with gregory and plans for the night were formulated. the fleet would lay at anchor with every motor in instant readiness to get the respective vessels under way at a given signal. the men would alternate on an anchor watch and keep the fish "chummed" up during the night. those who were off duty would get their needed rest and make no unnecessary noise. no vessel was to move from her anchorage without permission from the _curlew_. fishing would begin at daybreak. with preparations completed for the night, gregory's party made themselves comfortable aboard the _curlew_. a message was despatched to the _pelican_ instructing howard to join the fleet shortly after midnight. and the cannery was notified of the safe arrival of the boats at the island. after supper hawkins clung tenaciously to bronson and the two men retired to the bow and conversed in low tones. gregory sat with dickie lang in the stern and for some time puffed at his pipe in silence. the yellow rays which issued from the fresneled glass light on the mast-head fell full upon the girl's figure and gregory saw that her eyes were fixed on the dark outlines of the coast. "what do you make of mascola?" dickie shook her head. "i don't know," she answered. "he has me guessing right now. i can't understand why he's been hanging round hell-hole all day and hasn't tumbled on to the _curlew_. he seems to have forgotten his boats entirely." "i have an idea he has," gregory answered. "sometimes i think that perhaps fishing is only a small part of mascola's business. we both know he hasn't made much with his boats in the last few months, yet bronson says he's having twenty new launches built at port angeles. that will run into a big bunch of money at present prices." "you're not the only one who has ideas to-night," dickie said softly. "being around diablo always makes me think--and wonder." "what?" gregory encouraged. the girl moved closer to his side. "i'm wondering about the same things our fathers wondered about," she said. as gregory said nothing, she went on hurriedly: "did you ever stop to think that if mascola and that gray boat lay in at hell-hole that they are doing it with bandrist's permission? that means that whatever they are doing there, bandrist is in on it." she paused abruptly and her eyes rested full on gregory's face. "i have an idea that old rock is in on it, too," she said. "he and bandrist are pretty thick evidently, and rock always did stick up for mascola. and all three of them are doing all they can against us." "and you think it is something else than fishing?" gregory prompted. "yes, i'm sure of it. i think our fathers had the same idea. i believe they came over here alone that night to find out." "do you think----" gregory began. but the girl answered his unfinished question. "yes," she said slowly, "i think they found out. that is why they never got out alive." "but they were wrecked and drowned." dickie shook her head slowly. "i have never thought so," she answered in a half-whisper. "listen," she went on, "boats like the _sea gull_ don't wreck themselves and a better man with a launch than my dad never lived. men like him don't drown easily. he was a regular fish in the water and had got out of many a smash-up before." "but they were drowned. the coroner himself told me----" "you're right," she interrupted. "any man can be drowned. how long do you suppose you and tom howard would have lasted on the island if you had insisted on staying the night we were over here?" gregory considered her words carefully. in the light of past events, they held some truth. but if bill lang and his father had met with foul play, why were the bodies ever recovered? why would it not have been simpler to have made way with them entirely? he put the question and dickie answered promptly: "that would have caused a search of the island. just what they do not want, if they are up to anything crooked over here. with the bodies recovered and the boat smashed, it had all the appearance of a natural wreck." "why have you never said anything like this before?" dickie hesitated. then she answered simply. "because i never felt as if i knew you well enough. i have no proof. it's only a girl's idea, and one i'm afraid you would have taken but little stock in." "you're mistaken," gregory replied. "i would have. and perhaps by now we could have had the proof." "no. we've done just right. if we had pretended we suspected anything they would have gone to cover. there's only one way to get to the bottom of this thing and that is to beat mascola at his own game. make him think that fish are the only thing in the world we care for around diablo. and while we're fishing over here, keep our eyes open and learn what we can." before gregory could reply the silence of the night was broken by the sharp exhaust of a high-speed motor. looking in the direction of the sound, he saw a flash of red pierce the darkness and heard the girl's voice close to his ear. "i guess we're due to find out something now. here comes mascola." together they watched the red light brighten. then came a flash of green as the oncoming launch swerved and sped toward them. in a few moments mascola had located the flag-ship and the _fuor d'italia_ lay snorting angrily by the _richard's_ side. "i want to see the boss," demanded the italian. gregory leaned over the rail and focused his flash-light on mascola. "what do you want?" he called. mascola blinked under the bright rays. seated beside him was another man who leaned closer into the shadow of the fishing-boat. "i want you to move," mascola said thickly. "my men were here first. plenty of fish at san anselmo. many as here. if you go to the other island there will be no trouble." "and if we stay?" mascola's passenger looked up quickly at gregory's words, and the light fell full upon his face. it was bandrist. "i hope you will not decide to stay," he said slowly. "as i have told you before, i'm not seeking trouble on this island. mascola's men have been drinking too much and are ugly. a supply-boat arrived to-day from the mainland with too much liquor. i am having some difficulty with my own men. i hope you will help us avoid trouble." gregory answered them at once. "if there is any trouble, it will be of your making. the ocean is free to all. we are interfering with no one's rights. we're here. the fish are here. and here we're going to stay." "i'll show you, you----" bandrist checked the italian's angry outburst by placing a hand firmly upon his arm. "i'm sorry," he began. but mascola's open muffler drowned his words and the _fuor d'italia_ leaped away into the darkness. "mascola's drunk," commented dickie, looking after them. "otherwise, he would never have talked like that. it's a wonder bandrist ever mixed up with him." she turned about and confronted gregory. behind him were hawkins, bronson and the crew of the _curlew_. "this means we've got to move," she exclaimed. "we'd better round up the bunch, give them their positions and start fishing." gregory and the girl climbed into the _richard_, calling to bronson to follow. "tell 'sparks' to send word to howard to beat it out with the _pelican_ right away," gregory instructed hawkins. then he exclaimed to dickie as she took her seat beside him: "it looks like mascola was spoiling for a fight. and if he is i'll say he's due for the surprise of his life." chapter xxii strictly on the defensive the _richard_ was in motion before the echoes of the _fuor d'italia's_ gatlin-like exhaust had died away. directing bronson to take them alongside each of the vessels which composed the fleet, gregory and dickie lang boarded the fishing vessels and conferred with the respective captains. gregory's instructions were phrased with military directness. every launch was assigned a definite position which it was to assume at once and hold at all cost. the fleet was divided into three divisions. the main unit, comprising the vessels equipped with the live-bait tanks, were to begin "chumming" at once within a given area. as soon as practicable, fishing was to commence. the second division, made up for the most part of the heavier, diesel-motored vessels, was to lay to in v formation about the fishermen to protect them from interference in the direction from which the fish were running. the remainder of the fleet were to stand by as a rearguard, cover the extreme flanks and maintain a reserve. before taking leave of each craft as it left to go to its new position, gregory briefly addressed the crew: "get this, fellows. we're here to fish. not to fight. if trouble comes, let mascola start it. if he does, i expect you to hold your positions. keep in the clear and use no firearms. remember, what you do to-night, binds me. play safe. keep cool. but get the fish." to a man, the ex-sailors understood the seriousness of the situation, though there were some who argued against the poor fighting policy of letting the other fellow hit the first blow. the radical element, however, were soon quieted by the older and more conservative men, and all agreed to stay in the clear so "nobody could hang anything on the boss." tom howard had arrived with the _pelican_ when gregory and dickie lang returned to the _curlew_. the fisherman brought the news that the men of the alien fleet were in a high state of intoxication. moreover, they appeared to be completely out of live bait. dickie smiled grimly. "that means that if mascola does send them down here, he'll just be looking for trouble. if they haven't the bait, all they can do will be to try to steal our school like they did before, and i guess this time they'll find they're out of luck." "met mascola on my way down," howard announced. "he was running wide-open, heading straight for black point." gregory frowned. "it's hard to tell what mascola will do to-night," he said. the _pelican_ was despatched at once to take her position as the leader of the front rank. as the _curlew_ made ready to get under way, hawkins appeared at the rail. "don't forget the press," he called. "if i'm going to do this affair justice i've got to be at the ringside." gregory moved nearer to bronson and allowed the newspaperman to accompany the party on the speed-craft. then the _richard_ sped away to see that all the boats were in their proper places. arriving in the center of the fishing area, dickie lang watched the men "chumming" the fish and suggested they throw out their lines at once. "i don't like the looks of the weather," she confided to gregory. "it feels like a blow. i'm going to have a look at the glass on the _snipe_." gregory noticed that the girl appeared worried when she returned to the _richard_. "dropping fast," she announced. "it may be just a squall or it may be a real blow. this is no place for us in either case. we must rush the fishing all we can." gregory agreed and gave the necessary orders. from the sides of the _snipe_ the lines flashed over the rail. on the instant the albacore began to strike. as the _richard_ bounded away to notify the other boats of the order to hurry operations, the girl observed: "the fish are heading close in all right. they're running from something. now is the time to hit it hard. oughtn't to take long the way they're starting. i must see that the boys have all the barbs off the hooks. we have to work fast. and when the blow comes, we'll have to get clear of the diablo coast." the second tour of the fishing fleet was only partly completed when dickie directed gregory's gaze in the direction of the point off northwest harbor. "here they come," she cried. "mascola's looking for trouble just as i told you." gregory surveyed the bobbing lights in silence as they moved nearer; saw the red-lights blur and fade into green as the vessels changed direction and headed shoreward; noted one twinkling light running far in advance of its fellows; saw it swerve and double again into red and green. that meant that the _fuor d'italia_ was bearing down upon them. directing bronson to intercept the italian, gregory explained: "i want to give mascola another chance. we're not looking for trouble. he can lay to the seaward but he's got to give us sea-way to get out if it roughens up." the _richard_ swung wide and came abreast the _fuor d'italia_. then it came to mascola that the strange craft on his left had some speed. above the roar of his own exhaust he heard his name called in a peremptory hail. the hot blood surged to his face and he stepped on the throttle. he had no time to talk. he must spot the position of the cannery boats and give his men instructions how to break through. the _fuor d'italia_ bounded away with a sullen roar. but before mascola could circle in the direction of the lights of the fleet, the _richard_ was again on his rail. cursing to himself, the italian advanced his spark and pressed hard on the throttle. but though he gained a few feet on his pursuer, he knew that he dared not try to make the turn. his boat would "turn turtle" or be cut in two by the craft behind. on the two boats sped through the darkness. the lights of the fishing fleet flashed by them like the gleam of switch-lights, seen from an express train. mascola's anger mounted. his men were waiting for orders and he had seen nothing of the enemy's formation. a plan formed quickly in his brain. it was dangerous of course. but the liquor gave him courage. removing one hand from the wheel, he extended it toward the switch-board. "he doesn't dare make the turn at this speed," dickie shouted in gregory's ear. "tell bronson to watch him close when he doubles to come back. he'll head into the swell, to the starboard." gregory was giving the boatman the message when he felt dickie grasp his arm. "he's switched off his lights," she cried. "he's going to try to dodge us, running dark." bronson had already slackened speed at sight of the disappearing lights ahead. then he put the _richard_ hard over, and the speed-craft swerved with a jerk which left her passengers crowding close against one another. "give her the gun," shouted gregory. "head back. don't let him slip us." as the boatman complied and the _richard_ began to lift her hull from the sea, the dark waters ahead were brightened by a phosphorescent flash. directly across their course lay the _fuor d'italia_. twisting the steering wheel with only the slightest pressure of his fingers to avoid turning the _richard_ over, bronson opened the cut-out and stepped hard on the throttle. the speed-craft dipped, then raised and bumped the _fuor d'italia_ beam to beam as she raced by. the shock of the collision threw mascola half from his seat and had a decidedly sobering effect upon his senses. he had noted his boat tremble at the impact and crowd away from the stranger; had felt the straining of her timbers. now he noticed that his motor was missing badly. a loose wire probably. he made haste to repair the trouble and switched on his running lights. the _fuor d'italia_ was too light to take chances of roughing it in the dark. as he worked, he heard a voice hail him. "what do you want?" he demanded angrily. "damn you, you hit my boat." the lights of the returning motor-boat drew alongside before gregory answered: "listen, mascola. if you're looking for trouble, this is the place to find it. if you're not, you can move out to sea and get as many fish as we are. we'll not bother you. there's plenty of albacore over here to-night for everybody. if you try to break through us, it will be up to you." mascola's anger came in a torrent of italian words. then he composed himself sufficiently to speak in broken english: "this mr. bandrist's island. he tell me i fish here. he say you go. you stay, you like trouble. my men like fight any time." "go to it, then," gregory answered quietly. "and when you see your friend bandrist, tell him for me that he hasn't bought diablo. he's only leasing the land. if he has any more claim to the water than we have, he'll have to show us." mascola completed his repairs, started his motor and raced away in the direction of his fleet with the _richard_ running close at his side. but when he came abreast of the cannery fishing-boats, he made no effort to head in. "he don't want to rough it any more with this one," bronson commented. "i reckon when he looks over his boat it'll mean a job for the shop putting in a few ribs." mascola returned to his fleet, his cheeks burning with rage. in the first preliminary skirmish with the enemy, he realized he had been beaten. he had found out nothing of value. had damaged his boat too, no doubt. well, he'd make somebody pay for it before morning. circling his boats, he gave orders for an immediate advance in the direction of the cannery fleet. kenneth gregory looked after the departing lights of the _fuor d'italia_. "score one for the invaders of bandrist's island," he said grimly. "mascola didn't learn much on his reconnoitering expedition, except that we had a better boat than his." then he turned to bronson. "take us up to the other end," he instructed. "i want to tell the boys to keep as close in as they can so mascola's boats will have to skirt the reef to get by." when they arrived at the indicated spot and the v broadened according to orders, the lights of the alien fleet could be discerned moving toward them. "here they come," announced dickie lang. "looks as if they were going to try to crowd in from the north side." gregory smiled. "that's just what i want them to do," he answered. "one of the benefits of reconnoitering is to get an idea of just what you're going into. if mascola had taken a good look, he wouldn't have come that way." chapter xxiii battle of northwest harbor convoyed by his fishing fleet, mascola came steadily on. cruising to the seaward of the cannery boats he circled, laid to and critically surveyed the bobbing lights in the narrow channel which was flanked on both sides by saw-toothed reefs. the fish were coming from the north and west. doubtless the american fisherman already had them well "chummed up" with their live bait. he would force an entrance among the cannery boats if they did not give way and take their school. he had done it before. it was simple enough. directing his boats to follow, he led them on. kenneth gregory stood in the bow of the _pelican_ with a megaphone and directed the position of the boats which made up his first line of defense. his plan of keeping mascola away from his fishing fleet was nothing more or less than just straight football formation, with an augmented line to withstand the opposing pressure. the _pelican_ formed the center of the wedge. to her right and left followed the heavy diesel-motored vessels with the _curlew_ and _snipe_ guarding the extreme ends. behind the first line came the reserve which closely covered the fishing-boats cruising the center area. every boat was at its proper station, awaiting the signal from the _pelican_. it came with gregory's word to howard: "all right, tom. let's go." he stood at howard's side as the fisherman whistled for sea-way and moved his vessel forward with the fleet flanking him astern in v formation. mascola's boats gave no heed to the signal save to draw closer together and slacken speed as they entered the narrow channel. again the cannery boats shrieked a warning and the wedge narrowed with the waterway until only the bare width of a boat separated the beams of the defending vessels. dead ahead, and only a few boat-lengths away, twinkled the lights of the alien fleet. gregory grasped the rail of the engine-house and braced himself for the shock. the next instant the foremost of mascola's boats struck the _pelican_ a glancing blow on the bow. the heavy fishing-boat quivered from stem to stern from the impact. then the powerful diesel engine came into play. the drunken skipper of the _lura_ felt his craft being shunted to the side. before he could gather his wits together, another american boat brushed his outside rail and crowded him forcibly against the craft he had endeavored to ram. caught between the heavy hulls of the _pelican_ and _albatross_, the _lura_ grated, beam to beam, her timbers creaking and twisting from the strain, her propeller churning the water in a vain effort to break through the tong-like grip of the two boats which disputed her passage. the drunken crew of the _lura_ surged to the rail with wild cries of rage. the air was filled with flying missiles. came the sharp snap of breaking glass and the dull thud of heavy objects hurled from the alien craft to the deck of the _pelican_. "stay under cover," gregory commanded the crew. "stand by if they try to board." a flying bit of scrap-iron gashed his forehead and caused the blood to trickle over his eyes. he wiped it away with his hand and turned to observe the progress of the other vessels. the engagement was now general. mascola's boats were trying to smash their way through. but the v was as yet unbroken. that, he could tell by the solid formation of the boats in reserve. they had not found it necessary to separate. the night was enlivened with the shrill cries of the aliens. gregory noticed that there was congestion of lights on his left wing. he reflected suddenly that that was where the _curlew_ was stationed. and dickie lang was on the _curlew_. why had the girl persisted in her determination to take an active part in the conflict? perhaps she might be already wounded. hit by a piece of flying iron or a wine-bottle. "how about it?" howard's voice recalled him to his plan of battle. gregory looked hastily along his front line. "all right," he exclaimed. "go to it." the _pelican's_ whistle shrieked two shrill blasts in reply, the signal for every man at the wheel to go full ahead and put his respective craft hard over. mascola cursed volubly at the increasing jumble of his boats. they had already lost their way and were only tending to raise a further barrier to his entrance to the fleet. if he rammed, he must ram his own boats as well as those of the enemy. it flashed over his heated brain that the american had chosen a difficult position for him to break through. the narrowness of the sea-way prevented him from engaging them in mass formation. then he became conscious of another fact as two sharp whistles sounded above the uproar. his lead boats were being crowded back against their fellows with a twisting movement which was carrying them in the direction of the reef. the channel had been too narrow to break through the solid wall of diesels. a puff of wind from the southeast helped mascola to make up his mind. directing a summary withdrawal, he sped away toward the reef to pilot his boats again to safety from the dangerous shore. gregory directed the pivot movement of the cannery wedge until the last of the alien fleet had fled from the channel. in the first preliminary engagement, the enemy had been beaten back. at what cost he must find out at once. as he turned about to signal the _richard_, a voice which he recognized as hawkins', came to him from the darkness astern. "bronson's knocked out." leaving howard to supervise the return of the advance line to their original positions, gregory instructed the sailors to launch a dory over the rail of the _pelican_ and was rowed away in the direction of the _richard_. hawkins had but little to tell. the _richard_ had been plying about according to orders, to report any break in the wedge. as she skirted the right end close to the _snipe_, some one had thrown a bottle from the nearest enemy craft. it had struck bronson in the head. the _richard_ had drifted backward. hawkins had thrown out an anchor. that was all. gregory examined bronson while hawkins was speaking. the man was not badly injured. but his loss would be a serious one. without the speed-boat, gregory would be greatly handicapped. he set his jaw grimly in the darkness. he could not afford to tie up the _richard_. he would run her himself. directing hawkins to pull the anchor, he slid into bronson's seat and focused the rays of his flash-light on the speed-boat's starting mechanism. "are you going to try to run her?" hawkins inquired as he tugged at the hook. "i am going to run her. bronson showed me how. it's taking some chance of course. but not so much as tying her up. we've got to have the _richard_, bill. that's all there is to it." gregory started the motor and, proceeding at quarter-speed, set off to take bronson to the _curlew_. by so doing, he realized, he could accomplish a dual purpose, find out about the safety of dickie lang and leave the boatman in her care. that, he reflected, would give her a safer though more inactive rôle. the girl greeted him from the rail of the _curlew_. not a man had been scratched aboard her vessel. her craft had held the pivot and twisted two of the alien boats until they bumped the reef. a man had been reported injured on the _falcon_. placing bronson in the dory, gregory directed the skiff to be pulled aboard the _curlew_. then he climbed over the rail with hawkins. "bronson was hurt by a flying bottle," he explained. "will you look after him? i've got to round up the boys and see what's doing." "you're hurt yourself," dickie observed as the rays of the cabin lamp fell upon gregory's face. "just a scratch," he said quickly. "if you'll look out for bronson i'll be off." dickie lang whirled about. "look out for this man, jack. see you later, jones. i'm going with mr. gregory." reluctantly gregory consented to allow the girl to accompany him in the _richard_. an instant later they were on their way to round up the fleet. injuries were few among the crews of the defending vessels. bruises and cuts summed up the physical damage done by mascola's men. one of the boats was leaking, but sorenson was holding the water easily with the pumps. the _falcon's_ shaft was sprung but the propeller was still turning. to a man, the various captains reported that their men had obeyed instructions to the letter. no acts of violence had as yet been committed by any of the american crews. the ex-sailors, though chafing at their inaction, had assumed the defensive throughout. the next thing was to arrange to oppose mascola's next move. "whatever he does, he's got to do mighty quick," observed dickie as the _richard_ nosed her way among the albacore fishermen. "it's roughing up in the last five minutes and the glass is falling all the time." "there's only one thing he can do, as near as i can figure," gregory answered. "and that's to come down the harbor channel and hit us from the stern. if he does that," he added quickly, "we'll have to be careful not to block the sea-way leading into the harbor. my idea is to move farther up. then if the blow does come, we can go out with the wind and sea through the north channel." "that's our best bet, unless it's a nor'wester," she agreed. "we've got to keep a way out clear or mascola will crowd us on the rocks." the captains of the fishing-boats reported their craft to be better than half laden when the _richard_ arrived alongside. the fish were still running strong. in another hour, without interference, they might be loaded. at gregory's direction the albacore fishermen began cruising toward the north channel. the next thing to do was to marshal the fleet to withstand mascola's attack from the rear. owing to the extreme wideness of the waterway, the italian's boats would now have a better chance. the v must be broadened by the boats hitherto held in reserve. they must be brought up at once. the rising wind and the roughening sea, added to gregory's inexperience in handling the speed-boat, rendered the mobilization of the cannery fleet not only slow, but extremely hazardous as well. before his left end defense was complete, mascola was bearing down upon his center. chapter xxiv a fighting chance mascola's boats advanced warily, spreading out and covering off the defending fleet as they came. it would be a boat to boat, man to man fight in the darkness. head-on, the opposing fleets collided with a crash which twisted their keels and racked their timbers. lights merged together and became stationary as hull locked with hull in a grinding embrace. the alien crews swarmed to the decks and leaped across the rail upon the american sailors who surged forward to meet them. fists flashed in the darkness. men met hand to hand. the night was filled with wild cries, the trampling of heavy feet, the thud of contact of wood meeting wood and flesh meeting flesh. from the center of the struggling mass of men and boats came a sudden flare of light which dispelled the dark shadows cast athwart the vessels and brought into bold relief the struggling figures of the men who battled on the decks. "fire!" the cry was taken up by every throat and echoed down the line. it came to kenneth gregory on the extreme end of the left wing where he had been directing the defense of his weakened quarter, by a counter-flanking movement. a boat afire! and right in the center of his fleet! when the tank exploded hundreds of gallons of burning distillate would flood the waters. but he dared not think that far. whirling the _richard_ about, and circling behind his line of boats he dashed away to face the new peril. the crew of the _florence_ abandoned the attack at the first cry and surged to the hold to fight the conflagration. a gasoline stove, carelessly left burning by one of that vessel's drunken crew, had been overturned by the shock of collision, and had fired the bilge. fanned by the rising winds, the flames were licking at the oil-soaked timbers and spreading rapidly toward the tanks in the bow. the alien crew of the _florence_ fled in a panic of fear. leaping to the rail they flung themselves to the deck of a neighboring craft which was already backing away from the ill-fated vessel. from all sides, friend and foe alike drew away from the blazing fishing craft. for the time being the sound of conflict gave place to the rasp of reverse levers, hoarse cries of warning and the labored chug of heavy-duty motors going full astern. in the ever-widening cleared space about the ill-fated derelict the lurid waters were churned into a roseate foam by the frenzied lashing of the heavy propellers of the fishing craft as their masters sought to clear the dangerous area. as the _richard_ sped on in the direction of the ever-brightening glare, gregory's mind kept pace with the rapid pulsing of the high-speed motor. he must tow the blazing vessel clear of the fleet before the tanks exploded. dodging among the retreating fishermen he grazed the _curlew's_ hull and plunged into the open space. warning cries sounded above the roar of the flames but he did not hear them. his plan, formed on the instant, must be put into execution at once. if it failed, the speed of the _richard_ would carry dickie to a place of safety. it was a fighting chance. that was all. swinging the _richard_ about, he drove straight for the _florence_. "take the wheel, and stand by," he cried to the girl. "if the tank goes, run." he leaped from his seat as the _richard_ breasted the blazing hull and dickie found herself gripping the big steering wheel before she could utter a protest. gregory was already in the stern of the _richard_. grasping the stern-anchor chain of the speed-launch, he caught the wire-stays of the _florence_ and pulled himself aboard, dragging the chain after him. for an instant he clung to the rail, shielding his face with his arms. then he scrambled on deck. holding the _richard's_ stern close to the _florence's_ bow, dickie lang saw gregory running across the deck. saw his reeling figure silhouetted against the white glare of the blazing cabin-house. heard the rattle of the heavy anchor chain of the alien fishing-boat. keeping the _richard_ in place with an effort against the wind and chop, she waited. he expected her to stand by. his hair singed by the heat, with blistering face and burning lungs, gregory dropped by the snubbing-post in the bow and tugged at the heavy chain and knotted it about the block. then he made the free end fast to the chain of the _richard_. running to the rail he threw his body over and hung by his hands, searching the air with his feet. then he felt the deck of the _richard_ beneath him. dickie lang had stood by. the next instant he was again at the wheel and the _richard_ lunged forward. "steady," cautioned the girl. "don't take the slack so fast. hard a port. now kick your stern over. that's the stuff. pay out. now you've got her." for an instant the _richard_ quivered with anger to find herself in leash by the fiery incubus at her stern. then she settled doggedly to work and the two vessels began to gather way. to the right and left the fishing-boats scattered before them. the tanks of the blazing tow might explode at any minute. it was best to be in the clear. in the common fear of the new danger the contending factions drew apart, friend and foe uniting in the universal effort to gain a place of safety. the wind caught the blaze and fanned it upward in a solid sheet of flame which blistered the varnish of the _richard's_ stern-deck. "get down," gregory shouted above the roar of the speed-boat's exhaust. dickie started to protest when she felt herself jerked roughly from the seat. "there's nothing you can do now. lie still. keep your head covered." the tone was gruff, the words commanding, spoken by a man. a man who thought of the safety of others and placed it before his own. a man who was not afraid to take chances. dickie's heart glowed with pride as she huddled in the _richard's_ cockpit. it was worth while to know a man like that. mascola watched the progress of the burning _florence_ from the deck of the _lura_. his blood-shot eyes gleamed red in the glow from the burning vessel and the lust of destruction surged into his heart. he was losing one of his best boats. somebody must pay. in the light of the fire he saw the vessels of the defense scattered. now would be his chance to crowd through to the fishing fleet. with the wind and sea at his back he would pile them up on the rocks. jumping to the _fuor d'italia_ he sped away to direct the attack upon the heavily laden fishing-boats. clear the fishing fleet and shunt the _florence_ to the rocks with the wind and current. for the space of a few seconds it was gregory's only thought. the rising wind at his back was hot with the fevered breath of the burning tow. what did it matter if the heat was scorching his neck? only a few boats remained ahead. then he would be in the clear. if the tanks of the _florence_ exploded he must crawl to the stern and cut the tow-line. the crested waves began to slap angrily at the speed-boat's hull. then the _richard's_ motor began to miss. "she's all right. keep down. i can----" a muffled roar interrupted his words. the hull of the _florence_ bulged. a jet of flame mounted upward from the deck. the engine-house tottered and collapsed in a shower of glowing sparks which filled the air and rained down into the _richard's_ cockpit. a stream of burning oil surged up from the hull of the derelict and tumbled into the sea, blazing fiercely on the crest of the waves. "take the boat." before the girl could gain the wheel gregory was fighting his way to the stern. as dickie's fingers closed on the steering-wheel he was slashing at the rope spliced to the chain. with blistered hands and burning lungs he hacked at the tough strands of hemp with his pocket-knife. the threads of the line snapped and crinkled from the heat. the water about the speed-craft's stern was on fire. tottering drunkenly, he bent low and held his breath. the rope was more than half severed. the threads were already parting from the strain. then the knife slipped from his blistered fingers and fell into the water. mascola witnessed the explosion of the _florence's_ first oil tank with a grim smile. the vessel was already clear of the fleet. she could do no damage now save to the _richard_ and her crew. with his eyes fixed on the fire, mascola prayed to his saints that the second and larger tank might explode before gregory could sever the tow-line. fascinated by the sight, he moved farther to windward and watched. kenneth gregory's bleeding fingers tore at the straining fiber of the quivering line which bound the _richard_ to destruction. one by one the threads snapped and curled in the heat radiated from the burning vessel. dickie lang huddled in the driver's seat and jerked the hull of the speed-craft frantically against the strain of the tow-line. for an instant death held them by a single strand. then the line parted and the _richard_ leaped to safety. the cool rush of air revived gregory's senses and he found himself leaning weakly against the coaming of the speed-boat. then he heard the girl calling from the wheel. "mascola's broken through." he gulped in the moist sea air and groped his way forward. far astern the wreck burned fiercely, bringing into bold relief the frowning peaks which fringed the shore-line of el diablo. as he caught at the rail for support he saw the flames leap skyward, blackened by smoke and bits of timber. the waves burned brightly about the settling hull. then came the sound of the explosion of the _florence's_ second tank. "mascola's broken through. can't you hear me? are you hurt?" gregory staggered to the seat and dropped beside the girl. "i'll be all right in a minute," he said. "keep going. i can't see very well yet. you say he got through?" "yes. he's trying to crowd the fishing fleet to the rocks. look!" in the light that the burning vessel astern cast upon the waters ahead, gregory saw a confused jumble of boats crowded close against the saw-toothed reef. "damn him!" he grated. "we'll beat him yet. slow down. give me the wheel." dickie relinquished the steering-wheel with reluctance. "we ought to be putting to sea," she observed as a sudden gust of wind and rain assailed them. "this is a bad place to be caught napping." gregory's eyes glowed with the lust of battle. "no," he gritted. "we're going to stay and fight. mascola's not going to win on a fluke if it costs me every boat i have." in a frenzy of activity he threw the _richard_ wide open and sped away to gather his scattered boats for a flank attack upon the alien fleet. mascola was in high good humor. his boats were crowding the fishermen backward in the direction of the reef. forced to the rocks they would have no chance in the face of the approaching storm. what was the loss of the _florence_ in comparison to the destruction of a dozen or more fully equipped fishing vessels, laden to the water-line with their valuable cargoes? repairing to the cabin of the _lura_, the italian refreshed himself with a drink. a shout from without brought him hurrying to the deck. bearing down upon him at full speed came the cannery fleet. his vessels were broadside. they would strike him full on the beam. cut his boats in two. mascola shrieked out an order to put about and face the enemy. his captains sprang to their respective wheels and battled desperately among themselves for steerage way. then came the crash. skirting the mass of snapping grinding hulls, gregory shot through with the _richard_ and came among the fishing-boats. some were already grazing the reef. a line from the speed-craft pulled them again to safety and launched them around mascola's rear. fighting their way through the press of the alien craft they circled and renewed the attack from the opposite flank. mascola's fleet was caught broadside between the americans. the din of the battle mingled with the roar of the wind. again men met over the rail. knives flashed in the sullen glare from the burning _florence_. pistol shots echoed above the tumult and the air was filled with flying splinters. slowly and inexorably mascola's fleet was ground back. an alien craft, reaching the clear space to the rear of the battle line, turned hastily about and fled down the narrow channel leading to the sea. another followed. still another. mascola strove vainly with shouts and curses to stem the tide of his retreating vessels, but the boats brushed by him and continued on their way. soon the exodus became a rout with hull scraping hull in the effort of the alien boats to gain sea-way in the channel. in a few minutes the last of mascola's fleet, leaking badly and settling low in the water, lumbered by with rapidly pulsing motor in the direction of northwest harbor. "we beat him at his own game." kenneth gregory repeated the words again and again. blood flowed from a jagged cut in his cheek. his face and hands were raw and blistered, but his eyes were shining with the light of victory. in the shadow of the _pelican_ his arms closed about dickie lang and he drew her to him. "we beat him," he cried. "you, and the boys, and i." the girl struggled for a moment, then lay passive in his arms. he was delirious from the fire and the battle. he did not know what he was doing. freeing herself with an effort from his clinging arms she drew away. "we must put to sea," she cried. "before the storm breaks." gregory roused at her words and turned quickly away. "yes," he answered. "you're right. i forgot." within a few minutes the cannery fleet was heading down the main harbor channel in the direction of the open sea. then the storm broke. battling desperately into the teeth of the gale, the fishing-boats plunged head-on into the curling waves. lashing the sea into white-caps, the wind picked up the water and hurled it to the decks in great clouds of choking, blinding spray. in a last dying flare the flames leaped upward from the charred hull of the _florence_ as she lay pillowed on the rocks. and in the feeble glow, only hawkins, who was looking astern, saw the shadowy outline of a long gray boat nosing her way about the island. the _gray ghost_ was running before the storm. chapter xxv the banker at the helm foot by foot down the storm-lashed, wind-swept channel the victorious cannery fleet doggedly fought its way from the diablo coast and headed to sea. "we've got to lay in at san anselmo," dickie lang shouted to gregory as she guided the _richard_ skilfully through the buffeting waves. "some of the boats are pretty badly stove up. they're riding too low to try to make the mainland. we'd have to buck the storm all the way over. best run before it as long as we can. then we can gain the lea of the other island and head in at cavalan and leave some of the boats there. may have to run a few of them on the beach. we ought to make the little harbor on the south shore of san anselmo in a couple of hours." gregory agreed with some reluctance. when it came to seamanship he was perfectly willing to leave the management of his craft to dickie lang. the girl was familiar with the coast of the two islands and had fully demonstrated her ability to handle the _richard_ in a storm. still the idea of running from diablo rankled in his heart. it looked like quitting. the girl's next words, however, made him feel a little better. "there would be no use lying in at northwest harbor at diablo," she was saying. "the anchorage is too small and mascola's boats will overcrowd it. if you tried to beach anything there, you'd wreck it. at cavalan we can check things up, transfer the fish if we have to and get them right out. we've beaten mascola, hands down, so why should we care?" it was well toward morning before the last of the cannery fleet staggered into the little harbor of cavalan. then came the first opportunity to reckon the cost of mascola's defeat at diablo. gregory's first thought was for the personnel of his fleet. in the fight with the alien fishermen several of his men had been injured, but as near as could be ascertained, none fatally. a number of men had been slashed by knives, but the injuries for the most part were only flesh wounds. there were many aching heads and bruised bodies. two sailors and a fisherman had been grazed by bullets. one man's arm had been broken. to a man the various crews made light of their injuries and proudly maintained that they had left their mark on many a dark-skinned member of mascola's aliens. bronson had partly recovered and was anxiously inquiring concerning the behavior of the speed-craft in the storm. while gregory directed the transferring of the injured men to the better equipped launches, dickie checked up the material damage inflicted upon the tonnage. on the _curlew_ gregory encountered hawkins. the newspaper man was jubilant. the victory over the aliens was just what he needed. he had anticipated the outcome and had already sent out a full account of the struggle with the aliens over the radio. the people of port angeles would be reading it in a couple of hours. as hawkins assisted gregory in caring for the needs of the men, the reporter hinted that he was on the trail of a bigger story which would make all his former journalistic efforts pale into insignificance. but when questioned concerning the specific nature of his scoop, hawkins became extremely reticent. dickie lang's report upon the condition of the fishing-boats added materially to the cost of the victory. four of the craft had been jammed in the mêlée and were leaking badly. how they ever made port at all was a thing she could not understand. three of the other vessels had sustained bent shafts and broken propeller blades. all the fleet were more or less battle-scarred but their defects could be remedied in the water. she had set the men to work already. there was a machine shop at anacapa on the opposite side of the island and a marine railway large enough to take on the disabled craft. when the blow subsided, they could put in there for temporary repairs. the girl's eyes glowed with happiness as she totaled the catch of the fishermen. every boat was laden almost to its full capacity. with a storm coming on and in the face of a probable shortage of fish, the success of the night's work would reach a substantial figure. "it's worth more than you know," put in hawkins. "wait until my yarn gets into print and i'll show you." he smiled broadly and put out his hand. "then i want my rake-off, cap. gregory," he concluded. "i won't forget you, bill," gregory was quick to answer. "nor any one else. i knew the boys would stand by to a finish. they sure came across to-night." he turned quickly to dickie lang. "when can we start out with the fish?" he asked. "figuring to go at daybreak," the girl answered. "better send jack a message right away so he can be ready for them. they'll have to buck the blow so it will be afternoon by the time they get over." she looked out across the faintly graying waters where brightening lights began to appear from the shadowy hulls of the fishing-boats. then she inhaled the air hungrily. "look," she exclaimed. "the boys are getting breakfast. let's go over to the _snipe_ and tie in with them. they've got a man there from the regular navy who can surely cook." gregory and hawkins welcomed the suggestion and a moment later they were speeding away to answer to the first call for breakfast. in the lea of san anselmo, sheltered from the storm in the land-locked little harbor of cavalan, the american fleet rested from its labors. the sailors gathered on the decks and greeted the new day over plates piled high with crisp slices of bacon and fried eggs. the night had been long, fraught with danger and fatiguing toil; but work and worry had endured only for the night and joy came with the morning. * * * * * silvanus rock was nervous and ill-tempered. consuming his third cup of strong black coffee, he rose from the breakfast table and walked to the french windows and glared out at the curling waves as they flung themselves upon the beach. his devoted spouse gazed after him with a sigh. "something is preying on father's mind," she whispered to de lancy, the only son and heir to the rock fortune. "he didn't sleep a wink last night." de lancy scowled. "that doesn't give him any license to take it out on me," he growled, as he pushed back his chair and lit a cigarette. "when i tried to interest him in that new racing car, he landed on me all in a heap and----" his words were interrupted by the entrance of the maid. "some one to see mr. rock," she announced. rock whirled and hurried toward her. then he caught a glimpse of the roughly garbed man who was standing by the desk in his den. peters had arrived at last. the anxious lines deepened on silvanus rock's forehead and he made haste to join his visitor. mrs. rock pursed her lips as she noticed the stranger. "i can not understand why your father persists in having such disreputable-looking men visit him in his home," she confided to her son. de lancy sluffed the cigarette ashes into his coffee cup, before replying. "well, whoever the 'low-brow' is, here's hoping he'll put the old man in a better humor." in his wish de lancy was not disappointed. for a short time the visitor remained closeted with rock in the capitalist's den. then rock escorted his guest to the door and de lancy noticed that the old man had opened up some of his best cigars. it was a good sign. silvanus rock entered the sun-room, all smiles. "i believe i'll try some of those waffles, mother, if they are still handy," he exclaimed. "my headache's passed off and i'm feeling quite myself again." he beamed on his son. "and now, de lancy, you were telling me about that new car. it seems to me like a pretty stiff price but i guess you might as well go ahead and order it." when the bank president reached his office some time later after a visit to the golden rule fish cannery, he greeted his employees with effusive good-humor. leaving orders that he was not to be disturbed by any one except mr. peters, he passed into his private office, dropped heavily into a chair and began to figure. his pudgy fingers trembled about the pen as he scratched on the pad before him. then he tore the paper containing his calculations into little bits, tossed them into the waste-basket and smiled benignly. his latest business venture had succeeded far beyond his fondest expectations. a tap came on his door and mr. peters again made his appearance. rock surveyed him anxiously. "no mistake i hope, peters, in the good news," he quavered. "everything's all right i trust." peters nodded and drew up a chair close to rock's side. "this one's about the fishing-boats," he said in a low voice. "they got into a scrap with the american boats off northwest harbor. bandrist says that gregory's fleet won out. mascola's lay in at the harbor. the _florence_ burned up and a lot of his other boats are pretty well shot. he couldn't stop the other fellows at all and they loaded up." rock frowned at the news. "well, well," he ejaculated. "that is bad. though not of course as bad as it might be. no answer to that one, peters." a few moments later when the financier was again alone in his office, the cashier entered. "the credit man from the canners' supply company is here," he announced. "he's asking for information about the legonia fish cannery. thought i'd better refer him to you." rock's thick lips closed grimly. "show him in," he ordered, and bit savagely at his cigar. mr. booker made his appearance at once. "we have a little account with the legonia fish cannery," he began. "as it is some time past due we were beginning to get a little anxious. a word from you will put us straight." "what's the amount of your claim?" "twelve hundred and thirty-five dollars." the hopeful expression which had leaped to rock's face gave place to one of gloom. then he asked: "what is the nature of your claim?" "machinery and the labor of installing," supplied booker. a gleam of hope entered rock's beady eyes. "between you and me, mr. booker," he said. "the legonia fish cannery is pretty much involved at the present time. their organization is one which might cause you some difficulty in securing the amount of your claim. if you care to assign it to me for collection i think i can handle the matter satisfactorily." booker did not notice the suppressed eagerness of the bank president's tone. he was new at the job, replacing the regular credit man who was away on his vacation. perhaps it would be well to accept mr. rock's offer. "what fee would you charge for your services?" he inquired warily. rock spread out his fat hands with a depreciatory gesture. "just between friends, mr. booker," he said warmly. "your firm is too well-known by me to make even a nominal charge for so trifling a favor. whatever i am able to do for you in this regard, is yours for the asking." seeing that the credit man was wavering, rock continued: "i am so sure that i can adjust the claim satisfactorily that if you desire i will give you my own personal check for the amount right away. then you can forget the entire matter. mr. gregory is a personal friend of mine and though, as i say, his affairs are somewhat involved, i know that he will attend to the matter at once if approached in the right way." booker hesitated. "i'd better call on mr. gregory first," he said. "that will be a hard matter," rock interrupted. "unless you care to go to the expense of making a trip to diablo island. mr. gregory left yesterday for a protracted stay in the deep-sea fishing grounds." booker considered. his firm was very desirous of having him return with the cash which was sore needed at the present time. collecting the claim would be quite a feather in his cap. rock's statements concerning the fish cannery, he noticed, were somewhat contradictory. but that was up to rock. an account like this, the chances were, would not be worth much anyway. he could explain the whole matter to dunham when he got back. "all right, mr. rock," he said at length. "if you want to buy the claim outright, you can have it. i won't assign." rock reached for his check-book. a few moments later saw the deal closed. when booker had left, rock turned to the telephone. when he was in communication with the local judge, he said: "i'd like to see you as soon as possible, tom.--yes, it's important.--all right. i'll be right down." * * * * * somewhat in advance of silvanus rock's breakfast hour, mr. dupont entered the white front restaurant at port angeles and made his way toward his accustomed table in the sunlit alcove. his favorite waitress pulled out his chair and handed him his morning paper with a smile. "i have a special for you this morning," she announced, "which will make your mouth water." mr. dupont smacked his lips with boyish enthusiasm. "what is it?" he inquired. "corn-fed mackerel from the new service market which opened yesterday." mr. dupont raised his eyebrows inquiringly, and the girl explained: "a lot of service men have started a fish stall in a corner of the old california market around the block from here. they just put in a few yesterday but from the way they sold out, i'd say they'd need the whole building before long. our manager got around just in time to pick up the last of yesterday's catch. i saved one of them for you." while the girl attended to his order, the resident manager of winfield & camby turned his attention to his paper. when the waitress returned with the crisply browned fish, she was obliged to speak twice before she was able to gain mr. dupont's attention. hovering about his chair, she watched her patron nibble at the carefully-prepared delicacy with his eyes fixed intently upon his newspaper. the dimples disappeared quickly from the girl's face as she noted that the mackerel were growing cold. then she turned from the table with a sigh. men did not care what they ate as long as they had their paper. mr. dupont finished his perusal of the news and shoved back his chair, leaving the special scarcely tasted. "that was fine," he ejaculated. "wish i had time to finish it. but i have a number of things to 'tend to before going to the office. by the way, where did you say that new market was located?" he rose as he spoke and as the waitress again gave him the location of the building he sought, he pressed a substantial tip into her hand and hurried to the street. at the entrance to the california market, he mingled with the throng and elbowed his way through the crowd which packed a corner of the big building. then he adjusted his nose-glasses and peered over their heads. behind a rudely constructed counter of rough boards three smiling young men were endeavoring to satisfy the demands made upon them for the rapidly disappearing contents of a number of fish-boxes behind the counter. all about them were hastily scrawled signs which the public read with interest. we have declared war on the high cost of living.--fresh fish at fifty per cent. off.--we are dealing direct with the people.--shoot square with us and we will shoot square with you. while mr. dupont read, another sign made its appearance. "sold out. come again." winfield & camby's office force were surprised to find the manager on the job when they reached the salesrooms. "send me mr. black." mr. dupont's orders were crisp and the publicity man hurried to obey his bidding. "bring me those clippings on that legonia fish cannery stuff, black. also the ads in to-day's papers. have you read that story of the mix-up between the americans and the alien fishermen at diablo island?" black admitted he had not. "get _the times_ and read it," snapped the manager. "come alive, black, and as soon as dalton comes in, tell him i want to see him right away." * * * * * it was high noon at cavalan when the _pelican_ reentered the harbor after cruising in the open sea to pick up any words that might come from mccoy over the radio. gregory watched the progress of the _pelican_ from the deck of the albatross. "looks as if they'd picked up something at last," he observed. "hope it's from the fleet, saying they arrived at the cannery all right." "they've hardly had time to make it yet," objected dickie lang. "i wouldn't expect to hear from them at legonia for at least two hours." the wireless operator appeared on deck as the _pelican_ drew abreast of the _albatross_. "message for mr. gregory," he shouted. gregory took the paper and glanced eagerly at the message. it was from mccoy and it read: rock here with attachment papers to tie us up pending payment of claim bought by him from canners' supply company. we have until four o'clock to answer. wire what to do. gregory glanced at his watch as he handed the message to dickie lang. jumping to the deck of the _pelican_ he found tom howard. "tom," he said, "i want you to put to sea at once. travel a straight course for legonia and keep the radio going all the time. we'll be alongside in the _richard_. give us the answer you get over the radio by megaphone. perhaps then it won't be necessary for us to go all the way over. but if it should be, we've got to get there before four o'clock." turning to the radio man, he dictated a message to farnsworth setting forth the situation and instructing the attorney to take whatever steps were advisable to stay the attachment. the message was to be forwarded to farnsworth from the cannery. it would give the lawyer time to act if he got busy at once. returning to the _albatross_, gregory went over his plans with dickie lang. "i'm going, too," the girl announced. "you are all in. it will be no fun driving the _richard_ to-day. if you do have to go across, you haven't much chance of making it on time in weather like this. especially if we have to lag along with the _pelican_." "i know it," gregory answered. "but i'm not figuring we'll have to go very far. but if we do have to go all the way we've got to be at legonia before four o'clock. we've beaten mascola but we'll lose all we've gained if we don't beat rock." hawkins sensed that something important was taking place and straightway determined to accompany the party. a few minutes later the _richard_ and the _pelican_ rounded the tip of san anselmo and headed into the storm. then hawkins' professional curiosity got the better of him. "what's the big idea?" he asked. gregory explained, concluding optimistically: "i'm not worrying much. farnsworth can fix things up all right. then we'll go back to cavalan." "if he doesn't you can put up a bond for double the amount of the claim," hawkins advised. "that will stay the attachment until you can raise the cash. you'd have to get it in person though--and before four o'clock." he looked at his watch. "you'll have to go some to do that," he said. "if you could cut loose from the _pelican_ it would be a cinch, but of course you've got to wait until you get an answer to your message." for some time the two boats fought their way through the rising waves. then the fishing-boat signaled the _richard_ to draw closer. gregory listened intently for the words of the man with the megaphone as he appeared on the _pelican's_ deck. the operator's message came faintly to them above the roar of the wind. mr. farnsworth left his office at noon to-day on motor trip to country. not expected to return until monday. little hope of reaching him to-night but will keep trying. mccoy. hawkins swore softly at the intelligence. it was one-thirty already. not much chance of reaching legonia in time to accomplish much to-day. "tell mccoy i'll be at the cannery before four o'clock." dickie flashed a glance at the clock on the _richard's_ dash at gregory's words. every minute was going to count. it was up to the speed-boat to show what she could do. opening the cut-out, the girl began to get the speed-craft under way. with a roar which drowned out the wind, the _richard_ mounted to the white-capped swells and raced for the mainland. there was only one chance in a hundred of making it on time. she set her lips grimly and gripped the wheel. if it was only one in a thousand, she'd take it--for kenneth gregory. chapter xxvi the value of publicity "what time is it?" gregory huddled to the floor of the cockpit and drew out his watch. "two-thirty," he shouted above the frenzied snapping of the open exhaust. dickie hurled the _richard_ into a mounting wall of green water which tottered above them. then she cried through set lips: "just about half-way. we're over the worst of it though. the nearer we get to shore the better time we'll make. we're sure going to need it too." gregory nodded absent-mindedly. his mind was filled with the problem of what he was going to do if he did arrive at legonia on time. dickie had made a wonderful run thus far, had handled the _richard_ masterfully against wind and wave, had more than done her part. soon her work would be done. then his would begin. and what was he going to do? the sum to be raised would have once seemed trifling. what would twelve hundred dollars have amounted to three months ago? now, it looked like a million. there was no chance of raising it to-day. he must secure a bond. rock had played his hand well. the bank president had hit in some way upon a plan of injuring him while he was away. and rock could injure him. a tie-up at such a time would rob him of all he had gained by beating mascola at el diablo. the fishing fleet were loaded to the gunwales with albacore. the fish must be worked up at once. a loss of even twenty-four hours would render them worthless. gregory reflected bitterly that he had other creditors. had rock obtained other due and unpaid accounts? even if such were not the case, the shutting down of his plant might be the signal for other wholesalers to launch a similar attack upon his credit. he realized sharply that he was accomplishing nothing. merely thinking in circles. hawkins had suggested putting up a bond. the newspaperman was doubtless familiar with the procedure. perhaps it could be effected if they arrived early enough to arrange the matter. he turned to his friend for enlightenment. "how long would it take for me to get a bond?" he asked. hawkins' usually cheery countenance clouded, as he replied: "not long, if you could find a surety company agent in his office. but the trouble is this is saturday. i didn't think of it until you got that wire from your attorney. it's a legal holiday for the courts and it's hard to find anybody around you want." hawkins' frown grew blacker as he continued: "then there's another thing. you've got to have the judge approve the bond, granting you're lucky enough to get it. and looking for a judge on saturday afternoon is like looking for the proverbial needle." hawkins placed a hand wearily over his eyes and lapsed into silence. * * * * * jack mccoy was at his wit's end. the fishing fleet from diablo had just arrived, loaded with albacore. the captains reported a rough trip all the way over. they had seen or heard nothing from gregory since leaving cavalan. mccoy paced up and down the dock while he superintended the unloading of the fish. what a haul they had made! but what good would it do them? the whole plant would be tied up in less than an hour. he jerked out his watch and looked at it again. it was seven minutes after three. walking to the bay-side, he shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed anxiously in the direction of the inlet. granting that gregory arrived within the next half-hour, what could he possibly accomplish in so short a time? all mccoy's efforts to confer with rock had been fruitless. the bank president could not be located and had left but one word. he would be at the cannery at four o'clock. * * * * * the low-lying clouds which hung about the entrance to crescent bay rifted sullenly and exposed the ragged line of rocks which made up the jetty. "right on the dot," dickie lang exclaimed. "i was afraid maybe i was too far down. what time is it now?" "three-thirty," gregory answered. "we ought to dock in ten minutes." "we'll be there in five unless i run into something going down the harbor." "stop at the municipal dock first," gregory instructed her. "i'm going to run ashore and try to get a bond. then we'll go on to the cannery." hawkins roused himself from his lethargy as they sped down the bay. "i can help you some," he announced. "i can go on your bond. i own at least three times the amount of the claim in real estate in this county. that will save us some time. we can get a blank form from a notary and have him fill it out. then all we've got to do is to find the judge." "doesn't rock have to put up a bond, too?" gregory asked. "he's trying his best to damage me. haven't i any come-back?" "don't bank on rock's bond," hawkins answered. "he has to put one up, but it's pretty liable to be 'straw.' fellows like him generally have a strangle-hold on a little place like this and they are pretty sure of their ground before they shoot. the chances are rock's in the clear with a 'dummy' or else his property is all under cover. i'm going to make it my business to look the old fellow up and see how he's fixed. men like him don't do anything without a motive. i'm going to try to find out what rock is up to." at the municipal docks gregory and hawkins debarked hastily and ran down the main street of the town. contrary to the newspaperman's fears they were successful in finding a young notary in his office. stimulated by the promise of an extra fee, the man made out the papers in record time. "where can we find the local judge?" gregory asked quickly. the notary shook his head. "hard telling," he answered. "he went out a while ago with mr. rock and one of the real estate men in this office to look at a piece of property. haven't seen joe back since so i suppose they're still out." when gregory arrived at the cannery it lacked ten minutes of being four o'clock. hurrying to the office the party from the _richard_ encountered mccoy talking with a well-dressed stranger. "here's mr. gregory now," exclaimed the house-manager running over to meet his employer. "what luck?" he whispered. a glance at gregory's face, however, was all mccoy needed to answer his question. the boss had failed to stay the attachment. the plant would be shut down and all the fish from diablo would rot on the docks. the visitor stepped forward with a smile and introduced himself. "i'm mr. dalton, of winfield & camby," he said pleasantly. "i kind of stole a march on you people to-day. came down to inspect at the firm's request and found you all so busy that i just sneaked into your warehouse and went to work without saying anything to anybody." he smiled, as he added: "we kind of like to do that. with a new firm especially. it prevents them 'stacking' on us." "have you finished your inspection?" gregory put the question with suppressed eagerness. dalton nodded. "yes," he answered. "i'm well enough satisfied. your stuff is fully up to par. perhaps a little better than some standards. if you are willing to hold to your schedule of prices which you gave mr. dupont i'm ready to tie up with you right now." a gleam of hope flashed to gregory's eye. "isn't it customary to make a part payment when the contract is signed?" he asked. dalton smiled and shook his head. "ten dollars is enough," he answered. gregory's eyes were fixed earnestly on the representative from winfield & camby. "listen, mr. dalton," he said. "i've got to have twelve hundred and thirty-five dollars by four o'clock or i'll lose thousands. i've got fifteen boats outside loaded to the water-line with albacore besides all the canned stuff on the floor. i own the building, machinery and twenty-five fishing-boats. there's not a dollar against any part of it. i guess you've looked me up already and you know i'm telling the truth. if you give me an advance of twelve hundred and thirty-five dollars i'll close right now and pay you any interest you want. but i've got to have the money right now." dalton jerked out his watch. "hardly time," he answered. "even if dupont would o.k. it, which i doubt." gregory was already at the telephone. "i'll get him for you. can you let me have the money if he says it's all right?" as dalton nodded in affirmation, gregory's eye fell upon the open watch upon the desk. it lacked five minutes of four o'clock. * * * * * mr. dupont was seated in his private office puffing contentedly at a long panatella when the door opened and the publicity man entered. "what's new, black? anything?" black smiled and dropped into a chair. "nothing new," he said. "it's getting to be an old story. every evening paper in the city copied that fellow hawkins' yarn in _the times_ about the sea fight at diablo island. why, that man gregory has enough free publicity to elect him to congress. and he's advertising on the strength of it, like a department store. i was around to his service market a few minutes ago and people were fighting to get within shouting distance of the counter. i'd say he was a mighty good bet right now, dupont. that stuff has the town all lit up. if his output is anywhere near up to standard i'd say it would be good business to tie him up and beat the others to it." as mr. dupont was about to speak, the telephone bell interrupted. "yes," he answered. "on the phone. hello, dalton.--what's that?--yes, i get you.--how's the stuff?--it is, eh? how's that?--i see.--what do you think?--you would?--all right, dalton. sure, go ahead. drop in at the apartments when you get back. i want to have a look at that contract." mr. dalton hung up the instrument and faced about. "you win," he exclaimed. "caught the old man just right. he'd have given me a month's vacation on full pay if i'd have had the nerve to have asked for it." he wrote the check hurriedly as he spoke and passed it over to gregory with the words: "and now, don't forget that you still have the contract to sign." gregory took the check with shaking fingers, at a loss for words to express fittingly his appreciation of the favor. a moment later the door opened and silvanus rock entered with two strangers. the financier was on time. in another few seconds the hands of the watch would be pointing to four o'clock. rock's beady eyes opened wider as he took in the occupants of the room. "i regret that circumstances have forced upon me a very unpleasant duty," he began, but gregory cut him short. "they haven't," he said. "you guessed wrong this time, mr. rock. you've come for your money. here it is." endorsing the check, he passed it over. silvanus rock's fat fingers closed about the check and his small eyes glinted. for a moment his heavy jaw sagged and the flabby flesh gathered in rolls and pressed tightly against his white collar. at length he found his voice. "this check is not certified," he exclaimed hotly. "i refuse to take it." dalton smiled. "i guess that check isn't worrying you much, mr. rock," he said easily. "we're both pretty well acquainted with winfield & camby's reputation and between you and me, i hardly think they would relish any inference like that coming from a man in your position here." rock gulped, as he recognized the representative of the big jobbers. still he hesitated, rolling the check nervously in his fingers. then hawkins pressed forward. "don't urge him to take that check, cap, if he doesn't want to," he drawled. "in fact i think it would make a much better story if he turned it down in the presence of all these witnesses." rock confronted hawkins angrily. "who are you?" he demanded. hawkins introduced himself with a happy smile. "i've been wanting to meet you for some time, mr. rock," he said. "i'm with the port angeles _daily times_. since coming to legonia i have become much interested in the local fishing situation. as yet there are several things i'm not quite clear on. i believe you could enlighten me. what about an interview?" rock's face purpled, then grew white. his beady eyes shifted nervously from one person to another, and focused at last on kenneth gregory. "i'll take the check," he said thickly in a voice that shook with emotion. * * * * * it was some time later when the business of the day came to a satisfactory close. winfield & camby's representative had departed with his signed contract which mccoy had designated as a "gilt-edge proposition." the fish were all unloaded and the night-shift had already started to work on them. the events of the past two days were beginning to bear fruit. mascola had been beaten. rock had been beaten. the sea itself had been beaten by dickie lang and the _richard_. all of these things had been gone over again and again. weak from the reaction of the continued strain under which they had labored, the quartette of principals in the cannery drama slouched deep in their chairs and conversation began to lag. then dickie lang broke the silence. "we've all forgotten to eat," she exclaimed. "if you'll all come up to the house i know aunt mary will do her best for you." gregory, hawkins and mccoy accepted the invitation in unison. as they followed the girl out, gregory observed to mccoy: "i can't understand why winfield & camby faced about so suddenly. why, they saved our lives. who would have thought it?" "i would," hawkins cut in. "anybody would who stopped to think." he slapped gregory affectionately on the shoulder. "didn't i tell you, cap, that i'd have old dupont eating out of your hand in less than a week?" he challenged. "old leather-face has an ear to the ground. he's heard the rumble of my thunder and he wants to get to cover." his face lighted with enthusiasm as he went on: "just wait until the lightning begins to play around some of these birds. then you'll see them scamper. i'm going to the city to-morrow to have a talk with the c.e. and i've just got a sneaking hunch that i'm going to start something." chapter xxvii to solve the mystery the days that followed the return of the victorious cannery fleet from el diablo were filled with sunshine for kenneth gregory. the effect of mascola's defeat was far-reaching, and, magnified by hawkins' publicity, gave to the legonia fish cannery a place of prominence in the public eye. taking immediate advantage of the growing popular interest, winfield & camby entered into an extensive advertising campaign on behalf of gregory's product. the brands of the local firm were flaunted on the bill-boards of a dozen western agencies. whole states were placarded. newspapers featured the cooperative enterprise of the service men and commented upon it in glowing terms. a current-news company took several hundred feet of film illustrative of the industry and the signal victory achieved by the americans over the alien fishermen. basking in the reflected lime-light, the service market caught on like "wild-fire" and taxed the fishermen to their utmost to supply the ever-increasing demand for the fresh product. gregory's bank balance began to mount. the financial sky was unclouded. success loomed bright upon the horizon. in the hey-day of prosperity, no one noticed the faint clouds which crept upward from the sky-line. storm-signals fluttered feebly and were passed by unheeded. then mr. dupont, of winfield & camby, sounded the warning. "you're not getting enough fish," he exclaimed on one of his periodical visits to legonia. "i'm building up a demand for your product which is fast becoming national. the way things are going now, you will not be able to supply it. then i'll be out of pocket for my advertising. i'm cutting into your surplus every day. in two weeks you'll be down to bed-rock. what are you going to do about it?" as gregory considered the question, mr. dupont answered for him: "you've got to have more boats. if you haven't the money to tie up in them right now, i'll back you and take a mortgage on your plant. i'm willing to stick by you and back you to the limit. but you've got to furnish the goods." gregory made up his mind quickly. dupont was right. things were coming his way with a rush. what was the use of losing all he had gained by pursuing a policy of playing safe and "shooting nickels"? men who made fortunes on the sea had to take chances. it grayed their hair and seamed their faces with premature lines. but that was part of the game,--the toll which the sea demanded. "all right," he said. "let's get down to business. i'll go back to the city with you and we'll fix things up. i know of some boats i can lease while barrows is building the others. let's go." from the arrival of the new craft which went to make up the greater cannery fleet, misfortune stalked grimly in its wake. fishing was universally poor. the boats were forced to cruise wide areas in order to supply fish enough for the cannery and service market. areas which placed them beyond reach of the radio and gave mascola his chance. the italian struck without warning. angered by the loss of his prestige, strengthened by his augmented fleet, he began to hector the extreme outposts beyond reach of the wireless. then ensued a long period of stormy weather. owing to new and inexperienced crews and the increasing interference of mascola's men, a number of gregory's vessels were wrecked on the island shores and salvaged with great difficulty and expense. with the extended radius of his operations, overhead expenses mounted perceptibly, cutting down profits and adding to the multiplying worries of the young cannery-owner in countless ways. at the close of one particularly trying day he sat alone in the cannery office and stared moodily at a wireless despatch which lay on the desk before him. it came from diablo and reported the arrival of a portion of his fleet off the hell-hole. the message was phrased in the most optimistic terms. fish appeared to be plentiful. the weather was fine, the sea smooth. there was no sign of interference from any quarter. yet the worried lines which creased gregory's forehead deepened. it had been that way often of late at devil island. no matter how clear the sky appeared, the shadow of el diablo bulked dark and sinister across the sunlit horizon. something would happen out there to-night. he felt sure of it. he should have gone with the fleet. but how could he? he was far down the coast with the new boats when they left. diablo, he realized sharply, was getting on his nerves. were the obstacles which he had encountered about the island due to something more than a mere defense of good fishing grounds? it was not the first time he had asked himself the question. there was something wrong at el diablo. he could not shake off the feeling. as he sat down to wait for the evil tidings he felt sure would come, he took up an unopened letter from hawkins which had been on his desk two days. a part of the letter caused him to read it the second time. "so i got to nosing around and incidentally tumbled on to something which i think may be of interest to you. would it surprise you to know that mascola does not own a single fishing-boat? it did me, though i might have known it if i had remembered the federal statute which prohibits any but american-owned fishing vessels from operating in american waters. "rock and bandrist own the alien fleet. mascola, you see, is an alien. bandrist apparently is not. i wish by the way you'd tell me all you can of that bird. i'm looking up silvanus myself. i'm on the trail of a pretty good story, cap, if it works out all right. shouldn't be surprised if i might not drop in on you any time. if i do, i'll want a boat to go over to diablo. keep this all under your hat. it isn't censored." for some time gregory stared at hawkins' letter. the information gleaned from its contents shed a new light upon el diablo. bandrist and rock were in cahoots. both were interested in keeping him away from diablo. something was wrong on the island. it was mascola's job to keep strange craft from going there to find out. with the words strange craft, his mind flashed to a new tangent. to his half-closed eyes came a vision of a long gray hull, running dark, gliding through the water toward them like a destructive shadow. bronson had said it looked like the _gray ghost_. what was the _gray ghost_? where did she clear from? and what was her purpose in putting in in the dark to hell-hole? the questions multiplied with the smoke-wreaths and in the blue haze which enveloped him, kenneth gregory beheld his vague and intangible suspicions gradually crystallizing into three fundamental hypotheses: something crooked was being pulled off at diablo. rock and bandrist were back of it. the isolation of the island was threatened by the increasing activities of the american fleet in that vicinity. mascola's opportunity was only a means to an end. gregory's frown deepened. what rock and bandrist were doing at diablo concerned him in itself, not at all. in so far as it related to mascola's interference, however, it was all-important. mascola was the one man who stood between him and his cherished dreams. if rock and bandrist were behind mascola, as he imagined, would it not be pursuing a "cart before horse" policy to continue his expensive militant opposition to the italian? why not fathom the motive which lay behind mascola's action? if diablo held a secret, the guarding of which threatened his business existence, why should he not as an american citizen take the initiative and---- his meditations were disturbed by a soft tap on the office door. dickie lang entered. "i knew i'd find you here," she said. "smoking yourself to death and worrying gray. i've come to take you outside for a while. you'll be sick if you go on like this. forget for a while and come with me. the boys are having a mussel-bake on the beach and they've sent for you. if you have ever eaten kelp-baked mussels you'll not wait to be urged. the grunion should run to-night too, and i want you to see them." gregory drew his fingers through his tousled hair and shook his head. "i'm sorry," he said. "but i can't go. i'm waiting for a radio from diablo." "bosh!" the girl interrupted. "it won't take one of the boys five minutes to bring you the message if it comes while you're gone." she came closer and placed a hand on his arm. "please come," she said. "just to please me." gregory had no alternative. leaving word with one of the night men to send him any radio despatch at once, he followed dickie to the beach, where the service men sat cross-legged about a blazing fire of drift-wood. gregory sank to the sand beside the dark mound of dampened kelp and watched the operations of the chef as he busied himself in removing the heavy pieces of canvas which covered the sea-grass. "it's nature's fireless-cooker," explained the girl as she took her place beside him. "you can cook most anything in an oven like that if you know how. it's simple enough too. all you have to do is to scoop out a hole in the sand and line it with rocks to hold in the heat. then build your fire and let it burn for a couple of hours to get a good bed of coals. cover them with a thin layer of damp kelp and put in the potatoes. another layer of sea-weed, then the roasting-ears. after that come the fish, wrapped in paper. then the mussels, clams or anything else you want. when you get them all in, cover the whole thing with a lot of heavy kelp and batten it down with a big piece of canvas. the whole trick is knowing just when to open the oven. nothing can burn so it's better to leave it too long than to try to hurry things." gregory took the tin-plate, piled high with its smoking delicacies, and leisurely freed a succulent mussel from its shell. as he placed it in his mouth his eyes lit up with genuine pleasure and the anxious lines slowly disappeared from his face. "what do you think of them?" he could only gasp his appreciation. dickie smiled at the rapidly disappearing contents of his plate. he looked like a new man already. nothing like a mussel-bake in the open air to make people forget their troubles. about the dying drift-wood fire, the service men drew closer together and began to sing. "there's a long, long trail a-winding into the land of my dreams." as their voices rose above the dull boom of the surf, gregory's thoughts turned to the words of the song. the trail had been long. how long and how devious, he had never quite before realized. perhaps it was because he was tired and the firelight made him think. the "land of his dreams" was still far ahead. blocked from his vision for the time being by an intangible something which lay like a dark shadow across the path. "_over there. over there._" he started and looked involuntarily toward the phosphorescent line of breakers. over there? once it had meant france. now it came to him with a new meaning. beyond the gleaming waves he fancied he could see the jagged shore-line of el diablo. "and we won't come back, till it's over, over there." gregory's eyes narrowed. when "it was over, over there," perhaps it would be over everywhere. then, and only then, would he reach "the land of his dreams." he looked guiltily at dickie lang and was glad that she could not read his thoughts concerning the end of the long trail. "what were you thinking of, just then? i never saw you look like that before." it was the eternal feminine speaking. gregory shook his head. "i never did look like that before," he said. "because i never thought quite that far. some day perhaps i'll tell you what i was thinking." the moon, which had shyly appeared over the low brown hills, grew bolder and mingled its rays with those of the fire in crowding back the shadows. then a shout came from the water. "grunion." the singing ceased abruptly and the service men scrambled to their feet and raced down the beach. dickie made haste to follow. "come on," she cried to gregory. "and i'll show you the sight of your life." following the girl to the wet sands, gregory was amazed at the spectacle. the silver waves were alive with glistening fish. borne high on the crest of the tumbling breakers, they surged to the beach by thousands and lay quivering like quick-silver, stranded in the sand by the back-wash. with a deafening shout men scrambled to the water's edge and scooped them up in their hands. dickie rushed to the water and returned with a small fish, somewhat resembling a sardine. "grunion," she announced. "they come up at certain seasons of the year to spawn. there are only three places on the coast south of the golden gate where they run. for three or four nights now while the tide is high and the moon full they'll be swept up on this beach and left to lay their eggs in the wet sand. if you get closer you can see them standing on their tails. you'll never believe it unless you do see it. you've got to work fast to get them for they hop along the beach only for a second. then the next breaker takes them out." handing him one of the little fish, she continued: "take him up to the fire and look at him. against a good light you can see clear though them. if you had a skillet hot on the coals and threw in a handful of grunion you could never have a finer dish. but they won't hardly keep over night. for that reason they are good for nothing, commercially." she paused abruptly and listened. "i thought i heard some one calling," she said. turning about they saw three men standing by the fire. "maybe it's some word from the boys," gregory exclaimed. "let's go and see." at the fireside they came upon hawkins with two strangers, whom he introduced as brothers of his craft. drawing gregory aside while dickie conversed with slade and billings, he said: "listen, cap. i want a boat and a man to run it who knows diablo from the water-line up. i'm on the trail of the biggest kind of a scoop. i can't give you all the dope but i can tell you a few things that will open your eyes." the two men drew farther into the shadows and conferred in low-pitched voices, broken now and then by gregory's muttered exclamations. while they talked one of the night men from the cannery hurried on to the scene. "message for mr. gregory," he called. gregory took the message and drew nearer the coals. in the red glow of the fire, he read: from: launch _snipe_ at sea. five miles off hell-hole. got into fight with mascola about an hour ago. his boats drove ours from island. his men drunk and armed with shotguns. some of boys pretty well filled up. _curlew_ lagged with engine trouble and was cut in two off hell-hole isthmus. sunk in five minutes by some big boat, running dark. _albatross_ picked up crew. all saved. wire what to do. twelve boats here. others at cavalan for repairs. jones. dickie's eyes shone angrily at the message. "damn them!" she cried. "they got my _curlew_." grasping gregory's arm, she exclaimed: "there's a bunch of the fleet off san anselmo on the mainland side. there's some more a few miles down the coast from cavalan. they can all make diablo in two hours if you wire them right away. we can go over in the _richard_ and round them up and smash mascola's whole fleet. what if they have shotguns? we have rifles. come on. what are you waiting for?" dickie lang was breathless. her cheeks glowed. her eyes were shining. gregory shook his head slowly and looked at hawkins. "the _gray ghost_ ran the _curlew_ down about an hour ago off the hell-hole isthmus," he said. the two strangers drew closer and listened intently to the news while dickie chafed at gregory's failure to get under way. "that means we've got to be off," exclaimed one of the men. "how about going over in that speed-boat of yours?" gregory nodded. "that's what i was figuring on," he said. "i'm going to send a radio to all my boats within a thirty-mile radius of the island to reinforce the fleet and mix it with mascola off the hell-hole isthmus on the north side. while they're busy on that side, it will leave us a clear field on the other." dickie's eyes opened wide at his words. as they moved away together in the direction of the cannery, she cried: "i don't understand at all. aren't you going to help the boys out?" gregory shook his head and the grim lines tightened about his mouth. "no," he answered. "not this time. that is what rock, bandrist and mascola think i am going to do. but i'm going to fool them. there's something back of all this that we can only guess at now. diablo has a secret our fathers died to learn. i'm sure of it now. to-night i'm going to find out what it is." chapter xxviii the island's prisoner diablo was steeped in moonlight. for miles about the sea gleamed like a mirror. the grim mountains which guarded the shore were robed in saffron and checkered with black by the dark shadows of the towering peaks as they fell athwart the hillsides and mingled with the darkness which hugged the canyons. from a small cave high up on a rocky canyon wall the figure of a man emerged and crept silently into the shadows. picking his way with great caution along a winding sheep-trail, he reached the summit of the hill and looked about. the damp sea air fanned his long hair and caused him to look in the direction of the fleecy white clouds which were creeping upward from the horizon. soon there would be fog. then he could continue on his way to the brackish spring on the bluff-side overlooking the south shore. from there it was only a stone's throw to the beach where the mussels and abalones clung so thickly to the rocks. the thought of the raw shellfish sickened him. for days he had had nothing else to eat. shrinking closer into the shadows of the sage and cactus, he waited for the fog. then he could go on on his nightly journey. how many months had he been a prisoner on el diablo? he had lost all track of time. but what did it matter? soon he would be dead. for warm food and a drink of pure water he would almost give himself up now. borne on the fog-wind came cries and shouts from the other side of the island. perhaps help was coming at last. but no, it was only the fishermen fighting among themselves off the hell-hole. he had heard them many times before across the narrow isthmus. they would only go away as they had always done and leave him to starve. the faint pulsing of a motor launch directed his attention to the sea. in the paling moonlight, a gray blot clouded the water, moved slowly among the rocks and merged with the shadows. it was the same boat he had seen so often in the past. always it came to the island at night, running dark. once in the bright moonlight he had seen men land on the rocks and walk up the beach to a large cave which extended far into the cliff. as he had huddled closer into the scant shadows of the rock-mottled ledge, other men had come down the trail from the island and he had been forced to slide into the chilling waters of a grass-grown pool to escape detection. mother of god, it had been a narrow escape. the fog thickened and he continued on his way to the spring. creeping noiselessly through the brush he reached the trail which led downward to the beach. then he stopped and listened. the soft grating of a muted chain caused him to drop lower in the grass and draw back. silently he retraced his steps until he reached the cover of the heavier brush which fringed the hillside. the strange vessel was dropping anchor again in the little cove. he dared not run the risk of going farther down the trail. there were mussels and abalones around the next point. he would get them. by that time perhaps the men would be gone and he could return by the spring. the fog settled close about him, blinding his eyes and clinging to his shivering body. for a moment he stopped and sucked thirstily at the wet grass. then he crawled on. * * * * * planing high on the glistening waves, the _richard_ sped onward across the moonlit sea in the direction of el diablo. at the wheel, kenneth gregory strove to concentrate his mind upon the quest which lay before him. but another thought obtruded with ever recurring frequency. why had he permitted dickie lang to accompany the party to the island? there would be danger. there was always danger at el diablo. landing upon the island would be an added risk if hawkins' suspicions had any grounds for fact. the girl's threat that she would withdraw her support from the cannery if not permitted to go with the expedition, was only a bluff: why had he not remained firm? he knew the answer. there was a look in the girl's eyes which he could not withstand. something in her voice which left him powerless to refuse as she had said: "our fathers were not afraid. they died in one boat to learn diablo's secret. we've fought together from the start. don't leave me at the finish." she might have added: "if they get you, they might as well get me too." but her eyes told him that. well, it was too late now to change his mind. the girl was here and it was up to him to leave her in a place of safety if such could be found upon the island. while hawkins conferred with his two friends, gregory laid his plans. he would leave dickie with the _richard_. she had her automatic and a rifle. they would lay in close to shore on the south shore, opposite the hell-hole. the island was narrowest there and it was generally in that vicinity that things had happened oftenest in the past. that was where the _gray ghost_ put in, the place too where his father and bill lang had met their death. with the fishing fleet fighting mascola's boats on the north side the opposite shore of the island might not be held in such rigid surveillance. his thoughts turned again to the girl by his side. the rock-shadowed coves would afford a fair anchorage for the _richard_, even on such a night as this. there dickie could see without being seen. should danger threaten while the landing party were ashore, she must put to sea. he must make that perfectly clear to her at once. as he expected, he encountered stubborn resistance from dickie lang. if there was anything to be found out, she wanted to be there to see it. she was not afraid. she could shoot as well as a bunch of newspapermen. what was the idea of leaving her clear out of it? gregory smiled at her slurring reference to hawkins' two friends. then he reflected that what the girl did not know concerning the real object of the mission to diablo would cause her no worry. until the party landed at least, he was in command of the expedition. and orders must be obeyed. "you'll have to do as i say," he concluded. "whether you like it or not." dickie's lip curled and she turned her head away to hide her face. "all right," she answered. "i'll stay on the _richard_." to herself, she added: "but i'll use my own judgment when it comes to running away." * * * * * in the silence of the fog the prisoner of el diablo crept warily on. deep ravines laced his path and yawned close about the trail. a misstep would hurl him to the bottom of the rock-lined gorge which was swallowed up in the mists at his feet. suddenly he stopped and threw himself to full length on the ground. far above him the solid whiteness of the fog wall was broken by irregular flashes of blue. to his ears came the sound of snapping spluttering flames. covering his head with his arms, he crossed himself. the devil was speaking from the hilltop. on two other occasions he had heard the crackling of the flames near the old sheep-herder's shack on the crest of the hill. he had taken the wrong trail. had gone too far. worming his way down the path he fled from the flashes of blue light. for some time he retraced his steps in silence, thanking his saints that the devil had spoken to warn him from the spot. then the soft breathing of a motor-launch caused him to stop and listen. he was again at the bluff-side. soon he would reach the rocks. the echoes of the motor-boat died suddenly away and he groped his way to the edge of the cliff and scrambled down the trail. * * * * * "you'd better take her now. the fog's getting pretty thick and i don't know the shore-line along here." dickie lang took the wheel. "i don't know it any too well myself," she admitted. "we'll have to go mighty slow and feel our way along." throttling to quarter-speed they skirted the south shore of the island and nosed their way along the coast. at length the girl suggested a halt. "we ought to be nearly up to the hell-hole isthmus by now," she whispered. "on the beach along here there should be a lot of tide-water caves if we're where i think. around the next point is the goose-neck. we'd better go ashore and have a look. we may be too far down already." gregory agreed. "i'll take hawkins and slade and row ashore," he said. "billings can stay with you on the launch." dickie's objections were quickly overruled and the canvas-wrapped anchor chain was lowered into the water while the dory was pulled alongside. "look along the base of the cliff for the caves," cautioned the girl in a low voice. "and watch out for your oars. keep them in the water and be sure the wrappings fit tight in the locks." gregory nodded and took his place in the skiff. "we'll be back in five minutes," he said. then he shoved the dory out into the fog. * * * * * from the ledge of rock which bordered the cove, the half-starved man pulled the razor-backed mussels from the sea-grass and broke them open with his pocket-knife. for some time he ate rapidly. then he ceased pulling at the shellfish and listened. a boat was coming to anchor in the cove. he could hear the soft slip of the chain through the chaulks. perhaps they would land on the beach. then he would be trapped on the ledge until they had gone. picking his way over the barnacled rocks he started for the beach. as he climbed from the ledge, he stopped suddenly and clung to the rocks. on the beach at his feet, and only a few feet away, he heard the pebbles grate beneath the bow of a boat. the men were already landing. staring into the opaque wall of white, he saw it clouded by three dark blots. followed the rattle of stones, the soft crunch of the sand dying slowly away into silence. the men had gone on up the beach. the man who clung to the rocks climbed noiselessly to the sand, his brain burning with one great idea. while the visitors were gone from the place he would steal their boat. in the fog no one could find him. he could row about the island and be picked up at sea in the morning by some fishing-boat. the great chance had come to him at last. perhaps the men had left another to guard the boat. the thought caused him to draw his pocket-knife. grasping it tightly in his shaking fingers, he crawled silently over the wet sand, feeling for the sides of the dory with his extended arm. hope danced brightly before his eyes as he touched the boat. weakened by hunger, he rubbed his shriveled limbs and tottered to his feet, waving his knife. then he chuckled aloud. there was no one in the boat. throwing the knife upon one of the seats, he leaped again to the sand and began to shove. mother of god, he had no strength. the bottom grated noisily on the pebbles. then the dory slid into the water. laughing to himself, he threw his body over the rail and felt about for the oars. men were running down the beach. he had not a second to lose. his hand closed upon the oars. he was saved. tugging feebly at the heavy sweeps, he drew them through the water with all his might and the dory moved slowly forward. again his weakened muscles responded to the fevered call of his brain. suddenly he felt the dory strike a heavy object ahead. thrown half from his seat by the impact he dropped an oar, regained it on the instant and pushed the skiff away from the launch as hands reached out to grasp it. then he heard the low murmur of voices from the motor-boat. as he headed close in to the rocks he felt the stern of the dory dip sharply. * * * * * gregory whirled at the sharp rattle of oars and raced down the beach in the direction of the dory. some one was meddling with their boat. when he reached the place where they had left the skiff, he found it gone. from the waters of the little cove came the creak of oar-locks. plunging into the water, gregory swam rapidly in the direction of the launch. whoever had taken the boat was heading straight for the _richard_. a sharp bump sounded close ahead and gregory redoubled his efforts to reach the side of the launch. then he narrowly escaped being run down by the small boat which had turned and was heading in for the rocks. grasping the stern of the dory as it moved by him, he hung for a moment while he regained his wind, striving vainly to ascertain how many passengers the skiff carried. suddenly he noticed that the oars no longer disturbed the water and the skiff had lost its way. then he heard the sound of shuffling footsteps coming toward the stern. releasing his hold, he swam along the side and caught the bow, dragged his body from the water and tumbled into the boat. the same instant a heavy oar crashed against the seat close to his head and a dark figure flung itself upon him. it was but the work of a moment for gregory to overpower the thief of the small boat and bind him with the dory's painter. the man had fought desperately only for a moment, then collapsed, and gibbering with fear had allowed himself to be bound without a struggle. turning the skiff about, gregory started for the launch. had the man landed others on the _richard_? surely he had reached the speed-boat and had put about. was he bent only upon stealing the boat or was he only one of many who would be down upon them any minute? arriving alongside the _richard_ dickie hailed him softly. "some fellow tried to steal our boat," he explained to the girl. "if you'll get billings to help me get him aboard i'll go back and pick up the boys." dickie's companion in the launch assisted him in lifting the prisoner to the _richard's_ darkened cockpit where he lay huddled in a heap. as gregory rowed away in the direction of the shore, billings veiled an electric torch and allowed its tiny ray to fall full upon the face of the quivering prisoner. "a greaser," he whispered to the girl. "look. he's scared to death." dickie looked quickly at the crumpled little figure. then she fell on her knees close beside the man and peered intently into his shriveled face. for an instant she remained motionless staring into the face of the trembling captive. "my god!" she whispered. "it's mexican joe." chapter xxix under orders "you have seen nothing of the speed-boat from legonia?" mascola shook his head in answer to the question and reached for the bottle which stood on the table in bandrist's ranch-house. bandrist jerked it away. "cut that out," he said sternly. "you've had enough. to-night you have work to do. you must keep sober." mascola scowled, glaring angrily at the islander as he went on: "mr. gregory left legonia at ten-thirty with his speed-boat. there were five in the launch. four men and miss lang." mascola drew in his breath sharply. "that damned lang girl," he began. "she is a----" bandrist slid from his chair with a quick movement which carried him wriggling about the table. "keep your tongue still," he gritted as he towered over the italian. "you talk too much." mascola started from his chair, but there was a look in bandrist's eyes which made him drop back. a sneering smile played about the italian's lips but he said nothing. if bandrist was a fool about a woman, what was that to him? he could not afford to quarrel with the islander. not yet. "how did peters know they were coming here?" he asked after a moment. "he didn't," bandrist answered shortly. "but it is only natural that they should come here. their boats have been fishing along the north shore of the island. your men failed to drive them off." mascola flushed. "my men did drive them off," he contradicted hotly. "only a few minutes ago they returned with other boats. i will drive those off too." bandrist smiled insultingly. "why don't you do it?" he challenged. "to-night is a time i must have something more than talk. i want you to go down and join your fleet at once, keep a close watch and if the speed-boat does not arrive within a half-hour, let me know immediately." mascola made no move to obey. "gonzolez is laying in at the goose-neck," he said. "i sent rossi round to join him. the _fuor d'italia_ lies in the little cove beyond." bandrist's blue eyes flashed. "i can tend to that," he exclaimed. "you do what you're told and quit meddling with my business." "it's my business too," mascola retorted doggedly. "gonzolez is becoming angry at the delay. he will wait no longer." bandrist walked slowly to the window and stared out into the fog. when he faced about an automatic shone dully in his hand. "do as i tell you," he ordered quietly. "and do it quick." mascola's face purpled. still he made no move to do bandrist's bidding. "don't forget," he said thickly, "that there are others who know besides you and me. if anything happens to me at diablo there is one who will tell what he knows. i have seen to that." bandrist's fingers tightened on the revolver. then he slowly replaced it in his pocket. the italian might only be bluffing, but it was best to take no unnecessary chances. mastering his anger at mascola's insubordination, bandrist walked again to the table. "perhaps you are right," he said pleasantly. "let us go on to the goose-neck." * * * * * when gregory returned to the _richard_ with slade and hawkins he found dickie lang huddled close beside the crumpled figure of his captive. the girl was sobbing softly as she listened to the whispered words of the little mexican. feeling his way to her side, he placed an arm about her, and drawing her away from the other man, waited for her to speak. then she explained in a voice shaken by tears. "it's mexican joe. he was with our fathers on the _gull_. no one knew it at legonia. he went out with them at midnight and reached diablo a little before daybreak. they left him on the launch while they went ashore. he saw them murdered on the beach. the launch was run down a few minutes later. joe was thrown overboard. he struck his head on the rocks. when he came to, he heard them searching for him but he hid in the sea-grass and escaped to the other side of the island. he's been living there ever since in a cave in the hills. it was he who stole the gun and provisions from the _petrel_." gregory held the girl close as she told the mexican's story. for an instant tears dimmed his eyes, then melted away before the white-hot heat of the blood-lust which surged into his heart. his father had been murdered at el diablo. by whom? he put the question. the girl's fingers tightened on his arm and she placed her lips close to his ear. "a number of men overpowered them on the beach and drowned them. mascola was with them." gregory's jaws locked and the muscles of his body grew tense. mascola had murdered his father and bill lang. releasing the girl, he hurried over to the three men who were talking to the mexican and grasped hawkins by the arm. "what are we waiting for?" he cried. "while you're talking the man may get away." "just a minute, cap," hawkins remonstrated. "things are coming along fine. billings and slade are learning a lot from the mex. as soon as they get him filled up with those sandwiches he's going to show us the wireless tower and the cove where the _gray ghost_ put in to-night. he says there's a cave close by where he saw----" gregory shook off his restraining arm. "what is all that to me?" he flashed. "don't you know that mascola murdered my father? let the men go where they will. i'm going after mascola." hawkins started at gregory's words. "i didn't know, cap," he muttered blankly. for a brief instant he strove to express his sympathy for his friend. then he gave it up. "brace up, old man," he said at last. "take a grip on yourself. you can't do anything over here alone. before morning we'll have the whole gang rounded up and mascola with them. i guess the boys are ready to go now." gregory shivered in his wet clothes and hawkins pressed his slicker upon him. while the men took their places in the skiff gregory found dickie lang. the girl came into his outstretched arms and clung close to him in the darkness. "take me with you," she pleaded. "don't leave me here. i can't stand it." he released her gently and shook his head. "no, dearest," he said softly. "if you were with us i might be afraid. and i can't afford to be afraid to-night. stay close and keep under cover. if the fog lifts, pull the anchor and drift in to the shadow of the rocks." "why don't you tell me what you are going to do?" the girl asked. "you know that----" gregory drew her closer. "i'm going to get mascola," he answered in a whisper. then his voice changed suddenly. "and if i don't come back," he went on. "you'll know now that i love you." for an instant his lips met hers. then he climbed over the coaming and joined the men in the dory. dickie listened to the soft creak of the oar-locks until the sound was no longer audible. mascola had killed her father and richard gregory. his son had gone to bring the italian to justice. but what could five men do on the island against the hordes of bandrist and mascola? who were the mysterious strangers who had accompanied them from legonia? the questions crowded close upon one another as they raced through her brain. then her mind surrendered to a single thought,--a thought which warmed her heart and took possession of her being. "you'll know now that i love you." she whispered the words softly through lips which were still warm with the memory of gregory's kiss. hope surged into her heart. god was good. breathing a prayer for the safety of the man she loved, she caught up her rifle and sat down to wait. * * * * * the men from the launch landed silently on the beach and hid the skiff among the rocks. then they followed the mexican up the trail. crawling through the brush, they halted at length at their guide's direction. "from the top of the hill," he whispered, "the devil speaks." billings caught the mexican by the arm. "come," he said. "lead the way and the devil will speak no longer." when the sheep-herder's shack loomed across their path, slade commanded a halt. then he gave orders to surround the building. as the men drew near the cabin the door opened suddenly and a man stepped out. before he could close the door, slade and hawkins were upon him. gregory and billings darted for the open doorway as the light disappeared from within. from the fog-shrouded cabin came the sound of muffled blows, the quick breathing of men, the rasp of feet upon the creaking floor. a choking cry died away into silence. silence broken after a moment by a sharp click. then another. slade relighted the lamp and turned to examine the two white-faced men who lay handcuffed on the floor. "look like 'snowbirds,'" he said. "the two of them haven't the strength of one healthy cat." passing the men over to billings with instructions to search them, he walked to the radio switch-board and examined it carefully. "they've got a regular set just the same," he said half-admiringly. "they could reach encinitas with this one all right." seating himself on a stool by the board he placed his hand on the key. "i'm going to try to get the _bennington_," he said. billings nodded. "she ought to be close along shore by now," he answered. "if they left when they said they would." while the search went on the radio spluttered spasmodically. finding nothing of value on the persons of his captives, billings bared the arms of the two men and scrutinized the flesh intently in the yellow lamplight. "snowbirds," he announced. "one of them's punctured up one side and down the other. other's not so bad. good business i'd say for them to get hold of a couple of fellows like these. they're about the only ones they could get to stick in a god-forsaken hole like this and keep their mouths shut." he rose as he spoke and began to move slowly about the room. "tell the mexican to keep a good lookout outside," he instructed hawkins. "then you and your friend can help me go through the shack." gregory assisted mechanically in the search but with little interest. the sooner they were through the sooner they would go down to the cove where the _gray ghost_ lay at anchor. then he would find mascola. a muttered exclamation from hawkins caused him to look up quickly. the newspaperman was handing billings a cigar-shaped capsule half filled with a coarse white powder. "what's this, jack?" he asked. "looks like sugar. found it in the grub-locker." billings poured the contents of the capsule into the palm of his hand. for a moment he scrutinized it intently. "that's the stuff we're looking for," he said quietly. "though i never saw it in a package like that before." slade held up a hand for silence and pulled his head-set closer about his ears. for a moment his attention was held by the instrument. then his hand again sought the key. when the sputtering of the radio had died away he announced: "got the _bennington_. she's about a mile off the goose-neck. they're going to land in the next cove. the _gray ghost's_ at anchor now off the isthmus cove. mascola's speed-boat passed them in the fog about an hour ago. he's lying in somewhere farther down." he rose as he spoke and began to wreck the radio set. "tie those fellows up good, jack," he instructed billings. "we don't want to be bothered with them down below. we've got to be on our way. the boys will be there by the time we get down the hill. what's that you've got there?" billings extended the capsule and slade examined it curiously. "queer package," he said. "but it's the straight dope." hawkins' eyes shone with excitement as he crowded closer to slade. "what is it, tom?" he asked. "heroin," answered slade quickly. "a refined product of opium. never saw it put up like this before though. when we hit the beach maybe we'll learn the idea." beckoning gregory to his side, slade took from his pocket a deputy shield of the united states customs and pinned it on the young man's vest. "for your own protection," he explained. then he added: "you must act entirely under my orders from now on, mr. gregory. do only what i tell you. nothing more. you have been in the service of the government before. you know what it means." a few moments later the four men followed the mexican down the trail leading to the goose-neck. under orders. do only what i tell you. nothing more. the words echoed in gregory's mind. slade did not understand. mascola was to the revenue man only one of many. a man to be arrested and tried. perhaps acquitted on a mere technicality of law or a perjured alibi. slade did not know the italian. had dickie lang not said that mascola laughed at the courts? gregory's jaw set tighter as he descended the trail. to-night, orders or no orders, he would bring mascola to justice by the law of the sea. chapter xxx the fight in the cave with the sands of the sea-beach gritting beneath their feet, slade ordered a halt and conferred with the mexican. then he whispered to billings: "this is the isthmus bay where i told the men to land. i know where i am now all right. around the next point is the goose-neck. the cave joe speaks of is at the far end of the cove. it has two entrances, one from the bluff and one from the beach. jack smith's been in it. i'm going to send him ahead. take a look for the landing boats down by the water." billings disappeared on the instant and a moment later rejoined his chief. "everything's o.k.," he announced. "the men have landed and are standing by for instructions." "tell them to carry the dingeys clear of the tide and join me here," slade directed. "send one boat back to the _bennington_ and have the skipper move her around to the goose-neck in ten minutes. tell him to nail anything that's at anchor in the cove." billings returned in a few minutes accompanied by the men from the revenue cutter. silently they grouped themselves about their chief and waited for instructions. gregory crowded closer and listened while slade gave the men their orders. the deputies were to be divided. a few of the best trained men, familiar with the local topography, were to scout on in advance, entering the cave from the bluff-side. the others were to move along the beach, surround the main entrance and cut off escape to the water. all were to challenge once. then shoot to kill. slade selected his men carefully. when he came to gregory he said: "stay with the main body on the beach." it was in gregory's mind to argue. slade was throwing him into the discard. what chance would he have of finding mascola at the main entrance to the cave? the leader of the advance was already marshaling his men about him. gregory found hawkins and the two men walked away from the others, whispering together. hawkins returned alone. when the advance party had left slade checked up the men who remained. "i'm a man short," he announced. "what became of mr. gregory? i told him to stay here." hawkins shook his head blankly when questioned concerning the sudden disappearance of his friend. gregory might have misunderstood. it was not like him to disobey orders. in any case slade need not worry. his ex-captain was used to scouting and had received many citations during the war for crossing the enemy's lines. gregory would be a help to the advance if he had gone with them, hawkins stoutly maintained. then he lied earnestly: "he knows that cave like a book." joining the men detailed to enter the cave in advance, when they reached the top of the bluff, gregory reported to the officer in charge. "mr. slade sent me to join you," he said. "i brought him over from legonia in my launch." jack smith hesitated. "all right," he muttered after a moment. "slade's the boss. take off that slicker. it'll catch on the brush. follow after the others and stay close. don't do anything until i tell you." his manner was curt and plainly showed that he was not pleased with the latest addition to the party. but kenneth gregory cared little for that. if the _gray ghost_ was at the goose-neck, the chances were that mascola would be in the cave. and mascola must be given no chance to escape. as he followed after the others down the winding sheep-trail, before gregory's eyes flashed a vision of his father's battered face staring up at him from the canvas bundle on the hatch. then came the memory of mascola's insolent look of triumph when he had first beheld richard gregory's son on the wharf at legonia. why had he not seen and understood before this? but then, he had had no proof. he reflected bitterly that he had no proof now. only a mexican's unsupported word that mascola had stood by while his father and bill lang were murdered by his men. that was not enough. mascola might be convicted of smuggling but he would go clear on the charge of murder. gregory shook his head slowly in the darkness. no, mascola would not go clear. he would choke a confession from the italian with his own hands. somewhere below him in the fog, a girl waited for him to bring back her father's murderer. the girl he loved, had always loved, but had never known it before to-night. if he failed, he could never face dickie lang again. but he would not fail. his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of sharp scuffling ahead. rushing down the trail he came upon the deputies struggling with two men in the bottom of a small ravine. as he assisted the revenue men in securing their captives, he heard smith whisper: "down the gulch, men. take it easy. it's steep. stay with these fellows, joe." the air which sucked through the ravine grew colder as they descended. then the dank atmosphere became strongly permeated with the odor of fish. gregory felt a hand upon his arm. "go last," smith ordered. "watch the others. do what they do. no more." foot by foot, the men wormed their way over the dry sticks which choked the entrance to the cave. then smith ordered a halt. leaving a half dozen men at the entrance he instructed them: "watch this outlet. when you hear a shot inside, light the signal flares and throw them inside. then you can see anybody that tries to get by you. they're going to do the same thing at the main entrance." beckoning gregory and the two remaining deputies to his side, he said: "we'll go on into the cave. keep close behind me. when i give the signal by calling on them to give themselves up, each one of you pick a man and hang to him. they haven't a chance of getting out with both entrances lit up and guarded. come on." the carpet of dried sea-grass thrown up by the high tides, deadened their footsteps as they crawled into the cave. for an instant they crept on through the darkness. then a twist in the pathway brought a faint gleam of light ahead. smith flattened to the kelp and wriggled nearer with the two men behind him following close. gregory was the last to reach the surface of a table-like ledge of rock which ribbed their path and projected outward over the cavern. crawling abreast of the deputies, he raised slowly to his elbow and looked down. the floor of the cave lay only a few feet below, faintly discernible in the yellow light which issued from a hooded lantern. gregory's eyes searched the grotesque shadows which fell athwart the rocky floor. were there no men in the cave? for an instant no sound broke the stillness. then, from the darkness beyond the lantern, came the shuffling of footsteps and three fishermen stepped out into the circle of light and dropped to their knees on the rocky floor. gregory's eyes opened wider. the cavern floor was literally covered with fish. as he sought to fathom the strange actions of the fishermen as they passed silently up and down the long rows of albacore, the silence was broken by an angry snarl and the figure of another man leaped out from the shadow. rushing upon one of the fishermen, he shook him roughly by the arm. then the rays of the lantern fell upon his face. gregory's automatic was in his hand as he caught sight of mascola. holding the weapon close against his coat to muffle the click of the hammer, he cocked the revolver and shoved it forward over the ledge. for an instant the muzzle wavered, then drew steadily upward until the sights were in line with mascola's waistband. what an easy shot it was. he couldn't miss. what was the matter with his trigger finger? his arm slowly relaxed. he couldn't shoot the man from the dark. he'd shoot you quick enough. i know he would, but---- he murdered your father. he didn't give him a chance, did he? there was logic in that. the arm which held the automatic stiffened. the eyes which glinted over the sights, grew hard, then closed to blot out the hated visage. when they opened again, the temptation had passed and mascola was walking again to the shadow. from the ledge above the cave a bright ray of light followed the figure of the italian. mascola leaped to cover behind a huge rock. the same instant the roar of a pistol shot deafened gregory's ear. as smith fired into the air to give the signal to the men without, he cried: "hands up, men. you're prisoners of the united states." the flash-light fell from the deputy's hand as an answering shot echoed from the darkness across the cave. smith rolled to his side. "nail 'em," he gasped, and tumbled from the ledge. gregory slid from the rocks and stumbled to the fish-covered floor of the cavern. the light from the lantern was suddenly extinguished. dropping to his knee, he shot at the flash of a gun ahead. dimly to his ears came the shouts of the posse fighting their way into the cave. soon the vaulted walls reverberated with the rattle of firearms and the darkness was faintly illumined by the light of the signal flares burning at the entrances. brought into bold relief by the weird glow from the sputtering candles, a number of darting figures could be seen leaping to cover behind the rocks. from the shadows came bright jets of flame. bullets whined through the cavern, clipping the walls and rattling the pebbles to the stone floor. flattening his body against the slimy fish, gregory wriggled foot by foot in the direction of the big rock which sheltered mascola. * * * * * the game was up. bandrist emptied his revolver in the direction of the advancing deputies and drew cautiously away from mascola. the _fuor d'italia_ lay at anchor in the cove beyond the goose-neck. the tunnel-like passage, which only himself knew, would lead him to the beach. while the italian delayed the attacking party would be his chance to take to the boat. in the fog he could make his escape. by daybreak he could make the mexican coast. then he would be safe. of mascola he thought but little, save as a means to an end. it would serve the italian right. mascola faced about a few minutes later to find himself fighting alone. then he heard the rattle of loose stones dropping from the cavern wall. bandrist was leaving him. the italian's blood warmed at the islander's treachery. did bandrist think he was the only one who knew the way out? his anger mounted as he climbed the wall and wormed his way through the narrow opening. so bandrist thought to give him the slip, did he? well, he'd show him. when bandrist reached the end of the tunnel he crawled out into the fog and listened intently. some one was following from the cave. jamming a fresh clip into his automatic he waited. then he silently replaced his revolver. a shot would only draw pursuit. perhaps there were men already guarding the secret exit. huddling close to the cavern tunnel he waited for the figure of the man behind him to emerge. when mascola reached the end of the tunnel he felt himself grasped roughly by the arm and twisted to the rocks. bandrist recovered his wits quickly when he recognized the italian. "quiet," he whispered. "you were a long time coming. there may be men on the beach already. where is your boat?" mascola nodded his head in the direction of the beach. "my skiff lies close to rocks by the point," he said. "the launch is close by." bandrist fingered his automatic nervously. "we can wait no longer," he said. as he spoke he began to crawl forward toward the water. * * * * * the blue light from the signal flares flickered about the rock behind which mascola had gone into hiding. gregory reached the shadow, revolver in hand. raising his body to his elbow, he leaned forward and looked up. the space which lay between the rock and the cavern wall was empty. he was on his feet in an instant. mascola had escaped. that much was clear. but how? surely not through the main entrance to the beach. he would have no chance that way. the sound of the tumult at the mouth of the cavern told him that. neither could the italian have taken the other passage. he would have seen him as he passed. he searched the floor carefully for a possible hiding-place which would shelter the man he sought. then he raised his eyes to the cave wall. it was lined with irregular niches, some of which might be large enough to hide the body of a man. in the faint glow from the signal flares, he climbed slowly upward until he felt a cool rush of air fan his cheek. the air was heavy with fog; laden with the breath of the sea. the cavern held still another entrance. forcing his body through a cleft in the rocks from whence the breeze came, he found himself in a tunnel-like passage. the dry sticks snapped beneath his feet as he felt his way through the impenetrable darkness, stopping at intervals to listen. that mascola had preceded him only a few minutes before, he felt reasonably certain. by the time he reached the end of the passage the italian might have gained a place of safety. why had he not jumped from the ledge at first sight of his father's murderer? by now it would all be over. his thoughts turned quickly to dickie lang. perhaps the _gray ghost_ might have come upon the _richard's_ anchorage in the cove adjoining the goose-neck. perhaps the speed-boat had been run down. would the girl do as she was told and stay on the launch? his mind a prey to conflicting thoughts and emotions, gregory crawled on through the darkness. * * * * * when bandrist and mascola reached the _fuor d'italia_, the italian kicked the dory adrift as the two men climbed aboard. "pull the hook," he cried, "while i start the motor." "no," bandrist whispered. "you'd be a fool to do that. the cave was filled with revenue men. that means there's a cutter lying in around here somewhere. perhaps at the goose-neck. she would spot you in a minute with her search. we must row the launch around the next point at least." mascola growled his resentment at bandrist's air of authority. nevertheless he saw the wisdom of the suggestion and hastily brought out the long ash oars and fastened them in the brass locks. bandrist pulled the anchor and took his place at one of the sweeps. for some moments the two men rowed silently into the fog. then the islander ceased his labor at the oar abruptly. "head out," he whispered. "there's a launch ahead." mascola's eyes sought to pierce the fog where the dim outline of a motor-boat loomed dark across their course. then he swung the _fuor d'italia_ about and skirting the point rowed doggedly away from the darkened stranger. the italian's ugly temper was not bettered by the physical exercise. there was no need to row the launch as far as this. if bandrist was going with him, he must learn he was to be only a passenger. the _fuor d'italia_ did not belong to rock and the islander. she was his own property. he would run her where he pleased and as he pleased. as he labored, he formulated his plans. he would head straight for the mexican line, keeping well out to escape the patrol off san juan. daybreak would put him in the little lagoon beyond encinitas. there he would be among friends. he reflected suddenly that he had but little money. american gold in lower california would buy much. without it, even his friends would give him but scant comfort. bandrist, he remembered, never trusted his money to banks, but paid his bills in yellow gold which he carried in the coin belt about his waist. the observation gave mascola comfort. bandrist had enough for them both. he would see that he received his share. he ceased rowing. "far enough," he muttered. "no." bandrist's reply was sharp and decisive. "your exhaust can be heard for miles," he said. "the wind is blowing in our faces. we must keep at the oars. then they will think us still on the island. if you start the motor now you'll bring pursuit." mascola's hatred of bandrist increased with the quiet tone of command with which the islander spoke. "there is no boat that can catch mine with this lead," he bragged. "mr. gregory's boat is faster than yours for one," bandrist disputed quietly. "the new revenue cutters are faster for others. why are you a fool?" a hot argument began on the instant between the two men. an argument which ended by bandrist's knocking mascola to the cockpit. mascola lay where he fell for a moment, dazed by the blow. bandrist was not rowing he noticed. without doubt he had him covered with his revolver. fuming with impotent rage, the italian growled: "well, you're the boss. it's up to you." as he struggled to his feet he made up his mind to get square with the islander. again resuming his oars, he rowed steadily until bandrist gave the order to start the motor. the _fuor d'italia_ leaped forward and the cool sea air fanned mascola's flaming face. settling quietly into his seat he turned his attention to the wheel. he could afford to wait, but only a little longer. * * * * * dickie lang grasped her rifle tighter and leaned over the rail as she heard the soft dip of oars. then her hold on the gun relaxed. perhaps it was gregory returning to the launch. a glance into the gloom to starboard caused her to drop silently into the cockpit. resting the rifle on the coaming she covered the approaching boat and waited in silence. to her ears came the low murmur of men's voices. then the oncoming craft veered sharply and faded from view. for some time the girl crouched upon the floor of the launch. at length the silence of the night was broken by the far-off pulsing of a high-speed motor. she jumped to her feet, her eyes glowing with excitement. even at the distance she could not be deceived. there was only one other craft about with an exhaust like that. mascola was fleeing from diablo in the _fuor d'italia_. she sprang to the hood and began pulling on the anchor-chain. then she stopped suddenly. the man she loved was still on the island. perhaps he had been wounded. maybe killed. and in the meantime, mascola was escaping. for an instant love and hate fought for possession of the heart of dickie lang. then the chain slipped through her fingers and the anchor dropped again to the bottom. silently she returned to the wheel and sat down to wait. it was the hardest part of all to play. and it always fell to a woman. * * * * * when gregory reached the end of the tunnel he could hear the shouts of men and the rapid discharge of firearms from around the point. he must be in the cove adjoining the goose-neck. crawling rapidly through the brush he gained the beach. then he stopped and listened. mascola had evidently taken to the water. a sudden fear gripped his heart at the thought and sent him racing down the beach in the direction of the _richard's_ dory. his fears for the girl's safety abated as he found the dory undisturbed among the rocks. shoving it into the water he rowed hastily for the launch. as the skiff scraped the _richard's_ side, he sprang aboard and caught the girl in his arms. for an instant love alone dominated his heart. "mascola escaped in the _fuor d'italia_." dickie's words recalled gregory to his purpose. the next instant he was pulling at the chain. "i'll take you around the point to the cutter," he called to her as he worked. "you'll be safe there until----" "no." the girl's answer was spoken with a determination there was no gainsaying. "i'm going with you," she said in a low voice. "there were two men in the launch." chapter xxxi beneath the waters as the _richard_ cleared the point and plunged into trough of the swell, a thin column of light filtered through the fog astern and traveled slowly over the gray water. gregory put the wheel over and began to zigzag as he remembered that the _bennington_ was lying in at the goose-neck. at the distance the revenue cutter would be unable to distinguish friend from foe and would take no chances. "stay down," he called to dickie. "it's the search from the _bennington_. they may shoot." the light moved shoreward as he spoke, carefully searching the rocks which fringed the coast. gregory threw the wheel in the opposite direction and struck out at a tangent toward the sea. his speed would soon carry him beyond rifle range. kicking open the cut-out, he advanced the throttle. the _richard_ shook with the sudden burst of power, then began to plane. gregory kept his eyes on the moving rays as he held the launch on her seaward tack. the light was moving nearer, but its beams were paling. the cutter evidently had not moved from her anchorage. doubtless she would be kept fully occupied at the goose-neck. the next instant the fog-wall ahead dripped in the rays of the searchlight. gregory's hand flashed to the spark as his foot released the throttle. the angry roar of the speed-boat died away on the instant and the hull dropped sullenly. putting about, he started shoreward at right angles to his former course. the whine of machine-gun bullets sounded over his head to the starboard. then the leaden hail was drowned by the bark of the open exhaust. he had done the right thing that time. to have tried to dodge at speed would have turned the _richard_ over. now he was safe for a few seconds at least he reflected, as he watched the light traveling over his former course. as the rays again bent shoreward he saw a long point projecting out into the sea. beyond the jutting promontory he would be safe. running a course which would carry him clear of the point by a narrow margin he settled low in his seat and dashed forward. the fog-dimmed light hovered about the point as the _richard_ plunged boldly into the focus of its dripping beams. as the launch veered to make the turn, the waters astern were splashed by the steel pellets from the _bennington's_ machine-gun. then the gunner of the revenue cutter began to raise his sights. splinters flew from the _richard's_ stern. the coaming was riddled as the deadly hail moved toward the bow. the gunner on the _bennington_ ceased grinding as the launch disappeared behind the point. "i could have got that bird in one more second," he muttered ruefully. "if the old man would let us move, we can get him yet." gregory threw off the power and hurdled the seat. "are you hurt?" he called to dickie as he hurried toward the stern. dickie lang was not hurt. only cut by a flying splinter. it was nothing. the girl made her way forward. "let me take her until we clear the coast," she said. "you gave me the shivers the way you grazed that reef off china point." as they inclined their ears into the gray mist which enveloped them, they caught the murmur of the _fuor d'italia's_ exhaust. gregory surrendered the wheel. the girl listened to the rapid-fire pulsations of the boat ahead. "he's headed out to sea," she said. "and we're going to have to drive to catch him with this lead." her words were drowned in the thunder of the _richard's_ motor and the speed-launch bounded away to overtake her hated rival. * * * * * "the fog is lifting. soon it will be clear. we must watch closely for pursuit." mascola grunted a reply to bandrist's observations. weather conditions meant very little to him at the present moment. his mind was occupied with matters of far more importance. it would be well to know just where bandrist stood concerning a division of his money before they went farther. now would be a good time to find out. he made the suggestion at once that the islander grant him an advance of funds until such time as he could obtain his money from legonia and port angeles. "i have no money to spare," bandrist answered curtly. "you are foolish not to have been better prepared. our business is one which should have taught you that. you will have a hard time now to get your money from the states." an angry retort welled to mascola's lips but he choked it back. bandrist was speaking again. "here is one hundred dollars. you are welcome to that. but no more." mascola's eyes flashed at the smallness of the sum. a hundred dollars would be next to nothing, even in mexico. bandrist, he felt sure, possessed money in plenty. if there was not enough for two, there would be plenty for one. mascola made up his mind quickly. he would be the one. he had given bandrist his chance. the islander had tried twice to-night to give him the double-cross. would do it again if he got the chance. but bandrist would have no more chances. reaching out his hand, mascola took the gold with muttered words of thanks. then his fingers sought the switch and the noise of the motor died suddenly into silence. "listen." mascola turned quickly in his seat and looked over the stern. at the same time his right hand sought his dagger. bandrist twisted about, his eyes searching the gray waters astern. "i don't," he began. but his words ended in a choking gasp. mascola's knife had found its mark and the italian's fingers were tearing at bandrist's throat. the islander struggled to reach his gun, but he felt his strength leaving him. the moonlight shimmered before his eyes, mingled with gray splashes of fog. a sharp pain laced his side. his mouth opened and he fought hard for air. heavy darkness began to settle about him. from the far-off spaces he heard the sound of rapid breathing. or was it the faint pulsing of a motor-launch? then the murmur grew fainter until it trailed away into silence. mascola pulled the islander roughly from the seat and dragged him along the floor of the cockpit. then he sprang to the wheel and started the motor. there was no time now to get the money. the fog was lifting. and there was a boat following. * * * * * clear of the diablo reefs, gregory took the wheel and plunged the _richard_ into the shifting wall of fog. mile after mile he traversed in silence, stopping at intervals to listen to the faint pulsing of the boat ahead. at length the gray canopy lifted slowly from the water and he caught the outline of the _richard's_ broad hood rising staunchly above him in the gloom. he smiled grimly at the sight. the motor had not missed a shot since leaving the island. and they were overhauling the _fuor d'italia_. he threw the switch again as his eye caught the gleam of the moonlight ahead. for some moments he listened intently. but only the soft slap of the waves against the hull of the launch disturbed the stillness. mascola had escaped him; had noted the clearing and heard the sound of pursuit; had doubled back into the fog bank. anguish took possession of his heart at the thought as he reached for the switch. but neither gregory nor dickie lang heard the rasp of the starting mechanism. the sound was swallowed up in a deafening roar which came from the moonlit waters ahead. "straight ahead," the girl shouted. "i see him." gregory had already thrown in the clutch. in a swirl of white water the _richard_ raised her head proudly, and snorting angry defiance, raced across the intervening waves which separated her from her primordial enemy. gregory saw the _fuor d'italia_ leap forward in the moonlight, noted that the craft had already changed direction and was heading off at a tangent, a course which would bring mascola under cover of the fog bank. veering as sharply as her speed would permit, the _richard_ dipped like a gull and sped on to intercept the _fuor d'italia_. the shifting bank of blinding mist hung uncertainly above the shimmering waters less than half a mile ahead, dead ahead for mascola, off gregory's starboard quarter. for the italian it meant safety. to his pursuer it spelled defeat. the _richard_ was gaining. gregory measured the distance with a calculating eye. he was going to head the italian off. "swing her to port. catch him on the beam." acting at once upon dickie's advice, gregory saw the wisdom of it at once. his angling course would have put him into the fog before the _fuor d'italia_ reached it. now he would catch mascola broadside, full on the beam. or at least at an angle which would drive the heavier hull through the lighter one. with seaman's instinct, mascola sensed rather than saw the _richard's_ change of course. if he tried to make the fog he would be cut in two. if he deviated a hair's breadth at that speed he'd turn turtle. there was only one thing he could do. he reached his decision in a whirl of the propeller. dickie lang knew his answer. "hard a port. throw your switch." the words tumbled from her lips in a piercing shriek. gregory obeyed on the second, thinking the girl had lost her reason. the _richard_ dipped with a swerve which threw him violently against the coaming. as he felt the heavy hull sinking down into the water he saw that the _fuor d'italia_ had ceased to plane and was settling sluggishly. a snarl of disappointment burst from mascola's lips as he saw the _richard_ did not flash across his bow. a snarl, which changed quickly to a cry of rage as he noted that the two hulls were drifting sullenly toward each other. robbed of his way, he could not escape. the _richard_ was already brushing the _fuor d'italia's_ rail. in a frenzy of mingled fear and rage, mascola whipped out his dagger and leaped to the cockpit to battle with the hurtling figure that sprang from the other boat as the two hulls scraped. gregory caught mascola's knife arm and twisted it backward, crowding the italian to the rail. for an instant the two men were locked in a swaying, bone-racking embrace. then mascola felt the oak coaming pressing hard against his knees. he was being shoved over the rail by the fury of the heavier man. struggling in desperation, there came a gleam of hope. in the water gregory's superior weight would not count. strength would not count so much, without the weight. but a knife would count. jerking his body backward, he lunged downward into the sea, dragging his antagonist with him. as gregory and mascola fell to the water, dickie lang drew her automatic and covering the cockpit of the _fuor d'italia_ with her flash-light, peered cautiously over the rail. upon the floor of the launch sprawled the figure of a man. his face was turned away from her. the gray linoleum was dyed red with his blood. as she watched him, his extended fingers twitched convulsively. he was still breathing. but that was all. seizing the rail of the _fuor d'italia_ she began to work the _richard_ around the hull of the other craft. she dared not start the motor. the propeller might cut the men in the water to shreds. reaching the stern of mascola's launch she directed the rays of her light into the rippling waves. gregory tightened his hold on mascola's wrist as the waters closed over his head. the italian struggled fiercely to free his right arm as he felt his body sinking deeper into the water. then he noticed that his antagonist had freed his legs and was moving them slowly upward to his stomach. locking his knees about mascola's waist-line in a scissors-grip, gregory began to squeeze. lashing the water with his feet the italian jerked his head backward and forced it against gregory's chin. then he freed his left arm and the fingers slid upward to his enemy's throat. under the steady pressure of the sturdy legs about his waist mascola felt his strength going from him. with bursting lungs he tore at the corded muscles of gregory's throat. but his fingers had but little power. sharp pains seared his eyeballs. a deadly numbness was creeping over his entire body. then he felt the hand which held his knife arm twist the wrist and forced it inward to his body. mascola writhed in terror. by a powerful effort he squirmed sidewise and checked the onward course of the knife as it came nearer to his side. the exertion sent the blood pounding to his temples, left him weak with nausea. for an instant his hold on gregory's throat relaxed. then his fingers dug viciously into the flesh as he felt his wrist being crowded closer to his body. the point of the dagger was scratching at his shirt. in another second it would be piercing his side. mascola knew that the blade was sharp. the italian released his grip on gregory's throat. with a convulsive shudder he dropped his knife. he was beaten. at the mercy of his enemy. better take chances with the courts than sure death at the hand of kenneth gregory. gregory felt the muscles of the italian relax in a token of submission. for an instant his heart rebelled at the turn of the battle in his favor. why not strangle mascola beneath the surface? who would ever know? the italian had shown his father no mercy. why didn't mascola fight like a man? gregory's fingers reached the italian's throat. the law of the sea knew no mercy. * * * * * a feeling of utter helplessness seized dickie lang as she stared into the moonlit waters. the man she loved was battling for his life beneath the surface of the shimmering waves. and she could do nothing. "god bring him up safe." she repeated the words again and again. then a new fear assailed her. kenneth gregory would never give up. if he came up at all there would be blood upon his hands. justifiable blood. an eye for an eye. and yet, as the seconds trailed endlessly by, the girl was surprised to find herself amending her prayer. "bring him up safe--and clean." she uttered a choking cry as the bright rays of her light fell upon kenneth gregory's head. he was swimming slowly toward the launch, dragging mascola after him. [illustration: the bright rays of her light fell upon kenneth gregory's head] "hold his wrists." she noted the lifeless tone of gregory's voice as she made haste to comply with the order. saw the fingers of the two men clutch the rail while they waited for strength to pull their bodies from the water. kenneth gregory pulled himself weakly over the coaming. in silence he assisted the girl in dragging mascola from the water. huddling on the driver's seat of the _richard_, the italian leaned against the dash, fighting for breath. gregory stumbled backward and sank to the floor of the cockpit, covering his face with his hands. "i--failed," he gasped. "i had a chance.--but i passed it up.--i couldn't do it." dickie fell to her knees beside him and threw her arms about his neck. "you're a man," she whispered, "one in a million." then her lips found his. mascola watched the two shadows blend into one. silhouetted in the bright moonlight, he leaned against the coaming, his lips curved in a sneering smile. from the darkened cockpit of the _fuor d'italia_ came a bright jet of flame. then another. before the echoes of the two shots had died away mascola's body slid from the seat and fell in a heap upon the floor. dickie drew her revolver and sprang to the rail. sweeping the darkness of the _fuor d'italia's_ cockpit with the rays of her light, she drew back. "bandrist," she whispered to gregory through whitening lips. chapter xxxii for all the world to know silvanus rock was at the golden rule fish cannery at an early hour on the morning following the raid upon el diablo. when blankovitch entered the office, he noted at a glance that the face of the capitalist looked drawn and worried. "any news, blankovitch?" the words tumbled eagerly from rock's thick lips as he caught sight of the ruddy countenance of the manager. blankovitch shook his head. "only the broken message a little before midnight," he answered. "you got that. gonzolez landed. that's all we know." rock fidgeted while his eyes roved about the room. "you don't suppose anything went wrong?" he hazarded after a moment. blankovitch did not think so. the wireless had failed for some reason or other. but it had done that before. he was expecting rossi in at any moment. there was no occasion for worry. would mr. rock care for a drink so early in the morning? the bank president gulped down the brandy, and under the stimulus of the fiery liquor his wavering courage rallied perceptibly. "had a bad night," he explained. "didn't sleep a wink. neuralgia." the slavonian nodded sympathetically and the two men lapsed into silence. after some time had passed a fisherman entered. "rossi's coming in," he announced. rock leaped to his feet with the youthful exuberance of a schoolboy. "i feel like a new man," he confided to blankovitch, when the messenger had gone out. "the brandy was just what i needed. lack of sleep surely pulls a man down." the manager agreed and together the two men went out to the receiving platform to await the arrival of the boat from el diablo. when rossi drew alongside, rock greeted him effusively. "how is everything at the island?" he asked. "have you plenty of fish?" the fishing captain answered the bank president's greeting with his usual shrug. "_bonne,_" he said shortly. "everything's fine. i got some good fish." rock was jubilant. his fears had been groundless. everything was quite all right. for had not rossi given the accustomed signal to that effect? blankovitch had already taken the cue. "if his fish are first-class, we might put them up special for those a- orders," he suggested. rock nodded as he noted the stolid faces of the fishermen peering over the rail. rossi had his regular crew. still, one could never be too careful. for a moment he appeared to deliberate. then he said: "good idea, blankovitch, we're short on high-grade stuff." the manager moved at once to the receiving-vat and pulled the grating over the traveling conveyer which carried the fish into the cannery. then he opened a valve at the bottom of the tank. "all right, rossi," he said. "dump them in." rock stood by for a moment watching the fish slide into the vat. then he walked away in the direction of the cannery office. passing through the room where he had conferred with the slavonian, he entered the manager's private sanctuary which lay beyond and closed the door. in the far corner of the room was a small clothes-closet. to this rock made his way hastily, and, fitting a key in the lock, passed within, slamming the door after him. in the darkness of the stuffy cubby-hole, his fingers found a small flash-light in the pocket of an old vest which hung from one of the hooks. directing the rays of the light about him, he worked his way through the hanging garments and reached the end of the closet. for an instant his fingers slid along the inside wall. then a cool draught of air fanned his face, strongly tinctured with the smell of the mud-flats. swinging the panel shut behind him, silvanus rock descended the narrow stairway. when he reached the bottom he paused and drew his coat collar closer about his neck. the air was damp and cold and the waters of the bay were lapping softly against the pilings which supported the building. grasping the wooden rail of the gangway which led away from the bottom of the stairs, the capitalist crept on through the darkness until he reached the base of a big concrete storage-vat. groping for the lock which secured the outlet-cleaning-door of the big tank, he unlocked it and passed within. with the water-tight door closed behind him, he switched on the electric light. the cement floor of the vat was already partly covered with the fish which slid downward from the receiving tanks on the platform above. rock listened intently. but only the soft slip of the fish through the chute and the drip of the water from the draining-table, disturbed the silence. then he heard the murmur of men's voices from the platform. the valve was still open. when blankovitch closed that, no sound would penetrate the vat from the outside world. he turned his attention at once to the fish. drawing one of the albacore to one side, his fat fingers delved carefully into the fish's belly. then they brought forth a large aluminum capsule and laid it carefully on a tin-topped table which stood conveniently near a small capping-machine. for some moments he repeated the operation until all the fish had been emptied of their contents and a double row of capsules covered the table. the albacore, he noticed suddenly, had ceased to slip through the chute. he frowned at the observance. surely rossi had brought a larger cargo than this. walking again to the intake from the tank above, he listened. the valve was still open. there would be more or blankovitch would close the chute and assist him below. wiping his hands carefully on his handkerchief, he walked nervously about the tank. there was nothing he could do but wait. there would be no use to fill the cans at present or start the conveyer to carry the empty-bellied fish to the cannery floor. both would necessitate the use of machinery, and even electric-driven power made some noise. if the slavonian was through, why didn't he close the valve and come down? the door of the storage-vat opened suddenly and blankovitch's bulky figure staggered within. rock drew back at the expression on the slavonian's face. all color had fled from the manager's ruddy cheeks. his eyes were staring and his heavy jaw sagged. then rock noted that the door was still open. as he made haste to close it before questioning the frightened slavonian, he found the way blocked by three shadowy figures who sprang upon him. "you are under arrest, mr. rock." silvanus rock wriggled vainly in the arms of the men who forced him back into the tank. in the struggle the light fell full upon the open vest of one of the strangers. then rock collapsed. for years he had suffered this nightmare. in his troubled dreams he had seen the glittering shield of the revenue men winking at him from the darkness. now it was a tangible reality. he was caught with the goods through the slavonian's treachery. glaring in sullen anger at his trembling manager, he opened his mouth to speak but no word came. then one of the deputies who had made a cursory examination of the vat, began to speak: "well, mr. rock," he said, "it kind of looks like we had the man higher up. at the point of a gun, mr. blankovitch showed us the way to your little office down here. and signor rossi brought us all the way over from diablo hidden away among his fish so we could have the pleasure of finding out where he sold his cargo. the little ride was worth as much to him as it was to us." turning to the man who was standing by the slavonian, he ordered: "better put the steels on him, jack. i'll take this one while joe stays down here with the stuff." * * * * * when the _bennington_ entered crescent bay followed by the _richard_ towing the _fuor d'italia_, excitement was rife at legonia. and as the boats came to anchor off the golden rule cannery a large crowd of curious village-folk collected on the dock. the consensus of opinion, in silvanus rock's absence, was expressed by the local postmaster. there had been another fight at el diablo and "uncle sam had stepped in and 'pinched' the whole darned bunch." to that opinion, the crowd for the most part concurred though there were some who thought otherwise. it remained for silvanus rock himself to upset the truth of the postmaster's statement. scarcely able to credit their sight, the villagers saw the magnate of legonia led forth from the golden rule cannery in the custody of strangers. strangers who spoke and acted with an air of authority and displayed shining badges to part the crowd as they walked with their prisoner to meet the small boat from the cutter. then came blankovitch wearing hand-cuffs. it was some time before the truth leaked out through the lips of a newspaperman who was aboard the _bennington_. even then there were some who doubted. mascola killed by bandrist? impossible. bill lang and richard gregory murdered at el diablo and mexican joe who had been with them, found on the island? silvanus rock a smuggler? why the very thought was absurd. but the postmaster was gifted with more sagacity. with an ear trained to catch the slightest drift of public opinion, he declaimed after hearing all the evidence: "i ain't much surprised. kind o' had my suspicions of old rock all along though i never said nothin'. but i allays did say that young gregory was a comin' citizen." * * * * * purple dusk settled closely about legonia at the close of the most memorable day in the history of the village. for a time the streets were deserted as the fishermen sought their homes at supper-time to retail the latest bits of gossip which were current in the saloons. kenneth gregory's name was upon every lip. no story was complete unless he figured in it. the golden rule cannery had been closed until further notice. gregory had bought all the fish brought in by the alien fleet. his wharves were piled high with fish-boxes. his vats were full of albacore. he was going to give everybody a chance if they "shot square" and became american citizens. rock and blankovitch had been taken with the men from diablo island to the jail at the county-seat. the body of mascola was still in the custody of the local undertaker and bandrist had been removed to a hospital. but of the men themselves little was said. an era of universal friendliness prevailed throughout the village. at the lang cottage aunt mary was striving vainly to assemble her guests about the table for the evening meal. "the biscuits will be ruined," she pleaded. "leave the talk go. you've all talked yourselves half-sick now." jack mccoy protested as miss lang led him to the table. "remember, i wasn't there," he said. "and i've got a lot to find out before i get caught up." hawkins slid into a chair by mccoy. "well that's about all there is to it, mac," he said. "except that the _gray ghost_ made a clean get-away in the fog. you see the custom house has been wise to her for a long time but they never could catch her with the goods. for some time there has been a lot of dope floating around in tuna cans so they kind of laid it to some fish cannery. in talking it over with cap. i began to look this fellow, rock, up. and i found among other things, that he didn't have a dollar until a few years ago. he made his money quick, and as far as we knew, right here in town. then, this diablo stuff gave me a hunch." gregory looked up quickly at the mention of the island. "easy on the diablo stuff, bill," he cautioned. "aunt mary doesn't know much about that." when supper was over, jack mccoy rose hastily. "i must be getting back," he said. "we have a big night-shift and fish to burn. and they will burn unless i'm on the job." gregory followed him to the door. "i'll be down pretty quick, jack," he said. "i want to see miss lang a minute before i go." a crooked little smile twisted the corners of mccoy's mouth and for a moment he looked deep into gregory's eyes. "i suppose congratulations are in order," he began somewhat uncertainly, and seeing that gregory made no denial, he put out his hand. "i hope you'll both be happy," he said slowly. then he turned quickly and hurried out the door. hawkins hurried after him. "i guess i'll go down with mccoy," he explained. "i want to keep near a phone." then he turned to aunt mary. "in to-morrow's _times_ you'll get the latest details of the secret of el diablo," he said as he bade her good night. when hawkins had gone out and aunt mary had retired to the kitchen, gregory exclaimed to dickie lang in a low voice: "there's one secret she won't get in _the times_. she won't have to wait that long. for i'm going to tell her now." "you'd better not," answered the girl. "you would have to shout. she's unusually deaf to-night. all the neighbors would hear." "that's what i want," gregory cried as he walked to the kitchen with dickie following close behind. in the semi-darkness of the little pantry-closet he took the girl in his arms. "it's the only secret i'd never be able to keep," he confessed. "and i want the whole world to hear it." pushing aside the swinging-door, he went into the kitchen to tell aunt mary. [illustration: in the semi-darkness of the little pantry-closet] the end [transcriber's notes: punctuation errors have been corrected and hyphen usage made consistent. illustrations (excepting frontispiece) have been moved from their original page locations to the paragraph which they illustrate. printer's errors have been corrected as follows: page : dois amended to dios (gracious a dios) page : bare-booted amended to bare-footed (bare-footed fishermen) page : speak amended to speck (speck on the horizon) page : do amended to go (to go down anyway) page : run amended to ran (he ran his boats) page : be amended to he (he began to fall down) page : slippel amended to slipped (slipped a hand into his pocket) page : furinor amended to furrinor (bossed around by a "furrinor") page : rememberance amended to remembrance (a sharp remembrance) page : unimpeachible amended to unimpeachable (unimpeachable standing) page : back amended to black (together off black point) page : lose amended to loose (cut loose from the _pelican_) page : she's amended to she'd (she'd take it) page : preceptibly amended to perceptibly (expenses mounted perceptibly) page : jibbering amended to gibbering (gibbering with fear) page : order amended to ordered (smith ordered.) page : extra "the" removed (darkness across the cave) page : died amended to dyed (dyed red with his blood) page : steals amended to steels (put the steels on him) errors in foreign language spelling (_gracious a dios_ and _sangre de christo_) have been retained.] the life of a ship from the launch to the wreck, by r.m. ballantyne. ________________________________________________________________________ a story for pre-teens, in which a small boy, davy, is taken to a shipyard to watch the building of a new sailing-vessel, the "fair nancy". eventually davy is allowed to sail on board of her as a boy-seaman. he is sea-sick at first, but soon recovers and learns how to climb the rigging to help with the sails. they encounter a hurricane, which knocks the ship over, and they lose the ship's boats. a raft is made, but only a few people can get away on it, including the captain's wife. the ship drifts helpless until she is wrecked on a hostile shore. there is only one chance for the men, and that would be if someone could swim ashore with a rope and fasten it, so that each member of the crew can be brought ashore with a travelling block and harness. this works, and no lives are lost. they walk out of the wilderness till they come to a village, from which they make their way to quebec, and thence back to england. i find it rather a depressing story, but the intention of the book, presumably, is to interest young people in a life at sea. ________________________________________________________________________ the life of a ship from the launch to the wreck, by r.m. ballantyne. chapter one. the life of a ship from the launch to the wreck. song of the sailor boy. oh! i love the great blue ocean, i love the whistling breeze, when the gallant ship sweeps lightly across the surging seas. i watched my first ship building; i saw her timbers rise, until her masts were towering up in the bright blue skies. i heard the cheers ascending, i saw her kiss the foam, when first her hull went plunging into her ocean home. her flags were gaily streaming, and her sails were full and round, when the shout from shore came ringing, "hurrah! for the outward-bound!" but, alas! ere long a tempest came down with awful roar and dashed our ship in pieces upon a foreign shore. but he who holds the waters in his almighty hand, brought all the sailors safely back to their native land. davy was a fisher boy; and davy was a very active little boy; and davy wanted to go to sea. his father was a fisherman, his grandfather had been a fisherman, and his great-grandfather had been a fisherman: so we need not wonder much that little davy took to the salt water like a fish. when he was very little he used to wade in it, and catch crabs in it, and gather shells on the shore, or build castles on the sands. sometimes, too, he fell into the water neck and heels, and ran home to his mother, who used to whip him and set him to dry before the fire; but, as he grew older, he went with his father in the boat to fish, and from that time forward he began to wish to go to sea in one of the large ships that were constantly sailing away from the harbour near his father's cottage. one day davy sat on a rock beside the sea, leaning on his father's boathook, and gazing with longing eyes out upon the clear calm ocean, on which several ships and boats were floating idly, for there was not a breath of wind to fill their sails. "oh, how i wish my father would let me go to sea!" said davy, with a deep sigh. "i wonder if i shall ever sail away beyond that line yonder, far, far away, where the sky seems to sink into the sea!" the line that he spoke of was the horizon. davy heaved another sigh, and smiled; for, just at that moment, his eyes fell on a small crab that stood before him with its claws up as if it were listening to what he said. "oh, crab, crab," cried the little boy, "you're a happy beast!" at that moment he moved the boathook, and the crab ran away in such a desperate hurry that davy opened his eyes wide and said, "humph! maybe ye're not a happy beast after all!" while he sat thus, a stout fisherman came up and asked him what he was thinking about. on being told, he said, "will you come with me, boy, to the building-yard, and i'll show you a ship on the `stocks.' i'm goin' as one of her crew when she's ready for sea, and perhaps by that time your father will let you go too." you may be sure that davy did not refuse such a good offer; so the man and the boy went hand in hand to the yard where ships were built. davy had never been there before, and great was his surprise when he saw a huge thing standing on dry land, with great pieces of wood of all shapes sticking round it, like the skeleton of a whale; but greater still was his surprise when the fisherman said, "there, lad, that's the ship." "well," exclaimed davy, opening his large eyes to their widest, "it don't look like one just now!" the fisherman laughed. "that's true, lad; but come--i'll explain;" and taking davy by the hand, he led him nearer to the "skeleton" of the ship, and began to explain the names and uses of the different parts. "you see that long thick timber," he said, "that runs from this end, which is the `stern,' to that end, which is the `bow'--well, that is the `keel.' this post or beam that rises out of it here is the `stern-post,' and that one that rises up at the far end yonder is the `stem' or `cutwater.' these are the principal timbers of the vessel, and upon their strength the safety of a ship chiefly depends. the sticks that you see branching out from the keel like deers' horns are called `ribs;' they are very strong, and the timbers that fasten them together at the top are called `beams.' of course these pieces of wood are some of them far larger than any trees that you have ever seen; but if you examine them you will find that each timber and rib is made up of two or three separate pieces of wood, fastened very strongly together. when all the beams are fixed they will begin to nail the planks on to the ribs; iron bolts are used for this purpose, but by far the greater number of the nails are made of wood. after this is done the seams between the planks will be filled with oakum and the whole ship covered over with pitch and tar, just in the same way as your father does to his boat when she lets in water. then the bottom of the ship will be entirely covered with sheets of copper, to prevent the wood worms from destroying it. these little rascals would eat through a ship's bottom and very soon sink it, but for the copper. next, the deck is laid down, and the ship will be ready for `launching.' a ship's masts and rigging are always put in after she is launched. now, lad, what d'ye think of it?" said the fisherman as he walked home again with davy. "the ship's to be a `three-master' full-rigged, and is to go by the name o' the _fair nancy_." as he said this he smiled, patted the little boy on the head and left him. but davy replied not a word to his friend's remarks. his curly head was stuffed quite full with the keel, timbers, ribs, beams, stern-post, planks, and cutwater of the _fair nancy_; he could not speak, he found it difficult even to think, so he thrust his hands deep into his pockets, sat down on the shank of an anchor, and stared out to sea. in half an hour he heaved a very deep sigh indeed, and said, "oh! dear me, i wonder if i shall ever go to sea in the _fair nancy_!" time flew on, and little davy fished with his father, and worked for his mother, and paid many a visit to the building-yard, to watch the progress of the ship--his ship, as he called it. he begged very hard, too, to be allowed to go in her when she should be ready for sea. at first neither father nor mother would hear of it, but at last they began to think that davy would make a very good sailor, for certainly he was an active obedient boy; so, although they did not say yes, they were not nearly so determined as they used to be in saying no. the day of the launch was a great day at the seaport where davy lived. the launch of a large ship is always a very interesting and wonderful sight indeed; so that thousands and thousands of people flock from all directions to see it. whichever way davy looked he saw crowds of people, some on foot, some on horses, some on donkeys, and some in carriages, all streaming towards the one great point--the ship-builder's yard. it seemed quite like a holiday or a fair, and was such a bright, warm, sunny day that people's hearts felt far lighter than usual. davy saw all this at a glance the moment he left home; and, throwing his red nightcap into the air, he gave one long loud hurrah! and ran away as fast as his heavy fishing-boots would let him. the ship was very different now from what it had been when he first saw it. there were four little masts put up in it, on which were hoisted gay and gaudy flags. her "hull," or body, was now coppered and neatly painted, while all the rubbish of the building-yard was cleared away, so that everything looked neat and clean. the stocks, or framework on which she had been built, sloped towards the water, so that when the props were knocked away from the ship, she would slide by her own weight into the sea. ships are always built on sloping stocks near to the water's edge; for you can fancy how difficult it would be to drag such a great thing into the water by main force. in order to make her slip more easily, the "ways," down which she slides, are covered with grease. very soon the crowds of people stood in silence, expecting the great event of the day; and, as the moment drew nigh, the band, which had been playing all morning, suddenly stopped. davy became very anxious, because he was so little that he could not see in the crowd; but, observing a post near at hand, he struggled towards it and climbed to the top of it. here he saw famously. the workmen had begun to knock away the props; there was just one remaining. at this moment a lady stepped forward with a bottle of wine in her hand to christen the ship. this she did by breaking the bottle against the cutwater; just at that instant she began to move. another second and the _fair nancy_ rushed down the incline, plunged heavily into the water like some awful sea-monster, and floated out upon her ocean home amid the deafening cheers of the people, especially of little davy, who sat on the top of the post waving his red cap and shouting with delight. after the launch davy and all the people returned home, and the _fair nancy_ was towed to the "shear-hulk" to have her masts put in. the shear-hulk is a large ship in which is placed machinery for lifting masts into other ships. every one who has looked at the thick masts of a large vessel, must see at a glance that they could never be put there by any number of men. machinery is used to do it, and the shear-hulk contains that machinery; so that when a ship has to get her masts put up she is dragged alongside of this vessel. in the meantime davy renewed his prayer to his father to let him go to sea, and at last the old man consented. his mother cried a good deal at first, and hoped that davy would not think of it; but his father said that it would do him good, and if he became tired of it after the first voyage he could give it up. davy was overjoyed at this, and went immediately to his friend the fisherman, ben block, who was very much delighted too, and took him to a shop to buy clothes and a sea-chest for the voyage. "you see, lad," said ben, "the ship is bound for quebec with a mixed cargo, and is to come back loaded with timber; and as the season is coming on, you'll need to get ready quick." "that i shall," replied davy, as they entered a shop. "ho! shopman, give me a straw hat, and a blue jacket, and a pair o' duck trousers, and--" "stop! stop!" cried ben, "you're sailing too fast. take in a reef, my lad." ben meant by this that he was to proceed a little slower. "you'll want a `sou'-wester,'" (an oilskin hat), "and a `dread-nought,'" (a thick, heavy coat), "and things o' that sort." after davy had bought all he wanted, and ordered a sea-chest, he went home to his mother, who was very sad at the thought of parting with him. when the day of departure came she gave him a great deal of good advice, which davy promised, with tears in his eyes, to remember. then she gave him a little bible and a kiss, and sent him away. his father took him to the beach, where the ship's boat was waiting for him; and, as the old man took off his cap, and raising his eyes to heaven, prayed for a blessing on his little son, davy, with watery eyes, looked around at the big ships floating on the water, and, for the first time, wished that he was not going to sea. in a few minutes he was on board the "outward-bound" ship. this is what we say of ships when they are going out to sea; when they return from a voyage we say that they are "homeward-bound." the _fair nancy_ was a noble ship, and as she hoisted her snow-white sails to a strong wind, (a stiff breeze, as ben block called it), she looked like a white cloud. the cloud seemed to grow smaller and smaller as davy's father and mother watched it from the shore; then it became like a little white spot on the faraway sea; then it passed over the line where the water meets the sky, and they saw it no more! after davy had cried a great deal, and wished very often that he had not been so determined to leave home, he dried his eyes and began to take great interest in the curious things he saw around him. what surprised him most of all was, that although he actually was at sea, he could not see the sea at all! this was because the sides of the ship, which are called "bulwarks," were so high that they quite prevented the little boy from seeing overboard. davy soon found an opening in the bulwarks, however, which his friend ben called the "gang-way," through which he could see the water and the ships and boats that were sailing there. and when he mounted the high part of the deck in front of the ship, which is called the "forecastle," or when he went upon the high deck at the stern of the ship, which is called the "poop," then he could see all round. and what a wonderful and new sight it was to davy! his cottage was gone! the beach, and the pier where the nets used to hang, were gone. the trees and fields were all gone, and there was nothing but sea, sea, sea, all round, so that the _fair nancy_ seemed the only solid thing in the whole wide world! but poor davy did not look or wonder long at this, for the breeze freshened, and the waves rose, and the ship plunged, and davy felt very queer about the stomach! there is a man in every ship called the "steward," and everybody loves that man, because he goes about from morning till night trying to do people good and to make them happy. he looks after breakfasts, dinners, teas, and suppers. he answers every one who calls, and gets for everybody anything that they want. he is never ill, never in a hurry, never in a bad temper; in fact, he is a very charming man. now, when the steward saw davy with a pale face, and red eyes, and awfully seasick, he went up to him with a smile, and said, "sick, my lad? you'll soon get used to it. always sick when you first go to sea. come below and i'll give you summat to do you good, and tumble you into your hammock." by going below the good steward meant going below the deck into the cabin. a ship is just like a large house, divided into a number of rooms--some of which are sitting rooms, some store and provision rooms, some kitchens and pantries, closets and cupboards; and there are two or three flats in some ships, so that you can go up or down stairs at your pleasure. when davy went down the ladder or stair, which is called the "companion," and followed the steward through many rooms full of all kinds of things that seemed to be all in confusion, and saw the sailors sitting, and smoking, and laughing, and talking on chests and tables, he almost believed that he was in a house on shore; but then he remembered that houses on shore don't dance about and roll, first on one side and then on the other, and plunge forwards and then backwards; so he sighed and put his hands to his breast, which felt very uncomfortable. "here's your hammock," said the steward; "all the sailors sleep in these things, and this one is yours." so saying, he lifted davy from the ground and tossed him into bed. the "hammock" is a long piece of canvas drawn in round an iron ring at each end. to this ring a number of cords are attached, and the hammock is slung by them to the beams of the ship. in the bed thus formed the blankets are put; and a very snug bed it is, as it swings about with the ship. davy soon fell asleep, but he was quickly wakened again by the horrible noises on deck. ropes were thrown about, men's feet were stamping, pieces of wood were falling, doors were banging, masts were creaking, the wind was howling; in short, davy thought it must be a terrible storm and that they should all be lost. but the steward said to him, in passing, "it's only a stiff breeze, youngster;" so he turned round and went to sleep again. for two days and two nights did davy lie there--very sick! on the morning of the third day he awoke much refreshed, and felt strongly inclined to eat his blankets! as he lay wondering how he was to get down out of his hammock without breaking his neck, he heard his friend ben block conversing with a man in another hammock who had never been to sea before and was very, very sick. "oh! dear me," sighed the sick man, "where are we now?" "don't know," answered ben; "we've been drove pretty far out of our course to the nor'ard, i guess. it's a dead calm." "a dead what?" said the sick man faintly. "why, a dead calm," replied ben. "when there's no wind it's a calm, and when there's no motion at all, either in the air or in the water, except the swell o' the sea, it's a dead calm. d'ye understand?" "is it fine weather, ben?" cried davy cheerfully. "yes, lad, it is," replied the sailor. on hearing this davy sprang, or, as the sailors call it, tumbled out of bed. he tried to get out of it; but not being used to hammocks, he was awkward and fell plump on the floor! however, he was not hurt; and throwing on his jacket, he ran up on deck. well might davy's heart leap and his voice shout at the beautiful sight that met his gaze when he reached the forecastle. the sea was like one wide beautiful mirror, in which all the clouds were clearly reflected. the sun shone brightly and glittered on the swell on which the ship rolled slowly; and the only sound that could be heard was the gentle flapping of the loose sails, now and then, against the masts. "have you had breakfast, youngster?" inquired the captain of the ship, laying his hand on davy's head. "no, sir, not yet," answered the boy. "run below, then, and get it, and after you've done come to me. we must put you to work now, lad, and make a sailor of you." the steward soon gave davy as much food as he could eat; then he sprang up the companion ladder, and, running to the poop where the captain was, touched his cap, saying-- "i'm ready, sir." "very good, my lad," said the captain, sitting down on the skylight, or window on the deck, which gives light to the cabin below. "do you see that little thing on top of the mainmast like a button?" "do you mean the truck?" said davy. "oh, you know its name, do you? well, do you think you could climb up to it?" "i'll try," cried davy, springing towards the mast. "stay!" shouted the captain; "not so fast, boy. you'd tumble down and break your neck if you tried to climb to the truck the first time you ever went up the mast. but you may go to the `maintop.' that's where you see the lower mast joined to the top mast. climb up by those rope ladders--the `shrouds,' we call them." away went davy, and was soon halfway up the shrouds; but he went too fast, and had to stop for breath. then he came to the mass of woodwork and ropes at the head of the lower mast. here he had great difficulty in getting on; but, being a fearless boy, he soon succeeded. the captain then called to him to go out to the end of the "yardarm." yards are the huge cross beams fastened to the masts to which the sails are fixed. the "main-yard" is the largest. the mainsail is attached to it. davy soon crept out nearly to the end, but when he got there the yard became so small and the ropes upon it were so few and slack, that the poor boy's courage began to fail. he looked down at the water, which seemed to be terribly far below him. at that moment the ship made a lurch or plunge, davy lost his hold, and with a loud cry fell headlong from the yard into the sea. in a moment ben block, who had been watching him, jumped overboard; a boat was lowered, and in less than ten minutes ben was picked up with davy clinging to him. not long after this they drew near the gulf of saint lawrence, and were beginning to think of the end of their voyage. but one night while davy lay sound asleep in his warm hammock, he was startled by a cry on deck, which was followed by a loud order for "all hands" to tumble up and shorten sail. the sailors are usually called "hands" at sea. in a moment davy was on deck, with only his trousers and shirt on. but he could not see anything, the night was so dark, and he could scarcely hear anything except the howling of the wind. "take in all sail!" roared the captain. the men rushed to obey, and davy was so well accustomed to the work that he too climbed to his usual place on the main topsail yard and began to haul in the sail. he could barely see the man next to him, and it was with difficulty he kept his hold of the yard, while the ship tossed and plunged in the waves. when nearly all sail was taken in the ship went easier, and the men assembled on the deck to await further orders. the gale increased, and suddenly the small bit of the fore-topsail that was hoisted burst into shreds with a clap like thunder, and carried away the fore-topmast with all its yards and rigging, part of the bowsprit, and the top of the mainmast. "clear away the wreck!" shouted the captain. some of the men ran for axes, and began to cut the ropes that fastened the broken masts to the ship, for there was a danger of the ship striking against them and knocking a hole in her side while she plunged. still the gale increased, and the mizzen topmast went overboard. the "mizzen" is the mast nearest to the stern. it is the smallest of the three. the lightning now began to flash, and the thunder to roar, while the crew of the _fair nancy_ stood on her deck clinging to the bulwarks, lest they should be washed overboard! little davy looked at the man next him, and saw that it was ben block. "oh, ben!" said he, "what an awful night it is! do you think we shall be lost?" ben shook his head. "i don't know, lad; but the lord can save us, if it be his will. pray to him, boy." "my poor mother!" murmured davy, as the tears rose to his eyes, while he prayed to god in his heart that he might be spared to see her again. at that moment there came a wave so big and black that davy thought the sea was going to turn upside down. it came on like a great dark mountain, high above the ship. "hold on for your lives!" cried some of the men, as the wave fell with a fearful crash and turned the ship over on her side--or on her "beam-ends," as sailors call it. they were in awful danger now, as the sea began to pour down into the cabins, and the masts and sails being in the water the ship could not "right," or become straight again. "cut away the masts!" roared the captain. the deck was now standing up like a wall, so that the men could not walk on it, but they managed with great difficulty to reach the mizzenmast, which a few strokes of the axe sent overboard. still the ship lay on her beam-ends. "cut away the mainmast!" cried the captain. the order was obeyed, and with a loud report, like a cannon shot, it went overboard too. immediately after the fall of the mainmast there came another wave, from which they never expected to rise again. it dashed down on the stern and drove in the cabin windows; but the worst of it was, that it swept away all the boats belonging to the ship. they had been securely fastened to the deck; but this wave carried them all away, so that now, if the ship sank, their only chance of escape was gone. the same wave snapped the foremast across near the deck. this was fortunate, because it enabled the ship to "right" herself, and once more the men were able to stand on the deck. the storm continued to rage still, however, and some of the men were sent to work the pumps, for there was a great deal of water in the ship now; so much, indeed, that she could hardly float. another party were ordered to fit up a small mast, which they tied to the stump of the foremast. this new one was called a "jury-mast;" and as they could not sail without a mast of some kind or other, they were very glad when they saw it up and a sail hoisted on it. during the night, however, another heavy wave broke this mast away also; so they were again left to toss like a log on the stormy waters. all this time the men were working hard at the pumps, but, although they worked for many hours without stopping, the water continued to increase in the hold, and they saw that the ship had sprung "a leak;" that is to say, some of the planks had started, or the seams had opened, and the water was pouring into it so fast that it was evident she would soon sink. this was very awful indeed. some of the men began to cry to god for mercy, others tore their hair and ran about like madmen, while some sat down and silently prepared to die! the morning light came at last. but what a sad sight it rose upon. the once noble ship now lay a wreck upon the water, with the masts and sails gone and her shattered hull ready to sink. the captain, who seemed to have lost all hope when the jury-mast broke, was standing on the poop, looking anxiously round the horizon in hopes of seeing a sail--but in vain. davy stood beside him, and looking up in his face, said, "please, sir, could we not make a raft?" "right, boy, right," replied the captain; "you're the best `man' amongst us. we're no better than girls to be giving way to despair in this way. hallo! lads, rouse up there; get all the spare yards and spars you can, and make a raft. look sharp now!" the captain said this in such a quick, commanding tone that all the sailors jumped to obey him, and in five minutes they were busily at work on the raft. first, they collected all the broken yards and bits of masts that were still floating alongside, dragging by the ropes that fastened them to the sides of the ship. these they arranged side by side, and tied them firmly together with ropes. then they collected all the spare timbers that were in the ship, and putting these above the others, fastened them with ropes too. after that they tore off some of the planks from the decks and bulwarks, with which they made a kind of floor to the raft. all this, although it takes a short time to tell, took a long, long time to do; for it was hard work moving such heavy timbers, and the poor men were very tired, having been up in the storm all night. besides this, although the wind had ceased, the waves were still high and would not let them work quietly. however, they finished it at last, and after it was done, they put a number of barrels of biscuit and some casks of water and wine on board. then they put a few blankets and a compass--that useful little machine that points always to the north, and shows the sailor which way to go, so that he sails in the dark night as surely as in the broad day. "now," said the captain, "i think that there is a chance of escape yet. get on board, lads, as fast as you can. i fear the ship won't float long." all the men now hastened on board. the captain's wife, who was the only female in the ship, was the first to step on the raft, and it soon began to be crowded. when about half of the sailors had left the ship the captain suddenly cried out, "ho! ben block, we've forgot a mast and sail. run below with a couple of hands and fetch one as fast as you can." just at that moment the ship gave a heavy plunge, the ropes broke, and the raft floated slowly away, leaving the men who were yet in the ship in a state of despair. one or two of them jumped into the sea and tried to swim to the raft; but the first man who did so was nearly drowned, and the others got back to the ship with great difficulty. it was a terrible sight to witness the misery of the poor captain, as he beheld his wife, standing with her arms stretched out towards him, and the raft drifting slowly away, until at length it appeared like a small black spot far off upon the sea. "oh, my poor wife!" he cried, "i shall never see you more." the tears were rolling down ben block's weatherbeaten face as he went up to the captain and took him by the hand. "never fear, sir," said he; "the almighty can save her." "thank you, ben, for saying that," replied the captain; "but the ship won't float long. my wife may indeed be saved, but we are sure to be lost." "i don't know that," cried ben, trying to look cheerful. "when you sent me down below, sir, to look for a mast and sail, i observed that the water in the hold had ceased rising. if we can only keep her afloat a little longer, we may manage to make another raft." the captain smiled sadly and shook his head, and davy, who had been standing beside him all the time, felt his heart sink again. to add to the horror of the scene, night came on, and the water was so high in the cabin that the captain and men who had been left in the wreck had to try to sleep on the wet decks the best way they could. next morning the wind was still blowing pretty hard, and they now saw that they were drawing near to a wild shore, where there seemed to be many large rocks in the water near the beach. the crew of the _fair nancy_ looked anxiously towards the land, hoping to see people there who might help them when the ship struck on the rocks; but they saw no one. in about an hour afterwards the ship struck, and the shock was so great that davy's heart seemed to leap into his throat. the shore was lined with great dark cliffs and precipices, at the foot of which the waves roared furiously. while the men stood looking helplessly at the land another wave lifted the ship, carried her forward a long way, and dashed her down on the rocks, where she stuck fast, with a sharp rock quite through her hull, and the water foaming round her. what made their situation more dreadful was, that a great deal of snow had fallen during the night. it covered the decks of the ship, and made the land look cold and dreary. "we must swim for it now," said the captain, as he looked sorrowfully at the boiling surf and immense waves which swept over the rocks, and bursting like thunder on the cliffs, were flung back upon the ship in spray. "no one can swim in such a surf as that," said one of the sailors gloomily. "surf" is the name given to the white foam which is formed by the waves when they dash upon the shore. it is very difficult, sometimes quite impossible, to swim in the surf of the sea, and many poor sailors have been hurled on the rocks by it and dashed in pieces while attempting to swim from their wrecked vessels to the land. every time a wave came it lifted the _fair nancy_, and, as it passed, let her fall heavily on the sharp rocks, so that she began to break up. still the men were afraid to venture into the sea, and they clung to the bulwarks, quite uncertain what to do. at last ben block turned to the captain and said-- "i'm a good swimmer, captain, and i think i could swim to the shore well enough perhaps; but there are some o' the men who can't swim, and poor davy, there, could never do it; so i'll just throw a rope round my shoulders and make for the shore. if i land i'll fix the rope to the cliffs, and you'll all be able to get ashore easy enough. if i should be drowned,--it'll only be a little sooner, that's all, and it's well worth risking my life to save my shipmates." "you're a brave fellow, ben," said the captain. "go and do it if you can." ben block went down below and soon returned with a stout rope. on the end of this he made a loop, which he passed round his shoulders, and then, raising his eyes to heaven with an imploring look, he leapt into the sea. at first he swam vigorously, and the sailors looked on in anxious hope. but a large wave came. it fell,--and ben block disappeared, while a cry of fear rose from the deck of the ship. in a few seconds, however, they saw him rise again and struggle manfully with the raging billows. the next wave that came lifted ben up and threw him on the beach, to which he clung with all his power; but as the wave retired it swept him back into the sea, for he could not hold on to the loose sand. he now rolled over and over quite exhausted, and the sailors thought he was dead. but a man's life is dear to him, and he does not soon cease to struggle. another wave approached. it lifted ben up and threw him again on the beach. this time he made a desperate effort to hold on, and, fortunately, he observed a large rock close to where he lay. with a sudden spring he caught hold of it and held on till the wave went back; then he ran forward a few steps and caught hold of another rock a little higher up, so that when the next wave broke over him it had not power to draw him back. another run--and he was safe! the men gave a loud cheer when they saw him land. after he had rested a little, ben fastened the end of the rope to a mass of rock. the sailors hauled it tight and fixed the other end in the ship; and then, one by one, they slowly crept along the rope and reached the shore in safety. here they all fell on their knees and thanked god for their deliverance. but now they found that the land was not inhabited, and they walked along that dreary coast for several days, almost starved to death with hunger and cold, for they had only a few biscuits among them, and their clothes were never dry. little davy was the best walker among them, and helped to keep up their spirits greatly by his cheerful conversation as they toiled along. at last they arrived at a little village, where the people were exceedingly kind to them; gave them food and dry clothes, and, after they became stronger, sent them to the great city of quebec. here they were kindly treated, and finding a ship bound for england, they all returned home. you may imagine the delight of the poor captain when he arrived and found his wife safe and sound. she and all the people on the raft had been picked up by a homeward-bound vessel the day after they lost sight of their ship, and were brought safe back to england. and you may fancy the joy of little davy's parents when their son opened the cottage door one day and rushed into his mother's arms. davy never went to sea again, but continued for many years after to help his poor father to fish. and the _fair nancy_--that beautiful ship, which davy had watched so long, which he had seen launched, and which had sailed so gallantly from her native shores, with her snowy sails glancing in the sun like the white wings of a seagull--alas! alas! she lay a total wreck now, on the rocky shores of a foreign land. michael penguyne; fisher life on the cornish coast, by william h g kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ in this rather short book kingston tells us of the hard life and its few pleasures of the fisher-folk of cornwall. gales and a forbidding coast-line can often spell disaster to the poor fisherman caught out in a rising tempest. yet throughout this he and his family, with few exceptions, remain steadfast and god-fearing, with relatives springing to the aid of orphans and wives following a tragedy. kingston is here at his most persuasively christian, arguing that both the good things of life and the bad, are dealt out to us by an all-seeing fatherlike god. it does not take long to read, but you will certainly enjoy it. as it probably didn't take long to write it is not one of kingston's great masterpieces, but it is certainly worth taking note of. ________________________________________________________________________ michael penguyne, fisher life on the cornish coast, by william h g kingston. chapter one. as the sun rose over the lizard, the southernmost point of old england, his rays fell on the tanned sails of a fleet of boats bounding lightly across the heaving waves before a fresh westerly breeze. the distant shore, presenting a line of tall cliffs, towards which the boats were steering, still lay in the deepest shade. each boat was laden with a large heap of nets and several baskets filled with brightly-shining fish. in the stern of one, tiller in hand, sat a strongly-built man, whose deeply-furrowed countenance and grizzled hair showed that he had been for many a year a toiler on the ocean. by his side was a boy of about twelve years of age, dressed in flushing coat and sou'wester, busily employed with a marline-spike, in splicing an eye to a rope's-end. the elder fisherman, now looking up at his sails, now stooping down to get a glance beneath them at the shore, and then turning his head towards the south-west, where heavy clouds were gathering fast, meanwhile cast an approving look at the boy. "ye are turning in that eye smartly and well, michael," he said. "whatever you do, try and do it in that fashion. it has been my wish to teach you what is right as well as i know it. try not only to please man, my boy, but to love and serve god, whose eye is always on you. don't forget the golden rule either: `do to others as you would they should do to you.'" "i have always wished to understand what you have told me, and tried to obey you, father," said the boy. "you have been a good lad, michael, and have more than repaid me for any trouble you may have caused me. you are getting a big boy now, though, and it's time that you should know certain matters about yourself which no one else is so well able to tell you as i am." the boy looked up from his work, wondering what paul trefusis was going to say. "you know, lad, that you are called michael penguyne, and that my name is paul trefusis. has it never crossed your mind that though i have always treated you as a son--and you have ever behaved towards me as a good and dutiful son should behave--that you were not really my own child?" "to say the truth, i have never thought about it, father," answered the boy, looking up frankly in the old man's face. "i am oftener called trefusis than penguyne, so i fancied that penguyne was another name tacked on to michael, and that trefusis was just as much my name as yours. and oh! father, i would rather be your child than the son of anybody else." "there is no harm in wishing that, michael; but it's as well that you should know the real state of the case, and as i cannot say what may happen to me, i do not wish to put off telling you any longer. i am not as strong and young as i once was, and maybe god will think fit to take me away before i have reached the threescore years and ten which he allows some to live. we should not put off doing to another time what can be done now, and so you see i wish to say what has been on my mind to tell you for many a day past, though i have not liked to say it, lest it should in any way grieve you. you promise me, michael, you won't let it do that? you know how much i and granny and nelly love you, and will go on loving you as much as ever." "i know you do, father, and so do granny and nelly; i am sure they love me," said the boy gazing earnestly into paul's face, with wonder and a shade of sorrow depicted on his own countenance. "that's true," said paul. "but about what i was going to say to you. "my wife, who is gone to heaven, nelly's mother, and i, never had another child but her. your father, michael, as true-hearted a seaman as ever stepped, had been my friend and shipmate for many a long year. we were bred together, and had belonged to the same boat fishing off this coast till we were grown men, when at last we took it into our heads to wish to visit foreign climes, and so we went to sea together. after knocking about for some years, and going to all parts of the world, we returned home, and both fell in love, and married. your mother was an orphan, without kith or kin, that your father could hear of--a good, pretty girl she was, and worthy of him. "we made up our minds that we would stay on shore and follow our old calling and look after our wives and families. we had saved some money, but it did not go as far as we thought it would, and we agreed that if we could make just one more trip to sea, we should gain enough for what we wanted. "you were about two years old, and my nelly was just born. "we went to falmouth, where ships often put in, wanting hands, and masters are ready to pay good wages to obtain them. we hadn't been there a day, when we engaged on board a ship bound out to the west indies. as she was not likely to be long absent, this just suited us. your father got a berth as third mate, for he was the best scholar, and i shipped as boatswain. "we made the voyage out, and had just reached the chops of the channel, coming back, bound for bristol, and hoping in a few days to be home again with our wives, when thick weather came on, and a heavy gale of wind sprang up. it blew harder and harder. whether or not the captain was out of his reckoning i cannot say, but i suspect he was. before long, our sails were blown away, and our foremast went by the board. we did our best to keep the ship off the shore, for all know well that it is about as dangerous a one as is to be found round england. "the night was dark as pitch, the gale still increasing. "`paul,' said your father to me as we were standing together, `you and i may never see another sun rise; but still one of us may escape. you remember the promise we made each other.' "`yes, michael,' i said, `that i do, and hope to keep it.' "the promise was that if one should be lost and the other saved, he who escaped should look after the wife and family of the one who was lost. "i had scarcely answered him when the look-out forward shouted `breakers ahead!' and before the ship's course could be altered, down she came, crashing on the rocks. it was all up with the craft; the seas came dashing over her, and many of those on deck were washed away. the unfortunate passengers rushed up from below, and in an instant were swept overboard. "the captain ordered the remaining masts to be cut away, to ease the ship; but it did no good, and just as the last fell she broke in two, and all on board were cast into the water, i found myself clinging with your father to one of the masts. the head of the mast was resting on a rock. we made our way along it; i believed that others were following; but just as we reached the rock the mast was carried away, and he and i found that we alone had escaped. "the seas rose up foaming around us, and every moment we expected to be washed away. though we knew many were perishing close around us we had no means of helping them. all we could do was to cling on and try and save our own lives. "`i hope we shall get back home yet, michael,' i said, wishing to cheer your father, for he was more down-hearted than usual. "`i hope so, paul, but i don't know; god's will be done, whatever that will is. paul, you will meet me in heaven, i hope,' he answered, for he was a christian man. `if i am taken, you will look after mary and my boy,' he added. again i promised him, and i knew to a certainty that he would look after my nelly, should he be saved and i drowned. "when the morning came at last scarcely a timber or plank of the wreck was to be seen. what hope of escape had either of us? the foaming waters raged around, and we were half perished with cold and hunger. on looking about i found a small spar washed up on the rock, and, fastening our handkerchiefs together, we rigged out a flag, but there was little chance of a boat putting off in such weather and coming near enough to see it. we now knew that we were not far off the land's end, on one of two rocks called the sisters, with the village of senum abreast of us. "your father and i looked in each other's faces; we felt that there was little hope that we should ever see our wives and infants again. still we spoke of the promise we had made each other--not that there was any need of that, for we neither of us were likely to forget it. "the spring tides were coming on, and though we had escaped as yet, the sea might before long break over the rock and carry us away. even if it did not we must die of hunger and thirst, should no craft come to our rescue. "we kept our eyes fixed on the distant shore; they ached with the strain we put on them, as we tried to make out whether any boat was being launched to come off to us. "a whole day passed--another night came on. we did not expect to see the sun rise again. already the seas as they struck the rock sent the foam flying over us, and again and again washed up close to where we were sitting. "notwithstanding our fears, daylight once more broke upon us, but what with cold and hunger we were well-nigh dead. "your father was a stronger man than i fancied myself, and yet he now seemed most broken down. he could scarcely stand to wave our flag. "the day wore on, the wind veered a few points to the nor'ard, and the sun burst out now and then from among the clouds, and, just as we were giving up all hope, his light fell on the sails of a boat which had just before put off from the shore. she breasted the waves bravely. was she, though, coming towards us? we could not have been seen so far off. still on she came, the wind allowing her to be close-hauled to steer towards the rock. the tide meantime was rapidly rising. if she did not reach us soon, we knew too well that the sea would come foaming over the rock and carry us away. "i stood up and waved our flag. still the boat stood on; the spray was beating in heavy showers over her, and it was as much as she could do to look up to her canvas. sometimes as i watched her i feared that the brave fellows who were coming to our rescue would share the fate which was likely to befall us. she neared the rock. i tried to cheer up your father. "`in five minutes we shall be safe on board, michael,' i said. "`much may happen in five minutes, paul; but you will not forget my mary and little boy,' he answered. "`no fear of that,' i said; `but you will be at home to look after them yourself.' "i tried to cheer as the boat came close to the rock, but my voice failed me. "the sails were lowered and she pulled in. a rope was hove, and i caught it. i was about to make it fast round your father. "`you go first, paul,' he said. `if you reach the boat i will try to follow, but there is no use for me to try now; i should be drowned before i got half way.' "still i tried to secure the rope round him, but he resisted all my efforts. at last i saw that i must go, or we should both be lost, and i hoped to get the boat in nearer and to return with a second rope to help him. "i made the rope fast round my waist and plunged in. i had hard work to reach the boat; i did not know how weak i was. at last i was hauled on board, and was singing out for a rope, when the people in the boat uttered a cry, and looking up i saw a huge sea come rolling along. over the rock it swept, taking off your poor father. i leapt overboard with the rope still round my waist, in the hopes of catching him, but in a moment he was hidden from my sight, and, more dead than alive, i was again hauled on board. "the crew of the boat pulled away from the rock; they knew that all hopes of saving my friend were gone. sail was made, and we stood for the shore. "the people at the village attended me kindly, but many days passed before i was able to move. "as soon as i had got strength enough, with a sad heart i set out homewards. how could i face your poor mother, and tell her that her husband was gone? i would send my own dear wife, i thought, to break the news to her. "as i reached my own door i heard a child's cry; it was that of my little nelly, and granny's voice trying to soothe her. "i peeped in at the window. there sat granny, with the child on her knee, but my wife was not there. she has gone to market, i thought. still my heart sank within me. i gained courage to go in. "`where is nelly?' i asked, as granny, with the baby in her arms, rose to meet me. "`here is the only nelly you have got, my poor paul,' she said, giving me the child. "i felt as if my heart would break. i could not bring myself to ask how or when my wife had died. granny told me, however, for she knew it must be told, and the sooner it was over the better. she had been taken with a fever soon after i had left home. "it was long before i recovered myself. "`i must go and tell the sad news i bring to poor mary,' i said. "granny shook her head. "`she is very bad, it will go well-nigh to kill her outright,' she observed. "i would have got granny to go, but i wanted to tell your poor mother of my promise to your father, and, though it made my heartache, i determined to go myself. "i found her, with you by her side. "`here is father,' you cried out, but your mother looked up, and seemed to know in a moment what had happened. "`where is michael?' she asked. "`you know, mary, your husband and i promised to look after each other's children, if one was taken and the other left; and i mean to keep my promise to look after you and your little boy.' "your mother knew, by what i said, that your father was gone. "`god's will be done,' she murmured; `he knows what is best--i hope soon to be with him.' "before the month was out we carried your poor mother to her grave, and i took you to live with granny and nelly. "there, michael, you know all i can tell you about yourself. i have had hard times now and then, but i have done my duty to you; and i say again, michael, you have always been a good and dutiful boy, and not a fault have i had to find with you." "thank you, father, for saying that; and you will still let me call you father, for i cannot bring myself to believe that i am not really your son." "that i will, michael; a son you have always been to me, and my son i wish you to remain. and, michael, as i have watched over you, so i want you to watch over my little nelly. should i be called away, be a brother and true friend to her, for i know not to what dangers she may be exposed. granny is old, and her years on earth may be few, and when she is gone, michael, nelly will have no one to look to but you. she has no kith nor kin, that i know of, able or willing to take care of her. her mother's brother and only sister went to australia years ago, and no news has ever come of them since, and my brothers found their graves in the deep sea, so that nelly will be alone in the world. that is the only thing that troubles me, and often makes me feel sad when we are away at night, and the wind blows strong and the sea runs high, and i think of the many i have known who have lost their lives in stouter boats than mine. but god is merciful; he has promised to take care of the widow and orphan, and he will keep his word. i know that, and so i again look up and try to drive all mistrustful thoughts of his goodness from my mind." "father, while i have life i will take care of nelly, and pray for her, and, if needs be, fight for her," exclaimed michael. he spoke earnestly and with all sincerity, for he intended, god willing, to keep his word. chapter two. the fleet of fishing-boats as they approached the coast steered in different directions, some keeping towards kynance and landewednach, while paul trefusis shaped his course for mullyan cove, towards the north, passing close round the lofty gull rock, which stands in solitary grandeur far away from the shore, braving the fierce waves as they roll in from the broad atlantic. asparagus island and lion rock opened out to view, while the red and green sides of the precipitous serpentine cliffs could now be distinguished, assuming various fantastic shapes: one shaped into a complete arch, another the form of a gigantic steeple, with several caves penetrating deep into the cliff, on a level with the narrow belt of yellow sand. young michael, though accustomed from his childhood to the wild and romantic scenery, had never passed that way without looking at it with an eye of interest, and wondering how those cliffs and rocks came to assume the curious forms they wore. the little "wild duck," for that was the name paul trefusis had given his boat, continued her course, flying before the fast increasing gale close inshore, to avoid the strong tide which swept away to the southward, till, rounding a point, she entered the mouth of a narrow inlet which afforded shelter to a few boats and small craft. it was a wild, almost savage-looking place, though extremely picturesque. on either side were rugged and broken cliffs, in some parts rising sheer out of the water to the gorse-covered downs above, in others broken in terraces and ledges, affording space for a few fishermen's cottages and huts, which were seen perched here and there, looking down on the tranquil water of the harbour. the inlet made a sharp bend a short distance from its mouth, so that, as paul's boat proceeded upwards, the view of the sea being completely shut out, it bore the appearance of a lake. at the further end a stream of water came rushing down over the summit of the cliffs, dashing from ledge to ledge, now breaking into masses of foam, now descending perpendicularly many feet, now running along a rapid incline, and serving to turn a small flour-mill built a short way up on the side of the cliff above the harbour. steep as were the cliffs, a zigzag road had been cut in them, leading from the downs above almost to the mouth of the harbour, where a rock which rose directly out of the water formed a natural quay, on which the fishing-boats could land their cargoes. beyond this the road was rough and steep, and fitted only for people on foot, or donkeys with their panniers, to go up and down. art had done little to the place. the little "wild duck," a few moments before tossed and tumbled by the angry seas, now glided smoothly along for a few hundred yards, when the sails were lowered, and she floated up to a dock between two rocks. hence, a rough pathway led from one of the cottages perched on the side of the cliff. at a distance it could scarcely have been distinguished from the cliff itself. its walls were composed of large blocks of unhewn serpentine, masses of clay filling up the interstices, while it was roofed with a thick dark thatch, tightly fastened down with ropes, and still further secured by slabs of stone to prevent its being carried away by the fierce blasts which are wont to sweep up and down the ravine in winter. there was space enough on either side of the cottage for a small garden, which appeared to be carefully cultivated, and was enclosed by a stone wall. at the upper part of the pathway a flight of steps, roughly hewn in the rock, led to the cottage door. the door opened as soon as paul's boat rounded the point, and a young girl with a small creel or fish basket at her back was seen lightly tripping down the pathway, followed by an old woman, who, though she supported her steps with a staff, also carried a creel of the ordinary size. she wore a large broad-brimmed black hat, and a gaily-coloured calico jacket over her winsey skirt; an apron, and shoes with metal buckles, completing the ordinary costume of a fish-wife of that district. little nelly was dressed very like her grandmother, except that her feet were bare, and that she had a necklace of small shells round her throat. her face was pretty and intelligent, her well-browned cheeks glowed with the hue of health, her eyes were large and grey, and her black hair, drawn up off her forehead, hung in neat plaits tied with ribbons behind her back. nelly trefusis was indeed a good specimen of a young fisher-girl. she tripped lightly down the pathway, springing to the top of the outermost rock just before her father's boat glided by it, and in an instant stepping nimbly on board, she threw herself into his arms and bestowed a kiss on his weather-beaten brow. michael had leaped on shore to fend off the boat, so that he lost the greeting she would have given him. "you have had a good haul with the nets to-night, father," she said, looking into the baskets; "granny and i can scarce carry half of them to market, and unless abel mawgan the hawker comes in time to buy them, you and michael will have work to do to salt them down." "it is well that we should have had a good haul, nelly, for dirty weather is coming on, and it may be many a day before we are able to cast our nets again," answered paul, looking up affectionately at his child, while he began with a well-practised hand to stow the boat's sail. nelly meantime was filling her creel with fish, that she might lessen the weight of the baskets which her father and michael had to lift on shore. as soon as it was full she stepped back on the rock, giving a kiss to michael as she passed him. the baskets were soon landed, and the creel being filled, she and nelly ascended the hill, followed by paul and michael, who, carrying the baskets between them, brought up the remainder of the fish. breakfast, welcome to those who had been toiling all night, had been placed ready on the table, and leaving paul and his boy to discuss it, polly lanreath, as the old dame was generally called, and her little granddaughter, set off on their long journey over the downs to dispose of their fish at helston, or at the villages and the few gentlemen's houses they passed on their way. it was a long distance for the old woman and girl to go, but they went willingly whenever fish had been caught, for they depended on its sale for their livelihood, and neither paul nor michael could have undertaken the duty, nor would they have sold the fish so well as the dame and nelly, who were welcomed whenever they appeared. their customers knew that they could depend on their word when they mentioned the very hour when the fish were landed. the old dame's tongue wagged cheerfully as she walked along with nelly by her side, and she often beguiled the way with tales and anecdotes of bygone days, and ancient cornish legends which few but herself remembered. nelly listened with eager ears, and stored away in her memory all she heard, and often when they got back in the evening she would beg her granny to recount again for the benefit of her father and michael the stories she had told in the morning. she had a cheerful greeting, too, for all she met; for some she had a quiet joke; for the giddy and careless a word of warning, which came with good effect from one whom all respected. at the cottages of the poor she was always a welcome visitor, while at the houses of the more wealthy she was treated with courtesy and kindness; and many a housewife who might have been doubtful about buying fish that day, when the dame and her granddaughter arrived, made up her mind to assist in lightening nelly's creel by selecting some of its contents. the dame, as her own load decreased, would always insist on taking some of her granddaughter's, deeming that the little maiden had enough to do to trot on so many miles by her side, without having to carry a burden on her back in addition. nelly would declare that she did not feel the weight, but the sturdy old dame generally gained her point, though she might consent to replenish nelly's basket before entering the town, for some of their customers preferred the fish which the bright little damsel offered them for sale to those in her grandmother's creel. thus, though their daily toil was severe, and carried on under summer's sun, or autumn's gales, and winter's rain and sleet, they themselves were ever cheerful and contented, and seldom failed to return home with empty creels and well-filled purses. paul trefusis might thus have been able to lay by a store for the time when the dame could no longer trudge over the country as she had hitherto done, and he unable to put off with nets or lines to catch fish; but often for weeks together the gales of that stormy coast prevented him from venturing to sea, and the vegetables and potatoes produced in his garden, and the few fish he and michael could catch in the harbour, were insufficient to support their little household, so that at the end of each year paul found himself no richer than at the beginning. while nelly and her grandmother and the other women of the village were employed in selling the fish, the men had plenty of occupation during the day in drying and mending their nets, and repairing their boats, while some time was required to obtain the necessary sleep of which their nightly toil had deprived them. those toilers of the sea were seldom idle. when bad weather prevented them from going far from the coast, they fished with lines, or laid down their lobster-pots among the rocks close inshore, while occasionally a few fish were to be caught in the waters of their little harbour. most of them also cultivated patches of ground on the sides of the valley which opened out at the further end of the gorge, but, except potatoes, their fields afforded but precarious crops. paul and michael had performed most of their destined task: the net had been spread along the rocks to dry, and two or three rents, caused by the fisherman's foes, some huge conger or cod-fish, had been repaired. a portion of their fish had been sold to abel mawgan, and the remainder had been salted for their own use, when paul, who had been going about his work with less than his usual spirit, complained of pains in his back and limbs. leaving michael to clean out the boat and moor her, and to bring up the oars and other gear, he went into the cottage to lie down and rest. little perhaps did the strong and hardy fisherman suppose, as he threw himself on his bunk in the little chamber where he and michael slept, that he should never again rise, and that his last trip on the salt sea had been taken--that for the last time he had hauled his nets, that his life's work was done. yet he might have had some presentiment of what was going to happen as he sailed homewards that morning, when he resolved to tell michael about his parents, and gave him the account of his father's death which has been described. the young fisher boy went on board the "wild duck," and was busily employed in cleaning her out, thinking over what he had heard in the morning. whilst thus engaged, he saw a small boat coming down from the head of the harbour towards him, pulled by a lad somewhat older than himself. "there is eban cowan, the miller's son. i suppose he is coming here. i wonder what he wants?" he thought. "the `polly' was out last night, and got a good haul, so it cannot be for fish." michael was right in supposing that eban cowan was coming to their landing-place. the lad in the punt pulled up alongside the "wild duck." "how fares it with you, michael?" he said, putting out his hand. "you did well this morning, i suspect, like most of us. did abel mawgan buy all your `catch'? he took the whole of ours." "no, granny and nelly started off to helston with their creels full, as they can get a much better price than mawgan will give," answered michael. "i am sorry that nelly is away, for i have brought her some shells i promised her a month ago. but as i have nothing to do, i will bide with you till she comes back." "she and granny won't be back till late, i am afraid, and you lose your time staying here," said michael. "never mind, i will lend you a hand," said eban, making his punt fast, and stepping on board the "wild duck." he was a fine, handsome, broad-shouldered lad, with dark eyes and hair, and with a complexion more like that of an inhabitant of the south than of an english boy. he took up a mop as he spoke, whisking up the bits of seaweed and fish-scales which covered the bottom of the boat. "thank you," said michael; "i won't ask you to stop, for i must go and turn in and get some sleep. father does not seem very well, and i shall have more work in the evening." "what is the matter with uncle paul?" asked eban. michael told him that he had been complaining since the morning, but he hoped the night's rest would set him to rights. "you won't want to go to sea to-night. it's blowing hard outside, and likely to come on worse," observed eban. though he called paul "uncle," there was no relationship. he merely used the term of respect common in cornwall when a younger speaks of an older man. eban, however, did not take michael's hint, but continued working away in the boat till she was completely put to rights. "now," he said, "i will help you up with the oars and sails. you have more than enough to do, it seems to me, for a small fellow like you." "i am able to do it," answered michael; "and i am thankful that i can." "you live hard, though, and your father grows no richer," observed eban. "if he did as others do, and as my father has advised him many a time, he would be a richer man, and you and your sister and aunt lanreath would not have to toil early and late, and wear the life out of you as you do. i hope you will be wiser." "i know my father is right, whatever he does, and i hope to follow his example," answered michael, unstepping the mast, which he let fall on his shoulder preparatory to carrying it up to the shed. "i was going to take that up," said eban; "it is too heavy for you by half." "it is my duty, thank you," said michael, somewhat coldly, stepping on shore with his burden. slight as he looked, he carried the heavy spar up the pathway and deposited it against the side of the house. he was returning for the remainder of the boat's gear, when he met eban with it on his shoulders. "thank you," he said; "but i don't want to give you my work to do." "it's no labour to me," answered eban. "just do you go and turn in, and i will moor the boat and make a new set of `tholes' for you." again michael begged that his friend would not trouble himself, adding-- "if you have brought the shells for nelly and will leave them with me, i will give them to her when she comes home." nothing he could say, however, would induce eban to go away. the latter had made up his mind to remain till nelly's return. still michael was not to be turned from his purpose of doing his own work, though he could not prevent eban from assisting him; and not till the boat was moored, and her gear deposited in the shed, would he consent to enter the cottage and seek the rest he required. meantime eban, returning to his punt, shaped out a set of new tholes as he proposed, and then set off up the hill, hoping to meet nelly and her grandmother. he must have found them, for after some time he again came down the hill in their company, talking gaily, now to one, now to the other. he was evidently a favourite with the old woman. nelly thanked him with a sweet smile for the shells, which he had collected in some of the sandy little bays along the coast, which neither she nor michael had ever been able to visit. she was about to invite him into, the cottage, when michael appeared at the door, saying, with a sad face-- "o granny! i am so thankful you are come; father seems very bad, and groans terribly. i never before saw him in such a way, and have not known what to do." nelly on this darted in, and was soon by paul's bedside, followed by her grandmother. eban lingered about outside waiting. michael at length came out to him again. "there is no use waiting," he said; and eban, reluctantly going down to his boat, pulled away up the harbour. chapter three. paul continued to suffer much during the evening; still he would not have the doctor sent for. "i shall get better maybe soon, if it's god's will, though such pains are new to me," he said, groaning as he spoke. the storm which had been threatening now burst with unusual strength. michael, with the assistance of nelly and her grandmother, got in the nets in time. all hope of doing anything on the water for that night, at all events, must be abandoned; the weather was even too bad to allow michael to fish in the harbour. little nelly's young heart was deeply grieved as she heard her father groan with pain--he who had never had a day's illness that she could recollect. nothing the dame could think of relieved him. the howling of the wind, the roaring of the waves as they dashed against the rock-bound coast, the pattering of the rain, and ever and anon the loud claps of thunder which echoed among the cliffs, made nelly's heart sink within her. often it seemed as if the very roof of the cottage would be blown off. still she was thankful that her father and michael were inside instead of buffeting the foaming waves out at sea. if careful tending could have done paul good he would soon have got well. the old dame seemed to require no sleep, and she would scarcely let either of her grandchildren take her place even for a few minutes. though she generally went marketing, rather than leave her charge she sent michael and nelly to buy bread and other necessaries at the nearest village, which was, however, at some distance. the rain had ceased, but the wind blew strong over the wild moor. "i am afraid father is going to be very ill," observed michael. "he seemed to think something was going to happen to him when he told me what i did not know before about myself. have you heard anything about it, nelly?" "what is it?" asked nelly; "till you tell me i cannot say." "you've always thought that i was your brother, nelly, haven't you?" "as to that, i have always loved you as a brother, and whether one or no, that should not make you unhappy. has father said anything to you about it?" "yes. he said that i was not your brother; and he has told me all about my father and mother: how my father was drowned, and my mother died of a broken heart. i could well-nigh have cried when i heard the tale." nelly looked up into michael's face. "it's no news to me," she said. "granny told me of it some time ago, but i begged her not to let you find it out lest it should make you unhappy, and you should fancy we were not going to love you as much as we have always done. but, michael, don't go and fancy that; though you are not my brother, i will love you as much as ever, as long as you live: for, except father and granny, i have no friend but you in the world." "i will be your brother and your true friend as long as i live, nelly," responded michael; "still i would rather have thought myself to be your brother, that i might have a better right to work for you, and fight for you too, if needs be." "you will do that, i know, michael," said nelly, "whatever may happen." michael felt that he should be everything that was bad if he did not, though it did not occur to him to make any great promises of what he would do. they went on talking cheerfully and happily together, for though nelly was anxious about her father, she did not yet understand how ill he was. they procured the articles for which they had been sent, and, laden with them, returned homewards. they were making their way along one of the hedges which divide the fields in that part of cornwall--not composed of brambles but of solid rock, and so broad that two people can walk abreast without fear of tumbling off--and were yet some distance from the edge of the ravine down which they had to go to their home, when they saw eban cowan coming towards them. "i wish he had gone some other way," said nelly. "he is very kind bringing me shells and other things, but, michael, i do not like him. i do not know what it is, but there is something in the tone of his voice; it's not truthful like yours and father's." "i never thought about that. he is a bold-hearted, good-natured fellow," observed michael. "he has always been inclined to like us, and shown a wish to be friendly." "i don't want to make him suppose that we are not friendly," said nelly; "only still--" she was unable to finish the sentence, as the subject of their conversation had got close up to them. "good-day, nelly; good-day, michael," he said, putting out his hand. "you have got heavy loads; let me carry yours, nelly." she, however, declined his assistance. "it is lighter than you suppose, and i can carry it well," she answered. he looked somewhat angry and then walked on, michael having to give way to let him pass. instead, however, of doing so, he turned round suddenly and kept alongside nelly, compelling michael in consequence to walk behind them. "i went to ask after your father, nelly," he said, "and, hearing that you were away, came on to meet you. i am sorry to find he is no better." "thank you," said nelly; "father is very ill, i fear; but god is merciful, and will take care of him and make him well if he thinks fit." eban made no reply to this remark. he was not accustomed in his family to hear god spoken of except when that holy name was profaned by being joined to a curse. "you had better let me take your creel, nelly; it will be nothing to me." "it is nothing to me either," answered nelly, laughing. "i undertook to bring home the things, and i do not wish anybody else to do my work." still eban persisted in his offers; she as constantly refusing, till they reached the top of the pathway. "there," she said, "i have only to go down hill now, so you need not be afraid the load will break my back. good-bye, eban, you will be wanted at home i dare say." eban looked disconcerted; he appeared to have intended to accompany her down the hill, but he had sense enough to see that she did not wish him to do so. he stopped short, therefore. "good-bye, eban," said michael, as he passed him; "nelly and i must get home as fast as we can to help granny nurse father." "that's the work you are most fitted for," muttered eban, as michael went on. "if it was not for nelly i should soon quarrel with that fellow. he is always talking about his duty, and fearing god, and such like things. if he had more spirit he would not hold back as he does from joining us. however, i will win him over some day when he is older, and it is not so easy to make a livelihood with his nets and lines alone as he supposes." eban remained on the top of the hill watching his young acquaintances as they descended the steep path, and then made his way homewards. when nelly and michael arrived at the cottage the dame told them, to their sorrow, that their father was not better but rather worse. he still, however, forbad her sending for the doctor. day after day he continued much in the same state, though he endeavoured to encourage them with the hopes that he should get well at last. the weather continued so bad all this time that michael could not get out in the boat to fish with lines or lay down his lobster-pots. he and nelly might have lost spirit had not their granny kept up hers and cheered them. "we must expect bad times, my children, in this world," she said. "the sun does not always shine, but when clouds cover the sky we know they will blow away at last and we shall have fine days again. i have had many trials in my life, but here i am as well and hardy as ever. we cannot tell why some are spared and some are taken away. it is god's will, that's all we know. it was his will to take your parents, michael, but he may think fit to let you live to a green old age. i knew your father and mother, and your grandmother too. your grandmother had her trials, and heavy ones they were. i remember her a pretty, bright young woman as i ever saw. she lived in a gentleman's house as a sort of nurse or governess, where all were very fond of her, and she might have lived on in the house to the end of her days; but she was courted by a fine-looking fellow, who passed as the captain of a merchant vessel. a captain he was, though not of an honest trader, as he pretended, but of a smuggling craft, of which there were not a few in those days off this coast. the match was thought a good one for nancy trewinham when she married captain brewhard. they lived in good style and she was made much of, and looked upon as a lady, but before long she found out her husband's calling, and right-thinking and good as she was she could not enjoy her riches. she tried to persuade her husband to abandon his calling, but he laughed at her, and told her that if it was not for that he should be a beggar. "he moved away from penzance, where he had a house, and after going to two or three other places, came to live near here. they had at this time two children, a fine lad of fifteen or sixteen years old, and your mother judith. "the captain was constantly away from home, and, to the grief of his wife, insisted on taking his boy with him. she well knew the hazardous work he was engaged in; so did most of the people on the coast, though he still passed where he lived for the master of a regular merchantman. "there are some i have known engaged in smuggling for years, who have died quietly in their beds, but many, too, have been drowned at sea or killed in action with the king's cruisers, or shot landing their goods. "there used to be some desperate work going on along this coast in my younger days. "at last the captain, taking his boy with him, went away in his lugger, the `lively nancy,' over to france. she was a fine craft, carrying eight guns, and a crew of thirty men or more. the king's cruisers had long been on the watch for her. as you know, smugglers always choose a dark and stormy night for running their cargoes. there was a cutter at the time off the coast commanded by an officer who had made up his mind to take the `lively nancy,' let her fight ever so desperately. her captain laughed at his threats, and declared that he would send her to the bottom first. "i lived at that time with my husband and nelly's mother, our only child, at landewednach. it was blowing hard from the south-west with a cloudy sky, when just before daybreak a sound of firing at sea was heard. there were few people in the village who did not turn out to try and discover what was going on. the morning was dark, but we saw the flashes of guns to the westward, and my husband and others made out that there were two vessels engaged standing away towards mount's bay. we all guessed truly that one was the `lively nancy,' and the other the king's cutter. "gradually the sounds of the guns grew less and the flashes seemed further off. after some time, however, they again drew near. it was evident that the cutter had attacked the lugger, which was probably endeavouring to get away out to sea or to round the lizard, when, with a flowing sheet before the wind, she would have a better chance of escape. "just then daylight broke, and we could distinguish both the vessels close-hauled, the lugger to leeward trying to weather on the cutter, which was close to her on her quarter, both carrying as much sail as they could stagger under. they kept firing as fast as the guns could be loaded, each trying to knock away her opponent's spars, so that more damage was done to the rigging than to the crews of the vessels. "the chief object of the smugglers was to escape, and this they hoped to do if they could bring down the cutter's mainsail. the king's officer knew that he should have the smugglers safe enough if he could but make them strike; this, however, knowing that they all fought with ropes round their necks, they had no thoughts of doing. "though the lugger stood on bravely, we could see that she was being jammed down gradually towards the shore. my good man cried out, `that her fore-tack was shot away and it would now go hard with her.' "the smugglers, however, in spite of the fire to which they were exposed, got it hauled down. the cutter was thereby enabled to range up alongside. "by this time the two vessels got almost abreast of the point, but there were the stags to be weathered. if the lugger could do that she might then keep away. there seemed a good chance that she would do it, and many hoped she would, for their hearts were with her rather than with the king's cruiser. "she was not a quarter of a mile from the stags when down came her mainmast. it must have knocked over the man at the helm and injured others standing aft, for her head fell off and she ran on directly for the rocks. still her crew did their best to save her. the wreck was cleared away, and once more she stood up as close as she could now be kept to the wind. one of her guns only was fired, for the crew had somewhat else to do just then. the cutter no longer kept as close to her as before; well did her commander know the danger of standing too near those terrible rocks, over which the sea was breaking in masses of foam. "there seemed a chance that the lugger might still scrape clear of the rocks; if not, in a few moments she must be dashed to pieces and every soul on board perish. "i could not help thinking of the poor lad whom his father had taken with him in spite of his mother's tears and entreaties. it must have been a terrible thought for the captain that he had thus brought his young son to an untimely end. for that reason i would have given much to see the lugger escape, but it was not to be. "the seas came rolling in more heavily than before. a fierce blast struck her, and in another instant, covered with a shroud of foam, she was dashed against the wild rocks, and when we looked again she seemed to have melted away--not a plank of her still holding together. "the cutter herself had but just weathered the rocks, and though she stood to leeward of them on the chance of picking up any of the luggers crew who might have escaped, not one was found. "such was the end of the `lively nancy,' and your bold grandfather. your poor grandmother never lifted up her head after she heard of what had happened. still she struggled on for the sake of her little daughter, but by degrees all the money she possessed was spent. she at once moved into a small cottage, and then at last she and her young daughter found shelter in a single room. after this she did not live long, and your poor mother was left destitute. it was then your father met her, and though she had more education than he had, and remembered well the comfort she had once enjoyed, she consented to become his wife. he did his best for her, for he was a true-hearted, honest man, but she was ill fitted for the rough life a fisherman's wife has to lead, and when the news of her husband's death reached her she laid down and died. "there, michael, now you have learned all you are ever likely to know of your family, for no one can tell you more about them than i can. "you see you cannot count upon many friends in the world except those you make yourself. but there is one friend you have who will never, if you trust to him, leave or forsake you. he is truer than all earthly friends, and paul trefusis has acted a father's part in bringing you up to fear and honour him." "i do trust god, for it is he you speak of, granny," said michael, "and i will try to love and obey him as long as i live. he did what he knew to be best when he took my poor father away, and gave me such a good one as he who lies sick in there. i wish, granny, that you could have given me a better account of my grandfather." "i thought it best that you should know the truth, michael, and as you cannot be called to account for what he was, you need not trouble yourself about that matter. your grandmother was an excellent woman, and i have a notion that she was of gentle blood, so it is well you should remember her name, and you may some day hear of her kith and kin: not that you are ever likely to gain anything by that; still it's a set-off against what your grandfather was, though people hereabouts will never throw that in your face." "i should care little for what they may say," answered michael; "all i wish is to grow into a strong man to be able to work for you and nelly and poor father, if he does not gain his strength. i will do my best now, and when the pilchard season comes on i hope, if i can get david treloar or another hand in the boat, to do still better." chapter four. day after day paul trefusis lay on his sick-bed. a doctor was sent for, but his report was unfavourable. nelly asked him, with trembling lips, whether he thought her father would ever get well. "you must not depend too much on that, my little maiden," he answered; "but i hope your brother, who seems an industrious lad, and that wonderful old woman, your grandmother, will help you to keep the pot boiling in the house, and i dare say you will find friends who will assist you when you require it. good-bye; i'll come and see your father again soon; but all i can do is to relieve his pain." dame lanreath and michael did, indeed, do their best to keep the pot boiling: early and late michael was at work, either digging in the garden, fishing in the harbour, or, when the weather would allow him, going with the boat outside. young as he was, he was well able, under ordinary circumstances, to manage her by himself, though, of course, single-handed, he could not use the nets. though he toiled very hard, he could, however, obtain but a scanty supply of fish. when he obtained more than were required for home consumption, the dame would set off to dispose of them; but she had no longer the companionship of nelly, who remained to watch over her poor father. when paul had strength sufficient to speak, which he had not always, he would give his daughter good advice, and warn her of the dangers to which she would be exposed in the world. "nelly," he said, "do not trust a person with a soft-speaking tongue, merely because he is soft-speaking; or one with good looks, merely because he has good looks. learn his character first--how he spends his time, how he speaks about other people, and, more than all, how he speaks about god. do not trust him because he says pleasant things to you. there is eban cowan, for instance, a good-looking lad, with pleasant manners; but he comes of a bad stock, and is not brought up to fear god. it is wrong to speak ill of one's neighbours, so i have not talked of what i know about his father and his father's companions; but, nelly dear, i tell you not to trust him or them till you have good cause to do so." nelly, like a wise girl, never forgot what her father said to her. after this paul grew worse. often, for days together, he was racked with pain, and could scarcely utter a word. nelly tended him with the most loving care. it grieved her tender heart to see him suffer; but she tried to conceal her sorrow, and he never uttered a word of complaint. michael had now become the main support of the family; for though paul had managed to keep out of debt and have a small supply of money in hand, yet that was gradually diminishing. "never fear, nelly," said michael, when she told him one day how little they had left; "we must hope for a good pilchard-fishing, and we can manage to rub on till then. the nets are in good order, and i can get the help i spoke of; so that i can take father's place, and we shall have his share in the company's fishing." michael alluded to a custom which prevails among the fishermen on that coast. a certain number, who possess boats and nets, form a company, and fish together when the pilchards visit their coast, dividing afterwards the amount they receive for the fish caught. "it is a long time to wait till then," observed nelly. "but on most days i can catch lobsters and crabs, and every time i have been out lately the fish come to my lines more readily than they used to do," answered michael. "do not be cast down, nelly dear, we have a friend in heaven, as father says, who will take care of us; let us trust him." time passed on. paul trefusis, instead of getting better, became worse and worse. his once strong, stout frame was now reduced to a mere skeleton. still nelly and michael buoyed themselves up with the hope that he would recover. dame lanreath knew too well that his days on earth were drawing to an end. michael had become the mainstay of the family. whenever a boat could get outside, the "wild duck" was sure to be seen making her way towards the best fishing-ground. paul, before he started each day, inquired which way the wind was, and what sea there was on, and advised him where to go. "michael," said paul, as the boy came one morning to wish him good-bye, "fare thee well, lad; don't forget the advice i have given thee, and look after little nelly and her grandmother, and may god bless and prosper thee;" and taking michael's hand, paul pressed it gently. he had no strength for a firm grasp now. michael was struck by his manner. had it not been necessary to catch some fish he would not have left the cottage. putting the boat's sail and other gear on board, he pulled down the harbour. he had to pull some little way out to sea. the wind was setting on shore. he did not mind that, for he should sail back the faster. the weather did not look as promising as he could have wished: dark clouds were gathering to the north-west and passing rapidly over the sky. as he knew, should the wind stand, he could easily regain the harbour, he went rather more to the southward than he otherwise would have done, to a good spot, where he had often had a successful fishing. he had brought his dinner with him, as he intended to fish all day. his lines were scarcely overboard before he got a bite, and he was soon catching fish as fast as he could haul his lines on board. this put him in good spirits. "granny will have her creel full to sell to-morrow," he thought. "maybe i shall get back in time for her to set off to-day." so eagerly occupied was he that he did not observe the change of the weather. the wind had veered round more to the northward. it was every instant blowing stronger and stronger, although, from its coming off the land, there was not much sea on. at last he had caught a good supply of fish. by waiting he might have obtained many more, but he should then be too late for that day's market. lifting his anchor, therefore, he got out his oars and began to pull homewards. the wind was very strong, and he soon found that, with all his efforts, he could make no headway. the tide, too, had turned, and was against him, sweeping round in a strong current to the southward. in vain he pulled. though putting all the strength he possessed to his oars, still, as he looked at the shore, he was rather losing than gaining ground. he knew that the attempt to reach the harbour under sail would be hopeless; he should be sure to lose every tack he made. already half a gale of wind was blowing, and the boat, with the little ballast there was in her, would scarcely look up even to the closest reefed canvas. again he dropped his anchor, intending to wait the turn of the tide, sorely regretting that he could not take the fish home in time for granny to sell on that day. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ dame lanreath and nelly had been anxiously expecting michael's return, and the dame had got ready to set off as soon as he appeared with the fish they hoped he would catch. still he did not come. paul had more than once inquired for him. he told nelly to go out and see how the wind was, and whether there was much sea on. nelly made her way under the cliffs to the nearest point whence she could obtain a view of the mouth of the harbour and the sea beyond. she looked out eagerly for michael's boat, hoping to discover her making her way towards the shore; but nelly looked in vain. already there was a good deal of sea on, and the wind, which had been blowing strong from the north-west, while she was standing there veered a point or two more to the northward. "where could michael have gone?" she looked and looked till her eyes ached, still she could not bring herself to go back without being able to make some report about him. at last she determined to call at the cottage of reuben lanaherne, a friend of her father's, though a somewhat older man. "what is it brings you here, my pretty maiden?" said uncle reuben, who, for a wonder, was at home, as nelly, after gently knocking, lifted the latch and entered a room with sanded floor and blue painted ceiling. "o uncle lanaherne," she said, "can you tell me where you think michael has gone? he ought to have been back long ago." "he would have been wiser not to have gone out at all with the weather threatening as it has been; but he is a handy lad in a boat, nelly, and he will find his way in as well as any one, so don't you be unhappy about him," was the answer. still reuben looked a little anxious, and putting on his hat, buttoning up his coat, and taking his glass under his arm, he accompanied nelly to the point. he took a steady survey round. "michael's boat is nowhere near under sail," he observed. "there seems to me a boat, however, away to the southward, but, with the wind and tide as at present, she cannot be coming here. i wish i could make out more to cheer you, nelly. you must tell your father that; and he knows if we can lend michael a hand we will. how is he to-day?" "he is very bad, uncle lanaherne," said nelly, with a sigh; "i fear sometimes that he will never go fishing again." "i am afraid not, nelly," observed the rough fisherman, putting his hand on her head; "but you know you and your brother will always find a friend in reuben lanaherne. an honest man's children will never want, and if there ever was an honest man, your poor father is one. i will keep a look-out for michael, but do not be cast down, nelly; we shall see him before long." the fisherman spoke in a cheery tone, but still he could not help feeling more anxiety than he expressed for michael. every moment the wind was increasing, and the heavy seas which came rolling in showed that a gale had been blowing for some time outside. nelly hastened back to tell her father what uncle lanaherne had said. when she got to his bedside she found that a great change had taken place during her absence. her father turned his dim eye towards her as she entered, but had scarcely strength to speak, or beckon her with his hands. she bent over him. "nelly dear, where is michael?" he asked, "i want to bless him, he must come quickly, for i have not long to stay." "he has not come on shore yet, father, but uncle lanaherne is looking out for him," said nelly. "i wanted to see him again," whispered paul. "it will be too late if he does not come now; so tell him, nelly, that i do bless him, and i bless you, nelly, bless you, bless you;" and his voice became fainter. nelly, seeing a change come over her father's features, cried out for her granny. dame lanreath hastened into the room. the old woman saw at a glance what had happened. paul trefusis was dead. closing his eyes, she took her grandchild by the hand, and led her out of the room. some time passed, however, before nelly could realise what had happened. "your father has gone, nelly, but he has gone to heaven, and is happier far than he ever was or ever could be down on earth even in the best of times. bad times may be coming, and god in his love and mercy took him that he might escape them." "but, then, why didn't god take us?" asked nelly, looking up. "i would have liked to die with him. bad times will be as hard for us to bear as for him." "god always does what is best, and he has a reason for keeping us on earth," answered the dame. "he has kept me well-nigh fourscore years, and given me health and strength, and good courage to bear whatever i have had to bear, and he will give you strength, nelly, according to your need." "ah, i was wicked to say what i did," answered nelly; "but i am sad about father and you and myself, and very sad, too, about michael. he will grieve so when he comes home and finds father gone, if he comes at all. and, o granny, i begin to fear that he won't come home! what has happened to him i cannot tell; and if you had seen the heavy sea there was rolling outside you would fear the worst." "still, nelly, we must trust in god; if he has taken michael, he has done it for the best, not the worst, nelly," answered dame lanreath. "but when i say this, nelly, i don't want to stop your tears, they are given in mercy to relieve your grief; but pray to god, nelly, to help us; he will do so--only trust him." chapter five. the day was drawing to a close when the storm, which had been threatening all the morning on which paul trefusis died, swept fiercely up the harbour, showing that the wind had again shifted to the westward. poor nelly, though cast down with grief at her father's death, could not help trembling as she thought of michael, exposed as she knew he must be to its rage. was he, too, to be taken away from them? she was left much alone, as dame lanreath had been engaged, with the assistance of a neighbour, in the sad duty of laying out the dead man. nelly several times had run out to look down the harbour, hoping against hope that she might see michael's boat sailing up it. at length, in spite of the gale, she made her way to reuben lanaherne's cottage. his wife and daughter were seated at their work, but he was not there. agitated and breathless from encountering the fierce wind, she could scarcely speak as she entered. "sit down, maiden; what ails thee?" said dame lanaherne, rising, and kindly placing her on a stool by her side. nelly could only answer with sobs. just then old reuben himself entered, shaking the spray from his thick coat. "how is thy father, nelly?" he asked. "he has gone," she answered, sobbing afresh. "and, o uncle reuben, have you seen michael's boat? can you tell me where he is?" "i have not forgotten him, nelly, and have been along the shore as far as i could make my way on the chance that he might have missed the harbour, and had run for kynance cove, but not a sign of him or his boat could i see. i wish i had better news for you, nelly. and your good father gone too! don't take on so--he is free from pain now--happy in heaven; and there is one above who will look after michael, though what has become of him is more than i can tell you." the old fisherman's words brought little comfort to poor nelly, though he and his wife and daughter did their best to console her. they pressed her to remain with them, but she would not be absent longer from her granny, and, thanking them for their kindness, hurried homewards. the wind blew fiercely, but no rain had as yet fallen. their neighbour, having rendered all the assistance required, had gone away, and the old dame and her young grandchild sat together side by side in the outer room. they could talk only of michael. the dame did not dare to utter what she thought. his small boat might have been swamped in the heavy sea, or he might have fallen overboard and been unable to regain her; or, attempting to land on a rocky coast, she might have been dashed to pieces, and he swept off by the receding surf. such had been the fate of many she had known. as each succeeding gust swept by, poor nelly started and trembled in spite of her efforts to keep calm. at length down came the rain battering against the small panes of glass. at that instant there was a knocking at the door. "can you give us shelter from the storm, good folks?" said a voice; and, the latch being lifted, an elderly gentleman, accompanied by two ladies, one of whom was young and the other more advanced in life, appeared at the entrance. they evidently took it for granted that they should not be denied. "you are welcome, though you come to a house of mourning," said dame lanreath, rising, while nelly hastened to place stools for them to sit on. "i am afraid, then, that we are intruders," said the gentleman, "and we would offer to go on, but my wife and daughter would be wet through before we could reach any other shelter." "we would not turn any one away, especially you and mistress tremayne," said the dame, looking at the elder lady. "what! do you know us?" asked the gentleman. "i know mistress tremayne and the young lady from her likeness to what i recollect of her mother," answered dame lanreath. "i seldom forget a person i once knew, and she has often bought fish of me in days gone by." "and i, too, recollect you. if i mistake not you used to be pretty widely known as polly lanreath," said the lady, looking at the old fish-wife. "and so i am now, mistress tremayne," answered the dame, "though not known so far and wide as i once was. i can still walk my twenty miles a-day; but years grow on one; and when i see so many whom i have known as children taken away, i cannot expect to remain hale and strong much longer." "you have altered but little since i knew you," observed mrs tremayne, "and i hope that you may retain your health and strength for many years to come." "that's as god wills," said the dame. "i pray it may be so for the sake of my little nelly here." "she is your grandchild, i suppose," observed mrs tremayne. "ay, and the only one i have got to live for now. her father has just gone, and she and i are left alone." "o granny, but there is michael; don't talk of him as gone," exclaimed nelly. "he will come back, surely he will come back." this remark of nelly's caused mr and mrs tremayne to make further inquiries. they at first regretted that they had been compelled to take shelter in the cottage, but as the dame continued talking, their interest in what she said increased. "it seemed strange, mistress tremayne, that you should have come here at this moment," she observed. "our michael is the grandson of one whom you knew well in your childhood; she was nancy trewinham, who was nurse in the family of your mother, lady saint mabyn; and you, if i mistake not, were old enough at the time to remember her." "yes, indeed, i do perfectly well; and i have often heard my mother express her regret that so good and gentle a young woman should have married a man who, though apparently well-to-do in the world, was more than suspected to be of indifferent character," said the lady. "we could gain no intelligence of her after she left penzance, though i remember my father saying that he had no doubt a noted smuggler whose vessel was lost off this coast was the man she had married. being interested in her family, he made inquiries, but could not ascertain whether she had survived her unhappy husband or not. and have you, indeed, taken charge of her grandson in addition to those of your own family whom you have had to support?" "it was not i took charge of the boy, but my good son-in-law, who lies dead there," said the dame. "he thought it but a slight thing, and only did what he knew others would do by him." "he deserved not the less credit," said mr tremayne. "we shall, indeed, be anxious to hear that the boy has come to no harm, and i am sure that mrs tremayne will be glad to do anything in her power to assist you and him should he, as i hope, have escaped. we purpose staying at landewednach for a few days to visit the scenery on the coast, and will send down to inquire to-morrow." while mr and mrs tremayne and the old dame had been talking, miss tremayne had beckoned to nelly to come and sit by her, and, speaking in a kind and gentle voice, had tried to comfort the young girl. she, however, could only express her hope that michael had by some means or other escaped. though nelly knew that that hope was vain, the sympathy which was shown her soothed her sorrow more than the words which were uttered. sympathy, in truth, is the only balm that one human being can pour into the wounded heart of another. would that we could remember that in all our grief and sufferings we have one in heaven who can sympathise with us as he did when he wept with the sorrowing family at bethany. the rain ceased almost as suddenly as it had commenced, and as mr and mrs tremayne, who had left their carriage on the top of the hill, were anxious to proceed on their journey, they bade dame lanreath and nelly good-bye, again apologising for having intruded on them. "don't talk of that please, mistress tremayne," said the old dame. "your visit has been a blessing to us, as it has taken us off our own sad thoughts. nelly already looks less cast down, from what the young lady has been saying to her, and though you can't bring the dead to life we feel your kindness." "you will let me make it rather more substantial, then, by accepting this trifle, which may be useful under the present circumstances," said the gentleman, offering a couple of guineas. the old dame looked at them, a struggle seemed to be going on within her. "i thank you kindly, sir, that i do," she answered; "but since my earliest days i have gained my daily bread and never taken charity from any one." "but you must not consider this as charity, dame," observed mrs tremayne; "it is given to show our interest in your little granddaughter and in the boy whom your son-in-law and you have so generously protected so many years. i should, indeed, feel bound to assist him, and therefore on his account pray receive it and spend it as you may require." the dame's scruples were at length overcome, and her guests, after she had again expressed her feelings of gratitude, took their departure. they had scarcely gone when eban cowan appeared at the door. "i have just heard what has happened, and i could not let the day pass without coming to tell you how sorry i am," he said, as he entered. nelly thanked him warmly. "father has gone to heaven and is at rest," she said, quietly. "i should think that you would rather have had him with you down on earth," observed eban, who little comprehended her feelings. "so i would, but it was god's will to take him, and he taught me to say, `thy will be done;' and i can say that though i grieve for his loss," answered nelly. "but, o eban, when you came i thought that you had brought some tidings of michael." "no! where is he? i did not know that he was not at home." nelly then told eban how michael had gone away with the boat in the morning and had not returned. "i will go and search for him then," he said. "he has run in somewhere, perhaps, along the coast. i wonder, when you spoke to uncle lanaherne, that he did not set off at once. but i will go. i'll get father to send some men with me with ropes, and if he is alive and clinging to a rock, as he may be, we will bring him back." nelly poured out her thanks to eban, who, observing that there was no time to be lost, set off to carry out his proposal. dame lanreath had said but little. she shook her head when he had gone, as nelly continued praising him. "he is brave and bold, nelly, but that could be said of captain brewhard and many others i have known, who were bad husbands and false friends, and there is something about the lad i have never liked. he is inclined to be friendly now; and as you grow up he will wish, maybe, to be more friendly; but i warn you against him, nelly dear. though he speaks to you ever go fair, don't trust him." "but i must be grateful to him as long as i live if he finds michael," answered nelly, who thought her grandmother condemned eban without sufficient cause. had she known how he had often talked to michael, she might have been of a different opinion. the storm continued to blow as fiercely as ever, and the rain again came pelting down; ever and anon peals of thunder rattled and crashed overhead, and flashes of lightning, seen more vividly through the thickening gloom, darted from the sky. dame lanreath and nelly sat in their cottage by the dead--the old woman calm and unmoved, though nelly, at each successive crash of thunder or flash of lightning, drew closer to her grandmother, feeling more secure in the embrace of the only being on whom she had now to rely for protection in the wide world. chapter six. young michael sat all alone in his boat, tossed about by the foaming seas. his anchor held, so there was no fear of his drifting. but that was not the only danger to which he was exposed. at any moment a sea might break on board and wash him away, or swamp the boat. he looked round him, calmly considering what was best to be done. no coward fear troubled his mind, yet he clearly saw the various risks he must run. he thought of heaving his ballast overboard and trying to ride out the gale where he was, but then he must abandon all hope of reaching the harbour by his own unaided efforts. he might lash himself to a thwart, and thus escape being washed away; still the fierce waves might tear the boat herself to pieces, so that he quickly gave up that idea. he was too far off to be seen from the shore, except perhaps by the keen-sighted coast-guard men; but even if seen, what boat would venture out into the fast-rising sea to his rescue. he must, he felt, depend upon himself, with god's aid, for saving his life. any longer delay would only increase his peril. the wind and tide would prevent him gaining any part of the coast to the northward. he would therefore make sail and run for landewednach, for not another spot where he had the slightest prospect of landing in safety was to be found between the gull rock and the beach at that place. he very well knew, indeed, the danger he must encounter even there, but it was a choice of evils. he quickly made up his mind. he at first set to work to bail out the boat, for already she had shipped a good deal of water. he had plenty of sea room, so that he might venture to lift his anchor. but it was no easy work, and the sea, which broke over the bows again and again, made him almost relinquish the effort, and cut the cable instead. still he knew the importance of having his anchor ready to drop, should he be unable to beach the boat on his arrival at the spot he had selected, so again he tried, and up it came. he quickly hauled it in, and running up his sail he sprang to the tiller, hauling aft his main-sheet. away flew the boat amid the tumbling seas, which came rolling in from the westward. he held the sheet in his hand, for there was now as much wind as the boat could look up to, and a sudden blast might at any moment send her over. that, too, michael knew right well. on she flew like a sea-bird amid the foaming waves, now lifted to the summit of one, now dropping down into the hollow, each sea as it came hissing up threatening to break on board; now he kept away to receive its force on his quarter; now he again kept his course. the huge gull rock rose up under his lee, the breakers dashing furiously against its base; then kynance cove, with its fantastically-shaped cliffs, opened out, but the sea roared and foamed at their base, and not a spot of sand could he discover on which he could hope to beach his boat, even should he pass through the raging surf unharmed. meantale point, pradanack, and the soapy rock appeared in succession, but all threatened him alike with destruction should he venture near them. he came abreast of a little harbour, but he had never been in there, and numerous rocks, some beneath the surface, others rising but just above it, lay off its entrance, and the risk of running for it he considered was too great to be encountered. those on shore might have seen his boat as she flew by, but, should they have done so, even the bravest might have been unwilling to risk their lives on the chance of overtaking her before she met that fate to which they might well have believed she was doomed. michael cast but a glance or two to ascertain whether any one was coming; he had little expectation of assistance, but still his courage did not fail him. the rocks were passed; he could already distinguish over his bow the lighthouses on the summit of the lizard point. again he kept away and neared the outer edge of a line of breakers which roared fiercely upon it. he must land there notwithstanding, or be lost, for he knew that his boat could not live going through the race to the southward of the lizard. when off the stags he could distinguish people moving along the shore. he had been seen by them he knew, and perhaps a boat might be launched and come to his rescue. there was no time, however, for consideration. what he had to do must be promptly done. the water in the bay was somewhat smoother than it had hitherto been. in a moment his sail was lowered and his anchor let go. the rain came down heavily. "the wind is falling," he thought; "i will wait till the turn of the tide, when, perhaps, there will be less surf on." he could see the people on the shore watching him, but no attempt was made to launch a boat; indeed he knew that no boat could pass that foaming barrier in safety. he sat down with folded arms, waiting the progress of events. his mind was occupied for a time rather with those at home than about himself; he thought of little nelly and of dame lanreath, and of the kind friend of his youth who had, though he knew it not at that time, left this world of toil and trouble. he had a simple faith in the merits of one who had died for him, and he had perfect trust, not in his own honesty and uprightness, but in the merits and all-sufficient atonement of that loving saviour who died for him. he could therefore, young as he was, calmly contemplate the probability of being unable after all to reach the shore. still he would not allow himself to dwell long on that matter. he was soon aroused indeed to exertion by finding the seas breaking into his boat. he bailed away as fast as they came on board. but he saw that he must abandon all hope of remaining where he was. should he stay much longer the boat might be swamped; the surf, too, might increase, and more effectually than at present bar his progress to the shore. another huge sea rolling in half filled his boat. undaunted, he bailed it out. a second of like size might sink her. evening was coming on; he must dare the fearful passage through the breakers, or perish where he was. he stood up, holding on to the mast, that he might survey the shore. he was abreast of the best place for landing, although he was convinced there were rocks to the north and south of him, their black heads appearing every now and then amid the snow-white foam. in a moment, should his boat touch them, they would dash her to fragments. promptly michael made up his mind what to do. hoisting his foresail he carried the main-sheet aft, and felt that the tiller was securely fixed. taking out his knife, he held it in his teeth--he had sharpened it afresh the previous evening. with one hand holding the main halyards, with a stroke he severed the cable, then as the boat paid off up went his mainsail and he sprang aft to the helm. the sheet was eased off. the hissing seas followed fast astern. in another minute he would be among the raging breakers, and then safe on shore, or, what was too probable, whirled and tossed and tumbled over and over as he and the fragments of his boat were carried back in their cruel embrace. mr and mrs tremayne and their daughter had reached the little hotel at the lizard head, when they heard that a small boat had been seen in a fearfully perilous position anchored at a short distance outside the breakers. they hastened down to the beach, where some of the coast-guard men and several other persons were collected. they made inquiries as to the probability of the boat reaching the shore in safety. "not the slightest hope through such a surf as this," was the answer. "who is on board?" asked mr tremayne. "it seems to be a young lad, as far as we can make out," said a coast-guard man. "his best chance is to hold on till low water, when, as there will be a pretty broad piece of sand, if the wind goes down, he may happen to get in without being swamped." "but if the wind does not go down, and the weather still looks threatening, what can he do?" "his fate will be that of many another poor fellow," said the man. "he is a brave young chap, though, or he would not have brought up in the way he did. i have not once seen him waving his arms or seeming to be crying out for help, as most would be." "can he be young michael penguyne, of whom we have just heard!" exclaimed mrs tremayne. "oh, can nothing be done to save him?" "will none of you fine fellows launch a boat and go out and try and bring in the boy?" asked mr tremayne. "i will give twenty pounds to the crew of the boat which brings him in." "i am sorry, sir, that i cannot allow my men to go out," said the officer of the coast-guard, who heard the offer made. "we should not have waited for a reward if it could be done, but the best boat we have would be swamped to a certainty, and the lives of all her crew sacrificed. i much regret being compelled to say this; there is not a man here who would not do his best to save the life of the lad if it were possible." "are none of the fishermen's boats better fitted for the purpose?" asked mr tremayne. "i will give twenty-five pounds to the boat which saves the lad. surely if so small a boat as his can live, a large fishing-boat would run but comparatively little risk." the officer explained that the danger would be incurred in passing through the breakers, and that once outside, although the sea was very heavy, a boat properly handled would keep afloat. "i have," he added, "sent to a little harbour to the north of this, but the boats there are small, and i doubt whether any of the fishermen will venture so near the breakers as that boat has brought up. i will, however, send again with your generous offer, though some time must elapse before a boat can be got ready, even if a crew can be found willing to risk their lives in the service." "i will go myself to urge them to undertake it if you can devise no other means of saving the lad," said mr tremayne. "the distance is considerable, and it will be night before you can reach the place," answered the officer. "i would advise you, sir, not to make the attempt. they will trust to my promise, as i will send one of my own men." "tell them you will give them twenty-five pounds if they will start at once," exclaimed mrs tremayne, eagerly; "surely men will not stand calmly by and allow the poor boy to perish in their sight." "i will do as you wish," answered the officer. just as they were speaking, however, there was a cry from those looking on. "he has cut his cable--he has hoisted his sail--he is going to venture it," exclaimed several people simultaneously. the boat's head was turned towards the shore. onward she came. now she rose to the summit of a huge wave, now plunged downwards. for an instant the sail flapped, becalmed by another sea which rolled up astern. a cry escaped the spectators: "she will be swamped! she will be swamped!" but no; again the sail filled and on she came. the young boy was seen seated in the stern of his boat grasping the tiller with one hand and the main-sheet with the other. over she heeled to the blast--again she rose, and again sunk down, and now she was among the hissing, roaring, foaming breakers. the waters bubbled up, tumbling into her on either side; but still the boy held firm hold of his tiller. again the sail flapped--there was a sudden lull. "she is lost, she is lost!" was the cry. "the next sea must swamp her;" but the wind came faster than the wave--the sail bulged out, and on she flew. for another moment she seemed to hang in the midst of a breaker as it rushed backwards from the shore, but another lifted her, and, carried forward on its crest, she came like a thing of life escaping from her savage pursuers towards the beach. a dozen stout hands, incited by the address of mr tremayne, rushed forward to grasp the boat, regardless now of their own safety, for the work was one of no little danger; ere they could seize the boat's gunwale she might be dashed against them, or be swept out by the receding wave as it went hissing backwards in a sheet of foam. but they were well accustomed to the duty they had undertaken. michael to the last kept his seat, steering his boat stem on to the beach. as he felt the keel touch the sand he sprang forward and was grasped by the sturdy arms of one of those who had gone to his rescue, and carried in triumph out of the reach of the foaming breaker, which came roaring up as if fierce at the escape of its prey. with difficulty those who had gone down to seize the boat made their way after their companion, and she, before they could haul her up, was thrown on the beach and rolled over and over with her sides crushed in. "oh, the boat, the boat! what will poor father and those at home do?" exclaimed michael, as he saw what had happened. "i thought to have saved her." "never mind the boat," answered a stout lad, one of those who had gone down to his rescue, wringing him by the hand. "we are right glad to have you safe. i only got here just in time to see you standing for the shore. i did not think you would reach it. i have been hunting for you all along the coast, and made sure that you were lost." "thank you, eban," answered michael, for it was eban cowan who spoke to him. "but poor father will grieve when he hears the boat is lost after all." "thy father won't grieve for that or anything else, michael," said eban, thoughtlessly; "he is dead." "dead!" exclaimed poor michael, grasping the arm of the man who had brought him on shore, and who was still standing by him, and overcome by the strain on his nerves, which he had hitherto so manfully endured, and the sad news so abruptly given him, he would have fallen to the ground had not the fisherman supported him. mr tremayne and his wife and daughter now came up. "poor boy, it is not surprising that he should give way at last," observed mrs tremayne. "we will have him carried to our inn, where he can be properly attended to." mr tremayne agreed to her proposal, and, begging two of the stout fishermen to carry the lad, he promised a reward to those who could secure the boat and her gear. "that will be my charge," said the coast-guard officer. "but i am afraid that the boat herself is a complete wreck, and that very little of her gear will be saved." michael, on being placed in a comfortable bed in the inn, soon returned to consciousness, and was greatly surprised to find two kind-looking ladies watching by his side. the younger one called her father from an adjoining room. "you have had a hard tussle for your life; you behaved courageously, my lad," observed mr tremayne, taking his hand. "i am thankful that god has spared my life," answered michael in a low voice, which showed how much his strength was prostrated. "but, o sir, eban told me that father is dead, and the boat is all knocked to pieces, and what will nelly and poor granny do? next to god, they can only look to the boat and me for help." "what! young as you are, do you expect to be able to support yourself and those you speak of?" asked mrs tremayne. "yes; father gave them into my charge, and if god had given me strength, and the boat had been spared, i would have done my best." "we know nelly and your granny, and more about you than you may suppose," said mrs tremayne, kindly; "we paid them a visit to-day, and heard of their loss. but set your mind at rest about your boat, we will endeavour to obtain another for you, and help you in any other way you may wish." michael expressed his gratitude with an overflowing heart. a night's quiet rest completely restored his strength, and, being eager to assure nelly and dame lanreath of his safety, after he had bade his new friends good-bye he set off on his return home. mrs tremayne promised to have his boat looked after, and to pay him a visit in the course of a day or two to arrange about the purchase of another. on reaching home michael found that eban cowan had been before him, and given nelly and her granny tidings of his safety. they had heard, however, only of the loss of his boat, and had been naturally anxious at the thoughts of what they should do without her. the news he brought that he was to have a new one greatly revived their spirits. "god is indeed kind to us in sending us help in our time of need," said dame lanreath. "o my children! never forget his loving-kindness, but serve and obey him as long as you live." michael's grief was renewed as he went in to see the friend who had acted the part of a father to him all his life; but happily deep grief does not endure long in young hearts, and he now looked forward to mr tremayne's promised visit. "i hope the young lady and her mother will come with him. o nelly! she looked like an angel as she watched by me, when i scarcely knew whether i was alive or being knocked over and over in the breakers," he observed. "for hours after i was safe on shore i had their sound in my ears in a way i never knew before." mr tremayne came to the cottage just as dame lanreath, with michael and nelly, had returned from attending the funeral of paul trefusis. it was a calm and lovely day, and contrasted greatly with the weather which had before prevailed. in the harbour, just below the cottage, lay a boat somewhat smaller than the "wild duck," but nearly new, with freshly-tanned sails, and well fitted in every respect. mrs and miss tremayne were seated in it, with two men who had rowed it round from the lizard. mr tremayne invited the inmates of the cottage to come down and see it. "what do you think of her?" he asked, after they had greeted the two ladies. "she is a handy craft, sir, and just suited for this place," answered michael. "i hope you will find her so," replied mr tremayne. "here is a paper which assigns her to you as her master, and if you will moor her fast her present crew will leave her, as we purpose to continue our journey by land, and have ordered the carriage to meet us at the top of the hill." michael was unable to express his gratitude in words. dame lanreath spoke for him. "may god reward you and your wife and children for your kindness to the orphans, and to an old woman who has well-nigh run her course on earth. we were cast down, though we know that his mercy endureth for ever, and you have lifted us up and shown us that he is faithful and never fails to send help in time of need." nelly took miss tremayne's hand, and, prompted by her feelings, kissed it affectionately; but even she was for the moment unable to express her feelings by words. "thank you, sir, thank you," said michael at last, as they went back. "you have made a man of me, and i can now work for those who have to look to me for support." "i hope you will have the strength, as i am sure you have the will, and may god bless you, my lad," said mr tremayne, shaking him warmly by the hand, for he was far more pleased with the few words michael had uttered than had he poured out his gratitude in measured language. as he and the ladies proceeded up the pathway, nelly ran into the cottage. she soon again overtook them. "will you please, miss, take these small shells?" she said; "they are little worth, i fear, but i have nothing else to give which you might wish to accept, and they may put you in mind of this place, and those who will pray for you and bless your father and mother as long as they live." miss tremayne, much pleased, thanked nelly for her gift, and, assuring her that she should never forget her or michael and her granny, accepted the gift. it is scarcely necessary to say that michael spent a considerable portion of the remainder of the day examining his new boat over and over again, blessing the donor in his heart, and thankful that he should now be able to support nelly and her granny. then the little family assembled in their sitting room, and offered up their thanks to the merciful being who looked down upon them in their distress. chapter seven. michael penguyne made ample use of his new boat. nelly proposed that she should be called the "dove." "you see she was sent to us when all around seemed so dark and gloomy, just as the dove returned to noah, to show that god had not forgotten him." "then we will call her the `dove'," said michael; and the "dove" from henceforth became the name of michael's new boat. early and late michael was in his boat, though he took good care not to be caught to leeward of his port again by a gale of wind. when ashore he was employed mending his nets and refitting his boat's gear or his fishing-lines. never for a moment was he idle, for he always found something which ought to be done; each rope's-end was pointed; his rigging was never chafed; and the moment any service was wanted he put it on. thus a couple of years passed by, dame lanreath and nelly setting out day after day to sell the fish or lobsters and crabs he caught, for which they seldom failed to obtain a good price. at length, however, he found that he could do better with a mate. "i must get david treloar, as i said some time ago," he observed to nelly. "he is twice as strong as i am, though it would not do to trust him alone in a boat, as he never seems to know which way the wind is, or how the tide is running; but he is honest and good-natured, and staunch as steel, and he will do what i tell him. that's all i want. if he had been with me in the little `duck,' we might have gained the harbour and saved her, and though i take all the care i can, yet i may be caught again in the same way." david treloar was a nephew of old reuben lanaherne, who had done his best to bring up the poor lad, and make a fisherman of him. his father had been lost at sea, and his mother had gone out of her mind, and soon afterwards died. michael found him near his uncle's house, attempting, though not very expertly, to mend a net. he was a broad-shouldered, heavy-looking youth, with an expression of countenance which at first sight appeared far from prepossessing; but when spoken to kindly, or told to do anything he liked--and he was ready to do most things--it brightened up, and even a stranger would have said he was a trustworthy fellow, though he might be lacking in intelligence. "so glad you are come, michael," he said. "here have i been working away at these meshes, and cannot make them come even; the more i pull at them the worse they are. just do you use your fingers and settle the job for me, and i will do anything for you." "i know you will, david, and so i am pretty certain that you will come and work in my boat." "what, this afternoon?" asked david. "no, but always. i want you to be my mate." "hurra! hurra! that i will, lad, with all my heart. uncle reuben has got enough lads of his own, he does not want me, and the rest are always making fun at me; but you won't do that, michael, i know. we will soon show them that we can catch as many fish as they can, you and i together; and uncle often says i am as strong as a grown man, and stronger than many." and the young hercules stretched out his brawny arms. michael had not expected to obtain a mate so easily, for david never thought of making terms; provided he got food enough for the day, that was all he thought about. michael, however, intended to settle that matter with uncle reuben. his wish was to act justly towards all men, and pay david fully as much as he was worth. able now to use his nets, michael could look forward to the pilchard season, when he might hope to reap a rich harvest from the sea. soon after this he fell in with eban cowan. "so i see you have got that dolt david treloar as your mate," observed eban. "if you had asked me, i would have advised you to take a chap worth two of him. he is big and strong enough, but he has no sense. i wonder, indeed, michael, that you can go on year after year content to catch a few fish and lobsters, when you might make no end of money and live at home most days in the week enjoying your comfort and doing nothing. just see how father and i live. you don't suppose the mill, and the fish, and our few acres of ground enable us to do that." "i don't ask how you get your living--i do not wish to interfere with my neighbours; but i know that it is my duty to work hard every day that the weather will let me," answered michael. "that may be your taste; but i wonder you like to see nelly wearing her old frock and hood which have become far too small for her, and aunt lanreath's old jacket and petticoat are well-nigh worn out." michael acknowledged that such was the case, and observed that he hoped they would soon get new garments. "you might get them at once if you will join us in our business," answered eban. "what with the fellows who have gone to sea, and some few who have been taken and sent to prison, and those who have been drowned or lost their lives in other ways, we have not as many men as we want. there is good pay to be got, and other profits besides. you would be perfectly safe, for you have a good character, and no one would suspect you of being engaged in the free-trade service." "i tell you, eban, once for all, i will have nothing to do with smuggling," answered michael, firmly. "you say no one will suspect me, but you forget that god sees and hears everything we do, or say, or think. though my fellow-men might not suspect me, he would know that i was engaged in unlawful work. darkness is no darkness to him. day and night to him are both alike." "i don't let myself think about those sort of things," answered eban cowan, in an angry tone. "i ask you again, will you be a sensible fellow and unite with us as i have invited you?" "no, i will not," said michael. "i do not wish to be unfriendly with you, but when you ask me to do what i know to be wrong i cannot look upon you as a friend." "take your own way, then," exclaimed eban, angrily. "you may think better of the matter by-and-by: then all you have to do is to come to me and say so." eban and michael parted for the time. the former, however, was a constant visitor at dame lanreath's cottage. he did not disguise his admiration for nelly trefusis. she might have been flattered, for he was a good-looking, fair-spoken youth, and as he dressed well and had always plenty of money in his pocket, he was looked upon as one of the principal young men in the neighbourhood. still nelly did not consider him equal to michael. time went on: she was becoming a young woman, and michael was no longer the little boy she had looked upon in her early days as her brother. he, too, had ceased to treat her with the affectionate familiarity he used to do when he supposed her to be his sister. still he looked upon her as the being of all others whom he was bound to love, and protect, and support to the utmost of his power. had, however, any young man whom he esteemed, and whom nelly liked, appeared and offered to become her husband, he would possibly have advised her to accept him, though he might have felt that the light of his home had departed. indeed, he was so occupied that the thought of marrying at some future time had never entered his head. though nelly gave eban cowan no encouragement, he still continued, whenever he could get a fair pretence, to visit the cottage, and never failed to walk by her side when he met her out. generally he came saying that he wished to see michael, whom he always spoke of as his most intimate friend, though michael did not consider himself so. he knew too much about eban to desire his friendship; indeed, he doubted very much that eban really cared for him. "your friend eban has been here again to-day," said nelly, one evening when michael returned home late. "he waited and waited, and though i told him i could not say when you would come back, he still sat on, declaring that he must see you, as he wanted you to go somewhere with him, or do something, though what it was he would not tell us. at last, as it grew dark, he was obliged to be off, and neither granny nor i invited him to stay longer." "i am glad he did go," answered michael; "but do not call him my friend. if he was a true friend he would give me good advice and try to lead me aright; instead of that he gives me bad advice, and tries to lead me to do what i know is wrong. there--you now know what i think of eban cowan." "and you think very rightly," observed dame lanreath. "i do not trust him, and perhaps you know more about him and have greater reasons for not liking him than i have." "michael," said nelly, looking up, "i will trust only those whom you trust, and i do not wish to like any one whom you do not like." still, although nelly took no care to show any preference for eban, it was not in her heart to be rude or unkind to him; but dame lanreath tried to make him understand that his visits were not wished for. he, however, fancied that she alone did not like him, and still flattered himself that he was making his way with nelly. thus matters went on month after month. michael and david treloar succeeded together better even than at first expected. david was always ready to do the hard work, and, placing perfect confidence in michael's skill and judgment, readily obeyed him. it was the height of summer-time. the pilchards in vast schools began to visit the coast of cornwall, and the fishermen in all directions were preparing for their capture. the boats were got ready, the nets thoroughly repaired, and corks and leads and tow lines and warps fitted. _huers_, as the men are called who watch for the fish, had taken their stations on every height on the look-out for their approach. each _huer_ kept near him the "white bush," which is the name given to a mass of furze covered with tow or white ribbons. this being raised aloft is the sign that a school is in sight. the boats employed were of two descriptions, the largest of from twenty to thirty tons, carrying seven or eight men; and the smaller somewhat larger than the "dove," having only three or four men. michael had succeeded in obtaining another hand, so that, small as his boat was, he was fully able to take a part in the work. the pilchard belongs to the herring family, but is somewhat smaller, and differs from that fish in external appearance, having a shorter head and a more compact body; its scales, too, are rather longer than those of the common herring. it is supposed to retire during the winter to the deep water of the ocean, and to rise only as the summer approaches to the surface, when it commences its travels and moves eastward towards the english channel. at first it forms only small bands, but these increase till a large army is collected, under the guidance, it is supposed, of a chief. onward it makes its way, pursued by birds of prey who pounce down and carry off thousands of individuals, whose loss, however, scarcely diminishes the size of the mighty host. voracious fish, too, pursue the army as it advances in close columns, and swallow immense numbers. as it approaches the land's end it divides, one portion making its way northward along the west coast, while the other moves forward along the south coast towards the start. the huers can distinguish the approach of a school by a change in the colour of the sea. as it draws near, the water appears to leap and boil like a cauldron, while at night the ocean is spread over, as it were, with a sheet of liquid light, brilliant as when the moonbeams play on the surface rippled by a gentle breeze. from early dawn a number of boats had been waiting off the shore, keeping their position by an occasional pull at the oars as necessity required, with their nets ready to cast at a moment's warning. michael's boat was among them. he and his companions cast their eyes constantly at the huers on the summit of the cliffs above, anxiously expecting the signal that a school had been seen in the far distance. but whether it would approach the shore near enough to enable them to encircle it was uncertain. it might come towards them, but then it might suddenly sweep round to a different part of the coast or dart back again into deep water. hour after hour passed by. the crews of the boats had their provisions with them, and no one at that time would think of returning to the shore for breakfast or dinner. they kept laughing and talking together, or occasionally exchanging a word with those in the boats on either side of them. "i hope we shall have better luck than yesterday," said david treloar. "i had made up my mind that we should have the schools if they came near us, and yet they got off again just at the time i thought we had them secured." "you must have patience, david; trust to him who helped the fishermen of galilee when they had toiled all day and caught nothing," answered michael. "i do not see that we should expect to be better off than they were; he who taught the pilchards to visit our shores will send them into our nets if he thinks fit. our business is to toil on and to trust to his kindness." "ah, michael! you are always right; i do not see things as clearly as you do," said david. "if you do not, still you know that god cares for you as much as he does for me or anyone else; and so do you trust to him, and depend upon it all will turn out right. that's what uncle paul used to say, and your uncle reuben says." michael had for some time past taken pains to let it be known that he was not, as supposed to be, the son of paul trefusis, and had told all his friends and acquaintances the history which paul had given him. many of the elder people, indeed, were well acquainted with the circumstances of the case, and were able to corroborate what he said. eban cowan, however, had hitherto been ignorant of the fact, and had always supposed that michael was nelly's brother. this had originally made him anxious to gain michael's friendship for her sake. almost from his boyhood he had admired her, and his admiration increased with his growth, till he entertained for her as much affection as it was in his nature to feel. no sooner was he aware of the truth than jealousy of michael sprang up in his heart, and instead of putting it away, as he ought to have done, he nourished it till his jealousy grew into a determined and deadly hatred of one whom he chose to consider as his rival. michael, not aware of this, met him in the same frank way that he had always been accustomed to do, and took no notice of the angry scowl which eban often cast at him. eban on this occasion had command of his father's boat. he was reputed to be as good and bold a fisherman as anyone on the coast. michael did not observe the fierce look eban cast at him as they were shoving off in the morning when the two boats pulled out of the harbour together side by side. the boats had now been waiting several hours, and when the huers were seen to raise their white boughs and point to a sandy beach to the north of the harbour (a sign that a school of pilchards was directing its course in that direction), instantly the cry of "_heva_" was raised by the numerous watchers on the shore, and the crews of the boats, bending to their oars, pulled away to get outside the school and prevent them from turning back. two with nets on board, starting from the same point, began quick as lightning to cast them out till they formed a vast circle. away the rowers pulled, straining their sinews to the utmost, till a large circle was formed two thousand feet in circumference, within which the shining fish could be seen leaping and struggling thickly together on the surface. the seine, about twelve fathoms deep, thus formed a wall beyond which the fish could not pass, the bottom being sunk by heavy leads and the upper part supported by corks. in the meantime a boat was employed in driving the fish towards the centre of the enclosure, lest before the circle was completed they might alter their course and escape. although the fish were thus enclosed, their enormous weight would certainly have broken through the net had an attempt been made to drag them on to the beach. the operation was not yet over. warping or dragging them into shallow water had now to be commenced. gradually the circle was drawn nearer and nearer the shore, till shallow water was reached. the seine was then moored, that is, secured by grappling hooks. it had next to be emptied. in bad weather this cannot be done, as the work requires smooth water. on the present occasion, however, the sea was calm, and several boats, supplied with smaller nets and baskets, entered the circle and commenced what is called _tucking_. the small nets were used to encircle as many fish as they could lift, which were quickly hauled on board in the ordinary way, while other boats ladled the pilchards out of the water with baskets. as soon as a boat was laden she returned to the shore by the only passage left open, where men stood ready to close it as soon as she had passed. on the beach were collected numbers of women and lads, with creels on their backs ready to be filled. as soon as this was done they carried them up to the curing-house, situated on a convenient spot near the bay. among those on the beach were dame lanreath and nelly, and as michael assisted to fill their creels he expressed his satisfaction at having contributed so materially to the success of the undertaking, for his boat had been one of the most actively employed. as all engaged in the operation belonged to the same company, they worked with a will, each person taking his allotted duty, and thus doing their utmost to obtain success. some time was occupied in thus emptying the seine, for after the fish on the surface had been caught many more which were swimming lower down and making endeavours to escape, were obtained with the _tucking_ nets. the whole net itself was then dragged up, and the remainder of the fish which had been caught in the meshes, or had before escaped capture, were taken out. such is the ordinary way of catching the pilchard on the coast of cornwall with seines. the inhabitants of the village congratulated themselves on their success. often, as has been said, tucking has to be delayed in consequence of a heavy sea for several days, and sometimes, after all, the fish have been lost. "i mind, not long ago," observed uncle reuben, "when we were shooting a net to the southward, it was caught by the tide and carried away against the rocks, where, besides the fish getting free, it was so torn and mangled that it took us many a long winter's evening to put to rights. and you have heard tell, michael, that at another time, when we had got well-nigh a thousand pounds' worth of fish within our seine, they took it into their heads to make a dash together at one point, and, capsizing it, leaped clear over the top, and the greater number of them got free. and only two seasons ago, just as we thought we had got a fine haul, and the seine was securely moored, a ground swell set in from the westward, where a heavy gale was blowing, and the net was rolled over and over till every fish had escaped, and the net was worth little or nothing. so i say we have reason to be thankful when we get a successful catch like that we have had to-day." it was not, however, the only successful catch which michael and his companions made that season. still, as his boat and net were but small, his share was less than that of the rest of the company, and, after all, his share was not more than sufficient for his expenses. a considerable number of the company were now employed in curing or bulking the late catch of pilchards. this was carried on in a circular court called a cellar. the fish which had been piled up within it were now laid out on raised slabs which ran round the court. first a layer of salt was spread, then a layer of pilchards, and so on, layers of pilchards and salt alternating, till a vast mound was raised. here they remained for about a month or more. below the slabs were gutters, which conveyed the brine and oil which oozed out of the mass into a large pit in the centre of the court. from three to four hundredweight of salt was used for each hogshead. after they had remained in bulk for sufficient time the pilchards were cleansed from the salt and closely packed in hogsheads, each of which contains about , fish, and weighs about pounds. the pressure to which they are subjected forces the oil out through the open joints of the cask. the pilchards are now familiarly called "fair maids," from _fermade_, a corruption of _fumado_ (the spanish word for _smoked_), as originally they were cured by smoking, a method, however, which has long been abandoned. no portion of the prize is lost; the oil and blood is sold to the curriers, the skimmings of the water in which the fish are washed before packing is purchased by the soap-boilers, and the broken and refuse fish are sold for manure. the oil when clarified forms an important item in the profit. the pilchards, however, are not always to be entrapped near the shore. at most times they keep out at sea, where the hardy fishermen make use of the drift-net. two sorts of boats are employed for this purpose; one is of about thirty tons burden, the other much smaller. they use a number of nets called _a set_, about twenty in all, joined together. each net is about feet long, and deep. united lengthways they form a wall three-quarters of a mile long, the lower part kept down by leads, the upper floated on the surface by corks. sometimes they are even much longer. within the meshes of this net the fish, as they swim rapidly forward, entangle themselves. they easily get their heads through, but cannot withdraw them, as they are held by the gills, which open in the water like the barbs of an arrow. their bodies also being larger than the meshes, they thus remain hanging, unable to extricate themselves. the driving-boat is made fast to one end of the wall, where she hangs on till the time for hauling the net arrives. the fishermen prefer a thick foggy night and a loppy sea, as under those circumstances the pilchards do not perceive the net in their way. at times, however, when the water is phosphorescent, the creatures which form the luminous appearance cover the meshes so that the whole net becomes lighted up. this is called "briming," and the pilchards, thus perceiving the trap in their way, turn aside and escape its meshes. as briming rarely occurs during twilight, and the ocean is at that time dark enough to hide the wall of twine, the fishermen generally shoot their nets soon after sunset and just before dawn, when the fine weather makes it probable that they will be lighted up by the dreaded briming at the other hours of the night. the operation of hauling in nearly a mile of net, with its meshes full of fish, is an arduous task, especially during a dark night, when the boat is tossed about by a heavy sea, and at no time indeed can it be an easy one. the hardy fishermen pursue this species of fishing during the greater part of the year, for small schools of pilchards arrive in the channel as early as the month of may, and remain far into the winter, till the water becomes too cool for their constitutions, when they return eastwards to seek a warmer climate in the depths of the atlantic, or swim off to some unknown region, where they may deposit their spawn or obtain the food on which they exist. little, however, is known of the causes which guide their movements, and the cornish fishermen remain satisfied by knowing the fact that the beautiful little fish which enables them to support themselves and their families are sent annually by their benignant creator to visit their coasts, and seldom trouble themselves to make any further inquiries on the subject. chapter eight. two more years passed away--nelly had become a pretty young woman, modest and good as she was attractive in her personal appearance. she had admirers in plenty besides eban cowan, who continued, as in his younger days, to pay her all the attention in his power, and openly declared to his companions his purpose of making her his wife. by this means he kept some at a distance who were afraid to encounter him as a rival, for they well knew his fierce and determined disposition, of which he had on several occasions given evidence. every one knew that he and his father were leagued with the most desperate gang of smugglers on the coast, and two or three times when acting as leader of a party he had had fierce encounters with the coast-guard, and on each occasion by his judgment and courage had succeeded in carrying off the goods which had been landed to a place of safety he frequently also had made trips in a smuggling lugger, of which his father was part owner, to the coast of france. he was looked upon as a hardy and expert seaman, as well as a good fisherman. had he, indeed, kept to the latter calling, with the boats he owned he would have become an independent, if not a wealthy man. but ill-gotten gains go fast, and in his smuggling enterprises, though he was often successful, yet he lost in the end more than he gained. nelly, though flattered by the attention paid her, showed no preference for any of her admirers. she had a good-natured word or a joke for all of them, but always managed to make them hold their tongues when they appeared to be growing serious. how she might have acted without the sage dame lanreath to advise her, or had she not felt that she could not consent to desert her and michael, it is impossible to say. michael had become a fine and active young man. as a sailor he was not inferior to eban. he had been able to support nelly and her grandmother in comfort, and to save money besides. he had invested his profits in a share of uncle reuben's large fishing-boat, and was thus able to employ himself in the deep-sea seine fishing for the greater part of the year, as well as that of the inshore fishing which he had hitherto pursued. his only regret was that it compelled him to be absent from home more frequently and for longer periods, but then he had always the advantage of returning to spend every sunday with nelly. those sundays were indeed very happy ones; he did not spend them in idle sloth, but he and nelly, accompanied by her grandmother, set off early to worship together, never allowing either wind or rain to hinder them, although they had several miles to go. on their return they spent the remainder of the day in reading god's word, or one of the few cherished books they possessed. they had received some time back two or three which were especially favoured, sent by mrs and miss tremayne, with a kind message inquiring after michael and dame lanreath, and hoping that the "dove" had answered michael's expectations and proved a good and useful sea-boat. nelly undertook to write a reply. "that she has, tell them," said michael. "i often think, when i am at work on board her, of their kindness, and what i should have done had they and mr tremayne not given her to me." after this, however, they received no further news of their friends, and though nelly wrote to inquire, her letter was returned by the post-office, stating that they had left the place. refreshed by his sunday rest, michael went with renewed strength to his weekly toil. uncle reuben's boat was called the "sea-gull." michael was now constantly on board her, as he had from his prudence and skill been chosen as mate. when reuben himself did not go out in her, he had the command. the merry month of may had begun, the "sea-gull" was away with her drift-nets. reuben hoped to be among the first to send fish to the helston market. dame lanreath and nelly, as well as several other female members of reuben's family, or related to his crew, were ready to set off with their creels as soon as the boat returned. nelly had gone as far as uncle reuben's house to watch for the "sea-gull." she had not long to wait before she caught sight of the little vessel skimming over the waters before a light nor'-westerly breeze. it was the morning of the eighth of may, when the annual festival of the flurry was to be held at helston. although nelly did not wish to take part in the sports carried on there, still she had no objection to see what was going forward, and perhaps michael, contrary to his custom, would be willing to accompany her and her granny. "he so seldom takes a holiday; but for this once he may be tempted to go and see the fun," she thought. the "sea-gull" drew near, and nelly knew her appearance too well to have any doubt about her, even when she was a long way off. she now hurried home to tell dame lanreath, that they might be ready at the landing-place to receive their portion of the vessel's cargo. the vessel was soon moored alongside the quay, when the creels were quickly filled with fish. "if you will come with us to helston, michael, i will wait for you. granny will go on ahead and we can soon overtake her. though you have lived so near you have never seen a flurry dance, and on this bright morning there will sure to be a good gathering." "i care little for seeing fine folks dressed up in gay flowers and white dresses, and dancing and jigging, especially as neither you nor i can take a part in the fun," answered michael. "i should like the walk well enough with you, nelly, but a number of congers and dog-fish got foul of our nets and made some ugly holes in them, which will take us all day to mend; it is a wonder they did not do more mischief. so, as i always put business before pleasure, you see, nelly, i must not go, however much i might wish it." nelly thought that david and others might mend the nets; but michael said that he and all hands were required to do the work, and that if he did not stop and set a good example the others might be idle, and when he got back in the evening it might not be done. so nelly, very unwillingly, was obliged to give up her scheme of inducing michael to take a holiday, and accompanied her granny as usual. having left michael's breakfast ready on the table, they set off. the dame trudged along, staff in hand; her step was as firm as it had been ten years before, though her body was slightly bent. nelly walked by her side, as she had done year after year, but she now bore her burden with greater ease; and with her upright figure, and her cheeks blooming with health, the two together presented a perfect picture of a fish-wife and fish-girl. dame lanreath had promised, after they had sold the contents of their creels, to wait some little time to see the flurry dance and the gay people who would throng the town. nelly looked forward to the scene with pleasure, her only regret being that michael had been unable to accompany her. they had gone some distance when they heard a rapid step behind them, and eban cowan came up to nelly's side. "i have been walking hard to overtake you, nelly," he said, "for i found that you had gone on. i suppose you intend to stay and see the gay doings at helston, and will not object to an escort back in the evening?" "granny proposes stopping for the flurry dance, but we shall come away long before it is dark, and as we know the road as well as most people, we can find it by ourselves," answered nelly, coldly. "you will miss half the fun, then," said eban. "you must get your granny to stop, or, if she will not, she cannot mind your remaining with my sister and cousin, and i can see you and them home." "i cannot let my granny walk home by herself," answered nelly; "and so, eban, i beg that you will not say anything more about the matter." eban saw that it would not do just then to press the subject, and he hoped that perhaps nelly would lose sight of her grandmother in the crowd, and that she would then be too glad to come back under his charge. he had made up his mind to have a talk with her, and bring matters to an issue; he did not suppose that she and michael could care much for each other, or he thought that they would have married long ago, and so believed that he had a better chance than any one else of winning nelly trefusis. he walked on, trying to make himself agreeable now saying a few words to the dame, who generally gave him curt answers, and now addressing nelly. as he had plenty to say for himself, she could not help being amused, and his conversation served to beguile the way over the somewhat dreary country they had to pass till the neighbourhood of helston was reached. he accompanied them in the ferry-boat which took them across to the town on the other side of the shallow estuary or lake on which it is built. as they had now to go from house to house to sell their fish, he had to leave them, believing, however, that he should have no difficulty in finding them again when their creels were empty. the town was at that time quiet enough, for all the shops were closed, and most of the young men and maidens, as well as large parties of children, had gone into the surrounding woods to cut boughs and gather wild flowers. the housewives, however, were eager to purchase their fresh-caught pilchards, to make into huge pasties, which, with clotted cream, forms the favourite cornish dish. they had already disposed of a considerable portion of their freight, when they saw a large party approaching along the principal thoroughfare. it consisted of a number of young people, boys and girls, their heads decked with wreaths of flowers, and holding in their hands green boughs, which they waved to and fro as they advanced, singing-- "once more the merry month of may has come, and driven old winter away; and so as now green boughs we bring, we merrily dance and merrily sing. no more we dread the frost and snow, no more the winter breezes blow; but summer suns and azure skies warm our hearts and please our eyes. and so we dance and so we sing, and here our woodland trophies bring; hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra! what can with our flurry dance compare?" thus the merry party went dancing and singing through the town, every one running out from their houses to greet and applaud them. a large number of carriages and vehicles of all sorts now appeared, conveying the inhabitants of the surrounding district, who came in summer attire, decked with spring flowers, preceded by a band of music. they all assembled before the town hall, when the flurry dance commenced. rows of ladies and gentlemen formed opposite each other, then, moving forward, they set to each other in couples, and proceeded thus, dancing and singing, down the streets. garden-gates stood open, and many of the doors of the larger houses. through them the dancers entered, continuing their evolutions up and down the gravel walks and through the halls, all ranks and classes mingling together. all seemed in good humour; in spite of the exercise they were taking, none appeared fatigued or willing to stop. the flurry tune which was played is a peculiar one, evidently of great antiquity, and probably the custom had its origin as far back as the feast of flora, when pagan rites were performed in the country, or, perhaps, it originally was instituted to celebrate a victory over the saxons; or it may be a remnant of some old celtic observance. few of those who took part in it cared much about its origin. the young people enjoyed the amusement of dancing and singing, and their elders their holiday and relaxation from business. dame lanreath and nelly had disposed of all their fish before the flurry dance began; they thus had ample time to watch what was going forward, nelly kept close to her grandmother, although she met several of her acquaintances, who stopped to have a talk, and she might easily, had she not been on the watch, have lost her in the crowd. in the evening the grander people were to have a ball at the town hall; but as the dame and nelly took no interest in watching the ladies in their gay dresses stepping from their carriages, they, having seen enough of the flurry dance to satisfy their curiosity, set out in company with several of their friends on their walk homeward. they were just leaving the town, when eban cowan overtook nelly, who was in company with another girl a short distance behind dame lanreath. "nelly," said eban, "i was in a great fright lest i should miss you. you are going away without seeing half the fun of the day; the people are only just getting into the spirit of the dance. i wanted you to take off that creel and have a turn with me. among all the fine ladies there is not one can compare with you for beauty in my eyes, and many a lad there would have been jealous of me, in spite of the white dresses and bright flowers of the girls." nelly laughed, thinking that eban was joking. her companion, who believed the common report, that eban cowan was an admirer of nelly trefusis, and that she encouraged him, dropped behind and joined another party, and eban and nelly were left alone. he at once changed his tone, which showed that he was deeply in earnest. "nelly," he said, "i have sought you for long years, and however others may admire you, they cannot care for you as i do--my love surpasses theirs a hundredfold. i can give you a comfortable home, and make you equal to any of the fine ladies we have been watching to-day. you need no longer carry that creel on your back, and slave as you have been doing, if you will become my wife. i tell you that i love you more than life itself, and ask you, will you marry me?" nelly would willingly have stopped eban from talking on, but had hitherto been unable to get in a word. "i have known you, eban cowan, since i way a girl, but i have never for one moment encouraged you to suppose that i would become your wife, and i now say positively that i cannot and will not. i thank you for all you have said to me, though i would rather you had left it unsaid; and i would wish to be friendly, as we have always been," she answered, firmly. "is that the only answer you can give me?" exclaimed eban. "i can give no other," replied nelly. "do you never intend to marry, then?" asked eban. "i am not compelled to tell you my intentions," said nelly. "do you love any one else? because i shall then know how to act," exclaimed eban. nelly thought for a moment. "i will tell him; it will be the kindest thing to do, as he will then understand that i can never marry him, and wisely seek another wife." "yes, eban cowan, i do love another," she said, in a low voice. "i love michael penguyne, and can be no other man's wife than his. you have long called him your friend; let him be your friend still, but give up all thoughts of me." "i now know how to act," muttered eban, gloomily. "i had no idea that you cared for him; and if you choose to become a poor fisherman's wife, you must follow your own course; only, do not suppose that i can cease to love you." "i cannot listen to what you say," exclaimed nelly, walking on rapidly, and feeling very indignant at eban's last remark. he did not attempt to follow her, and she soon overtook dame lanreath and the friends who were accompanying her. when she looked round, eban had disappeared. she felt greatly relieved at having got rid of him, and she hoped that, notwithstanding what he had said, he would abandon all hopes of becoming her husband. eban went home by another path, muttering fiercely that he would not be balked, and that michael should pay dearly for coming between him and the girl he loved. people little know, when they give way to their unbridled passions, into what crimes they may be led. day after day eban cowan pondered over his rejection by nelly, and chose to consider himself especially ill-treated. "she should have let me know years ago that she intended to marry that fellow. how can she think of preferring him, a poor, hard-working lad, to me?" he exclaimed; and dreadful thoughts came into his mind. he made no attempt to drive them from him. chapter nine. the autumn was drawing on. the pilchard harvest had not been as successful as the fishermen desired, and they kept their boats at sea in the hopes of obtaining a share of the schools of fish which still hovered off their coasts. the drift-nets now could only be used with any prospect of success, and michael was as active and energetic as ever. he had, indeed, greater reason for working hard, as nelly had promised to become his wife in the ensuing spring. he wished to make every preparation in his power that she might begin her married life with as much comfort as a fisherman's wife could hope to do. "only we must look after granny too, and try to save her the long trudges she has had to make; and repay her, though that would be a hard matter, for all the care she took of us when we were young," he observed to nelly, as they were talking over their future prospects. nelly heartily agreed with him; but when dame lanreath heard of their intentions, she laughed at the notion of giving up her daily walks to market. "more reason for nelly to stay at home to look after the house. wait a bit till my limbs grow stiffer than they are as yet, and till she has got a little damsel of her own to trot alongside her as she used to trot alongside me," she answered. "but, granny, i have been thinking of getting little mary lanaherne, uncle reuben's granddaughter, to go to market with me while you stay at home; she is quite ready to agree to my plan," said nelly. "ah, i see you want to become a fine lady now you are going to marry, and have an attendant of your own," said the dame, laughing. "bide a bit till you have need of help, and let my old limbs wag on while they have life in them." "that will be for many years to come, i hope, granny," said michael; "and to my eyes you don't seem to have become a day older since i first remember you, and that's longer than i can remember anything else; for i mind you holding me in your arms when father came home one day and gave me a fish to play with." "that was a good bit ago, michael, to be sure, and i should not like to have to lift you up now, lad, strong as my arms still are," answered the old dame, looking approvingly at the fine manly young fisherman as he stood before her. nelly, too, gave him a glance of tender affection, and all three laughed merrily. their hearts were light, for though theirs was a life of toil they willingly undertook their daily tasks, and were thankful for the blessings bestowed on them. "it is time for me to be off," said michael; "uncle reuben stays on shore this evening, so i am to act captain. we shall be back, i hope, soon after ten, as he always wishes us to be home early on saturday night, and as the weather looks pretty thick, and there is a nice lop of a sea on, we may expect to get a good haul." michael kissed nelly's clear brow, and bestowed his usual "buss," as he called it, on granny's withered cheek; then shouldering his oilskin coat, he took his way towards the landing-place at the mouth of the harbour. david and the rest of his crew were sitting about on the rocks with their short pipes in their mouths in readiness to go on board. uncle reuben had come down to see them off, and seemed half inclined to accompany them. "if it were not for these aches in my back and sides, and that i promised my dame to stay on shore this evening, i would go with you, lads. but keep your weather eyes open. i cannot say i quite like the look of the weather. it may turn out fine, but it is very thick away to the southward." "it will be fine enough for what we want, uncle reuben, and the `sea-gull' does not mind a bit of a swell and a stiffish breeze, and we shall be back again almost before there is time to send a second hand to the bellows," answered michael. "god go with you, lads," said the old fisherman as the lads sprang on board. "if the weather gets worse, haul your nets and make the best of your way back. we will keep the light burning on the point, so that you will not miss your road into harbour at all events." the "sea-gull" was shoved off, the oars got out, and, with her attendant drift-boat towing ahead, her hardy crew soon swept her out of the harbour. her tanned sails were then hoisted, and, close-hauled, she stood away to beat up to her intended fishing-grounds some distance to the southward, off the gull rock. the old fisherman stood watching her for some time, more than once saying to himself, "i wish that i had gone, the trip would not have hurt me; but michael is a careful lad, and, even if the weather does come on bad, he will not risk staying out longer than is prudent." bad, indeed, there shortly appeared every probability of the weather becoming. dark green seas came rolling in crested with foam, and breaking with increasing loudness of sound on the rocky shore; the wind whistled and howled louder and louder. uncle reuben buttoned up his coat to the chin as he gazed seaward. at last his daughter came to call him in to tea. "mother says you will be making yourself worse, father, standing out in the cold and damp." he obeyed the summons; still he could not help every now and then getting up and going to the door to see what the weather was like; each time he came back with a less favourable report. as it grew dark, in spite of his dame's expostulations he again went out and proceeded to the point, where he was also joined by three or four men, who had come either to attend to the beacon which was kept burning on dark nights, or to look out for the fishing-boats which they expected would at once return in consequence of the bad weather which had now in earnest set in. as soon as michael had left his home, a young girl, the child of a neighbour who lived further up the harbour in the direction of the mill, came running to the cottage, saying that her mother was taken ill, and that as her father and brothers were away fishing, there was no one to stay with her while she went to call for the doctor. nelly at once offered to go and stay with the poor woman, and to do her best. "no, i will go," said dame lanreath; "maybe i shall be able to tell what is best to be done as well as the doctor himself. do you run on, nancy, and i will come and look after your mother." as the dame was not to be contradicted, nelly continued the work in which she was engaged, and her grandmother set off with active steps towards her neighbour's cottage. nelly had not been long alone when she heard a hasty footstep approaching. the door opened, and eban cowan stood before her. a dark frown was on his brow, his eyes she thought had a wild and fierce expression she had never before seen them wear. her heart sank within her, and she in vain tried to speak in her usually friendly tone. "good evening, eban; what brings you here at this hour?" she said, on seeing him stand gazing at her without uttering a word. "nelly, i have come to ask you a question, and as you answer it you will make me more happy than i have been for many a long day, or you will send me away a miserable wretch, and you will never, it may be, see me again." "i shall be sorry not to see you again, eban, for we have been friends from our earliest days, and i hoped that we should always remain so," answered nelly, mustering all the courage she possessed to speak calmly. "that is what drives me to desperation," he exclaimed. "nelly, is it true that you are going to marry michael penguyne?" "i hope so, if it is god's will, as you ask me to tell you," said nelly, firmly. "i fancied that you were his friend, as you always were mine. and, eban, i pray that you may not feel any ill-will towards either of us, because we love each other, and are sure we shall be happy together." "is that the only answer you have to give me?" exclaimed eban, hoarsely. "i can say nothing more nor less," said nelly, gently. "i am very sorry that my answer should make you unhappy, but you insisted on having it, and i can say nothing more." eban gazed at her for a moment, and appeared to be about to utter a threat, but he restrained himself, and turning hastily round rushed out of the cottage. she was thankful that he had gone, yet a feeling of undefined fear of what he might do in his present angry mood stole over her. she was well aware of his fierce and daring character, and she had heard from her granny of desperate deeds done by men whose addresses had been rejected by girls whom they professed to love. she earnestly wished that the dame would soon come back, that she might tell her what had occurred and consult what was best to be done. had nelly known what was passing in the dark mind of eban cowan she would indeed have had cause for alarm. instead of going homewards he proceeded down towards the mouth of the harbour. on turning the point he scanned the spot where the fishing-vessels lay at anchor, and observed that the "sea-gull," among others, was away. "she will be back early to-night," he muttered, "and michael will pass this way homeward by himself, but his home he shall never reach, if i have my will. i am not going to let him come between me and the girl i have all my life intended to marry; he has no right to her: she is too good for a poor hard-working fisherman like him, and he will make her drudge all the best days of her life. if he were out of the way she would soon come round and look on me as she used to do." much more to the same effect he thought, working himself up to do, without compunction, the fearful act he meditated. the pathway between the quay at the mouth of the harbour, where the fishing-vessels landed their cargoes, and michael's house, at one place between the cliffs and the water, became so narrow that two people could with difficulty pass each other. close to this spot, however, there existed a hollow in the rock, in which a person standing was completely concealed, especially on a dark night, when it might be passed by without discovering that any one was within. eban cowan stood for some time watching the distant horizon, and as the evening drew on he observed through the gloom two or three fishing-boats running under close-reefed sails for the harbour's mouth. "one of those is the `sea-gull'; i must not be seen in the neighbourhood, or i may be suspected," he muttered, taking his way towards the lurking-place from which he intended to rush out and commit the crime he meditated. satan, ever ready to encourage those who yield to his instigations, persuaded him that he could do the deed without being discovered, and again and again he thought of the happiness he should enjoy with the pretty nelly as his wife, as if the soul guilty of the blood of a fellow-creature could ever enjoy happiness! there he stood listening amid the roar of the fast-rising gale for the step of his victim. suddenly he thought-- "but suppose she hates me, i shall have done a deed and gained nothing. she may suspect that i did it. why did i madly go and see her this evening? i had not intended to enter the cottage. had the dame not gone away i should not have thought of it. still, neither she nor any one else can swear that i am guilty. no eye will see me. the path is slippery: it will be supposed that he fell into the water." then at that moment a voice seemed to whisper to him the words michael had uttered long before, "god sees and hears and knows everything we do or say or think." it seemed to be that of michael, "the darkness is no darkness to him; the day and night to him are both alike." "oh, he sees me now; he knows what i am thinking of." the strong, daring smuggler trembled. "i cannot do it; miserable i may be, but i should be more miserable still if i had it ever present to my mind that i had killed in cold blood another man who never wished to offend me." he rushed from his concealment and threw the weapon he had hitherto clutched in his hand far away into the water. he was hurrying homewards, when he heard shouts coming up from the harbour's mouth. he caught the sounds; they were cries, for hands to man a boat. constitutionally brave, he was ready at that moment for any desperate service. he wanted something to drive away the fearful thoughts which agitated his mind; he dreaded being left to himself; he must be actively engaged or he should go mad, if he was not mad already. he hurried to the quay, alongside which a boat, kept ready for emergencies, was tossing up and down; she was not a life-boat, but still one well fitted to encounter heavy seas, and was used to go off to vessels which had got embayed or ran a risk of being driven on shore. "i am ready to go off, if you want another hand," he exclaimed. "you will do, and welcome. our number is now made up," answered uncle reuben, who was seated in the stern of the boat. eban leaped in. "whereabouts is the vessel in danger?" he asked. "i could not make her out." "she is my craft, the `sea-gull,'" said uncle reuben. "the `favourite,' which has just come in, saw her driving, with her mast gone, towards the gull rock, and if she strikes it there is no chance for her or the poor fellows on board. lord be merciful to them! we must do our best to try and save them, for no craft under sail will dare to stand near them, for fear of sharing their fate." eban knew that michael had gone away in the "sea-gull." should he risk his life to try and save that of his rival? he felt inclined to spring on shore again. the next instant uncle reuben gave the order to get out the oars. once actively engaged eban no longer wished to quit the boat, but the wild thought rose in his mind that michael might be lost, and then, his rival removed, that nelly would become his. in his selfishness he did not consider the grief she whom he professed to love would suffer; he, at all events, would not have inflicted it. he had not committed the crime he meditated, and yet might gain the object of his wishes. nelly had been anxiously waiting the return of dame lanreath; she was greatly agitated by eban's visit--unable to overcome the fear that he might do something desperate, but what that might be she could not tell. she frequently went to the door to see if her granny was coming. the night drew on, the fury of the storm increased. she thought of michael on the raging ocean engaged in hauling in his nets. the "sea-gull" would surely not remain out long in such weather; the fishing-vessels ought to be back by this time. she longed to run down to the harbour's mouth to ascertain if they had returned; then her granny might come in, and, finding her gone, not know what had become of her. the thought, too, that she might meet eban in his angry mood restrained her. "oh, what is going to happen?" she exclaimed, feeling more anxiety and alarm than she had ever before experienced. "o my dear, dear michael, why don't you come back to me? o merciful god, protect him!" she fell on her knees, hiding her face in her hands, and prayed for the safety of him who was on the foaming waters. she thought she heard her granny coming. she rose from the ground and, going to the door, looked out. no one was there; she heard the roaring of the breakers on the rocky coast, and the fierce wind howling up the wild glen, making the surface of the harbour bubble and hiss and foam, and sending the spray, mingled with the cold night wind, high up, even to where she stood. "i must go and learn why he does not come," she exclaimed. "oh, how i wish granny would come back! she may suffer harm coming along the rough path this bleak night in the dark." poor nelly felt in truth forlorn; but hers was a brave heart, which a fisherman's wife needs must have, or she could not endure the agitating suspense to which she must day after day throughout her life he exposed, when the tempest howls and the wild waves roar. she went in and put on her hood and cloak. in vain she strove to restrain her agitation. again she went to the door. she thought she saw through the thick gloom a figure approaching. "is that you, dear granny?" she cried out. "ay, nelly, though i have had a hard battle with the wind," answered dame lanreath, in her usually cheery voice. "but my journey is ended, and it was well i went to poor polly penduck when i did, for she was in a bad way; the doctor, however, has been with her, and she is all right now." nelly had run forward to lead her grandmother into the house, and she spoke the latter words on her way. "why, my child, what is the matter with you?" exclaimed the dame, as she saw her pale and agitated countenance. before nelly could answer, footsteps were heard outside. she hurried back to the door. "oh! can it be michael coming?" exclaimed nelly. "michael, michael, are you there?" "no, we be paul and joseph penduck," answered two young voices. "we are on our way home to mother." "your mother is well and sleeping, but do not make a noise, lads, when you go in," exclaimed dame lanreath, who had followed nelly to the door. "why are you in such a hurry?" "we needs be to get out of the storm, dame," answered one of the boys. "father told us to make haste home; but he has gone off in the `rescue' with uncle reuben lanaherne to look after the `sea-gull,' which they say has lost her mast, and was seen driving on the gull rock; there is little hope of any of the poor lads escaping aboard her." "what is that you say," shrieked poor nelly; "the `sea-gull' driving on shore?" "i forgot, mistress nelly, that michael penguyne was aboard her," answered the thoughtless boy. "i would not have said it to frighten you so, but it may be father and the others will find them if they are not all drowned before they get there." "o granny, i was afraid something dreadful was happening," exclaimed nelly, gasping for breath. "i must go down to the harbour's mouth. i do not mind the wind and rain; don't stop me, granny," for dame lanreath had taken nelly's arm, thinking she was about to fall, she trembled so violently. "let me go, granny, that i may hold him in my arms, and warm him, and breathe into his mouth when he is brought on shore. oh, i shall die if i stay at home, and he out struggling maybe for life in the cold foaming seas." "but the lads may be mistaken, dear nelly," urged dame lanreath; "it may not be the `sea-gull' that has met with the damage, and if she has michael and the rest, who are stout lads and know how to handle her, they may manage to keep her off the rocks, and get in safe notwithstanding." nelly, however, was not to be reasoned with. she knew the way to the harbour's mouth in the darkest night as well as by daylight; the rain and wind were nothing to her, and if michael had got safe on shore her anxiety would the sooner be set at rest, and she should be ready to welcome him. the dame, finding that she could not persuade nelly to remain at home, insisted on accompanying her, for though she had tried to make her believe that michael would return in safety, she herself could not help entertaining the fear that he had shared the fate of the many she had known in her time who had lost their lives on the treacherous ocean. nelly was not selfish, and though she felt that she must go forth, she was anxious that her granny should not again face the cruel storm. the dame, however, was determined to go, for she felt scarcely less anxiety than nelly. "well, nelly," she said at length, "if you won't let me go with you, i will just go by myself, and you must stay at home till i come back and tell you that michael has got on shore all safe." nelly yielded. she and the dame set off. they had a fierce battle to fight with the storm, which blew directly in their faces. they worked their way onwards, holding their cloaks tight round them. they at last reached the rocky point where, by the light of the beacon, they saw a group of men and women and boys and girls collected, with their gaze turned seaward, waiting anxiously for the appearance of the boat which had gone out over the dark and troubled ocean in search of their missing friends. the dame and nelly anxiously inquired what had happened. the answer made their hearts sink: the "sea-gull" had last been seen driving towards the rocks in an almost helpless condition; she might drop an anchor, but there was little expectation that it would hold. the only hope was that she might be reached before she was finally dashed to pieces, and those on board her had perished. chapter ten. the "rescue" gallantly made her way amid the dark foam-crested seas, which rolled in from the westward, each appearing heavier than its predecessor. uncle reuben kept gazing out ahead in anxious search of his little vessel, now encouraging his crew with the hopes that they would soon reach the spot which she must have reached, feeling his own heart, however, sink within him as he sought in vain to find her across the wildly tossing waters. the men needed no encouragement: they knew as well as he did that every moment was precious, and yet that after all they might arrive too late. eban pulled as hard as the rest; he would do his utmost to save the crew of the "sea-gull," yet he darkly hoped that their efforts might be vain. on they pulled; often reuben had to turn the boat's head to breast a threatening sea which, caught on the broadside, might have hurled her over. now again he urged his crew to redoubled efforts during a temporary lull. for some time he had been silent, keeping his eye on a dark spot ahead. it must be the "sea-gull." she was already fearfully near the rocks. the water there was too deep to allow her anchor to hold long, if holding it was at all. another fierce wave came rolling towards them. eager as uncle reuben was to make his way onward, he was compelled to put the boat's head towards it, and to give all his attention to avoid being buried beneath the foaming billows. the boat rose safely to its summit. a glance seaward told him that now was the time once more to make way to the south. he looked eagerly for his little vessel; the same sea had struck her. he caught but one glimpse of her hull as she was dashed helplessly against the rocks. still some of those on board might escape. every effort must be made to save them. though reuben told his crew what had happened, none hesitated to pull on. the boat approached the rock, her crew shouted to encourage those who might be clinging to it. the "sea-gull" had struck on the northernmost point, within which the sea, though surging and boiling, was comparatively quiet; and reuben was thus enabled to get nearer to the rock than he could have ventured to do on the outside, where it broke with a fury which would quickly have overwhelmed the boat. two men were distinguished through the gloom clinging to the rock, at the foot of which fragments of the hapless "sea-gull" were tossing up and down in the foaming waves. another sea such as that which wrecked their vessel might at any moment wash the men from their hold. a rope was hove to them, they fastened it round their waists and were dragged on board. they proved to be reuben's two sons. the father's heart was relieved, but he thought of his brave young captain. "where is michael, where are the rest?" he exclaimed. "gone, gone, father, i fear!" was the answer. "no, no! i see two more clinging to a spar!" shouted one of the men. "the sea is carrying it away, but the next will hurl it back on the rocks, and heaven protect them, for the life will be knocked out of their bodies." to approach the spot in the boat, however, was impossible without the certainty of her being dashed to pieces. "here, hand the bight of the rope to me," shouted eban, starting up; "i am the best swimmer among you--if any one can save them i can." as he uttered the words he sprang overboard, and with powerful strokes made his way towards the drowning men, while the rest, pulling hard, kept the boat off the rocks, to which she was perilously near. "here, here, take him, he is almost gone," said one of the men in the water, as eban approached them. "i can hold on longer." eban, grasping the man round the waist and shouting to those in the boat, was hauled up to her stern with his burden. reuben, assisted by the man pulling the stroke oar, lifted the rescued man into the boat, and eban once more dashed off to try and save the other. "who is it? who is it?" asked the crew, with one voice, for the darkness prevented them from distinguishing his countenance. no one replied. reuben hoped it might be michael--but all his attention was required for the management of the boat, and the rescued man, exhausted, if not severely injured, was unable to reply himself. eban was gallantly striking out towards the man who still clung to the spar, but he had miscalculated his strength--he made less rapid way than at first. a cry reached him, "help, mate! help!" he redoubled his efforts; but before he could reach the spot he saw a hand raised up, and as he grasped the spar he found that it was deserted. the brave fellow, whoever he was, had sacrificed his own life to save that of his drowning companion. eban, feeling that his own strength was going, shouted to those in the boat to haul him on board, and he was himself well-nigh exhausted when lifted over the side. one of reuben's sons took his oar. all further search for their missing friends proved in vain, and though thankful that some had been saved, with sad hearts they commenced their perilous return to the harbour. reuben's younger son, simon lanaherne, had gone aft and sat down by the side of the rescued man. "he is coming to, i believe." "which of the poor lads is he, simon?" asked his father. simon felt the man's face and dress, bending his head down to try and scan his features. "i cannot quite make out; but i am nearly sure it is michael penguyne," answered simon. "i am main glad if it be he, for poor nelly's sake," said reuben. "pull up your starboard oars, lads, here comes a sea," he shouted, and a tremendous wave came curling up from the westward. the attention of every one was engaged in encountering the threatened danger. "michael penguyne! have i saved him?" muttered eban cowan, with a deep groan. "he was destined to live through all dangers, then, and nelly is lost to me. fool that i was to risk my life when i might have lot him drown. no one could have said that i was guilty of his death." human ear did not listen to the words he uttered, and a voice came to him, "you would have been guilty of his death if you could have saved him and would not." he had recovered sufficiently to sit up, and, as he gazed at the angry sea around, his experienced eye told him that even now he and all with him might be engulfed beneath it ere they could reach the shore. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ nelly and her grandmother stood with the group of anxious watchers near the beacon-fire, straining their eyes in a vain endeavour to pierce the gloom which hung over the ocean. they could hear the sea's savage roar as it lashed the rocks at their feet and sent the spray flying over them; but they could only see the white crests of the waves as they rose and fell, and every instant it seemed to their loving hearts that these fierce waves came in with greater force than heretofore. could the "rescue," stout and well-formed as she was, live amid that fierce tumult of waters? might not those who had bravely gone forth to save their fellow-creatures, too probably perish with them? still, notwithstanding their fears, they listened hoping to hear the cry which those in the boat would raise as they drew near the shore, should success have attended their efforts. again and again they asked each other, if the boat would not now be returning? oh! how long the time seemed since they went away! a short half-hour had often sufficed to go to the gull rock and back. an hour or more had elapsed since the "rescue" left the harbour, and no sign of her could be discerned. "we must take into account the heavy seas she will have to meet; they will keep her busy for a goodish time with her bows towards them," observed an old fisherman. "uncle reuben knows what he is about, and if there is a man can steer the `rescue' on a night like this he can. a worse sea, in which a boat might live, i never saw. there is little likelihood of its getting better either, by the look of the sky." the last remark was not encouraging; still, while a possibility remained of the return of the boat, none among the anxious group would, in spite of the rain and spray and fierce wind, leave the point. at length a sharp-eyed youngster darted forward to the extreme end of the rock, at the risk of being washed off by the next breaker which dashed against it. "i see her! i see her!" he shouted. there was a rush forward. dame lanreath held her granddaughter back. "you cannot bring them in sooner, nelly," she said, "and, my child, prepare your heart for what god may have ordered. seek for strength, nelly, to be able to say, `thy will be done!'" "i am trying," groaned nelly; "but o granny, why do you say that?" "it is better to be prepared for bad tidings before they come," answered the dame; "but it maybe that god has willed that michael should be saved, and so let us be ready with a grateful heart to welcome him; but whichever way it is, remember that it is for the best." the dame herself, notwithstanding what she said, felt her own heart depressed. a simultaneous shout arose from the men and boys who had gone to the end of the point. "the boat! the boat! it is her, no doubt about it," they cried out, and then most of them hurried away to the landing-place to welcome their friends and assist them on shore. the dame and nelly followed them. some still remained at the point, knowing that there was yet another danger to be passed at the very entrance of the harbour, for a cross sea breaking at its mouth might hurl the boat, in spite of the efforts of the rowers, against the rocks, and those who had toiled so long, worn out with fatigue, would require assistance, for, unaided, their lives might be lost. as the boat drew near her crew raised a shout in return to the greeting, of their friends. perfect silence followed as the "rescue" neared the dangerous point. in an instant it was passed, though a sea breaking over her deluged the crew. "are they all saved?" shouted several voices. "some, but not all; but our boys are here: tell my dame," shouted reuben as the boat glided by. nelly heard the answer. with trembling knees she stood on the landing-place supported by dame lanreath, while the light of several lanterns fell on the boat and the figures of those in her as she came alongside. eager hands were ready to help the well-nigh exhausted crew on shore. nelly tried to distinguish the countenances of the men--the light falling on her pale face as she stooped over. "he is here, nelly; michael is safe," cried uncle reuben, and simon, with two or three others, speedily assisted michael on shore. nelly, regardless of those around, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed his lips and cheeks, while the dame with others helped him to move away from the quay. "i shall soon be strong again, nelly," he whispered. "god be praised for his mercies to us. my sorest thought was, as i felt myself in the breakers, that you and granny would be left without me to help you." at the moment that nelly's arms were about her betrothed, a man in the boat, refusing the aid of others, sprang on shore. as he passed, dame lanreath caught a glimpse of the haggard features of eban cowan. he rushed on without stopping to receive the greetings of any of those gathered on the quay, and was quickly lost to sight as he made his way up the glen. "eban seems in a strange mood," observed simon. "he might have stopped till michael and all of us had thanked him for his brave act; he seems as if he was sorry he had done it, or was wishing that he was with the other poor fellows who are lying out there among the rocks." michael was too weak to walk. uncle reuben invited him to come to his cottage; but he wished to return home, and there was no lack of willing arms to carry him. "where is david treloar?" he asked. "if it had not been for him i should have been washed off the spar, but he held me on till i was hauled on board." "david! poor fellow! he is among those who are gone," was the answer. "if it was he who was on the spar with you, he would not, it seems, quit it till he thought you were safe; and meantime his strength must have gone before help could reach him." "then he lost his life to save mine," said michael, deeply grieved. "and how was i saved?" "by that brave fellow, eban cowan, who jumped overboard, and brought you on board," answered uncle reuben. "where is he, that i may shake him by the hand, and thank him?" inquired michael; but eban was not to be found. michael hoped the next morning to be able to go to the mill and thank eban. nelly wondered at what she heard, recollecting eban's visit to her a few hours before; but she said nothing. indeed, by that time, with a sail, a litter had been rigged, on which his friends carried michael to his cottage, dame lanreath and nelly following them. the rest of the population of the village hastened to their homes, several with hearts grieving for those who had been lost. they did not, however, find any lack of friends to comfort them--for all could sympathise where all knew that the like misfortune might some day happen to themselves. uncle reuben, too, had ample cause for grief. the little vessel on which he depended for the subsistence of his family had gone to pieces, and it would be a hard matter to obtain another. and honest david and the other lads in whom he was interested were gone; but his young boys were saved, and he felt thankful for the mercies granted him. michael, carefully watched over by nelly, and doctored by the dame, soon recovered his strength. as soon as he was strong enough, he told nelly that he must go and tell eban how thankful he was to him for saving his life. nelly, on this, gave him an account of what had occurred on that eventful evening of the wreck. he was greatly astonished. "but he is a brave fellow, nelly; and though i cannot say what i should have been ready to do to him had i known it before, yet he saved my life, and risked his to do so, and i must not forget that. i must forget all else, and go and thank him heartily." "go, michael," said nelly, "and tell him that i bless him from my heart, and wish him every happiness; but do not ask him to come here. it is better for his sake he should not be seeing me and fancying that i can ever care for him." michael promised to behave discreetly in the matter, and set off. the heavy gale was still blowing. he wondered as he went along how the path was so much steeper and rougher than it used to be, not aware how greatly his strength had decreased. on reaching the mill he saw old cowan standing at the door. he inquired for eban. "where is he? that's more than i can tell you, lad," he answered. "he went away the other evening and has not since come back. i do not inquire after his movements, and so i suppose it is all right." michael then told the old man of the service his son had rendered him. "glad he saved thy life, lad; he is a brave fellow, no doubt of that; but it is strange that he should not have come in to have his clothes dried and get some rest." none of the household could give any further account of eban. michael, again expressing such thanks as his heart prompted, returned home. several days passed and rumours came that eban had been seen on the way to falmouth: and his father, who had become anxious about him, setting off, discovered that he had gone on board a large ship which had put in there to seek shelter from the gale. he had left no message, and no letter was received by any of his family to say why he had gone, or what were his intentions for the future. during the winter two or three seizures of smuggled goods were made; they belonged to the band of which eban was supposed to have been the leader: and old cowan, whose venture it was known they were, became gradually downcast and desponding. his fishing-boats were unsuccessful; he offered one for sale, which uncle reuben and michael purchased between them; another was lost; and, his mill being burned down, he died soon afterwards broken-hearted, leaving his family in utter destitution. in the spring michael and nelly married. the wedding, if not a very gay one, was the merriest which had occurred in the village for many a day, nor were any of the usual customs in that part of cornwall omitted. dame lanreath declared that she felt younger than she had been for the last ten years, or twenty for that matter, and uncle reuben had recovered from his rheumatism with the warm spring weather. the pilchard harvest in that year was unusually early and abundant, and michael was able to increase the size of his house and improve its appearance, while he gave his young wife many comforts, which he declared no one so well deserved. no one disputed the point; indeed, all agreed that a finer and happier young couple was not to be found along the cornish coast. they were grateful to god for the happiness they enjoyed, and while they prayed that it might be prolonged, and that their lives might be spared, they did not forget that he who had the power to give had the right to take away. but, trusting to his mercy and loving-kindness, they hoped that he would think fit to protect them during their lives on earth, while they could with confidence look forward to that glorious future where there will be no more sorrow and no more parting. the end. the young trawler, by r.m. ballantyne. chapter one. introduces deep-sea fishermen and their families. on a certain breezy morning in october--not many years ago--a wilderness of foam rioted wildly over those dangerous sands which lie off the port of yarmouth, where the _evening star_, fishing-smack, was getting ready for sea. in one of the narrow lanes or "rows" peculiar to that town, the skipper of the smack stood at his own door, grumbling. he was a broad burly man, a little past the prime of life, but prematurely aged by hard work and hard living. "he's always out o' the way when he's wanted, an' always in the way when he's not wanted," said the skipper angrily to his wife, of whom he was at the moment taking, as one of his mates remarked, a tender farewell. "don't be hard on him, david," pleaded the wife, tearfully, as she looked up in her husband's face. "he's only a bit thoughtless; and i shouldn't wonder if he was already down at the smack." "if he's not," returned the fisherman with a frown, as he clenched his huge right hand--and a hard and horny hand it was, from constant grappling with ropes, oars, hand-spikes, and the like--"if he's not, i'll--" he stopped abruptly, as he looked down at his wife's eyes, and the frown faded. no wonder, for that wife's eyes were soft and gentle, and her face was fair and very attractive as well as refined in expression, though not particularly pretty. "well, old girl, come, i won't be hard on 'im. now i'm off,--good-day." and with that the fisherman stooped to kiss his wife, who returned the salute with interest. at the same time she thrust a packet into his hand. "what's this, nell?" "a testament, david--from me. it will do your soul good if you will read it. and the tract wrapped round it is from a lady." the frown returned to the man's face as he growled--"what lady?" "the lady with the curious name, who was down here last summer for sea-bathing; don't you remember miss ruth dotropy? it is a temperance tract." david bright made a motion as though he were about to fling the parcel away, but he thought better of it, and thrust it into the capacious pocket of his rough coat. the brow cleared again as he left his wife, who called after him, "don't be hard on billy, david; remember he's our only one--and he's not bad, just a little thoughtless." "never fear, nell, i'll make a man of him." lighting a large pipe as he spoke, the skipper of the _evening star_ nodded farewell, and sauntered away. in another of the narrow lanes of yarmouth another fisherman stood at his own door, also taking leave of his wife. this man was the mate-- just engaged--of david bright's vessel, and very different in some respects from the skipper, being tall, handsome, fresh and young--not more than twenty-four--as well as powerful of build. his wife, a good-looking young woman, with their first-born in her arms, had bidden him good-bye. we will not trouble the reader with more of their parting conversation than the last few words. "now, maggie, dear, whatever you do, take care o' that blessed babby." "trust me for that, joe," said maggie, imprinting a kiss of considerable violence and fervour on the said baby, which gazed at its mother--as it gazed at everything--in blank amazement. "an' don't forget to see miss ruth, if you can, or send a message to her, about that matter." "i'll not forget, joe." the mate of the _evening star_ bestowed a parting kiss of extreme gentleness on the wondering infant, and hastened away. he had not proceeded far when he encountered a creature which filled his heart with laughter. indeed joe davidson's heart was easily filled with emotions of every kind, for he was an unusually sympathetic fellow, and rather fond of a joke. the creature referred to was a small boy of thirteen years of age or thereabouts, with a pretty little face, a grecian little nose, a rose-bud of a mouth, curly fair hair, bright blue eyes, and a light handsome frame, which, however, was a smart, active, and wiry frame. he was made to look as large and solid as possible by means of the rough costume of a fisherman, and there was a bold look in the blue eyes which told of a strong will. what amused joe davidson most, however, was the tremendous swagger in the creature's gait, and the imperturbable gravity with which he smoked a cigar! the little fellow was so deeply absorbed in thought as he passed the mate that he did not raise his eyes from the ground. an irresistible impulse seized on joe. he stooped, and gently plucked the cigar from the boy's mouth. instantly the creature doubled his little fists, and, without taking the trouble to look so high as his adversary's face, rushed at his legs, which he began to kick and pommel furiously. as the legs were cased in heavy sea-boots he failed to make any impression on them, and, after a few moments of exhausting effort, he stepped back so as to get a full look at his foe. "what d'ee mean by that, joe davidson, you fathom of impudence?" he demanded, with flushed face and flashing eyes. "only that i wants a light," answered the mate, pulling out his pipe, and applying the cigar to it. "humph!" returned the boy, mollified, and at the same time tickled, by the obvious pretence; "you might have axed leave first, i think." "so i might. i ax parding _now_," returned joe, handing back the cigar; "good-day, billy." the little boy, gazed after the fisherman in speechless admiration, for the cool quiet manner in which the thing had been done had, as he said, taken the wind completely out of his sails, and prevented his usually ready reply. replacing the cigar in the rose-bud, he went puffing along till he reached the house of david bright, which he entered. "your father's gone, billy," said mrs bright. "haste ye after him, else you'll catch it. oh! do give up smokin', dear boy. good-bye. god keep you, my darling." she caught the little fellow in a hasty embrace. "hold on, mother, you'll bust me!" cried billy, returning the embrace, however, with affectionate vigour. "an' if i'm late, daddy will sail without me. let go!" he shouted the last words as if the reference had been to the anchor of the _evening star_. his mother laughed as she released him, and he ran down to the quay with none of his late dignity remaining. he knew his father's temper well, and was fearful of being left behind. he was just in time. the little smack was almost under weigh as he tumbled, rather than jumped, on board. ere long she was out beyond the breakers that marked the shoals, and running to the eastward under a stiff breeze. this was little billy's first trip to sea in his father's fishing-smack, and he went not as a passenger but as a "hand." it is probable that there never sailed out of yarmouth a lad who was prouder of his position than little billy of the _evening star_. he was rigged from top to toe in a brand-new suit, of what we may style nautical garments. his thin little body was made to appear of twice its natural bulk by a broad-shouldered pilot-cloth coat, under which was a thick guernsey. he was almost extinguished by a large yellow sou'-wester, and all but swallowed up by a pair of sea-boots that reached to his hips. these boots, indeed, seemed so capacious as to induce the belief that if he did not take care the part of his body that still remained outside of them might fall inside and disappear. altogether--what between pride of position, vanity in regard to the new suit, glee at being fairly at sea and doing for himself, and a certain humorous perception that he was ridiculously small--little billy presented a very remarkable appearance as he stood that day on the deck of his father's vessel, with his little legs straddling wide apart, after the fashion of nautical men, and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his sea-going coat. for some time he was so engrossed with the novelty of his situation, and the roll of the crested waves, that his eyes did not rise much higher than the legs of his comparatively gigantic associates; but when curiosity at last prompted him to scan their faces, great was his surprise to observe among them joe davidson, the young man who had plucked the cigar from his lips in yarmouth. "what! are _you_ one o' the hands, joe?" he asked, going towards the man with an abortive attempt to walk steadily on the pitching deck. "ay, lad, i'm your father's mate," replied joe. "but surely _you_ are not goin' as a hand?" "that's just what i am," returned billy, with a look of dignity which was somewhat marred by a heavy lurch causing him to stagger. "i'm part owner, d'ee see, an' ready to take command when the old man retires, so you'd better mind your helm, young man, an' steer clear of impudence in future, if you don't want to lead the life of a dog aboard of this here smack." "i'll try, sir," said joe davidson, touching his forelock, while a humorous twinkle lit up his bright eyes. "hallo! billy!" shouted the skipper, who was steering; "come here, boy. you didn't come aboard to idle, you know; i've let you have a good look at the sea all for nothin'. it's time now that you went to work to larn your duties. zulu!" the last word caused a woolly head to protrude from the after hatchway, revealing a youth about twice the size of billy. having some drops of black blood in him this lad had been styled zulu--and, being a handy fellow, had been made cook. "here, take this boy below," said the skipper, "and teach him something--anything you like, so long as you keep him at work. no idlers allowed on board, you know." "yes, sar," said zulu. billy was delighted to obey. he was naturally a smart, active fellow, and not only willing, but proud, to submit to discipline. he descended a short ladder into the little cabin with which he had become acquainted, as a visitor, when the smack was in port on former occasions. with zulu he was also acquainted, that youth having been for some time in his father's service. "kin you do cookin'?" asked zulu with a grin that revealed an unusually large cavern full of glistening teeth, mingled with more than an average allowance of tongue and gums. "oh! i say," remonstrated billy, "it's growed bigger than ever!" zulu expanded his mouth to its utmost, and shut his eyes in enjoyment of the complimentary joke. "oh course it hab," he said on recovering; "i's 'bliged to eat so much at sea dat de mout gits wider ebery trip. dat leetle hole what you've got in your face 'll git so big as mine fore long, billy. den you be like some ob de leetle fishes we catch--all mout and no body worth mentioning. but you no tell me yit: kin you do cookin'?" "oh yes, i can manage a yarmouth bloater," replied billy. "but," said zulu, "kin you cook a 'tater widout makin' him's outside all of a mush, an' him's inside same so as a stone?" instead of answering, billy sat down on the settle which ran round the cabin and looked up at his dark friend very solemnly. "hallo!" exclaimed zulu. "there--there's something wrong wi' me," said billy, with a faint attempt to smile as he became rather pale. seeing this, his friend quietly put a bucket beside him. "i say, zulu," observed the poor boy with a desperate attempt at pleasantry, "i wonder what's up." "des nuffin' up yit but he won't be long," replied the young cook with a look full of sympathy. it would be unjust to our little hero to proceed further. this being, as we have said, his first trip to sea, he naturally found himself, after an hour or two, stretched out in one of the bunks which surrounded the little cabin. there he was permitted to lie and think longingly of his mother, surrounded by dense tobacco smoke, hot vapours, and greasy fumes, until he blushed to find himself wishing, with all his heart, that he had never left home! there we will leave him to meditate and form useless resolves, which he never carried out, while we introduce to the reader some of the other actors in our tale. chapter two. a contrast to chapter i. from that heaving grey wilderness of water called the north sea we pass now to that lively wilderness of bricks and mortar called london. west-end mansions are not naturally picturesque or interesting subjects either for the brush or the pen, and we would not willingly drag our readers into one of them, did not circumstances--over which we have not a shadow of control--compel us to do so. the particular mansion to which we now direct attention belonged to a certain mrs dotropy, whose husband's ancestors, by the way, were said to have come over with the conqueror--whether in his own ship or in one of the bumboats that followed is not certain. they were de tropys at that time, but, having sunk in the social scale in the course of centuries, and then risen again in succeeding centuries through the medium of trade, they reappeared on the surface with their patronymic transformed as now presented. "mother," said ruth dotropy to a magnificent duchess-like woman, "i've come to ask you about the poor--" "ruth, dear," interrupted the mother, "i wish you would not worry me about the poor! they're a troublesome, ill-doing set; always grumbling, dirty, ill-natured, suspicious, and envious of the rich--as if it was our fault that we are rich! i don't want to hear anything more about the poor." ruth, who was a soft-cheeked, soft-handed, and soft-hearted girl of eighteen, stood, hat in hand, before her mother with a slight smile on her rosy lips. "you are not quite just to the poor, mother," returned ruth, scarce able to restrain a laugh at her parent's vehemence. "some of them are all that you say, no doubt, but there are many, even among the poorest of the poor, who are good-natured, well-doing, unsuspicious, and respectful, not only to the rich but also to each other and to everybody. there is mrs wolsey, for instance, she--" "oh! but she's an exception, you know," said mrs dotropy, "there are not many like mrs wolsey." "and there is mrs gladman," continued ruth. "yes, but she's another exception." "and mrs robbie." "why, ruth, what's the use of picking out all the exceptions to prove your point? of course the exception proves the rule--at least so the proverb says--but a great many exceptions prove nothing that i know of, except--that is--but what's the use of arguing, child, you'll never be convinced. come, how much do you want me to give?" easy-going mrs dotropy's mind, we need scarcely point out, was of a confused type, and she "hated argument." perhaps, on the whole, it was to the advantage of her friends and kindred that she did so. "i only want you to give a little time, mother," replied ruth, swinging her hat to and fro, while she looked archly into mrs dotropy's large, dignified, and sternly-kind countenance, if we may venture on such an expression,--"i want you to go with me and see--" "yes, yes, i know what you're going to say, child, you want me to go and `see for myself,' which means that i'm to soil my boots in filthy places, subject my ears to profanity, my eyes to horrible sights, and my nose to intolerable smells. no, ruth, i cannot oblige you. of what use would it be? if my doing this would relieve the miseries of the poor, you might reasonably ask me to go among them, but it would not. i give them as much money as i can afford to give, and, as far as i can see, it does them no good. they never seem better off, and they always want more. they are not even grateful for it. just look at lady openhand. what good does she accomplish by her liberality, and her tearful eyes, and sympathetic heart, even though her feelings are undoubtedly genuine? only the other day i chanced to walk behind her along several streets and saw her stop and give money to seven or eight beggars who accosted her. she never _can_ refuse any one who asks with a pitiful look and a pathetic cock-and-bull story. several of them were young and strong, and quite undeserving of charity. three, i observed, went straight to a public-house with what she had given them, and the last, a small street boy, went into fits of suppressed laughter after she had passed, and made faces at her--finishing off by putting the thumb of his left hand to his nose, and spreading out his fingers as wide as possible. i do not understand the exact significance of that action, but there is something in it so intensely insolent that it is quite incompatible with the idea of gratitude." "yes, mother, i saw him too," said ruth, with a demure look; "it curiously enough happened that i was following you at the time. you afterwards passed the same boy with a refusal, i suppose?" "yes, child, of course--and a reproof." "i thought so. well, after you had passed, he not only applied his left thumb to his nose and spread his fingers, but also put the thumb of his right hand against the little finger of his left, and spread out the other five fingers at _you_. so, whatever he meant lady openhand to receive, he meant you to have twice as much. but lady openhand makes a mistake, i think, she does not _consider_ the poor; she only feels deeply for them and gives to them." "_only_ feels and gives!" repeated mrs dotropy, with a look of solemn amazement. being quite incapable of disentangling or expressing the flood of ideas that overwhelmed her, the good lady relieved herself after a few broken sentences, with the assertion that it was of no use arguing with ruth, for ruth would never be convinced. she was so far right, in that her daughter could not change her mind on the strength of mere dogmatic assertion, even although she was a pliant and teachable little creature. so, at least, mr lewis, her pastor, had found her when he tried to impress on her a few important lessons--such as, that it is better to give than to receive; that man _is_ his brother's keeper; that we are commanded to walk in the footsteps of jesus, who came to save the lost, to rescue the perishing, and who fed the hungry. "but, mother," resumed ruth, "i want you to go with me to-day to visit some poor people who are _not_ troublesome, who are perfectly clean, are never ill-natured, suspect nothing, and envy nobody." "they must indeed be wonderful people," said mrs dotropy, with a laugh at ruth's enthusiasm, "quite angelic." "they are as nearly so as mortals ever become, i think," returned ruth, putting on her hat; "won't you come, mother?" now, mrs dotropy had the faculty of giving in gracefully, although she could not argue. rising with an amused smile, she kissed ruth's forehead and went to prepare for a visit to the poor. let us now turn to a small street scarcely ten minutes' walk from the mansion where the above conversation took place. it was what may be styled a lilliputian street. almost everything in it was small. the houses were small; the shops were small; the rents-- well, they were certainly not so small as they should have been, the doors and windows were small; and the very children that played in the gutter, with an exceedingly small amount of clothing on them, were rather diminutive. some of the doors stood open, revealing the fact that it had been thought wise by the builders of the houses to waste no space in lobbies or entrance halls. one or two, however, displayed entries, or passages--dark and narrow--the doors to which were blistered and severely battered, because, being the public property of several families, they had no particular owner to protect them. there was a small flat over a green-grocer's shop to which one of the cleanest of those entries led. it consisted of two rooms, a light-closet and a kitchen, and was low-ceilinged and poorly furnished, but there was a distinct air of cleanliness about it, with a consequent tendency to comfort. the carpet of the chief room was very old, but it had been miraculously darned and patched. the table was little larger than that of a gigantic doll's-house, but it was covered with a clean, though threadbare, cloth, that had seen better days, and on it lay several old and well-thumbed books, besides two work-baskets. in an old--a very old--easy-chair at one side of the fire sat a lady rather beyond middle age, with her hands clasped on her lap, and her eyes gazing dreamily at the fire. perhaps she was speculating on the question how long two small lumps of coal and a little dross would last. the grate in which that amount of fuel burned was a miniature specimen of simplicity,--a mere hollow in the wall with two bars across. the fire itself was so small that nothing but constant solicitude saved it from extinction. there was much of grey mingled with the fair tresses of the lady, and the remains of beauty were very distinct on a countenance, the lines of which suggested suffering, gentleness, submission, and humility. perchance the little sigh that escaped her as she gazed at the preposterously small fire had reference to days gone by when health revelled in her veins; when wealth was lavished in her father's house; when food and fun were plentiful; when grief and care were scarce. whatever her thoughts might have been, they were interrupted by the entrance of another lady, who sat down beside her, laid a penny on the table, and looked at the lady in the easy-chair with a peculiar, half-comical expression. "it is our _last_, jessie," she said, and as she said it the expression intensified, yet it seemed a little forced. there needed no magician to tell that these two were sisters. the indescribable similarity was strong, yet the difference was great. jessie was evidently, though not much, the elder. "it's almost absurd, kate," she said, "to think that we should actually have--come--at last--to--" she stopped, and kate looked earnestly at her. there was a tremulous motion about the corners of both their mouths. jessie laid her head on kate's shoulder, and both wept--gently. they did not "burst into tears," for they were not by nature demonstrative. their position made it easy to slide down on their knees and bury their heads side by side in the great old easy-chair that had been carefully kept when all the rest was sold, because it had belonged to their father. we may not record the scarce audible prayer. those who have suffered know what it was. those who have not suffered could not understand it. after the prayer they sat down in a somewhat tranquil mood to "talk it over." poor things--they had often talked it over, without much result, except that blessed one of evolving mutual sympathy. "if i were only a little younger and stronger," said kate, who had been, and still was of a lively disposition, "i would offer myself as a housemaid, but that is out of the question now; besides, i could not leave you, jessie, the invalid of the family--that once was." "come, kate, let us have no reference to the invalid of the family any more. i am getting quite strong. do you know i do believe that poverty is doing my health good; my appetite is improving. i really feel quite hungry now." "we will have tea, then," said kate, getting up briskly; "the things that we got will make one good meal, at all events, though the cost of them has reduced our funds to the low ebb of one penny; so, let us enjoy ourselves while it lasts!" kate seized the poker as she spoke, and gave the fire a thrust that almost extinguished it. then she heaped on a few ounces of coal with reckless indifference to the future, and put on a little kettle to boil. soon the small table was spread with a white cloth, a silver teapot, and two beautiful cups that had been allowed them out of the family wreck; a loaf of bread, a very small quantity of brown sugar, a smaller quantity of skim-milk, and the smallest conceivable pat of salt butter. "and this took all the money except one penny?" asked jessie, regarding the table with a look of mingled sadness and amazement. "all--every farthing," replied kate, "and i consider the result a triumph of domestic economy." the sisters were about to sit down to enjoy their triumph when a bounding step was heard on the stair. "that's ruth," exclaimed kate, rising and hurrying to the door; "quick, get out the other cup, jessie. oh! ruth, darling, this is good of you. we were sure you would come this week, as--" she stopped abruptly, for a large presence loomed on the stair behind ruth. "i have brought mamma to see you, kate--the misses seaward, mamma; you have often heard me speak of them." "yes, dear, and i have much pleasure in making the misses seaward's acquaintance. my daughter is very fond of you, ladies, i know, and the little puss has brought me here by way of a surprise, i suppose, for we came out to pay a very different kind of visit. she--" "oh! but mamma," hastily exclaimed ruth, who saw that her mother, whom she had hitherto kept in ignorance of the circumstances of the poor ladies, was approaching dangerous ground, "our visit here _has_ to do with--with the people we were speaking about. i have come," she added, turning quickly to miss jessie, "to transact a little business with you--about those poor people, you remember, whom you were so sorry for. mamma will be glad to hear what we have to say about them. won't you, mamma?" "of course, of course, dear," replied mrs dotropy, who, however, experienced a slight feeling of annoyance at being thus dragged into a preliminary consideration of the affairs of poor people before paying a personal visit to them. being good-natured, however, and kind, she submitted gracefully and took note, while chairs were placed round the table for this amateur board, that ladies with moderate means--obviously _very_ moderate--appeared to enjoy their afternoon tea quite as much as rich people. you see, it never entered into mrs dotropy's mind--how could it?--that what she imagined to be "afternoon tea" was dinner, tea, and supper combined in one meal, beyond which there lay no prospective meal, except what one penny might purchase. with a mysterious look, and a gleam of delight in her eyes, ruth drew forth a well-filled purse, the contents of which, in shillings, sixpences, and coppers, she poured out upon the tea-table. "there," she said triumphantly, "i have collected all that myself, and i've come to consult you how much of it should be given to each, and how we are to get them to take it." "how kind of you, ruth!" exclaimed kate and jessie seaward, gazing on the coin with intense, almost miserly satisfaction. "nonsense! it's not kind a bit," responded ruth; "if you knew the pleasure i've had in gathering it, and telling the sad story of the poor people; and then, the thought of the comfort it will bring to them, though it _is_ so little after all." "it won't appear little in their eyes, ruth," said kate, "for you can't think how badly off some of them are. i assure you when jessie and i think of it, as we often do, it makes us quite miserable." poor misses seaward! in their sympathy with the distress of others they had quite forgotten, for the moment, their own extreme poverty. they had even failed to observe that their own last penny had been inadvertently but hopelessly mingled with the coin which ruth had so triumphantly showered upon the table. "i've got a paper here with the name of each," continued the excited girl, "so that we may divide the money in the proportions you think best. that, however, will be easy, but i confess i have puzzled my brain in vain to hit on a way to get poor bella tilly to accept charity." "that will be no difficulty," said jessie, "because we won't offer her charity. she has been knitting socks for sale lately, so we can buy these." "oh! how stupid i am," cried ruth, "the idea of buying something from her never once occurred to me. we'll buy all her socks--yes, and put our own price on them too; capital!" "who is bella tilly?" asked mrs dotropy. "a young governess," replied jessie, "whose health has given way. she is an orphan--has not, i believe, a relative in the whole world--and has been obliged to give up her last situation, not only because of her health, but because she was badly treated." "but how about poor mr garnet the musician?" resumed ruth, "has _he_ anything to sell?" "i think not," answered kate; "the sweet sounds in which he deals can now be no longer made since the paralytic stroke rendered his left arm powerless. his flute was the last thing he had to sell, and he did not part with it until hunger compelled him; and even then only after the doctors had told him that recovery was impossible. but i daresay we shall find some means of overcoming his scruples. he has relatives, but they are all either poor or heartless, and between the two he is starving." thus, one by one, the cases of those poor ones were considered until all ruth's money was apportioned, and mrs dotropy had become so much interested, that she added a sovereign to the fund, for the express benefit of bella tilly. thereafter, ruth and her mother departed, leaving the list and the pile of money on the table, for the sisters had undertaken to distribute the fund. before leaving, however, ruth placed a letter in kate's hand, saying that it had reference to an institution which would interest them. "now isn't that nice?" said kate, sitting down with a beaming smile, when their visitors had gone, "so like ruth. ah! if she only knew how much we need a little of that money. well, well, we--" "the tea is quite cold," interrupted jessie, "and the fire has gone out!" "jessie!" exclaimed kate with a sudden look of solemnity--"the _penny_!" jessie looked blankly at the table, and said--"gone!" "no, it is _there_," said kate. "yes, but ruth, you know, didn't count the money till she came here, and so did not detect the extra penny, and we forgot it. every farthing there has been apportioned on that list and must be accounted for. i couldn't bear to take a penny out of the sum, and have to tell ruth that we kept it off because it was ours. it would seem so mean, for she cannot know how much we need it. besides, from which of the poor people's little stores could we deduct it?" this last argument had more weight with kate than the others, so, with a little sigh, she proceeded to open ruth's letter, while jessie poured out a cup of cold tea, gazing pathetically the while at the pile of money which still lay glittering on the table. ruth's letter contained two pounds bank of england notes, and ran as follows:-- "dearest jessie and kate,--i sent your screen to the institution for the sale of needlework, where it was greatly admired. one gentleman said it was quite a work of genius! a lady, who seemed to estimate genius more highly than the gentleman, bought it for pounds, which i now enclose. in my opinion it was worth far more. however, it is gratifying that your first attempt in this way has been successful. "your loving ruth." "loving indeed!" exclaimed kate in a tremulous voice. jessie appeared to have choked on the cold tea, for, after some ineffectual attempts at speech, she retired to the window and coughed. the first act of the sisters, on recovering, was to double the amount on ruth's list of poor people, and to work out another sum in short division on the back of an old letter. "why did you deceive me, dear?" said mrs dotropy, on reaching the street after her visit. "you said you were going with me to see poor people, in place of which you have taken me to hear a consultation _about_ poor people with two ladies, and now you propose to return home." "the two ladies are themselves _very_ poor." "no doubt they are, child, but you cannot for a moment class them with those whom we usually style `the poor.'" "no, mother, i cannot, for they are far worse off than these. having been reared in affluence, with tenderer feelings and weaker muscles, as well as more delicate health, they are much less able to fight the battle of adversity than the lower poor, and i happen to know that the dear misses seaward are reduced just now to the very last extreme of poverty. but you have relieved them, mother." "i, child! how?" "the nursery screen that you bought yesterday by my advice was decorated by jessie and kate seaward, so i thought it would be nice to let you see for yourself how sweet and `deserving' are the poor people whom you have befriended!" chapter three. introduces consternation to a delicate household. the day following that on which mrs dotropy and ruth had gone out to visit "the poor," jessie and kate seaward received a visit from a man who caused them no little anxiety--we might almost say alarm. he was a sea-captain of the name of bream. as this gentleman was rather eccentric, it may interest the reader to follow him, from the commencement of the day on which we introduce him. but first let it be stated that captain bream was a fine-looking man, though large and rugged. his upper lip and chin were bare, for he was in the habit of mowing those regions every morning with a blunt razor. to see captain bream go through this operation of mowing when at sea in a gale of wind was a sight that might have charmed the humorous, and horrified the nervous. the captain's shoulders were broad, and his bones big; his waistcoat, also, was large, his height six feet two, his voice a profound bass, and his manner boisterous but hearty. he was apt to roar in conversation, but it was in a gale of wind that you should have heard him! in such circumstances, the celebrated bull of bashan would have been constrained to retire from his presence with its tail between its legs. when we say that captain bream's eyes were kind eyes, and that the smile of his large mouth was a winning smile, we have sketched a full-length portrait of him,--or, as painters might put it, an "extra-full-length." well, when captain bream, having mown his chin, presented himself in public, on the morning of the particular day of which we write, he appeared to be in a meditative mood, and sauntered slowly, with the professional gait of a sailor, through several narrow streets near london bridge. his hands were thrust into his coat-pockets, and a half humorous, half perplexed expression rested on his face. evidently something troubled him, and he gave vent to a little of that something in deep tones, being apt to think aloud as he went along in disjointed sentences. "very odd," he murmured, "but that girl is always after some queer-- well, no matter. it's my business to--but it does puzzle me to guess why she should want me to live in such an out-o'-the-way--however, i suppose _she_ knows, and that's enough for me." "shine yer boots, sir?" said a small voice cutting short these broken remarks. "what?" "shine yer boots, sir, an' p'raps i can 'elp yer to clear up yer mind w'en i'm a doin' of it." it was the voice of a small shoeblack, whose eyes looked wistful. the captain glanced at his boots; they wanted "shining" sadly, for the nautical valet who should have attended to such matters had neglected his duty that morning. "where d'ee live, my lad?" asked the captain, who, being large-hearted and having spent most of his life at sea, felt unusual interest in all things terrestrial when he chanced to be on shore. "i live nowheres in par-tickler," answered the boy. "but where d'ee sleep of a night?" "vell, that depends. mostly anywheres." "got any father?" "no, sir, i hain't; nor yet no mother--never had no fathers nor mothers, as i knows on, an' wot's more, i don't want any. they're a chancey lot, is fathers an' mothers--most of 'em. better without 'em altogether, to my mind. tother foot, sir." looking down with a benignant smile at this independent specimen of humanity, the captain obeyed orders. "d'ee make much at this work now, my lad?" asked the captain. "not wery much, sir. just about enough to keep soul an' body together, an' not always that. it was on'y last veek as i was starvin' to that extent that my soul very nigh broke out an' made his escape, but the doctor he got 'old of it by the tail an' 'eld on till 'e indooced it to stay on a bit longer. there you are, sir; might shave in 'em!" "how much to pay?" "vell, gen'lemen usually gives me a penny, but that's in or'nary cases. ven i has to shine boots like a pair o' ships' boats i looks for suthin' hextra--though i don't always get it!" "there you are, my lad," said the captain, giving the boy something "hextra," which appeared to satisfy him. thereafter he proceeded to the bridge, and, embarking on one of the river steamers, was soon deposited at pimlico. thence, traversing st. george's square, he soon found himself in the little street in which dwelt the misses seaward. he looked about him for some minutes and then entered a green-grocer's shop, crushing his hat against the top of the door-way. wishing the green-grocer good-morning he asked if lodgings were to be had in that neighbourhood. "well, yes, sir," he replied, "but i fear that you'd find most of 'em rather small for a man of your size." "no fear o' that," replied the captain with a loud guffaw, which roused the grocer's cat a little, "i'm used to small cabins, an' smaller bunks, d'ee see, an' can stow myself away easy in any sort of hole. why, i've managed to snooze in a bunk only five foot four, by clewin' up my legs-- though it wasn't comfortable. but it's not the size i care about so much as the character o' the landlady. i like tidy respectable people, you see--havin' bin always used to a well-kept ship." "ah! i know one who'll just suit you. up at the other end o' the street. two rooms kept by a young widow who--" "hold hard there," interrupted the captain; "none o' your young widows for me. they're dangerous. besides, big as i am, i don't want _two_ rooms to sleep in. if you know of any old maid, now, with _one_ room-- that's what would suit me to a tee; an easy-going sort o' woman, who--" "i know of two elderly _ladies_," interrupted the green-grocer, thoughtfully; "they're sisters, and have got a small room to let; but-- but--they're delicate sort o' creeters, you know; have seen better days, an' are raither timid, an' might want a female lodger, or a man who-- who--" "out with it," interrupted the captain, "a man who is soft-spoken and well-mannered--not a big noisy old sea-horse like me! is that what you would say?" "just so," answered the green-grocer with an amiable nod. "what's the name of the sisters?" "seaward." "seaward! eh!" exclaimed the captain in surprise. "that's odd, now, that a seafarin' man should be sent to seaward for his lodgin's, even when he gets on shore. ha! ha! i've always had a leanin' to seaward. i'll try the sisters. they can only tell me to 'bout ship, you know, and be off on the other tack." and again the captain gave such boisterous vent to his mirth that the green-grocer's cat got up and walked indignantly away, for, albeit well used to the assaults of small boys, it apparently could not stand the noise of this new and bass disturber of the peace. having ascertained that the misses seaward dwelt above the shop in which he stood, captain bream went straight up-stairs and rapped heavily at their door. now, although the sisters had been gradually reduced to the extreme of poverty, they had hitherto struggled successfully against the necessity of performing what is known as the "dirty work" of a house. by stinting themselves in food, working hard at anything they succeeded in getting to do, and mending and re-mending their garments until it became miraculous, even to themselves, how these managed to hang together, they had, up to that period in their history, managed to pay to a slender little girl, out of their slender means, a still more slender salary for coming night and morning to clean their grate, light their fire, carry out their ashes, brush their boots, wash their door-steps, and otherwise perform work for which the sisters were peculiarly unfitted by age, training, and taste. this girl's name was liffie lee. she was good as far as she went but she did not go far. her goodness was not the result of principle. she had no principle; did not know what the word meant, but she had a nature, and that nature was soft, unselfish, self-oblivious,--the last a blessing of incalculable price! it was liffie lee who responded to captain bream's knock. she was at the time about to leave the house in undisturbed possession of its owners--or rather, occupiers. "does a miss seaward live here?" it was a dark passage, and liffie lee almost quaked at the depth and metallic solemnity of the voice, as she glanced up at the spot where it appeared to come from. "yes, sir." "may i see her?" "i--i'll see, sir, if you'll wait outside, sir." she gently yet quickly shut the door in the captain's face, and next moment appeared in the little parlour with a flushed face and widely open eyes. the biggest man she had ever seen, or _heard_, she said, wanted to see miss seaward. why did he want to see her and what was his name? she didn't know, and had omitted to ask his name, having been so frightened that she had left him at the door, which she had shut against him. "an', please, miss," continued liffie, in a tone of suppressed eagerness, "if i was you i'd lock the parlour door in case he bu'sts in the outer one. you might open the winder an' screech for the pleece." "oh! liffie, what a frightened thing you are," remonstrated jessie, "go and show the man in at once." "oh! no, miss," pleaded liffie, "you'd better 'ave 'im took up at once. you've no notion what dreadful men that sort are. _i_ know 'em well. we've got some of 'em where _we_ live, and--and they're _awful_!" another knock at this point cut the conversation short, and kate herself went to open the door. "may i have a word with miss seaward?" asked the captain respectfully. "ye'es, certainly," answered kate, with some hesitation, for, although reassured by the visitor's manner, his appearance and voice alarmed her too. she ushered him into the parlour, however, which was suddenly reduced to a mere bandbox by contrast with him. being politely asked to take a chair, he bowed and took hold of one, but on regarding its very slender proportions--it was a cane chair--he smiled and shook his head. the smile did much for him. "pray take this one," said jessie, pointing to the old arm-chair, which was strong enough even for him, "our visitors are not usually such-- such--" "thumping walruses! out with it, miss seaward," said the captain, seating himself--gently, for he had suffered in this matter more than once during his life--"i'm used to being found fault with for my size." "pray do not imagine," said jessie, hastening to exculpate herself, "that i could be so very impolite as--as to--" "yes, yes, i know that," interrupted the captain, blowing his nose--and the familiar operation was in itself something awful in such a small room--"and i _am_ too big, there's no doubt about that however, it can't be helped. i must just grin and bear it. but i came here on business, so we'll have business first, and pleasure, if you like, afterwards." "you may go now," said kate at this point to liffie lee, who was still standing transfixed in open-mouthed amazement gazing at the visitor. with native obedience and humility the child left the room, though anxious to see and hear more. "you have a furnished room to let i believe, ladies," said the captain, coming at once to the point. jessie and kate glanced at each other. the latter felt a strong tendency to laugh, and the former replied:-- "we have, indeed, one small room--a very small room, in fact a mere closet with a window in the roof,--which we are very anxious to let if possible to a lady--a--female. it is very poorly furnished, but it is comfortable, and we would make it very cheap. is it about the hiring of such a room that you come?" "yes, madam, it is," said the captain, decisively. "but is the lady for whom you act," said jessie, "prepared for a particularly small room, and _very_ poorly furnished?" "yes, she is," replied the captain with a loud guffaw that made the very windows vibrate; "in fact _i_ am the lady who wants the room. it's true i'm not very lady-like, but i can say for myself that i'll give you less trouble than many a lady would, an' i don't mind the cost." "impossible!" exclaimed miss seaward with a mingled look of amusement and perplexity which she did not attempt to conceal, while kate laughed outright; "why, sir, the room is not much, if at all, longer than yourself." "no matter," returned the captain, "i'm nowise particular, an' i've been recommended to come to you; so here i am, ready to strike a bargain if you're agreeable." "pray, may i ask who recommended you?" said jessie. the seaman looked perplexed for a moment. "well, i didn't observe his name over the door," he said, "but the man in the shop below recommended me." "oh? the green-grocer!" exclaimed both ladies together, but they did not add what they thought, namely, that the green-grocer was a very impertinent fellow to play off upon them what looked very much like a practical joke. "perhaps the best way to settle the matter," said kate, "will be to show the gentleman our room. he will then understand the impossibility." "that's right," exclaimed the captain; rising--and in doing so he seemed about to damage the ceiling--"let's go below, by all means, and see the cabin." "it is not down-stairs," remarked jessie, leading the way; "we are at the top of the house here, and the room is on a level with this one." "so much the better. i like a deck-cabin. in fact i've bin used to it aboard my last ship." on being ushered into the room which he wished to hire, the sailor found himself in an apartment so very unsuited to his size and character that even he felt slightly troubled. "it's not so much the size that bothers me," he said, stroking his chin gently, "as the fittings." there was some ground for the seaman's perplexity, for the closet in which he stood, apart from the fact of its being only ten feet long by six broad, had been arranged by the tasteful sisters after the manner of a lady's boudoir, with a view to captivate some poor sister of very limited means, or, perhaps, some humble-minded and possibly undersized young clerk from the country. the bed, besides being rather small, and covered with a snow-white counterpane, was canopied with white muslin curtains lined with pink calico. the wash-hand stand was low, fragile, and diminutive. the little deal table, which occupied an inconveniently large proportion of the space, was clothed in a garment similar to that of the bed. the one solitary chair was of that cheap construction which is meant to creak warningly when sat upon by light people, and to resolve itself into match-wood when the desecrator is heavy. two pictures graced the walls--one the infant samuel in a rosewood frame, the other an oil painting--of probably the first century, for its subject was quite undistinguishable--in a gold slip. the latter was a relic of better days--a spared relic, which the public had refused to buy at any price, though the auctioneer had described it as a rare specimen of one of the old--the very old--masters, with rembrandtesque proclivities. no chest of drawers obtruded itself in that small chamber, but instead thereof the economical yet provident sisters, foreseeing the importance of a retreat for garments, had supplied a deal box, of which they stuffed the lid and then covered the whole with green baize, thus causing it to serve the double purpose of a wardrobe and a small sofa. "however," said captain bream, after a brief but careful look round, "it'll do. with a little cuttin' and carvin' here an' there, we'll manage to squeeze in, for you must know, ladies, that we sea-farin' men have a wonderful knack o' stuffin' a good deal into small space." the sisters made no reply. indeed they were speechless, and horrified at the bare idea of the entrance of so huge a lodger into their quiet home. "look ye here, now," he continued in a comfortable, self-satisfied tone, as he expanded his great arms along the length of the bed to measure it, "the bunk's about five foot eight inches long. well, i'm about six foot two in my socks--six inches short; that's a difficulty no doubt, but it's get-over-able this way, we'll splice the green box to it." he grasped the sofa-wardrobe as he spoke, and placed it to the foot of the bed, then embracing the entire mass of mattresses and bedding at the lower end, raised it up, thrust the green box under with his foot, and laid the bedding down on it--thus adding about eighteen inches to the length. "there you are, d'ee see--quite long enough, an' a foot to spare." "but it does not fit," urged kate, who, becoming desperate, resolved to throw every possible obstruction in the way. "that's true, madam," returned the captain with an approving nod. "i see you've got a mechanical eye--there's a difference of elevation 'tween the box and the bed of three inches or more, but bless you, that's nothin' to speak of. if you'd ever been in a gale o' wind at sea you'd know that we seadogs are used to considerable difference of elevation between our heads an' feet. my top-coat stuffed in'll put that to rights. but you'll have to furl the flummery tops'ls--to lower 'em altogether would be safer." he took hold of the muslin curtains with great tenderness as he spoke, fearing, apparently, to damage them. "you see," he continued, apologetically, "i'm not used to this sort o' thing. moreover, i've a tendency to nightmare. don't alarm yourselves, ladies, i never do anything worse to disturb folk than give a shout or a yell or two, but occasionally i do let fly with a leg or an arm when the fit's on me, an' if i should get entangled with this flummery, you know i'd be apt to damage it. yes, the safest way will be to douse the tops'ls altogether. as to the chair--well, i'll supply a noo one that'll stand rough weather. if you'll also clear away the petticoats from the table it'll do well enough. in regard to the lookin'-glass, i know pretty well what i'm like, an' don't have any desire to study my portrait. as for shavin', i've got a bull's-eye sort of glass in the lid o' my soap-box that serves all my purpose, and i shave wi' cold water, so i won't be botherin' you in the mornin's for hot. i've got a paintin' of my last ship--the daisy--done in water-colours--it's a pretty big 'un, but by hangin' samuel on the other bulk-head, an' stickin' that black thing over the door, we can make room for it." as captain bream ran on in this fashion, smoothing down all difficulties, and making everything comfortable, the poor sisters grew more and more desperate, and kate felt a tendency to recklessness coming on. suddenly a happy thought occurred to her. "but sir," she interposed with much firmness of tone and manner, "there is one great difficulty in the way of our letting the room to you which i fear cannot be overcome." the captain looked at her inquiringly, and jessie regarded her with admiration and wonder, for she could not conceive what this insurmountable difficulty could be. "my sister and i," continued kate, "have both an _unconquerable_ dislike to tobacco--" "oh! _that's_ no objection," cried the captain with a light laugh--which in him, however, was an ear-splitting guffaw--"for i don't smoke!" "don't smoke?" repeated both sisters in tones of incredulity, for in their imagination a seaman who did not smoke seemed as great an impossibility as a street boy who did not whistle. "an' what's more," continued the captain, "i don't drink. i'm a tee-total abstainer. i leave smokin' to steam-funnels, an' drinkin' to the fish." "but," persisted kate, on whom another happy thought had descended, "my sister and i keep very early hours, and a latch-key we could never--" "pooh! that's no difficulty," again interrupted this unconquerable man of the sea; "i hate late hours myself, when i'm ashore, havin' more than enough of 'em when afloat. i'll go to bed regularly at nine o'clock, an' won't want a latch-key." the idea of such a man going to bed at all was awesome enough, but the notion of his doing so in that small room, and in that delicately arranged little bed under that roof-tree, was so perplexing, that the sisters anxiously rummaged their minds for a new objection, but could find none until their visitor asked the rent of the room. then kate was assailed by another happy thought, and promptly named double the amount which she and jessie had previously fixed as its value--which amount she felt sure would prove prohibitory. her dismay, then, may be imagined when the captain exclaimed with a sigh--perhaps it were better to say a breeze--of relief:-- "well, then, that's all comfortably settled. i consider the rent quite moderate. i'll send up my chest to-morrow mornin', an' will turn up myself in the evenin'. i'll bid ye good-day now, ladies, an' beg your pardon for keepin' you so long about this little matter." he held out his hand. one after another the crushed sisters put their delicate little hands into the seaman's enormous paw, and meekly bade him good-bye, after which the nautical giant strode noisily out of the house, shut the door with an inadvertent bang, stumbled heavily down the dark stair and passage, and finally vanished from the scene. then jessie and kate seaward returned to their little parlour, sat down at opposite sides of the miniature grate, and gazed at each other for some minutes in solemn silence--both strongly impressed with the feeling that they had passed through a tremendous storm, and got suddenly into a profoundly dead calm. chapter four. billy bright the fisher-boy visits london--has a fight--enlarges his mind, and undertakes business. we must now return to the _evening star_ fishing-smack, but only for a few minutes at present. later on we shall have occasion to visit her under stirring circumstances. we saw her last heading eastward to her fishing-ground in the north sea. we present her now, after a two months' trip, sailing to the west, homeward bound. eight weeks at sea; nine days on shore, is the unvarying routine of the north sea smacksman's life, summer and winter, all the year round. two months of toil and exposure of the severest kind, fair-weather or foul, and little more than one week of repose in the bosom of his family-- varied by visits more or less frequent to the tap-room of the public-house. it is a rugged life to body and soul. severest toil and little rest for the one; strong temptation and little refreshment to the other. "strong temptation!" you exclaim, "what! out on the heaving billows and among the howling gales of winter on the north sea?" ay, stronger temptation than you might suppose, as, in the sequel, you shall see. but we are homeward bound just now. one of the gales above referred to is blowing itself out and the _evening star_ is threading her way among the shoals to her brief repose in yarmouth. the crew are standing about the deck looking eagerly towards the land, and little billy is steering. [see frontispiece.] yes, that ridiculous atom of humanity, with a rope, or "steering lanyard," round the tiller to prevent its knocking him down or sweeping him overboard, stands there guiding the plunging smack on her course through the dangerous shoals. of course billy's father has an eye on him, but he does not require to say more than an occasional word at long intervals. need we observe that our little hero is no longer subject to the demon which felled him at starting, and made his rosy face so pale? one glance at the healthy brown cheeks will settle that question. another glance at his costume will suffice to explain, without words, much of billy's life during the past eight weeks. the sou'-wester is crushed and soiled, the coat is limp, rent, mended, button-bereaved more or less, and bespattered, and the boots wear the aspect of having seen service. the little hands too, which even while ashore were not particularly white, now bear traces of having had much to do with tar, and grease, and fishy substances, besides being red with cold, swelled with sundry bruises, and seamed with several scars--for billy is reckless by nature, and it takes time and much experience of suffering to teach a man how to take care of his hands in the fisheries of the north sea! an hour or two more sufficed to carry our smack into port, and then the various members of the crew hurried home. billy swaggered beside his father and tried to look manly until he reached his own door, where all thought of personal appearance suddenly vanished, and he leaped with an unmanly squeal of delight into his mother's arms. you may be sure that those arms did not spare him! "you'll not go down to-night, david?" said mrs bright, when, having half choked her son, she turned to her husband. "no, lass,--i won't," said the skipper in a tone of decision. mrs bright was much gratified by the promise, for well did she know, from bitter experience, that if her david went down to meet his comrades at the public-house on his arrival, his brief holidays would probably be spent in a state of semi-intoxication. indeed, even with this promise she knew that much of his time, and a good deal of his hardly earned money, would be devoted to the publican. "we'll not have much of billy's company this week, i fear," said mrs bright, with a glance of pride at her son, who returned it with a look of surprise. "why so, nell?" asked her husband. "because he has got to go to london." "to lun'on!" exclaimed the father. "lun'on!" echoed the son. "yes; it seems that miss ruth--that dear young lady, miss ruth dotropy-- you remember her, billy?" "remember her! i should think i does," said the boy, emphatically, "if i was to live as long as meethusilim i'd never forget miss dotropy." "well," continued mrs bright, "she wrote and asked joe davidson's wife to send her a fisher-boy to london for a day or two, and she'd pay his railway fare up an' back, and all his expenses. what ever miss ruth wants to do with him i don't know, nor any one else. mrs davidson couldn't find a boy that was fit to send, so she said she'd wait till you came back, billy, and send _you_ up." "well, wonders ain't a-goin' to cease yet a while," exclaimed billy, with a look of gratified pride. "hows'ever, i'm game for anythink--from pitch an' toss up'ards. when am i to start, mother?" "to-morrow, by the first train." "all right--an' what sort o' rig? i couldn't go in them 'ere slops, you know. it wouldn't give 'em a k'rect idear o' yarmouth boys, would it?" "of course not sonny, an i've got ready your old sunday coat, it ain't too small for you yet--an' some other things." accordingly, rigged out, as he expressed it, in a well-mended and brushed pilot-cloth coat; a round blue-cloth cap; a pair of trousers to match, and a pair of new shoes, billy found himself speeding towards the great city with what he styled "a stiff breakfast under hatches, four or five shillings in the locker, an' a bu'stin' heart beneath his veskit." in a few hours he found himself in the bewildering streets, inquiring his way to the great square in the west end where mrs dotropy dwelt. the first person of whom he made inquiry was a street boy, and, while he was speaking, the city arab regarded the provincial boy's innocent face--for it was a peculiarly innocent face when in repose--with a look of mingled curiosity and cunning. "now look 'ee here, young 'un," said the arab, "i don't know nothink about the vest end squares, an' what's more i don't want to, but i do know a lot about the east end streets, an' if you'll come with me, i'll--" "thank 'ee, no," interrupted billy, with unlooked-for decision, "i've got business to look arter at the _west_ end." "yell, cooriously enough," returned the arab, "i've got business at the _east_ end. by the vay, you don't 'appen to 'ave any browns--any coppers--about you--eh?" "of course i has. you don't suppose a man goes cruisin' about lun'on without any shot in the locker, do you?" "to be sure not," responded the street boy; "i might 'ave know'd that a man like you wouldn't, anyhow. now, it so 'appens that i'm wery much in want o' change. you couldn't give me browns for a sixpence, could you?" the arab said this so earnestly--at the same time producing a sixpence, or something that looked like one, from his pockets--that the provincial boy's rising suspicions were quite disarmed. "let me see," he said, plunging his hand into his trousers pocket--"one, two, three--no, i've only got fourpence, but--" he was cut short by the arab making a sudden grasp at the coins, which sent most of them spinning on the pavement. like lightning little billy sprang forward and planted his right fist on the point of the arab's nose with such vigour that the blow caused him to stagger backwards. before he could recover billy followed him up with a left-hander on the forehead and a right-hander on the chest, which last sent him over on his back. so sudden was the onset that the passers-by scarcely understood what was occurring before it was all over. a grave policeman stepped forward at the moment. the arab rose, glided into a whirl of wheels and horses' legs, and disappeared, while billy stood still with doubled fists glaring defiance. "now then, my boy, what's all this about?" said the man in blue, placing a large hand gently on the small shoulder. "he's bin and knocked my coppers about," said our little hero indignantly, as he looked up, but the stern yet kindly smile on the policeman's face restored him, and he condescended on a fuller explanation as he proceeded to pick up his pence. having been cautioned about the danger of entering into conversation with strangers in london--especially with street boys--billy was directed to a pimlico omnibus, and deposited not far from his destination. inquiring his way thereafter of several policemen--who were, as he afterwards related to admiring friends, as thick in london as bloaters in yarmouth--he found himself in front of the dotropy residence. "yes, my little man," said the footman who opened the door of the west end mansion, "miss ruth is at 'ome, and 'as been expecting you. come this way." that footman lost ground in billy's estimation because of using the word _little_. if he had said "my boy," it would have been all right; "my man" would have been gratifying; but "my little man" was repulsive. a smart servant girl who chanced to see him on his way to the library also caused him much pain by whispering to her fellow something about a sweet innocent-faced darling, and he put on a savage frown, as he was ushered into the room, by way of counteracting the sweet innocence. a glass opposite suddenly revealed to its owner the smooth rosy-brown visage, screwed up in a compound expression. that expression changed so swiftly to sheer surprise, that a burst of involuntary laughter was the result. a deep flush, and silence, followed, as the urchin looked with some confusion round the room to see if he had been observed or overheard, and a sense of relief came as he found that he was alone. no one had seen or heard him except some of the dotropy ancestors who had "come over" with the conqueror, and who gazed sternly from the walls. for, you see, being a family of note, the dining-room could not hold all the ancestors, so that some of them had to be accommodated in the library. that glance round had a powerful effect on the mind of the fisher-boy, so powerful indeed that all thought of self vanished, for he found himself for the first time, in a room the like of which he had never seen, or heard, or dreamed of. he knew, of course, that there were libraries in yarmouth, and was aware that they had something to do with books, but he had never seen a collection on a large scale, and, up to that time, had no particular curiosity about books. indeed, if truth must be told, billy hated books, because the only point in regard to which he and his mother had ever differed was a book! a tattered, ragged, much-soiled book it was, with big letters at the beginning, simple arrangements of letters in the middle, and maddening compounds of them towards the end. earnestly, patiently, lovingly, yet perseveringly, had mrs bright tried to drill the contents of that book into billy's unwilling brain, but with little success, for, albeit a willing and obliging child, there was a limit to his powers of comprehension, and a tendency in his young mind to hold in contempt what he did not understand. one day a somewhat pedantic visitor told billy that he would never be a great man if he did not try to understand the book in question--to thoroughly digest it. "you hear what the gentleman says, billy, you dirty little gurnet," said david bright on that occasion, "you've got to di-gest it, my lad, to di-gest it." "yes, father," said billy, with a finger in his mouth and his eyes on the visitor. the boy's mind was inquisitive and ingenious. he pestered his father, after the visitor had gone, for an explanation as to what he meant by digesting the book. "why, sonny," returned david, knitting his brows very hard, for the question was somewhat of a puzzler, "he means that you've got to stow away in your brain the knowledge that's in the book, an' work away at it--di-gest it, d'ee see--same as you stow grub into yer stummick an' digest that." billy pondered this a long time till a happy thought occurred to him. "_i'll_ digest it," said he, slapping his thigh one day when he was left alone in the house. "we'll all di-gest it together!" he jumped up, took the lid off a pot of pea-soup that was boiling on the fire, and dropped the hated book into it. "what's this i' the soup, nell?" said david that day at dinner, as he fished a mass of curious substance out of the pot. "many a queer thing have i fished up i' the trawl from the bottom o' the north sea, but ne'er afore did i make such a haul as this in a pot o' pea-soup. what is't?" "why, david," replied the wife, examining the substance with a puzzled expression, "i do believe it's the primer!" they both turned their eyes inquiringly on the boy, who sat gravely watching them. "all right, father," he said, "i put 'im in. we're a-goin' to di-gest it, you know." "dirty boy!" exclaimed his mother, flinging the remains of the boiled book under the grate. "you've ruined the soup." "never a bit, nell," said the skipper, who was in no wise particular as to his food, "clean paper an' print can't do no damage to the soup. an' after all, i don't see why a man shouldn't take in knowledge as well through the stummick as through the brain. it don't matter a roker's tail whether you ship cargo through the main-hatch or through the fore-hatch, so long as it gits inside somehow. come, let's have a bowl of it. i never was good at letters myself, an' i'll be bound to say that billy and i will di-gest the book better this way than the right way." thus was the finishing touch put to billy bright's education at that time, and we have described the incident in order that the reader may fully understand the condition of the boy's mind as he stood gazing round the library of the west end mansion. "books!" exclaimed billy, afterwards, when questioned by a yarmouth friend, "i should just think there _was_ books. oh! it's o' no manner o' use tryin' to tell 'ee about it. there was books from the floor to the ceilin' all round the room--books in red covers, an' blue covers, an' green, an' yellow, an' pink, an' white--all the colours in the rainbow, and all of 'em more or less kivered wi' gold--w'y--i don't know what their insides was worth, but sartin sure am i that they couldn't come up to their outsides. mints of money must 'ave bin spent in kiverin' of 'em. an' there was ladders to git at 'em--a short un to git at the books below, an' a long un to go aloft for 'em in the top rows. what people finds to write about beats me to understand; but who ever buys and reads it all beats me wuss." while new and puzzling thoughts were thus chasing each other through the fisher-boy's brain ruth dotropy entered. "what! billy bright," she exclaimed in a tone of great satisfaction, hurrying forward and holding out her hand. "i'm so glad they have sent _you_. i would have asked them to send you, when i wrote, but thought you were at sea." "yes, miss, but i've got back again," said billy, grasping the offered hand timidly, fearing to soil it. for the same reason he sat down carefully on the edge of a chair, when ruth said heartily, "come, sit down and let's have a talk together," for, you see, he had become so accustomed to fishy clothes and tarred hands that he had a tendency to forget that he was now "clean" and "in a split-new rig." ruth's manner and reception put the poor boy at once at his ease. for some time she plied him with questions about the fisher-folk of yarmouth and gorleston, in whom she had taken great interest during a summer spent at the former town,--at which time she had made the acquaintance of little billy. then she began to talk of the sea and the fishery, and the smacks with their crews. of course the boy was in his element on these subjects, and not only answered his fair questioner fully, but volunteered a number of anecdotes, and a vast amount of interesting information about fishing, which quite charmed ruth, inducing her to encourage him to go on. "oh! yes, miss," he said, "it's quite true what you've bin told. there's hundreds and hundreds of smacks a-fishin' out there on the north sea all the year round, summer an' winter. in course i can't say whether there's a popilation, as you calls it, of over twelve thousand, always afloat, never havin' counted 'em myself, but i know there must be a-many thousand men an' boys there." "billy was right. there is really a population of over , men and boys afloat all the year round on the north sea, engaged in the arduous work of daily supplying the london and other markets with fresh fish." "and what port do they run for when a storm comes on?" asked ruth. "what port, miss? why, they don't run for no port at all, cos why? there's no port near enough to run for." "do you mean to say, that they remain at sea during all the storms--even the worst?" "that's just what we does, miss. blow high, blow low, it's all the same; we must weather it the best way we can. an' you should see how it blows in winter! that's the time we catches it wust. it's so cold too! i've not bin out in winter yet myself, but father says it's cold enough to freeze the nose off your face, an' it blows 'ard enough a'most to blow you inside out. you wouldn't like to face that sort o' thing-- would you, miss?" with a light laugh ruth admitted that she disliked the idea of such north sea experiences. "oh! you've no idea, miss, how it do blow sometimes," continued billy, who was a naturally communicative boy, and felt that he had got hold of a sympathetic ear. "have you ever heard of the gale that blew so 'ard that they had to station two men an' a boy to hold on to the captain's hair for fear it should be blowed right off his 'ead?" "yes," answered ruth, with a silvery laugh. "i've heard of that gale." "have you, miss?" said billy with a slightly surprised look. "that's queer, now. i thought nobody know'd o' that gale 'cept us o' the north sea, an', p'raps, some o' the people o' yarmouth an' gorleston." "i rather think that i must have read of it somewhere," said ruth. billy glanced reproachfully at the surrounding books, under the impression that it must have been one of these which had taken the wind out of his sails. "well, miss," he continued, "i don't mean for to say i ever was in a gale that obliged us to be careful of the skipper's hair, but i do say that father's seed somethink like it, for many a time our smack has bin blowed over on her beam-ends--that means laid a'most flat, miss, with 'er sails on the sea. one night father's smack was sailin' along close-hauled when a heavy sea struck 'er abaft the channels, and filled the bag o' the mains'l. she was just risin' to clear herself when another sea follared, filled the mains'l again, an' sent 'er on 'er beam-ends. the sea was makin' a clean breach over 'er from stem to stern, an' cleared the deck o' the boat an' gear an' everythink. down went all hands below an' shut the companion, to prevent 'er being swamped. meanwhile the weight o' water bu'st the mains'l, so that the vessel partly righted, an' let the hands come on deck agin. then, after the gale had eased a bit, two or three o' their comrades bore down on 'em and towed 'em round, so as the wind got under 'er an' lifted 'er a bit, but the ballast had bin shot from the bilge into the side, so they couldn't right her altogether, but had to tow 'er into port that way-- over two hundred miles--the snow an' hail blowin', too, like one o'clock!" "really, they must have had a terrible time of it," returned ruth, "though i don't know exactly how dreadful `one o'clock' may be. but tell me, billy, do the fishermen like the worsted mitts and helmets and comforters that were sent to them from this house last year?" "oh! don't they, just! i've heard them blessin' the ladies as sent 'em, many a time. you see, miss, the oil-skins chafe our wrists most awful when we're workin' of the gear--" "what is the gear, billy?" "the nets, miss, an' all the tackle as belongs to 'em. an' then the salt water makes the sores wuss--it used to be quite awful, but the cuffs keeps us all right. an' the books an' tracts, too, miss--the hands are wery fond o' them, an'--" "we will talk about the books and tracts another time," said ruth, interrupting, "but just now we must proceed to business. of course you understand that i must have some object in view in sending for a fisher-boy from yarmouth." "well, miss, it did occur to me that i wasn't axed to come here for nuffin'." "just so, my boy. now i want your help, so i will explain. we are to have what is called a drawing-room meeting here in a few days, in behalf of the mission to deep-sea fishermen, and one of your fisher captains is to be present to give an account of the work carried on among the men of the fleet by the mission vessels. so i want you to be there as one of the boys--" "not to speak to 'em, miss, i hope?" said billy, with a look of affected modesty. "no, not to speak," replied ruth, laughing, "only to represent the boys of the fleet. but that's not the main thing i want you for. it is this, and remember, billy, that i am now taking you into my confidence, so you must not tell what i shall speak to you about to any living soul." "not even to mother?" asked the boy. "no, not even--well, you _may_ tell it to your mother, for boys ought to have no secrets from their mothers; besides, _your_ mother is a discreet woman, and lives a long way off from london. you must know, then, billy, that i have two very dear friends--two ladies--who are in deep poverty, and i want to give them money--" "well, why don't you give it 'em, miss?" said billy, seeing that ruth hesitated. "you must have lots of it to give away," he added, looking contemplatively round. "yes, thank god, who gave it to me, i have, as you say, lots of it, but i cannot give it to the dear ladies i speak of because--because--" "they're too proud to take it, p'raps," suggested billy. "no; they are not proud--very far from it; but they are sensitive." "what's that, miss?" ruth was puzzled for a reply. "it--it means," she said, "that they have delicate feelings, which cannot bear the idea of accepting money without working for it, when there are so many millions of poor people without money who _cannot_ work for it. they once said to me, indeed, that if they were to accept money in charity they would feel as if they were robbing the really poor." "why don't they work, then?" asked billy in some surprise. "why don't they go to sea as stooardesses or somethink o' that sort?" "because they have never been trained to such work, or, indeed, to any particular work," returned ruth; "moreover, they are in rather delicate health, and are not young. their father was rich, and meant to leave them plenty to live on, but he failed, and left them in broken health without a penny. wasn't it sad?" "indeed it was, miss," replied the boy, whose ready sympathy was easily enlisted. "well, now, billy, i want you to go to see these ladies. tell them that you are a fisher-boy belonging to the north sea trawling fleet, and that you have called from a house which wants a job undertaken. you will then explain about the fishery, and how the wrists of the men are chafed, and break out into painful sores, and how worsted mitts serve the purpose at once of prevention and cure. say that the house by which you have been sent has many hands at work--and so i have, billy, for many ladies send the cuffs and things made by them for the fleet to _me_ to be forwarded, only they work gratuitously, and i want the work done by my two friends to be paid for, you understand? tell them that still more hands are wanted, and ask them if they are open to an engagement. you must be very matter-of-fact, grave, and businesslike, you know. ask them how many pairs they think they will be able to make in a week, and say that the price to be paid will be fixed on receipt of the first sample. but, remember, on no account are you to mention the name of the house that sent you; you will also leave with them this bag of worsted. now, do you fully understand?" billy replied by a decided wink, coupled with an intelligent nod. after a good deal of further advice and explanation, ruth gave billy the name and address of her friends, and sent him forth on his mission. chapter five. how billy conducts the business--how captain bream overcomes the sisters, and how jessie seaward sees mystery in everything. "i wonder," said billy to himself on reaching the street as he looked down at the legs of his trousers, "i wonder if they're any shorter. yes, they don't seem to be quite so far down on the shoes as when i left yarmouth. i _must_ have grow'd an inch or two since i came up to lun'on!" under this gratifying impression the fisher-boy drew himself up to his full height, his little chest swelling with new sensations, and his whole body rolling along with a nautical swagger that drew on him the admiration of some, the contempt of others, and caused several street boys to ask "if his mother knowed 'e was hout," and other insolent questions. but billy cared for none of these things. the provincial boy was quite equal to the occasion, though his return "chaff" smacked much of salt water. arrived at the poverty-stricken street in which the misses seaward dwelt, billy mounted the narrow staircase and knocked at the door. it was opened by liffie lee, who had remained on that day to accomplish some extra work. "is your missis at home, my dear?" "there ain't no missis here, an' i ain't _your_ dear," was the prompt reply. billy was taken aback. he had not anticipated so ready and caustic a response, in one so small and child-like. "come now--no offence meant," he said, "but you're not a-goin' to deny that the miss seawards does live here." "i ain't a-goin' to deny nothink," replied liffie, a little softened by the boy's apologetic tone, "only when i'm expected to give a civil answer, i expects a civil question." "that's all fair an' aboveboard. now, will you tell the miss seawards i wants to see 'em, on a matter of business--of importance." another minute and billy stood in the presence of the ladies he wished to see. prepared beforehand to like them, his affections were at once fixed for ever by the first glimpse of their kindly faces. with a matter-of-fact gravity, that greatly amused the sisters--though they carefully concealed their feelings--little billy stated his business, and, in so doing, threw his auditors into a flutter of hope and gratitude, surprise and perplexity. "but what is the name of the house that sends you?" asked miss jessie. "that i am not allowed for to tell," said the boy-of-business, firmly. "a mercantile house in the city, i suppose," said kate. "what sort o' house it may be is more than a sea-farin' man like me knows, an' of course it's in the city. you wouldn't expect a business-house to be in the country, would you? all i know is that they want mitts made--hundreds of 'em--no end o' mitts--an' they hain't got hands enough to make 'em, so they sent me to ask if you'll undertake to help in the work, or if they're to git some one else to do it. now, will you, or will you not? that's the pint." "of course we shall be only too happy," answered jessie, "though the application is strange. how did you come to know that we were in want of--that is, who sent you to us?" "the house sent me, as i said afore, miss." "yes, but how did the house come to know of our existence, and how is it that a house of any sort should send a sailor-boy as its messenger?" "how the house came to know of you is more than i can say. they don't tell me all the outs-an'-ins of their affairs, you know. as to a house sendin' a sailor-boy as its messenger--did you ever hear of the great house of messrs. hewett and company, what supplies billin'sgate with fish?" "i'm not sure--well, yes, i think i have heard of that house," said kate, "though we are not in the way of hearing much about the commercial houses of london." "well," continued billy, "that house sends hundreds of fisher-boys as messengers. it sends 'em to the deep-sea with a message to the fish, an the message is--`come out o' the water you skulkin' critters, an' be sent up to billin'sgate to be sold an' eaten!' the fish don't come willin'ly, i'm bound for to say that, but we make 'em come all the same, willin' or not, for we've wonderful powers o' persuasion. so you see, houses _do_ send fisher-boys as messengers sometimes; now, what am i to say to the partikler house as sends _me_? will you go in for mitts? you may take comforters if you prefer it, or helmets." "what do you mean by helmets, my boy?" "worsted ones, of course. things made to kiver up a man's head and neck and come down to his shoulders, with a hole in front just big enough to let his eyes, nose, and cheek-bones come through. with a sou'-wester on top, and a comforter round the neck, they're not so bad in a stiff nor'-wester in janoowairy. now's your chance, ladies, now, or niver!" there was something so ludicrous in the manly tone and decided manner of the smooth-faced little creature before them, that the sisters burst into a hearty fit of laughter. "forgive us, dear boy, but the idea of our being asked in this sudden way to make innumerable mitts and comforters and worsted helmets seems so odd that we can't help laughing. what is your name? that is not a secret, i hope?" "by no means. my name is billy bright. if you're very partikler, you may call me willum." "i prefer billy," said kate. "now, billy, it is near our dinner hour. will you stay and dine with us? if you do, you'll meet such a nice man--such a big man too--and somewhat in your own line of life; a sea-captain. we expect him every--" "no, thank 'ee, miss," interrupted the boy, rising abruptly. "i sees more than enough o' big sea-captings when i'm afloat. besides, i've got more business on hand, so i'll bid 'ee good-day." pulling his forelock he left the room. "the ladies has undertook some work for me, my dear," said billy to liffie lee, as he stood at the door buttoning up his little coat, "so p'raps i may see you again." "it won't break my 'art if you don't," replied liffie; "no, nor yet yours." "speak for yourself, young 'ooman. you don't know nothing about _my_ 'art." as he spoke, a heavy foot was heard at the bottom of the stair. "that's our lodger," said liffie; "no foot but his can bang the stair or make it creak like that." "well, i'm off," cried billy, descending two steps at a time. half-way down he encountered what seemed to him a giant with a chest on his shoulder. it was the darkest part of the stair where they met. "look out ahead! hard a starboard!" growled captain bream, who seemed to be heavily weighted. "ay, ay, sir!" cried billy, as he brushed past, bounded into the street, and swaggered away. "what boy was that, liffie?" asked the captain, letting down the chest he carried with a shock that caused the frail tenement to quiver from cellar to roof-tree. "i don't know, sir." "he must be a sailor-boy, from his answer," rejoined the captain. "open the door o' my cabin, lass, and i'll carry it right in. it's somewhat heavy." he lifted the chest, which was within an eighth of an inch of being too large to pass through the little door-way, and put it in a corner, after which he entered the parlour, and sat down in a solid wooden chair which he had supplied to the establishment for his own special use. "you see," he had said, on the day when he introduced it, "i've come to grief so often in the matter of chairs that i've become chary as to how i use 'em. if all the chairs that i've had go crash under me was put together they'd furnish a good-sized house. look before you leap is a well-known proverb, but, look before you sit down, has become a more familiar experience to me through life. it's an awkward thing bein' so heavy, and i hope you'll never know what it is, ladies." judging from their appearance just then there did not seem much prospect of that! "now," continued the captain, rubbing his hands and looking benignantly at jessie, "i have settled the matter at last; fairly said good-bye to old ocean, an' fixed to cast anchor for good on the land." "have you indeed, captain?" said jessie, "i should fancy that you must feel rather sorry to bid farewell to so old a friend." "that's true, miss seaward. an old and good friend the sea has been to me, thank god. but i'm gettin' too old myself to be much of a friend to _it_, so i've fixed to say good-bye. and the question is, am i to stop on here, or am i to look out for another lodgin'? you see i've been a good many weeks with you now, an' you've had a fair taste of me, so to speak. i know i'm a rough sort o' fish for the like o' you to have to do with, and, like some o' the hermit crabs, rather too big for my shell, so if you find me awkward or uncomfortable don't hesitate to say so. i won't be surprised, though i confess i should be sorry to leave you." "well, captain bream," said kate, who was generally the speaker when delicate, difficult or unpleasant subjects had to be dealt with, "since you have been so candid with us we will be equally candid with you. when you first came to us, i confess that we were much alarmed; you seemed--so very big," (the captain tried to shrink a little--without success--and smiled in a deprecating manner), "and our rooms and furniture seemed so very small and delicate, so to speak; and then your voice was so fearfully deep and gruff," (the captain cleared his throat softly--in b natural of the bass clef--and smiled again), "that we were almost frightened to receive you; but, now that we have had experience of you, we are quite willing that you should continue with us--on one condition, however." "and that is?" asked the captain anxiously. "that you pay us a lower rent." "a--a higher rent you mean, i suppose?" "no; i mean a lower." captain bream's benign visage became grave and elongated. "you see, captain," continued kate, flushing a little, "when you first came, we tried--excuse me--to get rid of you, to shake you off, and we almost doubled the rent of our little room, hoping that--" "quite right, quite right," interrupted the captain, "and according to strict justice, for ain't i almost double the size of or'nary men, an' don't i give more than double the trouble?" "not so," returned kate, firmly, "you don't give half the trouble that other men do." "excuse me, miss kate," said the captain with a twinkle in his grey eye, "you told me i was your first lodger, so how can you know how much trouble other men would give?" "no matter," persisted kate, a little confused, "you don't give _half_ the trouble that other lodgers would have given if we had had them." "ah! h'm--well," returned the captain softly, in the profoundest possible bass, "looking at the matter in that light, perhaps you are not far wrong. but, go on." "well, i have only to add," continued kate, "that you have been so kind to us, and so considerate, and have given us so little--so _very_ little trouble, that it will give us both great pleasure to have you continue to lodge with us, if you agree to the reduction of the rent." "very well," said captain bream, pulling out an immense gold chronometer--the gift, in days gone by, of a band of highly grateful and appreciative passengers. "i've got business in the city an hour hence. we shall have dinner first. two hours afterwards i will return with a cab and take away my boxes. that will give you plenty of time to make out your little bill and--" "what _do_ you mean, captain?" interrupted kate, in much surprise. "i mean, dear ladies, that you and i entered into an agreement to rent your little cabin for so much. now it has been my rule in life to stick to agreements, and i mean to stick to this one or throw up my situation. besides, i'm not goin' to submit to have the half of my rent cut off. i can't stand it. like old shylock, i mean to stick to the letter of the bond. now, _is_ it `to be, or not to be?' as hamlet said to the ass." "i was not aware that hamlet said that to an ass," remarked jessie, with a little laugh. "oh yes! he did," returned the captain quite confidently; "he said it to himself, you know, an' that was the same thing. but what about the agreement?" "well, since you are so determined, i suppose we must give in," said kate. "we can't resist you, captain," said jessie, "but there is one thing that we must positively insist on, namely, that you come and sit in this room of an evening. i suppose you read or write a great deal, for we see your light burning very late sometimes, and as you have no fire you must often feel very cold." "cold!" shouted the captain, with a laugh that caused the very window-frames to vibrate. "my dear ladies, i'm never cold. got so used to it, i suppose, that it has no power over me. why, when a man o' my size gets heated right through, it takes three or four hours to cool him even a little. besides, if it do come a very sharp frost, i've got a bear-skin coat that our ship-carpenter made for me one voyage in the arctic regions. it is hot enough inside almost to cook you. did i ever show it you? i'll fetch it." captain bream rose with such energy that he unintentionally spurned his chair--his own solid peculiar chair--and caused it to pirouette on one leg before tumbling backward with a crash. next minute he returned enveloped from head to foot in what might be termed a white-bear ulster, with an enormous hood at the back of his neck. accustomed as the sisters were to their lodger's bulk, they were not prepared for the marvellous increase caused by the monstrous hairy garment. "it would puzzle the cold to get at me through this, wouldn't it?" said its owner, surveying it with complacency. "it was my own invention too--at least the carpenter and i concocted it between us. "the sleeves are closed up at the ends, you see, and a thumb attached to each, so as to make sleeves and mittens all of a piece, with a slit near the wrists to let you shove your hands out when you want to use them naked, an' a flap to cover the slit and keep the wind out when you don't want to shove out your hands. then the hood, you see, is large and easy, so that it can be pulled well for'ard--so--and this broad band behind it unbuttons and comes round in front of the face and buttons, so--to keep all snug when you lay down to sleep." "wonderful!" exclaimed the sisters as the captain stood before them like a great pillar of white fur, with nothing of him visible save the eyes and feet. "but that's not all," continued the ancient mariner, turning his back to the sisters. "you see that great flap hooked up behind?" "yes," answered jessie and kate in the same breath. "well, then, notice what i do." he sat down on the floor, and unhooking the flap, drew it round in front, where he re-hooked it to another row of eyes in such a manner that it completely covered his feet and lower limbs. "there, you see, i'm in a regular fur-bag now, all ready for a night in the snow." by way of illustration he extended himself on the floor at full-length, and, by reason of that length being so great, and the room so narrow, his feet went into the window-recess, while his head lay near the door. all ignorant of this illustration of arctic life going on, liffie lee, intent on dinner purposes, opened the door and drove it violently against the captain's head. "avast there!" he shouted, rising promptly. "come in, lass. come in-- no damage done." "oh! sir," exclaimed the horrified liffie, "i ax your parding." "don't put yourself about my girl. i'm used to collisions, and it's not in the power o' your small carcass to do me damage." disrobing himself as he spoke, the lodger retired to his cabin to lay aside his curious garment, and liffie, assisted by kate, took advantage of his absence to spread their little board. "i never saw such a man," said kate in a low voice as she bustled about. "saw!" exclaimed jessie under her breath, "i never even conceived of such a man. he is so violent in his actions that i constantly feel as if i should be run over and killed. it feels like living in the same house with a runaway mail coach. how fortunate that his spirit is so gentle and kind!" a tremendous crash at that moment caused jessie to stop with a gasp. "hallo! fetch a swab--a dish-clout or somethin', liffie," came thundering from the captain's room. "don't be alarmed, ladies, it's only the wash-hand basin. knocked it over in hangin' up the coat. nothin' smashed. it's a tin basin, you know. look alive, lass, else the water'll git down below, for the caulkin' of these planks ain't much to boast of, an' you'll have the green-grocer up in a towering rage!" a few minutes later this curious trio sat down to dinner, and the captain, according to a custom established from the commencement of his sojourn, asked a blessing on the meat in few words, but with a deeply reverent manner, his great hands being clasped before him, and with his eyes shut like a little child. "well now, before beginning," he said, looking up, "let me understand; is this matter of the lodging and rent settled?" "yes, it is settled," answered jessie. "we've got used to you, captain, and should be very, very sorry to lose you." "come, that's all right. let's shake hands on it over the leg of mutton." he extended his long arm over the small table, and spread out his enormous palm in front of jessie seaward. with an amused laugh she laid her little hand in it--to grasp it was out of the question--and the mighty palm closed for a moment with an affectionate squeeze. the same ceremony having been gone through with kate, he proceeded to carve. and what a difference between the dinners that once graced--perhaps we should say disgraced--that board, and those that smoked upon it now! then, tea and toast, with sometimes an egg, and occasionally a bit of bacon, were the light viands; now, beef, mutton, peas, greens, potatoes, and other things, constituted the heavy fare. the sisters had already begun to get stronger on it. the captain would have got stronger, no doubt, had that been possible. and what a satisfactory thing it was to watch captain bream at his meals! there was something grand--absolutely majestic--in his action. being a profoundly modest and unselfish man it was not possible to associate the idea of gluttony with him, though he possessed the digestion of an ostrich, and the appetite of a shark. there was nothing hurried, or eager, or careless, in his mode of eating. his motions were rather slow than otherwise; his proceedings deliberate. he would even at times check a tempting morsel on its way to his mouth that he might more thoroughly understand and appreciate something that jessie or kate chanced to be telling him. yet with all that, he compelled you, while looking at him, to whisper to yourself--"how he does shovel it in!" "i declare to you, kate," said jessie, on one occasion after the captain had left the room, "i saw him take one bite to-day which ought to have choked him, but it didn't. he stuck his fork into a piece of mutton as big--oh! i'm afraid to say how big; it really seemed to me the size of your hand, and he piled quite a little mound of green peas on it, with a great mass of broken fragments and gravy, and put it all into his mouth at once, though that mouth was already pretty well-filled with the larger half of an enormous potato. i thought he would never get it in, but something you said caused him to laugh at the time, and before the laugh was over the bite had disappeared. before it was properly swallowed he was helping himself to another slice from the leg of mutton! i declare to you, kate, that many a time i have dined altogether on less than that one bite!" poor miss seaward had stated a simple truth in regard to herself, but that truth was founded on want of food, not on want of appetite or capacity for more. at first it had been arranged that an account-book should be kept, and that the captain should pay for one-third of the food that was consumed in the house, but he had consumed so much, and the sisters so ridiculously little, that he refused to fall in with such an arrangement and insisted on paying for all the food consumed, with the exception of the cup of coffee, cream, and sugar, with which he regaled himself every day after dinner. of course they had had a battle over this matter also, but the captain had carried the day, as he usually did, for he had marvellous powers of suasion. he had indeed so argued, and talked, and bamboozled the meek sisters--sometimes seriously, oftener jocularly,-- that they had almost been brought to the belief that somehow or other their lodger was only doing what was just! after all, they were not so far wrong, for all that they ate of the captain's provisions amounted to a mere drop in the bucket, while the intellectual food with which they plied their lodger in return, and the wealth of sympathy with which they surrounded him, was far beyond the power of gold to purchase. "no," said captain bream, sipping his coffee and shaking his head, when jessie again pressed on him the propriety of sitting in the parlour of an evening, "i can't do it. the fact is that i'm studying--though you may think i'm rather an oldish student--and i can't study except when i'm alone." "what are you studying?" asked kate, and then, observing that the captain looked slightly confused, and feeling that she ought not to have put the question, she quickly changed the subject by adding--"for whatever it is, you will be quite free from interruption here. my sister and i often sit for hours without talking, and--" "no, no, dear miss kate. say no more," interrupted the captain; "i must stick to my own cabin except at meal-times, and, of course, when we want a bit of a talk together. there is one thing, however, that i would like. i know you have family worship with your little lass. may i join you?" "oh! it would give us such pleasure," exclaimed kate, eagerly, "if you would come and conduct worship for us." the captain protested that he would not do that, but finally gave in, and afterwards acted the part of chaplain in the family. "by the way," he said, when about to quit the parlour, "i've brought another chest to the house." "yes," said kate, "we felt the shock when you put it down." "well, it is a bit heavy. i've fairly given up my connection with my last ship, and as the new commander took possession this morning i was obliged to bring away my last box. now, i don't want liffie to move it about when putting things to rights, or to meddle with it in any way. when we want to sweep behind or under it i'll shift it myself. but, after all, you're safe not to move it, for the three of you together couldn't if you were to try ever so much. so, good-day. i'll be back to tea." "kate," said jessie, after he was gone, "i am quite sure that there is some mystery connected with that box." "of course you are," replied kate, with a laugh, "you always see mystery in things that you don't understand! you saw mystery too, didn't you, in the late sitting up and studies of captain bream." "indeed i did, and i am quite sure that there _is_ some mystery about that, too." "just so, and i have no doubt that you observe mystery of some sort," added kate, with a humorous glance, "in the order for worsted work that we have just received." "undoubtedly i do," replied jessie, with decision. "the whole affair is mysterious--ridiculously so. in truth it seems to me that we are surrounded by mystery." "well, well, sister mine," said the matter-of-fact kate, going to a small cupboard and producing an ample work-box that served for both, "whatever mysteries may surround us, it is our business to fulfil our engagements, so we will at once begin our knitting of cuffs and comforters for the fishermen of the north sea." chapter six. the curse of the north sea; and the trawls at work. there are few objects in nature, we think, more soothing to the feelings and at the same time more heart-stirring to the soul than the wide ocean in a profound calm, when sky and temperature, health, hour, and other surrounding conditions combine to produce unison of the entire being. such were the conditions, one lovely morning about the end of summer, which gladdened the heart of little billy bright as he leaned over the side of the _evening star_, and made faces at his own reflected image in the sea, while he softly whistled a slow melody to which the gentle swell beat time. the _evening star_ was at that time the centre of a constellation--if we may so call it--of fishing-smacks, which floated in hundreds around her. it was the "short blue" fleet of deep-sea trawlers; so named because of the short square flag of blue, by which it was distinguished from other deep-sea fleets--such as the grimsby fleet, the columbia fleet, the great northern, yarmouth, red cross, and other fleets--which do our fishing business from year's end to year's end on the north sea. but billy was thoughtless and apt to enjoy what was agreeable, without reference to its being profitable. some of the conditions which rejoiced his heart had the reverse effect on his father. that gruff-spirited fisherman did not want oily seas, or serene blue skies, or reflected clouds and sunshine--no, what he wanted was fish, and before the _evening star_ could drag her ponderous "gear" along the bottom of the sea, so as to capture fish, it was necessary that a stiffish breeze should not only ruffle but rouse the billows of the north sea--all the better if it should fringe their crests with foam. "my usual luck," growled david bright, as he came on deck after a hearty breakfast, and sat down on the bulwarks to fill his pipe and do what in him lay to spoil his digestion--though, to do david justice, his powers in that line were so strong that he appeared to be invulnerable to tobacco and spirits. we use the word "appeared" advisedly, for in reality the undermining process was going on surely, though in his case slowly. his "hands," having enjoyed an equally good breakfast, were moving quietly about, paying similar attention to their digestions! there was our tall friend joe davidson, the mate; and ned spivin, a man of enormous chest and shoulders, though short in the legs; and luke trevor, a handsome young fellow of middle size, but great strength and activity, and john gunter, a big sour-faced man with a low brow, rough black hair, and a surly spirit. billy was supposed to be minding the tiller, but, in the circumstances, the tiller was left to mind itself. zulu was the only active member on board, to judge from the clatter of his pots and pans below. "my usual luck," said the skipper a second time, in a deeper growl. "seems to me," said gunter, in a growl that was even more deep and discontented than that of the skipper, "that luck is always down on us." "'tis the same luck that the rest o' the fleet has got, anyhow," observed joe davidson, who was the most cheerful spirit in the smack; but, indeed, all on board, with the exception of the skipper and gunter, were men of a hearty, honest, cheerful nature, more or less careless about life and limb. to the mate's remark the skipper said "humph," and gunter said that he was the unluckiest fellow that ever went to sea. "you're always growling, jack," said ned spivin, who was fond of chaffing his mates; "they should have named you grunter when they were at it." "i only wish the coper was alon'side," said the skipper, "but she's always out of the way when she's wanted. who saw her last?" "i did," said luke trevor, "just after we had crossed the silver pits; and i wish we might never see her again." "why so, mate?" asked gunter. "because she's the greatest curse that floats on the north sea," returned luke in a tone of indignation. "ah!--you hate her because you've jined the teetotallers," returned gunter with something of a sneer. "no, mate, i don't hate her because i've jined the teetotallers, but i've jined the teetotallers because i hate her." "pretty much the same thing, ain't it?" "no more the same thing," retorted luke, "than it is the same thing to put the cart before the horse or the horse before the cart. it wasn't total-abstainin' that made me hate the coper, but it was hatred of the coper that made me take to total-abstainin'--don't you see?" "not he," said billy bright, who had joined the group; "gunter never sees nothing unless you stick it on to the end of his nose, an' even then you've got to tear his eyes open an' force him to look." gunter seized a rope's-end and made a demonstration of an intention to apply it, but billy was too active; he leaped aside with a laugh, and then, getting behind the mast, invited the man to come on "an' do his wust." gunter laid down the rope's-end with a grim smile and turned to luke trevor. "but i'm sure you've got no occasion," he said, "to blackguard the coper, for you haven't bin to visit her much." "no, thank god, i have not," said luke earnestly, "yet i've bin aboard often enough to wish i had never bin there at all. it's not that, mates, that makes me so hard on the coper, but it was through the accursed drink got aboard o' that floatin' grog-shop that i lost my best friend." "how was that, luke? we never heerd on it." the young fisherman paused a few moments as if unwilling to talk on a distasteful subject. "well, it ain't surprisin' you didn't hear of it," he said, "because i was in the morgan fleet at the time, an' it's more than a year past. the way of it was this. we was all becalmed, on a mornin' much like this, not far off the borkum reef, when our skipper jumped into the boat, ordered my friend sterlin' an' me into it, an' went off cruisin'. we visited one or two smacks, the skippers o' which were great chums of our skipper, an' he got drunk there. soon after, a stiff breeze sprang up, an' the admiral signalled to bear away to the nor'-west'ard. we bundled into our boat an' made for our smack, but by ill luck we had to pass the coper, an' nothin' would please the skipper but to go aboard and have a glass. sterlin' tried to prevent him, but he grew savage an' told him to mind his own business. well, he had more than one glass, and by that time it was blowin' so 'ard we began to think we'd have some trouble to get back again. at last he consented to leave, an' a difficult job it was to get him into the boat wi' the sea that was runnin'. when we got alongside of our smack, he laid hold of sterlin's oar an' told him to throw the painter aboard. my friend jumped up an' threw the end o' the painter to one of the hands. he was just about to lay hold o' the side an' spring over when the skipper stumbled against him, caused him to miss his grip, an' sent him clean overboard. poor sterlin' had on his long boots an' a heavy jacket. he went down like a stone. we never saw him again." "did none o' you try to save him?" asked joe quickly. "we couldn't," replied luke. "i made a dash at him, but he was out o' sight by that time. he went down so quick that i can't help thinkin' he must have struck his head on the side in goin' over." luke trevor did not say, as he might have truly said, that he dived after his friend, being himself a good swimmer, and nearly lost his own life in the attempt to save that of sterling. "d'ye think the skipper did it a' purpose, mate?" asked david. "sartinly not," answered luke. "the skipper had no ill-will at him, but he was so drunk he couldn't take care of himself, an' didn't know what he was about." "that wasn't the fault o' the coper," growled gunter. "you say he got half-screwed afore he went there, an' he might have got dead-drunk without goin' aboard of her at all." "so he might," retorted luke; "nevertheless it _was_ the coper that finished him off at that time--as it has finished off many a man before, and will, no doubt, be the death o' many more in time to come." the copers, which luke trevor complained of so bitterly, are dutch vessels which provide spirits and tobacco, the former of a cheap, bad, and peculiarly fiery nature. they follow the fleets everywhere, and are a continual source of mischief to the fishermen, many of whom, like men on shore, find it hard to resist a temptation which is continually presented to them. "there goes the admiral," sang out little billy, who, while listening to the conversation, had kept his sharp little eyes moving about. the admiral of the fleet, among north sea fishermen, is a very important personage. there is an "admiral" to each fleet, though we write just now about the admiral of the "short blue." he is chosen for steadiness and capacity, and has to direct the whole fleet as to the course it shall steer, the letting down of its "gear" or trawls, etcetera, and his orders are obeyed by all. one powerful reason for such obedience is that if they do not follow the admiral they will find themselves at last far away from the steamers which come out from the thames daily to receive the fish; for it is a rule that those steamers make straight for the admiral's vessel. by day the admiral is distinguished by a flag half way up the maintop-mast stay. by night signals are made with rockets. while the crew of the _evening star_ were thus conversing, a slight breeze had sprung up, and billy had observed that the admiral's smack was heading to windward in an easterly direction. as the breeze came down on the various vessels of the fleet, they all steered the same course, so that in a few minutes nearly two hundred smacks were following him like a shoal of herring. the glassy surface of the sea was effectually broken, and a field of rippling indigo took the place of the ethereal sheet of blue. thus the whole fleet passed steadily to windward, the object being to get to such a position on the "fishing-grounds" before night-fall, that they could put about and sail before the wind during the night, dragging their ponderous trawls over the banks where fish were known to lie. night is considered the best time to fish, though they also fish by day, the reason being, it is conjectured, that the fish do not see the net so well at night; it may be, also, that they are addicted to slumber at that period! be the reason what it may, the fact is well-known. accordingly, about ten o'clock the admiral hove-to for a few minutes. so did the fleet. on board the _evening star_ they took soundings, and found twenty-five fathoms. then the admiral called attention by showing a "flare." "look out now, billy," said david bright to his son, who was standing close by the capstan. billy needed no caution. his sharp eyes were already on the watch. "a green rocket! there she goes, father." the green rocket signified that the gear was to be put down on the starboard side, and the fleet to steer to the southward. bustling activity and tremendous vigour now characterised the crew of the _evening star_ as they proceeded to obey the order. a clear starry sky and a bright moon enabled them to see clearly what they were about, and they were further enlightened by a lantern in the rigging. the trawl which they had to put down was, as we have said, a huge and ponderous affair, and could only be moved by means of powerful blocks and tackle aided by the capstan. it consisted of a thick spar called the "beam", about forty-eight feet long, and nearly a foot thick, supported on a massive iron hoop, or runner, at each end. these irons were meant to drag over the bottom of the sea and keep the beam from touching it. attached to this beam was the bag-net--a very powerful one, as may be supposed, with a small mesh. it was seventy feet long, and about sixteen feet of the outermost end was much stronger than the rest, and formed the bag, named the cod-end, in which the fish were ultimately collected. besides being stronger, the cod-end was covered by flounces of old netting, to prevent the rough bottom from chafing it too much. the cost of such a net alone is about pounds. to the beam, attached at the two ends, was a very powerful rope called the bridle. it was twenty fathoms long. to this was fastened the warp--a rope made of best manilla and hemp, always of great strength. the amount of this paid out depended much on the weather; if very rough it might be about fathoms, if moderate about . sometimes such net and gear is carried away, and this involves a loss of about pounds sterling. we may dismiss these statistics by saying that a good night's fishing may be worth from pounds to pounds, and a good trip--of eight weeks-- may produce from to pounds. soon the gear was down in the twenty-five fathom water, and the trawl-warp became as rigid almost as an iron bar, while the speed of the smack through the water was greatly reduced--perhaps to three miles an hour--by the heavy drag behind her, a drag that ever increased as fish of all sorts and sizes were scraped into the net. why the fish are such idiots as to remain in the net when they could swim out of it at the rate of thirty miles an hour is best known to themselves. besides the luminaries which glittered in the sky that night the sea was alive with the mast-head lights of the fishing smacks, but these lower lights, unlike the serenely steady lights above, were ever changing in position, as well as dancing on the crested waves, giving life to the dark waters, and creating, at least in the little breast of billy bright, a feeling of companionship which was highly gratifying. "now, lad, go below and see if zulu has got something for us to eat," said david to his son. "here, luke trevor, mind the helm." the young fisherman, who had been labouring with the others at the gear like a hercules, stepped forward and took the tiller, while the skipper and his son descended to the cabin, where the rest of the men were already assembled in anticipation of supper. the cabin was remarkably snug, but it was also pre-eminently simple. so, also, was the meal. the arts of upholstery and cookery had not been brought to bear in either case. the apartment was about twelve feet long by ten broad, and barely high enough to let joe davidson stand upright. two wooden lockers ran along either side of it. behind these were the bunks of the men. at the inner end were some more lockers, and aft, there was an open stove, or fireplace, alongside of the companion-ladder. a clock and a barometer were the chief ornaments of the place. the atmosphere of it was not fresh by any means, and volumes of tobacco smoke rendered it hazy. but what cared these heavy-booted, rough-handed, big-framed, iron-sinewed, strong-hearted men for fresh air? they got enough of that, during their long hours on deck, to counteract the stifling odours of the regions below! "now, then, boys, dar you is," said zulu, placing a huge pot on the floor, containing some sort of nautical soup. "i's cook you soup an' tea, an' dar's sugar an' butter, an' lots o' fish and biskit, so you fire away till you bu'st yourselves." the jovial zulu bestowed on the company a broad and genial grin as he set the example by filling a bowl with the soup. the others did not require a second bidding. what they lacked in quality was more than made up in quantity, and rendered delicious by appetite. conversation flagged, of course, while these hardy sons of toil were busy with their teeth, balancing themselves and their cups and bowls carefully, while the little vessel rolled heavily over the heaving waves. by degrees the teeth became less active and the tongues began to wag. "i wish that feller would knock off psalm-singin'," said gunter with an oath, as he laid down his knife and wiped his mouth. he referred to luke trevor, who possessed a sweet mellow voice, and was cheering himself, as he stood at the helm, by humming a hymn, or something like one, for the words were not distinguishable in the cabin. "i think that luke, if he was here, would wish some other feller to knock off cursin' an' swearin'," said joe. "come, joe," said the skipper, "don't you pretend to be one o' the religious sort, for you know you're not." "that's true," returned joe, "and i don't pretend to be; but surely a man may object to cursin' without bein' religious. i've heard men say that they don't mean nothin' by their swearin'. p'raps the psalm-singin' men might say the same; but for my part if they both mean nothin' by it, i'd rather be blessed than cursed by my mates any day." "the admiral's signallin', sir," sung out luke, putting his head down the companion at that moment. the men went on deck instantly; nevertheless each found time to light the inevitable pipe before devoting himself entirely to duty. the signal was to haul up the trawl, and accordingly all the fleet set to work at their capstans, the nets having by that time been down about three or four hours. it was hard work and slow, that heaving at the capstans hour after hour, with the turbulent sea tossing about the little smacks, few of which were much above seventy tons burden. one or two in the fleet worked their capstans by steam-power--an immense relief to the men, besides a saving of time. "it's hard on the wrists," said gunter during a brief pause in the labour, as he turned up the cuffs of his oiled frock and displayed a pair of wrists that might well have caused him to growl. the constant chafing of the hard cuffs had produced painful sores and swellings, which were further irritated by salt water. "my blessin's on de sweet ladies what takes so much trouble for us," said zulu, pulling up his sleeves and regarding with much satisfaction a pair of worsted cuffs; "nebber had no sore wrists since i put on dese. w'y you no use him, gunter?" "'cause i've lost 'em, you black baboon," was gunter's polite reply. "nebber mind, you long-nosed white gorilla," was zulu's civil rejoinder, "you kin git another pair when nixt we goes aboard de mission-ship. till den you kin grin an enjoy you'self." "heave away, lads," said the skipper, and away went the capstan again as the men grasped the handles and bent their strong backs, sometimes heaving in a few turns of the great rope with a run, as the trawl probably passed over a smooth bit of sand; sometimes drawing it in with difficulty, inch by inch, as the net was drawn over some rough or rocky place, and occasionally coming for a time to a dead lock, when--as is not unfrequently the case--they caught hold of a bit of old wreck, or, worse still, were caught by the fluke of a lost anchor. thus painfully but steadily they toiled, until the bridle or rope next to the beam appeared above the waves, and then they knew that the end of all their labour was at hand. chapter seven. a haul and its consequences--mysterious news from the land. "now billy, you shrimp," cried david bright, seizing his son by the collar and giving him a friendly shake that would have been thought severe handling by any but a fisher-boy, "don't go excitin' of yourself. you'll never make a man worth speakin' of if you can't keep down your feelin's." but billy could not keep down his feelings. they were too strong for him. he was naturally of an excitable--what we may call a jovial-- jumping--disposition, and, although he had now been some months at sea, he had not yet succeeded in crushing down that burst of delight with which he viewed the cod-end of the great deep-sea net as it was hoisted over the side by the power of block and tackle. "you never trouble yourself about my feelin's, father, so long's i do my dooty," said the boy with native insolence, as he looked eagerly over the side at the mass of fish which gleamed faintly white as it neared the surface, while he helped with all his little might to draw in the net. "but i want to teach you more than dooty, my boy," returned the skipper. "i've got to make a man of you. i promised that to your mother, you know. if you want to be a man, you must foller my example--be cool an' steady." "if i'm to foller your example, father, why don't you let me foller it all round, an' smoke an' drink as well?" "shut up, you agrawatin' sinner," growled the skipper. "heave away, lads. here, hand me the rope, an' send aft the tackle." by this time the heavy beam had been secured to the side of the vessel, most of the net hauled in, and the bag, or cod-end, was above the surface filled almost to bursting with upwards of a ton of turbots, soles, haddocks, plaice, dabs, whitings, etcetera, besides several hundredweight of mud, weeds, stones, and oysters. sometimes, indeed, this bag does burst, and in one moment all the profit and toil of a night's fishing is lost. when the skipper had secured a strong rope round the bag and hooked it on to a block and tackle made fast to the rigging, the order was given to heave away, and gradually the ponderous mass rose like an oval balloon, or buoy, over the vessel's side. when it cleared the rail it was swung inwards and secured in a hanging position, with the lower end sweeping the deck as the smack rolled from side to side. in all these operations, from the prolonged heaving at the capstan to the hauling in of the net, hand over hand, the men were exerting their great physical powers to the uttermost--almost without a moment's relaxation--besides being deluged at times by spray, which, however, their oiled frocks, long boots, and sou'-westers prevented from quite drenching them. but now all danger of loss was over, and they proceeded to liberate the fish. the cod-end had its lower part secured by a strong rope. all that had to be done, therefore, was to untie the rope and open the bottom of the net. it fell to luke trevor to do this. billy was standing by in eager expectation. ned spivin stood behind him. now, we have said that spivin was fond of chaffing his mates and of practical jokes. so was billy, and between these two, therefore, there was a species of rivalry. when spivin observed that luke was about to pull out the last loop that held the bag, he shouted in a loud voice of alarm-- "hallo! billy, catch hold of this rope, quick!" billy turned like a flash of light and seized the rope held out to him. the momentary distraction was enough. before he could understand the joke the bottom of the bag opened, the ton-and-a-half, more or less, of fish burst forth, spread itself over the deck like an avalanche, swept billy off his little legs, and almost overwhelmed him, to the immense delight of spivin, who impudently bent down and offered to help him to rise. "come here, billy, and i'll help you up," he said, kindly, as the tail of a skate flipped across the boy's nose, and almost slid into his mouth. billy made no reply, but, clearing himself of fish, jumped up, seized a gaping cod by the gills, and sent it all alive and kicking straight into spivin's face. the aim was true. the man was blinded for a few moments by the fish, and his mates were well-nigh choked with laughter. "come, come--no sky-larking!" growled the skipper. "play when your work is done, boys." thus reproved, the crew began to clear away the mass of weeds and refuse, after which all hands prepared the trawl to be ready for going down again, and then they set to work to clean and sort the fish. this was comparatively easy work at that season of the year, but when winter gales and winter frosts sweep over the north sea, only those who suffer it know what it is to stand on the slimy pitching deck with naked and benumbed hands, disembowelling fish and packing them in small oblong boxes called "trunks," for the london market. and little do londoners think, perhaps, when eating their turbot, sole, plaice, cod, haddock, whiting, or other fish, by what severe night-work, amid bitter cold, and too often tremendous risks, the food has been provided for them. it is not, however, our purpose to moralise just now, though we might do so with great propriety, but to tell our story, on which some of the seemingly trifling incidents of that night had a special bearing. one of those incidents was the cutting of a finger. ned spivin, whose tendency towards fun and frolic at all times rendered him rather slap-dash and careless, was engaged in the rather ignoble work of cutting off skates' tails--these appendages not being deemed marketable. this operation he performed with a hatchet, but some one borrowed the hatchet for a few minutes, and spivin continued the operation with his knife. one of the tails being tough, and the knife blunt, the impatient man used violence. impatience and violence not unfrequently result in damage. the tail gave way unexpectedly, and spivin cut a deep gash in his left hand. cuts, gashes, and bruises are the frequent experience of smacksmen. spivin bound up the gash with a handkerchief, and went on with his work. before their work was quite done, however, a gale, which had been threatening from the nor'-west, set in with considerable force, and rapidly increased, so that the packing of the last few trunks, and stowing them into the hold, became a matter not only of difficulty but of danger. by that time the sky had clouded over, and the lantern in the rigging alone gave light. "it will blow harder," said trevor to billy as they stood under shelter of the weather bulwarks holding on to the shrouds. "does it never come into your mind to think where we would all go to if the _evening star_ went down?" "no, luke. i can't say as it does. somehow i never think of father's smack goin' down." "and yet," returned luke in a meditative tone, "it may happen, you know, any night. it's not six months since the _raven_ went down, with all hands, though she was as tight a craft as any in the fleet, and her captain was a first-rate seaman, besides bein' steady." "ay, but then, you see," said billy, "she was took by three heavy seas one arter the other, and no vessel, you know, could stand that." "no, not even the _evening star_ if she was took that fashion, an' we never know when it's goin' to happen. i suspect, billy, that the psalm-singers, as gunter calls 'em, has the best of it. they work as well as any men in the fleet--sometimes i think better--an' then they're always in such a jolly state o' mind! if good luck comes, they praise god for it, an' if bad luck comes they praise god that it's no worse. whatever turns up they appear to be in a thankful state o' mind, and that seems to me a deal better than growlin', swearin', and grumblin', as so many of us do at what we can't change. what d'ee think, billy?" "well, to tell 'ee the truth, luke, i don't think about it at all-- anyhow, i've never thought about it till to-night." "but it's worth thinkin' about, billy?" "that's true," returned the boy, who was of a naturally straightforward disposition, and never feared to express his opinions freely. just then a sea rose on the weather quarter, threatening, apparently, to fall inboard. so many waves had done the same thing before, that no one seemed to regard it much; but the experienced eye of the skipper noticed a difference, and he had barely time to give a warning shout when the wave rushed over the side like a mighty river, and swept the deck from stem to stern. many loose articles were swept away and lost, and the boat which lay on the deck alongside of the mast, had a narrow escape. billy and his friend luke, being well under the lee of the bulwarks, escaped the full force of the deluge, but ned spivin, who steered, was all but torn from his position, though he clung with all his strength to the tiller and the rope that held it fast. the skipper was under the partial shelter of the mizzenmast, and clung to the belaying-pins. john gunter was the only one who came to grief. he was dashed with great violence to leeward, but held on to the shrouds for his life. the mate was below at the moment and so was zulu, whose howl coming from the cabin, coupled with a hiss of water in the fire, told that he had suffered from the shock. the immense body of water that filled the main-sail threw the vessel for a short time nearly on her beam-ends--a position that may be better understood when we say that it converts one of the sides of the vessel into the floor, the other side into the ceiling, and the floor and deck respectively into upright walls! fortunately the little smack got rid of the water in a few seconds, arose slowly, and appeared to shake herself like a duck rising out of the sea. sail had already been reduced to the utmost; nevertheless, the wind was so strong that for three hours afterwards the crew never caught sight of the lee-bulwarks, so buried were they in foam as the _evening star_ leaned over and rushed madly on her course. towards morning the wind moderated a little, and then the crew gazed anxiously around on the heaving grey waves, for well did they know that such a squall could not pass over the north sea without claiming its victims. "it blowed that 'ard at one time," said ned spivin to joe davidson, "that i expected to see the main-mast tore out of 'er." "i'm afeard for the _rainbow_," said joe. "she's nothin' better than a old bunch o' boards." "sometimes them old things hold out longer than we expect," returned ned. he was right. when the losses of that night came to be reckoned up, several good vessels were discovered to be missing, but the rotten old _rainbow_ still remained undestroyed though not unscathed, and a sad sight met the eyes of the men of the fleet when daylight revealed the fact that some of the smacks had their flags flying half-mast, indicating that many men had been washed overboard and lost during the night. as the day advanced, the weather improved, and the fishermen began to look anxiously out for the steamer which was to convey their fish to market, but none was to be seen. although a number of steamers run between billingsgate and the short blue fleet, it sometimes happens that they do not manage to find the fleet at once, and occasionally a day or more is lost in searching for it--to the damage of the fish if the weather be warm. it seemed as if a delay of this kind, had happened on the occasion of which we write; the admiral therefore signalled to let down the nets for a day haul. while this was being done, a vessel was seen to join the fleet from the westward. "that's singin' peter," said david bright to his mate. "i'd know his rig at any distance." "so it is. p'raps he's got letters for us." singing peter was one of the many fishermen who had been brought to a knowledge of jesus christ and saved from his sins. wild and careless before conversion, he afterwards became an enthusiastic follower of the lamb of god, and was so fond of singing hymns in his praise that he became known in the fleet by the sobriquet of singing peter. his beaming face and wholly changed life bore testimony to what the holy spirit had wrought in him. peter had been home to gorleston on his week of holiday, and had now returned to the fleet for his eight weeks' fishing-cruise, carrying a flag to show that he had just arrived, bringing letters and clothes, etcetera, for some of the crews. "i used to think peter warn't a bad feller," said david bright, as the new arrival drew near; "he was always good company, an' ready for his glass, but now he's taken to singin' psalms, i can make nothin' of 'im." "there's them in the fleet that like him better since he took to that," said luke trevor. "it may be so, lad, but that's not accordin' to _my_ taste," retorted the skipper. david was, however, by no means a surly fellow. when peter's vessel came within hail, he held up his hand and shouted-- "what cheer! what cheer, peter!" as heartily as possible. singing peter held up his hand in reply, and waved it as he shouted back-- "what cheer! all well, praise the lord!" "d'ye hear that billy?" said luke, in a low voice. "_he_ never forgets to praise the lord." when the vessels drew nearer, peter again waved his hand, and shouted-- "i've got letters for 'ee." "all right my hearty! i'll send for 'em." in less than five minutes the boat of the _evening star_ was launched over the side, stern-foremost, and she had scarce got fairly afloat on the dancing waves when joe and luke "swarmed" into her, had the oars out and were sweeping off so as to intercept peter's vessel they soon reached her, received a packet wrapped up in a bit of newspaper, and quickly returned. the packet contained two letters--one for the skipper, the other for the mate--from their respective wives. "joe," said the skipper, when he had perused his letter, "come down below. i want to speak to 'ee." "that's just what i was goin' to say to yourself, for the letter from my missis says somethin' that consarns you." when master and mate were alone together in the cabin, each read to the other his letter. "my missis," said the skipper, unfolding his letter and regarding it with a puzzled expression, "although she's had a pretty good edication, has paid little attention to her pot-hooks--but this is how it runs-- pretty near. `dear old man,' (she's always been an affectionate woman, joe, though i do treat her badly when i'm in liquor), `i hope you are having a good time of it and that darling billy likes the sea, and is a good boy. my reason for writing just now is to tell you about that dear sweet creature, miss ruth dotropy. she has been down at yarmouth again on a visit, and of course she has been over to see me and mrs davidson, in _such_ a lovely blue--' (ah! well, joe, there's no need to read you that bit; it's all about dress--as if dress could make miss ruth better or worse! but women's minds will run on ribbons an' suchlike. well, after yawin' about for a bit, she comes back to the pint, an' steers a straight course again. she goes on, after a blot or two that i can't make nothin' of), `you'll be surprised to hear, david, that she's been making some particular inquiries about you and me; which i don't understand at all, and looking as if she knew a deal more than she cared to tell. she's been asking mrs davidson too about it, and what puzzles me most is--' there's another aggrawatin' blot here, joe, so that i can't make out what puzzles her. look here. can you spell it out?" joe tried, but shook his head. "it's a puzzler to _her_," he said, "an' she's took good care to make it a puzzler to everybody else, but go on." "there's nothin' else to go on wi', joe, for after steerin' past the blot, she runs foul o' miss ruth's dress again, and the only thing worth mentionin' is a post-script, where she says, `i think there's something wrong, dear david, and i wish you was here.' that's all." "now, that is strange, for my missis writes about the wery same thing," said joe, "only she seems to have gone in for a little more confusion an' blots than your missis, an' that blessed little babby of ours is always gittin' in the way, so she can't help runnin' foul of it, but that same puzzler crops up every now an' then. see, here's what she writes:-- "`darlin' joe,' (a touch more affectionate than yours--eh! skipper?) `if our dear darlin' babby will let me, i'm a-goin' to write you a letter-- there, i know'd she wouldn't. she's bin and capsized the wash-tub, though, as you know, she can't walk yet, but she rolls about most awful, joe, just what you say the _evening star_ does in a gale on the north sea. an' she's got most dreadful heels--oh! you've no idear! whativer they comes down upon goes--' there's a big blot here," said joe, with a puzzled look, "`goes--whativer they comes down upon goes--' no, i can't make it out." "`goes to sticks an' stivers,' p'raps," said the skipper. "no, my maggie never uses words like that," said joe with decision. "`goes all to smash,' then," suggested the skipper. "no, nor it ain't that; my maggie's too soft-tongued for that." "well, you know, things must go somewhere, or somehow, joe, when such a pair o' heels comes down on 'em--but steer clear o' the blot and the babby, an' see what comes next." "`well,'" continued joe, reading on, "`i was goin' to tell you, when babby made that last smash, ("i _told_ you it was a smash," said david, softly), that dear miss ruth has bin worritin' herself--if babby would only keep quiet for two minutes--worritin' herself about mrs bright in a way that none of us can understand. she's anxious to make inquiries about her and her affairs in a secret sort o' way, but the dear young lady is so honest--there's babby again! now, i've got her all right. it was the milk-can this time, but there warn't much in it, an' the cat's got the benefit. well, darlin' joe, where was i--oh, the dear young lady's so honest an' straitfor'ard, that even a child could see through her, though none of us can make out what she's drivin' at. yesterday she went to see mrs bright, an' took a liar with her--'" "hallo! joe, surely she'd niver do that," said the skipper in a remonstrative tone. "she means a lawyer," returned joe, apologetically, "but maggie niver could spell that word, though i've often tried to teach 'er--`maggie,' says i, `you mustn't write _liar_, but _law-yer_.' "`la! yer jokin',' says she. "`no,' says i, `i'm not, that's the way to spell it,' an' as maggie's a biddable lass, she got to do it all right, but her memory ain't over strong, so, you see, she's got back to the old story. howsever, she don't really mean it, you know." "just so," returned the skipper, "heave ahead wi' the letter, joe." knitting his brows, and applying himself to the much-soiled and crumpled sheet, the mate continued to read:-- "`an' the liar he puzzled her with all sorts o' questions, just as if he was a schoolmaster and she a school-girl. he bothered her to that extent she began to lose temper, ("he better take care," muttered the skipper, chuckling), but miss ruth she sees that, an' putt a stop to it in her own sweet way, ("lucky for the liar," muttered the skipper), an' so they went away without explainin'. we've all had a great talk over it, an' we're most of us inclined to think--oh! that babby, she's bin an rammed her darlin' futt into the tar-bucket! but it ain't much the worse, though it's cost about half-a-pound o' butter to take it off, an' that ain't a joke wi' butter at shilling, pence a pound, an' times so bad--well, as i was goin' to say, if that blessed babby would only let me, we're all inclined to think it must have somethin' to do wi' that man as david owes money to, who said last year that he'd sell his smack an' turn him an' his family out o' house an' home if he didn't pay up, though what miss ruth has to do wi' that, or how she come for to know it we can't make out at all.'" "the blackguard!" growled the skipper, fiercely, referring to `that man,' "if i only had his long nose within three futt o' my fist, i'd let him feel what my knuckles is made of!" "steamer in sight, father," sang out billy at that moment down the companion-hatch. the conference being thus abruptly terminated, the skipper and mate of the _evening star_ went on deck to give orders for the immediate hauling up of the trawl and to "have a squint" at the steamer, which was seen at that moment like a little cloud on the horizon. chapter eight. dangers, difficulties, and excitements of the traffic; loading the steamer. bustling activity of the most vigorous kind was now the order of the day in the short blue fleet, for the arrival of the carrying-steamer, and the fact that she was making towards the admiral, indicated that she meant to return to london in a few hours, and necessitated the hauling of the trawls, cleaning the fish, and packing them; getting up the "trunks" that had been packed during the night, launching the boats, and trans-shipping them in spite of the yet heavy sea. as every one may understand, such perishable food as fish must be conveyed to market with the utmost possible despatch. this is accomplished by the constant running of fast steamers between the fleets and the thames. the fish when put on board are further preserved by means of ice, and no delay is permitted in trans-shipment. as we have said, the steamers are bound to make straight for the admiral's smack. knowing this, the other vessels keep as near to the admiral as they conveniently can, so that when the steamer is preparing to return, they may be ready to rush at her like a fleet of nautical locusts, and put their fish on board. hot haste and cool precision mark the action of the fishermen in all that is done, for they know well that only a limited time will be allowed them, and if any careless or wilful stragglers from the fleet come up when the time is nearly past, they stand a chance of seeing the carrier steam off without their fish, which are thus left to be shipped the following day, and to be sold at last as an inferior article, or, perhaps, condemned and thrown away as unfit for human food. the _evening star_ chanced to be not far from the admiral when the steamer appeared. it was one of the fleet of steam-carriers owned by the well-known fish firm of messrs. hewett and company of london. when it passed david bright's smack the crew had got in the trawl and were cleaning and packing the catch--which was a good one--as if their very lives depended on their speed. they immediately followed in the wake of the carrier toward the admiral. as all the smacks were heading towards the same centre, they came in on every tack, and from all points of the compass. "look sharp, boys," said david bright, who was steering, "we must git every fish aboard. it's now eight o'clock, an' she won't wait beyond eleven or twelve, you may be sure." there was no need for the caution. every man and boy was already doing his utmost. it fell to billy's lot to help in packing the trunks, and deftly he did it,--keeping soles, turbot, and halibut separate, to form boxes, or "trunks of prime," and packing other fish as much as possible according to their kind, until he came to roker, dabs, gurnets, etcetera, which he packed together under the name of "offal." this does not mean refuse, but only inferior fish, which are bought by hawkers, and sold to the poor. the trunks were partly open on top, but secured by cords which kept the fish from slipping out, and each trunk was labelled with the name of the smack, to which it belonged, and the party to whom it was consigned. as the fleet converged to the centre, the vessels began to crowd together and friends to recognise and hail each other, so that the scene became very animated, while the risk of collision was considerable. indeed, it was only by consummate skill, judgment and coolness that, in many cases, collisions were avoided. "there's the _sparrow_," said billy to trevor, eagerly, as he pointed to a smack, whose master, jim frost, he knew and was fond of. it bore down in such a direction as to pass close under the stern of the _evening star_. "what cheer! what cheer!" cried billy, holding one of his little hands high above his head. "what cheer!" came back in strong, hearty tones from the _sparrow's_ deck. "what luck, jim?" asked david bright, as the vessel flew past. "we fouled an old wreck this mornin', an' tore the net all to pieces, but we got a good haul last night--praise the lord." "which piece o' luck d'ye praise the lord for?" demanded david, in a scoffing tone. "for both," shouted frost, promptly. "it might have bin worse. we might have lost the gear, you know--or one o' the hands." when this reply was finished, the vessels were too far apart for further intercourse. "humph!" ejaculated gunter, "one o' the psalm-singin' lot, i suppose." "if it's the psalm-singin'," said spivin, "as makes jim frost bear his troubles wi' good temper, an' thank god for foul weather an' fair, the sooner you take to it the better for yourself." "ay, an' for his mates," added zulu, with a broad grin. "shove out the boat now, lads," said the skipper. at this order the capacious and rather clumsy boat, which had hitherto lain on the deck of the _evening star_ like a ponderous fixture, was seized by the crew. a vigorous pull at a block and tackle sent it up on the side of the smack. a still more vigorous shove by the men--some with backs applied, some with arms, and all with a will--sent it stern-foremost into the sea. it took in a few gallons of water by the plunge, but was none the worse for that. at the same moment zulu literally tumbled into it. no stepping or jumping into it was possible with the sea that was running. indeed the fishermen of the north sea are acrobats by necessity, and their tumbling is quite as wonderful, though not quite so neat, as that of professionals. perchance if the arena in which the latter perform were to pitch about as heavily as the _evening star_ did on that occasion, they might be beaten at their own work by the fishermen! zulu was followed by ned spivin, while gunter, taking a quick turn of the long and strong painter round a belaying-pin, held on. the _evening star_ was now lying-to, not far from the steam-carrier. her boat danced on the waves like a cork, pitching heavily from side to side, with now the stern and now the bow pointing to the sky; at one moment leaping with its gunwale above the level of the smack's bulwarks; at the next moment eight or ten feet down in the trough of the waves; never at rest for an instant, always tugging madly at its tether, and often surging against the vessel's side, from actual contact with which it was protected by strong rope fenders. but indeed the boat's great strength of build seemed its best guarantee against damage. to one unaccustomed to such work it might have seemed utterly impossible to put anything whatever on board of such a pitching boat. tying a mule-pack on the back of a bouncing wild horse may suggest an equivalent difficulty to a landsman. nevertheless the crew of the _evening star_ did it with as much quiet determination and almost as much speed as if there was no sea on at all. billy and trevor slid the trunks to the vessel's side; the mate and gunter lifted them, rested them a moment on the edge; zulu and spivin stood in the surging boat with outstretched arms and glaring eyes. a mighty swing of the boat suggested that the little craft meant to run the big one down. they closed, two trunks were grappled, let go, deposited, and before the next wave swung them alongside again, spivin and zulu were glaring up--ready for more--while joe and gunter were gazing down--ready to deliver. when the boat was loaded the painter was cast off and she dropped astern. the oars were shipped, and they made for the steamer. from the low deck of the smack they could be seen, now pictured against the sky on a wave's crest, and then lost to view altogether for a few seconds in the watery valley beyond. by that time quite a crowd of little boats had reached the steamer, and were holding on to her, while their respective smacks lay-to close by, or sailed slowly round the carrier, so that recognitions, salutations, and friendly chaff were going on all round--the confusion of masts, and sails, and voices ever increasing as the outlying portions of the fleet came scudding in to the rendezvous. "there goes the _boy jim_," said luke trevor, pointing towards a smart craft that was going swiftly past them. "who's the _boy jim_?" growled gunter, whose temper, at no time a good one, had been much damaged by the blows he had received in the fall of the previous night. "he's nobody--it's the name o' that smack," answered luke. "an' her master, john johnston, is one o' my best friends," said billy, raising his fist on high in salutation. "what cheer, john! what cheer, my hearty!" the master of the _boy jim_ was seen to raise his hand in reply to the salutation, and his voice came strong and cheerily over the sea, but he was too far off to be heard distinctly, so billy raised his hand again by way of saying, "all right, my boy!" at the same time a hail was heard at the other side of the vessel. the crew turned round and crossed the deck. "it's our namesake--or nearly so--the _morning star_," said trevor to gunter, for the latter being a new hand knew little of the names of either smacks or masters. "is her skipper a friend o' yours too?" asked gunter of billy. "yes, bowers _is_ a friend o' mine--an' a first-rate fellow too; which is more than you will ever be," retorted billy, again stretching up the ready arm and hand. "what cheer, joseph, what cheer!" "what cheer! billy--why, i didn't know you, you've grow'd so much," shouted the master of the _morning star_, whose middle-sized, but broad and powerful frame was surmounted by a massive countenance, with good humour in the twinkling eyes, and kindly chaff often in the goodly-sized mouth. "yes, i've grow'd," retorted billy, "an' i mean to go on growin' till i'm big enough to wallop _you_." "your cheek has been growin' too, billy." "so it has, but nothin' like to your jaw, joseph." "what luck?" shouted david as the _morning star_ was passing on. "fifteen trunks. what have _you_ got?" the skipper held up his hand to acknowledge the information, and shouted "nineteen," in reply. "you seem to have a lot o' friends among the skippers, billy," said gunter, with a sneer, for he was fond of teasing the boy, who, to do him justice, could take chaff well, except when thrown at him by ill-natured fellows. "yes, i have a good lot," retorted billy. "i met 'em all first in yarmouth, when ashore for their week's holiday. there's joseph white, master of the mission smack _cholmondeley_, a splendid feller he is; an' bogers of the _cephas_, an' snell of the _ruth_, an' kiddell of the _celerity_, an' moore of the m.a.a., an' roberts of the _magnet_, an' goodchild and brown, an' a lot more, all first-rate fellers, whose little fingers are worth the whole o' your big body." "well, well, what a lucky fellow you are!" said gunter, with affected surprise; "an' have you no bad fellers at all among your acquaintance?" "oh yes," returned the boy quickly, "i knows a good lot o' them too. there's dick the swab, of the _white cloud_, who drinks like a fish, an' pimply brock, who could swear you out o' your oiled frock in five minutes, an' a lot of others more or less wicked, but not one of 'em so bad as a big ugly feller i knows named john gunter, who--" billy was interrupted by gunter making a rush at him, but the boy was too nimble for the man, besides which, gunter's bruises, to which we have before referred, were too painful to be trifled with. soon afterwards the boat returned for another cargo of trunks, and the crew of the _evening star_ went to work again. meanwhile the "power of littles" began to tell on the capacious hold of the steamer. let us go on board of her for a few minutes and mount the bridge. the fleet had now closed in and swarmed around her so thickly, that it seemed a miracle that the vessels did not come into collision. from the smacks, boat after boat had run alongside and made fast, until an absolute flotilla was formed on either side. as each boat came up it thrust itself into the mass, the man who had pulled the bow-oar taking the end of the long painter in his hand ready for a leap. some boats' crews, having trans-shipped their trunks, were backing out; others were in the midst of that arduous and even dangerous operation; while still more came pouring in, seeking a place of entrance through the heaving mass. the boat of the _evening star_ was ere long among the latter with her second load--zulu grinning in the bow and spivin in the stern. zulu was of that cheery temperament that cannot help grinning. if he had been suddenly called on to face death himself, we believe he would have met him with a grin. and, truly, we may say without jesting, that zulu had often so faced the king of terrors, for it is a sad fact that many a bold and brave young fellow meets his death in this operation of trans-shipping the fish--a fall overboard is so very easy, and, hampered as these men are with huge sea-boots and heavy garments, it too often happens that when they chance to fall into the sea they go down like a stone. they never seem to think of that, however. certainly zulu did not as he crouched there with glittering eyes and glistening teeth, like a dark tiger ready for a spring. there was strict discipline, but not much interference with the work, on board the steamer. no boat was permitted to put its trunks aboard abaft a certain part of the vessel, but in front of that the fishermen were left to do the work as best they could. they were not, however, assisted--not even to the extent of fastening their painters--the crew of the steamer being employed below in stowing and iceing the fish. when the _evening star's_ boat, therefore, had forced itself alongside, zulu found himself heaving against the steamer's side, now looking up at an iron wall about fifteen feet high, anon pitching high on the billows till he could see right down on the deck. he watched his opportunity, threw himself over the iron wall, with the painter in one hand, (while spivin and the boat seemed to sink in the depths below), rolled over on the deck, scrambled to his feet, made the painter fast to the foremast shrouds, and ran to look over the side. spivin was there ready for him, looking up, with a trunk on the boat's gunwale. next moment he was looking down, for a wave had lifted the boat's gunwale absolutely above the vessel's bulwark for an instant. no words were needed. each knew what to do. zulu made a powerful grab, spivin let go, the trunk was on the steamer's rail, whence it was hurled to the deck, narrowly missing the legs and toes of half-a-dozen reckless men who seized it and sent it below. almost before zulu could turn round spivin was up again with another trunk, another wild grab was made, but not successfully, and spivin sank to rise again. a second effort proved successful--and thus they went on, now and then missing the mark, but more frequently hitting it, until the boat was empty. you have only to multiply this little scene by forty or fifty, and you have an idea of the loading of that steamer on the high seas. of course you must diversify the picture a little, for in one place you have a man hanging over the side with a trunk in mid-air, barely caught when in its descent, and almost too heavy for him by reason of his position. in another place you have a man glaring up at a trunk, in another glaring down;--in all cases action the most violent and most diversified, coupled with cool contempt of crushed fingers and bruised shins and toes. at last the furore began to subside. by degrees the latest boats arrived, and in about three hours from the time of commencing, the crew of the steamer began to batten down the hatches. just then, like the "late passenger," the late trawler came up. the captain of the steamer had seen it long before on the horizon doing its best to save the market, and good-naturedly delayed a little to take its fish on board, but another smack that came up a quarter of an hour or so after that, found the hatches closed, and heard the crushing reply to his hail--"too late!" then the carrying-steamer turned her sharp bow to the sou'-west, put on full steam, and made for the thames--distant nearly miles--with over trunks of fresh fish on board, for the breakfast, luncheon and dinner tables of the great city. thus, if the steamer were to leave early on a monday, it would arrive on tuesday night and the fish be sold in the market on wednesday morning about five o'clock. with little variation this scene is enacted every day, all the year round, on the north sea. it may not be uninteresting to add, that on the arrival of the steamer at billingsgate, the whole of her cargo would probably be landed and sold in less than one hour and a half. chapter nine. another drag-net hauled--the mission smack. when the steamer left the fleet the wind was beginning to moderate, and all eyes were turned as usual towards the admiral's smack to observe his movements. the fishing vessels were still crowded together, running to and fro, out and in, without definite purpose, plunging over the heaving swells--some of them visible on the crests, others half hidden in the hollows--and behaving generally like living creatures that were impatiently awaiting the signal to begin a race. while in this position two smacks came so near to the _evening star_, on opposite sides, that they seemed bent on running her down. david bright did not concern himself, however. he knew they were well able to take care of themselves. they both sheered off to avoid him, but after doing so, ran rather near to each other. "one o' them b'longs to the swab," said billy. "ay," said joe, "if he hadn't swabbed up too much liquor this morning, he wouldn't steer like that. why, he _will_ foul her!" as he spoke the swab's bowsprit passed just inside one of the ropes of the other vessel, and was snapped off as if it had been a pipe-stem. "sarves him right," growled gunter. "it's a pity all the same," said trevor. "if we all got what we deserve, we'd be in a worse case than we are to-day mayhap." "come, now, gunter," said joe, "don't look so cross. we'll have a chance this arternoon, i see, to bear away for the mission-ship, an' git somethin' for your shins, and a bandage for spivin's cut, as well as some cuffs for them that wants 'em." captain bright did not like visiting the mission-ship, having no sympathy with her work, but as she happened to be not far distant at the time, and he was in want of surgical assistance, he had no reasonable ground for objecting. by this time the admiral had signalled to steer to the nor'-east, and the fleet was soon racing to windward, all on the same tack. gradually the _evening star_ overhauled the mission-ship, but before she had quite overtaken her, the wind, which had been failing, fell to a dead calm. the distance between the two vessels, however, not being great, the boat was launched, and the skipper, luke trevor, gunter and billy went off in her. the mission vessel, to which reference has more than once been made, is a fishing-smack in the service of the mission to deep-sea fishermen, and serves the purpose of a floating church, a dispensary, a temperance halt and a library to a portion of the north sea fleet. it fills a peculiar as well as a very important position, which requires explanation. only a few years ago a visitor to the north sea fleet observed, with much concern, that hundreds of the men and boys who manned it were living godless as well as toilsome lives, with no one--at least in winter--to care for their souls. at the same time he noted that the dutch _copers_, or floating grog-shops, were regularly appointed to supply the fleets with cheap and bad spirits, and stuck to them through fair-weather and foul, in summer and winter, enduring hardship and encountering danger and great risk in pursuit of their evil calling. up to that time a few lay missionaries and bible-readers had occasionally gone to visit the fleets in the summer-time, [see appendix], but the visitor of whom we write felt that there was a screw loose here, and reasoned with himself somewhat thus:-- "shall the devil have his mission-ships, whose crews are not afraid to face the winter gales, and shall the servants of the lord be mere fair-weather christians, carrying their blessed and all-important message of love and peace to these hard-working and almost forsaken men only during a summer-trip to the north sea? if fish _must_ be caught, and the lives of fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons be not only risked but lost for the purpose, has not the master got men who are ready to say, `the glorious gospel _must_ be carried to these men, and we will hoist our flag on the north sea summer and winter, so as to be a constant witness there for our god and his christ?'" for thirty years before, it has been said, a very few earnest christians among the fishermen of the fleet had been praying that some such thoughts might be put into the hearts of men who had the power to render help. we venture to observe in passing that, perchance, those praying fishermen were not so "few" as appearances might lead us to suppose, for god has his "hidden ones" everywhere, and some of these may have been at the throne of grace long prior to the "thirty years" here mentioned. let not the reader object to turn aside a few minutes to consider how greatly help was needed--forty-six weeks or so on the sea in all weathers all the year round, broken by a week at a time--or about six or seven weeks altogether--on shore with wife and family; the rest, hard unvarying toil and exposure, with nothing to do during the brief intervals of leisure--nothing to read, nothing new to think of, no church to raise the mind to the creator, and distinguish the sabbath from the week-day, and no social intercourse of a natural kind, (for a society of men only is not natural), to elevate them above the lower animals, and with only drinking and gambling left to degrade them below these creatures; and this for forty or fifty years of their lives, with, in too many cases, neither hope nor thought beyond! at last the fishermen's prayers were answered, the thoughts of the visitor bore fruit, and, convinced that he was being led by god, he began to move in the matter with prayer and energy. the result was that in the year he received the unsolicited offer of a smack which should be at his entire disposal for mission purposes, but should endeavour to sustain herself, if possible, by fishing like the rest of the fleet. the vessel was accepted. a christian skipper and fisherman, named budd, and a like-minded crew, were put into her; she was fitted out with an extra cabin, with cupboards for a library and other conveniences. the hold was arranged with a view to being converted into a chapel on sundays, and it was decided that, in order to keep it clear on such days, the trawl should not be let down on saturday nights; a large medicine-chest--which was afterwards reported to be "one of the greatest blessings in the fleet,"--was put on board; the captain made a colporteur of the bible society, agent for the shipwrecked mariners' society and of the church of england temperance society. the religious tract society, and various publishers, made a grant of books to form the nucleus of a free lending library; the national lifeboat institution presented an aneroid barometer, and messrs. hewett and company made a present of the insurance premium of pounds. thus furnished and armed, as aforesaid, as a mission church, temperance hall, circulating library, and dispensary, the little craft one day sailed in amongst the smacks of the "short blue" fleet, amid the boisterous greetings of the crews, and took up her position under the name of the _ensign_, with a great twenty-feet mission-flag flying at the main-mast-head. this, then was the style of vessel towards which the boat of the _evening star_ was now being pulled over a superficially smooth but still heaving sea. the boat was not alone. other smacks, the masters of which as well as some of the men were professed christians, had availed themselves of the opportunity to visit the mission smack, while not a few had come, like the master of the _evening star_, to procure medicine and books, so that when david bright drew near he observed the deck to be pretty well crowded, while a long tail of boats floated astern, and more were seen coming over the waves to the rendezvous. it was no solemn meeting that. shore-going folk, who are too apt to connect religious gatherings with sunday clothes, subdued voices, and long faces, would have had their ideas changed if they had seen it. men of the roughest cast, mentally and physically, were there, in heavy boots and dirty garments, laughing and chatting, and greeting one another; some of the younger among them sky-larking in a mild way--that is, giving an occasional poke in the ribs that would have been an average blow to a "land-lubber," or a tip to a hat which sent it on the deck, or a slap on the back like a pistol-shot. there seemed to be "no humbug," as the saying goes, among these men; no pretence, and all was kindly good-fellowship, for those who were on the lord's side showed it--if need were, said it--while those who were not, felt perhaps, that they were in a minority and kept quiet. "come along, joe, what cheer!" "here you are, bill--how goes it, my hearty!" "all well, praise the lord." "ay, hasn't he sent us fine weather at the right time? just to let us have a comfortable meetin'!" "that's so, dick, the master does all things well." "what cheer! johnson, i'm glad to see _you_ here. the boy has got some cocoa for'ard--have some?" "thank 'ee, i will." such were some of the expressions heartily uttered, which flew about as friend met friend on the mission deck. "i say, harry," cried one, "was it you that lost your bowsprit this mornin'?" "no, it was the swab," said harry, "but we lost our net and all the gear last night." "that was unfort'nit," remarked a friend in a tone of sympathy, which attracted the attention of some of those who stood near. "ah! lads," said the master of the mission-ship, "that was a small matter compared with the loss suffered by poor daniel rodger. did you hear of it?" "yes, yes," said some. "no," said another. "i thought i saw his flag half-mast this mornin', but was too fur off to make sure." most of the men crowded round the master of the smack, while, in deep sad tones, he told how the son of daniel rodger had, during the night, been swept overboard by a heavy sea and drowned before the boat could be launched to rescue him. "but," continued the speaker in a cheerful voice, "the dear boy was a follower of jesus, and he is now with him." when this was said, "praise the lord!" and "thank god!" broke from several of the men in tones of unmistakable sincerity. it was at this point that the boat of the _evening star_ ranged alongside. the master of the mission smack went to the side and held out his hand, which david bright grasped with his right, grappling the smack's rail at the same time with his left, and vaulted inboard with a hearty salutation. as heartily was it returned, especially by the unbelievers on board, who, perchance, regarded him as a welcome accession to their numbers! billy, gunter, and the others tumbled on to the deck in the usual indescribable manner, and the former, making fast the long painter, added the _evening star's_ boat to the lengthening flotilla astern. "your man seems to be hurt," said the master of the mission smack--whom we may well style the missionary--"not badly, i hope. you're limpin' a bit." "oh! nothin' to speak of," growled gunter, "on'y a bit o' skin knocked off." "we'll put that all right soon," returned the missionary, shaking hands with the other members of the crew. "but p'r'aps you'd like to go below with us, first. we're goin' to hold a little service. it'll be more comfortable under hatches than on deck." "no, thank 'ee," replied gunter with decision. "i'll wait till yer done." "p'r'aps _you_ would like to come?" said the missionary to the captain. "well, i--i may as well as not," said david with some hesitation. "come along then, lads," and the genial sailor-missionary led the way to the capacious hold, which had been swept clean, and some dozens of fish-boxes set up on end in rows. these, besides being handy, formed excellent seats to men who were not much used to arm-chairs. in a few seconds the little church on the ocean wilderness was nearly full of earnest, thoughtful men, for these fishermen were charmingly natural as well as enthusiastic. they did not assume solemn expressions, but all thought of sky-larking or levity seemed to have vanished as they entered the hold, and earnestness almost necessarily involves gravity. with eager expectation they gazed at their leader while he gave out a hymn. "you'll find little books on the table here, those of you who haven't got 'em," he said, pointing to a little pile of red-covered booklets at his side. "we'll sing the nd. "`sing them over again to me, wonderful words of life!'" really, reader, it is not easy to convey in words the effect of the singing of that congregation! nothing that we on land are accustomed to can compare with it. in the first place, the volume of sound was tremendous, for these men seemed to have been gifted with leathern lungs and brazen throats. many of the voices were tuneful as well as powerful. one or two, indeed, were little better than cracked tea-kettles, but the good voices effectually drowned the cracked kettles. moreover, there was deep enthusiasm in many of the hearts present, and the hold was small. we leave the rest to the reader's imagination, but we are bound to say that it had a thrilling effect. and they were sorry, too, when the hymn was finished. this was obvious, for when one of the singers began the last verse over again the others joined him with alacrity and sang it straight through. even gunter and those like-minded men who had remained on deck were moved by the fervour of the singing. then the sailor-missionary offered a prayer, as simple as it was straightforward and short, after which a chapter was read, and another hymn sung. then came the discourse, founded on the words, "whosoever will." "there you have it, lads--clear as the sun at noonday--free as the rolling sea. the worst drunkard and swearer in the short blue comes under that `whosoever'--ay, the worst man in the world, for jesus is able and willing to save to the uttermost." ("praise god!" ejaculated one of the earnest listeners fervently.) but fear not, reader, we have no intention of treating you to a semi-nautical sermon. whether you be christian or not, our desire is simply to paint for you a true picture of life on the north sea as we have seen it, and, as it were unwise to omit the deepest shadows from a picture, so would it be inexcusable to leave out the highest lights-- even although you should fail to recognise them as such. the discourse was not long, but the earnestness of the preacher was very real. the effect on his audience was varied. most of them sympathised deeply, and seemed to listen as much with eyes as ears. a few, who had not come there for religious purposes, wore somewhat cynical, even scornful, expressions at first, but these were partially subdued by the manner of the speaker as he reasoned of spiritual things and the world to come. on deck, gunter and those who had stayed with him became curious to know what the "preachin' skipper" was saying, and drew near to the fore-hatch, up which the tones of his strong voice travelled. gradually they bent their heads down and lay at full-length on the deck listening intently to every word. they noted, also, the frequent ejaculations of assent, and the aspirations of hope that escaped from the audience. not one, but two or three hymns were sung after the discourse was over, and one after another of the fishermen prayed. they were very loath to break up, but, a breeze having arisen, it became necessary that they should depart, so they came on deck at last, and an animated scene of receiving and exchanging books, magazines, tracts, and pamphlets ensued. then, also, gunter got some salve for his shins, ned spivin had his cut hand dressed and plastered. cuffs were supplied to those whose wrists had been damaged, and gratuitous advice was given generally to all to give up drink. "an' don't let the moderate drinkers deceive you lads," said the skipper, "as they're apt to do--an' no wonder, for they deceive themselves. moderate drinkin' may be good, for all i know, for old folk an' sick folk, but it's _not_ good for young and healthy men. they don't need stimulants, an' if they take what they don't need they're sure to suffer for it. there's a terrible _line_ in drinkin', an' if you once cross that line, your case is all but hopeless. i once knew a man who crossed it, and when that man began to drink he used to say that he did it in `moderation,' an' he went on in `moderation,' an' the evil was so slow in workin' that he never yet knew when he crossed the line, an' he died at last of what he called moderate drinkin'. they all begin in moderation, but some of 'em go on to the ruin of body, soul, an' spirit, rather than give up their moderation! come now, lads, i want one or two o' you young fellows to sign the temperance pledge. it can't cost you much to do it just now, but if you grow up drinkers you may reach a point--i don't know where that point lies--to come back from which will cost you something like the tearing of your souls out o' your bodies. you'll come, won't you?" "yes, i'll go," said a bright young fisherman with a frame like hercules and a face almost as soft as that of a girl. "that's right! come down." "and i've brought two o' my boys," said a burly man with a cast-iron sort of face, who had been himself an abstainer for many years. while the master of the mission smack was producing the materials for signing the pledge in the cabin, he took occasion to explain that the signing was only a help towards the great end of temperance; that nothing but conversion to god, and constant trust in the living saviour, could make man or woman safe. "it's not hard to understand," he said, looking the youths earnestly in the eyes. "see here, suppose an unbeliever determines to get the better of his besettin' sin. he's man enough to strive well for a time. at last he begins to grow a little weary o' the battle--it _is_ so awful hard. better almost to die an' be done with it, he sometimes thinks. then comes a day when his temptation is ten times more than he is able to bear. he throws up the sponge; he has done his best an' failed, so away he goes like the sow that was washed to his wallowing in the mire. but he has _not_ done his best. he has _not_ gone to his maker; an' surely the maker of a machine is the best judge o' how to mend it. now, when a believer in jesus comes to the same point o' temptation he falls on his knees an' cries for help; an' he gets it too, for faithful is he that has promised to help those who call upon him in trouble. many a man has fallen on his knees as weak as a baby, and risen up as strong as a giant." "here," said a voice close to the speaker's elbow, "here, hand me the pen, an' i'll sign the pledge." "what, _you_, billy bright!" said the missionary, smiling at the precocious manliness of the little fellow. "does your father want you to do it?" "oh! you never mind what my father wants. he leaves me pretty much to do as i please--except smoke, and as he won't let me do that. i mean to spite him by refusin' to drink when he wants me to." "but i'm afraid, billy," returned the missionary, laughing, "that that's not quite the spirit in which to sign the pledge." "did i say it was, old boy!" retorted billy, seizing the pen, dabbing it into the ink, and signing his name in a wild straggling sort of way, ending with a huge round blot. "there, that'll do instead of a full stop," he said, thrusting his little hands into his pockets as he swaggered out of the cabin and went on deck. "he'll make a rare good man, or an awful bad 'un, that," said the missionary skipper, casting a kindly look after the boy. soon afterwards the boats left the mission smack, and her crew began to bustle about, making preparation to let down the gear whenever the admiral should give the signal. "we carry two sorts of trawl-nets, andrew," said the captain to his mate, who was like-minded in all respects, "and i think we have caught some men to-day with one of 'em--praise the lord!" "yes, praise the lord!" said the mate, and apparently deeming this, as it was, a sufficient reply, he went about his work in silence. the breeze freshened. the shades of night gathered; the admiral gave his signal; the nets were shot and the short blue fleet sailed away into the deepening darkness of the wild north sea. note. since that day additional vessels have been attached to the mission-fleet, which now, , consists of five smacks--and will probably, ere long, number many more--all earning their own maintenance while serving the mission cause. but these do by no means meet the requirements of the various north sea fleets. there are still in those fleets thousands of men and boys who derive no benefit from the mission vessels already sent out, because they belong to fleets to which mission-ships have not yet been attached; and it is the earnest prayer of those engaged in the good work that liberal-minded christians may send funds to enable them not only to carry on, but to extend, their operations in this interesting field of labour. chapter ten. a strong contrast--a victim of the coper. birds of a feather flock together, undoubtedly--at sea as well as on land. as surely as johnston, and moore, and jim frost, and such men, hung about the mission-ship--ready to go aboard and to have a little meeting when suitable calms occurred, so surely did david bright, the swab, and other like-minded men, find themselves in the neighbourhood of the coper when there was nothing to be done in the way of fishing. two days after the events narrated in the last chapter, the swab--whose proper name was dick herring, and who sailed his own smack, the _white cloud_--found himself in the neighbourhood of the floating grog-shop. "get out the boat, brock," said herring to his mate--who has already been introduced to the reader as pimply brock, and whose nose rendered any explanation of that name unnecessary; "take some fish, an' get as much as you can for 'em." the swab did not name what his mate was to procure in barter with the fish, neither did brock ask. it was an old-established order, well understood. soon brock and two hands were on their way to the floating "poison-shop," as one of the men had named it. he was affectionately received there, and, ere long, returned to the _white cloud_ with a supply of fire-water. "you're good at a bargain, brock," said his master, with an approving nod, tossing off a glass of the demon that held him as if in chains of steel--chains that no man could break. "i wish," he added, looking round on the sea wistfully, "that some of our friends would come to join us in a spree." "so do i," said brock, slightly inflaming his nasal pimples, by pouring a glass of spirits down his throat. there must be some strange, subtle sympathy between drunkards, for, at the very time these two men expressed their wish, the master of the _evening star_ said to gunter, "get out the boat. i'll go cruisin'." it must not be supposed that by this he meant to declare his intention of going off on a lengthened voyage in his little boat. david bright only meant that, having observed through his telescope the little transaction between the _white cloud_ and the coper, his intention was to pay that vessel a visit--to go carousing, or, as the north sea smacksmen have it, "cruisin'." gunter obeyed the order with satisfaction and alacrity. "jump in, spivin, and you come too, billy." "i say, father," said the boy in a low voice, "are ye goin' to drink wi' the swab after what ye heard aboard the mission smack?" "you clap a stopper on your jaw an' obey orders," replied the skipper angrily. although full of light-hearted insolence, which his mates called cheek, billy was by no means a rebellious boy. he knew, from sad experience, that when his father made up his mind to "go in for a drinking-bout," the consequences were often deplorable, and fain would he have dissuaded him, but he also knew that to persist in opposing him would only make matters worse, and probably bring severe chastisement on himself. with an air of quiet gravity, therefore, that seemed very unnatural to him, he leaped into the boat and took an oar. "what cheer, david?" said the swab, offering his rugged hand when the former jumped on the deck of the _white cloud_. "i thought you'd come." "you was right, dick," returned david, shaking the proffered hand. "come below, an' wet your whistle. bring your men too," said dick. "this is a new hand?" pointing to ned. "ay, he's noo, is ned spivin, but he can drink." "come down, then, all of 'ee." now, ned spivin was one of those yielding good-natured youths who find it impossible to resist what may be styled good-fellowship. if you had tried to force ned spivin, to order him, or to frighten him into any course, he would have laughed in your face and fought you if necessary; but if you tempted ned to do evil by kindly tones and looks, he was powerless to resist. "you're right, skipper, i can drink--sometimes." they all went below, leaving billy on deck "to look after the boat," as his father said, though, being made fast, the boat required no looking after. immediately the party in the little cabin had a glass round. ere long it occurred to them that they might have another glass. of course they did not require to be reminded of their pipes, and as nearly all the crew was in the little cabin, besides the visitors, the fumes from pipes and glasses soon brought the atmosphere to a condition that would have failed to support any but the strongest kind of human life. it supported these men well enough, however, for they soon began to use their tongues and brains in a manner that might have surprised a dispassionate observer. it is, perhaps, needless to say that they interlarded their conversation with fearful oaths, to which of course we can do no more than make passing reference. by degrees the conversation degenerated into disputation, for it is the manner of some men, when "in liquor," to become intensely pugnacious as well as owlishly philosophical. the subject-matter of dispute may be varied, but the result is nearly always the same--a series of amazing convolutions of the brain, which is supposed to be profound reasoning, waxing hotter and hotter as the utterances grow thicker and thicker, and the tones louder and louder, until the culminating point is reached when the point which could not be proved by the mind is hammered home with the fist. to little billy, who had been left in sole charge of the deck, and whose little mind had been strangely impressed on board the mission-ship, the words and sounds, to say nothing of the fumes, which proceeded from the cabin furnished much food for meditation. the babel of tongues soon became incessant, for three, if not four or five, of the speakers had become so impressed with the importance of their opinions, and so anxious to give their mates the benefit, that they all spoke at once. this of course necessitated much loud talking and gesticulation by all of them, which greatly helped, no doubt, to make their meaning clear. at least it did not render it less clear. as the din and riot increased so did the tendency to add fuel to the fire by deeper drinking, which resulted in fiercer quarrelling. at last one of the contending voices shouted so loud that the others for a few moments gave way, and the words became audible to the little listener on deck. the voice belonged to gunter. "you said," he shouted fiercely, "that i--" "no, i didn't," retorted brock, breaking in with a rather premature contradiction. "hear him out. n-nothin' like fair play in ar-argiment," said an extremely drunken voice. "right you are," cried another; "fire away, gunter." "you said," resumed gunter with a little more of argument in his tone, though still vehemently, "that i said--that--that--well, whativer it was i said, i'll take my davy that i niver said anything o' the sort." "that's a lie," cried brock. "you're another," shouted gunter, and waved his hand contemptuously. whether it was accident or design we know not, but gunter's hand knocked the pipe out of brook's mouth. to billy's ear the well-known sound of a blow followed, and he ran to look down into the cabin, where all was instantly in an uproar. "choke him off," cried david bright. "knock his brains out," suggested herring. billy could not see well through the dense smoke, but apparently the more humane advice was followed, for, after a good deal of gasping, a heavy body was flung upon the floor. "all right, shove him into a bunk," cried the swab. at the same moment ned spivin sprang on deck, and, stretching himself with his arms extended upwards, drew a long breath of fresh air. "there, billy," he said, "i've had enough of it." "of grog, d'ye mean?" asked the boy. "no, but of the hell-upon-earth down there," replied the young man. "well, ned, i should just think you _have_ had enough o' that," said billy, "an' of grog too--though you don't seem much screwed after all." "i'm not screwed at all, billy--not even half-seas-over. it's more the smoke an' fumes that have choked me than the grog. come, lad, let's go for'ard an' git as far from it as we can." the man and boy went to the bow of the vessel, and seated themselves near the heel of the bowsprit, where the sounds from the cabin reached them only as a faint murmur, and did not disturb the stillness of the night. and a day of quiet splendour it certainly was--the sea as calm as glass, insomuch that it reflected all the fleecy clouds that hung in the bright sky. even the ocean-swell had gone to rest with just motion enough left to prove that the calm was not a "dead" one, but a slumber. all round, the numerous vessels of the short blue fleet floated in peaceful idleness. at every distance they lay, from a hundred yards to the far-off horizon. we say that they floated peacefully, but we speak only as to appearance, for there were other hells in the fleet, similar to that which we have described, and the soft sound of distant oars could be distinguished now and then as boats plied to and fro between their smacks and the coper, fetching the deadly liquid with which these hells were set on fire. other sounds there were, however, which fell pleasantly on the ears of the two listeners. "psalm-singers," said billy. "they might be worse," replied ned. "what smack does it come from, think 'ee?" "the _boy jim_, or the _cephas_--not sure which, for i can't make out the voices. it might be from the _sparrow_, but that's it close to us, and there could be no mistake about jim frost's voice if he was to strike up." "what! has jim frost hoisted the bethel-flag?" "ay, didn't you see it flyin' last sunday for the first time?" "no, i didn't," returned ned, "but i'm glad to hear it, for, though i'm not one o' that set myself. i do like to see a man not ashamed to show his colours." the flag to which they referred is supplied at half cost to the fleet by the mission to deep-sea fishermen--and is hoisted every sabbath-day by those skippers in the fleet who, having made up their minds boldly to accept all the consequences of the step, have come out decidedly on the lord's side. while the two shipmates were conversing thus in low tones, enjoying the fresh air and the calm influences around them, the notes of an accordion came over the water in tones that were sweetened and mellowed by distance. "ha! that's jim frost now," said billy, in subdued excitement, while pleasure glittered in his eyes. "oh! ned, i _does_ like music. it makes my heart fit to bu'st sometimes, it does. an' jim plays that-- that what's 'is name--so beautiful!" "his accordion," said ned. "yes--his accordium--" "no, billy, not accordium, but accordion." "well, well--no matter. i don't care a button what you calls it, so long as jim plays it. why, he'd make his fortin' if he was to play that thing about the streets o' lun'on. listen." jim frost deserved all the praise that the enthusiastic boy bestowed on him, for, besides possessing a fine ear and taste for music, and having taught himself to play well, he had a magnificent tenor voice, and took great delight in singing the beautiful hymns which at that time had been introduced to the fleet. on this particular day he was joined by his crew, whose voices--more or less tuneful--came rolling over the water in a great volume of melody. "he's got singin' peter a-visitin' him," said billy. "don't you hear him?" "ay, i hear him, boy. there's no mistakin' singin' peter's voice. i'd know it among a thousand." "if it's hell here," remarked billy, with a great sigh of satisfaction, after the hymn was done, "it do seem like heaven over there. i only wish we had jim frost on board of us instead of that brute gunter." "don't be hard on gunter, billy," said ned. "we don't know what he's got to bear. some men are born, you see, wi' narves that are for ever screwin' at 'em, an' ticklin' of 'em up; an' other men have narves that always keep smoothin' of 'em down. the last are the pleasantest to have to do with, no doubt, but the others ain't quite so bad as they look sometimes. their bark is worse than their bite." "hush!" exclaimed the boy, holding up a finger at the moment, for jim frost's accordion again sent forth its rich tones in the prelude to a hymn. a few moments later and the tuneful voices came rolling towards them in that beautiful hymn, the chorus of which ends:-- "we shall know each other better when the mists are rolled away." when the last verse was sung little billy found a tear struggling to get out of each eye, and a lump sticking in his throat, so he turned his head away to conceal them. "ain't it beautiful?" he said, when the lump had disappeared. "and ain't it curious," answered ned, "that it should touch on what we was talkin' about afore they began? p'r'aps we shall know john gunter better `when the mists are rolled away.'" billy shook his head dubiously. "i'm not so sure o' that," he said. "anyhow, there's a deal o' mist to be rolled away before we can know _him_ better." "there's a breeze comin' up from the south'ard," remarked ned, who, to say truth, did not seem to care very much about getting to know his surly shipmate better; "we'll have to get your father aboard soon." "that won't be an easy matter," said billy, and he was right, for when david bright was set down with a friend, and a glass, and a pack of cards, it was very difficult to move him. he was, indeed, as fond of gambling as of drinking, and lost much of his hardly earned gains in that way. billy, therefore, received little but abuse when he tried to induce him to return to his own vessel, but the freshing of the breeze, and a sudden lurch of the smack, which overturned his glass of grog into gunter's lap, induced him at last to go on deck. there the appearance of things had changed considerably. clouds were beginning to obscure the bright sky, the breeze had effectually shattered the clear mirror of the sea, and a swell was beginning to roll the _white cloud_, so that legs which would have found it difficult to steady their owners on solid land made sad work of their office on the heaving deck. "haul up the boat," cried brock in a drivelling voice as he came on deck; "where are you steerin' to? let me take the helm." he staggered toward the tiller as he spoke, but dick herring and one of his mates, seeing that he was quite unable to steer, tried to prevent him. brock, however, had reached that stage of drunkenness in which men are apt to become particularly obstinate, and, being a powerful man, struggled violently to accomplish his purpose. "let him have it," said herring at last. "he can't do much damage." when set free, the miserable man grasped the tiller and tried to steady himself. a lurch of the vessel, however, rendered his effort abortive. the tiller fell to leeward. brock went headlong with it, stumbled over the side, and, before any one could stretch out a hand to prevent it, fell into the sea and sank. his comrades were apparently sobered in an instant. there was no need for the hurried order to jump into the boat alongside. ned spivin and billy were in it with the painter cast off and the oars out in a couple of seconds. the boat of the _white cloud_ was also launched with a speed, that only north sea fishermen, perhaps, can accomplish, and both crews rowed about eagerly while the smack lay-to. but all without success. the unfortunate man was never more seen, and the visitors left the vessel in sobered silence, and rowed, without exchanging a word, to their own smack, which lay about a quarter of a mile distant on the port quarter. chapter eleven. ruth and captain bream take to scheming. returning to london, we will follow captain bream, who, one fine morning, walked up to mrs dotropy's mansion at the west end, and applied the knocker vigorously. "is miss ruth at home?" yes, miss ruth was at home, and would he walk in. he was ushered into the library of the mansion; that room in which the dotropy ancestors, who could not find space among their kindred in the dining-room, held, so to speak, an overflow meeting to themselves. ruth soon joined him. "i'm so glad to see you, captain bream," she said, shaking with much fervency the hand held out to her. "sit down. it is so kind of you to come at once to help me in my little schemes--though i have not seen you to explain why i asked you--but there, i was almost off on another subject before i had begun the one i wish to consult you about. and, do you know, captain," added ruth, with a slightly perplexed look, "i find scheming a very troublesome business!" "i should think you did, miss ruth, and it seems to me that it's always better to go straight at what you've got to do without scheming--all fair an' aboveboard. excuse me, my dear, but an old man who has sailed your lamented father's ships for over thirty years, and known you since you were a baby, may be allowed to say he's surprised that _you_ should take to scheming." "an old man who has not only sailed my dear father's ships for over thirty years," said ruth, "but has brought me toys from all parts of the world, and has, besides, been as true to the family as the needle to the pole--or truer, if all be true that is said of needles--may say to my father's daughter exactly what he pleases without the smallest chance of giving offence. but, let me tell you, sir, that you are a foolish old man, and much too quick in forming your opinions. scheming is both justifiable and honourable at times--as i shall soon convince you." a beaming smile overspread the captain's visage as he said-- "very well, miss ruth. go on." "but before i go on tell me how are the miss seawards?" "quite well, i believe. at least i have no reason to think otherwise. rather thinnish if anything, but filled out wonderfully since i first saw 'em." "that's good," said ruth, laughing. "and now, do you know why i asked you to go and lodge with them?" "well, i always thought it was because you knew i wanted a lodgin', though i confess it has puzzled me to make out why you wanted me to come to such an out-o'-the-way part o' the city; and, to tell you the truth, it _is_ rather inconvenient, but your letter was so urgent, miss ruth, that i knew you must have some good reason, and as your dear father's daughter has a right to command me, i obeyed, as you know, without question." "you are a good old man," returned ruth, laying her hand on the brown fist of the captain and looking up in his face with the same loving girlish look that she had bestowed on him many a time in years past on his frequent visits with foreign toys, "and i shall test your goodness a good deal before i have done with you." "test away, miss ruth. you'll find i can stand a good deal of testin'. i haven't sailed the salt sea for forty years for nothing." "well then," said ruth, looking slightly perplexed again. "what would you do, captain bream, if you knew of two ladies who were unable to work, or to find suitable work, and so poor as to be literally starving--what would you do?" "give 'em money, of course." "but suppose that, owing to some delicacy of feeling, or, perhaps, some sort of mistaken pride, they would not accept money, and flushed very much and felt hurt, if you ventured to offer it to them?" "why, then, i'd send 'em victuals." "but suppose," continued ruth, "that there were great difficulties in the way of doing that, and they felt as much objection to receive gratuitous victuals as money, what would you do then? you would not let them starve, would you?" "of course not," returned the captain, promptly. "if it fairly came to that i'd be apt to treat 'em as nurses do obstinate infants and castor oil. i'd take 'em on my knee, force open their mouths, and shove the victuals down their throats." ruth burst into a merry little laugh at this. "but," said she, "don't you think that before proceeding to such forcible treatment you might scheme a little to get them to take it willingly, as nurses sometimes disguise the taste of the oil with coffee or milk?" "well, you _might_ scheme a little on that sort of principle, miss ruth; but in ordinary cases i prefer straightforward plans myself." "then why, let me ask," said ruth with some severity in her look, "do you dare to scheme with the wind as you and all sailors do when it is dead against you?" "you're becomin' too deep for me now, my dear; what d'ee mean?" "when the wind blows dead against you, say from the north," replied ruth, "don't you begin your naughty--at least your nautical--scheming at once? don't you lay your course to the nor'-west and pretend you are going in that direction, and then don't you soon tack about--isn't that what you call it--and steer nor'-east, pretending that you are going _that_ way, when all the time you are wanting to go due north? what do you call that, sir, if it is not scheming to circumvent the wind?" while she was speaking, captain bream's smile expanded and broke forth at last in one of his bass broadsides of laughter, which gave ruth great delight for she had, as a little girl, enjoyed these thunderous laughs excessively, and her taste for them had not departed. "well, my dear," said her visitor, "i admit that there are some sorts o' fair-an'-above-board schemin' which ain't dishonourable, or unworthy of a british sailor." "very good," returned ruth; "then listen while i reveal some of my recent scheming. some time ago i found out that two very dear friends of mine--who were in delicate health and quite unable to work hard, as well as being unable to find any kind of work whatever--were on the point of starvation. they would not accept money. i schemed a little to get them to earn money, but it was not easy, and the result was not a sufficiently permanent income. at last i thought i would try to get them a boarder--a somewhat rich boarder, whose powerful appetite and large meals might leave some crumbs for--" "you don't mean to tell me, miss ruth," interrupted the captain, in amazement, "that the miss seawards were in a state of starvation when i went to 'em!" "indeed i do," replied ruth; "at least as nearly in that state as was compatible with existence." "well, well," said the captain, "no wonder they looked so thin; and no wonder they're beginnin' to be a little better in flesh now, wi' the legs o' mutton an' chops an' such like things that i get in to take the edge off my appetite--which, as you justly observe, miss ruth, is not a bad one. i'm glad you've told me this, however, for i'll go in for extra heavy feedin' now." "that's right. but stay, captain bream, i have not nearly done with my scheming yet. and i shall still want you to help me." "go ahead, my dear. i'm your man, for, to tell 'ee the downright truth, i've taken a great fancy to these two sisters, an' would steer a long way out o' my course to help 'em." "i knew you would," returned ruth with a little look of triumph. "whoever comes in contact with these dear friends of mine thinks exactly as you do. now, their health is not nearly as good as it ought to be, so i want them to have a change of air. you see, the poor little street in which they live is not the freshest in london." "exactly so. they want a trip to brighton or broadstairs or ramsgate, and a whiff of fresh sea-air, eh?" said the captain with a look of satisfaction. "no not to these places," said ruth; "i thought of yarmouth." "well, yarmouth--just as good. any part o' the coast will do to blow the london cobwebs out o' their brains--say yarmouth." "very good, captain, but my difficulty is, how to manage it." "nothing easier, miss ruth. i will take an afternoon train, run down, hire a lodgin', come up to-morrow, an' carry the miss seawards off wi' me." "but suppose they won't go?" "but they must go. i'm quite able to take up one under each arm an' carry 'em off by force if they won't." "i would highly approve of that method, captain, if it were possible, but i'm afraid such things are not permitted in this free country. no, if done at all, the thing must be gone about with a little more care and delicacy." "well then, i'll go down an' take a lodgin', an' write up and ask them to pay me a visit for the benefit of their health." ruth shook her pretty little head and frowned. "won't do," she said. "i know them too well. they're so unselfish that they won't budge a step to benefit themselves." "h'm! i see, miss ruth, we want a little scheming here--eh? well, i'll manage it. you leave this little matter in my hands, and see if i don't get 'em to visit yarmouth, by hook or by crook. by the way, miss ruth, was it one o' your little schemes, givin' 'em these mitts and comforters to make?" "of course it was," ruth replied with a laugh and a blush. "you see these things are really very much wanted by the north sea fishermen, and a great many benevolent women spend much time in knitting for them--and not only women, but also boys." "boys!" echoed the captain in surprise--"boys knit mitts and comforters?" "yes. i assure you that the telegraph boys of the notting hill branch of the post-office have actually spent some of their spare time in doing this work." "i'll look upon telegraph boys with more respect ever after this," said the captain with emphasis. "well, as i was saying," continued ruth, "mamma bought far more worsted for me than i could ever find time to work up into mitts or comforters, so i have employed the miss seawards to do it for me--at so much a pair. but they don't know it's for me, so be careful not to--" "yes, yes, i see--more scheming. well, i'll take care not to blab." "and i sent the worsted and arranged the transaction through such a dear pretty little fisher-boy from yarmouth. but perhaps you have seen him at your lodging." "no, i haven't seen him, but i've heard a good deal about him. the ladies seem to be as much impressed with his sweetness and prettiness as yourself, miss ruth. for my part, i'm not over fond o' sweet pretty boys. i prefer 'em rough-cast or even ugly, so long's they're smart an' willin'." "oh! but you have no idea what a smart and willing boy he is," said ruth, firing up in defence of her little friend. "i assure you he is most willing and intelligent, and i do believe he would scratch his face and twist his little nose into a screw if by so doing he could make himself ugly, for i have observed that he is terribly annoyed when people call him pretty--as they often foolishly do." "well, i'll be off now on this little business," said the captain, rising and smoothing his hat with his cuff. "but--but--miss ruth-- excuse me, you said something about sending the miss seawards a _rich_ lodger when you sent me. how d'ee know i'm rich?" "well, i only guessed it," returned ruth with a laugh, "and, you know, more than once you have hinted to me that you had got on very well--that god had prospered you--i think these were the words you have sometimes used." "these are the words i would always use," returned the captain. "the prosperity that has attended me through life i distinctly recognise at being the result of god's will, not of my wisdom. don't we see that the cleverest of men sometimes fail, and, on the other hand, the most stupid fellows sometimes succeed? it is god that setteth up one and putteth down another." "i'm glad to hear that you think so clearly on this point, captain, though i did not know it before. it is another bond between us. however, if i have been wrong in supposing you to be rich, i--" "nay, i did not deny it, miss ruth, but it does not follow that a man means to say he is rich when he says that he has got on very well. however, my dear, i don't mind tellin' you, as a secret that i _am_ rich--as rich, that is, as there's any use to be, an' far richer than i deserve to be. you must know," continued the captain, sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper, "that your dear father used to allow me to put my savin's into his hands for investment, and the investments succeeded so well that at last i found myself in possession of five hundred a year!" captain bream said this with much deliberation and an emphatic nod for each word, while he gazed solemnly in ruth's face. "not a bad fortune for an old bachelor, eh? then," he continued, after a moment's pause, "when i was wrecked, two years ago in australia, i took a fancy to have a look at the gold diggin's, so off i went to bendigo, and i set to work diggin' for the mere fun o' the thing, and the very first day i turned up a nugget as big as my fist and two of the same sort the day after, an' then a lot o' little ones; in fact i had got hold of a first-rate claim, an' when i had dug away for a month or so i put it all in a big chest, sold the claim, and came straight home, bringin' the chest with me. i have it now, up in my cabin yonder. it well-nigh broke my back gittin' it up the stair, though my back ain't a weak one." "and how much is the gold worth?" eagerly asked ruth, who had listened with a sympathetic expression on her face. "that's more than i can tell. i scarce know how to go about convertin' it into cash; but i'm in no hurry. now mind, miss ruth, not a word o' this to any livin' soul. not even to your own mother, for she ain't _my_ mother, d'ee see, an' has no right to know it. in fact i've never told it to any one till this day, for i have no one in the wide world to care about it. once, indeed, i had--" he stopped short. "ah! you are thinking of your sister?" said the sympathetic ruth; "the sister whom you once told me about long ago." "yes, miss ruth, i _was_ thinkin' o' her; but--" he stopped again. "do tell me about her," said ruth, earnestly. "has she been long dead?" "dead! my dear. i didn't say she was dead, an' yet it ain't unlikely she is, for it's long, long since i heard of her. there's not much to tell about her after all," said the captain, sadly. "but she was a dear sweet little girl at the time--just turned eighteen--an' very fond o' me. we had no parents living, an' no kindred except one old aunt, with whom my sister lived. i was away at the time on a long voyage, and had to take a cargo from the east indies to china before returnin' home. at hongkong i fell ill, an' was laid up there for months. altogether a good many troubles came on me at that time--though they were blessed troubles to me, for they ended in the saving o' my soul through my eyes bein' opened to see my sins and jesus christ as my saviour. it was three years before i set foot in england again, and when i got back i found that my old aunt was dead, and that my dear sister had married a seaman and gone away--no one knew where." "and you've never heard of her since?" asked ruth. "never." "and don't know who she married?" "know nothin' more about her, my dear, than i've told 'ee. good-bye now, miss ruth. i must look sharp about this business of yours." he showed such evident disinclination to continue the painful subject, that ruth forbore to press it, and they parted to prosecute their respective schemes. chapter twelve. captain bream develops a capacity for scheming. at dinner that day captain bream paused in the act of conveying a whole potato to his mouth on the end of his fork, and said-- "miss seaward, i'm going to leave you--" "leave us!" cried kate, interrupting him with a look of consternation, for she and jessie had both become so fond of the amiable seaman, with the frame of goliath and the heart of samuel, that they were now as much afraid of losing, as they had formerly been of possessing him. "leave us, captain!" "only for a time, miss kate--only for a time," he replied, hastily, as he checked the power of further utterance with the potato. "only for a time," he repeated, on recovering the power. "you see, i've got a little bit of business to transact down at yarmouth, and it will take me a good while to do it. some weeks at the least--perhaps some months-- but there's no help for it, for the thing _must_ be done." the captain said this with so much decision, that kate could scarcely forbear laughing as she said-- "dear me, it must be very important business since you seem so determined about it. is there anything or any one likely to oppose you in transacting the business?" "well, not exactly at present," returned the captain blandly, "but there are two obstinate friends of mine who, i have been told, would oppose me pretty stoutly if i was to tell 'em all the truth about it." "is there any necessity," asked jessie, "for telling these obstinate friends anything about the business at all?" "well, yes," replied the captain with a chuckle that almost brought on a choking fit; "i can't well avoid tellin' them somethin' about it, for they've a right to know, but--" "wouldn't it save you all trouble, then," broke in kate, seeing his hesitation, "to tell them just as much of the business as they were entitled to know, and no more." "that's just the very thing i mean to do," replied the captain, bursting into a laugh so deep and thunderous that the small domestic, liffie lee, entered the room abruptly to ask if anything was wanted, but in reality to find out what all the fun was about. having been dismissed with a caution not to intrude again till rung for, the captain helped himself to an enormous slice of beef; earnestly, but unsuccessfully, pressed the sisters to "go in for more and grow fat," and then continued his discourse. "you must know, ladies, that i have taken to studyin' a good deal in my old age. another potato--thank 'ee." "yes, we have observed that," said kate. "may i ask what is the nature of your studies--navigation?" "navigation!" shouted the captain with another laugh so rich and racy that poor liffie lee almost entered in defiance of orders; "no, miss kate, it ain't navigation! i've bin pretty well grounded in that subject for the last forty years. no, my study _now_ is theology." "theology!" exclaimed the sisters in surprise. "yes, theology. is it so strange, then, that a man drawin' near the close of life should wish to be more particular than when he was young in tryin' to find out all he can about his maker?" returned the captain gravely. "forgive us," said jessie, hastening to explain; "it is not that. if you had said you had taken to reading the bible carefully and systematically, we would not have been surprised, but it--it was--your talking so quietly about theology that made us--" "yes, yes, i see," interrupted the good-natured seaman; "well, it _is_ reading the word of god that i mean. you see, i regard the bible as my class-book, my book o' logarithms, chart compass, rudder, etcetera, all rolled into one. now, i don't mind tellin' you a secret. when i first went to sea i was a very wild harum-scarum young fellow, an' havin' some sort of influence over my mates, i did 'em a deal of damage and led 'em astray. well, when the lord in his great mercy saved my soul, i could not forget this, and although i knew i was forgiven, my heart was grieved to think of the mischief i had done. i felt as if i would give anything in life to undo it if i could. as this was not possible, however, i bethought me that the next best thing would be to do as much good as i could to the class that i had damaged, so, when i came home and left the sea for good, i used to go down about the docks and give away bibles and testaments to the sailors. then i got to say a word or two to 'em now and then about their souls but i soon found that there are professed unbelievers among the tars, an' they put questions that puzzled me at times, so i took to readin' the bible with a view to answering objectors an' bein' able to give a reason of the hope that is in me--to studyin', in fact, what i call theology. but i ain't above takin' help," continued the captain with a modest look, "from ordinary good books when i come across 'em--my chief difficulty bein', to find out what are the best books to consult, and this has led me sometimes to think of buyin' up all the theological books i can lay hands on, an' glancin' 'em all through so as to make notes of such as seemed worth readin' with care. the labour however seems so great, that up to now i've bin kept back, but i've had a talk with a friend to-day which has decided me, so i'll go off to yarmouth to-morrow an' buy a whole lot o' theological books--a regular library in fact--and set to work to read up. but there's one thing i would like, which would save me an enormous amount o' labour, if i could get it." "what is that?" asked the sisters, eagerly, and in the same breath, for they had become quite interested in their friend's aspirations. "i would like," said the captain, slowly, and fixing his eyes on his plate, for he was now beginning to scheme, "i would like to find some one--a clever boy perhaps, though a girl would be preferable--who would take the trouble off my hands of glancin' through the books first, an' makin' notes of their contents for me, so as to prevent my wastin' time on those that are worthless." "i fear," said jessie, "that few boys or girls would be capable of such work, for it would require not only intelligence but a considerable amount of scriptural knowledge." the captain heaved a deep sigh. "yes," he said, shaking his head slowly, "you're right, and i'm afraid i'll have to get some grown-up person to help me, but that won't be easy. and then, d'ee know, i don't feel as if i could git on in such investigations with a stranger." "what a pity," said kate, "that you could not bring the books here, and then _i_ could help you, for although i do not pretend to be deeply learned in scriptural knowledge, i daresay i know enough for your purpose; but why not get the books in london? is there any necessity for buying them in yarmouth?" poor captain bream was so unused to scheming, that he had made no preparation for such a question, and felt much confused. he could give no good reason for making his purchase in yarmouth, and nothing would have induced him to tell a falsehood. "well, really," he said, after a few moments' hesitation, "there are circumstances sometimes in a man's life which render it difficult for him to explain things, but--but i _have_ a reason for wishin' to buy this library in yarmouth, an' it seems to me a good one. besides, i've got a likin' for sea-air, bein' my native air, so to speak, and i've no doubt that theology would come more easy to me if i was in a snug little room facin' the sea, where i could see the blue waters dancin', an' the shipping go by, an' the youngsters playin' on the sands. yes, it _must_ be done at yarmouth. london would never do; it's too hot an' stuffy. not that i care for that, but then you might--ah--that is--i mean to say--you might agree with me on this point if you were there. but why," he added with fresh animation as he saw the way opening up before him, "why, miss kate, since you are so kind as to say you'd like to help me, why might you not take a run down to yarmouth with me, an' help me there?" "because," answered kate, laughing, "i could not very well leave my sister alone." "of course not--quite right, but there's no need for that; she could come too, and it would do you both much good, not to speak o' the _immense_ advantage to me! i do assure you i'd feel well-nigh as helpless as an infant, if left to tackle this business alone." from this point there began a regular skirmish between the captain and the sisters; the one trying to convince the others that it would be doing him a favour for which he could never find words to thank them, and the others endeavouring to show by every sort of argument that the thing was utterly unpossible, that the captain little knew what a burden he proposed to take on his shoulders, and that there was no use whatever in talking about it. but captain bream was a man of resolution. he stuck to his point and pleaded his own cause so powerfully that the sisters began to waver. "but think," urged kate, who did the most of the fighting, "you forget liffie lee. she is no longer a mere visitor for an hour or two of a morning, as she used to be, but a regular hired servant and we could not leave her behind." "i know that. it was my coming that made you hire her; and, now i think of it, i've a right to claim at least part of her, so she can come too, an' we'll lock up the house an' get mr green-grocer to look after it-- air it now and then. come, just make up your minds. only think, how beautiful the blue sea will be just now, an' the sunny skies, an' the yellow sands--i declare it makes me long to go. an' then you'll see that pretty boy you've taken such a fancy to--what's 'is name?" "billy bright," said kate. "just so--billy bright--though i can't say that i'm over fond o' pretty little boys. they're too often soft an'--" "but i tell you he's as bold as a lion, and wise as a man, and tough as--as--" "as a beefsteak," said the captain; "yes, yes, i know all that, and i'm quite prepared to believe that he is an exception. well, now, it's agreed to--is it?" but the sisters did not at once give in. they fought on with true feminine courage until the captain tried the effect of deep dejection and innocent submission, when their tender hearts could stand out no longer, and, hauling down their colours, they finally agreed to become librarians and accompany their lodger to yarmouth. then the captain left them to report the victory to his commodore, ruth dotropy. "i never had such a battle in my life!" he said to that scheming young creature. "they didn't give in till they'd fired off every shot in their locker. trafalgar and the nile were nothin' to it." "but do you really mean to say," asked ruth, who could hardly speak at first for laughing, "that you intend to buy all these theological books and set the sisters to work?" "to be sure i do. you didn't suppose that i was goin' to tell a parcel o' lies to help out your schemes, my dear? it has been for some months past simmerin' in my brain that i ought to go through a small course of education in that line. and all you have done for me is to make me go in for it somewhat sooner, and a little heavier than i had intended in the way of books. and there's no doubt i'll study better at the sea-side than in london. besides, i shall have the fishermen to try the effects of my studies on, and you may be sure i won't let the poor things work too hard at the books." "i'll trust you for that," said ruth. now, while these little plans were being arranged, an event was pending in the north sea fleet which merits particular notice. chapter thirteen. run down in a fog--captain bream acts surprisingly. one day a fishing-smack was on the eve of quitting the short blue fleet for its little holiday of a week in port. it was the _sparrow_, of which jim frost was master. a flag was flying to indicate its intention, and invite letters, etcetera, for home, if any of the crews should feel disposed to send them. several boats put off from their respective smacks in reply to the signal. one of these belonged to singing peter. "glad to see you, peter," said jim frost as the former leaped on the _sparrow's_ deck. "same to you, lad. i wish you a pleasant spell ashore, and may the master be with you," returned peter. "the master is sure to be with me," replied frost, "for has he not said, `i will never leave thee?' isn't it a fine thing, peter, to think that, whatever happens, the lord is here to guard us from evil?" "ay, jim, an' to take us home when the time comes." "`which is far better,'" responded jim. "you'll not get away to-night," remarked peter as he gazed out upon the sea. "it's goin' to fall calm." "no matter. i can wait." "what say ye, lad, to a hymn?" said peter. "i'm your man," replied jim, with a laugh, "i thought it wouldn't be long before singin' peter would want to raise his pipe." "he can't help it, d'ee see," returned peter, answering the laugh with a smile; "if i didn't sing i'd blow up. it's my safety-valve, jim, an' i like to blow off steam when i gets alongside o' like-minded men." "we're all like-minded here. fetch my accordion," said jim, turning to one of his men. in a few minutes a lively hymn was raised in lusty tones which rolled far and wide over the slumbering sea. then these like-minded men offered up several prayers, and it was observed that jim frost was peculiarly earnest that night. of course they had some more hymns, for as the calm was by that time complete, and it was not possible for any sailing vessel to quit the fleet, there was no occasion to hurry. indeed there is no saying how long these iron-framed fishermen would have kept it up, if it had not been for a slight fog which warned the visitors to depart. as the night advanced the fog thickened, so that it was not possible to see more than fifty yards around any of the fishing-smacks. now it is probably known to most people that the greatest danger to which those who do business on the sea are exposed is during fog. when all around is calm and peaceful; when the sound of voices comes with muffled sound over the smooth water; when the eye sees nothing save a ghostly white horizon all round close at hand; when almost the only sound that breaks on the ear is the gentle lapping of the sea, or the quiet creak of plank and spar, as the vessel slowly lifts and falls on the gentle swell, and when landsmen perchance feel most secure--then it is that the dark cloud of danger lowers most heavily, though perhaps unrecognised, over the mariner, and stirs him to anxious watchfulness, when apparently in profoundest repose. jim frost knew well the dangers of the situation, but he had been long accustomed to face all the dangers peculiar to his calling on the deep without flinching--strong in the confidence of his well-tried courage and seamanship, and stronger still in his trust in him who holds the water in the hollow of his hand. many a time had he been becalmed in fog on the north sea. he knew what to do, kept the fog-horn blowing, and took all the steps for safety that were possible in the circumstances. but, somehow, the young fisherman did not feel his usual easy-going indifference on that particular night, though his trust in god was not less strong. he felt no fear, indeed, but a solemn sobriety of spirit had taken the place of his wonted cheery temperament, and, instead of singing in lively tones as he paced the deck, he hummed airs of a slow pathetic kind in a soft undertone. it is often said that men receive mysterious intimations, sometimes, of impending disaster. it may be so. we cannot tell. certainly it seemed as if jim frost had received some such intimation that night. "i can't understand it, evan," he said to his mate when the latter came on deck a little after midnight to relieve him. "a feeling as if something was going to happen has taken possession of me, and i can't shake it off. you know i'm not the man to fancy danger when there's none." evan--a youth whom he had been the means of rescuing when about to fall, under great temptation--replied that perhaps want of sleep was the cause. "you know," he said, "men become little better than babbies when they goes long without sleep, an' you've not had much of late. what with that tearin' o' the net an' the gale that's just gone, an' that book, you know--" "ah!" interrupted jim, "you mustn't lay the blame on the book, evan. i haven't bin sittin' up _very_ late at it; though i confess i'm uncommon fond o' readin'. besides, it's a good book, more likely to quiet a man's mind than to rouse it. how we ever got on without readin' before that mission-ship came to us, is more than i can understand! why, it seems to have lifted me into a new world." "that's so. i'm fond o' readin' myself," said evan, who, although not quite so enthusiastic or intellectual as his friend, appreciated very highly the library-bags which had been recently sent to the fleet. "but the strange thing is," said jim, returning to the subject of his impressions--"the strange thing is, that my mind is not runnin' on danger or damaged gear, or books, or gales, but on my dear wife at home. i've bin thinkin' of nancy in a way that i don't remember to have done before, an' the face of my darlin' lucy, wi' her black eyes an' rosy cheeks so like her mother, is never absent from my eyes for a moment." "want o' sleep," said the practical evan. "you'd better turn in an' have a good spell as long as the calm lasts." "you remember the patch o' green in front o' my cottage in gorleston?" asked jim, paying no attention to his mate's advice. "yes," answered evan. "well, when i was sittin' for'ard there, not half-an-hour since, i seed my nancy a-sittin' on that green as plain as i see you, sewin' away at somethin', an' lucy playin' at her knee. they was so real-like that i couldn't help sayin' `nancy!' an' i do assure you that she stopped sewin' an' turned her head a-one side for a moment as if she was listenin'. an' it was all so real-like too." "you was dreamin'; that was all," said the unromantic evan. "no, mate. i wasn't dreamin'," returned jim. "i was as wide awake as i am at this moment for i was lookin' out all round just as keen as if i had not bin thinkin' about home at all." "well, you'd as well go below an' dream about 'em now if you can," suggested evan, "an' i'll keep a sharp look-out." "no, lad, i can't. i'm not a bit sleepy." as jim said this he turned and went to the bow of the smack. at that moment the muffled sound of a steamer's paddles was heard. probably the fog had something to do with the peculiarity of the sound, for next moment a fog-whistle sounded its harsh tone close at hand, and a dark towering shadow seemed to rush down upon the _sparrow_. even if there had been a breeze there would have been no time to steer clear of the danger. as it was, the little vessel lay quite helpless on the sea, evan shouted down the companion for the men to turn out for their lives. the man at the bow sounded the fog-horn loud and long. at the same instant jim frost's voice rang out strong and clear a warning cry. it was answered from above. there were sudden screams and cries. the fog-whistle shrieked. engines were reversed. "hard a-port!" was shouted. steam was blown off, and, amid confusion and turmoil indescribable, an ocean steamer struck the little _sparrow_ amidships, and fairly rammed her into the sea. it could scarcely be said that there was a crash. the one was too heavy and the other too light for that. the smack lay over almost gracefully, as if submitting humbly to her inevitable doom. there was one great cry, and next moment she was rolling beneath the keel of the monster that had so ruthlessly run her down. not far off--so near indeed that those on board almost saw the catastrophe--lay the _evening star_. they of course heard the cries and the confusion, and knew only too well what had occurred. to order out the boat was the work of an instant. with powerful strokes joe, spivin, trevor, and gunter, caused it to leap to the rescue. on reaching the spot they discovered and saved the mate. he was found clinging to an oar, but all the others had disappeared. the steamer which had done the deed had lowered a boat, and diligent search was made in all directions round the spot where the fatal collision had occurred. no other living soul, however, was found. only a few broken spars and the upturned boat of the smack remained to tell where jim frost, and the rest of his like-minded men, had exchanged the garb of toil for the garments of glory! as a matter of course this event made a profound impression for a time on board of the _evening star_ and of such vessels as were near enough next morning to be informed of the sad news. a large portion of the fleet, however, was for some time unaware of what had taken place, and some of the masters and crews, who were averse to what they styled "psalm-singin' and prayin'," did not seem to be much affected by the loss. whether grieved or indifferent however, the work of the fleet had to be done. whether fishermen live or die, sink or swim, the inexorable demand of billingsgate for fish must be met! accordingly, next day about noon, a fresh breeze having sprung up, and a carrier-steamer being there ready for her load, the same lively scene which we have described in a previous chapter was re-enacted, and after the smacks were discharged they all went off as formerly in the same direction, like a shoal of herrings, to new fishing-grounds. when they had got well away to the eastward and were beating up against a stiff northerly breeze, david bright who stood near the helm of the _evening star_, said to his son in a peculiarly low voice-- "now, billy, you go below an' fetch me a glass of grog." billy went below as desired, but very unwillingly, for he well knew his father's varying moods, and recognised in the peculiar tone in which the order was given, a species of despondency--almost amounting to despair-- which not unfrequently ushered in some of his worst fits of intemperance. "your fadder's in de blues to-day," said zulu, as he toiled over his cooking apparatus in the little cabin; "when he spok like dat, he goes in for heavy drink." "i know that well enough," returned billy, almost angrily. "why you no try him wid a 'speriment?" asked the cook, wrinkling up his nose and displaying his tremendous gums. "for any sake don't open your mouth like that, zulu, but tell me what you mean by a 'speriment," said the boy. "how kin i tell what's a 'speriment if i'm not to open my mout'?" "shut up, you nigger! an' talk sense." "der you go agin, billy. how kin i talk sense if i'm to shut up? don't you know what a 'speriment is? why it's--it's--just a 'speriment you know--a dodge." "if you mean a dodge, why don't you say a dodge?" retorted billy; "well, what is your dodge? look alive, for daddy'll be shoutin' for his grog in a minute." "you jus' listen," said the cook, in a hoarse whisper, as he opened his enormous eyes to their widest, "you jus' take a wine-glass--de big 'un as your fadder be fond of--an' put in 'im two teaspoonfuls o' vinegar, one tablespoonful o' parafine hoil, one leetle pinch o' pepper, an' one big pinch ob salt with a leetle mustard, an' give 'im dat. your fadder never take time to smell him's grog--always toss 'im off quick." "yes, an' then he'd toss the wine-glass into my face an' kick me round the deck afterwards, if not overboard," said billy, with a look of contempt. "no, zulu, i don't like your 'speriment, but you've put a notion into my head, for even when a fool speaks a wise man may learn--" "yes, i often tink dat," said the cook, interrupting, with a look of innocence. "you quite right, so speak away, billy, an' i'll learn." "you fetch me the wine-glass," said the boy, sharply. zulu obeyed. "now, fill it up with water--so, an' put in a little brown sugar to give it colour. that's enough, stir him up. not bad rum--to _look_ at. i'll try father wi' that." accordingly, our little hero went on deck and handed the glass to his father--retreating a step or two, promptly yet quietly, after doing so. as zulu had said, david bright did not waste time in smelling his liquor. he emptied the glass at one gulp, and then gazed at his son with closed lips and gradually widening eyes. "it's only sugar and water, daddy," said billy, uncertain whether to laugh or look grave. for a few moments the skipper was speechless. then his face flushed, and he said in a voice of thunder, "go below an' fetch up the keg." there was no disobeying _that_ order! the poor boy leaped down the ladder and seized the rum-keg. "your 'speriment might have been better after all, zulu," he whispered as he passed up again, and stood before his father. what may have passed in the mind of that father during the brief interval we cannot tell, but he still stood with the empty wine-glass in his hand and a fierce expression on his face. to billy's surprise, however, instead of seizing the keg and filling out a bumper, he said sternly--"see here," and tossed the wine-glass into the sea. "now lad," he added, in a quiet voice, "throw that keg after it." the poor boy looked at his sire with wondering eyes, and hesitated. "overboard with it!" said david bright in a voice of decision. with a mingling of wild amazement, glee, and good-will, billy, exerting all his strength, hurled the rum-keg into the air, and it fell with a heavy splash upon the sea. "there, billy," said david, placing his hand gently on the boy's head, "you go below and say your prayers, an' if ye don't know how to pray, get luke trevor to teach you, an' don't forget to thank god that your old father's bin an' done it at last." we are not informed how far billy complied with these remarkable orders, but certain we are that david bright did not taste a drop of strong drink during the remainder of that voyage. whether he tasted it afterwards at all must be left for this chronicle to tell at the proper time and place. at present it is necessary that we should return to yarmouth, where captain bream, in pursuance of his deep-laid schemes, entered a bookseller's shop and made a sweeping demand for theological literature. "what particular work do you require, sir?" asked the surprised and somewhat amused bookseller. "i don't know that i want any one in particular," said the captain, "i want pretty well all that have bin published up to this date. you know the names of 'em all, i suppose?" "indeed no, sir," answered the man with a look of uncertainty. "theological works are very numerous, and some of them very expensive. perhaps if--" "now, look here. i've got neither time nor inclination to get upon the subject just now," said the captain. "you just set your clerk to work to make out a list o' the principal works o' the kind you've got on hand, an' i'll come back in the evenin' to see about it. never mind the price. i won't stick at that--nor yet the quality. anything that throws light on religion will do." "but, sir," said the shopman, "some of the theological works of the present day are supposed--at least by the orthodox--to throw darkness instead of light on religion." "all right," returned the captain, "throw 'em all in. i don't expect divines to agree any more than doctors. besides, i've got a chart to steer by, called the bible, that'll keep me clear o' rocks an' shoals. you make your mind easy, an' do as i bid you. get the books together by six o'clock this evening, an' the account made out, for i always pay cash down. good-day." leaving the bookseller to employ himself with this astounding "order," captain bream next went to that part of the town which faces the sea-beach, and knocked at the door of a house in the window of which was a ticket with "lodgings" inscribed on it. "let me see your rooms, my good girl," said the captain to the little maid who opened the door. the little maid looked up at the captain with some surprise and no little hesitancy. she evidently feared either that the rooms would not be suitable for the applicant or that the applicant would not be suitable for the rooms. she admitted him, however, and, leading him up-stairs, ushered him into the parlour of the establishment. "splendid!" exclaimed the captain on beholding the large window, from which there was seen a glorious view of the sea, so near that the ships passing through the deep water close to the beach seemed as if they were trying which of them could sail nearest to land without grounding. "splendid!" he repeated with immense satisfaction as he turned from the view to the room itself; "now this is what i call fortunate. the very thing--sofa for miss jessie--easy-chair for miss kate--rocking chair for both of 'em. nothin' quite suitable for me, (looking round), but that's not difficult to remedy. glass over the chimney to see their pretty faces in, and what have we here--a press?" "no, sir," said the little maid, pushing open the door, "a small room off this one, sir." "glorious!" shouted the captain, entering and striking the top of the door-way with his head in doing so. "nothing could be better. this is the theological library! just the thing--good-sized window, same view, small table, and--well, i declare! if there ain't _empty_ bookshelves!" "very sorry, sir," said the little maid, hastening to apologise; "we have no books, but they'll be handy for any books you may bring to the sea-side with you, sir, or for any little knick-knacks and odds and ends." "yes, yes, my good girl. i'll fetch a few theological odds and ends to-night that'll p'r'aps fill 'em up. by the way, you've a bedroom, i hope?" he looked anxious, and the maid, who seemed inclined to laugh, said that of course they had, a nice airy bedroom on the same floor on the other side of the passage--also commanding the sea. the captain's face beamed again. "and now, my girl--but, by the way, i shall want another bedroom. have you--" "i'm sorry to say that we have not. the rest of the house is quite full." captain bream's face again became anxious. "that's bad," he said; "of course i can get one out o' the house, but it would be inconvenient." "there _is_ a hattic, sir," said the maid, "but it is 'igh up, and so very small, that i fear--" "let me see the attic," said the captain, promptly. the maid conducted him up another flight of steps to a room, or rather closet, which did not appear to be more than five feet broad and barely six feet long; including the storm-window, it might have been perhaps seven feet long. it was situated in a sort of angle, so that from the window you could have a view of a piece of slate roof, and two crooked chimney pots with a slice of the sea between them. as there was much traffic on the sea off that coast, the slice referred to frequently exhibited a ship or a boat for a few seconds. "my study!" murmured the captain, looking round on the bare walls, and the wooden chair, and a low bedstead which constituted the furniture. "not much room for the intellect to expand here. however, i've seen worse." "we consider it a very good hattic, sir," said the little maid, somewhat hurt by the last remark. "i meant no offence, my dear," said the captain, with one of his blandest smiles, "only the berth _is_ rather small, d'ee see, for a man of my size. it is first-rate as far as it goes, but if it went a little further--in the direction of the sea, you know--it might give me a little more room to kick about my legs. but it'll do. it'll do. i'll take all the rooms, so you'll consider them engaged." "but you haven't asked the price of 'em yet sir," said the little maid. "i don't care tuppence about the price, my dear. are you the landlady?" "la! no, sir," replied the girl, laughing outright as they returned to the parlour. "well then, you send the landlady to me, and i'll soon settle matters." when the landlady appeared, the captain was as good as his word. he at once agreed to her terms, as well as her stipulations, and paid the first week's rent in advance on the spot. "now," said he, on leaving, "i'll come back this evening with a lot of books. to-morrow forenoon, the ladies for whom the rooms are taken will arrive, please god, and you will have everything ready and in apple-pie order for 'em. i'll see about grub afterwards, but in the meantime you may give orders to have sent in to-morrow a lot o' fresh eggs and milk and cream--lots of cream--and fresh butter and tea and coffee an' suchlike. but i needn't do more than give a wink to a lady of your experience." with this last gallant remark captain bream left the lodging and strolled down to the sea-beach. chapter fourteen. ruth's hopes as to her plot brighten a little. "mother," said ruth one day to her dignified parent, "shall you be soon free of engagements?" "yes, probably by the end of next week. why do you ask?" "because i am longing to get away to yarmouth. i had a letter from dear kate seaward to-day. they have been a week in their lodging now, and are enjoying it immensely. here is the letter. let me read a bit of it to you. she says: `you have no idea how much we are charmed with this place. it is a perfect paradise! perhaps part of our feeling of delight is due to the great change from our smoky little residence in london, but you would not wonder at my enthusiasm if you saw the sweet little window beside which i am writing, and the splendid sea--like a great field of clear glass, which spreads away on all sides to the horizon. oh! i do love the sea--to look at, i mean. you must not suppose, dear, that i have any love left when i am _on_ it. oh no! the memory of my last crossing of the channel--that dreadful british channel--is as fresh as if it had happened yesterday--the heaving of the steamer and the howling of the wind, the staggering of the passengers, and the expression of their faces, to say nothing of their colour. and then the sensations! appalling is a mild word. it is not appropriate. if i might coin a word, horrific seems more suitable. but words utterly fail when deep and powerful sensations are concerned. i do assure you, ruth, that i was absolutely indifferent as to what should become of me that dreadful day as i lay extended flat on my back on one of the saloon sofas. and when that nurse with the baby was forced by a lurch of the ship to sit down on me, i do believe that i could have thanked her if she had crushed me out of existence. yes, i hate the sea as a place of residence, but i love it as an object to be looked at, especially when it is calm and glittering, as it now is, in the early morning sun. "talking of the early morning reminds me of good captain bream, who is one of the most singular and incomprehensible creatures i ever met with. he is an early riser--not that that makes him singular--but instead of going out to walk he remains up in his pigeon-hole of a room studying theology! and such a miscellaneous collection of books he has got on all sorts of religious controversy! he say he wants to be able to meet the objections of unbelievers whom he sometimes encounters when preaching to sailors. jessie and i have heard him preach to a number of sailors and fishermen assembled in an old boat-shed, and you have no idea, ruth, how delightful it is to hear him. _so_ different from what one expected, and so very unlike the preaching of many men. i have often wondered why it is that some men--sensible men, too, in other matters--should think it necessary to talk in a sing-song, or whiny voice, with a pathetic drawl, or through their noses, when they have to speak on religious subjects! i once heard an indignant clergyman say that he thought it was a device of the devil to turn sacred things into ridicule, but i cannot agree with that. it seems to me that men are often too ready to saddle satan with evil devices which they ought to fix on their own stupid shoulders. captain bream simply _talks_ when he preaches; just as if he were talking on any business matter of great importance, and he does it so nicely, too, and so earnestly, like a father talking to his children. many of the rough-looking fishermen were quite melted, and after the meeting a good many of them remained behind to talk with him privately. jessie and i are convinced that he is doing a great and good work here. but he is a most eccentric man, and seems a good deal perplexed by his theological studies. the other day jessie ventured to question him about these, and he became quite energetic as he said:-- "`i tell 'ee what it is, ladies, when i go cruisin' out and in among these theological volumes until i lose my reckoning altogether an' git among shoals an' quicksands that i never so much as heard of before, i just lay hold o' the cable that's made fast to my sheet-anchor, and i haul in on that. here is the sheet-anchor, he said, pulling his little bible from his pocket, the word of god. that's it. when i feel how ignorant an' stoopid an' unlearned i am, i just keep haulin' on the cable till i come to some such word as this, "not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the lord," an' so i'm comforted, an' my mind's made easy, for, after all we may think and say and read, it _must_ come to this--"let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind." every man must work out his own theology for himself, accordin' to that word, and i've worked it out so far by god's blessin', that jesus christ--the god--man--is my foundation, the holy spirit is my guide, and salvation from sin is my aim and end--not only for myself but for my fellow-sinners. "`but i must not go on quoting the captain's sayings and eccentric doings, else i shall never stop. "`when are you and your mother coming down? i cannot tell how much we long to have you with us to share in our enjoyment of this charming place. and the fisher-people are so interesting too. i don't wonder you took such a fancy to them. of course we have not had time to make acquaintance with many of them yet. and jessie has become so engrossed with the captain's theological books that i can't tear her away from them. at first she began to inspect their contents with a view to tabulate them and help the captain, but she gets so deep in them that she forgets time altogether, and i have often found her, after having been several hours in the library, sitting there poring over a huge volume without having made a single note or jotting! the captain is quite facetious about it, and said yesterday that if she didn't work a little harder he'd have to dismiss her from the service an' ship a new hand. then he dragged us both out for a long walk on the beach. we cannot resist him. nobody can. and _such_ cream as we have!--more like thin butter than cream. and such quantities of it too, for he declares he is very fond of it, and must always have plenty on hand. but i cannot help thinking it is for our sakes he has it, for although he talks much about it and makes great demonstration and noise when he drinks it, he does not really consume much--and you know it must be drunk by somebody, else it would spoil. oh! we are having, as the captain himself says, a remarkably jolly time of it here, and only want you to make our happiness complete. but with all his fun and energy and cheerfulness, i cannot avoid noticing that dear captain bream is frequently very pensive and absent. i cannot help thinking sometimes that he is the victim of some secret sorrow.'" at this point ruth looked up in her mother's face and burst into a fit of hilarious laughter. "only think, mother," she said, "of great big, stout, jolly old captain bream having a secret sorrow!" "my dear," said mrs dotropy in a reproachful tone, "you are too flippant in your references to stout old people. you should remember that even the stoutest of them may once have been thin. and it is not impossible that captain bream may still be suffering from unrequited affection, or--" again ruth burst into silvery laughter, but checked it and apologised. "i can't help it mother. it does seem so funny to think of captain bream having ever been thin, or with hair on his head, or suffering from disappointed love. i wonder that it does not occur to kate that the good man is perhaps suffering because of the sorrows of others. it would be much more like his generous and unselfish nature. but now, mother, may i write to kate and tell her to expect us next week?" "yes, i think you may. but why are you in such haste, child?" "because i'm burning to clear up that little mystery that i told you of--if indeed it is a mystery, and not a mere fancy." ruth sighed as if her spirit were slightly troubled. "really, child, you have quite raised my curiosity about that mystery as you call it. why will you not confide in me?" "because i may be all wrong, and when i find out that i'm right--if i find out that i'm right--then you shall know all about it." "and there's that chest, too, that the captain sent here for us to take care of when he left town," continued mrs dotropy, "you make quite a mystery about that too, for i see that you know something about it. if i had not perfect confidence in your heart, child, i should feel quite anxious, for it is the first time in your life that you have concealed anything from me." "thank you, mother, for trusting my heart," said ruth, putting an arm round the dignified lady's neck and kissing her. "that's all very well, ruth, but i do not put so much trust in your head." "i'm sorry for that, mother, but meantime my head says that while it would be wrong in me to keep any secret about myself from you, i have no right to reveal the secrets of others. but about this chest--has the banker sent for it yet?" "no, not yet but i expect some one from the bank every minute, (she consulted a small jewelled watch), and it is probable that our young friend mr dalton himself may come." "mr dalton!" exclaimed ruth, with a sudden flush that might have indicated pleasure or annoyance. mrs dotropy, however, did not observe the flush, but continued-- "the chest seems miraculously heavy. i told james to put it into the store-room, but he could not lift it, although he is a strong man, and had to get the butler's assistance." at that moment the conversation was interrupted by the door being thrown open, and mr dalton was announced. he was a young man of handsome face and figure, with dark eyes, short curly hair, and a pleasing address. apologising for not being more punctual in calling for the chest, he explained that pressing-business had detained him. "of course, of course," said mrs dotropy, with the familiarity of an old friend--for such she was to the youth--"you men of business always carry about that cloak of pressing-business to cover your sins and shortcomings with." "nay, you are unjust," said the young man, "i appeal to miss ruth. did i not say to captain bream that i might perhaps have difficulty in getting away at the hour named, as it was a business hour, and, the transaction being of a friendly and private nature--" "my dear sir," interrupted mrs dotropy, "if it is private, pray do not make it public." "has not miss ruth, then, told you--" he stopped and looked from one lady to the other. "miss ruth," said that young lady, flushing deeply, "is supposed to know nothing whatever about your transactions with captain bream. shall i go and tell james to carry the box down-stairs, mother?" mrs dotropy gave permission, and ruth retired. a few minutes later, young dalton drove away with the captain's chest of gold. a week after that the mother and daughter drove away from the same door to the railway station, and in process of time found themselves one pleasant afternoon at yarmouth, in the little parlour with the window that commanded the gorgeous view of the sea, taking tea with the captain himself and his friends jessie and kate seaward. a lodging had been secured quite close to their own by the dotropys. "now," said ruth to jessie that evening in private, with flushed cheeks and eager eyes, "i shall be able to carry out my little plot, and see whether i am right, now that i have at last got captain bream down to yarmouth." "what little plot?" asked jessie. "i may not tell you yet," said ruth with a laugh. "i shall let you know all about it soon." but ruth was wrong. there was destined to be a slip 'twixt the cup and her sweet lip just then, for that same evening captain bream received a telegram from london, which induced him to leave yarmouth hastily to see a friend, he said, and keep an old-standing engagement. he promised, however, to be back in two or three days at furthest. chapter fifteen. a cloud comes over ruth's hopes, and dims their brightness. to prevent the reader supposing that there is any deep-laid scheme or profound mystery, with which we mean to torment him during the course of our tale, we may as well say at once that the little plot, which ruth had in view, and which began to grow quite into a romance the longer she pondered it, was neither more nor less than to bring captain bream and mrs david bright face to face. ruth had what we may style a constructive mind. give her a few rough materials, and straight-way she would build a castle with them. if she had not enough of material, she immediately invented more, and thus continued her castle-building. being highly imaginative and romantic, her structures were sometimes amazing edifices, at which orthodox architects might have turned up their noses--and with some reason, too, for poor little ruth's castles were built frequently on bad foundations, and sometimes even in the air, so that they too often fell in splendid ruins at her feet! it would not be just however, to say that none of ruth's buildings stood firm. occasionally she built upon a good foundation. now and then she made a straight shot and hit the mark. for instance, the little edifice of cuffs and comforters to the north sea trawlers survived, and remains to the present day a monument of usefulness, (which few monuments are), and of well-placed philanthropy. it may not, perhaps, be just to say that ruth actually laid the foundation--conceived the first idea--of that good work, but she was at all events among the first builders, became an active overseer, and did much of the work with her own hands. still, as we have said, too many of ruth's castles came to the ground, and the poor thing was so well used to the sight of falling material that she had at last begun to be quite expert in detecting the first symptoms of dissolution, and often regarded them with despairing anxiety. it was so with her when captain bream was summoned so suddenly away from yarmouth. eagerly, anxiously, had she planned to get him down to that town for the purpose of confronting him with mrs david bright--the reason being that, from various things the captain had said to her at different times, and from various remarks that mrs bright had made on sundry occasions, she felt convinced that the north sea fisherman's wife was none other than captain bream's long-lost sister! it would be well-nigh impossible, as well as useless, to investigate the process of reasoning and the chain of investigation, by which she came to this conclusion, but having once laid the foundation, she began to build on it with her wonted enthusiasm, and with a hopefulness that partial failure could not destroy. the captain's departure, just when she hoped to put the copestone on her little edifice was a severe blow, for it compelled her to shut up her hopes and fears in her own breast, and, being of a sympathetic nature, that was difficult. but ruth was a wise little woman as well as sympathetic. she had sense enough to know that it might be a tremendous disappointment to captain bream, if, after having had his hopes raised, it were discovered that mrs bright was _not_ his sister. ruth had therefore made up her mind not to give the slightest hint to him, or to any one else, about her hopes, until the matter could be settled by bringing the two together, when, of course, they would at once recognise each other. although damped somewhat by this unlooked-for interruption to her little schemes, she did not allow her efforts to flag. "i see," she said one day, on entering the theological library, where jessie, having laid down a worsted cuff which she had been knitting, was deep in leslie's _short and easy method with the deists_, and kate, having dropped a worsted comforter, had lost herself in chalmers's _astronomical discourses_. "i see you are both busy, so i won't disturb you. i only looked in to say that i'm going out for an hour or two." "we are never too busy, darling," said jessie, "to count _your_ visits an interruption. would you like us to walk with you?" "n-no. not just now. the fact is, i am going out on a little private expedition," said ruth, pursing her mouth till it resembled a cherry. "oh! about that little plot?" asked jessie, laughing. ruth nodded and joined in the laugh, but would not commit herself in words. "now, don't work too hard, kate," she cried with an arch look as she turned to leave. "it is harder work than you suppose, miss impudence," said kate; "what with cuffs and contradictions, comforters and confusion, worsted helmets and worse theology, my brain seems to be getting into what the captain calls a sort of semi-theological lop-scowse that quite unfits me for anything. go away, you naughty girl, and carry out your dark plots, whatever they are." ruth ran off laughing, and soon found herself at the door of mrs bright's humble dwelling. now, mrs bright, although very fond of her fair young visitor, had begun, as we have seen, to grow rather puzzled and suspicious as to her frequent inquiries into her past history. "you told me, i think, that your maiden name was bream," said ruth, after a few remarks about the weather and the prospects of the _short blue_ fleet, etcetera. "yes, miss ruth," answered mrs bright; but the answer was so short and her tone so peculiar that poor scheming little ruth was quelled at once. she did not even dare to say another word on the subject nearest her heart at the time, and hastily, if not awkwardly, changed the subject to little billy. here indeed she had touched a theme in regard to which mrs bright was always ready to respond. "ah! he _is_ a good boy, is billy," she said, "an uncommonly good boy-- though he is not perfect by any means. and he's a little too fond of fighting. but, after all, it's not for its own sake he likes it, dear boy! it's only when there's a good reason for it that he takes to it. did i ever tell you about his kicking a boy bigger than himself into the sea off the end of the pier?" "no, you never told me that." "well, this is how it was. there's a small girl named lilly brass--a sweet little tot of four years old or thereabouts, and billy's very fond of her. lilly has a brother named tommy, who's as full of mischief as an egg is full of meat, and he has a trick of getting on the edge of the pier, near where they live, and tryin' to walk on it and encouraging lilly to follow him. the boy had been often warned not to do it, but he didn't mind, and my billy grew very angry about it. "`i don't care about little brass himself mother,' said billy to me one day; `he may tumble in an' be drownded if he likes, but i'm afeared for little lilly, for she likes to do what he does.' "so, one day billy saw tommy brass at his old tricks, with lilly looking on, quite delighted, and what did my boy do, think ye? he went up to brass, who was bigger and older than himself, and gave him such a hearty kick that it sent him right off into the sea. the poor boy could not swim a stroke, and the water was deep, so my billy, who can swim like a fish, jumped in after him and helped to get him safe ashore. tommy brass was none the worse; so, after wringing the water out of his clothes, he went up to billy and gave him a slap in the face. billy is not a boastful boy. he does not speak much when he's roused; but he pulled off his coat and gave brass such a thump on the nose that he knocked him flat on the sand. up he jumped, however, in a moment and went at billy furiously, but he had no chance. my boy was too active for him. he jumped a' one side, struck out his leg, and let him tumble over it, giving him a punch on the head as he went past that helped to send his nose deeper into the sand. at last he beat him entirely, and then, as he was puttin' on his jacket again, he said--`tommy brass, it ain't so much on account o' that slap you gave me, that i've licked you, but because you 'ticed lilly into danger. and, you mark what i say: every time i catch you walkin' on that there pier-edge, or _hear_ of you doin' of it, i'll give you a lickin'.' "tommy brass has never walked on that pier-edge since," concluded mrs bright, "but i'm sorry to say that ever since that day lilly brass has refused to have a word to say to billy, and when asked why, she says, `'cause he sowsed an' whacked my brudder tommy!'" thus did mrs bright entertain her visitor with comment and anecdote about billy until she felt at last constrained to leave without having recovered courage to broach again the subject which had brought her to the fisherman's home. that same afternoon mrs bright paid a friendly visit to the wife of her husband's mate. "i can't think whatever miss ruth dotropy is so curious about me for, she's bin at me again," said mrs bright to mrs davidson, who was busy with her needle on some part of the costume of her "blessed babby," which lay, like an angel, in its little crib behind the door. "p'r'aps it's all along of her bein' so interested in you," replied pretty mrs davidson. "she asks me many odd questions at times about myself, and my dear joe, and the babby--though i admit she don't inquire much about my past life." "well, that's not surprising," said mrs bright with a laugh, as she sat down on a stool to have a chat. "you see, maggie, you haven't got much of a past life to inquire about, and joe is such a good man that you've no call to be suspecting anything; but it wasn't always so with my dear david. i wouldn't say it even to you, maggie, if it wasn't that everybody in yarmouth knows it--my david drinks hard sometimes, and although i know he's as true as gold to me, an' never broke the laws of the land, everybody won't believe that, you know, and the dear man _might_ fall under suspicion." "but you don't suppose, if he did," said mrs davidson, with a look of surprise, "that miss ruth would go about actin' the part of a detective, do you?" "well, no, i don't," replied her friend, looking somewhat puzzled. "all the same it _is_ mysterious why she should go on as she's bin doin', asking me what my maiden name was, and who my relations were, and if i ever had any brothers, and when and where i first met wi' david. but whatever her reasons may be i'm resolved that she'll get nothing more out of me." "of course," returned maggie, "you must do as you think right in that matter. all i can say is, i would tell miss ruth all that was in _my_ mind without any fear that she'd abuse my confidence." "ah! maggie, i might say that too if my mind and conscience were as clear as yours. but they're not. it is true i have long ago brought my sins to jesus and had them washed away in his precious blood. and i never cease to pray for my dear david, but--but--" "don't you fear, nell," said mrs davidson, earnestly, and in a tone of encouragement. "your prayer is sure to be answered." "oh! maggie, i try to believe it--indeed i do. but when i see david go down to that--that public-house, and come up the worse o' liquor, an' sometimes little billy with him with a cigar in his sweet little mouth an' the smell o' drink on him, my heart fails me, for you know what an _awful_ snare that drink is, once it gets the upper hand--and--" poor mrs bright fairly broke down at this point for a few seconds; and no wonder, for, not even to her most confidential and sympathetic friend could she tell of the terrible change for the worse that came over her husband when the accursed fire-water burned in his veins. "nell," said maggie, laying her work in her lap and taking her friend's hand. "don't give way like that. god would never ask us to pray for one another, if he didn't mean to answer us. would he, now?" "that's true, maggie, that's true," said mrs bright, much comforted. "i never thought of that before. you're young, but you're wise, dear. of course, the good lord will never mock us, and if there's anything i have asked for of late, it has been the salvation of david and billy. what was it, maggie, that made your joe first turn his thoughts to the lord?" "it was one of his mates. you remember when he sailed wi' that good man, singin' peter? well, peter used often to speak to him about his soul to no purpose; but that fine man, luke trevor, who also sailed wi' singin' peter at the time, had a long talk with joe one night, an' the holy spirit made use of his words, for joe broke down an' gave in. they're both wi' your david and billy now, so you may be sure they won't throw away the chance they have of speakin' to 'em." "god grant them success!" murmured mrs bright, earnestly. "amen!" responded the younger woman. "but, nell, you haven't told me yet what you think o' the miss seawards." "think? i think that next to miss ruth they are the sweetest ladies i ever met," returned mrs bright with enthusiasm. "they are so modest and humble, that when they are putting themselves about to serve you, they almost make you feel that you're doing them a favour. don't you remember only last week when they came to see poor jake's boy that was nearly drowned, and insisted on sitting up with him all night--first one and then the other taking her turn till daylight, because mrs jake was dead-drunk and not able for anything." "remember it?" exclaimed maggie, "i should think i does, and the awful way mrs jake swore at them afore she rightly understood what was wrong." "well, did you hear what mrs jake said in the afternoon of that same day?" "no--except that she was more civil to 'em, so i was told." "civil! yes, she was more civil indeed. she'd got quite sober by the afternoon, and the neighbours told her how near the boy was to death, and that the doctor said if it hadn't been for the wise and prompt measures taken by the miss seawards before he arrived, he didn't believe the boy would have lived--when they told her that, she said nothing. when the miss seawards came back in the afternoon, they tapped so gently at the door that you would have thought they were beggars who expected a scolding, an' when mrs jake cried out gruffly in her man-like voice, `who's that?' they replied as softly as if they had been doing some mischief, `may we come in?' `may you come in?' shouted mrs jake, so that you might have heard her half way down the street, as she flung the door wide open, `may angels from heaven come in? yes, you _may_ come in!' an' with that she seized the younger one round the neck an' fairly hugged her, for you see mrs jake has strong feelin's, an' is very fond of her boy, an' then she went flop down on a chair, threw her apron over her head, and howled. i can call it by no other name." "the poor ladies were almost scared, and didn't seem rightly to know how to take it, and miss kate--the younger one you know--had her pretty new summer dress awfully crushed by the squeeze, as well as dirtied, for mrs jake had been washin', besides cleaning up a bit just before they arrived." "well, i never!" exclaimed maggie in great admiration. "i always thought there was a soft spot in mrs jake's heart, if only a body could find it out." "my dear," said mrs bright, impressively, "there's a soft spot i believe in everybody's heart, though in some hearts it's pretty well choked up an' overlaid--" at that moment a bursting yell from the crib behind the door went straight to the soft spot in mrs davidson's heart, and sank deeply into it. "that blessed babby!" she cried, leaping up in such haste that her work went into the grate, in which, however, there was happily no fire. "oh! my darling! you're joe to the back-bone--though you _are_ a girl-- all bounce, an' bang, an' tenderness!" seizing the infant in her strong arms she gave it a hug which ought to have produced another yell, but the little one was tough, besides which, she was used to it, and said nothing. the calm did not last long, however. little mag, as she was called, felt that her interior somewhere was somehow in want of something, and took the usual way to publish the fact. after that, conversation became impossible. a storm had burst upon the friends which increased rapidly, so mrs bright rose to say good-bye in the midst of a squall which ought to have blown her through the door-way or out at the window into the street. she was not irritated, however. as she left the house followed by the squall, which was soon moderated to a stiffish breeze by distance, the sound called up reminiscences of little billy, and she smiled as she thought of the unvarying continuity of human affairs--the gush of infant memories, and the squalls of other days. chapter sixteen. temptation on the deep. let us return once more to the north sea. it was drawing towards the close of another fishing period, and the crew of the _evening star_ were beginning to think of the pleasures of their week on shore when, one afternoon, their vessel found herself becalmed near to the dutch man-trap--the vessel laden with that greatest of the world's curses--strong drink. it is usual, we believe, in ordinary warfare, that, on the eve of a great battle, there should be preparations and indications, more or less obvious, of the coming fight; but it is not always so in spiritual warfare. sometimes the hardest and most important battles of the great war are fought on unselected ground, the assault having been delivered unexpectedly and when the soul was off its guard, or, perchance, when it was presuming on fancied security, and relying on its own might instead of the strength of the lord. so it was at this time with david bright, skipper of the _evening star_. who would have thought, as he sat that day on the rail of his little vessel, calmly looking out to the horizon in anticipation of a good fishing-breeze, that the mighty forces of good and evil were mustering unseen for a tremendous conflict, on which, perchance, the angels were permitted to look down with interest, and that the battle-field was to be the soul of that rugged fisherman of the north sea! he knew not, little dreamed of, what was pending; but the captain of his salvation knew it all. there was but one entrance to that battle-field--the gate of man's free-will. through that portal the powers of darkness must enter if they gained admittance at all. elsewhere the walls were high as heaven, deeper than hell, for, except at this point, the fortress was impregnable. yet, although david bright knew not the power nor the number of the mighty forces that were marshalling, he was not entirely ignorant of the war that was going on. there had been some skirmishing already, in front of the gate, in which he had come off victorious. the demon habit had assaulted him more than once, and had pressed him sore; for a terrible thirst--such, it is said, as only confirmed drunkards understand--had more than once tormented him. when the first attack was made, the sturdy fisherman stood quietly on his deck with hands in pockets and eyes on the horizon, looking as if nothing were going on, and he smiled grimly as he muttered to himself rather than to the demon: "lucky for me that i made billy heave it overboard!" "oh! but," said the demon, "you were a weak fool when you did that. there's the coper alongside now; go, get another keg. it is cheap, and you can just take a little drop to relieve that desperate craving. come, now, be a man, and show that you have powers of self-restraint. you have always boasted of the strength of your will, haven't you? show it now." "ay, an' prove the strength of my will," replied david, with another grim smile, "by givin' in to _your_ will. no, devil! i _am_ a fool, but not quite such a fool as that comes to." the demon fell back at that and left him. on the next attack the skipper was worn-out with fatigue and watching. they had had a long spell of dirty weather. work of the hardest kind-- even for a hardy frame--had been done, and there was still work to do, and david's great physical powers were well-nigh used up. the gear was down, and a stiff nor'-west breeze not only drove the smack over the surging waves, but caused her to plunge into them like a wild horse bridled and held back. "you can't hold out much longer at this rate," whispered the demon. "take a drop just by way of a medicine to keep you awake and tide you over this bout; and, by good luck, your man gunter has some grog left in that bottle he got yesterday from the coper." "billy," said david, in a quiet voice, without deigning a reply to his foe, "billy, my lad, you fetch me a pot o' coffee or tea--whatever's ready, an' let it be hot." "yes, father," said billy, hastening smartly to obey, for he had a very slight suspicion of the conflict that was raging, though his conceptions were far, far short of the reality. the demon received a staggering blow that time, and he slunk away scowling when he noted the gleam of satisfaction on the victor's face as he handed back the empty pot to his son. warfare! yes, little do those who are "dead in trespasses and sins," and those who swim gaily with the current of self-indulgence, know of the ferocious fights, the raging storms, that are going on all round them on battle-grounds which, to all outward appearance, are calm and undisturbed. but we have said that this was merely skirmishing outside the gate. it was not till the afternoon referred to at the beginning of this chapter that the grand assault was made. on that day the skipper of the _evening star_ had been subjected to more than ordinary troubles. in the first place, he had brought up a dead man in his net along with the fish--a by no means unknown incident in trawl-fishing experience, for bodies of men who have been washed out of vessels in gales, or drowned in other ways, are sometimes entangled in the gear and brought to the surface. at other times bales and boxes-- goods that have been cast away or wrecked--are fished up in this way. being in a depressed state of mind, the sight of the dead man made david uncomfortable for a time, but, having thrown the corpse overboard again, he soon forgot it. the next thing that happened was the fishing up of an enormous mass of wreckage, which tore the net almost to pieces, and compelled him to bend on a new one. this was not only a heavy loss of itself, but entailed the loss of the fish that would otherwise have been in the net and poor david bright, already at zero in his spirits, sank considerably below that point. but the final disaster was reserved for a later hour. the new net had been shot, and one of the best banks of the fishing-ground had been gone over. the breeze which had carried the fleet along was just beginning to die down when the admiral made the signal to haul up. to work they went, therefore--all through the fleet--to hoist in the harvest of the deep. it was slow and weary work, as well as hard, that hauling in of the great cable with its gear. between two or three hours they laboured and toiled at it, while the thick veins stood out like cords on the men's necks, and beads of perspiration trickled down their brows. "it's goin' to be a big haul, father," said billy, as the crew stopped for a few moments to rest. "p'r'aps another lump of wreck," replied the skipper, somewhat bitterly. "i hope not," returned billy, in a cheery voice, resuming his work of passing the warp down below as it came off the capstan. at last the end of the bridle came inboard, and the fishermen knew that their toil, for that time at least, was drawing to a close. excitement of a mild type began to arise in the enthusiastic and hopeful among them. "now, boys, heave away," said joe davidson, setting the example. "it seems unwillin' to come, don't it," growled gunter. "dat's 'cause him full ob fishes," said zulu; "heave away, boys-- altogidder!" he strained with all his might. so did the rest of the crew. round went the capstan, and in a few minutes the great forty-eight feet beam appeared. this was soon hoisted up by means of tackle, and made fast to the side, and then began the hauling in--we might almost say clawing in--of the net, hand over hand, until the cod-end was visible near the surface. it now became evident that a grand haul had indeed been made, and that it had been the mere weight of the fish that had delayed them so long. great was the anxiety of course to secure the prize, and energetic the action displayed. zulu, being the most active and cat-like, was ordered to pass a rope round the net to which a powerful double block was applied. "haul away now, boys," said the skipper, whose spirits were somewhat revived by the sight. soon the great balloon-shaped cod-end with its solid mass of fish rose slowly into the air, and some of the men laid hold to be ready to swing it inboard and deposit it on the deck, when, suddenly, the stout rope that bound the lower end of the bag gave way. the entire mass of fish dropped back into the sea, and sank to the bottom! for a few seconds dead silence ensued, while the men glanced at the empty cod-end, and at each other. then a terrible oath burst from john gunter, and a sort of sigh broke from some of the others, as if words were incapable of expressing their feelings--as, indeed, they were! the skipper was standing by the companion-hatch at the moment with a handspike in his grasp. a deep-toned curse issued from his lips when the fish went down, and he dashed the handspike to the deck with fearful violence. once again, at this critical moment, the demon ventured to raise his head. "the coper's close on the port bow!" he whispered; "go, drown it all in grog, man, and be jolly!" jolly! how many men have cast away their souls, for the sake of what is implied in that little word! and now, alas! the gate of man's free-will was creaking on its hinges. no created power above or below could have moved that gate save the power of david bright himself. "shove out the boat!" shouted the miserable man, with a fierceness of expression and tone that there was no misunderstanding. poor billy understood it well enough. "oh! no, father! don't do it father!" he cried in an entreating voice; but already the little boat was dancing on the waves alongside, with john gunter in her. "jump in, luke," said joe davidson, hastily, for he was anxious that at least one trusty man should be of the party. luke jumped in at once, and was instantly followed by billy. the painter was cast off, and they pulled towards the floating grog-shop. the tempter received them with a hearty salute. "cheap spirits an' cheap baccy!" said john gunter, as he sat on the rail of the coper drinking the one and smoking the other, "that's what i likes, an' plenty of both." "that's so, john," returned david bright, who sat beside him, and, having already drained several bumpers of the fiery fluid, had quite got over his troubles. "you an' i are of the same mind, john; nevertheless you're a great sulky-faced humbug for all that!" "what d'ee mean by that?" demanded gunter, who was becoming rapidly drunk and quarrelsome. "what do i mean? why, i mean that you're the best man in the smack, out o' sight, an' it's a rare pity that your mother hasn't got half-a-dozen more like you. if she had i'd man the _evening star_ with your whole family. here, give us a hold o' your grapplin'-iron, old man." he seized gunter's fist as he spoke, and gave it a shake so hearty and powerful, that he almost hurled that lover of cheap grog and baccy overboard. "hold on, skipper!" growled the fisherman, who was for a moment uncertain whether to return the friendly grasp or fight; but the fierce, wild, contemptuous laugh with which david bright concluded the speech decided him. "y'you--you're a jolly good fellow," he stammered; "here, fill up again." the poor skipper filled up again, and again, until his speech began to grow thick and unsteady. "yesh," continued gunter, doubling his fist and smiting his knee, "i do like sheap grog an' sheap baccy, an' the coper's the place to get 'em both. ain't it?" he looked up sharply at the owner of the coper, who stood in front of him, and who of course assented cheerfully to the question. "ain't it?" he repeated still more sharply, turning to luke trevor, who sat close to him with a grave, anxious look. "why don't you drink?" he added. "because i don't want to," returned luke, quietly. "d-do-don't want to," returned gunter, angrily--for it takes little to make some drunk men angry--"you don't want to spend your money, you young miser--that's what you m-mean. an' yet it's sheap enough, i'm sure. you'll not git anything in the fleet so sheap as you will in the coper." "there you are wrong," returned luke, decidedly. "you'll get things cheaper aboard the mission-ship, for they'll give you physic, an' books, an good advice, and help as far as they can, all for nothing--which is cheaper than the coper's wares." "right you are, luke. pitch into him," cried david bright who was fast drinking himself into a state of madness. "father," whispered billy, with an anxious look, "don't you think you've had enough?" the reply to this was a tremendous cuff on the ear which sent the poor boy staggering backwards, so that he nearly fell. recovering himself he retired behind the coper's boat and tried to crush down the sobs that rose in his throat. he was to some extent successful, but a few tears that could not be restrained hopped over his sunburnt cheeks. it was not pain, nor even the indignity, that drew forth those tears and choking sobs, but the thought that the father he was so fond of had dealt the blow. meanwhile luke trevor, who felt that matters had reached a dangerous point, rose and went to the place where the boat's painter had been tied. david bright was sitting close to the spot. "don't you think it is time we were going, skipper?" he said, respectfully, as he laid his hand on the rope. "no, i don't," replied the skipper, sharply. "leave go that rope." luke hesitated. instantly the enraged skipper leaped up and struck him a blow on the chest which knocked him down. at the same moment, observing that gunter looked on with a leer of drunken amusement, he transferred his wrath to him, flung the remains of the spirits he had been drinking in the man's face, and made a rush at him. fortunately gunter, who had risen, staggered and fell, so that the skipper missed his aim and tumbled over him. in a moment gunter had regained his feet and prepared for combat, but his adversary's head had struck on the side of the vessel, and he lay stunned and helpless on the deck. luke, who had recovered almost immediately, now assisted gunter and billy to raise the prostrate man. it was not an easy matter to handle one whose frame was so heavy, but with the assistance of the owner of the coper they managed it. "it's only a slight cut," said billy, looking anxiously round at trevor. "ay, lad, it ain't the cut or the blow as keeps him down, but the grog. come, we must git him aboard sharp. haul up the boat gunter, while i stop the leak in his skull." with a kerchief, luke soon bound up the slight wound that the wretched man had received, and then they tried to rouse him, but the effort was in vain. david did indeed recover sufficient intelligence to be able to bellow once or twice for more grog, but he could not be brought to the condition of helping himself in any way. "what'll we do, luke?" asked billy, in a tone and with a look of deep distress, as the huge form of his father lay, a scarcely animate mass, on the deck at his feet. "we _must_ get him aboard somehow." "never fear, billy, my boy," said luke, cheerfully, "we'll get him aboard somehow. it's not the first time i've had to do it. come along, gunter, lend a hand." "not i!" said gunter, with a drunken swagger. "_i'm_ not goin' for an hour or more." "oh yes, you are," returned luke, dipping one of the coper's buckets over the side and pulling it up full of water. "no, i ain't. who'll make me?" "i will," said luke, and he sent the contents of the bucket straight into his comrade's face. "hooray!" shouted billy, convulsed at once with delight and surprise at the suddenness of the act to say nothing of its violence. "give it 'im, luke--polish 'im off!" luke did not however, take the pugnacious boy's advice; instead of awaiting the attack of the enraged gunter, he ran laughing round the capstan and defied him to catch him. gunter soon found, after bruising his shins and elbows, and stumbling over ropes, etcetera, that the effort was hopeless, and gave it up. "but i'll pay you off w'en i gits a hold of 'ee, luke. you make sure o' that," he growled as he gave up the chase. "all right, gunter; i'll give you a chance to-morrow, lad, if you'll only bear a hand wi' the skipper just now." without another word gunter, who was somewhat sobered by the cold bath, went to where the skipper lay, and attempted to raise him. being joined by the others the skipper was rolled to the side of the vessel, and then lifted in a half-sitting position on to the rail, where he was held in the grasp of gunter and the coper's skipper, while luke and billy, jumping into the boat, hauled it close under the spot. there was what billy called a "nasty jobble of a sea on," so that many difficulties met in the job they had in hand. these may be best stated by the actors themselves. "now then, boy, haul up a bit--ever so little, there; too much; ease off a bit. hold on!" "all right luke, but she pitches about so, that a feller can't hit the exact spot." "look out now, gunter," said luke; "let 'im go so as he'll come plump into my arms. not too soon, else you'll stand a chance o' sendin' us both through the bottom of the boat." "no, nor yet too late," cried the anxious billy, "else he'll go flop into the sea!" it was nervous work, for if he should go flop into the sea he would have been certain to go down like a stone. one or two attempts were made. the boat, rising up from a hollow in the sea to a height of several feet, surged close to where the men with their drunken burden stood. "look out!" cried luke, with arms extended and ten fingers in a claw-like position. "now then," growled gunter. but the treacherous wave fell short, and david bright was on the point of being dropt into the sea when his friends' fingers clawed him back to safety. "better make fast a rope to him," suggested billy, in breathless anxiety. the skipper of the coper acted on the advice at once, and made the end of a rope fast round bright's waist. again the boat rose, surged seaward, then swooped towards the coper, against which it would have been dashed but for the strong arms of luke. it rose so high that the drunk man was for a moment on a level with the gunwale. it was too good a chance to be missed. "shove!" roared gunter. over went the skipper into the arms of luke, who lost his balance, and both rolled into the bottom of the boat as it sank into the succeeding hollow. the danger being past, poor billy signalised the event, and at the same time relieved his feelings, with a lusty cheer. in a very short time joe davidson steered the _evening star_ close to their tossing boat. billy stood ready with the painter, and the instant the sides touched, he was over the rail like a monkey and made fast. the taking of the drunk man out of the boat was by no means so difficult as getting him into it had been. joe, luke, spivin, and zulu, as well as billy, leaned over the side of the smack, with their ten arms extended and their fifty fingers curled like crabs' claws or grappling-irons, ready to hook on and hold on. david bright's extended and helpless form was held in position by gunter. when it came within reach the fifty fingers closed; the boat surged away, and david was safe, though still held in suspense over the deep. but that was only for a moment. a good heave placed him on the vessel's rail, and another laid him on the deck. "brought on board his own smack like a dead pig!" muttered gunter, whose anger at the skipper rekindled when he saw him once more in safety. "he's fifty times better than you, even as he lies, you surly old grampus," cried billy, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. "come, billy," said joe davidson, kindly, "lend a hand, boy, to carry him below. it's a sad break-down, but remember--he's not past redemption. come." four of the fishermen raised the skipper in their strong arms, and conveyed him to his own bunk, where they left him to sleep off the effects of his debauch. chapter seventeen. converse in the cabin--the tempter again--an accident. one night, some days after the incident just recorded, the _evening star_ shot her gear, in obedience to orders, on the port hand, and proceeded, with the rest of the fleet, to give a pressing invitation to those fish which inhabited that particular shoal in the north sea known to fishermen by the name of skimlico. the name, when properly spelt, runs thus: schiermonik-oog. but our fishermen, with a happy disregard of orthography, and, perhaps, with an eye to that brevity which is said to be the soul of wit, prefer to call it skimlico. when the gear was down the men retired to their little cabin to refresh themselves with a meal and a pipe. the skipper, who had recovered neither his spirits nor his self-respect since his recent fall, preferred to remain on deck. billy, who had never lost either, joined the revellers below--with all the more satisfaction that evan, the rescued mate of the _sparrow_, was with them. "out o' the road, zulu," cried ned spivin, pushing the cook aside, and sitting down close to the fire, "i'll have a bit o' fish." he stuck on the end of his knife a piece of sole, out of which the life had barely departed, and held it up before the fire to roast. "hand me a mug o' tea, an' a biscuit, zulu," said joe davidson; "fill it up, boy. i like good measure." "are them taters ready?" asked luke trevor. "an' the plum-duff? you haven't got any for us to-day, have 'ee?" "shut up!" cried zulu. "how many hands you tink i've got?" "eight at the very least," said spivin, "an' i can prove it." "how you do dat?" asked zulu, opening up his great eyes. "easy. hold out your paws. isn't that one hand?" (pointing to his left.) "yes." "an' doesn't that make two hands?" (pointing to his right.) "yes." "well, ain't one hand and two hands equal to three hands, you booby? an' don't you know that monkeys have hands instead o' feet? so as you're a monkey, that's six hands. and haven't you a handsome face, an' a handsome figgur, which is eight, you grampus! come, use one o' your many hands an' pass the biscuits." "sartinly!" said zulu, at once kicking a small bit of biscuit which spivin still held in his hand to the other end of the cabin, where it fell into the lap of trevor, who thanked zulu kindly, and ate it up. "oh! forgib me, massa," cried zulu, in mock repentance. "i's nebber nebber do it again! but you know you ax me to use one o' my hands to pass de biskit. well, i 'bey orders. i use 'im, an' pass de biskit on to luke." "come, ned, zulu's more than a match for you there. let him alone," cried joe davidson, "and don't be so stingy with your sugar, zulu. here, fill up again." the conversation at this point became what is sometimes styled general, but was interrupted now and then, as one and another of the men dropped into the anecdotal tone, and thus secured undivided attention for a longer or shorter space according to his powers in story-telling. "what a appetite you've got, luke," said joe, as he helped his comrade to a second large plateful of salt beef, potatoes, and duff. "hold on, joe! i've a pretty fair appetite, but am not quite up to that." "nonsense, luke, you've only got to try. a man has no notion what 'e can do till 'e tries." "ah, that's true," said ned spivin, checking a lump of salt beef on the end of his clasp-knife half way to his mouth; "did i ever tell 'ee, lads, that little hanecdote about a man we called glutton, he was such an awful eater?" "no, never heard on it," said several voices. "well, then, this is 'ow it was," said spivin, clearing his voice. "you must know, i was once in callyforny, where all the goold comes from. me an' most o' my mates had runned away from our ship to the diggin's, you see, which of course none on us would have thought of doin'--oh dear no--if it hadn't bin that the skipper runned away too; so it was no use for us to stop behind, d'ee see? well, we was diggin' one day, in a place where there was a lot o' red injins--not steam engines, you know, but the sort o' niggers what lives out there. one o' them injins was named glutton--he was such an awful eater--and one o' my mates, whose name was samson, bet a bag o' goold-dust, that he'd make the glutton eat till he bu'sted. i'm afeard that samson was groggy at the time. howiver, we took him up, an' invited glutton to a feast next day. he was a great thin savage, over six futt high, with plenty breadth of beam about the shoulders, and a mouth that seemed made a' purpus for shovellin' wittles into. we laid in lots of grub because we was all more or less given to feedin'--an' some of us not bad hands at it. before we began the feast samson, who seemed to be repentin' of his bet, took us a-one side an' says, `now mind,' says he, `i can't say exactly _how_ he'll bu'st, or _when_ he'll bu'st, or what sort of a bu'st he'll make of it.' `oh, never mind that,' says we, laughin'. `we won't be par-tickler how he does it. if he bu'sts at all, in any fashion, we'll be satisfied, and admit that you've won.' "well, we went to work, an' the way that injin went in for grub was quite awful. you wouldn't have believed it if you'd seen it." "p'r'aps not," said zulu, with a grin. "an' when we'd all finished we sat glarin' at him, some of us half believin' that he'd really go off, but he took no notice. on he went until he'd finished a small leg o' pork, two wild-ducks, six plover, eight mugs o' tea, an' fifteen hard-boiled eggs. but there was no sign o' bu'stin'. glutton was as slim to look at as before he began. at this pint samson got up an' went out o' the hut. in a minute or so he came back with a bark basket quite shallow, but about fourteen inches square, an' full of all kinds of eggs--for the wild-birds was breedin' at the time. `what's that for?' says we. `for glutton, when he's ready for 'em,' says he. `there's six dozen here, an' if that don't do it, i've got another basket ready outside.' with that he sets the basket down in front o' the injin, who just gave a glance at it over a goose drumstick he was tearin' away at. well, samson turned round to sit down in his place again, when somethin' or other caught hold of his foot tripped him up, an' down he sat squash! into the basket of eggs. you niver did see sich a mess! there was sich a lot, an' samson was so heavy, that the yolks squirted up all round him, an' a lot of it went slap into some of our faces. for one moment we sat glarin', we was so took by surprise, and glutton was so tickled that he gave a great roar of laughter, an' swayed himself from side to side, an' fore an' aft like a dutchman in a cross sea. of course we joined him. we couldn't help it, but we was brought up in the middle by samson sayin', while he scraped himself, `well, boys, i've won.' `won!' says i, `how so? he ain't bu'sted yet.' `hasn't he?' cried samson. `hasn't he gone on eatin' till he bu'sted out larfin?' we was real mad at 'im, for a' course that wasn't the kind o' bu'stin we meant; and the end of it was, that we spent the most o' that night disputin' the pint whether samson had lost or won. we continued the dispute every night for a month, an' sometimes had a free fight over it by way of a change, but i don't think it was ever settled. leastways it wasn't up to the time when i left the country." "here, zulu, hand me a mug o' tea," said billy bright; "the biggest one you've got." "what's make you turn so greedy?" asked zulu. "it's not greed," returned billy, "but ned's little story is so hard an' tough, that i can't get it down dry." "i should think not. it would take the glutton himself to swallow it with a bucket of tea to wash it down," said luke trevor. at this point the conversation was interrupted by an order from the skipper to go on deck and "jibe" the smack, an operation which it would be difficult, as well as unprofitable, to explain to landsmen. when it was completed the men returned to the little cabin, where conversation was resumed. "who'll spin us a _yarn_ now, something more believable than the last?" asked billy, as they began to refill pipes. "do it yourself, boy," said joe. "not i. never was a good hand at it," returned billy, "but i know that the mate o' the _sparrow_ there can spin a good yarn. come, evan, tell us about that dead man what came up to point out his own murderer." "i'm not sure," said evan, "that the story is a true one, though there's truth at the bottom of it, for we all know well enough that we sometimes pick up a corpse in our nets." "know it!" exclaimed joe, "i should think we do. why, it's not so long ago that i picked one up myself. but what were ye goin' to say, mate?" "i was goin' to say that this yarn tells of what happened long before you an' me was born; so we can't be wery sure on it you know." "why not?" interrupted ned spivin. "the battle o' trafalgar happened long before you an' me was born; so did the battle o' waterloo, yet we're sure enough about them, ain't we?" "right you are, ned," returned evan; "it would be a bad look-out for the world if we couldn't believe or prove the truth of things that happened before we was born!" "come, shut up your argiments," growled gunter, "an' let evan go on wi' his yarn." "well, as i was a-goin' to say," resumed evan, "the story may or may not be true, but it's possible, an' it was told to me when i was a boy by the old fisherman as said he saw the dead man his-self. one stormy night the fleet was out--for you must know the fishin' was carried on in the old days in the same way pretty much, though they hadn't steamers to help 'em like we has now. they was goin' along close-hauled, with a heavy sea on, not far, it must have been, from the silver pits--though they wasn't discovered at that time." we may interrupt evan here, to explain that the silver pits is a name given to a particular part of the north sea which is frequented by immense numbers of soles. the man who by chance discovered the spot kept his secret, it is said, long enough to enable him to make a considerable amount of money. it was observed, however, that he was in the habit of falling behind the fleet frequently, and turning up with splendid hauls of "prime" fish. this led to the discovery of his haunt, and the spot named the silver pits, is still a prolific fishing-ground. "well," continued evan, "there was a sort of half furriner aboard. he wasn't a reg'lar fisherman--never served his apprenticeship to it, you know,--an' was named zola. the skipper, whose name was john dewks, couldn't abide him, an' they often used to quarrel, specially when they was in liquor. there was nobody on deck that night except the skipper and zola, but my old friend--dawson was his name--was in his bunk lyin' wide awake. he heard that zola an' the skipper was disputin' about somethin', but couldn't make out what was said--only he know'd they was both very angry. at last he heard the skipper say sharply--`ha! would you dare?' "`yes, i vill dare,' cries zola, in his broken english, `i vill cut your throat.' with that there seemed to be a kind of scuffle. then there was a loud cry, and dawson with the other men rushed on deck. "`oh!' cried zola, lookin' wild, `de skipper! him fall into de sea! quick, out wid de boat!' "some ran to the boat but the mate stopped 'em. `it's no use, boys. she couldn't live in such a sea, an' our poor skipper is fathoms down by this time. it would only sacrifice more lives to try.' `this was true,' dawson said, `for the night was as dark as pitch, an' a heavy sea on.' "dawson went to the man an' whispered in his ear. `you know you are lying, zola; you cut the skipper's throat.' "`no, i didn't; he felled overboard,' answered the man in such an earnest tone that dawson's opinion was shook. but next day when they was at breakfast, he noticed that the point of zola's clasp-knife was broken off. "`hallo! zola,' says he, `what's broke the point of your knife?' "the man was much confused, but replied quickly enough that he broke it when cleaning fish--it had dropped on the deck an' broke. "this brought back all dawson's suspicion, but as he could prove nothing he thought it best to hold his tongue. that afternoon, however, it fell calm, an' they found themselves close aboard of one of the smacks which had sailed astern of them on the port quarter durin' the night. she appeared to be signallin', so the mate hove-to till he came up. "`we've got the body o' your skipper aboard,' they said, when near enough to hail. "dawson looked at zola. his lips were compressed, and he was very stern, but said nothin'. nobody spoke except the mate, who told them to shove out the boat and fetch the body. this was done, and it was found that the poor man had been wounded in the breast. `murdered!' the men whispered, as they looked at zola. "`why you looks at me so?' he says, fiercely; `skipper falls over an' sink; git among wrecks at de bottom, an' a nail scratch him.' "nobody answered, but when the corpse was put down in the hold the mate examined it and found the broken point of zola's knife stickin' in the breast-bone. "that night at supper, while they were all eatin' an' talkin' in low tones, the mate said in an easy off-hand tone, `hand me your knife, zola, for a moment.' now, his askin' that was so natural-like that the man at once did what he was asked, though next moment he saw the mistake. his greatest mistake, however, was that he did not fling the knife away when he found it was broken; but they do say that `murder will out.' the mate at once fitted the point to the broken knife. zola leaped up and tried to snatch another knife from one o' the men, but they was too quick for him. he was seized, and his hands tied, and they were leadin' him along the deck to put him in the hold when he burst from them and jumped overboard. they hove-to at once, an' out with the boat, but never saw zola again; he must have gone down like a stone." "that was a terrible end," said joe, "and him all unprepared to die." "true, joe, but are _we_ all prepared to die?" rejoined evan, looking around, earnestly. "it is said that there's a day comin' when the sea shall give up _all_ its dead, and the secrets of men, whatever they are, shall be revealed." from this point evan, whose earnest spirit was always hungering after the souls of men, led the conversation to religious subjects, and got his audience into a serious, attentive state of mind. we have said that david bright had remained that light on deck, but he did not on that account lose all that went on in the little cabin. he heard indeed the light conversation and chaff of the earlier part of the night but paid no heed to it. when, however, evan began the foregoing anecdote, his attention was aroused, and as the speaker sat close to the foot of the companion every word he uttered was audible on deck. at the time, our fallen skipper was giving way to despair. he had been so thoroughly determined to give up drink; had been so confident of the power of his really strong will, and had begun the struggle so well and also continued for a time so successfully, that this fall had quite overwhelmed him. it was such a thorough fall, too, accompanied by such violence to his poor boy, and to one of his best men, that he had no heart for another effort. and once again the demon tempter came to him, as he stood alone there, and helpless on the deserted deck. a faint gleam of light, shooting up the companion, illuminated his pale but stern features which had an unusual expression on them, but no eye was there to look upon those features, save the all-searching eye of god. "it was soon over with _him_!" he muttered, as he listened to evan telling of zola's leap into the sea. "an' a good riddance to myself as well as to the world it would be if i followed his example. i could drop quietly over, an' they'd never find it out till--but--" "come, don't hesitate," whispered the demon. "i thought you were a man once, but now you seem to be a coward after all!" it was at this critical point that evan, the mate of the _sparrow_, all ignorant of the eager listener overhead, began to urge repentance on his unbelieving comrades, and pointed to the crucified one--showing that no sinner was beyond hope, that peter had denied his master with oaths and curses, and that even the thief on the cross had life enough left for a saving look. "we have nothing to _do_, lads, only to _submit_," he said, earnestly. "nothing to do!" thought david bright in surprise, not unmingled with contempt as he thought of the terrible fight he had gone through before his fall. "nothing to do!" exclaimed john gunter in the cabin, echoing, as it were, the skipper's thought, with much of his surprise and much more of his contempt. "why, mate, i thought that you religious folk felt bound to pray, an' sing, an' preach, an' work!" "no, lad--no--not for _salvation_," returned evan; "we have only to _accept_ salvation--to cease from refusing it and scorning it. after we have got it from and in jesus, we will pray, and sing, and work, ay, an' preach too, if we can, for the love of the master who `loved us and gave himself for us.'" light began to break in on the dark mind of david bright, as he listened to these words, and earnestly did he ponder them, long after the speaker and the rest of the crew had turned in. daylight began to flow softly over the sea, like a mellow influence from the better land, when the net was hauled. soon the light intensified and showed the rest of the fleet floating around in all directions, and busily engaged in the same work--two of the nearest vessels being the mission smack and that of singing peter. ere long the fish were cleaned, packed, put on board the steamer and off to market. by that time a dead calm prevailed, compelling the fishermen to "take things easy." "billy," said david bright, "fetch me that bit of wood and a hatchet." billy obeyed. "now then, let's see how well you'll cut that down to the size o' this trunk--to fit on where that bit has bin tore off." the skipper was seated on a pile of boxes; he flung his left hand with a careless swing, on the fish-box on which billy was about to cut the piece of wood, and pointed to the trunk which needed repair. billy raised the axe and brought it down with the precision and vigour peculiar to him. instead of slicing off a lamp of wood, however, the hatchet struck a hard knot, glanced off, and came down on his father's open palm, into which it cut deeply. "oh! father," exclaimed the poor boy, dropping the axe and standing as if petrified with horror as the blood spouted from the gaping wound, flowed over the fish-box, and bespattered the deck. he could say no more. "shove out the boat, boys," said the skipper promptly, as he shut up the wounded hand and bound it tightly in that position with his pocket-handkerchief to stop the bleeding. joe davidson, who had seen the accident, and at once understood what was wanted, sprang to the boat at the same moment with luke and spivin. a good heave, at the tackle; a hearty shove with strong shoulders, and the stern was over the rail. another shove and it was in the sea. "lucky we are so close to her," said joe, as he jumped into the boat followed by luke and gunter. "lucky indeed," responded luke. somehow david bright managed to roll or jump or scramble into his boat as smartly with one hand as with two. it is a rare school out there on the north sea for the practice of free-hand gymnastics! "bear away for the mission smack, joe." no need to give joe that order. ere the words had well passed the skipper's lips he and luke trevor were bending their powerful backs, and, with little billy at the steering oar, the boat of the _evening star_ went bounding over the waves towards the fisherman's floating refuge for wounded bodies and souls. chapter eighteen. a day of calm followed by a night of storm. a fine-toned manly voice was heard, as the boat approached the mission smack, singing one of the popular hymns which are now pretty well-known throughout the fishing fleets. "no mistaking that voice," said david bright turning an amused look on billy; "singin' peter won't knock off till he's under the sod or under the sea." "then he'll never knock off at all," returned billy, "for luke there has bin tellin' me that we only begin to sing rightly a song of praise that will never end when we git into the next world." "that depends, lad, on whether we goes up or down." "well, i s'pose it does. but tell me, daddy, ain't the hand very bad? i'm so awful sorry, you know." "it might ha' bin worse, billy, but don't you take on so, my boy. we'll be all right an' ship-shape when we gets it spliced or fixed up somehow, on board the mission-ship." the hand was not however, so easily fixed up as david bright seemed to expect. "come down an' let's have a look at it, david," said the skipper, when the vessel's deck was gained. by that time singing peter had stopped his tune, or, rather, he had changed it into a note of earnest sympathy, for he was a very tender-hearted man, and on terms of warm friendship with the master of the _evening star_. "it's a bad cut," said peter, when the gaping gash in the poor man's palm was laid bare, and the blood began to flow afresh. "we'll have to try a little o' the surgeon's business here. you can take a stitch in human flesh i daresay, skipper? if you can't, i'll try." the mission skipper was, however, equal to the occasion. he sponged the wound clean; put a couple of stitches in it with sailor-like neatness-- whether with surgeon-like exactness we cannot tell--drew the edges of the wound still more closely together by means of strips of sticking plaster; applied lint and bandages, and, finally, did up our skipper's fist in a manner that seemed quite artistic to the observant men around him. "a regular boxin'-glove," exclaimed david, hitting the operator a gentle tap on the nose with it. "thank 'ee, friend," said the amateur surgeon, as he proceeded to re-stow his materials in the medicine chest; "you know that the fishermen's mission never asks a rap for its services, but neither does it expect to receive a rap without asking. come, david, you mustn't flourish it about like that. we all know you're a plucky fellow, but it'll never splice properly if you go on so." "hold on, mr missionary!" cried gunter, as the lid of the chest was being closed, "don't shut up yet. i wants some o' your doctor's stuff." "all right my hearty! what do _you_ want?" "he wants a pair o' eye-glasses," cried billy, whose heart was comforted, and whose spirits were raised by the success of the operation on his father's hand; "you see he's so short-sighted that he can't see no good in nobody but his-self." "shut up, you young catfish! see here," said gunter, stretching out his wrists, which were red and much swollen. "oh! i can give you something for that;" so saying the skipper supplied the fisherman with a little ointment, and then, going to a cupboard, produced a pair of worsted cuffs. "you rub 'em well with that first," he said, "an' then wear the cuffs." "he'll want more cuffs than that," said billy. "i think not my boy," said the skipper, with a benignant look, as he stooped to lock the chest. "when these are worn-out he can have more." "well, if you'd take my advice," returned billy, "you'd give him another pair. a cuff on each side of his head would do him a world of good." gunter turned sharply to make a grasp at his young tormentor, but the lad had taken care to have the cabin table between them, and at once sprang laughing up the companion. "he's a smart boy, that," remarked the mission skipper. "rather too smart," growled gunter, as he pocketed his salve and cuffs, and went on deck. "smart enough!" remarked david bright with a low chuckle of satisfaction. "come now," said the missionary, "you'll stop and have some coffee or cocoa with us. you can't work wi' that hand, you know. besides, there'll be no fishin' till this calm's over. so we mean to have a little meetin' in the afternoon. we're in luck too, just now," he added in a lower voice, "for we've got a real parson aboard. that's him talkin' to my mate. he's here on a visit--partly for his health, i believe--a regular clergyman of the church of england and a splendid preacher, let me tell you. you'll stop, now, won't you?" david bright's countenance grew sad. the memory of his recent failure and fall came over him. "what's the use o' _me_ attendin' your meetin's?" he said, almost angrily; "my soul's past recovery, for i don't believe in your prayin' an' psalm-singin'." "you trusted me freely wi' your hand, david, though i'm no surgeon. why won't you trust me a little wi' your soul, though i'm no parson-- especially as it seems to be in a very bad way by your own account? have a talk wi' the parson. he's got such a way with him that he's sure to do you good." it was not so much the words thus spoken as the grave, kind, sensible tones and looks which accompanied them, that won the despairing fisherman. "well, i'll stop," he said, with a short laugh; "the cocoa may do me good, even though the meetin' don't." "now you're becoming soft and unmanly--a regular old wife," whispered the demon, who had watched him anxiously throughout the whole morning. "the boat's alongside, father," billy called out, at that moment down the open skylight. "that's right," replied the father in a strong hearty voice. "you go aboard wi' the rest, my boy, an' come back in the arternoon when you see 'em hoist the mission-flag. i'm goin' to stop aboard, an we'll all attend the meetin' together. an' look you, billy, fetch my noo testament with 'ee--the one your mother gave me." "praise the lord for these words!" said the mission skipper. he did not say it very loud, for he was not by nature a demonstrative man; neither did he whisper it, for he was not ashamed to thank his god for mercies received. at the same moment the demon fled away for that time--according to the true word, "resist the devil, and he will flee from you." david bright did not talk much that afternoon. his injured hand gave him considerable pain, but it was not that which silenced him. thoughts too deep for utterance were passing through his brain. it was the turning-point of his life; and, while his mind was busy with the great issues that must be faced sooner or later by all mankind, he listened with mingled surprise, hope, fear, and pleasure, to the free and hearty converse of the godly crew of the gospel-ship, as they discoursed pleasantly, now of the homes in yarmouth or gorleston, now of the home above; or sang, with stentorian voices, some of the lively hymns that are happily current in the present day, or prayed in the ungrammatical language, and with the intense fervour, of untutored but thoroughly earnest men. they thought that david was suffering from his injury, and wisely let him alone, though they occasionally gave him a cheering word, and frequently plied him with hot cocoa, which he preferred much, he said, to coffee. this may seem to some a rather incongruous way of presenting religious and secular things. it may be so, but we are not careful to preserve congruity, or to dilute our dish to please the palate of the fastidious. this world is full of incongruities, and we are endeavouring to present that portion of it now under consideration as it actually is at the present time. the heartiest, the most genial, and perhaps the noisiest fisherman there that day was the man whom we have referred to more than once as singing peter. it seemed as if he were intoxicated with joy, and could not refrain from bursting into song in praise of redeeming love. but peter was by no means exclusive in his ideas. he could descend to the simple matters of this life when needful. like david bright he was a temporary visitor to the mission-ship, and waited for the afternoon meeting. peter possessed: "a heart at leisure from itself, to soothe and sympathise," and found time to have a private talk with david, whom he drew out so tenderly, yet powerfully, that he wormed from him the whole story of his spiritual as well as spirituous warfare. he even got him down into the cabin alone, and, when there, proposed that they should pray together. to this david at once agreed, and the good man prayed with such simple fervour that david found himself ere long weeping like a child. that the prayer of singing peter was in harmony with his spirit was evident from the deep "amen!" which he uttered at its conclusion. "many a time, peter," he said, grasping his friend's hand, as they rose from their knees, "many a time has my face bin washed wi' salt water from the sea, but it's not often bin dabbled wi' salt water from my eyes!" in the afternoon the weather became unusually sultry, and as the calm continued, many of the fishing-smacks closed by imperceptible degrees around the mission-ship, whose flag flying at the mizzen told that the worship of god was soon to begin. several of the other smacks also flew bethel-flags. these belonged to the whole-hearted ones who had fairly and boldly come out on the lord's side. others drew near, although they did not fly the flag. some of these belonged to the half-hearted, who wanted medicines or books, and were rather indifferent about the meeting, though willing enough, perhaps, to remain to it. one way or another there was soon a long tail of boats floating astern of the gospel-ship, and a goodly congregation on her deck. her skipper was very busy. books were being actively exchanged. one or two men wanted to sign the pledge. salves, and plasters, and pills, were slightly in demand, for even north sea fishermen, tough though they be, are subject to physical disturbance. at last the hour arrived, and the heavy-booted, rough-jacketed, sou'-westered, burly congregation adjourned to the hold, where, appropriately seated on fish-trunks, they opened their hymn-books and began to sing. they had a harmonium--provided, of course, by the mission--and it chanced that the mission skipper had music enough in him to play a simple accompaniment on it, but the strong-lunged congregation drowned it out in the first five minutes. then the invalid clergyman stood up and prayed, and read a chapter of god's word, after which he preached--ay, preached in a way that drew tears from some, and hearty exclamations of thankfulness from others. it was not the power of rhetoric or of eloquence though he possessed both, so much as that mighty power, which consists in being thoroughly and intensely earnest in what one says, and in using a natural, conversational tone. there were more signings of the temperance pledge after the service, and one or two whose minds had been wavering before, now came forward and offered to purchase bethel-flags. others wanted to purchase testaments, prayer-books, and gospel compasses--the latter being the invention of an ingenious christian. it consisted of a mariner's compass drawn on card-board, with appropriate texts of god's word printed on the various "points." the same ingenious gentleman has more recently constructed a spiritual chart so to speak, on which are presented to the eye the various shoals, and quicksands, and rocks of sin, and danger, and temptation, that beset the christian pilgrim, as well as the streams, rivers, and channels, that conduct him from the regions of darkness into the realms of light. all this took up so much time that it was getting dark when our fishermen began to go over the side, and proceed to their several vessels. soon after that the aspect of nature entirely changed. the sultry calm gave place to a fast increasing breeze, which raised white crests on the darkening waves. "a dirty night we're going to have of it," remarked david bright to singing peter, as he got into his tossing boat with some difficulty. "it's all in the master's hands," replied peter, looking up with a glad expression on his weatherworn face. with these words he left the mission smack and returned to his own vessel. the fishermen of the north sea had cause to remember that night, for one of the worst gales of the season burst upon them. fishing was impossible. it was all that they could do to weather the gale. sails were split and torn, rigging was damaged, and spars were sprung or carried away. the wind howled as if millions of wicked spirits were yelling in the blast. the sea rose in wild commotion, tossing the little smacks as if they had been corks, and causing the straining timbers to groan and creak. many a deck was washed that night from stem to stern, and when grey morning broke cold and dreary over the foaming sea, not a few flags, half-mast high, told that some souls had gone to their account. disaster had also befallen many of the smacks. while some were greatly damaged, a few were lost entirely with all their crews. singing peter's vessel was among the lost. the brightening day revealed the fact that the well-known craft had disappeared. it had sunk with all hands, and the genial fisherman's strong and tuneful voice had ceased for ever to reverberate over the north sea in order that it might for ever raise a louder and still more tuneful strain of deep-toned happiness among the harmonies of heaven. chapter nineteen. ruth finds that everything seems to go against her. anxiously did ruth dotropy await the return of captain bream to yarmouth, and patiently did she refrain, in the meantime, from questioning mrs bright as to her history before marriage, for that good woman's objection to be so questioned was quite sufficient to check her sensitive spirit. but poor ruth's enthusiastic hopes were doomed to disappointment at that time, for, only a few days after the captain's departure, she received a letter from him, part of which ran as follows:-- "dear miss ruth,--i am exceedingly sorry and almost ashamed, to be obliged to say that i am unable to return to yarmouth for some weeks at least. the fact is that i have for a long time been engaged in a piece of business--a sort of search--which has caused me much anxiety and frequent disappointment. my lawyer, however, now thinks he has hit on the right clue, so that i have good hope of being successful. in the meantime will you do your best to comfort the miss seawards in my absence, and explain to them that nothing but necessity could make me leave them in the lurch in this fashion," etcetera. "how _very_ provoking!" exclaimed ruth, with a pretty little frown on her innocent face after reading the letter to her stately mother. "why provoking, dear?" asked mrs dotropy. "surely we can enjoy the fine air of yarmouth without captain bream, and although the dear miss seawards are very fond of him, they will not pine or lose their health because of his absence for a short time. besides, have they not that wonderful theological library to divert them?" "yes, mother--it's not that, but i was _so_ anxious to find out--" she stopped short. "find out what, child?" "well now, mother, i can _not_ keep it from you any longer. i will tell you my little secret if you promise not to reveal it to any living soul." "how absurd you are, ruth! do you suppose that i shall go about the streets proclaiming your secret, whatever it is, to tom, dick, and harry, even if it were worth telling, much less when it is probably not worth remembering? of course i might let it slip, you know, by accident and when a thing slips there is no possibility of recovery, as i said once to your dear father that time when he slipped off the end of the pier into the water and had to be fished up by the waist-band of his trousers with grappling-irons, i think they called them--at all events they were very dangerous-looking things, and i've often argued with him--though i hate argument--that they might have gone into his body and killed him, yet he would insist that, being blunt, the thing was out of the question, though, as i carefully explained to him, the question had nothing to do with it--but it is useless arguing with you, ruth--i mean, it was useless arguing with your father, dear man, for although he was as good as gold, he had a very confused mind, you know. what was it we were talking about?--oh yes!--your secret. well, what is it?" with a flushed face and eager look, ruth said, "mother, i _cannot_ help being convinced that mrs bright the fisherman's wife, is no other than captain bream's lost sister!" "if you cannot help being convinced, child, it is of no use my attempting to reason with you. but why think of such nonsense? if she is what you suppose, she must have been a miss bream before marriage." "so she was!" exclaimed ruth, with a look of triumph. i have found that out--only i fear that is not proof positive, because, you know, although not a common name, bream is by no means singular. "well, but she would have been a lady--or--or would have had different manners if she had been captain bream's sister," objected mrs dotropy. "that does not follow," said ruth, quickly. "the captain may have risen from the ranks; we cannot tell; besides, mrs bright _is_ very refined, both in manner and speech, compared with those around her. i was on the point one day of asking if she had a brother, when she seemed to draw up and cut the matter short; so i have had to fall back on my original plan of trying to bring the two face to face, which would at once settle the question, for of course they'd know each other." "dear child, why make such a mystery about it?" said mrs dotropy; "why not tell the captain of your suspicion, and ask him to go and see the woman?" "because it would be so cruel to raise his expectations, mother, and then perhaps find that i was wrong. it would disappoint him so terribly. but this reference to a `search' in his letter makes me feel almost sure he is searching for this lost sister." "foolish child! it is a wild fancy of your romantic brain. who ever heard," said the mother, "of a lawyer being employed to search for a sister? depend upon it, this captain is in search of some deed,--a lost will, or a--an old parchment or a document of some sort, perhaps referring to a mismanaged property, or estate, or fortune, for things of that kind are often seen in the newspapers; though how the newspapers come to find out about them all is more than i can understand. i've often wondered at it. ah! your dear father used to say in his facetious way that he was "lost in the _times_," when he wanted to be let alone. i don't mean advertised for as lost, of course, though he might have been, for i have seen him lose his head frequently; indeed i have been almost forced to the conclusion more than once that the _times_ had a good deal to do with your father's mental confusion; it told such awful lies sometimes, and then a month or two afterwards would flatly contradict them all by telling the truth--at least it was probably the truth since it was the opposite of the lies; but it's of no use talking, i always find that. what were you saying, child?" "well, mother, i was going to say," answered ruth, with a sigh, "that i must just have patience and be content to wait." "now you talk like the dear, good, sensible little thing that you are," said mrs dotropy, rising; "run, put on your hat and i'll walk with you by the sea, or go visit the fisher-folk if you like--or the miss seawards." in this amiable frame of mind the mother and daughter set off to the shore. ruth's patience was indeed tried more severely than she had anticipated, for, whatever the search was in which captain bream had engaged, it compelled him to remain in town much longer than he had intended. meanwhile the _evening star_ returned to port, and david bright, with billy, joe, and the rest of the crew, went to enjoy themselves in their various ways during their brief holiday. mrs bright chanced to be spending the afternoon with mrs joe davidson and her wonderful "babby" when the skipper and mate walked in upon them. there were two little shrieks of joy; then the two wives were enfolded, and for a few seconds lost to view, in the stupendous embrace of the two fishermen, while the babby was, for the moment, absolutely forgotten! but she took care not to be forgotten long. on recovering from her first surprise she gave utterance to a howl worthy of a seaman's daughter. joe immediately seized her in his arms, and half smothered her in a fond embrace, to which, apparently, she did not object. meanwhile little billy stood looking on approvingly, with his hands in his pockets and his booted legs wide apart. "i wonder when somebody's a-goin' to pay some sort of attention to _me_," he said after a minute or two. "why, billy, i didn't see ye," cried mrs joe, holding out her hand; "how are ye, puss in boots?" "if it was any other female but yourself, maggie, as said that, i'd scorn to notice you," returned billy, half indignant. "my darling boy!" cried mrs bright, turning to her son and enfolding him in her arms. "ah! that's the way to do it," responded billy, submitting to the embrace. "you're the old ooman as knows how to give a feller a good hearty squeeze. but don't come it too strong, mother, else you'll put me all out o' shape. see, daddy's a-goin' to show his-self off." this last remark had reference to a small bundle which david bright was hastily untying. "see here, nell," he said, with a strange mixture of eagerness and modesty, "i've joined 'em at last old girl. look at that." he unrolled a m.d.s.f. flag, which he had purchased from the skipper of the mission smack. "an' i've signed the pledge too, lass." "oh! david," she exclaimed, grasping her husband's right hand in both of hers. but her heart was too full for more. "yes, nell, i've had grace given me to hoist the lord's colours in the short blue, an' it was your little book as done it. i'd ha' bin lost by now, if it hadn't bin for the blessed word of god." again nell essayed to speak, but the words refused to come. she laid her head on her husband's shoulder and wept for joy. we have said that david bright was not by nature given to the melting mood, but his eyes grew dim and his voice faltered at this point and it is not improbable that there would have been a regular break-down, if joe's blessed babby had not suddenly come to the rescue in the nick of time with one of her unexpected howls. as temporary neglect was the cause of her complaint it was of course easily cured. when quiet had been restored mrs bright turned to her son--"now, billy, my boy, i must send you off immediately." "but what if i won't go off--like a bad sky-rocket?" said the boy with a doubtful expression on his face. "but you'll have to go--and you'll be willing enough, too, when i tell you that it's to see miss ruth dotropy you are going." "what!--the angel?" "yes, she's here just now, and wants to see you very much, and made me promise to send you to her the moment you came home. so, off you go! she lives with her mother in the old place, you know." "all right, _i_ know. farewell, mother." in a few minutes billy was out of sight and hearing--which last implies a considerable distance, for billy's whistle was peculiarly loud and shrill. he fortunately had not to undergo the operation of being "cleaned" for this visit, having already subjected himself to that process just before getting into port. the only portions of costume which he might have changed with propriety on reaching shore were his long boots, but he was so fond of these that he meant to stick to them, he said, through thick and thin, and had cleaned them up for the occasion. at the moment he turned into the street where his friends and admirers dwelt, ruth chanced to be at the window, while the miss seawards, then on a visit to her mother, were seated in the room. "oh! the _darling_!" exclaimed ruth, with something almost like a little shriek of delight. "which darling--you've got so many?" asked her mother. "oh! billy bright, the sweet innocent--look at him; quick!" thus adjured the sisters ran laughing to the window, but the stately mother sat still. "d'you mean the boy with the boots on?" asked jessie, who was short-sighted. "yes, yes, that's him!" "if you had said the boots with the boy in them, jessie," observed kate, "you would have been nearer the mark!" in a few minutes, billy, fully alive to his importance in the ladies' eyes, sat gravely in the midst of them answering rapid questions. "you've not had tea, billy, i hope," said ruth, rising and ringing the bell. "no, miss, i haven't, an' if i had, i'm always game for two teas." soon billy was engaged with bread, butter, cakes, and jam, besides other luxuries, some of which he had never even dreamed of before. "what an excellent appetite you have!" said jessie seaward, scarcely able to restrain her admiration. "yes, ma'am," said billy, accepting another bun with much satisfaction, "we usually does pretty well in the short blue in that way, though we don't have sich grub as this to tickle our gums with. you see, we has a lot o' fresh air out on the north sea, an' it's pretty strong air too-- specially when it blows 'ard. w'y, i've seed it blow that 'ard that it was fit to tear the masts out of us; an' once it throw'd us right over on our beam-ends." "on what ends, boy?" asked mrs dotropy, who was beginning to feel interested in the self-sufficient little fisherman. "our beam-ends, ma'am. the beams as lie across under the deck, so that w'en we gits upon _their_ ends, you know, we're pretty well flat on the water." "how dreadful!" exclaimed jessie; "but when that happens how can you walk the deck?" "we can't walk the deck, ma'am. we has to scramble along the best way we can, holdin' on by hands and teeth and eyelids. thank 'ee, miss, but i really do think i'd better not try to eat any more. i feels chock-full already, an' it might be dangerous. there's severe laws now against overloadin', you know." "no such laws in this house, billy," said ruth, with a laugh. "but now, if you have quite done, i should like to put a few questions to you." "fire away, then, miss," said the boy, looking exceedingly grave and wise. "well, billy," began ruth, with an eager look, "i want to know something about your dear mother." she hesitated at this point as if uncertain how to begin, and the boy sought to encourage her with--"wery good, miss, i knows all about _her_. what d'ee want to ax me?" "i want to ask," said ruth, slowly, "if you know what your mother's name was before she was married?" ruth did not as the reader knows, require to ask this question, but she put it as a sort of feeler to ascertain how far billy might be inclined to assist her. "well, now, that _is_ a stumper!" exclaimed the boy, smiting his little thigh. "i didn't know as she had a name afore she was married. leastwise i never thought of it or heerd on it, not havin' bin acquainted with her at that time." with a short laugh ruth said, "well, never mind; but perhaps you can tell me, billy, if your mother ever had a brother connected with the sea--a sailor, i mean." "stumped again!" exclaimed the boy; "who'd have thought i was so ignorant about my own mother? if she ever had sich a brother, he must have bin drownded, for i never heerd tell of 'im." "then you never heard either your father or mother mention any other name than bright--i mean in connection with yourselves?" said ruth in a disappointed tone. "never, miss, as i can reck'lect on. i would willin'ly say yes, to please you, but i'd raither not tell no lies." "that's right my good boy," said mrs dotropy, with a stately but approving nod, "for you know where all liars go to." "yes, ma'am, an' i knows where liars _don't_ go to," returned billy, looking up with pious resignation, whereat the miss seawards and ruth burst into a laugh. it must not be supposed that billy meant to be profane, but he had taken a dislike to mrs dotropy, and did not choose to be patronised by her. as poor ruth found that it was useless to pursue her investigations in this direction further, she changed the subject to the north sea fishery, with the details of which her little friend was of course quite conversant. then she proposed to accompany billy home. "i want to make the acquaintance of your father," she said. "ah! he's a true blue _now_, he is," said billy. "was your father not always a true blue?" asked ruth, as they went along the street together. "well, it ain't right for me to say ought agin my father--but--he's true blue _now_, anyhow." and ruth found that the reformed drunkard was indeed "true blue," and very glad to see her; nevertheless she obtained no information from him on the subject she was so anxious about--not because he was uncommunicative, but because ruth, being very timid, had not courage to open her lips upon it. the shades of evening were beginning to descend when she rose to leave. both father and son offered to escort her home, but she declined the offer with many thanks, and went off alone. chapter twenty. details two robberies and an awful situation. the attainment of felicity is said to be the aim of all mankind. in order to this end, men in all ages have voluntarily submitted themselves to prolonged infelicity. they have toiled in daily pain and sorrow throughout a long life to attain at last, if possible, to the coveted condition. some have pursued it in eager intensity, dancing and singing as they went. others have rushed after it in mad determination, cursing and grumbling as they ran. many have sought it in rapt contemplation of the sublime and beautiful. thousands have grubbed and grovelled for it in the gratification or the drowning of the senses, while not a few have sought and found it in simple, loving submission to their maker's will, as made known by conscience and revelation. of all the varied methods, john gunter, the fisherman, preferred the grub-and-grovelling method, and the favourite scene of his grovelling was a low grog-shop in one of the lower parts of yarmouth. it must be said, at this point, that gunter was not considered by his mates as a regular out-and-out fisherman. he had never served his apprenticeship, but, being a powerful and sufficiently active seaman, was tolerated among them. it is said that adversity makes strange bed-fellows. it is not less true that strong drink makes strange companions. gunter's shipmates having had more than enough of him on the sea were only too glad to get clear of him when on land. he therefore found himself obliged to look out for new companionships, for it is certain that man yearns after sympathy of some sort, and is not, under ordinary circumstances, content to be alone. the new friends he sought were not difficult to find. in one of the darkest corners of the public-house referred to he found them--an accidental, group--consisting of an ex-clerk, an ex-parson, and a burglar, not "ex" as yet! they had met for the first time, yet, though widely separated as regards their training in life, they had found the sympathetic level of drink in that dingy corner. of course, it need hardly be said that the first two had swung far out of their proper orbits before coming into harmonious contact with the last. of course, also, no one of the three desired that his antecedents should be known. there was not much chance, indeed, that the former occupations of the clerk or the parson would be guessed at, for every scrap of respectability had long ago been washed out of them by drink, and their greasy coats, battered hats, dirty and ragged linen, were, if possible, lower in the scale of disreputability than the rough garments of the burglar. the subject of their conversation was suitable to all ages and countries, to all kinds and conditions of men, for it was politics! a fine, healthy, flexible subject, so utterly incomprehensible to fuddled brains that it could be distended, contracted, inflated, elongated, and twisted to suit any circumstances or states of mind. and such grand scope too, for difference, or agreement of opinion. oh! it was pitiful to see the idiotic expressions of these fallen men as they sat bound together by a mutual thirst which each abhorred, yet loved, and which none could shake off. and there was something outrageously absurd too--yes, it is of no use attempting to shirk the fact--something intolerably funny in some of the gestures and tones, with which they discussed the affairs of the nation. "hail fellow well met," was the generous tendency of gunter's soul when ashore. accosting the three in gruff off-hand tones with some such sentiment, he sat down beside them. "same to you, pal," said the burglar, with a sinister glance at the new-comer from under his heavy brows. "how do? ol' salt!" exclaimed the clerk, who was by far the most tipsy of the three. "come 'ere. we'll make you r'free--umpire--to shettle zish d'shpute. queshn is, whether it's the dooty of the poor to help the rish--no, zhat's not it. w-w'ether it's dooty of rish to help the poor--what's it--by sharin' all they have with 'em or--" "that's not the question at all," cried gunter, gruffly--"the question is, what'll you have to drink!" "bravo!" exclaimed the parson, "that _is_ the question!" "you're a trump!" said the burglar. "well," exclaimed the clerk, with a tremendous assumption of winking-dignity, "ishn't zhat zactly what i was goin' to shay, if you'd on'y listen. `what'll you 'ave to drink!' jus' so. now, if you want to argue it out properly, you'll--" he was checked and almost floored by a tremendous though facetious slap on the back from gunter, who said that they wouldn't argue it out; that they would drink it out first and argue it out afterwards. in pursuance of this plan he called the landlord, and, ordering spirits and water, treated the assembled company all round--including a few bloated and wretched women, some of whom carried children in their arms. whatever of the ludicrous might have struck an observer of the scene, while listening to the above conversation, it would have been all put to flight by the sight of these poor women, and perchance by the thought that they had been brought up to that life; had never known better, and would never have a chance of knowing better, unless some exceptional rays of heavenly light, should penetrate the dark region in which they lived. praise be to god! such rays do visit such haunts at times, and brands are often plucked from the fire, but with these we have nothing to do at present. our object just now is to trace the course of john gunter. you may be sure that one who spent his money so freely, and at the same time drank heavily, was not likely to escape the special attention of his new friend, the burglar. that worthy, besides being an expert in the heavier branches of his art, was not unacquainted with its lighter work. he watched the fisherman narrowly, observed in which pocket he kept his money, waited until he was sufficiently drunk for his purpose, and then picked his pockets at an engrossing moment, when the clerk was unfolding a perfect scheme of national reform to the parson, who, with eyes shut, and supposed to be listening intently, was in reality fast asleep. his object accomplished, the burglar said he would go out, and have a look at the weather, which he did, and having quietly hidden his spoils he returned to report the weather "all right," and to make quite sure that he had left nothing whatever in any of gunter's pockets. having satisfied himself on this point he was about to retire to take a final look at the weather when gunter said--"hold on, mate; 'ave another glass." he felt in his pocket for the wherewith to pay for the drink, and missed his money. he was by no means as drunk as he appeared to be, and at once suspected his comrade. "you've stole my blunt!" he shouted, without a moment's hesitation. "you're a liar," returned the burglar, promptly. gunter was fierce by nature. he made no rejoinder, but struck a blow at the other which would have felled him had it taken effect. the burglar, however, was a pugilist. he evaded the blow, and returned it with such force that the fisherman staggered, but recovered himself, and grappled with his adversary. in a moment all was uproar and confusion; benches were upset, spittoons kicked about, and pipes smashed, as the two powerful men swayed about, and tried fiercely to strangle each other. the women rushed screaming from the place; the landlord and his assistants interfered, but it was not until the police were called in that the combatants were separated. then there occurred a violent scene of explanation, allegation, recrimination, and retort, during which the guardians of the peace attempted to throw oil on the troubled waters, for it is always their aim, we believe, to quiet down drunken uproars when possible rather than to take up the rioters. as the burglar, with an injured, innocent look, denied the charge made against him, and turned all his pockets inside out in proof of his veracity, gunter was fain to content himself with the supposition that he had lost his money in some incomprehensible manner. in a very sulky mood he flung out of the public-house and sauntered away. he knew not where to go, for he had no friends in yarmouth--at least none who would have welcomed him--and he had not wherewith to pay for a bed, even in the poorest lodging. as he walked along, conscience began to smite him, but he was in no mood to listen to conscience. he silenced it, and at the same time called himself, with an oath, a big fool. there is no question that he was right, yet he would have denied the fact and fought any one else who should have ventured so to address him. the evening was beginning to grow dark as he turned down one of the narrow and lonely rows. now, it so happened that this was one of the rows through which ruth dotropy had to pass on her way home. ruth was not naturally timid, but when she suddenly beheld a half-drunken man coming towards her, and observed that no one else was near, something like a flutter of anxiety agitated her breast. at the same moment something like a sledge-hammer blow smote the concave side of john gunter's bosom. "she's got more than she needs," he growled between his teeth, "an' i've got nothin'!" as his conscience had been silenced this was a sufficient argument for john. "i'll thank you for a shillin', miss," he said, confronting the now frightened girl after a hasty glance round. "oh! yes, yes--willingly," gasped poor ruth, fumbling in her pocket for her purse. the purse, however, chanced to have been left at home. "oh, _how_ provoking! i have not my purse with me, but if these few pence will--" "never mind the pence, miss," said gunter,--accepting the pence; however, as he spoke--"that nice little watch will do jist as well." he snatched the watch which hung at ruth's waist-belt, snapped the slender guard that held it, and made off. when sufficiently out of danger of pursuit, he paused under a lamp to examine his prize. to his intense disgust he found that the little watch, instead of being a gold one, as he had expected, was only a silver one, of comparatively little value. "well, your first haul in this line ain't worth much," he grumbled. "hows'ever, i've got coppers enough for a night's lodgin' an' grub." saying which he pocketed the watch, and went on his way. meanwhile ruth, having given vent to a sob of relief when the man left her, ran towards home as fast as she could, never pausing till she reached the miss seawards' door, which chanced to be a little nearer than her own. against this she plunged with wonderful violence for one so gentle and tender, and then hammered it with her knuckles in a way that would have done credit to a lightweight prize-fighter. the door was opened hastily by liffie lee, who, being a much lighter weight than her assailant, went down before her rush. "lawk! miss ruth," she exclaimed, on recovering her feet, "w'at's a-'appened?" but she asked the question of the empty air, for ruth was already half sobbing, half laughing on the sofa, with a highly agitated sister on either side trying to calm her. "oh! what a little donkey i am," she exclaimed, flinging off her bonnet and attempting to laugh. "what _has_ happened?" gasped jessie. "_do_ tell us, dear," cried kate. "i--i've been robbed, by a--dreadful man--so awfully gruff, a sailor i think, and--oh!" ruth became suddenly much calmer. "it did not occur to me till this moment--it is _the_ watch--papa's little silver watch that captain bream brought him as a sort of curiosity from abroad long ago. oh! i _am_ so sorry! it was such a favourite with dear papa, and he told me to take such care of it when he gave it to me, for there was a romantic little history connected with it." "what was it, dear?" asked jessie, glad to find that the sudden diversion of her thoughts to the lost watch had done more to calm ruth than all their demonstrative comfort. ruth at once proceeded to relate the story of the watch, but we will not inflict it on the reader, as it has no particular bearing on our tale. it had something to do, however, with detaining ruth far later than she had intended to remain, so that she jumped up hastily at last, saying she must really go home. "are you sure the robber was a sailor?" asked kate; "sailors are such dear nice men that i can hardly believe it." "i'm almost quite sure," returned ruth; "at all events he was dressed like one--and, oh! he _was_ so gruff!" from this point ruth diverged into further and more minute details of the robbery, over which the three gloated with a species of fascination which is more frequently associated with ghost stories than true tales. indeed we may say that _four_ gloated over it, for liffie lee, unable to restrain her curiosity, put her head in at the door--at first with the more or less honest intention of asking if "hany think was wanted," and afterwards let her head remain from sheer inability to withdraw it. at one point in the thrilling narrative she became intensely excited, and when ruth tried in sepulchral tones to imitate john gunter's gruff voice, she exclaimed, "oh! lawks!" in such a gasp that the three ladies leaped up with three shrieks like three conscience-smitten kittens caught in a guilty act! liffie was rebuked, but from pity, or perhaps sympathy, was allowed to remain to hear the end. when that point was reached, it was found to be so late that the streets were almost deserted, and the particular part in which their lodging stood was dreadfully silent. "how am i ever to get home?" asked ruth. "it is not more than twenty doors off," said kate, "and liffie will go with you." "lawks, ma'am," said liffie, "what could the likes o' me do if we was attacked? an' then--i should 'ave to return _alone_!" "that is true," said the tender-hearted jessie; "what _is_ to be done? our landlady goes to bed early. it would never do to rouse her--and then, she may perhaps be as great a coward as we are. oh! if there was only a _man_ in the house. even a boy would do." "ah! i jist think 'e would," said liffie. "if little billy was 'ere, i wouldn't ax for no man." "i'll tell you what," said kate with a bright look of decision, "we'll all go together. get on your bonnet, jessie." there was no resisting kate when once she had made up her mind. she put on her own bonnet, and her sister quickly returned ready, "with a heart," as byron says, "for any fate?" "now don't speak, any of you," whispered kate. "if we are attacked, let us give a united shriek. that will raise some one to our aid." "i should think it would, ma'am. it would a'most raise the dead," said liffie, who also prepared herself for the ordeal. dark and deserted streets at late hours, with dangerous characters known to be abroad, have terrors to some small extent, even for the averagely brave; what must they have, then, for those tender ones of the weaker sex whose spirits are gentle, perhaps timid, and whose nerves have been highly strung by much converse on subjects relating to violence? the first shock experienced by our quartette was caused by the door. from some inscrutable impulse liffie lee had locked it after ruth had rushed in. "open it gently," whispered jessie, for the party had now got to the condition of feeling very much as if they were themselves burglars, engaged in some unholy enterprise, and feared to arouse sleepers. but they need not have feared, for their landlady was one of the "seven sleepers" of yarmouth. liffie exerted her little strength with caution, but the lock was stiff; it would not move. she screwed up her mouth, and put-to more strength; still it would not move. screwing up her eyebrows as well as her mouth, she tried again. it would not budge. she even screwed up her nose in a stupendous effort, but all in vain. if there had been no need for caution, the thing would have been easy, but jessie kept whispering, "softly, liffie, softly!" and ruth echoed "softly!" at last liffie screwed herself up entirely, body and soul, in one supreme effort; she agonised with the key. it yielded, and the bolt flew back with a crack like a pistol-shot. "oh!" burst in four different keys--not door-keys--from the party--under their breath however. "open," whispered jessie. liffie obeyed, and when the half-opened door revealed intense darkness outside, a feeling of horror caused their very flesh to creep. "how i _wish_ i hadn't stayed! i'll _never_ do it again!" whispered poor ruth in the tones of a child about to be punished. "what's that!" exclaimed jessie, with a start that caused ruth almost to shriek. "cats!" said liffie lee. "impossible!" said kate. but it was not impossible, for there, in a corner not far off, were dimly seen two intensely black objects, with backs and tails arranged on the moorish-arch principle, and a species of low thunder issuing from them, suggestive of dynamite in the stomach. relieved to find it was nothing worse, the party emerged into the street. the cats were too much enraged and engaged with each other to observe them. they, like the ladies, were evidently cowards, for they continued to threaten without attacking. liffie was left on guard with strict injunctions to stand inside, hold tight to the door-handle, let in the returning sisters, and then slam the door in the face of all the world beside. a run was now made for the dotropy residence. we could not call it a rush, for the three ladies were too light and elegant in form to proceed in such a manner. they tripped it--if we may say so--on light fantastic toe, though with something of unseemly haste. ruth being young and active reached the door first, and, as before, went with a rebounding bang against it. the anxious mrs dotropy had been for some time on the watch. she opened the door. "ruth!" "mamma!" "your daughter!" exclaimed the miss seawards in needless explanation, as they pushed her in, and then, turning round, fled homeward with so much noise that the attention of a night watchman was naturally attracted. the sisters heard his approaching foot-falls. they put on, in sporting language, a spurt. just as the door was reached the two cats, becoming suddenly brave, filled the night-air with yells as of infants in agony. an irrepressible shriek burst from the sisters as they tripped over each other into the passage, and the faithful liffie slammed the door in the face of the discomfited policeman. it was a crucial test of friendship, and the miss seawards came to the conclusion that night, before retiring to rest, that nothing on earth would ever induce them to do it again. chapter twenty one. a hopeful club discovered. when captain bream, as before mentioned, was obliged to hurry off to london, and forsake the miss seawards, as well as his theological studies, he hastened to that portion of the city where merchants and brokers, and money-lenders, and men of the law do love to congregate. turning down cheapside the captain sought for one of the many labyrinths of narrow streets and lanes that blush unseen in that busy part of the great hive. "only a penny, sir, _only_ a penny." the speaker was an ill-conditioned man, and the object offered for sale was a climbing monkey of easily deranged mechanism. "do you suppose," said the captain, who, being full of anxious thought was for the moment irascible, "do you suppose that i am a baby?" "oh! dear no, sir. from appearances i should say you've bin weaned some little time--only a penny, sir. a nice little gift for the missus, sir, if you ain't got no child'n." "can you direct me," said the captain with a bland look--for his tempers were short-lived--"to brockley court?" "first to the left, sir, second to the right, straight on an' ask again--only a penny, sir, climbs like all alive, sir." dropping a penny into the man's hand with a hope that it might help the monkeys to climb, captain bream turned into the labyrinth, and soon after found himself in a dark little room which was surrounded by piles of japanned tin boxes, and littered with bundles of documents, betokening the daily haunt of a man-of-law. the lawyer himself--a bland man with a rugged head, a roman nose and a sharp eye--sat on a hard-bottomed chair in front of a square desk. why should business men, by the way, subject themselves to voluntary martyrdom by using polished seats of hard-wood? is it with a view to doing penance, for the sins of the class to which they belong? "have you found her, mr saker?" asked captain bream, eagerly, on entering. "no, not got quite so far as that yet--pray sit down; but we have reason to believe that we have got a clue--a slight one, indeed, but then, the information we have to go upon in our profession is frequently very slight--very slight indeed." "true, too true," assented the captain. "i sometimes wonder how, with so little to work on at times, you ever begin to go about an investigation." the lawyer smiled modestly in acknowledgment of the implied compliment. "we do, indeed, proceed on our investigations occasionally with exceeding little information to go upon, but then, my dear sir, investigation may be said to be a branch of our profession, for which we are in a manner specially trained. let me see, now." he took up a paper, and, opening it, began to read with a running commentary:-- "fair hair, slightly grey; delicate features, complexion rather pale, brown eyes, gentle manners." "that's her--that's her!" from the captain. "age apparently a little over thirty. you said, i think, that your sister was--" "yes, yes," interrupted the captain in some excitement, "she was considerably younger than me, poor girl!" "let me, however, caution you, my dear sir, not to be too sanguine," said the man-of-law, looking over his spectacles at his client; "you have no idea how deceptive descriptions are. people are so prone to receive them according to their desires rather than according to fact." "well, but," returned the captain, with some asperity, "you tell me that this woman has fair hair slightly grey, delicate features, pale complexion, brown eyes, and gentle manners, all of which are _facts_!" "true, my dear sir, but they are facts applicable to many women," replied the solicitor. "still, i confess i have some hope that we have hit upon the right scent at last. if you could only have given us the name of her husband, our difficulty would have been comparatively slight. i suppose you have no means of hunting that up now. no distant relative or--" "no, none whatever. all my relations are dead. she lived with an old aunt at the time, who died soon after the poor girl's foolish elopement, leaving no reference to the matter behind her. it is now fifteen years since then. i was away on a long voyage at the time. on my return, the old lady, as i have said, was dead, and her neighbours knew nothing except that my sister was reported to have run away with a seafaring man. some who had seen him about the place said he seemed to be beneath her in station but none knew his name." "is it not strange," asked the solicitor, "that she has never in all these years made inquiries about you at the mercantile house which employed you?" "well, not so strange as it would seem, for my sister's memory for names was a bad one. she used constantly to forget the name of the ship i commanded, and, as far as i can remember, did not trouble herself about the owners. i have no doubt she must have made many efforts to discover me--unless she was ashamed of having made a low match. at all events," added the captain, with a weary sigh, "i have never ceased to make inquiries about her, although i have not until now made the attempt through a lawyer. but where is this person you have heard of to be found?" "on board of an emigrant ship," said the solicitor. "where bound for?" demanded the captain in peat surprise. "for australia, and she sails the day after to-morrow, i am told." "her name!" cried the captain, starting up. "calm yourself, my dear sir. i have made all needful arrangements for your going off to-morrow. it is too late to-day. sit down and let me explain; and, above all, bear in mind that this may turn out to be a wrong scent after all. of course you may surmise that we lawyers obtain our information from many and various sources. the source whence the information concerning your matter has come is peculiar, namely, a lay-missionary who is going to visit the ship to-morrow--having some friends on board. happening to meet the man the other day, i mentioned your matter to him. he is a very sharp-witted man, and one whose accuracy of observation i should trust implicitly, even if his own interests were involved. well, he said that on board of the steam-ship _talisman_, now lying off gravesend, he saw that very day a woman among the steerage emigrants who answered to my description exactly, and added that he had heard her spoken of as the wife of a somewhat dissipated man, who had all the appearance of a seafaring person, named richards. of course i attach no importance to the name, as you say you never knew it, but his being a sailor-like man, and the fact that he was probably beneath his wife in station, coupled with the correct description of the wife, while it does not justify our being too sanguine, raises our hopes, you see--" "i see, i see--yes. i beg that you will give me the agent's name and address," cried the captain, whose hopes, despite the guarded and cautious statements of the solicitor, had been raised to the highest point. "here is his name, with the part of the river where you are to meet him," said the calm man of law, handing his client a slip of paper; "but let me, my dear sir, impress on you the advisability of not allowing yourself to become too sanguine. disappointments are invariably more severe in cases where expectations have been too high; and i fear that you may be already building too trustfully upon the very slender foundation supplied by this information." admitting the force of this truism, and putting the slip of paper in his purse, captain bream bade his solicitor good-bye, with many protestations of undying gratitude, and left the room with the highest possible hopes of success. chapter twenty two. in the mission boat on the thames--the damping of the body cannot damp the ardent spirit. next morning captain bream accompanied the lay-missionary to gravesend, where they took a boat and put off to the emigrant ship. great was the captain's satisfaction to find that his companion had been a sailor, and could talk to him--in nautical language too--about seafaring matters and distant climes. "it is a good work in which you are engaged," he said; "are you going to preach to 'em?" "no, only to distribute testaments, tracts, and good books--though i may preach if i get the chance. my work lies chiefly among emigrants and boat and barge men, but i also do a good deal among regular sailors." "ah! that's the work that _i'm_ fond of," said the captain, with enthusiasm. "of course i don't mean to say that the soul of a sailor is of more value than that of any other man, but i lean to sailors naturally, havin' been among 'em the greater part of my life. i've done a little myself in the way of preachin' to 'em." "have you?" exclaimed the missionary, with a pleased look. and from this point the two men went off into a confidential and animated talk about their varied experiences on the sea of spiritual work, on which they had both been launched, while the boatman--an old and evidently sympathetic man--pulled them to the vessel which lay at some distance from the place of embarkation. while the two friends--for such they had become by that time--were chatting thus with each other, a little accident was in store for captain bream, which not only disarranged his plans, but afterwards considerably affected his career. having reached the age of sixty years, our captain was not quite as active in body as he had once been. he was, however, quite as active in heart and mind, besides having much of the fire of youth still burning in him. hence he was apt at times to forget his body in the impulsive buoyancy of his spirit. an instance of this forgetfulness occurred that day. the missionary paid a passing visit to a vessel on their way to the emigrant ship. having run alongside, captain bream put his foot on the first step of the ladder, with intent to mount the vessel's side. "have a care, sir," said the old boatman, who was assisting him with some anxiety. it may be that the captain's too youthful spirit spurned assistance, or that he had miscalculated the powers of his too ancient body, for at the moment his foot slipped while as yet his hold of the man-ropes was not secure, and he fell with a lion-like roar that might have shamed the stoutest king of the african forests. it was not a cry of fear, still less was it a shout for help. it seemed rather like an effervescing roar of indignant surprise. the boatman held up his arms to catch the unfortunate man, but his strength availed nothing against such a weight. he was hurled into the bottom of the boat for his pains, and the captain went into the water feet first as deep as the waist. here, however, the disaster was checked, for his strong arms caught the boat and held on. the missionary, meanwhile, sprang forward and laid hold of him, while his man rose with wonderful agility and lent his aid. "heave--ahoy!" cried the missionary, grasping a waist-band. "yo, heave, ho!" shouted the boatman, seizing a leg. another moment and the captain was safe in the bottom of the boat, which by that time was floating quietly down the thames! great was the regret expressed by the missionary at this unfortunate event, and loud was the laughter with which it was treated by the captain himself, on being re-seated in the stern sheets. "we must go ashore and get a change of dry clothes for you, sir." "not a bit of it," cried the captain. "row back to the ship; i'll mount that ladder yet. if i didn't i'd keep dreaming of my discomfiture for a twelve-month to come." they ran alongside the vessel a second time, and went up the side in safety. but, arrived on deck, the skipper, who happened to be a hospitable man and friendly to the missionary, insisted on having captain bream down into his cabin. "now you'll put on a suit of my clothes," he said, "till your own are dry." the captain would not hear of it. "just let me wring my own out," he said, "and i'll be all right." "have a glass of wine then, or brandy?" "impossible; thank'ee, i'm an abstainer." "but you need it to prevent catching cold, you know. take it as physic." "physic!" exclaimed the captain. "i never took physic in my life, and i won't begin wi' the nasty stuff now. thank'ee all the same." "some coffee, then? i've got it all ready." "ay--that's better--if you're sure you've got it handy." while the captain and the skipper were discussing the coffee, the wet garments were sent to the galley and partially dried. meanwhile the missionary made the most of his opportunity among the men. by the time he had finished his visit, the captain's nether garments were partially dried, so they continued their voyage to the emigrant ship. when they reached her the poor captain's interest in other people's affairs had begun to fail, for his anxiety about his long-lost sister increased, as the probability of finding her at last became greater. chapter twenty three. how captain bream fared in his search, and what came of it. the finding of an individual in a large emigrant ship may not inaptly be compared to the finding of a needle in a haystack. foreseeing the difficulty, the missionary asked captain bream how he proposed to set about it. "you say that you do not know the married name of your sister?" he said, as they drew near to the towering sides of the great vessel. "no; i do not." "and you have not seen her for many years?" "not for many years." "nevertheless, you are quite sure that you will recognise her when you do see her?" "ay, as sure as i am that i'd know my own face in a lookin'-glass, for she had points about her that i'm quite sure time could never alter." "you are involved in a great difficulty, i fear," continued his friend, "for, in the first place, the time at your disposal is not long; you cannot ask for the number of her berth, not having her name, and there is little probability of your being able to see every individual in a vessel like this while they keep moving about on deck and below." the captain admitted that the difficulties were great and his countenance grew longer, for, being as we have said a remarkably sympathetic man, the emotions of his heart were quickly telegraphed to his features. "it strikes me," continued the missionary, in a comforting tone, "that your best chance of success will be to enter my service for the occasion, and go about with me distributing new testaments and tracts. you will thus, as it were, have a reason for going actively about looking into people's faces, and even into their berths. excuse me for asking--what do you think of doing if you find your sister, for the vessel starts in a few hours?" "oh, i'll get her--and--and her husband to give up the voyage and return ashore with me. i'm well enough off to make it worth their while." the missionary did not appear to think the plan very hopeful, but as they ran alongside at the moment them was no time for reply. it was indeed a bewildering scene to which they were introduced on reaching the deck. the confusion of parting friends; of pushing porters with trunks and boxes; perplexed individuals searching for lost luggage; distracted creatures looking for lost relatives; calm yet energetic officers in merchant-service uniform moving about giving directions; active seamen pushing through the crowds in obedience to orders; children of all sizes playing and getting in people's way; infants of many kinds yelling hideously or uttering squalls of final despair. there was pathos and comicality too, intermingled. behold, on one side, an urchin sitting astonished--up to his armpits in a bandbox through which he has just crashed--and an irate parent trying to drag him out; while, on your other side, stands a grief-stricken mother trying to say farewell to a son whose hollow cheeks, glittering eyes, and short cough give little hope of a meeting again on this side the grave. above all the din, as if to render things more maddening, the tug alongside keeps up intermittent shrieks of its steam-whistle, for the first bell has rung to warn those who are not passengers to prepare for quitting the steamer. soon the second bell rings, and the bustle increases while in the excitement of partings the last farewells culminate. "we don't need to mind that bell, having our boat alongside," said the missionary to captain bream, as they stood a little to one side silently contemplating the scene. "you see that smart young officer in uniform, close to the cabin skylight?" "yes." "that's the captain." "indeed. he seems to me very young to have charge of such a vessel." "not so young as he looks," returned the other. "i shall have to get his permission before attempting anything on board, so we must wait here for a few minutes. you see, he has gone into his cabin with the owners to have a few parting words. while we are standing you'll have one of the best opportunities of seeing the passengers, for most of them will come on deck to bid relatives and friends farewell, and wave handkerchiefs as the tug steams away, so keep your eyes open. meanwhile, i will amuse you with a little chit-chat about emigrants. this vessel is one of the largest that runs to australia." "indeed," responded the captain, with an absent look and tone that would probably have been the same if his friend had said that it ran to the moon. the missionary did not observe that his companion was hopelessly sunk in the sea of abstraction. "yes," he continued, "and, do you know, it is absolutely amazing what an amount of emigration goes on from this port continually, now-a-days. you would scarcely believe it unless brought as i am into close contact with it almost daily. why, there were no fewer than , emigrants who sailed from the thames in the course of last year." "how many hogsheads, did you say?" asked the captain, still deeply sunk in abstraction. a laugh from his friend brought him to the surface, however, in some confusion. "excuse me," he said, with a deprecatory look; "the truth is, my mind is apt to wander a bit in such a scene, and my eyes chanced to light at the moment you spoke on that hogshead over there. how many emigrants, did you say?" "no fewer than , ," repeated the missionary good-naturedly, and went on to relate some interesting incidents, but the captain was soon again lost in the contemplation of a poor young girl who had wept to such an extent at parting from a female friend, then in the tug, that her attempts to smile through the weeping had descended from the sublime to the ridiculous. she and her friend continued to wave their kerchiefs and smile and cry at each other notwithstanding, quite regardless of public opinion, until the tug left. then the poor young thing hid her sodden face in her moist handkerchief and descended with a moan of woe to her berth. despite the comical element in this incident, a tear was forced out of captain bream's eye, and we rather think that the missionary was similarly affected. but, to say truth, the public at large cared little for such matters. each was too much taken up with the pressing urgency of his or her own sorrows to give much heed to the woes of strangers. "people in such frames of mind are easily touched by kind words and influences," said the missionary in a low voice. "true, the ground is well prepared for you," returned the captain softly, for another group had absorbed his attention. "and i distribute among them testaments, gospels, and tracts, besides bags filled with books and magazines." "was there much powder in 'em?" asked the captain, struggling to the surface at the last word. "i don't know about that," replied his friend with a laugh, "but i may venture to say that there was a good deal of fire in some of them." "fire!" exclaimed the captain in surprise. explanation was prevented by the commander of the vessel issuing at that moment from the cabin with the owners. hearty shakings of hands and wishes for a good voyage followed. the officers stood at the gangway; the last of the weeping laggards was kindly but firmly led away; the tug steamed off, and the emigrant vessel was left to make her final preparations for an immediate start on her long voyage to the antipodes, with none but her own inhabitants on board, save a few who had private means of quitting. "now is our time," said the missionary, hastening towards the captain of the vessel. for one moment the latter gave him a stern look, as if he suspected him of being a man forgotten by the tug, but a bland smile of good-will overspread his features when the former explained his wishes. "certainly, my good sir, go where you like, and do what you please." armed with this permission, he and captain bream went to work to distribute their gifts. most of the people received these gladly, some politely, a few with suspicion, as if they feared that payment was expected, and one or two refused them flatly. the distributers, meanwhile, had many an opportunity afforded, when asked questions, of dropping here and there "a word in season." as this was the first time captain bream had ever been asked to act as an amateur distributer of testaments and tracts, he waited a few minutes, with one of his arms well-filled, to observe how his companion proceeded, and then himself went to work. of course, during all this time, he had not for an instant forgotten the main object of his journey. on the contrary, much of the absence of mind to which we have referred was caused by the intense manner, in which he scanned the innumerable faces that passed to and fro before him. he now went round eagerly distributing his gifts, though not so much impressed with the importance of the work as he would certainly have been had his mind been less pre-occupied. it was observed, however, that the captain offered his parcels and testaments only to women, a circumstance which caused a wag from erin to exclaim-- "hallo! old gentleman, don't ye think the boys has got sowls as well as the faimales?" this was of course taken in good part by the captain, who at once corrected the mistake. but after going twice round the deck, and drawing forth many humorous as well as caustic remarks as to his size and general appearance, he was forced to the conclusion that his sister was not there. the lower regions still remained, however. descending to these with some hope and a dozen testaments, he found that the place was so littered with luggage, passengers, and children, that it was extremely difficult to move. to make the confusion worse, nearly the whole space between decks had been fitted up with extra berths--here for the married, there for the unmarried--so that very little room indeed was left for passage, and exceedingly little light entered. but captain bream was not affected by such matters. he was accustomed to them, and his eyesight was good. he was bent on one object, which he pursued with quiet, unflagging perseverance--namely, that of gazing earnestly into the face of every woman in the ship. so eager was the poor man about it that he forgot to offer the last armful of testaments which he had undertaken to distribute, and simply went from berth to berth staring at the females. he would undoubtedly have been considered mad if it had not been that the women were too much taken up with their own affairs, to think much about any one with whom they had nothing to do. one distracting, and also disheartening, part of the process was, that, owing to the general activity on board, he came again and again to the same faces in different parts of the vessel, but he so frequently missed seeing others that hope was kept alive by the constant turning up of new faces. alas! none of them bore any resemblance to that for which he sought so earnestly! at last he returned to the place where his friend was preaching. by that time, however, the crowd was so great that he could not enter. turning aside, therefore, into an open berth, with a feeling of weariness and depression creeping over his mind and body, he was about to sit down on a box, when a female voice at the other end of the berth demanded to know what he wanted. hope was a powerful element in captain bream's nature. he rose quickly and stopped to gaze attentively into a female face, but it was so dark where she sat on a low box that he could hardly see her, and took a step forward. "well, mr imprence, i hope as you'll know me again," said the woman, whose face was fiery red, and whose nature was furious. "what _do_ you want here?" the captain sighed profoundly. _that_ was obviously not his sister! then a confused feeling of incapacity to give a good reason for being there came over him. suddenly he recollected the testaments. "have one?" he said eagerly, as he offered one of the little black books. "have what?" "a testament." "no, i won't have a testament, i'm a catholic," said the woman as she looked sternly up. captain bream was considering how he might best suggest that the word of god was addressed to all mankind, when a thought seemed to strike the woman. "are you the cap'n?" she asked. "yes," he replied absently, and with some degree of truth. "then it's my opinion, cap'n, an' i tell it you to your face, that you ought to be ashamed of yourself to put honest men an' wimen in places like this--neither light, nor hair, nor nothink in the way of hornament to--" "captain bream! are you there, sir?" cried the voice of his friend the missionary at that moment down the companion-hatch. "ay, ay, i'm here." "i've found her at last, sir." the captain incontinently dropped the dozen testaments into the woman's lap and went up the companion-ladder like a tree-squirrel. "this way, sir. she's sittin' abaft the funnel." in a few seconds captain bream and his companion stood before a pretty-faced, fair-haired woman with soft gentle eyes, which suddenly opened with surprise as the two men hurried forward and came to a halt in front of her. the captain looked anxiously at his friend. "is this the--" he stopped. "yes, that's her," said the missionary with a nod. the captain turned slowly on his heel, and an irrepressible groan burst from him as he walked away. there was no need for the disappointed missionary to ask if he had been mistaken. one look had sufficed for the captain. sadly they returned to the shore, and there the missionary, being near his house, invited captain bream to go home with him and have a cup of tea. "it will revive you, my dear sir," he said, as the captain stood in silence at his side with his head bowed down. "the disappointment must indeed be great. don't give up hope, however. but your clothes are wet still. no wonder you shiver, having gone about so long in damp garments. come away." captain bream yielded in silence. he not only went and had a cup of his hospitable friends's tea, but he afterwards accepted the offer of one of his beds, where he went into a high fever, from which he did not recover for many weary weeks. chapter twenty four. the wreck of the evening star. about the time that captain bream was slowly recovering from the fever by which he had been stricken down, a disaster occurred out on the north sea, in connection with the short blue, which told powerfully on some of the men of that fleet. this was nothing less than the wreck of the _evening star_. the weather looked very unsettled the morning on which david bright's turn came about to quit the fleet and sail for port. he had flown the usual flag to intimate his readiness to convey letters, etcetera, on shore, and had also, with a new feeling of pride, run up his bethel-flag to show his true colours, as he said, and to intimate his willingness to join with christian friends in a parting hymn and prayer. some had availed themselves of the opportunity, and, just before starting, the _evening star_ ran close to the mission smack. "lower the boat, billy," said the skipper to his son as they sat in the cabin. "ay, ay, daddy." there was a kindliness now in the tone of david bright's voice when he spoke to billy that drew out the heart of that urchin as it had never been drawn out before, save by his mother's soft voice, and which produced a corresponding sweetness in the tones of the boy--for "love begets love." the mission skipper received his visitor with unwonted heartiness. "i pray the lord to give you a good time on shore, david," he said, as they went down to the cabin, where some of the other skippers were having a chat and a cup of coffee. "he'll do that," said david. "he did it last time. my dear missis could scarce believe her ears when i told her i was converted, or her eyes when she saw the bethel-flag and the temperance pledge." "praise the lord!" exclaimed two or three of those present, with deep sincerity, as david thus referred to his changed condition. "i can't bide with 'ee, lads," said david, "for time's up, but before startin' i _would_ like to have a little prayer with 'ee, an' a hymn to the master's praise." we need not say that they were all ready to comply. after concluding, they saw him into his boat, and bade him god-speed in many a homely but hearty phrase. "good-bye, skipper; fare ye well, billy; the lord be with 'ee, joe." john gunter was not omitted in the salutations, and his surly spirit was a little, though not much, softened as he replied. "fare ye well, mates," shouted david, as he once more stood on his own deck, and let his vessel fall away. a toss of the hand followed the salutation. little billy echoed the sentiment and the toss, and in a few minutes the _evening star_ was making her way out of the fleet and heading westward. the night which followed was wild, and the wind variable. next day the sun did not show itself at all till evening, and the wind blew dead against them. at sunset, red and lurid gleams in the west, and leaden darkness in the east, betokened at the best unsteady weather. little did these bold mariners, however, regard such signs--not that they were reckless, but years of experience had accustomed them to think lightly of danger--to face and overcome it with equanimity. in addition to his native coolness, david bright had now the mighty _power_ of humble trust in god to sustain him. it still blew hard when they drew near to land, but the wind had changed its direction, blowing more on the shore, and increasing at last to a gale which lined the whole coast with breakers. before the _evening star_ could find refuge in port, night had again descended. unfortunately it was one of the darkest nights of the season, accompanied with such blinding sleet that it became a difficult matter to distinguish the guiding lights. "a dirty night, billy," said david bright, who himself held the tiller. "ay, father, it'll be all the pleasanter when we get home." "true, lad; the same may be said of the heavenly home when the gales of life are over. d'ee see the light, boy?" "no, father, not quite sure. either it's not very clear, or the sleet an' spray blinds me." "`let the lower lights be burning,'" murmured the skipper, as a tremendous wave, which seemed about to burst over them, rushed beneath the stern, raising it high in the air. "you see the meanin' o' that line o' the hymn now, billy, though you didn't when your dear mother taught it you. bless her heart, her patience and prayers ha' done it all." for some minutes after this there was silence. the men of the _evening star_ were holding on to shroud or belaying-pin, finding shelter as best they could, and looking out anxiously for the "lower lights." "there'll be some hands missin', i doubt, in the short blue fleet to-morrow, father," remarked billy, with a solemn look. "likely enough; god have mercy on 'em," returned bright. "it wasn't a much stiffer gale than this, not many years gone by, when twenty-seven smacks foundered, and a hundred and eighty souls were called to stand before their maker." as david spoke a sullen roar of breaking water was heard on the port bow. they had been slightly misled, either by their uncertainty as to the position of the true lights, or by some false lights on shore. at all events, whatever the cause, they were at that moment driving towards one of the dangerous sand-banks in the neighbourhood of yarmouth. the course of the smack was instantly changed, but it was too late. almost before an order could be given she struck heavily, her main-mast went over the side, carrying part of the mizzen along with it. at the same time a wave broke just astern, and rushed over the deck, though happily not with its full force. even in that moment of disaster the bold fishermen did not quail. with their utmost energy indeed, but without confusion, they sprang to the boat which, although lifted, had not been washed away. accustomed to launch it in all weathers, they got it into the water, and, almost mechanically, ned spivin and gunter tumbled into it, while joe davidson held on to the painter. billy bright was about to follow, but looking back shouted, "come along, father!" david, however, paid no attention to him. he still stood firmly at the tiller guiding the wreck, which having been lifted off, or over the part of the sand on which she had struck, was again plunging madly onward. a few moments and one of those overwhelming seas which even the inexperienced perceive to be irresistible, roared after the disabled vessel. as it reached her she struck again. the billow made a clean sweep over her. everything was carried away. the boat was overturned, the stout painter snapped, and the crew left struggling in the water. but what of the people on shore when this terrible scene was being enacted? they were not entirely ignorant of it. through driving sleet and spray they had seen in the thick darkness something that looked like a vessel in distress. soon the spectral object was seen to advance more distinctly out of the gloom. well did the fishermen know what that meant, and, procuring ropes, they hastened to the rescue, while spray, foam, sand, and even small pebbles, were swept up by the wild hurricane and dashed in their faces. among the fishermen was a young man whose long ulster and cap told that he was a landsman, yet his strength, and his energy, were apparently equal to that of the men with whom he ran. he carried a coil of thin rope in his left hand. with the right he partly shielded his eyes. "they'll be certain to strike here," cried one of the fishermen, whose voice was drowned in the gale, but whose action caused the others to halt. he was right. the vessel was seen to strike quite close, for the water was comparatively deep. "she's gone," exclaimed the young man already referred to, as the vessel was seen to be overwhelmed. he flung off his top-coat as he spoke, and, making one end of the small line fast round his waist, ran knee-deep into the water. some of the fishermen acted in a somewhat similar fashion, for they knew well that struggling men would soon be on the shore. they had not to wait long, for the crew of the _evening star_ were young and strong, and struggled powerfully for their lives. in a few minutes the glaring eyes of zulu appeared, and the young man of the ulster made a dash, caught him by the hair, and held on. it seemed as if the angry sea would drag both men back into its maw, but the men on the beach held on to the rope, and they were dragged safely to land. a cheer on right and left told that others were being rescued. then it became known who the wrecked ones were. "it's the _evening star_!" exclaimed one. "poor david!" said another. then the cry was raised, "have 'ee got little billy?" "ay, here he comes!" shouted a strange voice. it was that of the youth of the ulster, who now stood waist-deep eagerly stretching out his hands, towards an object with which the wild waves seemed to sport lovingly. it was indeed little billy, his eyes closed, his face white, and his curly yellow hair tossing in the foam, but he made no effort to save himself; evidently the force of the sea and perhaps the cold had been too much for his slight frame to bear. twice did the young man make a grasp and miss him. to go deeper in would have perhaps insured his own destruction. the third time he succeeded in catching the boy's hair; the men on shore hauled them in, and soon little billy lay on the beach surrounded by anxious fishermen. "come, mates," said one, in a deep voice, "let's carry him to his mother." "not so," said the young man who had rescued billy, and who had only lain still for a moment where he had fallen to recover breath. "let him lie. undo his necktie, one of you." while he spoke he was busy making a tight roll of his own coat which he immediately placed under the shoulders of billy, and proceeded at once to attempt to restore breathing by one of the methods of resuscitating the drowned. the fishermen assisted him, some hopefully, some doubtfully, a few with looks of disbelief in the process. the youth persevered, however, with unflagging patience, well knowing that half-drowned people have been restored after nearly an hour of labour. "who is he?" inquired one fisherman of another, referring to the stranger. "don't you know him, mate?" asked the other in surprise. "no, i've just come ashore, you know." "that's mr dalton, the young banker, as takes such a lift o' the temp'rance coffee-taverns an' blue-ribbon movement." "he's comin'-to, sir!" exclaimed a voice eagerly. this had reference to little billy, whose eyelids had been seen to quiver, and who presently heaved a sigh. "fetch my coat," said dalton. "he will indeed be restored, thank god." the big ulster was brought. billy was carefully wrapped up in it, and one of the stoutest among his fisher friends lifted him in his arms and bore him off to his mother. "have all the others been rescued?" inquired dalton, eagerly, when billy had been carried away. no one could answer the question. all knew that some of the _evening star's_ crew had been saved, but they could not say how many. "they've bin taken to the sailor's home, sir," said one man. "then run up like a good fellow and ask if _all_ are safe," said dalton. "meanwhile i will remain here and search the beach lest there should be more to rescue." turning again to the foaming sea the young banker proceeded slowly along the shore some distance, when he observed the body of a man being rolled up on the sand and dragged back by each returning wave. rushing forward he caught it, and, with the aid of the fishermen, carried it beyond the reach of the hungry waves. but these waves had already done their worst. dalton applied the proper means for restoration, but without success, and again the fishermen began to look gravely at each other and shake their heads. "poor woman!" they murmured, but said no more. their feelings were too deep for speech as they mourned for one who was by that time a widow, though she knew it not. at that moment some of the men came running down from the town--one, a tall, strong figure, ahead of them. it was joe davidson. he had been more exhausted than some of the others on being rescued, and had been led to the sailor's home in a scarcely conscious condition. when they began to reckon up the saved, and found that only one was missing, joe's life seemed to return with a bound. breaking from those who sought to restrain him he ran down to the beach. he knelt beside the drowned fisherman with a wild expression in his eyes as he laid hold of something that partly covered the drowned man. it was his own bethel-flag which david bright had twisted round his body! joe sprang up and clasped his hands as if to restrain them from violent action. "oh, david!" he said, and stopped suddenly, while the wild look left his eyes and something like a smile crossed his features. "can it be true that ye've gone so soon to the better land?" the words gathered in force as they were uttered, and it was with a great cry of grief that he shouted, "oh, david, david! my brother!" and fell back heavily on the sand. chapter twenty five. billy and his father return home. who can describe the strange mingling of grateful joy with bitter anguish that almost burst the heart of david bright's widow on that terrible night! she was singing one of the "songs of zion," and busy with household cares, preparing for the expected return of her husband and her son, when they carried billy in. it might be supposed that she would be anxious on such a stormy night but if the wives of north sea fishermen were to give way to fears with every gale that blew, they would be filled with overwhelming anxiety nearly all the year round. when the knock at the door came at last the song ceased, and when the stout fisherman entered with his burden, and a fair curl, escaping from the folds of the ulster, told what that burden was, the colour fled from the poor woman's cheeks, and a sinking of the heart under a great dread almost overcame her. "he's all right, missus," said the man, quickly. "thank god?" gasped mrs bright. "are--are the rest safe?" "i b'lieve they are. some of 'em are, i know." obliged to be content, for the moment, with the amount of relief conveyed by these words, she had billy laid on a bed, and bustled about actively rubbing him dry, wrapping him in blankets, applying hot bottles and otherwise restoring him; for as yet the poor boy showed only slight symptoms of returning vitality. while thus engaged the door burst open, and maggie davidson rushed in. "oh, nell!" she exclaimed, "what has happened--is it true--billy!--dead? no; thank god for that, but--but--the _evening star_ must be wrecked! are the rest safe? is joe--" the excited young wife stopped and gasped with anxiety. "the lord has been merciful in sending me my billy," returned mrs bright, with forced calmness, "but i know nothing more." turning at once, maggie rushed wildly from the house intending to make straight for the shore. but she had not gone far when a crowd of men appeared coming towards her. foremost among these was her own husband! with a sharp cry of joy she rushed forward and threw herself into his ready arms. "oh! praise the lord," she said; but as she spoke the appearance of her husband's face alarmed her. glancing hastily at the crowd behind, she cast a frightened look up at joe's face. "who is it?" she asked in a whisper, as four men advanced with slow measured tread bearing between them the form of a man. "david," he said, while an irrepressible sob convulsed him. for one moment the comely face of maggie wore an expression of horror; then she broke from joe, ran quickly back, and, seizing mrs bright in her arms, attempted in vain to speak. "what--what's wrong, maggie?" the poor sympathetic young wife could not utter a word. she could only throw her arms round her friend's neck, and burst into a passion of tears. but there was no need for words. mrs bright knew full well what the tears meant, and her heart stood still while a horror of darkness seemed to sink down upon her. at that moment she heard the tread of those who approached. another minute, and all that remained of david bright was laid on his bed, and his poor wife fell with a low wail upon his inanimate form, while billy sat up on his couch and gazed in speechless despair. in that moment of terrible agony god did not leave the widow utterly comfortless, for even in the first keen glance at her dead husband she had noted the bethel-flag, which he had shown to her with such pride on his last holiday. afterwards she found in his pocket the testament which she had given to him that year, and thus was reminded that the parting was not to be--for ever! we will not dwell on the painful scene. in the midst of it, ruth dotropy glided in like an angel of light, and, kneeling quietly by the widow's side, sobbed as if the loss had been her own. poor ruth! she did not know how to set about comforting one in such overwhelming grief. perhaps it was as well that she did not "try," for certainly, in time, she succeeded. how ruth came to hear of the wreck and its consequences was not very apparent, but she had a peculiar faculty for discovering the locality of human grief, a sort of instinctive tendency to gravitate towards it, and, like her namesake of old, to cling to the sufferer. returning to her own lodging, she found her mother, and told her all that had happened. "and now, mother," she said, "i must go at once to london, and tell captain bream of my suspicions about mrs bright, and get him to come down here, so as to bring them face to face without further delay." "my dear child, you will do nothing of the sort," said mrs dotropy, with unwonted decision. "you know well enough that captain bream has had a long and severe illness, and could not stand anything in the nature of a shock in his present state." "yes, mother, but they say that joy never kills, and if--" "who says?" interrupted mrs dotropy; "who are `they' who say so many stupid things that every one seems bound to believe? joy _does_ kill, sometimes. besides, what if you turned out to be wrong, and raised hopes that were only destined to be crushed? don't you think that the joy of anticipation might--might be neutralised by the expectation,--i mean the sorrow of--of--but it's of no use arguing. i set my face firmly against anything of the sort." "well, perhaps you are right, mother," said ruth, with a little sigh; "indeed, now i think of it i feel sure you are; for it might turn out to be a mistake, as you say, which would be an awful blow to poor captain bream in his present weak state. so i must just wait patiently till he is better." "which he will very soon be, my love," said mrs dotropy, "for he is sure to be splendidly nursed, now he has got back to his old quarters with these admirable miss seawards. but tell me more about this sad wreck. you say that the fisherman named joe davidson is safe?" "yes, i know he is, for i have just seen him." "i'm glad of that, for i have a great regard for him, and am quite taken with his good little wife. indeed i feel almost envious of them, they do harmonise and agree so well together--not of course, that your excellent father and i did not agree--far from it. i don't think that in all the course of our happy wedded life he ever once contradicted me; but somehow, he didn't seem quite to understand things--even when things were so plain that they might have been seen with a magnifying-glass--i mean a micro--that is--no matter. i fear you would not understand much better, ruth, darling, for you are not unlike your poor father. but who told you about the wreck?" "a policeman, mother. he said it was the _evening star_, and the moment i heard that i hurried straight to mrs bright, getting the policeman to escort me there and back. he has quite as great an admiration of joe as you have, mother, and gave me such an interesting account of the change for the better that has come over the fishermen generally since the mission vessels carried the gospel among them. he said he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw some men whom he had known to be dreadful characters changed into absolute lambs. and you know, mother, that the opinion of policemen is of much weight, for they are by no means a soft or sentimental race of men." "true, ruth," returned her mother with a laugh. "after the scene enacted in front of our windows the other day, when one of them had so much trouble, and suffered such awful pommelling from the drunken ruffian he took up, i am quite prepared to admit that policemen are neither soft nor sentimental." "now, mother, i cannot rest," said ruth, rising, "i will go and try to quiet my feelings by writing an account of the whole affair to the miss seawards." "but you have not told me, child, who is the young man who behaved so gallantly in rescuing little billy and others?" a deep blush overspread the girl's face as she looked down, and in a low voice said, "it was our old friend mr dalton." "ruth!" exclaimed mrs dotropy, sharply, with a keen gaze into her daughter's countenance, "you are in love with mr dalton!" "no, mother, i am not," replied ruth, with a decision of tone, and a sudden flash of the mild sweet eyes, that revealed a little of the old spirit of the de tropys. "surely i may be permitted to admire a brave man without the charge of being in love with him!" "quite true, quite true, my love," replied the mother, sinking back into her easy-chair. "you had better go now, as you suggest, and calm yourself by writing to your friends." ruth hurried from the room; sought the seclusion of her own chamber; flung herself into a chair, and put the question to herself, "_am_ i in love with mr dalton?" it was a puzzling question; one that has been put full many a time in this world's history without receiving a very definite or satisfactory answer. in this particular case it seemed to be not less puzzling than usual, for ruth repeated it aloud more than once, "_am_ i in love with mr dalton?" without drawing from herself an audible reply. she remained in the same attitude for a considerable time, with her sweet little head on one side, and her tiny hands clasped loosely on her lap--absorbed in meditation. from this condition she at last roused herself to sit down before a table with pen, ink, and paper. then she went to work on a graphic description of the wreck of the _evening star_,--in which, of course, mr dalton unavoidably played a very prominent part. human nature is strangely and swiftly adaptable. ruth's heart fluttered with pleasure as she described the heroism of the young man, and next moment it throbbed with deepest sadness as she told of mrs bright's woe, and the paper on which she wrote became blotted with her tears. chapter twenty six. the house of mourning. we have it on the highest authority that it is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting. this fallen world does not readily believe that, but then the world is notoriously slow to believe the truth, and also rather apt to believe what is false. it was long before even the learned world could be got to believe that the world itself moves round the sun. indeed it is more than probable that more than half the world does not believe that yet. on the other hand, much of it very likely believes still that the world is flat. a savage of the prairie would almost certainly entertain that fallacy, while a savage of the mountains would perhaps laugh him to scorn, yet neither would admit that it was a globe. so, mankind is very unwilling to accept the truth that it is better to give than to receive, though such is certainly the case if there be truth in holy writ. john gunter had been much impressed, and not a little softened, by the recent catastrophe of the shipwreck and of his skipper's death, but he had not yet been subdued to the point of believing that it would be better to spend an hour with widow bright than to spend it in the public-house, even though his shipmate joe davidson did his best to persuade him of that truth. "come," said joe, as a last appeal, "come, john, what'll our shipmates think of 'ee if you never go near the poor thing to offer her a word o' comfort?" "_i_ can't comfort nobody," replied gunter with a surly heave of his shoulder. "yes, you can," said joe, earnestly; "why, the very sight o' you bein' there, out o' respect to david, would do her poor heart good." the idea of anybody deriving comfort from a sight of _him_ so tickled gunter that he only replied with a sarcastic laugh, nevertheless he followed his mate sulkily and, as it were, under protest. on entering the humble dwelling they found spivin, trevor, and zulu already there. mrs bright arose with tearful eyes to welcome the new guests. billy rose with her. he had scarcely left his mother's side for more than a few minutes since the dark night of the wreck, though several days had elapsed. it was a great era in the life of the fisher-boy--a new departure. it had brought him for the first time in his young life into personal contact as it were, with the dark side of life, and had made an indelible impression on his soul. it did not indeed abate the sprightly activity of his mind or body, but it sobered his spirit and, in one day, made him more of a man than several years of ordinary life could have accomplished. the most visible result was a manly consideration of, and a womanly tenderness towards, his mother, which went a long way to calm mrs bright's first outbreak of sorrow. these rough fishermen--rough only in outward appearance--had their own method of comforting the widow. they did not attempt anything like direct consolation, however, but they sat beside her and chatted in quiet undertones--through which there ran an unmistakable sound of sympathy. their talk was about incidents and events of a pleasant or cheering kind in their several experiences. and occasionally, though not often, they referred to the absent david when anything particularly favourable to him could be said. "we've got good news, joe," said billy, when the former was seated. "ay, billy, i'm glad o' that. what may the good news be?" "another `_evening star_' has been raised up to us by the lord," said mrs bright, "but oh! it will never shine like the first one to _me_!" the poor woman could go no further, so billy again took up the story. "you know," he said, "that our kind friend miss ruth dotropy has been greatly taken up about us since father went--went home, and it seems that she's bin writin' to lun'on about us, tellin' all about the wreck, an' about our mistake in goin' to sea, last trip, without bein' inspected, which lost us the insurance-money. an' there's a rich friend o' hers as has sent her a thousand pound to buy mother another smack!" "you _don't_ say that's true, billy!" exclaimed joe, with a look of surprise. "that's just what i do say, joe. the smack is already bought, and is to be fitted out at once, an' mother has made _you_ her skipper, joe, an' the rest have all agreed to go--zulu as cook--and gunter too. won't you, john?" the boy, who was somewhat excited by the news he had to tell, frankly held out his hand to gunter, and that worthy, grasping it with an unwonted display of frankness on his part growled--"i'm with 'ee, lad." "yes, it's all arranged," resumed billy, "and we'll not be long o' being ready for sea, so you won't be left to starve, mother--" up to this point the poor boy had held on with his wonted vivacity, but he stopped suddenly. the corners of his mouth began to twitch, and, laying his head on his mother's bosom, he sobbed aloud. it did the widow good to comfort him. the fishermen had an instinctive perception that their wisest course lay in taking no notice, and continuing their low-voiced intercourse. "well, now," said joe, "i have read in story-books of folk bein' as lib'ral sometimes as to give a thousand pounds, but i never thought i'd live to see 'em do it." "why, joe, where have your eyes and ears bin?" said luke trevor. "don't you know it was a lib'ral gentleman, if not two, or p'raps three, as lent the _ensign_, our first gospel-ship, to the mission?" "that's true, luke; i forgot that when i spoke, an' there's more gospel-smacks comin', i'm told, presented in the same way by lib'ral folk." "it's my belief," said luke, with emphasis, at the same time striking his right knee with his hand, "it's my belief that afore long we'll have a gospel-ship for every fleet on the north sea." "right you are, boy," said joe, "an' the sooner the better. moreover, i've heard say that there's a talk about sellin' baccy on board of the mission-ships _cheaper_ than what they do aboard o' the copers. did any of 'ee hear o' that?" "i heard somethin' about it," answered luke, "but it's too good news to be true. if they do, it'll drive the copers off the sea." "of course it will. that's just what they're a-goin' to do it for, i suppose." reader, the mode of dealing with the abominable "coper" traffic referred to by these men has at last happily been adopted, and the final blow has been dealt by the simple expedient of underselling the floating grog-shops in the article of tobacco. very considerable trouble and expense have to be incurred by the mission, however, for the tobacco has to be fetched from a foreign port; but the result amply repays the cost for the men naturally prefer paying only shilling per pound on board the mission-ship, to paying shilling pence on board the "coper." the smacksman's advantages in this respect may be better understood when we say that on shore he has to pay shillings per pound for tobacco. but his greatest advantage of all--that for which the plan has been adopted--is his being kept away from the vessel where, while purchasing tobacco, he is tempted to buy poisonous spirits. of course the anti-smoker is entitled to say "it were better that the smacksman should be saved from tobacco as well as drink!" but of two evils it is wise to choose the less. tobacco at shilling pence procured in the "coper," with, to some, its irresistible temptation to get drunk on vile spirits, is a greater evil than the procuring of the same weed at shilling in a vessel all whose surroundings and internal arrangements are conducive to the benefit of soul and body. "d'ye mind the old _swan_, boys?" asked an elderly man--a former friend of david bright who had dropped in with his mite of genuine sympathy. "what, the first gospel-ship as was sent afloat some thirty years ago? it would be hard to remember what existed before i was born!" "well, you've heard of her, anyhow. she was lent by the admiralty for the work in the year eighteen hundred and something, not to go out like the _ensign_ to the north sea fleets, but to cruise about an' visit in the thames. i was in the _swan_ myself for a few months when i was a young fellow, and we had grand times aboard of that wessel. it seemed to me like a sort o' home to the sailors that they'd make for arter their woyages was over. once, i reklect, we had a evenin' service, an' as several ships had come in from furrin parts that mornin' we had the _swan_ chock-full o' noo hands; but bless you, though they was noo to us they warn't noo to each other. they had many of 'em met aboard the _swan_ years before. some of 'em hadn't met for seven and ten year, and sich a shakin' o' hands there was, an' recognisin' of each other!--i thought we'd never get the service begun. many of 'em was christian men, and felt like brothers, you see." "did many of the masters an' mates come to the services in those days?" asked joe davidson. "ay, a-many of 'em. w'y, i've seed lots o' both masters an' mates wolunteerin' to indoose their men to come w'en some of 'em warn't willin'--takin' their own boats, too, to the neighbourin' ships an' bringin' off the men as wanted to, w'en the _swan's_ bell was a-ringin' for service. i heard one man say he hadn't bin to a place o' worship for ten year, an' if he'd know'd what the _swan_ was like he'd ha' bin to her sooner. "i mind meetin' wery unexpected with a friend at that time," continued the old fisherman, who saw that his audience was interested in his talk, and that the mind of poor mrs bright was being drawn from her great sorrow for a little. "i hadn't met 'im for eight or ten years. "`hallo! abel,' says i, `is that you?' "`that's me,' says he, ketchin' hold o' my grapnel, an' givin' it a shake that a'most unshipped the shoulder. `leastwise it's all that's left o' me.' "`what d'ee mean?' says i. "`i mean,' says he, `that i've just lost my wessel on the gunfleet sands, but, thank god, i haven't lost my life, nor none o' my men, though it was a close shave.' "`how did it happen, abel?' says i. "says he, `it happened pretty much in the usual way. a gale, wi' sleet that thick we could hardly see the end o' the jib-boom. the moment we struck i know'd it was all over wi' the old wessel, but i didn't see my way to go under without a struggle, so we made a desp'rit attemp' to git out the boats, but a sea saved us the trouble, for it swept 'em all away before we got at 'em, as if they'd bin on'y chips o' wood. then, as if to mock us, another sea pitched us higher on the sands, so as the decks wasn't washed by every wave quite so bad, but we knew that wouldn't last for the tide was makin' fast, so i calls the crew together, an' says i, "now, lads, i've often prayed with you an' for you. in a few minutes we'll have to take to the riggin', an' you know what the end o' that's likely to be. before doin' so, i'll pray again, for nothin' is impossible to the lord, an' it may be his will to spare us yet a while." well, i prayed. then we took to the riggin' to wait for death--or rescue. an' sure enough, after we had bin six hours there, an' was all but frozen, a fishin'-smack came past and took us off.'" "now, mates," said joe davidson, after they had chatted thus in subdued tones for some time, "it do seem to me that as most of us are of one mind here, and we are, so to speak, of one fisher-family, it might do mrs bright good if we was to have a bit of the word together, and a prayer or two." as every one agreed to this either heartily or by silence, a bible was produced, and joe,--being mate of the late _evening star_, and therefore a sort of natural head of the family--read the portion where god promises to be a husband to the widow, and a father to the fatherless. then they all knelt while he prayed in simple language for comfort and a blessing to the mourning household. he was followed with a very few but intensely earnest words by luke. even john gunter put up an unpremeditated prayer in the words, "god help us!" uttered in a choking voice, and the old fisherman followed them all with a deep "amen." after that they shook hands tenderly with the widow and billy, and went out silently from the house of mourning. chapter twenty seven. the captain's appetite restored, and ruth in a new light. captain bream reclined one day on a sofa in the sitting-room of the house where he had first made the acquaintance of the miss seawards. both ladies were seated by his side, the one working worsted cuffs and the other comforters, and both found the utmost difficulty in repressing tears when they looked at their kind nautical friend, for a great change had come over him since we last saw him. we will not venture to state what was the illness that had laid the captain, as he himself expressed it on his beam-ends, but whatever it might have been, it had reduced him to a mere shadow. his once round cheeks were hollow; his eyes were so sunken that they appeared to have retired into the interior of his head, out of which, as out of two deep caverns, they gleamed solemnly. his voice, having been originally pitched so low that it could not well get lower, had become reduced to the sound of a big drum muffled; it had also a faint resemblance to a bassoon with a bad cold. his beard and moustache, having been allowed to grow, bore a striking likeness to a worn-out clothes-brush, and his garments appeared to hang upon a living skeleton of large proportions. it is right however, to add that this was the worst that could be said of him. the spirit within was as cheery and loving and tender as ever it had been--indeed more so--and the only wonder was that it did not break a hole in the once tough but now thin shell of its prison-house, and soar upwards to its native regions in the sky! "you must _not_ work so hard at these cuffs, miss jessie," he said, with a pleasant though languid smile. "if you do i'll reduce my board." "but that would only render it necessary that i should work harder," returned jessie, without checking the pace of the needles. "it is hard," resumed the captain, "that i should be disobeyed at every turn now that i'm on my beam-ends, with little more strength in me than a new-born kitten. but never mind, i'm beginnin' to feel stronger, and i'll pay you off, my dear, when i'm able to move about." "do you really feel a little stronger?" asked kate, who, although more lively--even mischievous in a small way--than her sister, had been more deeply affected by the captain's long illness, and could not shake off the impression that he was going to die. "feel stronger!" exclaimed the wrecked giant. "give me your hand. d'ee feel _that_?" "that" which kate was to feel was a squeeze as a test of strength. "there. doesn't it hurt you? i believe i could make you cry if i was to try." and the captain did make her cry even without trying, for kate was so deeply touched with the weakness of the trembling squeeze, coupled with the hearty kindness and little touches of fun in the prostrate man, that she could not keep it down. rising hurriedly, therefore, she flung her unfinished comforter into jessie's lap, left the room, and, retiring to her chamber, wept quietly there. those tears were not now, however, as they had often been, tears of anxious sorrow, but of thankful joy. having accomplished this little matter, and relieved her feelings, she returned to the parlour. "i've been just trying to persuade him, kate," said jessie, as the former entered, "that in a week or two a trip to yarmouth will do him _so_ much good, but he does not seem to think he will be equal to it." "come, now, miss jessie, that's not a fair way to put it. i have no doubt that i shall be able enough--thanks to the good lord who has spared me--but what i think is that yarmouth, pleasant though it be, is not exactly what i want just now." "what then, do you think would be better for you?" asked kate. "`the sea! the sea! the open sea! the blue, the fresh, the ever free!'" answered the captain, with a gleam in the sunken eyes such as had not been seen there for many days. "horrible thought!" said jessie, with a pretended shudder. "you know the proverb, `what's one man's meat is another man's poison,'" returned the captain. "ah! ladies, only those who have been cradled on the deep for three quarters of a lifetime, and who love the whistling winds, and the surging waves, and the bounding bark, know what it is to long, as i do, for another rest upon my mother's breast:-- "`and a mother she was and is to me, for i was born--was born on the open sea.'" "i had no idea you were so poetical," said jessie, much surprised at the invalid's enthusiasm. "sickness has a tendency to make people poetical. i suppose," returned the captain. "but how are you to manage it? you can scarcely walk yet. then excuse me, you haven't got a ship, and i fear that not many owners would intrust one to you till you are stronger. so, what will you do?" "go as a passenger, my dear. see here; it's all arranged," said the captain, holding up a letter. "i got this by the post this morning, and want to consult with you about it. knowing my condition and desires, that excellent man the chaplain, who took me out in his steam-launch the day i got the first shot of this illness, had made known my case to the director of the mission to deep-sea fishermen, and he has kindly agreed to let me go a trip to the north sea in one of the mission-ships, on the understanding that i shall do as much of a missionary's work as i am fit for when there." "but you're not fit for work of any kind!" exclaimed kate with a flush of indignation which was partly roused by the idea of her friend being taken away from her at a time when he required so much nursing, and partly by the impropriety of so sick a man being expected to work at all. "true, my dear, but i shall be fit enough in a week or two. why, i feel strength coming back like a torrent. even now i'm so hungry that i could devour my--my--" "your dinner!" cried kate, as, at that opportune moment the door opened and liffie lee appeared with a tray in her hand. there could be no doubt as to the captain's appetite. not only did his eyes glare, in quite a wolfish manner, at the food while it was being set before him, but the enormous quantity he took of that food became quite a source of alarm to the sisters, who watched and helped him. "now, captain," said jessie, laying her hand at last on his thin arm, as it was stretched out to help himself to more, "you really must not. you know the doctor said that it would never do, at first, to--" "my dear," interrupted the invalid, "hang the doctor!" "well, i have no objection to his being hanged, if you don't ask me to do it," returned jessie, "but really--" "oh! let him alone," said kate, who, being very healthy, shared the captain's unreasonable contempt for medical men, and was more than pleased at the ravenous tendencies of her old friend. "now for the sponge-cakes," said the captain, wiping his mouth and rubbing his hands on finishing the first course. "you are to have none," said kate, firmly. the captain's face elongated into a look of woe. "because you are to have rice-pudding and thick cream instead!" continued kate. the captain's face shortened again into a beaming smile. liffie lee appeared at the moment with the viands named. "i never saw anything like it!" exclaimed jessie with a short laugh, and a look of resignation. "i enjoy it _so_ much!" said kate, pouring out the cream with liberal hand. liffie said nothing, but if the widest extension of her lips, and the exposing of her bright little teeth from ear to ear, meant anything, it meant that her sympathies were entirely with kate. the captain was helped to pudding in a soup plate, that being relatively a rather small dessert plate for him. he was about to plunge the dessert spoon into it, but stopped suddenly and gazed at it. then he turned his awful gaze on the small servant who almost shrank before it. "liffie, my dear." "y-yes, sir." "bring me a _table-spoon_, the biggest one you have." "yes, sir," she said,--and vanished. presently she returned with an enormous gravy spoon. "ha! ha!" shouted the captain, with much of his old fire; "that's better than i had hoped for! hand it here, liffie; it'll do." he seized the weapon, and liffie uttered an involuntary squeal of delight as she saw him sweep up nearly the whole of his first helping, and make one bite of it! he then attempted to smile at liffie's expression of joy, but did it awkwardly in the circumstances. just as he had finished his little repast, and was tranquilly stirring a breakfast cup of coffee, the door bell rang. a minute later liffie appeared with her mouth and eyes like three round o's. "if you please, ma'am, here's mister and missis dalton, as wants to know if they may come in." "mr and mrs who?" exclaimed both sisters. "mister an' missis dalton," repeated liffie. "show them in--at once, child. some ridiculous mistake," said jessie, glancing at kate. "but, stay, liffie;--you have no objection, captain?" "none in the least." another moment and ruth appeared blushing in the door-way, with a handsome young man looming in the background. "mr and mrs dalton!" said the two sisters with a dazed look as they sank into two chairs. "oh _no_! darling jessie," cried ruth, rushing forward and throwing her arms round her friend; "not--not quite that yet, but--but--engaged. and we determined that the _very first_ call we made should be to you, darling." "well, now, this _is_ capital! quite a picture," growled the captain; "does more good to my digestion than--" "come," interrupted jessie, taking ruth by the hand. "come to our room!" regardless of all propriety, the sisters hurried ruth off to their bedroom to have it out with her there, leaving young dalton to face the captain. "i congratulate you, my lad," said the captain, frankly extending his hand. "sit down." dalton as frankly shook the hand and thanked the captain, as he took a seat beside him. "i'm deeply grieved, captain bream, to see you so much reduced, yet rejoiced to find that you are fairly convalescent." "humph! i wouldn't give much for the depth of either your grief or joy on my account seein' that you've managed to get hooked on to an angel." "well, i confess," said the youth, with a laugh, "that the joy connected with that fact pretty much overwhelms all other feelings at present." "the admission does you credit boy, for she is an angel. i'm not usin' figures o' speech. she's a real darlin', a at lloyd's. true blue through and through. and let me tell you, young fellow, that i know her better than you do, for i saw her before you were bor--, no, that couldn't well be, but i knew her father before you were born, and herself ever since she saw the light." "i'm delighted to have your good opinion of her, though, of course, it cannot increase my estimation of her character. nothing can do that!" "which means that _my_ opinion goes for nothing. well, the conceit of the rising generation is only equalled by--by that o' the one that went before it. but, now, isn't it strange that you are the very man i want to see?" "it is indeed," replied dalton with a slightly incredulous look. "yes, the very man. look ye here. have you got a note-book?" "i have." "pull it out, then. i want you to draw out my will." "your will, captain bream!" "my will," repeated the captain. "last will an' testament." "but i'm not lawyer enough to--" "i know that, man! i only want you to sketch it out. listen. i'm going in a week or two to the north sea in a fishing-smack. well, there's no sayin' what may happen there. i'm not infallible--or invulnerable--or waterproof, though i _am_ an old salt. now, you are acquainted with all my money matters, so i want you to jot down who the cash is to be divided among if i should go to the bottom; then, take the sketch to my lawyer--you know where he lives--and tell him to draw it out all ship-shape, an' bring it to me to sign. now, are you ready?" "but, my dear sir, this may take a long time, and the ladies will probably return before we--" "_you_ don't bother your head about the ladies, my lad, but do as i tell 'ee. miss ruth has got hold of two pair of ears and two hearts that won't be satisfied in five minutes. besides, my will won't be a long one. are you ready?" "yes," said dalton, spreading his note-book on his knee. "well," resumed the captain, "after makin' all the usual arrangements for all expenses--funeral, etcetera, (of which there'll be none if i go to the bottom), an' some legacies of which i'll tell the lawyer when i see him, i leave all that remains to miss jessie and miss kate seaward, share an' share alike, to do with it as they please, an' to leave it after them to whomsoever they like. there!" "is that all?" "yes, that's all," returned the captain, sadly. "i once had a dear sister, but every effort i have made to find her out has failed. of course if i do come across her before it pleases the lord to take me home, i'll alter the will. in the meantime let it be drawn out so." soon after this important transaction was finished the ladies returned, much flushed and excited, and full of apologies for their rude behaviour to their male friends. chapter twenty eight. out with the short blue again. pleasant and heart-stirring is the sensation of returning health to one who has sailed for many weeks in the "doldrums" of disease, weathered point danger, crossed the line of weakness, and begun to steer with favouring gales over the smooth sea of convalescence. so thought captain bream one lovely summer day, some time after the events just narrated, as he sat on the bridge of a swift steamer which cut like a fish through the glassy waves of the north sea. it was one of hewett and company's carriers, bound for the short blue fleet. over three hundred miles was the total run; she had already made the greater part of it. the exact position of the ever-moving fleet was uncertain. nevertheless, her experienced captain was almost certain--as if by a sort of instinct--to hit the spot where the smacks lay ready with their trunks of fish to feed the insatiable maw of billingsgate. captain bream's cheeks were not so hollow as they had been when we last saw him. neither were they so pale. his eyes, too, had come a considerable way out of the caves into which they had retreated, and the wolfish glare in the presence of food was exchanged for a look of calm serenity. his coat, instead of hanging on him like a shirt on a handspike, had begun to show indications of muscle covering the bones, and his vest no longer flapped against him like the topsail of a dutchman in a dead calm. altogether, there was a healthy look about the old man which gave the impression that he had been into dock, and had a thorough overhaul. enough of weakness remained, however, to induce a feeling of blessed restfulness in his entire being. the once strong and energetic man had been brought to the novel condition of being quite willing to leave the responsibility of the world on other shoulders, and to enjoy the hitherto unknown luxury of doing nothing at all. so thoroughly had he abandoned himself in this respect, that he did not even care to speak, but was satisfied to listen to others, or to gaze at the horizon in happy contemplation, or to pour on all around looks of calm benignity. "how do you feel to-day, sir?" asked the mate of the steamer, as he came on the bridge. "my strongest feeling," said captain bream, "is one of thankfulness to god that i am so well." "a good feelin' that doesn't always come as strong as it ought to, or as one would wish; does it, sir?" said the mate. "that's true," answered the captain, "but when a man, after bein' so low that he seems to be bound for the next world, finds the tide risin' again, the feelin' is apt to come stronger, d'ee see? d'you expect to make the fleet to-day?" "yes, sir, we should make it in the evenin' if the admiral has stuck to his plans." the captain became silent again, but after a few minutes, fearing that the mate might think him unsociable, he said-- "i suppose the admiral is always chosen as being one of the best men of the fleet?" "that's the idea, sir, and the one chosen usually _is_ one of the best, though of course mistakes are sometimes made. the present admiral is a first-rate man--a thorough-going fisherman, well acquainted with all the shoals, and a christian into the bargain." "ah, i suppose that is an advantage to the fleet in many respects," said the captain, brightening up, on finding the mate sympathetic on that point. "it is for the advantage of the fleet in _all_ respects, sir. i have known an ungodly admiral, on a sunday, when they couldn't fish, an' the weather was just right for heavin'-to an' going aboard the mission smack for service--i've known him keep the fleet movin' the whole day, for nothin' at all but spite. of course that didn't put any one in a good humour, an' you know, sir, men always work better when they're in good spirits." "ay, well do i know that," said the captain, "for i've had a good deal to do wi' men in my time, and i have always found that christian sailors as a rule are worth more than unbelievers, just because they work with a will--as the bible puts it, `unto the lord and not unto men.' you've heard of general havelock, no doubt?" "oh yes, sir, you mean the indian general who used to look after the souls of his men?" "that's the man," returned the captain. "well, i've been told that on one occasion when the commander-in-chief sent for some soldiers for special duty, and found that most of 'em were drunk, he turned an' said, `send me some of havelock's saints: they can be depended on!' i'm not sure if i've got the story rightly, but, anyhow, that's what he said." "ay, sir, i sometimes think it wonderful," said the mate, "that unbelievers don't themselves see that the love of god in a man's heart makes him a better and safer servant in all respects--according to the word, `godliness is profitable to the life that now is, as well as that which is to come.' there's the fleet at last, sir!" while speaking, the mate had been scanning the horizon with his glass, which he immediately handed to the captain, who rose at once and saw the line of the short blue like little dots on the horizon. the dots soon grew larger; then they assumed the form of vessels, and in a short time the carrying-steamer was amongst them, making straight for the admiral, whose smack was distinguishable by his flag. "what is the admiral's name?" asked the captain as they advanced. "davidson--joe davidson; one of the brightest young fellows i ever knew," answered the captain of the steamer, who came on the bridge at that moment, "and a true christian. he is master of the _evening star_." "why, i thought that was the name of a smack that was wrecked some time ago near yarmouth--at least so my friends there wrote me," said captain bream with sudden interest; and well might he feel interest in the new _evening star_, for it was himself who had given the thousand pounds to purchase her, at ruth dotropy's request, but he had not been told that her skipper, joe davidson, had been made admiral of the fleet. "so it _was_ the _evening star_, sir, that was wrecked, but some open-handed gentleman in london bought a new smack for widow bright and she called it by the same name, an' the young man, who had been mate with her husband, she has made skipper till her son billy is old enough to take charge of her. the strangest thing is, that all the old crew have stuck together, and the smack is now one of the best managed in the fleet. joe wouldn't have been made admiral if that wasn't so." to this, and a great deal more, the captain listened with great joy and thankfulness, without, however, giving a hint as to his own part in the matter. originally he had given the thousand pounds to please ruth, and he had been at that time glad to think that the gift was to benefit a deserving and unfortunate widow. it was not a little satisfactory, therefore, to hear that his gift had been so well bestowed; that it had even become the admiral's vessel, and that he was about to have the opportunity of boarding the new _evening star_ and himself inspecting its crew. "tell me a little more about this _evening star_," he said to the captain of the steamer. "i have sometimes heard of her from a lady friend of mine, who takes a great interest in her owner, but i was so ill at the time she wrote that i couldn't pay much attention to anything." thus invited the captain proceeded to tell all he knew about david bright and his wife, and billy, and luke trevor, spivin, gunter, zulu, the wreck, the launch of the new smack, etcetera,--much of which was quite new to captain bream, and all of which was of course deeply interesting to him. while these two were conversing the fleet gradually thickened around them, for a light breeze, which seemed to have sprung up for the very purpose, enabled them to close in. some of the smacks were close at hand; others more distant. to those within hail, the captain and mate of the steamer gave the customary salute and toss of the fist in the air as they passed. "there's the admiral," said the captain, "two points off the port bow." "an' the gospel-ship close alongside," said the mate. "don't you see the m.d.s.f. flag? trust joe for bein' near to her when he can manage it. here they come, fast an' thick. there's the _fern_, i'd know her a mile off, an' the _martin_, an' _rover_, _coquette_, _truant_! what cheer, boys!" "is that the _cherub_ or the _andax_ abeam of us?" asked the captain. "it's neither. it's the _guide_, or the _boy jim_, or the _retriever_-- not quite sure which." "now, captain bream, shall we put you on board the mission-ship at once, or will you wait to see us boarded for empty trunks?" "i'll wait," returned captain bream. soon the steamer hove-to, not far from the admiral's vessel. the smacks came crowding round like bees round a hive, each one lowering a boat when near enough. and once again was enacted a scene similar in many respects to that which we have described in a previous chapter, with this difference, that the scramble now was partly for the purpose of obtaining empty boxes. another steamer had taken off most of their fish early that day, and the one just arrived meant to wait for the fish of the next morning. it chanced that a good many of the rougher men of the fleet came on board that evening, so that captain bream, whose recent experiences had led him half to expect that all the north sea fishermen were amiable lions, had his mind sadly but effectively disabused of that false idea. the steamer's deck soon swarmed with some four hundred of the roughest and most boisterous men he had ever seen, and the air was filled with coarse and profane language, while a tendency to fight was exhibited by several of them. "they're a rough lot, sir," said the mate as he leant on the rail of the bridge, gazing down on the animated scene, "but they were a rougher lot before the gospel-ship came out to stay among them, and some of the brightest christians now in the fleet were as bad as the worst you see down there." "ay, jesus came to save the _lost_, and the worst," said the captain in a low tone--"praise to his name!" as soon as the trunks had been received, the admiral bore away to windward, and the fleet began to follow and make preparation for the night's fishing; for the fish which were destined so soon to smoke on london tables were at that moment gambolling at the bottom of the sea! "we must run down to the mission smack, and put you aboard at once, sir," said the mate, "for she follows the admiral--though she does not fish on saturday nights, so that the hold may be clear of fish and ready for service on sundays." captain bream was ready. "they know you are coming, i suppose?" "yes, they expect me." in a few minutes the steamer was close to the mission-ship, and soon after, the powerful arms of its hospitable skipper and mate were extended to help the expected invalid out of the boat which had been sent for him. "we're makin' things all snug for the night," said the skipper, as he led his guest into the little cabin, "an' when we're done we shall have tea; but if you'd like it sooner--" "no, no, skipper, i'll wait. though i'm just come from the shore, you don't take me for an impatient land-lubber, do you? go, finish your work, and i'll rest a bit. i've been ill, you see, an' can't stand as much as i used to," he added apologetically. when left alone, captain bream's mode of resting himself was to go down on his knees and thank god for having brought him to so congenial a resting-place on the world of waters, and to pray that he might be made use of to his glory while there. how that prayer was answered we shall see. chapter twenty nine. another fight and--victory! it is interesting to observe the curious, and oftentimes unlikely, ways in which the guilt of man is brought to light, and the truth of that word demonstrated--"be sure your sin shall find you out." although john gunter's heart was softened at the time of his old skipper's death, it was by no means changed, so that, after a brief space, it became harder than ever, and the man who had been melted--to some extent washed--returned, ere long, with increased devotion to his wallowing in the mire. this made him so disagreeable to his old comrades, that they became anxious to get rid of him, but joe davidson, whose disposition was very hopeful, hesitated; and the widow, having a kindly feeling towards the man because he had sailed with her husband, did not wish him to be dismissed. thus it came to pass that when captain bream joined the short blue fleet he was still a member of the crew of the new _evening star_. the day following that on which the captain arrived was sunday, and, as usual, the smacks whose skippers had become followers of the lord jesus began to draw towards the mission-ship with their bethel-flags flying. among them was the new admiral--joe of the _evening star_. his vessel was pointed out, of course, to the captain as she approached. we need scarcely say that he looked at her with unusual interest, and was glad when her boat was lowered to row part of her crew to the service about to be held in the hold of the gospel-ship. it was natural that captain bream should be much taken with the simple cheery manners of the admiral, as he stepped aboard and shook hands all round. it was equally natural that he should take some interest, also, in john gunter, for was it not obvious that that worthy was a fine specimen of the gruff, half-savage, raw material which he had gone out there to work upon? "why did you not bring billy, joe?" asked the skipper of the mission vessel. "well, you know, we had to leave some one to look after the smack, an' i left luke trevor, as he said he'd prefer to come to evenin' service, an' billy said he'd like to stay with luke." by this time a number of boats had put their rough-clad crews on the deck, and already a fair congregation was mustered. shaking of hands, salutations, question and reply, were going briskly on all round, with here and there a little mild chaffing, and occasionally a hearty laugh, while now and then the fervent "thank god" and "praise the lord" revealed the spirits of the speakers. "you mentioned the name of billy just now," said captain bream, drawing joe davidson aside. "is he a man or a boy?" "he's a boy, sir, though he don't like to be reminded o' the fact," said joe with a laugh. "he's the son of our skipper who was drowned--an' a good boy he is, though larky a bit. but that don't do him no harm, bless ye." "i wonder," returned the captain, "if he is the boy some lady friends of mine are so fond of, who was sent up to london some time ago to--" "that's him, sir," interrupted joe; "it was billy as was sent to lun'on; by the wish of a miss ruth pont-rap-me, or some such name. i never can remember it rightly, but she's awful fond o' the fisher-folks." "ah, i know miss ruth dotropy also," said the captain. "strange that i should find this billy that they're all so fond of in the new _evening star_. i must pay your smack a visit soon, davidson, for i have a particular interest in her." "i'll be proud to see you aboard her, sir," returned joe. "won't you come after service? the calm will last a good while, i think." "well, perhaps i may." the conversation was interrupted here by a general move to the vessel's hold, where the usual arrangements had been made--a table for a pulpit and fish-boxes for seats. "do you feel well enough to speak to us to-day, captain bream?" asked the skipper of the mission-ship. "oh yes, i'll be happy to do so. the trip out has begun to work wonders already," said the captain. now, the truth of that proverb, "one man may take a horse to the water, but ten men can't make him drink," is very often illustrated in the course of human affairs. you may even treat a donkey in the same way, and the result will be similar. joe davidson had brought john gunter to the mission-ship in the earnest hope that he would drink at the gospel fountain, but, after having got him there, joe found that, so far from drinking, gunter would not even go down to the services at all. on this occasion he said that he preferred to remain on deck, and smoke his pipe. unknown to all the world, save himself, john gunter was at that time in a peculiarly unhappy state of mind. his condition was outwardly manifested in the form of additional surliness. "you're like a bear with a sore head," spivin had said to him when in the boat on the way to the service. "more like a black-face baboon wid de cholera," said zulu. invulnerable alike to chaff and to earnest advice, gunter sat on the fore-hatch smoking, while psalms of praise were rising from the hold. now, it was the little silver watch which caused all this trouble to gunter. bad as the man was, he had never been an absolute thief, until the night on which he had robbed ruth dotropy. the horror depicted in her pretty, innocent face when he stopped her had left an impression on his mind which neither recklessness nor drink could remove, and thankfully would he have returned the watch if he had known the young lady's name or residence. moreover, he was so inexperienced and timid in this new line of life, that he did not know how to turn the watch into cash with safety, and had no place in which to conceal it. on the very day about which we write, seeing the coper not far off, the unhappy man had thrust the watch into his trousers pocket with the intention of bartering it with the dutchman for rum, if he should get the chance. small chance indeed, with joe davidson for his skipper! but there is no accounting for the freaks of the guilty. the watch was now metaphorically burning a hole in gunter's pocket, and, that pocket being somewhat similar in many respects to the pockets of average schoolboys, ruth's pretty little watch lay in company with a few coppers, a bit of twine, a broken clasp-knife, two buttons, a short pipe, a crumpled tract of the mission to deep-sea fishermen, and a half-finished quid of tobacco. but although john gunter would not drink of his own free-will, he could not easily avoid the water of life that came rushing to him up the hatchway and filled his ears. it came to him first, as we have said, in song; and the words of the hymn, "sinner, list to the loving call," passed not only his outer and inner ear, but dropped into his soul and disturbed him. then he got a surprise when captain bream's voice resounded through the hold,--there was something so very deep and metallic about it, yet so tender and musical. but the greatest surprise of all came when the captain, without a word of preface or statement as to where his text was to be found, looked his expectant audience earnestly in the face, and said slowly, "thou shalt not steal." poor captain bream! nothing was further from his thoughts than the idea that any one listening to him was actually a thief! but he had made up his mind to press home, with the spirit's blessing, the great truth that the man who refuses to accept salvation in jesus christ robs god of the love and honour that are his due; robs his wife and children and fellow-men of the good example and christian service which he was fitted and intended to exert, and robs himself, so to speak, of eternal life. the captain's arguments had much weight in the hold, but they had no weight on deck. many of his shafts of reason were permitted to pierce the tough frames of the rugged men before him, and lodge with good influence in tender hearts, but they all fell pointless on the deck above. it was the pure unadulterated word of god, "without note or comment," that was destined that day to penetrate the iron heart of john gunter, and sink down into his soul. "_thou shalt not steal_!" that was all of the sermon that gunter heard; the rest fell on deaf ears, for these words continued to burn into his very soul. influenced by the new and deep feelings that had been aroused in him, he pulled the watch from his pocket with the intention of hurling it into the sea, but the thought that he would still deserve to be called a _thief_ caused him to hesitate. "hallo! gunter, what pretty little thing is that you've got?" the words were uttered by dick herring of the _white cloud_, who, being like-minded with john, had remained on deck like him to smoke and lounge. "you've got no business wi' that," growled gunter, as he closed his hand on the watch, and thrust it back into his pocket. "i didn't say i had, mate," retorted herring, with a puff of contempt, which at the same time emptied his mouth and his spirit. herring said no more; but when the service was over, and the men were chatting about the deck, he quietly mentioned what he had seen, and some of the waggish among the crew came up to gunter and asked him, with significant looks and laughs, what time o' day it was. at first gunter replied in his wonted surly manner; but at last, feeling that the best way would be to put a bold face on the matter, he said with an off-hand laugh-- "herring thinks he's made a wonderful discovery, but surely there's nothing very strange in a man buyin' a little watch for his sweetheart." "you don't mean to say that _you_ have a sweetheart do you?" said a youth of about seventeen, who had a tendency to be what is styled cheeky. gunter turned on him with contempt. "well, now," he replied, "if i had a smooth baby-face like yours i would _not_ say as i had, but bein' a man, you see, i may ventur' to say that i have." "come, gunter, you're too hard on 'im," cried spivin; "i don't believe you've bought a watch for her at all; at least if you have, it must be a pewter one." thus taunted, gunter resolved to carry out the bold line of action. "what d'ee call that?" he cried, pulling out the watch and holding it up to view. captain bream chanced to be an amused witness of this little scene, but his expression changed to one of amazement when he beheld the peculiar and unmistakable watch which, years before, he had given to ruth dotropy's father. recovering himself quickly he stepped forward. "a very pretty little thing," he said, "and looks uncommonly like silver. let me see it." he held out his hand, and gunter gave it to him without the slightest suspicion, of course, that he knew anything about it. "yes, undoubtedly it is silver, and a very curious style of article too," continued the captain in a low off-hand tone. "you've no objection to my taking it to the cabin to look at it more carefully?" of course gunter had no objection, though a sensation of uneasiness arose within him, especially when captain bream asked him to go below with him, and whispered to joe davidson in a low tone, as he passed him, to shut the cabin skylight. no sooner were they below, with the cabin-door shut, than the captain looked steadily in the man's face, and said-- "gunter, you stole this watch from a young lady in yarmouth." an electric shock could not have more effectually stunned the convicted fisherman. he gazed at the captain in speechless surprise. then his fists clenched, a rush of blood came to his face, and a fierce oath rose to his white lips as he prepared to deny the charge. "stop!" said the captain, impressively, and there was nothing of severity or indignation in his voice or look. "don't commit yourself, gunter. see, i place the watch on this table. if you bought it to give to your sweetheart, take it up. if you stole it from a pretty young lady in one of the rows of yarmouth some months ago, and would now wish me to restore it to her--for i know her and the watch well--let it lie." gunter looked at the captain, then at the watch, and hesitated. then his head drooped, and in a low voice he said-- "i am guilty, sir." without a word more, captain bream laid his hand on the poor man's shoulder and pressed it. gunter knew well what was meant. he went down on his knees. the captain kneeled beside him, and in a deep, intensely earnest voice, claimed forgiveness of the sin that had been confessed, and prayed that the sinner's soul might be there and then cleansed in the precious blood of jesus. john gunter was completely broken down; tears rolled over his cheeks, and it required all his great physical strength to enable him to keep down the sobs that well-nigh choked him. fishermen of the north sea are tough. their eyes are not easily made to swell or look red by salt water, whether it come from the ocean without or the mightier ocean within. when gunter had risen from his knees and wiped his eyes with the end of a comforter, which had probably been worked under the superintendence of ruth herself; there were no signs of emotion left--only a subdued look in his weatherworn face. "i give myself up, sir," he said, "to suffer what punishment is due." "no punishment is due, my man. jesus has borne all the punishment due to you and me. in regard to man, you have restored that which you took away, and well do i know that the young lady--like her master--forgives freely. i will return the watch to her. you can go back to your comrades--nobody shall ever hear more about this. if they chaff you, or question you, just say nothing, and smile at them." "but--but, sir," said gunter, moving uneasily. "i ain't used to smilin'. i--i've bin so used to look gruff that--" "look gruff, then, my man," interrupted the captain, himself unable to repress a smile. "if you're not gruff in your heart, it won't matter much what you look like. just look gruff, an' keep your mouth shut, and they'll soon let you alone." acting on this advice, john gunter returned to his mates looking gruffer, if possible, and more taciturn than ever, but radically changed, from that hour, in soul and spirit. chapter thirty. the climax reached at last. as the calm weather continued in the afternoon, joe davidson tried to persuade captain bream to pay the _evening star_ a visit, but the latter felt that the excitement and exertion of preaching to such earnest and thirsting men had been more severe than he had expected. he therefore excused himself, saying that he would lie down in his bunk for a short time, so as to be ready for the evening service. it was arranged that the skipper of the mission smack should conduct that service, and he was to call the captain when they were ready to begin. when the time came, however, it was found that the exhausted invalid was so sound asleep that they did not like to disturb him. but although captain bream was a heavy sleeper and addicted to sonorous snoring, there were some things in nature through which even he could not slumber; and one of these things proved to be a hymn as sung by the fishermen of the north sea! when, therefore, the lifeboat hymn burst forth in tones that no cathedral organ ever equalled, and shook the timbers of the mission-ship from stem to stern, the captain turned round, yawned, and opened his eyes wide, and when the singers came to-- "leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore," he leaped out of his bunk with tremendous energy. pulling his garments into order, running his fingers through his hair, and trying to look as if he had not been asleep, he slipped quietly into the hold and sat down on a box behind the speaker, where he could see the earnest faces of the rugged congregation brought into strong relief by the light that streamed down the open hatchway. what the preacher said, or what his subject was, captain bream never knew, for, before he could bring his mind to bear on it, his eyes fell on an object which seemed to stop the very pulsations of his heart, while his face grew pale. fortunately he was himself in the deep shadow of the deck, and could not be easily observed. yet the object which created such a powerful sensation in the captain's breast was not in itself calculated to cause amazement or alarm, for it was nothing more than a pretty-faced, curly-haired fisher-boy, who, with lips parted and his bright eyes gazing intently, was listening to the preacher with all his powers. need we say that it was our friend billy bright, and that in his fair face captain bream thought, or rather felt, that he recognised the features of his long-lost sister? with a strong effort the captain restrained his feelings and tried to listen, but in vain. not only were his eyes riveted on the young face before him, but his whole being seemed to be absorbed by it. the necessity of keeping still, however, gave him time to make up his mind as to how he should act, so that when the service was brought to a close, he appeared on deck without a trace of his late excitement visible. "what lad is this?" he asked, going up to joe, who was standing close to billy. "this," said joe, laying his hand kindly on the boy's shoulder, "is billy bright, son of the late owner of the old _evenin' star_." "what!" exclaimed the captain, unable to repress his surprise, "son of the widow who owns the new _evening star_? then that proves that your mother _must_ be alive?" "in _course_ she is!" returned billy, with a look of astonishment. "come down to the cabin with me, billy," said the captain, with increasing excitement. "i want to have a chat with you about your mother." our little hero, although surprised, at once complied with the invitation, taking the opportunity, however, to wink at zulu in passing, and whisper his belief that the old gen'l'man was mad. setting billy on a locker in front of him, captain bream began at once. "is your mother alive, billy,--tut, of course she's alive; i mean, is she well--in good health?" billy became still more convinced that captain bream was mad, but answered that his mother was well, and that she had never been ill in her life to the best of his knowledge. while speaking, billy glanced round the cabin in some anxiety as to how he should escape if the madman should proceed to violence. he made up his mind that if the worst should come to the worst, he would dive under the table, get between the old gentleman's legs, trip him up, and bolt up the companion before he could regain his feet. relieved by the feeling that his mind was made up, he waited for more. "billy," resumed the captain, after a long gaze at the boy's features, "is your mother like you?" "i should think not," replied billy with some indignation. "she's a woman, you know, an' i'm a--a--man." "yes--of course," murmured the captain to himself, "there can be no doubt about it--none whatever--every gesture--every look!" then aloud: "what was her name, my boy?" "her name, sir? why, her name's bright, of course." "yes, yes, but i mean her maiden name." billy was puzzled. "if you mean the name my father used to call 'er," he said, "it was nell." "ah! that's it--nearly, at least. nellie she used to be known by. yes, yes, but that's not what i want to know. can you tell me what her name was before she was married?" "well now, that _is_ odd," answered billy, "i've bin pumped somethink in this way before, though nuffin' good came of it as i knows on. no, i _don't_ know what she was called afore she was married." "did you ever hear of the name of bream?" asked the captain anxiously. "oh yes, i've heerd o' that name," said the boy, promptly. "there's a fish called bream, you know." it soon became evident to poor captain bream that nothing of importance was to be learned from billy, he therefore made up his mind at once as to how he should act. feeling that, with such a possibility unsettled, he would be utterly unfit for his duties with the fleet, he resolved to go straight to yarmouth. "what is your mother's address?" he asked. billy gave it him. "now my boy, i happen to be much interested in your mother, so i'm goin' to yarmouth on purpose to see her." "it's wery good o' you, sir, an' if you takes your turn ashore afore we do, just give mother my respec's an' say i'm all alive and kickin'." "i will, my boy," said the captain, patting billy on the head and actually stooping to kiss his forehead affectionately, after which he gave him leave to return on deck. "i don' know how it is," said billy to zulu afterwards, "but i've took a likin' for that old man, an' at the same time a queer sort o' fear of 'im; i can't git it out o' my noddle that he's goin' to yarmouth to inweigle my mother to marry him!" zulu showed all his teeth and gums, shut his eyes, gave way to a burst of laughter, and said, "nonsense!" "it may be nonsense," retorted billy, "but if i thought he really meant it, i would run my head butt into his breadbasket, an' drive 'im overboard." explaining to the surprised and rather disappointed skipper of the mission vessel that an unexpected turn of affairs required his immediate presence in yarmouth, the captain asked what means there were of getting to land. "one of our fleet, the _rainbow_, starts to-morrow morning, sir," was the reply; "so you can go without loss of time. but i hope we shall see you again." "oh yes, please god, i shall come off again--you may depend on that, for i've taken a great fancy to the men of the short blue, although i've been so short a time with them--moreover, i owe service as well as gratitude to the mission for sending me here." accordingly next morning he set sail with a fair wind, and in due course found himself on shore. he went straight to the old abode of mrs dotropy, and, to his great satisfaction, found ruth there. he also found young dalton, which was not quite so much to his satisfaction, but ruth soon put his mind at rest by saying-- "oh! captain bream, i'm _so_ glad to have this unexpected visit, because, for months and months past i have wanted you to go with me to visit a particular place in yarmouth, and you have always slipped through my fingers; but i'm determined that you shan't escape again." "that's odd, my dear," returned the captain, "because my object in coming here is to take _you_ to a certain place in yarmouth, and, although i have not had the opportunity of letting you slip through my fingers, i've no doubt you'd do so if you were tempted away by a bait that begins with a d." "how dare you, sir!" said ruth, blushing, laughing, and frowning all at once--"but no. even d will fail in this instance--for my business is urgent." "well, miss ruth, my business is urgent also. the question therefore remains, which piece of business is to be gone about _first_." "how can you be so ungallant? are not a lady's wishes to be considered before those of a gentleman? come, sir, are you ready to go? _i_ am quite ready, and fortunately d, to whom you dared to refer just now, has gone to the post with a letter." although extremely anxious to have his mind set at rest, captain bream gave in with his accustomed good-nature, and went out with ruth to settle _her_ business first. rejoiced to have her little schemes at last so nearly brought to an issue, the eager girl hurried through the town till she came to one of its narrow rows. "well, my dear," said the captain, "it is at all events a piece of good luck that so far you have led _me_ in the very direction i desired to lead you." "indeed? well, that is odd. but after all," returned ruth with a sudden feeling of depression, "it _may_ turn out to be a wild-goose chase." "_what_ may turn out to be a wild-goose chase?" "this--this fancy--this hope of mine, but you shall know directly-- come." ruth was almost running by this time, and the captain, being still far from strong, found it difficult to keep up with her. "this way, down here," she cried, turning a corner. "what, _this_ way?" exclaimed the captain in amazement. "yes, why not?" said ruth, reflecting some of his surprise as she looked up in his face. "why--why, because this is the very row i wanted to bring you to!" "that _is_ strange--but--but never mind just now; you'll explain afterwards. come along." poor ruth was too much excited to attend to any other business but that on which her heart was set just then; and fear lest her latest castle should prove to have no foundations and should fall like so many others in ruins at her feet, caused her to tremble. "here is the door," she said at last, coming to a sudden halt before widow bright's dwelling, and pressing both hands on her palpitating heart to keep it still. "wonders will never cease!" exclaimed the captain. "this is the very door to which i intended to bring _you_." ruth turned her large blue eyes on her friend with a look that made them larger and, if possible, bluer than ever. she suddenly began to feel as deep an interest in the captain's business as in her own. "_this_ door?" she said, pointing to it emphatically. "yes, _that_ door. widow bright lives there, don't she?" "yes--oh! yes," said ruth, squeezing her heart tighter. "well, i've come here to search for a long-lost sister." "oh!" gasped ruth. but she got no time to gasp anything more, for the impatient captain had pushed the door open without knocking, and stood in the middle of the widow's kitchen. mrs bright was up to the elbows in soap-suds at the moment, busy with some of the absent billy's garments. beside her sat mrs joe davidson, endeavouring to remove, with butter, a quantity of tar with which the "blessed babby" had recently besmeared herself. they all looked up at the visitors, but all remained speechless, as if suddenly paralysed, for the expression on our big captain's face was wonderful, as well as indescribable. mrs bright opened her eyes to their widest, also her mouth, and dropped the billy-garments. mrs davidson's buttery hands became motionless; so did the "babby's" tarry visage. for three seconds this lasted. then the captain said, in the deepest bass notes he ever reached-- "sister nellie!" a wild scream from mrs bright was the reply, as she sprang at captain bream, seized him in her arms, and covered the back of his neck with soap-suds. the castle was destined to stand, after all! ruth's joy overflowed. she glanced hurriedly round for some object on which to expend it. there was nothing but the "blessed babby"--and that was covered with tar; but genuine feeling does not stick at trifles. ruth caught up the filthy little creature, pressed it to her bounding heart, wept and laughed, and covered it with passionate kisses to such an extent that her own fair face became thoroughly besmeared, and it cost mrs joe an additional half hour's labour to get her clean, besides an enormous expenditure of butter--though that was selling at the time at the high figure of shilling pence a pound! chapter thirty one. the last. there came a day, not very long after the events narrated in the previous chapter, when a grand wedding took place in yarmouth. but it was not meant to be a grand one, by any means. quite the contrary. the parties principally concerned were modest, retiring, and courted privacy. but the more they courted privacy, the more did that condition--like a coy maiden--fly away from them. the name of the bride was ruth, and the name of the bridegroom began,-- as captain bream was fond of saying--with a dee. neither bride nor groom had anything particular to do with the sea, yet that wedding might have easily been mistaken for a fisherman's wedding-- as well as a semi-public one, so numerous were the salts--young and old--who attended it; some with invitation, and others without. you see, the ceremony being performed in the old parish church, any one who chose had a right to be there and look on. the reason of this nautical character of the wedding was not far to seek, for had not the bridegroom--whose name began with a dee--risked his life in rescuing from the deep a bright--we might almost say the brightest--young life belonging to the fishing fleets of the north sea? and was not the lovely bride one of the best and staunchest friends of the fisherman? and was she not mixed up, somehow, with the history of that good old sea-captain--if not actually a relation of his--who preached so powerfully, and who laboured so earnestly to turn seamen from darkness to light? and had not the wedding been expressly delayed until the period of one of the smacks' return to port, so that six fishermen--namely, joe davidson, ned spivin, luke trevor, john gunter, billy bright, and zulu--might be invited guests? besides these, there were the skipper and crew of the gospel-ship which was also in port at that time; and other fishermen guests there were, known by such names as mann, white, snow, johnston, goodchild, brown, bowers, tooke, rogers, snell, moore, roberts, and many more--all good men and true--who formed part of that great population of , which is always afloat on the north sea. besides these guests, and a host of others who were attracted by the unusual interest displayed in this wedding, there were several people with whom we may claim some slight acquaintance,--such as miss jessie seaward and her sister, who wept much with joy, and laughed not a little at being so foolish as to cry, and liffie lee, who was roused with excitement to the condition of a half-tamed wildcat, but was so dressed up and brushed down and washed out that her best friend might have failed to recognise her. but if we go on, we shall never have done--for the whole of yarmouth seemed to be there--high and low, rich and poor! of course mrs dotropy was also there, grand, confused, sententious as ever, amiable, and unable to command her feelings--in a state, so to speak, of melting magnificence. and a great many "swell" people--as billy styled them--came down from london, for mrs dotropy, to their disgust, had positively refused to have the wedding in the west end mansion, for reasons best known to herself. you should have heard the cheer that followed the happy couple when they finally left the church and drove away! we do not refer to the cheering of the multitude; that, though very well in its way, was a mere mosquito-squeak to the deep-toned deafening, reverberating shout of an enthusiasm--born upon the sea, fed on the bread and water of life, strengthened alike by the breezes of success and the gales of adversity--which burst in hurricane violence from the leathern lungs and throats of the north sea fishermen! we leave it, reader, to your imagination. there was no wedding breakfast proper, for the happy pair left yarmouth immediately after the knot was tied, but there was a small select party which drove off in a series of cabs to a feast prepared in a certain cottage not far from the town. this party was composed chiefly of fishermen and their wives and children. it was headed by captain bream and his sister mrs bright. in the same carriage were mrs dotropy, the miss seawards, and mrs joe davidson and her baby. it was a big old-fashioned carriage capable of holding six inside, and billy bright "swarmed" upon the dickey. arrived at the cottage, which had a fine lawn in front and commanded a splendid view of the sea, captain bream got down, took up a position at the garden-gate, and, shaking hands with each guest as he or she entered, bade him or her welcome to "short blue cottage!" "'tis a pleasant anchorage," he said to the sisters seaward as they passed in, "very pleasant at the end of life's voyage. praise the lord who gave it me! show them the way, nellie; they'll know it better before long. you'll find gooseberry bushes in the back garden, an' the theological library in the starboard attic. their own berths are on the ground-floor." you may be sure that with such a host the guests were not long in making themselves at home. captain bream had not invited the party merely to a wedding feast. it was the season of fruits and flowers, and he had set his heart on his friends making a day of it. accordingly, he had made elaborate preparations for enjoyment. with that practical sagacity which frequently distinguishes the nautical mind, he had provided bowls and quoits for the men; battledore and shuttlecock for the younger women; football and cricket and hoops, with some incomprehensible eastern games for the children, and a large field at the side of the cottage afforded room for all without much chance of collision. the feast was, of course, a strictly temperance one, and we need scarcely say it was all the more enjoyable on that account. "you see, my friends," said the host, referring to this in one of his brief speeches, "as long as it may please god to leave me at anchor in this snug port, i'll never let a drop o' strong drink enter my doors, except in the form of physic, and even then i'll have the bottle labelled `poison--to be taken under doctor's prescription.' so, my lads--my friends, i mean, beggin' the ladies' pardon--you'll have to drink this toast, and all the other toasts, in lemonade, ginger beer, soda water, seltzer, zoedone, tea, coffee, or cold water, all of which wholesome beverages have been supplied in overflowing abundance to this fallen world, and are to be found represented on this table." "hear! hear!" from john gunter, and it was wonderful to hear the improvement in the tone of gunter's voice since he had left off strong drink. his old foe, but now fast friend, luke trevor, who sat beside him, echoed the "hear! hear!" with such enthusiasm that all the others burst into a laugh, and ended in a hearty cheer. "now, fill up--fill up, lads," continued the captain. "let it be a bumper, whatever tipple you may choose. if our drink is better than it used to be, our cups ought not to be less full--and my toast is worthy of all honour. i drink to the success and prosperity, temporal and spiritual, of the north sea trawlers,"--there was a symptom of a gathering cheer at this point, but the captain checked it with a raised finger, "especially to that particular fleet which goes by the name of the `_short blue_!'" the pent-up storm burst forth now with unrestrained vehemence, insomuch that three little ragged boys who had climbed on the low garden wall to watch proceedings, fell off backwards as if shot by the mere sound! observing this, and being near them, mrs bright rose, quietly leaned over the wall, and emptied a basket of strawberries on their heads by way of consolation. we cannot afford space for the captain's speech in full. suffice it to say that he renewed his former promise to re-visit the fleet and spend some time among the fishermen as often as he could manage to do so, and wound up by coupling the name of joe davidson, skipper of the _evening star_, with the toast. whereupon, up started joe with flashing eyes; (intense enthusiasm overcoming sailor-like modesty;) and delivered a speech in which words seemed to tumble out of him anyhow and everyhow--longwise, shortwise, askew, and upside-down--without much reference to grammar, but with a powerful tendency in the direction of common sense. we have not space for this speech either, but we give the concluding words: "i tell 'ee wot it is, boys. cap'n bream has drunk prosperity to the _short blue_, an' so have we, for we love it, but there's another _short blue_--" a perfect storm of cheering broke forth at this point and drowned joe altogether. it would probably have blown over the three ragged boys a second time, but they were getting used to such fire, and, besides, were engaged with strawberries. "there's another _short blue_," resumed joe, when the squall was over, "which my missis an' me was talkin' about this very day, when our blessed babby fell slap out o' bed an' set up such a howl--" joe could get no further, because of the terrific peals of laughter which his words, coupled with the pathetic sincerity of his expression, drew forth. again and again he tried to speak, but his innocent look and his mighty shoulders, and tender voice, with the thoughts of that "blessed babby," were too much for his mates, so that he was obliged to finish off by shouting in a voice of thunder--"let's drink success to short blue cottage!" and, with a toss of his hand in the true north sea-salute style, sat down in a tempest of applause. "yes," as an irish fisherman remarked, "it was a great day intoirely," that day at _short blue cottage_, and as no description can do it full justice, we will turn to other matters--remarking, however, before quitting the subject, that we do not tell the reader the exact spot where the cottage is situated, as publicity on this point might subject our modest captain to much inconvenience! "billy," said captain bream one day, a few months after the wedding-day just described, "come with me to the theological library; i want to have a chat with 'ee, lad." billy followed his new-found uncle, and sat down opposite to him. "now, lad, the time has come when you and i must have it out. you're fond o' hard work, i'm told." "well, uncle, i won't say as i'm exactly fond of it, but i don't object to it." "so far good," returned the captain. "well, you know i'm your uncle, an' i've got a goodish lot of tin, an' i'm goin' to leave the most of it to your mother--for she's the only relation i have on earth,--but you needn't expect that i'm goin' to leave it to _you_ after her." "i never said as i _did_ expect that, uncle," said billy with such a straightforward look of simplicity that the captain burst into one of his thundering laughs. "good, my boy," he said, in a more confidential tone. "well, then, this is how the matter stands. i've long held the opinion that those who _can_ work _should_ work, and that all or nearly all the cash that people have to spare should be given or left to those who _can't_ work-- such as poor invalids--specially women--and those who have come to grief one way or another, and lost the use o' their limbs." "right you are, uncle," said billy with strong emphasis. "glad you agree so heartily, boy. well, that bein' so, i mean to leave the interest of all that i have to your dear mother as long as she lives--except a legacy to the miss seawards and some other poor folk that i know of. meanwhile, they have agreed, as long as i live, to stay wi' me here in this cottage, as my librarians and assistants in the matter of theology. i had a tough job to get 'em to agree, but i managed it at last. so you see, billy, i don't mean to leave you a sixpence." "well, uncle," said billy with a quiet look, "i don't care a brass farden!" again the captain laughed. "but," he continued, "i'm very fond o' you, billy, an' there's no reason why i shouldn't help you, to help yourself. so, if you're willin', i'll send you to the best of schools, and after that to college, an' give you the best of education,--in short, make a man of you, an' put you in the way of makin' your fortune." captain bream looked steadily into the fair boy's handsome face as he made this glowing statement; but, somewhat to his disappointment, he got no responsive glance from billy. on the contrary, the boy became graver and graver, and at last his mind seemed lost in meditation while his gaze was fixed on the floor. "what think ye, lad?" demanded the captain. billy seemed to awake as from a dream, and then, looking and speaking more like a man than he had ever done before, he said-- "it is kind of you, uncle--very kind--but my dear dad once said _he_ would make a man of me, and he _did_! i'll do my best to larn as much as ever i can o' this world's larnin', but i'll never leave the sea." "now, my boy," said the captain, "think well before you decide. you could do far more good if you were a highly educated man, you know." "right you _may_ be, uncle, an' i don't despise edication, by no means, but some folk are born to it, and others ain't. besides, good of the best kind can be done without _much_ edication, when the heart's right an' the will strong, as i've seed before now on the north sea." "i'm sorry you look at it this way, billy, for i don't see that i can do much for you if you determine to remain a fisherman." "oh! yes, you can, uncle," cried billy, rising up in his eagerness and shaking back his curly hair. "you can do this. you can take the money you intended to waste on my schoolin', an' send out books an' tracts and medicines, an' all sorts o' things to the fishin' fleets. an' if you're awful rich--as you seem to be by the way you talk--you can give some thousands o' pounds an' fit out two or three more smacks as you did the noo _evenin' star_, an' hand 'em over to the mission to become gospel-ships to the fleets that have got none yet. that's the way to do good wi' your coppers. as for me--my daddy was a fisherman and my mother was a fisherman's wife, and i'm a fisherman to the back-bone. what my father was before me, i mean to be after him, so, god permittin', i'll sail wi' joe davidson till i'm old enough to take command o' the _evenin' star_; and then i'll stick through thick an' thin to the north sea, and live and die a fisherman of the _short blue_!" billy bright's determination was unalterable, so captain bream fell in with it, and heartily set about that part of the work which his nephew had recommended to him. whether he and billy will remain of the same mind to the end, the future alone can show--we cannot tell; but this we--you and i, reader--can do if we will--we can sympathise with our enthusiastic young trawler, and do what in us lies to soften the hard lot of the fisherman, by aiding those whose life-work it is to fish for souls of men, and to toil summer and winter, in the midst of life and death, tempest and cold, to rescue the perishing on the north sea. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) a sailor's lass by emma leslie, author of "the gipsy queen," "dearer than life," "gytha's message," etc. with five illustrations. second edition. london: s.w. partridge & co., , paternoster row. [illustration: "he picked up the white bundle, and hurried after peters."] contents. chapter i. one stormy night chapter ii. the fisherman's home chapter iii. tiny's hope chapter iv. tiny's treasure chapter v. on the sands chapter vi. bad times chapter vii. a tea meeting chapter viii. brighter days chapter i. one stormy night. "mother, we're afloat agin." it was a gruff, sleepy voice that spoke, and the old fisherman turned over and snored on, as though the fact of their home being afloat was of no consequence to him. his wife, however, was by no means so easy in her mind, for it was only during the equinoctial gales and an unusually high tide that their home was lifted from its moorings; and now it had been swinging and swaying for hours, and the rusty chains that held it fast to some posts were creaking and straining as though the next gust of wind would certainly carry them out to sea or drive them up the river, where they would inevitably be swamped in a very short time, for their boat-home was leaky at the bottom--had been a water-logged boat before the fisherman took possession of it and turned it into a quaint-looking cottage by running up some wooden walls along the sides, and roofing it in with planks and tarpaulin. thus converted into a dwelling-house, the boat had been secured, by four chains fixed to posts in the ground, on the top of a mud-bank that formed the boundary of the mouth of the river. the ocean itself was less than a quarter of a mile from where the old boat was moored, and so the poor woman might well be excused for growing more alarmed as the minutes went on and the gale increased, until the boat fairly rocked, and the children in the adjoining cabin began crying and screaming in their fright. "coomber! coomber!" she said at last, shaking her husband, and starting up in bed; for a sound more dreadful than the children's screams had made itself heard above the din of the wind and waves. "there's a ship, coomber, close in shore; i can hear the guns!" screamed his wife, giving him another vigorous shake. "ship! guns!" exclaimed the old fisherman, starting up in bed. the next minute he was on his feet, and working himself into his clothes. "she must be on the sand-bar if you heard the guns," he said. a sudden lurch of the boat almost pitched the old man forward, and the children's screams redoubled, while mrs. coomber hastily scrambled out of bed and lighted the lantern that hung against the wall. "what are yer going to do?" asked her husband, in some surprise; "women ain't no good in such work as this." "what are you going to do?" asked mrs. coomber, almost crying herself; "the boat will soon be adrift with this wind and tide, and we shall all be drowned like rats in a hole." "nay, nay, old woman, the boat was made taut enough before i brought you here, and you think she wouldn't have broke away before this if she was going to do it? don't be a stupid lubber," he added. "but the children, coomber, the children. i ain't afraid for myself," said the mother, with a sob. "well, well, the old boat'll hold the boys for many a day yet," said the fisherman; "you go in and stop their noise, while i get help for the poor souls that are surely perishing out there." "but what can you do for them?" asked his wife; "there ain't a boat besides ours at bermuda point, nor a man to help you manage it besides bob." "no, no; bob and i couldn't manage the boat in such a sea as this; but he shall go with me to fellness. bob! bob!" called his father, in the same breath. "aye, aye," came an answering shout from the adjoining cabin. "slip into your things as quick as you can; we must be off to fellness; there's a ship out there on the bar sands." "i'm a'most ready, dad; i heard mother call yer, and thought you'd let me go along," replied bob. before the fisherman put on his sou'-wester he took a black bottle from a recess, and after taking a hearty draught, he said, "it's lucky we've got a drop to-night," as he handed it to his wife; and with a parting word to her not to be afraid, he and bob stepped out of the boat-house door, to meet the full fury of the blast, that threatened at first to carry them off their legs. the three miles' walk to the little fishing village of fellness was no easy task such a wild night as this, for although the road was inland, it was fully exposed to the sea, and between the wilder outbreaks of the wind and rain they could hear the guns of distress, and occasionally see a rocket piercing the midnight blackness of the sky, appealing for help for the drowning men. at the coastguard station, midway between the point and the village, they found the men on the alert, and two volunteered to go with coomber and help man the boat. then the four plodded silently along the slushy road, for talking was next to impossible in such a gale, and it needed all the strength and energy they could muster to fight the wind and rain. they made their way to the beach as soon as they reached fellness, and, as they expected, found most of the men gathered there, watching the distressed vessel. "halloo! here's coomber from the point," said one, as the new-comers pushed their way in among them. "what are yer standing here for?" shouted coomber, in some impatience; "looking won't do her no good." "we can't do nothing else," said the man; "we've got rodwell's boat here--she's the best craft on this coast for such a trip, and we've made three tries in her, but it's no good; nothing could live in such a sea as this; we've been beat back every time, and well-nigh swamped." "well, mates, i don't say nothing but what yer may have tried; but suppose now one of yer had got a boy out in that there ship--_i've_ got a boy in that, or another, if he ain't gone to where there's no more sea," said the old fisherman, with a groan; and before he had done speaking, one or two had moved to where the boat had been dragged on to the low sandy shore. "we'll try again," they said, in quiet but determined voices. "let the youngsters go," said coomber, as two or three married men pressed forward; "them as has got wives ain't no call to go on such a trip as this. there'll be enough of us; there's me and bob, and rook and white came with us a purpose, and----" "but how about your wife, coomber?" interrupted one of the men. "oh, never you fear, lads; she'll not grudge me if i save her boy. now, lads, look here; seven of us'll be enough, and we've got four." there were so many volunteers for the three vacant places, that the men seemed on the point of quarrelling among themselves now for the privilege of joining in this dangerous errand; but by common consent coomber was constituted the leader of the party, and he chose three of the most stalwart of the single men, and the rest were allowed to run the boat down through the surf. then, with a loud cheer from all who stood on the shore, the seven brave men bent to their oars, and during a slight lull in the wind, they made a little headway towards the wreck. but the next minute they were beaten back again, and the boat well-nigh swamped. again they pushed off, but again were they driven back; and five times was this repeated, and thus an hour was lost in the fruitless endeavour to get away from the shore. at length the fury of the storm somewhat abated, and they were able to get away, but it was a long time before they could get near the dangerous bar sands, on which the vessel had struck, and when they did get there, the ship had disappeared. there was plenty of wreckage about--broken spars, fragments of masts and torn sail-cloth. "we're too late," groaned one of the men, as he peered through the darkness, trying to descry the hull of the vessel. they had not heard the guns or seen a rocket thrown up for some time. "they're all gone, poor fellows," said another, sadly; "we may as well go back now, before the gale freshens again." "oh, stop a bit; we'll look among this rubbish, and see what there is here; perhaps some of them are holding on to the floating timber," said coomber, who had frequently been out on a similar errand. they raised their voices together, and cried "hi! hi!" trying to outscream the wind; but it was of no use; there was no answering call for help, and after waiting about for some time, and going as near to the dangerous sands as they dared, they at length reluctantly turned their boat towards the shore, and began to row back. but before they had got far on their way, they descried the gleam of something white floating in front of them. "only a bit of sail-cloth," said one, as they paused in their rowing to concentrate all their attention upon the object. "let's make sure, mates," said coomber. "steady, now; mind your oars; let her float; it's coming this way, and we'll pick it up;" and in another minute coomber had reached over and seized the white bundle, which he found to be carefully lashed to a spar. "it's a child!" he exclaimed. "mates, we ain't come out for nothing, after all. now row for dear life," he said, as he carefully laid the bundle in the bottom of the boat. they could do nothing for it here, not even ascertain whether it was dead or alive; and they pulled for the shore with even greater eagerness than they had left it. the dawn was breaking before they got back, and they were welcomed with a shout from their waiting comrades, who were watching anxiously for the return of the boat. there was disappointment, however, in the little crowd of watchers when they saw only the brave crew returning from the perilous journey. "what, nothing!" exclaimed one of the men, as the boat drew close in shore. "only a child, and that may be dead," shouted one of the crew. "but i think it's alive," said coomber. "run, peters, and rouse up your missus; the womenfolk are better hands at such jobs than we are;" and as soon as he could leave the boat, he picked up the white bundle, and hurried after peters, leaving his companions to tell the story of their disappointment. mrs. peters was a motherly woman, and had already lighted a fire to prepare some breakfast for her husband, in readiness for his return from the beach, so the wet clothes were soon taken off the child, and they saw it was a little girl about five years old, fair and delicate-looking, decently, but not richly clad, with a small silver medal hung round her neck by a black ribbon. at first they feared the poor little thing was dead, for it was not until mrs. peters had well-nigh exhausted all her best-known methods for restoring the apparently drowned, that the little waif showed any sign of returning life. coomber stood watching with silent but intense anxiety the efforts of the dame to restore animation, not daring to join in the vigorous chafings and slappings administered, for fear his rough horny hands should hurt the tender blue-white limbs. for some time the woman was too much occupied with her task to notice his presence, but when her labour was rewarded by a faint sigh, and a slightly-drawn breath parted the pale lips, she heard a grunt of satisfaction behind her; and turning her head, she exclaimed, "what gowks men are, to be sure." "eh, what is it, dame?" said coomber, meekly; for he had conceived a wonderful respect for mrs. peters during the last ten minutes. "ha' you been a-standing there like a post all this while, and never put out yer hand to help save the child?" she said, reproachingly. "i couldn't, dame, i couldn't with such hands as these; but i'll do anything for you that i can," whispered the fisherman, as though he feared to disturb the child. "well, i want a tub of hot water," snapped mrs. peters. "you'll find the tub in the backyard, and the kettle's near on the boil. look sharp and get the tub, and then go upstairs and get a blanket off the bed." coomber soon brought the tub, and a pitcher of cold water that stood near, but it was not so easy for him to grope his way upstairs. the staircase was narrow and dark, and seemed specially contrived that the uninitiated might bump and bruise themselves. coomber, in his boat-home, having no such convenience or inconvenience in general use, found the ascent anything but easy, and the dame's sharp voice was heard calling for the blanket long before he had groped his way to the bedroom door. but what would he not do for that child whose faint wail now greeted his ears? he pushed on, in spite of thumps and knocks against unexpected corners, and when he had found the blanket, was not long in making his way down with it. "now what's to be done with her?" demanded the woman, as she lifted the little girl out of the water, and wrapped her in the blanket. "won't she drink some milk?" said coomber, scratching his head helplessly. "i dessay she will presently; but who's to keep her? you say there ain't none of the people saved from the wreck to tell who she belongs to?" "no, there ain't none of 'em saved, so i think i'll take her myself," said coomber. "you take her!" exclaimed the woman; "what will your wife say, do you think, to another mouth to fill, when there's barely enough now for what you've got--four hearty boys, who are very sharks for eating?" "well, dame, i've had a little gal o' my own, but ain't likely to have another unless i takes this one," said coomber, with a little more courage, "and so i ain't a-going to lose this chance; for i do want a little gal." "oh, that's all very well; but you ain't no call to take this child that's no ways your own. she can go to the workus, you know. peters'll take her by-and-by. her clothes ain't much, so her belongings ain't likely to trouble themselves much about her. yer can see by this trumpery medal she don't belong to rich folks; so my advice is, let her go to the workus, where she'll be well provided for." "no, no! the missus'll see things as i do, when i talk to her a bit. so if you'll take care of her for an hour or two, while i go home and get off these duds, and tell her about it, i'll be obliged;" and without waiting for the dame's reply, coomber left the cottage. [illustration] chapter ii. the fisherman's home. "why, mother, are you here?" coomber spoke in a stern, reproachful tone, for he had found his wife and the cowering children huddled together in the corner of the old shed where the family washing and various fish-cleaning operations were usually carried on; and the sight did not please him. "are yer all gone mad that yer sitting out there wi' the rain drippin' on yer, when yer might be dry an' comfortable, and have a bit o' breakfast ready for a feller when he comes home after a tough job such as i've had?" "i--i didn't know when you was coming to breakfast," said mrs. coomber, timidly, and still keeping close in the corner of the shed for fear her husband should knock her down; while the children stopped their mutual grumblings and complaints, and crept closer to each other behind their mother's skirts. "couldn't you ha' got it ready and waited wi' a bit o' fire to dry these duds?" exclaimed her husband. "but the boat, coomber, it wasn't safe," pleaded the poor woman. "we might ha' been adrift any minute." "didn't i tell yer she was safe, and didn't i ought to know when a boat's safe better nor you--a poor tool of a woman? come out of it," he added, impatiently, turning away. the children wondered that nothing worse than hard words fell to their share, and were somewhat relieved that the next question referred to bob, and not to their doings. "you say he ain't come home?" said coomber. "i ain't seen him since he went with you to fellness. ain't you just come from there?" said his wife, timidly. "of course i have, but bob ought to have been back an hour or so ago, for i had something to do in the village. come to the boat, and i'll tell you all about it," he added, in a less severe tone; for the thought of the child he had rescued softened him a little, and he led the way out of the washing-shed. the storm had abated now, and the boat no longer rocked and swayed, so that the children waded back through the mud without fear, while their father talked of the little girl he had left with dame peters at fellness. they listened to his proposal to bring her home and share their scanty meals with very little pleasure, and they wished their mother would say she could not have another baby; but instead of this mrs. coomber assented at once to her husband's plan of fetching the child from fellness that afternoon. the coombers were not a happy family, for the fisherman was a stern, hard man by nature, and since he had lost his little girl he had become harder, his neighbours said. at all events, his wife and children grew more afraid of him--afraid of provoking his stern displeasure by any of those little playful raids children so delight in; and every one of them looked forward to the day when they could run away from home and go to sea, as their grown-up brother had done. bob, the eldest now at home, was already contemplating taking this step very soon, and had promised to help dick and tom when they were old enough. it had been a startling revelation to bob to hear his father speak as he had done on the beach at fellness about his brother, for he had long ago decided that his father did not care a pin for any of them, unless it was for the baby sister who had died, and even of that he was not quite sure. he had made up his mind, as he walked through the storm that morning, that he would not go back again, but make his way to grimsby, or some other seaport town, after his business at fellness was done. but what he had heard on the beach from his father somewhat shook his purpose, and when he learned from dame peters afterwards, that the child they had rescued was to share their home, he thought he would go back again, and try to bear the hard life a little longer, if it was only to help his mother, and tell her his father did care for them a bit in spite of his stern, hard ways. perhaps mrs. coomber did not need to be told that her husband loved her and his children; at all events, she received bob's information with a nod and a smile, and a whispered word. "yer father's all right, and a rare good fisherman," she said; for in spite of the frequent unkindness she experienced, mrs. coomber was very fond of her husband. "ah, he's a good fisherman, but he'd be all the better if he didn't have so much of that bottle," grumbled bob; "he thinks a deal more about that than he does about us." it was true enough what bob said. if his father could not by any chance get his bottle replenished, wife and children had a little respite from their usual hard, driving life, and he was more civil to their only neighbours, who were at the farm about half a mile off; but once the bottle got filled again, he grew sullen and morose, or quarrelsome. he had recently made himself very disagreeable to farmer hayes in one of his irritable fits, a fact which suddenly recurred to his wife when she heard of the sick child being brought home to her to nurse, but she dared not mention it to her husband. when coomber brought the child that afternoon, he said, gaily: "here's a present for yer from the sea, mother; maybe she'll bring us good luck coming as she did." "it 'ud be better luck if we'd picked up a boat," muttered bob, who was standing near. "why, she ain't such a baby as you said," exclaimed mrs. coomber, as she unpinned the shawl in which she was wrapped; "she is about five." "five years old," repeated coomber; "but she'd talk if she was as old as that, and dame peters told me she'd just laid like a dead thing ever since she'd been there." "she's ill, that's what it is, poor little mite--ill and frightened out of her senses;" and mrs. coomber gathered her in her arms, and kissed the little white lips, and pressed her to her bosom, as only a tender mother can, while the boys stood round in wondering silence, and coomber dashed a tear from his eye as he thought of the little daughter lying in fellness churchyard. but he was ashamed of the love that prompted this feeling, and said hastily: "now, mother, we mustn't begin by spoiling her;" but then he turned away, and called bob to go with him and look after the boat. for several days the child continued very ill--too ill to notice anything, or to attempt to talk; but one day, when she was lying on mrs. coomber's lap before the fire, the boys mutely looking at her as she lay, she suddenly put up her little hands, and said in a feeble whisper, "dear faver dod, tate tare o' daddy and mammy, and tiny;" and then she seemed to drop off into a doze. the boys were startled, and mrs. coomber looked down hastily at the little form on her lap, for this was the first intimation they had had that the child could talk, although mrs. coomber fancied that she had showed some signs of recognising her during the previous day. "i say, did you hear that?" whispered dick. "was she saying her prayers, mother, like harry hayes does?" mrs. coomber nodded, while she looked down into the child's face and moved her gently to and fro to soothe her to sleep. "but, mother, ought she to say that? did you hear her? she said 'dear god,'" said dick, creeping round to his mother's side. mrs. coomber was puzzled herself at the child's words. they had awakened in her a far-off memory of days when she was a girl, and knelt at her mother's knee, and said, "our father," before she went to bed. but that was long before she had heard of bermuda point, or thought of having boys and girls of her own. when they came she had forgotten all about those early days; and so they had never been taught to say their prayers, or anything else, in fact, except to help their father with the boat, shoot wild-fowl in the winter, and gather samphire on the shore during the summer. she thought of this now, and half wished she had thought of it before. perhaps if she had tried to teach her children to pray, they would have been more of a comfort to her. perhaps jack, her eldest, would not have run away from home as he did, leaving them for years to wonder whether he was alive or dead, but sending no word to comfort them. the boys were almost as perplexed as their mother. the little they had heard of god filled them with terror, and so to hear such a prayer as this was something so startling that they could think and talk of nothing else until their father came in, when, as usual, silence fell on the whole family, for coomber was in a sullen mood now. the next day tiny, as she had called herself, was decidedly better. a little bed had been made up for her in the family living-room, and she lay there, quiet but observant, while mrs. coomber went about her work--cooking and cleaning and mending, and occasionally stopping to kiss the little wistful face that watched her with such quiet curiosity. "am i in a s'ip now?" the child asked at length, when mrs. coomber had kissed her several times. "you're in a boat, deary; but you needn't be afraid; our boat is safe enough." "i ain't afraid; dod is tatin' tare of me," said the child, with a little sigh. mrs. coomber wondered whether she was thinking of the storm; whether she could tell them who she was, and where her friends might be found; and she ventured to ask her several questions about this, but failed to elicit any satisfactory answer. the child was sleepy, or had forgotten what mrs. coomber thought she would be sure to remember; but it was evident she had taken notice of her surroundings during the last few days, for after a little while she said, "where's der boys--dat dick and tom?" mrs. coomber was amused. "they're out in the boat looking after the nets," she said. "when they toming home?" asked the little girl; "home to dis boat, i mean," she added. "oh, they'll come soon," replied mrs. coomber. "but, now, can't you tell me something about your mother and father, and where you lived, my deary?" she asked again. "i tomed in a s'ip, and 'ou my mammy now," said the child, looking round the cosy room with perfect content. "but where is your own mammy, who taught you to say your prayers?" asked mrs. coomber. the tears came into the sweet blue eyes for a minute as she said, "see dorn up dere, to tay in dod's house, and tiny do too if see a dood dal." mrs. coomber laid down the jacket she was patching, and kissed the serious little face. "is your mother dead, my deary?" she asked, while the tears shone in her own eyes. "see done to see daddy, and tell him about tiny," answered the child; from which mrs. coomber gathered that mother and father were both dead; and when her husband came home she told him what she had heard, which seemed to afford the old fisherman a good deal of satisfaction. "then she's ours safe enough, mother," he said, rubbing his hands, "and when she gets well she'll toddle about the old boat like our own little polly did." "but i thought you said peters was going to see the newspaper man to tell him to put something in the _stamford mercury_ about finding her, so that her friends should know she was saved, and come and fetch her." "i said her mother or father," interrupted coomber, sharply; "but if they're dead, there ain't anybody else likely to want such a little 'un, and so we may keep her, i take it. but peters shall go to the newspaper man, never fear," added coomber; "i don't want to rob anybody of the little 'un; but if nobody don't come in a week, why then, mary----" and coomber paused, and looked at his wife. "well, then, i'll get out little polly's things; they'll just about fit her," said mrs. coomber, hastily wiping her eyes with her apron for fear her husband should reproach her again for her tears. when the boys came in, the little girl said, shyly, "tome and tell me about the nets." dick looked at her, and then at his mother. "what does she mean?" he asked, drawing near the little bed where tiny lay. "she wants to know about the fishing," said mrs. coomber. "have you had a good take, dick?" asked his mother, rather anxiously, for she wanted some more milk for tiny, and her little secret store of halfpence was gone now. "oh, it ain't much," said dick; "bob has taken a few plaice to fellness, and i dessay he'll bring back some bread or some flour." "but i want some milk for the child; she can't eat bread and fish and potatoes now she's ill. couldn't you run up to the farm, dick, and ask mrs. hayes if she wants a bit o' fish, and i'll be thankful for a drop o' milk for it." but dick looked dubious. "i'd like to go," he said, "if it was only to have a word with harry hayes, and ask him about his rabbits; but father don't like the farm people now, and he said i was never to speak to them. you know they've had a quarrel." "well, what are we to do? they are our only neighbours, and they ain't a bad sort either, mrs. hayes is a kind soul, who has children of her own, and would let me have milk in a minute if she knew i wanted it for this poor little mite," said mrs. coomber, in perplexity as to the best thing to do. "i'll go, mother, if you can find any fish worth taking," at last said dick. mrs. coomber went and turned over what the boys had brought. the best had been picked out and sent to fellness, and what was left was not more than sufficient for themselves; but she carefully looked out the largest she could find and washed it. while she was doing this her husband came in. "it's a poor take to-day, mother," he said. "yes, and i wanted a bit extra, to get some milk for the child," said mrs. coomber; "but i think i can manage with this," she said, still busying herself with the fish, and not turning to look at her husband. "what are yer goin' to do wi' it?" he inquired. "i want to send dick up to the farm; mrs. hayes will give me some milk for it, i know," replied his wife, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact tone. [illustration: "'me likes 'ou,' she said." (_see page ._)] "and you'd send dick to that place when i said they shouldn't go near the house," said her husband, angrily. "take the fish and cook it for supper. not a bit o' my fish shall they have." "but the milk. what am i to do for the milk for the child now she's ill?" "what have yer done afore?" demanded her husband; and the poor woman was obliged to confess that she had taken milk from the man as he went past in his cart to the village each day since the child had been there. "she couldn't do wi'out milk," protested mrs. coomber. "how do you know she couldn't?" said her husband. "what business have you to spend money for milk--what business have you wi' money at all?" he inquired, suspiciously; for he saw in this wastefulness a cause for the recent strange scarcity of whisky; and he felt he had been deeply wronged. his quarrel with hayes had also been disregarded, and this made him further angry with his wife, and he strictly charged her never to have any more dealings with any of the farm people. "we can live very well without milk," he said. "i will feed the little 'un, and you'll see she can eat fish and bread as well as the rest of us." it was useless for mrs. coomber to protest against this; she knew if her husband made up his mind to do anything he would do it; but she almost dreaded supper-time coming, for she could not tell how tiny would like the proposed change in her nurse and diet. but as it happened the little girl was very pleased to be lifted out of bed and seated on coomber's knee at the table. "me likes 'ou," she said, patting his cheek with her little white hand; and she ate the fish and bread as though she was quite used to such food. [illustration] chapter iii. tiny's hope. the slant rays of the setting sun lay on the wide stretch of level sand surrounding bermuda point, for the tide was out, and had left it smooth, or slightly rippled as with tiny wavelets. standing at the very edge of the sands, with her eyes shaded, and her clothes blowing round her bare legs, was a little fair-haired girl. she was slender and delicate-looking still, in spite of the sun-browned arms and face. months had passed, but tiny was still at the point. she stood gazing seawards for some minutes, and then turned and walked slowly across the rippled sand. "i can't see him, dick," she said, in a disappointed tone. "oh, well, never mind," said the boy, who sat scooping the loose sand up in a heap, beyond the reach of the present ordinary tides. "have you filled both the baskets?" asked the little girl, as she waded through the loose dry sand to where the boy was sitting. "no, that i ain't," answered dick, "mother said you could pick the samphire to-day." "yes, but you said you'd help me," said the girl, walking steadily across the sand to the salt-marsh beyond. here the samphire grew in abundance, and the little girl set to work to fill the two large baskets that stood near. "you might come and help, dick," she called, hardly repressing a sob as she spoke. "look here, i'll help if you'll just come and make some more of them letters. you said you would, you know," added the boy, still piling up the sand. "oh, dick, you know i can't; you know i've forgot a'most everything since i've been here;" and this time the little girl fairly burst into tears, and sat down beside the half-filled baskets, and sobbed as though her heart would break. the boy's heart was touched at the sight of her distress, and he ran across to comfort her. "don't cry, tiny; i'll help yer, and then we'll try agin at the letters. i know three--a b c: you'll soon find out about the others, and make 'em in the sand for me." but tiny shook her head. "i'd know 'em if i had a book," she said, sadly; "ain't it a pity daddy ain't got one?" "what 'ud be the good of books to dad?" said dick. "harry hayes has got some, i know; but then he goes to school, and knows all about 'em. there, let's forget we see him with that book yesterday, for it ain't no good for us to think about it," concluded dick; for he did not like to see tiny's tears, and the easiest way of banishing them was to forget the original cause, he thought. but the little girl was not of the same opinion. she shook her head sadly as she said-- "i've forgot a'most everything my mother told me." "oh, that you ain't," contradicted the boy, "you never forget to say your prayers before you go to bed. i wonder you ain't forgot that; i should, i know." "how could you, dick, if you knew god was waiting to hear you?" said tiny, lifting her serious blue eyes to his face. "then why ain't he waiting to hear me?" asked dick. the question seemed to puzzle the little girl for a minute or two; but at length she said-- "he is, dick, i think; i'm a'most sure he's waiting for yer to begin." "then he's waited a good while," said dick, bluntly; and he got up and began to pull away at the samphire, by way of working off or digesting the wonderful thought. after working away in silence for some minutes, dick said-- "d'ye think god cares for us down here at bermuda point?" tiny paused, with her hands full of samphire. "why shouldn't he?" she said. "i know he cares for me. he loves me," she added, in a tone of triumph; "my mother told me so. she said he loved me just as well as she did." "i'd like to know whether he cares about me," said dick. "d'ye think yer could find out for us, tiny? yer see everybody likes you--mother, and father, and bob; and harry hayes showed you his book yesterday. you see you're a gal, and i think you're pretty," added dick, critically; "so it 'ud be a wonder if he didn't like you." "and why shouldn't he love you, dick?" said tiny. dick looked down at the patched, ragged, nondescript garments that served him as jacket and trousers, and then at his bare, sunburnt arms and legs. "well, i'm just dick of the point. i ain't a gal, and i ain't pretty." nobody could dispute the latter fact, which dick himself seemed to consider conclusive against any interest being taken in him, for he heaved a sigh as he returned to his work of picking the samphire. the sigh was not lost on tiny. "look here, dick," she said, "you ain't a gal, and p'r'aps you ain't pretty, but i love you;" and she threw her arms round his neck as he stooped over the basket. "i love yer, dick, and i'll find out all about it for yer. i'm a'most sure god loves yer too." "oh, he can't yet, yer know," said dick, drawing his arms across his eyes to conceal the tears that had suddenly come into them. "i don't never say no prayers nor nothing. i ain't never heerd about him, only when dad swears, till you come and said your prayers to him." "still, he might, yer know," said tiny; "but if you'll help, i'll find out all about it." "what can yer do?" asked dick. "well, i'll tell yer why i want dad to come home soon to-night," said tiny, resting her hands on the basket, and looking anxiously across the sea. "mother said he'd take the samphire by boat to fellness, and i thought perhaps he'd take me too." "well, s'pose he did?" said dick, who could see no connection between a visit to the village and the attainment of the knowledge they both desired. "why, then i might get a book," said tiny. "i'd go with dad to sell the samphire; and then we'd see the shops; and if he had a good take, and we got a lot of samphire, he'd have enough money to buy me a book, as well as the bread and flour and tea." dick burst into a loud laugh. "so this is your secret; this is what you've been thinking of like a little goose all day." tiny was half offended. "you needn't laugh," she said; "i shall do it, dick." "will yer?" he said, in a teasing tone. "if there wasn't no whisky, and there was bookshops at fellness, you might. why, what do you think the village is like?" he asked. "like? oh, i dunno! everything comes from fellness," added the little girl, vaguely. to the dwellers at the point, the little fishing-village was the centre of the universe; and tiny, with faint recollections of a large town, with broad streets, and rows of shops all brilliantly lighted at night, had formed magnificently vague notions of fellness as being something like this; and she had only got to go there, and it would be easy to coax the old fisherman to buy her a book, as she coaxed him to build her a castle in the sand, or take her on his knee and tell her tales of ships that had been wrecked on the bar sands. "but do you know what fellness is like?" persisted dick. "there ain't no shops at all--only one, where they sells flour, and bread, and 'bacca, and tea, and sugar, and soap. they has meat there sometimes; but i never sees no books, and i don't believe they ever has 'em there," concluded the boy. "perhaps they keeps 'em in a box where you can't see 'em," suggested tiny, who was very unwilling to relinquish her hope. "pigs might fly, and they will when they sells books at fellness," remarked dick. "where does harry hayes get his from?" suddenly asked the girl; and at the same moment she espied a speck on the horizon, which she decided was a fisherman's boat. "he's coming, dick, dad's coming," she exclaimed. "make haste--make haste and fill up the baskets;" and she tore away at the seaweed, piling it into the baskets as fast as her small hands would permit. "now we'll carry one down," she said, taking hold of the handle. "catch hold, dick;" for she wanted to be at the edge of the sands by the time the boat touched the shore. but dick was in no such hurry to meet his father. "there's plenty of time," he said, leisurely untying a knot in a piece of string. "no there isn't, dick; don't you know i'm going to fellness in the boat." "but you're afraid," said the boy; "ain't father tried to coax you lots o' times to go out with him, and yer never would? you'll just get to the edge, and when yer sees it rock a bit yer'll run away." "no, i won't, dick, this time," said the little girl. but as she spoke a shiver of fear and dread ran through her frame at the thought of the swaying boat. dick saw it, and laughed. "didn't i tell yer you was afraid," he said, in a mocking tone; "what's the good of going down there, when you're frightened?" "but i want a book, dick; i must learn to read, and find out what we want to know. oh, do make haste!" she added, as she saw the boat approaching the shore. dick was still laughing, but he helped her carry the basket, though he teased her as they went along about being frightened. they got across the sands with their samphire, just as coomber and bob were springing ashore. "oh, daddy, take me with yer to fellness," called tiny, shutting her eyes as she spoke that she might not see the treacherous waves and the swaying boat. "halloo, halloo! what now, deary?" exclaimed coomber. and it was wonderful to see the change in his hard face as he lifted the little girl in his arms and kissed her. "she says she'll go," said dick, "but i don't believe she means it." "yes i do. you'll take me, daddy, won't yer--'cos i've picked a lot of samphire--all that, and another basketful up there? go and fetch it, bob, and daddy can put it in the boat. and i'm going, too." "so you shall, deary, so you shall," said the old fisherman, in a pleased tone, for he had often tried to coax her out with him on the sea; but the memory of that awful night on the bar sands still clung to her, and the sight of the boat, swayed about at the mercy of the waves, filled her with a nameless terror. "there won't be a storm, will there?" asked tiny, with a shiver of fear, as the fisherman carefully lifted her in and placed her beside the basket of samphire. "my deary, if i thought the wind 'ud be even a bit fresh to-night, i wouldn't take yer," said the fisherman, in an earnest tone. he had never been so tender with one of his own children--unless it was to the little girl lying in the churchyard--as he was to this little waif of the sea; and now, as he pushed off from the shore, he was careful to keep the old boat as steady as possible, and sat watching her little frightened face as he plied his oars. he kept as close to the beach, too, as he well could, just skirting the sand-banks, so that she should have the comfort of seeing the land all the way along. after a few minutes tiny grew less frightened, and ventured to ask a question about where they were going. "oh, i'll take yer to see dame peters while bob unloads the boat," said coomber, nodding at her in an approving manner. "and shall i see the shops?" asked tiny; for she did not believe what dick had told her. "shops, shops!" repeated the fisherman, resting on his oars for a minute to stare at the little girl. "well, there's a shop," he said, slowly; "but i don't see what you can want there." "do they sell books?" asked tiny, eagerly. for answer the fisherman burst into a loud laugh. "what does a little 'un like you know about books?" he said. "but i know of something they do sell, as 'll suit you a deal better; they sell sweets, and almond rock, as well as 'bacca and bread, and you shall have some, my deary." the fisherman expected a joyous outburst in anticipation of these unwonted dainties, but the little girl said slowly-- "don't they sell books, too, daddy? i'd rather have a book than almond rock," she added. "why, what do you want with a book, a little 'un like you?" said coomber, impatiently. "we both wants it, dick and me; we wants to find out whether god loves boys as well as gals." the fisherman looked at her serious little face for a minute, and then burst into a laugh again. "well, you are a rum 'un as ever i came across. did you hear that, bob?" he asked, appealing to his elder son, who was steering. bob turned his sulky face round. "what's she saying now?" he asked. "what was, it little 'un--whether god loved boys and gals, wasn't it?" asked the fisherman, who was highly amused at the question. "he don't love none of us, i can tell her that," said bob, sharply. "he forgot us long ago, if ever he knowed anything about us." "there, what d'ye think o' that, little 'un?" said the fisherman, pulling away at the oars. tiny looked perplexed for a minute or two, but at length she said: "i think god knows all about the point, 'cos he loves me, and he listens when i say my prayers. but s'pose i tell him," she suddenly added, as though the thought had just occurred to her; "i can ask him to bless you and mammy, and dick and bob. but i should like to get a book," she said, in conclusion. "oh, the sweets 'll do as well," said the fisherman, who saw little use in books. he might have humoured tiny in what he looked upon as a most extraordinary whim, but he never remembered seeing such a thing as a book in fellness all the years he had known the place. people might have books, some of them, at least, but they were not of much use to fisher-folks, and he rather despised them. the sun had gone down before they landed; but the moon was rising; and so, between daylight and moonlight, they would be able to get back without any difficulty, when the fish and samphire were disposed of. "now, bob, get her unloaded, while i take the little 'un up to see dame peters," said coomber, as he lifted tiny out of the boat. she was looking round eagerly in search of the houses and shops, for in spite of what she had been told, she could not divest herself of the idea that fellness was a grand, glorious place, where everything could be bought if people only had fish and seaweed enough; and surely two big baskets of samphire were sufficient to buy a book. but to her disappointment she saw only a few lounging fishermen and children--like herself and dick--instead of the crowds of people she had expected; and as for shops--well, she could see a row of stone cottages at a distance. there might be a dozen, perhaps, and a few sheds and outbuildings, but the rest of the landscape was flat and unoccupied as their own point; and at the sight tiny hid her face in the fisherman's neck and burst into tears. [illustration] chapter iv. tiny's treasure. "well, now, if you can make her out, it's more than i can," said coomber, pausing in the doorway of dame peters' cottage, after he had seated tiny by the old woman's fire. "oh, leave her here for half an hour; she'll be all right by the time you come back; there's no 'counting for children, and she may feel frightened a bit, for all she ain't cried till she got ashore." "it's just that that beats me," said the fisherman; "she's as lively as you please in the boat, but as soon as she gets out, down she pops her head, and begins to pipe her eye." "well, there, you go and look after perkins and the fish, and i'll see to her," said dame peters, a little impatiently; for she had some potatoes cooking for her husband's supper, and she knew they needed attention. after looking to these, she turned to tiny, who had dried her tears by this time, and sat watching the old woman. "d'ye like to see pictures, deary?" she asked; and at the same time she opened the top drawer of an old-fashioned chest of drawers, and brought out a print, which she laid on the table, and lifted tiny, chair and all, close up to look at it. pictures were not to be seen in every cottage a few years ago, as they may be now. the _band of hope review_ and _british workman_ had not been heard of in fellness at the time of which we write, and so dame peters was very choice of her picture, although she knew nothing about the reading at the back of it. tiny brightened up wonderfully when her eyes fell upon this treasure; but after looking at it for some minutes, while dame peters turned out the potatoes, she ventured to lift it up and look at the other side, and she exclaimed joyfully: "oh, it's a book! there's reading on it!" "what, what!" exclaimed the old woman, turning from the fireplace to see what had happened. "what is it, child?" "see, see, there's reading--g o d! what does that spell?" asked tiny, looking up in the old woman's face, her finger still resting on the word she had picked out. "bless the child, how should i know? s'pose it is some sort of reading, as you say; but i never learned a letter in my life." "and i've a'most forgot," said tiny, sadly; and then her finger roved over the printed page, and she found that she could remember most of the letters now she saw them again; but how to put them together was the difficulty. she had forgotten how to do this entirely. g o d spelt a word familiar enough to her at one time, but which of all the words she used now those letters were intended to signify, she could not remember. again and again her finger returned to the well-remembered letters, but beyond this her memory failed her; and she sat, with puckered brow and steadfast eyes, still looking at the printed page instead of the picture, when coomber came back. "oh, daddy, daddy, look here!" exclaimed tiny; "here's a book with reading!" "she's just sat and looked at them letters, as she calls 'em, ever since you've been gone," said dame peters, in a half-offended tone; for her picture was not valued as much as it ought to be, she thought. "oh, she's a rum 'un," said coomber. "well, now, are you ready, little 'un?" he asked. tiny looked up wistfully in the old woman's face. "couldn't i take this home, and show it to dick?" she asked, timidly, laying her hand on the print. "take my picture home!" exclaimed the old woman. coomber turned the paper over, and looked at it contemptuously. "peters got this when he went to grimsby, i s'pose?" he said. "yes, he did." "well now, couldn't you let her have it, and let peters bring you another?" said the fisherman, who was anxious that his darling should be gratified if possible. but the old woman was little more than a child herself over this picture, and was unwilling to part with it at first. at last she agreed to sell it to tiny for a basket of samphire, for this seaweed made a kind of pickle among the fisher-folk, and was of some marketable value, too, for it did not grow everywhere along the coast, although round bermuda point it flourished in great luxuriance. tiny was only too glad to obtain such a treasure on such easy terms, although she was paying about five times the value of it; and when it had been folded up and carefully stowed away in coomber's pocket, she was quite ready to go to the boat, although dame peters pressed them to stay and have some of the hot potatoes for supper. tiny seemed brimful of joy that night; and when she was seated in the boat, and they were rowing over the placid water, she so far forgot her fears as to begin singing. something in the surroundings had recalled to her mind the time when she used to sing nearly every night her mother's favourite hymn. it all came back to her as freshly as though she had sung it only last week; and her sweet young voice rang out bold and clear-- "star of peace to wanderers weary, bright the beams that smile on me; cheer the pilot's vision dreary, far, far at sea." she paused there, not feeling quite sure of the next verse; but coomber said quickly-- "go on, deary, go on; don't you know the next bit?" "i'll try," said tiny; and again the voice rang out in its childish treble-- "star of hope, gleam on the billow, bless the soul that sighs for thee; bless the sailor's lonely pillow, far, far at sea." "who told you that, deary?" asked the fisherman, eagerly, when she paused again. "my mother used to sing it every night. she used to say it was meant for daddy. and she told me i must always sing it, too, only somehow i've forgot everything since i came here." "never mind the rest, deary; try and think about that. it's just the song for a sailor and a sailor's lass." "that's just what my mother used to say--that i was a sailor's lass!" exclaimed tiny. "and she taught you just the right kind of a song. now try a bit more, deary," he added, coaxingly. "star of faith, when winds are mocking all his toil, he flies to thee; save him, on the billows rocking, far, far at sea." "i don't think i know any more," said the child, as she finished this verse. "well, you've done first-rate, deary; and mind, you must sing that song to me every night," he added. for a little while they went on in silence, and nothing could be heard but the gentle lap, lap of the waves at the side of the boat, until coomber said: "come, sing to us again about that sailor's star. bob, you try and pick it up as she sings," he added. so the verses were sung through again, and without a break this time; and tiny was able to recall the last verse, too, and sang-- "star divine, oh! safely guide him, bring the wanderer back to thee; sore temptations long have tried him, far, far at sea." "bravo, little 'un," exclaimed bob, who was completely charmed out of his sulky mood by the singing. "i say, bob," suddenly exclaimed coomber, "is the bottle up there?" "i ain't seen the bottle," sulkily responded the lad, his ill-humour returning at once. "i--i took it up, and told 'em to fill it," exclaimed coomber; and as he spoke he drew in his oars, and felt under the seat, and all round the boat. "i must ha' forgot it, thinking about the little 'un and her picture," he said, after searching round the boat in vain. "it's too late to go back," said bob; "it'll be dark soon." "ye-es, it's too late to go back with the child," said coomber, slowly and regretfully; though what he should do without his nightly dose of whisky he did not know. "sing again," whispered bob to tiny; and the next minute the little voice rang out once more its "star of peace." it brought peace to the angry fisherman--the more angry, perhaps, because he had nobody but himself to blame that the bottle had been left behind. before they landed the singing had worked its mysterious charm, and the fisherman had almost forgotten his anger, and his bottle, too. "you tie up the boat, and make haste in, bob," he said, as he took the little girl in his arms, and stepped out upon the shore. a light was shining in the window of the old boat-house, and tiny was all impatience to get home and show her treasure to dick. "take it out of your pocket, daddy, and give it to me," she said, as they were crossing the sands; and the moment the door was opened she ran in, exclaiming, "i've got it! i've got it, dick!" "hush, hush, deary; dick and tom have gone to bed, and both are fast asleep. come in and get your supper; it's been waiting ever so long for you." as she spoke, the poor woman cast several furtive glances at her husband, fearing that he was more than usually morose, as he had not spoken; but, to her surprise, he said, in a merry tone: "bless you, mother, the little 'un has got something better than supper. dame peters wanted her to stay and have some hot potatoes; but she was in such a hurry to be off with her prize that she wouldn't look at the potatoes." "i've got some reading," said tiny, in a delighted whisper, holding up her sheet of paper. "why, what's the good of that?" exclaimed mrs. coomber, in a disappointed tone. "nobody at the point can read, unless it's the hayes' at the farm." "and she'd better not let me catch her with any of them," put in coomber, sharply. "dick and me are going to learn to read by ourselves," announced tiny, spreading out her picture on the table. this would enhance its value to everybody, she thought, since dame peters set such store by it solely because of the picture. and so she did not venture to turn it over to con the letters on the other side until after bob had come in, and they had all looked at it. "what's it all about?" asked bob, turning to the smoking plate of fish which his mother had just placed on the table. "don't you see it's a kind man putting his hand on the boys' heads?" said tiny, rather scornfully. "oh, anybody can see that," said bob. "but what does it mean? that's what i want to know." but tiny could only shake her head as she gazed earnestly at the print. "i dunno what it is," she said, with a sigh. "come, come, you must put that away for to-night," said mrs. coomber; "you ought to have been in bed an hour ago;" and she would have taken the picture away, but tiny hastily snatched it up, and, carefully folding it, wrapped it in another piece of paper, and then begged that it might be put away in a drawer for fear it should be lost before the morning. mrs. coomber smiled as she took it from her hand. "i'll take care of it," she said, "and you go and get your supper." it was not often that the fisherman's family were up so late as this, but no one seemed in a hurry to go to bed. coomber himself was so good-tempered that his wife and bob forgot their habitual fear of him in listening to his account of how brave tiny had been, and how dame peters thought she was growing very fast. then tiny had to sing one verse of "star of peace," after she had finished her supper--mrs. coomber would not let her sing more than that, for she was looking very sleepy and tired--and then they all went to bed, with a strange, new feeling of peace and content, mrs. coomber vaguely wondering what had become of the whisky bottle, and wishing every night could be like this. as soon as her eyes were open the next morning tiny thought of her treasure, and crept into the boys' room to tell dick the wonderful news. but to her surprise she found the bed was empty; and, peeping into the kitchen, saw mrs. coomber washing up the breakfast things. "oh, mammy, what is the time?" she exclaimed, but yawning as she spoke. "oh, you're awake at last. make haste and put your clothes on, and come and have your breakfast," said mrs. coomber. "where's dick?" asked tiny. "he's helping daddy and bob with the net; and you can go, too, when you've had your breakfast. daddy wouldn't let the boys come and wake you 'cos you was so tired last night." "what are they doing to the net?" asked tiny, as she came to the table. "mending it, of course. daddy's going shrimping to-day." "what a bother that net is," said tiny. "daddy's always mending it." "yes, so he is, deary. it's old, you see, and we can't afford to get a new one." "i've got to get a lot of samphire to-day, and i promised dick i'd make some more letters for him in the sand," said tiny, meditatively. "but daddy wants you to help him with the net," suggested mrs. coomber. the little girl had always been so pliant, so amenable to control, that mrs. coomber was surprised to hear her say passionately-- "i won't do that nasty net. i must pick the samphire for dame peters, and show dick my picture, first;" and then she snatched up a basket, and ran out, not to the sands, where the fisherman and his boys sat mending the torn net, but away to the salt-marsh, where the seaweed grew thickest, and she could fill her basket most quickly. in an hour or two she came home, looking tired and cross. "ain't dick come home yet?" she asked, throwing herself on the floor. "they ain't done the net yet. tom came to fetch you a little while ago." "i don't want tom, i want dick. we're going to make some letters, and learn to read," said tiny. "you'd better leave the reading alone, if it makes you so cross," said mrs. coomber. "no, it don't make me cross; it's that nasty net." "but you always liked to help daddy wind the string and mend the net before. why don't you go to them now?" but tiny would not move. she lay on the floor, kicking and grumbling, because dick could not leave the net and come and see her picture. "you're a very naughty girl, tiny," said mrs. coomber at last; "and i don't see how you can think god will love you if you don't try to be good." the little girl sat up instantly, and looked earnestly into her face. "my other mammy used to say something like that," she said, slowly. and then she burst into tears, and ran and shut herself in the boys' bedroom. what passed there, mrs. coomber did not know; but, half an hour afterwards, as she glanced out of the little kitchen window, she saw her running across the sands to where the group of boys sat mending the old net; and she smiled as she thought of what her words had done. she did not know what a hard fight tiny had had with herself before she could make up her mind to give up her own way; she only thought how pleased her husband would be when he saw the child come running towards him, and that a fit of ill-humour, from which they would probably all have suffered, had been warded off by the little girl's conquest of herself. but neither tiny nor mrs. coomber ever forgot that day. a new element was introduced into the lives of the fisherman's family. the little girl learned her first lesson in self-control, and dick and tom began to master the difficulties of the alphabet; for, when the net was finished, and bob and his father waded out into the sea on their shrimping expedition, tiny ran and fetched her pretty picture to show the boys, and then they all set to work with bits of stick to make the letters in the sand. [illustration] chapter v. on the sands. tiny was somewhat disappointed as the days went on to find that her pupils, tom and dick, took less and less interest in learning the letters she marked in the sand, or pointed out on the paper. they teased her to know how to put the letters together and make them into words which they could understand. but, alas! labour as she would, tiny could not get over this difficulty even for herself. she had a dim idea that g o d spelt god, but she could not be quite sure--not sure enough to tell dick that it was so. it was enough, however, to quicken her own interest in what the lines of letters might be able to tell her if only she could solve the mystery of putting them into words, for doubtless they would clear up her anxiety as to whether god loved boys as well as girls. she did not spend her whole time poring over her picture. she gathered samphire, helped to sort the fish when it was brought in, or mend the much-despised net; but every day she spent some time diligently tracing out the letters she knew and spelling over g o d. she might have mastered the difficulty with very little trouble if the fisherman had been less obstinate in his quarrel with the farm people, for harry hayes and his sisters were often down on the sands, sometimes bringing their books with them, and dick, who longed to join them in their play, tried to persuade tiny to go and ask them to help her with the reading difficulty. "dad won't say anything to you, even if he should see you talking; but he won't see, and i won't tell," urged dick, one day, when the children from the farm were at play among the sandhills, and occasionally casting sidelong glances towards dick and tiny. but the little girl only shook her head. "i can't, dick," she said; "god wouldn't like it; mother told me that long ago." "but how is he to know if you don't tell him?" said the boy, in an impatient tone. "don't you know that god can see us all the time; that he's taking care of us always?" said tiny, slowly. "oh, come! what'll you tell us next?" said dick, looking over his shoulder with a gesture of fear. "he ain't here now, you know," he added. "yes he is," said the little girl, confidently; "mother said god was a spirit. i dunno what that is, but it's just as real as the wind. we can't see that you know, but it's real; and we can't see god, but he's close to us all the time." the boy crept closer to her while she was speaking. "what makes you talk like that?" he said, in a half-frightened tone. "what's a matter, dick?" she asked, not understanding his fear. "don't you like to think god is close to you, and all round you," she suddenly added, in surprise. dick shook his head. "nobody never thinks about god at bermuda point, so p'r'aps he don't come here," he said, at last, in a tone of relief. "oh, i say, tiny, look! harry hayes has got a book! let's go and see what it's about!" "well, we'll ask dad when he come home to-night, and p'r'aps he'll let us," said the little girl, turning resolutely to her own paper again. "oh, then, it's dad you're afraid of, and not god?" said dick. "afraid! what do you mean?" asked tiny. "god loves me, and takes care of me, and so does daddy; and if i was to talk to harry hayes, it would make him cross, and god doesn't like us to make people cross; and little gals has to do as they are told, you know." "oh yes; i know all about that," said dick; "but what do you suppose god thinks of dad when he makes himself cross with the whisky?" "oh! he's dreadfully sorry, dick, i know he is, for he makes me afraid of him sometimes, when he's had a big lot; and he's just the dearest daddy when he forgets to bring the bottle home from fellness." "ah, but that ain't often," grunted dick; "and if god wouldn't like you to talk to harry hayes, 'cos dad says you musn't, i'd like to know what he thinks of dad sometimes, that's all." and then dick ran away, for if he could not speak to the farm children, he liked to be near them when they came to play on the sands. a minute or two after dick had left her, tiny was startled by a sound close at hand, and, looking round, she saw coomber coming from the other side of the sandhill. "oh, dad, i thought you was out in the boat," she said. [illustration: "'i want you to sing a bit, while i rub away at this old gun.'" (_see page ._)] "bob and tom have gone by themselves to-day, for i wanted to clean the gun ready for winter," said the fisherman, still rubbing at the lock with a piece of oiled rag. tiny looked up at him half shyly, half curiously, for if he had only been on the other side of the sand-ridge, he must have heard all she and dick had been talking about. but if he had heard the fisherman took no notice of what had passed. "come, i want you to sing a bit, while i rub away at this old gun," he said. "sing 'star of peace'; it'll sound first-rate out here;" as though he had never heard it out there before, when, as a matter of fact, scarcely a day passed but she sang it to please him. when she had finished, he said, quickly: "what do you think about that 'star of peace' deary? it's the sailor's star, you know, so i've got a sort of share in it like." "i think it means god. i'm a'most sure mother said it meant god," added the little girl. "ah, then, i don't think there's much share of it for me," said coomber, somewhat sadly; and he turned to rubbing his gun again, and began talking about it--how rusty he had found it, and how he would have to use it more than ever when winter came, for the boat was growing old, and would not stand much more knocking about by the rough wintry sea; so he and bob must shoot more wild birds, and only go out in calm weather when winter came. then half shyly, and with apparent effort, he brought the conversation round so as to include farmer hayes. "he ain't a bad sort, you know, tiny, if he could just remember that a fisherman is a bit proud and independent, though he may be poor; and if you could do one of them young 'uns a good turn any time, why, you're a sailor's lass, yer know, and a sailor is always ready to do a good turn to anybody." "yes, daddy," said tiny, slowly and thoughtfully; and then, after a minute's pause, she said: "daddy, i think harry or polly would just like to help me a bit with this reading." for answer the fisherman burst into a loud laugh. "that's what you'd like, i s'pose?" he said, as he looked at her. "yes; i want to find out about this picture, and these letters tell all about it, i know--if i only could find out what they mean," said tiny, eagerly. "oh, well, when i'm gone indoors you can go and ask 'em if they'd like to help you," he said, with another short laugh. "maybe you'll be able to tell us all about it when winter comes, and it'll soon be here now," added the fisherman, with a sigh. never before had coomber looked forward with such dread to the winter. until lately he had always thought the fishing-boat would "last his time," as he used to say; but he had patched and repaired it so often lately, until at last the conviction had been forced upon him that it was worn out; and to be caught in a sudden squall on the open sea, would inevitably break her up, and all who were in her would meet with a watery grave. he was as brave as a lion; but to know that his boat was gradually going to pieces, and that its timbers might part company at almost any moment, made even his courage quail; especially when he thought of his wife, and the boys, and this little helpless girl. some hard things had been said at fellness about his folly in taking her upon his hands when she could without difficulty have been sent to the poorhouse. a girl was such a useless burden, never likely to be helpful in managing a boat, as a boy might be; and it was clear that no reward would ever be obtained from her friends, even if they were found, for her clothing made it evident that she was only the child of poor parents. this had been the reasoning among the fellness busybodies ever since coomber had announced his intention of taking the little girl home; but he was as obstinate in this as in most other things. he had followed his own will, or rather the god-like compassion of his own heart, in spite of the poverty that surrounded him, and the hard struggle he often had to get bread enough for his own children. "i'll just have to stay out a bit longer, or go out in the boat a bit oftener," he said, with a light laugh, when they attempted to reason him out of his project. he did not know then that the days of his boat were numbered; but he knew it now--knew that starvation stared them in the face, and at no distant date either. he could never hope to buy a new boat. it would cost over twenty pounds, and he seldom owned twenty pence over the day's stock of bread and other household necessaries. among these he counted his whisky; for that a fisherman could do his work without a daily supply of ardent spirits never entered his head. blue ribbon armies and temperance crusades had never been heard of, and it was a fixed belief among the fisher folk that a man could not work without drinking as well as eating, and drinking deeply, too. so coomber never thought of curtailing his daily allowance of grog to meet the additional expense of his household: he rather increased the allowance, that he might be able to work the boat better, as he fancied, and so catch more fish. when he forgot his bottle and left it at fellness, it struck him as something all but marvellous that he should be able to work the next day without his usual drams, but it had not convinced him that he could do without it all together. of its effect upon himself, in making him sullen, morose, and disagreeable, he was in absolute ignorance, and so the children's talk about it came upon him as a revelation. he knew that tiny sometimes shrank from and avoided him; but he had considered it a mere childish whim, not to be accounted for by anything in himself; and so to hear that she was absolutely afraid of him sometimes was something to make him think more deeply than he had ever done in his life before. but he did not say a word to tiny about this. when he had done rubbing his gun he carried it home, and tiny was left free to make acquaintance with the farm children. she walked shyly up to where they were sitting--polly reading, and harry throwing sand at dick, who had seated himself at a short distance, and was returning the salute. "would--wouldn't you like to tell me about these letters, please?" said tiny, holding out her paper to polly. "well, that's a rum way of asking," said harry, with a laugh. "suppose she wouldn't now, little 'un," he added. "then she mustn't," said tiny, stoutly; though the tears welled up to her eyes at the thought of all her hopes being overthrown just when they seemed about to be realised. "don't, harry; what a tease you are!" said his sister. "i should like to tell you, dear," she added, in a patronising tone. "come and sit down here, and tell me what you want." "it's what you want; don't forget that, polly, else she'll get her back up, and go off again," laughed her brother; but he was not sorry the embargo had been taken off their intercourse with the fisherman's family; for although he had had surreptitious dealings with boys sometimes, they had to be so watchful lest they should be discovered that the play was considerably hindered. now he understood that this advance on tiny's part was a direct concession from coomber himself, for he and the boys had long ago agreed to try and draw the little girl into some intimacy as the only way of breaking down the restrictions laid upon them. but tiny had proved obstinate. she had been asked again and again, but she had always returned the same answer: "daddy would let her some day, and then she would play with them." so harry hayes was perfectly aware that she had won the fisherman's consent at last, although no word had been said about it. when the girls were left to themselves, polly took up the picture and looked at it, then turned it over and read, "god is good to all: he loves both boys and girls." at this point tiny interrupted her by laying her hand on her arm, and saying eagerly: "are you quite sure that is what it says?" "why, don't you think i can read?" said polly, in a half-offended tone. but the subject was new to her, and so she was anxious to read further, and turned to the page again and read on. at the bottom was a line or two in smaller print, and polly read these longer words with a touch of pride: "jesus said, suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of god." "then this must be jesus, and these are the little children," concluded polly, as she turned over the paper to look at the picture again. the two girls sat and looked at it and talked about it for a few minutes, and then tiny said wistfully: "will you show me now how you make up them nice words?" "oh, it's easy enough if you know the letters; but you must learn the letters first," said polly; and she proceeded to tell tiny the name of each; and the little girl had the satisfaction of knowing now that she had remembered them quite correctly, and that g o d did spell god, as she had surmised. she was not long now in putting other words together; and before she went home she was able to spell out the first two lines of the printed page, for they were all easy words, and intended for beginners. what a triumph it was to tiny to be able to read out to the fisherman's family what she had learned on the sands that day. she was allowed to have the candle all to herself after supper, and they sat round the table looking at each other in wondering amazement as her little finger travelled along the page, and she spelt out the wonderful news, "'god is good to all: he loves both boys and girls.' it's true, dick, what i told you, ain't it?" she said, in a tone of delighted satisfaction. dick scratched his head, and looked round at his father, wondering what he would think or say. for a minute or two the fisherman smoked his pipe in silence. at length, taking it from his mouth, he said, in a slow, meditative fashion: "well, little 'un, i s'pose if it's printed that way it's true; and if it is, why i s'pose we've all got a share in that 'star of peace' we was talking about to-day." tiny did not quite follow his train of thought; but she nodded her head, and then proceeded to tell them what she had heard about the picture, and the conclusion she and polly had arrived at upon the subject--that jesus, the kind, loving man of the picture, had come to show them how kind god was to them. [illustration] chapter vi. bad times. winter around bermuda point was at all times a dreary season, and the only thing its few inhabitants could hope for was that its reign might be as short as possible. a fine, calm autumn was hailed as a special boon from heaven by the fisher-folk all round the coast, and more especially by the lonely dwellers at the point. a fine autumn enabled coomber to go out in his boat until the time for shooting wild fowl began, and the children could play on the sands, or gather samphire, instead of being penned up in the house half the time. but when the weather was wild and wet, and the salt marshes lay under water, that meant little food and much discomfort, frequent quarrels, and much bitterness to the fisherman's family. this autumn the weather was more than usually boisterous; and long before the usual time the old boat had to be drawn up on to the bank, for fear the waves should dash it to pieces. the fisherman sometimes went to fellness, on the chance of picking up a stray job, for it was only the state of his boat, and his anxiety to keep it together as long as possible, that prevented him braving the perils of the sea; and so he sometimes got the loan of another boat, or helped another fisherman with his; and then, rough though they might be, these fisher-folk were kind and helpful to each other, and if they could not afford to pay money for a job, they could pay for it in bread or flour, or potatoes, perhaps, and so they would generally find coomber something to do, that they might help him, without hurting him. but there was little work that could be done in such bad weather as this, and he knew it, and his proud, independent spirit could not brook to accept even a mouthful of bread that he had not earned; and so there were many weary days spent at home, or sauntering round the coast with his gun, on the look-out for a stray wild fowl. tiny often went to bed hungry, and woke up feeling faint and sick; and although she never forgot to say her prayers, she could not help thinking sometimes that god must have forgotten her. she read her paper to dick, and he and tom had both learned to spell out some of the words, and she read to herself again and again the divine assurance, "god is good to all: he loves both boys and girls;" but then, as dick said sometimes, bermuda point was such a long way from anywhere, and he might forget there were any boys and girls living there. when she was very hungry, and more than usually depressed, tiny thought dick must be right, but even then she would not admit such a thought to others. when she saw mrs. coomber in tears, because she had no food to prepare for her hungry children, she would steal up to her, pass her little arm round the poor woman's neck, and whisper, "god is good; he'll take care of us, mammy; he'll send us some supper, if he can't send us any dinner;" and the child's hopeful words often proved a true prophecy, for sometimes when coomber had been out all day without finding anything that could be called food, he would, when returning, manage to secure a wild duck, perhaps, or a couple of sea magpies, or a few young gulls. nothing came amiss to the young coombers at any time, and just now a tough stringy gull was a dainty morsel. it threatened to be an unusually hard and long winter, and at last mrs. coomber ventured to suggest that tiny should be taken to the poorhouse, at least until the spring, when she could come back again. "look at her poor little white face," said the woman, with her apron to her eyes; "i'm afraid she'll be ill soon, and then what can we do?" "time enough to talk about that when she is ill," said coomber, gruffly, as he took up his gun and went out. they were generally able to keep a good fire of the drift-wood and wreckage that was washed ashore, for unfortunately there was scarcely a week passed but some noble vessel came to grief on the perilous bar sands during the more boisterous weather. once, when they were at their wits' end for food, and bob had begged his mother to boil some samphire for supper, tiny was fortunate enough to discover an unopened cask which the sea had cast up the night before, and left high and dry behind the ridge of sandhills. she was not long fetching bob and the boys to see her treasure trove; all sorts of wild speculations passing through her mind as to what it could contain as she ran shouting-- "bob! bob! dick! dick! come and see what i've found." [illustration: "'dick, dick, come and see what i've found.'" (_see page ._)] the boys were not long in making their appearance, and bob fetched a hatchet, and soon broke open the cask; and oh! what joy for the starving children--it was full of ship biscuits! "oh, dick, didn't i tell you this morning god hadn't forgotten us?" said tiny, in a quavering voice, when bob announced what the cask contained. "oh, yes," said dick, "so you did;" but he was too hungry to think of anything but the biscuits now--too hungry even to shout his joy, as he would have done at another time. as soon as they could be got at, he handed one to tiny, and then tom and dick helped themselves, filling their pockets and munching them at the same time; but tiny, though she nibbled her biscuit as she went, ran at once to tell mrs. coomber of her wonderful discovery; and she, scarcely daring to believe that such good news could be true, ran out at once to see for herself, and met the boys, who confirmed tiny's tale. but she must see the cask for herself, and then she ate and filled her apron, and shed tears, and thanked god for this wonderful gift all at the same time. then she told the boys to come and fetch some baskets at once, to carry them home in, and she would sort them over, for some were soaked with sea-water, but others near the middle were quite dry. bob took a bagful and went in search of his father along the coast, and everybody was busy carrying or sorting or drying the biscuits, for they had to be secured before the next tide came in, or they might be washed away again. when coomber came home, bringing a couple of sea-gulls he had shot, he was fairly overcome at the sight of the biscuits. "daddy, it was god that sent 'em," said tiny, in an earnest, joyful whisper. the fisherman drew his sleeve across his eyes. "seems as though it must ha' been, deary," he said; "for how that cask ever came ashore without being broken up well-nigh beats me." "god didn't let it break, 'cos we wanted the biscuits," said tiny confidently; "yer see, daddy, he ain't forgot us, though bermuda point is a long way from anywhere." the biscuits lasted them for some time, for as the season advanced coomber was able to sell some of the wild ducks he shot, and so potatoes, and flour, and bread could be brought at fellness again. if the fisherman could only have believed that whisky was not as necessary as bread, they might have suffered less privation; but every time he got a little money for his wild fowl, the bottle had to be replenished, even though he took home but half the quantity of bread that was needed; and so tiny sometimes was heard to wish that god would always send them biscuits in a tub, and then daddy couldn't drink the stuff that made him so cross. mrs. coomber smiled and sighed as she heard tiny whisper this to dick. she, too, had often wished something similar--or, at least, that her husband could do without whisky. now, as the supply of wild fowl steadily increased, he came home more sullen than ever. his return from fellness grew to be a dread even to tiny at last; and she and dick used to creep off to bed just before the time he was expected to return, leaving bob and tom to bear the brunt of whatever storm might follow. he seldom noticed their absence, until one night, when, having drunk rather more than usual, he was very cross on coming in, and evidently on the look-out for something to make a quarrel over. "where's dick and the gal?" he said, as he looked round the little kitchen, after flinging himself into a chair. "they're gone to bed," said his wife, timidly, not venturing to look up from her work. "then tell 'em to get up." "i--i dunno whether it 'ud be good for tiny," faltered the poor woman; "she's got a cold now, and--and----" "are you going to call 'em up, or shall i go and lug 'em out of bed?" demanded the angry, tipsy man. "but, coomber," began his wife. "there, don't stand staring like that, but do as i tell you," interrupted the fisherman; "i won't have 'em go sneaking off to bed just as i come home. i heard that little 'un say one day she was afraid of me sometimes. afraid, indeed; i'll teach her to be afraid," he repeated, working himself into a passion over some maudlin recollection of the children's talk in the summer-time. his wife saw it would be of no use reasoning with him in his present mood, and so went to rouse the children without further parley. they were not asleep, and so were prepared for the summons, as they had overheard what had been said. "oh mammy, must i come?" said tiny, her teeth chattering with fear, as she slipped out of bed. "don't be afraid, deary--don't let him see you're frightened," whispered mrs. coomber; "slip your clothes on as quick as you can, and come and sing 'star of peace' to him; then he'll drop off to sleep, and you can come to bed again." "i will--i will try," said the child, trying to force back her tears and speak bravely. but in spite of all her efforts to be brave, and not look as though she was frightened, she crept into the kitchen looking cowed and half-bewildered with terror, and before she could utter a word of her song, coomber pounced upon her. "what do yer look like that for?" he demanded; "what business have you to be frightened of me?" tiny turned her white face towards him, and ventured to look up. "i--i----" "she's going to sing 'star of peace,'" interposed mrs. coomber; "let her come and sit over here by the fire." "you let her alone," roared her husband; "she's a-going to do what i tell her. come here," he called, in a still louder tone. tiny ventured a step nearer, but did not go close to him. "are you coming?" he roared again; then, stretching out his hand, he seized her by the arm, and dragged her towards him, giving her a violent shake as he did so. "there--now sing!" he commanded, placing her against his knee. the child stared at him with a blank, fascinated gaze. once he saw her lips move, but no sound came from them; and after waiting a minute he dashed her from him with all the strength of his mad fury. there was a shriek from mrs. coomber, and screams from the boys, but poor little tiny uttered no sound. they picked her up from where she had fallen, or rather had been thrown, and her face was covered with blood; but she uttered no groan--gave no sign of life. "oh, she's dead! she's dead!" wailed dick, bending over her as she lay in his mother's arms. the terrible sight had completely sobered coomber. "did i do it? did i do that?" he asked, in a changed voice. "why, yer know yer did," growled bob; "or leastways the whisky in yer did it. i've often thought you'd do for mother, or one of us; but i never thought yer'd lift yer hand agin a poor little 'un like that." coomber groaned, but made no reply. "hold your tongue, bob," commanded his mother; for she could see that her husband was sorry enough now for what he had done. "what's to be done, mother?" he asked, in a subdued voice; "surely, surely i haven't killed the child!" but mrs. coomber feared that he had, and it was this that paralysed all her faculties. "i don't know what to do," she said, helplessly, wiping away the blood that kept flowing from a deep gash on tiny's forehead. "couldn't you give her some water?" said dick, who did not know what else to suggest. coomber meekly fetched a cupful from the pan outside, and mrs. coomber dipped her apron in it, and bathed tiny's face; and in a minute or two dick saw, to his great delight, that she drew a faint, fluttering breath. coomber saw it too, and the relief was so great that he could not keep back his tears. "please god he'll spare us his little 'un, i'll never touch another drop of whisky," he sobbed, as he leaned over his wife's chair, and watched her bathe the still pallid face. "open the door, dick, and let her have a breath of fresh air; and don't stand too close," said his mother, as tiny drew another faint breath. the door was opened, and the boys stood anxiously aside, watching the faint, gasping breath, until at last tiny was able to swallow a little of the water; and then they would have closed round her again, but their mother kept them off. "would a drop o' milk do her good?" whispered coomber after a time; but she was sensible enough to recognise his voice, and shuddered visibly. he groaned as he saw it; but drew further back, so that she should not see him when she opened her eyes. "give me the sticking-plaster, dick," said his mother, when tiny had somewhat revived. mrs. coomber was used to cuts and wounds, and could strap them up as cleverly as a surgeon. it was not the sight of the ugly cut that had frightened her, but the death-like swoon, which she did not understand. "how about the milk, mother?" coomber ventured to ask, after tiny's forehead was strapped up and bandaged. again came that shudder of fear, and the little girl crept closer to the sheltering arms. "don't be frightened, deary; daddy won't hurt you now." "don't let him come," whispered tiny; but coomber heard the whisper, and it cut him to the heart, although he kept carefully in the background as he repeated his question. "would yer like a little milk, deary?" asked mrs. coomber. "there ain't no money to buy milk," said tiny, in a feeble, weary tone. but coomber crept round the back of the kitchen, so as to keep out of sight, took up the bottle of whisky he had brought home, and went out. he brought a jug of milk when he came back. "you can send for some more to-morrow, and as long as she wants it," he said, as he stood the jug on the table. [illustration] chapter vii. a tea meeting. tiny was very ill the next day--too ill to get up, or to notice what was passing around her. mrs. coomber, who had had very little experience of sickness, was very anxious when she saw tiny lying so quiet and lifeless-looking, the white bandage on her forehead making her poor little face look quite ghastly in its paleness. the fisherman had crept into the room before he went out, to look at her while she was asleep, and the sight had made his heart ache. "i never thought i could ha' been such a brute as to hurt a little 'un like that," he said, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, and speaking in a whisper to his wife. "it was the whisky," said his wife, by way of comforting him. but coomber would not accept even this poor comfort. "i was a fool to take so much," he said. "wus than a fool, for i knowed it made me savage as a bear; and yet i let it get the mastery of me. but it's the last, mother; i took the bottle to the farm last night, and they're going to let me have the value of it in milk for the little 'un, and please god she gets well again, it's no more whisky i'll touch." it was not easy for a man like coomber to make such a promise, and still more difficult to keep it. for the first few days, while tiny was very ill, it was not so hard to send bob and tom to fellness, with the teal and widgeon he had shot; but when she began to get better, and the craving for the drink made itself felt, then began the tug of war. during the first few days of the little girl's illness, the fisherman kept carefully out of her sight, though he longed to see her once more, and hear her say she had forgiven him the cruel blow he had dealt to her. tiny, too, longed for him to come and see her in the daytime; but as it grew dusk the longing passed away, and every night, as the hour drew near when he usually came back from fellness, a positive dread and terror of him seized her, and she would lie shivering and holding mrs. coomber's hand whenever she heard his voice in the kitchen. mrs. coomber tried to persuade her husband to go and see the child in the daytime; but he only shook his head. "she hates me, and i don't deserve to see her agin," he said, gloomily. he returned the same answer again and again, when pressed to go in and see her before he went out with his gun in the morning. at length, as he sat at breakfast one day, he was startled by tiny creeping up to him, just as she had slipped out of bed. "oh, daddy, why didn't you come to me?" she said, with a little gasping sob, throwing her arms round his neck. "my deary, my deary," he said, in a choking voice, gathering her in his arms, and kissing her, while the tears rolled down his weather-beaten face. "oh, daddy, don't you love me," said tiny; "that you didn't come to see me all these days?" "love you, my deary? ah, you may well ask that, after what i've done to yer; but it was just because i did love yer that i kept away from yer," he went on; "i thought you'd never want to see yer cruel old daddy any more; and as for me, why i'd punish myself by not trying to see yer, or get back your love. that's just how it was, deary," said the fisherman, as he looked tenderly at the little pallid face. "but, daddy, i love you, and i wanted you all the days," said tiny, nestling closer to him as she spoke. "bless you, deary, i believe you're one of god's own bairns, as well as a sailor's lass," said coomber. "i wanted you all the days, daddy; but--but--don't--come--at--night," she added, in a hesitating tone. "i know what you mean; mother's told me, little 'un," he said, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, and sighing. "i can't help it, daddy, i can't help it," said the little girl, with a sob. "well, i s'pose not; but you needn't be afraid now, you know. i've done with the bottle now; and it wasn't me you was afraid of, mother said, but the whisky." tiny nodded. "yes, that's it," she said; "and i shan't be afraid long if i know you don't have it now;" and from that time the little girl set herself strenuously to overcome the terror and dread that nightly crept over her; but still it was some time before she could endure coomber's presence after dusk. meanwhile pinching want was again making itself felt in the household. for some reason known only to themselves, the teal and widgeon did not come within range of the fisherman's gun just now; and sometimes, after a whole day spent in the punt, or among the salt marshes along the coast, only a few unsaleable old gulls would reward coomber's toil. they were not actually uneatable by those who were on the verge of starvation; but they were utterly unfit for a child like tiny, in her present weak, delicate condition; and again the question of sending her to the poorhouse until the spring was mooted by mrs. coomber. her husband did not refuse to discuss it this time when it was mentioned, and it was evident that he himself had thought of it already, for he said, with a groan-- "it seems as though god wasn't going to let me keep the little 'un, though she's getting on a bit, for never have i had such a bad shooting season as this since i knocked the little 'un down. it seems hard, mother; what do you think?" but mrs. coomber did not know what to think; she only knew that poor little tiny was often hungry, although she never complained. they had eaten up all the store of biscuits by this time; and although dick and tom often spent hours wandering along the shore, in the hope of finding another wonderful treasure-trove, nothing had come of their wanderings beyond the usual harvest of drift wood that enabled them to keep a good fire in the kitchen all day. at length it was decided that coomber should take tiny to the poorhouse, and ask the authorities to keep her until this bitter winter was over; and then, when the spring came, and the boat could go out once more, he would fetch her home again. but it was not without many tears that this proposal was confided to tiny, the fisherman insisting--though he shrank from the task himself--that she should be told what they thought of doing. "she is a sailor's lass, and it's only fair to her," he said, as he left his wife to break the news to tiny. she was overwhelmed at the thought of being separated from those who had been so kind to her, and whom she had learned to love so tenderly, but with a mighty effort she choked back her tears, for she saw how grieved mrs. coomber was; though she could not help exclaiming: "oh! if god would only let me stay with you, and daddy, and dick!" her last words to dick before she started were in a whispered conference, in which she told him to pray to god every day to let her come back soon. "i will, i will!" said dick through his tears; "i'll say what you told me last night--i'll say it every day." and then coomber and tiny set out on their dreary walk to fellness, reaching it about the middle of the afternoon. bob and tom had let their old friends know that their father had given up the whisky, and now he, foolish man, felt half afraid and half ashamed to meet them; but he was obliged to go, for he wanted peters to go with him, and tell the workhouse people about the rescue of the little girl, for fear they should refuse to take her in unless his story was confirmed. coomber explained this to his friend in a rather roundabout fashion, for he had not found peters on the shore, as he had expected, and where he could have stated his errand in a few words. he had found instead that all the village was astir with the news of a tea-meeting, that was to take place that afternoon in the chapel, and that peters, who was "something of a methody," as coomber expressed it, had gone to help in the preparations. he was astonished to see coomber when he presented himself, and still more to hear the errand he had come upon. he scratched his head, and looked pityingly at the little girl, who held fast to coomber's hand. "well now, mate, i'm in a fix," he said, slowly, and pointing round the room; "i've got all these forms to move, and to fix up the tables for 'em by four o'clock; but if you'll stay and lend a hand, why, you and the little 'un 'll be welcome to stay to tea, i know; it's free to all the village to-day," he added, "and the more that come, the better we shall like it." coomber looked at tiny, and saw how wistfully her eyes rested on a pile of cakes that stood near; and that look decided him. "would you like to have some of it?" he said, with a faint smile. the little girl's face flushed with joy at the prospect of such a treat. "oh, daddy! if i could only take dick some, too," she said. both the men laughed, but peters said, "well, well, we'll see what we can do; come in here while daddy helps me with the forms;" and he led the way into a small room, where several of the fishermen's wives were cutting bread and butter. peters whispered a word to one of them, and she seated tiny by the fire, and gave her some bread and butter at once. when the tea was all ready, and the company began to arrive, coomber fetched tiny to sit with him, and the two had a bountiful tea, and such cake as the little girl had not tasted for a long time. but she would not eat much. she took what was given to her, but slipped most of it into coomber's pocket, that he might take it home to dick, for the little girl thought they would go on to the poorhouse as soon as tea was over. but while the tea-things were being cleared away, and they were preparing for the meeting that was to follow, the fisherman drew her aside, and whispered: "i do believe god has heard what you've been a-praying for, deary, for peters has heard of a job of work for me since i've been here." "oh, daddy! and we shall go home together again," exclaimed tiny, looking round for her bonnet at once. "yes, but not jest yet. there's to be some preaching or somethin', and--and--little 'un, i've been a bad man, and i dunno as god'll have anything to do wi' helping such a tough customer to be any better; but if he would--" and here coomber drew his sleeve across his eyes, and turned his head aside to hide his emotion. the little girl threw her arms round his neck, and drew his face close to hers. "oh, daddy, he will! he will!" she whispered, earnestly; "he loves you, and he's been waiting all this long time for you to love him; and you will, won't you, now, you know?" but there was no time for coomber to reply, for the people were taking their seats again, and peters touched him on the shoulder, motioning him to do the same. the two sat down, feeling too eager for shyness, or to notice that others were looking at them. a hymn was sung, and a prayer followed, and then coomber began to feel disappointed, for he was hungering to hear something that might set his doubts at rest. at length he heard the words that have brought help and gladness to so many souls: "god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." then followed a simple address, enlarging upon the text, and an exhortation to accept god's offer of salvation. "the lord jesus christ himself said: 'come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest,'" continued the speaker, "and in his name i beg each one of you to become reconciled to god. he is waiting: he is willing to receive each one of you." these were his closing words, and coomber, who had listened with eager, rapt attention, stayed only for the people to move towards the door, and then followed the speaker into the little vestry. "beg pardon, sir," he said, pausing at the door, "but 'tain't often as i gets the chance of hearing such words as i've heard from you to-night, and so i hopes you'll forgive me if i asks for a bit more. i'm a bad man. i begins to see it all now; but--but----" "my friend, if you feel that you are a sinner, then you are just one of those whom the lord jesus died to redeem. he came to seek and to save those who are lost--to redeem them from sin. he gave his life--dying upon the cross, a shameful, painful death--not, mark me, that they may continue in sin. to say we believe in god, and to live in sin, makes our belief of no effect. we must learn of christ, or he will have died in vain for us. we must learn of him, and he will help us to overcome our love of drink, our selfishness, and sullenness, and ill-temper;" for the gentleman knew something of coomber, and so particularised the sins he knew to be his easily besetting ones. "and you think he'd help me? you see, sir, he's done a deal for me lately, bad as i am," said coomber, twisting his hat in his hand. "help you! ah, that he will. if he gave his only son, what do you think he will withhold? 'what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone? or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent? if ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him.'" "and what are the good things that i'm to ask for," said coomber. "i know what the asking means; this little 'un here has taught me that praying is asking god; and though i ain't never done it afore, i'll begin now." "do, my man. ask that the holy spirit may be given you, to lead you, and teach you, and guide you into all truth. without his help you can do nothing; but, seeking his help, trusting in his guidance, you will be enabled to overcome every difficulty and obstacle, however hard it may be." "and you think god will forgive me all the past?" "my brother, christ died--he shed his precious blood, to wash away our sin, to set our conscience free from guilt, and to assure us beyond a doubt of the perfect love of god towards us." the words spoken fell into prepared soil, for coomber had been hungering and thirsting after righteousness, and he went home that night feeling that he had been fed. what a happy walk home that was for tiny and the fisherman! as he left the little chapel at fellness, a basket, well filled with the odds and ends left from the tea-meeting, had been handed to coomber to take home, and peters whispered, as he went out: "i've heard of another job for yer, so be along in good time in the morning, mate." to describe mrs. coomber's joy, when her husband walked in with tiny asleep in his arms, and also with the basket of bread and butter, would be impossible. "god has given us the little 'un back, mother," he said, placing the child in his wife's arms. "he's been good to me, better than i deserved, only the lord jesus christ has died for me, and that explains it all." his heart was full of joy and gratitude to-night, and he forgot his usual shyness, and told his wife of the good news he had heard at fellness, both for body and soul. "now, mother," he said, as he concluded, "you and i must both begin a new life. we must ask god to help us like this little 'un, and we must teach our boys to do the same. we owe it all to her," he added, as he kissed tiny, "for if she hadn't come among us, we might never have heard about god down here at bermuda point." [illustration] chapter viii. brighter days. the dreary winter came to an end at last, and with the first spring days there was a general bustle of preparation in the fisherman's family, for boat and nets alike required overhauling, and there would be a good deal of repairing to do before the old boat would be fit for further use. bob's face was fast losing its sullen, defiant, angry look, and he was whistling as merrily as a lark one morning, when he and coomber went to remove the tarpaulin that had been covered over the boat during the winter; but the whistling suddenly ceased when the boat was uncovered, for, with all their care, the winter's storms had worked sad havoc with the little craft. seams were starting, ribs were bulging, and there were gaping holes, that made coomber lift his hat and scratch his head in consternation. "this'll be a tough job, bob," he said. "aye, aye, dad, it will that," said the lad, carefully passing his finger down where one rib seemed to be almost rotten. a few months before coomber would have raved and blustered, and sworn it was all bob's fault, but since that tea-meeting at fellness he had been a changed man--old things had passed away, and all things had become new; and none felt this more than bob. it was a blessed change for him, and he had given up all thoughts of running away now, if the old boat could only be patched up and made serviceable. but it was a problem whether this could ever be done effectually enough to make it seaworthy. "if i'd only found out ten years ago that i could do better without the whisky than with it, we might ha' got a new boat afore this, bob," said the fisherman, with a sigh. "aye, aye, and had jack with us, too, dad," bob ventured to remark. he had not dared to mention his brother's name for years, but he had thought a good deal of him lately, wishing he could come home, and see the blessed change that had been wrought in his father. the old fisherman lifted his head, and there was a look of bitter anguish in his face, as he said: "hark ye, lad, i'd give all the days of my life to bring jack back. the thought of him is making yer mother an old woman afore her time, and i can't help it now; it's too late, too late;" and the old fisherman covered his face and groaned. "there now, father, ain't i heard you say it was never too late to repent?" "aye, lad, that you have, and the precious blood of christ can take away the guilt of our sin; but, mark me, not even god himself can do away with the consequences of sin. hard as they may be, and truly and bitterly as we may repent, the past can't be undone; and as we sow we must reap. poor jack! poor jack! if i could only know where he was. why, it's nigh on ten years since he went away, and never a storm comes but i'm thinking my boy may be in it, and wanting help." bob recalled what had passed on fellness sands the night they rescued tiny, and which had helped him often since to bear with his father's gruff, sullen ways and fierce outbursts of temper; but he would not say any more just now, only he thought that but for that tea-meeting his father would now be mourning the loss of two sons; for he had made up his mind to leave home when it was decided to take tiny to the poorhouse. they were working at the boat a few days after this, caulking, and plugging, and tarring, when tiny, who had been playing on the sandhills a little way off, came running up breathless with some news. [illustration: tiny and the old man. (_see page ._)] "oh, daddy! there's a little ugly, old man over there, and he says my name is coomber. is it, daddy?" the fisherman lifted his hat and scratched his head, looking puzzled. strange to say, this question of the little girl's name had never suggested itself to anybody before, living as they did in this out-of-the-way spot. she was "tiny," or "deary," or "the little 'un," and no need had arisen for any other name; and so, after scratching his head for a minute, he said: "well, deary, if i'm your daddy, i s'pose your name is coomber. but who is the old man?" he asked; for it was not often that strangers were seen at bermuda point, even in summer-time. "i dunno, daddy; but he says he knowed my mother when she was a little gal like me." coomber dropped the tar-brush he was using, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. had somebody come to claim the child after all? he instinctively clutched her hand for a minute, but the next he told her to go home, while he went to speak to the stranger. he found a little, neatly-dressed old man seated on one of the sandhills, and without a word of preface he began: "you've come after my little gal, i s'pose?" the old man smiled. "what's your name, my man?" he said, taking out a pocket-book, and preparing to write. "coomber." "coomber!" exclaimed the old man, dropping his book in his surprise. "why, yes; what should it be?" said the fisherman. "didn't you tell my little tiny that you knew her name was coomber? but how you came to know----" "why, i never saw you before that i know of," interrupted the other, sharply; "so how do you suppose i should know your name? i told the child i knew her name was matilda coomber, for she is the very image of her mother when she was a girl, and she was my only daughter." "oh, sir, and you've come to fetch her!" gasped the fisherman. the stranger took out his snuff-box, and helped himself to a pinch. "well, i don't know so much about that," he said, cautiously; "i am her grandfather, and i thought, when i picked up that old newspaper the other day, and read about her being saved, i'd just like to come and have a look at her. i was pretty sure she was my tilly's little one, by the description of the silver medal she wore, for i'd given it to her mother just before she ran away to get married to that sailor coomber." "oh, sir, a sailor, and his name was coomber! where is he? what was he like?" asked the fisherman, eagerly. "he was drowned before his wife died; she never held up her head afterwards, the people tell me. i never saw her after she was married, and swore i'd never help her or hers; but when she was dying she wrote and told me she was leaving a little girl alone in the world, and had left directions for it to be brought to me after her death. with this letter she sent her own portrait, and that of her husband and child, begging me to keep them for the child until she grew up. a day or two after came another letter, saying she was dead, and a neighbour was coming from grimsby to london by ship, and would bring the child to me; but i never heard or saw anything of either, and concluded she was drowned, when, about a month ago, an old newspaper came in my way, and glancing over it, i saw the account of a little girl being saved from a wreck, and where she might be heard of. i went to the place, and they sent me here, and the minute i saw the child, i knew her for my tilly's." the old man had talked on, but coomber had comprehended very little of what was said. he stood looking half-dazed for a minute or two after the stranger had ceased speaking. at length he gathered his wits sufficiently to say: "have you got them pictures now?" "yes," said the old man, promptly, taking out his pocket-book as he spoke. "here they are; i took care to bring 'em with me;" and he brought out three photographs. coomber seized one instantly. "it is him! it is my jack!" he gasped. "oh, sir, tell me more about him." "i know nothing about him, i tell you," said the other, coldly; "i never saw or spoke to my daughter after she married him; but i'm willing to do something for the little child, seeing it was my girl's last wish." "the child," repeated coomber. "do you mean to say little tiny is my jack's child?" "well, yes, of course i do. what else could i mean?" replied the other. "then--then i'm her grandfather, and have as much right to her as you have," said the fisherman, quickly. the stranger shrugged his shoulders. "well, i s'pose you have," he said; "i'm not going to dispute it. i'm willing to do my duty by her. but mind, i'm not a rich man--not a rich man," he added. coomber was puzzled for a minute to know what he meant, and was about to say that he wanted no payment for keeping tiny; but the other lifted his hand in a commanding manner, and exclaimed: "now, hear me first. let me have my say, and then, perhaps, we can come to terms about the matter. you've got a wife, i s'pose, that can look after this child. i haven't; and if she came to me, i shouldn't know what to do with her. well now, that being the case, she'd better stay here--for the present at least; she's happy enough, i s'pose; and i'll pay you twenty pounds a year as my share towards her expenses." coomber was about to exclaim indignantly against this, and protest that he would accept no payment; but just then he caught sight of bob and the old boat, and the thought of what that money would enable him to do kept him silent a little longer. "well now," resumed the old man, "if that plan suits you, we'll come to business at once. you've had her about eighteen months now, so there's about thirty pounds due. you see i'm an honest man, and mean to do the just thing by her," he added. "thirty pounds!" repeated coomber, to whom such a sum seemed immense wealth. but the other mistook the exclamation for one of discontent, and so he said, quickly, "well now, i'll throw you ten pounds in, as i hear you were the one that saved her, and pay you the next six months in advance. that'll make it a round fifty; but i won't go a penny farther. now will that satisfy you?" satisfy him? coomber was debating with himself whether he ought to take a farthing, considering what a rich blessing the little girl had been to him. it was only the thought of the bitter winter they had just passed through, and that, if he could get a new boat, he could better provide for the child, that made him hesitate, lest in refusing it he should do tiny a wrong. at length, after a pause, during which he had silently lifted his heart in prayer to god, he said: "well, sir, for the little 'un's sake i'll take your offer. but, look you, i shall use this money as a loan that is to be returned; and as i can save it, i shall put it in the bank for her." the other shrugged his shoulders. "you can do as you like about that. i shall come and see the child sometimes, and----" "do, sir, do, god bless her! to think she's my jack's child!" interrupted coomber, drawing his sleeve across his eyes. "do you know, sir, where my boy went down?" he asked, in a tremulous voice. but the other shook his head. "i tell you i know nothing of my daughter after she married; but she sent me a box with some letters and these portraits, and some other odds and ends, to be kept for her little matilda. i'll send you them if you like;" and the old man rose as he spoke. "can you go with me to fellness now, and settle this business about the money?" he added. "but don't you want to see tiny?" exclaimed coomber, who could not understand his willingness to give up his claim to the child. "i have seen her. we had a long talk here before you came. you may tell her that her grandfather west will come and see her sometimes. and now, if you'll follow me as quickly as you can to the village, we'll settle this business;" and as he spoke, mr. west turned towards the road, leaving coomber still half-dazed with astonishment. "bob, bob," he called at last, "i've got to go to the village. a strange thing has happened here to-day, and i want to get my wits a bit together before i tell your mother. but you needn't do much to the boat till i come back, for it may be we shall have a new one after all." bob looked up in his father's face, speechless with surprise. he spoke of having a new boat as though it was a very sad business. but his next words explained it. "i've heard of jack," he said; "no storms will trouble him again;" and then the fisherman burst forth into heart-breaking sobs and groans, and bob shed a few tears, although he felt heartily ashamed of them. "now go back, bob, and tell your mother i've gone to fellness; and if i ain't home by five o'clock, you come and meet me, for i shall have some money to carry--almost a fortune, bob." having heard so much, bob wanted to hear more, and so walked with his father for the first mile along the road, listening to the strange tale concerning tiny. then he went back, and told the news to the astonished group at home; and so, before coomber returned, his wife had got over the first outburst of grief for the death of her son, and she and bob had had time to talk calmly over the whole matter. they had decided that the money must be used in such a way as would give the little girl the greatest benefit from it, and that she must go to school, if possible. "now, if dad could buy a share in one of the bigger boats where he and i could work, wouldn't it be better than buying a little one for ourselves?" suggested bob; "then we could go and live at fellness, and tiny could go to school--sunday-school as well as week-day." "and dick, too," put in tiny. "yes, and we should all go to god's house on sunday," said mrs. coomber, drying her eyes. strange to say, a similar project had been suggested to coomber by his old friend peters, who knew a man who wanted to sell his share in one of the large fishing-boats, and was asking forty pounds for it. "that will leave us ten pounds, mother, to buy the children some new clothes, and take us to fellness. what do you say to it now?" asked her husband, after they had talked it over. "why, it seems too good to be true," said the poor woman, through her tears. "but oh! if only poor jack was here!" she sighed. her husband shook his head, and was silent for a minute or two; but at length he said: "god has been very good to us when we had no thought of him. i always knew the little 'un must be a sailor's lass, but to think that she should be our jack's own child is wonderful. the old gentleman had made quite sure of it before he came here--he wouldn't part with his money unless he'd been sure, i know; and now she's ours, just as much as dick and bob is. and we'll take good care of her, god bless her, and him for sending her to us." * * * * * the rest of my story is soon told. the fisherman and his family removed to fellness, and brighter days dawned for them than they had ever hoped to see. when the box arrived from mr. west, containing the letter and papers relating to the latter years of their son's life, they found that he had become a true christian through his wife's influence. he had also learned to read and write; and in the last letter sent to his wife before his death, he told her he meant to go and see his parents as soon as he returned from that voyage. alas! he never did return; but the "little lass," of whom he spoke so lovingly, became god's messenger to his old home, and the joy and comfort of his parents' hearts. printed by cooke & halsted, the moorfields press, london, e.c. taking tales, instructive and entertaining reading, by w.h.g. kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ this book is a collection of six tales. originally each of these was published as a separate book, at a low price. each story was full of interest, and the intention was that the families of england would sit down as a family to read and discuss the story. in this collection we have a story about an english country miller; a boy who goes to sea; a family who settle in canada; a boy who joins the army and serves in the crimea and in the indian mutiny; an australian shepherd; and lastly, but far from least, a little boy who has to work down a coal mine. if you read any of these stories you too will find yourself with plenty of new thoughts. perhaps you are glad that life nowadays does not make such demands on very young boys. ________________________________________________________________________ taking tales, instructive and entertaining reading, by w.h.g. kingston. story one, chapter . the miller of hillbrook. there are all sorts of mills: some go by water, undershot or overshot; but if the millpond is dry, or the stream runs low, they come to a standstill. they want help, they must have water, to go on. next there are steam-mills, which make a great noise and do a great deal of work; but they want coals and water too: if both are not brought to them, they stop and can do nothing. and then there are wind-mills; but everybody knows that wind-mills, though they do stand on the tops of hills, in spite of their great long arms stuck out, are of no use if the wind does not blow. so a man may try to do a great deal of work; but if he tries to get on without the help of his neighbours, and without being willing to help them in return, he will soon find that he too has to come to a standstill. yes, young or old, rich or poor, must all help each other. once there came on earth a great person, great though poor, a carpenter's son. he only stayed a short time, but all that time he went about doing good to men, helping his fellows; and he died that he might help all men still more, and in a way no other person could have helped them. he came to die, because all men have sinned. he came also to show men how to live--how to act one towards another. mark page, the miller of hillbrook, owned a wind-mill on the top of a knoll just above the village. his house and sheds for his carts and horses stood below it, and round it were some fields which were his; so it will be seen that he was well to do in the world. he had a wife and a son and a daughter, and he ought to have been a happy man; but he was not. things seemed never to go quite right with mark. either there was too much wind, or too little wind. if there was little wind he was sure to cry out for more, but once; and then he would have given his mill and his house and fields to have got the wind not to blow. about that i will tell by-and-by. sometimes the miller sang-- "when the wind blows, then the mill goes: when the wind drops, then the mill stops." but he was wont to growl out, "the wind is sure to drop when i have most grist to grind--just to spite me." hillbrook was a nice spot. there was the brook which ran out of the hill, fresh and pure, right through the village. there was not water enough to turn a mill, but enough to give the people right good water to drink and to cook with. it is a sad thing not to have good water. bad water, from ponds, or ditches, or wells near drains, makes many people ill, and kills not a few. the people of hillbrook prized their good water. they said, "we have good water and pure air, and now what we have to do is to keep our cottages clean and we shall be well." they did keep the floors and the walls of their cottages clean, but somehow fevers still came. at times, when the sun was hot, many people were ill: no one could tell how it was. there was a farm to let, called hillside farm. no one would take it, for it was said that the land was cold and wet, and too open. at last one farmer grey came to see it. the rent was low, the terms fair; "i'll take it on a long lease," he said; "and if god wills it, ere many years go by, it will yield good crops." farmer grey soon gave work to many hands, he paid good wages too, and was always among his men to see that each man did his proper work. he put deep down in the ground miles and miles of drain pipes, it was said. hillside was next to the mill farm. when mark page saw the tons and tons of dung of all sorts, chalk, and guano, which comes from over the sea, put on the land, he said that farmer grey had put more gold on it than he would ever get out of it. farmer grey said, "bide a bit, neighbour, and we shall see." farmer grey heard some people one day talk about their good water and fine air and clean cottages, and yet that fevers came to the place. so he went into the village, and walked from cottage to cottage: "look here, what is this hole for?" he asked one; "i must hold my nose while i stand near it. why it's just under the room where some of you sleep!" "oh, that's just a hole where we empty slops, and throw in cabbage stalks and dirt of all sorts," said the good woman; "we take it out sometimes to spread on the garden." "now hear me, dame," said farmer grey, "that hole is just a nest sure to hatch a fever some day; drain it off, fill it up, and dig a new one at the end of the garden, and take care that none of the drainings run into your brook." "why is this green ditch close under your window, dame?" he asked of another. "why you see, farmer, it is there, it has always been there, and it's so handy just to empty the slops and such-like dirt," said the dame; "to be sure it does smell bad sometimes, but that can't be helped." "hear me, dame," said farmer grey, "i have a notion that god lets bad smells come out of such muck just to show us that if we breathe them they will do us harm; the bad air which comes out of the muck mixes with the air we are always taking into our insides, and that makes us ill. you had one child die last summer of fever, and one is now ill. now just do you get your good man to drain that off when he comes home, and tell him that he need not come to work till after breakfast to-morrow, or noon, if he has not done it." in another cottage a drain full of filth ran right under the floor. a cesspool was close to a fourth cottage. in several the floors were clean; but all sorts of filth had dropped through and stayed there, and when it rained the water ran under the floor. "just lift up a plank," said farmer grey; it was done, and he stuck his stick into a foot or more of black mud. "bad air--gas it is called--comes out of that stuff. that's what brings fevers and kills the children," he said. "oh, my friends, you must get rid of all these things if you wish to have health." the people in hillbrook liked farmer grey; they knew that he wished them well, and the wise ones did what he told them. the cholera at last came to england. no one was ill in those cottages near which the cesspools and green ditches and dirt holes had been filled up; but five or six died in the cottages where they were left, and the stuff from them mixed with the water they drank. then people saw that farmer grey was right. somehow mark page did not like him, nor did mistress page, his wife, nor his son, young ben page; they all spoke an ill word of him when they could. only mary page, of all in the house, would never do so. mary was not like the rest in the miller's house, she was sweet and kind. she had been to a school where she had learned what was good and right, and what god loved her to do. mark page said that the water which ran off farmer grey's land came on to his and did it harm. "i can prove it," he said. "once my crops were as good as any which grew on that land. now look you here, his crops are as fine as you would wish to see, and mine are not half as good. i'll see if i can't turn the water back again." farmer grey wished to make a road through his farm, and over some wild land, where, in winter, the carts often stuck fast. there was no lack of gravel, but he had of course to drain the ground, and then by just making the road round--that is, the middle higher than the sides--the water ran off on both sides, and the road was as hard as stone. "ah! ah! see, farmer grey has sent the water which used to remain quiet on the top of the hill right down over my land, just to make his own road, as if a road was of use up there," said mark page. "i'll be revenged on him some day, that i will." these words were told to farmer grey. "will he?" he said; "then i will heap coals of fire on his head, and try which will win the day." "what can he mean?" asked one or two of those who heard him: "that's not like how farmer grey is wont to speak. does he mean that he will burn his house over his head?" no, no; farmer grey did not mean that. he meant that he would do so many kind acts to mark page that he would soften his heart. these words are in the bible. in the land where the bible was written by god's order, when people want to soften any hard meat, they put it into a pot with a top and put the pot into a hole full of hot coals, and then they pile more hot coals over the top, so that all parts of the pot are hot; so that to heap coals of fire on a man's head has come to mean, to soften his heart by many kind deeds--heaping them upon his head. mark page did not know what a kind man farmer grey was. the miller had a man to help in the mill, sam green by name. there is a saying, "like master, like man." sam was very like the miller--may be worse. sam was a man of few words, the miller did not speak much--young ben was like his father. one night the talk was about the new road. "why not go and dig it up?" asked young ben page. "best thing to do," growled out sam green. it was moonlight, so they all three went out with spades and picks to the road. "where shall we dig, father?" asked ben. the miller looked about; his farm was on the left of the road. "stop these two or three drains here," he said, as he struck his spade on the left side. "but it seems to me that most of the water runs to the right, off into the brook; still i don't see what cause farmer grey had to go and make this road." the next day, farmer grey rode by and saw where the drains had been stopped. he might have known who did it. he said not a word, but sent a man to put them to rights. story one, chapter . the more harm the miller tried to do to james grey, the more he wished to do. when he could, he or ben or sam let his cows into the farmer's fields; and much mischief they did. ben, too, who might often be met with a gun in his hands, shot the farmer's game, and his rabbits and pigeons. one day, a fine dog the farmer was very fond of, came into one of mark page's fields. mark had a gun in his hand, and shot the dog. farmer grey met mark soon after this. "you shot my dog, trust, i am told," said the farmer. "your dog came after my rabbits," said mark. "friend, did i say one word to man or boy when your son not only came to my fields, but shot well-nigh half a score of my rabbits and my hares?" asked the farmer. "you know he came." "i shoot all dogs that come to my fields," said mark, walking on, with his eyes on the ground, and a frown on his brow. he did not speak much that day when he got home. in the evening there was a breeze, and the mill went round and round quite rapidly. "i'll not give in," he said to sam green, as they sat on the steps of the mill, while the grist they had just put in was grinding. "hold on to the last; that's what i say. farmer grey wants to come it strong over me; but i'll not let him." "all right, master; stick to that," said sam green. "so i will. he shan't come it over me; that he shan't," growled the miller. "`when the wind blows then the mill goes; when the wind drops, then the mill stops.' "`i care for nobody--no, not i, if nobody cares for me.'" "that's it, master; that's what i call the right thing; just proper pride," said sam, the miller's man. poor ben page had a poor chance of being well brought up by such a man as mark page, with such a friend as sam green. mrs page, too, his mother, did not know how to teach him what was right, for she did not care to do what was right herself. she just did what she liked best, not what was right. she ought to have known, for she had her bible, and time to read it; but she did not read it, neither sundays nor week-days. if we read the bible only on sunday, we pass more than three hundred days each year, on which days we do not learn what we ought to do in this life, or how we are to go to heaven. mary read her bible every day, and she used to tell ben what she had read, and to try very hard to get him to give up his bad ways. but though he loved her, yet he went on just the same. now and then he would stay at home, and not go to the ale-house, or out with his gun at night, and sit and talk to mary, or hear her read; but next day it was just as bad as ever. off he would go, and, may be, come home drunk, or with some hares or other game, which showed what he had been about. the miller only said, "ben, ben, take care." and ben laughed, and said, "don't fear; i'll not be found out." and he packed up the game, and sent it off to london. it seemed sure that ben would come to a bad end, if he was to go on in this way. mark page did not know what the bible says: "train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old, he will not depart from it." (proverbs chapter , verse ). but mark trained up his child in the way he should not go; and what could he think but that, when he was old, he would not depart from it? that is to say, from the way he should not go. ben page's mother let him do just, what he liked; she beat him, to be sure, when she was angry, but that was not for his good, and that ben soon found out. if he was quiet, and did not break any of her things, she did not scold him. ben was a bad boy, but a worse man. his friends were wild and bad, and he soon broke all the laws of god and man. he was sure to bring grief to the heart of his father and his mother; yet what could they hope for else? farmer grey had no wife nor child, but a brother of his died and left his only son to the farmer's care. young james grey was quite a young man when he came to hillside. he was a fine, tall lad, with a kind, good face, and people who saw him said that they were sure they should like him. there was no pride in him, it seemed, for he went about the village and talked to those he met in a pleasant way, which won all hearts. he was to help his uncle on the farm, it was said, though he did not look much like a farmer. his hands were fair, and his cheeks and brow showed that he had not been out much in the sun. james grey had not been long at hillside, when one day, as he passed the mill, he saw mary page at the door of her house, on her way to hang up some clothes to dry on the green. he passed more than once that day, and each day that he could, and he felt quite sad if he did not see mary page. mary page soon found out who he was; and one day he stopped and spoke to her, and soon they were great friends. mistress page was glad to see him come to the house, for she thought that his uncle was rich, and that he would make a good husband for mary. the miller, too, thought that he would make a good son-in-law. so james grey was asked in, and soon found himself quite at home. ben page was glad to see james, for he said, "he may some day be a friend in need to me." ben also found him a good-natured, good-tempered young man, who would not say no to what he was asked to do. the very thing for which ben liked james was one of james' great faults; he could not say no to what he was asked to do; if it was wrong or if it was right he did not stop to think, it seemed the same to him. if he was asked to do wrong, he did wrong; if he was asked to do right, and it was what he liked, he did right. still it could not be said that james grey was a bad young man--not at all--he was what was called a good young man. he was well-behaved, and joined in public worship, and seldom got drunk; he might have been so once or twice, but then he was quiet, it was not known. he did not swear, and was civil to all people. there was one thing james wanted. it was religion. he did not care to please god, though he read the bible and said his prayers. james knew that his uncle. farmer grey, did not think well of mark page. so james did not tell the farmer that he went to mark page's house, and that he loved mary page, and thought that he would ask her to be his wife some day. if he had told his uncle what he wished, the farmer would have said, "if mary page is a good girl, though i cannot think well of her father and her mother, she shall be your wife if you wish it and she wishes it." but james did not say a word of mary to his uncle, and the farmer did not think that james even knew her. mary thought very well of james. he seemed to her a good young man, and much more steady than ben. so she was very glad to see him when he could come to the mill, and by-and-by she gave him her whole heart; james, too, gave her his heart. yes, he loved her, he thought, very much; but, in truth, he did not love her by half so much as she loved him. mary might have done james much good at this time if she had had him to herself; but he and ben became great friends, and ben undid all the good she had done james, and did him much harm. ben took good care not to show james at first what bad things he did. he talked of others getting drunk, and said there was no great harm in it, and then he said how fine it was to go out with a gun at night and kill game, and what bold chaps did that sort of thing; and then he went on to boast of all sorts of bad things which he did. now if james had been wise he would not have stopped to hear all this, but would have said, "i am sure that is bad, and harm must come of it," and would have kept out of ben's way. when a bad person tries to make another do ill, the only safe plan for the other is to keep out of the bad person's way. james did not do that, and more than once he went with ben to the ale-house and got drunk. from the first day james did this, ben made him do just what he liked. james went out shooting at night with ben--that is, poaching; he was often at the ale-house with him, and in bad company, and many other evil things they did together. poor mary did not know this, but thought rather that james would do good to ben, and lead him right. she had to learn the sad truth that all men are prone to do ill, and that the bad are more apt to lead than to be led. still it must not be said that james was quite lost to all sense of what was right. he often wished that he had not been led to do some of the things that he did do. more than once he said to ben, "ben, i know that is bad; i will not go with you." then ben would laugh at him and say, "you know that is bad! that's very fine; but you know that there are other things much worse by a long way. come on; don't go and say no when i ask you." james would stand and think, and say to himself, "where's the harm, just for this once? i don't like not to please ben, and when i marry mary i'll give it up, and all will be right." so james went on from bad to worse, for he had not got in his heart faith in god or love to christ. mark page did not mind james doing the bad things he did with ben, for he said, "if the two get into a scrape, farmer grey must get ben out of it for the sake of his nephew. young men must sow their wild oats, and may be he won't make the worse husband to mary for it." all this time mark page did not love farmer grey more than at first. not a day passed that he did not say something against him, or do something to do him harm. farmer grey knew this, but did not say an ill word to mark. if he met him it was always in a kind voice he said, "good day, mark page. good day, miller. fine breeze for the mill. no lack of grist, i hope; i shall soon have some for you. shall be glad to send my corn to your mill." "what can he want of me? i can do him no good;" growled the miller as he walked on. story one, chapter . it would have been a good thing for mark page if sam green had left him. when mark thought of doing anything bad, there was sam at hand to say, "go on; no harm; you have a right to do what you like. no man should tell me what i ought to do; that i know." sam was a stupid fellow too, as are many bad people, and it seemed strange that he did not get into more scrapes than he did. he hated farmer grey even more than did mark page. why, it would have been hard to say, except just for this cause, that sam was a bad man and the farmer was a good one. the sails of the mill had been going round and round for many a day, and hundreds of sacks of grist had been ground, when one night mark was roused from his sleep by the sound of the wind howling round the house. "i made all right and snug at the mill," he thought; "there is no use to get up and look to it." still the wind went on howling through the windows and doors, and the window-panes shook and rattled, and the doors creaked, and it seemed at times as if the house would come down. "will the mill stand it?" asked mark of himself. he tried to go to sleep again, but he could not. he thought and he thought of all sorts of things which he could not drive out of his head. when a good man thinks at night, his thoughts may often be pleasant; but when a bad man thinks, and thinks, as did mark page, in spite of himself, his thoughts are very sad and full of pain. mark thought of the many bad things he had done. there was not one good deed he could think of. "if i was to die where should i go to?" he asked himself. "if my mill was to be blown down, who would pity me? what friends have i? what have i done to gain friends? not one thing. i am not kind to the poor; i do not give anything to help them. no one loves me; no one cares for me. my son does not; he never does what i ask him. my wife does not, she never cares to please me. mary does, may be; but then she looks at me as if she wished that i was different to what i am. oh i do wish the day would come, that i might get up and go about my work and not think of all these things." still the wind howled and moaned and whistled, and the doors and windows rattled, and the rain came down, pat, pat, pat, on the roof, and the water rushed by the house in torrents, and the walls shook as if they would come down. "oh if the roof was to fall in and kill me!" thought the miller: "where shall i be to-morrow?" at last the noises ceased, and sleep shut the miller's eyes. when he awoke the storm was over. he looked out to see if any harm had come to his mill. there it stood, the long arms stuck out just as usual. he was soon dressed. on his way to the mill he called sam green. when they got near they found that the wind had done harm to some of the sails of the mill, which were stretched on the long arms. "sam, before the mill can go we must mend these sails," said the miller. "go to the house and get the tools; you and i can do it." "yes, master," said sam. "it would be a rum mill-sail i couldn't tackle." sam brought the tools, and he and mark page went into the mill. they found that the storm had done some harm to the inside of the mill, and that two or three things were out of place. they soon put them right though, as they thought, and then they set to work to mend the sails. they had much grist to grind, and they were in a hurry; so the miller climbed along one of the arms with the tools he wanted, and sam went along another. there was a nice breeze--not much--but it seemed as if it would get stronger and stronger. so they worked on as fast as they could, that they might soon get the sails mended and the mill going. there they were, the miller and his man, out at the end of those long arms high up in the air. few people would have wished to have changed places with them. "make haste, sam," cried the miller from his perch. "it's a tough job i have got here. i shall want your help." "all right, master, i shall soon be done," said sam, and he worked on. "hallo, sam, what are you about, man?" cried the miller on a sudden. "nothing, master," said sam, hammering away. "nothing! nothing?" cried out the miller, at the top of his voice. "why the mill is moving. stop it, man; stop it." "i can't stop it, master, nor any man either," shrieked out sam, as the long arms of the mill began to move round and round. "hold on to the last, then," cried the miller; "it is your only chance." "i can't, master; i can't," cried sam, near dead with fright. the miller clutched round the arm with all his might. sam went round once. it was more than he could bear; as the arm to which he clung neared the ground, he let go. of course he was dashed with great force to the ground. had his head struck it, he would have been killed; but his legs came first. one leg was broken, and there he lay not able to get up and help his master, and almost dead with fear as the long arms swept round and round above his head. still the miller held on. he shut his eyes, for he dared not look at the ground, which he seemed to be leaving for ever; and he felt that the mill was going faster and faster each moment. he knew too that he was growing weaker and weaker, and that the time would soon come when he could hold on no longer, and that he must be dashed with force on the ground and killed. what could save him? sam lay helpless on the ground. "oh, i shall be killed; i shall be killed," he thought. "help! help!" from whom was help to come? he could not pray; he never prayed when he lay down at night, when he got up in the morning. he could not pray to god now. who else could help him! no human being was likely to see him, for his wife and son and daughter were still in bed, and few people passed that way. his breath grew short, his heart seemed as if it did not beat. "oh! oh! my last moment is come, and i must soon stand before that god i have seldom thought of, never prayed to in this life. where must i go? where must i go? i will lead a better life if i am saved. i will! i will!" just then he heard a cheerful voice cry out, "well done, mark: hold on, hold on; we'll stop the mill soon for you." the words were spoken by the man whom mark page said he hated more than any other man on earth,--his neighbour, farmer grey. farmer grey had been riding round his farm in the cool of the morning, when, looking up towards the mill, he saw mark page and his man sam green at work on the arms. then, as he looked, the arms began to go round and round with mark on them. farmer grey, on this, dashed up the hill at a gallop, jumped from his horse and rushed up the steps into the mill to try and stop the arms. he had been a few times in a wind-mill, and knew something about the works. at great risk though of hurting himself, he seized what he thought was the right crank to make the mill stop. his wish was to stop the mill just as the arm to which the miller clung rose above the ground. his heart beat as he watched for the proper moment. it was life or death to the miller. if he stopped it too soon mark might be dashed to the ground; if he waited till it rose too far he would be thrown up in the air and have a heavy fall. farmer grey watched; the right moment came, he stopped the mill, then fast as he could move he ran down the steps, and was in time to receive mark page in his arms as he fell without sense from the arm to which he had till that moment clung. had the miller gone but one round more, he must have dropped, and would surely have been killed. farmer grey undid his neckcloth, and got some water and bathed his face; but it was some time before the miller came to himself. when he did, the first words he said, when he opened his eyes, were, "well; i did not think, farmer grey, that you would have done this for me." "why not, neighbour page?" asked the farmer, with a smile. "i saw a fellow-man in danger, and of course i ran to help him. i am very glad that god has let me save your life. give god the praise. raise your voice to him for that and all his other mercies." "yes, farmer, i will try," said mark page; "i have been a bad man all my life, and i don't like to think where i should have been by this time if you had not come to save me." "it is the way to amend; the first step i may say, to find out and own that we are bad; so, neighbour, i am truly glad to hear you own that you are bad," said farmer grey. "but i must not let you talk now. come, we must help your man there. he seems to be badly hurt." "he wouldn't hold on to the last, as i told him," said mark. "well, sam; what harm has come to you?" "broken a leg, to my belief;" growled out sam. farmer grey found that sam had indeed, as he said, broken a leg. mark was now able to get up and walk, and he went to the house to call his son. ben had been out till late, and had come home wet, and did not like to be called up. "sam green has broken his leg. come down quickly i say," cried out mark. "let him sit still and mend it, while i put on my clothes," said ben from the window. farmer grey heard him. "that young man will, i fear, not come to a good end," he thought. "when i hear a man laugh at the pain or grief of others, i am sure that his heart is not right towards god or towards his fellow-man." ben at last came out and got a hurdle, and he and his father, with farmer grey, put sam green on it, and bore him to the house. sam cried out that they were killing him; so when farmer grey heard this he put his hand under sam's leg, and spoke to him just as kind and soft as if he had been a little child. sam did not say anything, but he ceased to growl, or to cry out that he was hurt. mary had heard her father call out, and she was at the door when they got there. farmer grey had not before this spoken to her. he now watched her as she went about the house, making ready the bed in the spare room for poor sam, and heard her speak so gently and so kind to him. "that is a good girl," he thought. "can she be the miller's daughter? if so, she seems very unlike mark and his son. i must see more of her." as soon as sam was placed on the bed, ben was sent off to fetch the surgeon to set his leg. "tell him that i beg he will make haste, for the poor man is in great pain," said farmer grey, as ben got on his horse. "i will just break my fast with you, miller, that i may help poor sam," said farmer grey. "we must get his trousers cut open, and his boots off; and it may be we shall have to cut them off also. it does not do to pull at a broken leg." sam did not at all like to have his trousers cut open or his boot cut off: "hold, hold!" he cried out. "why i gave twelve and sixpence for those boots only the week before last, and i will not have them spoilt." "which is best, friend sam, to lose your leg or perhaps your life, or to lose a boot, for it is not a pair? what is a boot compared to a man's leg? a boot will wear out in a few months; his leg is to last him for his life. and let me ask you, what is a man's sin, his favourite sin, which he can retain at best but for his life, compared to his soul, which will last for ever? no man can get rid of his soul. he cannot put it out as he can a light. do what he can, it will last for ever." "o sir, don't go and talk in that way," cried out sam; "i don't like it--i can't bear it." "well, well, friend, i will not talk more to you now on the matter," said farmer grey. "some day you may like to hear more." "may be, may be--oh! oh! oh!" sam green groaned with pain. at last the surgeon came, and set sam's leg. he shook hands with farmer grey. "i wish that we had more like you," he said to the farmer. "i knew when it was you sent for me, that some one was really hurt. the man will get well, i hope, and his leg will be of good use to him if he keeps quiet and does not fret." the surgeon said he would call again in the evening, and went away. "now, sam, we will let your wife and family know, that they may come and see you," said farmer grey. "much obliged, sir; but i have no wife, and no family, except one daughter; and she is married, and lives with her husband, and has her children to look after, and does not care for me," said sam. "we won't think that of her," said the farmer. "i will let her know what has happened to you. may be, you would like to have one of her children with you." sam looked pleased for the first time, and said, "well, sir, there is a little chap--my grandchild--i should like to have him now and then with me. they call him paul, tiny paul. he is a merry little fellow, and he'd keep me from getting low." "well, we'll try and send tiny paul to you," said the farmer. "what is your daughter's name?" "susan dixon, sir," answered sam. "dixon is her husband's name. he is a decent, hard-working man, and she's a good wife; but i never cared much for any of them, except tiny paul. you'll send tiny paul to me then, sir?" "yes, sam, yes; i have promised that i will," said farmer grey, thinking to himself, "i may win over sam green yet. he has a soft part in his heart, and i have found it." farmer grey had a good deal of talk with mary before he went home. he liked all she said, and all he saw her do. "that is a good young woman, i am sure," he said to himself. she, too, was very grateful to him for having saved her father's life by his courage and presence of mind. then, too, he was the uncle of james grey, and she was glad that he seemed pleased with her. story one, chapter . it would have seemed that james grey and mary page had now every chance of being made happy. so they might, if james had not got into evil ways. he had not spoken of mary to his uncle, and he did not know that farmer grey had seen her, and was much pleased with her. by this his folly was shown. had he been frank with his uncle, and told him all the truth, how much better it would have been for him! a few days after the accident at the mill, james came, as usual, to see mary. he had a long talk with her, and said that he was so glad his uncle now knew her, and that he was sure the farmer would let him marry her. still he did not say that he had told his uncle he wished to do so. when he at last got up to go away, ben followed him. "james," said ben, "i have some work for tonight. you must come. you will never have seen such sport in your life. there are six other chaps will join us, all true as steel." "no, no, ben; i must go home," said james. "my uncle does not like me to be out late at night, and he has heard of one or two of the things i have done with you." "that is good," said ben, with a sneer. "why, i would not let my father order me about as he likes; much less an uncle, i should think. dear me, `my uncle won't let me do this,' `my uncle won't let me do that'; a nice state of things. come, james, be a man, and come along with me." james never could stand ben's sneers; so the next time ben said, "come along," he answered, "very well; but only for this time." "oh, of course, i know," said ben. "i don't want you to get into any scrape, of course, lad. come back into my room. those clothes won't suit you: you must put on some of mine. we can slip out again, and my sister won't see you." in a short time, ben and james stole out with their guns and shot-belts and powder-flasks. "it is not near home," whispered ben. "that's a good thing," answered james; but they spoke very little. they had walked two miles when they fell in with three men, who seemed to know ben well; and soon after that they met three more. all went on together. james found that they were going into the park of a gentleman who very strictly preserved his game and had several gamekeepers. "even if they meet us, they won't dare to attack us; and if they do, we can take very good care of ourselves," said ben. the party of poachers were in search of pheasants, of which there were a great many in the park. they knocked over one after the other, till each man was well loaded. james soon began to take a pleasure in the sport, and killed as many as the rest. they had begun to talk of going home, all well pleased with their night's work, when, as they were within fifty yards of the place where they were to leave the park, they found themselves face to face with four keepers. "stand back, and let us pass!" cried ben page. "we don't want to say anything to you, and you shall not say anything to us." "that won't do, young man," said the principal keeper; "you must give up all the game you have shot, and let us know your names." "that we won't do. push on, ben page," shouted one of the men. the click as of guns being cocked was heard. "if you fire, so do we; and we have three shots to your one," cried ben. "on, lads, on." "i know you by your voice, master page," said one of the keepers. "i see you too, now i am nearer to you." "if you do, take that for your pains," exclaimed ben, scarcely thinking, in his rage, of what he was about. the report of a gun was heard. one of the gamekeepers fell. the poachers dashed forward. another keeper was knocked over. the rest ran off to hide in the wood, thinking that they would all be murdered; while the poachers, without stopping to see what harm had been done to the fallen men, hurried out of the wood, leaving them on the ground. bad men are often cowards; and cowards are careless of what others suffer. the poachers talked very big, but their hearts sunk within them. the most unhappy was james grey. the others dreaded being found out and punished. with him it was not the fear of being found out and punished, so much as the thought that he had been with those who had caused the death of a fellow-creature; for he made sure, from the groan the keeper uttered when he fell, that he had been killed. his conscience, never quite at rest, even when he went with ben page into his worst haunts, was awakened. "i am just as guilty as if i had killed the man with my own hand," he said to himself. "and may be the other man will die too; for the butt end of turner's gun came down with a fearful blow on his head, and he dropped as if shot. what shall i do? what shall i do? i will go and deliver myself up, and confess all. i shall be hung very likely: but i would sooner be hung than feel that i had killed a fellow-man." such were james's thoughts as he and his companions hurried towards hillbrook. here and there on their way the rest of the men went off to their homes, till ben and james were left alone. james then told ben of his sorrow at what had happened, and how he thought he would give himself up. "nonsense; that will never do," said ben. "no one knows who fired the shot, or who knocked the other keeper down; you don't, i am sure." ben knew that james did know well enough that he, ben himself, had shot the keeper. "i wish from my heart, ben, that i did not," said james. "if that is it, the only thing is to keep out of the way," said ben. "now listen, james, a faint-hearted fellow is sure to peach, and out of the way you must keep. i say _must_--understand me." "i will keep out of the way, ben, whether i must or not," said james, in a tone of great sorrow. "you have been the ruin of me, ben; but it was my own fault, i ought to have known better." "nonsense, james: things are not so bad as you think," said ben. "just come in and change your clothes and go home to bed. you can get in as you have done before, and who is to know that you were out of the house all night? i say that you shouldn't be in too great a fright; still you must go away for a time, till the matter has blown over. i'll think of some plan for you before long." james grey, who had far more education than ben page, felt himself completely in his power. james hurried home unseen, and got to bed. he could not sleep. he thought over all sorts of plans. two or three days before he had been at the market town five miles off. he had there observed a soldier, a sergeant with a number of gay coloured ribbons in his hat, beating up for recruits, for service in india. james had stopped to listen to him as he was speaking to a group of young men who stood round with open mouths, hearing of the wonders of that distant country--the money to be got--the pleasures to be enjoyed. "every cavalry soldier out there is a gentleman," said the sergeant. "he has at least three servants to attend on him; one to forage, one to groom his horse, and one to attend on him." james at the moment had thought that if it was not for mary and his uncle he should like to try his fortune in that far-off wonderful country. the idea came back to him, if the sergeant was still there he would enlist at once. no time was to be lost. he must be out of the country before he was suspected of having been one of the party who killed the gamekeeper. he rose and dressed quickly. he put up some shirts and socks and a few other articles, and all the money he had got, and left the house before any one was up. he would much have liked to have seen his kind uncle again, but he dared not wait till he was on foot. there was one other person, however, whom he must see before he went away, mary page. she was always an early riser he knew. he ran rather than walked to the mill-house. she opened the door as he reached it, and came out into the garden. "mary, i am going away," he said in a hurried voice; "something has happened, it can't be helped now though; only, mary, i want to tell you that i love you now, and shall love you always. don't think ill of me, don't think me guilty; not more guilty than i am, if you hear anything about me. i cannot tell you more. i must not tell you." mary turned pale with terror, as much from his looks as from what he said. he took her in his arms and kissed her, and added, "you will think of me, i know you will. i won't ask you not to love any one else; that would be hard on you, for i don't know how long i may be away; but, if i ever do come back, mary, and i have changed, greatly changed from what i now am, i hope to ask you to be my wife. for your sake, mary, i will try to grow better, to be firm, to learn to say no when tempted to do ill. that has been my ruin now, may cause my ruin for ever." before mary could answer him,--for he was not a minute with her, and she was too much astonished at first to speak,--he had torn himself from her, and was hurrying along the road. "oh stay, oh stay, and tell me all," she cried out; but he either did not hear her, or would not venture to turn back. as he got out of sight of the mill he ran on as fast as his legs could carry him, though he stopped, and had to walk slowly when he saw any one coming. he had got halfway to the town, when as he was running on he heard the sound of horses' hoofs behind him galloping quickly over the road. "some one coming after me," he thought. for the first time in his life he felt what abject fear was. his knees trembled under him, and to save his life he could not have run farther. still james grey was no coward. in a good cause he could have fought as well as any man. soon he heard a voice behind him cry out, "jump up, james; i guessed what you were after. it was my idea you were going to enlist; so will i. jump up, i say; no time to lose." it was ben page who spoke. for some moments james scarcely understood him. ben had a led horse. he threw himself into the saddle, and they were quickly in the town, where the horses were left at a stable; ben having told a carter to come for them. the two young men then went out to look for the recruiting-sergeant. he was soon found. he cast his eye up and down over james, asked him a few questions, told him to let him see his handwriting, and at once enlisted him. "if you are steady, as you look, you will be a corporal before many more months are over, and a sergeant soon after," he said, with a nod of approval. a body of recruits were starting that very morning for the depot, whence they were to embark. james was ordered to go with them. the sergeant was uncertain as to what regiment ben would suit. he was scarcely of sufficient height, and a very different looking sort of man. he promised, however, to give him an answer in the course of a few days. james was very thankful when he found that ben was not to go with him. he thought, "he has already led me into evil; if he comes now, how shall i be able to withstand him better than i have done?" james's heart was heavy, yet he tried to keep his spirits up among his new comrades. he was anxious, too: every stranger he saw looking about he thought might be a sheriff's officer, come to take him prisoner. most of the men were hoping that the day they were to go on board the ship might be put off: his great wish was that they might sail sooner than had been expected. he had written a letter to his kind uncle, asking his forgiveness for what he had done, and expressing his love and gratitude to him. he had heard nothing from ben. this was so far well. he could have gained nothing, if ben had come. at length the day arrived for the troops to embark. the ship sailed, and bore james grey far away from the shores of old england. story one, chapter . when farmer grey got up in the morning, and found that his nephew had left the house without saying where he was going, he was somewhat surprised; but, as he thought that he would soon return, he did not give himself much concern about the matter. the farmer went out among his labourers in the fields, and came back to breakfast; but james had not returned. the farmer made inquiries among all his people; no one had seen james. dinner-time arrived, still he did not appear. it was late in the day that a friend, farmer mason, called on farmer grey. "have you heard of the murders in sir john carlton's park, last night?" asked farmer mason. "two of his keepers killed, and another wounded, i am told. daring outrage! the murderers are known, i hear. it will go hard with them if they are taken; for the magistrates are determined to put a stop to poaching, and will show no mercy to poachers. they will do their best to prove them guilty." farmer grey's mind was greatly troubled when he heard this. he could not help connecting it, somehow or other, with the disappearance of james. "that wild lad, ben page, has had something to do with it; of that i am sure," he said to himself. as soon as his guest was gone, he walked down to the mill. the miller and his wife were out. mary was alone. he found her crying bitterly. she at once confessed that she had seen james early in the morning, and that he told her he was going away, not to return; but that where he was going to, and what he was going to do she could not tell. she was also anxious about her brother, who had gone away without leaving any message. this was the utmost information she could give. it was enough to confirm farmer grey's fears. he did not tell mary what they were. he thought it would break her heart if he did so. he could give her very little comfort, for there was nothing he could think of to bring comfort to his own heart, as far as his nephew was concerned. he had long seen that he wanted what alone can keep a man right under temptation, that is, good principles. james, when he came to him, had been always respectable and decent in his conduct; but then he had never been tempted. the farmer had been very anxious about him when he first found that he was so often in the company of ben page, and he now blamed himself for not having taken pains to separate the two, and still more that he had not tried harder to give james those good principles which he so much wanted. he did not think that he had done any good to james by all he had said, but in truth the words had sunk farther into the young man's heart than he supposed; and often and often, as james walked the deck of the ship at night, or camped out with his comrades on many a hard-fought battle-field in india, those words came to his mind, and helped to keep him on a right course,--not that the words alone did so; for james, who had been taught to pray when he was young, became a man of prayer. yes; the dark, sun-burnt, fierce-looking soldier prayed every day, morning and night, lying down or marching, and often in the midst of battle, while bullets were flying about, shells were bursting, and round-shot were whistling through the air. he read the bible, too, and spoke of it to others, and guided his own steps by what it taught. was he less thought of because he did these things? was he looked on as a coward? no; there was no man in the regiment more liked, and there were few soldiers braver than he was. had his uncle and mary known how changed a man he had become, their hearts would have been saved many a pang. we should not think that because our words do not seem to be listened to, that therefore they are doing no good; more particularly if they are spoken in a prayerful spirit and with an earnest desire to do good. "well, mary, i must try and find out what has become of this poor nephew of mine," said farmer grey, kindly getting up and taking her hand. "we will hope that he will come back some day. do not let it be known that he came here to see you this morning; indeed, it will be better if you say nothing about his being absent from home. only my old housekeeper, dame dobbs, knows that he left home this morning, and she is able to say that he slept in his bed last night." these words made poor mary more unhappy still, for she began to think that james must have done some act which had made him fly for his life, and that he might, perhaps, be taken and punished--she dared not think how. oh, how much sorrow and pain do those who act ill, cause their friends and those they love best on earth! nothing that day was heard of james or ben. on the next day, rumours of the affray between a body of poachers and the gamekeepers reached the mill, but neither ben's nor james grey's name was mentioned. still mary could not but feel sure that they had had something to do with the matter, though she hoped that they might escape. the miller, on hearing of the fray, and that ben had disappeared the next morning, sat by himself more gloomy and silent than ever. perhaps he might have thought, "this comes of my teaching, or rather of my want of teaching, of my bringing up." in the evening, three stout, strong, comfortably clothed men came to the door: mary let them in, not knowing who they could be; mark turned pale when he saw them. "your servant, mister page," said one. "your son, ben page, is wanted-- he knows what for." "my son, ben page, isn't at home," answered mark, in a much more quiet tone than he used to speak in. "where is he, then?" asked the man. mark could not tell, nor when he would return. "you know then what he is wanted for, mister page?" mark bent his head, and put his fingers to his lips, that the man might not speak before mary. he then told her to go out of the room and look after sam green, whom she had not visited for some time. "yes; it's about the matter at snaresborough, with the keepers, i suppose," said the miller. "but i don't know that he had anything to do with it." "hope not, for his sake; he'll be sooner out of limbo," said the constable. "but you'll excuse me, mister page, we must search the house for your son; we have a couple of hands to look out outside, so he'll not escape if he attempts it." of course mark could offer no objection to this. the constable and his companions searched the house from top to bottom, looking into and under the beds, and into every cupboard and corner to be found. then they searched the mill and all the outhouses, but no ben was to be found. mistress page went nearly into fits when she saw them. mary cried bitterly, her worst fears were become real. when sam green saw them, a look not often seen on his face came over it, as he lay on his bed of pain--for his leg hurt him much. "ah! if the lad had been better taught he wouldn't have been in this trouble," he said to himself. "i might have done him some good, and i never did but harm." these words showed that sam green was changing, if not changed. the constables were still in the house, when a horse was heard coming along the road. mary, looking out, saw that it was ben. she waved to him to go back, but he did not see her. she tried to cry out, but her voice failed her, and he had entered the court-yard and thrown himself from his saddle before he heard her warning. then he understood that something was wrong. his horse was dusty, hot, and trembling. he was about to leap into his saddle when one of the constables who had been watching outside and had seen him enter the yard, ran into it and seized his bridle, shouting out to his comrades in the house. ben struck right and left with a heavy whip, and tried to break away; but the man held him fast. the other constables then coming out, he was secured. poor mary felt as if she should die when she saw ben seized, but she could do nothing to help him. he was brought into the house, and handcuffs were put on his wrists. "now we have caged our bird we must be off," said the chief constable. "oh, treat him kindly," said poor mary, with the tears in her eyes. "he is not as bad as you may think--indeed, indeed he is not." "never knew one on 'em as was," said the man. "but for your sake, miss, i'll do my best to make my young master comfortable, may be it's the first time he has been had up; and, if he gets off, may be it will be the last." mary could say nothing to this remark. her mother, who had come in, wrung her hands, and cried, and then called the constables all sorts of hard names, while the miller looked as if he would have struck them. more than once he glanced up at his gun, which hung over the mantelpiece. the constable looked at him, and observed-- "say what you like with your tongue, mistress page; i'm accustomed to much worse than that; but don't you, mister page, touch me--that's all. i'm in the execution of my duty--mind that." the miller had to curb his temper, and to say no thing, while his only son was carried off a prisoner. mrs page wrung her hands, and bewailed her hard lot. whilst out, she had heard of the murder of the gamekeepers, and with good reason feared that ben was guilty of the crime. ben did not speak. he could not say, "rouse up, father; i am not guilty of the crime laid to my charge." with handcuffs on his wrists, as a felon, he was carried off by the officers of justice. when he was gone, the miller sat with his head bowed down, and his hands clasped between his knees. all he could say was, "has it come to this? has it come to this?" the miller seemed to be really humbled and broken in spirit. the next day farmer grey called to tell mary that he had heard from james, and that he was safe. more he could not tell her. she begged him to see her father. "rouse up, neighbour," he said in a kind voice; "you have still much to do for your son. secure a good lawyer to defend him. the use of a lawyer is not to get him off, if he is guilty, but to take care that he is not condemned unless his guilt is clearly proved. the expense will be great. i will share it with you." "you are too good; i don't deserve it, farmer grey," answered mark. "and yet i would not have my son condemned, if he can be got off." "and i would not have him condemned, if he is not guilty," said the farmer. farmer grey went into the town to secure legal advice. his satisfaction was very great to find that the gamekeeper who had been shot was not dead, and that the one who had been knocked down was in a fair way of recovery. still the magistrates had committed ben and three other men to prison; and even if the man who was shot recovered, if ben was found guilty, he could not expect less than a sentence of transportation for fourteen years. still the news he had to take back to mary was better than he expected. story one, chapter . neither mark page nor his man, sam green, had been in the habit of attending public worship. many years, indeed, had passed since sam had last attended. now mark was ashamed to go, and sam could not. they had not either had prayers in their families, nor did they pray privately. it seems strange that any men should think that they can get on without prayer. they find out their sad mistake when the day of trial comes. these two men did so; had it not been for farmer grey and for mary, they would have been badly off indeed. mark page went about the mill, as usual, and got a man to do sam's work; but he never went outside the gates; and when he was in his own house, he sat with his head bowed down and his hands between his knees, not speaking a word. sam green lay on his bed, and growled and groaned with pain, except when tiny paul, his grandchild, was with him; then he cheered up and spoke pleasantly, and even laughed at what the little fellow said or did. tiny paul was a bright, merry little chap, with light curling hair and blue eyes. he would sing, and talk, and play, all day, and tell grandfather stories, which no one but sam himself could understand. sam smiled when he saw tiny paul, but at no other time. "if i had always had tiny paul with me, i don't think that i should have been so bad as i am," said sam to himself; but sam was wrong. neither tiny paul, nor any other human being, would have made sam a better man than he was. it was his own evil heart was to blame; that wasn't right with god. the miller was one evening looking out from the window of his mill, when he saw in the distance a bright light in the sky. it grew brighter and brighter, and now flames could be seen darting up out of the dark ground, as it were. "it is a house on fire," said the miller; "whose can it be?" he thought over all the houses in that direction. in the day he would not have gone out, but at night no one would know him. he was curious to learn whose house was burning. it was not his way to think how he might best assist the sufferers. so, saddling his horse, he rode out towards where he saw the fire burning. the flames lessened as he got nearer. it was clearly only a cottage. he thought of turning back; still he went on. he soon after reached a cottage, the walls only of which were standing. a number of people were gathered round it. he heard cries and exclamations of sorrow. a man had been burnt to death, and another had been much hurt. then he heard his own name mentioned. he went a little nearer. "it was all that wild young page's fault," said some one. "if he hadn't wounded poor thomas harvey, so that he could not help himself, thomas would have fled from the cottage and not have been burnt to death. and his poor wife, too; they say she'll not recover." the miller durst ask nothing further, but, turning his horse's head, rode back to his home. the day of ben's trial came at last. he was well defended, but one of those who were with him turned king's evidence, and swore to his having fired the shot which struck thomas harvey. it was proved, however, that thomas harvey did not die of his wound, as the surgeon was of opinion that he was getting well when the cottage in which he lived had caught fire and he was burned to death. did he then die of his wound, or was his death caused by the fire? had he been well, it was argued, he might have escaped, as did the rest of those living in the cottage; but as it was, his wife and a friend nearly lost their lives in trying to save him. the trial took up the whole day. some were of opinion that ben page was guilty, and that he would be condemned to be hung. still, as it was not quite certain that thomas harvey died by his hand, he gained the benefit of the doubt, and was condemned to be transported for fourteen years. some thought his punishment light, but they little knew what his sentence meant in those days. the miller and his wife were thankful that their son was not to be hung. they were allowed to see ben before he was sent off. they would not have known him in his yellow dress, and with his hair cropped short, and chains on his arms and legs. this sight caused them more grief than even the thought that he was to be sent away from them for so many years. poor mary also went to see him. he shocked her by the way he spoke of those who had tried him, and at james grey for leaving him in the lurch. mary was thankful to find that james's name had not once been mentioned during the trial, and that he was not suspected of having been mixed up in the matter. in vain she spoke of religion to her brother. he turned a deaf ear to all she said. with grief at her heart she bade him good-bye, and her grief was greater because he seemed so hardened and indifferent to his fate. so ben page was carried on board a convict ship, with nearly three hundred other men convicted of all sorts of crimes. they were placed under strict discipline on board ship. soldiers with loaded arms stood over them, and if any one broke the rules, he was severely punished. only a few were allowed to come on deck at a time to enjoy the fresh air and the sight of the sea. they had books, however; and the surgeon, who was a christian man, taught those who wished to learn to read and write. he also begged them to repent, and to turn to jesus christ that their sins might be forgiven. thus day after day the convict ship sailed on. once they were in a fearful storm, and the convicts were all kept shut up below. the big ship was tossed about, and lightning struck one of her masts and set her on fire, and the water washed over her and carried away her boats, and a leak was sprung, and all thought that they were going to the bottom. some got into their beds and shut their eyes, as if they could shut out the death they thought was coming. others tried to break on deck; a few broke out into loud, wild songs; and some, but very, very few, strove to pray; and even fewer still could pray. those who put off prayer till death comes close to them, find, when too late, that they cannot pray. those who had talked the loudest, and boasted of their ill deeds, now showed themselves the greatest cowards. in a short time the fire was got under, and the wind and sea went down, and there was a chance that their lives might be saved. when they were once more safe, most of those who had tried to pray forgot their fears and again hardened their hearts. at last the ship reached the distant land to which she was bound-- australia. the convicts were put into barracks, and then formed into road-gangs to make new roads through the country. they had first to build their huts, and then to work all day in the hot sun with pick-axes, and spades, and wheelbarrows. they were watched by overlookers, of whom many had themselves been convicts, and were very harsh and savage. when the day's work was done, the men were marched back to the huts, where they had to fetch water and firewood, and to cook their food. day after day they led the same life; there was no change, no amusement; the sun rose, and the sun set, and the convicts rose to toil, but not for themselves; and lay down again at night, weary with their labour. often and often ben page wished himself dead. "is this to last for thirteen more long years--all the best of my days?" he asked himself. another convict asked ben if he would try to escape. they might be shot, but that was better than living on where they were. ben agreed. they got off, and took to the woods--the bush it is called. they could only live by robbing. they watched a hut when the hut-keepers were out, stole some guns and powder and shot, and set up as bush-rangers--that is robbers. they lived on for some months in the bush, now in one place, now in another. they stole horses and food and clothes. it was a very hard life though. every man's hand was against them, and a price was set on their heads. they were afraid of the natives also, and suffered much from hunger and thirst. ben sometimes wished himself back with the road-gang. they at last did so much mischief that parties were sent out against them. ben's comrade was taken, and ben was wounded, but escaped by the speed of his horse. on--on he went. he dared not turn back, for his foes were behind him. night came on, and he was obliged to stop, for his horse could go no farther. there was no water near; he had no food. he lay down and fell asleep, holding the bridle in his hand. when he awoke his horse was gone. he felt weary and stiff, and his wound pained him. the sun rose, scorching down on his head. in his flight he had lost his hat. his thirst was great. "water, water," he cried for. not a drop could he find. he walked on, and on, and on. no water; no signs of water. he sat down under a tree to rest, but he could not rest till he had found water. again he sat down. he could walk no farther. a mist came over his eyes. he could not think--he could not pray. his throat was dry, his lips parched. he fell back with his arms stretched out, never again to rise. some months afterwards some travellers, in search of a new sheep run, came in the bush on the bones of a man. a bullet near the side made them guess that he had died of a wound he had just before received. in a pocket-book in his jacket was found the name of benjamin page; and a brace of pistols, a gun and powder-flask, were recognised as having been stolen from a hut by two bush-rangers, one of whom had been taken and hung. not till years afterwards did the miller of hillbrook learn how his unhappy son died--mary never knew. "oh that i had brought him up to fear god! how different might have been his lot," said the miller. "it was i--i, that let my son be a castaway." story one, chapter . the miller was a changed man in some points after his son had been transported. he seemed to be more morose than ever, but it was observed that he seldom said or did anything to hurt his neighbours, as once was the case. sam green, as he began to recover from his broken leg, was much the same man as before, sour and grumpy. he was able to move to his own cottage, but matters did not improve there. only when tiny paul was with him was he seen to smile. he was never tired of watching the little chap, who would get hold of one of his sticks and call it his horse, and ride round and round the room on it. "grandfather must give tiny paul a real horse, and then he will ride like a man," said the child. "tiny paul shall have a ride the first day grandfather can find a pony," said sam. not long after this sam hobbled out with the aid of his sticks to a field near his cottage. at the other end of it was a large and deep pond. sam sat himself down on a bank, and tiny paul played about near him. there were several horses and ponies feeding in the field. "grandfather, let tiny paul have his ride," said the child, pointing to an old, blind pony, grazing near. just then a farmer's boy came by, with a halter in his hand, on his way to catch a horse for his master. "tom smith, catch a pony for tiny paul to have a ride; do now!" cried the child. tom smith was a good-natured lad, and was in no hurry; so he said, "yes, i'll catch thee a pony, and thou shalt have a ride, little one, that thou shalt." the blind pony was very soon caught, and the halter put over his head. "there, tiny paul, jump up now, and thee shalt have a fine ride," said tom smith. tiny paul caught hold of the long mane, and tom smith helped him up by the leg, till he had a firm seat. "now let tiny paul go,--he ride alone," said the child. tom smith, thinking no harm could come to the little fellow, let go the halter. "i say, tom, keep near the pony's head; the child has no notion of guiding him," cried sam. "oh yes, grandfather, tiny paul ride like huntsman in red coat," cried the child, kicking at the pony's sides, and making him trot by the old man. "now tiny paul make pony gallop," said the child, hitting the animal with its halter, and urging it on by his voice and heels. off set the pony; tiny paul laughed, and waved his hand to his grandfather. tom smith, instead of following the pony, stopped to speak to the old man. for an instant sam's eyes were off the child. "why where is the pony going?" exclaimed sam, looking up. the pony was making directly for the big pond. "stop him, paul; stop him, tiny paul. pull at the halter, child," shrieked the old man. "run after him, tom; run for your life. oh mercy! oh mercy! he'll be into the water!" tom ran as fast as his legs could carry him. tiny paul, though he did not see his danger, pulled at the halter as he was bid; but the old pony's mouth was too tough to feel the rope in it, and on he went, pleased to have somebody on his back again. it made him think of the days when he had corn to eat, and hay without the trouble of picking it up. tom smith ran, and ran, and shouted to the pony to stop; but his foot went into a drain, and down he came. he jumped up, though he had hurt his leg, and ran on. the pony was close to the pond, which was full of weeds. he was ten yards still behind. "stop! stop!" cried tom. "oh stop, stop! mercy! mercy! mercy!" shrieked old sam, who was hobbling on as fast as his sticks would let him move. the pony reached the edge. in he plunged. tiny paul clung to his mane, but cried out with fear. the blind pony waded on, for the water was not at first deep. tom jumped in, but soon got his legs caught by the weeds; and then the pony began to swim. tom could not swim, so he dared not follow. "stick on, tiny paul, stick on," he shouted. but tiny paul was crying too much to hear him. just then a stout weed caught the child's foot. tiny paul let go the mane. the pony swam on; the weed dragged tiny paul off, and the next moment tom saw only one little hand clutching at the air above the water. sam green was still some way off at that sad moment. he hobbled on till he reached the edge of the pond, where he found tom, who crawled out, sighing and crying bitterly. "where's the child; where is tiny paul?" shrieked out the old man. tom said nothing, but pointed to the middle of the pond. sam did not seem to know what tom meant, but looked to the other side, where the pony was standing shaking his shaggy sides. "where is tiny paul? where is tiny paul?" again asked the old man. "down in there," said tom, pointing to the middle of the pond. sam green fell back as if shot. tom thought that he was dead, and jumping up, ran off to call for help. he told everybody he met till he reached his master's house. people made out that some one was drowned; but whether it was sam green or tiny paul, they could not tell. among those tom met was farmer grey. he at once rode to the pond, where he found poor sam lying where he had fallen. sam was carried back to his own cottage by order of the farmer, who sent at once for a doctor. the doctor came and said he would recover if treated with care. "then i will stay by him till i can find some one to take my place," said farmer grey. meantime the pond was dragged, and tiny paul's body was found: not tiny paul though; he had gone far away, to the bosom of one who loves little children, and because of that love often takes them to himself. tiny paul's body was taken to the cottage of his father and mother. john dixon could not speak for sorrow; and mrs dixon, bursting into tears, threw herself on the body, and would not be comforted. some hours passed, and sam green awoke, as if out of a deep sleep. the first words he spoke were about tiny paul. "tiny paul is in the hands of one gentle and kind, who will care for him far more than you or his father and mother can," said the farmer. "do not grieve for tiny paul." "what's that you say, master grey?" asked sam quickly. "that tiny paul is better off now than he might have been had you or his father or mother brought him up," said the farmer. "what is the eldest boy doing?" "no good--no good, i fear. he is in prison," growled sam in his old tone. "and the second?" said the farmer. "an idle dog. he's a great trouble to my poor daughter." "and if i were to ask you, ten or a dozen years hence, what your youngest grandchild was about, might you not have had to say the same of him?" "that's true," said sam, looking up. "i might--yes, i might." "now god often takes to himself those he loves; he loved tiny paul, so he took him." "yes; i see god can take better care of him than i can." "ay, sure, sam, that he can and will, and maybe god had another reason for taking tiny paul." "what can that be?" asked sam. "that he might draw you to himself," said farmer grey. "would you wish to go where paul is?" "ay, that i would, sir," said sam, in an eager tone. "then, my friend, you must try to become like a little child, as tiny paul was, and be like him," said the farmer. "i'll try, i'll try," answered sam. "but how am i to do it, sir? i feel very weak and foolish and bad; i don't know even how i can try." "pray that god will send his holy spirit to help you. trust to him, and he will not fail you." much more farmer grey said in the same style. he came day after day to see sam. sam, in the course of time, became a changed man. he not only no longer grumbled and growled, and spoke ill of his neighbours, but he was cheerful and contented, and seemed ready to be kind and do good to all he met. when he got his leg strong, he went back to his work at the mill, and mark used to say that sam was twice the man he used to be, and that much more grist was brought to the mill than when he was, as once, crabbed and sour to all who came near him. still sam was often sad; but it was not about tiny paul. it was when he thought of ben page, the miller's son. "ah," he thought, "how often and often, when he was a boy, i said things to him, and in his hearing, which must have done him harm. i might have led him right, and i led him wrong. truly my brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground." story one, chapter . the miller of hillbrook had a tough spirit and a hard heart, like many other people in the world. it galled him to think that his son was a felon, and that people could point at him as the felon's father. his business went on as usual, or rather better than usual, as he was always at home to attend to it. people knew that if they brought grist to his mill, they would be sure to have it ready ground at the day and hour they had named, if the wind blew to turn the sails. they found also that old sam green was always ready to oblige them if he could. "great change has come over sam,--can't understand it," said some of those who came to the mill. "does he think that he is going to die? can that make him so gentle and willing to oblige?" the miller seemed to be much as he was before. he was even rude to farmer grey, when once or twice he came to his house. at last, one day, when the farmer was speaking in a serious tone to mark, the miller told him plainly that he did not want to hear him or see him. the farmer said nothing, and was just as civil and kind to mark as before. one day, mark had gone into the neighbouring town on business; mary had walked up to see mrs dobbs, farmer grey's housekeeper; and mrs page was the only person in the house. sam was at the mill, but all the other men were away with the carts. mrs page had left a pile of wood to dry near the fire, before which some clothes were hung up to air; some fagots, besides, were placed against the wall, and some wood with which mark was going to repair some work in the mill. mistress page was sitting in her room sewing, when she smelt a smell of fire, and then smoke made its way into the room, for the door was ajar. she began to fear that the house was on fire; and soon she was certain of it, for thick curls of smoke came out from the kitchen. instead of shutting the door, and going up to the mill to call sam, she threw open all the windows and doors she could reach, and ran out of the house, screaming "fire! fire! fire!" after some time sam heard the poor woman's cries, and looking out of a window in the mill, saw the flames bursting forth from every part of the house. he hurried out of the mill as fast as his lameness would allow; but he soon saw that alone he could do nothing in putting out the fire. in a few minutes, however, several men were seen coming from farmer grey's, with buckets in their hands, followed by the farmer on horseback. by the time, however, they reached the spot, the house was in flames, from one end to the other. still there was work for them to do, to try and save the out-buildings. even the mill itself was threatened, as the wind blew towards it. the men pulled down the sheds nearest the house, and damped the straw thatch of two or three outhouses, the farmer not only showing them what to do, but working away with his own hands as hard as any one. at last the fire was got under, and the mill was saved; but the house was burnt to the ground. just then the miller came back. he began to storm and rage, and asked who had burned down his house. "that we have to learn, neighbour," answered farmer grey. "it may be found that no one burned it down, and let us be thankful that things are not worse. however, come up to my house; there are rooms and a sup for you till your own house is rebuilt; your wife and daughter are already there." "i wonder you can think of asking me, farmer grey," said mark. "i have not given you much thanks for the good deeds you have already done me." "don't think of that, just now, neighbour," answered farmer grey. "we are bound to do good--or right, call it--and not to think of the return we are to get. if god was only to give his blessings to those who were sure to be grateful for them, he would give us far less than he does. we should get little or nothing, i suspect." so the miller went to farmer grey's house with his wife and daughter. it seemed strange to him to find himself there, and stranger still to feel the kind way in which the farmer treated him. even now he could not understand it. at last his house was finished, and he and his family went into it. mark had spent a good deal of money in rebuilding his house; and though the mill itself wanted repairing, he said that he must put that off till another year; he and sam green would patch it up to last till that time. that year passed by, and another came, and had nearly gone, and still nothing was done to the mill. one evening in autumn, the wind was blowing strong, and making even the new house shake, while it whistled and howled through doors and windows. the arms of the mill had been secured, sam green had gone home, and the miller himself, thinking that all was right, went to bed. the wind increased, the house shook more and more; there was a fearful gale blowing. on a sudden he woke with a start. there was a crash,--then another,--and at last another, louder than either of the first. the weather, however, was so rough that he could not get up. again he went to sleep. as soon as it was daylight he looked out. "where was the mill?" instead of seeing it, as he expected, against the cold grey sky of the autumn morning, he saw nothing at all. he rubbed his eyes again and again. at last he cast them towards the ground, and there lay scattered about and broken into small pieces, all that remained of his mill. the wheels and grindstone lay near the base; the roof and sides had been carried almost a hundred yards away, and the long arms still farther. the miller's spirit was fairly broken when he saw the wreck of his mill. he was aroused by sam's voice. "this is a bad business, master," said sam. "when i heard it blow so hard last night, i was afraid of something, though i did not think to find it as bad as this; but i said `god's will be done, whatever happens.'" "well, he has done his will with me at all events," answered the miller sullenly. "i don't think he could do much worse either." "if we got our deserts, he could do very much worse to us," said sam firmly. "but, master, he is a god of love, and he sends these sort of misfortunes, not because he hates us, but because he loves us, and wishes us to think of him, and trust to him." "such talk as that won't rebuild the mill," exclaimed the miller almost savagely. "may be it won't, master; but it may help to make you turn to god and trust to his mercy, as i try to do," said sam. "you, sam! you, a wicked old sinner. how dare you talk of trusting to god?" "because, master, he asks me to do so, he promises to forgive me my sins," said sam. "i should be declaring that god is a liar if i wouldn't trust him." "then you think that i am a sinner, sam," said the miller. "i know that you are one, master," answered sam boldly. the miller made no answer, but walked about the ruins, as if thinking what part would do to go up again. the rotten state of the mill, perhaps, made him think of his own state. suddenly he stopped and said-- "you are right, sam; i've been a wicked, hardhearted man all my life, all rotten and bad, and it's a wonder god hasn't struck me down long ago, as the mill was struck down last night." "master, i say to you what was said a short time ago to me, `i came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance,' (mark chapter , verse ). it's a great thing to feel that we are sinners." "sam, you speak like a parson, and i'm near sure you speak what is true," said the miller. "i speak what is in the bible, master, and so i am sure that it is what is true," answered sam. just then the miller saw farmer grey riding up the hill. "i do not come to condole with you, neighbour page," he said in his usual kind tone. "what means have you of putting up the mill again, and setting it going?" "not a shilling, farmer," answered mark. "i'm a ruined man." "don't be cast down, neighbour," said farmer grey. "people, however, may take their grist to other mills to be ground, if yours is not working; so i want you to send at once for carpenters and mill-wrights, and to let them know that they are to look to me for payment. no words, neighbour, about thanks. let it be done at once; don't lose time. you'll repay me, some day, i am very sure." then mark page knew the true meaning of having coals of fire heaped on his head. in a short time the mill, rebuilt with sound timbers and strong machinery, was going round as merrily as ever, and grinding as much if not more grist than it did in former days. people had wondered at the change in sam green; they wondered still more at the change in his master,--once so sullen and ill-tempered,--now so gentle and kind and obliging. the change in him was even greater than in the mill itself. it is easy enough to rebuild a house: no human power can change a man's heart, as mark page's had been changed. story one, chapter . farmer grey, as he sat in his large house by himself, often felt sad and lonely. he had lost his wife when young; she had had no children, and he had not married again. his nephew, james, was his only near relative; and he found, whenever he thought of the young man, that, in spite of his faults, he loved him more than he had supposed. for a long time he had not heard from him; and, as several bloody battles had of late been fought in india, he began to fear that he might have been among the killed, and that no one had known his address to write and tell him. still, farmer grey was not a man to sit by himself and brood over his sorrow. he went about as usual, doing all the good he could, not only in his own village but in the neighbourhood; and he never heard of a poor person falling sick or getting into trouble, whom he did not visit and relieve as far as he was able. he thought, too, more of poor mary page than of himself. he knew how much she loved james, and that she would spend the best days of her youth waiting for him to come back, as he was sure that she would never marry anybody else. meantime, though mary was often sad, still she believed that james was alive, and that he would some day come back to her. she often blamed herself for thinking so much of him, while the fate of her unhappy brother was so uncertain. it was surely through god's kindness that she never learned what his fate had been. mary's home, in many ways, was far happier than it had ever before been. she soon saw the change in her father, and it did her heart good. instead of sitting gloomily by himself when he came in from work, or, as he used, reading some bad paper opposed to religion and government, his great pleasure was to listen to her reading the bible, or to talk with her on religious subjects. whilst mary page was, one evening, sitting at the window of the parlour of the new mill-house, she saw a dark-bearded soldier-like man looking up at the house, as if surprised at its appearance. the stranger passed through the wicket; mary could sit quiet no longer. she rose and opened the front door: "james, james, is it you?" she cried out, as if yet fearful that she might be mistaken. "yes, mary, i am james, but not the james who went away in disgrace a few years back," he said, when she had led him into the parlour. "but tell me, do you forgive me? does my uncle forgive me?" "oh, yes; yes--all is forgiven, long, long ago. it will give your kind uncle a new life, to see you back safe and well." together, in a few minutes, they set off to the farm. mary was right. no father could give a more hearty welcome to a prodigal son than good farmer grey gave to his nephew james. james had gained rank and marks of distinction, and he had a pension for wounds, and a considerable share of prize money. his rank and honour showed that he had been firm in resisting the many temptations to which he must have been exposed, for no soldiers escape them. he got his discharge, but entered a militia regiment that he might be able to defend his country, should she ever be attacked by foreign foes. he and mary married; and no more happy and prosperous couple were to be found in or near hillbrook. they were so, because they were "diligent in business, fearing the lord." story two, chapter . tom trueman, the sailor; or, life at sea in a merchant vessel. it was a sad, sad day for poor mother and all of us, when father was brought home on a hurdle, the life crushed out of him by a tree which fell right down where he stood. he never spoke again. we lived in dorsetshire, not far from the town of poole. father was a day labourer; he had never saved a sixpence. his club buried him, and we were left to live as we could, or to go to the workhouse. mother said that she would never do that, and with god's help she'd try to feed and clothe us. she found it very hard work though. there were ten of us. jane, who was sixteen, and just going into service, was the eldest, and little bill, who was in arms, was the youngest. i was the fourth child. farmer denn took sam, who was a strong lad, and jack went to mr sweet, the grocer in the village, who wanted an errand boy. jane got a place as maid-of-all-work--and very hard work it was. he was the only one besides who had the chance of gaining a penny, except little ben, and as he was a sharp chap, he used to be set to scare away the birds, with a clapper in his hands, and such-like work; but to be sure he did not make much. so mother had six children to feed and clothe, we may say, and all of us more or less to clothe, for even sister jane could not do without help. when father was alive we elder ones went to school; so i knew about the sea, and a few things in foreign parts, which i had read of in books. one evening when sam and jack came home, i said to them, "this will never do; mother mustn't work as she does, it will kill her. i've made up my mind to go to sea. may be i shall be able to make money, and send her home some. i've read of lands where people, just with a spade and pick, dig up gold as we should potatoes. i'll see what i can do." sam, who was just a quiet, steady lad, and did his tasks as well as any boy at school, laughed, and said that i might dig a long time before i should get gold enough to fill my pocket. still i thought and thought over the matter, till at last i told mother that i had made up my mind to go to sea, and hoped soon she would have one mouth less to feed. she looked very sad when she heard me say this, but i told her not to grieve, and that i would soon be back, and that it would be all for the best. that's what father used to say, "it's all for the best,--god knows what's best for us." i've stuck to the same ever since. blow high or blow low, when the ship has been driven by the wind towards the rocks, and all on board have thought we were going to be lost, i've said the same, "trust in god, he knows what is best for us." what's more, i've always found it come true. mother saw things in the same way at last, and gave me her blessing, and told me to go into poole and see what i could do for myself. i found a number of vessels alongside the quays on the banks of the river. i went on board one and then another and another, but the men i saw laughed at me. some said that boys were more trouble than use, that they were always in the way when they were not wanted, and out of it when they were wanted, and that i had not a chance of being taken. at last i thought i must go back to mother and see if farmer denn can give me work. i had got to the very end of the quay, and was turning back when i met a gentleman, whom i had seen several times as i was coming on shore from the vessels. he asked me in a kind voice what i was looking for. i told him. "come in here, and we will see what can be done for you, my lad," he said. he took me into an office or sort of shop, full of all sorts of ship's stores. in it were seated three or four men, who were, i found, captains of vessels. my new friend having talked to them about me, one of them asked, "would you like to go to sea with me, boy?" "yes, sir," said i, for i liked the look of his face. "you don't ask who i am, nor where i am going," he said. "for that i don't care, sir; but i think you are a good man, and will be a kind master," i answered boldly. "ah, well; you must not be too sure of that," said the captain. "i do not sail from here, but from a place on the other side of england, called liverpool, and i am going a long, long voyage, to last two or three years, may be." i said that i should like that, because i should then be a good sailor before i came back again. he then told me that liverpool, next to london, is the largest place for trade in england, and that thousands and thousands of vessels sail from it every year to all parts of the world. he was going back there in a few days, where his ship was getting ready for a voyage to the pacific ocean, and very likely round the world. the pacific, he told me, is a very large spread of water on the other side of america, many thousands of miles long and wide. first we should have to cross the atlantic ocean, off there where the sun sets. that is also many thousands of miles long and wide. on the farther side is america. we should have to go round the south point of america, called cape horn, to get into the pacific. the pacific is full of islands, generally a number of small ones together, then a wide open space, and then more islands. a ship may sail on, though, for days together and not see land. some of these islands are very low, only just above the water, and are made of coral, and others have high mountains in them. some of these throw up fire and ashes, and are called volcanoes. i was much taken with all captain bolton told me (for that was the gentleman's name), and as he was not to leave poole for two days, there was time for me to go back and see mother and brothers and sisters. mother and the rest cried very much when they found i was really going, but when she heard what a nice man captain bolton was, she cheered up a bit. one lady sent her three shirts for me, and another a pair of shoes, and farmer denn, who had a son who was lost overboard at sea, sent me a whole suit of the lad's clothes. people were very kind. to my mind there are a good many kind people in the world, if we did but know where to find them. i won't tell about the leave-taking. i don't like, even now, to think about it. captain bolton took me with him round in a brig to liverpool. the little vessel was tossed and tumbled about, and as i had nothing to do except to think of myself, i was very sick. if i could have left the ship and gone back home when i once got on shore, i would have done so. captain bolton told me that i was only getting my inside to rights, and that i should think nothing of such work when i had been a few weeks at sea. ships are named after people aid all sort of things. captain bolton's ship was called the _rose_. she had three masts, and a crew of thirty men, with six big guns, for we were going to some curious, out-of-the-way places, and might have to fight the savages, i was told. she had three mates besides the captain, and another officer called a boatswain, who had a good deal to do with managing the men. as soon as i got on board, the captain told me to go to him, and that he would look after me. his name was alder. the ship was nearly ready for sea, with most of her cargo on board, so that we had not long to wait till we bid good-bye to old england. i wish that i could make those who have never seen a ship understand what one is like. sailors call a ship she, and often speak of her as the old girl. our ship was built of wood, longer than most houses, and covered in by what we call a deck. at the fore end there was a place for the crew to live in, called the fore-peak, and at the after-end rooms or cabins for the captain and officers. all the rest of the ship was filled with cargo and stores. to the masts were hung across spars, or poles, as big as large larches, and on these were stretched the sails, made of stout canvas. it required the strength of all the crew to hoist one of these yards, and that of eight or ten men to roll up, or furl, one of the larger sails. then there were so many ropes to keep up the masts, and so many more to haul the sails here and there, that i thought i should never learn their names or their uses. from the day the captain put me under charge of mr alder, he seemed never so much as even to look at me, but i know that he really did not forget me. i had learned something about sea-life, going round from poole to liverpool, so that i was not quite raw when i went on board the _rose_. there were two other boys who had never before been on board ship, and as i had been a week at sea they looked on me as an old sailor. the rest of the crew did not though, and i was told to run here and there and everywhere by any man who wanted a job done for him. still i had no cause to complain. the captain was strict but just, made each man do his duty, and the ship was thus kept in good order. i set to work from the first to learn my duty, and found both mr alder and many of the men ready to teach me. in a short time i went aloft, that is climbed up the masts, and lay out on the yards to reef sails as well as many older seamen. at first it seemed a fearful thing to be high up on the yards with only a rope to hold on by, or may be only my elbows, when my hands were wanted and to look down and see only the hard deck and the foaming water, and to know that if i fell on the deck i should have my brains knocked out, or into the water that i should be drowned, for at that time i could not swim. climbing the highest tree you ever saw is nothing to it, for a tree is steady, and there are branches above and below, and if you fall you may drop on the soft ground. still i did not think very much about it, and soon it was just the same to me, whether i was on deck or aloft. no man can be idle on board ship, and if a man thinks that he can sit on a cask all day at sea, kicking his heels against it, he will soon find out his mistake. there is always work to be done about the masts or spars or rigging, while there is no end of ropeyarn to be spun at all odd hours. the two boys i have spoken of were toby potts and bill sniggs. toby was a sharp little chap, bill a big, stupid fellow, the butt of the crew, toby made them laugh by his fun, while they laughed at bill for his stupid mistakes. bill was stronger than either toby or me, and could thrash us both together, so that we did not often play him tricks. when we did, the men used to stand our friends against bill. sometimes all three of us used to be sent aloft to furl the royals, which are the highest sails on the masts. one evening there was the cry of "all hands shorten sail," which means all the sailors are to help take in the sails. each man has his proper post, so that all know where to go. we three boys ran up the rigging, up we went in the gloom of coming night, the wind whistling, the sea roaring, the ship pitching. we had rope ladders, shrouds they are called, to help us for most of the way. we could just make out the men hanging on the yards below as we lay out on our yard. as bill was a strong chap we soon had the sail rolled up and ready to send on deck. toby and i had done our work, when bill, who was clinging round the mast, caught hold of us both. "now, lads, i'm going to have my revenge. you promise never to chaff me again, or i'll let you both drop down on deck, or into the sea, may be. in either case you'll be killed, and no one will know it." his voice did not sound as if he was in joke. "which is to go first," i asked. "you'll let us say our prayers, bill," said toby, who always had a word to say. "will you chaff me?" cried bill, in a fierce voice. "of course we will--only let us go," said toby. bill thought that toby meant that he would not chaff him, for he let us both go, and we lost no time in slipping down the rigging. this was the beginning of a storm, the first i had been in. i did not think that any thing made by man's hands could have stuck together as the big ship did, tossed and tumbled about as she was. we told no one of what bill had said, but we did not play him any more tricks for some time to come. story two, chapter . you all know what a storm on shore is when it seems as if the windows must be blown in, or the roof taken off, when the walls shake, and big trees are torn up by the roots and thrown down. at sea the wind blows up the water into large hills with foaming tops, which seem to rise and leap on every side, or to come rolling on towards the ship as if they would knock her to pieces, or drive her under them. instead, she mounts up the hills of water, and a deep valley is seen far below her. all sail was taken in, and our big ship ran before the wind, tossed about as if she were a mere washtub. above our heads were the dark driving clouds, on every side the rolling, foaming, roaring waves. not another sail did we see, while the nearest land, we knew, was hundreds of miles away. often and often i thought that the waves would catch us, and send us all to the bottom. then i remembered what father used to say, "trust in god; he knows what is best for us. if he thinks that it is best for us all to be drowned, his will be done." so when i was ordered to turn in, i went into the little narrow cupboard sort of place, which was my berth, and slept as soundly as if the ship was in harbour. our crew was divided into two watches, that is to say, one half of us were on deck at one time, and one half at another, except when all hands were called. when it was again my watch on deck, i found the ship flying on as before, with the same dark sky above and tossing waves around me. on she drove, rolling from side to side, and pitching into the seas as if she was going down under them. i could not stand on the deck for a moment without holding on to a rope or the bulwarks. still i liked to watch the big, dark, green waves, as they rose and tumbled about. even the old sailors could do very little, and it was hard work for the cook to keep the pots on the fire to cook our food. things had got somewhat worse when toby crawled up to me. "i say, tom, don't you think that we be all going to be drowned?" he asked, his teeth chattering with fear and cold. "i hope not, but i do not like the look of matters," i answered. "no, they are very bad, depend on it," he said. "i heard some of the men telling bill sniggs that he'd better repent of his sins, for that may be in a few hours he wouldn't have much chance." "perhaps they were only joking him," said i. "oh no, they looked too grave for that," said toby. "it's very awful." while we were speaking a fierce squall struck the ship. there was a loud crash, and a cry of "stand from under." and down came the fore-topmast and all its rigging; the ropes flying about our heads, and the spars nearly striking us. i thought that it was all over with us, and looked to see if toby had been carried away, but there he stood clearing himself, as i was doing, from the ropes. the men, led by the mates, had work enough to clear the wreck of the masts, and to get the spars stowed away. i should have thought that we were in a bad state, but the officers and men took matters very coolly, so i hoped that all was right. not long after this a ship was seen ahead. they said that she was a large ship with some of her masts gone, and that a flag was flying which showed that she was in distress--that is, in a bad way--like to sink. we soon drove down to her. there she lay in the trough of the sea. i heard mr alder say that she was twice as big as we were, that there were soldiers on board with their wives and children, but that we could give her no help. as we drew near, we saw a number of men at the pumps, working away for their lives. some fifty soldiers or more stood ready drawn up to take their places. there were many more people on deck. they stretched out their hands as they saw us come near. it made my heart bleed to think that we could give them no help, but if we had tried to lower a boat, our own people would have been lost. for the first time i saw some of our men change colour. they had good reason to do so, for it seemed as if we should drive right against the ship and send her to the bottom and ourselves also. as it was, we passed so near that we could see the look of fear in the faces of the people, and could hear their piteous cries. she had not a boat remaining, and had a raft been formed, the people would have been swept off in that raging sea. no, there was no hope for a single being on board. still they might live on in that state for hours. i was thinking how sad it was for them when i heard a cry, and saw on a sudden the big ship lift up her bows out of the water. the people rushed forward; many were caught by the sea and swept away. it mattered little even for those who gained the forecastle,--down, down went the ship; and then i rubbed my eyes. the tops of her masts were seen above the waves; they too sunk, and for some minutes there was not a sign of her left. in those few short moments all the men and women and children who were on board had lost their lives, and were called to stand before god. here and there a spar, or a plank, or a hencoop, or grating floated up, but not one person could we see. on we flew. we could have given no help; none was wanted. "many a tall ship has gone down in the same way when no one has been near to see it, many another will thus go down," said mr alder, who was standing near me. "it should teach us sailors to be ready to go up to god at a moment's call; ay, and landsmen too, for who knows who may next be called." i often after that thought of mr alder's words. the storm lasted six days. after that we got light winds, and soon crossed what sailors call the line. not that there is any line or mark on the earth or sea; but as the world is round, and turns round and round the sun, as an orange with a stick through it might be made to turn round a candle, it is that part which is nearest the sun. the sun at noon, in that part, all round the world, is overhead, and so it is just the hottest part of the world. it was hot, indeed. the pitch bubbled out of the seams in the decks, one calm day, and we could have fried a beefsteak, if we had had one, on any iron plates on the deck. i was glad when, after running for a thousand miles or so, we got cooler weather, though the sun was still hot enough at noon. our ship was very well found, the men said, and we had no lack of food--salt beef, and peas, and rice, and flour, and sometimes suet and raisins for puddings. they said we were much better off than many ship's companies; we had enough of good food, and our officers were just, and did not overwork us. i heard tales of what happens on board some ships, where the food is bad and scanty; the men are worked well-nigh to death, often struck by the master and the mates, and treated like dogs. i was thankful that i hadn't gone to sea in one of those ships. at last i found we were going round cape horn, which is the south point of america. we had a fair wind, and not much of it; but a gale had been blowing somewhere, for there was a swell, such as i had never thought to see. the water was just like smooth up-and-down chalk downs, only as regular as furrows in a field. the big ship just seemed nothing among them, as she now sunk down in the hollow, and then rose to the top of the smooth hill of water. to our right was seen cape horn itself; it is a high head of land, sticking out into the sea, all by itself. very few people have ever been on shore there, and no one lives there, as there is no ground to grow anything, and the climate is cold and bleak. you know that the two ends of the earth, or poles, as they are called, the north and south, are very cold; ice and snow all the year round, and cape horn is near the south end. after we passed it, for some time we steered north, and soon got into warm weather again. you see the hot part of the world is midway between the north and south pole, so sailing north from the south pole we find it hotter and hotter, and so we do sailing south from the north pole. we find our way over the sea, far away from land night or day, just as well as on shore. besides the sun and stars to guide us, we have the compass. it is a wonderful thing, though it is so simple-looking; just a round card, resting on a spike in a brass basin. in the card is a long steel needle, and the point of it is rubbed with a stuff called loadstone, and it takes the card round and round, and always points to the north. the north, and all the other points, are marked on the card; so when we look at it we see what way the ship's head is. the ship is guided by a rudder, and a compass is placed just before the man who steers, that is, turns the rudder--this way or that--so that he can look at it, and know which way to turn the rudder, and so to keep the ship on her course. then the shape of all parts of the world is mapped down on paper, and the distances, that is to say, an inch on the paper, maybe, stands for fifty miles, and so the captain knows where he is going, and how far he has to go, though he has never been there before. we have a log line, with marks on it, and by letting that run out astern we judge how fast the ship is going; then the compass tells us the course she is steering, that is, the way she is going, and that we call "dead reckoning." but the captain has besides wonderful instruments of brass and glasses, and he looks through them at the sun, or stars, and moon, and then he makes sums on paper; and then he has some curious watches, which never go wrong, and with them and his sums he can tell just where the ship is, though we haven't seen land for six or eight weeks, or more. it is curious to sail on day after day, and week after week, and not to see land, and yet to know that it is all right, and that we shall reach the very port we are bound for, unless we fall in with a storm, and lose our masts, and get cast away, or spring a leak and founder; but then when we come to think of the thousands of ships at sea, and that not one in a hundred gets lost, we needn't count on that. so you understand, what with the "dead reckoning," and the curious instruments i told you of-- one of them is called a sextant--the captain can take his ship right across the pathless ocean, just as easily as a coachman does his coach along a high-road. you see sailors on shore, and they seem often harum-scarum, idle fellows, but at sea everything is done with the greatest order, and every man and boy has his proper duty, just as the servants in a large country-house. the crew are divided into watches, called the starboard and larboard, or port, watches; the chief mate commands one, the second mate the other. while one watch is on duty the other goes below to sleep, or take their meals, except when all hands are wanted on deck. every hour a bell is struck to show how time goes. every four hours the watch is changed, except in the evening, from four to eight o'clock, when there are two watches, called dog-watches, that is to say, from four to six, one; and from six to eight, another. the reason of this is that the people who are on watch at one time one night, may not be on watch the same time the next night, which they would be if there were six instead of seven watches, which you will find there are in the twenty-four hours. i used to be very glad when my first watch was over, and i was able to turn in from twelve to four, when i had to be up again to keep the morning watch. that was no idle time, for as soon as it was daylight we had to scrub and wash down decks, and to put everything in order for the day, just as housemaids put the house in order. night and day, fine weather or foul, a man is stationed either at the mast-head, or yard-arm, or forward, to keep a look-out ahead for any ship, or land, or shoals, or rocks, which may be near. many a ship has been lost when a good look-out has not been kept; one ship has run into another, and both have sunk, or the ship has run on rocks not seen till too late. when we get near the land we use a lead and line, to learn the depth of water. this is called heaving the lead, as the lead is swung round with the arm to fall far ahead. there are knots on the line a fathom apart, which we can tell by the feel. when a ship gets in shallow water, she can anchor; but in storms the waves are so high, and the wind so strong, that she may be torn from her anchors and driven ashore. when a ship gets into harbour, the sails are furled, and the anchors dropped, but even then a watch is kept on deck. when we got to the south of the line, we saw that the stars overhead were all different to those we see in england. i marked one set of stars more than all the rest. it is called the southern cross. the world is round, and there are thousands of stars and other worlds round us, on every side, all made and kept in their places and governed by god. i often thought of that as i stood on deck at night, and felt that the same great god was loving and caring for me, a poor sailor-boy. story two, chapter . "land ho! land ho!" i heard the man at the fore-topmast-head shout out. he pointed to the east. there, as the sun rose, we saw quite clear a long line of blue mountains, some of the highest on the face of the globe, so i should think, for we were then well-nigh fifty miles off them. it seemed curious after sailing west so long, to see land on the east; but then you will understand that we had gone also south, and then west, and then north again, round a point--a pretty big point to be sure--i mean cape horn. we had had a fresh breeze all day, but it was almost dark before we dropped anchor in the bay of valparaiso, or the vale of paradise, as it is called. it is the chief port in the country of chili, and some way inland is the capital, called santiago. as soon as the anchor was down we were divided into three watches, which gave us all a longer time in bed, no small boon to us, who had been watch and watch so long. the next morning i was on deck early, to have a look at the land. it is very hilly and rocky close to the sea; and away inland, the high mountains i spoke of run up towards the sky. this is a very hot country, and so the land looked parched and dry; but i was told that in winter it is green and fresh. the country once belonged to spain, and all the chief people in it are born of spanish fathers and mothers. the people all talk spanish, though the poorer classes have come from the native indians, and many have had spanish fathers. they were very civil; and some of the boatmen talked enough english to make us know what they wished to say. they brought us plenty of fruits, which they sold cheap--oranges, and grapes, and figs, and melons, and water-melons. the water-melon they eat a great deal of, and it is very nice in a hot country as theirs is. it is as big as a man's head, with a hard, green rind, and in the inside is what looks like pink snow, with a sweetish taste, and black seeds. the people wear all sorts of curious dresses, but what i remember best were their cloaks, called _ponchos_, which are square pieces of coloured cloth, with a round hole in the middle for the head to go through; and their leggings and their high straw hats. they are roman catholics; that is, they call the pope of rome the head of their church. i saw several processions of priests, in gold, and scarlet, and purple, and yellow dresses, and figures as big as life carried on men's shoulders, and flags, and crosses. the priests walked under a piece of coloured silk, stretched out at the ends of four gilt poles, carried by men in red and white dresses. and some rang bells and chanted, and others swung to and fro carved silver baskets, with sweet-smelling stuff burning in them, and others long, wax, lighted candles; and when the people saw the chief priest, who carried what i was told was the host in his hand, they fell down on their knees, and they did the same when the figures passed, and crossed themselves, and some of them beat their breasts and cried out. there were also a number of boys, dressed up in silk of many colours, with silver wings, to look like angels; but some of the young monkeys made faces at me and toby, and laughed, and seemed to think the thing a joke. i thought that we had got into a christian country, but i now found that they were little better than idolaters, for i remembered the commandment, "thou shalt not make to thyself any graven image... thou shalt not bow down to them, nor worship them." i read not long ago of what happened in the largest church in the capital city, santiago, not far from this. nearly two thousand of the principal ladies, and other women of the place, and many children, and a few men, were collected to worship the virgin mary and her image, and the whole church was lighted with paraffine oil--the roof, the pillars, the sides. suddenly some hangings near the figure of the virgin took fire, and soon the whole church was in a blaze. some of the priests ran off through a small side-door with their trumpery ornaments, leaving the poor women and children inside. on the heads of these the burning oil came pouring down. a few, but very few, were got out at the front door; but those trying to get out trampled down each other, and blocked up the door. the greater number were burned to death. i never tell of my visit to chili, without thinking of the fearful scene in that burning church. the watermen in the bay go out to sea in a curious sort of way. two skins of seals, or some other large animal, filled full of air, are lashed together at one end, the other ends open like a man's legs stretched out; and the waterman, who sits astride on the ends lashed together, which forms the bow of the boat, works himself on with a paddle, which has a blade at each end. he holds it in the middle, and dips first one end and then the other into the water. these skin boats, if boats they are, are called _balsas_. sometimes the watermen quarrel, and one sticks his knife into another's _balsa_, and as soon as he does so, the man whose _balsa_ has been cut has to strike out for his life towards the shore, for the wind soon gets out of it. the captain got through the business which took us to valparaiso, and once more we were at sea, bound for callao, the chief port in peru. near it, inland, is lima, the capital. peru reaches nearly all the way from chili, along the coast, to the north part of south america. all the upper classes are spaniards; that is, born of spanish parents, while the rest are native indians, or children of indians, of a yellowish-brown colour. the natives had once their own kings and princes, and were a prosperous and wealthy people. they had cities and roads, and tanks for water, and well-cultivated fields. rather more than three hundred years ago the spaniards arrived in the country, and cruelly killed most of their chiefs, and enslaved the people, and have ruled the country ever since. at last the spaniards born in the country, rose on the spaniards who had come from spain, and drove them away. it is now free, that is, governed only by people born in the country, and has nothing to do with spain. we had been three days at sea, when a strong gale from the east drove us off the land some hundred miles. the crew grumbled very much, for it would take us, they said, a fortnight or more to beat up to callao, and they were eager to have fresh meat and fruit and vegetables, instead of salt beef and hard biscuits, which was now our food. a sailor's food on a long voyage is salt beef and pork, and biscuits, and tea, and cocoa, and sugar, and sometimes flour, with raisins and suet for a pudding, which is called "duff." if, however, they live too long on salt food, they get a dreadful complaint, called scurvy, which fresh vegetables only can cure. i was far better fed than i had ever been on shore, yet often i longed for a cabbage and a dish of potatoes, and would gladly have given up the beef and pork to get them. i had now become a pretty fair seaman, and was placed aloft to keep a look-out for strange vessels, or land, or rocks, or shoals. i had my eyes to the north, when i saw what i first thought was a cask. i hailed the deck, and then the second mate came up and said that it was a boat. the ship was steered towards it. i could see no one moving, and thought that it must be empty; but the mate said that he saw some men's heads above the gunwale. he was right, for suddenly, as if he was just awoke, a man stood up and waved a shirt, and then others lifted up their heads and waved their hats; but the first soon sunk down again, as if too weak to stand. as we drew near they again waved their hats, and we saw their mouths moving, as if they were trying to cheer, but their voices were too weak to reach us. we made out five men, who had just strength to sit up and lean over the side. we hove-to; that is, we placed the sails so as to stop the way of the ship, and lowered a boat, for the waves were too high to make it safe to take the ship alongside of the boat. i jumped into our boat. never shall i forget the thin, miserable faces of the poor fellows in the boat. besides the five sitting up, there were three others lying on the bottom, so far gone that they scarcely seemed to know that help had come to them. there was not a morsel of food, nor a drop of water on board. their boat, too, was so battered and rotten, that it was a wonder it was still afloat. one or two of the strongest tried to speak, but couldn't, and burst into tears as we got alongside; some of the rest groaned, and pointed to their mouths, as if we wanted to be told that they were starving. as we didn't like to try even to tow their boat, we lifted them out gently into ours. some of them, though pretty big men, were as light as young boys. we left their boat, and pulled back to the ship as fast as we could, for there was no time to lose. two of these poor fellows, indeed, must have died in the boat, for they were corpses when we got them on deck. if we had been left to ourselves, we should have killed them all with over-feeding; but captain bolton would allow them at first only a spoonful or two of weak brandy and water, and then a little arrowroot, and afterwards some soup; but not for some hours would he give them any heavy food, and even then a very little at a time. the result of this wise treatment was that in a few days two of them--the second mate and another man--were able to crawl about the deck, and that they all in time recovered. they were part of the crow of a whaler, the _helen_, which with nearly a full cargo of oil had caught fire, some six hundred miles to the westward of where we found them. they had remained by the ship to the last, and then taken to the boats. but scarcely had they lost sight of her, when a fearful gale sprang up, and the second mate's boat lost sight of the rest. they had, as soon as the gale was over, steered for a certain island, which they missed, then for another, which they missed also. then they had tried to reach the coast of peru, but they had had calms and foul winds, and their water and food came to an end. four had died before we found them, and the rest would not have lived many hours longer. such is one of the many dangers to which sailors are exposed. i little thought at that time that i should one day be in the same sad plight. this makes sailors ready to help each other, for they know that some day they may themselves be in a like state. the evening after this we sighted two sail, that is, we saw two vessels just as the sun was going down. the weather at the time looked threatening, but the wind was more fair than it had been for some time, and the captain did not like to shorten sail, as he was in a hurry to get to callao. toby potts and i were in the first watch. the captain was on deck. on a sudden he sang out sharply, "all hands, shorten sail! two reefs in the topsails. furl top-gallant sails." this last work was to be done by toby and me. up the rigging we ran. "let's see which will have done it first!" cried toby. i had given the last turn round my sail, and looked up to try if i could see through the gloom what toby was doing, and thought i saw something fall from aloft. toby was not on the yard. just then i heard the cry from the deck of "a man overboard!" the ship had given a sudden lurch or roll to leeward. i slid down a backstay to the deck. without a moment's thought i seized a hencoop loose on deck, and threw it overboard. the gale which the captain had seen was coming, at that instant struck the ship. over she heeled, till it seemed that she would never rise again. like a mad horse she rushed through the water. sails were flapping, ropes flying and lashing, and blocks swinging round here and there. it was impossible to heave-to to lower a boat, and poor toby was left to his fate. i felt very sad when i found this. i wondered why it was that i was not taken instead of toby, but just then i had not much time for thinking. all on board had work enough to do. the captain gave his orders in a clear voice, and rope after rope was hauled taut, and the sails were furled, that is rolled up, except the fore-topsail, which was closely reefed. with that alone set, we ran before the hurricane. i had heard that it is always smooth in the pacific ocean, but i now found out my mistake; though perhaps there is more fine weather there than in any part of the world. i could not tell where we were running to all in the dark, for we could not see ten yards ahead of the ship, but i supposed the captain knew; still, after hearing of the many islands and rocks and shoals in those parts, i couldn't help thinking what would become of us. the truth was that the captain could do nothing else; he could not heave-to, and he could not see the dangers ahead, so he had to trust to god's mercy; and that's what, in many of the affairs of life, not only sailors but people on shore have to do. i heard him say to mr marston, the first mate, "we've done our best; we are in god's hands, and he will never desert those who trust in him." no one went below, that night, for all knew the danger we were in. on we flew, hour after hour, the wind in no way falling. i was thankful when daylight appeared. day came on quickly. a hand was now sent aloft to look out for dangers; the first mate followed him up. scarcely had he got to the mast-head than he cried out, "breakers ahead! breakers on the starboard bow!" the helm was put to starboard, and the mizen-topsail was set close reefed; the yards braced up, and the ship's head turned to port, away from the threatened danger. on she dashed, the sea breaking over the bows and sweeping across the decks, so that we had to lash ourselves to the rigging to prevent being carried away. the breakers seemed terribly close. i could see that if the ship once got among them, she would soon break to pieces, and not one of us could escape. the captain stood by the helm quite calm, watching the masts and spars, and giving a look every now and then at the reef, parts of which we could see between the white foaming breakers. slowly it seemed we passed the reef. he took a long breath when it was at last seen over our quarter. the helm was put up, the mizen-topsail furled, the yards squared away, and once more we ran before the gale. the wind fell at night, though the sea ran very high and the ship tumbled about more than ever. not till ten days after this did we enter the bay of callao, the port of lima. we could see in the distance, as the sun sank towards the west, the tall spires of the city of lima high up on the hills, while far above it rose the lofty mountains called the andes, on the tops of which snow ever rests. more than a hundred years ago, an earthquake threw down a great part of lima, and a large wave rolling in, swept over callao and utterly destroyed it. the new town we saw is at a distance from where the old one stood, and has three castles to defend the bay. i heard a great deal of the silver mines of chili and peru, and the quantities of silver which used to be sent from them to spain. each bar of silver was, however, gained by the tears and groans, and often the death, of the poor natives, who were forced by the cruel spaniards to toil in those mines. many hundred thousand peruvians have died in them since the spaniards discovered the country. spain, i have read, has never been the better for her ill-gained wealth, and now she does not own an inch of land in all america. story two, chapter . we had now landed all the goods we had brought from england, and found that we were to sail for canton, in china, to procure a cargo of tea, which, it was understood, we were to take to sydney, in new south wales, and there to receive on board a cargo of wool to carry home. that we might not go empty to canton, we were to visit some islands, where seals were to be caught, for the sake of their skins; and also some others farther west, where we were to collect sandal-wood. we had no reason to complain of the treatment we received on shore; but, though the climate is a fine one, and food plentiful, i am thankful that old england is my home. once more we were steering west, but we went greatly out of our proper course to look for the island where seals were to be procured. it was not exactly marked down in the chart, and we were some time looking for it, having twice passed without seeing it. about three hundred miles away was another island, where a party of men had been left by another ship belonging to our owners, to catch seals, and we had received orders to take all the skins they had prepared, and to carry them to canton, but the men were to be left another year. the captain, not finding the first island, was about giving up the search, when, as i was aloft, i saw a small blue speck a long way off, just rising out of the water. i shouted out, "land ho! land ho!" the first mate, who had charge of the deck, was soon up with me. the ship was steered for it; it was the island we were looking for. we anchored in a bay on the western side, the only one which afforded any shelter. the whole island was surrounded by rocks, with here and there patches of trees and shrubs; but most part of it was barren. it would have been a sad place to be cast away on. as there was no time to be lost, we at once went on shore under charge of the second mate, with the carpenter and his crew, to cut clubs for killing the seals, and stakes on which to hang up their skins to dry. the second mate, mr hudson, when a lad before the mast, had been here, and knew the best spot where the seals came on shore. it was a deep sandy bay, with rocks on either side. we went the next day to the nearest spot to the bay at which we could land, and hauled the boats up on the beach. we then hid ourselves among the rocks, half on one side of the bay and half on the other, with our clubs in our hands, ready to rush out among the seals at a sign from our officer. after waiting for an hour or so, the seals began to come on shore; the old males and females on either side, and the young ones in the middle, in ranks as regular as soldiers on parade. the first rank worked their way on nearly forty yards from the water, and the rest followed as close as possible. the sun was very hot, and they soon fell asleep, except the old ones, who were stationed on either side to keep guard. the mate kept us back for half an hour or more, saying that they were not sound enough asleep. a seal is a curious animal, of nearly a black colour, with a head something like a dog, with whiskers; a round, smooth back; flappers, which serve as feet, on either side; and a large tail, like that of a fish, divided in two. by the help of the tail and flappers they move quickly over the ground. at last the mate lifted up his hand as a signal for us to begin the attack. we slid gently down the rocks, and got between the seals and the water. the instant they saw us, the old watchmen roared out a signal of alarm. it was too late. we began dealing blows with our clubs on either side as the seals tried to slip past us into the water. what with the roaring of the old ones and the yelping of the young seals, the shouts of our men, and the sound of our blows, there was a fearful din and uproar. a tap on the head settled the young ones, but the old seals died hard, and there was no little danger, if a man fell, of being torn to pieces by them, as their mouths are as large as lions', with sharp tusks. a seal's eye is like that of a young calf, and looks as gentle and sensible as that of a favourite dog. we kept on killing as long as a seal remained on shore. we then set to work to skin them, and to hang up the skins on the frames we had prepared. we had killed eight hundred seals, which was very smart work. we skinned away till the evening, when we went on board, as the captain would not let the ship be left without us, in case of the weather changing, and being obliged to run out to sea. the next morning we went again on shore and finished the work. as we had some hours to spare before dark, we strolled about the island, our chief object being to search for water. we saw several bays, where the seals were likely to come on shore, and numerous bones of the sea lions, another larger sort of seal. i heard a shout ahead, "hollo! what have we here?" looking up, i saw a shipmate pointing to a hut at some little distance. we ran towards it, but drew back as we got near; for there, in the very doorway, were two skeletons, the head of one resting on the lap of the other. so they had died, the one trying to help the other, and too weak, after he died, to get up. by the furniture of the hut, and the implements in it, they were certainly sealers, who had been left there by their vessel, which had been probably lost. they, mr hudson thought, had died of scurvy, caused by want of fresh meat and vegetables. two or three of our men shed tears when they saw the sight. i do not think that the sight of a dozen men scattered about dead would have drawn a tear from their eyes. it was the way these two poor fellows had died that touched us. we had to remain five days, while the skins were drying, and then made sail for the island where we expected to find the sealers. four days passed before we sighted it. as we drew near, a flag was seen flying from a staff on the highest point. as there was no anchorage ground, we were obliged to heave-to under the lee of the island; that is, on the side opposite to that towards which the wind blows. to heave-to is, as i have said, to place the sails so as to prevent the ship from moving much. as soon as this was done, two boats were lowered, and provisions and stores of all sorts put into them. we pulled in between two rocks, and on the beach found six men ready to welcome us. they looked a savage set, but they gave us a hearty welcome; some almost wrung our hands off, others nearly squeezed the breath out of our bodies, and then they leaped about, and clapped their hands, and laughed and cried like children. the reason was this, that, three days before, they had eaten up the very last morsel of food they had; and as no seals had come to the island for some days, they had had nothing but a few shell-fish to eat. if we had not arrived, they would have been starved. they had made up their minds that such would be their fate, when the topsails of our ship appeared above the horizon. they had been watching our sails all day, hoping that we should come near, yet fearing that we might pass at a distance, and not see them. they were too weak to help unload the boats; but when they had tasted of a good meal, which we quickly prepared for them, they gladly lent a hand to carry the things up to their store. it might be supposed that, having so nearly suffered death from want of food, they would have been eager to get away; but they did not seem to think of that. they were contented to remain, now that they had got a good supply of food, till their ship should call for them. they had prepared four thousand skins, which we spent the whole of the next day in getting on board. a more desolate spot it would be hard to find; and yet these men were content to remain another six months or more on it, with the chance, after all, of their ship being lost, or, for some other cause, not coming in time for them. two of them could read, but strange it seemed, they had no books, and were very thankful for six or seven volumes which we left them, one of them being a bible. we felt very sorry to leave the poor fellows all alone, more sorry than they felt for themselves. our course was now towards some islands in the western pacific, where we hoped to obtain sandal-wood. this sandal-wood is used by the chinese, in their temples, to burn as incense before their idols; for they are great idolators. it seemed to me that if we took them wood to burn before their idols, we were, in a way, helping them in their idolatry; but i could not get others to see the matter in that light. story two, chapter . we now passed several coral islands. one we saw quite near was about six miles long, with a large lake in the centre, with an entrance to it from the sea. outside the island, about a quarter of a mile off, was a narrow reef, just rising above the water. the sea breaking on this was prevented from washing over the island. these coral islands are really made of coral; and made, too, by a little insect. it begins on the top of a rock far down under the water, where it makes a house for itself; then it builds another above that, and so on, till it reaches the surface. it cannot build out of the water; but sea-weed first grows on it, and anything floating is caught by this, and stops; and then birds rest on it, and drop seeds, which take root. then the sea washes bits of coral up from the outer edge, and thus a firm mass is formed, which rises higher and higher, as more trees grow and decay, and more coral is washed up. a sandy beach is formed of broken coral, and tall cocoa-nut trees grow up and bear fruit, and other fruit-trees and vegetables and roots grow, and people come and live on the island. there are many islands in the pacific ocean which have been formed in this way, and which have long had people living on them. some, however, are rocky, and have high mountains in them. many of these have been thrown up by the means of fire, and are still burning mountains. some are very beautiful, and have valleys and streams and fountains and rocks and trees of all sorts, and shrubs, and support a large number of people. we were becalmed near one of them; and as we wanted water and fresh provisions, and the people were said to be well-disposed, the captain determined to send on shore. two boats were manned and armed, in case of accidents, and with a supply of goods to barter (cotton handkerchiefs and knives and hatchets), we pulled in. there was a reef outside, against which the sea broke, and, rising up, curled back in a mass of foam. we, however, found a passage through it, in which, though it was very narrow, the water was smooth. "give way, lads," cried mr hudson, who was in the leading boat. i was with him. we pulled hard. a large roller came on after us. the water foamed up on either side, and in an instant it seemed we were in smooth water. numbers of people--men, women, and children--were on the beach to receive us. they were of a light-brown colour, and wore very little clothing. the women had short petticoats, and some of the men wore cloaks, besides cloths round their loins. these clothes, i found, were like thick paper, and are made out of the bark of a tree called the paper-mulberry tree. it is steeped in water, and beat into cloth with wooden mallets by the women, and afterwards dyed of various colours. the men were armed with clubs and spears, but seemed very friendly. there were several houses near the shore, built of as poles made from young cocoa-nut trees, and thatched with large leaves. the sides were made of mats, which are drawn up in the daytime to let the wind blow through them, as the climate is very hot in winter as well as summer. as soon as the goods were landed, they were carried up to a house near the beach, which was the natives' trade-house. here they brought all sorts of things which they thought we should want, mostly roots and fruits and vegetables and hogs, of which there seemed to be a large supply. mr hudson, seeing all things ready, began a brisk trade. while it was going on, bill sniggs, who had come in the boat with me, asked me to take a stroll with him, as he was sure that we should be back again to go off in the boat. "but it is against orders for any one to quit the beach without leave," said i. "oh, not here; the people are friendly, and nothing was said about it," he answered. "true enough, no harm can come of it, and i don't mind going a little way," i said, though i knew well enough that the order stood good for this place and all others. still i wanted to see the country, it looked so very tempting. we walked on and on; now we climbed up a hill, from which we could see the ship, and then crossed a valley, and went along a clear stream up to a beautiful waterfall. we passed a good many cottages of the sort i have described, and the people came out and offered us fruits and cooked roots, like sweet potatoes and perk. we couldn't help going into some of the houses, the people were so kind; besides, we were tired, as we hadn't taken such a walk since we came aboard the _rose_. we neither of us had a watch, and never thought how the time went. when we were rested, we got up, and, thanking the people of the house for their kindness, went on our way, the country seeming more and more beautiful. at last i said to bill that i thought we ought to go back; so we turned our faces, as we fancied, towards the place we had come from. we went on some way, and then i stopped bill, and said, "bill, i don't think we are right; we are farther off than ever." we looked about to find a hill to climb, to judge where we were, but the trees were so thick that we could see none. one thing we saw, that the sky was changed, and that clouds were passing quickly across it, and that the tops of the trees were bending to a strong breeze. "bill," i said, "we ought to be back at the boats, for they'll be going off; we shall taste the end of a rope if we keep them waiting." "never fear, we shall be in time enough," answered bill. "why be put out? we can't help ourselves." that was true enough, then, but i knew that we ought not to have come at all. we went on some way till we came to another house. the people in it were very kind, but we couldn't make out what they said, and they couldn't what we said, though we tried to let them know that we wanted to find our way back to the boats. at last a young man seemed to understand what we wanted, for he took us by the hand and led us on. after some time we found that we were going up a hill, and when we got to the top of it we could see the ocean. we looked, we rubbed our eyes; a heavy sea was rolling in, and far away our ship was beating off shore. for some time i could not speak a word. at last i said, "bill, i fear we are left ashore, unless one of the boats has stopped for us." "very likely that we are left, tom, but not at all likely that one of the boats has stopped for us," he answered. "worse if she has; for we shall catch it soundly when we get on board. take my advice, let us keep out of the way and not go back at all. this is a pleasant country to live in, much better than knocking about at sea." "no, no, i'd rather get a dozen floggings than leave the ship, and not go back to old england and see poor mother and brothers, and sisters again. haven't you got a mother and brothers and sisters, bill?" "yes, but they don't care for me," he answered. "how do you know that?" i asked. "depend on it, bill, they love you, and care for you, and may be this moment are praying that you may be kept free from danger. come, at all events, let us go back to where we landed, if we can find the way." our new friend stood watching us while we were talking, and when we pointed to the ship he shook his head, to show that we couldn't get aboard her; but when we pointed down to the shore he again took our hands and led us on. we must have wandered by ourselves a long way, for we were some time getting to the beach. there was not a sign of our shipmates; we tried to ask where they had gone, but the natives hung down their heads and looked sorrowful. "bill, something has happened," i said; "we must try to find out what it is." our friend seemed to understand us better than the rest, so we asked him to learn from them what had happened. after much talking with his friends, he showed us by signs that the ship had fired a gun, and then another, and another, and that the white men had hurried to the boats and shoved off; that the largest boat with mr hudson had got out safe, but that the smaller one was upset; some of the people in her were drowned, and others swam out, and were picked up by the large boat. this was, indeed, sad news. which of our shipmates have been lost? which of them have been saved? we asked one another. i had felt that if the boats had gone without us, captain bolton would not forsake us, but would put back to take us off as soon as he could. now, however, he would suppose that we had been lost, as very likely no one would have observed that we were not with the rest, when they jumped into the smaller boat to pull on board. "oh, bill! bill! here we are left among savages; may be we shall never get away, but have to spend all the days of our lives with them," i cried out in a mournful tone. bill began to cry, too. "why, not long ago you wanted to remain," i could not help saying. "that was when i thought that we should be flogged, and were sure to go away," he answered. "do you know, tom, i've heard say that some of these people are cannibals; that is, they eat human flesh. perhaps when they find that the ship is gone, they'll kill and eat us." i said i hoped not, but still i didn't feel very comfortable; for i knew what he said was true. there was now, however, no help for it. "captain bolton will believe that we are lost, and when he gets home let our mothers know, and we shall be mourned for as dead," said i. "they won't mourn for me, and i don't care," said bill. "they will mourn for me, and i should be very sorry if i thought they wouldn't," said i. "ay bill, often at night, when the storm has been raging, and the sea running high, and it seemed as if the ship would go down, or might be cast on some hidden reef, i've gone to sleep quite happy, knowing that mother would be thinking of me, and praying for me, and that there was one who hears our prayers, watching over me." we were sitting down under some trees, on a hillock above the beach, from which we could still see the _rose_ beating off under close reefed topsails. after some time our friendly native came up and sat down by us. after a time, he signed to us to get up, and led us back to his house. our friend, we found, was the son of the greatest chief in the island. when we got back to the house we had a supper of fish and pork, and bread-fruit and other vegetables were placed before us. in the middle of the house, as soon as it was dark, a fire of dried cocoa-nut leaves was lighted, and round this the family collected. what was our surprise to see the young chief bring out of a chest a book, and begin to read. i looked at it, but though the letters were english, it was in his own language. then they all knelt down, and prayed, and sang a psalm. i knew it by the tune. "why, bill, i do believe these people are christians," said i. "so i suppose, tom, if it is the bible they are reading," said bill. "no doubt about it," i said; "that's the reason they treated us so kindly. i've heard that missionaries have been out in these parts, and they must have been here, and taught these people to be christians." "if they are christians, tom, then, maybe they won't kill and eat us as we thought they would," said bill, in a more cheerful voice than he had spoken in before. i couldn't help almost laughing as i answered, "they would be odd sort of christians if they did; but i'll tell you what, they'll think us very odd sort of christians if we don't kneel down, and say our prayers with them. we needn't be afraid that any one will laugh at us, as we might have been aboard the _rose_." "i can't say prayers, never learned," said bill; "you never saw me saying them aboard the _rose_." that was true; but mother had taught me to say mine, and i said them in my berth, or to myself on deck, or wherever i could. i thought bill might have done the same. i felt that we were put to shame by these poor savages, as we called them. so i begged bill to try and say a prayer, but he said he couldn't, he didn't know what to say. i asked him if he could say what i did, and so we knelt down, and he said prayers after me. the natives seemed pleased, and the young chief nodded his head to show that we had done what he thought right. i don't say there would have been any use in the form, or if i had done it merely to please the natives, but i really did pray to god as truly as i ever did, but i own that, in a way, the natives shamed me into it. there was an old chief and his wife and two daughters, and three other lads, besides our friend. they had all much more clothing on than the other people we had seen, and were more quiet in their manners. as soon as prayers were over, they hung up large pieces of native cloth from the rafters, reaching to the floor, so as to form a number of little rooms. mats were laid on the floor to form the bedding, and pieces of cloth served as coverlids. the pillow was a curious affair, being a thick piece of bamboo, about four feet long, on little legs. we were shown into one of these rooms, and a sign made to us to go to sleep. even the largest houses have not a nail in them, but are fastened together with sennit, which is a line made from the root of a tree. i may say that everything is fastened with sennit--canoes, as well as houses--so that large quantities are used. we slept very soundly, having no longer any fear of being cooked and eaten. in the morning, as soon as it was daylight, the whole family was on foot, and before anything was done they had prayers, as in the evening; the young chief leading and reading more out of the bible. as soon as that was over, they all set about their daily work. the men and boys went into the fields to cultivate the taro and other roots, on which they live; while some of the women got out their mallets and boards to make the native cloth; others employed themselves in plaiting mats and baskets, which are so fine that they will hold water. bill thought that he was going to be a gentleman, and do nothing, as he said; but i said that if we didn't work we could not expect to be fed, and made signs to the young chief that we were ready to help him. he smiled; perhaps he thought that we couldn't do much, and certainly we could not hope to do anything as well as the natives did. they seemed to me a very clever people, considering the small means they had. they have now iron tools, but they showed me those they had before the english came to the island, very neatly made of flint and shells and bones. they made fish-hooks and spears, and many other things, of bones. we soon learned from the young chief how to work in the fields, and to do a number of things, and it was a pleasure to work for him, he was always so good-natured and kind. by degrees, too, i learned his language, though bill could not make much hand of it. i wanted to know how it was that he and his people had become christians, and where the missionary lived who had taught them. at last i spoke well enough, with the help of signs, to ask him. i should have said that his name was matua. he told me also, with signs and words, that the missionary lived in an island some way off, and that he, matua, had been there several times, and was soon going again to fetch a native missionary, or a preaching man; that one had been on the island, but that he was a very old man, and had died some time before we came. he told me that he had a canoe preparing for the voyage. i asked him if he would let us go with him, for that i should like to see the missionary, who was a countryman of mine, and that i might, through him, write home to my friends in england. "would you like to go to them again, or live on with me?" he asked. "i like you very much, but i love my mother and brothers and sisters much more, and if i have the chance, i shall try to go back to them," i answered. "very right," he said, "but i shall grieve to lose you." the canoe was, at the time we first saw it, nearly finished. it was built like the houses, without a single nail, but all the planks were sewed together with sennit. it was about forty feet long, and scarcely thirty inches wide. it had a gunwale, and ribs and thwarts to keep it in shape. a thick gum was put at the seams to prevent the water getting through. being so narrow it would have upset, but it had an outrigger, which is a plank, or log, as long as the boat, pointed at the fore end. this rested on the water five or six feet from the canoe, and was kept there by poles, fastened across the canoe. this was always on the lee side, as the canoes can sail both ways, stem or stern first. at one end there was a deck, under which they kept their provisions, and on the top of which the chief sat. the men to move it had short paddles, like sharp-pointed shovels, and sitting with their faces to the bows, dug the paddles into the water, which they sent flying behind them. we were very sorry to part from many of our friends, but still the thoughts of seeing a white man again, and hearing our native tongue spoken, made us glad; besides which, i hoped that somehow or other i should have the chance of getting home. story two, chapter . we had got a good supply of provisions and water, in the canoe, and i understood that the voyage might take us four or five days, or perhaps more. the island looked very beautiful as we sailed away from it, and i did not wonder that matua loved it so much. his love for it made him undertake the voyage to fetch a missionary, for what he loved more than its beauty were the souls of the people in it, over whom he ruled. for two days the sea was smooth and the wind fair, though there was very little of it. when it fell calm, we paddled on at a good rate. on the evening of the second day, the sky looked threatening. soon after the next morning broke it began to blow very hard, and the sea soon got up, and tumbled the canoe about in a way which i thought must upset her, or send her to the bottom. the sail was lowered, and while some paddled lustily, others, helped by bill and me, baled out the water, of which we shipped a great deal, though none came through the seams. this showed how strongly it was built. the canoe was kept head to the seas, but we made no way, and it was very clear that we were driving before the gale,--not back to matua's island,--though where we were going we could not tell. matua sat steering as calm as possible. he said that he put his trust in god, and did not fear the storm. he and his people were doing all that could be done to preserve their lives, and that if it was god's will that they should die, they were ready. i should say that they had prayers and sang psalms morning and evening, and that they prayed and sang now, only of course they could not stop paddling or bailing, or kneel down. yet many white persons would have called these people savages. it gave me an idea of the good the missionaries have done in these seas. though i had seen what a storm at sea is on board the _rose_, i did not think how terrible it was in a narrow canoe of thin planks just sewn together. my wonder was and is that we did not go down, or break to pieces. five days we drove on before the gale. twice we saw land in the distance, but did not dare to try and reach it, indeed we could not if we had tried. the wind then fell, and the sea went down, and then we lay floating on the water, but the men were too weary to paddle any more. our food also had grown very short, though we had eaten only just enough to keep life in us. it seemed a doubt whether we should have enough to reach one of the islands we had seen. after sleeping for some hours, the crew seized their paddles, and we began to paddle back the way we had come. the next day it was a dead calm, and we saw right ahead a large vessel, barque rigged. bill and i both thought she was english and matua agreed to go alongside. as we drew near, i saw that she was a whaler from the cut of her sails, from her being high out of the water, and the number of boats shaped stem and stern alike. we were now alongside. i told the captain, who asked us what we wanted, how we had been driven out of our course, and begged him to tell me how we could best reach matua's island. "as to that, you have been driven three hundred miles to the westward of it, if it's the island i fancy from your account," he answered. "it will take you a pretty long time to get there; but i'll tell you what i'll do, i'll give the canoe a tow for a couple of hundred miles, and then take my advice,--do you ship aboard here; i shall be bound home in six months or so, and you won't have a better chance of getting there. if you wish to serve your friends, you can let your wages go in payment: i can't undertake to help these savages for nothing." the last part of this speech did not please me, but still i did not think we could do better for ourselves or for matua; so, after talking it over with him, we agreed to captain grimes' offer. i first bargained that some food and water might be given to our friends, for had i not done so, i fear that they would have had a scant allowance. to tow is to drag a boat or vessel by a rope through the water. we now went aboard the ship, which was called the _grampus_. she was a very different looking craft from the _rose_, and her officers and men were a very rough lot. the wind was fair, and the canoe towed very easily. still captain grimes grumbled at having to take her so far. at last i said that i was ready to go back in the canoe if he wished to be off his bargain. i found that he really wanted us, as one of the ship's boys had died of fever, and another had been washed overboard with two of the men. "no, no; that will not do," was his answer. "i'll take the savages as far as i promised, and you two lads shall stay aboard." on the evening of the third day, captain grimes said that he had towed the canoe the distance promised, and that she must be cast off. matua and our other friends were very sorrowful when they parted from us. captain grimes gave them some flour and water and biscuit and bread-fruit, and told them how to steer for their island. the canoe was then cast off. from that day to this, i have never been certain whether the island the captain spoke of was matua's own island, or whether he reached it at all. i know that numbers of canoes are blown away from the land, and that some reach strange islands far, far-off, where their crews settle, but that others are lost with all on board. the _grampus_ was a vessel of tons,--much smaller than the _rose_-- but she carried a larger crew. she had six boats, and each boat had a crew of six men. often all the boats were away together, so that, besides the thirty-six men, in them, more were required to manage the vessel. the boats are about twenty-seven feet long, and four broad, and sharp at both ends. in each boat are two lines, fathoms long, coiled away in tubs. in the end of one, an harpoon is fastened. this is a short spear, and is shot out of a gun like a blunderbuss. there are several such harpoons, and two or three long lances; besides, a lantern, light-box, some small flags, and two or more "drogues," which are square bits of board to be fastened to the harpoon line, in order to hinder the whale when sinking or swimming away. it was some time before we fell in with a sperm whale. men were stationed at the mast-head and yardarm, on the look-out for whales, from sunrise to sunset; but it was two weeks before we got to our fishing-ground. one day, at noon, while those on deck had their eyes on the galley, waiting for dinner, we were aroused by a cry from the mast-head, of "there she spouts." "where away?" asked captain grimes. the man pointed to the west, and there, not half a mile off, a thin jet of water was seen rising from a dark object, which we soon saw to be a huge whale, as long as the ship, "there again," cried the crew, as once more the jet rose high. three boats were lowered; everything was kept ready in them. the crew slid into them. away they went in chase, singing-- "away, my boys; away, my boys: 'tis time for us to go." we watched the chase from the deck. "he is going down," cried one. "no; he spouts again, he spouts again," we all cried, as another jet rose in the air. "yes; but he'll be down again," said an old whaler. still the boats dashed on, as if it was a matter of life and death. the chief mate was in the leading boat. he had reached the whale just as the monster gave a sign that it was going down. the oars were thrown up; the harpoon, shot with certain aim, sank deep into the monster's side. a cheer rose from the men in the boats--we on board took it up. at the same moment the whale began to strike furiously with its huge tail, right and left, beating the water into foam. one of the boats was struck, and knocked to pieces, and the crew had to swim towards the other boats; another was upset, but the crew hung on to her as if they were accustomed to it, and righted her. one of them got in, and baled her out; the oars and other articles were picked up, and away they pulled in chase. the whale, meantime, had sounded; that is, gone down towards the bottom. a two hundred fathom line was run out, and another fastened on; a third was called for from another boat, and a fourth was about to be added, when the line became slack--the whale was rising. a whale breathes the air like a land animal, and therefore cannot remain under water many minutes at a time. were it not for this, it could not be caught and used by man. the line was hauled in, and coiled away in the tub. up came the whale at some distance, and off it darted at a great rate, towing the fast boat, the others following. but he became wearied with loss of blood and the weight of the boat. one of the other boats got up, and a lance was plunged into him; then another, and another. again he began to lash about furiously--the boats backed away from him. he made one leap, right out of the water, and then lashed his tail more furiously than before. then he once more went down, but only for a short time. he soon appeared--swam slowly on--then the death-struggle came on. it was fearful to look at. every part of the monster quivered and shook, and then he lay dead--our prize. the sperm whale we had taken is very different to the greenland whale of the north. it had a blunt nose, like the bottom of a quart bottle; thin, pointed lower jaw; the eyes very far back, and a hump on its back; the tail or flukes being set on flat with the surface of the water, and not up and down, like the greenland whale. this one was eighty-four feet long, and thirty-six feet round the body, or, suppose it had been cast ashore, it would have been about fourteen feet high. the head was of great size; it was nearly a third of the length of the whole creature, and about nine feet deep. the head alone contained no less than a ton, or ten large barrels, of spermaceti. the dead whale was towed alongside the ship. the head was cut off, and secured astern, that the oil might be dipped out of it. hooks were then made fast to each end of the body. men, with ropes round their waists, and with spades in their hands, go down on the body of the whale. a large blunt hook is then lowered at the end of a tackle. the man near the head begins cutting off a strip of the blubber, or the coating of flesh which covers the body. the hook is put into the end of the strip, and hoisted up; and as the end turns towards the tail, the body of the whale turns round and round, as the strip of blubber is wound off. when this is done, the carcase is cast loose, and the head is emptied, and let go also. on the deck are large cauldrons; the blubber is cut up into small pieces, and boiled in them. part of the blubber serves as fuel. taking off the blubber is called "cutting in," and boiling it, "trying out." at night, when "trying out" generally goes on, the deck of a whale-ship has a strange and wild look. the red glare of the fires is thrown on the wild, and i may say, savage-looking crew, as they stand round the cauldrons, stripped to the waist, their faces black with smoke, the large cutting-out knives in their hands, or the prongs with which they hook out the blubber, all working away with might and main; for all are interested in getting the work done. the crew of a whale-ship share in the profits of a voyage, and all therefore are anxious to kill as many whales as possible. there is no bad smell in trying out, and the work is cleaner than might be expected. the ship was very nearly full, that is, our barrels were nearly full of oil, and the crew were beginning to talk of the voyage homeward, and of the pleasures of the shore, when one night as the watch below, to which i belonged, was asleep, we were awakened by the fearful cry of "breakers ahead!" followed by a grinding noise and a shock which made the whole ship quiver through every timber. we rushed on deck. she was hard and fast on a coral reef. story two, chapter . "hold on for your lives," shouted the captain as a huge wave, dimly seen through the gloom of night, rolled on towards us. it broke with fearful force against the ship, washed several of our poor fellows overboard whose shrieks were heard as they were carried away to leeward. it threw her on her beam ends, and drove her farther on the reef, and with a crash all the masts fell together. another and another sea followed and lifted the ship over the reef, where the water was smoother. "out boats!" was the cry. "the ship is sinking." three of the boats were launched, not without great difficulty; the rest were stove in by the falling masts. we had barely time to get into the boats before the ship settled down till her weather bulwarks alone were above water. we did not know if we were near land, and if near land whether or not it was inhabited. we stayed in the boats near the vessel, hoping that daylight would soon come to show us where we were, and to enable us to get some provisions, if possible, out of her. it came at last. no land was in sight; only reefs and coral rocks all around, some above, some under the water. we had no food in the boats, no water; our only hope was that the ship would break up and things float out of her. each sea which rolled in shook her till it seemed that she must break to pieces. at last her deck was burst up, and we thankfully picked up a cask of beef, another of pork, and some flour and biscuit, and, what was of still more consequence, three casks of water. these things were divided among the boats. there was only one small boat-compass in the captain's boat. he told us to keep close to him, and that he would soon take us to a land where we should find all we wanted. with sad hearts the crew of the whaler left the ship, and the product of their labours for so many months. bill and i were together with the second mate. we were well-nigh ready to cry, for though we had not lost anything, we were sorry for our shipmates, and we began to think that we should never get home. for three days the weather remained fine, but on the fourth, as the sun went down, it came on to blow. the sea too got up, and it became very dark. we kept the captain's boat in sight for some time, but she seemed to be going ahead of us. on a sudden we lost sight of her. we pulled on as hard as the heavy sea would let us to catch her up, but when morning broke, neither of the other boats was to be seen. the sky was overcast, we had no compass to steer by, the sea ran high, our stock of provisions was low, our stock of water still lower. we were in a bad way. there was no one to say, "trust in god." the mate was ill before the ship was cast away. he now lost all spirit, and thought that his end was coming. he told us that we were still nearly two hundred miles from land to the south-west of us, and described the stars we should steer by. the next day he died, and two other strong-looking men died within two days of him. the rest of them thought that they should never reach land. i said at last, "let us trust in god. let us pray that he will send us help." two of the men answered that god did not care for such poor wretched fellows as they were. i said that i was sure he cared for everybody, and that he would hear us if we prayed to him, however poor and wretched we were. i only know that i prayed as hard as ever i did, and bill prayed too. two days more passed away. at night the stars came out, and we steered the course the mate had given us. i was at the helm looking now at the stars, now ahead, when i saw a dark object right before me. it was a ship sailing across our course. i shouted loudly. the shout roused those who were asleep. they all sprang to their oars, and pulled away as hard as their remaining strength would allow, we all shouting at the top of our voices. i saw the ship heave-to, and i burst into tears. we were soon alongside, but without help we were too weak to get on deck. i heard voices i knew giving orders. yes, there stood captain bolton on the quarter-deck, and mr alder seeing to the boat being hoisted up. another person stood before me, watching the men helping us up, it was toby potts. now i felt sure that i was in a dream. toby had been lost so many months before on the other side of the pacific. he did not know either bill or me. no one knew us. that made it still more like a dream. i forgot how many months had passed by since we were on board the _rose_, and that we were well-nigh starved to death. the captain came round as we sat on the deck, and spoke very kindly to us, and told us that hammocks should be got ready, and that we should have some food as soon as it could be warmed up. "don't you know me, captain bolton?" i asked as he came up to me. he looked at me hard, as the light of the lantern fell on my face. "what! tom trueman! i should say, if i didn't believe that he has long ago been in another world," he exclaimed; "if it is tom, i am right glad to see you, lad. tell me how you escaped death." so i told him, and made bill known, for he was in a fright, thinking that we should be punished for leaving the beach without leave. it did me good to see the pleasure the kind captain felt at finding that we were alive. by this time some warm turtle soup was brought us, and a little weak brandy and water, and then we were carried below and put into hammocks. it was not till the next day that i was certain i was not mistaken about toby potts. he had floated on the very hencoop which i had thrown over to him, till the next morning, when one of the ships which we had seen, hove-to, passed close to him, and picked him up. that ship fell in with the _rose_ two or three weeks after we were supposed to have been lost, and toby was returned on board. the _rose_ herself had suffered much damage in a gale, and had put into harbour to repair; she had also been some time in collecting sandal-wood, with which she was now on her way to canton. this accounted for our falling in with her, for i thought that by this time she would have been far on her way home. we had a fine passage to canton, or rather to whampoa, which is as far up the river of canton as ships go. the mouth of the river is known as the boca tigris. the captain kindly took me to canton; it is a most curious city. on the river are thousands of boats, the greater number not more than fourteen feet long, and twelve broad, and covered over with a bamboo roof. in these whole families live from one end of the year to the other, or rather from their births to their deaths. then there were junks as big as men of war, with huge, carved, green dragons at their bows, and all sorts of coloured flags. but the most curious sights are on shore. the city is surrounded by walls, and the houses look as if they were cut out of coloured paper; the streets are so narrow that only two sedan chairs can pass, and no wheel carriage enters them. at each end of the street are gates, which are shut at night and guarded by policemen. the shops are all open in front, and all sorts of curious things are sold. the people themselves are odd looking, with their black hair in long tails hanging down their backs, and their yellow or blue silk coats, and wide trousers and slippers. the great men walk about under big coloured umbrellas, or else are carried by two men in a covered chair on poles. they are a very industrious, hard-working people, and every inch of land in the country is cultivated. though they are so clever and neat-handed, and can do many things as well as the english, yet they are idolaters. in their churches, or pagodas as they are called, there are ugly images, which they worship. they burn sandal-wood and bits of paper before them, which they fancy is like saying their prayers. the chief thing produced in the country is tea. when we had landed the hides, seal-skins, and sandal-wood, which we had brought, we took on board a cargo of tea, in chests. with this we sailed for sydney, new south wales, as the captain calculated that we should arrive there about the time that the wool produced in that colony would be ready to ship to england. there are many dangers in the seas between those two places. there are typhoons, which are strong, fierce winds; and there are rocks and shoals; and there are pirates, mostly chinese or a people like them, who attack vessels, if they can take them unawares, and rob them, and sometimes murder all on board. we escaped all dangers, and arrived safely off sydney harbour. we entered between two high headlands into a large bay or lake, in which any number of vessels might lie at anchor. the city of sydney is a fine-looking place, with towers, and churches, and large houses, and wide streets, and carriages in great numbers driving about, and vessels of all sorts lying alongside the quays, two or three landing emigrants just arrived from england; and then there are huge warehouses close to the harbour. into one of them the tea we had brought was hoisted, and out of another came the wool, in large packages, with which the _rose_ was to be freighted. what astonished me was to think that eighty years ago not a white man was living in all that vast country, and now there are large towns in all directions, and villages, and farms, and sheep-stations, and thousands upon thousands of sheep, some of the wool from whose backs we were now carrying home to be made up into all sorts of woollen goods in our factories. with cheerful voices we ran round the capstan as we weighed anchor, we hoped to remain at our bows till we dropped it in the mersey. the whaler's people had left us at hong kong, at the mouth of the canton river. they said that we were too quiet for them. i should like to tell of our voyage home, not that anything wonderful happened. we continued sailing west till we arrived off the cape of good hope, and then we steered north, for old england. we arrived at liverpool in two months and a half after leaving sydney, and a little more than two years from the time we sailed from england. captain bolton called me into the cabin, and told me that he was so well pleased with me that he would take me another voyage if i had a mind to go; but that i might first go down into dorsetshire to see mother and my brothers and sisters, and friends. i thanked him very much, and said that i should be very glad to sail with him, and that i hoped to be back any day he would name. well, i got home, and there was mother, and jane come home on purpose to see me, and sam, and jack, and little bill grown quite a big chap, and all of them; and i blessed god, and was so happy. i had brought all sorts of things from china for them, and others from the south sea islands; and they were never tired of hearing of the wonders i had seen, nor was i tired of telling of them. thus ended my first voyage; i have been many others, but this was the happiest coming home of all. story three, chapter . the fortunes of michael hale and his family. a tale about life in canada. the sun shone brightly out of a deep blue sky. his rays glanced on the axes of several sturdy men, who with shirt sleeves tucked up and handkerchiefs round their waists, were hewing away lustily at some tall pine-trees. a few had already fallen before their strokes, making a small clearing in the thick forest. through the trees the glittering water of a lake could be seen, but on every other side the thick forest alone stood up like a dark wall. yet all that thick underwood and those tall trees must be cut down and cleared away before the newly arrived settlers would find means of living. it was enough to try the bold hearts of the men as they looked round and saw the work before them. not an inch of ground turned up, nor a hut built, and winter not so very far-off either. yet it must be done, and could be done, for like work had been done over and over again in the country. the ground rose at first gently and then steeply from the lake, while the splashing sound of a stream on one side gave promise of good water-power for the new settlement. there were not only firs but many hard-wood trees. such are those which shed their leaves, maple, birch, oak, beech, and others, all destined soon to fall before the sturdy backwoodsman's axe. the scene i have described was in that fine colony of old england across the atlantic ocean, called canada, and in a newly opened district of its north-west part between the great river ottawa and lake ontario. old and young were all at work. there were some women and children of the party. the women were busy in front of some rough huts which had been built indian fashion, something like gipsy tents in england, and covered with large sheets of birch-bark. they were soon made, with a ridge pole, supported by cross-sticks ten feet long. other thin poles were placed sloping against the ridge pole, and then the birch-bark was put on. the bark comes off the trees in lengths of eight or more feet, and two and three wide. by the side of the huts casks of provisions, pork, flour, tea, sugar, and such-like things, and household goods, were piled up, covered over with bark or bits of canvas. in front of each hut was a fire, at which some of the women were busy, while others were dressing or looking after the younger children. "breakfast ready, breakfast ready," cried out the women one after the other, as they placed ready for their husbands and sons savoury dishes of pork, or beef, and fish, with hot cakes of wheaten flour or indian-corn, baked in the ashes, to be washed down with good tea, sweetened with maple sugar. of milk and butter of course there was none. the men soon came in, and sat down on the trunks of trees rolled near for the purpose, with appetites sharpened by their morning's work. with one of the families we have most to do. the father, michael hale, was a broad-shouldered, fair-haired, blue-eyed man, with a kind, honest look in his face. following him came his three stout sons, rob, david, and small tony, as he was called, and small he was as to height, but he was broad and strong, and so active that he did as much work as any of the rest. he was such a merry happy little chap, with such a comical face, so full of fun, that he was a favourite everywhere. two men also sat down to breakfast whom michael had hired to help him clear his ground. mrs hale had two stout girls well able to help her, and three smaller children to look after, while her eldest girl, susan, had gone out to service, and was getting good wages. "well, martha, i hope that we shall have a house ready for you and the little ones in a few days in case rain should come on. we've got stuff enough to build it with," said michael, pointing to the huge logs he had been felling. "we do very well at present in the hut," answered his wife, smiling. "i have a liking for it--no rent and no taxes to pay; it is ours--the first dwelling we ever had of our own." "ay, wife; and now we have forty acres of land too of our own: little value, to be sure, as they are; but in a few months, when we have put work into them, they'll yield us a good living," observed michael, glancing his eye down his allotment, which reached to the lake. "we shall have four acres cleared, and our house up, before the snow sets in; and if the boys and i can chop three more in the winter, we shall have seven to start with in the spring." "you'll do that, master, if you work as you've begun," said pat honan, one of the men hale had engaged to work for him. "arrah now, if i had the wife and childer myself, maybe i'd be settling on a farm of my own; but, somehow or other, when i go to bed at night, it isn't often that i'm richer than when i got up in the morning." "you won't have the whiskey here, pat; so maybe you'll have a better chance. just try what you can do," said michael, in a kind tone. "ah, now, that's just what i've thried many a day; and all went right till temptation came in my way, and then, somehow or other, the throat was always so dhry that i couldn't, for the life of me, help moistening it a bit." pat's companion, another irishman, peter disney, looked very sulky at these remarks, and michael suspected that he had often proved poor pat's tempter. near michael's tent there was another, owned by an old friend of his, john kemp. they had come out together from the same place in england, and for the same reason. they had large families, and found work hard to get at fair wages. michael hale was a day labourer, as his father was before him. he lived in a wild part of old england, where schools were scarce. he had very little learning himself; but he was blessed with a good wife, who could read her bible, and she had not much time to read anything else. michael fell ill, and so did two of his children (that was in the old country); and when he got better, he found that his old master was dead. for a long time he went about looking for work. one day he called at the house of a gentleman, one mr forster, five miles from where he lived. "i cannot give you work, but i can give you advice, and maybe help," said mr forster. "if you cannot get work at home, take your family to a british colony. i am sending some people off to canada, to a brother of mine who is settled there; and, if you wish, you shall go with them." "where is canada, and what sort of a country is it, sir?" asked michael. "it is away to the west, where the sun sets, and across the atlantic ocean; and a vessel, sailing at the rate of nine or ten miles an hour, takes between twelve and fourteen days to get there. it is a country full of large rivers and lakes and streams, and has railroads running from one end to the other. there is much forest-land to be sold; and a man working for another for one or two years is generally able to save money and to buy a farm, and set up for himself. the climate is very healthy. the summers are hotter than in england, and the winters much colder. the ground is then covered thickly with snow; but the snow is looked on as a blessing, as, when beaten down, a capital road is made over it, and besides it makes the earth fertile. everything that grows in england will grow there, and many things besides, such as indian-corn, or maize. though the summers are short, they are very hot, and corn is quickly brought to maturity. a man must work there, as everywhere, for a living; but if he keeps from drinking, he is sure to get plenty of work, and to be well paid." "i think, sir, that country will just suit me," said michael. "i find it a hard matter to get work; and when my boys grow up, it will be still worse." "well, think it over," said mr forster. "if you can get work, stay where you are; if not, remember what i tell you, that canada is a fine country for a hard-working, strong man; and that if you determine to go there, i will help you." michael thought over the matter, and talked over it with martha, and they agreed to go. michael hale told his neighbour, john kemp, what he was thinking of doing. when john heard that michael was going, he said that he would go too, for much the same reason; he had five children, and might have many more; and the day might come when he could get no work for himself or them either. michael could not have got out if it had not been for the help given him by mr forster; but john kemp had a cow and calf, two pigs, and some poultry; and, by selling these and the furniture, he had enough to pay his passage, and some money over. they went to liverpool, where mr forster took a passage for them on board a large ship, with nearly three hundred and fifty other persons, also going out to settle in canada. they felt very strange at first; and when the ship began to roll from side to side, and to dip her head into the big seas, they did not know what was going to happen; but it soon got smooth again, and though they were nearly a month at sea, they were not the worse for the voyage. the ship was some days sailing up a large river, called the saint lawrence, which runs right across canada, from west to east. they only went up part of the way in her, as far as quebec, a fine city, built on a steep hill. they thought the high mountains very fine on the sides of the river, and wondered at the curious places where settlers had built their houses. wherever there was a level spot on the side of the mountains, some quite high up, there was sure to be one or more fields, an orchard, and a cottage. they were told that these were the farms of french people, whose fathers had come over to the country many years ago, when it was owned by france; and that a great many french still live in the east part; but that in the west, where they were going, the inhabitants are nearly all english, or scotch, or irish. they found that there was an agent at quebec, a government officer, as well as at every large town, whose business it is to tell newly arrived emigrants all about the country, how to get up to where they want to go, and to help those who want it. michael and his friends went up to montreal, another large city, in a big steamer. from montreal they went on sometimes in a railway; then in a small steamer on a river, then on a canal; then across two or three lakes, and again on a river and canal; and then they landed, and went across country in a wagon, and for some miles over a lake, and along a river, in an open boat, till at last they reached the place where mr forster's brother lived. here michael and john engaged themselves to serve two settlers, at good wages, for a year; their wives were to cook and wash; their cottages and food were found them; while the children were to go to school, and to help in harvest and other times when they were wanted. michael and john agreed that they had good reason to be satisfied with the change they had made. for two years michael and john worked on steadily for their masters, as did their wives and elder children, getting good wages, and spending very little. they were employed in clearing the ground; that is, chopping down trees, under-brushing, cutting the underwood, building log huts, fencing, ploughing, and digging, road making--not as roads are made in england, though, but with logs and planks--and building carts and wagons, and bridges too; indeed, there were few things they did not turn their hands to. now, with fifty pounds each in their pockets, over and above what they had laid out in provisions and stores for the winter, they had come up to take possession of forty acres apiece of freehold land, for part of which they had paid, the rest was to be paid for by a certain sum each year. they had to lead a rough life, but they did not mind that; they knew what they were to expect. they did not fear the cold of winter; for their log-houses would have thick walls, and they had large iron stoves with flues, and plenty of fuel to be had for the trouble of chopping. after the snow had fallen, the boys would chop enough in a few days to last them all the winter, and pile it up in a great heap near the house. they had plenty of clothing, and they had found the climate, in summer or winter, as healthy as they would wish. they were not long at breakfast, and did not give themselves much time to rest, but up they were again, axes in hand, chopping away at the big giant trees which came crashing quickly down one after the other before their strokes. story three, chapter . it seemed a difficult job to get rid of all the trunks now they were down cumbering the earth, after enough were kept for the log-house, and fencing, and firing. the only way was to burn them. it was done in this manner: the largest tree in a group was felled first, and all round were made to fall across it, others were put above it with handspikes. the boughs and brush-wood were placed under and above it, till a huge heap eight feet high was formed. a number of these heaps were made, and when the day's work was done they were set on fire. it was a curious sight at night to see them all blazing together, lighting up the dark forest, and the faces of the men, and the huts, and those around them. on the first night several new settlers came rushing over to michael's clearing to learn what was the matter, thinking the forest was on fire. the men had indeed to take care that the flames did not spread to the other trees. the stumps of course remained, and it would take six or eight years before they would rot away. michael had learned to make potash out of the ashes which he could sell at pounds the barrel. the log-house, or rather hut, was next built. four logs were first laid down on the ground to mark out the shape of the hut, the ends being notched to fit into each other. the upper sides of the logs were then hollowed out, so that the next tier of logs fitted into them. these were also notched. in the same way others were placed above these till the walls were of the proper height. the front wall was higher than the back one, so that the roof sloped from the front to the back. there were now the four walls, but no door and no windows. these were sawed out and frames fitted into them. the roof was made of smaller logs. a log was split in two and hollowed out so as to form a trough. a row of troughs was then put on side by side, sloping from the front wall to the back, the hollow part up. over the edges of these were next placed other troughs with the hollow down. it was just as rounded tiles are used for roofs in england. the troughs stuck out some way both before and behind to protect the walls. this sort of roof, from being very thick, keeps out the cold in winter, and the heat in summer. the spaces in the walls between the logs were then filled up with clay. a well-made door and thick shutters being fixed up, and a large stove lighted, michael found even in the coldest weather, that his log hut could be kept far warmer than had been his cottage in the old country. the hut was divided into three rooms, a large one in the middle to serve for the kitchen, the parlour, store-room, and boys' sleeping room; and one on each side,--one of them was for himself and wife and two youngest children, and the other for the girls. michael and his boys made all the furniture out of slabs. the slabs were made in this way: they took a clean straight-grained pine-tree and cut it into logs eight feet long. one end of each was lined out into planks, three or four inches thick, and then split with wedges. they then fixed the plank into notches with wedges between two logs, and smoothed them with the axe and plane. thinner planks were made out of the white cedar, which splits very freely. the fir planks served for the flooring of their bed-rooms, and for shelves and cupboards. as they for the first time sat round the table just finished by michael, they thanked god heartily who had brought them to a country where steady hard work could gain for them so many comforts. some of the settlers were not quite so well pleased as michael. they were not so handy with their tools. john kemp had more daughters, and had not made or saved so much as michael. he had no stove, but he made a fire-place after this fashion. four very wide ladders were placed in a square, a little way from the wall, passing through the roof. in front some of the bars were left out. clay mixed with straw was then kneaded round the rounds, or steps of the ladders and all the rest of the space between them filled up with clay, so that all the wood was thickly covered. the part where the bars were left out was the front of the fire-place. it drew very well and threw out a great heat. it was a great thing to have all the stuff for building and fencing on the ground. the fences were made of rough logs piled up one on another in a zigzag form. this is called a snake fence. the stumps were still in the ground. it would take some years to get them out, but michael knew that he could even plough between those farthest apart, and dig in other places, and that wheat and indian-corn and potatoes were sure to grow well. some time before, a road to the settlement had been marked out through the forest. this was done by blazing the trees, that is cutting a piece of bark off each with an axe. choppers were now set to work to cut down the trees, and burn them off, but the stumps were left standing, and the carts and wagons had to wind their way along between them. where the ground was swampy, trunks of trees were placed close together across the road: this is what is called a corduroy road. other roads were planked over with fir, and called plank roads; others were of gravel. in all of them the stumps had been grubbed up, or rotted out, or blown up. michael's settlement, thornhill, as it was called, was able to get on pretty well without a road, as it could be reached by the lake and river. michael and john together made a canoe that they might get about the lake. it was formed from a large log, and hollowed out. the boys learned soon to paddle in it almost as fast as the indians could. when the winter set in, and the snow lay thick on the ground, roads were made on it by beating it down hard. over these roads sleighs, that is carts on runners, were able to travel faster than those on wheels. so hard had michael and his sons worked, that before the frost set in and the snow came down, they had been able to sow three acres of their ground with wheat, which they hoped would give them a good supply of flour for the next year. "if the reason is early, i hope that we may get a spring burn of three or four acres more;" said michael to his boys. "then we'll plant it with indian-corn, and pumpkins, and potatoes, and turnips, and carrots, and cabbages, and onions, and other garden stuff. in a short time we shall not have much to buy in the shape of food, as soon as we can raise enough for pigs and fowls, and keep a cow or two." as yet nothing particular had happened to michael hale and his family. they had worked on steadily, and were already reaping the reward of their industry. story three, chapter . before october was over bad weather came on, and the settlers who had only just come to the country began to cry out that the winter would be upon them before they were ready. they were, it is true, much behindhand, for though many of them had far greater means than michael hale and john kemp, they had not their experience, and often threw away much labour and time uselessly. they were wrong as to the weather, too, for the indian summer came, and this year it lasted nearly three weeks. the air was pure and cool, though there was not a cloud in the sky, but there was a haze which made the sun looker redder than his wont, and did not let his rays strike as hot as they had done in the summer. it was a very fine time, and the new settlers said that they had seen nothing like it in the old country. the leaves on the trees too changed to all sorts of bright colours--orange and yellow and pink and scarlet and blue--till the wood looked like a big flower-garden; the beech turned to a straw colour; the maple on one side was light green, and on the other scarlet and yellow and pink and many other colours; the oak became of a dark, shining copper, but there was more scarlet and yellow on most of the trees than any other colour. among the settlers was a mr samuel landon. he was a kind-hearted man, and had good means, but had not had the practical experience which michael possessed, and which was of more value to him than money. mr landon often came across to michael's clearing to ask his advice. he and his family had reached canada at the same time as the hales. he had lived at the city of montreal for some time, and spent much money; then he had travelled about the country and spent more. that money would not have been thrown away, but he bought land which he did not like, and sold it at a loss. now he had bought a second lot. anybody looking at his and michael's lot at the end of the fall would have been able to say which of the two was most likely in the course of a few years to be the most prosperous settler. still michael hale was to have his trials. few men go through life without them. a letter came from susan to say that she was ill and wished to come home. she begged that some one would come and meet her. michael could not leave, and he wanted one big boy to help him, so it was settled that rob and tony should go. they had a long journey before them. first the voyage along the lake and down the river, and then a long tramp through the forest of three or four days. there was no road, but the trees were blazed they knew, and they had no doubt about finding the way. "fanny sends her love to susan, and is very glad she is coming home," said mrs kemp, as rob went to wish her good-bye. fanny was mrs kemp's eldest girl, and a very pretty, good girl she was. her next girl, ann, was not quite right in her mind, though she could do what she was bid. their next girl was too young to be of much use. there were several boys--bill, and tommy, and john, all able to do something to help their father. just as rob hale was shoving off, tommy kemp, who, though not so old as tony, was a great friend of his, came running down to the lake, and begged that he might go with them. they were glad of a companion and took him in. they made very good way along the lake, but the weather began to grow bad before they reached the mouth of the river. dark clouds gathered, the wind rose, the thunders roared, and the lightning flashed brightly. "let us get on shore, for we shall have the rain down thick upon us," cried tony. "we shall keep dry if we get under a tree." as he spoke a flash of lightning struck a tall tree near the shore. it was split in a moment from top to bottom, and a huge branch torn off. "it is well that we were not on shore," said rob. "where should we have been now if we had got under that tree? god saved us, for it is the very place i thought of going in for shelter. there is a sandy point farther on, we'll go there." the lads drew their canoe up on the point; then they turned her bottom up and got under her. they had just done this when the clouds seemed to break open and empty their contents down on them. the wind roared, the waves came rolling almost up to the canoe. they could scarcely hold it down. all this time the thunder roared, and the lightning flashed, and the crashing of falling trees was heard. "oh! oh! we are all going to be washed away!" cried tommy in a fright. "no fear, tom," said tony; "all we've to do is to hold on to the canoe, and to our baskets of grub, and then, if we are washed away, we shall be able to turn the canoe over and get into her." this idea made poor tommy happier till the wind ceased. when they got out from under the canoe, they found that the wind had blown down the trees right through the forest, just as if a broad road had been cut in it, but it had not touched them either on one side or the other. there were still some hours of daylight, so they paddled on. they passed many canoes with indians in them. they are made of the birch-bark, and sewed together with thread made from the root of a shrub; the seams are then covered over with gum and resin; the ribs are very thin, and made of white cedar. they look very pretty, and are so light that two men can carry one, which will hold eight or ten persons, a long way over land. it is in this way that people travel in the wild parts where there are many rivers. they paddle along the river till they come to the end of it, and then two of them lift the canoe out of the water, and run along over the ground--it may be a mile or it may be a dozen--till they come to another river or lake, into which they launch it; the rest carry the freight on their backs. in that way they go hundreds of miles across north america, indeed almost from ocean to ocean. the lads were going down the river, when they came near some very strong rapids, with a fall of several feet beyond. when the river in the spring was very full, this fall could be shot. rob had got close to the rapid before he saw how strong the current was running. to get to land he turned the canoe round, and paddled across the river. there was a small island just below where the canoe was. rob wished to cross above it. a tree with large branches had fallen, and stuck out into the stream. "lie down at the bottom of the canoe," said rob to tommy, who looked frightened. "now, tony, paddle your best." do all they could, the canoe was carried quickly down by the current, close to the island. at that moment, tommy, seeing the tree, caught hold of a branch, and swung himself up. as he did so, with a kick he upset the canoe, and both rob and tony were thrown out of it. away it floated, but rob and his brother had kept hold of their paddles; and rob, seizing tony, swam with him to the island. tommy was too much frightened to know what he was about: and when his weight brought the bough down into the water, instead of dragging himself up he let go, and away he was swept by the current. "oh save me, rob! save me! save me!" he cried out. "swim across the stream, lad, and i'll come to you," answered rob, who was carrying tony to the island. instead of doing that, poor tommy tried to swim up the stream, and of course was carried lower and lower towards the rapid. rob found it a hard task to get tony safe to land. as soon as he had done so, the two scrambled across the island to see what had become of poor tommy and the canoe. they had not heard his voice for a minute or more. he was not to be seen. an eddy had taken the canoe and carried it nearly over to the other side. "that eddy will help us," said rob: "we must go and look for tommy." tony did not like to go into the water again; but rob, telling him to hold on by the paddle, took the other end in his mouth, and swam boldly off towards the canoe. tony held on, striking with his legs, but he could hardly help crying out for fear of sinking. he thought all the time of tommy, and what had become of him. rob swam on. he was very thankful to reach the canoe. he then made tony catch hold of it, and pushed it before them till they reached the bank. they lost no time in drawing it on shore, and they looked round for tommy. he was not to be seen. before they could launch the canoe again they had to drag it over the grass a hundred yards or more. once more in the river below the falls they looked about on every side, shouting tommy's name. no answer came. it seemed too likely that he was lost. they hunted for him round every rock, and among all the bushes overhanging the stream, and the fallen trees floating in it, and clinging to the bank with their roots. not a sign was there of tommy. the evening was coming on; it was yet some way to the log hut, where they proposed to stop for the night. though they feared that he was lost, they did not like to leave the place without finding his body. they paddled first on one side of the stream, then on the other; then they went up close to the falls. "we must give it up, i fear," said rob. "poor, poor tommy! oh dear! oh dear!" cried tony. "why did he go and do it!" "it will be sad news at home," said rob. "i am thankful that it wasn't you, tony; but i had rather it had been anybody but tommy." "don't let us give up, then," said tony. "may be he's farther down the stream. i won't believe that he's dead till i see him dead." strive to the last. that is a good principle. it was one tony held to, young as he was. they slowly paddled down the stream, looking about them as before. there was a small island some way down like the one above the falls. they paddled up to it, and were going round it, when a log of timber was seen caught in the branches of a tree, which had been blown down, and hung into the water. on the inner end sat tommy, clinging to the bough above his head. he still seemed too much scared to know exactly what he was about. when his friends shouted his name, he only answered, "yes; here i am." tony, in his joy at getting him back alive, gave him a hug which nearly again upset the canoe. tommy seemed scarcely to know what had happened, and thought that he was still on the island above the falls. it seemed that he had got hold of the log as it was floating by, and that he was carried with it over the falls, and thus his life was saved. the three lads now paddled on till, just at dark, they reached roland's shanty, as it was called. roland, an old scotchman, was an oddity. he called his shanty the white stag hotel; and had, chalked up on a board, a figure, under which he had written "the white stag. accommodation for man and beast." except, however, a gallon of whiskey, a jar of beef-tallow, and some indian-corn bread, he had nothing to set before his guests. the bread and tallow was washed down with burnt-crust coffee, as they did not touch the whiskey. "i ken ye'd be glad o' that if ye was lost in the woods," he said, when he saw the faces of the lads. "what mair can ye want? dry your clothes, and then there are your beds for ye." he pointed to a heap of spruce fir tops, in a corner of the hut. though the food was coarse, and their beds rough, the lads slept soundly. they had food of their own, but they wished to husband that for the woods, where they might get none. leaving the canoe under charge of roland, the next morning they began their tramp through the forest. the trees were blazed, and there was a beaten track all the way. they were well-known to roland, and as they were setting off he offered rob the loan of his gun, with some shot and powder, he having had one left by a settler, who had not come back for it. with a good supply of food on their shoulders, and axes in their belts, they went on merrily. story three, chapter . alone a person feels somewhat sad walking on hour after hour through the dark forest, but that is not the case when there are several. the young travellers stopped to dine near a stream, and watched the squirrels busily employed in gathering in their winter stores of butter, hickory, and other nuts. at night they camped out. cutting a ridge pole, they fastened it between two trees; and then, on the side next the wind, leaned against it other poles with pieces of bark and branches. in front of this rude hut they made up a large fire, and cut a store of wood to last them all night. their beds were spruce fir tops, and their coverlids their buffalo robes which they carried strapped on their backs. on the second day, about noon, as they were walking along in indian file, one after the other, rob leading, a fine deer slowly trotted across his path. he had time to unsling his gun, which he carried at his back, and to fire before the animal was out of sight. he hit it, but the deer bounded on. he and his companions followed in chase, rob reloading as he ran. the blood on the fallen leaves showed that the deer was ahead. on they went, mile after mile; every moment they thought that they would come up with it. at last more blood was seen on the leaves, and in an open glade there stood the stag. once more, as the young hunters drew near, he was starting off, when rob fired, and he fell. here was a fine supply of venison for the rest of their journey. it was a pity that they could not carry the skin. they cut up the animal, and loaded themselves with as much of the best part of the meat as they could carry. this they secured by thongs cut from the skin. the other joints they hung up by the thongs to a tree, while the carcase remained on the ground. while they were so employed, some flakes of snow began to fall. at first they did not think much of this. the flakes were thin, and did not cover the marks on the grass. "come, boys, we must hurry on, or we shall not easily find the blaze again," observed rob. they walked as fast as they could with their fresh loads. as there was no wind, they did not complain of the cold. the flakes fell thicker and thicker. "where is the track?" cried rob on a sudden. they could see their footmarks behind them, but in front there was not a trace left. "go ahead," said tony. "the stag kept a straight line, and we have only to look behind us and see that ours is straight and we shall soon find the blaze." rob did not think this. he was sure before they had gone far that they were bending very much, now to one side, now to the other. no sun shone. there was no wind to guide them. rob, after some time, remembered that he had heard that the moss grew thickest on the north side of the trees. on that side the trunks looked light and cheerful and on the other dark and spotted. they had gone some way before he thought of this. tony and tommy cried out that they were very hungry, for they had had no dinner before they saw the deer. rob wanted to find the blaze first. they walked on and on, looking carefully at the trees. no blaze was to be seen. at last the boys said they could go no farther without eating, and rob himself was very hungry. so they picked up dry sticks; and soon had a fire blazing, and some bits of venison toasting before it. the snow fell thicker than ever. they scraped some up and put it into their kettle and made some tea. once more they went on, feeling much stronger. "we must soon find the blaze," rob said more than once; but he was wrong. night drew on. no blaze was to be found. "we must make a camp before it is too dark," he said at last. no time was lost. he had his axe soon at work cutting poles and boughs and firewood, the boys helping him. a fallen trunk formed the back. between two in front they fastened a long pole and rested the other poles and boughs between it and the trunk. they did not wish for better beds than the spruce fir tops gave them. a fire soon blazed up in front of the tent. tony and tommy were as merry as crickets. they had plenty to eat and the fir tops made them a soft bed, while the fire kept them warm. it was settled that one of them at a time should keep awake to put wood on the fire. tommy had the first watch. then he called rob when he thought he had watched long enough. of course rob got the most watching. at last he called tony and charged him to keep awake. "never fear about me; i'll be broad awake till it's time to call tommy again," said tony. rob had built up the fire, so that tony had not much to do. he sat up for some time, warming his hands and watching the blazing logs. then he thought that he would sit down rather more inside the tent for a little time. he did nod his head now and then, but that was nothing, he thought. he was sure that he had his eyes wide open. after some time he heard a howl--then another, and another. a number of animals howled together--wild beasts--wolves. he thought, "i hope that they are a long way off." they were not loud enough as yet to awake his sleeping companions, but they were coming slowly nearer and nearer. tony rubbed his eyes. was he awake? he looked up. the fire was almost out. there was no doubt about the howl of the wolves. they were much nearer than he had fancied. the flame on a sudden burst out of the embers, and out of the darkness several pairs of fierce eyes glared at him. "rob! rob! tommy! wolves!" he shouted out, at the same time seizing a stick from the fire, and waving it about. rob and tommy were on their feet in a moment, and each taking up a burning stick they made a rush towards the wolves. they were not an instant too soon, for the fierce beasts having scented the venison, were just going to rush at them. the fire-sticks kept them off, but they did not go far. there they stood in a circle howling away at the three young travellers. while tony and tommy threw more wood on the fire, rob stepped back and loaded his gun, which he had forgot to reload after the second shot at the deer. the wolves seeing that the fire-sticks did them no harm, and being very hungry, were coming on, when the boys once more shouting at the top of their voices, and stirring up the fire, rob fired at the biggest of the pack, who seemed to be the leader. over the creature rolled, and his companions taking flight with fearful yells drew back into the forest. tony said he was sure they stopped and looked round, every now and then yelling together, and asking each other to turn back and renew the attack. the lads at last lay down, but all night long the wolves kept up their bowlings close to them with snarls and other noises. "i dare say now that those fellows have got some carcase or other, and are making merry over it," said rob. the watchmen did not fall asleep again during the night. when daylight came back the snow had ceased falling, but it lay an inch thick on the ground. "we must find the blaze before breakfast," said rob, as they strapped their things on to their backs. in all directions they saw the marks of the wolves' feet on the snow. they followed them up some little way to see what they had been feeding on during the night. "why if this isn't the very place where we killed the deer and there is our venison still hanging up in the tree, which the brutes couldn't get at, and that made them howl so," cried out tony, who was a little before the rest. they found then that after all their wanderings in the afternoon they had come back to the _very_ spot they had left at mid-day. they hoped that now, if they made a fresh start, that they might reach the blaze. they more carefully noted the moss on the trees. the sun too shone out brightly. they were stepping out merrily, and they thought that they must be near the blaze, when before them was seen a large cedar swamp. the tree in canada called the cedar is low, twisted, and knotted, with straggling roots growing in moist ground. it makes a thicket which the wind cannot pass through. indians often cut a way into a cedar swamp in winter to build their wigwams in it. the travellers knew that they could not pass through the swamp, which was all moist, so they had to find their way round it. they fancied that they could not fail to reach the blaze. at last they got very hungry and had to stop and light a fire and breakfast. they knew that they were fortunate in having plenty of food, for they had heard of people wandering about in the woods for days together without anything to eat. noon came round again. no blaze yet seen. "when shall we find our way out of this, rob?" asked tony. "may be in a day or two, may be in a week," answered rob. tony and tommy looked very black at this. they were getting tired walking about all day in the snow, with heavy loads on their backs. tommy began to cry. just then a shot was heard. they ran on in the direction from which the sound came, and rob fired his gun in return. in a few minutes they met a tall, thin, oldish man, with a gun in his hand and a bag at his back. "why, youngsters, where have you come from?" he asked. rob told him. "not much out, youngsters; why you are scarcely more than two hundred yards from the blaze, and haven't been for some time past," the old man replied. "come, i'll show you." the old hunter stalked away at a great rate, and they followed as fast as they could. "that's your way," he said; pointing to the blazes on the trees. "push on as fast as you can, or the snow may be down on you, and you'll not be able to get on without snow-shoes. it wouldn't be pleasant to you to be snowed up here in the woods." "no, indeed, master," said rob; "especially if we were to have such visitors as came to us last night." the old hunter laughed when rob told him of the wolves. "they won't hurt anybody who shows a bold front, for they are great cowards," said the old man. "but woe betide the boy who is caught out alone at night, if any of the savage beasts fall in with him. still, though i've hunted through these parts more than thirty years, i've heard of very few people who ever got any harm from them." rob thanked the old man, who said that his name was danby marks. they all walked on together for some time, chatting pleasantly. the snow began to fall very thickly again. rob thought that old marks was going to leave them. "i see that you are young travellers, and i may help you a bit may be," said the old man; "your way shall be mine." he told them much about the birds and beasts and fish of those parts. "the lakes and rivers are full of fish; the salmon are very fine. then there are sturgeon, and a fish called maskinonge, not known in england; and pike, and pickrel, and white-fish, and trout, and herrings, very like those in salt water; and bass, and sun-fish, and perch, and many others. anybody may catch them who can. many are killed with a spear, and others caught with nets of all sorts. indians catch the white-fish with a scoop-net, like a landing-net, with a long handle. they stand up in their canoes, amid the rapids, and as they see the fish in some more quiet hollow, they, quick as lightning, slip in their nets and scoop him up. they carry torches in their canoes at night, and when the fish swim near, drawn by the light, they dart down their barbed spears and seldom fail to spike. "this is a rich country, indeed," continued old marks. "just think of the numbers of deer, the moose, with a heavy head, bigger than the largest horse; and the caribou, rather smaller, but more fleet; and then there's the elk, and other smaller deer. many and many's the night i've camped out on the snow, with my feet to a blazing fire, wrapped up in a buffalo robe, going after them critters. then we've black bears, but they don't often attack men, though they are mortal fond of honey, and sheep, or pigs, or poultry, when they can catch them. the wolverine, is the most savage animal we've got, and as cunning as a fox. they can climb trees, and spring down on their prey. i've known a man try to catch one, and very nearly got caught himself. the racoon is a curious critter, with the body of a fox, the head of a dog, and a round, bushy tail. the hind legs are longer than the fore, and both are armed with sharp claws. they live in trees, and leap nimbly from branch to branch. we shoot them sitting on branches, or popping their heads out of some old hollow stump. then there's the lynx, and the otter, beaver, musk-rat, ground-hog, woodchuck, flying squirrel, skunk, marten, mink, fisher, hedgehog, and many others. most of them are eatable, and the skins of all of them sell for a good deal of money. we have no lack of birds either: wild turkeys, and geese, and ducks, and pigeons, which fly in flocks so thick as to darken the air. a man with a good gun, and who knows how to set traps, need never starve in this country. not but what i say a settler's life is the best for most people. i took to the woods when i was young, and now i am old i have no wife or children to care for me, and that's not the fate i would wish for any of you young people." the old man sighed deeply as he finished speaking. still rob was so interested with the accounts of the old trapper's adventures, that he begged he would let him go with him some time into the woods to hunt. old marks readily promised to take rob with him. they travelled on cheerily, talking on these subjects, though the snow fell so thickly that at last it became heavy work to walk through it. they had to camp out three nights, so little way did they make. still they did not mind that, as they had plenty to eat, and old marks told them no end of amusing stories. at last they reached the town where susan was at service. she was expecting them, and all ready to start. when, however, her mistress, mrs mason, heard that she intended walking, she would not let her go. she said that it was not fit for a young girl who was delicate, and that she must wait till she could get a lift in a sleigh going that way. rob said that he would not wait, as he ought to be back again to help his father. still the good lady would not give in. story three, chapter . at last they reached the town where susan was at service. she was expecting them, and all ready to start. when, however, her mistress, mrs mason, heard that she intended walking, she would not let her go. she said that it was not fit for a young girl who was delicate, and that she must wait till she could get a lift in a sleigh going that way. rob said that he would not wait, as he ought to be back again to help his father. still the good lady would not give in. two days passed, and the snow came down again thicker than ever. then it cleared up. the sky was bright, the wind keen, and there seemed every chance of the frost lasting for some days. it was likely, however, that there would be one or two thaws before the regular frost of winter set in. at last rob thought that he would hire a sleigh to carry his sister. just then, who should he meet in the street but his neighbour, mr landon. rob told him of his difficulty. "just the very thing," said mr landon. "i have bought two sleighs, one which i want to send home at once, as it is for the use of my wife and daughters. you shall take susan in it, if your brother will wait two or three days longer, and drive the luggage-sleigh with my winter stores. by starting early you will be able to get through half the distance to roland's shanty by night-fall. take fodder for the horse, and if you cover in the sleigh at night, and keep up a blazing fire, susan won't be the worse for it." rob agreed to the proposal. tony and tommy were in great glee at the thoughts of driving a sleigh by themselves. rob had told mr landon that tony was fully up to the work. as there was no time to be lost, rob set off the next morning by daybreak, with susan well wrapped up in buffalo robes. mr landon had to do some business in a distant town, and would not be back for two weeks or so. it seemed certain that the fine weather would last when rob set out. at last tony's turn came. his sleigh was only a large box, on runners. before day broke, he and tommy were on foot, ready to start. mr landon cautioned them not to delay on the road. "no fear, sir," said tony. "may be we'll catch up rob, if he isn't very smart," observed tommy. away they drove. there was nothing unusual in giving a sleigh in charge of two such boys as tony and tommy. boys in the colonies are constantly employed in work which men only would undertake in the old country. tony had often driven sleighs long distances for his former master, so he had no fear about the matter. the horse was a rough animal, well up to bush travelling. if he could not go round a log, he thought nothing of making a leap over it. away they trotted, the sleigh-bells sounding merrily in the frosty air. rob's sleigh and several others had passed, so that the snow was beaten pretty hard, while the track was well marked. tony and tommy amused themselves by whistling and singing and telling stories, laughing heartily at what each other said. the country looked very different to what it had done ten days before. everything was white, the boughs hung down with the weight of snow, and where in some places it had melted and frozen again, the trees looked as if they were covered with diamonds and rubies and other precious stones. the horse went well, and they got on famously all day. before it was dark they reached the spot where rob and susan had camped. the boys soon had a fire blazing in front of the hut rob had built for susan. they hobbled the horse, and gave him some hay and oats, and then they began to cook their own provisions. it would have been hard to find a couple of more merry and happy fellows; not that they had forgot the wolves, but they did not fear being attacked as long as they kept up a good fire. this time, however, the one on the watch took care not to fall asleep, and to keep the fire burning brightly. now and then howls were heard from far-off in the depths of the forest, which reminded them of the visitors they might expect if they let the fire out. daylight came again; they and the horse breakfasted; and they were once more gliding over the smooth snow, the sleigh-bells sounding merrily in the fresh morning air. as the sun rose, the air became warmer and the snow softer, which prevented them from getting on so well as they hoped. as the sun went round, and the trees for a time were cast into shade, long icicles formed on the boughs, which, as a stray beam found its way through the wood, shone like masses of precious stones. the snow had now lasted for some days, and at that early time of the season a thaw might any hour begin. this made the two lads eager to push on; but "too much haste is bad speed," and they almost knocked up their horse before half the day's journey was over. the evening was drawing on, and they were still a long way from roland's shanty. tony was driving, and making their tired horse go on as fast as he could, when tommy, looking over his shoulder, saw a huge wolf following close behind them. "drive on fast," cried tommy, pointing at the wolf, "i don't like the looks of that chap." "he's not a beauty, but he won't do us any harm as long as he's alone," said tony, who was a brave little fellow. "but he isn't alone," cried tommy, "i see three or four other brutes skulking there among the trees--push on! push on!" it was high time, indeed, to push on, for the big wolf was drawing nearer and nearer, and his followers seemed only to be waiting his signal to begin the attack. as the horse, knowing his own danger, galloped on faster, the wolves set up a hideous howl, fearful that their prey would escape them. tommy seized the whip from tony and began to lash away at them. "if i had rob's gun i'd pay off those brutes," cried tony, "slash away tommy! keep them off! it won't be pleasant if they catch hold of us." on went the horse; he did not think of being tired now. it was hard work to guide him between the stumps and fallen trees. tommy lashed and lashed away, and shouted at the top of his voice. an overturn would have caused their death, as the wolves would have set on them before they had time to get upon their feet. they were coming to a bad bit of the road where they would have to drive down some steep and rugged places to avoid fallen logs. the wolves seemed to think that this would be their time, for all the pack made a dash at the sleigh. tommy lashed with his whip with all his might. one big beast was on the point of springing into the sleigh, and the boys, with reason, gave up all for lost. still, like brave fellows, they strove to the last. "hit him with the butt end," cried tony. tommy struck the brute with all his might between the eyes. the wolf fell back, but others were coming on. a moment afterwards two more sprang up at the sleigh. one of them tommy treated as he had done the first, but the other was just seizing him by the leg, and a third was flying at tony, who, having to guide the horse, could not defend himself, when a bullet whistled by and knocked over one of the animals. the others, frightened by the report, stopped short, and tommy had time to hit the wolf just going to lay hold of tony. "well done, youngster, well done," cried a man who just then stepped out of the bush. "if i hadn't come just in the nick of time it would have been the worse for you, though." the boys saw that the man was their friend danby marks. tony had hard work to stop the frightened horse, and could not have done it if the old man had not caught the reins and soothed the animal. a second shot from his rifle, by which another wolf was killed, sent the whole cowardly pack howling back into the forest. "you must let me go as your guard for the rest of the way," said the old hunter, as he stepped into the sleigh and bade tony drive on, "don't suppose, though, i came here by chance," he added; "nothing ever does happen by chance, and i am here to-day because i met rob, and as his mind misgave him, he begged that i would come and look after you." tony and his friend thanked the old man heartily for the help he had given them. "yes, indeed, mr marks: we should have been made into mince-meat by this time if it hadn't been for you," said tony. it was, indeed, a good thing for the lads that the old trapper found them when he did, even if there had been no wolves; for the night came on very dark, and without him they could not have found their way to roland's shanty. in the night the wind changed, the rain came down in torrents, and the remainder of the road along the banks of the river and the shore of the lake was impassable. they had, therefore, to follow mr landon's orders, to leave the sleigh under roland's care, and to go home in the canoe. story three, chapter . old marks offered, the next morning, to go with them, telling them that the current in the river was so strong that they would not stem it by themselves. they saw that he spoke the truth, and were very glad to have his help. the rain ceasing, they started soon after breakfast with as much of mr landon's goods as the canoe would carry. tony thought rob a very good canoe-man, but he found the old trapper a far better; and it was curious to see the way in which he managed the canoe, even among rapids, into which few persons would have ventured. his strength, too, was very great--for he dragged the canoe, heavily laden as it was, all the way along the portage over the snow; for the frost came on again that evening, and in exposed places hardened the ground. they found it much colder camping out by the lake than they had done in the woods. as soon as it was dark, the old trapper lighted a torch, and with a spear went out in the canoe. the fish came up to the light as moths do to a candle, and were seen by the old sportsman's sharp eye; and in the course of a few minutes he had killed more fish than he and his two young companions could eat for their supper and breakfast. with the canoe to keep off the wind, and a blazing fire, they did not complain of the cold. the paddle across the lake, however, exposed to the biting wind, was the coldest part of the journey. they had made some way along the lake, when tommy, who had nothing to do but to look about him, said that he saw some one walking about on an island, and making signals. "some indian just warming himself this cold day," said tony laughing. "may be, it's no business of ours," said tommy. "boys, if a fellow-creature is in distress, it's our business to go and see if we can help him," observed old marks gravely, and turned the head of the canoe towards the island. "if he's not in distress it is only a little of our time lost, and better lose a great deal than leave a human being to perish, whatever the colour of his skin." tony and tommy felt rebuked for their carelessness. on getting near the island, who should they see but pat honan, one of the men who had been employed chopping for michael hale. he now looked very blue. he could not speak, and could scarcely move his hands. "he'd have been frozen to death in a few more minutes," said marks. "light a fire, lads, quick, and we'll warm him up." he threw one of the buffalo robes over the man, and poured a few drops of whiskey down his throat, while the boys made up a blazing fire. marks turned poor pat round and round before it, rubbing and beating him. as soon as pat could speak, he cried out, "arrah, it was the whiskey, the whiskey did it all; ahone, ahone! if it wasn't for that, pater disney might have been alive and well." "what about peter disney?" asked marks. "oh, ahone, ahone! he lies out there stark and cold," answered pat, pointing to the other end of the island. as soon as pat got well enough to be left for a little while, with tommy to look after him and keep up the fire, marks and tony paddled round to where he pointed. there they found a boat knocking against some rocks, and, on landing, not far off was the body of peter disney, frozen stiff, though covered up with a blanket. he was sitting upright with his mouth open. a dreadful picture. nothing could be done for him, so they again covered him up, and towed the boat out from among the rocks. "i should like to write over his head, `drink did it,'" said the old man: "if i was more of a scholar i would." as the canoe would not hold another passenger, they all got into the big boat and towed her. marks, pat, and tommy took the oars while tony steered. "well, pat, how did it happen?" asked marks. "why, do you see, pater and i was going to do some work for a new settler at the farther end of the lake, and so we hired a boat to make a short cut--a long cut it'll be for pater, seeing he'll never get there; och, ahone, ahone! says pater, `we'll not do without provisions, pat, and so i'll be after getting _home_, and jist a drop of whiskey to wash them down.' i axes him if he'd got them all right. `all right,' says he, as we shoved off. all right it wasn't though, for when i came to axe for some bread and cheese and a slice of pork, he hadn't got any. indeed, faith, he'd forgotten all else but a big bottle of the cratur. `it's a bad bargain,' says i; but i thought we'd make the best of it. we rowed, and we took a pull at the bottle, and we rowed again, and then another pull; but pater took two pulls for my one--worse luck for him,-- and so we went on till somehow or other we both fell asleep. when we woke up, there we were in the middle of a rice-bed. how to get out was a hard job, when pater, in trying to shove with the oar, fell overboard. i caught him by one leg just as he was going to be drownded entirely, but he was little better than a mass of ice in a few minutes, in spite of the whiskey inside of him. i at last got him on shore, and covered him up with a blanket, but before long he was as stiff as an icicle, and though i shouted as loud as i could, and bate him with a big stick, i couldn't make him hear or feel. ahone, ahone! och the whiskey! i'd rather that never a drop should pass my lips again, than to die as pater disney." several families of irish had lately arrived at the settlement, to some of whom peter disney was related. as soon as pat honan drew near the shore, where many of them were standing watching the boat, he shouted out that peter was dead. forthwith they set up a fearful howl, in which others as they came up joined them, till the whole party were howling away in concert, led by pat, who cried out, "ah, it was drink--the cratur,--'twas drink, drink that did it." rob and susan had arrived safely with the sleigh. as soon as the ground hardened, rob set off in the canoe, and brought the luggage-sleigh home by the snow road formed through the woods, along the borders of the lake. story three, chapter . though most out-of-door work comes to a standstill in winter, chopping can still be carried on, fallen trees cut up and fresh trees cut down. one of the customs of the country is to form a bee when any particular piece of work has to be done in a hurry. such as a log hut or a barn raised, or some ground cleared. the bees are the neighbours who come from far and near; they receive no wages, but are fed well, and whiskey is served out too well while they are at work. the more industrious among the settlers employed the time in the house in making household furniture, mending their tools, and in many other ways--not forgetting reading the bible to their families. the winter was already some way advanced when most of the inhabitants of thornhill were invited to chop trees and to put up a log hut, by a gentleman, a mr sudbury, who had bought land about three miles off and wished to get in some crops as soon as the snow was off the ground. michael hale, and rob, and john kemp, and mr landon, and many others went. they expected to clear half an acre of ground, and to get the walls and roof of the log hut up in one day. most of the settlers in thornhill were well, in spite of the cold, except mrs kemp. she had for some time been ailing, and expected soon to give birth to another child, mrs hale had gone in to have a chat with her, and to help her in some household matters, when tommy came running in breathless. "what's the matter, tommy; eh boy?" asked mrs hale. "a big tree has come down at mr sudbury's clearing, and killed, or pretty nigh killed, some one. nobody knows who it is, but i hope it's not father, nor mr hale either." these words frightened both the wives, who wanted to set off at once. "no, no, i'll go," said mrs hale. "you stay quiet at home, mrs kemp. it's the only fit place for you." just then, one of the miss landon's came in to see mrs kemp. she said, if tony, who had come up with his mother, would go with her, she would set off at once, with such things as were likely to be of use to the sufferer, whoever he might be. "you, mrs hale, stay and take care of mrs kemp," she said. this mrs hale promised to do, for mrs kemp was looking very ill. mary landon was a young girl of much sense. she hurried home, and collected all the articles she might require. tony said that he knew a short cut, but as it was not beaten down it could not be passed except on snow-shoes. his own he had brought with him. mary had lately learned to walk in them, and had a a pair ready. they were wooden frames in shape something like an egg flattened out, only sharp at both ends. the centre part was net-work of leather thongs, like a very coarse sieve. they are fastened to the feet by thongs of leather. from covering so much space, they do not sink into the snow. on their feet, people in winter wear in the country soft leather socks, called mocassins, with one or two pairs of thick worsted socks inside. mary's were made by an indian woman, a squaw, as the natives call their wives and daughters. they were worked prettily with coloured porcupine-quills and beads. quickly putting on her snow-shoes, mary set off with tony. both had long sticks in their hands. they had got about half way, when tony looked up, and said, "i hope, miss landon, that you are not afraid of bears." "why?" she asked. "because i see the fresh marks of one on the snow," he answered. "we may meet the gentleman; if we do, we must attack him with our sticks, and shout, and he will go off; but if we attempt to run, he'll gain courage and follow." mary said that she would follow tony's advice; but as she walked on, she looked anxiously on one side and on the other, expecting to see the bear appear. as to running away in snow-shoes, that she could not, and she was afraid that, in attacking the bear, she might topple over, and he might set on her. "no fear, miss mary," said tony, as he saw her looking about; "if he does come, i'll give him a taste of the tip of my stick, and he'll soon turn his tail to us; he is not far off, i see by his marks; he'll show himself presently. now don't run, miss mary, but shout out like a man, as if you wasn't afraid." scarcely had tony given this advice, than a brown, shaggy-coated bear was seen moving along the snow between the trees. he soon caught sight of the travellers, and sat up, watching them as they passed. "i told you he wouldn't hurt us," said tony; "we used to see plenty of them where we were last." they had not, however, gone far, when tony, looking over his shoulder, cried out, "here he comes though; but don't fear, there's a rise a little farther on, and from the top of it we can see mr sudbury's clearing." still the bear followed, and got closer and closer. tony kept facing him every now and then. at last he cried out, "now's our turn, miss mary, turn round and shout as you never shouted before." mary did as she was advised, and tony at the same time setting up a loud shriek and hallo, and shaking his stick, the bear was so astonished that he turned round and waddled off. once or twice he looked back, but tony's shout made him hasten away faster than before. thus it will be seen, that though there are bears in canada, they are not much to be dreaded. in a short time mary and her companion arrived at the clearing. she inquired anxiously who was the sufferer, for she knew that it might be her own father as likely as any one else. "it is john kemp, he is there in the hut," was the answer. "bless you, miss mary," said michael hale, when he saw her come to assist his friend; "but i'm afraid that help comes too late. the best surgeon in the land couldn't cure him." poor john kemp lay in a corner of the unfinished hut on a bed of spruce fir tops, a fire lighted near to give him some warmth. he was moaning and complaining of the cold. he had been cut by his axe as the tree fell, which at the same time crushed one of his legs and hurt his side. mary bound up the wound more carefully than it had been done, and fomented his side; but she saw that she could do no more, and advised his being carried home at once. no surgeon was to be found nearer than forty miles. one had been sent for, but it was very doubtful if he could come. a litter of boughs was at once formed, and poor john, wrapped up in buffalo robes, was at once placed on it, and michael and rob hale, and other members of the bee, undertook to carry him home. he thanked his friends, and mary in particular, but told them that he was sure he should never get there. he did, however; but those who carried him saw, as they drew near his cottage, that something was wrong. michael sent tony on to ask. tony came back shaking his head: some one had told mrs kemp, in a hurry, that her husband was killed. the shock was too great for one in her weak state. just before her husband was brought home, she had died, giving birth to a tenth child, "god's will be done," whispered john kemp, when he heard of his wife's death, "he will take care of our poor orphan children." before the night was over john himself had rejoined his wife in another world. his prayer was heard, and his faith in god's love rewarded. a meeting of all the settlers was called. mr landon proposed raising a subscription for the orphans. "that is not wanted," said michael hale, "i will take charge of two of them, and more, if the rest do not find homes--fanny and tommy shall become my children." "and i will take another girl then," said mr landon; "and the poor infant, my daughter will nurse it." "i will take a boy," said mr sudbury. thus the children were quickly disposed of among some of the kindest and best of the people in the settlement. the orphans became really and truly their children, and were treated in no respects differently. there was nothing uncommon in this. the same thing is done in all parts of the province, and those who thus protect the orphans seldom fail to receive a blessing on their homes. fanny and tommy soon learned to look on mr and mrs hale as their parents, and to render them the same obedience and affection that they would have done had they really been so. story three, chapter . no one finds settling in a new country all smooth work; and if a man cannot look ahead and think of what his labour is sure to produce, he will often be very much down-hearted. some people give up when, if they had held on, they would have succeeded at last. michael hale was not one of the give-in sort. the winter in canada lasts a long time, but most people who have plenty to do like it very much. michael hale's public room was a good large one, and as soon as the day's work was over, and supper eaten, he set everybody to doing something or other. the girls had always plenty to do to spin and knit and sew. the boys, too, learned to knit, so that they could knit their own stockings. there was a hand-loom weaver among the settlers, and from him david learned to weave what his sisters spun. from this time, except a little calico, there was very little in the way of clothing the family had to buy. tony learned cobbling, and, in time, to make shoes. rob was a first-rate carpenter. the younger boys helped their brothers. those were pleasant evenings, as they sat round the blazing fire which made amends for the poor light of the tallow lamps. one evening rob and david had to go out to look after one of the cows which was sick. they did not much like leaving the cozy fireside for the freezing night air. "it must be done though," said rob; "come along, david." no sooner did they open the door than they heard a strange squeaking from the pig-sty, which, they had wisely built at some little distance from the house. it was a bitter night. they stopped an instant to listen, and in that instant their hair and eyebrows and eyelashes were frosted over. the squeaking went on. "some creature must be among the pigs," cried rob. "run back for the gun, david, i'll go and see." while david went in to get the gun, rob, with a thick stick and a lantern in his hand, hurried down to the pig-sty. one fine porker lay bleeding on the ground, and another was not to be seen. a faint squeak from the forest on one side showed where he was gone. rob calling on david to follow, ran on in the hopes of catching the thief. he hadn't got far when the light of the lantern fell on the back of a shaggy-haired beast, which he at once knew to be that of a bear. in its fore-paws it carried the missing porker, which still sent forth a piteous cry for help. rob soon overtook the bear and gave him a no gentle tap on the back of his head. bruin, not liking this, dropped the pig and turned round to face rob, while piggie, having still the use of his legs, ran off towards his sty. the bear seemed resolved to vent his rage on rob, who stood ready to receive him with his thick stick, flourishing it before his face. with a loud growl the angry bear sprang on rob. "fire! fire!" cried rob, "he is biting my shoulder." david was afraid of hitting his brother, he did not therefore fire till he got close up to them, and then, putting the gun to the bear's head, he pulled the trigger. over rolled the creature, and rob was set free. he was much hurt, but his thick coat had saved him from a worse wound. the snow was hard, so that they were able to drag the carcase over it to the house. one of the pigs was so much hurt that rob was obliged to kill it, while the other, which had been carried off, escaped without much damage. after doctoring the cow they appeared at home with their prize. it made more than amends for the loss of the pig; for in canada, in winter, it matters not how much meat is in store, as once frozen it will keep till the warm weather returns. often people have a dozen turkeys and twice as many fowls, and small animals, and fish hanging up in their larders, at once. in the markets, fish, flesh, and fowl are also sold in a frozen state. the bear was quickly skinned and cut up, but he was frozen almost hard before the work was finished. the next day rob's shoulder hurt him so much that he was obliged to stay at home. susan and his mother doctored it as best they could, but he did not get better. at last they went up to mr landon's house, to ask what they ought to do. though it was one of the coldest days, mrs and miss landon hurried down to the hut. they soon saw that, without great care, the matter might become serious. having left a lotion and some medicine, with directions how to treat rob, they were on their way, home when they saw a thick smoke curling up into the sky above where their house stood. mary hurried on till she could see the house itself. fire was coming out of the roof. "oh, mother, do you go back to the hales and ask for help, and i will run on and see what can be done at once," she exclaimed. as soon as mrs landon reached the hales, tommy ran to call michael and his two boys, and pat honan, who was working for them. mr landon and his only son, george, was away. mary found biddy mccosh, the servant-girl, wringing her hands and running about not knowing what to do, while her youngest sister was asleep, and the next was crying, seeing that something was the matter but not knowing what it was, mary's first thought was to place her little sisters in safety, the next was how to put out the fire and save the furniture. the children she carried, with some bedding, to an outhouse, and wrapped them up warmly. while doing this, she sent biddy in search of a ladder. by it she bravely mounted to the roof. biddy had made up too large a fire in the stove and heated the flue. this had set fire to the wooden roof. no water was to be had; every drop around was frozen. "biddy, a shovel!" cried mary. with it she shovelled the snow over the roof, but it did little even in checking the flames. while she was so employed, her mother and mrs hale and susan arrived. rob followed-- nothing would stop him. susan climbed, up to the roof, with her, and the two girls worked bravely together. rob said that he must go up and help them, but his mother held him back. "it will be his death if he goes up there," said mrs landon. "if you must work, rob, help us to get out the furniture." while they were thus employed, michael hale and his two sons and honan and other neighbours arrived. the two girls came down from their post of danger and the men took their places, but they could not with the snow alone stop the flames. there seemed every chance of mr landon's house being burnt down. "i've seen salt melt snow. if there is in the house a cask of meat in brine that may help us," exclaimed rob. there was one. it was brought out, the head knocked in, and the brine poured out in small quantities on the snow. wherever the brine dropped the snow melted, and the fire was put out. it was some time, however, before all danger was passed. a large part of the roof was damaged and the house made unfit to be inhabited. "oh, mrs landon, ma'am, i hope that you will honour us by coming down and taking up your abode with us till the roof is on again," said mrs hale in a kind voice. "susan will take care of miss mary and the little ones, and mr landon and your son george will be sure to find lodgings with other friends till the house is set to rights again." mr landon had suffered so many ups and downs in life that when he arrived he was not very much put out at the injury done to his house. he was only thankful that his wife and children had escaped injury. a bee was formed, and in a couple of days the roof was replaced, and in less than a week the house again habitable. story three, chapter . the winter was drawing to an end. it had not appeared very long, after all--everybody had been so busy. michael and his sons were now at work cutting-out troughs for sugar making. in canada the maple yields a sap which, when boiled, turns into sugar. a number of maple-trees together is called a sugar-bush. the troughs are made of pine, black ash, or butter-nut, and each holds three to four gallons of sap. the snow was still on the ground, when early in march, michael and his sons, and susan and fanny and tommy set off with their sugar kettles, pails, ladles, big store troughs, small troughs, and moulds, to the sugar-bush two miles from the house. they first built huts for the kettles and for themselves; fixed the store trough and cut a supply of fuel for the fires. they next tapped the maple-trees on the south side, with an auger of an inch and a half. into this hole a hollow spile was driven. under each spile a trough was placed. as soon as the sun grew warm the sap began to flow and drop into the troughs. the girls and boys had soon work enough to empty the troughs into a large cask on the sleigh. this, when full, was carried to the boiling-sheds and emptied into the store trough. from this the kettles are filled and kept boiling night and day, till the sap becomes a thin molasses. it is then poured into pails or casks, and made clear with eggs or milk stirred well into it. the molasses are now poured again into the boilers over a slow fire, when the dirt rises to the top, and is skimmed off. to know when it has boiled enough, a small quantity is dropped on the snow. if it hardens when cool it has been boiled enough. it is then poured into the moulds, when it quickly hardens and is ready for use. very good vinegar can be made by boiling three pails of sap into one, and then adding some yeast, still better is made from the sap of the birch; beer is made both from maple and birch sap, and a flavour given by adding essence of spruce or ginger. boiling the sap and molasses requires constant attention, as there is a danger of their boiling over. while michael and rob attended to the boiling, david and tommy drove the sleigh, and the rest took care of the troughs. they had a large number of troughs, and some were a long way from the boiling-sheds. michael and his son had filled the kettles, which they did not expect would boil for some little time, when tommy came running up to say that the sleigh had stuck fast between two stumps, and that he and david could not clear it, while one of the oxen had fallen down and hurt itself against a log. on bearing this, michael and rob, thinking that there would be plenty of time to help david, and to get back before the sugar boiled, ran to assist him. they found the sleigh firmly fixed, and it took them longer to clear it than they had expected it would. they had just got it clear, when a loud bellow reached their ears from the direction of the boiling-sheds. leaving david and tommy to manage the oxen, michael and rob ran back to their charge. they arrived in time to see one of their cows, with her muzzle well covered with molasses, galloping off through the bush, followed by her companions, while the kettle lay upset, the contents streaming out on the fire, and burning away, and threatening to set all the sheds in a blaze. the cows had found their way into the bush, and being fond of sugar, one of them had put her muzzle into the boiling liquid, little expecting to have so warm a greeting. "i hope it will teach her not to steal sugar for the future," observed michael, as he and his son righted the kettle. they had to pull down some of the shed before they could put the fire out; but such trifling events were too common in the bush to disturb their tempers, and they were thankful that matters were no worse. just before this, a neighbour's cow had got into his sugar-bush and drank so much cold molasses that she burst and died. michael determined another year to enclose his sugar-bush to prevent any such accidents. in two weeks enough sugar was made to last the family all the year, to make all sorts of preserves, besides a good supply of beer and vinegar. with the vinegar they could pickle onions, and all sorts of vegetables, for winter use. vegetables are also preserved during the winter in cellars, dug generally under the fire-place, in a log hut. a trap-door leads to the cellar. here potatoes, carrots, turnips, and other roots are stored, and kept free from frost. the snow at length melted, and spring came on as it were in a day. from sunrise to sunset every man and boy was now hard at work, chopping, burning, and clearing the ground to put in the spring crops. not an hour was to be lost, for the sun shone bright and warm, the grass sprang up, the leaves came out, and flowers burst forth, and it seemed as if the summer had begun as soon as the winter had ended. the summer was hot, and soon ripened the crops, and the harvest was good and plentiful. story three, chapter . four years had passed away, and michael hale and his family had began to reap the fruits of their industry. they had forty acres of land cleared, enough to bear crops. two acres were planted with apple-trees, which already yielded a large supply of fruit. the apples were packed in casks, and were then fit to be sent off to distant markets. some were peeled, cut in slices, dried in the sun, and hung up for home winter use. they had several cows and oxen, and a flock of sheep, and pigs, and poultry. as they frequently killed oxen, and sheep, and pigs, for their own use, they were able to form a store of fat for making candles and soap at home. indeed, michael was rapidly becoming a substantial farmer. he was not, however, without his sorrows and trials. susan had never completely recovered, and the year after he settled at thornhill she had died of consumption. fanny kemp watched over and attended her as a sister to the last, and now so completely filled her place, that no one would have thought that she was not a daughter. rob, indeed, hoped to make her one ere long. he had loved her for many years; but, like a good son, felt that he ought not to marry and set up for himself till he had helped his father to settle comfortably. he now opened the matter to his father. "there's one thing, however, i want to do first, that is to see you and mother in a well-plastered house," he said, after he had got michael's consent to his marriage. "we'll get that put up during the summer, and this old log-house will do for fanny and me for another year or two. there's only one thing i ask. don't tell mother what we are about. it will be a pleasant surprise to her. she was saying, only the other day, that she wished that she had a house with another floor." when mr landon heard that rob was going to marry fanny kemp, he called him aside one day, and said, "if your father will give you twenty acres of his land, i will give you another twenty acres alongside it, and will, besides, stand the expense of a bee, and have a house put up for you in no time. your father was kind to me when i was burnt out of my house, and has given me much good advice, by which i have profited. his example made me work in a way i do not think i should have otherwise done." rob thanked mr landon very much, but told him of his wish first to help his father build and settle in a comfortable plastered house. "you set a good example, rob; and i hope other young men will follow it. a dutiful son will make a good husband, and little fanny deserves one." the new house was to be in a very different style from the old one. the first thing was to burn the lime. it was found on the top of the hill, and brought down in carts to a piece of ground, the trees on which had just been cut down. these were now piled up in a large heap, and the limestone placed above. by the time the log heap was burned, the lime was made, but it took some time to clear it from the ashes. a wood of fine elm-trees grew near. a number of them were felled to form the walls. in many respects, a well-built log-house, when well-plastered, is better than one of brick or stone in that climate. at the end of the lake a saw-mill had lately been established. rob, david, and tommy set out in the canoe to bring home a supply of planks from the mill. rob took his gun, in the hopes of getting a shot at wild-fowl. on their way, when passing an island, a deer, which seemed to have taken refuge there, started out, and plunging into the water, swam rapidly across the lake. bob fired, and hit the deer, which made directly for the shore. just as it neared it, some indians who had been fishing in a canoe overtook it; and weak from loss of blood, it was killed by a few blows from their paddles. the indians seemed to think it their prize. "come shore--you have part," said their chief, in broken english, rob thought this was better than the risk of a quarrel. near the spot was an encampment of indians. those in the canoe let him know that they would consult their friends as to how much of the deer he ought to have. bob and his companions climbed up the hill, and watched the indians, who stood grouped below. they were dark-skinned men, of a dull copper hue. they were in their full war dresses. their cheeks were mostly painted red, but some had put on other colours. in their heads they wore feathers and bead ornaments. their coats were of untanned leather, ornamented with beads, as were their leggings and boots, or mocassins. some, however, were dressed more comfortably, in coats cut out of blankets, making the dark borders come in as ornaments. their tents, or wigwams, were in the shape of a sugar-loaf. they were formed of long poles, stuck in the ground, about six inches apart; the round being about ten feet across, and the poles fastened together at the top. this was thickly covered with large pieces of birch-bark. mats were spread on the ground, except in the middle, where a place was left for a fire. on one side a hole was left to serve as a door, with a blanket hung upon a line across it. this is the indian's house throughout the year, and in winter, when put up in a sheltered spot, can, with the help of a fire inside; be kept quite warm. bob and david went inside one of them. the women, who were dressed in blanket, petticoats, and cloaks, received them very kindly, and laughed and chatted away as if their visitors could understand what they said. lines were fastened from side to side across the tent, on which were hung household utensils, clothes, and all sorts of things, and a sort of cradle, with a baby fastened on to it. the little creature could not move hands or feet, but seemed perfectly happy. in a little time the men came back, saying that a haunch and a leg should be theirs. these parts were placed in the canoe; and, after a friendly parting with the indians, rob and his companions, paddled off towards the mill. it was late when they reached it; but the weather was fine, there was a bright moon at night, and they determined to start back at once. they bought three thousand feet of boards, with which they formed a raft. soon after the sun rose they reached the landing place near their home. mr landon kept to his promise to call a bee, and in three days a substantial log-house was erected, and the planks laid down of the ground and upper floors. the rest of the work, it was left to rob and his brothers to finish. great was the surprise of mrs hale, when her sons, with her husband and fanny, took her to see the house which she had thought was being built for some stranger coming to the settlement. "it's yours and father's, mother, just an offering from your children," said rob. "if you will let fanny and me have the old one, we hope to make ourselves happy in it." mrs hale thanked her dutiful children, and thanked god for having brought them to a country where their industry and perseverance had been so fully rewarded. story four, chapter . john armstrong, the soldier; or, barrack and camp life, written by himself. i do not think that any one will care to know why i turned soldier. this much i may say, though; my native village was not far off some barracks within twenty miles of london; i had often watched the soldiers at drill, and had talked to a good many of them, till i fancied that i knew something about a soldier's life. now i wish to tell you what it really is, not only in comfortable barracks at home, but in camp abroad, in heat and cold, and before the enemy. i had my reasons for wishing not to enlist near home, and so bidding my parents and brothers and sisters good-bye, they not crying out, "don't go," at break of day, one fine october morning, in the year , started off for london without a penny in my pocket, or any other property than the clothes on my back, good health, and a stout heart. i had walked a fair bit of the way, when i felt very hungry. i had taken nothing before i left home. food i must have. before me i saw a public-house, the rabbits. a number of people were in the bar-room. "i'll tell them i'm going for a soldier, and ask for food. they'll not refuse me," i thought. i stepped in, and told them my tale. they all seemed much pleased. "you must have pluck in you, my lad, to do that," said one; "you deserve a breakfast." "you'll have no want of masters," observed another. "still somebody must do the work." most of them had some remark to make. in the end, they ordered me a thorough good breakfast of eggs and ham, and hoped i might never have a worse wherever i might go. this set me up till i reached the tower of london, near the thames, where i had been advised to go. the guards were doing duty there. a sergeant i met asked me if i wished to join them. i said, "yes." so he at once placed me under a mark to measure my height, but i was not tall enough for the guards. he then asked me if i would like to join any other regiment. i answered, "yes; i've no choice." he seemed pleased, and at once marched me off to westminster, at the other end of london, where a recruiting company was stationed. he there took me to a sergeant of the th regiment of foot. after i had wished my old friend good-bye, my new friend asked me should i pass the doctor's examination if i wished to join them. of course i said "yes." and after he had asked me whether i was "married" or "a widower," to which i said "no;" with other questions, he put out his hand, and offered me a shilling, in the name of her majesty the queen. i took it, and was from that moment a soldier, provided i passed the usual examination. i felt very tired, and somewhat out of spirits with so many strangers in different uniforms around me, and was very glad when the sergeant told me that he had paid for a bed for me, and that i might go to it whenever i liked. i was very thankful to put my head on the pillow. thus ended my first day in the army. i had time next morning to think over some good advice given me by an old sergeant at the barracks. "remember, my lad," said he, "when you get your pay, don't scatter it about as if it would never come to an end. there's nothing you so soon see the last of. when you find one of your new comrades particularly civil, find out what sort of a man he really is before you treat him or lend him cash. if a non-commissioned officer is very polite and slackens the reins of discipline to favour you, stand clear of him. he'll pluck you clean and then eat you up. keep out of temptation, and show that you are going to be a sober, steady man, by consorting only with those who are sober and steady. never lose your temper, even when wronged by a superior. be smart in learning the drills and all your other duties. it is better to be thought well of by your officers and by a few good men, than by all the wild chaps in the regiment. and remember, jack, my boy, what an old soldier says, that while you do your duty to your queen and your country, you do not forget your duty to your god. a man may be a good soldier and a good christian at the same time. he'll be all the better soldier by being a good christian. to know how to be that, read your bible, lad, say your prayers, and attend the house of prayer whenever you can." i wish that i had always followed my old friend's advice. i did often remember it, and gained much advantage from having done so. i was down by six o'clock; and in the common room i met a number of young men just enlisted, like myself. there was plenty of talking-- questions asked and answered: "what regiment are you for?" "where do you come from?" "why did you enlist?" "do you think you'll pass the doctor?" this talk was interrupted by the sergeant exclaiming, "now then, you youngsters, look out, and get ready for the doctor's inspection." "we haven't had any breakfast; we want breakfast," cried several voices. on this the sergeant ordered in breakfast for us, in the shape of a half-quartern loaf and two ounces of butter for every four recruits. that over, we were marched to the bath-rooms. "now then, young 'uns, strip; get into that bath; scrub and clean yourselves," cried the sergeant; "for it's time that you were at the inspection-room." having done as we were ordered, we marched off to the inspection-room, where we waited till the doctor arrived, who was to say whether or not we had bodily health and strength to serve her majesty. we had been waiting, not a little anxious, when the sergeant cried out-- "recruit armstrong, pass at once into the inspection-room." on hearing my name, i ran into the room. the doctor looked at me for a moment, and then said-- "stand on one leg." i did so. "now on the other. bend over until you touch the ground." i had seen the recruits at the barracks do that, and had tried it often; so did it with ease. "rise again," said the doctor. "hop on your right leg. now on your left. put out your arms at right angles to your body. cough. can you see well? read those dots." "four, sir," said i. "how many are there now?" "two." "pull that machine. blow that machine. that will do; you can go," said the doctor. "sergeant-major, send in the next one." there were thirteen of us sent in one after the other; but only two, dick marshall, a suffolk lad, and myself, were passed,--the rest having some defect which made them unfit for soldiers. on our return, the sergeant asked marshall and me if we would mind being transferred to the th regiment, stationed at manchester. we answered, "not in the least." on that we handed back our shillings to the sergeant of the th regiment; the recruiting-sergeant of the th light infantry putting fresh shillings in our hands, and thus enlisting us in his regiment. we were then taken to a magistrate, and sworn in to serve her majesty for a period of ten years, if at home; or if on foreign service, not to exceed twelve. we finished our day with a dinner, of which i may say that i have eaten many a better; and we then took a stroll about westminster, and had a look at the fine old abbey and the houses of parliament, where the laws are made. i may just remark that a soldier, if he keeps his eyes open, and himself out of the beer-shop, may, wherever he goes, see a number of places and things worth seeing, which will give him something to think about and talk about to the end of his life. the next day, after breakfast, we were marched off to "pass the colonel;" that is, that he might see us, and say whether he would have us. he arrived at noon. "now, my boy, get under that standard," said he to me. i did so, and found that i measured five feet six and three-quarter inches. "is he all right, doctor?" he asked. "perfectly so, sir," was the answer. "that will do, my boy; you can go." the trial i thought so much about was over. marshall and i had now a few shillings handed over to us, and were fast bound for our agreed-on term of servitude, unless at any time we might be able to buy ourselves out of the army. for the next three days we had nothing to do but eat our meals and walk about till five o'clock, when we had to appear at the rendezvous; that is, the house where the recruiting-officer had his head-quarters. on a dark morning--the th of november--we were roused up at half-past four, and, after parade, were marched off to the railway-station to proceed to manchester, the barracks at which place we reached at ten at night. we were at once sent to a room full of beds, ranged along the two walls. all were occupied except two, which were turned up. these were soon made ready, and marshall and i crept into them. we did not speak to any of the men, and no one took any notice of us. though we were both well tired, what with the strangeness of the place, and the sentinel every half-hour calling out the number of his post and "all's well," neither of us could sleep till near morning, when the bugle's sound quickly made us start to our feet. in about five minutes the bedding of each bed was neatly folded up, and the iron bedstead turned up over it, with a pair of trowsers, folded into three parts, placed on each, and a forage-cap and stock above. a line was then stretched along the room to see if all the beds were made up of the exact size. this done, the orderly-sergeant came into the room to see that everything was correctly arranged; and if any bed was not done up properly, it was immediately pulled to pieces, to be done up by the owner afresh. all the men not on duty, except the recruits, turned out for half an hour's drill in undress uniform. the orderly-sergeant having taken down marshall's name and mine in his memorandum-book, went out to drill his company. they were dismissed at half-past seven, but the recruits were kept a quarter of an hour longer, when the breakfast bugle sounded. the room orderly, i should say, is a man told off to keep the room in order, to draw all rations for the day for his room, to have meat and vegetables weighed, to see that they are correct in quantity and quality, and to take them to the cook of his company. at the sound of the bugle, the orderly-men ran to the cook-house for their coffee, a pint of which was served out to each man in a white basin, with a pound of somewhat brownish bread. breakfast over, the orderlies cleared away, while the rest of the men commenced cleaning their appointments for parade, which was to be at eleven o'clock. this was in full uniform and light marching order. the recruits were to appear in plain clothes. a sergeant came to marshall and me, and told us to fall in. he then put us through our facings. "right dress. eyes front. stand at ease," he exclaimed. from having often stood at ease, when watching the men drilling, without thinking of what i was about, i fell into the proper position. "to what regiment did you belong, young man, before you joined the th?" asked the sergeant, thinking that he had caught a deserter. "to none," i answered. "not so sure of that," said he. "a man may have learned to drill without being a soldier," i remarked quietly. he said nothing; but i had better have held my tongue. after the parade, we fell in and proceeded to the orderly-room, where the colonel again inspected us, and asked the usual questions: "can you read?" "yes." "can you write?" "yes." and so on. "that will do, lad," said the colonel. "sergeant-major, that recruit will be posted to f company." the sergeant of that company advanced. "now, my lad," said he, "come on." i followed him to the room to which i was posted, where he directed an old soldier to look after me and give me all necessary information. my instructor's name was higgins. he was a good-natured man, and had seen much service, on the strength of which he indulged in the pleasure of grumbling and finding fault with things in general, rather than with people in particular. after he had showed me the bed which i was to consider my own, and other things, the men came about me, and asked me a number of questions, which i answered frankly; and thus the time passed till one o'clock, when dinner was ready. the dinner was a very good one, and all the mess things, plates, basins, knives, forks, and spoons, struck me as being very nice and clean. higgins asked me to sit down; but, as i cast my eye over my rough not over-clean countrified dress, i felt ashamed of myself among so many fine-looking red jackets, forgetting that every man present had once been much in the same state that i then was. all, however, went pleasantly enough till three o'clock, when the recruits fell in for drill, as did the regiment. the drill of the regiment lasted only half an hour, while ours lasted an hour. our drill-sergeant, herbert, a jolly good fellow, called us to the position of attention. after we had been drilling for some time, he asked, as the other sergeant had done, if i had before been in the army; and when i told him that i had not, he ordered me to stand at ease. my comrade kept eyeing me whenever he could, wondering what was going to happen. i now learned what i have since found always to be the case, that every scrap of knowledge which a man can pick up is likely to come into use some day or other. the drilling i had got on w-- common for my amusement now did me good service. it, in the first place, gained me sergeant herbert's favour, and, making me feel superior to the other recruits, gave me self-respect, which helped me much to keep steady. on being dismissed drill, i went to my room, where higgins began to teach me the "bugle sounds," and another old soldier "the manual drill," and other things; so that i soon found out that, whatever i might think of myself, i had plenty yet to learn. at half-past four we went to tea, each man getting a pint of tea and a quarter of a pound of white bread. after that meal, some in dress and others in undress uniform, went into town; others remained in barracks, playing drafts and other games, until "tattoo," at half-past eight, when the first post sounded, and all men about the town, on hearing it, immediately returned to barracks, or should have done so. in the meantime the orderly-sergeants called the rolls of the respective rooms, noted all the men absent, and gave lists of them to the regimental orderly-sergeant. he again called the roll, and reported all still absent to the officer of the day, who reported them to the adjutant [note ]. on receiving the report, the adjutant sent the pickets [note ] out to bring them in, when those out without leave were confined to barracks, or received some other punishment the following day. this done, the staff and non-commissioned officers [note ] are dismissed to their rooms. such was my first day in barracks, and such were many days of my life afterwards. such indeed is a soldier's ordinary day. on the sunday there is a parade instead of drills, and the men are marched to their respective churches; those of the church of england to theirs, the presbyterians to theirs, the roman catholics to theirs. on the last day of the month, the regiment falls in for parade generally, in england, in great coats, when every man borne on its strength must answer to his name, or be accounted for as "on duty", "on furlough", "in imprisonment", "deserted", "deceased", "in hospital." regiments are also marched out of barracks into the country with bands playing and colours flying, and there are reviews and sham fights occasionally. soldiers, too, are placed as sentries before officers' quarters and other places, and they have many other duties to perform even in the piping times of peace. i shall soon have to show the life they lead in war-time. theirs is not an idle life, but still they have plenty of time for amusement, and what is more, for improving themselves if they will but wisely take advantage of it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the adjutant is chosen from among the lieutenants or captains, for his steadiness and knowledge of military duties. he is the commanding officer's principal assistant. all orders are passed through him, and he has to see that the young officers and non-commissioned officers are perfect in their drill, and many other things. note . a picket is a body of men told off for these and other duties. a camp is guarded by them. an out-lying picket is placed at some distance from it to give notice of the approach of an enemy. note . non-commissioned officers are chosen from among the men for their superior knowledge and steadiness. they are so called because they are appointed by the colonel, and have not received commissions from the queen. many, however, for their bravery and high conduct, have received commissions, and have risen to be captains, and even to higher rank. those thus promoted frequently become adjutants of their regiments. story four, chapter . men enlist for many reasons, the greater number because they are out of work, and do not know how else they are to live. these are the most contented, because they do not expect much, and find themselves, if they are steady, pretty comfortable, well fed, and well clothed. the worst off are lazy fellows, who join, expecting to have an easy, idle life, with little to do. besides drilling and learning the use of his weapons and the various movements to be performed to get him into a soldier-like shape, with parades and inspections, and field-days, and reviews, and sham fights, and marching out in the winter, and sentinel, fatigue, and picket duties,--he has his appointments and arms to keep in order, and in his turn, his mess things, room, and other places to clean. and often he has heavy work; roads to make, fortifications of various sorts to throw up, and other similar tasks required by an army in the field; still, after all, there is no work harder than most of the men would have had to go through if they had remained at home. about the end of february, the regiment was ordered to proceed to ireland. a special train took us to the large town of liverpool, from which ships sail to all parts of the world. getting out of the train, we formed, and marched down to the quay by the river mersey, where a large steamer was waiting for us. we went on board, and she soon began to paddle down the river on her way to dublin. it was the first time i had ever been at sea with water around on every side, as far as the eye could reach. we soon however caught sight of the irish coast, and very pretty i thought the bay of dublin as we steamed into it. i now began to find out one of the advantages of a soldier's life; that is, visiting new places. i did not then think how many strange places i should see during my time of service. going on shore, we formed, and marched to a railway-station, when the train carried us westward to cork. here the regiment was stationed. some of the companies, and mine among them, remained at head-quarters, and others were sent out on detachment duty at various places. soldiers on detachment often meet with adventures of various sorts, especially in ireland. they are stationed at different small towns and villages, where the inhabitants, especially the fair sex, are apt to make a great deal of them, from not being so accustomed to see red coats as are those in large places. i must hurry over the events at this period, that i may have space to give accounts of those of more stirring times. i had made up my mind on joining, to be a steady man, and i was glad to remain at head-quarters, because i knew that there my conduct would be observed by my superior officers. there were temptations enough to act differently, but i knew that a few glasses of whiskey or any irregularity would in a minute cloud all my prospects. i had, it must be understood, no advantages above the rest of my comrades. i was but myself a country lad, about the youngest in the regiment, but i had heard an officer remark that there was the making of a good soldier in me; and so i gave my mind and heart to the work, and that made me like it. i have said nothing about marshall. he was in a different company from mine, and had been on detachment. after some time his company returned to head-quarters. he seemed much changed, and from being a brisk, lively lad, was sad and silent. we were always friends, though he did not take to soldiering as heartily as i did. i asked him what was the matter. he told me at last. he had lost his heart to a farmer's daughter. she was very pretty and young and good. he had met her coming home on a car, with her aunt and a female cousin with three men from a "wake." that is the name given in ireland, to a burying party. the men, as is generally the case after such meetings, were very drunk. the car broke down. the other women were hurt, and the men could not help them. marshall arrived at the moment, mended the car, left the drunken men to find their way home as best they could, put the old lady upon it and walked home at its side with kathleen o'neil, who had no fancy for again mounting. kathleen was very grateful, and so was her aunt and cousin, and asked him to come again another day. that of course he did, not only once, but very often. one of the men who had been in the car, shane mcdermot, was, marshall found, a lover of kathleen's, but she did not like him. no wonder, for he was a rough, savage-looking fellow. kathleen at length showed that she liked marshall, and she warned him to beware of shane. dick was a stout-hearted fellow, and said he did not fear him. a man would think twice before he would attempt to shoot a soldier, not but what officers and men too have been shot in ireland. marshall continued his visits as usual, and the oftener he went the more in love he grew with kathleen, and the more, it was clear, she loved him. one evening, after the tattoo had sounded, as he was hurrying home, a shot whistled by his ear, and directly afterwards two men set upon him with their shillalahs. one he knocked over with his fist, and drawing his bayonet, put the other to flight. he was pretty certain that the man he knocked over was shane, but he could not stop to see; indeed he thought that it was wiser to push on to his quarters. when he told kathleen the next day, she was very unhappy, and said that she should be the cause of his death. dick told her not to be afraid, and finished by asking her to marry him. she said that she would with great pleasure, and follow him, like a true good wife, round the world. this made dick perfectly happy. when he came, however, to speak to the captain of his company, he found that as he was one of the youngest men in the regiment, he had no chance of getting leave; and that if he married without leave, his wife would have none of the privileges of a soldier's wife, and that he would be treated as a single man. the last time he saw her she promised that she would marry no one else, and ever remain faithful to him. my company afterwards went on detachment, and i was stationed at the same place that marshall had been. he had begged me to go and see kathleen. when her family knew that i was his friend, they treated me very kindly. i went to the house several times. shane was there one evening. i was not surprised that she did not like him. there was a scowl on his brow and a glance in his eye, as he turned towards me, which made me think that he was very likely to have a shot at me some dark night, if he could get the chance. i would not accuse any man of wishing to do such a thing, and there are thousands of irish who would be horrified at the thought of taking the life of a fellow-creature, but such deeds are too common in that country. the reason why this is so i must leave to others who ought to know more about the matter than i do, to say. it must be remembered that shane had already tried his hand at the work, so that i did not think ill of him without cause. whenever i had spare time i went to see the o'neils. when i went away at night, i walked quickly along in the middle of the road, feeling pretty sure that shane would try to treat me as he did marshall. i had, i should say, soon after i came to the place, picked a poor boy out of a pond, when more than half drowned, and carried him home; and as i found the family very poor and wretched, i left some money with them. as i never spent any money in liquor or other folly, i had always a few spare shillings in my pocket. pat nolan's mother, as far as words went, seemed very grateful, but i never put much trust in them: and though i had several times gone to see the nolans, i scarcely thought about what first took me to the cottage. one day i had been sent by my captain with a letter to a house three miles off. i was kept there some time, and it was nearly dark when, on my way back, i came to a wild, open place, half common and half bog, with nearly a mile of road across it. just as i got to a small bush near the road, i heard a voice say, "hist, hist, soldier; turn back and come with me. it's a long way i'll be after taking ye, but it's better than being shot any how." "who are you, and where are you?" i asked, seeing no one. "it's me, pat nolan, then," answered the ragged little urchin, creeping from under the bush. "may be he's not far off just now, with that thief of the world, dan fegan, and one or two others looking out for ye." i was half inclined to go on in spite of pat's warning. "why should i be afraid of those irish chaps?" i thought to myself. but little pat begged so hard that i would not, that i began to think it would be wise to follow his advice. "och ahone! ahone! you'll be kilt entirely if you go now!" exclaimed the boy, crying and pulling at me to go in the direction he wanted. i felt that it would be foolish to run into danger for no purpose, and that at all events i should have only rather a longer walk than i had expected. "well, pat, i'll go with you," said i. the little chap gave a leap with delight. "arrah! then there's no time to be lost!" he exclaimed, leading the way down a lane which skirted the edge of the bog. i followed, and had to step out fast to keep up with him. "ye'll have to lape over some pools may be, but it's all hard below where i'll lead ye, so don't be afraid now," he whispered, putting his finger to his lips. i laughed aloud. "hist, hist; he'll be after hearing you," he said, in the same tone as before; "but come on now." he turned and led the way across the bog. i leaped when i saw him leap, and kept directly in his footsteps, and often the ground quaked as i passed, or moved up and down like a raft at sea. as we moved on, the water got up to my ankles; then over them. i thought that pat had lost his way, but he kept on without stopping or turning to one side or the other. the water got deeper and deeper, indeed there seemed to be nothing but water around; then once more it began to shoal, and at last i found that we were walking on dry ground, but still of a very boggy nature. at last we were in something like a path, with peat-holes on either side. it was quite dark before we reached the heath or dry ground i was looking for. pat even then, i found, kept away from the road i was to have taken. after going a little way i thought that i saw some figures through the gloom. pat thought so too, for he pulled at my coat-sleeve, and whispered to me to crouch down. i did so for some time, and then again we pushed on. pat led the way till we got into a road i knew, leading direct to my quarters. he then told me to hurry on, and before i had time to put my hand in my pockets to give him some money, he was off. at muster-roll that evening, one of our men, jackson, did not answer to his name. he had been sent in the direction i had gone. the next morning he did not appear. a party, of which i formed one, was sent out to look for him. not far from some bushes, with a hole behind them,--a place made for an ambush,--we came upon some blood in the road. we hunted about. there were the marks of men's feet at the edge of the road. after hunting some time, one of our men cried out, "here he is!" there, in a hole, half covered with water, lay our comrade. at first it was thought that he might have fallen in, but two dark marks by the side of his head showed where a brace of slugs had entered it. i felt sure that they had been intended for me. it seemed as if i had wronged him. poor fellow! we bore him sadly homeward. i judged it right to tell my captain what i knew of the matter, and a warrant was issued for the apprehension of shane mcdermot. parties were sent out to search for him, but he was not to be found. there were plenty among the country people to help him. the only thing some of them seemed to think that he had done wrong was, that he had shot the wrong man. kathleen was thankful that i had escaped, but glad to be rid of shane. it was not likely that he would venture back to the neighbourhood while we were there. after some time, my company was ordered back to head-quarters, to be relieved by another. kathleen bade me tell marshall that she remained faithful to him, and loving as ever. i gave the message to marshall. it raised his spirits, and yet he could scarcely believe that so pretty a girl, and one in some respects so superior to himself, should care for a poor soldier. however i told him that it was a good reason why he should attend to his duties more strictly, and try to obtain promotion to be able to support her. the wife of even a non-commissioned officer has a hard time of it; of a man, still worse; but worst off of all is the wife of one who marries without leave. on getting back, i found a notice posted that all men wishing to go on "furlough" must send in their names to the captains of companies at once. i sent in mine, as i had saved enough pay for my expenses, and through the kindness of the sergeant-major and adjutant obtained a furlough for six weeks, to proceed from cork to b-- in the county of e--, and took my passage in the steamer to london. we had a fine view of the coast from the land's end in cornwall, to the north foreland in kent. landing in london, i went to an inn, breakfasted, cleaned myself so as to look as smart as i could, and set off home. how different i felt now to what i did leaving home a year ago. i opened the door and looked in. they were all at dinner. what cries of delight and shrieks and laughter there were, though my sisters vowed they scarcely knew me, i had grown so stout and manly. i was made heartily welcome, and had a very happy time of it. i went to see my old friends at the barracks; i was welcomed by them too, but many had been sent off to india. i must be moving on though with my story. after spending a happy five weeks at home, i returned to cork at the proper time. i was rather vexed to find the morning after, that all men returned off furlough were to fall in for recruit drill. however, as i was the youngest of any of them, i had no reason to complain. i thought, "i'll just show that i don't require it;" so i pulled myself together, and was dismissed recruit drill next day. soon after this i gained what it had been my hope from the first to get--that is, promotion,--and was made lance-corporal. i wished that marshall could have got the same, for kathleen's sake, but he was not so fortunate. the difference was this,--i had a taste for soldiering, born with me perhaps: he had not. i was soon after sent off on detachment duty to spike island, in the cove of cork or queenstown harbour. our duty was to guard a prison full of convicts, not the pleasantest in the world, though i well knew that there wasn't a man within those walls who did not richly deserve his lot. i only wish that evil-disposed men knew better than they do what it is to be shut up in a place of the sort; they would take some pains to gain an honest livelihood rather than run the risk of being sent there. the harbour is a very beautiful one, surrounded almost by high hills, many of them well wooded, and so is the whole way up to cork. while i was there a new batch of convicts came in; among them i saw a face i felt sure i knew. it was that of shane mcdermot. he cast a look of surprise at me, as much as to say, "why, i thought that i had shot you." i could not exchange words with him; but the more i watched his countenance, the more certain i was that it was him. i concluded that he had committed a crime in another part of the country, and had been convicted, and sent on here. there he was, and there i hoped, for the sake of my friends, he would remain. i was not sorry when we were ordered back to head-quarters. soon afterwards the regiment went to dublin, where we were stationed, scattered about in different barracks, and doing garrison duty for two years or more. during that time i again went on furlough. if i had been proud of appearing at home before, i was prouder still now to return as a non-commissioned officer, and i felt pretty sure that as i had gained one step i should gain another. i was heartily welcomed, but somehow or other that second going home was not equal to the first, three years before. many changes had taken place among my friends: some had gone away, some were dead, some married. still i was very happy, but i had an idea that it might be a long time before i should go back to the old place. on my return to dublin i had to go on recruit drill for a day, as before, when the sergeant-major gave me and others a hint, which we wisely took, to have our hair cut for the next parade. for another year after this we were kept here on garrison duty, with some pretty hard field-days in the phoenix park, and the usual marchings out in winter. story four, chapter . the sort of life we led in dublin was all very well in its way, but for my part i wished for something more stirring. there seemed now to be a chance of our getting it. the papers began to talk of war with the russians. they had been ill-treating the turks. now the turks are our friends. i do not know exactly why, for i cannot say much in their favour. in this case the russians had behaved very ill. during a thick fog, a large fleet of their ships had sailed into a turkish port, and blown up and burnt a number of turkish vessels, killing no less than , turks on that day. this made the english very angry. it was clear, too, that the russians intended getting hold of the chief city, constantinople, and the country of the turks. our hopes of war increased when we heard that the english and french fleets had gone up the black sea, and then that the guards and other regiments were to be sent up the mediterranean to malta, and then on to a place called varna, on the shore of the black sea, in the country of the turks, and near russia. it was said also that the russians were collecting an army in a part of the country called the crimea, in the black sea, where there is a strong fortress with a town and harbour called sebastopol. we, of course, every day looked eagerly into the papers to see what regiments were ordered abroad, but the th was not among those named. this greatly vexed both officers and men, and some fretted and fumed very much at it. it was the daily talk at the mess-tables of all ranks. "more regiments ordered for foreign service," exclaimed marshall; for, strange to say, he was as eager as any one about going. he wanted to be doing something, poor fellow, to keep his mind away from kathleen. "see, here's a list,--others talked of, but no mention made of the th." "let well alone, lads, and be content," observed higgins. "fighting is all very well to talk about, but the reality is precious rough work; and so you'll find it, when your turn comes,--mark my words." not long after this, on the th of march, the regiment was on parade, when the commanding officer read a letter to us which he had just received. it was to the effect that a few men might volunteer for the nd royal highlanders and th cameronian highlanders. we all knew what that meant, that the th was to be kept at home, and that those two regiments were to fill up their numbers for foreign service. when, therefore, the word "volunteers come to the front," was given, instead of forty, which was the whole number required, forty from each company stepped forward, making four hundred in all. marshall and i were among them. it was an anxious time with us till it was known who was selected. i was among the first chosen. marshall's was the last name. i was glad not to be separated from my old comrade. the volunteers being ordered to parade in front of the commanding officer, he in a very kind way gave us some good advice. he then expressed his earnest wishes for our welfare, and hoped that he should never hear of any of those who had served in the th, getting into disgrace, but that when next he might see us, instead of privates and corporals, we should have become sergeants. every word he said i took in greedily, and honestly believe that i profited by his advice. there was no time lost. not many days after that, on the th of march, war was formally declared by great britain against russia. we, with volunteers from other regiments, at once proceeded by passenger steamer from dublin to portsmouth. marshall had barely time to write a short note to kathleen. he told her of the regiment he had joined, and where he expected to go, and promised to remain faithful to her as long as he lived. it was on saint patrick's day, that we landed at the dockyard, to the number of two hundred, in all sorts of uniforms, the men out of a dirty steamer not looking over-clean. we then marched to the barracks at anglesea, where that "braw" regiment, the well-known "forty-and-twa" were stationed. the adjutant and captains of companies then came to inspect us, and choose men for their respective companies. the captain of the grenadier company had the first choice, and the captain of the light company the second. i with eight of our men, including marshall, had the honour of being selected by him. i was posted to a room at once, and ordered to get my kit ready in a quarter of an hour for inspection. it was fortunately nearly a new one, and looked clean. the captain was pleased, and ordered me not to show it for a month. he then inquired how long i had been a non-commissioned officer, and directed me to attend at the orderly-room to copy orders and to take the detail of the company for the next day. after writing it down, he told me to read it to him. "yes; that will do," he said. "are you anxious to obtain promotion?" "yes, sir," i answered, not a little pleased. "very well; you have come with a good character from your late regiment, maintain it, and you will be sure of promotion in the nd. i understand that you can drill very well. i shall see how you get on, and if in a satisfactory manner, i will recommend you to the adjutant." the next monday i was ordered to drill a squad, while the adjutant stood at a distance watching me. i did my best, and when drill was over he sent for me, and asked if i would like to be struck off duty for the purpose of drilling the second squad of recruits. of course i said yes, but begged to be allowed a few days first, to get used to the duties of the regiment. i had good reason to be satisfied with the change i had made. i had only been a few days in the regiment, and was already looked upon with consideration and respect. how was this? had i greater advantages than any other young man? no, except that i had a taste for soldiering. i had simply kept steady and done my duty to the very best of my power. i had not been idle with my books either. i had read a good deal, and practised writing and ciphering, so that i wrote a really good hand, and could keep accounts well. i mention this to show what is required of a young man in the army, who wishes to work his way up to become a non-commissioned officer. it is through the sergeants that the discipline of a regiment is maintained, and they must possess the education i have spoken of, and be intelligent, steady, honest men, or things will go badly in that regiment. for the best part of the next two months we were engaged every day in rifle practice, and i had the satisfaction of making some good hits. now came the order we had been long eagerly looking for, to embark forthwith for the crimea. loud cheers were given by the numerous lookers on as, on the th of may, we went on board the transport, and we cheered loudly in return. we little thought then of what we had to go through, or how many of our fine fellows would leave their bones in a foreign land. everything was well arranged on board. strict discipline was kept up. our rations were good, and regularly served out to us; and as the weather was fine, we had as pleasant a voyage as we could wish. we landed at scutari, a place on the bosphorus, the strait that leads into the black sea, opposite the big city of constantinople. here we remained for three weeks hard at work, drilling. some of the troops were in huge barracks, and we with others were encamped. fighting was going on at a town called silistria, between the turks, who bravely defended it, helped by two or three english officers, and the russians, who had tried to take it, but could not. a great many turks were brought into the hospital badly wounded, and one poor fellow had both his arms and legs cut off. he was the subject of conversation for many an evening in our tents. we were in the light division, under sir colin campbell. the first british soldier who lost his life during the war was killed here by his own rifle, which sent a shot through, his leg above the knee. here also we were supplied with the minie rifle, having hitherto used the old percussion smooth bore. scutari is a beautiful spot, with the blue waters of the strait, and the glittering white city, surrounded by dark trees, and vessels and gay boats of all sorts moving about. we should have been content to remain there if we had not thought on the work before us. in july we again embarked, and proceeded to varna, in company with numerous vessels, crowded with english, french, and turks. we and the french were allies, helping the turks, though there were only of them, while we and the french had each rather more than , men of all arms. varna is on the shore of the black sea, not far from the crimea, and belongs to the turks. we were here encamped with the guards and other regiments on a dreary plain in different villages some tray out of varna. we were kept hard at work with frequent drills, getting ready for real fighting. one night we were roused up with the sound of heavy firing in a wood close to us. the bugle sounded to arms. we sprang to our feet, but before we could get under arms the supposed enemy was away. they were a company of the th rifles and rifle brigade, supplied with a few rounds of blank ammunition. this sort of work took place frequently, to accustom us to surprises, and not without reason, as we found to our cost at inkerman. the rifles seemed to think it good fun, and laughed at the trouble they had given us, making us turn out so often in the middle of the night. we were employed also in making gabions and fascines [note ] out of the brush-wood which grew near, and practised in throwing up trenches and fortifications. work we did not mind, fighting we were eager for, but we had an enemy against which it was hard to contend; that was the cholera. officers and men were quickly struck down by it. the guards alone lost nearly a hundred men. it was sad to hear the poor fellows' cries as the terrible cramp seized them. all the troops suffered more or less from sickness-- the french more than all. we were thankful when the order came for us to embark once more for the spot where we hoped to meet the enemy. yet many a strong man was so weakened by illness that he could scarcely march to the shore. we got on board our transport on the st of september and remained thirteen days, hoping to get rid of the dreadful plague which had attacked us. we lost, however, three and sometimes four men each day. fastened up in their blankets they were sunk overboard. some, however, floated to the surface, and it was no easy matter to get them down again. it was sad work, and damped the spirits of many. that big fleet, with more than , men on board, was a fine sight, though, as on the th of september we anchored off old fort on the coast of the crimea. the order was joyfully received to land immediately. on all sides were the big transports, the largest east indiamen, and the men-of-war, and numbers of steamers, all in regular order, each with their proper flags. we of the light division had ours blue and white chequered. number one company of the rd welsh fusiliers were the first on shore on a sandy beach. we landed soon after. sentinels were marched off at once by companies and thrown out in a direct line from the sea far into the country. parties with rifles loaded, and eager for the honour, as we called it, of firing the first shot at the russians, were despatched in search of wood and water. towards the evening it came on to rain very hard, and we had no tents or covering of any sort. we of the light division were pushed on inland, to give space for the other troops to form as they landed. our orders, issued by sir colin campbell, were to remain quiet, and, above all things, to keep our rifles and ammunition dry. at about eleven at night a shot was fired by one of the enemy's sentinels, which whistled close to us. "stand to your arms," was the cry, "the russians are upon us." at the same time our whole line of sentinels opened a brisk fire on, it was supposed, the advancing enemy. what cared we then for the rain and cold! the moment we had been looking for had arrived. the whole force which had as yet landed stood under arms, and thus we were kept till it was found that the surprise had been caused by a patrol of cossacks, who had come upon us unawares. wet and chilled as we were the hours passed slowly by, though we kept up our spirits pretty well. so passed our first night of campaigning. the next morning a few companies were marched down to the beach, to assist in landing our tents, and the ammunition, artillery, and stores, the artillerymen laughing at us, and hoping that we had passed a pleasant time on shore. by the night we got our tents pitched, and hoped to have a quiet rest, but the little gnat-like cossacks were again buzzing about us, and were off before we could get a shot at them. the next four days were passed in landing stores, while the commissariat officers were collecting provisions from the country around, and which the peasants were very ready to supply. late on the th the light division was attacked by a mounted battery of artillery. the infantry was brought to the halt, and the artillery called to the front, with the whole of the cavalry, about a thousand men, who were opposed by cossacks. shortly afterwards a gun carriage was seen coming to the rear with a poor fellow on it, his leg broken and thigh fractured. several men on both sides were knocked over by the shot. that was the beginning of our campaign. after this lord raglan forbad any farther advance. we remained where we halted all that night, our tents being left in the rear. each man unrolled his blanket and great-coat to make the best of it he could. we were tired, hungry, and thirsty, but at last the ration rum was served out, and a half a bullock distributed to each company to be divided into messes, and cooked ready for next day, as it was expected that we should have a long march and a brush with the enemy. many a fine fellow slept his last sleep on earth that night, and many a strong man before the next sunset was to be a helpless cripple. a soldier, above all men, may be thankful that he does not know what is before him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . gabions are like large round hampers, without top or bottom, to be filled with earth. fascines are like long, tight fagots. story four, chapter . the day of battle. it was still dark on the morning of that th day of september, . the whole army of the allies lay stretched on the damp ground. three hours after midnight the cry was heard, "stand to your arms." we rose to our feet, every two comrades wringing their wet blankets, and placing them on their knapsacks. we then fell in, and waited till daylight, when we were ordered to pile arms and fall out, but not to go more than a hundred yards from our regiments, as we might be required at a moment's notice to march to the front. the sun rose brightly, without a cloud in the sky, and at seven o'clock the whole army advanced. the turks were on the right, next the sea, then the french, next the british second division, followed by the third, and on their left the light division, followed by the first and fourth. on the left of all marched the cavalry. the artillery of each division was on its left. baggage and ammunition trains kept close behind. the whole country was open, with rise beyond rise, till at length, after marching for two hours, we reached a rise, when we saw before us what was ere long to be the scene of a bloody battle. the ground sloped gently down to the river alma, which ran directly in front of us, its banks covered with villages and orchards and gardens. it was fordable in most places. on the other side a range of hills, three and four hundred feet high, rose suddenly up from it; on our right, too steep to be climbed; but in front of where we of the light division stood, showing more gradual slopes. on these slopes, earthworks had been thrown up by the russians. on the top of all, the ground was level; and it was here and on the slopes that the russians were posted between us and sebastopol. we had to storm those heights, and to drive the enemy off the level ground on their top, in the face of the heavy artillery and the dense masses of infantry with which they were lined, not forgetting the strong reserve in the rear. we could see the french on the right beginning the action, climbing up the heights, and firing as they advanced; then a strong force of russians, who were nearly taken by surprise, moved to meet them. with rifles and skirmishers in front, fighting with the russian riflemen, the second division of the british then advanced in line. up the hill they went, right at the enemy. the firing became general along the whole line. a village burst into flames below us. we, with other highland regiments and the guards, were formed in line,--a band, i may say, able to meet any enemy in the world in a hand-to-hand fight or charge of bayonets; but the enemy's round-shot and bullets came rattling among us, and picked off many a stout fellow. we were therefore ordered to lie down to avoid the shot, our men grumbling not a little, and asking why we were not led at once against the enemy. we soon saw the reason why. many young soldiers who had before talked of fighting as good fun, now changed their note, and found what terrible bloody work it is. at last came the welcome order to advance. to show how cool some men are, even at that moment one of my comrades composed some verses, which he repeated to those near him. we sprang to our feet; down the steep we dashed, through orchards of apples and grapes and other fruit. several of our fellows, stopping to pick the fruit to quench their thirst, were shot dead. we passed quickly across the alma, which in some places we found so shallow that many of us scarcely wetted our feet. once more we were ordered to take shelter behind a long stone wall. then came the welcome order, "up, guards and highlanders, and at them." up the hill we went, halting but for a moment, to allow the somewhat broken regiments which had hitherto been engaged, to pass between our ranks, and then right at the enemy we dashed, firing as we advanced, and prepared to charge, if he would have stood for us. as we reached the summit, a grand sight met our eyes,--the whole army of russians spread out on the plain before us; but as we got nearer, we saw their backs instead of their faces; for they had already had a sufficient taste of our quality, and were in full retreat. now and then they turned and fired, and my right and left-hand men were both killed in that manner. i had marked the russian who had killed the last; and, dropping on my knee at the moment the bugle sounded cease firing, i took a steady aim, and stopped him from boasting that he had killed an englishman. we were much disappointed at not being allowed to follow the enemy. still it was a glorious moment when we found that we had won a great victory, as we cheered and cheered again, and comrades grasped each other's hands, and congratulated ourselves on what we had done. to show what strict discipline is kept up in the army, at this moment i found myself placed under arrest for having fired after the order to cease firing had sounded. on the circumstance being reported to the commanding officer, he directed that i should be brought before him. "why did you fire?" he asked. i told him. "then i only wish that every man in the army possessed the same spirit," he answered. "let him be released. and now let me tell you that i shall have the satisfaction of reporting your cool courage and steadiness before the enemy to the proper authorities." my comrades cheered lustily when they heard this decision. the army remained on the heights we had won till nearly dark, when the regiments were ordered to the positions allotted to them for the night. after we had formed our bivouac, i was much pleased at being sent for by the officers, and complimented by them on the way i had behaved during the day. at last we were ordered to remain quiet, and fresh ammunition was served out to us. we then lay down to rest, but all ready for a surprise; and rest we did on the bare ground, for we were well weary after our day's toil. the russians, however, had had enough fighting for the present, and let us alone. a little before daylight on the st, we fell in, and remained under arms for some time. on its being ascertained that the russians had retreated to a distance, we were ordered to clean and examine our rifles, and then to pile them. rations were then served out to us, and we ate them with no small appetite, while waiting for orders. sir colin campbell, soon after this, rode into our midst, and called his brigade of highlanders to attention. his speech was short, but to the point. he congratulated us all on the success which had been gained the day before, and complimented all--officers and men--on the cool courage they had exhibited under trying circumstances. he reminded us that the fighting was not over, though we had gained a victory; but he was persuaded that we should continue to perform our duty as true soldiers to our queen and country. "to-day and to-morrow the army must remain on the ground to remove the wounded and to bury the dead," he added. "i regret to say that the dead are very numerous, especially among the guards and welsh fusiliers. the wounded must at once be carried down to the shore; and remember, my lads, that a wounded russian is no longer an enemy, but a fellow-sufferer with our own comrades, and must be treated as such." we listened with attention to our brave general's address. a kinder officer or a better soldier never lived. pick-axes and shovels were at once served out to some of us, while others were provided with stretchers to carry the wounded down to the beach, i belonged to the party who had to perform the saddest duty a soldier has to go through after a battle, that of burying the dead. talk of glory, talk of the fun of fighting,--just let a man spend two days on a hard-fought field, as we had to do, and it will be enough to take out of him all love of fighting for fighting's sake. it was an awful sight, to see the number of fine fellows who lay stretched on the ground, never more to move. i had no idea that so many of our own british had been killed. the most dreadful to look at were those who had been struck by round-shot, some with their bodies almost torn to pieces. one moment they had been full of life, rushing on to the fight; the next there they lay, heaps of clay, their spirits far, far-off. i could not help asking myself how it was that i was not in the place of one of them. while some of the parties dug large holes in the ground, others collected the dead, and threw them in--it was no time for ceremony--thirty or forty in one hole; some fine young fellows, others dark- or grey-bearded men, their last fight over. "ah," i thought, and i dare say others thought too, "if those who set men to fight--the emperors and kings and governments--could but see this sad sight, may be they would stop to think, and try and make up their quarrels some other way." hundreds and hundreds we buried during those two days, our comrades by themselves, the russians in pits by themselves. we could tell how the fight had gone by the way in which the bodies lay. in one place the russians had made a stand, and were piled up in heaps as the british again and again charged them. in other parts the round-shot had torn through whole ranks of men, cutting them down like corn before the reaper's sickle. i afterwards marked the spot where the highlanders had poured in their fire on the enemy, and made those who escaped our bullets turn and fly. it was my first battle-field; it was the first and last of many poor fellows. and i say again, it is a fearful thing to see god's image defaced as i there saw it in a thousand terrible ways. story four, chapter . i have heard it said that no army was ever driven from so strong a position as that from which we drove the russians. we took a number of prisoners, and among other things, the russian general's carriage, with his letters to the emperor, saying that we could not do just the very thing we did do,--drive him from that hill. the next day the army marched inland, with sebastopol on our right, our generals wishing to get round to the other side of the town, where there was a good harbour for our ships called balaclava. we marched on all day, seeing now and then a few cossacks, who galloped off as we advanced. we bivouacked at night; that is to say, we slept on the ground as we best could, with only our cloaks and blankets round us. we had not much rest, for we were called to arms several times, it being thought that the enemy were on us. at last we heard the approach of cavalry. we sprang to our feet, and fell in ready for action, but it was only our own cavalry, which had been sent up to protect our flanks. the next day we came suddenly on a large body of russians as it seemed. they, however, did not stop for us, but made off, leaving a quantity of wagons full of provisions and ammunition. we blew up the powder, which we did not want, and helped ourselves to the provisions, which we did. my comrades and i got a quantity of meal to make cakes, and firewood as our share. there was an old fort at balaclava, on the top of a steep hill. it was defended very bravely by its old commander; but he soon found that he could not hold it, so he and his eighty men marched out and surrendered themselves prisoners of war. we thus gained a good harbour for ships. the part of the army to which i belonged, after remaining a few days at balaclava, was marched to the front before sebastopol. we were here employed in digging trenches, and throwing up batteries, and getting our guns into position; that is, into the batteries, pointed towards the town which we were about to attack. we were twenty-four hours on duty, and the same number off duty, when we could rest from our work. very hard work it was. thousands of us were employed in it. we had to cut a zigzag road, as it were, deep into the ground, with a bank towards the town, so that the shot from the guns in the town could only strike across the road, and not along it. we toiled away to get all our batteries ready as soon as possible. the french and we were ready at the same time, but the batteries were masked; that is to say, the front was covered up so that the enemy could not see whether we were ready or not. the sun rose in a bright sky on the morning of the th of october, and at half-past six o'clock, a hundred and twenty of our guns--some of them the largest ever made, and which had as yet not fired a shot--began firing away as hard as they could. the russians answered with as many guns of the same size, and thus there were nearly two hundred and fifty guns all firing away together. the noise was awful. we knocked over a good many of the enemy's guns, and they blew up a french magazine; by which a hundred men were killed in a moment. a good many of our men were killed. the smoke was so thick that the gunners could not even see the town at which they were firing. the day after the guns opened, it was made known to us that ten volunteers from each regiment--good shots--were wanted to get as close up as possible to the town, and to shoot the russian gunners whenever sight could be got of them. i at once volunteered and was accepted. having been paraded before the duke of cambridge, who told us what we were to do, we set off. shot, shells, and bullets were whizzing and hissing by us as we made our way onwards. we had not got far when one of our party was wounded. one of my comrades, donald mckenzie, and i halted, dressed his wound as best we could, sent him back to the hospital, and then pushed on, creeping and running, and taking advantage of every bit of cover we could find. we thus got up to within a hundred yards of the russian guns in a fort they called the redan, and jumped into a pit which the enemy had themselves dug to shelter their own riflemen, who came there at night to annoy our working parties. here we were sheltered, and could pick off the russian gunners without being seen. they soon, however, found us out, and sent doses of cannister and grape shot towards us, knocking the dust and stones about our heads. a grape shot hit the right hand of one of my comrades, and took off the forefinger. "ah, my boys, i'll pay you off for that, and give you a warm one in return," he exclaimed, as he reloaded his rifle. he was as good as his word, and he picked off many a russian who appeared in their batteries. our batteries had different names. one near us was the gun battery. red-hot shot were fired from it, and before long they blew up a russian magazine. the men in the battery, mostly jack tars, seeing this, got up and cheered lustily; and even we who were in the pits so close to the enemy couldn't help doing the same. we had better have been silent, for the enemy sent a shower of rockets and grape shot among us as also at the battery. one of the rockets blew up an ammunition wagon, bringing powder into the battery. this made the russians jump up and cheer, and as we picked off some of their men as they did so, they sent out a company of their sharpshooters to attack us. our captain, seeing this, thought it prudent to retire. we therefore each of us took steady aim at a particular man, and in most cases knocking him over, jumped out of the pit and retired towards our camp. the next day we returned to the same place by a different road. it was not well chosen, and several of our men were wounded in going towards the pits. we held them for some hours, when the russians, not liking the way we treated them, came against us in strong force. we of course had to jump out of our holes and retire, but they almost surrounded us as it was. fortunately the force of riflemen on outpost duty saw our position, and advanced to our assistance. we then retired towards them, disputing every inch of the ground. the russians had now got into the pits we had left. once more, therefore, we advanced to drive them out. they stood their ground, and we had a fierce hand-to-hand fight with them. i found myself engaged with a fellow who fought more desperately than any of his comrades. having discharged his musket, he rushed at me with his bayonet, a dig from which i had much difficulty in avoiding. just then his helmet was knocked off, and i saw clearly the features of shane mcdermot. i cried out "traitor, deserter, scoundrel, i know you! yield!" on hearing this he seemed as eager to escape as he was before to fight. calling to his comrades in russian, several of them sprang back with him. others, however, stood their ground, and gave us shot for shot. i loaded, and fired at shane. i thought that i had hit him, for he fell; but he was up again and retreating with his companions. meantime the rest of our party were actively engaged. joseph hartley, a corporal of my party, showed a great deal of spirit. he jumped on to the top of the mound overlooking the pits, and firing rapidly, shot three russians, one after the other, through their heads. a captain of the guards jumped right down into the pit, and was wounded through both his wrists. the russians, however, at last took to flight, leaving three dead and many more wounded. we took their rifles and ammunition from them, and returned into camp, helping along the captain of guards, whose wounds had been bound up by my comrade donald mckenzie, who has before been mentioned. we continued the same sort of work till the morning of the th of october; while the duke of cambridge was instructing us what to do, news was brought that the russians were attacking balaclava. we hastened to join our respective regiments, and found the russians in great force attacking on all points. the turks, who had charge of the outposts, had been driven in, and the rd highlanders, under sir colin campbell, were formed in line ready to receive the russian cavalry as they advanced towards the hill. a steady volley, at two hundred yards, sent the russians flying back, but, to the surprise of the highlanders, not a man fell from the saddle, when it was found that they were all strapped on to their horses, so that the dead and wounded were carried out of the fight. the enniskillens and scots greys clashed right on the flanks of the retreating cavalry, and cut them up terribly before they could get back to the russian army, which appeared with a strong force of artillery on the opposite side of the valley. it was shortly after this that the light cavalry, through a mistaken order given by poor captain nolan, who was directly afterwards killed, charged across the valley at the enemy's guns, other guns playing on them from either side. if the french cavalry had not charged and helped them, not a man would have escaped; as it was, they were fearfully cut up, the greater number being killed or wounded. still it was a sight to make a soldier's heart beat quick as with their helmets glittering and their swords flashing in the sunbeams, that gallant band dashed across the valley. but it was sad to watch those who did escape, coming back, many on foot, one wounded man between two others, some scarcely able to sit their horses, very few unhurt; and to think what a gallant band they had looked as they rode down the hill but a few minutes before. we remained on the heights of balaclava that night, prepared to receive the russians if they had returned; but they had had enough of us, and had retreated. we of the light division remained stationed at this place all the winter. there was another bloody battle fought not long after this on the th of november, called the battle of inkerman. the allied armies were posted on high ground, with the sea on one side, and deep valleys on the other. below the british right, where the ground was very steep, were the rivers chernaya and inkerman. the russian general knew that this was our weakest point, and evidently hoped to take us by surprise. the morning was so dark and foggy that the officers who were visiting the outposts could not see twenty yards before them into the valley. sir thomas trowbridge was the first, i have heard, to discover the approach of the enemy. they were close upon our camp with , men, and were beginning to climb the heights before the bugle sound summoned our troops to stand to their arms. the british during the whole day had not more than , men engaged. the russians climbed up the heights, but again and again were driven back, till the french, at last coming up, put them to flight. the guards, who had a great deal of the fighting, behaved most bravely, and lost a great many officers and men. the british army on that morning had officers and men killed, and officers and men wounded, while were missing, mostly made prisoners. a very severe winter now set in, and a large steamer _the prince_, with clothing for the army, sank off balaclava in a fearful gale, in which many other vessels were lost. the weather was very cold, with snow and wind and rain, and our poor fellows suffered greatly from want of food and clothing and shelter. our tents were nearly worn out, and were at all events unfit for the winter, and we were obliged to live in hovels and holes in the ground. from what i have heard, many more men die of sickness in war-time than are killed in battle; and from the numbers who died of cholera and other complaints, in the crimea, i believe that to be true. i have not said anything about marshall for some time. he did his duty steadily and well, and was always cool under fire. he had not volunteered as i had done for any dangerous work, but he was a man on whom i knew that i could rely, whatever was to be done. he came one day to me in high spirits, with a letter he had received from kathleen. she prayed that the war would soon be over. she said that her father had just had some money left him, and would, if he was willing, as soon as he returned home, purchase his discharge. "it's a kind, noble offer," said marshall; "i will accept it and return,--work for him as long as i live." i praised his intention, said that i wished i had the same chance, and wished him a long life and happiness with his pretty kathleen. soon after this my old comrade was made a corporal, and i received an honour i little expected. a general parade was ordered for the whole regiment, when a square being formed, in the centre of which the colonel with other officers were posted, several men were called up, i being one of them. he then presented us with a distinguished conduct medal, on which were the words, "for distinguished conduct in the field." on giving me mine, he congratulated me and wished me long life to wear the decoration. he hoped, he said, that many other young men in the regiment would follow my example, and he could assure them that if they did, the same rewards were in store for them. the captains of companies were then ordered to march their respective companies to their private parades, when my captain wished me long life and happiness, and my comrades were so pleased that they lifted me up, and carried me to my hut, and the medal went the rounds of the whole company. "well done, jack; i'm glad you've got that. you've earned it, that you have, my boy," was the sort of remark made to me by my comrades, one after the other. marshall also was commended for his bravery and coolness. "ah jack, i'll do something to try and gain that, to carry home to her;" he said to me as he gave the medal back into my hands. that dreadful winter passed away at last. i do not think that british troops ever went through greater trials than did the british army in the crimea, and never did men submit more patiently, or more nobly do their duty. there is one thing to be said, our officers set us the example. they suffered as much as we did, and never complained. we could not help ourselves; but many of them we knew well were gentlemen of good property, who could have enjoyed life at home, in ease and comfort; and instead of that they stayed out with us at the call of duty, went through the hardships and risked their lives as we did, who had nothing to lose and everything to gain. one young baronet, with many thousand pounds a year, was killed at the battle of the alma, and his brother who succeeded him fell directly afterwards. both commissioned and non-commissioned officers and men performed many gallant deeds. several, when their comrades were wounded, dashed forward, and though the shot, shells, and bullets of the enemy were flying about their heads, lifted them up in their arms or on their backs and took them out of the fight. the honourable major clifford in this way carried off one of his men who had fallen close to him, from among the enemy; so did sergeant moynihan, who is now a captain. on the th september, sergeant moynihan was the first to enter the redan. one of his officers, lieutenant smith, having been killed, he made a gallant attempt to rescue his body, and after being twice bayoneted was made prisoner, but rescued by the advance of the british. john alexander, a private of the th regiment, brought in captain buckley and several men after the attack on the redan. at the battle of inkerman, private beach, seeing lieutenant-colonel carpenter lying on the ground, and several russians advancing towards him, dashed forward, killed two of them, and protected the colonel against his assailants, till a party of the st regiment coming up put them to flight. private mcdermot, also at inkerman, saved the life of colonel haly, much in the same way. however, i could fill pages with accounts of the brave deeds done by our men during the war. many young sergeants not only gained the victoria cross, but had their commissions given them, and are now captains and adjutants of their respective regiments. a man, to gain this rank, however, must be steady and sober, have a thorough knowledge of his duty, be brave and cool, and a good scholar. however i must go back to my tale. we remained at balaclava till june, when we were ordered to the front to take part in a proposed attack on the fortress. the french were to attack the malakoff battery, and we, under sir george brown, the redan; while another force under general eyre, was to threaten the works about the dockyard creek. the french began the attack before daybreak, and before long the order was given for us to advance. we could not hold the redan till the french had taken the malakoff. we advanced rather too soon. we were met by a tremendous fire, and sir john campbell who, calling to the troops to follow, led the way over the parapet right up to the enemy's guns, was shot dead with many other officers and men. other officers with small parties of men would dash forward, waving their swords, only to meet the same fate. "come, boys," cried marshall, who had been for some time under the shelter of the parapet, "i'm resolved to gain my promotion to-day; who'll follow? we'll take those guns." nearly twenty men sprang out with him and rushed forward. poor fellows, they were met as the others had been by an iron shower, which left not one unhurt. only three got back, and marshall was not among them. i would have tried to bring him off, but the others said he was among the first killed. however, i resolved to go and look for him as soon as i could, without the certainty of losing my own life, as i should have done had i gone then. it was sad to think that so many brave men should have lost their lives to no purpose. a truce was arranged for a few hours that both sides might bury their dead. the instant the white flag was hoisted on the fortifications of sebastopol, i hurried towards the redan to look for marshall, before any of the burying parties should find his body if he was killed. i had some slight hopes that he might still be alive, though unable to move on account of his wounds. it was sad to see the number of the bravest of our men who had fallen under the redan. the whole way up to the guns was strewed with bodies, and as i got nearer to the guns, there were many corpses of russians, who had attacked the british as they were retiring. i looked eagerly about. there lay poor marshall. i took his hand. he would never grasp rifle again. near him lay a russian soldier, whose bayonet, it seemed clear to me, had pierced his breast, and who himself had been shot at the same moment by marshall's rifle, for the weapons lay crossed on the ground as they had fallen from the grasp of the dying men. the russian soldier had rolled over on his side. i turned him round. though his face was begrimed with dust and smoke, i at once knew his features. they were those of shane mcdermot. he had at length met the fate he deserved--too good for him, many will say, but he had also been allowed to kill in revenge as honest and brave and simple-hearted a soldier as ever fought for his queen and country. i felt inclined to kick the body of the seeming russian, but i did not. i saw at once that such would not be a worthy or a christian act. "he is in the hands of one who knows how to reward and punish," i thought to myself; and leaving the dead body of my enemy where it lay, i lifted that of my friend on my shoulders, and bore it away towards our lines. i was resolved that it should rest in british ground. several persons asked why i was taking so much trouble with a dead body. "he was his comrade and friend, poor fellow!" i heard one or two say. i carried him to a quiet spot, and there i dug a grave as deep as i could, and hunted about till i found a stone, which i placed at his head. i should say that before i placed my old comrade in his grave, i searched his pockets that i might send anything i could find in them home. among them was a pocket-book, and in it was a letter he had written the night before to kathleen. he told her how he hoped to win fame and a name, and might be win his commission, and make her a lady as she deserved to be. poor fellow! his ambition, which till then had been asleep, was aroused. how soon was it, with all his earthly hopes, cut short! such has been many another young soldier's fate. we lost that day alone, officers and men killed, and officers and upwards of men wounded. altogether it was about the saddest of the whole war. story four, chapter . we worked on, making our zigzag approaches, night after night getting nearer to the city. often during the time i used to go and visit poor marshall's grave, and i own that i dropped many a tear over it, as i thought of his worth, and the grief the news of his death would cause to poor kathleen's heart. that would not be dried up so soon as my sorrow. his fate might be mine any day, and i had plenty of things to think about. the poor girl would mourn alone. one day i was thus standing near the grave, when i heard a boy's voice say, "sure that's yourself, mr armstrong." i looked up, and before me i saw a young drummer-boy, in the uniform of the th regiment. "yes, my lad; and who are you?" i asked, not recollecting the features. "pat nolan; sure and it's many a day i've been looking for you," answered the lad. "i've come out to see the war, and it's enough i've seen of it any how." i was glad to see poor little pat. the world had gone ill with him and his family, and an elder brother having enlisted, he also had done so as a drummer-boy. his brother had been killed, and he was, as it were, left alone in the world. i promised to befriend him as far as i could, poor boy. i had no doubt that the men of his regiment would look after him and treat him kindly. a few nights after this i was in the trenches, when i saw a shell coming directly towards our position. i cried out at the very top of my voice, "close cover," that the men might get close under the embankment of the trench. some followed my advice, but others stood still, when the shell exploded in the midst of us, wounding twelve of our number, some very severely, and, in addition, a captain of my regiment. i saw him fall, and thought that he was killed. i ran to him and found that he breathed, so i went and brought a stretcher from the end of another trench, and placed him on it. he begged to be allowed to die in peace, as he was mortally wounded, but another man and myself undertook to carry him to the hospital, at the twenty-one gun battery. the shortest way was across the open space between the trenches. as there were fully a hundred shells and rockets in the air at once, there was plenty of light for us to see our way. we agreed to run the risk of being shot, and to carry him across, as it was important to have him looked to at once. we reached the battery without being hit, but our poor captain died within a quarter of an hour of entering the hospital. we afterwards carried his body to his quarters, where his brother officers, when they heard of what had happened, soon came to take a last look at one they all loved so well. the day was coming on, as we well knew by the advance in our trenches, when another attack on the fortress was to be made. the russians had kept us fully employed, and during july and august several times came out from behind their lines to attack us, and were as often driven back. there is one matter i forgot to talk of. all this time it was pleasant to know that we were thought of by the people at home. comforts of every sort were sent out to the soldiers--food, and clothes, and books; and missionaries and other ministers of religion came out and preached to those in health, and comforted the sick and dying; but besides this, hospitals were established in the more healthy parts of the country belonging to our allies, the turks, to which our sick and wounded were sent. what also won the hearts of our wounded men was the gentle care with which they were tended, not by hired nurses, but by many ladies who came out from england on purpose to assist them. those who had been cured, and came back to the crimea, told how they had been treated; and i do not believe that there is a soldier of that army but who blesses the ladies of england for the sake of those who acted as nurses in the military hospitals in the east. on the th of september the whole of our batteries again opened on the town, and went on firing night and day, till, on the th at noon, the french, who were to attack the malakoff, made the signal to advance. they rushed on, as they always do, very quickly; and before the russians, who were at dinner, had time to defend the place, they were in it, and their flag was flying on the ramparts. now came the turn of the british, who had to attack the redan. on they went; but the russians were ready for them, and they were met by a hot fire of musketry and artillery. major welsford, of the th, who led the storming party, was killed, and colonel handcock was mortally wounded. there was not a hotter fight during the whole war. we had officers and non-commissioned officers and men killed, and not far from wounded; and, after all, our men were compelled to retire. it was known that the highland brigade, under sir colin campbell were to renew the attack the next morning. we made up our minds that it would be a day of bloodshed, but we hoped also of victory, and we were prepared for it. in the night, however, an officer, with some men, went out to look for a friend who had fallen in the works of the redan. not seeing him, he went on and found no sign of an enemy. this being told to the engineer officer conducting the works, he sent a corporal of sappers, who also found all still within. sir colin, on hearing of the matter, called for ten volunteers from each of the scotch regiments to learn the truth. they, advancing at a run, crossed the ditch, and a man of the rd was the first to scale the rampart. the place was deserted. the russians, on a bridge of boats and rafts, had crossed over to the other side of the harbour during the night, having set the town on fire in all parts. we took possession of a city of blazing houses and exploding mines. it was some time before we could move about, for fear of being blown up or crushed by falling houses. the whole city was a ruin, and the russians had also sunk or burnt all the ships in the harbour, so that it seemed that they had left us little worth having. then came the sad work of burying those who had fallen in the assault on the redan, as also those who had defended it. the russians were placed by themselves, at one end of the ditch, and our men at the other, and then we shovelled the earth from the slope over them both. there they lie; the rampart of the fortress the one had fought to defend, the other to gain, their monument. the most terrible sight, however, was in a building which we did not enter for two days, i think, on account of the houses burning round it and the mines exploding. it was a hospital; and in it were two thousand human bodies, and out of the whole scarcely five hundred were alive. the rest had died. for forty-eight hours no one had been near them to give them a drop of water, or dress their aching wounds. i've often thought what those poor fellows must have gone through. then we had to carry them out, and bury them. it was sickening, terrible work. those at home little know what a soldier has to go through. it is not all gold and glitter, let me tell them, marching here and there on a fine day, with the sun shining, and band playing, and colours flying. i am not one of those who would tell a young fellow not to go for a soldier. very far from that; but i wish to let him know that he will have a great deal of hard, trying work to go through, and he will have to face death in all sorts of ways. still the man who has a fancy for soldiering, and is steady, is sure to get on, and will find it a good profession on the whole. after we entered sebastopol, the war was over, but it was some time before peace was proclaimed. we were heartily glad when that time came; for we were getting very sick of the place where we had lost so many of our comrades and friends. we sailed back as we had come, in a number of large transports; and thankful we were to see the shores of old england again. i went out soon afterwards with our regiment to india. that is a large country, a long way off, on the other side of the world nearly; the greater part is very hot, and the natives are of a dark-brown colour. they are mostly heathens, and worship all sorts of ugly idols of wood and stone, but some are of the same religion as the turks, and believe in the false prophet, mahomet. the east india company had a large army of these men, with english officers, but native non-commissioned officers. these native officers, with some of their chiefs, thought that they could take the country from the english. they pretended therefore that the english government were going to make them turn christians by force, and persuaded the men to revolt. they kept this secret, and on a sudden the greater number of the native regiments rose against their english officers, murdered many of them, as well as many civilians, with their wives and children, and took possession of several fortified places. the most important were delhi and lucknow. in one place, cawnpore, a chief, called nana sahib, got general wheeler and all the english in the garrison into his power, and murdered nearly the whole of them, soldiers and civilians, women and children; the bodies of the latter he threw into a deep well. three persons alone out of one thousand escaped that dreadful massacre. the accounts of these things made the hearts of british soldiers burn within them. we had a number of native troops from other parts of the country who remained faithful to the british, but still the rebel regiments far outnumbered the english troops. we found ourselves once more under the command of our old general, sir colin campbell. we marched from calcutta to cawnpore, from which the wretch, nana sahib, had taken flight, and then on to lucknow, which the rebels still held in great force. we lost a great many men by cholera, and had frequent skirmishes and one or two pitched battles with the enemy--till early in march, , we were before lucknow. here we had some severe fighting. we had to storm one large building after another, but at length the rebels were driven out, and numbers cut to pieces. on one occasion i had to climb a tree to see what the enemy were about on the other side of a wall; though hundreds of bullets whistled by me i descended unhurt, but was soon afterwards hit on the breast with a bullet which knocked me over; i was up again, and refusing to go to the rear, assisted to capture a fort, and spiked a gun with my bayonet. while doing this, my kilt was riddled with bullets, though i escaped unhurt. i was not so fortunate a day or two afterwards, when attacking a large block of palaces full of sepoys, for i received a shot in my neck which laid me low. i was carried out of the fight by my comrades, and my wound was so severe that i had to be invalided home. the fight before lucknow was my last battle. the english beat the sepoys wherever they were met, and at length the british rule was once more firmly established in india. it was not till i got home again that i was able to go and see poor kathleen, and to give her the few things belonging to marshall. she was still single; and i have good reason to think that for his sake she would remain so. such as i have described them, are some of the common events of a soldier's life. story five, chapter . joseph rudge, the australian shepherd. when god formed the round world we live on, he made some parts very unlike other parts. the climate, the trees and plants, and the animals of some countries altogether differ from those of other countries. if we could go right through the globe just as a darning needle is run through a ball of worsted, we should come out close to a country ten times as large as england, which belongs to our queen, and is called australia. to get to it, however, we have really to sail round about over the sea, and the voyage takes about three months. when it is winter in england, it is summer there. the trees do not shed their leaves, and many of the animals carry their young about in bags before them, and like the kangaroo, have long hind legs with which they spring over the ground. it is a fine country for cattle and horses, and still more so for sheep, the wool of which is very fine. about three hundred miles from the sea, up the country, and towards the end of december, a few years back, a busy scene was to be witnessed. the country was not hilly nor flat, but swelling with ups and downs. on one side was a forest, but the trees were wide enough apart to let horsemen gallop between them. other trees of odd twisted shapes, but large, with the bark often torn off from the stems, were scattered about here and there. still most of the country was open and covered with grass, long leaved and scanty, very unlike that of meadow land in england, but still affording good feed for sheep. a creek ran out from the forest with a stream of water, which filled a small lake or water-hole. on the higher ground stood a house of one floor, with a verandah round it, a large wool-shed, a stable, three or four smaller cottages, or rather huts, and other outhouses. there was a small garden enclosed, but no other signs of cultivation. there were numerous sheepfolds and two cattle pens, but the rest of the country round was quite open. it was the head sheep station of moneroo, owned by mr ramsay, who managed it himself. it was well managed, too, for the watchful eye of a master who understood the work to be done was everywhere. the sheep-pens were full, and there were a number of men moving about. some were down at the creek up to their knees in water, busy washing the sheep, which were driven down to them. a still larger number were near the wool-shed, with long shears in their hands taking the soft snowy fleeces off the creatures' backs. one flock was seen coming in from a distant out-station, following the careful shepherd, who, like those we read of in the holy land, had taught his flock to know his voice. another flock, having been shorn, was moving off to its usual run. towards evening, a dray laden with stores was seen, its wheels and bullocks' hoofs as it drew near the station stirring up the dry earth into clouds of dust. it brought casks of flour, and pork, and hogsheads of sugar, and boxes of tea, and cheeses, and all sorts of cooking and mess things, and saddles, and harness, and ropes, and tobacco, and cattle medicines; indeed, it would be hard to say what it did not bring. by the side of it, besides the usual driver and his mate, strode a sturdy, fresh-looking englishman, whose cheeks had not yet been burnt by the hot sun of australia, and two young boys; while on the top of the dray sat his wife--a comely looking woman--a girl of thirteen, and three smaller children. dick boyce, the bullock driver, pointed out the master to the new chum he had brought up from the chief port of the colony. the latter stepped forward at once, with one of his boys, while the other stayed with his mother, whom boyce and his mate, tom wells, helped to dismount. the new comer gave a letter to mr ramsay, and he and his sons stood watching his face while the master read it. "very good," said mr ramsay, as he folded up the letter, "your name i see is joseph rudge, and you have brought your wife and children." "yes, sir; that is my good woman out there by the dray, and this is our eldest boy, sam," answered joseph, touching the arm of one of the stout, fine-looking lads by his side with a look of honest pride. mr ramsay smiled, and asked, "where do you come from?" "wiltshire, sir," answered joseph. "you understand sheep?" said mr ramsay. "been accustomed to them all my life," said joseph. "how many do you think you could shear in a day?" asked the master. "may be three score," answered rudge, looking with an eye somewhat of contempt at the small breed of sheep he saw before him. "at a pinch, i'd say fourscore, sir; but i don't think a man could do more than that properly, from what i know, and from what i've heard." "you'll do, my man," said mr ramsay, looking well pleased, "make my interest yours, and yours shall be mine. mr thompson, my agent at melbourne, tells me that he has engaged you and your family for fifty pounds a year, and all found. your eldest lads will soon learn how to make themselves useful, and so will that lassie there, while your wife will keep your hut when you are out with the sheep. you will stay here for a few weeks to learn our ways, and then i will send you up in charge of an out-station. to-morrow you will begin work, for we have plenty for you to do." "thank ye, sir; i'll do my best to serve you, and so will my wife and children," answered joseph, in a hearty voice which showed that he purposed to do what he said. joseph and his family were at once placed in possession of a vacant hut. it was a rough-looking place, but served well for that fine climate. the frame was of wood, with slab walls, and was roofed with sheets of bark from a tree called the "stringy-bark tree." it was divided into two parts. the bedsteads were rough frames with hides stretched on them, but there were good beds and pillows stuffed with short wool, of which no one could complain. a table, and some stools and benches, with a cupboard and plenty of shelves and hooks was all the furniture they found in the hut. joseph and sam went off to the storekeeper, to get their rations, and came back with a fine supply of everything they wanted. that evening, as joseph rudge and his family sat round the table at supper, he thanked god heartily for having brought them into a good country, and placed them in the hands of a kind and just master. this was the character dick boyce and his mate had given of mr ramsay, as they travelled up with the dray from melbourne. the next day, joseph set to work with his shears, with sam to help him. he did not shear so many sheep as the contract shearers, but he sheared well, leaving none of the bottom wool, and his employer was perfectly satisfied. he got through two score the first day; two and a half the next; and three the next. he observed one man who sheared no less than six score in one day, but joseph on his way home to dinner observed that much of the bottom wool--the most valuable in a fleece--remained on the sheeps' backs. he told tom wells what he had seen, and tom told boyce, and soon afterwards mr ramsay went to the pens in which the sheep were placed, and sent for the fast shearer, john butt. john was very angry, but mr ramsay was firm, and refused to fulfil his part of the contract unless he sheared the sheep properly. "i'll pay the fellow off who brought the matter before the master's eyes," growled john butt. "it's that new chum; i saw him looking at the sheep. what business has he to come and interfere with our ways?" joseph rudge had thus made an enemy though he did not know it. even had he known what would happen, he would have done the same, for he was one of those who follow the golden rule, "do right, whatever you think may come of it, and leave that to be settled by god." the first thing done with the fleece, when off the sheep's back, was to clean it on the folding table, which was a framework through which the dirt fell. after that it was put into the press and packed tightly into large bales fit for sending on board the ship which was to carry it to england. as soon as all the wool was done up into bales, it was packed on the drays to be sent off to the port to be shipped. each dray carried about twenty bales, and was drawn by ten stout oxen. the drays were low, like those of brewers, had no sides, but upright pins to keep in the bales, those at the corners being of iron. the bales were secured by ropes, with a tarpaulin to be thrown over them in case of wet. dick boyce and tom wells had to set off again at once. sam wanted very much to go with them. he had a fancy for the life they led, as many a boy would have, but his father could not spare him. they travelled about fifteen miles each day, and carried everything they wanted on the road. at night, tarpaulins were let down at the sides and ends of the dray. this formed as much shelter as they required when sleeping. the bullocks were turned loose to pick up their food; and while boyce went to bring them in, wells lighted the fire, cooked their breakfast, and made the dray ready for starting. from stations far up the country, drays are two months and more on the journey to the sea. the chief drawback to this life is, that people long accustomed to it do not take readily to any other, and this made joseph not wish that sam should follow it. story five, chapter . joseph rudge and his family had for some time been living in the new hut, about twenty miles from the head station. he had plenty of hard work too; for mr ramsay owned cattle as well as sheep, and he had agreed to take charge of a herd, as well as his flock, with the help of his sons and a mate who had been sent with him. labour was very scarce just then; indeed, it often is in australia, and a few hands were obliged to do the work of many. news had just before come to the station that gold had been found in several places, and that a pocket full could be had by digging a little, and oftentimes by looking for it among the rocks. many people going off to the gold diggings had asked him to go with them. "no," he answered, "i came out here to look after sheep and oxen, and i understand that work, i have a good master and fair wages, and i'll not desert my master, or change my work." "right, jos," said mat clark, his mate; "i never knew any good come to any one by doing wrong, and we should be doing wrong if we were to leave mr ramsay to take care of his sheep and cattle all by himself. it's not the way we should like to be served." mat had come out to the colony very many years before; how he never said. he was now an old man. some people called him silly mat. he used to answer, "may be i'm silly enough to try and do what is right, and to be sorry for having done what was wrong. i hope to be silly in this wise to the end of my days." joseph and his family lived a somewhat solitary life, but as they had plenty to do, they did not mind that for themselves, only they knew it was bad for the children to get no education, and they could never visit any place of worship. for weeks together they saw no one except mat and the keeper of another station about seven miles off, known as tony peach. tony was not a man they liked at all, though they could not exactly tell why. he would put on very soft manners though, and seemed to have taken a great fancy to joseph and his family. he had lost an arm as a soldier, he said, and he could not manage a spade or pick, or he owned that he would have been off to the diggings. he grumbled much indeed, at not being able to go, for if there was one thing he loved on earth, it was money, and he thought that it would be very pleasant to dig up gold as people do potatoes. he thought, however, that he had found out a way of growing rich without much trouble. joseph had just come in one afternoon with his flock and folded them, it was then sam's duty to watch them for the night. for this he had a sort of box on legs, with a hole in the side, into which he could creep and sleep comfortably. the dogs were fastened up at different points round the fold, that should a dingo, or native dog, a sort of fox, come near, their barking might at once arouse him. joseph was just sitting down to his supper of a dish of stewed mutton and damper, that is wheaten unleavened bread, baked under the ashes, washed down by a few cups of good tea, when tony peach rode up. a fresh damper and a bowl of tea was placed before him. he talked on general matters for some time, and he then spoke of what he called the rights of servants. after a little time he began to speak about a plan by which, if joseph would join him, they should make a good thing, and no one be the worse or the wiser. tony proposed forming a herd of cattle of their own in a back run. they were to put a brand on the animals of j.b., and john butt was to stand as the owner. "that is to say, you want _me_ to join you in robbing our good master," said joseph, fixing his eyes on tony. "call it what you like," answered tony, "a few beasts out of the herd won't be missed every now and then, and we shall get them." "no, i'll have nothing to do with the matter," said joseph stoutly, "it's robbery, call it what you will; and what is more, peach, if i thought that you were about such a thing, i'd let mr ramsay know, as it would be my duty to do. i warn you." peach was very angry, for he had already begun the business, and wanted a mate to help him. he tried to hide his anger, though he made up his mind to be revenged. "well, mate, don't say anything about it. if you don't think it should be, we'll let it alone, and no harm will have been done." joseph was not satisfied. he made up his mind to keep a good look-out on the cattle under his charge. after peach was gone, he went in to ask old mat what he thought about the man. "what has he been saying to you?" asked mat, looking up from his bed, for he had already turned in. "no good, i'll warrant." joseph told him. "that's just what he said to me some time back; but he found that he would gain nothing, so he's let me alone since." joseph said that he hoped he would gain nothing from him either. "never let him gain an inch, mate, or he'll soon gain an ell," said old mat. "he is doing satan's work, and that's what satan is always trying to do--trying to make us do a little wrong--just to get in the sharp edge of the wedge; he knows that he shall soon be able to drive it home." this talk with old mat, made joseph still more determined to have nothing to do with peach, however friendly he might seem. joseph was glad to think that mr ramsay had settled to muster his stock in a few days, because he should know then better how many he had under his charge, and put a stop to peach's tricks. mr ramsay and several companions arrived at the station the night before, all well mounted, for the work they had to do required good horses. among them was a mr harlow, who owned the next run, and lived about fifteen miles off. he was unmarried, and had two sisters and an old lady, their aunt, living with them. they were very kind people, joseph heard. sam, and even bobby, his second boy had now become very good horsemen, and would gallop after and bring back stray cattle as well as many men. still their mother had not yet quite got over the fear she had of seeing them, especially bobby, gallop off into the wild country, on the backs of high horses, all by themselves. at break of day, a dozen or more horsemen started off, dividing, so as to get round the pasture. each had a stock-whip in his hand: the handle is but a foot long, but the lash is about fifteen. a loud cracking sound can be made with it, and its lash strikes through the thickest skin. the cattle, when roused, as is usual, made for the low ground, where joseph and his sons, with one or two other men, were ready to collect them. they, however, were very wild, as they will soon get when there are not enough men to look after them. now a dozen cows would start away, and had to be headed and driven back; now an active young bull would make a rush, and caused no little trouble before he was made to turn. the animals seemed to know that something was to be done with them, and made up their minds to escape it. at last a large part of the herd were brought together, and mr ramsay ordered them to be headed off towards the stock-yard, but no sooner did they begin to move than away a dozen or more would go at a time. it was hard work to bring even part of them back. at last, by hard riding and use of the whip, about two-thirds were collected in the yard. but so active were some of the young beasts that even the high fences could not keep them in, and several sprang over them in a way not many horses would have done. it took some time to brand the young beasts, and to count and sort the whole herd. as soon as this was done, mr ramsay and his friends and servants started off, on a fine moonlight night, in the hopes of driving in the remainder of the herd; for this purpose they took with them a few tame cattle that the wild ones might join company, and the whole be induced to go back together. before long the lowing of the decoy-herd was answered from the distant forest, and as they proceeded on, numbers joined them, their large bodies seen amid the trees, and their huge horns glancing in the moonbeams. orders had been given that not a whip should be cracked, not a word spoken. they had got on some way very well, and many wild animals had joined their ranks, when joseph observed tony peach riding near him. soon afterwards there was heard the crack of a whip, and a number of animals started off. mr ramsay, mr harlow, and others did their best to stop them, riding here and there and turning them quickly. joseph kept his eye on peach, and observed that whenever he could, without being, as he thought, noticed, he let the beasts gallop off. a good many had escaped in this way, when joseph determined to try and stop the next that should make the attempt. a large bull was turning off, when joseph rode to head the animal. suddenly the beast turned on him. at that moment his horse, putting his fore feet into a hole, fell and rolled over with him. the bull came on. peach, instead of coming to help him, with a loud laugh rode off, pretending to go after other cattle. joseph, as he well might, shouted at the top of his voice. just as the bull was close to him mr ramsay, in chase of another beast, passed by. seeing what had happened, he placed himself before the bull and twined the lash of his whip round its horns. the horse stood stock still, with its fore legs out ready to spring aside, should it be necessary to avoid the bull or to stop the latter in its course. the bull, finding a sudden pull at its head, of course turned towards mr ramsay, who, untwisting his lash, galloped round and gave it such a cut on the flank as made it turn back once more towards the herd. this gave joseph time to remount his horse, and he was soon lashing away at the animals as before. he was much disposed to tell mr ramsay what he had observed; but then he thought it was not easy to prove. "it may be thought that i want to curry favour. still, if i find out more things certain against this man, it will be my duty to inform the master." mr ramsay was very much vexed at not getting more of the cattle in. he did not blame joseph, for he knew that it was not his fault, that peach had long been in charge of them and ought to have kept them in better order. of course peach excused himself, and said that the cattle were always wild, and that it was no fault of his. joseph began to wish that he had had nothing to do with cattle, but had stuck to his sheep. he had certainly much hard work, for he had to be in the saddle early in the morning and to keep in it most of the day. sam, though, liked it very much. bob had now taken sam's place and helped mat in taking care of the sheep. one day old mat came to joseph and begged him to look at the sheep. he was afraid something was the matter with some of them. joseph examined narrowly all those which mat thought were sick. there was no doubt that they had the distemper. it had not spread far yet. a stop must be put to it. he at once sent off ben on horseback to acquaint mr ramsay, and to bring back tobacco and other stuff for making washes. meantime he separated the diseased animals from the rest, which he told mat to drive to a fresh part of the run where they had not been for some time. he warned him on no account to go near any other flock. meantime he rode round to the nearest hut to advise the shepherds to look to their sheep, to see if the distemper had showed itself among them, that they might take steps to stop it. at one of the stations he met peach. it was one like his own, with three men, one of them having charge of a back run with cattle. peach was not very friendly. "i should think ned marks here would know as soon as a fresh hand whether or not his sheep had the distemper," he remarked with a sneer. "some people, however, are fond of busying themselves about what doesn't concern them; but i've just to say that they may go too far some day and find that others won't stand it." joseph made no answer, he was resolved to do his duty, whatever came of it. "never mind him; i'm not offended," said marks, giving a wink to peach, which he fancied joseph did not observe. "here, rudge, to show that there is no ill-will between us, do you take a glass of this good rum. i got a few bottles the last time i was down at the store. there are not many left." "no thank you, mate," answered joseph. "i made up my mind when i came out to this country never to touch liquor, and i find not only that i can get on without it, but that i am much the better without it. i used to take it in england, and i am ashamed to say how much of my wages went in drink. i wish to be friendly with you, marks, but i shouldn't show my good feeling by drinking your rum." "as you like," said marks. "it isn't often you have such a chance in the bush. however, it's liberty hall, and no man is forced to do what he doesn't like." peach now seemed to take a hint from marks, and pretended once more to be friendly with joseph. "i don't bear malice, rudge," he said, holding out his hand. "may be one of these days you'll see things in a different way, and understand that i wanted only to do you a good turn." "i hope not," answered joseph, going towards the door. "i think i understand you pretty clearly; and i pray that i may never be brought to call black white." "a canting hypocrite!" exclaimed peach, as joseph rode off. joseph offered up a silent prayer, "lead us not into temptation." as the stockman rode on he saw by the look of the sky that one of those fierce storms which occasionally visit parts of australia, was threatening. he had reached his farthest point from home. the country was wild. there was no regular road, only a track which it required sharp eyes to find out in some places. he pushed on, hoping to get home before the storm broke. presently, however, loud peals of thunder burst from the sky; the lightning darted along the ground and among the trees with a crackling noise, which made his horse start from side to side. down came the rain like a water-spout, and the wind sprung up and blew in fierce gusts, tearing off huge branches of the trees, and now and then uprooting the trees themselves. joseph saw that it would be dangerous to take shelter under any of the trees, so he kept as much as he could in the open ground. he had not gone far when he heard a cry. it was from some fellow-creature, he was certain of that. he looked about on every side, and at last saw that a falling tree had struck down a black man, who lay beneath it unable to move. joseph fastening his horse to a stump, ran towards the poor fellow. he was alive, and his body seemed uninjured, but his foot had been caught by the trunk and held him fast. had he been alone he must have died a horrible death, for it was clear that he could not have released himself. the black fellow saw joseph coming, and made signs to show his gratitude, uttering a few words of broken english. when, however, joseph came to look at the tree, he found that it would be no easy matter to get the poor black from under it. he had an axe in his belt, and with it he cut down a young sapling for a handspike, but when he tried it he found that he could not lift the heavy trunk. then he set to work to dig under the foot, but the ground was as hard as a rock. the black then made signs that he might drive something under it, and so lift the tree. "he means wedges," thought joseph, and at once lopping off a thick branch, shaped out several; the black, in spite of the pain he was suffering, watching him with evident satisfaction. with a thick club, which served as a hammer, joseph drove in the wedges, and in time got the tree lifted enough to draw out the black's leg. he then carried the poor fellow to a bank and examined his foot. it had been caught in a slight hollow, and was not as much hurt as might have been expected. as well as he could with the handkerchief off his neck, he bound up the injured limb, and then placed him on his horse. "i shall be late at home, but i cannot let this poor black lie out here in the woods by himself," he thought; "it is my duty to take him to my hut and tend him till he is well. the black must have been suffering a great deal of pain, but he bore it bravely." "what is your name?" he asked, as he walked by his side. "troloo, good white man," answered the black, "troloo lub white man." it was pleasant to joseph to think that the young black was grateful. for some time the storm continued, but joseph with his injured companion, pushed on through it. on his way out he had crossed a small creek with the water not much above his horse's fetlocks. as he drew near the spot he saw that instead of the quiet blue pool, where there had been no current, there was now a foaming and roaring torrent, its muddy waters carrying down numerous roots and branches of trees. still he thought that there could be no difficulty in crossing at that spot, and was leading the horse in, when troloo made signs that there was much danger in so doing, and pointed higher up the creek, trying to show that they might there cross with greater safety. joseph, like a wise man, therefore turned back. on calculating the depth of the water by the height of the bank, he judged that it was up to his arm pits, and that had he stepped into any hole, he might have sunk with his head under also. "ah, if it had not been for the black, i might have tried to cross, and have lost my life," he thought. after going up the creek some way, the black pointed to a spot where the ground was very smooth and hard on either side. "dere, dere, cross now," he said, and made signs to joseph to get up on the horse. "no, friend, a wetting won't do me any harm, and if the horse was to stumble, with two on his back, it might be a bad job for you." joseph walked into the stream boldly, leading the horse. the water rose up to his knees, then to his thighs. he kept his eyes up the stream on the watch for any branches or trunks of trees which might be floating down. now by stopping, now by pushing on fast, he was able to avoid several, others he turned aside. for some time the water was up to his middle. the black pointed across the creek, and made signs that there was nothing to fear. at last he reached the opposite bank. scarcely had he got out of the torrent, than the rain came down still harder than before; the wind blew furiously, tearing off branches from the brittle wood trees and sending them flying along before it. the thunder roared and rattled with long continued peals from the sky, and the lightning flashed more brightly than ever, darting, it seemed, from cloud to cloud, and then went hissing along the ground like a number of fiery serpents. the horse started and trembled, now sprang to one side, now to the other, so that joseph could scarcely keep the black man from falling off. still, like a true briton, he pushed on. there was no use looking for shelter, none was to be found nearer than his own hut. suddenly a flash darted from a cloud just overhead, and seemed to strike the ground directly in front of joseph. a moment before he had seen clearly. he made a few steps forward expecting again to see his way, but the bright light alone was in his eyes; nothing could he see. he rubbed his hand over his face. "oh, i am blind," he cried out in his grief. it was some time before the black could understand what had happened. he uttered some expressions showing his sorrow, in his own tongue. "come, no fear, black fellow show way," he said at last, taking joseph's hand. thus they journeyed on, joseph holding on to the horse, and troloo guiding it. the storm seemed to have spent its fury. after this the rain ceased, the thunder no longer rattled in the sky, nor did the lightning flash, and the clouds passed away. joseph had no difficulty in knowing this. he was, however, not at all certain that troloo was leading him towards his hut. this made him anxious, because, though he could not be very far wrong, it would delay his arrival at home. he tried to talk with the black man, but they could not make out what each other said, so they became silent. on and on they went. in the morning he had galloped quickly over the ground; now, he was creeping along, each moment expecting to fall. suddenly his dog trusty started off and gave a cheerful bark, which was answered by toby, sam's dog, and by old mat's dogs, all of which came running out, and he felt them licking his hands. he cried out, "any one at home?" presently he heard his wife's voice, and bobby's and the rest of the children. "why, joseph, what is the matter?" exclaimed poor sarah, running up to her husband. "why wife, i've a cross to bear, i fancy," answered joseph, taking sarah's hand which she put out; "god knows what's best. if i am to remain blind, he has some reason for it. but here is this poor black fellow, his foot is terribly hurt, and he is in great pain; look after him, i can wait, or i'll bathe my eyes in warm water, i can do nothing else." with an aching heart, sarah placed her husband in a chair, and then helped the black off the horse, and with the aid of bobby and mat, who came up, carried him into the hut, and placed him on sam's bed. she then bathed his foot and bound it up in a wet cloth, and then gave him some food. troloo was evidently grateful, and took every means to show it. night came, but joseph still remained totally blind. story five, chapter . when the next morning broke, joseph found himself as blind as before. it was a sad trial to him. "so many things to be done, and i not able to work," sighed joseph. "the boys and i and sally will do our best, and may be, in a day or two you will be able to see," answered sarah. "you've often said, `god's will be done;' we must say it now, husband." "yes, sarah, yes, i do say it. and how is the poor black fellow?" asked joseph. "his foot seems terribly bad. i wish there was a doctor to look to it, or i am afraid that he will never walk again; i've kept on bathing it, and he bears the pain wonderfully." early in the day, sam returned with the tobacco and other stuff for washes, and he and old mat set to work to mix them, and to wash the diseased sheep. while they were at work, a horseman was seen drawing near to the station, but not from the direction the master would come. it proved to be young mr harlow. he had heard of the distemper having broken out among his neighbour's sheep, and wished to know what was to be done to prevent its spreading. on learning of the accident which had happened to rudge, he went in to see him. "i have studied as a surgeon, and may, i hope, be of use to you," he said. "from what i see, i have great hopes that you will soon recover with the help of remedies i will apply." joseph thanked him, and begged that he would look at troloo's foot. "this is a more difficult case, but the natives' hurts heal so rapidly, that i have little doubt that he also will soon be well," he observed. it is not necessary to describe the means he employed. he rode over every day, though his time was of great value, and in the course of a few days, joseph declared that he could once more see light and people moving about. troloo's foot was also nearly well. "a white man's would have taken twice the time," mr harlow observed. troloo, however, showed no desire to go away; "black fellow lub jo, work for jo," he said. of course rudge was very glad to get his assistance, though he knew that he could not depend long on him, and that any moment he might set off again by himself. he could help with the sheep, but cattle have such a dislike to black men that they will not let one come near them. when mr ramsay arrived, he highly approved of all rudge had done, and was much concerned to hear of his blindness, though mr harlow assured him that he would soon recover his sight, as he shortly did. joseph and his wife were very grateful to mr harlow. "do not thank me, i am but making a right use of the talents god has given me," he answered. he brought with him a number of small books and tracts, and told joseph that he should be glad to have them lent to all the neighbouring shepherds and stockmen. "we will also meet together for prayer and reading god's word, when next i come over," he said. this was done; and not only old mat but several other shepherds and hut-keepers came to joseph's hut which he had prepared for them. this was the beginning of a church in the wilderness, for after this, mr harlow often came to the station, and the miss harlows rode over and brought books and pictures for the children and work for sally, and stopped to show her how to do it, and also to teach the children to read. joseph and sarah were very grateful. they had long felt that though they were getting good wages and saving money, it was a sad thing not to have their children taught nor be able to go to a place of worship. "sam is not so bad a scholar, and bobby and sally read pretty well, but nancy and bill and mary will have little chance of getting any learning," said joseph to mr harlow. "if we could have a master sometimes, it would help us; and then when there is less work to be done, the elder children can help the younger; but generally they come home so tired that all they can do is to take their suppers and go to bed." mr harlow promised that he would talk the matter over with mr ramsay, and see what could be done for the children on his and the neighbouring runs. in the meantime, he left some small books and tracts, which could be carried in the pocket and read at spare moments. it was a joyful day to joseph rudge and to his wife and children when he was able to say that he could see as well as ever. they did not forget to thank god who had been thus kind to them. "it would have been terrible if you had been struck blind all alone in the forest," said sarah, "i have often thought of that, and what a mercy it was that you found the black." "yes indeed, wife," answered joseph, "i might have been drowned, too, if i had tried to cross the creek by myself. one thing i know, and i often thought of it while i was without sight, that god orders all things for our good, though we do not always see the why and the wherefore things are done." it took a long time before the sheep were quite cured of the distemper and the flocks were allowed to mingle as before. sam and bob and old mat had worked very hard, but they could not have got on alone, if tom wells had not been sent to help them. tom was a first-rate rider, and a fair stockman, so he was sent to look after the cattle. he was lodged in old mat's house. he had been thus employed only a day or two, when peach managed to meet him. "stock keeping better than bullock driving, lad, eh?" were the first words peach uttered. "i should think so, mate," said tom. "more profit to be made of it," observed peach. "wages is wages," observed tom. "if i agree for so much, i take it, and must be content; if i take more than that, it's robbery to my mind, and with that i've no business." "oh those are rudge's notions, he's been putting you up to that sort of stuff," remarked peach, with a look of contempt; and then he muttered, "but i'll be even with him and you too." "they are the notions of all decently honest men," said wells, turning away from the tempter. peach was not a man to give up a plan he had once formed. as he could not get the help of rudge and wells, he tried other means to get possession of his master's cattle. he had always made friends, as far as he could, with the blacks, a tribe of whom often pitched their tents near his hut. he was a sober man, and did not mind parting with his rum. all sober men are not good men, though drunkenness rarely fails to lead to crime and punishment. he had looked out for the blacks, and had told them that they must help him to get the cattle. they had managed from time to time to drive off a few calves. as has been said, cattle have a fear of blacks, and, scenting them at a long distance, scamper off as soon as they draw near. thus peach could not get much help from his friends. he now set off again on horseback to pay them a visit; for they were camped some miles away. he took care to go provided with presents, a few coloured handkerchiefs and knives, and a few other things. on his way, his horse put his foot into a hole, and fell. peach was thrown over his head. he was not much hurt, so he got up, and catching his horse, mounted again. "now i am on you i will pay you off, you brute," he exclaimed, thrashing the poor animal with his heavy whip. the horse dashed on for some way, then stopped short. he was dead lame. in vain peach tried to make him move. to return would have taken longer than to go on; so dismounting, he led on the animal, hoping to reach the blacks' camp before night-fall. he went on and on, and it grew darker and darker, till he thought that he should have to camp out. he had no fancy to do that by himself. there were no wild beasts in the country to fear, and he would have told any one who asked him, that he did not believe in ghosts and spirits and such-like gentry; still there was something he did not like when he was all alone in the dark woods at night. his conscience was not at ease. there were strange sounds and sights he could not make out. he had no almighty friend to whom he could offer up a prayer for protection; no wonder that he was a coward. he still went on, though he could hardly find the way; when on a sudden he stopped, and as he leaned forward, staring with wide open eyes and hair on end, he saw a blazing fire in the midst of an open glade, and on the farther side a hideous band of skeleton forms dancing and twisting and turning in all sorts of ways. now, after leaping about furiously for a moment, they would on a sudden disappear, and not one was to be seen. for a minute or more all was quiet, and peach hoped that he had seen the last of them; when like a flash they all came back and jumped about as before. he stood trembling with fear, he would have run away if he could, but where was he to run to? this fearful show went on for some time, when the most fearful shrieks and yells were heard. "why i do believe it's the black fellows dancing a corroborree," he muttered to himself. "what a fool i was! now they yell! i make out their voices." leading his horse, which was more frightened at the shrieks than he had been by the sight of the skeletons, he walked into the middle of a group of blacks. he now saw by the light of the fire, which was made to blaze up brightly, that on the front of each of the men a skeleton was painted with white chalk. these were seen when the light of the fire fell on them, but when they turned round and only their black backs were towards the fire, they seemed to have gone away altogether. he knew that it would not do to show the anger he felt at the fright they had given him. he stood quiet, therefore, with some of the old men looking on till the dance was over. he was known to most of the natives, who welcomed him in the odd jargon in which the white settlers and blacks talk to each other. "he would tell them by-and-by what he had come to see them about, and in the meantime he had some presents to make," he said. the delight of the savages at getting the handkerchiefs and knives was very great. he told them that there were more for them if they would do what he wished. he then called some of the elders round him, and told them what he advised them to do. he told them that he was the black fellows' friend, as they had proof, but that the other white men in those parts were their enemies, and that they should drive them away if they could, or kill them, and that then, they might have all their sheep and cattle for themselves. the poor savages seemed to understand this sort of reasoning, and promised to do as he advised. he sat up till a late hour talking with them. the whole party then lay down in the "gunyio," or camp, with a few boughs or sheets of bark over their heads as their only covering, though most of them had bright fires burning at their feet outside. it was some time before peach's busy brain would let him go to sleep. at last he went off, and began to snore. not long after, a black might have been seen passing close to him. "oh you one white villain!" he exclaimed, shaking his head at him, "you call black man savage, you ten times worse; but black fellow teach you that you no more clever than he." saying this, the black disappeared among the trees around. story five, chapter . a short time before this, troloo, who had learned to be very useful with the sheep, had gone off without giving any warning. it was the way of black fellows, so joseph could not complain, though he was very sorry to lose him, especially when there was so much work to be done. joseph did not let any of his family be idle. they had learned to make and to do all sorts of things. they made all their candles and soap. they spun wool when their fingers had nothing else to do, and then knitted it into socks and waistcoats. the boys could knit, and when they were out shepherding, they had plenty of time to make all the socks they could wear. the younger ones, among other things, learned to make baskets out of long reeds, which they gathered near the creek. one day, when they had used up all their reeds, nancy, with little bill and mary, set out to gather a fresh stock. when they got down to the edge of the creek they saw some long reeds growing on the other side. "see, see, how fine and tall they are, nancy; we must go over and get them," cried little bill. "i know a place higher up where we can cross easily." nancy saw no harm in doing as bill said, for they could get no reeds on that side. they went on and on, and still they did not get to the place he spoke of. "it can only be a little farther; come on, nancy," he cried out, running on with mary. nancy followed. "here it is," he said, at last, and they began to cross. the water deepened. "no fear; do you, nancy, lift up mary, and i can get across easily enough," said bill. they all got safe over. the creek twisted a good deal, and bill thought, and nancy thought also, that they would make a short cut across the country from the place where they then were to that where the rushes grew. a hill rose up close to the creek, and they were certain that if they went round it they should find the water on the other side. the sky was covered with clouds and the sun was not to be seen, so that there were no shadows to guide them. they walked on and on, thinking each moment that they should reach the river. little bill was sure that they could not have made a mistake, and ran on before his sisters shouting out, "come on, nancy; come on, mary." the girls followed as fast as they could, but there were no signs of the creek. they began to be puzzled. nancy fancied that bill must have made a mistake. "no, no; it's farther off than i thought, that's all," said bill. "we shan't find it by standing still." bill was a sturdy little chap, though so young. "mary bery, bery tired," cried the youngest girl. she couldn't speak plain, she was so young. "well, sit down, little one, and rest, and we'll see what we've got for you," said bill, in an encouraging tone--he dearly loved little mary. he searched in his pockets and brought out some cold damper and cheese, and some biscuit and raisins, and several other articles. the children all sat down and feasted off the food. it revived them. "we must get on now," said nancy, rising. "o bill, where can we have got to?" "all right," answered bill, "we shall find the water in ten minutes; only we must keep moving." they went on again for ten minutes, twenty, thirty, an hour or more. bill at last began to cry and wring his hands. "oh dear, oh dear, we have lost our way!" "i was afraid so, long ago," said nancy. "all we've to do is to try and find it." that was more easily said than done. nancy felt very anxious, but she kept her thoughts to herself, for fear of frightening bill and mary. bill had kept up bravely till now, but little mary already looked very tired. nancy took her hand and led her on. bill then took her up on his back, but he had not gone far when he had to ask her if she was not rested. his legs and back ached; he put her down. she could run on a little way she thought. she soon, however, again said she was tired, and nancy took her up; but poor nancy could not carry her far, for mary was a fat, heavy child. where they had got to, nancy could not tell. time went by, too, faster than they thought. it got dusk, and there were no signs of the creek. night was coming on. "we cannot go farther in the dark," said nancy. "no; i must make a `gunyio' for you and mary," said bill, who had tried hard to keep up his courage. he cut down some boughs, and nancy and mary collected some long, dry grass, and they built a rude hut, like those the natives use, and made a bed. they then all crept in. they had no fear about being in the forest by themselves at night, only they wished that they were at home, as they knew their father and mother would be frightened. there were no wild beasts to hurt them, and joseph rudge had taken care that his children should have no foolish notions about ghosts and spirits. "if such things come on earth it's only because god lets them, and he would not let them come in shapes to frighten people, especially little children and those he loves," he used to say to them. the three children knelt down and said their prayers; then, without fear, they crept into the hut, and were soon asleep. when joseph and tom wells came back from looking after the cattle, the children had not returned. still sarah thought that they would come every minute, and was looking out for them. joseph was very tired. "you stay quiet, mate," said tom, "i will go and look out for the young ones; i shall find them fast enough." tom rode off, and not long after sam and ben came in with old mat from herding the sheep. the lads were very eager to set off to look for their little brother and sisters. taking a sup of tea and a piece of damper in their hands, away they went. mat promised to herd the sheep till they came back. joseph and sarah all this time were very anxious for their little ones. still she got the supper ready, hoping to have them brought back safe to her. there were several good things--a damper, a dish of stewed mutton, and a parrot pie, made with the birds which tom wells had shot that morning and brought to her. parrots in that country are as common as pigeons in england, and are generally cooked in pies. it was quite dark when sam and ben came back. they had found no traces of the children. tom came in some time after. not a sign of the children. "god's will be done!" said joseph. "oh we shall find them to-morrow, mate, never fear," said tom wells. the party eat their supper with sad hearts, but not in silence, for they talked over and over what could have become of the children. they could make no further search that night. tom went to his hut, promising to be ready to start again at break of day. ben went out to look after his sheep at night. that must not be neglected. sarah was up long before daybreak to get the breakfast ready. often and often she went to the door of the hut, hoping to hear her young ones voices returning home. joseph mounted his horse, and went off in one direction, tom in another, and sam in another. they were to return at noon. old mat and ben had to look after the sheep. poor sarah and sally worked away in and about the hut as hard as possible, but they could not help thinking and talking about the dear little ones, and what had become of them. some time had passed, when sally cried out that she heard voices, and, running out, she saw three people on horseback cantering up to the hut. they were mr harlow and his two sisters. they had come over about the school. they were very sorry to hear that the children were missing. mr harlow said that he would go off at once to look for them. he had given his horse a handful of grain, and was just starting, when a black came running up at full speed towards the hut. sally, who first saw him, said she was quite sure it was troloo; so he was. he reached the door of the hut out of breath. "oh, missie rudge, black fellow come, kill you piccaninnies, sheep, old mat, all, all," he cried out as soon as he could speak. what he said was enough to frighten sarah. "then the blacks must have found our poor, dear children, and they have killed them," she said, and burst into tears. "no, black fellow find piccaninnies," said troloo, looking up from the ground on which he had thrown himself. mr harlow, who had dismounted from his horse, cross-questioned the black as to the report he had brought. as far as he could make out, a large party of natives were on their way to the hut, with the purpose of burning it, and killing all the family. still he thought that they would not dare to do what they threatened, and tried to persuade poor mrs rudge not to be frightened. "if it was not for the dear children i wouldn't be frightened; but what i fear is that the cruel black fellows have got hold of them, and will do them a harm." mr harlow had now to consider what was best to be done. he wished first to place his sisters in safety, and then to fortify the hut, so that when the natives arrived they might find all things prepared for them. he could do little, however, till joseph, and bob, and tom wells returned, he learned from sarah where mat and sam were to be found. he begged his sisters who were well accustomed to find their way across the country, to ride home and to send three of their men, well armed, to help drive away the blacks, while he went to warn mat and sam, and to get them to come home. meantime sarah got ready some food for poor troloo. every now and then she went to the door, or sent sally to see if joseph or tom were coming with the children. at last noon came, and soon after tom appeared, but he had found no traces of the lost ones. the poor mother's heart sank within her. tom rather laughed at the notion of the blacks daring to attack the station, and said that they would get more than they expected if they came. mr harlow and mat and bob now arrived, and sam also returned. he was very downcast at not having found his little brother and sisters. "now lads, the best thing you can do is to gallop off to mr ramsay, to get his help," said mr harlow to sam and bob. "it is better to be too strong than too weak; and i hope that the blacks, when they find that we are ready for them, will take themselves off again." the lads went off as hard as they could go, sam catching a fresh horse for the ride. mr harlow, with tom and mat, helped by sarah and sally, set to work to prepare for the attack of the natives. they fastened up the windows, just leaving room for the barrels of their rifles to pass through; then they got up a number of the stakes from the cattle pens and put up a strong paling in front of each of the doors. this done, they put up a strong paling, or palisade in front of the hut, and began to carry it all round, so that none of the natives could get near enough to fire the hut, without a good chance of being shot. this took some time, and the day was drawing to a close before joseph himself was seen riding homewards. he brought none of his young ones with him. the meeting between him and his wife was very sad. all he could say was, "god's will be done! we will start away to-morrow again, and they cannot have got far from home." he was much astonished at the preparations made for the expected attack of the natives, and thanked mr harlow warmly for what he had done. "why, rudge, i could not leave your wife and daughters without you, but now that you have returned i must set off to look after my sister-kind. i did not half like letting them go alone," said mr harlow. "as the blacks have not appeared as yet, as they never travel at nights, i do not think that they will come till to-morrow, and before that you will have plenty of assistance." the evening came, and the night drew on, and still no natives appeared. troloo offered to go out and learn if they were near. he thought that they might have encamped not far off, so as to attack the station at break of day. once he would have been afraid to move about himself in the dark, but now he said that as he was going to help white man, white man's god would take care of him. mat had gone to look after the sheep, for it was not safe to leave them alone at night, lest the dingoes (the wild dogs of the country) should get among them. thus only joseph and tom wells remained in the hut with sarah and sally. it was a sad time for them, they thought more about the poor children than themselves. tom was a kind-hearted fellow, and did his best to keep up their spirits. "as you often say, joseph, i say to you, trust in god, and all will come right at last." "very hard, in a case like this, to follow out what one knows to be true," answered rudge. "yes, joseph; but this is just a case where we have to show our faith. i know that god loves us and that keeps me up," said sarah, though her voice trembled as she spoke. all this time her dear little ones might be starving, or dying of thirst, or have been carried off by the blacks, or have fallen into a water-hole. it was near ten at night when troloo came back. it was some time before he could make his friends understand that the black fellows, to the number of fifty, or more, were camped at a spot, to reach which, from the hut, would take about an hour. they had been having a war dance, he said, and that showed that they were about to attack the place. they were armed with spears and clubs and boomerangs. the last weapon is a moon-shaped piece of hard-wood. the blacks throw it with great force, and can make it whirl back into their own hands. they can also throw their spears to a great distance with good aim. this news made joseph more than ever anxious for the arrival of mr ramsay and sam and bob. no one was inclined to go to sleep. sarah and sally lay down, but were up every ten minutes looking out of doors, and listening for sounds. before daybreak troloo was on foot, and stole out. he was gone some time; tom thought that he had taken fright, and run away. joseph said that he was sure he was faithful; so it proved. he came back in half an hour, saying that the blacks were coming on, and would soon be at the station. joseph and tom looked out eagerly in all directions for their friends. even old mat had not come in. should they put sarah and sally on horseback, and make their escape? "the property here was put under my charge, and i cannot leave it," said rudge. "as long as i have life i must fight to defend it." "but your wife and sally," said tom. "his wife will stay by her husband, as i hope yours will, tom wells, when you get one," said sarah. "then i will stop," said tom, looking at sally. "and i would stay with father and mother, even if i had the chance of going," said sally. there were three rifles in the hut; sarah knew how to load them. she was to do so as fast as she could, and troloo was to hand them to joseph and tom. they were to fire as quick as possible, so that the blacks might think that there were many more people in the hut than there were, and so be frightened and go away. all was ready; still no friends had come, but as they looked out, a number of black figures were seen stealing out from among the trees. they collected in a large body, and then came towards the hut flourishing their spears. they stopped when they saw no one, and looked cautiously about. joseph was very anxious not to fire, or to hurt any one. "to my mind its the white men has often set the bad example to the poor black fellows, from what i have heard, and i don't want to do the same sort of thing," he observed. it was clear that the natives couldn't make out how things stood. they stopped, and talked, and looked about. then some drew near and ran off again, just as boys run into the water on the sea shore, and out again, fearing some danger. "we will pray to be delivered from these poor black fellows," said joseph; "it's what god tells us to do when we are in danger." he did as he proposed, and the rest joined him in the prayer. troloo could not make out exactly what his white friends were about. he expected to see them begin to fire away and kill his black relations. still he seemed to think that they deserved to be punished. at last the blacks, seeing no one, came on all together. "now let us shout at the top of our voices, and fire over their heads," whispered joseph; "may be they'll take fright and run off." the savages drew still nearer, and then joseph, and tom, and sarah, and her daughter, all shouted out, and shrieked at the top of their voices, and the two men at the same moment fired their rifles. the savages, hearing the whistling of the bullets just above their heads, looked about astonished, and then ran off as fast as they could run. they did not go far, however, but, stopping, began to talk to each other, and seeing no one following, took courage. "i am afraid that that trick won't answer again," observed tom; "the next time we must rush out upon them, and take one or two of them prisoners." "we might as well try to catch eels with our fingers," answered joseph. "if they come on again we must, i fear, fight it out. we ought not to leave the shelter of our hut as long as it will hold us." "oh, no, no; let us stay where we are," said sarah. the blacks, however, did not seem inclined to let them do that. once more they plucked up courage and came on, whirling their spears. the rifles were again loaded; still joseph did not wish to fire at the savages. the blacks got quite close, and then sent a shower of spears, which came quivering against the posts which were round the hut, several piercing its thin walls. fortunately none came through the openings. "we must give it them in earnest next time," said tom. "wait a bit, mate; as long as they don't do more than that, they will do us no harm." as soon as the natives had thrown their darts, they ran off again, expecting a volley from the rifles; then back they came and threw more of their spears. as before, a few came partly through the wall, but did no harm, as sarah and sally kept on the other side, and the men stood behind the stout posts which supported the roof. the blacks came nearer and nearer, sending their spears still farther through the walls. "i would do anything rather than kill those poor savages," said rudge. "but if we don't, they'll kill us, mate, and it won't do to fire over their heads again," observed tom, raising his rifle, and covering one of the black leaders. "i could pick that fellow off if i fired." "let's try what another shout will do, and if that does not put them to flight, we must fire at last," said rudge. again they all shouted together, troloo joining in the cry. the blacks, as before, looked about them, and some, who were about to throw their spears, stopped with them poised in their hands. others, however, seemed to be telling them that they were cowards, and at last the whole party whirling round their spears more fiercely than before, rushed towards the hut. rudge's finger was on the trigger, and so was tom's, when a faint shout was heard in the distance, like an echo of theirs. it was repeated, and another was heard as if from a different direction. "don't fire, mat," cried rudge; "see, the black fellows are running. thank god that we have not had to shed man's blood." "and let us thank him that our lives have mercifully been saved," said sarah, as they opened the door of the hut, from which not a black was to be seen. in another minute mr ramsay and sam and bob rode up to the door, and mr harlow and several men appeared at a little distance. mr ramsay was inclined to follow the blacks, and to kill some of them, but mr harlow begged that he would not hurt them, as he was sure that they were set on by some one else, and that at all events they were ignorant savages, and knew no better. story five, chapter . mr ramsay praised rudge and tom wells for the way that they had behaved in defending the hut, and old mat also for having stuck by his sheep, instead of running away. after listening to the account troloo had to give, he was sure that they had been set on by others. he determined therefore to ride on and speak to them with some of his men. mr harlow was about to offer to accompany him, when sarah's cry of, "oh, my children--my children, what are to become of them?" made him turn to her, and promise to set out at once in search of them. joseph wished to go, but his friends would not let him. "no," said mr harlow, "you must stay and take care of your wife and daughter. we will take sam and wells, and two of my men, and troloo. he will be of more help than all the rest of us, i suspect. if the blacks have found them, which i don't think they have, he will get them back; and if they have wandered off into the woods, he will trace them out." troloo at once understood what was required of him, and the two parties without delay set out, while joseph and sarah remained behind. troloo was the only person on foot, and he went hunting about like a pointer ranging a field, looking out for the tracks of the children. he soon found them, and quickly ran along the edge of the creek till he came to the place where they had crossed. he then went on, pointing out to mr harlow the hill which they intended to go round. it did not, however, take the turn they had expected, but ran off from the creek, and this it was that had thrown them out. troloo now led on quickly till he found the spot where they had slept. he showed how they had got up in the morning, and how the eldest girl had knelt down just outside the hut with the little ones near her, and how they had then set off running. soon the youngest had got tired and gone slower and slower. for several hours they went on, and then the eldest girl lifted up the youngest and carried her, and then they all sat down. next, the boy got up and ran about in all directions and climbed a tree to try and find out the way they should take. he thought that he had found it, for he did not sit down again, but they all went on together quickly--sometimes he, and sometimes his sister, carrying the youngest, and sometimes she ran, they holding her hands. all this the black discovered as easily as if it had passed before his eyes, from the look of the grass and shrubs. were they getting nearer? no. all this time they were going farther and farther from home, and what seemed strange, going upwards towards some high hills in the distance. this is said to be always the case, when people lose themselves in the woods. if there is high land they are certain to go towards it. they came after some time to a marshy spot where some rushes grew. the children had picked some of these and drank a little water from a pool which they had dug with their hands. they had had nothing to eat. indeed, in few countries does a stranger find it more difficult to exist in the woods than in australia, though the natives can nearly always obtain a meal from roots, or insects, or slugs, or birds, or small animals which they trap. at length they reached a spot where troloo said that the children had spent their second night out. bill had begun to build a hut as before, but he had got tired, and they had all slept close together with only a few boughs over them. the weather was fine, as it is in that country for the greater part of the year, but it was chilly at night. again the children had started off by daylight, running at first, but soon growing tired, and sturdy bill had carried little mary for a long time on his back. before mr harlow's party could reach another of the children's camping places, it grew dark, and they were obliged to camp themselves. there was no longer much fear of their having fallen into the hands of the savages. there was much talk that night round the camp-fire about the poor children, and few of the party expected, after they had been lost so long, to find them alive. "one thing is certain, my friends, that we must push on as fast as we can go, and troloo can lead us. without the help of the black we could not have found our way at all, and after this let none of us abuse the natives as stupid fellows. they make good use of the talents they possess. i wish that we could say the same of all white people." so eager was mr harlow to push on, that he breakfasted before daybreak, and as soon as troloo could make out the tracks of the children, the party moved on. it was wonderful how persevering the little creatures had been, and how they had held out. on and on they had gone, stopping to rest only for a short time. little mary now was too weak to walk alone. the other two held her up between them or carried her on their backs. troloo had gone on without faltering as yet, but now they reached some hard, stony ground, and after going backwards and forwards several times he shook his head and said that he could not find the track of the children. they must go across it. perhaps it might be found on the other side. mr harlow and his party went across the stony ground, but they looked up and down in vain. all the day was spent, night came on, and still troloo was unsuccessful. they had again to camp. "we must try again in the morning," said mr harlow, "i will never give up till i find them." "yes, troloo find to-morrow," said the black, "troloo lub rudge." the rest of the party said also that nothing would make them give in. they scarcely slept, so eager were they to be off, knowing that every minute might make a difference whether the lives of the children were saved or not. the instant they could see, after breakfast, they were on the move, looking in all directions for the tracks. two hours or more passed, when troloo was seen capering in the distance, and beckoning them to come on. he had found the tracks, and they were very clear. now they pushed on faster than ever. the little creatures had toiled on, but they had become very weak, still the elder ones had carried the youngest. once bill had fallen, but had got up; nancy had taken mary from him, and they had gone on. it was near the evening when troloo, who kept ahead, was seen to move on fast and beckon to the rest. mr harlow followed him fast. he stopped and pointed to a bank overhung by trees. there lay the three children. were they alive? mr harlow's heart sunk within him. he leaped from his horse as he reached the spot, and leaned over the young children. they seemed to be sleeping. "father, are you come for us?" said a low voice. "we couldn't help it, we tried to get home." it was nancy who spoke; she had taken off her own outer petticoat and shawl to wrap up little mary, who lay asleep in her arms by her side. bill opened his eyes and said, "father," and then closed them again. "thank god they are alive," exclaimed mr harlow, instantly mixing a little brandy-and-water and pouring it on their lips. nancy was at once able to swallow a few drops--so could bill after a little time. mr harlow had with forethought put some oranges in his pocket. a few drops helped little mary to revive. he wisely fed the children very slowly; at first with only a few crumbs of biscuit at a time moistened with water. it seemed probable that they would not have lived another hour had they not been discovered; and certainly, had they been fed as troloo would have liked to feed them, they would have died immediately. in a short time nancy recovered enough to give an account of their adventures. it was then proved that troloo had found out as he followed up their track exactly what had happened. mr harlow now had a litter made on which the three children were carried towards his house. having gone some distance, they camped, and a hut was built in which they were placed, and he and sam and tom wells sat up all night by turns watching them and giving them food as they required it. it made sam's heart leap with joy when little mary looked up, and said, "is dat oo sam? tank oo," and then went off to sleep calmly. the next day they reached mr harlow's station, where the young ladies took them in charge, and soon, under god's blessing, they were restored to health. story five, chapter . mr ramsay was joined in his pursuit of the blacks by a party of native police, who are just as ready to take up their countrymen as are the whites. as the whole party were well mounted, they soon came up with the runaways. as soon as the blacks saw their pursuers, they set off again, but were quickly overtaken. several of them, including two of their chief men, were made prisoners. one of the police reported that he had seen a white man galloping away through the woods--that the stranger was very well mounted, and that he could not overtake him. this confirmed mr ramsay's suspicions that the blacks had been set on to attack the station by some white man, though as yet he had no idea who that person could be. the black prisoners were brought before him, and he examined them by means of the sergeant of the black police. it was a long business, for it was not always easy to understand the sergeant himself. however, at length mr ramsay came to the conclusion that the culprit was a stockman or shepherd living in the neighbourhood. while the prisoners were carried to the station, mr ramsay went round to call at the huts of the stockmen. the first he reached was that of peach. neither he nor his mate were within. a kettle was on the hearth boiling, and a damper baking below. the provision casks were open, and pork and meal had evidently been taken from them in a hurry. their guns and ammunition had also been carried off. there were other signs that the occupants of the hut had escaped in a hurry. "we need not search farther," said mr ramsay with a sigh. "i thought that peach was an honest man, but things are much against him at present." several of the men now spoke out, and said that they had no doubt that peach was a rogue, that they had long thought him one, and that they were always surprised that the master trusted him. "it would have been doing me a service if you had spoken before," said mr ramsay; "i might then have prevented peach from committing an act for which he will be transported, if he escapes hanging." it is to be hoped that they saw their error. servants, by not giving warning of the misdeeds of others, often injure their employers and themselves, and do harm rather than good to those they wish to serve. it was a happy day for joseph rudge and his wife when their children were restored to them as strong and well as ever; and truly grateful were they to heaven for the mercy which had been shown them. rough old mat shed tears of joy when he took little mary in his arms. "to think that this little tiny creature should have gone on so many days without eating or drinking, when i have known strong men, who have lost their way, die in less time," he exclaimed as he kissed her again and again. "but god watches over the young and innocent. he watches over us all, mate, and we old ones should know more of his love and care if we could but become like the young and pure," remarked joseph. "we are told that we must become like little children, that is, in our trust in god's love and our obedience and faith." "ah yes, but that is a hard matter for the old and hardened," sighed mat. "yes, but it is a blessed thought that god's grace is sufficient for even such, if they will but seek it," observed rudge. nothing very particular happened at the station for some time. the children, as may be supposed, did not wander out by themselves any more. joseph and the rest of the men, however, had a great deal more to do in consequence of the flight of peach and his mate. they also had to help in getting back the cattle he had carried off. mr ramsay was very much pleased with the way joseph had acted, and increased his wages by ten pounds a year, while to sam and bob he gave five pounds more each. after this there was a marked change in mr ramsay. he was always looked on as a worthy, upright man, but he had been inclined to stand somewhat aloof from his neighbours, mr harlow and his sisters, because they were known to be religious. not a week passed, however, that he did not pay a visit to upland, mr harlow's station, and sometimes he went twice a week, and was often seen riding out with the misses harlow. it then became known that he had united with mr harlow to send for a missionary minister, who would go about among the out-stations and preach and hold school as best he could. mr bolton was his name. he lost no time in coming. his plan was to preach, and then to set lessons to all the learners, many of them grown-up people, and to help those who required it, and then to hear them when next he came that way. when mr bolton came to the head station, mr ramsay always attended, and after a time formed a class, and taught himself. it was said that he was going to marry one of the miss harlows. a word spoken in season may do good; and there can be little doubt that the good example set by joseph rudge had a great effect in bringing about an important change in the character of his master. while many of those who went to the gold diggings came back as poor as they started, and with loss of health, joseph and his family, by remaining at their posts and doing their duty to their employer, prospered, and were well and happy. one afternoon sarah and sally and nancy were at work in the hut. nancy was able now to do almost as much as sally. joseph and his boys were out with the cattle or sheep. bill was also able to go shepherding. little mary was playing in front of the door; she had not learned to do much yet. her sisters heard her cry, "man coming, man coming!" they looked out. a man on horseback, with tattered clothes, patched with skins, rode up. his eyes were sunken, his cheeks thin. "i want food. here, girls, bring me some damper, and tea, and mutton, if you have it, a glass of milk and rum. quick! i am starving," he said in a hollow voice. his looks showed that he spoke the truth. "won't you come in and rest?" "no, no; i'm not to be caught so," answered the man, looking about suspiciously. "but quick, girl, with the food." sally went in and took him out some damper and a slice of mutton, while nancy was getting some tea. he ate the food like a starving man and then tossed off a large basin of tea. when sarah saw him first from the window she thought she knew him. his way of speaking made her sure. "now girls, just bring me out your father's powder-flask and shot belt, and any canister of powder there is in the hut. my flask is empty, and i must have it filled." on hearing these words, sarah emptied the flask into a jar, which she hid away, and with it the canister of powder, and then sent out nancy with the empty flask. the man swore fiercely when he found that there was no powder in the flask. "at all events, get me some more food. i don't know when i may be able to find another meal, and if there had been time you should have given me a hot one." "that is tony peach," said sarah, as her daughter came in to get more food. "he has taken to the bush, and that is what his life has brought him to." the girls took out as much food as peach could eat, but he wanted more, and told them that he must have enough to fill both his saddle-bags. they brought him out all the food they had cooked in the hut. as he was stowing away the food in his bags, he happened to look up, and saw two or three horsemen coming towards the hut. letting the remainder of the damper and cheese and meat drop, he gathered up his reins and galloped off as hard as he could go. the horsemen were joseph and tom and sam. they rode direct to the hut. when they heard who the stranger was, tom and sam were for giving chase. "no," said joseph, "we have no authority to take him up. leave him in god's hands. he is welcome to the food the girls gave him." it might have been better if peach had been seized at that time, for, soon after this, several robberies were committed in different parts of the colony, and always by two men supposed to be peach and his mate. travellers from the gold diggings were attacked; huts were entered, and even farm-houses, and arms and ammunition and food and any valuables the thieves could lay hands on were carried off. another trying time for sheep and cattle owners as well as farmers, now arrived. there had been less rain than usual, and as the summer advanced the heat increased, and the creeks and water-holes dried up. in many spots where there had been for years a pool of pure water, there was nothing now but a bed of hard, cracked mud. some stations were altogether deserted, and shepherds had often to drive their flocks long distances to water. joseph rudge had lately been made overseer, and it was his duty to ride round the country in all directions to search for water-holes. it was sad to watch the water get less and less in a hole, and to know that in a few days it would dry up and that another must be found or that the sheep or cattle would die. before that time joseph generally managed by an active search, to secure a fresh water-hole. while other owners were losing their sheep and cattle by thousands, mr ramsay found that only a few hundreds of his had died owing to being driven of necessity very fast to fresh water-holes. one day as joseph was on his way from a distant station, he saw smoke rising out of a wood. while he was looking towards the spot, the smoke grew thicker and thicker, and presently flames burst out. now they ran up the trees, now along the tall lank grass dried by the heat. they darted from tree to tree--the bush (as the forest is called) was on fire. the flames spread with fearful quickness. he galloped on into the open country where there was thinner grass. the bush reached all the way to his house. as he watched the rapid manner in which the fire extended, he saw that no time was to be lost. fast as his horse galloped, the flames went faster, leaping as it were from tree to tree with a loud roar and crackle, the thick smoke forming a black cloud overhead, while kangaroos and other animals rushed out of the bush to find safety in the open country. had joseph been able to venture through the forest he would soon have reached his hut, but he had to make a long round to avoid it. he galloped on still hoping to get there before the flames reached it. their property would certainly be destroyed, but he prayed that his family might make their escape to a place of safety. he seemed to be getting ahead of the fire, but as he looked every now and then over his shoulder, he saw it extending as far as the eye could reach, a wall of leaping flames with a roof of dark smoke. in some places it ran along the ground out from the forest where the grass was long enough to feed it, while in others it soon went out for want of fuel. numbers of the animals and birds must have perished, and many animals rushed past with their hair singed, and several birds fell down dead before him. the ground was uneven and stony, but nothing stopped him, and at last his hut came in sight. the fire was still nearly a mile from it, but it was coming on quickly. he found sarah and the children standing at the door, much frightened, with the few things of value they had in their hands. "why, sarah, i should have thought you knew that flour and pork would be more use to us than those things," he exclaimed with a laugh, which somewhat took away her fear, "but we may save the hut yet. bring out those three reaping-hooks, and all the axes and knives, and all hands must cut away the grass round the hut. here come tom wells and sam and ben and bill." a large circle was cut, and the grass was cleared round all the palings. it was then set on fire, and the flames went hissing along the ground towards the already burning forest. in this way a large space was cleared, and joseph and his sons were able to keep watch on his own and mat's hut, and the out-buildings, and to knock out any sparks as soon as they appeared. in this way, all the pens and other property on the station was preserved. this done, they again mounted their horses and galloped off to look after the cattle which they had reason to fear might have been frightened by the fire. their search was long, but they found the whole herd collected in a stony valley, where there was little grass, and where the fire had not touched them. soon after this, mr ramsay arrived, fully expecting to hear of the loss of sheep and cattle, if not of the huts and pens. "a diligent servant takes heed of his master's property, and deserves to be rewarded," he observed. "i looked after my wife and children first, sir, though," said joseph. "i should not have praised you if you had not, and it is time that you should have some cattle of your own, and sheep too, and in a few days i will tell you what proportion of the increase of my flocks and herds i can allow you." troloo was now more than ever at the station. he came in, while mr ramsay was there, with the news that a large number of kangaroos were assembled not far off, driven by the fire from their usual feeding grounds. hearing this, mr ramsay sent over to mr harlow, and a party was made up to hunt them. it was well worth doing so, for though their flesh is not as good as mutton, for each kangaroo killed, two sheep would be saved. both gentlemen had large dogs trained to hunt them. a kangaroo is a curious animal, with short forelegs, and very long hind ones, which it doubles up under itself. with these, and the help of a long, heavy tail, it leaps over the ground almost as fast as a horse can gallop. a female kangaroo has a sort of pouch in front, in which she carries her young. on the approach of danger the young one jumps into it, and off she goes. when very hard pressed, however, to save her own life, she will take it out and drop it, and thus go faster over the ground. two or three other gentlemen and several stockmen from the neighbouring stations joined the party. after they had ridden several miles, troloo gave notice that they were near the spot. the rifles were got ready, and the party spread out so as to stop the mob from breaking through. the feeding ground was in a large, open space, on the borders of a part of the bush which had escaped the fire. as the horsemen drew near, the creatures looked up, and seeing their enemies, started off. the dogs were set on and the horsemen followed, firing as they had a chance. several of the animals were shot, and sam and bob boasted that each of them had killed one. they also came upon two emus, to which they gave chase. these are birds with long, thick legs and short wings, which help them along when running before the wind. their bodies are about half the size of a small australian sheep. they run at a great rate, so that a horse has hard work to come up with them. sam's horse was already tired, and they were obliged to give up the chase. as they rode back to join the rest of the party, they saw under the trees what looked like a native hut. on getting nearer they found that a man was inside leaning against the trunk of a tree. they called out, thinking that he was asleep, but he did not answer. another look showed them that he was dead. the beard and hair were long, and the face like that of a mummy. they turned away from the horrid sight. "bob, do you know, i believe that the dead man is no other than tony peach," said sam. "we must tell mr ramsay, and he'll come and see. the poor wretch has escaped being hung, which they say he would have been if he had been caught." they soon reached their friends, and mr ramsay and others came to look at the dead man. they had no doubt who he was. a shallow grave was dug by some of the party, while two others cut out a slab of wood, on which they cut, with their knives, "here lies tony peach, the bushranger." what became of his misguided mate no one knew. tony peach had started in life with far more advantages than joseph rudge, yet how different was the fate of the two men. joseph and all his family prospered, and he is now, though connected with mr ramsay, the owner of a large flock of sheep and a fine herd of cattle. tom wells, who married sally, has a farm of his own near him. he has bought land for sam and bob, on which they both hope to settle before long; and they are looking out for the arrival of a family of old friends from england, with several daughters, from among whom they hope to find good wives for themselves. no more need be said than this--that the honest, hard-working man who goes to australia with a family, though he may meet with many ups and downs, may be pretty sure of doing well himself, and of settling his children comfortably around him. story six, chapter . life underground; or, dick the colliery boy. young dick kempson sat all by himself in the dark, with a rope in his hand, at the end of a narrow passage, close to a thick, heavy door. there was a tramway along the passage, for small wagons or cars to run on. it was very low and narrow, and led to a long distance. young dick did not like to think how far. it was not built with brick or stone, like a passage in a house, but was cut out; not through rock, but what think you? through coal. young dick was down a coal mine, more than one thousand feet below the green fields and trees and roads and houses--not that there were many green fields, by the bye, about there. the way down to the mine was by a shaft, like a round well sunk straight down into the earth to where the coal was known to be. coal is found by boring, with an iron rod, one piece screwed on above another, with a place in the end to bring up the different sorts of earth it passes through. this shaft was more than a thousand feet deep; some are still deeper. most people have heard of saint paul's, the highest church in england; just place three such buildings one on the top of the other, and we have the depth down which young dick had to go every day to his work. in the bottom of this shaft, main passages and cross passages ran off for miles and miles to the chambers or places where men were digging out the coal. the door near which dick sat was called a trap, and dick was called a "trapper." his business was to open the trap when the little wagons loaded with coal came by; pushed, or put, by boys who are therefore called "putters." they bring the coal from the place where the hewers are at work to the main line, where it is hoisted up on the rolleys, or wagons, to be carried to the foot of the shaft. dick was eleven years old, but he was small of his age, and he did not know much. how should he? he had passed twelve hours of every six days in the week, for three years of his short life, under ground, in total darkness. he had two candles, but one lasted him only while he passed from the shaft to his trap, and the other to go back again. he had begun to trap at seven years old, and went on for two years, and then the good lord shaftesbury got a law made that no little boys under ten years of age should work in mines; and so he got a year above ground. during that time he went to a school, but he did not learn much, as it was a very poor one. when he was ten years old, he had to go into the mine again; he had now been there every day for a year. he had heard talk of ghosts and spirits; and some of the bigger boys had told him that there was a great black creature, big enough to fill up all the passage, and that he had carried off a good many of the little chaps, once upon a time, no one knew where, only they had never come back again. poor little dick thought that he too might be carried away some day. often while he sat there, all alone in the dark, he trembled from head to foot, as he heard strange sounds, cries and groans it seemed. was it the spirits of the boys carried off, or was it the monster coming to take him away? he dared not run away, he dared not even move. he had been there nine hours, with a short time for meals, when his father had come for him, and he would have to be three more, to earn his tenpence a day. it was saturday, no wonder that he was sleepy, and, in spite of his fears of ghosts and hobgoblins, that he dropped asleep. he had been dreaming of the black creature he had been told of. he thought he saw him creeping, creeping towards him. he felt a heavy blow on his head. he shrieked out, he thought that it was the long expected monster come to carry him off. it was only bill hagger, the putter, with his corve, or basket of coals. an oath came with the blow, and further abuse. poor little dick dared not complain. he would only cry and pull open his door, and shut it again directly bill was through. bill hagger was black enough, all covered with coal-dust; but still it was better to have a cuff from him than to be carried off by the big creature, he did not know where, still deeper down into the earth. so he dried the tears which were dropping from his eyes and forming black mud on his cheeks, and tried to keep awake till the next putter and his loaded corve should come by, or bill hagger should return with his empty one. bill had not far to go to reach the crane, where the corve would be hoisted on the rolley, or wagon, to be dragged by a pony along the rolley-way to the foot of the shaft. dick wished that bill had farther to go, because he was pretty certain to give him a cuff or kick in passing, just to remind him to look out sharp the next time. there was another thing he wished, that it was time for "kenner," when his father would come and take him home to his mother. what "kenner" means, we shall know by-and-by. i said that there were miles and miles of these rolley or main-tramways. this one was two miles straight, right away from the shaft. as the air in mines gets foul and close, and does not move, it is necessary to send currents of wind into all the passages to blow it away. the first thing is to get the wind to come down the shaft, and then to make it move along certain passages and so up by another shaft. only a small quantity of wind can come down, and if that was let wander about at pleasure, it would do no good. so these traps or doors are used to stop it from going along some passages, and to make it go along others, till the bad air is blown out of them. to help this, a large furnace is placed at the bottom of the second shaft, called the up-cast shaft, because the foul air is cast up it. there are several ways of working mines. this one was worked in squares, or on the panel system. the main roads are like the frame of a window; the passages like the wood dividing the panes of glass; and the masses of coal which remain at first like the panes themselves. these masses are again cut into, till pillars only remain about twelve feet by twenty-four. these pillars are at last removed, and props of wood placed instead, so that the whole mine is worked-out. the men who do the chief work in the mine, that is, cut out the coal from the bed or seam, are the "hewers." dick's father was a hewer. they have only two tools--a short pick, and a round-bladed spade; with a big basket, or "corve," into which they put the coal, and a gauze-wire lantern. suppose a passage first cut; then they hew out chambers on either side, each about twelve feet wide. the roof of them is propped up as the hewer works on, till all the coal likely to fall is hewn away. the hewer's work is very hard; sometimes he kneels, sometimes sits, and sometimes has to lie on his back or side, knocking away with his heavy pick. often he is bathed in wet from the heat, for it is very hot down in that black chamber, as the wind cannot pass through it. in some places, where there is no fear of bad gas, and open lights can be used, the coal is blasted by gunpowder, as rock often is. this, however, cannot often be done; as the bad gas, called fire-damp, may come up any moment, and if set light to, go off like gunpowder or the gas from coal, and blow the chambers and everybody near to pieces. the cut shows the form of these chambers when the mouth is just being finished. these chambers are in a very wide seam; but some seams are only three feet thick, and the men can in no part stand upright. when all the chambers and passages are cut out in a panel, the pillars of coal are removed, and pillars of wood put in their stead to support the roof. some of the main passages run on straight ahead for two miles from the foot of the shaft, and the coal has to be brought all this distance on the rolleys, dragged by ponies or horses sometimes. it might puzzle some people to say how the animals are got down and up again. they are let down in a strong net of ropes, and once down, they do not after see daylight. there are regular stables for them cut out of the coal at the bottom of the mine, and they seem to like the life, for they grow sleek and fat. in wallford mine, in which little dick worked, there were employed grown men, lads, and young boys. the hewer's dress is generally a flannel shirt and drawers, and a pair of stout trousers, a coarse flannel waistcoat and coat, the last long with pockets, a pair of broggers (worsted stockings without feet), and a leathern cap. these at once get as black as coal-dust can make them. there are different cranes on the rolley-ways, near the side cuttings, and each is under charge of a lad, called a crane-hoister, whose business is to hoist the baskets brought to him by the putters on to the rolleys, and to chalk down the number he cranes on a board. when the train of rolleys reaches the shaft, the full corves are hoisted up, and empty ones let down, which are placed on the rolleys, and carried back for the hewers to fill. no spirits are allowed in mines, but as the heat and the work makes the people thirsty, tubs of water are placed at intervals, at which they can drink. in their long journeys, the putters stop to "bait," and are well supplied with bread and cheese, and bacon, and cold coffee or tea. the miner has not only to fear choke or fire-damp, but sometimes water. a mine has, therefore, to be drained. a well or tank is dug in the lowest level, into which all the springs are made to run. a pump is sunk down to it through a shaft with a steam engine above, by which all the water is pumped out. it may be seen that the working of a mine requires the very greatest care. if this is not taken, the roof may fall in and crush the labourers; or fire-damp may explode and blow them to pieces, and perhaps set fire to the mine itself and destroy it; or black or choke-damp may suffocate them, as the fumes of charcoal do; or water may rush in and drown them. a lamp, invented by a very learned man, sir humphrey davy, is used when there is a risk of fire-damp. it is closely surrounded with very fine wire-gauze, through which neither the flame of the candle nor the gas can pass, yet the light can get out almost as well as through the horn of a common lantern. before any workmen are allowed to go into the pit in the morning, certain officers, called "over-men" and "deputies," go down through every part that is being worked, to see that all is safe. if anything is wrong, or doubtful, the inspecting deputy places a shovel across the place, or chalks a warning on the blade and sticks it in the ground, that it may be seen by the hewer. as soon as they have found the mine safe, the hewers come down and begin their work; and when they have had time to fill a corve or so, they are followed by the putters and other labourers. sometimes it is necessary to work all the twenty-four hours, and then the people are divided into three gangs, who each work eight hours; but the poor little trappers are divided only into two parties, who have each to be down in the mine twelve hours together, sitting all alone by the side of their traps, like poor little dick, in the dark. story six, chapter . little dick's father, samuel kempson, was a hewer. he had not been brought up to the mining work, like most of the men; but once, when there had been a strike among the colliers, he and others from a distant county, being out of work, had got employed, and tempted by the high wages, had continued at it. while little dick was sleeping at his trap, and getting a cuff on the head from bill hagger, samuel kempson was sitting, pick in hand, and hewing in a chamber at the end of a main passage nearly two miles off. the davy lamp was hung up before him, and the big corve was by his side. there he sat or kneeled, working with his pick, or filling the corve with his spade. often he thought of the green fields and hedges and woods of his native county. though his wages had been poor, and his work hedging or ditching, or driving carts, or tending cattle; and though he had been sometimes wet to the skin, and cold enough in winter, yet in summer he had had the blue sky and the warm sun above him, and he had breathed the pure air of heaven, and smelt the sweet flowers and the fresh mown grass, and he sighed for those things which he was never likely to enjoy again. there he was, a hewer of coal, and a hewer of coal he must remain, or run the chance of starving; for he had a large family, and though he had had good wages, three shillings and sometimes four shillings a day, and no rent to pay, and coals for a trifle, he had saved nothing. he had now got into such a way of spending money that he thought he couldn't save. his wife, susan, thought so too. she was not a bad wife, and she kept the house clean and tidy enough, but she was not thrifty. both he and she were as sober and industrious as most people, but they had meat most days, and plenty of white bread, and butter and cheese, and good clothes, and other things, which cost money, so that out of twenty-two shillings a week, there was next to nothing to put by. they had, too, a number of children, and some of them were heavy burdens, and were likely to remain so. the eldest boy, jack, had had a fancy for the sea, and he had gone away when quite a little chap with a captain who had taken a liking to him, and the vessel had never more been heard of. that was before they left their old home in the country and came to live at the coal-pits. poor susan often thought of her lost boy, with his laughing blue eyes, and his light hair curling over his fair brow, just as he was when he went away. mothers are apt to think of their lost young ones. it is well if a parent can feel sure that her child is with god in heaven, that she can say, "i taught it early to love jesus; i know that he trusted in his cleansing blood, in his all-sufficient sacrifice on the cross." poor susan had not that thought to comfort her, but still it did not trouble her. she mourned her lost boy like a loving mother, but not so much for his sake as because she wished again to fold him in her arms, and press once more a kiss on his cheeks. her next boy, ben, worked with his father in the pit, as a putter. he was a rough, wildish lad--not worse than his companions, but that was not saying much for him, and it seemed but too likely that he would give his parents trouble. the third boy, lawrence, was a helpless cripple. he had been hurt in the mine three years before, and it seemed likely he would never walk again. he went by the name of limping lawry among the people in the village of wallford. i was going to say companions--but he had not many companions, for he could not move about without pain. only on a summer's day he limped out and sat on a bench against the front wall of the cottage. he was a pale-faced lad, with large blue eyes and a broad forehead, and did not look as if he could be long for this world; yet he lived on while others seemingly stronger were taken away. then there was nelly. once she was a bright little thing, but she had fallen on her head, and though she did not seem much hurt at first, she became half-witted, and was now an idiot. as she grew older she was sometimes inclined to be mischievous. lawry might have watched over her, but she was so active and quick that she could easily get away from him. she knew well that it hurt him to move, so she kept her eye on him, and was off like a shot when he got up to go after her. so poor lawry could not be of much use, even looking after his idiot sister. he used to hope that he might some day get better, and go to work again in the mine, as a trapper, at all events, which did not require much strength. but the doctor told him that he must not think of it; that the coal-dust and bad air would hurt his lungs, and that he would very soon die if he did. if he ever got strong, he must find work above ground. the kempsons were decent people, their neighbours could say that of them, but they were not god-fearing and god-loving,--they had no family prayers, no bible was ever read in their house, and they seldom or never went to a place of worship; to be sure, the nearest was some way off, and that was their excuse--it was hard, if they did, to get back to dinner, at least to a hot dinner, and that is what they always liked to have on sundays. such was little dick's family. he therefore knew very little about god, or god's love to man through jesus christ. how should he? he had nothing pleasant to think of as to what was past nor what was to come. he knew nothing of heaven--of a future life where all sin and sorrow, and pain and suffering is to be done away--of its glories, of its joy, its wonders. all he knew was that he had sat there in that dark corner trapping for many, many weary hours, and that he should have to sit there many more till he was big enough to become a putter. then he should have to fill corves with coal, and push them along the tramways for some years more till he got to be a hewer like his father. he only hoped that he might have to hew in seams not less than five feet thick--not in three feet or less, as some men had to do, obliged to crawl into their work on hands and knees, and crawl out again, and to work all day lying down or sitting. but they had light though--that was pleasant; they could move about, and worked only eight hours. he had to work in the dark for twelve hours, and dared not move, so he thought that he should change for the better, that is to say, when he thought at all, which was not often. generally he sat, only wishing that it was "kenner" time, that he might go home to supper and bed. the name is given, because, when the time for work is over, the banksman at the mouth of the pit cries out, "kenner, kenner." dick did not get much play, even in summer. in the winter he never saw daylight, except on sundays. when he was thinking of what might happen, he could not help remembering how many men and boys he had known, some his own playmates--or workmates rather--who had been killed in that and the neighbouring pits. some had been blown to pieces by the fire-damp; others had been stifled by the choke-damp; a still greater number had been killed coming up and down the shaft, either by the rope or chain breaking, or by falling out of the skip or basket, or by the skip itself being rotten and coming to pieces. but even yet more had lost their lives by the roof falling in, or by large masses of coal coming down and crushing them. many had been run over by the corves, or crushed by them against the sides, like his poor brother lawry; and others had been killed by the machinery above ground. "i wonder," thought dick, "whether one of those things will be my lot." poor little dick, what between fancied dangers and real dangers, he had an unhappy time of it. still he was warm and dry, and had plenty of food, and nothing to do but sit and open a door. some might envy him. dick had one friend, called david adams, a quiet, pale-faced, gentle little boy, younger than himself. he had only lately come to the mine, and been made a trapper. his father had been killed by the falling in of the roof, and his widowed mother had hard work to bring up her family; so, much against her will, she had to let little david go and be a trapper. she had never been down a mine, and did not know what sort of a life he would have to lead, or she might not have let him go. sometimes one man took charge of david and sometimes another, and placed him at his trap,--generally the man who was going to hew in that direction. miners, though their faces look black on week-days, and their hands are rough, have hearts like other men, and all felt for little david. often samuel kempson took charge of david, and carried him home with him; and dick and david used to talk to each other and tell their griefs. david could read, and he would tell dick all about what he had read on sundays, and dick at last said that he should like to read too, and david promised to teach him. at last david lent him some books, and used to come in on sundays, and in the evenings in summer, to help him read them, and that made them all greater friends than before. well, there sat dick at his trap, very hungry and very sleepy and very tired, and longing to hear the shout of "kenner, kenner!" echoing along the passages. he sat on and on; his thoughts went back to the ghosts and spirits he had been told about, and to the tales he had heard of the blowing up of gas, and the sad scenes he had indeed himself witnessed. how dark and silent was all around! had he dropped asleep? he heard a deep and awful groan. "i am come to take you off, down, down, down," said a voice. where it came from, dick could not tell. he trembled from head to foot, trying to see through the darkness in vain, for no cat could have seen down there. not a ray of the blessed sunlight ever penetrated into those passages. "i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming!" said the voice. "oh, don't, don't, don't!" cried poor dick, in a terrible fright. he felt a big hand placed on his shoulder. "i've got you, young one, come along with me," said the voice. dick shrieked out with fear. he trembled all over, and the next moment, just as a loud, hoarse laugh sounded in his ear, he went off in a faint. "kenner, kenner, kenner!" was shouted down the pit's mouth, and echoed along the galleries. samuel kempson heard it far away, and, crawling out of the hole in which he had been hewing, threw his pick and spade over his shoulder, and took his way homeward, not over pleasant green fields as labourers in the country have to do, but along the dark, black gallery, lighted by his solitary davy lamp, which was well-nigh burnt out. he did not forget his boy dick. he called out to him, but got no reply. again and again he called. his heart sank within him, for he loved the little fellow, though he made him work in a way which, to others, might appear cruel. could anything have happened to the child? once more he called, "dick, dick!" still there was no answer. perhaps some of the other men had taken him home. he went on some way towards the pit's mouth, then his mind misgave him, and he turned back. to a stranger, all the traps would have looked alike, but he well knew the one at which dick was stationed. he pushed it open, and there, at a little distance from it, he saw a small heap of clothes. he sprang forward. it was dick. was his boy dead? he feared so. the child neither moved nor breathed. he snatched him up, and ran on with him to the foot of the shaft, where several men stood waiting to be drawn up. the rough men turned to him with looks of pity in their faces. "anything fallen on the little chap?" asked one. "foul air, may be," observed a second. "did a rolley strike him, think you?" asked a third. "i don't know," answered the father; "i can't find where he's hurt. but do let us get up, he may chance to come to in fresh air." as he spoke, the "skip," or "bowk," used for descending and ascending the shaft, reached the bottom, and samuel kempson and his boy were helped into it, and with some of the other men, began their ascent. the father held the boy in his arms, and watched his countenance as they neared the light which came down from the mouth of the pit; first a mere speck, like a star at night, and growing larger and larger as they got up higher. an eyelid moved, the lip quivered: "he's alive, he's alive!" he exclaimed joyfully. as soon as he reached the top, he ran off with dick in his arms to his cottage. mrs kempson saw him coming. "what! another of them hurt?" she cried out: "god help us!" "i don't know," said kempson; "the child is very ill, if not dead already. let us put him to bed and send for the doctor. it's more than you or i can do to cure him of ourselves." poor dick was breathing, and twitching with his hands, but was quite unconscious. his black clothes were taken off him by his mother, who washed and put him to bed, while samuel went to fetch the doctor attached to the mines. the doctor at once said that something had shaken his nerves, that he must be kept quiet, but well fed and amused. he had had a fright, that was it. samuel knew the tricks that were played, and he guessed that some one had frightened dick, and resolved to find out who it was, if he could. the best thing they could do for dick just then, after he had taken the doctor's stuff, was to send for david adams to come and amuse him. david, who had just come up from the pit, very gladly came as soon as he had washed, and brought his most amusing books, and he sat and read by dick's bedside. this did dick a great deal of good, and while he listened to david's reading, he almost forgot his fright. the next day, which was sunday, he was a great deal better, and david came again to spend the day with him. nobody went from the village to a place of worship, the nearest was some way off, the men were tired, and the women wanted to tidy their houses. the afternoon was very fine, and while the people were sitting at their doors, or standing about in groups in the dirty, unpaved street, a gentleman came among them with a small bundle of printed papers in his hand. "here comes a schoolmaster," said one. "i wonder now what he wants with us." "may be to teach us something we don't know," observed a second. "if he had come to tell us that our wages had risen, i'd have thanked him," said a third, with a sneer. "maybe he is a parson of some sort," said joseph kempson. "i, for one, should like to hear him, and so would the boys in there. there was a time when never a sunday passed but what we went to the house of prayer. now, from one end of the year to the other we are not seen inside one." joseph sighed, as he spoke. the stranger had observed kempson, and seeing something pleasant in his face, came up and addressed him, "perhaps you will give me a chair," he said; "i should like to sit down and read to those who may wish to hear me." "yes, sir, gladly," answered kempson, bringing out a chair. "i have a sick boy within; he will hear all you say, as the window is open." the gentleman read for a short time, and a good many people came round and listened, and though! what he was reading very interesting. then he took out a bible, and read from that; and, closing the book, told them of god's great love for man, which made him send his son jesus christ into the world, first to show men how to live, not to fight and quarrel, but to do good to all around them; and then, men being by nature sinful, and justly condemned, that he might offer himself up as a sacrifice, and take their sins upon himself. "my dear friends, trust in this merciful loving jesus," he exclaimed. "he has completed the work of saving you, it is perfect in every way. all you have to do is to repent and trust to him, and to go and sin no more, intentionally, wilfully that is to say. oh, my dear friends, think of the love and mercy of god, through christ jesus. he never refuses to hear any who come to him. his love surpasses that of any human being; his ears are ever open to our prayers." "i should like to have a talk with you, sir," said kempson, when the stranger, having finished speaking, was giving his tracts to the people around. "there are some things which you said, sir, which i haven't heard for a long time, or thought about, but i know that they are true." "gladly, my friend," was the answer. the stranger had a long talk with joseph, and promised to come again before long to see him. story six, chapter . several days passed by. dick did not seem exactly ill, but he prayed and begged so hard that he might not go back to the pit, that when the doctor came and said also it might do him harm, his father consented not to take him. still joseph did not like losing his boy's wages. david had promised, on the next saturday, as soon as he came back from the pit, to come and read to dick. when the evening arrived, however, david did not appear. dick was beginning to complain very much of david, when mrs adams came to ask if he was there, as he had never come home. when joseph came in, he said that he had not seen him all day. he thought that he had not gone down into the pit. mrs adams began to get into a great fright. david had left home in the morning to go to his work in the pit, and she was sure that he would not have gone elsewhere. when joseph came in, he undertook to go to the pit's mouth and learn if david had gone down. he came back, saying that there was no doubt about his having gone down, but no one remembered for certain that he had come up again. "oh father, let's you and i go down and look for him!" exclaimed dick; "i feel quite strong and able for it." "why i thought you'd be afraid of going down the pit again, boy," remarked joseph. "no, father," answered dick, "i remember what that missionary gentleman said the other day, if we are doing our duty we shouldn't fear, for god will take care of us; and i am sure that i should be doing my duty looking after david, who has been so kind to me." joseph could say nothing against it; so as soon as he had had some supper, he, with dick and mrs adams, set out to find the "doggy" of the pit, to learn if he knew for certain that david had come up, and if not, to get his and the "butty's" leave to go down and search for him. [note .] on their way three or four other men offered to go with them. the doggy could not say that david had come up, and the whole party, therefore, were lowered down the pit, except mrs adams; she sat down near the mouth, waiting anxiously for their return. while she sat there, a lad dressed as a sailor drew near. he stood still near the mouth of the pit, looking about him. the ground was high; and he could have seen a long way had it not been for the smoke from hundreds of tall chimneys which every now and then sent out thick wreaths, which hung like a black cloud over the scene. in the far distance was the large town of newcastle, also full of tall chimneys, with a cloud of smoke over it. close to it flows the river tyne. all around were tall engine-houses, out of which came all sorts of curious, dreadful sounds,--groans, and hissings, and whistlings, and clankings of iron; while high up in the air, stretching out from them, were huge beams like the arms of great giants working up and down in all sorts of ways; some pumping water out of the mines from the underground streams which run into them, others lifting the baskets of coal out of the shafts, or bringing up or lowering down the miners and other men engaged in the works. the noises proceeded chiefly from the gins, and pulleys, and wheels, and railways; all busy in lifting the coal out of the pit and sending it off towards the river. the whole country looked black and covered with railway lines, each starting away from one of these great engine-houses which are close to the mouths of the pits. there were rows of small wagons or trucks on them, and as the huge arms lifted up a corve, or basket, it was emptied into the wagon till they were filled, and then away they started, some of them without engines, down an inclined plane towards the river. away they went at a rapid rate, and it seemed as if they would be carried furiously over the cliff, or rather the end of a long, high stage into the river. on a sudden, however, they began to go slower; then they stopped, and one wagon went off by itself from the rest till it got to the end of the pier; then two great iron arms got hold of it, and gently, as if it was a baby, lifted it off the pier and lowered it down till it reached the deck of a vessel lying underneath. when there, the bottom opened and the coals slipped out into the hold of the vessel. then up the wagon went again, and another came down in the same way, till the whole train was emptied; then off the wagons set, rolling away to be filled again. the sailor lad observed poor mrs adams's anxious, eager looks. "what is the matter now, mother?" he asked, going up to her, and speaking in a kind tone. "you seem down-hearted at something." "yes; well i may be, my lad, when my little son, as good and bright a child as ever lived, has been and got lost down in the pit. he went down at daybreak this morning, and no one has ever seen him since. such a dreadful place, too, full of dark passages and pits and worked-out panels; and then there is the bad gas, which kills so many; and then there are the rolleys, and many a poor lad has got run over with them. oh dear, oh dear!" "well, mother, i hope the lad will be found," said the young stranger. "i didn't think the place was like that; may be you'll tell me something more about it." the poor widow was too glad to have some one to talk to, so she told the lad all about the mine, the number of hours the boys worked, and the wages they got, and the way they were treated generally. the young sailor thanked her heartily. "i thought as how i'd been forced to lead something like a dog's life at sea, and i had a mind to come and have a turn at mining; for thinks i to myself, i'll have a dry jacket and plenty of grub, and a turn in to a quiet bed every night, but now i hear what sort of work it is, i'll go back to the old brig; we've daylight and fresh air and change of scene, and though we are dirty enough at times, i'll own we haven't to lie on our backs and peck away at coal in a hole three feet high, with the chance of being blown to pieces any moment." "i can't say that you are wrong, my lad," said the poor widow, looking up at the sailor. "it has been a fatal calling to those belonging to me, and i would advise no one to enter it who has any other means of living." "thank ye, mother, thank ye," answered the stranger, "i'll take your advice, but i should like to know if they find that poor boy of yours; i hope they will, that i do." the sailor could not stop any longer, as it was getting late; but he asked the widow where she lived, that he might come back and learn if her son was found. then off he set, running as hard as he could go, to get back to the high-road, by which he might reach the river before it was dark. meantime dick and his father and the other men went down the pit with their lamps, to look for david. "it's like hunting for a needle in a rick of hay, i'm thinking," said one of the men. "if we could learn what way the little fellow was going when he was last seen; you know there are more than sixty miles of road, taking all into account, and it will be a pretty long business to walk over them." "right, mate, but the poor boy won't have got very far," observed joseph kempson. "come along now." the men hurried on along the dark, low galleries. dick every now and then shouting out with his young, shrill voice, "david, david adams!" but there was no answer. it was a work of danger too; for they had to pass along several passages in which the air felt very heavy, and they knew well that if it had not been for their davy lamps they would all have been blown to pieces. they called and called, and looked into every dark corner, still david was not to be found. the men began to talk of giving up the search as a bad job. "oh don't let us give up, father," exclaimed dick, "david must be somewhere." joseph liked little david, but still he was tired, and he thought, with the other men, that they might hunt on for a week and yet not find him. however, they all agreed to take another long round. the poor widow sat and sat, anxiously waiting the return of her friends. the banksman at the mouth of the pit received the signal from those below that they were ready to be drawn up. it was now quite dark. "stay quiet, dame, stay quiet," he said, as the poor widow was about to lean over the mouth of the pit to watch for her boy. "may be, after all, the lad isn't there. i've known boys lost for many a day down the pits, and yet found at last." little dick with his father and the other men were soon at the top. as they one after the other got out of the basket, the poor widow eagerly advanced with out-stretched arms to clasp her son. "oh my boy, my boy, where are you? come, david, come!" she exclaimed. "very sorry, mrs adams, very sorry; but we couldn't find the little chap," said samuel kempson, in a tone which showed that he felt what he said. the other men echoed his words. "still it's better to come without him than to bring him up as many have been brought up, as you well know, without life in him. don't give way now, we'll try again, and more than likely that he'll find his way back to where people are at work." the widow heard some deep sobs. they came from dick. "you're a kind, good lad; you loved my boy," she cried, pressing him to her, and giving way to bitter tears. "and i will go down and look for him again, that i will, mrs adams; so don't take on so, now," answered dick, stopping his own sobs. samuel insisted on the widow coming to his house. she, after some pressing, consented, and the men assisted her along in the dark towards the village. they may have been rough in looks and rough in language, but the widow's grief softened their hearts and made them kind and gentle in their manner. mrs kempson received the poor widow with much kindness, and did her best to comfort her. they did little else all the evening but talk of little david and what had become of him. mrs kempson recollecting what her own son had done, observed that perhaps he had come up after all, and had gone away to newcastle, or shields, to get on board ship. "oh no, no, my david would never have gone away from me," exclaimed mrs adams; yet, as she said this, hope came back to her heart, for he might perhaps have thought that he was going off to make his fortune, and that if he came to her first she might prevent him. "alack, alack, there's little wisdom in young heads. maybe he's gone that way, mrs kempson," she said at last, and the thought seemed to bring some comfort to her. all appeared to agree with her except dick. he was sure that david would not have gone away without, at all events, hinting his intention to him. the next day was sunday, when no mines are worked. dick, in spite of his fears of bogies, had made up his mind to go and search for his friend alone if he could get no one to go with him. he thought perhaps the butty would let him go down with his davy lamp. he would fill his pockets with bits of paper and drop them as he went along, so as to find his way back, and to know where he had been over before. he had got several old newspapers to tear up, and he would take a stick with him, and a basket of food, and a bottle of beer, and he would go into every nook and passage of the mine till he had found his friend. dick's were brave thoughts. he fancied that he should have foes of all sorts to fight with, but for the sake of his friend he made up his mind to meet them. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the "butty" is the head man over all the works, and indeed everything about the pit; the "doggy" has charge of the underground works, and looks after all the men and boys in the pit. story six, chapter . the next day was sunday, when the missionary again came to the village, and did not fail to visit samuel kempson's cottage. he heard of the disappearance of david adams. he pointed out the only source from which the sorrowing mother could obtain comfort, and besought all those present to turn at once to the lord. he reminded them that any moment they might all be hurried into eternity. he asked each man present to say how many friends of his had been cut off on a sudden--how many had died unprepared--and then begged them to tell him if they were ready to leave the world; and if they were not ready, when would they be ready? "do not delay, do not delay, my friends," he said, in a voice which went to the hearts of many of his hearers. among them was samuel kempson. from that day he became a serious-minded man, while he did his best to show by his life that his heart was changed. others again listened, but went away and continued in the same bad habits in which they had before indulged. dick was eager for monday morning, when the pit would be again at work, that he might go and look for david. long before daybreak he was on foot on his way to the pit's mouth. he had to wait, however, till the under-viewers and deputy over-men had gone down to see the condition of the pit, whether it was fit for people to work in, or whether any stream of bad air had burst out likely to kill or injure any one. at last the mine was reported safe, and dick, and the other boys, and several of the men were allowed to descend. dick eagerly inquired of the deputy over-men if they had seen anything of david. no; they did not even think that he was in the pit, was their reply. dick remembered that the missionary had said "that those who trust in god and do right need fear no evil." "that's what i am doing," he said to himself, as he took his davy's lamp from the lamp room, and grasped his stick. "i don't fear the black bogies or any other creatures such as bill hagger is so fond of talking about. may be, as the missionary says, there are no such things, and david thinks that it was bill hagger himself who frightened me." with such thoughts, brave little dick strengthened his mind, and braced up his heart as he walked on. from the gate-road, or chief gallery, roads opened off on either side. dick made up his mind to go to the farthest end, and then to work down one side, shouting as he went along, and then the other, dropping his bits of paper. he walked as fast as he could, but to move along with a mass of rock and earth and coal a thousand feet thick overhead, is not like walking across the green fields with the blue sky above one, and the fresh air blowing, and the sun shining, and the birds singing. dick had only walls of coal on either side, or pillars of coal, or caves out of which the coal had been hewn, or the mouths of other long passages, some leading upwards, some downwards to other levels. he had a black roof of rock above him, and black ground under his feet. "anybody seen anything of david adams?" he asked of the different gangs of pushers, hoisters, or thrusters he met with their trucks of coal as they came out of the passages and holes on all sides, some so low that they had to stoop down till their heads were no higher than the trucks. "no; what, is he not found yet?" was the answer he got generally. it took him nearly half an hour to get to the end of the gate-road. when he reached thus far, he took the first opening to the right, and began dropping his paper, and calling out his friend's name. he went on and on, expecting to get into another gate-road, and in time to reach the main shaft. how long he had been walking he could not tell, when he found himself in a deserted part of the mine. it was like a large, low hall, the roof supported by stout pieces of timber, called "sprags," in some places, and in others by "cogs," or lumps of coal, or by pillars of coal. it was necessary here to be more careful than ever in strewing the paper, or it might be long indeed before he could find his way out again. he thought of poor david; how, if he had got here, he might have wandered about round and round, like a person lost in a wood, and sunk down overcome at last, and not able to rise up again. he could not altogether get over either fears for himself. his lamp shed a very dim light, and that only to a short distance, and he thought he saw dark forms moving about here and there, sometimes stopping and looking at him, and then going on again. he, like a true hero, had braced up his nerves to brave everything he might meet, or he would have shrieked out, and tried to run away. he, however, stoutly kept on his way, uttering a prayer that if they were evil spirits, they might do him no harm. still he, as before, cried out david's name; but there was no answer. his heart at length began to sink within him; a faintness came over him. he had got a long, long way from the shaft, and he had hoped before this to find his friend. his legs ached, too, for he had been for a long time wandering about. he sat down at last on a block of coal and thought over what he should do. nothing should make him give up the search; that he was determined on. then he remembered that his lamp would not last much longer; so he got up, and pushed on. he had need of all his courage, for when he stopped he thought that he heard sighs and groans and distant cries. he had often before trembled at hearing such sounds, thinking that they were made by the evil spirits or hobgoblins of whom bill hagger had told him. now, after a moment's thought, he knew that they were caused by the wind passing through a trap either not well closed or with a slit in it. he could not open his lamp to see how much oil remained in it, and as he could only guess how long he had been walking, he could not tell what moment he might find the light go out. he hurried on; he thought that he was in the right way. he was getting near a gate-road, when a moaning sound reached his ear. he stopped that he might be sure whence it came. then he walked on cautiously towards the place, stopping every now and then to be sure that he was going in the right way. again he heard the moaning sound. it was like that uttered by a person in pain. he followed it till he got to the mouth of a narrow passage, which had been begun, but did not seem to run far. suddenly the idea came on him that these sounds were made by one of the much-dreaded bogies. "if it is one of them creatures, he can't do me any harm, for i'm doing what is right," he said to himself, and boldly went in, holding his lamp before him. he had not gone far, when he saw stretched out before him on the ground the form of his young friend. he had his arms extended, as if he had fallen groping his way. "o david, david, come to life: do now!" cried dick, kneeling down by his side. david uttered a low groan; that was better than if he had been silent. so, encouraged by this, dick lifted him up, and poured a few drops of beer down his throat. the liquid revived him; not from its strength, however. "come out of this place, david, do now; the air is very bad and close, you'll never get well while you stay here." david at last came round enough to know what was said to him, and with dick's help was able to crawl into the gate-road, which was not far off. here the fresher air, for fresh it was not, brought him still more round, and he sat up and eat some of the food which dick had brought. david kept staring at dick all the time he was eating without saying a word, as if he did not know what had happened. "come along now, david," said dick, at last; "there is no time to lose, for the lamp may be going out, and it won't do to have to find our way to the shaft in the dark." "oh no, no. how did you find me, dick?" asked david. "come to look for you," answered dick. "and how is poor mother? she must have been in a sad way all these days, thinking what had become of me." "mrs adams bears up pretty well," said dick. "but how long do you think i have been down here? a week, or is it longer?" said david. he could scarcely believe that it had been from the saturday morning till the monday evening since he was lost. "i thought that i must have been down very many days," he remarked. "i had my day's dinner with me, so i just took a little nibble of food for breakfast, and another for dinner, and a little more for supper. it seemed to me that i stopped five or six hours between each meal, and then i lay down and went to sleep, and when i awoke i thought it was morning, and that the people would be coming down to work; so i got up and walked on, thinking that they would hear me; but i waited and waited, there was not the sound of a pick anywhere near, and i knew that there would be no use shouting. once i found the air much cooler, and as i looked up i saw the stars shining right overhead, and then i knew that i must be under an air shaft. now, i thought, i shall find the road to the pit's mouth, but i turned the wrong way, i suppose, and at last, when i could go on no longer, i went right into the hole where you found me. i couldn't have been long there. i tried to cry out as loud as i could, but i had no strength; and if you hadn't come, dick, i should have died before many minutes." david gave this account of himself by fits and starts, as he and dick were trying to find their way into the chief gate-road. dick had to support his friend, who was very weak, and scarcely able to get along. he himself, too, was ready to faint, for he had been walking some hours, and that in a hot mine was very trying. for what they could tell they might still have a long distance to go. they went on for some way, then again they had to sit down and rest. "now, david, we must go on again," exclaimed dick, rousing himself; "we shall soon be where the hewers are at work." "oh, i cannot, i cannot move another step, i fear," answered david, in a voice which showed how weak he had become. dick made him take a little more food, and then, putting his arm round him, helped him along. thus they went on for some distance. "hark!" exclaimed dick, joyfully, "i hear the sound of a pick. yes, i'm sure of it. there is some one singing, too. it's a putter. he's coming this way." as he spoke, the dull sound of the pick, "thud, thud, thud," reached their ears. with their spirits raised they were again going on, when out went dick's lamp. they were in complete darkness. not a glimmer of light came from where the other men were at work. dick shouted as loudly as he could to draw attention. as to david, his voice could not help much. no one attended to them. they stumbled on for some time farther. "i know that voice. it's bill hagger, i'm sure," said dick. "i've often heard him sing that song; i would rather it had been any one else, but i don't think he would ill-treat us now." dick shouted to bill to come with his light. just at that moment while they were waiting for bill's answer, there was a loud, thundering crash, with a fearful shriek and cries for help. "the roof has fallen in, and bill is buried under it. oh, let us push on, and see if we cannot help him out," cried dick. the two boys had groped their way on for some distance, when they saw far-off the glimmer of a light. "that must be bill's lantern," said dick. "he must have set it down before the roof fell in on him." bill had ceased shrieking, but they could hear his groans. they at last reached the spot. a large mass of coal had fallen, and shut him up in a side passage. part of it must have fallen on him. the boys, weak as they were, in vain tried to lift the big lumps of coal off the young man. they soon saw that they might very likely, in so doing, bring down more on their own heads, and that it would be better to hurry on to get help. dick entirely forgot all the ill-treatment he had received from bill, and overcoming the fatigue he had been feeling, ran on, with the help of bill's lamp, towards the place where he expected to find men at work, dragging poor david along with him. he felt david growing heavier and heavier. at last, without uttering a sound, down he sank by his side. was he really dead? he held the light to his friend's pale face. he breathed. there was only one thing to be done. he dragged him to the side of the gallery, out of the way of any rolley, which might by chance come by, and ran on to where he thought he heard some men at work. he shouted out. the first man who appeared was his father. he told him that he had found david. "what alive?" asked samuel. "yes, father; but he won't be if we don't make haste; and besides him there is bill hagger, with a heap of coals over him." on hearing this, samuel kempson called all the men near to go to the assistance of david and bill, while one ran to summon a deputy viewer to direct what was to be done to release bill. as soon as they reached david, samuel lifted him up in his arms, and hurried with him to the foot of the shaft, accompanied by dick. when he got there, he begged that he might be drawn up at once, that he might take the boy to his mother. they got into the corve, and were drawn up, up, up the deep shaft. when they reached the mouth of the pit, the fresh air brought back the colour to david's cheeks, and he opened his eyes for a moment, but quickly shut them, dazzled by the rays of the sun which was trying to pierce the murky atmosphere. this, however, showed that there was some life in the boy; and in better spirits than at first, samuel hurried along to the widow, that he might restore her son to her. she had been over and over again to the pit's mouth to inquire for her boy, and had to go back to look after her other children. one of them playing in front of the door, saw the kempsons coming along: "here comes dick kempson and his father with a little dead boy in his arms," cried the child. the poor widow, her heart sinking with dread, ran out of the cottage, expecting to see david's lifeless body. "here he is, mrs adams, all right," exclaimed samuel, as he drew near. the change from grief to joy, as she saw her boy stretching out his arms towards her, was almost too much for her strength, and she burst into tears as she took him from kempson and pressed him to her bosom. when she recovered a little, she began to pour out her thanks to samuel-- "oh don't thank me, mrs adams, it was dick found your boy, and if it had not been for him, he would have died--no doubt about that," answered samuel. "and i should have been very, very sorry, if i hadn't found him, that i should mrs adams," said dick quietly. "you know what friends we are. now i dare say he would like to have a wash and go to bed." "thank ye, dick--i would, mother," murmured david, who by this time had been brought into the house and placed in a chair. "i would give him a little broth or tea, mrs adams, and he'll come all right soon," said samuel, as he and his son left the cottage to return to the mine. "bless you, bless you, my boy," said the widow, as she watched dick from the window for a moment: and she didn't say those words with her mouth only, but with her whole heart. samuel would have sent dick home, but he begged that, though he was tired, he might go back to learn how it had fared with poor bill hagger. "but i thought that bill hagger was one of your greatest enemies. he seemed always to be ill-treating you," observed samuel. "so he did, father," answered dick. "but don't you mind what the missionary said the other day? `we should love our enemies and do good to them that despitefully use us and hate us.'" "so he did, dick, to be sure; and i've often thought since then, what a hard matter it must be to do it." "he said that we must pray for god's help and grace, father, and that then we shall be able to do what now seems so hard," was dick's answer. on reaching the bottom of the shaft, and going on a little way, they met some men carrying bill hagger, who had been got out from under the coal, but so dreadfully mangled, that it did not seem possible he could live. samuel now went back to work with his pick, and dick returned to the charge of his trap. story six, chapter . day after day dick sat by the side of his trap, all in the dark and by himself, opening and shutting it, as the corves and rolleys came by, and samuel worked away as usual with his pick and spade. though not as strong as many of the other hewers, he made as much as any one else by keeping at his work. the missionary continued to come to the village occasionally on the sunday, but many of the men were absent that day, or would not come to hear. he was a man very earnest in his work. his great object was so to preach the gospel, that his hearers might understand and accept the offers it makes. he therefore considered how he might best get the ears of all the people in the district. few men, knowing the dangers of a coal mine, would go down a second time for pleasure; but hearing that all the labourers collected in one place to eat their meals, he got leave to go down to read the bible and preach to them all that time. they understood from this that he really wished to do them good; and in the course of a week or two there were very few who did not try to attend to what he said. some few did much more than that, they repented--they turned to christ--they put their whole trust in him. happy was it for those few who did so. dick was now becoming a biggish boy, and he hoped soon to be made a putter. he did not like the work a bit more than before. he could not help thinking of the green fields he remembered playing in when he was a little boy, and he ofttimes sighed for them; but his parents wanted him to work in the mines, and so it was his duty to stay on where he was. at last he was made a putter, and had, with two other boys, to push and pull along the rolleys. he had been about a week at the work, when one day, as he was going ahead of a laden rolley, he slipped, and before those behind saw what had happened, the rolley went over his foot. he shrieked out, for the pain was very great, and it seemed as if his foot was smashed to pieces. "i shall be a cripple all my life, like poor lawry; oh dear, oh dear!" was his first thought. his companions put him on the rolley and took him to the foot of the shaft. he was soon drawn up to the pit's mouth, when the banksman got two men to carry him home on a stretcher, and sent for the doctor. "oh, dick, dick, what is the matter? another of my boys a cripple!" cried poor mrs kempson, when the men brought him in and placed him on his bed. dick could scarcely speak for the pain. "don't know, mother. hope not," he could just murmur out. "was there ever so unfortunate a woman as i am? my poor boy! my poor boy!" she cried, trying to cut off dick's boot and stocking, which was covered with blood. the doctor came at last, and said that he was afraid it would be a long time before dick could use his foot; but that, if he took care, he might recover entirely. samuel, who had been hewing at the end of a long gallery far away from the foot of the shaft, only heard of the accident to his boy on his way home. once he would have grumbled very much. now he only thought of poor dick's pain, and not at all of the loss of his wages, and the additional mouth he would have to feed. dick was more sorry for his father and mother than for himself. david came, whenever he could, to see him, and he amused himself by cutting-out models, as he did when he was ill before. he could now also read well, but he and david had read through and through all their books and the tracts which the missionary had left them. they were therefore very thankful when he came again; and hearing how much dick wanted books, left them several nice magazines. some had beautiful pictures. neither dick nor david had ever seen anything which they thought so fine. when dick heard from the missionary that the pictures were made from carvings on blocks of wood, he said that he should like to learn so curious an art. the missionary, seeing this, explained how it was done; and dick forthwith drew a rolley on a block, and cut away all the white wood between the lines. then he rubbed over the raised parts with lamp black, and pressed it down on a piece of white paper. there, to his delight, was the drawing of a rolley. it was not very well done, but lawry and david thought a great deal of it. the missionary smiled when he saw it. "a very good beginning, my boy. persevere, and it may be that you may make some use of your talent in this way," he observed. dick had not, however, learned to do much better before the doctor said that he thought his foot was healed enough to let him go to work in a few days. dick was eager to go at once, but samuel said that he must stay at play a few days longer. dick had no love for his task in the pit, but he felt that as he was fed he ought to work as soon as he could. at last it was arranged that dick should go to work the next monday. samuel kissed his younger children, as he was about to start with his eldest boy to his work. "we'll have you with us, dick, all right and strong next week. you are to be a half-marrow, i hear. well, it's better than sitting at a trap all day." he said, as he went out, looking back with a pleasant smile, "good-bye, all." "he's a kind father, and he is much kinder and gentler than he used to be before the missionary came," thought dick, as samuel disappeared round the corner of the street. samuel kempson went on his way to the pit's mouth, where a number of other men collected, ready to go down as soon as the banksman called them. it was a fine morning; the sun was just rising in the clear sky out from the far-off sea. samuel drew a breath of the pure morning air, and gazed round at the blue sky and glorious sun, as he stepped off into the corve, in which, with many others, he was to descend the shaft. bill hagger, who had completely recovered from his accident, and was now a hewer, was among his companions. bill, unhappily, was not among those who willingly listened to the missionary. he was the same rough, coarse being as before, a constant visitor at the ale-house, a fearful swearer, and ready at all times for any mischief. there were too many like him. samuel and the others having got their picks newly sharpened, and their spades, went to the lamp-house for their lamps. these were handed to them, carefully locked, so that they might not open the lamp and expose the flame to the surrounding air. they were driving a new gallery, and as a good deal of fire-damp was likely to come out, it was necessary to be very careful. samuel passed david adams, who was still a trapper, on his way to his trap. david asked after dick. "he'll be down with us in a few days, i hope," was the answer, in a cheerful tone. nearly two hundred human beings were toiling away down in those long, narrow passages. some with pick-axes were getting out the huge lumps of coal from the solid vein, others were breaking them up and shovelling them into the baskets. the putters were dragging or pushing the baskets towards a main road, where they were received by the "crane-hoister," who, with his crane, lifted them on the rolley-wagons. these were dragged along a tramway by sleek, stout ponies to the foot of the shaft, under charge of a wagoner. other men were engaged at the foot of the shaft, hooking on the corves full of coal to be drawn up by the machinery above. there were three shafts. at the bottom of one was a large furnace kept always burning that it might assist to draw down the pure air from above and send the bad air upwards. down another shaft was a huge pump, pumping up the water which got into the mine. the third shaft was that by which the men chiefly went up and down, and the coals were drawn up, though the furnace shaft could also be used for that purpose. there were men to tend the furnaces, and stable-men to look after the horses, and lamp-men, and blacksmiths to sharpen the tools and mend the iron-work of the wagons, and rolley-way-men to keep the roads in order, besides several for other sorts of jobs. all these were busy working away at their several posts. samuel kempson was among the hewers farthest from the main shaft. near him was bill hagger. they had been working for some hours when the welcome sound of blows on the trap-doors told them that dinner and drink time had arrived. leaving their tools, they unhooked the lamps, which hung on nails above their heads, and hastened to the drink place, an open space to which their dinners were brought from the shaft on rolleys, chiefly in basins done up in handkerchiefs, each having his proper mark. some had the first letters of their names, others bits of different coloured cloth, others buttons. each man having found his dinner, took his seat, when samuel became aware that his friend the missionary was present. he was standing with his back to the wall, and some candles fixed to a tree, or support, near him. all were silent. having read a chapter in the bible, the missionary earnestly entreated them to seek the lord while he might be found. it was an impressive discourse, and the missionary himself had often cause to think of it afterwards. the dinner-time was soon over, and the labourers hastened back to their work, and the missionary returned to the world above. kempson had been pecking away for some time, when bill hagger, who was next to him, ceased working. "i want my blow of baccy," he said, coming up to samuel. "that missioner chap put me off it, and that's what i won't stand, so i'm going to have it now." "what can make you think of such a mad thing, bill?" exclaimed samuel. "you know it's against orders to light a pipe, and good reason too, for a spark might blow us all to pieces in a moment. i smell the fire-damp at this moment, you haven't got matches, i hope?" "no; but i've got a key to open my lamp," answered bill, producing a small key from a concealed pocket. "don't be mad, bill," cried kempson. "you know that you've no business to have that key. as sure as you open your lamp you'll blow yourself and me into bits, and may be everybody in the mine, for i never felt it fuller of gas than it is to-day. just think, bill, where our souls are to go; for the gas can't blow them to pieces, remember that." "i'm not going to be put off by any of your talk," answered bill, in a surly tone, filling his pipe. having done so, before poor kempson could stop him, he had opened his safety lamp, and put in the bowl of his pipe to light it. in an instant there was a fearful report, a sheet of fire flew along the galleries here, there, and everywhere through the pit, bursting open the traps, tearing off huge fragments of the coal, overthrowing pillars and supports, and sweeping to destruction the helpless human beings it overtook in its course. those more distant from the first part of the explosion heard it coming, and knew too well its dreadful import. they tried to fly towards the foot of the shaft. there only could they hope for safety; but what hope had they of reaching it with those fiery blasts rushing through every roadway and passage, and the destructive choke-damp rising rapidly on all sides? david adams was sitting at his trap ready to open it, for he heard a gang of putters coming along, when a loud, deafening roar sounded in his ears. the door was shaken violently, but resisted the shock, though he felt the hot air coming through the crevices. loud cries arose on every side from the neighbouring passages. the putters rushed on, leaving their wagons, and forced open the trap. david, seizing his lamp, rushed out with them. his first impulse was to cover up his head with his coat, then to draw his comforter over his mouth and nose, for he already smelt the too-well-known stench of the choke-damp. some of his companions, in their fright, turned the wrong way. he and others pushed on towards the shaft. they had not gone far when they came upon several men, some had fallen, overcome by the choke-damp; others were sitting down, pointing, with looks of terror, at a mass of brick-work which had fallen in, stopping their advance; while through it came a stream of gas, which it was clear would soon fill the passage. the stench was every moment growing stronger and stronger. "we must go back, we must go back," was the cry from those still able to move. there was another way to the shaft, through the passage at which david had been placed. some of the stronger men led the way, the putters went next, and david was last. before they could reach the passage, for which they were aiming, the main way was filling rapidly with choke-damp. now one of the men leading fell, now another, and the rest had to pass over their bodies. to stop to try and help them would have been to give up their own lives without doing any good. david saw several of the putters, strong, hearty lads, drop down by his side, while he was able to keep on from having his mouth covered up, and from attempting to breathe only where the air seemed purest. the survivors, a small party only, now reached the end of the passage, and ran on, driven on by the air, which was rushing along it. there was hope for them in that direction if no fresh explosion should take place. but the danger was still very fearful. the fire-damp might any moment find the broken lamp of a dying man, and explode, causing further destruction on every side. on the men sped; now one, now another dropped. the remainder still pressed on. there were a hundred yards or more between them and the foot of the shaft. it seemed a vast distance to go over, when any moment the whole mine might be a sea of fire. even there safety might not be found. hitherto young david had been preserved, but now he felt his strength failing. the hot air was coming up behind. he sprang forward, he thought that he was near the shaft. cries, and groans, and loud, roaring, hissing sounds were in his ears. all thought and feeling passed from him. not a human voice was heard throughout the long galleries and passages of the mine, lately so full of active life. the bodies of the men were there charred and withered, and the only sound was the roar of the escaping gas, as it caught fire and exploded in the far-off passages of the mine. story six, chapter . dick had wandered out in the afternoon to get a little more of the fresh air than he could find in the hot street of the village. not that there was what would be called fresh air in other parts of the country. even the purest air was full of smoke and coal-dust and gas. he sat himself down to rest on a stone wall, and his eye wandered over the scene. there were the tall chimneys sending forth wreaths and clouds of smoke, and the odd shaped buildings, and the cranks and the beams moving up and down without ceasing, as if they could never get tired, and the railways in all directions, with train after train of coal wagons moving rapidly over them, some loaded, and others flying back empty from whence they came. he had been sitting there for some time, when he saw, by the way that people were running towards the pit's mouth, that something was wrong. he got up, and as fast as his lame foot would let him, hurried in the same direction. too soon he learned what had happened. there had been a fearful explosion. the corve, or basket, by which the men went up and down the shaft, had been knocked to pieces, and even the machinery over the pit had been injured. of all those working below it was believed that not one could have escaped. dick's heart sickened when he heard this. his father, his eldest brother, and his friend, david adams, were all below. besides them, he knew all the people working in the pit; men and boys, they all came before him as he had last seen them, and now not one alive! "oh yes, yes; surely there must be some who have escaped," he cried out, when he was told that all had been killed. the sad news quickly spread, and numbers of women and children came rushing from the village; wives to ask for their husbands, mothers for their sons, girls for their fathers and brothers, or intended husbands. they kept running about without bonnets or shawls, their hair streaming in the wind, and frantically crying as they stretched out their hands to the banksman and viewers and other officers, "where are they? where are they? why don't they come up?" it would have softened the hardest heart to have seen the grief, the agony of the poor women. no one could answer them. it was not the first time such a thing had happened, even in that pit. they all knew too well the effect of the fire-damp, and still more destructive choke-damp. "is no one going down to bring them up?" was the question next asked. "yes, some one will go, i dare say, as soon as it's safe; but it would not do to go yet," answered the banksman. "besides, the gear is knocked to pieces." this reply only increased the alarm of the poor women, but they were obliged to be content with it. dick pressed forward, and asked if any one had come up. no; no one had come up since the morning. "then, may i go down?" he asked of one of the viewers. "you are the lad who went by yourself to look for the boy adams some years ago, when he was lost, i remember," answered the viewer. "yes, you shall go with me presently, if you wish it." a fresh corve was fitted, and the gear put in order. the viewer stepped in, there were two other volunteers. dick followed. each person had a safety lamp in his hand. they went down very slowly, for it was probable that the shaft itself might be injured. they had not got far when a stream of water, which had burst out of the side, came pouring down on them, and almost filled the corve. the rushing sound, and the force with which the water fell, deafened and confused them. still they persevered. hot air, and noxious vapours, and steam, and smoke came rushing up. they went down through it all. some of their fellow-creatures might be below. they would save them if they could. at last they reached the bottom of the shaft. the furnace was still blazing away. beyond all was darkness and gloom, though the pale light of their lamps showed them the ruin caused by the explosion. the viewer shouted out, "is any one alive?" they stopped and listened anxiously. there was a faint cry, which came from not far off. "i heard a groan also," said the viewer. "there may be several alive, i hope." the brave little band moved on, knowing well that each step they advanced the danger was increased. "here is a poor fellow," cried the viewer, who was looking into a hollow cut in the wall. dick hoped that it might be his father or brother, but it was a man he knew little about. he was alive, but hurt from having been blown into the place where he was found, and appeared to have lost his senses. he was carried to the foot of the shaft and placed in the corve. two other men crawled up on hearing the shout, but they were very weak, and could only say that they believed all the rest were killed. the overseer told dick that he might go up with them, but he begged so hard to remain that he might look for his father, that two men were sent instead. while the overseer was securing the men in the corve, dick once more went along the main gallery. he had not gone far when he saw in a hollow, a figure crouching down. it was that of his friend david adams. was he alive? he lifted him up and carried him along in his arms towards the shaft. already he felt the choke-damp in his throat; he was stumbling, too, with the weight of his burden. he felt that he could not move another yard, for his knees were bending under him. "run, run to the shaft," he heard a voice say. "i'll take him on." it was the viewer, who, throwing the body of young adams over his shoulders, seized dick with the other hand and dragged him on. their companion had disappeared. in vain they shouted for him, while they anxiously waited for the return of the corve to carry them up. to go back into the passages already full of poisonous air, would have been madness. dick, notwithstanding, was eager to go back to try and find his father and brother. had not the viewer prevented him, he would have made the attempt and perished. even where they were, it was with difficulty they breathed. dick, as he looked at his friend's face, calm and quiet, was afraid that he had lost him too. at last the corve came down, and the viewer and dick lifting in david's body, were drawn up. poor mrs adams was among those in the front surrounding the pit. she at once knew her son, and clasping him in her arms, gave way to her grief, calling him to come to life. "let the doctor see him, dame," said several voices. "may be he is not so far gone as you think." on this the surgeon stepped forward and had david carried out of the crowd, who prevented him from breathing the fresh air, which, if a person is not dead, is more likely than anything else to restore the power of breathing. meantime mrs kempson, among the other women, had come up. "oh! my husband! my husband! where is he? dick, my boy, have you found your father and tom? where is your brother, boy?" such were the questions asked by numbers of the unhappy women. dick could only shake his head and burst into tears. from the report of the viewer, the engineers declared that it would be dangerous to go down the pit again till the ventilation was set to rights, and that all hope of finding any of those below still alive was gone. story six, chapter . there was deep sorrow and tears and groans in the mining village of wallford that night. those who had gone forth to their work in the morning in health and spirits, the bread-winners of the family, were never to return. the widows and orphans sorrowed for husbands and fathers, and it was natural that they should sorrow for themselves. among those who had good cause to look forward with dread to the future, was mrs kempson, and yet she did not fear it as once she would have done. she believed that her husband had fully accepted christ's gracious offer of salvation, and that he was prepared for death; and she also knew that god protects the fatherless and widows who trust in him. still she had a good deal to try her faith. dick was the only one of the family who could work for their support; he could gain but little, and she trembled when she thought that any day he, too, might be cut off. he, like a good son, was doing his best to comfort her. "don't take on so, mother, don't take on so," he said, putting his arm round her neck. "i shall soon be big enough to work as a hewer, and you shan't want while i can earn good wages, and god will look after us all. don't fear, mother, don't fear." dick had not forgotten his friend david, but, while attending to his mother, he had had no time to ask about him. he now said that he would go out to see mrs adams, and learn if he had recovered. dick looked in at mrs adams's open window. it was a comfort to him in his own sorrow to see his friend sitting up, though looking very ill. he felt inclined to go away again without speaking, but mrs adams saw him, and, coming out, brought him in. "you have saved my boy's life twice, dick," she exclaimed. "i can't thank you enough, and never can. but david and i and all of us can pray for you. god will reward you. he will bless you." there had been cries and shrieks and tears on the day of the explosion. a still sadder day was that when, the mine being put in order, the bodies were brought up from below, and the poor women came round to claim their husbands and sons. it was difficult to recognise some of the bodies, but the full number of those who had been working in the pit were found, and hope left the hearts of those who had trusted till now that by some means those they loved had escaped. dick set to work as soon as the pit was open, and toiled on bravely; still all his wages could only just support his mother and brothers and sisters. bad times came too, made bad by the folly of the people themselves. the men in some of the collieries made up their minds that they would get higher wages. they banded themselves together, and tried to make the people of all the collieries in the district join them. when david and dick heard of it, they agreed that they were content with their wages, and that all the men about them were well off, and that they would go on working without grumbling. they had not their choice, however. there was a general strike of the labourers underground and above ground throughout the whole district, and the pits were closed. they, and others who had not joined the league, were threatened with severe punishment if they offered to work. mrs kempson and mrs adams and many other widows were in a sad way. they had saved but little money, so they soon spent all they had. then they had to pawn some of their things, and then they had to go on credit, hoping that the lads would soon go to work again. food was running very short. they could barely afford bread and cheese; often they ate nothing but dry bread and drank warm water, for the tea was so weak it was little better. mrs kempson, who had for so long lived well, felt as if she was dying of hunger. dick was pretty nearly starving also. he had not been idle though, as had most of the people, for he had been hard at work making all sorts of models. "i'll take them to newcastle, to-morrow. may be i'll get something for them, mother, and bring back food for you and the rest; if not, i'll look out for some other sort of work. i'm determined to be at play no longer, to please any set of men." the miners always speak of being at play, when they are not at work. just then a young man, well dressed in seafaring style, passed the window. "do any people of the name of kempson live hereabouts?" dick heard him say. "yes, sir," said dick. "that's our name. what do you want?" the young man made no answer, but walked in and sat down on a chair mrs kempson offered him. he looked round for a minute without speaking-- first at mrs kempson, then at limping lawry, then at little nelly, and then at the other children, and over and over again at dick. "i think that i have seen you all before; but it was years ago," he said at last, and his voice trembled. "some time back, as i was reading an account of a dreadful accident which happened in one of the coal-pits hereabouts, i saw the name of samuel kempson and his son benjamin among the list of sufferers." "yes, sir; those were my poor husband and son," said mrs kempson, with a sigh, and the tears came to her eyes. "did you ever live in suffolk?" asked the stranger. "yes, sir; and i wish that we had never left it," answered susan. "and had you a son you called jack?" inquired the visitor. "yes, i had; i had a fine hearty boy, but he went away to sea, and i fear has long since been drowned," cried susan, lifting her apron to her eyes. "i don't think so," answered the stranger. "do you think that you should know him again?" "i'm sure i should, my own bright boy. oh! speak, young man. who are you? don't deceive me," exclaimed susan, starting up and taking the stranger's hands. "are you my son jack?" "indeed i am, mother," answered jack kempson, for the young stranger was her long-lost son. he returned her embrace affectionately, and soon all his young brothers and sisters were clustering round him. he had heard of the strike, and of the state of affairs, and guessing that provisions would be welcome, before he could talk further, went out with dick and got a good supply for supper. while the family were seated round a better meal than they had had for many a day, he told them how he had gone to sea in a collier running between newcastle and london; how he then had sailed to far distant lands; how once, when ill-treated by the master, he had made up his mind to quit the sea and had come to look out for work in the mines; how he soon saw that he should not change for the better. "yes, we know the widow woman you spoke to, and she told us all about the sailor lad, who had come, thinking to get work, and had gone off again." "that is strange," cried dick, "that we should have been so near, and not have seen each other." "well, i went back to the ship," continued jack, "and i made up my mind to stick to the sea. i was soon afterwards made second mate, and then first mate; and a year ago, in a foreign voyage, the captain, who was given to drink, fell overboard, and i brought the ship home, and the owners were so pleased that they made me captain. i am now bound back to london, and though i say it's generally best for every man to stick to the trade he is brought up in; yet as the people here won't let dick work in it, i want him and you all to come away with me. you cannot be worse off, and you may be much better; and at all events, i have enough wages to keep you all comfortable." poor mrs kempson thankfully accepted her son's offer. a good and affectionate son he proved. dick was well pleased to change, but he could not make up his mind to part from david adams. "i will take him and his mother and the rest of them too," said the generous sailor. "i have saved money, and cannot spend it better than in helping the widow and orphan. i dare say we shall find some place in the old county where our mother and mrs adams can settle down among green fields, and where you may find work for which you are suited." as soon as supper was over, mrs kempson and jack and dick set off to visit mrs adams. dick had put up a basket full of provisions--bread and butter, and cheese, and herrings, and tea and sugar, and other things which he well knew from experience would be welcome. "this is doing to others as i would be done by, or indeed as i have been done by," he thought. "yes, god has been very merciful to us--just when we were well-nigh starved, and now jack come to life again!" mrs adams was very grateful for the good food dick had brought. she did not at first remember jack, but he soon convinced her who he was. great was her joy when the generous young sailor offered to carry her and david and the rest of her children to the neighbourhood of her old home. "but i can never, never repay you, young man," she said. "never mind that," answered jack, unconsciously looking upwards, "some one else will." a happy party sailed down the river tyne on board the brig, _good hope_, bound for the thames. the young captain was as good as his word. little nelly was sent to an institution, where she was very happy, and was taught to do many useful things. limping lawry went to another, where he recovered his strength, and learned to gain his daily bread; and dick and david got employment as engineers; and in a few years dick rose to be foreman of some extensive works, with his old friend as his assistant. none "captains courageous" a story of the grand banks by rudyard kipling to james conland, m.d., brattleboro, vermont i ploughed the land with horses, but my heart was ill at ease, for the old sea-faring men came to me now and then, with their sagas of the seas. longfellow. chapter i the weather door of the smoking-room had been left open to the north atlantic fog, as the big liner rolled and lifted, whistling to warn the fishing-fleet. "that cheyne boy's the biggest nuisance aboard," said a man in a frieze overcoat, shutting the door with a bang. "he isn't wanted here. he's too fresh." a white-haired german reached for a sandwich, and grunted between bites: "i know der breed. ameriga is full of dot kind. i dell you you should imbort ropes' ends free under your dariff." "pshaw! there isn't any real harm to him. he's more to be pitied than anything," a man from new york drawled, as he lay at full length along the cushions under the wet skylight. "they've dragged him around from hotel to hotel ever since he was a kid. i was talking to his mother this morning. she's a lovely lady, but she don't pretend to manage him. he's going to europe to finish his education." "education isn't begun yet." this was a philadelphian, curled up in a corner. "that boy gets two hundred a month pocket-money, he told me. he isn't sixteen either." "railroads, his father, aind't it?" said the german. "yep. that and mines and lumber and shipping. built one place at san diego, the old man has; another at los angeles; owns half a dozen railroads, half the lumber on the pacific slope, and lets his wife spend the money," the philadelphian went on lazily. "the west don't suit her, she says. she just tracks around with the boy and her nerves, trying to find out what'll amuse him, i guess. florida, adirondacks, lakewood, hot springs, new york, and round again. he isn't much more than a second-hand hotel clerk now. when he's finished in europe he'll be a holy terror." "what's the matter with the old man attending to him personally?" said a voice from the frieze ulster. "old man's piling up the rocks. 'don't want to be disturbed, i guess. he'll find out his error a few years from now. 'pity, because there's a heap of good in the boy if you could get at it." "mit a rope's end; mit a rope's end!" growled the german. once more the door banged, and a slight, slim-built boy perhaps fifteen years old, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth, leaned in over the high footway. his pasty yellow complexion did not show well on a person of his years, and his look was a mixture of irresolution, bravado, and very cheap smartness. he was dressed in a cherry-coloured blazer, knickerbockers, red stockings, and bicycle shoes, with a red flannel cap at the back of the head. after whistling between his teeth, as he eyed the company, he said in a loud, high voice: "say, it's thick outside. you can hear the fish-boats squawking all around us. say, wouldn't it be great if we ran down one?" "shut the door, harvey," said the new yorker. "shut the door and stay outside. you're not wanted here." "who'll stop me?" he answered, deliberately. "did you pay for my passage, mister martin? 'guess i've as good right here as the next man." he picked up some dice from a checkerboard and began throwing, right hand against left. "say, gen'elmen, this is deader'n mud. can't we make a game of poker between us?" there was no answer, and he puffed his cigarette, swung his legs, and drummed on the table with rather dirty fingers. then he pulled out a roll of bills as if to count them. "how's your mamma this afternoon?" a man said. "i didn't see her at lunch." "in her state-room, i guess. she's 'most always sick on the ocean. i'm going to give the stewardess fifteen dollars for looking after her. i don't go down more 'n i can avoid. it makes me feel mysterious to pass that butler's-pantry place. say, this is the first time i've been on the ocean." "oh, don't apologize, harvey." "who's apologizing? this is the first time i've crossed the ocean, gen'elmen, and, except the first day, i haven't been sick one little bit. no, sir!" he brought down his fist with a triumphant bang, wetted his finger, and went on counting the bills. "oh, you're a high-grade machine, with the writing in plain sight," the philadelphian yawned. "you'll blossom into a credit to your country if you don't take care." "i know it. i'm an american--first, last, and all the time. i'll show 'em that when i strike europe. piff! my cig's out. i can't smoke the truck the steward sells. any gen'elman got a real turkish cig on him?" the chief engineer entered for a moment, red, smiling, and wet. "say, mac," cried harvey cheerfully, "how are we hitting it?" "vara much in the ordinary way," was the grave reply. "the young are as polite as ever to their elders, an' their elders are e'en tryin' to appreciate it." a low chuckle came from a corner. the german opened his cigar-case and handed a skinny black cigar to harvey. "dot is der broper apparatus to smoke, my young friendt," he said. "you vill dry it? yes? den you vill be efer so happy." harvey lit the unlovely thing with a flourish: he felt that he was getting on in grownup society. "it would take more 'n this to keel me over," he said, ignorant that he was lighting that terrible article, a wheeling "stogie". "dot we shall bresently see," said the german. "where are we now, mr. mactonal'?" "just there or thereabouts, mr. schaefer," said the engineer. "we'll be on the grand bank to-night; but in a general way o' speakin', we're all among the fishing-fleet now. we've shaved three dories an' near scalped the boom off a frenchman since noon, an' that's close sailing', ye may say." "you like my cigar, eh?" the german asked, for harvey's eyes were full of tears. "fine, full flavor," he answered through shut teeth. "guess we've slowed down a little, haven't we? i'll skip out and see what the log says." "i might if i vhas you," said the german. harvey staggered over the wet decks to the nearest rail. he was very unhappy; but he saw the deck-steward lashing chairs together, and, since he had boasted before the man that he was never seasick, his pride made him go aft to the second-saloon deck at the stern, which was finished in a turtle-back. the deck was deserted, and he crawled to the extreme end of it, near the flag-pole. there he doubled up in limp agony, for the wheeling "stogie" joined with the surge and jar of the screw to sieve out his soul. his head swelled; sparks of fire danced before his eyes; his body seemed to lose weight, while his heels wavered in the breeze. he was fainting from seasickness, and a roll of the ship tilted him over the rail on to the smooth lip of the turtle-back. then a low, gray mother-wave swung out of the fog, tucked harvey under one arm, so to speak, and pulled him off and away to leeward; the great green closed over him, and he went quietly to sleep. he was roused by the sound of a dinner-horn such as they used to blow at a summer-school he had once attended in the adirondacks. slowly he remembered that he was harvey cheyne, drowned and dead in mid-ocean, but was too weak to fit things together. a new smell filled his nostrils; wet and clammy chills ran down his back, and he was helplessly full of salt water. when he opened his eyes, he perceived that he was still on the top of the sea, for it was running round him in silver-coloured hills, and he was lying on a pile of half-dead fish, looking at a broad human back clothed in a blue jersey. "it's no good," thought the boy. "i'm dead, sure enough, and this thing is in charge." he groaned, and the figure turned its head, showing a pair of little gold rings half hidden in curly black hair. "aha! you feel some pretty well now?" it said. "lie still so: we trim better." with a swift jerk he sculled the flickering boat-head on to a foamless sea that lifted her twenty full feet, only to slide her into a glassy pit beyond. but this mountain-climbing did not interrupt blue-jersey's talk. "fine good job, i say, that i catch you. eh, wha-at? better good job, i say, your boat not catch me. how you come to fall out?" "i was sick," said harvey; "sick, and couldn't help it." "just in time i blow my horn, and your boat she yaw a little. then i see you come all down. eh, wha-at? i think you are cut into baits by the screw, but you dreeft--dreeft to me, and i make a big fish of you. so you shall not die this time." "where am i?" said harvey, who could not see that life was particularly safe where he lay. "you are with me in the dory--manuel my name, and i come from schooner _we're here_ of gloucester. i live to gloucester. by-and-by we get supper. eh, wha-at?" he seemed to have two pairs of hands and a head of cast-iron, for, not content with blowing through a big conch-shell, he must needs stand up to it, swaying with the sway of the flat-bottomed dory, and send a grinding, thuttering shriek through the fog. how long this entertainment lasted, harvey could not remember, for he lay back terrified at the sight of the smoking swells. he fancied he heard a gun and a horn and shouting. something bigger than the dory, but quite as lively, loomed alongside. several voices talked at once; he was dropped into a dark, heaving hole, where men in oilskins gave him a hot drink and took off his clothes, and he fell asleep. when he waked he listened for the first breakfast-bell on the steamer, wondering why his state-room had grown so small. turning, he looked into a narrow, triangular cave, lit by a lamp hung against a huge square beam. a three-cornered table within arm's reach ran from the angle of the bows to the foremast. at the after end, behind a well-used plymouth stove, sat a boy about his own age, with a flat red face and a pair of twinkling gray eyes. he was dressed in a blue jersey and high rubber boots. several pairs of the same sort of foot-wear, an old cap, and some worn-out woollen socks lay on the floor, and black and yellow oilskins swayed to and fro beside the bunks. the place was packed as full of smells as a bale is of cotton. the oilskins had a peculiarly thick flavor of their own which made a sort of background to the smells of fried fish, burnt grease, paint, pepper, and stale tobacco; but these, again, were all hooped together by one encircling smell of ship and salt water. harvey saw with disgust that there were no sheets on his bed-place. he was lying on a piece of dingy ticking full of lumps and nubbles. then, too, the boat's motion was not that of a steamer. she was neither sliding nor rolling, but rather wriggling herself about in a silly, aimless way, like a colt at the end of a halter. water-noises ran by close to his ear, and beams creaked and whined about him. all these things made him grunt despairingly and think of his mother. "feelin' better?" said the boy, with a grin. "hev some coffee?" he brought a tin cup full and sweetened it with molasses. "isn't there milk?" said harvey, looking round the dark double tier of bunks as if he expected to find a cow there. "well, no," said the boy. "ner there ain't likely to be till 'baout mid-september. 'tain't bad coffee. i made it." harvey drank in silence, and the boy handed him a plate full of pieces of crisp fried pork, which he ate ravenously. "i've dried your clothes. guess they've shrunk some," said the boy. "they ain't our style much--none of 'em. twist round an' see if you're hurt any." harvey stretched himself in every direction, but could not report any injuries. "that's good," the boy said heartily. "fix yerself an' go on deck. dad wants to see you. i'm his son,--dan, they call me,--an' i'm cook's helper an' everything else aboard that's too dirty for the men. there ain't no boy here 'cep' me sence otto went overboard--an' he was only a dutchy, an' twenty year old at that. how'd you come to fall off in a dead flat ca'am?" "'twasn't a calm," said harvey, sulkily. "it was a gale, and i was seasick. guess i must have rolled over the rail." "there was a little common swell yes'day an' last night," said the boy. "but ef thet's your notion of a gale----" he whistled. "you'll know more 'fore you're through. hurry! dad's waitin'." like many other unfortunate young people, harvey had never in all his life received a direct order--never, at least, without long, and sometimes tearful, explanations of the advantages of obedience and the reasons for the request. mrs. cheyne lived in fear of breaking his spirit, which, perhaps, was the reason that she herself walked on the edge of nervous prostration. he could not see why he should be expected to hurry for any man's pleasure, and said so. "your dad can come down here if he's so anxious to talk to me. i want him to take me to new york right away. it'll pay him." dan opened his eyes as the size and beauty of this joke dawned on him. "say, dad!" he shouted up the foc'sle hatch, "he says you kin slip down an' see him ef you're anxious that way. 'hear, dad?" the answer came back in the deepest voice harvey had ever heard from a human chest: "quit foolin', dan, and send him to me." dan sniggered, and threw harvey his warped bicycle shoes. there was something in the tones on the deck that made the boy dissemble his extreme rage and console himself with the thought of gradually unfolding the tale of his own and his father's wealth on the voyage home. this rescue would certainly make him a hero among his friends for life. he hoisted himself on deck up a perpendicular ladder, and stumbled aft, over a score of obstructions, to where a small, thick-set, clean-shaven man with gray eyebrows sat on a step that led up to the quarter-deck. the swell had passed in the night, leaving a long, oily sea, dotted round the horizon with the sails of a dozen fishing-boats. between them lay little black specks, showing where the dories were out fishing. the schooner, with a triangular riding-sail on the mainmast, played easily at anchor, and except for the man by the cabin-roof--"house" they call it--she was deserted. "mornin'--good afternoon, i should say. you've nigh slep' the clock round, young feller," was the greeting. "mornin'," said harvey. he did not like being called "young feller"; and, as one rescued from drowning, expected sympathy. his mother suffered agonies whenever he got his feet wet; but this mariner did not seem excited. "naow let's hear all abaout it. it's quite providential, first an' last, fer all concerned. what might be your name? where from (we mistrust it's noo york), an' where baound (we mistrust it's europe)?" harvey gave his name, the name of the steamer, and a short history of the accident, winding up with a demand to be taken back immediately to new york, where his father would pay anything any one chose to name. "h'm," said the shaven man, quite unmoved by the end of harvey's speech. "i can't say we think special of any man, or boy even, that falls overboard from that kind o' packet in a flat ca'am. least of all when his excuse is that he's seasick." "excuse!" cried harvey. "d'you suppose i'd fall overboard into your dirty little boat for fun?" "not knowin' what your notions o' fun may be, i can't rightly say, young feller. but if i was you, i wouldn't call the boat which, under providence, was the means o' savin' ye, names. in the first place, it's blame irreligious. in the second, it's annoyin' to my feelin's--an' i'm disko troop o' the _we're here_ o' gloucester, which you don't seem rightly to know." "i don't know and i don't care," said harvey. "i'm grateful enough for being saved and all that, of course! but i want you to understand that the sooner you take me back to new york the better it'll pay you." "meanin'--haow?" troop raised one shaggy eyebrow over a suspiciously mild blue eye. "dollars and cents," said harvey, delighted to think that he was making an impression. "cold dollars and cents." he thrust a hand into a pocket, and threw out his stomach a little, which was his way of being grand. "you've done the best day's work you ever did in your life when you pulled me in. i'm all the son harvey cheyne has." "he's bin favoured," said disko, dryly. "and if you don't know who harvey cheyne is, you don't know much--that's all. now turn her around and let's hurry." harvey had a notion that the greater part of america was filled with people discussing and envying his father's dollars. "mebbe i do, an' mebbe i don't. take a reef in your stummick, young feller. it's full o' my vittles." harvey heard a chuckle from dan, who was pretending to be busy by the stump-foremast, and blood rushed to his face. "we'll pay for that too," he said. "when do you suppose we shall get to new york?" "i don't use noo york any. ner boston. we may see eastern point about september; an' your pa--i'm real sorry i hain't heerd tell of him--may give me ten dollars efter all your talk. then o' course he mayn't." "ten dollars! why, see here, i--" harvey dived into his pocket for the wad of bills. all he brought up was a soggy packet of cigarettes. "not lawful currency; an' bad for the lungs. heave 'em overboard, young feller, and try agin." "it's been stolen!" cried harvey, hotly. "you'll hev to wait till you see your pa to reward me, then?" "a hundred and thirty-four dollars--all stolen," said harvey, hunting wildly through his pockets. "give them back." a curious change flitted across old troop's hard face. "what might you have been doin' at your time o' life with one hundred an' thirty-four dollars, young feller?" "it was part of my pocket-money--for a month." this harvey thought would be a knock-down blow, and it was--indirectly. "oh! one hundred and thirty-four dollars is only part of his pocket-money--for one month only! you don't remember hittin' anything when you fell over, do you? crack agin a stanchion, le's say. old man hasken o' the east wind"--troop seemed to be talking to himself--"he tripped on a hatch an' butted the mainmast with his head--hardish. 'baout three weeks afterwards, old man hasken he would hev it that the "east wind" was a commerce-destroyin' man-o'-war, an' so he declared war on sable island because it was bridish, an' the shoals run aout too far. they sewed him up in a bed-bag, his head an' feet appearin', fer the rest o' the trip, an' now he's to home in essex playin' with little rag dolls." harvey choked with rage, but troop went on consolingly: "we're sorry fer you. we're very sorry fer you--an' so young. we won't say no more abaout the money, i guess." "'course you won't. you stole it." "suit yourself. we stole it ef it's any comfort to you. naow, abaout goin' back. allowin' we could do it, which we can't, you ain't in no fit state to go back to your home, an' we've jest come on to the banks, workin' fer our bread. we don't see the ha'af of a hundred dollars a month, let alone pocket-money; an' with good luck we'll be ashore again somewheres abaout the first weeks o' september." "but--but it's may now, and i can't stay here doin' nothing just because you want to fish. i can't, i tell you!" "right an' jest; jest an' right. no one asks you to do nothin'. there's a heap as you can do, for otto he went overboard on le have. i mistrust he lost his grip in a gale we f'und there. anyways, he never come back to deny it. you've turned up, plain, plumb providential for all concerned. i mistrust, though, there's ruther few things you kin do. ain't thet so?" "i can make it lively for you and your crowd when we get ashore," said harvey, with a vicious nod, murmuring vague threats about "piracy," at which troop almost--not quite--smiled. "excep' talk. i'd forgot that. you ain't asked to talk more'n you've a mind to aboard the _we're here_. keep your eyes open, an' help dan to do ez he's bid, an' sechlike, an' i'll give you--you ain't wuth it, but i'll give--ten an' a ha'af a month; say thirty-five at the end o' the trip. a little work will ease up your head, and you kin tell us all abaout your dad an' your ma an' your money afterwards." "she's on the steamer," said harvey, his eyes filling with tears. "take me to new york at once." "poor woman--poor woman! when she has you back she'll forgit it all, though. there's eight of us on the _we're here_, an' ef we went back naow--it's more'n a thousand mile--we'd lose the season. the men they wouldn't hev it, allowin' i was agreeable." "but my father would make it all right." "he'd try. i don't doubt he'd try," said troop; "but a whole season's catch is eight men's bread; an' you'll be better in your health when you see him in the fall. go forward an' help dan. it's ten an' a ha'af a month, e i said, an' o' course, all f'und, same e the rest o' us." "do you mean i'm to clean pots and pans and things?" said harvey. "an' other things. you've no call to shout, young feller." "i won't! my father will give you enough to buy this dirty little fish-kettle"--harvey stamped on the deck--"ten times over, if you take me to new york safe; and--and--you're in a hundred and thirty by me, anyhow." "haow?" said troop, the iron face darkening. "how? you know how, well enough. on top of all that, you want me to do menial work"--harvey was very proud of that adjective--"till the fall. i tell you i will not. you hear?" troop regarded the top of the mainmast with deep interest for a while, as harvey harangued fiercely all around him. "hsh!" he said at last. "i'm figurin' out my responsibilities in my own mind. it's a matter o' jedgment." dan stole up and plucked harvey by the elbow. "don't go to tamperin' with dad any more," he pleaded. "you've called him a thief two or three times over, an' he don't take that from any livin' bein'." "i won't!" harvey almost shrieked, disregarding the advice, and still troop meditated. "seems kinder unneighbourly," he said at last, his eye travelling down to harvey. "i--don't blame you, not a mite, young feeler, nor you won't blame me when the bile's out o' your systim. be sure you sense what i say? ten an' a ha'af fer second boy on the schooner--an' all found--fer to teach you an' fer the sake o' your health. yes or no?" "no!" said harvey. "take me back to new york or i'll see you--" he did not exactly remember what followed. he was lying in the scuppers, holding on to a nose that bled while troop looked down on him serenely. "dan," he said to his son, "i was sot agin this young feeler when i first saw him on account o' hasty jedgments. never you be led astray by hasty jedgments, dan. naow i'm sorry for him, because he's clear distracted in his upper works. he ain't responsible fer the names he's give me, nor fer his other statements--nor fer jumpin' overboard, which i'm abaout ha'af convinced he did. you be gentle with him, dan, 'r i'll give you twice what i've give him. them hemmeridges clears the head. let him sluice it off!" troop went down solemnly into the cabin, where he and the older men bunked, leaving dan to comfort the luckless heir to thirty millions. chapter ii "i warned ye," said dan, as the drops fell thick and fast on the dark, oiled planking. "dad ain't noways hasty, but you fair earned it. pshaw! there's no sense takin' on so." harvey's shoulders were rising and falling in spasms of dry sobbing. "i know the feelin'. first time dad laid me out was the last--and that was my first trip. makes ye feel sickish an' lonesome. i know." "it does," moaned harvey. "that man's either crazy or drunk, and--and i can't do anything." "don't say that to dad," whispered dan. "he's set agin all liquor, an'--well, he told me you was the madman. what in creation made you call him a thief? he's my dad." harvey sat up, mopped his nose, and told the story of the missing wad of bills. "i'm not crazy," he wound up. "only--your father has never seen more than a five-dollar bill at a time, and my father could buy up this boat once a week and never miss it." "you don't know what the _we're here's_ worth. your dad must hev a pile o' money. how did he git it? dad sez loonies can't shake out a straight yarn. go ahead." "in gold mines and things, west." "i've read o' that kind o' business. out west, too? does he go around with a pistol on a trick-pony, same ez the circus? they call that the wild west, and i've heard that their spurs an' bridles was solid silver." "you are a chump!" said harvey, amused in spite of himself. "my father hasn't any use for ponies. when he wants to ride he takes his car." "haow? lobster-car?" "no. his own private car, of course. you've seen a private car some time in your life?" "slatin beeman he hez one," said dan, cautiously. "i saw her at the union depot in boston, with three niggers hoggin' her run." (dan meant cleaning the windows.) "but slatin beeman he owns 'baout every railroad on long island, they say, an' they say he's bought 'baout ha'af noo hampshire an' run a line fence around her, an' filled her up with lions an' tigers an' bears an' buffalo an' crocodiles an' such all. slatin beeman he's a millionaire. i've seen his car. yes?" "well, my father's what they call a multi-millionaire, and he has two private cars. one's named for me, the 'harvey', and one for my mother, the 'constance'." "hold on," said dan. "dad don't ever let me swear, but i guess you can. 'fore we go ahead, i want you to say hope you may die if you're lyin'." "of course," said harvey. "the ain't 'niff. say, 'hope i may die if i ain't speaking' truth.'" "hope i may die right here," said harvey, "if every word i've spoken isn't the cold truth." "hundred an' thirty-four dollars an' all?" said dan. "i heard ye talkin' to dad, an' i ha'af looked you'd be swallered up, same's jonah." harvey protested himself red in the face. dan was a shrewd young person along his own lines, and ten minutes' questioning convinced him that harvey was not lying--much. besides, he had bound himself by the most terrible oath known to boyhood, and yet he sat, alive, with a red-ended nose, in the scuppers, recounting marvels upon marvels. "gosh!" said dan at last from the very bottom of his soul when harvey had completed an inventory of the car named in his honour. then a grin of mischievous delight overspread his broad face. "i believe you, harvey. dad's made a mistake fer once in his life." "he has, sure," said harvey, who was meditating an early revenge. "he'll be mad clear through. dad jest hates to be mistook in his jedgments." dan lay back and slapped his thigh. "oh, harvey, don't you spile the catch by lettin' on." "i don't want to be knocked down again. i'll get even with him, though." "never heard any man ever got even with dad. but he'd knock ye down again sure. the more he was mistook the more he'd do it. but gold-mines and pistols--" "i never said a word about pistols," harvey cut in, for he was on his oath. "thet's so; no more you did. two private cars, then, one named fer you an' one fer her; an' two hundred dollars a month pocket-money, all knocked into the scuppers fer not workin' fer ten an' a ha'af a month! it's the top haul o' the season." he exploded with noiseless chuckles. "then i was right?" said harvey, who thought he had found a sympathiser. "you was wrong; the wrongest kind o' wrong! you take right hold an' pitch in 'longside o' me, or you'll catch it, an' i'll catch it fer backin' you up. dad always gives me double helps 'cause i'm his son, an' he hates favourin' folk. 'guess you're kinder mad at dad. i've been that way time an' again. but dad's a mighty jest man; all the fleet says so." "looks like justice, this, don't it?" harvey pointed to his outraged nose. "thet's nothin'. lets the shore blood outer you. dad did it for yer health. say, though, i can't have dealin's with a man that thinks me or dad or any one on the _we're here's_ a thief. we ain't any common wharf-end crowd by any manner o' means. we're fishermen, an' we've shipped together for six years an' more. don't you make any mistake on that! i told ye dad don't let me swear. he calls 'em vain oaths, and pounds me; but ef i could say what you said 'baout your pap an' his fixin's, i'd say that 'baout your dollars. i dunno what was in your pockets when i dried your kit, fer i didn't look to see; but i'd say, using the very same words ez you used jest now, neither me nor dad--an' we was the only two that teched you after you was brought aboard--knows anythin' 'baout the money. thet's my say. naow?" the bloodletting had certainly cleared harvey's brain, and maybe the loneliness of the sea had something to do with it. "that's all right," he said. then he looked down confusedly. "'seems to me that for a fellow just saved from drowning i haven't been over and above grateful, dan." "well, you was shook up and silly," said dan. "anyway, there was only dad an' me aboard to see it. the cook he don't count." "i might have thought about losing the bills that way," harvey said, half to himself, "instead of calling everybody in sight a thief. where's your father?" "in the cabin. what d' you want o' him again?" "you'll see," said harvey, and he stepped, rather groggily, for his head was still singing, to the cabin steps where the little ship's clock hung in plain sight of the wheel. troop, in the chocolate-and-yellow painted cabin, was busy with a note-book and an enormous black pencil which he sucked hard from time to time. "i haven't acted quite right," said harvey, surprised at his own meekness. "what's wrong naow?" said the skipper. "walked into dan, hev ye?" "no; it's about you." "i'm here to listen." "well, i--i'm here to take things back," said harvey very quickly. "when a man's saved from drowning--" he gulped. "ey? you'll make a man yet ef you go on this way." "he oughtn't begin by calling people names." "jest an' right--right an' jest," said troop, with the ghost of a dry smile. "so i'm here to say i'm sorry." another big gulp. troop heaved himself slowly off the locker he was sitting on and held out an eleven-inch hand. "i mistrusted 'twould do you sights o' good; an' this shows i weren't mistook in my jedgments." a smothered chuckle on deck caught his ear. "i am very seldom mistook in my jedgments." the eleven-inch hand closed on harvey's, numbing it to the elbow. "we'll put a little more gristle to that 'fore we've done with you, young feller; an' i don't think any worse of ye fer anythin' the's gone by. you wasn't fairly responsible. go right abaout your business an' you won't take no hurt." "you're white," said dan, as harvey regained the deck, flushed to the tips of his ears. "i don't feel it," said he. "i didn't mean that way. i heard what dad said. when dad allows he don't think the worse of any man, dad's give himself away. he hates to be mistook in his jedgments too. ho! ho! onct dad has a jedgment, he'd sooner dip his colours to the british than change it. i'm glad it's settled right eend up. dad's right when he says he can't take you back. it's all the livin' we make here--fishin'. the men'll be back like sharks after a dead whale in ha'af an hour." "what for?" said harvey. "supper, o' course. don't your stummick tell you? you've a heap to learn." "guess i have," said harvey, dolefully, looking at the tangle of ropes and blocks overhead. "she's a daisy," said dan, enthusiastically, misunderstanding the look. "wait till our mainsail's bent, an' she walks home with all her salt wet. there's some work first, though." he pointed down into the darkness of the open main-hatch between the two masts. "what's that for? it's all empty," said harvey. "you an' me an' a few more hev got to fill it," said dan. "that's where the fish goes." "alive?" said harvey. "well, no. they're so's to be ruther dead--an' flat--an' salt. there's a hundred hogshead o' salt in the bins, an' we hain't more'n covered our dunnage to now." "where are the fish, though?" "'in the sea they say, in the boats we pray,'" said dan, quoting a fisherman's proverb. "you come in last night with 'baout forty of 'em." he pointed to a sort of wooden pen just in front of the quarter-deck. "you an' me we'll sluice that out when they're through. 'send we'll hev full pens to-night! i've seen her down ha'af a foot with fish waitin' to clean, an' we stood to the tables till we was splittin' ourselves instid o' them, we was so sleepy. yes, they're comm' in naow." dan looked over the low bulwarks at half a dozen dories rowing towards them over the shining, silky sea. "i've never seen the sea from so low down," said harvey. "it's fine." the low sun made the water all purple and pinkish, with golden lights on the barrels of the long swells, and blue and green mackerel shades in the hollows. each schooner in sight seemed to be pulling her dories towards her by invisible strings, and the little black figures in the tiny boats pulled like clockwork toys. "they've struck on good," said dan, between his half-shut eyes. "manuel hain't room fer another fish. low ez a lily-pad in still water, aeneid he?" "which is manuel? i don't see how you can tell 'em 'way off, as you do." "last boat to the south'ard. he fund you last night," said dan, pointing. "manuel rows portugoosey; ye can't mistake him. east o' him--he's a heap better'n he rows--is pennsylvania. loaded with saleratus, by the looks of him. east o' him--see how pretty they string out all along--with the humpy shoulders, is long jack. he's a galway man inhabitin' south boston, where they all live mostly, an' mostly them galway men are good in a boat. north, away yonder--you'll hear him tune up in a minute is tom platt. man-o'-war's man he was on the old ohio first of our navy, he says, to go araound the horn. he never talks of much else, 'cept when he sings, but he has fair fishin' luck. there! what did i tell you?" a melodious bellow stole across the water from the northern dory. harvey heard something about somebody's hands and feet being cold, and then: "bring forth the chart, the doleful chart, see where them mountings meet! the clouds are thick around their heads, the mists around their feet." "full boat," said dan, with a chuckle. "if he give us 'o captain' it's topping' too!" the bellow continued: "and naow to thee, o capting, most earnestly i pray, that they shall never bury me in church or cloister gray." "double game for tom platt. he'll tell you all about the old ohio tomorrow. 'see that blue dory behind him? he's my uncle,--dad's own brother,--an' ef there's any bad luck loose on the banks she'll fetch up agin uncle salters, sure. look how tender he's rowin'. i'll lay my wage and share he's the only man stung up to-day--an' he's stung up good." "what'll sting him?" said harvey, getting interested. "strawberries, mostly. pumpkins, sometimes, an' sometimes lemons an' cucumbers. yes, he's stung up from his elbows down. that man's luck's perfectly paralyzin'. naow we'll take a-holt o' the tackles an' hist 'em in. is it true what you told me jest now, that you never done a hand's turn o' work in all your born life? must feel kinder awful, don't it?" "i'm going to try to work, anyway," harvey replied stoutly. "only it's all dead new." "lay a-holt o' that tackle, then. behind ye!" harvey grabbed at a rope and long iron hook dangling from one of the stays of the mainmast, while dan pulled down another that ran from something he called a "topping-lift," as manuel drew alongside in his loaded dory. the portuguese smiled a brilliant smile that harvey learned to know well later, and with a short-handled fork began to throw fish into the pen on deck. "two hundred and thirty-one," he shouted. "give him the hook," said dan, and harvey ran it into manuel's hands. he slipped it through a loop of rope at the dory's bow, caught dan's tackle, hooked it to the stern-becket, and clambered into the schooner. "pull!" shouted dan, and harvey pulled, astonished to find how easily the dory rose. "hold on, she don't nest in the crosstrees!" dan laughed; and harvey held on, for the boat lay in the air above his head. "lower away," dan shouted, and as harvey lowered, dan swayed the light boat with one hand till it landed softly just behind the mainmast. "they don't weigh nothin' empty. thet was right smart fer a passenger. there's more trick to it in a sea-way." "ah ha!" said manuel, holding out a brown hand. "you are some pretty well now? this time last night the fish they fish for you. now you fish for fish. eh, wha-at?" "i'm--i'm ever so grateful," harvey stammered, and his unfortunate hand stole to his pocket once more, but he remembered that he had no money to offer. when he knew manuel better the mere thought of the mistake he might have made would cover him with hot, uneasy blushes in his bunk. "there is no to be thankful for to me!" said manuel. "how shall i leave you dreeft, dreeft all around the banks? now you are a fisherman eh, wha-at? ouh! auh!" he bent backward and forward stiffly from the hips to get the kinks out of himself. "i have not cleaned boat to-day. too busy. they struck on queek. danny, my son, clean for me." harvey moved forward at once. here was something he could do for the man who had saved his life. dan threw him a swab, and he leaned over the dory, mopping up the slime clumsily, but with great good-will. "hike out the foot-boards; they slide in them grooves," said dan. "swab 'em an' lay 'em down. never let a foot-board jam. ye may want her bad some day. here's long jack." a stream of glittering fish flew into the pen from a dory alongside. "manuel, you take the tackle. i'll fix the tables. harvey, clear manuel's boat. long jack's nestin' on the top of her." harvey looked up from his swabbing at the bottom of another dory just above his head. "jest like the injian puzzle-boxes, ain't they?" said dan, as the one boat dropped into the other. "takes to ut like a duck to water," said long jack, a grizzly-chinned, long-lipped galway man, bending to and fro exactly as manuel had done. disko in the cabin growled up the hatchway, and they could hear him suck his pencil. "wan hunder an' forty-nine an' a half-bad luck to ye, discobolus!" said long jack. "i'm murderin' meself to fill your pockuts. slate ut for a bad catch. the portugee has bate me." whack came another dory alongside, and more fish shot into the pen. "two hundred and three. let's look at the passenger!" the speaker was even larger than the galway man, and his face was made curious by a purple cut running slant-ways from his left eye to the right corner of his mouth. not knowing what else to do, harvey swabbed each dory as it came down, pulled out the foot-boards, and laid them in the bottom of the boat. "he's caught on good," said the scarred man, who was tom platt, watching him critically. "there are two ways o' doin' everything. one's fisher-fashion--any end first an' a slippery hitch over all--an' the other's--" "what we did on the old ohio!" dan interrupted, brushing into the knot of men with a long board on legs. "get out o' here, tom platt, an' leave me fix the tables." he jammed one end of the board into two nicks in the bulwarks, kicked out the leg, and ducked just in time to avoid a swinging blow from the man-o'-war's man. "an' they did that on the ohio, too, danny. see?" said tom platt, laughing. "guess they was swivel-eyed, then, fer it didn't git home, and i know who'll find his boots on the main-truck ef he don't leave us alone. haul ahead! i'm busy, can't ye see?" "danny, ye lie on the cable an' sleep all day," said long jack. "you're the hoight av impidence, an' i'm persuaded ye'll corrupt our supercargo in a week." "his name's harvey," said dan, waving two strangely shaped knives, "an' he'll be worth five of any sou' boston clam-digger 'fore long." he laid the knives tastefully on the table, cocked his head on one side, and admired the effect. "i think it's forty-two," said a small voice overside, and there was a roar of laughter as another voice answered, "then my luck's turned fer onct, 'caze i'm forty-five, though i be stung outer all shape." "forty-two or forty-five. i've lost count," the small voice said. "it's penn an' uncle salters caountin' catch. this beats the circus any day," said dan. "jest look at 'em!" "come in--come in!" roared long jack. "it's wet out yondher, children." "forty-two, ye said." this was uncle salters. "i'll count again, then," the voice replied meekly. the two dories swung together and bunted into the schooner's side. "patience o' jerusalem!" snapped uncle salters, backing water with a splash. "what possest a farmer like you to set foot in a boat beats me. you've nigh stove me all up." "i am sorry, mr. salters. i came to sea on account of nervous dyspepsia. you advised me, i think." "you an' your nervis dyspepsy be drowned in the whale-hole," roared uncle salters, a fat and tubby little man. "you're comin' down on me agin. did ye say forty-two or forty-five?" "i've forgotten, mr. salters. let's count." "don't see as it could be forty-five. i'm forty-five," said uncle salters. "you count keerful, penn." disko troop came out of the cabin. "salters, you pitch your fish in naow at once," he said in the tone of authority. "don't spile the catch, dad," dan murmured. "them two are on'y jest beginnin'." "mother av delight! he's forkin' them wan by wan," howled long jack, as uncle salters got to work laboriously; the little man in the other dory counting a line of notches on the gunwale. "that was last week's catch," he said, looking up plaintively, his forefinger where he had left off. manuel nudged dan, who darted to the after-tackle, and, leaning far overside, slipped the hook into the stern-rope as manuel made her fast forward. the others pulled gallantly and swung the boat in--man, fish, and all. "one, two, four-nine," said tom platt, counting with a practised eye. "forty-seven. penn, you're it!" dan let the after-tackle run, and slid him out of the stern on to the deck amid a torrent of his own fish. "hold on!" roared uncle salters, bobbing by the waist. "hold on, i'm a bit mixed in my caount." he had no time to protest, but was hove inboard and treated like "pennsylvania." "forty-one," said tom platt. "beat by a farmer, salters. an' you sech a sailor, too!" "'tweren't fair caount," said he, stumbling out of the pen; "an' i'm stung up all to pieces." his thick hands were puffy and mottled purply white. "some folks will find strawberry-bottom," said dan, addressing the newly risen moon, "ef they hev to dive fer it, seems to me." "an' others," said uncle salters, "eats the fat o' the land in sloth, an' mocks their own blood-kin." "seat ye! seat ye!" a voice harvey had not heard called from the foc'sle. disko troop, tom platt, long jack, and salters went forward on the word. little penn bent above his square deep-sea reel and the tangled cod-lines; manuel lay down full length on the deck, and dan dropped into the hold, where harvey heard him banging casks with a hammer. "salt," he said, returning. "soon as we're through supper we git to dressing-down. you'll pitch to dad. tom platt an' dad they stow together, an' you'll hear 'em arguin'. we're second ha'af, you an' me an' manuel an' penn--the youth an' beauty o' the boat." "what's the good of that?" said harvey. "i'm hungry." "they'll be through in a minute. suff! she smells good to-night. dad ships a good cook ef he do suffer with his brother. it's a full catch today, aeneid it?" he pointed at the pens piled high with cod. "what water did ye hev, manuel?" "twenty-fife father," said the portuguese, sleepily. "they strike on good an' queek. some day i show you, harvey." the moon was beginning to walk on the still sea before the elder men came aft. the cook had no need to cry "second half." dan and manuel were down the hatch and at table ere tom platt, last and most deliberate of the elders, had finished wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. harvey followed penn, and sat down before a tin pan of cod's tongues and sounds, mixed with scraps of pork and fried potato, a loaf of hot bread, and some black and powerful coffee. hungry as they were, they waited while "pennsylvania" solemnly asked a blessing. then they stoked in silence till dan drew a breath over his tin cup and demanded of harvey how he felt. "'most full, but there's just room for another piece." the cook was a huge, jet-black negro, and, unlike all the negroes harvey had met, did not talk, contenting himself with smiles and dumb-show invitations to eat more. "see, harvey," said dan, rapping with his fork on the table, "it's jest as i said. the young an' handsome men--like me an' pennsy an' you an' manuel--we're second ha'af, an' we eats when the first ha'af are through. they're the old fish; an' they're mean an' humpy, an' their stummicks has to be humoured; so they come first, which they don't deserve. aeneid that so, doctor?" the cook nodded. "can't he talk?" said harvey in a whisper. "'nough to get along. not much o' anything we know. his natural tongue's kinder curious. comes from the innards of cape breton, he does, where the farmers speak homemade scotch. cape breton's full o' niggers whose folk run in there durin' aour war, an' they talk like farmers--all huffy-chuffy." "that is not scotch," said "pennsylvania." "that is gaelic. so i read in a book." "penn reads a heap. most of what he says is so--'cep' when it comes to a caount o' fish--eh?" "does your father just let them say how many they've caught without checking them?" said harvey. "why, yes. where's the sense of a man lyin' fer a few old cod?" "was a man once lied for his catch," manuel put in. "lied every day. fife, ten, twenty-fife more fish than come he say there was." "where was that?" said dan. "none o' aour folk." "frenchman of anguille." "ah! them west shore frenchmen don't caount anyway. stands to reason they can't caount. ef you run acrost any of their soft hooks, harvey, you'll know why," said dan, with an awful contempt. "always more and never less, every time we come to dress," long jack roared down the hatch, and the "second ha'af" scrambled up at once. the shadow of the masts and rigging, with the never-furled riding-sail, rolled to and fro on the heaving deck in the moonlight; and the pile of fish by the stern shone like a dump of fluid silver. in the hold there were tramplings and rumblings where disko troop and tom platt moved among the salt-bins. dan passed harvey a pitchfork, and led him to the inboard end of the rough table, where uncle salters was drumming impatiently with a knife-haft. a tub of salt water lay at his feet. "you pitch to dad an' tom platt down the hatch, an' take keer uncle salters don't cut yer eye out," said dan, swinging himself into the hold. "i'll pass salt below." penn and manuel stood knee deep among cod in the pen, flourishing drawn knives. long jack, a basket at his feet and mittens on his hands, faced uncle salters at the table, and harvey stared at the pitchfork and the tub. "hi!" shouted manuel, stooping to the fish, and bringing one up with a finger under its gill and a finger in its eyes. he laid it on the edge of the pen; the knife-blade glimmered with a sound of tearing, and the fish, slit from throat to vent, with a nick on either side of the neck, dropped at long jack's feet. "hi!" said long jack, with a scoop of his mittened hand. the cod's liver dropped in the basket. another wrench and scoop sent the head and offal flying, and the empty fish slid across to uncle salters, who snorted fiercely. there was another sound of tearing, the backbone flew over the bulwarks, and the fish, headless, gutted, and open, splashed in the tub, sending the salt water into harvey's astonished mouth. after the first yell, the men were silent. the cod moved along as though they were alive, and long ere harvey had ceased wondering at the miraculous dexterity of it all, his tub was full. "pitch!" grunted uncle salters, without turning his head, and harvey pitched the fish by twos and threes down the hatch. "hi! pitch 'em bunchy," shouted dan. "don't scatter! uncle salters is the best splitter in the fleet. watch him mind his book!" indeed, it looked a little as though the round uncle were cutting magazine pages against time. manuel's body, cramped over from the hips, stayed like a statue; but his long arms grabbed the fish without ceasing. little penn toiled valiantly, but it was easy to see he was weak. once or twice manuel found time to help him without breaking the chain of supplies, and once manuel howled because he had caught his finger in a frenchman's hook. these hooks are made of soft metal, to be rebent after use; but the cod very often get away with them and are hooked again elsewhere; and that is one of the many reasons why the gloucester boats despise the frenchmen. down below, the rasping sound of rough salt rubbed on rough flesh sounded like the whirring of a grindstone--steady undertune to the "click-nick" of knives in the pen; the wrench and shloop of torn heads, dropped liver, and flying offal; the "caraaah" of uncle salters's knife scooping away backbones; and the flap of wet, open bodies falling into the tub. at the end of an hour harvey would have given the world to rest; for fresh, wet cod weigh more than you would think, and his back ached with the steady pitching. but he felt for the first time in his life that he was one of the working gang of men, took pride in the thought, and held on sullenly. "knife oh!" shouted uncle salters at last. penn doubled up, gasping among the fish, manuel bowed back and forth to supple himself, and long jack leaned over the bulwarks. the cook appeared, noiseless as a black shadow, collected a mass of backbones and heads, and retreated. "blood-ends for breakfast an' head-chowder," said long jack, smacking his lips. "knife oh!" repeated uncle salters, waving the flat, curved splitter's weapon. "look by your foot, harve," cried dan below. harvey saw half a dozen knives stuck in a cleat in the hatch combing. he dealt these around, taking over the dulled ones. "water!" said disko troop. "scuttle-butt's for'ard an' the dipper's alongside. hurry, harve," said dan. he was back in a minute with a big dipperful of stale brown water which tasted like nectar, and loosed the jaws of disko and tom platt. "these are cod," said disko. "they ain't damarskus figs, tom platt, nor yet silver bars. i've told you that ever single time since we've sailed together." "a matter o' seven seasons," returned tom platt coolly. "good stowin's good stowin' all the same, an' there's a right an' a wrong way o' stowin' ballast even. if you'd ever seen four hundred ton o' iron set into the--" "hi!" with a yell from manuel the work began again, and never stopped till the pen was empty. the instant the last fish was down, disko troop rolled aft to the cabin with his brother; manuel and long jack went forward; tom platt only waited long enough to slide home the hatch ere he too disappeared. in half a minute harvey heard deep snores in the cabin, and he was staring blankly at dan and penn. "i did a little better that time, danny," said penn, whose eyelids were heavy with sleep. "but i think it is my duty to help clean." "'wouldn't hev your conscience fer a thousand quintal," said dan. "turn in, penn. you've no call to do boy's work. draw a bucket, harvey. oh, penn, dump these in the gurry-butt 'fore you sleep. kin you keep awake that long?" penn took up the heavy basket of fish-livers, emptied them into a cask with a hinged top lashed by the foc'sle; then he too dropped out of sight in the cabin. "boys clean up after dressin' down an' first watch in ca'am weather is boy's watch on the _we're here_." dan sluiced the pen energetically, unshipped the table, set it up to dry in the moonlight, ran the red knife-blades through a wad of oakum, and began to sharpen them on a tiny grindstone, as harvey threw offal and backbones overboard under his direction. at the first splash a silvery-white ghost rose bolt upright from the oily water and sighed a weird whistling sigh. harvey started back with a shout, but dan only laughed. "grampus," said he. "beggin' fer fish-heads. they up-eend the way when they're hungry. breath on him like the doleful tombs, hain't he?" a horrible stench of decayed fish filled the air as the pillar of white sank, and the water bubbled oilily. "hain't ye never seen a grampus up-eend before? you'll see 'em by hundreds 'fore ye're through. say, it's good to hev a boy aboard again. otto was too old, an' a dutchy at that. him an' me we fought consid'ble. 'wouldn't ha' keered fer that ef he'd hed a christian tongue in his head. sleepy?" "dead sleepy," said harvey, nodding forward. "mustn't sleep on watch. rouse up an' see ef our anchor-light's bright an' shinin'. you're on watch now, harve." "pshaw! what's to hurt us? bright's day. sn-orrr!" "jest when things happen, dad says. fine weather's good sleepin', an' 'fore you know, mebbe, you're cut in two by a liner, an' seventeen brass-bound officers, all gen'elmen, lift their hand to it that your lights was aout an' there was a thick fog. harve, i've kinder took to you, but ef you nod onct more i'll lay into you with a rope's end." the moon, who sees many strange things on the banks, looked down on a slim youth in knickerbockers and a red jersey, staggering around the cluttered decks of a seventy-ton schooner, while behind him, waving a knotted rope, walked, after the manner of an executioner, a boy who yawned and nodded between the blows he dealt. the lashed wheel groaned and kicked softly, the riding-sail slatted a little in the shifts of the light wind, the windlass creaked, and the miserable procession continued. harvey expostulated, threatened, whimpered, and at last wept outright, while dan, the words clotting on his tongue, spoke of the beauty of watchfulness and slashed away with the rope's end, punishing the dories as often as he hit harvey. at last the clock in the cabin struck ten, and upon the tenth stroke little penn crept on deck. he found two boys in two tumbled heaps side by side on the main hatch, so deeply asleep that he actually rolled them to their berths. chapter iii it was the forty-fathom slumber that clears the soul and eye and heart, and sends you to breakfast ravening. they emptied a big tin dish of juicy fragments of fish--the blood-ends the cook had collected overnight. they cleaned up the plates and pans of the elder mess, who were out fishing, sliced pork for the midday meal, swabbed down the foc'sle, filled the lamps, drew coal and water for the cook, and investigated the fore-hold, where the boat's stores were stacked. it was another perfect day--soft, mild, and clear; and harvey breathed to the very bottom of his lungs. more schooners had crept up in the night, and the long blue seas were full of sails and dories. far away on the horizon, the smoke of some liner, her hull invisible, smudged the blue, and to eastward a big ship's top-gallant sails, just lifting, made a square nick in it. disko troop was smoking by the roof of the cabin--one eye on the craft around, and the other on the little fly at the main-mast-head. "when dad kerflummoxes that way," said dan in a whisper, "he's doin' some high-line thinkin' fer all hands. i'll lay my wage an' share we'll make berth soon. dad he knows the cod, an' the fleet they know dad knows. 'see 'em comm' up one by one, lookin' fer nothin' in particular, o' course, but scrowgin' on us all the time? there's the _prince leboo_; she's a chat-ham boat. she's crep' up sence last night. an' see that big one with a patch in her foresail an' a new jib? she's the _carrie pitman_ from west chat-ham. she won't keep her canvas long onless her luck's changed since last season. she don't do much 'cep' drift. there ain't an anchor made 'll hold her. . . . when the smoke puffs up in little rings like that, dad's studyin' the fish. ef we speak to him now, he'll git mad. las' time i did, he jest took an' hove a boot at me." disko troop stared forward, the pipe between his teeth, with eyes that saw nothing. as his son said, he was studying the fish--pitting his knowledge and experience on the banks against the roving cod in his own sea. he accepted the presence of the inquisitive schooners on the horizon as a compliment to his powers. but now that it was paid, he wished to draw away and make his berth alone, till it was time to go up to the virgin and fish in the streets of that roaring town upon the waters. so disko troop thought of recent weather, and gales, currents, food-supplies, and other domestic arrangements, from the point of view of a twenty-pound cod; was, in fact, for an hour a cod himself, and looked remarkably like one. then he removed the pipe from his teeth. "dad," said dan, "we've done our chores. can't we go overside a piece? it's good catchin' weather." "not in that cherry-coloured rig ner them ha'af baked brown shoes. give him suthin' fit to wear." "dad's pleased--that settles it," said dan, delightedly, dragging harvey into the cabin, while troop pitched a key down the steps. "dad keeps my spare rig where he kin overhaul it, 'cause ma sez i'm keerless." he rummaged through a locker, and in less than three minutes harvey was adorned with fisherman's rubber boots that came half up his thigh, a heavy blue jersey well darned at the elbows, a pair of nippers, and a sou'wester. "naow ye look somethin' like," said dan. "hurry!" "keep nigh an' handy," said troop "an' don't go visitin' raound the fleet. if any one asks you what i'm cal'latin' to do, speak the truth--fer ye don't know." a little red dory, labelled hattie s., lay astern of the schooner. dan hauled in the painter, and dropped lightly on to the bottom boards, while harvey tumbled clumsily after. "that's no way o' gettin' into a boat," said dan. "ef there was any sea you'd go to the bottom, sure. you got to learn to meet her." dan fitted the thole-pins, took the forward thwart and watched harvey's work. the boy had rowed, in a lady-like fashion, on the adirondack ponds; but there is a difference between squeaking pins and well-balanced ruflocks--light sculls and stubby, eight-foot sea-oars. they stuck in the gentle swell, and harvey grunted. "short! row short!" said dan. "ef you cramp your oar in any kind o' sea you're liable to turn her over. ain't she a daisy? mine, too." the little dory was specklessly clean. in her bows lay a tiny anchor, two jugs of water, and some seventy fathoms of thin, brown dory-roding. a tin dinner-horn rested in cleats just under harvey's right hand, beside an ugly-looking maul, a short gaff, and a shorter wooden stick. a couple of lines, with very heavy leads and double cod-hooks, all neatly coiled on square reels, were stuck in their place by the gunwale. "where's the sail and mast?" said harvey, for his hands were beginning to blister. dan chuckled. "ye don't sail fishin'-dories much. ye pull; but ye needn't pull so hard. don't you wish you owned her?" "well, i guess my father might give me one or two if i asked 'em," harvey replied. he had been too busy to think much of his family till then. "that's so. i forgot your dad's a millionaire. you don't act millionary any, naow. but a dory an' craft an' gear"--dan spoke as though she were a whaleboat--"costs a heap. think your dad 'u'd give you one fer--fer a pet like?" "shouldn't wonder. it would be 'most the only thing i haven't stuck him for yet." "must be an expensive kinder kid to home. don't slitheroo thet way, harve. short's the trick, because no sea's ever dead still, an' the swells 'll--" crack! the loom of the oar kicked harvey under the chin and knocked him backwards. "that was what i was goin' to say. i hed to learn too, but i wasn't more than eight years old when i got my schoolin'." harvey regained his seat with aching jaws and a frown. "no good gettin' mad at things, dad says. it's our own fault ef we can't handle 'em, he says. le's try here. manuel 'll give us the water." the "portugee" was rocking fully a mile away, but when dan up-ended an oar he waved his left arm three times. "thirty fathom," said dan, stringing a salt clam on to the hook. "over with the doughboys. bait same's i do, harvey, an' don't snarl your reel." dan's line was out long before harvey had mastered the mystery of baiting and heaving out the leads. the dory drifted along easily. it was not worth while to anchor till they were sure of good ground. "here we come!" dan shouted, and a shower of spray rattled on harvey's shoulders as a big cod flapped and kicked alongside. "muckle, harvey, muckle! under your hand! quick!" evidently "muckle" could not be the dinner-horn, so harvey passed over the maul, and dan scientifically stunned the fish before he pulled it inboard, and wrenched out the hook with the short wooden stick he called a "gob-stick." then harvey felt a tug, and pulled up zealously. "why, these are strawberries!" he shouted. "look!" the hook had fouled among a bunch of strawberries, red on one side and white on the other--perfect reproductions of the land fruit, except that there were no leaves, and the stem was all pipy and slimy. "don't tech 'em. slat 'em off. don't--" the warning came too late. harvey had picked them from the hook, and was admiring them. "ouch!" he cried, for his fingers throbbed as though he had grasped many nettles. "now ye know what strawberry-bottom means. nothin' 'cep' fish should be teched with the naked fingers, dad says. slat 'em off agin the gunnel, an' bait up, harve. lookin' won't help any. it's all in the wages." harvey smiled at the thought of his ten and a half dollars a month, and wondered what his mother would say if she could see him hanging over the edge of a fishing-dory in mid-ocean. she suffered agonies whenever he went out on saranac lake; and, by the way, harvey remembered distinctly that he used to laugh at her anxieties. suddenly the line flashed through his hand, stinging even through the "nippers," the woolen circlets supposed to protect it. "he's a logy. give him room accordin' to his strength," cried dan. "i'll help ye." "no, you won't," harvey snapped, as he hung on to the line. "it's my first fish. is--is it a whale?" "halibut, mebbe." dan peered down into the water alongside, and flourished the big "muckle," ready for all chances. something white and oval flickered and fluttered through the green. "i'll lay my wage an' share he's over a hundred. are you so everlastin' anxious to land him alone?" harvey's knuckles were raw and bleeding where they had been banged against the gunwale; his face was purple-blue between excitement and exertion; he dripped with sweat, and was half-blinded from staring at the circling sunlit ripples about the swiftly moving line. the boys were tired long ere the halibut, who took charge of them and the dory for the next twenty minutes. but the big flat fish was gaffed and hauled in at last. "beginner's luck," said dan, wiping his forehead. "he's all of a hundred." harvey looked at the huge gray-and-mottled creature with unspeakable pride. he had seen halibut many times on marble slabs ashore, but it had never occurred to him to ask how they came inland. now he knew; and every inch of his body ached with fatigue. "ef dad was along," said dan, hauling up, "he'd read the signs plain's print. the fish are runnin' smaller an' smaller, an' you've took 'baout as logy a halibut's we're apt to find this trip. yesterday's catch--did ye notice it?--was all big fish an' no halibut. dad he'd read them signs right off. dad says everythin' on the banks is signs, an' can be read wrong er right. dad's deeper'n the whale-hole." even as he spoke some one fired a pistol on the _we're here_, and a potato-basket was run up in the fore-rigging. "what did i say, naow? that's the call fer the whole crowd. dad's onter something, er he'd never break fishin' this time o' day. reel up, harve, an' we'll pull back." they were to windward of the schooner, just ready to flirt the dory over the still sea, when sounds of woe half a mile off led them to penn, who was careering around a fixed point for all the world like a gigantic water-bug. the little man backed away and came down again with enormous energy, but at the end of each maneuver his dory swung round and snubbed herself on her rope. "we'll hev to help him, else he'll root an' seed here," said dan. "what's the matter?" said harvey. this was a new world, where he could not lay down the law to his elders, but had to ask questions humbly. and the sea was horribly big and unexcited. "anchor's fouled. penn's always losing 'em. lost two this trip a'ready--on sandy bottom too--an' dad says next one he loses, sure's fishin', he'll give him the kelleg. that 'u'd break penn's heart." "what's a 'kelleg'?" said harvey, who had a vague idea it might be some kind of marine torture, like keel-hauling in the storybooks. "big stone instid of an anchor. you kin see a kelleg ridin' in the bows fur's you can see a dory, an' all the fleet knows what it means. they'd guy him dreadful. penn couldn't stand that no more'n a dog with a dipper to his tail. he's so everlastin' sensitive. hello, penn! stuck again? don't try any more o' your patents. come up on her, and keep your rodin' straight up an' down." "it doesn't move," said the little man, panting. "it doesn't move at all, and instead i tried everything." "what's all this hurrah's-nest for'ard?" said dan, pointing to a wild tangle of spare oars and dory-roding, all matted together by the hand of inexperience. "oh, that," said penn proudly, "is a spanish windlass. mr. salters showed me how to make it; but even that doesn't move her." dan bent low over the gunwale to hide a smile, twitched once or twice on the roding, and, behold, the anchor drew at once. "haul up, penn," he said laughing, "er she'll git stuck again." they left him regarding the weed-hung flukes of the little anchor with big, pathetic blue eyes, and thanking them profusely. "oh, say, while i think of it, harve," said dan when they were out of ear-shot, "penn ain't quite all caulked. he ain't nowise dangerous, but his mind's give out. see?" "is that so, or is it one of your father's judgments?" harvey asked as he bent to his oars. he felt he was learning to handle them more easily. "dad ain't mistook this time. penn's a sure 'nuff loony." "no, he ain't thet exactly, so much ez a harmless ijut. it was this way (you're rowin' quite so, harve), an' i tell you 'cause it's right you orter know. he was a moravian preacher once. jacob boiler wuz his name, dad told me, an' he lived with his wife an' four children somewheres out pennsylvania way. well, penn he took his folks along to a moravian meetin'--camp-meetin' most like--an' they stayed over jest one night in johns-town. you've heered talk o' johnstown?" harvey considered. "yes, i have. but i don't know why. it sticks in my head same as ashtabula." "both was big accidents--thet's why, harve. well, that one single night penn and his folks was to the hotel johnstown was wiped out. 'dam bust an' flooded her, an' the houses struck adrift an' bumped into each other an' sunk. i've seen the pictures, an' they're dretful. penn he saw his folk drowned all'n a heap 'fore he rightly knew what was comin'. his mind give out from that on. he mistrusted somethin' hed happened up to johnstown, but for the poor life of him he couldn't remember what, an' he jest drifted araound smilin' an' wonderin'. he didn't know what he was, nor yit what he hed bin, an' thet way he run agin uncle salters, who was visitin' 'n allegheny city. ha'af my mother's folks they live scattered inside o' pennsylvania, an' uncle salters he visits araound winters. uncle salters he kinder adopted penn, well knowin' what his trouble wuz; an' he brought him east, an' he give him work on his farm." "why, i heard him calling penn a farmer last night when the boats bumped. is your uncle salters a farmer?" "farmer!" shouted dan. "there ain't water enough 'tween here an' hatt'rus to wash the furrer-mold off'n his boots. he's jest everlastin' farmer. why, harve, i've seen thet man hitch up a bucket, long towards sundown, an' set twiddlin' the spigot to the scuttle-butt same's ef 'twas a cow's bag. he's thet much farmer. well, penn an' he they ran the farm--up exeter way 'twur. uncle salters he sold it this spring to a jay from boston as wanted to build a summer-haouse, an' he got a heap for it. well, them two loonies scratched along till, one day, penn's church--he'd belonged to the moravians--found out where he wuz drifted an' layin', an' wrote to uncle salters. 'never heerd what they said exactly; but uncle salters was mad. he's a 'piscopolian mostly--but he jest let 'em hev it both sides o' the bow, 's if he was a baptist; an' sez he warn't goin' to give up penn to any blame moravian connection in pennsylvania or anywheres else. then he come to dad, towin' penn,--thet was two trips back,--an' sez he an' penn must fish a trip fer their health. 'guess he thought the moravians wouldn't hunt the banks fer jacob boiler. dad was agreeable, fer uncle salters he'd been fishin' off an' on fer thirty years, when he warn't inventin' patent manures, an' he took quarter-share in the _we're here_; an' the trip done penn so much good, dad made a habit o' takin' him. some day, dad sez, he'll remember his wife an' kids an' johnstown, an' then, like as not, he'll die, dad sez. don't ye talk abaout johnstown ner such things to penn, 'r uncle salters he'll heave ye overboard." "poor penn!" murmured harvey. "i shouldn't ever have thought uncle salters cared for him by the look of 'em together." "i like penn, though; we all do," said dan. "we ought to ha' give him a tow, but i wanted to tell ye first." they were close to the schooner now, the other boats a little behind them. "you needn't heave in the dories till after dinner," said troop from the deck. "we'll dress daown right off. fix table, boys!" "deeper'n the whale-deep," said dan, with a wink, as he set the gear for dressing down. "look at them boats that hev edged up sence mornin'. they're all waitin' on dad. see 'em, harve?" "they are all alike to me." and indeed to a landsman, the nodding schooners around seemed run from the same mold. "they ain't, though. that yaller, dirty packet with her bowsprit steeved that way, she's the hope of prague. nick brady's her skipper, the meanest man on the banks. we'll tell him so when we strike the main ledge. 'way off yonder's the day's eye. the two jeraulds own her. she's from harwich; fastish, too, an' hez good luck; but dad he'd find fish in a graveyard. them other three, side along, they're the margie smith, rose, and edith s. walen, all from home. 'guess we'll see the abbie m. deering to-morrer, dad, won't we? they're all slippin' over from the shaol o' 'oueereau." "you won't see many boats to-morrow, danny." when troop called his son danny, it was a sign that the old man was pleased. "boys, we're too crowded," he went on, addressing the crew as they clambered inboard. "we'll leave 'em to bait big an' catch small." he looked at the catch in the pen, and it was curious to see how little and level the fish ran. save for harvey's halibut, there was nothing over fifteen pounds on deck. "i'm waitin' on the weather," he added. "ye'll have to make it yourself, disko, for there's no sign i can see," said long jack, sweeping the clear horizon. and yet, half an hour later, as they were dressing down, the bank fog dropped on them, "between fish and fish," as they say. it drove steadily and in wreaths, curling and smoking along the colourless water. the men stopped dressing-down without a word. long jack and uncle salters slipped the windlass brakes into their sockets, and began to heave up the anchor; the windlass jarring as the wet hempen cable strained on the barrel. manuel and tom platt gave a hand at the last. the anchor came up with a sob, and the riding-sail bellied as troop steadied her at the wheel. "up jib and foresail," said he. "slip 'em in the smother," shouted long jack, making fast the jib-sheet, while the others raised the clacking, rattling rings of the foresail; and the foreboom creaked as the _we're here_ looked up into the wind and dived off into blank, whirling white. "there's wind behind this fog," said troop. it was wonderful beyond words to harvey; and the most wonderful part was that he heard no orders except an occasional grunt from troop, ending with, "that's good, my son!" "never seen anchor weighed before?" said tom platt, to harvey gaping at the damp canvas of the foresail. "no. where are we going?" "fish and make berth, as you'll find out 'fore you've been a week aboard. it's all new to you, but we never know what may come to us. now, take me--tom platt--i'd never ha' thought--" "it's better than fourteen dollars a month an' a bullet in your belly," said troop, from the wheel. "ease your jumbo a grind." "dollars an' cents better," returned the man-o'-war's man, doing something to a big jib with a wooden spar tied to it. "but we didn't think o' that when we manned the windlass-brakes on the miss jim buck, i outside beau-fort harbor, with fort macon heavin' hot shot at our stern, an' a livin' gale atop of all. where was you then, disko?" "jest here, or hereabouts," disko replied, "earnin' my bread on the deep waters, an' dodgin' reb privateers. sorry i can't accommodate you with red-hot shot, tom platt; but i guess we'll come aout all right on wind 'fore we see eastern point." there was an incessant slapping and chatter at the bows now, varied by a solid thud and a little spout of spray that clattered down on the foc'sle. the rigging dripped clammy drops, and the men lounged along the lee of the house--all save uncle salters, who sat stiffly on the main-hatch nursing his stung hands. "guess she'd carry stays'l," said disko, rolling one eye at his brother. "guess she wouldn't to any sorter profit. what's the sense o' wastin' canvas?" the farmer-sailor replied. the wheel twitched almost imperceptibly in disko's hands. a few seconds later a hissing wave-top slashed diagonally across the boat, smote uncle salters between the shoulders, and drenched him from head to foot. he rose sputtering, and went forward only to catch another. "see dad chase him all around the deck," said dan. "uncle salters he thinks his quarter share's our canvas. dad's put this duckin' act up on him two trips runnin'. hi! that found him where he feeds." uncle salters had taken refuge by the foremast, but a wave slapped him over the knees. disko's face was as blank as the circle of the wheel. "guess she'd lie easier under stays'l, salters," said disko, as though he had seen nothing. "set your old kite, then," roared the victim through a cloud of spray; "only don't lay it to me if anything happens. penn, you go below right off an' git your coffee. you ought to hev more sense than to bum araound on deck this weather." "now they'll swill coffee an' play checkers till the cows come home," said dan, as uncle salters hustled penn into the fore-cabin. "'looks to me like's if we'd all be doin' so fer a spell. there's nothin' in creation deader-limpsey-idler'n a banker when she ain't on fish." "i'm glad ye spoke, danny," cried long jack, who had been casting round in search of amusement. "i'd clean forgot we'd a passenger under that t-wharf hat. there's no idleness for thim that don't know their ropes. pass him along, tom platt, an' we'll larn him." "'tain't my trick this time," grinned dan. "you've got to go it alone. dad learned me with a rope's end." for an hour long jack walked his prey up and down, teaching, as he said, "things at the sea that ivry man must know, blind, dhrunk, or asleep." there is not much gear to a seventy-ton schooner with a stump-foremast, but long jack had a gift of expression. when he wished to draw harvey's attention to the peak-halyards, he dug his knuckles into the back of the boy's neck and kept him at gaze for half a minute. he emphasized the difference between fore and aft generally by rubbing harvey's nose along a few feet of the boom, and the lead of each rope was fixed in harvey's mind by the end of the rope itself. the lesson would have been easier had the deck been at all free; but there appeared to be a place on it for everything and anything except a man. forward lay the windlass and its tackle, with the chain and hemp cables, all very unpleasant to trip over; the foc'sle stovepipe, and the gurry-butts by the foc'sle hatch to hold the fish-livers. aft of these the foreboom and booby of the main-hatch took all the space that was not needed for the pumps and dressing-pens. then came the nests of dories lashed to ring-bolts by the quarter-deck; the house, with tubs and oddments lashed all around it; and, last, the sixty-foot main-boom in its crutch, splitting things length-wise, to duck and dodge under every time. tom platt, of course, could not keep his oar out of the business, but ranged alongside with enormous and unnecessary descriptions of sails and spars on the old ohio. "niver mind fwhat he says; attind to me, innocince. tom platt, this bally-hoo's not the ohio, an' you're mixing the bhoy bad." "he'll be ruined for life, beginnin' on a fore-an'-after this way," tom platt pleaded. "give him a chance to know a few leadin' principles. sailin's an art, harvey, as i'd show you if i had ye in the fore-top o' the--" "i know ut. ye'd talk him dead an' cowld. silince, tom platt! now, after all i've said, how'd you reef the foresail, harve? take your time answerin'." "haul that in," said harvey, pointing to leeward. "fwhat? the north atlantuc?" "no, the boom. then run that rope you showed me back there--" "that's no way," tom platt burst in. "quiet! he's larnin', an' has not the names good yet. go on, harve." "oh, it's the reef-pennant. i'd hook the tackle on to the reef-pennant, and then let down--" "lower the sail, child! lower!" said tom platt, in a professional agony. "lower the throat and peak halyards," harvey went on. those names stuck in his head. "lay your hand on thim," said long jack. harvey obeyed. "lower till that rope-loop--on the after-leach-kris--no, it's cringle--till the cringle was down on the boom. then i'd tie her up the way you said, and then i'd hoist up the peak and throat halyards again." "you've forgot to pass the tack-earing, but wid time and help ye'll larn. there's good and just reason for ivry rope aboard, or else 'twould be overboard. d'ye follow me? 'tis dollars an' cents i'm puttin' into your pocket, ye skinny little supercargo, so that fwhin ye've filled out ye can ship from boston to cuba an' tell thim long jack larned you. now i'll chase ye around a piece, callin' the ropes, an' you'll lay your hand on thim as i call." he began, and harvey, who was feeling rather tired, walked slowly to the rope named. a rope's end licked round his ribs, and nearly knocked the breath out of him. "when you own a boat," said tom platt, with severe eyes, "you can walk. till then, take all orders at the run. once more--to make sure!" harvey was in a glow with the exercise, and this last cut warmed him thoroughly. now he was a singularly smart boy, the son of a very clever man and a very sensitive woman, with a fine resolute temper that systematic spoiling had nearly turned to mulish obstinacy. he looked at the other men, and saw that even dan did not smile. it was evidently all in the day's work, though it hurt abominably; so he swallowed the hint with a gulp and a gasp and a grin. the same smartness that led him to take such advantage of his mother made him very sure that no one on the boat, except, maybe, penn, would stand the least nonsense. one learns a great deal from a mere tone. long jack called over half a dozen ropes, and harvey danced over the deck like an eel at ebb-tide, one eye on tom platt. "ver' good. ver' good don," said manuel. "after supper i show you a little schooner i make, with all her ropes. so we shall learn." "fust-class fer--a passenger," said dan. "dad he's jest allowed you'll be wuth your salt maybe 'fore you're draownded. thet's a heap fer dad. i'll learn you more our next watch together." "taller!" grunted disko, peering through the fog as it smoked over the bows. there was nothing to be seen ten feet beyond the surging jib-boom, while alongside rolled the endless procession of solemn, pale waves whispering and lipping one to the other. "now i'll learn you something long jack can't," shouted tom platt, as from a locker by the stern he produced a battered deep-sea lead hollowed at one end, smeared the hollow from a saucer full of mutton tallow, and went forward. "i'll learn you how to fly the blue pigeon. shooo!" disko did something to the wheel that checked the schooner's way, while manuel, with harvey to help (and a proud boy was harvey), let down the jib in a lump on the boom. the lead sung a deep droning song as tom platt whirled it round and round. "go ahead, man," said long jack, impatiently. "we're not drawin' twenty-five fut off fire island in a fog. there's no trick to ut." "don't be jealous, galway." the released lead plopped into the sea far ahead as the schooner surged slowly forward. "soundin' is a trick, though," said dan, "when your dipsey lead's all the eye you're like to hev for a week. what d'you make it, dad?" disko's face relaxed. his skill and honour were involved in the march he had stolen on the rest of the fleet, and he had his reputation as a master artist who knew the banks blindfold. "sixty, mebbe--ef i'm any judge," he replied, with a glance at the tiny compass in the window of the house. "sixty," sung out tom platt, hauling in great wet coils. the schooner gathered way once more. "heave!" said disko, after a quarter of an hour. "what d'you make it?" dan whispered, and he looked at harvey proudly. but harvey was too proud of his own performances to be impressed just then. "fifty," said the father. "i mistrust we're right over the nick o' green bank on old sixty-fifty." "fifty!" roared tom platt. they could scarcely see him through the fog. "she's bust within a yard--like the shells at fort macon." "bait up, harve," said dan, diving for a line on the reel. the schooner seemed to be straying promiscuously through the smother, her headsail banging wildly. the men waited and looked at the boys who began fishing. "heugh!" dan's lines twitched on the scored and scarred rail. "now haow in thunder did dad know? help us here, harve. it's a big un. poke-hooked, too." they hauled together, and landed a goggle-eyed twenty-pound cod. he had taken the bait right into his stomach. "why, he's all covered with little crabs," cried harvey, turning him over. "by the great hook-block, they're lousy already," said long jack. "disko, ye kape your spare eyes under the keel." splash went the anchor, and they all heaved over the lines, each man taking his own place at the bulwarks. "are they good to eat?" harvey panted, as he lugged in another crab-covered cod. "sure. when they're lousy it's a sign they've all been herdin' together by the thousand, and when they take the bait that way they're hungry. never mind how the bait sets. they'll bite on the bare hook." "say, this is great!" harvey cried, as the fish came in gasping and splashing--nearly all poke-hooked, as dan had said. "why can't we always fish from the boat instead of from the dories?" "allus can, till we begin to dress daown. efter thet, the heads and offals 'u'd scare the fish to fundy. boatfishin' ain't reckoned progressive, though, unless ye know as much as dad knows. guess we'll run aout aour trawl to-night. harder on the back, this, than frum the dory, ain't it?" it was rather back-breaking work, for in a dory the weight of a cod is water-borne till the last minute, and you are, so to speak, abreast of him; but the few feet of a schooner's freeboard make so much extra dead-hauling, and stooping over the bulwarks cramps the stomach. but it was wild and furious sport so long as it lasted; and a big pile lay aboard when the fish ceased biting. "where's penn and uncle salters?" harvey asked, slapping the slime off his oilskins, and reeling up the line in careful imitation of the others. "git 's coffee and see." under the yellow glare of the lamp on the pawl-post, the foc'sle table down and opened, utterly unconscious of fish or weather, sat the two men, a checker-board between them, uncle salters snarling at penn's every move. "what's the matter naow?" said the former, as harvey, one hand in the leather loop at the head of the ladder, hung shouting to the cook. "big fish and lousy--heaps and heaps," harvey replied, quoting long jack. "how's the game?" little penn's jaw dropped. "'tweren't none o' his fault," snapped uncle salters. "penn's deef." "checkers, weren't it?" said dan, as harvey staggered aft with the steaming coffee in a tin pail. "that lets us out o' cleanin' up to-night. dad's a jest man. they'll have to do it." "an' two young fellers i know'll bait up a tub or so o' trawl, while they're cleanin'," said disko, lashing the wheel to his taste. "um! guess i'd ruther clean up, dad." "don't doubt it. ye wun't, though. dress daown! dress daown! penn'll pitch while you two bait up." "why in thunder didn't them blame boys tell us you'd struck on?" said uncle salters, shuffling to his place at the table. "this knife's gum-blunt, dan." "ef stickin' out cable don't wake ye, guess you'd better hire a boy o' your own," said dan, muddling about in the dusk over the tubs full of trawl-line lashed to windward of the house. "oh, harve, don't ye want to slip down an' git 's bait?" "bait ez we are," said disko. "i mistrust shag-fishin' will pay better, ez things go." that meant the boys would bait with selected offal of the cod as the fish were cleaned--an improvement on paddling bare-handed in the little bait-barrels below. the tubs were full of neatly coiled line carrying a big hook each few feet; and the testing and baiting of every single hook, with the stowage of the baited line so that it should run clear when shot from the dory, was a scientific business. dan managed it in the dark, without looking, while harvey caught his fingers on the barbs and bewailed his fate. but the hooks flew through dan's fingers like tatting on an old maid's lap. "i helped bait up trawl ashore 'fore i could well walk," he said. "but it's a putterin' job all the same. oh, dad!" this shouted towards the hatch, where disko and tom platt were salting. "how many skates you reckon we'll need?" "'baout three. hurry!" "there's three hundred fathom to each tub," dan explained; "more'n enough to lay out to-night. ouch! 'slipped up there, i did." he stuck his finger in his mouth. "i tell you, harve, there ain't money in gloucester 'u'd hire me to ship on a reg'lar trawler. it may be progressive, but, barrin' that, it's the putterin'est, slimjammest business top of earth." "i don't know what this is, if 'tisn't regular trawling," said harvey sulkily. "my fingers are all cut to frazzles." "pshaw! this is just one o' dad's blame experiments. he don't trawl 'less there's mighty good reason fer it. dad knows. thet's why he's baitin' ez he is. we'll hev her saggin' full when we take her up er we won't see a fin." penn and uncle salters cleaned up as disko had ordained, but the boys profited little. no sooner were the tubs furnished than tom platt and long jack, who had been exploring the inside of a dory with a lantern, snatched them away, loaded up the tubs and some small, painted trawl-buoys, and hove the boat overboard into what harvey regarded as an exceedingly rough sea. "they'll be drowned. why, the dory's loaded like a freight-car," he cried. "we'll be back," said long jack, "an' in case you'll not be lookin' for us, we'll lay into you both if the trawl's snarled." the dory surged up on the crest of a wave, and just when it seemed impossible that she could avoid smashing against the schooner's side, slid over the ridge, and was swallowed up in the damp dusk. "take ahold here, an' keep ringin' steady," said dan, passing harvey the lanyard of a bell that hung just behind the windlass. harvey rang lustily, for he felt two lives depended on him. but disko in the cabin, scrawling in the log-book, did not look like a murderer, and when he went to supper he even smiled dryly at the anxious harvey. "this ain't no weather," said dan. "why, you an' me could set thet trawl! they've only gone out jest far 'nough so's not to foul our cable. they don't need no bell reelly." "clang! clang! clang!" harvey kept it up, varied with occasional rub-a-dubs, for another half-hour. there was a bellow and a bump alongside. manuel and dan raced to the hooks of the dory-tackle; long jack and tom platt arrived on deck together, it seemed, one half the north atlantic at their backs, and the dory followed them in the air, landing with a clatter. "nary snarl," said tom platt as he dripped. "danny, you'll do yet." "the pleasure av your comp'ny to the banquit," said long jack, squelching the water from his boots as he capered like an elephant and stuck an oil-skinned arm into harvey's face. "we do be condescending to honour the second half wid our presence." and off they all four rolled to supper, where harvey stuffed himself to the brim on fish-chowder and fried pies, and fell fast asleep just as manuel produced from a locker a lovely two-foot model of the lucy holmes, his first boat, and was going to show harvey the ropes. harvey never even twiddled his fingers as penn pushed him into his bunk. "it must be a sad thing--a very sad thing," said penn, watching the boy's face, "for his mother and his father, who think he is dead. to lose a child--to lose a man-child!" "git out o' this, penn," said dan. "go aft and finish your game with uncle salters. tell dad i'll stand harve's watch ef he don't keer. he's played aout." "ver' good boy," said manuel, slipping out of his boots and disappearing into the black shadows of the lower bunk. "expec' he make good man, danny. i no see he is any so mad as your parpa he says. eh, wha-at?" dan chuckled, but the chuckle ended in a snore. it was thick weather outside, with a rising wind, and the elder men stretched their watches. the hour struck clear in the cabin; the nosing bows slapped and scuffed with the seas; the foc'sle stove-pipe hissed and sputtered as the spray caught it; and the boys slept on, while disko, long jack, tom platt, and uncle salters, each in turn, stumped aft to look at the wheel, forward to see that the anchor held, or to veer out a little more cable against chafing, with a glance at the dim anchor-light between each round. chapter iv harvey waked to find the "first half" at breakfast, the foc'sle door drawn to a crack, and every square inch of the schooner singing its own tune. the black bulk of the cook balanced behind the tiny galley over the glare of the stove, and the pots and pans in the pierced wooden board before it jarred and racketed to each plunge. up and up the foc'sle climbed, yearning and surging and quivering, and then, with a clear, sickle-like swoop, came down into the seas. he could hear the flaring bows cut and squelch, and there was a pause ere the divided waters came down on the deck above, like a volley of buckshot. followed the woolly sound of the cable in the hawse-hole; and a grunt and squeal of the windlass; a yaw, a punt, and a kick, and the _we're here_ gathered herself together to repeat the motions. "now, ashore," he heard long jack saying, "ye've chores, an' ye must do thim in any weather. here we're well clear of the fleet, an' we've no chores--an' that's a blessin'. good night, all." he passed like a big snake from the table to his bunk, and began to smoke. tom platt followed his example; uncle salters, with penn, fought his way up the ladder to stand his watch, and the cook set for the "second half." it came out of its bunks as the others had entered theirs, with a shake and a yawn. it ate till it could eat no more; and then manuel filled his pipe with some terrible tobacco, crotched himself between the pawl-post and a forward bunk, cocked his feet up on the table, and smiled tender and indolent smiles at the smoke. dan lay at length in his bunk, wrestling with a gaudy, gilt-stopped accordion, whose tunes went up and down with the pitching of the _we're here_. the cook, his shoulders against the locker where he kept the fried pies (dan was fond of fried pies), peeled potatoes, with one eye on the stove in event of too much water finding its way down the pipe; and the general smell and smother were past all description. harvey considered affairs, wondered that he was not deathly sick, and crawled into his bunk again, as the softest and safest place, while dan struck up, "i don't want to play in your yard," as accurately as the wild jerks allowed. "how long is this for?" harvey asked of manuel. "till she get a little quiet, and we can row to trawl. perhaps to-night. perhaps two days more. you do not like? eh, wha-at?" "i should have been crazy sick a week ago, but it doesn't seem to upset me now--much." "that is because we make you fisherman, these days. if i was you, when i come to gloucester i would give two, three big candles for my good luck." "give who?" "to be sure--the virgin of our church on the hill. she is very good to fishermen all the time. that is why so few of us portugee men ever are drowned." "you're a roman catholic, then?" "i am a madeira man. i am not a porto pico boy. shall i be baptist, then? eh, wha-at? i always give candles--two, three more when i come to gloucester. the good virgin she never forgets me, manuel." "i don't sense it that way," tom platt put in from his bunk, his scarred face lit up by the glare of a match as he sucked at his pipe. "it stands to reason the sea's the sea; and you'll get jest about what's goin', candles or kerosene, fer that matter." "'tis a mighty good thing," said long jack, "to have a frind at coort, though. i'm o' manuel's way o' thinkin'. about tin years back i was crew to a sou' boston market-boat. we was off minot's ledge wid a northeaster, butt first, atop of us, thicker'n burgoo. the ould man was dhrunk, his chin waggin' on the tiller, an' i sez to myself, 'if iver i stick my boat-huk into t-wharf again, i'll show the saints fwhat manner o' craft they saved me out av.' now, i'm here, as ye can well see, an' the model of the dhirty ould kathleen, that took me a month to make, i gave ut to the priest, an' he hung ut up forninst the altar. there's more sense in givin' a model that's by way o' bein' a work av art than any candle. ye can buy candles at store, but a model shows the good saints ye've tuk trouble an' are grateful." "d'you believe that, irish?" said tom platt, turning on his elbow. "would i do ut if i did not, ohio?" "wa-al, enoch fuller he made a model o' the old ohio, and she's to calem museum now. mighty pretty model, too, but i guess enoch he never done it fer no sacrifice; an' the way i take it is--" there were the makings of an hour-long discussion of the kind that fishermen love, where the talk runs in shouting circles and no one proves anything at the end, had not dan struck up this cheerful rhyme: "up jumped the mackerel with his stripe'd back. reef in the mainsail, and haul on the tack; _for_ it's windy weather--" here long jack joined in: "_and_ it's blowy weather; _when_ the winds begin to blow, pipe all hands together!" dan went on, with a cautious look at tom platt, holding the accordion low in the bunk: "up jumped the cod with his chuckle-head, went to the main-chains to heave at the lead; _for_ it's windy weather," etc. tom platt seemed to be hunting for something. dan crouched lower, but sang louder: "up jumped the flounder that swims to the ground. chuckle-head! chuckle-head! mind where ye sound!" tom platt's huge rubber boot whirled across the foc'sle and caught dan's uplifted arm. there was war between the man and the boy ever since dan had discovered that the mere whistling of that tune would make him angry as he heaved the lead. "thought i'd fetch yer," said dan, returning the gift with precision. "ef you don't like my music, git out your fiddle. i ain't goin' to lie here all day an' listen to you an' long jack arguin' 'baout candles. fiddle, tom platt; or i'll learn harve here the tune!" tom platt leaned down to a locker and brought up an old white fiddle. manuel's eye glistened, and from somewhere behind the pawl-post he drew out a tiny, guitar-like thing with wire strings, which he called a machette. "'tis a concert," said long jack, beaming through the smoke. "a reg'lar boston concert." there was a burst of spray as the hatch opened, and disko, in yellow oilskins, descended. "ye're just in time, disko. fwhat's she doin' outside?" "jest this!" he dropped on to the lockers with the push and heave of the _we're here_. "we're singin' to kape our breakfasts down. ye'll lead, av course, disko," said long jack. "guess there ain't more'n 'baout two old songs i know, an' ye've heerd them both." his excuses were cut short by tom platt launching into a most dolorous tune, like unto the moaning of winds and the creaking of masts. with his eyes fixed on the beams above, disko began this ancient, ancient ditty, tom platt flourishing all round him to make the tune and words fit a little: "there is a crack packet--crack packet o' fame, she hails from noo york, an' the _dreadnought's_ her name. you may talk o' your fliers--swallowtail and black ball-- but the _dreadnought's_ the packet that can beat them all. "now the _dreadnought_ she lies in the river mersey, because of the tug-boat to take her to sea; but when she's off soundings you shortly will know (chorus.) she's the liverpool packet--o lord, let her go! "now the _dreadnought_ she's howlin' crost the banks o' newfoundland, where the water's all shallow and the bottom's all sand. sez all the little fishes that swim to and fro: (chorus.) 'she's the liverpool packet--o lord, let her go!'", there were scores of verses, for he worked the _dreadnought_ every mile of the way between liverpool and new york as conscientiously as though he were on her deck, and the accordion pumped and the fiddle squeaked beside him. tom platt followed with something about "the rough and tough mcginn, who would pilot the vessel in." then they called on harvey, who felt very flattered, to contribute to the entertainment; but all that he could remember were some pieces of "skipper ireson's ride" that he had been taught at the camp-school in the adirondacks. it seemed that they might be appropriate to the time and place, but he had no more than mentioned the title when disko brought down one foot with a bang, and cried, "don't go on, young feller. that's a mistaken jedgment--one o' the worst kind, too, becaze it's catchin' to the ear." "i orter ha' warned you," said dan. "thet allus fetches dad." "what's wrong?" said harvey, surprised and a little angry. "all you're goin' to say," said disko. "all dead wrong from start to finish, an' whittier he's to blame. i have no special call to right any marblehead man, but 'tweren't no fault o' ireson's. my father he told me the tale time an' again, an' this is the way 'twuz." "for the wan hundredth time," put in long jack under his breath "ben ireson he was skipper o' the betty, young feller, comin' home frum the banks--that was before the war of , but jestice is jestice at all times. they fund the active o' portland, an' gibbons o' that town he was her skipper; they fund her leakin' off cape cod light. there was a terr'ble gale on, an' they was gettin' the betty home 's fast as they could craowd her. well, ireson he said there warn't any sense to reskin' a boat in that sea; the men they wouldn't hev it; and he laid it before them to stay by the active till the sea run daown a piece. they wouldn't hev that either, hangin' araound the cape in any sech weather, leak or no leak. they jest up stays'l an' quit, nat'rally takin' ireson with 'em. folks to marblehead was mad at him not runnin' the risk, and becaze nex' day, when the sea was ca'am (they never stopped to think o' that), some of the active's folks was took off by a truro man. they come into marblehead with their own tale to tell, sayin' how ireson had shamed his town, an' so forth an' so on, an' ireson's men they was scared, seein' public feelin' agin' 'em, an' they went back on ireson, an' swore he was respons'ble for the hull act. 'tweren't the women neither that tarred and feathered him--marblehead women don't act that way--'twas a passel o' men an' boys, an' they carted him araound town in an old dory till the bottom fell aout, and ireson he told 'em they'd be sorry for it some day. well, the facts come aout later, same's they usually do, too late to be any ways useful to an honest man; an' whittier he come along an' picked up the slack eend of a lyin' tale, an' tarred and feathered ben ireson all over onct more after he was dead. 'twas the only tune whittier ever slipped up, an' 'tweren't fair. i whaled dan good when he brought that piece back from school. you don't know no better, o' course; but i've give you the facts, hereafter an' evermore to be remembered. ben ireson weren't no sech kind o' man as whittier makes aout; my father he knew him well, before an' after that business, an' you beware o' hasty jedgments, young feller. next!" harvey had never heard disko talk so long, and collapsed with burning cheeks; but, as dan said promptly, a boy could only learn what he was taught at school, and life was too short to keep track of every lie along the coast. then manuel touched the jangling, jarring little machette to a queer tune, and sang something in portuguese about "nina, innocente!" ending with a full-handed sweep that brought the song up with a jerk. then disko obliged with his second song, to an old-fashioned creaky tune, and all joined in the chorus. this is one stanza: "now aprile is over and melted the snow, and outer noo bedford we shortly must tow; yes, out o' noo bedford we shortly must clear, we're the whalers that never see wheat in the ear." here the fiddle went very softly for a while by itself, and then: "wheat-in-the-ear, my true-love's posy blowin, wheat-in-the-ear, we're goin' off to sea; wheat-in-the-ear, i left you fit for sowin, when i come back a loaf o' bread you'll be!" that made harvey almost weep, though he could not tell why. but it was much worse when the cook dropped the potatoes and held out his hands for the fiddle. still leaning against the locker door, he struck into a tune that was like something very bad but sure to happen whatever you did. after a little he sang, in an unknown tongue, his big chin down on the fiddle-tail, his white eyeballs glaring in the lamplight. harvey swung out of his bunk to hear better; and amid the straining of the timbers and the wash of the waters the tune crooned and moaned on, like lee surf in a blind fog, till it ended with a wail. "jimmy christmas! thet gives me the blue creevles," said dan. "what in thunder is it?" "the song of fin mccoul," said the cook, "when he wass going to norway." his english was not thick, but all clear-cut, as though it came from a phonograph. "faith, i've been to norway, but i didn't make that unwholesim noise. 'tis like some of the old songs, though," said long jack, sighing. "don't let's hev another 'thout somethin' between," said dan; and the accordion struck up a rattling, catchy tune that ended: "it's six an' twenty sundays sence las' we saw the land, with fifteen hunder quintal, an' fifteen hunder quintal, 'teen hunder toppin' quintal, 'twix' old 'queereau an' grand!" "hold on!" roared tom platt. "d'ye want to nail the trip, dan? that's jonah sure, 'less you sing it after all our salt's wet." "no, 'tain't, is it, dad? not unless you sing the very las' verse. you can't learn me anything on jonahs!" "what's that?" said harvey. "what's a jonah?" "a jonah's anything that spoils the luck. sometimes it's a man--sometimes it's a boy--or a bucket. i've known a splittin'-knife jonah two trips till we was on to her," said tom platt. "there's all sorts o' jonahs. jim bourke was one till he was drowned on georges. i'd never ship with jim bourke, not if i was starvin'. there wuz a green dory on the ezra flood. thet was a jonah, too, the worst sort o' jonah. drowned four men, she did, an' used to shine fiery o, nights in the nest." "and you believe that?" said harvey, remembering what tom platt had said about candles and models. "haven't we all got to take what's served?" a mutter of dissent ran round the bunks. "outboard, yes; inboard, things can happen," said disko. "don't you go makin' a mock of jonahs, young feller." "well, harve ain't no jonah. day after we catched him," dan cut in, "we had a toppin' good catch." the cook threw up his head and laughed suddenly--a queer, thin laugh. he was a most disconcerting nigger. "murder!" said long jack. "don't do that again, doctor. we ain't used to ut." "what's wrong?" said dan. "ain't he our mascot, and didn't they strike on good after we'd struck him?" "oh! yess," said the cook. "i know that, but the catch iss not finish yet." "he ain't goin' to do us any harm," said dan, hotly. "where are ye hintin' an' edgin' to? he's all right." "no harm. no. but one day he will be your master, danny." "that all?" said dan, placidly. "he wun't--not by a jugful." "master!" said the cook, pointing to harvey. "man!" and he pointed to dan. "that's news. haow soon?" said dan, with a laugh. "in some years, and i shall see it. master and man--man and master." "how in thunder d'ye work that out?" said tom platt. "in my head, where i can see." "haow?" this from all the others at once. "i do not know, but so it will be." he dropped his head, and went on peeling the potatoes, and not another word could they get out of him. "well," said dan, "a heap o' things'll hev to come abaout 'fore harve's any master o' mine; but i'm glad the doctor ain't choosen to mark him for a jonah. now, i mistrust uncle salters fer the jonerest jonah in the fleet regardin' his own special luck. dunno ef it's spreadin' same's smallpox. he ought to be on the _carrie pitman_. that boat's her own jonah, sure--crews an' gear made no differ to her driftin'. jiminy christmas! she'll etch loose in a flat ca'am." "we're well clear o' the fleet, anyway," said disko. "_carrie pitman_ an' all." there was a rapping on the deck. "uncle salters has catched his luck," said dan as his father departed. "it's blown clear," disko cried, and all the foc'sle tumbled up for a bit of fresh air. the fog had gone, but a sullen sea ran in great rollers behind it. the _we're here_ slid, as it were, into long, sunk avenues and ditches which felt quite sheltered and homelike if they would only stay still; but they changed without rest or mercy, and flung up the schooner to crown one peak of a thousand gray hills, while the wind hooted through her rigging as she zigzagged down the slopes. far away a sea would burst into a sheet of foam, and the others would follow suit as at a signal, till harvey's eyes swam with the vision of interlacing whites and grays. four or five mother carey's chickens stormed round in circles, shrieking as they swept past the bows. a rain-squall or two strayed aimlessly over the hopeless waste, ran down 'wind and back again, and melted away. "seems to me i saw somethin' flicker jest naow over yonder," said uncle salters, pointing to the northeast. "can't be any of the fleet," said disko, peering under his eyebrows, a hand on the foc'sle gangway as the solid bows hatcheted into the troughs. "sea's oilin' over dretful fast. danny, don't you want to skip up a piece an' see how aour trawl-buoy lays?" danny, in his big boots, trotted rather than climbed up the main rigging (this consumed harvey with envy), hitched himself around the reeling cross-trees, and let his eye rove till it caught the tiny black buoy-flag on the shoulder of a mile-away swell. "she's all right," he hailed. "sail o! dead to the no'th'ard, comin' down like smoke! schooner she be, too." they waited yet another half-hour, the sky clearing in patches, with a flicker of sickly sun from time to time that made patches of olive-green water. then a stump-foremast lifted, ducked, and disappeared, to be followed on the next wave by a high stern with old-fashioned wooden snail's-horn davits. the snails were red-tanned. "frenchmen!" shouted dan. "no, 'tain't, neither. da-ad!" "that's no french," said disko. "salters, your blame luck holds tighter'n a screw in a keg-head." "i've eyes. it's uncle abishai." "you can't nowise tell fer sure." "the head-king of all jonahs," groaned tom platt. "oh, salters, salters, why wasn't you abed an' asleep?" "how could i tell?" said poor salters, as the schooner swung up. she might have been the very flying dutchman, so foul, draggled, and unkempt was every rope and stick aboard. her old-style quarterdeck was some or five feet high, and her rigging flew knotted and tangled like weed at a wharf-end. she was running before the wind--yawing frightfully--her staysail let down to act as a sort of extra foresail,--"scandalized," they call it,--and her foreboom guyed out over the side. her bowsprit cocked up like an old-fashioned frigate's; her jib-boom had been fished and spliced and nailed and clamped beyond further repair; and as she hove herself forward, and sat down on her broad tail, she looked for all the world like a blouzy, frouzy, bad old woman sneering at a decent girl. "that's abishai," said salters. "full o' gin an' judique men, an' the judgments o' providence layin' fer him an' never takin' good holt he's run in to bait, miquelon way." "he'll run her under," said long jack. "that's no rig fer this weather." "not he, 'r he'd'a done it long ago," disko replied. "looks 's if he cal'lated to run us under. ain't she daown by the head more 'n natural, tom platt?" "ef it's his style o' loadin' her she ain't safe," said the sailor slowly. "ef she's spewed her oakum he'd better git to his pumps mighty quick." the creature threshed up, wore round with a clatter and raffle, and lay head to wind within ear-shot. a gray-beard wagged over the bulwark, and a thick voice yelled something harvey could not understand. but disko's face darkened. "he'd resk every stick he hez to carry bad news. says we're in fer a shift o' wind. he's in fer worse. abishai! abi-shai!" he waved his arm up and down with the gesture of a man at the pumps, and pointed forward. the crew mocked him and laughed. "jounce ye, an' strip ye an' trip ye!" yelled uncle abishai. "a livin' gale--a livin' gale. yab! cast up fer your last trip, all you gloucester haddocks. you won't see gloucester no more, no more!" "crazy full--as usual," said tom platt. "wish he hadn't spied us, though." she drifted out of hearing while the gray-head yelled something about a dance at the bay of bulls and a dead man in the foc'sle. harvey shuddered. he had seen the sloven tilled decks and the savage-eyed crew. "an' that's a fine little floatin' hell fer her draught," said long jack. "i wondher what mischief he's been at ashore." "he's a trawler," dan explained to harvey, "an' he runs in fer bait all along the coast. oh, no, not home, he don't go. he deals along the south an' east shore up yonder." he nodded in the direction of the pitiless newfoundland beaches. "dad won't never take me ashore there. they're a mighty tough crowd--an' abishai's the toughest. you saw his boat? well, she's nigh seventy year old, they say; the last o' the old marblehead heel-tappers. they don't make them quarterdecks any more. abishai don't use marblehead, though. he ain't wanted there. he jes' drif's araound, in debt, trawlin' an' cussin' like you've heard. bin a jonah fer years an' years, he hez. 'gits liquor frum the feecamp boats fer makin' spells an' selling winds an' such truck. crazy, i guess." "'twon't be any use underrunnin' the trawl to-night," said tom platt, with quiet despair. "he come alongside special to cuss us. i'd give my wage an' share to see him at the gangway o' the old ohio 'fore we quit floggin'. jest abaout six dozen, an' sam mocatta layin' 'em on criss-cross!" the disheveled "heel-tapper" danced drunkenly down wind, and all eyes followed her. suddenly the cook cried in his phonograph voice: "it wass his own death made him speak so! he iss fey--fey, i tell you! look!" she sailed into a patch of watery sunshine three or four miles distant. the patch dulled and faded out, and even as the light passed so did the schooner. she dropped into a hollow and--was not. "run under, by the great hook-block!" shouted disko, jumping aft. "drunk or sober, we've got to help 'em. heave short and break her out! smart!" harvey was thrown on the deck by the shock that followed the setting of the jib and foresail, for they hove short on the cable, and to save time, jerked the anchor bodily from the bottom, heaving in as they moved away. this is a bit of brute force seldom resorted to except in matters of life and death, and the little _we're here_ complained like a human. they ran down to where abishai's craft had vanished; found two or three trawl-tubs, a gin-bottle, and a stove-in dory, but nothing more. "let 'em go," said disko, though no one had hinted at picking them up. "i wouldn't hev a match that belonged to abishai aboard. guess she run clear under. must ha' been spewin' her oakum fer a week, an' they never thought to pump her. that's one more boat gone along o' leavin' port all hands drunk." "glory be!" said long jack. "we'd ha' been obliged to help 'em if they was top o' water." "'thinkin' o' that myself," said tom platt. "fey! fey!" said the cook, rolling his eyes. "he haas taken his own luck with him." "ver' good thing, i think, to tell the fleet when we see. eh, wha-at?" said manuel. "if you runna that way before the 'wind, and she work open her seams--" he threw out his hands with an indescribable gesture, while penn sat down on the house and sobbed at the sheer horror and pity of it all. harvey could not realize that he had seen death on the open waters, but he felt very sick. then dan went up the cross-trees, and disko steered them back to within sight of their own trawl-buoys just before the fog blanketed the sea once again. "we go mighty quick hereabouts when we do go," was all he said to harvey. "you think on that fer a spell, young feller. that was liquor." "after dinner it was calm enough to fish from the decks,--penn and uncle salters were very zealous this time,--and the catch was large and large fish. "abishai has shorely took his luck with him," said salters. "the wind hain't backed ner riz ner nothin'. how abaout the trawl? i despise superstition, anyway." tom platt insisted that they had much better haul the thing and make a new berth. but the cook said: "the luck iss in two pieces. you will find it so when you look. i know." this so tickled long jack that he overbore tom platt and the two went out together. underrunning a trawl means pulling it in on one side of the dory, picking off the fish, rebaiting the hooks, and passing them back to the sea again--something like pinning and unpinning linen on a wash-line. it is a lengthy business and rather dangerous, for the long, sagging line may twitch a boat under in a flash. but when they heard, "and naow to thee, o capting," booming out of the fog, the crew of the _we're here_ took heart. the dory swirled alongside well loaded, tom platt yelling for manuel to act as relief-boat. "the luck's cut square in two pieces," said long jack, forking in the fish, while harvey stood open-mouthed at the skill with which the plunging dory was saved from destruction. "one half was jest punkins. tom platt wanted to haul her an' ha' done wid ut; but i said, "i'll back the doctor that has the second sight, an' the other half come up sagging full o' big uns. hurry, man'nle, an' bring's a tub o' bait. there's luck afloat to-night." the fish bit at the newly baited hooks from which their brethren had just been taken, and tom platt and long jack moved methodically up and down the length of the trawl, the boat's nose surging under the wet line of hooks, stripping the sea-cucumbers that they called pumpkins, slatting off the fresh-caught cod against the gunwale, rebaiting, and loading manuel's dory till dusk. "i'll take no risks," said disko then--"not with him floatin' around so near. abishai won't sink fer a week. heave in the dories an' we'll dress daown after supper." that was a mighty dressing-down, attended by three or four blowing grampuses. it lasted till nine o'clock, and disko was thrice heard to chuckle as harvey pitched the split fish into the hold. "say, you're haulin' ahead dretful fast," said dan, when they ground the knives after the men had turned in. "there's somethin' of a sea to-night, an' i hain't heard you make no remarks on it." "too busy," harvey replied, testing a blade's edge. "come to think of it, she is a high-kicker." the little schooner was gambolling all around her anchor among the silver-tipped waves. backing with a start of affected surprise at the sight of the strained cable, she pounced on it like a kitten, while the spray of her descent burst through the hawse-holes with the report of a gun. shaking her head, she would say: "well, i'm sorry i can't stay any longer with you. i'm going north," and would sidle off, halting suddenly with a dramatic rattle of her rigging. "as i was just going to observe," she would begin, as gravely as a drunken man addressing a lamp-post. the rest of the sentence (she acted her words in dumb-show, of course) was lost in a fit of the fidgets, when she behaved like a puppy chewing a string, a clumsy woman in a side-saddle, a hen with her head cut off, or a cow stung by a hornet, exactly as the whims of the sea took her. "see her sayin' her piece. she's patrick henry naow," said dan. she swung sideways on a roller, and gesticulated with her jib-boom from port to starboard. "but-ez-fer me, give me liberty-er give me-death!" wop! she sat down in the moon-path on the water, courtesying with a flourish of pride impressive enough had not the wheel-gear sniggered mockingly in its box. harvey laughed aloud. "why, it's just as if she was alive," he said. "she's as stiddy as a haouse an' as dry as a herrin'," said dan enthusiastically, as he was slung across the deck in a batter of spray. "fends 'em off an' fends 'em off, an' 'don't ye come anigh me,' she sez. look at her--jest look at her! sakes! you should see one o' them toothpicks histin' up her anchor on her spike outer fifteen-fathom water." "what's a toothpick, dan?" "them new haddockers an' herrin'-boats. fine's a yacht forward, with yacht sterns to 'em, an' spike bowsprits, an' a haouse that 'u'd take our hold. i've heard that burgess himself he made the models fer three or four of 'em. dad's sot agin 'em on account o' their pitchin' an' joltin', but there's heaps o' money in 'em. dad can find fish, but he ain't no ways progressive--he don't go with the march o' the times. they're chock-full o' labour-savin' jigs an' sech all. 'ever seed the elector o' gloucester? she's a daisy, ef she is a toothpick." "what do they cost, dan?" "hills o' dollars. fifteen thousand, p'haps; more, mebbe. there's gold-leaf an' everything you kin think of." then to himself, half under his breath, "guess i'd call her hattie s., too." chapter v that was the first of many talks with dan, who told harvey why he would transfer his dory's name to the imaginary burgess-modelled haddocker. harvey heard a good deal about the real hattie at gloucester; saw a lock of her hair--which dan, finding fair words of no avail, had "hooked" as she sat in front of him at school that winter--and a photograph. hattie was about fourteen years old, with an awful contempt for boys, and had been trampling on dan's heart through the winter. all this was revealed under oath of solemn secrecy on moonlit decks, in the dead dark, or in choking fog; the whining wheel behind them, the climbing deck before, and without, the unresting, clamorous sea. once, of course, as the boys came to know each other, there was a fight, which raged from bow to stern till penn came up and separated them, but promised not to tell disko, who thought fighting on watch rather worse than sleeping. harvey was no match for dan physically, but it says a great deal for his new training that he took his defeat and did not try to get even with his conqueror by underhand methods. that was after he had been cured of a string of boils between his elbows and wrists, where the wet jersey and oilskins cut into the flesh. the salt water stung them unpleasantly, but when they were ripe dan treated them with disko's razor, and assured harvey that now he was a "blooded banker"; the affliction of gurry-sores being the mark of the caste that claimed him. since he was a boy and very busy, he did not bother his head with too much thinking. he was exceedingly sorry for his mother, and often longed to see her and above all to tell her of this wonderful new life, and how brilliantly he was acquitting himself in it. otherwise he preferred not to wonder too much how she was bearing the shock of his supposed death. but one day, as he stood on the foc'sle ladder, guying the cook, who had accused him and dan of hooking fried pies, it occurred to him that this was a vast improvement on being snubbed by strangers in the smoking-room of a hired liner. he was a recognized part of the scheme of things on the we're here; had his place at the table and among the bunks; and could hold his own in the long talks on stormy days, when the others were always ready to listen to what they called his "fairy-tales" of his life ashore. it did not take him more than two days and a quarter to feel that if he spoke of his own life--it seemed very far away--no one except dan (and even dan's belief was sorely tried) credited him. so he invented a friend, a boy he had heard of, who drove a miniature four-pony drag in toledo, ohio, and ordered five suits of clothes at a time and led things called "germans" at parties where the oldest girl was not quite fifteen, but all the presents were solid silver. salters protested that this kind of yarn was desperately wicked, if not indeed positively blasphemous, but he listened as greedily as the others; and their criticisms at the end gave harvey entirely new notions on "germans," clothes, cigarettes with gold-leaf tips, rings, watches, scent, small dinner-parties, champagne, card-playing, and hotel accommodation. little by little he changed his tone when speaking of his "friend," whom long jack had christened "the crazy kid," "the gilt-edged baby," "the suckin' vanderpoop," and other pet names; and with his sea-booted feet cocked up on the table would even invent histories about silk pajamas and specially imported neckwear, to the "friend's" discredit. harvey was a very adaptable person, with a keen eye and ear for every face and tone about him. before long he knew where disko kept the old greencrusted quadrant that they called the "hog-yoke"--under the bed-bag in his bunk. when he took the sun, and with the help of "the old farmer's" almanac found the latitude, harvey would jump down into the cabin and scratch the reckoning and date with a nail on the rust of the stove-pipe. now, the chief engineer of the liner could have done no more, and no engineer of thirty years' service could have assumed one half of the ancient-mariner air with which harvey, first careful to spit over the side, made public the schooner's position for that day, and then and not till then relieved disko of the quadrant. there is an etiquette in all these things. the said "hog-yoke," an eldridge chart, the farming almanac, blunt's "coast pilot," and bowditch's "navigator" were all the weapons disko needed to guide him, except the deep-sea lead that was his spare eye. harvey nearly slew penn with it when tom platt taught him first how to "fly the blue pigeon"; and, though his strength was not equal to continuous sounding in any sort of a sea, for calm weather with a seven-pound lead on shoal water disko used him freely. as dan said: "'tain't soundin's dad wants. it's samples. grease her up good, harve." harvey would tallow the cup at the end, and carefully bring the sand, shell, sludge, or whatever it might be, to disko, who fingered and smelt it and gave judgment as has been said, when disko thought of cod he thought as a cod; and by some long-tested mixture of instinct and experience, moved the we're here from berth to berth, always with the fish, as a blindfolded chess-player moves on the unseen board. but disko's board was the grand bank--a triangle two hundred and fifty miles on each side--a waste of wallowing sea, cloaked with dank fog, vexed with gales, harried with drifting ice, scored by the tracks of the reckless liners, and dotted with the sails of the fishing-fleet. for days they worked in fog--harvey at the bell--till, grown familiar with the thick airs, he went out with tom platt, his heart rather in his mouth. but the fog would not lift, and the fish were biting, and no one can stay helplessly afraid for six hours at a time. harvey devoted himself to his lines and the gaff or gob-stick as tom platt called for them; and they rowed back to the schooner guided by the bell and tom's instinct; manuel's conch sounding thin and faint beside them. but it was an unearthly experience, and, for the first time in a month, harvey dreamed of the shifting, smoking floors of water round the dory, the lines that strayed away into nothing, and the air above that melted on the sea below ten feet from his straining eyes. a few days later he was out with manuel on what should have been forty-fathom bottom, but the whole length of the roding ran out, and still the anchor found nothing, and harvey grew mortally afraid, for that his last touch with earth was lost. "whale-hole," said manuel, hauling in. "that is good joke on disko. come!" and he rowed to the schooner to find tom platt and the others jeering at the skipper because, for once, he had led them to the edge of the barren whale-deep, the blank hole of the grand bank. they made another berth through the fog, and that time the hair of harvey's head stood up when he went out in manuel's dory. a whiteness moved in the whiteness of the fog with a breath like the breath of the grave, and there was a roaring, a plunging, and spouting. it was his first introduction to the dread summer berg of the banks, and he cowered in the bottom of the boat while manuel laughed. there were days, though, clear and soft and warm, when it seemed a sin to do anything but loaf over the hand-lines and spank the drifting "sun-scalds" with an oar; and there were days of light airs, when harvey was taught how to steer the schooner from one berth to another. it thrilled through him when he first felt the keel answer to his band on the spokes and slide over the long hollows as the foresail scythed back and forth against the blue sky. that was magnificent, in spite of disko saying that it would break a snake's back to follow his wake. but, as usual, pride ran before a fall. they were sailing on the wind with the staysail--an old one, luckily--set, and harvey jammed her right into it to show dan how completely he had mastered the art. the foresail went over with a bang, and the foregaff stabbed and ripped through the staysail, which was, of course, prevented from going over by the mainstay. they lowered the wreck in awful silence, and harvey spent his leisure hours for the next few days under tom platt's lee, learning to use a needle and palm. dan hooted with joy, for, as he said, he had made the very same blunder himself in his early days. boylike, harvey imitated all the men by turns, till he had combined disko's peculiar stoop at the wheel, long jack's swinging overhand when the lines were hauled, manuel's round-shouldered but effective stroke in a dory, and tom platt's generous ohio stride along the deck. "'tis beautiful to see how he takes to ut," said long jack, when harvey was looking out by the windlass one thick noon. "i'll lay my wage an' share 'tis more'n half play-actin' to him, an' he consates himself he's a bowld mariner. watch his little bit av a back now!" "that's the way we all begin," said tom platt. "the boys they make believe all the time till they've cheated 'emselves into bein' men, an' so till they die--pretendin' an' pretendin'. i done it on the old ohio, i know. stood my first watch--harbor-watch--feelin' finer'n farragut. dan's full o' the same kind o' notions. see 'em now, actin' to be genewine moss-backs--very hair a rope-yarn an' blood stockholm tar." he spoke down the cabin stairs. "guess you're mistook in your judgments fer once, disko. what in rome made ye tell us all here the kid was crazy?" "he wuz," disko replied. "crazy ez a loon when he come aboard; but i'll say he's sobered up consid'ble sence. i cured him." "he yarns good," said tom platt. "t'other night he told us abaout a kid of his own size steerin' a cunnin' little rig an' four ponies up an' down toledo, ohio, i think 'twas, an' givin' suppers to a crowd o' sim'lar kids. cur'us kind o' fairy-tale, but blame interestin'. he knows scores of 'em." "guess he strikes 'em outen his own head," disko called from the cabin, where he was busy with the logbook. "stands to reason that sort is all made up. it don't take in no one but dan, an' he laughs at it. i've heard him, behind my back." "yever hear what sim'on peter ca'houn said when they whacked up a match 'twix' his sister hitty an' lorin' jerauld, an' the boys put up that joke on him daown to georges?" drawled uncle salters, who was dripping peaceably under the lee of the starboard dory-nest. tom platt puffed at his pipe in scornful silence: he was a cape cod man, and had not known that tale more than twenty years. uncle salters went on with a rasping chuckie: "sim'on peter ca'houn he said, an' he was jest right, abaout lorin', 'ha'af on the taown,' he said, 'an' t'other ha'af blame fool; an' they told me she's married a 'ich man.' sim'on peter ca'houn he hedn't no roof to his mouth, an' talked that way." "he didn't talk any pennsylvania dutch," tom platt replied. "you'd better leave a cape man to tell that tale. the ca'houns was gypsies frum 'way back." "wal, i don't profess to be any elocutionist," salters said. "i'm comin' to the moral o' things. that's jest abaout what aour harve be! ha'af on the taown, an' t'other ha'af blame fool; an' there's some'll believe he's a rich man. yah!" "did ye ever think how sweet 'twould be to sail wid a full crew o' salterses?" said long jack. "ha'af in the furrer an' other ha'af in the muck-heap, as ca'houn did not say, an' makes out he's a fisherman!" a little laugh went round at salters's expense. disko held his tongue, and wrought over the log-book that he kept in a hatchet-faced, square hand; this was the kind of thing that ran on, page after soiled page: "july . this day thick fog and few fish. made berth to northward. so ends this day. "july . this day comes in with thick fog. caught a few fish. "july . this day comes in with light breeze from n.e. and fine weather. made a berth to eastward. caught plenty fish. "july . this, the sabbath, comes in with fog and light winds. so ends this day. total fish caught this week, , ." they never worked on sundays, but shaved, and washed themselves if it were fine, and pennsylvania sang hymns. once or twice he suggested that, if it was not an impertinence, he thought he could preach a little. uncle salters nearly jumped down his throat at the mere notion, reminding him that he was not a preacher and mustn't think of such things. "we'd hev him rememberin' johns-town next," salters explained, "an' what would happen then?" so they compromised on his reading aloud from a book called "josephus." it was an old leather-bound volume, smelling of a hundred voyages, very solid and very like the bible, but enlivened with accounts of battles and sieges; and they read it nearly from cover to cover. otherwise penn was a silent little body. he would not utter a word for three days on end sometimes, though he played checkers, listened to the songs, and laughed at the stories. when they tried to stir him up, he would answer: "i don't wish to seem unneighbourly, but it is because i have nothing to say. my head feels quite empty. i've almost forgotten my name." he would turn to uncle salters with an expectant smile. "why, pennsylvania pratt," salters would shout "you'll fergit me next!" "no--never," penn would say, shutting his lips firmly. "pennsylvania pratt, of course," he would repeat over and over. sometimes it was uncle salters who forgot, and told him he was haskins or rich or mcvitty; but penn was equally content--till next time. he was always very tender with harvey, whom he pitied both as a lost child and as a lunatic; and when salters saw that penn liked the boy, he relaxed, too. salters was not an amiable person (he esteemed it his business to keep the boys in order); and the first time harvey, in fear and trembling, on a still day, managed to shin up to the main-truck (dan was behind him ready to help), he esteemed it his duty to hang salters's big sea-boots up there--a sight of shame and derision to the nearest schooner. with disko, harvey took no liberties; not even when the old man dropped direct orders, and treated him, like the rest of the crew, to "don't you want to do so and so?" and "guess you'd better," and so forth. there was something about the clean-shaven lips and the puckered corners of the eyes that was mightily sobering to young blood. disko showed him the meaning of the thumbed and pricked chart, which, he said, laid over any government publication whatsoever; led him, pencil in hand, from berth to berth over the whole string of banks--le have, western, banquereau, st. pierre, green, and grand--talking "cod" meantime. taught him, too, the principle on which the "hog-yoke" was worked. in this harvey excelled dan, for he had inherited a head for figures, and the notion of stealing information from one glimpse of the sullen bank sun appealed to all his keen wits. for other sea-matters his age handicapped him. as disko said, he should have begun when he was ten. dan could bait up trawl or lay his hand on any rope in the dark; and at a pinch, when uncle salters had a gurry-score on his palm, could dress down by sense of touch. he could steer in anything short of half a gale from the feel of the wind on his face, humouring the _we're here_ just when she needed it. these things he did as automatically as he skipped about the rigging, or made his dory a part of his own will and body. but he could not communicate his knowledge to harvey. still there was a good deal of general information flying about the schooner on stormy days, when they lay up in the foc'sle or sat on the cabin lockers, while spare eye-bolts, leads, and rings rolled and rattled in the pauses of the talk. disko spoke of whaling voyages in the fifties; of great she-whales slain beside their young; of death agonies on the black tossing seas, and blood that spurted forty feet in the air; of boats smashed to splinters; of patent rockets that went off wrong-end-first and bombarded the trembling crews; of cutting-in and boiling-down, and that terrible "nip" of ' , when twelve hundred men were made homeless on the ice in three days--wonderful tales, all true. but more wonderful still were his stories of the cod, and how they argued and reasoned on their private businesses deep down below the keel. long jack's tastes ran more to the supernatural. he held them silent with ghastly stories of the "yo-hoes" on monomoy beach, that mock and terrify lonely clam-diggers; of sand-walkers and dune-haunters who were never properly buried; of hidden treasure on fire island guarded by the spirits of kidd's men; of ships that sailed in the fog straight over truro township; of that harbor in maine where no one but a stranger will lie at anchor twice in a certain place because of a dead crew who row alongside at midnight with the anchor in the bow of their old-fashioned boat, whistling--not calling, but whistling--for the soul of the man who broke their rest. harvey had a notion that the east coast of his native land, from mount desert south, was populated chiefly by people who took their horses there in the summer and entertained in country-houses with hardwood floors and vantine portires. he laughed at the ghost-tales,--not as much as he would have done a month before,--but ended by sitting still and shuddering. tom platt dealt with his interminable trip round the horn on the old ohio in flogging days, with a navy more extinct than the dodo--the navy that passed away in the great war. he told them how red-hot shot are dropped into a cannon, a wad of wet clay between them and the cartridge; how they sizzle and reek when they strike wood, and how the little ship-boys of the miss jim buck hove water over them and shouted to the fort to try again. and he told tales of blockade--long weeks of swaying at anchor, varied only by the departure and return of steamers that had used up their coal (there was no chance for the sailing-ships); of gales and cold that kept two hundred men, night and day, pounding and chopping at the ice on cable, blocks, and rigging, when the galley was as red-hot as the fort's shot, and men drank cocoa by the bucket. tom platt had no use for steam. his service closed when that thing was comparatively new. he admitted that it was a specious invention in time of peace, but looked hopefully for the day when sails should come back again on ten-thousand-ton frigates with hundred-and-ninety-foot booms. manuel's talk was slow and gentle--all about pretty girls in madeira washing clothes in the dry beds of streams, by moonlight, under waving bananas; legends of saints, and tales of queer dances or fights away in the cold newfoundland baiting-ports. salters was mainly agricultural; for, though he read "josephus" and expounded it, his mission in life was to prove the value of green manures, and specially of clover, against every form of phosphate whatsoever. he grew libellous about phosphates; he dragged greasy "orange judd" books from his bunk and intoned them, wagging his finger at harvey, to whom it was all greek. little penn was so genuinely pained when harvey made fun of salters's lectures that the boy gave it up, and suffered in polite silence. that was very good for harvey. the cook naturally did not join in these conversations. as a rule, he spoke only when it was absolutely necessary; but at times a queer gift of speech descended on him, and he held forth, half in gaelic, half in broken english, an hour at a time. he was especially communicative with the boys, and he never withdrew his prophecy that one day harvey would be dan's master, and that he would see it. he told them of mail-carrying in the winter up cape breton way, of the dog-train that goes to coudray, and of the ram-steamer _arctic_, that breaks the ice between the mainland and prince edward island. then he told them stories that his mother had told him, of life far to the southward, where water never froze; and he said that when he died his soul would go to lie down on a warm white beach of sand with palm-trees waving above. that seemed to the boys a very odd idea for a man who had never seen a palm in his life. then, too, regularly at each meal, he would ask harvey, and harvey alone, whether the cooking was to his taste; and this always made the "second half" laugh. yet they had a great respect for the cook's judgment, and in their hearts considered harvey something of a mascot by consequence. and while harvey was taking in knowledge of new things at each pore and hard health with every gulp of the good air, the we're here went her ways and did her business on the bank, and the silvery-gray kenches of well-pressed fish mounted higher and higher in the hold. no one day's work was out of common, but the average days were many and close together. naturally, a man of disko's reputation was closely watched--"scrowged upon," dan called it--by his neighbours, but he had a very pretty knack of giving them the slip through the curdling, glidy fog-banks. disko avoided company for two reasons. he wished to make his own experiments, in the first place; and in the second, he objected to the mixed gatherings of a fleet of all nations. the bulk of them were mainly gloucester boats, with a scattering from provincetown, harwich, chatham, and some of the maine ports, but the crews drew from goodness knows where. risk breeds recklessness, and when greed is added there are fine chances for every kind of accident in the crowded fleet, which, like a mob of sheep, is huddled round some unrecognized leader. "let the two jeraulds lead 'em," said disko. "we're baound to lay among 'em for a spell on the eastern shoals; though ef luck holds, we won't hev to lay long. where we are naow, harve, ain't considered noways good graound." "ain't it?" said harvey, who was drawing water (he had learned just how to wiggle the bucket), after an unusually long dressing-down. "shouldn't mind striking some poor ground for a change, then." "all the graound i want to see--don't want to strike her--is eastern point," said dan. "say, dad, it looks's if we wouldn't hev to lay more'n two weeks on the shoals. you'll meet all the comp'ny you want then, harve. that's the time we begin to work. no reg'lar meals fer no one then. 'mug-up when ye're hungry, an' sleep when ye can't keep awake. good job you wasn't picked up a month later than you was, or we'd never ha' had you dressed in shape fer the old virgin." harvey understood from the eldridge chart that the old virgin and a nest of curiously named shoals were the turning-point of the cruise, and that with good luck they would wet the balance of their salt there. but seeing the size of the virgin (it was one tiny dot), he wondered how even disko with the hog-yoke and the lead could find her. he learned later that disko was entirely equal to that and any other business and could even help others. a big four-by-five blackboard hung in the cabin, and harvey never understood the need of it till, after some blinding thick days, they heard the unmelodious tooting of a foot-power fog-horn--a machine whose note is as that of a consumptive elephant. they were making a short berth, towing the anchor under their foot to save trouble. "square-rigger bellowin' fer his latitude," said long jack. the dripping red head-sails of a bark glided out of the fog, and the _we're here_ rang her bell thrice, using sea shorthand. the larger boat backed her topsail with shrieks and shoutings. "frenchman," said uncle salters, scornfully. "miquelon boat from st. malo." the farmer had a weatherly sea-eye. "i'm 'most outer 'baccy, too, disko." "same here," said tom platt. "hi! backez vous--backez vous! standez awayez, you butt-ended mucho-bono! where you from--st. malo, eh?" "ah, ha! mucho bono! oui! oui! clos poulet--st. malo! st. pierre et miquelon," cried the other crowd, waving woollen caps and laughing. then all together, "bord! bord!" "bring up the board, danny. beats me how them frenchmen fetch anywheres, exceptin' america's fairish broadly. forty-six forty-nine's good enough fer them; an' i guess it's abaout right, too." dan chalked the figures on the board, and they hung it in the main-rigging to a chorus of mercis from the bark. "seems kinder uneighbourly to let 'em swedge off like this," salters suggested, feeling in his pockets. "hev ye learned french then sence last trip?" said disko. "i don't want no more stone-ballast hove at us 'long o' your callin' miquelon boats 'footy cochins,' same's you did off le have." "harmon rush he said that was the way to rise 'em. plain united states is good enough fer me. we're all dretful short on terbakker. young feller, don't you speak french?" "oh, yes," said harvey valiantly; and he bawled: "hi! say! arretez vous! attendez! nous sommes venant pour tabac." "ah, tabac, tabac!" they cried, and laughed again. "that hit 'em. let's heave a dory over, anyway," said tom platt. "i don't exactly hold no certificates on french, but i know another lingo that goes, i guess. come on, harve, an' interpret." the raffle and confusion when he and harvey were hauled up the bark's black side was indescribable. her cabin was all stuck round with glaring coloured prints of the virgin--the virgin of newfoundland, they called her. harvey found his french of no recognized bank brand, and his conversation was limited to nods and grins. but tom platt waved his arms and got along swimmingly. the captain gave him a drink of unspeakable gin, and the opera-comique crew, with their hairy throats, red caps, and long knives, greeted him as a brother. then the trade began. they had tobacco, plenty of it--american, that had never paid duty to france. they wanted chocolate and crackers. harvey rowed back to arrange with the cook and disko, who owned the stores, and on his return the cocoa-tins and cracker-bags were counted out by the frenchman's wheel. it looked like a piratical division of loot; but tom platt came out of it roped with black pigtail and stuffed with cakes of chewing and smoking tobacco. then those jovial mariners swung off into the mist, and the last harvey heard was a gay chorus: "par derriere chez ma tante, il'y a un bois joli, et le rossignol y chante et le jour et la nuit.... que donneriez vous, belle, qui l'amenerait ici? je donnerai quebec, sorel et saint denis." "how was it my french didn't go, and your sign-talk did?" harvey demanded when the barter had been distributed among the we're heres. "sign-talk!" platt guffawed. "well, yes, 'twas sign-talk, but a heap older'n your french, harve. them french boats are chockfull o' freemasons, an' that's why." "are you a freemason, then?" "looks that way, don't it?" said the man-o'-war's man, stuffing his pipe; and harvey had another mystery of the deep sea to brood upon. chapter vi the thing that struck him most was the exceedingly casual way in which some craft loafed about the broad atlantic. fishing-boats, as dan said, were naturally dependent on the courtesy and wisdom of their neighbours; but one expected better things of steamers. that was after another interesting interview, when they had been chased for three miles by a big lumbering old cattle-boat, all boarded over on the upper deck, that smelt like a thousand cattle-pens. a very excited officer yelled at them through a speaking-trumpet, and she lay and lollopped helplessly on the water while disko ran the _we're here_ under her lee and gave the skipper a piece of his mind. "where might ye be--eh? ye don't deserve to be anywheres. you barn-yard tramps go hoggin' the road on the high seas with no blame consideration fer your neighbours, an' your eyes in your coffee-cups instid o' in your silly heads." at this the skipper danced on the bridge and said something about disko's own eyes. "we haven't had an observation for three days. d'you suppose we can run her blind?" he shouted. "wa-al, i can," disko retorted. "what's come to your lead? et it? can't ye smell bottom, or are them cattle too rank?" "what d' ye feed 'em?" said uncle salters with intense seriousness, for the smell of the pens woke all the farmer in him. "they say they fall off dretful on a v'yage. dunno as it's any o' my business, but i've a kind o' notion that oil-cake broke small an' sprinkled--" "thunder!" said a cattle-man in a red jersey as he looked over the side. "what asylum did they let his whiskers out of?" "young feller," salters began, standing up in the fore-rigging, "let me tell yeou 'fore we go any further that i've--" the officer on the bridge took off his cap with immense politeness. "excuse me," he said, "but i've asked for my reckoning. if the agricultural person with the hair will kindly shut his head, the sea-green barnacle with the wall-eye may per-haps condescend to enlighten us." "naow you've made a show o' me, salters," said disko, angrily. he could not stand up to that particular sort of talk, and snapped out the latitude and longitude without more lectures. "well, that's a boat-load of lunatics, sure," said the skipper, as he rang up the engine-room and tossed a bundle of newspapers into the schooner. "of all the blamed fools, next to you, salters, him an' his crowd are abaout the likeliest i've ever seen," said disko as the _we're here_ slid away. "i was jest givin' him my jedgment on lullsikin' round these waters like a lost child, an' you must cut in with your fool farmin'. can't ye never keep things sep'rate?" harvey, dan, and the others stood back, winking one to the other and full of joy; but disko and salters wrangled seriously till evening, salters arguing that a cattle-boat was practically a barn on blue water, and disko insisting that, even if this were the case, decency and fisher-pride demanded that he should have kept "things sep'rate." long jack stood it in silence for a time,--an angry skipper makes an unhappy crew,--and then he spoke across the table after supper: "fwhat's the good o' bodderin' fwhat they'll say?" said he. "they'll tell that tale agin us fer years--that's all," said disko. "oil-cake sprinkled!" "with salt, o' course," said salters, impenitent, reading the farming reports from a week-old new york paper. "it's plumb mortifyin' to all my feelin's," the skipper went on. "can't see ut that way," said long jack, the peacemaker "look at here, disko! is there another packet afloat this day in this weather cud ha' met a tramp an' over an' above givin' her her reckonin',--over an' above that, i say,--cud ha' discoorsed wid her quite intelligent on the management av steers an' such at sea? forgit ut! av coorse they will not. 'twas the most compenjus conversation that iver accrued. double game an' twice runnin'--all to us." dan kicked harvey under the table, and harvey choked in his cup. "well," said salters, who felt that his honour had been somewhat plastered, "i said i didn't know as 'twuz any business o' mine, 'fore i spoke." "an' right there," said tom platt, experienced in discipline and etiquette--"right there, i take it, disko, you should ha' asked him to stop ef the conversation wuz likely, in your jedgment, to be anyways--what it shouldn't." "dunno but that's so," said disko, who saw his way to an honourable retreat from a fit of the dignities. "why, o' course it was so," said salters, "you bein' skipper here; an' i'd cheerful hev stopped on a hint--not from any leadin' or conviction, but fer the sake o' bearin' an example to these two blame boys of aours." "didn't i tell you, harve, 'twould come araound to us 'fore we'd done? always those blame boys. but i wouldn't have missed the show fer a half-share in a halibutter," dan whispered. "still, things should ha' been kep' sep'rate," said disko, and the light of new argument lit in salters's eye as he crumbled cut plug into his pipe. "there's a power av vartue in keepin' things sep'rate," said long jack, intent on stilling the storm. "that's fwhat steyning of steyning and hare's f'und when he sent counahan fer skipper on the _marilla d. kuhn_, instid o' cap. newton that was took with inflam'try rheumatism an' couldn't go. counahan the navigator we called him." "nick counahan he never went aboard fer a night 'thout a pond o' rum somewheres in the manifest," said tom platt, playing up to the lead. "he used to bum araound the c'mission houses to boston lookin' fer the lord to make him captain of a tow-boat on his merits. sam coy, up to atlantic avenoo, give him his board free fer a year or more on account of his stories. "counahan the navigator! tck! tck! dead these fifteen year, ain't he?" "seventeen, i guess. he died the year the _caspar mcveagh_ was built; but he could niver keep things sep'rate. steyning tuk him fer the reason the thief tuk the hot stove--bekaze there was nothin' else that season. the men was all to the banks, and counahan he whacked up an iverlastin' hard crowd fer crew. rum! ye cud ha' floated the _marilla_, insurance an' all, in fwhat they stowed aboard her. they lef' boston harbour for the great grand bank wid a roarin' nor'wester behind 'em an' all hands full to the bung. an' the hivens looked after thim, for divil a watch did they set, an' divil a rope did they lay hand to, till they'd seen the bottom av a fifteen-gallon cask o' bug-juice. that was about wan week, so far as counahan remembered. (if i cud only tell the tale as he told ut!) all that whoile the wind blew like ould glory, an' the _marilla_--'twas summer, and they'd give her a foretopmast--struck her gait and kept ut. then counahan tuk the hog-yoke an' thrembled over it for a whoile, an' made out, betwix' that an' the chart an' the singin' in his head, that they was to the south'ard o' sable island, gettin' along glorious, but speakin' nothin'. then they broached another keg, an' quit speculatin' about anythin' fer another spell. the _marilla_ she lay down whin she dropped boston light, and she never lufted her lee-rail up to that time--hustlin' on one an' the same slant. but they saw no weed, nor gulls, nor schooners; an' prisintly they obsarved they'd bin out a matter o' fourteen days and they mis-trusted the bank has suspinded payment. so they sounded, an' got sixty fathom. 'that's me,' sez counahan. 'that's me iv'ry time! i've run her slat on the bank fer you, an' when we get thirty fathom we'll turn in like little men. counahan is the b'y,' sez he. 'counahan the navigator!' "nex' cast they got ninety. sez counahan: 'either the lead-line's tuk to stretchin' or else the bank's sunk.' "they hauled ut up, bein' just about in that state when ut seemed right an' reasonable, and sat down on the deck countin' the knots, an' gettin' her snarled up hijjus. the _marilla_ she'd struck her gait, an' she hild ut, an' prisintly along came a tramp, an' counahan spoke her. "'hev ye seen any fishin'-boats now?' sez he, quite casual. "'there's lashin's av them off the irish coast,' sez the tramp. "'aah! go shake yerself,' sez counahan. 'fwhat have i to do wid the irish coast?' "'then fwhat are ye doin' here?' sez the tramp. "'sufferin' christianity!' sez counahan (he always said that whin his pumps sucked an' he was not feelin' good)--'sufferin' christianity!' he sez, 'where am i at?' "'thirty-five mile west-sou'west o' cape clear,' sez the tramp, 'if that's any consolation to you.' "counahan fetched wan jump, four feet sivin inches, measured by the cook. "'consolation!' sez he, bould as brass. 'd'ye take me fer a dialect? thirty-five mile from cape clear, an' fourteen days from boston light. sufferin' christianity, 'tis a record, an' by the same token i've a mother to skibbereen!' think av ut! the gall av um! but ye see he could niver keep things sep'rate. "the crew was mostly cork an' kerry men, barrin' one marylander that wanted to go back, but they called him a mutineer, an' they ran the ould _marilla_ into skibbereen, an' they had an illigant time visitin' around with frinds on the ould sod fer a week. thin they wint back, an' it cost 'em two an' thirty days to beat to the banks again. 'twas gettin' on towards fall, and grub was low, so counahan ran her back to boston, wid no more bones to ut." "and what did the firm say?" harvey demanded. "fwhat could they? the fish was on the banks, an' counahan was at t-wharf talkin' av his record trip east! they tuk their satisfaction out av that, an' ut all came av not keepin' the crew and the rum sep'rate in the first place; an' confusin' skibbereen wid 'queereau, in the second. counahan the navigator, rest his sowl! he was an imprompju citizen!" "once i was in the lucy holmes," said manuel, in his gentle voice. "they not want any of her feesh in gloucester. eh, wha-at? give us no price. so we go across the water, and think to sell to some fayal man. then it blow fresh, and we cannot see well. eh, wha-at? then it blow some more fresh, and we go down below and drive very fast--no one know where. by and by we see a land, and it get some hot. then come two, three nigger in a brick. eh, wha-at? we ask where we are, and they say--now, what you all think?" "grand canary," said disko, after a moment. manuel shook his head, smiling. "blanco," said tom platt. "no. worse than that. we was below bezagos, and the brick she was from liberia! so we sell our feesh there! not bad, so? eh, wha-at?" "can a schooner like this go right across to africa?" said harvey. "go araound the horn ef there's anythin' worth goin' fer, and the grub holds aout," said disko. "my father he run his packet, an' she was a kind o' pinkey, abaout fifty ton, i guess,--the rupert,--he run her over to greenland's icy mountains the year ha'af our fleet was tryin' after cod there. an' what's more, he took my mother along with him,--to show her haow the money was earned, i presoom,--an' they was all iced up, an' i was born at disko. don't remember nothin' abaout it, o' course. we come back when the ice eased in the spring, but they named me fer the place. kinder mean trick to put up on a baby, but we're all baound to make mistakes in aour lives." "sure! sure!" said salters, wagging his head. "all baound to make mistakes, an' i tell you two boys here thet after you've made a mistake--ye don't make fewer'n a hundred a day--the next best thing's to own up to it like men." long jack winked one tremendous wink that embraced all hands except disko and salters, and the incident was closed. then they made berth after berth to the northward, the dories out almost every day, running along the east edge of the grand bank in thirty- to forty-fathom water, and fishing steadily. it was here harvey first met the squid, who is one of the best cod-baits, but uncertain in his moods. they were waked out of their bunks one black night by yells of "squid o!" from salters, and for an hour and a half every soul aboard hung over his squid-jig--a piece of lead painted red and armed at the lower end with a circle of pins bent backward like half-opened umbrella ribs. the squid--for some unknown reason--likes, and wraps himself round, this thing, and is hauled up ere he can escape from the pins. but as he leaves his home he squirts first water and next ink into his captor's face; and it was curious to see the men weaving their heads from side to side to dodge the shot. they were as black as sweeps when the flurry ended; but a pile of fresh squid lay on the deck, and the large cod thinks very well of a little shiny piece of squid tentacle at the tip of a clam-baited hook. next day they caught many fish, and met the _carrie pitman_, to whom they shouted their luck, and she wanted to trade--seven cod for one fair-sized squid; but disko would not agree at the price, and the _carrie_ dropped sullenly to leeward and anchored half a mile away, in the hope of striking on to some for herself. disco said nothing till after supper, when he sent dan and manuel out to buoy the _we're here's_ cable and announced his intention of turning in with the broad-axe. dan naturally repeated these remarks to the dory from the _carrie_, who wanted to know why they were buoying their cable, since they were not on rocky bottom. "dad sez he wouldn't trust a ferryboat within five mile o' you," dan howled cheerfully. "why don't he git out, then? who's hinderin'?" said the other. "'cause you've jest the same ez lee-bowed him, an' he don't take that from any boat, not to speak o' sech a driftin' gurry-butt as you be." "she ain't driftin' any this trip," said the man angrily, for the _carrie pitman_ had an unsavory reputation for breaking her ground-tackle. "then haow d'you make berths?" said dan. "it's her best p'int o' sailin'. an' ef she's quit driftin', what in thunder are you doin' with a new jib-boom?" that shot went home. "hey, you portugoosy organ-grinder, take your monkey back to gloucester. go back to school, dan troop," was the answer. "o-ver-alls! o-ver-alls!" yelled dan, who knew that one of the _carrie's_ crew had worked in an overall factory the winter before. "shrimp! gloucester shrimp! git aout, you novy!" to call a gloucester man a nova scotian is not well received. dan answered in kind. "novy yourself, ye scrabble-towners! ye chatham wreckers! git aout with your brick in your stockin'!" and the forces separated, but chatham had the worst of it. "i knew haow 'twould be," said disko. "she's drawed the wind raound already. some one oughter put a deesist on thet packet. she'll snore till midnight, an' jest when we're gettin' our sleep she'll strike adrift. good job we ain't crowded with craft hereaways. but i ain't goin' to up anchor fer chatham. she may hold." the wind, which had hauled round, rose at sundown and blew steadily. there was not enough sea, though, to disturb even a dory's tackle, but the _carrie pitman_ was a law unto herself. at the end of the boys' watch they heard the crack-crack-crack of a huge muzzle-loading revolver aboard her. "glory, glory, hallelujah!" sung dan. "here she comes, dad; butt-end first, walkin' in her sleep same's she done on 'queereau." had she been any other boat disko would have taken his chances, but now he cut the cable as the _carrie pitman_, with all the north atlantic to play in, lurched down directly upon them. the _we're here_, under jib and riding-sail, gave her no more room than was absolutely necessary,--disko did not wish to spend a week hunting for his cable,--but scuttled up into the wind as the _carrie_ passed within easy hail, a silent and angry boat, at the mercy of a raking broadside of bank chaff. "good evenin'," said disko, raising his head-gear, "an' haow does your garden grow?" "go to ohio an' hire a mule," said uncle salters. "we don't want no farmers here." "will i lend you my dory-anchor?" cried long jack. "unship your rudder an' stick it in the mud," bawled tom platt. "say!" dan's voice rose shrill and high, as he stood on the wheel-box. "sa-ay! is there a strike in the o-ver-all factory; or hev they hired girls, ye shackamaxons?" "veer out the tiller-lines," cried harvey, "and nail 'em to the bottom!" that was a salt-flavoured jest he had been put up to by tom platt. manuel leaned over the stern and yelled: "johanna morgan play the organ! ahaaaa!" he flourished his broad thumb with a gesture of unspeakable contempt and derision, while little penn covered himself with glory by piping up: "gee a little! hssh! come here. haw!" they rode on their chain for the rest of the night, a short, snappy, uneasy motion, as harvey found, and wasted half the forenoon recovering the cable. but the boys agreed the trouble was cheap at the price of triumph and glory, and they thought with grief over all the beautiful things that they might have said to the discomfited _carrie_. chapter vii next day they fell in with more sails, all circling slowly from the east northerly towards the west. but just when they expected to make the shoals by the virgin the fog shut down, and they anchored, surrounded by the tinklings of invisible bells. there was not much fishing, but occasionally dory met dory in the fog and exchanged news. that night, a little before dawn, dan and harvey, who had been sleeping most of the day, tumbled out to "hook" fried pies. there was no reason why they should not have taken them openly; but they tasted better so, and it made the cook angry. the heat and smell below drove them on deck with their plunder, and they found disko at the bell, which he handed over to harvey. "keep her goin'," said he. "i mistrust i hear somethin'. ef it's anything, i'm best where i am so's to get at things." it was a forlorn little jingle; the thick air seemed to pinch it off, and in the pauses harvey heard the muffled shriek of a liner's siren, and he knew enough of the banks to know what that meant. it came to him, with horrible distinctness, how a boy in a cherry-coloured jersey--he despised fancy blazers now with all a fisher-man's contempt--how an ignorant, rowdy boy had once said it would be "great" if a steamer ran down a fishing-boat. that boy had a stateroom with a hot and cold bath, and spent ten minutes each morning picking over a gilt-edged bill of fare. and that same boy--no, his very much older brother--was up at four of the dim dawn in streaming, crackling oilskins, hammering, literally for the dear life, on a bell smaller than the steward's breakfast-bell, while somewhere close at hand a thirty-foot steel stem was storming along at twenty miles an hour! the bitterest thought of all was that there were folks asleep in dry, upholstered cabins who would never learn that they had massacred a boat before breakfast. so harvey rang the bell. "yes, they slow daown one turn o' their blame propeller," said dan, applying himself to manuel's conch, "fer to keep inside the law, an' that's consolin' when we're all at the bottom. hark to her! she's a humper!" "aooo-whoo-whupp!" went the siren. "wingle-tingle-tink," went the bell. "graaa-ouch!" went the conch, while sea and sky were all mired up in milky fog. then harvey felt that he was near a moving body, and found himself looking up and up at the wet edge of a cliff-like bow, leaping, it seemed, directly over the schooner. a jaunty little feather of water curled in front of it, and as it lifted it showed a long ladder of roman numerals-xv., xvi., xvii., xviii., and so forth--on a salmon-coloured gleaming side. it tilted forward and downward with a heart-stilling "ssssooo"; the ladder disappeared; a line of brass-rimmed port-holes flashed past; a jet of steam puffed in harvey's helplessly uplifted hands; a spout of hot water roared along the rail of the _we're here_, and the little schooner staggered and shook in a rush of screw-torn water, as a liner's stern vanished in the fog. harvey got ready to faint or be sick, or both, when he heard a crack like a trunk thrown on a sidewalk, and, all small in his ear, a far-away telephone voice drawling: "heave to! you've sunk us!" "is it us?" he gasped. "no! boat out yonder. ring! we're goin' to look," said dan, running out a dory. in half a minute all except harvey, penn, and the cook were overside and away. presently a schooner's stump-foremast, snapped clean across, drifted past the bows. then an empty green dory came by, knocking on the _we're here's_ side, as though she wished to be taken in. then followed something, face down, in a blue jersey, but--it was not the whole of a man. penn changed colour and caught his breath with a click. harvey pounded despairingly at the bell, for he feared they might be sunk at any minute, and he jumped at dan's hail as the crew came back. "the jennie cushman," said dan, hysterically, "cut clean in half--graound up an' trompled on at that! not a quarter of a mile away. dad's got the old man. there ain't any one else, and--there was his son, too. oh, harve, harve, i can't stand it! i've seen--" he dropped his head on his arms and sobbed while the others dragged a gray-headed man aboard. "what did you pick me up for?" the stranger groaned. "disko, what did you pick me up for?" disko dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder, for the man's eyes were wild and his lips trembled as he stared at the silent crew. then up and spoke pennsylvania pratt, who was also haskins or rich or mcvitty when uncle salters forgot; and his face was changed on him from the face of a fool to the countenance of an old, wise man, and he said in a strong voice: "the lord gave, and the lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the lord! i was--i am a minister of the gospel. leave him to me." "oh, you be, be you?" said the man. "then pray my son back to me! pray back a nine-thousand-dollar boat an' a thousand quintal of fish. if you'd left me alone my widow could ha' gone on to the provident an' worked fer her board, an' never known--an' never known. now i'll hev to tell her." "there ain't nothin' to say," said disko. "better lie down a piece, jason olley." when a man has lost his only son, his summer's work, and his means of livelihood, in thirty counted seconds, it is hard to give consolation. "all gloucester men, wasn't they?" said tom platt, fiddling helplessly with a dory-becket. "oh, that don't make no odds," said jason, wringing the wet from his beard. "i'll be rowin' summer boarders araound east gloucester this fall." he rolled heavily to the rail, singing: "happy birds that sing and fly round thine altars, o most high!" "come with me. come below!" said penn, as though he had a right to give orders. their eyes met and fought for a quarter of a minute. "i dunno who you be, but i'll come," said jason submissively. "mebbe i'll get back some o' the--some o' the-nine thousand dollars." penn led him into the cabin and slid the door behind. "that ain't penn," cried uncle salters. "it's jacob boiler, an'--he's remembered johnstown! i never seed such eyes in any livin' man's head. what's to do naow? what'll i do naow?" they could hear penn's voice and jason's together. then penn's went on alone, and salters slipped off his hat, for penn was praying. presently the little man came up the steps, huge drops of sweat on his face, and looked at the crew. dan was still sobbing by the wheel. "he don't know us," salters groaned. "it's all to do over again, checkers and everything--an' what'll he say to me?" penn spoke; they could hear that it was to strangers. "i have prayed," said he. "our people believe in prayer. i have prayed for the life of this man's son. mine were drowned before my eyes--she and my eldest and--the others. shall a man be more wise than his maker? i prayed never for their lives, but i have prayed for this man's son, and he will surely be sent him." salters looked pleadingly at penn to see if he remembered. "how long have i been mad?" penn asked suddenly. his mouth was twitching. "pshaw, penn! you weren't never mad," salters began "only a little distracted like." "i saw the houses strike the bridge before the fires broke out. i do not remember any more. how long ago is that?" "i can't stand it! i can't stand it!" cried dan, and harvey whimpered in sympathy. "abaout five year," said disko, in a shaking voice. "then i have been a charge on some one for every day of that time. who was the man?" disko pointed to salters. "ye hain't--ye hain't!" cried the sea-farmer, twisting his hands together. "ye've more'n earned your keep twice-told; an' there's money owin' you, penn, besides ha'af o' my quarter-share in the boat, which is yours fer value received." "you are good men. i can see that in your faces. but--" "mother av mercy," whispered long jack, "an' he's been wid us all these trips! he's clean bewitched." a schooner's bell struck up alongside, and a voice hailed through the fog: "o disko! 'heard abaout the jennie cushman?" "they have found his son," cried penn. "stand you still and see the salvation of the lord!" "got jason aboard here," disko answered, but his voice quavered. "there--warn't any one else?" "we've fund one, though. 'run acrost him snarled up in a mess o' lumber thet might ha' bin a foc'sle. his head's cut some." "who is he?" the _we're here's_ heart-beats answered one another. "guess it's young olley," the voice drawled. penn raised his hands and said something in german. harvey could have sworn that a bright sun was shining upon his lifted face; but the drawl went on: "sa-ay! you fellers guyed us consid'rable t'other night." "we don't feel like guyin' any now," said disko. "i know it; but to tell the honest truth we was kinder--kinder driftin' when we run agin young olley." it was the irrepressible _carrie pitman_, and a roar of unsteady laughter went up from the deck of the _we're here_. "hedn't you 'baout's well send the old man aboard? we're runnin' in fer more bait an' graound-tackle. guess you won't want him, anyway, an' this blame windlass work makes us short-handed. we'll take care of him. he married my woman's aunt." "i'll give you anything in the boat," said troop. "don't want nothin', 'less, mebbe, an anchor that'll hold. say! young olley's gittin' kinder baulky an' excited. send the old man along." penn waked him from his stupor of despair, and tom platt rowed him over. he went away without a word of thanks, not knowing what was to come; and the fog closed over all. "and now," said penn, drawing a deep breath as though about to preach. "and now"--the erect body sank like a sword driven home into the scabbard; the light faded from the overbright eyes; the voice returned to its usual pitiful little titter--"and now," said pennsylvania pratt, "do you think it's too early for a little game of checkers, mr. salters?" "the very thing--the very thing i was goin' to say myself," cried salters promptly. "it beats all, penn, how ye git on to what's in a man's mind." the little fellow blushed and meekly followed salters forward. "up anchor! hurry! let's quit these crazy waters," shouted disko, and never was he more swiftly obeyed. "now what in creation d'ye suppose is the meanin' o' that all?" said long jack, when they were working through the fog once more, damp, dripping, and bewildered. "the way i sense it," said disko, at the wheel, "is this: the jennie cushman business comin' on an empty stummick--" "h-he saw one of them go by," sobbed harvey. "an' that, o' course, kinder hove him outer water, julluk runnin' a craft ashore; hove him right aout, i take it, to rememberin' johnstown an' jacob boiler an' such-like reminiscences. well, consolin' jason there held him up a piece, same's shorin' up a boat. then, bein' weak, them props slipped an' slipped, an' he slided down the ways, an' naow he's water-borne agin. that's haow i sense it." they decided that disko was entirely correct. "'twould ha' bruk salters all up," said long jack, "if penn had stayed jacob boilerin'. did ye see his face when penn asked who he'd been charged on all these years? how is ut, salters?" "asleep--dead asleep. turned in like a child," salters replied, tiptoeing aft. "there won't be no grub till he wakes, natural. did ye ever see sech a gift in prayer? he everlastin'ly hiked young olley outer the ocean. thet's my belief. jason was tur'ble praoud of his boy, an' i mistrusted all along 'twas a jedgment on worshippin' vain idols." "there's others jes as sot," said disko. "that's difrunt," salters retorted quickly. "penn's not all caulked, an' i ain't only but doin' my duty by him." they waited, those hungry men, three hours, till penn reappeared with a smooth face and a blank mind. he said he believed that he had been dreaming. then he wanted to know why they were so silent, and they could not tell him. disko worked all hands mercilessly for the next three or four days; and when they could not go out, turned them into the hold to stack the ship's stores into smaller compass, to make more room for the fish. the packed mass ran from the cabin partition to the sliding door behind the foc'sle stove; and disko showed how there is great art in stowing cargo so as to bring a schooner to her best draft. the crew were thus kept lively till they recovered their spirits; and harvey was tickled with a rope's end by long jack for being, as the galway man said, "sorrowful as a sick cat over fwhat couldn't be helped." he did a great deal of thinking in those weary days, and told dan what he thought, and dan agreed with him--even to the extent of asking for fried pies instead of hooking them. but a week later the two nearly upset the hattie s. in a wild attempt to stab a shark with an old bayonet tied to a stick. the grim brute rubbed alongside the dory begging for small fish, and between the three of them it was a mercy they all got off alive. at last, after playing blindman's-buff in the fog, there came a morning when disko shouted down the foc'sle: "hurry, boys! we're in taown!" chapter viii to the end of his days, harvey will never forget that sight. the sun was just clear of the horizon they had not seen for nearly a week, and his low red light struck into the riding-sails of three fleets of anchored schooners--one to the north, one to the westward, and one to the south. there must have been nearly a hundred of them, of every possible make and build, with, far away, a square-rigged frenchman, all bowing and courtesying one to the other. from every boat dories were dropping away like bees from a crowded hive, and the clamour of voices, the rattling of ropes and blocks, and the splash of the oars carried for miles across the heaving water. the sails turned all colours, black, pearly-gray, and white, as the sun mounted; and more boats swung up through the mists to the southward. the dories gathered in clusters, separated, reformed, and broke again, all heading one way; while men hailed and whistled and cat-called and sang, and the water was speckled with rubbish thrown overboard. "it's a town," said harvey. "disko was right. it is a town!" "i've seen smaller," said disko. "there's about a thousand men here; an' yonder's the virgin." he pointed to a vacant space of greenish sea, where there were no dories. the _we're here_ skirted round the northern squadron, disko waving his hand to friend after friend, and anchored as nearly as a racing yacht at the end of the season. the bank fleet pass good seamanship in silence; but a bungler is jeered all along the line. "jest in time fer the caplin," cried the mary chilton. "'salt 'most wet?" asked the king philip. "hey, tom platt! come t' supper to-night?" said the henry clay; and so questions and answers flew back and forth. men had met one another before, dory-fishing in the fog, and there is no place for gossip like the bank fleet. they all seemed to know about harvey's rescue, and asked if he were worth his salt yet. the young bloods jested with dan, who had a lively tongue of his own, and inquired after their health by the town-nicknames they least liked. manuel's countrymen jabbered at him in their own language; and even the silent cook was seen riding the jib-boom and shouting gaelic to a friend as black as himself. after they had buoyed the cable--all around the virgin is rocky bottom, and carelessness means chafed ground-tackle and danger from drifting--after they had buoyed the cable, their dories went forth to join the mob of boats anchored about a mile away. the schooners rocked and dipped at a safe distance, like mother ducks watching their brood, while the dories behaved like mannerless ducklings. as they drove into the confusion, boat banging boat, harvey's ears tingled at the comments on his rowing. every dialect from labrador to long island, with portuguese, neapolitan, lingua franca, french, and gaelic, with songs and shoutings and new oaths, rattled round him, and he seemed to be the butt of it all. for the first time in his life he felt shy--perhaps that came from living so long with only the _we're heres_--among the scores of wild faces that rose and fell with the reeling small craft. a gentle, breathing swell, three furlongs from trough to barrel, would quietly shoulder up a string of variously painted dories. they hung for an instant, a wonderful frieze against the sky-line, and their men pointed and hailed. next moment the open mouths, waving arms, and bare chests disappeared, while on another swell came up an entirely new line of characters like paper figures in a toy theatre. so harvey stared. "watch out!" said dan, flourishing a dip-net "when i tell you dip, you dip. the caplin'll school any time from naow on. where'll we lay, tom platt?" pushing, shoving, and hauling, greeting old friends here and warning old enemies there, commodore tom platt led his little fleet well to leeward of the general crowd, and immediately three or four men began to haul on their anchors with intent to lee-bow the _we're heres_. but a yell of laughter went up as a dory shot from her station with exceeding speed, its occupant pulling madly on the roding. "give her slack!" roared twenty voices. "let him shake it out." "what's the matter?" said harvey, as the boat flashed away to the southward. "he's anchored, isn't he?" "anchored, sure enough, but his graound-tackle's kinder shifty," said dan, laughing. "whale's fouled it. . . . dip harve! here they come!" the sea round them clouded and darkened, and then frizzed up in showers of tiny silver fish, and over a space of five or six acres the cod began to leap like trout in may; while behind the cod three or four broad gray-backs broke the water into boils. then everybody shouted and tried to haul up his anchor to get among the school, and fouled his neighbour's line and said what was in his heart, and dipped furiously with his dip-net, and shrieked cautions and advice to his companions, while the deep fizzed like freshly opened soda-water, and cod, men, and whales together flung in upon the luckless bait. harvey was nearly knocked overboard by the handle of dan's net. but in all the wild tumult he noticed, and never forgot, the wicked, set little eye--something like a circus elephant's eye--of a whale that drove along almost level with the water, and, so he said, winked at him. three boats found their rodings fouled by these reckless mid-sea hunters, and were towed half a mile ere their horses shook the line free. then the caplin moved off, and five minutes later there was no sound except the splash of the sinkers overside, the flapping of the cod, and the whack of the muckles as the men stunned them. it was wonderful fishing. harvey could see the glimmering cod below, swimming slowly in droves, biting as steadily as they swam. bank law strictly forbids more than one hook on one line when the dories are on the virgin or the eastern shoals; but so close lay the boats that even single hooks snarled, and harvey found himself in hot argument with a gentle, hairy newfoundlander on one side and a howling portuguese on the other. worse than any tangle of fishing-lines was the confusion of the dory-rodings below water. each man had anchored where it seemed good to him, drifting and rowing round his fixed point. as the fish struck on less quickly, each man wanted to haul up and get to better ground; but every third man found himself intimately connected with some four or five neighbours. to cut another's roding is crime unspeakable on the banks; yet it was done, and done without detection, three or four times that day. tom platt caught a maine man in the black act and knocked him over the gunwale with an oar, and manuel served a fellow-countryman in the same way. but harvey's anchor-line was cut, and so was penn's, and they were turned into relief-boats to carry fish to the _we're here_ as the dories filled. the caplin schooled once more at twilight, when the mad clamour was repeated; and at dusk they rowed back to dress down by the light of kerosene-lamps on the edge of the pen. it was a huge pile, and they went to sleep while they were dressing. next day several boats fished right above the cap of the virgin; and harvey, with them, looked down on the very weed of that lonely rock, which rises to within twenty feet of the surface. the cod were there in legions, marching solemnly over the leathery kelp. when they bit, they bit all together; and so when they stopped. there was a slack time at noon, and the dories began to search for amusement. it was dan who sighted the hope of prague just coming up, and as her boats joined the company they were greeted with the question: "who's the meanest man in the fleet?" three hundred voices answered cheerily: "nick bra-ady." it sounded like an organ chant. "who stole the lampwicks?" that was dan's contribution. "nick bra-ady," sang the boats. "who biled the salt bait fer soup?" this was an unknown backbiter a quarter of a mile away. again the joyful chorus. now, brady was not especially mean, but he had that reputation, and the fleet made the most of it. then they discovered a man from a truro boat who, six years before, had been convicted of using a tackle with five or six hooks--a "scrowger," they call it--in the shoals. naturally, he had been christened "scrowger jim"; and though he had hidden himself on the georges ever since, he found his honours waiting for him full blown. they took it up in a sort of firecracker chorus: "jim! o jim! jim! o jim! sssscrowger jim!" that pleased everybody. and when a poetical beverly man--he had been making it up all day, and talked about it for weeks--sang, "the _carrie pitman's_ anchor doesn't hold her for a cent" the dories felt that they were indeed fortunate. then they had to ask that beverly man how he was off for beans, because even poets must not have things all their own way. every schooner and nearly every man got it in turn. was there a careless or dirty cook anywhere? the dories sang about him and his food. was a schooner badly found? the fleet was told at full length. had a man hooked tobacco from a mess-mate? he was named in meeting; the name tossed from roller to roller. disko's infallible judgments, long jack's market-boat that he had sold years ago, dan's sweetheart (oh, but dan was an angry boy!), penn's bad luck with dory-anchors, salter's views on manure, manuel's little slips from virtue ashore, and harvey's ladylike handling of the oar--all were laid before the public; and as the fog fell around them in silvery sheets beneath the sun, the voices sounded like a bench of invisible judges pronouncing sentence. the dories roved and fished and squabbled till a swell underran the sea. then they drew more apart to save their sides, and some one called that if the swell continued the virgin would break. a reckless galway man with his nephew denied this, hauled up anchor, and rowed over the very rock itself. many voices called them to come away, while others dared them to hold on. as the smooth-backed rollers passed to the southward, they hove the dory high and high into the mist, and dropped her in ugly, sucking, dimpled water, where she spun round her anchor, within a foot or two of the hidden rock. it was playing with death for mere bravado; and the boats looked on in uneasy silence till long jack rowed up behind his countrymen and quietly cut their roding. "can't ye hear ut knockin'?" he cried. "pull for you miserable lives! pull!" the men swore and tried to argue as the boat drifted; but the next swell checked a little, like a man tripping on a carpet. there was a deep sob and a gathering roar, and the virgin flung up a couple of acres of foaming water, white, furious, and ghastly over the shoal sea. then all the boats greatly applauded long jack, and the galway men held their tongue. "ain't it elegant?" said dan, bobbing like a young seal at home. "she'll break about once every ha'af hour now, 'les the swell piles up good. what's her reg'lar time when she's at work, tom platt?" "once ivry fifteen minutes, to the tick. harve, you've seen the greatest thing on the banks; an' but for long jack you'd seen some dead men too." there came a sound of merriment where the fog lay thicker and the schooners were ringing their bells. a big bark nosed cautiously out of the mist, and was received with shouts and cries of, "come along, darlin'," from the irishry. "another frenchman?" said harvey. "hain't you eyes? she's a baltimore boat; goin' in fear an' tremblin'," said dan. "we'll guy the very sticks out of her. guess it's the fust time her skipper ever met up with the fleet this way." she was a black, buxom, eight-hundred-ton craft. her mainsail was looped up, and her topsail flapped undecidedly in what little wind was moving. now a bark is feminine beyond all other daughters of the sea, and this tall, hesitating creature, with her white and gilt figurehead, looked just like a bewildered woman half lifting her skirts to cross a muddy street under the jeers of bad little boys. that was very much her situation. she knew she was somewhere in the neighbourhood of the virgin, had caught the roar of it, and was, therefore, asking her way. this is a small part of what she heard from the dancing dories: "the virgin? fwhat are you talkin' of? 'this is le have on a sunday mornin'. go home an' sober up." "go home, ye tarrapin! go home an' tell 'em we're comin'." half a dozen voices together, in a most tuneful chorus, as her stern went down with a roll and a bubble into the troughs: "thay-aah-she-strikes!" "hard up! hard up fer your life! you're on top of her now." "daown! hard daown! let go everything!" "all hands to the pumps!" "daown jib an' pole her!" here the skipper lost his temper and said things. instantly fishing was suspended to answer him, and he heard many curious facts about his boat and her next port of call. they asked him if he were insured; and whence he had stolen his anchor, because, they said, it belonged to the _carrie pitman_; they called his boat a mud-scow, and accused him of dumping garbage to frighten the fish; they offered to tow him and charge it to his wife; and one audacious youth slipped up almost under the counter, smacked it with his open palm, and yelled: "gid up, buck!" the cook emptied a pan of ashes on him, and he replied with cod-heads. the bark's crew fired small coal from the galley, and the dories threatened to come aboard and "razee" her. they would have warned her at once had she been in real peril; but, seeing her well clear of the virgin, they made the most of their chances. the fun was spoilt when the rock spoke again, a half-mile to windward, and the tormented bark set everything that would draw and went her ways; but the dories felt that the honours lay with them. all that night the virgin roared hoarsely; and next morning, over an angry, white-headed sea, harvey saw the fleet with flickering masts waiting for a lead. not a dory was hove out till ten o'clock, when the two jeraulds of the day's eye, imagining a lull which did not exist, set the example. in a minute half the boats were out and bobbing in the cockly swells, but troop kept the _we're heres_ at work dressing down. he saw no sense in "dares"; and as the storm grew that evening they had the pleasure of receiving wet strangers only too glad to make any refuge in the gale. the boys stood by the dory-tackles with lanterns, the men ready to haul, one eye cocked for the sweeping wave that would make them drop everything and hold on for dear life. out of the dark would come a yell of "dory, dory!" they would hook up and haul in a drenched man and a half-sunk boat, till their decks were littered down with nests of dories and the bunks were full. five times in their watch did harvey, with dan, jump at the foregaff where it lay lashed on the boom, and cling with arms, legs, and teeth to rope and spar and sodden canvas as a big wave filled the decks. one dory was smashed to pieces, and the sea pitched the man head first on to the decks, cutting his forehead open; and about dawn, when the racing seas glimmered white all along their cold edges, another man, blue and ghastly, crawled in with a broken hand, asking news of his brother. seven extra mouths sat down to breakfast: a swede; a chatham skipper; a boy from hancock, maine; one duxbury, and three provincetown men. there was a general sorting out among the fleet next day; and though no one said anything, all ate with better appetites when boat after boat reported full crews aboard. only a couple of portuguese and an old man from gloucester were drowned, but many were cut or bruised; and two schooners had parted their tackle and been blown to the southward, three days' sail. a man died on a frenchman--it was the same bark that had traded tobacco with the _we're heres_. she slipped away quite quietly one wet, white morning, moved to a patch of deep water, her sails all hanging anyhow, and harvey saw the funeral through disko's spy-glass. it was only an oblong bundle slid overside. they did not seem to have any form of service, but in the night, at anchor, harvey heard them across the star-powdered black water, singing something that sounded like a hymn. it went to a very slow tune. "la brigantine qui va tourner, roule et s'incline pour m'entrainer. oh, vierge marie, pour moi priez dieu! adieu, patrie; quebec, adieu!" tom platt visited her, because, he said, the dead man was his brother as a freemason. it came out that a wave had doubled the poor fellow over the heel of the bowsprit and broken his back. the news spread like a flash, for, contrary to general custom, the frenchman held an auction of the dead man's kit,--he had no friends at st malo or miquelon,--and everything was spread out on the top of the house, from his red knitted cap to the leather belt with the sheath-knife at the back. dan and harvey were out on twenty-fathom water in the hattie s., and naturally rowed over to join the crowd. it was a long pull, and they stayed some little time while dan bought the knife, which had a curious brass handle. when they dropped overside and pushed off into a drizzle of rain and a lop of sea, it occurred to them that they might get into trouble for neglecting the lines. "guess 'twon't hurt us any to be warmed up," said dan, shivering under his oilskins, and they rowed on into the heart of a white fog, which, as usual, dropped on them without warning. "there's too much blame tide hereabouts to trust to your instinks," he said. "heave over the anchor, harve, and we'll fish a piece till the thing lifts. bend on your biggest lead. three pound ain't any too much in this water. see how she's tightened on her rodin' already." there was quite a little bubble at the bows, where some irresponsible bank current held the dory full stretch on her rope; but they could not see a boat's length in any direction. harvey turned up his collar and bunched himself over his reel with the air of a wearied navigator. fog had no special terrors for him now. they fished a while in silence, and found the cod struck on well. then dan drew the sheath-knife and tested the edge of it on the gunwale. "that's a daisy," said harvey. "how did you get it so cheap?" "on account o' their blame cath'lic superstitions," said dan, jabbing with the bright blade. "they don't fancy takin' iron from off a dead man, so to speak. 'see them arichat frenchmen step back when i bid?" "but an auction ain't taking anythink off a dead man. it's business." "we know it ain't, but there's no goin' in the teeth o' superstition. that's one o' the advantages o' livin' in a progressive country." and dan began whistling: "oh, double thatcher, how are you? now eastern point comes inter view. the girls an' boys we soon shall see, at anchor off cape ann!" "why didn't that eastport man bid, then? he bought his boots. ain't maine progressive?" "maine? pshaw! they don't know enough, or they hain't got money enough, to paint their haouses in maine. i've seen 'em. the eastport man he told me that the knife had been used--so the french captain told him--used up on the french coast last year." "cut a man? heave 's the muckle." harvey hauled in his fish, rebaited, and threw over. "killed him! course, when i heard that i was keener'n ever to get it." "christmas! i didn't know it," said harvey, turning round. "i'll give you a dollar for it when i--get my wages. say, i'll give you two dollars." "honest? d'you like it as much as all that?" said dan, flushing. "well, to tell the truth, i kinder got it for you--to give; but i didn't let on till i saw how you'd take it. it's yours and welcome, harve, because we're dory-mates, and so on and so forth, an' so followin'. catch a-holt!" he held it out, belt and all. "but look at here. dan, i don't see--" "take it. 'tain't no use to me. i wish you to hev it." the temptation was irresistible. "dan, you're a white man," said harvey. "i'll keep it as long as i live." "that's good hearin'," said dan, with a pleasant laugh; and then, anxious to change the subject: "'look's if your line was fast to somethin'." "fouled, i guess," said harve, tugging. before he pulled up he fastened the belt round him, and with deep delight heard the tip of the sheath click on the thwart. "concern the thing!" he cried. "she acts as though she were on strawberry-bottom. it's all sand here, ain't it?" dan reached over and gave a judgmatic tweak. "hollbut'll act that way 'f he's sulky. thet's no strawberry-bottom. yank her once or twice. she gives, sure. guess we'd better haul up an' make certain." they pulled together, making fast at each turn on the cleats, and the hidden weight rose sluggishly. "prize, oh! haul!" shouted dan, but the shout ended in a shrill, double shriek of horror, for out of the sea came the body of the dead frenchman buried two days before! the hook had caught him under the right armpit, and he swayed, erect and horrible, head and shoulders above water. his arms were tied to his side, and--he had no face. the boys fell over each other in a heap at the bottom of the dory, and there they lay while the thing bobbed alongside, held on the shortened line. "the tide--the tide brought him!" said harvey with quivering lips, as he fumbled at the clasp of the belt. "oh, lord! oh, harve!" groaned dan, "be quick. he's come for it. let him have it. take it off." "i don't want it! i don't want it!" cried harvey. "i can't find the bu-buckle." "quick, harve! he's on your line!" harvey sat up to unfasten the belt, facing the head that had no face under its streaming hair. "he's fast still," he whispered to dan, who slipped out his knife and cut the line, as harvey flung the belt far overside. the body shot down with a plop, and dan cautiously rose to his knees, whiter than the fog. "he come for it. he come for it. i've seen a stale one hauled up on a trawl and i didn't much care, but he come to us special." "i wish--i wish i hadn't taken the knife. then he'd have come on your line." "dunno as thet would ha' made any differ. we're both scared out o' ten years' growth. oh, harve, did ye see his head?" "did i? i'll never forget it. but look at here, dan; it couldn't have been meant. it was only the tide." "tide! he come for it, harve. why, they sunk him six miles to south'ard o' the fleet, an' we're two miles from where she's lyin' now. they told me he was weighted with a fathom an' a half o' chain-cable." "wonder what he did with the knife--up on the french coast?" "something bad. 'guess he's bound to take it with him to the judgment, an' so-- what are you doin' with the fish?" "heaving 'em overboard," said harvey. "what for? we sha'n't eat 'em." "i don't care. i had to look at his face while i was takin' the belt off. you can keep your catch if you like. i've no use for mine." dan said nothing, but threw his fish over again. "guess it's best to be on the safe side," he murmured at last. "i'd give a month's pay if this fog 'u'd lift. things go abaout in a fog that ye don't see in clear weather--yo-hoes an' hollerers and such like. i'm sorter relieved he come the way he did instid o' walkin'. he might ha' walked." "don't, dan! we're right on top of him now. 'wish i was safe aboard, hem' pounded by uncle salters." "they'll be lookin' fer us in a little. gimme the tooter." dan took the tin dinner-horn, but paused before he blew. "go on," said harvey. "i don't want to stay here all night" "question is, haow he'd take it. there was a man frum down the coast told me once he was in a schooner where they darsen't ever blow a horn to the dories, becaze the skipper--not the man he was with, but a captain that had run her five years before--he'd drowned a boy alongside in a drunk fit; an' ever after, that boy he'd row along-side too and shout, 'dory! dory!' with the rest." "dory! dory!" a muffled voice cried through the fog. they cowered again, and the horn dropped from dan's hand. "hold on!" cried harvey; "it's the cook." "dunno what made me think o' thet fool tale, either," said dan. "it's the doctor, sure enough." "dan! danny! oooh, dan! harve! harvey! oooh, haarveee!" "we're here," sung both boys together. they heard oars, but could see nothing till the cook, shining and dripping, rowed into them. "what iss happened?" said he. "you will be beaten at home." "thet's what we want. thet's what we're sufferin' for" said dan. "anything homey's good enough fer us. we've had kinder depressin' company." as the cook passed them a line, dan told him the tale. "yess! he come for hiss knife," was all he said at the end. never had the little rocking _we're here_ looked so deliciously home-like as when the cook, born and bred in fogs, rowed them back to her. there was a warm glow of light from the cabin and a satisfying smell of food forward, and it was heavenly to hear disko and the others, all quite alive and solid, leaning over the rail and promising them a first-class pounding. but the cook was a black; master of strategy. he did not get the dories aboard till he had given the more striking points of the tale, explaining as he backed and bumped round the counter how harvey was the mascot to destroy any possible bad luck. so the boys came override as rather uncanny heroes, and every one asked them questions instead of pounding them for making trouble. little penn delivered quite a speech on the folly of superstitions; but public opinion was against him and in favour of long jack, who told the most excruciating ghost-stories, till nearly midnight. under that influence no one except salters and penn said anything about "idolatry," when the cook put a lighted candle, a cake of flour and water, and a pinch of salt on a shingle, and floated them out astern to keep the frenchman quiet in case he was still restless. dan lit the candle because he had bought the belt, and the cook grunted and muttered charms as long as he could see the ducking point of flame. said harvey to dan, as they turned in after watch: "how about progress and catholic superstitions?" "huh! i guess i'm as enlightened and progressive as the next man, but when it comes to a dead st. malo deck-hand scarin' a couple o' pore boys stiff fer the sake of a thirty-cent knife, why, then, the cook can take hold fer all o' me. i mistrust furriners, livin' or dead." next morning all, except the cook, were rather ashamed of the ceremonies, and went to work double tides, speaking gruffly to one another. the _we're here_ was racing neck and neck for her last few loads against the parry norman; and so close was the struggle that the fleet took side and betted tobacco. all hands worked at the lines or dressing-down till they fell asleep where they stood--beginning before dawn and ending when it was too dark to see. they even used the cook as pitcher, and turned harvey into the hold to pass salt, while dan helped to dress down. luckily a parry norman man sprained his ankle falling down the foc'sle, and the _we're heres_ gained. harvey could not see how one more fish could be crammed into her, but disko and tom platt stowed and stowed, and planked the mass down with big stones from the ballast, and there was always "jest another day's work." disko did not tell them when all the salt was wetted. he rolled to the lazarette aft the cabin and began hauling out the big mainsail. this was at ten in the morning. the riding-sail was down and the main- and topsail were up by noon, and dories came alongside with letters for home, envying their good fortune. at last she cleared decks, hoisted her flag,--as is the right of the first boat off the banks,--up-anchored, and began to move. disko pretended that he wished to accomodate folk who had not sent in their mail, and so worked her gracefully in and out among the schooners. in reality, that was his little triumphant procession, and for the fifth year running it showed what kind of mariner he was. dan's accordion and tom platt's fiddle supplied the music of the magic verse you must not sing till all the salt is wet: "hih! yih! yoho! send your letters raound! all our salt is wetted, an' the anchor's off the graound! bend, oh, bend your mains'l, we're back to yankeeland-- with fifteen hunder' quintal, an' fifteen hunder' quintal, 'teen hunder' toppin' quintal, 'twix' old 'queereau an' grand." the last letters pitched on deck wrapped round pieces of coal, and the gloucester men shouted messages to their wives and womenfolks and owners, while the _we're here_ finished the musical ride through the fleet, her headsails quivering like a man's hand when he raises it to say good-by. harvey very soon discovered that the _we're here_, with her riding-sail, strolling from berth to berth, and the _we're here_ headed west by south under home canvas, were two very different boats. there was a bite and kick to the wheel even in "boy's" weather; he could feel the dead weight in the hold flung forward mightily across the surges, and the streaming line of bubbles overside made his eyes dizzy. disko kept them busy fiddling with the sails; and when those were flattened like a racing yacht's, dan had to wait on the big topsail, which was put over by hand every time she went about. in spare moments they pumped, for the packed fish dripped brine, which does not improve a cargo. but since there was no fishing, harvey had time to look at the sea from another point of view. the low-sided schooner was naturally on most intimate terms with her surroundings. they saw little of the horizon save when she topped a swell; and usually she was elbowing, fidgeting, and coasting her steadfast way through gray, gray-blue, or black hollows laced across and across with streaks of shivering foam; or rubbing herself caressingly along the flank of some bigger water-hill. it was as if she said: "you wouldn't hurt me, surely? i'm only the little _we're here_." then she would slide away chuckling softly to herself till she was brought up by some fresh obstacle. the dullest of folk cannot see this kind of thing hour after hour through long days without noticing it; and harvey, being anything but dull, began to comprehend and enjoy the dry chorus of wave-tops turning over with a sound of incessant tearing; the hurry of the winds working across open spaces and herding the purple-blue cloud-shadows; the splendid upheaval of the red sunrise; the folding and packing away of the morning mists, wall after wall withdrawn across the white floors; the salty glare and blaze of noon; the kiss of rain falling over thousands of dead, flat square miles; the chilly blackening of everything at the day's end; and the million wrinkles of the sea under the moonlight, when the jib-boom solemnly poked at the low stars, and harvey went down to get a doughnut from the cook. but the best fun was when the boys were put on the wheel together, tom platt within hail, and she cuddled her lee-rail down to the crashing blue, and kept a little home-made rainbow arching unbroken over her windlass. then the jaws of the booms whined against the masts, and the sheets creaked, and the sails filled with roaring; and when she slid into a hollow she trampled like a woman tripped in her own silk dress, and came out, her jib wet half-way up, yearning and peering for the tall twin-lights of thatcher's island. they left the cold gray of the bank sea, saw the lumber-ships making for quebec by the straits of st. lawrence, with the jersey salt-brigs from spain and sicily; found a friendly northeaster off artimon bank that drove them within view of the east light of sable island,--a sight disko did not linger over,--and stayed with them past western and le have, to the northern fringe of george's. from there they picked up the deeper water, and let her go merrily. "hattie's pulling on the string," dan confided to harvey. "hattie an' ma. next sunday you'll be hirin' a boy to throw water on the windows to make ye go to sleep. 'guess you'll keep with us till your folks come. do you know the best of gettin' ashore again?" "hot bath?" said harvey. his eyebrows were all white with dried spray. "that's good, but a night-shirt's better. i've been dreamin' o' night-shirts ever since we bent our mainsail. ye can wiggle your toes then. ma'll hev a new one fer me, all washed soft. it's home, harve. it's home! ye can sense it in the air. we're runnin' into the aidge of a hot wave naow, an' i can smell the bayberries. wonder if we'll get in fer supper. port a trifle." the hesitating sails flapped and lurched in the close air as the deep smoothed out, blue and oily, round them. when they whistled for a wind only the rain came in spiky rods, bubbling and drumming, and behind the rain the thunder and the lightning of mid-august. they lay on the deck with bare feet and arms, telling one another what they would order at their first meal ashore; for now the land was in plain sight. a gloucester swordfish-boat drifted alongside, a man in the little pulpit on the bowsprit flourished his harpoon, his bare head plastered down with the wet. "and all's well!" he sang cheerily, as though he were watch on a big liner. "wouverman's waiting fer you, disko. what's the news o' the fleet?" disko shouted it and passed on, while the wild summer storm pounded overhead and the lightning flickered along the capes from four different quarters at once. it gave the low circle of hills round gloucester harbor, ten pound island, the fish-sheds, with the broken line of house-roofs, and each spar and buoy on the water, in blinding photographs that came and went a dozen times to the minute as the _we're here_ crawled in on half-flood, and the whistling-buoy moaned and mourned behind her. then the storm died out in long, separated, vicious dags of blue-white flame, followed by a single roar like the roar of a mortar-battery, and the shaken air tingled under the stars as it got back to silence. "the flag, the flag!" said disko, suddenly, pointing upward. "what is ut?" said long jack. "otto! ha'af mast. they can see us frum shore now." "i'd clean forgot. he's no folk to gloucester, has he?" "girl he was goin' to be married to this fall." "mary pity her!" said long jack, and lowered the little flag half-mast for the sake of otto, swept overboard in a gale off le have three months before. disko wiped the wet from his eyes and led the _we're here_ to wouverman's wharf, giving his orders in whispers, while she swung round moored tugs and night-watchmen hailed her from the ends of inky-black piers. over and above the darkness and the mystery of the procession, harvey could feel the land close round him once more, with all its thousands of people asleep, and the smell of earth after rain, and the familiar noise of a switching-engine coughing to herself in a freight-yard; and all those things made his heart beat and his throat dry up as he stood by the foresheet. they heard the anchor-watch snoring on a lighthouse-tug, nosed into a pocket of darkness where a lantern glimmered on either side; somebody waked with a grunt, threw them a rope, and they made fast to a silent wharf flanked with great iron-roofed sheds fall of warm emptiness, and lay there without a sound. then harvey sat down by the wheel, and sobbed and sobbed as though his heart would break, and a tall woman who had been sitting on a weigh-scale dropped down into the schooner and kissed dan once on the cheek; for she was his mother, and she had seen the _we're here_ by the lightning flashes. she took no notice of harvey till he had recovered himself a little and disko had told her his story. then they went to disko's house together as the dawn was breaking; and until the telegraph office was open and he could wire his folk, harvey cheyne was perhaps the loneliest boy in all america. but the curious thing was that disko and dan seemed to think none the worse of him for crying. wouverman was not ready for disko's prices till disko, sure that the _we're here_ was at least a week ahead of any other gloucester boat, had given him a few days to swallow them; so all hands played about the streets, and long jack stopped the rocky neck trolley, on principle, as he said, till the conductor let him ride free. but dan went about with his freckled nose in the air, bung-full of mystery and most haughty to his family. "dan, i'll hev to lay inter you ef you act this way," said troop, pensively. "sence we've come ashore this time you've bin a heap too fresh." "i'd lay into him naow ef he was mine," said uncle salters, sourly. he and penn boarded with the troops. "oho!" said dan, shuffling with the accordion round the backyard, ready to leap the fence if the enemy advanced. "dad, you're welcome to your own judgment, but remember i've warned ye. your own flesh an' blood ha' warned ye! 'tain't any o' my fault ef you're mistook, but i'll be on deck to watch ye. an' ez fer yeou, uncle salters, pharaoh's chief butler ain't in it 'longside o' you! you watch aout an' wait. you'll be plowed under like your own blamed clover; but me--dan troop--i'll flourish like a green bay-tree because i warn't stuck on my own opinion." disko was smoking in all his shore dignity and a pair of beautiful carpet-slippers. "you're gettin' ez crazy as poor harve. you two go araound gigglin' an' squinchin' an' kickin' each other under the table till there's no peace in the haouse," said he. "there's goin' to be a heap less--fer some folks," dan replied. "you wait an' see." he and harvey went out on the trolley to east gloucester, where they tramped through the bayberry bushes to the lighthouse, and lay down on the big red boulders and laughed themselves hungry. harvey had shown dan a telegram, and the two swore to keep silence till the shell burst. "harve's folk?" said dan, with an unruffled face after supper. "well, i guess they don't amount to much of anything, or we'd ha' heard from 'em by naow. his pop keeps a kind o' store out west. maybe he'll give you 's much as five dollars, dad." "what did i tell ye?" said salters. "don't sputter over your vittles, dan." chapter ix whatever his private sorrows may be, a multimillionaire, like any other workingman, should keep abreast of his business. harvey cheyne, senior, had gone east late in june to meet a woman broken down, half mad, who dreamed day and night of her son drowning in the gray seas. he had surrounded her with doctors, trained nurses, massage-women, and even faith-cure companions, but they were useless. mrs. cheyne lay still and moaned, or talked of her boy by the hour together to any one who would listen. hope she had none, and who could offer it? all she needed was assurance that drowning did not hurt; and her husband watched to guard lest she should make the experiment. of his own sorrow he spoke little--hardly realized the depth of it till he caught himself asking the calendar on his writing-desk, "what's the use of going on?" there had always lain a pleasant notion at the back of his head that, some day, when he had rounded off everything and the boy had left college, he would take his son to his heart and lead him into his possessions. then that boy, he argued, as busy fathers do, would instantly become his companion, partner, and ally, and there would follow splendid years of great works carried out together--the old head backing the young fire. now his boy was dead--lost at sea, as it might have been a swede sailor from one of cheyne's big teaships; the wife dying, or worse; he himself was trodden down by platoons of women and doctors and maids and attendants; worried almost beyond endurance by the shift and change of her poor restless whims; hopeless, with no heart to meet his many enemies. he had taken the wife to his raw new palace in san diego, where she and her people occupied a wing of great price, and cheyne, in a veranda-room, between a secretary and a typewriter, who was also a telegraphist, toiled along wearily from day to day. there was a war of rates among four western railroads in which he was supposed to be interested; a devastating strike had developed in his lumber camps in oregon, and the legislature of the state of california, which has no love for its makers, was preparing open war against him. ordinarily he would have accepted battle ere it was offered, and have waged a pleasant and unscrupulous campaign. but now he sat limply, his soft black hat pushed forward on to his nose, his big body shrunk inside his loose clothes, staring at his boots or the chinese junks in the bay, and assenting absently to the secretary's questions as he opened the saturday mail. cheyne was wondering how much it would cost to drop everything and pull out. he carried huge insurances, could buy himself royal annuities, and between one of his places in colorado and a little society (that would do the wife good), say in washington and the south carolina islands, a man might forget plans that had come to nothing. on the other hand-- the click of the typewriter stopped; the girl was looking at the secretary, who had turned white. he passed cheyne a telegram repeated from san francisco: picked up by fishing schooner _we're here_ having fallen off boat great times on banks fishing all well waiting gloucester mass care disko troop for money or orders wire what shall do and how is mama harvey n. cheyne. the father let it fall, laid his head down on the roller-top of the shut desk, and breathed heavily. the secretary ran for mrs. cheyne's doctor who found cheyne pacing to and fro. "what--what d' you think of it? is it possible? is there any meaning to it? i can't quite make it out," he cried. "i can," said the doctor. "i lose seven thousand a year--that's all." he thought of the struggling new york practice he had dropped at cheyne's imperious bidding, and returned the telegram with a sigh. "you mean you'd tell her? 'may be a fraud?" "what's the motive?" said the doctor, coolly. "detection's too certain. it's the boy sure enough." enter a french maid, impudently, as an indispensable one who is kept on only by large wages. "mrs. cheyne she say you must come at once. she think you are seek." the master of thirty millions bowed his head meekly and followed suzanne; and a thin, high voice on the upper landing of the great white-wood square staircase cried: "what is it? what has happened?" no doors could keep out the shriek that rang through the echoing house a moment later, when her husband blurted out the news. "and that's all right," said the doctor, serenely, to the typewriter. "about the only medical statement in novels with any truth to it is that joy don't kill, miss kinzey." "i know it; but we've a heap to do first." miss kinzey was from milwaukee, somewhat direct of speech; and as her fancy leaned towards the secretary, she divined there was work in hand. he was looking earnestly at the vast roller-map of america on the wall. "milsom, we're going right across. private car--straight through--boston. fix the connections," shouted cheyne down the staircase. "i thought so." the secretary turned to the typewriter, and their eyes met (out of that was born a story--nothing to do with this story). she looked inquiringly, doubtful of his resources. he signed to her to move to the morse as a general brings brigades into action. then he swept his hand musician-wise through his hair, regarded the ceiling, and set to work, while miss kinzey's white fingers called up the continent of america. "_k. h. wade, los angeles--_ the 'constance' is at los angeles, isn't she, miss kinzey?" "yep." miss kinzey nodded between clicks as the secretary looked at his watch. "ready? _send 'constance,' private car, here, and arrange for special to leave here sunday in time to connect with new york limited at sixteenth street, chicago, tuesday next_." click-click-click! "couldn't you better that?" "not on those grades. that gives 'em sixty hours from here to chicago. they won't gain anything by taking a special east of that. ready? _also arrange with lake shore and michigan southern to take 'constance' on new york central and hudson river buffalo to albany, and b. and a. the same albany to boston. indispensable i should reach boston wednesday evening. be sure nothing prevents. have also wired canniff, toucey, and barnes._--sign, cheyne." miss kinzey nodded, and the secretary went on. "now then. canniff, toucey, and barnes, of course. ready? _canniff, chicago. please take my private car 'constance' from santa fe at sixteenth street next tuesday p. m. on n. y. limited through to buffalo and deliver n. y. c. for albany._--ever bin to n' york, miss kinzey? we'll go some day.--ready? _take car buffalo to albany on limited tuesday p. m._ that's for toucey." "haven't bin to noo york, but i know that!" with a toss of the head. "beg pardon. now, boston and albany, barnes, same instructions from albany through to boston. leave three-five p. m. (you needn't wire that); arrive nine-five p. m. wednesday. that covers everything wade will do, but it pays to shake up the managers." "it's great," said miss kinzey, with a look of admiration. this was the kind of man she understood and appreciated. "'tisn't bad," said milsom, modestly. "now, any one but me would have lost thirty hours and spent a week working out the run, instead of handing him over to the santa fe straight through to chicago." "but see here, about that noo york limited. chauncey depew himself couldn't hitch his car to her," miss kinzey suggested, recovering herself. "yes, but this isn't chauncey. it's cheyne--lightning. it goes." "even so. guess we'd better wire the boy. you've forgotten that, anyhow." "i'll ask." when he returned with the father's message bidding harvey meet them in boston at an appointed hour, he found miss kinzey laughing over the keys. then milsom laughed too, for the frantic clicks from los angeles ran: "we want to know why-why-why? general uneasiness developed and spreading." ten minutes later chicago appealed to miss kinzey in these words: "if crime of century is maturing please warn friends in time. we are all getting to cover here." this was capped by a message from topeka (and wherein topeka was concerned even milsom could not guess): "don't shoot, colonel. we'll come down." cheyne smiled grimly at the consternation of his enemies when the telegrams were laid before him. "they think we're on the warpath. tell 'em we don't feel like fighting just now, milsom. tell 'em what we're going for. i guess you and miss kinsey had better come along, though it isn't likely i shall do any business on the road. tell 'em the truth--for once." so the truth was told. miss kinzey clicked in the sentiment while the secretary added the memorable quotation, "let us have peace," and in board rooms two thousand miles away the representatives of sixty-three million dollars' worth of variously manipulated railroad interests breathed more freely. cheyne was flying to meet the only son, so miraculously restored to him. the bear was seeking his cub, not the bulls. hard men who had their knives drawn to fight for their financial lives put away the weapons and wished him god-speed, while half a dozen panic-smitten tin-pot toads perked up their heads and spoke of the wonderful things they would have done had not cheyne buried the hatchet. it was a busy week-end among the wires; for now that their anxiety was removed, men and cities hastened to accommodate. los angeles called to san diego and barstow that the southern california engineers might know and be ready in their lonely roundhouses; barstow passed the word to the atlantic and pacific; and albuquerque flung it the whole length of the atchinson, topeka, and santa fe management, even into chicago. an engine, combination-car with crew, and the great and gilded "constance" private car were to be "expedited" over those two thousand three hundred and fifty miles. the train would take precedence of one hundred and seventy-seven others meeting and passing; despatchers and crews of every one of those said trains must be notified. sixteen locomotives, sixteen engineers, and sixteen firemen would be needed--each and every one the best available. two and one half minutes would be allowed for changing engines, three for watering, and two for coaling. "warn the men, and arrange tanks and chutes accordingly; for harvey cheyne is in a hurry, a hurry, a hurry," sang the wires. "forty miles an hour will be expected, and division superintendents will accompany this special over their respective divisions. from san diego to sixteenth street, chicago, let the magic carpet be laid down. hurry! oh, hurry!" "it will be hot," said cheyne, as they rolled out of san diego in the dawn of sunday. "we're going to hurry, mama, just as fast as ever we can; but i really don't think there's any good of your putting on your bonnet and gloves yet. you'd much better lie down and take your medicine. i'd play you a game of dominoes, but it's sunday." "i'll be good. oh, i will be good. only--taking off my bonnet makes me feel as if we'd never get there." "try to sleep a little, mama, and we'll be in chicago before you know." "but it's boston, father. tell them to hurry." the six-foot drivers were hammering their way to san bernardino and the mohave wastes, but this was no grade for speed. that would come later. the heat of the desert followed the heat of the hills as they turned east to the needles and the colorado river. the car cracked in the utter drouth and glare, and they put crushed ice to mrs. cheyne's neck, and toiled up the long, long grades, past ash fork, towards flagstaff, where the forests and quarries are, under the dry, remote skies. the needle of the speed-indicator flicked and wagged to and fro; the cinders rattled on the roof, and a whirl of dust sucked after the whirling wheels. the crew of the combination sat on their bunks, panting in their shirtsleeves, and cheyne found himself among them shouting old, old stories of the railroad that every trainman knows, above the roar of the car. he told them about his son, and how the sea had given up its dead, and they nodded and spat and rejoiced with him; asked after "her, back there," and whether she could stand it if the engineer "let her out a piece," and cheyne thought she could. accordingly, the great fire-horse was "let 'ut" from flagstaff to winslow, till a division superintendent protested. but mrs. cheyne, in the boudoir stateroom, where the french maid, sallow-white with fear, clung to the silver door-handle, only moaned a little and begged her husband to bid them "hurry." and so they dropped the dry sands and moon-struck rocks of arizona behind them, and grilled on till the crash of the couplings and the wheeze of the brake-hose told them they were at coolidge by the continental divide. three bold and experienced men--cool, confident, and dry when they began; white, quivering, and wet when they finished their trick at those terrible wheels--swung her over the great lift from albuquerque to glorietta and beyond springer, up and up to the raton tunnel on the state line, whence they dropped rocking into la junta, had sight of the arkansaw, and tore down the long slope to dodge city, where cheyne took comfort once again from setting his watch an hour ahead. there was very little talk in the car. the secretary and typewriter sat together on the stamped spanish-leather cushions by the plate-glass observation-window at the rear end, watching the surge and ripple of the ties crowded back behind them, and, it is believed, making notes of the scenery. cheyne moved nervously between his own extravagant gorgeousness and the naked necessity of the combination, an unlit cigar in his teeth, till the pitying crews forgot that he was their tribal enemy, and did their best to entertain him. at night the bunched electrics lit up that distressful palace of all the luxuries, and they fared sumptuously, swinging on through the emptiness of abject desolation. now they heard the swish of a water-tank, and the guttural voice of a chinaman, the click-clink of hammers that tested the krupp steel wheels, and the oath of a tramp chased off the rear-platform; now the solid crash of coal shot into the tender; and now a beating back of noises as they flew past a waiting train. now they looked out into great abysses, a trestle purring beneath their tread, or up to rocks that barred out half the stars. now scour and ravine changed and rolled back to jagged mountains on the horizon's edge, and now broke into hills lower and lower, till at last came the true plains. at dodge city an unknown hand threw in a copy of a kansas paper containing some sort of an interview with harvey, who had evidently fallen in with an enterprising reporter, telegraphed on from boston. the joyful journalese revealed that it was beyond question their boy, and it soothed mrs. cheyne for a while. her one word "hurry" was conveyed by the crews to the engineers at nickerson, topeka, and marceline, where the grades are easy, and they brushed the continent behind them. towns and villages were close together now, and a man could feel here that he moved among people. "i can't see the dial, and my eyes ache so. what are we doing?" "the very best we can, mama. there's no sense in getting in before the limited. we'd only have to wait." "i don't care. i want to feel we're moving. sit down and tell me the miles." cheyne sat down and read the dial for her (there were some miles which stand for records to this day), but the seventy-foot car never changed its long steamer-like roll, moving through the heat with the hum of a giant bee. yet the speed was not enough for mrs. cheyne; and the heat, the remorseless august heat, was making her giddy; the clock-hands would not move, and when, oh, when would they be in chicago? it is not true that, as they changed engines at fort madison, cheyne passed over to the amalgamated brotherhood of locomotive engineers an endowment sufficient to enable them to fight him and his fellows on equal terms for evermore. he paid his obligations to engineers and firemen as he believed they deserved, and only his bank knows what he gave the crews who had sympathized with him. it is on record that the last crew took entire charge of switching operations at sixteenth street, because "she" was in a doze at last, and heaven was to help any one who bumped her. now the highly paid specialist who conveys the lake shore and michigan southern limited from chicago to elkhart is something of an autocrat, and he does not approve of being told how to back up to a car. none the less he handled the "constance" as if she might have been a load of dynamite, and when the crew rebuked him, they did it in whispers and dumb show. "pshaw!" said the atchinson, topeka, and santa fe men, discussing life later, "we weren't runnin' for a record. harvey cheyne's wife, she were sick back, an' we didn't want to jounce her. 'come to think of it, our runnin' time from san diego to chicago was . . you can tell that to them eastern way-trains. when we're tryin' for a record, we'll let you know." to the western man (though this would not please either city) chicago and boston are cheek by jowl, and some railroads encourage the delusion. the limited whirled the "constance" into buffalo and the arms of the new york central and hudson river (illustrious magnates with white whiskers and gold charms on their watch-chains boarded her here to talk a little business to cheyne), who slid her gracefully into albany, where the boston and albany completed the run from tide-water to tide-water--total time, eighty-seven hours and thirty-five minutes, or three days, fifteen hours and one half. harvey was waiting for them. after violent emotion most people and all boys demand food. they feasted the returned prodigal behind drawn curtains, cut off in their great happiness, while the trains roared in and out around them. harvey ate, drank, and enlarged on his adventures all in one breath, and when he had a hand free his mother fondled it. his voice was thickened with living in the open, salt air; his palms were rough and hard, his wrists dotted with marks of gurrysores; and a fine full flavour of codfish hung round rubber boots and blue jersey. the father, well used to judging men, looked at him keenly. he did not know what enduring harm the boy might have taken. indeed, he caught himself thinking that he knew very little whatever of his son; but he distinctly remembered an unsatisfied, dough-faced youth who took delight in "calling down the old man," and reducing his mother to tears--such a person as adds to the gaiety of public rooms and hotel piazzas, where the ingenuous young of the wealthy play with or revile the bell-boys. but this well set-up fisher-youth did not wriggle, looked at him with eyes steady, clear, and unflinching, and spoke in a tone distinctly, even startlingly, respectful. there was that in his voice, too, which seemed to promise that the change might be permanent, and that the new harvey had come to stay. "some one's been coercing him," thought cheyne. "now constance would never have allowed that. don't see as europe could have done it any better." "but why didn't you tell this man, troop, who you were?" the mother repeated, when harvey had expanded his story at least twice. "disko troop, dear. the best man that ever walked a deck. i don't care who the next is." "why didn't you tell him to put you ashore? you know papa would have made it up to him ten times over." "i know it; but he thought i was crazy. i'm afraid i called him a thief because i couldn't find the bills in my pocket." "a sailor found them by the flagstaff that--that night," sobbed mrs. cheyne. "that explains it, then. i don't blame troop any. i just said i wouldn't work--on a banker, too--and of course he hit me on the nose, and oh! i bled like a stuck hog." "my poor darling! they must have abused you horribly." "dunno quite. well, after that, i saw a light." cheyne slapped his leg and chuckled. this was going to be a boy after his own hungry heart. he had never seen precisely that twinkle in harvey's eye before. "and the old man gave me ten and a half a month; he's paid me half now; and i took hold with dan and pitched right in. i can't do a man's work yet. but i can handle a dory 'most as well as dan, and i don't get rattled in a fog--much; and i can take my trick in light winds--that's steering, dear--and i can 'most bait up a trawl, and i know my ropes, of course; and i can pitch fish till the cows come home, and i'm great on old josephus, and i'll show you how i can clear coffee with a piece of fish-skin, and--i think i'll have another cup, please. say, you've no notion what a heap of work there is in ten and a half a month!" "i began with eight and a half, my son," said cheyne. "that so? you never told me, sir." "you never asked, harve. i'll tell you about it some day, if you care to listen. try a stuffed olive." "troop says the most interesting thing in the world is to find out how the next man gets his vittles. it's great to have a trimmed-up meal again. we were well fed, though. but mug on the banks. disko fed us first-class. he's a great man. and dan--that's his son--dan's my partner. and there's uncle salters and his manures, an' he reads josephus. he's sure i'm crazy yet. and there's poor little penn, and he is crazy. you mustn't talk to him about johnstown, because-- "and, oh, you must know tom platt and long jack and manuel. manuel saved my life. i'm sorry he's a portuguee. he can't talk much, but he's an everlasting musician. he found me struck adrift and drifting, and hauled me in." "i wonder your nervous system isn't completely wrecked," said mrs. cheyne. "what for, mama? i worked like a horse and i ate like a hog and i slept like a dead man." that was too much for mrs. cheyne, who began to think of her visions of a corpse rocking on the salty seas. she went to her stateroom, and harvey curled up beside his father, explaining his indebtedness. "you can depend upon me to do everything i can for the crowd, harve. they seem to be good men on your showing." "best in the fleet, sir. ask at gloucester," said harvey. "but disko believes still he's cured me of being crazy. dan's the only one i've let on to about you, and our private cars and all the rest of it, and i'm not quite sure dan believes. i want to paralyze 'em to-morrow. say, can't they run the 'constance' over to gloucester? mama don't look fit to be moved, anyway, and we're bound to finish cleaning out by tomorrow. wouverman takes our fish. you see, we're the first off the banks this season, and it's four twenty-five a quintal. we held out till he paid it. they want it quick." "you mean you'll have to work to-morrow, then?" "i told troop i would. i'm on the scales. i've brought the tallies with me." he looked at the greasy notebook with an air of importance that made his father choke. "there isn't but three--no--two ninety-four or five quintal more by my reckoning." "hire a substitute," suggested cheyne, to see what harvey would say. "can't, sir. i'm tally-man for the schooner. troop says i've a better head for figures than dan. troop's a mighty just man." "well, suppose i don't move the 'constance' to-night, how'll you fix it?" harvey looked at the clock, which marked twenty past eleven. "then i'll sleep here till three and catch the four o'clock freight. they let us men from the fleet ride free as a rule." "that's a notion. but i think we can get the 'constance' around about as soon as your men's freight. better go to bed now." harvey spread himself on the sofa, kicked off his boots, and was asleep before his father could shade the electrics. cheyne sat watching the young face under the shadow of the arm thrown over the forehead, and among many things that occurred to him was the notion that he might perhaps have been neglectful as a father. "one never knows when one's taking one's biggest risks," he said. "it might have been worse than drowning; but i don't think it has--i don't think it has. if it hasn't, i haven't enough to pay troop, that's all; and i don't think it has." morning brought a fresh sea breeze through the windows, the "constance" was side-tracked among freight-cars at gloucester, and harvey had gone to his business. "then he'll fall overboard again and be drowned," the mother said bitterly. "we'll go and look, ready to throw him a rope in case. you've never seen him working for his bread," said the father. "what nonsense! as if any one expected--" "well, the man that hired him did. he's about right, too." they went down between the stores full of fishermen's oilskins to wouverman's wharf where the _we're here_ rode high, her bank flag still flying, all hands busy as beavers in the glorious morning light. disko stood by the main hatch superintending manuel, penn, and uncle salters at the tackle. dan was swinging the loaded baskets inboard as long jack and tom platt filled them, and harvey, with a notebook, represented the skipper's interests before the clerk of the scales on the salt-sprinkled wharf-edge. "ready!" cried the voices below. "haul!" cried disko. "hi!" said manuel. "here!" said dan, swinging the basket. then they heard harvey's voice, clear and fresh, checking the weights. the last of the fish had been whipped out, and harvey leaped from the string-piece six feet to a ratline, as the shortest way to hand disko the tally, shouting, "two ninety-seven, and an empty hold!" "what's the total, harve?" said disko. "eight sixty-five. three thousand six hundred and seventy-six dollars and a quarter. 'wish i'd share as well as wage." "well, i won't go so far as to say you hevn't deserved it, harve. don't you want to slip up to wouverman's office and take him our tallies?" "who's that boy?" said cheyne to dan, well used to all manner of questions from those idle imbeciles called summer boarders. "well, he's kind o' supercargo," was the answer. "we picked him up struck adrift on the banks. fell overboard from a liner, he sez. he was a passenger. he's by way o' hem' a fisherman now." "is he worth his keep?" "ye-ep. dad, this man wants to know ef harve's worth his keep. say, would you like to go aboard? we'll fix up a ladder for her." "i should very much, indeed. 'twon't hurt you, mama, and you'll be able to see for yourself." the woman who could not lift her head a week ago scrambled down the ladder, and stood aghast amid the mess and tangle aft. "be you anyways interested in harve?" said disko. "well, ye-es." "he's a good boy, an' ketches right hold jest as he's bid. you've heard haow we found him? he was sufferin' from nervous prostration, i guess, 'r else his head had hit somethin', when we hauled him aboard. he's all over that naow. yes, this is the cabin. 'tain't in order, but you're quite welcome to look araound. those are his figures on the stove-pipe, where we keep the reckonin' mostly." "did he sleep here?" said mrs. cheyne, sitting on a yellow locker and surveying the disorderly bunks. "no. he berthed forward, madam, an' only fer him an' my boy hookin' fried pies an muggin' up when they ought to ha' been asleep, i dunno as i've any special fault to find with him." "there weren't nothin' wrong with harve," said uncle salters, descending the steps. "he hung my boots on the main-truck, and he ain't over an' above respectful to such as knows more'n he do, specially about farmin'; but he were mostly misled by dan." dan in the meantime, profiting by dark hints from harvey early that morning, was executing a war-dance on deck. "tom, tom!" he whispered down the hatch. "his folks has come, an' dad hain't caught on yet, an' they're pow-wowin' in the cabin. she's a daisy, an' he's all harve claimed he was, by the looks of him." "howly smoke!" said long jack, climbing out covered with salt and fish-skin. "d'ye belave his tale av the kid an' the little four-horse rig was thrue?" "i knew it all along," said dan. "come an' see dad mistook in his judgments." they came delightedly, just in time to hear cheyne say: "i'm glad he has a good character, because--he's my son." disko's jaw fell,--long jack always vowed that he heard the click of it,--and he stared alternately at the man and the woman. "i got his telegram in san diego four days ago, and we came over." "in a private car?" said dan. "he said ye might." "in a private car, of course." dan looked at his father with a hurricane of irreverent winks. "there was a tale he told us av drivin' four little ponies in a rig av his own," said long jack. "was that thrue now?" "very likely," said cheyne. "was it, mama?" "he had a little drag when we were in toledo, i think," said the mother. long jack whistled. "oh, disko!" said he, and that was all. "i wuz--i am mistook in my jedgments--worse'n the men o' marblehead," said disko, as though the words were being windlassed out of him. "i don't mind ownin' to you, mr. cheyne, as i mistrusted the boy to be crazy. he talked kinder odd about money." "so he told me." "did he tell ye anything else? 'cause i pounded him once." this with a somewhat anxious glance at mrs. cheyne. "oh, yes," cheyne replied. "i should say it probably did him more good than anything else in the world." "i jedged 'twuz necessary, er i wouldn't ha' done it. i don't want you to think we abuse our boys any on this packet." "i don't think you do, mr. troop." mrs. cheyne had been looking at the faces--disko's ivory-yellow, hairless, iron countenance; uncle salters's, with its rim of agricultural hair; penn's bewildered simplicity; manuel's quiet smile; long jack's grin of delight, and tom platt's scar. rough, by her standards, they certainly were; but she had a mother's wits in her eyes, and she rose with out-stretched hands. "oh, tell me, which is who?" said she, half sobbing. "i want to thank you and bless you--all of you." "faith, that pays me a hunder time," said long jack. disko introduced them all in due form. the captain of an old-time chinaman could have done no better, and mrs. cheyne babbled incoherently. she nearly threw herself into manuel's arms when she understood that he had first found harvey. "but how shall i leave him dreeft?" said poor manuel. "what do you yourself if you find him so? eh, wha-at? we are in one good boy, and i am ever so pleased he come to be your son." "and he told me dan was his partner!" she cried. dan was already sufficiently pink, but he turned a rich crimson when mrs. cheyne kissed him on both cheeks before the assembly. then they led her forward to show her the foc'sle, at which she wept again, and must needs go down to see harvey's identical bunk, and there she found the nigger cook cleaning up the stove, and he nodded as though she were some one he had expected to meet for years. they tried, two at a time, to explain the boat's daily life to her, and she sat by the pawl-post, her gloved hands on the greasy table, laughing with trembling lips and crying with dancing eyes. "and who's ever to use the _we're here_ after this?" said long jack to tom platt. "i feel as if she'd made a cathedral av ut all." "cathedral!" sneered tom platt. "oh, if it had bin even the fish c'mmission boat instid of this bally-hoo o' blazes. if we only hed some decency an' order an' side-boys when she goes over! she'll have to climb that ladder like a hen, an' we--we ought to be mannin' the yards!" "then harvey was not mad," said penn, slowly, to cheyne. "no, indeed--thank god," the big millionaire replied, stooping down tenderly. "it must be terrible to be mad. except to lose your child, i do not know anything more terrible. but your child has come back? let us thank god for that." "hello!" cried harvey, looking down upon them benignly from the wharf. "i wuz mistook, harve. i wuz mistook," said disko, swiftly, holding up a hand. "i wuz mistook in my jedgments. ye needn't rub in any more." "guess i'll take care o' that," said dan, under his breath. "you'll be goin' off naow, won't ye?" "well, not without the balance of my wages, 'less you want to have the _we're here_ attached." "thet's so; i'd clean forgot"; and he counted out the remaining dollars. "you done all you contracted to do, harve; and you done it 'baout's well as if you'd been brought up--" here disko brought himself up. he did not quite see where the sentence was going to end. "outside of a private car?" suggested dan, wickedly. "come on, and i'll show her to you," said harvey. cheyne stayed to talk with disko, but the others made a procession to the depot, with mrs. cheyne at the head. the french maid shrieked at the invasion; and harvey laid the glories of the "constance" before them without a word. they took them in in equal silence--stamped leather, silver door-handles and rails, cut velvet, plate-glass, nickel, bronze, hammered iron, and the rare woods of the continent inlaid. "i told you," said harvey; "i told you." this was his crowning revenge, and a most ample one. mrs. cheyne decreed a meal, and that nothing might be lacking to the tale long jack told afterwards in his boarding-house, she waited on them herself. men who are accustomed to eat at tiny tables in howling gales have curiously neat and finished manners; but mrs. cheyne, who did not know this, was surprised. she longed to have manuel for a butler; so silently and easily did he comport himself among the frail glassware and dainty silver. tom platt remembered the great days on the ohio and the manners of foreign potentates who dined with the officers; and long jack, being irish, supplied the small talk till all were at their ease. in the _we're here's_ cabin the fathers took stock of each other behind their cigars. cheyne knew well enough when he dealt with a man to whom he could not offer money; equally well he knew that no money could pay for what disko had done. he kept his own counsel and waited for an opening. "i hevn't done anything to your boy or fer your boy excep' make him work a piece an' learn him how to handle the hog-yoke," said disko. "he has twice my boy's head for figgers." "by the way," cheyne answered casually, "what d'you calculate to make of your boy?" disko removed his cigar and waved it comprehensively round the cabin. "dan's jest plain boy, an' he don't allow me to do any of his thinkin'. he'll hev this able little packet when i'm laid by. he ain't noways anxious to quit the business. i know that." "mmm! 'ever been west, mr. troop?" "'bin's fer ez noo york once in a boat. i've no use for railroads. no more hez dan. salt water's good enough fer the troops. i've been 'most everywhere--in the nat'ral way, o' course." "i can give him all the salt water he's likely to need--till he's a skipper." "haow's that? i thought you wuz a kinder railroad king. harve told me so when--i was mistook in my jedgments." "we're all apt to be mistaken. i fancied perhaps you might know i own a line of tea-clippers--san francisco to yokohama--six of 'em--iron-built, about seventeen hundred and eighty tons apiece. "blame that boy! he never told. i'd ha' listened to that, instid o' his truck abaout railroads an' pony-carriages." "he didn't know." "'little thing like that slipped his mind, i guess." "no, i only capt--took hold of the 'blue m.' freighters--morgan and mcquade's old line--this summer." disko collapsed where he sat, beside the stove. "great caesar almighty! i mistrust i've been fooled from one end to the other. why, phil airheart he went from this very town six year back--no, seven--an' he's mate on the san jose--now--twenty-six days was her time out. his sister she's livin' here yet, an' she reads his letters to my woman. an' you own the 'blue m.' freighters?" cheyne nodded. "if i'd known that i'd ha' jerked the _we're here_ back to port all standin', on the word." "perhaps that wouldn't have been so good for harvey." "if i'd only known! if he'd only said about the cussed line, i'd ha' understood! i'll never stand on my own jedgments again--never. they're well-found packets. phil airheart he says so." "i'm glad to have a recommend from that quarter. airheart's skipper of the san jose now. what i was getting at is to know whether you'd lend me dan for a year or two, and we'll see if we can't make a mate of him. would you trust him to airheart?" "it's a resk taking a raw boy--" "i know a man who did more for me." "that's diff'runt. look at here naow, i ain't recommendin' dan special because he's my own flesh an' blood. i know bank ways ain't clipper ways, but he hain't much to learn. steer he can--no boy better, if i say it--an' the rest's in our blood an' get; but i could wish he warn't so cussed weak on navigation." "airheart will attend to that. he'll ship as boy for a voyage or two, and then we can put him in the way of doing better. suppose you take him in hand this winter, and i'll send for him early in the spring. i know the pacific's a long ways off--" "pshaw! we troops, livin' an' dead, are all around the earth an' the seas thereof." "but i want you to understand--and i mean this--any time you think you'd like to see him, tell me, and i'll attend to the transportation. 'twon't cost you a cent." "if you'll walk a piece with me, we'll go to my house an' talk this to my woman. i've bin so crazy mistook in all my jedgments, it don't seem to me this was like to be real." they went blue-trimmed of nasturtiums over to troop's eighteen-hundred-dollar, white house, with a retired dory full in the front yard and a shuttered parlour which was a museum of oversea plunder. there sat a large woman, silent and grave, with the dim eyes of those who look long to sea for the return of their beloved. cheyne addressed himself to her, and she gave consent wearily. "we lose one hundred a year from gloucester only, mr. cheyne," she said--"one hundred boys an' men; and i've come so's to hate the sea as if 'twuz alive an' listenin'. god never made it fer humans to anchor on. these packets o' yours they go straight out, i take it' and straight home again?" "as straight as the winds let 'em, and i give a bonus for record passages. tea don't improve by being at sea." "when he wuz little he used to play at keeping store, an' i had hopes he might follow that up. but soon's he could paddle a dory i knew that were goin' to be denied me." "they're square-riggers, mother; iron-built an' well found. remember what phil's sister reads you when she gits his letters." "i've never known as phil told lies, but he's too venturesome (like most of 'em that use the sea). if dan sees fit, mr. cheyne, he can go--fer all o' me." "she jest despises the ocean," disko explained, "an' i--i dunno haow to act polite, i guess, er i'd thank you better." "my father--my own eldest brother--two nephews--an' my second sister's man," she said, dropping her head on her hand. "would you care fer any one that took all those?" cheyne was relieved when dan turned up and accepted with more delight than he was able to put into words. indeed, the offer meant a plain and sure road to all desirable things; but dan thought most of commanding watch on broad decks, and looking into far-away harbours. mrs. cheyne had spoken privately to the unaccountable manuel in the matter of harvey's rescue. he seemed to have no desire for money. pressed hard, he said that he would take five dollars, because he wanted to buy something for a girl. otherwise--"how shall i take money when i make so easy my eats and smokes? you will giva some if i like or no? eh, wha-at? then you shall giva me money, but not that way. you shall giva all you can think." he introduced her to a snuffy portuguese priest with a list of semi-destitute widows as long as his cassock. as a strict unitarian, mrs. cheyne could not sympathize with the creed, but she ended by respecting the brown, voluble little man. manuel, faithful son of the church, appropriated all the blessings showered on her for her charity. "that letta me out," said he. "i have now ver' good absolutions for six months"; and he strolled forth to get a handkerchief for the girl of the hour and to break the hearts of all the others. salters went west for a season with penn, and left no address behind. he had a dread that these millionary people, with wasteful private cars, might take undue interest in his companion. it was better to visit inland relatives till the coast was clear. "never you be adopted by rich folk, penn," he said in the cars, "or i'll take 'n' break this checker-board over your head. ef you forgit your name agin--which is pratt--you remember you belong with salters troop, an' set down right where you are till i come fer you. don't go taggin' araound after them whose eyes bung out with fatness, accordin' to scripcher." chapter x but it was otherwise with the _we're here's_ silent cook, for he came up, his kit in a handkerchief, and boarded the "constance." pay was no particular object, and he did not in the least care where he slept. his business, as revealed to him in dreams, was to follow harvey for the rest of his days. they tried argument and, at last, persuasion; but there is a difference between one cape breton and two alabama negroes, and the matter was referred to cheyne by the cook and porter. the millionaire only laughed. he presumed harvey might need a body-servant some day or other, and was sure that one volunteer was worth five hirelings. let the man stay, therefore; even though he called himself macdonald and swore in gaelic. the car could go back to boston, where, if he were still of the same mind, they would take him west. with the "constance," which in his heart of hearts he loathed, departed the last remnant of cheyne's millionairedom, and he gave himself up to an energetic idleness. this gloucester was a new town in a new land, and he purposed to "take it in," as of old he had taken in all the cities from snohomish to san diego of that world whence he hailed. they made money along the crooked street which was half wharf and half ship's store: as a leading professional he wished to learn how the noble game was played. men said that four out of every five fish-balls served at new england's sunday breakfast came from gloucester, and overwhelmed him with figures in proof--statistics of boats, gear, wharf-frontage, capital invested, salting, packing, factories, insurance, wages, repairs, and profits. he talked with the owners of the large fleets whose skippers were little more than hired men, and whose crews were almost all swedes or portuguese. then he conferred with disko, one of the few who owned their craft, and compared notes in his vast head. he coiled himself away on chain-cables in marine junk-shops, asking questions with cheerful, unslaked western curiosity, till all the water-front wanted to know "what in thunder that man was after, anyhow." he prowled into the mutual insurance rooms, and demanded explanations of the mysterious remarks chalked up on the blackboard day by day; and that brought down upon him secretaries of every fisherman's widow and orphan aid society within the city limits. they begged shamelessly, each man anxious to beat the other institution's record, and cheyne tugged at his beard and handed them all over to mrs. cheyne. she was resting in a boarding-house near eastern point--a strange establishment, managed, apparently, by the boarders, where the table-cloths were red-and-white-checkered and the population, who seemed to have known one another intimately for years, rose up at midnight to make welsh rarebits if it felt hungry. on the second morning of her stay mrs. cheyne put away her diamond solitaires before she came down to breakfast. "they're most delightful people," she confided to her husband; "so friendly and simple, too, though they are all boston, nearly." "that isn't simpleness, mama," he said, looking across the boulders behind the apple-trees where the hammocks were slung. "it's the other thing, that what i haven't got." "it can't be," said mrs. cheyne quietly. "there isn't a woman here owns a dress that cost a hundred dollars. why, we--" "i know it, dear. we have--of course we have. i guess it's only the style they wear east. are you having a good time?" "i don't see very much of harvey; he's always with you; but i ain't near as nervous as i was." "i haven't had such a good time since willie died. i never rightly understood that i had a son before this. harve's got to be a great boy. 'anything i can fetch you, dear? 'cushion under your head? well, we'll go down to the wharf again and look around." harvey was his father's shadow in those days, and the two strolled along side by side, cheyne using the grades as an excuse for laying his hand on the boy's square shoulder. it was then that harvey noticed and admired what had never struck him before--his father's curious power of getting at the heart of new matters as learned from men in the street. "how d'you make 'em tell you everything without opening your head?" demanded the son, as they came out of a rigger's loft. "i've dealt with quite a few men in my time, harve, and one sizes 'em up somehow, i guess. i know something about myself, too." then, after a pause, as they sat down on a wharf-edge: "men can 'most always tell when a man has handled things for himself, and then they treat him as one of themselves." "same as they treat me down at wouverman's wharf. i'm one of the crowd now. disko has told every one i've earned my pay." harvey spread out his hands and rubbed the palms together. "they're all soft again," he said dolefully. "keep 'em that way for the next few years, while you're getting your education. you can harden 'em up after." "ye-es, i suppose so," was the reply, in no delighted voice. "it rests with you, harve. you can take cover behind your mama, of course, and put her on to fussing about your nerves and your high-strungness and all that kind of poppycock." "have i ever done that?" said harvey, uneasily. his father turned where he sat and thrust out a long hand. "you know as well as i do that i can't make anything of you if you don't act straight by me. i can handle you alone if you'll stay alone, but i don't pretend to manage both you and mama. life's too short, anyway." "don't make me out much of a fellow, does it?" "i guess it was my fault a good deal; but if you want the truth, you haven't been much of anything up to date. now, have you?" "umm! disko thinks . . . say, what d'you reckon it's cost you to raise me from the start--first, last and all over?" cheyne smiled. "i've never kept track, but i should estimate, in dollars and cents, nearer fifty than forty thousand; maybe sixty. the young generation comes high. it has to have things, and it tires of 'em, and--the old man foots the bill." harvey whistled, but at heart he was rather pleased to think that his upbringing had cost so much. "and all that's sunk capital, isn't it?" "invested, harve. invested, i hope." "making it only thirty thousand, the thirty i've earned is about ten cents on the hundred. that's a mighty poor catch." harvey wagged his head solemnly. cheyne laughed till he nearly fell off the pile into the water. "disko has got a heap more than that out of dan since he was ten; and dan's at school half the year, too." "oh, that's what you're after, is it?" "no. i'm not after anything. i'm not stuck on myself any just now--that's all. . . . i ought to be kicked." "i can't do it, old man; or i would, i presume, if i'd been made that way." "then i'd have remembered it to the last day i lived--and never forgiven you," said harvey, his chin on his doubled fists. "exactly. that's about what i'd do. you see?" "i see. the fault's with me and no one else. all the same, something's got to be done about it." cheyne drew a cigar from his vest-pocket, bit off the end, and fell to smoking. father and son were very much alike; for the beard hid cheyne's mouth, and harvey had his father's slightly aquiline nose, close-set black eyes, and narrow, high cheek-bones. with a touch of brown paint he would have made up very picturesquely as a red indian of the story-books. "now you can go on from here," said cheyne, slowly, "costing me between six or eight thousand a year till you're a voter. well, we'll call you a man then. you can go right on from that, living on me to the tune of forty or fifty thousand, besides what your mother will give you, with a valet and a yacht or a fancy-ranch where you can pretend to raise trotting-stock and play cards with your own crowd." "like lorry tuck?" harvey put in. "yep; or the two de vitre boys or old man mcquade's son. california's full of 'em, and here's an eastern sample while we're talking." a shiny black steam-yacht, with mahogany deck-house, nickel-plated binnacles, and pink-and-white-striped awnings puffed up the harbour, flying the burgee of some new york club. two young men in what they conceived to be sea costumes were playing cards by the saloon skylight; and a couple of women with red and blue parasols looked on and laughed noisily. "shouldn't care to be caught out in her in any sort of a breeze. no beam," said harvey, critically, as the yacht slowed to pick up her mooring-buoy. "they're having what stands them for a good time. i can give you that, and twice as much as that, harve. how'd you like it?" "caesar! that's no way to get a dinghy overside," said harvey, still intent on the yacht. "if i couldn't slip a tackle better than that i'd stay ashore. . . . what if i don't?" "stay ashore--or what?" "yacht and ranch and live on 'the old man,' and--get behind mama where there's trouble," said harvey, with a twinkle in his eye. "why, in that case, you come right in with me, my son." "ten dollars a month?" another twinkle. "not a cent more until you're worth it, and you won't begin to touch that for a few years." "i'd sooner begin sweeping out the office--isn't that how the big bugs start?--and touch something now than--" "i know it; we all feel that way. but i guess we can hire any sweeping we need. i made the same mistake myself of starting in too soon." "thirty million dollars' worth o' mistake, wasn't it? i'd risk it for that." "i lost some; and i gained some. i'll tell you." cheyne pulled his beard and smiled as he looked over the still water, and spoke away from harvey, who presently began to be aware that his father was telling the story of his life. he talked in a low, even voice, without gesture and without expression; and it was a history for which a dozen leading journals would cheerfully have paid many dollars--the story of forty years that was at the same time the story of the new west, whose story is yet to be written. it began with a kinless boy turned loose in texas, and went on fantastically through a hundred changes and chops of life, the scenes shifting from state after western state, from cities that sprang up in a month and--in a season utterly withered away, to wild ventures in wilder camps that are now laborious, paved municipalities. it covered the building of three railroads and the deliberate wreck of a fourth. it told of steamers, townships, forests, and mines, and the men of every nation under heaven, manning, creating, hewing, and digging these. it touched on chances of gigantic wealth flung before eyes that could not see, or missed by the merest accident of time and travel; and through the mad shift of things, sometimes on horseback, more often afoot, now rich, now poor, in and out, and back and forth, deck-hand, train-hand, contractor, boarding-house keeper, journalist, engineer, drummer, real-estate agent, politician, dead-beat, rum-seller, mine-owner, speculator, cattle-man, or tramp, moved harvey cheyne, alert and quiet, seeking his own ends, and, so he said, the glory and advancement of his country. he told of the faith that never deserted him even when he hung on the ragged edge of despair--the faith that comes of knowing men and things. he enlarged, as though he were talking to himself, on his very great courage and resource at all times. the thing was so evident in the man's mind that he never even changed his tone. he described how he had bested his enemies, or forgiven them, exactly as they had bested or forgiven him in those careless days; how he had entreated, cajoled, and bullied towns, companies, and syndicates, all for their enduring good; crawled round, through, or under mountains and ravines, dragging a string and hoop-iron railroad after him, and in the end, how he had sat still while promiscuous communities tore the last fragments of his character to shreds. the tale held harvey almost breathless, his head a little cocked to one side, his eyes fixed on his father's face, as the twilight deepened and the red cigar-end lit up the furrowed cheeks and heavy eyebrows. it seemed to him like watching a locomotive storming across country in the dark--a mile between each glare of the open fire-door: but this locomotive could talk, and the words shook and stirred the boy to the core of his soul. at last cheyne pitched away the cigar-butt, and the two sat in the dark over the lapping water. "i've never told that to any one before," said the father. harvey gasped. "it's just the greatest thing that ever was!" said he. "that's what i got. now i'm coming to what i didn't get. it won't sound much of anything to you, but i don't wish you to be as old as i am before you find out. i can handle men, of course, and i'm no fool along my own lines, but--but--i can't compete with the man who has been taught! i've picked up as i went along, and i guess it sticks out all over me." "i've never seen it," said the son, indignantly. "you will, though, harve. you will--just as soon as you're through college. don't i know it? don't i know the look on men's faces when they think me a--a 'mucker,' as they call it out here? i can break them to little pieces--yes--but i can't get back at 'em to hurt 'em where they live. i don't say they're 'way 'way up, but i feel i'm 'way, 'way, 'way off, somehow. now you've got your chance. you've got to soak up all the learning that's around, and you'll live with a crowd that are doing the same thing. they'll be doing it for a few thousand dollars a year at most; but remember you'll be doing it for millions. you'll learn law enough to look after your own property when i'm out o' the light, and you'll have to be solid with the best men in the market (they are useful later); and above all, you'll have to stow away the plain, common, sit-down-with-your chin-on your-elbows book-learning. nothing pays like that, harve, and it's bound to pay more and more each year in our country--in business and in politics. you'll see." "there's no sugar in my end of the deal," said harvey. "four years at college! 'wish i'd chosen the valet and the yacht!" "never mind, my son," cheyne insisted. "you're investing your capital where it'll bring in the best returns; and i guess you won't find our property shrunk any when you're ready to take hold. think it over, and let me know in the morning. hurry! we'll be late for supper!" as this was a business talk, there was no need for harvey to tell his mother about it; and cheyne naturally took the same point of view. but mrs. cheyne saw and feared, and was a little jealous. her boy, who rode rough-shod over her, was gone, and in his stead reigned a keen-faced youth, abnormally silent, who addressed most of his conversation to his father. she understood it was business, and therefore a matter beyond her premises. if she had any doubts, they were resolved when cheyne went to boston and brought back a new diamond marquise ring. "what have you two been doing now?" she said, with a weak little smile, as she turned it in the light. "talking--just talking, mama; there's nothing mean about harvey." there was not. the boy had made a treaty on his own account. railroads, he explained gravely, interested him as little as lumber, real estate, or mining. what his soul yearned after was control of his father's newly purchased sailing-ship. if that could be promised him within what he conceived to be a reasonable time, he, for his part, guaranteed diligence and sobriety at college for four or five years. in vacation he was to be allowed full access to all details connected with the line--he had not asked more than two thousand questions about it,--from his father's most private papers in the safe to the tug in san francisco harbour. "it's a deal," said cheyne at the last. "you'll alter your mind twenty times before you leave college, o' course; but if you take hold of it in proper shape, and if you don't tie it up before you're twenty-three, i'll make the thing over to you. how's that, harve?" "nope; never pays to split up a going concern. there's too much competition in the world anyway, and disko says 'blood-kin hev to stick together.' his crowd never go back on him. that's one reason, he says, why they make such big fares. say, the _we're here_ goes off to the georges on monday. they don't stay long ashore, do they?" "well, we ought to be going, too, i guess. i've left my business hung up at loose ends between two oceans, and it's time to connect again. i just hate to do it, though; haven't had a holiday like this for twenty years." "we can't go without seeing disko off," said harvey; "and monday's memorial day. let's stay over that, anyway." "what is this memorial business? they were talking about it at the boarding-house," said cheyne weakly. he, too, was not anxious to spoil the golden days. "well, as far as i can make out, this business is a sort of song-and-dance act, whacked up for the summer boarders. disko don't think much of it, he says, because they take up a collection for the widows and orphans. disko's independent. haven't you noticed that?" "well--yes. a little. in spots. is it a town show, then?" "the summer convention is. they read out the names of the fellows drowned or gone astray since last time, and they make speeches, and recite, and all. then, disko says, the secretaries of the aid societies go into the back yard and fight over the catch. the real show, he says, is in the spring. the ministers all take a hand then, and there aren't any summer boarders around." "i see," said cheyne, with the brilliant and perfect comprehension of one born into and bred up to city pride. "we'll stay over for memorial day, and get off in the afternoon." "guess i'll go down to disko's and make him bring his crowd up before they sail. i'll have to stand with them, of course." "oh, that's it, is it," said cheyne. "i'm only a poor summer boarder, and you're--" "a banker--full-blooded banker," harvey called back as he boarded a trolley, and cheyne went on with his blissful dreams for the future. disko had no use for public functions where appeals were made for charity, but harvey pleaded that the glory of the day would be lost, so far as he was concerned, if the _we're heres_ absented themselves. then disko made conditions. he had heard--it was astonishing how all the world knew all the world's business along the water-front--he had heard that a "philadelphia actress-woman" was going to take part in the exercises; and he mistrusted that she would deliver "skipper ireson's ride." personally, he had as little use for actresses as for summer boarders; but justice was justice, and though he himself (here dan giggled) had once slipped up on a matter of judgment, this thing must not be. so harvey came back to east gloucester, and spent half a day explaining to an amused actress with a royal reputation on two seaboards the inwardness of the mistake she contemplated; and she admitted that it was justice, even as disko had said. cheyne knew by old experience what would happen; but anything of the nature of a public palaver was meat and drink to the man's soul. he saw the trolleys hurrying west, in the hot, hazy morning, full of women in light summer dresses, and white-faced straw-hatted men fresh from boston desks; the stack of bicycles outside the post office; the come-and-go of busy officials, greeting one another; the slow flick and swash of bunting in the heavy air; and the important man with a hose sluicing the brick sidewalk. "mother," he said suddenly, "don't you remember--after seattle was burned out--and they got her going again?" mrs. cheyne nodded, and looked critically down the crooked street. like her husband, she understood these gatherings, all the west over, and compared them one against another. the fishermen began to mingle with the crowd about the town-hall doors--blue-jowled portuguese, their women bare-headed or shawled for the most part; clear-eyed nova scotians, and men of the maritime provinces; french, italians, swedes, and danes, with outside crews of coasting schooners; and everywhere women in black, who saluted one another with gloomy pride, for this was their day of great days. and there were ministers of many creeds,--pastors of great, gilt-edged congregations, at the seaside for a rest, with shepherds of the regular work,--from the priests of the church on the hill to bush-bearded ex-sailor lutherans, hail-fellow with the men of a score of boats. there were owners of lines of schooners, large contributors to the societies, and small men, their few craft pawned to the mastheads, with bankers and marine-insurance agents, captains of tugs and water-boats, riggers, fitters, lumpers, salters, boat-builders, and coopers, and all the mixed population of the water-front. they drifted along the line of seats made gay with the dresses of the summer boarders, and one of the town officials patrolled and perspired till he shone all over with pure civic pride. cheyne had met him for five minutes a few days before, and between the two there was entire understanding. "well, mr. cheyne, and what d'you think of our city?--yes, madam, you can sit anywhere you please.--you have this kind of thing out west, i presume?" "yes, but we aren't as old as you." "that's so, of course. you ought to have been at the exercises when we celebrated our two hundred and fiftieth birthday. i tell you, mr. cheyne, the old city did herself credit." "so i heard. it pays, too. what's the matter with the town that it don't have a first-class hotel, though?" "--right over there to the left, pedro. heaps o' room for you and your crowd.--why, that's what i tell 'em all the time, mr. cheyne. there's big money in it, but i presume that don't affect you any. what we want is--" a heavy hand fell on his broadcloth shoulder, and the flushed skipper of a portland coal-and-ice coaster spun him half round. "what in thunder do you fellows mean by clappin' the law on the town when all decent men are at sea this way? heh? town's dry as a bone, an' smells a sight worse sence i quit. 'might ha' left us one saloon for soft drinks, anyway." "don't seem to have hindered your nourishment this morning, carsen. i'll go into the politics of it later. sit down by the door and think over your arguments till i come back." "what good is arguments to me? in miquelon champagne's eighteen dollars a case and--" the skipper lurched into his seat as an organ-prelude silenced him. "our new organ," said the official proudly to cheyne. "cost us four thousand dollars, too. we'll have to get back to high-license next year to pay for it. i wasn't going to let the ministers have all the religion at their convention. those are some of our orphans standing up to sing. my wife taught 'em. see you again later, mr. cheyne. i'm wanted on the platform." high, clear, and true, children's voices bore down the last noise of those settling into their places. "o all ye works of the lord, bless ye the lord: praise him and magnify him for ever!" the women throughout the hall leaned forward to look as the reiterated cadences filled the air. mrs. cheyne, with some others, began to breathe short; she had hardly imagined there were so many widows in the world; and instinctively searched for harvey. he had found the _we're heres_ at the back of the audience, and was standing, as by right, between dan and disko. uncle salters, returned the night before with penn, from pamlico sound, received him suspiciously. "hain't your folk gone yet?" he grunted. "what are you doin' here, young feller?" "o ye seas and floods, bless ye the lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever!" "hain't he good right?" said dan. "he's bin there, same as the rest of us." "not in them clothes," salters snarled. "shut your head, salters," said disko. "your bile's gone back on you. stay right where ye are, harve." then up and spoke the orator of the occasion, another pillar of the municipality, bidding the world welcome to gloucester, and incidentally pointing out wherein gloucester excelled the rest of the world. then he turned to the sea-wealth of the city, and spoke of the price that must be paid for the yearly harvest. they would hear later the names of their lost dead one hundred and seventeen of them. (the widows stared a little, and looked at one another here.) gloucester could not boast any overwhelming mills or factories. her sons worked for such wage as the sea gave; and they all knew that neither georges nor the banks were cow-pastures. the utmost that folk ashore could accomplish was to help the widows and the orphans, and after a few general remarks he took this opportunity of thanking, in the name of the city, those who had so public-spiritedly consented to participate in the exercises of the occasion. "i jest despise the beggin' pieces in it," growled disko. "it don't give folk a fair notion of us." "ef folk won't be fore-handed an' put by when they've the chance," returned salters, "it stands in the nature o' things they hev to be 'shamed. you take warnin' by that, young feller. riches endureth but for a season, ef you scatter them araound on lugsuries--" "but to lose everything, everything," said penn. "what can you do then? once i"--the watery blue eyes stared up and down as if looking for something to steady them--"once i read--in a book, i think--of a boat where every one was run down--except some one--and he said to me--" "shucks!" said salters, cutting in. "you read a little less an' take more int'rust in your vittles, and you'll come nearer earnin' your keep, penn." harvey, jammed among the fishermen, felt a creepy, crawly, tingling thrill that began in the back of his neck and ended at his boots. he was cold, too, though it was a stifling day. "that the actress from philadelphia?" said disko troop, scowling at the platform. "you've fixed it about old man ireson, hain't ye, harve? ye know why naow." it was not "ireson's ride" that the woman delivered, but some sort of poem about a fishing-port called brixham and a fleet of trawlers beating in against storm by night, while the women made a guiding fire at the head of the quay with everything they could lay hands on. "they took the grandma's blanket, who shivered and bade them go; they took the baby's cradle, who could not say them no." "whew!" said dan, peering over long jack's shoulder. "that's great! must ha' bin expensive, though." "ground-hog case," said the galway man. "badly lighted port, danny." * * * * * * "and knew not all the while if they were lighting a bonfire or only a funeral pile." the wonderful voice took hold of people by their heartstrings; and when she told how the drenched crews were flung ashore, living and dead, and they carried the bodies to the glare of the fires, asking: "child, is this your father?" or "wife, is this your man?" you could hear hard breathing all over the benches. "and when the boats of brixham go out to face the gales, think of the love that travels like light upon their sails!" there was very little applause when she finished. the women were looking for their handkerchiefs, and many of the men stared at the ceiling with shiny eyes. "h'm," said salters; "that 'u'd cost ye a dollar to hear at any theatre--maybe two. some folk, i presoom, can afford it. 'seems downright waste to me. . . . naow, how in jerusalem did cap. bart edwardes strike adrift here?" "no keepin' him under," said an eastport man behind. "he's a poet, an' he's baound to say his piece. 'comes from daown aour way, too." he did not say that captain b. edwardes had striven for five consecutive years to be allowed to recite a piece of his own composition on gloucester memorial day. an amused and exhausted committee had at last given him his desire. the simplicity and utter happiness of the old man, as he stood up in his very best sunday clothes, won the audience ere he opened his mouth. they sat unmurmuring through seven-and-thirty hatchet-made verses describing at fullest length the loss of the schooner _joan hasken_ off the georges in the gale of , and when he came to an end they shouted with one kindly throat. a far-sighted boston reporter slid away for a full copy of the epic and an interview with the author; so that earth had nothing more to offer captain bart edwardes, ex-whaler, shipwright, master-fisherman, and poet, in the seventy-third year of his age. "naow, i call that sensible," said the eastport man. "i've bin over that graound with his writin', jest as he read it, in my two hands, and i can testify that he's got it all in." "if dan here couldn't do better'n that with one hand before breakfast, he ought to be switched," said salters, upholding the honor of massachusetts on general principles. "not but what i'm free to own he's considerable litt'ery--fer maine. still--" "guess uncle salters's goin' to die this trip. fust compliment he's ever paid me," dan sniggered. "what's wrong with you, harve? you act all quiet and you look greenish. feelin' sick?" "don't know what's the matter with me," harvey implied. "seems if my insides were too big for my outsides. i'm all crowded up and shivery." "dispepsy? pshaw--too bad. we'll wait for the readin', an' then we'll quit, an' catch the tide." the widows--they were nearly all of that season's making--braced themselves rigidly like people going to be shot in cold blood, for they knew what was coming. the summer-boarder girls in pink and blue shirt-waists stopped tittering over captain edwardes's wonderful poem, and looked back to see why all was silent. the fishermen pressed forward as that town official who had talked to cheyne bobbed up on the platform and began to read the year's list of losses, dividing them into months. last september's casualties were mostly single men and strangers, but his voice rang very loud in the stillness of the hall. "september th. schooner _florrie anderson_ lost, with all aboard, off the georges. "reuben pitman, master, , single, main street, city. "emil olsen, , single, hammond street, city. denmark. "oscar standberg, single, . sweden. "carl stanberg, single, , main street. city. "pedro, supposed madeira, single, keene's boardinghouse. city. "joseph welsh, alias joseph wright, , st. john's, newfoundland." "no--augusty, maine," a voice cried from the body of the hall. "he shipped from st. john's," said the reader, looking to see. "i know it. he belongs in augusty. my nevvy." the reader made a pencilled correction on the margin of the list, and resumed. "same schooner, charlie ritchie, liverpool, nova scotia, , single. "albert may, rogers street, city, , single. "september th.--orvin dollard, , married, drowned in dory off eastern point." that shot went home, for one of the widows flinched where she sat, clasping and unclasping her hands. mrs. cheyne, who had been listening with wide-opened eyes, threw up her head and choked. dan's mother, a few seats to the right, saw and heard and quickly moved to her side. the reading went on. by the time they reached the january and february wrecks the shots were falling thick and fast, and the widows drew breath between their teeth. "february th.--schooner _harry randolph_ dismasted on the way home from newfoundland; asa musie, married, , main street, city, lost overboard. "february d.--schooner _gilbert hope_; went astray in dory, robert beavon, , married, native of pubnico, nova scotia." but his wife was in the hall. they heard a low cry, as though a little animal had been hit. it was stifled at once, and a girl staggered out of the hall. she had been hoping against hope for months, because some who have gone adrift in dories have been miraculously picked up by deep-sea sailing-ships. now she had her certainty, and harvey could see the policeman on the sidewalk hailing a hack for her. "it's fifty cents to the depot"--the driver began, but the policeman held up his hand--"but i'm goin' there anyway. jump right in. look at here, al; you don't pull me next time my lamps ain't lit. see?" the side-door closed on the patch of bright sunshine, and harvey's eyes turned again to the reader and his endless list. "april th.--schooner _mamie douglas_ lost on the banks with all hands. "edward canton, , master, married, city. "d. hawkins, alias williams, , married, shelbourne, nova scotia. "g. w. clay, coloured, , married, city." and so on, and so on. great lumps were rising in harvey's throat, and his stomach reminded him of the day when he fell from the liner. "may th.--schooner _we're here_ [the blood tingled all over him] otto svendson, , single, city, lost overboard." once more a low, tearing cry from somewhere at the back of the hall. "she shouldn't ha' come. she shouldn't ha' come," said long jack, with a cluck of pity. "don't scrowge, harve," grunted dan. harvey heard that much, but the rest was all darkness spotted with fiery wheels. disko leaned forward and spoke to his wife, where she sat with one arm round mrs. cheyne, and the other holding down the snatching, catching, ringed hands. "lean your head daown--right daown!" he whispered. "it'll go off in a minute." "i ca-an't! i do-don't! oh, let me--" mrs. cheyne did not at all know what she said. "you must," mrs. troop repeated. "your boy's jest fainted dead away. they do that some when they're gettin' their growth. 'wish to tend to him? we can git aout this side. quite quiet. you come right along with me. psha', my dear, we're both women, i guess. we must tend to aour men-folk. come!" the _we're heres_ promptly went through the crowd as a body-guard, and it was a very white and shaken harvey that they propped up on a bench in an anteroom. "favours his ma," was mrs. troop's only comment, as the mother bent over her boy. "how d'you suppose he could ever stand it?" she cried indignantly to cheyne, who had said nothing at all. "it was horrible--horrible! we shouldn't have come. it's wrong and wicked! it--it isn't right! why--why couldn't they put these things in the papers, where they belong? are you better, darling?" that made harvey very properly ashamed. "oh, i'm all right, i guess," he said, struggling to his feet, with a broken giggle. "must ha' been something i ate for breakfast." "coffee, perhaps," said cheyne, whose face was all in hard lines, as though it had been cut out of bronze. "we won't go back again." "guess 'twould be 'baout's well to git daown to the wharf," said disko. "it's close in along with them dagoes, an' the fresh air will fresh mrs. cheyne up." harvey announced that he never felt better in his life; but it was not till he saw the _we're here_, fresh from the lumper's hands, at wouverman's wharf, that he lost his all-overish feelings in a queer mixture of pride and sorrowfulness. other people--summer boarders and such-like--played about in cat-boats or looked at the sea from pier-heads; but he understood things from the inside--more things than he could begin to think about. none the less, he could have sat down and howled because the little schooner was going off. mrs. cheyne simply cried and cried every step of the way and said most extraordinary things to mrs. troop, who "babied" her till dan, who had not been "babied" since he was six, whistled aloud. and so the old crowd--harvey felt like the most ancient of mariners dropped into the old schooner among the battered dories, while harvey slipped the stern-fast from the pier-head, and they slid her along the wharf-side with their hands. every one wanted to say so much that no one said anything in particular. harvey bade dan take care of uncle salters's sea-boots and penn's dory-anchor, and long jack entreated harvey to remember his lessons in seamanship; but the jokes fell flat in the presence of the two women, and it is hard to be funny with green harbour-water widening between good friends. "up jib and fores'l!" shouted disko, getting to the wheel, as the wind took her. "see you later, harve. dunno but i come near thinkin' a heap o' you an' your folks." then she glided beyond ear-shot, and they sat down to watch her up the harbour, and still mrs. cheyne wept. "pshaw, my dear," said mrs. troop: "we're both women, i guess. like's not it'll ease your heart to hev your cry aout. god he knows it never done me a mite o' good, but then he knows i've had something to cry fer!" now it was a few years later, and upon the other edge of america, that a young man came through the clammy sea fog up a windy street which is flanked with most expensive houses built of wood to imitate stone. to him, as he was standing by a hammered iron gate, entered on horseback--and the horse would have been cheap at a thousand dollars--another young man. and this is what they said: "hello, dan!" "hello, harve!" "what's the best with you?" "well, i'm so's to be that kind o' animal called second mate this trip. ain't you most through with that triple invoiced college of yours?" "getting that way. i tell you, the leland stanford junior, isn't a circumstance to the old _we're here_; but i'm coming into the business for keeps next fall." "meanin' aour packets?" "nothing else. you just wait till i get my knife into you, dan. i'm going to make the old line lie down and cry when i take hold." "i'll resk it," said dan, with a brotherly grin, as harvey dismounted and asked whether he were coming in. "that's what i took the cable fer; but, say, is the doctor anywheres araound? i'll draown that crazy nigger some day, his one cussed joke an' all." there was a low, triumphant chuckle, as the ex-cook of the _we're here_ came out of the fog to take the horse's bridle. he allowed no one but himself to attend to any of harvey's wants. "thick as the banks, ain't it, doctor?" said dan, propitiatingly. but the coal-black celt with the second-sight did not see fit to reply till he had tapped dan on the shoulder, and for the twentieth time croaked the old, old prophecy in his ear. "master--man. man--master," said he. "you remember, dan troop, what i said? on the _we're here_?" "well, i won't go so far as to deny that it do look like it as things stand at present," said dan. "she was a noble packet, and one way an' another i owe her a heap--her and dad." "me too," quoth harvey cheyne. "captains courageous" a story of the grand banks by rudyard kipling chapter i the weather door of the smoking-room had been left open to the north atlantic fog, as the big liner rolled and lifted, whistling to warn the fishing-fleet. "that cheyne boy's the biggest nuisance aboard," said a man in a frieze overcoat, shutting the door with a bang. "he isn't wanted here. he's too fresh." a white-haired german reached for a sandwich, and grunted between bites: "i know der breed. ameriga is full of dot kind. i dell you you should imbort ropes' ends free under your dariff." "pshaw! there isn't any real harm to him. he's more to be pitied than anything," a man from new york drawled, as he lay at full length along the cushions under the wet skylight. "they've dragged him around from hotel to hotel ever since he was a kid. i was talking to his mother this morning. she's a lovely lady, but she don't pretend to manage him. he's going to europe to finish his education." "education isn't begun yet." this was a philadelphian, curled up in a corner. "that boy gets two hundred a month pocket-money, he told me. he isn't sixteen either." "railroads, his father, aind't it?" said the german. "yep. that and mines and lumber and shipping. built one place at san diego, the old man has; another at los angeles; owns half a dozen railroads, half the lumber on the pacific slope, and lets his wife spend the money," the philadelphian went on lazily. "the west don't suit her, she says. she just tracks around with the boy and her nerves, trying to find out what'll amuse him, i guess. florida, adirondacks, lakewood, hot springs, new york, and round again. he isn't much more than a second-hand hotel clerk now. when he's finished in europe he'll be a holy terror." "what's the matter with the old man attending to him personally?" said a voice from the frieze ulster. "old man's piling up the rocks. 'don't want to be disturbed, i guess. he'll find out his error a few years from now. 'pity, because there's a heap of good in the boy if you could get at it." "mit a rope's end; mit a rope's end!" growled the german. once more the door banged, and a slight, slim-built boy perhaps fifteen years old, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth, leaned in over the high footway. his pasty yellow complexion did not show well on a person of his years, and his look was a mixture of irresolution, bravado, and very cheap smartness. he was dressed in a cherry-coloured blazer, knickerbockers, red stockings, and bicycle shoes, with a red flannel cap at the back of the head. after whistling between his teeth, as he eyed the company, he said in a loud, high voice: "say, it's thick outside. you can hear the fish-boats squawking all around us. say, wouldn't it be great if we ran down one?" "shut the door, harvey," said the new yorker. "shut the door and stay outside. you're not wanted here." "who'll stop me?" he answered deliberately. "did you pay for my passage, mister martin? 'guess i've as good right here as the next man." he picked up some dice from a checker-board and began throwing, right hand against left. "say, gen'elmen, this is deader'n mud. can't we make a game of poker between us?" there was no answer, and he puffed his cigarette, swung his legs, and drummed on the table with rather dirty fingers. then he pulled out a roll of bills as if to count them. "how's your mamma this afternoon?" a man said. "i didn't see her at lunch." "in her state-room, i guess. she's 'most always sick on the ocean. i'm going to give the stewardess fifteen dollars for looking after her. i don't go down more 'n i can avoid. it makes me feel mysterious to pass that butler's-pantry place. say, this is the first time i've been on the ocean." "oh, don't apologise, harvey." "who's apologising? this is the first time i've crossed the ocean, gen'elmen, and, except the first day, i haven't been sick one little bit. no, sir!" he brought down his fist with a triumphant bang, wetted his finger, and went on counting the bills. "oh, you're a high-grade machine, with the writing in plain sight," the philadelphian yawned. "you'll blossom into a credit to your country if you don't take care." "i know it. i'm an american--first, last, and all the time. i'll show 'em that when i strike europe. pif! my cig's out. i can't smoke the truck the steward sells. any gen'elman got a real turkish cig on him?" the chief engineer entered for a moment, red, smiling, and wet. "say, mac," cried harvey, cheerfully, "how are we hitting it?" "vara much in the ordinary way," was the grave reply. "the young are as polite as ever to their elders, an' their elders are e'en tryin' to appreciate it." a low chuckle came from a corner. the german opened his cigar-case and handed a skinny black cigar to harvey. "dot is der broper apparatus to smoke, my young friendt," he said. "you vill dry it? yes? den you vill be efer so happy." harvey lit the unlovely thing with a flourish: he felt that he was getting on in grown-up society. "it would take more 'n this to keel me over," he said, ignorant that he was lighting that terrible article, a wheeling 'stogie'. "dot we shall bresently see," said the german. "where are we now, mr. mactonal'?" "just there or thereabouts, mr. schaefer," said the engineer. "we'll be on the grand bank to-night; but in a general way o' speakin', we're all among the fishing-fleet now. we've shaved three dories an' near skelped the boom off a frenchman since noon, an' that's close sailin', ye may say." "you like my cigar, eh?" the german asked, for harvey's eyes were full of tears. "fine, full flavour," he answered through shut teeth. "guess we've slowed down a little, haven't we? i'll skip out and see what the log says." "i might if i vhas you," said the german. harvey staggered over the wet decks to the nearest rail. he was very unhappy; but he saw the deck-steward lashing chairs together, and, since he had boasted before the man that he was never seasick, his pride made him go aft to the second-saloon deck at the stern, which was finished in a turtle-back. the deck was deserted, and he crawled to the extreme end of it, near the flagpole. there he doubled up in limp agony, for the wheeling "stogie" joined with the surge and jar of the screw to sieve out his soul. his head swelled; sparks of fire danced before his eyes; his body seemed to lose weight, while his heels wavered in the breeze. he was fainting from seasickness, and a roll of the ship tilted him over the rail on to the smooth lip of the turtle-back. then a low, grey mother-wave swung out of the fog, tucked harvey under one arm, so to speak, and pulled him off and away to leeward; the great green closed over him, and he went quietly to sleep. he was roused by the sound of a dinner-horn such as they used to blow at a summer-school he had once attended in the adirondacks. slowly he remembered that he was harvey cheyne, drowned and dead in mid-ocean, but was too weak to fit things together. a new smell filled his nostrils; wet and clammy chills ran down his back, and he was helplessly full of salt water. when he opened his eyes, he perceived that he was still on the top of the sea, for it was running round him in silver-coloured hills, and he was lying on a pile of half-dead fish, looking at a broad human back clothed in a blue jersey. "it's no good," thought the boy. "i'm dead, sure enough, and this thing is in charge." he groaned, and the figure turned its head, showing a pair of little gold rings half hidden in curly black hair. "aha! you feel some pretty well now'?" it said. "lie still so: we trim better." with a swift jerk he sculled the flickering boat-head on to a foamless sea that lifted her twenty full feet, only to slide her into a glassy pit beyond. but this mountain-climbing did not interrupt blue-jersey's talk. "fine good job, i say, that i catch you. eh, wha-at? better good job, i say, your boat not catch me. how you come to fall out?" "i was sick," said harvey; "sick, and couldn't help it." "just in time i blow my horn, and your boat she yaw a little. then i see you come all down. eh, wha-at? i think you are cut into baits by the screw, but you dreeft--dreeft to me, and i make a big fish of you. so you shall not die this time." "where am i?" said harvey, who could not see that life was particularly safe where he lay. "you are with me in the dory--manuel my name, and i come from schooner 'we're here' of gloucester. i live to gloucester. by-and-by we get supper. eh, wha-at?" he seemed to have two pairs of hands and a head of cast-iron, for, not content with blowing through a big conch-shell, he must needs stand up to it, swaying with the sway of the flat-bottomed dory, and send a grinding, thuttering shriek through the fog. how long this entertainment lasted, harvey could not remember, for he lay back terrified at the sight of the smoking swells. he fancied he heard a gun and a horn and shouting. something bigger than the dory, but quite as lively, loomed alongside. several voices talked at once; he was dropped into a dark, heaving hole, where men in oilskins gave him a hot drink and took off his clothes, and he fell asleep. when he waked he listened for the first breakfast-bell on the steamer, wondering why his stateroom had grown so small. turning, he looked into a narrow, triangular cave, lit by a lamp hung against a huge square beam. a three-cornered table within arm's reach ran from the angle of the bows to the foremast. at the after end, behind a well-used plymouth stove, sat a boy about his own age, with a flat red face and a pair of twinkling grey eyes. he was dressed in a blue jersey and high rubber boots. several pairs of the same sort of foot-wear, an old cap, and some worn-out woolen socks lay on the floor, and black and yellow oilskins swayed to and fro beside the bunks. the place was packed as full of smells as a bale is of cotton. the oilskins had a peculiarly thick flavour of their own which made a sort of background to the smells of fried fish, burnt grease, paint, pepper, and stale tobacco; but these, again, were all hooped together by one encircling smell of ship and salt water. harvey saw with disgust that there were no sheets on his bed-place. he was lying on a piece of dingy ticking full of lumps and nubbles. then, too, the boat's motion was not that of a steamer. she was neither sliding nor rolling, but rather wriggling herself about in a silly, aimless way, like a colt at the end of a halter. water-noises ran by close to his ear, and beams creaked and whined about him. all these things made him grunt despairingly and think of his mother. "feelin' better?" said the boy, with a grin. "hev some coffee?" he brought a tin cup full, and sweetened it with molasses. "is n't there milk?" said harvey, looking round the dark double tier of bunks as if he expected to find a cow there. "well, no," said the boy. "ner there ain't likely to be till 'baout mid-september. 'tain't bad coffee. i made it." harvey drank in silence, and the boy handed him a plate full of pieces of crisp fried pork, which he ate ravenously. "i've dried your clothes. guess they've shrunk some," said the boy. "they ain't our style much--none of 'em. twist round an' see ef you're hurt any." harvey stretched himself in every direction, but could not report any injuries. "that's good," the boy said heartily. "fix yerself an' go on deck. dad wants to see you. i'm his son,--dan, they call me,--an' i'm cook's helper an' everything else aboard that's too dirty for the men. there ain't no boy here 'cep' me sence otto went overboard--an' he was only a dutchy, an' twenty year old at that. how'd you come to fall off in a dead flat ca'am?" "'twasn't a calm," said harvey, sulkily. "it was a gale, and i was seasick. guess i must have rolled over the rail." "there was a little common swell yes'day an' last night," said the boy. "but ef thet's your notion of a gale----" he whistled. "you'll know more 'fore you're through. hurry! dad's waitin'." like many other unfortunate young people, harvey had never in all his life received a direct order--never, at least, without long, and sometimes tearful, explanations of the advantages of obedience and the reasons for the request. mrs. cheyne lived in fear of breaking his spirit, which, perhaps, was the reason that she herself walked on the edge of nervous prostration. he could not see why he should be expected to hurry for any man's pleasure, and said so. "your dad can come down here if he's so anxious to talk to me. i want him to take me to new york right away. it'll pay him." dan opened his eyes, as the size and beauty of this joke dawned on him. "say, dad!" he shouted up the fo'c'sle hatch, "he says you kin slip down an' see him ef you're anxious that way. 'hear, dad?" the answer came back in the deepest voice harvey had ever heard from a human chest: "quit foolin', dan, and send him to me." dan sniggered, and threw harvey his warped bicycle shoes. there was something in the tones on the deck that made the boy dissemble his extreme rage and console himself with the thought of gradually unfolding the tale of his own and his father's wealth on the voyage home. this rescue would certainly make him a hero among his friends for life. he hoisted himself on deck up a perpendicular ladder, and stumbled aft, over a score of obstructions, to where a small, thick-set, clean-shaven man with grey eyebrows sat on a step that led up to the quarter-deck. the swell had passed in the night, leaving a long, oily sea, dotted round the horizon with the sails of a dozen fishing-boats. between them lay little black specks, showing where the dories were out fishing. the schooner, with a triangular riding-sail on the mainmast, played easily at anchor, and except for the man by the cabin-roof--"house" they call it--she was deserted. "mornin'--good afternoon, i should say. you've nigh slep' the clock around, young feller," was the greeting. "mornin'," said harvey. he did not like being called "young feller"; and, as one rescued from drowning, expected sympathy. his mother suffered agonies whenever he got his feet wet; but this mariner did not seem excited. "naow let's hear all abaout it. it's quite providential, first an' last, fer all concerned. what might be your name? where from (we mistrust it's noo york), an' where baound (we mistrust it's europe)?" harvey gave his name, the name of the steamer, and a short history of the accident, winding up with a demand to be taken back immediately to new york, where his father would pay anything any one chose to name. "h'm," said the shaven man, quite unmoved by the end of harvey's speech. "i can't say we think special of any man, or boy even, that falls overboard from that kind o' packet in a flat ca'am. least of all when his excuse is thet he's seasick." "excuse!" cried harvey. "d'you suppose i'd fall overboard into your dirty little boat for fun?" "not knowin' what your notions o' fun may be, i can't rightly say, young feller. but if i was you, i wouldn't call the boat which, under providence, was the means o' savin' ye, names. in the first place, it's blame irreligious. in the second, it's annoyin' to my feelin's--an' i'm disko troop o' the "we're here" o' gloucester, which you don't seem rightly to know." "i don't know and i don't care," said harvey. "i'm grateful enough for being saved and all that, of course; but i want you to understand that the sooner you take me back to new york the better it'll pay you." "meanin'--haow?" troop raised one shaggy eyebrow over a suspiciously mild blue eye. "dollars and cents," said harvey, delighted to think that he was making an impression. "cold dollars and cents." he thrust a hand into a pocket, and threw out his stomach a little, which was his way of being grand. "you've done the best day's work you ever did in your life when you pulled me in. i'm all the son harvey cheyne has." "he's bin favoured," said disko, drily. "and if you don't know who harvey cheyne is, you don't know much--that's all. now turn her around and let's hurry." harvey had a notion that the greater part of america was filled with people discussing and envying his father's dollars. "mebbe i do, an' mebbe i don't. take a reef in your stummick, young feller. it's full o' my vittles." harvey heard a chuckle from dan, who was pretending to be busy by the stump-foremast, and the blood rushed to his face. "we'll pay for that too," he said. "when do you suppose we shall get to new york?" "i don't use noo york any. ner boston. we may see eastern point about september; an' your pa--i'm real sorry i hain't heerd tell of him--may give me ten dollars efter all your talk. then o' course he mayn't." "ten dollars! why, see here, i--" harvey dived into his pocket for the wad of bills. all he brought up was a soggy packet of cigarettes. "not lawful currency, an' bad for the lungs. heave 'em overboard, young feller, and try ag'in." "it's been stolen!" cried harvey, hotly. "you'll hev to wait till you see your pa to reward me, then?" "a hundred and thirty-four dollars--all stolen," said harvey, hunting wildly through his pockets. "give them back." a curious change flitted across old troop's hard face. "what might you have been doin' at your time o' life with one hundred an' thirty-four dollars, young feller?" "it was part of my pocket-money--for a month." this harvey thought would be a knockdown blow, and it was--indirectly. oh! one hundred and thirty-four dollars is only part of his pocket-money--for one month only! you don't remember hittin' anything when you fell over, do you? crack ag'in' a stanchion, le's say. old man hasken o' the "east wind"--troop seemed to be talking to himself--"he tripped on a hatch an' butted the mainmast with his head--hardish. 'baout three weeks afterwards, old man hasken he would hev it that the "east wind" was a commerce-destroyin' man-o'-war, an' so he declared war on sable island because it was bridish, an' the shoals run aout too far. they sewed him up in a bed-bag, his head an' feet appearin', fer the rest o' the trip, an' now he's to home in essex playin' with little rag dolls." harvey choked with rage, but troop went on consolingly: "we're sorry fer you. we're very sorry fer you--an' so young. we won't say no more abaout the money, i guess." "'course you won't. you stole it." "suit yourself. we stole it ef it's any comfort to you. naow, abaout goin' back. allowin' we could do it, which we can't, you ain't in no fit state to go back to your home, an' we've jest come on to the banks, workin' fer our bread. we don't see the ha'af of a hundred dollars a month, let alone pocket-money; an' with good luck we'll be ashore again somewheres abaout the first weeks o' september." "but--but it's may now, and i can't stay here doin' nothing just because you want to fish. i can't, i tell you!" "right an' jest; jest an' right. no one asks you to do nothin'. there's a heap as you can do, for otto he went overboard on le have. i mistrust he lost his grip in a gale we f'und there. anyways, he never come back to deny it. you've turned up, plain, plumb providential for all concerned. i mistrust, though, there's ruther few things you kin do. ain't thet so?" "i can make it lively for you and your crowd when we get ashore," said harvey, with a vicious nod, murmuring vague threats about "piracy," at which troop almost--not quite--smiled. "excep' talk. i'd forgot that. you ain't asked to talk more'n you've a mind to aboard the "we're here". keep your eyes open, an' help dan to do ez he's bid, an' sechlike, an' i'll give you--you ain't wuth it, but i'll give--ten an' a ha'af a month; say thirty-five at the end o' the trip. a little work will ease up your head, an' you kin tell us all abaout your dad an' your ma n' your money efterwards." "she's on the steamer," said harvey, his eyes fill-with tears. "take me to new york at once." "poor woman--poor woman! when she has you back she'll forgit it all, though. there's eight of us on the "we're here", an' ef we went back naow--it's more'n a thousand mile--we'd lose the season. the men they wouldn't hev it, allowin' i was agreeable." "but my father would make it all right." "he'd try. i don't doubt he'd try," said troop; "but a whole season's catch is eight men's bread; an' you'll be better in your health when you see him in the fall. go forward an' help dan. it's ten an' a ha'af a month, ez i said, an', o' course, all f'und, same ez the rest o' us." "do you mean i'm to clean pots and pans and things?" said harvey. "an' other things. you've no call to shout, young feller." "i won't! my father will give you enough to buy this dirty little fish-kettle"--harvey stamped on the deck--"ten times over, if you take me to new york safe; and--and--you're in a hundred and thirty by me, anyway." "ha-ow?" said troop, the iron face darkening. "how? you know how, well enough. on top of all that, you want me to do menial work"--harvey was very proud of that adjective--"till the fall. i tell you i will not. you hear?" troop regarded the top of the mainmast with deep interest for a while, as harvey harangued fiercely all around him. "hsh!" he said at last. "i'm figurin' out my responsibilities in my own mind. it's a matter o' jedgment." dan stole up and plucked harvey by the elbow. "don't go to tamperin' with dad any more," he pleaded. "you've called him a thief two or three times over, an' he don't take that from any livin' bein'." "i won't!" harvey almost shrieked, disregarding the advice; and still troop meditated. "seems kinder unneighbourly," he said at last, his eye travelling down to harvey. "i don't blame you, not a mite, young feller, nor you won't blame me when the bile's out o' your systim. 'be sure you sense what i say? ten an' a ha'af fer second boy on the schooner--an' all f'und--fer to teach you an' fer the sake o' your health. yes or no?" "no!" said harvey. "take me back to new york or i'll see you--" he did not exactly remember what followed. he was lying in the scuppers, holding on to a nose that bled, while troop looked down on him serenely. "dan," he said to his son, "i was sot ag'in' this young feller when i first saw him, on account o' hasty jedgments. never you be led astray by hasty jedgments, dan. naow i'm sorry for him, because he's clear distracted in his upper works. he ain't responsible fer the names he's give me, nor fer his other statements nor fer jumpin' overboard, which i'm abaout ha'af convinced he did. you be gentle with him, dan, 'r i'll give you twice what i've give him. them hemmeridges clears the head. let him sluice it off!" troop went down solemnly into the cabin, where he and the older men bunked, leaving dan to comfort the luckless heir to thirty millions. chapter ii "i warned ye," said dan, as the drops fell thick and fast on the dark, oiled planking. "dad ain't noways hasty, but you fair earned it. pshaw! there's no sense takin' on so." harvey's shoulders were rising and falling in spasms of dry sobbing. "i know the feelin'. first time dad laid me out was the last--and that was my first trip. makes ye feel sickish an' lonesome. i know." "it does," moaned harvey. "that man's either crazy or drunk, and--and i can't do anything." "don't say that to dad," whispered dan. "he's set ag'in' all liquor, an'--well, he told me you was the madman. what in creation made you call him a thief? he's my dad." harvey sat up, mopped his nose, and told the story of the missing wad of bills. "i'm not crazy," he wound up. "only--your father has never seen more than a five-dollar bill at a time, and my father could buy up this boat once a week and never miss it." "you don't know what the "we're here's" worth. your dad must hey a pile o' money. how did he git it? dad sez loonies can't shake out a straight yarn. go ahead." "in gold-mines and things, west." "i've read o' that kind o' business. out west, too? does he go around with a pistol on a trick-pony, same ez the circus? they call that the wild west, and i've heard that their spurs an' bridles was solid silver." "you are a chump!" said harvey, amused in spite of himself. "my father hasn't any use for ponies. when he wants to ride he takes his car." "haow? lobster-car?" "no. his own private car, of course. you've seen a private car some time in your life?" "slatin beeman he hez one," said dan, cautiously. "i saw her at the union depot in boston, with three niggers hoggin' her run." (dan meant cleaning the windows.) "but slatin beeman he owns 'baout every railroad on long island, they say; an' they say he's bought 'baout ha'af noo hampshire an' run a line-fence around her, an' filled her up with lions an' tigers an' bears an' buffalo an' crocodiles an' such all. slatin beeman he's a millionaire. i've seen his car. yes?" "well, my father's what they call a multi-millionaire; and he has two private cars. one's named for me, the 'harvey,' and one for my mother, the 'constance.'" "hold on," said dan. "dad don't ever let me swear, but i guess you can. 'fore we go ahead, i want you to say hope you may die if you're lying." "of course," said harvey. "thet ain't 'nuff. say, 'hope i may die if i ain't speakin' truth.'" "hope i may die right here," said harvey, "if every word i've spoken isn't the cold truth." "hundred an' thirty-four dollars an' all?" said dan. "i heard ye talkin' to dad, an' i ha'af looked you'd be swallered up, same's jonah." harvey protested himself red in the face. dan was a shrewd young person along his own lines, and ten minutes' questioning convinced him that harvey was not lying--much. besides, he had bound himself by the most terrible oath known to boyhood, and yet he sat, alive, with a red-ended nose, in the scuppers, recounting marvels upon marvels. "gosh!" said dan at last, from the very bottom of his soul, when harvey had completed an inventory of the car named in his honour. then a grin of mischievous delight overspread his broad face. "i believe you, harvey. dad's made a mistake fer once in his life." "he has, sure," said harvey, who was meditating an early revenge. "he'll be mad clear through. dad jest hates to be mistook in his jedgments." dan lay back and slapped his thigh. "oh, harvey, don't you spile the catch by lettin' on." "i don't want to be knocked down again. i'll get even with him, though." "never heard any man ever got even with dad. but he'd knock ye down again sure. the more he was mistook the more he'd do it. but gold-mines and pistols--" "i never said a word about pistols," harvey cut in, for he was on his oath. "thet's so; no more you did. two private cars, then, one named fer you an' one fer her; an' two hundred dollars a month pocket-money, all knocked into the scuppers fer not workin' fer ten an' a ha'af a month! it's the top haul o' the season." he exploded with noiseless chuckles. "then i was right? "said harvey, who thought he had found a sympathiser. "you was wrong; the wrongest kind o' wrong! you take right hold an' pitch in 'longside o' me, or you'll catch it, an' i'll catch it fer backin' you up. dad always gives me double helps 'cause i'm his son, an' he hates favourin' folk. 'guess you're kinder mad at dad. i've been that way time an' again. but dad's a mighty jest man; all the fleet says so." "looks like justice, this, don't it?" harvey pointed to his outraged nose. "thet's nothin'. lets the shore blood outer you. dad did it for yer health. say, though, i can't have dealin's with a man that thinks me or dad or any one on the "we're here's" a thief. we ain't any common wharf-end crowd by any manner o' means. we're fishermen, an' we've shipped together for six years an' more. don't you make any mistake on that! i told ye dad don't let me swear. he calls 'em vain oaths, and pounds me; but ef i could say what you said 'baout your pap an' his fixin's, i'd say that 'baout your dollars. i dunno what was in your pockets when i dried your kit, fer i didn't look to see; but i'd say, using the very same words ez you used jest now, neither me nor dad--an' we was the only two that teched you after you was brought aboard--knows anythin' 'baout the money. thet's my say. naow?" the bloodletting had certainly cleared harvey's brain, and maybe the loneliness of the sea had something to do with it. "that's all right," he said. then he looked down confusedly. "'seems to me that for a fellow just saved from drowning i haven't been over and above grateful, dan." "well, you was shook up and silly," said dan. "anyway, there was only dad an' me aboard to see it. the cook he don't count." "i might have thought about losing the bills that way," harvey said, half to himself, "instead of calling everybody in sight a thief where's your father?" "in the cabin what d' you want o' him again?" "you'll see," said harvey, and he stepped, rather groggily, for his head was still singing, to the cabin steps, where the little ship's clock hung in plain sight of the wheel. troop, in the chocolate-and-yellow painted cabin, was busy with a note-book and an enormous black pencil, which he sucked hard from time to time. "i haven't acted quite right," said harvey, surprised at his own meekness. "what's wrong naow?" said the skipper "walked into dan, hev ye?" "no; it's about you." "i'm here to listen." "well, i--i'm here to take things back," said harvey, very quickly. "when a man's saved from drowning--" he gulped. "ey? you'll make a man yet ef you go on this way." "he oughtn't begin by calling people names." "jest an' right--right an' jest," said troop, with the ghost of a dry smile. "so i'm here to say i'm sorry." another big gulp. troop heaved himself slowly off the locker he was sitting on and held out an eleven-inch hand. "i mistrusted 'twould do you sights o' good; an' this shows i weren't mistook in my jedgments." a smothered chuckle on deck caught his ear. "i am very seldom mistook in my jedgments." the eleven-inch hand closed on harvey's, numbing it to the elbow. "we'll put a little more gristle to that 'fore we've done with you, young feller; an' i don't think any worse of ye fer anythin' thet's gone by. you wasn't fairly responsible. go right abaout your business an' you won't take no hurt." "you're white," said dan, as harvey regained the deck, flushed to the tips of his ears. "i don't feel it," said he. "i didn't mean that way. i heard what dad said. when dad allows he don't think the worse of any man, dad's give himself away. he hates to be mistook in his jedgments, too. ho! ho! onct dad has a jedgment, he'd sooner dip his colours to the british than change it. i'm glad it's settled right eend up. dad's right when he says he can't take you back. it's all the livin' we make here--fishin'. the men'll be back like sharks after a dead whale in ha'af an hour." "what for?" said harvey. "supper, o' course. don't your stummick tell you? you've a heap to learn." "'guess i have," said harvey, dolefully, looking at the tangle of ropes and blocks overhead. "she's a daisy," said dan, enthusiastically, misunderstanding the look. "wait till our mainsail's bent, an' she walks home with all her salt wet. there's some work first, though." he pointed down into the darkness of the open main-hatch between the two masts. "what's that for? it's all empty," said harvey. "you an' me an' a few more hev got to fill it," said dan. "that's where the fish goes." "alive?" said harvey. "well, no. they're so's to be ruther dead--an' flat--an' salt. there's a hundred hogshead o' salt in the bins; an' we hain't more'n covered our dunnage to now." "where are the fish, though?" "'in the sea, they say; in the boats, we pray,'" said dan, quoting a fisherman's proverb. "you come in last night with 'baout forty of 'em." he pointed to a sort of wooden pen just in front of the quarter-deck. "you an' me we'll sluice that out when they're through. 'send we'll hev full pens to-night! i've seen her down ha'af a foot with fish waitin' to clean, an' we stood to the tables till we was splittin' ourselves instid o' them, we was so sleepy. yes, they're comin' in naow." dan looked over the low bulwarks at half a dozen dories rowing towards them over the shining, silky sea. "i've never seen the sea from so low down," said harvey. "it's fine." the low sun made the water all purple and pinkish, with golden lights on the barrels of the long swells, and blue and green mackerel shades in the hollows. each schooner in sight seemed to be pulling her dories towards her by invisible strings, and the little black figures in the tiny boats pulled like clockwork toys. "they've struck on good," said dan, between his half-shut eyes. "manuel hain't room fer another fish. low ez a lily-pad in still water, ain't he?" "which is manuel? i don't see how you can tell 'em 'way off, as you do." "last boat to the south'ard. he f'und you last night," said dan, pointing. "manuel rows portugoosey; ye can't mistake him. east o' him--he's a heap better'n he rows--is pennsylvania. loaded with saleratus, by the looks of him. east o' him--see how pretty they string out all along with the humpy shoulders, is long jack. he's a galway man inhabitin' south boston, where they all live mostly, an' mostly them galway men are good in a boat. north, away yonder--you'll hear him tune up in a minute--is tom platt. man-o'-war's man he was on the old ohio--first of our navy, he says, to go araound the horn. he never talks of much else, 'cept when he sings, but he has fair fishin' luck. there! what did i tell you?" a melodious bellow stole across the water from the northern dory. harvey heard something about somebody's hands and feet being cold, and then: "bring forth the chart, the doleful chart; see where them mountings meet! the clouds are thick around their heads, the mists around their feet." "full boat," said dan, with a chuckle. "if he gives us 'o captain' it's toppin' full." the bellow continued: "and naow to thee, o capting, most earnestly i pray that they shall never bury me in church or cloister grey." "double game for tom platt. he'll tell you all about the old ohio to-morrow. 'see that blue dory behind him? he's my uncle,--dad's own brother,--an' ef there's any bad luck loose on the banks she'll fetch up ag'in' uncle salters, sure. look how tender he's rowin'. i'll lay my wage and share he's the only man stung up to-day--an' he's stung up good." "what'll sting him?" said harvey, getting interested. "strawberries, mostly. punkins, sometimes, an' sometimes lemons an' cucumbers. yes, he's stung up from his elbows down. that man's luck's perfectly paralysin'. naow we'll take a-holt o' the tackles an' h'ist 'em in. is it true, what you told me jest now, that you never done a hand's turn o' work in all your born life? must feel kinder awful, don't it?" "i'm going to try to work, anyway," harvey replied stoutly. "only it's all dead new." "lay a-holt o' that tackle, then. behind ye!" harvey grabbed at a rope and long iron hook dangling from one of the stays of the mainmast, while dan pulled down another that ran from something he called a "topping-lift," as manuel drew alongside in his loaded dory. the portuguese smiled a brilliant smile that harvey learned to know well later, and a short-handled fork began to throw fish into the pen on deck. "two hundred and thirty-one," he shouted. "give him the hook," said dan, and harvey ran it into manuel's hands. he slipped it through a loop of rope at the dory's bow, caught dan's tackle, hooked it to the stern-becket, and clambered into the schooner. "pull!" shouted dan; and harvey pulled, astonished to find how easily the dory rose. "hold on; she don't nest in the crosstrees!" dan laughed; and harvey held on, for the boat lay in the air above his head. "lower away," dan shouted; and as harvey lowered, dan swayed the light boat with one hand till it landed softly just behind the mainmast. "they don't weigh nothin' empty. thet was right smart fer a passenger. there's more trick to it in a sea-way." "ah ha!" said manuel, holding out a brown hand. "you are some pretty well now? this time last night the fish they fish for you. now you fish for fish. eh, wha-at?" "i'm--i'm ever so grateful," harvey stammered, and his unfortunate hand stole to his pocket once more, but he remembered that he had no money to offer. when he knew manuel better the mere thought of the mistake he might have made would cover him with hot, uneasy blushes in his bunk. "there is no to be thankful for to me!" said manuel. "how shall i leave you dreeft, dreeft all around the banks? now you are a fisherman eh, wha-at? ouh! auh!" he bent backward and forward stiffly from the hips to get the kinks out of himself. "i have not cleaned boat to-day. too busy. they struck on queek. danny, my son, clean for me." harvey moved forward at once. here was something he could do for the man who had saved his life. dan threw him a swab, and he leaned over the dory, mopping up the slime clumsily, but with great good-will. "hike out the foot-boards; they slide in them grooves," said dan. "swab 'em an' lay 'em down. never let a foot-board jam. ye may want her bad some day. here's long jack." a stream of glittering fish flew into the pen from a dory alongside. "manuel, you take the tackle. i'll fix the tables. harvey, clear manuel's boat. long jack's nestin' on the top of her." harvey looked up from his swabbing at the bottom of another dory just above his head. "jest like the injian puzzle-boxes, ain't they?" said dan, as the one boat dropped into the other. "takes to ut like a duck to water," said long jack, a grizzly-chinned, long-lipped galway man, bending to and fro exactly as manuel had done. disko in the cabin growled up the hatchway, and they could hear him suck his pencil. "wan hunder an' forty-nine an' a half--bad luck to ye, discobolus!" said long jack. "i'm murderin' meself to fill your pockuts. slate ut for a bad catch. the portugee has bate me." whack came another dory alongside, and more fish shot into the pen. "two hundred and three. let's look at the passenger!" the speaker was even larger than the galway man, and his face was made curious by a purple cut running slantways from his left eye to the right corner of his mouth. not knowing what else to do, harvey swabbed each dory as it came down, pulled out the foot-boards, and laid them in the bottom of the boat. "he's caught on good," said the scarred man, who was tom platt, watching him critically. "there are two ways o' doin' everything. one's fisher-fashion--any end first an' a slippery hitch over all--an' the other's--" "what we did on the old ohio!" dan interrupted, brushing into the knot of men with a long board on legs. "git out o' here, tom platt, an' leave me fix the tables." he jammed one end of the board into two nicks in the bulwarks, kicked out the leg, and ducked just in time to avoid a swinging blow from the man-o'-war's man. "an' they did that on the ohio, too, danny. see?" said tom platt, laughing. "'guess they was swivel-eyed, then, fer it didn't git home, and i know who'll find his boots on the main-truck ef he don't leave us alone. haul ahead! i'm busy, can't ye see?" "danny, ye lie on the cable an' sleep all day," said long jack. "you're the hoight av impidence, an' i'm persuaded ye'll corrupt our supercargo in a week." "his name's harvey," said dan, waving two strangely shaped knives, "an' he'll be worth five of any sou' boston clam-digger 'fore long." he laid the knives tastefully on the table, cocked his head on one side, and admired the effect. "i think it's forty-two," said a small voice over-side, and there was a roar of laughter as another voice answered, "then my luck's turned fer onct, 'caze i'm forty-five, though i be stung outer all shape." "forty-two or forty-five. i've lost count," the small voice said. "it's penn an' uncle salters caountin' catch. this beats the circus any day," said dan. "jest look at 'em!" "come in--come in!" roared long jack. "it's wet out yondher, children." "forty-two, ye said." this was uncle salters. "i'll count again, then," the voice replied meekly. the two dories swung together and bunted into the schooner's side. "patience o' jerusalem!" snapped uncle salters, backing water with a splash. "what possest a farmer like you to set foot in a boat beats me. you've nigh stove me all up." "i am sorry, mr. salters. i came to sea on account of nervous dyspepsia. you advised me, i think." "you an' your nervis dyspepsy be drowned in the whale-hole," roared uncle salters, a fat and tubly little man. "you're comin' down on me ag'in. did ye say forty-two or forty-five?" "i've forgotten, mr. salters. let's count." "don't see as it could be forty-five. i'm forty-five," said uncle salters. "you count keerful, penn." disko troop came out of the cabin. "salters, you pitch your fish in naow at once," he said in the tone of authority. "don't spile the catch, dad," dan murmured. "them two are on'y jest beginnin'." "mother av delight! he's forkin' them wan by wan," howled long jack, as uncle salters got to work laboriously; the little man in the other dory counting a line of notches on the gunwale. "that was last week's catch," he said, looking up plaintively, his forefinger where he had left off. manuel nudged dan, who darted to the after-tackle, and, leaning far overside, slipped the hook into the stern-rope as manuel made her fast forward. the others pulled gallantly and swung the boat in--man, fish, and all. "one, two, four--nine," said tom platt, counting with a practised eye. "forty-seven. penn, you're it!" dan let the after-tackle run, and slid him out of the stern on to the deck amid a torrent of his own fish. "hold on!" roared uncle salters, bobbing by the waist. "hold on, i'm a bit mixed in my caount." he had no time to protest, but was hove inboard and treated like "pennsylvania." "forty-one," said tom platt. "beat by a farmer, salters. an' you sech a sailor, too!" "'tweren't fair caount," said he, stumbling out of the pen; "an' i'm stung up all to pieces." his thick hands were puffy and mottled purply white. "some folks will find strawberry-bottom," said dan, addressing the newly risen moon, "ef they hev to dive fer it, seems to me." "an' others," said uncle salters, "eats the fat o' the land in sloth, an' mocks their own blood-kin." "seat ye! seat ye!" a voice harvey had not heard called from the fo'c'sle. disko troop, tom platt, long jack, and salters went forward on the word. little penn bent above his square deep-sea reel and the tangled cod-lines; manuel lay down full length on the deck, and dan dropped into the hold, where harvey heard him banging casks with a hammer. "salt," he said, returning. "soon as we're through supper we git to dressing-down. you'll pitch to dad. tom platt an' dad they stow together, an' you'll hear 'em arguin'. we're second ha'af, you an' me an' manuel an' penn--the youth an' beauty o' the boat." "what's the good of that?" said harvey. "i'm hungry." "they'll be through in a minute. sniff! she smells good to-night. dad ships a good cook ef he do suffer with his brother. it's a full catch today, ain't it?" he pointed at the pens piled high with cod. "what water did ye hev, manuel?" "twenty-fife father," said the portuguese, sleepily. "they strike on good an' queek. some day i show you, harvey." the moon was beginning to walk on the still sea before the elder men came aft. the cook had no need to cry "second half." dan and manuel were down the hatch and at table ere tom platt, last and most deliberate of the elders, had finished wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. harvey followed penn, and sat down before a tin pan of cod's tongues and sounds, mixed with scraps of pork and fried potato, a loaf of hot bread, and some black and powerful coffee. hungry as they were, they waited while "pennsylvania" solemnly asked a blessing. then they stoked in silence till dan drew breath over his tin cup and demanded of harvey how he felt. "'most full, but there's just room for another piece." the cook was a huge, jet-black negro, and, unlike all the negroes harvey had met, did not talk, contenting himself with smiles and dumb-show invitations to eat more. "see, harvey," said dan, rapping with his fork on the table, "it's jest as i said. the young an' handsome men--like me an' pennsy an' you an' manuel--we 're second ha'af, an' we eats when the first ha'af are through. they're the old fish; and they're mean an' humpy, an' their stummicks has to be humoured; so they come first, which they don't deserve. ain't that so, doctor?" the cook nodded. "can't he talk?" said harvey, in a whisper. "'nough to git along. not much o' anything we know. his natural tongue's kinder curious. comes from the in'ards of cape breton, he does, where the farmers speak home-made scotch. cape breton's full o' niggers whose folk run in there durin' aour war, an' they talk like the farmers--all huffy-chuffy." "that is not scotch," said "pennsylvania." "that is gaelic. so i read in a book." "penn reads a heap. most of what he says is so--'cep' when it comes to a caount o' fish--eh?" "does your father just let them say how many they've caught without checking them?" said harvey. "why, yes. where's the sense of a man lyin' fer a few old cod?" "was a man once lied for his catch," manuel put in. "lied every day. fife, ten, twenty-fife more fish than come he say there was." "where was that?" said dan. "none o' aour folk." "frenchman of anguille." "ah! them west shore frenchmen don't caount, anyway. stands to reason they can't caount. ef you run acrost any of their soft hooks, harvey, you'll know why," said dan, with an awful contempt. "always more and never less, every time we come to dress," long jack roared down the hatch, and the "second ha'af" scrambled up at once. the shadow of the masts and rigging, with the never-furled riding-sail, rolled to and fro on the heaving deck in the moonlight; and the pile of fish by the stern shone like a dump of fluid silver. in the hold there were tramplings and rumblings where disko troop and tom platt moved among the salt-bins. dan passed harvey a pitchfork, and led him to the inboard end of the rough table, where uncle salters was drumming impatiently with a knife-haft. a tub of salt water lay at his feet. "you pitch to dad an' tom platt down the hatch, an' take keer uncle salters don't cut yer eye out," said dan, swinging himself into the hold. "i'll pass salt below." penn and manuel stood knee-deep among cod in the pen, flourishing drawn knives. long jack, a basket at his feet and mittens on his hands, faced uncle salters at the table, and harvey stared at the pitchfork and the tub. "hi!" shouted manuel, stooping to the fish, and bringing one up with a finger under its gill and a finger in its eye. he laid it on the edge of the pen; the knife-blade glimmered with a sound of tearing, and the fish, slit from throat to vent, with a nick on either side of the neck, dropped at long jack's feet. "hi!" said long jack, with a scoop of his mittened hand. the cod's liver dropped in the basket. another wrench and scoop sent the head and offal flying, and the empty fish slid across to uncle salters, who snorted fiercely. there was another sound of tearing, the backbone flew over the bulwarks, and the fish, headless, gutted, and open, splashed in the tub, sending the salt water into harvey's astonished mouth. after the first yell, the men were silent. the cod moved along as though they were alive, and long ere harvey had ceased wondering at the miraculous dexterity of it all, his tub was full. "pitch!" grunted uncle salters, without turning his head, and harvey pitched the fish by twos and threes down the hatch. "hi! pitch 'em bunchy," shouted dan. "don't scatter! uncle salters is the best splitter in the fleet. watch him mind his book!" indeed, it looked a little as though the round uncle were cutting magazine pages against time. manuel's body, cramped over from the hips, stayed like a statue; but his long arms grabbed the fish without ceasing. little penn toiled valiantly, but it was easy to see he was weak. once or twice manuel found time to help him without breaking the chain of supplies, and once manuel howled because he had caught his finger in a frenchman's hook. these hooks are made of soft metal, to be rebent after use; but the cod very often get away with them and are hooked again elsewhere; and that is one of the many reasons why the gloucester boats despise the frenchmen. down below, the rasping sound of rough salt rubbed on rough flesh sounded like the whirring of a grindstone--a steady undertune to the "click-nick" of the knives in the pen; the wrench and schloop of torn heads, dropped liver, and flying offal; the "caraaah" of uncle salters's knife scooping away backbones; and the flap of wet, opened bodies falling into the tub. at the end of an hour harvey would have given the world to rest; for fresh, wet cod weigh more than you would think, and his back ached with the steady pitching. but he felt for the first time in his life that he was one of a working gang of men, took pride in the thought, and held on sullenly. "knife oh!" shouted uncle salters, at last. penn doubled up, gasping among the fish, manuel bowed back and forth to supple himself, and long jack leaned over the bulwarks. the cook appeared, noiseless as a black shadow, collected a mass of backbones and heads, and retreated. "blood-ends for breakfast an' head-chowder," said long jack, smacking his lips. "knife oh!" repeated uncle salters, waving the flat, curved splitter's weapon. "look by your foot, harve," cried dan, below. harvey saw half a dozen knives stuck in a cleat in the hatch combing. he dealt these around, taking over the dulled ones. "water!" said disko troop. "scuttle-butt's for'ard, an' the dipper's alongside. hurry, harve," said dan. he was back in a minute with a big dipperful of stale brown water which tasted like nectar, and loosed the jaws of disko and tom platt. "these are cod," said disko. "they ain't damarskus figs, tom platt, nor yet silver bars. i've told you that every single time sence we've sailed together." "a matter o' seven seasons," returned tom platt, coolly. "good stowin's good stowin' all the same, an' there's a right an' a wrong way o' stowin' ballast even. if you'd ever seen four hundred ton o' iron set into the--" "hi!" with a yell from manuel the work began again, and never stopped till the pen was empty. the instant the last fish was down, disko troop rolled aft to the cabin with his brother; manuel and long jack went forward; tom platt only waited long enough to slide home the hatch ere he too disappeared. in half a minute harvey heard deep snores in the cabin, and he was staring blankly at dan and penn. "i did a little better that time, danny," said penn, whose eyelids were heavy with sleep. "but i think it is my duty to help clean." "'wouldn't hev your conscience fer a thousand quintal," said dan. "turn in, penn. you've no call to do boy's work. draw a bucket, harvey. oh, penn, dump these in the gurry-butt 'fore you sleep. kin you keep awake that long?" penn took up the heavy basket of fish-livers, emptied them into a cask with a hinged top lashed by the fo'c'sle; then he too dropped out of sight in the cabin. "boys clean up after dressin' down, an' first watch in ca'am weather is boy's watch on the 'we're here'." dan sluiced the pen energetically, unshipped the table, set it up to dry in the moonlight, ran the red knife-blades through a wad of oakum, and began to sharpen them on a tiny grindstone, as harvey threw offal and backbones overboard under his direction. at the first splash a silvery-white ghost rose bolt upright from the oily water and sighed a weird whistling sigh. harvey started back with a shout, but dan only laughed. "grampus," said he. "beggin' fer fish-heads. they up-eend thet way when they're hungry. breath on him like the doleful tombs, hain't he?" a horrible stench of decayed fish filled the air as the pillar of white sank, and the water bubbled oilily. "hain't ye never seen a grampus up-eend before? you'll see 'em by hundreds 'fore ye're through. say, it's good to hev a boy aboard again. otto was too old, an' a dutchy at that. him an' me we fought consid'ble. 'wouldn't ha' keered fer thet ef he'd hed a christian tongue in his head. sleepy?" "dead sleepy," said harvey, nodding forward. "'mustn't sleep on watch. rouse up an' see ef our anchor-light's bright an' shinin'. you're on watch now, harve." "pshaw! what's to hurt us? bright's day. sn-orrr! "jest when things happen, dad says. fine weather's good sleepin', an' 'fore you know, mebbe, you're cut in two by a liner, an' seventeen brass-bound officers, all gen'elmen, lift their hand to it that your lights was aout an' there was a thick fog. harve, i've kinder took to you, but ef you nod onct more i'll lay into you with a rope's end." the moon, who sees many strange things on the banks, looked down on a slim youth in knickerbockers and a red jersey, staggering around the cluttered decks of a seventy-ton schooner, while behind him, waving a knotted rope, walked, after the manner of an executioner, a boy who yawned and nodded between the blows he dealt. the lashed wheel groaned and kicked softly, the riding-sail slatted a little in the shifts of the light wind, the windlass creaked, and the miserable procession continued. harvey expostulated, threatened, whimpered, and at last wept outright, while dan, the words clotting on his tongue, spoke of the beauty of watchfulness, and slashed away with the rope's end, punishing the dories as often as he hit harvey. at last the clock in the cabin struck ten, and upon the tenth stroke little penn crept on deck. he found two boys in two tumbled heaps side by side on the main-hatch, so deeply asleep that he actually rolled them to their berths. chapter iii it was the forty-fathom slumber that clears the soul and eye and heart, and sends you to breakfast ravening. they emptied a big tin dish of juicy fragments of fish--the blood-ends the cook had collected overnight. they cleaned up the plates and pans of the elder mess, who were out fishing, sliced pork for the midday meal, swabbed down the fo'c'sle, filled the lamps, drew coal and water for the cook, and investigated the fore-hold, where the boat's stores were stacked. it was another perfect day--soft, mild, and clear; and harvey breathed to the very bottom of his lungs. more schooners had crept up in the night, and the long blue seas were full of sails and dories. far away on the horizon, the smoke of some liner, her hull invisible, smudged the blue, and to eastward a big ship's topgallantsails, just lifting, made a square nick in it. disko troop was smoking by the roof of the cabin--one eye on the craft around, and the other on the little fly at the mainmast-head. "when dad kerflummoxes that way," said dan, in a whisper, "he's doin' some high-line thinkin' fer all hands. i'll lay my wage an' share we'll make berth soon. dad he knows the cod, an' the fleet they know dad knows. 'see 'em comin' up one by one, lookin' fer nothin' in particular, o' course, but scrowgin' on us all the time? there's the prince leboa; she's a chat-ham boat. she's crep' up sence last night. an' see that big one with a patch in her foresail an' a new jib? she's the carrie pitman from west chatham. she won't keep her canvas long on less her luck's changed since last season. she don't do much 'cep' drift. there ain't an anchor made'll hold her. . . . when the smoke puffs up in little rings like that, dad's studyin' the fish. ef we speak to him now, he'll git mad. las' time i did, he jest took an' hove a boot at me." disko troop stared forward, the pipe between his teeth, with eyes that saw nothing. as his son said, he was studying the fish--pitting his knowledge and experience on the banks against the roving cod in his own sea. he accepted the presence of the inquisitive schooners on the horizon as a compliment to his powers. but now that it was paid, he wished to draw away and make his berth alone, till it was time to go up to the virgin and fish in the streets of that roaring town upon the waters. so disko troop thought of recent weather, and gales, currents, food-supplies, and other domestic arrangements, from the point of view of a twenty-pound cod; was, in fact, for an hour a cod himself, and looked remarkably like one. then he removed the pipe from his teeth. "dad," said dan, "we've done our chores. can't we go overside a piece? it's good catch-in' weather." "not in that cherry-coloured rig ner them ha'afbaked brown shoes. give him suthin' fit to wear." "dad's pleased--that settles it," said dan, delightedly, dragging harvey into the cabin, while troop pitched a key down the steps. "dad keeps my spare rig where he kin overhaul it, 'cause ma sez i'm keerless." he rummaged through a locker, and in less than three minutes harvey was adorned with fisherman's rubber boots that came half up his thigh, a heavy blue jersey well darned at the elbows, a pair of flippers, and a sou'wester. "naow ye look somethin' like," said dan. "hurry!" "keep nigh an' handy," said troop, "an' don't go visitin' raound the fleet. ef any one asks you what i'm cal'latin' to do, speak the truth--fer ye don't know." a little red dory, labelled hattie s., lay astern of the schooner. dan hauled in the painter, and dropped lightly on to the bottom boards, while harvey tumbled clumsily after. "that's no way o' gettin' into a boat," said dan. "ef there was any sea you'd go to the bottom, sure. you got to learn to meet her." dan fitted the thole-pins, took the forward thwart, and watched harvey's work. the boy had rowed, in a ladylike fashion, on the adirondack ponds; but there is a difference between squeaking pins and well-balanced rowlocks--light sculls and stubby, eight-foot sea-oars. they stuck in the gentle swell, and harvey grunted. "short! row short!" said dan. "ef you cramp your oar in any kind o' sea you're liable to turn her over. ain't she a daisy? mine, too." the little dory was specklessly clean. in her bows lay a tiny anchor, two jugs of water, and some seventy fathoms of thin, brown dory-roding. a tin dinner-horn rested in cleats just under harvey's right hand, beside an ugly-looking maul, a short gaff, and a shorter wooden stick. a couple of lines, with very heavy leads and double cod-hooks, all neatly coiled on square reels, were stuck in their place by the gunwale. "where's the sail and mast?" said harvey, for his hands were beginning to blister. dan chuckled. "ye don't sail fishin'-dories much. ye pull; but ye needn't pull so hard. don't you wish you owned her?" "well, i guess my father might give me one or two if i asked 'em," harvey replied. he had been too busy to think much of his family till then. "that's so. i forgot your dad's a millionaire. you don't act millionary any, naow. but a dory an' craft an' gear"--dan spoke as though she were a whale-boat "costs a heap. think your dad 'u'd give you one fer--fer a pet like?" "shouldn't wonder. it would be 'most the only thing i haven't stuck him for yet." "must be an expensive kinder kid to home. don't slitheroo thet way, harve. short's the trick, because no sea's ever dead still, an' the swells'll--" crack! the loom of the oar kicked harvey under the chin and knocked him backward. "that was what i was goin' to say. i hed to learn too, but i wasn't more than eight years old when i got my schoolin'." harvey regained his seat with aching jaws and a frown. "no good gettin' mad at things, dad says. it's our own fault ef we can't handle 'em, he says. le's try here. manuel'll give us the water." the "portugee" was rocking fully a mile away, but when dan up-ended an oar he waved his left arm three times. "thirty fathom," said dan, stringing a salt clam on to the hook. "over with the dough-boys. bait same's i do, harve, an' don't snarl your reel." dan's line was out long before harvey had mastered the mystery of baiting and heaving out the leads. the dory drifted along easily. it was not worth while to anchor till they were sure of good ground. "here we come!" dan shouted, and a shower of spray rattled on harvey's shoulders as a big cod flapped and kicked alongside. "muckle, harvey, muckle! under your hand! quick!" evidently "muckle" could not be the dinner-horn, so harvey passed over the maul, and dan scientifically stunned the fish before he pulled it inboard, and wrenched out the hook with the short wooden stick he called a "gob-stick." then harvey felt a tug, and pulled up zealously. "why, these are strawberries!" he shouted. "look!" the hook had fouled among a bunch of strawberries, red on one side and white on the other--perfect reproductions of the land fruit, except that there were no leaves, and the stem was all pipy and slimy. "don't tech 'em! slat 'em off. don't--" the warning came too late. harvey had picked them from the hook, and was admiring them. "ouch!" he cried, for his fingers throbbed as though he had grasped many nettles. "naow ye know what strawberry-bottom means. nothin' 'cep' fish should be teched with the naked fingers, dad says. slat 'em off ag'in' the gunnel, an' bait up, harve. lookin' won't help any. it's all in the wages." harvey smiled at the thought of his ten and a half dollars a month, and wondered what his mother would say if she could see him hanging over the edge of a fishing-dory in mid-ocean. she suffered agonies whenever he went out on saranac lake; and, by the way, harvey remembered distinctly that he used to laugh at her anxieties. suddenly the line flashed through his hand, stinging even through the "flippers," the woolen circlets supposed to protect it. "he's a logy. give him room accordin' to his strength," cried dan. "i'll help ye." "no, you won't," harvey snapped, as he hung on to the line. "it's my first fish. is--is it a whale?" "halibut, mebbe." dan peered down into the water alongside, and flourished the big "muckle," ready for all chances. something white and oval flickered and fluttered through the green. "i'll lay my wage an' share he's over a hundred. are you so everlastin' anxious to land him alone?" harvey's knuckles were raw and bleeding where they had been banged against the gunwale; his face was purple-blue between excitement and exertion; he dripped with sweat, and was half blinded from staring at the circling sunlit ripples about the swiftly moving line. the boys were tired long ere the halibut, who took charge of them and the dory for the next twenty minutes. but the big flat fish was gaffed and hauled in at last. "beginner's luck," said dan, wiping his forehead. "he's all of a hundred." harvey looked at the huge grey-and-mottled creature with unspeakable pride. he had seen halibut many times on marble slabs ashore, but it had never occurred to him to ask how they came inland. now he knew; and every inch of his body ached with fatigue. "ef dad was along," said dan, hauling up, "he'd read the signs plain's print. the fish are runnin' smaller an' smaller, an' you've took baout as logy a halibut's we're apt to find this trip. yesterday's catch--did ye notice it?--was all big fish an' no halibut. dad he'd read them signs right off. dad says everythin' on the banks is signs, an' can be read wrong er right. dad's deeper'n the whale-hole." even as he spoke some one fired a pistol on the "we're here", and a potato-basket was run up in the fore-rigging. "what did i say, naow? that's the call fer the whole crowd. dad's onter something, er he'd never break fishin' this time o' day. reel up, harve, an' we'll pull back." they were to windward of the schooner, just ready to flirt the dory over the still sea, when sounds of woe half a mile off led them to penn, who was careering around a fixed point, for all the world like a gigantic water-bug. the little man backed away and came down again with enormous energy, but at the end of each manoeuvre his dory swung round and snubbed herself on her rope. "we'll hey to help him, else he'll root an' seed here," said dan. "what's the matter?" said harvey. this was a new world, where he could not lay down the law to his elders, but had to ask questions humbly. and the sea was horribly big and unexcited. "anchor's fouled. penn's always losing 'em. lost two this trip a'ready,--on sandy bottom, too,--an' dad says next one he loses, sure's fish-in', he'll give him the kelleg. that 'u'd break penn's heart." "what's a 'kelleg'?" said harvey, who had a vague idea it might be some kind of marine torture, like keel-hauling in the story-books. "big stone instid of an anchor. you kin see a kelleg ridin' in the bows fur's you can see a dory, an' all the fleet knows what it means. they'd guy him dreadful. penn couldn't stand that no more'n a dog with a dipper to his tail. he's so everlastin' sensitive. hello, penn! stuck again? don't try any more o' your patents. come up on her, and keep your rodin' straight up an' down." "it doesn't move," said the little man, panting. "it doesn't move at all, and indeed i tried everything." "what's all this hurrah's-nest for'ard?" said dan, pointing to a wild tangle of spare oars and dory-roding, all matted together by the hand of inexperience. "oh, that," said penn, proudly, "is a spanish windlass. mr. salters showed me how to make it; but even that doesn't move her." dan bent low over the gunwale to hide a smile, twitched once or twice on the roding, and, behold, the anchor drew at once. "haul up, penn," he said, laughing, "er she 'll git stuck again." they left him regarding the weed-hung flukes of the little anchor with big, pathetic blue eyes, and thanking them profusely. "oh, say, while i think of it, harve," said dan, when they were out of ear-shot, "penn ain't quite all caulked. he ain't nowise dangerous, but his mind's give out. see?" "is that so, or is it one of your father's judgments?" harvey asked, as he bent to his oars. he felt he was learning to handle them more easily. "dad ain't mistook this time. penn's a sure'nuff loony. no, he ain't thet, exactly, so much ez a harmless ijjit. it was this way (you're rowin' quite so, harve), an' i tell you 'cause it's right you orter know. he was a moravian preacher once. jacob boller wuz his name, dad told me, an' he lived with his wife an' four children somewheres out pennsylvania way. well, penn he took his folks along to a moravian meetin',--camp-meetin', most like,--an' they stayed over jest one night in johnstown. you've heered talk o' johnstown?" harvey considered. "yes, i have. but i don't know why. it sticks in my head same as ashtabula." "both was big accidents--thet's why, harve. well, that one single night penn and his folks was to the hotel johnstown was wiped out. 'dam bu'st an' flooded her, an' the houses struck adrift an' bumped into each other an' sunk. i've seen the pictures, an' they're dretful. penn he saw his folk drowned all 'n a heap 'fore he rightly knew what was comin'. his mind give out from that on. he mistrusted somethin' hed happened up to johnstown, but for the poor life of him he couldn't remember what, an' he jest drifted araound smilin' an' wonderin'. he didn't know what he was, nor yit what he hed bin, an' thet way he run ag'in' uncle salters, who was visitin' 'n allegheny city. ha'af my mother's folks they live scattered inside o' pennsylvania, an' uncle salters he visits araound winters. uncle salters he kinder adopted penn, well knowin' what his trouble wuz; an' he brought him east, an' he give him work on his farm." "why, i heard him calling penn a farmer last night when the boats bumped. is your uncle salters a farmer?" "farmer!" shouted dan. "there ain't water enough 'tween here an' hatt'rus to wash the furrer-mould off'n his boots. he's jest everlastin' farmer. why, harve, i've seen thet man hitch up a bucket, long towards sundown, an' set twiddlin' the spigot to the scuttle-butt same's ef 'twuz a cow's bag. he's thet much farmer. well, penn an' he they ran the farm--up exeter way, 'twuz. uncle salters he sold it this spring to a jay from boston as wanted to build a summerhaouse, an' he got a heap for it. well, them two loonies scratched along till, one day, penn's church he'd belonged to--the moravians--found out where he wuz drifted an' layin', an' wrote to uncle salters. 'never heerd what they said exactly; but uncle salters was mad. he's a 'piscopalian mostly--but he jest let 'em hev it both sides o' the bow, 'sif he was a baptist, an' sez he warn't goin' to give up penn to any blame moravian connection in pennsylvania or anywheres else. then he come to dad, towin' penn,--thet was two trips back,--an' sez he an' penn must fish a trip fer their health. 'guess he thought the moravians wouldn't hunt the banks fer jacob boller. dad was agreeable, fer uncle salters he'd been fishin' off an' on fer thirty years, when he warn't inventin' patent manures, an' he took quarter-share in the 'we're here'; an' the trip done penn so much good, dad made a habit o' takin' him. some day, dad sez, he'll remember his wife an' kids an' johnstown, an' then, like's not, he'll die, dad sez. don't yer talk about johnstown ner such things to penn, 'r uncle salters he'll heave ye overboard." "poor penn!" murmured harvey. "i shouldn't ever have thought uncle salters cared for him by the look of 'em together." "i like penn, though; we all do," said dan. "we ought to ha' give him a tow, but i wanted to tell ye first." they were close to the schooner now, the other boats a little behind them. "you needn't heave in the dories till after dinner," said troop, from the deck. "we'll dress-daown right off. fix table, boys!" "deeper'n the whale-deep," said dan, with a wink, as he set the gear for dressing-down. "look at them boats that hev edged up sence mornin'. they're all waitin' on dad. see 'em, harve?" "they are all alike to me." and, indeed, to a landsman the nodding schooners around seemed run from the same mould. "they ain't, though. that yaller, dirty packet with her bowsprit steeved that way, she's the 'hope of prague'. nick brady's her skipper, the meanest man on the banks. we'll tell him so when we strike the main ledge. 'way off yander's the 'day's eye'. the two jeraulds own her. she's from harwich; fastish, too, an' hez good luck; but dad he'd find fish in a graveyard. them other three, side along, they're the 'margie smith', 'rose', and 'edith s. walen', all frum home. 'guess we'll see the 'abbie m. deering' to-morrer, dad, won't we? they're all slippin' over from the shoal o' 'queereau." "you won't see many boats to-morrow, danny." when troop called his son danny, it was a sign that the old man was pleased. "boys, we're too crowded," he went on, addressing the crew as they clambered inboard. "we'll leave 'em to bait big an' catch small." he looked at the catch in the pen, and it was curious to see how little and level the fish ran. save for harvey's halibut, there was nothing over fifteen pounds on deck. "i'm waitin' on the weather," he added. "ye'll have to make it yourself, disko, for there's no sign i can see," said long jack, sweeping the clear horizon. and yet, half an hour later, as they were dressing-down, the bank fog dropped on them, "between fish and fish," as they say. it drove steadily and in wreaths, curling and smoking along the colourless water. the men stopped dressing-down without a word. long jack and uncle salters slipped the windlass-brakes into their sockets, and began to heave up the anchor, the windlass jarring as the wet hempen cable strained on the barrel. manuel and tom platt gave a hand at the last. the anchor came up with a sob, and the riding-sail bellied as troop steadied her at the wheel. "up jib and foresail," said he. "slip 'em in the smother," shouted long jack, making fast the jib-sheet, while the others raised the clacking, rattling rings of the foresail; and the fore-boom creaked as the "we're here" looked up into the wind and dived off into blank, whirling white. "there's wind behind this fog," said troop. it was all wonderful beyond words to harvey; and the most wonderful part was that he heard no orders except an occasional grunt from troop, ending with, "that's good, my son!" "'never seen anchor weighed before?" said tom platt, to harvey gaping at the damp canvas of the foresail. "no. where are we going?" "fish and make berth, as you'll find out 'fore you've bin a week aboard. it's all new to you, but we never know what may come to us. now, take me--tom platt--i'd never ha' thought--" "it's better than fourteen dollars a month an' a bullet in your belly," said troop, from the wheel. "ease your jumbo a grind." "dollars an' cents better," returned the man-o'-war's man, doing something to a big jib with a wooden spar tied to it. "but we didn't think o' that when we manned the windlass-brakes on the 'miss jim buck',[ ] outside beaufort harbor, with fort macon heavin' hot shot at our stern, an' a livin' gale atop of all. where was you then, disko?" "jest here, or hereabouts," disko replied, "earnin' my bread on the deep waters, and dodgin' reb privateers. 'sorry i can't accommodate you with red-hot shot, tom platt; but i guess we'll come aout all right on wind 'fore we see eastern point." there was an incessant slapping and chatter at the bows now, varied by a solid thud and a little spout of spray that clattered down on the fo'c'sle. the rigging dripped clammy drops, and the men lounged along the lee of the house--all save uncle salters, who sat stiffly on the main-hatch nursing his stung hands. [ ] the gemsbok, u. s. n.? "'guess she'd carry stays'l," said disko, rolling one eye at his brother. "guess she wouldn't to any sorter profit. what's the sense o' wastin' canvas?" the farmer-sailor replied. the wheel twitched almost imperceptibly in disko's hands. a few seconds later a hissing wave-top slashed diagonally across the boat, smote uncle salters between the shoulders, and drenched him from head to foot. he rose sputtering, and went forward, only to catch another. "see dad chase him, all around the deck," said dan. "uncle salters he thinks his quarter-share's our canvas. dad's put this duckin' act up on him two trips runnin'. hi! that found him where he feeds." uncle salters had taken refuge by the foremast, but a wave slapped him over the knees. disko's face was as blank as the circle of the wheel. "'guess she'd lie easier under stays'l, salters," said disko, as though he had seen nothing. "set your old kite, then," roared the victim, through a cloud of spray; "only don't lay it to me if anything happens. penn, you go below right off an' git your coffee. you ought to hev more sense than to bum araound on deck this weather." "now they'll swill coffee an' play checkers till the cows come home," said dan, as uncle salters hustled penn into the fore-cabin. "'looks to me like's if we'd all be doin' so fer a spell. there's nothin' in creation deader-limpsey-idler'n a banker when she ain't on fish." "i'm glad ye spoke, danny," cried long jack, who had been casting round in search of amusement. "i'd clean forgot we'd a passenger under that t-wharf hat. there's no idleness for thim that don't know their ropes. pass him along, tom platt, an' we'll l'arn him." "'tain't my trick this time," grinned dan. "you've got to go it alone. dad learned me with a rope's end." for an hour long jack walked his prey up and down, teaching, as he said, "things at the sea that ivry man must know, blind, dhrunk, or asleep." there is not much gear to a seventy-ton schooner with a stump-foremast, but long jack had a gift of expression. when he wished to draw harvey's attention to the peak-halyards, he dug his knuckles into the back of the boy's neck and kept him at gaze for half a minute. he emphasised the difference between fore and aft generally by rubbing harvey's nose along a few feet of the boom, and the lead of each rope was fixed in harvey's mind by the end of the rope itself. the lesson would have been easier had the deck been at all free; but there appeared to be a place on it for everything and anything except a man. forward lay the windlass and its tackle, with the chain and hemp cables, all very unpleasant to trip over; the fo'c'sle stovepipe, and the gurry-butts by the fo'c'sle-hatch to hold the fish-livers. aft of these the fore-boom and booby of the main-hatch took all the space that was not needed for the pumps and dressing-pens. then came the nests of dories lashed to ring-bolts by the quarter-deck; the house, with tubs and oddments lashed all around it; and, last, the sixty-foot main-boom in its crutch, splitting things lengthwise, to duck and dodge under every time. tom platt, of course, could not keep his oar out of the business, but ranged alongside with enormous and unnecessary descriptions of sails and spars on the old ohio. "niver mind fwhat he says; attind to me, innocince. tom platt, this bally-hoo's not the ohio, an' you're mixing the bhoy bad." "he'll be ruined for life, beginnin' on a fore-an'-after this way," tom platt pleaded. "give him a chance to know a few leadin' principles. sailin's an art, harvey, as i'd show you if i had ye in the foretop o' the--" "i know ut. ye'd talk him dead an' cowld. silince, tom platt! now, after all i've said, how'd you reef the foresail, harve'? take your time answerin'." "haul that in," said harvey, pointing to leeward. "fwhat? the north atlantuc?" "no, the boom. then run that rope you showed me back there--" "that's no way," tom platt burst in. "quiet! he's l'arnin', an' has not the names good yet. go on, harve." "oh, it's the reef-pennant. i'd hook the tackle on to the reef-pennant, and then let down--" "lower the sail, child! lower!" said tom platt, in a professional agony. "lower the throat-and peak-halyards," harvey went on. those names stuck in his head. "lay your hand on thim," said long jack. harvey obeyed. "lower till that rope-loop--on the after-leach--kris--no, it's cringle--till the cringle was down on the boom. then i'd tie her up the way you said, and then i'd hoist up the peak-and throat-halyards again." "you've forgot to pass the tack-earing, but wid time and help ye'll l'arn. there's good and just reason for ivry rope aboard, or else 'twould be overboard. d'ye follow me? 'tis dollars an' cents i'm puttin' into your pocket, ye skinny little supercargo, so that fwhin ye've filled out ye can ship from boston to cuba an' tell thim long jack l'arned you. now i'll chase ye around a piece, callin' the ropes, an' you'll lay your hand on thim as i call." he began, and harvey, who was feeling rather tired, walked slowly to the rope named. a rope's end licked round his ribs, and nearly knocked the breath out of him. "when you own a boat," said tom platt, with severe eyes, "you can walk. till then, take all orders at the run. once more--to make sure!" harvey was in a glow with the exercise, and this last cut warmed him thoroughly. now, he was a singularly smart boy, the son of a very clever man and a very sensitive woman, with a fine resolute temper that systematic spoiling had nearly turned to mulish obstinacy. he looked at the other men, and saw that even dan did not smile. it was evidently all in the day's work, though it hurt abominably; so he swallowed the hint with a gulp and a gasp and a grin. the same smartness that led him to take such advantage of his mother made him very sure that no one on the boat, except, maybe, penn, would stand the least nonsense. one learns a great deal from a mere tone. long jack called over half a dozen more ropes, and harvey danced over the deck like an eel at ebb-tide, one eye on tom platt. "ver' good. ver' good done," said manuel. "after supper i show you a little schooner i make, with all her ropes. so we shall learn." "fust-class fer--a passenger," said dan. "dad he's jest allowed you'll be wuth your salt maybe 'fore you're draownded. thet's a heap fer dad. i'll learn you more our next watch together." "taller!" grunted disko, peering through the fog as it smoked over the bows. there was nothing to be seen ten feet beyond the surging jib-boom, while alongside rolled the endless procession of solemn, pale waves whispering and upping one to the other. "now i'll learn you something long jack can't," shouted tom platt, as from a locker by the stern he produced a battered deep-sea lead hollowed at one end, smeared the hollow from a saucer full of mutton tallow, and went forward. "i'll learn you how to fly the blue pigeon. shooo!" disko did something to the wheel that checked the schooner's way, while manuel, with harvey to help (and a proud boy was harvey), let down the jib in a lump on the boom. the lead sung a deep droning song as tom platt whirled it round and round. "go ahead, man," said long jack, impatiently. "we're not drawin' twenty-five fut off fire island in a fog. there's no trick to ut." "don't be jealous, galway." the released lead plopped into the sea far ahead as the schooner surged slowly forward. "soundin' is a trick, though," said dan, "when your dipsey lead's all the eye you're like to hev for a week. what d'you make it, dad?" disko's face relaxed. his skill and honour were involved in the march he had stolen on the rest of the fleet, and he had his reputation as a master artist who knew the banks blindfold. "sixty, mebbe--ef i'm any judge," he replied, with a glance at the tiny compass in the window of the house. "sixty," sung out tom platt, hauling in great wet coils. the schooner gathered way once more. "heave!" said disko, after a quarter of an hour. "what d'you make it?" dan whispered, and he looked at harvey proudly. but harvey was too proud of his own performances to be impressed just then. "fifty," said the father. "i mistrust we're right over the nick o' green bank on old sixty-fifty." "fifty!" roared tom platt. they could scarcely see him through the fog. "she's bu'st within a yard--like the shells at fort macon." "bait up, harve," said dan, diving for a line on the reel. the schooner seemed to be straying promiscuously through the smother, her head-sail banging wildly. the men waited and looked at the boys, who began fishing. "heugh!" dan's lines twitched on the scored and scarred rail. "now haow in thunder did dad know? help us here, harve. it's a big un. poke-hooked, too." they hauled together, and landed a goggle-eyed twenty-pound cod. he had taken the bait right into his stomach. "why, he's all covered with little crabs," cried harvey, turning him over. "by the great hook-block, they're lousy already," said long jack. "disko, ye kape your spare eyes under the keel." splash went the anchor, and they all heaved over the lines, each man taking his own place at the bulwarks. "are they good to eat?" harvey panted, as he lugged in another crab-covered cod. "sure. when they're lousy it's a sign they've all been herdin' together by the thousand, and when they take the bait that way they're hungry. never mind how the bait sets. they'll bite on the bare hook." "say, this is great!" harvey cried, as the fish came in gasping and splashing--nearly all poke-hooked, as dan had said. "why can't we always fish from the boat instead of from the dories?" "allus can, till we begin to dress-daown. efter thet, the heads and offals 'u'd scare the fish to fundy. boat-fishin' ain't reckoned progressive, though, unless ye know as much as dad knows. guess we'll run aout aour trawl to-night. harder on the back, this, than frum the dory, ain't it?" it was rather back-breaking work, for in a dory the weight of a cod is water-borne till the last minute, and you are, so to speak, abreast of him; but the few feet of a schooner's free-board make so much extra dead-hauling, and stooping over the bulwarks cramps the stomach. but it was wild and furious sport so long as it lasted; and a big pile lay aboard when the fish ceased biting. "where's penn and uncle salters?" harvey asked, slapping the slime off his oilskins, and reeling up the line in careful imitation of the others. "git's coffee and see." under the yellow glare of the lamp on the pawl-post, the fo'c'sle table down and opened, utterly unconscious of fish or weather, sat the two men, a checker-board between them, uncle salters snarling at penn's every move. "what's the matter naow?" said the former, as harvey, one hand in the leather loop at the head of the ladder, hung shouting to the cook. "big fish and lousy-heaps and heaps," harvey replied, quoting long jack. "how's the game?" little penn's jaw dropped. "tweren't none o' his fault," snapped uncle salters. "penn's deef." "checkers, weren't it?" said dan, as harvey staggered aft with the steaming coffee in a tin pail. "that lets us out o' cleanin' up to-night. dad's a jest man. they'll have to do it." "an' two young fellers i know'll bait up a tub or so o' trawl, while they're cleanin'," said disko, lashing the wheel to his taste. "urn! 'guess i'd ruther clean up, dad." "don't doubt it. ye wun't, though. dress-daown! dress-daown! penn'll pitch while you two bait up." "why in thunder didn't them blame boys tell us you'd struck on?" said uncle salters, shuffling to his place at the table. "this knife's gum-blunt, dan." "ef stickin' out cable don't wake ye, guess you'd better hire a boy o' your own," said dan, muddling about in the dusk over the tubs full of trawl-line lashed to windward of the house. "oh, harve, don't ye want to slip down an' git's bait?" "bait ez we are," said disko. "i mistrust shag-fishin' will pay better, ez things go." that meant the boys would bait with selected offal of the cod as the fish were cleaned--an improvement on paddling barehanded in the little bait-barrels below. the tubs were full of neatly coiled line carrying a big hook each few feet; and the testing and baiting of every single hook, with the stowage of the baited line so that it should run clear when shot from the dory, was a scientific business. dan managed it in the dark without looking, while harvey caught his fingers on the barbs and bewailed his fate. but the hooks flew through dan's fingers like tatting on an old maid's lap. "i helped bait up trawl ashore 'fore i could well walk," he said. "but it's a putterin' job all the same. oh, dad!" this shouted towards the hatch, where disko and tom platt were salting. "how many skates you reckon we'll need?" "baout three. hurry!" "there's three hundred fathom to each tub," dan explained; "more'n enough to lay out tonight. ouch! 'slipped up there, i did." he stuck his finger in his mouth. "i tell you, harve, there ain't money in gloucester'u'd hire me to ship on a reg'lar trawler. it may be progressive, but, barrin' that, it's the putterin'est, slimjammest business top of earth." "i don't know what this is, if 'tisn't regular trawling," said harvey, sulkily. "my fingers are all cut to frazzles." "pshaw! this is jest one o' dad's blame experiments. he don't trawl 'less there's mighty good reason fer it. dad knows. thet's why he's baitin' ez he is. we'll hev her saggin' full when we take her up er we won't see a fin." penn and uncle salters cleaned up as disko had ordained, but the boys profited little. no sooner were the tubs furnished than tom platt and long jack, who had been exploring the inside of a dory with a lantern, snatched them away, loaded up the tubs and some small, painted trawl-buoys, and hove the boat overboard into what harvey regarded as an exceedingly rough sea. "they'll be drowned. why, the dory's loaded like a freight-car," he cried. "we'll be back," said long jack, "an' in case you'll not be lookin' for us, we'll lay into you both if the trawl's snarled." the dory surged up on the crest of a wave, and just when it seemed impossible that she could avoid smashing against the schooner's side, slid over the ridge, and was swallowed up in the damp dusk. "take a-hold here, an' keep ringin' steady," said dan, passing harvey the lanyard of a bell that hung just behind the windlass. harvey rang lustily, for he felt two lives depended on him. but disko in the cabin, scrawling in the log-book, did not look like a murderer, and when he went to supper he even smiled drily at the anxious harvey. "this ain't no weather," said dan. "why, you an' me could set thet trawl! they've only gone out jest far 'nough so's not to foul our cable. they don't need no bell reelly." "clang! cling! clang!" harvey kept it up, varied with occasional rub-a-dubs, for another half-hour. there was a bellow and a bump alongside. manuel and dan raced to the hooks of the dory-tackle; long jack and tom platt arrived on deck together, it seemed, one half the north atlantic at their backs, and the dory followed them in the air, landing with a clatter. "nary snarl," said tom platt, as he dripped. "danny, you'll do yet." "the pleasure av your comp'ny to the banquit," said long jack, squelching the water from his boots as he capered like an elephant and stuck an oilskinned arm into harvey's face. "we do be condescending to honour the second half wid our presence." and off they all four rolled to supper, where harvey stuffed himself to the brim on fish-chowder and fried pies, and fell fast asleep just as manuel produced from a locker a lovely two-foot model of the lucy holmes, his first boat, and was going to show harvey the ropes. harvey never even twiddled his fingers as penn pushed him into his bunk. "it must be a sad thing--a very sad thing," said penn, watching the boy's face, "for his mother and his father, who think he is dead. to lose a child--to lose a man-child!" "git out o' this, penn," said dan. "go aft and finish your game with uncle salters. tell dad i'll stand harve's watch ef he don't keer. he's played aout." "ver' good boy," said manuel, slipping out of his boots and disappearing into the black shadows of the lower bunk. "expec' he make good man, danny. i no see he is any so mad as your parpa he says. eh, wha-at?" dan chuckled, but the chuckle ended in a snore. it was thick weather outside, with a rising wind, and the elder men stretched their watches. the hours struck clear in the cabin; the nosing bows slapped and scuffled with the seas; the fo'c'sle stovepipe hissed and sputtered as the spray caught it; and the boys slept on, while disko, long jack, tom plait, and uncle salters, each in turn, stumped aft to look at the wheel, forward to see that the anchor held, or to veer out a little more cable against chafing, with a glance at the dim anchor-light between each round. chapter iv harvey waked to find the "first half" at 'breakfast, the fo'c'sle door drawn to a crack, and every square inch of the schooner singing its own tune. the black bulk of the cook balanced behind the tiny galley over the glare of the stove, and the pots and pans in the pierced wooden board before it jarred and racketed to each plunge. up and up the fo'c'sle climbed, yearning and surging and quivering, and then, with a clear, sickle-like swoop, came down into the seas. he could hear the flaring bows cut and squelch, and there was a pause ere the divided waters came down on the deck above, like a volley of buck-shot. followed the woolly sound of the cable in the hawse-hole; a grunt and squeal of the windlass; a yaw, a punt, and a kick, and the "we're here" gathered herself together to repeat the motions. "now, ashore," he heard long jack saying, "ye've chores, an' ye must do thim in any weather. here we're well clear of the fleet, an' we've no chores--an' that's a blessin'. good night, all." he passed like a big snake from the table to his bunk, and began to smoke. tom platt followed his example; uncle salters, with penn, fought his way up the ladder to stand his watch, and the cook set for the "second half." it came out of its bunks as the others had entered theirs, with a shake and a yawn. it ate till it could eat no more; and then manuel filled his pipe with some terrible tobacco, crotched himself between the pawl-post and a forward bunk, cocked his feet up on the table, and smiled tender and indolent smiles at the smoke. dan lay at length in his bunk, wrestling with a gaudy, gilt-stopped accordion, whose tunes went up and down with the pitching of the "we're here". the cook, his shoulders against the locker where he kept the fried pies (dan was fond of fried pies), peeled potatoes, with one eye on the stove in event of too much water finding its way down the pipe; and the general smell and smother were past all description. harvey considered affairs, wondered that he was not deathly sick, and crawled into his bunk again, as the softest and safest place, while dan struck up, "i don't want to play in your yard," as accurately as the wild jerks allowed. "how long is this for?" harvey asked of manuel. "till she get a little quiet, and we can row to trawl. perhaps to-night. perhaps two days more. you do not like? eh, wha-at?" "i should have been crazy sick a week ago, but it doesn't seem to upset me now--much." "that is because we make you fisherman, these days. if i was you, when i come to gloucester i would give two, three big candles for my good luck." "give who?" "to be sure--the virgin of our church on the hill. she is very good to fishermen all the time. that is why so few of us portugee men ever are drowned." "you're a roman catholic, then?" "i am a madeira man. i am not a porto pico boy. shall i be baptist, then? eh, wha-at? i always give candles--two, three more when i come to gloucester. the good virgin she never forgets me, manuel." "i don't sense it that way," tom platt put in from his bunk, his scarred face lit up by the glare of a match as he sucked at his pipe. "it stands to reason the sea's the sea; and you'll git jest about what's goin', candles or kerosene, fer that matter." "tis a mighty good thing," said long jack, "to have a fri'nd at coort, though. i'm o' manuel's way o' thinkin'. about tin years back i was crew to a sou' boston market-boat. we was off minot's ledge wid a northeaster, butt first, atop of us, thicker'n burgoo. the ould man was dhrunk, his chin waggin' on the tiller, an' i sez to myself, 'if iver i stick my boat-huk into t-wharf again, i'll show the saints fwhat manner o' craft they saved me out av.' now, i'm here, as ye can well see, an' the model of the dhirty ould kathleen, that took me a month to make, i gave ut to the priest, an' he hung ut up forninst the altar. there's more sense in givin' a model that's by way o' bein' a work av art than any candle. ye can buy candles at store, but a model shows the good saints ye've tuk trouble an' are grateful." "d'you believe that, irish?" said tom platt, turning on his elbow. "would i do ut if i did not, ohio?" "wa-al, enoch fuller he made a model o' the old ohio, and she's to salem museum now. mighty pretty model, too, but i guess enoch he never done it fer no sacrifice; an' the way i take it is--" there were the makings of an hour-long discussion of the kind that fishermen love, where the talk runs in shouting circles and no one proves anything at the end, had not dan struck up this cheerful rhyme: "up jumped the mackerel with his striped back. reef in the mainsail, and haul on the tack; for it's windy weather--" here long jack joined in: "and it's blowy weather; when the winds begin to blow, pipe all hands together!" dan went on, with a cautious look at tom plait, holding the accordion low in the bunk: "up jumped the cod with his chuckle-head, went to the main-chains to heave at the lead; for it's windy weather," etc. tom platt seemed to be hunting for something. dan crouched lower, but sang louder: "up jumped the flounder that swims to the ground. chuckle-head! chuckle-head! mind where ye sound!" tom platt's huge rubber boot whirled across the fo'c'sle and caught dan's uplifted arm. there was war between the man and the boy ever since dan had discovered that the mere whistling of that tune would make him angry as he heaved the lead. "thought i'd fetch yer," said dan, returning the gift with precision. "ef you don't like my music, git out your fiddle. i ain't goin' to lie here all day an' listen to you an' long jack arguin' 'baout candles. fiddle, tom platt; or i'll learn harve here the tune!" tom platt leaned down to a locker and brought up an old white fiddle. manuel's eye glistened, and from somewhere behind the pawl-post he drew out a tiny, guitar-like thing with wire strings, which he called a _machette_. "'tis a concert," said long jack, beaming through the smoke. "a reg'lar boston concert." there was a burst of spray as the hatch opened, and disko, in yellow oilskins, descended. "ye're just in time, disko. fwhat's she doin' outside?" "jest this!" he dropped on to the lockers with the push and heave of the "we're here". "we're singin' to kape our breakfasts down. ye'll lead, av course, disko," said long jack. "guess there ain't more'n 'baout two old songs i know, an' ye've heerd them both." his excuses were cut short by tom platt launching into a most dolorous tune, like unto the moaning of winds and the creaking of masts. with his eyes fixed on the beams above, disko began this ancient, ancient ditty, tom platt flourishing all round him to make the tune and words fit a little: "there is a crack packet--crack packet o' fame, she hails from noo york, an' the dreadnought's her name. you may talk o' your fliers--swallow-tail and black ball-- but the dreadnought's the packet that can beat them all. "now the dreadnought she lies in the river mersey, because of the tugboat to take her to sea; but when she's off soundings you shortly will know (chorus.) she's the liverpool packet--o lord, let her go! "now the dreadnought she's howlin' 'crost the banks o' newfoundland, where the water's all shallow and the bottom's all sand. sez all the little fishes that swim to an' fro: (chorus.) 'she's the liverpool packet--o lord, let her go!'" there were scores of verses, for he worked the dreadnought every mile of the way between liverpool and new york as conscientiously as though he were on her deck, and the accordion pumped and the fiddle squeaked beside him. tom platt followed with something about "the rough and tough mcginn, who would pilot the vessel in." then they called on harvey, who felt very flattered, to contribute to the entertainment; but all that he could remember were some pieces of "skipper ireson's ride" that he had been taught at the camp-school in the adirondacks. it seemed that they might be appropriate to the time and place, but he had no more than mentioned the title when disko brought down one foot with a bang, and cried, "don't go on, young feller. that's a mistaken jedgment--one o' the worst kind, too, becaze it's catchin' to the ear." "i orter ha' warned you," said dan. "thet allus fetches dad." "what's wrong?" said harvey, surprised and a little angry. "all you're goin' to say," said disko. "all dead wrong from start to finish, an' whittier he's to blame. i have no special call to right any marblehead man, but 'tweren't no fault o' ireson's. my father he told me the tale time an' again, an' this is the way 'twuz." "for the wan hundreth time," put in long jack, under his breath. "ben ireson he was skipper o' the betty, young feller, comin' home frum the banks--that was before the war of , but jestice is jestice at all times. they f'und the active o' portland, an' gibbons o' that town he was her skipper; they f'und her leakin' off cape cod light. there was a terr'ble gale on, an' they was gettin' the betty home's fast as they could craowd her. well, ireson he said there warn't any sense to reskin' a boat in that sea; the men they wouldn't hev it; and he laid it before them to stay by the active till the sea run daown a piece. they wouldn't hev that either, hangin' araound the cape in any sech weather, leak or no leak. they jest up stays'l an' quit, nat'rally takin' ireson with 'em. folks to marblehead was mad at him not runnin' the risk, and becaze nex' day, when the sea was ca'am (they never stopped to think o' that), some of the active's folk was took off by a truro man. they come into marblehead with their own tale to tell, sayin' how ireson had shamed his town, an' so forth an' so on; an' ireson's men they was scared, seem' public feelin' ag'in' 'em, an' they went back on ireson, an' swore he was respons'ble for the hull act. 'tweren't the women neither that tarred and feathered him--marblehead women don't act that way--'twas a passel o' men an' boys, an' they carted him araound town in an old dory till the bottom fell aout, an' ireson he told 'em they'd be sorry for it some day. well, the facts came aout later, same's they usually do, too late to be any ways useful to an honest man; an' whittier he come along an' picked up the slack eend of a lyin' tale, an' tarred and feathered ben ireson all over onct more after he was dead. 'twas the only time whittier ever slipped up, an' 'tweren't fair. i whaled dan good when he brought that piece back from school. you don't know no better, o' course; but i've give you the facts, hereafter an' evermore to be remembered. ben ireson weren't no sech kind o' man as whittier makes aout; my father he knew him well, before an' after that business, an' you beware o' hasty jedgments, young feller. next!" harvey had never heard disko talk so long, and collapsed with burning cheeks; but, as dan said promptly, a boy could only learn what he was taught at school, and life was too short to keep track of every lie along the coast. then manuel touched the jangling, jarring little _machette_ to a queer tune, and sang something in portuguese about "nina, innocente!" ending with a full-handed sweep that brought the song up with a jerk. then disko obliged with his second song, to an old-fashioned creaky tune, and all joined in the chorus. this is one stanza: "now aprile is over and melted the snow, and outer noo bedford we shortly must tow; yes, out o' noo bedford we shortly must clear, we're the whalers that never see wheat in the ear." here the fiddle went very softly for a while by itself, and then: "wheat-in-the-ear, my true-love's posy blowin'; wheat-in-the-ear, we're goin' off to sea; wheat-in-the-ear, i left you fit for sowin'; when i come back a loaf o' bread you'll be!" that made harvey almost weep, though he could not tell why. but it was much worse when the cook dropped the potatoes and held out his hands for the fiddle. still leaning against the locker door, he struck into a tune that was like something very bad but sure to happen whatever you did. after a little he sang in an unknown tongue, his big chin down on the fiddle-tail, his white eyeballs glaring in the lamplight. harvey swung out of his bunk to hear better; and amid the straining of the timbers and the wash of the waters the tune crooned and moaned on, like lee surf in a blind fog, till it ended with a wail. "jimmy christmas! thet gives me the blue creevles," said dan. "what in thunder is it?" "the song of fin mccoul," said the cook, "when he wass going to norway." his english was not thick, but all clear-cut, as though it came from a phonograph. "faith, i've been to norway, but i didn't make that unwholesim noise. 'tis like some of the old songs, though," said long jack, sighing. "don't let's hev another 'thout somethin' between," said dan; and the accordion struck up a rattling, catchy tune that ended: "it's six an' twenty sundays sence las' we saw the land, with fifteen hunder quintal, an' fifteen hunder quintal, 'teen hunder toppin' quintal, 'twix' old 'queereau an' grand!" "hold on!" roared tom plait "d'ye want to nail the trip, dan? that's jonah sure, 'less you sing it after all our salt's wet." "no, 'tain't. is it, dad? not unless you sing the very las' verse. you can't learn me anything on jonahs!" "what's that?" said harvey. "what's a jonah?" "a jonah's anything that spoils the luck. sometimes it's a man--sometimes it's a boy--or a bucket. i've known a splittin'-knife jonah two trips till we was on to her," said tom plait. "there's all sorts o' jonahs. jim bourke was one till he was drowned on georges. i'd never ship with jim bourke, not if i was starvin'. there wuz a green dory on the ezra flood. thet was a jonah too, the worst sort o' jonah. drowned four men she did, an' used to shine fiery o' nights in the nest." "and you believe that?" said harvey, remembering what tom platt had said about candles and models. "haven't we all got to take what's served?" a mutter of dissent ran round the bunks. "outboard, yes; inboard, things can happen," said disko. "don't you go makin' a mock of jonahs, young feller." "well, harve ain't no jonah. day after we catched him," dan cut in, "we had a toppin' good catch." the cook threw up his head and laughed suddenly--a queer, thin laugh. he was a most disconcerting nigger. "murder!" said long jack. "don't do that again, doctor. we ain't used to ut." "what's wrong?" said dan. "ain't he our mascot, and didn't they strike on good after we'd struck him?" "oh! yess," said the cook. "i know that, but the catch iss not finish yet." "he ain't goin' to do us any harm," said dan, hotly. "where are ye hintin' an' edgin' to? he's all right." "no harm. no. but one day he will be your master, danny." "that all?" said dan, placidly. "he wun't--not by a jugful." "master!" said the cook, pointing to harvey. "man!" and he pointed to dan. "that's news. haow soon?" said dan, with a laugh. "in some years, and i shall see it. master and man--man and master." "how in thunder d'ye work that out?" said tom platt. "in my head, where i can see." "haow?" this from all the others at once. "i do not know, but so it will be." he dropped his head, and went on peeling the potatoes, and not another word could they get out of him. "well," said dan, "a heap o' things'll hev to come abaout 'fore harve's any master o' mine; but i'm glad the doctor ain't choosen to mark him for a jonah. now, i mistrust uncle salters fer the jonerest jonah in the fleet regardin' his own special luck. dunno ef it's spreadin' same's smallpox. he ought to be on the carrie pitman. that boat's her own jonah, sure--crews an' gear make no differ to her driftin'. jimmy christmas! she'll etch loose in a flat ca'am." "we're well dear o' the fleet, anyway," said disko, "carrie pitman an' all." there was a rapping on the deck. "uncle salters has catched his luck," said dan, as his father departed. "it's blown clear," disko cried, and all the fo'c'sle tumbled up for a bit of fresh air. the fog had gone, but a sullen sea ran in great rollers behind it. the "we're here" slid, as it were, into long, sunk avenues and ditches which felt quite sheltered and homelike if they would only stay still; but they changed without rest or mercy, and flung up the schooner to crown one peak of a thousand grey hills, while the wind hooted through her rigging as she zigzagged down the slopes. far away a sea would burst in a sheet of foam, and the others would follow suit as at a signal, till harvey's eyes swam with the vision of interlacing whites and greys. four or five mother carey's chickens stormed round in circles, shrieking as they swept past the bows. a rain-squall or two strayed aimlessly over the hopeless waste, ran down wind and back again, and melted away. "'seems to me i saw somethin' flicker jest naow over yonder," said uncle salters, pointing to the northeast. "can't be any of the fleet," said disko, peering under his eyebrows, a hand on the fo'c'sle gangway as the solid bows hatcheted into the troughs. "sea's oilin' over dretful fast. danny, don't you want to skip up a piece an' see how aour trawl-buoy lays?" danny, in his big boots, trotted rather than climbed up the main rigging (this consumed harvey with envy), hitched himself around the reeling crosstrees, and let his eye rove till it caught the tiny black buoy-flag on the shoulder of a mile-away swell. "she's all right," he hailed. "sail o! dead to the no'th'ard, comin' down like smoke! schooner she be, too." they waited yet another half-hour, the sky clearing in patches, with a flicker of sickly sun from time to time that made patches of olive-green water. then a stump-foremast lifted, ducked, and disappeared, to be followed on the next wave by a high stern with old-fashioned wooden snail's-horn davits. the sails were red-tanned. "frenchmen!" shouted dan. "no, 'tain't, neither. da-ad!" "that's no french," said disko. "salters, your blame luck holds tighter'n a screw in a keg-head." "i've eyes. it's uncle abishai." "you can't nowise tell fer sure." "the head-king of all jonahs," groaned tom platt. "oh, salters, salters, why wasn't you abed an' asleep? "how could i tell?" said poor salters, as the schooner swung up. she might have been the very flying dutchman, so foul, draggled, and unkempt was every rope and stick aboard. her old-style quarter-deck was some four or five feet high, and her rigging flew knotted and tangled like weed at a wharf-end. she was running before the wind--yawing frightfully--her staysail let down to act as a sort of extra foresail,--"scandalised," they call it,--and her fore-boom guyed out over the side. her bowsprit cocked up like an old-fashioned frigate's; her jib-boom had been fished and spliced and nailed and clamped beyond further repair; and as she hove herself forward, and sat down on her broad tail, she looked for all the world like a blowzy, frousy, bad old woman sneering at a decent girl. "that's abishai," said salters. "full o' gin an' judique men, an' the judgments o' providence layin' fer him an' never takin' good holt. he's run in to bait, miquelon way." "he'll run her under," said long jack. "that's no rig fer this weather." "not he, 'r he'd 'a' done it long ago," disko replied. "looks's if he cal'lated to run us under. ain't she daown by the head more'n natural, tom platt?" "ef it's his style o' loadin' her she ain't safe," said the sailor, slowly. "ef she's spewed her oakum he'd better git to his pumps mighty quick." the creature thrashed up, wore round with a clatter and rattle, and lay head to wind within ear-shot. a greybeard wagged over the bulwark, and a thick voice yelled something harvey could not understand. but disko's face darkened. "he'd resk every stick he hez to carry bad news. says we're in fer a shift o' wind. he's in fer worse. abishai! abishai!" he waved his arm up and down with the gesture of a man at the pumps, and pointed forward. the crew mocked him and laughed. "jounce ye, an' strip ye, an' trip ye!" yelled uncle abishai. "a livin' gale--a livin' gale. yah! cast up fer your last trip, all you gloucester haddocks. you won't see gloucester no more, no more!" "crazy full--as usual," said tom platt. "wish he hadn't spied us, though." she drifted out of hearing while the greyhead yelled something about a dance at the bay of bulls and a dead man in the fo'c'sle. harvey shuddered. he had seen the sloven tilled decks and the savage-eyed crew. "an' that's a fine little floatin' hell fer her draught," said long jack. "i wondher what mischief he's been at ashore." "he's a trawler," dan explained to harvey, "an' he runs in fer bait all along the coast. oh, no, not home, he don't go. he deals along the south an' east shore up yonder." he nodded in the direction of the pitiless newfoundland beaches. "dad won't never take me ashore there. they're a mighty tough crowd--an' abishai's the toughest. you saw his boat? well, she's nigh seventy year old, they say; the last o' the old marblehead heel-tappers. they don't make them quarter-decks any more. abishai don't use marblehead, though. he ain't wanted there. he jes' drif's araound, in debt, trawlin' an' cussin' like you've heard. bin a jonah fer years an' years, he hez. 'gits liquor frum the feecamp boats fer makin' spells an' selling winds an' such truck. crazy, i guess." "twon't be any use underrunnin' the trawl to-night," said tom platt, with quiet despair. "he come alongside special to cuss us. i'd give my wage an' share to see him at the gangway o' the old ohio 'fore we quit floggin'. jest abaout six dozen, an' sam mocatta layin' 'em on crisscross!" the dishevelled "heel-tapper" danced drunkenly down wind, and all eyes followed her. suddenly the cook cried in his phonograph voice: "it wass his own death made him speak so! he iss fey--fey, i tell you! look!" she sailed into a patch of watery sunshine three or four miles distant. the patch dulled and faded out, and even as the light passed so did the schooner. she dropped into a hollow and--was not. "run under, by the great hook-block!" shouted disko, jumping aft. "drunk or sober, we've got to help 'em. heave short and break her out! smart!" harvey was thrown on the deck by the shock that followed the setting of the jib and foresail, for they hove short on the cable, and to save time, jerked the anchor bodily from the bottom, heaving in as they moved away. this is a bit of brute force seldom resorted to except in matters of life and death, and the little "we're here" complained like a human. they ran down to where abishai's craft had vanished; found two or three trawl-tubs, a gin-bottle, and a stove-in dory, but nothing more. "let 'em go," said disko, though no one had hinted at picking them up. "i wouldn't hev a match that belonged to abishai aboard. 'guess she run clear under. 'must ha' been spewin' her oakum fer a week, an' they never thought to pump her. that's one more boat gone along o' leavin' port all hands drunk." "glory be!" said long jack. "we'd ha' been obliged to help 'em if they was top o' water." "'thinkin' o' that myself," said tom platt. "fey! fey!" said the cook, rolling his eyes. "he hass taken his own luck with him." "ver' good thing, i think, to tell the fleet when we see. eh, wha-at'?" said manuel. "if you runna that way before the wind, and she work open her seams--" he threw out his hands with an indescribable gesture, while penn sat down on the house and sobbed at the sheer horror and pity of it all. harvey could not realise that he had seen death on the open waters, but he felt very sick. then dan went up the crosstrees, and disko steered them back to within sight of their own trawl-buoys just before the fog blanketed the sea once again. "we go mighty quick hereabouts when we do go," was all he said to harvey. "you think on that for a spell, young feller. that was liquor." after dinner it was calm enough to fish from the decks,--penn and uncle salters were very zealous this time,--and the catch was large and large fish. "abishai has shorely took his luck with him," said salters. "the wind hain't backed ner riz ner nothin'. how abaout the trawl? i despise superstition, anyway." tom platt insisted that they had much better haul the thing and make a new berth. but the cook said: "the luck iss in two pieces. you will find it so when you look. i know." this so tickled long jack that he overbore tom platt, and the two went out together. underrunning a trawl means pulling it in on one side of the dory, picking off the fish, rebaiting the hooks, and passing them back to the sea again something like pinning and unpinning linen on a wash-line. it is a lengthy business and rather dangerous, for the long, sagging line may twitch a boat under in a flash. but when they heard, "and naow to thee, o capting," booming out of the fog, the crew of the "we're here" took heart. the dory swirled alongside well loaded, tom platt yelling for manuel to act as relief-boat. "the luck's cut square in two pieces," said long jack, forking in the fish, while harvey stood open-mouthed at the skill with which the plunging dory was saved from destruction. "one half was jest punkins. tom platt wanted to haul her an' ha' done wid ut; but i said, 'i'll back the doctor that has the second sight,' an' the other half come up sagging full o' big uns. hurry, man'nle, an' bring's a tub o' bait. there's luck afloat tonight." the fish bit at the newly baited hooks from which their brethren had just been taken, and tom platt and long jack moved methodically up and down the length of the trawl, the boat's nose surging under the wet line of hooks, stripping the sea-cucumbers that they called pumpkins, slatting off the fresh-caught cod against the gunwale, rebaiting, and loading manuel's dory till dusk. "i'll take no risks," said disko, then--"not with him floatin' around so near. abishai won't sink fer a week. heave in the dories, an' we'll dressdaown after supper." that was a mighty dressing-down, attended by three or four blowing grampuses. it lasted till nine o'clock, and disko was thrice heard to chuckle as harvey pitched the split fish into the hold. "say, you're haulin' ahead dretful fast," said dan, when they ground the knives after the men had turned in. "there's somethin' of a sea tonight, an' i hain't heard you make no remarks on it." "too busy," harvey replied, testing a blade's edge. "come to think of it, she is a high-kicker." the little schooner was gambolling all around her anchor among the silver-tipped waves. backing with a start of affected surprise at the sight of the strained cable, she pounced on it like a kitten, while the spray of her descent burst through the hawse-holes with the report of a gun. shaking her head, she would say: "well, i'm sorry i can't stay any longer with you. i'm going north," and would sidle off, halting suddenly with a dramatic rattle of her rigging. "as i was just going to observe," she would begin, as gravely as a drunken man addressing a lamp-post. the rest of the sentence (she acted her words in dumb-show, of course) was lost in a fit of the fidgets, when she behaved like a puppy chewing a string, a clumsy woman in a side-saddle, a hen with her head cut off, or a cow stung by a hornet, exactly as the whims of the sea took her. "see her sayin' her piece. she's patrick henry naow," said dan. she swung sideways on a roller, and gesticulated with her jib-boom from port to starboard. "but-ez---fer-me, give me liberty--er give me-death!" wop! she sat down in the moon-path on the water, courtesying with a flourish of pride impressive enough had not the wheel-gear sniggered mockingly in its box. harvey laughed aloud. "why, it's just as if she was alive," he said. "she's as stiddy as a haouse an' as dry as a herrin'," said dan, enthusiastically, as he was stung across the deck in a batter of spray. "fends 'em off an 'fends 'em off, an' 'don't ye come anigh me,' she sez. look at her--jest look at her! sakes! you should see one o' them toothpicks h'istin' up her anchor on her spike outer fifteen-fathom water." "what's a toothpick, dan?" "them new haddockers an' herrin'-boats. fine's a yacht forward, with yacht sterns to 'em, an' spike bowsprits, an' a haouse that u'd take our hold. i've heard that burgess himself he made the models fer three or four of 'em, dad's sot ag'in' 'em on account o' their pitchin' an' joltin', but there's heaps o' money in 'em. dad can find fish, but he ain't no ways progressive--he don't go with the march o' the times. they're chock-full o' labour-savin' jigs an' sech all. 'ever seed the elector o' gloucester? she's a daisy, ef she is a toothpick." "what do they cost, dan?" "hills o' dollars. fifteen thousand, p'haps; more, mebbe. there's gold-leaf an' everything you kin think of." then to himself, half under his breath "guess i'd call her hattie s., too." chapter v that was the first of many talks with dan, who told harvey why he would transfer his dory's name to the imaginary burgess-modelled haddocker. harvey heard a good deal about the real hattie at gloucester; saw a lock of her hair--which dan, finding fair words of no avail, had "hooked" as she sat in front of him at school that winter--and a photograph. hattie was about fourteen years old, with an awful contempt for boys, and had been trampling on dan's heart through the winter. all this was revealed under oath of solemn secrecy on moonlit decks, in the dead dark, or in choking fog; the whining wheel behind them, the climbing deck before, and without, the unresting, clamorous sea. once, of course, as the boys came to know each other, there was a fight, which raged from bow to stern till penn came up and separated them, but promised not to tell disko, who thought fighting on watch rather worse than sleeping. harvey was no match for dan physically, but it says a great deal for his new training that he took his defeat and did not try to get even with his conqueror by underhand methods. that was after he had been cured of a string of boils between his elbows and wrists, where the wet jersey and oilskins cut into the flesh. the salt water stung them unpleasantly, but when they were ripe dan treated them with disko's razor, and assured harvey that now he was a "blooded banker"; the affliction of gurry-sores being the mark of the caste that claimed him. since he was a boy and very busy, he did not bother his head with too much thinking. he was exceedingly sorry for his mother, and often longed to see her and above all to tell her of his wonderful new life, and how brilliantly he was acquitting himself in it. otherwise he preferred not to wonder too much how she was bearing the shock of his supposed death. but one day, as he stood on the fo'c'sle ladder, guying the cook, who had accused him and dan of hooking fried pies, it occurred to him that this was a vast improvement on being snubbed by strangers in the smoking-room of a hired liner. he was a recognised part of the scheme of things on the "we're here"; had his place at the table and among the bunks; and could hold his own in the long talks on stormy days, when the others were always ready to listen to what they called his "fairy-tales" of his life ashore. it did not take him more than two days and a quarter to feel that if he spoke of his own life--it seemed very far away--no one except dan (and even dan's belief was sorely tried) credited him. so he invented a friend, a boy he had heard of, who drove a miniature four-pony drag in toledo, ohio, and ordered five suits of clothes at a time, and led things called "germans" at parties where the oldest girl was not quite fifteen, but all the presents were solid silver. salters protested that this kind of yarn was desperately wicked, if not indeed positively blasphemous, but he listened as greedily as the others; and their criticisms at the end gave harvey entirely new notions on "germans," clothes, cigarettes with gold-leaf tips, rings, watches, scent, small dinner-parties, champagne, card-playing, and hotel accommodation. little by little he changed his tone when speaking of his "friend," whom long jack had christened "the crazy kid," "the gilt-edged baby," "the suckin' vanderpoop," and other pet names; and with his sea-booted feet cocked up on the table would even invent histories about silk pajamas and specially imported neckwear, to the "friend's" discredit. harvey was a very adaptable person, with a keen eye and ear for every face and tone about him. before long he knew where disko kept the old green-crusted quadrant that they called the "hog-yoke"--under the bed-bag in his bunk. when he 'took the sun, and with the help of "the old farmer's" almanac found the latitude, harvey would jump down into the cabin and scratch the reckoning and date with a nail on the rust of the stove-pipe. now, the chief engineer of the liner could have done no more, and no engineer of thirty years' service could have assumed one half of the ancient-mariner air with which harvey, first careful to spit over the side, made public the schooner's position for that day, and then and not till then relieved disko of the quadrant. there is an etiquette in all these things. the said "hog-yoke," an eldridge chart, the farming almanac, blunt's "coast pilot," and bowditch's "navigator" were all the weapons disko needed to guide him, except the deep-sea lead that was his spare eye. harvey nearly slew penn with it when tom platt taught him first how to "fly the blue pigeon"; and, though his strength was not equal to continuous sounding in any sort of a sea, for calm weather with a seven-pound lead on shoal water disko used him freely. as dan said: "'tain't soundin's dad wants. it's samples. grease her up good, harve." harvey would tallow the cup at the end, and carefully bring the sand, shell, sludge, or whatever it might be, to disko, who fingered and smelt it and gave judgment. as has been said, when disko thought of cod he thought as a cod; and by some long-tested mixture of instinct and experience, moved the "we're here" from berth to berth, always with the fish, as a blindfolded chess-player moves on the unseen board. but disko's board was the grand bank--a triangle two hundred and fifty miles on each side a waste of wallowing sea, cloaked with dank fog, vexed with gales, harried with drifting ice, scored by the tracks of the reckless liners, and dotted with the sails of the fishing-fleet. for days they worked in fog--harvey at the bell--till, grown familiar with the thick airs, he went out with tom platt, his heart rather in his mouth. but the fog would not lift, and the fish were biting, and no one can stay helplessly afraid for six hours at a time. harvey devoted himself to his lines and the gaff or gob-stick as tom platt called for them; and they rowed back to the schooner guided by the bell and tom's instinct; manuel's conch sounding thin and faint beside them. but it was an unearthly experience, and, for the first time in a month, harvey dreamed of the shifting, smoking floors of water round the dory, the lines that strayed away into nothing, and the air above that melted on the sea below ten feet from his straining eyes. a few days later he was out with manuel on what should have been forty-fathom bottom, but the whole length of the roding ran out, and still the anchor found nothing, and harvey grew mortally afraid, for that his last touch with earth was lost. "whale-hole," said manuel, hauling in. "that is good joke on disko. come!" and he rowed to the schooner to find tom platt and the others jeering at the skipper because, for once, he had led them to the edge of the barren whale-deep, the blank hole of the grand bank. they made another berth through the fog, and that time the hair of harvey's head stood up when he went out in manuel's dory. a whiteness moved in the whiteness of the fog with a breath like the breath of the grave, and there was a roaring, a plunging, and spouting. it was his first introduction to the dread summer berg of the banks, and he cowered in the bottom of the boat while manuel laughed. there were days, though, clear and soft and warm, when it seemed a sin to do anything but loaf over the hand-lines and spank the drifting "sun-scalds" with an oar; and there were days of light airs, when harvey was taught how to steer the schooner from one berth to another. it thrilled through him when he first felt the keel answer to his hand on the spokes and slide over the long hollows as the foresail scythed back and forth against the blue sky. that was magnificent, in spite of disko saying that it would break a snake's back to follow his wake. but, as usual, pride ran before a fall. they were sailing on the wind with the staysail--an old one, luckily--set, and harvey jammed her right into it to show dan how completely he had mastered the art. the foresail went over with a bang, and the foregaff stabbed and ripped through the stay-sail, which, was of course, prevented from going over by the mainstay. they lowered the wreck in awful silence, and harvey spent his leisure hours for the next few days under tom platt's lee, learning to use a needle and palm. dan hooted with joy, for, as he said, he had made the very same blunder himself in his early days. boylike, harvey imitated all the men by turns, till he had combined disko's peculiar stoop at the wheel, long jack's swinging overhand when the lines were hauled, manuel's round-shouldered but effective stroke in a dory, and tom platt's generous ohio stride along the deck. "'tis beautiful to see how he takes to ut," said long jack, when harvey was looking out by the windlass one thick noon. "i'll lay my wage an' share 'tis more'n half play-actin' to him, an' he consates himself he's a bowld mariner. 'watch his little bit av a back now!" "that's the way we all begin," said tom platt. "the boys they make believe all the time till they've cheated 'emselves into bein' men, an' so till they die--pretendin' an' pretendin'. i done it on the old ohio, i know. stood my first watch--harbor-watch--feelin' finer'n farragut. dan's full o' the same kind o' notions. see 'em now, actin' to be genewine moss-backs--every hair a rope-yarn an' blood stockholm tar." he spoke down the cabin stairs. "'guess you're mistook in your judgments fer once, disko. what in rome made ye tell us all here the kid was crazy?" "he wuz," disko replied. "crazy ez a loon when he come aboard; but i'll say he's sobered up consid'ble sence. i cured him." "he yarns good," said tom platt. "t'other night he told us abaout a kid of his own size steerin' a cunnin' little rig an' four ponies up an' down toledo, ohio, i think 'twas, an' givin' suppers to a crowd o' sim'lar kids. cur'us kind o' fairy-tale, but blame interestin'. he knows scores of 'em." "'guess he strikes 'em outen his own head," disko called from the cabin, where he was busy with the log-book. "'stands to reason that sort is all made up. it don't take in no one but dan, an' he laughs at it. i've heard him, behind my back." "y'ever hear what sim'on peter ca'houn said when they whacked up a match 'twix' his sister hitty an' lorin' jerauld, an' the boys put up that joke on him daown to georges?" drawled uncle salters, who was dripping peaceably under the lee of the starboard dory-nest. tom platt puffed at his pipe in scornful silence: he was a cape cod man, and had not known that tale more than twenty years. uncle salters went on with a rasping chuckle: "sim'on peter ca'houn he said, an' he was jest right, abaout lorin', 'ha'af on the taown,' he said, 'an' t'other ha'af blame fool; an' they told me she's married a 'ich man.' sim'on peter ca'houn he hedn't no roof to his mouth, an' talked that way." "he didn't talk any pennsylvania dutch," tom platt replied. "you'd better leave a cape man to tell that tale. the ca'houns was gipsies frum 'way back." "wal, i don't profess to be any elocutionist," salters said. "i'm comin' to the moral o' things. that's jest abaout what aour harve be! ha'af on the taown, an' t'other ha'af blame fool; an' there's some'll believe he's a rich man. yah!" "did ye ever think how sweet 'twould be to sail wid a full crew o' salterses?" said long jack. "ha'af in the furrer an' other ha'af in the muck-heap, as ca'houn did not say, an' makes out he's a fisherman!" a little laugh went round at salters's expense. disko held his tongue, and wrought over the log-book that he kept in a hatchet-faced, square hand; this was the kind of thing that ran on, page after soiled page: "july . this day thick fog and few fish. made berth to northward. so ends this day. "july . this day comes in with thick fog. caught a few fish. "july . this day comes in with light breeze from n. e. and fine weather. made a berth to eastward. caught plenty fish. "july . this, the sabbath, comes in with fog and light winds. so ends this day. total fish caught this week, , ." they never worked on sundays, but shaved, and washed themselves if it were fine, and pennsylvania sang hymns. once or twice he suggested that, if it was not an impertinence, he thought he could preach a little. uncle salters nearly jumped down his throat at the mere notion, reminding him that he was not a preacher and mustn't think of such things. we'd hev him rememberin' johnstown next," salters explained, "an' what would happen then?" so they compromised on his reading aloud from a book called "josephus." it was an old leather-bound volume, smelling of a hundred voyages, very solid and very like the bible, but enlivened with accounts of battles and sieges; and they read it nearly from cover to cover. otherwise penn was a silent little body. he would not utter a word for three days on end sometimes, though he played checkers, listened to the songs, and laughed at the stories. when they tried to stir him up, he would answer. "i don't wish to seem unneighbourly, but it is because i have nothing to say. my head feels quite empty. i've almost forgotten my name." he would turn to uncle salters with an expectant smile. "why, pennsylvania pratt," salters would shout. "you'll fergit me next!" "no--never," penn would say, shutting his lips firmly. "pennsylvania pratt, of course," he would repeat over and over. sometimes it was uncle salters who forgot, and told him he was haskins or rich or mcvitty; but penn was equally content--till next time. he was always very tender with harvey, whom he pitied both as a lost child and as a lunatic; and when salters saw that penn liked the boy, he relaxed, too. salters was not an amiable person (he esteemed it his business to keep the boys in order); and the first time harvey, in fear and trembling, on a still day, managed to shin up to the main-truck (dan was behind him ready to help), he esteemed it his duty to hang salters's big sea-boots up there--a sight of shame and derision to the nearest schooner. with disko, harvey took no liberties; not even when the old man dropped direct orders, and treated him, like the rest of the crew, to "don't you want to do so and so?" and "guess you'd better," and so forth. there was something about the clean-shaven lips and the puckered corners of the eyes that was mightily sobering to young blood. disko showed him the meaning of the thumbed and pricked chart, which, he said, laid over any government publication whatsoever; led him, pencil in hand, from berth to berth over the whole string of banks--le have, western, banquereau, st. pierre, green, and grand--talking "cod" meantime. taught him, too, the principle on which the "hog-yoke" was worked. in this harvey excelled dan, for he had inherited a head for figures, and the notion of stealing information from one glimpse of the sullen bank sun appealed to all his keen wits. for other sea-matters his age handicapped him. as disko said, he should have begun when he was ten. dan could bait up trawl or lay his hand on any rope in the dark; and at a pinch, when uncle salters had a gurry-sore on his palm, could dress down by sense of touch. he could steer in anything short of half a gale from the feel of the wind on his face, humouring the "we're here" just when she needed it. these things he did as automatically as he skipped about the rigging, or made his dory a part of his own will and body. but he could not communicate his knowledge to harvey. still there was a good deal of general information flying about the schooner on stormy days, when they lay up in the fo'c'sle or sat on the cabin lockers, while spare eye-bolts, leads, and rings rolled and rattled in the pauses of the talk. disko spoke of whaling voyages in the fifties; of great she-whales slain beside their young; of death agonies on the black, tossing seas, and blood that spurted forty feet in the air; of boats smashed to splinters; of patent rockets that went off wrong-end-first and bombarded the trembling crews; of cutting-in and boiling-down, and that terrible "nip" of ' , when twelve hundred men were made homeless on the ice in three days--wonderful tales, all true. but more wonderful still were his stories of the cod, and how they argued and reasoned on their private businesses deep down below the keel. long jack's tastes ran more to the supernatural. he held them silent with ghastly stories of the "yo-hoes" on monomoy beach, that mock and terrify lonely clam-diggers; of sand-walkers and dune-haunters who were never properly buried; of hidden treasure on fire island guarded by the spirits of kidd's men; of ships that sailed in the fog straight over truro township; of that harbour in maine where no one but a stranger will lie at anchor twice in a certain place because of a dead crew who row alongside at midnight with the anchor in the bow of their old-fashioned boat, whistling--not calling, but whistling--for the soul of the man who broke their rest. harvey had a notion that the east coast of his native land, from mount desert south, was populated chiefly by people who took their horses there in the summer and entertained in country-houses with hardwood floors and vantine portieres. he laughed at the ghost-tales,--not as much as he would have done a month before,--but ended by sitting still and shuddering. tom platt dealt with his interminable trip round the horn on the old ohio in the flogging days, with a navy more extinct than the dodo--the navy that passed away in the great war. he told them how red-hot shot are dropped into a cannon, a wad of wet clay between them and the cartridge; how they sizzle and reek when they strike wood, and how the little ship-boys of the miss jim buck hove water over them and shouted to the fort to try again. and he told tales of blockade--long weeks of swaying at anchor, varied only by the departure and return of steamers that had used up their coal (there was no change for the sailing-ships); of gales and cold--cold that kept two hundred men, night and day, pounding and chopping at the ice on cable, blocks, and rigging, when the galley was as red-hot as the fort's shot, and men drank cocoa by the bucket. tom platt had no use for steam. his service closed when that thing was comparatively new. he admitted that it was a specious invention in time of peace, but looked hopefully for the day when sails should come back again on ten-thousand-ton frigates with hundred-and-ninety-foot booms. manuel's talk was slow and gentle--all about pretty girls in madeira washing clothes in the dry beds of streams, by moonlight, under waving bananas; legends of saints, and tales of queer dances or fights away in the cold newfoundland baiting-ports. salters was mainly agricultural; for, though he read "josephus" and expounded it, his mission in life was to prove the value of green manures, and specially of clover, against every form of phosphate whatsoever. he grew libellous about phosphates; he dragged greasy "orange judd" books from his bunk and intoned them, wagging his finger at harvey, to whom it was all greek. little penn was so genuinely pained when harvey made fun of salters's lectures that the boy gave it up, and suffered in polite silence. that was very good for harvey. the cook naturally did not join in these conversations. as a rule, he spoke only when it was absolutely necessary; but at times a queer gift of speech descended on him, and he held forth, half in gaelic, half in broken english, an hour at a time. he was specially communicative with the boys, and he never withdrew his prophecy that one day harvey would be dan's master, and that he would see it. he told them of mail-carrying in the winter up cape breton way, of the dog-train that goes to coudray, and of the ram-steamer arctic, that breaks the ice between the mainland and prince edward island. then he told them stories that his mother had told him, of life far to the southward, where water never froze; and he said that when he died his soul would go to lie down on a warm white beach of sand with palm-trees waving above. that seemed to the boys a very odd idea for a man who had never seen a palm in his life. then, too, regularly at each meal, he would ask harvey, and harvey alone, whether the cooking was to his taste; and this always made the "second half" laugh. yet they had a great respect for the cook's judgment, and in their hearts considered harvey something of a mascot by consequence. and while harvey was taking in knowledge of new things at each pore and hard health with every gulp of the good air, the "we're here" went her ways and did her business on the bank, and the silvery-grey kenches of well-pressed fish mounted higher and higher in the hold. no one day's work was out of the common, but the average days were many and close together. naturally, a man of disko's reputation was closely watched--"scrowged upon," dan called it--by his neighbours, but he had a very pretty knack of giving them the slip through the curdling, glidy fog-banks. disko avoided company for two reasons. he wished to make his own experiments, in the first place; and in the second, he objected to the mixed gatherings of a fleet of all nations. the bulk of them were mainly gloucester boats, with a scattering from provincetown, harwich, chatham, and some of the maine ports, but the crews drew from goodness knows where. risk breeds recklessness, and when greed is added there are fine chances for every kind of accident in the crowded fleet, which, like a mob of sheep, is huddled round some unrecognised leader. "let the two jeraulds lead 'em," said disko. "we're baound to lay among 'em fer a spell on the eastern shoals; though ef luck holds, we won't hev to lay long. where we are naow, harve, ain't considered noways good graound." "ain't it?" said harvey, who was drawing water (he had learned just how to wiggle the bucket), after an unusually long dressing-down. "shouldn't mind striking some poor ground for a change, then." "all the graound i want to see--don't want to strike her--is eastern point," said dan. "say, dad, it looks 's if we wouldn't hev to lay more'n two weeks on the shoals. you'll meet all the comp'ny you want then, harve. that's the time we begin to work. no reg'lar meals fer no one then. 'mug-up when ye're hungry, an' sleep when ye can't keep awake. good job you wasn't picked up a month later than you was, or we'd never ha' had you dressed in shape fer the old virgin." harvey understood from the eldridge chart that the old virgin and a nest of curiously named shoals were the turning-point of the cruise, and that with good luck they would wet the balance of their salt there. but seeing the size of the virgin (it was one tiny dot), he wondered how even disko with the hog-yoke and the lead could find her. he learned later that disko was entirely equal to that and any other business, and could even help others. a big four-by-five blackboard hung in the cabin, and harvey never understood the need of it till, after some blinding thick days, they heard the unmelodious tooting of a foot-power fog-horn--a machine whose note is as that of a consumptive elephant. they were making a short berth, towing the anchor under their foot to save trouble. "squarerigger bellowin' fer his latitude," said long jack. the dripping red headsails of a bark glided out of the fog, and the "we're here" rang her bell thrice, using sea shorthand. the larger boat backed her topsail with shrieks and shoutings. "frenchman," said uncle salters, scornfully. "miquelon boat from st. malo." the farmer had a weatherly sea-eye. "i'm most outer 'baccy, too, disko." "same here," said tom platt. "hi! backez vouz--backez vouz! standez awayez, you butt-ended mucho-bono! where you from--st. malo, eh?" ah, ha! mucho bono! oui! oui! clos poulet--st. malo! st. pierre et miquelon," cried the other crowd, waving woollen caps and laughing. then all together, "bord! bord!" "bring up the board, danny. beats me how them frenchmen fetch anywheres, exceptin' america's fairish broadly. forty-six forty-nine's good enough fer them; an' i guess it's abaout right, too." dan chalked the figures on the board, and they hung it in the main-rigging to a chorus of mercis from the bark. "seems kinder unneighbourly to let 'em swedge off like this," salters suggested, feeling in his pockets. "hev ye learned french then sence last trip'?" said disko. "i don't want no more stone-ballast hove at us 'long o' your calm' miquelon boats 'footy cochins,' same's you did off le have." "harmon rush he said that was the way to rise 'em. plain united states is good enough fer me. we're all dretful short on terbakker. young feller, don't you speak french?" "oh, yes," said harvey, valiantly; and he bawled: "hi! say! arretez vous! attendez! nous sommes venant pour tabac." "ah, tabac, tabac!" they cried, and laughed again. "that hit 'em. let's heave a dory over, anyway," said tom platt. "i don't exactly hold no certificates on french, but i know another lingo that goes, i guess. come on, harve, an' interpret." the raffle and confusion when he and harvey were hauled up the bark's black side was indescribable. her cabin was all stuck round with glaring coloured prints of the virgin--the virgin of newfoundland, they called her. harvey found his french of no recognised bank brand, and his conversation was limited to nods and grins. but tom platt waved his arms and got along swimmingly. the captain gave him a drink of unspeakable gin, and the opera-comique crew, with their hairy throats, red caps, and long knives, greeted him as a brother. then the trade began. they had tobacco, plenty of it--american, that had never paid duty to france. they wanted chocolate and crackers. harvey rowed back to arrange with the cook and disko, who owned the stores, and on his return the cocoa-tins and cracker-bags were counted out by the frenchman's wheel. it looked like a piratical division of loot; but tom platt came out of it roped with black pigtail and stuffed with cakes of chewing and smoking tobacco. then those jovial mariners swung off into the mist, and the last harvey heard was a gay chorus: "par derriere chez ma tante, il y a un bois joli, et le rossignol y chante et le jour et la nuit... que donneriez vous, belle, qui l'amènerait ici? je donnerai québec, sorel et saint denis." "how was it my french didn't go, and your sign-talk did?" harvey demanded when the barter had been distributed among the "we're heres". "sign-talk!" platt guffawed. "well, yes, 'twas sign-talk, but a heap older'n your french, harve. them french boats are chock-full o' freemasons, an' that's why." "are you a freemason, then?" "looks that way, don't it?" said the man-o'war's man, stuffing his pipe; and harvey had another mystery of the deep sea to brood upon. chapter vi the thing that struck him most was the exceedingly casual way in which some craft loafed about the broad atlantic. fishing-boats, as dan said, were naturally dependent on the courtesy and wisdom of their neighbours; but one expected better things of steamers. that was after another interesting interview, when they had been chased for three miles by a big lumbering old cattle-boat, all boarded over on the upper deck, that smelt like a thousand cattle-pens. a very excited officer yelled at them through a speaking-trumpet, and she lay and lollopped helplessly on the water while disko ran the "we're here" under her lee and gave the skipper a piece of his mind. "where might ye be--eh? ye don't deserve to be anywheres. you barn-yard tramps go hoggin' the road on the high seas with no blame consideration fer your neighbours, an' your eyes in your coffee-cups instid o' in your silly heads." at this the skipper danced on the bridge and said something about disko's own eyes. "we haven't had an observation for three days. d'you suppose we can run her blind?" he shouted. "wa-al, i can," disko retorted. "what's come to your lead'? et it'? can't ye smell bottom, or are them cattle too rank?" "what d'ye feed 'em?" said uncle salters with intense seriousness, for the smell of the pens woke all the farmer in him. "they say they fall off dretful on a v'yage. dunno as it's any o' my business, but i've a kind o' notion that oil-cake broke small an' sprinkled--" "thunder!" said a cattle-man in a red jersey as he looked over the side. "what asylum did they let his whiskers out of?" "young feller," salters began, standing up in the fore-rigging, "let me tell yeou 'fore we go any further that i've--" the officer on the bridge took off his cap with immense politeness. "excuse me," he said, "but i've asked for my reckoning. if the agricultural person with the hair will kindly shut his head, the sea-green barnacle with the wall-eye may perhaps condescend to enlighten us." "naow you've made a show o' me, salters," said disko, angrily. he could not stand up to that particular sort of talk, and snapped out the latitude and longitude without more lectures. "'well, that's a boat-load of lunatics, sure," said the skipper, as he rang up the engine-room and tossed a bundle of newspapers into the schooner. "of all the blamed fools, next to you, salters, him an' his crowd are abaout the likeliest i've ever seen," said disko as the "we're here" slid away. "i was jest givin' him my jedgment on lullsikin' round these waters like a lost child, an' you must cut in with your fool farmin'. can't ye never keep things sep'rate?" harvey, dan, and the others stood back, winking one to the other and full of joy; but disko and salters wrangled seriously till evening, salters arguing that a cattle-boat was practically a barn on blue water, and disko insisting that, even if this were the case, decency and fisher-pride demanded that he should have kept "things sep'rate." long jack stood it in silence for a time,--an angry skipper makes an unhappy crew,--and then he spoke across the table after supper: "fwhat's the good o' bodderin' fwhat they'll say?" said he. "they'll tell that tale ag'in' us fer years--that's all," said disko. "oil-cake sprinkled!" "with salt, o' course," said salters, impenitent, reading the farming reports from a week-old new york paper. "it's plumb mortifyin' to all my feelin's," the skipper went on. "can't see ut that way," said long jack, the peacemaker. "look at here, disko! is there another packet afloat this day in this weather c'u'd ha' met a tramp an', over an' above givin' her her reckonin',--over an' above that, i say,--c'u'd ha' discoorsed wid her quite intelligent on the management av steers an' such at sea'? forgit ut! av coorse they will not. 'twas the most compenjus conversation that iver accrued. double game an' twice runnin'--all to us." dan kicked harvey under the table, and harvey choked in his cup. "'well," said salters, who felt that his honour had been somewhat plastered, "i said i didn't know as 'twuz any business o' mine, 'fore i spoke." "an' right there," said tom platt, experienced in discipline and etiquette--"right there, i take it, disko, you should ha' asked him to stop ef the conversation wuz likely, in your jedgment, to be anyways--what it shouldn't." "dunno but that's so," said disko, who saw his way to an honourable retreat from a fit of the dignities. "'why, o' course it was so," said salters, "you bein' skipper here; an' i'd cheerful hev stopped on a hint--not from any leadin' or conviction, but fer the sake o' bearin' an example to these two blame boys of aours." "didn't i tell you, harve, 'twould come araound to us 'fore we'd done'? always those blame boys. but i wouldn't have missed the show fer a half-share in a halibutter," dan whispered. "still, things should ha' been kep' sep'rate," said disko, and the light of new argument lit in salters's eye as he crumbled cut plug into his pipe. "there's a power av vartue in keepin' things sep'rate," said long jack, intent on stilling the storm. "that's fwhat steyning of steyning and hare's f'und when he sent counahan fer skipper on the marilla d. kuhn, instid o' cap. newton that was took with inflam't'ry rheumatism an' couldn't go. counahan the navigator we called him." "nick counahan he never went aboard fer a night 'thout a pond o' rum somewheres in the manifest," said tom platt, playing up to the lead. "he used to bum araound the c'mission houses to boston lookin' fer the lord to make him captain of a towboat on his merits. sam coy, up to atlantic avenoo, give him his board free fer a year or more on account of his stories. counahan the navigator! tck! tck! dead these fifteen year, ain't he?" "seventeen, i guess. he died the year the caspar mcveagh was built; but he could niver keep things sep'rate. steyning tuk him fer the reason the thief tuk the hot stove--bekaze there was nothin' else that season. the men was all to the banks, and counahan he whacked up an iverlastin' hard crowd fer crew. rum! ye c'u'd ha' floated the marilla, insurance and all, in fwhat they stowed aboard her. they lef' boston harbour for the great grand bank wid a roarin' nor'wester behind 'em an' all hands full to the bung. an' the hivens looked after thim, for divil a watch did they set, an' divil a rope did they lay hand to, till they'd seen the bottom av a fifteen-gallon cask o' bug-juice. that was about wan week, so far as counahan remembered. (if' i c'u'd only tell the tale as he told ut!) all that whoile the wind blew like ould glory, an' the marilla--'twas summer, and they'd give her a foretopmast--struck her gait and kept ut. then counahan tuk the hog-yoke an' thrembled over it for a whoile, an' made out, betwix' that an' the chart an' the singin' in his head, that they was to the south'ard o' sable island, gettin' along glorious, but speakin' nothin'. then they broached another keg, an' quit speculatin' about anythin' fer another spell. the marilla she lay down whin she dropped boston light, and she never lufted her lee-rail up to that time--hustlin' on one an' the same slant. but they saw no weed, nor gulls, nor schooners; an' prisintly they obsarved they'd been out a matter o' fourteen days, and they mistrusted the bank had suspinded payment. so they sounded, an' got sixty fathom. 'that's me,' sez counahan. 'that's me iv'ry time! i've run her slat on the bank fer you, an' when we get thirty fathom we'll turn in like little men. counahan is the b'y,' sez he. 'counahan the navigator!' "nex' cast they got ninety. sez counahan: 'either the lead-line's tuk too stretchin' or else the bank's sunk.' "they hauled ut up, bein' just about in that state when ut seemed right an' reasonable, and sat down on the deck countin' the knots, an' gettin' her snarled up hijjus. the marilla she'd struck her gait, and she hild ut, an' prisintly along come a tramp, an' counahan spoke her. "'hey ye seen any fishin'-boats now?' sez he, quite casual. "'there's lashin's av them off the irish coast,' sez the tramp. "aah! go shake yerself,' sez counahan. 'fwhat have i to do wid the irish coast?' "'then fwhat are ye doin' here?' sez the tramp. "'sufferin' christianity!' sez counahan (he always said that whin his pumps sucked an' he was not feelin' good)--'sufferin' christianity!' he sez, 'where am i at?' "'thirty-five mile west-sou'west o' cape clear,' sez the tramp, 'if that's any consolation to you.' "counahan fetched wan jump, four feet sivin inches, measured by the cook. "'consolation!' sez he, bould ez brass. 'd'ye take me fer a dialect? thirty-five mile from cape clear, an' fourteen days from boston light. sufferin' christianity, 'tis a record, an' by the same token i've a mother to skibbereen!' think av ut! the gall av um! but ye see he could niver keep things sep'rate. "the crew was mostly cork an' kerry men, barrin' one marylander that wanted to go back, but they called him a mutineer, an' they ran the ould marilla into skibbereen, an' they had an illigant time visitin' around with frinds on the ould sod fer a week. thin they wint back, an' it cost 'em two an' thirty days to beat to the banks again. 'twas gettin' on towards fall, and grub was low, so counahan ran her back to boston, wid no more bones to ut." "and what did the firm say?" harvey demanded. "fwhat could they'? the fish was on the banks, an' counahan was at t-wharf talkin' av his record trip east! they tuk their satisfaction out av that, an' ut all came av not keepin' the crew and the rum sep'rate in the first place; an' confusin' skibbereen wid 'queereau, in the second. counahan the navigator, rest his sowl! he was an imprompju citizen! "once i was in the lucy holmes," said manuel, in his gentle voice. "they not want any of her feesh in gloucester. eh, wha-at? give us no price. so we go across the water, and think to sell to some fayal man. then it blow fresh, and we cannot see well. eh, wha-at? then it blow some more fresh, and we go down below and drive very fast--no one know where. by-and-by we see a land, and it get some hot. then come two, three nigger in a brick. eh, wha-at? we ask where we are, and they say--now, what you all think?" "grand canary," said disko, after a moment. manuel shook his head, smiling. "blanco," said tom platt. "no. worse than that. we was below bezagos, and the brick she was from liberia! so we sell our feesh there! not bad, so? eh, wha-at?" "can a schooner like this go right across to africa?" said harvey. "go araound the horn ef there's anythin' worth goin' fer, and the grub holds aout," said disko. "my father he run his packet, an' she was a kind o' pinkey, abaout fifty ton, i guess,--the rupert,--he run her over to greenland's icy mountains the year ha'af our fleet was tryin' after cod there. an' what's more, he took my mother along with him,--to show her haow the money was earned, i presoom,--an' they was all iced up, an' i was born at disko. don't remember nothin' abaout it, o' course. we come back when the ice eased in the spring, but they named me fer the place. kinder mean trick to put up on a baby, but we're all baound to make mistakes in aour lives." "sure! sure!" said salters, wagging his head. "all baound to make mistakes, an' i tell you two boys here thet after you've made a mistake--ye don't make fewer'n a hundred a day--the next best thing's to own up to it like men." long jack winked one tremendous wink that embraced all hands except disko and salters, and the incident was closed. then they made berth after berth to the northward, the dories out almost every day, running along the east edge of the grand bank in thirty-to forty-fathom water, and fishing steadily. it was here harvey first met the squid, who is one of the best cod-baits, but uncertain in his moods. they were waked out of their bunks one black night by yells of "squid o!" from salters, and for an hour and a half every soul aboard hung over his squid-jig--a piece of lead painted red and armed at the lower end with a circle of pins bent backward like half-opened umbrella ribs. the squid--for some unknown reason--likes, and wraps himself round, this thing, and is hauled up ere he can escape from the pins. but as he leaves his home he squirts first water and next ink into his captor's face; and it was curious to see the men weaving their heads from side to side to dodge the shot. they were as black as sweeps when the flurry ended; but a pile of fresh squid lay on the deck, and the large cod thinks very well of a little shiny piece of squid-tentacle at the tip of a clam-baited hook. next day they caught many fish, and met the carrie pitman, to whom they shouted their luck, and she wanted to trade--seven cod for one fair-sized squid; but disko would not agree at the price, and the carrie dropped sullenly to leeward and anchored half a mile away, in the hope of striking on to some for herself. disko said nothing till after supper, when he sent dan and manuel out to buoy the "we're here's" cable and announced his intention of turning in with the broad-axe. dan naturally repeated these remarks to a dory from the carrie, who wanted to know why they were buoying their cable, since they were not on rocky bottom. "dad sez he wouldn't trust a ferryboat within five mile o' you," dan howled cheerfully. "why don't he git out, then'? who's hinderin'?" said the other. "cause you've jest the same ez lee-bowed him, an' he don't take that from any boat, not to speak o' sech a driftin' gurry-butt as you be." "she ain't driftin' any this trip," said the man, angrily, for the carrie pitman had an unsavoury reputation for breaking her ground-tackle. "then haow d'you make berths?" said dan. "it's her best p'int o' sailin'. an' ef she's quit driftin', what in thunder are you doin' with a new jib-boom?" that shot went home. "hey, you portugoosy organ-grinder, take your monkey back to gloucester. go back to school, dan troop," was the answer. "o-ver-alls! o-ver-alls!" yelled dan, who knew that one of the carrie's crew had worked in an overall factory the winter before. "shrimp! gloucester shrimp! git aout, you novy!" to call a gloucester man a nova scotian is not well received. dan answered in kind. "novy yourself, ye scrabble-towners! ye chatham wreckers' git aout with your brick in your stock in'!" and the forces separated, but chatham had the worst of it. "i knew haow 'twould be," said disko. "she's drawed the wind raound already. some one oughter put a deesist on thet packet. she'll snore till midnight, an' jest when we're gittin' our sleep she'll strike adrift. good job we ain't crowded with craft hereaways. but i ain't goin' to up anchor fer chatham. she may hold." the wind, which had hauled round, rose at sundown and blew steadily. there was not enough sea, though, to disturb even a dory's tackle, but the carrie pitman was a law unto herself. at the end of the boys' watch they heard the crack-crack-crack of a huge muzzle-loading revolver aboard her. "glory, glory, hallelujah!" sung dan. "here she comes, dad; butt-end first, walkin' in her sleep same's she done on 'queereau." had she been any other boat disko would have taken his chances, but now he cut the cable as the carrie pitman, with all the north atlantic to play in, lurched down directly upon them. the "we're here", under jib and riding-sail, gave her no more room than was absolutely necessary,--disko did not wish to spend a week hunting for his cable,--but scuttled up into the wind as the carrie passed within easy hail, a silent and angry boat, at the mercy of a raking broadside of bank chaff. "good evenin'," said disko, raising his headgear, "an' haow does your garden grow?" "go to ohio an' hire a mule," said uncle salters. "we don't want no farmers here." "will i lend you my dory-anchor?" cried long jack. "unship your rudder an' stick it in the mud," said tom platt. "say!" dan's voice rose shrill and high, as he stood on the wheel-box. "sa-ay! is there a strike in the o-ver-all factory; or hev they hired girls, ye shackamaxons?" "veer out the tiller-lines," cried harvey, "and nail 'em to the bottom." that was a salt-flavoured jest he had been put up to by tom platt. manuel leaned over the stern and yelled; "johnna morgan play the organ! ahaaaa!" he flourished his broad thumb with a gesture of unspeakable contempt and derision, while little penn covered himself with glory by piping up: "gee a little! hssh! come here. haw!" they rode on their chain for the rest of the night, a short, snappy, uneasy motion, as harvey found, and wasted half the forenoon recovering the cable. but the boys agreed the trouble was cheap at the price of triumph and glory, and they thought with grief over all the beautiful things that they might have said to the discomfited carrie. chapter vii next day they fell in with more sails, all circling slowly from the east northerly towards the west. but just when they expected to make the shoals by the virgin the fog shut down, and they anchored, surrounded by the tinklings of invisible bells. there was not much fishing, but occasionally dory met dory in the fog and exchanged news. that night, a little before dawn, dan and harvey, who had been sleeping most of the day, tumbled out to "hook" fried pies. there was no reason why they should not have taken them openly; but they tasted better so, and it made the cook angry. the heat and smell below drove them on deck with their plunder, and they found disko at the bell, which he handed over to harvey. "keep her goin'," said he. "i mistrust i hear somethin'. ef it's anything, i'm best where i am so's to get at things." it was a forlorn little jingle; the thick air seemed to pinch it off; and in the pauses harvey heard the muffled shriek of a liner's siren, and he knew enough of the banks to know what that meant. it came to him, with horrible distinctness, how a boy in a cherry-coloured jersey--he despised fancy blazers now with all a fisherman's contempt--how an ignorant, rowdy boy had once said it would be "great" if a steamer ran down a fishing-boat. that boy had a state-room with a hot and cold bath, and spent ten minutes each morning picking over a gilt-edged bill of fare. and that same boy--no, his very much older brother--was up at four of the dim dawn in streaming, crackling oilskins, hammering, literally for the dear life, on a bell smaller than the steward's breakfast-bell, while somewhere close at hand a thirty-foot steel stem was storming along at twenty miles an hour! the bitterest thought of all was that there were folks asleep in dry, upholstered cabins who would never learn that they had massacred a boat before breakfast. so harvey rang the bell. "yes, they slow daown one turn o' their blame propeller," said dan, applying himself to manuel's conch, "fer to keep inside the law, an' that's consolin' when we're all at the bottom. hark to her' she's a humper!" "aoooo--whoooo--whupp!" went the siren. "wingle--tingle--tink," went the bell. "graaa--ouch!" went the conch, while sea and sky were all milled up in milky fog. then harvey felt that he was near a moving body, and found himself looking up and up at the wet edge of a cliff-like bow, leaping, it seemed, directly over the schooner. a jaunty little feather of water curled in front of it, and as it lifted it showed a long ladder of roman numerals--xv., xvi., xvii., xviii., and so forth--on a salmon-coloured, gleaming side. it tilted forward and downward with a heart-stilling "ssssooo"; the ladder disappeared; a line of brass-rimmed port-holes flashed past; a jet of steam puffed in harvey's helplessly uplifted hands; a spout of hot water roared along the rail of the "we're here", and the little schooner staggered and shook in a rush of screw-torn water, as a liner's stern vanished in the fog. harvey got ready to faint or be sick, or both, when he heard a crack like a trunk thrown on a sidewalk, and, all small in his ear, a far-away telephone voice drawling: "heave to! you've sunk us!" "is it us?" he gasped. "no! boat out yonder. ring! we're goin' to look," said dan, running out a dory. in half a minute all except harvey, penn, and the cook were overside and away. presently a schooner's stump-foremast, snapped clean across, drifted past the bows. then an empty green dory came by, knocking on the 'we're here's' side, as though she wished to be taken in. then followed something, face down, in a blue jersey, but it was not the whole of a man. penn changed colour and caught his breath with a click. harvey pounded despairingly at the bell, for he feared they might be sunk at any minute, and he jumped at dan's hail as the crew came back. "the jennie cushman," said dan, hysterically, "cut clean in half--graound up an' trompled on at that! not a quarter of a mile away. dad's got the old man. there ain't any one else, and--there was his son, too. oh, harve, harve, i can't stand it! i've seen--" he dropped his head on his arms and sobbed while the others dragged a grey-headed man aboard. "what did you pick me up for?" the stranger groaned. "disko, what did you pick me up for?" disko dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder, for the man's eyes were wild and his lips trembled as he stared at the silent crew. then up and spoke pennsylvania pratt, who was also haskins or rich or mcvitty when uncle salters forgot; and his face was changed on him from the face of a fool to the countenance of an old, wise man, and he said in a strong voice: "the lord gave, and the lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the lord! i was--i am a minister of the gospel. leave him to me." "oh, you be, be you?" said the man. "then pray my son back to me! pray back a nine-thousand-dollar boat an' a thousand quintal of fish. if you'd left me alone my widow could ha' gone on to the provident an' worked fer her board, an' never known--an' never known. now i'll hev to tell her." "there ain't nothin' to say," said disko. "better lie down a piece, jason olley." when a man has lost his only son, his summer's work, and his means of livelihood, in thirty counted seconds, it is hard to give consolation. "all gloucester men, wasn't they," said tom platt, fiddling helplessly with a dory-becket. "oh, that don't make no odds," said jason, wringing the wet from his beard. "i'll be rowin' summer boarders araound east gloucester this fall." he rolled heavily to the rail, singing. "happy birds that sing and fly round thine altars, o most high!" "come with me. come below!" said penn, as though he had a right to give orders. their eyes met and fought for a quarter of a minute. "i dunno who you be, but i'll come," said jason, submissively. "mebbe i'll get back some o' the--some o' the--nine thousand dollars." penn led him into the cabin and slid the door behind. "that ain't penn," cried uncle salters. "it's jacob boiler, an'--he's remembered johnstown! i never seed such eyes in any livin' man's head. what's to do naow? what'll i do naow?" they could hear penn's voice and jason's together. then penn's went on alone, and salters slipped off his hat, for penn was praying. presently the little man came up the steps, huge drops of sweat on his face, and looked at the crew. dan was still sobbing by the wheel. "he don't know us," salters groaned. "it's all to do over again, checkers and everything--an' what'll he say to me?" penn spoke; they could hear that it was to strangers. "i have prayed," said he. "our people believe in prayer. i have prayed for the life of this man's son. mine were drowned before my eyes--she and my eldest and--the others. shall a man be more wise than his maker? i prayed never for their lives, but i have prayed for this man's son, and he will surely be sent him." salters looked pleadingly at penn to see if he remembered. "how long have i been mad?" penn asked suddenly. his mouth was twitching. "pshaw, penn! you weren't never mad," salters began. "only a little distracted like." "i saw the houses strike the bridge before the fires broke out. i do not remember any more. how long ago is that?" "i can't stand it! i can't stand it!" cried dan, and harvey whimpered in sympathy. "abaout five year," said disko, in a shaking voice. "then i have been a charge on some one for every day of that time. who was the man?" disko pointed to salters. "ye hain't--ye hain't!" cried the sea-farmer, twisting his hands together. "ye've more'n earned your keep twice-told; an' there's money owin' you, penn, besides ha'af o' my quarter-share in the boat, which is yours fer value received." "you are good men. i can see that in your faces. but--" "mother av mercy," whispered long jack, "an' he's been wid us all these trips! he's clean bewitched." a schooner's bell struck up alongside, and a voice hailed through the fog: "o disko! 'heard abaout the jennie cushman?" "they have found his son," cried penn. "stand you still and see the salvation of the lord!" "got jason aboard here," disko answered, but his voice quavered. "there--warn't any one else?" "we've f'und one, though. 'run acrost him snarled up in a mess o' lumber thet might ha' bin a fo'c'sle. his head's cut some." "who is he?" the "we're heres'" heart-beats answered one another. "guess it's young olley," the voice drawled. penn raised his hands and said something in german. harvey could have sworn that a bright sun was shining upon his lifted face; but the drawl went on: "sa-ay! you fellers guyed us consid'rable t'other night." "we don't feel like guyin' any now," said disko. "i know it; but to tell the honest truth we was kinder--kinder driftin' when we run ag'in' young olley." it was the irrepressible carrie pitman, and a roar of unsteady laughter went up from the deck of the "we're here". "hedn't you 'baout's well send the old man aboard? we're runnin' in fer more bait an' graound-tackle. 'guess you won't want him, anyway, an' this blame windlass work makes us short-handed. we'll take care of him. he married my woman's aunt." "i'll give you anything in the boat," said troop. "don't want nothin', 'less, mebbe, an anchor that'll hold. say! young olley's gittin' kinder baulky an' excited. send the old man along." penn waked him from his stupor of despair, and tom platt rowed him over. he went away without a word of thanks, not knowing what was to come; and the fog closed over all. "and now," said penn, drawing a deep breath as though about to preach. "and now"--the erect body sank like a sword driven home into the scabbard; the light faded from the overbright eyes; the voice returned to its usual pitiful little titter--"and now," said pennsylvania pratt, "do you think it's too early for a little game of checkers, mr. salters?" "the very thing--the very thing i was goin' to say myself," cried salters, promptly. "it beats all, penn, how you git on to what's in a man's mind." the little fellow blushed and meekly followed salters forward. "up anchor! hurry! let's quit these crazy waters," shouted disko, and never was he more swiftly obeyed. "now what in creation d'ye suppose is the meanin' o' that all?" said long jack, when they were working through the fog once more, damp, dripping, and bewildered. "the way i sense it," said disko, at the wheel, "is this: the jennie cushman business comin' on an empty stummick--" "he--we saw one of them go by," sobbed harvey. "an' that, o' course, kinder hove him outer water, julluk runnin' a craft ashore; hove him right aout, i take it, to rememberin' johnstown an' jacob boiler an' such-like reminiscences. well, consolin' jason there held him up a piece, same's shorin' up a boat. then, bein' weak, them props slipped an' slipped, an' he slided down the ways, an' naow he's water-borne ag'in. that's haow i sense it." they decided that disko was entirely correct. "'twould ha' bruk salters all up," said long jack, "if penn had stayed jacob bollerin'. did ye see his face when penn asked who he'd been charged on all these years'? how is ut, salters?" "asleep--dead asleep. turned in like a child," salters replied, tiptoeing aft. "there won't be no grub till he wakes, natural. did ye ever see sech a gift in prayer? he everlastin'ly hiked young olley outer the ocean. thet's my belief. jason was tur'ble praoud of his boy, an' i mistrusted all along 'twas a jedgment on worshippin' vain idols." "there's others jest as sot," said disko. "that's dif'runt," salters retorted quickly. "penn's not all caulked, an' i ain't only but doin' my duty by him." they waited, those hungry men, three hours, till penn reappeared with a smooth face and a blank mind. he said he believed that he had been dreaming. then he wanted to know why they were so silent, and they could not tell him. disko worked all hands mercilessly for the next three or four days; and when they could not go out, turned them into the hold to stack the ship's stores into smaller compass, to make more room for the fish. the packed mass ran from the cabin partition to the sliding door behind the fo'c'sle stove; and disko showed how there is great art in stowing cargo so as to bring a schooner to her best draft. the crew were thus kept lively till they recovered their spirits; and harvey was tickled with a rope's end by long jack for being, as the galway man said, "sorrowful as a sick cat over fwhat couldn't be helped." he did a great deal of thinking in those dreary days; and told dan what he thought, and dan agreed with him--even to the extent of asking for fried pies instead of hooking them. but a week later the two nearly upset the hattie s. in a wild attempt to stab a shark with an old bayonet tied to a stick. the grim brute rubbed alongside the dory begging for small fish, and between the three of them it was a mercy they all got off alive. at last, after playing blindman's-buff in the fog, there came a morning when disko shouted down the fo'c'sle: "hurry, boys! we're in taown!" chapter viii to the end of his days, harvey will never forget that sight. the sun was just clear of the horizon they had not seen for nearly a week, and his low red light struck into the riding-sails of three fleets of anchored schooners--one to the north, one to the westward, and one to the south. there must have been nearly a hundred of them, of every possible make and build, with, far away, a square-rigged frenchman, all bowing and courtesying one to the other. from every boat dories were dropping away like bees from a crowded hive; and the clamour of voices, the rattling of ropes and blocks, and the splash of the oars carried for miles across the heaving water. the sails turned all colours, black, pearly-grey, and white, as the sun mounted; and more boats swung up through the mists to the southward. the dories gathered in clusters, separated, reformed, and broke again, all heading one way; while men hailed and whistled and cat-called and sang, and the water was speckled with rubbish thrown overboard. "it's a town," said harvey. "disko was right. it is a town!" "i've seen smaller," said disko. "there's about a thousand men here; an' yonder's the virgin." he pointed to a vacant space of greenish sea, where there were no dories. the "we're here" skirted round the northern squadron, disko waving his hand to friend after friend, and anchored as neatly as a racing yacht at the end of the season. the bank fleet pass good seamanship in silence; but a bungler is jeered all along the line. "jest in time fer the caplin," cried the mary chilton. "'salt 'most wet?" asked the king philip. "hey, tom platt! come t' supper to-night?" said the henry clay; and so questions and answers flew back and forth. men had met one another before, dory-fishing in the fog, and there is no place for gossip like the bank fleet. they all seemed to know about harvey's rescue, and asked if he were worth his salt yet. the young bloods jested with dan, who had a lively tongue of his own, and inquired after their health by the town--nicknames they least liked. manuel's countrymen jabbered at him in their own language; and even the silent cook was seen riding the jib-boom and shouting gaelic to a friend as black as himself. after they had buoyed the cable--all around the virgin is rocky bottom, and carelessness means chafed ground-tackle and danger from drifting--after they had buoyed the cable, their dories went forth to join the mob of boats anchored about a mile away. the schooners rocked and dipped at a safe distance, like mother ducks watching their brood, while the dories behaved like mannerless ducklings. as they drove into the confusion, boat banging boat, harvey's ears tingled at the comments on his rowing. every dialect from labrador to long island, with portuguese, neapolitan, lingua franca, french, and gaelic, with songs and shoutings and new oaths, rattled round him, and he seemed to be the butt of it all. for the first time in his life he felt shy--perhaps that came from living so long with only the "we're heres"--among the scores of wild faces that rose and fell with the reeling small craft. a gentle, breathing swell, three furlongs from trough to barrel, would quietly shoulder up a string of variously painted dories. they hung for an instant, a wonderful frieze against the sky-line, and their men pointed and hailed, next moment the open mouths, waving arms, and bare chests disappeared, while on another swell came up an entirely new line of characters like paper figures in a toy theatre. so harvey stared. "watch out!" said dan, flourishing a dip-net. "when i tell you dip, you dip. the caplin'll school any time from naow on. where'll we lay, tom platt?" pushing, shoving, and hauling, greeting old friends here and warning old enemies there, commodore tom platt led his little fleet well to leeward of the general crowd, and immediately three or four men began to haul on their anchors with intent to lee-bow the "we're heres". but a yell of laughter went up as a dory shot from her station with exceeding speed, its occupant pulling madly on the roding. "give her slack!" roared twenty voices. "let him shake it out." "what's the matter?" said harvey, as the boat flashed away to the southward. "he's anchored, isn't he?" "anchored, sure enough, but his graound-tackle's kinder shifty," said dan, laughing. "whale's fouled it. . . . dip, harve! here they come!" the sea round them clouded and darkened, and then frizzed up in showers of tiny silver fish, and over a space of five or six acres the cod began to leap like trout in may; while behind the cod three or four broad grey-black backs broke the water into boils. then everybody shouted and tried to haul up his anchor to get among the school, and fouled his neighbour's line and said what was in his heart, and dipped furiously with his dip-net, and shrieked cautions and advice to his companions, while the deep fizzed like freshly opened soda-water, and cod, men, and whales together flung in upon the luckless bait. harvey was nearly knocked overboard by the handle of dan's net. but in all the wild tumult he noticed, and never forgot, the wicked, set little eye--something like a circus elephant's eye--of a whale that drove along almost level with the water, and, so he said, winked at him. three boats found their rodings fouled by these reckless mid-sea hunters, and were towed half a mile ere their horses shook the line free. then the caplin moved off and five minutes later there was no sound except the splash of the sinkers overside, the flapping of the cod, and the whack of the muckles as the men stunned them. it was wonderful fishing. harvey could see the glimmering cod below, swimming slowly in droves, biting as steadily as they swam. bank law strictly forbids more than one hook on one line when the dories are on the virgin or the eastern shoals; but so close lay the boats that even single hooks snarled, and harvey found himself in hot argument with a gentle, hairy newfoundlander on one side and a howling portuguese on the other. worse than any tangle of fishing-lines was the confusion of the dory-rodings below water. each man had anchored where it seemed good to him, drifting and rowing round his fixed point. as the fish struck on less quickly, each man wanted to haul up and get to better ground; but every third man found himself intimately connected with some four or five neighbours. to cut another's roding is crime unspeakable on the banks; yet it was done, and done without detection, three or four times that day. tom platt caught a maine man in the black act and knocked him over the gunwale with an oar, and manuel served a fellow-countryman in the same way. but harvey's anchor-line was cut, and so was penn's, and they were turned into relief-boats to carry fish to the "we're here" as the dories filled. the caplin schooled once more at twilight, when the mad clamour was repeated; and at dusk they rowed back to dress down by the light of kerosene-lamps on the edge of the pen. it was a huge pile, and they went to sleep while they were dressing. next day several boats fished right above the cap of the virgin; and harvey, with them, looked down on the very weed of that lonely rock, which rises to within twenty feet of the surface. the cod were there in legions, marching solemnly over the leathery kelp. when they bit, they bit all together; and so when they stopped. there was a slack time at noon, and the dories began to search for amusement. it was dan who sighted the hope of prague just coming up, and as her boats joined the company they were greeted with the question: "who's the meanest man in the fleet?" three hundred voices answered cheerily: "nick bra-ady." it sounded an organ chant. "who stole the lamp-wicks?" that was dan's contribution. "nick bra-ady," sang the boats. "who biled the salt bait fer soup?" this was an unknown backbiter a quarter of a mile away. again the joyful chorus. now, brady was not especially mean, but he had that reputation, and the fleet made the most of it. then they discovered a man from a truro boat who, six years before, had been convicted of using a tackle with five or six hooks--a "scrowger," they call it--on the shoals. naturally, he had been christened "scrowger jim"; and though he had hidden himself on the georges ever since, he found his honours waiting for him full blown. they took it up in a sort of fire-cracker chorus: "jim! o jim! jim! o jim! sssscrowger jim!" that pleased everybody. and when a poetical beverly man--he had been making it up all day, and talked about it for weeks--sang, "the carrie pitman's anchor doesn't hold her for a cent!" the dories felt that they were indeed fortunate. then they had to ask that beverly man how he was off for beans, because even poets must not have things all their own way. every schooner and nearly every man got it in turn. was there a careless or dirty cook anywhere? the dories sang about him and his food. was a schooner badly found? the fleet was told at full length. had a man hooked tobacco from a messmate? he was named in meeting; the name tossed from roller to roller. disko's infallible judgments, long jack's market-boat that he had sold years ago, dan's sweetheart (oh, but dan was an angry boy!), penn's bad luck with dory-anchors, salters's views on manure, manuel's little slips from virtue ashore, and harvey's ladylike handling of the oar--all were laid before the public; and as the fog fell around them in silvery sheets beneath the sun, the voices sounded like a bench of invisible judges pronouncing sentence. the dories roved and fished and squabbled till a swell underran the sea. then they drew more apart to save their sides, and some one called that if the swell continued the virgin would break. a reckless galway man with his nephew denied this, hauled up anchor, and rowed over the very rock itself. many voices called them to come away, while others dared them to hold on. as the smooth-backed rollers passed to the south-ward, they hove the dory high and high into the mist, and dropped her in ugly, sucking, dimpled water, where she spun round her anchor, within a foot or two of the hidden rock. it was playing with death for mere bravado; and the boats looked on in uneasy silence till long jack rowed up behind his countrymen and quietly cut their roding. "can't ye hear ut knockin'?" he cried. "pull for your miserable lives! pull!" the men swore and tried to argue as the boat drifted; but the next swell checked a little, like a man tripping on a carpet. there was a deep sob and a gathering roar, and the virgin flung up a couple of acres of foaming water, white, furious, and ghastly over the shoal sea. then all the boats greatly applauded long jack, and the galway men held their tongue. "ain't it elegant?" said dan, bobbing like a young seal at home. "she'll break about once every ha'af hour now, 'less the swell piles up good. what's her reg'lar time when she's at work, tom platt?" "once ivry fifteen minutes, to the tick. harve, you've seen the greatest thing on the banks; an' but for long jack you'd seen some dead men too." there came a sound of merriment where the fog lay thicker and the schooners were ringing their bells. a big bark nosed cautiously out of the mist, and was received with shouts and cries of, "come along, darlin'," from the irishry. "another frenchman?" said harvey. "hain't you eyes? she's a baltimore boat; goin' in fear an' tremblin'," said dan. "we'll guy the very sticks out of her. 'guess it's the fust time her skipper ever met up with the fleet this way." she was a black, buxom, eight-hundred-ton craft. her mainsail was looped up, and her topsail flapped undecidedly in what little wind was moving. now a bark is feminine beyond all other daughters of the sea, and this tall, hesitating creature, with her white and gilt figurehead, looked just like a bewildered woman half lifting her skirts to cross a muddy street under the jeers of bad little boys. that was very much her situation. she knew she was somewhere in the neighbourhood of the virgin, had caught the roar of it, and was, therefore, asking her way. this is a small part of what she heard from the dancing dories: "the virgin? fwhat are you talk in' of'? this is le have on a sunday mornin'. go home an' sober up." "go home, ye tarrapin! go home an' tell 'em we're comin'." half a dozen voices together, in a most tuneful chorus, as her stern went down with a roll and a bubble into the troughs: "thay-aah--she--strikes!" "hard up! hard up fer your life! you're on top of her now." "daown! hard daown! let go everything!" "all hands to the pumps!" "daown jib an' pole her!" here the skipper lost his temper and said things. instantly fishing was suspended to answer him, and he heard many curious facts about his boat and her next port of call. they asked him if he were insured; and whence he had stolen his anchor, because, they said, it belonged to the carrie pitman; they called his boat a mud-scow, and accused him of dumping garbage to frighten the fish; they offered to tow him and charge it to his wife; and one audacious youth slipped almost under the counter, smacked it with his open palm, and yelled: "gid up, buck!" the cook emptied a pan of ashes on him, and he replied with cod-heads. the bark's crew fired small coal from the galley, and the dories threatened to come aboard and "razee" her. they would have warned her at once had she been in real peril; but, seeing her well clear of the virgin, they made the most of their chances. the fun was spoilt when the rock spoke again, a half-mile to windward, and the tormented bark set everything that would draw and went her ways; but the dories felt that the honours lay with them. all that night the virgin roared hoarsely and next morning, over an angry, white-headed sea, harvey saw the fleet with flickering masts waiting for a lead. not a dory was hove out till ten o'clock, when the two jeraulds of the 'day's eye', imagining a lull which did not exist, set the example. in a minute half the boats were out and bobbing in the cockly swells, but troop kept the "we're heres" at work dressing-down. he saw no sense in "dares"; and as the storm grew that evening they had the pleasure of receiving wet strangers only too glad to make any refuge in the gale. the boys stood by the dory-tackles with lanterns, the men ready to haul, one eye cocked for the sweeping wave that would make them drop everything and hold on for the dear life. out of the dark would come a yell of "dory, dory!" they would hook up and haul in a drenched man and a half-sunk boat, till their decks were littered down with nests of dories and the bunks were full. five times in their watch did harvey, with dan, jump at the foregaff where it lay lashed on the boom, and cling with arms, legs, and teeth to rope and spar and sodden canvas as a big wave filled the decks. one dory was smashed to pieces, and the sea pitched the man head first on to the decks, cutting his forehead open; and about dawn, when the racing seas glimmered white all along their cold edges, another man, blue and ghastly, crawled in with a broken hand, asking news of his brother. seven extra mouths sat down to breakfast: a swede; a chatham skipper; a boy from hancock, maine; one duxbury, and three provincetown men. there was a general sorting out among the fleet next day; and though no one said anything, all ate with better appetites when boat after boat reported full crews aboard. only a couple of portuguese and an old man from gloucester were drowned, but many were cut or bruised; and two schooners had parted their tackle and been blown to the southward, three days' sail. a man died on a frenchman--it was the same bark that had traded tobacco with the "we're heres". she slipped away quite quietly one wet, white morning, moved to a patch of deep water, her sails all hanging anyhow, and harvey saw the funeral through disko's spy-glass. it was only an oblong bundle slid overside. they did not seem to have any form of service, but in the night, at anchor, harvey heard them across the star-powdered black water, singing something that sounded like a hymn. it went to a very slow tune. la brigantine qui va tourner, roule et s'incline pour m'entrainer. oh, vierge marie, pour moi priez dieu! adieu, patrie; québec, adieu! tom platt visited her, because, he said, the dead man was his brother as a freemason. it came out that a wave had doubled the poor fellow over the heel of the bowsprit and broken his back. the news spread like a flash, for, contrary to general custom, the frenchman held an auction of the dead man's kit,--he had no friends at st. malo or miquelon,--and everything was spread out on the top of the house, from his red knitted cap to the leather belt with the sheath-knife at the back. dan and harvey were out on twenty-fathom water in the hattie s., and naturally rowed over to join the crowd. it was a long pull, and they stayed some little time while dan bought the knife, which had a curious brass handle. when they dropped overside and pushed off into a drizzle of rain and a lop of sea, it occurred to them that they might get into trouble for neglecting the lines. "guess 'twon't hurt us any to be warmed up," said dan, shivering under his oilskins, and they rowed on into the heart of a white fog, which, as usual, dropped on them without warning. "there's too much blame tide hereabouts to trust to your instinks," he said. "heave over the anchor, harve, and we'll fish a piece till the thing lifts. bend on your biggest lead. three pound ain't any too much in this water. see how she's tightened on her rodin' already." there was quite a little bubble at the bows, where some irresponsible bank current held the dory full stretch on her rope; but they could not see a boat's length in any direction. harvey turned up his collar and bunched himself over his reel with the air of a wearied navigator. fog had no special terrors for him now. they fished awhile in silence, and found the cod struck on well. then dan drew the sheath-knife and tested the edge of it on the gunwale. "that's a daisy," said harvey. "how did you get it so cheap?" "on account o' their blame cath'lic superstitions," said dan, jabbing with the bright blade. "they don't fancy takin' iron frum off of a dead man, so to speak. 'see them arichat frenchmen step back when i bid?" "but an auction ain't taking anything off a dead man. it's business." "we know it ain't, but there's no goin' in the teeth o' superstition. that's one o' the advantages o' livin' in a progressive country." and dan began whistling: "oh, double thatcher, how are you? now eastern point comes inter view. the girls an' boys we soon shall see, at anchor off cape ann!" "why didn't that eastport man bid, then? he bought his boots. ain't maine progressive?" "maine? pshaw! they don't know enough, or they hain't got money enough, to paint their haouses in maine. i've seen 'em. the eastport man he told me that the knife had been used--so the french captain told him--used up on the french coast last year." "cut a man? heave's the muckle." harvey hauled in his fish, rebaited, and threw over. "killed him! 'course, when i heard that i was keener 'n ever to get it." "christmas! i didn't know it," said harvey, turning round. "i'll give you a dollar for it when i--get my wages. say, i'll give you two dollars." "honest? d'you like it as much as all that?" said dan, flushing. "well, to tell the truth, i kinder got it for you--to give; but i didn't let on till i saw how you'd take it. it's yours and welcome, harve, because we're dory-mates, and so on and so forth, an' so followin'. catch a-holt!" he held it out, belt and all. "but look at here. dan, i don't see--" "take it. 'tain't no use to me. i wish you to hev it." the temptation was irresistible. "dan, you're a white man," said harvey. "i'll keep it as long as i live." "that's good hearin'," said dan, with a pleasant laugh; and then, anxious to change the subject: "look's if your line was fast to somethin'." "fouled, i guess," said harve, tugging. before he pulled up he fastened the belt round him, and with deep delight heard the tip of the sheath click on the thwart. "concern the thing!" he cried. "she acts as though she were on strawberry-bottom. it's all sand here, ain't it'?" dan reached over and gave a judgmatic tweak. "holibut'll act that way 'f he's sulky. thet's no strawberry-bottom. yank her once or twice. she gives, sure. 'guess we'd better haul up an' make certain." they pulled together, making fast at each turn on the cleats, and the hidden weight rose sluggishly. "prize, oh! haul!" shouted dan, but the shout ended in a shrill, double shriek of horror, for out of the sea came--the body of the dead frenchman buried two days before! the hook had caught him under the right armpit, and he swayed, erect and horrible, head and shoulders above water. his arms were tied to his side, and--he had no face. the boys fell over each other in a heap at the bottom of the dory, and there they lay while the thing bobbed alongside, held on the shortened line. "the tide--the tide brought him!" said harvey, with quivering lips, as he fumbled at the clasp of the belt. "oh, lord! oh, harve!" groaned dan, "be quick. he's come for it. let him have it. take it off." "i don't want it! i don't want it!" cried harvey. "i can't find the bu-buckle." "quick, harve! he's on your line!" harvey sat up to unfasten the belt, facing the head that had no face under its streaming hair. "he's fast still," he whispered to dan, who slipped out his knife and cut the line, as harvey flung the belt far overside. the body shot down with a plop, and dan cautiously rose to his knees, whiter than the fog. "he come for it. he come for it. i've seen a stale one hauled up on a trawl and i didn't much care, but he come to us special." "i wish--i wish i hadn't taken the knife. then he'd have come on your line." "dunno as thet would ha' made any differ. we're both scared out o' ten years' growth. oh, harve, did ye see his head?" "did i'? i'll never forget it. but look at here, dan; it couldn't have been meant. it was only the tide." "tide! he come for it, harve. why, they sunk him six mile to south'ard o' the fleet, an' we're two miles from where she's lyin' now. they told me he was weighted with a fathom an' a half o' chain-cable." "wonder what he did with the knife--up on the french coast?" "something bad. 'guess he's bound to take it with him to the judgment, an' so--what are you doin' with the fish?" "heaving 'em overboard," said harvey. "what for? we sha'n't eat 'em." "i don't care. i had to look at his face while i was takin' the belt off. you can keep your catch if you like. i've no use for mine." dan said nothing, but threw his fish over again. "'guess it's best to be on the safe side," he murmured at last. "i'd give a month's pay if this fog 'u'd lift. things go abaout in a fog that ye don't see in clear weather--yo-hoes an' hollerers and such like. i'm sorter relieved he come the way he did instid o' walkin'. he might ha' walked." "do-on't, dan! we're right on top of him now. 'wish i was safe aboard, bein' pounded by uncle salters." "they'll be lookin' fer us in a little. gimme the tooter." dan took the tin dinner-horn, but paused before he blew. "go on," said harvey. "i don't want to stay here all night." "question is, haow he'd take it. there was a man frum down the coast told me once he was in a schooner where they darsen't ever blow a horn to the dories, becaze the skipper--not the man he was with, but a captain that had run her five years before--he'd drownded a boy alongside in a drunk fit; an' ever after, that boy he'd row alongside too and shout, 'dory! dory!' with the rest." "dory! dory!" a muffled voice cried through the fog. they cowered again, and the horn dropped from dan's hand. "hold on!" cried harvey; "it's the cook." "dunno what made me think o' thet fool tale, either," said dan. "it's the doctor, sure enough." "dan! danny! oooh, dan! harve! harvey! oooh, haarveee!" "we're here," sung both boys together. they heard oars, but could see nothing till the cook, shining and dripping, rowed into them. "what iss happened?" said he. "you will be beaten at home." "thet's what we want. thet's what we're sufferin' for," said dan. "anything homey's good enough fer us. we've had kinder depressin' company." as the cook passed them a line, dan told him the tale. "yess! he come for hiss knife," was all he said at the end. never had the little rocking "we're here" looked so deliciously home--like as when the cook, born and bred in fogs, rowed them back to her. there was a warm glow of light from the cabin and a satisfying smell of food forward, and it was heavenly to hear disko and the others, all quite alive and solid, leaning over the rail and promising them a first-class pounding. but the cook was a black master of strategy. he did not get the dories aboard till he had given the more striking points of the tale, explaining as he backed and bumped round the counter how harvey was the mascot to destroy any possible bad luck. so the boys came overside as rather uncanny heroes, and every one asked them questions instead of pounding them for making trouble. little penn delivered quite a speech on the folly of superstitions; but public opinion was against him and in favour of long jack, who told the most excruciating ghost-stories to nearly midnight. under that influence no one except salters and penn said anything about "idolatry" when the cook put a lighted candle, a cake of flour and water, and a pinch of salt on a shingle, and floated them out astern to keep the frenchman quiet in case he was still restless. dan lit the candle because he had bought the belt, and the cook grunted and muttered charms as long as he could see the ducking point of flame. said harvey to dan, as they turned in after watch: "how about progress and catholic superstitions?" "huh! i guess i'm as enlightened and progressive as the next man, but when it comes to a dead st. malo deck-hand scarin' a couple o' pore boys stiff fer the sake of a thirty-cent knife, why, then, the cook can take hold fer all o' me. i mistrust furriners, livin' or dead." next morning all, except the cook, were rather ashamed of the ceremonies, and went to work double tides, speaking gruffly to one another. the "we're here" was racing neck and neck for her last few loads against the "parry norman"; and so close was the struggle that the fleet took sides and betted tobacco. all hands worked at the lines or dressing-down till they fell asleep where they stood--beginning before dawn and ending when it was too dark to see. they even used the cook as pitcher, and turned harvey into the hold to pass salt, while dan helped to dress down. luckily a "parry norman" man sprained his ankle falling down the fo'c'sle, and the "we're heres" gained. harvey could not see how one more fish could be crammed into her, but disko and tom platt stowed and stowed, and planked the mass down with big stones from the ballast, and there was always "jest another day's work." disko did not tell them when all the salt was wetted. he rolled to the lazarette aft the cabin and began hauling out the big mainsail. this was at ten in the morning. the riding-sail was down and the main- and top-sail were up by noon, and dories came alongside with letters for home, envying their good fortune. at last she cleared decks, hoisted her flag,--as is the right of the first boat off the banks,--up-anchored, and began to move. disko pretended that he wished to accommodate folk who had not sent in their mail, and so worked her gracefully in and out among the schooners. in reality, that was his little triumphant procession, and for the fifth year running it showed what kind of mariner he was. dan's accordion and tom platt's fiddle supplied the music of the magic verse you must not sing till all the salt is wet: "hih! yih! yoho! send your letters raound! all our salt is wetted, an' the anchor's off the graound! bend, oh, bend your mains'l!, we're back to yankeeland-- with fifteen hunder' quintal, an' fifteen hunder' quintal, 'teen hunder' toppin' quintal, 'twix' old 'queereau an' grand." the last letters pitched on deck wrapped round pieces of coal, and the gloucester men shouted messages to their wives and womenfolk and owners, while the "we're here" finished the musical ride through the fleet, her head-sails quivering like a man's hand when he raises it to say good-bye. harvey very soon discovered that the "we're here", with her riding-sail, strolling from berth to berth, and the "we're here" headed west by south under home canvas, were two very different boats. there was a bite and kick to the wheel even in "boy's" weather; he could feel the dead weight in the hold flung forward mightily across the surges, and the streaming line of bubbles overside made his eyes dizzy. disko kept them busy fiddling with the sails; and when those were flattened like a racing yacht's, dan had to wait on the big topsail, which was put over by hand every time she went about. in spare moments they pumped, for the packed fish dripped brine, which does not improve a cargo. but since there was no fishing, harvey had time to look at the sea from another point of view. the low-sided schooner was naturally on most intimate terms with her surroundings. they saw little of the horizon save when she topped a swell; and usually she was elbowing, fidgeting, and coaxing her steadfast way through grey, grey-blue, or black hollows laced across and across with streaks of shivering foam; or rubbing herself caressingly along the flank of some bigger water-hill. it was as if she said: "you wouldn't hurt me, surely? i'm only the little 'we're here'." then she would slide away chuckling softly to herself till she was brought up by some fresh obstacle. the dullest of folk cannot see this kind of thing hour after hour through long days without noticing it; and harvey, being anything but dull, began to comprehend and enjoy the dry chorus of wave-tops turning over with a sound of incessant tearing; the hurry of the winds working across open spaces and herding the purple-blue cloud-shadows; the splendid upheaval of the red sunrise; the folding and packing away of the morning mists, wall after wall withdrawn across the white floors; the salty glare and blaze of noon; the kiss of rain falling over thousands of dead, flat square miles; the chilly blackening of everything at the day's end; and the million wrinkles of the sea under the moonlight, when the jib-boom solemnly poked at the low stars, and harvey went down to get a doughnut from the cook. but the best fun was when the boys were put on the wheel together, tom platt within hail, and she cuddled her lee-rail down to the crashing blue, and kept a little home-made rainbow arching unbroken over her windlass. then the jaws of the booms whined against the masts, and the sheets creaked, and the sails filled with roaring; and when she slid into a hollow she trampled like a woman tripped in her own silk dress, and came out, her jib wet half-way up, yearning and peering for the tall twin-lights of thatcher's island. they left the cold grey of the bank sea, saw the lumber-ships making for quebec by the straits of st. lawrence, with the jersey salt-brigs from spain and sicily; found a friendly northeaster off artimon bank that drove them within view of the east light of sable island,--a sight disko did not linger over,--and stayed with them past western and le have, to the northern fringe of george's. from there they picked up the deeper water, and let her go merrily. "hattie's pulling on the string," dan confided to harvey. "hattie an' ma. next sunday you'll be hirin' a boy to throw water on the windows to make ye go to sleep. 'guess you'll keep with us till your folks come. do you know the best of gettin' ashore again?" "hot bath'?" said harvey. his eyebrows were all white with dried spray. "that's good, but a night-shirt's better. i've been dreamin' o' night-shirts ever since we bent our mainsail. ye can wiggle your toes then. ma'll hev a new one fer me, all washed soft. it's home, harve. it's home! ye can sense it in the air. we're runnin' into the aidge of a hot wave naow, an' i can smell the bayberries. wonder if we'll get in fer supper. port a trifle." the hesitating sails flapped and lurched in the close air as the deep smoothed out, blue and oily, round them. when they whistled for a wind only the rain came in spiky rods, bubbling and drumming, and behind the rain the thunder and the lightning of mid-august. they lay on the deck with bare feet and arms, telling one another what they would order at their first meal ashore; for now the land was in plain sight. a gloucester swordfish-boat drifted alongside, a man in the little pulpit on the bowsprit flourishing his harpoon, his bare head plastered down with the wet. "and all's well!" he sang cheerily, as though he were watch on a big liner. "wouverman's waiting fer you, disko. what's the news o' the fleet?" disko shouted it and passed on, while the wild summer storm pounded overhead and the lightning flickered along the capes from four different quarters at once. it gave the low circle of hills round gloucester harbour, ten pound island, the fish-sheds, with the broken line of house-roofs, and each spar and buoy on the water, in blinding photographs that came and went a dozen times to the minute as the "we're here" crawled in on half-flood, and the whistling-buoy moaned and mourned behind her. then the storm died out in long, separated, vicious dags of blue-white flame, followed by a single roar like the roar of a mortar-battery, and the shaken air tingled under the stars as it got back to silence. "the flag, the flag!" said disko, suddenly, pointing upward. "what is ut?" said long jack. "otto! ha'af mast. they can see us frum shore now." "i'd clean forgot. he's no folk to gloucester, has he?" "girl he was goin' to be married to this fall." "mary pity her!" said long jack, and lowered the little flag half-mast for the sake of otto, swept overboard in a gale off le have three months before. disko wiped the wet from his eyes and led the "we're here" to wouverman's wharf, giving his orders in whispers, while she swung round moored tugs and night-watchmen hailed her from the ends of inky-black piers. over and above the darkness and the mystery of the procession, harvey could feel the land close round him once more, with all its thousands of people asleep, and the smell of earth after rain, and the familiar noise of a switching-engine coughing to herself in a freight-yard; and all those things made his heart beat and his throat dry up as he stood by the foresheet. they heard the anchor-watch snoring on a lighthouse-tug, nosed into a pocket of darkness where a lantern glimmered on either side; somebody waked with a grunt, threw them a rope, and they made fast to a silent wharf flanked with great iron-roofed sheds full of warm emptiness, and lay there without a sound. then harvey sat down by the wheel, and sobbed and sobbed as though his heart would break, and a tall woman who had been sitting on a weigh-scale dropped down into the schooner and kissed dan once on the cheek; for she was his mother, and she had seen the "we're here" by the lightning-flashes. she took no notice of harvey till he had recovered himself a little and disko had told her his story. then they went to disko's house together as the dawn was breaking; and until the telegraph office was open and he could wire to his folk, harvey cheyne was perhaps the loneliest boy in all america. but the curious thing was that disko and dan seemed to think none the worse of him for crying. wouverman was not ready for disko's prices till disko, sure that the "we're here" was at least a week ahead of any other gloucester boat, had given him a few days to swallow them; so all hands played about the streets, and long jack stopped the rocky neck trolley, on principle, as he said, till the conductor let him ride free. but dan went about with his freckled nose in the air, bungful of mystery and most haughty to his family. "dan, i'll hev to lay inter you ef you act this way," said troop, pensively. "sence we've come ashore this time you've bin a heap too fresh." "i'd lay into him naow ef he was mine," said uncle salters, sourly. he and penn boarded with the troops. "oho!" said dan, shuffling with the accordion round the back-yard, ready to leap the fence if the enemy advanced. "dad, you're welcome to your own jedgment, but remember i've warned ye. your own flesh an' blood ha' warned ye! 'tain't any o' my fault ef you're mistook, but i'll be on deck to watch ye. an' ez fer yeou, uncle salters, pharaoh's chief butler ain't in it 'longside o' you! you watch aout an' wait. you'll be ploughed under like your own blamed clover; but me--dan troop--i'll flourish like a green bay-tree because i warn't stuck on my own opinion." disko was smoking in all his shore dignity and a pair of beautiful carpet-slippers. "you're gettin' ez crazy as poor harve. you two go araound gigglin' an' squinchin' an' kickin' each other under the table till there's no peace in the haouse," said he. "there's goin' to be a heap less--fer some folks," dan replied. "you wait an' see." he and harvey went out on the trolley to east gloucester, where they tramped through the bayberry-bushes to the lighthouse, and lay down on the big red boulders and laughed themselves hungry. harvey had shown dan a telegram, and the two swore to keep silence till the shell burst. "harve's folk?" said dan, with an unruffled face after supper. "well, i guess they don't amount to much of anything, or we'd ha' heard frum 'em by naow. his pop keeps a kind o' store out west. maybe he'll give you's much as five dollars, dad." "what did i tell ye?" said salters. "don't sputter over your vittles, dan." chapter ix whatever his private sorrows may be, a multimillionaire, like any other workingman, should keep abreast of his business. harvey cheyne, senior, had gone east late in june to meet a woman broken down, half mad, who dreamed day and night of her son drowning in the grey seas. he had surrounded her with doctors, trained nurses, massage-women, and even faith-cure companions, but they were useless. mrs. cheyne lay still and moaned, or talked of her boy by the hour together to any one who would listen. hope she had none, and who could offer it? all she needed was assurance that drowning did not hurt; and her husband watched to guard lest she should make the experiment. of his own sorrow he spoke little--hardly realised the depth of it till he caught himself asking the calendar on his writing-desk, "what's the use of going on?" there had always lain a pleasant notion at the back of his head that, some day, when he had rounded off everything and the boy had left college, he would take his son to his heart and lead him into his possessions. then that boy, he argued, as busy fathers do, would instantly become his companion, partner, and ally, and there would follow splendid years of great works carried out together--the old head backing the young fire. now his boy was dead--lost at sea, as it might have been a swede sailor from one of cheyne's big tea-ships; the wife was dying, or worse; he himself was trodden down by platoons of women and doctors and maids and attendants; worried almost beyond endurance by the shift and change of her poor restless whims; hopeless, with no heart to meet his many enemies. he had taken the wife to his raw new palace in san diego, where she and her people occupied a wing of great price, and cheyne, in a verandah-room, between a secretary and a typewriter, who was also a telegraphist, toiled along wearily from day to day. there was a war of rates among four western railroads in which he was supposed to be interested; a devastating strike had developed in his lumber-camps in oregon, and the legislature of the state of california, which has no love for its makers, was preparing open war against him. ordinarily he would have accepted battle ere it was offered, and have waged a pleasant and unscrupulous campaign. but now he sat limply, his soft black hat pushed forward on to his nose, his big body shrunk inside his loose clothes, staring at his boots or the chinese junks in the bay, and assenting absently to the secretary's questions as he opened the saturday mail. cheyne was wondering how much it would cost to drop everything and pull out. he carried huge insurances, could buy himself royal annuities, and between one of his places in colorado and a little society (that would do the wife good), say in washington and the south carolina islands, a man might forget plans that had come to nothing. on the other hand... the click of the typewriter stopped; the girl was looking at the secretary, who had turned white. he passed cheyne a telegram repeated from san francisco: picked up by fishing schooner "we're here" having fallen off boat great times on banks fishing all well waiting gloucester mass care disko troop for money or orders wire what shall do and how is mama harvey n. cheyne. the father let it fall, laid his head down on the roller-top of the shut desk, and breathed heavily. the secretary ran for mrs. cheyne's doctor, who found cheyne pacing to and fro. "what-what d'you think of it? is it possible? is there any meaning to it? i can't quite make it out," he cried. "i can," said the doctor. "i lose seven thousand a year--that's all." he thought of the struggling new york practice he had dropped at cheyne's imperious bidding, and returned the telegram with a sigh. "you mean you'd tell her? 'maybe a fraud?" "what's the motive?" said the doctor, coolly. "detection's too certain. it's the boy sure enough." enter a french maid, impudently, as an indispensable one who is kept on only by large wages. "mrs. cheyne she say you must come at once. she think you are seek." the master of thirty millions bowed his head meekly and followed suzanne; and a thin, high voice on the upper landing of the great white-wood square staircase cried: "what is it? what has happened?" no doors could keep out the shriek that rang through the echoing house a moment later, when her husband blurted out the news. "and that's all right," said the doctor, serenely, to the typewriter. "about the only medical statement in novels with any truth to it is that joy don't kill, miss kinzey." "i know it; but we've a heap to do first." miss kinzey was from milwaukee, somewhat direct of speech; and as her fancy leaned towards the secretary, she divined there was work in hand. he was looking earnestly at the vast roller-map of america on the wall. "milsom, we're going right across. private car straight through--boston. fix the connections," shouted cheyne down the staircase. "i thought so." the secretary turned to the typewriter, and their eyes met (out of that was born a story--nothing to do with this story). she looked inquiringly, doubtful of his resources. he signed to her to move to the morse as a general brings brigades into action. then he swept his hand. musician-wise through his hair, regarded the ceiling, and set to work, while miss kinzey's white fingers called up the continent of america. "k. h. wade, los angeles--the 'constance' is at los angeles, isn't she, miss kinzey?" "yep." miss kinzey nodded between clicks as the secretary looked at his watch. "ready? send 'constance,' private car, here, and arrange for special to leave here sunday in time to connect with new york limited at sixteenth street, chicago, tuesday next." click--click--click! "couldn't you better that'?" "not on those grades. that gives 'em sixty hours from here to chicago. they won't gain anything by taking a special east of that. ready? also arrange with lake shore and michigan southern to take 'constance' on new york central and hudson river buffalo to albany, and b. and a. the same albany to boston. indispensable i should reach boston wednesday evening. be sure nothing prevents. have also wired canniff, toucey, and barnes.--sign, cheyne." miss kinzey nodded, and the secretary went on. "now then. canniff, toucey, and barnes, of course. ready? canniff chicago. please take my private car 'constance 'from santa fe at sixteenth street next tuesday p. m. on n. y. limited through to buffalo and deliver n. y. c. for albany.--ever bin to n' york, miss kinzey? we'll go some day. ready? take car buffalo to albany on limited tuesday p. m. that's for toucey." "haven't bin to noo york, but i know that!" with a toss of the head. "beg pardon. now, boston and albany, barnes, same instructions from albany through to boston. leave three-five p. m. (you needn't wire that); arrive nine-five p. m. wednesday. that covers everything wade will do, but it pays to shake up the managers." "it's great," said miss kinzey, with a look of admiration. this was the kind of man she understood and appreciated. "'tisn't bad," said milsom, modestly. "now, any one but me would have lost thirty hours and spent a week working out the run, instead of handing him over to the santa fe straight through to chicago." "but see here, about that noo york limited. chauncey depew himself couldn't hitch his car to her," miss kinzey suggested, recovering herself. "yes, but this isn't chauncey. it's cheyne--lightning. it goes." "even so. guess we'd better wire the boy. you've forgotten that, anyhow." "i'll ask." when he returned with the father's message bidding harvey meet them in boston at an appointed hour, he found miss kinzey laughing over the keys. then milsom laughed too, for the frantic clicks from los angeles ran: "we want to know why--why--why? general uneasiness developed and spreading." ten minutes later chicago appealed to miss kinzey in these words: "if crime of century is maturing please warn friends in time. we are all getting to cover here." this was capped by a message from topeka (and wherein topeka was concerned even milsom could not guess): "don't shoot, colonel. we'll come down." cheyne smiled grimly at the consternation of his enemies when the telegrams were laid before him. "they think we're on the war-path. tell 'em we don't feel like fighting just now, milsom. tell 'em what we're going for. i guess you and miss kinzey had better come along, though it isn't likely i shall do any business on the road. tell 'em the truth--for once." so the truth was told. miss kinzey clicked in the sentiment while the secretary added the memorable quotation, "let us have peace," and in board-rooms two thousand miles away the representatives of sixty-three million dollars' worth of variously manipulated railroad interests breathed more freely. cheyne was flying to meet the only son, so miraculously restored to him. the bear was seeking his cub, not the bulls. hard men who had their knives drawn to fight for their financial lives put away the weapons and wished him god-speed, while half a dozen panic-smitten tin-pot roads perked up their heads and spoke of the wonderful things they would have done had not cheyne buried the hatchet. it was a busy week-end among the wires; for, now that their anxiety was removed, men and cities hastened to accommodate. los angeles called to san diego and barstow that the southern california engineers might know and be ready in their lonely round-houses; barstow passed the word to the atlantic and pacific; the albuquerque flung it the whole length of the atchison, topeka, and santa fe management, even into chicago. an engine, combination-car with crew, and the great and gilded "constance" private car were to be "expedited" over those two thousand three hundred and fifty miles. the train would take precedence of one hundred and seventy-seven others meeting and passing; despatches and crews of every one of those said trains must be notified. sixteen locomotives, sixteen engineers, and sixteen firemen would be needed--each and every one the best available. two and one half minutes would be allowed for changing engines, three for watering, and two for coaling. "warn the men, and arrange tanks and chutes accordingly; for harvey cheyne is in a hurry, a hurry-a hurry," sang the wires. "forty miles an hour will be expected, and division superintendents will accompany this special over their respective divisions. from san diego to sixteenth street, chicago, let the magic carpet be laid down. hurry! oh, hurry!" "it will be hot," said cheyne, as they rolled out of san diego in the dawn of sunday. "we're going to hurry, mama, just as fast as ever we can; but i really don't think there's any good of your putting on your bonnet and gloves yet. you'd much better lie down and take your medicine. i'd play you a game o' dominoes, but it's sunday." "i'll be good. oh, i will be good. only--taking off my bonnet makes me feel as if we'd never get there." "try to sleep a little, mama, and we'll be in chicago before you know." "but it's boston, father. tell them to hurry." the six-foot drivers were hammering their way to san bernardino and the mohave wastes, but this was no grade for speed. that would come later. the heat of the desert followed the heat of the hills as they turned east to the needles and the colorado river. the car cracked in the utter drought and glare, and they put crushed ice to mrs. cheyne's neck, and toiled up the long, long grades, past ash fork, towards flagstaff, where the forests and quarries are, under the dry, remote skies. the needle of the speed-indicator flicked and wagged to and fro; the cinders rattled on the roof, and a whirl of dust sucked after the whirling wheels, the crew of the combination sat on their bunks, panting in their shirt-sleeves, and cheyne found himself among them shouting old, old stories of the railroad that every trainman knows, above the roar of the car. he told them about his son, and how the sea had given up its dead, and they nodded and spat and rejoiced with him; asked after "her, back there," and whether she could stand it if the engineer "let her out a piece," and cheyne thought she could. accordingly, the great fire-horse was "let out" from flagstaff to winslow, till a division superintendent protested. but mrs. cheyne, in the boudoir state-room, where the french maid, sallow-white with fear, clung to the silver door-handle, only moaned a little and begged her husband to bid them "hurry." and so they dropped the dry sands and moon-struck rocks of arizona behind them, and grilled on till the crash of the couplings and the wheeze of the brake-hose told them they were at coolidge by the continental divide. three bold and experienced men--cool, confident, and dry when they began; white, quivering, and wet when they finished their trick at those terrible wheels--swung her over the great lift from albuquerque to glorietta and beyond springer, up and up to the raton tunnel on the state line, whence they dropped rocking into la junta, had sight of the arkansaw, and tore down the long slope to dodge city, where cheyne took comfort once again from setting his watch an hour ahead. there was very little talk in the car. the secretary and typewriter sat together on the stamped spanish-leather cushions by the plate-glass observation-window at the rear end, watching the surge and ripple of the ties crowded back behind them, and, it is believed, making notes of the scenery. cheyne moved nervously between his own extravagant gorgeousness and the naked necessity of the combination, an unlit cigar in his teeth, till the pitying crews forgot that he was their tribal enemy, and did their best to entertain him. at night the bunched electrics lit up that distressful palace of all the luxuries, and they fared sumptuously, swinging on through the emptiness of abject desolation. now they heard the swish of a water-tank, and the guttural voice of a china-man, the clink-clink of hammers that tested the krupp steel wheels, and the oath of a tramp chased off the rear platform; now the solid crash of coal shot into the tender; and now a beating back of noises as they flew past a waiting train. now they looked out into great abysses, a trestle purring beneath their tread, or up to rocks that barred out half the stars. now scaur and ravine changed and rolled back to jagged mountains on the horizon's edge, and now broke into hills lower and lower, till at last came the true plains. at dodge city an unknown hand threw in a copy of a kansas paper containing some sort of an interview with harvey, who had evidently fallen in with an enterprising reporter, telegraphed on from boston. the joyful journalese revealed that it was beyond question their boy, and it soothed mrs. cheyne for a while. her one word "hurry" was conveyed by the crews to the engineers at nickerson, topeka, and marceline, where the grades are easy, and they brushed the continent behind them. towns and villages were close together now, and a man could feel here that he moved among people. "i can't see the dial, and my eyes ache so. what are we doing?" "the very best we can, mama. there's no sense in getting in before the limited. we'd only have to wait." "i don't care. i want to feel we're moving. sit down and tell me the miles." cheyne sat down and read the dial for her (there were some miles which stand for records to this day), but the seventy-foot car never changed its long, steamer-like roll, moving through the heat with the hum of a giant bee. yet the speed was not enough for mrs. cheyne; and the heat, the remorseless august heat, was making her giddy; the clock-hands would not move, and when, oh, when would they be in chicago? it is not true that, as they changed engines at fort madison, cheyne passed over to the amalgamated brotherhood of locomotive engineers an endowment sufficient to enable them to fight him and his fellows on equal terms for evermore. he paid his obligations to engineers and firemen as he believed they deserved, and only his bank knows what he gave the crews who had sympathised with him. it is on record that the last crew took entire charge of switching operations at sixteenth street, because "she" was in a doze at last, and heaven was to help any one who bumped her. now the highly paid specialist who conveys the lake shore and michigan southern limited from chicago to elkhart is something of an autocrat, and he does not approve of being told how to back up to a car. none the less he handled the "constance" as if she might have been a load of dynamite, and when the crew rebuked him, they did it in whispers and dumb show. "pshaw!" said the atchison, topeka, and santa fe men, discussing life later, "we weren't runnin' for a record. harvey cheyne's wife, she were sick back, an' we didn't want to jounce her. 'come to think of it, our runnin' time from san diego to chicago was . . you can tell that to them eastern way-trains. when we're tryin' for a record, we'll let you know." to the western man (though this would not please either city) chicago and boston are cheek by jowl, and some railroads encourage the delusion. the limited whirled the "constance" into buffalo and the arms of the new york central and hudson river (illustrious magnates with white whiskers and gold charms on their watch-chains boarded her here to talk a little business to cheyne), who slid her gracefully into albany, where the boston and albany completed the run from tide-water to tide-water--total time, eighty-seven hours and thirty-five minutes, or three days, fifteen hours and one half. harvey was waiting for them. after violent emotion most people and all boys demand food. they feasted the returned prodigal behind drawn curtains, cut off in their great happiness, while the trains roared in and out around them. harvey ate, drank, and enlarged on his adventures all in one breath, and when he had a hand free his mother fondled it. his voice was thickened with living in the open, salt air; his palms were rough and hard, his wrists dotted with the marks of gurry-sores; and a fine full flavour of cod-fish hung round rubber boots and blue jersey. the father, well used to judging men, looked at him keenly. he did not know what enduring harm the boy might have taken. indeed, he caught himself thinking that he knew very little whatever of his son; but he distinctly remembered an unsatisfied, dough-faced youth who took delight in "calling down the old man" and reducing his mother to tears--such a person as adds to the gaiety of public rooms and hotel piazzas, where the ingenuous young of the wealthy play with or revile the bell-boys. but this well set-up fisher-youth did not wriggle, looked at him with eyes steady, clear, and unflinching, and spoke in a tone distinctly, even startlingly, respectful. there was that in his voice, too, which seemed to promise that the change might be permanent, and that the new harvey had come to stay. "some one's been coercing him," thought cheyne. "now constance would never have allowed that. don't see as europe could have done it any better." "but why didn't you tell this man, troop, who you were?" the mother repeated, when harvey had expanded his story at least twice. "disko troop, dear. the best man that ever walked a deck. i don't care who the next is." "why didn't you tell him to put you ashore? you know papa would have made it up to him ten times over." "i know it; but he thought i was crazy. i'm afraid i called him a thief because i couldn't find the bills in my pocket." "a sailor found them by the flagstaff that--that night," sobbed mrs. cheyne. "that explains it, then. i don't blame troop any. i just said i wouldn't work--on a banker, too--and of course he hit me on the nose, and oh! i bled like a stuck hog." "my poor darling! they must have abused you horribly." "dunno quite. well, after that, i saw a light." cheyne slapped his leg and chuckled. this was going to be a boy after his own hungry heart. he had never seen precisely that twinkle in harvey's eye before. "and the old man gave me ten and a half a month; he's paid me half now; and i took hold with dan and pitched right in. i can't do a man's work yet. but i can handle a dory 'most as well as dan, and i don't get rattled in a fog--much; and i can take my trick in light winds--that's steering, dear--and i can 'most bait up a trawl, and i know my ropes, of course; and i can pitch fish till the cows come home, and i'm great on old josephus, and i'll show you how i can clear coffee with a piece of fish-skin, and--i think i'll have another cup, please. say, you've no notion what a heap of work there is in ten and a half a month!" "i began with eight and a half, my son," said cheyne. "'that so? you never told me, sir." "you never asked, harve. i'll tell you about it some day, if you care to listen. try a stuffed olive." "troop says the most interesting thing in the world is to find out how the next man gets his vittles. it's great to have a trimmed-up meal again. we were well fed, though. best mug on the banks. disko fed us first-class. he's a great man. and dan--that's his son--dan's my partner. and there's uncle salters and his manures, an' he reads josephus. he's sure i'm crazy yet. and there's poor little penn, and he is crazy. you mustn't talk to him about johnstown, because--and, oh, you must know tom platt and long jack and manuel. manuel saved my life. i'm sorry he's a portugee. he can't talk much, but he's an everlasting musician. he found me struck adrift and drifting, and hauled me in." "i wonder your nervous system isn't completely wrecked," said mrs. cheyne. "what for, mama? i worked like a horse and i ate like a hog and i slept like a dead man." that was too much for mrs. cheyne, who began to think of her visions of a corpse rocking on the salty seas. she went to her state-room, and harvey curled up beside his father, explaining his indebtedness. "you can depend upon me to do everything i can for the crowd, harve. they seem to be good men on your showing." "best in the fleet, sir. ask at gloucester," said harvey. "but disko believes still he's cured me of being crazy. dan's the only one i've let on to about you, and our private cars and all the rest of it, and i'm not quite sure dan believes. i want to paralyse 'em to-morrow. say, can't they run the 'constance' over to gloucester? mama don't look fit to be moved, anyway, and we're bound to finish cleaning out by to-morrow. wouverman takes our fish. you see, we're first off the banks this season, and it's four twenty-five a quintal. we held out till he paid it. they want it quick." "you mean you'll have to work to-morrow, then?" "i told troop i would. i'm on the scales. i've brought the tallies with me." he looked at the greasy notebook with an air of importance that made his father choke. "there isn't but three--no--two ninety-four or five quintal more by my reckoning." "hire a substitute," suggested cheyne, to see what harvey would say. "can't, sir. i'm tally-man for the schooner. troop says i've a better head for figures than dan. troop's a mighty just man." "well, suppose i don't move the 'constance' to-night, how'll you fix it?" harvey looked at the clock, which marked twenty past eleven. "then i'll sleep here till three and catch the four o'clock freight. they let us men from the fleet ride free, as a rule." "that's a notion. but i think we can get the 'constance' around about as soon as your men's freight. better go to bed now." harvey spread himself on the sofa, kicked off his boots, and was asleep before his father could shade the electrics. cheyne sat watching the young face under the shadow of the arm thrown over the forehead, and among many things that occurred to him was the notion that he might perhaps have been neglectful as a father. "one never knows when one's taking one's biggest risks," he said. "it might have been worse than drowning; but i don't think it has--i don't think it has. if it hasn't, i haven't enough to pay troop, that's all; and i don't think it has." morning brought a fresh sea breeze through the windows, the "constance" was side-tracked among freight-cars at gloucester, and harvey had gone to his business. "then he'll fall overboard again and be drowned," the mother said bitterly. "we'll go and look, ready to throw him a rope in case. you've never seen him working for his bread," said the father. "what nonsense! as if any one expected--" "well, the man that hired him did. he's about right, too." they went down between the stores full of fishermen's oilskins to wouverman's wharf, where the "we're here" rode high, her bank flag still flying, all hands busy as beavers in the glorious morning light. disko stood by the main hatch superintending manuel, penn, and uncle salters at the tackle. dan was swinging the loaded baskets inboard as long jack and tom platt filled them, and harvey, with a notebook, represented the skipper's interests before the clerk of the scales on the salt-sprinkled wharf-edge. "ready!" cried the voices below. "haul!" cried disko. "hi!" said manuel. "here!" said dan, swinging the basket. then they heard harvey's voice, clear and fresh, checking the weights. the last of the fish had been whipped out, and harvey leaped from the string-piece six feet to a ratline, as the shortest way to hand disko the tally, shouting, "two ninety-seven, and an empty hold!" "what's total, harve?" said disko. "eight sixty-five. three thousand six hundred and seventy-six dollars and a quarter. 'wish i'd share as well as wage." "well, i won't go so far as to say you hevn't deserved it, harve. don't you want to slip up to wouverman's office and take him our tallies?" "who's that boy?" said cheyne to dan, well used to all manner of questions from those idle imbeciles called summer boarders. "well, he's a kind o' supercargo," was the answer. "we picked him up struck adrift on the banks. fell overboard from a liner, he sez. he was a passenger. he's by way o' bein' a fisherman now." "is he worth his keep?" "ye-ep. dad, this man wants to know ef harve's worth his keep. say, would you like to go aboard? we'll fix a ladder for her." "i should very much, indeed. 'twon't hurt you, mama, and you'll be able to see for yourself." the woman who could not lift her head a week ago scrambled down the ladder, and stood aghast amid the mess and tangle aft. "be you anyways interested in harve?" said disko. "well, ye-es." "he's a good boy, an' ketches right hold jest as he's bid. you've heard haow we found him? he was sufferin' from nervous prostration, i guess, 'r else his head had hit somethin', when we hauled him aboard. he's all over that naow. yes, this is the cabin. 'tain't anyways in order, but you're quite welcome to look around. those are his figures on the stove-pipe, where we keep the reckonin' mostly." "did he sleep here?" said mrs. cheyne, sitting on a yellow locker and surveying the disorderly bunks. "no. he berthed forward, madam, an' only fer him an' my boy hookin' fried pies an' muggin' up when they ought to ha' been asleep, i dunno as i've any special fault to find with him." "there weren't nothin' wrong with harve," said uncle salters, descending the steps. "he hung my boots on the main-truck, and he ain't over an' above respectful to such as knows more'n he do, especially about farmin'; but he were mostly misled by dan." dan, in the meantime, profiting by dark hints from harvey early that morning, was executing a war-dance on deck. "tom, tom!" he whispered down the hatch. "his folks has come, an' dad hain't caught on yet, an' they're pow-wowin' in the cabin. she's a daisy, an' he's all harve claimed he was, by the looks of him." "howly smoke!" said long jack, climbing out covered with salt and fish-skin. "d'ye belave his tale av the kid an' the little four-horse rig was thrue?" "i knew it all along," said dan. "come an' see dad mistook in his judgments." they came delightedly, just in time to hear cheyne say: "i'm glad he has a good character, because--he's my son." disko's jaw fell,--long jack always vowed that he heard the click of it,--and he stared alternately at the man and the woman. "i got his telegram in san diego four days ago, and we came over." "in a private car?" said dan. "he said ye might." "in a private car, of course." dan looked at his father with a hurricane of irreverent winks. "there was a tale he tould us av drivin' four little ponies in a rig av his own," said long jack. "was that thrue now?" "very likely," said cheyne. "was it, mama?" "he had a little drag when we were in toledo, i think," said the mother. long jack whistled. "oh, disko!" said he, and that was all. "i wuz--i am mistook in my jedgments--worse'n the men o' marblehead," said disko, as though the words were being windlassed out of him. "i don't mind ownin' to you, mister cheyne, as i mistrusted the boy to be crazy. he talked kinder odd about money." "so he told me." "did he tell ye anything else? 'cause i pounded him once." this with a somewhat anxious glance at mrs. cheyne. "oh, yes," cheyne replied. "i should say it probably did him more good than anything else in the world." "i jedged 'twuz necessary, er i wouldn't ha' done it. i don't want you to think we abuse our boys any on this packet." "i don't think you do, mr. troop." mrs. cheyne had been looking at the faces--disko's ivory-yellow, hairless, iron countenance; uncle salters's, with its rim of agricultural hair; penn's bewildered simplicity; manuel's quiet smile; long jack's grin of delight; and tom platt's scar. rough, by her standards, they certainly were; but she had a mother's wits in her eyes, and she rose with outstretched hands. "oh, tell me, which is who?" said she, half sobbing. "i want to thank you and bless you--all of you." "faith, that pays me a hunder time," said long jack. disko introduced them all in due form. the captain of an old-time chinaman could have done no better, and mrs. cheyne babbled incoherently. she nearly threw herself into manuel's arms when she understood that he had first found harvey. "but how shall i leave him dreeft?" said poor manuel. "what do you yourself if you find him so? eh, wha-at'? we are in one good boy, and i am ever so pleased he come to be your son." "and he told me dan was his partner!" she cried. dan was already sufficiently pink, but he turned a rich crimson when mrs. cheyne kissed him on both cheeks before the assembly. then they led her forward to show her the fo'c'sle, at which she wept again, and must needs go down to see harvey's identical bunk, and there she found the nigger cook cleaning up the stove, and he nodded as though she were some one he had expected to meet for years. they tried, two at a time, to explain the boat's daily life to her, and she sat by the pawl-post, her gloved hands on the greasy table, laughing with trembling lips and crying with dancing eyes. "and who's ever to use the "we're here" after this?" said long jack to tom platt. "i feel it as if she'd made a cathedral av ut all." "cathedral!" sneered tom platt. "oh, ef it had bin even the fish c'mmission boat instid o' this bally-hoo o' blazes. ef we only hed some decency an' order an' side-boys when she goes over! she'll have to climb that ladder like a hen, an' we--we ought to be mannin' the yards!" "then harvey was not mad," said penn, slowly, to cheyne. "no, indeed--thank god," the big millionaire replied, stooping down tenderly. "it must be terrible to be mad. except to lose your child, i do not know anything more terrible. but your child has come back? let us thank god for that." "hello!" said harvey, looking down upon them benignly from the wharf. "i wuz mistook, harve. i wuz mistook," said disko, swiftly, holding up a hand. "i wuz mistook in my jedgments. ye needn't rub it in any more." "'guess i'll take care o' that," said dan, under his breath. "you'll be goin' off naow, won't ye?" "well, not without the balance of my wages, 'less you want to have the "we're here" attached." "thet's so; i'd clean forgot"; and he counted out the remaining dollars. "you done all you contracted to do, harve; and you done it 'baout's well as ef you'd been brought up--" here disko brought himself up. he did not quite see where the sentence was going to end. "outside of a private car?" suggested dan, wickedly. "come on, and i'll show her to you," said harvey. cheyne stayed to talk to disko, but the others made a procession to the depot, with mrs. cheyne at the head. the french maid shrieked at the invasion; and harvey laid the glories of the "constance" before them without a word. they took them in in equal silence--stamped leather, silver door-handles and rails, cut velvet, plate-glass, nickel, bronze, hammered iron, and the rare woods of the continent inlaid. "i told you," said harvey; "i told you." this was his crowning revenge, and a most ample one. mrs. cheyne decreed a meal; and that nothing might be lacking to the tale long jack told afterwards in his boarding-house, she waited on them herself. men who are accustomed to eat at tiny tables in howling gales have curiously neat and finished table-manners; but mrs. cheyne, who did not know this, was surprised. she longed to have manuel for a butler; so silently and easily did he comport himself among the frail glassware and dainty silver. tom platt remembered great days on the ohio and the manners of foreign potentates who dined with the officers; and long jack, being irish, supplied the small talk till all were at their ease. in the "we're here's" cabin the fathers took stock of each other behind their cigars. cheyne knew well enough when he dealt with a man to whom he could not offer money; equally well he knew that no money could pay for what disko had done. he kept his own counsel and waited for an opening. "i hevn't done anything to your boy or fer your boy excep' make him work a piece an' learn him how to handle the hog-yoke," said disko. "he has twice my boy's head for figgers." "by the way," cheyne answered casually, "what d'you calculate to make of your boy?" disko removed his cigar and waved it comprehensively round the cabin. "dan's jest plain boy, an' he don't allow me to do any of his thinkin'. he'll hev this able little packet when i'm laid by. he ain't noways anxious to quit the business. i know that." "mmm! 'ever been west, mr. troop?" "bin's fer ez noo york once in a boat. i've no use for railroads. no more hez dan. salt water's good enough fer the troops. i've been 'most everywhere--in the nat'ral way, o' course." "i can give him all the salt water he's likely to need--till he's a skipper." "haow's that? i thought you wuz a kinder railroad king. harve told me so when--i was mistook in my jedgments." "we're all apt to be mistaken. i fancied perhaps you might know i own a line of tea-clippers--san francisco to yokohama--six of 'em--iron-built, about seventeen hundred and eighty tons apiece." "blame that boy! he never told. i'd ha' listened to that, instid o' his truck abaout railroads an' pony-carriages." "he didn't know." "'little thing like that slipped his mind, i guess." "no, i only capt--took hold of the 'blue m.' freighters--morgan and mcquade's old line--this summer." disko collapsed where he sat, beside the stove. "great caesar almighty! i mistrust i've bin fooled from one end to the other. why, phil airheart he went from this very town six year back--no, seven--an' he's mate on the san josé now--twenty-six days was her time out. his sister she's livin' here yet, an' she reads his letters to my woman. an' you own the 'blue m.' freighters?" cheyne nodded. "if i'd known that i'd ha' jerked the "we're here" back to port all standin', on the word." "perhaps that wouldn't have been so good for harvey." "ef i'd only known! ef he'd only said about the cussed line, i'd ha' understood! i'll never stand on my own jedgments again--never. they're well-found packets, phil airheart he says so." "i'm glad to have a recommend from that quarter. airheart's skipper of the san josé now. what i was getting at is to know whether you'd lend me dan for a year or two, and we'll see if we can't make a mate of him. would you trust him to airheart?" "it's a resk taking a raw boy--" "i know a man who did more for me." "that's diff'runt. look at here naow, i ain't recommendin' dan special because he's my own flesh an' blood. i know bank ways ain't clipper ways, but he hain't much to learn. steer he can--no boy better, ef i say it--an' the rest's in our blood an' get; but i could wish he warn't so cussed weak on navigation." "airheart will attend to that. he'll ship as a boy for a voyage or two, and then we can put him in the way of doing better. suppose you take him in hand this winter, and i'll send for him early in the spring. i know the pacific's a long ways off--" "pshaw! we troops, livin' an' dead, are all around the earth an' the seas thereof." "but i want you to understand--and i mean this--any time you think you'd like to see him, tell me, and i'll attend to the transportation. 'twon't cost you a cent." "ef you'll walk a piece with me, we'll go to my house an' talk this to my woman. i've bin so crazy mistook in all my jedgments, it don't seem to me this was like to be real." they went over to troop's eighteen-hundred-dollar, blue-trimmed white house, with a retired dory full of nasturtiums in the front yard and a shuttered parlor which was a museum of oversea plunder. there sat a large woman, silent and grave, with the dim eyes of those who look long to sea for the return of their beloved. cheyne addressed himself to her, and she gave consent wearily. "we lose one hundred a year from gloucester only, mr. cheyne," she said--"one hundred boys an' men; and i've come so's to hate the sea as if 'twuz alive an' listenin'. god never made it fer humans to anchor on. these packets o' yours they go straight out, i take it, and straight home again?" "as straight as the winds let 'em, and i give a bonus for record passages. tea don't improve by being at sea." "when he wuz little he used to play at keeping store, an' i had hopes he might follow that up. but soon's he could paddle a dory i knew that were goin' to be denied me." "they're square-riggers, mother; iron-built an' well found. remember what phil's sister reads you when she gits his letters." "i've never known as phil told lies, but he's too venturesome (like most of 'em that use the sea). ef dan sees fit, mr. cheyne, he can go--fer all o' me." "she jest despises the ocean," disko explained, "an' i--i dunno haow to act polite, i guess, er i'd thank you better." "my father--my own eldest brother--two nephews--an' my second sister's man," she said, dropping her head on her hand. "would you care fer any one that took all those?" cheyne was relieved when dan turned up and accepted with more delight than he was able to put into words. indeed, the offer meant a plain and sure road to all desirable things; but dan thought most of commanding watch on broad decks, and looking into far-away harbours. mrs. cheyne had spoken privately to the unaccountable manuel in the matter of harvey's rescue. he seemed to have no desire for money. pressed hard, he said that he would take five dollars, because he wanted to buy something for a girl. otherwise--"how shall i take money when i make so easy my eats and smokes? you will giva some if i like or no? eh, wha-at? then you shall giva me money, but not that way. you shall giva all you can think." he introduced her to a snuffy portuguese priest with a list of semi-destitute widows as long as his cassock. as a strict unitarian, mrs. cheyne could not sympathise with the creed, but she ended by respecting the brown, voluble little man. manuel, faithful son of the church, appropriated all the blessings showered on her for her charity. "that letta me out," said he. "i have now ver' good absolutions for six months"; and he strolled forth to get a handkerchief for the girl of the hour and to break the hearts of all the others. salters went west for a season with penn, and left no address behind. he had a dread that these millionary people, with wasteful private cars, might take undue interest in his companion. it was better to visit inland relatives till the coast was clear. "never you be adopted by rich folk, penn," he said in the cars, "or i'll take 'n' break this checker-board over your head. ef you forgit your name agin--which is pratt--you remember you belong with salters troop, an' set down right where you are till i come fer you. don't go taggin' araound after them whose eyes bung out with fatness, accordin' to scripcher." chapter x but it was otherwise with the "we're here's" silent cook, for he came up, his kit in a handkerchief, and boarded the "constance." pay was no particular object, and he did not in the least care where he slept. his business, as revealed to him in dreams, was to follow harvey for the rest of his days. they tried argument and, at last, persuasion; but there is a difference between one cape breton and two alabama negroes, and the matter was referred to cheyne by the cook and porter. the millionaire only laughed. he presumed harvey might need a body-servant some day or other, and was sure that one volunteer was worth five hirelings. let the man stay, therefore; even though he called himself macdonald and swore in gaelic. the car could go back to boston, where, if he were still of the same mind, they would take him west. with the "constance," which in his heart of hearts he loathed, departed the last remnant of cheyne's millionairedom, and he gave himself up to an energetic idleness. this gloucester was a new town in a new land, and he purposed to "take it in," as of old he had taken in all the cities from snohomish to san diego of that world whence he hailed. they made money along the crooked street which was half wharf and half ship's store: as a leading professional he wished to learn how the noble game was played. men said that four out of every five fish-balls served at new england's sunday breakfast came from gloucester, and overwhelmed him with figures in proof--statistics of boats, gear, wharf-frontage, capital invested, salting, packing, factories, insurance, wages, repairs, and profits. he talked with the owners of the large fleets whose skippers were little more than hired men, and whose crews were almost all swedes or portuguese. then he conferred with disko, one of the few who owned their craft, and compared notes in his vast head. he coiled himself away on chain-cables in marine junk-shops, asking questions with cheerful, unslaked western curiosity, till all the water-front wanted to know "what in thunder that man was after, anyhow." he prowled into the mutual insurance rooms, and demanded explanations of the mysterious remarks chalked up on the blackboard day by day; and that brought down upon him secretaries of every fisherman's widow and orphan aid society within the city limits. they begged shamelessly, each man anxious to beat the other institution's record, and cheyne tugged at his beard and handed them all over to mrs. cheyne. she was resting in a boarding-house near eastern point--a strange establishment, managed, apparently, by the boarders, where the table-cloths were red-and-white-checkered, and the population, who seemed to have known one another intimately for years, rose up at midnight to make welsh rare-bits if it felt hungry. on the second morning of her stay mrs. cheyne put away her diamond solitaires before she came down to breakfast. "they're most delightful people," she confided to her husband; "so friendly and simple, too, though they are all boston, nearly." "that isn't simpleness, mama," he said, looking across the boulders behind the apple-trees where the hammocks were slung. "it's the other thing, that we--that i haven't got." "it can't be," said mrs. cheyne, quietly. "there isn't a woman here owns a dress that cost a hundred dollars. why, we--" "i know it, dear. we have--of course we have. i guess it's only the style they wear east. are you having a good time?" "i don't see very much of harvey; he's always with you; but i ain't near as nervous as i was." "i haven't had such a good time since willie died. i never rightly understood that i had a son before this. harve's got to be a great boy. 'anything i can fetch you, dear? 'cushion under your head? well, we'll go down to the wharf again and look around." harvey was his father's shadow in those days, and the two strolled along side by side, cheyne using the grades as an excuse for laying his hand on the boy's square shoulder. it was then that harvey noticed and admired what had never struck him before--his father's curious power of getting at the heart of new matters as learned from men in the street. "how d'you make 'em tell you everything without opening your head?" demanded the son, as they came out of a rigger's loft. "i've dealt with quite a few men in my time, harve, and one sizes 'em up somehow, i guess. i know something about myself, too." then, after a pause, as they sat down on a wharf-edge: "men can 'most always tell when a man has handled things for himself, and then they treat him as one of themselves." "same as they treat me down at wouverman's wharf. i'm one of the crowd now. disko has told every one i've earned my pay." harvey spread out his hands and rubbed the palms together. "they're all soft again," he said dolefully. "keep 'em that way for the next few years, while you're getting your education. you can harden 'em up after." "ye-es, i suppose so," was the reply, in no delighted voice. "it rests with you, harve. you can take cover behind your mama, of course, and put her on to fussing about your nerves and your highstrungness and all that kind of poppycock." "have i ever done that?" said harvey, uneasily. his father turned where he sat and thrust out a long hand. "you know as well as i do that i can't make anything of you if you don't act straight by me. i can handle you alone if you'll stay alone, but i don't pretend to manage both you and mama. life's too short, anyway." "don't make me out much of a fellow, does it?" "i guess it was my fault a good deal; but if you want the truth, you haven't been much of anything up to date. now, have you?" "umm! disko thinks . . . say, what d'you reckon it's cost you to raise me from the start--first, last, and all over?" cheyne smiled. "i've never kept track, but i should estimate, in dollars and cents, nearer fifty than forty thousand; maybe sixty. the young generation comes high. it has to have things, and it tires of 'em, and--the old man foots the bill." harvey whistled, but at heart he was rather pleased to think that his upbringing had cost so much. "and all that's sunk capital, isn't it?" "invested, harve. invested, i hope." "making it only thirty thousand, the thirty i've earned is about ten cents on the hundred. that's a mighty poor catch." harvey wagged his head solemnly. cheyne laughed till he nearly fell off the pile into the water. "disko has got a heap more than that out of dan since he was ten; and dan's at school half the year, too." "oh, that's what you're after, is it?" "no. i'm not after anything. i'm not stuck on myself any just now--that's all . . . . i ought to be kicked." "i can't do it, old man; or i would, i presume, if i'd been made that way." "then i'd have remembered it to the last day i lived--and never forgiven you," said harvey, his chin on his doubled fists. "exactly. that's about what i'd do. you see?" "i see. the fault's with me and no one else. all the samey, something's got to be done about it." cheyne drew a cigar from his vest-pocket, bit off the end, and fell to smoking. father and son were very much alike; for the beard hid cheyne's mouth, and harvey had his father's slightly aquiline nose, close-set black eyes, and narrow, high cheek-bones. with a touch of brown paint he would have made up very picturesquely as a red indian of the story-books. "now you can go on from here," said cheyne, slowly, "costing me between six or eight thousand a year till you're a voter. well, we'll call you a man then. you can go right on from that, living on me to the tune of forty or fifty thousand, besides what your mother will give you, with a valet and a yacht or a fancy-ranch where you can pretend to raise trotting stock and play cards with your own crowd." "like lorry tuck?" harvey put in. "yep; or the two de vitré boys or old man mcquade's son. california's full of 'em, and here's an eastern sample while we're talking." a shiny black steam-yacht, with mahogany deck-house, nickel-plated binnacles, and pink-and-white-striped awnings, puffed up the harbour, flying the burgee of some new york club. two young men, in what they conceived to be sea costumes, were playing cards by the saloon skylight; and a couple of women with red and blue parasols looked on and laughed noisily. "shouldn't care to be caught out in her in any sort of a breeze. no, beam," said harvey, critically, as the yacht slowed to pick up her mooring-buoy. "they're having what stands them for a good time. i can give you that, and twice as much as that, harve. how'd you like it?" "caesar! that's no way to get a dinghy over-side," said harvey, still intent on the yacht. "if i couldn't slip a tackle better than that i'd stay ashore. . . . what if i don't?" "stay ashore--or what?" "yacht and ranch and live on 'the old man,' and--get behind mama when there's trouble," said harvey, with a twinkle in his eye. "why, in that case, you come right in with me, my son." "ten dollars a month?" another twinkle. "not a cent more until you're worth it, and you won't begin to touch that for a few years." "i'd sooner begin sweeping out the office--isn't that how the big bugs start?--and touch something now than--" "i know it; we all feel that way. but i guess we can hire any sweeping we need. i made the same mistake myself of starting in too soon." "thirty million dollars' worth o' mistake, wasn't it? i'd risk it for that." "i lost some; and i gained some. i'll tell you." cheyne pulled his beard and smiled as he looked over the still water, and spoke away from harvey, who presently began to be aware that his father was telling the story of his life. he talked in a low, even voice, without gesture and without expression; and it was a history for which a dozen leading journals would cheerfully have paid many dollars--the story of forty years that was at the same time the story of the new west, whose story is yet to be written. it began with a kinless boy turned loose in texas, and went on fantastically through a hundred changes and chops of life, the scenes shifting from state after western state, from cities that sprang up in a month and in a season utterly withered away, to wild ventures in wilder camps that are now laborious, paved municipalities. it covered the building of three railroads and the deliberate wreck of a fourth. it told of steamers, townships, forests, and mines, and the men of every nation under heaven, manning, creating, hewing, and digging these. it touched on chances of gigantic wealth flung before eyes that could not see, or missed by the merest accident of time and travel; and through the mad shift of things, sometimes on horseback, more often afoot, now rich, now poor, in and out, and back and forth, deck-hand, train-hand, contractor, boardinghouse keeper, journalist, engineer, drummer, real-estate agent, politician, dead-beat, rumseller, mine-owner, speculator, cattle-man, or tramp, moved harvey cheyne, alert and quiet, seeking his own ends, and, so he said, the glory and advancement of his country. he told of the faith that never deserted him even when he hung on the ragged edge of despair the faith that comes of knowing men and things. he enlarged, as though he were talking to himself, on his very great courage and resource at all times. the thing was so evident in the man's mind that he never even changed his tone. he described how he had bested his enemies, or forgiven them, exactly as they had bested or forgiven him in those careless days; how he had entreated, cajoled, and bullied towns, companies, and syndicates, all for their enduring good; crawled round, through, or under mountains and ravines, dragging a string and hoop-iron railroad after him, and in the end, how he had sat still while promiscuous communities tore the last fragments of his character to shreds. the tale held harvey almost breathless, his head a little cocked to one side, his eyes fixed on his father's face, as the twilight deepened and the red cigar-end lit up the furrowed cheeks and heavy eyebrows. it seemed to him like watching a locomotive storming across country in the dark--a mile between each glare of the opened fire-door: but this locomotive could talk, and the words shook and stirred the boy to the core of his soul. at last cheyne pitched away the cigar-butt, and the two sat in the dark over the lapping water. "i've never told that to any one before," said the father. harvey gasped. "it's just the greatest thing that ever was!" said he. "that's what i got. now i'm coming to what i didn't get. it won't sound much of anything to you, but i don't wish you to be as old as i am before you find out. i can handle men, of course, and i'm no fool along my own lines, but--but i can't compete with the man who has been taught! i've picked up as i went along, and i guess it sticks out all over me." "i've never seen it," said the son, indignantly. "you will, though, harve. you will--just as soon as you're through college. don't i know it? don't i know the look on men's faces when they think me a--a 'mucker,' as they call it out here? i can break them to little pieces--yes--but i can't get back at 'em to hurt 'em where they live. i don't say they're 'way, 'way up, but i feel i'm 'way, 'way, 'way off, somehow. now you've got your chance. you've got to soak up all the learning that's around, and you'll live with a crowd that are doing the same thing. they'll be doing it for a few thousand dollars a year at most; but remember you'll be doing it for millions. you'll learn law enough to look after your own property when i'm out o' the light, and you'll have to be solid with the best men in the market (they are useful later); and above all, you'll have to stow away the plain, common, sit-down-with-your-chin-on-your-elbows book-learning. nothing pays like that, harve, and it's bound to pay more and more each year in our country--in business and in politics. you'll see." "there's no sugar my end of the deal," said harvey. "four years at college! wish i'd chosen the valet and the yacht!" "never mind, my son," cheyne insisted. "you're investing your capital where it'll bring in the best returns; and i guess you won't find our property shrunk any when you're ready to take hold. think it over, and let me know in the morning. hurry! we'll be late for supper!" as this was a business talk, there was no need for harvey to tell his mother about it; and cheyne naturally took the same point of view. but mrs. cheyne saw and feared, and was a little jealous. her boy, who rode rough-shod over her, was gone, and in his stead reigned a keen-faced youth, abnormally silent, who addressed most of his conversation to his father. she understood it was business, and therefore a matter beyond her premises. if she had any doubts, they were resolved when cheyne went to boston and brought back a new diamond marquise-ring. "what have you two men been doing now?" she said, with a weak little smile, as she turned it in the light. "talking--just talking, mama; there's nothing mean about harvey." there was not. the boy had made a treaty on his own account. railroads, he explained gravely, interested him as little as lumber, real estate, or mining. what his soul yearned after was control of his father's newly purchased sailing-ships. if that could be promised him within what he conceived to be a reasonable time, he, for his part, guaranteed diligence and sobriety at college for four or five years. in vacation he was to be allowed full access to all details connected with the line,--he had asked not more than two thousand questions about it,--from his father's most private papers in the safe to the tug in san francisco harbour. "it's a deal," said cheyne at the last. "you'll alter your mind twenty times before you leave college, o' course; but if you take hold of it in proper shape, and if you don't tie it up before you're twenty-three, i'll make the thing over to you. how's that, harve?" "nope; never pays to split up a going concern there's too much competition in the world anyway, and disko says 'blood-kin hev to stick together.' his crowd never go back on him. that's one reason, he says, why they make such big fares. say, the "we're here" goes off to the georges on monday. they don't stay long ashore, do they?" "well, we ought to be going, too, i guess. i've left my business hung up at loose ends between two oceans, and it's time to connect again. i just hate to do it, though; haven't had a holiday like this for twenty years." "we can't go without seeing disko off," said harvey; "and monday's memorial day. let's stay over that, anyway." "what is this memorial business? they were talking about it at the boarding-house," said cheyne, weakly. he, too, was not anxious to spoil the golden days. "well, as far as i can make out, this business is a sort of song-and-dance act, whacked up for the summer boarders. disko don't think much of it, he says, because they take up a collection for the widows and orphans. disko's independent. haven't you noticed that?" "well--yes. a little. in spots. is it a town show, then?" "the summer convention is. they read out the names of the fellows drowned or gone astray since last time, and they make speeches, and recite, and all. then, disko says, the secretaries of the aid societies go into the back yard and fight over the catch. the real show, he says, is in the spring. the ministers all take a hand then, and there aren't any summer boarders around." "i see," said cheyne, with the brilliant and perfect comprehension of one born into and bred up to city pride. "we'll stay over for memorial day, and get off in the afternoon." "guess i'll go down to disko's and make him bring his crowd up before they sail. i'll have to stand with them, of course." "oh, that's it, is it," said cheyne. "i'm only a poor summer boarder, and you're--" "a banker--full-blooded banker," harvey called back as he boarded a trolley, and cheyne went on with his blissful dreams for the future. disko had no use for public functions where appeals were made for charity, but harvey pleaded that the glory of the day would be lost, so far as he was concerned, if the "we're heres" absented themselves. then disko made conditions. he had heard--it was astonishing how all the world knew all the world's business along the waterfront--he had heard that a "philadelphia actress-woman" was going to take part in the exercises; and he mistrusted that she would deliver "skipper ireson's ride." personally, he had as little use for actresses as for summer boarders; but justice was justice, and though he himself (here dan giggled) had once slipped up on a matter of judgment, this thing must not be. so harvey came back to east gloucester, and spent half a day explaining to an amused actress with a royal reputation on two seaboards the inwardness of the mistake she contemplated; and she admitted that it was justice, even as disko had said. cheyne knew by old experience what would happen; but anything of the nature of a public palaver was meat and drink to the man's soul. he saw the trolleys hurrying west, in the hot, hazy morning, full of women in light summer dresses, and white-faced straw-hatted men fresh from boston desks; the stack of bicycles outside the post-office; the come-and-go of busy officials, greeting one another; the slow flick and swash of bunting in the heavy air; and the important man with a hose sluicing the brick sidewalk. "mother," he said suddenly, "don't you remember--after seattle was burned out--and they got her going again?" mrs. cheyne nodded, and looked critically down the crooked street. like her husband, she understood these gatherings, all the west over, and compared them one against another. the fishermen began to mingle with the crowd about the town-hall doors--blue-jowled portuguese, their women bare-headed or shawled for the most part; clear-eyed nova scotians, and men of the maritime provinces; french, italians, swedes, and danes, with outside crews of coasting schooners; and everywhere women in black, who saluted one another with a gloomy pride, for this was their day of great days. and there were ministers of many creeds,--pastors of great, gilt-edged congregations, at the seaside for a rest, with shepherds of the regular work,--from the priests of the church on the hill to bush-bearded ex-sailor lutherans, hail-fellow with the men of a score of boats. there were owners of lines of schooners, large contributors to the societies, and small men, their few craft pawned to the mastheads, with bankers and marine-insurance agents, captains of tugs and water-boats, riggers, fitters, lumpers, salters, boat-builders, and coopers, and all the mixed population of the water-front. they drifted along the line of seats made gay with the dresses of the summer boarders, and one of the town officials patrolled and perspired till he shone all over with pure civic pride. cheyne had met him for five minutes a few days before, and between the two there was entire understanding. "well, mr. cheyne, and what d'you think of our city?--yes, madam, you can sit anywhere you please.--you have this kind of thing out west, i presume?" "yes, but we aren't as old as you." "that's so, of course. you ought to have been at the exercises when we celebrated our two hundred and fiftieth birthday. i tell you, mr. cheyne, the old city did herself credit." "so i heard. it pays, too. what's the matter with the town that it don't have a first-class hotel, though?" "right over there to the left, pedro. heaps o' room for you and your crowd.--why, that's what i tell 'em all the time, mr. cheyne. there's big money in it, but i presume that don't affect you any. what we want is--" a heavy hand fell on his broadcloth shoulder, and the flushed skipper of a portland coal-and-ice coaster spun him half round. "what in thunder do you fellows mean by clappin' the law on the town when all decent men are at sea this way? heh? town's dry's a bone, an' smells a sight worse sence i quit. 'might ha' left us one saloon for soft drinks, anyway." "don't seem to have hindered your nourishment this morning, carsen. i'll go into the politics of it later. sit down by the door and think over your arguments till i come back." "what good's arguments to me? in miquelon champagne's eighteen dollars a case, and--" the skipper lurched into his seat as an organ-prelude silenced him. "our new organ," said the official proudly to cheyne. "cost us four thousand dollars, too. we'll have to get back to high-licence next year to pay for it. i wasn't going to let the ministers have all the religion at their convention. those are some of our orphans standing up to sing. my wife taught 'em. see you again later, mr. cheyne. i'm wanted on the platform." high, clear, and true, children's voices bore down the last noise of those settling into their places. "o all ye works of the lord, bless ye the lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever!" the women throughout the hall leaned forward to look as the reiterated cadences filled the air. mrs. cheyne, with some others, began to breathe short; she had hardly imagined there were so many widows in the world; and instinctively searched for harvey. he had found the "we're heres" at the back of the audience, and was standing, as by right, between dan and disko. uncle salters, returned the night before with penn, from pamlico sound, received him suspiciously. "hain't your folk gone yet?" he grunted. "what are you doin' here, young feller?" "o ye seas and floods, bless ye the lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever!" "hain't he good right?" said dan. "he's bin there, same as the rest of us." "not in them clothes," salters snarled. "shut your head, salters," said disko. "your bile's gone back on you. stay right where ye are, harve." then up and spoke the orator of the occasion, another pillar of the municipality, bidding the world welcome to gloucester, and incidentally pointing out wherein gloucester excelled the rest of the world. then he turned to the sea-wealth of the city, and spoke of the price that must be paid for the yearly harvest. they would hear later the names of their lost dead--one hundred and seventeen of them. (the widows stared a little, and looked at one another here.) gloucester could not boast any overwhelming mills or factories. her sons worked for such wage as the sea gave; and they all knew that neither georges nor the banks were cow-pastures. the utmost that folk ashore could accomplish was to help the widows and the orphans; and after a few general remarks he took this opportunity of thanking, in the name of the city, those who had so public-spiritedly consented to participate in the exercises of the occasion. "i jest despise the beggin' pieces in it," growled disko. "it don't give folk a fair notion of us." "ef folk won't be fore-handed an' put by when they've the chance," returned salters, "it stands in the nature o' things they hev to be 'shamed. you take warnin' by that, young feller. riches endureth but for a season, ef you scatter them araound on lugsuries--" "but to lose everything--everything," said penn. "what can you do then? once!"--the watery blue eyes stared up and down, as looking for something to steady them--"once i read--in a book, i think--of a boat where every one was run down--except some one--and he said to me--" "shucks!" said salters, cutting in. "you read a little less an' take more int'rust in your vittles, and you'll come nearer earnin' your keep, penn." harvey, jammed among the fishermen, felt a creepy, crawly, tingling thrill that began in the back of his neck and ended at his boots. he was cold, too, though it was a stifling day. "'that the actress from philadelphia?" said disko troop, scowling at the platform. "you've fixed it about old man ireson, hain't ye, harve? ye know why naow." it was not "ireson's ride" that the woman delivered, but some sort of poem about a fishing-port called brixham and a fleet of trawlers beating in against storm by night, while the women made a guiding fire at the head of the quay with everything they could lay hands on. "they took the grandam's blanket, who shivered and bade them go; they took the baby's cradle, who could not say them no." "whew!" said dan, peering over long jack's shoulder. "that's great! must ha' bin expensive, though." "ground-hog case," said the galway man. "badly lighted port, danny." "and knew not all the while if they were lighting a bonfire or only a funeral pile." the wonderful voice took hold of people by their heartstrings; and when she told how the drenched crews were flung ashore, living and dead, and they carried the bodies to the glare of the fires, asking: "child, is this your father?" or "wife, is this your man?" you could hear hard breathing all over the benches. "and when the boats of brixham go out to face the gales, think of the love that travels like light upon their sails!" there was very little applause when she finished. the women were looking for their handkerchiefs, and many of the men stared at the ceiling with shiny eyes. "h'm," said salters; "that 'u'd cost ye a dollar to hear at any theater--maybe two. some folk, i presoom, can afford it. 'seems downright waste to me. . . . naow, how in jerusalem did cap bart edwardes strike adrift here?" "no keepin' him under," said an eastport man behind. "he's a poet, an' he's baound to say his piece. 'comes from daown aour way, too." he did not say that captain b. edwardes had striven for five consecutive years to be allowed to recite a piece of his own composition on gloucester memorial day. an amused and exhausted committee had at last given him his desire. the simplicity and utter happiness of the old man, as he stood up in his very best sunday clothes, won the audience ere he opened his mouth. they sat unmurmuring through seven-and-thirty hatchet-made verses describing at fullest length the loss of the schooner joan hasken off the georges in the gale of , and when he came to an end they shouted with one kindly throat. a far-sighted boston reporter slid away for a full copy of the epic and an interview with the author; so that earth had nothing more to offer captain bart edwardes, ex-whaler, shipwright, master-fisherman, and poet, in the seventy-third year of his age. "naow, i call that sensible," said an eastport man. "i've bin over that graound with his writin', jest as he read it, in my two hands, and i can testify that he's got it all in." "if dan here couldn't do better'n that with one hand before breakfast, he ought to be switched," said salters, upholding the honour of massachusetts on general principles. "not but what i'm free to own he's considerable litt'ery--fer maine. still--" "guess uncle salters's goin' to die this trip. fust compliment he's ever paid me," dan sniggered. "what's wrong with you, harve? you act all quiet and you look greenish. feelin' sick?" "don't know what's the matter with me," harvey replied. "seems if my insides were too big for my outsides. i'm all crowded up and shivery." "dispepsy? pshaw-too bad. we'll wait for the readin', an' then we'll quit, an' catch the tide." the widows--they were nearly all of that season's making--braced themselves rigidly like people going to be shot in cold blood, for they knew what was coming. the summer-boarder girls in pink and blue shirt-waists stopped tittering over captain edwardes's wonderful poem, and looked back to see why all was silent. the fishermen pressed forward as that town official who had talked with cheyne bobbed up on the platform and began to read the year's list of losses, dividing them into months. last september's casualties were mostly single men and strangers, but his voice rang very loud in the stillness of the hall. "september th.--schooner "florrie anderson" lost, with all aboard, off the georges. "reuben pitman, master, , single, main street, city. "emil olsen, , single, hammond street, city; denmark. "oscar stanberg, single, , sweden. "carl stanberg, single, , main street, city. "pedro, supposed madeira, single, keene's boarding-house, city. "joseph welsh, alias joseph wright, , st. john's, newfoundland." "no--augusty, maine," a voice cried from the body of the hall. "he shipped from st. john's," said the reader, looking to see. "i know it. he belongs in augusty. my nevvy." the reader made a pencilled correction on the margin of the list, and resumed: "same schooner, charlie ritchie, liverpool, nova scotia, , single. "albert may, rogers street, city, , single. "september th.--orvin dollard, , married, drowned in dory off eastern point." that shot went home, for one of the widows flinched where she sat, clasping and unclasping her hands. mrs. cheyne, who had been listening with wide-opened eyes, threw up her head and choked. dan's mother, a few seats to the right, saw and heard and quickly moved to her side. the reading went on. by the time they reached the january and february wrecks the shots were falling thick and fast, and the widows drew breath between their teeth. "february th.--schooner "harry randolph" dismasted on the way home from newfoundland; asa musie, married, , main street, city, lost overboard. "february d.--schooner "gilbert hope"; went astray in dory, robert beavon, , married, native of pubnico, nova scotia." but his wife was in the hall. they heard a low cry, as though a little animal had been hit. it was stifled at once, and a girl staggered out of the hall. she had been hoping against hope for months, because some who have gone adrift in dories have been miraculously picked up by deep-sea sailing-ships. now she had her certainty, and harvey could see the policeman on the sidewalk hailing a hack for her. "it's fifty cents to the depot"--the driver began, but the policeman held up his hand--"but i'm goin' there anyway. jump right in. look at here, alf; you don't pull me next time my lamps ain't lit. see?" the side-door closed on the patch of bright sunshine, and harvey's eyes turned again to the reader and his endless list. "april th.--schooner "mamie douglas" lost on the banks with all hands. "edward canton," , master, married, city. "d. hawkins," alias williams, , married, shelbourne, nova scotia. "g. w. clay," coloured, , married, city." and so on, and so on. great lumps were rising in harvey's throat, and his stomach reminded him of the day when he fell from the liner. "may th.--schooner "we're here" [the blood tingled all over him]. otto svendson, , single, city, lost overboard." once more a low, tearing cry from somewhere at the back of the hall. "she shouldn't ha' come. she shouldn't ha' come," said long jack, with a cluck of pity. "don't scrowge, harve," grunted dan. harvey heard that much, but the rest was all darkness spotted with fiery wheels. disko leaned forward and spoke to his wife, where she sat with one arm round mrs. cheyne, and the other holding down the snatching, catching, ringed hands. "lean your head daown--right daown!" she whispered. "it'll go off in a minute." "i ca-an't! i do-don't! oh, let me--" mrs. cheyne did not at all know what she said. "you must," mrs. troop repeated. "your boy's jest fainted dead away. they do that some when they're gettin' their growth. 'wish to tend to him? we can git aout this side. quite quiet. you come right along with me. psha', my dear, we're both women, i guess. we must tend to aour men-folk. come!" the "we're heres" promptly went through the crowd as a body-guard, and it was a very white and shaken harvey that they propped up on a bench in an anteroom. "favours his ma," was mrs. troop's only comment, as the mother bent over her boy. "how d'you suppose he could ever stand it?" she cried indignantly to cheyne, who had said nothing at all. "it was horrible--horrible! we shouldn't have come. it's wrong and wicked! it--it isn't right! why--why couldn't they put these things in the papers, where they belong? are you better, darling?" that made harvey very properly ashamed. "oh, i'm all right, i guess," he said, struggling to his feet, with a broken giggle. "must ha' been something i ate for breakfast." "coffee, perhaps," said cheyne, whose face was all in hard lines, as though it had been cut out of bronze. "we won't go back again." "guess 'twould be 'baout's well to git daown to the wharf," said disko. "it's close in along with them dagoes, an' the fresh air will fresh mrs. cheyne up." harvey announced that he never felt better in his life; but it was not till he saw the "we're here", fresh from the lumper's hands, at wouverman's wharf, that he lost his all-overish feelings in a queer mixture of pride and sorrowfulness. other people--summer boarders and such-like--played about in cat-boats or looked at the sea from pier-heads; but he understood things from the inside--more things than he could begin to think about. none the less, he could have sat down and howled because the little schooner was going off. mrs. cheyne simply cried and cried every step of the way, and said most extraordinary things to mrs. troop, who "babied" her till dan, who had not been "babied" since he was six, whistled aloud. and so the old crowd--harvey felt like the most ancient of mariners--dropped into the old schooner among the battered dories, while harvey slipped the stern-fast from the pier-head, and they slid her along the wharf-side with their hands. every one wanted to say so much that no one said anything in particular. harvey bade dan take care of uncle salters's sea-boots and penn's dory-anchor, and long jack entreated harvey to remember his lessons in seamanship; but the jokes fell flat in the presence of the two women, and it is hard to be funny with green harbour-water widening between good friends. "up jib and fores'l!" shouted disko, getting to the wheel, as the wind took her. "see you later, harve. dunno but i come near thinkin' a heap o' you an' your folks." then she glided beyond ear-shot, and they sat down to watch her up the harbour. and still mrs. cheyne wept. "psha', my dear," said mrs. troop; "we're both women, i guess. like's not it'll ease your heart to hev your cry aout. god he knows it never done me a mite o' good; but then he knows i've had something to cry fer!" now it was a few years later, and upon the other edge of america, that a young man came through the clammy sea-fog up a windy street which is flanked with most expensive houses built of wood to imitate stone. to him, as he was standing by a hammered iron gate, entered on horseback--and the horse would have been cheap at a thousand dollars--another young man. and this is what they said: "hello, dan!" "hello, harve!" "what's the best with you?" "well, i'm so's to be that kind o' animal called second mate this trip. ain't you most through with that triple-invoiced college o' yours?" "getting that way. i tell you, the leland stanford junior isn't a circumstance to the old "we're here"; but i'm coming into the business for keeps next fall." "meanin' aour packets?" "nothing else. you just wait till i get my knife into you, dan. i'm going to make the old line lie down and cry when i take hold." "i'll resk it," said dan, with a brotherly grin, as harvey dismounted and asked whether he were coming in. "that's what i took the cable fer; but, say, is the doctor anywheres araound? i'll draown that crazy nigger some day, his one cussed joke an' all." there was a low, triumphant chuckle, as the ex-cook of the "we're here" came out of the fog to take the horse's bridle. he allowed no one but himself to attend to any of harvey's wants. "thick as the banks, ain't it, doctor?" said dan, propitiatingly. but the coal-black celt with the second-sight did not see fit to reply till he had tapped dan on the shoulder, and for the twentieth time croaked the old, old prophecy in his ear: "master--man. man--master," said he. "you remember, dan troop, what i said? on the 'we're here'?" "well, i won't go so far as to deny that it do look like it as things stand at present," said dan. "she was an able packet, and one way an' another i owe her a heap--her and dad." "me too," quoth harvey cheyne. fishin' jimmy by annie trumbull slosson author's edition fishin' jimmy it was on the margin of pond brook, just back of uncle eben's, that i first saw fishin' jimmy. it was early june, and we were again at franconia, that peaceful little village among the northern hills. the boys, as usual, were tempting the trout with false fly or real worm, and i was roaming along the bank, seeking spring flowers, and hunting early butterflies and moths. suddenly there was a little plash in the water at the spot where ralph was fishing, the slender tip of his rod bent, i heard a voice cry out, "strike him, sonny, strike him!" and an old man came quickly but noiselessly through the bushes, just as ralph's line flew up into space, with, alas! no shining, spotted trout upon the hook. the new comer was a spare, wiry man of middle height, with a slight stoop in his shoulders, a thin brown face, and scanty gray hair. he carried a fishing-rod, and had some small trout strung on a forked stick in one hand. a simple, homely figure, yet he stands out in memory just as i saw him then, no more to be forgotten than the granite hills, the rushing streams, the cascades of that north country i love so well. we fell into talk at once, ralph and waldo rushing eagerly into questions about the fish, the bait, the best spots in the stream, advancing their own small theories, and asking advice from their new friend. for friend he seemed even in that first hour, as he began simply, but so wisely, to teach my boys the art he loved. they are older now, and are no mean anglers, i believe; but they look back gratefully to those brookside lessons, and acknowledge gladly their obligations to fishin' jimmy. but it is not of these practical teachings i would now speak; rather of the lessons of simple faith, of unwearied patience, of self-denial and cheerful endurance, which the old man himself seemed to have learned, strangely enough, from the very sport so often called cruel and murderous. incomprehensible as it may seem, to his simple intellect the fisherman's art was a whole system of morality, a guide for every-day life, an education, a gospel. it was all any poor mortal man, woman, or child, needed in this world to make him or her happy, useful, good. at first we scarcely realized this, and wondered greatly at certain things he said, and the tone in which he said them. i remember at that first meeting i asked him, rather carelessly, "do you like fishing?" he did not reply at first; then he looked at me with those odd, limpid, green-gray eyes of his which always seemed to reflect the clear waters of mountain streams, and said very quietly: "you would n't ask me if i liked my mother--or my wife." and he always spoke of his pursuit as one speaks of something very dear, very sacred. part of his story i learned from others, but most of it from himself, bit by bit, as we wandered together day by day in that lovely hill-country. as i tell it over again i seem to hear the rush of mountain streams, the "sound of a going in the tops of the trees," the sweet, pensive strain of white-throat sparrow, and the plash of leaping trout; to see the crystal-clear waters pouring over granite rock, the wonderful purple light upon the mountains, the flash and glint of darting fish, the tender green of early summer in the north country. fishin' jimmy's real name was james whitcher. he was born in the franconia valley of northern new hampshire, and his whole life had been passed there. he had always fished; he could not remember when or how he learned the art. from the days when, a tiny, bare-legged urchin in ragged frock, he had dropped his piece of string with its bent pin at the end into the narrow, shallow brooklet behind his father's house, through early boyhood's season of roaming along gale river, wading black brook, rowing a leaky boat on streeter or mink pond, through youth, through manhood, on and on into old age, his life had apparently been one long day's fishing--an angler's holiday. had it been only that? he had not cared for books, or school, and all efforts to tie him down to study were unavailing. but he knew well the books of running brooks. no dry botanical text-book or manual could have taught him all he now knew of plants and flowers and trees. he did not call the yellow spatterdock nuphar advena, but he knew its large leaves of rich green, where the black bass or pickerel sheltered themselves from the summer sun, and its yellow balls on stout stems, around which his line so often twined and twisted, or in which the hook caught, not to be jerked out till the long, green, juicy stalk itself, topped with globe of greenish gold, came up from its wet bed. he knew the sedges along the bank with their nodding tassels and stiff lance-like leaves, the feathery grasses, the velvet moss upon the wet stones, the sea-green lichen on boulder or tree-trunk. there, in that corner of echo lake, grew the thickest patch of pipewort, with its small, round, grayish-white, mushroom-shaped tops on long, slender stems. if he had styled it eriocaulon septangulare, would it have shown a closer knowledge of its habits than did his careful avoidance of its vicinity, his keeping line and flies at a safe distance, as he muttered to himself, "them pesky butt'ns agin!" he knew by sight the bur-reed of mountain ponds, with its round, prickly balls strung like big beads on the stiff, erect stalks; the little water-lobelia, with tiny purple blossoms, springing from the waters of lake and pond. he knew, too, all the strange, beautiful under-water growth: bladderwort in long, feathery garlands, pellucid water-weed, quillwort in stiff little bunches with sharp-pointed leaves of olive-green,--all so seldom seen save by the angler whose hooks draw up from time to time the wet, lovely tangle. i remember the amusement with which a certain well-known botanist, who had journeyed to the mountains in search of a little plant, found many years ago near echo lake, but not since seen, heard me propose to consult fishin' jimmy on the subject. but i was wiser than he knew. jimmy looked at the specimen brought as an aid to identification. it was dry and flattened, and as unlike a living, growing plant as are generally the specimens from an herbarium. but it showed the awl-shaped leaves, and thread-like stalk with its tiny round seed-vessels, like those of our common shepherd's-purse, and jimmy knew it at once. "there's a dreffle lot o' that peppergrass out in deep water there, jest where i ketched the big pick'ril," he said quietly. "i seen it nigh a foot high, an' it 's juicier and livin'er than them dead sticks in your book." at our request he accompanied the unbelieving botanist and myself to the spot; and there, looking down through the sunlit water, we saw great patches of that rare and long-lost plant of the cruciferse known to science as subularia aquatica. for forty years it had hidden itself away, growing and blossoming and casting abroad its tiny seeds in its watery home, unseen, or at least unnoticed, by living soul, save by the keen, soft, limpid eyes of fishin' jimmy. and he knew the trees and shrubs so well: the alder and birch from which as a boy he cut his simple, pliant pole; the shad-blow and iron-wood (he called them, respectively, sugarplum and hard-hack) which he used for the more ambitious rods of maturer years; the mooseberry, wayfaring-tree, hobble-bush, or triptoe,--it has all these names, with stout, trailing branches, over which he stumbled as he hurried through the woods and underbrush in the darkening twilight. he had never heard of entomology. guenee, hubner, and fabricius were unknown names; but he could have told these worthies many new things. did they know just at what hour the trout ceased leaping at dark fly or moth, and could see only in the dim light the ghostly white miller? did they know the comparative merits, as a tempting bait, of grasshopper, cricket, spider, or wasp; and could they, with bits of wool, tinsel, and feather, copy the real dipterous, hymenopterous, or orthopterous insect? and the birds: he knew them as do few ornithologists, by sight, by sound, by little ways and tricks of their own, known only to themselves and him. the white-throat sparrow with its sweet, far-reaching chant; the hermit-thrush with its chime of bells in the calm summer twilight; the vesper-sparrow that ran before him as he crossed the meadow, or sang for hours, as he fished the stream, its unvarying, but scarcely monotonous little strain; the cedar-bird, with its smooth brown coast of quaker simplicity, and speech as brief and simple as quaker yea or nay; the winter-wren sending out his strange, lovely, liquid warble from the high, rocky side of cannon mountain; the bluebird of the early spring, so welcome to the winter-weary dwellers in that land of ice and show, as he "from the bluer deeps lets fall a quick, prophetic strain," of summer, of streams freed and flowing again, of waking, darting, eager fish; the veery, the phoebe, the jay, the vireo,--all these were friends, familiar, tried and true to fishin' jimmy. the cluck and coo of the cuckoo, the bubbling song of bobolink in buff and black, the watery trill of the stream-loving swamp-sparrow, the whispered whistle of the stealthy, darkness-haunting whippoorwill, the gurgle and gargle of the cow-bunting,--he knew each and all, better than did audubon, nuttall, or wilson. but he never dreamed that even the tiniest of his little favorites bore, in the scientific world, far away from that quiet mountain nest, such names as troglodytes hyemalis or melospiza palustris. he could tell you, too, of strange, shy creatures rarely seen except by the early-rising, late-fishing angler, in quiet, lonesome places: the otter, muskrat, and mink of ponds and lakes,--rival fishers, who bore off prey sometimes from under his very eyes,--field-mice in meadow and pasture, blind, burrowing moles, prickly hedge-hogs, brown hares, and social, curious squirrels. sometimes he saw deer, in the early morning or in the dusk of the evening, as they came to drink at the lake shore, and looked at him with big, soft eyes not unlike his own. sometimes a shaggy bear trotted across his path and hid himself in the forest, or a sharp-eared fox ran barking through the bushes. he loved to tell of these things to us who cared to listen, and i still seem to hear his voice saying in hushed tones, after a story of woodland sight or sound: "nobody don't see 'em but fishermen. nobody don't hear 'em but fishermen." ii but it was of another kind of knowledge he oftenest spoke, and of which i shall try to tell you, in his own words as nearly as possible. first let me say that if there should seem to be the faintest tinge of irreverence in aught i write, i tell my story badly. there was no irreverence in fishin' jimmy. he possessed a deep and profound veneration for all things spiritual and heavenly; but it was the veneration of a little child, mingled as is that child's with perfect confidence and utter frankness. and he used the dialect of the country in which he lived. "as i was tellin' ye," he said, "i allers loved fishin' an' knowed 't was the best thing in the hull airth. i knowed it larnt ye more about creeters an' yarbs an' stuns an' water than books could tell ye. i knowed it made folks patienter an' commonsenser an' weather-wiser an' cuter gen'ally; gin 'em more fac'lty than all the school larnin' in creation. i knowed it was more fillin' than vittles, more rousin' than whisky, more soothin' than lodlum. i knowed it cooled ye off when ye was het, an' het ye when ye was cold. i knowed all that, o' course--any fool knows it. but--will ye b'l'eve it?--i was more 'n twenty-one year old, a man growed, 'fore i foun' out why 't was that away. father an' mother was christian folks, good out-an'-out calv'nist baptists from over east'n way. they fetched me up right, made me go to meetin' an' read a chapter every sunday, an' say a hymn sat'day night a'ter washin'; an' i useter say my prayers mos' nights. i wa'n't a bad boy as boys go. but nobody thought o' tellin' me the one thing, jest the one single thing, that 'd ha' made all the diffunce. i knowed about god, an' how he made me an' made the airth, an' everything an' once i got thinkin' about that, an' i asked my father if god made the fishes. he said 'course he did, the sea an' all that in 'em is; but somehow that did n't seem to mean nothin' much to me, an' i lost my int'rist agin. an' i read the scripter account o' jonah an' the big fish, an' all that in job about pullin' out levi'thing with a hook an' stickin' fish spears in his head, an' some parts in them queer books nigh the end o' the ole test'ment about fish-ponds an' fish-gates an' fish-pools, an' how the fishers shall l'ment--everything i could pick out about fishin' an' seen; but it did n't come home to me; 't wa'n't my kind o' fishin' an' i did n't seem ter sense it. "but one day--it's more 'n forty year ago now, but i rec'lect it same 's 't was yest'day, an' i shall rec'lect it forty thousand year from now if i 'm 'round, an' i guess i shall be--i heerd--suthin'--diffunt. i was down in the village one sunday; it wa'n't very good fishin'--the streams was too full; an' i thought i 'd jest look into the meetin'-house 's i went by. 't was the ole union meetin'-house, down to the corner, ye know, an' they had n't got no reg'lar s'pply, an' ye never knowed what sort ye 'd hear, so 't was kind o' excitin'. "'t was late, 'most 'leven o'clock, an' the sarm'n had begun. there was a strange man a-preachin', some one from over to the hotel. i never heerd his name, i never seed him from that day to this; but i knowed his face. queer enough i 'd seed him a-fishin'. i never knowed he was a min'ster; he did n't look like one. he went about like a real fisherman, with ole clo'es an' an ole hat with hooks stuck in it, an' big rubber boots, an' he fished, reely fished, i mean--ketched 'em. i guess 't was that made me liss'n a leetle sharper 'n us'al, for i never seed a fishin' min'ster afore. elder jacks'n, he said 't was a sinf'l waste o' time, an' ole parson loomis, he 'd an idee it was cruel an' onmarciful; so i thought i 'd jest see what this man 'd preach about, an' i settled down to liss'n to the sarm'n. "but there wa'n't no sarm'n; not what i 'd been raised to think was the on'y true kind. there wa'n't no heads, no fustlys nor sec'ndlys, nor fin'ly bruthrins, but the first thing i knowed i was hearin' a story, an' 't was a fishin' story. 't was about some one--i had n't the least idee then who 't was, an' how much it all meant--some one that was dreffle fond o' fishin' an' fishermen, some one that sot everythin' by the water, an' useter go along by the lakes an' ponds, an' sail on 'em, an' talk with the men that was fishin'. an' how the fishermen all liked him, 'nd asked his 'dvice, an' done jest 's he telled 'em about the likeliest places to fish; an' how they allers ketched more for mindin' him; an' how when he was a-preachin' he would n't go into a big meetin'-house an' talk to rich folks all slicked up, but he 'd jest go out in a fishin' boat, an' ask the men to shove out a mite, an' he 'd talk to the folks on shore, the fishin' folks an' their wives an' the boys an' gals playin' on the shore. an' then, best o' everythin', he telled how when he was a-choosin' the men to go about with him an' help him an' larn his ways so 's to come a'ter him, he fust o' all picked out the men he 'd seen every day fishin', an' mebbe fished with hisself; for he knowed 'em an' knowed he could trust 'em. "an' then he telled us about the day when this preacher come along by the lake--a dreffle sightly place, this min'ster said; he 'd seed it hisself when he was trav'lin' in them countries--an' come acrost two men he knowed well; they was brothers, an' they was a-fishin'. an' he jest asked 'em in his pleasant-spoken, frien'ly way--there wa'n't never sech a drawin', takin', lovin' way with any one afore as this man had, the min'ster said--he jest asked 'em to come along with him; an' they lay down their poles an' their lines an' everythin', an' jined him. an' then he come along a spell further, an' he sees two boys out with their ole father, an' they was settin' in a boat an' fixin' up their tackle, an' he asked 'em if they 'd jine him, too, an' they jest dropped all their things, an' left the ole man with the boat an' the fish an' the bait an' follered the preacher. i don't tell it very good. i 've read it an' read it sence that; but i want to make ye see how it sounded to me, how i took it, as the min'ster telled it that summer day in francony meetin'. ye see i 'd no idee who the story was about, the man put it so plain, in common kind o' talk, without any come-to-passes an' whuffers an' thuffers, an' i never conceited 't was a bible narr'tive. "an' so fust thing i knowed i says to myself, 'that 's the kind o' teacher i want. if i could come acrost a man like that, i 'd jest foller him, too, through thick an' thin.' well, i can't put the rest on it into talk very good; 't aint jest the kind o' thing to speak on 'fore folks, even sech good friends as you. i aint the sort to go back on my word,--fishermen aint, ye know,--an' what i 'd said to myself 'fore i knowed who i was bindin' myself to, i stuck to a'terwards when i knowed all about him. for 't aint for me to tell ye, who've got so much more larnin' than me, that there was a dreffle lot more to that story than the fishin' part. that lovin', givin' up, suff'rin', dyin' part, ye know it all yerself, an' i can't kinder say much on it, 'cept when i 'm jest all by myself, or--'long o' him. "that a'ternoon i took my ole bible that i had n't read much sence i growed up, an' i went out into the woods 'long the river, an' 'stid o' fishin' i jest sot down an' read that hull story. now ye know it yerself by heart, an' ye 've knowed it all yer born days, so ye can't begin to tell how new an' 'stonishin' 't was to me, an' how findin' so much fishin' in it kinder helped me unnerstan' an' b'l'eve it every mite, an' take it right hum to me to foller an' live up to 's long 's i live an' breathe. did j'ever think on it, reely? i tell ye, his r'liging 's a fishin' r'liging all through. his friends was fishin' folks; his pulpit was a fishin' boat, or the shore o' the lake; he loved the ponds an' streams; an' when his d'sciples went out fishin', if he did n't go hisself with 'em, he 'd go a'ter 'em, walkin' on the water, to cheer 'em up an' comfort 'em. "an' he was allers 'round the water; for the story 'll say, 'he come to the seashore,' or 'he begun to teach by the seaside,' or agin, 'he entered into a boat,' an' 'he was in the stern o' the boat, asleep.' "an' he used fish in his mir'cles. he fed that crowd o' folks on fish when they was hungry, bought 'em from a little chap on the shore. i 've oft'n thought how dreffle tickled that boy must 'a' ben to have him take them fish. mebbe they wa'n't nothin' but shiners, but the fust the little feller 'd ever ketched; an' boys set a heap on their fust ketch. he was dreffle good to child'en, ye know. an' who 'd he come to a'ter he 'd died, an' ris agin? why, he come down to the shore 'fore daylight, an' looked off over the pond to where his ole frien's was a-fishin'. ye see they 'd gone out jest to quiet their minds an' keep up their sperrits; ther 's nothin' like fishin' for that, ye know, an' they 'd ben in a heap o' trubble. when they was settin' up the night afore, worryin' an' wond'rin' an' s'misin' what was goin' ter become on 'em without their master; peter 'd got kinder desprit, an' he up an' says in his quick way, says he, 'anyway, _i_ 'm goin' a-fishin'.' an' they all see the sense on it,--any fisherman would,--an' they says, says they, 'we ' go 'long too.' but they did n't ketch anythin'. i suppose they could n't fix their minds on it, an' everythin' went wrong like. but when mornin' come creepin' up over the mountings, fust thin' they knowed they see him on the bank, an' he called out to 'em to know if they'd ketched anythin'. the water jest run down my cheeks when i heerd the min'r ster tell that, an' it kinder makes my eyes wet every time i think on 't. for 't seems 's if it might 'a' ben me in that boat, who heern that v'ice i loved so dreffle well speak up agin so nat'ral from the bank there. an' he eat some o' their fish! o' course he done it to sot their minds easy, to show 'em he wa'n't quite a sperrit yit, but jest their own ole frien' who 'd ben out in the boat with 'em so many, many times. but seems to me, jest the fac' he done it kinder makes fish an' fishin' diffunt from any other thing in the hull airth. i tell ye them four books that gin his story is chock full o' things that go right to the heart o' fishermen,--nets, an' hooks, an' boats, an' the shores, an' the sea, an' the mountings, peter's fishin'-coat, lilies, an' sparrers, an' grass o' the fields, an' all about the evenin' sky bein' red or lowerin', an' fair or foul weather. "it 's an out-doors, woodsy, country story, 'sides bein' the heav'nliest one that was ever telled. i read the hull bible, as a duty ye know. i read the epis'les, but somehow they don't come home to me. paul was a great man, a dreffle smart scholar, but he was raised in the city, i guess, an' when i go from the gospils into paul's writin's it 's like goin' from the woods an' hills an' streams o' francony into the streets of a big city like concord or manch'ster." the old man did not say much of his after life and the fruits of this strange conversion, but his neighbors told us a great deal. they spoke of his unselfishness, his charity, his kindly deeds; told of his visiting the poor and unhappy, nursing the sick. they said the little children loved him, and everyone in the village and for miles around trusted and leaned upon fishin' jimmy. he taught the boys to fish, sometimes the girls too; and while learning to cast and strike, to whip the stream, they drank in knowledge of higher things, and came to know and love jimmy's "fishin' r'liging." i remember they told me of a little french canadian girl, a poor, wretched waif, whose mother, an unknown tramp, had fallen dead in the road near the village. the child, an untamed little heathen, was found clinging to her mother's body in an agony of grief and rage, and fought like a tiger when they tried to take her away. a boy in the little group attracted to the spot, ran away, with a child's faith in his old friend, to summon fishin' jimmy. he came quickly, lifted the little savage tenderly, and carried her away. no one witnessed the taming process, but in a few days the pair were seen together on the margin of black brook, each with a fish-pole. her dark face was bright with interest and excitement as she took her first lesson in the art of angling. she jabbered and chattered in her odd patois, he answered in broadest new england dialect, but the two quite understood each other, and though jimmy said afterward that it was "dreffle to hear her call the fish pois'n," they were soon great friends and comrades. for weeks he kept and cared for the child, and when she left him for a good home in bethlehem, one would scarcely have recognized in the gentle, affectionate girl the wild creature of the past. though often questioned as to the means used to effect this change, jimmy's explanation seemed rather vague and unsatisfactory. "'t was fishin' done it," he said; "on'y fishin'; it allers works. the christian r'liging itself had to begin with fishin', ye know." iii but one thing troubled fishin' jimmy. he wanted to be a "fisher of men." that was what the great teacher had promised he would make the fishermen who left their boats to follow him. what strange, literal meaning he attached to the terms, we could not tell. in vain we--especially the boys, whose young hearts had gone out in warm affection to the old man--tried to show him that he was, by his efforts to do good and make others better and happier, fulfilling the lord's directions. he could not understand it so. "i allers try to think," he said, "that 't was me in that boat when he come along. i make b'l'eve that it was out on streeter pond, an' i was settin' in the boat, fixin' my lan'in' net, when i see him on the shore. i think mebbe i 'm that james--for that's my given name, ye know, though they allers call me jimmy--an' then i hear him callin' me 'james, james.' i can hear him jest 's plain sometimes, when the wind 's blowin' in the trees, an' i jest ache to up an' foller him. but says he, 'i 'll make ye a fisher o' men,' an' he aint done it. i 'm waitin'; mebbe he 'll larn me some day." he was fond of all living creatures, merciful to all. but his love for our dog dash became a passion, for dash was an angler. who that ever saw him sitting in the boat beside his master, watching with eager eye and whole body trembling with excitement the line as it was cast, the flies as they touched the surface--who can forget old dash? his fierce excitement at rise of trout, the efforts at self-restraint, the disappointment if the prey escaped, the wild exultation if it was captured, how plainly--he who runs might read--were shown these emotions in eye, in ear, in tail, in whole quivering body! what wonder that it all went straight to the fisher's heart of jimmy! "i never knowed afore they could be christians," he said, looking, with tears in his soft, keen eyes, at the every-day scene, and with no faintest thought of irreverence. "i never knowed it, but i'd give a stiffikit o' membership in the orthodoxest church goin' to that dog there." it is almost needless to say that as years went on jimmy came to know many "fishin' min'sters;" for there are many of that school who know our mountain country, and seek it yearly. all these knew and loved the old man. and there were others who had wandered by that sea of galilee, and fished in the waters of the holy land, and with them fishin' jimmy dearly loved to talk. but his wonder was never-ending that, in the scheme of evangelizing the world, more use was not made of the "fishin' side" of the story. "haint they ever tried it on them poor heathen?" he would ask earnestly of some clerical angler casting a fly upon the clear water of pond or brook. "i should think 't would 'a' ben the fust thing they 'd done. fishin' fust, an' r'liging 's sure to foller. an' it 's so easy; fur heath'n mostly r'sides on islands, don't they? so ther 's plenty o' water, an' o' course ther 's fishin'; an' oncet gin 'em poles an' git 'em to work, an' they 're out o' mischief fur that day. they 'd like it better 'n cannib'ling, or cuttin' out idles, or scratchin' picters all over theirselves, an' bimeby--not too suddent, ye know, to scare 'em--ye could begin on that story, an' they could n't stan' that, not a heath'n on 'em. won't ye speak to the 'merican board about it, an' sen' out a few fishin' mishneries, with poles an' lines an' tackle gen'ally? i 've tried it on dreffle bad folks, an' it alters done 'em good. but"--so almost all his simple talk ended--"i wish i could begin to be a fisher o' men. i 'm gettin' on now, i 'm nigh seventy, an' i aint got much time, ye see." one afternoon in july there came over franconia notch one of those strangely sudden tempests which sometimes visit that mountain country. it had been warm that day, unusually warm for that refreshingly cool spot; but suddenly the sky grew dark and darker, almost to blackness, there was roll of thunder and flash of lightning, and then poured down the rain--rain at first, but soon hail in large frozen bullets, which fiercely pelted any who ventured outdoors, rattled against the windows of the profile house with sharp cracks like sounds of musketry, and lay upon the piazza in heaps like snow. and in the midst of the wild storm it was remembered that two boys, guests at the hotel, had gone up mount lafayette alone that day. they were young boys, unused to mountain climbing, and their friends were anxious. it was found that dash had followed them; and just as some one was to be sent in search of them, a boy from the stables brought the information that fishin' jimmy had started up the mountain after them as the storm broke. "said if he could n't be a fisher o' men, mebbe he knowed nuff to ketch boys," went on our informant, seeing nothing more in the speech, full of pathetic meaning to us who knew him, than the idle talk of one whom many considered "lackin'." jimmy was old now, and had of late grown very feeble, and we did not like to think of him out in that wild storm. and now suddenly the lost boys themselves appeared through the opening in the woods opposite the house, and ran in through the sleet, now falling more quietly. they were wet, but no worse apparently for their adventure, though full of contrition and distress at having lost sight of the dog. he had rushed off into the woods some hours before, after a rabbit or hedgehog, and had never returned. nor had they seen fishin' jimmy. as hours went by and the old man did not return, a search party was sent out, and guides familiar with the mountain paths went up lafayette to seek for him. it was nearly night when they at last found him, and the grand old mountains had put on those robes of royal purple which they sometimes assume at eventide. at the foot of a mass of rock, which looked like amethyst or wine-red agate in that marvellous evening light, the old man was lying, and dash was with him. from the few faint words jimmy could then gasp out, the truth was gathered. he had missed the boys, leaving the path by which they had returned, and while stumbling along in search of them, feeble and weary, he had heard far below a sound of distress. looking down over a steep, rocky ledge, he had seen his friend and fishing comrade, old dash, in sore trouble. poor dash! he never dreamed of harming his old friend, for he had a kind heart. but he was a sad coward in some matters, and a very baby when frightened and away from master and friends. so i fear he may have assumed the role of wounded sufferer when in reality he was but scared and lonesome. he never owned this afterward, and you may be sure we never let him know, by word or look, the evil he had done. jimmy saw him holding up one paw helplessly, and looking at him with wistful, imploring brown eyes, heard his pitiful whimpering cry for aid, and never doubted his great distress and peril. was dash not a fisherman? and fishermen, in fishin' jimmy's category, were always true and trusty. so the old man without a second's hesitation started down the steep, smooth decline to the rescue of his friend. we do not know just how or where in that terrible descent he fell. to us who afterward saw the spot, and thought of the weak old man, chilled by the storm, exhausted by his exertions, and yet clambering down that precipitous cliff, made more slippery and treacherous by the sleet and hail still falling, it seemed impossible that he could have kept a foothold for an instant. nor am i sure that he expected to save himself, and dash too. but he tried. he was sadly hurt, i will not tell you of that. looking out from the hotel windows through the gathering darkness, we who loved him--it was not a small group--saw a sorrowful sight. flickering lights thrown by the lanterns of the guides came through the woods. across the road, slowly, carefully, came strong men, bearing on a rough hastily made litter of boughs the dear old man. all that could have been done for the most distinguished guest, for the dearest, best-beloved friend, was done for the gentle fisherman. we, his friends, and proud to style ourselves thus, were of different, widely separated lands, greatly varying creeds. some were nearly as old as the dying man, some in the prime of manhood. there were youths and maidens and little children. but through the night we watched together. the old roman bishop, whose calm, benign face we all know and love; the churchman, ascetic in faith, but with the kindest, most indulgent heart when one finds it; the gentle old quakeress with placid, unwrinkled brow and silvery hair; presbyterian, methodist, and baptist,--we were all one that night. the old angler did not suffer--we were so glad of that! but he did not appear to know us, and his talk seemed strange. it rambled on quietly, softly, like one of his own mountain brooks, babbling of green fields, of sunny summer days, of his favorite sport, and ah! of other things. but he was not speaking to us. a sudden, awed hush and thrill came over us as, bending to catch the low words, we all at once understood what only the bishop put into words as he said, half to himself, in a sudden, quick, broken whisper, "god bless the man, he 's talking to his master!" "yes. sir, that 's so," went on the quiet voice; "'t was on'y a dog sure nuff; 'twa'n't even a boy, as ye say, an' ye ast me to be a fisher o' men. but i haint had no chance for that, somehow; mebbe i wa'n't fit for 't. i 'm on'y jest a poor old fisherman, fishin' jimmy, ye know, sir. ye useter call me james--no one else ever done it. on'y a dog? but he wa'n't jest a common dog, sir; he was a fishin' dog. i never seed a man love fishin' mor 'n dash." the dog was in the room, and heard his name. stealing to the bedside, he put a cold nose into the cold hand of his old friend, and no one had the heart to take him away. the touch turned the current of the old man's talk for a moment, and he was fishing again with his dog friend. "see 'em break, dashy! see 'em break! lots on 'em to-day, aint they? keep still, there 's a good dog, while i put on a diffunt fly. don't ye see they 're jumpin' at them gnats? aint the water jest 'live with 'em? aint it shinin' an' clear an'--" the voice faltered an instant, then went on: "yes, sir, i 'm comin'--i 'm glad, dreffle glad to come. don't mind 'bout my leavin' my fishin'; do ye think i care 'bout that? i 'll jest lay down my pole ahin' the alders here, an' put my lan'in' net on the stuns, with my flies an' tackle--the boys 'll like 'em, ye know--an' i 'll be right along. "i mos' knowed ye was on'y a-tryin' me when ye said that 'bout how i had n't been a fisher o' men, nor even boys, on'y a dog. 't was a--fishin' dog--ye know--an' ye was allers dreffle good to fishermen,--dreffle good to--everybody; died--for 'em, did n't ye?-- "please wait--on--the bank there, a minnit; i 'm comin' 'crost. water 's pretty--cold this--spring--an' the stream 's risin'--but--i--can--do it;--don't ye mind--'bout me, sir. i 'll get acrost." once more the voice ceased, and we thought we should not hear it again this side that stream. but suddenly a strange light came over the thin face, the soft gray eyes opened wide, and he cried out, with the strong voice we had so often heard come ringing out to us across the mountain streams above the sound of their rushing: "here i be, sir! it 's fishin' jimmy, ye know, from francony way; him ye useter call james when ye come 'long the shore o' the pond an' i was a-fishin.' i heern ye agin, jest now--an' i--straightway--f'sook--my--nets--an'--follered--" had the voice ceased utterly? no, we could catch faint, low murmurs and the lips still moved. but the words were not for us; and we did not know when he reached the other bank. distributed proofreaders, from images generously made available by the canadian institute for historical microreproductions. a knight of the nets by amelia e. barr contents. chapter i the world she lived in. ii christina and andrew. iii the ailing heart. iv the lash of the whip. v the lost bride. vi where is my money? vii the beginning of the end. viii a great deliverance. ix the righting of a wrong. x take me in to die. xi driven to his duty. xii among her own people. xiii the "little sophy". _grey sky, brown waters: as a bird that flies my heart flits forth to these; back to the winter rose of northern skies, back to the northern seas_. chapter i the world she lived in it would be easy to walk many a time through "fife and all the lands about it" and never once find the little fishing village of pittendurie. indeed, it would be a singular thing if it was found, unless some special business or direction led to it. for clearly it was never intended that human beings should build homes where these cottages cling together, between sea and sky,--a few here, and a few there, hidden away in every bend of the rocks where a little ground could be levelled, so that the tides in stormy weather break with threat and fury on the very doorstones of the lowest cottages. yet as the lofty semicircle of hills bend inward, the sea follows; and there is a fair harbour, where the fishing boats ride together while their sails dry in the afternoon sun. then the hamlet is very still; for the men are sleeping off the weariness of their night work, while the children play quietly among the tangle, and the women mend the nets or bait the lines for the next fishing. a lonely little spot, shut in by sea and land, and yet life is there in all its passionate variety--love and hate, jealousy and avarice, youth, with its ideal sorrows and infinite expectations, age, with its memories and regrets, and "sure and certain hope." the cottages also have their individualities. although they are much of the same size and pattern, an observing eye would have picked out the binnie cottage as distinctive and prepossessing. its outside walls were as white as lime could make them; its small windows brightened with geraniums and a white muslin curtain; and the litter of ropes and nets and drying fish which encumbered the majority of thatches, was pleasantly absent. standing on a little level, thirty feet above the shingle, it faced the open sea, and was constantly filled with the confused tones of its sighing surges, and penetrated by its pulsating, tremendous vitality. it had been the home of many generations of binnies, and the very old, and the very young, had usually shared its comforts together; but at the time of my story, there remained of the family only the widow of the last proprietor, her son andrew, and her daughter christina. christina was twenty years old, and still unmarried,--a strange thing in pittendurie, where early marriages are the rule. some said she was vain of her beauty and could find no lad whom she thought good enough; others thought she was a selfish, cold-hearted girl, feared for the cares and the labours of a fisherman's wife. on this july afternoon, the girl had been some hours mending the pile of nets at her feet; but at length they were in perfect order, and she threw her arms upward and outward to relieve their weariness, and then went to the open door. the tide was coming in, but the children were still paddling in the salt pools and on the cold bladder rack, and she stepped forward to the edge of the cliff, and threw them some wild geranium and ragwort. then she stood motionless in the bright sunlight, looking down the shingle towards the pier and the little tavern, from which came, in drowsy tones, the rough monotonous songs which seamen delight to sing--songs, full of the complaining of the sea, interpreted by the hoarse, melancholy voices of sea faring men. standing thus in the clear light, her great beauty was not to be denied. she was tall and not too slender; and at this moment, the set of her head was like that of a thoroughbred horse, when it pricks its ears to listen. she had soft brown eyes, with long lashes and heavy eyebrows--eyes, reflecting the lances of light that darted in and out of the shifting clouds--an open air complexion, dazzling, even teeth, an abundance of dark, rippling hair, and a flush of ardent life opening her wide nostrils, and stirring gently the exquisite mould of her throat and bust. the moral impression she gave was that of a pure, strong, compassionate woman; cool-headed, but not cold; capable of vigorous joys and griefs. after a few minutes' investigation, she went back to the cottage, and stood in the open doorway, with her head leaning against the lintel. her mother had begun to prepare the evening meal; fresh fish were frying on the fire, and the oat cakes toasting before it. yet, as she moved rapidly about, she was watching her daughter and very soon she gave words to the thoughts troubling and perplexing her motherly speculations. "christina," she said, "you'll not require to be looking for andrew. the lad is ben the house; he has been asleep ever since he eat his dinner." "i know that, mother." "well then, if it is jamie logan, let me tell you it is a poor business. i have a fear and an inward down-sinking anent that young man." "perfect nonsense, mother! there is nothing to fear you about jamie." "what good ever came through folk saved from the sea? tell me that, christina! they bring sorrow back with them. that is a fact none will deny." "what could andrew do but save the lad?" "why was the lad running before such a sea? he should have got into harbour; there was time enough. and if it was andrew's duty to save him, it is not your duty to be loving him. you may take that much sense from me, anyway." "_whist, mother_! he has not said a word of love to me." "he perfectly changes colours every time he sees you, and why so, if it be not for love of you? i am not liking the look of the thing, christina, and your brother is not liking it; and if you don't take care of yourself, you'll be in a burning fever of first love, and beyond all reasoning. even now, you are making yourself a speculation to the whole village." "jamie is a straight-forward lad. i'm thinking he would lay his life down for me." "i thought he had not said a word of love to you." "a girl knows some things that are not told her." "very fine; but it will not be the fashion now to lie down and die for annie laurie, or any other lass. a young man who wants a wife must bustle around and get siller to keep her with. getting married, these days is not a thing to make a song about. you are but a young thing yet, christina, and you have much to learn." "would you not like to be young again, mother?" "no, i would not! i would not risk it. besides, it would be going back; and i want to go forward and upward. but you need not try to turn the talk from jamie logan that way. i'll say again what i said before, you will be in a fever of first love, and not to be reasoned with, if you don't take care of yourself." the girl flushed hotly, came into the house, and began to re-arrange the teacups with a nervous haste; for she heard jamie's steps on the rocky road, and his voice, clear as a blackbird's, whistling gayly "in the bay of biscay o!" "the teacups are all right, christina. i am talking anent jamie logan. the lad is just a temptation to you; and you will require to ask for strength to be kept out of temptation; for the lord knows, the best of us don't expect strength to resist it." christina turned her face to her mother, and then left her answer to jamie logan. for he came in at the moment with a little tartan shawl in his hand, which he gallantly threw across the shoulders of mistress binnie. "i have just bought it from a peddler loon," he said. "it is bonnie and soft, and it sets you well, and i hope you will pleasure me by wearing it." his face was so bright, his manner so charming, that it was impossible for janet binnie to resist him. "you are a fleeching, flattering laddie," she answered; but she stroked and fingered the gay kerchief, while christina made her observe how bright were the colours of it, and how neatly the soft folds fell around her. then the door of the inner room opened, and andrew came sleepily out. "the fish is burning," he said, "and the oat cakes too; for i am smelling them ben the house;" and janet ran to her fireside, and hastily turned her herring and cakes. "i'm feared you won't think much of your meat to-night," she said regretfully; "the tea is fairly ruined." "never mind the meat, mother," said andrew. "we don't live to eat." "never mind the meat, indeed! what perfect nonsense! there is something wrong with folk that don't mind their meat." "well then, you shouldn't be so vain of yourself, mother. you were preening like a young girl when i first got sight of you--and the meat taking care of itself." "me, vain! no! no! nobody that knows janet binnie can ever say she is vain. i wot well that i am a frail, miserable creature, with little need of being vain, either for myself or my children. you are a great hand at arguing, andrew, but you are always in the wrong. but draw to the table and eat. i'll warrant the fish will prove better than it is bonnie." they sat down with a pleasant content that soon broadened into mirth and laughter, as jamie logan began to tell and to show how the peddler lad had fleeched and flethered the fisher wives out of their bawbees; adding at the last "that he could not come within sight of their fine words, they were that civil to him." "senselessly civil, no doubt of it," answered janet. "a peddler aye gives the whole village a fit of the liberalities. the like of jean robertson spending a crown on him! foolish woman, the words are not to seek that she'll get from me in the morning." then jamie took a letter from his pocket, and showed it to andrew binnie. "robert toddy brought it this morning," he said, "and, as you may see, it is from the firm of henderson brothers, glasgow; and they say there will be a berth for me very soon now in one of their ships. and their boats are good, and their captains good, and there is chances for a fine sailor on that line. i may be a captain myself one of these days!" and he laughed so gayly, and looked so bravely into the face of such a bold idea, that he persuaded every one else to expect it for him. janet pulled her new shawl a little closer and smiled, and her thought was: "after all, christina may wait longer, and fare worse; for she is turned twenty." yet she showed a little reserve as she asked:-- "are you then glasgow-born, jamie?" "me! glasgow-born! what are you thinking of? i am from the auld east neuk; and i am glad and proud of being a fifer. all my common sense comes from fife. there is none loves the 'kingdom' more than i, jamie logan. we are all fife together. i thought you knew it." at these words there was a momentary shadow across the door, and a little lassie slipped in; and when she did so, all put down their cups to welcome her. andrew reddened to the roots of his hair, his eyes filled with light, a tender smile softened his firm mouth, and he put out his hand and drew the girl to the chair which christina had pushed close to his own. "you are welcome, and more than welcome, sophy," said the mistress; but for all that, she gave sophy a glance in which there was much speculation not unmixed, with fear and disapproval. for it was easy to see that andrew binnie loved her, and that she was not at all like him, nor yet like any of the fisher-girls of pittendurie. sophy, however, was not responsible for this difference; for early orphanage had placed her in the care of an aunt who carried on a dress and bonnet making business in largo, and she had turned the little fisher-maid into a girl after her own heart and wishes. sophy, indeed, came frequently to visit her people in pittendurie; but she had gradually grown less and less like them, and there was no wonder mistress binnie asked herself fearfully, "what kind of a wife at all sophy would make for a fife fisherman?" she was so small and genty, she had such a lovely face, such fair rippling hair, and her gown was of blue muslin made in the fashion of the day, and finished with a lace collar round her throat, and a ribbon belt round her slender waist. "a bonnie lass for a carriage and pair," thought janet binnie; "but whatever will she do with the creel and the nets? not to speak of the bairns and the housework?" andrew was too much in love to consider these questions. when he was six years old, he had carried sophy in his arms all day long; when he was twelve, they had paddled on the sands, and fished, and played, and learned their lessons together. she had promised then to be his wife as soon as he had a house and a boat of his own; and never for one moment since had andrew doubted the validity and certainty of this promise. to andrew, and to andrew's family, and to the whole village of pittendurie, the marriage of andrew binnie and sophy traill was a fact beyond disputing. some said "it was the right thing," and more said "it was the foolish thing," and among the latter was andrew's mother; though as yet she had said it very cautiously to andrew, whom she regarded as "clean daft and senselessly touchy about the girl." but she sent the young people out of the house while she redd up the disorder made by the evening meal; though, as she wiped her teacups, she went frequently to the little window, and looked at the four sitting together on the bit of turf which carpeted the top of the cliff before the cottage. andrew, as a privileged lover, held sophy's hand; christina sat next her brother, and facing jamie logan, so it was easy to see how her face kindled, and her manner softened to the charm of his merry conversation, his snatches of breezy sea-song, and his clever bits of mimicry. and as janet walked to and fro, setting her cups and plates in the rack, and putting in place the tables and chairs she did what we might all do more frequently and be the wiser for it--she talked to herself, to the real woman within her, and thus got to the bottom of things. in less than an hour there began to be a movement about the pier, and then andrew and jamie went away to their night's work; and the girls sat still and watched the men across the level sands, and the boats hurrying out to the fishing grounds. then they went back to the cottage, and found that mistress binnie had taken her knitting and gone to chat with a crony who lived higher up the cliff. "we are alone, sophy" said christina; "but women folk are often that." she spoke a little sadly, the sweet melancholy of conscious, but unacknowledged love being heavy in her heart, and she would not have been sorry, had she been quite alone with her vaguely happy dreams. neither of the girls was inclined to talk, but christina wondered at sophy's silence, for she had been unusually merry while the young men were present. now she sat quiet on the door step, clasping her left knee with little white hands that had no sign of labour on them but the mark of the needle on the left forefinger. at her side, christina stood, her tall straight figure fittingly clad in a striped blue and white linsey petticoat, and a little josey of lilac print, cut low enough to show the white, firm throat above it. her fine face radiated thought and feeling; she was on the verge of that experience which glorifies the simplest life. the exquisite glooming, the tender sky, the full heaving sea, were all in sweetest sympathy; they were sufficient; and sophy's thin, fretful voice broke the charm and almost offended her. "it is a weary life, christina. how do you thole it?" "you are just talking, sophy. you were happy enough half an hour since." "i wasn't happy at all." "you let on like you were. i should think you would be as fear'd to act a lie, as to tell one." "i'll be going away from pittendurie in the morning." "what for?" "i have my reasons." "no doubt you have a 'because' of your own. but what will andrew say? he is not expecting you to leave to-morrow." "i don't care what andrew says." "sophy traill!" "i don't. andrew binnie is not the whole of life to me." "whatever is the matter with you?" "nothing." then there was a pause, and christina's thoughts flew seaward. in a few minutes, however, sophy began talking again. "do you go often into largo, christina?" she asked. "whiles, i take myself that far. you may count me up for the last year; for i sought you every time." "ay! do you mind on the road a real grand house, fine and old, with a beautiful garden and peacocks in it--trailing their long feathers over the grass and gravel?" "you will be meaning braelands? folks could not miss the place, even if they tried to." "well then, did you ever notice a young man around? he is always dressed for the saddle, or else he is in the saddle, and so most sure to have a whip in his hand." "what are you talking about? what is the young man to you?" "he is brawly handsome. they call him archie braelands." "i have heard tell of him. and by what is said, i should not think he was an improving friend for any good girl to have." "this, or that, he likes me. he likes me beyond everything." "do you know what you are saying, sophy traill?" "i do, fine." "are you liking him?" "it would not be hard to do." "has he ever spoke to you?" "well, he is not as shy as a fisher-lad. i find him in my way when i'm not thinking. and see here, christina; i got a letter from him this afternoon. a real love letter! such lovely words! they are like poetry; they are as sweet as singing." "did you tell andrew this?" "why would i do that?" "you are a false little cutty, then. i would tell andrew myself, but i am loath to hurt his true heart. now you are to let archie braelands alone, or i will know the reason why." "preserve us all! what a blazing passion for nothing at all! can't a lassie chat with a lad for a half hour without calling a court of sessions about it?" and she rose and shook out her dress, saying with an air of offence:-- "you may tell andrew, if you like to. it would be a very poor thing if a girl is to be miscalled every time a man told her she was pretty." "i'm not saying any woman can help men making fools of themselves; but you should have told braelands that you were all the same as married, being promised so long to andrew binnie. and you ought to have told andrew about the letter." "everybody can't live in pittendurie, christina. and if you live with a town full of folk, you cannot go up and down, saying to every man you meet, 'please, sir, i have a lad of my own, and you are not to cast a look at me, for andrew binnie would not like it." "hold your tongue, sophy, or else know what you are yattering about. i would think shame to talk so scornful of the man i was going to marry." "you can let it go for a passing remark. and if i have said anything to vex you, we are old friends, christina, and it is not a lad that will part us. sophy requires a deal of forgiving." "she does," said christina with a smile; "so i just forgive her as i go along, for she is still doing something out of the way. but you must not treat andrew ill. i could not love you, sophy, if you did the like of that. and you must always tell me everything about yourself, and then nothing will go far wrong." "even that. i am not given to lying unless it is worth my while. i'll tell you aught there is to tell. and there is a kiss for andrew, and you may say to him that i would have told him i was going back to largo in the morning, only that i cannot bear to see him unhappy. that a message to set him on the mast-head of pride and pleasure." "i will give andrew the kiss and the message, sophy. and you take my advice, and keep yourself clear of that young braelands. i am particular about my own good name, and i mean to be particular about yours." "i have had your advice already, christina." "well, this is a forgetful world, so i just mention the fact again." "all the same, you might remember, christina, that there was once a woman who got rich by minding her own business;" and with a laugh, the girl tied her bonnet under her chin, and went swiftly down the cliff towards the village. chapter ii christina and andrew this confidence greatly troubled christina; and as sophy crossed the sands and vanished into the shadows beyond, a strange, sad presentiment of calamity oppressed her heart. being herself in the enthusiasm of a first love, she could not conceive such treachery possible as sophy's word seemed to imply. the girl had always been petted, and yet discontented with her situation; and had often made complaints which had no real foundation, and which in brighter moods she was likely to repudiate. and this night andrew, instead of her aunt kilgour, was the object of her dissatisfaction--that would be all. to-morrow she would be complaining to andrew of her aunt's hard treatment of her, and andrew would be whispering of future happiness in her ears. upon the whole, therefore, christina thought it would be cruel and foolish to tell her brother a word of what sophy had said. why should she disturb his serene faith in the girl so dear to him, until there was some more evident reason to do so? he was, as his mother said, "very touchy" about sophy, being well aware that the village did not approve of the changes in her dress, and of those little reluctances and reserves in her behaviour, which had sprung up inevitably amid the refinements and wider acquaintances of town life. "and so many things happen as the clock goes round," she thought. "braelands may say or do something that will put him out of favour. or he may take himself off to a foreign country--he is gey fond of france and germany too--and goodness knows he will never be missed in fifeshire. or _them behind_ may sort what flesh and blood cannot manage; so i will keep a close mouth anent the matter. one may think what one dare not say; for words, once spoken, cannot be wiped out with a sponge--and more's the pity!" christina had also reached a crisis in her own life,--a crisis so important, that it quite excused the apparent readiness with which she dismissed sophy's strange confidence. for the feeling between jamie logan and herself had grown to expression, and she was well aware that what had hitherto been in a large measure secret and private to themselves, had this night become evident to others. and she was not sure how jamie would be received. andrew had saved his life in a sudden storm, and brought him to the binnie cottage until he should be able to return to his own place. but instead of going away, he had hired his time for the herring season to a pittendurie fisherman; and every spare hour had found him at the binnie cottage, wooing the handsome christina. the village was not unanimously in his favour. no one could say anything against jamie logan; but he was a stranger, and that fact was hard to get over. a man must serve a very strict and long probation to be adopted into a fife fishing community, and it was considered "very upsetting" for an unkent man to be looking up to the like of christina binnie,--a lass whose forbears had been in pittendurie beyond the memory or the tradition of its inhabitants. janet also was not quite satisfied; and christina knew this. she expected her daughter to marry a fisherman, but at least one who owned his share in a good boat, and who had a house to take a wife to. this strange lad was handsome and good-tempered; but, as she reflected, and not unfrequently said, "good looks and a laugh and a song, are not things to lippen to for housekeeping." so, on the whole, christina had just the same doubts and anxieties as might trouble a fine lady of family and wealth, who had fallen in love with some handsome fellow whom her relatives were uncertain about favouring. a week after sophy's visit, however, jamie found the unconquerable hour in which every true love comes to its blossoming. it was the sabbath night, and a great peace was over the village. the men sat at their doors talking in monosyllables to their wives and mates; the children were asleep; and the full ocean breaking and tinkling upon the shingly coast. they had been at kirk together in the afternoon, and jamie had taken tea with the binnies after the service. then andrew had gone to see sophy, and janet to help a neighbour with a sick husband; so jamie, left with christina, had seized gladly his opportunity to teach her the secret of her own heart. sitting on the lonely rocks, with the moonlit sea at their feet, they had confessed to each other how sweet it was to love. and the plans growing out of this confession, though humble enough, were full of strange hope and happy dreaming to christina. for jamie had begged her to become his wife as soon as he got his promised berth on the great scotch line, and this event would compel her to leave pittendurie and make her home in glasgow,--two facts, simply stupendous to the fisher-girl, who had never been twenty miles from her home, and to whom all life outside the elementary customs of pittendurie was wonderful and a little frightsome. but she put her hand in jamie's hand, and felt his love sufficient for whatever love might bring or demand. any spot on earth would be heaven to her with him, and for him; and she told him so, and was answered as women love to be answered, with a kiss that was the sweetness and confidence of all vows and promises. among these simple, straight-forward people, there are no secrecies in love affairs; and the first thing jamie did was to return to the cottage with christina to make known the engagement they had entered into. they met andrew on the sands. he had been disappointed. sophy had gone out with a friend, and her aunt had seemed annoyed and had not asked him to wait. he was counting up in his mind how often this thing had happened lately, and was conscious of an unhappy sense of doubt and unkindness which was entirely new to him. but when christina stepped to his side, and jamie said frankly, "andrew, your dear sweet sister loves me, and has promised to be my wife, and i hope you will give us the love and favour we are seeking," andrew looked tenderly into his sister's face, and their smiles met and seemed to kiss each other. and he took her hand between his own hands, and then put it into jamie's. "you shall be a brother to me, jamie," he said; "and we will stand together always, for the sake of our bonnie christina." and jamie could not speak for happiness; but the three went forward with shining eyes and linked hands, and andrew forgot his own fret and disappointment, in the joy of his sister's betrothal. janet came home as they sat in the moonlight outside the cottage. "come into the house," she cried, with a pretense of anger. "it is high time for folk who have honest work for the morn to be sleeping. what hour will you get to the week's work, i wonder, christina? if i leave the fireside for a minute or two, everything stops but daffing till i get back again. what for are you sitting so late?" "there is a good reason, mother!" said andrew, as he rose and with jamie and christina went into the cottage. "here is our christina been trysting herself to jamie, and i have been giving them some good advice." "good advice!" laughed janet. "between you and jamie logan, it is the blind leading the blind, and nothing better. one would think there was no other duty in life than trysting and marrying. i have just heard tell of flora thompson and george buchan, and now it is christina binnie and jamie logan. the world is given up, i think, to this weary lad and lass business." but janet's words belied her voice and her benign face. she was really one of those delightful women who are "easily persuaded," and who readily accept whatever is, as right. for she had naturally one of the healthiest of human souls; besides which, years had brought her that tender sagacity and gentleness, which does not often come until the head is gray and the brow furrowed. so, though her words were fretful, they were negatived by her beaming smile, and by the motherly fashion in which she drew christina to her side and held out her hand to jamie. "you are a pair of foolish bairns," she said; "and you little know what will betide you both." "nothing but love and happiness, mother," answered jamie. "well, well! look for good, and have good. i will not be one to ask after evil for you. but mind one thing, jamie, you are marrying a woman, and not an angel. and, christina, if you trust to any man, don't expect over much of him; the very best of them will stumble once in a while." then she drew forward the table, and put on the kettle and brewed some toddy, and set it out with toasted cake and cheese, and so drank, with cheerful moderation, to the health and happiness of the newly-promised lovers. and afterwards "the books" were opened, and andrew, who was the priest of the family, asked the blessing of the infinite one on all its relationships. then the happiness that had been full of smiles and words became too deep for such expression, and they clasped hands and kissed each other "good night" in a silence, that was too sweetly solemn and full of feeling for the translation of mere language. before the morning light, mistress binnie had fully persuaded herself that christina was going to make an unusually prosperous marriage. all her doubts had fled. jamie had spoken out like a man, he had the best of prospects, and the wedding was likely to be something beyond a simple fisherman's bridal. she could hardly wait until the day's work was over, and the evening far enough advanced for a gossiping call on her crony, marget roy. last night she had fancied marget told her of flora thompson's betrothal with an air of pity for christina; there was now a delightful retaliation in her power. but she put on an expression of dignified resignation, rather than one of pleasure, when she made known the fact of christina's approaching marriage. "i am glad to hear tell of it," said marget frankly. "christina will make a good wife, and she will keep a tidy house, i'll warrant her." "she will, marget. and it is a very important thing; far more so than folks sometimes think. you may put godliness into a woman after she is a wife, but you can not put cleanliness; it will have to be born in her." "and so jamie logan is to have a berth from the hendersons? that is far beyond a place in lowrie's herring boats." "i'm thinking he just stopped with lowrie for the sake of being near-by to christina. a lad like him need not have spent good time like that." "well, janet, it is a good thing for your christina, and i am glad of it." "it is;" answered janet, with a sigh and a smile. "the lad is sure to get on; and he's a respectable lad--a fifer from kirkcaldy--handsome and well-spoken of; and i am thinking the _line_ has a big bargain in him, and is proud of it. still, i'm feared for my lassie, in such an awful, big, wicked-like town as glasgow." "she'll not require to take the whole town in. she will have her bible, and her kirk, and her own man. there is nothing to fear you. christina has her five senses." "no doubt. and she is to have a floor of her own and all things convenient; so there is comfort and safety in the like of that." "what for are you worrying yourself then?" "there's contingencies, marget,--contingencies. and you know christina is my one lassie, and i am sore to lose her. but 'lack a day! we cannot stop the clock. and marriage is like death--it is what we must all come to." "well janet, your christina has been long spared from it. she'll be past twenty, i'm thinking." "christina has had her offers, marget. but what will you? we must all wait for the right man, or go to the de'il with the wrong one." thus the conversation went on, until janet had exhausted all the advantages and possibilities that were incident to christina's good fortune. and perhaps it was out of a little feeling of weariness of the theme, that marget finally reminded her friend that she would be "lonely enough wanting her daughter," adding, "i was hearing too, that andrew is not to be kept single much longer; and it will be what no one expects if sophy traill ever fills christina's shoes." "sophy is well enough," answered janet with a touch of pride. "she suits andrew, and it is andrew that has to live with her." "and you too, janet?" "not i! andrew is to build his own bigging. i have the life rent of mine. but i shall be a deal in glasgow myself. jamie has his heart fairly set on that." she made this statement with an air of prideful satisfaction that was irritating to mistress roy; and she was not inclined to let janet enter anew into a description of all the fine sights she was to see, the grand guns of preachers she was to hear, and the trips to greenock and rothesay, which jamie said "would just fall naturally in the way of their ordinary life." so marget showed such a hurry about her household affairs as made janet uncomfortable, and she rose with a little offence and said abruptly:-- "i must be going. i have the kirkyard to pass; and between the day and the dark it is but a mournful spot." "it is that," answered marget. "folks should not be on the road when the bodiless walk. they might be in their way, and so get ill to themselves." "then good night, and good befall you;" but in spite of the benediction, janet felt nettled at her friend's sudden lack of interest. "it was a spat of envy no doubt," she thought; "but lord's sake! envy is the most insinuating vice of the lot of them. it cannot behave itself for an hour at a time. but i'm not caring! it is better to be envied than pitied." these reflections kept away the thought and fear of the "bodiless," and she passed the kirkyard without being mindful of their proximity; the coming wedding, and the inevitable changes it would bring, filling her heart with all kinds of maternal anxieties, which in solitude would not be put aside for all the promised pride and _eclat_ of the event. as she approached the cottage, she met jamie and christina coming down the cliff-side together, and she cried, "is that you, jamie?" "as far as i know, it's myself, mother," answered jamie. "then turn back, and i'll get you a mouthful of bread and cheese. you'll be wanting it, no doubt; for love is but cold porridge to a man that has to pull on the nets all night." "you have spoken the day after the fair, mother," answered jamie. "christina has looked well to me, and i am bound for the boats." "well, well, your way be it." then christina turned back with her mother, and they went silently back to the cottage, their hearts being busy with the new hopes and happiness that had come into their hitherto uneventful lives. but reticence between this mother and daughter was not long possible; they were too much one to have reserves; and neither being sleepy, they soon began to talk over again what they had discussed a hundred times before--the wedding dress, and the wedding feast, and the napery and plenishing christina was to have for her own home. they sat on the hearth, before the bit of fire which was always necessary in that exposed and windy situation; but the door stood open, and the moon filled the little room with its placid and confidential light. so it is no wonder, as they sat talking and vaguely wondering at andrew's absence, christina should tell her mother what sophy had said about archie braelands. janet listened with a dour face. for a moment she was glad; then she lifted the poker, and struck a block of coal into a score of pieces, and with the blow scattered the unkind, selfish thoughts which had sprung up in her heart. "it is what i expected," she answered. "just what i expected, christina. a lassie dressed up in muslin, and ribbons, and artificial roses, isn't the kind of a wife a fisherman wants--and sooner or later, like goes to like. i am not blaming sophy. she has tried hard to be faithful to andrew, but what then? nothing happens for nothing; and it will be a good thing for andrew if sophy leaves him; a good thing for sophy too, i'm thinking; and better _is_ better, whatever comes or goes." "but andrew will fret himself sorely." "he will; no doubt of that. but andrew has a good heart, and a good heart breaks bad fortune. say nothing at all to him. he is wise enough to guide himself; though god knows! even the wisest of men will have a fool in his sleeve sometimes." "would there be any good in a word of warning? just to prepare him for the sorrow that is on the road." "there would be no sense in the like of it. if andrew is to get the fling and the buffet, he will take it better from sophy than from any other body. let be, christina. and maybe things will take a turn for the dear lad yet. hope for it anyhow. hope is as cheap as despair." "folks will be talking anon." "they are talking already. do you think that i did not hear all this clash and clavers before? lucky sims, and marget roy, and every fish-wife in pittendurie, know both the beginning and the end of it. they have seen this, and they have heard that, and they think the very worst that can be; you may be sure of that." "i'm thinking no wrong of sophy." "nor i. the first calamity is to be born a woman; it sets the door open for every other sorrow--and the more so, if the poor lassie is bonnie and alone in the world. sophy is not to blame; it is andrew that is in the fault." "how can you say such a thing as that, mother?" "i'll tell you how. andrew has been that set on having a house for his wife, that he has just lost the wife while he was saving the siller for the house. i have told him, and better told him to bring sophy here; but nothing but having her all to himself will he hear tell of. it is pure, wicked selfishness in the lad! he simply cannot thole her to give look or word to any one but himself. perfect scand'lous selfishness! that is where all the trouble has come from." "_whist, mother_! he is most at the doorstep. that is andrew's foot, or i am much mista'en." "then i'll away to lizzie robertson's for an hour. my heart is knocking at my lips, and i'll be saying what i would give my last bawbee to unsay. keep a calm sough, christina." "you need not tell me that, mother." "just let andrew do the talking, and you'll be all right. it is easy to put him out about sophy, and then to come to words. better keep peace than make peace." she lifted the stocking she was knitting, and passed out of one door as andrew came in at the other. he entered with that air of strength and capability so dear to the women of a household. he had on his kirk suit, and christina thought, as he sat down by the open window, how much handsomer he looked in his blue guernsey and fishing cap. "you'll be needing a mouthful and a cup of tea, andrew?" she asked. andrew shook his head and answered pleasantly, "not i, christina. i had my tea with sophy. where is mother?" "she is gone to lizzie robertson's for an hour. her man is yet very badly off. she said she would sit with him till the night turned. lizzie is most worn out, i'm sure, by this time." "where is jamie?" "he said he was going to the fishing. he will have caught his boat, or he would have been back here again by this hour." "then we are alone? and like to be for an hour? eh, christina?" "there will be no one here till mother comes at the turn of the night. what for are you asking the like of them questions, andrew?" "because i have been seeking this hour. i have things to tell you, christina, that must never go beyond yourself; no, not even to mother, unless the time comes for it. i am not going to ask you to give me your word or promise. you are christina binnie, and that is enough." "i should say so. the man or woman who promises with an oath is not to be trusted. there is you and me, and god for our witness. what ever you have to say, the hearer and the witness is sufficient." "i know that. christina, i have been this day to edinburgh, and i have brought home from the bank six hundred pounds." "six hundred pounds, andrew! it is not believable." "_whist, woman!_ i have six hundred pounds in my breast pocket, and i have siller in the house beside. i have sold my share in the '_sure-giver_,' and i have been saving money ever since i put on my first sea-boots." "i have always thought that saving money was your great fault, andrew." "i know. i know it myself only too well. many's the sabbath day i have been only a bawbee christian, when i ought to have put a shilling in the plate. but i just could not help it." "yes, you could." "tell me how, then." "just try and believe that you are putting your collection into the hand of god almighty, and not into a siller plate. then you will put the shilling down and not the bawbee." "perhaps. the thought is not a new one to me, and often i have forced myself to give a white shilling instead of a penny-bit at the kirk door, just to get the better of the de'il once in a while. but for all that i know right well that saving siller is my besetting sin. however, i have been saving for a purpose, and now i am most ready to take the desire of my heart." "it is a good desire; i am sure of that, andrew." "i think it is; a very good one. what do you say to this? i am going to put all my siller in a carrying steamer--one of the red-white fleet. and more to it. i am to be skipper, and sail her from the north sea to london." "will she be a big boat, andrew?" "she will carry three thousand 'trunks' of fish in her ice chambers. what do you think of that?" "i am perfectly dazzled and dumbfoundered with the thought of it. you will be a man of some weight in the world, when that comes to pass." "i will be captain binnie, of the north sea fleet, and sophy will have reason enough for her muslins, and ribbons, and trinkum-trankums--god bless her!" "you are a far forecasting man, andrew." "i have been able to clear my day and my way, by the help of providence, so far," said andrew, with a pious reservation; "just as my decent kirk-going father was before me. but that is neither here nor there, and please god, this will be a monumental year in my life." "it will that. to get the ship and the wife you want, within its twelve bounds, is a blessing beyond ordinary. i am proud to hear tell of such good fortune coming your way, andrew." "ay; i knew you would. but i have the siller, and i have the skill, and why shouldn't i lift myself a bit?" "and sophy with you? sophy will be an ornament to any place you lift her to. and you may come to own a fishing fleet yourself some day, andrew!" "i am thinking of it," he answered, with the air of a man who feels himself master of his destiny. "but come ben the house with me, christina. i have something to show you." so they went together into an inner room, and andrew moved aside a heavy chest of drawers which stood against the wall. then he lifted a short plank beneath them, and putting his arm far under the flooring, he pulled forth a tin box. the key to it was in the leather purse in his breast pocket, and there was a little tantalizing delay in its opening. but when the lid was lifted, christina saw a hoard of golden sovereigns, and a large roll of bank of england bills. without a word andrew added the money in his pocket to this treasured store, and in an equal silence the flooring and drawers were replaced, and then, without a word, the brother and sister left the room together. there was however a look of exultation on christina's face, and when andrew said "you understand now, christina?" she answered in a voice full of tender pride. "i have seen. and i am sure that andrew binnie is not the man to be moving without knowing the way he is going to take." "i am not moving at all, christina, for three months or perhaps longer. the ship i want is in dry dock until the winter, and it is all this wealth of siller that i am anxious about. if i should go to the fishing some night, and never come back, it would be the same as if it went to the bottom of the sea with me, not a soul but myself knowing it was there." "but not now, andrew. you be to tell me what i am to do if the like of that should happen, and your wish will be as the law of god to me." "i am sure of that, christina. take heed then. if i should go out some night and the sea should get me, as it gets many better men, then you will lift the flooring, and take the money out of hiding. and you will give sophy traill one half of all there is. the other half is for mother and yourself. and you will do no other way with a single bawbee, or the lord will set his face against it." "i will do just what you tell me." "i know it. to think different, would be just incredible nonsense. that is for the possibilities, christina. for the days that are coming and going, i charge you, christina binnie, never to name to mortal creature the whereabouts of the money i have shown you." "your words are in my heart, andrew. they will never pass my lips." "then that is enough of the siller. i have had a happy day with sophy, and o the grace of the lassie! and the sweet innocence and lovesomeness of her pretty ways! she is budding into a very rose of beauty! i bought her a ring with a shining stone in it, and a gold brooch, and a bonnie piece of white muslin with the lace for the trimming of it; and the joy of the little beauty set me laughing with delight. i would not call the queen my cousin, this night." "sophy ought to love you with all her heart and soul, andrew." "she does. she has arled her heart and hand to me. i thank _the best_ for this great mercy." "and you can trust her without a doubt, dear lad?" "i have as much faith in sophy traill, as i have in my bible." "that is the way to trust. it is the way i trust jamie. but you'll mind how ready bad hearts and ill tongues are to give you a sense of suspicion. so you'll not heed a word of that kind, andrew?" "not one. the like of such folk cannot give me a moment's trouble--there was kirsty johnston--" "you may put kirsty johnston, and all she says to the wall." "i'm doing it; but she called after me this very evening, 'take care of yourself, andrew binnie.' 'and what for, mistress?' i asked. 'a beauty is hard to catch and worse to keep,' she answered; and then the laugh of her! but i didn't mind it, not i; and i didn't give her word or look in reply; for well i know that women's tongues cannot be stopped, not even by the fourth commandment." then andrew sat down and was silent, for a happiness like his is felt, and not expressed. and christina moved softly about, preparing the frugal supper, and thinking about her lover in the fishing boats, until, the table being spread, andrew drew his chair close to his sister's chair, and spreading forth his hands ere he sat down, said solemnly;-- _"this is the change of thy right hand, o thou most high! thou art strong to strengthen; gracious to help; ready to better; mighty to save, amen!"_ it was the prayer of his fathers for centuries--the prayer they had used in all times of their joy and sorrow; the prayer that had grown in his own heart from his birth, and been recorded for ever in the sagas of his mother's people. chapter iii the ailing heart not often in her life had christina felt so happy as she did at this fortunate hour. two things especially made her heart sing for joy; one was the fact that jamie had never been so tender, so full of joyful anticipation, so proud of his love and his future, as in their interview of that evening. the very thought of his beauty and goodness made her walk unconsciously to the door, and look over the sea towards the fishing-grounds, where he was doubtless working at the nets, and thinking of her. and next to this intensely personal cause of happiness, was the fact that of all his mates, and even before his mother or sophy, andrew had chosen _her_ for his confidant. she loved her brother very much, and she respected him with an equal fervour. few men, in christina's opinion, were able to stand in andrew binnie's shoes, and she felt, as she glanced at his strong, thoughtful face, that he was a brother to be very proud of. he sat on the hearth with his arms crossed above his head, and a sweet, grave smile irradiating his strong countenance, christina knew that he was thinking of sophy, and as soon as she had spread the frugal meal, and they had sat down to their cakes and cheese, andrew began to talk of her. he seemed to have dismissed absolutely the thought of the hidden money, and to be wholly occupied with memories of his love. and as he talked of her, his face grew vivid and tender, and he spoke like a poet, though he knew it not. "she is that sweet, christina, it is like kissing roses to kiss her. her wee white hand on my red face is like a lily leaf. i saw it in the looking-glass, as we sat at tea. and the ring, with the shining stone, set it finely. i am the happiest man in the world, christina!" "i am glad with all my heart for you, andrew, and for sophy too. it is a grand thing to be loved as you love her." "she is the sweetness of all the years that are gone, and of all that are to come." "and sophy loves you as you love her? i hope she does that, my dear andrew." "she will do. she will do! no doubt of it, christina! she is shy now, and a bit frighted at the thought of marriage--she is such a gentle little thing--but i will make her love me; yes i will! i will make her love me as i love her. what for not?" "to be sure. love must give and take equal, to be satisfied. i know that myself. i am loving jamie just as he loves me." "he is a brawly fine lad. peddie was saying there wasn't a better worker, nor a merrier one, in the whole fleet." "a good heart is always a merry one, andrew." "i'm not doubting it." thus they talked with kind mutual sympathy and confidence; and a certain sweet serenity and glad composure spread through the little room, and the very atmosphere was full of the peace and hope of innocent love. but some divine necessity of life ever joins joy and sorrow together; and even as the brother and sister sat speaking of their happiness, christina heard a footstep that gave her heart a shock. andrew was talking of sophy, and he was not conscious of jamie's approach until the lad entered the house. his face was flushed, and there was an air of excitement about him which andrew regarded with an instant displeasure and suspicion. he did not answer jamie's greeting, but said dourly:-- "you promised to take my place in the boat to-night, jamie logan; then what for are you here, at this hour? i see one thing, and that is, you cannot be trusted to." "i deserve a reproof, andrew, for i have earned it," answered jamie; and there was an air of candid regret in his manner which struck christina, but which was not obvious to andrew as he added, "i'll not lie to you, anent the matter." "you needn't. nothing in life is worth a lie." "that may be, or not be. but it was just this way. i met an old friend as i was on my way to the boat, and he was poor, and hungry, and thirsty, and i be to take him to the 'public,' and give him a bite and a sup. then the whiskey set us talking of old times and old acquaintances, and i clean forgot the fishing; and the boats went away without me. and that is all there is to it." "far too much! far too much! a nice lad you will be to trust to in a big ship full of men and women and children! a glass of whiskey, and a crack in the public house, set before your promised word and your duty! how will i trust christina to you? when you make andrew binnie a promise, he expects you to keep it. don't forget that! it may be of some consequence to you if you are wanting his sister for a wife." with these words andrew rose, went into his own room without a word of good-night, and with considerable show of annoyance, closed and bolted the door behind him. jamie sat down by christina, and waited for her to speak. but it was not easy for her to do so. try as she would, she could not show him the love she really felt. she was troubled at his neglect of duty, and so sorry that he, of all others, should have been the one to cast the first shadow across the bright future which she had been anticipating before his ill-timed arrival. it was love out of time and season, and lacked the savour and spontaneity which are the result of proper conditions. jamie felt the unhappy atmosphere, and was offended. "i'm not wanted here, it seems," he said in a tone of injury. "you are wanted in the boat, jamie; that is where the fault lies. you should have been there. there is no outgait from that fact." "well then, i have said i was sorry. is not that enough?" "for me, yes. but andrew likes a man to be prompt and sure in business. it is the only way to make money." "make money! i can make money among andrew binnie's feet, for all he thinks so much of himself. a friend's claims are before money-making. i'll stand to that, till all the seas go dry." "andrew has very strict ideas; you must have found that out, jamie, and you should not go against them." "andrew is headstrong as the north-wind. he goes clear o'er the bounds both sides. everything is the very worst, or the very best. i'm not denying i was a bit wrong; but i consider i had a good excuse for it." "is there ever a good excuse for doing wrong, jamie? but we will let the affair drop out of mind and talk. there are pleasanter things to speak of, i'm sure." but the interview was a disappointment. jamie went continually back to andrew's reproof, and christina herself seemed to be under a spell. she could not find the gentle words that would have soothed her lover, her manner became chill and silent; and jamie finally went away, much hurt and offended. yet she followed him to the door, and watched him kicking the stones out of his path as he went rapidly down the cliff-side. and if she had been near enough, she would have heard him muttering angrily:-- "i'm not caring! i'm not caring! the moral pride of they binnies is ridic'lus! one would require to be a very saint to come within sight of them." such a wretched ending to an evening that had begun with so much hope and love! christina stood sadly at the open door and watched her lover across the lonely sands, and felt the natural disappointment of the circumstances. then the moon began to rise, and when she noticed this, she remembered how late her mother was away from home, and a slight uneasiness crept into her heart. she threw a plaid around her head, and was going to the neighbour's where she expected to find her, when janet appeared. she came up to the cliff slowly, and her face was far graver than ordinary when she entered the cottage, and with a pious ejaculation threw off her shawl. "what kept you at all, mother? i was just going to seek you." "watty robertson has won away at last." "when did he die?" "he went away with the tide. he was called just at the turn. ah, christina, it is loving and dying all the time! life is love and death; for what is our life? it is even a vapour that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away." "but watty was well ready for the change, mother?" "he went away with a smile. and i staid by poor lizzie, for i have drank of the same cup, and i know how bitter was the taste of it. old elspeth mcdonald stretched the corpse, and her and i had a change of words; but lizzie was with me." "what for did you clash at such a like time?" "she covered up his face, and i said: 'stop your hand, elspeth. don't you go to cover watty's face now. he never did ill to any one while he lived, and there's no need to hide his face when he is dead.' and we had a bit stramash about it, for i can't abide to hide up the face that is honest and well loved, and lizzie said i was right, and so elspeth went off in a tiff." "i think there must be 'tiffs' floating about in the air to-night. jamie and andrew have had a falling out, and jamie went away far less than pleased with me." "what's to do between them?" "jamie met with an old friend who was hungry and thirsty, and he went with him to the 'public' instead of going to the boat for andrew, as he promised to do. you know how andrew feels about a word broken." "_toots_! andrew binnie has a deal to learn yet. you should have told him it was better to show mercy, than to stick at a mouthful of words. had you never a soft answer to throw at the two fractious fools?" "how could i interfere?" "finely! if you don't know the right way to throw with a thrawn man, like andrew, and to come round a soft man, like jamie, i'm sorry for you! a woman with a thimble-full of woman-wit could ravel them both up--ravel them up like a cut of worsteds." "well, the day is near over. the clock will chap twelve in ten minutes, and i'm going to my bed. i'm feared you won't sleep much, mother. you look awake to your instep." "never mind. i have some good thoughts for the sleepless. folks don't sleep well after seeing a man with wife and bairns round him look death and judgment in the face." "but watty looked at them smiling, you said?" "he did. watty's religion went to the bottom and extremity of things. i'll be asking this night for grace to live with, and then i'll get grace to die with when my hour comes. you needn't fash your heart about me. sleeping or waking, i am in his charge. nor about jamie; he'll be all right the morn. nor about andrew, for i'll tell him not to make a pharisee of himself--he has his own failing, and it isn't far to seek." and it is likely janet had her intended talk with her son, for nothing more was said to jamie about his neglect of duty; and the little cloud was but a passing one, and soon blew over. circumstances favoured oblivion. christina's love encompassed both her brother and her lover, and janet's womanly tact turned every shadow into sunshine, and disarmed all suspicious or doubtful words. also, the fishing season was an unusually good one; every man was of price, and few men were better worth their price than jamie logan. so an air of prosperity and happiness filled each little cottage, and andrew binnie was certainly saving money--a condition of affairs that always made him easy to live with. as for the women of the village, they were in the early day up to their shoulders in work, and in the more leisurely evenings, they had christina's marriage and marriage presents to talk about. the girl had many friends and relatives far and near, and every one remembered her. it was a set of china from an aunt in crail, or napery from some cousins in kirkcaldy, or quilts from her father's folk in largo, and so on, in a very charming monotony. now and then a bit of silver came, and once a very pretty american clock. and there was not a quilt or a tablecloth, a bit of china or silver, a petticoat or a ribbon, that the whole village did not examine, and discuss, and offer their congratulations over. christina and her mother quite enjoyed this popular manifestation of interest, and jamie was not at all averse to the good-natured familiarity. and though andrew withdrew from such occasions, and appeared to be rather annoyed than pleased by the frequent intrusion of strange women, neither janet nor christina heeded his attitude very much. "what for would we be caring?" queried the mother. "there is just one woman in the world to andrew. if it was sophy's wedding-presents now, he would be in a wonder over them! but he is not wanting you to marry at all, christina. men are a selfish lot. somehow, i think he has taken a doubt or a dislike to jamie. he thinks he isn't good enough for you." "he is as good as i want him. i'm feared for men as particular as andrew. they are whiles gey ill to live with. andrew has not had a smile for a body for a long time, and he has been making money. i wonder if there is aught wrong between sophy and himself." "you might away to largo and ask after the girl. she hasn't been here in a good while. and i'm thinking yonder talk she had with you anent archie braelands wasn't all out of her own head." so that afternoon christina put on her kirk dress, and went to largo to see sophy. her walk took her over a lonely stretch of country, though, as she left the coast, she came to a lovely land of meadows, with here and there waving plantations of young spruce or fir trees. passing the entrance to one of these sheltered spots, she saw a servant driving leisurely back and forward a stylish dog-cart; and she had a sudden intuition that it belonged to braelands. she looked keenly into the green shadows, but saw no trace of any human being; yet she had not gone far, ere she was aware of light footsteps hurrying behind her, and before she could realise the fact, sophy called her in a breathless, fretful way "to wait a minute for her." the girl came up flushed and angry-looking, and asked christina, "whatever brought her that far?" "i was going to largo to see you. mother was getting worried about you. it's long since you were near us." "i am glad i met you. for i was wearied with the sewing to-day, and i asked aunt to let me have a holiday to go and see you; and now we can go home together, and she will never know the differ. you must not tell her but what i have been to pittendurie. my goodness! it is lucky i met you." "but where have you been, sophy?" "i have been with a friend, who gave me a long drive." "who would that be?" "never you mind. there is nothing wrong to it. you may trust me for that, christina. i was fairly worn out, and aunt hasn't a morsel of pity. she thinks i ought to be glad to sew from monday morning to saturday night, and i tell you it hurts me, and gives me a cough, and i had to get a breath of sea-air or die for it. so a friend gave me what i wanted." "but if you had come to our house, you could have got the sea-air finely. sophy! sophy! i am misdoubting what you tell me. how came you in the wood?" "we were taking a bit walk by ourselves there. i love the smell of the pines, and the peace, and the silence. it rests me; and i didn't want folks spying, and talking, and going with tales to aunt. she ties me up shorter than needs be now." "he was a mean fellow to leave you here all by yourself." "i made him do it. goodness knows, he is fain enough to be seen by high and low with me. but andrew would not like it; he is that jealous-natured--and i just _be_ to have some rest and fresh air." "andrew would gladly give you both." "not he! he is away to the fishing, or about his business, one way or another, all the time. and i am that weary of stitch, stitch, stitching, i could cry at the thought of it." "was it archie braelands that gave you the drive?" "ay, it was. archie is just my friend, nothing more. i have told him, and better told him, that i am to marry andrew." "he is a scoundrel then to take you out." "he is nothing of the kind. he is just a friend. i am doing andrew no wrong, and myself a deal of good." "then why are you feared for people seeing you?" "i am not feared. but i don't want to be the wonder and the talk of every idle body. and i am not able to bear my aunt's nag, nag, nag at me. i wish i was married. it isn't right of andrew to leave me so much to myself. it will be his own fault if he loses me altogether. i am worn out with aunt kilgour, and my life is a fair weariness to me." "andrew is getting everything brawly ready for you. i wish i could tell you what grand plans he has for your happiness. be true to andrew, sophy, and you will be the happiest bride, and the best loved wife in all scotland." "plans! what plans? what has he told you?" "i am not free to speak, sophy. i should not have said a word at all. i hope you will just forget i have." "indeed i will not! i will make andrew tell me his plans. why should he tell you, and not me? it is a shame to treat me that way, and he shall hear tell of it." "sophy! sophy! i would as lief you killed me as told andrew i had given you a hint of his doings. he would never forgive me. i can no forgive myself. oh what a foolish, wicked woman i have been to say a word to you!" and christina burst into passionate weeping. "_whist_! christina; i'll never tell him, not i! i know well you slipped the words to pleasure me. but giff-gaff makes us good friends, and so you must just walk to the door with me and pass a word with my aunt, and say neither this nor that about me, and i will forget you ever said andrew had such a thing as a 'plan' about me." the proposal was not to christina's mind, but she was ready to face any contingency rather than let andrew know she had given the slightest hint of his intentions. she understood what joy he had in the thought of telling his great news to sophy at its full time, and how angry he would naturally feel at any one who interfered with his designs. in a moment, without intention, with the very kindest of motives, she had broken her word to her brother, and she was as miserable as a woman could be over the unhappy slip. and sophy's proposal added to her remorse. it made her virtually connive at sophy's intercourse with archie braelands, and she felt herself to be in a great strait. in order to favour her brother she had spoken hastily, and the swift punishment of her folly was that she must now either confess her fault or tacitly sanction a wrong against him. for the present, she could see no way out of the difficulty. to tell andrew would be to make him suspicious on every point. he would then doubtless find some other hiding place for his money, and if any accident did happen, her mother, and sophy, and all andrew loved, would suffer for her indiscretion. she took sophy's reiterated promise, and then walked with the girl to her aunt's house. it was a neat stone dwelling, with some bonnets and caps in the front window, and when the door was opened, a bell rang, and mistress kilgour came hastily from an inner room. she looked pleased when she saw sophy and christina, and said:-- "come in, christina. i am glad you brought sophy home in such good time. for i'm in a state of perfect frustration this afternoon. here's a bride gown and bonnet to make, and a sound of more work coming." "who is to be married, miss kilgour?" "madame kilrin of silverhawes--a second affair, christina, and she more than middle-aged." "she is rich, though?" "that's it! rich, but made up of odds and ends, and but one eye to see with: a prelatic woman, too, seeking all things her own way." "and the man? who is he?" "he is a lawyer. them gentry have their fingers in every pie, hot or cold. however, i'm wishing them nothing but good. madame is a constant customer. come, come, christina, you are not going already?" "i am hurried to-night. mistress kilgour. mother is alone. andrew is away to greenock on business." "so you came back with sophy. i am glad you did. there are some folks that are o'er ready to take charge of the girl, and some that seem to think she can take charge of herself. oh, she knows fine what i mean!" and miss kilgour pointed her fore-finger at sophy and shook her head until all the flowers in her cap and all the ringlets on her front hair dangled in unison. sophy had turned suddenly sulky and made no reply, and miss kilgour continued: "it is her way always, when she has been to your house, christina. whatever do you say to her? is there anything agec between andrew and herself? last week and the week before, she came back from pittendurie in a temper no saint could live with." "i'm so miserable. aunt. i am miserable every hour of my life." "and you wouldn't be happy unless you were miserable, sophy. don't mind her talk, christina. young things in love don't know what they want." "i am sick, aunt." "you are in love, sophy, and that is all there is to it. don't go, christina. have a cup of tea first?" "i cannot stop any longer. good-bye, sophy. i'll tell andrew to come and give you a walk to-morrow. shall i?" "if you like to. he will not come until sunday, though; and then he will be troubled about walking on the sabbath day. i'm not caring to go out." "that is a lie, sophy traill!" cried her aunt. "it is the only thing you do care about." "you had better go home, christina," said sophy, with a sarcastic smile, "or you will be getting a share of temper that does not belong to you. i am well used to it." christina made an effort to consider this remark as a joke, and under this cover took her leave. she was thankful to be alone with herself. her thoughts and feelings were in a tumult; she could not bring any kind of reason out of their chaos. her chagrin at her own folly was sharp and bitter. it made her cry out against herself as she trod rapidly her homeward road. almost inadvertently, because it was the shortest and most usual way, she took the route that led her past braelands. the great house was thrown open, and on the lawns was a crowd of handsomely dressed men and women, drinking tea at little tables set under the trees and among the shrubbery. christina merely glanced at the brave show of shifting colour, and passed more quickly onward, the murmur of conversation and the ripple of laughter pursuing her a little way, for the evening was warm and quiet. she thought of sophy among this gay crowd, and felt the incongruity of the situation, and a sense of anger sprung up in her breast at the girl's wicked impatience and unfaithfulness. it had caused her also to err, for she had been tempted by it to speak words which had been a violation of her own promise, and yet which had really done no good. "she was always one of those girls that led others into trouble," she reflected. "many a scolding she has got me when i was a wee thing, and to think that now! with the promise to andrew warm on my lips, i have put myself in her power! it is too bad! it is not believable!" she was glad when she came within sight of the sea; it was like a glimpse of home. the damp, fresh wind with its strong flavour of brine put heart into her, and the few sailors and fishers she met, with their sweethearts on their arms and their blue shirts open at their throats, had all a merry word or two to say to her. when she reached her home, she found andrew sitting at a little table looking over some papers full of strange marks and columns of figures. his quick glance, and the quiet assurance of his love contained in it, went sorely to her heart. she would have fallen at his feet and confessed her unadvised admission to sophy gladly, but she doubted, whether it would be the kindest and wisest thing to do. and then janet joined them, and she had any number of questions to ask about sophy, and christina, to escape being pressed on this subject, began to talk with forced interest of madame kilrin's marriage. so, between this and that, the evening got over without suspicion, and christina carried her miserable sense of disloyalty to bed and to sleep with her--literally to sleep, for she dreamed all night of the circumstance, and awakened in the morning with a heart as heavy as lead. "but it is just what i deserve!" she said crossly to herself, as she laced her shoes, "what need had i to be caring about sophy traill and her whims? she is a dissatisfied lass at the best, and her love affairs are beyond my sorting. serves you right, christina binnie! you might know, if anybody might, that they who put their oar into another's boat are sure to get their fingers rapped. they deserve it too." however, christina could not willingly dwell long on sorrowful subjects. she was always inclined to subdue trouble swiftly, or else to shake it away from her. for she lived by intuition, rather than by reason; and intuition is born of, and fed by, home affection and devout religion. something too of that insight which changes faith into knowledge, and which is the birthright of primitive natures, was hers, and she divined, she knew not how, that sophy would be true to her promise, and not say a word which would lead andrew to doubt her. and so far she was right. sophy had many faults, but the idea of breaking her contract with christina did not even occur to her. she wondered what plans andrew had, and what good surprise he was preparing for her, but she was in no special hurry to find it out. the knowledge might bring affairs to a permanent crisis between her and andrew,--might mean marriage--and sophy dreaded to face this question, with all its isolating demands. her "friendship" with archie braelands was very sweet to her; she could not endure to think of any event which must put a stop to it. she enjoyed archie's regrets and pleadings. she liked to sigh a little and cry a little over her hard fate; to be sympathised with for it; to treat it as if she could not escape from it; and yet to be nursing in her heart a passionate hope to do so. and after all, the process of reflection is unnatural and uncommon to nine tenths of humanity; and so christina lifted her daily work and interests, and tried to forget her fault. and indeed, as the weeks went on, she tried to believe it had been no fault, for sophy was much kinder to andrew for some time; this fact being readily discernible in andrew's cheerful moods, and in the more kindly interest which he then took in his home matters. "for it is well with us, when it is well with sophy traill, and we have the home weather she lets us have," janet often remarked. the assertion had a great deal of truth in it. sophy, from her chair in mistress kilgour's workroom, greatly influenced the domestic happiness of the binnie cottage, even though they neither saw her, nor spoke her name. but her moods made andrew happy or miserable, and andrew's moods made janet and christina happy or miserable; so sure and so wonderful a thing is human solidarity. yes indeed! for what one of us has not known some man or woman, never seen, who holds the thread of a destiny and yet has no knowledge concerning it. this thought would make life a desperate tangle if we did not also know that one, infinite in power and mercy, guides every event to its predestined and its wisest end. for a little while after christina's visit, sophy was particularly kind to andrew; then there came a sudden change, and christina noticed that her brother returned from largo constantly with a heavy step and a gloomy face. occasionally he admitted to her that he had been "sorely disappointed," but as a general thing he shut himself in his room and sulked as only men know how to sulk, till the atmosphere of the house was tingling with suppressed temper, and every one was on the edge of words that the tongue meant to be sharp as a sword. one morning in october, christina met her brother on the sands, and he said, "i will take the boat and give you a sail, if you like, christina. there is only a pleasant breeze." "i wish you would, andrew," she answered. "this little northwester will blow every weariful thought away." "i'm feared i have been somewhat cross and ill to do for, lately. mother says so." "mother does not say far wrong. you have lost your temper often, andrew, and consequent your common sense. and it is not like you to be unfair, not to say unkind; you have been that more than once, and to two who love you dearly." andrew said no more until they were on the bay, then he let the oars drift, and asked:-- "what did you think of sophy the last time you saw her? tell me truly, christina." "who knows aught about sophy? she hardly knows her own mind. you cannot tell what she is thinking about by her face, any more than you can tell what she is going to do by her words. she is as uncertain as the wind, and it has changed since you lifted the oars. is there anything new to fret yourself over?" "ay, there is. i cannot get sight of her." "are you twenty-seven years old, and of such a beggary of capacity as not to be able to concert time and place to see her?" "but if she herself is against seeing me, then how am i going to manage?" "what way did you find out that she was against seeing you?" "whatever else could i think, when i get no other thing but excuses? first, she was gone away for a week's rest, and mistress kilgour said i had better not trouble her--she was that nervous." "where did she go to?" "i don't believe she was out of her aunt's house. i am sure the postman was astonished when i told him she was away, and her aunt's face was very confused-like. then when i went again she had a headache, and could hardly speak a word to me; and she never named about the week's holiday. and the next time there was a ball dress making; and the next she had gone to the minister's for her 'token,' and when i said i would go there and meet her, i was told not to think of such a thing; and so on, and so on, christina. there is nothing but put-offs and put-bys, and my heart is full of sadness and fearful wonder." "and if you do see her, what then, andrew?" "she is that low-spirited i do not know how to talk to her. she has little to say, and sits with her seam, and her eyes cast down, and all her pretty, merry ways are gone far away. i wonder where! do you think she is ill, christina?" he asked drearily. "no, i do not, andrew." "her mother died of a consumption, when she was only a young thing, you know." "that is no reason why sophy should die of a consumption. andrew, have you ever told her what your plans are? have you told her she may be a lady and live in london if it pleases her? have you told her that you will soon be _captain binnie_ of the north sea fleet?" "no, no! what for would i bribe the girl? i want her free given love. i want her to marry plain andrew binnie. i will tell her everything the very hour she is my wife. that is the joy i look forward to. and it is right, is it not?" "no. it is all wrong. it is all wrong. girls like men that have the spirit to win siller and push their way in the world." "i cannot thole the thought of sophy marrying me for my money." "you think o'er much of your money. ask yourself whether in getting money you have got good, or only gold. and about marrying sophy, it is not in your hand. marriages are made in heaven, and unless there has been a booking of your two names above, i am feared all your courting below will come to little. yet it is your duty to do all you can to win the girl you want; and i can tell you what will win sophy traill, if anything on earth will win her." then she pointed out to him how fond sophy was of fine dress and delicate living; how she loved roses, and violets, and the flowers of the garden, so much better than the pale, salt blossoms of the sea rack, however brilliant their colours; how she admired such a house as braelands, and praised the glory of the peacock's trailing feathers. "the girl is not born for a poor man's wife," she continued, "her heart cries out for gold, and all that gold can buy; and if you are set on sophy, and none but sophy, you will have to win her with what she likes best, or else see some other man do so." "then i will be buying her, and not winning her." "oh you unspeakable man! your conceit is just extraordinary! if you wanted any other good thing in life, from a big ship to a gold ring, would you not expect to buy it? would your loving it, and wanting it, be sufficient? jamie logan knew well what he was about, when he brought us the letter from the hendersons' firm. i love jamie very dearly; but i'm free to confess the letter came into my consideration." talking thus, with the good wind blowing the words into his heart, christina soon inspired andrew with her own ideas and confidence his face cleared; he began to row with his natural energy; and as they stepped on the wet sands together, he said almost joyfully:-- "i will take your advice, christina. i will go and tell sophy everything." "then she will smile in your face, she will put her hand in your hand; maybe, she will give you a kiss, for she will be thinking in her heart, 'how brave and how clever my andrew is.' and he will be taking me to london and making me a lady!' and such thoughts breed love, andrew. you are well enough, and few men handsomer or better--unless it be jamie logan--but it isn't altogether the man; it is what the man _can do_." "i'll go and see sophy to-morrow." "why not to-day?" "she is going to mariton house to fit a dress and do some sewing. her aunt told me so." "if i was you, i would not let her sew for strangers any longer. go and ask her to marry you at once, and do not take 'no' from her." "your words stir my heart to the bottom of it, and i will do as you say, christina; for sophy has grown into my life, like my own folk, and the sea, and the stars, and my boat, and my home. and if she will love me the better for the news i have to tell her, i am that far gone in love with her i must even put wedding on that ground. win her i must; or else die for her." "win her, surely; die for her, nonsense! no man worth the name of man would die because a woman wouldn't marry him. god has made more than one good woman, more than one fair woman." "only one woman for andrew binnie." "to be sure, if you choose to limit yourself in that way. i think better of you. and as for dying for a woman, i don't believe in it." "poor matt ballantyne broke his heart about jessie graham." "it was a very poor heart then. nothing mends so soon as a good heart. it trusts in the omnipotent, and gets strength for its need, and then begins to look around for good it can do, or make for others, or take to itself. if matt broke his heart for jessie, jessie would have been poorly cared for by such a weak kind of a heart. she is better off with neil mcallister, no doubt." "you have done me good, christina. i have not heard so many sound observes in a long time." and with that janet came to the cliff-top and called to them to hurry. "step out!" she cried, "here is jamie logan with a pocket full of great news; and the fish is frying itself black, while you two are daundering, as if it was your very business and duty to keep hungry folk waiting their dinner for you." chapter iv the last of the whip with a joyful haste christina went forward, leaving her brother to follow in more sober fashion. jamie came to the cliff-top to meet her, and janet from the cottage door beamed congratulations and radiant sympathy. "i have got my berth on the line, christina! i am to sail next friday from greenock, so i'll start at once, my dearie! and i am the happiest lad in fife to-day!" he had his arms around her as he spoke, and he kissed her smiles and glad exclamations off her lips before she could put them into words. then andrew joined them, and after clasping hands with jamie and christina, he went slowly into the cottage, leaving the lovers alone outside. janet was all excitement. "i'm like to greet with the good news, andrew," she said, "it came so unexpected jamie was just daundering over the sands, kind of down-hearted, he said, and wondering if he would stay through the winter and fish with peddle or not, when little maggie johnston cried out, 'there is a big letter for you, jamie logan,' and he went and got it, and, lo and behold! it was from the hendersons themselves! and they are needing jamie now, and he'll just go at once, he says. there's luck for you! i am both laughing and crying with the pride and the pleasure of it!" "i wouldn't make such a fuss, anyway, mother. it is what jamie has been looking for and expecting, and i am glad he has won to it at last." "fuss indeed! plenty of 'fuss' made over sorrow; why not over joy? and if you think me a fool for it, i'm not sure but i might call you my neighbour, if it was only sophy traill or her affairs to be 'fussed' over." "never mind sophy, mother. it is jamie and christina now, and christina knows her happiness is dear to me as my own." "well then, show it, andrew. show it, my lad! we must do what we can to put heart into poor jamie; for when all is said and done, he is going to foreign parts and leaving love and home behind." and she walked to the door and looked at jamie and christina, who were standing on the cliff-edge together, deeply engaged in a conversation that was of the highest interest to themselves. "i have fancied you have been a bit shy with jamie since yon time he set an old friend before his promise to you, andrew; but what then?" "i wish christina had married among our own folk. i have no wrong to say in particular of jamie logan, but i think my sister might have made her life with some good man a bit closer to her." "i thought, andrew, that you were able to look sensibly at what comes and goes. if it was a matter of business, you would be the first to see the advantage of building your dyke with the stones you could get at. and you may believe me or not, but there's a deal of the successful work of this life carried through on that principle. well, in marrying it is just as wise. the lad you _can get_, is happen better than the lad you _want_. anyhow christina is going to marry jamie; and i'm sure he is that loving and pleasant, and that fond of her, that i have no doubt she will be happy as the day is long." "i hope it is the truth, mother, that you are saying." "it is; but some folks won't see the truth, though they are dashing their noses against it. none so blind as they who won't see." "well, it isn't within my right to speak to-day." "yes, it is. it is your right and place to speak all the good and hopeful words you can think of. don't be dour, andrew. man! man! how hard it is to rejoice with them that do rejoice! it takes more christianity to do that than most folks carry around with them." "mother, you are a perfectly unreasonable woman. you flyte at me, as if i was a laddie of ten years old--but i'll not dare to say but what you do me a deal of good;" and andrew's face brightened as he looked at her. "you would hardly do the right thing, if i didn't flyte at you, andrew. and maybe i wouldn't do it myself, if i was not watching you; having nobody to scold and advise is very like trying to fly a kite without wind. go to the door and call in jamie and christina. we ought to take an interest in their bit plans and schemes; and if we take it, we ought to show we take it." then andrew rose and went to the open door, and as he went he laid his big hand on his mother's shoulder, and a smile flew from face to face, and in its light every little shadow vanished. and jamie was glad to bring in his promised bride, and among her own people as they eat together, talk over the good that had come to them, and the changes that were incident to it. and thus an hour passed swiftly away, and then "farewells" full of love and hope, and laughter and tears, and hand-clasping, and good words, were said; and jamie went off to his new life, leaving a thousand pleasant hopes and expectations behind him. after he was fairly out of sight, and christina stood looking tearfully into the vacancy where his image still lingered, andrew led her to the top of the cliff, and they sat down together. it was an exquisite afternoon, full of the salt and sparkle of the sea; and for awhile both remained silent, looking down on the cottages, and the creels, and the drying nets. the whole village seemed to be out, and the sands were covered with picturesque figures in sea-boots and striped hanging caps, and with the no less picturesque companion figures in striped petticoats. some of the latter were old women, and these wore high-crowned, unbordered caps of white linen; others were young women, and these had no covering at all on their exuberant hair; but most of them displayed long gold rings in their ears, and bright scarlet or blue kerchiefs round their necks. andrew glanced from these figures to his sister; and touching her striped petticoat, he said:-- "you'll be changing this for what they call a gown, when you go to glasgow! how soon is that to be, christina?" "when jamie has got well settled in his place. it wouldn't be prudent before." "about the new year, say?" "ay; about the new year." "i am thinking of giving you a silk gown for your wedding." "o andrew! if you would! a silk gown would set me up above every thing! i'll never forget such a favour as that." "i'll do it." "and sophy will see to the making of it. sophy has a wonderful taste about trimming, and the like of that. sophy will stand up with me, and you will be jamie's best man; won't you, andrew?" "ay, sophy will see to the making of it. few can make a gown look as she can. she is a clever bit thing"--then after a pause he added sadly, "there was one thing i did not tell you this morning; but it is a circumstance i feel very badly about." "what is it? you know well that i shall feel with you." "it is the way folks keep hinting this and that to me; but more, that i am mistrusting mistress kilgour. i saw a young fellow standing at the shop door talking to her the other morning very confidential-like--a young fellow that could not have any lawful business with her." "what kind of a person was he?" "a large, dark man, dressed like a picture in a tailor's window. his servant-man, in a livery of brown and yellow, was holding the horses in a fine dog-cart. i asked jimmy faulds what his name was and he laughed and said it was braelands of braelands, and he should think i knew it and then he looked at me that queer, that i felt as if his eyes had told me of some calamity. 'what is he doing at mistress kilgour's?' i asked as soon as i could get myself together, and jimmy answered, 'i suppose he is ordering madame braelands' millinery,' and then he snickered and laughed again, and i had hard lines to keep my hands from striking him.' "what for at all?" "i don't know. i wish i did." "if i give you my advice, will you take it?" "i will." "then for once--if you don't want braelands to win sophy from you--put your lover's fears and shamefacedness behind your back. just remember who and what you are, and what you are like to be, and go and tell sophy everything, and ask her to marry you next monday morning. take gold in your pocket, and buy her a wedding gift--a ring, or a brooch, or some bonnie thing or other; and promise her a trip to edinburgh or london, or any other thing she fancies." "we have not been 'cried' yet. and the names must be read in the kirk for three sundays." "oh man! cannot you get a licence? it will cost you a few shillings, but what of that? you are too slow, andrew. if you don't take care, and make haste, braelands will run away with your wife before your very eyes." "i'll not believe it. it could not be. the thing is unspeakable, and unbearable. i'll face my fate the morn, and i'll know the best--or the worst of what is coming to me." "look for good, and have good, that is, if you don't let the good hour go by. you, andrew binnie! that can manage a boat when the north wind is doing its mightiest, are you going to be one of the cony kind, when it comes to a slip of a girl like sophy? i can not think it, for you know what solomon said of such--'oh son, it is a feeble folk.'" "i don't come of feeble folk, body nor soul; and as i have said, i will have the whole matter out with sophy to-morrow." "good--but better _do_ than say." the next morning a swift look of intelligence passed between andrew and christina at breakfast, and about eleven o'clock andrew said, "i'll away now to largo, and settle the business we were speaking of, christina." she looked up at him critically, and thought she had never seen a handsomer man. though only a fisherman, he was too much a force of nature to be vulgar. he was the incarnation of the grey, old village, and of the north sea, and of its stormy winds and waters. standing in his boots he was over six feet, full of pluck and fibre, a man not made for the town and its narrow doorways, but for the great spaces of the tossing ocean. his face was strong and finely formed; his eyes grey and open--as eyes might be that had so often searched the thickest of the storm with unquailing glance. a sensitive flush overspread his brow and cheeks as christina gazed at him, and he said nervously:-- "i will require to put on my best clothes; won't i, christina?" she laid her hand on his arm, and shook her head with a pleasant smile. she was regarding with pride and satisfaction her brother's fine figure, admirably shown in the elastic grace of his blue guernsey. she turned the collar low enough to leave his round throat a little bare, and put his blue flannel _tam o' shanter_ over his close, clustering curls. "go as you are," she said. "in that dress you feel at home, and at ease, and you look ten times the man you do in your broadcloth. and if sophy cannot like her fisher-lad in his fisher-dress, she isn't worthy of him." he was much pleased with this advice, for it precisely sorted with his own feelings; and he stooped and kissed christina, and she sent him away with a smile and a good wish. then she went to her mother, who was in a little shed salting some fish. "mother," she cried, "andrew has gone to largo." "like enough. it would be stranger, if he had stopped at home." "he has gone to ask sophy to marry him next week--next monday." "perfect nonsense! we'll have no such marrying in a hurry, and a corner. it will take a full month to marry andrew binnie. what would all our folks say, far and near, if they were not bid to the wedding? set to that, you have to be married first. marrying isn't like christmas, coming every year of our lord; and we _be_ to make the most of it. i'll not give my consent to any such like hasty work. why, they are not even 'called' in the kirk yet." "andrew can get a licence." "andrew can get a fiddle-stick! none of the binnies were ever married, but by word of the kirk, and none of them shall be, if i can help it. licence indeed! buying the right to marry for a few shillings, and the next thing will be a few more shillings for the right to un-marry. i'll not hear tell of such a way." "but, mother, if andrew does not get sophy at once, he may lose her altogether." "_humph_! no great loss." "the biggest loss in the world that andrew can have. things are come to a pass. if andrew does not marry her at once, i am feared braelands will carry her off." "he is welcome to her." "no, no, mother! do you want braelands to get the best of andrew?" "the like of him get the best of andrew! i'll not believe it. sophy isn't beyond all sense of right and feeling. if, after all these years, she left andrew for that fine gentleman, she would be a very jael of deceit and treachery. i wish i had told her about her mother's second cousin, bonnie lizzie lauder." "what of her? i never heard tell, did i, mother?" "no. we don't speak of lizzie now." "why then?" "she was very bonnie, and she was very like sophy about hating to work; and she was never done crying to all the gates of pleasure to open wide and let her enter. and she went in." "well, mother? is that all?" "no. i wish in god's mercy it was! the avenging gates closed on her. she is shut up in hell. there, i'll say no more." "yes, mother. you will ask god's mercy for her. it never faileth." janet turned away, and lifted her apron to her eyes, and stood so silent for a few minutes. and christina left her alone, and went back into the house place, and began to wash up the breakfast-cups and cut up some vegetables for their early dinner. and by-and-by her mother joined her, and christina began to tell how andrew had promised her a silk gown for her wedding. this bit of news was so wonderful and delightful to janet, that it drove all other thoughts far from her. she sat down to discuss it with all the care and importance the subject demanded. every colour was considered; and when the colour had been decided, there was then the number of yards and the kind of trimming to be discussed, and the manner of its making, and the person most suitable to undertake the momentous task. for janet was at that hour angry with mistress kilgour, and not inclined to "put a bawbee her way," seeing that it was most likely she had been favouring braeland's suit, and therefore a bitter enemy to andrew. after the noon meal, janet took her knitting, and went to tell as many of her neighbours as it was possible to see during the short afternoon, about the silk gown her christina was to be married in; and christina spread her ironing table, and began to damp, and fold, and smooth the clean linen. and as she did so, she sang a verse or two of 'hunting tower,' and then she thought awhile, and then she sang again. and she was so happy, that her form swayed to her movements; it seemed to smile as she walked backwards and forwards with the finished garments or the hot iron in her hands. she was thinking of the happy home she would make for jamie, and of all the bliss that was coming to her. for before a bird flies you may see its wings, and christina was already pluming hers for a flight into that world which in her very ignorance she invested with a thousand unreal charms. she did not expect andrew back until the evening. he would most likely have a long talk with sophy; there was so much to tell her, and when it was over, it would be in a large measure to tell again to mistress kilgour. then it was likely andrew would take tea with his promised wife, and perhaps they might have a walk afterwards; so, calculating all these things. christina came to the conclusion that it would be well on to bed time, before she knew what arrangements andrew had made for his marriage and his life after it. not a single unpleasant doubt troubled her mind, she thought she knew sophy's nature so well; and she could hardly conceive it possible, that the girl should have any reluctances about a lad so well known, so good, and so handsome, and with such a fine future before him, as andrew binnie. all sophy's flights and fancies, all her favours to young braelands, christina put down to the dissatisfaction sophy so often expressed with her position, and the vanity which arose naturally from her recognised beauty and youthful grace. but to be "a settled woman," with a loving husband and "a house of her own," seemed to christina an irresistible offer; and she smiled to herself when she thought of sophy's surprise, and of the many pretty little airs and conceits the state of bridehood would be sure to bring forth in her self-indulgent nature. "she will be provoking enough, no doubt," she whispered as she set the iron sharply down; "but i'll never notice it. she is very little more than a bairn, and but a canary-headed creature added to that. in a year or two, andrew, and marriage, and maybe motherhood, will sober and settle her. and andrew loves her so. most as well as jamie loves me. for andrew's sake, then, i'll bear with all her provoking ways and words. she'll be _our own_, anyway, and we be to have patience with they of our own household. bonnie wee sophy." it was about mid-afternoon when she came to this train of forbearing and conciliating reflections. she was quite happy in it; for christina was one of those wise women, who do not look into their ideals and hopes too closely. her face reflecting them was beautiful and benign; and her shoulders, and hands, her supple waist and limbs, continued the symphonies of her soft, deep, loving eyes and her smiling mouth. every now and then she burst into song; and then her thrilling voice, so sweet and fresh, had tones in it that only birds and good women full of love may compass. mostly the song was a lilt or a verse which spoke for her own heart and love; but just as the clock struck three, she broke into a low laugh which ended in a merry, mocking melody, and which was evidently the conclusion of her argument concerning sophy's behaviour as andrew's wife-- "toot! toot! quoth the grey-headed father, she's less of a bride than a bairn; she's ta'en like a colt from the heather, with sense and discretion to learn. "half-husband i trow, and half daddy, as humour inconstantly leans; the man must be patient and steady, that weds with a lass in her teens." she had hardly finished the verse, when she heard a step blending with its echoes. her ears rung inward; her eyes dilated with an unhappy expectancy; she put down her iron with a sudden faint feeling, and turned her face to the door. andrew entered the cottage. he looked at her despairingly, and sinking into his chair, he covered his wretched face with his hands. it was not the same man who had left her a few hours before. a change, like that which a hot iron would make upon a green leaf, had been made in her handsome, hopeful, happy brother. she could not avoid an exclamation that was a cry of terror; and she went to him and kissed him, and murmured, she knew not what words of pity and love. under their influence, the flood gates of sorrow were unloosed, he began to weep, to sob, to shake and tremble, like a reed in a tempest. christina saw that his soul was tossed from top to bottom, and in the madness of the storm, she knew it was folly to ask "why?" but she went to the door, closed it, slipped forward the bolt, and then came back to his side, waiting there patiently until the first paroxysm of his grief was over. then she said softly:-- "andrew! my brother andrew! what sorrow has come to you? tell christina." "sophy is dead--dead and gone for me. oh sophy, sophy, sophy!" "andrew, tell me a straight tale. you are not a woman to let any sorrow get the mastery over you." "sophy has gone from me. she has played me false--and after all these years, deceived and left me." "then there is still the faithful one. his love is from everlasting, to everlasting. he changeth not." "ay; i know," he said drearily. but he straightened himself and unfastened the button at his throat, and stood up on his feet, planting them far apart, as if he felt the earth like the reeling deck of a ship. and christina opened the little window, and drew his chair near it, and let the fresh breeze blow upon him; and her heart throbbed hotly with anger and pity. "sit down in the sea wind, andrew," she said. "there's strength and a breath of comfort in it; and try and give your trouble words. did you see sophy?" "ay; i saw her." "at her aunt's house?" "no. i met her on the road. she was in a dog-cart; and the master of braelands was driving her. i saw her, ere she saw me; and she was looking in his face as she never looked in my face. she loves him, christina, as she never loved me." "did you speak to her?" "i was that foolish, and left to myself. she was going to pass me, without a look or a word; but i could not thole the scorn and pain of it, and i called out to her, '_sophy_! _sophy_!'" "and she did not answer you?" "she cruddled closer to braelands. and then he lifted the whip to hurry the horse; and before i knew what i was doing, i had the beast by the head--and the lash of the whip--struck me clean across the cheek bone." "oh andrew! andrew!" and she bent forward and looked at the outraged cheek, and murmuring, "i see the mark of it! i see the mark of it!" she kissed the long, white welt, and wetted it with her indignant tears. andrew sat passive under her sympathy until she asked, "did braelands say anything when he struck you? had he no word of excuse?" "he said: 'it is your own fault, fisherman. the lash was meant for the horse, and not for you.'" "well?" "and i was in a passion; and i shouted some words i should not have said--words i never said in my life before. i didn't think the like of them were in my heart." "i don't blame you, andrew." "i blame myself though. then i bid sophy get out of the cart and come to me;--and--" "yes, dear?" "and she never moved or spoke; she just covered her face with her hands, and gave a little scream;--for no doubt i had frighted her--and braelands, he got into the de'il's own rage then, and dared me to call the lady 'sophy' again; 'for,' said he, 'she will be my wife before many days'; and with that, he struck the horse savagely again and again, and the poor beast broke from my hand, and bounded for'ard; and i fell on my back, and the wheels of the cart grazed the soles of my shoon as they passed me." "and then?" "i don't know how long i lay there." "and they went on and left you lying in the highway?" "they went on." "the wicked lass! oh the wicked, heartless lass!" "you are not able to judge her, christina." "but you can judge braelands. get a warrant for the scoundrel the morn. he is without the law." "then i would make sophy the common talk, far and near. how could i wrong sophy to right myself?" "but the whip lash! the whip lash! andrew. you cannot thole the like of that!" "there was one tholed for me the lash and the buffet, and answer'd never a word. i can thole the lash for sophy's sake. a poor love i would have for sophy, if i put my own pride before her good name. if i get help 'from beyond,' i can thole the lash, christina." he was white through all the tan of wind, and sea, and sun; and the sweat of his suffering stood in great beads on his pallid face and brow. christina lifted a towel, which she had just ironed, and wiped it away; and he said feebly;-- "thank you, dear lass! i will go to my bed a wee." so christina opened the door of his room and he tottered in, swaying like a drunken man, and threw himself upon his bed. five minutes afterward she stepped softly to his side. he was sunk in deep sleep, fathoms below the tide of grief whose waves and billows had gone over him. "thanks be to the merciful!" she whispered. "when the sorrow is too great, then he giveth his beloved sleep." chapter v the lost bride this unforeseen and unhappy meeting forced a climax in sophy's love affairs, which she had hitherto not dared to face. in fact, circumstances tending that way had arisen about a week previously; and it was in consequence of them, that she was publicly riding with braelands when andrew met them. for a long time she had insisted on secrecy in her intercourse with her "friend." she was afraid of andrew; she was afraid of her aunt; she was afraid of being made a talk and a speculation to the gossips of the little town. and though miss kilgour had begun to suspect somewhat, she was not inclined to verify her suspicions. madame braelands was a good customer, therefore she did not wish to know anything about a matter which she was sure would be a great annoyance to that lady. but madame herself forced the knowledge on her. some friend had called at braelands and thought it right to let her know what a dangerous affair her son was engaged in. "for the girl is beautiful," she said, "there is no denying that; and she comes of fisher-folk, who have simply no idea but that love words and love-kisses must lead to marrying and housekeeping, and who will bitterly resent and avenge a wrong done to any woman of their class, as you well know, madame." madame did know this very well; and apart from her terror of a _mesalliance_ for the heir of braelands, there was the fact that his family had always had great political influence, and looked to a public recognition of it. the fisher vote was an important factor in the return of any aspirant for parliamentary honour; and she felt keenly that archie was endangering his whole future career by his attentions to a girl whom it was impossible he should marry, but who would have the power to arouse against him a bitter antagonism, if he did not marry her. she affected to her friend a total indifference to the subject of her son's amusements, and she said "she was moreover sure that archibald braelands would never do anything to prejudice his own honour, or the honour of the humblest fisher-girl in fifeshire." but all the same, her heart was sick with fear and anxiety; and as soon as her informant had gone, she ordered her carriage, dressed herself in all her braveries, and drove hastily to mistress kilgour's. at that very hour, this lady was fussing and fuming angrily at her niece. sophy had insisted on going for a walk, and in the altercation attending this resolve, mistress kilgour had unadvisably given speech to her suspicions about sophy's companion in these frequent walks, and threatened her with a revelation of these doubts to andrew binnie. but in spite of all, sophy had left the house; and her aunt was nursing her wrath against her when madame braeland's carriage clattered up to her shop door. now if madame had been a prudent woman, and kept the rein on her prideful temper, she would have found mistress kilgour in the very mood suitable for an ally. but madame had also been nursing her wrath, and as soon as mistress kilgour had appeared, she asked angrily:-- "where is that niece of yours, mistress kilgour? i should very much like to know." the tone of the question irritated the dressmaker, and instantly her sympathies flew toward her own kith, and kin, and class. also, her caution was at once aroused, and she answered the question, scotch-wise, by another question:-- "what for are you requiring to see sophy, madame?" "is she in the house?" "shall i go and see?" "go and see, indeed! you know well she is not. you know she is away somewhere, walking or driving with my son--with the heir of braelands. oh, i have heard all about their shameful carryings-on." "you'll not need to use the word 'shameful' with regard to my niece, sophy traill, madame braelands. she has never earned such a like word, and she never will. you may take my say-so for that." "it is not anybody's say-so in this case. seeing is believing, and they have been seen together, walking in fernie wood, and down among the rocks on the elie coast, and in many other places." "well and good, madame. what by that? young things will be young things." "what by that? do you, a woman of your age, ask me such a question? when a gentleman of good blood and family, as well as great wealth, goes walking and driving with a poor girl of no family at all, do you ask what by that? nothing but disgrace and trouble can be looked for." "speak for your own kin and side, madame. and i should think a woman of your age--being at least twenty years older than myself--would know that true love never asks for a girl's pedigree. and as for 'disgrace,' sophy traill will never call anything like 'disgrace' to herself. i will allow that sophy is poor, but as for family, the traills are of the best norse strain. they were sea-fighters, hundreds of years before they were sea-fishers; and they had been 'at home' on the north sea, and in all the lands about it, centuries before the like of the braelands were thought or heard tell of." mistress kilgour was rapidly becoming angry, and madame would have been wise to have noted the circumstance; but she herself was now past all prudence, and with an air of contempt she took out her jewelled watch, and beginning to slowly wind it, said:-- "my good woman, sophy's father was a common fisherman. we have no call to go back to the time when her people were pirates and sea-robbers." "i am _my own_ woman, madame. and i will take my oath i am not _your_ woman, anyhow. and 'common' or uncommon, the fishermen of fife call no man master but the lord god almighty, from whose hands they take their food, summer and winter. and i will make free to say, moreover, that if braelands loves sophy traill and she loves him, worse might befall him than sophy for a wife. for if god thinks fit to mate them, it is not griselda kilgour that will take upon herself to contradict the will of heaven." "don't talk rubbish, mistress kilgour. people who live in society have to regard what society thinks and says." "it is no ways obligatory, madame, the voice of god and nature has more weight, i'm thinking, and if god links two together, you will find it gey and hard to separate them." "i heard the girl was promised since her babyhood to a fisherman called andrew binnie." "for once you have heard the truth, madame. but you know yourself that babyhood and womanhood are two different things; and the woman has just set at naught the baby. that is all." "no, it is not all. this andrew binnie is a man of great influence among the fishers, and my son cannot afford to make enemies among that class. it will be highly prejudicial to him." "i cannot help that madame. braelands is well able to row his own boat. at any rate, i am not called to take an oar in it." "yes, you are. i have been a good customer to you, mistress kilgour." "i am not denying it; at the same time i have been a good dress and bonnet maker to you, and earned every penny-bit you have paid me. the obligation is mutual, i'm thinking." "i can be a still better customer if you will prevent this gentle-shepherding and love-making. i would not even scruple at a twenty pound note, or perhaps two of them." "_straa_! if you were queen of england, madame, i would call you an insolent dastard, to try and bribe me against my own flesh and blood. you are a very judas, to think of such a thing. good blood! fine family! indeed! if your son is like yourself, i'm not caring for him coming into my family at all." "mistress kilgour, you may close my account with you. i shall employ you no more." "pay me the sixteen pounds odd you owe me, and then i will shut my books forever against braelands. accounts are not closed till outstanding money is paid in." "i shall send the money." "the sight of the money would be better than the promise of it, madame; for some of it is owing more than a twelvemonth;" and mistress kilgour hastily turned over to the braelands page of her ledger, while madame, with an air of affront and indignation, hastily left the shop. following this wordy battle with her dressmaker, madame had an equally stubborn one with her son, the immediate consequence of which was that very interview whose close was witnessed by andrew binnie. in this conference braelands acknowledged his devotion to sophy, and earnestly pleaded for mistress kilgour's favour for his suit. she was now quite inclined to favour him. her own niece, as mistress of braelands, would be not only a great social success, but also a great financial one. madame braelands's capacity for bonnets was two every year; sophy's capacity was unlimited. madame considered four dresses annually quite extravagant; sophy's ideas on the same subject were constantly enlarging. and then there would be the satisfaction of overcoming madame. so she yielded easily and gracefully to archie braelands's petition, and thus sophy suddenly found herself able to do openly what she had hitherto done secretly, and the question of her marriage with braelands accepted as an understood conclusion. at this sudden culmination of her hardly acknowledged desires, the girl was for a short tune distracted. she felt that andrew must now be definitely resigned, and a strangely sad feeling of pity and reluctance assailed her. there were moments she knew not which lover was dearest to her. the habit of loving andrew had grown through long years in her heart; she trusted him as she trusted no other mortal, she was not prepared to give up absolutely all rights in a heart so purely and so devotedly her own. for if she knew anything, she knew right well that no other man would ever give her the same unfaltering, unselfish affection. and when she dared to consider truthfully her estimate of archie braelands, she judged his love, passionate as it was, did not ring true through all its depths. there were times when her little _gaucheries_ fretted him; when her dress did not suit him; when he put aside an engagement with her for a sail with a lord, or a dinner party with friends, or a social function at his own home. andrew put no one before her; and even the business that kept him from her side was all for her future happiness. every object and every aim of his life had reference to her. it was hard to give up such a perfect love, and she felt that she could not see andrew face to face and do it. hence her refusals to meet him, and her shyness and silence when a meeting was unavoidable. hence, also, came a very peculiar attitude of andrew's friends and mates; for they could not conceive how andrew's implicit faith in his love should prevent him from finding out what was so evident to every man and woman in largo. alas! the knowledge had now come to him. that it could have come in any harder way, it is difficult to believe. there was only one palliation to its misery--it was quite unpremeditated--but even this mitigation of the affront hardly brought him any comfort as yet braelands was certainly deeply grieved at the miserable outcome of the meeting. he knew the pride of the fisher race, and he had himself a manly instinct, strong enough to understand the undeserved humiliation of andrew's position. honestly, as a gentleman, he was sorry the quarrel had taken place; as a lover, he was anxious to turn it to his own advantage. for he saw that, in spite of all her coldness and apparent apathy, sophy was affected and wounded by andrew's bitter imploration and its wretched and sorrowful ending. if the man should gain her ear and sympathy, braelands feared for the result. he therefore urged her to an immediate marriage; and when mistress kilgour was taken into counsel, she encouraged the idea, because of the talk which was sure to follow such a flagrant breach of the courtesies of life. but even at this juncture, sophy's vanity must have its showing; and she refused to marry, until at least two or three suitable dresses should have been prepared; so the uttermost favour that could be obtained from the stubborn little bride was a date somewhere within two weeks away. during these two weeks there was an unspeakable unhappiness in the binnie household. for oh, how dreary are those wastes of life, left by the loved who have deserted us! these are the vacant places we water with our bitterest tears. had sophy died, andrew would have said, "it is the lord; let him do what seemeth right in his sight." but the manner and the means of his loss filled him with a dumb sorrow and rage; for in spite of his mother's and sister's urging, he would do nothing to right his own self-respect at the price of giving sophy the slightest trouble or notoriety. suffer! yes, he suffered at home, where janet and christina continually reminded him of the insult he ought to avenge; and he suffered also abroad, where his mates looked at him with eyes full of surprise and angry inquiries. but though the village was ringing with gossip about sophy and young braelands, never a man or woman in it ventured to openly question the stern, sullen, irritable man who had been so long recognised as her accepted lover. and whether he was in the boats or out of them, no one dared to speak sophy's name in his presence. indeed, upon the whole, he was during these days what janet binnie called "an ill man to live with--a man out of his senses, and falling away from his meat and his clothes." this misery continued for about two weeks without any abatement, and janet's and christina's sympathy was beginning to be tinged with resentment. it seems so unnatural and unjust, that a girl who had already done them so much wrong, and who was so far outside their daily life, should have the power to still darken their home, and infuse a bitter drop into their peculiar joys and hopes. "i am glad the wicked lass isn't near by me," said janet one morning, when andrew had declared himself unable to eat his breakfast and gone out of the cottage to escape his mother's pleadings and reproofs. "i'm glad she isn't near me. if she was here, i could not keep my tongue from her. she should hear the truth for once, if she never heard it again. they should be words as sharp as the birch rod she ought to have had, when she first began her nonsense, and her airs and graces." "she is a bad girl; but we must remember that she was left much to herself--no mother to guide her, no sister or brother either." "it would have been a pity if there had been more of them. one scone of that baking is enough. the way she has treated our andrew is abominable. flesh and blood can't bear such doings." as janet made this assertion, a cousin of sophy's came into the cottage, and answered her. "i know you are talking of sophy," she said, "and i am not wondering at the terrivee you are making. as for me, though she is my cousin, i'll never exchange the queen's language with her again as long as i live in this world. but all bad things come to an end, as well as good ones, and i am bringing what will put a stop at last to all this clishmaclaver about that wearisome lassie,"--and with these words she handed janet two shining white cards, tied together with a bit of silver wire. they were sophy's wedding cards; and she had also sent from edinburgh a newspaper containing a notice of her marriage to archibald braelands. the news was very satisfactory to janet. she held the bits of cardboard with her fingertips, looking grimly at the names upon them. then she laughed, not very pleasantly, at the difference in the size of the cards. "he has the wee card now," she said, "and sophy the big one; but i'm thinking the wee one will grow big, and the big one grow little before long. i will take them to andrew myself; the sight of them will be a bitter medicine, but it will do him good. folks may count it great gain when they get rid of a false hope." andrew was walking moodily about the bit of bare turf in front of the cottage door, stopping now and then to look over the sea, where the brown sails of some of the fishing boats still caught the lazy south wind. he was thinking that the sea was cloudy, and that there was an evil-looking sky to the eastward; and then, as his mind took in at the same moment the dangers to the fishers who people the grey waters and his own sorrowful wrong, he turned and began to walk about muttering--"lord help us! we must bear what is sent." then janet called him, and he watched for her approach. she put the cards into his hand saying, "sophy's cousin, isobel murray, brought them." her voice was full of resentment; and andrew, not at the moment realising a custom so unfamiliar in a fishing-village, looked wonderingly in his mother's face, and then at the fateful white messengers. "read the names on them, andrew man, and you'll know then why they are sent to pittendurie." then he looked steadily at the inscription, and the struggle of the inner man shook the outward man visibly. it was like a shot in the backbone. but it was only for a moment he staggered; though he had few resources, his faith in the cross and his confidence in himself made him a match for his hard fate. it is in such critical moments the soul reveals if it be selfish or generous, and andrew, with a quick upward fling of the head, regained absolutely that self-control, which he had voluntarily abdicated. "you will tell isobel," he said, "that i wish mistress braelands every good thing, both for this life and the next." then he stepped closer to his mother and kissed her; and janet was so touched and amazed that she could not speak. but the look of loving wonder on her face was far better than words. and as she stood looking at him, andrew put the cards in his pocket, and went down to the sea; and janet returned to the cottage and gave isobel the message he had sent. but this information, so scanty and yet so conclusive, by no means satisfied the curiosity of the women. a great deal of indignation was expressed by sophy's kindred and friends in the village at her total ignoring of their claims. they did not expect to be invited to a house like braelands; but they did think sophy ought to have visited them and told them all about her preparations and future plans. they were her own flesh and blood, and they deeply resented her non-recognition of the claims of kindred. isobel, as the central figure of this dissatisfaction, was a very important person. she at least had received "cards," and the rest of the cousins to the sixth degree felt that they had been grossly slighted in the omission. so isobel, for the sake of her own popularity, was compelled to make common cause, and to assert positively that "she thought little of the compliment." sophy only wanted her folk to know she was now mistress braelands, and she had picked her out to carry the news--good or bad news, none yet could say. janet was not inclined to discuss the matter with her. she was so cold about it, that isobel quickly discovered she had 'work to finish at her own house,' for she recollected that if the binnies were not inclined to talk over the affair there were plenty of wives and maids in pittendurie who were eager to do so. so janet and christina were quickly left to their own opinions on the marriage, the first of which was, that "sophy had behaved very badly to them." "but i wasn't going to say bad words for isobel to clash round the village," said janet "and i am gey glad andrew took the news so man-like and so christian-like. they can't make any speculations about andrew now, and that will be a sore disappointment to the hussies, for some of them are but ill willy creatures." "i am glad andrew kept a brave heart, and could bring good words out of it." "what else would you expect from andrew? do you think andrew binnie will fret himself one moment about a wife that is not his wife? he would not give the de'il such a laugh over him. you may take my word, that he will break no commandment for any lass; and sophy braelands will now have to vacate his very thoughts." "i am glad she is married then. if her marriage cures andrew of that never-ending fret about her, it will be a comfort." "it is a cure, sure as death, as far as your brother is concerned. fancy andrew binnie pining and worrying about archie braelands's wife! the thing would be sinful, and therefore fairly impossible to him! i'm as glad as you are that no worse than marriage has come to the lass; she is done with now, and i am wishing her no more ill than she has called to herself." "she has brought sorrow enough to our house," said christina. "all the days of my own courting have been saddened and darkened with the worry and the care of her. andrew was always either that set up or that knocked down about her, that he could not give a thought to jamie's and my affairs. it was only when you talked about sophy, or his wedding with sophy, that he looked as if the world was worth living in. he was fast growing into a real selfish man." "_toots!_ every one in love--men or women--are as selfish as they can be. the whole round world only holds two folk: their own self, and another. i would like to have a bit of chat before long, that did not set itself to love-making and marrying." "goodness, mother! you have not chatted much with me lately about love-making and marrying. andrew's trouble has filled the house, and you have hardly said a word about poor jamie, who never gave either of us a heartache. i wonder where he is to-day!" janet thought a moment and then answered: "he would leave new york for scotland, last saturday. 't is wednesday morning now, and he will maybe reach glasgow next tuesday. then it will not take him many hours to find himself in pittendurie." "i doubt it. he will not be let come and go as he wants to. it would not be reasonable. he will have to obey orders. and when he gets off, it will be a kind of favour. a steamboat and a fishing-boat are two different things, mother, forbye, jamie is but a new hand, and will have his way to win." "what are you talking about, you silly, fearful lassie? it would be a poor-like, heartless captain, that had not a fellow-feeling for a lad in love. jamie will just have to tell him about yourself, and he will send the lad off with a laugh, or maybe a charge not to forget the ship's sailing-day. hope well, and have well, lassie." "you'll be far mistaken, mother. i am not expecting jamie for more than two or three trips--but he'll be thinking of me, and i can not help thinking of him." "think away, christina. loving thoughts keep out others, not as good. i wonder how it would do to walk as far as largo, and find out all about the marriage from griselda kilgour. then _i_ would have the essentials, and something worth telling and talking about." "i would go, mother. griselda will be thirsty to tell all she knows, and just distracted with the glory of her niece. she will hold herself very high, no doubt." "griselda and her niece are two born fools, and i am not to be put to the wall by the like of them. and it is not beyond hoping, that i'll be able to give the woman a mouthful of sound advice. she's a set-up body, but i shall disapprove of all she says." "you may disapprove till you are black in the face, mother, but griselda will hold her own; she is neither flightersome, nor easy frightened. i'm feared it is going to rain. i see the glass has fallen." "i'm not minding the 'glass'. the sky is clear, and i think far more of the sky, and the look of it, than i do of the 'glass'. i wonder at andrew hanging it in our house; it is just sinful and unlucky to be taking the change of the weather out of his hands. but rain or fine, i am going to largo." as she spoke, she was taking out of her kist a fine paisley shawl and a bonnet, and with christina's help she was soon dressed to her own satisfaction. fortunately one of the fishers was going with his cart to largo, so she got a lift over the road, and reached griselda kilgour's early in the afternoon. there were no bonnets and caps in the window of the shop, and when janet entered, the place had a covered-up, sabbath-day look that kindled her curiosity. the ringing of the bell quickly brought mistress kilgour forward, and she also had an unusual look. but she seemed pleased to see janet, and very heartily asked her into the little parlour behind. "i'm just home," she said, "and i'm making myself a cup of tea ere i sort up the shop and get to my day's work again. sit down, janet, and take off your things, and have a cup with me. strange days and strange doings in them lately!" "you may well lift up your eyes and your hands, griselda. i never heard tell of the like. the whole village is in a flustration; and i just came o'er-by, to find out from you the long and the short of everything. i'm feared you have been sorely put about with the wilful lass." "mistress braelands had no one to lippen to but me. i had everything to look after. the master of braelands was that far gone in love, he wasn't to be trusted with anything. but my niece has done a good job for herself." "it is well _some one_ has got good out of her treachery. she brought sorrow enough to my house. but i'm glad it is all over, and that braelands has got her. she wouldn't have suited my son at all, griselda." "not in the least," answered the dressmaker with an air of offence. "how many lumps of sugar, janet?" "i'm not taking sugar. where was the lass married?" "in edinburgh." we didn't want any talk and fuss about the wedding, and braelands he said to me, 'mistress kilgour, if you will take a little holiday, and go with sophy to edinburgh, and give her your help about the things she requires, we shall both of us be your life-long debtors.' and i thought edinburgh was the proper place, and so i went with sophy--putting up a notice on the shop door that i had gone to look at the winter fashions and would be back to-day--and here i am for i like to keep my word. "you didn't keep it with my andrew, for you promised to help him with sophy, you promised that more than once or twice." "no one can help a man who fights against himself, and andrew never did prize sophy as braelands did, the way that man ran after the lass, and coaxed and courted and pleaded with her! and the bonnie things he gave her! and the stone blind infatuation of the creature! well i never saw the like. he was that far gone in love, there was nothing for him but standing up before the minister." "what minister?" "dr. beith of st. andrews. braelands sits in st. andrews, when he is in edinburgh for the winter season and dr. beith is knowing him well. i wish you could have seen the dresses and the mantillas, the bonnets and the fineries of every sort i had to buy sophy, not to speak of the rings and gold chains and bracelets and such things, that braelands just laid down at her feet." "what kind of dresses?" "silks and satins--white for the wedding-dress--and pink, and blue and tartan and what not! i tell you mcfinlay and co. were kept busy day and night for sophy braelands." then mistress kilgour entered into a minute description of all sophy's beautiful things, and janet listened attentively, not only for her own gratification, but also for that of every woman in pittendurie. indeed she appeared so interested that her entertainer never suspected the anger she was restraining with difficulty until her curiosity had been satisfied. but when every point had been gone over, when the last thing about sophy's dress and appearance had been told and discussed, janet suddenly inquired, "have they come back to largo yet?" "indeed nothing so common," answered griselda, proudly. "they have gone to foreign lands--to france, and italy, and germany,"--and then with a daring imagination she added, "and it's like they won't stop short of asia and america." "well, jamie logan, my christina's promised man is on the american line. i dare say he will be seeing her on his ship, and no doubt he will do all he can to pleasure her." "jamie logan! sophy would not think of noticing him now. it would not be proper." "what for not? he is as good a man as archie braelands, and if all reports be true, a good deal better." "_archie_ indeed! i'm thinking 'master braelands' would be more as it should be." "i'll never 'master' him. he is no 'master' of mine. what for does he have a christian name, if he is not to be called by it?" "well, janet, you need not show your temper. goodness knows, it is as short as a cat's hair. and braelands is beyond your tongue, anyhow." "i'm not giving him a word. sophy will pay every debt he is owing me and mine. the lassie has been badly guided all her life, and as she would not be ruled by the rudder, she must be ruled by the rocks." "think shame of yourself! for speaking ill to a new-made bride! how would you like me to say such words to christina?" "christina would never give occasion for them. she is as true as steel to her own lad." "maybe she has no temptation to be false. that makes a deal of differ. anyway, sophy is a woman now in the married state, and answerable to none but her husband. i hope andrew is not fretting more than might be expected." "andrew! andrew fretting! not he! not a minute! as soon as he knew she was a wife, he cast her out of his very thoughts. you don't catch andrew binnie putting a light-of-love lassie before a command of god." "i won't hear you talk of my niece--of the mistress of braelands--in that kind of a way, janet. she's our betters now, and we be to take notice of the fact." "she'll have to learn and unlearn a good lot before she is to be spoke of as any one's 'betters.' i hope while she is seeing the world she will get her eyes opened to her own faults; they will give her plenty to think of." "keep me, woman! such a way to go on about your own kin." "she is no kin to the binnies. i have cast her out of my reckoning." "she is christina's sixth cousin." "she is nothing at all to us. i never did set any store by those orkney folks--a bad lot! a very selfish, false, bad lot!" "you are speaking of my people, janet." "i am quite aware of it, griselda." "then keep your tongue in bounds." "my tongue is my own." "my house is my own. and if you can't be civil, i'll be necessitated to ask you to leave it." "i'm going as soon as i have told you that you have the most gun-powdery temper i ever came across; forbye, you are fairly drunk with the conceit and vanity of sophy's grand marriage. you are full as the baltic with the pride of it, woman!" "temper! it is you, that are in a temper." "that's neither here nor there. i have my reasons." "reasons, indeed! i'd like to see you reasonable for once." "yes, i have my reasons. how was my lad andrew used by the both of you? and what do you think of his last meeting with that heartless limmer and her fine sweetheart?" "andrew should have kept himself out of their way. as soon as braelands came round sophy, andrew got the very de'il in him. i was aye feared there would be murder laid to his name." "you needn't have been feared for the like of that. andrew binnie has enough of the devil in him to keep the devil out of him. do you think he would put blood on his soul for sophy traill? no, not for twenty lasses better than her! you needn't look at me as if your eyes were cocked pistols. i have heard all i wanted to hear, and said all i wanted to say, and now i'll be stepping homeward." "i'll be obligated to you to go at once--the sooner the better." "and i'll never speak to you again in this world, griselda; nor in the next world either, unless you mend your manners. mind that!" "you are just full of envy, and all uncharitableness, and evil speaking, janet binnie. but i trust i have more of the grace of god about me than to return your ill words." "that may be. it only shows folk that the grace of god will bide with an old woman that no one else can bide with." "old woman! i am twenty years younger--" but janet had passed out of the room and clashed the shop door behind her with a pealing ring; so griselda's little scream of indignation never reached her. it is likely, however, she anticipated the words that followed her, for she went down the street, folding her shawl over her ample chest, and smiling the smile of those who have thrown the last word of offence. she did not reach home until quite dark, for she was stopped frequently by little groups of the wives and maids of pittendurie, who wanted to hear the news about sophy. it pleased janet, for some reason, to magnify the girl's position and all the fine things it had brought her. perhaps, because she felt dimly that it placed andrew's defeat in a better tight. no one could expect a mere fisherman to have any chance against a man able to shower silks and satins and gold and jewels upon his bride, and who could take her to france and italy and germany, not to speak of asia and america. but if this was her motive, it was a bit of motherhood thrown away. andrew had sources of comfort and vindication which looked far beyond all petty social opinion. he was on the sea alone till nearly dark; then he came home, with the old grave smile on his face, saying, as he entered the house, "there will be a heavy blow from the northeast to-night, christina. i see the boats are all at anchor, and no prospect of a fishing." "ay, and i saw the birds, who know more than we do, making for the rocks. i wish mother would come,"--and she opened the door and looked out into the dark vacancy. "there is a voice in the sea to-night, andrew, and i don't like the wail of it." but andrew had gone to his room, and so she left the door open until janet returned. and the first question janet asked was concerning andrew. "has he come home yet, christina? i'm feared for a boat on the sea to-night." "he is home, and i think he has fallen asleep. he looked very tired." "how is he taking his trouble?" "like a man. like himself. he has had his wrestle out on the sea, and has come out with a victory." "the lord be thanked! now, christina, i have heard everything about that wicked lassie. let us have a cup of tea and a herring--for it is little good i had of griselda's wishy-washy brew--and then i'll tell you the news of the wedding, the beginning and the end of it." chapter vi where is my money? in the morning it was still more evident that andrew had thrown himself on god, and--unperplext seeking, had found him. but janet wondered a little that he did not more demonstratively seek the comfort of the book. it was her way in sorrow to appeal immediately to its known passages of promise and comfort, and she laid it open in his way with the remark: "there is the bible. andrew; it will have a word, no doubt, for you." "and there is the something beyond the bible, mother, if you will be seeking it. when the lord god speaks to a man, he has the perfection of counsel, and he will not be requiring the word of a prophet or an apostle. from the heart of the unseen a voice calls to him, and gives him patience under suffering. i _know_, for i have heard and answered it." then he walked to the door, and opening it, he stood there repeating to himself, as he looked over the waters which had been the field of his conflict and his victory:-- "but peace they have that none may gain that live; and rest about them that no love can give and over them, while death and life shall be, the light and sound and darkness of the sea." it was a verse that meant more to andrew than he would have been able to explain. he only knew that it led him somehow through those dim, obscure pathways of spiritual life, on which the light of common day does not shine. and as he stood there, his mother and sister felt vaguely that they knew what "moral beauty" meant, and were the better for the knowledge. he did not try to forget sophy; he only placed her beyond his own horizon; and whereas he had once thought of her with personal hope and desire, he now remembered her only with a prayer for her happiness, or if by chance his tongue spoke her name, he added a blessing with it. never did he make a complaint of her desertion, but he wept inwardly; and it was easy to see that he spent many of those hours that make the heart grey, though they leave the hair untouched. and it was at this time he contracted the habit of frequently looking up, finding in the very act that sense of strength and help and adoration which is inseparable to it. and thus, day by day, he overcame the aching sorrow of his heart, for no man is ever crushed from without; if he is abased to despair, his ruin has come from within. about three weeks after sophy's marriage, christina was standing one evening at the gloaming, looking over the immense, cheerless waste of waters. mists, vague and troublous as the background of dreams, were on the horizon, and there was a feeling of melancholy in the air. but she liked the damp, fresh wind, with its taste of brine, and she drew her plaid round her, and breathed it with a sense of enjoyment. very soon andrew came up the cliff, and he stood at her side, and they spoke of jamie and wondered at his whereabouts, and after a little pause, andrew added:-- "christina, i got a very important letter to-day, and i am going to-morrow about the business i told you of. i want to start early in the morning, so put up what i need in my little bag. and i wish you to say nothing to mother until all things are settled." "she will maybe ask me the question, andrew." "i told her i was going about a new boat, and she took me at my word without this or that to it. she is a blithe creature, one of the lord's most contented bairns. i wish we were both more like her." "i wish we were, andrew. if we could just do as mother does! for she leaves yesterday where it fell, and trusts to-morrow with god, and so catches every blink of happiness that passes by her." "god forever bless her! there is no mother like the mother that bore us; we must aye remember that, christina. but it is a dour, storm-like sky yon," he continued, pointing eastward. "we shall have a snoring breeze before midnight." then christina thought of her lover again, and as they turned in to the fireside, she began to tell her brother her hopes and fears about jamie, and to read him portions of a letter received that day from america. while andrew's trouble had been fresh and heavy on him, christina had refrained herself from all speech about her lover; she felt instinctively that it would not be welcome and perhaps hardly kind. but this night it fell out naturally, and andrew listened kindly and made his sister very happy by his interest in all that related to jamie's future. then he ate some bread and cheese with the women, and after the exercise went to his room, for he had many things to prepare for his journey on the following day. janet continued the conversation. it related to her daughter's marriage and settlement in glasgow, and of this subject she never wearied. the storm andrew had foreseen was by this time raging round the cottage, the clustering waves making strange noises on the sands and falling on the rocks with a keen, lashing sound it affected them gradually; their hearts became troubled, and they spoke low and with sad inflections, for both were thinking of the sailor-men and fishermen peopling the lonely waters. "i wouldn't put out to sea this night," said janet. "no, not for a capful of sovereigns." "yet there will be plenty of boats, hammering through the big waves all night long, till the dawn shows in the east; and it is very like that jamie is now on the atlantic--a stormy place, god knows!" "a good passage, if it so pleases god!" said janet, lifting her eyes to heaven, and christina looked kindly at her mother for the wish. but talking was fast becoming difficult, for the wind had suddenly veered more northerly, and, sleet-laden, it howled and shrieked down the wide chimney. in one of the pauses forced on them by this blatant intruder, they were startled by a human cry, loud and piercing, and quite distinct from the turbulent roar of winds and waves. both women were on their feet on the instant both had received the same swift, positive impression, that it came from andrew's room, and they were at his door in a moment. it was locked. they called him, and he made no answer. again and again, with ever increasing terror, they entreated him to open to them; for the door was solid and heavy, and the lock large and strong, and no power they possessed could avail to force an entrance. he heeded none of, their passionate prayers until janet began to cry bitterly. then he turned the key and they entered. andrew looked at them with anger; his countenance was pale and distraught, and a quiet fury burned in his eyes. he could not speak, and the women regarded him with fear and wonder. presently he managed to articulate with a thick difficulty:-- "my money! my money! it is all gone!" "gone!" shrieked christina, "that is just impossible." "it is all gone!" then he gripped her cruelly by the shoulder, and asked in a fierce whisper: "what did you do with it?" "me? andrew!" "ay, you! you wicked lass, you!" "i never put finger on it" "christina! christina! to think that i trusted you for this! go out of my sight, will you! i'm not able to bear the face of you!" "andrew! andrew! surely, you are not calling me a 'thief'?" "who, then?" he cried, with gathering rage, "unless it be jamie logan?" "don't be so wicked as to wrong innocent folk such a way; jamie never saw, never heard tell of your money. the unborn babe is not more guiltless than jamie logan." "how do _you_ know that? how do _i_ know that? the very night i told you of the money--that very night i showed you where i kept it--that night jamie ought to have been in the boats, and he was not in them. what do you make of that?" "nothing. he is as innocent as i am." "and he was drinking with some strange man at the public. what were they up to? tell me that. and then he comes whistling up the road, and says he missed his boat. a made up story! and after it he goes off to america! oh. woman! woman! if you can't put facts together. i can." "jamie never touched a bawbee of your money. i'll ware my life on that. for i never let on to any mortal creature that you had a penny of silent money. god almighty knows i am speaking the truth." "you won't dare to bring god almighty's name into such a black business. are you not feared to take it into your mouth?" then janet laid her hand heavily on his shoulder. he had sat down on his bed, and was leaning heavily against one of the posts, and the very fashion of his countenance was changed; his hair stood upright, and he continually smote his large, nervous hands together. "andrew," said his mother, angrily, "you are just giving yourself up to satan. your passion is beyond seeing, or hearing tell of. and think shame of yourself for calling your sister a 'thief and a 'liar' and what not. i wonder what's come over you! step ben the house, and talk reasonable to us." "leave me to myself! leave me to myself! i tell you both to go away. will you go? both of you?" "i'm your mother, andrew." "then for god's sake have pity on me, and leave me alone with my sorrow! go! go! i'm not a responsible creature just now--" and his passion was so stern and terrific that neither of them dared to face any increase of it. so they left him alone and went back to the sputtering fireside--for the rain was now beating down the chimney--and in awe-struck whispers christina told her mother of the money which andrew had hoarded through long laborious years, and of the plans which the loss of it would break to pieces. "there would be a thousand pounds, or near by it. mother, i'm thinking," said christina. "you know well how scrimping with himself he has been. good fishing or bad fishing, he never had a shilling to spend on any one. he bought nothing other boys bought; when he was a laddie, and when he grew to the boats, you may mind that he put all he made away somewhere. and he made a deal more than folks thought. he had a bit venture here, and a bit there, and they must have prospered finely." "not they!" said janet angrily. "what good has come of them? what good _could_ come of money, hid away from everybody but himself? why didn't he tell his mother? if her thoughts had been round about his siller, it would not have gone an ill road. a man who hides away his money is just a miracle of stupidity, for the devil knows where it is if no decent human soul does." it was a mighty sorrow to bear, even for the two women, and janet wept like a child over the hopes blasted before she knew of them. "he should have told us both long since," she sobbed. "i would have been praying for the bonnie ship building for him, every plank would have been laid with a blessing. and as i sat quiet in my house, i would have been thinking of my son captain binnie, and many a day would have been a bright day, that has been but a middling one. so selfish as the lad has been!" "maybe it wasn't pure selfishness, mother. he was saving for a good end." "it was pure selfishness! he was that way even about sophy. nobody but himself must have word or look from her, and the lassie just wearied of him. why wouldn't she? he put himself and her in a circle, and then made a wilderness all round about it. and sophy wanted company, for when a girl says 'a man is all the world to her,' she doesn't mean that nobody else is to come into her world. she would be a wicked lass if she did." "well, mother, he lost her, and he bore his loss like a man." "ay, men often bear the loss of love easier than the loss of money. i've seen far more fuss made over the loss of a set of fishing-nets, than over the brave fellows that handled them. and to think of our andrew hiding away his gold all these years for his own hoping and pleasuring! a perfectly selfish pleasuring! the gold might well take wings to itself and fly away. he should have clipped the wings of it with giving a piece to the kirk now and then, and a piece to his mother and sister at odd times, and the flying wouldn't have been so easy. now he has lost the whole, and he well deserves it i'm thinking his maker is dourly angry with him for such ways, and i am angry myself." "ah well, mother, there is no use in our anger; the lad is suffering enough, and for the rest we must just leave him to the general mercy of god." "'general mercy of god.' don't let me hear you use the like of such words, christina. the minister would tell you it is a very loose expression and a very dangerous doctrine. he was reproving elder mcinnes for them very words, and any good minister will be keeping his thumb on such a wide outgate. andrew knows well that he has to have the particular and elected grace of god to keep him where he ought to be. this hid-away money has given him a sore tumble, and i will tell him so very plainly." "don't trouble him, mother. he will not bear words on it, even from you." "he will have to bear them. i am not feared for andrew binnie, and he shall not be left in ignorance of his sin. whether he knows it or not, he has done a deed that would make a very poor kind of a christian ashamed to look the devil in the face; and i be to let him know it." but in the morning andrew looked so utterly wretched, that janet could only pity him. "i'll not be the one to break the bruised reed," she said to christina, for the miserable man sat silent with dropped eyes the whole day long, eating nothing, seeing nothing, and apparently lost to all interests outside his own bewildering, utterly hopeless speculations. it was not until another letter came about the ship he was to command, that he roused himself sufficiently to write and cancel the whole transaction. he could not keep his promises financially, and though he was urged to make some other offer, he would have nothing from the fleet on any humbler basis than his first proposition. with a foolish pride, born of his great disappointment and anger, he turned his back on his broken hopes, and went sullen and sorrowful back to his fishing-boat. he had never been even in his family a very social man. jokes and songs and daffing of all kinds were alien to his nature. yet his grave and pleasant smile had been a familiar thing, and gentle words had always hitherto come readily to his lips. but after his ruinous loss, he seldom spoke unless it was to his mother. christina he noticed not, either by word or look, and the poor girl was broken-hearted under this silent accusation. for she felt that andrew doubted both her and jamie, and though she was indignant at the suspicion, it eat its way into her heart and tortured her. for put the thought away as she would, the fact of jamie's dereliction that unfortunate night would return and return, and always with a more suspicious aspect. who was the man he was drinking with? nobody in the village but jamie, knew him. he had come and gone in a night. it was possible that, having missed the boat, jamie had brought his friend up the cliff to call on her; that, seeing the light in andrew's room, they had looked in at the window, and so might have seen andrew and herself standing over the money, and then watched until it was returned to its hiding-place. jamie _had_ come whistling in a very pronounced manner up to the house--that might have been because he had been drinking, and then again, it might not--and then there was his quarrel with andrew! was that a planned affair, in order to give the other man time to carry off the box? she could not remember whether the curtain had been drawn across the window or not; and when she dared to name this doubt to andrew, he only answered-- "what for are you asking after spilled milk?" the whole circumstance was so mysterious that it stupified her. and yet she felt that it contained all the elements of sorrow and separation between jamie and herself. however, she kept assuring her heart that jamie would be in glasgow the following week; and she wrote a letter to meet him, expressing a strong desire that he would "be sure to come to pittendurie, as there was most important business." but she did not like to tell him what the business was, and jamie did not answer the request. in fact, the lad could not, without resigning his position entirely. the ship had been delayed thirty hours by storms, and there was nearly double tides of work for every man on her in order that she might be able to keep her next sailing day. jamie was therefore so certain that a request to go on shore about his own concerns would be denied, that he did not even ask the favour. but he wrote to christina, and explained to her in the most loving manner the impossibility of his leaving his duties. he said "that for her sake, as well as his own, he was obligated to remain at his post," and he assured her that this obligation was "a reasonable one." christina believed him fully, and was satisfied, her mother only smiled with shut lips and remained silent; but andrew spoke with a bitterness it was hard to forgive; still harder was it to escape from the wretched inferences his words implied. "no wonder he keeps away from pittendurie!" he said with a scornful laugh. "he'll come here no more--unless he is made to come, and if it was not for mother's sake, and for your good name, christina, i would send the constables to the ship to bring him here this very day." and christina could make no answer, save that of passionate weeping. for it shocked her to see, that her mother did not stand up for jamie, but went silently about her house duties, with a face as inscrutable as the figure-head of andrew's boat. thus backward, every way flew the wheels of life in the binnie cottage. andrew took a grim pleasure in accepting his poverty before his mother and sister. in the home he made them feel that everything but the barest necessities were impossible wants. his newspaper was resigned, his pipe also, after a little struggle he took his tea without sugar, he put the butter and marmalade aside, as if they were sinful luxuries, and in fact reduced his life to the most essential and primitive conditions it was possible to live it on. and as janet and christina were not the bread winners, and did not know the exact state of the binnie finances, they felt obliged to follow andrew's example. of course, all christina's little extravagances of wedding preparations were peremptorily stopped. there would be no silk wedding gown now. it began to look, as if there would be no wedding at all. for andrew's continual suspicions, spoken and unspoken, insensibly affected her, and that in spite of her angry denials of them. she fought against their influence, but often in vain, for jamie did not come to pittendurie either after the second or the third voyage. he was not to blame; it was the winter season, and delays were constant, and there were other circumstances--with which he had nothing whatever to do--that still put him in such a position that to ask for leave of absence meant asking for his dismissal. and then there would be no prospect at all of his marriage with christina. but the fisher folk, who had their time very much at their own command and who were nursed in a sense of every individual's independence, did not realise jamie's dilemma. it could not be made intelligent to them, and they began to wonder, and to ask embarrassing questions. very soon there was a shake of the head and a sigh of pity whenever "poor christina binnie" was mentioned. so four wretched months went by, and then one moonlight night in february, christina heard the quick footstep and the joyous whistle she knew so well. she stood up trembling with pleasure; and as jamie flung wide the door, she flew to his arms with an irrepressible cry. for some minutes he saw nothing and cared for nothing but the girl clasped to his breast; but as she began to sob, he looked at janet--who had purposely gone to the china rack that she might have her back to him--and then at andrew who stood white and stern, with both hands in his pockets, regarding him. the young man was confounded by this reception, he released himself from christina's embrace, and stepping forward, asked anxiously "what ever is the matter with you, andrew? you aren't like yourself at all. why, you are ill, man! oh, but i'm vexed to see you so changed." "where is my money, james logan? where is the gold and the bank-notes you took from me?--the savings of all my lifetime." "your money, andrew? your gold and bank-notes? _me_ take your money! why, man, you are either mad or joking--and i'm not liking such jokes either." then he turned to christina and asked, "what does he mean, my dearie?" "i mean this," cried andrew with gathering passion, "i mean that i had nearly a thousand pounds taken out of my room yon night that you should have gone to the boats--and that you did _not_ go." "do you intend to say that i took your thousand pounds? mind your words, andrew binnie!" and as he spoke, he put christina behind him and stood squarely before andrew. and his face was a flame of passion. "i am most sure you took it. prove to me that you did not." before the words were finished, they were answered with a blow, the blow was promptly returned; and then the two men closed in a deadly struggle. christina was white and sick with terror, but withal glad that andrew had found himself so promptly answered. janet turned sharply at the first blow, and threw herself between the men. all the old prowess of the fish-wife was roused in her. "how dare you?" she cried in a temper quite equal to their own. "i'll have no cursing and fighting in my house," and with a twist of her hand in her son's collar, she threw him back in his chair. then she turned to jamie and cried angrily-- "jamie logan, my bonnie lad, if you have got nothing to say for yourself, you'll do well to take your way down the cliff." "i have been called a 'thief' in this house," he answered; and wounded feeling and a bitter sense of wrong made his voice tremble. "i came here to kiss my bride; and i know nothing at all of what andrew means. i will swear it. give me the bible." "let my bible alone," shouted andrew. "i'll have no man swear to a lie on my bible. get out of my house, james logan, and be thankful that i don't call the officers to take care of you." "there is a mad man inside of you, andrew binnie, or a devil of some kind, and you are not fit to be in the same house with good women. come with me, christina. i'll marry you tonight at the largo minister's house. come my dear lassie. never mind aught you have, but your plaidie." christina rose and put out her hand. andrew leaped to his feet and strode between them. "i will strike you to the ground, if you dare to touch my sister again," he shouted, and if janet had not taken both his hands in her own strong grip, andrew would have kept his threat. then janet's anger turned most unreasonably upon christina-- "go ben the house," she screamed. "go ben the house, you worrying, whimpering lassie. you will be having the whole village fighting about you the next thing." "i am going with jamie, mother." "i will take very good care, you do _not_ go with jamie. there is not a soul, but jamie logan, will leave this house tonight. i would just like to see any other man or woman try it," and she looked defiantly both at andrew and christina. "i ran the risk of losing my berth to come here," said jamie. "more fool, i. i have been called 'thief' and 'loon' for doing it. i came for your sake, christina, and now you must go with me for my sake. come away, my dearie, and there is none that shall part us more." again christina rose, and again her mother interfered. "you will go out of this house alone, jamie logan. i don't know whether you are right or wrong. i know nothing about that weary siller. but i do know there has been nothing but trouble to my boy since he saved you from the sea. i am not saying it is your fault; but the sea has been against him ever since, and now you will go away, and you will stay away." "christina, am i to go?" "go, jamie, but i will come to you, and there is none that shall keep me from you." then jamie went, and far down on the sands christina heard him call, "good-bye, christina! good-bye!" and she would have answered him, but janet had locked the door, and the key was in her pocket. then for hours the domestic storm raged, andrew growing more and more positive and passionate, until even janet was alarmed, and with tears and coaxing persuaded him to go to bed. still in this hurly burly of temper, christina kept her purpose intact. she was determined to go to glasgow as soon as she could get outside. if she was in time for a marriage with jamie, she would be his wife at once. if jamie had gone, then she would hire herself out until the return of his ship. this was the purpose she intended to carry out in the morning, but before the dawn her mother awakened her out of a deep sleep. she was in a sweat of terror. "run up the cliff for thomas roy," she cried, "and then send sandy for the doctor." "what is the matter, mother." "your brother andrew is raving, and clean beyond himself, and i'm feared for him, and for us all. quick christina! there is not a moment to lose!" chapter vii the beginning of the end on this same night the mistress of braelands sat musing by the glowing bit of fire in her bedroom, while her maid, allister, was folding away her silk dinner-gown, and making the preparations for the night's toilet. she was a stately, stern-looking woman, with that air of authority which comes from long and recognised position. her dressing-gown of pale blue flannel fell amply around her tall form; her white hair was still coiled and puffed in an elaborate fashion, and there was at the wrist-bands of her sleeves a fall of lace which half covered her long, shapely white hands. she was pinching its plaits mechanically, and watching the effect as she idly turned them in the firelight to catch the gleam of opal and amethyst rings. but this accompaniment to her thoughts was hardly a conscious one; she had admired her hands for so many years that she was very apt to give to their beauty this homage of involuntary observation, even when her thoughts were fixed on subjects far-off and alien to them. "allister," she said, suddenly, "i wonder where mr. archibald will be this night." "the lord knows, madame, and it is well he does; for it is little we know of ourselves and the ways we walk in." "the lord looks after his own, allister, and mr. archibald was given to him by kirk and parents before he was a month old. but if a man marries such a woman as you know nothing about, and then goes her ways, what will you say then?" "it is not as bad as that, madame. mrs. archibald is of well-known people, though poor." "though low-born, allister. poverty can be tholed, and even respected; but for low birth there is no remedy but being born over again." "well, madame, she is braelands now, and that is a cloak to cover all defects; and if i was you i would just see that it did so." "she is my son's wife, and must be held as such, both by gentle and simple." "and there is few ills that have not a good side to them, madame. if mr. archibald had married miss roberta elgin, as you once feared he would do, there would have been a flitting for you and for me, madame. miss roberta would have had the whole of braelands house to herself, and the twenty-two rooms of it wouldn't have been enough for her. and she would have taken the braelands's honour and glory on her own shoulders. it would have been 'mrs. archibald braelands' here and there and everywhere, and you would have been pushed out of sight and hearing, and passed by altogether, like as not; for if youth and beauty and wealth and good blood set themselves to have things their own way, which way at all will age that is not rich keep for itself? sure as death, madame, you would have had to go to the dower house, which is but a mean little place, though big enough, no doubt, for all the friends and acquaintances that would have troubled themselves to know you there." "you are not complimentary, allister. i think i have few friends who would _not_ have followed me to the dower house." "surely, madame, you may as well think so. but carriages aye stop at big houses; indeed, the very coachmen and footmen and horses are dead set against calling at cottages. there is many a lady who would be feared to ask her coachman to call at the dower house. but what for am i talking? there is no occasion to think that mrs. archibald will ever dream of sending you out of his house." "i came here a bride, nearly forty years ago, allister," she said, with a touch of sentimental pity for herself in the remembrance. "so you have had a long lease, madame, and one like to be longer; for never a better son than your son; and i do think for sure that the lady he has married will be as biddable as a very child with you." "i hope so. for she will have everything to learn about society, and who can teach her better than i can, allister?" "no one, madame; and mrs. archibald was ever good at the uptake. i am very sure if you will show her this and that, and give her the word here and there yourself, madame, there will be no finer lady in fife before the year has come and gone. and she cannot be travelling with mr. archibald without learning many a thing all the winter long." "yes, they will not be home before the spring, i hear." "and oh, madame, by that date you will have forgot that all was not as you wanted it! and no doubt you will give the young things the loving welcome they are certain to be longing for." "i do not know, allister. the marriage was a great sorrow, and shame, and disappointment to me. i am not sure that i have forgiven it." "lady beith was saying you never would forgive it. she was saying that you could never forgive any one's faults but your own." "lady beith is very impertinent. and pray what faults has lady beith ever seen in me?" "it was her general way of speaking, madame. she has that way." "then you might tell lady beith's woman, that such general ways of speaking are extremely vulgar. when her ladyship speaks of the mistress of braelands again, i will ask her to refer to me, particularly. i have my own virtues as well as my own faults, and my own position, and my own influence, and i do not go into the generalities of life. i am the mistress of braelands yet, i hope." "i hope so, madame. as i was saying, mrs. archibald is biddable as a child; but then again, she is quite capable of taking the rudder into her own hands, and driving in the teeth of the wind. you can't ever be sure of fisher blood. it is like the ocean, whiles calm as a sleeping baby, whiles lashing itself into a very fury. there is both this and that in the traills, and mrs. archibald is one of them." "any way and every way, this marriage is a great sorrow to me." "i am not disputing that, madame; but i am sure you remember what the minister was saying to you at his last visitation--that every sorrow you got the mastery over was a benefactor." "the minister is not always orthodox, allister." "he is a very good man; every one is saying that." "no doubt, no doubt, but he deviates." "well then, madame, even if the marriage be as bad as you fancy it, bad things as well as good ones come to an end, and life, after all, is like a bit of poetry i picked up somewhere, which says: there's nane exempt frae worldly cares and few frae some domestic jars whyles _all_ are in, whyles _all_ are out, and grief and joy come turn about. and it's the turn now for the young people to be happy. cold and bleak it is here on the fife coast, but they are among roses and sunshine and so god bless them, i say, and keep us and every one from cutting short their turn of happiness. you had your bride time, madame, and when angus mcallister first took me to his cottage in strathmoyer, i thought i was on a visit to paradise." "give me my glass of negus, and then i will go to bed. everybody has taken to preaching and advising lately, and that is not the kind of fore-talk that spares after-talk--not it, allister." she sunk then into unapproachable silence, and allister knew that she needed not try to move her further that night in any direction. her eyes were fixed upon the red coals, but she was really thinking of the roses and sunshine of the south, and picturing to herself her son and his bride, wandering happily amid the warmth and beauty. in reality, they were crossing the braelands's moor at that very moment the rain was beating against the closed windows of their coach, and the horses floundering heavily along the boggy road. sophy's head rested on her husband's shoulder, but they were not talking, nor had they spoken for some time. both indeed were tired and depressed, and archie at least was unpleasantly conscious of the wonderment their unexpected return would cause. the end of april or the beginning of may had been the time appointed, and yet here they were, at the threshold of their home, in the middle of the winter. sophy's frail health had been archie's excuse for a season in the south with her; and she was coming back to scotland when the weather was at its very bleakest and coldest. one excuse after another formed itself in archie's mind, only to be peremptorily dismissed. "it is no one's business but our own," he kept assuring himself, "and i will give neither reason nor apology but my wife's desire." and yet he knew that reasons and apologies would be asked, and he was fretting inwardly at their necessity, and wondering vaguely if women ever did know what they really wanted. for to go to france and germany and italy, had seemed to sophy the very essence of every joy in life. before her marriage, she had sat by archie's side hour after hour, listening to his descriptions of foreign lands, and dreaming of all the delights that were to meet her in them. she had started on this bridal trip with all her senses set to an unnatural key of expectation, and she had, of course, suffered continual disappointments and disillusions. the small frets and sicknesses of travel, the loneliness of being in places where she could not speak even to her servants, or go shopping without an attendant, the continual presence of what was strange--of what wounded her prejudices and very often her conscience,--and the constant absence of all that was familiar and approved, were in themselves no slight cause of unhappiness. yet it had been a very gradual disillusion, and one mitigated by many experiences that had fully justified even sophy's extravagant anticipations. the trouble, in the main, was one common to a great majority of travellers for pleasure--a mind totally unprepared for the experience. she grew weary of great cities which had no individual character or history in her mind; weary of fine hotels in which she was of no special importance; weary of art which had no meaning for her. her child-like enthusiasms, which at first both delighted and embarrassed her husband, faded gradually away; the present not only lost its charm, but she began to look backward to the homely airs and scenes of fife, and to suffer from a nostalgia that grew worse continually. however, archie bore her unreasonable depression with great consideration. she was but a frail child after all, and she was in a condition of health demanding the most affectionate patience and tenderness he could give her. besides, it was no great sin in his eyes to be sick with longing for dear old scotland. he loved his native land; and his little mountain blue-bell, trembling in every breeze, and drooping in every hour of heat and sunshine, appealed to the very best instincts of his nature. and when sophy began to voice her longing, to cry a little in his arms, and to say she was wearying for a sight of the great grey sea round her fife home, archie vowed he was homesick as a man could be, and asked, "why they should stop away from their own dear land any longer?" "people will wonder and talk so, archie they will say unkind things--they will maybe say we are not happy together." "let them talk. what care we? and we are happy together. do you want to go back to scotland tomorrow? today--this very hour?" "aye. i do, archie. and i am that weak and poorly, if i don't go soon, maybe i will have to wait a long time, and then you know." "yes, i know. and that would never, never do. braelands of fife cannot run the risk of having his heir born in a foreign country. why, it would be thrown up to the child, lad and man, as long as he lived! so call your maid, my bonnie sophy, and set her to packing all your braws and pretty things, and we will turn our faces to scotland's hills and braes tomorrow morning." thus it happened that on that bleak night in february, archie braelands and his wife came suddenly to their home amid the stormy winds and rains of a stormy night. madame heard the wheels of their carriage as she sat sipping her negus, and thinking over her conversation with allister and her alert soul instantly divined _who_ the late comers were. "give me my silk morning gown and my brocade petticoat, allister," she cried, as she rose up hastily and set down her glass. "mr. archibald has come home; his carriage is at the door--haste ye, woman!" "will you be heeding your silks to-night, madame?" "get them at once. quick! do you think i will meet the bride in a flannel dressing-gown? no, no! i am not going to lose ground the first hour." with nervous haste the richer garments were donned, and just as the final gold brooch was clasped, archie knocked at his mother's door. she opened to him with her own hands, and took him to her heart with an effusive affection she rarely permitted herself to exhibit. "i am so glad that you are dressed, mother," he said. "sophy must not miss your welcome, and the poor little woman is just weary to death." then he whispered some words to her, which brought a flush of pride and joy to his own face, but no such answering response to madame's. "indeed," she replied, "i am sorry she is so tired. it seems to me, that the women of this generation are but weak creatures." then she took her son's arm, and went down to the parlour, where servants were re-kindling the fire, and setting a table with refreshments for the unexpected guests. sophy was resting on a sofa drawn towards the hearth. archie had thrown his travelling cloak of black fox over her, and her white, flower-like face, surrounded by the black fur, had a singularly pathetic beauty. she opened her large blue eyes as madame approached and looked at her with wistful entreaty; and madame, in spite of all her pre-arrangements of conduct, was unable at that hour not to answer the appeal for affection she saw in them. she stooped and kissed the childlike little woman, and archie watched this token of reconciliation and promise with eyes wet with happiness. when supper was served, madame took her usual place at the head of the table, and archie noticed the circumstance, though it did not seem a proper time to make any remark about it. for sophy was not able to eat, and did not rise from her couch; and madame seemed to fall so properly into her character of hostess, that it would have been churlish to have made the slightest dissent. yet it was a false kindness to both; for in the morning madame took the same position, and archie felt less able than on the previous night to make any opposition, though he had told himself continually on his homeward journey that he would not suffer sophy to be imposed upon, and would demand for her the utmost title of her rights as his wife. in this resolve, however, he had forgot to take into account his mother's long and absolute influence over him. when she was absent, it was comparatively easy to relegate her to the position she ought to occupy; when she was present, he found it impossible to say or do anything which made her less than mistress of braelands. and during the first few weeks after her return, sophy helped her mother-in-law considerably against herself. she was so anxious to please, so anxious to be loved, so afraid of making trouble for archie, that she submitted without protest to one infringement after another on her rights as the wife of the master of braelands. all the same she was dumbly conscious of the wrong being done to her; and like a child, she nursed her sense of the injustice until it showed itself in a continual mood of sullen, silent protest. after the lapse of a month or more, she became aware that even her ill health was used as a weapon against her, and she suddenly resolved to throw off her lassitude, and assert her right to go out and call upon her friends. but she was petulant and foolish in the carrying out of the measure. she had made up her mind to visit her aunt on the following day, and though the weather was bitterly cold and damp, she adhered to her resolution. madame, at first politely, finally with provoking positiveness, told her "she would not permit her to risk her life, and a life still more precious, for any such folly." then sophy rose, with a sudden excitement of manner, and rang the bell. when the servant appeared, she ordered the carriage to be ready for her in half an hour. madame waited until they were alone, and then said: "sophy, go to your room and lie down. you are not fit to go out. i shall counter-order the carriage in your name." "you will not," cried the trembling, passionate girl. "you have ordered and counter-ordered in my name too much. you will, in the future, mind your own affairs, and leave me to attend to mine." "when archie comes back" "you will tell him all kinds of lies. i know that." "i do not lie." "perhaps not; but you misrepresent things so, that you make it impossible for archie to get at the truth. i want to see my aunt. you have kept me from her, and kept her from me, until i am sick for a sight of those who _really_ love me. i am going to aunt kilgour's this very morning, whether you like it or not." "you shall not leave this house until archie comes back from largo. i will not take the responsibility." "we shall see. _i_ will take the responsibility myself. _i_ am mistress of braelands. you will please remember that fact. and i know my rights, though i have allowed you to take them from me." "sophy, listen to me." "i am going to aunt kilgour's." "archie will be very angry." "not if you will let him judge for himself. anyway, i don't care. i am going to see my aunt! you expect archie to be always thinking of feelings, and your likes and dislikes. i have just as good a right to care about my aunt's feelings. she was all the same as mother to me. i have been a wicked lassie not to have gone to her lang syne." "wicked lassie! lang syne! i wish you would at least try to speak like a lady." "i am not a lady. i am just one of god's fisher folk. i want to see my own kith and kin. i am going to do so." "you are not--until your husband gives you permission." "permission! do you say? i will go on my own permission, sophy braelands's permission." "it is a shame to take the horses out in such weather--and poor old thomas." "shame or not, i shall take them out." "indeed, no! i cannot permit you to make a fool and a laughing-stock of yourself." she rang the bell sharply and sent for the coachman when he appeared, she said: "thomas, i think the horses had better not go out this morning. it is bitterly cold, and there is a storm coming from the northeast. do you not think so?" "it is a bad day, madame, and like to be worse." "then we will not go out." as madame uttered the words, sophy walked rapidly forward. all the passion of her viking ancestors was in her face, which had undergone a sort of transfiguration. her eyes flashed, her soft curly yellow hair seemed instinct with a strange life and brilliancy, and she said with an authority that struck madame with amazement and fear: "thomas, you will have the carriage at the door in fifteen minutes, exactly," and she drew out her little jewelled watch, and gave him the time with a smiling, invincible calmness. thomas looked from one woman to the other, and said, fretfully, "a man canna tak' twa contrary orders at the same minute o' time. what will i do in the case?" "you will do as i tell you, thomas," said madame. "you have done so for twenty years. have you come to any scath or wrong by it?" "if the carriage is not at the door in fifteen minutes, you will leave braelands this night, thomas," said sophy. "listen! i give you fifteen minutes; after that i shall walk into largo, and you can answer to your master for it. i am mistress of braelands. don't forget that fact if you want to keep your place, thomas." she turned passionately away with the words, and left the room. in fifteen minutes she went to the front door in her cloak and hood, and the carriage was waiting there. "you will drive me to my aunt kilgour's shop," she said with an air of reckless pride and defiance. it pleased her at that hour to humble herself to her low estate. and it pleased thomas also that she had done so. his sympathy was with the fisher girl. he was delighted that she had at last found courage to assert herself, for sophy's wrongs had been the staple talk of the kitchen-table and fireside. "no born lady i ever saw," he said afterwards to the cook, "could have held her own better. it will be an even fight between them two now, and i will bet my shilling on fisherman traill's girl." "madame has more wit, and more _hold out_" answered the cook. "mrs. archibald is good for a spurt, but i'll be bound she cried her eyes red at griselda kilgour's, and was as weak as a baby." this opinion was a perfectly correct one. once in her aunt's little back parlour, sophy gave full sway to her childlike temper. she told all her wrongs, and was comforted by her kinswoman's interest and pity, and strengthened in her resolution to resist madame's interference with her life. and then the small black teapot was warmed and filled, and sophy begged for a herring and a bit of oatcake; and the two women sat close to one another, and miss kilgour told sophy all the gossip and clash of gossip there had been about christina binnie and her lover, and how the marriage had been broken off, no one knowing just why, but many thinking that since jamie logan had got a place on "the line," he was set on bettering himself with a girl something above the like of christina binnie. and as they talked helen marr came into the shop for a yard of ribbon, and said it was the rumour all through pittendurie, that andrew binnie was all but dead, and folks were laying all the blame upon the mistress of braelands, for that every one knew that andrew had never held up his head an hour since her marriage. and though miss kilgour did not encourage this phase of gossip, yet the woman would persist in describing his sufferings, and the poverty that had come to the binnies with the loss of their only bread-winner, and the doctors to pay, and the medicine folks said they had not the money to buy, and much more of the same sort, which sophy heard every word of, knowing also that helen marr must have seen her carriage at the door, and so, knowing of her presence, had determined that she should hear it. certainly if helen had wished to wound her to the very heart, she succeeded. when miss kilgour got rid of her customer, and came back to sophy, she found her with her face in the pillow, sobbing passionately about the trouble of her old friends. she did not name andrew, but the thought of his love and suffering hurt her sorely, and she could not endure to think of janet's and christina's long hardships and sorrow. for she knew well how much they would blame her, and the thought of their anger, and of her own apparent ingratitude, made her sick with shame and grief. and as they talked of this new trouble, and sophy sent messages of love and pity to janet and christina, the shop-bell rung violently, and sophy heard her husband's step, and in another moment he was at her side, and quite inclined to be very angry with her for venturing out in such miserable weather. then sophy seized her opportunity, and miss kilgour left them alone for the explanation that was better to be made there than at braelands. and for once archie took his wife's part without reservation. he was not indeed ill-pleased that she had assumed her proper position, and when he slipped a crown into thomas's hand, the man also knew that he had done wisely. indeed there was something in the coachman's face and air which affected madame unpleasantly, before she noticed that sophy had returned in her husband's company, and that they were evidently on the most affectionate terms. "i have lost this battle," she said to herself, and she wisely retreated to her own room, and had a nominal headache, and a very genuine heartache about the loss. all day long sophy was at an unnatural pitch, all day long she exerted herself, as she had not done for weeks and months, to entertain and keep her husband at her side, and all day long her pretty wifely triumph was bright and unbroken. the very servants took a delight in ministering to it, and madame was not missed in a single item of the household routine. but about midnight there was a great and sudden change. bells were frantically rung, lights flew about the house, and there was saddling of horses and riding in hot haste into largo for any or all the doctors that could be found. then madame came quietly from her seclusion, and resumed her place as head of the household, for the little mistress of one day lay in her chamber quite unconscious of her lost authority. some twelve hours later, the hoped-for heir of braelands was born, and died, and sophy, on the very outermost shoal of life, felt the wash and murmur of that dark river which flows to the eternal sea. it was no time to reproach the poor little wife, and yet madame did not scruple to do so. "she had warned sophy,--she had begged her not to go out--she had been insulted for endeavouring to prevent what had come to pass just as she had predicted." and in spite of archie's love and pity, her continual regrets did finally influence him. he began to think he had been badly used, and to agree with madame in her assertions that sophy must be put under some restrictions, and subjected to some social instruction. "the idea of the braelands's carriage standing two hours at griselda kilgour's shop door! all the town talking about it! every one wondering what had happened at braelands, to drive your wife out of doors in such weather. all sorts of rumours about you and sophy, and griselda shaking her head and sighing and looking unspeakable things, just to keep the curiosity alive; and the crowds of gossiping women coming and going to her shop. many a cap and bonnet has been sold to your name, archie, no doubt, and i can tell you my own cheeks are kept burning with the shame of the whole affair! and then this morning, the first thing she said to me was, that she wanted to see her cousins isobel and christina." "she asked me also about them, mother, and really, i think she had better be humoured in this matter. our friends are not her friends." "they ought to be." "let us be just. when has she had any opportunity to make them so? she has seen no one yet,--her health has been so bad--and it did often look. mother, as if you encouraged her _not_ to see callers." "perhaps i did, archie. you cannot blame me. her manners are so crude, so exigent, so effusive. she is so much pleased, or so indifferent about people; so glad to see them, or else so careless as to how she treats them. you have no idea what i suffered when lady blair called, and insisted on meeting your wife. of course she pretended to fall in love with her, and kissed, and petted, and flattered sophy, until the girl hardly knew what she was doing or saying. and as for 'saying,' she fell into broad scotch, as she always does when she is pleased or excited, and lady blair professed herself charmed, and talked broad scotch back to her. and i? i sat tingling with shame and annoyance, for i knew right well what mockeries and laughter sophy was supplying annette blair with for her future visitors." "i think you are wrong. lady blair is not at all ill-natured. she was herself a poor minister's daughter, and accustomed to go in and out of the fishers' cottages. i can imagine that she would really be charmed with sophy." "you can 'imagine' what you like; that will not alter the real state of the case; and if sophy is ever to take her position as your wife, she must be prepared for it. besides which, it will be a good thing to give her some new interests in life, for she must drop the old ones. about that there cannot be two opinions." "what then do you propose, mother?" "i should get proper teachers for her. her english education has been frightfully neglected; and she ought to learn music and french." "she speaks french pretty well. i never saw any one pick up a language as cleverly as she did the few weeks we were in paris." "o, she is clever enough if she wants to be! there is a french woman teaching at miss linley's seminary. she will perfect her. and i have heard she also plays well. it would be a good thing to engage her for sophy, two or three hours a day. a teacher for grammar, history, writing, etc., is easily found. i myself will give her lessons in social etiquette, and in all things pertaining to the dignity and decorum which your wife ought to exhibit. depend upon it, archie, this routine is absolutely necessary. it will interest and occupy her idle hours, of which she has far too many; and it will wean her better than any other thing from her low, uncultivated relations." "the poor little woman says she wants to be loved; that she is lonely when i am away; that no one but the servants care for her; that therefore she wants to see her cousins and kinsfolk." "she does me a great injustice. i would love her if she would be reasonable--if she would only trust me. but idle hearts are lonely hearts, archie. tell her you wish her to study, and fit herself for the position you have raised her to. surely the desire to please you ought to be enough. do you know _who_ this christina binnie is that she talks so continually about?" "her fourth or fifth cousin, i believe." "she is the sister of the man you won sophy from--the man whom you struck across the cheek with your whip. now do you wish her to see christina binnie!" "yes, i do! do you think i am jealous or fearful of my wife? no, by heaven! no! sophy may be unlearned and unfashionable, but she is loyal and true, and if she wants to see her old lover and his sister, she has my full permission. as for the fisherman, he behaved very nobly. and i did not intend to strike him. it was an accident, and i shall apologise for it the first opportunity i have to do so." "you are a fool, archie braelands." "i am a husband, who knows his wife's heart and who trusts in it. and though i think you are quite right in your ideas about sophy's education, i do not think you are right in objecting to her seeing her old friends. every one in this bound of fife knows that i married a fisher-girl. i never intend to be ashamed of the fact. if our social world will accept her as the representative of my honour and my family, i shall be obliged to the world. if it will not, i can live without its approval--having sophy to love me and live with me. i counted all this cost before i married; you may be sure of that, mother." "you forgot, however, to take my honour and feelings into your consideration." "i knew, mother, that you were well able to protect your own honour and feelings." this conversation but indicates the tone of many others which occupied the hours mother and son passed together during sophy's convalescence. and the son, being the weaker character of the two, was insensibly moved and moulded to all madame's opinions. indeed, before sophy was well enough to begin the course of study marked out for her, archie had become thoroughly convinced that it was his first duty to his wife and himself to insist upon it. the weak, loving woman made no objections. indeed, archie's evident enthusiasm sensibly affected her own desires. she listened with pleasure to the plans for her education, and promised "as soon as she was able, to do her very best." and there was a strange pathos in the few words "as soon as i am able," which archie remembered years afterwards, when it was far too late. at the moment, they touched him but lightly, but _oh, afterwards!_ oh, afterwards! when memory brought back the vision of the small white face on the white pillow, and the faint golden light of the golden curls shadowing the large blue eyes that even then had in them that wide gaze and wistfulness that marks those predestined for sorrow or early death. alas! alas! we see too late, we hear too late, when it is the dead who open the eyes and the ears of the living! chapter viii a great deliverance while these clouds of sorrow were slowly gathering in the splendid house of braelands, there was a full tide of grief and anxiety in the humble cottage of the binnies. the agony of terror which had changed janet binnie's countenance, and sent christina flying up the cliff for help, was well warranted by andrew's condition. the man was in the most severe maniacal delirium of brain inflammation, and before the dawning of the next day, required the united strength of two of his mates to control him. to leave her mother and brother in this extremity would have been a cruelty beyond the contemplation of christina binnie. its possibility never entered her mind. all her anger and sense of wrong vanished before the pitiful sight of the strong man in the throes of his mental despair and physical agony. she could not quite ignore her waiting lover, even in such an hour; but she was not a ready writer, so her words were few and to the point:-- dear jamie--andrew is ill and like to die, and my place, dear lad, is here, until some change come. i must stand by mother and andrew now, and you yourself would bid me do so. death is in the house and by the pillow, and there is only god's mercy to trust to. andrew is clean off his senses, and ill to manage, so you will know that he was not in reason when he spoke so wrong to you, and you will be sorry for him and forgive the words he said, because he did not know what he was saying; and now he knows nothing at all, not even his mother. do not forget to pray for us in our sorrow, dear jamie, and i will keep ever a prayer round about you in case of danger on the sea or on land. your true, troth-plighted wife, christina binnie this letter was her last selfish act for many a week. after it had been written, she put all her own affairs out of her mind and set herself with heart and soul, by day and by night, to the duty before her. she suffered no shadow of the bygone to darken her calm strong face or to weaken the hands and heart from which so much was now expected. and she continually told herself not to doubt in these dark days the mercy of the eternal, taking hope and comfort, as she went about her duties, from a few words janet had said, even while she was weeping bitterly over her son's sufferings-- "but i am putting all fear christina, under my feet, for nothing comes to pass without helping on some great end." now what great end andrew's severe illness was to help on, christina could not divine; but like her brave mother, she put fear under her feet, and looked confidently for "the end" which she trusted would be accomplished in god's time and mercy. so week after week the two women walked with love and courage by the sick man's side, through the valley of the shadow of death. often his life lay but within his lips, and they watched with prayer continually, lest he should slip away to them that had gone before, wanting its mighty shield in the great perilous journey of the soul. and though there is no open vision in these days, yet his presence is ever near to those who seek him with all the heart. so that wonderful things were seen and experienced in that humble room, where the man lay at the point of death. andrew had his share of these experiences. whatever god said to the waiting, watching women, he kept for his suffering servant some of his richest consolations, and so made all his bed in his sickness. andrew was keenly sensible of these ministrations, and he grew strong in their heavenly strength; for though the vaults of god are full of wine, the soul that has drunk of his strong wine of pain knows that it has tasted the costliest vintage of all, and asks on this earth no better. and as our thoughts affect our surroundings, quite as much as rain or sunshine affect the atmosphere, these two women, with the sick man on their hearts and hands, were not unhappy women. they did their very best, and trusted god for the outcome. thus heaven helped them, and their neighbours helped them, and taking turns in their visitation, they found the kirk also to be a big, calm friend in the time of their trouble. and then one morning, before the dawn broke, when life seemed to be at its lowest point, when hope was nearly gone, and the shadow of death fell across the sick man's face, there was suddenly a faint, strange flutter. some mighty one went out of the door, as the sunshine touched the lintel, and the life began to turn back, just as the tide began to flow. then janet rose up softly and opened the house door, and looking at her son and at the turning waters, she said solemnly:-- "thank god, christina! he has turned with the tide? he is all right now." it was april, however, in its last days, before andrew had strength sufficient to go down the cliff, and the first news he heard in the village, was that mistress braelands had lain at death's door also. doubtless it explained some testimony private to his own experience, for he let the intelligence pass through his ear-chambers into his heart, without remark, but it made there a great peace--a peace pure and loving as that which passeth understanding. there was, however, no hope or expectation of his resuming work until the herring fishing in june, and janet and christina were now suffering sorely from a strange dilemma. never before in all their lives had they known what it was to be pinched for ready money. it was hard for janet to realise that there was no longer "a little bit in the largo bank to fall back on." naturally economical, and always regarding it as a sacred duty to live within the rim of their shilling, they had never known either the slow terror of gathering debt, or the acute pinch of actual necessity. but andrew's long sickness, with all its attendant expenses, had used up all janet's savings, and the day at last dawned when they must either borrow money, or run into debt. it was a strange and humiliating position, especially after janet's little motherly bragging about her christina's silken wedding gown, and brawly furnished floor in glasgow. both mother and daughter felt it sorely; and christina looked at her brother with some little angry amazement, for he appeared to be quite oblivious of their cruel strait. he said little about his work, and never spoke at all about sophy or his lost money. in the tremendous furnace of his affliction, these elements of it appeared to have been utterly consumed. neither mother nor sister liked to remind him of them, nor yet to point out the poverty to which his long sickness had reduced them. it might be six weeks before the herring fishing roused him to labour, and they had spent their last sixpence. janet began seriously to think of lifting the creel to her shoulders again, and crying "fresh fish" in largo streets. it was so many years since she had done this, that the idea was painful both to christina and herself. the girl would gladly have taken her mother's place, but this janet would not hearken to. as yet, her daughter had never had to haggle and barter among fish wives, and house-wives; and she would not have her do it for a passing necessity. besides jamie might not like it; and for many other reasons, the little downcome would press hardest upon christina. there was one other plan by which a little ready money could be raised--that was, to get a small mortgage on the cottage, and when all had been said for and against this project, it seemed, after all, to be the best thing to do. griselda kilgour had money put away, and christina was very certain she would be glad to help them on such good security as a house and an acre or two of land. certainly janet and griselda had parted in bad bread at their last interview, but in such a time of trouble, christina did not believe that her kinswoman would remember ill words that had passed, especially as they were about sophy's marriage--a subject on which they had every right to feel hurt and offended. still a mortgage on their home was a dreadful alternative to these simple-minded women; they looked upon it as something very like a disgrace. "a lawyer's foot on the threshold," said janet, "and who or what is to keep him from putting the key of the cottage in his own pocket, and sending us into a cold and roofless world? no! no! christina. i had better by far lift the creel to my shoulders again. thank god, i have the health and strength to do it!" "and what will folks be saying of me, to let you ware yourself on the life of that work in your old age? if you turn fish-wife again, then i be to seek service with some one who can pay me for my hands' work." "well, well, my dear lass, to-night we cannot work, but we may sleep; and many a blessing comes, and us not thinking of it. lie down a wee, and god will comfort you; forbye, the pillow often gives us good counsel. keep a still heart tonight, and tomorrow is another day." janet followed her own advice, and was soon sleeping as soundly and as sweetly as a play-tired child; but christina sat in the open doorway, thinking of the strait they were in, and wondering if it would not be the kindest and wisest thing to tell andrew plainly of their necessity. sooner or later, he would find out that his mother was making his bread for him; and she thought such knowledge, coming from strangers, or through some accident, would wound him more severely than if she herself explained their hard position to him. as for the mortgage, the very thought of it made her sick. "it is just giving our home away, bit by bit--that is what a mortgage is--and whatever we are to do, and whatever i ought to do, god only knows!" yet in spite of the stress of this, to her, terrible question, a singular serenity possessed her. it was as if she had heard a voice saying "peace, be still!" she thought it was the calm of nature,--the high tide breaking gently on the shingle with a low murmur, the soft warmth, the full moonshine, the sound of the fishermen's voices calling faintly on the horizon,--and still more, the sense of divine care and knowledge, and the sweet conviction that one, mighty to help and to save, was her father and her friend. for a little space she walked abreast of angels. so many things take place in the soul that are not revealed, and it is always when we are wrestling _alone_, that the comforting ones come. christina looked downward to the village sleeping at her feet, "beneath its little patch of sky, and little lot of stars," and upward, to where innumerable worlds were whirling noiselessly through the limitless void, and forgot her own clamorous personality and "the something that infects the world;" and doing this, though she did not voice her anxiety, it passed from her heart into the infinite heart, and thus she was calmed and comforted. then, suddenly, the prayer of her childhood and her girlhood came to her lips, and she stood up, and clasping her hands, she cast her eyes towards heaven, and said reverently:-- "_this is the change of thy right hand, o thou most high thou art strong to strengthen.' thou art gracious to help! thou art ready to better.' thou art mighty to save'"_ as the words passed her lips, she heard a movement, and softly and silently as a spirit, her brother andrew, fully dressed, passed through the doorway. his arm lightly touched christina's clothing, but he was unconscious of her presence. he looked more than mortal, and was evidently seeing _through_ his eyes, and not _with_ them. she was afraid to speak to him. she did not dream of touching him, or of arresting his steps. without a sign or word, he went rapidly down the cliff, walking with that indifference to physical obstacles which a spirit that had cast off its incarnation might manifest. "he is walking in his sleep, and he may get into danger or find death itself," thought christina, and her fear gave strength and fleetness to her footsteps as she quickly followed her brother. he made no noise of any kind; he did not even disturb a pebble in his path; but went forward, with a motion light and rapid, and the very reverse of the slow, heavy-footed gait of a fisherman. but she kept him in sight as he glided over the ribbed and water-lined sands, and rounded the rocky points which jutted into the sea water. after a walk of nearly two miles, he made direct for a series of bold rocks which were penetrated by numberless caverns, and into one of these he entered. hitherto he had not shown a moment's hesitation, nor did he now though the path was dangerously narrow and rocky, overhanging unfathomable abysses of dark water. but christina was in mortal terror, both for herself and andrew. she did not dare to call his name, lest, in the sudden awakening he might miss his precarious foothold, and fall to unavoidable death. she found it almost impossible to follow him nor indeed in her ordinary frame of mind could she have done so. but the experience, so strange and thrilling, had lifted her in a measure above the control of the physical and she was conscious of an exaltation of spirit which defied difficulties that would ordinarily have terrified her. still she was so much delayed by the precautions evidently necessary for her life, that she lost sight of her brother, and her heart stood still with fright. prayers parted her white lips continually, as she slowly climbed the hollow crags that seemed to close together and forbid her further progress. but she would not turn back, for she could not believe that andrew had perished. she would have heard the fall of his body or its splash in the water beneath and so she continued to climb and clamber though every step appeared to make further exploration more and more impossible. with a startling unexpectedness, she found herself in a circular chamber, open to the sky and on one of the large boulders lying around, andrew sat. he was still in the depths of a somnambulistic sleep; but he had his lost box of gold and bank-notes before him, and he was counting the money. she held her breath. she stood still as a stone. she was afraid to think. but she divined at once the whole secret. motionless she watched him, as he unrolled and rerolled the notes, as he counted and recounted the gold, and then carefully locked the box, and hid the key under the edge of the stone on which he sat. what would he now do with the box? she watched his movements with a breathless interest. he sat still for a few moments, clasping his treasure firmly in his large, brown hands; then he rose, and put it in an aperture above his head, filling the space in front of it with a stone that exactly fitted. without hurry, and without hesitation, the whole transaction was accomplished; and then, with an equal composure and confidence, he retraced his steps through the cavern and over the rocks and sands to his own sleeping room. christina followed as rapidly as she was able; but her exaltation had died away, and left her weak and ready to weep; so that when she reached the open beach, andrew was so far in advance as to be almost out of sight. she could not hope to overtake him, and she sat down for a few minutes to try and realise the great relief that had come to them--to wonder--to clasp her hands in adoration, to weep tears of joy. when she reached her home at last, it was quite light. she looked into her brother's room, and saw that he was lying motionless in the deepest sleep; but janet was half-awake, and she asked sleepily:-- "whatever are you about so early for, christina? isn't the day long enough for the sorrow and the care of it?" "oh, mother! mother! the day isn't long enough for the joy and the blessing of it." "what do you mean, my lass? what is it in your face? what have you seen? who has spoken a word to you?" and janet rose up quickly, and put her hands on christina's shoulders; for the girl was swaying and trembling, and ready to break out into a passion of sobbing. "i have seen, mother, the salvation of the lord! i have found andrew's lost money! i have proved that poor jamie is innocent! we aren't poor any longer. there is no need to borrow, or mortgage, or to run in debt. oh, mother! mother! the blessing you bespoke last night, the blessing we were not thinking of, has come to us." "the lord be thanked! i knew he would save us, in his own time, and his time is never too late." then christina sat down by her mother's side, and in low, intense tones, told her all she had seen. janet listened with kindling face and shining eyes. "the mercy of god is on his beloved, and his regard is unto his elect," she cried, "and i am glad this day, that i never doubted him, and never prayed to him with a grudge at the bottom of my heart." then she began to dress herself with her old joyfulness, humming a line of this and that psalm or paraphrase, and stopping in the middle to ask christina another question; until the kettle began to simmer to her happy mood, and she suddenly sung out joyfully four lines, never very far from her lips:-- "my heart is dashed with cares and fears, my song comes fluttering and is gone; oh! high above this home of tears. eternal joy sing on!" how would it feel for the hyssop on the wall to turn cedar, i wonder? just about as janet and christina felt that morning, eating their simple breakfast with glad hearts. poor as the viands were, they had the flavour of joy and thankfulness, and of a wondrous salvation. "it is the lord's doing!" this was the key to which the two women set all their hopes and rejoicing, and yet even into its noble melody there stole at last a little of the fret of earth. for suddenly janet had a fear--not of god, but of man--and she said anxiously to her daughter:-- "you should have brought the box home with you, christina. o my lass, if some other body should have seen what you have seen, then we will be fairly ruined twice over." "no, no. mother! i would not have touched the box for all there is in it. andrew must go for it himself. he might never believe it was where i saw it, if he did not go for it. you know well he suspicioned both jamie and me; and indeed, mother dear, you yourself thought worse of jamie than you should have done." "let that be now, christina. god has righted all. we will have no casts up. if i thought of any one wrongly, i am sorry for it, and i could not say more than that even to my maker. if ill news was waiting for andrew, it would have shaken him off his pillow ere this." "let him sleep. his soul took his body a weary walk this morning. he is sore needing sleep, no doubt." "he will have to wake up now, and go about his business. it is high time." "you should mind, mother, what a tempest he has come through; all the waves and billows of sorrow have gone over him." "he is a good man, and ought to be the better of the tempest. his ship may have been sorely beaten and tossed, but his anchor was fast all through the storm. it is time he lifted anchor now, and faced the brunt and the buffet again. an idle man, if he is not a sick man, is on a lee shore, let him put out to sea, why, lassie! a storm is better than a shipwreck." "to be sure, mother. here the dear lad comes!" and with that andrew sauntered slowly into the kitchen. there was no light on his face, no hope or purpose in his movements. he sat down at the table, and drew his cup of tea towards him with an air of indifference, almost of despair. it wounded janet. she put her hand on his hand, and compelled him to look into her face. as he did so, his eyes opened wide; speculation, wonder, something like hope came into them. the very silence of the two women--a silence full of meaning--arrested his soul. he looked from one to the other, and saw the same inscrutable joy answering his gaze. "what is it, mother?" he asked. "i can see you have something to tell me." "i have that, andrew! o my dear lad, your money is found! i do not think a penny-bit of it is missing. don't mind me! i am greeting for the very joy of it--but o andrew, you be to praise god! it is his doing, and marvellous in our eyes. ask christina. she can tell you better than i can." but andrew could not speak. he touched his sister's hand, and dumbly looked into her happy face. he was white as death, but he sat bending forward to her, with one hand outstretched, as if to clasp and grasp the thing she had to tell him. so christina told him the whole story, and after he had heard it, he pushed his plate and cup away, and rose up, and went into his room and shut the door. and janet said gratefully:-- "it is all right, christina. he'll get nothing but good advice in god's council chamber. we'll not need to worry ourselves again anent either the lad or the money. the one has come to his senses, and the other will come to its use. and we will cast nothing up to him; the best boat loses her rudder once in a while." it was not long before andrew joined his mother and sister, and the man was a changed man. there was grave purpose in his calm face, and a joy, too deep for words, in the glint of his eyes and in the graciousness of his manner. "come, christina!" he said. "i want you you to go with me; we will bring the siller home together. but i forget--it is maybe too far for you to walk again to-day?" "i would walk ten times as far to pleasure you, andrew. do you know the place i told you of?" "aye, i know it well. i hid the first few shillings there that i ever saved." as they walked together over the sands christina said: "i wonder, andrew, when and how you carried the box there? can you guess at all the way this trouble came about?" "i can, but i'm ashamed to tell you, christina. you see, after i had shown you the money, i took a fear anent it. i thought maybe you might tell jamie logan, and the possibility of this fretted on my mind until it became a sure thing with me. so, being troubled in my heart, i doubtless got up in my sleep and put the box in my oldest and safest hiding-place." "but why then did you not remember that you had done so?" "you see, dearie, i hid it in my sleep, so then it was only in my sleep i knew where i had put it. there is two of us, i am thinking, lassie, and the one man does not always tell the other man all he knows. i ought to have trusted you, christina; but i doubted you, and, as mother says, doubt aye fathers sin or sorrow of some kind or other." "you might have safely trusted me, andrew." "i know now i might. but he is lifeless that is faultless; and the wrong i have done i must put right. i am thinking of jamie logan?" "poor jamie! you know now that he never wronged you?" "i know, and i will let him know as soon as possible. when did you hear from him? and where is he at all?" "i don't know just where he is. he sailed away yon time; and when he got to new york, he left the ship." "what for did he do that?" "o andrew, i cannot tell. he was angry with me for not coming to glasgow as i promised him i would." "you promised him that?" "aye, the night you were taken so bad. but how could i leave you in dead man's dale and mother here lone to help you through it? so i wrote and told him i be to see you through your trouble, and he went away from scotland and said he would never come back again till we found out how sorely all of us had wronged him." "don't cry, christina! i will seek jamie over the wide world till i find him. i wonder at myself i am shamed of myself. however, will you forgive me for all the sorrow i have brought on you?" "you were not altogether to blame, andrew. you were ill to death at the time. your brain was on fire, poor laddie, and it would be a sin to hold you countable for any word you said or did not say. but if you will seek after jamie either by letter or your own travel, and say as much to him as you have said to me i may be happy yet, for all that has come and gone." "what else can i do but seek the lad i have wronged so cruelly? what else can i do for the sister that never deserved ill word or deed from me? no, i cannot rest until i have made the wrong to both of you as far right as sorrow and siller can do." when they reached the cavern, andrew would not let christina enter it with him. he said he knew perfectly well the spot to which he must go, and he would not have her tread again the dangerous road. so christina sat down on the rocks to wait for him, and the water tinkled beneath her feet, and the sunshine dimpled the water, and the fresh salt wind blew strength and happiness into her heart and hopes. in a short time, the last moment of her anxiety was over, and andrew came back to her, with the box and its precious contents in his hands. "it is all here!" he said, and his voice had its old tones, for his heart was ringing to the music of its happiness, knowing that the door of fortune was now open to him, and that he could walk up to success, as to a friend, on his own hearthstone. that afternoon he put the money in largo bank, and made arrangements for his mother's and sister's comfort for some weeks. "for there is nothing i can do for my own side, until i have found jamie logan, and put christina's and his affairs right," he said. and janet was of the same opinion. "you cannot bless yourself, laddie, until you bless others," she said, "and the sooner you go about the business, the better for everybody." so that night andrew started for glasgow, and when he reached that city, he was fortunate enough to find the very ship in which jamie had sailed away, lying at her dock. the first mate recalled the young man readily. "the more by token that he had my own name," he said to andrew. "we are both of us fife logans, and i took a liking to the lad, and he told me his trouble." "about some lost money?" asked andrew. "nay, he said nothing about money. it was some love trouble, i take it. he thought he could better forget the girl if he ran away from his country and his work. he has found out his mistake by this time, no doubt." "you knew he was going to leave 'the line' then?" "yes, we let him go; and i heard say that he had shipped on an american line, sailing to cuba, or new orleans, or somewhere near the equator." "well, i shall try and find him." "i wouldn't, if i was you. he is sure to come back to his home again. he showed me a lock of the lassie's hair. man! a single strand of it would pull him back to scotland sooner or later." "but i have wronged him sorely. i did not mean to wrong him, but that does not alter the case." "not a bit. love sickness is one thing; a wrong against a man's good name or good fortune, is a different matter. i would find him and right him." "that is what i want to do." and so when the _circassia_ sailed out of greenock for new york, andrew binnie sailed in her. "it is not a very convenient journey," he said rather sadly, as he left scotland behind him, "but wrong has been done, and wrong has no warrant, and i'll never have a good day till i put the wrong right; so the sooner the better, for, as mother says, 'that which a fool does at the end a wise man does at the beginning.'" chapter ix the righting of a wrong so andrew sailed for new york, and life resumed its long forgotten happy tenor in the binnie cottage. janet sang about her spotless houseplace, feeling almost as if it was a new gift of god to her; and christina regarded their small and simple belongings with that tender and excessive affection which we are apt to give to whatever has been all but lost and then unexpectedly recovered. both women involuntarily showed this feeling in the extra care they took of everything. never had the floors and chairs and tables been scrubbed and rubbed to such spotless beauty; and every cup and platter and small ornament was washed and dusted with such care as could only spring from heart-felt gratitude in its possession. naturally they had much spare time, for as janet said, 'having no man to cook and wash for lifted half the work from their hands,' but they were busy women for all that. janet began a patch-work quilt of a wonderful design as a wedding present for christina; and as the whole village contributed "pieces" for its construction, the whole village felt an interest in its progress. it was a delightful excuse for janet's resumption of her old friendly, gossipy ways; and every afternoon saw her in some crony's house, spreading out her work, and explaining her design, and receiving the praises and sometimes the advice of her acquaintances. christina also, quietly but yet hopefully, began again her preparations for her marriage; for janet laughed at her fears and doubts. "andrew was sure to find jamie, and jamie was sure to be glad to come home again. it stands to reason," she said confidently. "the very sight of andrew will be a cordial of gladness to him; for he will know, as soon as he sees the face of him, that the brother will mean the sister and the wedding ring. if you get the spindle and distaff ready, my lass, god is sure to send the flax; and by the same token, if you get your plenishing made and marked, and your bride-clothes finished, god will certainly send the husband." "jamie said in his last letter--the one in which he bid me farewell--'i will never come back to scotland.'" "_toots! havers!_ 'i _will_' is for the lord god almighty to say. a sailor-man's 'i will' is just breath, that any wind may blow away. when andrew gives him the letter you sent, jamie will not be able to wait for the next boat for scotland." "he may have taken a fancy to america and want to stop there." "what are you talking about, christina binnie? there is nothing but scant and want in them foreign countries. oh! my lass, he will come home, and be glad to come home; and you will have the hank in your own hand. see that you spin it cannily and happily." "i hope andrew will not make himself sick again looking for the lost." "i shall have little pity for him, if he does. i told him to make good days for himself; why not? he is about his duty; the law of kindness is in his heart, and the purpose of putting right what he put wrong is the wind that drives him. well then, his journey--be it short or long--ought to be a holiday to him, and a body does not deserve a holiday if he cannot take advantage of one. them were my last words to andrew." "jamie may have seen another lass. i have heard say the lassies in america are gey bonnie." "i'll just be stepping if you have nothing but frets and fears to say. when things go wrong, it is mostly because folks will have them wrong and no other way." "in this world, mother, the giffs and the gaffs--" "in this world, christina, the giffs and the gaffs generally balance one another. and if they don't,--mind what i say,--it is because there is a moral defect on the failing side. oh! but women are flightersome and easy frighted." "whyles you have fears yourself, mother." "ay, i am that foolish whyles; but i shall be a sick, weak body, when i can't outmarch the worst of them." "you are just an oracle, mother." "not i; but if i was a very saint, i would say every morning of my life: 'now then, soul, hope for good and have good.' many a sad heart folks get they have no need to have. take out your needle and thimble and go to your wedding clothes, lassie; you will need them before the summer is over. you may take my word for that." "if jamie should still love me." "love you! he will be that far gone in love with you that there will be no help for him but standing up before the minister. that will be seen and heard tell of. lift your white seam, and be busy at it; there is nothing else to do till tea time, and i am away for an hour or two to maggie buchans. her man went to edinburgh this morning. what for, i don't know yet, but i'll maybe find out." it was on this very afternoon that janet first heard that there was trouble and a sound of more trouble at braelands. sophy had driven down in her carriage the previous day to see her cousin isobel murray, and some old friends who had gone into isobel's had found the little mistress of braelands weeping bitterly in her cousin's arms. after this news janet did not stay long at maggie buchans; she carried her patch-work to isobel murray's, and as isobel did not voluntarily name the subject, janet boldly introduced it herself. "i heard tell that sophy braelands was here yesterday." "aye, she was." "a grand thing for you, isobel, to have the braelands's yellow coach and pair standing before the murray cottage all of two or three hours." "it did not stand before my cottage, janet. the man went to the public house and gave the horses a drink, and himself one too, or i am much mistaken, for i had to send little pete galloway after him." "i think sophy might have called on me." "no doubt she would have done so, had she known that andrew was away, but i never thought to tell her until the last moment." "is she well? i was hearing that she looked but poorly." "you were hearing the truth. she looks bad enough." "is she happy, isobel?" "i never asked her that question." "you have eyes and observation. didn't you ask yourself that question?" "maybe i did." "what then?" "i have nothing to say anent it." "what was she talking about? you know, isobel, that sophy is kin of mine, and i loved her mother like my own sister. so i be to feel anxious about the little body. i'm feared things are not going as well as they might do. madame braelands is but a hard-grained woman." "she is as cruel a woman and as bad a woman as there is between this and wherever she may be." "isn't she at braelands?" "not for a week or two. she's away to acker castle, and her son with her." "and why not sophy also?" "the poor lassie would not go--she says she could not. well, janet, i may as good confess that there is something wrong that she does not like to speak of yet. she is just at the crying point now, the reason why and wherefore will come anon." "but she be to say something to you." "i'll tell you. she said she was worn out with learning this and that, and she was humbled to death to find out how ignorant and full of faults she was. madame braelands is both schoolmistress and mother-in-law, and there does not seem to be a minute of the day in which the poor child isn't checked and corrected. she has lost all her pretty ways, and she says she cannot learn madame's ways; and she is feared for herself, and shamed for herself. and when the invitation came for acker castle, madame told her she must not accept it for her husband's sake, because all his great friends were to be there, and they were to discuss his going to parliament, and she would only shame and disgrace him. and you may well conceive that sophy turned obstinate and said she would bide in her own home. and, someway, her husband did not urge her to go and this hurt her worst of all; and she felt lonely and broken-hearted, and so came to see me. that is everything about it, but keep it to yourself, janet, it isn't for common clash." "i know that. but did madame braelands and her son really go away and leave sophy her lone?" "they left her with two or three teachers to worry the life out of her. they went away two days ago; and madame was in full feather and glory, with her son at her beck and call, and all her grand airs and manners about her. sophy says she watched them away from her bedroom window, and then she cried her heart out. and she couldn't learn her lessons, and so sent the man teacher and the woman teacher about their business. she says she will not try the weary books again to please anybody; they make her head ache so that she is like to swoon away." "sophy was never fond of books; but i thought she would like the music." "aye, if they would let her have her own way about it. she has her father's little fiddle, and when she was but a bare-footed lassie, she played on it wonderful." "i remember. you would have thought there was a linnet living inside of it." "well, she wanted to have some lessons on it, and her husband was willing enough, but madame went into hysterics about the idea of anything so vulgar. there is a constant bitter little quarrel between the two women, and sophy says she cannot go to her husband with every slight and cruelty. madame laughs at her, or pretends to pet her, or else gets into passions at what she calls sophy's unreasonableness; and archie braelands is weary to death of complaining, and just turns sulky or goes out of the house. oh, janet, i can see and feel the bitter, cruel task-woman over the poor, foolish child! she is killing her, and archie braelands does not see the right and the wrong of it all." "i'll make him see it." "you will hold your tongue, janet. they who stir in muddy water only make it worse." "but archie braelands loved her, or he would not have married her; and if he knew the right and the wrong of poor sophy's position--" "i tell you, that is nothing to it, janet." "it is everything to it. right is right, in the devil's teeth." "i'm sorry i said a word to you; it is a dangerous thing to get between a man and his wife. i would not do it, not even for sophy; for reason here or reason there, folks be to take care of themselves; and my man gets siller from braelands, more than we can afford to lose." "you are taken with a fit of the prudentials, isobel; and it is just extraordinary how selfish they make folk." and yet janet herself, when going over the conversation with christina, was quite inclined on second thoughts not to interfere in sophy's affairs, though both were anxious and sorrowful about the motherless little woman. "she ought to be with her husband wherever he is, court or castle," said christina. "she is a foolish woman to let him go away with her enemy, and such a clever enemy as madame braelands is. i think, mother, you ought to call on sophy, and give her a word of love and a bit of good advice. her mother was very close to you." "i know, christina; but isobel was right about the folly of coming between a man and his wife. i would just get the wyte of it. many a sore heart i have had for meddling with what i could not mend." yet janet carried the lonely, sorrowful little wife on her heart continually; though, after a week or two had passed and nothing new was heard from braelands, every one began to give their sympathy to christina and her affairs. janet was ready to talk of them. there were some things she wished to explain, though she was too proud to do so until her friends felt interest enough to ask for explanations. and as soon as it was discovered that andrew had gone to america, the interest and curiosity was sufficiently keen and eager to satisfy even janet. "it fairly took the breath from me," said sabrina roy, "when i was told the like of that. i cannot think there is a word of truth in such a report." mistress roy was sitting at janet's fireside, and so had the privilege of a guest; but, apart from this, it gave janet a profound satisfaction to answer: "ay, well, sabrina, the clash is true for once in a lifetime. andrew has gone to america, and the lord knows where else beside." "preserve us all! i wouldn't believe it, only from your own lips, janet. whatever would be the matter that sent him stravaging round the world, with no ship of his own beneath his feet or above his head?" "a matter of right and wrong, sabrina. my andrew has a strict conscience and a sense of right that would be ornamental in a very saint. not to make a long story of it, he and jamie logan had a quarrel. it was the night andrew took his inflammation, and it is very sure his brain was on fire and off its judgment at the time. but we were none of us thinking of the like of that; and so the bad words came, and stirred up the bad blood, and if i hadn't been there myself, there might have been spilled blood to end all with, for they were both black angry." "guide us, woman! what was it all about?" "well, sabrina, it was about siller; that is all i am free to say. andrew was sure he was right, and jamie was sure he was wrong; and they were going fairly to one another's throats, when i stepped in and flung them apart." "and poor christina had the buff and the buffet to take and to bear for their tempers?" "not just that. jamie begged her to go away with him, and the lassie would have gone if i hadn't got between her and the door. i had a hard few minutes, i can tell you, sabrina; for when men are beside themselves with passion, they are in the devil's employ, and it's no easy work to take a job out of _his_ hands. but i sent jamie flying down the cliff, and i locked the door and put the key in my pocket, and ordered andrew and christina off to their beds, and thought i would leave the rest of the business till the next day; but before midnight andrew was raving, and the affair was out of my hands altogether." "it is a wonder christina did not go after her lad." "what are you talking about, sabrina? it would have been a world's wonder and a black, burning shame if my girl had gone after her lad in such a calamitous time. no, no, christina binnie isn't the kind of girl that shrinks in the wetting. when her time of trial came, she did the whole of her duty, showing herself day by day a witness and a testimony to her decent, kirk-going forefathers." "and so andrew has found out he was wrong and jamie logan right?" "aye, he has. and the very minute he did so, he made up his mind to seek the lad far and near and confess his fault." "and bring him back to christina?" "just so. what for not? he parted them, and he has the right and duty to bring them together again, though it take the best years of his life and the last bawbee of his money." "folks were saying his money was all spent." "folks are far wrong then. andrew has all the money he ever had. andrew isn't a bragger, and his money has been silent so far, but it will speak ere long." "with money to the fore, you shouldn't have been so scrimpit with yourselves in such a time of work and trouble. folks noticed it." "i don't believe in wasting anything, sabrina, even grief. i did not spend a penny, nor a tear, nor a bit of strength, that was useless. what for should i? and if folks noticed we were scrimpit, why didn't they think about helping us? no, thank god! we have enough and a good bit to spare, for all that has come and gone, and if it pleases the maker of happiness to bring jamie logan back again, we will have a bridal that will make a monumental year in pittendurie." "i am glad to hear tell o' that. i never did approve of two or three at a wedding. the more the merrier." "that is a very sound observe. my christina will have a wedding to be seen and heard tell of from one sacramental occasion to another." "well, then, good luck to andrew binnie, and may he come soon home and well home, and sorrow of all kinds keep a day's sail behind him. and surely he will go back to the boats when he has saved his conscience, for there is never a better sailor and fisher on the north sea. the men were all saying that when he was so ill." "it is the very truth. andrew can read the sea as well as the minister can read the book. he never turns his back on it; his boat is always ready to kiss the wind in its teeth. i have been with him when _rip! rip! rip_! went her canvas; but i hadn't a single fear, i knew the lad at the helm. i knew he would bring her to her bearings beautifully. he always did, and then how the gallant bit of a creature would shake herself and away like a sea-gull. my andrew is a son of the sea as all his forbears were. its salt is in his blood, and when the tide is going with a race and a roar, and the break of the waves and the howl of the wind is like a thousand guns, then andrew binnie is in the element he likes best; aye, though his boat be spinning round like a laddie's top." "well, janet, i will be going." "mind this, sabrina, i have told you all to my heart's keel; and if folks are saying to you that jamie has given christina the slip, or that the binnies are scrimpit for poverty's sake, or the like of any other ill-natured thing, you will be knowing how to answer them." "'deed, i will! and i am real glad things are so well with you all, janet." "well, and like to be better, thank god, as soon as andrew gets back from foreign parts." in the meantime, andrew, after a pleasant sail, had reached new york. he made many friends on the ship, and in the few days of bad weather usually encountered came to the front, as he always did when winds were blowing and sailor-men had to wear oil skins. the first sight of the new world made him silent. he was too prudent to hazard an opinion about any place so remote and so strange, though he cautiously admitted "the lift was as blue as in scotland and the sunshine not to speak ill of." but as his ideas of large towns had been formed upon edinburgh and glasgow, he could hardly admire new york. "it looks," he said to an acquaintance who was showing him the city, "it looks as if it had been built in a hurry;" for he was thinking of the granite streets and piers of glasgow. "besides," he added, "there is no romance or beauty about it; it is all straight lines and squares. man alive! you should see edinburgh the sel of it, the castle, and the links, and the bonnie terraces, and the highland men parading the streets, it is just a bit of poetry made out of builders stones." with the information he had received from the mate of the "circassia," and his advice and directions, andrew had little difficulty in locating jamie logan. he found his name in the list of seamen sailing a steamer between new york and new orleans; and this steamer was then lying at her pier on the north river. it was not very hard to obtain permission to interview jamie, and armed with this authority, he went to the ship one very hot afternoon about four o'clock. jamie was at the hold, attending to the unshipping of cargo; and as he lifted himself from the stooping attitude which his work demanded, he saw andrew binnie approaching him. he pretended, however, not to see him, and became suddenly very deeply interested in the removal of a certain case of goods. andrew was quite conscious of the affectation, but he did not blame jamie; it only made him the more anxious to atone for the wrong he had done. he stepped rapidly forward, and with extended hands said:-- "jamie logan, i have come all the way from scotland to ask you to forgive me. i thought wrong of you, and i said wrong to you, and i am sorry for it. can you pass it by for christ's sake?" jamie looked into the speaker's face, frankly and gravely, but with the air of a man who has found something he thought lost. he took andrew's hands in his own hands and answered:-- "aye, i can forgive you with all my heart. i knew you would come to yourself some day, andrew; but it has seemed a long time waiting. i have not a word against you now. a man that can come three thousand miles to own up to a wrong is worth forgiving. how is christina?" "christina is well, but tired-like with the care of me through my long sickness. she has sent you a letter, and here it is. the poor lass has suffered more than either of us; but never a word of complaining from her. jamie, i have promised her to bring you back with me. can you come?" "i will go back to scotland with you gladly, if it can be managed. i am fair sick for the soft gray skies, and the keen, salt wind of the north sea. last sabbath day i was in new orleans--fairly baking with the heat of the place--and i thought i heard the kirk bells across the sands, and saw christina stepping down the cliff with the book in her hands and her sweet smile making all hearts but mine happy. andrew man, i could not keep the tears out of my een, and my heart was away down to my feet, and i was fairly sick with longing." they left the ship together and spent the night in each other's company. their room was a small one, in a small river-side hotel, hot and close smelling; but the two men created their own atmosphere. for as they talked of their old life, the clean, sharp breezes of pittendurie swept through the stifling room; they tasted the brine on the wind's wings, and felt the wet, firm sands under their feet. or they talked of the fishing boats, until they could see their sails bellying out, as they lay down just enough to show they felt the fresh wind tossing the spray from their bows and lifting themselves over the great waves as if they stepped over them. before they slept, they had talked themselves into a fever of home sickness, and the first work of the next day was to make arrangements for jamie's release from his obligations. there was some delay and difficulty about this matter, but it was finally completed to the satisfaction of all parties, and andrew and jamie took the next anchor line steamer for glasgow. on the voyage home, the two men got very close to each other, not in any accidental mood of confidence, but out of a thoughtful and assured conviction of respect. andrew told jamie all about his lost money and the plans for his future which had been dependent on it, and jamie said-- "no wonder you went off your health and senses with the thought of your loss, andrew i would have been less sensible than you. it was an awful experience, man, i cannot tell how you tholed it at all." "well, i didn't thole it, jamie. i just broke down under it, and god almighty and my mother and sister had to carry me through the ill time; but all is right now. i shall have the boat i was promised, and at the long last be captain binnie of the red-white fleet. and what for shouldn't you take a berth with me? i shall have the choosing of my officers, and we will strike hands together, if you like it, and you shall be my second mate to start with." "i should like nothing better than to sail with you and under you, andrew. i couldn't find a captain more to my liking." "nor i a better second mate. we both know our business, and we shall manage it cleverly and brotherly." so jamie's future was settled before the men reached pittendurie, and the new arrangement well talked over, and andrew and his proposed brother-in-law were finger and thumb about it. this was a good thing for andrew, for his secretive, self-contained disposition was his weak point, and had been the cause of all his sorrow and loss of time and suffering. they had written a letter in new york and posted it the day they left, advising janet and christina of the happy home-coming; but both men forgot, or else did not know, that the letter came on the very same ship with themselves, and might therefore or might not reach home before them. it depended entirely on the postal authority in pittendurie. if she happened to be in a mood to sort the letters as soon as they arrived, and then if she happened to see any one passing who could carry a letter to janet binnie, the chances were that janet would receive the intelligence of her son's arrival in time to make some preparation for it. as it happened, these favourable circumstances occurred, and about four o'clock one afternoon, as janet was returning up the cliff from isobel murray's, she met little tim galloway with the letter in his hand. "it is from america," said the laddie, "and my mother told me to hurry myself with it. maybe there is folk coming after it." "i'll give you a bawbee for the sense of your words, tim," answered janet; and she hastened herself and flung the letter into christina's lap, saying:-- "open it, lassie, it will be full of good news. i shouldn't wonder if both lads were on their way home again." "mother, mother, they _are_ home; they will be here anon, they will be here this very night. oh, mother, i must put on my best gown and my gold ear-rings and brush my hair, and you'll be setting forward the tea and making a white pudding; for jamie, you know, was always saying none but you could mix the meal and salt and pepper, and toast it as it should be done." "i shall look after the men's eating, christina, and you make yourself as braw as you like to. jamie has been long away, and he must have a full welcome home again." they were both as excited as two happy children; perhaps janet was most evidently so, for she had never lost her child-heart, and everything pleasant that happened was a joy and a wonder to her. she took out her best damask table-cloth, and opened her bride chest for the real china kept there so carefully; and she made the white pudding with her own hands, and ran down the cliff for fresh fish and the lamb chops which were andrew's special luxury. and christina made the curds and cream, and swept the hearth, and set the door wide open for the home-comers. and as good fortune comes where it is looked for, andrew and jamie entered the cottage just as everything was ready for them. there was no waiting, no cooled welcome, no spoiled dainties, no disappointment of any kind. life was taken up where it had been most pleasantly dropped; all the interval of doubt and suffering was put out of remembrance, and when the joyful meal had been eaten, as janet washed her cups and saucers and tidied her house, they talked of the happy future before them. "and i'll tell you what, bairnies," said the dear old woman as she stood folding her real china in the tissue paper devoted to that purpose, "i'll tell you what, bairnies, good will asks for good deeds, and i'll show my good will by giving christina the acre of land next my own. if jamie is to go with you, andrew, and your home is to be with me, lad--" "where else would it be, mother?" "well, then, where else need jamie's home be but in pittendurie? i'll give the land for his house, and what will you do, andrew? speak for your best self, my lad." "i will give my sister christina one hundred gold sovereigns and the silk wedding-gown i promised her." "oh, andrew, my dear brother, how will i ever thank you as i ought to?" "i owe you more, christina, than i can count." "no, no, andrew," said janet. "what has christina done that siller can pay for? you can't buy love with money, and gold isn't in exchange for it. your gift is a good-will gift. it isn't a paid debt, god be thanked!" the very next day the little family went into largo, and the acre was legally transferred, and jamie made arrangements for the building of his cottage. but the marriage did not wait on the building; it was delayed no longer than was necessary for the making of the silk wedding-gown. this office griselda kilgour undertook with much readiness and an entire oblivion of janet's unadvised allusions to her age. and more than this, griselda dressed the bride with her own hands, adding to her costume a bonnet of white tulle and orange blossoms that was the admiration of the whole village, and which certainly had a bewitching effect above christina's waving black hair, and shining eyes, and marvellous colouring. and, as janet desired, the wedding was a holiday for the whole of pittendurie. old and young were bid to it, and for two days the dance, the feast, and the song went gayly on, and for two days not a single fishing boat left the little port of pittendurie. then the men went out to sea again, and the women paid their bride visits, and the children finished all the dainties that were else like to be wasted, and life gradually settled back into its usual grooves. but though jamie went to the fishing, pending andrew's appointment to his steamboat, janet and christina had a never-ceasing interest in the building and plenishing of christina's new home. it was not fashionable, nor indeed hardly permissible, for any one to build a house on a plan grander than the traditional fisher cottage; but christina's, though no larger than her neighbours', had the modern convenience of many little closets and presses, and these janet filled with homespun napery, linseys, and patch-work, so that never a young lass in pittendurie began life under such full and happy circumstances. in the fall of the year the new fire was lit on the new hearth, and christina moved into her own home. it was only divided from her mother's by a strip of garden and a low fence, and the two women could stand in their open doors and talk to each other. and during the summer all had gone well. jamie had been fortunate and made money, and andrew had perfected all his arrangements, so that one morning in early september, the whole village saw "the falcon" come to anchor in the bay, and captain binnie, in his gold-buttoned coat and gold-banded cap, take his place on her bridge, with jamie, less conspicuously attired, attending him. it was a proud day for janet and christina, though janet, guided by some fine instinct, remained in her own home, and made no afternoon calls. "i don't want to force folk to say either kind or unkind things to me," she said to her daughter. "you know, christina, it is a deal harder to rejoice with them that rejoice than to weep with them that weep. sabrina roy, as soon as she got her eyes on andrew in his trimmings, perfectly changed colours with envy; and we have been a speculation to far and near, more than one body saying we were going fairly to the mischief with out extravagance. they thought poverty had us under her black thumb, and they did not think of the hand of god, which was our surety." however, that afternoon janet had a great many callers, and not a few came up the cliff out of real kindness, for, doubt as we will, there is a constant inflowing of god into human affairs. and janet, in her heart, did not doubt her neighbours readily; she took the homage rendered in a very pleased and gracious manner, and she made a cup of tea and a little feast for her company, and the clash and clatter in the binnie cottage that afternoon was exceedingly full of good wishes and compliments. indeed, as janet reviewed them afterwards, they provoked from her a broad smile, and she said with a touch of good-natured criticism:-- "if we could make compliments into silk gowns, christina, you and i would be bonnily clad for the rest of our lives. nobody said a nattering word but poor bella mclean, and she has been soured and sore kept down in the world by a ne'er-do-weel of a husband." "she should try and guide him better," said christina. "if he was my man, i would put him through his facings." "_toots_, christina. you are over young in the marriage state to offer opinions about men folk. as far as i can see, every woman can guide a bad husband but the poor soul that has the ill-luck to have one. open the book now, and let us thank god for the good day he has given us." chapter x "take me in to die!" after this, the pleasant months went by with nothing but andrew's and jamie's visits to mark them, and, every now and then, a sough of sorrow from the big house of braelands. and now that her own girl was so happily settled, janet began to have a longing anxiety about poor sophy. she heard all kinds of evil reports concerning the relations between her and her husband, and twice during the winter there was a rumour, hardly hushed up, of a separation between them. isobel murray, to whom at first sophy turned in her sorrow, had not responded to any later confidences. "my man told me to neither listen nor speak against archie braelands," she said to janet. "we have our own boat to guide, and sophy cannot be a friend to us; while it is very sure braelands can be an enemy beyond our 'don't care.' six little lads and lassies made folk mind their own business. and i'm no very sure but what sophy's troubles are sophy's own making. at any rate, she isn't faultless; you be to have both flint and stone to strike fire." "i'll not hear you say the like of that, isobel. sophy may be misguided and unwise, but there is not a wrong thought in her heart. the bit vanity of the young thing was her only fault, and i'm thinking she has paid sorely for it." all winter, such vague and miserable bits of gossip found their way into the fishing village, and one morning in the following spring, janet met a young girl who frequently went to braelands house with fresh fish. she was then on her way home from such an errand, and janet fancied there was a look of unusual emotion on her broad, stolid face. "maggie-ann," she said, stopping her, "where have you been this morning?" "up to braelands." "and what did you see or hear tell of?" "i saw nothing; but i heard more than i liked to hear." "about mistress braelands? you know, maggie-ann, that she is my own flesh and blood, and i be to feel her wrongs my wrongs." "surely, janet there had been a big stir, and you could feel it in the very air of the house. the servants were feared to speak or to step, and when the door opened, the sound of angry words and of somebody crying was plain to be heard. jean craigie, the cook, told me it was about the dower house. the mistress wants to get away from her mother-in-law, and she had been begging her husband to go and live in the dower house with her, since madame would not leave them their own place." "she is right," answered janet boldly. "i wouldn't live with that fine old sinner myself, and i think there are few women in fife i couldn't talk back to if i wanted. sophy ought never to have bided with her for a day. they have no business under the same roof. a baby and a popish inquisitor would be as well matched." it had, indeed, come at last to sophy's positive refusal to live longer with her mother-in-law. in a hundred ways the young wife felt her inability to cope with a woman so wise and so wicked, and she had finally begun to entreat archie to take her away from braelands. the man was in a strait which could end only in anger. he was completely under his mother's influence, while sophy's influence had been gradually weakened by madame's innuendos and complaints, her pity for archie, and her tattle of visitors. these things were bad enough; but sophy's worst failures came from within herself. she had been snubbed and laughed at, scolded and corrected, until she had lost all spontaneity and all the grace and charm of her natural manner. this condition would not have been so readily brought about, had she retained her health and her flower-like beauty. but after the birth of her child she faded slowly away. she had not the strength for a constant, never-resting assertion of her rights, and nothing less would have availed her; nor had she the metal brightness to expose or circumvent the false and foolish positions in which madame habitually placed her. little by little, the facts of the unhappy case leaked out, and were warmly commented on by the fisher-families with whom sophy was connected either by blood or friendship. her father's shipmates were many of them living and she had cousins of every degree among the nets--men and women who did not forget the motherless, fatherless lassie who had played with their own children. these people made archie feel their antagonism. they would neither take his money, nor give him their votes, nor lift their bonnets to his greeting. and though such honest, primitive feelings were proper enough, they did not help sophy. on the contrary, they strengthened madame's continual assertion that her son's marriage had ruined his public career and political prospects. still there is nothing more wonderful than the tugs and twists the marriage tie will bear. there were still days in which archie--either from love, or pity, or contradiction, or perhaps from a sense of simple justice--took his wife's part so positively that madame must have been discouraged if she had been a less understanding woman. as it was, she only smiled at such fitful affection, and laid her plans a little more carefully. and as the devil strengthens the hands of those who do his work, madame received a potent reinforcement in the return home of her nearest neighbour, miss marion glamis. as a girl, she had been archie's friend and playmate; then she had been sent to paris for her education, and afterwards travelled extensively with her father who was a man of very comfortable fortune. marion herself had a private income, and madame had been accustomed to believe that when archie married, he would choose marion glamis for his wife. she was a tall, high-coloured, rather mannish-looking girl, handsome in form, witty in speech, and disposed towards field sports of every kind. she disliked sophy on sight, and madame perceived it, and easily worked on the girl's worst feelings. besides, marion had no lover at the time, and she had come home with the idea of archie braelands tilling such imagination as she possessed. to find herself supplanted by a girl of low birth, "without a single advantage" as she said frankly to archie's mother, provoked and humiliated her. "she has not beauty, nor grace, nor wit, nor money, nor any earthly thing to recommend her to archie's notice. was the man under a spell?" she asked. "indeed she had a kind of beauty and grace when archie married her," answered madame; "i must admit that. but bringing her to braelands was like transplanting a hedge flower into a hot-house. she has just wilted ever since." "has she been noticed by archie's friends at all?" "i have taken good care she did not see much of archie's friends, and her ill health has been a splendid excuse for her seclusion. yet it was strange how much the few people she met admired her. lady blair goes into italics every time she comes here about 'the beauty', and the bells, and curries, and cupars, have done their best to get her to visit them. i knew better than permit such folly. she would have told all sorts of things, and raised the country-side against me; though, really, no one will ever know what i have gone through in my efforts to lick the cub into shape!" marion laughed, and, archie coming in at that moment, she launched all her high spirits and catches and witticisms at him. her brilliancy and colour and style were very effective, and there was a sentimental remembrance for the foundation of a flirtation which marion very cleverly took advantage of, and which archie was not inclined to deny. his life was monotonous, he was ennuye, and this bold, bright incarnation, with her half disguised admiration for himself, was an irresistible new interest. so their intimacy soon became frequent and friendly. there were horseback rides together in the mornings, sails in the afternoons, and duets on the piano in the evenings. then her parisian toilets made poor sophy's largo dresses look funnily dowdy, and her sharp questions and affected ignorances of sophy's meanings and answers were cleverly aided by madame's cold silences, lifted brows, and hopeless acceptance of such an outside barbarian. long before a dinner was over, sophy had been driven into silence, and it was perhaps impossible for her to avoid an air of offence and injury, so that marion had the charming in her own hands. after dinner, admiral glamis and madame usually played a game of chess, and archie sang or played duets with marion, while sophy, sitting sadly unnoticed and unemployed, watched her husband give to his companion such smiles and careful attentions as he had used to win her own heart. what regrets and fears and feelings of wrong troubled her heart during these unhappy summer evenings, god only knew. sometimes her presence seemed to be intolerable to madame, who would turn to her and say sharply: "you are worn out, sophy, and it is hardly fair to impose your weariness and low spirits on us. had you not better go to your room?" occasionally, sophy refused to notice this covert order, and she fancied that there was generally a passing expression of pleasure on her husband's face at her rebellion. more frequently, she was glad to escape the slow, long torture, and she would rise, and go through the formality of shaking hands with each person and bidding each "good-night" ere she left the room. "fisher manners," madame would whisper impatiently to marion. "i cannot teach her a decent effacement of her personality." for this little ceremony always ended in archie's escorting her upstairs, and so far he had never neglected this formal deference due his wife. sometimes too he came back from the duty very distrait and unhappy-looking, a circumstance always noted by madame with anger and scorn. to such a situation, any tragedy was a possible culmination, and day by day there was a more reckless abuse of its opportunities. madame, when alone with sophy, did not now scruple to regret openly the fact that marion was not her daughter-in-law, and if marion happened to be present, she gave way to her disappointment in such ejaculations as-- "oh! marion glamis, why did you stay away so long? why did you not come home before archie's life was ruined?" and the girl would sigh and answer: "is not my life ruined also? could any one have imagined archie braelands would have an attack of insanity?" then sophy, feeling her impotence between the tongues of her two enemies, would rise and go away, more or less angrily or sadly, followed through the hall and half-way upstairs by the snickering, confidential laughter of their common ridicule. at the latter end of june, admiral glamis proposed an expedition to norway. they were to hire a yacht, select a merry party, and spend july and august sailing and fishing in the cool fiords of that picturesque land. archie took charge of all the arrangements. he secured a yacht, and posted a notice in the public house of pittendurie for men to sail her. he had no doubt of any number of applications; for the work was light and pleasant, and much better paid than any fishing-job. but not a man presented himself, and not even when archie sought out the best sailors and those accustomed to the cross seas between scotland and norway, could he induce any one to take charge of the yacht and man her. the admiral's astonishment at archie's lack of influence among his own neighbours and tenants was not very pleasant to bear, and marion openly said:-- "they are making cause with your wife, archie, against you. they imagine themselves very loyal and unselfish. fools! a few extra sovereigns would be much better." "but why make cause for my wife against me, marion?" asked archie. "you know best; ask madame, she is my authority," and she shrugged her shoulders and went laughing from his side. nothing in all his married life had so annoyed archie as this dour displeasure of men who had always before been glad to serve him. madame was indignant, sorrowful, anxious, everything else that could further irritate her angry son; and poor sophy might well have prayed in those days "deliver me from my friends!" but at length the yacht was ready for sea, and archie ran upstairs in the middle of one hot afternoon to bid his wife "goodbye!" she was resting on her bed, and he never forgot the eager, wistful, longing look of the wasted white face on the white pillow. he told her to take care of herself for his sake. he told her not to let any one worry or annoy her. he kissed her tenderly, and then, after he had closed the door, he came back and kissed her again; and there were days coming in which it was some comfort to him to remember this trifling kindness. "you will not forget me, archie?" she asked sadly. "i will not, sweetheart," he answered. "you will write me a letter when you can, dear?" "i will be sure to do so." "you--you--you will love me best of all?" "how can i help it? don't cry now. send me away with a smile." "yes, dear. i will try and be happy, and try and get well." "i am sorry you cannot go with us, sophy." "i am sorry too, archie; but i could not bear the knocking about, and the noise and bustle, and the merry-making. i should only spoil your pleasure. i wouldn't like to do that, dear. good-bye, and good-bye." for a few minutes he was very miserable. a sense of shame came over him. he felt that he was unkind, selfish, and quite unworthy of the tender love given him. but in half an hour he was out at sea, marion was at his side, the admiral was consulting him about the cooling of the dinner wines, the skipper was promising them a lively sail with a fair wind--and the white, loving face went out of his memory, and out of his consideration. yet while he was sipping wine and singing songs with marion glamis, and looking with admiration into her rosy, glowing face, sophy was suffering all the slings and arrows of madame's outrageous hatred. she complained all dinner-time, even while the servants were present, of the deprivation she had to endure for sophy's sake. the fact was she had not been invited to join the yachting-party, two very desirable ladies having refused to spend two months in her society. but she ignored this fact, and insisted on the fiction that she had been compelled to remain at home to look after sophy. "i wish you had gone! oh, i wish you had gone and left me in peace!" cried the poor wife at last in a passion. "i could have been happy if i had been left to myself." "and your low relations! you have made mischief enough with them for archie, poor fellow! don't tell me that you make no complaints. the shameful behaviour of those vulgar fishermen, refusing to sail a yacht for braelands, is proof positive of your underhand ways." "my relations are not low. they would scorn to do the low, cruel, wicked things some people who call themselves 'high born' do all the time. but low or high, they are mine, and while archie is away, i intend to see them as often as i can." this little bit of rebellion was the one thing in which she could show herself mistress of braelands; for she knew that she could rely on thomas to bring the carriage to her order. so the next morning she went very early to call on griselda kilgour. griselda had not seen her niece for some time, and she was shocked at the change in her appearance, indeed, she could hardly refrain the exclamations of pity and fear that flew to her lips. "send the carriage to the _queens arms_," she said, "and stay with me all day, sophy, my dear." "very well, aunt, i am tired enough. let me lie down on the sofa, and take off my bonnet and cloak. my clothes are just a weight and a weariness." "aren't you well, dearie?" "i must be sick someway, i think. i can't sleep, and i can't eat; and i am that weak i haven't the strength or spirit to say a word back to madame, however ill her words are to me." "i heard that braelands had gone away?" "aye, for two months." "with the glamis crowd?" "yes." "why didn't you go too?" "i couldn't thole the sail, nor the company." "do you like miss glamis?" "i'm feared i hate her. oh! aunt, she makes love to archie before my very eyes, and madame tells me morning, noon, and night, that she was his first love and ought to have married him." "i wouldn't stand the like of that. but archie is not changed to you, dearie?" "i cannot say he is; but what man can be aye with a fond woman, bright and bonnie, and not think of her as he shouldn't think? i'm not blaming archie much. it is madame and miss glamis, and above all my own shortcomings. i can't talk, i can't dress, i can't walk, nor in any way act, as that set of women do. i am like a fish out of its element. it is bonnie enough in the water; but it only flops and dies if you take it out of the water and put it on the dry land. i wish i had never seen archie braelands! if i hadn't, i would have married andrew binnie, and been happy and well enough." "you were hearing that he is now captain binnie of the red-white fleet?" "aye, i heard. madame was reading about it in the largo paper. andrew is a good man, aunt. i am glad of his good luck." "christina is well married too. you were hearing of that?" "aye; but tell me all about it." so griselda entered into a narration which lasted until sophy slipped into a deep slumber. and whether it was simply the slumber of utter exhaustion, or whether it was the sweet oblivion which results from a sense of peace long denied, or perhaps the union of both these conditions, the result was that she lay wrapped in an almost lethargic sleep for many hours. twice thomas came with the carriage, and twice griselda sent him away. and the man shook his head sadly and said:-- "let her alone; i wouldn't be the one to wake her up for all my place is worth. it may be a health sleep." "aye, it may be," answered griselda, "but i have heard old folk say that such black, deep sleep is sent to fit the soul for some calamity lying in wait for it. it won't be lucky to wake her anyway." "no, and i am thinking nothing worse can come to the little mistress than the sorrow she is tholing now. i'll be back in an hour, miss kilgour." thus it happened that it was late in the afternoon when sophy returned to her home, and her rest had so refreshed her that she was more than usually able to hold her own with madame. many unpardonable words were said on both sides; and the quarrel, thus early inaugurated, raged from day to-day, either in open recrimination, or in a still more distressing interference with all sophy's personal desires and occupations. the servants were, in a measure, compelled to take part in the unnatural quarrel; and before three weeks were over, sophy's condition was one of such abnormal excitement that she was hardly any longer accountable for her actions. the final blow was struck while she was so little able to bear it. a letter from archie, posted in christiania and addressed to his wife, came one morning. as sophy was never able to come down to breakfast, madame at once appropriated the letter. when she had read it and finished her breakfast, she went to sophy's room. "i have had a letter from archie," she said. "was there none for me?" "no; but i thought you might like to know that archie says he never was so happy in all his life. the admiral, and marion, and he, are in christiania for a week or two, and enjoying themselves every minute of the time. dear marion! _she_ knows how to make archie happy. it is a great shame i could not be with them." "is there any message for me?" "not a word. i suppose archie knew i should tell you all that it was necessary for you to know." "please go away; i want to go to sleep." "you want to cry. you do nothing but sleep and cry, and cry and sleep; no wonder you have tired archie's patience out." "i have not tired archie out. oh, i wish he was here! i wish he was here!" "he will be back in five or six weeks, unless marion persuades him to go to the mediterranean--and, as the admiral is so fond of the sea, that move is not unlikely." "please go away." "i shall be only too happy to do so." now it happened that the footman, in taking in the mail, had noticed the letter for sophy, and commented on it in the kitchen; and every servant in the house had been glad for the joy it would bring to the lonely, sick woman. so there was nothing remarkable in her maid saying, as she dressed her mistress:-- "i hope mr. braelands is well; and though i say it as perhaps i shouldn't say it, we was all pleased at your getting master's letter this morning. we all hope it will make you feel brighter and stronger, i'm sure." "the letter was madame's letter, not mine, leslie." "indeed, it was not, ma'am. alexander said himself, and i heard him, 'there is a long letter for mrs. archibald this morning,' and we were all that pleased as never was." "are you sure, leslie?" "yes, i am sure." "go down-stairs and ask alexander." leslie went and came back immediately with alexander's positive assertion that the letter was directed to _mrs. archibald braelands,_ sophy made no answer, but there was a swift and remarkable change in her appearance and manner. she put her physical weakness out of her consideration, and with a flush on her cheeks and a flashing light in her eyes, she went down to the parlour. madame had a caller with her, a lady of not very decided position, who was therefore eager to please her patron; but sophy was beyond all regard for such conventionalities as she had been ordered to observe. she took no notice of the visitor, but going straight to madame, she said:-- "you took my letter this morning. you had no right to take it; you had no right to read it; you had no right to make up lies from it and come to my bedside with them. give me my letter." madame turned to her visitor. "you see this impossible creature!" she cried. "she demands from me a letter that never came." "it did come. you have my letter. give it to me." "my dear sophy, go to your room. you are not in a fit state to see any one." "give me my letter. at least, let me see the letter that came." "i shall do nothing of the kind. if you choose to suspect me, you must do so. can i make your husband write to you?" "he did write to me." "mrs. stirling, do you wonder now at my son's running away from his home?" "indeed i am fairly astonished at what i see and hear." "sophy, you foolish woman, do not make any greater exhibit of yourself that you have done. for heaven's sake, go to your own room. i have only my own letter, and i told you all of importance in it." "every servant in the house knows that the letter was mine." "what the servants know is nothing to me. now, sophy, i will stand no more of this; either you leave the room, or mrs. stirling and i will do so. remember that you have betrayed yourself. i am not to blame." "what do you mean, madame?" "i mean that you may have hallucinations, but that you need not exhibit them to the world. for my son's sake, i demand that you go to your room." "i want my letter. for god's sake, have pity on me, and give me my letter!" madame did not answer, but she took her friend by the arm and they left the room together. in the hall madame saw a servant, and she said blandly-- "go and tell leslie to look after her mistress, she is in the parlour. and you may also tell leslie that if she allows her to come down again in her present mood, she will be dismissed." "poor thing!" said mrs. stirling. "you must have your hands full with her, madame. nobody had any idea of such a tragedy as this though i must say i have heard many wonder about the lady's seclusion." "you see the necessity for it. however, we do not wish any talk on the subject." slowly it came to sophy's comprehension that she had been treated like an insane woman, and her anger, though quiet, was of that kind that means action of some sort. she went to her room, but it was only to recall the wrong upon wrong, the insult upon insult she had received. "i will go away from it all," she said. "i will go away until archie returns. i will not sleep another night under the same roof with that wicked woman. i will stay away till i die, ere i will do it." usually she had little strength for much movement, but at this hour she felt no physical weakness. she made leslie bring her a street costume of brown cloth, and she carefully put into her purse all the money she had. then she ordered the carriage and rode as far as her aunt kilgour's. "come for me in an hour, thomas," she said, and then she entered the shop. "aunt, i am come back to you. will you let me stay with you till archie gets home? i can bide yon dreadful old woman no longer." "meaning madame braelands?" "she is just beyond all things. this morning she has kept a letter that archie wrote me; and she has told me a lot of lies in its place. i'm not able to thole her another hour." "i'll tell you what, sophy, madame was here since i saw you, and she says you are neither to be guided nor endured i don't know who to believe." "oh! aunt, aunt, you know well i wouldn't tell you a lie. i am so miserable! for god's sake, take me in!" "i'd like to, sophy, but i'm not free to do so." "you're putting madame's bit of siller and the work she's promised you from the glamis girl before my heart-break. oh, how can you?" "sophy, you have lived with me, and i saw you often dissatisfied and unreasonable for nothing at all." "i was a bit foolish lassie then. i am a poor, miserable, sick woman now." "you have no need to be poor, and miserable, and sick. i won't encourage you to run away from your home and your duty. at any rate, bide where you are till your husband comes back. i would be wicked to give you any other advice." "you mean that you won't let me come and stay with you?" "no, i won't. i would be your worst enemy if i did." "then good-bye. you will maybe be sorry some day for the 'no' you have just said." she went slowly out of the store, and griselda was very unhappy, and called to her to come back and wait for her carriage. she did not heed or answer, but walked with evident purpose down a certain street. it led her to the railway station, and she went in and took a ticket for edinburgh. she had hardly done so when the train came thundering into the station, she stepped into it, and in a few minutes was flying at express rate to her destination. she had relatives in edinburgh, and she thought she knew their dwelling place, having called on them with her aunt kilgour when they were in that city, just previous to her marriage. but she found that they had removed, and no one in the vicinity knew to what quarter of the town. she was too tired to pursue inquiries, or even to think any more that day, and she went to a hotel and tried to rest and sleep. in the morning she remembered that her mother's cousin, jane anderson, lived in glasgow at some number in monteith row. the row was not a long one, even if she had to go from house to house to find her relative. so she determined to go on to glasgow. she felt ill, strangely ill; she was in a burning fever and did not know it. yet she managed to get into the proper train, and to retain her consciousness for sometime afterwards, ere she succumbed to the inevitable consequences of her condition. before the train reached its destination, however, she was in a desperate state, and the first action of the guard was to call a carriage and send her to a hospital. after this kindness had been done, sophy was dead to herself and the world for nearly three weeks. she remembered nothing, she knew nothing, she spoke only in the most disconnected and puzzling manner. for her speech wandered between the homely fisher life of her childhood and the splendid social life of braelands. her personality was equally perplexing. the clothing she wore was of the finest quality; her rings, and brooch, and jewelled watch, indicated wealth and station; yet her speech, especially during the fever, was that of the people, and as she began to help herself, she had little natural actions that showed the want of early polite breeding. no letter or card, no name or address of any kind, was found on her person; she appeared to be as absolutely lost as a stone dropped into the deep sea. and when she came to herself and realised where she was, and found out from her attendant the circumstances under which she had been brought to the hospital, she was still more reticent. for her first thought related to the annoyance archie would feel at her detention in a public hospital; her second, to the unmerciful use madame would make of the circumstance. she could not reason very clearly, but her idea was to find her cousin and gain her protection, and then, from that more respectable covett, to write to her husband. she might admit her illness--indeed, she would be almost compelled to do that, for she had fallen away so much, and had had her hair cut short during the height of the fever--but archie and madame must not know that she had been in a public hospital. for fisher-people have a singular dislike to public charity of any kind; they help one another. and, to sophy's intelligence, the hospital episode was a disgrace that not even her insensibility could quite excuse. several weeks passed in that long, spotless, white room full of suffering, before sophy was able to stand upon her feet, before indeed she began to realise the passage of time, and the consequences which must have followed her long absence and silence. but all her efforts at writing were failures. the thought she wished to express slipped off into darkness as soon as she tried to write it; her vision failed her, her hands failed her; she could only sink back upon her pillow and lie inert and almost indifferent for hours afterwards. and as the one letter she wished to write was to archie, she could not depute it to any one else. besides, the nurse would tell _where_ she was, and that was a circumstance she must at all hazards keep to herself. it had been hot july weather when she was first placed on her hard, weary bed of suffering, it was the end of september when she was able to leave the hospital. her purse with its few sovereigns in it was returned to her, and the doctor told her kindly, if she had any friends in the world, to go at once to their care. "you have talked a great deal of the sea and the boats," he said; "get close to the sea if you can; it is perhaps the best and the only thing for you." she thanked him and answered: "i am going to the fife coast. i have friends there, i think." she put out a little wasted hand, and he clasped it with a sigh. "so young, so pretty, so good," he said to the nurse, as they stood watching her walk very feebly and unsteadily away. "i will give her three months at the longest, if she has love and care. i will give her three weeks--nay, i will say three days, if she has to care for herself, or if any particular trouble come to her." then they turned from the window, and sophy hired a cab and went to monteith row to try and find her friends. she wanted to write to her husband and ask him to come for her. she thought she could do this best from her cousin's home. "i will give her a bonnie ring or two, and i will tell her the whole truth, and she will be sure to stand by me, for there is nothing wrong to stand by, and blood is aye thicker than water." and then her thoughts wandered on to a contingency that brought a flush of pain to her cheeks. "besides, maybe archie might have an ill thought put into his head, and then the doctors and nurses in the hospital could tell him what would make all clear." she went through many of the houses, inquiring for ellen montgomery, but could not find her, and she was finally obliged to go to a hotel and rest. "i will take the lave of the houses in the morning," she thought, "it is aye the last thing that is the right thing; everybody finds that out." that evening, however, something happened which changed all her ideas and intentions. she went into the hotel parlour and sat down; there were some newspapers on the table, and she lifted one. it was an edinburgh paper, but the first words her eyes fell on was her husband's name. her heart leaped up at the sight of it, and she read the paragraph. then the paper dropped from her hands. she felt that she was going to faint, and by a supreme effort of will she recalled her senses and compelled them to stay and suffer with her. again, and then again, she read the paragraph, unable at first to believe what she did read, for it was a notice, signed by her husband, advising the world in general that she had voluntarily left his home, and that he would no longer be responsible for any debt she might contract in his name. to her childlike, ignorant nature, this public exposure of her was a final act. she felt that it was all the same as a decree of divorce. "archie had cast her off; madame had at last parted them." for an hour she sat still in a very stupour of despair. "but something might yet be done; yes, something must be done. she would go instantly to fife; she would tell archie everything. he could not blame her for being sick and beyond reason or knowledge. the doctors and nurses of the hospital would certify to the truth of all she said." ah! she had only to look in a mirror to know that her own wasted face and form would have been testimony enough. that night she could not move, she had done all that it was possible for her to do that day; but on the morrow she would be rested and she might trust herself to the noise and bustle of the street and railway. the day was well on before she found strength to do this; but at length she found herself on the direct road to largo, though she could hardly tell how it had been managed. as she approached the long chain of fife fishing-villages, she bought the newspaper most widely read in them; and, to her terror and shame, found the same warning to honest folk against her. she was heartsick. with this barrier between archie and herself, how could she go to braelands? how could she face madame? what mockery would be made of her explanations? no, she must see archie alone. she must tell him the whole truth, somewhere beyond madame's contradiction and influence. whom should she go to? her aunt kilgour had turned her away, even before this disgrace. her cousin isobel's husband had asked her not to come to his house and make loss and trouble for him. if she went direct to braelands, and archie happened to be out of the house, madame would say such things of her before every one as could never be unsaid. if she went to a hotel, she would be known, and looked at, and whispered about, and maybe slighted. what must she do? where could she see her husband best? she was at her wit's end. she was almost at the end of her physical strength and consciousness. and in this condition, two men behind her began to talk to the rustle of their turning newspapers. "this is a queer-like thing about braelands and his wife," said one. "it is a very bad thing. if the wife has gane awa', she has been driven awa' by bad usage. there is an old woman at braelands that is as evil-hearted as if she had slipped out o' hell for a few years. traill's girl was good and bonnie; she was too good, or she would have held her ain side better." "that may be; but there is a reason deeper than that. the man is wanting to marry the glamis girl. he has already began a suit for divorce, i hear. man, man, there is always a woman at the bottom of every sin and trouble!" then they began to speak of the crops and the shooting, and sophy listened in vain for more intelligence. but she had heard enough. her soul cried out against the hurry and shame of the steps taken in the matter. "so cruel as archie is!" she sighed. "he might have looked for me! he might have found me even in that awful hospital! he ought to have done so, and taken me away and nursed me himself! if he had loved me! if he had loved me, he would have done these things!". despair chilled her very blood. she had a thought of going to braelands, even if she died on its threshold; and then suddenly she remembered janet binnie. as janet's name came to her mind, the train stopped at largo, and she slipped out among the hurrying crowd and took the shortest road to pittendurie. it was then nearly dark, and the evening quite chill and damp; but there was now a decisive end before the dying woman. "she must reach janet binnie, and then leave all to her. she would bring archie to her side. she would be sufficient for madame. if this only could be managed while she had strength to speak, to explain, to put herself right in archie's eyes, then she would be willing and glad to die." step by step, she stumbled forward, full of unutterable anguish of heart, and tortured at every movement by an inability to get breath enough to carry her forward. at last, at last, she came in sight of janet's cottage. the cliff terrified her; but she must get up it, somehow. and as she painfully made step after step, a light shone through the open door and seemed to give her strength and welcome. janet had been spending the evening with her daughter, and had sat with her until near her bedtime. she was doing her last household duties, and the last of all was to close the house-door. when she went to do this, a little figure crouched on the door-step, two weak hands clasped her round the knees, and the very shadow of a thin, pitiful voice sobbed:-- "janet! take me in, janet! take me in to die! i'll not trouble you long--it is most over, janet!" chapter xi driven to his duty toward this culmination of her troubles archie had indeed contributed far too much, but yet not as much as sophy thought. he had taken her part, he had sought for her, he had very reluctantly come to accept his mother's opinions. his trip had not been altogether the heaven madame represented it. the admiral had proved himself dictatorial and sometimes very disagreeable at sea; the other members of the party had each some unpleasant peculiarities which the cramped quarters and the monotony of yacht life developed. some had deserted altogether, others grumbled more than was agreeable, and marion's constant high spirits proved to be at times a great exaction. before the close of the pleasure voyage, archie frequently went alone to remember the sweet, gentle affection of his wife, her delight in his smallest attentions, her instant recognition of his desires, her patient endeavours to please him, her resignation to all his neglect. her image grew into his best imagination, and when he left the yacht at her moorings in pittendurie bay, he hastened to sophy with the impatience of a lover who is also a husband. madame had heard of his arrival and was watching for her son. she met him at the door and he embraced her affectionately, but his first words were, "sophy, i hope she is not ill. where is she?" "my dear archie, no one knows. she left your home three weeks after you had sailed." "my god, mother, what do you mean?" "no one knows why she left, no one knows or can find out where she went to. of course, i have my suspicions." "sophy! sophy! sophy!" he cried, sinking into a chair and covering his face, but, whatever madame's suspicions, she could not but see that archie had not a doubt of his wife's honour. after a few minutes' silence, he turned to his mother and said:-- "you have scolded for once, mother, more than enough. i am sure it is your unkindness that has driven my wife from her home. you promised me not to interfere with her little plans and pleasures." "if i am to bear the blame of the woman's low tastes, i decline to discuss the matter," and she left the room with an air of great offence. of course, if madame would not discuss the matter with him, nothing remained but the making of such inquiries as the rest of the household could answer. thomas readily told all he knew, which was the simple statement that "he took his mistress to her aunt's and left her there, and that when he returned for her, miss kilgour was much distressed and said she had already left." archie then immediately sought miss kilgour, and from her learned the particulars of his wife's wretchedness, especially those points relating to the appropriated letter. he flushed crimson at this outrage, but made no remark concerning it. "my one desire now," he said, "is to find out where sophy has taken refuge. can you give me any idea?" "if she is not in pittendurie,--and i can find no trace of her there,--then i think she may be in edinburgh or glasgow. you will mind she had cousins in edinburgh, and she was very kind with them at the time of her marriage. i thought of them first of all, and i wrote three letters to them; but there has been no answer to any of the three. she has friends in glasgow, but i am sure she had no knowledge as to where they lived. besides, i got their address from kin in aberdeen and wrote there also, and they answered me and said they had never seen or heard tell of sophy. here is their letter." archie read it carefully and was satisfied that sophy was not in glasgow. the silence of the edinburgh cousins was more promising, and he resolved to go at once to that city and interview them. he did not even return to braelands, but took the next train southward. of course his inquiries utterly failed. he found sophy's relatives, but their air of amazement and their ready and positive denial of all knowledge of his lost wife were not to be doubted. then he returned to largo. he assured himself that sophy was certainly in hiding among the fisher-folk in pittendurie, and that he would only have to let it be known that he had returned for her to appear. indeed she must have seen the yacht at anchor, and he fully expected to find her on the door-step waiting for him. as he approached braelands, he fancied her arms round his neck, and saw her small, wistful, flushing face against his breast; but it was all a dream. the door was closed, and when it admitted him there was nothing but silence and vacant rooms. he was nearly distracted with sorrow and anger, and madame had a worse hour than she ever remembered when archie asked her about the fatal letter that had been the active cause of trouble. "the letter was sophy's," he said passionately, "and you knew it was. how then could you be so shamefully dishonourable as to keep it from her?" "if you choose to reproach me on mere servants' gossip, i cannot prevent you." "it is not servants' gossip. i know by the date on which sophy left home that it must have been the letter i wrote her from christiania. it was a disgraceful, cruel thing for you to do. i can never look you in your face again, mother. i do not feel that i can speak to you, or even see you, until my wife has forgiven both you and myself. oh, if i only knew where to look for her!" "she is not far to seek; she is undoubtedly among her kinsfolk at pittendurie. you may remember, perhaps, how they felt toward you before you went away. after you went, she was with them continually." "then thomas lies. he says he never took her anywhere but to her aunt kilgour's." "i think thomas is more likely to lie than i am. if you have strength to bear the truth, i will tell you what i am convinced of." "i have strength for anything but this wretched suspense and fear." "very well, then, go to the woman called janet binnie; you may recollect, if you will, that her son andrew was sophy's ardent lover--so much so, that her marriage to you nearly killed him. he has become a captain lately, wears gold buttons and bands, and is really a very handsome and important man in the opinion of such people as your wife. i believe sophy is either in his mother's house or else she has gone to--london." "why london?" "captain binnie sails continually to london. really, archie, there are none so blind as those who won't see." "i will not believe such a thing of sophy. she is as pure and innocent as a little child." madame laughed scornfully. "she is as pure and innocent as those baby-faced women usually are. as a general rule, the worst creature in the world is a saint in comparison. what did sophy steal out at night for? tell me that. why did she walk to pittendurie so often? why did she tell me she was going to walk to her aunt's, and then never go?" "mother, mother, are you telling me the truth?" "your inquiry is an insult, archie. and your blindness to sophy's real feelings is one of the most remarkable things i ever saw. can you not look back and see that ever since she married you she has regretted and fretted about the step? her heart is really with her fisher and sailor lover. she only married you for what you could give her; and having got what you could give her, she soon ceased to prize it, and her love went back to captain binnie,--that is, if it had ever left him." conversation based on these shameful fabrications was continued for hours, and madame, who had thoroughly prepared herself for it, brought one bit of circumstantial evidence after another to prove her suspicions. the wretched husband was worked to a fury of jealous anger not to be controlled. "i will search every cottage in pittendurie," he said in a rage. "i will find sophy, and then kill her and myself." "don't be a fool, archibald braelands. find the woman,--that is necessary,--then get a divorce from her, and marry among your own kind. why should you lose your life, or even ruin it, for a fisherman's old love? in a year or two you will have forgotten her and thrown the whole affair behind your back." it is easy to understand how a conversation pursued for hours in this vein would affect archie. he was weak and impulsive, ready to suspect whatever was suggested, jealous of his own rights and honour, and on the whole of that pliant nature which a strong, positive woman like madame could manipulate like wax. he walked his room all night in a frenzy of jealous love. sophy lost to him had acquired a sudden charm and value beyond all else in life; he longed for the morning; for madame's positive opinions had thoroughly convinced him, and he felt a great deal more sure than she did that sophy was in pittendurie. and yet, after every such assurance to himself, his inmost heart asked coldly, "why then has she not come back to you?" he could eat no breakfast, and as soon as he thought the village was awake, he rode rapidly down to pittendurie. janet was alone; andrew was somewhere between fife and london; christina was preparing her morning meal in her own cottage. janet had already eaten hers, and she was washing her tea-cup and plate and singing as she did so,-- "i cast my line in largo bay, and fishes i caught nine; there's three to boil, and three to fry, and three to bait the line," when she heard a sharp rap at her door. the rap was not made with the hand; it was peremptory and unusual, and startled janet. she put down the plate she was wiping, ceased singing, and went to the door. the master of braelands was standing there. he had his short riding-whip in his hand, and janet understood at once that he had struck her house door with the handle of it. she was offended at this, and she asked dourly:-- "well, sir, your bidding?" "i came to see my wife. where is she?" "you ought to know that better than any other body. it is none of my business." "i tell you she has left her home." "i have no doubt she had the best of good reasons for doing so." "she had no reason at all." janet shrugged her shoulders, smiled with scornful disbelief, and looked over the tossing black waters. "woman, i wish to go through your house, i believe my wife is in it." "go through my house? no indeed. do you think i'll let a man with a whip in his hand go through my house after a poor frightened bird like sophy? no, no, not while my name is janet binnie." "i rode here; my whip is for my horse. do you think i would use it on any woman?" "god knows, i don't." "i am not a brute." "you say so yourself." "woman, i did not come here to bandy words with you." "man, i'm no caring to hear another word you have to say; take yourself off my door-stone," and janet would have shut the door in his face, but he would not permit her. "tell sophy to come and speak to me." "sophy is not here." "she has no reason to be afraid of me." "i should think not." "go and tell her to come to me then." "she is not in my house. i wish she was." "she _is_ in your house." "do you dare to call me a liar? man alive! do it again, and every fisher-wife in pittendurie will help me to give you your fairings." "_tush!_! let me see my wife." "take yourself off my doorstep, or it will be the worse for you." "let me see my wife." "coming here and chapping on my door--on janet binnie's door!--with a horsewhip!" "there is no use trying to deceive me with bad words. let me pass." "off with you! you poor creature, you! sophy traill had a bad bargain with the like of you, you drunken, lying, savage-like, wife-beating pretence o' a husband!" "mother' mother!" cried christina, coming hastily forward; "mother, what are you saying at all?" "the god's truth, christina, that and nothing else. ask the mean, perfectly unutterable scoundrel how he got beyond his mother's apron-strings so far as this?" christina turned to braelands. "sir," she said, "what's your will?" "my wife has left her home, and i have been told she is in mistress binnie's house." "she is not. we know nothing about the poor, miserable lass, god help her!" "i cannot believe you." "please yourself anent believing me, but you had better be going, sir. i see limmer scott and mistress roy and a few more fishwives looking this way." "let them look." "well, they have their own fashion of dealing with men who ill use a fisher lass. sophy was born among them." "you are a bad lot! altogether a bad lot!" "go now, and go quick, or we'll prove to you that we are a bad lot!" cried janet. "i wouldn't myself think anything of putting you in a blanket and tossing you o'er the cliff into the water." and janet, with arms akimbo and eyes blazing with anger, was not a comfortable sight. so, with a smile of derision, braelands turned his back on the women, walking with an affected deliberation which by no means hid the white feather from the laughing, jeering fisher-wives who came to their door at janet's call for them, and whose angry mocking followed him until he was out of sight and hearing. then there was a conclave in janet's house, and every one told a different version of the braelands trouble. in each case, however, madame was credited with the whole of the sorrow-making, though janet stoutly asserted that "a man who was feared for his mother wasn't fit to be a husband." "madame's tongue and temper is kindled from a coal out of hell," she said, "and that is the god's truth; but she couldn't do ill with them, if archie braelands wasn't a coward--a sneaking, trembling coward, that hasn't the heart in him to stand between poor little sophy and the most spiteful, hateful old sinner this side of the brimstone pit." but though the birr and first flame of the village anger gradually cooled down, janet's and christina's hearts were hot and heavy within them, and they could not work, nor eat, nor sleep with any relish, for thinking of the poor little runaway wife. indeed, in every cottage there was one topic of wonder and pity, and one sad lament when two or three of the women came together: "poor sophy! poor sophy braelands!" it was noticeable, however, that not a single woman had a wrong thought of sophy. madame could easily suspect the worst, but the "worst" was an incredible thing to a fisher-wife. some indeed blamed her for not tholing her grief until her husband came back, but not a single heart suspected her of a liaison with her old lover. archie, however, returned from his ineffectual effort to find her with every suspicion strengthened. madame could hardly have hoped for a visit so completely in her favour, and after it archie was entirely under her influence. it is true he was wretchedly despondent, but he was also furiously angry. he fancied himself the butt of his friends, he believed every one to be talking about his affairs, and, day by day, his sense of outrage and dishonour pressed him harder and harder. in a month he was quite ready to take legal steps to release himself from such a doubtful tie, and madame, with his tacit permission, took the first step towards such a consummation by writing with her own hand the notice which had driven sophy to despair. while events were working towards this end, sophy was helpless and senseless in the glasgow hospital. archie's anger was grounded on the fact that she must know of his return, and yet she had neither come back to her home nor sent him a line of communication. he told himself that if she had written him one line, he would have gone to the end of the earth after her. and anon he told himself that if she had been true to him, she would have written or else come back to her home. say she was sick, she could have got some one to use the pen or the telegraph for her. and this round of reasoning, always led into the same channel by madame, finally assumed not the changeable quality of argument, but the positiveness of fact. so the notice of her abandonment was sent by the press far and wide, and yet there came no protest against it; for sophy had brought to the hospital nothing by which she could be identified, and as no hint of her personal appearance was given, it was impossible to connect her with it. thus while its cruel words linked suspicion with her name in every household where they went, she lay ignorantly passive, knowing nothing at all of the wrong done her and of the unfortunate train of circumstances which finally forced her husband to doubt her love and her honour. it was an additional calamity that this angry message of severance was the first thing that met her consciousness when she was at all able to act. her childish ignorance and her primitive ideas aided only too well the impression of finality it gave. she put it beside all she had seen and heard of her husband's love for marion glamis, and the miserable certainty was plain to her. she knew she was dying, and a quiet place to die in and a little love to help her over the hard hour seemed to be all she could expect now; the thought of janet and christina was her last hope. thus it was that janet found her trembling and weeping on her doorstep; thus it was she heard that pitiful plaint, "take me in, janet! take me in to die!" never for one moment did janet think of refusing this sad petition. she sat down beside her; she laid sophy's head against her broad loving breast; she looked with wondering pity at the small, shrunken face, so wan and ghostlike in the gray light. then she called christina, and christina lifted sophy easily in her arms, and carried her into her own house. "for we'll give braelands no occasion against either her or andrew," she said. then they undressed the weary woman and made her a drink of strong tea; and after a little she began to talk in a quick, excited manner about her past life. "i ran away from braelands at the end of july," she said. "i could not bear the life there another hour; i was treated before folk as if i had lost my senses; i was treated when i was alone as if i had no right in the house, and as if my being in it was a mortal wrong and misery to every one. and at the long last the woman there kept archie's letter from me, and i was wild at that, and sick and trembling all over; and i went to aunt griselda, and she took madame's part and would not let me stay with her till archie came back to protect me. what was i to do? i thought of my cousins in edinburgh and went there, and could not find them. then there was only ellen montgomery in glasgow, and i was ill and so tired; but i thought i could manage to reach her." "and didn't you reach her, dearie?" "no. i got worse and worse; and when i reached glasgow i knew nothing at all, and they sent me to the hospital." "oh, sophy! sophy!" "aye, they did. what else could be, janet? no one knew who i was; i could not tell any one. they weren't bad to me. i suffered, but they did what they could to help me. such dreadful nights, janet! such long, awful days! week after week in which i knew nothing but pain; i could not move myself. i could not write to any one, for my thoughts would not stay with me; and my sight went away, and i had hardly strength to live." "try and forget it, sophy, darling," said christina. "we will care for you now, and the sea-winds will blow health to you." she shook her head sadly. "only the winds of heaven will ever blow health to me, christina," she answered; "i have had my death blow. i am going fast to them who have gone before me. i have seen my mother often, the last wee while. i knew it was my mother, though i do not remember her; she is waiting for her bit lassie. i shall not have to go alone; and his rod and staff will comfort me, i will fear no evil." they kissed and petted and tried to cheer her, and janet begged her to sleep; but she was greatly excited and seemed bent on excusing and explaining what she had done. "for i want you to tell archie everything, janet," she said. "i shall maybe never see him again; but you must take care, that he has not a wrong thought of me." "he'll get the truth and the whole truth from me, dearie." "don't scold him, janet. i love him very much. it is not his fault." "i don't know that." "no, it is not. i wasn't home to braelands two days before madame began to make fun of my talk, and my manners, and my dress, and of all i did and said. and she got archie to tell me i must mind her, and try to learn how to be a fine lady like her; and i could not--i could not. and then she set archie against me, and i was scolded just for nothing at all. and then i got ill, and she said i was only sulky and awkward; but i just could not learn the books i be to learn, nor walk as she showed me how to walk, nor talk like her, nor do anything at all she tried to make me do. oh, the weary, weary days that i have fret myself through! oh, the long, painful nights! i am thankful they can never, never come back." "then don't think of them now, sophy. try and rest yourself a bit, and to-morrow you shall tell me everything." "to-morrow will be too late, can't you see that, janet? i must clear myself to-night--now--or you won't know what to say to archie." "was archie kind to you, sophy?" "sometimes he was that kind i thought i must be in the wrong, and then i tried again harder than ever to understand the weary books and do what madame told me. sometimes they made him cross at me, and i thought i must die with the shame and heartache from it. but it was not till marion glamis came back that i lost all hope. she was archie's first love, you know." "she was nothing of the kind. i don't believe he ever cared a pin for her. you had the man's first love; you have it yet, if it is worth aught. he was here seeking you, dearie, and he was distracted with the loss of you." "in the morning you will send for him, janet, very early; and though i'll be past talking then, you will talk for me. you will tell him how madame tortured me about the glamis girl, how she kept my letters, and made mrs. stirling think i was not in my right mind," and so between paroxysms of pain and coughing, she went over and over the sad story of petty wrongs that had broken her heart, and driven her at last to rebellion and flight. "oh! my poor lassie, why didn't you come to christina and me?" "there was aye the thought of andrew. archie would have been angry, maybe, and i could only feel that i must get away from braelands. when aunt failed me, something seemed to drive me to edinburgh, and then on to glasgow; but it was all right, you see, i have saved you and christina for the last hour," and she clasped christina's hand and laid her head closer to janet's breast. "and i would like to see the man or woman that will dare to trouble you now, my bonnie bairn," said janet. there was a sob in her voice, and she crooned kind words to the dying girl, who fell asleep at last in her arms. then janet went to the door, and stood almost gasping in the strong salt breeze; for the shock of sophy's pitiful return had hurt her sorely. there was a full moon in the sky, and the cold, gray waters tossed restlessly under it. "lord help us, we must bear what's sent!" she whispered; then she noticed a steamboat with closely reefed sails lying in the offing; and added thankfully, "there is 'the falcon,' god bless her! and it's good to think that andrew binnie isn't far away; maybe he'll be wanted. i wonder if i ought to send a word to him; if sophy wants to see him, she shall have her way; dying folk don't make any mistakes." now when andrew came to anchor at pittendurie, it was his custom to swing out a signal light, and if the loving token was seen, janet and christina answered by placing a candle in their windows. this night janet put three candles in her window. "andrew will wonder at them," she thought, "and maybe come on shore to find out whatever their meaning may be." then she hurriedly closed the door. the night was cold, but it was more than that,--the air had the peculiar coldness that gives sense of the supernatural, such coldness as precedes the advent of a spirit. she was awed, she opened her mouth as if to speak, but was dumb; she put out her hands--but who can arrest the invisible? sleep was now impossible. the very air of the room was sensitive. christina sat wide awake on one side of the bed, janet on the other; they looked at each other frequently, but did not talk. there was no sound but the rising moans of the northeast wind, no light but the glow of the fire and the shining of the full moon looking out from the firmament as from eternity. sophy slept restlessly like one in half-conscious pain, and when she awoke before dawning, she was in a high fever and delirious; but there was one incessant, gasping cry for "andrew!" "andrew! andrew! andrew!" she called with fast failing breath, "andrew, come and go for archie. only you can bring him to me." and janet never doubted at this hour what love and mercy asked for. "folks may talk if they want to," she said to christina, "i am going down to the village to get some one to take a message to andrew. sophy shall have her will at this hour if i can compass it." the men of the village were mostly yet at the fishing, but she found two old men who willingly put out to "the falcon" with the message for her captain. then she sent a laddie for the nearest doctor, and she called herself for the minister, and asked him to come and see the sick woman; "forbye, minister," she added, "i'm thinking you will be the only person in pittendurie that will have the needful control o' temper to go to braelands with the news." she did not specially hurry any one, for, sick as sophy was, she believed it likely archie braelands and a good doctor might give her such hope and relief as would prolong her life a little while. "she is so young," she thought, "and love and sea-breezes are often a match for death himself." the old men who had gone for andrew were much too infirm to get close to "the falcon." for with the daylight her work had begun, and she was surrounded on all sides by a melee of fishing-boats. some were discharging their boxes of fish; others were struggling to get some point of vantage; others again fighting to escape the uproar. the air was filled with the roar of the waves and with the voices of men, blending in shouts, orders, expostulations, words of anger, and words of jest. above all this hubbub, andrew's figure on the steamer's bridge towered large and commanding, as he watched the trunks of fish hauled on board, and then dragged, pushed, thrown, or kicked, as near the mouth of the hold as the blockade of trunks already shipped would permit. but, sharp as a crack of thunder, a stentorian voice called out:-- "captain binnie wanted! girl dying in pittendurie wants him!" andrew heard. the meaning of the three lights was now explained. he had an immediate premonition that it was sophy, and he instantly deputed his charge to jamie, and was at the gunwale before the shouter had repeated his alarm. to a less prompt and practised man, a way of reaching the shore would have been a dangerous and tedious consideration; but andrew simply selected a point where a great wave would lift a small boat near to the level of the ship's bulwarks, and when this occurred, he leaped into her, and was soon going shoreward as fast as his powerful stroke at the oars could carry him. when he reached christina's cottage, sophy had passed beyond all earthly care and love. she heeded not the tenderest words of comfort; her life was inexorably coming to its end; and every one of her muttered words was mysterious, important, wondrous, though they could make out nothing she said, save only that she talked about "angels resting in the hawthorn bowers." hastily christina gave andrew the points of her sorrowful story, and then she suddenly remembered that a strange man had brought there that morning some large, important-looking papers which he had insisted on giving to the dying woman. andrew, on examination, found them to be proceedings in the divorce case between archibald braelands and his wife sophy traill. "some one has recognised her in the train last night and then followed her here," he said pitifully. "they were in a gey hurry with their cruel work. i hope she knows nothing about it." "no, no, they didn't come till she was clean beyond the worriments of this life. she did not see the fellow who put them in her hands; she heard nothing he said to her." "then if she comes to herself at all, say nothing about them. what for should we tell her? death will break her marriage very soon without either judge or jury." "the doctor says in a few hours at the most." "then there is no time to lose. say a kind 'farewell' for me, christina, if you find a minute in which she can understand it. i'm off to braelands," and he put the divorce papers in his pocket, and went down the cliff at a run. when he reached the house, archie was at the door on his horse and evidently in a hurry; but andrew's look struck him on the heart like a blow. he dismounted without a word, and motioned to andrew to follow him. they turned into a small room, and archie closed the door. for a moment there was a terrible silence, then andrew, with passionate sorrow, threw the divorce papers down on the table. "you'll not require, braelands, to fash folk with the like of them; your wife is dying. she is at my sister's house. go to her at once." "what is that to you? mind your own business, captain binnie." "it is the business of every decent man to call comfort to the dying. go and say the words you ought to say. go before it is too late." "why is my wife at your sister's house?" "god pity the poor soul, she had no other place to die in! for christ's sake, go and say a loving word to her." "where has she been all this time? tell me that, sir." "dying slowly in the public hospital at glasgow." "_my god_!" "there is no time for words now; not a moment to spare. go to your wife at once." "she left me of her own free will. why should i go to her now?" "she did not leave you; she was driven away by devilish cruelty. and oh, man, man, go for your own sake then! to-morrow it will be too late to say the words you will weep to say. go for your own sake. go to spare yourself the black remorse that is sure to come if you don't go. if you don't care for your poor wife, go for your own sake!" "i do care for my wife. i wished--" "haste you then, don't lose a moment! haste you! haste you! if it is but one kind word before you part forever, give it to her. she has loved you well; she loves you yet; she is calling for you at the grave's mouth. haste you, man! haste you!" his passionate hurry drove like a wind, and braelands was as straw before it. his horse stood there ready saddled; andrew urged him to it, and saw him flying down the road to pittendurie before he was conscious of his own efforts. then he drew a long sigh, lifted the divorce papers and threw them into the blazing fire. a moment or two he watched them pass into smoke, and then he left the house with all the hurry of a soul anxious unto death. half-way down the garden path, madame braelands stepped in front of him. "what have you come here for?" she asked in her haughtiest manner. "for braelands." "where have you sent him to in such a black hurry?" "to his wife. she is dying." "stuff and nonsense!" "she is dying." "no such luck for my house. the creature has been dying ever since he married her." "_you_ have been _killing her_ ever since he married her. give way, woman, i don't want to speak to you; i don't want to touch the very clothes of you. i think no better of you than god almighty does, and he will ask sophy's life at your hands." "i shall tell braelands of your impertinence. it will be the worse for you." "it will be as god wills, and no other way. let me pass. don't touch me, there is blood on your hands, and blood on your skirts; and you are worse--ten thousand times worse--than any murderer who ever swung on the gallows-tree for her crime! out of my way, madame braelands!" she stood before him motionless as a white stone with passion, and yet terrified by the righteous anger she had provoked. words would not come to her, she could not obey his order and move out of his way, so andrew turned into another path and left her where she stood, for he was impatient of delay, and with steps hurried and stumbling, he followed the husband whom he had driven to his duty. chapter xii among her own people braelands rode like a man possessed, furiously, until he reached the foot of the cliff on which janet's and christina's cottages stood. then he flung the reins to a fisher-laddie, and bounded up the rocky platform. janet was standing in the door of christina's cottage talking to the minister. this time she made no opposition to braelands's entrance; indeed, there was an expression of pity on her face as she moved aside to let him pass. he went in noiselessly, reverently, suddenly awed by the majesty of death's presence. this was so palpable and clear, that all the mere material work of the house had been set aside. no table had been laid, no meat cooked; there had been no thought of the usual duties of the day-time. life stood still to watch the great mystery transpiring in the inner room. the door to it stood wide open, for the day was hot and windless. archie went softly in. he fell on his knees by his dying wife, he folded her to his heart, he whispered into her fast-closing ears the despairing words of love, reawakened, when all repentance was too late. he called her back from the very shoal of time to listen to him. with heart-broken sobs he begged her forgiveness, and she answered him with a smile that had caught the glory of heaven. at that hour he cared not who heard the cry of his agonising love and remorse. sophy was the whole of his world, and his anguish, so imperative, brought perforce the response of the dying woman who loved him yet so entirely. a few tears--the last she was ever to shed--gathered in her eyes; fondest words of affection were broken on her lips, her last smile was for him, her sweet blue eyes set in death with their gaze fixed on his countenance. when the sun went down, sophy's little life of twenty years was over. her last few hours were very peaceful. the doctor had said she would suffer much; but she did not. lying in archie's arms, she slipped quietly out of her clay tabernacle, and doubtless took the way nearest to her father's house. no one knew the exact moment of her departure--no one but andrew. he, standing humbly at the foot of her bed, divined by some wondrous instinct the mystic flitting, and so he followed her soul with fervent prayer, and a love which spurned the grave and which was pure enough to venture into his presence with her. it was a scene and a moment that archibald braelands in his wildest and most wretched after-days never forgot. the last rays of the setting sun fell across the death-bed, the wind from the sea came softly through the open window, the murmur of the waves on the sands made a mournful, restless undertone to the majestic words of the minister, who, standing by the bed-side, declared with uplifted hands and in solemnly triumphant tones the confidence and hope of the departing spirit. "'lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations. "'before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world; even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art god. "'for a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past; and as a watch in the night. "'the days of our years are three-score years and ten; and if by reason of strength, they be four-score years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.'" then there was a pause; andrew said "_it is over!_" and janet took the cold form from the distracted husband, and closed the eyes forever. there was no more now for archie to do, and he went out of the room followed by andrew. "thank you for coming for me, captain," he said, "you did me a kindness i shall never forget." "i knew you would be glad. i am grieved to trouble you further, braelands, at this hour; but the dead must be waited on. it was sophy's wish to be buried with her own folk." "she is my wife." "nay, you had taken steps to cast her off." "she ought to be brought to braelands." "she shall never enter braelands again. it was a black door to her. would you wish hatred and scorn to mock her in her coffin? she bid my mother see that she was buried in peace and good will and laid with her own people." archie covered his face with his hands and tried to think. not even when dead could he force her into the presence of his mother--and it was true he had begun to cast her off; a funeral from braelands would be a wrong and an insult. but all was in confusion in his mind and he said: "i cannot think. i cannot decide. i am not able for anything more. let me go. to-morrow--i will send word--i will come." "let it be so then. i am sorry for you, braelands--but if i hear nothing further, i will follow out sophy's wishes." "you shall hear--but i must have time to think. i am at the last point. i can bear no more." then andrew went with him down the cliff, and helped him to his saddle; and afterwards he walked along the beach till he came to a lonely spot hid in the rocks, and there he threw himself face downward on the sands, and "communed with his own heart and was still." at this supreme hour, all that was human flitted and faded away, and the primal essence of self was overshadowed by the presence of the infinite. when the midnight tide flowed, the bitterness of the sorrow was over, and he had reached that serene depth of the soul which enabled him to rise to his feet and say "thy will be done!" the next day they looked for some communication from braelands; yet they did not suffer this expectation to interfere with sophy's explicit wish, and the preparations for her funeral went on without regard to archie's promise. it was well so, for there was no redemption of it. he did not come again to pittendurie, and if he sent any message, it was not permitted to reach them. he was notified, however, of the funeral ceremony, which was set for the sabbath following her death, and andrew was sure he would at least come for one last look at the wife whom he had loved so much and wronged so deeply. he did not do so. shrouded in white, her hands full of white asters, sophy was laid to rest in the little wind blown kirkyard of pittendurie. it was said by some that braelands watched the funeral from afar off, others declared that he lay in his bed raving and tossing with fever, but this or that, he was not present at her burial. her own kin--who were fishers--laid the light coffin on a bier made of oars, and carried it with psalm singing to the grave. it was andrew who threw on the coffin the first earth. it was andrew who pressed the cover of green turf over the small mound, and did the last tender offices that love could offer. oh, so small a mound! a little child could have stepped over it, and yet, to andrew, it was wider than all the starry spaces. the day was a lovely one, and the kirkyard was crowded to see little sophy join the congregation of the dead. after the ceremony was over the minister had a good thought, he said: "we will not go back to the kirk, but we will stay here, and around the graves of our friends and kindred praise god for the 'sweet enlargement' of their death." then he sang the first line of the paraphrase, "o god of bethel by whose hand," and the people took it from his lips, and made holy songs and words of prayer fill the fresh keen atmosphere and mingle with the cries of the sea-birds and the hushed complaining of the rising waters. and that afternoon many heard for the first time those noble words from the book of wisdom that, during the more religious days of the middle ages, were read not only at the grave-side of the beloved, but also at every anniversary of their death. "but if the righteous be cut off early by death; she shall be at rest. "for honor standeth not in length of days; neither is it computed by number of years. "she pleased god and was beloved, and she was taken away from living among sinners. "her place was changed, lest evil should mar her understanding or falsehood beguile her soul. "she was made perfect in a little while, and finished the work of many years. "for her soul pleased god, and therefore he made haste to lead her forth out of the midst of iniquity. "and the people saw it and understood it not; neither considered they this-- "that the grace of god and his mercy are upon his saints, and his regard unto his elect." chief among the mourners was sophy's aunt griselda. she now bitterly repented the unwise and unkind "no." sophy was dearer to her than she thought, and when she had talked over her wrongs with janet, her indignation knew no bounds. it showed itself first of all to the author of these wrongs. madame came early to her shop on monday morning, and presuming on her last confidential talk with miss kilgour, began the conversation on that basis. "you see, miss kilgour," she said with a sigh, "what that poor girl's folly has led her to." "i see what she has come to. i'm not blaming sophy, however." "well, whoever is to blame--and i suppose braelands should have been more patient with the troubles he called to himself--i shall have to put on 'blacks' in consequence. it is a great expense, and a very useless one; but people will talk if i do not go into mourning for my son's wife." "i wouldn't do it, if i was you." "society obliges. you must make me two gowns at least." "i will not sew a single stitch for you." "not sew for me?" "never again; not if you paid me a guinea a stitch." "what do you mean? are you in your senses?" "just as much as poor sophy was. and i'll never forgive myself for listening to your lies about my niece. you ought to be ashamed of yourself. your cruelties to her are the talk of the whole country-side." "how dare you call me a liar?" "when i think of wee sophy in her coffin, i could call you something far worse." "you are an impertinent woman." "ah well, i never broke the sixth command. and if i was you, madame, i wouldn't put 'blacks' on about it. but 'blacks' or no 'blacks,' you can go to some other body to make them for you; for i want none of your custom, and i'll be obliged to you to get from under my roof. this is a decent, god-fearing house." madame had left before the end of griselda's orders; but she followed her to the door, and delivered her last sentence as madame was stepping into her carriage. she was furious at the truths so uncompromisingly told her, and still more so at the woman who had been their mouthpiece. "a creature whom i have made! actually made!" she almost screamed. "she would be out at service today but for me! the shameful, impertinent, ungrateful wretch!" she ordered thomas to drive her straight back home, and, quivering with indignation, went to her son's room. he was dressed, but lying prone upon his bed; his mother's complaining irritated his mood beyond his endurance. he rose up in a passion; his white haggard face showed how deeply sorrow and remorse had ploughed into his very soul. "mother!" he cried, "you will have to hear the truth, in one way or another, from every one. i tell you myself that you are not guiltless of sophy's death--neither am i." "it is a lie." "do go out of my room. this morning you are unbearable." "you ought to be ashamed of yourself. are you going to permit people to insult your mother, right and left, without a word? have you no sense of honour and decency?" "no, for i let them insult the sweetest wife ever a man had. i am a brute, a monster, not fit to live. i wish i was lying by sophy's side. i am ashamed to look either men or women in the face." "you are simply delirious with the fever you have had." "then have some mercy on me. i want to be quiet." "but i have been grossly insulted." "we shall have to get used to that, and bear it as we can. we deserve all that can be said of us--or to us." then he threw himself on his bed again and refused to say another word. madame scolded and complained and pitied herself, and appealed to god and man against the wrongs she suffered, and finally went into a paroxysm of hysterical weeping. but archie took no notice of the wordy tempest, so that madame was confounded and frightened, by an indifference so unusual and unnatural. weeks of continual sulking or recrimination passed drearily away. archie, in the first tide of his remorse, fed himself on the miseries which had driven sophy to her grave. he interviewed the servants and heard all they had to tell him. he had long conversations with miss kilgour, and made her describe over and over sophy's despairing look and manner the morning she ran away. for the poor woman found a sort of comfort in blaming herself and in receiving meekly the hard words archie could give her. he visited mrs. stirling in regard to sophy's sanity, and heard from that lady a truthful report of all that had passed in her presence. he went frequently to janet's cottage, and took all her home thrusts and all her scornful words in a manner so humble, so contrite, and so heart-broken, that the kind old woman began finally to forgive and comfort him. and the outcome of all these interviews and conversations madame had to bear. her son, in his great sorrow, threw off entirely the yoke of her control. he found his own authority and rather abused it. she had hoped the final catastrophe would draw him closer to her; hoped the coolness of friends and acquaintances would make him more dependent on her love and sympathy. it acted in the opposite direction. the public seldom wants two scapegoats. madame's ostracism satisfied its idea of justice. every one knew archie was very much under her control. every one could see that he suffered dreadfully after sophy's death. every one came promptly to the opinion that madame only was to blame in the matter. "the poor husband" shared the popular sympathy with sophy. however, in the long run, he had his penalty to pay, and the penalty came, as was most just, through marion glamis. madame quickly noticed that after her loss of public respect, marion's affection grew colder. at the first, she listened to the tragedy of sophy's illness and death with a decent regard for madame's feelings on the subject. when madame pooh-poohed the idea of sophy being in an hospital for weeks, unknown, marion also thought it "most unlikely;" when madame was "pretty sure the girl had been in london during the hospital interlude," marion also thought, "it might be so; captain binnie was a very taking man." when madame said, "sophy's whole conduct was only excusable on the supposition of her unaccountability," marion also thought "she did act queerly at times." even these admissions were not made with the warmth that madame expected from marion, and they gradually grew fainter and more general. she began to visit braelands less and less frequently, and, when reproached for her remissness, said, "archie was now a widower, and she did not wish people to think she was running after him;" and her manner was so cold and conventional that madame could only look at her in amazement. she longed to remind her of their former conversations about archie, but the words died on her lips. marion looked quite capable of denying them, and she did not wish to quarrel with her only visitor. the truth was that marion had her own designs regarding archie, and she did not intend madame to interfere with them. she had made up her mind to marry braelands, but she was going to have him as the spoil of her own weapons--not as a gift from his mother. and she was not so blinded by hatred as to think archie could ever be won by the abuse of sophy. on the contrary, she very cautiously began to talk of her with pity, and even admiration. she fell into all archie's opinions and moods on the subject, and declared with warmth and positiveness that she had always opposed madame's extreme measures. in the long run, it came to pass that archie could talk comfortably with marion about sophy, for she always reminded him of some little act of kindness to his wife, or of some instance where he had decidedly taken her part, so that, gradually, she taught him to believe that, after all, he had not been so very much to blame. in these tactics, miss glamis was influenced by the most powerful of motives--self-preservation. she had by no means escaped the public censure, and in that set of society she most desired to please, had been decidedly included in the polite ostracism meted out to madame. lovers she had none, and she began to realise, when too late, that the connection of her name with that of archie braelands had been a wrong to her matrimonial prospects that it would be hard to remedy. in fact, as the winter went on, she grew hopeless of undoing the odium generated by her friendship with madame and her flirtation with madame's son. "and i shall make no more efforts at conciliation," she said angrily to herself one day, after finding her name had been dropped from lady blair's visiting-list; "i will now marry archie. my fortune and his combined will enable us to live where and how we please. father must speak to him on the subject at once." that night she happened to find the admiral in an excellent mood for her purpose. the laird of binin had not "changed hats" with him when they met on the highway, and he fumed about the circumstance as if it had been a mortal insult. "i'll never lift my hat to him again, marion, let alone open my mouth," he cried; "no, not even if we are sitting next to each other at the club dinner. what wrong have i ever done him? have i ever done him a favour that he should insult me?" "it is that dreadful braelands's business. that insolent, selfish, domineering old woman has ruined us socially. i wish i had never seen her face." "you seemed to be fond enough of her once." "i never liked her; i now detest her. the way she treated archie's wife was abominable. there is no doubt of that. father, i am going to take this situation by the horns of its dilemma. i intend to marry archie. no one in the county can afford to snub braelands. he is popular and likely to be more so; he is rich and influential, and i also am rich. together we may lead public opinion--or defy it. my name has been injured by my friendship with him. archie braelands must give me his name." "by st. andrew, he shall!" answered the irritable old man. "i will see he does. i ought to have considered this before, marion. why did you not show me my duty?" "it is early enough; it is now only eight months since his wife died." the next morning as archie was riding slowly along the highway, the admiral joined him. "come home to lunch with me," he said, and archie turned his horse and went. marion was particularly sympathetic and charming. she subdued her spirits to his pitch; she took the greatest interest in his new political aspirations; she listened to his plans about the future with smiling approvals, until he said he was thinking of going to the united states for a few months. he wished to study republicanism on its own ground, and to examine, in their working conditions, several new farming implements and expedients that he thought of introducing. then marion rose and left the room. she looked at her father as she did so, and he understood her meaning. "braelands," he said, when they were alone, "i have something to say which you must take into your consideration before you leave scotland. it is about marion." "nothing ill with marion, i hope?" "nothing but what you can cure. she is suffering very much, socially, from the constant association of her name with yours." "sir?" "allow me to explain. at the time of your sweet little wife's death, marion was constantly included in the blame laid to madame braelands. you know now how unjustly." "i would rather not have that subject discussed." "but, by heaven, it must be discussed! i have, at marion's desire, said nothing hitherto, because we both saw how much you were suffering; but, sir, if you are going away from fife, you must remember before you go that the living have claims as well as the dead." "if marion has any claim on me, i am here, willing to redeem it." "'if,' braelands; it is not a question of 'if.' marion's name has been injured by its connection with your name. you know the remedy. i expect you to behave like a gentleman in this matter." "you expect me to marry marion?" "precisely. there is no other effectual way to right her." "i see marion in the garden; i will go and speak to her." "do, my dear fellow. i should like this affair pleasantly settled." marion was sitting on the stone bench round the sun dial. she had a white silk parasol over her head, and her lap was full of apple-blossoms. a pensive air softened her handsome face, and as archie approached, she looked up with a smile that was very attractive. he sat down at her side and began to finger the pink and white flowers. he was quite aware that he was tampering with his fate as well; but at his very worst, archie had a certain chivalry about women that only needed to be stirred by a word or a look indicating injustice. he was not keen to perceive; but when once his eyes were opened, he was very keen to feel. "marion," he said kindly, taking her hand in his, "have you suffered much for my fault?" "i have suffered, archie." "why did you not tell me before?" "you have been so full of trouble. how could i add to it?" "you have been blamed?" "yes, very much." "there is only one way to right you, marion; i offer you my name and my hand. will you take it?" "a woman wants love. if i thought you could ever love me--" "we are good friends. you have been my comforter in many miserable hours. i will make no foolish protestations; but you know whether you can trust me. and that we should come to love one another very sincerely is more than likely." "i _do_ love you. have i not always loved you?" and this frank avowal was just the incentive archie required. his heart was hungry for love; he surrendered himself very easily to the charming of affection. before they returned to the house, the compact was made, and marion glamis and archibald braelands were definitely betrothed. as archie rode home in the gloaming, it astonished him a little to find that he felt a positive satisfaction in the prospect of telling his mother of his engagement--a satisfaction he did not analyze, but which was doubtless compounded of a sense of justice, and of a not very amiable conviction that the justice would not be more agreeable than justice usually is. indeed, the haste with which he threw himself from his horse and strode into the braelands's parlour, and the hardly veiled air of defiance with which he muttered as he went "it's her own doing; let her be satisfied with her work," showed a heart that had accepted rather than chosen its destiny, and that rebelled a little under the constraint. madame was sitting alone in the waning light; her son had been away from her all day, and had sent her no excuse for his detention. she was both angry and sorrowful; and there had been a time when archie would have been all conciliation and regret. that time was past. his mother had forfeited all his respect; there was nothing now between them but that wondrous tie of motherhood which a child must be utterly devoid of grace and feeling to forget. archie never quite forgot it. in his worst moods he would tell himself, "after all she is my mother. it was because she loved me. her inhumanity was really jealousy, and jealousy is cruel as the grave." but this purely natural feeling lacked now all the confidence of mutual respect and trust. it was only a natural feeling; it had lost all the nobler qualities springing from a spiritual and intellectual interpretation of their relationship. "you have been away all day, archie," madame complained. "i have been most unhappy about you." "i have been doing some important business." "may i ask what it was?" "i have been wooing a wife." "and your first wife not eight months in her grave!" "it was unavoidable. i was in a manner forced to it." "forced? the idea! are you become a coward?" "yes," he answered wearily; "anything before a fresh public discussion of my poor sophy's death." "oh! who is the lady?" "there is only one lady possible." "marion glamis?" "i thought you could say 'who'." "i hope to heaven you will never marry that woman! she is false from head to foot. i would rather see another fisher-girl here than marion glamis." "you yourself have made it impossible for me to marry any one but marion; though, believe me, if i could find another 'fisher-girl' like sophy, i would defy everything, and gladly and proudly marry her to-morrow." "that is understood; you need not reiterate. i see through miss glamis now, the deceitful, ungrateful creature!" "mother, i am going to marry miss glamis. you must teach yourself to speak respectfully of her." "i hate her worse than i hated sophy. i am the most wretched of women;" and her air of misery was so genuine and hopeless that it hurt archie very sensibly. "i am sorry," he said; "but you, and you only, are to blame. i have no need to go over your plans and plots for this very end; i have no need to remind you how you seasoned every hour of poor sophy's life with your regrets that marion was _not_ my wife. these circumstances would not have influenced me, but her name has been mixed up with mine and smirched in the contact." "and you will make a woman with a 'smirched' name mistress of braelands? have you no family pride?" "i will wrong no woman, if i know it; that is my pride. if i wrong them, i will right them. however, i give myself no credit about righting marion, her father made me do so." "my humiliation is complete, i shall die of shame." "oh, no! you will do as i do--make the best of the affair. you can talk of marion's fortune and of her relationship to the earl of glamis, and so on." "that nasty, bullying old man! and you to be frightened by him! it is too shameful." "i was not frightened by him; but i have dragged one poor innocent woman's name through the dust and dirt of public discussion, and, before god, mother, i would rather die than do the same wrong to another. you know the admiral's temper; once roused to action, he would spare no one, not even his own daughter. it was then my duty to protect her." "i have nursed a viper, and it has bitten me. to-night i feel as if the bite would be fatal." "marion is not a viper; she is only a woman bent on protecting herself. however, i wish you would remember that she is to be your daughter-in-law, and try and meet her on a pleasant basis. any more scandal about braelands will compel me to shut up this house absolutely and go abroad to live." the next day madame put all her pride and hatred out of sight and went to call on marion with congratulations; but the girl was not deceived. she gave her the conventional kiss, and said all that it was proper to say; but madame's overtures were not accepted. "it is only a flag of truce," thought madame as she drove homeward, "and after she is married to archie, it will be war to the knife-hilt between us. i can feel that, and i would not fear it if i was sure of archie. but alas, he is so changed! he is so changed!" marion's thoughts were not more friendly, and she did not scruple to express them in words to her father. "that dreadful old woman was here this afternoon," she said. "she tried to flatter me; she tried to make me believe she was glad i was going to marry archie. what a consummate old hypocrite she is! i wonder if she thinks i will live in the same house with her?" "of course she thinks so." "i will not. archie and i have agreed to marry next christmas. she will move into her own house in time to hold her christmas there." "i wouldn't insist on that, marion. she has lived at braelands nearly all her life. the dower house is but a wretched place after it. the street in which it stands has become not only poor, but busy, and the big garden that was round it when the home was settled on her was sold in archie's father's time, bit by bit, for shops and a preserving factory. you cannot send her to the dower house." "she cannot stay at braelands. she charges the very air of any house she is in with hatred and quarrelling. every one knows she has saved money; if she does not like the dower house, she can go to edinburgh, or london, or anywhere she likes--the further away from braelands, the better." chapter xiii the "little sophy" madame did not go to the dower house. archie was opposed to such a humiliation of the proud woman, and a compromise was made by which she was to occupy the house in edinburgh which had been the braelands's residence during a great part of every winter. it was a handsome dwelling, and madame settled herself there in great splendour and comfort; but she was a wretched woman in spite of her surroundings. she had only unhappy memories of the past, she had no loving anticipations for the future. she knew that her son was likely to be ruled by the woman at his side, and she hoped nothing from marion glamis. the big edinburgh house with its heavy dark furniture, its shadowy draperies, and its stately gloom, became a kind of death chamber in which she slowly went to decay, body and soul. no one missed her much or long in largo, and in edinburgh she found it impossible to gather round herself the company to which she had been wont. unpleasant rumours somehow clung to her name; no one said much about her, but she was not popular. the fine dwelling in st. george's square had seen much gay company in its spacious rooms; but madame found it a hopeless task to re-assemble it. she felt this want of favour keenly, though she need not have altogether blamed herself for it, had she not been so inordinately conscious of her own personality. for archie had undoubtedly, in previous winters, been the great social attraction. his fine manners, his good nature, his handsome appearance, his wealth, and his importance as a matrimonial venture, had crowded the receptions which madame believed owed their success to her own tact and influence. gradually, however, the truth dawned upon her; and then, in utter disgust, she retired from a world that hardly missed her, and which had long only tolerated her for the accidents of her connections and surroundings. her disposition for saving grew into a passion; she became miserly in the extreme, and punished herself night and day in order that she might add continually to the pile of hoarded money which marion afterwards spent with a lavish prodigality. occasionally her thin, gray face, and her haggard figure wrapped in a black shawl, were seen at the dusty windows of the room she occupied. the rest of the house she closed. the windows were hoarded up and the doors padlocked, and yet she lived in constant fear of attacks from thieves on her life for her money. finally she dismissed her only servant lest she might be in league with such characters; and thus, haunted by terrors of all kinds and by memories she could not destroy, she dragged on for twenty years a life without hope and without love, and died at last with no one but her lawyer and her physician at her side. she had sent for archie, but he was in italy, and marion she did not wish to see. her last words were uttered to herself. "i have had a poor life!" she moaned with a desperate calmness that was her only expression of the vast and terrible desolation of her heart and soul. "a poor life," said the lawyer, "and yet she has left twenty-six thousand pounds to her son." "a poor life, and a most lonely flitting," reiterated her physician with awe and sadness. however, she herself had no idea when she removed to edinburgh of leading so "poor a life." she expected to make her house the centre of a certain grave set of her own class and age; she expected archie to visit her often; she expected to find many new interests to occupy her feelings and thoughts. but she was too old to transplant. sophy's death and its attending circumstances had taken from her both personally and socially more than she knew. archie, after his marriage, led entirely by marion and her ways and desires, never went towards edinburgh. the wretched old lady soon began to feel herself utterly deserted; and when her anger at this position had driven love out of her heart, she fell an easy prey to the most sordid, miserable, and degrading of passions, the hoarding of money. nor was it until death opened her eyes that she perceived she had had "a poor life." she began this edinburgh phase of it under a great irritation. knowing that archie would not marry until christmas, and that after the marriage he and marion were going to london until the spring, she saw no reason for her removal from braelands until their return. marion had different plans. she induced archie to sell off the old furniture, and to redecorate and re-furnish braelands from garret to cellar. it gave madame the first profound shock of her new life. the chairs and tables she had used sold at auction to the tradespeople of largo and the farmers of the country-side! she could not understand how archie could endure the thought. under her influence, he never would have endured it; but archie braelands smiled on, and coaxed, and sweetly dictated by marion glamis, was ready enough to do all that marion wished. "of course the old furniture must be sold," she said. "why not? it will help to buy the new. we don't keep our old gowns and coats; why then our old chairs and tables?" "they have associations." "nonsense, archie! so has my white parasol. shall i keep it in tissue paper forever? such sentimental ideas are awfully behind the times. your grandfather's coat and shoes will not dress you to-day; neither, my dear, can his notions and sentiments direct you." so braelands was turned, as the country people said, "out of the windows," and madame hastened away from the sight of such desecration. it made archie popular, however. the artisans found profitable work in the big rooms, and the county families looked forward to the entertainments they were to enjoy in the renovated mansion. it restored marion also to general estimation. there was a future before her now which it would be pleasant to share, and every one considered that her engagement to archie exonerated her from all participation in madame's cruelty. "she has always declared herself innocent," said the minister's wife, "and braelands's marriage to her affirms it in the most positive manner. those who have been unjust to miss glamis have now no excuse for their injustice." this authoritative declaration in marion's favour had such a decided effect that every invitation to her marriage was accepted, and the ceremony, though purposely denuded of everything likely to recall the tragedy now to be forgotten, was really a very splendid private affair. on the sabbath before it, archie took in the early morning a walk to the kirkyard at pittendurie. he was going to bid sophy a last farewell. henceforward he must try and prevent her memory troubling his life and influencing his moods and motives. it was a cold, chilling morning, and the great immensity of the ocean spread away to the occult shores of the poles. the sky was grey and sombre, the sea cloudy and unquiet; and far off on the eastern horizon, a mysterious portent was slowly rolling onward. he crossed the stile and walked slowly forward. on his right hand there was a large, newly-made grave with an oar standing upright at its head, and some inscription rudely painted on it. his curiosity was aroused, and he went closer to read the words: "_be comforted! alexander murray has prevailed_." the few words so full of hope and triumph, moved him strangely. he remembered the fisherman murray, whose victory over death was so certainly announced; and his soul, disregarding all the forbidding of priests and synods, instantly sent a prayer after the departed conqueror. "wherever he is," he thought, "surely he is closer to heaven than i am." he had been in the kirkyard often when none but god saw him, and his feet knew well the road to sophy's grave. there was a slender shaft of white marble at the head, and andrew binnie stood looking at it. braelands walked forward till only the little green mound separated them. their eyes met and filled with tears. they clasped hands across her grave and buried every sorrowful memory, every sense of wrong or blame, in its depth and height. andrew turned silently away; braelands remained there some minutes longer. the secret of that invisible communion remained forever his own secret. those only who have had similar experiences know that souls who love each other may, and can, exchange impressions across immensity. he found andrew sitting on the stile, gazing thoughtfully over the sea at the pale grey wall of inconceivable height which was drawing nearer and nearer. "the fog is coming," he said, "we shall soon be going into cloud after cloud of it." "they chilled and hurt her once. she is now beyond them." "she is in heaven. god be thanked for his great mercy to her!" "if we only knew something _sure_. where is heaven? who can tell?" "in thy presence is fullness of joy, and at thy right hand pleasures forevermore. where god is, there is heaven." "eye hath not seen, nor ear heard." "but god _hath_ revealed it; not a _future_ revelation, braelands, but a _present_ one." and then andrew slowly, and with pauses full of feeling and intelligence, went on to make clear to braelands the present helper in every time of need. he quoted mainly from the bible, his one source of all knowledge, and his words had the splendid vagueness of the hebrew, and lifted the mind into the illimitable. and as they talked, the fog enveloped them, one drift after another passing by in dim majesty, till the whole world seemed a spectacle of desolation, and a breath of deadly chillness forced them to rise and wrap their plaids closely round them. so they parted at the kirk yard gate, and never, never again met in this world. braelands turned his face towards marion and a new life, and andrew went back to his ship with a new and splendid interest. it began in wondering, "whether there was any good in a man abandoning himself to a noble, but vain regret? was there no better way to pay a tribute to the beloved dead?" braelands's costly monument did not realise his conception of this possibility; but as he rowed back to his ship in the gathering storm, a thought came into his mind with all the assertion of a clang of steel, and he cried out to his inner man. "_that_, oh my soul, is what i will do; _that_ is what will keep my love's name living and lovely in the hearts of her people." his project was not one to be accomplished without much labour and self-denial. it would require a great deal of money, and he would have to save with conscientious care many years to compass his desire, which was to build a mission ship for the deep sea fishermen twelve years he worked and saved, and then the ship was built; a strong steam-launch, able to buffet and bear the north sea when its waves were running wild over everything. she was provided with all appliances for religious comfort and teaching; she had medicines for the sick and surgical help for the wounded; she carried every necessary protection against the agonising "sea blisters" which torture the fishermen in the winter season. and this vessel of many comforts was called the "sophy traill." she is still busy about her work of mercy. many other mission ships now traverse the great fishing-fleets of the north sea, and carry hope and comfort to the fishermen who people its grey, wild waters; but none is so well beloved by them as the "little sophy." when the boats lie at their nets on a summer's night, it is on the "little sophy" that "rock of ages" is started and then taken up by the whole fleet. and when the stormy winds of winter blow great guns, then the "little sophy," flying her bright colours in the daytime and showing her many lights at night, is always rolling about among the boats, blowing her whistle to tell them she is near by, or sending off help in her lifeboat, or steaming after a smack in distress. fifteen years after andrew and archie parted at the kirkyard, archie came to the knowledge first of andrew's living monument to the girl they had both loved so much. he was coming from norway in a yacht with a few friends, and they were caught in a heavy, easterly gale. in a few hours there was a tremendous sea, and the wind rapidly rose to a hurricane. the "little sophy" steamed after the helpless craft and got as near to her as possible; but as she lowered her lifeboat, she saw the yacht stagger, stop, and then founder. the tops of her masts seemed to meet, she had broken her back, and the seas flew sheer over her. the lifeboat picked up three men from her, and one of them was archie braelands. he was all but dead from exposure and buffeting; but the surgeon of the mission ship brought him back to life. it was some hours after he had been taken on board; the storm had gone away northward as the sun set. there was the sound of an organ and of psalm-singing in his ears, and yet he knew that he was in a ship on a tossing sea, and he opened his eyes, and asked weakly: "where am i?" the surgeon stooped to him and answered in a cheery voice: "_on the 'sophy traill!'_" a cry, shrill as that of a fainting woman, parted archie's lips, and he kept muttering in a half-delirious stupor all night long, "_the sophy traill! the sophy traill!_" in a few days he recovered strength and was able to leave the boat which had been his salvation; but in those few days he heard and saw much that greatly influenced for the noblest ends his future life. all through the borders of fife, people talked of archie's strange deliverance by this particular ship, and the old story was told over again in a far gentler spirit. time had softened ill-feeling, and archie's career was touched with the virtue of the tenderly remembered dead. "he was but a thoughtless creature before he lost wee sophy," janet said, as she discussed the matter; "and now, where will you find a better or a busier man? fife's proud of him, and scotland's proud of him, and if england hasn't the sense of discerning _who_ she ought to make a prime minister of, that isn't braelands's fault." "for all that," said christina, sitting among her boys and girls, "sophy ought to have married andrew. she would have been alive to-day if she had." "you aren't always an oracle, christina, and you have a deal to learn yet; but i'm not saying but what poor sophy did make a mistake in her marriage. folks should marry in their own class, and in their own faith, and among their own folk, or else ninety-nine times out of a hundred they marry sorrow; but i'm not so sure that being alive to-day would have been a miracle of pleasure and good fortune. if she had had bairns, as ill to bring up and as noisy and fashious as yours are, she is well spared the trouble of them." "you have spoiled the bairns yourself, mother. if i ever check or scold them, you are aye sure to take their part." "because you never know when a bairn is to blame and when its mother is to blame. i forgot to teach you that lesson." christina laughed and said something about it "being a grand thing andrew had no lads and lasses," and then janet held, her head up proudly, and said with an air of severe admonition: "it's well enough for you and the like of you to have lads and lasses; but my boy andrew has a duty far beyond it, he has the 'sophy traill' to victual and store, and send out to save souls and bodies." "lads and lasses aren't bad things, mother." "they'll be all the better for the 'sophy traill' and the other boats like her. that laddie o' yours that will be off to sea whether you like it or not, will give you many a fear and heartache. andrew's 'boat of blessing' goes where she is bid to go, and does as she is told to do. that's the difference." difference or not, his "boat of blessing" was andrew's joy and pride. she had been his salvation, inasmuch as she had consecrated that passion for hoarding money which was the weak side of his character. she had given to his dead love a gracious memory in the hearts of thousands, and "a name far better than that of sons and daughters." malcolm by george macdonald chapter i: miss horn "na, na; i hae nae feelin's, thankfu' to say. i never kent ony guid come o' them. they're a terrible sicht i' the gait." "naebody ever thoucht o' layin' 't to yer chairge, mem." "'deed, i aye had eneuch adu to du the thing i had to du, no to say the thing 'at naebody wad du but mysel'. i hae had nae leisur' for feelin's an' that," insisted miss horn. but here a heavy step descending the stair just outside the room attracted her attention, and checking the flow of her speech perforce, with three ungainly strides she reached the landing. "watty witherspail! watty!" she called after the footsteps down the stair. "yes, mem," answered a gruff voice from below. "watty, whan ye fess the bit boxie, jist pit a hemmer an' a puckle nails i' your pooch to men' the hen hoose door. the tane maun be atten't till as weel's the tither." "the bit boxie" was the coffin of her third cousin griselda campbell, whose body lay on the room on her left hand as she called down the stair. into that on her right miss horn now re-entered, to rejoin mrs mellis, the wife of the principal draper in the town, who had called ostensibly to condole with her, but really to see the corpse. "aih! she was taen yoong!" sighed the visitor, with long drawn tones and a shake of the head, implying that therein lay ground of complaint, at which poor mortals dared but hint. "no that yoong," returned miss horn. "she was upo' the edge o' aucht an' thirty." "weel, she had a sair time o' 't." "no that sair, sae far as i see--an' wha sud ken better? she's had a bien doon sittin' (sheltered quarters), and sud hae had as lang's i was to the fore. na, na; it was nowther sae young nor yet sae sair." "aih! but she was a patient cratur wi' a' flesh," persisted mrs mellis, as if she would not willingly be foiled in the attempt to extort for the dead some syllable of acknowledgment from the lips of her late companion. "'deed she was that!--a wheen ower patient wi' some. but that cam' o' haein mair hert nor brains. she had feelin's gien ye like-- and to spare. but i never took ower ony o' the stock. it's a pity she hadna the jeedgment to match, for she never misdoobted onybody eneuch. but i wat it disna maitter noo, for she's gane whaur it 's less wantit. for ane 'at has the hairmlessness o' the doo 'n this ill wulled warl', there's a feck o' ten 'at has the wisdom o' the serpent. an' the serpents mak sair wark wi' the doos--lat alane them 'at flees into the verra mouws o' them." "weel, ye're jist richt there," said mrs mellis. "an' as ye say, she was aye some easy to perswaud. i hae nae doubt she believed to the ver' last he wad come back and mairry her." "come back and mairry her! wha or what div ye mean? i jist tell ye mistress mellis--an' it 's weel ye're named--gien ye daur to hint at ae word o' sic clavers, it 's this side o' this door o' mine ye s' be less acquant wi'." as she spoke, the hawk eyes of miss horn glowed on each side of her hawk nose, which grew more and more hooked as she glared, while her neck went craning forward as if she were on the point of making a swoop on the offender. mrs mellis's voice trembled with something like fear as she replied: "gude guide 's, miss horn! what hae i said to gar ye look at me sae by ordinar 's that?" "said!" repeated miss horn, in a tone that revealed both annoyance with herself and contempt for her visitor. "there's no a claver in a' the countryside but ye maun fess 't hame aneth yer oxter, as gin 't were the prodigal afore he repentit. ye s' get sma thanks for sic like here. an' her lyin' there as she'll lie till the jeedgment day, puir thing!" " sure i meant no offence, miss horn," said her visitor. "i thocht a' body kent 'at she was ill about him." "aboot wha, i' the name o' the father o' lees?" "ow, aboot that lang leggit doctor 'at set oat for the ingies, an' dee'd afore he wan across the equautor. only fouk said he was nae mair deid nor a halvert worm, an' wad be hame whan she was merried." "it's a' lees frae heid to fit, an' frae bert to skin." "weel, it was plain to see she dwyned awa efter he gaed, an' never was hersel' again--ye dinna deny that?" "it's a' havers," persisted miss horn, but in accents considerably softened. "she cared na mair aboot the chield nor i did mysel'. she dwyned, i grant ye, an' he gaed awa, i grant ye; but the win' blaws an' the water rins, an the tane has little to du wi' the tither." "weel, weel; sorry i said onything to offen' ye, an' i canna say mair. wi' yer leave, miss horn, i'll jist gang an' tak' a last leuk at her, puir thing!" "'deed, ye s' du naething o' the kin'! i s' lat nobody glower at her 'at wad gang an spairge sic havers about her, mistress mellis. to say 'at sic a doo as my grizel, puir, saft hertit, winsome thing, wad hae lookit twice at ony sic a serpent as him! na, na, mem! gang yer wa's hame, an' come back straucht frae yer prayers the morn's mornin'. by that time she'll be quaiet in her coffin, an' i'll be quaiet i' my temper. syne i'll lat ye see her--maybe.--i wiss i was weel rid o' the sicht o' her, for i canna bide it. lord, i canna bide it." these last words were uttered in a murmured aside, inaudible to mrs mellis, to whom, however, they did not apply, but to the dead body. she rose notwithstanding in considerable displeasure, and with a formal farewell walked from the room, casting a curious glance as she left it in the direction of that where the body lay, and descended the stairs as slowly as if on every step she deliberated whether the next would bear her weight. miss horn, who had followed her to the head of the stair, watched her out of sight below the landing, when she turned and walked back once more into the parlour, but with a lingering look towards the opposite room, as if she saw through the closed door what lay white on the white bed. "it's a god's mercy i hae no feelin's," she said to herself. "to even (equal) my bonny grizel to sic a lang kyte clung chiel as yon! aih, puir grizel! she's gane frae me like a knotless threid." chapter ii: barbara catanach miss horn was interrupted by the sound of the latch of the street door, and sprung from her chair in anger. "canna they lat her sleep for five meenutes?" she cried aloud, forgetting that there was no fear of rousing her any more.--"it'll be jean come in frae the pump," she reflected, after a moment's pause; but, hearing no footstep along the passage to the kitchen, concluded--"it's no her, for she gangs aboot the hoose like the fore half o' a new shod cowt;" and went down the stair to see who might have thus presumed to enter unbidden. in the kitchen, the floor of which was as white as scrubbing could make it, and sprinkled with sea sand--under the gaily painted dutch clock, which went on ticking as loud as ever, though just below the dead--sat a woman about sixty years of age, whose plump face to the first glance looked kindly, to the second, cunning, and to the third, evil. to the last look the plumpness appeared unhealthy, suggesting a doughy indentation to the finger, and its colour also was pasty. her deep set, black bright eyes, glowing from under the darkest of eyebrows, which met over her nose, had something of a fascinating influence--so much of it that at a first interview one was not likely for a time to notice any other of her features. she rose as miss horn entered, buried a fat fist in a soft side, and stood silent. "weel?" said miss horn interrogatively, and was silent also. "i thocht ye micht want a cast o' my callin'," said the woman. "na, na; there's no a han' 'at s' lay finger upo' the bairn but mine ain," said miss horn. "i had it a' ower, my lee lane, afore the skreigh o' day. she's lyin' quaiet noo--verra quaiet--waitin' upo' watty witherspail. whan he fesses hame her bit boxie, we s' hae her laid canny intill 't, an' hae dune wi' 't." "weel, mem, for a leddy born, like yersel', i maun say, ye tak it unco composed!" " no awaur, mistress catanach, o' ony necessity laid upo' ye to say yer min' i' this hoose. it's no expeckit. but what for sud i no tak' it wi' composur'? we'll hae to tak' oor ain turn er lang, as composed as we hae the skiel o', and gang oot like a lang nibbit can'le--ay, an lea' jist sic a memory ahin' some o' 's, bawby." "i kenna gien ye mean me, miss horn," said the woman; "but it 's no that muckle o' a memory i expec' to lea' ahin' me." "the less the better," muttered miss horn; but her unwelcome visitor went on: "them 'at 's maist i' my debt kens least aboot it; and then mithers canna be said to hae muckle to be thankfu' for. it's god's trowth, i ken waur nor ever i did mem. a body in my trade canna help fa'in' amo' ill company whiles, for we're a' born in sin, an' brocht furth in ineequity, as the buik says; in fac', it 's a' sin thegither: we come o' sin an' we gang for sin; but ye ken the likes o' me maunna clype (tell tales). a' the same, gien ye dinna tak the help o' my han', ye winna refuse me the sicht o' my een, puir thing!" "there's nane sall luik upon her deid 'at wasna a pleesur' till her livin'; an' ye ken weel eneuch, bawby, she cudna thole (bear) the sicht o' you." "an' guid rizzon had she for that, gien a' 'at gangs throu' my heid er i fa' asleep i' the lang mirk nichts be a hair better nor ane o' the auld wives' fables 'at fowk says the holy buik maks sae licht o'." "what mean ye?" demanded miss horn, sternly and curtly. "i ken what i mean mysel', an' ane that's no content wi' that, bude (behaved) ill be a howdie (midwife). i wad fain hae gotten a fancy oot o' my heid that's been there this mony a lang day; but please yersel', mem, gien ye winna be neebourly." "ye s' no gang near her--no to save ye frae a' the ill dreams that ever gethered aboot a sin stappit (stuffed) bowster!" cried miss horn, and drew down her long upper lip in a strong arch. "ca cannie! ca cannie! (drive gently)," said bawby. "dinna anger me ower sair, for i am but mortal. fowk tak a heap frae you, miss horn, 'at they'll tak frae nane ither, for your temper's weel kent, an' little made o'; but it 's an ill faured thing to anger the howdie --sae muckle lies upo' her; an' no i' the tune to put up wi' muckle the nicht. i wonner at ye bein' sae oonneebourlike--at sic a time tu, wi' a corp i' the hoose!" "gang awa--gang oot o't: it 's my hoose," said miss horn, in a low, hoarse voice, restrained from rising to tempest pitch only by the consciousness of what lay on the other side of the ceiling above her head. "i wad as sune lat a cat intill the deid chaumer to gang loupin' ower the corp, or may be waur, as i wad lat yersel' intill 't bawby catanach; an' there's till ye!" at this moment the opportune entrance of jean afforded fitting occasion to her mistress for leaving the room without encountering the dilemma of either turning the woman out--a proceeding which the latter, from the way in which she set her short, stout figure square on the floor, appeared ready to resist--or of herself abandoning the field in discomfiture: she turned and marched from the kitchen with her head in the air, and the gait of one who had been insulted on her own premises. she was sitting in the parlour, still red faced and wrathful, when jean entered, and, closing the door behind her, drew near to her mistress, bearing a narrative, commenced at the door, of all she had seen, heard, and done, while "oot an' aboot i' the toon." but miss horn interrupted her the moment she began to speak. "is that wuman furth the hoose, jean?" she asked, in the tone of one who waited her answer in the affirmative as a preliminary condition of all further conversation. "she's gane, mem," answered jean--adding to herself in a wordless thought, " no sayin' whaur." "she's a wuman i wadna hae ye throng wi', jean." "i ken no ill o' her, mem," returned jean. "she's eneuch to corrup' a kirkyaird!" said her mistress, with more force than fitness. jean, however, was on the shady side of fifty, more likely to have already yielded than to be liable to a first assault of corruption; and little did miss horn think how useless was her warning, or where barbara catanach was at that very moment. trusting to jean's cunning, as well she might; she was in the dead chamber, and standing over the dead. she had folded back the sheet--not from the face, but from the feet--and raised the night dress of fine linen in which the love of her cousin had robed the dead for the repose of the tomb. "it wad hae been tellin' her," she muttered, "to hae spoken bawby fair! no used to be fa'en foul o' that gait. i s' be even wi' her yet, thinkin'--the auld speldin'! losh! and praise be thankit! there it 's! it's there!--a wee darker, but the same --jist whaur i could ha' laid the pint o' my finger upo' 't i' the mirk!--noo lat the worms eat it," she concluded, as she folded down the linen of shroud and sheet--"an' no mortal ken o' 't but mysel' an' him 'at bude till hae seen 't, gien he was a hair better nor glenkindie's man i' the auld ballant!" the instant she had rearranged the garments of the dead, she turned and made for the door with a softness of step that strangely contrasted with the ponderousness of her figure, and indicated great muscular strength, opened it with noiseless circumspection to the width of an inch, peeped out from the crack, and seeing the opposite door still shut, stepped out with a swift, noiseless swing of person and door simultaneously, closed the door behind her, stole down the stairs, and left the house. not a board creaked, not a latch clicked as she went. she stepped into the street as sedately as if she had come from paying to the dead the last offices of her composite calling, the projected front of her person appearing itself aware of its dignity as the visible sign and symbol of a good conscience and kindly heart. chapter iii: the mad laird when mistress catanach arrived at the opening of a street which was just opposite her own door, and led steep toward the sea town, she stood, and shading her eyes with her hooded hand, although the sun was far behind her, looked out to sea. it was the forenoon of a day of early summer. the larks were many and loud in the skies above her--for, although she stood in a street, she was only a few yards from the green fields--but she could hardly have heard them, for their music was not for her. to the northward, whither her gaze--if gaze it could be called--was directed, all but cloudless blue heavens stretched over an all but shadowless blue sea; two bold, jagged promontories, one on each side of her, formed a wide bay; between that on the west and the sea town at her feet, lay a great curve of yellow sand, upon which the long breakers, born of last night's wind, were still roaring from the northeast, although the gale had now sunk to a breeze--cold and of doubtful influence. from the chimneys of the fishermen's houses below, ascended a yellowish smoke, which, against the blue of the sea, assumed a dull green colour as it drifted vanishing towards the southwest. but mrs catanach was looking neither at nor for anything: she had no fisherman husband, or any other relative at sea; she was but revolving something in her unwholesome mind, and this was her mode of concealing an operation which naturally would have been performed with down bent head and eyes on the ground. while she thus stood a strange figure drew near, approaching her with step almost as noiseless as that with which she had herself made her escape from miss horn's house. at a few yards' distance from her it stood, and gazed up at her countenance as intently as she seemed to be gazing on the sea. it was a man of dwarfish height and uncertain age, with a huge hump upon his back, features of great refinement, a long thin beard, and a forehead unnaturally large, over eyes which, although of a pale blue, mingled with a certain mottled milky gleam, had a pathetic, dog-like expression. decently dressed in black, he stood with his hands in the pockets of his trowsers, gazing immovably in mrs catanach's face. becoming suddenly aware of his presence, she glanced downward, gave a great start and a half scream, and exclaimed in no gentle tones: "preserve 's! whaur come ye frae?" it was neither that she did not know the man, nor that she meant any offence: her words were the mere embodiment of the annoyance of startled surprise; but their effect was peculiar. without a single other motion he turned abruptly on one heel, gazed seaward with quick flushed cheeks and glowing eyes, but, apparently too polite to refuse an answer to the evidently unpleasant question, replied in low, almost sullen tones: "i dinna ken whaur i come frae. ye ken 'at i dinna ken whaur i come frae. i dinna ken whaur ye come frae. i dinna ken whaur onybody comes frae." "hoot, laird! nae offence!" returned mrs catanach. "it was yer ain wyte (blame). what gart ye stan' glowerin' at a body that gait, ohn telled (without telling) them 'at ye was there?" "i thocht ye was luikin' whaur ye cam frae," returned the man in tones apologetic and hesitating. "'deed i fash wi' nae sic freits," said mrs catanach. "sae lang's ye ken whaur ye're gaein' till," suggested the man "toots! i fash as little wi' that either, and ken jist as muckle about the tane as the tither," she answered with a low oily guttural laugh of contemptuous pity. "i ken mair nor that mysel', but no muckle," said the man. "i dinna ken whaur i cam frae, and i dinna ken whaur gaun till; but i ken 'at gaun whaur i cam frae. that stan's to rizzon, ye see; but they telled me 'at ye kenned a' about whaur we a' cam frae." "deil a bit o' 't!" persisted mrs catanach, in tones of repudiation. "what care i whaur i cam frae, sae lang's--" "sae lang's what, gien ye please?" pleaded the man, with a childlike entreaty in his voice. "weel--gien ye wull hae't--sae lang's i cam frae my mither," said the woman, looking down on the inquirer with a vulgar laugh. the hunchback uttered a shriek of dismay, and turned and fled; and as he turned, long, thin, white hands flashed out of his pockets, pressed against his ears, and intertwined their fingers at the back of his neck. with a marvellous swiftness he shot down the steep descent towards the shore. "the deil's in't 'at i bude to anger him!" said the woman, and walked away, with a short laugh of small satisfaction. the style she had given the hunchback was no nickname. stephen stewart was laird of the small property and ancient house of kirkbyres, of which his mother managed the affairs--hardly for her son, seeing that, beyond his clothes, and five pounds a year of pocket money, he derived no personal advantage from his possessions. he never went near his own house, for, from some unknown reason, plentifully aimed at in the dark by the neighbours, he had such a dislike to his mother that he could not bear to hear the name of mother, or even the slightest allusion to the relationship. some said he was a fool; others a madman; some both; none, however, said he was a rogue; and all would have been willing to allow that whatever it might be that caused the difference between him and other men, throughout the disturbing element blew ever and anon the air of a sweet humanity. along the shore, in the direction of the great rocky promontory that closed in the bay on the west, with his hands still clasped over his ears, as if the awful word were following him, he flew rather than fled. it was nearly low water, and the wet sand afforded an easy road to his flying feet. betwixt sea and shore, a sail in the offing the sole other moving thing in the solitary landscape, like a hunted creature he sped, his footsteps melting and vanishing behind him in the half quicksand. where the curve of the water line turned northward at the root of the promontory, six or eight fishing boats were drawn up on the beach in various stages of existence. one was little more than half built, the fresh wood shining against the background of dark rock. another was newly tarred; its sides glistened with the rich shadowy brown, and filled the air with a comfortable odour. another wore age long neglect on every plank and seam; half its props had sunk or decayed, and the huge hollow leaned low on one side, disclosing the squalid desolation of its lean ribbed and naked interior, producing all the phantasmic effect of a great swampy desert; old pools of water overgrown with a green scum, lay in the hollows between its rotting timbers, and the upper planks were baking and cracking in the sun. near where they lay a steep path ascended the cliff, whence through grass and ploughed land, it led across the promontory to the fishing village of scaurnose, which lay on the other side of it. there the mad laird, or mad humpy, as he was called by the baser sort, often received shelter, chiefly from the family of a certain joseph mair, one of the most respectable inhabitants of the place. but the way he now pursued lay close under the cliffs of the headland, and was rocky and difficult. he passed the boats, going between them and the cliffs, at a footpace, with his eyes on the ground, and not even a glance at the two men who were at work on the unfinished boat. one of them was his friend, joseph mair. they ceased their work for a moment to look after him. "that's the puir laird again," said joseph, the instant he was beyond hearing. "something's wrang wi' him. i wonder what's come ower him!" "i haena seen him for a while noo," returned the other. "they tell me 'at his mither made him ower to the deil afore he cam to the light; and sae, aye as his birthday comes roun', sawtan gets the pooer ower him. eh, but he's a fearsome sicht whan he's ta'en that gait!" continued the speaker. "i met him ance i' the gloamin', jist ower by the toon, wi' his een glowerin' like uily lamps, an' the slaver rinnin' doon his lang baird. i jist laup as gien i had seen the muckle sawtan himsel'." "ye nott na (needed not) hae dune that," was the reply. "he's jist as hairmless, e'en at the warst, as ony lamb. he's but a puir cratur wha's tribble's ower strang for him--that's a'. sawtan has as little to du wi' him as wi' ony man i ken." chapter iv: phemy mair with eyes that stared as if they and not her ears were the organs of hearing, this talk was heard by a child of about ten years of age, who sat in the bottom of the ruined boat, like a pearl in a decaying oyster shell, one hand arrested in the act of dabbling in a green pool, the other on its way to her lips with a mouthful of the seaweed called dulse. she was the daughter of joseph mair just mentioned--a fisherman who had been to sea in a man of war (in consequence of which his to-name or nickname was blue peter), where having been found capable, he was employed as carpenter's mate, and came to be very handy with his tools: having saved a little money by serving in another man's boat, he was now building one for himself. he was a dark complexioned, foreign looking man, with gold rings in his ears, which he said enabled him to look through the wind "ohn his een watered." unlike most of his fellows, he was a sober and indeed thoughtful man, ready to listen to the voice of reason from any quarter; they were, in general, men of hardihood and courage, encountering as a mere matter of course such perilous weather as the fishers on a great part of our coasts would have declined to meet, and during the fishing season were diligent in their calling, and made a good deal of money; but when the weather was such that they could not go to sea, when their nets were in order, and nothing special requiring to be done, they would have bouts of hard drinking, and spend a great portion of what ought to have been their provision for the winter. their women were in general coarse in manners and rude in speech; often of great strength and courage, and of strongly marked character. they were almost invariably the daughters of fishermen, for a wife taken from among the rural population would have been all but useless in regard of the peculiar duties required of her. if these were less dangerous than those of their husbands, they were quite as laborious, and less interesting. the most severe consisted in carrying the fish into the country for sale, in a huge creel or basket, which when full was sometimes more than a man could lift to place on the woman's back. with this burden, kept in its place by a band across her chest, she would walk as many as twenty miles, arriving at some inland town early in the forenoon, in time to dispose of her fish for the requirements of the day. i may add that, although her eldest child was probably born within a few weeks after her marriage, infidelity was almost unknown amongst them. in some respects, although in none of its good qualities, mrs. mair was an exception from her class. her mother had been the daughter of a small farmer, and she had well to do relations in an inland parish; but how much these facts were concerned in the result it would be hard to say: certainly she was one of those elect whom nature sends into the world for the softening and elevation of her other children. she was still slight and graceful, with a clear complexion, and the prettiest teeth possible; the former two at least of which advantages she must have lost long before, had it not been that, while her husband's prudence had rendered hard work less imperative, he had a singular care over her good looks; and that a rough, honest, elder sister of his lived with them, whom it would have been no kindness to keep from the hardest work, seeing it was only through such that she could have found a sufficiency of healthy interest in life. while janet mair carried the creel, annie only assisted in making the nets, and in cleaning and drying the fish, of which they cured considerable quantities; these, with her household and maternal duties, afforded her ample occupation. their children were well trained, and being of necessity, from the narrowness of their house accommodation, a great deal with their parents, heard enough to make them think after their faculty. the mad laird was, as i have said, a visitor at their house oftener than anywhere else. on such occasions he slept in a garret accessible by a ladder from the ground floor, which consisted only of a kitchen and a closet. little phemy mair was therefore familiar with his appearance, his ways, and his speech; and she was a favourite with him, although hitherto his shyness had been sufficient to prevent any approach to intimacy with even a child of ten. when the poor fellow had got some little distance beyond the boats, he stopped and withdrew his hands from his ears: in rushed the sound of the sea, the louder that the caverns of his brain had been so long closed to its entrance. with a moan of dismay he once more pressed his palms against them, and thus deafened, shouted with a voice of agony into the noise of the rising tide: "i dinna ken whaur i come frae!" after which cry, wrung from the grief of human ignorance, he once more took to his heels, though with far less swiftness than before, and fled stumbling and scrambling over the rocks. scarcely had he vanished from view of the boats, when phemy scrambled out of her big mussell shell. its upheaved side being toward the boat at which her father was at work, she escaped unperceived, and so ran along the base of the promontory, where the rough way was perhaps easier to the feet of a child content to take smaller steps and climb or descend by the help of more insignificant inequalities. she came within sight of the laird just as he turned into the mouth of a well known cave and vanished. phemy was one of those rare and blessed natures which have endless courage because they have no distrust, and she ran straight into the cave after him, without even first stopping to look in. it was not a very interesting cave to look into. the strata of which it was composed, upheaved almost to the perpendicular, shaped an opening like the half of a gothic arch divided vertically and leaning over a little to one side, which opening rose to the full height of the cave, and seemed to lay bare every corner of it to a single glance. in length it was only about four or five times its width. the floor was smooth and dry, consisting of hard rock. the walls and roof were jagged with projections and shadowed with recesses, but there was little to rouse any frightful fancies. when phemy entered, the laird was nowhere to be seen. but she went straight to the back of the cave, to its farthest visible point. there she rounded a projection and began an ascent which only familiarity with rocky ways could have enabled such a child to accomplish. at the top she passed through another opening, and by a longer and more gently sloping descent reached the floor of a second cave, as level and nearly as smooth as a table. on her left hand, what light managed to creep through the tortuous entrance was caught and reflected in a dull glimmer from the undefined surface of a well of fresh water which lay in a sort of basin in the rock: on a bedded stone beside it sat the laird, with his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and his hump upheaved above his head, like mount sinai over the head of christian in the pilgrim's progress. as his hands were still pressed on his ears, he heard nothing of phemy's approach, and she stood for a while staring at him in the vague glimmer, apparently with no anxiety as to what was to come next. weary at length--for the forlorn man continued movelessly sunk in his own thoughts, or what he had for such--the eyes of the child began to wander about the darkness, to which they had already got so far accustomed as to make the most of the scanty light. presently she fancied she saw something glitter, away in the darkness--two things: they must be eyes!--the eyes of an otter or of a polecat, in which creatures the caves along the shore abounded. seized with sudden fright, she ran to the laird and laid her hand on his shoulder, crying, "leuk, laird, leuk!" he started to his feet and gazed bewildered at the child, rubbing his eyes once and again. she stood between the well and the entrance, so that all the light there was, gathered upon her pale face. "whaur do ye come frae?" he cried. "i cam frae the auld boat," she answered. "what do ye want wi' me?" "naething, sir; i only cam to see hoo ye was gettin' on. i wadna hae disturbit ye, sir, but i saw the twa een o' a wullcat, or sic like, glowerin' awa yonner i' the mirk, an' they fleyt me 'at i grippit ye." "weel, weel; sit ye doon, bairnie," said the mad laird in a soothing voice; "the wullcat sanna touch ye. ye're no fleyt at me, are ye?" "na!" answered the child. "what for sud i be fleyt at you, sir? phemy mair." "eh, bairnie! it 's you, is't?" he returned in tones of satisfaction, for he had not hitherto recognised her. "sit ye doon, sit ye doon, an' we'll see about it a'." phemy obeyed, and seated herself on the nearest projection. the laird placed himself beside her, and once more buried his face, but not his ears, in his hands. nothing entered them, however, but the sound of the rising tide, for phemy sat by him in the faintly glimmering dusk, as without fear felt, so without word spoken. the evening crept on, and the night came down, but all the effect of the growing darkness was that the child drew gradually nearer to her uncouth companion, until at length her hand stole into his, her head sank upon his shoulder, his arm went round her to hold her safe, and thus she fell fast asleep. after a while, the laird gently roused her and took her home, on their way warning her, in strange yet to her comprehensible utterance, to say nothing of where she had found him, for if she exposed his place of refuge, wicked people would take him, and he should never see her again. chapter v: lady florimel all the coast to the east of the little harbour was rock, bold and high, of a grey and brown hard stone, which after a mighty sweep, shot out northward, and closed in the bay on that side with a second great promontory. the long curved strip of sand on the west, reaching to the promontory of scaurnose, was the only open portion of the coast for miles. here the coasting vessel gliding past gained a pleasant peep of open fields, belts of wood and farm houses, with now and then a glimpse of a great house amidst its trees. in the distance one or two bare solitary hills, imposing in aspect only from their desolation, for their form gave no effect to their altitude, rose to the height of over a thousand feet. on this comparatively level part of the shore, parallel with its line, and at some distance beyond the usual high water mark, the waves of ten thousand northern storms had cast up a long dune or bank of sand, terminating towards the west within a few yards of a huge solitary rock of the ugly kind called conglomerate, which must have been separated from the roots of the promontory by the rush of waters at unusually high tides, for in winter they still sometimes rounded the rock, and running down behind the dune, turned it into a long island. the sand on the inland side of the dune, covered with short sweet grass, browsed on by sheep, and with the largest and reddest of daisies, was thus occasionally swept by wild salt waves, and at times, when the northern wind blew straight as an arrow and keen as a sword from the regions of endless snow, lay under a sheet of gleaming ice. the sun had been up for some time in a cloudless sky. the wind had changed to the south, and wafted soft country odours to the shore, in place of sweeping to inland farms the scents of seaweed and broken salt waters, mingled with a suspicion of icebergs. from what was called the seaton, or seatown, of portlossie, a crowd of cottages occupied entirely by fisherfolk, a solitary figure was walking westward along this grass at the back of the dune, singing. on his left hand the ground rose to the high road; on his right was the dune, interlaced and bound together by the long clasping roots of the coarse bent, without which its sands would have been but the sport of every wind that blew. it shut out from him all sight of the sea, but the moan and rush of the rising tide sounded close behind it. at his back rose the town of portlossie, high above the harbour and the seaton, with its houses of grey and brown stone, roofed with blue slates and red tiles. it was no highland town --scarce one within it could speak the highland tongue, yet down from its high streets on the fitful air of the morning now floated intermittently the sound of bagpipes--borne winding from street to street, and loud blown to wake the sleeping inhabitants and let them know that it was now six of the clock. he was a youth of about twenty, with a long, swinging, heavy footed stride, which took in the ground rapidly--a movement unlike that of the other men of the place, who always walked slowly, and never but on dire compulsion ran. he was rather tall, and large limbed. his dress was like that of a fisherman, consisting of blue serge trowsers, a shirt striped blue and white, and a guernsey frock, which he carried flung across his shoulder. on his head he wore a round blue bonnet, with a tuft of scarlet in the centre. his face was more than handsome--with large features, not finely cut, and a look of mingled nobility and ingenuousness--the latter amounting to simplicity, or even innocence; while the clear outlook from his full and well opened hazel eyes indicated both courage and promptitude. his dark brown hair came in large curling masses from under his bonnet. it was such a form and face as would have drawn every eye in a crowded thoroughfare. about the middle of the long sandhill, a sort of wide embrasure was cut in its top, in which stood an old fashioned brass swivel gun: when the lad reached the place, he sprang up the sloping side of the dune, seated himself on the gun, drew from his trowsers a large silver watch, regarded it steadily for a few minutes, replaced it, and took from his pocket a flint and steel, wherewith he kindled a bit of touch paper, which, rising, he applied to the vent of the swivel. followed a great roar. it echoes had nearly died away, when a startled little cry reached his keen ear, and looking along the shore to discover whence it came, he spied a woman on a low rock that ran a little way out into the water. she had half risen from a sitting posture, and apparently her cry was the result of the discovery that the rising tide had overreached and surrounded her. there was no danger whatever, but the girl might well shrink from plunging into the clear beryl depth in which swayed the seaweed clothing the slippery slopes of the rock. he rushed from the sandhill, crying, as he approached her, "dinna be in a hurry, mem; bide till i come to ye," and running straight into the water struggled through the deepening tide, the distance being short and the depth almost too shallow for swimming. in a moment he was by her side, scarcely saw the bare feet she had been bathing in the water, heeded as little the motion of the hand which waved him back, caught her in his arms like a baby, and had her safe on the shore ere she could utter a word; nor did he stop until he had carried her to the slope of the sandhill, where he set her gently down, and without a suspicion of the liberty he was taking, and filled only with a passion of service, was proceeding to dry her feet with the frock which he had dropped there as he ran to her assistance. "let me alone, pray," cried the girl with a half amused indignation, drawing back her feet and throwing down a book she carried that she might the better hide them with her skirt. but although she shrank from his devotion, she could neither mistake it nor help being pleased with his kindness. probably she had never before been immediately indebted to such an ill clad individual of the human race, but even in such a costume she could not fail to see he was a fine fellow. nor was the impression disturbed when he opened his mouth and spoke in the broad dialect of the country, for she had no associations to cause her to misinterpret its homeliness as vulgarity. "whaur's yer stockin's, mem?" he said. "you gave me no time to bring them away, you caught me up so-- rudely," answered the girl half querulously, but in such lovely speech as had never before greeted his scotish ears. before the words were well beyond her lips he was already on his way back to the rock, running, as he walked, with great, heavy footed strides. the abandoned shoes and stockings were in imminent danger of being floated off by the rising water, but he dashed in, swam a few strokes, caught them up, waded back to the shore, and, leaving a wet track all the way behind him but carrying the rescued clothing at arm's length before him, rejoined their owner. spreading his frock out before her, he laid the shoes and stockings upon it, and, observing that she continued to keep her feet hidden under the skirts of her dress, turned his back and stood. "why don't you go away?" said the girl, venturing one set of toes from under their tent, but hesitating to proceed further in the business. without word or turn of head he walked away. either flattered by his absolute obedience, and persuaded that he was a true squire, or unwilling to forego what amusement she might gain from him, she drew in her half issuing foot, and, certainly urged in part by an inherent disposition to tease, spoke again. "you're not going away without thanking me?" she said. "what for, mem?" he returned simply, standing stock still again with his back towards her. "you needn't stand so. you don't think i would go on dressing while you remained in sight?" "i was as guid's awa', mem," he said, and turning a glowing face, looked at her for a moment, then cast his eyes on the ground. "tell me what you mean by not thanking me," she insisted. "they wad be dull thanks, mem, that war thankit afore i kenned what for." "for allowing you to carry me ashore, of course." "be thankit, mem, wi' a' my hert. will i gang doon o' my knees?" "no. why should you go on your knees?" "'cause ye're 'maist ower bonny to luik at stan'in', mem, an' feared for angerin' ye." "don't say ma'am to me." "what am i to say, than, mem?--i ask yer pardon, mem." "say my lady. that's how people speak to me." "i thocht ye bude (behoved) to be somebody by ordinar', my leddy! that'll be hoo ye're so terrible bonny," he returned, with some tremulousness in his tone. "but ye maun put on yer hose, my leddy, or ye'll get yer feet cauld, and that's no guid for the likes o' you." the form of address she prescribed, conveyed to him no definite idea of rank. it but added intensity to the notion of her being a lady, as distinguished from one of the women of his own condition in life. "and pray what is to become of you," she returned, "with your clothes as wet as water can make them?" "the saut water kens me ower weel to do me ony ill," returned the lad. "i gang weet to the skin mony a day frae mornin' till nicht, and mony a nicht frae nicht till mornin'--at the heerin' fishin', ye ken, my leddy." one might well be inclined to ask what could have tempted her to talk in such a familiar way to a creature like him--human indeed, but separated from her by a gulf more impassable far than that which divided her from the thrones, principalities, and powers of the upper regions? and how is the fact to be accounted for, that here she put out a dainty foot, and reaching for one of her stockings, began to draw it gently over the said foot? either her sense of his inferiority was such that she regarded his presence no more than that of a dog, or, possibly, she was tempted to put his behaviour to the test. he, on his part, stood quietly regarding the operation, either that, with the instinct of an inborn refinement, he was aware he ought not to manifest more shamefacedness than the lady herself, or that he was hardly more accustomed to the sight of gleaming fish than the bare feet of maidens. " thinkin', my leddy," he went on, in absolute simplicity, "that sma' fut o' yer ain has danced mony a braw dance on mony a braw flure." "how old do you take me for then?" she rejoined, and went on drawing the garment over her foot by the shortest possible stages. "ye'll no be muckle ower twenty," he said. " only sixteen," she returned, laughing merrily. "what will ye be or ye behaud!" he exclaimed, after a brief pause of astonishment. "do you ever dance in this part of the country?" she asked, heedless of his surprise. "no that muckle, at least amo' the fisherfowks, excep' it be at a weddin'. i was at ane last nicht." "and did you dance?" "'deed did i, my leddy. i danced the maist o' the lasses clean aff o' their legs." "what made you so cruel?" "weel, ye see, mem,--i mean my leddy,--fowk said i was ill aboot the bride; an' sae i bude to dance 't oot o' their heids." "and how much truth was there in what they said?" she asked, with a sly glance up in the handsome, now glowing face. "gien there was ony, there was unco little," he replied. "the chield's walcome till her for me. but she was the bonniest lassie we had.--it was what we ca' a penny weddin'," he went on, as if willing to change the side of the subject. "and what's a penny wedding?" "it's a' kin' o' a custom amo' the fishers. there's some gey puir fowk amon' 's, ye see, an' when a twa o' them merries, the lave o' 's wants to gie them a bit o' a start like. sae we a' gang to the weddin' an' eats an' drinks plenty, an' pays for a' 'at we hae; and they mak' a guid profit out o' 't, for the things doesna cost them nearhan' sae muckle as we pay. so they hae a guid han'fu' ower for the plenishin'." "and what do they give you to eat and drink?" asked the girl, making talk. "ow, skate an' mustard to eat, an' whusky to drink," answered the lad, laughing. "but it 's mair for the fun. i dinna care muckle about whusky an' that kin' o' thing mysel'. it's the fiddles an the dancin' 'at i like." "you have music, then?" "ay; jist the fiddles an' the pipes." "the bagpipes, do you mean?" "ay; my gran'father plays them." "but you're not in the highlands here: how come you to have bagpipes?" "it's a stray bag, an' no more. but the fowk here likes the cry o' 't well eneuch, an' hae 't to wauk them ilka mornin'. yon was my gran'father ye heard afore i fired the gun. yon was his pipes waukin' them, honest fowk." "and what made you fire the gun in that reckless way? don't you know it is very dangerous?" "dangerous mem--my leddy, i mean! there was naething intill 't but a pennyworth o' blastin' pooder. it wadna blaw the froth aff o' the tap o' a jaw (billow)." "it nearly blew me out of my small wits, though." " verra sorry it frichtit ye. but, gien i had seen ye, i bude to fire the gun." "i don't understand you quite; but i suppose you mean it was your business to fire the gun." "jist that, my leddy." "why?" "'cause it 's been decreet i' the toon cooncil that at sax o' the clock ilka mornin' that gun's to be fired--at least sae lang's my lord, the marquis, is at portlossie hoose. ye see it 's a royal brugh, this, an' it costs but aboot a penny, an' it 's gran' like to hae a sma' cannon to fire. an' gien i was to neglec' it, my gran'father wad gang on skirlin'--what's the english for skirlin', my leddy--skirlin' o' the pipes?" "i don't know. but from the sound of the word i should suppose it stands for screaming." "aye, that's it; only screamin's no sae guid as skirlin'. my gran'father's an auld man, as i was gaein' on to say, an' has hardly breath eneuch to fill the bag; but he wad be efter dirkin' onybody 'at said sic a thing, and till he heard that gun he wad gang on blawin' though he sud burst himsel.' there's naebody kens the smeddum in an auld hielan' man!" by the time the conversation had reached this point, the lady had got her shoes on, had taken up her book from the sand, and was now sitting with it in her lap. no sound reached them but that of the tide, for the scream of the bagpipes had ceased the moment the swivel was fired. the sun was growing hot, and the sea, although so far in the cold north, was gorgeous in purple and green, suffused as with the overpowering pomp of a peacock's plumage in the sun. away to the left the solid promontory trembled against the horizon, as if ready to dissolve and vanish between the bright air and the lucid sea that fringed its base with white. the glow of a young summer morning pervaded earth and sea and sky, and swelled the heart of the youth as he stood in unconscious bewilderment before the self possession of the girl. she was younger than he, and knew far less that was worth knowing, yet had a world of advantage over him--not merely from the effect of her presence on one who had never seen anything half so beautiful, but from a certain readiness of surface thought, combined with the sweet polish of her speech, and an assurance of superiority which appeared to them both to lift her, like one of the old immortals, far above the level of the man whom she favoured with her passing converse. what in her words, as here presented only to the eye, may seem brusqueness or even forwardness, was so tempered, so toned, so fashioned by the naivete with which she spoke, that it sounded in his ears as the utterance of absolute condescension. as to her personal appearance, the lad might well have taken her for twenty, for she looked more of a woman than, tall and strongly built as he was, he looked of a man. she was rather tall, rather slender, finely formed, with small hands and feet, and full throat. her hair was of a dark brown; her eyes of such a blue that no one could have suggested grey; her complexion fair--a little freckled, which gave it the warmest tint it had; her nose nearly straight, her mouth rather large but well formed; and her forehead, as much of it as was to be seen under a garden hat, rose with promise above a pair of dark and finely pencilled eyebrows. the description i have here given may be regarded as occupying the space of a brief silence, during which the lad stood motionless, like one awaiting further command. "why don't you go?" said the lady. "i want to read my book." he gave a great sigh, as if waking from a pleasant dream, took off his bonnet with a clumsy movement which yet had in it a grace worthy of a stuart court, and descending the dune walked away along the sands towards the sea town. when he had gone about a couple of hundred yards, he looked back involuntarily. the lady had vanished. he concluded that she had crossed to the other side of the dune; but when he had gone so far on his way to the village as to clear the eastern end of the sandhill, and there turned and looked up its southern slope, she was still nowhere to be seen. the old highland stories of his grandfather came crowding to mind, and, altogether human as she had appeared, he almost doubted whether the sea, from which he had thought he rescued her, were not her native element. the book, however, not to mention the shoes and stockings, was against the supposition. anyhow, he had seen a vision of some order or other, as certainly as if an angel from heaven had appeared to him, for the waters of his mind had been troubled with a new sense of grace and beauty, giving an altogether fresh glory to existence. of course no one would dream of falling in love with an unearthly creature, even an angel; at least, something homely must mingle with the glory ere that become possible; and as to this girl, the youth could scarcely have regarded her with a greater sense of far offness had he known her for the daughter of a king of the sea --one whose very element was essentially death to him as life to her. still he walked home as if the heavy boots he wore were wings at his heels, like those of the little eurus or boreas that stood blowing his trumpet for ever in the round open temple which from the top of a grassy hill in the park overlooked the seaton. "sic een!" he kept saying to himself; "an' sic sma' white han's! an' sic a bonny flit! eh hoo she wad glitter throu' the water in a bag net! faith! gien she war to sing 'come doon' to me, i wad gang. wad that be to lowse baith sowl an' body, i wonner? i'll see what maister graham says to that. it's a fine question to put till 'im: 'gien a body was to gang wi' a mermaid, wha they say has nae sowl to be saved, wad that be the loss o' his sowl, as weel's o' the bodily life o' 'im?"' chapter vi: duncan macphail the sea town of portlossie was as irregular a gathering of small cottages as could be found on the surface of the globe. they faced every way, turned their backs and gables every way--only of the roofs could you predict the position; were divided from each other by every sort of small, irregular space and passage, and looked like a national assembly debating a constitution. close behind the seaton, as it was called, ran a highway, climbing far above the chimneys of the village to the level of the town above. behind this road, and separated from it by a high wall of stone, lay a succession of heights and hollows covered with grass. in front of the cottages lay sand and sea. the place was cleaner than most fishing villages, but so closely built, so thickly inhabited, and so pervaded with "a very ancient and fishlike smell," that but for the besom of the salt north wind it must have been unhealthy. eastward the houses could extend no further for the harbour, and westward no further for a small river that crossed the sands to find the sea--discursively and merrily at low water, but with sullen, submissive mingling when banked back by the tide. avoiding the many nets extended long and wide on the grassy sands, the youth walked through the tide swollen mouth of the river, and passed along the front of the village until he arrived at a house, the small window in the seaward gable of which was filled with a curious collection of things for sale--dusty looking sweets in a glass bottle; gingerbread cakes in the shape of large hearts, thickly studded with sugar plums of rainbow colours, invitingly poisonous; strings of tin covers for tobacco pipes, overlapping each other like fish scales; toys, and tapes, and needles, and twenty other kinds of things, all huddled together. turning the corner of this house, he went down the narrow passage between it and the next, and in at its open door. but the moment it was entered it lost all appearance of a shop, and the room with the tempting window showed itself only as a poor kitchen with an earthen floor. "weel, hoo did the pipes behave themsels the day, daddy?" said the youth as he strode in. "och, she'll pe peing a coot poy today," returned the tremulous voice of a grey headed old man, who was leaning over a small peat fire on the hearth, sifting oatmeal through the fingers of his left hand into a pot, while he stirred the boiling mess with a short stick held in his right. it had grown to be understood between them that the pulmonary conditions of the old piper should be attributed not to his internal, but his external lungs--namely, the bag of his pipes. both sets had of late years manifested strong symptoms of decay, and decided measures had had to be again and again resorted to in the case of the latter to put off its evil day, and keep within it the breath of its musical existence. the youth's question, then, as to the behaviour of the pipes, was in reality an inquiry after the condition of his grandfather's lungs, which, for their part, grew yearly more and more asthmatic: notwithstanding which duncan macphail would not hear of resigning the dignity of town piper. "that's fine, daddy," returned the youth. "wull i mak oot the parritch? thinkin ye've had eneuch o' hingin' ower the fire this het mornin'." "no, sir," answered duncan. "she'll pe perfectly able to make ta parritch herself, my poy malcolm. ta tay will tawn when her poy must make his own parritch, an' she'll be wantin' no more parritch, but haf to trink ta rainwater, and no trop of ta uisgebeatha to put into it, my poy malcolm." his grandson was quite accustomed to the old man's heathenish mode of regarding his immediate existence after death as a long confinement in the grave, and generally had a word or two ready wherewith to combat the frightful notion; but, as he spoke, duncan lifted the pot from the fire, and set it on its three legs on the deal table in the middle of the room, adding: "tere, my man--tere's ta parritch! and was it ta putter, or ta traicle, or ta pottle o' peer, she would be havin' for kitchie tis fine mornin'?" this point settled, the two sat down to eat their breakfast; and no one would have discovered, from the manner in which the old man helped himself, nor yet from the look of his eyes, that he was stone blind. it came neither of old age nor disease--he had been born blind. his eyes, although large and wide, looked like those of a sleep walker--open with shut sense; the shine in them was all reflected light--glitter, no glow; and their colour was so pale that they suggested some horrible sight as having driven from them hue and vision together. "haf you eated enough, my son?" he said, when he heard malcolm lay down his spoon. "ay, plenty, thank ye, daddy, and they were richt weel made," replied the lad, whose mode of speech was entirely different from his grandfather's: the latter had learned english as a foreign language, but could not speak scotch, his mother tongue being gaelic. as they rose from the table, a small girl, with hair wildly suggestive of insurrection and conflagration, entered, and said, in a loud screetch--"maister macphail, my mither wants a pot o' bleckin', an' ye're to be sure an' gie her't gweed, she says." "fery coot, my chilt, jeannie; but young malcolm and old tuncan hasn't made teir prayers yet, and you know fery well tat she won't sell pefore she's made her prayers. tell your mother tat she'll pe bringin' ta blackin' when she comes to look to ta lamp." the child ran off without response. malcolm lifted the pot from the table and set it on the hearth; put the plates together and the spoons, and set them on a chair, for there was no dresser; tilted the table, and wiped it hearthward--then from a shelf took down and laid upon it a bible, before which he seated himself with an air of reverence. the old man sat down on a low chair by the chimney corner, took off his bonnet, closed his eyes and murmured some almost inaudible words; then repeated in gaelic the first line of the hundred and third psalm-- o m' anam, beannuich thus' a nis --and raised a tune of marvellous wail. arrived at the end of the line, he repeated the process with the next, and so went on, giving every line first in the voice of speech and then in the voice of song, through three stanzas of eight lines each. and no less strange was the singing than the tune--wild and wailful as the wind of his native desolations, or as the sound of his own pipes borne thereon; and apparently all but lawless, for the multitude of so called grace notes, hovering and fluttering endlessly around the centre tone like the comments on a text, rendered it nearly impossible to unravel from them the air even of a known tune. it had in its kind the same liquid uncertainty of confluent sound which had hitherto rendered it impossible for malcolm to learn more than a few of the common phrases of his grandfather's mother tongue. the psalm over, during which the sightless eyeballs of the singer had been turned up towards the rafters of the cottage--a sign surely that the germ of light, "the sunny seed," as henry vaughan calls it, must be in him, else why should he lift his eyes when he thought upward?--malcolm read a chapter of the bible, plainly the next in an ordered succession, for it could never have been chosen or culled; after which they kneeled together, and the old man poured out a prayer, beginning in a low, scarcely audible voice, which rose at length to a loud, modulated chant. not a sentence, hardly a phrase, of the utterance, did his grandson lay hold of; but there were a few inhabitants of the place who could have interpreted it, and it was commonly believed that one part of his devotions was invariably a prolonged petition for vengeance on campbell of glenlyon, the main instrument in the massacre of glenco. he could have prayed in english, and then his grandson might have joined in his petitions, but the thought of such a thing would never have presented itself to him. nay, although, understanding both languages, he used that which was unintelligible to the lad, he yet regarded himself as the party who had the right to resent the consequent schism. such a conversation as now followed was no new thing after prayers. "i could fery well wish, malcolm, my son," said the old man, "tat you would be learnin' to speak your own lancuach. it is all fery well for ta sassenach (saxon, i.e., non-celtic) podies to read ta piple in english, for it will be pleasing ta maker not to make tem cawpable of ta gaelic, no more tan monkeys; but for all tat it 's not ta vord of god. ta gaelic is ta lancuach of ta carden of aiden, and no doubt but it pe ta lancuach in which ta shepherd calls his sheep on ta everlastin' hills. you see, malcolm, it must be so, for how can a mortal man speak to his god in anything put gaelic? when mr craham--no, not mr craham, ta coot man; it was ta new minister--he speak an' say to her: 'mr macphail, you ought to make your prayers in enclish,' i was fery wrathful, and i answered and said: 'mr downey, do you tare to suppose tat god doesn't prefer ta gaelic to ta sassenach tongue!'--'mr macphail,' says he, 'it'll pe for your poy i mean it how's ta lad to learn ta way of salvation if you speak to your god in his presence in a strange tongue? so i was opedient to his vord, and ta next efening i tid kneel town in sassenach and i tid make begin. but, ochone! she wouldn't go; her tongue would be cleafing to ta roof of her mouth; ta claymore would be sticking rusty in ta scappard; for her heart she was ashamed to speak to ta hielan'man's maker in ta sassenach tongue. you must pe learning ta gaelic, or you'll not pe peing worthy to pe her nain son, malcolm." "but daddy, wha's to learn me?" asked his grandson, gayly. "learn you, malcolm! ta gaelic is ta lancuach of nature, and wants no learning. i nefer did pe learning it, yat i nefer haf to say to myself 'what is it she would be saying?' when i speak ta gaelic; put she always has to set ta tead men--that is ta vords--on their feet, and put tem in pattle array, when she would pe speaking ta dull mechanic english. when she opens her mouth to it, ta gaelic comes like a spring of pure water, malcolm. ta plenty of it must run out. try it now, malcolm. shust oppen your mouth in ta gaelic shape, and see if ta gaelic will not pe falling from it." seized with a merry fit, malcolm did open his mouth in the gaelic shape, and sent from it a strange gabble, imitative of the most frequently recurring sounds of his grandfather's speech. "hoo will that du, daddy?" he asked, after jabbering gibberish for the space of a minute. "it will not be paad for a peginning, malcolm. she cannot say it shust pe vorts, or tat tere pe much of ta sense in it; but it pe fery like what ta pabes will say pefore tey pekin to speak it properly. so it 's all fery well, and if you will only pe putting your mouth in ta gaelic shape often enough, ta sounds will soon pe taking ta shape of it, and ta vorts will be coming trough ta mists, and pefore you know, you'll pe peing a creat credit to your cranfather, my boy, malcolm." a silence followed, for malcolm's attempt had not had the result he anticipated: he had thought only to make his grandfather laugh. presently the old man resumed, in the kindest voice: "and tere's another thing, malcolm, tat's much wanting to you: you'll never pe a man--not to speak of a pard like your cranfather-- if you'll not pe learning to play on ta bagpipes." malcolm, who had been leaning against the chimney lug while his grandfather spoke, moved gently round behind his chair, reached out for the pipes where they lay in a corner at the old man's side, and catching them up softly, put the mouthpiece to his lips. with a few vigorous blasts he filled the bag, and out burst the double droning bass, while the youth's fingers, clutching the chanter as by the throat, at once compelled its screeches into shape far better, at least, than his lips had been able to give to the crude material of gaelic. he played the only reel he knew, but that with vigour and effect. at the first sound of its notes the old man sprung to his feet and began capering to the reel--partly in delight with the music, but far more in delight with the musician, while, ever and anon, with feeble yell, he uttered the unspellable hoogh of the highlander, and jumped, as he thought, high in the air, though his failing limbs, alas! lifted his feet scarce an inch from the floor. "aigh! aigh!" he sighed at length, yielding the contest between his legs and the lungs of the lad--"aigh! aigh! she'll die happy! she'll die happy! hear till her poy, how he makes ta pipes speak ta true gaelic! ta pest o' gaelic, tat! old tuncan's pipes 'll not know how to be talking sassenach. see to it! see to it! he had put to blow in at ta one end, and out came ta reel at the other. hoogh! hoogh! play us ta righil thulachan, malcolm, my chief!" "i kenna reel, strathspey, nor lilt, but jist that burd alane, daddy." "give tem to me, my poy!" cried the old piper, reaching out a hand as eager to clutch the uncouth instrument as the miser's to finger his gold; "hear well to me as i play, and you'll soon be able to play pibroch or coronach with the best piper between cape wrath and ta mull o' cantyre." he played tune after tune until his breath failed him, and an exhausted grunt of the drone--in the middle of a coronach, followed by an abrupt pause, revealed the emptiness of both lungs and bag. then first he remembered his object, forgotten the moment he had filled his bag. "now, malcolm," he said, offering the pipes to his grandson; "you play tat after." he had himself of course, learned all by the ear, but could hardly have been serious in requesting malcolm to follow him through such a succession of tortuous mazes. "i haena a memory up to that, daddy; but i s' get a hand o' mr graham's flute music, and maybe that'll help me a bit.--wadna ye be takin' hame meg partan's blackin' 'at ye promised her?" "surely, my son. she should always be keeping her promises." he rose, and getting a small stone bottle and his stick from the corner between the projecting inglecheek and the window, left the house, to walk with unerring steps through the labyrinth of the village, threading his way from passage to passage, and avoiding pools and projecting stones, not to say houses, and human beings. his eyes, or indeed perhaps rather his whole face, appeared to possess an ethereal sense as of touch, for, without the slightest contact in the ordinary sense of the word, he was aware of the neighbourhood of material objects, as if through the pulsations of some medium to others imperceptible. he could, with perfect accuracy, tell the height of any wall or fence within a few feet of him; could perceive at once whether it was high or low or half tide, and that merely by going out in front of the houses and turning his face with its sightless eyeballs towards the sea; knew whether a woman who spoke to him had a child in her arms or not; and, indeed, was believed to know sooner than ordinary mortals that one was about to become a mother. he was a strange figure to look upon in that lowland village, for he invariably wore the highland dress: in truth, he had never had a pair of trowsers on his legs, and was far from pleased that his grandson clothed himself in such contemptible garments. but, contrasted with the showy style of his costume, there was something most pathetic in the blended pallor of hue into which the originally gorgeous colours of his kilt had faded--noticeable chiefly on weekdays, when he wore no sporran; for the kilt, encountering, from its loose construction, comparatively little strain or friction, may reach an antiquity unknown to the garments of the low country, and, while perfectly decent, yet look ancient exceedingly. on sundays, however, he made the best of himself, and came out like a belated and aged butterfly--with his father's sporran, or tasselled goatskin purse, in front of him, his grandfather's dirk at his side, his great grandfather's skene dhu, or little black hafted knife, stuck in the stocking of his right leg, and a huge round brooch of brass--nearly half a foot in diameter, and, mr graham said, as old as the battle of harlaw--on his left shoulder. in these adornments he would walk proudly to church, leaning on the arm of his grandson. "the piper's gey (considerably) brokken-like the day," said one of the fishermen's wives to a neighbour as he passed them--the fact being that he had not yet recovered from his second revel in the pipes so soon after the exhaustion of his morning's duty, and was, in consequence, more asthmatic than usual. "i doobt he'll be slippin' awa some cauld nicht," said the other: "his leevin' breath's ill to get." "ay; he has to warstle for't, puir man! weel, he'll be missed, the blin' body! it's exterordinor hoo he's managed to live, and bring up sic a fine lad as that malcolm o' his." "weel, ye see, providence has been kin' till him as weel 's ither blin' craturs. the toon's pipin' 's no to be despised; an' there's the cryin', an' the chop, an' the lamps. 'deed he's been an eident (diligent) cratur--an' for a blin' man, as ye say, it 's jist exterordinar." "div ye min' whan first he cam' to the toon, lass?" "ay; what wad hinner me min'in' that? it's nae sae lang." "ma'colm 'at's sic a fine laad noo, they tell me wasna muckle bigger nor a gey haddie (tolerable haddock)." "but the auld man was an auld man than, though nae doobt he's unco' failed sin syne." "a dochter's bairn, they say, the laad." "ay, they say, but wha kens? duncan could never be gotten to open his mou' as to the father or mither o' 'im, an' sae it weel may be as they say. it's nigh twenty year noo, thinkin' sin he made's appearance. ye wasna come frae scaurnose er' than." "some fowk says the auld man's name's no macphail, an' he maun hae come here in hidin' for some rouch job or ither 'at he's been mixed up wi'. "i s' believe nae ill o' sic a puir, hairmless body. fowk 'at maks their ain livin', wantin' the een to guide them, canna be that far aff the straucht. guid guide 's! we hae eneuch to answer for, oor ainsels, ohn passed (without passing) jeedgment upo ane anither." "i was but tellin' ye what fowk telled me," returned the younger woman. "ay, ay, lass; i ken that, for i ken there was fowk to tell ye." chapter vii: alexander graham as soon as his grandfather left the house, malcolm went out also, closing the door behind him, and turning the key, but leaving it in the lock. he ascended to the upper town, only, however, to pass through its main street, at the top of which he turned and looked back for a few moments, apparently in contemplation. the descent to the shore was so sudden that he could see nothing of the harbour or of the village he had left--nothing but the blue bay and the filmy mountains of sutherlandshire, molten by distance into cloudy questions, and looking, betwixt blue sea and blue sky, less substantial than either. after gazing for a moment, he turned again, and held on his way, through fields which no fence parted from the road. the morning was still glorious, the larks right jubilant, and the air filled with the sweet scents of cottage flowers. across the fields came the occasional low of an ox, and the distant sounds of children at play. but malcolm saw without noting, and heard without seeding, for his mind was full of speculation concerning the lovely girl, whose vision appeared already far off:--who might she be? whence had she come? whither could she have vanished? that she did not belong to the neighbourhood was certain, he thought; but there was a farm house near the sea town where they let lodgings; and, although it was early in the season, she might belong to some family which had come to spend a few of the summer weeks there; possibly his appearance had prevented her from having her bath that morning. if he should have the good fortune to see her again, he would show her a place far fitter for the purpose--a perfect arbour of rocks, utterly secluded, with a floor of deep sand, and without a hole for crab or lobster. his road led him in the direction of a few cottages lying in a hollow. beside them rose a vision of trees, bordered by an ivy grown wall, from amidst whose summits shot the spire of the church; and from beyond the spire, through the trees, came golden glimmers as of vane and crescent and pinnacled ball, that hinted at some shadowy abode of enchantment within; but as he descended the slope towards the cottages the trees gradually rose and shut in everything. these cottages were far more ancient than the houses of the town, were covered with green thatch, were buried in ivy, and would soon be radiant with roses and honeysuckles. they were gathered irregularly about a gate of curious old ironwork, opening on the churchyard, but more like an entrance to the grounds behind the church, for it told of ancient state, bearing on each of its pillars a great stone heron with a fish in its beak. this was the quarter whence had come the noises of children, but they had now ceased, or rather sunk into a gentle murmur, which oozed, like the sound of bees from a straw covered beehive, out of a cottage rather larger than the rest, which stood close by the churchyard gate. it was the parish school, and these cottages were all that remained of the old town of portlossie, which had at one time stretched in a long irregular street almost to the shore. the town cross yet stood, but away solitary on a green hill that overlooked the sands. during the summer the long walk from the new town to the school and to the church was anything but a hardship: in winter it was otherwise, for then there were days in which few would venture the single mile that separated them. the door of the school, bisected longitudinally, had one of its halves open, and by it outflowed the gentle hum of the honeybees of learning. malcolm walked in, and had the whole of the busy scene at once before him. the place was like a barn, open from wall to wall, and from floor to rafters and thatch, browned with the peat smoke of vanished winters. two thirds of the space were filled with long desks and forms; the other had only the master's desk, and thus afforded room for standing classes. at the present moment it was vacant, for the prayer was but just over, and the bible class had not been called up: there alexander graham, the schoolmaster, descending from his desk, met and welcomed malcolm with a kind shake of the hand. he was a man of middle height, but very thin; and about five and forty years of age, but looked older, because of his thin grey hair and a stoop in the shoulders. he was dressed in a shabby black tailcoat, and clean white neckcloth; the rest of his clothes were of parson grey, noticeably shabby also. the quiet sweetness of his smile, and a composed look of submission were suggestive of the purification of sorrow, but were attributed by the townsfolk to disappointment; for he was still but a schoolmaster, whose aim they thought must be a pulpit and a parish. but mr graham had been early released from such an ambition, if it had ever possessed him, and had for many years been more than content to give himself to the hopefuller work of training children for the true ends of life: he lived the quietest of studious lives, with an old housekeeper. malcolm had been a favourite pupil, and the relation of master and scholar did not cease when the latter saw that he ought to do something to lighten the burden of his grandfather, and so left the school and betook himself to the life of a fisherman--with the slow leave of duncan, who had set his heart on making a scholar of him, and would never, indeed, had gaelic been amongst his studies, have been won by the most laboursome petition. he asserted himself perfectly able to provide for both for ten years to come at least, in proof of which he roused the inhabitants of portlossie, during the space of a whole month, a full hour earlier than usual, with the most terrific blasts of the bagpipes, and this notwithstanding complaint and expostulation on all sides, so that at length the provost had to interfere; after which outburst of defiance to time, however, his energy had begun to decay so visibly that malcolm gave himself to the pipes in secret, that he might be ready, in case of sudden emergency, to take his grandfather's place; for duncan lived in constant dread of the hour when his office might be taken from him and conferred on a mere drummer, or, still worse, on a certain ne'er do weel cousin of the provost, so devoid of music as to be capable only of ringing a bell. "i've had an invitation to miss campbell's funeral--miss horn's cousin, you know," said mr graham, in a hesitating and subdued voice: "could you manage to take the school for me, malcolm?" "yes, sir. there's naething to hinner me. what day is 't upo'?" "saturday." "verra weel, sir. i s' be here in guid time." this matter settled, the business of the school, in which, as he did often, malcolm had come to assist, began. only a pupil of his own could have worked with mr graham, for his mode was very peculiar. but the strangest fact in it would have been the last to reveal itself to an ordinary observer. this was, that he rarely contradicted anything: he would call up the opposing truth, set it face to face with the error, and leave the two to fight it out. the human mind and conscience were, he said, the plains of armageddon, where the battle of good and evil was for ever raging; and the one business of a teacher was to rouse and urge this battle by leading fresh forces of the truth into the field--forces composed as little as might be of the hireling troops of the intellect, and as much as possible of the native energies of the heart, imagination, and conscience. in a word, he would oppose error only by teaching the truth. in early life he had come under the influence of the writings of william law, which he read as one who pondered every doctrine in that light which only obedience to the truth can open upon it. with a keen eye for the discovery of universal law in the individual fact, he read even the marvels of the new testament practically. hence, in training his soldiers, every lesson he gave them was a missile; every admonishment of youth or maiden was as the mounting of an armed champion, and the launching of him with a godspeed into the thick of the fight. he now called up the bible class, and malcolm sat beside and listened. that morning they had to read one of the chapters in the history of jacob. "was jacob a good man?" he asked, as soon as the reading, each of the scholars in turn taking a verse, was over. an apparently universal expression of assent followed; halting its wake, however, came the voice of a boy near the bottom of the class: "wasna he some dooble, sir?" "you are right, sheltie," said the master; "he was double. i must, i find, put the question in another shape:--was jacob a bad man?" again came such a burst of yesses that it might have been taken for a general hiss. but limping in the rear came again the half dissentient voice of jamie joss, whom the master had just addressed as sheltie: "pairtly, sir." "you think, then, sheltie, that a man may be both bad and good?" "i dinna ken, sir. i think he may be whiles ane an' whiles the ither, an' whiles maybe it wad be ill to say whilk. oor collie's whiles in twa min's whether he'll du what he's telled or no." "that's the battle of armageddon, sheltie, my man. it's aye ragin', ohn gun roared or bayonet clashed. ye maun up an' do yer best in't, my man. gien ye dee fechtin' like a man, ye'll flee up wi' a quaiet face an' wide open een; an' there's a great ane 'at 'll say to ye, 'weel dune, laddie!' but gien ye gie in to the enemy, he'll turn ye intill a creepin' thing 'at eats dirt; an' there 'll no be a hole in a' the crystal wa' o' the new jerusalem near eneuch to the grun' to lat ye creep throu'." as soon as ever alexander graham, the polished thinker and sweet mannered gentleman, opened his mouth concerning the things he loved best, that moment the most poetic forms came pouring out in the most rugged speech. "i reckon, sir," said sheltie, "jacob hadna fouchten oot his battle." "that's jist it, my boy. and because he wouldna get up and fecht manfully, god had to tak him in han'. ye've heard tell o' generals, when their troops war rinnin' awa', haein' to cut this man doon, shute that ane, and lick anither, till he turned them a' richt face aboot and drave them on to the foe like a spate! and the trouble god took wi' jacob wasna lost upon him at last." "an' what cam o' esau, sir?" asked a pale faced maiden with blue eyes. "he wasna an ill kin' o' a chield--was he, sir?" "no, mappy," answered the master; "he was a fine chield, as you say; but he nott (needed) mair time and gentler treatment to mak onything o' him. ye see he had a guid hert, but was a duller kin' o' cratur a'thegither, and cared for naething he could na see or hanle. he never thoucht muckle aboot god at a'. jacob was anither sort--a poet kin' o' a man, but a sneck drawin' cratur for a' that. it was easier, hooever, to get the slyness oot o' jacob, than the dulness oot o' esau. punishment tellt upo' jacob like upon a thin skinned horse, whauras esau was mair like the minister's powny, that can hardly be made to unnerstan' that ye want him to gang on. but o' the ither han', dullness is a thing that can be borne wi': there's nay hurry aboot that; but the deceitfu' tricks o' jacob war na to be endured, and sae the tawse (leather strap) cam doon upo' him." "an' what for didna god mak esau as clever as jacob?" asked a wizened faced boy near the top of the class. "ah, my peery!" said mr graham, "i canna tell ye that. a' that i can tell is, that god hadna dune makin' at him, an' some kin' o' fowk tak langer to mak oot than ithers. an' ye canna tell what they're to be till they're made oot. but whether what i tell ye be richt or no, god maun hae the verra best o' rizzons for 't, ower guid maybe for us to unnerstan'---the best o' rizzons for esau himsel', i mean, for the creator luiks efter his cratur first ava' (of all). --and now," concluded mr graham, resuming his english, "go to your lessons; and be diligent, that god may think it worth while to get on faster with the making of you." in a moment the class was dispersed and all were seated. in another, the sound of scuffling arose, and fists were seen storming across a desk. "andrew jamieson and poochy, come up here," said the master in a loud voice. "he hittit me first," cried andrew, the moment they were within a respectful distance of the master, whereupon mr graham turned to the other with inquiry in his eyes. "he had nae business to ca' me poochy." "no more he had; but you had just as little right to punish him for it. the offence was against me: he had no right to use my name for you, and the quarrel was mine. for the present you are poochy no more: go to your place, william wilson." the boy burst out sobbing, and crept back to his seat with his knuckles in his eyes. "andrew jamieson," the master went on, "i had almost got a name for you, but you have sent it away. you are not ready for it yet, i see. go to your place." with downcast looks andrew followed william, and the watchful eyes of the master saw that, instead of quarrelling any more during the day, they seemed to catch at every opportunity of showing each other a kindness. mr graham never used bodily punishment: he ruled chiefly by the aid of a system of individual titles, of the mingled characters of pet name and nickname. as soon as the individuality of a boy had attained to signs of blossoming--that is, had become such that he could predict not only an upright but a characteristic behaviour in given circumstances, he would take him aside and whisper in his ear that henceforth, so long as he deserved it, he would call him by a certain name--one generally derived from some object in the animal or vegetable world, and pointing to a resemblance which was not often patent to any eye but the master's own. he had given the name of peachy, for instance to william wilson, because, like the kangaroo, he sought his object in a succession of awkward, yet not the less availing leaps--gulping his knowledge and pocketing his conquered marble after a like fashion. mappy, the name which thus belonged to a certain flaxen haired, soft eyed girl, corresponds to the english bunny. sheltie is the small scotch mountain pony, active and strong. peery means pegtop. but not above a quarter of the children had pet names. to gain one was to reach the highest honour of the school; the withdrawal of it was the severest of punishments, and the restoring of it the sign of perfect reconciliation. the master permitted no one else to use it, and was seldom known to forget himself so far as to utter it while its owner was in disgrace. the hope of gaining such a name, or the fear of losing it, was in the pupil the strongest ally of the master, the most powerful enforcement of his influences. it was a scheme of government by aspiration. but it owed all its operative power to the character of the man who had adopted rather than invented it--for the scheme had been suggested by a certain passage in the book of the revelation. without having read a word of swedenborg, he was a believer in the absolute correspondence of the inward and outward; and, thus long before the younger darwin arose, had suspected a close relationship --remote identity, indeed, in nature and history, between the animal and human worlds. but photographs from a good many different points would be necessary to afford anything like a complete notion of the character of this country schoolmaster. towards noon, while he was busy with an astronomical class, explaining, by means partly of the blackboard, partly of two boys representing the relation of the earth and the moon, how it comes that we see but one half of the latter, the door gently opened and the troubled face of the mad laird peeped slowly in. his body followed as gently, and at last--sad symbol of his weight of care --his hump appeared, with a slow half revolution as he turned to shut the door behind him. taking off his hat, he walked up to mr graham, who, busy with his astronomy, had not perceived his entrance, touched him on the arm, and, standing on tiptoe, whispered softly in his ear, as if it were a painful secret that must be respected, "i dinna ken whaur i cam frae. i want to come to the school." mr graham turned and shook hands with him, respectfully addressing him as mr stewart, and got down for him the armchair which stood behind his desk. but, with the politest bow, the laird declined it, and mournfully repeating the words, "i dinna ken whaur i cam frae," took a place readily yielded him in the astronomical circle surrounding the symbolic boys. this was not by any means his first appearance there; for every now and then he was seized with a desire to go to school, plainly with the object of finding out where he came from. this always fell in his quieter times, and for days together he would attend regularly; in one instance he was not absent an hour for a whole month. he spoke so little, however, that it was impossible to tell how much he understood, although he seemed to enjoy all that went on. he was so quiet, so sadly gentle, that he gave no trouble of any sort, and after the first few minutes of a fresh appearance, the attention of the scholars was rarely distracted by his presence. the way in which the master treated him awoke like respect in his pupils. boys and girls were equally ready t. make room for him on their forms, and any one of the latter who had by some kind attention awakened the watery glint of a smile on the melancholy features of the troubled man, would boast of her success. hence it came that the neighbourhood of portlossie was the one spot in the county where a person of weak intellect or peculiar appearance might go about free of insult. the peculiar sentence the laird so often uttered was the only one he invariably spoke with definite clearness. in every other attempt at speech he was liable to be assailed by an often recurring impediment, during the continuance of which he could compass but a word here and there, often betaking himself in the agony of suppressed utterance, to the most extravagant gestures, with which he would sometimes succeed in so supplementing his words as to render his meaning intelligible. the two boys representing the earth and the moon, had returned to their places in the class, and mr graham had gone on to give a description of the moon, in which he had necessarily mentioned the enormous height of her mountains as compared with those of the earth. but in the course of asking some questions, he found a need of further explanation, and therefore once more required the services of the boy sun and boy moon. the moment the latter, however, began to describe his circle around the former, mr stewart stepped gravely up to him, and, laying hold of his hand, led him back to his station in the class: then, turning first one shoulder, then the other to the company, so as to attract attention to his hump, uttered the single word mountain, and took on himself the part of the moon, proceeding to revolve in the circle which represented her orbit. several of the boys and girls smiled, but no one laughed, for mr graham's gravity maintained theirs. without remark, he used the mad laird for a moon to the end of his explanation. mr stewart remained in the school all the morning, stood up with every class mr graham taught, and in the intervals sat, with book or slate before him, still as a brahmin on the fancied verge of his re-absorption, save that he murmured to himself now and then, "i dinna ken whaur i cam frae." when his pupils dispersed for dinner, mr graham invited him to go to his house and share his homely meal, but with polished gesture and broken speech, mr stewart declined, walked away towards the town, and was seen no more that afternoon. chapter viii: the swivel mrs courthope, the housekeeper at lossie house, was a good woman, who did not stand upon her dignities, as small rulers are apt to do, but cultivated friendly relations with the people of the sea town. some of the rougher of the women despised the sweet outlandish speech she had brought with her from her native england, and accused her of mim mou'dness, or an affected modesty in the use of words; but not the less was she in their eyes a great lady,--whence indeed came the special pleasure in finding flaws in her--for to them she was the representative of the noble family on whose skirts they and their ancestors had been settled for ages, the last marquis not having visited the place for many years, and the present having but lately succeeded. duncan macphail was a favourite with her; for the english woman will generally prefer the highland to the lowland scotsman; and she seldom visited the seaton without looking in upon him so that when malcolm returned from the alton, or old town, where the school was, it did not in the least surprise him to find her seated with his grandfather. apparently, however, there had been some dissension between them; for the old man sat in his corner strangely wrathful, his face in a glow, his head thrown back, his nostrils distended, and his eyelids working, as if his eyes were "poor dumb mouths," like caesar's wounds, trying to speak. "we are told in the new testament to forgive our enemies, you know," said mrs courthope, heedless of his entrance, but in a voice that seemed rather to plead than oppose. "inteet she will not be false to her shief and her clan," retorted duncan persistently. "she will not forgife cawmil of glenlyon." "but he's dead long since, and we may at least hope he repented and was forgiven." "she'll be hoping nothing of the kind, mistress kertope," replied duncan. "but if, as you say, god will be forgifing him, which i do not belief;--let that pe enough for ta greedy blackguard. sure, it matters but small whether poor tuncan macphail will be forgifing him or not. anyhow, he must do without it, for he shall not haf it. he is a tamn fillain and scounrel, and so she says, with her respecs to you, mistress kertope." his sightless eyes flashed with indignation; and perceiving it was time to change the subject, the housekeeper turned to malcolm. "could you bring me a nice mackerel or whiting for my lord's breakfast tomorrow morning, malcolm?" she said. "certaintly, mem. i s' be wi ye in guid time wi' the best the sea 'll gie me," he answered. "if i have the fish by nine o'clock, that will be early enough," she returned. "i wad na like to wait sae lang for my brakfast," remarked malcolm. "you wouldn't mind it much, if you waited asleep," said mrs courthope. "can onybody sleep till sic a time o' day as that?" exclaimed the youth. "you must remember my lord doesn't go to bed for hours after you, malcolm." "an' what can keep him up a' that time? it's no as gien he war efter the herrin', an' had the win' an' the watter an' the netfu's o' waumlin craturs to baud him waukin'." "oh! he reads and writes, and sometimes goes walking about the grounds after everybody else is in bed," said mrs courthope, "he and his dog." "well, i wad rather be up ear'," said malcolm; "a heap raither. i like fine to be oot i' the quaiet o' the mornin' afore the sun's up to set the din gaun; whan it 's a' clear but no bricht--like the back o' a bonny sawmon; an' air an' watter an' a' luiks as gien they war waitin' for something--quaiet, verra quaiet, but no content." malcolm uttered this long speech, and went on with more like it, in the hope of affording time for the stormy waters of duncan's spirit to assuage. nor was he disappointed; for, if there was a sound on the earth duncan loved to hear, it was the voice of his boy; and by degrees the tempest sank to repose, the gathered glooms melted from his countenance, and the sunlight of a smile broke out. "hear to him!" he cried. "her poy will be a creat pard some tay, and sing pefore ta stuart kings, when they come pack to holyrood!" mrs courthope had enough of poetry in her to be pleased with malcolm's quiet enthusiasm, and spoke a kind word of sympathy with the old man's delight as she rose to take her leave. duncan rose also, and followed her to the door, making her a courtly bow, and that just as she turned away. "it 'll pe a coot 'oman, mistress kertope," he said as he came back; "and it 'll no pe to plame her for forgifing glenlyon, for he did not kill her creat crandmother. put it'll pe fery paad preeding to request her nainsel, tuncan macphail, to be forgifing ta rascal. only she'll pe put a voman, and it'll not pe knowing no petter to her.--you'll be minding you'll be firing ta cun at six o'clock exackly, malcolm, for all she says; for my lord peing put shust come home to his property, it might be a fex to him if tere was any mistake so soon. put inteed, i yonder he hasn't been sending for old tuncan to be gifing him a song or two on ta peeps; for he'll pe hafing ta oceans of fery coot highland plood in his own feins; and his friend, ta prince of wales, who has no more rights to it than a maackerel fish, will pe wearing ta kilts at holyrood. so mind you pe firing ta cun at sax, my son." for some years, young as he was, malcolm had hired himself to one or other of the boat proprietors of the seaton or of scaurnose, for the herring fishing--only, however, in the immediate neighbourhood, refusing to go to the western islands, or any station whence he could not return to sleep at his grandfather's cottage. he had thus on every occasion earned enough to provide for the following winter, so that his grandfather's little income as piper, and other small returns, were accumulating in various concealments about the cottage; for, in his care for the future, duncan dreaded lest malcolm should buy things for him, without which, in his own sightless judgment, he could do well enough. until the herring season should arrive, however, malcolm made a little money by line fishing; for he had bargained, the year before, with the captain of a schooner for an old ship's boat, and had patched and caulked it into a sufficiently serviceable condition. he sold his fish in the town and immediate neighbourhood, where a good many housekeepers favoured the handsome and cheery young fisherman. he would now be often out in the bay long before it was time to call his grandfather, in his turn to rouse the sleepers of portlossie. but the old man had as yet always waked about the right time, and the inhabitants had never had any ground of complaint--a few minutes one way or the other being of little consequence. he was the cock which woke the whole yard: morning after morning his pipes went crowing through the streets of the upper region, his music ending always with his round. but after the institution of the gun signal, his custom was to go on playing where he stood until he heard it, or to stop short in the midst of his round and his liveliest reveille the moment it reached his ear. loath as he might be to give over, that sense of good manners which was supreme in every highlander of the old time, interdicted the fingering of a note after the marquis's gun had called aloud. when malcolm meant to go fishing, he always loaded the swivel the night before, and about sunset the same evening he set out for that purpose. not a creature was visible on the border of the curving bay except a few boys far off on the gleaming sands whence the tide had just receded: they were digging for sand eels--lovely little silvery fishes--which, as every now and then the spade turned one or two up, they threw into a tin pail for bait. but on the summit of the long sandhill, the lonely figure of a man was walking to and fro in the level light of the rosy west; and as malcolm climbed the near end of the dune, it was turning far off at the other: halfway between them was the embrasure with the brass swivel, and there they met. although he had never seen him before, malcolm perceived at once it must be lord lossie, and lifted his bonnet. the marquis nodded and passed on, but the next moment, hearing the noise of malcolm's proceedings with the swivel, turned and said-- "what are you about there with that gun, my lad?" " jist ga'in' to dicht her oot an' lod her, my lord," answered malcolm. "and what next? you're not going to fire the thing?" "ay--the morn's mornin', my lord." "what will that be for?" "ow, jist to wauk yer lordship." "hm!" said his lordship, with more expression than articulation. "will i no lod her?" asked malcolm, throwing down the ramrod, and approaching the swivel, as if to turn the muzzle of it again into the embrasure. "oh, yes! load her by all means. i don't want to interfere with any of your customs. but if that is your object, the means, i fear, are inadequate." "it's a comfort to hear that, my lord; for i canna aye be sure o' my auld watch, an' may weel be oot a five minutes or twa whiles. sae, in future, seem' it 's o' sic sma' consequence to yer lordship, i s' jist let her aff whan it 's convenient. a feow minutes winna maitter muckle to the bailie bodies." there was something in malcolm's address that pleased lord lossie --the mingling of respect and humour, probably--the frankness and composure, perhaps. he was not self conscious enough to be shy, and was so free from design of any sort that he doubted the good will of no one. "what's your name?" asked the marquis abruptly. "malcolm macphail, my lord." "macphail? i heard the name this very day! let me see." "my gran'father's the blin' piper, my lord." "yes, yes. tell him i shall want him at the house. i left my own piper at ceanglas." "i'll fess him wi' me the morn, gien ye like, my lord, for i'll be ower wi' some fine troot or ither, gien i haena the waur luck, the morn's mornin': mistress courthope says she'll be aye ready for ane to fry to yer lordship's brakfast. but thinkin' that'll be ower ear' for ye to see him." "i'll send for him when i want him. go on with your brazen serpent there, only mind you don't give her too much supper." "jist look at her ribs, my lord! she winna rive!" was the youth's response; and the marquis was moving off with a smile, when malcolm called after him. "gien yer lordship likes to see yer ain ferlies, i ken whaur some o' them lie," he said. "what do you mean by ferlies?" asked the marquis. "ow! keeriosities, ye ken. for enstance, there's some queer caves alang the cost--twa or three o' them afore ye come to the scaurnose. they say the water bude till ha' howkit them ance upon a time, an' they maun hae been fu' o' partans, an' lobsters, an' their frien's an' neebours; but they're heigh an' dreigh noo, as the fule said o' his minister, an' naething intill them but foumarts, an' otters, an' sic like." "well, well, my lad, we'll see," said his lordship kindly and turning once more, he resumed his walk. "at yer lordship's will," answered malcolm in a low voice as he lifted his bonnet and again bent to the swivel. the next morning, he was rowing slowly along in the bay, when he was startled by the sound of his grandfather's pipes, wafted clear and shrill on a breath of southern wind, from the top of the town. he looked at his watch: it was not yet five o'clock. the expectation of a summons to play at lossie house, had so excited the old man's brain that he had waked long before his usual time, and portlossie must wake also. the worst of it was, that he had already, as malcolm knew from the direction of the sound, almost reached the end of his beat, and must even now be expecting the report of the swivel, until he heard which he would not cease playing, so long as there was a breath in his body. pulling, therefore, with all his might, malcolm soon ran his boat ashore, and in another instant the sharp yell of the swivel rang among the rocks of the promontory. he was still standing, lapped in a light reverie as he watched the smoke flying seaward, when a voice, already well known to him said, close at his side: "what are you about with that horrid cannon?" malcolm started. "ye garred me loup, my leddy!" he returned with a smile and an obeisance. "you told me," the girl went on emphatically, and as she spoke she disengaged her watch from her girdle, "that you fired it at six o'clock. it is not nearly six." "didna ye hear the pipes, my leddy?" he rejoined. "yes, well enough; but a whole regiment of pipes can't make it six o'clock when my watch says ten minutes past five." "eh, sic a braw watch!" exclaimed malcolm. "what's a' thae bonny white k-nots about the face o' 't?" "pearls," she answered, in a tone that implied pity of his ignorance. "jist look at it aside mine!" he exclaimed in admiration, pulling out his great old turnip. "there!" cried the girl; "your own watch says only a quarter past five." "ow, ay! my leddy; i set it by the toon clock 'at hings i' the window o' the lossie airms last nicht. but i maun awa' an' luik efter my lines, or atween the deil an' the dogfish my lord'll fare ill." "you haven't told me why you fired the gun," she persisted. thus compelled, malcolm had to explain that the motive lay in his anxiety lest his grandfather should over exert himself, seeing he was subject to severe attacks of asthma. "he could stop when he was tired," she objected. "ay, gien his pride wad lat him," answered malcolm, and turned away again, eager to draw his line. "have you a boat of your own?" asked the lady. "ay; yon's her, doon on the shore yonner. wad ye like a row? she's fine an' quaiet." "who? the boat?" "the sea, my leddy." "is your boat clean?" "o' a' thing but fish. but na, it 's no fit for sic a bonny goon as that. i winna lat ye gang the day, my leddy; but gien ye like to be here the morn's mornin', i s' be here at this same hoor, an' hae my boat as clean's a sunday sark." "you think more of my gown than of myself," she returned. "there's no fear o' yersel', my leddy. ye're ower weel made to bland (spoil). but wae's me for the goon or (before) it had been an hoor i' the boat the day!--no to mention the fish comin' walopin' ower the gunnel ane efter the ither. but 'deed i maun say good mornin', mem!" "by all means. i don't want to keep you a moment from your precious fish." feeling rebuked, without well knowing why, malcolm accepted the dismissal, and ran to his boat. by the time he had taken his oars, the girl had vanished. his line was a short one; but twice the number of fish he wanted were already hanging from the hooks. it was still very early when he reached the harbour. at home he found his grandfather waiting for him, and his breakfast ready. it was hard to convince duncan that he had waked the royal burgh a whole hour too soon. he insisted that, as he had never made such a blunder before, he could not have made it now. "it's ta watch 'at 'll pe telling ta lies, malcolm, my poy," he said thoughtfully. "she was once pefore." "but the sun says the same 's the watch, daddy," persisted malcolm. duncan understood the position of the sun and what it signified, as well as the clearest eyed man in port lossie, but he could not afford to yield. "it was peing some conspeeracy of ta cursit cawmills, to make her loss her poor pension," he said. "put never you mind, malcolm; i'll pe making up for ta plunder ta morrow mornin'. ta coot peoples shall haf teir sleeps a whole hour after tey ought to be at teir works." chapter ix: the salmon trout malcolm walked up through the town with his fish, hoping to part with some of the less desirable of them, and so lighten his basket, before entering the grounds of lossie house. but he had met with little success, and was now approaching the town gate, as they called it, which closed a short street at right angles to the principal one, when he came upon mrs catanach--on her knees, cleaning her doorstep. "weel, malcolm, what fish hae ye?" she said, without looking up. "hoo kent ye it was me, mistress catanach?" asked the lad. "kent it was you!" she repeated. "gien there be but twa feet at ance in ony street o' portlossie, i'll tell ye whase heid's abune them, an' my een steekit (closed)." "hoot! ye're a witch, mistress catanach!" said malcolm merrily. "that's as may be," she returned, rising, and nodding mysteriously; "i hae tauld ye nae mair nor the trowth. but what garred ye whup's a' oot o' oor nakit beds by five o'clock i' the mornin', this mornin', man! that's no what ye're paid for." "deed, mem, it was jist a mistak' o' my puir daddy's. he had been feart o' sleepin' ower lang, ye see, an' sae had waukit ower sune. i was oot efter the fish mysel." "but ye fired the gun 'gen the chap (before the stroke) o' five." "ow, ay! i fired the gun. the puir man wod hae bursten himsel' gien i hadna." "deil gien he had bursten himsel'--the auld heelan' sholt!" exclaimed mrs catanach spitefully. "ye sanna even sic words to my gran'father, mrs catanach," said malcolm with rebuke. she laughed a strange laugh. "sanna!" she repeated contemptuously. "an' wha's your gran'father, that i sud tak tent (heed) hoo i wag my tongue ower his richtousness?" then, with a sudden change of her tone to one of would be friendliness --"but what'll ye be seekin' for that bit sawmon trooty, man?" she said. as she spoke she approached his basket, and would have taken the fish in her hands, but malcolm involuntarily drew back. "it's gauin' to the hoose to my lord's brakfast," he said. "hoots! ye'll jist lea' the troot wi' me.--ye'll be seekin' a saxpence for 't, i reckon," she persisted, again approaching the basket. "i tell ye, mistress catanach," said malcolm, drawing back now in the fear that if she once had it she would not yield it again, "it 's gauin' up to the hoose!" "hoots! there's naebody there seen 't yet. it's new oot o' the watter." "but mistress courthope was doon last nicht, an' wantit the best i cud heuk." "mistress courthope! wha cares for her? a mim, cantin' auld body! gie me the trootie, ma'colm. ye're a bonny laad, an 'it s' be the better for ye." "deed i cudna du 't, mistress catanach--though sorry to disobleege ye. it's bespoken, ye see. but there's a fine haddie, an' a bonny sma' coddie, an' a goukmey (gray gurnard)." "gae 'wa' wi' yer haddies, an' yer goukmeys! ye sanna gowk me wi' them." "weel, i wadna wonner," said malcolm, "gien mrs courthope wad like the haddie tu, an' maybe the lave o' them as weel. hers is a muckle faimily to haud eatin.' i'll jist gang to the hoose first afore i mak ony mair offers frae my creel." "ye'll lea' the troot wi' me," said mrs catanach imperiously. "na; i canna du that. ye maun see yersel' 'at i canna." the woman's face grew dark with anger. "it s' be the waur for ye," she cried. " no gauin' to be fleyt (frightened) at ye. ye're no sic a witch as that comes till, though ye div ken a body's fit upo' the flags! my blin' luckie deddy can du mair nor that!" said malcolm, irritated by her persistency, threats and evil looks. "daur ye me?"' she returned, her pasty cheeks now red as fire, and her wicked eyes flashing as she shook her clenched fist at him. "what for no?" he answered coolly, turning his head back over his shoulder, for he was already on his way to the gate. "ye s' ken that, ye misbegotten funlin'!" shrieked the woman, and waddled hastily into the house. "what ails her?" said malcolm to himself. "she micht ha' seen 'at i bude to gie mrs courthope the first offer." by a winding carriage drive, through trees whose growth was stunted by the sea winds, which had cut off their tops as with a keen razor, malcolm made a slow descent, yet was soon shadowed by timber of a more prosperous growth, rising as from a lake of the loveliest green, spangled with starry daisies. the air was full of sweet odours uplifted with the ascending dew, and trembled with a hundred songs at once, for here was a very paradise for birds. at length he came in sight of a long low wing of the house, and went to the door that led to the kitchen. there a maid informed him that mrs courthope was in the hall, and he had better take his basket there, for she wanted to see him. he obeyed, and sought the main entrance. the house was an ancient pile, mainly of two sides at right angles, but with many gables, mostly having corbel steps--a genuine old scottish dwelling, small windowed and gray, with steep slated roofs, and many turrets, each with a conical top. some of these turrets rose from the ground, encasing spiral stone stairs; others were but bartizans, their interiors forming recesses in rooms. they gave the house something of the air of a french chateau, only it looked stronger and far grimmer. carved around some of the windows, in ancient characters, were scripture texts and antique proverbs. two time worn specimens of heraldic zoology, in a state of fearful and everlasting excitement, stood rampant and gaping, one on each side of the hall door, contrasting strangely with the repose of the ancient house, which looked very like what the oldest part of it was said to have been--a monastery. it had at the same time, however, a somewhat warlike expression, wherein consisting it would have been difficult to say; nor could it ever have been capable of much defence, although its position in that regard was splendid. in front was a great gravel space, in the centre of which lay a huge block of serpentine, from a quarry on the estate, filling the office of goal, being the pivot, as it were, around which all carriages turned. on one side of the house was a great stone bridge, of lofty span, stretching across a little glen, in which ran a brown stream spotted with foam--the same that entered the frith beside the seaton; not muddy, however, for though dark it was clear--its brown being a rich transparent hue, almost red, gathered from the peat bogs of the great moorland hill behind. only a very narrow terrace walk, with battlemented parapet, lay between the back of the house, and a precipitous descent of a hundred feet to this rivulet. up its banks, lovely with flowers and rich with shrubs and trees below, you might ascend until by slow gradations you left the woods and all culture behind, and found yourself, though still within the precincts of lossie house, on the lonely side of the waste hill, a thousand feet above the sea. the hall door stood open, and just within hovered mrs courthope, dusting certain precious things not to be handled by a housemaid. this portion of the building was so narrow that the hall occupied its entire width, and on the opposite side of it another door, standing also open, gave a glimpse of the glen. "good morning, malcolm," said mrs courthope, when she turned and saw whose shadow fell on the marble floor. "what have you brought me?" "a fine salmon troot, mem. but gien ye had hard boo mistress catanach flytit (scolded) at me 'cause i wadna gie't to her! you wad hae thocht, mem, she was something no canny--the w'y 'at she first beggit, an' syne fleecht (flattered), an syne a' but banned an' swore." "she's a peculiar person, that, malcolm. those are nice whitings. i don't care about the trout. just take it to her as you go back." "i doobt gien she'll take it, mem. she's an awfu' vengefu' cratur, fowk says." "you remind me, malcolm," returned mrs courthope, "that not at ease about your grandfather. he is not in a christian frame of mind at all--and he is an old man too. if we don't forgive our enemies, you know, the bible plainly tells us we shall not be forgiven ourselves." " thinkin' it was a greater nor the bible said that, mem," returned malcolm, who was an apt pupil of mr graham. "but ye'll be meanin' cawmill o' glenlyon," he went on with a smile. "it canna maitter muckle to him whether my gran'father forgie him or no, seein' he's been deid this hunner year." "it's not campbell of glenlyon, it 's your grandfather i am anxious about," said mrs courthope. "nor is it only campbell of glenlyon he's so fierce against, but all his posterity as well." "they dinna exist, mem. there's no sic a bein' o' the face o' the yearth, as a descendant o' that glenlyon." "it makes little difference, i fear," said mrs courthope, who was no bad logician. "the question isn't whether or not there's anybody to forgive, but whether duncan macphail is willing to forgive." "that i do believe he is, mem; though he wad be as sair astonished to hear 't as ye are yersel'." "i don't know what you mean by that, malcolm." "i mean, mem, 'at a blin' man, like my gran'father, canna ken himsel' richt, seein' he canna ken ither fowk richt. it's by kennin' ither fowk 'at ye come to ken yersel, mem--isna't noo?" "blindness surely doesn't prevent a man from knowing other people. he hears them, and he feels them, and indeed has generally more kindness from them because of his affliction." "frae some o' them, mem; but it 's little kin'ness my gran'father has expairienced frae cawmill o' glenlyon, mem." "and just as little injury, i should suppose," said mrs courthope. "ye're wrang there, mem: a murdered mither maun be an unco skaith to oye's oye (grandson's grandson). but supposin' ye to be richt, what i say's to the pint for a' that i maun jist explain a wee.-- when i was a laddie at the schule, i was ance tell't that ane o' the loons was i' the wye o' mockin' my gran'father. whan i hard it, i thocht i cud jist rive the hert o' 'im, an' set my teeth in't, as the dutch sodger did to the spainiard. but whan i got a grip o' 'im, an' the rascal turned up a frichtit kin' o' a dog-like face to me, i jist could not drive my steikit neive (clenched fist) intil't. mem, a face is an awfu' thing! there's aye something luikin' oot o' 't 'at ye canna do as ye like wi'. but my gran'father never saw a face in's life--lat alane glenlyon's 'at's been dirt for sae mony a year. gien he war luikin' intil the face o' that glenlyon even, i do believe he wad no more drive his durk intill him." "drive his dirk into him!" echoed mrs courthope, in horror at the very disclaimer. "no, sure he wad not," persisted malcolm, innocently. "he micht not tak him oot o' a pot (hole in a riverbed), but he wad neither durk him nor fling him in. no that sure he wadna even ran (reach) him a han'. ae thing i am certain o',--that by the time he meets glenlyon in haven, he'll be no that far frae lattin' byganes be byganes." "meets glenlyon in heaven!" again echoed mrs courthope, who knew enough of the story to be startled at the taken for granted way in which malcolm spoke. "is it probable that a wretch such as your legends describe him should ever get there?" "ye dinna think god's forgien him, than, mem?" "i have no right to judge glenlyon, or any other man; but, as you ask me, i must say i see no likelihood of it." "hoo can ye compleen o' my puir blin' grandfather for no forgiein' him, than?--i hae ye there, mem!" "he may have repented, you know," said mrs courthope feebly, finding herself in less room than was comfortable. "in sic case," returned malcolm, "the auld man 'ill hear a' aboot it the meenit he wins there; an' i mak nae doobt he'll du his best to perswaud himsel'." "but what if he shouldn't get there?" persisted mrs courthope, in pure benevolence. "hoot toot, mem! i wonner to hear ye! a cawmill latten in, and my gran'father hauden oot! that wad be jist yallow faced willie ower again!*--na, na; things gang anither gait up there. my gran'father's a rale guid man, for a' 'at he has a wye o' luikin' at things 'at's mair efter the law nor the gospel." *[lord stair, the prime mover in the massacre of glenco.] apparently mrs courthope had come at length to the conclusion that malcolm was as much of a heathen as his grandfather, for in silence she chose her fish, in silence paid him his price, and then with only a sad good day, turned and left him. he would have gone back by the river side to the sea gate, but mrs courthope having waived her right to the fish in favour of mrs catanach, he felt bound to give her another chance, and so returned the way he had come. "here's yer troot, mistress cat'nach," he called aloud at her door, which generally stood a little ajar. "ye s' hae't for the saxpence --an' a guid bargain tu, for ane o' sic dimensions!" as he spoke, he held the fish in at the door, but his eyes were turned to the main street, whence the factor's gig was at the moment rounding the corner into that in which he stood; when suddenly the salmon trout was snatched from his hand, and flung so violently in his face, that he staggered back into the road: the factor had to pull sharply up to avoid driving over him. his rout rather than retreat was followed by a burst of insulting laughter, and at the same moment, out of the house rushed a large vile looking mongrel, with hair like an ill used doormat and an abbreviated nose, fresh from the ashpit, caught up the trout, and rushed with it towards the gate. "that's richt, my bairn!" shouted mrs catanach to the brute as he ran: "tak it to mrs courthope. tak it back wi' my compliments." amidst a burst of malign laughter she slammed her door, and from a window sideways watched the young fisherman. as he stood looking after the dog in wrath and bewilderment, the factor, having recovered from the fit of merriment into which the sudden explosion of events had cast him, and succeeded in quieting his scared horse, said, slackening his reins to move on, "you sell your fish too cheap, malcolm." "the deil's i' the tyke," rejoined malcolm, and, seized at last by a sense of the ludicrousness of the whole affair, burst out laughing, and turned for the high street. . "na, na, laddie; the deil's no awa' in sic a hurry: he bed (remained)," said a voice behind him. malcolm turned again and lifted his bonnet. it was miss horn, who had come up from the seaton. "did ye see yon, mem?" he asked. "ay, weel that, as i cam up the brae. dinna stan' there, laddie. the jaud 'll be watchin' ye like a cat watchin' a mouse. i ken her! she's a cat wuman, an' i canna bide her. she's no mowse (safe to touch). she's in secrets mair nor guid, i s' wad (wager). come awa' wi' me; i want a bit fish. i can ill eat an' her lyin' deid i' the hoose--it winna gang ower; but i maun get some strength pitten intil me afore the berial. it's a god's mercy i wasna made wi' feelin's, or what wad hae come o' me! whaur's the gude o' greetin? it's no worth the saut i' the watter o' 't, ma'colm. it's an ill wardle, an micht be a bonny ane--gien't warna for ill men." "'deed, mem! thinkin' mair aboot ill women, at this prasent," said malcolm. "maybe there's no sic a thing, but yon's unco like ane. as bonny a sawmon troot 's ever ye saw, mem! it's a' cawpable o' to haud ohn cursed that foul tyke o' hers." "hoot, laddie! haud yer tongue." "ay will i. na gaun to du 't, ye ken. but sic a fine troot 's that--the verra ane ye wad hae likit, mem!" "never ye min' the troot. there's mair whaur that cam frae. what anger't her at ye?" "naething mair nor that i bude to gie mistress courthope the first wale (choice) o' my fish." "the wuman's no worth yer notice, 'cep to haud oot o' her gait, laddie; an' that ye had better luik till, for she's no canny. dinna ye anger her again gien ye can help it. she has an ill luik, an' i canna bide her.--hae, there's yer siller. jean, tak in this fish." during the latter part of the conversation they had been standing at the door, while miss horn ferreted the needful pence from a pocket under her gown. she now entered, but as malcolm waited for jean to take the fish, she turned on the threshold, and said: "wad ye no like to see her, ma'colm?--a guid frien' she was to you, sae lang's she was here," she added after a short pause. the youth hesitated. "i never saw a corp i' my life, mem, an' jist some feared," he said, after another brief silence. "hoot, laddie!" returned miss horn, in a somewhat offended tone. --"that'll be what comes o' haein' feelin's. a bonny corp 's the bonniest thing in creation,--an' that quaiet!--eh! sic a heap o' them as there has been sin' awbel," she went on--"an ilk ane them luikin, as gien there never had been anither but itsel'! ye oucht to see a corp, ma'colm. ye'll hae't to du afore ye're ane yersel', an' ye'll never see a bonnier nor my grizel." "be 't to yer wull, mem," said malcolm resignedly. at once she led the way, and he followed her in silence up the stair and into the dead chamber. there on the white bed lay the long, black, misshapen thing she had called "the bit boxie:" and with a strange sinking at the heart, malcolm approached it. miss horn's hand came from behind him, and withdrew a covering; there lay a vision lovely indeed to behold!--a fixed evanescence --a listening stillness,--awful, yet with a look of entreaty, at once resigned and unyielding, that strangely drew the heart of malcolm. he saw a low white forehead, large eyeballs upheaving closed lids, finely modelled features of which the tightened skin showed all the delicacy, and a mouth of suffering whereon the vanishing psyche had left the shadow of the smile with which she awoke. the tears gathered in his eyes, and miss horn saw them. "ye maun lay yer han' upo' her, ma'colm," she said. "ye ma' aye touch the deid, to hand ye ohn dreamed aboot them." "i wad be laith," answered malcolm; "she wad be ower bonny a dream to miss.--are they a' like that?" he added, speaking under his breath. "na, 'deed no!" replied miss horn, with mild indignation. "wad ye expec' bawby cat'nach to luik like that, no?--i beg yer pardon for mentionin' the wuman, my dear," she added with sudden divergence, bending towards the still face, and speaking in a tenderly apologetic tone; "i ken weel ye canna bide the verra name o' her; but it s' be the last time ye s' hear 't to a' eternity, my doo." then turning again to malcolm.--"lay yer han' upon her broo, i tell ye," she said. "i daurna," replied the youth, still under his breath; "my han's are no clean. i wadna for the warl' touch her wi' fishy han's." the same moment, moved by a sudden impulse, whose irresistibleness was veiled in his unconsciousness, he bent down, and put his lips to the forehead. as suddenly he started back erect with dismay on every feature. "eh, mem!" he cried in an agonised whisper, "she's dooms cauld!" "what sud she be?" retorted miss horn. "wad ye hae her beeried warm?" he followed her from the room in silence, with the sense of a faint sting on his lips. she led him into her parlour, and gave him a glass of wine. "ye'll come to the beerial upo' setterday?" she asked, half inviting, half enquiring. " sorry to say, mem, 'at i canna," he answered. "i promised maister graham to tak the schule for him, an' lat him gang." "weel, weel! mr graham's obleeged to ye, nae doobt, an' we canna help it. gie my compliments to yer gran'father." "i'll du that, mem. he'll be sair pleased, for he's unco gratefu' for ony sic attention," said malcolm, and with the words took his leave. chapter x: the funeral that night the weather changed, and grew cloudy and cold. saturday morning broke drizzly and dismal. a northeast wind tore off the tops of the drearily tossing billows. all was gray--enduring, hopeless gray. along the coast the waves kept roaring on the sands, persistent and fateful; the scaurnose was one mass of foaming white: and in the caves still haunted by the tide, the bellowing was like that of thunder. through the drizzle shot wind and the fog blown in shreds from the sea, a large number of the most respectable of the male population of the burgh, clothed in sunday gloom deepened by the crape on their hats, made their way to miss horn's, for, despite her rough manners, she was held in high repute. it was only such as had reason to dread the secret communication between closet and housetop that feared her tongue; if she spoke loud, she never spoke false, or backbit in the dark. what chiefly conduced however to the respect in which she was held, was that she was one of their own people, her father having died minister of the parish some twenty years before. comparatively little was known of her deceased cousin, who had been much of an invalid, and had mostly kept to the house, but all had understood that miss horn was greatly attached to her; and it was for the sake of the living mainly that the dead was thus honoured. as the prayer drew to a close, the sounds of trampling and scuffling feet bore witness that watty witherspail and his assistants were carrying the coffin down the stair. soon the company rose to follow it, and trooping out, arranged themselves behind the hearse, which, horrid with nodding plumes and gold and black panelling, drew away from the door to make room for them. just as they were about to move off, to the amazement of the company and the few onlookers who, notwithstanding the weather, stood around to represent the commonalty, miss horn herself, solitary, in a long black cloak and somewhat awful bonnet, issued, and made her way through the mourners until she stood immediately behind the hearse, by the side of mr cairns, the parish minister. the next moment, watty witherspail, who had his station at the further side of the hearse, arriving somehow at a knowledge of the apparition, came round by the horses' heads, and with a look of positive alarm at the glaring infringement of time honoured customs, addressed her in half whispered tones expostulatory: "ye'll never be thinkin' o' gauin' yersel', mem!" he said. "what for no, watty, i wad like to ken," growled miss horn from the vaulted depths of her bonnet. "the like was never hard tell o'!" returned watty, with the dismay of an orthodox undertaker, righteously jealous of all innovation. "it'll be to tell o' hencefurth," rejoined miss horn, who in her risen anger spoke aloud, caring nothing who heard her. "daur ye preshume, watty witherspaill," she went on, "for no rizzon but that i ga'e you the job, an' unnertook to pay ye for't--an' that far abune its market value,--daur ye preshume, i say, to dictate to me what to du an' what no to du anent the maitter in han'? think ye i hae been a mither to the puir yoong thing for sae mony a year to lat her gang awa' her lane at the last wi' the likes o' you for company!" "hoot, mem! there's the minister at yer elbuck." "i tell ye, ye're but a wheen rouch men fowk! there's no a wuman amon' ye to haud things dacent, 'cep i gang mysel'. no beggin' the minister's pardon ather. i'll gang. i maun see my puir grizel till her last bed." "i dread it may be too much for your feelings, miss horn," said the minister, who being an ambitious young man of lowly origin, and very shy of the ridiculous, did not in the least wish her company. "feelin's!" exclaimed miss horn, in a tone of indignant repudiation; " gauin' to du what's richt. i s' gang, and gien ye dinna like my company, mr cairns, ye can gang hame, an' i s' gang withoot ye. gien she sud happen to be luikin doon, she sanna see me wantin' at the last o' her. but i s' mak' no wark aboot it. i s' no putt mysel' ower forret." and. ere the minister could utter another syllable, she had left her place to go to the rear. the same instant the procession began to move, corpse marshalled, towards the grave; and stepping aside, she stood erect, sternly eyeing the irregular ranks of two and three and four as they passed her, intending to bring up the rear alone. but already there was one in that solitary position: with bowed head, alexander graham walked last and single. the moment he caught sight of miss horn, he perceived her design, and, lifting his hat, offered his arm. she took it almost eagerly, and together they followed in silence, through the gusty wind and monotonous drizzle. the school house was close to the churchyard. an instant hush fell upon the scholars when the hearse darkened the windows, lasting while the horrible thing slowly turned to enter the iron gates,-- a deep hush, as if a wave of the eternal silence which rounds all our noises had broken across its barriers. the mad laird, who had been present all the morning, trembled from head to foot; yet rose and went to the door with a look of strange, subdued eagerness. when miss horn and mr graham had passed into the churchyard, he followed. with the bending of uncovered heads, in a final gaze of leave taking, over the coffin at rest in the bottom of the grave, all that belonged to the ceremony of burial was fulfilled; but the two facts that no one left the churchyard, although the wind blew and the rain fell, until the mound of sheltering earth was heaped high over the dead, and that the hands of many friends assisted with spade and shovel, did much to compensate for the lack of a service. as soon as this labour was ended, mr graham again offered his arm to miss horn, who had stood in perfect calmness watching the whole with her eagle's eyes. but although she accepted his offer, instead of moving towards the gate, she kept her position in the attitude of a hostess who will follow her friends. they were the last to go from the churchyard. when they reached the schoolhouse she would have had mr graham leave her, but he insisted on seeing her home. contrary to her habit she yielded, and they slowly followed the retiring company. "safe at last!" half sighed miss horn, as they entered the town-- her sole remark on the way. rounding a corner, they came upon mrs catanach standing at a neighbour's door, gazing out upon nothing, as was her wont at times, but talking to some one in the house behind her. miss horn turned her head aside as she passed. a look of low, malicious, half triumphant cunning lightened across the puffy face of the howdy. she cocked one bushy eyebrow, setting one eye wide open, drew down the other eyebrow, nearly closing the eye under it, and stood looking after them until they were out of sight. then turning her head over her shoulder, she burst into a laugh, softly husky with the general flabbiness of her corporeal conditions. "what ails ye, mistress catanach?" cried a voice from within. "sic a couple 's yon twasum wad mak!" she replied, again bursting into gelatinous laughter. "wha, than? i canna lea' my milk parritch to come an' luik." "ow! jist meg horn, the auld kail runt, an' sanny graham, the stickit minister. i wad like weel to be at the beddin' o' them. eh! the twa heids o' them upon ae bowster!" and chuckling a low chuckle, mrs catanach moved for her own door. as soon as the churchyard was clear of the funeral train, the mad laird peeped from behind a tall stone, gazed cautiously around him, and then with slow steps came and stood over the new made grave, where the sexton was now laying the turf, "to mak a' snod (trim) for the sawbath." "whaur is she gane till?" he murmured to himself--he could generally speak better when merely uttering his thoughts without attempt at communication.--"i dinna ken whaur i cam frae, an' i dinna ken whaur she's gane till; but whan i gang mysel', maybe i'll ken baith. --i dinna ken, i dinna ken, i dinna ken whaur i cam frae." thus muttering, so lost in the thoughts that originated them that he spoke the words mechanically, he left the churchyard and returned to the school, where, under the superintendence of malcolm, everything had been going on in the usual saturday fashion--the work of the day which closed the week's labours, being to repeat a certain number of questions of the shorter catechism (which term, alas! included the answers), and next to buttress them with a number of suffering caryatids, as it were--texts of scripture, i mean, first petrified and then dragged into the service. before mr graham returned, every one had done his part except sheltie, who, excellent at asking questions for himself, had a very poor memory for the answers to those of other people, and was in consequence often a keepie in. he did not generally heed it much, however, for the master was not angry with him on such occasions, and they gave him an opportunity of asking in his turn a multitude of questions of his own. when he entered, he found malcolm reading the tempest and sheltie sitting in the middle of the waste schoolroom, with his elbows on the desk before him, and his head and the shorter catechism between them; while in the farthest corner sat mr stewart, with his eyes fixed on the ground, murmuring his answerless questions to himself. "come up, sheltie," said mr graham, anxious to let the boy go. "which of the questions did you break down in today?" "please, sir, i cudna rest i' my grave till the resurrection," answered sheltie, with but a dim sense of the humour involved in the reply. "'what benefits do believers receive from christ at death?'" said mr graham, putting the question with a smile. "'the souls of believers are at their death made perfect in holiness, and do immediately pass into glory; and their bodies, being still united to christ, do rest in their graves till the resurrection,'" replied sheltie, now with perfect accuracy; whereupon the master, fearing the outbreak of a torrent of counter questions, made haste to dismiss him. "that'll do, sheltie," he said. "run home to your dinner." sheltie shot from the room like a shell from a mortar. he had barely vanished when mr stewart rose and came slowly from his corner, his legs appearing to tremble under the weight of his hump, which moved fitfully up and down in his futile attempts to utter the word resurrection. as he advanced, he kept heaving one shoulder forward, as if he would fain bring his huge burden to the front, and hold it out in mute appeal to his instructor; but before reaching him he suddenly stopped, lay down on the floor on his back, and commenced rolling from side to side, with moans and complaints. mr graham interpreted the action into the question-- how was such a body as his to rest in its grave till the resurrection --perched thus on its own back in the coffin? all the answer he could think of was to lay hold of his hand, lift him, and point upwards. the poor fellow shook his head, glanced over his shoulder at his hump, and murmured "heavy, heavy!" seeming to imply that it would be hard for him to rise and ascend at the last day. he had doubtless a dim notion that all his trouble had to do with his hump. chapter xi: the old church the next day, the day of the resurrection, rose glorious from its sepulchre of sea fog and drizzle. it had poured all night long, but at sunrise the clouds had broken and scattered, and the air was the purer for the cleansing rain, while the earth shone with that peculiar lustre which follows the weeping which has endured its appointed night. the larks were at it again, singing as if their hearts would break for joy as they hovered in brooding exultation over the song of the future; for their nests beneath hoarded a wealth of larks for summers to come. especially about the old church-- half buried in the ancient trees of lossie house, the birds that day were jubilant; their throats seemed too narrow to let out the joyful air that filled all their hollow bones and quills: they sang as if they must sing, or choke with too much gladness. beyond the short spire and its shining cock, rose the balls and stars and arrowy vanes of the house, glittering in gold and sunshine. the inward hush of the resurrection, broken only by the prophetic birds, the poets of the groaning and travailing creation, held time and space as in a trance; and the centre from which radiated both the hush and the carolling expectation seemed to alexander graham to be the churchyard in which he was now walking in the cool of the morning. it was more carefully kept than most scottish churchyards, and yet was not too trim. nature had a word in the affair-- was allowed her part of mourning, in long grass and moss and the crumbling away of stone. the wholesomeness of decay, which both in nature and humanity is but the miry road back to life, was not unrecognized here; there was nothing of the hideous attempt to hide death in the garments of life. the master walked about gently, now stopping to read some well known inscription and ponder for a moment over the words; and now wandering across the stoneless mounds, content to be forgotten by all but those who loved the departed. at length he seated himself on a slab by the side of the mound that rose but yesterday: it was sculptured with symbols of decay-- needless surely where the originals lay about the mouth of every newly opened grave, and as surely ill befitting the precincts of a church whose indwelling gospel is of life victorious over death! "what are these stones," he said to himself, "but monuments to oblivion? they are not memorials of the dead, but memorials of the forgetfulness of the living. how vain it is to send a poor forsaken name, like the title page of a lost book, down the careless stream of time! let me serve my generation, and let god remember me!" the morning wore on; the sun rose higher and higher. he drew from his pocket the nosce teipsum. of sir john davies, and was still reading, in quiet enjoyment of the fine logic of the lawyer poet, when he heard the church key, in the trembling hand of jonathan auld, the sexton, jar feebly battling with the reluctant lock. soon the people began to gather, mostly in groups and couples. at length came solitary miss horn, whom the neighbours, from respect to her sorrow, had left to walk alone. but mr graham went to meet her, and accompanied her into the church. it was a cruciform building, as old as the vanished monastery, and the burial place of generations of noble blood; the dust of royalty even lay under its floor. a knight of stone reclined cross legged in a niche with an arched norman canopy in one of the walls, the rest of which was nearly encased in large tablets of white marble, for at his foot lay the ashes of barons and earls whose title was extinct, and whose lands had been inherited by the family of lossie. inside as well as outside of the church the ground had risen with the dust of generations, so that the walls were low; and heavy galleries having been erected in parts, the place was filled with shadowy recesses and haunted with glooms. from a window in the square pew where he sat, so small and low that he had to bend his head to look out of it, the schoolmaster could see a rivulet of sunshine, streaming through between two upright gravestones, and glorifying the long grass of a neglected mound that lay close to the wall under the wintry drip from the eaves: when he raised his head, the church looked very dark. the best way there to preach the resurrection, he thought, would be to contrast the sepulchral gloom of the church, its dreary psalms and drearier sermons, with the sunlight on the graves, the lark filled sky, and the wind blowing where it listed. but although the minister was a young man of the commonest order, educated to the church that he might eat bread, hence a mere willing slave to the beck of his lord and master, the patron, and but a parrot in the pulpit, the schoolmaster not only endeavoured to pour his feelings and desires into the mould of his prayers, but listened to the sermon with a countenance that revealed no distaste for the weak and unsavoury broth ladled out him to nourish his soul withal. when however the service--though whose purposes the affair could be supposed to serve except those of mr cairns himself, would have been a curious question--was over, he did breathe a sigh of relief; and when he stepped out into the sun and wind which had been shining and blowing all the time of the dreary ceremony, he wondered whether the larks might not have had the best of it in the god praising that had been going on for two slow paced hours. yet, having been so long used to the sort of thing, he did not mind it half so much as his friend malcolm, who found the sunday observances an unspeakable weariness to both flesh and spirit. on the present occasion, however, malcolm did not find the said observances dreary, for he observed nothing but the vision which radiated from the dusk of the small gallery forming lossie pew, directly opposite the norman canopy and stone crusader. unconventional, careless girl as lady florimel had hitherto shown herself to him, he saw her sit that morning like the proudest of her race, alone, and, to all appearance, unaware of a single other person's being in the church besides herself. she manifested no interest in what was going on, nor indeed felt any--how could she? never parted her lips to sing; sat during the prayer; and throughout the sermon seemed to malcolm not once to move her eyes from the carved crusader. when all was over, she still sat motionless--sat until the last old woman had hobbled out. then she rose, walked slowly from the gloom of the church, flashed into the glow of the churchyard, gleamed across it to a private door in the wall, which a servant held for her, and vanished. if a moment after, the notes of a merry song invaded the ears of those who yet lingered, who could dare suspect that proudly sedate damsel thus suddenly breaking the ice of her public behaviour? for a mere school girl she had certainly done the lady's part well. what she wore i do not exactly know; nor would it perhaps be well to describe what might seem grotesque to such prejudiced readers as have no judgment beyond the fashions of the day. but i will not let pass the opportunity of reminding them how sadly old fashioned we of the present hour also look in the eyes of those equally infallible judges who have been in dread procession towards us ever since we began to be--our posterity--judges who perhaps will doubt with a smile whether we even knew what love was, or ever had a dream of the grandeur they are on the point of grasping. but at least bethink yourselves, dear posterity: we have not ceased because you have begun. out of the church the blind duncan strode with long, confident strides. he had no staff to aid him, for he never carried one when in his best clothes; but he leaned proudly on malcolm's arm, if one who walked so erect could be said to lean. he had adorned his bonnet the autumn before with a sprig of the large purple heather, but every bell had fallen from it, leaving only the naked spray, pitiful analogue of the whole withered exterior of which it formed part. his sporran, however, hid the stained front of his kilt, and his sunday coat had been new within ten years--the gift of certain ladies of portlossie, some of whom, to whose lowland eyes the kilt was obnoxious, would have added a pair of trowsers, had not miss horn stoutly opposed them, confident that duncan would regard the present as an insult. and she was right; for rather than wear anything instead of the philibeg, duncan would have plaited himself one with his own blind fingers out of an old sack. indeed, although the trews were never at any time unknown in the highlands, duncan had always regarded them as effeminate, and especially in his lowland exile would have looked upon the wearing of them as a disgrace to his highland birth. "tat wass a fery coot sairmon today, malcolm," he said, as they stepped from the churchyard upon the road. malcolm, knowing well whither conversation on the subject would lead, made no reply. his grandfather, finding him silent, iterated his remark, with the addition--"put how could it pe a paad one, you'll pe thinking, my poy, when he'd pe hafing such a text to keep him straight." malcolm continued silent, for a good many people were within hearing, whom he did not wish to see amused with the remarks certain to follow any he could make. but mr graham, who happened to be walking near the old man on the other side, out of pure politeness made a partial response. "yes, mr macphail," he said, "it was a grand text." "yes, and it wass'll pe a cran' sairmon," persisted duncan. "'fenchence is mine--i will repay.' ta lord loves fenchence. it's a fine thing, fenchence. to make ta wicked know tat tey'll pe peing put men! yes; ta lord will slay ta wicked. ta lord will gif ta honest man fenchence upon his enemies. it wass a cran' sairmon!" "don't you think vengeance a very dreadful thing, mr macphail?" said the schoolmaster. "yes, for ta von tat'll pe in ta wrong--i wish ta fenchence was mine!" he added with a loud sigh. "but the lord doesn't think any of us fit to be trusted with it, and so keeps it to himself, you see." "yes, and tat'll pe pecause it 'll pe too coot to be gifing to another. and some people would be waik of heart, and be letting teir enemies co." "i suspect it 's for the opposite reason, mr macphail:--we would go much too far, making no allowances, causing the innocent to suffer along with the guilty, neither giving fair play nor avoiding cruelty,--and indeed" "no fear!" interrupted duncan eagerly,--"no fear, when ta wrong wass as larch as morven!" in the sermon there had not been one word as to st paul's design in quoting the text. it had been but a theatrical setting forth of the vengeance of god upon sin, illustrated with several common tales of the discovery of murder by strange means--a sermon after duncan's own heart; and nothing but the way in which he now snuffed the wind with head thrown back and nostrils dilated, could have given an adequate idea of how much he enjoyed the recollection of it. mr graham had for many years believed that he must have some personal wrongs to brood over,--wrongs, probably, to which were to be attributed his loneliness and exile; but of such duncan had never spoken, uttering no maledictions except against the real or imagined foes of his family.* *[what added to the likelihood of mr graham's conjecture was the fact, well enough known to him, though to few lowlanders besides, that revenge is not a characteristic of the gael. whatever instances of it may have appeared, and however strikingly they may have been worked up in fiction, such belong to the individual and not to the race. a remarkable proof of this occurs in the history of the family of glenco itself. what remained of it after the massacre in , rose in , and joined the forces of prince charles edward. arriving in the neighbourhood of the residence of lord stair, whose grandfather had been one of the chief instigators of the massacre, the prince took special precautions lest the people of glenco should wreak inherited vengeance on the earl. but they were so indignant at being supposed capable of visiting on the innocent the guilt of their ancestors, that it was with much difficulty they were prevented from forsaking the standard of the prince, and returning at once to their homes. perhaps a yet stronger proof is the fact, fully asserted by one gaelic scholar at least, that their literature contains nothing to foster feelings of revenge.] the master placed so little value on any possible results of mere argument, and had indeed so little faith in any words except such as came hot from the heart, that he said no more, but, with an invitation to malcolm to visit him in the evening, wished them good day, and turned in at his own door. the two went slowly on towards the sea town. the road was speckled with home goers, single and in groups, holding a quiet sunday pace to their dinners. suddenly duncan grasped malcolm's arm with the energy of perturbation, almost of fright, and said in a loud whisper: "tere'll be something efil not far from her, malcolm, my son! look apout, look apout, and take care how you'll pe leading her." malcolm looked about, and replied, pressing duncan's arm, and speaking in a low voice, far less audible than his whisper, "there's naebody near, daddy--naebody but the howdie wife." "what howdie wife do you mean, malcolm?" "hoot! mistress catanach, ye ken. dinna lat her hear ye." "i had a feeshion, malcolm--one moment, and no more; ta darkness closed arount it: i saw a ped, malcolm, and--" "wheesht, wheesht; daddy!" pleaded malcolm importunately. "she hears ilka word ye're sayin'. she's awfu' gleg, and she's as poozhonous as an edder. haud yer tongue, daddy; for guid sake haud yer tongue." the old man yielded, grasping malcolm's arm, and quickening his pace, though his breath came hard, as through the gathering folds of asthma. mrs. catanach also quickened her pace, and came gliding along the grass by the side of the road, noiseless as the adder to which malcolm had likened her, and going much faster than she seemed. her great round body looked a persistent type of her calling, and her arms seemed to rest in front of her as upon a ledge. in one hand she carried a small bible, round which was folded her pocket handkerchief, and in the other a bunch of southernwood and rosemary. she wore a black silk gown, a white shawl, and a great straw bonnet with yellow ribbons in huge bows, and looked the very pattern of sunday respectability; but her black eyebrows gloomed ominous, and an evil smile shadowed about the corners of her mouth as she passed without turning her head or taking the least notice of them. duncan shuddered, and breathed yet harder, but seemed to recover as she increased the distance between them. they walked the rest of the way in silence, however; and even after they reached home, duncan made no allusion to his late discomposure. "what was't ye thocht ye saw, as we cam frae the kirk, daddy?" asked malcolm when they were seated at their dinner of broiled mackerel and boiled potatoes. "in other times she'll pe hafing such feeshions often, malcolm, my son," he returned, avoiding an answer. "like other pards of her race she would pe seeing--in the speerit, where old tuncan can see. and she'll pe telling you, malcolm--peware of tat voman; for ta voman was thinking pad thoughts; and tat will pe what make her shutter and shake, my son, as she'll pe coing py." chapter xii: the churchyard on sundays, malcolm was always more or less annoyed by the obtrusive presence of his arms and legs, accompanied by a vague feeling that, at any moment, and no warning given, they might, with some insane and irrepressible flourish, break the sabbath on their own account, and degrade him in the eyes of his fellow townsmen, who seemed all silently watching how he bore the restraints of the holy day. it must be conceded, however, that the discomfort had quite as much to do with his sunday clothes as with the sabbath day, and that it interfered but little with an altogether peculiar calm which appeared to him to belong in its own right to the sunday, whether its light flowed in the sunny cataracts of june, or oozed through the spongy clouds of november. as he walked again to the alton, or old town in the evening, the filmy floats of white in the lofty blue, the droop of the long dark grass by the side of the short brown corn, the shadows pointing like all lengthening shadows towards the quarter of hope, the yellow glory filling the air and paling the green below, the unseen larks hanging aloft--like air pitcher plants that overflowed in song--like electric jars emptying themselves of the sweet thunder of bliss in the flashing of wings and the trembling of melodious throats; these were indeed of the summer but the cup of rest had been poured out upon them; the sabbath brooded like an embodied peace over the earth, and under its wings they grew sevenfold peaceful--with a peace that might be felt, like the hand of a mother pressed upon the half sleeping child. the rusted iron cross on the eastern gable of the old church stood glowing lustreless in the westering sun; while the gilded vane, whose business was the wind, creaked radiantly this way and that, in the flaws from the region of the sunset: its shadow flickered soft on the new grave, where the grass of the wounded sod was drooping. again seated on a neighbour stone, malcolm found his friend. "see," said the schoolmaster as the fisherman sat down beside him, "how the shadow from one grave stretches like an arm to embrace another! in this light the churchyard seems the very birthplace of shadows: see them flowing out of the tombs as from fountains, to overflow the world! does the morning or the evening light suit such a place best, malcolm?" the pupil thought for a while. "the evenin' licht, sir," he answered at length; "for ye see the sun's deem' like, an' deith's like a fa'in asleep, an' the grave's the bed, an' the sod's the bedclaes, an' there's a lang nicht to the fore." "are ye sure o' that, malcolm?" "it's the wye folk thinks an' says aboot it, sir." "or maybe doesna think, an' only says?" "maybe, sir; i dinna ken." "come here, malcolm," said mr graham, and took him by the arm, and led him towards the east end of the church, where a few tombstones were crowded against the wall, as if they would press close to a place they might not enter. "read that," he said, pointing to a flat stone, where every hollow letter was shown in high relief by the growth in it of a lovely moss. the rest of the stone was rich in gray and green and brown lichens, but only in the letters grew the bright moss; the inscription stood as it were in the hand of nature herself--"he is not here; he is risen." while malcolm gazed, trying to think what his master would have him think, the latter resumed. "if he is risen--if the sun is up, malcolm--then the morning and not the evening is the season for the place of tombs; the morning when the shadows are shortening and separating, not the evening when they are growing all into one. i used to love the churchyard best in the evening, when the past was more to me than the future; now i visit it almost every bright summer morning, and only occasionally at night." "but, sir, isna deith a dreidfu' thing?" said malcolm. "that depends on whether a man regards it as his fate, or as the will of a perfect god. its obscurity is its dread; but if god be light, then death itself must be full of splendour--a splendour probably too keen for our eyes to receive." "but there's the deein' itsel': isna that fearsome? it's that i wad be fleyed at." "i don't see why it should be. it's the want of a god that makes it dreadful, and you will be greatly to blame, malcolm, if you haven't found your god by the time you have to die." they were startled by a gruff voice near them. the speaker was. hidden by a corner of the church. "ay, she's weel happit (covered)," it said. "but a grave never luiks richt wantin' a stane, an' her auld cousin wad hear o' nane bein' laid ower her. i said it micht be set up at her heid, whaur she wad never fin' the weicht o' 't; but na, na! nane o' 't for her! she's ane 'at maun tak her ain gait, say the ither thing wha likes." it was wattie witherspail who spoke--a thin shaving of a man, with a deep, harsh, indeed startling voice. "an' what ailed her at a stane?" returned the voice of jonathan auldbuird, the sexton. "--nae doobt it wad be the expense?" "amna i tellin' ye what it was? deil a bit o' the expense cam intil the calcalation! the auld maiden's nane sae close as fowk 'at disna ken her wad mak her oot. i ken her weel. she wadna hae a stane laid upon her as gien she wanted to hand her doon, puir thing! she said, says she, 'the yerd's eneuch upo' the tap o' her, wantin' that!'" "it micht be some sair, she wad be thinkin' doobtless, for sic a waik worn cratur to lift whan the trump was blawn," said the sexton, with the feeble laugh of one who doubts the reception of his wit. "weel, i div whiles think," responded wattie,--but it was impossible from his tone to tell whether or not he spoke in earnest,--"'at maybe my boxies is a wheen ower weel made for the use they're pitten till. they sudna be that ill to rive--gien a' be true 'at the minister says. ye see, we dinna ken whan that day may come, an' there may na be time for the wat an' the worm to ca (drive) the boords apairt." "hoots, man! it 's no your lang nails nor yet yer heidit screws 'll haud doon the redeemt, gien the jeedgement war the morn's mornin'," said the sexton; "an' for the lave, they wad be glaid eneuch to bide whaur they are; but they'll a' be howkit oot,--fear na ye that." "the lord grant a blessed uprisin' to you an' me, jonathan, at that day!" said wattie, in the tone of one who felt himself uttering a more than ordinarily religious sentiment and on the word followed the sound of their retreating footsteps. "how closely together may come the solemn and the grotesque! the ludicrous and the majestic!" said the schoolmaster. "here, to us lingering in awe about the doors beyond which lie the gulfs of the unknown--to our very side come the wright and the grave digger with their talk of the strength of coffins and the judgment of the living god!" "i hae whiles thoucht mysel', sir," said malcolm, "it was gey strange like to hae a wuman o' the mak o' mistress catanach sittin' at the receipt o' bairns, like the gatekeeper o' the ither wan', wi' the hasp o' 't in her han': it doesna promise ower weel for them 'at she lats in. an' noo ye hae pitten't intil my heid that there's wattie witherspail an' jonathan auldbuird for the porters to open an' lat a' that's left o' 's oot again! think o' sic like haein' sic a han' in sic solemn maitters!" "indeed some of us have strange porters," said mr graham, with a smile, "both to open to us and to close behind us! yet even in them lies the human nature, which, itself the embodiment of the unknown, wanders out through the gates of mystery, to wander back, it may be, in a manner not altogether unlike that by which it came." in contemplative moods, the schoolmaster spoke in a calm and loftily sustained style of book english--quite another language from that he used when he sought to rouse the consciences of his pupils, and strangely contrasted with that in which malcolm kept up his side of the dialogue. "i houp, sir," said the latter, "it'll be nae sort o' a celestial mistress catanach 'at 'll be waiting for me o' the ither side; nor yet for my puir daddy, wha cud ill bide bein' wamled aboot upo' her knee." mr graham laughed outright. "if there be one to act the nurse," he answered, "i presume there will be one to take the mother's part too." "but speakin' o' the grave, sir," pursued malcolm, "i wiss ye cud drop a word 'at micht be o' some comfort to my daddy. it's plain to me, frae words he lats fa' noo an' than, that, instead o' lea'in' the warl' ahint him whan he dees, he thinks to lie smorin' an' smocherin' i' the mools, clammy an' weet, but a' there, an' trimlin' at the thocht o' the suddent awfu' roar an' din o' the brazen trumpet o' the archangel. i wiss ye wad luik in an' say something till him some nicht. it's nae guid mentionin' 't to the minister; he wad only gie a lauch an' gang awa'. an' gien ye cud jist slide in a word aboot forgiein' his enemies, sir! i made licht o' the maitter to mistress courthope, 'cause she only maks him waur. she does weel wi' what the minister pits intill her, but she has little o' her ain to mix't up wi', an' sae has but sma' weicht wi' the likes o' my gran'father. only ye winna lat him think ye called on purpose." they walked about the churchyard until the sun went down in what mr graham called the grave of his endless resurrection--the clouds on the one side bearing all the pomp of his funeral, the clouds on the other all the glory of his uprising; and when now the twilight trembled filmy on the borders of the dark, the master once more seated himself beside the new grave, and motioned to malcolm to take his place beside him: there they talked and dreamed together of the life to come, with many wanderings and returns; and little as the boy knew of the ocean depths of sorrowful experience in the bosom of his companion whence floated up the breaking bubbles of rainbow hued thought, his words fell upon his heart--not to be provender for the birds of flitting fancy and airy speculation, but the seed--it might be decades ere it ripened--of a coming harvest of hope. at length the master rose and said, "malcolm, going in: i should like you to stay here half an hour alone, and then go straight home to bed." for the master believed in solitude and silence. say rather, he believed in god. what the youth might think, feel, or judge, he could not tell; but he believed that when the human is still, the divine speaks to it, because it is its own. malcolm consented willingly. the darkness had deepened, the graves all but vanished; an old setting moon appeared, boatlike over a great cloudy chasm, into which it slowly sank; blocks of cloud, with stars between, possessed the sky; all nature seemed thinking about death; a listless wind began to blow, and malcolm began to feel as if he were awake too long, and ought to be asleep--as if he were out in a dream--a dead man that had risen too soon or lingered too late--so lonely, so forsaken! the wind, soft as it was, seemed to blow through his very soul. yet something held him, and his half hour was long over when he left the churchyard. as he walked home, the words of a german poem, a version of which mr graham had often repeated to him, and once more that same night, kept ringing in his heart: uplifted is the stone, and all mankind arisen! we men remain thine own, and vanished is our prison! what bitterest grief can stay before thy golden cup, when earth and life give way, and with our lord we sup. to the marriage death doth call. the maidens are not slack; the lamps are burning all-- of oil there is no lack. afar i hear the walking of thy great marriage throng and hark! the stars are talking with human tone and tongue! courage! for life is hasting to endless life away; the inner fire, unwasting, transfigures our dull clay see the stars melting, sinking, in life wine, golden bright we, of the splendour drinking, shall grow to stars of light. lost, lost are all our losses; love set for ever free; the full life heaves and tosses like an eternal sea! one endless living story! one poem spread abroad! and the sun of all our glory is the countenance of god. chapter xiii: the marquis of lossie the next morning rose as lovely as if the mantle of the departing resurrection day had fallen upon it. malcolm rose with it, hastened to his boat, and pulled out into the bay for an hour or two's fishing. nearly opposite the great conglomerate rock at the western end of the dune, called the bored craig (perforated crag) because of a large hole that went right through it, he began to draw in his line. glancing shoreward as he leaned over the gunwale, he spied at the foot .of the rock, near the opening, a figure in white, seated, with bowed head. it was of course the mysterious lady, whom he had twice before seen thereabout at this unlikely if not untimely hour; but with yesterday fresh in his mind, how could he fail to see in her an angel of the resurrection waiting at the sepulchre to tell the glad news that the lord was risen? many were the glances he cast shoreward as he rebaited his line, and, having thrown it again into the water, sat waiting until it should be time to fire the swivel. still the lady sat on, in her whiteness a creature of the dawn, without even lifting her head. at length, having added a few more fishes to the little heap in the bottom of his boat, and finding his watch bear witness that the hour was at hand, he seated himself on his thwart, and rowed lustily to the shore, his bosom filled with the hope of yet another sight of the lovely face, and another hearing of the sweet english voice and speech. but the very first time he turned his head to look, he saw but the sloping foot of the rock sink bare into the shore. no white robed angel sat at the gate of the resurrection; no moving thing was visible on the far vacant sands. when he reached the top of the dune, there was no living creature beyond but a few sheep feeding on the thin grass. he fired the gun, rowed back to the seaton, ate his breakfast, and set out to carry the best of his fish to the house. the moment he turned the corner of her street, he saw mrs catanach standing on her threshold with her arms akimbo; although she was always tidy, and her house spotlessly trim, she yet seemed forever about the door, on the outlook at least, if not on the watch. "what hae ye in yer bit basket the day, ma'colm?" she said, with a peculiar smile, which was not sweet enough to restore vanished confidence. "naething guid for dogs," answered malcolm, and was walking past. but she made a step forward, and, with a laugh meant to indicate friendly amusement, said, "let's see what's intill't, ony gait (anyhow).--the doggie's awa on 's traivels the day." "'deed, mistress catanach," persisted malcolm, "i canna say i like to hae my ain fish flung i' my face, nor yet to see ill-faured tykes rin awa' wi' 't afore my verra een." after the warning given him by miss horn, and the strange influence her presence had had on his grandfather, malcolm preferred keeping up a negative quarrel with the woman. "dinna ca' ill names," she returned: "my dog wad tak it waur to be ca'd an ill faured tyke, nor to hae fish flung in his face. lat's see what's i' yer basket, i say." as she spoke, she laid her hand on the basket, but malcolm drew back, and turned away towards the gate. "lord safe us!" she cried, with a yelling laugh; "ye're no feared at an auld wife like me?" "i dinna ken; maybe ay an' maybe no--i wadna say. but i dinna want to hae onything to du wi' ye, mem." "ma'colm macphail," said mrs catanach, lowering her voice to a hoarse whisper, while every trace of laughter vanished from her countenance, "ye hae had mair to du wi' me nor ye ken, an' aiblins ye'll hae mair yet nor ye can weel help. sae caw canny, my man." "ye may hae the layin' o' me oot," said malcolm, "but it sanna be wi' my wull; an' gien i hae ony life left i' me, i s' gie ye a fleg (fright)." "ye may get a war yersel': i hae frichtit the deid afore noo. sae gang yer wa's to mistress coorthoup, wi' a flech (flea) i' yer lug (ear). i wuss ye luck--sic luck as i wad wuss ye i--" her last words sounded so like a curse, that to overcome a cold creep, malcolm had to force a laugh. the cook at the house bought all his fish, for they had had none for the last few days, because of the storm; and he was turning to go home by the river side, when he heard a tap on a window, and saw mrs courthope beckoning him to another door. "his lordship desired me to send you to him, malcolm, the next time you called," she said. "weel, mem, here i am," answered the youth. "you'll find him in the flower garden," she said. "he's up early today for a wonder." he left his basket at the top of the stairs that led down the rock to the level of the burn, and walked up the valley of the stream. the garden was a curious old fashioned place, with high hedges, and close alleys of trees, where two might have wandered long without meeting, and it was some time before he found any hint of the presence of the marquis. at length, however, he heard voices, and following the sound, walked along one of the alleys till he came to a little arbour, where he discovered the marquis seated, and, to his surprise, the white robed lady of the sands beside him. a great deer hound at his master's feet was bristling his mane, and baring his eye teeth with a growl, but the girl had a hold of his collar. "who are you?" asked the marquis rather gruffly, as if he had never seen him before. "i beg yer lordship's pardon," said malcolm, "but they telled me yer lordship wantit to see me, and sent me to the flooer garden. will i gang, or will i bide?" the marquis looked at him for a moment, frowningly, and made no reply. but the frown gradually relaxed before malcolm's modest but unflinching gaze, and the shadow of a smile slowly usurped its place. he still kept silent, however. "am i to gang or bide, my lord?" repeated malcolm. "can't you wait for an answer?" "as lang's yer lordship likes--will i gang an' walk aboot, mem --my leddy, till his lordship's made up his min'? wad that please him, duv ye think?" he said, in the tone of one who seeks advice. but the girl only smiled, and the marquis said, "go to the devil." "i maun luik to yer lordship for the necessar' directions," rejoined malcolm. "your tongue's long enough to inquire as you go," said the marquis. a reply in the same strain rushed to malcolm's lips, but he checked himself in time, and stood silent, with his bonnet in his band, fronting the two. the marquis sat gazing as if he had nothing to say to him, but after a few moments the lady spoke--not to malcolm, however. "is there any danger in boating here, papa?" she said. "not more, i daresay, than there ought to be," replied the marquis listlessly. "why do you ask?" "because i should so like a row! i want to see how the shore looks to the mermaids." "well, i will take you some day, if we can find a proper boat." "is yours a proper boat?" she asked, turning to malcolm with a sparkle of fun in her eyes. "that depen's on my lord's definition o' proper." "definition!" repeated the marquis. "is 't ower lang a word, my lord?" asked malcolm. the marquis only smiled. "i ken what ye mean. it's a strange word in a fisher lad's mou', ye think. but what for should na a fisher lad hae a smatterin' o' loagic, my lord? for greek or laitin there's but sma' opportunity o' exerceese in oor pairts; but for loagic, a fisher body may aye haud his ban' in i' that. he can aye be tryin' 't upo' 's wife, or 's guid mother, or upo' 's boat, or upo' the fish whan they winna tak. loagic wad save a heap o' cursin' an' ill words--amo' the fisher fowk, i mean, my lord." "have you been to college?" "na, my lord--the mair's the pity! but i've been to the school sin' ever i can min'." "do they teach logic there?" "a kin' o' 't. mr graham sets us to try oor ban' whiles--jist to mak 's a bit gleg (quick and keen), ye ken." "you don't mean you go to school still?" "i dinna gang reg'lar; but i gang as aften as mr graham wants me to help him, an' i aye gether something." "so it 's schoolmaster you are as well as fisherman? two strings to your bow!--who pays you for teaching?" "ow! naebody. wha wad pay me for that?" "why, the schoolmaster." "na, but that wad be an affront, my lord!" "how can you afford the time for nothing?" "the time comes to little, compairt wi' what mr graham gies me i' the lang forenichts--i' the winter time, ye ken, my lord, whan the sea's whiles ower contumahcious to be meddlet muckle wi'." "but you have to support your grandfather." "my gran'father wad be ill pleased to hear ye say 't, my lord. he's terrible independent; an' what wi' his pipes, an' his lamps, an' his shop, he could keep's baith. it's no muckle the likes o' us wants. he winna lat me gang far to the fishin', so that i hae the mair time to read an' gang to mr graham." as the youth spoke, the marquis eyed him with apparently growing interest. "but you haven't told me whether your boat is a proper one," said the lady. "proper eneuch, mem, for what's required o' her. she taks guid fish." "but is it a proper boat for me to have a row in?" "no wi' that goon on, mem, as i telled ye afore." "the water won't get in, will it?" "no more than's easy gotten oot again." "do you ever put up a sail?" "whiles--a wee bit o' a lug sail." "nonsense, flow!" said the marquis. "i'll see about it." then turning to malcolm,--"you may go," he said. "when i want you i will send for you." malcolm thought with himself that he had sent for him this time before he wanted him; but he made his bow, and departed--not without disappointment, for he had expected the marquis to say something about his grandfather going to the house with his pipes, a request he would fain have carried to the old man to gladden his heart withal. lord lossie had been one of the boon companions of the prince of wales--considerably higher in type, it is true, yet low enough to accept usage for law, and measure his obligation by the custom of his peers: duty merely amounted to what was expected of him, and honour, the flitting shadow of the garment of truth, was his sole divinity. still he had a heart, and it would speak,--so long at least, as the object affecting it was present. but, alas! it had no memory. like the unjust judge, he might redress a wrong that cried to him, but out of sight and hearing it had for him no existence. to a man he would not have told a deliberate lie--except, indeed, a woman was in the case; but to women he had lied enough to sink the whole ship of fools. nevertheless, had the accusing angel himself called him a liar, he would have instantly offered him his choice of weapons. there was in him by nature, however, a certain generosity which all the vice he had shared in had not quenched. overbearing, he was not yet too overbearing to appreciate a manly carriage, and had been pleased with what some would have considered the boorishness of malcolm's behaviour--such not perceiving that it had the same source as the true aristocratic bearing--namely, a certain unselfish confidence which is the mother of dignity. he had, of course, been a spendthrift--and so much the better, being otherwise what he was; for a cautious and frugal voluptuary is about the lowest style of man. hence he had never been out of difficulties, and when, a year or so agone, he succeeded to his brother's marquisate, he was, notwithstanding his enlarged income, far too much involved to hope any immediate rescue from them. his new property, however, would afford him a refuge from troublesome creditors; there he might also avoid expenditure for a season, and perhaps rally the forces of a dissolute life; the place was not new to him, having, some twenty years before, spent nearly twelve months there, of which time the recollections were not altogether unpleasant: weighing all these things he had made up his mind, and here he was at lossie house. the marquis was about fifty years of age, more worn than his years would account for, yet younger than his years in expression, for his conscience had never bitten him very deep. he was middle sized, broad shouldered but rather thin, with fine features of the aquiline greek type, light blue hazy eyes, and fair hair, slightly curling and streaked with gray. his manners were those of one polite for his own sake. to his remote inferiors he was kind--would even encourage them to liberties, but might in turn take greater with them than they might find agreeable. he was fond of animals-- would sit for an hour stroking the head of demon, his great irish deerhound; but at other times would tease him to a wrath which touched the verge of dangerous. he was fond of practical jokes, and would not hesitate to indulge himself even in such as were incompatible with any genuine refinement: the sort had been in vogue in his merrier days, and lord lossie had ever been one of the most fertile in inventing, and loudest in enjoying them. for the rest, if he was easily enraged, he was readily appeased; could drink a great deal, but was no drunkard; and held as his creed that a god had probably made the world and set it going, but that he did not care a brass farthing, as he phrased it, how it went on, or what such an insignificant being as a man did or left undone in it. perhaps he might amuse himself with it, he said, but he doubted it. as to men, he believed every man loved himself supremely, and therefore was in natural warfare with every other man. concerning women he professed himself unable to give a definite utterance of any sort--and yet, he would add, he had had opportunities. the mother of florimel had died when she was a mere child, and from that time she had been at school until her father brought her away to share his fresh honours. she knew little, that little was not correct, and had it been, would have yet been of small value. at school she had been under many laws, and had felt their slavery: she was now in the third heaven of delight with her liberty. but the worst of foolish laws is, that when the insurgent spirit casts them off, it is but too ready to cast away with them the genial self-restraint which these fretting trammels have smothered beneath them. her father regarded her as a child, of whom it was enough to require that she should keep out of mischief. he said to himself now and then that he must find a governess for her; but as yet he had not begun to look for one. meantime he neither exercised the needful authority over her, nor treated her as a companion. his was a shallow nature, never very pleasantly conscious of itself except in the whirl of excitement, and the glitter of crossing lights: with a lovely daughter by his side, he neither sought to search into her being, nor to aid its unfolding, but sat brooding over past pleasures, or fancying others yet in store for him--lost in the dull flow of life along the lazy reach to whose mire its once tumultuous torrent had now descended. but, indeed, what could such a man have done for the education of a young girl? how many of the qualities he understood and enjoyed in women could he desire to see developed in his daughter? there was yet enough of the father in him to expect those qualities in her to which in other women he had been an insidious foe; but had he not done what in him lay to destroy his right of claiming such from her? so lady florimel was running wild, and enjoying it. as long as she made her appearance at meals, and looked happy, her father would give himself no trouble about her. how he himself managed to live in those first days without company--what he thought about or speculated upon, it were hard to say. all he could be said to do was to ride here and there over the estate with his steward, mr crathie, knowing little and caring less about farming, or crops, or cattle. he had by this time, however, invited a few friends to visit him, and expected their arrival before long. "how do you like this dull life, flory?" he said, as they walked up the garden to breakfast. "dull, papa!" she returned. "you never were at a girls' school, or you wouldn't call this dull. it is the merriest life in the world. to go where you like, and have miles of room! and such room! it's the loveliest place in the world, papa!" he smiled a small, satisfied smile, and stooping stroked his demon. chapter xiv: meg partan's lamp malcolm went down the riverside, not over pleased with the marquis; for, although unconscious of it as such, he had a strong feeling of personal dignity. as he threaded the tortuous ways of the seaton towards his own door, he met sounds of mingled abuse and apology. such were not infrequent in that quarter, for one of the women who lived there was a termagant, and the door of her cottage was generally open. she was known as meg partan. her husband's real name was of as little consequence in life as it is in my history, for almost everybody in the fishing villages of that coast was and is known by his to-name, or nickname, a device for distinction rendered absolutely necessary by the paucity of surnames occasioned by the persistent intermarriage of the fisher folk. partan is the scotch for crab, but the immediate recipient of the name was one of the gentlest creatures in the place, and hence it had been surmised by some that, the grey mare being the better horse, the man was thus designated from the crabbedness of his wife; but the probability is he brought the agnomen with him from school, where many such apparently misfitting names are unaccountably generated. in the present case, however, the apologies were not issuing as usual from the mouth of davy partan, but from that of the blind piper. malcolm stood for a moment at the door to understand the matter of contention, and prepare him to interfere judiciously. "gien ye suppose, piper, 'at ye're peyed to drive fowk oot o' their beds at sic hoors as yon, it 's time the toon cooncil was informed o' yer mistak," said meg partan, with emphasis on the last syllable. "ta coot peoples up in ta town are not half so hart upon her as you, mistress partan," insinuated poor duncan, who, knowing himself in fault, was humble; "and it 's tere tat she's paid," he added, with a bridling motion, "and not town here pelow." "dinna ye glorifee yersel' to suppose there's a fisher, lat alane a fisher's wife, in a' the haill seaton 'at wad lippen (trust) till an auld haiveril like you to hae them up i' the mornin'! haith! i was oot o' my bed hoors or i hard the skirlin' o' your pipes. troth i ken weel hoo muckle ower ear' ye was! but what fowk taks in han', fowk sud put oot o' han' in a proper mainner, and no misguggle 't a'thegither like yon. an' for what they say i' the toon, there's mistress catanach--" "mistress catanach is a paad 'oman," said duncan. "i wad advise you, piper, to haud a quaiet sough about her. she's no to be meddlet wi', mistress catanach, i can tell ye. gien ye anger her, it'll be the waur for ye. the neist time ye hae a lyin' in, she'll be raxin' (reaching) ye a hairless pup, or, deed, maybe a stan' o' bagpipes, as the produck." "her nain sel' will not pe requiring her sairvices, mistress partan; she'll pe leafing tat to you, if you'll excuse me," said duncan. "deed, ye're richt there! an auld speldin' (dried haddock) like you! ha! ha! ha!" malcolm judged it time to interfere, and stepped into the cottage. duncan was seated in the darkest corner of the room, with an apron over his knees, occupied with a tin lamp. he had taken out the wick and laid its flat tube on the hearth, had emptied the oil into a saucer, and was now rubbing the lamp vigorously: cleanliness rather than brightness must have been what he sought to produce. malcolm's instinct taught him to side so far with the dame concerning mrs catanach, and thereby turn the torrent away from his grandfather. "'deed ye're richt there, mistress findlay!" he said. "she's no to be meddlet wi'. she's no mowse (safe)." malcolm was a favourite with meg, as with all the women of the place; hence she did not even start in resentment at his sudden appearance, but, turning to duncan, exclaimed victoriously,-- "hear till her ain oye! he's a laad o' sense!" "ay, hear to him!" rejoined the old man with pride. "my malcolm will always pe speaking tat which will pe worth ta hearing with ta ears. poth of you and me will be knowing ta mistress catanach pretty well--eh, malcolm, my son? we'll not be trusting her fery too much--will we, my son?" "no a hair, daddy," returned malcolm. "she's a dooms clever wife, though; an' ane 'at ye may lippen till i' the w'y o' her ain callin'," said meg partan, whose temper had improved a little under the influence of the handsome youth's presence and cheery speech. "she'll not pe toubting it," responded duncan; "put, ach! ta voman 'll be hafing a crim feesage and a fearsome eye!" like all the blind, he spoke as if he saw perfectly. "weel, i hae hard fowk say 'at ye bude (behoved) to hae the second sicht," said mrs findlay, laughing rudely; "but wow! it stan's ye in sma' service gien that be a' it comes till. she's a guid natur'd, sonsy luikin' wife as ye wad see; an' for her een, they're jist sic likes mine ain.--haena ye near dune wi' that lamp yet?" "the week of it 'll pe shust a lettle out of orter," answered the old man. "ta pairns has been' pulling it up with a peen from ta top, and not putting it in at ta hole for ta purpose. and she'll pe thinking you'll be cleaning off ta purnt part with a peen yourself, rna'am, and not with ta pair of scissors she tolt you of, mistress partan." "gae 'wa' wi' yer nonsense!" cried meg. "daur ye say dinna ken hoo to trim an uilyie lamp wi' the best blin' piper that ever cam frae the bare leggit heelans?" "a choke's a choke, ma'am," said duncan, rising with dignity; "put for a laty to make a choke of a man's pare leks is not ta propriety!" "oot o' my hoose wi' ye!" screamed the she partan. "wad ye threep (insist) upo' me onything i said was less nor proaper. 'at i sud say what wadna stan' the licht as weels the bare houghs o' ony heelan' rascal 'at ever lap a lawlan' dyke!" "hoot toot, mistress findlay," interposed malcolm, as his grandfather strode from the door; "ye maunna forget 'at he's auld an' blin'; an' a' heelan' fowk's some kittle (touchy) about their legs." "deil shochle them!" exclaimed the partaness; "what care i for 's legs!" duncan had brought the germ of this ministry of light from his native highlands, where he had practised it in his own house, no one but himself being permitted to clean, or fill, or, indeed, trim the lamp. how first this came about, i do not believe the old man himself knew. but he must have had some feeling of a call to the work; for he had not been a month in portlossie, before he had installed himself in several families as the genius of their lamps, and he gradually extended the relation until it comprehended almost all the houses in the village. it was strange and touching to see the sightless man thus busy about light for others. a marvellous symbol of faith he was--not only believing in sight, but in the mysterious, and to him altogether unintelligible means by which others saw! in thus lending his aid to a faculty in which he had no share, he himself followed the trail of the garments of light, stooping ever and anon to lift and bear her skirts. he haunted the steps of the unknown power, and flitted about the walls of her temple as we mortals haunt the borders of the immortal land, knowing nothing of what lies behind the unseen veil, yet believing in an unrevealed grandeur. or shall we say he stood like the forsaken merman, who, having no soul to be saved, yet lingered and listened outside the prayer echoing church? only old duncan had got farther: though he saw not a glimmer of the glory, he yet asserted his part and lot in it, by the aiding of his fellows to that of which he lacked the very conception himself. he was a doorkeeper in the house, yea, by faith the blind man became even a priest in the temple of light. even when his grandchild was the merest baby, he would never allow the gloaming to deepen into night without kindling for his behoof the brightest and cleanest of train oil lamps. the women who at first looked in to offer their services, would marvel at the trio of blind man, babe, and burning lamp, and some would expostulate with him on the needless waste. but neither would he listen to their words, nor accept their offered assistance in dressing or undressing the child. the sole manner in which he would consent to avail himself of their willingness to help him, was to leave the baby in charge of this or that neighbour while he went his rounds with the bagpipes: when he went lamp cleaning he always took him along with him. by this change of guardians malcolm was a great gainer, for thus he came to be surreptitiously nursed by a baker's dozen of mothers, who had a fund of not very wicked amusement in the lamentations of the old man over his baby's refusal of nourishment, and his fears that he was pining away. but while they honestly declared that a healthier child had never been seen in portlossie, they were compelled to conceal the too satisfactory reasons of the child's fastidiousness; for they were persuaded that the truth would only make duncan terribly jealous, and set him on contriving how at once to play his pipes and carry his baby. he had certain days for visiting certain houses, and cleaning the lamps in them. the housewives had at first granted him as a privilege the indulgence of his whim, and as such alone had duncan regarded it; but by and by, when they found their lamps burn so much better from being properly attended to, they began to make him some small return; and at length it became the custom with every housewife who accepted his services, to pay him a halfpenny a week during the winter months for cleaning her lamp. he never asked for it; if payment was omitted, never even hinted at it; received what was given him thankfully; and was regarded with kindness, and, indeed, respect, by all. even mrs partan, as he alone called her, was his true friend: no intensity of friendship could have kept her from scolding. i believe if we could thoroughly dissect the natures of scolding women, we should find them in general not at all so unfriendly as they are unpleasant. a small trade in oil arose from his connection with the lamps, and was added to the list of his general dealings. the fisher folk made their own oil, but sometimes it would run short, and then recourse was had to duncan's little store, prepared by himself of the best; chiefly, now, from the livers of fish caught by his grandson. with so many sources of income, no one wondered at his getting on. indeed no one would have been surprised to hear, long before malcolm had begun to earn anything, that the old man had already laid by a trifle. chapter xv: the slope of the dune looking at malcolm's life from the point of his own consciousness, and not from that of the so called world, it was surely pleasant enough. innocence, devotion to another, health, pleasant labour with an occasional shadow of danger to arouse the energies, leisure, love of reading, a lofty minded friend, and, above all, a supreme presence, visible to his heart in the meeting of vaulted sky and outspread sea, and felt at moments in any waking wind that cooled his glowing cheek and breathed into him anew of the breath of life, --lapped in such conditions, bathed in such influences, the youth's heart was swelling like a rosebud ready to burst into blossom. but he had never yet felt the immediate presence of woman in any of her closer relations. he had never known mother or sister; and, although his voice always assumed a different tone and his manner grew more gentle in the presence, of a woman, old or young, he had found little individually attractive amongst the fisher girls. there was not much in their circumstances to bring out the finer influences of womankind in them: they had rough usage, hard work at the curing and carrying of fish and the drying of nets, little education, and but poor religious instruction. at the same time any failure in what has come to be specially called virtue, was all but unknown amongst them; and the profound faith in women, and corresponding worship of everything essential to womanhood which essentially belonged to a nature touched to fine issues, had as yet met with no check. it had never come into malcolm's thoughts that there were live women capable of impurity. mrs. catanach was the only woman he had ever looked upon with dislike--and that dislike had generated no more than the vaguest suspicion. let a woman's faults be all that he had ever known in woman; he yet could look on her with reverence--and the very heart of reverence is love, whence it may be plainly seen that malcolm's nature was at once prepared for much delight, and exposed to much suffering. it followed that all the women of his class loved and trusted him; and hence in part it came that, absolutely free of arrogance, he was yet confident in the presence of women. the tradesmen's daughters in the upper town took pains to show him how high above him they were, and women of better position spoke to him with a kind condescension that made him feel the gulf that separated them; but to one and all he spoke with the frankness of manly freedom. but he had now arrived at that season when, in the order of things, a man is compelled to have at least a glimmer of the life which consists in sharing life with another. when once, through the thousand unknown paths of creation, the human being is so far divided from god that his individuality is secured, it has become yet more needful that the crust gathered around him in the process should be broken; and the love between man and woman arising from a difference deep in the heart of god, and essential to the very being of each --for by no words can i express my scorn of the evil fancy that the distinction between them is solely or even primarily physical --is one of his most powerful forces for blasting the wall of separation, and first step towards the universal harmony of twain making one. that love should be capable of ending in such vermiculate results as too often appear, is no more against the loveliness of the divine idea, than that the forms of man and woman, the spirit gone from them, should degenerate to such things as may not be looked upon. there is no plainer sign of the need of a god, than the possible fate of love. the celestial cupido may soar aloft on seraph wings that assert his origin, or fall down on the belly of a snake and creep to hell. but malcolm was not of the stuff of which coxcombs are made, and had not begun to think even of the abyss that separated lady florimel and himself--an abyss like that between star and star, across which stretches no mediating air--a blank and blind space. he felt her presence only as that of a being to be worshipped, to be heard with rapture, and yet addressed without fear. though not greatly prejudiced in favour of books, lady florimel had burrowed a little in the old library at lossie house, and had chanced on the faerie queene. she had often come upon the name of the author in books of extracts, and now, turning over its leaves, she found her own. indeed, where else could her mother have found the name florimel? her curiosity was roused, and she resolved-- no light undertaking--to read the poem through, and see who and what the lady, florimel, was. notwithstanding the difficulty she met with at first, she had persevered, and by this time it had become easy enough. the copy she had found was in small volumes, of which she now carried one about with her wherever she wandered; and making her first acquaintance with the sea and the poem together, she soon came to fancy that she could not fix her attention on the book without the sound of the waves for an accompaniment to the verse--although the gentler noise of an ever flowing stream would have better suited the nature of spenser's rhythm; for indeed, he had composed the greater part of the poem with such a sound in his ears, and there are indications in the poem itself that he consciously took the river as his chosen analogue after which to model the flow of his verse. it was a sultry afternoon, and florimel lay on the seaward side of the dune, buried in her book. the sky was foggy with heat, and the sea lay dull, as if oppressed by the superincumbent air, and leaden in hue, as if its colour had been destroyed by the sun. the tide was rising slowly, with a muffled and sleepy murmur on the sand; for here were no pebbles to impart a hiss to the wave as it rushed up the bank, or to go softly hurtling down the slope with it as it sank. as she read, malcolm was walking towards her along the top of the dune, but not until he came almost above where she lay, did she hear his step in the soft quenching sand. she nodded kindly, and he descended approaching her. "did ye want me, my leddy?" he asked. "no," she answered. "i wasna sure whether ye noddit 'cause ye wantit me or no," said malcolm, and turned to reascend the dune. "where are you going now?" she asked. "ow! nae gait in particlar. i jist cam oot to see hoo things war luikin." "what things?" "ow! jist the lift (sky), an' the sea, an' sic generals." that malcolm's delight in the presences of nature--i say presences, as distinguished from forms and colours and all analyzed sources of her influences--should have already become a conscious thing to himself requires to account for it the fact that his master, graham, was already under the influences of wordsworth, whom he had hailed as a crabbe that had burst his shell and spread the wings of an eagle the virtue passed from him to his pupil. "i won't detain you from such important business," said lady florimel, and dropped her eyes on her book. "gien ye want my company, my leddy, i can luik aboot me jist as weel here as ony ither gait," said malcolm. and as he spoke, he gently stretched himself on the dune, about three yards aside and lower down. florimel looked half amused and half annoyed, but she had brought it on herself, and would punish him only by dropping her eyes again on her book, and keeping silent. she had come to the florimel of snow. malcolm lay and looked at her for a few moments pondering; then fancying he had found the cause of her offence, rose, and, passing to the other side of her, again lay down, but at a still more respectful distance. "why do you move?" she asked, without looking up. "'cause there's jist a possible air o' win' frae the nor'east." "and you want me to shelter you from it?" said lady florimel. "na, na, my leddy," returned malcolm, laughing; "for as bonny's ye are, ye wad be but sma' scoug (shelter)." "why did you move, then?" persisted the girl, who understood what he said just about half. "weel, my leddy, ye see it 's het, an' aye amang the fish mair or less, an' i didna ken 'at i was to hae the honour o' sittin' doon aside ye; sae i thocht ye was maybe smellin' the fish. it's healthy eneuch, but some fowk disna like it; an' for a' that i ken, you gran' fowk's senses may be mair ready to scunner (take offence) than oors. 'deed, my leddy, we wadna need to be particlar, whiles, or it wad be the waur for 's." simple as it was, the explanation served to restore her equanimity, disturbed by what had seemed his presumption in lying down in her presence: she saw that she had mistaken the action. the fact was, that, concluding from her behaviour she had something to say to him, but was not yet at leisure for him, he had lain down, as a loving dog might, to await her time. it was devotion, not coolness. to remain standing before her would have seemed a demand on her attention; to lie down was to withdraw and wait. but florimel, although pleased, was only the more inclined to torment--a peculiarity of disposition which she inherited from her father: she bowed her face once more over her book, and read though three whole stanzas, without however understanding a single phrase in them, before she spoke. then looking up, and regarding for a moment the youth who lay watching her with the eyes of the servants in the psalm, she said,--"well? what are you waiting for?" "i thocht ye wantit me, my leddy! i beg yer pardon," answered malcolm, springing to his feet, and turning to go. "do you ever read?" she asked. "aften that," replied malcolm, turning again, and standing stock still. "an' i like best to read jist as yer leddyship's readin' the noo, lyin' o' the san' hill, wi' the haill sea afore me, an naething atween me an' the icebergs but the watter an' the stars an' a wheen islands. it's like readin' wi' fower een, that!" "and what do you read on such occasions?" carelessly drawled his persecutor. "whiles ae thing an' whiles anither--whiles onything i can lay my han's upo'. i like traivels an' sic like weel eneuch; an' history, gien it be na ower dry like. i div not like sermons, an' there's mair o' them in portlossie than onything ither. mr graham--that's the schoolmaister--has a gran' libbrary, but it 's maist laitin an' greek, an' though i like the laitin weel, it 's no what i wad read i' the face o' the sea. when ye're in dreid o' wantin' a dictionar', that spiles a'." "can you read latin then?" "ay: what for no, my leddy? i can read virgil middlin'; an' horace's ars poetica, the whilk mr graham says is no its richt name ava, but jist epistola ad pisones; for gien they bude to gie 't anither it sud ha' been ars dramatica. but leddies dinna care aboot sic things." "you gentlemen give us no chance. you won't teach us." "noo, my leddy, dinna begin to mak' ghem o' me, like my lord. i cud ill bide it frae him, an' gien ye tak till 't as weel, maun jist haud oot o' yer gait. nae gentleman, an' hae ower muckle respeck for what becomes a gentleman to be pleased at bein' ca'd ane. but as for the laitin, i'll be prood to instruck yer leddyship whan ye please." " afraid i've no great wish to learn," said florimel. "i daur say no," said malcolm quietly, and again addressed himself to go. "do you like novels?" asked the girl. "i never saw a novelle. there's no ane amo' a' mr graham's buiks, an' i s' warran' there's full twa hunner o' them. i dinna believe there's a single novelle in a' portlossie." "don't be too sure: there are a good many in our library." "i hadna the presumption, my leddy, to coont the hoose in portlossie --ye'll hae a sicht o' buiks up there, no?" "have you never been in the library?" "i never set fut i' the hoose--'cep' i' the kitchie, an' ance or twise steppin' across the ha' frae the ae door to the tither. i wad fain see what kin' o' a place great fowk like you bides in, an' what kin' o' things, buiks an' a', ye hae aboot ye. it's no easy for the like o' huz 'at has but a but an' a ben (outer and inner room), to unnerstan' hoo ye fill sic a muckle place as yon. i wad be aye i' the libbrary, i think. but," he went on, glancing involuntarily at the dainty little foot that peered from under her dress, "yer leddyship's sae licht fittit, ye'll be ower the haill dwallin', like a wee bird in a muckle cage. whan i want room, i like it wantin' wa's." once more he was on the point of going, but once more a word detained him. "do you ever read poetry?" "ay, sometimes--whan it 's auld." "one would think you were talking about wine! does age improve poetry as well?" "i ken naething aboot wine, my leddy. miss horn gae me a glaiss the ither day, an' it tastit weel, but whether it was merum or mixtum, i couldna tell mair nor a haddick. doobtless age does gar poetry smack a wee better; but i said auld only 'cause there's sae little new poetry that i care aboot comes my gait. mr graham's unco ta'en wi' maister wordsworth--no an ill name for a poet; do ye ken onything aboot him, my leddy?" "i never heard of him." "i wadna gie an auld scots ballant for a barrowfu' o' his. there's gran' bits here an' there, nae doobt, but it 's ower mim mou'ed for me." "what do you mean by that?" "it's ower saft an' sliddery like i' yer mou', my leddy." "what sort do you like then?" "i like milton weel. ye get a fine mou'fu' o' him. i dinna like the verse 'at ye can murle (crumble) oot atween yer lips an' yer teeth. i like the verse 'at ye maun open yer mou' weel to lat gang. syne it 's worth yer while, whether ye unnerstan' 't or no." "i don't see how you can say that." "jist hear, my leddy! here's a bit i cam upo' last nicht: his volant touch, instinct through all proportions, low and high, fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue. hear till 't! it's gran'--even though ye dinna ken what it means a bit." "i do know what it means," said florimel. "let me see: volant means --what does volant mean?" "it means fleein', i suppose." "well, he means some musician or other." "of coorse: it maun be jubal--i ken a' the words but fugue; though i canna tell what business instinct an' proportions hae there." "it's describing how the man's fingers, playing a fugue--on the organ, i suppose,--" "a fugue 'll be some kin' o' a tune, than? that casts a heap o' licht on't, my leddy--i never saw an organ: what is 't like?" "something like a pianoforte." "but i never saw ane o' them either. it's ill makin' things a'thegither oot o' yer ain heid." "well, it 's played with the fingers--like this," said florimel. "and the fugue is a kind of piece where one part pursues the other, --" "an' syne," cried malcolm eagerly, "that ane turns roon' an' rins efter the first;--that 'll be 'fled and pursued transverse.' i hae't! i hae't! see, my leddy, what it is to hae sic schoolin', wi' music an' a'! the proportions--that's the relation o' the notes to ane anither; an' fugue--that comes frae fugere to flee --'fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue '--the tane rinnin' efter the tither, roon' an' roon'. ay, i hae't noo!-- resonant--that's echoing or resounding. but what's instinct my leddy? it maun be an adjective, thinkin'." although the modesty of malcolm had led him to conclude the girl immeasurably his superior in learning because she could tell him what a fugue was, he soon found she could help him no further, for she understood scarcely anything about grammar, and her vocabulary was limited enough. not a doubt interfered, however, with her acceptance of the imputed superiority; for it is as easy for some to assume as it is for others to yield. "i hae't! it is an adjective," cried malcolm, after a short pause of thought. "it's the touch that's instinct. but i fancy there sud be a comma efter instinct.--his fingers were sae used till 't that they could 'maist do the thing o' themsel's--isna 't lucky, my leddy, that i thocht o' sayin' 't ower to you! i'll read the buik frae the beginnin',--it 's the neist to the last, i think,--jist to come upo' the twa lines i' their ain place, ohn their expeckin' me like, an' see hoo gran' they soon' whan a body unnerstan's them. thank ye, my leddy." "i suppose you read milton to your grandfather?" "ay, sometimes--i' the lang forenights." "what do you mean by the forenights?" "i mean efter it 's dark an' afore ye gang to yer bed.--he likes the battles o' the angels best. as sune 's it comes to ony fechtin', up he gets, an' gangs stridin' aboot the flure; an' whiles he maks a claucht at 's claymore; an' faith! ance he maist cawed aff my heid wi' 't, for he had made a mistak aboot whaur i was sittin'." "what's a claymore?" "a muckle heelan' braidswoord, my leddy. clay frae gladius verra likly; an' more 's the gaelic for great: claymore, great sword. blin' as my gran'father is, ye wad sweer he had fochten in 's day, gien ye hard hoo he'll gar't whurr an' whustle aboot 's heid as gien 't war a bit lath o' wud." "but that's very dangerous," said florimel, something aghast at the recital. "ow, ay!" assented malcolm, indifferently,--"gien ye wad luik in, my leddy, i wad lat ye see his claymore, an' his dirk, an' his skene dhu, an' a'." "i don't think i could venture. he's too dreadful! i should be terrified at him." "dreidfu' my leddy? he's the quaietest, kin'liest auld man i that is, providit ye say naething for a cawmill, or agen ony ither hielanman. ye see he comes o' glenco, an' the cawmills are jist a hate till him--specially cawmill o' glenlyon, wha was the warst o' them a'. ye sud hear him tell the story till 's pipes, my leddy! it's gran' to hear him! an' the poetry a' his ain!" chapter xvi: the storm there came a blinding flash, and a roar through the leaden air, followed by heavy drops mixed with huge hailstones. at the flash, florimel gave a cry and half rose to her feet, but at the thunder, fell as if stunned by the noise, on the sand. as if with a bound, malcolm was by her side, but when she perceived his terror, she smiled, and laying hold of his hand, sprung to her feet. "come, come," she cried; and still holding his hand, hurried up the dune, and down the other side of it. malcolm accompanied her step for step, strongly tempted, however, to snatch her up, and run for the bored craig: he could not think why she made for the road-- high on an unscalable embankment, with the park wall on the other side. but she ran straight for a door in the embankment itself, dark between two buttresses, which, never having seen it open, he had not thought of. for a moment she stood panting before it, while with trembling hand she put a key in the lock; the next she pushed open the creaking door and entered. as she turned to take out the key, she saw malcolm yards away in the middle of the road and in a cataract of rain, which seemed to have with difficulty suspended itself only until the lady should be under cover. he stood with his bonnet in his hand, watching for a farewell glance. "why don't you come in?" she said impatiently. he was beside her in a moment. "i didna ken ye wad lat me in," he said. "i wouldn't have you drowned," she returned, shutting the door. "droont!" he repeated, "it wad tak a hantle (great deal) to droon me. i stack to the boddom o' a whumled boat a haill nicht whan i was but fifeteen." they stood in a tunnel which passed under the road, affording immediate communication between the park and the shore. the further end of it was dark with trees. the upper half of the door by which they had entered was a wooden grating, for the admission of light, and through it they were now gazing, though they could see little but the straight lines of almost perpendicular rain that scratched out the colours of the landscape. the sea was troubled, although no wind blew; it heaved as with an inward unrest. but suddenly there was a great broken sound somewhere in the air; and the next moment a storm came tearing over the face of the sea, covering it with blackness innumerably rent into spots of white. presently it struck the shore, and a great rude blast came roaring through the grating, carrying with it a sheet of rain, and, catching florimel's hair, sent it streaming wildly out behind her. "dinna ye think, my leddy," said malcolm, "ye had better mak for the hoose? what wi' the win' an' the weet thegither, ye'll be gettin' yer deith o' cauld. i s' gang wi' ye sae far, gien ye'll alloo me, jist to baud it ohn blawn ye awa'." the wind suddenly fell, and his last words echoed loud in the vaulted sky. for a moment it grew darker in the silence, and then a great flash carried the world away with it, and left nothing but blackness behind. a roar of thunder followed, and even while it yet bellowed, a white face flitted athwart the grating, and a voice of agony shrieked aloud: "i dinna ken whaur it comes frae!" florimel grasped malcolm's arm: the face had passed close to hers --only the grating between, and the cry cut through the thunder like a knife. instinctively, almost unconsciously, he threw his arm around her, to shield her from her own terror. "dinna be fleyt, my leddy," he said. "it's naething but the mad laird. he's a quaiet cratur eneuch, only he disna ken whaur he comes frae--he disna ken whaur onything comes frae--an' he canna bide it. but he wadna hurt leevin' cratur, the laird." "what a dreadful face!" said the girl, shuddering. "it's no an ill faured face," said malcolm, "only the storm's frichtit him by ord'nar, an' it 's unco ghaistly the noo." "is there nothing to be done for him?" she said compassionately. "no upo' this side the grave, i doobt, my leddy," answered malcolm. here coming to herself the girl became aware of her support, and laid her hand on malcolm's to remove his arm. he obeyed instantly, and she said nothing. "there was some speech," he went on hurriedly, with a quaver in his voice, "o' pittin' him intill the asylum at aberdeen, an' no lattin' him scoor the queentry this gait, they said; but it wad hae been sheer cruelty, for the cratur likes naething sac weel as rinnin' aboot, an' does no' mainner o' hurt. a verra bairn can guide him. an' he has jist as guid a richt to the leeberty god gies him as ony man alive, an' mair nor a hantle (more than many)." "is nothing known about him?" "a' thing's known aboot him, my leddy, 'at 's known aboot the lave (rest) o' 's. his father was the laird o' gersefell--an' for that maitter he's laird himsel' noo. but they say he's taen sic a scunner (disgust) at his mither, that he canna bide the verra word o' mither; he jist cries oot whan he hears 't." "it seems clearing," said florimel. "i doobt it 's only haudin' up for a wee," returned malcolm, after surveying as much of the sky as was visible through the bars; "but i do think ye had better run for the hoose, my leddy. i s' jist follow ye, a feow yairds ahin', till i see ye safe. dinna ye be feared--i s' tak guid care: i wadna hae ye seen i' the company o' a fisher lad like me." there was no doubting the perfect simplicity with which this was said, and the girl took no exception. they left the tunnel, and skirting the bottom of the little hill on which stood the temple of the winds, were presently in the midst of a young wood, through which a gravelled path led towards the house. but they had not gone far ere a blast of wind, more violent than any that had preceded it, smote the wood, and the trees, young larches and birches and sycamores, bent streaming before it. lady florimel turned to see where malcolm was, and her hair went from her like a maenad's, while her garments flew fluttering and straining, as if struggling to carry her off. she had never in her life before been out in a storm, and she found the battle joyously exciting. the roaring of the wind in the trees was grand; and what seemed their terrified struggles while they bowed and writhed and rose but to bow again, as in mad effort to unfix their earthbound roots and escape, took such sympathetic hold of her imagination, that she flung out her arms, and began to dance and whirl as if herself the genius of the storm. malcolm, who had been some thirty paces behind, was with her in a moment. "isn't it splendid?" she cried. "it blaws weel--verra near as weel 's my daddy," said malcolm, enjoying it quite as much as the girl. "how dare you make game of such a grand uproar?" said florimel with superiority. "mak ghem o' a blast o' win' by comparin' 't to my gran'father!" exclaimed malcolm. "hoot, my leddy! its a coamplement to the biggest blast 'at ever blew to be compairt till an auld man like him. ower used to them to min' them muckle mysel', 'cep' to fecht wi' them. but whan i watch the seagoos dartin' like arrowheids throu' the win', i sometimes think it maun be gran' for the angels to caw aboot great flags o' wings in a mortal warstle wi' sic a hurricane as this." "i don't understand you one bit," said lady florimel petulantly. as she spoke, she went on, but, the blast having abated, malcolm lingered, to place a proper distance between them. "you needn't keep so far behind," said florimel, looking back. "as yer leddyship pleases," answered malcolm, and was at once by her side. "i'll gang till ye tell me to stan'.--eh, sae different 's ye look frae the ither mornin'!" "what morning?" "whan ye was sittin' at the fut o' the bored craig." "bored craig? what's that?" "the rock wi' a hole throu' 'it. ye ken the rock weel eneuch, my leddy. ye was sittin' at the fut o' 't, readin' yer buik, as white 's gien ye had been made o' snaw. it cam to me that the rock was the sepulchre, the hole the open door o' 't, an' yersel' ane o' the angels that had faulded his wings an' was waitin' for somebody to tell the guid news till, that he was up an awa'." "and what do i look like today?" she asked. "ow! the day, ye luik like some cratur o' the storm; or the storm itsel' takin' a leevin' shape, an' the bonniest it could; or maybe, like ahriel, gaein' afore the win', wi' the blast in 's feathers, rufflin' them 'a gaits at ance." "who's ahriel?" "ow, the fleein' cratur i' the tempest! but in your bonny southern speech, i daursay ye wad ca' him--or her, i dinna ken whilk the cratur was--ye wad ca' 't ayriel?" "i don't know anything about him or her or it," said lady florimel. "ye'll hae a' aboot him up i' the libbrary there though," said malcolm. "the tempest's the only ane o' shakspere's plays 'at i hae read, but it 's a gran' ane, as maister graham has empooered me to see." "oh, dear!" exclaimed florimel, "i've lost my book!" "i'll gang back an' luik for 't this meenute, my leddy," said malcolm. "i ken ilka fit o' the road we've come, an' it 's no possible but i fa' in wi' 't.--ye'll sune be hame noo, an' it'll hardly be on again afore ye win in," he added, looking up at the clouds. "but how am i to get it? i want it very much." "i'll jest fess 't up to the hoose, an' say 'at i fan' 't whaur i will fin' 't. but i wiss ye wad len' me yer pocket nepkin to row 't in, for feared for blaudin' 't afore i get it back to ye." florimel gave him her handkerchief, and malcolm took his leave, saying.--"i'll be up i' the coorse o' a half hoor at farthest." the humble devotion and absolute service of the youth, resembling that of a noble dog, however unlikely to move admiration in lady florimel's heart, could not fail to give her a quiet and welcome pleasure. he was an inferior who could be depended upon, and his worship was acceptable. not a fear of his attentions becoming troublesome ever crossed her mind. the wider and more impassable the distinctions of rank, the more possible they make it for artificial minds to enter into simply human relations; the easier for the oneness of the race to assert itself, in the offering and acceptance of a devoted service. there is more of the genuine human in the relationship between some men and their servants, than between those men and their own sons. with eyes intent, and keen as those of a gazehound, malcolm retraced every step, up to the grated door. but no volume was to be seen. turning from the door of the tunnel, for which he had no sesame, he climbed to the foot of the wall that crossed it above, and with a bound, a clutch at the top, a pull and a scramble, was in the high road in a moment. from the road to the links was an easy drop, where, starting from the grated door, he retraced their path from the dune. lady florimel had dropped the book when she rose, and malcolm found it lying on the sand, little the worse. he wrapped it in its owner's handkerchief, and set out for the gate at the mouth of the river. as he came up to it, the keeper, an ill conditioned snarling fellow, who, in the phrase of the seaton folk, "rade on the riggin (ridge) o' 's authority," rushed out of the lodge, and just as malcolm was entering, shoved the gate in his face. "ye comena in wi'oot the leave o' me," he cried, with a vengeful expression. "what's that for?" said malcolm, who had already interposed his great boot, so that the spring bolt could not reach its catch. "there s' nae lan' loupin' rascals come in here," said bykes, setting his shoulder to the gate. that instant he went staggering back to the wall of the lodge, with the gate after him. "stick to the wa' there," said malcolm, as he strode in. the keeper pursued him with frantic abuse, but he never turned his head. arrived at the house, he committed the volume to the cook, with a brief account of where he had picked it up, begging her to inquire whether it belonged to the house. the cook sent a maid with it to lady florimel, and malcolm waited until she returned--with thanks and a half crown. he took the money, and returned by the upper gate through the town. chapter xvii: the accusation the next morning, soon after their early breakfast, the gate keeper stood in the door of duncan macphail's cottage, with a verbal summons for malcolm to appear before his lordship. "an' no to lowse sicht o' ye till ye hae put in yer appearance," he added; "sae gien ye dinna come peaceable, i maun gar ye." "whaur's yer warrant?" asked malcolm coolly. "ye wad hae the impidence to deman' my warrant, ye young sorner!" cried bykes indignantly. "come yer wa's, my man, or i s' gar ye smairt for 't" "haud a quaiet sough, an' gang hame for yer warrant," said malcolm. "it's lyin' there, doobtless, or ye wadna hae daured to shaw yer face on sic an eeran'." duncan, who was dozing in his chair, awoke at the sound of high words. his jealous affection perceived at once that malcolm was being insulted. he sprang to his feet, stepped swiftly to the wall, caught down his broadsword, and rushed to the door, making the huge weapon quiver and whir about his head as if it had been a slip of tin plate. "where is ta rascal?" he shouted. "she'll cut him town! show her ta lowlan' thief! she'll cut him town! who'll be insulting her malcolm?" but bykes, at first sight of the weapon, had vanished in dismay. "hoot toot, daddy," said malcolm, taking him by the arm; "there's naebody here. the puir cratur couldna bide the sough o' the claymore. he fled like the autumn wind over the stubble. there's ossian for't." "ta lord pe praised!" cried duncan. "she'll be confounded her foes. but what would ta rascal pe wanting, my son?" leading him back to his chair, malcolm told him as much as he knew of the matter. "ton't you co for a warrant," said duncan. "if my lort marquis will pe senting for you as one chentleman sends for another, then you co." within an hour bykes reappeared, accompanied by one of the gamekeepers --an englishman. the moment he heard the door open, duncan caught again at his broadsword. "we want you, my young man," said the gamekeeper, standing on the threshold, with bykes peeping over his shoulder, in an attitude indicating one foot already lifted to run. "what for?" "that's as may appear." "whaur's yer warrant?" "there." "lay 't doon o' the table, an' gang back to the door, till i get a sklent at it," said malcolm. "ye're an honest man, wull--but i wadna lippen a snuff mull 'at had mair nor ae pinch intill 't wi' yon cooard cratur ahin' ye." he was afraid of the possible consequences of his grandfather's indignation. the gamekeeper did at once as he was requested, evidently both amused with the bearing of the two men and admiring it. having glanced at the paper, malcolm put it in his pocket, and whispering a word to his grandfather, walked away with his captors. as they went to the house, bykes was full of threats of which he sought to enhance the awfulness by the indefiniteness; but will told malcolm as much as he knew of the matter--namely, that the head gamekeeper, having lost some dozen of his sitting pheasants, had enjoined a strict watch; and that bykes having caught sight of malcolm in the very act of getting over the wall, had gone and given information against him. no one about the premises except bykes would have been capable of harbouring suspicion of malcolm; and the head gamekeeper had not the slightest; but, knowing that his lordship found little enough to amuse him, and anticipating some laughter from the confronting of two such opposite characters, he had gone to the marquis with byke's report,--and this was the result. his lordship was not a magistrate, and the so called warrant was merely a somewhat sternly worded expression of his desire that malcolm should appear and answer to the charge. the accused was led into a vaulted chamber opening from the hall --a genuine portion, to judge from its deep low arched recesses, the emergence of truncated portions of two or three groins, and the thickness of its walls, of the old monastery. close by the door ascended a right angled modern staircase. lord lossie entered, and took his seat in a great chair in one of the recesses. "so, you young jackanapes!" he said, half angry, and half amused, "you decline to come, when i send for you, without a magistrate's warrant, forsooth! it looks bad to begin with, i must say!" "yer lordship wad never hae had me come at sic a summons as that cankert ted (toad) johnny bykes broucht me. gien ye had but hard him! he spak as gien he had been sent to fess me to yer lordship by the scruff o' the neck, an' i didna believe yer lordship wad do sic a thing. ony gait, i wasna gauin' to stan' that. ye wad hae thocht him a cornel at the sma'est, an' me a wheen heerin' guts. but it wad hae garred ye lauch, my lord, to see hoo the body ran whan my blin' gran'father--he canna bide onybody interferin' wi' me--made at him wi' his braid swoord!" "ye leein' rascal!" cried bykes; "--me feared at an auld spidder, 'at hasna breath eneuch to fill the bag o' 's pipes!" "caw canny, johnny bykes. gien ye say an ill word o' my gran'father, i s' gie your neck a thraw--an' that the meenute we're oot o' 's lordship's presence." "threits! my lord," said the gatekeeper, appealing. "and well merited," returned his lordship. "--well, then," he went on, again addressing malcolm, "what have you to say for yourself in regard of stealing my brood pheasants?" "maister macpherson," said malcolm, with an inclination of his head towards the gamekeeper, "micht ha' fun' a fitter neuk to fling that dirt intill. 'deed, my lord, it 's sae ridic'lous, it hardly angers me. a man 'at can hae a' the fish i' the haill ocean for the takin' o' them, to be sic a sneck drawin' contemptible wratch as tak yer lordship's bonny hen craturs frae their chuckies--no to mention the sin o't!--it 's past an honest man's denyin', my lord. an' maister macpherson kens better, for luik at him lauchin' in 's ain sleeve." "well, we've no proof of it," said the marquis; "but what do you say to the charge of trespass?" "the policies hae aye been open to honest fowk, my lord." "then where was the necessity for getting in over the wall!" "i beg yer pardon, my lord: ye hae nae proof agen me o' that aither." "daur ye tell me," cried bykes, recovering himself, "'at i didna see ye wi' my twa een, loup the dyke aneth the temple--ay, an something flutterin' unco like bird wings i' yer han'?" "oot or in, johnny bykes?" "ow! oot." "i did loup the dyke my lord; but it was oot, no in." "how did you get in then?" asked the marquis. "i gat in, my lord," began malcolm, and ceased. "how did you get in?" repeated the marquis. "ow! there's mony w'ys o' winnin' in, my lord. the last time i cam in but ane, it was 'maist ower the carcass o' johnny there, wha wad fain hae hauden me oot, only he hadna my blin' daddy ahint him to ile 's jints." "an' dinna ye ca' that brakin' in?" said bykes. "na; there was naething to brak, 'cep it had been your banes, johnny; an' that wad hae been a peety--they're sae guid for rinnin wi'." "you had no right to enter against the will of my gatekeeper," said his lordship. "what is a gatekeeper for?" "i had a richt, my lord, sae lang 's i was upo' my leddy's business." "and what was my lady's business, pray?" questioned the marquis. "i faun' a buik upo' the links, my lord, which was like to be hers, wi' the twa beasts 'at stans at yer lordship's door inside the brod (board) o' 't. an' sae it turned oot to be whan i took it up to the hoose. there's the half croon she gae me." little did malcolm think where the daintiest of pearly ears were listening, and the brightest of blue eyes looking down, half in merriment, a quarter in anxiety, and the remaining quarter in interest! on a landing half way up the stair, stood lady florimel, peeping over the balusters, afraid to fix her eyes upon him lest she should make him look up. "yes, yes, i daresay!" acquiesced the marquis; "but," he persisted, "what i want to know is, how you got in that time. you seem to have some reluctance to answer the question." "weel, i hey, my lord." "then i must insist on your doing so." "weel, i jist winna, my lord. it was a' straucht foret an' fair; an' gien yer lordship war i' my place, ye wadna say mair yersel'." "he's been after one of the girls about the place," whispered the marquis to the gamekeeper. "speir at him, my lord, gien 't please yer lordship, what it was he hed in 's han' whan he lap the park wa'," said bykes. "gien 't be a' ane till 's lordship," said malcolm, without looking at bykes, "it wad be better no to speir, for it gangs sair agen me to refeese him." "i should like to know," said the marquis. "ye maun trust me, my lord, that i was efter no ill. i gie ye my word for that, my lord." "but how am i to know what your word is worth?" returned lord lossie, well pleased with the dignity of the youth's behaviour. "to ken what a body's word 's worth ye maun trust him first, my lord. it's no muckle trust i want o' ye: it comes but to this--that i hae rizzons, guid to me, an' no ill to you gien ye kent them, for not answerin' yer lordship's questions. no denyin' a word 'at johnny bykes says. i never hard the cratur ca'd a leear. he's but a cantankerous argle barglous body--no fit to be a gatekeeper 'cep it was up upo' the binn side, whaur 'maist naebody gangs oot or in. he wad maybe be safter hertit till a fellow cratur syne." "would you have him let in all the tramps in the country?" said the marquis. "de'il ane o' them, my lord; but i wad hae him no trouble the likes o' me 'at fesses the fish to your lordship's brakwast: sic 's no like to be efter mischeef." "there is some glimmer of sense in what you say," returned his lordship. "but you know it won't do to let anybody that pleases get over the park walls. why didn't you go out at the gate?" "the burn was atween me an' hit, an' it 's a lang road roon'." "well, i must lay some penalty upon you, to deter others," said the marquis. "verra well, my lord. sae lang 's it 's fair, i s' bide it ohn grutten (without weeping)." "it shan't be too hard. it's just this--to give john bykes the thrashing he deserves, as soon as you're out of sight of the house." "na, na, my lord; i canna do that," said malcolm. "so you're afraid of him, after all!" "feared at johnnie bykes, my lord! ha! ha!" "you threatened him a minute ago, and now, when i give you leave to thrash him, you decline the honour!" "the disgrace, my lord. he's an aulder man, an' no abune half the size. but fegs! gien he says anither word agen my gran'father, i will gin 's neck a bit thaw" "well, well, be off with you both," said the marquis rising. no one heard the rustle of lady florimel's dress as she sped up the stair, thinking with herself how very odd it was to have a secret with a fisherman; for a secret it was, seeing the reticence of malcolm had been a relief to her; when she shrunk from what seemed the imminent mention of her name in the affair before the servants. she had even felt a touch of mingled admiration and gratitude when she found what a faithful squire he was--capable of an absolute obstinacy indeed, where she was concerned. for her own sake as well as his she was glad that he had got off so well, for otherwise she would have felt bound to tell her father the whole story, and she was not at all so sure as malcolm that he would have been satisfied with his reasons, and would not have been indignant with the fellow for presuming even to be silent concerning his daughter. indeed lady florimel herself felt somewhat irritated with him, as having brought her into the awkward situation of sharing a secret with a youth of his position. chapter xviii: the quarrel for a few days the weather was dull and unsettled, with cold flaws, and an occasional sprinkle of rain. but after came a still gray morning, warm and hopeful, and ere noon the sun broke out, the mists vanished, and the day was glorious in blue and gold. malcolm had been to scaurnose, to see his friend joseph mair, and was descending the steep path down the side of the promontory, on his way home, when his keen eye caught sight of a form on the slope of the dune which could hardly be other than that of lady florimel. she did not lift her eyes until he came quite near, and then only to drop them again with no more recognition than if he had been any other of the fishermen. already more than half inclined to pick a quarrel with him, she fancied that, presuming upon their very commonplace adventure and its resulting secret, he approached her with an assurance he had never manifested before, and her head was bent motionless over her book when he stood and addressed her. "my leddy," he began, with his bonnet by his knee. "well?" she returned, without even lifting her eyes, for, with the inherited privilege of her rank, she could be insolent with coolness, and call it to mind without remorse. "i houp the bit buikie wasna muckle the waur, my leddy," he said. "'tis of no consequence," she replied. "gien it war mine, i wadna think sae," he returned, eyeing her anxiously. "--here's yer leddyship's pocket nepkin," he went on. "i hae keepit it ready rowed up, ever sin' my daddy washed it oot. it's no ill dune for a blin' man, as ye'll see, an' i ironed it mysel' as weel's i cud." as he spoke he unfolded a piece of brown paper, disclosing a little parcel in a cover of immaculate post, which he humbly offered her. taking it slowly from his hand, she laid it on the ground beside her with a stiff "thank you," and a second dropping of her eyes that seemed meant to close the interview. "i doobt my company's no welcome the day, my leddy," said malcolm with trembling voice; "but there's ae thing i maun refar till. whan i took hame yer leddyship's buik the ither day, ye sent me half a croon by the han' o' yer servan' lass. afore her i wasna gaein' to disalloo onything ye pleased wi' regaird to me; an' i thocht wi' mysel' it was maybe necessar' for yer leddyship's dignity an' the luik o' things--" "how dare you hint at any understanding between you and me?" exclaimed the girl in cold anger. "lord, mem! what hey i said to fess sic a fire flaucht oot o' yer bonny een? i thocht ye only did it 'cause ye wad' na like to luik shabby afore the lass--no giein' onything to the lad 'at brocht ye yer ain--an' lippened to me to unnerstan' 'at ye did it but for the luik o' the thing, as i say." he had taken the coin from his pocket, and had been busy while he spoke rubbing it in a handful of sand, so that it was bright as new when he now offered it. "you are quite mistaken," she rejoined, ungraciously. "you insult me by supposing i meant you to return it." "div ye think i cud bide to be paid for a turn till a neebor, lat alane the liftin' o' a buik till a leddy?" said malcolm with keen mortification. "that wad be to despise mysel' frae keel to truck. i like to be paid for my wark, an' i like to be paid weel: but no a plack by siclike (beyond such) sall stick to my loof (palm). it can be no offence to gie ye back yer half croon, my leddy." and again he offered the coin. "i don't in the least see why, on your own principles, you shouldn't take the money," said the girl, with more than the coldness of an uninterested umpire. "you worked for it, sure--first accompanying me home in such a storm, and then finding the book and bringing it back all the way to the house!" "'deed, my leddy, sic a doctrine wad tak a' grace oot o' the earth! what wad this life be worth gien a' was to be peyed for? i wad cut my throat afore i wad bide in sic a warl'.--tak yer half croon, my leddy," he concluded, in a tone of entreaty. but the energetic outburst was sufficing, in such her mood, only to the disgust of lady florimel. "do anything with the money you please; only go away, and don't plague me about it," she said freezingly. "what can i du wi' what i wadna pass throu' my fingers?" said malcolm with the patience of deep disappointment. "give it to some poor creature: you know some one who would be glad of it, i daresay." "i ken mony ane, my leddy, wham it wad weel become yer am bonny han' to gie 't till; but no gaein' to tak' credit fer a leeberality that wad ill become me." "you can tell how you earned it." "and profess mysel' disgraced by takin' a reward frae a born leddy for what i wad hae dune for ony beggar wife i' the lan'. na, na, my leddy." "your services are certainly flattering, when you put me on a level with any beggar in the country!" "in regaird o' sic service, my leddy: ye ken weel eneuch what i mean. obleege me by takin' back yer siller." "how dare you ask me to take back what i once gave?" "ye cudna hae kent what ye was doin' whan ye gae 't, my leddy. tak it back, an tak a hunnerweicht aff o' my hert." he actually mentioned his heart!--was it to be borne by a girl in lady florimel's mood? "i beg you will not annoy me," she said, muffling her anger in folds of distance, and again sought her book. malcolm looked at her for a moment, then turned his face towards the sea, and for another moment stood silent. lady florimel glanced up, but malcolm was unaware of her movement. he lifted his hand, and looked at the half crown gleaming on his palm; then, with a sudden poise of his body, and a sudden fierce action of his arm, he sent the coin, swift with his heart's repudiation, across the sands into the tide. ere it struck the water he had turned, and, with long stride but low bent head, walked away. a pang shot to lady florimel's heart. "malcolm!" she cried. he turned instantly, came slowly back, and stood erect and silent before her. she must say something. her eye fell on the little parcel beside her, and she spoke the first thought that came. "will you take this?" she said, and offered him the handkerchief. in a dazed way he put out his hand and took it, staring at it as if he did not know what it was. "it's some sair!" he said at length, with a motion of his hands as if to grasp his head between them. "ye winna tak even the washin' o' a pocket nepkin frae me, an' ye wad gar me tak a haill half croon frae yersel'! mem, ye're a gran' leddy an' a bonny; an ye hae turns aboot ye, gien 'twar but the set o' yer heid, 'at micht gar an angel lat fa' what he was carryin', but afore i wad affront ane that wantit naething o' me but gude will, i wad--i wad-- raither be the fisher lad that i am." a weak kneed peroration, truly; but malcolm was over burdened at last. he laid the little parcel on the sand at her feet, almost reverentially, and again turned. but lady florimel spoke again. "it is you who are affronting me now," she said gently. "when a lady gives her handkerchief to a gentleman, it is commonly received as a very great favour indeed." "gien i hae made a mistak, my leddy, i micht weel mak it, no bein' a gentleman, and no bein' used to the traitment o' ane. but i doobt gien a gentleman wad ha' surmised what ye was efter wi' yer nepkin', gien ye had offert him half a croon first." "oh, yes, he would--perfectly!" said florimel with an air of offence. "then, my leddy, for the first time i' my life, i wish i had been born a gentleman." "then i certainly wouldn't have given it you," said florimel with perversity. "what for no, my leddy? i dinna unnerstan' ye again. there maun be an unco differ atween 's!" "because a gentleman would have presumed on such a favour." " glaidder nor ever 'at i wasna born ane," said malcolm, and, slowly stooping, he lifted the handkerchief; "an' i was aye glaid o' that, my leddy, 'cause gien i had been, i wad hae been luikin' doon upo' workin' men like mysel' as gien they warna freely o' the same flesh an' blude. but i beg yer leddyship's pardon for takin' ye up amiss. an' sae lang's i live, i'll regaird this as ane o' her fedders 'at the angel moutit as she sat by the bored craig. an' whan deid, i'll hae 't laid upo' my face, an' syne, maybe, i may get a sicht o' ye as i pass. guid day my leddy." "good day," she returned kindly. "i wish my father would let me have a row in your boat." "it's at yer service whan ye please, my leddy," said malcolm. one who had caught a glimpse of the shining yet solemn eyes of the youth, as he walked home, would wonder no longer that he should talk as he did--so sedately, yet so poetically--so long windedly, if you like, yet so sensibly--even wisely. lady florimel lay on the sand, and sought again to read the "faerie queene." but for the last day or two she had been getting tired of it, and now the forms that entered by her eyes dropped half their substance and all their sense in the porch, and thronged her brain with the mere phantoms of things, with words that came and went and were nothing. abandoning the harvest of chaff, her eyes rose and looked out upon the sea. never, even from tropical shore, was richer hued ocean beheld. gorgeous in purple and green, in shadowy blue and flashing gold, it seemed to malcolm, as if at any moment the ever newborn anadyomene might lift her shining head from the wandering floor, and float away in her pearly lustre to gladden the regions where the glaciers glide seawards in irresistible silence, there to give birth to the icebergs in tumult and thunderous uproar. but lady florimel felt merely the loneliness. one deserted boat lay on the long sand, like the bereft and useless half of a double shell. without show of life the moveless cliffs lengthened far into a sea where neither white sail deepened the purple and gold, nor red one enriched it with a colour it could not itself produce. neither hope nor aspiration awoke in her heart at the sight. was she beginning to be tired of her companionless liberty? had the long stanzas, bound by so many interwoven links of rhyme, ending in long alexandrines, the long cantos, the lingering sweetness long drawn out through so many unended books, begun to weary her at last? had even a quarrel with a fisher lad been a little pastime to her? and did she now wish she had detained him a little longer? could she take any interest in him beyond such as she took in demon, her father's dog, or brazenose, his favourite horse? whatever might be her thoughts or feelings at this moment, it remained a fact, that florimel colonsay, the daughter of a marquis, and malcolm, the grandson of a blind piper, were woman and man-- and the man the finer of the two this time. as malcolm passed on his way one of the three or four solitary rocks which rose from the sand, the skeleton remnants of larger masses worn down by wind, wave, and weather, he heard his own name uttered by an unpleasant voice, and followed by a more unpleasant laugh. he knew both the voice and the laugh, and, turning, saw mrs catanach, seated, apparently busy with her knitting, in the shade of the rock. "weel?" he said curtly. "weel!--set ye up!--wha's yon ye was play actin' wi' oot yonner?" "wha telled ye to speir, mistress catanach?" "ay, ay, laad! ye'll be abune speykin' till an auld wife efter colloguin' wi' a yoong ane, an' sic a ane! isna she bonny, malkie? isna hers a winsome shape an' a lauchin' ee? didna she draw ye on, an' luik i' the hawk's een o' ye, an' lay herself oot afore ye, an' ?" "she did naething o' the sort, ye ill tongued wuman!" said malcolm in anger. "ho! ho!" trumpeted mrs catanach. "ill tongued, am i? an' what neist?" "ill deedit," returned malcolm, "--whan ye flang my bonny salmon troot till yer oogly deevil o' a dog." "ho! ho! ho! ill deedit, am i? i s' no forget thae bonny names! maybe yer lordship wad alloo me the leeberty o' speirin' anither question at ye, ma'colm macphail." "ye may speir 'at ye like, sae lang 's ye canna gar me stan' to hearken. guid day to ye, mistress catanach. yer company was nane o' my seekin': i may lea' 't whan i like." "dinna ye be ower sure o' that," she called after him venomously. but malcolm turned his head no more. as soon as he was out of sight, mrs catanach rose, ascended the dune, and propelled her rotundity along the yielding top of it. when she arrived within speaking distance of lady florimel, who lay lost in her dreary regard of sand and sea, she paused for a moment, as if contemplating her. suddenly, almost by lady florimel's side, as if he had risen from the sand, stood the form of the mad laird. "i dinna ken whaur i come frae," he said. lady florimel started, half rose, and seeing the dwarf so near, and on the other side of her a repulsive looking woman staring at her, sprung to her feet and fled. the same instant the mad laird, catching sight of mrs catanach, gave a cry of misery, thrust his fingers in his ears, darted down the other side of the dune and sped along the shore. mrs. catanach shook with laughter. "i hae skailled (dispersed) the bonny doos!" she said. then she called aloud after the flying girl,--"my leddy! my bonny leddy!" florimel paid no heed, but ran straight for the door of the tunnel, and vanished. thence leisurely climbing to the temple of the winds, she looked down from a height of safety upon the shore and the retreating figure of mrs. catanach. seating herself by the pedestal of the trumpet blowing wind, she assayed her reading again, but was again startled--this time by a rough salute from demon. presently her father appeared, and lady florimel felt something like a pang of relief at being found there, and not on the farther side of the dune making it up with malcolm. chapter xix: duncan's pipes a few days after the events last narrated, a footman in the marquis's livery entered the seaton, snuffing with emphasized discomposure the air of the village, all ignorant of the risk he ran in thus openly manifesting his feelings; for the women at least were good enough citizens to resent any indignity offered their town. as vengeance would have it, meg partan was the first of whom, with supercilious airs and "clippit" tongue, he requested to know where a certain blind man, who played on an instrument called the bagpipes, lived. "spit i' yer loof an' caw (search) for him," she answered--a reply of which he understood the tone and one disagreeable word. with reddening cheek he informed her that he came on his lord's business. "i dinna doobt it," she retorted; "ye luik siclike as rins ither fowk's eeran's." "i should be obliged if you would inform me where the man lives," returned the lackey--with polite words in supercilious tones. "what d' ye want wi' him, honest man?" grimly questioned the partaness, the epithet referring to duncan, and not the questioner. "that shall have the honour of informing himself," he replied. "weel, ye can hae the honour o' informin' yersel' whaur he bides," she rejoined, and turned away from her open door. all were not so rude as she, however, for he found at length a little girl willing to show him the way. the style in which his message was delivered was probably modified by the fact that he found malcolm seated with his grandfather at their evening meal of water brose and butter; for he had been present when malcolm was brought before the marquis by bykes, and had in some measure comprehended the nature of the youth: it was in politest phrase, and therefore entirely to duncan's satisfaction in regard of the manner as well as matter of the message, that he requested mr duncan macphail's attendance on the marquis the following evening at six o'clock, to give his lordship and some distinguished visitors the pleasure of hearing him play on the bagpipes during dessert. to this summons the old man returned stately and courteous reply, couched in the best english he could command; which, although considerably distorted by gaelic pronunciation and idioms, was yet sufficiently intelligible to the messenger, who carried home the substance for the satisfaction of his master, and what he could of the form for the amusement of his fellow servants. duncan, although he received it with perfect calmness, was yet overjoyed at the invitation. he had performed once or twice before the late marquis, and having ever since assumed the style of piper to the marquis of lossie, now regarded the summons as confirmation in the office. the moment the sound of the messenger's departing footsteps died away, he caught up his pipes from the corner, where, like a pet cat, they lay on a bit of carpet, the only piece in the cottage, spread for them between his chair and the wall, and, though cautiously mindful of its age and proved infirmity, filled the bag full, and burst into such a triumphant onset of battle, that all the children of the seaton were in a few minutes crowded about the door. he had not played above five minutes, however, when the love of finery natural to the gael, the gaul, the galatian, triumphed over his love of music, and he stopped with an abrupt groan of the instrument to request malcolm to get him new streamers. whatever his notions of its nature might be, he could not come of the celtic race without having in him somewhere a strong faculty for colour, and no doubt his fancy regarding it was of something as glorious as his knowledge of it must have been vague. at all events he not only knew the names of the colours in ordinary use, but could describe many of the clan tartans with perfect accuracy; and he now gave malcolm complete instructions as to the hues of the ribbons he was to purchase. as soon as he had started on the important mission, the old man laid aside his instrument, and taking his broadsword from the wall, proceeded with the aid of brick dust and lamp oil, to furbish hilt and blade with the utmost care, searching out spot after spot of rust, to the smallest, with the delicate points of his great bony fingers. satisfied at length of its brightness, he requested malcolm, who had returned long before the operation was over, to bring him the sheath, which, for fear of its coming to pieces, so old and crumbling was the leather, he kept laid up in the drawer with his sporran and his sunday coat. his next business, for he would not commit it to malcolm, was to adorn the pipes with the new streamers. asking the colour of each, and going by some principle of arrangement known only to himself he affixed them, one after the other, as he judged right, shaking and drawing out each to its full length with as much pride as if it had been a tone instead of a ribbon. this done, he resumed his playing, and continued it, notwithstanding the remonstrances of his grandson, until bedtime. that night he slept but little, and as the day went on grew more and more excited. scarcely had he swallowed his twelve o'clock dinner of sowens and oatcake, when he wanted to go and dress himself for his approaching visit. malcolm persuaded him however to lie down a while and hear him play, and succeeded, strange as it may seem with such an instrument, in lulling him to sleep. but he had not slept more than five minutes when he sprung from the bed, wide awake, crying--"my poy, malcolm! my son! you haf let her sleep in; and ta creat peoples will be impatient for her music, and cursing her in teir hearts!" nothing would quiet him but the immediate commencement of the process of dressing, the result of which was, as i have said, even pathetic, from its intermixture of shabbiness and finery. the dangling brass capped tails of his sporran in front, the silver mounted dirk on one side, with its hilt of black oak carved into an eagle's head, and the steel basket of his broadsword gleaming at the other; his great shoulder brooch of rudely chased brass; the pipes with their withered bag and gaudy streamers; the faded kilt, oiled and soiled; the stockings darned in twenty places by the hands of the termagant meg partan; the brogues patched and patched until it would have been hard to tell a spot of the original leather; the round blue bonnet grown gray with wind and weather: the belts that looked like old harness ready to yield at a pull; his skene dhu sticking out grim and black beside a knee like a lean knuckle:--all combined to form a picture ludicrous to a vulgar nature, but gently pitiful to the lover of his kind, he looked like a half mouldered warrior, waked from beneath an ancient cairn, to walk about in a world other than he took it to be. malcolm, in his commonplace sunday suit, served as a foil to his picturesque grandfather; to whose oft reiterated desire that he would wear the highland dress, he had hitherto returned no other answer than a humorous representation of the different remarks with which the neighbours would encounter such a solecism. the whole seaton turned out to see them start. men, women, and children lined the fronts and gables of the houses they must pass on their way; for everybody knew where they were going, and wished them good luck. as if he had been a great bard with a henchman of his own, duncan strode along in front, and malcolm followed, carrying the pipes, and regarding his grandfather with a mingled pride and compassion lovely to see. but as soon as they were beyond the village the old man took the young one's arm, not to guide him, for that was needless, but to stay his steps a little, for when dressed he would, as i have said, carry no staff; and thus they entered the nearest gate of the grounds. bykes saw them and scoffed, but with discretion, and kept out of their way. when they reached the house, they were taken to the servants' hall, where refreshments were offered them. the old man ate sparingly, saying he wanted all the room for his breath, but swallowed a glass of whisky with readiness; for, although he never spent a farthing on it, he had yet a highlander's respect for whisky, and seldom refused a glass when offered him. on this occasion, besides, anxious to do himself credit as a piper, he was well pleased to add a little fuel to the failing fires of old age; and the summons to the dining room being in his view long delayed, he had, before he left the hail, taken a second glass. they were led along endless passages, up a winding stone stair, across a lobby, and through room after room. "it will pe some glamour, sure, malcolm!" said duncan in a whisper as they went. requested at length to seat themselves in an anteroom, the air of which was filled with the sounds and odours of the neighbouring feast, they waited again through what seemed to the impatient duncan an hour of slow vacuity; but at last they were conducted into the dining room. following their guide, malcolm led the old man to the place prepared for him at the upper part of the room, where the floor was raised a step or two. duncan would, i fancy, even unprotected by his blindness, have strode unabashed into the very halls of heaven. as he entered there was a hush, for his poverty stricken age and dignity told for one brief moment: then the buzz and laughter recommenced, an occasional oath emphasizing itself in the confused noise of the talk, the gurgle of wine, the ring of glass, and the chink of china. in malcolm's vision, dazzled and bewildered at first, things soon began to arrange themselves. the walls of the room receded to their proper distance, and he saw that they were covered with pictures of ladies and gentlemen, gorgeously attired; the ceiling rose and settled into the dim show of a sky, amongst the clouds of which the shapes of very solid women and children disported themselves; while about the glittering table, lighted by silver candelabra with many branches, he distinguished the gaily dressed company, round which, like huge ill painted butterflies, the liveried footmen hovered. his eyes soon found the lovely face of lady florimel, but after the first glance he dared hardly look again. whether its radiance had any smallest source in the pleasure of appearing like a goddess in the eyes of her humble servant, i dare not say, but more lucent she could hardly have appeared had she been the princess in a fairy tale, about to marry her much thwarted prince. she wore far too many jewels for one so young, for her father had given her all that belonged to her mother, as well as some family diamonds, and her inexperience knew no reason why she should not wear them. the diamonds flashed and sparkled and glowed on a white rather than fair neck, which, being very much uncollared dazzled malcolm far more than the jewels. such a form of enhanced loveliness, reflected for the first time in the pure mirror of a high toned manhood, may well be to such a youth as that of an angel with whom he has henceforth to wrestle in deadly agony until the final dawn; for lofty condition and gorgeous circumstance, while combining to raise a woman to an ideal height, ill suffice to lift her beyond love, or shield the lowliest man from the arrows of her radiation; they leave her human still. she was talking and laughing with a young man of weak military aspect, whose eyes gazed unshrinking on her beauty. the guests were not numerous: a certain bold faced countess, the fire in whose eyes had begun to tarnish, and the natural lines of whose figure were vanishing in expansion; the soldier, her nephew, a waisted elegance; a long, lean man, who dawdled with what he ate, and drank as if his bones thirsted; an elderly, broad; red faced, bull necked baron of the hanoverian type; and two neighbouring lairds and their wives, ordinary, and well pleased to be at the marquis's table. although the waiting were as many as the waited upon, malcolm, who was keen eyed, and had a passion for service--a thing unintelligible to the common mind,--soon spied an opportunity of making himself useful. seeing one of the men, suddenly called away, set down a dish of fruit just as the countess was expecting it, he jumped up, almost involuntarily, and handed it to her. once in the current of things, malcolm would not readily make for the shore of inactivity: he finished the round of the table with the dish, while the men looked indignant, and the marquis eyed him queerly. while he was thus engaged, however, duncan, either that his poor stock of patience was now utterly exhausted, or that he fancied a signal given, compressed of a sudden his full blown waiting bag, and blasted forth such a wild howl of the pibroch, that more than one of the ladies gave a cry and half started from their chairs. the marquis burst out laughing, but gave orders to stop him--a thing not to be effected in a moment, for duncan was in full tornado, with the avenues of hearing, both corporeal and mental, blocked by his own darling utterance. understanding at length, he ceased with the air and almost the carriage of a suddenly checked horse, looking half startled, half angry, his cheeks puffed, his nostrils expanded, his head thrown back, the port vent still in his mouth, the blown bag under his arm, and his fingers on the chanter, on the fret to dash forward again with redoubled energy. but slowly the strained muscles relaxed, he let the tube fall from his lips, and the bag descended to his lap. "a man forbid," he heard the ladies rise and leave the room, and not until the gentlemen sat down again to their wine, was there any demand for the exercise of his art. now whether what followed had been prearranged, and old duncan invited for the express purpose of carrying it out, or whether it was conceived and executed on the spur of the moment, which seems less likely, i cannot tell, but the turn things now took would be hard to believe, were they dated in the present generation. some of my elder readers, however, will, from their own knowledge of similar actions, grant likelihood enough to my record. while the old man was piping, as bravely as his lingering mortification would permit, the marquis interrupted his music to make him drink a large glass of sherry; after which he requested him to play his loudest, that the gentlemen might hear what his pipes could do. at the same time he sent malcolm with a message to the butler about some particular wine he wanted. malcolm went more than willingly, but lost a good deal of time from not knowing his way through the house. when he returned he found things frightfully changed. as soon as he was out of the room, and while the poor old man was blowing his hardest, in the fancy of rejoicing his hearers with the glorious music of the highland hills, one of the company--it was never known which, for each merrily accused the other--took a penknife, and going softly behind him, ran the sharp blade into the bag, and made a great slit, so that the wind at once rushed out, and the tune ceased without sob or wail. not a laugh betrayed the cause of the catastrophe: in silent enjoyment the conspirators sat watching his movements. for one moment duncan was so astounded that he could not think; the next he laid the instrument across his knees, and began feeling for the cause of the sudden collapse. tears had gathered in the eyes that were of no use but to weep withal, and were slowly dropping. "she wass afrait, my lort and chentlemans," he said, with a quavering voice, "tat her pag will pe near her latter end; put she pelieved she would pe living peyond her nainsel, my chentlemans." he ceased abruptly, for his fingers had found the wound, and were prosecuting an inquiry: they ran along the smooth edges of the cut, and detected treachery. he gave a cry like that of a wounded animal, flung his pipes from him, and sprang to his feet, but forgetting a step below him, staggered forward a few paces and fell heavily. that instant malcolm entered the room. he hurried in consternation to his assistance. when he had helped him up and seated him again on the steps, the old man laid his head on his boy's bosom, threw his arms around his neck, and wept aloud. "malcolm, my son," he sobbed, "tuncan is wronged in ta halls of ta strancher; tey 'll haf stapped his pest friend to ta heart, and och hone! och hone! she'll pe aall too plint to take fencheance. malcolm, son of heroes, traw ta claymore of ta pard, and fall upon ta traitors. she'll pe singing you ta onset, for ta pibroch is no more." his quavering voice rose that instant in a fierce though feeble chant, and his hand flew to the hilt of his weapon. malcolm, perceiving from the looks of the men that things were as his grandfather had divined, spoke indignantly: "ye oucht to tak shame to ca' yersel's gentlefowk, an' play a puir blin' man, wha was doin' his best to please ye, sic an ill faured trick." as he spoke they made various signs to him not to interfere, but malcolm paid them no heed, and turned to his grandfather, eager to persuade him to go home. they had no intention of letting him off yet, however. acquainted--probably through his gamekeeper, who laid himself out to amuse his master--with the piper's peculiar antipathies, lord lossie now took up the game. "it was too bad of you, campbell," he said, "to play the good old man such a dog's trick." at the word campbell the piper shook off his grandson, and sprang once more to his feet, his head thrown back, and every inch of his body trembling with rage. "she might haf known," he screamed, half choking, "that a cursed tog of a cawmill was in it!" he stood for a moment, swaying in every direction, as if the spirit within him doubted whether to cast his old body on the earth in contempt of its helplessness, or to fling it headlong on his foes. for that one moment silence filled the room. "you needn't attempt to deny it; it really was too bad of you, glenlyon," said the marquis. a howl of fury burst from duncan's labouring bosom. his broadsword flashed from its sheath, and brokenly panting out the words: "clenlyon! ta creat dufil! haf i peen trinking with ta hellhount, clenlyon?"--he would have run a malay muck through the room with his huge weapon. but he was already struggling in the arms of his grandson, who succeeded at length in forcing from his bony grasp the hilt of the terrible claymore. but as duncan yielded his weapon, malcolm lost his hold on him. he darted away, caught his dirk --a blade of unusual length--from its sheath, and shot in the direction of the last word he had heard. malcolm dropped the sword and sprung after him. "gif her ta fillain by ta troat," screamed the old man. "she'll stap his pag! she'll cut his chanter in two! she'll pe toing it! who put ta creat cranson of inverriggen should pe cutting ta troat of ta tog clenlyon!" as he spoke, he was running wildly about the room, brandishing his weapon, knocking over chairs, and sweeping bottles and dishes from the table. the clatter was tremendous: and the smile had faded from the faces of the men who had provoked the disturbance. the military youth looked scared: the hanoverian pig cheeks were the colour of lead; the long lean man was laughing like a skeleton: one of the lairds had got on the sideboard, and the other was making for the door with the bell rope in his hand; the marquis, though he retained his coolness, was yet looking a little anxious; the butler was peeping in at the door, with red nose and pale cheekbones, the handle in his hand, in instant readiness to pop out again; while malcolm was after his grandfather, intent upon closing with him. the old man had just made a desperate stab at nothing half across the table, and was about to repeat it, when, spying danger to a fine dish, malcolm reached forward to save it. but the dish flew in splinters, and the dirk passing through the thick of malcolm's hand, pinned it to the table, where duncan, fancying he had at length stabbed glenlyon, left it quivering. "tere, clenlyon," he said, and stood trembling in the ebb of passion, and murmuring to himself something in gaelic. meantime malcolm had drawn the dirk from the table, and released his hand. the blood was streaming from it, and the marquis took his own handkerchief to bind it up; but the lad indignantly refused the attention, and kept holding the wound tight with his left hand. the butler, seeing duncan stand quite still, ventured, with scared countenance, to approach the scene of destruction. "dinna gang near him," cried malcolm. "he has his skene dhu yet, an' in grips that's warst ava." scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the black knife was out of duncan's stocking, and brandished aloft in his shaking fist. "daddy!" cried malcolm, "ye wadna kill twa glenlyons in ae day-- wad ye?" "she would, my son malcolm!--fifty of ta poars in one preath! tey are ta children of wrath, and tey haf to pe testructiont." "for an auld man ye hae killed enew for ae nicht," said malcolm, and gently took the knife from his trembling hand. "ye maun come hame the noo." "is ta tog tead then?" asked duncan eagerly. "ow, na; he's breathin' yet," answered malcolm. "she'll not can co till ta tog will pe tead. ta tog may want more killing." "what a horrible savage!" said one of the lairds, a justice of the peace. "he ought to be shut up in a madhouse." "gien ye set aboot shuttin' up, sir, or my lord--i kenna whilk --ye'll hae to begin nearer hame," said malcolm, as he stooped to pick up the broadsword, and so complete his possession of the weapons. "an' ye'll please to haud in min', that nane here is an injured man but my gran'father himsel'." "hey!" said the marquis; "what do you make of all my dishes?" "'deed, my lord, ye may comfort yersel' that they warna dishes wi barns (brains) i' them; for sic 's some scarce i' the hoose o' lossie." "you're a long tongued rascal," said the marquis. "a lang tongue may whiles be as canny as a lang spune, my lord; an' ye ken what that's for?" the marquis burst into laughter. "what do you make then of that horrible cut in your own hand?" asked the magistrate. "i mak my ain business o' 't," answered malcolm. while this colloquy passed, duncan had been feeling about for his pipes: having found them he clasped them to his bosom like a hurt child. "come home, come home," he said; "your own pard has refenched you." malcolm took him by the arm and led him away. he went without a word, still clasping his wounded bagpipes to his bosom. "you'll hear from me in the morning, my lad," said the marquis in a kindly tone, as they were leaving the room. "i hae no wuss to hear onything mair o' yer lordship. ye hae done eneuch this nicht, my lord, to mak ye ashamed o' yersel' till yer dyin' day--gien ye hed ony pooer o' shame left in ye." the military youth muttered something about insolence, and made a step towards him. malcolm quitted his grandfather, and stepped again into his room. "come on," he said. "no, no," interposed the marquis. "don't you see the lad is hurt?" "lat him come on," said malcolm; "i hae ae soon' han'. here, my lord, tak the wapons, or the auld man 'll get a grip o' them again." "i tell you no," shouted lord lossie. "fred, get out--will you!" the young gentleman turned on his heel, and malcolm led his grandfather from the house without further molestation. it was all he could do, however, to get him home. the old man's strength was utterly gone. his knees bent trembling under him, and the arm which rested on his grandson's shook as with an ague fit. malcolm was glad indeed when at length he had him safe in bed, by which time his hand had swollen to a great size, and the suffering grown severe. thoroughly exhausted by his late fierce emotions, duncan soon fell into a troubled sleep, whereupon malcolm went to meg partan, and begged her to watch beside him until he should return, informing her of the way his grandfather had been treated, and adding that he had gone into such a rage, that he feared he would be ill in consequence; and if he should be unable to do his morning's duty, it would almost break his heart. "eh!" said the partaness, in a whisper, as they parted at duncan's door, "a baad temper 's a frichtsome thing. sure the times i hae telled him it wad be the ruin o' 'im!" to malcolm's gentle knock miss horn's door was opened by jean. "what d'ye wint at sic an oontimeous hoor," she said, "whan honest fowk's a' i' their nicht caips?" "i want to see miss horn, gien ye please," he answered. "i s' warran' she'll be in her bed an' snorin'," said jean; "but i s' gang an' see." ere she went, however, jean saw that the kitchen door was closed, for, whether she belonged to the class "honest folk" or not, mrs catanach was in miss horn's kitchen, and not in her nightcap. jean returned presently with an invitation for malcolm to walk up to the parlour. "i hae gotten a sma' mishanter, miss horn," he said, as he entered: "an i thocht i cudna du better than come to you, 'cause ye can haud yer tongue, an' that's mair nor mony ane the port o' portlossie can, mem." the compliment, correct in fact as well as honest in intent, was not thrown away on miss horn, to whom it was the more pleasing that she could regard it as a just tribute. malcolm told her all the story, rousing thereby a mighty indignation in her bosom, a great fire in her hawk nose, and a succession of wild flashes in her hawk eyes; but when he showed her his hand, "lord, malcolm!" she cried; "it 's a mercy i was made wantin' feelin's, or i cudna hae bed the sicht. my puir bairn!" then she rushed to the stair and shouted, "jean, ye limmer! jean! fess some het watter, an' some linen cloots." "i hae nane o' naither," replied jean from the bottom of the stair. "mak up the fire an' put on some watter direckly.--i s' fin' some clooties," she added, turning to malcolm, "gien i sud rive the tail frae my best sunday sark." she returned with rags enough for a small hospital, and until the grumbling jean brought the hot water, they sat and talked in the glimmering light of one long beaked tallow candle. "it's a terrible hoose, yon o' lossie," said miss horn; "and there's been terrible things dune intill't. the auld markis was an ill man. i daurna say what he wadna hae dune, gien half the tales be true 'at they tell o' 'im; an' the last ane was little better. this ane winna be sae ill, but it 's clear 'at he's tarred wi' the same stick." "i dinna think he means onything muckle amiss," agreed malcolm, whose wrath had by this time subsided a little, through the quieting influences of miss horn's sympathy. "he's mair thouchtless, i do believe, than ill contrived--an' a' for 's fun. he spak unco kin' like to me, efterhin, but i cudna accep' it, ye see, efter the w'y he had saired my daddy. but wadna ye hae thoucht he was auld eneuch to ken better by this time?" "an auld fule 's the warst fule ava'," said miss horn. "but naething o' that kin', be 't as mad an' pranksome as ever sic ploy could be, is to be made mention o' aside the things at was mutit (muttered) o' 's brither. i budena come ower them till a young laad like yersel'. they war never said straucht oot, min' ye, but jist mintit at, like, wi' a doon draw o' the broos, an' a wee side shak o' the heid, as gien the body wad say, 'i cud tell ye gien i daur.' but i doobt mysel' gien onything was kent, though muckle was mair nor suspeckit. an' whaur there's reik, there maun be fire." as she spoke she was doing her best, with many expressions of pity, for his hand. when she had bathed and bound it up, and laid it in a sling, he wished her goodnight. arrived at home he found, to his dismay, that things had not been going well. indeed, while yet several houses off he had heard the voices of the partan's wife and his grandfather in fierce dispute. the old man was beside himself with anxiety about malcolm; and the woman, instead of soothing him, was opposing everything he said, and irritating him frightfully. the moment he entered, each opened a torrent of accusations against the other, and it was with difficulty that malcolm prevailed on the woman to go home. the presence of his boy soon calmed the old man, however, and he fell into a troubled sleep--in which malcolm, who sat by his bed all night, heard him, at intervals, now lamenting over the murdered of glenco, now exulting in a stab that had reached the heart of glenlyon, and now bewailing his ruined bagpipes. at length towards morning he grew quieter, and malcolm fell asleep in his chair. chapter xx: advances when he woke, duncan still slept, and malcolm having got ready some tea for his grandfather's, and a little brose for his own breakfast, sat down again by the bedside, and awaited the old man's waking. the first sign of it that reached him was the feebly uttered question, --"will ta tog be tead, malcolm?" "as sure 's ye stabbit him," answered malcolm. "then she'll pe getting herself ready," said duncan, making a motion to rise. "what for, daddy?" "for ta hanging, my son," answered duncan coolly. "time eneuch for that, daddy, whan they sen' to tell ye," returned malcolm, cautious of revealing the facts of the case. "ferry coot!" said duncan, and fell asleep again. in a little while he woke with a start. "she'll be hafing an efil tream, my son malcolm," he said; "or it was 'll pe more than a tream. cawmill of clenlyon, cod curse him! came to her pedside; and he'll say to her, 'macdhonuill,' he said, for pein' a tead man he would pe knowing my name,--'macdhonuill,' he said, 'what tid you'll pe meaning py turking my posterity?' and she answered and said to him, 'i pray it had peen yourself, you tamned clenlyon.' and he said to me, 'it 'll pe no coot wishing tat; it would be toing you no coot to turk me, for a tead man.'-- 'and a tamned man,' says herself, and would haf taken him py ta troat, put she couldn't mofe. 'well, not so sure of tat,' says he, 'for i 'fe pecked all teir partons.'--'and tid tey gif tem to you, you tog?' says herself.--'well, not sure,' says he; 'anyhow, not tamned fery much yet.'--'she'll pe much sorry to hear it,' says herself. and she took care aalways to pe calling him some paad name, so tat he shouldn't say she'll be forgifing him, whatever ta rest of tem might be toing. 'put what troubles me,' says he, 'it 'll not pe apout myself at aall.'--'tat 'll pe a wonter,' says her nain sel': 'and what may it pe apout, you cuttroat?'--'it 'll pe apout yourself,' says he. 'apout herself?' --'yes; apout yourself' says he. ' sorry for you--for ta ting tat's to pe tone with him tat killed a man aal pecaase he pore my name, and he wasn't a son of mine at aall! tere is no pot in hell teep enough to put him in!'--'ten tey must make haste and tig one,' says herself; 'for she'll pe hangt in a tay or two.'--so she'll wake up, and beholt it was a tream!" "an' no sic an ill dream efter a', daddy!" said malcolm. "not an efil tream, my son, when it makes her aalmost wish that she hadn't peen quite killing ta tog! last night she would haf made a puoy of his skin like any other tog's skin, and totay--no, my son, it wass a fery efil tream. and to be tolt tat ta creat tefil, clenlyon herself, was not fery much tamned!--it wass a fery efil tream, my son." "weel, daddy--maybe ye 'll tak it for ill news, but ye killed naebody." "tid she'll not trive her turk into ta tog?" cried duncan fiercely. "och hone! och hone!--then she's ashamed of herself for efer, when she might have tone it. and it 'll hafe to be tone yet!" he paused a few moments, and then resumed: "and she'll not pe coing to be hangt?--maype tat will pe petter, for you wouldn't hafe liket to see your olt cranfather to pe hangt, malcolm, my son. not tat she would hafe minted it herself in such a coot caause, malcolm! put she tidn't pe fery happy after she tid think she had tone it, for you see he wasn't ta fery man his ownself, and tat must pe counted. but she tid kill something: what was it, malcolm?" "ye sent a gran' dish fleein'," answered malcolm. "i s' warran' it cost a poun', to jeedge by the gowd upo' 't." "she'll hear a noise of preaking; put she tid stap something soft." "ye stack yer durk intill my lord's mahogany table," said malcolm. "it nott (needed) a guid rug (pull) to haul't oot." "then her arm has not lost aal its strength, malcolm! i pray ta taple had peen ta rips of clenlyon!" "ye maunna pray nae sic prayers, daddy. min' upo' what glenlyon said to ye last nicht. gien i was you i wadna hae a pot howkit express for mysel'--doon yonner--i' yon place 'at ye dreamed aboot." "well, i'll forgife him a little, malcolm--not ta one tat's tead, but ta one tat tidn't do it, you know.--put how will she pe forgifing him for ripping her poor pag? och hone! och hone! no more musics for her tying tays, malcolm! och hone! och hone! i shall co creeping to ta crafe with no loud noises to defy ta enemy. her pipes is tumb for efer and efer. och hone! och hone!" the lengthening of his days had restored bitterness to his loss. "i'll sune set the bag richt, daddy. or, gien i canna du that, we'll get a new ane. mony a pibroch 'll come skirlin' oot o' that chanter yet er' a' be dune." they were interrupted by the unceremonious entrance of the same footman who had brought the invitation. he carried a magnificent set of ebony pipes, with silver mountings. "a present from my lord, the marquis," he said bumptiously, almost rudely, and laid them on the table. "dinna lay them there; tak them frae that, or i'll fling them yer poothered wig," said malcolm. "--it's a stan' o' pipes," he added, "an' that a gran' ane, daddy." "take tem away!" cried the old man, in a voice too feeble to support the load of indignation it bore. "she'll pe taking no presents from marquis or tuke tat would pe teceifing old tuncan, and making him trink with ta cursed clenlyon. tell ta marquis he 'll pe sending her cray hairs with sorrow to ta crafe; for she'll pe tishonoured for efer and henceforth." probably pleased to be the bearer of a message fraught with so much amusement, the man departed in silence with the pipes. the marquis, although the joke had threatened, and indeed so far taken a serious turn, had yet been thoroughly satisfied with its success. the rage of the old man had been to his eyes ludicrous in the extreme, and the anger of the young one so manly as to be even picturesque. he had even made a resolve, half dreamy and of altogether improbable execution, to do something for the fisher fellow. the pipes which he had sent as a solatium to duncan, were a set that belonged to the house--ancient, and in the eyes of either connoisseur or antiquarian, exceedingly valuable; but the marquis was neither the one nor the other, and did not in the least mind parting with them. as little did he doubt a propitiation through their means, was utterly unprepared for a refusal of his gift, and was nearly as much perplexed as annoyed thereat. for one thing, he could not understand such offence taken by one in duncan's lowly position; for although he had plenty of highland blood in his own veins, he had never lived in the highlands, and understood nothing of the habits or feelings of the gael. what was noble in him, however, did feel somewhat rebuked, and he was even a little sorry at having raised a barrier between himself and the manly young fisherman, to whom he had taken a sort of liking from the first. of the ladies in the drawing room, to whom he had recounted the vastly amusing joke with all the graphic delineation for which he had been admired at court, none, although they all laughed, had appeared to enjoy the bad recital thoroughly, except the bold faced countess. lady florimel regarded the affair as undignified at the best, was sorry for the old man, who must be mad, she thought, and was pleased only with the praises of her squire of low degree. the wound in his hand the marquis either thought too trifling to mention, or serious enough to have clouded the clear sky of frolic under which he desired the whole transaction to be viewed. they were seated at their late breakfast when the lackey passed the window on his return from his unsuccessful mission, and the marquis happened to see him, carrying the rejected pipes. he sent for him, and heard his report, then with a quick nod dismissed him --his way when angry, and sat silent. "wasn't it spirited--in such poor people too?" said lady florimel, the colour rising in her face, and her eyes sparkling. "it was damned impudent," said the marquis. "i think it was damned dignified," said lady florimel. the marquis stared. the visitors, after a momentary silence, burst into a great laugh. "i wanted to see," said lady florimel calmly, "whether i couldn't swear if i tried. i don't think it tastes nice. i shan't take to it, i think." "you'd better not in my presence, my lady," said the marquis, his eyes sparkling with fun. "i shall certainly not do it out of your presence, my lord," she returned. "--now i think of it," she went on, "i know what i will do: every time you say a bad word in my presence, i shall say it after you. i shan't mind who's there--parson or magistrate. now you'll see." "you will get into the habit of it." "except you get out of the habit of it first, papa," said the girl, laughing merrily. "you confounded little amazon!" said her father. "but what's to be done about those confounded pipes?" she resumed. "you can't allow such people to serve you so! return your presents, indeed! suppose i undertake the business?" "by all means. what will you do?" "make them take them, of course. it would be quite horrible never to be quits with the old lunatic." "as you please, puss." "then you put yourself in my hands, papa?" "yes; only you must mind what you're about, you know." "that i will, and make them mind too," she answered, and the subject was dropped. lady florimel counted upon her influence with malcolm, and his again with his grandfather; but careful of her dignity, she would not make direct advances; she would wait an opportunity of speaking to him. but, although she visited the sand hill almost every morning, an opportunity was not afforded her. meanwhile, the state of duncan's bag and of malcolm's hand forbidding, neither pipes were played nor gun was fired to arouse marquis or burgess. when a fortnight had thus passed, lady florimel grew anxious concerning the justification of her boast, and the more so that her father seemed to avoid all reference to it. chapter xxi: mediation at length it was clear to lady florimel that if her father had not forgotten her undertaking, but was, as she believed, expecting from her some able stroke of diplomacy, it was high time that something should be done to save her credit. nor did she forget that the unpiped silence of the royal burgh was the memento of a practical joke of her father, so cruel that a piper would not accept the handsome propitiation offered on its account by a marquis. on a lovely evening, therefore, the sunlight lying slant on waters that heaved and sunk in a flowing tide, now catching the gold on lifted crests, now losing it in purple hollows, lady florimel found herself for the first time, walking from the lower gate towards the seaton. rounding the west end of the village, she came to the sea front, where, encountering a group of children, she requested to be shown the blind piper's cottage. ten of them started at once to lead the way, and she was presently knocking at the half open door, through which she could not help seeing the two at their supper of dry oat cake and still drier skim milk cheese, with a jug of cold water to wash it down. neither, having just left the gentlemen at their wine, could she help feeling the contrast between the dinner just over at the house and the meal she now beheld. at the sound of her knock, malcolm, who was seated with his back to the door, rose to answer the appeal;--the moment he saw her, the blood rose from his heart to his cheek in similar response. he opened the door wide, and in low, something tremulous tones, invited her to enter; then caught up a chair, dusted it with his bonnet, and placed it for her by the window, where a red ray of the setting sun fell on a huge flowered hydrangea. her quick eye caught sight of his bound up hand. "how have you hurt your hand?" she asked kindly. malcolm made signs that prayed for silence, and pointed to his grandfather. but it was too late. "hurt your hand, malcolm, my son," cried duncan, with surprise and anxiety mingled. "how will you pe toing tat?" "here's a bonny yoong leddy come to see ye, daddy," said malcolm, seeking to turn the question aside. "she'll pe fery clad to see ta ponny young laty, and she's creatly obleeched for ta honour: put if ta ponny young laty will pe excusing her--what'll pe hurting your hand, malcolm!" "i'll tell ye efterhin, daddy. this is my leddy florimel, frae the hoose." "hm!" said duncan, the pain of his insult keenly renewed by the mere mention of the scene of it. "put," he went on, continuing aloud the reflections of a moment of silence, "she'll pe a laty, and it 's not to pe laid to her charch. sit town, my laty. ta poor place is your own." but lady florimel was already seated, and busy in her mind as to how she could best enter on the object of her visit. the piper sat silent, revolving a painful suspicion with regard to malcolm's hurt. "so you won't forgive my father, mr macphail?" said lady florimel. "she would forgife any man put two men," he answered, "--clenlyon, and ta man, whoefer he might pe, who would put upon her ta tiscrace of trinking in his company." "but you're quite mistaken," said lady florimel, in a pleading tone. "i don't believe my father knows the gentleman you speak of." "chentleman!" echoed duncan. "he is a tog!--no, he is no tog: togs is coot. he is a mongrel of a fox and a volf!" "there was no campbell at our table that evening," persisted lady florimel. "ten who tolt tuncan macphail a lie!" "it was nothing but a joke--indeed!" said the girl, beginning to feel humiliated. "it wass a paad choke, and might have peen ta hanging of poor tuncan," said the piper. now lady florimel had heard a rumour of some one having been, hurt in the affair of the joke, and her quick wits instantly brought that and malcolm's hand together. "it might have been," she said, risking a miss for the advantage. "it was well that you hurt nobody but your own grandson." "oh, my leddy!" cried malcolm with despairing remonstrance; "--an' me haudin' 't frae him a' this time! ye sud ha' considert an auld man's feelin's! he's as blin' 's a mole, my leddy!" "his feelings!" retorted the girl angrily. "he ought to know the mischief he does in his foolish rages." duncan had risen, and was now feeling his way across the room. having reached his grandson, he laid hold of his head and pressed it to his bosom. "malcolm!" he said, in a broken and hollow voice, not to be recognized as his, "malcolm, my eagle of the crag! my hart of the heather! was it yourself she stapped with her efil hand, my son? tid she'll pe hurting her own poy!--she'll nefer wear turk more. och hone! och hone!" he turned, and, with bowed head seeking his chair, seated himself and wept. lady florimel's anger vanished. she was by his side in a moment, with her lovely young hand on the bony expanse of his, as it covered his face. on the other side, malcolm laid his lips to his ear, and whispered with soothing expostulation,-- "it's maist as weel 's ever daddy. it's nane the waur. it was but a bit o' a scart. it's nae worth twise thinkin' o'." "ta turk went trough it, malcolm! it went into ta table! she knows now! o malcolm! malcolm! would to cod she had killed herself pefore she hurted her poy!" he made malcolm sit down beside him, and taking the wounded hand in both of his, sunk into a deep silence, utterly forgetful of the presence of lady florimel, who retired to her chair, kept silence also, and waited. "it was not a coot choke," he murmured at length, "upon an honest man, and might pe calling herself a chentleman. a rache is not a choke. to put her in a rache was not coot. see to it. and it was a ferry paad choke, too, to make a pig hole in her poor pag! och hone! och hone!--put clad clenlyon was not there, for she was too plind to kill him." "but you will surely forgive my father, when he wants to make it up! those pipes have been in the family for hundreds of years," said florimel. "her own pipes has peen in her own family for five or six chenerations at least," said duncan. "--and she was wondering why her poy tidn't pe mending her pag! my poor poy! och hone! och hone!" "we'll get a new bag, daddy," said malcolm. "it's been lang past men'in' wi' auld age." "and then you will be able to play together," urged lady florimel. duncan's resolution was visibly shaken by the suggestion. he pondered for a while. at last he opened his mouth solemnly, and said, with the air of one who had found a way out of a hitherto impassable jungle of difficulty: "if her lord marquis will come to tuncan's house, and say to tuncan it was put a choke and he is sorry for it, then tuncan will shake hands with ta marquis, and take ta pipes." a smile of pleasure lighted up malcolm's face at the proud proposal. lady florimel smiled also, but with amusement. "will my laty take tuncan's message to my lord, ta marquis?" asked the old man. now lady florimel had inherited her father's joy in teasing; and the thought of carrying him such an overture was irresistibly delightful. "i will take it," she said. "but what if he should be angry?" "if her lord pe angry, tuncan is angry too," answered the piper. malcolm followed lady florimel to the door. "put it as saft as ye can, my leddy," he whispered. "i canna bide to anger fowk mair than maun be." "i shall give the message precisely as your grandfather gave it to me," said florimel, and walked away. while they sat at dinner the next evening, she told her father from the head of the table, all about her visit to the piper, and ended with the announcement of the condition--word for word-- on which the old man would consent to a reconciliation. could such a proposal have come from an equal whom he had insulted, the marquis would hardly have waited for a challenge: to have done a wrong was nothing; to confess it would be disgrace. but here the offended party was of such ludicrously low condition, and the proposal therefore so ridiculous, that it struck the marquis merely as a yet more amusing prolongation of the joke. hence his reception of it was with uproarious laughter, in which all his visitors joined. "damn the old windbag!" said the marquis. "damn the knife that made the mischief," said lady florimel. when the merriment had somewhat subsided, lord meikleham, the youth of soldierly aspect, would have proposed whipping the highland beggar, he said, were it not for the probability the old clothes horse would fall to pieces; whereupon lady florimel recommended him to try it on the young fisherman, who might possibly hold together; whereat the young lord looked both mortified and spiteful. i believe some compunction, perhaps even admiration, mingled itself, in this case, with lord lossie's relish of an odd and amusing situation, and that he was inclined to compliance with the conditions of atonement, partly for the sake of mollifying the wounded spirit of the highlander. he turned to his daughter and said,-- "did you fix an hour, flory, for your poor father to make amende honorable?" "no, papa; i did not go so far as that." the marquis kept a few moments' grave silence. "your lordship is surely not meditating such a solecism?" said mr morrison, the justice laird. "indeed i am," said the marquis. "it would be too great a condescension," said mr cavins; "and your lordship will permit me to doubt the wisdom of it. these fishermen form a class by themselves; they are a rough set of men, and only too ready to despise authority. you will not only injure the prestige of your rank, my lord, but expose yourself to endless imposition." "the spirit moves me, and we are commanded not to quench the spirit," rejoined the marquis with a merry laugh, little thinking that he was actually describing what was going on in him-that the spirit of good concerning which he jested, was indeed not working in him, but gaining on him, in his resolution of that moment. "come, flory," said the marquis, to whom it gave a distinct pleasure to fly in the face of advice, "we'll go at once, and have it over." so they set out together for the seaton, followed by the bagpipes, carried by the same servant as before, and were received by the overjoyed malcolm, and ushered into his grandfather's presence. whatever may have been the projected attitude of the marquis, the moment he stood on the piper's floor, the generous, that is the gentleman, in him, got the upper hand, and his behaviour to the old man was not polite merely, but respectful. at no period in the last twenty years had he been so nigh the kingdom of heaven as he was now when making his peace with the blind piper. when duncan heard his voice, he rose with dignity and made a stride or two towards the door, stretching forth his long arm to its full length, and spreading wide his great hand with the brown palm upwards: "her nainsel will pe proud to see my lord ta marquis under her roof;" he said. the visit itself had already sufficed to banish all resentment from his soul. the marquis took the proffered hand kindly: "i have come to apologise," he said. "not one vord more, my lort, i peg," interrupted duncan. "my lort is come, out of his cootness, to pring her a creat kift; for he'll pe hearing of ta sad accident which pefell her poor pipes one efening lately. tey was ferry old, my lort, and easily hurt." "i am sorry--" said the marquis--but again duncan interrupted him. "i am clad, my lort," he said, "for it prings me ta creat choy. if my lady and your lordship will honour her poor house py sitting town, she will haf ta pleasure of pe offering tem a little music." his hospitality would give them of the best he had; but ere the entertainment was over, the marquis judged himself more than fairly punished by the pipes for all the wrong he had done the piper. they sat down, and, at a sign from his lordship, the servant placed his charge in duncan's hands, and retired. the piper received the instrument with a proud gesture of gratification, felt it all over, screwed at this and that for a moment, then filled the great bag gloriously full. the next instant a scream invaded the astonished air fit to rival the skirl produced by the towzie tyke of kirk alloway; another instant, and the piper was on his legs, as full of pleasure and pride as his bag of wind, strutting up and down the narrow chamber like a turkey cock before his hens, and turning ever, after precisely so many strides, with a grand gesture and mighty sweep, as if he too had a glorious tail to mind, and was bound to keep it ceaselessly quivering to the tremor of the reed in the throat of his chanter. malcolm, erect behind their visitors, gazed with admiring eyes at every motion of his grandfather. to one who had from earliest infancy looked up to him with reverence, there was nothing ridiculous in the display, in the strut, in all that to other eyes too evidently revealed the vanity of the piper: malcolm regarded it all only as making up the orthodox mode of playing the pipes. it was indeed well that he could not see the expression upon the faces of those behind whose chairs he stood, while for moments that must have seemed minutes, they succumbed to the wild uproar which issued from those splendid pipes. on an opposite hillside, with a valley between, it would have sounded poetic; in a charging regiment, none could have wished for more inspiriting battle strains; even in a great hall, inspiring and guiding the merry reel, it might have been in place and welcome; but in a room of ten feet by twelve, with a wooden ceiling, acting like a drumhead, at the height of seven feet and a half!--it was little below torture to the marquis and lady florimel. simultaneously they rose to make their escape. "my lord an' my leddy maun be gauin', daddy," cried malcolm. absorbed in the sound which his lungs created and his fingers modulated, the piper had forgotten all about his visitors; but the moment his grandson's voice reached him, the tumult ceased; he took the port vent from his lips, and with sightless eyes turned full on lord lossie, said in a low earnest voice,-- "my lort, she'll pe ta craandest staand o' pipes she efer blew, and proud and thankful she'll pe to her lort marquis, and to ta lort of lorts, for ta kift. ta pipes shall co town from cheneration to cheneration to ta ent of time; yes, my lort, until ta loud cry of tem pe trownt in ta roar of ta trump of ta creat archanchel, when he'll pe setting one foot on ta laand and ta other foot upon ta sea, and clenlyon shall pe cast into ta lake of fire." he ended with a low bow. they shook hands with him, thanked him for his music, wished him goodnight, and, with a kind nod to malcolm, left the cottage. duncan resumed his playing the moment they were out of the house, and malcolm, satisfied of his well being for a couple of hours at least--he had been music starved so long, went also out, in quest of a little solitude. chapter xxii: whence and whither? he wandered along the shore on the land side of the mound, with a favourite old book of scottish ballads in his hand, every now and then stooping to gather a sea anemone--a white flower something like a wild geranium, with a faint sweet smell, or a small, short stalked harebell, or a red daisy, as large as a small primrose; for along the coast there, on cliff or in sand, on rock or in field, the daisies are remarkable for size, and often not merely tipped, but dyed throughout with a deep red. he had gathered a bunch of the finest, and had thrown himself down on the side of the dune, whence, as he lay, only the high road, the park wall, the temple of the winds, and the blue sky were visible. the vast sea, for all the eye could tell, was nowhere--not a ripple of it was to be seen, but the ear was filled with the night gush and flow of it. a sweet wind was blowing, hardly blowing, rather gliding, like a slumbering river, from the west. the sun had vanished, leaving a ruin of gold and rose behind him, gradually fading into dull orange and lead and blue sky and stars. there was light enough to read by, but he never opened his book. he was thinking over something mr graham had said to him a few days before, namely, that all impatience of monotony, all weariness of best things even, are but signs of the eternity of our nature--the broken human fashions of the divine everlastingness. "i dinna ken whaur it comes frae," said a voice above him. he looked up. on the ridge of the mound, the whole of his dwarfed form relieved against the sky and looking large in the twilight, stood the mad laird, reaching out his forehead towards the west with his arms expanded as if to meet the ever coming wind. "naebody kens whaur the win' comes frae, or whaur it gangs till," said malcolm. "ye're no a hair waur aff nor ither fowk, there, laird." "does't come frae a guid place, or frae an ill?" said the laird, doubtingly. "it's saft an' kin'ly i' the fin' o' 't," returned malcolm suggestively, rising and joining the laird on the top of the dune, and like him spreading himself out to the western air. the twilight had deepened, merging into such night as the summer in that region knows--a sweet pale memory of the past day. the sky was full of sparkles of pale gold in a fathomless blue; there was no moon; the darker sea lay quiet below, with only a murmur about its lip, and fitfully reflected the stars. the soft wind kept softly blowing. behind them shone a light at the harbour's mouth, and a twinkling was here and there visible in the town above; but all was as still as if there were no life save in the wind and the sea and the stars. the whole feeling was as if something had been finished in heaven, and the outmost ripples of the following rest had overflowed and were now pulsing faintly and dreamily across the bosom of the labouring earth, with feeblest suggestion of the mighty peace beyond. alas, words can do so little! even such a night is infinite. "ay," answered the laird; "but it maks me dowfart (melancholy) like, i' the inside." "some o' the best things does that," said malcolm. "i think a kiss frae my mither wad gar me greet." he knew the laird's peculiarities well; but in the thought of his mother had forgotten the antipathy of his companion to the word. stewart gave a moaning cry, put his fingers in his ears, and glided down the slope of the dune seawards. malcolm was greatly distressed. he had a regard for the laird far beyond pity, and could not bear the thought of having inadvertently caused him pain. but he dared not follow him, for that would be but to heighten the anguish of the tortured mind and the suffering of the sickly frame; for, when pursued, he would accomplish a short distance at an incredible speed, then drop suddenly and lie like one dead. malcolm, therefore, threw off his heavy boots, and starting at full speed along the other side of the dune, made for the bored craig; his object being to outrun the laird without being seen by him, and so, doubling the rock, return with leisurely steps, and meet him. sweetly the west wind whistled about his head as he ran. in a few moments he had rounded the rock, towards which the laird was still running, but now more slowly. the tide was high and came near its foot, leaving but a few yards of passage between, in which space they approached each other, malcolm with sauntering step as if strolling homewards. lifting his bonnet, a token of respect he never omitted when he met the mad laird, he stood aside in the narrow way. mr stewart stopped abruptly, took his fingers from his ears, and stared in perplexity. "it's a richt bonny nicht, laird," said malcolm. the poor fellow looked hurriedly behind him, then stared again, then made gestures backward, and next pointed at malcolm with rapid pokes of his forefinger. bewilderment had brought on the impediment in his speech, and all malcolm could distinguish in the babbling efforts at utterance which followed, were the words,--"twa o' them! twa o' them! twa o' them!" often and hurriedly repeated. "it's a fine, saft sleekit win,' laird," said malcolm, as if they were meeting for the first time that night. "i think it maun come frae the blue there, ayont the stars. there's a heap o' wonnerfu' things there, they tell me; an' whiles a strokin win' an' whiles a rosy smell, an' whiles a bricht licht, an' whiles, they say, an auld yearnin' sang, 'ill brak oot, an' wanner awa doon, an' gang flittin' an' fleein' amang the sair herts o' the men an' women fowk 'at canna get things putten richt." "i think there are two fools of them!" said the marquis, referring to the words of the laird. he was seated with lady florimel on the town side of the rock, hidden from them by one sharp corner. they had seen the mad laird coming, and had recognised malcolm's voice. "i dinna ken whaur i come frae," burst from the laird, the word whaur drawn out and emphasized almost to a howl; and as he spoke he moved on again, but gently now, towards the rocks of the scaurnose. anxious to get him thoroughly soothed before they parted, malcolm accompanied him. they walked a little way side by side in silence, the laird every now and then heaving his head like a fretted horse towards the sky, as if he sought to shake the heavy burden from his back, straighten out his poor twisted spine, and stand erect like his companion: "ay!" malcolm began again, as if he had in the meantime been thinking over the question, and was now assured upon it, "--the win' maun come frae yont the stars; for dinna ye min', laird? ye was at the kirk last sunday--wasna ye?" the laird nodded an affirmative, and malcolm went on. "an' didna ye hear the minister read frae the buik 'at hoo ilka guid an' ilka perfit gift was frae abune, an' cam frae the father o' lichts?" "father o' lichts!" repeated the laird, and looked up at the stars. "i dinna ken whaur i cam frae. i hae nae father. i hae only a ... i hae only a wuman." the moment he had said the word, he began to move his head from side to side like a scared animal seeking where to conceal itself. "the father o' lichts is your father an' mine--the father o' a' o' 's," said malcolm. "o' a' guid fowk, i daursay," said the laird, with a deep and quivering sigh. "mr graham says--o' a'body," returned malcolm, "guid an' ill; --o' the guid to haud them guid an' mak them better--o' the ill to mak them guid." "eh! gien that war true!" said the laird. they walked on in silence for a minute. all at once the laird threw up his hands, and fell flat on his face on the sand, his poor hump rising skywards above his head. malcolm thought he had been seized with one of the fits to which he was subject, and knelt down beside him, to see if he could do anything for him. then he found he was praying: he heard him--he could but just hear him--murmuring over and over, all but inaudibly, "father o' lichts! father o' lichts! father o' lichts!" it seemed as if no other word dared mingle itself with that cry. maniac or not--the mood of the man was supremely sane, and altogether too sacred to disturb. malcolm retreated a little way, sat down in the sand and watched beside him. it was a solemn time--the full tide lapping up on the long yellow sand from the wide sea darkening out to the dim horizon: the gentle wind blowing through the molten darkness; overhead, the great vault without arch or keystone, of dim liquid blue, and sown with worlds so far removed they could only shine; and, on the shore, the centre of all the cosmic order, a misshapen heap of man, a tumulus in which lay buried a live and lovely soul! the one pillar of its chapter house had given way, and the downrushing ruin had so crushed and distorted it, that thenceforth until some resurrection should arrive, disorder and misshape must appear to it the law of the universe, and loveliness but the passing dream of a brain glad to deceive its own misery, and so to fancy it had received from above what it had itself generated of its own poverty from below. to the mind's eye of malcolm, the little hump on the sand was heaved to the stars, higher than ever roman tomb or egyptian pyramid, in silent appeal to the sweet heavens, a dumb prayer for pity, a visible groan for the resurrection of the body. for a few minutes he sat as still as the prostrate laird. but bethinking himself that his grandfather would not go to bed until he went back, also that the laird was in no danger, as the tide was now receding, he resolved to go and get the old man to bed, and then return. for somehow he felt in his heart that he ought not to leave him alone. he could not enter into his strife to aid him, or come near him in any closer way than watching by his side until his morning dawned, or at least the waters of his flood assuaged, yet what he could he must: he would wake with him in his conflict. he rose and ran for the bored craig, through which lay the straight line to his abandoned boots. as he approached the rock, he heard the voices of lord lossie and lady florimel, who, although the one had not yet verified her being, the other had almost ruined his, were nevertheless enjoying the same thing, the sweetness of the night, together. not hearing malcolm's approach, they went on talking, and as he was passing swiftly through the bore, he heard these words from the marquis, --"the world's an ill baked cake, flory, and all that a woman, at least, can do, is to cut as large a piece of it as possible, for immediate use." the remark being a general one, malcolm cannot be much blamed if he stood with one foot lifted to hear florimel's reply. "if it 's an ill baked one, papa," she returned, "i think it would be better to cut as small a piece of it as will serve for immediate use." malcolm was delighted with her answer, never thinking whether it came from her head or her heart, for the two were at one in himself. as soon as he appeared on the other side of the rock, the marquis challenged him: "who goes there?" he said. "malcolm macphail, my lord." "you rascal!" said his lordship, good humouredly; "you've been listening!" "no muckle, my lord. i heard but a word apiece. an' i maun say my leddy had the best o' the loagic." "my lady generally has, i suspect," laughed the marquis. "how long have you been in the rock there?" "no ae meenute, my lord. i flang aff my butes to rin efter a freen', an' that's hoo ye didna hear me come up. gaein' efter them noo, to gang hame i' them. guid nicht, my lord. guid nicht, my leddy." he turned and pursued his way; but florimel's face, glimmering through the night, went with him as he ran. he told his grandfather how he had left the mad laird lying on his face, on the sands between the bored craig and the rocks of the promontory, and said he would like to go back to him. "he'll be hafing a fit, poor man," said duncan. "yes, my son, you must co to him and to your pest for him. after such an honour as we 'fe had this day, we mustn't pe forgetting our poor neighpours. will you pe taking to him a trop of uisgebeatha?" "he taks naething o' that kin'," said malcolm. he could not tell him that the madman, as men called him, lay wrestling in prayer with the father of lights. the old highlander was not irreverent, but the thing would have been unintelligible to him. he could readily have believed that the supposed lunatic might be favoured beyond ordinary mortals; that at that very moment, lost in his fit, he might be rapt in a vision of the future--a wave of time, far off as yet from the souls of other men, even now rolling over his; but that a soul should seek after vital content by contact with its maker, was an idea belonging to a region which, in the highlander's being, lay as yet an unwatered desert, an undiscovered land, whence even no faintest odour had been wafted across the still air of surprised contemplation. about the time when malcolm once more sped through the bored craig, the marquis and lady florimel were walking through the tunnel on their way home, chatting about a great ball they were going to give the tenants. he found the laird where he had left him, and thought at first he must now surely be asleep; but once more bending over him, he could hear him still murmuring at intervals, "father o' lichts! father o' lichts!" not less compassionate, and more sympathetic than eliphaz or bildad or zophar, malcolm again took his place near him, and sat watching by him until the gray dawn began in the east. then all at once the laird rose to his feet, and without a look on either side walked steadily away towards the promontory. malcolm rose also, and gazed after him until he vanished amongst the rocks, no motion of his distorted frame witnessing other than calmness of spirit. so his watcher returned in peace through the cool morning air to the side of his slumbering grandfather. no one in the seaton of portlossie ever dreamed of locking door or window at night. chapter xxiii: armageddon the home season of the herring fishery was to commence a few days after the occurrences last recorded. the boats had all returned from other stations, and the little harbour was one crowd of stumpy masts, each with its halliard, the sole cordage visible, rove through the top of it, for the hoisting of a lug sail, tanned to a rich red brown. from this underwood towered aloft the masts of a coasting schooner, discharging its load of coal at the little quay. other boats lay drawn up on the beach in front of the seaton, and beyond it on the other side of the burn. men and women were busy with the brown nets, laying them out on the short grass of the shore, mending them with netting needles like small shuttles, carrying huge burdens of them on their shoulders in the hot sunlight; others were mending, calking, or tarring their boats, and looking to their various fittings. all was preparation for the new venture in their own waters, and everything went merrily and hopefully. wives who had not accompanied their husbands now had them home again, and their anxieties would henceforth endure but for a night --joy would come with the red sails in the morning, lovers were once more together, the one great dread broken into a hundred little questioning fears; mothers had their sons again, to watch with loving eyes as they swung their slow limbs at their labour, or in the evenings sauntered about, hands in pockets, pipe in mouth, and blue bonnet cast carelessly on the head: it was almost a single family, bound together by a network of intermarriages, so intricate as to render it impossible for any one who did not belong to the community to follow the threads or read the design of the social tracery. and while the seaton swarmed with "the goings on of life," the town of portlossie lay above it still as a country hamlet, with more odours than people about: of people it was seldom indeed that three were to be spied at once in the wide street, while of odours you would always encounter a smell of leather from the saddler's shop, and a mingled message of bacon and cheese from the very general dealer's--in whose window hung what seemed three hams, and only he who looked twice would discover that the middle object was no ham, but a violin--while at every corner lurked a scent of gillyflowers and southernwood. idly supreme, portlossie the upper looked down in condescension, that is in half concealed contempt, on the ant heap below it. the evening arrived on which the greater part of the boats was to put off for the first assay. malcolm would have made one in the little fleet, for he belonged to his friend joseph mair's crew, had it not been found impossible to get the new boat ready before the following evening; whence, for this one more, he was still his own master, with one more chance of a pleasure for which he had been on the watch ever since lady florimel had spoken of having a row in his boat. true, it was not often she appeared on the shore in the evening; nevertheless he kept watching the dune with his keen eyes, for he had hinted to mrs courthope that perhaps her young lady would like to see the boats go out. although it was the fiftieth time his eyes had swept the links in vague hope, he could hardly believe their testimony when now at length he spied a form, which could only be hers, looking seaward from the slope, as still as a sphinx on egyptian sands. he sauntered slowly towards her by the landward side of the dune, gathering on his way a handful of the reddest daisies he could find; then, ascending the sandhill, approached her along the top. "saw ye ever sic gowans in yer life, my leddy?" he said, holding out his posy. "is that what you call them?" she returned. "ow ay, my leddy--daisies ye ca' them. i dinna ken but yours is the bonnier name o' the twa--gien it be what mr graham tells me the auld poet chaucer maks o' 't." "what is that?" "ow, jist the een o' the day.--the day's eyes, ye ken. they're sma' een for sic a great face, but syne there's a lot o' them to mak up for that. they've begun to close a'ready, but the mair they close the bonnier they luik, wi' their bits o' screwed up mooies (little mouths). but saw ye ever sic reid anes, or ony sic a size, my leddy?" "i don't think i ever did. what is the reason they are so large and red?" "i dinna ken. there canna be muckle nourishment in sic a thin soil, but there maun be something that agrees wi' them. it's the same a' roon' aboot here." lady florimel sat looking at the daisies, and malcolm stood a few yards off watching for the first of the red sails, which must soon show themselves, creeping out on the ebb tide. nor had he waited long before a boat appeared, then another and another--six huge oars, ponderous to toil withal, urging each from the shelter of the harbour out into the wide weltering plain. the fishing boat of that time was not decked as now, and each, with every lift of its bows, revealed to their eyes a gaping hollow, ready, if a towering billow should break above it, to be filled with sudden death. one by one the whole fleet crept out, and ever as they gained the breeze, up went the red sails, and filled: aside leaned every boat from the wind, and went dancing away over the frolicking billows towards the sunset, its sails, deep dyed in oak bark, shining redder and redder in the growing redness of the sinking sun. nor did portlossie alone send out her boats, like huge seabirds warring on the live treasures of the deep; from beyond the headlands east and west, out they glided on slow red wing,--from scaurnose, from sandend, from clamrock, from the villages all along the coast, --spreading as they came, each to its work apart through all the laborious night, to rejoin its fellows only as home drew them back in the clear gray morning, laden and slow with the harvest of the stars. but the night lay between, into which they were sailing over waters of heaving green that for ever kept tossing up roses --a night whose curtain was a horizon built up of steady blue, but gorgeous with passing purple and crimson, and flashing with molten gold. malcolm was not one of those to whom the sea is but a pond for fish, and the sky a storehouse of wind and rain, sunshine and snow: he stood for a moment gazing, lost in pleasure. then he turned to lady florimel: she had thrown her daisies on the sand, appeared to be deep in her book, and certainly caught nothing of the splendour before her beyond the red light on her page. "saw ye ever a bonnier sicht, my leddy?" said malcolm. she looked up, and saw, and gazed in silence. her nature was full of poetic possibilities; and now a formless thought foreshadowed itself in a feeling she did not understand: why should such a sight as this make her feel sad? the vital connection between joy and effort had begun from afar to reveal itself with the question she now uttered. "what is it all for?" she asked dreamily, her eyes gazing out on the calm ecstasy of colour, which seemed to have broken the bonds of law, and ushered in a new chaos, fit matrix of new heavens and new earth. "to catch herrin'," answered malcolm, ignorant of the mood that prompted the question, and hence mistaking its purport. but a falling doubt had troubled the waters of her soul, and through the ripple she could descry it settling into form. she was silent for a moment. "i want to know," she resumed, "why it looks as if some great thing were going on. why is all this pomp and show? something ought to be at hand. all i see is the catching of a few miserable fish! if it were the eve of a glorious battle now, i could understand it --if those were the little english boats rushing to attack the spanish armada, for instance. but they are only gone to catch fish. or if they were setting out to discover the isles of the west, the country beyond the sunset!--but this jars." "i canna answer ye a' at ance, my leddy," said malcolm; "i maun tak time to think aboot it. but i ken brawly what ye mean." even as he spoke he withdrew, and, descending the mound, walked away beyond the bored craig, regardless now of the far lessening sails and the sinking sun. the motes of the twilight were multiplying fast as he returned along the shore side of the dune, but lady florimel had vanished from its crest. he ran to the top: thence, in the dim of the twilight, he saw her slow retreating form, phantom-like, almost at the grated door of the tunnel, which, like that of a tomb, appeared ready to draw her in, and yield her no more. "my leddy, my leddy," he cried, "winna ye bide for 't?" he went bounding after her like a deer. she heard him call, and stood holding the door half open. "it's the battle o' armageddon, my leddy," he cried, as he came within hearing distance. "the battle of what?" she exclaimed, bewildered. "i really can't understand your savage scotch." "hoot, my leddy! the battle o' armageddon 's no ane o' the scots battles; it 's the battle atween the richt and the wrang, 'at ye read aboot i' the buik o' the revelations." "what on earth are you talking about?" returned lady florimel in dismay, beginning to fear that her squire was losing his senses. "it's jist what ye was sayin,' my leddy: sic a pomp as yon bude to hing abune a gran' battle some gait or ither." "what has the catching of fish to do with a battle in the revelations?" said the girl, moving a little within the door. "weel, my leddy, gien i took in han' to set it furth to ye, i wad hae to tell ye a' that mr graham has been learnin' me sin ever i can min.' he says 'at the whole economy o' natur is fashiont unco like that o' the kingdom o' haven: its jist a gradation o' services, an' the highest en' o' ony animal is to contreebute to the life o' ane higher than itsel'; sae that it 's the gran' preevilege o' the fish we tak, to be aten by human bein's, an' uphaud what's abune them." "that's a poor consolation to the fish," said lady florimel. "hoo ken ye that, my leddy? ye can tell nearhan' as little aboot the hert o' a herrin'--sic as it has--as the herrin' can tell aboot yer ain, whilk, thinkin', maun be o' the lairgest size." "how should you know anything about my heart, pray?" she asked, with more amusement than offence. "jist by my ain," answered malcolm. lady florimel began to fear she must have allowed the fisher lad more liberty than was proper, seeing he dared avow that he knew the heart of a lady of her position by his own. but indeed malcolm was wrong, for in the scale of hearts, lady florimel's was far below his. she stepped quite within the door, and was on the point of shutting it, but something about the youth restrained her, exciting at least her curiosity; his eyes glowed with a deep, quiet light, and his face, even grand at the moment, had a greater influence upon her than she knew. instead therefore of interposing the door between them, she only kept it poised, ready to fall to the moment the sanity of the youth should become a hair's breadth more doubtful than she already considered it. "it's a' pairt o' ae thing, my leddy," malcolm resumed. "the herrin 's like the fowk 'at cairries the mate an' the pooder an' sic like for them 'at does the fechtin'. the hert o' the leevin' man's the place whaur the battle's foucht, an' it 's aye gaein' on an' on there atween god an' sawtan; an' the fish they haud fowk up till 't." "do you mean that the herrings help you to fight for god?" said lady florimel with a superior smile. "aither for god or for the deevil, my leddy--that depen's upo' the fowk themsel's. i say it hauds them up to fecht, an' the thing maun be fouchten oot. fowk to fecht maun live, an' the herrin' hauds the life i' them, an' sae the catchin' o' the herrin' comes in to be a pairt o' the battle." "wouldn't it be more sensible to say that the battle is between the fishermen and the sea, for the sake of their wives and children?" suggested lady florimel supremely. "na, my leddy, it wadna he half sae sensible, for it wadna justifee the grandur that hings ower the fecht. the battle wi' the sea 's no sae muckle o' an affair. an', 'deed, gien it warna that the wives an' the verra weans hae themsel's to fecht i' the same battle o' guid an' ill, i dinna see the muckle differ there wad be atween them an' the fish, nor what for they sudna ate ane anither as the craturs i' the watter du. but gien 't be the battle i say, there can be no pomp o' sea or sky ower gran' for 't; an' it 's a weel waured (expended) gien it but haud the gude anes merry an' strong, an' up to their work. for that, weel may the sun shine a celestial rosy reid, an' weel may the boatie row, an' weel may the stars luik doon, blinkin' an' luikin' again--ilk ane duin' its bonny pairt to mak a man a richt hertit guid willed sodger!" "and, pray, what may be your rank in this wonderful army?" asked lady florimel, with the air and tone of one humouring a lunatic. " naething but a raw recruit, my leddy; but gien i hed my chice, i wad be piper to my reg'ment." "how do you mean?" "i wad mak sangs. dinna lauch at me, my leddy, for they're the best kin' o' wapon for the wark 'at i ken. but no a makar (poet), an' maun content mysel' wi' duin' my wark." "then why," said lady florimel, with the conscious right of social superiority to administer good counsel,--"why don't you work harder, and get a better house, and wear better clothes?" malcolm's mind was so full of far other and weightier things that the question bewildered him; but he grappled with the reference to his clothes. "'deed, my leddy," he returned, "ye may weel say that, seein' ye was never aboord a herrin' boat! but gien ye ance saw the inside o' ane fu' o' fish, whaur a body gangs slidderin' aboot, maybe up to the middle o' 's leg in wamlin' herrin,' an' the neist meenute, maybe, weet to the skin wi' the splash o' a muckle jaw (wave), ye micht think the claes guid eneuch for the wark--though ill fit, i confess wi' shame, to come afore yer leddyship." "i thought you only fished about close by the shore in a little boat; i didn't know you went with the rest of the fishermen: that's very dangerous work--isn't it?" "no ower dangerous my leddy. there's some gangs doon ilka sizzon; but it 's a' i' the w'y o' yer wark." "then how is it you're not gone fishing tonight?" "she's a new boat, an' there's anither day's wark on her afore we win oot.--wadna ye like a row the nicht, my leddy?" "no, certainly; it 's much too late." "it'll be nane mirker nor 'tis; but i reckon ye're richt. i cam ower by jist to see whether ye wadna like to gang wi' the boats a bit; but yer leddyship set me aff thinkin' an' that pat it oot o' my heid." "it's too late now anyhow. come tomorrow evening, and i'll see if i can't go with you." "i canna, my leddy--that's the fash o' 't! i maun gang wi' blue peter the morn's nicht. it was my last chance, sorry to say." "it's not of the slightest consequence," lady florimel returned; and, bidding him goodnight, she shut and locked the door. the same instant she vanished, for the tunnel was now quite dark. malcolm turned with a sigh, and took his way slowly homeward along the top of the dune. all was dim about him--dim in the heavens, where a thin veil of gray had gathered over the blue; dim on the ocean, where the stars swayed and swung, in faint flashes of dissolving radiance, cast loose like ribbons of seaweed: dim all along the shore, where the white of the breaking wavelet melted into the yellow sand; and dim in his own heart, where the manner and words of the lady had half hidden her starry reflex with a chilling mist. chapter xxiv: the feast to the entertainment which the marquis and lady florimel had resolved to give, all classes and conditions in the neighbourhood now began to receive invitations--shopkeepers, there called merchants, and all socially above them, individually, by notes, in the name of the marquis and lady florimel, but in the handwriting of mrs crathie and her daughters; and the rest generally, by the sound of bagpipes, and proclamation from the lips of duncan macphail. to the satisfaction of johnny bykes the exclusion of improper persons was left in the hands of the gatekeepers. the thing had originated with the factor. the old popularity of the lords of the land had vanished utterly during the life of the marquis's brother, and mr crathie, being wise in his generation, sought to initiate a revival of it by hinting the propriety of some general hospitality, a suggestion which the marquis was anything but loath to follow. for the present lord lossie, although as unready as most men to part with anything he cared for, could yet cast away magnificently, and had always greatly prized a reputation for liberality. for the sake of the fishermen, the first saturday after the commencement of the home fishing was appointed. the few serious ones, mostly methodists, objected on the ground of the proximity of the sunday; but their attitude was, if possible, of still less consequence in the eyes of their neighbours that it was well known they would in no case have accepted such an invitation. the day dawned propitious. as early as five o'clock mr crathie was abroad, booted and spurred--now directing the workmen who were setting up tents and tables; now conferring with house steward, butler, or cook; now mounting his horse and galloping off to the home farm or the distillery, or into the town to the lossie arms, where certain guests from a distance were to be accommodated, and whose landlady had undertaken the superintendence of certain of the victualling departments; for canny mr crathie would not willingly have the meanest guest ask twice for anything he wanted--so invaluable did he consider a good word from the humblest quarter --and the best labours of the french cook, even had he reverenced instead of despising scotch dishes, would have ill sufficed for the satisfaction of appetites critically appreciative of hotch potch, sheep's head, haggis, and black puddings. the neighbouring nobility and landed gentlemen, the professional guests also, including the clergy, were to eat with the marquis in the great hall. on the grass near the house, tents were erected for the burgesses of the burgh, and the tenants of the marquis's farms. i would have said on the lawn, but there was no lawn proper about the place, the ground was so picturesquely broken--in parts with all but precipices--and so crowded with trees. hence its aspect was specially unlike that of an english park and grounds. the whole was celtic, as distinguished in character from saxon. for the lake-like lawn, for the wide sweeps of airy room in which expand the mighty boughs of solitary trees, for the filmy gray blue distances, and the far off segments of horizon, here were the tree crowded grass, the close windings of the long glen of the burn, heavily overshadowed, and full of mystery and covert, but leading at last to the widest vantage of outlook--the wild heathery hill down which it drew its sharp furrow; while, in front of the house, beyond hidden river, and plane of treetops, and far sunk shore with its dune and its bored crag and its tortuous caves, lay the great sea, a pouting under lip, met by the thin, reposeful--shall i say sorrowful?--upper lip of the sky. a bridge of stately span, level with the sweep in front, honourable embodiment of the savings of a certain notable countess, one end resting on the same rock with the house, their foundations almost in contact, led across the burn to more and more trees, their roots swathed in the finest grass, through which ran broad carriage drives and narrower footways, hard and smooth with yellow gravel. here amongst the trees were set long tables for the fishermen, mechanics, and farm labourers. here also was the place appointed for the piper. as the hour drew near, the guests came trooping in at every entrance. by the sea gate came the fisher folk, many of the men in the blue jersey, the women mostly in short print gowns, of large patterns --the married with huge, wide filled caps, and the unmarried with their hair gathered in silken nets:--bonnets there were very few. each group that entered had a joke or a jibe for johnny bykes, which he met in varying, but always surly fashion--in that of utter silence in the case of duncan and malcolm, at which the former was indignant, the latter merry. by the town gate came the people of portlossie. by the new main entrance from the high road beyond the town, through lofty greekish gates, came the lords and lairds, in yellow coaches, gigs, and post chaises. by another gate, far up the glen, came most of the country folk, some walking, some riding, some driving, all merry, and with the best intentions of enjoying themselves. as the common people approached the house, they were directed to their different tables by the sexton, for he knew everybody. the marquis was early on the ground, going about amongst his guests, and showing a friendly offhand courtesy which prejudiced every one in his favour. lady florimel soon joined him, and a certain frank way she inherited from her father, joined to the great beauty her mother had given her, straightway won all hearts. she spoke to duncan with cordiality; the moment he heard her voice, he pulled off his bonnet, put it under his arm, and responded with what i can find no better phrase to describe than a profuse dignity. malcolm she favoured with a smile which swelled his heart with pride and devotion. the bold faced countess next appeared; she took the marquis's other arm, and nodded to his guests condescendingly and often, but seemed, after every nod, to throw her head farther back than before. then to haunt the goings of lady florimel came lord meikleham, receiving little encouragement, but eager after such crumbs as he could gather. suddenly the great bell under the highest of the gilded vanes rang a loud peal, and the marquis having led his chief guests to the hall, as soon as he was seated, the tables began to be served simultaneously. at that where malcolm sat with duncan, grace was grievously foiled by the latter, for, unaware of what was going on, he burst out, at the request of a waggish neighbour, with a tremendous blast, of which the company took advantage to commence operations at once, and presently the clatter of knives and forks and spoons was the sole sound to be heard in that division of the feast: across the valley, from the neighbourhood of the house, came now and then a faint peal of laughter, for there they knew how to be merry while they ate; but here, the human element was in abeyance, for people who work hard, seldom talk while they eat. from the end of an overhanging bough a squirrel looked at them for one brief moment, wondering perhaps that they should not prefer cracking a nut in private, and vanished--but the birds kept singing, and the scents of the flowers came floating up from the garden below, and the burn went on with its own noises and its own silences, drifting the froth of its last passion down towards the doors of the world. in the hall, ancient jokes soon began to flutter their moulted wings, and musty compliments to offer themselves for the acceptance of the ladies, and meet with a reception varied by temperament and experience: what the bold faced countess heard with a hybrid contortion, half sneer and half smile, would have made lady florimel stare out of big refusing eyes. those more immediately around the marquis were soon laughing over the story of the trick he had played the blind piper, and the apology he had had to make in consequence; and perhaps something better than mere curiosity had to do with the wish of several of the guests to see the old man and his grandson. the marquis said the piper himself would take care they should not miss him, but he would send for the young fellow, who was equally fitted to amuse them, being quite as much of a character in his way as the other. he spoke to the man behind his chair, and in a few minutes malcolm made his appearance, following the messenger. "malcolm," said the marquis kindly, "i want you to keep your eyes open, and see that no mischief is done about the place." "i dinna think there's ane o' oor ain fowk wad dee ony mischeef, my lord," answered malcolm; "but whan ye keep open yett, ye canna be sure wha wins in, specially wi' sic a gowk as johnny bykes at ane o' them. no 'at he wad wrang yer lordship a hair, my lord!" "at all events you'll be on the alert," said the marquis. "i wull that, my lord. there's twa or three aboot a'ready 'at i dinna a'thegither like the leuks o'. they're no like country fowk, an' they're no fisher fowk. it's no far aff the time o' year whan the gipsies are i' the w'y o' payin' 's a veesit, an' they may ha' come in at the binn yett (gate), whaur there's nane but an auld wife to haud them oot." "well, well," said the marquis, who had no fear about the behaviour of his guests, and had only wanted a colour for his request of malcolm's presence. "in the meantime," he added, "we are rather short handed here. just give the butler a little assistance--will you?" "willin'ly, my lord," answered malcolm, forgetting altogether, in the prospect of being useful and within sight of lady florimel, that he had but half finished his own dinner. the butler, who had already had an opportunity of admiring his aptitude, was glad enough to have his help; and after this day used to declare that in a single week he could make him a better servant than any of the men who waited at table. it was indeed remarkable how, with such a limited acquaintance with the many modes of an artificial life, he was yet, by quickness of sympathetic insight, capable not only of divining its requirements, but of distinguishing, amid the multitude of appliances around, those fitted to their individual satisfaction. it was desirable, however, that the sitting in the hall should not be prolonged, and after a few glasses of wine, the marquis rose, and went to make the round of the other tables. taking them in order, he came last to those of the rustics, mechanics, and fisher folk. these had advanced considerably in their potations, and the fun was loud. his appearance was greeted with shouts, into which duncan struck with a paean from his pipes; but in the midst of the tumult, one of the oldest of the fishermen stood up, and in a voice accustomed to battle with windy uproars, called for silence. he then addressed their host. "ye'll jist mak 's prood by drinkin' a tum'ler wi' 's, yer lordship," he said. "it's no ilka day we hae the honour o' yer lordship's company." "or i of yours," returned the marquis with hearty courtesy. "i will do it with pleasure--or at least a glass: my head's not so well seasoned as some of yours." "gien your lordship's hed hed as mony blasts o' nicht win', an' as mony jaups o' cauld sea watter aboot its lugs as oors, it wad hae been fit to stan' as muckle o' the barley bree as the stievest o' the lot, i s' warran'." "i hope so," returned lord lossie, who, having taken a seat at the end of the table, was now mixing a tumbler of toddy. as soon as he had filled his glass, he rose, and drank to the fishermen of portlossie, their wives and their sweethearts, wishing them a mighty conquest of herring, and plenty of children to keep up the breed and the war on the fish. his speech was received with hearty cheers, during which he sauntered away to rejoin his friends. many toasts followed, one of which, "damnation to the dogfish," gave opportunity to a wag, seated near the piper, to play upon the old man's well known foible by adding, "an' cawmill o' glenlyon;" whereupon duncan, who had by this time taken more whisky than was good for him, rose, and made a rambling speech, in which he returned thanks for the imprecation, adding thereto the hope that never might one of the brood accursed go down with honour to the grave. the fishermen listened with respectful silence, indulging only in nods, winks, and smiles for the interchange of amusement, until the utterance of the wish recorded, when, apparently carried away for a moment by his eloquence, they broke into loud applause. but, from the midst of it, a low gurgling laugh close by him reached duncan's ear: excited though he was with strong drink and approbation, he shivered, sunk into his seat, and clutched at his pipes convulsively, as if they had been a weapon of defence. "malcolm! malcolm, my son," he muttered feebly, "tere is a voman will pe laughing! she is a paad voman: she makes me cold!" finding from the no response that malcolm had left his side, he sat motionless, drawn into himself, and struggling to suppress the curdling shiver. some of the women gathered about him, but he assured them it was nothing more than a passing sickness. malcolm's attention had, a few minutes before, been drawn to two men of somewhat peculiar appearance, who, applauding louder than any, only pretended to drink, and occasionally interchanged glances of intelligence. it was one of these peculiar looks that first attracted his notice. he soon discovered that they had a comrade on the other side of the table, who apparently, like themselves, had little or no acquaintance with any one near him. he did not like either their countenances or their behaviour, and resolved to watch them. in order therefore to be able to follow them when they moved, as he felt certain they would before long, without attracting their attention, he left the table and making a circuit took up his position behind a neighbouring tree. hence it came that he was not, at the moment of his need, by his grandfather's side, whither he had returned as soon as dinner was over in the hall. meantime it became necessary to check the drinking by the counter attraction of the dance. mr crathie gave orders that a chair should be mounted on a table for duncan; and the young hinds and fishermen were soon dancing zealously with the girls of their company to his strathspeys and reels. the other divisions of the marquis's guests made merry to the sound of a small brass band, a harp, and two violins. when the rest forsook the toddy for the reel, the objects of malcolm's suspicion remained at the table, not to drink, but to draw nearer to each other and confer. at length, when the dancers began to return in quest of liquor, they rose and went away loiteringly through the trees. as the twilight was now deepening, malcolm found it difficult to keep them in sight, but for the same reason he was able the more quickly to glide after them from tree to tree. it was almost moonrise, he said to himself, and if they meditated mischief, now was their best time. presently he heard the sound of running feet, and in a moment more spied the unmistakeable form of the mad laird, darting through the thickening dusk of the trees, with gestures of wild horror. as he passed the spot where malcolm stood, he cried out in a voice like a suppressed shriek,--"it's my mither! it's my mither! i dinna ken whaur i come frae." his sudden appearance and outcry so startled malcolm that for a moment he forgot his watch, and when he looked again the men had vanished. not having any clue to their intent, and knowing only that on such a night the house was nearly defenceless, he turned at once and made for it. as he approached the front, coming over the bridge, he fancied he saw a figure disappear through the entrance, and quickened his pace. just as he reached it, he heard a door bang, and supposing it to be that which shut off the second hall, whence rose the principal staircase, he followed this vaguest of hints, and bounded to the top of the stair. entering the first passage he came to, he found it almost dark, with a half open door at the end, through which shone a gleam from some window beyond: this light was plainly shut off for a moment, as if by some one passing the window. he hurried after noiselessly, for the floor was thickly carpeted--and came to the foot of a winding stone stair. afraid beyond all things of doing nothing, and driven by the formless conviction that if he stopped to deliberate he certainly should do nothing, he shot up the dark screw like an ascending bubble, passed the landing of the second floor without observing it, and arrived in the attic regions of the ancient pile, under low, irregular ceilings, here ascending in cones, there coming down in abrupt triangles, or sloping away to a hidden meeting with the floor in distant corners. his only light was the cold blue glimmer from here and there a storm window or a skylight. as the conviction of failure grew on him, the ghostly feeling of the place began to invade him. all was vague, forsaken, and hopeless, as a dreary dream, with the superadded miserable sense of lonely sleepwalking. i suspect that the feeling we call ghostly is but the sense of abandonment in the lack of companion life; but be this as it may, malcolm was glad enough to catch sight of a gleam as from a candle, at the end of a long, low passage on which he had come after mazy wandering. another similar passage crossed its end, somewhere in which must be the source of the light: he crept towards it, and laying himself flat on the floor, peeped round the corner. his very heart stopped to listen: seven or eight yards from him, with a small lantern in her hand, stood a short female figure, which, the light falling for a moment on her soft evil countenance, he recognised as mrs catanach. beside her stood a tall graceful figure, draped in black from head to foot. mrs catanach was speaking in a low tone, and what malcolm was able to catch was evidently the close of a conversation. "i'll do my best, ye may be sure, my leddy," she said. "there's something no canny aboot the cratur, an' doobtless ye was an ill used wuman, an' ye're i' the richt. but it 's a some fearsome ventur, an' may be luikit intill, ye ken. there i s' be yer scoug. lippen to me, an' ye s' no repent it." as she ended speaking, she turned to the door, and drew from it a key, evidently after a foiled attempt to unlock it therewith; for from a bunch she carried she now made choice of another, and was already fumbling with it in the keyhole, when malcolm bethought himself that, whatever her further intent, he ought not to allow her to succeed in opening the door. he therefore rose slowly to his feet, and stepping softly out into the passage, sent his round blue bonnet spinning with such a certain aim, that it flew right against her head. she gave a cry of terror, smothered by the sense of evil secrecy, and dropped her lantern. it went out. malcolm pattered with his hands on the floor, and began to howl frightfully. her companion had already fled, and mrs catanach picked up her lantern and followed. but her flight was soft footed, and gave sign only in the sound of her garments, and a clank or two of her keys. gifted with a good sense of relative position, malcolm was able to find his way back to the hall without much difficulty, and met no one on the way. when he stepped into the open air a round moon was visible through the trees, and their shadows were lying across the sward. the merriment had grown louder; for a good deal of whisky having been drunk by men of all classes, hilarity had ousted restraint, and the separation of classes having broken a little, there were many stragglers from the higher to the lower divisions, whence the area of the more boisterous fun had considerably widened. most of the ladies and gentlemen were dancing in the chequer of the trees and moonlight, but, a little removed from the rest, lady florimel was seated under a tree, with lord meikleham by her side, probably her partner in the last dance. she was looking at the moon, which shone upon her from between two low branches, and there was a sparkle in her eyes and a luminousness upon her cheek which to malcolm did not seem to come from the moon only. he passed on, with the first pang of jealousy in his heart, feeling now for the first time that the space between lady florimel and himself was indeed a gulf. but he cast the whole thing from him for the time with an inward scorn of his foolishness, and hurried on from group to group, to find the marquis. meeting with no trace of him, and thinking he might be in the flower garden, which a few rays of the moon now reached, he descended thither. but he searched it through with no better success, and at the farthest end was on the point of turning to leave it and look elsewhere, when he heard a moan of stifled agony on the other side of a high wall which here bounded the garden. climbing up an espalier, he soon reached the top, and looking down on the other side, to his horror and rage espied the mad laird on the ground, and the very men of whom he had been in pursuit, standing over him and brutally tormenting him, apparently in order to make him get up and go along with them. one was kicking him, another pulling his head this way and that by the hair, and the third punching and poking his hump, which last cruelty had probably drawn from him the cry malcolm had heard. three might be too many for him: he descended swiftly, found some stones, and a stake from a bed of sweet peas, then climbing up again, took such effectual aim at one of the villains that he fell without uttering a sound. dropping at once from the wall, he rushed at the two with stick upheaved. "dinna be in sic a rage, man," cried the first, avoiding his blow; "we're aboot naething ayont the lawfu'. it's only the mad laird. we're takin' 'im to the asylum at ebberdeen. by the order o' 's ain mither!" at the word a choking scream came from the prostrate victim. malcolm uttered a huge imprecation, and struck at the fellow again, who now met him in a way that showed it was noise more than wounds he had dreaded. instantly the other came up, and also fell upon him with vigour. but his stick was too much for them, and at length one of them, crying out--"it's the blin' piper's bastard--i'll mark him yet!" took to his heels, and was followed by his companion. more eager after rescue than punishment, malcolm turned to the help of the laird, whom he found in utmost need of his ministrations-- gagged, and with his hands tied mercilessly tight behind his back. his knife quickly released him, but the poor fellow was scarcely less helpless than before. he clung to malcolm, and moaned piteously, every moment glancing over his shoulder in terror of pursuit. his mouth hung open as if the gag were still tormenting him; now and then he would begin his usual lament and manage to say "i dinna ken;" but when he attempted the whaur, his jaw fell and hung as before. malcolm sought to lead him away, but he held back, moaning dreadfully; then malcolm would have him sit down where they were, but he caught his hand and pulled him away, stopping instantly, however, as if not knowing whither to turn from the fears on every side. at length the prostrate enemy began to move, when the laird, who had been unaware of his presence, gave a shriek, and took to his heels. anxious not to lose sight of him, malcolm left the wounded man to take care of himself; and followed him up the steep side of the little valley. they had not gone many steps from the top of the ascent, however, before the fugitive threw himself on the ground exhausted, and it was all malcolm could do to get him to the town, where, unable to go a pace further, he sank down on mrs catanach's doorstep. a light was burning in the cottage, but malcolm would seek shelter for him anywhere rather than with her, and, in terror of her quick ears, caught him up in his arms like a child, and hurried away with him to miss horn s. "eh sirs!" exclaimed miss horn, when she opened the door--for jean was among the merrymakers--"wha 's this 'at 's killt noo?" "it's the laird--mr stewart," returned malcolm. "he's no freely killt, but nigh han'." "na! weel i wat! come in an' set him doon till we see," said miss horn, turning and leading the way up to her little parlour. there malcolm laid his burden on the sofa, and gave a brief account of the rescue. "lord preserve 's, ma'colm!" cried miss horn, as soon as he had ended his tale, to which she had listened in silence, with fierce eyes and threatening nose; "isna 't a mercy i wasna made like some fowk, or i couldna ha' bidden to see the puir fallow misguidet that gait! it's a special mercy, ma'colm macphail, to be made wantin' ony sic thing as feelin's." she was leaving the room as she spoke--to return instantly with brandy. the laird swallowed some with an effort, and began to revive. "eh, sirs!" exclaimed miss horn, regarding him now more narrowly --"but he's in an awfu' state o' dirt! i maun wash his face an' han's, an' pit him till 's bed. could ye help aff wi' 's claes, ma'colm? though i haena ony feelin's, jist some eerie-like at the puir body's back." the last words were uttered in what she judged a safe aside. as if she had been his mother, she washed his face and hands, and dried them tenderly, the laird submitting like a child. he spoke but one word--when she took him by the hand to lead him to the room where her cousin used to sleep: "father o' lichts!" he said, and no more. malcolm put him to bed, where he lay perfectly still, whether awake or asleep they could not tell. he then set out to go back to lossie house, promising to return after he had taken his grandfather home, and seen him also safe in bed. chapter xxv: the night watch when malcolm returned, jean had retired for the night, and again it was miss horn who admitted him, and led him to her parlour. it was a low ceiled room, with lean spider legged furniture and dingy curtains. everything in it was suggestive of a comfort slowly vanishing. an odour of withered rose leaves pervaded the air. a japanese cabinet stood in one corner, and on the mantelpiece a pair of chinese fans with painted figures whose faces were embossed in silk, between which ticked an old french clock, whose supporters were a shepherd and shepherdess in prettily painted china. long faded as was everything in it, the room was yet very rich in the eyes of malcolm, whose home was bare even in comparison with that of the poorest of the fisher women, they had a passion for ornamenting their chimneypieces with china ornaments, and their dressers with the most gorgeous crockery that their money could buy--a certain metallic orange being the prevailing hue; while in duncan's cottage, where woman had never initiated the taste, there was not even a china poodle to represent the finished development of luxury in the combination of the ugly and the useless. miss horn had made a little fire in the old fashioned grate, whose bars bellied out like a sail almost beyond the narrow chimney shelf, and a tea kettle was singing on the hob, while a decanter, a sugar basin, a nutmeg grater, and other needful things on a tray, suggested negus, beyond which miss horn never went in the matter of stimulants, asserting that, as she had no feelings, she never required anything stronger. she made malcolm sit down at the opposite side of the fire, and mixing him a tumbler of her favourite drink, began to question him about the day, and how things had gone. miss horn had the just repute of discretion, for, gladly hearing all the news, she had the rare virtue of not repeating things to the prejudice of others without some good reason for so doing; malcolm therefore, seated thus alone with her in the dead of the night, and bound to her by the bond of a common well doing, had no hesitation in unfolding to her all his adventures of the evening. she sat with her big hands in her lap, making no remark, not even an exclamation, while he went on with the tale of the garret; but her listening eyes grew--not larger--darker and fiercer as he spoke; the space between her nostrils and mouth widened visibly; the muscles knotted on the sides of her neck; and her nose curved more and more to the shape of a beak. "there's some deevilry there!" she said at length after he had finished, breaking a silence of some moments, during which she had been staring into the fire. "whaur twa ill women come thegither, there maun be the auld man himsel' atween them." "i dinna doobt it," returned malcolm. "an' ane o' them 's an ill wuman, sure eneuch; but i ken naething aboot the tither--only 'at she maun be a leddy, by the w'y the howdy wife spak till her." "the waur token, when a leddy collogues wi' a wuman aneth her ain station, an' ane 'at has keppit (caught in passing) mony a secret in her day, an' by her callin' has had mair opportunity--no to say farther--than ither fowk o' duin' ill things! an' gien ye dinna ken her, that's no rizzon 'at i sudna hae a groff guiss at her by the marks ye read aff o' her. i'll jist hae to tell ye a story sic as an auld wife like me seldom tells till a young man like yersel'." "yer ain bridle sail rule my tongue, mem," said malcolm. "i s' lippen to yer discretion," said miss horn, and straightway began.--"some years ago--an' i s' warran' it 's weel ower twinty --that same wuman, bawby cat'nach,--wha was nae hame born wuman, nor had been lang aboot the toon--comin' as she did frae naebody kent whaur, 'cep maybe it was the markis 'at than was, preshumed to mak up to me i' the w'y o' frien'ly acquantance--sic as a maiden leddy micht hae wi' a howdy--an' no 'at she forgot her proaper behaviour to ane like mysel'. but i cudna hae bidden (endured) the jaud, 'cep 'at i had rizzons for lattin' her jaw wag. she was cunnin', the auld vratch,--no that auld--maybe aboot forty,-- but i was ower mony for her. she had the design to win at something she thoucht i kent, an' sae, to enteece me to open my pock, she opent hers, an' tellt me story efter story about this neebour an' that--a' o' them things 'at ouchtna to ha' been true, an 'at she ouchtna to ha' loot pass her lips gien they war true, seein' she cam by the knowledge o' them so as she said she did. but she gat naething o' me--the fat braint cat!--an' she hates me like the verra mischeef." miss horn paused and took a sip of her negus. "ae day, i cam upon her sittin' by the ingleneuk i' my ain kitchen, haudin' a close an' a laich confab wi' jean. i had jean than, an' hoo i hae keepit the hizzy, i hardly ken. i think it maun be that, haein' nae feelin's o' my ain, i hae ower muckle regaird to ither fowk's, an' sae i never likit to pit her awa' wi'oot doonricht provocation. but dinna ye lippen to jean, malcolm--na, na! at that time, my cousin, miss grizel cammell--my third cousin, she was--had come to bide wi' me--a bonny yoong thing as ye wad see, but in sair ill health; an' maybe she had het freits (whims), an' maybe no, but she cudna bide to see the wuman cat'nach aboot the place. an' in verra trowth, she was to mysel' like ane o' thae ill faured birds, i dinna min' upo' the name them, 'at hings ower an airmy; for wharever there was onybody nae weel, or onybody deid, there was bawby cat'nach. i hae hard o' creepin' things 'at veesits fowk 'at 's no weel--an' bawby was, an' is, ane sic like! sae i was angert at seein' her colloguin' wi' jean, an' i cried jean to me to the door o' the kitchie. but wi' that up jumps bawby, an' comin' efter her, says to me--says she, 'eh, miss horn! there's terrible news: leddy lossie's deid;--she's been three ooks deid!'--'weel,' says i, 'what's sae terrible aboot that?' for ye ken i never had ony feelin's, an' i cud see naething sae awfu' aboot a body deem' i' the ord'nar' w'y o natur like. 'we'll no miss her muckle doon here,' says i, 'for i never hard o' her bein' at the hoose sin' ever i can.' 'but that's no a',' says she; 'only i wad be laith to speyk aboot it i' the transe (passage). lat me up the stair wi' ye, an' i'll tell ye mair.' weel, pairtly 'at i was ta'en by surprise like, an' pairtly 'at i wasna sae auld as i am noo, an' pairtly that i was keerious to hear--ill 'at i likit her--what neist the wuman wad say, i did as i ouchtna, an' turned an' gaed up the stair, an' loot her follow me. whan she cam' in, she pat tu the door ahint her, an' turnt to me, an' said --says she: 'an wha 's deid forbye, think ye?'--'i hae hard o' naebody,' i answered. 'wha but the laird o' gersefell!' says she. ' sorry to hear that, honest ma!' says i; for a'body likit mr stewart. 'an' what think ye o' 't?' says she, wi' a runklin o' her broos, an' a shak o' her heid, an' a settin o' her roon' nieves upo' the fat hips o' her. 'think o' 't?' says i ; 'what sud i think o' 't, but that it 's the wull o' providence?' wi' that she leuch till she wabblet a' ower like cauld skink, an' says she--'weel, that's jist what it is no, an' that lat me tell ye, miss horn!' i glowert at her, maist frichtit into believin' she was the witch fowk ca'd her. 'wha's son 's the hump backit cratur',' says she, ''at comes in i' the gig whiles wi' the groom lad, think ye?'--'wha's but the puir man's 'at 's deid?' says i. 'deil a bit o' 't!' says she, 'an' i beg yer pardon for mentionin' o' him,' says she. an' syne she screwt up her mou', an' cam closs up till me--for i wadna sit doon mysel', an' less wad i bid her, an' was sorry eneuch by this time 'at i had broucht her up the stair--an' says she, layin' her han' upo' my airm wi' a clap, as gien her an' me was to be freen's upo' sic a gran' foondation o' dirt as that!--says she, makin' a laich toot moot o' 't,--'he's lord lossie's!' says she, an' maks a face 'at micht hae turnt a cat sick--only by guid luck i had nae feelin's. 'an' nae suner's my leddy deid nor her man follows her!' says she. 'an' what do ye mak o' that?' says she. 'ay, what do ye mak o' that?' says i till her again. 'ow! what ken i?' says she, wi' anither ill leuk; an' wi' that she leuch an' turned awa, but turned back again or she wan to the door, an' says she--'maybe ye didna ken 'at she was broucht to bed hersel' aboot a sax ooks ago?'--'puir leddy!' said i, thinkin' mair o' her evil report nor o' the pains o' childbirth. 'ay,' says she, wi' a deevilich kin' o' a lauch, like in spite o' hersel', 'for the bairn's deid, they tell me--as bonny a ladbairn as ye wad see, jist ooncoamon! an' whaur div ye think she had her doon lying? jist at lossie hoose!' wi' that she was oot at the door wi' a swag o' her tail, an' doon the stair to jean again. i was jist at ane mair wi' anger at mysel' an' scunner at her, an' in twa min' s to gang efter her an' turn her oot o' the hoose, her an' jean thegither. i could hear her snicherin' till hersel' as she gaed doon the stair. my verra stamack turned at the poozhonous ted. "i canna say what was true or what was fause i' the scandal o' her tale, nor what for she tuik the trouble to cairry 't to me, but it sune cam to be said 'at the yoong laird was but half wittet as weel's humpit, an' 'at his mither cudna bide him. an' certain it was 'at the puir wee chap cud as little bide his mither. gien she cam near him ohn luikit for, they said, he wad gie a great skriech, and rin as fast as his wee weyver (spider) legs cud wag aneth the wecht o' 's humpie--an' whiles her after him wi' onything she cud lay her han' upo', they said--but i kenna. ony gait, the widow hersel' grew waur and waur i' the temper, an' i misdoobt me sair was gey hard upo' the puir wee objeck--fell cruel til 'm, they said--till at len'th, as a' body kens, he forhooit (forsook) the hoose a'thegither. an' puttin' this an' that thegither, for i hear a hantle said 'at i say na ower again, it seems to me 'at her first scunner at her puir misformt bairn, wha they say was humpit whan he was born an' maist cost her her life to get lowst o' him-- her scunner at 'im 's been growin' an' growin' till it 's grown to doonricht hate." "it's an awfu' thing 'at ye say, mem, an' i doobt it 's ower true. but hoo can a mither hate her ain bairn?" said malcolm. "'deed it 's nae wonner ye sud speir, laddie! for it 's weel kent 'at maist mithers, gien there be a shargar or a nat'ral or a crookit ane amo' their bairns, mak mair o' that ane nor o' a' the lave putten thegither--as gien they wad mak it up till 'im, for the fair play o' the warl. but ye see in this case, he's aiblins (perhaps) the child o' sin--for a leear may tell an ill trowth--an' beirs the marks o' 't, ye see; sae to her he's jist her sin rinnin' aboot the warl incarnat; an' that canna be pleesant to luik upo'." "but excep' she war ashamed o' 't, she wadna tak it sae muckle to hert to be remin't o' 't." "mony ane's ashamed o' the consequences 'at's no ashamed o' the deed. mony ane cud du the sin ower again, 'at canna bide the sicht or even the word o' 't. i hae seen a body 't wad steal a thing as sune's luik at it gang daft wi' rage at bein' ca'd a thief. an' maybe she wadna care gien 't warna for the oogliness o' 'im. sae be he was a bonny sin, thinkin' she wad hide him weel eneuch. but seein' he 's naither i' the image o' her 'at bore 'im nor him 'at got 'im, but beirs on 's back, for ever in her sicht, the sin 'at was the gettin' o' 'in, he's a' hump to her, an' her hert's aye howkin a grave for 'im to lay 'im oot o' sicht intill she bore 'im, an' she wad beery 'im. an' thinkin' she beirs the markis --gien sae it be sae--deid an' gane as he is--a grutch yet, for passin' sic an offspring upo' her, an' syne no merryin' her efter an' a', an' the ro'd clear o' baith 'at stude atween them. it was said 'at the man 'at killt 'im in a twasum fecht (duel), sae mony a year efter, was a freen' o' hers." "but wad fowk du sic awfu' ill things, mem--her a merried woman, an' him a merried man?" "there's nae sayin', laddie, what a hantle o' men and some women wad du. i hae muckle to be thankfu' for 'at i was sic as no man ever luikit twice at. i wasna weel faured eneuch; though i had bonny hair, an' my mither aye said 'at her maggy hed guid sense; whatever else she micht or micht not hae. but gien i cud hae gotten a guid man, siclike's is scarce, i cud hae lo'ed him weel eneuch. but that's naither here nor there, an' has naething to du wi' onybody ava. the pint i had to come till was this: the wuman ye saw haudin' a toot moot (tout muet?) wi' that cat'nach wife, was nane ither, i do believe, than mistress stewart, the puir laird's mither. an' i hae as little doobt that whan ye tuik 's pairt, ye broucht to noucht a plot o' the twasum (two together) against him. it bodes guid to naebody whan there's a conjunc o' twa sic wanderin' stars o' blackness as you twa." "his ain mither!" exclaimed malcolm, brooding in horror over the frightful conjecture. the door opened, and the mad laird came in. his eyes were staring wide, but their look and that of his troubled visage showed that he was awake only in some frightful dream. "father o' lichts!" he murmured once and again, but making wild gestures, as if warding off blows. miss horn took him gently by the hand. the moment he felt her touch, his face grew calm, and he submitted at once to be led back to bed. "ye may tak yer aith upo' 't, ma'colm," she said when she returned, "she means naething but ill by that puir cratur; but you and me-- we'll ding (defeat) her yet, gien't be his wull. she wants a grip o' 'm for some ill rizzon or ither--to lock him up in a madhoose, maybe, as the villains said, or 'deed, maybe, to mak awa' wi' him a'thegither." "but what guid wad that du her?" said malcolm. "it's ill to say, but she wad hae him oot o' her sicht, ony gait." "she can hae but little sicht o' him as 'tis," objected malcolm. "ay! but she aye kens he's whaur she doesna ken, puttin' her to shame, a' aboot the country, wi' that hump o' his. oot o' fowk's sicht wad be to her oot a' thegither." a brief silence followed. "noo," said malcolm, "we come to the question what the twa limmers could want wi' that door." "dear kens! it bude to be something wrang--that's a' 'at mortal can say; but ye may be sure o' that--i hae hard tell," she went on reflectingly--"o' some room or ither i' the hoose 'at there's a fearsome story aboot, an' 'at 's never opent on no accoont. i hae hard a' aboot it, but i canna min' upo' 't noo, for i paid little attention till 't at the time, an' it 's mony a year sin' syne. but it wad be some deevilich ploy o' their ain they wad be efter: it 's little the likes o' them wad heed sic auld warld tales." "wad ye hae me tell the markis?" asked malcolm. "na, i wad no; an' yet ye maun du 't. ye hae no business to ken o' onything wrang in a body's hoose, an' no tell them--forbye 'at he pat ye in chairge. but it 'll du naething for the laird; for what cares the markis for onything or onybody but himsel'?" "he cares for 's dauchter," said malcolm. "ow ay!--as sic fowk ca' carin'. there's no a bla'guard i' the haill queentry he wadna sell her till, sae be he was o' an auld eneuch faimily, and had rowth o' siller. haith! noo a days the last 'ill come first, an' a fish cadger wi' siller 'ill be coontit a better bargain nor a lord wantin 't: only he maun hae a heap o' 't, to cower the stink o' the fish." "dinna scorn the fish, mem," said malcolm: "they're innocent craturs, an' dinna smell waur nor they can help; an' that's mair nor ye can say for ilka lord ye come athort." "ay, or cadger aither," rejoined miss horn. "they're aft eneuch jist sic like, the main differ lyin' in what they're defiled wi'; an' 'deed whiles there's no differ there, or maist ony gait, maybe, but i' the set o' the shoothers, an' the wag o' the tongue." "an' what 'll we du wi' the laird?" said malcolm. "we maun first see what we can du wi' him. i wad try to keep him mysel', that is, gien he wad bide--but there's that jaud jean! she's aye gabbin', an' claikin', an' cognostin' wi' the enemy, an' i canna lippen till her. i think it wad be better ye sud tak chairge o' 'm yersel', malcolm. i wad willin'ly beir ony expense --for ye wadna be able to luik efter him an' du sae weel at the fishin', ye ken." "gien 't had been my ain line fishin', i could aye ha' taen him i' the boat wi' me; but i dinna ken for the herrin'. blue peter wadna objeck, but it 's some much work, an' for a waikly body like the laird to be oot a' nicht some nichts, sic weather as we hae to encoonter whiles, micht be the deid o' 'm." they came to no conclusion beyond this, that each would think it over, and malcolm would call in the morning. ere then, however, the laird had dismissed the question for them. when miss horn rose, after an all but sleepless night, she found that he had taken the affairs again into his own feeble hands, and vanished. chapter xxvi: not at church it being well known that joseph mair's cottage was one of the laird's resorts, malcolm, as soon as he learned his flight, set out to inquire whether they knew anything of him there. scaurnose was perched almost on the point of the promontory, where the land made its final slope, ending in a precipitous descent to the shore. beneath lay rocks of all sizes and of fantastic forms, some fallen from the cape in tempests perhaps, some softly separated from it by the slow action of the winds and waves of centuries. a few of them formed, by their broken defence seawards, the unsafe natural harbour which was all the place enjoyed. if ever there was a place of one colour it was this village: everything was brown; the grass near it was covered with brown nets; at the doors were brown heaps of oak bark, which, after dyeing the nets, was used for fuel; the cottages were roofed with old brown thatch; and the one street and the many closes were dark brown with the peaty earth which, well mixed with scattered bark, scantily covered the surface of its huge foundation rock. there was no pavement, and it was the less needed that the ways were rarely used by wheels of any description. the village was but a roost, like the dwellings of the sea birds which also haunted the rocks. it was a gray morning with a gray sky and a gray sea; all was brown and gray, peaceful and rather sad. brown haired, gray eyed phemy mair sat in the threshold, intently rubbing in her hands a small object like a moonstone. that she should be doing so on a sunday would have shocked few in scaurnose at that time, for the fisher folk then made but small pretensions to religion; and for his part joseph mair could not believe that the almighty would be offended "at seein' a bairn sittin' douce wi' her playocks, though the day was his." "weel, phemy, ye're busy!" said malcolm. "ay," answered the child, without looking up. the manner was not courteous, but her voice was gentle and sweet. "what are ye doin' there?" he asked. "makin' a string o' beads, to weir at aunty's merriage." "what are ye makin' them o'?" he went on. "haddicks' een." "are they a' haddicks'?" "na, there's some cods' amo' them; but they're maistly haddicks'. i pikes them out afore they're sautit, an' biles them; an' syne i polish them i' my han's till they're rale bonny." "can ye tell me onything about the mad laird, phemy?" asked malcolm, in his anxiety too abruptly. "ye can gang an' speir at my father: he's oot aboot," she answered, with a sort of marked coolness, which, added to the fact that she had never looked him in the face, made him more than suspect something behind. "div ye ken onything aboot him?" he therefore insisted. "maybe i div, an' maybe i divna," answered the child, with an expression of determined mystery. "ye'll tell me whaur ye think he is, phemy?" "na, i winna." "what for no?" "ow, jist for fear ye sud ken." "but a freen' till him." "ye may think ay, an' the laird may think no." "does he think you a freen', phemy?" asked malcolm, in the hope of coming at something by widening the sweep of the conversation. "ay, he kens a freen'," she replied. "an' do ye aye ken whaur he is?" "na, no aye. he gangs here an' he gangs there--jist as he likes. it's whan naebody kens whaur he is, that i ken, an' gang till him." "is he i' the hoose?" "na, he's no i' the hoose." "whaur is he than, phemy?" said malcolm coaxingly. "there's ill fowk aboot 'at's efter deein' him an ill turn." "the mair need no to tell!" retorted phemy. "but i want to tak care 'o 'im. tell me whaur he is, like a guid lassie, phemy." " no sure. i may say i dinna ken." "ye say ye ken whan ither fowk disna: noo naebody kens." "hoo ken ye that?" "'cause he's run awa." "wha frae? his mither?" "na, na; frae miss horn." "i ken naething aboot her; but gien naebody kens, i ken whaur he is weel eneuch." "whaur than? ye'll be duin' him a guid turn to tell me." "whaur i winna tell, an' whaur you nor nae ither body s' get him. an' ye needna speir, for it wadna be richt to tell; an' gien ye gang on speirin', you an' me winna be lang freen's." as she spoke, the child looked straight up into his face with wide opened blue eyes, as truthful as the heavens, and malcolm dared not press her, for it would have been to press her to do wrong. "ye wad tell yer father, wadna ye?" he said kindly. "my father wadna speir. my father's a guid man." "weel, phemy, though ye winna trust me--supposin' i was to trust you?" "ye can du that gien ye like." "an' ye winna tell?" "i s' mak nae promises. it's no trustin', to gar me promise." "weel, i wull trust ye.--tell the laird to haud weel oot o' sicht for a while." "he'll du that," said phemy. "an' tell him gien onything befa' him, to sen' to miss horn, for ma'colm macphail may be oot wi' the boats.--ye winna forget that?" " no lickly to forget it," answered phemy, apparently absorbed in boring a hole in a haddock's eye with a pin so bent as to act like a brace and bit. "ye'll no get yer string o' beads in time for the weddin', phemy," remarked malcolm, going on to talk from a desire to give the child a feeling of his friendliness. "ay will i--fine that," she rejoined. "whan is 't to be?" "ow, neist setterday. ye'll be comin' ower?" "i haena gotten a call." "ye 'll be gettin ane. "div ye think they'll gie me ane?" "as sune 's onybody.--maybe by that time i'll be able to gie ye some news o' the laird." "there's a guid lassie!" "na, na; makin' nae promises," said phemy. malcolm left her and went to find her father, who, although it was sunday, was already "oot aboot," as she had said. he found him strolling in meditation along the cliffs. they had a little talk together, but joseph knew nothing of the laird. malcolm took lossie house on his way back, for he had not yet seen the marquis, to whom he must report his adventures of the night before. the signs of past revelling were plentifully visible as he approached the house. the marquis was not yet up, but mrs courthope undertaking to send him word as soon as his lordship was to be seen, he threw himself on the grass and waited--his mind occupied with strange questions, started by the sunday coming after such a saturday--among the rest, how god could permit a creature to be born so distorted and helpless as the laird, and then permit him to be so abused in consequence of his helplessness. the problems of life were beginning to bite. everywhere things appeared uneven. he was not one to complain of mere external inequalities: if he was inclined to envy lord meikleham, it was not because of his social position: he was even now philosopher enough to know that the life of a fisherman was preferable to that of such a marquis as lord lossie--that the desirableness of a life is to be measured by the amount of interest and not by the amount of ease in it, for the more ease the more unrest; neither was he inclined to complain of the gulf that yawned so wide between him and lady florimel; the difficulty lay deeper: such a gulf existing, by a social law only less inexorable than a natural one, why should he feel the rent invading his individual being? in a word, though malcolm put it in no such definite shape: why should a fisher lad find himself in danger of falling in love with the daughter of a marquis? why should such a thing, seeing the very constitution of things rendered it an absurdity, be yet a possibility? the church bell began, rang on, and ceased. the sound of the psalms came, softly mellowed, and sweetly harmonized, across the churchyard through the gray sabbath air, and he found himself, for the first time, a stray sheep from the fold. the service must have been half through before a lackey, to whom mrs courthope had committed the matter when she went to church, brought him the message that the marquis would see him. "well, macphail, what do you want with me?" said his lordship as he entered. "it's my duty to acquaint yer lordship wi' certain proceedin's 'at took place last night," answered malcolm. "go on," said the marquis. thereupon malcolm began at the beginning, and told of the men he had watched, and how, in the fancy of following them, he had found himself in the garret, and what he saw and did there. "did you recognize either of the women?" asked lord lossie. "ane o' them, my lord," answered malcolm. "it was mistress catanach, the howdie." "what sort of a woman is she?" "some fowk canna bide her, my lord. i ken no ill to lay till her chairge, but i winna lippen till her. my gran'father--an' he's blin', ye ken--jist trimles whan she comes near him." the marquis smiled. "what do you suppose she was about?" he asked. "i ken nae mair than the bonnet i flang in her face, my lord; but it could hardly be guid she was efter. at ony rate, seein' yer lordship pat me in a mainner in chairge, i bude to haud her oot o' a closed room--an' her gaein' creepin' aboot yer lordship's hoose like a worm." "quite right. will you pull the bell there for me?" he told the man to send mrs courthope; but he said she had not yet come home from church. "could you take me to the room, macphail?" asked his lordship. "i'll try, my lord," answered malcolm. as far as the proper quarter of the attics, he went straight as a pigeon; in that labyrinth he had to retrace his steps once or twice, but at length he stopped, and said confidently--"this is the door, my lord." "are you sure?" "as sure's death, my lord." the marquis tried the door and found it immovable. "you say she had the key?" "no, my lord: i said she had keys, but whether she had the key, i doobt if she kent hersel'. it may ha' been ane o' the bundle yet to try." "you're a sharp fellow," said the marquis. "i wish i had such a servant about me." "i wad mak a some rouch ane, i doobt," returned malcolm, laughing. his lordship was of another mind, but pursued the subject no farther. "i have a vague recollection," he said, "of some room in the house having an old story or legend connected with it. i must find out. i daresay mrs courthope knows. meantime you hold your tongue. we may get some amusement out of this." "i wull, my lord, like a deid man an' beeryt." "you can--can you?" "i can, my lord." "you're a rare one!" said the marquis. malcolm thought he was making game of him as heretofore, and held his peace. "you can go home now," said his lordship. "i will see to this affair." "but jist be canny middlin' wi' mistress catanach, my lord: she's no mowse." "what! you're not afraid of an old woman?" "deil a bit, my lord!--that is, no feart at a dogfish or a rottan, but i wud tak tent an' grip them the richt gait, for they hae teeth. some fowk think mistress catanach has mair teeth nor she shaws." "well, if she's too much for me, i'll send for you," said the marquis good humouredly. "ye canna get me sae easy, my lord: we're efter the herrin' noo." "well, well, we'll see." "but i wantit to tell ye anither thing my lord," said malcolm, as he followed the marquis down the stairs. "what is that?" "i cam upo' anither plot--a mair serious ane, bein' against a man 'at can ill haud aff o' himsel', an' cud waur bide onything than yer lordship--the puir mad laird." "who's he?" "ilka body kens him, my lord! he's son to the leddy o' kirkbyres." "i remember her--an old flame of my brother's." "i ken naething aboot that, my lord; but he's her son." "what about him, then?" they had now reached the hall, and, seeing the marquis impatient, malcolm confined himself to the principal facts. "i don't think you had any business to interfere, macphail," said his lordship, seriously. "his mother must know best." " no sae sure o' that, my lord! to say naething o' the ill guideship, which micht hae 'garred a minister sweer, it wud be a cruelty naething short o' deev'lich to lock up a puir hairmless cratur like that, as innocent as he 's ill shapit." "he's as god made him," said the marquis. "he 's no as god wull mak him," returned malcolm. "what do you mean by that?" asked the marquis. "it stan's to rizzon, my lord," answered malcolm, "that what's ill made maun be made ower again. there's a day comin' whan a' 'at's wrang 'll be set richt, ye ken." "and the crooked made straight," suggested the marquis laughing. "doobtless, my lord. he'll be strauchtit oot bonny that day," said malcolm with absolute seriousness. "bah! you don't think god cares about a misshapen lump of flesh like that!" exclaimed his lordship with contempt. "as muckle's aboot yersel', or my leddy," said malcolm. "gien he didna, he wadna be nae god ava' (at all)." the marquis laughed again: he heard the words with his ears, but his heart was deaf to the thought they clothed; hence he took malcolm's earnestness for irreverence, and it amused him. "you've not got to set things right, anyhow," he said. "you mind your own business." "i'll try, my lord: it 's the business o' ilka man, whaur he can, to lowse the weichty birns, an' lat the forfouchten gang free. guid day to ye, my lord." so saying the young fisherman turned, and left the marquis laughing in the hall. chapter xxvii: lord gernon when his housekeeper returned from church, lord lossie sent for her. "sit down, mrs courthope," he said; "i want to ask you about a story i have a vague recollection of hearing when i spent a summer at this house some twenty years ago. it had to do with a room in the house that was never opened." "there is such a story, my lord," answered the housekeeper. "the late marquis, i remember well, used to laugh at it, and threaten now and then to dare the prophecy; but old eppie persuaded him not --or at least fancied she did." "who is old eppie?" "she's gone now, my lord. she was over a hundred then. she was born and brought up in the house, lived all her days in it, and died in it; so she knew more about the place than any one else." "is ever likely to know," said the marquis, superadding a close to her sentence. "and why wouldn't she have the room opened?" he asked. "because of the ancient prophecy, my lord." "i can't recall a single point of the story." "i wish old eppie were alive to tell it," said mrs courthope. "don't you know it then?" "yes, pretty well; but my english tongue can't tell it properly. it doesn't sound right out of my mouth. i've heard it a good many times too, for i had often to take a visitor to her room to hear it, and the old woman liked nothing better than telling it. but i couldn't help remarking that it had grown a good bit even in my time. the story was like a tree: it got bigger every year." "that's the way with a good many stories," said the marquis. "but tell me the prophecy at least." "that is the only part i can give just as she gave it. it's in rhyme. i hardly understand it, but sure of the words." "let us have them then, if you please." mrs courthope reflected for a moment, and then repeated the following lines: "the lord quha wad sup on thowmes o' cauld airn, the ayr quha wad kythe a bastard and carena, the mayd quha wad tyne her man and her bairn, lift the neck, and enter, and fearna." "that's it, my lord," she said, in conclusion. "and there's one thing to be observed," she added, "--that that door is the only one in all the passage that has a sneck, as they call it." "what is a sneck?" asked his lordship, who was not much of a scholar in his country's tongue. "what we call a latch in england, my lord. i took pains to learn the scotch correctly, and i've repeated it to your lordship, word for word." "i don't doubt it," returned lord lossie, "but for the sense, i can make nothing of it.--and you think my brother believed the story?" "he always laughed at it, my lord, but pretended at least to give in to old eppie's entreaties." "you mean that he was more near believing it than he liked to confess?" "that's not what i mean, my lord." "why do you say pretended then?" "because when the news of his death came, some people about the place would have it that he must have opened the door some time or other." "how did they make that out?" "from the first line of the prophecy." "repeat it again." "the lord quha wad sup on thowmes o' cauld airn," said mrs courthope with emphasis, adding, "the three she always said was a figure ." "that implies it was written somewhere!" "she said it was legible on the door in her day--as if burnt with a red hot iron." "and what does the line mean?" "eppie said it meant that the lord of the place who opened that door, would die by a sword wound. three inches of cold iron, it means, my lord." the marquis grew thoughtful; his brother had died in a sword duel. for a few moments he was silent. "tell me the whole story," he said at length. mrs courthope again reflected, and began. i will tell the story, however, in my own words, reminding my reader that if he regards it as an unwelcome interruption, he can easily enough avoid this bend of the river of my narrative by taking a short cut across to the next chapter. in an ancient time there was a lord of lossie who practised unholy works. although he had other estates, he lived almost entirely at the house of lossie--that is, after his return from the east, where he had spent his youth and early manhood. but he paid no attention to his affairs: a steward managed everything for him, and lord gernon (for that was the outlandish name he brought from england, where he was born while his father was prisoner to edward longshanks) trusted him for a great while without making the least inquiry into his accounts, apparently contented with receiving money enough to carry on the various vile experiments which seemed his sole pleasure in life. there was no doubt in the minds of the people of the town--the old town that is, which was then much larger, and clustered about the gates of the house--that he had dealings with satan, from whom he had gained authority over the powers of nature; that he was able to rouse and lay the winds, to bring down rain, to call forth the lightnings and set the thunders roaring over town and sea; nay, that he could even draw vessels ashore on the rocks, with the certainty that not one on board would be left alive to betray the pillage of the wreck: this and many other deeds of dire note were laid to his charge in secret. the town cowered at the foot of the house in terror of what its lord might bring down upon it--as a brood of chickens might cower if they had been hatched by a kite, and saw, instead of the matronly head and beak of the hen of their instinct, those of the bird of prey projected over them. scarce one of them dared even look from the door when the thunder was rolling over their heads, the lightnings flashing about the roofs and turrets of the house, the wind raving in fits between as if it would rave its last, and the rain falling in sheets--not so much from fear of the elements, as for horror of the far more terrible things that might be spied careering in the storm. and indeed lord gernon himself was avoided in like fashion, although rarely had any one the evil chance of seeing him, so seldom did he go out of doors. there was but one in the whole community --and that was a young girl, the daughter of his steward--who declared she had no fear of him: she went so far as to uphold that lord gernon meant harm to nobody, and was in consequence regarded by the neighbours as unrighteously bold. he worked in a certain lofty apartment on the ground floor--with cellars underneath, reserved, it was believed, for frightfullest conjurations and interviews; where, although no one was permitted to enter, they knew from the smoke that he had a furnace, and from the evil smells which wandered out, that he dealt with things altogether devilish in their natures and powers. they said he always washed there--in water medicated with distilments to prolong life and produce invulnerability; but of this they could of course know nothing. strange to say, however, he always slept in the garret, as far removed from his laboratory as the limits of the house would permit; whence people said he dared not sleep in the neighbourhood of his deeds, but sought shelter for his unconscious hours in the spiritual shadow of the chapel, which was in the same wing as his chamber. his household saw nearly as little of him as his retainers: when his tread was heard, beating dull on the stone turnpike, or thundering along the upper corridors in the neighbourhood of his chamber or of the library--the only other part of the house he visited, man or maid would dart aside into the next way of escape --all believing that the nearer he came to finding himself the sole inhabitant of his house, the better he was pleased. nor would he allow man or woman to enter his chamber any more than his laboratory. when they found sheets or garments outside his door, they removed them with fear and trembling, and put others in their place. at length, by means of his enchantments, he discovered that the man whom he had trusted had been robbing him for many years: all the time he had been searching for the philosopher's stone, the gold already his had been tumbling into the bags of his steward. but what enraged him far more was, that the fellow had constantly pretended difficulty in providing the means necessary for the prosecution of his idolized studies: even if the feudal lord could have accepted the loss and forgiven the crime, here was a mockery which the man of science could not pardon. he summoned his steward to his presence, and accused him of his dishonesty. the man denied it energetically, but a few mysterious waftures of the hand of his lord, set him trembling, and after a few more, his lips, moving by a secret compulsion, and finding no power in their owner to check their utterance, confessed all the truth, whereupon his master ordered him to go and bring his accounts. he departed all but bereft of his senses, and staggered home as if in a dream. there he begged his daughter to go and plead for him with his lord, hoping she might be able to move him to mercy; for she was a lovely girl, and supposed by the neighbours, judging from what they considered her foolhardiness, to have received from him tokens of something at least less than aversion. she obeyed, and from that hour disappeared. the people of the house averred afterwards that the next day, and for days following, they heard, at intervals, moans and cries from the wizard's chamber, or some where in its neighbourhood--certainly not from the laboratory; but as they had seen no one visit their master, they had paid them little attention, classing them with the other and hellish noises they were but too much accustomed to hear. the steward's love for his daughter, though it could not embolden him to seek her in the tyrant's den, drove him, at length, to appeal to the justice of his country for what redress might yet be possible: he sought the court of the great bruce, and laid his complaint before him. that righteous monarch immediately despatched a few of his trustiest men-at-arms, under the protection of a monk whom he believed a match for any wizard under the sun, to arrest lord gernon and release the girl. when they arrived at lossie house, they found it silent as the grave. the domestics had vanished; but by following the minute directions of the steward, whom no persuasion could bring to set foot across the threshold, they succeeded in finding their way to the parts of the house indicated by him. having forced the laboratory and found it forsaken, they ascended, in the gathering dusk of a winter afternoon, to the upper regions of the house. before they reached the top of the stair that led to the wizard's chamber, they began to hear inexplicable sounds, which grew plainer, though not much louder, as they drew nearer to the door. they were mostly like the grunting of some small animal of the hog kind, with an occasional one like the yelling roar of a distant lion; but with these were now and then mingled cries of suffering, so fell and strange that their souls recoiled as if they would break loose from their bodies to get out of hearing of them. the monk himself started back when first they invaded his ear, and it was no wonder then that the men-at-arms should hesitate to approach the room; and as they stood irresolute, they saw a faint light go flickering across the upper part of the door, which naturally strengthened their disinclination to go nearer. "if it weren't for the girl," said one of them in a scared whisper to his neighbour, "i would leave the wizard to the devil and his dam." scarcely had the words left his mouth, when the door opened, and out came a form--whether phantom or living woman none could tell. pale, forlorn, lost, and purposeless, it came straight towards them, with wide unseeing eyes. they parted in terror from its path. it went on, looking to neither hand, and sank down the stair. the moment it was beyond their sight, they came to themselves and rushed after it; but although they searched the whole house, they could find no creature in it, except a cat of questionable appearance and behaviour, which they wisely let alone. returning, they took up a position whence they could watch the door of the chamber day and night. for three weeks they watched it, but neither cry nor other sound reached them. for three weeks more they watched it, and then an evil odour began to assail them, which grew and grew, until at length they were satisfied that the wizard was dead. they returned therefore to the king and made their report, whereupon lord gernon was decreed dead, and his heir was enfeoffed. but for many years he was said to be still alive; and indeed whether he had ever died in the ordinary sense of the word, was to old eppie doubtful; for at various times there had arisen whispers of peculiar sounds, even strange cries, having been heard issue from that room--whispers which had revived in the house in mrs courthope's own time. no one had slept in that part of the roof within the memory of old eppie: no one, she believed, had ever slept there since the events of her tale; certainly no one had in mrs courthope's time. it was said also, that, invariably, sooner or later after such cries were heard, some evil befell either the lord of lossie, or some one of his family. "show me the room, mrs courthope," said the marquis, rising, as soon as she had ended. the housekeeper looked at him with some dismay. "what!" said his lordship, "you an englishwoman and superstitious!" "i am cautious, my lord, though not a scotchwoman," returned mrs courthope. "all i would presume to say is--don't do it without first taking time to think over it." "i will not. but i want to know which room it is." mrs courthope led the way, and his lordship followed her to the very door, as he had expected, with which malcolm had spied mrs catanach tampering. he examined it well, and on the upper part of it found what might be the remnants of a sunk inscription, so far obliterated as to convey no assurance of what it was. he professed himself satisfied, and they went down the stairs together again. chapter xxviii: a fisher wedding when the next saturday came, all the friends of the bride or bridegroom who had "gotten a call" to the wedding of annie mair and charley wilson, assembled respectively at the houses of their parents. malcolm had received an invitation from both, and had accepted that of the bride. whisky and oatcake having been handed round, the bride, a short but comely young woman, set out with her father for the church, followed by her friends in couples. at the door of the church, which stood on the highest point in the parish, a centre of assault for all the winds that blew, they met the bridegroom and his party: the bride and he entered the church together, and the rest followed. after a brief and somewhat bare ceremony, they issued--the bride walking between her brother and the groomsman, each taking an arm of the bride, and the company following mainly in trios. thus arranged they walked eastward along the highroad, to meet the bride's firstfoot. they had gone about halfway to portlossie, when a gentleman appeared, sauntering carelessly towards them, with a cigar in his mouth. it was lord meikleham. malcolm was not the only one who knew him: lizzy findlay, only daughter of the partan, and the prettiest girl in the company, blushed crimson: she had danced with him at lossie house, and he had said things to her, by way of polite attention, which he would never have said had she been of his own rank. he would have lounged past, with a careless glance, but the procession halted by one consent, and the bride, taking a bottle and glass which her brother carried, proceeded to pour out a bumper of whisky, while the groomsman addressed lord meikleham. "ye're the bride's first fut, sir," he said. "what do you mean by that?" asked lord meikleham. "here's the bride, sir: she'll tell ye." lord meikleham lifted his hat. "allow me to congratulate you," he said. "ye're my first fut," returned the bride eagerly yet modestly, as she held out to him the glass of whisky. "this is to console me for not being in the bridegroom's place, i presume; but notwithstanding my jealousy, i drink to the health of both," said the young nobleman, and tossed off the liquor.-- "would you mind explaining to me what you mean by this ceremony?" he added, to cover a slight choking caused by the strength of the dram. "it's for luck, sir," answered joseph mair. "a first fut wha wadna bring ill luck upon a new merried couple, maun aye du as ye hae dune this meenute--tak a dram frae the bride." "is that the sole privilege connected with my good fortune?" said lord meikleham. "if i take the bride's dram, i must join the bride's regiment--my good fellow," he went on, approaching malcolm, "you have more than your share of the best things of this world." for malcolm had two partners, and the one on the side next lord meikleham, who, as he spoke, offered her his arm, was lizzy findlay. "no as shares gang, my lord," returned malcolm, tightening his arm on lizzie's hand. "ye mauna gang wi' ane o' oor customs to gang agane anither. fisher fowk 's ready eneuch to pairt wi' their whusky, but no wi' their lasses!--na, haith!" lord meikleham's face flushed, and lizzy looked down, very evidently disappointed; but the bride's father, a wrinkled and brown little man, with a more gentle bearing than most of them, interfered. "ye see, my lord--gien it be sae i maun ca' ye, an' ma'colm seems to ken--we're like by oorsel's for the present, an' we're but a rouch set o' fowk for such like 's yer lordship to haud word o' mou' wi'; but gien it wad please ye to come ower the gait ony time i' the evenin', an' tak yer share o' what's gauin', ye sud be walcome, an' we wad coont it a great honour frae sic 's yer lordship." "i shall be most happy," answered lord meikleham; and taking off his hat he went his way. the party returned to the home of the bride's parents. her mother stood at the door with a white handkerchief in one hand, and a quarter of oatcake in the other. when the bride reached the threshold she stood, and her mother, first laying the handkerchief on her head, broke the oatcake into pieces upon it. these were distributed among the company, to be carried home and laid under their pillows. the bridegroom's party betook themselves to his father's house, where, as well as at old mair's, a substantial meal of tea, bread and butter, cake, and cheese, was provided. then followed another walk, to allow of both houses being made tidy for the evening's amusements. about seven, lord meikleham made his appearance, and had a hearty welcome. he had bought a showy brooch for the bride, which she accepted with the pleasure of a child. in their games, which had already commenced, he joined heartily, gaining high favour with both men and women. when the great clothesbasket full of sweeties, the result of a subscription among the young men, was carried round by two of them, he helped himself liberally with the rest; and at the inevitable game of forfeits met his awards with unflinching obedience; contriving ever through it all that lizzy findlay should feel herself his favourite. in the general hilarity, neither the heightened colour of her cheek, nor the vivid sparkle in her eyes attracted notice. doubtless some of the girls observed the frequency of his attentions, but it woke nothing in their minds beyond a little envy of her passing good fortune. meikleham was handsome and a lord; lizzy was pretty though a fisherman's daughter: a sort of darwinian selection had apparently found place between them; but as the same entertainment was going on in two houses at once, and there was naturally a good deal of passing and repassing between them, no one took the least notice of several short absences from the company on the part of the pair. supper followed, at which his lordship sat next to lizzy, and partook of dried skate and mustard, bread and cheese, and beer. every man helped himself. lord meikleham and a few others were accommodated with knives and forks, but the most were independent of such artificial aids. whisky came next, and lord meikleham being already, like many of the young men of his time, somewhat fond of strong drink, was not content with such sipping as lizzy honoured his glass withal. at length it was time, according to age long custom, to undress the bride and bridegroom and put them to bed--the bride's stocking, last ceremony of all, being thrown amongst the company, as by its first contact prophetic of the person to be next married. neither lizzy nor lord meikleham, however, had any chance of being thus distinguished, for they were absent and unmissed. as soon as all was over, malcolm set out to return home. as he passed joseph mair's cottage, he found phemy waiting for him at the door, still in the mild splendour of her pearl-like necklace. "i tellt the laird what ye tellt me to tell him, malcolm," she said. "an' what did he say, phemy?" asked malcolm. "he said he kent ye was a freen'." "was that a'?" "ay; that was a'." "weel, ye're a guid lassie." "ow! middlin'," answered the little maiden. malcolm took his way along the top of the cliffs, pausing now and then to look around him. the crescent moon had gone down, leaving a starlit night, in which the sea lay softly moaning at the foot of the broken crags. the sense of infinitude which comes to the soul when it is in harmony with the peace of nature, arose and spread itself abroad in malcolm's being, and he felt with the galilaeans of old, when they forsook their nets and followed him who called them, that catching fish was not the end of his being, although it was the work his hands had found to do. the stillness was all the sweeter for its contrast with the merriment he had left behind him, and a single breath of wind, like the waft from a passing wind, kissed his forehead tenderly, as if to seal the truth of his meditations. chapter xxix: florimel and duncan in the course of a fortnight, lord meikleham and his aunt, the bold faced countess, had gone, and the marquis, probably finding it a little duller in consequence, began to pay visits in the neighbourhood. now and then he would be absent for a week or two--at bog o' gight, or huntly lodge, or frendraught, or balvenie, and although lady florimel had not much of his society, she missed him at meals, and felt the place grown dreary from his being nowhere within its bounds. on his return from one of his longer absences, he began to talk to her about a governess; but, though in a playful way, she rebelled utterly at the first mention of such an incubus. she had plenty of material for study, she said, in the library, and plenty of amusement in wandering about with the sullen demon, who was her constant companion during his absences; and if he did force a governess upon her, she would certainly murder the woman, if only for the sake of bringing him into trouble. her easygoing father was amused, laughed, and said nothing more on the subject at the time. lady florimel did not confess that she had begun to feel her life monotonous, or mention that she had for some time been cultivating the acquaintance of a few of her poor neighbours, and finding their odd ways of life and thought and speech interesting. she had especially taken a liking to duncan macphail, in which, strange to say, demon, who had hitherto absolutely detested the appearance of any one not attired as a lady or gentleman, heartily shared. she found the old man so unlike anything she had ever heard or read of--so full of grand notions in such contrast with his poor conditions; so proud yet so overflowing with service--dusting a chair for her with his bonnet, yet drawing himself up like an offended hidalgo if she declined to sit in it--more than content to play the pipes while others dined, yet requiring a personal apology from the marquis himself for a practical joke! so full of kindness and yet of revenges--lamenting over demon when he hurt his foot, yet cursing, as she overheard him once, in fancied solitude, with an absolute fervour of imprecation, a continuous blast of poetic hate which made her shiver; and the next moment sighing out a most wailful coronach on his old pipes. it was all so odd, so funny, so interesting! it nearly made her aware of human nature as an object of study. but lady florimel had never studied anything yet, had never even perceived that anything wanted studying, that is, demanded to be understood. what appeared to her most odd, most inconsistent, and was indeed of all his peculiarities alone distasteful to her, was his delight in what she regarded only as the menial and dirty occupation of cleaning lamps and candlesticks; the poetic side of it, rendered tenfold poetic by his blindness, she never saw. then he had such tales to tell her--of mountain, stream, and lake; of love and revenge; of beings less and more than natural --brownie and boneless, kelpie and fairy; such wild legends also, haunting the dim emergent peaks of mist swathed celtic history; such songs--come down, he said, from ossian himself--that sometimes she would sit and listen to him for hours together. it was no wonder then that she should win the heart of the simple old man speedily and utterly; for what can bard desire beyond a true listener--a mind into which his own may, in verse or tale or rhapsody, in pibroch or coronach, overflow? but when, one evening, in girlish merriment, she took up his pipes, blew the bag full, and began to let a highland air burst fitfully from the chanter, the jubilation of the old man broke all the bounds of reason. he jumped from his seat and capered about the room, calling her all the tenderest and most poetic names his english vocabulary would afford him; then abandoning the speech of the sassenach, as if in despair of ever uttering himself through its narrow and rugged channels, overwhelmed her with a cataract of soft flowing gaelic, returning to english only as his excitement passed over into exhaustion--but in neither case aware of the transition. her visits were the greater comfort to duncan, that malcolm was now absent almost every night, and most days a good many hours asleep; had it been otherwise, florimel, invisible for very width as was the gulf between them, could hardly have made them so frequent. before the fishing season was over, the piper had been twenty times on the verge of disclosing every secret in his life to the high born maiden. "it's a pity you haven't a wife to take care of you, mr macphail," she said one evening. "you must be so lonely without a woman to look after you!" a dark cloud came over duncan's face, out of which his sightless eyes gleamed. "she'll haf her poy, and she'll pe wanting no wife," he said sullenly. "wifes is paad." "ah!" said florimel, the teasing spirit of her father uppermost for the moment, "that accounts for your swearing so shockingly the other day?" "swearing was she? tat will pe wrong. and who was she'll pe swearing at?" "that's what i want you to tell me, mr macphail." "tid you'll hear me, my laty?" he asked in a tone of reflection, as if trying to recall the circumstance. "indeed i did. you frightened me so that i didn't dare come in." "ten she'll pe punished enough. put it wass no harm to curse ta wicket cawmill." "it was not glenlyon--it wasn't a man at all; it was a woman you were in such a rage with." "was it ta rascal's wife, ten, my laty?" he asked, as if he were willing to be guided to the truth that he might satisfy her, but so much in the habit of swearing, that he could not well recollect the particular object at a given time. "is his wife as bad as himself then?" "wifes is aalways worser." "but what is it makes you hate him so dreadfully? is he a bad man?" "a fery pad man, my tear laty! he is tead more than a hundert years." "then why do you hate him so?" "och hone! ton't you'll never hear why?" "he can't have done you any harm." "not done old tuncan any harm! tidn't you'll know what ta tog would pe toing to her aancestors of glenco? och hone! och hone! gif her ta tog's heart of him in her teeth, and she'll pe tearing it--tearing it--tearing it!" cried the piper in a growl of hate, and with the look of a maddened tiger, the skin of his face drawn so tight over the bones that they seemed to show their whiteness through it. "you quite terrify me," said florimel, really shocked. "if you talk like that, i must go away. such words are not fit for a lady to hear." the old man heard her rise: he fell on his knees, and held out his arms in entreaty. "she's pegging your pardons, my laty. sit town once more, anchel from hefen, and she'll not say it no more. put she'll pe telling you ta story, and then you'll pe knowing tat what 'll not pe fit for laties to hear, as coot laties had to pear!" he caught up the lossie pipes, threw them down again, searched in a frenzy till he found his own, blew up the bag with short thick pants, forced from them a low wail, which ended in a scream--then broke into a kind of chant, the words of which were something like what follows: he had sense enough to remember that for his listener they must be english. doubtless he was translating as he went on. his chanter all the time kept up a low pitiful accompaniment, his voice only giving expression to the hate and execration of the song. black rise the hills round the vale of glenco; hard rise its rocks up the sides of the sky; cold fall the streams from the snow on their summits; bitter are the winds that search for the wanderer; false are the vapours that trail o'er the correi blacker than caverns that hollow the mountain, harder than crystals in the rock's bosom colder than ice borne down in the torrents, more bitter than hail windswept o'er the correi, falser than vapours that hide the dark precipice, is the heart of the campbell, the hell hound glenlyon. is it blood that is streaming down into the valley? ha! 'tis the red coated blood hounds of orange. to hunt the red deer, is this a fit season? glenlyon, said ian, the son of the chieftain: what seek ye with guns and with gillies so many? friends, a warm fire, good cheer, and a drink, said the liar of hell, with the death in his heart. come home to my house--it is poor, but your own. cheese of the goat, and flesh of black cattle, and dew of the mountain to make their hearts joyful, they gave them in plenty, they gave them with welcome; and they slept on the heather, and skins of the red deer. och hone for the chief! god's curse on the traitors! och hone for the chief--the father of his people! he is struck through the brain, and not in the battle! och hone for his lady! the teeth of the badgers have torn the bright rings from her slender fingers! they have stripped her and shamed her in sight of her clansmen! they have sent out her ghost to cry after her husband. nine men did glenlyon slay, nine of the true hearts! his own host he slew, the laird of inverriggen. fifty they slew--the rest fled to the mountains. in the deep snow the women and children fell down and slept, nor awoke in the morning. the bard of the glen, alone among strangers, allister, bard of the glen and the mountain, sings peace to the ghost of his father's father, slain by the curse of glenco, glenlyon. curse on glenlyon! his wife's fair bosom dry up with weeping the fates of her children! curse on glenlyon! each drop of his heart's blood turn to red fire and hum through his arteries! the pale murdered faces haunt him to madness! the shrieks of the ghosts from the mists of glenco ring in his ears through the caves of perdition! man, woman, and child, to the last born campbell, rush howling to hell, and fall cursing glenlyon-- the liar who drank with his host and then slew him! while he chanted, the whole being of the bard seemed to pour itself out in the feeble and quavering tones that issued from his withered throat. his voice grew in energy for a while as he proceeded, but at last gave way utterly under the fervour of imprecation, and ceased. then, as if in an agony of foiled hate, he sent from chanter and drone a perfect screech of execration, with which the instrument dropped from his hands, and he fell back in his chair, speechless. lady florimel started to her feet, and stood trembling for a moment, hesitating whether to run from the cottage and call for help, or do what she might for the old man herself. but the next moment he came to himself, saying, in a tone of assumed composure: "you'll pe knowing now, my laty, why she'll pe hating ta very name of clenlyon." "but it was not your grandfather that glenlyon killed, mr macphail --was it?" "and whose grandfather would it pe then, my lady?" returned duncan, drawing himself up. "the glenco people weren't macphails. i've read the story of the massacre, and know all about that." "he might haf been her mother's father, my laty." "but you said father's father, in your song." "she said allister's father's father, my laty, she pelieves." "i can't quite understand you, mr macphail." "well, you see, my laty, her father was out in the forty-five, and fought ta redcoats at culloden. tat's his claymore on ta wall there--a coot plade--though she's not an andrew ferrara. she wass forched in clenco, py a cousin of her own, angus py name, and she's a fery coot plade: she'll can well whistle ta pibroch of ian loin apout ta ears of ta sassenach. her crandfather wass with his uncle in ta pattle of killiecrankie after tundee--a creat man, my laty, and he died there; and so tid her cranduncle, for a fillain of a mackay, from lord reay's cursed country--where they aalways wass repels, my laty--chust as her uncle was pe cutting town ta wicket cheneral mackay, turned him round, without gifing no warnings, and killed ta poor man at won plow." "but what has it all to do with your name? i declare i don't know what to call you." "call her your own pard, old tuncan macphail, my sweet laty, and haf ta patience with her, and she'll pe telling you aall apout eferyting, only you must gif her olt prams time to tumple temselfs apout. her head grows fery stupid.--yes, as she was saying, after ta ploody massacre at culloden, her father had to hide himself away out of sight, and to forge himself--i mean to put upon himself a name tat tidn't mean himself at aal. and my poor mother, who pored me--pig old tuncan--ta fery tay of ta pattle, would not be hearing won wort of him for tree months tat he was away; and when he would pe creep pack like a fox to see her one fine night when ta moon was not pe up, they'll make up an acreement to co away together for a time, and to call temselfs macphails. but py and py tey took their own nems again." "and why haven't you your own name now? sure it 's a much prettier name." "pecause she'll pe taking the other, my tear laty." "and why?" "pecause--pecause ... she will tell you another time. she'll pe tired to talk more apout ta cursed cawmills this fery tay." "then malcolm's name is not macphail either?" "no, it is not, my lady." "is he your son's son, or your daughter's son." "perhaps not, my laty." "i want to know what his real name is. is it the same as yours? it doesn't seem respectable not to have your own names." "oh yes, my laty, fery respectable. many coot men has to porrow nems of teir neighpours. we've all cot our fery own names, only in pad tays, my laty, we ton't aalways know which tey are exactly; but we aal know which we are each other, and we get on fery coot without the names. we lay tem py with our sappath clothes for a few tays, and they come out ta fresher and ta sweeter for keeping ta sappath so long, my laty. and now she'll pe playing you ta coronach of clenco, which she was make herself for her own pipes." "i want to know first what malcolm's real name is," persisted lady florimel. "well, you see, my laty," returned duncan, "some people has names and does not know them; and some people hasn't names, and will pe supposing they haf." "you are talking riddles, mr macphail, and i don't like riddles," said lady florimel, with an offence which was not altogether pretended. "yes surely--oh, yes! call her tuncan macphail, and neither more or less, my laty--not yet," he returned, most evasively. "i see you won't trust me," said the girl, and rising quickly, she bade him goodnight, and left the cottage. duncan sat silent for a few minutes, as if in distress: then slowly his hand went out feeling for his pipes, wherewithal he consoled himself till bedtime. having plumed herself upon her influence with the old man, believing she could do anything with him she pleased, lady florimel was annoyed at failing to get from him any amplification of a hint in itself sufficient to cast a glow of romance about the youth who had already interested her so much. duncan also was displeased, but with himself; for disappointing one he loved so much. with the passion for confidence which love generates, he had been for some time desirous of opening his mind to her upon the matter in question, and had indeed, on this very occasion, intended to lead up to a certain disclosure; but just at the last he clung to his secret, and could not let it go. compelled thereto against the natural impulse of the celtic nature, which is open and confiding, therefore in the reaction cunning and suspicious, he had practised reticence so long, that he now recoiled from a breach of the habit which had become a second, false nature. he felt like one who, having caught a bird, holds it in his hand with the full intention of letting it go, but cannot make up his mind to do it just yet, knowing that, the moment he opens his hand, nothing can make that bird his again. a whole week passed, during which lady florimel did not come near him, and the old man was miserable. at length one evening, for she chose her time when malcolm must be in some vague spot between the shore and the horizon, she once more entered the piper's cottage. he knew her step the moment she turned the corner from the shore, and she had scarcely set her foot across the threshold before he broke out: "ach, my tear laty! and tid you'll think old tuncan such a stoopit old man as not to 'll pe trusting ta light of her plind eyes? put her laty must forgif her, for it is a long tale, not like anything you'll pe in ta way of peliefing; and aalso, it'll pe put ta tassel to another long tale which tears ta pag of her heart, and makes her feel a purning tevil in ta pocket of her posom. put she'll tell you ta won half of it that pelongs to her poy malcolm. he 's a pig poy now, put he wasn't aalways. no. he was once a fery little smaal chylt, in her old plind aarms. put tey wasn't old ten. why must young peoples crow old, my laty? put she'll pe clad of it herself; for she'll can hate ta petter." lady florimel, incapable either of setting forth the advantages of growing old, or of enforcing the duty, which is the necessity, of forgiveness, answered with some commonplace; and as, to fortify his powers of narration, a sailor would cut himself a quid, and a gentleman fill his glass, or light a fresh cigar, duncan slowly filled his bag. after a few strange notes as of a spirit wandering in pain, he began his story. but i will tell the tale for him, lest the printed oddities of his pronunciation should prove wearisome. i must mention first, however, that he did not commence until he had secured a promise from lady florimel that she would not communicate his revelations to malcolm, having, he said, very good reasons for desiring to make them himself so soon as a fitting time should have arrived. avoiding all mention of his reasons either for assuming another name or for leaving his native glen, he told how, having wandered forth with no companion but his bagpipes, and nothing he could call his own beyond the garments and weapons which he wore, he traversed the shires of inverness and nairn and moray, offering at every house on his road, to play the pipes, or clean the lamps and candlesticks, and receiving sufficient return, mostly in the shape of food and shelter, but partly in money, to bring him all the way from glenco to portlossie: somewhere near the latter was a cave in which his father, after his flight from culloden, had lain in hiding for six months, in hunger and cold, and in constant peril of discovery and death, all in that region being rebels--for as such duncan of course regarded the adherents of the houses of orange and hanover; and having occasion, for reasons, as i have said, unexplained, in his turn to seek, like a hunted stag, a place far from his beloved glen, wherein to hide his head, he had set out to find the cave, which the memory of his father would render far more of a home to him now than any other place left him on earth. on his arrival at portlossie, he put up at a small public house in the seaton, from which he started the next morning to find the cave--a somewhat hopeless as well as perilous proceeding; but his father's description of its situation and character had generated such a vivid imagination of it in the mind of the old man, that he believed himself able to walk straight into the mouth of it; nor was the peril so great as must at first appear, to one who had been blind all his life. but he searched the whole of the east side of the promontory of scaurnose, where it must lie, without finding such a cave as his father had depicted. again and again he fancied he had come upon it, but was speedily convinced of his mistake. even in one who had his eyesight, however, such a failure would not surprise those who understand how rapidly as well as constantly the whole faces of some cliffs are changing by the fall of portions --destroying the very existence of some caves, and utterly changing the mouths of others. from a desire of secrecy, occasioned by the haunting dread of its approaching necessity, day and night being otherwise much alike to him, duncan generally chose the night for his wanderings amongst the rocks, and probings of their hollows. one night, or rather morning, for he believed it was considerably past twelve o'clock, he sat weary in a large open cave, listening to the sound of the rising tide, and fell fast asleep, his bagpipes, without which he never went abroad, across his knees. he came to himself with a violent start, for the bag seemed to be moving, and its last faint sound of wail was issuing. heavens! there was a baby lying upon it. --for a time he sat perfectly bewildered, but at length concluded that some wandering gipsy had made him a too ready gift of the child she did not prize. some one must be near. he called aloud, but there was no answer. the child began to cry. he sought to soothe it, and its lamentation ceased. the moment that its welcome silence responded to his blandishments, the still small "here i am" of the eternal love whispered its presence in the heart of the lonely man: something lay in his arms so helpless that to it, poor and blind and forsaken of man and woman as he was, he was yet a tower of strength. he clasped the child to his bosom, and rising forthwith set out, but with warier steps than heretofore, over the rocks for the seaton. already he would have much preferred concealing him lest he should be claimed--a thing, in view of all the circumstances, not very likely--but for the child's sake, he must carry him to the salmon, where he had free entrance at any hour--not even the public house locking its doors at night. thither then he bore his prize, shielding him from the night air as well as he could, with the bag of his pipes. but he waked none of the inmates; lately fed, the infant slept for several hours, and then did his best both to rouse and astonish the neighbourhood. closely questioned, duncan told the truth, but cunningly, in such manner that some disbelieved him altogether, while others, who had remarked his haunting of the rocks ever since his arrival, concluded that he had brought the child with him and had kept him hidden until now. the popular conviction at length settled to this, that the child was the piper's grandson--but base born, whom therefore he was ashamed to acknowledge, although heartily willing to minister to and bring up as a foundling. the latter part of this conclusion, however, was not alluded to by duncan in his narrative: it was enough to add that he took care to leave the former part of it undisturbed. the very next day, he found himself attacked by a low fever; but as he had hitherto paid for everything he had at the inn, they never thought of turning him out when his money was exhausted; and as he had already by his discreet behaviour, and the pleasure his bagpipes afforded, made himself not a few friends amongst the simple hearted people of the seaton, some of the benevolent inhabitants of the upper town, miss horn in particular, were soon interested in his favour, who supplied him with everything he required until his recovery. as to the baby, he was gloriously provided for; he had at least a dozen foster mothers at once--no woman in the seaton who could enter a claim founded on the possession of the special faculty required, failing to enter that claim--with the result of an amount of jealousy almost incredible. meantime the town drummer fell sick and died, and miss horn made a party in favour of duncan. but for the baby, i doubt if he would have had a chance, for he was a stranger and interloper; the women, however, with the baby in their forefront, carried the day. then his opponents retreated behind the instrument, and strove hard to get the drum recognised as an essential of the office. when duncan recoiled from the drum with indignation, but without losing the support of his party, the opposition had the effrontery to propose a bell: that he rejected with a vehemence of scorn that had nearly ruined his cause; and, assuming straightway the position of chief party in the proposed contract, declared that no noise of his making should be other than the noise of bagpipes; that he would rather starve than beat drum or ring bell; if he served in the case, it must be after his own fashion--and so on. hence it was no wonder, some of the bailies being not only small men and therefore conceited, but powerful whigs, who despised everything highland, and the bagpipes especially, if the affair did for awhile seem hopeless. but the more noble minded of the authorities approved of the piper none the less for his independence, a generosity partly rooted, it must be confessed, in the amusement which the annoyance of their weaker brethren afforded them--whom at last they were happily successful in outvoting, so that the bagpipes superseded the drum for a season. it may be asked whence it arose that duncan should now be willing to quit his claim to any paternal property in malcolm, confessing that he was none of his blood. one source of the change was doubtless the desire of confidences between himself and lady florimel, another, the growing conviction, generated it may be by the admiration which is born of love, that the youth had gentle blood in his veins; and a third, that duncan had now so thoroughly proved the heart of malcolm as to have no fear of any change of fortune ever alienating his affections, or causing him to behave otherwise than as his dutiful grandson. it is not surprising that such a tale should have a considerable influence on lady florimel's imagination: out of the scanty facts which formed but a second volume, she began at once to construct both a first and a third. she dreamed of the young fisherman that night, and reflecting in the morning on her intercourse with him, recalled sufficient indications in him of superiority to his circumstances, noted by her now, however, for the first time, to justify her dream: he might indeed well be the last scion of a noble family. i do not intend the least hint that she began to fall in love with him. to balance his good looks, and the nobility, to keener eyes yet more evident than to hers, in both his moral and physical carriage, the equally undeniable clownishness of his dialect and tone had huge weight, while the peculiar straightforwardness of his behaviour and address not unfrequently savoured in her eyes of rudeness; besides which objectionable things, there was the persistent odour of fish about his garments--in itself sufficient to prevent such a catastrophe. the sole result of her meditations was the resolve to get some amusement out of him by means of a knowledge of his history superior to his own. chapter xxx: the revival before the close of the herring fishing, one of those movements of the spiritual waters, which in different forms, and under different names, manifest themselves at various intervals of space and of time, was in full vortex. it was supposed by the folk of portlossie to have begun in the village of scaurnose, but by the time it was recognized as existent, no one could tell whence it had come, any more than he could predict whither it was going. of its spiritual origin it may be also predicated with confidence that its roots lay deeper than human insight could reach, and were far more interwoven than human analysis could disentangle. one notable fact bearing on its nature was, that it arose amongst the people themselves, without the intervention or immediate operation of the clergy, who indeed to a man were set against it. hence the flood was at first free from the results of one influence most prolific of the pseudo spiritual, namely, the convulsive efforts of men with faith in a certain evil system of theology, to rouse a galvanic life by working on the higher feelings through the electric sympathies of large assemblages, and the excitement of late hours, prolonged prayers and exhortations, and sometimes even direct appeal to individuals in public presence. the end of these things is death, for the reaction is towards spiritual hardness and a more confirmed unbelief: when the excitement has died away, those at least in whom the spiritual faculty is for the time exhausted, presume that they have tasted and seen, and found that nothing is there. the whole thing is closely allied to the absurdity of those who would throw down or who would accept the challenge to test the reality of answer to prayer by applying the force of a multitudinous petition to the will of the supposed divinity--i say supposed divinity, because a being whose will could be thus moved like a water wheel could not be in any sense divine. if there might be a religious person so foolish and irreverent as to agree to such a test--crucial indeed, but in a far other sense than that imagined --i would put it to him whether the very sense of experiment would not destroy in his mind all faculty of prayer, placing him in the position, no more of a son of god, but of one who, tempting the lord his god, may read his rebuke where it stands recorded for the ages. but where such a movement has originated amongst the people, the very facts adduced to argue its falsehood from its vulgarity, are to me so many indications on the other side; for i could ill believe in a divine influence which did not take the person such as he was; did not, while giving him power from beyond him, leave his individuality uninjured, yea intensify it, subjecting the very means of its purification, the spread of the new leaven, to the laws of time and growth. to look at the thing from the other side, the genuineness of the man's reception of it will be manifest in the meeting of his present conditions with the new thing--in the show of results natural to one of his degree of development. to hear a rude man utter his experience in the forms of cultivation, would be at once to suspect the mere glitter of a reflex, and to doubt an illumination from within. i repeat, the genuine influence shows itself such in showing that it has laid hold of the very man, at the very stage of growth he had reached. the dancing of david before the ark, the glow of st. stephen's face, and the wild gestures and rude songs of miners and fishers and negroes, may all be signs of the presence of the same spirit in temples various. children will rush and shout and hollo for the same joy which sends others of the family to weep apart. of course the one infallible test as to whether any such movement is of man without god, or of god within the man, is the following life; only a large space for fluctuation must be allowed where a whole world of passions and habits has to be subjected to the will of god through the vice regency of a human will hardly or only just awakened, and as yet unconscious of itself. the nearest joseph mair could come to the origin of the present movement was the influence of a certain stornoway fisherman, whom they had brought back with them on their return from the coasts of lewis--a man of celtic fervour and faith, who had agreed to accompany them probably in the hope of serving a set of the bravest and hardest working men in the world, who yet spent a large part of their ease in drinking up the earnings of fierce and perilous labour. there were a few amongst them, he found, already prepared to receive the word, and to each of these he spoke in private. they spoke to one another, then each to his friend outside the little circle. next a few met to pray. these drew others in, and at length it was delivered from mouth to mouth that on the following sunday, at a certain early hour in the morning, a meeting would be held in the bailie's barn, a cave large enough to receive all the grown population of scaurnose. the news of this gathering of course reached the seaton, where some were inclined to go and see, others to go and hear; most of even the latter class, however, being at the same time more than inclined to mock at the idea of a popular religious assembly. not so duncan macphail, who, notwithstanding the more than half pagan character of his ideas, had too much reverence to mock at anything in the form of religion, to all the claims of which he was even eager to assent: when the duty of forgiveness was pressed upon him too hard, he would take his last refuge in excepting to the authority of the messenger. he regarded the announcement of the meeting with the greater respect that the man from stornoway was a macleod, and so of his mother's clan. it was now the end of august, when the sky is of a paler blue in the day time, and greener about the sunset. the air had in it a touch of cold, which, like as a faint acid affects a sweet drink, only rendered the warmth more pleasant. on the appointed morning, the tide was low, and the waves died gently upon the sand, seeming to have crept away from the shore to get nearer to the sunrise. duncan was walking along the hard wet sand towards the promontory, with mr graham on one side of him and malcolm on the other. there was no gun to fire this morning; it was sunday, and all might repose undisturbed: the longer sleep in bed, possibly the shorter in church. "i wish you had your sight but for a moment, mr macphail," said the schoolmaster. "how this sunrise would make you leap for joy." "ay!" said malcolm, "it wad gar daddy grip till 's pipes in twa hurries." "and what should she'll pe wanting her pipes for?" asked duncan. "to praise god wi'," answered malcolm. "ay; ay;" murmured duncan thoughtfully. "tey are tat." "what are they?" asked mr graham gently. "for to praise cod," answered duncan solemnly. "i almost envy you," returned mr graham, "when i think how you will praise god one day. what a glorious waking you will have!" "ten it 'll pe your opinion, mr craham, tat she'll pe sleeping her sound sleep, and not pe lying wite awake in her coffin all ta time?" "a good deal better than that, mr macphail!" returned the schoolmaster cheerily. "it's my opinion that you are, as it were, asleep now, and that the moment you die, you will feel as if you had just woke up, and for the first time in your life. for one thing, you will see far better then than any of us do now." but poor duncan could not catch the idea; his mind was filled with a preventing fancy. "yes; i know; at ta tay of chutchment," he said. "put what 'll pe ta use of ketting her eyes open pefore she'll pe up? how should she pe seeing with all ta earth apove her--and ta cravestone too tat i know my poy malcolm will pe laying on ta top of his old cranfather to keep him waarm, and let peoples pe know tat ta plind piper will be lying town pelow wite awake and fery uncomfortable?" "excuse me, mr macphail, but that's all a mistake," said mr graham positively. "the body is but a sort of shell that we cast off when we die, as the corn casts off its husk when it begins to grow. the life of the seed comes up out of the earth in a new body, as st paul says," "ten," interrupted .duncan, "she'll pe crowing up out of her crave like a seed crowing up to pe a corn or a parley?" the schoolmaster began to despair of ever conveying to the piper the idea that the living man is the seed sown, and that when the body of this seed dies, then the new body, with the man in it, springs alive out of the old one--that the death of the one is the birth of the other. far more enlightened people than duncan never imagine, and would find it hard to believe, that the sowing of the seed spoken of might mean something else than the burying of the body; not perceiving what yet surely is plain enough, that that would be the sowing of a seed already dead, and incapable of giving birth to anything whatever. "no, no," he said, almost impatiently, "you will never be in the grave: it is only your body that will go there, with nothing like life about it except the smile the glad soul has left on it. the poor body when thus forsaken is so dead that it can't even stop smiling. get malcolm to read to you out of the book of the revelation how there were multitudes even then standing before the throne. they had died in this world, yet there they were, well and happy." "oh, yes!" said duncan, with no small touch of spitefulness in his tone, "--twang twanging at teir fine colden herps! she'll not be thinking much of ta herp for a music maker! and peoples tells her she'll not pe hafing her pipes tere! och hone! och hone!--she'll chust pe lying still and not pe ketting up, and when ta work is ofer, and eferypody cone away, she'll chust pe ketting up, and taking a look apout her, to see if she'll pe finding a stand o' pipes that some coot highlandman has peen left pehint him when he tied lately." "you'll find it rather lonely--won't you?" "yes; no toubt, for they'll aal be cone up. well, she'll haf her pipes; and she could not co where ta pipes was looked town upon by all ta creat people--and all ta smaal ones too." they had now reached the foot of the promontory, and turned northwards, each of his companions taking an arm of the piper to help him over the rocks that lay between them and the mouth of the cave, which soon yawned before them like a section of the mouth of a great fish. its floor of smooth rock had been swept out clean, and sprinkled with dry sea sand. there were many hollows and projections along its sides rudely fit for serving as seats, to which had been added a number of forms extemporized of planks and thwarts. no one had yet arrived when they entered, and they went at once to the further end of the cave, that duncan, who was a little hard of hearing, might be close to the speakers. there his companions turned and looked behind them: an exclamation, followed by a full glance at each other, broke from each. the sun, just clearing the end of the opposite promontory, shone right into the mouth of the cave, from the midst of a tumult of gold, in which all the other colours of his approach had been swallowed up. the triumph strode splendent over sea and shore, subduing waves and rocks to a path for its mighty entrance into that dark cave on the human coast. with his back to the light stood duncan in the bottom of the cave, his white hair gleaming argentine, as if his poor blind head were the very goal of the heavenly progress. he turned round. "will it pe a fire? she feels something warm on her head," he said, rolling his sightless orbs, upon which the splendour broke waveless, casting a grim shadow of him on the jagged rock behind. "no," answered mr graham; "it is the sun you feel. he's just out of his grave." the old man gave a grunt. "i often think," said the schoolmaster to malcolm, "that possibly the reason why we are told so little about the world we are going to, is, that no description of it would enter our minds any more than a description of that sunrise would carry a notion of its reality into the mind of your grandfather." "she's obleeched to you, mr craham!" said the piper with offence. "you take her fery stupid. you're so proud of your eyes, you think a plind man cannot see at aall! chm!" but the folk began to assemble. by twos and threes, now from the one side, now from the other, they came dropping in as if out of the rush of the blinding sunshine, till the seats were nearly filled, while a goodly company gathered about the mouth of the cave, there to await the arrival of those who had called the meeting. presently macleod, a small thin man, with iron gray hair, keen, shrewd features, large head, and brown complexion, appeared, and made his way to the further end of the cave, followed by three or four of the men of scaurnose, amongst whom walked a pale faced, consumptive lad, with bowed shoulders and eyes on the ground: he it was who, feebly clambering on a ledge of rock, proceeded to conduct the worship of the assembly. his parents were fisher people of scaurnose, who to make a minister of him had been half starving the rest of their family; but he had broken down at length under the hardships of endless work and wretched food. from the close of the session in march, he had been teaching in aberdeen until a few days before, when he came home, aware that he was dying, and full of a fervour betraying anxiety concerning himself rather than indicating the possession of good news for others. the sun had now so far changed his position, that, although he still shone into the cave, the preacher stood in the shadow, out of which gleamed his wasted countenance, pallid and sombre and solemn, as first he poured forth an abject prayer for mercy, conceived in the spirit of a slave supplicating the indulgence of a hard master, and couched in words and tones that bore not a trace of the filial; then read the chapter containing the curses of mount ebal, and gave the congregation one of duncan's favourite psalms to sing; and at length began a sermon on what he called the divine justice. not one word was there in it, however, concerning god's love of fair dealing, either as betwixt himself and man, or as betwixt man and his fellow; the preacher's whole notion of justice was the punishment of sin; and that punishment was hell, and hell only; so that the whole sermon was about hell from beginning to end--hell appalling, lurid, hopeless. and the eyes of all were fixed upon him with that glow from within which manifests the listening spirit. some of the women were as pale as himself from sympathetic horror, doubtless also from a vague stirring of the conscience, which, without accusing them of crime, yet told them that all was not right between them and their god; while the working of the faces of some of the men betrayed a mind not at all at ease concerning their prospects. it was an eloquent and powerful utterance, and might doubtless claim its place in the economy of human education; but it was at best a pagan embodiment of truths such as a righteous pagan might have discovered, and breathed nothing of the spirit of christianity, being as unjust towards god as it represented him to be towards men: the god of the preacher was utterly unlike the father of jesus. urging his hearers to flee from the wrath to come, he drew such a picture of an angry deity as in nothing resembled the revelation in the son. "fellow sinners," he said in conclusion, "haste ye and flee from the wrath to come. now is god waiting to be gracious--but only so long as his son holds back the indignation ready to burst forth and devour you. he sprinkles its flames with the scarlet wool and the hyssop of atonement; he stands between you and justice, and pleads with his incensed father for his rebellious creatures. well for you that he so stands and so pleads! yet even he could not prevail for ever against such righteous anger; and it is but for a season he will thus entreat; the day will come when he will stand aside and let the fiery furnace break forth and slay you. then, with howling and anguish, with weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, ye shall know that god is a god of justice, that his wrath is one with his omnipotence, and his hate everlasting as the fires of hell. but do as ye will, ye cannot thwart his decrees, for to whom he will he showeth mercy, and whom he will he hardeneth." scarcely had he ceased, when a loud cry, clear and keen, rang through every corner of the cave. well might the preacher start and gaze around him! for the cry was articulate, sharply modelled into the three words--"father o' lichts!" some of the men gave a scared groan, and some of the women shrieked. none could tell whence the cry had come, and malcolm alone could guess who must have uttered it. "yes," said the preacher, recovering himself, and replying to the voice, "he is the father of lights, but only to them that are in christ jesus;--he is no father, but an avenging deity, to them over whom the robe of his imputed righteousness is not cast. jesus christ himself will not be gracious for ever. kiss ye the son, lest even he be angry, and ye perish from the way, when his wrath is kindled but a little." "father o' lichts!" rang the cry again, and louder than before. to malcolm it seemed close behind him, but he had the self possession not to turn his head. the preacher took no farther notice. macleod stood up, and having, in a few simple remarks, attempted to smooth some of the asperities of the youth's address, announced another meeting in the evening, and dismissed the assembly with a prayer. malcolm went home with his grandfather. he was certain it was the laird's voice he had heard, but he would attempt no search after his refuge that day, for dread of leading to its discovery by others. that evening most of the boats of the seaton set out for the fishing ground as usual, but not many went from scaurnose. blue peter would go no more of a sunday, hence malcolm was free for the night, and again with his grandfather walked along the sands in the evening towards the cave. the sun was going down on the other side of the promontory before them, and the sky was gorgeous in rose and blue, in peach and violet, in purple and green, barred and fretted, heaped and broken, scattered and massed--every colour edged and tinged and harmonized with a glory as of gold, molten with heat, and glowing with fire. the thought that his grandfather could not see, and had never seen such splendour, made malcolm sad, and very little was spoken between them as they went. when they arrived, the service had already commenced, but room was made for them to pass, and a seat was found for duncan where he could hear. just as they entered, malcolm spied, amongst those who preferred the open air at the mouth of the cavern, a face which he was all but certain was that of one of the three men from whom he had rescued the laird. macleod was to address them. he took for his text the words of the saviour, "come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest," and founded upon them a simple, gracious, and all but eloquent discourse, very different in tone and influence from that of the young student. it must be confessed that the christ he presented was very far off, and wrapped in a hazy nimbus of abstraction; that the toil of his revelation was forgotten, the life he lived being only alluded to, and that not for the sake of showing what he was, and hence what god is, but to illustrate the conclusions of men concerning him; and yet there was that heart of reality in the whole thing which no moral vulgarity of theory, no injustice towards god, no tyranny of stupid logic over childlike intuitions, could so obscure as to render it inoperative. from the form of the son of man, thus beheld from afar, came a warmth like the warmth from the first approach of the far off sun in spring, sufficing to rouse the earth from the sleep of winter--in which all the time the same sun has been its warmth and has kept it from sleeping unto death. macleod was a thinker--aware of the movements of his own heart, and able to reflect on others the movements of their hearts; hence, although in the main he treated the weariness and oppression from which jesus offered to set them free, as arising from a sense of guilt and the fear of coming misery, he could not help alluding to more ordinary troubles, and depicting other phases of the heart's restlessness with such truth and sympathy that many listened with a vague feeling of exposure to a supernatural insight. the sermon soon began to show its influence; for a sense of the need of help is so present to every simple mind, that, of all messages, the offer of help is of easiest reception; some of the women were sobbing, and the silent tears were flowing down the faces of others; while of the men many were looking grave and thoughtful, and kept their eyes fixed on the speaker. at length, towards the close, macleod judged it needful to give a word of warning. "but, my friends," he said, and his voice grew low and solemn, "i dare not make an end without reminding you that, if you stop your ears against the gracious call, a day will come when not even the merits of the son of god will avail you, but the wrath of the--" "father o' lichts!" once more burst ringing out, like the sudden cry of a trumpet in the night. macleod took no notice of it, but brought his sermon at once to a close, and specified the night of the following saturday for next meeting. they sung a psalm, and after a slow, solemn, thoughtful prayer, the congregation dispersed. but malcolm, who, anxious because of the face he had seen as he entered, had been laying his plans, after begging his grandfather in a whisper to go home without him for a reason he would afterwards explain, withdrew into a recess whence he could watch the cave, without being readily discovered. scarcely had the last voices of the retreating congregation died away, when the same ill favoured face peeped round the corner of the entrance, gave a quick glance about, and the man came in. like a snuffing terrier, he went peering in the dimness into every hollow, and behind every projection, until he suddenly caught sight of malcolm, probably by a glimmering of his eyes. "hillo, humpy!" he cried in a tone of exultation, and sprang up the rough ascent of a step or two to where he sat. malcolm half rose, and met him with a well delivered blow between the eyes. he fell, and lay for a moment stunned. malcolm sat down again and watched him. when he came to himself, he crept out, muttering imprecations. he knew it was not humpy who dealt that blow. as soon as he was gone, malcolm in his turn began searching. he thought he knew every hole and corner of the cave, and there was but one where the laird, who, for as near him as he heard his voice the first time, certainly had not formed one of the visible congregation, might have concealed himself: if that was his covert, there he must be still, for he had assuredly not issued from it. immediately behind where he had sat in the morning, was a projection of rock, with a narrow cleft between it and the wall of the cavern, visible only from the very back of the cave, where the roof came down low. but when he thought of it, he saw that even here he could not have been hidden in the full light of the morning from the eyes of some urchins who had seated themselves as far back as the roof would allow them, and they had never looked as if they saw anything more than other people. still, if he was to search at all, here he must begin. the cleft had scarcely more width than sufficed to admit his body, and his hands told him at once that there was no laird there. could there be any opening further? if there was, it could only be somewhere above. was advance in that direction possible? he felt about, and finding two or three footholds, began to climb in the dark, and had reached the height of six feet or so, when he came to a horizontal projection, which, for a moment only, barred his further progress. having literally surmounted this, that is, got on the top of it, he found there a narrow vertical opening: was it but a shallow recess, or did it lead into the heart of the rock? carefully feeling his way both with hands and feet, he advanced a step or two, and came to a place where the passage widened a little, and then took a sharp turn and became so narrow that it was with difficulty he forced himself through. it was, however, but one close pinch, and he found himself, as his feet told him, at the top of a steep descent. he stood for a moment hesitating, for prudence demanded a light. the sound of the sea was behind him, but all in front was still as the darkness of the grave. suddenly up from unknown depths of gloom, came the tones of a sweet childish voice, singing the lord's my shepherd. malcolm waited until the psalm was finished, and then called out: "mr stewart! here--malcolm macphail. i want to see ye. tell him it 's me, phemy." a brief pause followed; then phemy's voice answered: "come awa' doon. he says ye s' be welcome." "canna ye shaw a licht than; for i dinna ken a fit o' the ro'd," said malcolm. the next moment a light appeared at some little distance below, and presently began to ascend, borne by phemy, towards the place where he stood. she took him by the hand without a word, and led him down a slope, apparently formed of material fallen from the roof, to the cave already described. the moment he entered it, he marked the water in its side, the smooth floor, the walls hollowed into a thousand fantastic cavities, and knew he had come upon the cave in which his great grandfather had found refuge so many years before. changes in its mouth had rendered entrance difficult, and it had slipped by degrees from the knowledge of men. at the bottom of the slope, by the side of the well, sat the laird. phemy set the little lantern she carried on its edge. the laird rose and shook hands with malcolm and asked him to be seated. " sorry to say they're efter ye again, laird," said malcolm after a little ordinary chat. mr stewart was on his feet instantly. "i maun awa'. tak care o' phemy," he said hurriedly. "na, na, sir," said malcolm, laying his hand on his arm; "there's nae sic hurry. as lang's here ye may sit still; an', as far's i ken, naebody's fun' the w'y in but mysel', an' that was yer am wyte (blame), laird. but ye hae garred mair fowk nor me luik, an' that's the pity o' 't." "i tauld ye, sir, ye sudna cry oot," said phemy. "i couldna help it," said stewart apologetically. "weel, ye sudna ha' gane near them again," persisted the little woman. "wha kent but they kent whaur i cam frae?" persisted the laird. "sit ye doon, sir, an' lat's hae a word aboot it," said malcolm cheerily. the laird cast a doubting look at phemy. "ay, sit doon," said phemy. mr stewart yielded, but nervous starts and sudden twitches of the muscles betrayed his uneasiness: it looked as if his body would jump up and run without his mind's consent. "hae ye ony w'y o' winnin' oot o' this, forbye (besides) the mou' o' the cave there?" asked malcolm. "nane 'at i ken o'," answered phemy. "but there's heaps o' hidy holes i' the inside o' 't." "that's a' very weel; but gien they keppit the mou' an' took their time till 't, they bude to grip ye." "there may be, though," resumed phemy. "it gangs back a lang road. i hae never been in sicht o' the cud o' 't. it comes doon verra laich in some places, and gangs up heich again in ithers, but nae sign o' an en' till 't." "is there ony soon' o' watter intill 't?" asked malcolm. "na, nane at ever i hard. but i'll tell ye what i hae hard: i hae hard the flails gaein' thud, thud, abune my heid." "hoot toot, phemy!" said malcolm; "we're a guid mile an' a half frae the nearest ferm toon, an' that i reckon, 'll be the hoose ferm." "i canna help that," persisted phemy. "gien 't wasna the flails, whiles ane, an' whiles twa, i dinna ken what it cud hae been. hoo far it was i canna say, for it 's ill measurin' i' the dark, or wi' naething but a bowat (lantern) i' yer han'; but gien ye ca'd it mair, i wadna won'er." "it's a michty howkin!" said malcolm; "but for a' that it wadna haud ye frae the grip o' thae scoonrels: wharever ye ran they cud rin efter ye." "i think we cud sort them," said phemy. "there's ae place, a guid bit farrer in, whaur the rufe comes doon to the flure, leavin' jist ae sma' hole to creep throu': it wad be fine to hae a gey muckle stane handy, jist to row (roll) athort it, an' gar't luik as gien 't was the en' o' a'thing. but the hole's sae sma' at the laird has ill gettin' his puir hack throu' 't." "i couldna help won'erin' hoo he wan throu' at the tap there," said malcolm. at this the laird laughed almost merrily, and rising, took malcolm by the hand and led him to the spot, where he made him feel a rough groove in the wall of the rocky strait: into this hollow he laid his hump, and so slid sideways through. malcolm squeezed himself through after him, saying,-- "noo ye're oot, laird, hadna ye better come wi' me hame to miss horn's, whaur ye wad be as safe's gien ye war in h'aven itsel'?" "na, i canna gang to miss horn's," he replied. "what for no, laird?" pulling malcolm down towards him, the laird whispered in his ear, "'cause she's fleyt at my back." a moment or two passed ere malcolm could think of a reply both true and fitting. when at length he spoke again there was no answer, and he knew that he was alone. he left the cave and set out for the seaton; but, unable to feel at peace about his friends, resolved, on the way, to return after seeing his grandfather, and spend the night in the outer cave. chapter xxxi: wandering stars he had not been gone many minutes, when the laird passed once more through the strait, and stood a moment waiting for phemy; she had persuaded him to go home to her father's for the night. but the next instant he darted back, with trembling hands, caught hold of phemy, who was following him with the lantern, and stammered in her ear,-- "there's somebody there! i dinna ken whaur they come frae." phemy went to the front of the passage and listened, but could hear nothing, and returned. "bide ye whaur ye are, laird," she said; "i'll gang doon, an' gien i hear or see naething, i'll come back for ye." with careful descent, placing her feet on the well known points unerringly, she reached the bottom, and peeped into the outer cave. the place was quite dark. through its jaws the sea glimmered faint in the low light that skirted the northern horizon; and the slow pulse of the tide upon the rocks, was the sole sound to be heard. no: another in the cave close beside her!--one small solitary noise, as of shingle yielding under the pressure of a standing foot! she held her breath and listened, her heart beating so loud that she feared it would deafen her to what would come next. a good many minutes, half an hour it seemed to her, passed, during which she heard nothing more; but as she peeped out for the twentieth time, a figure glided into the field of vision bounded by the cave's mouth. it was that of a dumpy woman. she entered the cave, tumbled over one of the forms, and gave a cry coupled with an imprecation. "the deevil roast them 'at laid me sic a trap!" she said. "i hae broken the shins the auld markis laudit!" "hold your wicked tongue!" hissed a voice in return, almost in phemy's very ear. "ow! ye're there, are ye, mem!" rejoined the other, in a voice that held internal communication with her wounded shins. "coupit ye the crans like me?" the question, englished, was, "did you fall heels over head like me?" but was capable of a metaphorical interpretation as well. "hold your tongue, i say, woman! who knows but some of the saints may be at their prayers within hearing?" "na, na, mem, there's nae risk o' that; this is no ane o' yer creepy caves whaur otters an wullcats hae their habitations; it 's a muckle open mou'd place, like them 'at prays intill 't--as toom an' clear sidit as a tongueless bell. but what for ye wad hae 's come here to oor cracks (conversation), i canna faddom. a body wad think ye had an ill thoucht i' yer heid--eh, mem?" the suggestion was followed by a low, almost sneering laugh. as she spoke, the sounds of her voice and step had been advancing, with cautious intermittent approach. "i hae ye noo," she said, as she seated herself at length beside the other. "the gowk, geordie bray!" she went on, "--to tak it intill's oogly heid 'at the cratur wad be hurklin' here! it's no the place for ane 'at has to hide 's heid for verra shame o' slippin' aff the likes o' himsel' upo' sic a braw mither! could he get nae ither door to win in at, haith!" "woman, you'll drive me mad!" said the other. "weel, hinney," returned the former, suddenly changing her tone, " mair an' mair convenced 'at yon's the verra laad for yer purpose. for ae thing, ye see, naebody kens whaur he cam frae, as the laird, bonny laad, wad say, an' naebody can contradick a word-- the auld man less than onybody, for i can tell him what he kens to be trowth. only i winna muv till i ken whaur he comes frae." "wouldn't you prefer not knowing for certain? you could swear with the better grace." "deil a bit! it maitters na to me whilk side o' my teeth i chow wi'. but i winna sweir till i ken the trowth--'at i may haud off o' 't. he's the man, though, gien we can get a grip o' 'im! he luiks the richt thing, ye see, mem. he has a glisk (slight look) o' the markis tu--divna ye think, mem?" "insolent wretch!" "caw canny, mem--'thing maun be considered. it wad but gar the thing luik, the mair likly. fowk gangs the len'th o' sayin' 'at humpy himsel' 's no the sin (son) o' the auld laird, honest man. "it's a wicked lie," burst with indignation from the other. "there may be waur things nor a bit lee. ony gait, ae thing's easy priven: ye lay verra dowie (poorly) for a month or sax ooks ance upon a time at lossie hoose, an' that was a feow years, we needna speir hoo mony, efter ye was lichtened o' the tither. whan they hear that at that time ye gae birth till a lad bairn, the whilk was stown awa', an' never hard tell o' till noo--'it may weel be,' fowk'll say: 'them 'at has drunk wad drink again!' it wad affoord rizzons, ye see, an' guid anes, for the bairn bein' putten oot a' sicht, and wad mak the haul story mair nor likly i' the jeedgment o' a' 'at hard it." "you scandalous woman! that would be to confess to all the world that he was not the son of my late husband!" "they say that o' him 'at is, an' hoo muckle the waur are ye? lat them say 'at they like, sae lang 's we can shaw 'at he cam o' your body, an' was born i' wedlock? ye hae yer ian's ance mair, for ye hae a sin 'at can guide them--and ye can guide him. he's a bonny lad--bonny eneuch to be yer leddyship's--and his lordship's: an' sae, as i was remarkin', i' the jeedgment a' ill thouchtit fowk, the mair likly to be heir to auld stewart o' kirkbyres!" she laughed huskily. "but i maun hae a scart a' yer pen, mem, afore i wag tongue aboot it," she went on. "i ken brawly hoo to set it gauin'! i sanna be the first to ring the bell. na, na; i s' set miss horn's jean jawin', an' it 'll be a' ower the toon in a jiffy--at first in a kin o' a sough 'at naebody 'ill unnerstan': but it 'll grow looder an' plainer. at the lang last it 'll come to yer leddyship's hearin: an' syne ye hae me taen up an' questoned afore a justice o' the peace, that there may be no luik o' ony compack atween the twa o' 's. but, as i said afore, i'll no muv till i ken a' aboot the lad first, an' syne get a scart o' yer pen, mem." "you must be the devil himself!" said the other, in a tone that was not of displeasure. "i hae been tellt that afore, an' wi' less rizzon," was the reply --given also in a tone that was not of displeasure. "but what if we should be found out?" "ye can lay 't a' upo' me." "and what will you do with it?" "tak it wi' me," was the answer, accompanied by another husky laugh. "where to?" "speir nae questons, an' ye'll be tellt nae lees. ony gait, i s' lea' nae track ahin' me. an' for that same sake, i maun hae my pairt i' my han' the meenute the thing's been sworn till. gien ye fail me, ye'll sune see me get mair licht upo' the subjec', an' confess till a great mistak. by the michty, but i'll sweir the verra contrar the neist time hed up! ay, an' ilka body 'ill believe me. an' whaur'll ye be than, my leddy? for though i micht mistak, ye cudna! faith! they'll hae ye ta'en up for perjury." "you're a dangerous accomplice," said the lady. " a tule ye maun tak by the han'le, or ye'll rue the edge," returned the other quietly. "as soon then as i get a hold of that misbegotten elf--" "mean ye the yoong laird, or the yoong markis, mem?" "you forget, mrs catanach, that you are speaking to a lady!" "ye maun hae been unco like ane ae nicht, ony gait, mem. but dune wi' my jokin'." "as soon, i say, as i get my poor boy into proper hands, i shall be ready to take the next step." "what for sod ye pit it aff till than? he canna du muckle ae w'y or ither." "i will tell you. his uncle, sir joseph, prides himself on being an honest man, and if some busybody were to tell him that poor stephen, as i am told people are saying, was no worse than harsh treatment had made him--for you know his father could not bear the sight of him till the day of his death--he would be the more determined to assert his guardianship, and keep things out of my hands. but if i once had the poor fellow in an asylum, or in my own keeping--you see--" "weel, mem, gien i be potty, ye're panny!" exclaimed the midwife with her gelatinous laugh. "losh, mem!" she burst out after a moment's pause, "sen you an' me was to fa' oot, there wad be a stramash! he! he! he!" they rose and left the cave together, talking as they went; and phemy, trembling all over, rejoined the laird. she could understand little of what she had heard, and yet, enabled by her affection, retained in her mind a good deal of it. after events brought more of it to her recollection, and what i have here given is an attempted restoration of the broken mosaic. she rightly judged it better to repeat nothing of what she had overheard to the laird, to whom it would only redouble terror; and when he questioned her in his own way concerning it, she had little difficulty, so entirely did he trust her, in satisfying him with a very small amount of information. when they reached her home, she told all she could to her father; whose opinion it was, that the best, indeed the only-thing they could do, was to keep, if possible, a yet more vigilant guard over the laird and his liberty. soon after they were gone, malcolm returned, and little thinking that there was no one left to guard, chose a sheltered spot in the cave, carried thither a quantity of dry sand, and lay down to sleep, covered with his tarpaulin coat. he found it something chilly, however, and did not rest so well but that he woke with the first break of day. the morning, as it drew slowly on, was a strange contrast, in its gray and saffron, to the gorgeous sunset of the night before. the sea crept up on the land as if it were weary, and did not care much to flow any more. not a breath of wind was in motion, and yet the air even on the shore seemed full of the presence of decaying leaves and damp earth. he sat down in the mouth of the cave, and looked out on the still, half waking world of ocean and sky before him--a leaden ocean, and a dull misty sky; and as he gazed, a sadness came stealing over him, and a sense of the endlessness of labour--labour ever returning on itself and making no progress. the mad laird was always lamenting his ignorance of his origin: malcolm thought he knew whence he came--and yet what was the much good of life? where was the end to it all? people so seldom got what they desired! to be sure his life was a happy one, or had been--but there was the poor laird! why should he be happier than the laird? why should the laird have a hump and he have none? if all the world were happy but one man, that one's misery would be as a cairn on which the countless multitudes of the blessed must heap the stones of endless questions and enduring perplexities. it is one thing to know from whom we come, and another to know from whom we come. then his thoughts turned to lady florimel. all the splendours of existence radiated from her, but to the glory he could never draw nearer; the celestial fires of the rainbow fountain of her life could never warm him; she cared about nothing he cared about; if they had a common humanity they could not share it; to her he was hardly human. if he were to unfold before her the deepest layers of his thought, she would look at them curiously, as she might watch the doings of an ant or a spider. had he no right to look for more? he did not know, and sat brooding with bowed head. unseen from where he sat, the sun drew nearer the horizon, the light grew; the tide began to ripple up more diligently; a glimmer of dawn touched even the brown rock in the farthest end of the cave. where there was light there was work, and where there was work for any one, there was at least justification of his existence. that work must be done, if it should return and return in a never broken circle. its theory could wait. for indeed the only hope of finding the theory of all theories, the divine idea, lay in the going on of things. in the meantime, while god took care of the sparrows by himself, he allowed malcolm a share in the protection of a human heart capable of the keenest suffering--that of the mad laird. chapter xxxii: the skipper's chamber one day towards the close of the fishing season, the marquis called upon duncan; and was received with a cordial unembarrassed welcome. "i want you, mr macphail," said his lordship, "to come and live in that little cottage, on the banks of the burn, which one of the under gamekeepers, they tell me, used to occupy.. i 'll have it put in order for you, and you shall live rent free as my piper." "i thank your lortship's crace," said duncan, "and she would pe proud of ta honour, put it 'll pe too far away from ta shore for her poy's fishing." "i have a design upon him too," returned the marquis. "they're building a little yacht for me--a pleasure boat, you understand --at aberdeen, and i want malcolm to be skipper. but he is such a useful fellow, and so thoroughly to be depended upon, that i should prefer his having a room in the house. i should like to know he was within call any moment i might want him." duncan did not clutch at the proposal. he was silent so long that the marquis spoke again. "you do not quite seem to like the plan, mr macphail," he said. "if aal wass here as it used to wass in ta highlants, my lort," said duncan, "when every clansman wass son or prother or father to his chief tat would pe tifferent; put my poy must not co and eat with serfants who haf nothing put teir waches to make tem love and opey your lortship. if her poy serfs another man, it must pe pecause he loves him, and looks upon him as his chief, who will shake haands with him and take ta father's care of him; and her poy must tie for him when ta time comes." even a feudal lord cannot be expected to have sympathized with such grand patriarchal ideas; they were much too like those of the kingdom of heaven; and feudalism itself had by this time crumbled away--not indeed into monthly, but into half yearly wages. the marquis, notwithstanding, was touched by the old man's words, matter of fact as his reply must sound after them. "i would make any arrangements you or he might wish," he said. "he should take his meals with mrs courthope, have a bedroom to himself and be required only to look after the yacht, and now and then do some bit of business i couldn't trust any one else with." the highlander's pride was nearly satisfied. "so," he said, "it 'll pe his own henchman my lort will pe making of her poy?" "something like that. we'll see how it goes. if he does n't like it, he can drop it. it's more that i want to have him about me than anything else. i want to do something for him when i have a chance. i like him." "my lort will pe toing ta laad a creat honour," said duncan. "put," he added, with a sigh, "she'll pe lonely, her nainsel!" "he can come and see you twenty times a day--and stop all night when you particularly want him. we'll see about some respectable woman to look after the house for you." "she'll haf no womans to look after her," said duncan fiercely. "oh, very well!--of course not, if you don't wish it," returned the marquis, laughing. but duncan did not even smile in return. he sat thoughtful and silent for a moment, then said: "and what 'll pecome of her lamps and her shop?" "you shall have all the lamps and candlesticks in the house to attend to and take charge of," said the marquis, who had heard of the old man's whim from lady florimel; "and for the shop, you won't want that when you're piper to the marquis of lossie." he did not venture to allude to wages more definitely. "well, she'll pe talking to her poy apout it," said duncan, and the marquis saw that he had better press the matter no further for the time. to malcolm the proposal was full of attraction. true, lord lossie had once and again spoken so as to offend him, but the confidence he had shown in him had gone far to atone for that. and to be near lady florimel!--to have to wait on her in the yacht and sometimes in the house!--to be allowed books from the library perhaps!-- to have a nice room, and those lovely grounds all about him!--it was tempting! the old man also, the more he reflected, liked the idea the more. the only thing he murmured at was, being parted from his grandson at night. in vain malcolm reminded him that during the fishing season he had to spend most nights alone; duncan answered that he had but to go to the door, and look out to sea, and there was nothing between him and his boy; but now he could not tell how many stone walls might be standing up to divide them. he was quite willing to make the trial, however, and see if he could bear it. so malcolm went to speak to the marquis. he did not altogether trust the marquis, but he had always taken a delight in doing anything for anybody--a delight rooted in a natural tendency to ministration, unusually strong, and specially developed by the instructions of alexander graham conjoined with the necessities of his blind grandfather; while there was an alluring something, it must be confessed, in the marquis's high position --which let no one set down to malcolm's discredit: whether the subordination of class shall go to the development of reverence or of servility, depends mainly on the individual nature subordinated. calvinism itself has produced as loving children as abject slaves, with a good many between partaking of the character of both kinds. still, as he pondered over the matter on his way, he shrunk a good deal from placing himself at the beck and call of another; it threatened to interfere with that sense of personal freedom which is yet dearer perhaps to the poor than to the rich. but he argued with himself that he had found no infringement of it under blue peter; and that, if the marquis were really as friendly as he professed to be, it was not likely to turn out otherwise with him. lady florimel anticipated pleasure in malcolm's probable consent to her father's plan; but certainly he would not have been greatly uplifted by a knowledge of the sort of pleasure she expected. for some time the girl had been suffering from too much liberty. perhaps there is no life more filled with a sense of oppression and lack of freedom than that of those under no external control, in whom duty has not yet gathered sufficient strength to assume the reins of government and subject them to the highest law. their condition is like that of a creature under an exhausted receiver--oppressed from within outwards for want of the counteracting external weight. it was amusement she hoped for from malcolm's becoming in a sense one of the family at the house--to which she believed her knowledge of the extremely bare outlines of his history would largely contribute. he was shown at once into the presence of his lordship, whom he found at breakfast with his daughter. "well, macphail," said the marquis, "have you made up your mind to be my skipper?" "willin'ly, my lord," answered malcolm. "do you know how to manage a sailboat?" "i wad need, my lord." "shall you want any help?" "that depen's upo' saiveral things--her am size, the wull o' the win', an' whether or no yer lordship or my leddy can tak the tiller." "we can't settle about that then till she comes. i hear she'll soon be on her way now. but i cannot have you dressed like a farmer!" said his lordship, looking sharply at the sunday clothes which malcolm had donned for the visit. "what was i to du, my lord?" returned malcolm apologetically. "the only ither claes i hae, are verra fishy, an' neither yersel' nor my leddy cud bide them i' the room aside ye." "certainly not," responded the marquis, as in a leisurely manner he devoured his omelette: "i was thinking of your future position as skipper of my boat. what would you say to a kilt now?" "na, na, my lord," rejoined malcolm; "a kilt's no seafarin' claes. a kilt wadna du ava', my lord." "you cannot surely object to the dress of your own people," said the marquis. "the kilt 's weel eneuch upon a hillside," said malcolm, "i dinna doobt; but faith! seafarin', my lord, ye wad want the trews as weel." "well, go to the best tailor in the town, and order a naval suit --white ducks and a blue jacket--two suits you'll want." "we s' gar ae shuit sair s' (satisfy us) to begin wi', my lord. i 'll jist gang to jamie sangster, wha maks a' my claes--no 'at their mony!--an' get him to mizzur me. he'll mak them weel eneuch for me. you 're aye sure o' the worth o' yer siller frae him." "i tell you to go to the best tailor in the town, and order two suits." "na, na, my lord; there's nae need. i canna affoord it forbye. we 're no a' made o' siller like yer lordship." "you booby! do you suppose i would tell you to order clothes i did not mean to pay for?" lady florimel found her expectation of amusement not likely to be disappointed. "hoots, my lord!" returned malcolm, "that wad never du. i maun pey for my ain claes. i wad be in a constant terror o blaudin' (spoiling) o' them gien i didna, an' that wad be eneuch to mak a body meeserable. it wad be a' the same, forbye, not an' oot, as weirin' a leevry!" "well, well! please your pride, and be damned to you!" said the marquis. "yes, let him please his pride, and be damned to him!" assented lady florimel with perfect gravity. malcolm started and stared. lady florimel kept an absolute composure. the marquis burst into a loud laugh. malcolm stood bewildered for a moment. " thinkin' gaein' daft (delirious)!" he said at length, putting his hand to his head. "it's time i gaed. guid mornin', my lord." he turned and left the room, followed by a fresh peal from his lordship, mingling with which his ear plainly detected the silvery veins of lady florimel's equally merry laughter. when he came to himself and was able to reflect, he saw there must have been some joke involved: the behaviour of both indicated as much; and with this conclusion he heartened his dismay. the next morning duncan called on mrs partan, and begged her acceptance of his stock in trade, as, having been his lordship's piper for some time, he was now at length about to occupy his proper quarters within the policies. mrs findlay acquiesced, with an air better suited to the granting of slow leave to laboursome petition, than the accepting of such a generous gift; but she made some amends by graciously expressing a hope that duncan would not forget his old friends now that he was going amongst lords and ladies, to which duncan returned as courteous answer as if he had been addressing lady florimel herself. before the end of the week, his few household goods were borne in a cart through the sea gate dragonised by bykes, to whom malcolm dropped a humorous "weel johnny!" as he passed, receiving a nondescript kind of grin in return. the rest of the forenoon was spent in getting the place in order, and in the afternoon, arrayed in his new garments, malcolm reported himself at the house. admitted to his lordship's presence, he had a question to ask and a request to prefer. "hae ye dune onything my lord," he said, "aboot mistress catanach?" "what do you mean?" "anent yon cat prowl aboot the hoose, my lord." "no. you have n't discovered anything more--have you?" "na, my lord; i haena had a chance. but ye may be sure she had nae guid design in 't." "i don't suspect her of any." "weel, my lord, hae ye ony objection to lat me sleep up yonner?" "none at all--only you'd better see what mrs courthope has to say to it. perhaps you won't be so ready after you hear her story." "but i hae yer lordship's leave to tak ony room i like?" "certainly. go to mrs courthope, and tell her i wish you to choose your own quarters." having straightway delivered his lordship's message, mrs courthope, wondering a little thereat, proceeded to show him those portions of the house set apart for the servants. he followed her from floor to floor--last to the upper regions, and through all the confused rambling roofs of the old pile, now descending a sudden steep yawning stair, now ascending another where none could have been supposed to exist--oppressed all the time with a sense of the multitudinous and intricate, such as he had never before experienced, and such as perhaps only the works of man can produce, the intricacy and variety of those of nature being ever veiled in the grand simplicity which springs from primal unity of purpose. i find no part of an ancient house so full of interest as the garret region. it has all the mystery of the dungeon cellars with a far more striking variety of form, and a bewildering curiosity of adaptation, the peculiarities of roof shapes and the consequent complexities of their relations and junctures being so much greater than those of foundation plans. then the sense of lofty loneliness in the deeps of air, and at the same time of proximity to things aerial--doves and martins, vanes and gilded balls and lightning conductors, the waves of the sea of wind, breaking on the chimneys for rocks, and the crashing roll of the thunder--is in harmony with the highest spiritual instincts; while the clouds and the stars look, if not nearer, yet more germane, and the moon gazes down on the lonely dweller in uplifted places, as if she had secrets with such. the cellars are the metaphysics, the garrets the poetry of the house. mrs courthope was more than kind, for she was greatly pleased at having malcolm for an inmate. she led him from room to room, suggesting now and then a choice, and listening amusedly to his remarks of liking or disliking, and his marvel at strangeness or extent. at last he found himself following her along the passage in which was the mysterious door, but she never stayed her step, or seemed to intend showing one of the many rooms opening upon it. "sic a bee's byke o' rooms!" said malcolm, making a halt "wha sleeps here?" "nobody has slept in one of these rooms for i dare not say how many years," replied mrs courthope, without stopping; and as she spoke she passed the fearful door. "i wad like to see intil this room," said malcolm. "that door is never opened," answered mrs courthope, who had now reached the end of the passage, and turned, lingering as in act while she spoke to move on. "and what for that?" asked malcolm, continuing to stand before it. "i would rather not answer you just here. come along. this is not a part of the house where you would like to be, i am sure." "hoo ken ye that, mem? an' hoo can i say mysel' afore ye hae shawn me what the room 's like? it may be the verra place to tak my fancy. jist open the door, mem, gien ye please, an lat's hae a keek intill 't." "i daren't open it. it's never opened, i tell you. it's against the rules of the house. come to my room, and i'll tell you the story about it." "weel, ye 'll lat me see intil the neist--winna ye? there's nae law agane openin' hit--is there?" said malcolm, approaching the door next to the one in dispute. "certainly not; but pretty sure, once you've heard the story i have to tell, you won't choose to sleep in this part of the house." "lat's luik, ony gait." so saying, malcolm took upon himself to try the handle of the door. it was not locked: he peeped in, then entered. it was a small room, low ceiled, with a deep dormer window in the high pediment of a roof, and a turret recess on each side of the window. it seemed very light after the passage, and looked down upon the burn. it was comfortably furnished, and the curtains of its tent bed were chequered in squares of blue and white. "this is the verra place for me, mem," said malcolm, reissuing;-- "that is," he added, "gien ye dinna think it 's ower gran' for the likes o' me 'at 's no been used to onything half sae guid." "you're quite welcome to it," said mrs courthope, all but confident he would not care to occupy it after hearing the tale of lord gernon. she had not moved from the end of the passage while malcolm was in the room--somewhat hurriedly she now led the way to her own. it seemed half a mile off to the wondering malcolm, as he followed her down winding stairs, along endless passages, and round innumerable corners. arrived at last, she made him sit down, and gave him a glass of home made wine to drink, while she told him the story much as she had already told it to the marquis, adding a hope to the effect that, if ever the marquis should express a wish to pry into the secret of the chamber, malcolm would not encourage him in a fancy, the indulgence of which was certainly useless, and might be dangerous. "me!" exclaimed malcolm with surprise. "--as gien he wad heed a word i said!" "very little sometimes will turn a man either in one direction or the other," said mrs courthope. "but surely, mem, ye dinna believe in sic fule auld warld stories as that! it's weel eneuch for a tale, but to think o' a body turnin' 'ae fit oot o' 's gait for 't, blecks (nonplusses) me." "i don't say i believe it," returned mrs courthope, a little pettishly; "but there's no good in mere foolhardiness." "ye dinna surely think, mem, 'at god wad lat onything depen' upo' whether a man opent a door in 's ain hoose or no! it's agane a' rizzon!" persisted malcolm. "there might be reasons we couldn't understand," she replied. "to do what we are warned against from any quarter, without good reason, must be foolhardy at best." "weel, mem, i maun hae the room neist the auld warlock's, ony gait, for in that gauin' to sleep, an' in nae ither in a' this muckle hoose." mrs courthope rose, full of uneasiness, and walked up and down the room. " takin' upo' me naething ayont his lordship's ain word," urged malcolm. "if you're to go by the very word," rejoined mrs courthope, stopping and looking him full in the face, "you might insist on sleeping in lord gernon's chamber itself." "weal, an' sae i micht," returned malcolm. the hinted possibility of having to change bad for so much worse, appeared to quench further objection. "i must get it ready myself then," she said resignedly, "for the maids won't even go up that stair. and as to going into any of those rooms!" "'deed no, mem! ye sanna du that," cried malcolm. "sayna a word to ane o' them. i s' wadger as guid's the auld warlock himsel' at makin' a bed. jist gie me the sheets an' the blankets, an' i'll du 't as trim 's ony lass i' the hoose." "but the bed will want airing," objected the housekeeper. "by a' accoonts, that's the last thing it 's likly to want--lyin' neist door to yon chaumer. but i hae sleepit mony 's the time er' noo upo' the tap o' a boat load o' herrin', an' gien that never did me ony ill, it 's no likly a guid bed 'll kill me gien it sud be a wee mochy (rather full of moths)." mrs courthope yielded and gave him all that was needful, and before night malcolm had made his new quarters quite comfortable. he did not retire to them, however, until he had seen his grandfather laid down to sleep in his lonely cottage. about. noon the next day the old man made his appearance in the kitchen. how he had found his way to it, neither he nor any one else could tell. there happened to be no one there when he entered, and the cook when she returned stood for a moment in the door, watching him as he felt flitting about with huge bony hands whose touch was yet light as the poise of a butterfly. not knowing the old man, she fancied at first he was feeling after something in the shape of food, but presently his hands fell upon a brass candlestick. he clutched it, and commenced fingering it all over. alas! it was clean, and with a look of disappointment he replaced it. wondering yet more what his quest could be, she watched on. the next instant he had laid hold of a silver candlestick not yet passed through the hands of the scullery maid; and for a moment she fancied him a thief, for he had rejected the brass and now took the silver; but he went no farther with it than the fireplace, where he sat down on the end of the large fender, and, having spread his pocket handkerchief over his kilted knees, drew a similar rag from somewhere, and commenced cleaning it. by this time one of the maids who knew him had joined the cook, and also stood watching him with amusement. but when she saw the old knife drawn from his stocking, and about to be applied to the nozzle, to free it from adhering wax, it seemed more than time to break the silence. "eh! that's a siller can'lestick, maister macphail," she cried, "an' ye maunna tak a knife till 't, or ye'll scrat it a' dreidfu'." an angry flush glowed in the withered cheeks of the piper, as, without the least start at the suddenness of her interference, he turned his face in the direction of the speaker. "you take old tuncan's finkers for persons of no etchucation, mem! as if tey couldn't know ta silfer from ta prass! if tey wass so stupid, her nose would pe telling tem so. efen old tuncan's knife 'll pe knowing petter than to scratch ta silfer--or ta prass either; old tuncan's knife would pe scratching nothing petter tan ta skin of a cawmill." now the candlestick had no business in the kitchen, and if it were scratched, the butler would be indignant; but the girl was a campbell, and duncan's words so frightened her that she did not dare interfere. she soon saw, however, that the piper had not over vaunted his skill: the skene left not a mark upon the metal; in a few minutes he had melted away the wax he could not otherwise reach, and had rubbed the candlestick perfectly bright, leaving behind him no trace except an unpleasant odour of train oil from the rag. from that hour he was cleaner of lamps and candlesticks, as well as blower of bagpipes, to the house of lossie; and had everything provided necessary to the performance of his duties with comfort and success. before many weeks were over, he had proved the possession of such a talent for arrangement and general management, at least in everything connected with illumination, that the entire charge of the lighting of the house was left in his hands,--even to that of its stores of wax and tallow and oil; and great was the pleasure he derived, not only from the trust reposed in him, but from other more occult sources connected with the duties of his office. chapter xxxiii: the library malcolm's first night was rather troubled,--not primarily from the fact that but a thin partition separated him from the wizard's chamber, but from the deadness of the silence around him; for he had been all his life accustomed to the near noise of the sea, and its absence had upon him the rousing effect of an unaccustomed sound. he kept hearing the dead silence--was constantly dropping, as it were into its gulf; and it was no wonder that a succession of sleepless fits, strung together rather than divided by as many dozes little better than startled rousings, should at length have so shaken his mental frame as to lay it open to the assaults of nightly terrors, the position itself being sufficient to seduce his imagination, and carry it over to the interests of the enemy. but malcolm had early learned that a man's will must, like a true monarch, rule down every rebellious movement of its subjects, and he was far from yielding to such inroads as now assailed him: still it was long before he fell asleep, and then only to dream without quite losing consciousness of his peculiar surroundings. he seemed to know that he lay in his own bed, and yet to be somehow aware of the presence of a pale woman in a white garment, who sat on the side of the bed in the next room, still and silent, with her hands in her lap, and her eyes on the ground. he thought he had seen her before, and knew, notwithstanding her silence, that she was lamenting over a child she had lost. he knew also where her child was,--that it lay crying in a cave down by the seashore; but he could neither rise to go to her, nor open his mouth to call. the vision kept coming and coming, like the same tune played over and over on a barrel organ, and when he woke seemed to fill all the time he had slept. about ten o'clock he was summoned to the marquis's presence, and found him at breakfast with lady florimel. "where did you sleep last night?" asked the marquis. "neist door to the auld warlock," answered malcolm. lady florimel looked up with a glance of bright interest: her father had just been telling her the story. "you did!" said the marquis. "then mrs courthope--did she tell you the legend about him?" "ay did she, my lord." "well, how did you sleep?" "middlin' only." "how was that?" "i dinna ken, 'cep it was 'at i was fule eneuch to fin' the place gey eerie like." "aha!" said the marquis. "you've had enough of it! you won't try it again!" "what 's that ye say, my lord?" rejoined malcolm. "wad ye hae a man turn 's back at the first fleg? na, na, my lord; that wad never du!" "oh! then, you did have a fright?" "na, i canna say that aither. naething waur cam near me nor a dream 'at plaguit me--an' it wasna sic an ill ane efter a'." "what was it?" "i thocht there was a bonny leddy sittin' o' the bed i' the neist room, in her nichtgoon like, an' she was greitin' sair in her heirt, though she never loot a tear fa' doon. she was greitin' about a bairnie she had lost, an' i kent weel whaur the bairnie was-- doon in a cave upo' the shore, i thoucht--an' was jist yirnin' to gang till her an' tell her, an' stop the greitin' o' her hert, but i cudna muv han' nor fit, naither cud i open my mou' to cry till her. an' i gaed dreamin' on at the same thing ower an' ower, a' the time i was asleep. but there was naething sae frichtsome aboot that, my lord." "no, indeed," said his lordship. "only it garred me greit tu, my lord, 'cause i cudna win at her to help her." his lordship laughed, but oddly, and changed the subject. "there's no word of that boat yet," he said. "i must write again." "may i show malcolm the library, papa?" asked lady florimel. "i wad fain see the buiks," adjected malcolm. "you don't know what a scholar he is, papa!" "little eneuch o' that!" said malcolm. "oh yes! i do," said the marquis, answering his daughter. "but he must keep the skipper from my books and the scholar from my boat." "ye mean a scholar wha wad skip yer buiks, my lord! haith! sic wad be a skipper wha wad ill scull yer boat!" said malcolm, with a laugh at the poor attempt. "bravo!" said the marquis, who certainly was not over critical. "can you write a good hand?" "no ill, my lord." "so much the better! i see you'll be worth your wages." "that depen's on the wages," returned malcolm. "and that reminds me you 've said nothing about them yet." "naither has yer lordship." "well, what are they to be?" "whatever ye think proper, my lord. only dinna gar me gang to maister crathie for them." the marquis had sent away the man who was waiting when malcolm entered, and during this conversation malcolm had of his own accord been doing his best to supply his place. the meal ended, lady florimel desired him to wait a moment in the hall. "he 's so amusing, papa!" she said. "i want to see him stare at the books. he thinks the schoolmaster's hundred volumes a grand library! he 's such a goose! it's the greatest fun in the world watching him." "no such goose!" said the marquis; but he recognized himself in his child, and laughed. florimel ran off merrily, as bent on a joke, and joined malcolm. "now, going to show you the library," she said. "thank ye, my leddy; that will be gran'!" replied malcolm. he followed her up two staircases, and through more than one long narrow passage: all the ducts of the house were long and narrow, causing him a sense of imprisonment--vanishing ever into freedom at the opening of some door into a great room. but never had be had a dream of such a room as that at which they now arrived. he started with a sort of marvelling dismay when she threw open the door of the library, and he beheld ten thousand volumes at a glance, all in solemn stillness. it was like a sepulchre of kings. but his astonishment took a strange form of expression, the thought in which was beyond the reach of his mistress. "eh, my leddy!" he cried, after staring for a while in breathless bewilderment, "it 's jist like a byke o' frozen bees! eh! gien they war a' to come to life an' stick their stangs o' trowth intill a body, the waukin' up wad be awfu'!--it jist gars my heid gang roon'!" he added, after a pause. "it is a fine thing," said the girl, "to have such a library." "'deed is 't, my leddy! it's ane o' the preevileeges o' rank," said malcolm. "it taks a faimily that hauds on throu' centeries in a hoose whaur things gether, to mak sic an unaccoontable getherin' o' buiks as that. it's a gran' sicht--worth livin' to see." "suppose you were to be a rich man some day," said florimel, in the condescending tone she generally adopted when addressing him, "it would be one of the first things you would set about--wouldn't it--to get such a library together?" "na, my leddy; i wad hae mair wut. a leebrary canna be made a' at ance, ony mair nor a hoose, or a nation, or a muckle tree: they maun a' tak time to grow, an' sae maun a leebrary. i wadna even ken what buiks to gang an' speir for. i daursay, gien i war to try, i cudna at a moment's notice tell ye the names o' mair nor a twa score o' buiks at the ootside. fowk maun mak acquantance amo' buiks as they wad amo' leevin' fowk." "but you could get somebody who knew more about them than yourself to buy for you." "i wad as sune think o' gettin' somebody to ate my denner for me." "no, that's not fair," said florimel. "it would only be like getting somebody who knew more of cookery than yourself, to order your dinner for you." "ye're richt, my leddy; but still i wad as sune think o' the tane 's the tither. what wad come o' the like o' me, div ye think, broucht up upo' meal brose, an' herrin', gien ye was to set me doon to sic a denner as my lord, yer father, wad ait ilka day, an' think naething o'? but gien some fowk hed the buyin' o' my buiks, thinkin' the first thing i wad hae to du, wad be to fling the half o' them into the burn." "what good would that do?" "clear awa' the rubbitch. ye see, my leddy, it 's no buiks, but what buiks. eh! there maun be mony ane o' the richt sort here, though. i wonner gien mr graham ever saw them. he wad surely hae made mention o them i' my hearin'!" "what would be the first thing you would do, then, malcolm, if you happened to turn out a great man after all?" said florimel, seating herself in a huge library chair, whence, having arranged her skirt, she looked up in the young fisherman's face. "i doobt i wad hae to sit doon, an' turn ower the change a feow times afore i kent aither mysel' or what wad become me," he said. "that's not answering my question," retorted florimel. "weel, the second thing i wad du," said malcolm, thoughtfully, and pausing a moment, "wad be to get mr graham to gang wi' me to ebberdeen, an' cairry me throu' the classes there. of coorse, i wadna try for prizes; that wadna be fair to them 'at cudna affoord a tutor at their lodgin's." "but it 's the first thing you would do that i want to know," persisted the girl. "i tell't ye i wad sit doon an' think aboot it." "i don't count that doing anything." "'deed, my leddy! thinkin 's the hardest wark i ken." "well, what is it you would think about first?" said florimel-- not to be diverted from her course. "ow, the third thing i wad du--" "i want to know the first thing you would think about." "i canna say yet what the third thing wad be. fower year at the college wad gie me time to reflec upon a hantle o' things." "i insist on knowing the first thing you would think about doing," cried florimel, with mock imperiousness, but real tyranny. "weel, my leddy, gien ye wull hae 't--but hoo great a man wad ye be makin' o' me?" "oh!--let me see;--yes--yes--the heir to an earldom.-- that's liberal enough--is it not?" "that's as muckle as say i wad come to be a yerl some day, sae be i didna dee upo' the ro'd?" "yes--that's what it means." "an' a yerl's neist door till a markis--isna he?" "yes--he's in the next lower rank." "lower?--ay!--no that muckle, maybe?" "no," said lady florimel consequentially; "the difference is not so great as to prevent their meeting on a level of courtesy." "i dinna freely ken what that means; but gien 't be yer leddyship's wull to mak a yerl o' me, no to raise ony objections." he uttered it definitively, and stood silent. "well?" said the girl. "what's yer wull, my leddy?" returned malcolm, as if roused from a reverie. "where's your answer?" "i said i wad be a yerl to please yer leddyship.--i wad be a flunky for the same rizzon, gien 't was to wait upo' yersel' an' nae ither." "i ask you," said florimel, more imperiously than ever, "what is the first thing you would do, if you found yourself no longer a fisherman, but the son of an earl?" "but it maun be that i was a fisherman--to the en' o' a' creation, my leddy." "you refuse to answer my question?" "by no means, my leddy, gien ye wull hae an answer." "i will have an answer." "gien ye wull hae 't than--but--" "no buts, but an answer!" "weel--it 's yer am wyte, my leddy!--i wad jist gang doon upo' my k-nees, whaur i stude afore ye, and tell ye a heap o' things 'at maybe by that time ye wad ken weel eneuch a'ready ." "what would you tell me?" "i wad tell ye 'at yer een war like the verra leme o' the levin (brightness of the lightning) itsel'; yer cheek like a white rose the licht frae a reid ane; yer hair jist the saft lattin' gang o' his han's whan the maker cud du nae mair; yer mou' jist fashioned to drive fowk daft 'at daurna come nearer nor luik at it; an' for yer shape, it was like naething in natur' but itsel'.--ye wad hae't my leddy!" he added apologetically--and well he might, for lady florimel's cheek had flushed, and her eye had been darting fire long before he got to the end of his celtic outpouring. whether she was really angry or not, she had no difficulty in making malcolm believe she was. she rose from her chair--though not until he had ended--swept halfway to the door, then turned upon him with a flash. "how dare you?" she said, her breed well obeying the call of the game. " verra sorry, my leddy," faltered malcolm, trying to steady himself against a strange trembling that had laid hold upon him, "--but ye maun alloo it was a' yer ain wyte." "do you dare to say encouraged you to talk such stuff to me?" "ye did gar me, my leddy." florimel turned and undulated from the room, leaving the poor fellow like a statue in the middle of it, with the books all turning their backs upon him. "noo," he said to himself, "she's aff to tell her father, and there'll be a bonny bane to pyke atween him an' me! but haith! i'll jist tell him the trowth o' 't, an' syne he can mak a kirk an' a mill o' 't, gien he likes." with this resolution he stood his ground, every moment expecting the wrathful father to make his appearance and at the least order him out of the house. but minute passed after minute, and no wrathful father came. he grew calmer by degrees, and at length began to peep at the titles of the books. when the great bell rang for lunch, he was embalmed rather than buried in one of milton's prose volumes--standing before the shelf on which he had found it--the very incarnation of study. my reader may well judge that malcolm could not have been very far gone in love, seeing he was thus able to read, remark in return that it was not merely the distance between him and lady florimel that had hitherto preserved his being from absorption and his will from annihilation, but also the strength of his common sense, and the force of his individuality. chapter xxxiv: milton, and the bay mare for some days malcolm saw nothing more of lady florimel; but with his grandfather's new dwelling to see to, the carpenter's shop and the blacksmith's forge open to him, and an eye to detect whatever wanted setting right, the hours did not hang heavy on his hands. at length, whether it was that she thought she had punished him sufficiently for an offence for which she was herself only to blame, or that she had indeed never been offended at all and had only been keeping up her one sided game, she began again to indulge the interest she could not help feeling in him, an interest heightened by the mystery which hung over his birth, and by the fact that she knew that concerning him of which he was himself ignorant. at the same time, as i have already said, she had no little need of an escape from the ennui which, now that the novelty of a country life had worn off did more than occasionally threaten her. she began again to seek his company under the guise of his help, half requesting, half commanding his services; and malcolm found himself admitted afresh to the heaven of her favour. young as he was, he read himself a lesson suitable to the occasion. one afternoon the marquis sent for him to the library, but when he reached it his master was not yet there. he took down the volume of milton in which he had been reading before, and was soon absorbed in it again. "faith! it 's a big shame," he cried at length almost unconsciously, and closed the book with a slam. "what is a big shame?" said the voice of the marquis close behind him. malcolm started, and almost dropped the volume. "i beg yer lordship's pardon," he said; "i didna hear ye come in. "what is the book you were reading?" asked the marquis. "i was jist readin' a bit o' milton's eikonoklastes," answered malcolm, "--a buik i hae hard tell o', but never saw wi' my ain een afore." "and what's your quarrel with it?" asked his lordship. "i canna mak oot what sud set a great man like milton sae sair agane a puir cratur like cherles." "read the history, and you'll see." "ow! i ken something aboot the politics o' the time, an' no sayin' they war that wrang to tak the heid frae him, but what for sud milton hate the man efter the king was deid?" "because he didn't think the king dead enough, i suppose." "i see!--an' they war settin' him up for a saint. still he had a richt to fair play.--jist hearken, my lord." so saying, malcolm reopened the volume, and read the well known passage, in the first chapter, in which milton censures the king as guilty of utter irreverence, because of his adoption of the prayer of pamela in the arcadia. "noo, my lord," he said, half closing the book, "what wad ye expec' to come upo', efter sic a denunciation as that, but some awfu' haithenish thing? weel, jist hearken again, for here's the verra prayer itsel' in a futnote." his lordship had thrown himself into a chair, had crossed one leg over the other, and was now stroking its knee. "noo, my lord," said malcolm again, as he concluded, "what think ye o' the jeedgment passed?" "really i have no opinion to give about it," answered the marquis. " no theologian. i see no harm in the prayer." "hairm in 't, my lord! it's perfetly gran'! it's sic a prayer as cudna weel be aiqualt. it vexes me to the verra hert o' my sowl that a michty man like milton--ane whase bein' was a crood o' hermonies --sud ca' that the prayer o' a haithen wuman till a haithen god. 'o all seein' licht, an' eternal life o' a' things!'--ca's he that a haithen god?--or her 'at prayed sic a prayer a haithen wuman?" "well, well," said the marquis, "i do n't want it all over again. i see nothing to find fault with, myself, but i do n't take much interest in that sort of thing." "there's a wee bitty o' laitin, here i' the note, 'at i canna freely mak oot," said malcolm, approaching lord lossie with his finger on the passage, never doubting that the owner of such a library must be able to read latin perfectly: mr graham would have put him right at once, and his books would have been lost in one of the window corners of this huge place. but his lordship waved him back. "i can't be your tutor," he said, not unkindly. "my latin is far too rusty for use." the fact was that his lordship had never got beyond maturin cordier's colloquies. "besides," he went on, "i want you to do something for me." malcolm instantly replaced the book on its shelf, and approached his master, saying-- "wull yer lordship lat me read whiles, i' this gran' place? i mean whan no wantit ither gaits, an' there's naebody here." "to be sure," answered the marquis; "--only the scholar must n't come with the skipper's hands." "i s' tak guid care o' that, my lord. i wad as sune think o' han'lin' a book wi' wark-like han's as i wad o' branderin' a mackeral ohn cleaned it oot." "and when we have visitors, you'll be careful not to get in their way." "i wull that, my lord." "and now," said his lordship rising, "i want you to take a letter to mrs stewart of kirkbyres.--can you ride?" "i can ride the bare back weel eneuch for a fisher loon," said malcolm; "but i never was upon a saiddle i' my life." "the sooner you get used to one the better. go and tell stoat to saddle the bay mare. wait in the yard: i will bring the letter out to you myself." "verra weel, my lord!" said malcolm. he knew, from sundry remarks he had heard about the stables, that the mare in question was a ticklish one to ride, but would rather have his neck broken than object. hardly was she ready, when the marquis appeared, accompanied by lady florimel--both expecting to enjoy a laugh at malcolm's expense. but when the mare was brought out, and he was going to mount her where she stood, something seemed to wake in the marquis's heart, or conscience, or wherever the pigmy duty slept that occupied the all but sinecure of his moral economy: he looked at malcolm for a moment, then at the ears of the mare hugging her neck, and last at the stones of the paved yard. "lead her on to the turf, stoat," he said. the groom obeyed, all followed, and malcolm mounted. the same instant he lay on his back on the grass, amidst a general laugh, loud on the part of marquis and lady, and subdued on that of the servants. but the next he was on his feet, and, the groom still holding the mare, in the saddle again: a little anger is a fine spur for the side of even an honest intent. this time he sat for half a minute, and then found himself once more on the grass. it was but once more: his mother earth had claimed him again only to complete his strength. a third time he mounted--and sat. as soon as she perceived it would be hard work to unseat him, the mare was quiet. "bravo!" cried the marquis, giving him the letter. "will there be an answer, my lord?" "wait and see." "i s' gar you pey for't, gien we come upon a broon rig atween this an' kirkbyres," said malcolm, addressing the mare, and rode away. both the marquis and lady florimel, whose laughter had altogether ceased in the interest of watching the struggle, stood looking after him with a pleased expression, which, as he vanished up the glen, changed to a mutual glance and smile. "he's got good blood in him, however he came by it," said the marquis. "the country is more indebted to its nobility than is generally understood." otherwise indebted at least than lady florimel could gather from her father's remark! chapter xxxv: kirkbyres malcolm felt considerably refreshed after his tussle with the mare and his victory over her, and much enjoyed his ride of ten miles. it was a cool autumn afternoon. a few of the fields were being reaped, one or two were crowded with stooks, while many crops of oats yet waved and rustled in various stages of vanishing green. on all sides kine were lowing; overhead rooks were cawing; the sun was nearing the west, and in the hollows a thin mist came steaming up. malcolm had never in his life been so far from the coast before: his road led southwards into the heart of the country. the father of the late proprietor of kirkbyres had married the heiress of gersefell, an estate which marched with his own, and was double its size, whence the lairdship was sometimes spoken of by the one name, sometimes by the other. the combined properties thus inherited by the late mr stewart were of sufficient extent to justify him, although a plain man, in becoming a suitor for the hand of the beautiful daughter of a needy baronet in the neighbourhood --with the already somewhat tarnished condition of whose reputation, having come into little contact with the world in which she moved, he was unacquainted. quite unexpectedly she also, some years after their marriage, brought him a property of considerable extent, a fact which doubtless had its share in the birth and nourishment of her consuming desire to get the estates into her own management. towards the end of his journey, malcolm came upon a bare moorland waste, on the long ascent of a low hill,--very desolate, with not a tree or house within sight for two miles. a ditch, half full of dark water, bordered each side of the road, which went straight as a rod through a black peat moss lying cheerless and dreary on all sides--hardly less so where the sun gleamed from the surface of some stagnant pool filling a hole whence peats had been dug, or where a patch of cotton grass waved white and lonely in the midst of the waste expanse. at length, when he reached the top of the ridge, he saw the house of kirkbyres below him; and, with a small modern lodge near by, a wooden gate showed the entrance to its grounds. between the gate and the house he passed through a young plantation of larches and other firs for a quarter of a mile, and so came to an old wall with an iron gate in the middle of it, within which the old house, a gaunt meagre building--a bare house in fact, relieved only by four small turrets or bartizans, one at each corner--lifted its grey walls, pointed gables, and steep roof high into the pale blue air. he rode round the outer wall, seeking a back entrance, and arrived at a farm yard, where a boy took his horse. finding the kitchen door open, he entered, and having delivered his letter to a servant girl, sat down to wait the possible answer. in a few minutes she returned and requested him to follow her. this was more than he had calculated upon, but he obeyed at once. the girl led him along a dark passage, and up a winding stone stair, much worn, to a room richly furnished, and older fashioned, he thought, than any room he had yet seen in lossie house. on a settee, with her back to a window, sat mrs stewart, a lady tall and slender, with well poised, easy carriage, and a motion that might have suggested the lithe grace of a leopard. she greeted him with a bend of the head and a smile, which, even in the twilight and her own shadow, showed a gleam of ivory, and spoke to him in a hard sweet voice, wherein an ear more experienced than malcolm's might have detected an accustomed intent to please. although he knew nothing of the so called world, and hence could recognize neither the parisian air of her dress nor the indications of familiarity with fashionable life prominent enough in her bearing, he yet could not fail to be at least aware of the contrast between her appearance and her surroundings. yet less could the far stronger contrast escape him, between the picture in his own mind of the mother of the mad laird, and the woman before him; he could not by any effort cause the two to coalesce. "you have had a long ride, mr macphail," she said; "you must be tired." "what wad tire me, mem?" returned malcolm. "it's a fine caller evenin', an' i hed ane o' the marquis's best mears to carry me." "you'll take a glass of wine, anyhow," said mrs stewart. "will you oblige me by ringing the bell?" "no, i thank ye, mem. the mear wad be better o' a mou'fu' o' meal an' watter, but i want naething mysel'." a shadow passed over the lady's face. she rose and rang the bell, then sat in silence until it was answered. "bring the wine and cake," she said, then turned to malcolm. "your master speaks very kindly of you. he seems to trust you thoroughly." " verra glaid to hear 't, mem; but he has never had muckle cause to trust or distrust me yet." "he seems even to think that i might place equal confidence in you." "i dinna ken. i wadna hae ye lippen to me owre muckle," said malcolm. "you do not mean to contradict the good character your master gives you?" said the lady, with a smile and a look right into his eyes. "i wadna hae ye lippen till me afore ye had my word," said malcolm. "i may use my own judgment about that," she replied, with another winning smile. "but oblige me by taking a glass of wine." she rose and approached the decanters. "'deed no, mem no used till 't, an' it micht jummle my jeedgement," said malcolm, who had placed himself on the defensive from the first, jealous of his own conduct as being the friend of the laird. at his second refusal the cloud again crossed the lady's brow, but her smile did not vanish. pressing her hospitality no more, she resumed her seat. "my lord tells me," she said, folding a pair of lovely hands on her lap, "that you see my poor unhappy boy sometimes." "no sae dooms (absolutely) unhappy, mem!" said malcolm; but she went on without heeding the remark. "and that you rescued him not long ago from the hands of ruffians." malcolm made no reply. "everybody knows," she continued, after a slight pause, "what an unhappy mother i am. it is many years since i lost the loveliest infant ever seen, while my poor stephen was left to be the mockery of every urchin in the street!" she sighed deeply, and one of the fair hands took a hand kerchief from a work table near. "no in portlossie, mem," said malcolm. "there's verra feow o' them so hard hertit or so ill mainnert. they're used to seein' him at the schuil, whaur he shaws himsel' whiles; an' he 's a great favourite wi' them, for he's ane o' the best craturs livin'." "a poor, witless, unmanageable being! he's a dreadful grief to me," said the widowed mother, with a deep sigh. "a bairn could manage him," said malcolm in strong contradiction. "oh, if i could but convince him of my love! but he won't give me a chance. he has an unaccountable dread of me, which makes him as well as me wretched. it is a delusion which no argument can overcome, and seems indeed an essential part of his sad affliction. the more care and kindness he needs, the less will he accept at my hands. i long to devote my life to him, and he will not allow me. i should be but too happy to nurse him day and night. ah, mr macphail, you little know a mother's heart! even if my beautiful boy had not been taken from me, stephen would still have been my idol, idiot as he is--and will be as long as he lives. and--" "he 's nae idiot, mem," interposed malcolm. "and just imagine," she went on, "what a misery it must be to a widowed mother, poor companion as he would be at the best, to think of her boy roaming the country like a beggar! sleeping she doesn't know where! eating wretched food! and--" "guid parritch an' milk, an' brose an' butter," said malcolm parenthetically; "--whiles herrin' an' yallow haddies." "it's enough to break a mother's heart! if i could but persuade him to come home for a week so as to have a chance with him! but it 's no use trying: ill disposed people have made mischief between us, telling wicked lies, and terrifying the poor fellow almost to death. it is quite impossible except i get some one to help me-- and there are so few who have any influence with him!" malcolm thought she must surely have had chances enough before he ran away from her; but he could not help feeling softened towards her. "supposin' i was to get ye speech o' 'im, mem?" he said. "that would not be of the slightest use. he is so prejudiced against me, he would only shriek, and go into one of those horrible fits." "i dinna see what's to be dune than," said malcolm. "i must have him brought here--there is no other way." "an' whaur wad be the guid o' that, mem? by yer ain shawin', he wad rin oot o' 's verra body to win awa' frae ye." "i did not mean by force," returned mrs stewart. "some one he has confidence in must come with him. nothing else will give me a chance. he would trust you now; your presence would keep him from being terrified--at his own mother, alas! through you he would learn to trust me; and if a course of absolute indulgence did not bring him to live like other people--that of course is impossible --it might at least induce him to live at home, and cease to be a byword to the neighbourhood." her tone was so refined, and her voice so pleading; her sorrow was so gentle; and she looked, in the dimness, to malcolm's imagination at least, so young and handsome, that the strong castle of his prejudices was swaying as if built on reeds; and had it not been that he was already the partizan of her son, and therefore in honour bound to give him the benefit of every doubt, he would certainly have been gained over to work her will. he knew absolutely nothing against her--not even that she was the person he had seen in mrs catanach's company in the garret of lossie house. but he steeled himself to distrust her, and held his peace. "it is clear," she resumed after a pause, "that the intervention of some friend of both is the only thing that can be of the smallest use. i know you are a friend of his--a true one, and i do not see why you should not be a friend of mine as well--will you be my friend too?" she rose as she said the words, and approaching him, bent on him out of the shadow the full strength of eyes whose light had not yet begun to pale before the dawn we call death, and held out a white hand glimmering in the dusk: she knew only too well the power of a still fine woman of any age over a youth of twenty. malcolm, knowing nothing about it, yet felt hers, and was on his guard. he rose also, but did not take her hand. "i have had only too much reason," she added, "to distrust some who, unlike you, professed themselves eager to serve me; but i know neither lord lossie nor you will play me false." she took his great rough hand between her two soft palms, and for one moment malcolm was tempted--not to betray his friend, but to simulate a yielding sympathy, in order to come at the heart of her intent, and should it prove false, to foil it the more easily. but the honest nature of him shrunk from deception, even where the object of it was good: he was not at liberty to use falsehood for the discomfiture of the false even; a pretended friendship was of the vilest of despicable things, and the more holy the end, the less fit to be used for the compassing of it--least of all in the cause of a true friendship. "i canna help ye, mem," he said; "i daurna. i hae sic a regaird for yer son 'at afore i wad du onything to hairm him, i wad hae my twa han's chappit frae the shackle bane." "surely, my dear mr macphail," returned the lady in her most persuasive tones, and with her sweetest smile, "you cannot call it harming a poor idiot to restore him to the care of his own mother!" "that's as it turnt oot," rejoined malcolm. "but sure o' ae thing, mem, an' that is, 'at he's no sae muckle o' an eediot as some fowk wad hae him." mrs stewart's face fell, she turned from him, and going back to her seat hid her face in her handkerchief. " afraid," she said sadly, after a moment, "i must give up my last hope: you are not disposed to be friendly to me, mr macphail; you too have been believing hard things of me." "that's true; but no frae hearsay alane," returned malcolm. "the luik o' the puir fallow whan he but hears the chance word mither, 's a sicht no to be forgotten. he grips his lugs atween 's twa han's, an' rins like a colley wi' a pan at 's tail. that couldna come o' naething." mrs stewart hid her face on the cushioned arm of the settee, and sobbed. a moment after she sat erect again, but languid and red eyed, saying, as if with sudden resolve: "i will tell you all i know about it, and then you can judge for yourself. when he was a very small child, i took him for advice to the best physicians in london and paris: all advised a certain operation which had to be performed for consecutive months, at intervals of a few days. though painful it was simple, yet of such a nature that no one was so fit to attend to it as his mother. alas! instead of doing him any good, it has done me the worst injury in the world: my child hates me!" again she hid her face on the settee. the explanation was plausible enough, and the grief of the mother surely apparent! malcolm could not but be touched. "it's no 'at no willin' to be your freen', mem; but yer son's freen' a'ready, an' gien he war to hear onything 'at gart him mislippen till me, it wad gang to my hert." "then you can judge what i feel!" said the lady. "gien it wad hale your hert to hurt mine, i wad think aboot it, mem; but gien it hurtit a' three o' 's, and did guid to nane, it wad be a misfit a'thegither. i'll du naething till doonricht sure it 's the pairt o' a freen'." "that's just what makes you the only fit person to help me that i know. if i were to employ people in the affair, they might be rough with the poor fellow." "like eneuch, mem," assented malcolm, while the words put him afresh on his guard. "but i might be driven to it," she added. malcolm responded with an unuttered vow. "it might become necessary to use force--whereas you could lead him with a word." "na; naither sic witch nor sic traitor." "where would be the treachery when you knew it would be for his good?" "that's jist what i dinna ken, mem," retorted malcolm. "luik ye here, mem," he continued, rousing himself to venture an appeal to the mother's heart; "--here's a man it has pleased god to mak no freely like ither fowk. his min' though cawpable a hantle mair nor a body wad think 'at didna ken him sae weel as i du, is certainly weyk--though maybe the weykness lies mair i' the tongue than i' the brain o' 'im efter a'--an' he's been sair frichtit wi' some guideship or ither; the upshot o 't a' bein', 'at he's unco timoursome, and ready to bursten himsel' rinnin' whan there's nane pursuin'. but he's the gentlest o' craturs--a doonricht gentleman, mem, gien ever there was ane--an' that kin'ly wi' a' cratur, baith man an' beast! a verra bairn cud guide him--ony gait but ane." "anywhere but to his mother!" exclaimed mrs stewart, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, and sobbed as she spoke. "there is a child he is very fond of, i am told," she added, recovering herself. "he likes a' bairns," returned malcolm, "an' they're maistly a' freen'ly wi' him. but there's but jist ae thing 'at maks life endurable till 'im. he suffers a hantle (a great deal) wi' that puir back o' his, an' wi' his breath tu whan he's frichtit, for his hert gangs loupin like a sawmon in a bag net. an' he suffers a hantle, forbye, in his puir feeble min tryin' to unnerstan' the guid things 'at fowk tells him, an' jaloosin' it 's his ain wyte 'at he disna unnerstan' them better an' whiles he thinks himsel' the child o' sin and wrath, an' that sawtan has some special propriety in him, as the carritchis says--" "but," interrupted the lady hurriedly, "you were going to tell me the one comfort he has." "it's his leeberty, mem--jist his leeberty; to gang whaur he lists like the win'; to turn his face whaur he wull i' the mornin', an' back again at nicht gien he likes; to wan'er--" "back where?" interrupted the mother, a little too eagerly. "whaur he likes, mem--i cudna say whaur wi' ony certainty. but aih! he likes to hear the sea moanin', an' watch the stars sheenin'! --there's a sicht o' oondevelopit releegion in him, as maister graham says; an' i du not believe 'at the lord 'll see him wranged mair nor 's for 's guid. but it 's my belief, gien ye took the leeberty frae the puir cratur, ye wad kill him." "then you won't help me!" she cried despairingly. "they tell me you are an orphan yourself--and yet you will not take pity on a childless mother!--worse than childless, for i had the loveliest boy once--he would be about your age now, and i have never had any comfort in life since i lost him. give me my son, and i will bless you--love you." as she spoke she rose, and approaching him gently, laid a hand on his shoulder. malcolm trembled, but stood his mental ground. "'deed, mem, i can an' wull promise ye naething!" he said. "are ye to play a man fause 'cause he's less able to tak care o' himsel' than ither fowk? gien i war sure 'at ye cud mak it up, an' 'at he would be happy wi' ye efterhin, it micht be anither thing; but excep' ye garred him, ye cudna get him to bide lang eneuch for ye to try--an' syne (even then) he wad dee afore ye hed convenced him. i doobt, mem, ye hae lost yer chance wi' him and maun du yer best to be content withoot him--i'll promise ye this muckle, gien ye like--i s' tell him what ye hae said upo' the subjec'." "much good that will be!" replied the lady, with ill concealed scorn. "ye think he wadna unnerstan' 't; but he unnerstan's wonnerfu'." "and you would come again, and tell me what he said?' she murmured, with the eager persuasiveness of reviving hope. "maybe ay, maybe no--i winna promise.--hae ye ony answer to sen' back to my lord's letter, mem?" "no; i cannot write; i cannot even think. you have made me so miserable!" malcolm lingered. "go, go;" said the lady dejectedly. "tell your master i am not well. i will write tomorrow. if you hear anything of my poor boy, do take pity upon me and come and tell me." the stiffer partizan malcolm appeared, the more desirable did it seem in mrs stewart's eyes to gain him over to her side. leaving his probable active hostility out of the question, she saw plainly enough that, if he were called on to give testimony as to the laird's capacity, his witness would pull strongly against her plans; while, if the interests of such a youth were wrapped up in them, that fact in itself would prejudice most people in favour of them. chapter xxxvi: the blow "well, malcolm," said his lordship, when the youth reported himself, "how's mrs stewart?" "no ower weel pleased, my lord," answered malcolm. "what!--you have n't been refusing to--?" "deed hev i, my lord!" "tut! tut!--have you brought me any message from her?" he spoke rather angrily. "nane but that she wasna weel, an' wad write the morn." the marquis thought for a few moments. "if i make a personal matter of it, macphail--i mean--you won't refuse me if i ask a personal favour of you?" "i maun ken what it is afore i say onything, my lord." "you may trust me not to require anything you couldn't undertake." "there micht be twa opinions, my lord." "you young boor! what is the world coming to? by jove!" "as far 's i can gang wi' a clean conscience, i'll gang,--no ae step ayont," said malcolm. "you mean to say your judgment is a safer guide than mine?" "no, my lord; i micht weel follow yer lordship's jeedgment, but gien there be a conscience i' the affair, it 's my ain conscience bun' to follow, an' no yer lordship's, or ony ither man's. suppose the thing 'at seemed richt to yer lordship, seemed wrang to me, what wad ye hae me du than?" "do as i told you, and lay the blame on me." "na, my lord, that winna haud: i bude to du what i thoucht richt, an' lay the blame upo' naebody, whatever cam o' 't." "you young hypocrite! why did n't you tell me you meant to set up for a saint before i took you into my service?" "'cause i had nae sic intention, my lord. surely a body micht ken himsel' nae sant, an' yet like to haud his han's clean!" "what did mrs stewart tell you she wanted of you?" asked the marquis almost fiercely, after a moment's silence. "she wantit me to get the puir laird to gang back till her; but i sair misdoobt, for a' her fine words, it 's a closed door, gien it bena a lid, she wad hae upon him; an' i wad suner be hangt nor hae a thoom i' that haggis." "why should you doubt what a lady tells you?" "i wadna be ower ready, but i hae hard things, ye see, an' bude to be upo' my gaird." "well, i suppose, as you are a personal friend of the idiot--" his lordship had thought to sting him, and paused for a moment; but malcolm's manner revealed nothing except waiting watchfulness. "--i must employ some one else to get a hold of the fellow for her," he concluded. "ye winna du that, my lord," cried malcolm, in a tone of entreaty; but his master chose to misunderstand him. "who's to prevent me, i should like to know?" he said. malcolm accepted the misinterpretation involved, and answered-- but calmly: "me, my lord. i wull. at ony rate, i s' du my best." "upon my word!" exclaimed lord lossie, "you presume sufficiently on my good nature, young man!" "hear me ae moment, my lord," returned malcolm. "i've been turnin' 't ower i' my min', an' i see, plain as the daylicht, that bun', bein' yer lordship's servan' an' trustit by yer lordship, to say that to yersel' the whilk i was nowise bun' to say to mistress stewart. sae, at the risk o' angerin' ye, i maun tell yer lordship, wi' a' respec', 'at gien i can help it, there sall no han', gentle or semple, be laid upo' the laird against his ain wull." the marquis was getting tired of the contest. he was angry too, and none the less that he felt malcolm was in the right. "go to the devil you booby!" he said--even more in impatience than in wrath. " thinkin' i needna budge," retorted malcolm, angry also. "what do you mean by that insolence?" "i mean, my lord, that to gang will be to gang frae him. he canna be far frae yer lordship's lug this meenute." all the marquis's gathered annoyance broke out at last in rage. he started from his chair, made three strides to malcolm, and struck him in the face. malcolm staggered back till he was brought up by the door. "hoot, my lord!" he exclaimed, as he sought his blue cotton handkerchief, "ye sudna hae dune that: ye'll blaud the carpet!" "you precious idiot!" cried his lordship, already repenting the deed; "why did n't you defend yourself?" "the quarrel was my ain, an' i cud du as i likit, my lord." "and why should you like to take a blow? not to lift a hand, even to defend yourself!" said the marquis, vexed both with malcolm and with himself. "because i saw i was i' the wrang, my. lord. the quarrel was o' my ain makin': i hed no richt to lowse my temper an' be impident. sae i didna daur defen' mysel'. an' i beg yer lordship's pardon. but dinna ye du me the wrang to imaigine, my lord, 'cause i took a flewet (blow) in guid pairt whan i kent mysel' i' the wrang, 'at that's hoo i wad cairry mysel' gien 'twas for the puir laird. faith! i s' gar ony man ken a differ there!" "go along with you--and do n't show yourself till you 're fit to be seen. i hope it 'll be a lesson to you." "it wull, my lord," said malcolm. "but," he added, "there was nae occasion to gie me sic a dirdum: a word wad hae pitten me mair i' the wrang." so saying, he left the room, with his handkerchief to his face. the marquis was really sorry for the blow, chiefly because malcolm, without a shadow of pusillanimity, had taken it so quietly. malcolm would, however, have had very much more the worse of it had he defended himself, for his master had been a bruiser in his youth, and neither his left hand nor his right arm had yet forgot their cunning so far as to leave him less than a heavy overmatch for one unskilled, whatever his strength or agility. for some time after he was gone, the marquis paced up and down the room, feeling strangely and unaccountably uncomfortable. "the great lout!" he kept saying to himself; "why did he let me strike him?" malcolm went to his grandfather's cottage. in passing the window, he peeped in. the old man was sitting with his bagpipes on his knees, looking troubled. when he entered, he held out his arms to him. "tere 'll pe something cone wrong with you, malcolm, my son!" he cried. "you'll pe hafing a hurt! she knows it. she has it within her, though she couldn't chust see it. where is it?" as he spoke he proceeded to feel his head and face. "god pless her sowl! you are plooding, malcolm!" he cried the same moment. "it's naething to greit aboot, daddy. it's hardly mair nor the flype o' a sawmon's tail." "put who 'll pe tone it?" asked duncan angrily. "ow, the maister gae me a bit flewet!" answered malcolm with indifference. "where is he?" cried the piper, rising in wrath. "take her to him, malcolm. she will stap him. she will pe killing him. she will trife her turk into his wicked pody." "na, na, daddy," said malcolm; "we hae hed eneuch o' durks a'ready!" "tat you haf tone it yourself, ten, malcolm? my prave poy!" "no, daddy; i took my licks like a man, for i deserved them." "deserfed to pe peaten, malcolm--to pe peaten like a tog? ton't tell her tat! ton't preak her heart, my poy." "it wasna that muckle, daddy. i only telled him auld horny was at 's lug." "and she'll make no toubt it was true," cried duncan, emerging sudden from his despondency. "ay, sae he was, only i had nae richt to say 't." "put you striked him pack, malcolm? ton't say you tidn't gif him pack his plow. ton't tell it to her, malcolm!" "hoo cud i hit my maister, an' mysel' i' the wrang, daddy?" "then she'll must to it herself," said duncan quietly, and, with the lips compressed of calm decision, turned towards the door, to get his dirk from the next room. "bide ye still, daddy," said malcolm, laying hold of his arm, "an' sit ye doon till ye hear a' aboot it first." duncan yielded, for the sake of better instruction in the circumstances; over the whole of which malcolm now went. but before he came to a close, he had skilfully introduced and enlarged upon the sorrows and sufferings and dangers of the laird, so as to lead the old man away from the quarrel, dwelling especially on the necessity of protecting mr stewart from the machinations of his mother. duncan listened to all he said with marked sympathy. "an' gien the markis daur to cross me in 't," said malcolm at last, as he ended, "lat him leuk till himsel', for it 's no at a buffet or twa i wad stick, gien the puir laird was intill 't." this assurance, indicative of a full courageous intent on the part of his grandson, for whose manliness he was jealous, greatly served to quiet duncan; and he consented at last to postpone all quittance, in the hope of malcolm's having the opportunity of a righteous quarrel for proving himself no coward. his wrath gradually died away, until at last he begged his boy to take his pipes, that he might give him a lesson. malcolm made the attempt, but found it impossible to fill the bag with his swollen and cut lips, and had to beg his grandfather to play to him instead. he gladly consented, and played until bedtime; when, having tucked him up, malcolm went quietly to his own room, avoiding supper and the eyes of mrs courthope together. he fell asleep in a moment, and spent a night of perfect oblivion, dreamless of wizard lord or witch lady. chapter xxxvii: the cutter some days passed during which malcolm contrived that no one should see him: he stole down to his grandfather's early in the morning, and returned to his own room at night. duncan told the people about that he was not very well, but would be all better in a day or two. it was a time of jubilation to the bard, and he cheered his grandson's retirement with music, and with wild stories of highland lochs and moors, chanted or told. malcolm's face was now much better, though the signs of the blow were still plain enough upon it, when a messenger came one afternoon to summon him to the marquis's presence. "where have you been sulking all this time?" was his master's greeting. "i havena been sulkin', my lord," answered malcolm. "yer lordship tauld me to haud oot o' the gait till i was fit to be seen, an' no a sowl has set an ee upo' me till this verra moment 'at yer lordship has me in yer ain." "where have you been then?" "i' my ain room at nicht, and doon at my gran'father's as lang's fowk was aboot--wi' a bit dauner (stroll) up the burn i' the mirk." "you couldn't encounter the shame of being seen with such a face --eh?" "it micht ha' been thoucht a disgrace to the tane or the tither o' 's, my lord--maybe to baith." "if you don't learn to curb that tongue of yours, it will bring you to worse." "my lord, i confessed my faut, and i pat up wi' the blow. but if it hadna been that i was i' the wrang--weel, things micht hae differt." "hold your tongue, i tell you. you're an honest, good fellow, and sorry i struck you. there!" "i thank yer lordship." "i sent for you because i've just heard from aberdeen that the boat is on her way round. you must be ready to take charge of her the moment she arrives." "i wull be that, my lord. it doesna shuit me at a' to be sae lang upo' the solid: like a cowt upon a toll ro'd." the next morning he got a telescope, and taking with him his dinner of bread and cheese, and a book in his pocket, went up to the temple of the winds, to look out for the boat. every few minutes he swept the offing, but morning and afternoon passed, and she did not appear. the day's monotony was broken only by a call from demon. malcolm looked landwards, and spied his mistress below amongst the trees, but she never looked in his direction. he had just become aware of the first dusky breath of the twilight, when a tiny sloop appeared, rounding the deid heid, as they called the promontory which closed in the bay on the east. the sun was setting, red and large, on the other side of the scaurnose, and filled her white sails with a rosy dye, as she came stealing round in a fair soft wind. the moon hung over her, thin, and pale, and ghostly, with hardly shine enough to show that it was indeed she, and not the forgotten scrap of a torn up cloud. as she passed the point and turned towards the harbour, the warm amethystine hue suddenly vanished from her sails, and she looked white and cold, as if the sight of the death's head had scared the blood out of her. "it's hersel'!" cried malcolm in delight. "aboot the size a muckle herrin' boat, but nae mair like ane than lady florimel 's like meg partan! it 'll be jist gran' to hae a cratur sae near leevin' to guide an' tak yer wull o'! i had nae idea she was gaein' to be onything like sae bonny. i'll no be fit to manage her in a squall though. i maun hae anither han'. an' i winna hae a laddie aither. it maun be a grown man, or i winna tak in han' to baud her abune the watter. i wull no. i s' hae blue peter himsel' gien i can get him. eh! jist luik at her--wi' her bit gaff tappie set, and her jib an a', booin' an' booin', an' comin' on ye as gran' 's ony born leddy!" he shut up his telescope, ran down the hill, unlocked the private door at its foot, and in three or four minutes was waiting her on the harbour wall. she was a little cutter--and a lovely show to eyes capable of the harmonies of shape and motion. she came walking in, as the partan, whom malcolm found on the pierhead, remarked, "like a leddy closin' her parasol as she cam." malcolm jumped on board, and the two men who had brought her round, gave up their charge. she was full decked, with a dainty little cabin. her planks were almost white--there was not a board in her off which one might not, as the partan expanded the common phrase, "ait his parritch, an' never fin' a mote in 's mou'." her cordage was all so clean, her standing rigging so taut, everything so shipshape, that malcolm was in raptures. if the burn had only been navigable so that he might have towed the graceful creature home and laid her up under the very walls of the house! it would have perfected the place in his eyes. he made her snug for the night, and went to report her arrival. great was lady florimel's jubilation. she would have set out on a "coasting voyage," as she called it, the very next day, but her father listened to malcolm. "ye see, my lord," said malcolm, "i maun ken a' aboot her afore i daur tak ye oot in her. an' i canna unnertak' to manage her my lane. ye maun jist gie me anither man wi' me." "get one," said the marquis. early in the morning, therefore, malcolm went to scaurnose, and found blue peter amongst his nets. he could spare a day or two, and would join him. they returned together, got the cutter into the offing, and, with a westerly breeze, tried her every way. she answered her helm with readiness, rose as light as a bird, made a good board, and seemed every way a safe boat. "she's the bonniest craft ever lainched!" said malcolm, ending a description of her behaviour and qualities rather too circumstantial for his master to follow. they were to make their first trip the next morning--eastward, if the wind should hold, landing at a certain ancient ruin on the coast, two or three miles from portlossie. chapter xxxviii: the two dogs lady florimel's fancy was so full of the expected pleasure, that she woke soon after dawn. she rose and anxiously drew aside a curtain of her window. the day was one of god's odes written for men. would that the days of our human autumn were as calmly grand, as gorgeously hopeful as the days that lead the aging year down to the grave of winter! if our white hairs were sunlit from behind like those radiance bordered clouds; if our air were as pure as this when it must be as cold; if the falling at last of longest cherished hopes did but, like that of the forest leaves, let in more of the sky, more of the infinite possibilities of the region of truth which is the matrix of fact; we should go marching down the hill of life like a battered but still bannered army on its way home. but alas! how often we rot, instead of march, towards the grave! "if he be not rotten before he die," said hamlet's absolute grave digger.--if the year was dying around lady florimel, as she looked, like a deathless sun from a window of the skies, it was dying at least with dignity. the sun was still revelling in the gift of himself. a thin blue mist went up to greet him, like the first of the smoke from the altars of the morning. the fields lay yellow below; the rich colours of decay hung heavy on the woods, and seemed to clothe them as with the trappings of a majestic sorrow; but the spider webs sparkled with dew, and the gossamer films floated thick in the level sunbeams. it was a great time for the spiders, those visible deaths of the insect race. the sun, like a householder leaving his house for a time, was burning up a thousand outworn things before he went; hence the smoke of the dying hearth of summer was going up to the heavens; but there was a heart of hope left, for, when farthest away, the sun is never gone, and the snow is the earth's blanket against the frost. but, alas, it was not lady florimel who thought these things! looking over her shoulder, and seeing both what she can and what she cannot see, i am having a think to myself. "which it is an offence to utter in the temple of art!" cry the critics. not against art, i think: but if it be an offence to the worshipper of art, let him keep silence before his goddess; for me, i am a sweeper of the floors in the temple of life, and his goddess is my mare, and shall go in the dust cart; if i find a jewel as i sweep, i will fasten it on the curtains of the doors, nor heed if it should break the fall of a fold of the drapery. below lady florimel's oriel window, under the tall bridge, the burn lay dark in a deep pool, with a slow revolving eddy, in which one leaf, attended by a streak of white froth, was performing solemn gyrations; away to the north the great sea was merry with waves and spotted with their broken crests; heaped against the horizon, it looked like a blue hill dotted all over with feeding sheep; but, today, she never thought why the waters were so busy--to what end they foamed and ran, flashing their laughter in the face of the sun: the mood of nature was in harmony with her own, and she felt no need to discover any higher import in its merriment. how could she, when she sought no higher import in her own--had not as yet once suspected that every human gladness--even to the most transient flicker of delight--is the reflex--from a potsherd it may be--but of an eternal sun of joy?--stay, let me pick up the gem: every faintest glimmer, all that is not utter darkness, is from the shining face of the father of lights.--not a breath stirred the ivy leaves about her window; but out there, on the wide blue, the breezes were frolicking; and in the harbour the new boat must be tugging to get free! she dressed in haste, called her staghound, and set out the nearest way, that is by the town gate, for the harbour. she must make acquaintance with her new plaything. mrs catanach in her nightcap looked from her upper window as she passed, like a great spider from the heart of its web, and nodded significantly after her, with a look and a smile such as might mean, that for all her good looks she might have the heartache some day. but she was to have the first herself, for that moment her ugly dog, now and always with the look of being fresh from an ash pit, rushed from somewhere, and laid hold of lady florimel's dress, frightening her so, that she gave a cry. instantly her own dog, which had been loitering behind, came tearing up, five lengths at a bound, and descended like an angel of vengeance upon the offensive animal, which would have fled, but found it too late. opening his huge jaws, demon took him across the flanks, much larger than his own, as if he had been a rabbit. his howls of agony brought mrs catanach out in her petticoats. she flew at the hound, which lady florimel was in vain attempting to drag from the cur, and seized him by the throat. "take care; he is dangerous!" cried the girl. finding she had no power upon him, mrs catanach forsook him, and, in despairing fury, rushed at his mistress. demon saw it with one flaming eye, left the cur--which, howling hideously, dragged his hind quarters after him into the house--and sprang at the woman. then indeed was lady florimel terrified, for she knew the savage nature of the animal when roused. truly, with his eyes on fire as now, his long fangs bared, the bristles on his back erect, and his moustache sticking straight out, he might well be believed, much as civilization might have done for him, a wolf after all! his mistress threw herself between them, and flung her arms tight round his neck. "run, woman! run for your life!" she shrieked. "i can't hold him long." mrs catanach fled, cowed by terror. her huge legs bore her huge body, a tragicomic spectacle, across the street to her open door. she had hardly vanished, flinging it to behind her, when demon broke from his mistress, and going at the door as if launched from a catapult, burst it open and disappeared also. lady florimel gave a shriek of horror, and darted after him. the same moment the sound of duncan's pipes as he issued from the town gate, at which he always commenced instead of ending his reveille now, reached her, and bethinking herself of her inability to control the hound, she darted again from the cottage, and flew to meet him, crying aloud,--"mr macphail! duncan! duncan! stop your pipes and come here directly." "and who may pe calling me?" asked duncan, who had not thoroughly distinguished the voice through the near clamour of his instrument. she laid her hand trembling with apprehension on his arm, and began pulling him along. "it's me,--lady florimel," she said. "come here directly. demon has got into a house and is worrying a woman." "cod haf mercy!" cried duncan. "take her pipes, my laty, for fear anything paad should happen to tem." she led him hurriedly to the door. but ere he had quite crossed the threshold he shivered and drew back. "tis is an efil house," he said. "she'll not can co in." a great floundering racket was going on above, mingled with growls and shrieks, but there was no howling. "call the dog then. he will mind you, perhaps," she cried--knowing what a slow business an argument with duncan was--and flew to the stair. "temon! temon!" cried duncan, with agitated voice. whether the dog thought his friend was in trouble next, i cannot tell, but down he came that instant, with a single bound from the top of the stair, right over his mistress's head as she was running up, and leaping out to duncan, laid a paw upon each of his shoulders, panting with out lolled tongue. but the piper staggered back, pushing the dog from him. "it is plood!" he cried; "ta efil woman's plood!" "keep him out, duncan dear," said lady florimel. "i will go and see. there! he'll be up again if you don't mind!" very reluctant, yet obedient, the bard laid hold of the growling animal by the collar; and lady florimel was just turning to finish her ascent of the stair and see what dread thing had come to pass, when, to her great joy, she heard malcolm's voice, calling from the farther end of the street--"hey, daddy! what's happened 'at i dinna hear the pipes?" she rushed out, the pipes dangling from her hand, so that the drone trailed on the ground behind her. "malcolm! malcolm!" she cried; and he was by her side in scarcely more time than demon would have taken. hurriedly and rather incoherently, she told him what had taken place. he sprang up the stair, and she followed. in the front garret--with a dormer window looking down into the street--stood mrs catanach facing the door, with such a malignant rage in her countenance that it looked demoniacal. her dog lay at her feet with his throat torn out. as soon as she saw malcolm, she broke into a fury of vulgar imprecation--most of it quite outside the pale of artistic record. "hoots! for shame, mistress catanach!" he cried, "here's my leddy ahin' me, hearin' ilka word!" "deil stap her lugs wi' brunstane! what but a curse wad she hae frae me? i sweir by god i s' gar her pey for this, or my name's no --" she stopped suddenly. "i thocht as muckle," said malcolm with a keen look. "ye'll think twise, ye deil's buckie, or ye think richt! wha are ye to think? what sud my name be but bawby catanach? ye're unco upsettin' sin' ye turned my leddy's flunky! sorrow taik ye baith! my dawtit beauty!--worriet by that hell tyke o' hers!" "gien ye gang on like that, the markis 'll hae ye drummed oot o' the toon or twa days be ower," said malcolm. "wull he than?" she returned with a confident sneer, showing all the teeth she had left. "ye'll be far hen wi' the markis, nae doobt! an' yon donnert auld deevil ye ca' yer gran'father 'ill be fain eneuch to be drummer, i'll sweir. care 's my case!" "my leddy, she's ower ill tongued for you to hearken till," said malcolm, turning to florimel who stood in the door white and trembling. "jist gang doon, an' tell my gran'father to sen' the dog up. there's surely some gait o' garrin' her haud her tongue!" mrs catanach threw a terrified glance towards lady florimel. "indeed i shall do nothing of the kind!" replied florimel. "for shame!" "hoots, my leddy!" returned malcolm; "i only said it to try the effec' o' 't. it seems no that ill." "ye son o' a deevil's soo!" cried the woman; "i s' hae amen's o' ye for this, gien i sud ro'st my ain hert to get it." "'deed, but ye're duin that fine a'ready! that foul brute o' yours has gotten his arles (earnest) tu. i wonner what he thinks o sawmon troot noo!--eh, mem?" "have done, malcolm," said florimel. "i am ashamed of you. if the woman is not hurt, we have no business in her house." "hear till her!" cried mrs catanach contemptuously. "the woman!" but lady florimel took no heed. she had already turned and was going down the stair. malcolm followed in silence; nor did another word from mrs catanach overtake them. arrived in the street, florimel restored his pipes to duncan --who, letting the dog go, at once proceeded to fill the bag-- and, instead of continuing her way to the harbour, turned back, accompanied by malcolm, demon, and lady stronach's strathspey. "what a horrible woman that is!" she said with a shudder. "ay is she; but i doobt she wad be waur gien she didna brak oot that gait whiles," rejoined malcolm. "how do you mean?" "it frichts fowk at her, an' maybe sometimes pits 't oot o' her pooer to du waur. gien ever she seek to mak it up wi' ye, my leddy, i wad hae little to say till her, gien i was you." "what could i have to say to a low creature like that?" "ye wadna ken what she micht be up till, or hoo she micht set aboot it, my leddy. i wad hae ye mistrust her a'thegither. my daddy has a fine moral nose for vermin, an' he canna bide her, though he never had a glimp o' the fause face o' her, an' in trowth never spak till her." "i will tell my father of her. a woman like that is not fit to live amongst civilized people." "ye're richt there, my leddy; but she wad only gang some ither gait amo' the same. of coorse ye maun tell yer father, but she's no fit for him to tak ony notice o'." as they sat at breakfast, florimel did tell her father. his first emotion, however--at least the first he showed--was vexation with herself. "you must not be going out alone--and at such ridiculous hours," he said. "i shall be compelled to get you a governess." "really, papa," she returned, "i don't see the good of having a marquis for a father, if i can't go about as safe as one of the fisher children. and i might just as well be at school, if not to do as i like." "what if the dog had turned on you!" he said. "if he dared!" exclaimed the girl, and her eyes flashed. her father looked at her for a moment, said to himself--"there spoke a colonsay!" and pursued the subject no further. when they passed mrs catanach's cottage an hour after, on their way to the harbour, they saw the blinds drawn down, as if a dead man lay within: according to after report, she had the brute already laid out like a human being, and sat by the bedside awaiting a coffin which she had ordered of watty witherspail. chapter xxxix: colonsay castle the day continued lovely, with a fine breeze. the whole sky and air and sea were alive--with moving clouds, with wind, with waves flashing in the sun. as they stepped on board amidst the little crowd gathered to see, lady florimel could hardly keep her delight within the bounds of so called propriety. it was all she could do to restrain herself from dancing on the little deck half swept by the tiller. the boat of a schooner which lay at the quay towed them out of the harbour. then the creature spread her wings like a bird --mainsail and gaff topsail, staysail and jib--leaped away to leeward, and seemed actually to bound over the waves. malcolm sat at the tiller, and blue peter watched the canvas. lady florimel turned out to be a good sailor, and her enjoyment was so contagious as even to tighten certain strings about her father's heart which had long been too slack to vibrate with any simple gladness. her questions were incessant--first about the sails and rigging, then about the steering; but when malcolm proceeded to explain how the water reacted on the rudder, she declined to trouble herself with that. "let me steer first," she said, "and then tell me how things work." "that is whiles the best plan," said malcolm. "jist lay yer han' upo' the tiller, my leddy, an' luik oot at yon pint they ca' the deid heid yonner. ye see, whan i turn the tiller this gait, her heid fa's aff frae the pint; an' whan i turn't this ither gait, her heid turns till 't again: haud her heid jist aboot a twa yairds like aff o' 't." florimel was more delighted than ever when she felt her own hand ruling the cutter--so overjoyed indeed, that, instead of steering straight, she would keep playing tricks with the rudder--fretting the mouth of the sea palfrey, as it were. every now and then malcolm had to expostulate. "noo, my leddy, caw canny. dinna steer sae wull. haud her steddy. --my lord, wad ye jist say a word to my leddy, or i'll be forced to tak the tiller frae her." but by and by she grew weary of the attention required, and, giving up the helm, began to seek the explanation of its influence, in a way that delighted malcolm. "ye'll mak a guid skipper some day," he said: "ye spier the richt questions, an' that's 'maist as guid 's kennin' the richt answers." at length she threw herself on the cushions malcolm had brought for her, and, while her father smoked his cigar, gazed in silence at the shore. here, instead of sands, low rocks, infinitively broken and jagged, filled all the tidal space--a region of ceaseless rush and shattered waters. high cliffs of gray and brown rock, orange and green with lichens here and there, and in summer crowned with golden furze, rose behind--untouched by the ordinary tide, but at high water lashed by the waves of a storm. beyond the headland which they were fast nearing, the cliffs and the sea met at half tide. the moment they rounded it-- "luik there, my lord," cried malcolm, "--there's colonsay castel, 'at yer lordship gets yer name, thinkin', an', ony gait, ane o' yer teetles frae. it maun be mony a hunner year sin' ever colonsay baid intill 't!" well might he say so! for they looked but saw nothing--only cliff beyond cliff rising from a white fringed shore. not a broken tower, not a ragged battlement invaded the horizon! "there's nothing of the sort there!" said lady florimel. "ye maunna luik for tooer or pinnacle, my leddy, for nane will ye see: their time's lang ower. but jist taik the sea face o' the scaur (cliff) i' yer ee, an' traivel alang 't oontil ye come till a bit 'at luiks like mason wark. it scarce rises abune the scaur in ony but ae pairt, an' there it 's but a feow feet o' a wa'." following his direction, lady florimel soon found the ruin. the front of a projecting portion of the cliff was faced, from the very water's edge as it seemed, with mason work; while on its side, the masonry rested here and there upon jutting masses of the rock, serving as corbels or brackets, the surface of the rock itself completing the wall front. above, grass grown heaps and mounds, and one isolated bit of wall pierced with a little window, like an empty eyesocket with no skull behind it, was all that was visible from the sea of the structure which had once risen lordly on the crest of the cliff. "it is poor for a ruin even!" said lord lossie. "but jist consider hoo auld the place is, my lord!--as auld as the time o' the sea rovin' danes, they say. maybe it 's aulder nor king alfred! ye maun regaird it only as a foondation; there's stanes eneuch lyin' aboot to shaw 'at there maun hae been a gran' supperstructur on 't ance. i some think it has been ance disconneckit frae the lan', an' jined on by a drawbrig. mony a lump o' rock an' castel thegither has rowed doon the brae upon a' sides, an' the ruins may weel hae filled up the gully at last. it's a wonnerfu' auld place, my lord." "what would you do with it if it were yours, malcolm?" asked lady florimel. "i wad spen' a my spare time patchin' 't up to gar 't stan' oot agane the wither. it's crum'let awa' a heap sin' i min'." "what would be the good of that? a rickle of old stones!" said the marquis. "it's a growth 'at there winna be mony mair like," returned malcolm. "i wonner 'at yer lordship!" he was now steering for the foot of the cliff. as they approached, the ruin expanded and separated, grew more massy, and yet more detailed. still it was a mere root clinging to the soil. "suppose you were lord lossie, malcolm, what would you do with it?" asked florimel, seriously, but with fun in her eyes. "i wad win at the boddom o' 't first." "what do you mean by that?" "ye'll see whan ye win in till 't. there's a heap o' voutit places inside yon blin' face. du ye see yon wee bit squaur winnock? that lats the licht in till ane o' them. there maybe vouts aneath vouts, for them 'at ye can win intill 's half fu' o' yird an' stanes. i wad hae a' that cleart oot, an syne begin frae the verra foondation, diggin', an' patchin', an' buttressin', till i got it a' as soun' as a whunstane; an' whan i cam to the tap o' the rock, there the castel sud tak to growin' again; an' grow it sud, till there it stude, as near what it was as the wit an' the han' o' man cud set it." "that would ruin a tolerably rich man," said the marquis.. "ony gait it 's no the w'y fowk ruins themsel's nooadays, my lord. they'll pu' doon an auld hoose ony day to save themsel's blastin' poother. there's that gran' place they ca' huntly castel!-- a suckin' bairn to this for age, but wi' wa's, they tell me, wad stan' for thoosan's o' years: wad ye believe 't? there's a sowlless chiel' o' a factor there diggin' park wa's an' a grainery oot o' 't, as gien 'twar a quarry o' blue stane! an' what 's ten times mair exterord'nar, there's the duke o' gordon jist lattin' the gype tak 's wull o' the hoose a' his grace's ain forbears! i wad maist as sune lat a man speyk ill o' my daddy!" "but this is past all rebuilding," said his lordship. "it would be barely possible to preserve the remains as they are." "it wad be ill to du, my lord, ohn set it up again. but jist think what a gran' place it wad be to bide in!" the marquis burst out laughing. "a grand place for gulls and kittiwakes and sea crows!" he said. "but where is it, pray, that a fisherman like you gets such extravagant notions?--how do you come to think of such things?" "thoucht's free, my lord. gien a thing be guid to think, what for sudna a fisher lad think it? i hae read a heap aboot auld castles an' sic like i' the history o' scotlan', an' there's mony an auld tale an' ballant aboot them.--jist luik there, my leddy: ye see yon awfu' hole i' the wa,' wi' the verra inside o' the hill, like, rushin' oot at it?--i cud tell ye a fearfu' tale aboot that same." "do let us have it," said florimel eagerly, setting herself to listen. "better wait till we land," said the marquis lazily. "ay, my lord; we're ower near the shore to begin a story.--slack the mainsheet, peter, an' stan' by the jib--doonhaul--dinna rise, my leddy; she'll be o' the grun' in anither meenute." almost immediately followed a slight grating noise, which grew loud, and before one could say her speed had slackened, the cutter rested on the pebbles, with the small waves of the just turned tide flowing against her quarter. malcolm was overboard in a moment. "how the deuce are we to land here?" said the marquis. "yes!" followed florimel, half risen on her elbow, "how the deuce are we to land here?" "hoot, my leddy!" said malcolm, "sic words ill become yer bonny mou'." the marquis laughed. "i ask you how we are to get ashore?" said florimel with grave dignity, though an imp was laughing in the shadows of her eyes. "i'll sune lat ye see that, my leddy," answered malcolm; and leaning over the low bulwark he had her in his arms almost before she could utter an objection. carrying her ashore like a child-- indeed, to steady herself, she had put an arm round his shoulders --he set her down on the shingle, and turning in the act, left her as if she had been a burden of nets, and waded back to the boat. "and how, pray, am i to go?" asked the marquis. "do you fancy you can carry me in that style?" "ow na, my lord! that wadna be dignifeed for a man. jist loup upo' my back." as he spoke he turned his broad shoulders, stooping. the marquis accepted the invitation, and rode ashore like a schoolboy, laughing merrily. they were in a little valley, open only to the sea, one boundary of which was the small promontory whereon the castle stood. the side of it next them, of stone and live rock combined, rose perpendicular from the beach to a great height; whence, to gain the summit, they had to go a little way back, and ascend by a winding path till they reached the approach to the castle from the landward side. "noo, wad na this be a gran' place to bide at, my lord?" said malcolm, as they reached the summit--the marquis breathless, florimel fresh as a lark. "jist see sic an outluik! the verra place for pirates like the auld danes! naething cud escape the sicht o' them here. yon's the hills o' sutherlan'. ye see yon ane like a cairn? that's a great freen' to the fisher fowk to tell them whaur they are. yon's the laich co'st o' caithness. an' yonner's the north pole, only ye canna see sae far. jist think, my lord, hoo gran' wad be the blusterin' blap o' the win' aboot the turrets, as ye stude at yer window on a winter's day, luikin oot ower the gurly twist o' the watters, the air fu' o' flichterin snaw, the cloods a mile thick abune yer heid, an' no a leevin cratur but yer ain fowk nearer nor the fairm toon ower the broo yonner!" "i don't see anything very attractive in your description," said his lordship. "and where," he added, looking around him, "would be the garden?" "what cud ye want wi' a gairden, an' the sea oot afore ye there? the sea's bonnier than ony gairden. a gairden's maist aye the same, or it changes sae slow, wi' the ae flooer gaein' in, an' the ither flooer comin' oot, 'at ye maist dinna nottice the odds. but the sea's never twa days the same. even lauchin' she never lauchs twise wi' the same face, an' whan she sulks, she has a hunner w'ys o' sulkin'." "and how would you get a carriage up here?" said the marquis. "fine that, my lord. there's a ro'd up as far's yon neuk. an' for this broo, i wad clear awa the lowse stanes, an' lat the nait'ral gerse grow sweet an' fine, an' turn a lot o' bonny heelan' sheep on till't. i wad keep yon ae bit o' whuns, for though they're rouch i' the leaf; they blaw sae gowden. syne i wad gether a' the bits o' drains frae a' sides, till i had a bonny stream o' watter aff o' the sweet corn lan', rowin' doon here whaur we stan', an' ower to the castel itsel', an' throu' coort an' kitchie, gurglin' an' rinnin', an' syne oot again an' doon the face o' the scaur, splashin' an' loupin' like mad. i wad lea' a' the lave to natur' hersel'. it wad be a gran' place, my lord! an' whan ye was tired o' 't, ye cud jist rin awa' to lossie hoose, an' hide ye i' the how there for a cheenge. i wad like fine to hae the sortin' o' 't for yer lordship." "i daresay!" said the marquis. "let's find a nice place for our luncheon, papa, and then we can sit down and hear malcolm's story," said florimel. "dinna ye think, my lord, it wad be better to get the baskets up first?" interposed malcolm. "yes, i think so. wilson can help you." "na, my lord; he canna lea' the cutter. the tide's risin, an' she's ower near the rocks." "well, well; we shan't want lunch for an hour yet, so you can take your time." "but ye maun taik kent, my lord, hoo ye gang amo' the ruins. there's awkward kin' o' holes aboot thae vouts, an' jist whaur ye think there's nane. i dinna a'thegither like yer gaein' wantin' me." "nonsense! go along," said the marquis. "but no jokin'," persisted malcolm. "yes, yes; we'll be careful," returned his master impatiently, and malcolm ran down the hill, but not altogether satisfied with the assurance. chapter xl: the deil's winnock florimel was disappointed, for she longed to hear malcolm's tale. but amid such surroundings it was not so very difficult to wait. they set out to have a peep at the ruins, and choose a place for luncheon. from the point where they stood, looking seawards, the ground sunk to the narrow isthmus supposed by malcolm to fill a cleft formerly crossed by a drawbridge, and, beyond it, rose again to the grassy mounds in which lay so many of the old bones of the ruined carcass. passing along the isthmus, where on one side was a steep descent to the shore of the little bay, and on the other the live rock hewn away to wall, shining and sparkling with crystals of a clear irony brown, they next clambered up a rude ascent of solid rock, and so reached what had been the centre of the seaward portion of the castle. here they came suddenly upon a small hole at their feet, going right down. florimel knelt, and peeping in, saw the remains of a small spiral stair. the opening seemed large enough to let her through, and, gathering her garments tight about her, she was halfway buried in the earth before her father, whose attention had been drawn elsewhere, saw what she was about. he thought she had fallen in, but her merry laugh reassured him, and ere he could reach her, she had screwed herself out of sight. he followed her in some anxiety, out, after a short descent, rejoined her in a small vaulted chamber, where she stood looking from the little square window malcolm had pointed out to them as they neared the shore. the bare walls around them were of brown stone, wet with the drip of rains, and full of holes where the mortar had yielded and stones had fallen out. indeed the mortar had all but vanished; the walls stood and the vaults hung chiefly by their own weight. by breaches in the walls, where once might have been doors, florimel passed from one chamber to another and another, each dark, brown, vaulted, damp, and weather eaten, while her father stood at the little window she had left, listlessly watching the two men on the beach far below landing the lunch, and the rippled sea, and the cutter rising and falling with every wave of the flowing tide. at length florimel found herself on the upper end of a steep sloping ridge of hard, smooth earth, lying along the side of one chamber, and leading across to yet another beyond, which, unlike the rest, was full of light. the passion of exploration being by this time thoroughly roused in her, she descended the slope, half sliding, half creeping. when she thus reached the hole into the bright chamber, she almost sickened with horror, for the slope went off steeper, till it rushed, as it were, out of a huge gap in the wall of the castle, laying bare the void of space, and the gleam of the sea at a frightful depth below: if she had gone one foot further, she could not have saved herself from sliding out of the gap. it was the very breach malcolm had pointed out to them from below, and concerning which he had promised them the terrible tale. she gave a shriek of terror, and laid hold of the broken wall. to heighten her dismay to the limit of mortal endurance, she found at the very first effort, partly, no doubt, from the paralysis of fear, that it was impossible to reascend; and there she lay on the verge of the steeper slope, her head and shoulders in the inner of the two chambers, and the rest of her body in the outer, with the hideous vacancy staring at her. in a few moments it had fascinated her so that she dared not close her eyes lest it should leap upon her. the wonder was that she did not lose her consciousness, and fall at once to the bottom of the cliff. her cry brought her father in terror to the top of the slope. "are you hurt, child?" he cried, not seeing the danger she was in. "it's so steep, i can't get up again," she said faintly. "i'll soon get you up," he returned cheerily, and began to descend. "oh, papa!" she cried, "don't come a step nearer. if you should slip, we should go to the bottom of the rock together. indeed, indeed, there is great danger! do run for malcolm." thoroughly alarmed, yet mastering the signs of his fear, he enjoined her to keep perfectly still while he was gone, and hurried to the little window. thence he shouted to the men below, but in vain, for the wind prevented his voice from reaching them. he rushed from the vaults, and began to descend at the first practicable spot he could find, shouting as he went. the sound of his voice cheered florimel a little, as she lay forsaken in her misery. her whole effort now was to keep herself from fainting, and for this end, to abstract her mind from the terrors of her situation: in this she was aided by a new shock, which, had her position been a less critical one, would itself have caused her a deadly dismay. a curious little sound came to her, apparently from somewhere in the dusky chamber in which her head lay. she fancied it made by some little animal, and thought of the wild cats and otters of which malcolm had spoken as haunting the caves; but, while the new fear mitigated the former, the greater fear subdued the less. it came a little louder, then again a little louder, growing like a hurried whisper, but without seeming to approach her. louder still it grew, and yet was but an inarticulate whispering. then it began to divide into some resemblance of articulate sounds. presently, to her utter astonishment, she heard herself called by name. "lady florimel! lady florimel!" said the sound plainly enough. "who's there?" she faltered, with her heart in her throat hardly knowing whether she spoke or not. "there's nobody here," answered the voice. " in my own bedroom at home, where your dog killed mine." it was the voice of mrs catanach, but both words and tone were almost english. anger, and the sense of a human presence, although an evil one, restored lady florimel's speech. "how dare you talk such nonsense?" she said. "don't anger me again," returned the voice. "i tell you the truth. sorry i spoke to your ladyship as i did this morning. it was the sight of my poor dog that drove me mad." "i couldn't help it. i tried to keep mine off him, as you know." "i do know it, my lady, and that's why i beg your pardon." "then there's nothing more to be said." "yes, there is, my lady: i want to make you some amends. i know more than most people, and i know a secret that some would give their ears for. will you trust me?" "i will hear what you've got to say." "well, i don't care whether you believe me or not: i shall tell you nothing but the truth. what do you think of malcolm macphail, my lady?" "what do you mean by asking me such a question?" "only to tell you that by birth he is a gentleman, and comes of an old family." "but why do you tell me?" said florimel. "what have i to do with it?" "nothing, my lady--or himself either. i hold the handle of the business. but you needn't think it 's from any favour for him. i don't care what comes of him. there's no love lost between him and me. you heard yourself this very day, how he abused both me and my poor dog who is now lying dead on the bed beside me!" "you don't expect me to believe such nonsense as that!" said lady florimel. there was no reply. the voice had departed; and the terrors of her position returned with gathered force in the desolation of redoubled silence that closes around an unanswered question. a trembling seized her, and she could hardly persuade herself that she was not slipping by slow inches down the incline. minutes that seemed hours passed. at length she heard feet and voices, and presently her father called her name, but she was too agitated to reply except with a moan. a voice she was yet more glad to hear followed--the voice of malcolm, ringing confident and clear. "haud awa', my lord," it said, "an' lat me come at her." "you're not going down so!" said the marquis angrily. "you'll slip to a certainty, and send her to the bottom." "my lord," returned malcolm, "i ken what aboot, an' ye dinna. i beg 'at ye'll haud ootby, an' no upset the lassie, for something maun depen' upon hersel'. jist gang awa' back into that ither vout, my lord. i insist upo' 't." his lordship obeyed, and malcolm, who had been pulling off his boots as he spoke, now addressed mair. "here, peter!" he said, "haud on to the tail o' that rope like grim deith.--na, i dinna want it roon' me; it 's to gang roon' her. but dinna ye haul, for it micht hurt her, an' she'll lippen to me and come up o' hersel." "dinna be feart, my bonny leddy: there's nae danger--no ae grain. comin'." with the rope in his hand, he walked down the incline, and kneeling by florimel, close to the broken wall, proceeded to pass the rope under and round her waist, talking to her, as he did so, in the tone of one encouraging a child. "noo, my leddy! noo, my bonny leddy! ae meenute, an' ye're as safe's gien ye lay i' yer minnie's lap!" "i daren't get up, malcolm! i daren't turn my back to it! i shall drop right down into it if i do!" she faltered, beginning to sob. "nae fear o' that! there! ye canna fa' noo, for blue peter has the other en', and peter's as strong 's twa pownies. gaein to tak aff yer shune neist." so saying, he lowered himself a little through the breach, holding on by the broken wall with one hand, while he gently removed her sandal shoes with the other. drawing himself up again, he rose to his feet, and taking her hand, said, "noo, my leddy, tak a gude grip o' my han', an' as i lift ye, gie a scram'le wi' yer twa bit feet, an' as sune's ye fin' them aneth ye, jist gang up as gien ye war clim'in' a gey stey brae (rather steep ascent). ye cudna fa' gien ye tried yer warst." at the grasp of his strong hand the girl felt a great gush of confidence rise in her heart; she did exactly as he told her, scrambled to her feet, and walked up the slippery way without one slide, holding fast by malcolm's hand, while joseph kept just feeling her waist with the loop of the rope as he drew it in. when she reached the top, she fell, almost fainting, into her father's arms; but was recalled to herself by an exclamation from blue peter: just as malcolm relinquished her hand, his foot slipped. but he slid down the side of the mound only some six or seven feet to the bottom of the chamber, whence his voice came cheerily, saying he would be with them in a moment. when, however, ascending by another way, he rejoined them, they were shocked to see blood pouring from his foot: he had lighted amongst broken glass, and had felt a sting, but only now was aware that the cut was a serious one. he made little of it, however, bound it up, and, as the marquis would not now hear of bringing the luncheon to the top, having, he said, had more than enough of the place, limped painfully after them down to the shore. knowing whither they were bound, and even better acquainted with the place than malcolm himself; mrs catanach, the moment she had drawn down her blinds in mourning for her dog, had put her breakfast in her pocket, and set out from her back door, contriving mischief on her way. arrived at the castle, she waited a long time before they made their appearance, but was rewarded for her patience, as she said to herself; by the luck which had so wonderfully seconded her cunning. from a broken loophole in the foundation of a round tower, she now watched them go down the hill. the moment they were out of sight, she crept like a fox from his earth, and having actually crawled beyond danger of discovery, hurried away inland, to reach portlossie by footpaths and byways, and there show herself on her own doorstep. the woman's consuming ambition was to possess power over others --power to hurt them if she chose--power to pull hidden strings fastened to their hearts or consciences or history or foibles or crimes, and so reduce them, in her knowledge, if not in theirs, to the condition of being, more or less, her slaves. hence she pounced upon a secret as one would on a diamond in the dust, any fact even was precious, for it might be allied to some secret--might, in combination with other facts, become potent. how far this vice may have had its origin in the fact that she had secrets of her own, might be an interesting question. as to the mysterious communication she had made to her, lady florimel was not able to turn her mind to it--nor indeed for some time was she able to think of anything. chapter xli: the clouded sapphires before they reached the bottom of the hill, however, florimel had recovered her spirits a little, and had even attempted a laugh at the ridiculousness of her late situation; but she continued very pale. they sat down beside the baskets--on some great stones, fallen from the building above. because of his foot, they would not allow malcolm to serve them, but told mair and him to have their dinner near, and called the former when they wanted anything. lady florimel revived still more after she had had a morsel of partridge and a glass of wine, but every now and then she shuddered: evidently she was haunted by the terror of her late position, and, with the gladness of a discoverer, the marquis bethought himself of malcolm's promised tale, as a means of turning her thoughts aside from it. as soon, therefore, as they had finished their meal he called malcolm, and told him they wanted his story. "it's some fearsome," said malcolm, looking anxiously at the pale face of lady florimel. "nonsense!" returned the marquis; for he thought, and perhaps rightly, that if such it would only serve his purpose the better. "i wad raither tell 't i' the gloamin' roon' a winter fire," said malcolm, with another anxious look at lady florimel. "do go on," she said. "i want so much to hear it!" "go on," said the marquis; and malcolm, seating himself near them, began. i need not again tell my reader that he may take a short cut if he pleases. "there was ance a great nobleman--like yersel', my lord, only no sae douce--an' he had a great followin', and was thoucht muckle o' in a' the country, frae john o' groat's to the mull o' gallowa'. but he was terrible prood, an' thoucht naebody was to compare wi' him, nor onything 'at onybody had, to compare wi' onything 'at he had. his horse war aye swifter, an' his kye aye better milkers nor ither fowk's; there war nae deer sae big nor had sic muckle horns as the reid deer on his heelan' hills; nae gillies sae strang's his gillies; and nae castles sae weel biggit or sae auld as his! it may ha' been a' verra true for onything i ken, or onything the story says to the contrar'; but it wasna heumble or christian-like o' him to be aye at it, ower an' ower, aye gloryin'--as gien he had a'thing sae by ord'nar' 'cause he was by ord'nar' himsel', an' they a' cam till him by the verra natur' o' things. there was but ae thing in which he was na fawvoured, and that was, that he had nae son to tak up what he left. but it maittered the less, that the teetle as weel's the lan's, wad, as the tale tells, gang a' the same till a lass bairn--an' a lass bairn he had." "that is the case in the lossie family," said the marquis. "that's hoo i hae hard the tale, my lord; but i wad be sorry sud a' it conteens meet wi' like corroboration.--as i say, a dochter there was, an' gien a' was surpassin', she was surpassin' a'. the faimily piper, or sennachy, as they ca'd him--i wadna wonner, my lord, gien thae gran' pipes yer boonty gae my gran'father, had been his!--he said in ane o' his sangs, 'at the sun blinkit whanever she shawed hersel' at the hoose door. i s' warran' ae thing--'at a' the lads blinkit whan she luikit at them, gien sae be she cud ever be said to condescen' sae far as to luik at ony; for gien ever she set ee upo' ane, she never loot it rist: her ee aye jist slippit ower a face as gien the face micht or micht not be there --she didna ken or care. a'body said she had sic a hauchty leuk as was never seen on human face afore; an' for freen'ly luik, she had nane for leevin' cratur, 'cep' it was her ain father, or her ain horse 'at she rade upo'. her mither was deid. "her father wad fain hae seen her merriet afore he dee'd, but the pride he had gien her was like to be the en' o' a', for she coontit it naething less than a disgrace to pairt wi' maiden leeberty. 'there's no man,' she wad say, whan her father wad be pressin' upo' the subjec',--'there's no mortal man, but yersel', worth the turn o' my ee.' an' the father, puir man, was ower weel pleased wi' the flattery to be sae angry wi' her as he wad fain hae luikit. sae time gaed on, till frae a bonny lassie she had grown a gran' leddy, an' cud win up the hill nae forder, but bude to gang doon o' the ither side; an' her father was jist near han' daft wi' anxiety to see her wad. but no! never ane wad she hearken till. "at last there cam to the hoose--that's colonsay castel, up there --ae day, a yoong man frae norrawa', the son o' a great nobleman o' that country; an' wi' him she was some ta'en. he was a fine man to leuk at, an' he pat them a' to shame at onything that nott stren'th or skeel. but he was as heumble as he was fit, an' never teuk ony credit till himsel' for onything 'at he did or was; an' this she was ill pleased wi', though she cudna help likin' him, an' made nae banes o' lattin' him see 'at he wasna a'thegither a scunner till her. "weel, ae mornin', verra ear', she gaed oot intill her gairden, an luikit ower the hedge; an' what sud she see but this same yoong nobleman tak the bairn frae a puir traivellin' body, help her ower a dyke, and gie her her bairn again! he was at her ain side in anither meenute, but he was jist that meenute ahint his tryst, an' she was in a cauld rage at him. he tried to turn her hert, sayin' --wad she hae had him no help the puir thing ower the dyke, her bairnie bein' but a fortnicht auld, an' hersel' unco weak-like? but my leddy made a mou' as gien she was scunnert to hear sic things made mention o'. an' was she to stan' luikin' ower the hedge, an' him convoyin' a beggar wife an' her brat! an' syne to come to her ohn ever washen his han's! 'hoot, my leddy,' says he, 'the puir thing was a human cratur!'--'gien she had been a god's angel,' says she, 'ye had no richt to keep me waitin'.'--'gien she had been an angel,' says he, 'there wad hae been little occasion, but the wuman stude in want o' help!'--'gien 't had been to save her life, ye sudna hae keepit me waitin',' says she. the lad was scaret at that, as weel he micht, an' takin' aff 's bannet, he lowtit laich, an' left her. but this didna shuit my leddy; she wasna to be left afore she said gang! sae she cried him back, an' he cam, bannet in han'; an' she leuch, an' made as gien she had been but tryin' the smeddum o' 'im, an' thoucht him a true k-nicht. the puir fallow pluckit up at this, an' doon he fell upo's knees, an' oot wi' a' 'at was in 's hert,--hoo 'at he lo'ed her mair nor tongue cud tell, an' gien she wad hae him, he wad be her slave for ever. "'ye s' be that,' says she, an' leuch him to scorn. 'gang efter yer beggar wife,' she says; ' sick o' ye.' "he rase, an' teuk up 's bannet, an' loupit the hedge, an' gae a blast upo' 's horn, an' gethered his men, an' steppit aboord his boat, ower by puffie heid yonner, an' awa to norrowa' ower the faem, 'an was never hard tell o' in scotlan' again. an' the leddy was hauchtier, and cairried her heid heicher nor ever--maybe to hide a scaum (slight mark of burning) she had taen, for a' her pride. "sae things gaed on as afore, till at len'th the tide o' her time was weel past the turn, an' a streak o' the snaw in her coal black hair. for, as the auld sang says, her hair was like the craw, an' her ble was like the snaw, an' her bow bendit lip was like the rose hip, an' her ee was like the licht'nin', glorious an' fricht'nin'. but a' that wad sune be ower! "aboot this time, ae day i' the gloamin', there cam on sic an awfu' storm, 'at the fowk o' the castel war frichtit 'maist oot o' their wits. the licht'nin' cam oot o' the yerd, an' no frae the lift at a'; the win' roared as gien 't had been an incarnat rage; the thunner rattlet an' crackit, as gien the mune an' a' the stars had been made kettledrums o' for the occasion; but never a drap o' rain or a stane o' hail fell; naething brak oot but blue licht an' roarin' win'. but the strangest thing was, that the sea lay a' the time as oonconcerned as a sleepin' bairn; the win' got nae mair grip o' 't nor gien a' the angels had been poorin' ile oot o' widows' cruses upo' 't; the verra tide came up quaieter nor ord'nar; and the fowk war sair perplext as weel's frichtit. "jist as the clock o' the castel chappit the deid o' the nicht, the clamour o' v'ices was hard throu' the thunner an' the win,' an' the warder--luikin' doon frae the heich bartizan o' the muckle tooer, saw i' the fire flauchts, a company o' riders appro'chin' the castel, a' upo' gran' horses, he said, that sprang this gait an' that, an shot fire frae their een. at the drawbrig they blew a horn 'at rowtit like a' the bulls o' bashan, an' whan the warder challencht them, claimt hoose room for the nicht. naebody had ever hard o' the place they cam frae; it was sae far awa 'at as sane 's a body hard the name o' 't, he forgot it again; but their beasts war as fresh an' as fu' o' smeddum as i tell ye, an' no a hair o' ane o' them turnt. there was jist a de'il's dizzen o' them an whaurever ye began to count them, the thirteent had aye a reid baird. "whan the news was taen to the markis--the yerl, i sud say-- he gae orders to lat them in at ance; for whatever fau'ts he had, naither fear nor hainin' (penuriousness) was amang them. sae in they cam, clatterin' ower the drawbrig, 'at gaed up an' down aneth them as gien it wad hae cast them. "richt fremt (strange) fowk they luikit whan they cam intill the coortyaird--a' spanglet wi' bonny bricht stanes o' a' colours. they war like nae fowk 'at ever the yerl had seen, an' he had been to jeroozlem in 's day, an' had fouchten wi' the saracenes. but they war coorteous men an' weel bred--an' maistly weel faured tu --ilk ane luikin' a lord's son at the least. they had na a single servin' man wi' them, an' wad alloo nane o' the fowk aboot the place to lay han' upo' their beasts; an' ilk ane as he said na, wad gie the stallion aneth him a daig wi' 's spurs, or a kick 'i the ribs, gien he was aff o' 's back, wi' the steel tae o' his bute; an' the brute wad lay his lugs i' the how o' 's neck, an' turn his heid asklent, wi' ae white ee gleyin' oot o' 't, an' lift a hin' leg wi' the glintin' shue turnt back, an' luik like sawtan himsel' whan he daurna. "weel, my lord an' my leddy war sittin' i' the muckle ha', for they cudna gang to their beds in sic a byous storm, whan him 'at was the chief o' them was ushered in by the seneschal, that's the steward, like, booin' afore him, an' ca'in' him the prence, an' nae mair, for he cudna min' the name o' 's place lang eneuch to say 't ower again. "an' sae a prence he was! an', forbye that, jist a man by himsel' to luik at!--i' the prime o' life, maybe, but no freely i' the first o' 't, for he had the luik as gien he had had a hard time o' 't, an' had a white streak an' a craw's fit here and there--the liklier to please my leddy, wha lookit doon upo' a'body yoonger nor hersel'. he hae a commandin', maybe some owerbeirin' luik-- ane at a man micht hae birstled up at, but a leddy like my leddy wad welcome as worth bringin' doon. he was dressed as never man had appears in scotlan' afore--glorious withoot--no like the leddy i' the psalms--for yer ee cud licht nowhaur but there was the glitter o' a stane, sae 'at he flashed a' ower, ilka motion he made. he cairret a short swoord at his side--no muckle langer nor my daddy's dirk, as gien he never foucht but at closs quarters --the whilk had three sapphires--blue stanes, they tell me--an muckle anes, lowin' i' the sheath o' 't, an' a muckler ane still i' the heft; only they war some drumly (clouded), the leddy thoucht, bein' a jeedge o' hingars at lugs (earrings) an' sic vainities. "that may be 's it may, but in cam the prence, wi' a laich boo, an' a gran upstrauchtin' again; an' though, as i say, he was flashin' a' ower, his mainner was quaiet as the munelicht,--jist grace itsel'. he profest himsel unco' indebtit for the shelter accordit him; an' his een aye soucht the leddy's, an' his admiration o' her was plain in ilka luik an' gestur', an' though his words were feow, they a' meant mair nor they said. afore his supper cam in, her hert was at his wull. "they say that whan a wuman's late o' fa'in' in love--ye'll ken my lord--i ken naething aboot it--it 's the mair likly to be an oonrizzonin' an ooncontrollable fancy; in sic maitters it seems wisdom comesna wi' gray hairs: within ae hoor the leddy was enamoured o' the stranger in a fearfu' w'y. she poored oot his wine till him wi' her ane han'; an' the moment he put the glaiss till 's lips, the win' fell an' the lichtnin' devallt (ceased). she set hersel' to put questions till him, sic as she thoucht he wad like to answer--a' aboot himsel' an' what he had come throu'; an' sic stories as he tellt! she atten't till him as she had never dune to guest afore, an' her father saw 'at she was sair taen wi' the man. but he wasna a'thegither sae weel pleased, for there was something aboot him--he cudna say what--'at garred him grue (shudder). he wasna a man to hae fancies, or stan' upo' freits, but he cudna help the creep that gaed doon his backbane ilka time his ee encoontert that o' the prence--it was aye sic a strange luik the prence cuist upon him--a luik as gien him an' the yerl had been a'ready ower weel acquant, though the yerl cudna min' 'at ever he had set ee upo' him. a' the time, hooever, he had a kin' o' suspicion 'at they bude to be auld acquantances, an' sair he soucht to mak him oot, but the prence wad never lat a body get a glimp o' his een 'cep' the body he was speykin' till--that is gien he cud help it, for the yerl did get twa or three glimps o' them as he spak till 's dauchter; an' he declaret efterhin to the king's commissioner, that a pale blue kin' o' a licht cam frae them, the whilk the body he was conversin' wi', an' luikin' straucht at, never saw. "weel, the short and the lang o' 't that nicht was, that they gaed a' to their beds. "i' the mornin', whan the markis--the yerl, i sud say--an' his dochter cam doon the stair, the haill menyie (company) was awa. never a horse or horse was i' the stable, but the yerl's ain beasts --no ae hair left ahin' to shaw that they had been there! an' i' the chaumers allotted to their riders, never a pair o' sheets had been sleepit in. "the yerl an my leddy sat doon to brak their fast--no freely i' the same humour, the twa o' them, as ye may weel believe. whan they war aboot half throu', wha sud come stridin' in, some dour an' ill pleased like, but the prence himsel'! baith yerl an' leddy startit up: 'at they sud hae sitten doon till a meal ohn even adverteest their veesitor that sic was their purpose! they made muckle adu wi' apologies an' explanations, but the prence aye booed an' booed, an' said sae little, that they thocht him mortal angert, the whilk was a great vex to my leddy, ye may be sure. he had a withert like luik, an' the verra diamonds in 's claes war douf like. a'thegither he had a brunt oot kin' o' aissy (ashy) leuk. "at len'th the butler cam in, an' the prence signed till him, an' he gaed near, an' the prence drew him doon, an' toot mootit in 's lug--an' his breath, the auld man said, was like the grave: he hadna had 's mornin', he said, an' tell't him to put the whusky upo' the table. the butler did as he was tauld, an' set doon the decanter, an' a glaiss aside it; but the prence bannt him jist fearfu', an' ordert him to tak awa that playock, and fess a tum'ler. " thinkin', my lord, that maun be a modern touch," remarked malcolm here, interrupting himself: "there wasna glaiss i' thae times--was there?" "what do i know!" said the marquis. "go on with your story." "but there's mair intill 't than that," persisted malcolm. "i doobt gien there was ony whusky i' thae times aither; for i hard a gentleman say the ither day 'at hoo he had tastit the first whusky 'at was ever distillt in scotlan', an' horrible stuff it was, he said, though it was 'maist as auld as the forty-five." "confound your long wind! go on," said the marquis peremptorily. "we s' ca' 't whusky, than, ony gait," said malcolm, and resumed. "the butler did again as he was bidden, an' fiess (fetched) a tum'ler, or mair likely a siller cup, an' the prence took the decanter, or what it micht be, an' filled it to the verra brim. the butler's een 'maist startit frae 's heid, but naebody said naething. he liftit it, greedy like, an' drank aff the whusky as gien 't had been watter. 'that's middlin',' he said, as he set it o' the table again. they luikit to see him fa' doon deid, but in place o' that he begoud to gether himsel' a bit, an' says he, 'we brew the same drink i' my country, but a wee mair pooerfu'.' syne he askit for a slice o' boar ham an' a raw aipple'; an' that was a' he ate. but he took anither waucht (large draught) o' the whusky, an' his een grew brichter, an' the stanes aboot him began to flash again; an' my leddy admired him the mair, that what wad hae felled ony ither man ony waukened him up a bit. an' syne he telled them hoo, laith to be fashous, he had gi'en orders till 's menyie to be all afore the mornin' brak, an' wait at the neist cheenge hoose till he jined them. 'whaur,' said the leddy, 'i trust ye'll lat them wait, or else sen' for them.' but the yerl sat an' said never a word. the prence gae him ae glower, an' declared that his leddy's word was law to him; he wad bide till she wulled him to gang. at this her een shot fire 'maist like his ain, an' she smilit as she had never smilit afore; an' the yerl cudna bide the sicht o' 't, but daurna interfere: he rase an' left the room an' them thegither. "what passed atwixt the twa, there was nane to tell: but or an hoor was by, they cam oot upo' the gairden terrace thegither, han' in han', luikin' baith o' them as gran' an' as weel pleased as gien they had been king and queen. the lang an' the short o' 't was, that the same day at nicht the twa was merried. naither o' them wad hear o' a priest. say what the auld yerl cud, they wad not hear o' sic a thing, an' the leddy was 'maist mair set agane 't nor the prence. she wad be merried accordin' to scots law, she said, an' wad hae nae ither ceremony, say 'at he likit! "a gran' feast was gotten ready, an' jist the meenute afore it was cairriet to the ha', the great bell o' the castel yowlt oot, an' a' the fowk o' the hoose was gaithered i' the coortyaird, an' oot cam the twa afore them, han' in han', declarin' themsel's merried fowk, the whilk, accordin' to scots law, was but ower guid a merriage. syne they sat doon to their denner, an' there they sat --no drinkin' muckle, they say, but merrily enjoyin' themsel's, the leddy singin' a sang noo an' again, an' the prence sayin' he ance cud sing, but had forgotten the gait o' 't: but never a prayer said, nor a blessin' askit--oontil the clock chappit twal, whaurupon the prence and the prencess rase to gang to their bed--in a room whaur the king himsel' aye sleepit whan he cam to see them. but there wasna ane o' the men or the maids 'at wad hae daured be their lanes wi' that man, prence as he ca'd himsel'. "a meenute, or barely twa, was ower, whan a cry cam frae the king's room--a fearfu' cry--a lang lang skreigh. the men an' the maids luikit at ane anither wi' awsome luiks; an' 'he's killin' her!' they a' gaspit at ance. "noo she was never a favourite wi' ony ane o' her ain fowk, but still they couldna hear sic a cry frae her ohn run to the yell." "they fand him pacin' up and doon the ha', an' luikin' like a deid man in a rage o' fear. but when they telled him, he only leuch at them, an' ca'd them ill names, an' said he had na hard a cheep. sae they tuik naething by that, an' gaed back trimlin'. "twa o' them, a man an' a maid to haud hert in ane anither, gaed up to the door o' the transe (passage) 'at led to the king's room; but for a while they hard naething. syne cam the soon' o' moanin' an' greitin' an' prayin'. "the neist meenute they war back again amo' the lave, luikin' like twa corps. they had opent the door o' the transe to hearken closer, an' what sud they see there but the fiery een an' the white teeth o' the prence's horse, lyin' athort the door o' the king's room, wi' 's hied atween 's fore feet, an keepin' watch like a tyke (dog)! "er' lang they bethoucht themsels, an twa o' them set oot an aff thegither for the priory--that's whaur yer ain hoose o' lossie noo stan's, my lord, to fess a priest. it wad be a guid twa hoor or they wan back, an' a' that time, ilka noo an' than, the moaning an' the beggin' an' the cryin' wad come again. an' the warder upo' the heich tooer declared 'at ever sin' midnicht the prence's menyie, the haill twal o' them, was careerin' aboot the castel, noon' an noon', wi' the een o' their beasts lowin', and their heids oot, an' their manes up, an their tails fleein' ahint them. he aye lost sicht o' them whan they wan to the edge o' the scaur, but roon' they aye cam again upo' the ither side, as gien there had been a ro'd whaur there wasna even a ledge. "the moment the priest's horse set fut upo' the drawbrig, the puir leddy gae anither ougsome cry, a hantle waur nor the first, an' up gat a suddent roar an' a blast o' win' that maist cairried the castel there aff o' the cliff intill the watter, an' syne cam a flash o' blue licht an' a rum'lin'. efter that, a' was quaiet: it was a' ower afore the priest wan athort the coortyaird an' up the stair. for he crossed himsel' an' gaed straucht for the bridal chaumer. by this time the yerl had come up, an' followed cooerin' ahin' the priest. "never a horse was i' the transe; an' the priest, first layin' the cross 'at hang frae 's belt agane the door o' the chaumer, flang 't open wi'oot ony ceremony, for ye 'll alloo there was room for nane. "an' what think ye was the first thing the yerl saw?--a great hole i' the wa' o' the room, an' the starry pleuch luikin' in at it, an' the sea lyin' far doon afore him--as quaiet as the bride upo' the bed--but a hantle bonnier to luik at; for ilka steek that had been on her was brunt aff, an' the bonny body o' her lyin' a' runklet, an' as black 's a coal frae heid to fut; an' the reek 'at rase frae 't was heedeous. i needna say the bridegroom wasna there. some fowk thoucht it a guid sign that he hadna cairried the body wi' him; but maybe he was ower suddent scared by the fut o' the priest's horse upo' the drawbrig, an' dauredna bide his oncome. sae the fower fut stane--wa' had to flee afore him, for a throu gang to the prence o' the pooer o' the air. an' yon's the verra hole to this day, 'at ye was sae near ower weel acquaint wi' yersel', my leddy. for the yerl left the castel, and never a colonsay has made his abode there sin' syne. but some say 'at the rizzon the castel cam to be desertit a'thegither was, that as aften as they biggit up the hole, it fell oot again as sure 's the day o' the year cam roon' whan it first happened. they say, that at twal o'clock that same nicht, the door o' that room aye gaed tu, an' that naebody daur touch 't, for the heat o' the han'le o' 't; an' syne cam the skreighin' an' the moanin', an' the fearsome skelloch at the last, an' a rum'le like thun'er, an' i' the mornin' there was the wa' oot! the hole's bigger noo, for a' the decay o' the castel has taen to slidin' oot at it, an' doobtless it'll spread an' spread till the haill structur vainishes; at least sae they say, my lord; but i wad hae a try at the haudin' o' 't thegither for a' that. i dinna see 'at the deil sud hae 't a' his ain gait, as gien we war a' fleyt at him. fowk hae threepit upo' me that there i' the gloamin' they hae seen an' awsome face luikin' in upo' them throu' that slap i' the wa'; but i never believed it was onything but their ain fancy, though for a' 'at i ken, it may ha' been something no canny. still, i say, wha 's feart? the ill man has no pooer 'cep ower his ain kin. we 're tellt to resist him an' he'll flee frae 's." "a good story, and well told," said the marquis kindly. "don't you think so, florimel?" "yes, papa," lady florimel answered; "only he kept us waiting too long for the end of it." "some fowk, my leddy," said malcolm, "wad aye be at the hin'er en' o' a'thing. but for mysel', the mair pleased i was to be gaein' ony gait, the mair i wad spin oot the ro'd till 't." "how much of the story may be your own invention now?" said the marquis. "ow, nae that muckle, my lord; jist a feow extras an' partic'lars 'at micht weel hae been, wi' an adjective, or an adverb, or sic like, here an' there. i made ae mistak' though; gien 't was you hole yonner, they bude till hae gane doon an' no up the stair to their chaumer." his lordship laughed, and, again commending the tale, rose: it was time to re-embark--an operation less arduous than before, for in the present state of the tide it was easy to bring the cutter so close to a low rock that even lady florimel could step on board. as they had now to beat to windward, malcolm kept the tiller in his own hand. but indeed, lady florimel did not want to steer; she was so much occupied with her thoughts that her hands must remain idle. partly to turn them away from the more terrible portion of her adventure, she began to reflect upon her interview with mrs catanach --if interview it could be called, where she had seen no one. at first she was sorry that she had not told her father of it, and had the ruin searched; but when she thought of the communication the woman had made to her, she came to the conclusion that it was, for various reasons--not to mention the probability that he would have set it all down to the workings of an unavoidably excited nervous condition--better that she should mention it to no one but duncan macphail. when they arrived at the harbour quay, they found the carriage waiting, but neither the marquis nor lady florimel thought of malcolm's foot, and he was left to limp painfully home. as he passed mrs catanach's cottage, he looked up: there were the blinds still drawn down; the door was shut, and the place was silent as the grave. by the time he reached lossie house, his foot was very much swollen. when mrs courthope saw it, she sent him to bed at once, and applied a poultice. chapter xlii: duncan's disclosure the night long malcolm kept dreaming of his fall; and his dreams were worse than the reality, inasmuch as they invariably sent him sliding out of the breach, to receive the cut on the rocks below. very oddly this catastrophe was always occasioned by the grasp of a hand on his ankle. invariably also, just as he slipped, the face of the prince appeared in the breach, but it was at the same time the face of mrs catanach. the next morning, mrs courthope found him feverish, and insisted on his remaining in bed--no small trial to one who had never been an hour ill in his life; but he was suffering so much that he made little resistance. in the enforced quiescence, and under the excitements of pain and fever, malcolm first became aware how much the idea of lady florimel had at length possessed him. but even in his own thought he never once came upon the phrase, in love, as representing his condition in regard of her: he only knew that he worshipped her, and would be overjoyed to die for her. the youth had about as little vanity as could well consist with individual coherence; if he was vain at all, it was neither of his intellectual nor personal endowments, but of the few tunes he could play on his grandfather's pipes. he could run and swim, rare accomplishments amongst the fishermen, and was said to be the best dancer of them all; but he never thought of such comparison himself. the rescue of lady florimel made him very happy: he had been of service to her; but so far was he from cherishing a shadow of presumption, that as he lay there he felt it would be utter content to live serving her for ever, even when he was old and wrinkled and gray like his grandfather: he never dreamed of her growing old and wrinkled and gray. a single sudden thought sufficed to scatter--not the devotion, but its peace. of course she would marry some day, and what then? he looked the inevitable in the face; but as he looked, that face grew an ugly one. he broke into a laugh: his soul had settled like a brooding cloud over the gulf that lay between a fisher lad and the daughter of a peer! but although he was no coxcomb, neither had fed himself on romances, as lady florimel had been doing of late, and although the laugh was quite honestly laughed at himself, it was nevertheless a bitter one. for again came the question: why should an absurdity be a possibility? it was absurd, and yet possible: there was the point. in mathematics it was not so: there, of two opposites to prove one an absurdity, was to prove the other a fact. neither in metaphysics was it so: there also an impossibility and an absurdity were one and the same thing. but here, in a region of infinitely more import to the human life than an eternity of mathematical truth, there was at least one absurdity which was yet inevitable--an absurdity--yet with a villainous attendance of direst heat, marrow freezing cold, faintings, and ravings, and demoniacal laughter. had it been a purely logical question he was dealing with, he might not have been quite puzzled; but to apply logic here, as he was attempting to do, was like--not like attacking a fortification with a penknife, for a penknife might win its way through the granite ribs of cronstadt--it was like attacking an eclipse with a broomstick: there was a solution to the difficulty; but as the difficulty itself was deeper than he knew, so the answer to it lay higher than he could reach--was in fact at once grander and finer than he was yet capable of understanding. his disjointed meditations were interrupted quite by the entrance of the man to whom alone of all men he could at the time have given a hearty welcome. the schoolmaster seated himself by his bedside, and they had a long talk. i had set down this talk, but came to the conclusion i had better not print it: ranging both high and wide, and touching on points of vital importance, it was yet so odd, that it would have been to too many of my readers but a chimera tumbling in a vacuum--as they will readily allow when i tell them that it started from the question--which had arisen in malcolm's mind so long ago, but which he had not hitherto propounded to his friend --as to the consequences of a man's marrying a mermaid; and that malcolm, reversing its relations, proposed next, the consequences of a man's being in love with a ghost or an angel. " dreidfu' tired o' lyin' here i' my bed," said malcolm at length when, neither desiring to carry the conversation further, a pause had intervened. "i dinna ken what i want. whiles i think its the sun, whiles the win', and whiles the watter. but i canna rist. haena ye a bit ballant ye could say till me mr graham? there's naething wad quaiet me like a ballant." the schoolmaster thought for a few minutes, and then said, "i'll give you one of my own, if you like, malcolm. i made it some twenty or thirty years ago." "that wad be a trate, sir," returned malcolm; and the master, with perfect rhythm, and a modulation amounting almost to melody, repeated the following verses: the water ran doon fine the heich hope heid, (head of the valley) wi' a rin, burnie, rin; it wimpled, an' waggled, an' sang a screed o' nonsense, an' wadna blin, (cease) wi' its rin, burnie, rin. frae the hert o' the warl', wi' a swirl an' a sway, an' a rin, burnie, rin, that water lap clear frae the dark till the day, an' singin' awa' did spin, wi' its rin, burnie, rin. ae wee bit mile frae the heich hope held, wi' a rin, burnie, rin, 'mang her yows an' her lambs the herd lassie stude an' she loot a tear fa' in, wi' a rin, burnie, rin. frae the hert o' the maiden that tear drap rase, wi' a rin, burnie rin; wearily clim'in' up narrow ways, there was but a drap to fa' in, sae slow did that burnie rin. twa wee bit miles frae the heich hope heid, wi' a rin, burnie, rin, doon creepit a cowerin' streakie o' reid, an' meltit awa' within, wi' a rin, burnie, rin. frae the hert o' a youth cam the tricklin' reid, wi' a rin, burnie, rin; it ran an' ran till it left him deid, an' syne it dried up i' the win', an' that burnie nae mair did rin. whan the wimplin' horn that frae three herts gaed wi' a rin, burnie, rin, cam to the lip o' the sea sae braid, it curled an' grued wi' pain o' sin-- but it took that burnie in. "it's a bonny, bonny sang," said malcolm; "but i canna say i a'thegither like it." "why not?" asked mr graham, with an inquiring smile. "because the ocean sudna mak a mou' at the puir earth burnie that cudna help what ran intill 't." "it took it in though, and made it clean, for all the pain it couldn't help either." "weel, gien ye luik at it that gait!" said malcolm. in the evening his grandfather came to see him, and sat down by his bedside, full of a tender anxiety which he was soon able to alleviate. "wownded in ta hand and in ta foot!" said the seer: "what can it mean? it must mean something, malcolm, my son." "weel, daddy, we maun jist bide till we see," said malcolm cheerfully. a little talk followed, in the course of which it came into malcolm's head to tell his grandfather the dream he had had so much of the first night he had slept in that room--but more for the sake of something to talk about that would interest one who believed in all kinds of prefigurations, than for any other reason. duncan sat moodily silent for some time, and then, with a great heave of his broad chest, lifted up his head, like one who had formed a resolution, and said: "the hour has come. she has long peen afrait to meet it, put it has come, and allister will meet it.--she'll not pe your cran'father, my son." he spoke the words with perfect composure, but as soon as they were uttered, burst into a wail, and sobbed like a child. "ye'll be my ain father than?" said malcolm. "no, no, my son. she'll not pe anything that's your own at aal!" and the tears flowed down his channelled cheeks. for one moment malcolm was silent, utterly bewildered. but he must comfort the old man first, and think about what he had said afterwards. "ye're my ain daddy, whatever ye are!" he said. "tell me a' aboot it, daddy." "she'll tell you all she'll pe knowing, my son, and she nefer told a lie efen to a cawmill." he began his story in haste, as if anxious to have it over, but had to pause often from fresh outbursts of grief. it contained nothing more of the essential than i have already recorded, and malcolm was perplexed to think why what he had known all the time should affect him so much in the telling. but when he ended with the bitter cry--"and now you'll pe loving her no more, my poy: my chilt, my malcolm!" he understood it. "daddy! daddy!" he cried, throwing his arms round his neck and kissing him, "i lo'e ye better nor ever. an' weel i may!" "but how can you, when you 've cot none of ta plood in you, my son?" persisted duncan. "i hae as muckle as ever i had, daddy." "yes, put you'll tidn't know." "but ye did, daddy." "yes, and inteet she cannot tell why she'll pe loving you so much herself aal ta time!" "weel, daddy, gien ye cud lo'e me sae weel, kennin' me nae bluid's bluid o' yer ain--i canna help it: i maun lo'e ye mair nor ever, noo' at i ken 't tu.--daddy, daddy, i had nae claim upo' ye, an' ye hae been father an' gran'father an' a' to me!" "what could she do, malcolm, my poy? ta chilt had no one, and she had no one, and so it wass. you must pe her own poy after all! and she'll not pe wondering put.--it might pe.--yes, inteed not!" his voice sank to the murmurs of a half uttered soliloquy, and as he murmured he stroked malcolm's cheek. "what are ye efter noo daddy?" asked malcolm. the only sign that duncan heard the question was the complete silence that followed. when malcolm repeated it, he said something in gaelic, but finished the sentence thus, apparently unaware of the change of language: "--only how else should she pe lovin you so much, malcolm, my son?" "i ken what maister graham would say, daddy," rejoined malcolm, at a half guess. "what would he say, my son? he's a coot man, your maister graham. --it could not pe without ta sem fathers, and ta sem chief." "he wad say it was 'cause we war a' o' ae bluid--'cause we had a' ae father." "oh yes, no toubt! we aal come from ta same first paarents; put tat will be a fery long way off, pefore ta clans cot tokether. it 'll not pe holding fery well now, my son. tat waas pefore ta cawmills." "that's no what maister graham would mean, daddy," said malcolm. "he would mean that god was the father o' 's a', and sae we cudna help lo'in' ane anither." "no; tat cannot pe right, malcolm; for then we should haf to love eferybody. now she loves you, my son, and she hates cawmill of clenlyon. she loves mistress partan when she'll not pe too rude to her, and she hates tat mistress catanach. she's a paad woman, 'tat she'll pe certain sure, though she'll nefor saw her to speak to her. she'll haf claaws to her poosoms." "weel, daddy, there was naething ither to gar ye lo'e me. i was jist a helpless human bein', an' sae for that, an' nae ither rizzon, ye tuik a' that fash wi' me! an' for mysel', deid sure i cudna lo'e ye better gien ye war twise my gran'father." "he's her own poy!" cried the piper, much comforted; and his hand sought his head, and lighted gently upon it. "put, maype," he went on, "she might not haf loved you so much if she hadn't peen tinking sometimes--" he checked himself. malcolm's questions brought no conclusion to the sentence, and a long silence followed. "supposin' i was to turn oot a cawmill?" said malcolm, at length. the hand that was fondling his curls withdrew as if a serpent had bit it, and duncan rose from his chair. "wass it her own son to pe speaking such an efil thing?" he said, in a tone of injured and sad expostulation. "for onything ye ken, daddy--ye canna tell but it mith be." "ton't preathe it, my son!" cried duncan in a voice of agony, as if he saw unfolding a fearful game the arch enemy had been playing for his soul. "put it cannot pe," he resumed instantly, "for ten how should she pe loving you, my son?" "'cause ye was in for that afore ye kent wha the puir beastie was." "ta tarling chilt! she could not haf loved him if he had peen a cawmill. her soul would haf chumped pack from him as from ta snake in ta tree. ta hate in her heart to ta plood of ta cawmill, would have killed ta chilt of ta cawmill plood. no, malcolm! no, my son!" "ye wadna hae me believe, daddy, that gien ye had kent by mark o' hiv (hoof) an' horn, that the cratur they laid i' yer lap was a cawmill--ye wad hae risen up, an' lootin it lie whaur it fell?" "no, malcolm; i would haf put my foot upon it, as i would on ta young fiper in ta heather." "gien i was to turn oot ane o' that ill race, ye wad hate me, than, daddy--efter a'! ochone, daddy! ye wad be weel pleased to think hoo ye stack yer durk throu' the ill han' o' me, an' wadna rist till ye had it throu' the waur hert.--i doobt i had better up an' awa', daddy, for wha' kens what ye mayna du to me?" malcolm made a movement to rise, and duncan's quick ears understood it. he sat down again by his bedside and threw his arms over him. "lie town, lie town, my poy. if you ket up, tat will pe you are a cawmill. no, no, my son! you are ferry cruel to your own old daddy. she would pe too much sorry for her poy to hate him. it will pe so treadful to pe a cawmill! no, no, my poy! she would take you to her poosom, and tat would trive ta cawmill out of you. put ton't speak of it any more, my son, for it cannot pe.--she must co now, for her pipes will pe waiting for her." malcolm feared he had ventured too far, for never before had his grandfather left him except for work. but the possibility he had started might do something to soften the dire endurance of his hatred. his thoughts turned to the new darkness let in upon his history and prospects. all at once the cry of the mad laird rang in his mind's ear: "i dinna ken whaur i cam frae!" duncan's revelation brought with it nothing to be done--hardly anything to be thought--merely room for most shadowy, most unfounded conjecture--nay, not conjecture--nothing but the vaguest of castle building! in merry mood, he would henceforth be the son of some mighty man, with a boundless future of sunshine opening before him; in sad mood, the son of some strolling gipsy or worse--his very origin better forgotten--a disgrace to the existence for his share in which he had hitherto been peacefully thankful. like a lurking phantom shroud, the sad mood leaped from the field of his speculation, and wrapped him in its folds: sure enough he was but a beggar's brat--how henceforth was he to look lady florimel in the face? humble as he had believed his origin, he had hitherto been proud of it: with such a high minded sire as he deemed his own, how could he be other? but now! nevermore could he look one of his old companions in the face! they were all honourable men; he a base born foundling! he would tell mr graham of course; but what could mr graham say to it? the fact remained. he must leave portlossie. his mind went on brooding, speculating, devising. the evening sunk into the night, but he never knew he was in the dark until the housekeeper brought him a light. after a cup of tea, his thoughts found pleasanter paths. one thing was certain: he must lay himself out, as he had never done before, to make duncan macphail happy. with this one thing clear to both heart and mind, he fell fast asleep. chapter xliii: the wizard's chamber he woke in the dark, with that strange feeling of bewilderment which accompanies the consciousness of having been waked: is it that the brain wakes before the mind, and like a servant unexpectedly summoned, does not know what to do with its master from home? or is it that the master wakes first, and the servant is too sleepy to answer his call? quickly coming to himself, however, he sought the cause of the perturbation now slowly ebbing. but the dark into which he stared could tell nothing; therefore he abandoned his eyes, took his station in his ears, and thence sent out his messengers. but neither, for some moments, could the scouts of hearing come upon any sign. at length, something seemed doubtfully to touch the sense-the faintest suspicion of a noise in the next room--the wizard's chamber: it was enough to set malcolm on the floor. forgetting his wounded foot and lighting upon it, the agony it caused him dropped him at once on his hands and knees, and in this posture he crept into the passage. as soon as his head was outside his own door, he saw a faint gleam of light coming from beneath that of the next room. advancing noiselessly, and softly feeling for the latch, his hand encountered a bunch of keys depending from the lock, but happily did not set them jingling. as softly, he lifted the latch, when, almost of itself, the door opened a couple of inches, and, with bated breath, he saw the back of a figure he could not mistake--that of mrs catanach. she was stooping by the side of a tent bed much like his own, fumbling with the bottom hem of one of the check curtains, which she was holding towards the light of a lantern on a chair. suddenly she turned her face to the door, as if apprehending a presence; as suddenly, he closed it, and turned the key in the lock. to do so he had to use considerable force, and concluded its grating sound had been what waked him. having thus secured the prowler, he crept back to his room, considering what he should do next. the speedy result of his cogitations was, that he indued his nether garments, though with difficulty from the size of his foot, thrust his head and arms through a jersey, and set out on hands and knees for an awkward crawl to lord lossie's bedroom. it was a painful journey, especially down the two spiral stone stairs, which led to the first floor where he lay. as he went, malcolm resolved, in order to avoid rousing needless observers, to enter the room, if possible, before waking the marquis. the door opened noiselessly. a night light, afloat in a crystal cup, revealed the bed, and his master asleep, with one arm lying on the crimson quilt. he crept in, closed the door behind him, advanced halfway to the bed, and in a low voice called the marquis. lord lossie started up on his elbow, and without a moment's consideration seized one of a brace of pistols which lay on a table by his side, and fired. the ball went with a sharp thud into the thick mahogany door. "my lord! my lord!" cried malcolm, "it 's only me!" "and who the devil are you?" returned the marquis, snatching up the second pistol. "malcolm, yer ain henchman, my lord." "damn you! what are you about then? get up. what are you after there--crawling like a thief?" as he spoke he leaped from the bed, and seized malcolm by the back of the neck. "it's a mercy i wasna mair like an honest man," said malcolm, "or that bullet wad hae been throu' the hams o' me. yer lordship's a wheen ower rash." "rash! you rascal!" cried lord lossie; "when a fellow comes into my room on his hands and knees in the middle of the night! get up, and tell me what you are after, or, by jove! i'll break every bone in your body." a kick from his bare foot in malcolm's ribs fitly closed the sentence. "ye are ower rash, my lord!" persisted malcolm. "i canna get up. i hae a fit the size o' a sma' buoy!" "speak, then, you rascal!" said his lordship, loosening his hold, and retreating a few steps, with the pistol cocked in his hand. "dinna ye think it wad be better to lock the door, for fear the shot sud bring ony o' the fowk?" suggested malcolm, as he rose to his knees and leaned his hands on a chair. "you're bent on murdering me--are you then?" said the marquis, beginning to come to himself and see the ludicrousness of the situation. "gien i had been that, my lord, i wadna hae waukent ye up first." "well, what the devil is it all about?--you needn't think any of the men will come. they're a pack of the greatest cowards ever breathed." "weel, my lord, i hae gruppit her at last, an' i bude to come an tell ye.'' "leave your beastly gibberish. you can speak what at least resembles english when you like." "weel, my lord, i hae her unner lock an' keye." "who, in the name of satan?" "mistress catanach, my lord!" "damn her eyes! what's she to me that i should be waked out of a good sleep for her?" "that's what i wad fain yer lordship kent: i dinna." "none of your riddles! explain yourself;--and make haste; i want to go to bed again." "'deed, yer lordship maun jist pit on yer claes, an' come wi'." "where to?" "to the warlock's chaumer, my lord--whaur that ill wuman remains 'in durance vile,' as spenser wad say--but no sae vile's hersel', i doobt." thus arrived at length, with a clear road before him, at the opening of his case, malcolm told in few words what had fallen out. as he went on, the marquis grew interested, and by the time he had finished, had got himself into dressing gown and slippers. "wadna ye tak yer pistol?" suggested malcolm slyly. "what! to meet a woman?" said his lordship. "ow na! but wha kens there michtna be anither murderer aboot? there micht be twa in ae nicht." impertinent as was malcolm's humour, his master did not take it amiss: he lighted a candle, told him to lead the way, and took his revenge by making joke after joke upon him as he crawled along. with the upper regions of his house the marquis was as little acquainted, as with those of his nature, and required a guide. arrived at length at the wizard's chamber, they listened at the door for a moment, but heard nothing; neither was there any light visible at its lines of junction. malcolm turned the key, and the marquis stood close behind, ready to enter. but the moment the door was unlocked, it was pulled open violently, and mrs catanach, looking too high to see malcolm who was on his knees, aimed a good blow at the face she did see, in the hope, no doubt, of thus making her escape. but it fell short, being countered by malcolm's head in the softest part of her person, with the result of a clear entrance. the marquis burst out laughing, and stepped into the room with a rough joke. malcolm remained in the doorway. "my lord," said mrs catanach, gathering herself together, and rising little the worse, save in temper, for the treatment he had commented upon, "i have a word for your lordship's own ear." "your right to be there does stand in need of explanation," said the marquis. she walked up to him with confidence. "you shall have an explanation, my lord," she said, "such as shall be my full quittance for intrusion even at this untimely hour of the night." "say on then," returned his lordship. "send that boy away then, my lord." "i prefer having him stay," said the marquis. "not a word shall cross my lips till he's gone," persisted mrs catanach. "i know him too well! awa' wi' ye, ye deil's buckie!" she continued, turning to malcolm; "i ken mair aboot ye nor ye ken aboot yersel', an' deil hae't i ken o' guid to you or yours! but i s' gar ye lauch o' the wrang side o' your mou' yet, my man." malcolm, who had seated himself on the threshold, only laughed and looked reference to his master. "your lordship was never in the way of being frightened at a woman," said mrs catanach, with an ugly expression of insinuation. the marquis shrugged his shoulders. "that depends," he said. then turning to malcolm, "go along," he added; "only keep within call. i may want you." "nane o' yer hearkenin' at the keye hole, though, or i s' lug mark ye, ye--!" said mrs catanach, finishing the sentence none the more mildly that she did it only in her heart. "i wadna hae ye believe a' 'at she says, my lord," said malcolm, with a significant smile, as he turned to creep away. he closed the door behind him, and lest mrs catanach should repossess herself of the key, drew it from the lock, and, removing a few yards, sat down in the passage by his own door. a good many minutes passed, during which he heard not a sound. at length the door opened, and his lordship came out. malcolm looked up, and saw the light of the candle the marquis carried, reflected from a face like that of a corpse. different as they were, malcolm could not help thinking of the only dead face he had ever seen. it terrified him for the moment in which it passed without looking at him. "my lord!" said malcolm gently. his master made no reply. "my lord!" cried malcolm, hurriedly pursuing him with his voice, "am i to lea' the keyes wi' yon hurdon, and lat her open what doors she likes?" "go to bed," said the marquis angrily, "and leave the woman alone;" with which words he turned into the adjoining passage, and disappeared. mrs catanach had not come out of the wizard's chamber, and for a moment malcolm felt strongly tempted to lock her in once more. but he reflected that he had no right to do so after what his lordship had said--else, he declared to himself, he would have given her at least as good a fright as she seemed to have given his master, to whom he had no doubt she had been telling some horrible lies. he withdrew, therefore, into his room--to lie pondering again for a wakeful while. this horrible woman claimed then to know more concerning him than his so called grandfather, and, from her profession; it was likely enough; but information from her was hopeless--at least until her own evil time came; and then, how was any one to believe what she might choose to say? so long, however, as she did not claim him for her own, she could, he thought, do him no hurt he would be afraid to meet. but what could she be about in that room still? she might have gone, though, without the fall of her soft fat foot once betraying her! again he got out of bed, and crept to the wizard's door, and listened. but all was still. he tried to open it, but could not: mrs catanach was doubtless spending the night there, and perhaps at that moment lay, evil conscience and all, fast asleep in the tent bed. he withdrew once more, wondering whether she was aware that he occupied the next room; and, having, for the first time, taken care to fasten his own door, got into bed, finally this time, and fell asleep. chapter xliv: the hermit malcolm had flattered himself that he would at least be able to visit his grandfather the next day; but, instead of that, he did not even make an attempt to rise--head as well as foot aching so much, that he felt unfit for the least exertion--a phase of being he had never hitherto known. mrs courthope insisted on advice, and the result was that a whole week passed before he was allowed to leave his room. in the meantime, a whisper awoke and passed from mouth to mouth in all directions through the little burgh--whence arising only one could tell, for even her mouthpiece, miss horn's jean, was such a mere tool in the midwife's hands, that she never doubted but mrs catanach was, as she said, only telling the tale as it was told to her. mrs catanach, moreover, absolutely certain that no threats would render jean capable of holding her tongue, had so impressed upon her the terrible consequences of repeating what she had told her, that, the moment the echo of her own utterances began to return to her own ears, she began to profess an utter disbelief in the whole matter--the precise result mrs catanach had foreseen and intended: now she lay unsuspected behind jean, as behind a wall whose door was built up; for she had so graduated her threats, gathering the fullest and vaguest terrors of her supernatural powers about her name, that while jean dared, with many misgivings, to tamper with the secret itself she dared not once mention mrs catanach in connection with it. for mrs catanach herself, she never alluded to the subject, and indeed when it was mentioned in her hearing pretended to avoid it; but at the same time she took good care that her silence should be not only eloquent, but discreetly so, that is, implying neither more nor less than she wished to be believed. the whisper, in its first germinal sprout, was merely that malcolm was not a macphail; and even in its second stage it only amounted to this, that neither was he the grandson of old duncan. in the third stage of its development, it became the assertion that malcolm was the son of somebody of consequence; and in the fourth, that a certain person, not yet named, lay under shrewd suspicion. the fifth and final form it took was, that malcolm was the son of mrs stewart of gersefell, who had been led to believe that he died within a few days of his birth, whereas he had in fact been carried off and committed to the care of duncan macphail, who drew a secret annual stipend of no small amount in consequence--whence indeed his well known riches! concerning this final form of the whisper, a few of the women of the burgh believed or thought or fancied they remembered both the birth and reported death of the child in question--also certain rumours afloat at the time, which cast an air of probability over the new reading of his fate. in circles more remote from authentic sources, the general reports met with remarkable embellishments, but the framework of the rumour--what i may call the bones of it --remained undisputed. from mrs catanach's behaviour, every one believed that she knew all about the affair, but no one had a suspicion that she was the hidden fountain and prime mover of the report--so far to the contrary was it that people generally anticipated a frightful result for her when the truth came to be known, for that mrs stewart would follow her with all the vengeance of a bereaved tigress. some indeed there were who fancied that the mother, if not in full complicity with the midwife, had at least given her consent to the arrangement; but these were not a little shaken in their opinion when at length mrs stewart herself began to figure more immediately in the affair, and it was witnessed that she had herself begun to search into the report. certain it was that she had dashed into the town in a carriage and pair--the horses covered with foam--and had hurried, quite raised-like, from house to house, prosecuting inquiries. it was said that, finding at length, after much labour that she could arrive at no certainty even as to the first promulgator of the assertion, she had a terrible fit of crying, and professed herself unable, much as she would have wished it, to believe a word of the report: it was far too good news to be true; no such luck ever fell to her share--and so on. that she did not go near duncan macphail was accounted for by the reflection, that, on the supposition itself, he was of the opposite party, and the truth was not to be looked for from him. at length it came to be known that, strongly urged, and battling with a repugnance all but invincible, she had gone to see mrs catanach, and had issued absolutely radiant with joy, declaring that she was now absolutely satisfied, and, as soon as she had communicated with the young man himself, would, without compromising any one, take what legal steps might be necessary to his recognition as her son. although, however, these things had been going on all the week that malcolm was confined to his room, they had not reached this last point until after he was out again, and mean time not a whisper of them had come to his or duncan's ears. had they been still in the seaton, one or other of the travelling ripples of talk must have found them; but duncan had come and gone between his cottage and malcolm's bedside, without a single downy feather from the still widening flap of the wings of fame ever dropping on him; and the only persons who visited malcolm besides were the doctor--too discreet in his office to mix himself up with gossip; mr graham, to whom nobody, except it had been miss horn, whom he had not seen for a fortnight, would have dreamed of mentioning such a subject; and mrs courthope--not only discreet like the doctor, but shy of such discourse as any reference to the rumour must usher in its train. at length he was sufficiently recovered to walk to his grandfather's cottage; but only now for the first time had he a notion of how far bodily condition can reach in the oppression and overclouding of the spiritual atmosphere. "gien i be like this," he said to himself, "what maun the weather be like aneth yon hump o' the laird's!" now also for the first time he understood what mr graham had meant when he told him that he only was a strong man who was strong in weakness; he only a brave man who, inhabiting trembling, yet faced his foe; he only a true man who, tempted by good, yet abstained. duncan received him with delight, made him sit in his own old chair, got him a cup of tea, and waited upon him with the tenderness of a woman. while he drank his tea, malcolm recounted his last adventure in connection with the wizard's chamber. "tat will be ta ped she'll saw in her feeshon," said duncan, whose very eyes seemed to listen to the tale. when malcolm came to mrs catanach's assertion that she knew more of him than he did himself-- "then she peliefs ta voman does, my poy. we are aall poth of us in ta efil voman's power," said duncan sadly. "never a hair, daddy!" cried malcolm. "a' pooer 's i' the han's o' ane, that's no her maister. ken she what she likes, she canna pairt you an' me, daddy." "god forpid!" responded duncan. "but we must pe on our kard." close by the cottage stood an ivy grown bridge, of old leading the king's highway across the burn to the auld toon, but now leading only to the flower garden. eager for the open air of which he had been so long deprived, and hoping he might meet the marquis or lady florimel, malcolm would have had his grandfather to accompany him thither; but duncan declined, for he had not yet attended to the lamps; and malcolm therefore went alone. he was slowly wandering, where never wind blew, betwixt rows of stately hollyhocks, on which his eyes fed, while his ears were filled with the sweet noises of a little fountain, issuing from the upturned beak of a marble swan, which a marble urchin sought in vain to check by squeezing the long throat of the bird, when the sounds of its many toned fall in the granite basin seemed suddenly centupled on every side, and malcolm found himself caught in a tremendous shower. prudent enough to avoid getting wet in the present state of his health, he made for an arbour he saw near by, on the steep side of the valley--one he had never before happened to notice. now it chanced that lord lossie himself was in the garden, and, caught also by the rain while feeding some pet goldfishes in a pond, betook himself to the same summer house, following malcolm. entering the arbour, malcolm was about to seat himself until the shower should be over, when, perceiving a mossy arched entrance to a gloomy recess in the rock behind, he went to peep into it, curious to see what sort of a place it was. now the foolish whim of a past generation had, in the farthest corner of the recess, and sideways from the door, seated the figure of a hermit, whose jointed limbs were so furnished with springs and so connected with the stone that floored the entrance, that as soon as a foot pressed the threshold, he rose, advanced a step, and held out his hand. the moment, therefore, malcolm stepped in, up rose a pale, hollow cheeked, emaciated man, with eyes that stared glassily, made a long skeleton like stride towards him, and held out a huge bony hand, rather, as it seemed, with the intent of clutching, than of greeting, him. an unaccountable horror seized him; with a gasp which had nearly become a cry, he staggered backwards out of the cave. it seemed to add to his horror that the man did not follow--remained lurking in the obscurity behind. in the arbour malcolm turned-- turned to flee!--though why, or from what, he had scarce an idea. but when he turned he encountered the marquis, who was just entering the arbour. "well, macphail," he said kindly, " glad--" but his glance became fixed in a stare; he changed colour, and did not finish his sentence. "i beg yer lordship's pardon," said malcolm, wondering through all his perturbation at the look he had brought on his master's face; "i didna ken ye was at han'." "what the devil makes you look like that?" said the marquis, plainly with an effort to recover himself. malcolm gave a hurried glance over his shoulder. "ah! i see!" said his lordship, with a mechanical kind of smile, very unlike his usual one; "--you've never been in there before?" "no, my lord." "and you got a fright?" "ken ye wha's that, in there, my lord?" "you booby! it's nothing but a dummy--with springs, and--and --all damned tomfoolery!" while he spoke his mouth twitched oddly, but instead of his bursting into the laugh of enjoyment natural to him at the discomfiture of another, his mouth kept on twitching and his eyes staring. "ye maun hae seen him yersel' ower my shouther, my lord," hinted malcolm. "i saw your face, and that was enough to--" but the marquis did not finish the sentence. "weel, 'cep it was the oonnaiteral luik o' the thing--no human, an' yet sae dooms like it--i can not account for the grue or the trimmle 'at cam ower me, my lord, i never fan' onything like it i' my life afore. an' even noo 'at i unnerstan' what it is, i kenna what wad gar me luik the boody (bogie) i' the face again." "go in at once," said the marquis fiercely. malcolm looked him full in the eyes. "ye mean what ye say, my lord?" "yes, by god!" said the marquis, with an expression i can describe only as of almost savage solemnity. malcolm stood silent for one moment. "do you think i'll have a man about me that has no more courage than --than--a woman!" said his master, concluding with an effort. "i was jist turnin' ower an auld question, my lord--whether it be lawfu' to obey a tyrant. but it 's na worth stan'in' oot upo'. i s' gang." he turned to the arch, placed a hand on each side of it, and leaned forward with outstretched neck, peeped cautiously in, as if it were the den of a wild beast. the moment he saw the figure--seated on a stool--he was seized with the same unaccountable agitation, and drew back shivering. "go in," shouted the marquis. most britons would count obedience to such a command slavish; but malcolm's idea of liberty differed so far from that of most britons, that he felt, if now he refused to obey the marquis, he might be a slave for ever; for he had already learned to recognize and abhor that slavery which is not the less the root of all other slaveries that it remains occult in proportion to its potency--self slavery: he must and would conquer this whim, antipathy, or whatever the loathing might be: it was a grand chance given him of proving his will supreme--that is himself a free man! he drew himself up, with a full breath, and stepped within the arch. up rose the horror again, jerked itself towards him with a clank, and held out its hand. malcolm seized it with such a gripe that its fingers came off in his grasp. "will that du, my lord?" he said calmly, turning a face rigid with hidden conflict, and gleaming white, from the framework of the arch, upon his master, whose eyes seemed to devour him. "come out," said the marquis, in a voice that seemed to belong to some one else. "i hae blaudit yer playock, my lord," said malcolm ruefully, as he stepped from the cave and held out the fingers. lord lossie turned and left the arbour. had malcolm followed his inclination, he would have fled from it, but he mastered himself still, and walked quietly out. the marquis was pacing, with downbent head and hasty strides, up the garden: malcolm turned the other way. the shower was over, and the sun was drawing out millions of mimic suns from the drops that hung, for a moment ere they fell, from flower and bush and great tree. but malcolm saw nothing. perplexed with himself and more perplexed yet with the behaviour of his master, he went back to his grandfather's cottage, and, as soon as he came in, recounted to him the whole occurrence. "he had a feeshon," said the bard, with wide eyes. "he comes of a race that sees." "what cud the veesion hae been, daddy?" "tat she knows not, for ta feeshon tid not come to her," said the piper solemnly. had the marquis had his vision in london, he would have gone straight to his study, as he called it, not without a sense of the absurdity involved, opened a certain cabinet, and drawn out a certain hidden drawer; being at lossie, he walked up the glen of the burn to the bare hill, overlooking the house, the royal burgh, the great sea, and his own lands lying far and wide around him. but all the time he saw nothing of these--he saw but the low white forehead of his vision, a mouth of sweetness, and hazel eyes that looked into his very soul. malcolm walked back to the house, clomb the narrow duct of an ancient stone stair that went screwing like a great auger through the pile from top to bottom, sought the wide lonely garret, flung himself upon his bed, and from his pillow gazed through the little dormer window on the pale blue skies flecked with cold white clouds, while in his mind's eye he saw the foliage beneath burning in the flames of slow decay, diverse as if each of the seven in the prismatic chord had chosen and seared its own: the first nor'easter that drove the flocks of neptune on the sands, would sweep its ashes away. life, he said to himself, was but a poor gray kind of thing after all. the peacock summer had folded its gorgeous train, and the soul within him had lost its purple and green, its gold and blue. he never thought of asking how much of the sadness was owing to bodily conditions with which he was little acquainted, and to compelled idleness in one accustomed to an active life. but if he had, the sorrowful probabilities of life would have seemed just the same. and indeed he might have argued that, to be subject to any evil from a cause inadequate, only involves an absurdity that embitters the pain by its mockery. he had yet to learn what faith can do, in the revelation of the moodless, for the subjugation of mood to will. as he lay thus weighed upon rather than pondering, his eye fell on the bunch of keys which he had taken from the door of the wizard's chamber, and he wondered that mrs courthope had not seen and taken them--apparently had not missed them. and the chamber doomed to perpetual desertion lying all the time open to any stray foot! once more at least, he must go and turn the key in the lock. as he went the desire awoke to look again into the chamber, for that night he had had neither light nor time enough to gain other than the vaguest impression of it. but for no lifting of the latch would the door open.--how could the woman--witch she must be--have locked it? he proceeded to unlock it. he tried one key, then another. he went over the whole bunch. mystery upon mystery!--not one of them would turn. bethinking himself, he began to try them the other way, and soon found one to throw the bolt on. he turned it in the contrary direction, and it threw the bolt off: still the door remained immovable! it must then --awful thought!--be fast on the inside! was the woman's body lying there behind those check curtains? would it lie there until it vanished, like that of the wizard,--vanished utterly--bones and all, to a little dust, which one day a housemaid might sweep up in a pan? on the other hand, if she had got shut in, would she not have made noise enough to be heard?--he had been day and night in the next room! but it was not a spring lock, and how could that have happened? or would she not have been missed, and inquiry made after her? only such an inquiry might well have never turned in the direction of lossie house, and he might never have heard of it, if it had. anyhow he must do something; and the first rational movement would clearly be to find out quietly for himself whether the woman was actually missing or not. tired as he was he set out at once for the burgh, and the first person he saw was mrs catanach standing on her doorstep and shading her eyes with her hand, as she looked away out to the horizon over the roofs of the seaton. he went no farther. in the evening he found an opportunity of telling his master how the room was strangely closed; but his lordship pooh poohed, and said something must have gone wrong with the clumsy old lock. with vague foresight, malcolm took its key from the bunch, and, watching his opportunity, unseen hung the rest on their proper nail in the housekeeper's room. then, having made sure that the door of the wizard's chamber was locked, he laid the key away in his own chest. chapter xlv: mr cairns and the marquis the religious movement amongst the fisher folk was still going on. their meeting was now held often during the week, and at the same hour on the sunday as other people met at church. nor was it any wonder that, having participated in the fervour which pervaded their gatherings in the cave, they should have come to feel the so called divine service in the churches of their respective parishes a dull, cold, lifeless, and therefore unhelpful ordinance, and at length regarding it as composed of beggarly elements, breathing of bondage, to fill the baillies' barn three times every sunday--a reverential and eager congregation. now, had they confined their prayers and exhortations to those which, from an ecclesiastical point of view, constitute the unholy days of the week, mr cairns would have neither condescended nor presumed to take any notice of them; but when the bird's eye view from his pulpit began to show patches of bare board where human forms had wont to appear; and when these plague spots had not only lasted through successive sundays, but had begun to spread more rapidly, he began to think it time to put a stop to such fanatical aberrations--the result of pride and spiritual presumption-- hostile towards god, and rebellious towards their lawful rulers and instructors. for what an absurdity it was that the spirit of truth should have anything to communicate to illiterate and vulgar persons except through the mouths of those to whom had been committed the dispensation of the means of grace! whatever wind might blow, except from their bellows, was, to mr cairns at least, not even of doubtful origin. indeed the priests of every religion, taken in class, have been the slowest to recognize the wind of the spirit, and the quickest to tell whence the blowing came and whither it went--even should it have blown first on their side of the hedge. and how could it be otherwise? how should they recognize as a revival the motions of life unfelt in their own hearts, where it was most required? what could they know of doubts and fears, terrors and humiliations, agonies of prayer, ecstasies of relief, and thanksgiving, who regarded their high calling as a profession, with social claims and ecclesiastical rights; and even as such had so little respect for it that they talked of it themselves as the cloth? how could such a man as mr cairns, looking down from the height of his great soberness and the dignity of possessing the oracles and the ordinances, do other than contemn the enthusiasms and excitements of ignorant repentance? how could such as he recognize in the babble of babes the slightest indication of the revealing of truths hid from the wise and prudent; especially since their rejoicing also was that of babes, hence carnal, and accompanied by all the weaknesses and some of the vices which it had required the utmost energy of the prince of apostles to purge from one at least of the early churches? he might, however, have sought some foundation for a true judgment, in a personal knowledge of their doctrine and collective behaviour; but, instead of going to hear what the babblers had to say, and thus satisfying himself whether the leaders of the movement spoke the words of truth and soberness, or of discord and denial-- whether their teaching and their prayers were on the side of order and law, or tending to sedition--he turned a ready ear to all the reports afloat concerning them, and, misjudging them utterly, made up his mind to use all lawful means for putting an end to their devotions and exhortations. one fact he either had not heard or made no account of--that the public houses in the villages whence these assemblies were chiefly gathered, had already come to be all but deserted. alone, then, and unsupported by one of his brethren of the presbytery, even of those who suffered like himself, he repaired to lossie house, and laid before the marquis the whole matter from his point of view--that the tabernacles of the lord were deserted for dens and caves of the earth; that fellows so void of learning as not to be able to put a sentence together, or talk decent english, (a censure at which lord lossie smiled, for his ears were accustomed to a different quality of english from that which now invaded them) took upon themselves to expound the scriptures; that they taught antinomianism, (for which assertion, it must be confessed, there was some apparent ground) and were at the same time suspected of arminianism and anabaptism: that, in a word, they were a terrible disgrace to the godly and hitherto sober minded parishes in which the sect, if it might be dignified with even such a name, had sprung up. the marquis listened with much indifference, and some impatience: what did he or any other gentleman care about such things? besides, he had a friendly feeling towards the fisher folk, and a decided disinclination to meddle with their liberty, either of action or utterance.* *[ill, from all artistic points of view, as such a note comes in, i must, for reasons paramount to artistic considerations, remind my readers, that not only is the date of my story half a century or so back, but, dealing with principles, has hardly anything to do with actual events, and nothing at all with persons. the local skeleton of the story alone is taken from the real, and i had not a model, not to say an original, for one of the characters in it --except indeed mrs catanach's dog.] "but what have i to do with it, mr cairns?" he said, when the stream of the parson's utterance had at length ceased to flow. "i am not a theologian; and if i were, i do not see how that even would give me a right to interfere." "in such times of insubordination as these, my lord," said mr cairns, "when every cadger thinks himself as good as an earl, it is more than desirable that not a single foothold should be lost. there must be a general election soon, my lord. besides, these men abuse your lordship's late hospitality, declaring it has had the worst possible influence on the morals of the people." a shadow of truth rendered this assertion the worse misrepresentation: no blame to the marquis had even been hinted at; the speakers had only animadverted on the fishermen who had got drunk on the occasion. "still," said the marquis, smiling, for the reported libel did not wound him very deeply, "what ground of right have i to interfere?" "the shore is your property, my lord--every rock and every buckie (spiral shell) upon it; the caves are your own--every stone and pebble of them: you can prohibit all such assemblies." "and what good would that do? they would only curse me, and go somewhere else." "where could they go, where the same law wouldn't hold, my lord? the coast is yours for miles and miles on both sides." "i don't know that it should be." "why not, my lord? it has belonged to your family from time immemorial, and will belong to it, i trust, while the moon endureth." "they used to say," said the marquis thoughtfully, as if he were recalling something he had heard long ago, "that the earth was the lord's." "this part of it is lord lossie's," said mr cairns, combining the jocular with the complimentary in one irreverence; but, as if to atone for the freedom he had taken--"the deity has committed it to the great ones of the earth to rule for him," he added, with a devout obeisance to the delegate. lord lossie laughed inwardly. "you can even turn them out of their houses, if you please, my lord," he superadded. "god forbid!" said the marquis. "a threat--the merest hint of such a measure is all that would be necessary." "but are you certain of the truth of these accusations?" "my lord!" "of course you believe them, or you would not repeat them, but it does not follow that they are fact." "they are matter of common report, my lord. what i have stated is in every one's mouth." "but you have not yourself heard any of their sermons, or what do they call them?" "no, my lord," said mr cairns, holding up his white hands in repudiation of the idea; "it would scarcely accord with my position to act the spy." "so, to keep yourself immaculate, you take all against them for granted! i have no such scruples, however. i will go and see, or rather hear, what they are about: after that i shall be in a position to judge." "your lordship's presence will put them on their guard." "if the mere sight of me is a check," returned the marquis, "extreme measures will hardly be necessary." he spoke definitively, and made a slight movement, which his visitor accepted as his dismissal. he laughed aloud when the door closed, for the spirit of what the germans call schadenfreude was never far from his elbow, and he rejoiced in the parson's discomfiture. it was in virtue of his simplicity, precluding discomfiture, that malcolm could hold his own with him so well. for him he now sent. "well, macphail," he said kindly, as the youth entered, "how is that foot of yours getting on?" "brawly, my lord; there's naething muckle the maitter wi' hit or me aither, noo 'at we're up. but i was jist nearhan' deid o' ower muckle bed." "had n't you better come down out of that cockloft?" said the marquis, dropping his eyes. "na, my lord; i dinna care aboot pairtin' wi' my neebour yet." "what neighbour?" "ow, the auld warlock, or whatever it may be 'at hauds a reemish (romage) there." "what! is he troublesome next? "ow, na! no thinkin' 't; but 'deed i dinna ken, my lord!" said malcolm. "what do you mean, then?" "gien yer lordship wad aloo me to force yon door, i wad be better able to tell ye." "then the old man is not quiet?" "there's something no quaiet." "nonsense! it's all your imagination--depend on it." "i dinna think it." "what do you think, then? you're not afraid of ghosts, surely?" "no muckle. i hae naething mair upo' my conscience nor i can bide i' the deidest o' the nicht." "then you think ghosts come of a bad conscience? a kind of moral delirium tremens--eh?" "i dinna ken, my lord; but that's the only kin' o' ghaist i wad be fleyed at--at least 'at i wad rin frae. i wad a heap raither hae a ghaist i' my hoose nor ane far'er benn. an ill man, or wuman, like mistress catanach, for enstance, 'at's a'boady, 'cep' what o' her 's deevil," "nonsense!" said the marquis, angrily; but malcolm went on: "--maun be jist fu' o' ghaists! an' for onything i ken, that 'll be what maks ghaists o' themsel's efter they're deid, settin' them waukin', as they ca' 't. it's full waur nor bein' possessed wi' deevils, an' maun be a hantle mair ooncoamfortable.--but i wad hae yon door opent, my lord." "nonsense!" exclaimed the marquis once more, and shrugged his shoulders. "you must leave that room. if i hear anything more about noises, or that sort of rubbish, i shall insist upon it.--i sent for you now, however, to ask you about these clandestine meetings of the fisher folk." "clandestine, my lord? there's no clam aboot them, but the clams upo' the rocks." the marquis was not etymologist enough to understand malcolm's poor pun, and doubtless thought it worse than it was. "i don't want any fooling," he said. "of course you know these people?" "ilka man, wuman, an' bairn o' them," answered malcolm. "and what sort are they?" "siclike as ye micht expec'." "that's not a very luminous answer." "weel, they're nae waur nor ither fowk, to begin wi'; an' gien this hauds, they'll be better nor mony." "what sort are their leaders?" "guid, respectable fowk, my lord." "then there's not much harm in them?" "there's nane but what they wad fain be rid o'. i canna say as muckle for a' 'at hings on to them. there's o' them, nae doobt, wha wad fain win to h'aven ohn left their sins ahin' them; but they get nae encouragement frae maister macleod. blue peter, 'at gangs oot wi' 's i' yer lordship's boat--he's ane o' their best men-- though he never gangs ayont prayin', tauld." "which is far enough, surely," said his lordship, who, belonging to the episcopal church, had a different idea concerning the relative dignities of preaching and praying. "ay, for a body's sel', surely; but maybe no aye eneuch for ither fowk," answered malcolm, always ready after his clumsy fashion. "have you been to any of these meetings?" "i was at the first twa, my lord." "why not more?" "i didna care muckle aboot them, an' i hae aye plenty to du. besides, i can get mair oot o' maister graham wi' twa words o' a question nor the haill crew o' them could tell me atween this an' eternity." "well, i am going to trust you," said the marquis slowly, with an air of question rather than of statement. "ye may du that, my lord." "you mean i may with safety?" "i div mean that same, my lord." "you can hold your tongue then?" "i can, an' i wull my lord," said malcolm; but added in haste, "-- 'cept it interfere wi' ony foregane agreement or nat'ral obligation." it must be borne in mind that malcolm was in the habit of discussing all sorts of questions with mr graham: some of the formulae wrought out between them he had made himself thoroughly master of. "by jupiter!" exclaimed the marquis, with a pause of amusement. "well," he went on, "i suppose i must take you on your own terms. --they've been asking me to put a stop to these conventicles." "wha has, my lord?" "that's my business." "lat it be nae ither body's, my lord." "that's my intention. i told him i would go and myself." "jist like yer lordship!" "what do you mean by that?" "i was aye sure ye was for fair play, my lord." "it's little enough i've ever had," said the marquis. "sae lang's we gie plenty, my lord, it maitters less hoo muckle we get. a'body likes to get it." "that doctrine won't carry you far, my lad." "far eneuch, gien 't cairry me throu', my lord." "how absolute the knave is!" said his lordship good humouredly. "-- well, but," he resumed, "--about these fishermen: only afraid mr cairns was right." "what said he, my lord?" "that, when they saw me there, they would fit their words to my ears." "i ken them better nor ony black coat atween cromarty an' peterheid; an' i can tell yer lordship there winna be ae word o' differ for your bein' there." "if only i could be there and not there both at once! there's no other sure mode of testing your assertion. what a pity the only thorough way should be an impossible one!" "to a' practical purpose, it 's easy eneuch, my lord. jist gang ohn be seen the first nicht, an' the neist gang in a co'ch an' fower. syne compaur." "quite satisfactory, no doubt, if i could bring myself to do it; but, though i said i would, i don't like to interfere so far even as to go at all." "at ony public meetin', my lord, ye hae as guid a richt to be present, as the puirest body i' the lan'. an' forbye that, as lord o' the place, ye hae a richt to ken what's gaein' on: i dinna ken hoo far the richt o' interferin' gangs; that's anither thing a'thegither." "i see you're a thorough going rebel yourself." "naething o' the kind, my lord. only sae far o' yer lordship's min' 'at i like fair play--gien a body could only be aye richt sure what was fair play!" "yes, there's the very point!--certainly, at least, when the question comes to be of eavesdropping--not to mention that i could never condescend to play the spy." "what a body has a richt to hear, he may hear as he likes--either shawin' himsel' or hidin' himsel'. an' it 's the only plan 'at 's fair to them, my lord. it's no 's gien yer lordship was lyin' in wait to du them a mischeef: ye want raither to du them a kin'ness, an' tak their pairt." "i don't know that, malcolm. it depends." "it's plain yer lordship's prejudeezed i' their fawvour. ony. gait sartin it 's fair play ye want; an' i canna for the life o' me see a hair o' wrang i' yer lordship's gaein' in a cogue, as auld tammy dyster ca's 't; for, at the warst, ye cud only interdick them, an' that ye cud du a' the same, whether ye gaed or no. an', gien ye be sae wulled, i can tak you an' my leddy whaur ye 'll hear ilka word 'at 's uttered, an' no a body get a glimp o' ye, mair nor gien ye was sittin' at yer ain fireside as ye are the noo." "that does make a difference!" said the marquis, a great part of whose unwillingness arose from the dread of discovery. "it would be very amusing." "i'll no promise ye that," returned malcolm. "i dinna ken aboot that.--there's jist ae objection hooever: ye wad hae to gang a guid hoor afore they begoud to gaither.--an' there's aye laadies aboot the place sin' they turned it intill a kirk!" he added thoughtfully. "but," he resumed, "we cud manage them." "how?" "i wad get my gran'father to strik' up wi' a spring upo' the pipes, o' the other side o' the bored craig--or lat aff a shot of the sweevil: they wad a' rin to see, an' i' the meantime we cud lan' ye frae the cutter. we wad hae ye in an' oot o' sicht in a moment --blue peter an' me--as quaiet as gien ye war ghaists, an' the hoor midnicht." the marquis was persuaded, but objected to the cutter. they would walk there, he said. so it was arranged that malcolm should take him and lady florimel to the baillies' barn the very next time the fishermen had a meeting. chapter xlvi: the baillies' barn lady florimel was delighted at the prospect of such an adventure. the evening arrived. an hour before the time appointed for the meeting, the three issued from the tunnel, and passed along the landward side of the dune, towards the promontory. there sat the piper on the swivel, ready to sound a pibroch the moment they should have reached the shelter of the bored craig--his signal being malcolm's whistle. the plan answered perfectly. in a few minutes, all the children within hearing were gathered about duncan--a rarer sight to them than heretofore--and the way was clear to enter unseen. it was already dusk, and the cave was quite dark, but malcolm lighted a candle, and, with a little difficulty, got them up into the wider part of the cleft, where he had arranged comfortable seats with plaids and cushions. as soon as they were placed, he extinguished the light. "i wish you would tell us another story, malcolm," said lady florimel. "do," said the marquis "the place is not consecrated yet." "did ye ever hear the tale o' the auld warlock, my leddy?" asked malcolm. "only my lord kens 't!" he added. "i don't," said lady florimel. "it's great nonsense," said the marquis. "do let us have it, papa." "very well. i don't mind hearing it again." he wanted to see how malcolm would embellish it. "it seems to me," said malcolm, "that this ane aboot lossie hoose' an' yon ane aboot colonsay castel, are verra likly but twa stalks frae the same rute. ony gate, this ane aboot the warlock maun be the auldest o' the twa. ye s' hae 't sic 's i hae 't mysel'. mistress coorthoup taul' 't to me." it was after his own more picturesque fashion, however, that he recounted the tale of lord gernon. as the last words left his lips, lady florimel gave a startled cry, seized him by the arm, and crept close to him. the marquis jumped to his feet, knocked his head against the rock, uttered an oath, and sat down again. "what ails ye, my leddy!" said malcolm. "there's naething here to hurt ye." "i saw a face," she said, "a white face!" "whaur?" "beyond you a little way--near the ground," she answered, in a tremulous whisper. "it's as dark's pick!" said malcolm, as if thinking it to himself. --he knew well enough that it must be the laird or phemy, but he was anxious the marquis should not learn the secret of the laird's refuge. "i saw a face anyhow," said florimel. "it gleamed white for one moment, and then vanished." "i wonner ye didna cry oot waur, my leddy," said malcolm, peering into the darkness. "i was too frightened. it looked so ghastly!--not more than a foot from the ground." "cud it hae been a flash, like, frae yer ain een ?" "no i am sure it was a face." "how much is there of this cursed hole?" asked the marquis; rubbing the top of his head. "a heap," answered malcolm. "the grun' gangs down like a brae ahin' 's, intil a--" "you don't mean right behind us?" cried the marquis. "nae jist doss, my lord. we're sittin' i' the mou' o' 't, like, wi' the thrapple (throat) o' 't ahin' 's, an' a muckle stamach ayont that." "i hope there's no danger," said the marquis. "nane 'at i ken o'." "no water at the bottom ?" "nane, my lord--that is, naething but a bonny spring i' the rock side." "come away, papa!" cried florimel. "i don't like it. i've had enough of this kind of thing." "nonsense!" said the marquis, still rubbing his head. "ye wad spile a', my leddy! it's ower late, forbye," said malcolm; "i hear a fut." he rose and peeped out, but drew back instantly, saying in a whisper: "it's mistress catanach wi' a lantren! haud yer tongue, my bonny leddy; ye ken weel she's no mowse. dinna try to leuk, my lord; she micht get a glimp o' ye--she's terrible gleg. i hae been hearin' mair yet aboot her. yer lordship 's ill to convence, but depen' upo' 't, whaurever that woman is, there there's mischeef! whaur she taks a scunner at a body, she hates like the verra deevil. she winna aye lat them ken 't, but taks time to du her ill turns. an' it 's no that only, but gien she gets a haud o' onything agane anybody, she'll save 't up upo' the chance o' their giein' her some offence afore they dee. she never lowses haud o' the tail o' a thing, an' at her ain proaper time, she's in her natur' bun' to mak the warst use o' 't." malcolm was anxious both to keep them still, and to turn aside any further inquiry as to the face florimel had seen. again he peeped out. "what is she efter noo? she's comin' this gait," he went on, in a succession of whispers, turning his head back over his shoulder when he spoke. "gien she thoucht ther was a hole i' the perris she didna ken a' the oots an' ins o', it wad baud her ohn sleepit.-- weesht! weesht! here she comes!" he concluded, after a listening pause, in the silence of which he could hear her step approaching. he stretched out his neck over the ledge, and saw her coming straight for the back of the cave, looking right before her with slow moving, keen, wicked eyes. it was impossible to say what made them look wicked: neither in form, colour, motion, nor light, were they ugly--yet in everyone of these they looked wicked, as her lantern, which, being of horn, she had opened for more light, now and then, as it swung in her hand, shone upon her pale, pulpy, evil countenance. "gien she tries to come up, i'll hae to caw her doon," he said to himself, "an' i dinna like it, for she's a wuman efter a', though a deevilich kin' o' a ane; but there's my leddy! i hae broucht her intill 't, an' i maun see her safe oot o' 't!" but if mrs. catanach was bent on an exploration, she was for the time prevented from prosecuting it by the approach of the first of the worshippers, whose voices they now plainly heard. she retreated towards the middle of the cave, and sat down in a dark corner, closing her lantern and hiding it with the skirt of her long cloak. presently a good many entered at once, some carrying lanterns, and most of them tallow candles, which they quickly lighted and disposed about the walls. the rest of the congregation, with its leaders, came trooping in so fast, that in ten minutes or so the service began. as soon as the singing commenced, malcolm whispered to lady florimel, "was 't a man's face or a lassie's ye saw, my leddy?" "a man's face--the same we saw in the storm," she answered, and malcolm felt her shudder as she spoke. "it's naething but the mad laird," he said. "he 's better nor hairmless. dinna say a word to yer father my leddy. i dinna like to say that, but i 'll tell ye a' what for efterhin'." but florimel, knowing that her father had a horror of lunatics, was willing enough to be silent. no sooner was her terror thus assuaged, than the oddities of the singing laid hold upon her, stirring up a most tyrannous impulse to laughter. the prayer that followed made it worse. in itself the prayer was perfectly reverent, and yet, for dread of irreverence, i must not attempt a representation of the forms of its embodiment, or the manner of its utterance. so uncontrollable did her inclination to merriment become, that she found at last the only way to keep from bursting into loud laughter was to slacken the curb, and go off at a canter--i mean, to laugh freely but gently. this so infected her father, that he straightway accompanied her, but with more noise. malcolm sat in misery, from the fear not so much of discovery, though that would be awkward enough, as of the loss to the laird of his best refuge. but when he reflected, he doubted much whether it was even now a safe one; and, anyhow, knew it would be as vain to remonstrate as to try to stop the noise of a brook by casting pebbles into it. when it came to the sermon, however, things went better; for macleod was the preacher,--an eloquent man after his kind, in virtue of the genuine earnestness of which he was full. if his anxiety for others appeared to be rather to save them from the consequences of their sins, his main desire for himself certainly was to be delivered from evil; the growth of his spiritual nature, while it rendered him more and more dissatisfied with himself, had long left behind all fear save of doing wrong. his sermon this evening was founded on the text: "the natural man receiveth not the things of the spirit of god." he spoke fervently and persuasively; nor, although his tone and accent were odd, and his celtic modes and phrases to those saxon ears outlandish, did these peculiarities in the least injure the influence of the man. even from florimel was the demon of laughter driven; and the marquis, although not a single notion of what the man intended passed through the doors of his understanding, sat quiet, and disapproved of nothing. possibly, had he been alone as he listened, he too, like one of old, might have heard, in the dark cave, the still small voice of a presence urging him forth to the light; but, as it was, the whole utterance passed without a single word or phrase or sentence having roused a thought, or suggested a doubt, or moved a question, or hinted an objection or a need of explanation. that the people present should interest themselves in such things, only set before him the folly of mankind. the text and the preacher both kept telling him that such as he could by no possibility have the slightest notion what such things were; but not the less did he, as if he knew all about them, wonder how the deluded fisher folk could sit and listen. the more tired he grew, the more angry he got with the parson who had sent him there with his foolery: and the more convinced that the men who prayed and preached were as honest as they were silly; and that the thing to die of itself had only to be let alone. he heard the amen of the benediction with a sigh of relief, and rose at once-- cautiously this time. "ye maunna gang yet, my lord," said malcolm. "they maun be a' oot first." "i don't care who sees me," protested the weary man. "but yer lordship wadna like to be descriet scram'lin' doon efter the back like the bear in robinson crusoe!" the marquis grumbled, and yielded impatiently. at length malcolm, concluding from the silence that the meeting had thoroughly skailed, peeped cautiously out to make sure. but after a moment, he drew back, saying in a regretful whisper, " sorry ye canna gang yet, my lord. there's some half a dizzen o' ill luikin' chields, cairds (gipsies), thinkin', or maybe waur, congregat doon there, an' it 's my opinion they're efter nae guid, my lord." "how do you know that?" "ony body wad ken that, 'at got a glimp o' them." "let me look." "na, my lord; ye dinna understan' the lie o' the stanes eneuch to haud oot o' sicht." "how long do you mean to keep us here?" asked the marquis impatiently. "till it 's safe to gang, my lord. for onything i ken, they may be efter comin' up here. they may be used to the place--though i dinna think it." "in that case we must go down at once. we must not let them find us here." "they wad tak 's ane by ane as we gaed doon, my lord, an' we wadna hae a chance. think o' my leddy there!" florimel heard all, but with the courage of her race. "this is a fine position you have brought us into, macphail!" said his master, now thoroughly uneasy for his daughter's sake. "nae waur nor i 'll tak ye oot o', gien ye lippen to me, my lord, an' no speyk a word." "if you tell them who papa is," said florimel, "they won't do us any harm, surely!" " nane sae sure o' that. they micht want to ripe 's pooches (search his pockets), an' my lord wad ill stan' that, thinkin'! na, na. jist stan' ye back, my lord an' my leddy, an' dinna speyk a word. i s' sattle them. they're sic villains, there nae terms to be hauden wi' them." his lordship was far from satisfied; but a light shining up into the crevice at the moment, gave powerful support to malcolm's authority: he took florimel's hand and drew her a little farther from the mouth of the cave. "don't you wish we had demon with us?" whispered the girl. "i was thinking how i never went without a dagger in venice," said the marquis, "and never once had occasion to use it. now i haven't even a penknife about me! it looks very awkward." "please don't talk like that," said florimel. "can't you trust malcolm, papa?" "oh, yes; perfectly!" he answered; but the tone was hardly up to the words. they could see the dim figure of malcolm, outlined in fits of the approaching light, all but filling the narrow entrance, as he bent forward to listen. presently he laid himself down, leaning on his left elbow, with his right shoulder only a little above the level of the passage. the light came nearer, and they heard the sound of scrambling on the rock, but no voice; then for one moment the light shone clear upon the roof of the cleft; the next, came the sound of a dull blow, the light vanished, and the noise of a heavy fall came from beneath. "ane o' them, my lord," said malcolm, in a sharp whisper, over his shoulder. a confusion of voices arose. "you booby!" said one. "you climb like a calf. i'll go next." evidently they thought he had slipped and fallen, and he was unable to set them right. malcolm heard them drag him out of the way. the second ascended more rapidly, and met his fate the sooner. as he delivered the blow, malcolm recognized one of the laird's assailants, and was now perfectly at his ease. "twa o' them, my lord," he said. "gien we had ane mair doon, we cud manage the lave." the second, however, had not lost his speech, and amidst the confused talk that followed, malcolm heard the words: "rin doon to the coble for the gun," and, immediately after, the sound of feet hurrying from the cave. he rose quietly, leaped into the midst of them, came down upon one, and struck out right and left. two ran, and three lay where they were. "gien ane o' ye muv han' or fit, i'll brain him wi' 's ain stick," he cried, as he wrenched a cudgel from the grasp of one of them. then catching up a lantern, and hurrying behind the projecting rock --"haste ye, an' come," he shouted. "the w'y 's clear, but only for a meenute." florimel appeared, and malcolm got her down. "mind that fellow," cried the marquis from above. malcolm turned quickly, and saw the gleam of a knife in the grasp of his old enemy, who had risen, and crept behind him to the recess. he flung the lantern in his face, following it with a blow in which were concentrated all the weight and energy of his frame. the man went down again heavily, and malcolm instantly trampled all their lanterns to pieces. "noo," he said to himself, "they winna ken but it 's the laird an' phemy wi' me!" then turning, and taking florimel by the arm, he hurried her out of the cave, followed by the marquis. they emerged in the liquid darkness of a starry night. lady florimel clung to both her father and malcolm. it was a rough way for some little distance, but at length they reached the hard wet sand, and the marquis would have stopped to take breath; but malcolm was uneasy, and hurried them on. "what are you frightened at now?" asked his lordship. "naething," answered malcolm, adding to himself however, " fleyt at naethin'-- fleyt for the laird." as they approached the tunnel, he fell behind. "why don't you come on?" said his lordship. " gaein' back noo 'at ye're safe," said malcolm. "going back! what for?" asked the marquis. "i maun see what thae villains are up till," answered malcolm. "not alone, surely!" exclaimed the marquis. "at least get some of your people to go with you." "there's nae time, my lord. dinna be fleyt for me: i s' tak care o' mysel'." he was already yards away, running at full speed. the marquis shouted after him, but malcolm would not hear. when he reached the baillies' barn once more, all was still. he groped his way in and found his own lantern where they had been sitting, and having lighted it, descended and followed the windings of the cavern a long way, but saw nothing of the laird or phemy. coming at length to a spot where he heard the rushing of a stream, he found he could go no farther: the roof of the cave had fallen, and blocked up the way with huge masses of stone and earth. he had come a good distance certainly, but by no means so far as phemy's imagination had represented the reach of the cavern. he might however have missed a turn, he thought. the sound he heard was that of the lossie burn, flowing along in the starlight through the grounds of the house. of this he satisfied himself afterwards; and then it seemed to him not unlikely that in ancient times the river had found its way to the sea along the cave, for throughout its length the action of water was plainly visible. but perhaps the sea itself had used to go roaring along the great duct: malcolm was no geologist, and could not tell. chapter xlvii: mrs stewart's claim the weather became unsettled with the approach of winter, and the marquis had a boat house built at the west end of the seaton: there the little cutter was laid up, well wrapt in tarpaulins, like a butterfly returned to the golden coffin of her internatal chrysalis. a great part of his resulting leisure, malcolm spent with mr graham, to whom he had, as a matter of course, unfolded the trouble caused him by duncan's communication. the more thoughtful a man is, and the more conscious of what is going on within himself, the more interest will he take in what he can know of his progenitors, to the remotest generations; and a regard to ancestral honours, however contemptible the forms which the appropriation of them often assumes, is a plant rooted in the deepest soil of humanity. the high souled labourer will yield to none in his respect for the dignity of his origin, and malcolm had been as proud of the humble descent he supposed his own, as lord lossie was of his mighty ancestry. malcolm had indeed a loftier sense of resulting dignity than his master. he reverenced duncan both for his uprightness and for a certain grandeur of spirit, which, however ridiculous to the common eye, would have been glorious in the eyes of the chivalry of old; he looked up to him with admiration because of his gifts in poetry and music; and loved him endlessly for his unfailing goodness and tenderness to himself. even the hatred of the grand old man had an element of unselfishness in its retroaction, of power in its persistency, and of greatness in its absolute contempt of compromise. at the same time he was the only human being to whom malcolm's heart had gone forth as to his own; and now, with the knowledge of yet deeper cause for loving him, he had to part with the sense of a filial relation to him! and this involved more; for so thoroughly had the old man come to regard the boy as his offspring, that he had nourished in him his own pride of family; and it added a sting of mortification to malcolm's sorrow, that the greatness of the legendary descent in which he had believed, and the honourableness of the mournful history with which his thoughts of himself had been so closely associated, were swept from him utterly. nor was this all even yet: in losing these he had had, as it were, to let go his hold, not of his clan merely, but of his race: every link of kin that bound him to humanity had melted away from his grasp. suddenly he would become aware that his heart was sinking within him, and questioning it why, would learn anew that he was alone in the world, a being without parents, without sister or brother, with none to whom he might look in the lovely confidence of a right bequeathed by some common mother, near or afar. he had waked into being, but all around him was dark, for there was no window, that is, no kindred eye, by which the light of the world whence he had come, entering might console him. but a gulf of blackness was about to open at his feet, against which the darkness he now lamented would show purple and gray. one afternoon, as he passed through the seaton from the harbour, to have a look at the cutter, he heard the partaness calling after him. "weel, ye're a sicht for sair een--noo 'at ye're like to turn oot something worth luikin' at!" she cried, as he approached with his usual friendly smile. "what du ye mean by that, mistress findlay?" asked malcolm, carelessly adding: "is yer man in?" "ay!" she went on, without heeding either question; "ye'll be gran' set up noo! ye'll no be hain' 'a fine day' to fling at yer auld freen's, the puir fisher fowk, or lang! weel! it 's the w'y o' the warl! hech, sirs!" "what on earth 's set ye aff like that mrs findlay?" said malcolm. "it's nae sic a feerious (furious) gran' thing to be my lord's skipper--or henchman, as my daddy wad hae 't--surely! it's a heap gran'er like to be a free fisherman, wi' a boat o' yer ain, like the partan." "hoots! nane o' yer clavers! ye ken weel eneuch what i mean--as weel 's ilka ither creatit sowl o' portlossie. an' gien ye dinna chowse to lat on aboot it till an auld freen' cause she's naething but a fisherwife, it 's dune ye mair skaith a'ready nor i thocht it wad to the lang last, ma'colm--for it 's yer ain name i s' ca' ye yet, gien ye war ten times a laird!--didna i gie ye the breist whan ye cud du naething i' the wardle but sowk?--an' weel ye sowkit, puir innocent 'at ye was!" "as sure's we're baith alive," asseverated malcolm, "i ken nae mair nor a sawtit herrin' what ye're drivin' at." "tell me 'at ye dinna ken what a' the queentry kens--an' hit aboot yer ain sel'!" screamed the partaness. "i tell ye i ken naething; an' gien ye dinna tell me what ye're efter direckly, i s' haud awa' to mistress allison--she'll tell me." this was a threat sufficiently prevailing. "it's no in natur'!" she cried. "here's mistress stewart o' the gersefell been cawin' (driving) like mad aboot the place, in her cairriage an' hoo mony horse i dinna ken, declarin', ay, sweirin', they tell me, 'at ane cowmonly ca'd ma'colm macphail is neither mair nor less nor the son born o' her ain boady in honest wadlock! --an' tell me ye ken naething aboot it! what are ye stan'in' like that for--as gray mou'd 's a deein' skate?" for the first time in his life, malcolm, young and strong as he was, felt sick. sea and sky grew dim before him, and the earth seemed to reel under him. "i dinna believe 't," he faltered--and turned away. "ye dinna believe what i tell ye!" screeched the wrathful partaness. "ye daur to say the word!" but malcolm did not care to reply. he wandered away, half unconscious of where he was, his head hanging, and his eyes creeping over the ground. the words of the woman kept ringing in his ears; but ever and anon, behind them as it were in the depth of his soul, he heard the voice of the mad laird, with its one lamentation: "i dinna ken whaur i cam' frae." finding himself at length at mr graham's door, he wondered how he had got there. it was saturday afternoon, and the master was in the churchyard. startled by malcolm's look, he gazed at him in grave silent enquiry. "hae ye h'ard the ill news, sir?" said the youth. "no; sorry to hear there is any." "they tell me mistress stewart's rinnin' aboot the toon claimin' me!" "claiming you!--how do you mean?" "for her ain!" "not for her son?" "ay, sir--that's what they say. but ye haena h'ard o' 't?" "not a word." "then i believe it 's a' havers!" cried malcolm energetically. "it was sair eneuch upo' me a'ready to ken less o' whaur i cam frae than the puir laird himsel'; but to come frae whaur he cam frae, was a thocht ower sair!" "you don't surely despise the poor fellow so much as to scorn to have the same parents with him!" said mr graham. "the verra contrar', sir. but a wuman wha wad sae misguide the son o' her ain body, an' for naething but that, as she had broucht him furth, sic he was!--it 's no to be lichtly believed nor lichtly endured. i s' awa' to miss horn an' see whether she's h'ard ony sic leeing clashes." but as malcolm uttered her name, his heart sank within him, for their talk the night he had sought her hospitality for the laird, came back to his memory, burning like an acrid poison. "you can't do better," said mr graham. "the report itself may be false--or true, and the lady mistaken." "she'll hae to pruv 't weel afore i say haud," rejoined malcolm. "and suppose she does?" "in that case," said malcolm, with a composure almost ghastly, "a man maun tak what mither it pleases god to gie him. but faith! she winna du wi' me as wi' the puir laird. gien she taks me up, she'll repent 'at she didna lat me lie. she'll be as little pleased wi' the tane o' her sons as the tither--i can tell her, ohn propheseed!" "but think what you might do between mother and son," suggested the master, willing to reconcile him to the possible worst. "it's ower late for that," he answered. "the puir man's thairms (fiddle-strings) are a' hingin' lowse, an' there's no grip eneuch i' the pegs to set them up again. he wad but think i had gane ower to the enemy, an' haud oot o' my gait as eident (diligently) as he hauds oot o' hers. na, it wad du naething for him. gien 't warna for what i see in him, i wad hae a gran' rebutter to her claim; for hoo cud ony wuman's ain son hae sic a scunner at her as i hae i' my hert an' brain an' verra stamach? gien she war my ain mither, there bude to be some nait'ral drawin's atween 's, a body wad think. but it winna haud, for there's the laird! the verra name o' mither gars him steik his lugs an' rin." "still, if she be your mother, it 's for better for worse as much as if she had been your own choice." "i kenna weel hoo it cud be for waur," said malcolm, who did not yet, even from his recollection of the things miss horn had said, comprehend what worst threatened him. "it does seem strange," said the master thoughtfully, after a pause, "that some women should be allowed to be mothers that through them sons and daughters of god should come into the world--thief babies, say! human parasites, with no choice but feed on the social body!" "i wonner what god thinks aboot it a'! it gars a body spier whether he cares or no," said malcolm gloomily. "it does," responded mr graham solemnly. "div ye alloo that, sir?" returned malcolm aghast. "that soon's as gien a'thing war rushin' thegither back to the auld chaos." "i should not be surprised," continued the master, apparently heedless of malcolm's consternation, "if the day should come when well meaning men, excellent in the commonplace, but of dwarfed imagination, refused to believe in a god on the ground of apparent injustice in the very frame and constitution of things. such would argue, that there might be either an omnipotent being who did not care, or a good being who could not help; but that there could not be a being both all good and omnipotent, for such would never have suffered things to be as they are." "what wad the clergy say to hear ye, sir?" said malcolm, himself almost trembling at the words of his master. "nothing to the purpose, i fear. they would never face the question. i know what they would do if they could,--burn me, as their spiritual ancestor, calvin, would have done--whose shoe latchet they are yet not worthy to unloose. but mind, my boy, you've not heard me speak my thought on the matter at all." "but wadna 't be better to believe in twa gods nor nane ava'?" propounded malcolm; "ane a' guid, duin' the best for 's he cud, the ither a' ill, but as pooerfu' as the guid ane--an' forever an' aye a fecht atween them, whiles ane gettin' the warst o' 't, an whiles the ither? it wad quaiet yer hert ony gait, an' the battle o' armageddon wad gang on as gran' 's ever." "two gods there could not be," said mr graham. "of the two beings supposed, the evil one must be called devil were he ten times the more powerful." "wi' a' my hert!" responded malcolm. "but i agree with you," the master went on, that "manicheism is unspeakably better than atheism, and unthinkably better than believing in an unjust god. but i am not driven to such a theory." "hae ye ane o' yer ain 'at 'll fit, sir?" "if i knew of a theory in which was never an uncompleted arch or turret, in whose circling wall was never a ragged breach, that theory i should know but to avoid: such gaps are the eternal windows through which the dawn shall look in. a complete theory is a vault of stone around the theorist--whose very being yet depends on room to grow." "weel, i wad like to hear what ye hae agane manicheism!" "the main objection of theologians would be, i presume, that it did not present a god perfect in power as in goodness; but i think it a far more objectionable point that it presents evil as possessing power in itself. my chief objection, however, would be a far deeper one--namely, that its good being cannot be absolutely good; for, if he knew himself unable to insure the well being of his creatures, if he could not avoid exposing them to such foreign attack, had he a right to create them? would he have chosen such a doubtful existence for one whom he meant to love absolutely?--either, then, he did not love like a god, or he would not have created." "he micht ken himsel' sure to win i' the lang rin." "grant the same to the god of the bible, and we come back to where we were before." "does that satisfee yersel', maister graham?" asked malcolm, looking deep into the eyes of his teacher. "not at all," answered the master. "does onything?" "yes: but i will not say more on the subject now. the time may come when i shall have to speak that which i have learned, but it is not yet. all i will say now is, that i am at peace concerning the question. indeed, so utterly do i feel myself the offspring of the one, that it would be enough for my peace now--i don't say it would have been always--to know my mind troubled on a matter: what troubled me would trouble god: my trouble at the seeming wrong must have its being in the right existent in him. in him, supposing i could find none i should yet say there must lie a lucent, harmonious, eternal, not merely consoling, but absolutely satisfying solution." "winna ye tell me a' 'at 's in yer hert aboot it, sir?" "not now, my boy. you have got one thing to mind now--before all other things--namely, that you give this woman--whatever she be--fair play: if she be your mother, as such you must take her, that is, as such you must treat her." "ye're richt, sir," returned malcolm, and rose. "come back to me," said mr graham, "with whatever news you gather." "i will, sir," answered malcolm, and went to find miss horn. he was shown into the little parlour, which, for all the grander things he had been amongst of late, had lost nothing of its first charm. there sat miss horn. "sit doon, ma'colm," she said gruffly. "hae ye h'ard onything, mem?" asked malcolm, standing. "ower muckle," answered miss horn, with all but a scowl. "ye been ower to gersefell, i reckon." "forbid it!" answered malcolm. "never till this hoor--or at maist it 's nae twa sin' i h'ard the first cheep o' 't, an' that was frae meg partan. to nae human sowl hae i made mention o' 't yet 'cep' maister graham: to him i gaed direck." "ye cudna hae dune better," said the grim woman, with relaxing visage. "an' here i am the noo, straucht frae him, to beg o' you, miss horn, to tell me the trowth o' the maitter." "what ken i aboot it?" she returned angrily. "what sud i ken?" "ye micht ken whether the wuman's been sayin' 't or no." "wha has ony doobt aboot that?" "mistress stewart has been sayin' she's my mither, than?" "ay--what for no?" returned miss horn, with a piercing glower at the youth. "guid forfen'!" exclaimed malcolm. "say ye that, laddie?" cried miss horn, and, starting up, she grasped his arm and stood gazing in his face. "what ither sud i say?" rejoined malcolm, surprised. "god be laudit!" exclaimed miss horn. "the limmer may say 'at she likes noo." "ye dinna believe 't than, mem?" cried malcolm. "tell me ye dinna, an' haud me ohn curst like a cadger." "i dinna believe ae word o' 't, laddie," answered miss horn eagerly. "wha cud believe sic a fine laad come o' sic a fause mither?" "she micht be ony body's mither, an' fause tu," said malcolm gloomily. "that's true laddie; and the mair mither the fauser! there's a warl' o' witness i' your face 'at gien she be yer mither, the markis, an no puir honest hen peckit john stewart, was the father o' ye.-- the lord forgie' me! what am i sayin'!" adjected miss horn, with a cry of self accusation, when she saw the pallor that overspread the countenance of the youth, and his head drop upon his bosom: the last arrow had sunk to the feather. "it's a' havers, ony gait," she quickly resumed. "i div not believe ye hae ae drap o' her bluid i' the body o' ye, man. but," she hurried on, as if eager to obliterate the scoring impression of her late words--"that she's been sayin' 't, there can be no mainner o' doot. i saw her mysel' rinnin' aboot the toon, frae ane till anither, wi' her lang hair doon the lang back o' her, an' fleein' i' the win', like a body dementit. the only question is, whether or no she believes 't hersel'." "what cud gar her say 't gien she didna believe 't?" "fowk says she expecs that w'y to get a grip o' things oot o' the han's o' the puir laird's trustees: ye wad be a son o' her ain, cawpable o' mainagin' them. but ye dinna tell me she's never been at yersel' aboot it?" "never a blink o' the ee has passed atween's sin' that day i gaed till gersefell, as i tellt ye, wi' a letter frae the markis. i thoucht i was ower mony for her than: i wonner she daur be at me again." "she's daurt her god er' noo, an' may weel daur you.--but what says yer gran'father till 't, no?" "he hasna hard a chuckie's cheep o' 't." "what are we haverin' at than! canna he sattle the maitter aff han'?" miss horn eyed him keenly as she spoke. "he kens nae mair aboot whaur i come frae, mem, nor your jean, wha 's hearkenin' at the keyhole this verra meenute." the quick ear of malcolm had caught a slight sound of the handle, whose proximity to the keyhole was no doubt often troublesome to jean. miss horn seemed to reach the door with one spring. jean was ascending the last step of the stair with a message on her lips concerning butter and eggs. miss horn received it, and went back to malcolm. "na; jean wadna du that," she said quietly. but she was wrong, for, hearing malcolm's words, jean had retreated one step down the stair, and turned. "but what's this ye tell me aboot yer gran'father, honest man." miss horn continued. "duncan macphail's nae bluid o' mine--the mair's the pity!" said malcolm sadly--and told her all he knew. miss horn's visage went through wonderful changes as he spoke. "weel, it is a mercy i hae nae feelin's!" she said when he had done. "ony wuman can lay a claim till me 'at likes, ye see," said malcolm. "she may lay 'at she likes, but it 's no ilka egg laid has a chuckie intill 't," answered miss horn sententiously. "jist ye gang hame to auld duncan, an' tell him to turn the thing ower in 's min' till he's able to sweir to the verra nicht he fan' the bairn in 's lap. but no ae word maun he say to leevin' sowl aboot it afore it 's requiret o' 'im." "i wad be the son o' the puirest fisher wife i' the seaton raither nor hers," said malcolm gloomily. "an' it shaws ye better bred," said miss horn. "but she'll be at ye or lang--an' tak ye tent what ye say. dinna flee in her face; lat her jaw awa', an' mark her words. she may lat a streak o' licht oot o' her dirk lantren oonawaurs." malcolm returned to mr graham. they agreed there was nothing for it but to wait. he went next to his grandfather and gave him miss horn's message. the old man fell a thinking, but could not be certain even of the year in which he had left his home. the clouds hung very black around malcolm's horizon. since the adventure in the baillies' barn, lady florimel had been on a visit in morayshire: she heard nothing of the report until she returned. "so you're a gentleman after all, malcolm!" she said, the next time she saw him. the expression in her eyes appeared to him different from any he had encountered there before. the blood rushed to his face; he dropped his head, and saying merely, "it maun be a' as it maun," pursued the occupation of the moment. but her words sent a new wind blowing into the fog. a gentleman she had said! gentlemen married ladies! could it be that a glory it was madness to dream of, was yet a possibility? one moment, and his honest heart recoiled from the thought: not even for lady florimel could he consent to be the son of that woman! yet the thought, especially in lady florimel's presence, would return, would linger, would whisper, would tempt. in florimel's mind also, a small demon of romance was at work. uncorrupted as yet by social influences, it would not have seemed to her absurd that an heiress of rank should marry a poor country gentleman; but the thought of marriage never entered her head: she only felt that the discovery justified a nearer approach from both sides. she had nothing, not even a flirtation in view. flirt she might, likely enough, but she did not foremean it. had malcolm been a schemer, he would have tried to make something of his position. but even the growth of his love for his young mistress was held in check by the fear of what that love tempted him to desire. lady florimel had by this time got so used to his tone and dialect, hearing it on all sides of her, that its quaintness had ceased to affect her, and its coarseness had begun to influence her repulsively. there were still to be found in scotland old fashioned gentlefolk speaking the language of the country with purity and refinement; but florimel had never met any of them, or she might possibly have been a little less repelled by malcolm's speech. within a day or two of her return, mrs stewart called at lossie house, and had a long talk with her, in the course of which she found no difficulty in gaining her to promise her influence with malcolm. from his behaviour on the occasion of their sole interview, she stood in a vague awe of him, and indeed could not recall it without a feeling of rebuke--a feeling which must either turn her aside from her purpose or render her the more anxious to secure his favour. hence it came that she had not yet sought him: she would have the certainty first that he was kindly disposed towards her claim--a thing she would never have doubted but for the glimpse she had had of him. one saturday afternoon, about this time, mr stewart put his head in at the door of the schoolroom, as he had done so often already, and seeing the master seated alone at his desk, walked in, saying once more, with a polite bow, "i dinna ken whaur i cam frae: i want to come to the school." mr graham assured him of welcome as cordially as if it had been the first time he came with the request, and yet again offered him a chair; but the laird as usual declined it, and walked down the room to find a seat with his companion scholars. he stopped midway, however, and returned to the desk, where, standing on tiptoe, he whispered in the master's ear: "i canna come upo' the door." then turning away again, he crept dejectedly to a seat where some of the girls had made room for him. there he took a slate, and began drawing what might seem an attempt at a door; but ever as he drew he blotted out, and nothing that could be called a door was the result. meantime, mr graham was pondering at intervals what he had said. school being over, the laird was modestly leaving with the rest, when the master gently called him, and requested the favour of a moment more of his company. as soon as they were alone, he took a bible from his desk, and read the words: "i am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture." without comment, he closed the book, and put it away. mr stewart stood staring up at him for a moment, then turned, and gently murmuring, "i canna win at the door," walked from the schoolhouse. it was refuge the poor fellow sought--whether from temporal or spiritual foes will matter little to him who believes that the only shelter from the one is the only shelter from the other also. chapter xlviii: the baillies' barn again it began to be whispered about portlossie, that the marquis had been present at one of the fishermen's meetings--a report which variously affected the minds of those in the habit of composing them. some regarded it as an act of espial, and much foolish talk arose about the covenanters and persecution and martyrdom. others, especially the less worthy of those capable of public utterance, who were by this time, in virtue of that sole gift, gaining an influence of which they were altogether unworthy, attributed it to the spreading renown of the preaching and praying members of the community, and each longed for an opportunity of exercising his individual gift upon the conscience of the marquis. the soberer portion took it for an act of mere curiosity, unlikely to be repeated. malcolm saw that the only way of setting things right was that the marquis should go again--openly, but it was with much difficulty that he persuaded him to present himself in the assembly. again accompanied by his daughter and malcolm, he did, however, once more cross the links to the baillies' barn. being early they had a choice of seats, and florimel placed herself beside a pretty young woman of gentle and troubled countenance, who sat leaning against the side of the cavern. the preacher on this occasion was the sickly young student--more pale and haggard than ever, and halfway nearer the grave since his first sermon. he still set himself to frighten the sheep into the fold by wolfish cries; but it must be allowed that, in this sermon at least, his representations of the miseries of the lost were not by any means so gross as those usually favoured by preachers of his kind. his imagination was sensitive enough to be roused by the words of scripture themselves, and was not dependent for stimulus upon those of virgil, dante, or milton. having taken for his text the fourteenth verse of the fifty-ninth psalm, "and at evening let them return; and let them make a noise like a dog, and go round about the city," he dwelt first upon the condition and character of the eastern dog as contrasted with those of our dogs; pointing out to his hearers, that so far from being valued for use or beauty or rarity, they were, except swine, of all animals the most despised by the jews--the vile outcasts of the border land separating animals domestic and ferine--filthy, dangerous, and hated; then associating with his text that passage in the revelation, "blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city; for without are dogs," he propounded, or rather asserted, that it described one variety of the many punishments of the wicked, showing at least a portion of them condemned to rush howling for ever about the walls of the new jerusalem, haunting the gates they durst not enter. "see them through the fog steaming up from the shores of their phlegethon!" he cried, warming into eloquence; "see the horrid troop, afar from the crystal walls!--if indeed ye stand on those heights of glory, and course not around them with the dogs!--hear them howl and bark as they scour along! gaze at them more earnestly as they draw nigher; see upon the dog heads of them the signs and symbols of rank and authority which they wore when they walked erect, men--ay, women too, among men and women! see the crown jewels flash over the hanging ears, the tiara tower thrice circled over the hungry eyes! see the plumes and the coronets, the hoods and the veils!" here, unhappily for his eloquence, he slid off into the catalogue of women's finery given by the prophet isaiah, at the close of which he naturally found the oratorical impulse gone, and had to sit down in the mud of an anticlimax. presently, however, he recovered himself, and, spreading his wings, once more swung himself aloft into the empyrean of an eloquence, which, whatever else it might or might not be, was at least genuine. "could they but surmount those walls, whose inherent radiance is the artillery of their defence, those walls high uplifted, whose lowest foundations are such stones as make the glory of earthly crowns; could they overleap those gates of pearl, and enter the golden streets, what think ye they would do there? think ye they would rage hither and thither at will, making horrid havoc amongst the white robed inhabitants of the sinless capital? nay, verily; for, in the gold transparent as glass, they would see their own vile forms in truth telling reflex, and, turning in agony, would rush yelling back, out again into the darkness--the outer darkness --to go round and round the city again and for evermore, tenfold tortured henceforth with the memory of their visioned selves." here the girl beside lady florimel gave a loud cry, and fell backwards from her seat. on all sides arose noises, loud or suppressed, mingled with murmurs of expostulation. even lady florimel, invaded by shrieks, had to bite her lips hard to keep herself from responding with like outcry; for scream will call forth scream, as vibrant string from its neighbour will draw the answering tone. "deep calleth unto deep! the wind is blowing on the slain! the spirit is breathing on the dry bones!" shouted the preacher in an ecstacy. but one who rose from behind lizzy findlay, had arrived at another theory regarding the origin of the commotion--and doubtless had a right to her theory, in as much as she was a woman of experience, being no other than mrs catanach. at the sound of her voice seeking to soothe the girl, malcolm shuddered; but the next moment, from one of those freaks of suggestion which defy analysis, he burst into laughter: he had a glimpse of a she dog, in mrs catanach's sunday bonnet, bringing up the rear of the preacher's canine company, and his horror of the woman found relief in an involuntary outbreak that did not spring altogether from merriment. it attracted no attention. the cries increased; for the preacher continued to play on the harp nerves of his hearers, in the firm belief that the spirit was being poured out upon them. the marquis, looking very pale, for he could never endure the cry of a woman even in a play, rose, and taking florimel by the arm, turned to leave the place. malcolm hurried to the front to make way for them. but the preacher caught sight of the movement, and, filled with a fury which seemed to him sacred, rushed to the rescue of souls. "stop!" he shouted. "go not hence, i charge you. on your lives i charge you! turn ye, turn ye: why will ye die? there is no fleeing from satan. you must resist the devil. he that flies is lost. if you turn your backs upon apollyon, he will never slacken pace until he has driven you into the troop of his dogs, to go howling about the walls of the city. stop them, friends of the cross, ere they step beyond the sound of mercy; for, alas! the voice of him who is sent cannot reach beyond the particle of time wherein he speaks: now, this one solitary moment, gleaming out of the eternity before us only to be lost in the eternity behind us--this now is the accepted time; this now and no other is the moment of salvation!" most of the men recognized the marquis; some near the entrance saw only malcolm clearing the way: marquis or fisher, it was all the same when souls were at stake: they crowded with one consent to oppose their exit: yet another chance they must have, whether they would or not these men were in the mood to give--not their own --but those other men's bodies to be burnt on the poorest chance of saving their souls from the everlasting burnings. malcolm would have been ready enough for a fight, had he and the marquis been alone, but the presence of lady florimel put it out of the question. looking round, he sought the eye of his master. had lord lossie been wise, he would at once have yielded, and sat down to endure to the end. but he jumped on the form next him, and appealed to the common sense of the assembly. "don't you see the man is mad?" he said, pointing to the preacher. "he is foaming at the mouth. for god's sake look after your women: he will have them all in hysterics in another five minutes. i wonder any man of sense would countenance such things!" as to hysterics, the fisher folk had never heard of them; and though the words of the preacher were not those of soberness, they yet believed them the words of truth, and himself a far saner man than the marquis. "gien a body comes to oor meetin'," cried one of them, a fine specimen of the argle bargling scotchman--a creature known and detested over the habitable globe--"he maun just du as we du, an' sit it oot. it's for yer sowl's guid." the preacher, checked in full career, was standing with open mouth, ready to burst forth in a fresh flood of oratory so soon as the open channels of hearing ears should be again granted him; but all were now intent on the duel between the marquis and jamie ladle. "if, the next time you came, you found the entrance barricaded," said the marquis, "what would you say to that?" "ow, we wad jist tak doon the sticks," answered ladle. "you would call it persecution, wouldn't you?" "ay; it wad be that." "and what do you call it now, when you prevent a man from going his own way, after he has had enough of your foolery?" "ow, we ca' 't dissiplene!" answered the fellow. the marquis got down, annoyed, but laughing at his own discomfiture. "i've stopped the screaming, anyhow," he said. ere the preacher, the tap of whose eloquence presently began to yield again, but at first ran very slow, had gathered way enough to carry his audience with him, a woman rushed up to the mouth of the cave, the borders of her cap flapping, and her grey hair flying like an old maenad's. brandishing in her hand a spunk with which she had been making the porridge for supper, she cried in a voice that reached every ear: "what's this i hear o' 't! come oot o' that, lizzy, ye limmer! ir ye gauin' frae ill to waur, i' the deevil's name!" it was meg partan. she sent the congregation right and left from her, as a ship before the wind sends a wave from each side of her bows. men and women gave place to her, and she went surging into the midst of the assembly. "whaur's that lass o' mine?" she cried, looking about her in aggravated wrath at failing to pounce right upon her. "she's no verra weel, mrs findlay," cried mrs catanach, in a loud whisper, laden with an insinuating tone of intercession. "she'll be better in a meenute. the minister's jist ower pooerfu' the nicht." mrs findlay made a long reach, caught lizzy by the arm, and dragged her forth, looking scared and white, with a red spot upon one cheek. no one dared to bar meg's exit with her prize; and the marquis, with lady florimel and malcolm, took advantage of the opening she made, and following in her wake soon reached the open air. mrs findlay was one of the few of the fisher women who did not approve of conventicles, being a great stickler for every authority in the country except that of husbands, in which she declared she did not believe: a report had reached her that lizzy was one of the lawless that evening, and in hot haste she had left the porridge on the fire to drag her home. "this is the second predicament you have got us into, macphail," said his lordship, as they walked along the boar's tail--the name by which some designated the dune, taking the name of the rock at the end of it to be the boar's craig, and the last word to mean, as it often does, not crag, but neck, like the german kragen, and perhaps the english scrag. " sorry for't, my lord," said malcolm; "but sure yer lordship had the worth o' 't in fun." "i can't deny that," returned the marquis. "and i can't get that horrid shriek out of my ears," said lady florimel. "which of them?" said her father. "there was no end to the shrieking. it nearly drove me wild." "i mean the poor girl's who sat beside us, papa. such a pretty nice looking creature to! and that horrid woman close behind us all the time! i hope you won't go again papa. they'll convert you if you do, and never ask your leave. you wouldn't like that, i know." "what do you say to shutting up the place altogether?" "do, papa. it's shocking. vulgar and horrid!" "i wad think twise, my lord, afore i wad sair (serve) them as ill as they saired me." "did i ask your advice?" said the marquis sternly. "it's nane the waur 'at it 's gien oonsoucht," said malcolm. "it's the richt thing ony gait." "you presume on this foolish report about you, i suppose, macphail," said his lordship; "but that won't do." "god forgie ye, my lord, for i hae ill duin' 't!" (find it difficult) said malcolm. he left them and walked down to the foamy lip of the tide, which was just waking up from its faint recession. a cold glimmer, which seemed to come from nothing but its wetness, was all the sea had to say for itself. but the marquis smiled, and turned his face towards the wind which was blowing from the south. in a few moments malcolm came back, but to follow behind them, and say nothing more that night. the marquis did not interfere with the fishermen. having heard of their rudeness, mr cairns called again, and pressed him to end the whole thing; but he said they would only be after something worse, and refused. the turn things had taken that night determined their after course. cryings out and faintings grew common, and fits began to appear. a few laid claim to visions,--bearing, it must be remarked, a strong resemblance to the similitudes, metaphors, and more extended poetic figures, employed by the young preacher, becoming at length a little more original and a good deal more grotesque. they took to dancing at last, not by any means the least healthful mode of working off their excitement. it was, however, hardly more than a dull beating of time to the monotonous chanting of a few religious phrases, rendered painfully commonplace by senseless repetition. i would not be supposed to deny the genuineness of the emotion, or even of the religion, in many who thus gave show to their feelings. but neither those who were good before nor those who were excited now were much the better for this and like modes of playing off the mental electricity generated by the revolving cylinder of intercourse. naturally, such men as joseph mair now grew shy of the assemblies they had helped to originate, and withdrew--at least into the background; the reins slipped from the hands of the first leaders, and such windbags as ladle got up to drive the chariot of the gospel--with the results that could not fail to follow. at the same time it must be granted that the improvement of their habits, in so far as strong drink was concerned, continued: it became almost a test of faith with them, whether or not a man was a total abstainer. hence their moral manners, so to say, improved greatly; there were no more public house orgies, no fighting in the streets, very little of what they called breaking of the sabbath, and altogether there was a marked improvement in the look of things along a good many miles of that northern shore. strange as it may seem, however, morality in the deeper sense, remained very much at the same low ebb as before. it is much easier to persuade men that god cares for certain observances, than that he cares for simple honesty and truth and gentleness and loving kindness. the man who would shudder at the idea of a rough word of the description commonly called swearing, will not even have a twinge of conscience after a whole morning of ill tempered sullenness, capricious scolding, villainously unfair animadversion, or surly cross grained treatment generally of wife and children! such a man will omit neither family worship nor a sneer at his neighbour. he will neither milk his cow on the first day of the week without a sabbath mask on his face, nor remove it while he waters the milk for his customers. yet he may not be an absolute hypocrite. what can be done for him, however, hell itself may have to determine. notwithstanding their spiritual experiences, it was, for instance, no easier to get them to pay their debts than heretofore. of course there were, and had always been, thoroughly honest men and women amongst them; but there were others who took prominent part in their observances, who seemed to have no remotest suspicion that religion had anything to do with money or money's worth--not to know that god cared whether a child of his met his obligations or not. such fulfilled the injunction to owe nothing by acknowledging nothing. one man, when pressed, gave as a reason for his refusal, that christ had paid all his debts. possibly this contemptible state of feeling had been fostered by an old superstition that it was unlucky to pay up everything, whence they had always been in the habit of leaving at least a few shillings of their shop bills to be carried forward to the settlement after the next fishing season. but when a widow whose husband had left property, would acknowledge no obligation to discharge his debts, it came to be rather more than a whim. evidently the religion of many of them was as yet of a poor sort--precisely like that of the negroes, whose devotion so far outstrips their morality. if there had but been some one of themselves to teach that the true outlet and sedative of overstrained feeling is right action! that the performance of an unpleasant duty, say the paying of their debts, was a far more effectual as well as more specially religious mode of working off their excitement than dancing! that feeling is but the servant of character until it becomes its child! or rather, that feeling is but a mere vapour until condensed into character! that the only process through which it can be thus consolidated is well doing--the putting forth of the right thing according to the conscience universal and individual, and that thus, and thus only, can the veil be withdrawn from between the man and his god, and the man be saved in beholding the face of his father! "but have patience--give them time," said mr graham, who had watched the whole thing from the beginning. "if their religion is religion, it will work till it purifies; if it is not, it will show itself for what it is, by plunging them into open vice. the mere excitement and its extravagance--the mode in which their gladness breaks out--means nothing either way. the man is the willing, performing being, not the feeling shouting singing being: in the latter there may be no individuality--nothing more than receptivity of the movement of the mass. but when a man gets up and goes out and discharges an obligation, he is an individual; to him god has spoken, and he has opened his ears to hear: god and that man are henceforth in communion." these doings, however, gave--how should they fail to give?--a strong handle to the grasp of those who cared for nothing in religion but its respectability--who went to church sunday after sunday, "for the sake of example" as they said--the most arrogant of pharisaical reasons! many a screeching, dancing fisher lass in the seaton was far nearer the kingdom of heaven than the most respectable of such respectable people! i would unspeakably rather dance with the wildest of fanatics rejoicing over a change in their own spirits, than sit in the seat of the dull of heart, to whom the old story is an outworn tale. chapter xlix: mount pisgah the intercourse between florimel and malcolm grew gradually more familiar, until at length it was often hardly to be distinguished from such as takes place between equals, and florimel was by degrees forgetting the present condition in the possible future of the young man. but malcolm, on the other hand, as often as the thought of that possible future arose in her presence, flung it from him in horror, lest the wild dream of winning her should make him for a moment desire its realization. the claim that hung over him haunted his very life, turning the currents of his thought into channels of speculation unknown before. imagine a young fisherman meditating--as he wandered with bent head through the wilder woods on the steep banks of the burn, or the little green levels which it overflowed in winter--of all possible subjects what analogy there might be betwixt the body and the soul in respect of derivation--whether the soul was traduced as well as the body?--as his material form came from the forms of his father and mother, did his soul come from their souls? or did the maker, as at the first he breathed his breath into the form of adam, still, at some crisis unknown in its creation, breathe into each form the breath of individual being? if the latter theory were the true, then, be his earthly origin what it might, he had but to shuffle off this mortal coil to walk forth a clean thing, as a prince might cast off the rags of an enforced disguise, and set out for the land of his birth. if the former were the true, then the wellspring of his being was polluted, nor might he by any death fling aside his degradation, or show himself other than defiled in the eyes of the old dwellers in "those high countries," where all things seem as they are, and are as they seem. one day when, these questions fighting in his heart, he had for the hundredth time arrived thus far, all at once it seemed as if a soundless voice in the depth of his soul replied, "even then--should the wellspring of thy life be polluted with vilest horrors such as, in persian legends, the lips of the lost are doomed to drink with loathings inconceivable--the well is but the utterance of the water, not the source of its existence; the rain is its father, and comes from the sweet heavens. thy soul, however it became known to itself is from the pure heart of god, whose thought of thee is older than thy being--is its first and eldest cause. thy essence cannot be defiled, for in him it is eternal." even with the thought, the horizon of his life began to clear; a light came out on the far edge of its ocean--a dull and sombre yellow, it is true, and the clouds hung yet heavy over sea and land, while miles of vapour hid the sky; but he could now believe there might be a blue beyond, in which the sun lorded it with majesty. he had been rambling on the waste hill in which the grounds of lossie house, as it were, dissipated. it had a far outlook, but he had beheld neither sky or ocean. the soutars of cromarty had all the time sat on their stools large in his view; the hills of sutherland had invited his gaze, rising faint and clear over the darkened water at their base, less solid than the sky in which they were set, and less a fact than the clouds that crossed their breasts; the land of caithness had lain lowly and afar, as if, weary of great things, it had crept away in tired humility to the rigours of the north; and east and west his own rugged shore had gone lengthening out, fringed with the white burst of the dark sea; but none of all these things had he noted. lady florimel suddenly encountered him on his way home, and was startled by his look. "where have you been, malcolm?" she exclaimed. "i hardly ken, my leddy: somewhaur aboot the feet o' mount pisgah, thinkin', if no freely upo' the heid o' 't." "that's not the name of the hill up there!" "ow na; yon's the binn." "what have you been about? looking at things in general, i suppose." "na; they've been luikin' at me, i daursay; but i didna heed them, an' they didna fash me." "you look so strangely bright!" she said, "as if you had seen something both marvellous and beautiful!" the words revealed a quality of insight not hitherto manifested by florimel. in truth, malcolm's whole being was irradiated by the flash of inward peace that had visited him--a statement intelligible and therefore credible enough to the mind accustomed to look over the battlements of the walls that clasp the fair windows of the senses. but florimel's insight had reached its limit, and her judgment, vainly endeavouring to penetrate farther, fell floundering in the mud. "i know!" she went on: "you've been to see your lady mother!" malcolm's face turned white as if blasted with leprosy. the same scourge that had maddened the poor laird fell hissing on his soul, and its knotted sting was the same word mother. he turned and walked slowly away, fighting a tyrannous impulse to thrust his fingers in his ears and run and shriek. "where are your manners?" cried the girl after him, but he never stayed his slow foot or turned his bowed head, and florimel wondered. for the moment, his new found peace had vanished. even if the old nobility of heaven might regard him without a shadow of condescension --that self righteous form of contempt--what could he do with a mother whom he could neither honour or love? love! if he could but cease to hate her! there was no question yet of loving. but might she not repent? ah, then, indeed! and might he not help her to repent?--he would not avoid her. how was it that she had never yet sought him? as he brooded thus, on his way to duncan's cottage, and, heedless of the sound of coming wheels, was crossing the road which went along the bottom of the glen, he was nearly run over by a carriage coming round the corner of a high bank at a fast trot. catching one glimpse of the face of its occupant, as it passed within a yard of his own, he turned and fled back through the woods, with again a horrible impulse to howl to the winds the cry of the mad laird: "i dinna ken whaur i cam frae!" when he came to himself, he found his hands pressed hard on his ears, and for a moment felt a sickening certainty that he too was a son of the lady of gersefell. when he returned at length to the house, mrs courthope informed him that mrs stewart had called, and seen both the marquis and lady florimel. meantime he had grown again a little anxious about the laird, but as phemy plainly avoided him, had concluded that he had found another concealment, and that the child preferred not being questioned concerning it. with the library of lossie house at his disposal, and almost nothing to do, it might now have been a grand time for malcolm's studies; but alas! he too often found it all but impossible to keep his thoughts on the track of a thought through a single sentence of any length. the autumn now hung over the verge of its grave. hoar frost, thick on the fields, made its mornings look as if they had turned gray with fear. but when the sun arose, grayness and fear vanished; the back thrown smile of the departing glory was enough to turn old age into a memory of youth. summer was indeed gone, and winter was nigh with its storms and its fogs and its rotting rains and its drifting snows, but the sun was yet in the heavens, and, changed as was his manner towards her, would yet have many a half smile for the poor old earth--enough to keep her alive until he returned, bringing her youth with him. to the man who believes that the winter is but for the sake of the summer; exists only in virtue of the summer at its heart, no winter, outside or in, can be unendurable. but malcolm sorely missed the ministrations of compulsion: he lacked labour--the most helpful and most healing of all god's holy things, of which we so often lose the heavenly benefit by labouring inordinately that we may rise above the earthly need of it. how many sighs are wasted over the toil of the sickly--a toil which perhaps lifts off half the weight of their sickness, elevates their inner life, and makes the outer pass with tenfold rapidity. of those who honestly pity such, many would themselves be far less pitiable were they compelled to share in the toil they behold with compassion. they are unaware of the healing virtue which the thing they would not pity at all were it a matter of choice, gains from the compulsion of necessity. all over the house big fires were glowing and blazing. nothing pleased the marquis worse than the least appearance of stinting the consumption of coal. in the library two huge gratefuls were burning from dawn to midnight--well for the books anyhow, if their owner seldom showed his face amongst them. there were days during which, except the servant whose duty it was to attend to the fires, not a creature entered the room but malcolm. to him it was as the cave of aladdin to the worshipper of mammon, and yet now he would often sit down indifferent to its hoarded splendours, and gather no jewels. but one morning, as he sat there alone, in an oriel looking seawards, there lay on a table before him a thin folio, containing the chief works of sir thomas brown--amongst the rest his well known religio medici, from which he had just read the following passage: "when i take a full view and circle of myself, without this reasonable moderatour, and equall piece of justice, death, i doe conceive my self the most miserablest person extant; were there not another life that i hoped for, all the vanities of this world should not intreat a moment's breath from me; could the devil work my belief to imagine i could never die, i would not outlive that very thought: i have so abject a conceit of this common way of existence, this retaining to the sun and elements, i cannot think this is to be a man, or to live according to the dignity of humanity. in expectation of a better, i can with patience embrace this life, yet in my best meditations do often desire death; i honour any man that contemnes it, nor can i highly love any that is afraid of it: this makes me naturally love a soldier, and honour those tatter'd and contemptible regiments that will die at the command of a sergeant." these words so fell in with the prevailing mood of his mind, that having gathered them, they grew upon him, and as he pondered them, he sat gazing out on the bright blowing autumn day. the sky was dimmed with a clear pallor, across which small white clouds were driving; the yellow leaves that yet cleave to the twigs were few, and the wind swept through the branches with a hiss. the far off sea was alive with multitudinous white--the rush of the jubilant oversea across the blue plain. all without was merry, healthy, radiant, strong; in his mind brooded a single haunting thought that already had almost filled his horizon, threatening by exclusion to become madness! why should he not leave the place, and the horrors of his history with it? then the hideous hydra might unfold itself as it pleased; he would find at least a better fortune than his birth had endowed him withal. lady florimel entered in search of something to read: to her surprise, for she had heard of no arrival, in one of the windows sat a highland gentleman, looking out on the landscape. she was on the point of retiring again, when a slight movement revealed malcolm. the explanation was, that the marquis, their seafaring over, had at length persuaded malcolm to don the highland attire: it was an old custom of the house of lossie that its lord's henchman should be thus distinguished, and the marquis himself wore the kilt when on his western estates in the summer, also as often as he went to court,--would indeed have worn it always but that he was no longer hardy enough. he would not have succeeded with malcolm, however, but for the youth's love to duncan, the fervent heat of which vaporized the dark heavy stone of obligation into the purple vapour of gratitude, and enhanced the desire of pleasing him until it became almost a passion. obligation is a ponderous roll of canvas which love spreads aloft into a tent wherein he delights to dwell. this was his first appearance in the garments of duncan's race. it was no little trial to him to assume them in the changed aspect of his circumstances; for alas! he wore them in right of service only, not of birth, and the tartan of his lord's family was all he could claim. he had not heard lady florimel enter. she went softly up behind him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. he started to his feet. "a penny for your thoughts," she said, retreating a step or two. "i wad gie twa to be rid o' them," he returned, shaking his bushy head as if to scare the invisible ravens hovering about it. "how fine you are!" florimel went on, regarding him with an approbation too open to be altogether gratifying. "the dress suits you thoroughly. i didn't know you at first. i thought it must be some friend of papa's. now i remember he said once you must wear the proper dress for a henchman. how do you like it?" "it's a' ane to me," said malcolm. "i dinna care what i weir.-- gien only i had a richt till 't!" he added with a sigh. "it is too bad of you, malcolm!" rejoined florimel in a tone of rebuke. "the moment fortune offers you favour, you fall out with her--won't give her a single smile. you don't deserve your good luck." malcolm was silent. "there's something on your mind," florimel went on, partly from willingness to serve mrs stewart, partly enticed by the romance of being malcolm's comforter, or perhaps confessor. "ay is there, my leddy." "what is it? tell me. you can trust me!" "i could trust ye, but i canna tell ye. i daurna--i maunna." "i see you will not trust me," said florimel, with a half pretended, half real offence. "i wad lay doon my life--what there is o' 't--for ye, my leddy; but the verra natur o' my trouble winna be tauld. i maun beir 't my lane." it flashed across lady florimel's brain, that the cause of his misery, the thing he dared not confess, was love of herself. now, malcolm, standing before her in his present dress, and interpreted by the knowledge she believed she had of his history, was a very different person indeed from the former malcolm in the guise of fisherman or sailor, and she felt as well as saw the difference: if she was the cause of his misery, why should she not comfort him a little? why should she not be kind to him? of course anything more was out of the question; but a little confession and consolation would hurt neither of them. besides, mrs stewart had begged her influence, and this would open a new channel for its exercise. indeed, if he was unhappy through her, she ought to do what she might for him. a gentle word or two would cost her nothing, and might help to heal a broken heart! she was hardly aware, however, how little she wanted it healed--all at once. for the potency of a thought it is perhaps even better that it should not be logically displayed to the intellect; anyhow the germ of all this, undeveloped into the definite forms i have given, sufficed to the determining of florimel's behaviour. i do not mean that she had more than the natural tendency of womankind to enjoy the emotions of which she was the object; but besides the one in the fable, there are many women with a tendency to arousing; and the idea of deriving pleasure from the sufferings of a handsome youth was not quite so repulsive to her as it ought to have been. at the same time, as there cannot be many cats capable of understanding the agonies of the mice within reach of their waving whiskers, probably many cat women are not quite so cruel as they seem. "can't you trust me, malcolm?" she said, looking in his eyes very sweetly, and bending a little towards him; "can't you trust me?" at the words and the look it seemed as if his frame melted to ether. he dropped on his knees, and, his heart half stifled in the confluence of the tides of love and misery, sighed out between the pulses in his throat: "there's naething i could na tell ye 'at ever i thoucht or did i' my life, my leddy; but it 's ither fowk, my leddy! it's like to burn a hole i' my hert, an' yet i daurna open my mou'." there was a half angelic, half dog-like entreaty in his up looking hazel eyes that seemed to draw hers down into his: she must put a stop to that. "get up, malcolm," she said kindly, "what would my father or mrs courthope think?" "i dinna ken, an' i maist dinna care; atween ae thing an' anither, near han' distrackit," answered malcolm, rising slowly, but not taking his eyes from her face. "an' there's my daddy!" he went on, "maist won ower to the enemy--an' i daurna tell even him what for i canna bide it!--ye haena been sayin' onything till him-- hiv ye, my leddy?" "i don't quite understand you," returned florimel, rather guiltily, for she had spoken on the subject to duncan. "saying anything to your grandfather? about what?" "aboot--aboot--her, ye ken, my leddy." "what her?" asked florimel. "her 'at--the leddy o' gersefell." "and why? what of her? why, malcolm! what can have possessed you? you seem actually to dislike her!" "i canna bide her," said malcolm, with the calm earnestness of one who is merely stating an incontrovertible fact, and for a moment his eyes, at once troubled and solemn, kept looking wistfully in hers, as if searching for a comfort too good to be found, then slowly sank and sought the floor at her feet. "and why?" "i canna tell ye." she supposed it an unreasoned antipathy. "but that is very wrong," she said, almost as if rebuking a child. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself. what!--dislike your own mother?" "dinna say the word, my leddy," cried malcolm in a tone of agony, "or ye'll gar me skirl an' rin like the mad laird. he's no a hair madder nor i wad be wi' sic a mither." he would have passed her to leave the room. but lady florimel could not bear defeat. in any contest she must win or be shamed in her own eyes, and was she to gain absolutely nothing in such a passage with a fisher lad? was the billow of her persuasion to fall back from such a rock, self beaten into poorest foam? she would, she must subdue him! perhaps she did not know how much the sides of her intent were pricked by the nettling discovery that she was not the cause of his unhappiness. "you 're not going to leave me so!" she exclaimed, in a tone of injury. "i 'll gang or bide as ye wull, my leddy," answered malcolm resignedly. "bide then," she returned. "i haven't half done with you yet." "ye mauna jist tear my hert oot," he rejoined--with a sad half smile, and another of his dog-like looks. "that's what you would do to your mother!" said florimel severely. "say nae ill o' my mither!" cried malcolm, suddenly changing almost to fierceness. "why, malcolm!" said florimel, bewildered, "what ill was i saying of her?" "it's naething less than an insult to my mither to ca' yon wuman by her name," he replied with set teeth. it was to him an offence against the idea of motherhood--against the mother he had so often imagined luminous against the dull blank of memory, to call such a woman his mother. "she's a very ladylike, handsome woman--handsome enough to be your mother even, mr malcolm stewart." florimel could not have dared the words but for the distance between them; but, then, neither would she have said them while the distance was greater! they were lost on malcolm though, for never in his life having started the question whether he was handsome or not, he merely supposed her making game of him, and drew himself together in silence, with the air of one bracing himself to hear and endure the worst. "even if she should not be your mother," his tormentor resumed, "to show such a dislike to any woman is nothing less than cruelty." "she maun pruv' 't," murmured malcolm--not the less emphatically that the words were but just audible. "of course she will not do that; she has abundance of proof. she gave me a whole hour of proof." "lang's no strang," returned malcolm "there's comfort i' that! gang on my leddy." "poor woman! it was hard enough to lose her son; but to find him again such as you seem likely to turn out, i should think ten times worse." "nae doobt! nae doobt!--but there's ae thing waur." "what is that?" "to come upon a mither 'at--" he stopped abruptly; his eyes went wandering about the room, and the muscles of his face worked convulsively. florimel saw that she had been driving against a stone wall. she paused a moment, and then resumed. "anyhow, if she is your mother," she said, "nothing you can do will alter it." "she maun pruv' 't," was all malcolm's dogged reply. "just so; and if she can't," said florimel, "you'll be no worse than you were before--and no better," she added with a sigh. malcolm lifted his questioning to her searching eyes. "don't you see," she went on, very softly, and lowering her look, from the half conscious shame of half unconscious falseness, "i can't be all my life here at lossie? we shall have to say goodbye to each other--never to meet again most likely. but if you should turn out to be of good family, you know,--" florimel saw neither the paling of his brown cheek nor the great surge of red that followed, but, glancing up to spy the effect of her argument, did see the lightning that broke from the darkened hazel of his eyes, and again cast down her own. "--then there might be some chance," she went on, "of our meeting somewhere--in london, or perhaps in edinburgh, and i could ask you to my house--after i was married you know." heaven and earth seemed to close with a snap around his brain. the next moment, they had receded an immeasurable distance, and in limitless wastes of exhausted being he stood alone. what time had passed when he came to himself he had not an idea; it might have been hours for anything his consciousness was able to tell him. but, although he recalled nothing of what she had been urging, he grew aware that lady florimel's voice, which was now in his ears, had been sounding in them all the time. he was standing before her like a marble statue with a dumb thrill in its helpless heart of stone. he must end this! parting was bad enough, but an endless parting was unendurable! to know that measureless impassable leagues lay between them, and yet to be for ever in the shroud of a cold leave taking! to look in her eyes, and know that she was not there! a parting that never broke the bodily presence--that was the form of agony which the infinite moment assumed. as to the possibility she would bribe him with--it was not even the promise of a glimpse of abraham's bosom from the heart of hell. with such an effort as breaks the bonds of a nightmare dream, he turned from her, and, heedless of her recall, went slowly, steadily, out of the house. while she was talking, his eyes had been resting with glassy gaze upon the far off waters: the moment he stepped into the open air, and felt the wind on his face, he knew that their turmoil was the travailing of sympathy, and that the ocean had been drawing him all the time. he walked straight to his little boat, lying dead on the sands of the harbour, launched it alive on the smooth water within the piers, rove his halliard, stepped his mast, hoisted a few inches of sail, pulled beyond the sheltering sea walls, and was tossing amidst the torn waters whose jagged edges were twisted in the loose flying threads of the northern gale. a moment more, and he was sitting on the windward gunwale of his spoon of a boat, with the tiller in one hand and the sheet in the other, as she danced like a cork over the broken tops of the waves. for help in his sore need, instinct had led him to danger. half way to the point of scaurnose, he came round on the other tack, and stood for the death head. glancing from the wallowing floor beneath him, and the one wing that bore him skimming over its million deaths, away to the house of lossie, where it stood steady in its woods, he distinguished the very window whence, hardly an hour ago, from the centre of the calm companionship of books, he had gazed out upon the wind swept waste as upon a dream. "how strange," he thought, "to find myself now in the midst of what i then but saw! this reeling ocean was but a picture to me then-- a picture framed in the window; it is now alive and i toss like a toy on its wild commotion. then i but saw from afar the flashing of the white out of the blue water, and the blue sky overhead, which no winds can rend into pallid pains; now i have to keep eye and hand together in one consent to shun death; i meet wind and wave on their own terms, and humour the one into an evasion of the other. the wind that then revealed itself only in white blots and streaks now lashes my hair into my eyes, and only the lift of my bows is betwixt me and the throat that swallows the whales and the krakens. "will it be so with death? it looks strange and far off now, but it draws nigh noiselessly, and one day i meet it face to face in the grapple: shall i rejoice in that wrestle as i rejoice in this? will not my heart grow sick within me? shall i not be faint and fearful? and yet i could almost wish it were at hand! "i wonder how death and this wan water here look to god! to him is it like a dream--a picture? water cannot wet him; death cannot touch him. yet jesus could have let the water wet him; and he granted power to death when he bowed his head and gave up the ghost. god knows how things look to us both far off and near; he also can see them so when he pleases. what they look to him is what they are: we cannot see them so, but we see them as he meant us to see them, therefore truly, according to the measure of the created. made in the image of god, we see things in the image of his sight." thoughts like these, only in yet cruder forms, swept through the mind of malcolm as he tossed on that autumn sea. but what we call crude forms are often in reality germinal forms; and one or other of these flowered at once into the practical conclusion that god must know all his trouble, and would work for him a worthy peace. ere he turned again towards the harbour, he had reascended the cloud haunted pisgah whence the words of lady florimel had hurled him. chapter l: lizzy findlay leaving his boat again on the dry sand that sloped steep into the harbour, malcolm took his way homeward along the shore. presently he spied, at some little distance in front of him, a woman sitting on the sand, with her head bowed upon her knees. she had no shawl, though the wind was cold and strong, blowing her hair about wildly. her attitude and whole appearance were the very picture of misery. he drew near and recognized her. "what on earth's gane wrang wi' ye, lizzy?" he asked. "ow naething," she murmured, without lifting her head. the brief reply was broken by a sob. "that canna be," persisted malcolm, trouble of whose own had never yet rendered him indifferent to that of another. "is 't onything 'at a body cun stan' by ye in?" another sob was the only answer. " in a peck o' troubles mysel'," said malcolm. "i wad fain help a body gien i cud." "naebody can help me," returned the girl, with an agonized burst, as if the words were driven from her by a convulsion of her inner world, and therewith she gave way, weeping and sobbing aloud. "i doobt i'll hae to droon mysel'," she added with a wail, as he stood in compassionate silence, until the gust should blow over; and as she said it she lifted a face tear stained, and all white, save where five fingers had branded their shapes in red. her eyes scarcely encountered his; again she buried her face in her hands, and rocked herself to and fro, moaning in fresh agony. "yer mither's been sair upo' ye, i doobt!" he said. "but it'll sune blaw ower. she cuils as fest 's she heats." as he spoke he set himself down on the sand beside her. but lizzy started to her feet, crying, "dinna come near me, ma'colm. no fit for honest man to come nigh me. stan' awa'; i hae the plague." she laughed, but it was a pitiful laugh, and she looked wildly about, as if for some place to run to. "i wad na be sorry to tak it mysel', lizzy. at ony rate ower auld a freen' to be driven frae ye that gait," said malcolm, who could not bear the thought of leaving her on the border of the solitary sea, with the waves barking at her all the cold winterly gloamin'. who could tell what she might do after the dark came down? he rose and would have taken her hand to draw it from her face; but she turned her back quickly, saying in a hard forced voice: "a man canna help a wuman--'cep it be till her grave." then turning suddenly, she laid her hands on his shoulders, and cried: "for the love o' god, ma'colm, lea' me this moment. gien i cud tell ony man what ailed me, i wad tell you; but i canna, i canna! rin laddie; rin' an' leap me." it was impossible to resist her anguished entreaty and agonized look. sore at heart and puzzled in brain, malcolm yielding turned from her, and with eyes on the ground, thoughtfully pursued his slow walk towards the seaton. at the corner of the first house in the village stood three women, whom he saluted as he passed. the tone of their reply struck him a little, but, not having observed how they watched him as he approached, he presently forgot it. the moment his back was turned to them, they turned to each other and interchanged looks. "fine feathers mak fine birds," said one of them. "ay, but he luiks booed doon," said another. "an' weel he may! what 'll his leddy mither say to sic a ploy? she 'll no sawvour bein' made a granny o' efter sic a fashion 's yon," said the third. "'deed, lass, there's feow oucht to think less o' 't," returned the first. although they took little pains to lower their voices, malcolm was far too much preoccupied to hear what they said. perceiving plainly enough that the girl's trouble was much greater than a passing quarrel with her mother would account for, and knowing that any intercession on his part would only rouse to loftier flames the coal pits of maternal wrath, he resolved at length to take counsel with blue peter and his wife, and therefore, passing the sea gate, continued his walk along the shore, and up the red path to the village of scaurnose. he found them sitting at their afternoon meal of tea and oatcake. a peat fire smouldered hot upon the hearth; a large kettle hung from a chain over it--fountain of plenty, whence the great china teapot, splendid in red flowers and green leaves, had just been filled; the mantelpiece was crowded with the gayest of crockery, including the never absent half shaved poodles, and the rarer gothic castle, from the topmost story of whose keep bloomed a few late autumn flowers. phemy too was at the table: she rose as if to leave the room, but apparently changed her mind, for she sat down again instantly. "man ye're unco braw the day--i' yer kilt an' tartan hose!" remarked mair as he welcomed him. "i pat them on to please my daddy an' the markis," said malcolm, with a half shamed faced laugh. "are na ye some cauld aboot the k-nees?" asked the guidwife. "nae that cauld! i ken 'at they're there; but i'll sune be used till 't." "weel, sit ye doon an' tak a cup o' tay wi' 's" "i haena muckle time to spare," said malcolm; "but i'll tak a cup o' tay wi' ye. gien 't warna for wee bit luggies (small ears) i wad fain spier yer advice aboot ane 'at wants a wuman freen', thinkin'." phemy, who had been regarding him with compressed lips and suspended operations, deposited her bread and butter on the table, and slipped from her chair. "whaur are ye gaein', phemy?" said her mother. "takin' awa' my lugs," returned phemy. "ye cratur!" exclaimed malcolm, "ye're ower wise. wha wad hae thoucht ye sae gleg at the uptak!" "whan fowk winna lippen to me--" said phemy and ceased. "what can ye expec," returned malcolm, while father and mother listened with amused faces, "whan ye winna lippen to fowk? phemy, whaur's the mad laird?" a light flush rose to her cheeks, but whether from embarrassment or anger could not be told from her reply. "i ken nane o' that name," she said. "whaur's the laird o' kirkbyres, than?" "whar ye s' never lay han' upo' 'im!" returned the child, her cheeks now rosy red, and her eyes flashing. "me lay han' upo' 'im!" cried malcolm, surprised at her behaviour. "gien 't hadna been for you, naebody wad hae fun' oot the w'y intil the cave," she rejoined, her gray eyes, blue with the fire of anger, looking straight into his. "phemy! phemy!" said her mother. "for shame!" "there's nae shame intill 't," protested the child indignantly. "but there is shame intill 't," said malcolm quietly, "for ye wrang an honest man." "weel, ye canna deny," persisted phemy, in mood to brave the evil one himself, "'at ye was ower at kirkbyres on ane o' the markis's mears, an' heild a lang confab wi' the laird's mither!" "i gaed upo' my maister's eeran'," answered malcolm. "ow, ay! i daursay!--but wha kens--wi' sic a mither!" she burst out crying, and ran into the street. malcolm understood it now. "she's like a' the lave (rest)!" he said sadly, turning to her mother. " jist affrontit wi' the bairn!" she replied, with manifest annoyance in her flushed face. "she's true to him," said malcolm, "gien she binna fair to me. sayna a word to the lassie. she'll ken me better or lang. an' noo for my story." mrs mair said nothing while he told how he had come upon lizzy, the state she was in, and what had passed between them; but he had scarcely finished, when she rose, leaving a cup of tea untasted, and took her bonnet and shawl from a nail in the back of the door. her husband rose also. "i 'll jist gang as far 's the boar's craig wi' ye mysel', annie," he said. " thinkin' ye'll fin' the puir lassie whaur i left her," remarked malcolm. "i doobt she daured na gang hame." that night it was all over the town, that lizzy findlay was in a woman's worst trouble, and that malcolm was the cause of it. chapter li: the laird's burrow annie mair had a brother, a carpenter, who, following her to scaurnose, had there rented a small building next door to her cottage, and made of it a workshop. it had a rude loft, one end of which was loosely floored, while the remaining part showed the couples through the bare joists, except where some planks of oak and mahogany, with an old door, a boat's rudder, and other things that might come in handy, were laid across them in store. there also, during the winter, hung the cumulus clouds of blue peter's herring nets; for his cottage, having a garret above, did not afford the customary place for them in the roof. when the cave proved to be no longer a secret from the laird's enemies, phemy, knowing that her father's garret could never afford him a sufficing sense of security, turned the matter over in her active little brain until pondering produced plans, and she betook herself to her uncle, with whom she was a great favourite. him she found no difficulty in persuading to grant the hunted man a refuge in the loft. in a few days he had put up a partition between the part which was floored and that which was open, and so made for him a little room, accessible from the shop by a ladder and a trapdoor. he had just taken down an old window frame to glaze for it, when the laird coming in and seeing what he was about, scrambled up the ladder, and, a moment after, all but tumbled down again in his eagerness to put a stop to it: the window was in the gable, looking to the south, and he would not have it glazed. in blessed compensation for much of the misery of his lot, the laird was gifted with an inborn delicate delight in nature and her ministrations such as few poets even possess; and this faculty was supplemented with a physical hardiness which, in association with his weakness and liability to certain appalling attacks, was truly astonishing. though a rough hand might cause him exquisite pain, he could sleep soundly on the hardest floor; a hot room would induce a fit, but he would lie under an open window in the sharpest night without injury; a rude word would make him droop like a flower in frost, but he might go all day wet to the skin without taking cold. to all kinds of what are called hardships, he had readily become inured, without which it would have been impossible for his love of nature to receive such a full development. for hence he grew capable of communion with her in all her moods, undisabled either by the deadening effects of present, or the aversion consequent on past suffering. all the range of earth's shows, from the grandeurs of sunrise or thunderstorm down to the soft unfolding of a daisy or the babbling birth of a spring, was to him an open book. it is true, the delight of these things was constantly mingled with, not unfrequently broken, indeed, by the troublous question of his origin; but it was only on occasions of jarring contact with his fellows, that it was accompanied by such agonies as my story has represented. sometimes he would sit on a rock, murmuring the words over and over, and dabbling his bare feet, small and delicately formed, in the translucent green of a tide abandoned pool. but oftener in a soft dusky wind, he might have been heard uttering them gently and coaxingly, as if he would wile from the evening zephyr the secret of his birth--which surely mother nature must know. the confinement of such a man would have been in the highest degree cruel, and must speedily have ended in death. even malcolm did not know how absolute was the laird's need, not simply of air and freedom, but of all things accompanying the enjoyment of them. there was nothing then of insanity in his preference of a windowless bedroom;--it was that airs and odours, birds and sunlight--the sound of flapping wing, of breaking wave, and quivering throat, might be free to enter. cool clean air he must breathe, or die; with that, the partial confinement to which he was subjected was not unendurable; besides, the welcome rain would then visit him sometimes, alighting from the slant wing of the flying blast; while the sun would pour in his rays full and mighty and generous, unsifted by the presumptuous glass--green and gray and crowded with distorting lines; and the sharp flap of pigeon's wing would be mimic thunder to the flash which leapt from its whiteness as it shot by. he not only loved but understood all the creatures, divining by an operation in which neither the sympathy nor the watchfulness was the less perfect that both were but half conscious, the emotions and desires informing their inarticulate language. many of them seemed to know him in return--either recognizing his person, and from experience deducing safety, or reading his countenance sufficiently to perceive that his interest prognosticated no injury. the maternal bird would keep her seat in her nursery, and give back his gaze; the rabbit peeping from his burrow would not even draw in his head at his approach; the rooks about scaurnose never took to their wings until he was within a yard or two of them: the laird, in his half acted utterance, indicated that they took him for a scarecrow and therefore were not afraid of him. even mrs catanach's cur had never offered him a bite in return for a caress. he could make a bird's nest, of any sort common in the neighbourhood, so as deceive the most cunning of the nest harrying youths of the parish.* * [see article martin fereol, in st. paul's magazine vol. iv. generally.] hardly was he an hour in his new abode ere the sparrows and robins began to visit him. even strange birds of passage flying in at his hospitable window, would espy him unscared, and sometimes partake of the food he had always at hand to offer them. he relied, indeed, for the pleasures of social intercourse with the animal world, on stray visits alone; he had no pets--dog nor cat nor bird; for his wandering and danger haunted life did not allow such companionship. he insisted on occupying his new quarters at once. in vain phemy and her uncle showed reason against it. he did not want a bed; he much preferred a heap of spies, that is, wood shavings. indeed, he would not have a bed; and whatever he did want he would get for himself. having by word and gesture made this much plain, he suddenly darted up the ladder, threw down the trapdoor, and, lo! like a hermit crab, he had taken possession. wisely they left him alone. for a full fortnight he allowed neither to enter the little chamber. as often as they called him, he answered cheerfully, but never showed himself except when phemy brought him food, which, at his urgent request, was only once in the twenty four hours-- after nightfall, the last thing before she went to bed; then he would slide down the ladder, take what she had brought him, and hurry up again. phemy was perplexed, and at last a good deal distressed, for he had always been glad of her company before. at length, one day, hearing her voice in the shop, and having peeped through a hole in the floor to see that no stranger was present, he invited her to go up, and lifted the trapdoor. "come, come," he said hurriedly, when her head appeared and came no farther. he stood holding the trapdoor, eager to close it again as soon as she should step clear of it, and surprise was retarding her ascent. before hearing his mind, the carpenter had already made for him, by way of bedstead, a simple frame of wood, crossed with laths in the form of lattice work: this the laird had taken and set up on its side, opposite the window, about two feet from it, so that, with abundant passage for air, it served as a screen. fixing it firmly to the floor, he had placed on the top of it a large pot of the favourite cottage plant there called humility, and trained its long pendent runners over it. on the floor between it and the window, he had ranged a row of flower pots--one of them with an ivy plant, which also he had begun to train against the trellis; and already the humility and the ivy had begun to intermingle. at one side of the room, where the sloping roof met the floor, was his bed of fresh pine shavings, amongst which, their resinous half aromatic odour apparently not sweet enough to content him, he had scattered a quantity of dried rose leaves. a thick tartan plaid, for sole covering, lay upon the heap. "i wad hae likit hay better," he said, pointing to this lair rather than couch, "but it 's some ill to get, an' the spales they're at han', an' they smell unco clean." at the opposite side of the room lay a corresponding heap, differing not a little, however, in appearance and suggestion. as far as visible form and material could make it one, it was a grave --rather a short one, but abundantly long for the laird. it was in reality a heap of mould, about a foot and a half high, covered with the most delicate grass, and bespangled with daisies. "laird!" said phemy, half reproachfully, as she stood gazing at the marvel, "ye hae been oot at nicht!" "aye--a' nicht whiles, whan naebody was aboot 'cep' the win'." he pronounced the word with a long drawn imitative sough--"an' the cloods an' the splash o' the watter." pining under the closer imprisonment in his garret, which the discovery of his subterranean refuge had brought upon him, the laird would often have made his escape at night but for the fear of disturbing the mairs; and now that there was no one to disturb, the temptation to spend his nights in the open air was the more irresistible that he had conceived the notion of enticing nature herself into his very chamber. abroad then he had gone, as soon as the first midnight closed around his new dwelling, and in the fields had with careful discrimination begun to collect the mould for his mound, a handful here and a handful there. this took him several nights, and when it was finished, he was yet more choice in his selection of turf, taking it from the natural grass growing along the roads and on the earthen dykes, or walls, the outer sides of which feed the portionless cows of that country. searching for miles in the moonlight, he had, with eye and hand, chosen out patches of this grass, the shortest and thickest he could find, and with a pocket knife, often in pieces of only a few inches, removed the best of it and carried it home, to be fitted on the heap, and with every ministration and blandishment enticed to flourish. he pressed it down with soft firm hands, and beshowered it with water first warmed a little in his mouth; when the air was soft, he guided the wind to blow upon it; and as the sun could not reach it where it lay, he gathered a marvellous heap of all the bright sherds he could find--of crockery and glass and mirror, so arranging them in the window, that each threw its tiny reflex upon the turf. with this last contrivance, phemy was specially delighted; and the laird, happy as a child in beholding her delight, threw himself in an ecstasy on the mound and clasped it in his arms. i can hardly doubt that he regarded it as representing his own grave, to which in his happier moods he certainly looked forward as a place of final and impregnable refuge. as he lay thus, foreshadowing his burial, or rather his resurrection, a young canary which had flown from one of the cottages, flitted in with a golden shiver and flash, and alighted on his head. he took it gently in his hand and committed it to phemy to carry home, with many injunctions against disclosing how it had been captured. his lonely days were spent in sleep, in tending his plants, or in contriving defences; but in all weathers he wandered out at midnight, and roamed or rested among fields or rocks till the first signs of the breaking day, when he hurried like a wild creature to his den. before long he had contrived an ingenious trap, or man spider web, for the catching of any human insect that might seek entrance at his window: the moment the invading body should reach a certain point, a number of lines would drop about him, in making his way through which he would straightway be caught by the barbs of countless fishhooks--the whole strong enough at least to detain him until its inventor should have opened the trapdoor and fled. chapter lii: cream or scum? of the new evil report abroad concerning him, nothing had as yet reached malcolm. he read, and pondered, and wrestled with difficulties of every kind; saw only a little of lady florimel, who, he thought, avoided him; saw less of the marquis; and, as the evenings grew longer, spent still larger portions of them with duncan--now and then reading to him, but oftener listening to his music or taking a lesson in the piper's art. he went seldom into the seaton, for the faces there were changed towards him. attributing this to the reports concerning his parentage, and not seeing why he should receive such treatment because of them, hateful though they might well be to himself, he began to feel some bitterness towards his early world, and would now and then repeat to himself a misanthropical thing he had read, fancying he too had come to that conclusion. but there was not much danger of such a mood growing habitual with one who knew duncan macphail, blue peter, and the schoolmaster-- not to mention miss horn. to know one person who is positively to be trusted, will do more for a man's moral nature--yes, for his spiritual nature--than all the sermons he has ever heard or ever can hear. one evening, malcolm thought he would pay joseph a visit, but when he reached scaurnose, he found it nearly deserted: he had forgotten that this was one of the nights of meeting in the baillies' barn. phemy indeed had not gone with her father and mother, but she was spending the evening with the laird. lifting the latch, and seeing no one in the house, he was on the point of withdrawing when he caught sight of an eye peeping through an inch opening of the door of the bed closet, which the same moment was hurriedly closed. he called, but received no reply, and left the cottage wondering. he had not heard that mrs mair had given lizzy findlay shelter for a season. and now a neighbour had observed and put her own construction on the visit, her report of which strengthened the general conviction of his unworthiness. descending from the promontory, and wandering slowly along the shore, he met the scaurnose part of the congregation returning home. the few salutations dropped him as he passed were distant, and bore an expression of disapproval. mrs mair only, who was walking with a friend, gave him a kind nod. blue peter, who followed at a little distance, turned and walked back with him. " exerceesed i' my min'," he said, as soon as they were clear of the stragglers, "aboot the turn things hae taen, doon by at the barn." "they tell me there's some gey queer customers taen to haudin' furth," returned malcolm. "it's a fac'," answered peter. "the fowk 'll hardly hear a word noo frae ony o' the aulder an' soberer christians. they haena the gift o' the speerit, they say. but in place o' steerin' them up to tak hold upo' their maker, thir new lichts set them up to luik doon upo' ither fowk, propheseein' an' denuncin', as gien the lord had committit jeedgment into their han's." "what is 't they tak haud o' to misca' them for?" asked malcolm. "it's no sae muckle," answered peter, "for onything they du, as for what they believe or dinna believe. there's an 'uman frae clamrock was o' their pairty the nicht. she stude up an' spak weel, an' weel oot, but no to muckle profit, as 't seemed to me; only maybe no a fair jeedge, for i cudna be rid o' the notion 'at she was lattin' at mysel' a' the time. i dinna ken what for. an' i cudna help wonnerin' gien she kent what fowk used to say aboot hersel' whan she was a lass; for gien the sma' half o' that was true, a body micht think the new grace gien her wad hae driven her to hide her head, i' place o' exaltin' her horn on high. but maybe it was a' lees--she kens best hersel'." "there canna be muckle worship gaein' on wi' ye by this time, than, thinkin'," said malcolm. "i dinna like to say 't," returned joseph; "but there's a speerit o' speeritooal pride abroad amang 's, it seems to me, 'at's no fawvourable to devotion. they hae taen 't intill their heids, for ae thing--an that's what dilse's bess lays on at--'at 'cause they're fisher fowk, they hae a speecial mission to convert the warl'." "what foon' they that upo'?" asked malcolm. "ow, what the saviour said to peter an' the lave o' them 'at was fishers--to come to him, an' he would mak them fishers o' men." "ay, i see!--what for dinna ye bide at hame, you an' the lave o' the douce anes?" "there ye come upo' the thing 'at 's troublin' me. are we 'at begude it to brak it up? or are we to stan' aside an' lat it a' gang to dirt an' green bree? or are we to bide wi' them, an warsle aboot holy words till we tyne a' stamach for holy things?" "cud ye brak it up gien ye tried?" asked malcolm. "i doobt no. that's ane o' the considerations 'at hings some sair upo' me: see what we hae dune!" "what for dinna ye gang ower to maister graham, an' speir what he thinks?" "what for sud i gang till him? what's he but a fine moaral man? i never h'ard 'at he had ony discernment o' the min' o' the speerit." "that's what dilse's bess frae clamrock wad say aboot yersel', peter." "an' i doobt she wadna be far wrang." "ony gait, she kens nae mair aboot you nor ye ken aboot the maister. ca' ye a man wha cares for naething in h'aven or in earth but the wull o' 's creator--ca' ye sic a man no speeritual? jist gang ye till 'im, an' maybe he'll lat in a glent upo' ye 'at 'll astonish ye." "he's taen unco little enterest in onything 'at was gaein' on." "arena ye some wissin' ye hadna taen muckle mair yersel, peter?" "'deed am i! but gien he be giftit like that ye say, what for didna he try to haud 's richt?" "maybe he thoucht ye wad mak yer mistaks better wantin' him." "weel, ye dinna ca' that freenly!" "what for no? i hae h'ard him say fowk canna come richt 'cep' by haein' room to gang wrang. but jist ye gang till him noo. maybe he'll open mair een i' yer heids nor ye kent ye had." "weel, maybe we micht du waur. i s' mention the thing to bow o' meal an' jeames gentle, an' see what they say--there's nae guid to be gotten o' gaein' to the minister, ye see: there's naething in him, as the saw says, but what the spune pits intill him." with this somewhat unfavourable remark, blue peter turned homewards. malcolm went slowly back to his room, his tallow candle, and his volume of gibbon. he read far into the night, and his candle was burning low in the socket. suddenly he sat straight up in his chair, listening: he thought he heard a sound in the next room--it was impossible even to imagine of what--it was such a mere abstraction of sound. he listened with every nerve, but heard nothing more; crept to the door of the wizard's chamber, and listened again; listened until he could no longer tell whether he heard or not, and felt like a deaf man imagining sounds; then crept back to his own room and went to bed--all but satisfied that, if it was anything, it must have been some shaking window or door he had heard. but he could not get rid of the notion that he had smelt sulphur. chapter liii: the schoolmaster's cottage the following night, three of the scaurnose fishermen--blue peter, bow o' meal, and jeames gentle--called at the schoolmaster's cottage in the alton, and were soon deep in earnest conversation with him around his peat fire, in the room which served him for study, dining room, and bed chamber. all the summer a honeysuckle outside watched his back window for him; now it was guarded within by a few flowerless plants. it was a deep little window in a thick wall, with an air of mystery, as if thence the privileged might look into some region of strange and precious things. the front window was comparatively commonplace, with a white muslin curtain across the lower half. in the middle of the sanded floor stood a table of white deal, much stained with ink. the green painted doors of the box bed opposite the hearth stood open, revealing a spotless white counterpane. on the wall beside the front window hung by red cords three shelves of books; and near the back window stood a dark, old fashioned bureau, with pendant brass handles as bright as new, supporting a bookcase with glass doors, crowded with well worn bindings. a few deal chairs completed the furniture. "it's a sair vex, sir, to think o' what we a' jeedged to be the wark o' the speerit takin' sic a turn! feart it 'll lie heavy at oor door," said blue peter, after a sketch of the state of affairs. "i don't think they can have sunk so low as the early corinthian church yet," said mr graham, "and st. paul never seems to have blamed himself for preaching the gospel to the corinthians." "weel, maybe!" rejoined mair. "but, meantime, the practical p'int is--are we to tyauve (struggle) to set things richt again, or are we to lea' them to their ain devices?" "what power have you to set things right?" "nane, sir. the baillies' barn 's as free to them as to oorsel's." "what influence have you, then?" "unco little," said bow o' meal, taking the word. "they're afore the win'. an' it 's plain eneuch 'at to stan' up an' oppose them wad be but to breed strife an' debate." "an' that micht put mony a waukent conscience soon' asleep again --maybe no to be waukent ony mair," said blue peter. "then you don't think you can either communicate or receive benefit by continuing to take a part in those meetings?" "i dinna think it," answered all three. "then the natural question is--'why should you go?'" "we're feart for the guilt o' what the minister ca's shism," said blue peter. "that might have occurred to you before you forsook the parish church," said the schoolmaster, with a smile. "but there was nae speeritooal noorishment to be gotten i' that houff (haunt)," said jeames gentle. "how did you come to know the want of it?" "ow, that cam frae the speerit himsel'-what else?" replied gentle. "by what means?" "by the readin' o' the word an' by prayer," answered gentle. "by his ain v'ice i' the hert," said bow o' meal. "then a public assembly is not necessary for the communication of the gifts of the spirit?" they were silent. "isn't it possible that the eagerness after such assemblies may have something to do with a want of confidence in what the lord says of his kingdom--that it spreads like the hidden leaven-- grows like the buried seed? my own conviction is, that if a man would but bend his energies to live, if he would but try to be a true, that is, a godlike man, in all his dealings with his fellows, a genuine neighbour and not a selfish unit, he would open such channels for the flow of the spirit as no amount of even honest and so called successful preaching could." "wha but ane was ever fit to lead sic a life 's that?" "all might be trying after it. in proportion as our candle burns it will give light. no talking about light will supply the lack of its presence either to the talker or the listeners." "there's a heap made o' the preachin' o' the word i' the buik itsel'," said peter with emphasis. "undoubtedly. but just look at our lord: he never stopped living amongst his people--hasn't stopped yet; but he often refused to preach, and personally has given it up altogether now." "ay, but ye see he kent what he was duin'." "and so will every man in proportion as he partakes of his spirit." "but dinna ye believe there is sic a thing as gettin' a call to the preachin'?" "i do; but even then a man's work is of worth only as it supplements his life. a network of spiritual fibres connects the two, makes one of them." "but surely, sir, them 'at 's o' the same min' oucht to meet an' stir ane anither up? 'they that feart the lord spak aften thegither,' ye ken." "what should prevent them? why should not such as delight in each other's society, meet, and talk, and pray together,--address each the others if they like? there is plenty of opportunity for that, without forsaking the church or calling public meetings. to continue your quotation--'the lord hearkened and heard:' observe, the lord is not here said to hearken to sermons or prayers, but to the talk of his people. this would have saved you from false relations with men that oppose themselves, caring nothing for the truth--perhaps eager to save their souls, nothing more at the very best." "sir! sir! what wad ye hae? daur ye say it 's no a body's first duty to save his ain sowl alive?" exclaimed bow o' meal. "i daur't--but there's little daur intill 't!" said mr graham, breaking into scotch. bow o' meal rose from his chair in indignation, blue peter made a grasp at his bonnet, and jeames gentle gave a loud sigh of commiseration. "i allow it to be a very essential piece of prudence," added the schoolmaster, resuming his quieter english--"but the first duty! --no. the catechism might have taught you better than that! to mind his chief end must surely be man's first duty; and the catechism says-. 'man's chief end is to glorify god.'" "and to enjoy him for ever," supplemented peter. "that's a safe consequence. there's no fear of the second if he does the first. anyhow he cannot enjoy him for ever this moment, and he can glorify him at once." "ay, but hoo?" said bow o' meal, ready to swoop upon the master's reply. "just as jesus christ did--by doing his will--by obedience." "that's no faith--it 's works! ye'll never save yer sowl that gait." "no man can ever save his soul. god only can do that. you can glorify him by giving yourself up heart and soul and body and life to his son. then you shall be saved. that you must leave to him, and do what he tells you. there will be no fear of the saving then --though it 's not an easy matter--even for him, as has been sorely proved." "an' hoo are we to gie oorsel's up till him?--for ye see we're practical kin' o' fowk, huz fisher fowk, maister graham," said bow o' meal. the tone implied that the schoolmaster was not practical. "i say again--in doing his will and not your own." "an' what may his wull be?" "is he not telling you himself at this moment? do you not know what his will is? how should i come between him and you! for anything i know, it may be that you pay your next door neighbour a crown you owe him, or make an apology to the one on the other side. i do not know: you do." "dinna ye think aboot savin' yer ain sowl noo, maister graham?" said bow o' meal, returning on their track. "no, i don't. i've forgotten all about that. i only desire and pray to do the will of my god--which is all in all to me." "what say ye than aboot the sowls o' ither fowk? wadna ye save them, no?" "gladly would i save them--but according to the will of god. if i were, even unwittingly, to attempt it in any other way, i should be casting stumbling blocks in their path, and separating myself from my god--doing that which is not of faith, and therefore is sin. it is only where a man is at one with god that he can do the right thing or take the right way. whatever springs from any other source than the spirit that dwelt in jesus, is of sin, and works to thwart the divine will. who knows what harm may be done to a man by hurrying a spiritual process in him?" "i doobt, sir, gien yer doctrine was to get a hearin', there wad be unco little dune for the glory o' god i' this place!" remarked bow o' meal, with sententious reproof. "but what was done would be of the right sort, and surpassingly powerful." "weel, to come back to the business in han'--what wad be yer advice?" said bow o' meal. "that's a thing none but a lawyer should give. i have shown you what seem to me the principles involved: i can do no more." "ye dinna ca' that neebourly, whan a body comes speirin' 't?" "are you prepared then to take my advice?" "ye wadna hae a body du that aforehan'! we micht as weel a' be papists, an' believe as we're tauld." "precisely so. but you can exercise your judgment upon the principles whereon my opinion is founded, with far more benefit than upon my opinion itself--which i cannot well wish you to adopt, seeing i think it far better for a man to go wrong upon his own honest judgment, than to go right upon anybody else's judgment, however honest also." "ye hae a heap o' queer doctrines, sir." "and yet you ask advice of me?" "we haena ta'en muckle, ony gait," returned bow o' meal rudely, and walked from the cottage. jeames gentle and blue peter bade the master a kindly good night, and followed bow o' meal. the next sunday evening blue peter was again at the alton, accompanied by gentle and another fisherman, not bow o' meal, and had another and longer conversation with the schoolmaster. the following sunday he went yet again; and from that time, every sunday evening, as soon as he had had his tea, blue peter took down his broad bonnet, and set out to visit mr graham. as he went, one and another would join him as he passed, the number increasing every time, until at last ten or twelve went regularly. but mr graham did not like such a forsaking of wives and children on the sunday. "why shouldn't you bring mrs mair with you?" he said one evening, addressing joseph first. then turning to the rest--"i should be happy to see any of your wives who can come," he added; "and some of you have children who would be no trouble. if there is any good in gathering this way, why shouldn't we have those with us who are our best help at all other times?" "'deed, sir," said joseph, "we're sae used to oor wives 'at we're ower ready to forget hoo ill we cud du wantin' them." mrs mair and two other wives came the next night. a few hung back from modesty and dread of being catechized; but ere long about half a dozen went when they could. i need hardly say that malcolm, as soon as he learned what was going on, made one of the company. and truly, although he did not know even yet all the evil that threatened him, he stood in heavy need of the support and comfort to be derived from such truths as mr graham unfolded. duncan also, although he took little interest in what passed, went sometimes, and was welcomed. the talk of the master not unfrequently lapsed into monologue, and sometimes grew eloquent. seized occasionally by the might of the thoughts which arose in him,--thoughts which would, to him, have lost all their splendour as well as worth, had he imagined them the offspring of his own faculty, meteors of his own atmosphere instead of phenomena of the heavenly region manifesting themselves on the hollow side of the celestial sphere of human vision,--he would break forth in grand poetic speech that roused to aspiration malcolm's whole being, while in the same instant calming him with the summer peace of profoundest faith. to no small proportion of his hearers some of such outbursts were altogether unintelligible--a matter of no moment; but there were of them who understood enough to misunderstand utterly: interpreting his riches by their poverty, they misinterpreted them pitifully, and misrepresented them worse. and, alas! in the little company there were three or four men who, for all their upward impulses, yet remained capable of treachery, because incapable of recognizing the temptation to it for what it was. these by and by began to confer together and form an opposition--in this at least ungenerous, that they continued to assemble at his house, and show little sign of dissension. when, however, they began at length to discover that the master did not teach that interpretation of atonement which they had derived--they little knew whence, but delivered another as the doctrine of st. paul, st. peter, and st. john, they judged themselves bound to take measures towards the quenching of a dangerous heresy. for the more ignorant a man is, the more capable is he of being absolutely certain of many things--with such certainty, that is, as consists in the absence of doubt. mr graham, in the meantime, full of love, and quiet solemn fervour, placed completest confidence in their honesty, and spoke his mind freely and faithfully. chapter liv: one day the winter was close at hand--indeed, in that northern region, might already have claimed entire possession; but the trailing golden fringe of the skirts of autumn was yet visible behind him, as he wandered away down the slope of the world. in the gentle sadness of the season, malcolm could not help looking back with envy to the time when labour, adventure, and danger, stormy winds and troubled waters, would have helped him to bear the weight of the moral atmosphere which now from morning to night oppressed him. since their last conversation, lady florimel's behaviour to him was altered. she hardly ever sent for him now, and when she did, gave her orders so distantly that at length, but for his grandfather's sake, he could hardly have brought himself to remain in the house even until the return of his master who was from home, and contemplated proposing to him as soon as he came back, that he should leave his service and resume his former occupation, at least until the return of summer should render it fit to launch the cutter again. one day, a little after noon, malcolm stepped from the house. the morning had broken gray and squally, with frequent sharp showers, and had grown into a gurly gusty day. now and then the sun sent a dim yellow glint through the troubled atmosphere, but it was straightway swallowed up in the volumes of vapour seething and tumbling in the upper regions. as he crossed the threshold, there came a moaning wind from the west, and the water laden branches of the trees all went bending before it, shaking their burden of heavy drops on the ground. it was dreary, dreary, outside and in. he turned and looked at the house. if he might have but one peep of the goddess far withdrawn! what did he want of her? nothing but her favour--something acknowledged between them--some understanding of accepted worship! alas it was all weakness, and the end thereof dismay! it was but the longing of the opium eater or the drinker for the poison which in delight lays the foundations of torture. no; he knew where to find food--something that was neither opium nor strong drink--something that in torture sustained, and, when its fruition came, would, even in the splendours of delight, far surpass their short lived boon! he turned towards the schoolmaster's cottage. under the trees, which sighed aloud in the wind, and, like earth clouds, rained upon him as he passed, across the churchyard, bare to the gray, hopeless looking sky, through the iron gate he went, and opened the master's outer door. ere he reached that of his room, he heard his voice inviting him to enter. "come to condole with me, malcolm?" said mr graham cheerily. "what for, sir?" asked malcolm. "you haven't heard, then, that going to be sent about my business? at least, it 's more than likely." malcolm dropped into a seat, and stared like an idol. could he have heard the words? in his eyes mr graham was the man of the place-- the real person of the parish. he dismissed! the words breathed of mingled impiety and absurdity. the schoolmaster burst out laughing at him. " feart to speyk, sir," said malcolm. "whatever i say, bun' to mak a fule o' mysel'! what in plain words div ye mean, sir?" "somebody has been accusing me of teaching heresy--in the school to my scholars, and in my own house to the fisherfolk: the presbytery has taken it up, and here is my summons to appear before them and answer to the charge." "guid preserve 's, sir! and is this the first ye hae h'ard o't?" "the very first." "an' what are ye gauin' to do?" "appear, of course." "an' what 'll ye say to them?" "i shall answer their questions." "they 'll condemn ye!" "i do not doubt it." "an' what neist?" "i shall have to leave scotland, i suppose." "sir, it 's awfu'." the horror stricken expression of malcolm's face drew a second merry laugh from mr graham. "they can't burn me," he said: "you needn't look like that." "but there's something terrible wrang, sir, whan sic men hae pooer ower sic a man. "they have no power but what's given them. i shall accept their decision as the decree of heaven." "it's weel to be you, sir--'at can tak a thing sae quaiet." "you mustn't suppose i am naturally so philosophical. it stands for five and forty years of the teaching of the son of man in this wonderful school of his, where the clever would be destroyed but for the stupid, where the church would tear itself to pieces but for the laws of the world, and where the wicked themselves are the greatest furtherance of godliness in the good." "but wha ever cud hae been baze eneuch to du 't!" said malcolm, too much astounded for his usual eager attention to the words that fell from the master. "that i would rather not inquire," answered mr graham. "in the meantime it would be better if the friends would meet somewhere else, for this house is mine only in virtue of my office. will you tell them so for me?" "surely, sir. but will ye no mak ane?" "not till this is settled. i will after, so long as i may be here." "gien onybody had been catecheesin' the bairns, i wad surely hae h'ard o' 't!" said malcolm, after a pause of rumination, "poochy wad hae tellt me. i saw him thestreen (yestereven).--wha 'll ever say again a thing's no poassible!" "whatever doctrine i may have omitted to press in the school," said mr graham, "i have inculcated nothing at variance with the confession of faith or the shorter catechism." "hoo can ye say that, sir?" returned malcolm, "whan, in as weel's oot o' the schuil, ye hae aye insistit 'at god 's a just god-- abune a' thing likin' to gie fair play?" "well, does the catechism say anything to the contrary?" "no in sae mony words, doobtless; but it says a sicht o' things 'at wad mak god oot the maist oonrichteous tyrant 'at ever was." " not sure you can show that logically," said mr graham. "i will think it over, however--not that i mean to take up any defence of myself. but now i have letters to write, and must ask you to leave me. come and see me again tomorrow." malcolm went from him-- like one that hath been stunned, and is of sense forlorn. here was trouble upon trouble! but what had befallen him compared with what had come upon the schoolmaster! a man like him to be so treated! how gladly he would work for him all the rest of his days! and how welcome his grandfather would make him to his cottage! lord lossie would be the last to object. but he knew it was a baseless castle while he built it, for mr graham would assuredly provide for himself, if it were by breaking stones on the road and saying the lord's prayer. it all fell to pieces just as he lifted his hand to miss horn's knocker. she received him with a cordiality such as even she had never shown him before. he told her what threatened mr graham. she heard him to the end without remark, beyond the interjection of an occasional "eh, sirs!" then sat for a minute in troubled silence. "there's a heap o' things an 'uman like me," she said at length, "canna un'erstan'. i didna ken whether some fowk mair nor preten' to un'erstan' them. but set sandy graham doon upo' ae side, an' the presbytery doon upo' the ither, an' i hae wit eneuch to ken whilk i wad tak my eternal chance wi'. some o' the presbytery's guid eneuch men, but haena ower muckle gumption; an' some o' them has plenty o' gumption, but haena ower muckle grace, ta jeedge by the w'y 'at they glower an' rair, layin' doon the law as gien the almichty had been driven to tak coonsel wi' them. but luik at sandy graham! ye ken whether he has gumption or no; an' gien he be a stickit minister, he stack by the grace o' moadesty. but, haith, i winna peety him! for, o' a' things, to peety a guid man i' the richt gate is a fule's folly. troth, a hantle mair concernt about yersel', ma'colm!" malcolm heard her without apprehension. his cup seemed full, and he never thought that cups sometimes run over. but perhaps he was so far the nearer to a truth: while the cup of blessing may and often does run over, i doubt if the cup of suffering is ever more than filled to the brim. "onything fresh, mem?" he asked, with the image of mrs stewart standing ghastly on the slopes of his imagination. "i wadna be fit to tell ye, laddie, gien 't warna, as ye ken, 'at the almichty 's been unco mercifu' to me i' the maitter o' feelin's. yer freen's i' the seaton, an' ower at scaurnose, hae feelin's, an' that's hoo nane o' them a' has pluck it up hert to tell ye o' the waggin' o' slanderous tongues against ye." "what are they sayin' noo?" asked malcolm with considerable indifference. "naither mair nor less than that ye're the father o' an oonborn wean," answered miss horn. "i dinna freely unnerstan' ye," returned malcolm, for the unexpectedness of the disclosure was scarcely to be mastered at once. i shall not put on record the plain form of honest speech whereby she made him at once comprehend the nature of the calumny. he started to his feet, and shouted "wha daur say that?" so loud that the listening jean almost fell down the stair. "wha sud say 't but the lassie hersel'?" answered miss horn simply. "she maun hae the best richt to say wha's wha." "it wad better become anybody but her," said malcolm. "what mean ye there, laddie?" cried miss horn, alarmed. "'at nane cud ken sae weel 's hersel' it was a damned lee. wha is she?" "wha but meg partan's lizzy!" "puir lassie! is that it?--eh, but sorry for her! she never said it was me. an' whaever said it, surely ye dinna believe 't o' me, mem?" "me believe 't! malcolm macphail, wull ye daur insult a maiden wuman 'at's stude clear o' reproch till she's lang past the danger o' 't? it's been wi' unco sma' diffeeclety, i maun alloo, for i haena been led into ony temptation!" "eh, mem!" returned malcolm, perceiving by the flash of her eyes and the sudden halt of her speech that she was really indignant-- "i dinna ken what i hae said to anger ye!" "anger me! quo' he? what though i hae nae feelin's! will he daur till imaigine 'at he wad be sittin' there, an' me haudin' him company, gien i believed him cawpable o' turnin' oot sic a meeserable, contemptible wratch! the lord come atween me an' my wrath!" "i beg yer pardon, mem. a body canna aye put things thegither afore he speyks. richt sair obleeged till ye for takin' my pairt." "i tak naebody's pairt but my ain, laddie. obleeged to me for haein' a wheen common sense--a thing 'at i was born wi'! toots! dinna haiver." "weel, mem, what wad ye hae me du? i canna sen' my auld daddie roon the toon wi' his pipes, to procleem 'at no the man. thinkin' i 'll hae to lea' the place." "wad ye sen' yer daddy roun' wi' the pipes to say 'at ye was the man? ye micht as weel du the tane as the tither. mony a better man has been waur misca'd, an' gart fowk forget that ever the lee was lee'd. na, na; never rim frae a lee. an' never say, naither, 'at ye didna du the thing, 'cept it be laid straucht to yer face. lat a lee lie i' the dirt. gien ye pike it up, the dirt 'll stick till ye, though ye fling the lee ower the dyke at the warl's en'. na, na! lat a lee lie, as ye wad the deevil's tail 'at the laird's jock took aff wi' the edge o' 's spaud." "a' thing 's agane me the noo!" sighed malcolm. "auld jobb ower again!" returned miss horn almost sarcastically. "the deil had the warst o' 't though, an' wull hae, i' the lang hinner en'. meanwhile ye maun face him. there's nae airmour for the back aither i' the bible or i' the pilgrim's progress." "what wad ye hae me du, than, mem?" "du? wha said ye was to du onything? the best duin whiles is to bide still. lat ye the jaw (wave) gae ower ohn joukit (without ducking)." "gien i binna to du onything, i maist wiss i hadna kent," said malcolm, whose honourable nature writhed under the imputed vileness. "it's aye better to ken in what licht ye stan' wi' ither fowk. it hauds ye ohn lippent ower muckle, an' sae dune things or made remarks 'at wad be misread till ye. ye maun haud an open ro'd, 'at the trowth whan it comes oot may have free course. the ae thing 'at spites me is, 'at the verra fowk 'at was the first to spread yer ill report, 'ill be the first to wuss ye weel whan the trowth's kent--ay, an they 'll persuaud their verra sel's 'at they stuck up for ye like born brithers." "there maun be some jeedgement upo' leein'!" "the warst wuss i hae agane ony sic back biter is that he may live to be affrontit at himsel'. efter that he'll be guid eneuch company for me. gang yer wa's, laddie; say yer prayers, an' haud up yer heid. wha wadna raither be accused o' a' the sins o' the comman'ments nor be guilty o' ane o' them?" malcolm did hold up his head as he walked away. not a single person was in the street far below, the sea was chafing and tossing--grey green broken into white. the horizon was formless with mist, hanging like thin wool from the heavens down to the face of the waters, against which the wind, which had shifted round considerably towards the north, and blew in quicker coming and more menacing gusts, appeared powerless. he would have gone to the sands and paced the shore till nightfall, but that he would not expose himself thus to unfriendly eyes and false judgments. he turned to the right instead, and walked along the top of the cliffs eastward. buffeted by winds without and hurrying fancies within, he wandered on until he came near colonsay castle, at sight of which the desire awoke in him to look again on the scene of lady florimel's terror. he crossed the head of the little bay and descended into the heart of the rock. even there the wind blew dank and howling through all the cavernous hollows. as he approached the last chamber, out of the devil's window flew, with clanging wing, an arrow barbed seagull, down to the grey veiled tumult below, and the joy of life for a moment seized his soul. but the next, the dismay of that which is forsaken was upon him. it was not that the once lordly structure lay abandoned to the birds and the gusts, but that she would never think of the place without an instant assay at forgetfulness. he turned and reascended, feeling like a ghost that had been wandering through the forlorn chambers of an empty skull. when he rose on the bare top of the ruin, a heavy shower from the sea was beating slant against the worn walls and gaping clefts. myriads of such rains had, with age long inevitableness, crumbled away the strong fortress till its threatful mass had sunk to an abject heap. thus all devouring death--nay, nay! it is all sheltering, all restoring mother nature, receiving again into her mighty matrix the stuff worn out in the fashioning toil of her wasteful, greedy, and slatternly children. in her genial bosom, the exhausted gathers life, the effete becomes generant, the disintegrate returns to resting and capable form. the rolling oscillating globe dips it for an aeon in growing sea, lifts it from the sinking waters of its thousand year bath to the furnace of the sun, remodels and remoulds, turns ashes into flowers, and divides mephitis into diamonds and breath. the races of men shift and hover like shadows over her surface, while, as a woman dries her garment before the household flame, she turns it, by portions, now to and now from the sun heart of fire. oh joy that all the hideous lacerations and vile gatherings of refuse which the worshippers of mammon disfigure the earth withal, scoring the tale of their coming dismay on the visage of their mother, shall one day lie fathoms deep under the blessed ocean, to be cleansed and remade into holy because lovely forms! may the ghosts of the men who mar the earth, turning her sweet rivers into channels of filth, and her living air into irrespirable vapours and pestilences, haunt the desolations they have made, until they loathe the work of their hands, and turn from themselves with a divine repudiation. it was about half tide, and the sea coming up, with the wind straight from the north, when malcolm, having descended to the shore of the little bay, and scrambled out upon the rocks, bethought him of a certain cave which he had not visited since he was a child, and climbing over the high rocks between, took shelter there from the wind. he had forgotten how beautiful it was, and stood amazed at the richness of its colour, imagining he had come upon a cave of the serpentine marble which is found on the coast; for sides and roof and rugged floor were gorgeous with bands and spots and veins of green, and rusty red. a nearer inspection, however, showed that these hues were not of the rock itself but belonged to the garden of the ocean, and when he turned to face the sea, lo! they had all but vanished, the cave shone silvery gray, with a faint moony sparkle, and out came the lovely carving of the rodent waves. all about, its sides were fretted in exquisite curves, and fantastic yet ever graceful knots and twists; as if a mass of gnarled and contorted roots, first washed of every roughness by some ethereal solvent, leaving only the soft lines of yet grotesque volutions, had been transformed into mingled silver and stone. like a soldier crab that had found a shell to his mind, he gazed through the yawning mouth of the cavern at the turmoil of the rising tide, as it rushed straight towards him through a low jagged channel in the rocks. but straight with the tide came the wind, blowing right into the cave; and finding it keener than pleasant, he turned and went farther in. after a steep ascent some little way, the cavern took a sharp turn to one side, where not a breath of wind, not a glimmer of light, reached, and there he sat down upon a stone, and fell a thinking. he must face the lie out, and he must accept any mother god had given him: but with such a mother as mrs stewart, and without mr graham, how was he to endure the altered looks of his old friends? faces indifferent before, had grown suddenly dear to him; and opinions he would have thought valueless once, had become golden in his eyes. had he been such as to deserve their reproaches, he would doubtless have steeled himself to despise them; but his innocence bound him to the very people who judged him guilty. and there was that awful certainty slowly but steadily drawing nearer--that period of vacant anguish, in which lady florimel must vanish from his sight, and the splendour of his life go with her, to return no more. but not even yet did he cherish any fancy of coming nearer to her than the idea of absolute service authorized. as often as the fancy had, compelled by the lady herself, crossed the horizon of his thoughts, a repellent influence from the same source had been at hand to sweep it afar into its antenatal chaos. but his love rose ever from the earth to which the blow had hurled it, purified again, once more all devotion and no desire, careless of recognition beyond the acceptance of its offered service, and content that the be all should be the end all. the cave seemed the friendliest place he had yet found. earth herself had received him into her dark bosom, where no eye could discover him, and no voice reach him but that of the ocean, as it tossed and wallowed in the palm of god's hand. he heard its roar on the rocks around him; and the air was filled with a loud noise of broken waters, while every now and then the wind rushed with a howl into the cave, as if searching for him in its crannies; the wild raving soothed him, and he felt as if he would gladly sit there, in the dark torn with tumultuous noises, until his fate had unfolded itself. the noises thickened around him as the tide rose; but so gradually that, although at length he could not have heard his own voice, he was unaware of the magnitude to which the mighty uproar had enlarged itself. suddenly, something smote the rock as with the hammer of thor, and, as suddenly, the air around him grew stifling hot. the next moment it was again cold. he started to his feet in wonder, and sought the light. as he turned the angle, the receding back of a huge green foam spotted wave, still almost touching the roof of the cavern, was sweeping out again into the tumult. it had filled the throat of it, and so compressed the air within by the force of its entrance, as to drive out for the moment a large portion of its latent heat. looking then at his watch, malcolm judged it must be about high tide: brooding in the darkness, he had allowed the moments to lapse unheeded, and it was now impossible to leave the cavern until the tide had fallen. he returned into its penetral, and sitting down with the patience of a fisherman, again lost himself in reverie. the darkness kept him from perceiving how the day went, and the rapidly increasing roar of the wind made the diminishing sound of the tide's retreat less noticeable. he thought afterwards that perhaps he had fallen asleep; anyhow, when at length he looked out, the waves were gone from the rock, and the darkness was broken only by the distant gleam of their white defeat. the wind was blowing a hurricane, and even for his practised foot, it was not easy to surmount the high, abrupt spines he must cross to regain the shore. it was so dark that he could see nothing of the castle, though it was but a few yards from him; and he resolved therefore, the path along the top of the cliffs being unsafe, to make his way across the fields, and return by the high road. the consequence was, that, what with fences and ditches, the violence of the wind, and uncertainty about his direction, it was so long before he felt the hard road under his feet that with good reason he feared the house would be closed for the night ere he reached it. chapter lv: the same night when he came within sight of it, however, he perceived, by the hurried movement of lights, that instead of being folded in silence, the house was in unwonted commotion. as he hastened to the south door, the prince of the power of the air himself seemed to resist his entrance, so fiercely did the wind, eddying round the building, dispute every step he made towards it; and when at length he reached and opened it, a blast, rushing up the glen straight from the sea, burst wide the opposite one, and roared through the hall like a torrent. lady florimel, flitting across it at the moment, was almost blown down, and shrieked aloud for help. malcolm was already at the north door, exerting all his strength to close it, when she spied him, and, bounding to him, with white face and dilated eyes, exclaimed--"oh malcolm! what a time you have been!" "what's wrang, my leddy?" cried malcolm with respondent terror. "don't you hear it?" she answered. "the wind is blowing the house down. there's just been a terrible fall, and every moment i hear it going. if my father were only come! we shall be all blown into the burn." "nae fear o' that, my leddy!" returned malcolm. "the wa's o' the auld carcass are 'maist live rock, an' 'ill stan' the warst win' 'at ever blew--this side o' the tropics, ony gait. gien 't war ance to get its nose in, i wadna say but it micht tirr (strip) the rufe, but it winna blaw 's intil the burn, my leddy. i'll jist gang and see what's the mischeef." he was moving away, but lady florimel stopped him. "no, no, malcolm!" she said. "it's very silly of me, i dare say; but i've been so frightened. they're such a set of geese--mrs courthope, and the butler, and all of them! don't leave me, please." "i maun gang and see what's amiss, my leddy," answered malcolm; "but ye can come wi' me gien ye like. what's fa'en, div ye think?" "nobody knows. it fell with a noise like thunder, and shook the whole house." "it's far ower dark to see onything frae the ootside," rejoined malcolm, "at least afore the mune's up. it's as dark's pick. but i can sune saitisfee mysel' whether the deil 's i' the hoose or no." he took a candle from the hall table, and went up the square staircase, followed by florimel. "what w'y is 't, my leddy, 'at the hoose is no lockit up, an' ilka body i' their beds?" he asked. "my father is coming home tonight. didn't you know? but i should have thought a storm like this enough to account for people not being in bed!" "it's a fearfu' nicht for him to be sae far frae his! whaur's he comin' frae! ye never speyk to me noo, my leddy, an' naebody tell't me." "he was to come from fochabers tonight. stoat took the bay mare to meet him yesterday." "he wad never start in sic a win'! it's fit to blaw the saiddle aff o' the mear's back." "he may have started before it came on to blow like this," said lady florimel. malcolm liked the suggestion the less because of its probability, believing, in that case, he should have arrived long ago. but he took care not to increase florimel's alarm. by this time malcolm knew the whole of the accessible inside of the roof well--better far than any one else about the house. from one part to another, over the whole of it, he now led lady florimel. in the big shadowed glimmer of his one candle, all parts of the garret seemed to him frowning with knitted brows over resentful memories--as if the phantom forms of all the past joys and self renewing sorrows, all the sins and wrongs, all the disappointments and failures of the house, had floated up, generation after generation, into that abode of helpless brooding, and there hung hovering above the fast fleeting life below, which now, in its turn, was ever sending up like fumes from heart and brain, to crowd the dim, dreary, larva haunted, dream wallowing chaos of half obliterated thought and feeling. to florimel it looked a dread waste, a region deserted and forgotten, mysterious with far reaching nooks of darkness, and now awful with the wind raving and howling over slates and leads so close to them on all sides,--as if a flying army of demons were tearing at the roof to get in and find covert from pursuit. at length they approached malcolm's own quarters, where they would have to pass the very door of the wizard's chamber to reach a short ladder-like stair that led up into the midst of naked rafters, when, coming upon a small storm window near the end of a long passage, lady florimel stopped and peeped out. "the moon is rising," she said, and stood looking. malcolm glanced over her shoulder. eastward a dim light shone up from behind the crest of a low hill. great part of the sky was clear, but huge masses of broken cloud went sweeping across the heavens. the wind had moderated. "aren't we somewhere near your friend the wizard?" said lady florimel, with a slight tremble in the tone of mockery with which she spoke. malcolm answered as if he were not quite certain. "isn't your own room somewhere hereabouts?" asked the girl sharply. "we'll jist gang till ae ither queer place," observed malcolm, pretending not to have heard her, "and gien the rufe be a' richt there, i s' no bather my heid mair aboot it till the mornin'. it's but a feow steps farther, an' syne a bit stair." a fit of her not unusual obstinacy had however seized lady florimel. "i won't move a step," she said, "until you have told me where the wizard's chamber is." "ahint ye, my leddy, gien ye wull hae 't," answered malcolm, not unwilling to punish her a little; "--jist at the far en' o' the transe there." in fact the window in which she stood, lighted the whole length of the passage from which it opened. even as he spoke, there sounded somewhere as it were the slam of a heavy iron door, the echoes of which seemed to go searching into every cranny of the multitudinous garrets. florimel gave a shriek, and laying hold of malcolm, clung to him in terror. a sympathetic tremor, set in motion by her cry, went vibrating through the fisherman's powerful frame, and, almost involuntarily, he clasped her close. with wide eyes they stood staring down the long passage, of which, by the poor light they carried, they could not see a quarter of the length. presently they heard a soft footfall along its floor, drawing slowly nearer through the darkness; and slowly out of the darkness grew the figure of a man, huge and dim, clad in a long flowing garment, and coming straight on to where they stood. they clung yet closer together. the apparition came within three yards of them, and then they recognized lord lossie in his dressing gown. they started asunder. florimel flew to her father, and malcolm stood, expecting the last stroke of his evil fortune. the marquis looked pale, stern, and agitated. instead of kissing his daughter on the forehead as was his custom, he put her from him with one expanded palm, but the next moment drew her to his side. then approaching malcolm, he lighted at his the candle he carried, which a draught had extinguished on the way. "go to your room, macphail," he said, and turned from him, his arm still round lady florimel. they walked a way together down the long passage, vaguely visible in flickering fits. all at once their light vanished, and with it malcolm's eyes seemed to have left him. but a merry laugh, the silvery thread in which was certainly florimel's, reached his ears, and brought him to himself. chapter lvi: something forgotten i will not trouble my reader with the thoughts that kept rising, flickering, and fading, one after another, for two or three dismal hours, as he lay with eyes closed but sleepless. at length he opened them wide, and looked out into the room. it was a bright moonlit night; the wind had sunk to rest; all the world slept in the exhaustion of the storm; he only was awake; he could lie no longer; he would go out, and discover, if possible, the mischief the tempest had done. he crept down the little spiral stair used only by the servants, and knowing all the mysteries of lock and bar, was presently in the open air. first he sought a view of the building against the sky, but could not see that any portion was missing. he then proceeded to walk round the house, in order to find what had fallen. there was a certain neglected spot nearly under his own window, where a wall across an interior angle formed a little court or yard; he had once peeped in at the door of it, which was always half open, and seemed incapable of being moved in either direction, but had seen nothing except a broken pail and a pile of brushwood; the flat arch over this door was broken, and the door itself half buried in a heap of blackened stones and mortar. here was the avalanche whose fall had so terrified the household! the formless mass had yesterday been a fair proportioned and ornate stack of chimneys. he scrambled to the top of the heap and sitting down on a stone carved with a plaited celtic band, yet again fell athinking. the marquis must dismiss him in the morning; would it not be better to go away now, and spare poor old duncan a terrible fit of rage? he would suppose he had fled from the pseudo maternal net of mrs stewart; and not till he had found a place to which he could welcome him would he tell him the truth. but his nature recoiled both from the unmanliness of such a flight, and from the appearance of conscious wrong it must involve, and he dismissed the notion. scheme after scheme for the future passed through his head, and still he sat on the heap in the light of the high gliding moon, like a ghost on the ruins of his earthly home, and his eyes went listlessly straying like servants without a master. suddenly he found them occupied with a low iron studded door in the wall of the house, which he had never seen before. he descended, and found it hardly closed, for there was no notch to receive the heavy latch. pushing it open on great rusty hinges, he saw within what in the shadow appeared a precipitous descent. his curiosity was roused; he stole back to his room and fetched his candle; and having, by the aid of his tinderbox, lighted it in the shelter of the heap, peeped again through the doorway, and saw what seemed a narrow cylindrical pit, only, far from showing a great yawning depth, it was filled with stones and rubbish nearly to the bottom of the door. the top of the door reached almost to the vaulted roof, one part of which, close to the inner side of the circular wall, was broken. below this breach, fragments of stone projected from the wall, suggesting the remnants of a stair. with the sight came a foresight of discovery. one foot on the end of a long stone sticking vertically from the rubbish, and another on one of the stones projecting from the wall, his head was already through the break in the roof; and in a minute more he was climbing a small, broken, but quite passable spiral staircase, almost a counterpart of that already described as going like a huge augerbore through the house from top to bottom--that indeed by which he had just descended. there was most likely more of it buried below, probably communicating with an outlet in some part of the rock towards the burn, but the portion of it which, from long neglect, had gradually given way, had fallen down the shaft, and cut off the rest with its ruins. at the height of a storey, he came upon a built up doorway, and again, at a similar height, upon another; but the parts filled in looked almost as old as the rest of the wall. not until he reached the top of the stair, did he find a door. it was iron studded, and heavily hinged, like that below. it opened outward--noiselessly he found, as if its hinges had been recently oiled, and admitted him to a small closet, the second door of which he opened hurriedly, with a beating heart. yes! there was the check curtained bed! it must be the wizard's chamber! crossing to another door, he found it both locked and further secured by a large iron bolt in a strong staple. this latter he drew back, but there was no key in the lock. with scarce a doubt remaining, he shot down the one stair and flew up the other to try the key that lay in his chest. one moment and he stood in the same room, admitted by the door next his own. some exposure was surely not far off! anyhow here was room for counter plot, on the chance of baffling something underhand--villainy most likely, where mrs catanach was concerned!--and yet, with the control of it thus apparently given into his hands, he must depart, leaving the house at the mercy of a low woman--for the lock of the wizard's door would not exclude her long if she wished to enter and range the building! he would not go, however, without revealing all to the marquis, and would at once make some provision towards her discomfiture. going to the forge, and bringing thence a long bar of iron to use as a lever, he carefully drew from the door frame the staple of the bolt, and then replaced it so, that, while it looked just as before, a good push would now send it into the middle of the room. lastly, he slid the bolt into it, after having carefully removed all traces of disturbance, left the mysterious chamber by its own stair, and once more ascending to the passage, locked the door, and retired to his room with the key. he had now plenty to think about beyond himself! here certainly was some small support to the legend of the wizard earl. the stair which he had discovered, had been in common use at one time; its connection with other parts of the house had been cut off with an object; and by degrees it had come to be forgotten altogether; many villainies might have been effected by means of it. mrs catanach must have discovered it the same night on which he found her there, had gone away by it then, and had certainly been making use of it since. when he smelt the sulphur, she must have been lighting a match. it was now getting towards morning, and at last he was tired. he went to bed and fell asleep. when he woke, it was late, and as he dressed, he heard the noise of hoofs and wheels in the stable yard. he was sitting at breakfast in mrs courthope's room, when she came in full of surprise at the sudden departure of her lord and lady. the marquis had rung for his man, and lady florimel for her maid, as soon as it was light; orders were sent at once to the stable; four horses were put to the travelling carriage; and they were gone, mrs courthope could not tell whither. dreary as was the house without florimel, things had turned out a shade or two better than malcolm had expected, and he braced himself to endure his loss. chapter lvii: the laird's quest things were going pretty well with the laird: phemy and he drew yet closer to each other, and as he became yet more peaceful in her company, his thoughts flowed more freely, and his utterance grew less embarrassed; until at length, in talking with her, his speech was rarely broken with even a slight impediment, and a stranger might have overheard a long conversation between them without coming to any more disparaging conclusion in regard to him than that the hunchback was peculiar in mind as well as in body. but his nocturnal excursions continuing to cause her apprehension, and his representations of the delights to be gathered from nature while she slept, at the same time alluring her greatly, phemy had become, both for her own pleasure and his protection, anxious in these also to be his companion. with a vital recognition of law, and great loyalty to any utterance of either parent, she had yet been brought up in an atmosphere of such liberty, that except a thing were expressly so conditioned, or in itself appeared questionable, she never dreamed of asking permission to do it; and, accustomed as she had been to go with the laird everywhere, and to be out with him early and late, her conscience never suggested the possibility of any objection to her getting up at twelve, instead of four or five, to accompany him. it was some time, however, before the laird himself would consent; and then he would not unfrequently interpose with limitations, especially, if the night were not mild and dry, sending her always home again to bed. the mutual rule and obedience between them was something at once strange and lovely. at midnight phemy would enter the shop, and grope her way until she stood under the trapdoor. this was the nearest she could come to the laird's chamber, for he had not only declined having the ladder stand there for his use, but had drawn a solemn promise from the carpenter that at night it should always be left slung up to the joists. for himself he had made a rope ladder, which he could lower from beneath when he required it, invariably drew up after him, and never used for coming down. one night phemy made her customary signal by knocking against the trapdoor with a long slip of wood: it opened, and, as usual, the body of the laird appeared, hung for a moment in the square gap, like a huge spider, by its two hands, one on each side, then dropped straight to the floor, when, without a word, he hastened forth, and phemy followed. the night was very still--and rather dark, for it was cloudy about the horizon, and there was no moon. hand in hand the two made for the shore--here very rocky--a succession of promontories with little coves between. down into one of these they went by a winding path, and stood at the lip of the sea. a violet dimness, or, rather, a semi-transparent darkness, hung over it, through which came now and then a gleam, where the slow heave of some triton shoulder caught a shine of the sky; a hush also, as of sleep, hung over it, which not to break, the wavelets of the rising tide carefully stilled their noises; and the dimness and the hush seemed one. they sat down on a rock that rose but a foot or two from the sand and for some moments listened in silence to the inarticulate story of the night. at length the laird turned to phemy, and taking one of her hands in both of his, very solemnly said, as if breaking to her his life's trouble, "phemy, i dinna ken whaur i cam frae." "hoot, laird! ye ken weel eneuch ye cam frae go-od," answered phemy, lengthening out the word with solemn utterance. the laird did not reply, and again the night closed around them, and the sea hushed at their hearts. but a soft light air began to breathe from the south, and it waked the laird to more active thought. "gien he wad but come oot an' shaw himsel'!" he said. "what for disna he come oot?" "wha wad ye hae come oot?" asked phemy. "ye ken wha, weel eneuch. they say he 's a' gait at ance: jist hearken. what for will he aye bide in, an' never come oot an' lat a puir body see him?" the speech was broken into pauses, filled by the hush rather than noise of the tide, and the odour-like wandering of the soft air in the convolutions of their ears. "the lown win' maun be his breath--sae quaiet!--he 's no hurryin' himsel' the nicht.--there's never naebody rins efter him.--eh, phemy! i jist thoucht he was gauin' to speyk!" this last exclamation he uttered in a whisper, as the louder gush of a larger tide pulse died away on the shore. "luik, phemy, luik!" he resumed. "luik oot yonner! dinna ye see something 'at micht grow to something?" his eyes were fixed on a faint spot of steely blue, out on the sea, not far from the horizon. it was hard to account for, with such a sky overheard, wherein was no lighter part to be seen that might be reflected in the water below; but neither of the beholders was troubled about its cause: there it glimmered on in the dimness of the wide night--a cold, faint splash of blue grey. "i dinna think muckle o' that, sir," said phemy. "it micht be the mark o' the sole o' his fut, though," returned the laird. "he micht hae fist setten 't doon, an' the watter hae lowed (flamed) up aboot it, an' the low no be willin' to gang oot! luik sharp, phemy; there may come anither at the neist stride-- anither fut mark. luik ye that gait an' i'll luik this.--what for willna he come oot? the lift maun be fu' o' 'im, an' hungert for a sicht o' 'im. gien ye see ony thing, phemy, cry oot." "what will i cry?" asked phemy. "cry 'father o' lichts!'" answered the laird. "will he hear to that--div ye think, sir?" "wha kens! he micht jist turn his heid; an' ae luik wad sair me for a hunner year." "i s' cry, gien i see onything," said phemy. as they sat watching, by degrees the laird's thought swerved a little. his gaze had fixed on the northern horizon, where, as if on the outer threshold of some mighty door, long low clouds, with varied suggestion of recumbent animal forms, had stretched themselves, like creatures of the chase, watching for their lord to issue. "maybe he's no oot o' the hoose yet," he said. "surely it canna be but he comes oot ilka nicht! he wad never hae made sic a sicht o' bonny things to lat them lie wi'oot onybody to gaither them! an' there's nae ill fowk the furth at this time o' nicht, ta mak an oogly din, or disturb him wi' the sicht o' them. he maun come oot i' the quaiet o' the nicht, or else what's 't a' for?--ay! he keeps the nicht till himsel', an' lea's the day to hiz (us). that 'll be what the deep sleep fa's upo' men for, doobtless--to haud them oot o' his gait! eh! i wuss he wad come oot whan i was by! i micht get a glimp o' 'm.--maybe he wad tak the hump aff o' me, an' set things in order i' my heid, an' mak me like ither fowk. eh me! that wad be gran'! naebody wad daur to touch me syne. eh! michty! come oot! father o' lichts! father o' lichts!" he went on repeating the words till, growing softer and softer, his voice died away in silence, and still as his seat of stone he sat, a new job, on the verge of the world waters, like the old job on his dunghill when he cried out,-- "lo, he goeth by me, and i see him not; he passeth on also, but i perceive him not--call thou, and i will answer; or let me speak and answer thou me.--oh that i knew where i might find him! that i might come even to his seat!--behold i go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but i cannot perceive him; on the left hand, where he doth work, but i cannot behold him; he hideth himself on the right hand, that i cannot see him." at length he rose and wandered away from the shore, his head sunk upon his chest. phemy rose also and followed him in silence. the child had little of the poetic element in her nature, but she had much of that from which everything else has to be developed-- heart. when they reached the top of the brae, she joined him, and said, putting her hand in his, but not looking at, or even turning towards him, "maybe he 'll come oot upo' ye afore ye ken some day --whan ye're no luikin' for him." the laird stopped, gazed at her for a moment, shook his head, and walked on. grassy steeps everywhere met the stones and sands of the shore, and the grass and the sand melted, as it were, and vanished each in the other. just where they met in the next hollow, stood a small building of stone with a tiled roof. it was now strangely visible through the darkness, for from every crevice a fire illumined smoke was pouring. but the companions were not alarmed or even surprised. they bent their way towards it without hastening a step, and coming to a fence that enclosed a space around it, opened a little gate, and passed through. a sleepy watchman challenged them. "it's me," said the laird. "a fine nicht, laird," returned the voice, and said no more. the building was divided into several compartments, each with a separate entrance. on the ground in each burned four or five little wood fires, and the place was filled with smoke and glow. the smoke escaped partly by openings above the doors, but mostly by the crannies of the tiled roof. ere it reached these, however, it had to pass through a great multitude of pendent herrings. hung up by the gills, layer above layer, nearly to the roof, their last tails came down as low as the laird's head. from beneath nothing was to be seen but a firmament of herring tails. these fish were the last of the season, and were thus undergoing the process of kippering. it was a new venture in the place, and its success as yet a question. the laird went into one of the compartments, and searching about a little amongst the multitude within his reach, took down a plump one, then cleared away the blazing wood from the top of one of the fires, and laid his choice upon the glowing embers beneath. "what are ye duin' there, laird?" cried phemy from without, whose nostrils the resulting odour had quickly reached. "the fish is no yours." "ye dinna think i wad tak it wantin' leave, phemy!" returned the laird. "mony a supper hae i made this w'y, an' mony anither i houp to mak. it'll no be this sizzon though, for this lot's the last o' them. they're fine aitin', but some feart they winna keep." "wha gae ye leave, sir?" persisted phemy showing herself the indivertible guardian of his morals as well as of his freedom. "ow, mr runcie himsel', of coorse!" answered the laird. "wull i pit ane on to you?" "did ye speir leave for me tu?" asked the righteous maiden. "ow, na; but i'll tell him the neist time i see him." " nae for ony," said phemy. the fish wanted little cooking. the laird turned it, and after another half minute of the fire, took it up by the tail, sat down on a stone beside the door, spread a piece of paper on his knees, laid the fish upon it, pulled a lump of bread from his pocket, and proceeded to make his supper. ere he began, however, he gazed all around with a look which phemy interpreted as a renewed search for the father of lights, whom he would fain thank for his gifts. when he had finished, he threw the remnants into one of the fires, then went down to the sea, and there washed his face and hands in a rock pool, after which they set off again, straying yet further along the coast. one of the peculiarities in the friendship of the strange couple was that, although so closely attached, they should maintain such a large amount of mutual independence. they never quarrelled, but would flatly disagree, with never an attempt at compromise; the whole space between midnight and morning would sometimes glide by without a word spoken between them; and the one or the other would often be lingering far behind. as, however, the ultimate goal of the night's wandering was always understood between them, there was little danger of their losing each other. on the present occasion, the laird, still full of his quest, was the one who lingered. every few minutes he would stop and stare, now all around the horizon, now up to the zenith, now over the wastes of sky--for, any moment, from any spot in heaven, earth, or sea, the father of lights might show foot, or hand, or face. he had at length seated himself on a lichen covered stone with his head buried in his hands, as if, wearied with vain search for him outside he would now look within and see if god might not be there, when suddenly a sharp exclamation from phemy reached him. he listened. "rin! rin! rin!" she cried--the last word prolonged into a scream. while it yet rang in his ears, the laird was halfway down the steep. in the open country he had not a chance; but, knowing every cranny in the rocks large enough to hide him, with anything like a start near enough to the shore for his short lived speed, he was all but certain to evade his pursuers, especially in such a dark night as this. he was not in the least anxious about phemy, never imagining she might be less sacred in other eyes than in his, and knowing neither that her last cry of loving solitude had gathered intensity from a cruel grasp, nor that while he fled in safety, she remained a captive. trembling and panting like a hare just escaped from the hounds, he squeezed himself into a cleft, where he sat half covered with water until the morning began to break. then he drew himself out and crept along the shore, from point to point, with keen circumspection, until he was right under the village and within hearing of its inhabitants, when he ascended hurriedly, and ran home. but having reached his burrow, pulled down his rope ladder, and ascended, he found, with trebled dismay, that his loft had been invaded during the night. several of the hooked cords had been cut away, on one or two were shreds of clothing, and on the window sill was a drop of blood. he threw himself on the mound for a moment, then started to his feet, caught up his plaid, tumbled from the loft, and fled from scaurnose as if a visible pestilence had been behind him. chapter lviii: malcolm and mrs stewart when her parents discovered that phemy was not in her garret, it occasioned them no anxiety. when they had also discovered that neither was the laird in his loft, and were naturally seized with the dread that some evil had befallen him, his hitherto invariable habit having been to house himself with the first gleam of returning day, they supposed that phemy, finding he had not returned, had set out to look for him. as the day wore on, however, without her appearing, they began to be a little uneasy about her as well. still the two might be together, and the explanation of their absence a very simple and satisfactory one; for a time therefore they refused to admit importunate disquiet. but before night, anxiety, like the slow but persistent waters of a flood, had insinuated itself through their whole being--nor theirs alone, but had so mastered and possessed the whole village that at length all employment was deserted, and every person capable joined in a search along the coast, fearing to find their bodies at the foot of some cliff. the report spread to the neighbouring villages. in portlossie duncan went round with his pipes, arousing attention by a brief blast, and then crying the loss at every corner. as soon as malcolm heard of it, he hurried to find joseph, but the only explanation of their absence he was prepared to suggest was one that had already occurred to almost everybody--that the laird, namely, had been captured by the emissaries of his mother, and that, to provide against a rescue, they had carried off his companion with him--on which supposition, there was every probability that, within a few days at farthest, phemy would be restored unhurt. "there can be little doobt they hae gotten a grip o' 'm at last, puir fallow!" said joseph. "but whatever 's come till him, we canna sit doon an' ait oor mait ohn kent hoo phemy 's farin, puir wee lamb! ye maun jist haud awa' ower to kirkbyres, ma'colm, an' get word o' yer mither, an' see gien onything can be made oot o' her." the proposal fell on malcolm like a great billow. "blue peter," he said, looking him in the face, "i took it as a mark o' yer freen'ship 'at ye never spak the word to me. what richt has ony man to ca' that wuman my mither? i hae never allooed it!" "i'm thinkin'," returned joseph, the more easily nettled that his horizon also was full of trouble, "your word upo' the maitter winna gang sae far 's john o' groat's. ye 'll no be suppeent for your witness upo' the pint." "i wad as sune gang a mile intill the mou' o' hell, as gang to kirkbyres!" said malcolm. "i hae my answer," said peter, and turned away. "but i s' gang," malcolm went on. "the thing 'at maun be can be. --only i tell ye this, peter," he added, "gien ever ye say sic a word 's yon i' my hearin' again, that is, afore the wuman has priven hersel' what she says, i s' gang by ye ever efter ohn spoken, for i'll ken ''at ye want nae mair o' me." joseph, who had been standing with his back to his friend, turned and held out his hand. malcolm took it. "ae question afore i gang, peter," he said. "what for didna ye tell me what fowk was sayin' aboot me--anent lizzy findlay?" "'cause i didna believe a word o' 't, an' i wasna gaein' to add to yer troubles." "lizzy never mootit sic a thing?" "never." "i was sure o' that!--noo i 'll awa' to kirkbyres--god help me! i wad raither face sawtan an' his muckle tyke.--but dinna ye expec' ony news. gien yon ane kens, she's a' the surer no to tell. only ye sanna say i didna du my best for ye." it was the hardest trial of the will malcolm had yet had to encounter. trials of submission he had had, and tolerably severe ones: but to go and do what the whole feeling recoils from is to be weighed only against abstinence from what the whole feeling urges towards. he walked determinedly home. stoat saddled a horse for him while he changed his dress, and once more he set out for kirkbyres. had malcolm been at the time capable of attempting an analysis of his feeling towards mrs stewart, he would have found it very difficult to effect. satisfied as he was of the untruthful--even cruel nature of the woman who claimed him, and conscious of a strong repugnance to any nearer approach between them, he was yet aware of a certain indescribable fascination in her. this, however, only caused him to recoil from her the more--partly from dread lest it might spring from the relation asserted, and partly that, whatever might be its root, it wrought upon him in a manner he scarcely disliked the less that it certainly had nothing to do with the filial. but his feelings were too many and too active to admit of the analysis of any one of them, and ere he reached the house his mood had grown fierce. he was shown into a room where the fire had not been many minutes lighted. it had long narrow windows, over which the ivy had grown so thick, that he was in it some moments ere he saw through the dusk that it was a library--not half the size of that at lossie house, but far more ancient, and, although evidently neglected, more study-like. a few minutes passed, then the door softly opened, and mrs stewart glided swiftly across the floor with outstretched arms. "at last!" she said, and would have clasped him to her bosom. but malcolm stepped back. "na, na, mem!" he said; "it taks twa to that!" "malcolm!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with emotion--of some kind. "ye may ca' me your son, mem, but i ken nae gr'un' yet for ca'in' you my--" he could not say the word. "that is very true, malcolm," she returned gently; "but this interview is not of my seeking. i wish to precipitate nothing. so long as there is a single link, or half a link even, missing from the chain of which one end hangs at my heart--" she paused, with her hand on her bosom, apparently to suppress rising emotion. had she had the sentence ready for use? "i will not subject myself," she went on, "to such treatment as it seems i must look for from you. it is hard to lose a son but it is harder yet to find him again after he has utterly ceased to be one." here she put her handkerchief to her eyes. "till the matter is settled, however," she resumed, "let us be friends--or at least not enemies.--what did you come for now? not to insult me surely. is there anything i can do for you?" malcolm felt the dignity of her behaviour, but not the less, after his own straightforward manner, answered her question to the point. "i cam aboot naething concernin' mysel', mem, i cam to see whether ye kent onything aboot phemy mair." "is it a wo?--i don't even know who she is.--you don't mean the young woman that--?--why do you come to me about her? who is she?" malcolm hesitated a moment: if she really did not know what he meant, was there any risk in telling her? but he saw none. "wha is she, mem!" he returned. "i whiles think she maun be the laird's guid angel, though in shape she's but a wee bit lassie. she maks up for a heap to the laird.--him an' her, mem, they 've disappeart thegither, naebody kens whaur." mrs stewart laughed a low unpleasant laugh, but made no other reply. malcolm went on. "an' it 's no to be wonnert at gien fowk wull hae 't 'at ye maun ken something aboot it, mem." "i know nothing whatever," she returned emphatically. "believe me or not, as you please," she added, with heightened colour. "if i did know anything," she went on, with apparent truthfulness, "i don't know that i should feel bound to tell it. as it is, however, i can only say i know nothing of either of them. that i do say most solemnly." malcolm turned,--satisfied at least that he could learn no more. "you are not going to leave me so!" the lady said, and her face grew "sad as sad could be." "there's naething mair atween 's, mem," answered malcolm, without turning even his face. "you will be sorry for treating me so some day." "weel than, mem, i will be; but that day's no the day (today)." "think what you could do for your poor witless brother, if--" "mem," interrupted malcolm, turning right round and drawing himself up in anger, "priv' 'at your son, an' that meenute i speir at you wha was my father." mrs stewart changed colour--neither with the blush of innocence nor with the pallor of guilt, but with the gray of mingled rage and hatred. she took a step forward with the quick movement of a snake about to strike, but stopped midway, and stood looking at him with glittering eyes, teeth clenched, and lips half open. malcolm returned her gaze for a moment or two. "ye never was the mither, whaever was the father o' me!" he said, and walked out of the room. he had scarcely reached the door, when he heard a heavy fall, and looking round saw the lady lying motionless on the floor. thoroughly on his guard, however, and fearful both of her hatred and her blandishments, he only made the more haste down stairs, where he found a maid, and sent her to attend to her mistress. in a minute he was mounted and trotting fast home, considerably happier than before, inasmuch as he was now almost beyond doubt convinced that mrs stewart was not his mother. chapter lix: an honest plot ever since the visit of condolence with which the narrative of these events opened, there had been a coolness between mrs mellis and miss horn. mr mellis's shop was directly opposite miss horn's house, and his wife's parlour was over the shop, looking into the street; hence the two neighbours could not but see each other pretty often; beyond a stiff nod, however, no sign of smouldering friendship had as yet broken out. miss horn was consequently a good deal surprised when, having gone into the shop to buy some trifle, mr mellis informed her, in all but a whisper, that his wife was very anxious to see her alone for a moment, and begged her to have the goodness to step up to the parlour. his customer gave a small snort, betraying her first impulse to resentment, but her nobler nature, which was never far from the surface, constrained her compliance. mrs mellis rose hurriedly when the plumb line figure of her neighbour appeared, ushered in by her husband, and received her with a somewhat embarrassed empressement, arising from the consciousness of goodwill disturbed by the fear of imputed meddlesomeness. she knew the inward justice of miss horn, however, and relied upon that, even while she encouraged herself by waking up the ever present conviction of her own superiority in the petite morale of social intercourse. her general tendency indeed was to look down upon miss horn: is it not usually the less that looks down on the greater? i had almost said it must be, for that the less only can look down but that would not hold absolutely in the kingdoms of this world, while in the kingdom of heaven it is all looking up. "sit ye doon, miss horn," she said; "it 's a lang time sin we had a news thegither." miss horn seated herself with a begrudged acquiescence. had mrs mellis been more of a tactician, she would have dug a few approaches ere she opened fire upon the fortress of her companion's fair hearing: but instead of that, she at once discharged the imprudent question--"was ye at hame last nicht, mem, atween the hoors o' aucht an' nine?"--a shot which instantly awoke in reply the whole battery of miss horn's indignation. "wha am i, to be speirt sic a queston! wha but yersel' wad hae daurt it, mistress mellis?" "huly (softly), huly, miss horn!" expostulated her questioner. "i hae nae wuss to pry intill ony secrets o' yours, or--" "secrets!" shouted miss horn! but her consciousness of good intent, and all but assurance of final victory, upheld mrs mellis. "--or jean's aither," she went on, apparently regardless; "but i wad fain be sure ye kent a' aboot yer ain hoose 'at a body micht chance to see frae the croon o' the caus'ay (middle of the street)." "the parlour blind 's gane up crookit sin' ever that thoomb fingert cratur, watty witherspail, made a new roller till 't. gien 't be that ye mean, mistress mellis,--" "hoots!" returned the other. "--hoo far can ye lippen to that jean o' yours, mem?" "nae farer nor the len'th o' my nose, an' the breid o' my twa een," was the scornful answer. although, however, she thus manifested her resentment of mrs mellis's catechetical attempts in introducing her subject, miss horn had no desire to prevent the free outcome of her approaching communication. "in that case, i may speyk oot," said mrs mellis. "use yer freedom." "weel, i will. ye was hardly oot o' the hoose last nicht, afore --" "ye saw me gang oot?" "ay did i." "what gart ye speir than? what for sud a body come screwin' up a straucht stair--noo the face an' noo the back o' her?" "weel, i nott (needed) na hae speirt. but that's naething to the p'int.--ye hadna been gane, as i was saying', ower a five meenutes, whan in cam a licht intill the bedroom neist the parlour, an' jean appeart wi' a can'le in her han'. there was nae licht i' this room but the licht o' the fire, an' no muckle o' that, for 'twas maistly peat, sae i saw her weel eneuch-ohn been seen mysel'. she cam straucht to the window, and drew doon the blind, but lost hersel' a bit or she wad never hae set doon her can'le whaur it cuist a shaidow o' hersel' an' her doin's upo' the blind." "an' what was 't she was efter, the jaud?" cried miss horn, without any attempt to conceal her growing interest. "she made naething o' 't, whatever it was; for doon the street cam the schuilmaister, an' chappit at the door, an gaed in an' waitit till ye came hame." "weel!" said miss horn. but mrs mellis held her peace. "weel!!?" repeated miss horn. "weel," returned mrs mellis, with a curious mixture of deference and conscious sagacity in her tone, "a' 'at i tak upo' me to say is--think ye twice afore ye lippen to that jean o' yours." "i lippen naething till her! i wad as sune lippen to the dottle o' a pipe amo' dry strae. what saw ye, mistress mellis?" "ye needna speyk like that," returned mrs mellis, for miss horn's tone was threatening: " no jean." "what saw ye?" repeated miss horn, more gently, but not less eagerly. "whause is that kist o' mahogany drawers i' that bedroom, gien i may preshume ta spier?" "whause but mine?" "they're no jean's?" "jean's!" "ye micht hae latten her keep her bit duds i' them, for onything i kent!" "jean's duds i' my grizel's drawers! a lik'ly thing!" "hm! they war puir miss cam'ell's, war they?" "they war grizell cam'ell's drawers as lang she had use for ony; but what for ye sud say puir till her, i dinna ken, 'cep' it be 'at she's gane whaur they haena muckle 'at needs layin' in drawers. that's neither here nor there.--div ye tell me 'at jean was intromittin' wi thae drawers? they're a' lockit, ilk ane o' them --an' they're guid locks." "no ower guid to hae keyes to them--are they?" "the keyes are i' my pooch," said miss horn, clapping her hand to the skirt of her dress. "they're aye i' my pooch, though i haena had the feelin's to mak use o' them sin' she left me." "are ye sure they war there last nicht, mem?" miss horn seemed struck. "i had on my black silk last nicht," she answered vaguely, and was here silent, pondering doubtfully. "weel, mem, jist ye put on yer black silk again the morn's nicht, an' come ower aboot aucht o'clock; an' ye'll be able to jeedge by her ongang whan ye're no i' the hoose, gien there be onything amiss wi' jean. there canna be muckle ill dune yet--that's a comfort!" "what ill, by (beyond) meddlin' wi' what doesna concern her, cud the wuman du?" said miss horn, with attempted confidence. "that ye sud ken best yersel', mem. but jean's an awfu' gossip, an' a lady like yer cousin micht hae left dockiments ahint her 'at she wadna jist like to hear procleemt frae the hoose tap. no 'at she'll ever hear onything mair, puir thing!" "what mean ye?" cried miss horn, half frightened, half angry. "jist what i say--neither mair nor less," returned mrs mellis. "miss cam'ell may weel hae left letters for enstance, an' hoo wad they fare in jean's han's?" "whan i never had the hert to open her drawers!" exclaimed miss horn, enraged at the very notion of the crime. "i hae nae feelin's, thank god for the furnishin' o' me!" "i doobt jean has her full share o' a' feelin's belangin' to fallen human natur'," said mrs mellis, with a slow horizontal oscillation of the head. "but ye jist come an' see wi' yer ain een, an' syne jeedge for yersel': it 's nae business o' mine." "i'll come the nicht, mrs mellis. only lat it be atween 's twa." "i can haud my tongue, mem,--that is, frae a' but ane. sae lang 's merried fowk sleeps in ae bed, it 's ill to haud onything till a body's sel'." "mr mellis is a douce man, an' i carena what he kens," answered miss horn. she descended to the shop, and having bought bulk enough to account to jean for her lengthened stay, for she had beyond a doubt been watching the door of the shop, she crossed the street, went up to her parlour, and rang the bell. the same moment jean's head was popped in at the door: she had her reasons for always answering the bell like a bullet. "mem?" said jean. "jean, gaein' oot the nicht. the minister oucht to be spoken till aboot the schuilmaister, honest man. tak the lantren wi' ye to the manse aboot ten o'clock. that 'll be time eneuch." "verra weel, mem. but thinkin' there's a mune the nicht." "naething but the doup o' ane, jean. it's no to ca' a mune. it's a mercy we hae lantrens, an' sic a sicht o' cairds (gipsies) aboot." "ay, lantren lats them see whaur ye are, an' haud oot o' yer gait," said jean, who happened not to relish going out that night. "troth, wuman, ye're richt there!" returned her mistress, with cheerful assent. "the mair they see o' ye, the less they 'll meddle wi' ye--caird or cadger. haud ye the licht upo' yer ain face, lass, an' there's feow 'll hae the hert to luik again." "haith, mem, there's twa sic like o' 's!" returned jean bitterly, and bounced from the room. "that's true tu," said her mistress--adding after the door was shut, "it's a peety we cudna haud on thegither." " gaein' noo, jean," she called into the kitchen as she crossed the threshold at eight o'clock. she turned towards the head of the street, in the direction of the manse; but, out of the range of jean's vision, made a circuit, and entered mr mellis's house by the garden at the back. in the parlour she found a supper prepared to celebrate the renewal of old goodwill. the clear crystal on the table; the new loaf so brown without and so white within; the rich, clear complexioned butter, undebased with a particle of salt; the self satisfied hum of the kettle in attendance for the guidman's toddy; the bright fire, the golden glow of the brass fender in its red light, and the dish of boiled potatoes set down before it, under a snowy cloth; the pink eggs, the yellow haddock, and the crimson strawberry jam; all combined their influences--each with its private pleasure wondrously heightened by the zest of a secret watch and the hope of discomfitted mischief--to draw into a friendship what had hitherto been but a somewhat insecure neighbourship. from below came the sound of the shutters which mr mellis was putting up a few minutes earlier than usual; and when presently they sat down to the table, and, after prologue judged suitable, proceeded to enjoy the good things before them, an outside observer would have thought they had a pleasant evening, if not time himself, by the forelock. but miss horn was uneasy. the thought of what jean might have already discovered had haunted her all day long; for her reluctance to open her cousin's drawers had arisen mainly from the dread of finding justified a certain painful suspicion which had haunted the whole of her intercourse with grizell campbell--namely, that the worm of a secret had been lying at the root of her life, the cause of all her illness, and of her death at last. she had fought with, out argued, and banished the suspicion a thousand times while she was with her, but evermore it had returned; and now since her death, when again and again on the point of turning over her things, she had been always deterred by the fear, not so much of finding what would pain herself as of discovering what grizell would not wish her to know. never was there a greater contrast between form and reality, between person and being, between manner and nature, than existed in margaret horn: the shell was rough, the kernel absolute delicacy. not for a moment had her suspicion altered her behaviour to the gentle suffering creature towards whom she had adopted the relation of an elder and stronger sister. to herself, when most satisfied of the existence of a secret, she steadily excused her cousin's withholdment of confidence, on the ground of her own lack of feelings: how could she unbosom herself to such as she! and now the thought of eyes like jean's exploring grizell's forsaken treasures, made her so indignant and restless that she could hardly even pretend to enjoy her friend's hospitality. mrs mellis had so arranged the table and their places, that she and her guest had only to lift their eyes to see the window of their watch, while she punished her husband for the virile claim to greater freedom from curiosity by seating him with his back to it, which made him every now and then cast a fidgety look over his shoulder --not greatly to the detriment of his supper, however. their plan was, to extinguish their own the moment jean's light should appear, and so watch without the risk of counter discovery. "there she comes!" cried mrs mellis; and her husband and miss horn made such haste to blow out the candle, that they knocked their heads together, blew in each other's face, and the first time missed it. jean approached the window with hers in her hand, and pulled down the blind. but, alas, beyond the form of a close bent elbow moving now and then across a corner of the white field, no shadow appeared upon it! miss horn rose. "sit doon, mem, sit doon; ye hae naething to gang upo' yet," exclaimed mr mellis, who, being a bailie, was an authority. "i can sit nae langer, mr mellis," returned miss horn. "i hae eneuch to gang upo' as lang 's i hae my ain flure aneth my feet: the wuman has nae business there. i'll jist slip across an' gang in, as quaiet as a sowl intill a boady; but i s' warran' i s' mak a din afore i come oot again!" with a grim diagonal nod she left the room. although it was now quite dark, she yet deemed it prudent to go by the garden gate into the back lane, and so cross the street lower down. opening her own door noiselessly, thanks to jean, who kept the lock well oiled for reasons of mrs catanach's, she closed it as silently, and, long boned as she was, crept up the stair like a cat. the light was shining from the room; the door was ajar. she listened at it for a moment, and could distinguish nothing; then fancying she heard the rustle of paper, could bear it no longer, pushed the door open, and entered. there stood jean, staring at her with fear blanched face, a deep top drawer open before her, and her hands full of things she was in the act of replacing. her terror culminated, and its spell broke in a shriek, when her mistress sprang upon her like a tigress. the watchers in the opposite house heard no cry, and only saw a heave of two intermingled black shadows across the blind, after which they neither heard nor saw anything more. the light went on burning until its final struggle with the darkness began, when it died with many a flickering throb. unable at last to endure the suspense, now growing to fear, any longer, they stole across the street, opened the door, and went in. over the kitchen fire, like an evil spirit of the squabby order, crouched mrs catanach, waiting for jean; no one else was to be found. about ten o'clock the same evening, as mr graham sat by his peat fire, some one lifted the latch of the outer door and knocked at the inner. his invitation to enter was answered by the appearance of miss horn, gaunt and grim as usual, but with more than the wonted fire gleaming from the shadowy cavern of her bonnet. she made no apology for the lateness of her visit, but seated herself at the other side of the deal table, and laid upon it a paper parcel, which she proceeded to open with much deliberation and suppressed plenitude. having at length untied the string with the long fingers of a hand which, notwithstanding its evident strength, trembled so as almost to defeat the attempt, she took from the parcel a packet of old letters sealed with spangled wax, and pushed it across the table to the schoolmaster, saying--"hae, sandy graham! naebody but yersel' has a richt to say what's to be dune wi' them." he put out his hand and took them gently, with a look of sadness but no surprise. "dinna think i hae been readin' them, sandy graham. na, na! i wad read nae honest man's letters, be they written to wha they micht." mr graham was silent. "ye're a guid man, sandy graham," miss horn resumed, "gien god ever took the pains to mak ane. dinna think onything atween you an' her wad hae brocht me at this time o' nicht to disturb ye in yer ain chaumer. na, na! whatever was atween you twa had an honest man intill 't, an' i wad hae taen my time to gie ye back yer dockiments. but there's some o' anither mark here." as she spoke, she drew from the parcel a small cardboard box, broken at the sides, and tied with a bit of tape. this she undid and, turning the box upside down, tumbled its contents out on the table before him. "what mak ye o' sic like as thae?" she said. "do you want me to--?" asked the schoolmaster with trembling voice. "i jist div," she answered. they were a number of little notes--some of them but a word or two, and signed with initials; others longer, and signed in full. mr graham took up one of them reluctantly, and unfolded it softly. he had hardly looked at it when he started and exclaimed, "god have mercy! what can be the date of this!" there was no date to it. he held it in his hand for a minute, his eyes fixed on the fire, and his features almost convulsed with his efforts at composure; then laid it gently on the table, and said but without turning his eyes to miss horn, "i cannot read this. you must not ask me. it refers doubtless to the time when miss campbell was governess to lady annabel. i see no end to be answered by my reading one of these letters." "i daursay! wha ever saw 'at wadna luik?" returned miss horn, with a glance keen as an eagle's into the thoughtful eyes of her friend. "why not do by the writer of these as you have done by me? why not take them to him?" suggested mr graham. "that wad be but thoomb fingert wark--to lat gang the en' o' yer hank!" exclaimed miss horn. "i do not understand you, ma'am." "weel, i maun gar ye un'erstan' me. there's things whiles, sandy graham, 'at 's no easy to speyk aboot--but i hae nae feelin's, an' we'll a' be deid or lang, an' that's a comfort. man 'at ye are, ye're the only human bein' i wad open my moo' till aboot this maitter, an' that's 'cause ye lo'e the memory o' my puir lassie, grizell cam'ell." "it is not her memory, it is herself i love," said the schoolmaster with trembling voice. "tell me what you please: you may trust me." "gien i needit you to tell me that, i wad trust ye as i wad the black dog wi' butter!--hearken, sandy graham." the result of her communication and their following conference was, that she returned about midnight with a journey before her, the object of which was to place the letters in the safe keeping of a lawyer friend in the neighbouring county town. long before she reached home, mrs catanach had left--not without communication with her ally, in spite of a certain precaution adopted by her mistress, the first thing the latter did when she entered being to take the key of the cellar stairs from her pocket, and release jean, who issued crestfallen and miserable, and was sternly dismissed to bed. the next day, however, for reasons of her own, miss horn permitted her to resume her duties about the house without remark, as if nothing had happened serious enough to render further measures necessary. chapter lx: the sacrament abandoning all her remaining effects to jean's curiosity, if indeed it were no worse demon that possessed her, miss horn, carrying a large reticule, betook herself to the lossie arms, to await the arrival of the mail coach from the west, on which she was pretty sure of a vacant seat. it was a still, frosty, finger pinching dawn, and the rime lay thick wherever it could lie; but miss horn's red nose was carried in front of her in a manner that suggested nothing but defiance to the fiercest attacks of cold. declining the offered shelter of the landlady's parlour, she planted herself on the steps of the inn, and there stood until the sound of the guard's horn came crackling through the frosty air, heralding the apparition of a flaming chariot, fit for the sun god himself, who was now lifting his red radiance above the horizon. having none inside, the guard gallantly offered his one lady passenger a place in the heart of his vehicle, but she declined the attention--to him, on the ground of preferring the outside,--for herself, on the ground of uncertainty whether he had a right to bestow the privilege. but there was such a fire in her heart that no frost could chill her; such a bright bow in her west, that the sun now rising in the world's east was but a reflex of its splendour. true, the cloud against which it glowed was very dark with bygone wrong and suffering, but so much the more brilliant seemed the hope now arching the entrance of the future. still, although she never felt the cold, and the journey was but of a few miles, it seemed long and wearisome to her active spirit, which would gladly have sent her tall person striding along, to relieve both by the discharge of the excessive generation of muscle working electricity. at length the coach drove into the town, and stopped at the duff arms. miss horn descended, straightened her long back with some difficulty, shook her feet, loosened her knees, and after a douceur to the guard more liberal than was customary, in acknowledgment of the kindness she had been unable to accept, marched off with the stride of a grenadier to find her lawyer. their interview did not relieve her of much of the time, which now hung upon her like a cloak of lead, and the earliness of the hour would not have deterred her from at once commencing a round of visits to the friends she had in the place; but the gates of the lovely environs of fife house stood open, and although there were no flowers now, and the trees were leafless, waiting in poverty and patience for their coming riches, they drew her with the offer of a plentiful loneliness and room. she accepted it, entered, and for two hours wandered about their woods and walks. entering with her the well known domain, the thought meets me: what would be the effect on us men of such a periodical alternation between nothing and abundance as these woods undergo? perhaps in the endless variety of worlds there may be one in which that is among the means whereby its dwellers are saved from self and lifted into life; a world in which during the one half of the year they walk in state, in splendour, in bounty, and during the other are plunged in penury and labour. such speculations were not in miss horn's way; but she was better than the loftiest of speculations, and we will follow her. by and by she came out of the woods, and found herself on the banks of the wan water, a broad, fine river, here talking in wide rippled innocence from bank to bank, there lying silent and motionless and gloomy, as if all the secrets of the drowned since the creation of the world lay dim floating in its shadowy bosom. in great sweeps it sought the ocean, and the trees stood back from its borders, leaving a broad margin of grass between, as if the better to see it go. just outside the grounds and before reaching the sea, it passed under a long bridge of many arches--then, trees and grass and flowers and all greenery left behind, rushed through a waste of storm heaped pebbles into the world water. miss horn followed it out of the grounds and on to the beach. here its channel was constantly changing. even while she stood gazing at its rapid rush, its bank of pebbles and sand fell almost from under her feet. but her thoughts were so busy that she scarcely observed even what she saw, and hence it was not strange that she should be unaware of having been followed and watched all the way. now from behind a tree, now from a corner of the mausoleum, now from behind a rock, now over the parapet of the bridge, the mad laird had watched her. from a heap of shingle on the opposite side of the wan water, he was watching her now. again and again he had made a sudden movement as if to run and accost her, but had always drawn back again and concealed himself more carefully than before. at length she turned in the direction of the town. it was a quaint old place--a royal burgh for five centuries, with streets irregular and houses of much individuality. most of the latter were humble in appearance, bare and hard in form, and gray in hue; but there were curious corners, low archways, uncompromising gables, some with corbel steps--now and then an outside stair, a delicious little dormer window, or a gothic doorway, sometimes with a bit of carving over it. with the bent head of the climber, miss horn was walking up a certain street, called from its precipitousness the strait, that is difficult, path--an absolute hill of difficulty, when she was accosted by an elderly man, who stood in the doorway of one of the houses. "ken ye wha 's yon watchin' ye frae the tap o' the brae, mem?" he said. miss horn looked up: there was no one there. "that's it! he's awa' again! that's the w'y he 's been duin' this last hoor, at least, to my knowledge. i saw him watchin' ilka mov' ye made, mem, a' the time ye was doon upo' the shore--an there he is noo, or was a meenute ago, at the heid o' the brae, glowerin' the een oot o' 's heid at ye, mem!" "div ye ken him?" asked miss horn. "no, mem--'cep' by sicht o' ee; he hasna been lang aboot the toon. some fowk sae he's dementit; but he's unco quaiet, speyks to nobody, an' gien onybody speyk to him, jist rims. cud he be kennin' you, no? ye're a stranger here, mem." "no sic a stranger, john!" returned miss horn, calling the man by his name, for she recognized him as the beadle of the parish church. "what 's the body like?" "a puir, wee, hump backit cratur, wi' the face o' a gentleman." "i ken him weel," said miss horn. "he is a gentleman--gien ever god made ane. but he 's sair afflickit. whaur does he lie at nicht --can ye tell me?" "i ken naething aboot him, mem, by what comes o' seein' him sic like 's the day, an' ance teetin (peering) in at the door o' the kirk. i wad hae weised him till a seat, but the moment i luikit at him, awa' he ran. he 's unco cheenged though, sin' the first time i saw him." since he lost phemy, fear had been slaying him. no one knew where he slept; but in the daytime he haunted the streets, judging them safer than the fields or woods. the moment any one accosted him, however, he fled like the wind. he had "no art to find the mind's construction in the face;" and not knowing whom to trust, he distrusted all. humanity was good in his eyes, but there was no man. the vision of miss horn was like the dayspring from on high to him; with her near, the hosts of the lord seemed to encamp around him; but the one word he had heard her utter about his back, had caused in him an invincible repugnance to appearing before her, and hence it was that at a distance he had haunted her steps without nearer approach. there was indeed a change upon him! his clothes hung about him-- not from their own ragged condition only, but also from the state of skin and bone to which he was reduced, his hump showing like a great peg over which they had been carelessly cast. half the round of his eyes stood out from his face, whose pallor betokened the ever recurring rush of the faintly sallying troops back to the citadel of the heart. he had always been ready to run, but now he looked as if nothing but weakness and weariness kept him from running always. miss horn had presently an opportunity of marking the sad alteration. for ere she reached the head of the strait path, she heard sounds as of boys at play, and coming out on the level of the high street, saw a crowd, mostly of little boys, in the angle made by a garden wall with a house whose gable stood halfway across the pavement. it being saturday, they had just left school in all the exuberance of spirits to which a half holiday gives occasion. in most of them the animal nature was, for the time at least, far wider awake than the human, and their proclivity towards the sport of the persecutor was strong. to them any living thing that looked at once odd and helpless was an outlaw--a creature to be tormented, or at best hunted beyond the visible world. a meagre cat, an overfed pet spaniel, a ditchless frog, a horse whose days hung over the verge of the knacker's yard--each was theirs in virtue of the amusement latent in it, which it was their business to draw out; but of all such property an idiot would yield the most, and a hunchback idiot, such as was the laird in their eyes, was absolutely invaluable-- beyond comparison the best game in the known universe. when he left portlossie, the laird knew pretty well what risks he ran, although he preferred even them to the dangers he hoped by his flight to avoid. it was he whom the crowd in question surrounded. they had begun by rough teasing, to which he had responded with smiles--a result which did not at all gratify them, their chief object being to enrage him. they had therefore proceeded to small torments, and were ready to go on to worse, their object being with the laird hard to compass. unhappily, there were amongst them two or three bigger boys. the moment miss horn descried what they were about, she rushed into the midst of them, like a long bolt from a catapult, and scattering them right and left from their victim, turned and stood in front of him, regarding his persecutors with defiance in her flaming eye, and vengeance in her indignant nose. but there was about miss horn herself enough of the peculiar to mark her also, to the superficial observer, as the natural prey of boys; and the moment the first billow of consternation had passed and sunk, beginning to regard her as she stood, the vain imagination awoke in these young lords of misrule. they commenced their attack upon her by resuming it upon her protege. she spread out her skirts, far from voluminous, to protect him as he cowered behind them, and so long as she was successful in shielding him, her wrath smouldered--but powerfully. at length one of the bigger boys, creeping slyly up behind the front row of smaller ones, succeeded in poking a piece of iron rod past her, and drawing a cry from the laird. out blazed the lurking flame. the boy had risen, and was now attempting to prosecute like an ape, what he had commenced like a snake. inspired by the god of armies--the lord of hosts, she rushed upon him, and struck him into the gutter. he fell in the very spot where he had found his weapon, and there he lay. the christian amazon turned to the laird; overflowing with compassion she stooped and kissed his forehead, then took him by the hand to lead him away. but most of the enemy had gathered around their fallen comrade, and seized with some anxiety as to his condition, miss horn approached the group: the instant she turned towards it, the laird snatched his hand from hers, darted away like a hunting spider, and shot down the strait path to the low street: by the time his protectress had looked over the heads of the group, seen that the young miscreant was not seriously injured, and requested him to take that for meddling with a helpless innocent, the object of her solicitude, whom she supposed standing behind her, was nowhere to be seen. twenty voices, now obsequious, were lifted to acquaint her with the direction in which he had gone; but it was vain to attempt following him, and she pursued her way, somewhat sore at his want of faith in her, to the house of a certain relative, a dressmaker, whom she visited as often as she went to duff harbour. now miss forsyth was one of a small sect of worshippers which had, not many years before, built a chapel in the town--a quiet, sober, devout company, differing from their neighbours in nothing deeply touching the welfare of humanity. their chief fault was, that, attributing to comparative trifles a hugely disproportionate value, they would tear the garment in pieces rather than yield their notion of the right way of wrapping it together. it so happened that, the next morning, a minister famous in the community was to preach to them, on which ground miss forsyth persuaded her relative to stop over the sunday, and go with her to their chapel. bethinking herself next that her minister had no sermon to prepare, she took miss horn to call upon him. mr bigg was one of those men whose faculty is always underestimated by their acquaintances and overestimated by their friends; to overvalue him was impossible. he was not merely of the salt of the earth, but of the leaven of the kingdom, contributing more to the true life of the world than many a thousand far more widely known and honoured. such as this man are the chief springs of thought, feeling, inquiry, action, in their neighbourhood; they radiate help and breathe comfort; they reprove, they counsel, they sympathize; in a word, they are doorkeepers of the house of god. constantly upon its threshold, and every moment pushing the door to peep in, they let out radiance enough to keep the hearts of men believing in the light. they make an atmosphere about them in which spiritual things can thrive, and out of their school often come men who do greater things, better they cannot do, than they. although a separatist as to externals, he was in heart a most catholic man--would have found himself far too catholic for the community over which he presided, had its members been capable of understanding him. indeed, he had with many, although such was the force of his character that no one dared a word to that effect in his hearing, the reputation of being lax in his ideas of what constituted a saving faith; and most of the sect being very narrow minded, if not small hearted, in their limitations of the company fitly partaking of the last supper of our lord--requiring proof of intellectual accord with themselves as to the how and why of many things, especially in regard of what they called the plan of salvation, he was generally judged to be misled by the deceitful kindliness of the depraved human heart in requiring as the ground of communion only such an uplook to jesus as, when on earth, jesus himself had responded to with healing. he was larger hearted, and therefore larger minded, than his people. in the course of their conversation, miss forsyth recounted, with some humour, her visitor's prowess on behalf of the laird--much to honest mr bigg's delight. "what ither cud i du?" said miss horn apologetically. "but i doobt i strack ower sair. maybe ye wadna objec', sir, to gang and speir efter the laddie, an' gie him some guid advice?" "i'll do that," returned mr bigg.--"are we to have the pleasure of your company in our conventicle tomorrow?" he added, after a little pause. "dr blare is going to preach." "will ye hae me, mr bigg?" "most willingly, ma'am; and we'll be still better pleased if you 'll sit down with us to the lord's table afterwards." "i gang to the perris kirk, ye ken," said miss horn, supposing the good man unaware of the fact. "oh! i know that, ma'am. but don't you think, as we shall, i trust, sit down together to his heavenly supper it would be a good preparation to sit down together, once at least, to his earthly supper first?" "i didna ken 'at ye wad hae ony but yer ain fowk! i hae aften thoucht mysel', it was jist the ae thing ony christian sud be ready to du wi' ony ither. is 't a new thing wi' ye to haud open hoose this gait, sir,--gien i may tak the leeberty to speir?" "we don't exactly keep open house. we wouldn't like to have any one with us who would count it poor fare. but still less would we like to exclude one of the lord's friends. if that is a new thing, it ought to be an old one.--you believe in jesus christ--don't you, ma'am?" "i dinna ken whether i believe in him as ye wad ca' believin' or no--there's sic a heap o' things broucht to the fore nooadays 'at i canna richtly say i un'erstan'. but as he dee'd for me, i wad dee for him. raither nor say i didna ken him, i wad hing aside him. peter an' a', i canna say less." mr bigg's eyes began to smart, and he turned away his head. "gien that 'll du wi' ye," miss horn went on, "an' ye mean nae desertion o' the kirk o' my father an' his fathers afore him, i wad willin'ly partak wi' ye." "you'll be welcome, miss horn--as welcome, as any of my own flock." "weel, noo, that i ca' christian," said miss horn, rising. "an' 'deed i cud wuss," she added, "'at in oor ain kirk we had mair opportunity, for ance i' the twalmonth 's no verra aften to tak up the thouchts 'at belang to the holy ordnance." the next day, after a powerful sermon from a man who, although in high esteem, was not for moral worth or heavenly insight to be compared with him whose place he took, they proceeded to the celebration of the lord's supper, after the fashion of that portion of the church universal. the communicants sat in several long pews facing the communion table, which was at the foot of the pulpit. after the reading of st paul's account of the institution of the lord's supper, accompanied by prayers and addresses, the deacons carried the bread to the people, handing a slice to the first in each pew; each person in turn broke off a portion, and handed what remained to the next: thus they divided it among themselves. it so happened that, in moving up to the communion seats, miss forsyth and miss horn were the last to enter one of them, and miss horn, very needlessly insisting on her custom of having her more capable ear towards her friend, occupied the place next the passage. the service had hardly commenced, when she caught sight of the face of the mad laird peeping in at the door, which was in the side of the building, near where she sat. their eyes met. with a half repentant, half apologetic look, he crept in, and, apparently to get as near his protectress as he could, sat down in the entrance of an empty pew, just opposite the one in which she was seated, on the other side of the narrow passage. his presence attracted little notice, for it was quite usual for individuals of the congregation who were not members of the church to linger on the outskirts of the company as spectators. by the time the piece of bread reached miss horn from the other end, it was but a fragment. she broke it in two, and, reserving one part for herself in place of handing the remnant to the deacon who stood ready to take it, stretched her arm across the passage, and gave it to mr stewart, who had been watching the proceedings intently. he received it from her hand, bent his head over it devoutly, and ate it, unconscious of the scandalized looks of the deacon, who knew nothing of the miserable object thus accepting rather than claiming a share in the common hope of men. when the cup followed, the deacon was on the alert, ready to take it at once from the hands of miss horn. but as it left her lips she rose, grasping it in both hands, and with the dignity of a messenger of the most high, before which the deacon drew back, bore it to the laird, and having made him drink the little that was left, yielded it to the conservator of holy privileges, with the words: "hoots, man! the puir body never had a taste o' the balm o' gilead in a' 's persecutit life afore!" the liberality of mr bigg had not been lost upon her: freely she had received--freely she gave. what was good must, because it was good, be divided with her neighbour. it was a lawless act. as soon as the benediction was spoken, the laird slipped away, but as he left the seat, miss horn heard him murmur--"eh, the bonny man! the bonny man!" he could hardly have meant the deacon. he might have meant mr bigg, who had concluded the observance with a simple and loving exhortation. chapter lxi: miss horn and the piper when miss horn bethought herself that night, in prospect of returning home the next day, that she had been twice in the company of the laird and had not even thought of asking him about phemy, she reproached herself not a little; and it was with shame that she set out, immediately on her arrival, to tell malcolm that she had seen him. no one at the house being able to inform her where he was at the moment, she went on to duncan's cottage. there she found the piper, who could not tell her where his boy was, but gave her a hearty welcome, and offered her a cup of tea, which, as it was now late in the afternoon, miss horn gladly accepted. as he bustled about to prepare it, refusing all assistance from his guest, he began to open his mind to her on a subject much in his thoughts --namely, malcolm's inexplicable aversion to mrs stewart. "ta nem of stewart will pe a nople worrt, mem," he said. "it's guid eneuch to ken a body by," answered miss horn. "if ta poy will pe a stewart," he went on, heedless of the indifference of her remark, "who'll pe knowing put he'll may pe of ta plood royal!" "there didna leuk to be muckle royalty aboot auld john, honest man, wha cudna rule a wife, though he had but ane!" returned miss horn. "if you'll please, mem, ton't you'll pe too sherp on ta poor man whose wife will not pe ta coot wife. if ta wife will pe ta paad wife, she will pe ta paad wife however, and ta poor man will pe hafing ta paad wife and ta paad plame of it too, and tat will pe more as 'll pe fair, mem." "'deed ye never said a truer word, maister macphail!" assented miss horn. "it's a mercy 'at a lone wuman like me, wha has a maisterfu' temper o' her ain, an' nae feelin's, was never putten to the temptation o' occkypeein' sic a perilous position. i doobt gien auld john had been merried upo' me, i micht hae putten on the wrang claes some mornin' mysel', an' may be had ill gettin' o' them aff again." the old man was silent, and miss horn resumed the main subject of their conversation. "but though he michtna objec' till a father 'at he wasna jist hector or golia' o' gath," she said, "ye canna wonner 'at the yoong laad no carin' to hae sic a mither." "and what would pe ta harm with ta mother? will she not pe a coot woman, and a coot letty more to ta bargain?" "ye ken what fowk says till her guideship o' her son?" "yes; put tat will pe ta lies of ta peoples. ta peoples wass always telling lies." "weel, allooin', it 's a peety ye sudna ken, supposin' him to be hers, hoo sma' fowk hauds the chance o' his bein' a stewart, for a' that!" "she'll not pe comprestanding you," said duncan, bewildered. "he's a wise son 'at kens his ain faither!" remarked miss horn, with more point than originality. "the leddy never bore the best o' characters, as far 's my memory taks me,--an' that's back afore john an' her was merried ony gait. na, na; john stewart never took a dwaum 'cause ma'colm macphail was upo' the ro'd." miss horn was sufficiently enigmatical; but her meaning had at length, more through his own reflection than her exposition, dawned upon duncan. he leaped up with a gaelic explosion of concentrated force, and cried, "ta woman is not pe no mothers to tuncan's poy!" "huly, huly, mr macphail!" interposed miss horn, with good natured revenge; "it may be naething but fowk's lees, ye ken." "ta woman tat ta peoples will pe telling lies of her, wass not pe ta mother of her poy malcolm. why tidn't ta poy tell her ta why tat he wouldn't pe hafing her?" "ye wadna hae him spread an ill report o' his ain mither?" "put she'll not pe his mother, and you'll not pelieve it, mem." "ye canna priv that--you nor him aither." "it will pe more as would kill her poy to haf a woman like tat to ta mother of him." "it wad be near ban' as ill is haein' her for a wife," assented miss horn; "but no freely (quite)," she added. the old man sought the door, as if for a breath of air; but as he went, he blundered, and felt about as if he had just been struck blind; ordinarily he walked in his own house at least, as if he saw every inch of the way. presently he returned and resumed his seat. "was the bairn laid mither nakit intill yer han's, maister macphail?" asked miss horn, who had been meditating. "och! no; he wass his clo'es on," answered duncan. "hae ye ony o' them left?" she asked again. "inteet not," answered duncan. "yes, inteet not." "ye lay at the salmon, didna ye?" "yes, mem, and they wass coot to her." "wha drest the bairn till ye?" "och! she'll trest him herself," said duncan, still jealous of the women who had nursed the child. "but no aye?" suggested miss horn. "mistress partan will pe toing a coot teal of tressing him, sometimes. mistress partan is a coot 'oman when she'll pe coot--fery coot when she'll pe coot." here malcolm entered, and miss horn told him what she had seen of the laird, and gathered concerning him. "that luiks ill for phemy," remarked malcolm, when she had described his forlorn condition. "she canna be wi' 'im, or he wadna be like that. hae ye onything by w'y o' coonsel, mem?" "i wad coonsel a word wi' the laird himsel'--gien 't be to be gotten. he mayna ken what 's happent her, but he may tell ye the last he saw o' her, an' that maun be mair nor ye ken." "he 's taen sic a doobt o' me 'at feart it 'll be hard to come at him, an' still harder to come at speech o' 'im, for whan he 's frichtit he can hardly muv is jawbane--no to say speyk. i maun try though and du my best. ye think he's lurkin' aboot fife hoose, div ye, mem?" "he's been seen there awa' this while--aff an' on." "weel, i s' jist gang an' put on my fisher claes, an set oot at ance. i maun haud ower to scaurnose first, though, to lat them ken 'at he 's been gotten sicht o'. it 'll be but sma' comfort, i doobt." "malcolm, my son," interjected duncan, who had been watching for the conversation to afford him an opening, "if you'll pe meeting any one will caal you ta son of tat woman, gif him a coot plow in ta face, for you'll pe no son of hers, efen if she'll proof it-- no more as hersel. if you'll pe her son, old tuncan will pe tisown you for efer, and efermore, amen." "what's broucht you to this, daddie?" asked malcolm, who, ill as he liked the least allusion to the matter, could not help feeling curious, and indeed almost amused. "nefer you mind. miss horn will pe hafing coot reasons tat mistress stewart 'll not can pe your mother." malcolm turned to miss horn. "i've said naething to maister macphail but what i've said mair nor ance to yersel', laddie," she replied to the eager questioning of his eyes. "gang yer wa's. the trowth maun cow the lee i' the lang rin. aff wi' ye to blue peter!" when malcolm reached scaurnose he found phemy's parents in a sad state. joseph had returned that morning from a fruitless search in a fresh direction, and reiterated disappointment seemed to have at length overcome annie's endurance, for she had taken to her bed. joseph was sitting before the fire on a three legged stool rocking himself to and fro in a dull agony. when he heard malcolm's voice, he jumped to his feet, and a flash of hope shot from his eyes: but when he had heard all, he sat down again without a word, and began rocking himself as before. mrs mair was lying in the darkened closet, where, the door being partly open, she had been listening with all her might, and was now weeping afresh. joseph was the first to speak: still rocking himself with hopeless oscillation, he said, in a strange muffled tone which seemed to come from somewhere else--"gien i kent she was weel deid i wadna care. it's no like a father to be sittin' here, but whaur 'll i gang neist? the wife thinks i micht be duin' something: i kenna what to du. this last news is waur nor mane. i hae maist nae faith left. ma'colm, man!" and with a bitter cry he started to his feet--"i maist dinna believe there's a god ava'. it disna luik like it--dis 't noo?" there came an answering cry from the closet; annie rushed out, half undressed, and threw her arms about her husband. "joseph! joseph!" she said, in a voice hard with agony--almost more dreadful than a scream--"gien ye speyk like that, ye 'll drive me mad. lat the lassie gang, but lea' me my god!" joseph pushed her gently away; turned from her, fell on his knees, and moaned out--"o god, gien thoo has her, we s' neither greit nor grum'le: but dinna tak the faith frae 's." he remained on his knees silent, with his head against the chimney jamb. his wife crept away to her closet. "peter," said malcolm, " gaein' aff the nicht to luik for the laird, and see gien he can tell 's onything aboot her: wadna ye better come wi' me?" to the heart of the father it was as the hope of the resurrection of the world. the same moment he was on his feet and taking down his bonnet; the next he disappeared in the closet, and malcolm heard the tinkling of the money in the lidless teapot; then out he came with a tear on his face and a glimmer in his eyes. the sun was down, and a bone piercing chill, incarnate in the vague mist that haunted the ground, assailed them as they left the cottage. the sea moaned drearily. a smoke seemed to ascend from the horizon halfway to the zenith, something too thin for cloud, too black for vapour; above that the stars were beginning to shine. joseph shivered and struck his hands against his shoulders. "care 's cauldrife," he said, and strode on. almost in silence they walked together to the county town, put up at a little inn near the river, and at once began to make inquiries. not a few persons had seen the laird at different times, but none knew where he slept or chiefly haunted. there was nothing for it but to set out in the morning, and stray hither and thither, on the chance of somewhere finding him. chapter lxii: the cuttle fish and the crab although the better portion of the original assembly had forsaken the baillies' barn, there was still a regular gathering in it as before, and if possible even a greater manifestation of zeal for the conversion of sinners. true, it might not be clear to an outsider that they always made a difference between being converted and joining their company, so ready were they to mix up the two in their utterances; and the result's of what they counted conversion were sometimes such as the opponents of their proceedings would have had them: the arrogant became yet more arrogant, and the greedy more greedy; the tongues of the talkative went yet faster, and the gad abouts were yet seldomer at home, while there was such a superabundance of private judgment that it overflowed the cisterns of their own concerns, and invaded the walled gardens of other people's motives: yet, notwithstanding, the good people got good, if the other sort got evil; for the meek shall inherit the earth, even when the priest ascends the throne of augustus. no worst thing ever done in the name of christianity, no vilest corruption of the church, can destroy the eternal fact that the core of it is in the heart of jesus. branches innumerable may have to be lopped off and cast into the fire, yet the word i am the vine remaineth. the demagogues had gloried in the expulsion of such men as jeames gentle and blue peter, and were soon rejoiced by the return of bow o' meal--after a season of backsliding to the fleshpots of egypt, as they called the services of the parish church--to the bosom of the barn, where he soon was again one of the chief amongst them. meantime the circles of their emanating influence continued to spread, until at length they reached the lower classes of the upper town, of whom a few began to go to barn. amongst them, for reasons best known to herself, though they might be surmised by such as really knew her, was mrs catanach. i do not know that she ever professed repentance and conversion, but for a while she attended pretty often. possibly business considerations had something to do with it. assuredly the young preacher, though he still continued to exhort, did so with failing strength, and it was plain to see that he was going rapidly: the exercise of the second of her twin callings might be required. she could not, however, have been drawn by any large expectations as to the honorarium. still, she would gain what she prized even more--a position for the moment at the heart of affairs, with its excelling chances of hearing and overhearing. never had lover of old books half the delight in fitting together a rare volume from scattered portions picked up in his travels, than mrs catanach found in vitalizing stray remarks, arranging odds and ends of news, and cementing the many fragments, with the help of the babblings of gossip, into a plausible whole; intellectually considered, her special pursuit was inasmuch the nobler as the faculties it brought into exercise were more delicate and various; and if her devotion to the minutia of biography had no high end in view, it never caused her to lose sight of what ends she had, by involving her in opinions, prejudices, or disputes: however she might break out at times, her general policy was to avoid quarrelling. there was a strong natural antagonism between her and the partaness, but she had never shown the least dislike to her, and that although mrs findlay had never lost an opportunity of manifesting hers to the midwife. indeed, having gained a pretext by her ministrations to lizzy when overcome by the suggestions of the dog sermon, mrs catanach had assayed an approach to her mother, and not without success. after the discovery of the physical cause of lizzy's ailment, however, mrs findlay had sought, by might of rude resolve, to break loose from the encroaching acquaintanceship, but had found, as yet, that the hard shelled crab was not a match for the glutinous cuttlefish. on the evening of the sunday following the events related in the last chapter, mrs catanach had, not without difficulty, persuaded mrs findlay to accompany her to the baillies' barn, with the promise of a wonderful sermon from a new preacher--a ploughman on an inland farm. that she had an object in desiring her company that night, may seem probable from the conversation which arose as they plodded their way thither along the sands. "i h'ard a queer tale aboot meg horn at duff harbour the ither day," said the midwife, speaking thus disrespectfully both to ease her own heart and to call forth the feelings of her companion, who also, she knew, disliked miss horn. "ay! an' what micht that be?" "but she's maybe a freen' o' yours, mrs findlay? some fowk likes her, though i canna say ane o' them." "freen' o' mine!" exclaimed the partaness. "we gree like twa bills (bulls) i' the same park!" "i wadna wonner!--for they tellt me 'at saw her fechtin' i' the high street wi' a muckle loon, near han' as big 's hersel'! an' haith, but meg had the best o' 't, an' flang him intil the gutter, an' maist fellt him! an' that's meg horn!" "she had been at the drink! but i never h'ard it laid till her afore." "didna ye than? weel, no sayin' onything--that's what i h'ard." "ow, it 's like eneuch! she was bulliraggin' at me nae langer ago nor thestreen; but i doobt i sent her awa' wi' a flech (flea) in her lug!" "whaten a craw had she to pluck wi' you, no?" "ow fegs! ye wad hae ta'en her for a thief catcher, and me for the thief! she wad threpe (insist) 'at i bude to hae keepit some o' the duds 'at happit ma'colm macphail the reprobat, whan first he cam to the seaton--a puir scraichin' brat, as reid 's a bilet lobster. wae 's me 'at ever he was creatit! it jist drives me horn daft to think 'at ever he got the breast o' me. 'at he sud sair (serve) me sae! but i s' hae a grip o' 'im yet, or my name 's no --what they ca' me." "it's the w'y o' the warl', mistress findlay. what cud ye expec' o' ane born in sin an' broucht furth in ineequity?"--a stock phrase of mrs catanach's, glancing at her profession, and embracing nearly the whole of her belief. "it's a true word. the mair 's the peety he sud hae hed the milk o' an honest wuman upo' the tap o' that!" "but what cud the auld runt be efter? what was her business wi' 't? she never did onything for the bairn." "na, no she! she never had the chance, guid or ill--ow! doobtless it wad be anent what they ca' the eedentryfeein' o' im to the leddy o' gersefell. she had sent her. she micht hae waled (chosen) a mair welcome messenger, an' sent her a better eeran! but she made little o' me." "ye had naething o' the kin', i s' wad." "never a threid. there was a twal hunner shift upo' the bairn, rowt roon 'im like deid claes:--gien 't had been but the lord's wull! it gart me wonner at the time, for that wasna hoo a bairn 'at had been caret for sud be cled." "was there name or mark upo' 't?" asked cuttlefish. "nane; there was but the place whaur the reid ingrain had been pykit oot," answered crab. "an what cam o' the shift?" "ow, i jist made it doon for a bit sark to the bairn whan he grew to be rinnin' aboot. 'at ever i sud hae ta'en steik in claith for sic a deil's buckie! to ane 'at was a mither till 'im! the lord haud me ohn gane mad whan i think o' 't!" "an' syne for lizzy!--" began mrs catanach, prefacing fresh remark. but at her name the mother flew into such a rage that, fearful of scandal, seeing it was the sabbath and they were on their way to public worship, her companion would have exerted all her powers of oiliest persuasion to appease her. but if there was one thing mrs catanach did not understand it was the heart of a mother. "hoots, mistress findlay! fowk 'll hear ye. haud yer tongue, i beg. she may dee i' the strae for me. i s' never put han' to the savin' o' her, or her bairn aither," said the midwife, thinking thus to pacify her. then, like the eruption following mere volcanic unrest, out brake the sore hearted woman's wrath. and now at length the crustacean was too much for the mollusk. she raved and scolded and abused mrs catanach, till at last she was driven to that final resource--the airs of an injured woman. she turned and walked back to the upper town, while mrs findlay went on to take what share she might in the worship of the congregation. mrs mair had that evening gone once more to the baillies' barn in her husband's absence; for the words of unbelief he had uttered in the job-like agony of his soul, had haunted the heart of his spouse, until she too felt as if she could hardly believe in a god. few know what a poor thing their faith is till the trial comes. and in the weakness consequent on protracted suffering, she had begun to fancy that the loss of phemy was a punishment upon them for deserting the conventicle. also the schoolmaster was under an interdict, and that looked like a judgment too! she must find some prop for the faith that was now shaking like a reed in the wind. so to the baillies' barn she had gone. the tempest which had convulsed mrs findlay's atmosphere, had swept its vapours with it as it passed away; and when she entered the cavern, it was with an unwonted inclination to be friendly all round. as fate would have it, she unwittingly took her place by mrs mair, whom she had not seen since she gave lizzy shelter. when she discovered who her neighbour was, she started away, and stared; but she had had enough of quarrelling for the evening, and besides had not had time to bar her door against the angel pity, who suddenly stepped across the threshhold of her heart with the sight of mrs mair's pale thin cheeks and tear reddened eyes. as suddenly, however, an indwelling demon of her own house, whose name was envy, arose from the ashes of her hearth to meet the white robed visitant: phemy, poor little harmless thing, was safe enough! who would harm a hair of her? but lizzy! and this woman had taken in the fugitive from honest chastisement! she would yet have sought another seat but the congregation rose to sing; and her neighbour's offer of the use in common of her psalm book, was enough to quiet for the moment the gaseous brain of the turbulent woman. she accepted the kindness, and, the singing over, did not refuse to look on the same holy page with her daughter's friend, while the ploughman read, with fitting simplicity, the parable of the prodigal son. it touched something in both, but a different something in each. strange to say, neither applied it to her own case, but each to her neighbour's. as the reader uttered the words "was lost and is found" and ceased, each turned to the other with a whisper. mrs mair persisted in hers; and the other, which was odd enough, yielded and listened. "wad the tale haud wi' lassies as weel 's laddies, mistress findlay, div ye think?" said mrs mair. "ow, surely!" was the response; "it maun du that. there no respec' o' persons wi' him. there's no a doobt but yer phemy 'ill come hame to ye safe an' soon'." "i was thinkin' aboot lizzy," said the other, a little astonished; and then the prayer began, and they had to be silent. the sermon of the ploughman was both dull and sensible,--an excellent variety where few of the sermons were either; but it made little impression on mrs findlay or mrs mair. as they left the cave together in the crowd of issuing worshippers, mrs mair whispered again: "i wad invete ye ower, but ye wad be wantin' lizzy hame, an' i can ill spare the comfort o' her the noo," she said, with the cunning of a dove. "an' what comes o' me?" rejoined mrs findlay, her claws out in a moment where her personal consequence was touched. "ye wadna surely tak her frae me a' at ance!" pleaded mrs mair. "ye micht lat her bide--jist till phemy comes hame; an' syne--" but there she broke down; and the tempest of sobs that followed quite overcame the heart of mrs findlay. she was, in truth, a woman like another; only being of the crustacean order, she had not yet swallowed her skeleton, as all of us have to do more or less, sooner or later, the idea of that scaffolding being that it should be out of sight. with the best commonplaces at her command she sought to comfort her companion; walked with her to the foot of the red path; found her much more to her mind than mrs catanach: seemed inclined to go with her all the way, but suddenly stopped, bade her goodnight, and left her. chapter lxiii: miss horn and lord lossie notwithstanding the quarrel, mrs catanach did not return without having gained something; she had learned that miss horn had been foiled in what she had no doubt was an attempt to obtain proof that malcolm was not the son of mrs stewart. the discovery was a grateful one; for who could have told but there might be something in existence to connect him with another origin than she and mrs stewart would assign him? the next day the marquis returned. almost his first word was the desire that malcolm should be sent to him. but nobody knew more than that he was missing; whereupon he sent for duncan. the old man explained his boy's absence, and as soon as he was dismissed, took his way to the town, and called upon miss horn. in half an hour, the good lady started on foot for duff harbour. it was already growing dark; but there was one feeling miss horn had certainly been created without, and that was fear. as she approached her destination, tramping eagerly along, in a half cloudy, half starlit night, with a damp east wind blowing cold from the german ocean, she was startled by the swift rush of something dark across the road before her. it came out of a small wood on the left towards the sea, and bolted through a hedge on the right. "is that you, laird?" she cried; but there came no answer. she walked straight to the house of her lawyer friend, and, after an hour's rest, the same night set out again for portlossie, which she reached in safety by her bedtime. lord lossie was very accessible. like shakspere's prince hal, he was so much interested in the varieties of the outcome of human character, that he would not willingly lose a chance of seeing "more man." if the individual proved a bore, he would get rid of him without remorse; if amusing, he would contrive to prolong the interview. there was a great deal of undeveloped humanity somewhere in his lordship, one of whose indications was this spectacular interest in his kind. as to their bygone history, how they fared out of his sight, or what might become of them, he never gave a thought to anything of the kind--never felt the pull of one of the bonds of brotherhood, laughed at them the moment they were gone, or, if a woman's story had touched him, wiped his eyes with an oath, and thought himself too good a fellow for this world. since his retirement from the more indolent life of the metropolis to the quieter and more active pursuits of the country, his character had bettered a little--inasmuch as it was a shade more accessible to spiritual influences; the hard soil had in a few places cracked a hair's breadth, and lay thus far open to the search of those sun rays which, when they find the human germ, that is, the conscience, straightway begin to sting it into life. to this betterment the company of his daughter had chiefly contributed; for if she was little more developed in the right direction than himself she was far less developed in the wrong, and the play of affection between them was the divinest influence that could as yet be brought to bear upon either; but certain circumstances of late occurrence had had a share in it, occasioning a revival of old memories which had a considerably sobering effect upon him. as he sat at breakfast, about eleven o'clock on the morning after his return, one of his english servants entered with the message that a person, calling herself miss horn, and refusing to explain her business desired to see his lordship for a few minutes "who is she?" asked the marquis. the man did not know. "what is she like?" "an odd looking old lady, my lord, and very oddly dressed." "show her into the next room. i shall be with her directly." finishing his cup of coffee and peafowl's egg with deliberation, while he tried his best to recall in what connection he could have heard the name before, the marquis at length sauntered into the morning room in his dressing gown, with the times of the day before yesterday, just arrived, in his hand. there stood his visitor waiting for him, such as my reader knows her, black and gaunt and grim, in a bay window, whose light almost surrounded her, so that there was scarcely a shadow about her, and yet to the eyes of the marquis she seemed wrapped in shadows. mysterious as some sybil, whose being held secrets the first whisper of which had turned her old, but made her immortal, she towered before him, with her eyes fixed upon him, and neither spoke nor moved. "to what am i indebted--?" began his lordship; but miss horn speedily interrupted his courtesy. "own to nae debt, my lord, till ye ken what it 's for," she said, without a tone or inflection to indicate a pleasantry. "good!" returned his lordship, and waited with a smile. she promised amusement, and he was ready for it--but it hardly came. "ken ye that han' o' wreet, my lord?" she inquired, sternly advancing a step, and holding out a scrap of paper at arm's length, as if presenting a pistol. the marquis took it. in his countenance curiosity had mingled with the expectation. he glanced at it. a shadow swept over his face but vanished instantly: the mask of impervious non expression which a man of his breeding always knows how to assume, was already on his visage. "where did you get this?" he said quietly, with just the slightest catch in his voice. "i got it, my lord, whaur there's mair like it." "show me them." "i hae shawn ye plenty for a swatch (pattern), my lord." "you refuse?" said the marquis; and the tone of the question was like the first cold puff that indicates a change of weather. "i div, my lord," she answered imperturbably. "if they are not my property, why do you bring me this?" "are they your property, my lord?" "this is my handwriting." "ye alloo that?" "certainly, my good woman. you did not expect me to deny it?" "god forbid, my lord! but will ye uphaud yersel' the lawfu' heir to the deceased? it lies 'atween yer lordship an' mysel'--i' the meantime." he sat down, holding the scrap of paper between his finger and thumb. "i will buy them of you," he said coolly, after a moment's thought, and as he spoke he looked keenly at her. the form of reply which first arose in miss horn's indignant soul never reached her lips. "it's no my trade," she answered, with the coldness of suppressed wrath. "i dinna deal in sic waurs." "what do you deal in then?" asked the marquis. "in trouth an' fair play, my lord," she answered, and was again silent. so was the marquis for some moments, but was the first to resume. "if you think the papers to which you refer of the least value, allow me to tell you it is an entire mistake." "there was ane thoucht them o' vailue," replied miss horn--and her voice trembled a little, but she hemmed away her emotion-- "for a time at least, my lord; an' for her sake they're o' vailue to me, be they what they may to yer lordship. but wha can tell? scots law may put life intill them yet, an' gie them a vailue to somebody forbye me." "what i mean, my good woman, is, that if you think the possession of those papers gives you any hold over me which you can turn to your advantage, you are mistaken." "guid forgie ye, my lord! my advantage! i thoucht yer lordship had been mair o' a gentleman by this time, or i wad hae sent a lawyer till ye, in place o' comin' mysel'." "what do you mean by that?" "it's plain ye cudna hae been muckle o' a gentleman ance, my lord; an' it seems ye're no muckle mair o' ane yet, for a' ye maun hae come throu' i' the meantime." "i trust you have discovered nothing in those letters to afford ground for such a harsh judgment," said the marquis seriously. "na, no a word i' them, but the mair oot o' them. ye winna threep upo' me 'at a man wha lea's a wuman, lat alane his wife--or ane 'at he ca's his wife--to a' the pains o' a mither, an' a' the penalties o' an oonmerried ane, ohn ever speirt hoo she wan throu' them, preserves the richt he was born till o' bein' coontit a gentleman? ony gait, a maiden, wuman like mysel' wha has nae feelin's will not alloo him the teetle--guid forbid it!" "you are plain spoken." " plain made, my lord. i ken guid frae ill, an' little forbye, but aye fand that eneuch to sare my turn. aither thae letters o' yer lordship's are ilk ane o' them a lee, or ye desertit yer wife an' bairn." "alas!" interrupted the marquis with some emotion--"she deserted me--and took the child with her!" "wha ever daurt sic a lee upo' my grizel?" shouted miss horn, clenching and shaking her bony fist at the world in general. "it was but a fortnicht or three weeks, as near as i can judge, efter the birth o' your bairn, that grizel cam'ell--" "were you with her then?" again interrupted the marquis, in a tone of sorrowful interest. "no, my lord, i was not. gien i had been, i wadna be upo' sic an eeran' this day. for nigh twenty lang years 'at her 'an me keepit hoose thegither, till she dee'd i' my airms, never a day was she oot o' my sicht, or ance--" the marquis leaped rather than started to his feet, exclaiming, "what in the name of god do you mean, woman?" "i kenna what ye mean, my lord. i ken 'at but tellin' ye the trouth whan i tell ye 'at grizel cam'ell, up to that day, an' that's little ower sax month sin' syne." "good god!" cried the marquis; "and here have i--woman! are you speaking the truth? if--," he added threateningly, and paused. "leein' 's what i never cud bide, my lord, an' no likly to tak till 't at my age, wi' the lang to come afore me." the marquis strode several times up and down the floor. "i 'll give you a thousand pounds for those letters," he said, suddenly stopping in front of miss horn. "they're o' nae sic worth, my lord--i hae yer ain word for 't. but i carena the leg o' a spin maggie (daddy longlegs)! pairt wi' them i will not, 'cep' to him 'at pruves himsel' the richtfu' heir to them." "a husband inherits from his wife." "or maybe her son micht claim first--i dinna ken. but there's lawyers, my lord, to redd the doot." "her son! you don't mean--" "i div mean ma'colm macphail, my lord." "god in heaven!" "his name 's mair i' yer mou' nor i' yer hert, doobtin', my lord! ye a' cry oot upo' him--the men o' ye--whan ye' 're in ony tribble, or want to gar women believe ye! but thinkin' he peys but little heed to sic prayers." thus miss horn; but lord lossie was striding up and down the room, heedless of her remarks, his eyes on the ground, his arms straight by his sides, and his hands clenched. "can you prove what you say?" he asked at length, half stopping, and casting an almost wild look at miss horn, then resuming his hurried walk. his voice sounded hollow, as if sent from the heart of a gulf of pain. "no, my lord," answered miss horn. "then what the devil," roared the marquis, "do you mean by coming to me with such a cock and bull story." "there's naither cock craw nor bill rair intill 't my lord. i cum to you wi' 't i' the houp ye 'll help to redd (clear) it up, for i dinna weel ken what we can du wantin' ye. there's but ane kens a' the truth o' 't, an' she's the awfu'es leear oot o' purgatory --no 'at i believe in purgatory, but it 's the langer an' lichter word to mak' use o'." "who is she?" "by name she's bauby cat'nach, an' by natur' she's what i tell ye --an' gien i had her 'atween my twa een, it 's what i wad say to the face o' her." "it can't be macphail! mrs stewart says he is her son, and the woman catanach is her chief witness in support of the claim." "the deevil has a better to the twa o' them, my lord, as they 'll ken some day. his claim 'll want nae supportin'. dinna ye believe a word mistress stewart or bauby catanach aither wad say to ye.-- gien he be mistress stewart's, wha was his father?" "you think he resembles my late brother: he has a look of him, i confess." "he has, my lord. but onybody 'at kent the mither o' 'im, as you an' me did, my lord, wad see anither lik'ness as weel." "i grant nothing." "ye grant grizel cam'ell yer wife, my lord, whan ye own to that wreet. gien 't war naething but a written promise an' a bairn to follow, it wad be merriage eneuch i' this cuintry, though it mayna be in cuintries no sae ceevileest." "but all that is nothing as to the child. why do you fix on this young fellow? you say you can't prove it." "but ye cud, my lord, gien ye war as set upo' justice as i am. gien ye winna muv i' the maitter, we s' manage to hirple (go halting) throu' wantin ye, though, wi' the lord's help." the marquis, who had all this time continued his walk up and down the floor, stood still, raised his head as if about to speak, dropped it again on his chest, strode to the other window, turned, strode back, and said, "this is a very serious matter." "it's a' that, my lord," replied miss horn. "you must give me a little time to turn it over," said the marquis. "isna twenty year time eneuch, my lord?" rejoined miss horn. "i swear to you that till this moment i believed her twenty years in her grave. my brother sent me word that she died in childbed, and the child with her. i was then in brussels with the duke." miss horn made three great strides, caught the marquis's hand in both hers, and said, "i praise god ye're an honest man, my lord." "i hope so," said the marquis, and seized the advantage "you'll hold your tongue about this ?" he added, half inquiring, half requesting. "as lang as i see rizzon, my lord, nae langer," answered miss horn, dropping his hand. "richt maun be dune." "yes--if you can tell what right is, and avoid wrong to others." "richt 's richt, my lord," persisted miss horn. "i 'll hae nae modifi-qualifications!" his lordship once more began to walk up and down the room every now and then taking a stolen glance at miss horn, a glance of uneasy anxious questioning. she stood rigid--a very lot's wife of immobility, her eyes on the ground, waiting what he would say next. "i wish i knew whether i could trust her," he said at length, as if talking aloud to himself. miss horn took no notice. "why don't you speak, woman?" cried the marquis with irritation. how he hated perplexity! "ye speired nae queston, my lord; an' gien ye had, my word has ower little weicht to answer wi'." "can i trust you, woman--i want to know," said his lordship angrily. "no far'er, my lord, nor to du what i think 's richt." "i want to be certain that you will do nothing with those letters until you hear from me?" said the marquis, heedless of her reply. "i 'll du naething afore the morn. far'er nor that i winna pledge mysel'," answered miss horn, and with the words moved towards the door. "hadn't you better take this with you?" said the marquis, offering the little note, which he had carried all the time between his finger and thumb. "there's nae occasion. i hae plenty wantin' that. only dinna lea' 't lyin' aboot." "there's small danger of that," said the marquis, and rang the bell. the moment she was out of the way, he went up to his own room, and, flinging the door to, sat down at the table, and laid his arms and head upon it. the acrid vapour of tears that should have been wept long since, rose to his eyes: he dashed his hand across them, as if ashamed that he was not even yet out of sight of the kingdom of heaven. his own handwriting, of a period when all former sins and defilements seemed about to be burned clean from his soul by the fire of an honest and virtuous love, had moved him; for genuine had been his affection for the girl who had risked and lost so much for him. it was with no evil intent, for her influence had rendered him for the time incapable of playing her false, but in part from reasons of prudence, as he persuaded himself, for both their sakes, and in part led astray by the zest which minds of a certain cast derive from the secrecy of pleasure, that he had persuaded her to the unequal yoking of honesty and secrecy. but, suddenly called away and sent by the prince on a private mission, soon after their marriage, and before there was any special reason to apprehend consequences that must lead to discovery, he had, in the difficulties of the case and the hope of a speedy return, left her without any arrangement for correspondence and all he had ever heard of her more was from his brother, then the marquis--a cynical account of the discovery of her condition, followed almost immediately by a circumstantial one of her death and that of her infant. he was deeply stung and the thought of her sufferings in the false position where his selfishness had placed her, haunted him for a time beyond his endurance--for of all things he hated suffering, and of all sufferings remorse is the worst. hence, where a wiser man might have repented, he rushed into dissipation, whose scorching wind swept away not only the healing dews of his sorrow, but the tender buds of new life that had begun to mottle the withering tree of his nature. the desire after better things which had, under his wife's genial influence, begun to pass into effort, not only vanished utterly in the shameless round of evil distraction, but its memory became a mockery to the cynical spirit that arose behind the vanishing angel of repentance; and he was soon in the condition of the man from whom the exorcised demon had gone but to find his seven worse companions. reduced at length to straits--almost to want, he had married the mother of florimel, to whom for a time he endeavoured to conduct himself in some measure like a gentleman. for this he had been rewarded by a decrease in the rate of his spiritual submergence, but his bedraggled nature could no longer walk without treading on its own plumes; and the poor lady who had bartered herself for a lofty alliance, speedily found her mistake a sad one and her life uninteresting, took to repining and tears, alienated her husband utterly, and died of a sorrow almost too selfish to afford even a suggestion of purifying efficacy. but florimel had not inherited immediately from her mother, so far as disposition was concerned; in these latter days she had grown very dear to him, and his love had once more turned his face a little towards the path of righteousness. ah! when would he move one step to set his feet in it? and now, after his whirlwind harvest of evil knowledge, bitter disappointment, and fading passion, in the gathering mists of gray hopelessness, and the far worse mephitic air of indifference, he had come all of a sudden upon the ghastly discovery that, while overwhelmed with remorse for the vanished past, the present and the future had been calling him, but had now also--that present and that future--glided from him, and folded their wings of gloom in the land of shadows. all the fierce time he might have been blessedly growing better, instead of heaping sin upon sin until the weight was too heavy for repentance; for, while he had been bemoaning a dead wife, that wife had been loving a renegade husband! and the blame of it all he did not fail to cast upon that providence in which until now he had professed not to believe: such faith as he was yet capable of, awoke in the form of resentment! he judged himself hardly done by; and the few admonitory sermons he had happened to hear, especially that in the cave about the dogs going round the walls of the new jerusalem, returned upon him, not as warnings, but as old threats now rapidly approaching fulfilment. lovely still peered the dim face of his girl wife upon him, through the dusty lattice of his memory; and a mighty corroboration of malcolm's asserted birth lay in the look upon his face as he hurried aghast from the hermit 's cell; for not on his first had the marquis seen that look and in those very circumstances! and the youth was one to be proud of--one among a million! but there were other and terrible considerations. incapable as he naturally was of doing justice to a woman of miss horn's inflexibility in right, he could yet more than surmise the absoluteness of that inflexibility--partly because it was hostile to himself, and he was in the mood to believe in opposition and harshness, and deny--not providence, but goodness. convenient half measures would, he more than feared, find no favour with her. but she had declared her inability to prove malcolm his son without the testimony of mrs catanach, and the latter was even now representing him as the son of mrs stewart! that mrs catanach at the same time could not be ignorant of what had become of the child born to him, he was all but certain; for, on that night when malcolm and he found her in the wizard's chamber, had she not proved her strange story--of having been carried to that very room blindfolded, and, after sole attendance on the birth of a child, whose mother's features, even in her worst pains, she had not once seen, in like manner carried away again,--had she not proved the story true by handing him the ring she had drawn from the lady's finger, and sewn, for the sake of future identification, into the lower edge of one of the bed curtains--which ring was a diamond he had given his wife from his own finger when they parted? she probably believed the lady to have been mrs stewart, and the late marquis the father of the child. should he see mrs catanach? and what then? he found no difficulty in divining the reasons which must have induced his brother to provide for the secret accouchement of his wife in the wizard's chamber, and for the abduction of the child --if indeed his existence was not owing to mrs catanach's love of intrigue. the elder had judged the younger brother unlikely to live long, and had expected his own daughter to succeed himself. but now the younger might any day marry the governess, and legalize the child; and the elder had therefore secured the disappearance of the latter, and the belief of his brother in the death of both. lord lossie was roused from his reverie by a tap at the door, which he knew for malcolm's, and answered with admission. when he entered, his master saw that a change had passed upon him, and for a moment believed miss horn had already broken faith with him and found communication with malcolm. he was soon satisfied of the contrary, however, but would have found it hard indeed to understand, had it been represented to him, that the contentment, almost elation, of the youth's countenance had its source in the conviction that he was not the son of mrs stewart. "so here you are at last!" said the marquis. "ay, my lord." "did you find stewart?" "ay did we at last, my lord; but we made naething by 't, for he kent noucht aboot the lassie, an 'maist lost his wuts at the news." "no great loss, that!" said the marquis. "go and send stoat here." "is there ony hurry aboot sto't, my lord?" asked malcolm, hesitating. "i had a word to say to yer lordship mysel'." "make haste then." " some fain to gang back to the fishin', my lord," said malcolm. "this is ower easy a life for me. the deil wins in for the liftin' o' the sneck. forbye, my lord, a life wi'oot aither danger or wark 's some wersh-like (insipid); it wants saut, my lord. but a' that 's naither here nor there, i ken, sae lang's ye want me oot o' the hoose, my lord." "who told you i wanted you out of the house? by jove! i should have made shorter work of it. what put that in your head? why should i?" "gien yer lordship kens nane, sma' occasion hae i to baud a rizzon to yer han'. i thoucht--but the thoucht itsel's impidence." "you young fool! you thought, because i came upon you as i did in the garret the other night--bah!--you damned ape! as if i could not trust--! pshaw!" for the moment malcolm forgot how angry his master had certainly been, although, for florimel's sake doubtless, he had restrained himself; and fancied that, in the faint light of the one candle, he had seen little to annoy him, and had taken the storm and its results, which were indeed the sole reason, as a sufficient one for their being alone together. everything seemed about to come right again. but his master remained silent. "i houp my leddy's weel," ventured malcolm at length. "quite well. she's with lady bellair, in edinburgh." lady bellair was the bold faced countess. "i dinna like her," said malcolm. "who the devil asked you to like her?" said the marquis. but he laughed as he said it. "i beg yer lordship's pardon," returned malcolm. "i said it 'or i kent. it was nane o' my business wha my leddy was wi'." "certainly not. but i don't mind confessing that lady bellair is not one i should choose to give authority over lady florimel. you have some regard for your young mistress, i know, malcolm." "i wad dee for her, my lord." "that's a common assertion," said the marquis. "no wi' fisher fowk. i kenna hoo it may be wi' your fowk, my lord." "well, even with us it means something. it implies at least that he who uses it would risk his life for her whom he wishes to believe it. but perhaps it may mean more than that in the mouth of a fisherman? do you fancy there is such a thing as devotion--real devotion, i mean--self sacrifice, you know?" "i daurna doobt it, my lord." "without fee or hope of reward?" "there maun be some cawpable o' 't, my lord, or what for sud the warl' be? what ither sud haud it ohn been destroyt as sodom was for the want o' the ten richteous? there maun be saut whaur corruption hasna the thing a' its ain gait." "you certainly have pretty high notions of things, macphail. for my part, i can easily enough imagine a man risking his life; but devoting it!--that's another thing altogether." "there maun be 'at wad du a' 't cud be dune, my lord." "what, for instance, would you do for lady florimel, now? you say you would die for her: what does dying mean on a fisherman's tongue?" "it means a' thing, my lord--short o' ill. i wad sterve for her, but i wadna steal. i wad fecht for her, but i wadna lee." "would ye be her servant all your days? come, now." "mair nor willin'ly, my lord--gien she wad only hae me, an' keep me." "but supposing you came to inherit the kirkbyres property?" "my lord," said malcolm solemnly, "that's a puir test to put me till. it gangs for naething. i wad raither clean my leddie's butes frae mornin' to nicht, nor be the son o' that wuman, gien she war a born duchess. try me wi' something worth yer lordship's mou'." but the marquis seemed to think he had gone far enough for the present. with gleaming eyes he rose, took his withered love letter from the table, put it in his waistcoat pocket, and saying "well, find out for me what this is they're about with the schoolmaster," walked to the door. "i ken a' aboot that, my lord," answered malcolm, "ohn speirt at onybody." lord lossie turned from the door, ordered him to bring his riding coat and boots, and, ringing the bell, sent a message to stoat to saddle the bay mare. chapter lxiv: the laird and his mother when malcolm and joseph set out from duff harbour to find the laird, they could hardly be said to have gone in search of him: all in their power was to seek the parts where he was occasionally seen in the hope of chancing upon him; and they wandered in vain about the woods of fife house all that week, returning disconsolate every evening to the little inn on the banks of the wan water. sunday came and went without yielding a trace of him; and, almost in despair, they resolved, if unsuccessful the next day, to get assistance and organize a search for him. monday passed like the days that had preceded it, and they were returning dejectedly down the left bank of the wan water, in the gloamin', and nearing a part where it is hemmed in by precipitous rocks, and is very narrow and deep, crawling slow and black under the lofty arch of an ancient bridge that spans it at one leap, when suddenly they caught sight of a head peering over the parapet. they dared not run for fear of terrifying him, if it should be the laird, and hurried quietly to the spot. but when they reached the end of the bridge its round back was bare from end to end. on the other side of the river, the trees came close up, and pursuit was hopeless in the gathering darkness. "laird, laird! they've taen awa' phemy, an' we dinna ken whaur to luik for her," cried the poor father aloud. almost the same instant, and as if he had issued from the ground, the laird stood before them. the men started back with astonishment --soon changed into pity, for there was light enough to see how miserable the poor fellow looked. neither exposure nor privation had thus wrought upon him: he was simply dying of fear. having greeted joseph with embarrassment, he kept glancing doubtfully at malcolm, as if ready to run on his least movement. in a few words joseph explained their quest, with trembling voice and tears that would not be denied enforcing the tale. ere he had done, the laird's jaw had fallen, and further speech was impossible to him. but by gestures sad and plain enough, he indicated that he knew nothing of her, and had supposed her safe at home with her parents. in vain they tried to persuade him to go back with them, promising every protection: for sole answer he shook his head mournfully. there came a sudden gust of wind among the branches. joseph, little used to trees and their ways with the wind, turned towards the sound, and malcolm unconsciously followed his movement. when they turned again, the laird had vanished, and they took their way homeward in sadness. what passed next with the laird, can be but conjectured. it came to be well enough known afterwards where he had been hiding; and had it not been dusk as they came down the riverbank, the two men might, looking up to the bridge from below, have had it suggested to them. for in the half spandrel wall between the first arch and the bank, they might have spied a small window, looking down on the sullen, silent gloom, foam flecked with past commotion, that crept languidly away from beneath. it belonged to a little vaulted chamber in the bridge, devised by some banished lord as a kind of summer house--long neglected, but having in it yet a mouldering table, a broken chair or two, and a rough bench. a little path led steep from the end of the parapet down to its hidden door. it was now used only by the gamekeepers for traps and fishing gear, and odds and ends of things, and was generally supposed to be locked up. the laird had, however, found it open, and his refuge in it had been connived at by one of the men, who, as they heard afterwards, had given him the key, and assisted him in carrying out a plan he had devised for barricading the door. it was from this place he had so suddenly risen at the call of blue peter, and to it he had as suddenly withdrawn again--to pass in silence and loneliness through his last purgatorial pain.* * [com'io fui dentro, in un bogliente vetro gittato mi sarci per rinfrescarmi, tant' era ivi lo 'ncendio senza metro. del purgatoria, xxvii. .] mrs stewart was sitting in her drawing room alone: she seldom had visitors at kirkbyres--not that she liked being alone, or indeed being there at all, for she would have lived on the continent, but that her son's trustees, partly to indulge their own aversion to her, taking upon them a larger discretionary power than rightly belonged to them, kept her too straitened, which no doubt in the recoil had its share in poor stephen's misery. it was only after scraping for a whole year that she could escape to paris or hamburg, where she was at home. there her sojourn was determined by her good or ill fortune at faro. what she meditated over her knitting by the firelight,--she had put out her candles,--it would be hard to say, perhaps unwholesome to think:--there are souls to look into which is, to our dim eyes, like gazing down from the verge of one of the swedenborgian pits. but much of the evil done by human beings is as the evil of evil beasts: they know not what they do--an excuse which, except in regard of the past, no man can make for himself, seeing the very making of it must testify its falsehood. she looked up, gave a cry, and started to her feet: stephen stood before her, halfway between her and the door. revealed in a flicker of flame from the fire, he vanished in the following shade, and for a moment she stood in doubt of her seeing sense. but when the coal flashed again, there was her son, regarding her out of great eyes that looked as if they had seen death. a ghastly air hung about him as if he had just come back from hades, but in his silent bearing there was a sanity, even dignity, which strangely impressed her. he came forward a pace or two, stopped, and said-- "dinna be frichtit, mem. come. sen' the lassie hame, an' du wi' me as ye like. i canna haud aff o' me. but i think deein', an ye needna misguide me." his voice, although it trembled a little, was clear and unimpeded, and though weak, in its modulation manly. something in the woman's heart responded. was it motherhood-- or the deeper godhead? was it pity for the dignity housed in the crumbling clay, or repentance for the son of her womb? or was it that sickness gave hope, and she could afford to be kind? "i don't know what you mean, stephen," she said, more gently than he had ever heard her speak. was it an agony of mind or of body, or was it but a flickering of the shadows upon his face? a moment, and he gave a half choked shriek, and fell on the floor. his mother turned from him with disgust, and rang the bell. "send tom here," she said. an elderly, hard featured man came. "stephen is in one of his fits," she said. the man looked about him: he could see no one in the room but his mistress. "there he is," she continued, pointing to the floor. "take him away. get him up to the loft and lay him in the hay." the man lifted his master like an unwieldy log, and carried him convulsed from the room. stephen's mother sat down again by the fire, and resumed her knitting. chapter lxv: the laird's vision malcolm had just seen his master set out for his solitary ride, when one of the maids informed him that a man from kirkbyres wanted him. hiding his reluctance, he went with her and found tom, who was mrs stewart's grieve, and had been about the place all his days. "mr stephen's come hame, sir," he said, touching his bonnet, a civility for which malcolm was not grateful. "it's no possible!" returned malcolm. "i saw him last nicht." "he cam about ten o'clock, sir, an' hed a turn o' the fa'in' sickness o' the spot. he 's verra ill the noo, an' the mistress sent me ower to speir gien ye wad obleege her by gaein' to see him." "has he ta'en till 's bed?" asked malcolm. "we pat him till 't, sir. he 's ravin' mad, an' thinkin' he 's no far frae his hin'er en'." "i 'll gang wi' ye direckly," said malcolm. in a few minutes they were riding fast along the road to kirkbyres, neither with much to say to the other, for malcolm distrusted every one about the place, and tom was by nature taciturn. "what garred them sen' for me--div ye ken?" asked malcolm at length, when they had gone about halfway. "he cried oot upo' ye i' the nicht," answered tom. when they arrived, malcolm was shown into the drawing room, where mrs stewart met him with red eyes. "will you come and see my poor boy?" she said. "i wull du that, mem. is he verra ill?" "very. afraid he is in a bad way." she led him to a dark old fashioned chamber, rich and gloomy. there, sunk in the down of a huge bed with carved ebony posts, lay the laird, far too ill to be incommoded by the luxury to which he was unaccustomed. his head kept tossing from side to side, and his eyes seemed searching in vacancy. "has the doctor been to see 'im, mem?" asked malcolm. "yes; but he says he can't do anything for him." "wha waits upon 'im, mem?" "one of the maids and myself." i 'll jist bide wi' 'im." "that will be very kind of you." "i s' bide wi' 'im till i see 'im oot o' this, ae w'y or ither," added malcolm, and sat down by the bedside of his poor distrustful friend. there mrs stewart left him. the laird was wandering in the thorny thickets and slimy marshes which, haunted by the thousand misshapen honors of delirium, beset the gates of life. that one so near the light, and slowly drifting into it, should lie tossing in hopeless darkness! is it that the delirium falls, a veil of love, to hide other and more real terrors? his eyes would now and then meet those of malcolm, as they gazed tenderly upon him, but the living thing that looked out of the windows was darkened, and saw him not. occasionally a word would fall from him, or a murmur of half articulation float up, like the sound of a river of souls; but whether malcolm heard, or only seemed to hear, something like this, he could not tell, for he could not be certain that he had not himself shaped the words by receiving the babble into the moulds of the laird's customary thought and speech. "i dinna ken whaur i cam frae!--i kenna whaur gaein' till. --eh, gien he wad but come oot an' shaw himsel'!--o lord! tak the deevil aff o' my puir back.--o father o' lichts! gar him tak the hump wi' him. i hae nae fawvour for 't, though it 's been my constant companion this mony a lang." but in general, he only moaned, and after the words thus heard or fashioned by malcolm, lay silent and nearly still for an hour. all the waning afternoon malcolm sat by his side, and neither mother, maid, nor doctor came near them. "dark wa's an' no a breath!" he murmured or seemed to murmur again. "nae gerse, nor flooers, nor bees!--i hae na room for my hump, an' i canna lie upo' 't, for that wad kill me!--wull i ever ken whaur i cam frae?--the wine 's unco guid. gie me a drap mair, gien ye please, lady horn.--i thought the grave was a better place. i hae lain safter afore i dee'd!--phemy! phemy! rin, phemy, rin! i s' bide wi' them this time. ye rin, phemy!" as it grew dark, the air turned very chill, and snow began to fall thick and fast. malcolm laid a few sticks on the smouldering peat fire, but they were damp and did not catch. all at once the laird gave a shriek, and crying out, "mither, mither!" fell into a fit so violent that the heavy bed shook with his convulsions. malcolm held his wrists and called aloud. no one came, and bethinking himself that none could help, he waited in silence, for what would follow. the fit passed quickly, and he lay quiet. the sticks had meantime dried, and suddenly they caught fire and blazed up. the laird turned his face towards the flame; a smile came over it; his eyes opened wide, and with such an expression of seeing gazed beyond malcolm, that he turned his in the same direction. "eh, the bonny man! the bonny man!" murmured the laird. but malcolm saw nothing, and turned again to the laird: his jaw had fallen, and the light was fading out of his face like the last of a sunset. he was dead. malcolm rang the bell, told the woman who answered it what had taken place, and hurried from the house, glad at heart that his friend was at rest. he had ridden but a short distance when he was overtaken by a boy on a fast pony, who pulled up as he neared him. "whaur are ye for?" asked malcolm. " gaein' for mistress cat'nach," answered the boy. "gang yer wa's than, an' dinna haud the deid waitin'," said malcolm, with a shudder. the boy cast a look of dismay behind him, and galloped off. the snow still fell, and the night was dark. malcolm spent nearly two hours on the way, and met the boy returning, who told him that mrs catanach was not to be found. his road lay down the glen, past duncan's cottage, at whose door he dismounted, but he did not find him. taking the bridle on his arm he walked by his horse the rest of the way. it was about nine o'clock, and the night very dark. as he neared the house, he heard duncan's voice. "malcolm, my son! will it pe your own self?" it said. "it wull that, daddy," answered malcolm. the piper was sitting on a fallen tree, with the snow settling softly upon him. "but it 's ower cauld for ye to be sittin' there i' the snaw, an' the mirk tu!" added malcolm. "ta tarkness will not be ketting to ta inside of her," returned the seer. "ah, my poy! where ta light kets in, ta tarkness will pe ketting in too. tis now, your whole pody will pe full of tarkness, as ta piple will say, and tuncan's pody--tat will pe full of ta light." then with suddenly changed tone he said "listen, malcolm, my son! she'll pe fery uneasy till you'll wass pe come home." "what's the maitter noo, daddy?" returned malcolm. "ony thing wrang aboot the hoose?" "someting will pe wrong, yes, put she'll not can tell where. no, her pody will not pe full of light! for town here in ta curset lowlands, ta sight has peen almost cone from her, my son. it will now pe no more as a co creeping troo' her, and she'll nefer see plain no more till she'll pe cone pack to her own mountains." "the puir laird's gane back to his," said malcolm. "i won'er gien he kens yet, or gien he gangs speirin' at ilk ane he meets gien he can tell him whaur he cam frae. he's mad nae mair, ony gait." "how? will he pe not tead? ta poor lairt! ta poor maad lairt!" "ay, he's deid: maybe that's what 'll be troublin' yer sicht, daddy." "no, my son. ta maad lairt was not fery maad, and if he was maad he was not paad, and it was not to ta plame of him; he wass coot always however." "he was that, daddy." "but it will pe something fery paad, and it will pe troubling her speerit. when she'll pe take ta pipes, to pe amusing herself, and will plow till an crodh a' dhonnachaidh (turn the cows, duncan), out will pe come cumhadh an fhir mhoir (the lament of the big man). all is not well, my son." "weel, dinna distress yersel', daddy. lat come what wull come. foreseein' 's no forefen'in'. ye ken yersel' 'at mony 's the time the seer has broucht the thing on by tryin' to haud it aff." "it will pe true, my son. put it would aalways haf come." "nae doobt; sae ye jist come in wi' me, daddy, an' sit doon by the ha' fire, an' i 'll come to ye as sune 's i've been to see 'at the maister disna want me. but ye'll better come up wi' me to my room first," he went on, "for the maister disna like to see me in onything but the kilt." "and why will he no pe in ta kilts aal as now?" "i hae been ridin', ye ken, daddy, an' the trews fits the saiddle better nor the kilts." "she'll not pe knowing tat. old allister, your creat--her own crandfather, was ta pest horseman ta worrlt efer saw, and he 'll nefer pe hafing ta trews to his own lecks nor ta saddle to his horse's pack. he 'll chust make his men pe strap on an old plaid, and he 'll pe kive a chump, and away they wass, horse and man, one peast, aal two of tem poth together." thus chatting they went to the stable, and from the stable to the house, where they met no one, and went straight up to malcolm's room--the old man making as little of the long ascent as malcolm himself. chapter lxvi: the cry from the chamber brooding, if a man of his temperament may ever be said to brood, over the sad history of his young wife and the prospects of his daughter, the marquis rode over fields and through gates--he never had been one to jump a fence in cold blood--till the darkness began to fall; and the bearings of his perplexed position came plainly before him. first of all, malcolm acknowledged, and the date of his mother's death known, what would florimel be in the eyes of the world? supposing the world deceived by the statement that his mother died when he was born, where yet was the future he had marked out for her? he had no money to leave her, and she must be helplessly dependent on her brother. malcolm, on the other hand, might make a good match, or, with the advantages he could secure him, in the army, still better in the navy, well enough push his way in the world. miss horn could produce no testimony; and mrs catanach had asserted him the son of mrs stewart. he had seen enough, however, to make him dread certain possible results if malcolm were acknowledged as the laird of kirkbyres. no; there was but one hopeful measure, one which he had even already approached in a tentative way-- an appeal, namely, to malcolm himself--in which, acknowledging his probable rights, but representing in the strongest manner the difficulty of proving them, he would set forth, in their full dismay, the consequences to florimel of their public recognition, and offer, upon the pledge of his word to a certain line of conduct, to start him in any path he chose to follow. having thought the thing out pretty thoroughly, as he fancied, and resolved at the same time to feel his way towards negotiations with mrs catanach, he turned and rode home. after a tolerable dinner, he was sitting over a bottle of the port which he prized beyond anything else his succession had brought him, when the door of the dining room opened suddenly, and the butler appeared, pale with terror. "my lord! my lord!" he stammered, as he closed the door behind him. "well? what the devil's the matter now? whose cow's dead?" "your lordship didn't hear it then?" faltered the butler. "you've been drinking, bings," said the marquis, lifting his seventh glass of port. "i didn't say i heard it, my lord." "heard what--in the name of beelzebub?" "the ghost, my lord." "the what?" shouted the marquis. "that's what they call it, my lord. it's all along of having that wizard's chamber in the house, my lord." "you're a set of fools," said the marquis, "the whole kit of you!" "that's what i say, my lord. i don't know what to do with them, stericking and screaming. mrs courthope is trying her best with them; but it 's my belief she's about as bad herself." the marquis finished his glass of wine, poured out and drank another, then walked to the door. when the butler opened it, a strange sight met his eyes. all the servants in the house, men and women, duncan and malcolm alone excepted, had crowded after the butler, every one afraid of being left behind; and there gleamed the crowd of ghastly faces in the light of the great hall fire. demon stood in front, his mane bristling, and his eyes flaming. such was the silence that the marquis heard the low howl of the waking wind, and the snow like the patting of soft hands against the windows. he stood for a moment, more than half enjoying their terror, when from somewhere in the building a far off shriek, shrill and piercing, rang in every ear. some of the men drew in their breath with a gasping sob, but most of the women screamed outright, and that set the marquis cursing. duncan and malcolm had but just entered the bedroom of the latter, when the shriek rent the air close beside, and for a moment deafened them. so agonized, so shrill, so full of dismal terror was it, that malcolm stood aghast, and duncan started to his feet with responsive outcry. but malcolm at once recovered himself. "bide here till i come back," he whispered, and hurried noiselessly out. in a few minutes he returned--during which all had been still. "noo, daddy," he said, " gaein' to drive in the door o' the neist room. there's some deevilry at wark there. stan' ye i' the door, an' ghaist or deevil 'at wad win by ye, grip it, an' haud on like demon the dog." "she will so, she will so!" muttered duncan in a strange tone. "ochone! that she'll not pe hafing her turk with her! ochone! ochone!" malcolm took the key of the wizard's chamber from his chest, and his candle from the table, which he set down in the passage. in a moment he had unlocked the door, put his shoulder to it, and burst it open. a light was extinguished, and a shapeless figure went gliding away through the gloom. it was no shadow, however, for, dashing itself against a door at the other side of the chamber, it staggered back with an imprecation of fury and fear, pressed two hands to its head, and, turning at bay, revealed the face of mrs catanach. in the door stood the blind piper, with outstretched arms, and hands ready to clutch, the fingers curved like claws, his knees and haunches bent, leaning forward like a rampant beast prepared to spring. in his face was wrath, hatred, vengeance, disgust--an enmity of all mingled kinds. malcolm was busied with something in the bed, and when she turned, mrs catanach saw only the white face of hatred gleaming through the darkness. "ye auld donnert deevil!" she cried, with an addition too coarse to be set down, and threw herself upon him. the old man said never a word, but with indrawn breath hissing through his clenched teeth, clutched her, and down they went together in the passage, the piper undermost. he had her by the throat, it is true, but she had her fingers in his eyes, and kneeling on his chest, kept him down with a vigour of hostile effort that drew the very picture of murder. it lasted but a moment, however, for the old man, spurred by torture as well as hate, gathered what survived of a most sinewy strength into one huge heave, threw her back into the room, and rose, with the blood streaming from his eyes--just as the marquis came round the near end of the passage, followed by mrs courthope, the butler, stoat, and two of the footmen. heartily enjoying a row, he stopped instantly, and signing a halt to his followers, stood listening to the mud geyser that now burst from mrs catanach's throat. "ye blin' abortion o' sawtan's soo!" she cried, "didna i tak ye to du wi' ye as i likit. an' that deil's tripe ye ca' yer oye (grandson) --he! he!--him yer gran'son! he's naething but ane o' yer hatit cawm'ells!" "a teanga a' diabhuil mhoir, tha thu ag deanamh breug (o tongue of the great devil thou art making a lie)!" screamed duncan, speaking for the first time. "god lay me deid i' my sins gien he be onything but a bastard cawm'ell!" she asseverated with a laugh of demoniacal scorn. "yer dautit (petted) ma'colm 's naething but the dyke side brat o' the late grizel cawm'ell, 'at the fowk tuik for a sant 'cause she grat an' said naething. i laid the cawm'ell pup i' yer boody (scarecrow) airms wi' my ain han's, upo' the tap o' yer curst scraighin' bagpipes 'at sae aften drave the sleep frae my een. na, ye wad nane o' me! but i ga'e ye a cawm'ell bairn to yer hert for a' that, ye auld, hungert, weyver (spider) leggit, worm aten idiot!" a torrent of gaelic broke from duncan, into the midst of which rushed another from mrs catanach, similar, but coarse in vowel and harsh in consonant sounds. the marquis stepped into the room. "what is the meaning of all this?" he said with dignity. the tumult of celtic altercation ceased. the piper drew himself up to his full height, and stood silent. mrs catanach, red as fire with exertion and wrath, turned ashy pale. the marquis cast on her a searching and significant look. "see here, my lord," said malcolm. candle in hand, his lordship approached the bed. the same moment mrs catanach glided out with her usual downy step, gave a wink as of mutual intelligence to the group at the door, and vanished. on malcolm's arm lay the head of a young girl. her thin, worn countenance was stained with tears, and livid with suffocation. she was recovering, but her eyes rolled stupid and visionless. "it's phemy, my lord--blue peter's lassie 'at was tint," said malcolm. "it begins to look serious," said the marquis. "mrs catanach!-- mrs courthope!" he turned towards the door. mrs courthope entered, and a head or two peeped in after her. duncan stood as before, drawn up and stately, his visage working, but his body motionless as the statue of a sentinel. "where is the catanach woman gone?" cried the marquis. "cone!" shouted the piper. "cone! and her huspant will pe waiting to pe killing her! och nan ochan!" "her husband!" echoed the marquis. "ach! she'll not can pe helping it, my lort--no more till one will pe tead--and tat should pe ta woman, for she'll pe a paad woman--ta worstest woman efer was married, my lort." "that's saying a good deal," returned the marquis. "not one worrt more as enough, my lort," said duncan "she was only pe her next wife, put, ochone! ochone! why did she'll pe marry her? you would haf stapt her long aco, my lort, if she'll was your wife, and you was knowing the tamned fox and padger she was pe. ochone! and she tidn't pe have her turk at her hench nor her sgian in her hose." he shook his hands like a despairing child, then stamped and wept in the agony of frustrated rage. mrs courthope took phemy in her arms, and carried her to her own room, where she opened the window, and let the snowy wind blow full upon her. as soon as she came quite to herself malcolm set out to bear the good tidings to her father and mother. only a few nights before had phemy been taken to the room where they found her. she had been carried from place to place, and had been some time, she believed, in mrs catanach's own house. they had always kept her in the dark, and removed her at night, blindfolded. when asked if she had never cried out before, she said she had been too frightened; and when questioned as to what had made her do so then, she knew nothing of it: she remembered only that a horrible creature appeared by the bedside, after which all was blank. on the floor they found a hideous death mask, doubtless the cause of the screams which mrs catanach had sought to stifle with the pillows and bedclothes. when malcolm returned, he went at once to the piper's cottage, where he found him in bed, utterly exhausted, and as utterly restless. "weel, daddy," he said, "i doobt i daurna come near ye noo." "come to her arms, my poor poy!" faltered duncan. "she'll pe sorry in her sore heart for her poy! nefer you pe minding, my son; you couldn't help ta cam'ell mother, and you'll pe her own poy however. ochone! it will pe a plot upon you aal your tays, my son, and she'll not can help you, and it 'll pe preaking her old heart!" "gien god thoucht the cam'ells worth makin', daddy, i dinna see 'at i hae ony richt to compleen 'at i cam' o' them." "she hopes you'll pe forgifing ta plind old man, however. she couldn't see, or she would haf known at once petter." "i dinna ken what ye're efter noo, daddy," said malcolm. "that she'll do you a creat wrong, and she'll be ferry sorry for it, my son." "what wrang did ye ever du me, daddy?" "that she was let you crow up a cam'ell, my poy. if she tid put know ta paad plood was pe in you, she wouldn't pe tone you ta wrong as pring you up." "that's a wrang no ill to forgi'e, daddy. but it 's a pity ye didna lat me lie, for maybe syne mistress catanach wad hae broucht me up hersel', an' i micht hae come to something." "ta duvil mhor (great) would pe in your heart and prain and poosom, my son." "weel, ye see what ye hae saved me frae." "yes; put ta duvil will pe to pay, for she couldn't safe you from ta cam'ell plood, my son! malcolm, my poy," he added after a pause, and with the solemnity of a mighty hate, "ta efil woman herself will pe a cam'ell--ta woman catanach will pe a cam'ell, and her nain sel' she'll not know it pefore she'll be in ta ped with the worsest cam'ell tat ever god made--and she pecks his pardon, for she'll not pelieve he wass making ta cam'ells." "divna ye think god made me, daddy?" asked malcolm. the old man thought for a little. "tat will tepend on who was pe your father, my son," he replied. "if he too will be a cam'ell--ochone! ochone! put tere may pe some coot plood co into you, more as enough to say god will pe make you, my son. put don't pe asking, malcolm. ton't you'll pe asking." "what am i no to ask, daddy?" "ton't pe asking who made you--who was ta father to you, my poy. she would rather not pe knowing, for ta man might pe a cam'ell poth. and if she couldn't pe lofing you no more, my son, she would pe tie pefore her time, and her tays would pe long in ta land under ta crass, my son." but the memory of the sweet face whose cold loveliness he had once kissed, was enough to outweigh with malcolm all the prejudices of duncan's instillation, and he was proud to take up even her shame. to pass from mrs stewart to her, was to escape from the clutches of a vampire demon to the arms of a sweet mother angel. deeply concerned for the newly discovered misfortunes of the old man to whom he was indebted for this world's life at least, he anxiously sought to soothe him; but he had far more and far worse to torment him than malcolm even yet knew, and with burning cheeks and bloodshot eyes, he lay tossing from side to side, now uttering terrible curses in gaelic, and now weeping bitterly. malcolm took his loved pipes, and with the gentlest notes he could draw from them tried to charm to rest the ruffled waters of his spirit; but his efforts were all in vain, and believing at length that he would be quieter without him, he went to the house, and to his own room. the door of the adjoining chamber stood open, and the long forbidden room lay exposed to any eye. little did malcolm think as he gazed around it, that it was the room in which he had first breathed the air of the world; in which his mother had wept over her own false position and his reported death; and from which he had been carried, by duncan's wicked wife, down the ruinous stair, and away to the lip of the sea, to find a home in the arms of the man whom he had just left on his lonely couch, torn between the conflicting emotions of a gracious love for him, and the frightful hate of her. chapter lxvii: feet of wool the next day, miss horn, punctual as fate, presented herself at lossie house, and was shown at once into the marquis's study, as it was called. when his lordship entered, she took the lead the moment the door was shut. "by this time, my lord, ye 'll doobtless hae made up yer min' to du what 's richt?" she said. "that's what i have always wanted to do," returned the marquis. "hm!" remarked miss horn, as plainly as inarticulately. "in this affair," he supplemented; adding, "it's not always so easy to tell what is right!" "it's no aye easy to luik for 't wi' baith yer een," said miss horn. "this woman catanach--we must get her to give credible testimony. whatever the fact may be, we must have strong evidence. and there comes the difficulty, that she has already made an altogether different statement." "it gangs for naething, my lord. it was never made afore a justice o' the peace." "i wish you would go to her, and see how she is inclined." "me gang to bawbie catanach!" exclaimed miss horn. "i wad as sune gang an' kittle sawtan's nose wi' the p'int o' 's tail. na, na, my lord! gien onybody gang till her wi' my wull, it s' be a limb o' the law. i s' hae nae cognostin' wi' her." "you would have no objection, however, to my seeing her, i presume --just to let her know that we have an inkling of the truth?" said the marquis. now all this was the merest talk, for of course miss horn could not long remain in ignorance of the declaration fury had, the night previous, forced from mrs catanach; but he must, he thought, put her off and keep her quiet, if possible, until he had come to an understanding with malcolm, after which he would no doubt have his trouble with her. "ye can du as yer lordship likes," answered miss horn; "but i wadna hae 't said o' me 'at i had ony dealin's wi' her. wha kens but she micht say ye tried to bribe her? there's naething she wad bogle at gien she thoucht it worth her while. no 'at feart at her. lat her lee! no sae blate but--! only dinna lippen till a word she says, my lord." the marquis meditated. "i wonder whether the real source of my perplexity occurs to you, miss horn," he said at length. "you know i have a daughter?" "weel eneuch that, my lord." "by my second marriage." "nae merridge ava', my lord." "true,--if i confess to the first." "a' the same, whether or no, my lord." "then you see," the marquis went on, refusing offence, "what the admission of your story would make of my daughter?" "that's plain eneuch, my lord." "now, if i have read malcolm right, he has too much regard for his --mistress--to put her in such a false position." "that is, my lord, ye wad hae yer lawfu' son beir the lawless name." "no, no; it need never come out what he is. i will provide for him --as a gentleman, of course." "it canna be, my lord. ye can du naething for him wi' that face o' his, but oot comes the trouth as to the father o' 'im; an' it wadna be lang afore the tale was ekit oot wi' the name o' his mither-- mistress catanach wad see to that, gien 'twas only to spite me; an' i wunna hae my grizel ca'd what she is not, for ony lord's dauchter i' the three kynriks." "what does it matter, now she's dead and gone?" said the marquis, false to the dead in his love for the living. "deid an' gane, my lord! what ca' ye deid an' gane? maybe the great anes o' the yerth get sic a forlethie (surfeit) o' gran'ur 'at they 're for nae mair, an' wad perish like the brute beast. for onything i ken, they may hae their wuss, but for mysel', i wad warstle to haud my sowl waukin' (awake), i' the verra article o' deith, for the bare chance o' seein' my bonny grizel again.--it's a mercy i hae nae feelin's!" she added, arresting her handkerchief on its way to her eyes, and refusing to acknowledge the single tear that ran down her cheek. plainly she was not like any of the women whose characters the marquis had accepted as typical of womankind. "then you won't leave the matter to her husband and son," he said reproachfully. "i tellt ye, my lord, i wad du naething but what i saw to be richt. lat this affair oot o' my han's i daurna. that laad ye micht work to onything 'at made agane himsel'. he 's jist like his puir mither there." "if miss campbell was his mother," said the marquis. "miss cam'ell!" cried miss horn. "i 'll thank yer lordship to ca' her by her ain, 'an that's lady lossie." what if the something ruinous heart of the marquis was habitable, was occupied by his daughter, and had no accommodation at present either for his dead wife or his living son. once more he sat thinking in silence for a while. "i'll make malcolm a post captain in the navy, and give you a thousand pounds," he said at length, hardly knowing that he spoke. miss horn rose to her full height, and stood like an angel of rebuke before him. not a word did she speak, only looked at him for a moment, and turned to leave the room. the marquis saw his danger, and striding to the door, stood with his back against it. "think ye to scare me, my lord?" she asked, with a scornful laugh. "gang an' scare the stane lion beast at yer ha' door. haud oot o' the gait, an' lat me gang." "not until i know what you are going to do," said the marquis, very seriously. "i hae naething mair to transac' wi' yer lordship. you an' me 's strangers, my lord." "tut! tut! i was but trying you." "an' gien i had taen the disgrace ye offert me, ye wad hae drawn back?" "no, certainly." "ye wasna tryin' me than: ye was duin' yer best to corrup' me." " no splitter of hairs." "my lord, it 's nane but the corrup'ible wad seek to corrup'." the marquis gnawed a nail or two in silence. miss horn dragged an easy chair within a couple of yards of him. "we'll see wha tires o' this ghem first, my lord!" she said, as she sank into its hospitable embrace. the marquis turned to lock the door, but there was no key in it. neither was there any chair within reach, and he was not fond of standing. clearly his enemy had the advantage. "hae ye h'ard o' puir sandy graham--hoo they're misguidin' him, my lord?" she asked with composure. the marquis was first astounded, and then tickled by her assurance. "no," he answered. "they hae turnt him oot o' hoose an' ha'--schuil, at least, an' hame," she rejoined. "i may say, they hae turnt him oot o' scotlan'; for what presbytery wad hae him efter he had been fun' guilty o' no thinkin' like ither fowk? ye maun stan' his guid freen', my lord." "he shall be malcolm's tutor," answered the marquis, not to be outdone in coolness, "and go with him to edinburgh--or oxford, if he prefers it." "never yerl o' colonsay had a better!" said miss horn. "softly, softly, ma'am!" returned the marquis. "i did not say he should go in that style." "he s' gang as my lord o' colonsay, or he s' no gang at your expense, my lord," said his antagonist. "really, ma'am, one would think you were my grandmother, to hear you order my affairs for me." "i wuss i war, my lord: i sud gar ye hear rizzon upo' baith sides o' yer heid, i s' warran'!" the marquis laughed. "well, i can't stand here all day!" he said, impatiently swinging one leg. " weel awaur o' that, my lord," answered miss horn, rearranging her scanty skirt. "how long are ye going to keep me, then?" "i wadna hae ye bide a meenute langer nor 's agreeable to yersel'. but in nae hurry sae lang 's ye're afore me. ye're nae ill to luik at--though ye maun hae been bonnier the day ye wan the hert o' my grizzel." the marquis uttered an oath, and left the door. miss horn sprang to it; but there was the marquis again. "miss horn," he said, "i beg you will give me another day to think of this." "whaur's the use? a' the thinkin' i' the warl' canna alter a single fac'. ye maun du richt by my laddie o' yer ain sel', or i maun gar ye." "you would find a lawsuit heavy, miss horn." "an' ye wad fin' the scandal o' 't ill to bide, my lord. it wad come sair upo' miss--i kenna what name she has a richt till, my lord." the marquis uttered a frightful imprecation, left the door, and sitting down, hid his face in his hands. miss horn rose, but instead of securing her retreat, approached him gently, and stood by his side. "my lord," she said, "i canna thole to see a man in tribble. women 's born till 't, an' they tak it, an' are thankfu'; but a man never gies in till 't, an' sae it comes harder upo' him nor upo' them. hear me, my lord: gien there be a man upo' this earth wha wad shield a wuman, that man 's ma'colm colonsay." "if only she weren't his sister!" murmured the marquis. "an' jist bethink ye, my lord: wad it be onything less nor an imposition to lat a man merry her ohn tellt him what she was?" "you insolent old woman!" cried the marquis, losing his temper, discretion, and manners, all together. "go and do your worst, and be damned to you!" so saying, he left the room, and miss horn found her way out of the house in a temper quite as fierce as his,--in character, however, entirely different, inasmuch as it was righteous. at that very moment malcolm was in search of his master; and seeing the back of him disappear in the library, to which he had gone in a half blind rage, he followed him. "my lord!" he said. "what do you want?" returned his master in a rage. for some time he had been hauling on the curb rein, which had fretted his temper the more; and when he let go, the devil ran away with him. "i thoucht yer lordship wad like to see an auld stair i cam upo' the ither day, 'at gang's frae the wizard's chaumer." "go to hell with your damned tomfoolery!" said the marquis. "if ever you mention that cursed hole again, i'll kick you out of the house." malcolm's eyes flashed, and a fierce answer rose to his lips, but he had seen that his master was in trouble, and sympathy supplanted rage. he turned and left the room in silence. lord lossie paced up and down the library for a whole hour--a long time for him to be in one mood. the mood changed colour pretty frequently during the hour, however, and by degrees his wrath assuaged. but at the end of it he knew no more what he was going to do than when he left miss horn in the study. then came the gnawing of his usual ennui and restlessness: he must find something to do. the thing he always thought of first was a ride; but the only animal of horse kind about the place which he liked was the bay mare, and her he had lamed. he would go and see what the rascal had come bothering about--alone though, for he could not endure the sight of the fisher fellow--damn him! in a few moments he stood in the wizard's chamber, and glanced round it with a feeling of discomfort rather than sorrow--of annoyance at the trouble of which it had been for him both fountain and storehouse, rather than regret for the agony and contempt which his selfishness had brought upon the woman he loved; then spying the door in the furthest corner, he made for it, and in a moment more, his curiosity, now thoroughly roused, was slowly gyrating down the steps of the old screw stair. but malcolm had gone to his own room, and hearing some one in the next, half suspected who it was, and went in. seeing the closet door open, he hurried to the stair, and shouted, "my lord! my lord! or whaever ye are! tak care hoo ye gang, or ye'll get a terrible fa'." down a single yard the stair was quite dark, and he dared not follow fast for fear of himself falling and occasioning the accident he feared. as he descended, he kept repeating his warnings, but either his master did not hear or heeded too little, for presently malcolm heard a rush, a dull fall, and a groan. hurrying as fast as he dared with the risk of falling upon him, he found the marquis lying amongst the stones in the ground entrance, apparently unable to move, and white with pain. presently, however, he got up, swore a good deal, and limped swearing into the house. the doctor, who was sent for instantly pronounced the knee cap injured, and applied leeches. inflammation set in, and another doctor and surgeon were sent for from aberdeen. they came; applied poultices, and again leeches, and enjoined the strictest repose. the pain was severe; but to one of the marquis's temperament, the enforced quiet was worse. chapter lxviii: hands of iron the marquis was loved by his domestics; and his accident, with its consequences, although none more serious were anticipated, cast a gloom over lossie house. far apart as was his chamber from all the centres of domestic life, the pulses of his suffering beat as it were through the house, and the servants moved with hushed voice and gentle footfall. outside, the course of events waited upon his recovery, for miss horn was too generous not to delay proceedings while her adversary was ill. besides, what she most of all desired was the marquis's free acknowledgment of his son; and after such a time of suffering and constrained reflection as he was now passing through, he could hardly fail, she thought, to be more inclined to what was just and fair. malcolm had of course hastened to the schoolmaster with the joy of his deliverance from mrs stewart; but mr graham had not acquainted him with the discovery miss horn had made, or her belief concerning his large interest therein, to which malcolm's report of the wrath born declaration of mrs catanach had now supplied the only testimony wanting, for the right of disclosure was miss horn's. to her he had carried malcolm's narrative of late events, tenfold strengthening her position; but she was anxious in her turn that the revelation concerning his birth should come to him from his father. hence malcolm continued in ignorance of the strange dawn that had begun to break on the darkness of his origin. miss horn had told mr graham what the marquis had said about the tutorship; but the schoolmaster only shook his head with a smile, and went on with his preparations for departure. the hours went by; the days lengthened into weeks, and the marquis's condition did not improve. he had never known sickness and pain before, and like most of the children of this world, counted them the greatest of evils; nor was there any sign of their having as yet begun to open his eyes to what those who have seen them call truths, those who have never even boded their presence count absurdities. more and more, however, he desired the attendance of malcolm, who was consequently a great deal about him, serving with a love to account for which those who knew his nature would not have found it necessary to fall back on the instinct of the relation between them. the marquis had soon satisfied himself that that relation was as yet unknown to him, and was all the better pleased with his devotion and tenderness. the inflammation continued, increased, spread, and at length the doctors determined to amputate. but the marquis was absolutely horrified at the idea,--shrank from it with invincible repugnance. the moment the first dawn of comprehension vaguely illuminated their periphrastic approaches, he blazed out in a fury, cursed them frightfully, called them all the contemptuous names in his rather limited vocabulary, and swore he would see them--uncomfortable first. "we fear mortification, my lord," said the physician calmly. "so do i. keep it off," returned the marquis. "we fear we cannot, my lord." it had, in fact, already commenced. "let it mortify, then, and be damned," said his lordship. "i trust, my lord, you will reconsider it," said the surgeon. "we should not have dreamed of suggesting a measure of such severity had we not had reason to dread that the further prosecution of gentler means would but lessen your lordship's chance of recovery." "you mean then that my life is in danger?" "we fear," said the physician, "that the amputation proposed is the only thing that can save it." "what a brace of blasted bunglers you are!" cried the marquis, and turning away his face, lay silent. the two men looked at each other, and said nothing. malcolm was by, and a keen pang shot to his heart at the verdict. the men retired to consult. malcolm approached the bed. "my lord!" he said gently. no reply came. "dinna lea 's oor lanes, my lord--no yet," malcolm persisted. "what 's to come o' my leddy?" the marquis gave a gasp. still he made no reply. "she has naebody, ye ken, my lord, 'at ye wad like to lippen her wi'." "you must take care of her when i am gone, malcolm,' murmured the marquis; and his voice was now gentle with sadness and broken with misery. "me, my lord!" returned malcolm. "wha wad min' me? an' what cud i du wi' her? i cudna even haud her ohn wat her feet. her leddy's maid cud du mair wi' her--though i wad lay doon my life for her, as i tauld ye, my lord--an' she kens 't weel eneuch." silence followed. both men were thinking. "gie me a richt, my lord, an' i'll du my best," said malcolm, at length breaking the silence. "what do you mean?" growled the marquis, whose mood had altered. "gie me a legal richt, my lord, an' see gien i dinna." "see what?" "see gien i dinna luik weel efter my leddy." "how am i to see? i shall be dead and damned." "please god, my lord, ye'll be alive an' weel--in a better place, if no here to luik efter my leddy yersel'." "oh, i dare say!" muttered the marquis. "but ye'll hearken to the doctors, my lord," malcolm went on, "an' no dee wantin' time to consider o' 't." "yes, yes; tomorrow i'll have another talk with them. we'll see about it. there's time enough yet. they're all cox combs--every one of them. they never give a patient the least credit for common sense." "i dinna ken, my lord," said malcolm doubtfully. after a few minutes' silence, during which malcolm thought he had fallen asleep, the marquis resumed abruptly. "what do you mean by giving you a legal right?" he said. "there's some w'y o' makin' ae body guairdian till anither, sae 'at the law 'ill uphaud him--isna there, my lord?" "yes, surely. well!--rather odd--wouldn't it be?--a young fisher lad guardian to a marchioness! eh? they say there's nothing new under the sun; but that sounds rather like it, i think." malcolm was overjoyed to hear him speak with something like his old manner. he felt he could stand any amount of chaff from him now, and so the proposition he had made in seriousness, he went on to defend in the hope of giving amusement, yet with a secret wild delight in the dream of such full devotion to the service of lady florimel. "it wad soon' queer eneuch, my lord, nae doobt; but fowk maunna min' the soon' o' a thing gien 't be a' straucht an' fair, an' strong eneuch to stan'. they cudna lauch me oot o' my richts, be they 'at they likit--lady bellair, or ony o' them--na, nor jaw me oot o' them aither!" "they might do a good deal to render those rights of little use," said the marquis. "that wad come till a trial o' brains, my lord," returned malcolm; "an' ye dinna think i wadna hae the wit to speir advice--an' what's mair, to ken whan it was guid, an' tak it! there's lawyers, my lord." "and their expenses?" "ye cud lea' sae muckle to be waured (spent) upo' the cairryin' oot o' yer lordship's wull." "who would see that you applied it properly?" "my ain conscience, my lord--or mr graham, gien ye likit." "and how would you live yourself?" "ow! lea' ye that to me, my lord. only dinna imaigine i wad be behauden to yer lordship. i houp i hae mair pride nor that. ilka poun' not', shillin', an' baubee sud be laid oot for her, an' what was left hainet (saved) for her." "by jove! it 's a daring proposal!" said the marquis; and, which seemed strange to malcolm, not a single thread of ridicule ran through the tone in which he made the remark. the next day came, but brought neither strength of body nor of mind with it. again his professional attendants besought him, and he heard them more quietly, but rejected their proposition as positively as before. in a day or two he ceased to oppose it, but would not hear of preparation. hour glided into hour, and days had gathered to a week, when they assailed him with a solemn and last appeal. "nonsense!" answered the marquis. "my leg is getting better. i feel no pain--in fact nothing but a little faintness. your damned medicines, i haven't a doubt." "you are in the greatest danger, my lord. it is all but too late even now." "tomorrow, then--if it must be. today i could not endure to have my hair cut--positively; and as to having my leg off,--pooh! the thing's preposterous!" he turned white and shuddered, for all the nonchalance of his speech. when tomorrow came, there was not a surgeon in the land who would have taken his leg off. he looked in their faces, and seemed for the first time convinced of the necessity of the measure. "you may do as you please," he said. "i am ready." "not today, my lord," replied the doctor. "your lordship is not equal to it today." "i understand," said the marquis, paled frightfully, and turned his head aside. when mrs courthope suggested that lady florimel should be sent for, he flew into a frightful rage, and spoke as it is to be hoped he had never spoken to a woman before. she took it with perfect gentleness, but could not repress a tear. the marquis saw it, and his heart was touched. "you mustn't mind a dying man's temper," he said. "it's not for myself, my lord," she answered. "i know: you think not fit to die; and, damn it! you are right. never one was less fit for heaven, or less willing to go to hell." "wouldn't you like to see a clergyman, my lord?" she suggested, sobbing. he was on the point of breaking out in a still worse passion, but controlled himself. "a clergyman!" he cried; "i would as soon see the undertaker. what could he do but tell me i was going to be damned--a fact i know better than he can? that is, if it 's not all an invention of the cloth, as, in my soul, i believe it is! i've said so any time this forty years." "oh, my lord, my lord! do not fling away your last hope." "you imagine me to have a chance then? good soul! you don't know better!" "the lord is merciful." the marquis laughed--that is, he tried, failed, and grinned. "mr cairns is in the dining room, my lord." "bah! a low pettifogger, with the soul of a bullock! don't let me hear the fellow's name. i've been bad enough, god knows! but i haven't sunk to the level of his help yet. if he 's god almighty's factor, and the saw holds--'like master, like man!' well, i would rather have nothing to do with either." "that is, if you had the choice, my lord," said mrs courthope, her temper yielding a little, though in truth his speech was not half so irreverent as it seemed to her. "tell him to go to hell. no, don't: set him down to a bottle of port and a great sponge cake and you needn't tell him to go to heaven, for he 'll be there already. why, mrs courthope, the fellow isn't a gentleman! and yet all he cares for the cloth is, that he thinks it makes a gentleman of him--as if anything in heaven, earth, or hell could work that miracle!" in the middle of the night, as malcolm sat by his bed, thinking him asleep, the marquis spoke suddenly. "you must go to aberdeen tomorrow, malcolm," he said. "verra weel, my lord." "and bring mr glennie, the lawyer, back with you." "yes, my lord." "go to bed then." "i wad raither bide, my lord. i cudna sleep a wink for wantin' to be back aside ye." the marquis yielded, and malcolm sat by him all the night through. he tossed about, would doze off and murmur strangely, then wake up and ask for brandy and water, yet be content with the lemonade malcolm gave him. next day he quarrelled with every word mrs courthope uttered, kept forgetting he had sent malcolm away, and was continually wanting him. his fits of pain were more severe, alternated with drowsiness, which deepened at times to stupor. it was late before malcolm returned. he went instantly to his bedside. "is mr glennie with you?" asked his master feebly. "yes, my lord." "tell him to come here at once." when malcolm returned with the lawyer, the marquis directed him to set a table and chair by the bedside, light four candles, get everything necessary for writing, and go to bed. chapter lxix: the marquis and the schoolmaster before malcolm was awake, his lordship had sent for him. when he re-entered the sick chamber, mr glennie had vanished, the table had been removed, and instead of the radiance of the wax lights, the cold gleam of a vapour dimmed sun, with its sickly blue white reflex from the wide spread snow, filled the room. the marquis looked ghastly, but was sipping chocolate with a spoon. "what w'y are ye the day, my lord?" asked malcolm. "nearly well," he answered; "but those cursed carrion crows are set upon killing me--damn their souls!" "we'll hae leddy florimel sweirin' awfu', gien ye gang on that gait, my lord," said malcolm. the marquis laughed feebly. "an' what 's mair," malcolm continued, "i doobt they're some partic'lar aboot the turn o' their phrases up yonner, my lord." the marquis looked at him keenly. "you don't anticipate that inconvenience for me?" he said. " pretty sure to have my billet where they're not so precise." "dinna brak my hert, my lord!" cried malcolm, the tears rushing to his eyes. "i should be sorry to hurt you, malcolm," rejoined the marquis gently, almost tenderly. "i won't go there if i can help it. i shouldn't like to break any more hearts. but how the devil am i to keep out of it? besides, there are people up there i don't want to meet; i have no fancy for being made ashamed of myself. the fact is i'm not fit for such company, and i don't believe there is any such place. but if there be, i trust in god there isn't any other, or it will go badly with your poor master, malcolm. it doesn't look like true--now does it? only such a multitude of things i thought i had done with for ever, keep coming up and grinning at me! it nearly drives me mad, malcolm--and i would fain die like a gentleman, with a cool bow and a sharp face about." "wadna ye hae a word wi' somebody 'at kens, my lord?" said malcolm, scarcely able to reply. "no," answered the marquis fiercely. "that cairns is a fool." "he's a' that an' mair, my lord. i didna mean him." "they're all fools together.' "ow, na, my lord! there's a heap o' them no muckle better, it may be; but there's guid men an' true amang them, or the kirk wad hae been wi' sodom and gomorrha by this time. but it 's no a minister i wad hae yer lordship confar wi'." "who then? mrs courthope? eh?" "ow na, my lord--no mistress coorthoup! she's a guid body, but she wadna believe her ain een gien onybody ca'd a minister said contrar' to them." "who the devil do you mean then?" "nae deevil, but an honest man 'at 's been his warst enemy sae lang 's i hae kent him: maister graham, the schuilmaister." "pooh!" said the marquis with a puff. " too old to go to school." "i dinna ken the man 'at isna a bairn till him, my lord." "in greek and latin?" "i' richteousness an' trouth, my lord; in what's been an' what is to be." "what! has he the second sicht, like the piper?" "he has the second sicht, my lord--but ane 'at gangs a sicht farther than my auld daddy's." "he could tell me then what's going to become of me?' "as weel 's ony man, my lord." "that's not saying much, i fear." "maybe mair nor ye think, my lord." "well, take him my compliments, and tell him i should like to see him," said the marquis, after a pause. "he 'll come direckly, my lord." "of course he will!" said the marquis. "jist as readily, my lord, as he wad gang to ony tramp 'at sent for 'im at sic a time," returned malcolm, who did not relish either the remark or its tone. "what do you mean by that? you don't think it such a serious affair --do you?" "my lord, ye haena a chance." the marquis was dumb. he had actually begun once more to buoy himself up with earthly hopes. dreading a recall of his commission, malcolm slipped from the room, sent mrs courthope to take his place, and sped to the schoolmaster. the moment mr graham heard the marquis's message, he rose without a word, and led the way from the cottage. hardly a sentence passed between them as they went, for they were on a solemn errand. "mr graham 's here, my lord," said malcolm. "where? not in the room?" returned the marquis. "waitin' at the door, my lord." "bah! you needn't have been so ready. have you told the sexton to get a new spade? but you may let him in. and leave him alone with me." mr graham walked gently up to the bedside. "sit down, sir," said the marquis courteously--pleased with the calm, self possessed, unobtrusive bearing of the man. "they tell me dying, mr graham." " sorry it seems to trouble you, my lord." "what! wouldn't it trouble you then?" "i don't think so, my lord." "ah! you're one of the elect, no doubt?" "that's a thing i never did think about, my lord." "what do you think about then?" "about god." "and when you die you'll go straight to heaven of course--" "i don't know, my lord. that's another thing i never trouble my head about." "ah! you 're like me then! i don't care much about going to heaven! what do you care about?" "the will of god. i hope your lordship will say the same." "no i won't. i want my own will." "well, that is to be had, my lord." "how?" "by taking his for yours, as the better of the two, which it must be every way." "that's all moonshine." "it is light, my lord." "well, i don't mind confessing, if i am to die, i should prefer heaven to the other place; but i trust i have no chance of either. do you now honestly believe there are two such places?" "i don't know, my lord." "you don't know! and you come here to comfort a dying man!" "your lordship must first tell me what you mean by 'two such places.' and as to comfort, going by my notions, i cannot tell which you would be more or less comfortable in; and that, i presume, would be the main point with your lordship." "and what, pray, sir, would be the main point with you?" "to get nearer to god." "well--i can't say i want to get nearer to god. it's little he 's ever done for me." "it's a good deal he has tried to do for you, my lord." "well, who interfered? who stood in his way, then?" "yourself, my lord." "i wasn't aware of it. when did he ever try to do anything for me, and i stood in his way?" "when he gave you one of the loveliest of women, my lord," said mr graham, with solemn, faltering voice, "and you left her to die in neglect, and the child to be brought up by strangers." the marquis gave a cry. the unexpected answer had roused the slowly gnawing death, and made it bite deeper. "what have you to do," he almost screamed, "with my affairs? it was for me to introduce what i chose of them. you presume." "pardon me, my lord: you led me to what i was bound to say. shall i leave you, my lord?" the marquis made no answer. "god knows i loved her," he said after a while, with a sigh. "you loved her, my lord!" "i did, by god!" "love a woman like that, and come to this?" "come to this! we must all come to this, i fancy, sooner or later. come to what, in the name of beelzebub?" "that, having loved a woman like her, you are content to lose her. in the name of god, have you no desire to see her again?" "it would be an awkward meeting," said the marquis. his was an old love, alas! he had not been capable of the sort that defies change. it had faded from him until it seemed one of the things that are not! although his being had once glowed in its light, he could now speak of a meeting as awkward! "because you wronged her?" suggested the schoolmaster. "because they lied to me, by god!" "which they dared not have done, had you not lied to them first." "sir!" shouted the marquis, with all the voice he had left. "o god, have mercy! i cannot punish the scoundrel." "the scoundrel is the man who lies, my lord." "were i anywhere else--" "there would be no good in telling you the truth, my lord. you showed her to the world as a woman over whom you had prevailed, and not as the honest wife she was. what kind of a lie was that, my lord? not a white one, surely?" "you are a damned coward to speak so to a man who cannot even turn on his side to curse you for a base hound. you would not dare it but that you know i cannot defend myself." "you are right, my lord; your conduct is indefensible." "by heaven! if i could but get this cursed leg under me, i would throw you out of the window." "i shall go by the door, my lord. while you hold by your sins, your sins will hold by you. if you should want me again, i shall be at your lordship's command." he rose and left the room, but had not reached his cottage before malcolm overtook him, with a second message from his master. he turned at once, saying only, "i expected it." "mr graham," said the marquis, looking ghastly, "you must have patience with a dying man. i was very rude to you, but i was in horrible pain." "don't mention it, my lord. it would be a poor friendship that gave way for a rough word." "how can you call yourself my friend?" "i should be your friend, my lord, if it were only for your wife's sake. she died loving you. i want to send you to her, my lord. you will allow that, as a gentleman, you at least owe her an apology." "by jove, you are right, sir! then you really and positively believe in the place they call heaven?" "my lord, i believe that those who open their hearts to the truth, shall see the light on their friends' faces again, and be able to set right what was wrong between them." "it's a week too late to talk of setting right!" "go and tell her you are sorry, my lord,--that will be enough to her." "ah! but there's more than her concerned." "you are right, my lord. there is another--one who cannot be satisfied that the fairest works of his hands, or rather the loveliest children of his heart, should be treated as you have treated women." "but the deity you talk of--" "i beg your pardon, my lord: i talked of no deity; i talked of a living love that gave us birth and calls us his children. your deity i know nothing of." "call him what you please: he won't be put off so easily!" "he won't be put off one jot or one tittle. he will forgive anything, but he will pass nothing. will your wife forgive you?" "she will--when i explain." "then why should you think the forgiveness of god, which created her forgiveness, should be less?" whether the marquis could grasp the reasoning, may be doubtful. "do you really suppose god cares whether a man comes to good or ill?" "if he did not, he could not be good himself." "then you don't think a good god would care to punish poor wretches like us?" "your lordship has not been in the habit of regarding himself as a poor wretch. and, remember, you can't call a child a poor wretch without insulting the father of it." "that's quite another thing." "but on the wrong side for your argument--seeing the relation between god and the poorest creature is infinitely closer than that between any father and his child." "then he can't be so hard on him as the parsons say." "he will give him absolute justice, which is the only good thing. he will spare nothing to bring his children back to himself-- their sole well being. what would you do, my lord, if you saw your son strike a woman?" "knock him down and horsewhip him." it was mr graham who broke the silence that followed. "are you satisfied with yourself, my lord?" "no, by god!" "you would like to be better?" "i would." "then you are of the same mind with god." "yes but not a fool! it won't do to say i should like to be: i must be it, and that's not so easy. it's damned hard to be good. i would have a fight for it, but there's no time. how is a poor devil to get out of such an infernal scrape?" "keep the commandments." "that's it, of course; but there's no time, i tell you--at least so those cursed doctors will keep telling me." "if there were but time to draw another breath, there would be time to begin." "how am i to begin? which am i to begin with?" "there is one commandment which includes all the rest." "which is that?" "to believe on the lord jesus christ." "that's cant." "after thirty years' trial of it, it is to me the essence of wisdom. it has given me a peace which makes life or death all but indifferent to me, though i would choose the latter." "what am i to believe about him then?" "you are to believe in him, not about him." "i don't understand." "he is our lord and master, elder brother, king, saviour, the divine man, the human god: to believe in him is to give ourselves up to him in obedience, to search out his will and do it." "but there's no time, i tell you again," the marquis almost shrieked. "and i tell you, there is all eternity to do it in. take him for your master, and he will demand nothing of you which you are not able to perform. this is the open door to bliss. with your last breath you can cry to him, and he will hear you, as he heard the thief on the cross who cried to him dying beside him. 'lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.' 'today shalt thou be with me in paradise.' it makes my heart swell to think of it, my lord! no cross questioning of the poor fellow! no preaching to him! he just took him with him where he was going, to make a man of him." "well, you know something of my history: what would you have me do now? at once, i mean. what would the person you speak of have me do?" "that is not for me to say, my lord." "you could give me a hint." "no. god is telling you himself. for me to presume to tell you, would be to interfere with him. what he would have a man do, he lets him know in his mind." "but what if i had not made up my mind before the last came?" "then i fear he would say to you--'depart from me, thou worker of iniquity.'" "that would be hard when another minute might have done it." "if another minute would have done it, you would have had it." a paroxysm of pain followed, during which mr graham silently left him. chapter lxx: end or beginning? when the fit was over, and he found mr graham was gone, he asked malcolm, who had resumed his watch, how long it would take lady florimel to come from edinburgh. "mr crathie left wi' fower horses frae the lossie airms last nicht, my lord," said malcolm; "but the ro'ds are ill, an' she winna be here afore sometime the morn." the marquis stared aghast: they had sent for her without his orders. "what shall i do?" he murmured. "if once i look in her eyes, i shall be damned. malcolm!" "yes, my lord!" "is there a lawyer in portlossie?" "yes, my lord; there's auld maister carmichael." "he won't do! he was my brother's rascal. is there no one besides?" "no in portlossie, my lord. there can be nane nearer than duff harbour, i doobt." "take the chariot and bring him here directly. tell them to put four horses to. stokes can ride one." "i'll ride the ither, my lord." "you'll do nothing of the kind: you're not used to the pole." "i can tak the leader, my lord." "i tell you you're to do nothing of the kind!" cried the marquis angrily. "you're to ride inside, and bring mr--what's his name? back with you." "soutar, my lord, gien ye please." "be off, then. don't wait to feed. the brutes have been eating all day, and they can eat all night. you must have him here in an hour." in an hour and a quarter, miss horn's friend stood by the marquis's bedside. malcolm was dismissed, but was presently summoned again to receive more orders. fresh horses were put to the chariot, and he had to set out once more--this time to fetch a justice of the peace, a neighbour laird. the distance was greater than to duff harbour; the roads were worse; the north wind, rising as they went, blew against them as they returned, increasing to a violent gale; and it was late before they reached lossie house. when malcolm entered, he found the marquis alone. "is morrison here at last?" he cried in a feeble, irritated voice. "yes, my lord." "what the devil kept you so long? the bay mare would have carried me there and back in an hour and a half." "the roads war verra heavy, my lord. an' jist hear till the win'!" the marquis listened a moment, and a frightened expression grew over his thin, pale, anxious face. "you don't know what depends on it," he said, "or you would have driven better. where is mr soutar?" "i dinna ken, my lord. only jist come, an' i've seen naebody." "go and tell mrs courthope i want soutar. you'll find her crying somewhere--the old chicken! because i swore at her. what harm could that do the old goose?" "it'll be mair for love o' yer lordship than fricht at the sweirin', my lord." "you think so? why should she care? go and tell her sorry. but really she ought to be used to me by this time! tell her to send soutar directly." mr soutar was not to be found, the fact being that he had gone to see miss horn. the marquis flew into an awful rage, and began to curse and swear frightfully. "my lord! my lord!" said malcolm, "for god's sake, dinna gang on that gait. he canna like to hear that kin' o' speech--an' frae ane o' his ain tu!" the marquis stopped, aghast at his presumption, and choking with rage; but malcolm's eyes filled with tears, and instead of breaking out again, his master turned his head away and was silent. mr soutar came. "fetch morrison," said the marquis, "and go to bed." the wind howled terribly as malcolm ascended the stairs and half felt his way, for he had no candle, through the long passages leading to his room. as he entered the last, a huge vague form came down upon him, like a deeper darkness through the dark. instinctively he stepped aside. it passed noiselessly, with a long stride, and not even a rustle of its garments--at least malcolm heard nothing but the roar of the wind. he turned and followed it. on and on it went, down the stair through a corridor, down the great stone turnpike stair, and through passage after passage. when it came into the more frequented and half lighted thoroughfares of the house, it showed as a large figure in a long cloak, indistinct in outline. it turned a corner close by the marquis's room. but when malcolm, close at its heels, turned also, he saw nothing but a vacant lobby, the doors around which were all shut. one after another he quickly opened them, all except the marquis's, but nothing was to be seen. the conclusion was that it had entered the marquis's room. he must not disturb the conclave in the sick chamber with what might be but "a false creation, proceeding from the heat oppressed brain," and turned back to his own room, where he threw himself on his bed and fell asleep. about twelve mrs courthope called him: his master was worse, and wanted to see him. the midnight was still, for the dark and wind had ceased. but a hush and a cloud seemed gathering in the stillness and darkness, and with them came the sense of a solemn celebration, as if the gloom were canopy as well as pall--black, but bordered and hearted with purple and gold; and the stillness seemed to tremble as with the inaudible tones of a great organ, at the close or commencement of some mighty symphony. with beating heart he walked softly towards the room where, as on an altar, lay the vanishing form of his master, like the fuel in whose dying flame was offered the late and ill nurtured sacrifice of his spirit. as he went through the last corridor leading thither, mrs catanach, type and embodiment of the horrors that haunt the dignity of death, came walking towards him like one at home, her great round body lightly upborne on her soft foot. it was no time to challenge her presence, and yielding her the half of the narrow way, he passed without a greeting. she dropped him a courtesy with an uplook and again a vailing of her wicked eyes. the marquis would not have the doctor come near him, and when malcolm entered there was no one in the room but mrs courthope. the shadow had crept far along the dial. his face had grown ghastly, the skin had sunk to the bones, and his eyes stood out as if from much staring into the dark. they rested very mournfully on malcolm for a few moments, and then closed softly. "is she come yet?" he murmured, opening them wide, with sudden stare. "no, my lord." the lids fell again, softly, slowly. "be good to her, malcolm," he murmured. "i wull, my lord," said malcolm solemnly. then the eyes opened and looked at him; something grew in them-- a light as of love, and drew up after it a tear; but the lips said nothing. the eyelids fell again, and in a minute more, malcolm knew by his breathing that he slept. the slow night waned. he woke sometimes, but soon dozed off again. the two watched by him till the dawn. it brought a still grey morning, without a breath of wind, and warm for the season. the marquis appeared a little revived, but was hardly able to speak. mostly by signs he made malcolm understand that he wanted mr graham, but that some one else must go for him. mrs courthope went! as soon as she was out of the room, he lifted his hand with effort, laid feeble hold on malcolm's jacket, and drawing him down, kissed him on the forehead. malcolm burst into tears, and sank weeping by the bedside. mr graham entering a little after, and seeing malcolm on his knees, knelt also, and broke into a prayer. "o blessed father!" he said, "who knowest this thing, so strange to us, which we call death, breathe more life into the heart of thy dying son, that in the power of life he may front death. o lord christ, who diedst thyself, and in thyself knowest it all, heal this man in his sore need--heal him with strength to die." came a faint amen from the marquis. "thou didst send him into the world: help him out of it. o god, we belong to thee utterly. we dying men are thy children, o living father! thou art such a father, that thou takest our sins from us and throwest them behind thy back. thou cleanest our souls, as thy son did wash our feet. we hold our hearts up to thee: make them what they must be, o love, o life of men, o heart of hearts! give thy dying child courage, and hope, and peace--the peace of him who overcame all the terrors of humanity, even death itself, and liveth for evermore, sitting at thy right hand, our god brother, blessed to all ages--amen." "amen!" murmured the marquis, and slowly lifting his hand from the coverlid, he laid it on the head of malcolm, who did not know it was the hand of his father, blessing him ere he died. "be good to her," said the marquis once more. but malcolm could not answer for weeping, and the marquis was not satisfied. gathering all his force he said again, "be good to her." "i wull, i wull," burst from malcolm in sobs, and he wailed aloud. the day wore on, and the afternoon came. still lady florimel had not arrived, and still the marquis lingered. as the gloom of the twilight was deepening into the early darkness of the winter night, he opened wide his eyes, and was evidently listening. malcolm could hear nothing; but the light in his master's face grew, and the strain of his listening diminished. at length malcolm became aware of the sound of wheels, which came rapidly nearer, till at last the carriage swung up to the hall door. a moment, and lady florimel was flitting across the room. "papa! papa!" she cried, and, throwing her arm over him, laid her cheek to his. the marquis could not return her embrace; he could only receive her into the depths of his shining tearful eyes. "flory!" he murmured, " going away. going--i've got--to make an--apology. malcolm, be good--" the sentence remained unfinished. the light paled from his countenance --he had to carry it with him. he was dead. lady florimel gave a loud cry. mrs courthope ran to her assistance. "my lady's in a dead faint!" she whispered, and left the room to get help. malcolm lifted lady florimel in his great arms, and bore her tenderly to her own apartment. there he left her to the care of her women, and returned to the chamber of death. meantime mr graham and mr soutar had come. when malcolm re-entered, the schoolmaster took him kindly by the arm and said: "malcolm, there can be neither place nor moment fitter for the solemn communication i am commissioned to make to you: i have, as in the presence of your dead father, to inform you that you are now marquis of lossie; and god forbid you should be less worthy as marquis than you have been as fisherman!" malcolm stood stupefied. for a while he seemed to himself to be turning over in his mind something he had heard read from a book, with a nebulous notion of being somehow concerned in it. the thought of his father cleared his brain. he ran to the dead body, kissed its lips, as he had once kissed the forehead of another, and falling on his knees, wept, he knew not for what. presently, however, he recovered himself, rose, and, rejoining the two men, said "gentlemen, hoo mony kens this turn o' things?" "none but mr morrison, mrs catanach, and ourselves--so far as i know," answered mr soutar. "and miss horn," added mr graham. "she first brought out the truth of it, and ought to be the first to know of your recognition by your father." "i s' tell her mysel'," returned malcolm. "but, gentlemen, i beg o' ye, till i ken what aboot an' gie ye leave, dinna open yer moo' to leevin' cratur' aboot this. there's time eneuch for the warl' to ken 't." "your lordship commands me," said mr soutar. "yes, malcolm,--until you give me leave," said mr graham. "whaur's mr morrison?" asked malcolm. "he is still in the house," said mr soutar. "gang till him, sir, an' gar him promise, on the word o' a gentleman, to haud his tongue. i canna bide to hae 't blaret a' gait an' a' at ance. for mistress catanach, i s' deal wi' her mysel'." the door opened, and, in all the conscious dignity conferred by the immunities and prerogatives of her calling, mrs catanach walked into the room. "a word wi' ye, mistress catanach," said malcolm. "certainly, my lord," answered the howdy, with mingled presumption and respect, and followed him to the dining room. "weel, my lord," she began, before he had turned from shutting the door behind them, in the tone and with the air, or rather airs, of having conferred a great benefit, and expecting its recognition. "mistress catanach," interrupted malcolm, turning and facing her, "gien i be un'er ony obligation to you, it 's frae anither tongue i maun hear 't. but i hae an offer to mak ye: sae lang as it disna come oot 'at i'm onything better nor a fisherman born, ye s' hae yer twinty poun' i' the year, peyed ye quarterly. but the moment fowk says wha i am, ye touch na a poun' note mair, an' i coont mysel' free to pursue onything i can pruv agane ye." mrs catanach attempted a laugh of scorn, but her face was grey as putty, and its muscles declined response. "ay or no," said malcolm. "i winna gar ye sweir, for i wad lippen to yer aith no a hair." "ay, my lord," said the howdy, reassuming at least outward composure, and with it her natural brass, for as she spoke she held out her open palm. "na, na!" said malcolm, "nae forehan payments! three months o' tongue haudin', an' there's yer five poun'; an' maister soutar o' duff harbour 'ill pay 't intill yer ain han'. but brak troth wi' me, an' ye s' hear o' 't; for gien ye war hangt, the warl' wad be but the cleaner. noo quit the hoose, an' never lat me see ye aboot the place again. but afore ye gang, i gie ye fair warnin' 'at i mean to win at a' yer byganes." the blood of red wrath was seething in mrs catanach's face; she drew herself up, and stood flaming before him, on the verge of explosion. "gang frae the hoose," said malcolm, "or i'll set the muckle hun' to shaw ye the gait." her face turned the colour of ashes, and with hanging cheeks and scared but not the less wicked eyes, she turned from the room. malcolm watched her out of the house, then following her into the town, brought miss horn back with him to aid in the last of earthly services, and hastened to duncan's cottage. but to his amazement and distress, it was forsaken, and the hearth cold. in his attendance on his father, he had not seen the piper --he could not remember for how many days; and on inquiry he found that, although he had not been missed, no one could recall having seen him later than three or four days agone. the last he could hear of him in the neighbourhood was, that, about a week before, a boy had spied him sitting on a rock in the baillies' barn, with his pipes in his lap. searching the cottage, he found that his broadsword and dirk, with all his poor finery, were gone. that same night mrs catanach also disappeared. a week after, what was left of lord lossie was buried. malcolm followed the hearse with the household. miss horn walked immediately behind him, on the arm of the schoolmaster. it was a great funeral, with a short road, for the body was laid in the church--close to the wall, just under the crusader with the norman canopy. lady florimel wept incessantly for three days; on the fourth she looked out on the sea and thought it very dreary; on the fifth she found a certain gratification in hearing herself called the marchioness; on the sixth she tried on her mourning, and was pleased; on the seventh she went with the funeral and wept again; on the eighth came lady bellair, who on the ninth carried her away. to malcolm she had not spoken once. mr graham left portlossie. miss horn took to her bed for a week. mr crathie removed his office to the house itself, took upon him the function of steward as well as factor, had the state rooms dismantled, and was master of the place. malcolm helped stoat with the horses, and did odd jobs for mr crathie. from his likeness to the old marquis, as he was still called, the factor had a favour for him, firmly believing the said marquis to be his father, and mrs stewart his mother. hence he allowed him a key to the library, of which malcolm made good use. the story of malcolm's plans and what came of them, requires another book. the end. proofreading team. sara, a princess the story of a noble girl by fannie e. newberry a princess she, though not by birth: her title's from above, her heritage the right of worth, her empire that of love. contents chapter i. omens, good and ill ii. storm and trouble iii. a search and its ending iv. uncle adam and morton v. madame and "the princess" vi. happy days vii. a tea-party viii. news from the nautilus ix. rebellion x. robert glendenning xi. betty's quilting-bee xii. new fortunes xiii. from killamet to dartmoor xiv. new friends, new duties, and a new loss xv. morton has a picnic xvi. the princess holds a "drawing-room" xvii. molly gives a party xviii. a visit from miss prue xix. bertha gillette xx. weakness xxi. the prince cometh xxii. good-by to killamet [illustration: 'you must have had a big haul father, to make such a rent!' said sara as she drew the fish net toward her.] sara, a princess chapter i. omens, good and ill. "sairay! sairay!" the high, petulant voice rose shrilly through the steep, narrow stairway, and seemed to pierce the ears of the young girl who sat under the low, sloping roof, nearly bent double over the book in her lap. she involuntarily raised both hands to her ears, as if the noise distressed her, then dropped them, straightened herself resolutely, and answered in a pleasant contralto, whose rich notes betokened power and repression,-- "well, mother?" "your fayther's got to hev them nets mended right away, he says, an' my han's is in the dough. be you at them books agin?" "yes," said sara; "but i'll come," rising with a sigh, and carefully slipping a bit of paper between the leaves of her book, before she laid it on the rough board shelf at one side of the little garret room. as she passed directly from the stairway into the kitchen, or living- room, her father turned from the hopeless-seeming tangle of soiled and torn netting on the floor before him, and looked at her half wistfully from under the glazed brim of his wide hat. "was you studyin', sairay? ye see, i've got into a bad sort o' mess here, an' we may git our orders fur the long fish any day." "that's all right, father! no, baby, sister can't take you now," as the little fellow on the floor crept to her feet and set up a wail; but her smile, and a replaced toy, silenced the cry, and brought back comfort and complaisance to the puckered little face. sara then stepped to her father's side, and drew the large soiled fish- net towards her, looking with dismay on the broken meshes; but her voice was still bright, as she said,-- "you must have had a big haul, father, to make such a rent!" "waal, 'twas partly thet, but more the ice. ye see, it's jest breakin' up now, and it's monstrous jagged-like; 'twas thet did it, i reckon. kin ye fix it, sairay?" "yes, father." she was soon seated, the dirty mass across her knee, and the large bone shuttle in her hand flying rapidly in and out. but while her young stepmother went and came, talking a good deal, and the baby pulled and scrambled about her knees, her thoughts were far away, in the large schoolroom at weskisset. for one short, happy year she had been an inmate of the seminary there, and in her thoughts this year was the round top of her life! all events dated from before or since her "school-time." all paths with her led to weskisset, as with the ancients all roads led to rome: it was her athens, her mecca, almost her jerusalem. sara's own mother, though born inland, had come as schoolmistress, some twenty years since, to the little fishing-village of killamet (now sara's home), where she was wooed and won by the handsome, honest, daring young fisherman, reuben olmstead. sara was their first child, and upon her the young mother lavished untold tenderness. when, at the birth of the twins, nearly seven years later,--two infants having died between,--she yielded up her own gentle life, her last words had been,-- "don't forget, reuben, that sara is to have an education. i can see already that she is going to care for books, and she'll need it more than ever, now--promise me, husband!" and the good man would sooner have cut off his weather-beaten spear-hand than break his promise to that dying wife. in fulfilment of it he had struggled with what, to his fellow-villagers, seemed most foolish persistence, in order to give his oldest child immense and needless advantages, though it had been difficult enough to find the ways and means for these. even after the usual annual three months of the "deestric" for several years, he had felt that his solemn promise still bound him to allow her at least one year at the seminary. nor did the loss of his aged mother, who had been housekeeper since his wife's death, weaken this resolution; and it was, perhaps, partly to make it possible for sara to leave home, that he had married the young woman of the shrill voice, two years ago. she could look after the house and children while "sairay got her finishin' off," as he expressed it. but sara, like many another scholar, found that her one poor little year was but a taste of wisdom, but one sip from the inexhaustible stream of learning, and, back once more in her childhood's home, was constantly returning to those living waters, with an unquenchable thirst. it was her stepmother's pet grievance that "sairay was allers at them books," which was hardly true; for the girl took all the care of her younger brother and sister, and much of the baby, while not a few of the household duties devolved upon her. but she undoubtedly was apt to hurry through her tasks, and disappear within the little attic room above the kitchen in cold weather, or under a certain shady cove down by the sea in summer, as soon as these were finished. she had been netting but a short time when morton and mary came tumbling in, two lively youngsters nearing eleven years, whose bronzed and rosy cheeks betokened plenty of sunshine and fresh air. "say, pa!" they cried in a breath, almost stumbling over the baby in their excitement, mary, as usual, in advance, "is it true you're going out for the long fish to-morrow? jap norris told us so on our way home from school." the father's kindly eyes rested upon them with an indulgent twinkle in their depths. "waal, naow, if there's a bit o' news in this hull taown thet you younkers don't pick up, i'd like to find it! yes, ef jap norris said so, i s'pose it's true; he oughter know, bein' as his fayther's the cap'n. how long'll it take to finish up thet air net, darter?" "not much longer; but isn't it early to start, father? the ice is hardly broken up, is it?" "waal, it's breakin' fast, sairay; another day or two like this'll fetch it, an' it's 'first come best haul,' ye know, nowadays, sence all creation's got to runnin' to the banks. seems like it ain't skurcely fair for them sportin' men to go out jest for fun; they might leave cod an' herrin' to them what makes a business o' catchin' 'em, seems to me; but there, 'tain't so easy to keep a mortgage on the sea!" and he laughed good-humoredly. meanwhile molly, as they called the little mary, had flung off her hood, and now was down on the floor playing with baby ned, who welcomed her with crows of delight, for when she felt good-natured she was his favorite playmate. the room would have seemed overflowing to a stranger, with its curtained bed in the alcove--or rather square projection--at one side, its fireplace at the end, and cradle, table, spinning-wheel, reels, and nets, to fill every available space left over. even the ceiling was made useful; for along the rafters were hooks which supported spears, oars, and paddles, while one wall was prettily tapestried with a great brown net, its sinkers hanging like ornamental balls along one edge. the windows were small and the ceiling low, but the fire shone merrily, and gave light, warmth, and cosiness to the crowded apartment. it was sara who had pleaded for the restoration of the open fireplace, and the removal of the cook-stove to a bit of shed just back; and though at first the young mother had fretted at the innovation, she found it so much more cheerful, and such a saving of candles in the long evenings, that she had ceased to grumble. as the night closed in, after their quickly disposed of supper, they all drew closer about the drift-wood fire, and no one, not even mrs. olmstead, seemed inclined to talk. sara's eyes wandered often from her book to the rugged face of her father, and each time she saw his eyes gazing thoughtfully into the flames. in fact, the only sound in the room was the sleepy simmer of the water- soaked logs, and an occasional giggle from the twins, who were absorbed in some game which they played with horn buttons on a bit of board, marked off with chalk into the necessary squares. once the baby gave a sweet, low laugh in the midst of his dreams in the cradle, and then honest reuben olmstead turned and smiled towards the little one in a sad fashion, which made sara feel the tears near. "poor little goslin'!" he said tenderly. "daddy hopes there'll be suthin' for him to do not quite so tough as facin' march sou'-westers; but then, who kin tell? he's a likely little chap, eh, sairay?" "yes, father; he's a dear baby!" he turned a little, and glanced back at his wife, who stood across the room reeling off twine, and, hitching his chair a trifle nearer the girl, said in a lower voice,-- "sairay, ef 't should ever happen 't they was left to you to look arter, all three on 'em, would ye be good to the little fellar too, eh?" "you know i would, father!" "waal, waal, yes, i s'posed ye would, sairay. i really did, naow; only he ain't jest the same to ye as the twins, to be shore, so i jest thort i'd ask, thet's all, sairay." he nodded at her once or twice in a conciliatory way, then turned back to his fire-gazing for a long moment, after which he rose stiffly, with a half moan of reluctance. "waal, s'pose i must go daown to the boats, an' help 'em a while. guess likely nick hornblower ain't good fer much to-night; too much grog aboard, i'm feared. hand me them boots, sonny." morton, having just risen from his game badly worsted by molly, who could never refrain from taunting her conquered foe, was glad to make a digression by bringing both the hip-boots and a long worsted scarf, as well, and after the father had passed out came to his older sister's side. he gave the outer log one or two gentle kicks, which sent the sparks flying upwards like a covey of fire-flies, and finally said in a voice too low for mrs. olmstead to hear,-- "sara, i got a licking to-day!" "morton! what for?" "'cause i sassed the teacher. he don't know beans, sara, he don't; and i can't help grinning in his face when he tells us things just the opposite of what you do." "but i may be wrong, morton. what was it?" "it's lots of things, all the time. guess when you tell me a river runs west i ain't a-going to say it runs east, am i? no, sir; not for anybody!" sara smiled. "well, morton, we'll have to be pretty sure about things then, won't we? where's your geography? let's go over the lesson together. oh! you're on russia, aren't you? i was just reading something about that country myself. think of its being so cold they chop up the frozen milk and sell it in chunks; and they go to bed in a sheepskin bag, which they draw up all about them, and fasten around the neck." "i'd like that!" laughed the boy. "tell me some more;" and he dropped upon a low seat, which was simply a square block of wood in the chimney- corner, while molly, her face all alight with eagerness, joined the group. these true stories of sara's were the children's delight; for she had the faculty of making them more interesting than fiction, as she told them in simple, vivid language, with her sweet, full voice, pointed by her intelligent face. but after a time they were sent off to bed, and sara was left alone with her mother, who now sat knitting before the fire. the wind had risen outside, and was wailing mournfully around the cottage. the young girl shivered to hear it. "sounds like a death-wail, don't it?" said mrs. olmstead, noticing the movement. "when the wind hes thet sorter long scream in it, it allers means trouble, and your pa off for the long fish to-morrow!" she shook her head dismally, and went on in a lugubrious tone, "besides, didn't ye notice the windin' sheet in the candle las' night, an' didn't ye hear the howl o' thet dog along towards mornin'?" sara's eyes were fixed upon her with an interested, yet half-doubtful look. she had heard these superstitions from babyhood, till they had become almost a part of her religion. yet she sometimes questioned, as now. "but, mother, mightn't these things happen, don't they happen often, and nothing come of it? i'm sure there are winding-sheets always if the tallow is poor, and that dog of john updyke's howls every time they go away and leave him alone. it seems to me, if god is so great that even the winds and the sea obey him, he might warn us in other finer, higher ways if he wished to; besides, why should he warn us when he knows he is doing everything for our best good? you don't warn the baby when you give him medicine, even though you know he won't like taking it." "sairay! sairay!" her mother lifted an admonishing finger, "be careful how you talk about the a'mighty! babies is different from growed-up folks, and, besides, i guess ef the lord ain't too good to count the hairs of our heads, he can even take notice of a dog's howl!" and sara, who had the reverent soul of a little child, was once again silenced, if not convinced. just then, too, her father entered, bringing a great gust of cold air with him as he opened the door. "up yet?" he asked in his big, cheery voice, as he unwound the gorgeous worsted comforter from about his throat, and shook off the sleety rain from his tarpaulin. "waal, this fire's a purty sight, i vum, for it's a dirty night out, an' no mistake. but we'd better all turn in naow, for we must be stirrin' early to-morrer; we've got our orders, an' i'm second mate o' the nautilus." "o father, the nautilus? that old tub? i thought you said she wasn't sea-worthy." "oh, waal, not so bad as thet, quite. to be shore she's old, an' she's clumsy, but i guess she's got a good many knots o' sailin' in her yet, sairay. i guess so. leastwise thet's whar i'm to go, so it can't be helped, thet's sartin. now, wife, ef you'll git out my kit," and he turned with some directions concerning his departure, while sara, feeling she was not needed, crept silently up to bed, her soul distracted between gloomy forebodings, and the effort to trust in god and hope for the best. the next morning, however, broke clear and fine, which was a great comfort; for whatever storms and dangers her father and friends must and would, doubtless, meet on the great ocean, it was something to have them start with fair winds and sunny skies. all were up before dawn, except the baby, who slept on in blissful unconsciousness of any impending change; and soon the women stood, with their shawls over their heads, down on the sandy, crescent-shaped beach, watching the last preparations. it was an impressive scene, and never lost that quality to sara's eyes, though she had been used to it since infancy. as she stood now, near but hardly a part of the noisy throng, she was about midway in the crescent, at either end of which there gleamed whitely through the morning mist the round tower of a lighthouse. these were only nine miles apart as the bird flies, but over thirty when one followed the concave shore; and the eastern light warned of treacherous rocks jutting out in bold headlands and rugged cliffs, while the western served to guide the mariner past quite as treacherous shallows, and a sandy bar which showed like the shining back of some sea-monster at low-tide. within this natural harbor was the little fleet of sloops, smacks, and schooners, getting up sail, and shipping some last half-forgotten supplies, while numerous smaller craft were paddled or rowed about, closer in shore. the wide white beach, unbroken for a considerable sweep by even a headland, was now alive with an excited crowd--talking, laughing, weeping, and gesticulating, while back on the higher ground could be seen the small, straggling village, of but little more than one street, where nearly all the houses turned a gabled end to the highway, while a well-trodden path led through a drooping gateway to a door somewhere at the side or rear. there were few trees to hide their unpainted homeliness; but some windows showed house-plants and muslin curtains within, while the most noticeable architectural features were the long, open sheds, used for cleaning and packing fish, and a bald, bare meeting-house, set like conscious virtue on a hill,--the only one to be seen, just back of the village, and only worthy the name because there was nothing whatever to dispute its claims in the way of highlands in that region. as sara stood half dreamily taking it all in, more by imagination than eyesight, for it was still mistily gray, except off to the east beyond the cliff light, where the sky was brilliant with the first crimson blush of the morning, a man approached her, a young fellow, still tall, trig, and ship-shape in figure, as few seamen are apt to be after thirty. "good-morning, sairay," he said respectfully; "we've got a fine day for the start, a'ter all." "yes, jasper, very fine, and i'm glad enough. the last start was dreadful! i cried all the next night, for, don't you remember? the wind kept rising till it was a perfect gale, and i couldn't help thinking of that dreadful mare's head point. mother was sure you'd get there about midnight, and saw signs and warnings in everything." he laughed cheerily. "oh, she enjoys it, sairay; don't 'grudge her that comfort, for a'ter all we mostly gets home safe, barrin' a broken rib perhaps, or a finger. i've had three falls from the rigging, and one wreck, and i'm pretty lively yet!" a general movement seawards interrupted them. this was the final scene, the actual start. he held out his hand quickly. "well, good-by, sairay." "good-by, jasper. you'll look after father? that is, he's getting old, you know, and if anything should happen"-- "i won't forgit, sairay. i'm on the sea gull, but i'll see him now and then. good-by." his voice was wistful, but his eyes even more so, as he clasped her hand in a quick, strong pressure which almost hurt her, then turned, and went with great strides towards his father's long-boat just about pushing off; for this was jaspar norris whose father was captain of the fleet, and by far the richest and most consequential man in killamet. sara turned from the young man's hand-clasp to her father's embrace. "waal, sairay, we're off, an' good luck goes with us, ef a man kin jedge by the weather. good-by. god bless you, darter!" sara could not speak, but she held him close a minute, then stood with tearful eyes and watched him embark, telling herself he had always returned safe and sound, and surely he would again. even her heartache could not dull the beauty of the scene, as, with all sails set, the white-winged vessels glided smoothly out toward the open sea, and suddenly her face grew bright, and she caught her breath in excitement, for just as the leader rounded the lighthouse, the tips of the masts caught the first rays of the rising sun, and gleamed almost like spear- points in the strong light, which soon inwrapped the whole fleet in a beautiful glow. others saw it as well as herself, and some one shouted, "a good sign! a good sign!" while a hearty cheer rose from the little group of women, children, and old men upon the beach. sara joined in it, and felt glad as well as they; for while she might have doubts of howling dogs and dripping candles, this seemed an omen that heaven itself might deign to send as a comfort to their anxious hearts. chapter ii. storm and trouble. they turned homewards presently, and sara, walking between the now momently subdued morton and molly, heard her name called with a purity of pronunciation so seldom accorded it in killamet that she knew at once who spoke. "it's miss prue, children; run on home, while i stop and see what she wants," she said, turning from them and passing through the little gateway in a neat white paling fence at her side. then she followed the path to the door, as usual near the rear of the cottage, but here prettily shaded by a neat latticed porch, over which some vines, now bare of leaves, clambered, while a little bay-window close by was all abloom with plants inside. between the plants she caught a glimpse of a smiling face, which presently appeared at the door. "good-morning, sara. come in a minute, child. i haven't seen you this fortnight!" sara smiled up into the kind elderly face, around which a muslin cap was primly tied. "no, miss prue, i've been very busy getting the nets and father's clothes ready; he's been expecting the start every day." "yes, i suppose so. what a fine morning for it! i've been watching them from the skylight through my binocle; 'twas a brave sight!" "yes, beautiful, only that father is getting old for such hardships. i dread his going more and more every time." "ah! but where will you find a stouter heart, or a steadier hand and eye, than belong to good old reuben olmstead? he can put many of the young men to shame, thanks to his temperate life! your father is one of the best types of his class, sara,--brave, honest, and true,--did you know it?" as she spoke, she led the girl from the tiny entry, with three of its corners cut off by doors, into a pleasant room lighted by the aforesaid bay window. it had a bright red-and-green square of carpeting in the centre, with edges of fine india matting; a large cabinet of seashells and other marine curiosities occupied one end; a parrot was chained to a high perch near an open franklin stove at the other, and the walls between were decorated with queer plates and platters of dragon-china, while great bunches of tassel-like grasses and wings of brilliant feathered fowl filled the odd spaces. motioning her guest to a small easy-chair, miss prudence plunkett took her own, one of those straight-backed, calico-cushioned wooden rockers dear to our grandmothers, and drew it up opposite the girl's. "no, child, you musn't worry! reuben olmstead's a good sailor yet, and, better than all, a good man. his father will look after him more tenderly than you can," giving her cap an odd little jerky nod, which caused the parrot to suddenly croak out,-- "'taint neither!" "hush, poll, nobody's talking to you! it's astonishing, my dear, how much that creature knows. she thinks when i nod my head i'm trying to convince her of something, and it always makes her quarrelsome." "'tis too!" croaked the bird again, determined to get up an argument, if only with herself. sara had to smile in spite of her sadness, at which the creature gave such an odd, guttural chuckle, that she laughed outright. "that's right; pretty poll, nice poll! cheer up, cheer up!" she rattled off, looking, through all these merry outbursts, so unutterably solemn, that the effect was ludicrous in the extreme. "silly thing!" said sara, wiping her eyes. "she always will be heard; but while i think of it, i must tell you how i've enjoyed your 'studies in russia' that you lent me, miss prue. it must be fine to travel and see the world!" "yes; and it's decidedly comfortable, too, to sit by a good fire and see it through other people's eyes, sara. these thrilling adventures, these close shaves from shipwreck, fire, frost, and robbery, are much pleasanter to read about than to realize, i imagine. do you know, i always feel like adding a special thanksgiving for books to my daily prayer. what _would_ my lonely life be without them?" sara's eyes kindled. "i've felt so, too, miss prue; and another for you, because you have helped me to enjoy so many!" "all right, my dear, remember me in every prayer, if you will. it's doubtless better thanks than i deserve, but i won't refuse anything so good; and now what shall it be to-day, more russia?" "you said something about one,--'a trip through siberia,' wasn't it?" "oh, yes!" the elder woman stepped across the room, and opened a glass door screened by a thick red curtain, thus displaying several book-shelves thickly packed, from which she selected the volume named; then handing it to sara, who had risen to depart, said gently,-- "my dear, i don't like that little line between your eyes; it looks like discontent; or is it only study?" sara flushed. "something of both, perhaps." "smooth it out, child, smooth it out! no one can hope for wisdom until he has learned patience; now is your time to cultivate your own. did you ever see a mountain top that could be reached without a hard scramble, sara?" "i never saw a mountain top at all, miss prue," smiling whimsically. the elder woman laughed. "then you have so much the more in store for you; for i'm sure you will see one some day, if it is only the delectable mountains above. meanwhile, climb on, and keep looking up." "i'll try," said sara humbly, and took her departure, comforted and inspired, as always, by this cheery old maid, whose lover had lain over twenty years beneath the waves, never forgotten, never replaced, in the strong, true heart of his unmarried widow. when sara reached home she found need for her patience at once, for the baby was crying, and her mother looked cross and fretful. "wall," she said in her shrillest tone, as the door closed behind the girl, "you've come at last, hev you? an' another book, i'll be bound! pity you couldn't turn into one, yourself; you'd be about as much use as now, i guess!" "then we'd both be 'bound,' mother, wouldn't we?" trying to speak lightly. "give baby to me, won't you, you're tired." she held out her arms to the screaming child, who went to her at once, growing more quiet the moment he felt her tender clasp. "there! now i hope i kin git a minute to myself. where you been, anyhow, sairay?" "at miss prue's--she called me in. mother, there's been a pin pricking him! see here, poor little fellow!" and sara held up the bent bit of torture, then threw it into the fire, while the relieved baby smiled up at her through his tears and cooed lovingly. "it beats all how he likes you, sairay!" said the mother in an apologetic tone. "i never thought of a pin, an' it allus makes me ready to fly when he yells so. what did miss prue hev to say?" "oh, not much; her parrot kept interrupting," laughing a little. "i always talk with her about her books or curiosities, nearly; how pretty it is there!" "miss plunkett comes o' good stock. her folks hev been sea-captings ever sence they was pirates, i guess. and she's rich too; she must hev as much as two thousand in the savings bank down to norcross, 'sides her nice home." "she's good!" said sara with emphasis, as if nothing else counted for much. "wall, nobody's goin' to say she ain't in killamet, sairay, leastways, not many. in course she's ruther top-headed an' lofty, but it's in the blood. ole cap'n plunkett was the same, and my! his wife,--mis' pettibone thet was,--she was thet high an' mighty ye couldn't come anigh her with a ten-foot pole! so it's nateral fur miss prue. now, sairay, i'm goin' over to my cousin lizy's a while, an' if baby--why, he's gone to sleep, ain't he?" sara nodded smilingly, and her mollified mother said, more gently,-- "wall, my dear, lay him in the cradle, an' then you kin hev a good time a-readin' while i'm gone. i s'pose you kain't help takin' to books arter all, seein' as your ma was a school-ma'am." "thank you," said sara, more for the kindness of the tone than the words, and the little domestic squall that time passed over quite harmlessly. but these were of daily, almost hourly occurrence. sara's larger, broader nature tried to ignore the petty pin-pricks of her stepmother's narrower, more fretful one; but at times her whole soul rose up in rebellion, and she flashed out some fiercely sarcastic or denunciatory answer that reduced the latter to tears and moans, which in time forced from the girl concessions and apologies. to do the little woman justice, she was often sorely tried by sara's grand, self-contained airs,--unconscious as they were,--and by her obliviousness to many of the trivialities and practicalities of life. mrs. olmstead loved gossip, and sara loathed it. the woman delighted in going to tea-drinkings, and afterward relating in detail every dish served (with its recipe), and every dress worn upon the momentous occasion; the girl could not remember a thing she had eaten an hour later, nor a single detail of any costume. "but, sairay," her mother would urge, after the former's visits to miss prue or mrs. norris, places to which she was seldom asked herself, except with great formality once a year perhaps; for the early and life- long friendship these families had extended to sara's own mother was not so freely bestowed upon her successor. "but, sairay, think! you say mis' jedge peters from weskisset was there; _kain't_ you tell what she wore? was it black silk, or green cashmere? and was the sleeves coat, or mutton-leg? and do think if she had on a cap, kain't you?" "i know she looked very nice," sara would reply helplessly; "but, really, i can't think, mother. you see, she was telling about the work in the hospitals,--the flower mission, they call it,--and i was so interested i couldn't take my eyes off her face." "wall, then, the supper, sairay. you must know what you was eatin', child! did mis' norris use her rale chany that the cap'n brung over, or only the gold-banded? and did she hev on them queer furrin' presarves, with ginger an' spices in 'em, or only home-made?" "well, let me see. i think they had spices, that is, i'm not quite sure, for captain klister was there, and he got to 'reeling off a yarn,' as he said, about the mutiny at benares in ' , when he was buying silks and shawls there, and i didn't notice just what was served, i was listening so intently." at which the poor woman, greedy for news, would flare up and abuse her stepdaughter roundly, bringing up, each time, every former delinquency, till sara either turned under the weight of them and felled her with a sarcasm, or, more wisely, fled to her attic and her books for solace. thus some weeks slipped by, bringing milder and more settled weather; but, as if winter and spring had roused all their forces to repulse the irresistible oncoming of the summer, along towards the beginning of may there was a cold storm of wind and sleet, lasting three days, which blasted the too confiding and premature fruit-buds, and ruthlessly cut off the heads of all the peeping, early wild-flowers. sara, surrounded by the children, stood looking from the window one afternoon, soon after this storm broke. "how glad i am she didn't take baby!" she said, pressing the little fellow's cheek against her own. "i felt those last two sultry days were weather-breeders. do you remember whether she took her heavy shawl, molly?" "no, i don't b'lieve she did; wait, i'll see." the little girl, always alert as a bird, ran and peeped into the wardrobe, then called out,-- "no, here it is! i thought she didn't have it. she took her other, 'cause it's newer. she'll be awful cold to pay for it, won't she, sara?" "i'm afraid she'll take cold," said the older girl, with a worried look. "put another stick on the fire, morton, and shut the shed door tight when you come through. how the wind does blow!" mrs. olmstead had gone early that afternoon, with a neighbor, to attend the funeral of a friend in the next village, and must return through this storm in an open wagon, very insufficiently clad. it was dark before the party arrived; and as she came in shaking her wet clothes, and trying to make light of her shiverings, sara looked at her in alarm. "you've taken cold, mother," she said, handing the eager, crowing baby to morton, and hurrying to divest the little woman of her wet wrappings. "no, i guess not," she answered hoarsely, her teeth chattering so that she could scarcely speak; "but i'm ch--chilly now." she huddled over the fire, while sara and molly brought warm, dry clothing, and chafed her bloodless hands. their solicitude touched her. "you was allus good to me, girls!" she said gratefully. "i feel lots better now. this fire's rale comfortin'!" bending almost into it in her desire for warmth. but the vociferous baby would no longer be silenced; and she took him from morton's arms to her own, hugging him close, and growing warmer at once from the contact of his dear little body. "it's good to be home agin," she murmured sleepily. "i hope your pa's safe at anchor to-night: it's terrible bad weather, sairay." "where did the rain overtake you, mother?" asked the latter, as she hurried about preparing a cup of hot tea and a plateful of food. "jest this side the cross-roads; and, my! how it did drive! we got it e'enamost in our full faces, an' it cut like a knife; but 'twas jest as fur back as 'twas forwards, an' mis' ruttger was as anxious to git home to her young uns as i was. yah-h! but i'm sleepy!" with a long yawn. "you'd better get right to bed, mother, as soon as you've eaten this; and i'll undress baby and bring him to you. you're warmer now?" "rale comf'able, thank ye. i do hope they ain't got any such wind out to the banks! you ain't asked me about the funeral, sairay." "i was so busy, mother; were there many there?" "e'enamost a hundred, i should think; they come from as far away as norcross an' weskisset. p'fessor page of the seminary was there, an' he asked after you; he said you was a fine scholard. then there was the pettibones, an' the hornblowers, an' the scrantouns. oh, 'twas a grand buryin'!" "did they all wear crape tied round their arms? and how many white horses did you see?" broke in molly. "if you saw seven in a row, it means you'll die 'fore the year's up. i never saw but five." "hush, molly! don't talk such foolishness! come, mother, your voice sounds very hoarse and tired. hadn't you better get right to bed?" "wall, i guess so; but don't hurry me so, sairay! i kain't a-bear to be hurried! an' i'm tryin' to think how many horses i did see, but--i've-- forgotten." another long yawn, while her head drooped wearily; and sara, alarmed at her white face and the purple rings about her eyes, hurried her away without more ado, in spite of her drowsy and fretful resistance. she had scarcely touched the pillow, however, when she dropped into a heavy slumber; and the girl, filled with vague forebodings over her, and also because of the storm, sent unwilling molly up-stairs alone, and camped down, fully dressed, before the fire, with a pillow and comforter. the next thing she realized was the feeling that she was rising out of unknown depths of nothingness; and, after one bewildered glance about the room, she finally became conscious of a faint, hoarse voice calling, "sairay! sairay!" she dragged herself to her feet, all cramped and stiff from her uncomfortable position, and at last, fully aware of her surroundings, answered, "yes, mother, i'm coming!" as she hastened to the bedside. bending over it, she fairly started at the pallor of the face upon the pillow, from which the dark eyes seemed starting with an expression of pain and anxiety which set her heart to beating heavily. "sairay," whispered that strange voice, "i'm sick--i'm awful sick--in here." the hand, already at her side, pressed it more closely, and her brows contracted with pain. "o mother! what is it? your lungs? you've taken a dreadful cold." she nodded; and sara flew to call morton, and send him for the doctor, then heated the flannels her mother asked for, and vainly tried to soothe the now frightened and crying baby. it seemed an age till the doctor came stamping in,--a pudgy little man, with an expression of unquenchable good-humor on his round, florid face. "well, well," he said briskly, rubbing his hands before the freshly kindled blaze, "caught cold, has she? lungs sore? that's right! plenty of hot flannels. now, let me see." having warmed himself, he proceeded to examine the sick woman; and sara saw that his face was more serious as he turned away. he gave her careful directions about the medicines, and said he should look in again after breakfast (it was now towards morning); then tied his hat down with an old worsted tippet, and prepared to depart. sara followed him outside of the door, unmindful of the sweeping gusts of wind, and his admonitions to stay indoors or she too would be ill. "yes, doctor, but just a moment; what is it?" "pneumonia." "oh! and is she very sick?" "well, you look after her just as i tell you, and, god willing, we'll pull her through. now go in and dry yourself quick! i don't want two patients in one house." he pushed her in, shut the door behind her with a bang, and was gone. the memory of the next three days was always like a troubled dream to sara,--one of those frightful dreams in which one is laboring to go somewhere, to do something, without success. work as she would, day and night, assisted by the kindly neighbors and the frightened children, she could not stay the progress of that fatal disease; and on the fourth it terminated in the going out of that life which, with all its faults, had been kindly in impulse at least. as sara bent over her mother at the last, trying to win a word, a look, the closed lids were raised a moment, and the dying woman said feebly, "sairay, you've--allus--been good! don't leave--the baby. there's--the-- money;" and, unable to finish, her voice ceased, her tired lids closed for their last, long sleep. she would never find fault, never give commendation, again. how the thought smote sara as she stood helplessly gazing down upon her through her blinding tears! "o mother, mother! i ought to have been more patient," she moaned as they led her away; "but i will try and make amends by my goodness to baby." "yes, that's right," said mrs. ruttger, wiping her eyes. "we kain't none of us help what's passed atween us an' the dead, but it oughter make us better to the livin'. not thet i blame you, sairay; some folks, even good ones, is dretful tryin' at times; but i know jest haow you feel, fur i've been thar myself." there is among these honest fisherfolk a strong feeling of communism, which shows itself in the kindliest ways. they may be close-fisted, hard-headed, and sharp-tongued with each other when well and prosperous; but let poverty, wreck, illness, or death overtake one of their number, and the "nighest" of them at a bargain will open heart and purse with an astonishing generosity. sara found all responsibility taken out of her hands. in fact, miss prue, finding her standing in the midst of her room with her hand pressed to her head, gazing bewilderedly about, and asking softly, "where am i?" took her vigorously in hand, and soon had her in bed, where, exhausted as she was, she slept for hours without dreams or movement,--a sleep which doubtless saved her an illness, and brought her strong young body into excellent condition once more. through all this sara longed inexpressibly for her father, but knew it was hopeless wishing. all she could do was to intrust the news to a fishing-smack which was about leaving harbor, and might possibly run across the nautilus somewhere on the broad highway of the ocean. yet, even then, he could only return in case of some lucky opportunity; for the fleet would not put back for weeks yet, as this was their harvest-time, when even the dead must wait, that the necessities of the living might be supplied. after a few days things were strangely quiet and natural once more. morton and molly, thoroughly subdued for the time by recent events, helped her about the house, the short winter's term of school having closed for the long vacation. even the baby seemed less fretful than before; and the lengthening, softening days went by in a quiet that left sara many hours for her beloved books. but the children were needing clothes, and she herself must have a cotton gown; so, as the little store of silver in the old blue teapot had been almost exhausted by the simple funeral requirements, she put on her sunbonnet one afternoon, and leaving the baby, with many injunctions, to the care of the twins, started to call on squire scrantoun, who had for many years been her father's banker. the old gentleman's office was in a wing of his big yellow house of colonial architecture, and was entered by means of a glass door, which now stood open in the balmy warmth of an early june day. stepping within, she found him reading a paper, from which he glanced up to scowl inquiringly at her over his glasses, afterwards relaxing his brows a trifle as he observed,-- "oh, it's you, sara: come in, come in! here's a seat. now, what can i do for you?" "thank you, squire; i came to get some money if you please." "money? oh, yes, certainly. want to borrow a little, eh? well, i guess i could accommodate you; how much?" she looked up inquiringly. "not to borrow, squire; but i've had extra expenses, as you know; and, as father always leaves his money with you"-- the squire put down his paper, and looked at her so queerly the sentence died on her lips. "i haven't any money of your father's--don't you know? he drew it all just before he sailed, and took it home; said his wife wanted him to. she had dreamed of a good place to hide it in, i believe." he smiled sarcastically as he made the explanation; and sara, in her new tenderness toward the dead mother, resented this smile. "mother was a good manager," she said warmly, "and father always trusted her." "oh, of course! reub olmstead always trusts everybody; he's born that way. but didn't she tell you where she'd put it before she died?" "no; but now i remember, she tried to, i'm sure. she began something about the money, but was too weak to finish--poor mother!" "quite likely; it's a pity she couldn't have finished. but then, you'll find it somewhere. look in all the old stockings and sugar-bowls,-- there's where these people generally stow away their savings,--and if you don't find it, why, come to me; i can let you have a little, i guess, on interest of course." he took up his paper again; and sara, feeling sore and resentful, rose, said a curt "very well," and walked out. two years ago she might not have noticed his contemptuous reference to "these people," nor to her father's innate trust in human nature; but now, for some reason, they rankled, and she was glad to get beyond the reach of his small, keen blue eyes and rasping voice. chapter iii. a search and its ending. sara had not walked far, however, before she began to feel the silent, irresistible influences of the day. it was the balmy blossoming time. the whole atmosphere was rich with sweet scents and sounds, while the sky had that marvellous depth and tone which makes the name of heaven seem no misnomer. the sea, limpid and tender, wooed the shore with gentle whispers and caressings, which seemed to have no likeness to the wild rushes and blows of two months before. she looked towards it wistfully,--for sara loved the sea,--then, yielding to the homesick impulse, turned from the narrow street to the beach, and walked briskly away towards a spur of rock which jutted into the water sharply at some distance away. arrived here, she sought with assured footsteps a certain zig-zag way-- it could hardly be called a path--which wound in and out among the bowlders, skipping some, leaping others, trenching on the edges of little pools left in some rocky hollow by the high tide, and finally led her, after a last steep scramble, into a niche of the sea's own hollowing, which she had always claimed as her own. seated just within, she could look down upon a narrow causeway, into which the water came tumbling through an aperture in the rocks much like a roughly shaped gothic window, and, having tumbled in, tumbled out again, with much curling and confusion, leaving its angry foam in sudsy heaps along the rocky edges which opposed its farther advance. this bit of nature was named the "devil's causeway" by the natives, who have a way of bestowing all particularly grand and rugged sites upon that disagreeable personage; but sara, having no mind to give up her favorite spot to his satanic majesty, always named it to herself the "mermaid's castle," and had a childish legend of her own about an enchanted princess confined here and guarded by the sea until the coming of the prince,--her lover. happy to be here once more, sara leaned back against the rock, which felt warm, kindly, and familiar; then, removing her sun-bonnet, fanned her flushed face, and looked dreamily away to the pale opaline horizon, against which some sails showed inkily, like silhouettes. she was wondering vaguely why sails should look so white in shore and so black far out to sea, when she was startled by a sharp tap! tap! apparently at her very elbow. she jumped a little, then listened wonderingly. it came again--tap! tap! tap!--then a pause; and then an unmistakably human exclamation of impatience, while a bit of rock went whirling past her, to plunge with a resounding thud into the torrent below. she leaned just the least bit forward and looked around the side of her alcove to see a funny sight. there stood a little man in the attitude of the colossus of rhodes, his bare bald head red and perspiring, and his eyes glaring through huge gold-bowed glasses at a bit of rock in one hand, which he had evidently just broken off with the hammer in the other. he was muttering something unintelligible to sara, and looked altogether quite queer and cross enough to be a denizen of this ill-named locality. sara, laughing to herself at the funny apparition, was drawing into the rocky shell again, when a mischievous puff of wind suddenly caught her gingham bonnet from her limp grasp, and sent it flying down the chasm after the piece of rock. she heard the exclamation again, louder and more guttural than before, then the full moon of a face peered around her sheltering wall, and the voice said,-- "hein! a yoong mees! beg pardong, then--have i deesturb you?" "no, sir," rising to her feet; "only i've lost my sunbonnet!" looking ruefully down to where it hung tantalizingly in sight, but far out of reach, on a jutting point of rock. he looked too, then shrugged his shoulders with a sympathetic air. "if i have only been some tall now, mees, or if i could some climb down there--but, alas!" he shook his head, and threw out his hands with a helpless motion, and just then a clear whistle rose from the base of the cliff, giving the tune of "annie laurie." the two looking down then caught a glimpse of a strong white hand, issuing from a black coat-sleeve, which was extended towards them, as the nervous-looking fingers grasped a ledge of rock preparatory to a spring, when the little man burst out,-- "ha! mine nevew! robare, robare, look! look dis way!" the whistle ceased, and a head was thrust forward,--a well-cropped, chestnut head,--while a voice as clear as the whistle sang out,-- "hello, uncle! that you, up there? how did you make it? haven't got a rope to give me a lift, have you?" "no, no, vait! dat--dat--zing--oh, you tell he!" turning impatiently to sara, for, in trying to speak quickly, his limited english had quite deserted him. she called out obediently, in her rich young voice,-- "wait, please! do you see the sunbonnet just above your head? if you will get it and go around to the beach, i'll meet you, and point out the way up here." "indeed i will!" was the quick and courteous response; and she saw the fingers tighten, then the head give a little spring upwards, when the hand clutched the bonnet, and all disappeared. "i have it," was called up an instant later. "now for the beach!" sara turned with a smile to the little man, who nodded kindly, raising his head to lift the hat that was not there, then, with a bewildered look, he whirled around two or three times and gazed at her helplessly. _"los'!"_ he murmured, with so comical a look of dismay that sara could scarcely keep from laughing outright. "los'! an' it ees tree now of dose hat that ees gone, alas!" "perhaps i can find it," she said encouragingly. "why, what's that?" suddenly catching sight of a bundle of things in a hollow just below. sure enough, there was the hat, also a coat, and a round tin box sara was afterwards to know as a specimen-case. she sprang lightly down, handed them up to the absent-minded little geologist, and went on her way, meeting the nephew on the lower ledge. he lifted his hat politely as he saw her, and, holding out the bonnet, said,-- "i presume this is your property?" "yes, thank you," she returned, flushing a little as she received it. "you were very kind to get it for me." "indeed, no; it is you who are kind, rather! did you pilot my uncle leon up that steep place?" "oh, no, sir! he found the way. see, after you get around this rough ledge it is easy till the last climb; that is quite steep. just follow me a moment, please." "as long as you wish"--he began gallantly, but she did not wait to hear; and, having led him to a spot whence he could see his uncle, she pointed out the further way, slightly bowed her head in adieu, and, waiting for no further parley, turned about and walked briskly homewards, remembering it was high time to return to the baby, and begin a search for that hidden money. * * * * * it was late afternoon of the next day, and poor sara stood in the midst of her family and household treasures, looking the picture of despair. around her was collected every description of bag, box, and bundle, also the baby, while morton and molly (the latter secretly delighted with all this excitement) were turning things upside-down and wrongside-out, with vim enough to have furnished pinkerton's whole force. but now they had come to a halt; for so far, though everything on the premises had apparently been emptied, no money had appeared, and the three stood confronting each other, with dismay written on their faces. "_can't_ you think of another place, molly?" asked sara in desperation. "she couldn't have torn up the floor, could she?" molly's eyes danced. "what if we had to take up every board! my! 'twould tear the old house all to pieces, wouldn't it? but, sara, there isn't another place anywhere; we've been everywhere that even a mouse could get, i'm sure!" "then it _must_ be among these things, and we have overlooked it. here, morton, you take that pile; you this, molly; and i'll attack these rags; though it doesn't seem possible that she could have put it in a rag-bag." for a moment there was silence, as each delved and peered, the baby more industrious than all the rest, snatching at everything, to clap to his mouth, only to toss it aside for something else when he found it was not eatable. "well, sara, say what you will, i'm sure 'tisn't in my heap," said morton. "what shall i do with all these bits and papers, anyhow?" "let's see, it is nearly tea-time. put them right into the fireplace, and light them to boil the kettle." "all right; and o sara! do let's have some crisp fried potatoes with our herring: this work has made me as hungry as a black bear!" "yes, yes, do, sara!" cried molly, hopping up and down. "and some molasses on our bread too; the butter's all gone." "well, molly, you'll have to slice the potatoes then." "of course i will; where's the knife?" whirling about over the thickly strewn floor, glad of any change from what was becoming a wearisome and fruitless task. "molly! molly! you're making everything fly! do be more careful!" "yes'm," dropping suddenly into a ludicrous imitation of the waddle of a goose; "i'll stop flying, and paddle." "you need a paddle!" muttered morton, contemptuous of such antics; and he proceeded to stuff the rubbish into the chimney-place, adding a light stick or two. soon there was a leaping blaze under the squat black kettle, which the boy watched with satisfaction. "there!" he said, "we won't have to look those over again. why, what's baby got? it looks just like a wad of tobacco. here, neddie! neddie! don't put that in your mouth; give it to brother, quick!" but master baby had no idea of giving up his treasure-trove, and resisted so stoutly that a regular scramble ensued. for his dimpled fingers were shut so tightly over the wad that morton could not at first undo them, and the baby, wrenching his hand away, crept rapidly to sara, half crying, half laughing, then, with a sudden thought, turned when in front of the fireplace, and with a wild little giggle of mischief and rebellion tossed the thing into the very midst of the blaze. the three were all laughing in sympathy, sara on her knees before the rag-bag, molly with knife and potato suspended in air, and morton just as he had tipped over sidewise on the floor when the baby broke away, when suddenly sara gave a quick, piercing cry. "see! see! o morton! morton!" and reached out her arms in a desperate way, too paralyzed for the instant to rise. morton, following her wild glance, echoed the cry, for the supposed wad of tobacco, uncurling in the heat, was now plainly seen to be--a roll of greenbacks! morton sprang forward and made a lunge for them; sara, regaining her wits, did the same, while molly shrieked and whirled like a dervish, but alas! it was too late! their scorched fingers clutched only a crumbling blackened roll, which fell to pieces in their grasp, and the day's search for that money, which meant all the difference between comfort and privation, had ended in a tiny heap of ashes, which a breath would blow away. for one long, dazed, dreadful minute sara and morton stood gazing at each other, the boy's blue eyes large as saucers, and sara's brown ones turned to black by desperation; then the baby, frightened at the silence and their strange expressions, began to cry and tug at sara's dress, demanding to be taken up. this broke the spell. molly gave way to an agony of crying; morton said brokenly, "oh, what will we do?" and sara, stooping mechanically to lift the unconscious little cause of all this trouble, gave a long, quivering sigh, and murmured helplessly, "god only knows!" and, indeed, the prospect was dark enough. those greenbacks meant the savings of months, doubtless, put by bit by bit, for just this occasion, and to have them thus destroyed in one careless instant seemed too cruel! after a little they could talk about it. "where could it have been?" sobbed molly, making a dab at her eyes with the potato, but remembering in time to substitute the corner of her apron. "i don't know," said sara; "it was wrapped in brown paper, i think. even if we had seen it, we would have thought it but a twisted scrap. did either of you see neddie when he picked it up?" no one had, until morton spied it on the way to his mouth, and all conjectures were useless so long as the little fellow could not explain. instead, morton said more hopefully, "but, sara, perhaps this isn't all there was. she might have hid it in two or three places." sara shook her head dubiously; such wisdom was more than she could hope for in the young mother. "no, morton, i don't believe there would be enough to divide. we must look this trouble squarely in the face." "but, sara," persisted the boy, "jap norris always says father's the most forehanded among them all, and rich for a fisherman. you know he never spends a cent for grog." "yes, morton, i know. poor father! it's too bad, when he works so hard for us!" and for the first time tears trembled on her eyelashes. then, dashing them bravely away, "well, what's done can't be undone. o baby, baby! if you knew the mischief your bits of hands have done!" holding them up, and spatting them gently together till he crowed with delight. "but come, molly dear, where are those nice fried potatoes we're to have for supper? 'there's no use in crying for spilt milk,' you know." molly gave a last sob, then looked up with the sun breaking through her tears. "burnt money's worse'n spilt milk, sara; but i'll tell you what, when the coddies are all gone, i'll go lobster-catching, can't i? it's awful fun!" there were few circumstances in life out of which molly could not extract "fun" in some shape. indeed, in less than five minutes she was laughing gayly, and caricaturing the whole scene just passed, from the baby's wilfulness, to sara's shriek of dismay and rush for the burning greenbacks. sara, oppressed with care and forebodings as she was, could not help smiling, and the smile seemed to ease her of her burden just a trifle. "well, we haven't come to want yet, thank god!" she thought hopefully. not want as they knew it, though the most of us might consider them little short of it. there were still herring, "coddies," and potatoes in store, and some groceries, while the pile of wood back of the shed was large for that village. then, too, summer was near, when their needs would be fewer. to be sure, the new dresses must be given up, but they still had one change apiece, and there were some things of the dead mother's which could be used, for poverty does not admit of morbid sentimentality. "oh, we can live, surely, till father comes home," was sara's summing-up that night, as she lay wide-awake in her bed after all the rest had long been sleeping. then, turning over with the resolution to trust and fear not, she clasped the naughty baby (whom she had never thought of blaming) in her arms, and, with a last uplifting of her soul in prayer, dropped gently into slumber. chapter iv. uncle adam and morton. the days slipped quietly away, and sara managed, in the midst of all her duties, to read with the children at least one hour of each, and to get a little time besides for her own deeper studies. she found she could take the old school-books which she had thought once so thoroughly learned, and dig new treasures from them; while the books from miss prue's, nearly all of a scientific character, were read and re-read with ever deepening interest. but it was not the printed page alone that sara studied. she had always been fond of long walks, and in these her keen eyes, directed everywhere, lost nothing that nature had to show her. the shapes of the clouds, and their relation to the weather, the different phases of the sea, all the queer collection of weed and mollusk that it cast ashore, the formation and colors of the cliffs, the different shades and granulations in the sands of beach and pine grove; everything gave her active, hungering mind food for thought and speculation. she seldom returned empty-handed from these strolls, and a rude little set of corner shelves she and her brother had managed to nail together, was rapidly filling with the oddest and prettiest of her findings. she managed, also, to interest the children in these things, and taught them a lesson some people never learn,--how to use their eyes. thus, living close to nature's heart, they could not be absolutely miserable, though want did press them closely. sara had enjoined secrecy on the children in regard to the money. she was naturally reticent, and dreaded the gossip of the little town, which made a nine-days' wonder of every small happening; and had besides that self-respecting pride which dislikes to thrust its misfortunes on a careless world. but perhaps more than all, a certain loyalty to the dead mother closed her lips. she would not have her blamed for her foolishness now she could not defend herself, poor thing! and they would manage somehow till father returned. if worse came to worst, she could borrow of squire scrantoun, though she felt she could not resort to that humiliation except in case of actual necessity. so long as a potato or herring was left in store, she would wait for relief; but one thing did cause her most anxious thought, and that was how to procure milk for the little one. as she stood one morning counting over the few pennies left in the old blue teapot, and wondering what she should do when they were gone, the door was flung open, and morton, flushed and bright-eyed, entered and threw something at her feet. it was a wild goose, limp and drabbled, and sara looked up in surprise at the boy. "you didn't shoot it, morton?" "no; but i killed it!" exultantly. "i've got the 'honk' so i can do it nearly as well as uncle adam standish; and this morning i was down in a nice little cove, when i saw this old fellow light on the water close by. then he paddled out and began feeding along the beach. so i 'honked' to him, and he answered, and i kept on, and he came closer. i'd first broken off this piece of rock to bring home and show you that bit of crystal in it, when i thought i'd use it, and i rose up and let fly! well, it toppled him over, and i jumped out and caught hold of him before he could get away, and wrung his neck--and there's the goose, and here's the rock!" he pointed triumphantly to each, while molly executed a sort of scalp- dance about the group, snapping her fingers and smacking her lips, as she cried, "won't we have a dinner, though? and i'm so sick of herring! you'll cook it for dinner, won't you, sara?" the young girl hesitated a moment, her eyes going from one eager face to the other with a deprecating glance. no one knew better than she how delightful this change of diet would be; but she quickly put aside her own desire, and said gently, "i'm so proud of you, morton! molly and i can't complain with such a man to look after us, can we? but look at this. i have only a few pennies left, and i was wondering what we should do for milk for baby. now, if we can all be unselfish, and let you sell this goose to mrs. norris or miss prue, it will buy milk for some time yet. don't you see, dear?" the boy's face flushed darkly, and all the brightness died out of it, while molly's became as blank as the wall. "it's all the baby's fault," he said bitterly. "we'd have had plenty of money but for him. let him suffer too!" "morton!" his head drooped at the grave tone, and molly choked back something she was about to say. "could you really bear to see that little darling suffer, morton? you know you couldn't! we all know he never meant to do such mischief. look at his innocent little face this minute; could you see it grow thin and pale for lack of the food he craves?" morton gave one look, and melted. "i didn't really mean it," he stammered; "only i'm awful hungry, sara." "my brave soldier! i know you are. but you're going to be the help and standby of us all till father comes home. i'll bake the potatoes to-day, you like them so, and you may have a wee bit of baby's milk to eat with them." this appeal was not lost. the boy straightened up proudly. "well, give me the goose," he said resolutely; "i'll take it to mrs. norris. i saw company driving up as i came by, so i guess she'd like it." molly made no remonstrance to this, except to draw down her round face to a doleful length, and drawl out a ridiculous wail common among the sailors,-- "'i'm bound away to leave you-- good-by, my love, good-by! i never will deceive you no never, mary ann!'" which she pointed by giving the stiffened foot of the defunct goose a last fond shake in farewell. so it was with laughter and good feeling, after all, that their dinner for that day was renounced. but the little episode had given each a spirit of self-sacrifice, which was to help them through many hard times, while it had put an idea into morton's head that he was not slow to act upon. as soon as he had disposed of his goose to mrs. norris (who snapped it up eagerly, and paid him well, its opportune arrival saving her the great mortification of giving her friends a fish dinner), he sought out old adam standish, the acknowledged sportsman of the village. as usual, he found the heavily bearded, long-haired, keen-eyed old man sitting on a bench before his cabin, and at the minute gazing down the long barrel of a shot-gun which he had just been cleaning. "hello, uncle!" was morton's greeting. every man is an "uncle" in killamet, unless he is a "cap'n," or a "squire." "hello!" said adam, lowering his gun. "oh! it's you, sonny? come up and have a seat," sweeping together the empty gun-shells, bits of rag and wadding, small tools, etc., at his side. "how's your folks?" "all right," remembering with a sudden sense of pleasure the money for baby's milk safe in his pocket. "been gunning lately?" "waal, some, a brace or two o' brants; jest hand me them pincers, mort. why? want to buy?" "no; i want to shoot." "hey? you! he, he!" "i killed one this morning, uncle adam." "whar'd ye get yer gun?" "didn't have none." "hey? little boys shouldn't tell squibs." "i'm not squibbing; i 'honked' to it from behind some rocks, and then knocked it over with a stone." "ye did? waal, purty good! purty good! goin' to hev it fer dinner, i s'pose?" "n--no, i sold it to mrs. norris." "did, hey? what'd she giv ye?" morton told him, and the old man ruminated a while, as he industriously cleaned, primed, and loaded his gun, while morton waited, watching a long, plume-like line of smoke along the distant horizon, which he knew was from a portland steamer. finally adam set down the gun with a contented air, and observed,-- "haow airly kin ye git up?" "at three, if you say so." "waal, come along abaout four ter-morrer mornin', an' i'll take ye 'long o' me." "but i haven't any gun, uncle adam." "don't need none! i'm a-goin' to show ye what guns is _fer_. when you've got that idee bagged, it'll be time enough fer the weepon. i ain't no patience," he went on, putting his hands on his knees and bending forward impressively, "with these fellers what mangles their game. i s'pose it's plain that the a'mighty made wild fowl to be shot, but the man what breaks their wings and leaves 'em to crawl off an' die in misery ain't human, he ain't! make clean work o' it, or let 'em alone, _i_ say," and he began gathering up his traps in a manner that convinced morton the conference was over. so he said good-morning, and went whistling down the village street, the wind from off the sea tempering the downpour of the sun on white cliff and sand, and lifting the wide rim of his torn straw hat to caress his ruddy cheek. away out on the bay was a schooner tacking against the wind, while just rounding rocky point was a trim little yacht with all sail set, flying straight in for killamet beach. "how pretty she rides!" he thought, and wondered, boy-like, if when he was a big man he would sail his own craft,--the end and aim of every fisher-boy along the atlantic coast. as he dreamed, he turned and walked down over the satiny sand of the beach to the water's edge, and now could see that there were three people in the yacht,--a little round man with big spectacles at the rudder, a taller one, young and trim-looking in his tourist costume, who stood boldly out on the bowsprit, while a beautiful woman with blond hair leaned gracefully back in a steamer-chair. with native courtesy morton hastened to assist in securing the boat, and was rewarded by a hearty "thank you, my boy!" from the younger man, and a brilliant smile from the lady, which covered him with blushes and confusion. the older man seemed in a brown study, and only glared at him absent-mindedly through his large glasses. "ah, robare!" said the lady with an odd little accent, "i have now a thought; it may be this boy could to us tell of some public-house near by, to which we could go for this night." all turned to morton, who said hesitantly,-- "yes, there is one, or at least there's miss zeba osterhaus; she keeps store in her front window, and has rooms up-stairs that she doesn't use. sometimes she takes in a painter fellow, or the goose-men." "the what?" laughed the young man, advancing with a large portfolio, which he had taken from the yacht as soon as she was made fast. "why, the men that come for the wild geese--gunning, you know." "ho, yes indeed! i'd like to be a 'goose-man' myself, for once in a way. what do you say, uncle and aunt; can you make yourselves contented with your geological and artistic prowls to-morrow, and let me off for a bit of a shoot?" both gave a ready assent, and the speaker turned to morton. "and now, my boy, can you add to your favors by showing us the way to this--what's her name?--you mentioned, and telling me, as we go along, where i can get hold of a good guide and sportsman about here?" as he spoke he attempted to slip a half-dollar into the boy's hand, but it was sharply withdrawn. "i'll tell you all i can, sir, without pay," flushing as he spoke; for a sudden memory of the cruel needs at home made him almost regret yielding to his first impulse of pride and self-respect. the young man flushed a little also, and slid he silver piece back into his own pocket rather quickly. "pardon me," he said in a graver tone than he had yet used. "i shall be very grateful for your information." "well, sir, there's old uncle adam standish, he's the best i know," said morton, as they led the way towards the village, followed by the others. "he can hit his bird on the wing every time, and he can 'honk' so's to fool any goose alive, and find the best blinds of anybody 'longshore." "really? he must be a genius!" "yes,"--wondering what a genius might be,--"if he'll only let you go with him you'll have a good shoot." "if he'll let me! why shouldn't he? i expect to pay him for his trouble." morton laughed. "_that_ wouldn't make any difference. he doesn't seem to care much for money; all he notices is how a man handles his gun. if you hold it just to suit him, he'll go, and if you don't, he won't." "how ridiculous! well, do for goodness' sake tell me in what manner i must handle the gun that i may please this criticus." morton bridled with indignation. "he ain't a cuss, uncle adam ain't. he's a nice man, and he knows what he's about too. if you'd see some o' the fools that come down here to shoot you'd be particular too, i guess. they're a good deal more apt to hit their guide than the birds, i can tell you." the young man laughed heartily. "my boy, i hadn't the slightest intention of calling your relative names; that was simply a title many men would be proud to bear." "that's all right." in a mollified tone; "but he isn't any relation to me. everybody calls him uncle." "ah, i see. you make me feel wonderfully interested in this wise adam, and only in a fright for fear i won't hold my weapon to suit him; couldn't you give me a lesson or two, now?" morton looked at the stranger askance; was he making fun of him? then straightening his boyish shoulders, he said proudly, "i can tell you something better than that. _i'm_ going gunning with adam to-morrow morning at four o'clock, and perhaps i can get him to take you along too, if he likes your looks." "let us hope he may!" observed the other fervently. "what! is this the place we're bound for?" looking dubiously at the weather-worn cottage opposite, in whose gable end was a primitive bay-window, through which could be seen half a dozen jars of barber-pole candy hobnobbing sociably with boxes of tobacco, bags of beans, kits of salted mackerel, slabs of codfish, spools of thread, hairpins, knives and forks, and last, but by no means least, a green lobster swimming about in a large dishpan. morton wondered what this stranger could have expected better than this, and remarked encouragingly,-- "she's got carpets on most all her rooms, and she hooks the nicest rugs in killamet,--all big flowers, or cats lying down,--the prettiest you ever saw!" "aunt felicie, do you hear that?" flinging the question over his shoulder. "we are about to meet your rival! you paint flowers, and she,--just hear the alarming word,--she 'hooks' them! cats, too, and dogs, did you say? does the verb have a dishonest meaning here in killamet, my boy?" morton stared back wonderingly, not understanding much except that in some way either he or miss zeba, or perhaps killamet in general, was being held up to ridicule, and that it was his business to resent it. "i don't know, sir," he answered stoutly, "what you mean: but if you want to know whether miss zeba is a nice woman, i can tell you that; she's just as good as gold, sir! and i suppose if folks don't like our ways in killamet they needn't come here, there's plenty of room outside, i guess." the young man turned and gave him a critical look, which soon grew approving, then held out his hand. "this is the second time i've had to ask your pardon; will you make up, and be friends? i like you, and if they've got any more of your sort here, i shall like killamet!" morton extended his hand readily enough, and felt it seized in a close, strong pressure which pleased him, though he could not have told why, and the young man turned again to his aunt. "here we are at--now, what is that name, my lad?" "miss zeba osterhaus, sir." "oh, yes! i believe i could remember it if i could once see it spelled, however"-- the rest of his sentence was broken off by the sharp jangle of the bell above the door, as morton opened it; and the warning note brought miss zeba herself from an inner room. whatever of fun had been dancing in the young man's eyes suddenly died out at the sight of her. she was small, like a little child, but had the wan, drawn, yet sweet-looking face of a middle-aged woman, while between her shoulders she bore that fleshy symbol of christian's burden, that painful affliction, that almost intolerable deformity for a woman to endure, a hump back. instantly the young man's hat was off, and the young man's voice grew almost tender, as he said,-- "we beg pardon for disturbing you, but is this miss osterhaus?" "yes, sir," she responded, with a quaint little old-time courtesy, directed with much precision, so as to include the three adults, beginning with the lady. "and have you a spare room, or two; do you ever take in strangers for a few days?" "sometimes, sir, when they do be gentlefolk, like you," with a smiling little nod; "a lone woman can't be too keerful." the blond lady stepped forward and took up the word in her sweet foreign voice. "ah, it will be such a kindness, and we are most easy to bear, i hope you will find." "yes, as my aunt says, you will not find us hard to suit; we can put up with a few inconveniences, if necessary. might we look at your rooms?" these were found to be so neat and cheerful--in spite of low roofs and small windows--that a bargain was quickly consummated; and having planned with miss zeba for a dinner in half an hour, the young man turned to his little guide. "now," said he, with the fun leaping to his eyes again, "now for the ordeal! will you conduct me to this diogenes of a gunner, and have him tell you, without a lantern, whether i am the man he is looking for, or no?" "yes, we'll go," said morton in a matter-of-fact tone; "but i don't think he's looking for you. he never goes a-nigh the post-office, because he says he hates a crowd; so even if you'd written some one that you were coming, he wouldn't know it." "ah, yes, i see; we will take him entirely by surprise, then; well, 'lead on macduff!'" "my name's morton olmstead, if you please, sir." "and a good name too, laddie; i like it, and what's more i like you! you're going to make a fine man some day, did you know it?" morton's eyes kindled. "i mean to, sir. sara says i can if i will; she says the good god started me with a sound brain and a healthy body, and i ought to be able to do the rest." "she does, eh?" opening his eyes surprisedly. "and who may this wise and epigrammatic sara be, i'd like to know?" morton concluded to let the suspicious word go unchallenged. "yes, sir, she is wise and good. she's been to school lots, and she's my oldest sister." "ah, indeed? that accounts for your unusually good english, i suppose. i had wondered at it here." morton felt this to be a compliment, so turned red and squirmed, not knowing just how to acknowledge it, and his friend, perhaps to relieve him, asked kindly, "how old is sara?" having already decided she was nearing the thirties, at least. "she's seventeen, sir." "is that all?" quickly. "such a mere girl, and yet talks like a wise- acre, eh? how does she look?" "well, she's tall, and walks straight and proud-like, and her hair's kind of copper-colored where the sun shines on the waves in it, and her eyes are big and brown, and can drag a lie right out of you, sir; but when she laughs her teeth shine, and there's a dimple in one corner of her mouth, and she looks pretty well." "h'm, i should think likely," said the young man in a musing tone, then, as morton turned a sharp corner, "what, that way?" "yes, sir; there's uncle adam now, sitting on his bench smoking, and he looks good-natured; aren't you glad?" chapter v. madame and "the princess." for once the old man was sitting quite still, doing nothing, unless you can call smoking a very dirty and ill-smelling pipe an occupation. he nodded to them and puffed away, saying between his whiffs,-- "how d'ye do, stranger? you agin, mort? set daown, both on ye; settin's jest as cheap as standin' raound here," indicating the bench on the other side of the door with a blackened thumb. but neither cared to sit, and morton lost no time in coming to business. "he wants to go gunning with us in the morning, uncle adam, may he?" adam eyed the young man, who returned his gaze with frank, smiling eyes, without speaking. "kin ye shoot?" asked the old sportsman at last. "a little," modestly. "waal, what--tame turkeys?" contemptuously. "no: i have shot wild ones, as well as prairie-chickens, quail, and-- deer." "what! be thet some o' your college sass, naow? i git so full o' thet every season, it makes me sick!" "i'm not a college student, and i generally tell the truth. i've lived west for some years, and have had some good hunting at odd times; but, to be honest, i don't know anything about your bird-shooting here, and i'm hankerin' after an experience!" the homely native word pleased the old man, and he smiled leniently. "waal," he said, removing the pipe to knock out the ashes and put it in his pocket (much to the other's satisfaction), "waal, i guess we kin fix it. mort, here, an' me, we was goin' out airly in the mornin'. ef you kin turn out in time, ye mought go with us. i've got a gun for you, but you'll hev to pay fer the powder an' shot, an' give me my share o' the birds." "we won't quarrel about terms," laughed the other. "i'll be on hand without fail, and am much obliged." "oh, ye're welcome; good-day. remember, four sharp, naow!" as they turned to go. "you see," said the young man to the boy, as soon as they were beyond ear-shot, "he didn't put me through the manual of arms, after all. i feel almost defrauded of my just rights. do you suppose i knocked the conceit out of him with my talk of big game?" "i don't know," said morton, "but i guess he took a liking to you. he's queer about that. sometimes he won't look at these fancy fellers that come down from the city, no matter how much they offer. he says he can't abide 'em--that a fool of a loon is too good to die at their hands!" "and he isn't far wrong, i'm thinking. are you going that way? then you will pass near the yacht, won't you? have you any objections to taking a look at it, to see if it is safe? oh, and by the way, there's a basketful of eatables stowed away under the stern-seat that we won't need now; couldn't you dispose of them in some way?" "i think i could, sir," said morton demurely, dropping his lids, not to show too strongly the joy in his eyes, for if he had been hungry in the morning, he was ravenous now. "all right, then; good-by, my little friend--or, rather, _au revoir_. i'll see you in the morning," and the two separated, mutually pleased with each other. a few minutes later morton entered the home kitchen, joy beaming from his countenance, and a large basket hanging from his arm. "sara," he cried, "have you been to dinner?" "no, we waited for you; but how late you are. it's after two." "all the better, for here's a dinner to match the biggest kind of an appetite! see here, and here!" he spread out with intense satisfaction sandwiches, fried chicken, cakes, doughnuts, and cheese, besides jellies and fruit, while molly fairly howled with delight, and even sara's eyes shone happily; for, unless you have lived for a week on salt herring and potatoes, topped off by a long fast since breakfast, you cannot understand how good those things looked to the hungry children. "but, morton, you didn't tell mrs. norris, did you?" sara asked in a distressed tone. "i didn't want"-- "now, don't you worry, sara! i sold her the goose, and got my money-- here it is; but this is another kind of game, and while we're eating, i'll tell you the whole story," which he at once proceeded to do, for, hungry as they were, they all fell to with scant ceremony. the next morning the blond lady, being bereft of both escorts, started out for a stroll on her own account. you have before this, doubtless, divined her to be the wife of that same little man sara had met on the cliff; and we now formally introduce her as madame grandet, wife of professor leon alphonse grandet, of the academie des sciences at paris, who was now prosecuting his geological studies in new england. she herself was endowed with no mean artistic talent, her specialty being the painting of flowers in water colors, and, as she always sketched from nature, she had become almost as much of a botanical student as her husband was a mineralogical. but this morning the quaintness and quiet of the village tempted her into a stroll down its long street, before she should seek the pine woods farther back, in search of hidden beauties, and one picture that she came upon held her spell bound for a moment. this was a small, poor cottage, painted only by the sun and rain, before which, on a tiny square of green, a baby was rolling about--a cunning little fellow with rings of silky light hair, while on the low doorstep sat a girl of such unusual appearance that the lady stared in undisguised admiration. her head was bent above a book, and the auburn shades of her luxuriant hair caught the sunlight in every wave and tendril; her eyes were cast down, but the dark lashes curled upward from the slightly flushed cheek thick and long, while the brows were as daintily perfect as if laid on with a camel's hair brush; the nose was straight and delicate; the mouth, now set with deep thought, firm and sweet, while the chin carried out this look of decision, and would have been almost too square but for the coquettish little cleft which gave it the needed touch of femininity. her complexion, unblemished, except for the sun-tinge which showed an out-of-doors life, was of that peculiar tint, neither blond nor brunette, which is usually found with hair of that coppery hue, and the whole artistic head but crowned a form whose grace and roundness not even her ill-fitting gown could conceal. "one of nature's gems!" whispered the on-looker in her native tongue. "and what a cherub of a baby! i must make their acquaintance." she took an orange from the satin bag hanging on her arm, and held it towards the little one, who had now toddled to the open gate, and was gazing shyly at her. he looked at the tempting yellow apple, then back at sister, oblivious in the door-way, then once more at the coveted fruit, and was conquered. as madame grandet stepped towards him, he did not retreat, but reached up his dimpled, dirty little hands (he had been making sand-pies) and caught the fruit she dropped into them. then he gave a delighted little laugh, which roused sara, who raised her large eyes, now dreamy with far-away thoughts, but which flashed into pleasure at sight of the two. "pray pardon me," said madame with a gracious little nod; "i would not deesturb you, but the babee, he ees so sweet! you will let me give to him the orange?" "oh, certainly; thank you! it will be a great treat for him," rising and coming forward, with her book in her hand. "won't you come in and rest a moment? the sun is warm this morning." "thank you, mooch; it ees indeed most warm! may i not here sit on the step of the door by yourself?" "oh, let me bring you a chair," running to get one. "there, this will be more comfortable," placing it just within the open door. "that is true; t'anks! come, mine babee, let me to you show how an orange is to eat, when one has no care for the appearance--it is nature's own way." she cut a tiny hole through the thick rind with her pearl-handled penknife, then put it to the child's lips and bade him suck out the juice, as the little bees suck honey from the lily-buds. sara watched her delightedly. how graceful, fair, and easy she was! what a beautiful dress she wore--perfectly simple, yet with an air of taste and style even her unaccustomed eyes could note. how delicate her features, how refined her voice, and with what a small white hand she managed the little knife! she felt at once that here was a woman different from any she had ever seen before--perhaps the first one for whom she felt the word "lady" was no misnomer. her admiration showed so plainly in her honest eyes that the madame was inwardly amused, as well as pleased, yet not at all discomfited, for she had been used to admiration all her life. "what is the book you read, my dear young lady, may i ask?" she said presently. "it is hugh miller's 'testimony of the rocks,'" answered sara. "so?" it was the french lady's turn to look undisguised astonishment. "and does it for you have interest then?" "yes, indeed; did you ever read it? don't you think it is wonderful how those long-buried veins of rock are made to tell us god's own plans and workings? i can never see a cliff that i don't begin to wonder how it was formed, and what secrets it may contain. i am like baby with his toys," smiling till her dimples deepened, "i want to break it in pieces and find out how it was made!" "but that is joost like my leon! always he goes about with his hammer tapping, tapping, at every bit of stone. is it then that you, too, are a geologist?" "oh, no, not that! i do not know enough, only sometimes i find a specimen; i have a few inside, if you would care to see them?" "indeed i care," rising at once; and when she stood before the well- filled shelves we have before mentioned, she cried out in astonishment,-- "but, surely, my leon must see these. you have here some greatly rare bits. ah, what a beautiful pink rubellite! i have not seen ever a finer. and this geode is most perfect. did you yourself find them?" "yes, nearly all, except what my brother has brought me, and in this neighborhood too; i've never been more than twenty miles away in my life." "and i do see you have them labelled and classed so neat as my leon could do. you must indeed let me bring him to see you. he is my husband, and a--a--i forget now your english word how to say--but he eats and sleeps and dreams over dose minerals, and he would almost forget of me, the wife whom he adores, for one fine new piece of old rock with the print of a bird's toes therein!" sara laughed with a merrier sound than she had known lately; and the lady, delighted to have pleased her, joined in. "oh! it is laugh we can now, my child, but some days it ees not so funny, for he does come home too often with no hat, or perhaps even his coat that is left behind; but the hammer--ah, he would never from that to part did he not have a single clothes left!" sara suddenly turned, her eyes dancing with merry interest. "wait! was he here about a month ago? does he wear glasses, and is he short and"-- "it is, it is! you have then seen him?" "yes, indeed!" and she related the meeting on the cliff, to the madame's genuine enjoyment. she kept nodding her bright head, and finally burst out, as sara told of the lost sunbonnet and its rescuer:-- "he vas my nevew, robert glendenning" (she pronounced it however robare glendneeng); "and is he not one handsome, fine young man?" "i did not look at him long, but i think he is," blushing a little. "and are not you the party my brother told me of yesterday? i did not think then it was the two gentlemen i had met who were so kind to him. morton is not any too good at description!" "morton, ah, yes, that ees the bright youth who did put my brave robare to the rout! and he is thy brother, then? may i not know thy name also, my fair young mees?" "it is sara olmstead, ma'am, and i am a fisherman's daughter." "and i, my fisher-lass, am name madame grandet now, though my girl name it was felicie." "oh, how pretty!" "you t'ink? do you know it mean 'happy,' 'fortunate,' and i am that, for i have few cares, and my husband does indulge every wish i can make. and your name, does it mean something good also?" "i have read somewhere that it means 'a princess,'" blushing more than before; "but that is hardly the meaning my name should have," giving a quick glance about upon her homely surroundings. "i do not know. you have the grand air, and--ah, i have it! i have it! you must be a king's daughter, a princess indeed!" "but, madame, my father is plain reuben olmstead, a good and honest man, yet only a fisherman." "but, no, my child, you do not yet comprehend. the king, it is thy father in heaven, and thou must be one of those who call themselves the king's daughters. it is a great society which does extend over the whole world of christians, and each one of the members does take her pledge to do some good each day, for the help of mankind. it is 'in his name' that they do this, and their reward it is in heaven!" she spoke with great earnestness, and sara listened breathlessly. a princess, a daughter of the king of kings, endowed with the birthright of high thoughts and noble deeds, enrolled in the royal order of the saviour of men! surely here was a destiny grand and glorious enough to satisfy the highest ambition. her eyes darkened with the rush of thoughts that kept her silent, and finally she drew a long breath, looking up with such humility, yet kindling joy, that her words seemed but an echo of her glance. "i will be one; teach me how!" as she spoke, the baby who had been sitting on the doorstep contentedly sucking his orange, now broke through the rind of his yellow globe of sweets, to find nothing left but a bitter shell, and thereupon set up a wail and toddled over to sara. she lifted him up with tender words of comfort, applied a dampened towel to his sticky face and hands, then brought him in her arms to the doorstep again, where she seated herself near the madame, who had resumed her chair just within. the absence of any adults in the house suddenly struck the latter, and she asked, "where is then the mother, mees sara?" "in heaven," said the girl softly. "she died when i was little; and poor baby ned's followed her a few weeks ago, since father went for the long fish." "ah, how sad! how sad! and have he not hear of this trouble?" "i do not know; not unless he got the word i sent by captain smalley. but, you see, his smack may not have sighted the nautilus at all. it seems as if father would have tried hard to come, if he had heard," she added, her eyes growing misty; "we need him so!" "poor child, poor little one!" murmured the lady in her own language, then in english, "but what is it you speak,--the 'long fish'? do not all your ships return each saturday?" "no; not now. that's the way they do at many of the fishing-villages, i have heard, but we are a long way from the banks, and there's mare's head, which every vessel must round to make our harbor, so dangerous a point that our fleets used scarcely ever to get by all in safety; for when a man is hurrying home to his own fireside on a stormy saturday night, he is not as careful as he should be. so now our boats stay out through the season, and when they have a big haul put into gloucester or annisquam to sell their fish, only bringing home such as they cannot find a market for. it saves many wrecks, and they make more money, but it is often hard on those left at home!" "yes, yes, that is true, i make no doubt! but do you live here quite alone, you and the babee?" "oh, no; there are my brother and sister,--the twins. morton is the one i spoke of; he has gone gunning with uncle adam standish, and the young man who must be your nephew, i'm sure; and molly has gone on an errand." "that morton--it ees one fine boy! his air do say, 'behold the american citizen in me!' is it not?" sara smiled and sighed. "he is a good boy, and my mainstay now, for it is hard sometimes to manage for so many; but will you not please tell me some more about the king's daughters, madame?" her new friend, nothing loath, went into further details of that marvellous organization, telling of the silver cross, which was a passport to the best society and gentlest treatment the world over; describing its growth by tens, its circles within circles, its active benevolences and astonishing influence--all that of which the world has been hearing, almost as a child listens to a fairy-tale, with wonder and delight, yet only half credulous. she also promised to send her copies of those beautiful stories, "ten times one," and "in his name," which first gave rise to the grand idea; and when she finally made her adieus, it was to leave sara in a happy dream, filled with new hopes, desires, and resolutions, all petty cares for the time being quite forgotten! chapter vi. happy days. when morton came home that night, it was with more of the air madame grandet had so graphically described than usual, for he bore two braces of birds, which he exultantly dropped, with a silver dollar, into sara's lap. "why, what is this?" she asked, surprised at the money. "it's mine," was the proud reply. "mr. glendenning gave it to me. he said i had earned it, as well as the game, for i had done all the hard work in bagging the birds; and o sara, but he's a fine shot! uncle adam is that fond of him he's been trying to get him to stay all summer. he says he's a _man_, if he does wear short pants!" sara laughed. "two braces of birds, a dollar, and some new friends, how rich we are, morton! you shall have a supper fit for a king, now, and i, one good enough for a princess!" with a meaning smile over her inner thought. "won't we? make it a roast, sara, with lots of gravy and stuffing, the way they do at mrs. norris's; and oh! i 'most forgot, when we came by miss zeba's, the pretty lady came out and said, 'tell your sweet sister we will make her a morning call to-morrow, if she do please'--them's her very words." "'those are,' you mean. do try, my boy, to speak correctly, at least. i begin to think people are judged more by the way they speak than the way they dress, among intelligent people, so be careful." "that's so, sara, for mr. glendenning said i spoke good english, or, at least, that because you were so wise was why my english was correct, something like that." "why, what does he know of me?" astonishedly. "oh, nothing much, only i said you'd been to school, and so on. sara, i believe i'll go up-stairs and lie down till supper's ready--i'm just about tuckered out!" "humph! do you call _that_ good english, morton?" "well, it's just what i am, if it ain't fine talk," yawning loudly, and before she could correct him again, the urchin made a grimace of defiance, and fled up the stairs to his bed in the loft. the announcement of that supper "fit for a king" brought him down good as new in an hour's time, and i think few royal personages ever enjoyed a meal more, for "hunger is the best sauce" now as ever. the next morning the three from miss zeba's arrived, quite curious over this orphaned family the madame had talked so much about. as for young mr. glendenning, ever since morton's description of his sister, which instantly recalled to his memory a blushing, beautiful face, and a hand outstretched for the gingham bonnet in his own, he had been secretly wondering in what way he could make his surmises certainties, without ungentlemanly intrusion; so you may be sure he had no better business in hand when his aunt proposed the call, while her husband would go miles any day to view a really fine specimen. molly, in the doorway, painfully enchained just then to her stocking- darning, first sighted the trio, and announced in an excited whisper:-- "they're coming, sara, they're coming! have you got the baby washed, and the braided rug over the broken board in the floor?" both these important ceremonies having been attended to, she seated herself once more, with an attempt at composure, though every line of her speaking face was alert with anticipation. "ah!" said the madame, eying her from the road, "that must be the girl- twin,--molly they do call her. what a _chic_ little face it is! do look with what an air she will make as if she does not see us; it ees inimiteeble!" they turned into the little gate, much amused, and she finally looked up, with such an assumption of astonishment they could scarcely keep from laughing outright; then sprang to her feet, and made a twinkling little bow, which set the young man's eyes to dancing, and entirely captivated madame, at which sara appeared in the doorway, with her fine greek head, and rare smile, to give them greeting. then morton turned from the fish-lines he was straightening, and looked his honest, quiet pleasure, as different in manner from his twin-sister as a staid, slow proud-stepping heron is different from a flitting, fluttering, flame- winged oriole. after madame's introductions, which were hardly necessary, as both gentlemen at once recognized sara (the younger one with an acceleration of his heart-beats which rather surprised himself), the professor became at once immersed in the mineralogical specimens, with sara to answer his questions. his nephew plunged into an animated talk with morton about blue-fishing, and the blond lady divided her attentions between molly and the baby, whose merry little outbursts soon won the two would-be fishermen from their discussion. molly was just then giving an account of her school- teacher, talking like a little steam-engine, all dimples, gestures, and tossing curls. "why, he isn't anywhere near as good as sara in books, and you can tangle him up just like a salmon-line!" she cried. "it's lots of fun to see him when we all get to asking questions faster'n he can think; but then, he's awful good about the claws!" "the what?" asked glendenning. "why, you see, when we girls catch a lobster we always keep the claws in our desk, to pass around and suck with our bread at lunch (don't you like lobster-claws? they're splendid!), and he don't mind if we sometimes take 'em out in school- hours. he says fish is good to make more brains, which we need, and when our mouths are full we can't be buzzing! we never had one so nice about that before." "how wise this modern aristotle must be!" the young man broke in amid the laughter. "but i doubt if even a lobster-claw could keep you still!" the little maid gave him a shy glance, containing more of coquetry than her sister would ever know. "i'm pretty still in church," she said, "that is, if 'tisn't _too_ long. do you think it's very bad to just look 'round at the clock sometimes? our church clock's right under the gallery scats, behind us, and it goes the slowest of any i ever saw! sometimes, when i've waited 'most an hour before i looked 'round, it won't be five minutes by that clock! miss prue plunkett's my sunday-school teacher; and one sunday when i had a cold, and my neck was so stiff i couldn't move, she said it didn't better those old jews any to be a stiff-necked race, but it certainly did me. sometimes miss prue talks so't i can't understand just what she means; but sara likes her first-rate, and so do i too, most generally." "molly!" came admonishingly from the corner where the shelves were, "i'm afraid you're talking too much." "yes, she is, sara," put in morton earnestly. "she's just _rattling!_" the madame leaned back, laughing in keenest enjoyment. "i had forgotten how delightful it is that children may be in a state of nature," she said. "ah, robare, how can we go back to those doll-childs at the hotel, with their so fine costumes, and so of-this-world-weary airs, now? you have no doll-houses, my infants, no fine toys that move by the machine-work within, no bicycles, no anything for play; what, then, does amuse you all the day's length in this most sleepy town?" the children stared at her with round, puzzled eyes. what did they find to amuse them? with the cliffs, and the sand, and sea, and the nice little lobster and clam basins they knew about; and the countless shells for dishes, and fish-scales for jewellery, and kelp for carpets, and dulse and feathery sea-fern for decorations. "dear me!" cried molly, "there's things enough; all we want is _time_. here i've wasted a whole morning darning stockings and talking to you!" the outburst that followed this _naive_ confession brought uneasy sara to her sister's side; and with a hand on one of those restless, twitching little shoulders, she managed to keep her respectably quiet through the rest of the call. as the guests went down the village street it was funny to hear their comments. "it ees a most fine collection, all varieties and classified most orderly," observed the professor, intent on the minerals. "such specimens! and impossible to keep in order!" broke out the young man, meaning something entirely different. "but the oldest is a rare one, and"-- "ze oldest? yes, but there be some vich are mos' rare of dose later ones, too. but"-- "the little feather head!" laughed madame out of her thought, oblivious of what had gone before, "but _jolie_ and bright"-- "zat so bright on, it ees no feddar-head, felicie; you mistake. that was the rusty, dull"-- "rusty! dull! that so brilliant bird of a child! what mean you, leon?" "child? who say child?" dazedly. "oh, stop, stop!" interposed their nephew, raising both hands, "don't have a family jar over nothing. uncle's on geology, and auntie on babies; don't you see?" and the discussion ended good-naturedly in a laugh all around. they came every day after that, during their lengthened stay of a week, and often the professor would press sara into service to direct him in his search for treasures, while madame stayed with molly and baby; and morton took many a delightful sail in the yacht with mr. glendenning after bluefish or salmon. those were happy, plentiful days in the little cottage, for fresh fish or game was almost constantly on their table, while the overplus, sold to their richer friends, kept baby in milk, and all in necessary supplies. besides, madame's quick eyes soon penetrated into the real poverty behind the hospitable, self-respecting air of the little household, and she managed in many delicate ways to assist them. feeling instinctively that there must be no hint of remuneration to sara for her really valuable services as guide to her husband, she struck up a trade in wild-flowers, delicate algae, and shells with molly, buying all that the child could bring her (and the little girl was famous for these findings), afterwards teaching her to mount them in exquisite designs on bristol-board for possible future customers. morton, too, was paid a liberal percentage on fishing-tackle, etc., so that among them all the wolf was kept decidedly at bay, and sara felt every night like adding a special thanksgiving to her prayers, because she was not forced to ask a loan of squire scrantoun. chapter vii. a tea-party. meanwhile, she was learning to systemize her time so as to make the most of it, and, given a fresh impetus in her studies by this new companionship, spent the days so busily she scarcely had time, till night laid her on her pillow, to wonder where father might be, and when he would return. so far, with the exception of the storm which had proven so fatal to her mother, the season had been quite free from gales, or "breezes" as the fishermen call them; for with these hardy people a good-sized tornado is only a "stiffish breeze" usually. but when these new, delightful friends went away, it seemed as if everything changed. dull, foggy days, with fitful gusts, succeeded to the lovely month just gone, and the skies were leaden and threatening. then, too, little by little, the wolf began creeping towards their door, for sara, in the large liberality of her nature, did not well know how to deny the eager wants of the children, so long as she had any means to gratify them; and was not so wise in hoarding against a rainy day as an older head might have been. still further, to add to her gloom, baby had a slight attack of measles, over which she worried more than was necessary; and, altogether, august was for her a blue month, with only two bright spots to recall. one of these was when morton, red and exultant, came lugging home a mammoth express package, with molly, fish-knife in hand, dancing about him like some crazy apache squaw about a war-captive, though she was only impatient to cut the cord. when her wish was finally gratified, sara's delighted eyes beheld two volumes she had long been wishing for, and a pretty dress-pattern; morton's caught sight of some tackle that fairly electrified him, with a suit of clothes better than he had ever owned before; molly's darted with lightning speed to a neat jacket and hat, also a handsome herbarium book for her algae; while baby set up a squeal of joy at sight of some novel toys and picture-books, leaving sara to the full appreciation of a dainty infant outfit below. of course these most acceptable gifts were from the grandet party,--now in boston,--who had proven themselves thus more constant than most "summer friends," and generous almost beyond belief, as sara thought. the other red-letter day was one when the whole family was invited to tea at miss prue's. they went early, as was the fashion in killamet, morton stiff and conscious in his new suit, and baby filled with undisguised admiration for his own new shoes, while both girls looked so unusually "dressed-up" in their boston finery, that miss prue naturally concluded good reuben olmstead must have left his family well provided for during his absence, and had not the slightest idea how closely pressed they were for actual money. they had been seated but a few moments, morton gravely staring at the dragon-china with meekly folded hands, molly tilted on the edge of her chair like a bird about to fly, and the baby on sara's lap wide-eyed and inquiring, when polly thought the quiet was growing oppressive, and broke out,-- "pretty poll! pretty poll! how d'ye do? oh, you fools!" at which molly ran over in a rippling little giggle, so infectious that every one had to join in. miss prue turned to her with an indulgent smile. "bless her heart! it would be dull here if 'tweren't for polly, wouldn't it? let's see, i've a new game somewhere, from boston; it's bits of rhyme and scraps of knowledge, i believe; i never played it, but perhaps you and morton can make it out," and soon the two were seated, bending over a light stand, quite happy for the nonce. meanwhile, baby was so impressed with the dignity and solemnity of the occasion that he kept his round eyes fixed unwinkingly upon the parrot (who occasionally addressed a remark to him), until the weary lids closed, and he dropped his sleepy little head over against sara's shoulder. then she and miss prue had a long, delightsome talk, in which she told her good friend all about the grandet party, the order of the king's daughters, those beautiful, impressive books of hale's, and something-- not a great deal, for sara was naturally reticent of her inner life--of the hopes and longings kindled by them in her soul. as the kind old maid watched her noble, expressive face, and noted the clinging little figure in her arms, she sighed, wondering,-- "is here to be another life-long sacrifice? are these sparkling, youthful hopes to settle down into the dull, smouldering fires of duty-- a fire which will always boil the domestic kettle, and warm the family hearth, but never be a beacon-light on the hill of effort, to help the world onward?" then she checked herself. "is any life well lived, however humble, quite lost to the world? and does not god know better than i where to put her?" and thus ending her reflections, she turned with a brighter look to say, "my dear, don't let _anything_ discourage you from carrying out your views! i believe this life of ours is like a flight of steps leading to a throne. when we have performed all that is required of us on the first step, we must go on and up but sometimes, alas! we will not do what we should, and have to be ordered back. then how painfully slow seems the climb to our former position! but, if we can only always hear that 'come up higher,' and keep steadily on, slowly it may be, so slowly the steps seem but an inch high, we will surely reach the throne in time--or in eternity." sara's luminous eyes rested intently on her face. "the steps may not all be beautiful or easy," she breathed. "no, nor will be, my dear. there is a little book of essays i have, and one is called 'the gospel of drudgery;' i want you to read it." miss plunkett rose and stepped to the book-case on the opposite side of the room, being enjoined, sleepily, by mistress polly meanwhile, to "come again, and don't be long!" when old hester appeared in the doorway, to bob a courtesy, and announce,-- "tea is served, miss prue." hester was a character in killamet, and must be described. she was a pure-blooded african of guinea, who, when a wee child, was rescued from a slave-trader by captain plunkett, miss prue's father. the poor little black baby's mother had died during the cruel march to the coast, and the little creature, become almost a skeleton, and looking more like a baby chimpanzee than anything human, was made a pet of by the crew on the homeward voyage, growing fat and saucy daily, so that when the captain presented her to his daughter, then an infant of two years, she was as cunning a specimen of a negro baby as one often sees. instantly the fair little prudence took a great fancy to her, thinking her, doubtless, some new queer kind of doll; and from that time the two were almost inseparable companions. the little stranger was soon given free papers, formally adopted, and baptized under the christian name of hester plunkett; and from her twenty-first birthday had always received wages for her services. her love for the family, especially miss prue, almost the only survivor of this especial branch, was simply unbounded; and nothing could have tempted her to leave the latter. even as she made the simple announcement, her great, soft black eyes rested lovingly on her friend and mistress, then turned, with a smiling welcome, upon the children. "i'll tend the baby ef he wakes, miss sairay; let me lay him down now," she said, lifting him with her powerful black hands; "he likes his old aunt hester!" and she nestled him against her broad bosom, and bent her stately white-turbaned head caressingly over him. molly, who was always fascinated by her, watched every movement, her eyes dancing, and her checks dimpling with some inner thought. "come, what are you sparkling over now?" cried miss prue, taking the child's hand to lead her to the dining-room. "i know you've an idea in that little brain of yours, because it's almost ready to jump out of your eye-windows!" molly gave a little hop--she seldom walked--and caught the aged hand in both of hers. "i'll tell you, miss plunkett, but you musn't tell anybody, will you?" "i'll try to keep it a secret, molly." "well, what do you s'pose hester looks like?" "now, molly! you wouldn't make fun of good old hester, would you?" "but i'm not making fun, miss prue, indeed and indeedy i'm not, only she _does!_" "well, like what, molly?" by this time they had reached the dining-room, and molly drew her behind its door, to whisper mysteriously,-- "she looks just like rocky point when there's a high wind. then the rock stands up there black and big and square, just as hester does; and her muslin turban is the spray up over the top of it, don't you see?" miss prue nodded comprehensively, for the resemblance of the tall, straight negress to that bold headland was something she could recognize herself, now it was brought to her notice. "i think you're right, dear; but come, our supper is waiting. pray excuse me, sara, for keeping you and morton standing here; this little lady-bird and i have been exchanging confidences behind the door!" what a supper it was! well worth waiting for, morton thought, for the queer foreign-spiced preserves and the hot pickles (which made molly wink tearful eyes rapidly, and say, "no more, thank you, ma'am!" with great promptness) were all there; besides dainty cakes, such as only hester could make, and tea that was to the common beverage as nectar to vinegar. once molly paused, inspecting a small cream-cake in her hand with a grave air. "what is it, dear? what are you thinking?" asked miss prue, to whom the child was always a whole page of fun and epigram. "i was thinking, ma'am, how does this froth get inside the cake?" "molly, molly! you are too curious," said her sister. but now an idea suddenly struck the child, rippling and dimpling over her bright face like a breeze over a little lake. "oh, i know!" she cried, "i know! you just churn the cream, and then pour the dough around it, of course!" which lucid explanation seemed perfectly satisfactory to herself at any rate. all the stiffness of that first half-hour was now gone, and the rest of the stay was one riotous frolic, in which baby ned, sweetened by a long nap and a good supper in sara's arms, joined merrily; and, as miss prue watched the little party leave her gate in the late dusk, it was through misty eyes, for she could not help thinking of the home she might have known, had not the sea claimed her husband for its own. after this happy day came a few that were anxious enough to poor sara; for the little hoard was getting fearfully low, and now, too, the provisions were nearly gone. "i'm afraid, morton," she said one morning, "if we don't hear something from father this week, i'll have to borrow of squire scrantoun." molly's nose went up. "i don't like him; he's a scowly man! let's borrow of uncle adam or miss prue." "but old adam standish is nearly as poor as we, molly." "no, he ain't," with a toss of her head; "he's got a heap of money! he keeps it in an old shot-bag, and i've seen it myself; he's got--well, as much as five dollars, i do believe!" as this magnificent sum did not impress sara so much as it should, the child concluded to drop finances for a while and attend to baby, who was busily engaged just then in pulling straws out of the broom, a loss the well-used article could ill afford. sara stepped past the two at their frolic and looked out of the open door. it was a glorious morning, the air washed clean by a thunder-storm during the night, and the sea still white-capped from its violence. as she was watching with admiration its turbulent beauty, morton, who had come to her side, burst out,-- "why, sara, look in the offing, isn't that the seagull at anchor? why, it is, it must be! then jap norris is here, and can tell us about father!" "are you sure, morton? i can't make her out from here.' "well, i can! i know the old sea-gull like a book; and look! look, sara, if that isn't jap this minute coming down the street!" sara looked, recognizing the straight young figure at once, and turned back to her brother with a quick pang of foreboding that slightly paled her sweet face. "morton," she said huskily, "he brings us news of father!" chapter viii. news from the nautilus. when the fleet to which the nautilus belonged reached the banks, everything seemed exceptionally propitious. the weather was fine and tranquil for march, and the fish fairly asking to be taken. in fact, it was all "too lucky," as old captain sennett of the nautilus growled occasionally, he being, like all sailors, superstitious to the core, and "fond of his blow," as the crew put it. they made a "big haul," with which they put into port, and after disposing of it started out again, only to make a trip as disastrous as the former had been fortunate. there was a week of the "dirtiest" kind of weather,--head-winds, fogs, and treacherous "breezes," which strained every timber in the old tub of a nautilus, as she rolled clumsily about in the turbulent waves. at length there came a night (it was one of those in which sara had watched with baby during the measles) when the sea, as if scorning all previous performances, seemed lashing itself into a very climax of rage. smutty rags of clouds flew across the ominous horizon, and spiteful gusts, apparently from every direction of the compass, caught the old nautilus in wild arms, and tossed her about like a foot-ball. she had sprung a slight leak also, nothing dangerous in a stanch vessel, but an added straw, which might prove the last in this straining wrestle with wind and sea, and she did not answer her rudder as her steersman could have wished. "will she stan' it, cap'n, think ee?" asked reuben anxiously, as a momentary pause in the pounding and smashing found them together. "god a'mighty knows!" was the solemn answer. "if her rudder"-- the rest was drowned in a new shriek of the blast, and reuben threw himself flat and clung for dear life to the winch, as a wave washed over the deck, smashing everything breakable into kindling-wood, and almost drowning the two, whom instinct and long practice helped to cling, in spite of the fact that the very breath was beaten out of their bodies. but this, bad as it seemed, was only the beginning of troubles. there were hours of just such experiences; and reuben's strength, robust as it was, began to fail him beneath the strain. in such storms there is no rest for the sailor. something is needed of him every moment, especially upon these fishing smacks and schooners, which carry such small crews; and often forty or more hours will pass with literally no rest at all. they labored on until evening set in once more, and all hands had just been ordered aft to secure a broken spar, when nick the boy uttered a fearful cry, which gave every man a start. they followed the direction of his horrified gaze, and saw a danger which paralyzed the stoutest nerve. just ahead was a "gray-back,"--sailor parlance for a wave which is to all other waves as a mountain to a hillock,--and reuben felt their doom was sealed, for the old nautilus, disabled as she was already, could never stand that terrific onslaught. with one short, desperate prayer he closed his eyes and clung with the grip of the dying to the shattered spar. it was all over in a moment. a roar like a thousand thunders, a stunning blow impossible to imagine, and then--a broad, wreck-strewn expanse, amid which those few poor atoms of humanity showed but as black dots for a moment, soon to be sucked beneath the seething waves. by dawn of the next day the storm was over, for that gray-back had been one of those climaxes in which nature seems to delight; and, having done its worst, the winds hushed their fury, and wailed away into a chill, sullen, but clearing morning. the remainder of the fleet, scattered in every direction by the storm, did not discover the absence of the nautilus till mid-forenoon, when bits of wreckage, into which they sailed, soon told the pitiful story. towards noon two bodies were found, that of the captain and steersman, afloat in the pilot-house, but no more; the fate of reuben, the boy, and the three other hands could only be conjectured. the next day the drowned men were given honorable burial; and many of the remaining vessels, having been almost disabled by the fury of the elements, had to make for the nearest port for repairs. then came a fair and "lucky" run, in which not a hand could be spared to carry the news home, for these fishermen learn to look almost with contempt upon death and disaster. many a poor fellow with a broken limb must go days, even weeks, before he can reach a physician; and the friends on shore are left as long in ignorance of their fate. nearly a month had passed, then, since that awful night, when jasper norris, dreading his task as he had never dreaded any physical danger in his life, walked down the village street toward sara and morton in the cottage doorway. the former watched him with a growing feeling of suffocation and tightness about her throat and heart, for the droop of his figure was ominous. had there been good news he would have given a sailors' hurrah at sight of them, and bounded on, waving his cap in welcome. but, still in dead silence, he turned into the little broken gate, and walked up the path to the door. sara, quite white now, and leaning for support against the jamb, kept her piercing eyes on his face, though his would not meet their gaze; while morton rolled great frightened orbs from one to the other, as from within came unconscious molly's gleeful babble, and the baby's sweet little trills of laughter. "jasper!" gasped sara in desperation, "why--why don't you speak?" he looked up, and made a hopeless gesture with his hands. "don't, sairay," he said huskily, "don't give way, but--but i've bad news." a great trembling now shook her limbs, and she lifted her hands as if to ward off a blow, but her agonized eyes seemed dragging the words out of him. "your father, sairay, he's--he's--the nautilus went to pieces, like the tub she wor, and he's"-- "_drowned!_" screamed morton, putting his hands to his ears. "who's drowned?" cried molly, running to them. "why, jap, that you? where's pa?" sara, who had not spoken, at this dropped to the doorstep, and, doubling up in a forlorn little heap, buried her face in her hands. morton burst out crying; and molly, with a puzzled look around, joined in promptly, thinking it the proper thing to do, though she had not yet an idea of what had really happened. but why prolong the heart-rending scene, as little by little jasper stammered out all the story he had to tell, and the poor children began to realize how doubly orphaned they were? this was a grief before which the loss of their. stepmother seemed as nothing. they had loved their big, kind, good-natured father as a companion, far more than a parent; and the thought of never meeting him again, of never hearing his well- known greeting after his absences,-- "waal, waal, younkers, come and kiss your old dad! did you miss him much, eh?"--seemed intolerable. sara, under this new blow, for a time lost all self-control, and broke into such a passion of grief, that jasper, much frightened, ran for the nearest neighbor, mrs. updyke. she soon appeared,--a gaunt woman, with a wrinkled visage, and a constant sniff. "land sakes!" she cried, upon hearing jasper's ill news, "yeouw don't say! well, well, it's a disposition o' providence, to be sure!" by which she doubtless meant a dispensation, though it did not much matter, for no one paid the slightest attention to her moral axioms just then. by this time the news had spread, and the neighbors were flocking to the afflicted cottages; for all the drowned men had lived in killamet, and were well known, while each had left a wife, mother, or some weeping female relative, to mourn his loss. but all agreed that the olmstead case was hardest, or, if they did not, mrs. updyke took pains to impress that idea upon them with a decisive sniff; for, being a next-door neighbor, she naturally desired that the affliction close by should outrank all other distress in the village. but, finding sara oblivious just now to everything but her grief, she left her to pace back and forth, wringing her hands and moaning like some caged creature, contenting herself with telling the children "they could mourn for their poor pa jest as well with less noise," while she prepared to receive the sympathetic callers with an intense satisfaction, which the solemnity of the occasion could not quench. "yes, it's a awful visitation," she sniffed, as the curious, friendly women flocked in; "i don't know's i ever hearn tell of a harrowin'er! four orphans, with no pa nor ma!" (sniff, sniff.) "molly, when that babby squirms so, is it pins or worms?" "he wants sara," sobbed the poor child, whose laughter and dimples were now all drowned in tears. but sara, unheeding of everybody, still kept up that wild walk back and forth, back and forth, every groan seeming wrenched from her very soul; and poor baby had to squirm,--and stand it. ah! that is a lesson that comes almost with our first breath! "poor child!" said one little dumpling of a woman. "let me take him home: he'll be amused with my johnnie, i know. come baby!" and, managing at length to coax him away, she took him to more cheerful surroundings, where he was soon quite as happy sucking a peppermint lozenge, and watching johnnie with his toys, as if no father lay buried under the cruel, restless sea. meanwhile, awed by sara's intense grief, the women stood about, quite powerless, and gazed at her. "cain't we do nothin'?" asked betty pulcher, who could never endure inaction. "what is there to _do?_" "nothin'," sniffed mrs. updyke solemnly, "least-wise, not now. ye see, thar won't be no funeral to make ready fur, an' the sermon won't be till a sunday. i've gin the house a hasty tech to red it up; an' ef the armatts an' the simcotes (them o' his fust wife's kin, an' his own, ye know) should come over from norcross, we'll hev to divide 'em up. i kin sleep two on 'em, an' eat four, i guess, ef the rest on ye'll do as much." each one agreed to do their best, this cannibal-sounding proposition meaning nothing worse than true fishwives' hospitality; and the group had gathered in a knot to discuss in low tones the children's "prospec's" for the future, when mrs. norris and miss plunkett came in. they were cousins, and something alike in face and manner, though the spirituality in miss prue's visage became a sort of shrewd good-humor in that of mrs. norris; and now each proceeded in a characteristic way to her duty. miss prue went straight to sara, and took the poor, unstrung little bundle of nerves into her arms, her very touch, both firm and gentle, bringing comfort to the half-crazed girl. she did not say much of anything, only kissed her and wept with her; but soon the violence of sara's grief was subdued, and her heart-rending moans sank into long, sobbing breaths. mrs. norris, after one pitying look, turned to the women. "don't you think, friends, it is possible that seeing so many makes her worse? we all want to do something, i know. mrs. deering, you're so good with children, why not take the twins home with you for to-day? perhaps your own bairnies will help to comfort them! and, betty pulcher, their clothes will need some fixing, no doubt, for sunday. you're just the one to manage that; and get mandy marsh and zeba osterhaus to help you: they'll be glad to, i know. and you, mrs. updyke, and mrs. shooter,-- were you going to look after the cooking, and so on? there'll likely be a crowd over for the sermon." as each one was given just the work she preferred, and as there seemed little more chance of excitement here, they soon separated, not realizing they had been sent home, however; and a blissful quiet reigned. when mrs. norris stepped outside to close the gate after the last one, a voice arrested her. "mother! mother!" she turned. "why, jap, what are you doing there?" as her son came around one of the rear corners of the little building. "i'm just--waiting. say, mother," tremulously, "will it--kill her?" "kill her? who, sairay? no, indeed. she's lots better now. gracious! you look sick yourself, child!" "i'll never do such a thing again, mother,--never! i felt as if i'd stabbed her to the heart. do--do you s'pose it'll make her--turn agin me?" "gracious! no; what an idee! why, you've worked yourself into a regular chill, i declare. go home, and tell hannah to fix you up a good stiff dose of jamaica ginger right away. well, i never!" "then you think she's coming out of it all right?" "i think she's enough sight better'n you'll be, if you don't go and do what i tell you this minute; now hustle!" and jasper, knowing his mother's decisive ways, walked away without more ado. but not home; not to hannah's ministering care and the jamaica ginger, but to a little cove by the sea where, with his body thrown flat on the rocks, and his face buried in his hands, he wept like a child himself, for pure sympathy with that orphaned girl who was so dear to him. chapter ix. rebellion. but the poor, perhaps fortunately, have little time for mourning. as the first hint of the long winter came in on the september's equinox, poor sara had to rouse herself, and she began to look about her with despairing eyes. friends, so far, had been most kind, and the little family had never actually suffered; but now that the few summer resources for picking up an occasional dollar were ended, what had they to look forward to in the long months to come? reuben olmstead had owned the poor little cottage in which they lived, so a roof over their heads might be counted on, but not much besides; for his share in the last fishing-expedition, promptly paid over by jasper, had soon been swallowed up by the family's needs, so greatly reduced had they become before it arrived. sara was not, perhaps, a good financier,--few girls of barely eighteen are,--but she had done her best, and her feeling had often been that of a mother-bird, wearied by a long day's search for worms, who always finds the mouths stretched wide as ever, clamoring for more. the task of filling those mouths seemed a hopeless one. "what can i do?" she thought, as she sat huddled over the tiny fire one day, waiting for the children to come home from school. "the flour is all gone, and the potatoes nearly, and so little wood!" she shivered, then turned to see if the sleeping baby were well covered, and resumed her dreary musing. "i don't wonder our people almost welcome a wreck when they are so poor. of course it's wicked; but if there must be storms, and ships have got to go to pieces--god forgive me! i believe i was almost wishing for one, myself! if there were only something i could do; but what can i? here are the children; they must be cared for, and the baby above all,--what can one do when there's a baby to look after? i suppose some would say, ask her people to take him; but who is there? her mother is dead, and her father a deaf old man who can't live long; she had no sisters, and her brothers are sailors who are off all the time. there's only her cousin 'liza, and i couldn't give the poor little fellow up to that hard, coarse woman; besides, i promised her and i promised father to care for him myself. if i could go out into the world, it seems as if i might find a place; i am strong and young, and not afraid to work, but here there is no opportunity." then, after a long, silent gaze into the fire,-- "god certainly knows all about it; he could help me if he would; i wonder why he doesn't? does he treat us as i sometimes do baby--corner us all up till there's only one way to go, and so make us walk straight? but to walk straight now looks as if it led to starvation." her head drooped lower, and her thoughts grew too roving and uncontrolled for connected expression; in fact, her brooding had become almost actual dreaming, when the door swung back with a bang, and the two children rushed in, molly screaming with laughter and resistance as she fled before morton, who was close at her heels. "sara! sara! make him stop! i"-- she was stopped herself by a sudden crash, and all three stood in blank affright and astonishment as the oval, gilt-framed mirror, which hung between the front windows, fell to the floor in the midst of them, and shivered into a dozen pieces. it had been one of the proud possessions of their own mother when she came to the house as a bride, and was the principal ornament of their humble living-room, as all swiftly remembered; and besides, there was that gloomy superstition which had been instilled into them since infancy,--a broken mirror meant death and disaster. even sara was not proof against this. in fact, there are scarcely any of us, no matter how good and wise we may be, who do not have some such pet remnant of barbarism clinging to our souls; and sara now stood, pale and aghast as the others, looking at that fateful, shattered glass! the baby, thus rudely awakened, set up a lively scream, which broke the spell of awed silence that seemed to have held them all until now. molly, with a flounce of resignation, cried out,-- "well, it's more trouble, of course, but we're getting used to it fast!" sara said, rather sharply,-- "go get the baby, molly, and be quiet, if you can; and, morton, help me gather up the bits." while morton, who was already down on the floor, remarked in his slow, thoughtful way,-- "i don't see what we've done, sara, to have things keep happening so dreadful, do you?" sara did not know. just then the usual sweetness of her nature seemed turning to gall. if she could have put her thoughts into words, she would have said it seemed as if some awful thing, instead of the god of love, sat up aloft mocking at her wretchedness; and she felt for the instant, as she crossed the floor after the old broom, an impotent rage, almost scorn, of this mighty power which could stoop to deal such malignant blows against a helpless girl. it was but a moment,--one of those fierce, instantaneous rebellions of the natural heart, which overcome us all at times of utter wretchedness,--then, just as she laid hands on the broom, there came a cry, a choked, wondering cry from morton,--"sara! o sara!" she turned; what now? the boy, in removing the larger fragments of the glass from the boards at the back of the frame, had come across something slipped in between, and now held it up with shaking hands and shining eyes. it was a neat pile of greenbacks, laid out straight and trim, with a paper band pinned around them. sara looked, comprehended, and felt like falling on her knees in repentant gratitude! but, instead, she sprang towards him, and caught the package from his hands. twice she counted it; could it be possible? here were three hundred dollars; a sum that seemed like a fortune to the girl. three hundred dollars between them and suffering; and the thing up aloft became instantly a friend, a father, and a god! molly, attempting a pirouette with the baby, now stumbled amid the _debris_, and for an instant distracted sara's attention, as she sprang to steady her, and catch the imperilled little one from her irresponsible arms, and morton remarked hesitantly,-- "say, sara, i guess i wasn't feeling just right about things, and i declare this makes me sort of ashamed!" "ashamed? pshaw! well, it doesn't me!" cried molly, dancing about. "now i can have a new dress, and some shoes-- "'way hay, storm along, john, old stormy, he'"-- "molly! molly! how often must i tell you not to sing those coarse sailor songs? now, do sit down, before you cut your feet on this glass. morton, you see poor mother did divide that money, after all. i presume she left out just a few dollars for every-day expenses, which was what baby threw in the fire, but this must be the bulk of the money that father brought from squire scrantoun's." "yes," said morton, still with solemn emphasis; "and perhaps, sara, broken looking-glasses don't always mean that somebody's going to die; if they did, this would have broken last summer, wouldn't it?" "i don't know just what to think, morton," squeezing the baby for very joy, while this great gladness made her eyes brilliant, "only i guess we aren't forgotten, after all! i want to remember that always now, no matter how sorrowful we may be; will you help me, morton?" "if i don't forget myself," said her brother; "it's kinder hard to feel good when everything goes contrary, but i'll try;" and as he spoke, she saw him select a sliver of the broken glass, and, wrapping it in a bit of paper, lay it away in a drawer where he was allowed to keep his few treasures. "why, what's that for, morton?" she asked curiously. he flushed a little, then said very low,-- "it's to make us remember," and she felt that the whole circumstance must have made a deep impression on the boy. not so molly. she mourned the glass because now she had no better place before which to arrange her curls than in one of the larger pieces left, which, being cracked, gave her such a resemblance to a certain old fisherman with a broken nose, who was her special aversion, that she hated to look at herself, which was, possibly, not a bad thing, for she was in danger of growing vain of her pretty, piquant face these days. but for a long time sara went about the humble home with a humbler heart. she felt that she had been a traitor to her kingly father, and took the pretty little white cross madame had sent her and pinned it up, face inwards, against the wall. "i am not worthy to wear it," she said, "until i have done something to atone for my rebellion." but the winter passed quietly away; and, if no opportunity offered for any great deed of atonement, there were always the little worries of every day to be patiently borne, not the least of which was a sort of nagging spirit which had gone abroad among the old neighbors and friends of the olmstead family. possibly they were a trifle jealous of sara's looks and bearing; it may be those who had predicted failure for her, "because them as keeps so stiddy to books ain't apt to hev much sense at things what caounts," were disappointed that she succeeded so well, or,--let us be charitable,--perhaps they thought the children all needed a little maternal scolding on general principles; anyhow, whatever they thought, there was something unpleasant in the air. sara felt it keenly, and drew still farther into her shell of reticence, keeping closely to her studies and home duties, until the neighbors had some excuse for their plaints that "she didn't care for nothin' nor nobody but them pesky books!" one day mrs. updyke came in, sniffing as usual, and casting a hasty glance about the room with her cold, restless eyes. "how d'ye do, sairay?" she remarked, loosening her shawl. "i thort as how ye mought be lonesome, so i come over an' brung my knittin' a while; you got some on hand tew, i s'pose?" "well, not knitting, but i've sewing," said sara, trying to feel hospitable, and wondering what mrs. updyke would think if she should confess that she scarcely knew the meaning of that word "lonesome." "let me take your hood and shawl, won't you?" "waal, while i set; is the babby's well as usual?" with a keen glance at the little fellow, who was happily dragging a pasteboard cart on spool wheels about the floor. "very well, thank you; and grows so fast! he walks nicely now, and can say 'monnie,' and 'mawta,' and 'wawa,'--that's me,--besides several other words." "h'm; got any flannils onto him?" "oh, yes; i made some out of father's old ones," with a sigh at the beloved name. "ye did, hey? hope they fit som'ers near." she now critically examined the room once more; but as it was far neater than her own, she could not reasonably find any fault there, so started on a new tack. "how old's morton?" "twelve next summer." "gittin' to be a big boy, ain't he?" "yes, and such a good one! he is a great help to me." "waal, he orter be; some boys o' twelve airns their own livin', don't ye know?" "yes; and morton can do something when it comes warmer, but he needs more schooling yet, though, indeed, he often does odd jobs on a saturday that bring in a little. he's an industrious boy, and i want him to have a good education." "waal, as to thet, some folks thinks too much o' book-larnin', _i_ say! your fayther didn't hev much o' it to boast on, an' see what a good pervider he was. books is well enough, but sense is better, an' forehandedness is best o' all." as she talked, her needles clicked sharply amid the clouded blue yarn of her half-formed sock, and her eyes, almost as sharp, kept roving about, while the uneasy nose seemed determined to root out anything that might escape them. just then molly came in breezily, her curls flying, and her cheeks a bright pink, and, seeing the visitor, managed, all in one instant, to give sara a lightning glimpse of a most disgusted little visage, even while she turned with a dimpling smile to say,-- "why, mrs. updyke, is it you? then that must be why zeba osterhaus and betty pulcher were crossing the street in front of your house; i guess they couldn't get in." "crossin' the street--where? jest below?" beginning to wind up her yarn hurriedly. "hed they railly been to my haouse?" "well, i'm not sure, but i think so; i didn't ask 'em where they'd been." "and be they to thet little stuck-up mis' gurney's naow?" "they went in there--yes." "h'm. jest bring my shawl, sairay. come to think on't, i've got an arrant there myself this arternoon--come nigh to disremembering it. waal, good-day; why don't ye come over ever? when ye want advice, or anythin', i'm allers there," and the woman ambled swiftly away, having quite forgotten the lecture she had prepared for the "shiftless, bookish gal" she was leaving, and only intent on learning what zeba and betty could want with her opposite neighbor. molly dropped into a chair, and laughed merrily. "didn't i get rid of her slick, though? say, sara, what does she make you think of?" "hush, molly, she's a good soul, and means well." "so's a cow, but you don't want her trampling all over your garden! i'll tell you what she's like--an old rabbit in a cap. she keeps her nose going just the same, and her ears are even longer." "molly! molly!" "well, it's so, and you can't deny it. do you know, sara, she stopped morton and me this morning, when we were going to school, and told him it was a shame for him to 'set araound, a-livin' on his sister, and he ought to get a berth in one of the fishing-smacks, and would if he had any grit to him.' it made mort as blue as anything, and he's gone down to uncle jabez wanamead's now, to see about shipping." "molly, are you _sure?_" springing up in excitement. "i won't have it. he's too young, and hasn't had half schooling enough; and, molly, are you certain he went there?" molly nodded, quite enjoying this excitement in her usually placid sister. "then i must go after him, and leave you to tend neddie. oh, _why_ can't people mind their own affairs?" poor sara, trembling all over, started hastily towards the wardrobe for her outer wraps, when a stamping outside the door arrested her, and in a moment the boy entered, knocking the last bit of snow from his boots as he did so. sara's eyes, bent upon him, discovered something in his expression which made her cry out,--"morton, what have you been doing?" "doing? why"-- "tell me the truth!" she commanded, almost fiercely. he turned upon molly with sudden anger. "have you been tattling? i'll bet you have!" "no, but i told sara; you didn't tell me not to." "lots of good 'twould have done, if i had! you never kept a thing in your life--never!" "did, too, morton olmstead!" her pout melting swiftly into a mischievous smile. "well, what, i'd like to know?" "my shell chain--so there! you've tried and tried to get it away, and you never could!" at which comforting remembrance she broke into a laugh, which was so infectious even morton had to smile. but he turned from her with a disdainful gesture, only to meet sara's anxious, questioning eyes. "well, i've shipped," he answered doggedly, "that's what!" "morton!" with the word all the strength seemed to go out of her, and she dropped weakly into a chair. "who with?" she asked sternly, for once forgetting even grammatical rules in her intense dismay. "with uncle jabez wanamead; he's going out in a week or two, and needs a boy." "morton, you can't go!" a determined look settling over her white face. "it's a rough, dreadful life! old jabez drinks like a fish, and you'll have to mix his grog a dozen times a day; then you'll have all the dirty work to do, day and night, and be sent aloft where a cat couldn't cling, with the boat pitching like a sturgeon, and, as likely as not, be thrown to the deck with a broken arm, if you're not killed outright. and when all's said and done, you'll never be anything--_any_thing but a fisherman!" "what else was pa?" stoutly. "anybody'd think you was ashamed of him!" she hesitated for a moment, and in her excitement began pacing the room, her face working with contending emotions, while the children sat still and watched her, awed into silence. at length she stopped before them, and seated herself in the chair which had always been that father's when at home, and said, in a voice so sweet and sad that it thrilled even molly's careless little soul,-- "no, morton, never, never ashamed of our father! instead, i love and revere him, for he was a true, good man,--'one of nature's noblemen,' as miss prue once said,--but, listen, morton! it wasn't _because_ he was a fisherman, but in spite of it; for, though it is a life that makes men brave, sturdy, fearless, and honest, it makes them also rough, profane, and careless in life and death; in fact, it develops their bodies, but not their minds or souls. "and, o morton, i so want you to be all that father was, and something more. i want you to be educated and refined. that mr. glendenning was as brave as the best of our fishermen, and dared face any storm, but how kind he was, and gentle! how respectful to poor zeba, how thoughtful for his aunt and uncle, and what a gentleman in every way! morton, i want _you_ to be a gentleman too." "he can't, sara," put in molly, her eyes big and round, "he's too poor; a man's got to have at least a hundred dollars to be a gentleman, and morton hasn't but three cents." sara smiled, and the boy looked slowly from one to the other in a ruminating way. "but everybody's twitting me with being a lazy good-for-nothing, sara, and i can't stand it! besides, i told uncle jabe i'd go, and now i've got to." "you can't; i forbid it!" her eyes flashing. "go at once and tell him that it is not to be thought of." it was an unwise speech, as sara instantly felt; for morton, though he could be coaxed into almost anything, was worse than a mule when driven. now the dogged look she was learning to dread settled over his face, and he squared his shoulders sturdily. "well, i guess you'll find i can, sara olmstead, and it will take somebody older and bigger'n you to stop me, too! so 'forbid' till you're tired, if you like; i've given my word, and i'm going--that's settled!" the poor girl's heart sank like lead, and she could have bitten her unruly tongue out for those foolish words. she knew only too well that morton would have the support of nearly all their friends in killamet, who could see no reason why he should not follow his father's calling, and begin, like him, at the bottom of the ladder, as "the boy." though they knew the hardness of the life, they reasoned that it "helped toughen a youngster, and make a man of him." to them, sara's ideas were foolish and high-flown, their notion of a "gentleman" being too often associated with city "lubbers" who came down to spy out the land--and sea--in their ridiculous knickerbockers and helmets, and who did not know a jib from a spanker, or had any idea when a sailor spoke of the "hull" of his vessel, that he referred to anything but the sum of its component parts! gentlemen, as a class, were not held in high esteem at killamet. even captain norris laughed at fine manners, and would doubtless say,-- "oh, give the boy a chance to try his sea-legs, if he wants to--a little toughening won't hurt him." no one but miss prue would thoroughly sympathize with, and stand by her, and what were she and miss prue against so many? they ate their supper in a glowering silence, unusual in that cottage, even molly for once being oppressed by the gloomy faces about her; then, still in silence, she washed the few dishes, while sara undressed the baby; morton, meanwhile, taking up a school-book, in which he sat apparently absorbed, until his twin, happening to pass behind him, stopped, and, with a flip of her dish-towel, cried out,-- "why-y, mort olmstead, you're studying your g'oggerfy upside down!" he gave her a scowl, but his face flushed sensitively, as he quickly reversed the book, and sara, turning a little from the fire, where she was cuddling the baby, met his eyes with so loving and tender a look that he could scarcely bear it. something rose in his throat, threatened to rise in his eyes too, and feeling that his only safety lay in flight, he muttered that he had an errand down town, caught up his hat and worsted tippet, and ran out of the door, nearly knocking some one over who stood upon the step. "well, i like being welcomed with open arms," laughed a manly voice outside; "but there is such a thing as too hearty a greeting, eh, morton?" and the boy, too dazed to speak, re-entered the room, followed by mr. robert glendenning. chapter x. robert glendenning. sara rose, with the now sleeping baby in her arms, and stood with the firelight playing over her noble young form, and with something--was it the firelight too?--flushing her sweet, sensitive face. she had no idea what a picture she made, nor how fair she appeared in the eyes of the young man in the doorway; for her thoughts were full of chagrin at what seemed the untidiness of the room, with baby's clothes and the children's books scattered about, and the fact that she had on an old, worn dress, instead of the boston cashmere. for she did not realize that our most beautiful moments come from thoughts within, and are quite independent of dress and adornment, and that to-night the struggle she had been through made her expression so lovely, she had never been more attractive. she held out the hand that could best be spared from the little one's support, and said cordially,-- "i'm very glad to see you, mr. glendenning; are your aunt and uncle here?" "no, miss olmstead; i left them in boston, and just ran down for a day or two, before i go west once more. i--had business." she saw him seated before she stepped to the alcove bed to lay the baby down, then, coming back, took a seat on the other side of the fireplace, and asked softly,-- "have you heard?" "yes," in the same tone; "miss zeba told me. you did not write to auntie?" "i could not--yet." there was a little pause, which was broken by an outburst from the other side of the room, where the children were supposed to be studying. "i tell you 'tis too, morton olmstead. i'll ask sara, now!" "well, molly, what is it?" she turned to ask. "isn't it right to say 'seven and six _are_ twelve?" morton says it isn't." "why, certainly," began sara obliviously, when the guest interposed,-- "how'll seven and _five_ do, molly? perhaps that will suit morton better." molly tossed her head at her grinning brother, pouting an instant, then broke into a giggle, as she caught the full force of the sell, and went on with her sums, while sara remarked,-- "i am not quick at such things, mr. glendenning. i wish i were! you spoke of going west just now; do you go soon?" "yes; my home is in chicago. i have been east nearly six months on business for my firm, and now am recalled." she looked pensively into the fire, and he thought he heard a little sigh, which perhaps encouraged him to go on, though it was with something like embarrassment that he said,-- "i felt before going so far that i ought to make a call on some of the good people here: it may be years before i return." "h'm," muttered molly; "i tell you, if i ever get away i'll never want to come back." "well, nobody'd want to have you, either," muttered her brother in return. "a girl who can't add two simple little numbers!" molly contented herself with making a face at him, and the two by the fire continued their rather patchy discourse:-- "i have sometimes thought," said sara, "that we will have to leave here now, though i haven't much of an idea where we should go, or what i could do--but i must do something soon." he was longing to ask all sorts of questions, but dared not; instead, he leaned forward, and said earnestly,-- "miss olmstead, i have been thinking of that, and i want you to promise me you will not take any decisive step without consulting my aunt. if i had known--all, i would have brought her with me, but here is her latest address," producing a card. "write her everything, and let her counsel you, will you?" she bowed her head. "it's very kind of you all to care, and if you are sure she would not be annoyed"-- "annoyed? what an idea! why, aren't you both daughters of the king? doesn't that make you sisters? i know you will not break your word, miss olmstead." "no, she won't," said molly briskly; "when she says she is going to send us to bed early, she always does it." "molly!" cried sara, half-laughing, half-angry, "i think it must be your bedtime, now." "there! that's just because you want to talk to mr. glendenning," whined the child. "last night, 'cause you was lonesome, you let us sit up till nine. i don't think it's fair!" "well," laughed the young man, to cover sara's embarrassment, for she had blushed like a rose at this, "i did have something in my pocket; however, as it's only for early-go-to-beders, i don't believe i'll produce it to-night." molly was on her feet in an instant. "i always go to bed early, mr. glendenning, only when sara wants me to sit up, like last night: you don't blame me for that, do you?" "indeed i don't; and seeing you're so anxious to go to-night, i think i will give it to you, after all," slowly drawing a package from the pocket of his great-coat, which was thrown over a neighboring chair. molly grasped it, managing to get out a hurried "thank you," under sara's eyes; pulled at the string, whirled around a few times in search for a knife, though morton was holding his out all the time, and finally, getting to the box, snatched at its cover--and dropped the whole thing, the bonbons inside rolling all over the floor. "oh, oh, oh! sara," she screamed, dancing up and down, "they're running away! what are they?" the young man laughed heartily. "only french creams and candied fruits, child; you may not like them as well as miss zeba's striped lemon and horehound sticks, but i thought i'd give you a taste of vanity fair, at least." "is that its name?" asked molly, who had secured a chocolate-cream, and was now burying her little white teeth in its soft lusciousness. "oh, how sweet! and it melts while you're tasting. is vanity fair all that way?" "pretty much," he said gravely, with an odd look at sara. "well, it's nice," she concluded, after a second taste, "but there isn't much to it; you can't _chomp_ it like horehound, or wintergreen candy. _i_ like to chomp!" "i presume so, and suck lobster-claws too, don't you? the fact is, i fear your tastes are too commonplace for you to thoroughly relish these french sweeties, and i'm glad of it! now, don't eat too much to-night, for a very little of vanity fair goes a great way, you'll find. and now, good-night." "good-night, sir. i suppose some is for morton?" "i left that to your magnanimity." "my who?" bewilderedly. "do you mean sara? well, then, i may as well give him half this minute, 'cause she'll certainly make me," and the two finally disappeared, molly laboriously counting over the recovered bonbons, to be sure the division was exact. he turned back to sara. "it is too much care for you," he said warmly. "think of that boy, who will soon be beginning to assert himself, and molly, who is enough to keep a whole family on the alert, to say nothing of the baby. how are you going to manage?" his reference to morton reminded her of their difference, which for a time she had forgotten, and she told him about it, adding,-- "what can i do?" "stand firm," he said at once. "but wait; i see how hard that will be, with the whole town against you. let me think." she waited, watching him, while he gazed into the fire. finally he turned again to her. "you spoke of leaving here, why not do so now, soon? put it to morton that you need his protection and help, and go to boston. you have some means?" "yes." if sara had mentioned the sum of these, the young man would have been aghast; but, accustomed as she was to the most frugal living, it seemed large to her. "then what is to hinder?" eagerly. "uncle leon will stay there this winter, anyhow; and they can find you a small flat, where you could keep house in a cosey way. then there are things you can do at home, i am sure; things for the woman's exchange, say, that'll help you out." sara's eyes brightened. it was her dream to go out into that wider life she had read of, and this seemed her opportunity. "what would i have to pay for such rooms?" she asked. "oh, that would depend on locality, the conveniences, and so on; probably from eighteen to thirty dollars, although i am more familiar with western than eastern rentals, but i presume that's somewhere near it." sara, supposing him to mean this as the yearly rental, thought it moderate enough, and went on,-- "if it were not for baby, i could teach perhaps, or go out to sew; but i'll have to wait till he's older for that." "would you take the baby?" he asked surprisedly. "how could i leave him?" she returned. "i thought perhaps--didn't your stepmother have any relatives?" "a few; but they are not people with whom he would be happy," she said simply. he looked at her with a puzzled face, made a move to speak, then stopped, ashamed to utter what was in his mind; ashamed to tell her that such devotion to a half-brother would hardly be expected of her, and that, freed from him, she might make a far easier start in life. instead, he merely nodded his head understandingly, and kept silence, feeling that here was a nature not to be approached, except with care and reverence, first putting off the dust-soiled shoes of custom and worldly prudence, as unfit to enter there. after a little more talk he rose reluctantly. "our good mrs. updyke will be scandalized to see a light here after half-past nine," he remarked lightly. "have you any word to send to aunt felicie?" "always my love and reverence," said sara, with a touch of the old- fashioned manner that robert thought one of her greatest charms. "and, if you think i may trouble her, i will write what there is to tell, though even miss prue does not know all the dreams i have had for the future." "why should she?" asked the young man jealously. "my aunt may not be so old a friend, but i am sure she is as good a one." "she's more than kind! i can't understand," with a little burst of confidence, "why you are all so good to a poor fisherman's daughter like me?" they had risen, and he had shaken himself into his fur-trimmed great-coat; now he turned, hat in hand, and looked down upon her, for, though sara was tall for a girl of eighteen, he towered well above her. "you ask why?" he began in a quick, eager tone, then something in her calm face seemed to alter his mind, or at least speech, for he added more carelessly, "do you think it so queer? but you forget you are a princess!" laughing lightly. "well, good-night; it is time for me to go," and, with a more hasty farewell than he had intended, he turned, and left her standing in the doorway. * * * * * the next morning he was sitting before a cheerful grate fire in his aunt's private parlor at a certain hotel in boston, his long legs stretched towards the blaze, and his chin dropped meditatively on his breast, while she, at the other end of the leopard-skin, worked busily on some fleecy white wool-work, occasionally glancing towards his darkly-thoughtful face. "ah, well, robare," she said at last, "this is then your last evening here?" he shook himself a little, sat upright, took his hands from his pockets, and, forcing a smile, turned to her. "yes, aunt felicie; and a nice way to spend it, glowering at the fire! where's uncle?" "he has to that meeting gone at the natural history building; i cannot its name remember. why? had you a private word to say?" "well, i haven't told you about my trip yet, to killamet." "ah! it was then to killamet that you have been? i have thought so, though you did say it was a business trip." "and so it was, partly; old adam has sold my yacht, and i went to get the money." "are there, then, no banks with drafts, or notes of post in killamet?" rallyingly. "don't tease, auntie, but listen. i called on the little princess." "of course." "and, aunt felicie, her father is lost at sea, and she is caring for all those little ones, alone." "ah, the poor child! is she then born to trouble, as the sparks do fly upward? are they very, very poor, robert?" "no; she said they had means, though it is probably but little, a thousand or two at most; they seemed comfortable, though you know how plainly they live; and, aunt, she is more beautiful than ever!" "yes, hers is of that kind of beauty that does grow, as her soul grows, for it is from the within. did she to me send any special word?" "yes, her 'love and reverence;' can't you imagine just how she said it, with that little priscilla touch which is so quaintly charming?" then he told of morton's revolt, and the advice he had given sara, at her request; also the promise he had extorted. "and now, aunt, she must have help; not only advice, but other things perhaps." "never from you, robare!" sharply. "of what are you thinking?" "you have always let me help in your charities, auntie," he said in a wheedling tone; then, tossing back his head suddenly, "but this is different, of course; only just think, aunt felicie, how the poor child's hands are tied!" "but the poor child's spirit is not, my robare, and it is that of a free-born fisher-lass, who would not be dependent, even in its thought; leave sara to me, my dear boy; i think it is that you may trust my discretions, is it not?" he leaned forward, caught the pretty white hand from its flying task, crushed it against his lips, then, flushing hotly, rose from his chair, and walked down the room, ashamed of the agitation he could not suppress. there was silence for a moment, while the perky little bougival clock on the mantel ticked merrily, and madame's needles kept the time; then robert broke it abruptly. "aunt, i'm almost twenty-four." "yes." "and worth a clear ten thousand." "yes." "and make at least three thousand a year." "yes." "and uncle and yourself are my nearest relatives." "i am aware." "well, haven't i a right to please myself?" "you haven't a right to tie yourself by your hands, and your feet, for a whimsey which may pass away. go back to your busy chicago, my robare, and work hard, and live the right, pure life for one year, then tell me what is your thought." "_must_ i, auntie?" it was with the old boyish voice and manner he said this, and his aunt broke into a laugh, though her eyes were wet. "you naughty child! will you now obey your good _tante_, or not?" "yes, ma'am, i will; but you will keep me posted?" "possibly, my boy," bending carelessly over her work. "aunt felicie," he strode up to her with sudden passion. "do not answer me so! i am a man, and i love this fisher-lass with all my heart!" he had stopped directly before her, and she saw that his face was white with feeling. down went the worsted-work, and, rising, she flung both arms about his neck. "my robare, my nephew, my son!" she cried in a choked voice, "i want the best that earth and heaven can give to you; and you--you do push over my ambitions, and expect that i will at once be glad and gay." "but, auntie, you admire her too." "i do, robare; she is good and fair to see; but you must of the others take thought too, and she does need many teachings, dear." "you'll teach her, auntie?" "oh, be quiet, then!" pushing him pettishly away. "of what use to argue with a man so enamoured? go thy western way; obey me, and i will tell you every week all that there is to tell. are you content?" "i'll have to be," laughing a little at her expression; "but remember," turning in the doorway, "if i don't hear, i shall immediately find that business compels an eastern trip." and, shaking a warning finger at her, he disappeared to his packing in an opposite apartment. madame grandet, meanwhile, resumed her work, and held it till the door had closed behind the young man. then she dropped it, her smiles vanished, and she grew grave and thoughtful; for, though far less worldly than many, she was too much of a frenchwoman to look upon a misalliance without a shiver of dread and apprehension. her relationship to robert was only by marriage, but an own child could not have been dearer, for he was bound to her by all the traditions and ties of a lifetime. his mother, pretty nadine grandet, had been her earliest friend, and they had lived side by side, in a little village on the ouise, until she was wooed and won by the american artist, robert glendenning, who had been attracted to that neighborhood by his studies, and the fame of sevigne, whom he worshipped afar. he finally brought his pretty french bride to america, and they lived happily in an eastern city till the little robert was twelve years old. then a sudden illness took the wife and mother to heaven, leaving the husband and son to keep house in a bohemianish way, until nadine's studious brother, leon, who had meanwhile married the lifelong friend of his sister, felicie bougane, decided to come to america. the grandets had no children, and as soon as the madame's eyes fell upon the little robert, who was wonderfully like his dead mother, her heart went out to him; and from that time on he had been like a son to her, especially after his father's death, a few years later. as the artist was unusually prudent, and no genius, by which i mean he painted pictures which the public could understand, and therefore did buy, he left a snug little sum to his son. this the young man decided to invest in chicago, and chose architecture for a profession, two wise moves, as subsequent events proved. as for his uncle and aunt, they had no settled home, but followed wherever science beckoned, and a wild dance she sometimes led the two, as the poor little madame often thought. but this winter certain proof-sheets anchored them in boston; hence robert's intense desire that sara should make haste to settle under his aunt's protection, before some new flitting should put too great a distance between them. this devoted aunt was ready to make any sacrifice for her dear boy, but not so ready to see him make one; often a much harder thing for a loving heart. the madame, being of huguenot ancestry, and as sturdy a protestant as ever lived, could have suffered martyrdom, like her grandfather of blessed memory, for the faith that was in her; but to see her boy suffer perhaps a ruined life because of one mistake in early manhood, terrified her, and she was now often sorry she had let her artistic admiration for that unusually fine head in the cottage doorway lead her to such lengths the summer before. sara as a pet and _protegee_ was one thing; sara as her nephew's wife quite, quite another! but in her varied life she had learned the two wisest lessons god ever sets his children,--those of waiting and trusting. so, after a half- hour's silent meditation now, she resumed her work with a more cheerful look and manner. "what is done is done," she said in her own tongue. "the only thing left is to make the best of it;" and when robert returned, after completing the preparations for his journey, he would never have dreamed that she had a care upon her mind, or the least foreboding in her heart, to see her bright face, and hear her sunny laughter. chapter xi. betty's quilting-bee. as for sara, the interview with robert glendenning roused her to a new interest in her changed life, and to new hopes and plans, which are always delightful to youth; and these kept her from sinking back into that settled sadness which had been almost unnatural in one of her years. first, she wrote the promised letter to madame grandet, which was no light task for one so little accustomed to the use of the pen. it began stiffly enough, but after the first few sentences the interest of her subject so occupied her, that she forgot to choose her words, and, when afterwards she read it over, she felt almost frightened at its ease and abandon. "i'm afraid she will think it too--too--not respectful enough," she said, eying the closely written sheets dubiously; "but if i write it over i shall have to send morton to zeba's for more paper," and, pressed as usual by economy, she let it go without change, thereby greatly astonishing and delighting the madame. "for," thought she, "a girl who can write like that is of no common clay, and is bound to find her level. if it is to be as the wife of my robare that she reaches it, have i any right to keep her back?" after sara had written the letter, her loyal heart reproached her so that she could not rest until she had also invited a talk with miss prue; so one fine day when there was just a hint of spring softness in the air, as delicate as the flavor in a perfect dish, she wrapped baby in his cloak, and drew him on morton's sled to the cosey bay-windowed cottage. miss plunkett seemed delighted to see them, so was the parrot, who insisted on so much notice at first, that conversation progressed only by hitches; but, becoming sleepy after a time (for miss polly was an ancient maiden, and extremely fond of her "forty winks"), she relapsed into a grunting quiet, and, as baby was also still and happy over some blocks always kept ready for his use, the two soon became deeply engaged. when, however, sara had gotten as far as the removal to boston, the elder woman threw up her hands in dismay. "goodness! child, of what are you thinking? are you left so well off that you can afford even to think of this thing? why, my dear, even i, with my means, which most killamet people think large, would feel as if abandoned to the wolves, there! i couldn't begin to live on my income." sara's eyes opened wide. "but, dear miss prue, i haven't so much altogether as you have in a year." "then, are you crazy, child? you'll feel as if cast on a desert island in that crowd of strangers, with no one to care whether you live or die; and you couldn't live six months on so little." "but mr. glendenning said i could get two or three rooms for somewhere from eighteen to thirty dollars, and i hoped, with the rent of the cottage here"-- "a month, sara, a month; surely you didn't expect to pay so little for a year!" "why, yes, i did; i'm afraid i'm dreadfully ignorant, miss prue." "as bad as a chicken just out of the shell," shaking her head with comical lugubriousness. "go to boston, indeed! you'd starve to death on a doorstep, all four of you, i can see you now, laid out like a row of assorted pins, for all the world. humph! boston, indeed!" with bridling earnestness. "besides, what business has that glendwing, or whatever his high-falutin name may be, to mix himself up with our affairs? i declare, sara, i've a great mind to move the whole lot of you down here, and take care of you myself. i would, too, if it wasn't for polly; but she'd quarrel with the children all day long, and make life a burden." sara laughed, but looked disappointed too. "i see it's not to be thought of now, miss prue; but i hoped i could work there, and indeed i don't know what there is to do here." "well, there's that, of course, and i'll have to own that cousin nancy prime, who lives in hartford, always says, when i talk so, that there's no place where the poor are so well looked after as in a large city; but it seems to me just like a howling wilderness, and, besides, who wants to be looked after? i don't, nor you either; we want to have our own means, and be independent of charity." "yes; but it won't take so very long to finish my little capital, then what will i do if there is no work to be got? and you know there isn't any here." "advertise for summer boarders," said miss prue brilliantly. "i don't know why people shouldn't come to killamet, as well as to fifty other places along this coast. it's only because when they get here there's no place to put them in, or, possibly, they haven't discovered our great merits yet. our beach, and the scenery about it, are finer than those of half the places they throng, and what if they do have to come either by stage or boat the last few miles! it gives all who don't consider time, and are only off for an outing, so much the more variety. if you advertise as i've seen people do before now, you could make it seem a perfect paradise, and not be half so far out of the way, either." "i never thought of that. _i_ take boarders? how queer!" "well, everything's queer, that is about you; my life has been humdrum enough, we all know; but you seem marked out for exceptional fates--and fortunes perhaps." a funny light glinted in the girl's eyes. "i'm afraid the summer boarders would think _they_ had been marked out for hard fortune, after eating my meals. what do i know about fancy cooking?" "nothing; and you don't want to. most of them have got their stomachs so upset by their high-spiced frenchy dishes that they've got to have a change of diet. you can cook fish to perfection, for i've tried you, and make good bread, and you are naturally neat and dainty, which goes for much. take my cookbook home, and study up a few simple, nice recipes this winter, so's to be ready. don't try for too much, but do excellently well all you undertake; and try it. you know i'll help you all i can; i believe you'll succeed!" "but what rooms have i?" "i knew you'd say that, and i am prepared with an answer. there is, to begin with, the spare room off your living-room." "oh, that?" broke in sara, as if miss prue had touched on something sacred. "yes, just that: we all have too much veneration for our spare rooms. now, answer me truly, of what earthly use is it to you?" "why, none; but mother's best things"-- "will lie there, given over to spiders, dampness, and moths, till they fall to pieces. use them; that's what they were made for, and, so far, they haven't fulfilled their purpose in life much better than some of the rest of us," smiling at her own conceit. "get them out, air them, and use them; then, if needs be, and you could get boarders enough to warrant it, you could have the roof raised, and make that loft into two nice rooms; but that is far ahead yet. take two people first, for your spare room, then get mrs. updyke and mrs. filcher to lodge a few more, and you board them. isn't that a scheme?" with a triumphant laugh. "if i can do it; but i'm afraid, almost." "so am i!" with a funny look. these sudden changes of base were a characteristic of miss prue's; perhaps she believed, with emerson, that "unchanging consistency is the mark of a stagnant soul." "but what else is there for you here, safe at home?" "nothing," discouragedly. "if there was only a canning factory, i could work in that." "well, there isn't, so there's no use wishing. after all, i believe my plan is practicable. of course you are young in years, but you've had any amount of experience; then you would only take women and children, and they'd be easy with you." (o confiding miss prue!) "i believe i'd try it, really." if "in a multitude of counsellors there is safety," there is often also confusion, as poor job had occasion to experience; and sara felt that the more she talked about her future, the less she knew what disposition to make of it. finally she abandoned the subject with something like despair, and asked a question in regard to the neighborhood, which made miss prue say quickly, "oh! that reminds me, sara, i want you to be sure to go to betty's quilting-bee; you will, won't you?" "o miss prue! must i? you know i never liked those bees, and now"-- "yes, i understand all that, still i want you to go. i have reasons. you are a king's daughter; make it one of your acts of self-denial." sara laughed. "that seems odd enough, mayn't i ask your reasons?" "no; well, yes, i believe i will tell you after all. i heard two of the girls talking about you the other day, never mind who, and i didn't like what they said. the fact is, sara, they think you feel above them." "oh! how can they?" "well, they do, and perhaps they're half right; there, you needn't color so! _i_ won't say you're not above them, but you mustn't feel so. did you ever think, sara, that you might get up a circle of ten here?" "why, no." "well, why not? it wouldn't hurt the girls, nor you either," dryly. "anyhow, i want you to go to this quilting, wear that pretty new dress, and be just as nice and cordial as you know how." sara sighed, but acquiesced. she had always obeyed miss prue, but this was a trial. she wondered, all the way home, just why it should seem so. did she really feel above the other girls, that they failed to interest her? was it pride that made her long for quiet, and her books, rather than for the society about her? could it be she only cared for miss prue because she was richer and better born than the others? "no!" she said emphatically to that last, "i should love her in rags, i'm sure; but i do like her better because she is neat and trim, and can talk intelligently about anything. i wonder if it's wrong to feel so? i must remember that being a king's daughter makes it more necessary that i should be thoughtful for all. how prettily madame explained those two words, '_noblesse oblige_' to me. 'the nobility of my birth constrains me.' so, if i call myself one of the royal family, how courteous and kind i must be to every one, whether agreeable or not." thus, when the wednesday came which was to see betty's quilt upon the frames, sara left baby, with many instructions, to the children; and, dressed in her best, wended her way to the low brown house in the edge of the pine grove, where betty lived with her parents, and an overflowing household of younger children, and whence she was not sorry to go to the smaller, but less crowded cottage of young nathan truman, second mate of a schooner, of whom she was as proud and fond as if he had been captain of an east indiaman, with both a town and country house. to-day the front room, which resembled sara's, only that its furniture was far more battered and worn, was cleared of everything but a row of chairs, which followed the length of its four walls in lines as even and true as those of an infantry regiment "dressed up" to the toe- mark for inspection; and through the centre, upon the rude and clumsy frame, was stretched a quilt of wonderful construction and a blinding confusion of colors. it was a "remembrance quilt," betty explained, as soon as the company had arrived and filled the funereal rows of chairs, being pieced from bits given her by all of her friends and acquaintances. "here," she said, indicating a point of brick-red calico which helped to form a many-rayed figure, whose round centre was in bright yellow, "is the first new dress ma had after she got merried, and here," indicating a lilac muslin with white spots, "is her weddin' gown itself. then there's a bit of the dress 'at was found on thet gal 'twas cast ashore ten year ago; and there's a piece o' thet one 't zeba osterhaus hed on when she hed her pictur' took, an' these," blushing brightly, "are scraps o' my own dresses thet i ain't wearin' yet. then there's hunderds more, but i guess you'll reco'nize most on 'em. i've pieced it 'star- pattern', ye see,--an' do ye know?--there's one thousand an' ninety pieces in thet thar very quilt!" there was a universal cry of admiration and astonishment at this triumphant announcement. "how long did it take you?" asked zeba, examining the pattern and workmanship with renewed interest. "wall, i've been at it now this goin' on two year; kep' it fur ketch-up work, ye know." "wall, we'd better set to," sniffed mrs. updyke, fitting on a huge steel thimble open at the top; "they ain't much arternoons to these short days, anyhow. i'll take this star, an' you, sairay, may work on the next, so't i kin kinder watch ye. 'twon't do to hev any botch-work on this quilt." sara obeyed, but not with alacrity. it only needed the added discomfort of mrs. updyke's supervision to make her quite wretched; but miss prue, at the other end, happened to look up just in time to see the disconsolate air with which the girl drew her chair forward, and called out sharply,-- "why, what are you doing over there, sara? i thought, of course, i could depend upon you to thread my needles for me;" and sara, not daring to show her pleasure at this release, made a gentle word of excuse to mrs. updyke, and crossed the room to her friend. "oh, thank you!" she murmured, dropping beside the older maiden, who was chuckling slyly; "i couldn't have sewed well at all there, she frightens me so." "humph! well, she needn't, for there isn't a poorer needlewoman in killamet. there's the queer thing about that woman--she can't really do one thing well, yet her satisfaction is complete." all this in an undertone, entirely covered by the scraping of chairs, rustling of dresses, and wagging of tongues, as the company drew up to their positions around the masterpiece; and still thus protected, sara whispered on,-- "but, dear miss prue, tell me, isn't such a piece of work an awful waste of time? calico is only a few cents a yard now, and it does not take such a great deal." "but think, my child," interrupted miss prue with a solemn look, "these remembrances!" and, as if by chance, her finger dropped upon an ugly chocolate colored bit both remembered as having been worn by a poor crazed creature called "silly jane," who belonged in the county house, but spent a good deal of time wandering about the shore. sara burst into one of her rare laughs, and betty called out,-- "what's the fun, sairay? pass it 'round, can't you? we've been a- wonderin' what you 'n' miss prue was a-gigglin' over!" the idea of miss prue's "giggling" rather shocked sara; but that lady answered at once,-- "and _we_'ve been wondering if anybody else would ever take the time to do such a piece of work as this." "oh!" cried betty, quite complimented, "i guess there's plenty would; i enjoyed it! it's such fun, when you're j'inin' the pieces together, to call up where you seen 'em last, an' what the folks that wore 'em was doin'." "well, there's something in that i'll admit; but do you need a piece of my dress to recall my personality to your memory always, betty? if i've got to cut my clothes into bits"-- "oh, no'm," laughing; "but it's different with you. we'd all remember you, of course, but there's some, now"-- "silly jane, for instance? i see you've a piece of her usual gown." betty hardly knew how to take this, but miss prue looked so pleasant and kind, she laughed again. "wall, in course, there ain't much to remember her for; but she was about the only one in town 't i hadn't been to, so i thort i wouldn't leave her aout, ye see." "yes, i see," stooping to bite her thread; at which mrs. updyke sniffed out,-- "wall, fer my part, i think it's a purty nice thing when a gal spends her time in sich work; she cain't be doin' anythin' wuss" (sniff), "that's sartain!" miss prue laughed. "makes me think of grannie green. when her rot of a husband used to be sleeping off his sprees, she'd say, 'i'm allers so thankful when he gits real far gone, fur then i'm sure he cain't be doin' anythin' wuss.'" "dear me!" bridled betty, "i hope you don't mean to compare me to thet wretched old jed green!" "no, my dear; but i used to wonder, then, if he couldn't have been doing something better,--but there! it wasn't to discuss poor old jed green that i came here; but, first, to work on this wonderful quilt, and, second, to ask you girls why you don't get sara to form you into a society of king's daughters here?" "'king's daughters?' we look like king's daughters, don't we?" tittered dolly lee. "very much," said miss prue, with that air of hers which made her so great a favorite, an air of _bonhomie_, almost impossible to describe. "we've been told on good authority that we are made in the king's image, so it must be true." "oh!--_that_?" cried betty. "certainly; you didn't think we free-born yankees--descendants of the puritan fathers--were going to claim relationship with any of those effete european aristocracies, did you?" with a droll look at sara. "n--no." betty, not half understanding, but fully aware of miss prue's drolleries, was determined not to be caught in any trap now, so kept to monosyllables; and the latter, having created sufficient interest to insure a hearing, proceeded to make her explanations in regard to such a circle. in a small, isolated village anything which links one, even distantly, with the great throbbing world outside, is eagerly welcomed by the young. these all have their dreams, hopes, and fancies connected with this sphere on which we move, and they are usually far too wide to be contained within one square mile of territory; unless, perchance, that mile teems so thickly with humanity as to offer every possible form of comedy and tragedy. for it is not trees and hills and skies, or even the sea, which can satisfy youth; but living, breathing, suffering human nature. by and by they tire, perhaps, of the latter, and go back to nature,--in love, as they have never been with man,--but that is after disappointment has made the heart sore. to-day the thought of allying themselves with thousands of other girls and women in the effort to do good, set every pulse to new beating, that had ever throbbed with one spark of love for the master; and there succeeded one memorable quilting where dame gossip was almost entirely excluded. as they scattered for home, after betty's nice supper, sara found herself, as usual, at miss prue's side; and, looking up into her friend's face, said, with a mischievous smile,-- "so that's why you wanted me to go to the quilting, is it? if you had told me"-- "you wouldn't have gone!" interrupted her friend promptly. "i know you so well, sara! there's a--a--well, an aloofness about you that i feel it my duty to struggle with," giving the girl a merry glance; "_some_ people might call it pride,--i don't." sara looked troubled. "i know you think so, miss prue, but i'm sure i don't feel so. what, indeed, have i to be proud of?" sadly. "only," with more spirit, "i can't tell all i know to every one, and it bores me dreadfully to have them tell me all they know!" miss plunkett laughed with enjoyment. she liked to rouse sara occasionally; and listened with dancing eyes as the latter continued,-- "now, yesterday, zeba and dolly came to call (by the way, i was reading your ruskin's 'stones of venice' so think what it was to be interrupted!), and what do you suppose they talked about every minute? why, it seems mrs. felcher has a brother living in boston, who has invited her to visit him, and sent her a box of pretty things; they named over every one, even to a 'frame-bunnit covered with sating, and with a bunch of blows on top!'" miss prue had grown grave. "yet poor zeba could teach us both a grand lesson in cheerful patience," she said gently. sara crimsoned, but did not answer for a moment. they had reached miss prue's gate now, and the latter turned into it. "wait!" the girl then said, almost passionately. "i am not worthy to be a king's daughter! leave me out of your ten; tell them i can't live up to the simple requirements; i"-- "hush! sara," laying a hand on her young friend who was quivering with feeling, "i understand it all; you think the lord has put you into a niche where you do not belong, for which you have no fitness. are you sure you know more than your maker? perhaps he sees that, by clipping a bit here, or adding a trait there, you will be exactly the one for this niche. why don't you try and help this beautiful plan, instead of hindering it?" then, with a quick change of tone, "well, good-night, daughter; remember the first meeting of our circle next thursday: i shall depend upon you!" and she hurried in, not giving time for another word. chapter xii. new fortunes. sara went home with slow steps, and a questioning heart. "am i cold and proud?" she thought. "is it wrong to be indifferent to these petty things about me, and to love books better than people? do i look for defects rather than virtues, i wonder? oh, dear; how much harder it is to _be_ right than to _do right in this hard world!" she opened the cottage door, and saw a sight that drove away all other thoughts; for there sat uncle jabez wanamead in close conversation with morton, while molly, open-mouthed, was holding baby, and drinking in every word. it was a great shock to sara; for having returned to the battle with her brother, fresh-armed with authority, after glendenning's departure, she had made such an impression upon him that she supposed he had entirely given up his dream of being a fisherman, and was now only thinking of a flitting to boston. but, evidently, from his flushed, interested face at present all her labor was in vain. uncle jabez rose awkwardly as she entered, with a "good-evenin', sairay, thort i'd call 'round a spell." "good-evening," she said, constraining herself to be pleasant. "it is growing warmer out." "yaas, looks like a break-up, some, makes a feller think o' the banks these days. thort i'd see what mort hed laid aout to do 'bout shippin' 'long o' me." "he is not going," said sara promptly. "i have other plans for him," with a beseeching look at the boy, who avoided her eye. "wall, in course, jest es ye say, but i do s'pose, ef reub olmstead was alive naow, his word would be go." sara winced. during all this struggle she had been cruelly hampered by her feeling that, possibly, she was acting entirely against what was likely to have been her dead father's wishes, and now this fear rose so strongly again as almost to paralyze her. "if he were only here--if i could put the responsibility into his hands--if i had any one," she was saying to herself, when there came a thought that calmed her, as the mother's voice calms a frightened child. "i have a father; why don't i put it in his hands?" her rigid face relaxed into a lovely smile, and, looking at her brother with the winning sweetness she could assume at times, she said,-- "i will say no more about this matter, morton; you have only our heavenly father to answer to now. decide as you think is right. uncle jabez, will you give him till to-morrow?" "sartain, sartain; and, see here, my boy: i'm free to say i've urged ye to go, fur i need a clipper-built little feller like you; but i say naow, ef i hed as good a sister's you've got, i'd think twicet afore i went agin her, an' thet's the truth." there was no mistaking his earnestness; and as he picked up his old tarpaulin, and shook hands with sara in farewell, the respect and friendliness of his manner thrilled her with pleasure and surprise. after he had gone she talked lightly about other matters, had a frolic with molly and the baby, helped morton with his examples, and mended a coat of his which had come to grief, all as if there were not a care upon her mind, and indeed there was none; she had cast it on the lord. morton was very quiet all the evening, but just before he mounted the steep steps to his chamber in the loft he came to her side. "sara," he said. she looked up sweetly. "i've decided." "yes, morton?" "i'm going to stay at home." "my dear, good brother!" she drew him down and kissed him tenderly, while the tears stood in the eyes of both; and from that moment there was a new bond between them, stronger than the past had ever known. one day some weeks later morton came in with a large roll from the post- office, and threw it into sara's lap. "ah!" she said eagerly, "it is professor grandet's hand; what can he have sent me?" and hurried to tear the wrapper open. inside were several articles in pamphlet form, two being his own composition, and the rest by another well-known scientist, all relating to the strata and minerals of this very portion of the coast. being just then at leisure, she began one in which a certain sentence had caught her attention, and soon looked up with an air of excitement. "see here, morton! this is certainly a mistake; and in b----'s paper, too," reading aloud a certain statement in regard to the rock formations about a mile inland. "he has, you see, made the same mistake we did at first in regard to the dip of that vein, and which we afterwards discovered to be wrong, when we came across the outcropping near the old judd farm. don't you remember?" "yes," said morton, dropping his fish-lines to come nearer; "let's hear what he says about it." she read him a page or two, and they talked the matter over still further; then she continued her reading, only to break out again after a little. "listen, morton! professor grandet is with us. he isn't sure, but, from surface indications, he thinks just as we do, and the two men are having a great argument. they're going to discuss the matter next week before the geological society. do you know, i'm half tempted to write professor grandet what we have discovered? it might make it perfectly clear to him." "well, i would," said morton, going back to his lines, more interested in them than in what, had he known it, was to have a great and lasting influence on his own and sisters' lives. so next day sara seated herself, with an old atlas for a desk, and wrote with care and precision what she had to tell; then, directing the missive, she went to the old teapot in search of the two cents to pay its postage. as she lifted the lid and peered in, a sigh escaped her, for the little store of silver and copper was getting low; soon it would be necessary to take another bill from the roll of greenbacks so carefully hoarded; and the thought alarmed her, for already it was greatly reduced in size; then, remembering the lesson of dependence she was trying to teach herself, she took out two of the pennies, and resolutely replaced the lid, resolving not even to think of what it was, apparently, beyond her power to remedy. yet she could not keep herself quite free from worry these days. each change of season in our fickle climate means expense; and now the spring was coming on, bringing its especial needs, her feeling was often one of sick despair. it is so hard for the young to learn simply to wait; and poor sara felt that, to make the outlay necessary for the reception of summer boarders, would actually impoverish them, and then--what if the boarders never came? the thought was appalling! in this frame of mind she was putting on their frugal supper of dried herring, with baked potatoes and salt, a few weeks later, when morton dashed in. "my gracious, sara! i believe you get more mail than even squire scrantoun. just look at these!" there was another roll, evidently pamphlets, and two letters,--one from professor grandet, the other in an unknown hand. she hurriedly opened the professor's, and struggled through its tangled and much abbreviated chirography, looking up finally with a pale, puzzled, yet radiant face. "i can't quite make it out. i think--it seems to say that my letter has done him much good; he says it was read before the society, and is printed somewhere." "perhaps it's in that paper book," suggested molly, looking up from a shell box she was making. "this? why, yes; i didn't think,"--tearing it open. "this seems to be a report of the twelfth annual meeting"-- "oh, do look and see if it's got your letter in!" broke in impatient molly, springing up, and letting her shells drop in a pearly shower to the floor. sara turned the leaves excitedly, then stopped; and her sweet face flushed a vivid crimson. "it is--it is here--in print--just as i wrote it; and it says, 'letter from miss sara olmstead, of killamet, in which the vexed question is definitely settled.'" many of us have experienced the tingling rapture of seeing our opinions in print for the first time; but it could be to few what it was to sara, isolated, and of humble station as she was. it seemed as if that thrill of pleasure came from the very centre of her being, and tingled even to her finger-tips, while morton and molly, more demonstrative, if not more glad, danced about her with regular whoops of delight; after which the former mounted an uncertain chair for a rostrum, and read off the modest, concise, and clear little epistle with a flourish that ending in a crash, as the chair gave way, and landed him in the midst of molly's shells, with crushing effect. "oh, oh!" laughed sara, "do be careful;" while, with a scream of dismay, molly fled to the rescue of her treasures. amid the hubub the excited girl had almost forgotten the other letter; but, as quiet was restored, she opened it, and read, with such astonishment as no words can depict, this business-like note:-- miss sara olmstead: _dear madam_,--on recommendation of professor grandet, after reading your letter lately published in the twelfth report of the m. g. and m. society, i am empowered by the board of control of dartmoor college to tender you a position in the geological department, as assistant to professor macon, in charge. the duties are not heavy,-- mostly classification and correspondence,--and will only require your attendance six hours per diem. the salary is ten dollars per week. please reply, stating your decision, as soon as possible, and address, yours truly, j. g. adams. sara looked up with something like awe. "morton," she said in a tone that almost frightened him, it was so solemn, "the lord is taking care of us; we needn't have any more fear now, for we are safe with him." i think few people sat down to a happier, though not many to a more frugal meal than theirs that night. sara had not then a misgiving in regard to her fitness for the position; she was so filled with the impression of its being heaven-sent, that she felt, as did the apostles of old, that "words would be given her, what she should say," and wit also, what she should do. as to the salary, it seemed princely to these modest little folk; and the only wonder was, how they should ever spend it. "but how will you manage about baby? i don't suppose they'd let him come to college," giggled molly, with her mouth full of potato, at which she naturally choked, and had to be patted on the back by morton, who perhaps performed the ceremony with more vigor than was necessary. "there! there! morton, gently dear. now, molly, don't speak again till you've swallowed your food. of course i will have to find some good, trusty person to look after baby while i'm gone, for i mean you both to go to school every minute that you can." the child made a wry face at this. "and i just know they'll have it most a hundred weeks in a year; they always do in big cities, hattie felcher says so." "no, they don't," said morton promptly. "well, i guess she knows, mort olmstead! her uncle lives to boston, and"-- "well, she don't, if she says that!" calmly boning his sixth herring. "she does too!" red with excitement; "she was there visiting when she was a baby, and she"-- "hush, molly! morton, why will you be so tantalizing? think a minute, dear, and tell me how many weeks there are in a year; then you'll see what morton means." molly, after an instant's calculation, saw the point, and shot a wrathful glance across the table. "well," she remarked, in a judicial summing up of the matter, "you may think you're smart, but that don't help your fare and hands from being so greasy they're just disgusting; and i don't care, so!" "neither do i," said morton, calmly attacking his seventh herring, and his hot-headed little sister, as usual, was vanquished by his superior coolness and precision. this time even miss prue was satisfied, and entered heartily into all the plans and arrangements for the flitting, while morton forgot his own disappointment in the interest of this great change. they were in the midst of the packing, sara, miss prue, and morton, with molly guarding the baby, who had a savage desire to snatch at everything and destroy it, when the elder maiden laughed out,-- "sara, i've a scheme; you can let the house as a summer cottage, instead of taking the boarders i once insisted upon. now, come! isn't that an idea?" "if i can't sell it," said sara. "of course, but then you can't. nobody ever sells anything in killamet except tobacco. i doubt if you could give it away!" sara smiled and sighed in a breath. "i'd hate to do either, but i fear it will never be our home again, so why cling to it? but really, do you suppose any city family would be satisfied with this?" indicating the large, littered room with a sweeping gesture. "why not, just for the summer? they crowd into far more uncomfortable places, i'm sure. i can imagine this room with pretty rugs and cane chairs, and a hammock slung across the alcove, and a pinebough ablaze in the fireplace, being a most attractive nook some cool summer evening, after a long day of blue-fishing; and there's one nice bedroom besides the loft." sara shook her head dubiously. "i wish some one would take it, but i'm afraid it will have to stay closed and useless. molly, molly! do watch the baby; he's just starting for the best glass sugar-bowl with the hammer, and i think he has some tacks in his mouth." baby having been made to disgorge his too sharp repast, the talk ran on to other things, miss prue giving much valuable advice on "how to live on ten dollars a week;" but the sage maxims were so interspersed with hammerings, hunts, and hurry, that i fear much of their value was lost on sara. it happened to be a fair day when they left for the new home, and it seemed as if all killamet turned out to bid them god-speed. they ate their last dinner with faithful miss prue, then, accompanied by a goodly little procession, walked down to the beach, where jasper norris, who had somehow happened home a few days before, was waiting with his tidy little wherry to row them across the bay to norcross, where they would reach the railroad, their goods having been sent by wagon a day or two before. it was curious to see how differently each of the olmstead group was affected by this leave-taking. sara was pale and still, and her beautiful, sad eyes heavy with unshed tears; morton had an air of manliness new and good to see, and seemed determined to look after every one and everything; molly's cheeks were red, and her eyes aglow with excitement, as her feet danced over the white sand, while baby laughed at the surrounding friends with charming impartiality, and talked every minute in his own particular dialect, which eye and motion made almost as intelligible as the queen's english. at length they stood on the crescent beach, the sea rolling in at their feet, as sara had watched it so many times. a fresh april wind curled the waves into fluffy white turbans (as molly observed), and an april sun gave them an almost blinding sparkle. each lighthouse gleamed whitely across the bay, and the tall cliff rocks stood out in bold relief against the dazzling blue of the sky; but jasper saw it all as through a mist, for his heart was heavy. what did this departure portend? would it break up their life-long friendship? he was glad to see his mother take sara's hand, and, as she kissed her tenderly, exact a promise that she would write occasionally. but when the others crowded around, each eager for the last word, he turned away and busied himself with his tiller-rope, sick at heart. at last the good-bys were all said; morton had taken his seat at the rudder, and molly was nestled with baby on a cushion in the bottom of the taut little boat, when, just as jasper was holding out a hand to help sara aboard, she turned and gave a last, long, lingering look over the quaint little town in its radiant setting of sea and sky. "good-by, all--all i love!" she said brokenly, then turned to jasper, and was soon silently seated in her designated place. the young man, also silent, took up the oars to fit them into the rowlocks, when suddenly molly was seen scrambling to her feet. "wait, jap, wait!" she cried eagerly, and leaping over the seats, sprang lightly ashore. "why, what is it?" "have you lost something?" "what can the child want?" were some of the questions showered after her from boat and beach, as she was seen to stoop and plunge a quickly bared arm into the water. she drew it forth again, and held up something green and many-clawed. "it's just a lobster i saw," she said calmly, as she climbed back to her place with the surprised crustacean gingerly suspended from her dripping hand. "we can boil it to-morrow, sara, then i'll have the claws to suck; where shall we put it so't it won't grip the baby?" the laughter called forth by this characteristic escapade effectually dispelled all tears and sadness. even jasper grinned, as he handed the creature on to morton, to be thrown into the bait-box under the stern-seat, and, amid lighter sallies and laughter, instead of tears, they rowed away. but sara's eyes rested upon her well-loved birthplace until they had rounded the lighthouse, and the familiar scene was quite shut out by the intervening tongue of land. it was about mid-afternoon when the little party entered the railway coach at norcross; and this being molly's first glimpse of a train of cars, her eyes would have put an owl's to shame for size and roundness, as she sat on the very edge of the seat, and stared uneasily about her. jasper, having fixed them comfortably, gave a hurried hand to each, leaving the last for sara. he had thought a dozen times just what he would say to her at parting, but everything went out of his head in the nervousness of that last anxious moment, with the engine apparently determined to run away with all who would linger over their farewells, and he simply uttered a choked "well, good-by, sairay!" as he held her hand an instant in a trembling clasp. "good-by, jasper, i shall not soon forget your kindness; but do hurry off before the train starts." so does the rush and rattle of modern times overpower romance and sentiment. but, safe on the station platform, he watched the one window he cared for with misty eyes, while sara on its other side felt that the last of home was leaving her, while before her stretched only a strange, untried, uncertain future. chapter xiii. from killamet to dartmoor. the train started with a shriek, faintly echoed by excited molly, the bells clanged, belated men swung themselves up to the rear platform, there was the quick panting of impatient haste through the monster's whole length, till the jerks settled into a contented glide, and molly's distressed puckers broadened into a smile of delight. "it's like flying!" she gasped, turning from her intent gaze out of the window. "everything's flying, only the trees and fences all go the other way. i tell you i like it!" dartmoor was about a three hours' ride distant, so it was not yet dark when they reached there, and were met by madame grandet, who had been in the college town with her husband for a fortnight. how good it was to see her charming face again! sara felt the stricture of forlornness and fear about her heart loosen suddenly at sight of her. "here are you all then, quite safe and well!" she said merrily, as she took the baby from his sister's tired arms, "and i have a carriage for you; pray follow." they obeyed; and soon the party were driving through the broad, quiet streets, bordered by old elms and maples whose summer foliage must stretch a green canopy quite across them, thought sara. she gazed about her, and was delighted with the comfortable, old-time look of the deep-verandaed houses, set solidly in the midst of green lawns, outlined by winding shell walks of dazzling whiteness. once she uttered a cry of pleasure, as they crossed a large green park interspersed by broad avenues, with a pile of gray stone buildings surrounding three of its sides, while elms of rare height and grace were scattered irregularly over its velvety surface. "it is the campus that you now see," said the madame, answering the question in her eyes, "and those large buildings are of the college a part. do you observe over this way, to our right, a wide, wide arch with a statue above? it is the entrance to the museum, in which you do work, and this beautiful street we drive upon, it is the college avenue, and here are the homes of the faculty that we now pass." "do we live with the faculty?" inquired molly, whose neck seemed in danger of dislocation, so constantly did she keep it twisting and turning. "ah! no, hardly so," laughed the madame; "it is on a little street that i do find apartments for you, but it is nice there; i do hope you will be pleasured." "oh, i'm sure we will! baby dear, don't chew your pretty cloak-strings, you will spoil them. ah! is this the place?" as they whirled around a corner and stopped shortly in a narrow but clean court, surrounded by small, trim cottages with tiny squares of green in front. the madame led them up a gravelled foot-path--there were no fences--to a door in one of these, which she opened and entered. "follow, follow!" she called out merrily, and flitted up the narrow, uncarpeted stairway. she stopped at the head of this, and stood till all had gathered about her in the dim little hall-way, then, with a graceful flourish, cried, "behold then!" and threw wide a door. there was a universal shout of satisfaction, which made the madame's eyes dance, while sara's grew misty with feeling; for that kind little frenchwoman had almost settled their rooms for them, doing all an outsider could do, so that the bare, homeless look many of us can remember when newly entering a tenantless house, was quite removed. after the first pause of surprise, the children began running wildly about, while the madame and sara took it more leisurely. "see," said the former, "it is here your sitting room, with three pleasant windows, and a bit of a fireplace under this wooden mantel. when it is dressed with something bright it will not so bare seem. here are two cosey bedrooms with the air and light, and a so large closet between, besides this cunning little bath-apartment, which i know you will much prize. then here," throwing open a door, "is your kitchen, with two fine windows, and this tiny range. is it not pretty?" she ran about, showing its conveniences, and explaining how these apartment-cottages were built by a humane society, to furnish comfortable homes for those who had little means, ending:-- "and the rent, my dear, it is so small--so very small--only a little ten dollars a month!" it did not seem small to sara, but she would not damp the madame's enthusiasm by saying so; and in time she learned to appreciate, and be grateful for, this really cosey flat at so low a rental. "the family below is very nice," said madame; "their name it is hoffstott, and he is a little german baker of much baldness on his head, but greatly smiling and pleasant; the wife is about the same in her width as she is in her height, and laughs with a big mouth, and white teeth fine to see; and they have two little girls with yellow braids, like that candy of molasses miss zeba did have in her windows--and all so clean! ah!" with a charming gesture, "it do shine through every room with soap and sand, and the brush that scrubs!" "dear me!" sighed sara, "i'm afraid i can never suit them then; baby will get things around so!" "never do you fear of yourself, little princess!" tapping her gently on the shoulder. "i can still in my mind see your beautiful white floor and shining window-panes, down there by the sea. you, too, are clean, my sweet child, i know! now, have you any supper had?" "why, no, not a bit!" laughing. "i had almost forgotten." "well, i hadn't," said morton, "i'm about starved!" "i, too!" cried molly, and the baby put in a pathetic plea for "bed-e- mik" that was irresistible. "ah, such fun!" cried the madame merrily, as she whisked off her wraps. "i did think it would be so, and i had that good hoffstott to send us a nice little tin kitchen that i now have hidden away in the warm oven; and see! i did take some dishes out of the barrel. we will have a supper to make a _chef_ rave with envy soon!" if it would hardly produce so dire an effect on a head-cook, it certainly gave supreme satisfaction to the partakers; for in the tin kitchen, which seemed to prying molly like some fortunatus box, was a dear little pot of baked beans, some steaming rolls, and potatoes baked in their jackets, while from a cooler place came a dainty glass of jam, and some cake. it was now dark, and the children felt surrounded by wonders. as molly expressed it, "madame just turned a handle, and the light shot out; and turned another, and the water fell out;" and she asked, innocently enough, if, when they wanted milk or tea, all that people had to do here was just to move a handle, and let it run out of the wall! but madame, after her laughter, answered this by proceeding to steep some tea in an odd little contrivance over the gas-jet, much as sara did over the log- fire at home; but neither morton nor molly would have been surprised to see food come sliding in, all cooked, or clothes all made, by the simple turn of a crank, so like fairyland was it all. when, at length, the kind madame left them, sara looked about her with an odd feeling, half forlorn, half thankful. it was certainly a snug little haven, yet everything was so new and strange she felt as if she could never get used to it. but, during the next day or two, which was passed busily, getting the rooms into better shape, she gradually grew accustomed to the odd contrivances, and acknowledged their convenience. mrs. hoffstott came up, and kindly offered her services, and the baby took such a fancy to the good-natured german woman that he would hardly leave her for any one but sara. as to the little girls, they fraternized with morton and molly at once, and introduced them to their home below, and their father's shop on a neighboring street, before the day was over. by sunday morning--their flitting had been on a certain thursday-- everything was in excellent order, and sara had begun to feel that the little flat was indeed home; so the blessed day was spent in the quiet and rest they all needed. as they sat around the tiny grate in the twilight, morton looked slowly all about him. the room was square, with a large double window in front, and a single one at the side. by the madame's suggestion, and with her help, these windows and the mantel- shelf had been prettily draped with inexpensive material, which was, however, delicate in tint and pattern. upon the floor was the only carpet sara owned--old-fashioned, and perhaps too bright for artistic tastes, but looking warm and comfortable that chilly spring evening. then there was a table, also draped, while the collection of minerals was conspicuous upon a set of shelves in one corner; and about the fire were a few home-cushioned chairs. plain, to homeliness, as it was, yet the effect was so entirely one of brightness and comfort that morton broke out with,-- "well, sara, this is pretty nice! rather better than uncle jabez's old cabin on the mary jane, isn't it?" "i'm so glad you think so, morton! and i'm sure you will like school here. mrs. hoffstott has taken such a fancy to baby that she will take care of him for me until i can find some one else; so tomorrow we begin our education,--you and molly and i." "you, sara? how funny! why, you are through with yours, aren't you?" "no, molly, i sometimes think i am just beginning; and if you dread the starting in to-morrow, so do i! bring the bible, morton, and let's read a chapter, to give us courage for the ordeal." it was indeed an ordeal! after starting off the children, with the little hoffstotts to pilot them, and seeing baby happy with some toys in their mother's trim kitchen, sara put on her modest wraps, and walked briskly, not giving her courage time to weaken, from the little court toward college avenue. at its farther end she was to meet professor grandet, who lived there in a professional boarding-house of intense respectability and learning, from whence he was to accompany her to the museum, a programme which had been arranged with sara by himself and madame, when they had called saturday evening. she found him awaiting her in the doorway, beside his wife, who greeted her with a cheery word, and bade her, laughingly, have no fear, for she knew all about professors, and really, in most things, they were no wiser than common people! then, laughing mischievously in her husband's face, she gave him a little push down the steps, which came near upsetting both his balance and his dignity. but before he could turn to remonstrate she was volubly bidding him not to go off into a brown study over some plesiosaurus, and forget all about his charge, or make a mistake and introduce her to the dinotherium, instead of professor macon; then, gayly waving her hand, she vanished behind the closing door. "she has ze spirits zat are high--she!" he said with a smile, for everything this bonny wife did seemed good to him. "it is ze best sing zat it ees thus, for she ees much alone--_la pauvre petite!_ now, i must zis sing say to you, mees sara; it will not be allowed zat you keep zat mos' fine colleczione while ze college have you in employ--zat ees contraire to ze rule. what would you with it then? if you it will zell, i s'all be mos' happy to buy, eh?" "certainly, if it is against the rule to keep it; but that seems queer!" "but no, it ees quite right, you zee? ze collecziones mus' be for ze college--all--no private ones; it will not do." "yes, i see; all must work for the general good when making a collection." "yes, yes, it ees so." they were now passing into the museum building, whose wide and lofty corridors sent a thrill of awe through the impressionable girl. feeling very small and young, she followed the professor over the tiled floors, then through two or three large apartments filled with strange looking beasts and birds of a startling naturalness, past long glass cases, where she caught hasty glimpses of everything possible in shell, bone, stone, or mineral, then across a narrow corridor, where the professor stopped and tapped at a door. "enter!" was called loudly from within, and they obeyed. it was a bright, sunny room they stepped into, not large, in comparison with those they had passed through, though here, too, were smaller glass cases, as well as tables heaped with jars and specimens, and two knee- hole desks of fair size. from one of these a gentleman advanced; not a large man, but having a fine head and face. his black hair was thrown carelessly back from a broad white forehead, while his mouth and chin were concealed under a full dark beard. his eyes, of the same dusky hue, peered keenly through glasses. "professor, here i have mine leetle vriend, mees sara olmstead; and zis, mees sara, ees ze good man with whom you do vork, professor macon." the professor and his new assistant shook hands, while the latter felt she herself was being classified and labelled by those penetrating orbs. "i'm happy to meet miss olmstead; pray be seated. don't hurry away, professor grandet; can't you sit down a while, also?" "not zis morning, t'anks; i haf mooch to do. well, mees, i leaves you in good hands; _au revoir._" "good-morning; and thank you," said sara timidly. "thou art mos' velcome; adieu!" and with a flourish of his hat he was gone. "you may take off your wraps in here, if you please, miss olmstead," said professor macon, leading the way to a small cloak-room; then, as she returned unbonneted, he pointed to the desk near his own. "this is your place, and for this morning your work will be labelling these specimens. when you are the least uncertain about one, speak to me, please. you will find everything needed before you." he returned to his own work, and sara soon grew absorbed in hers; for it was the kind of task she liked, and had often spent hours over, for pure amusement. how it brought back the shore and the cliffs! the long rambles inland, also, and the evenings on the floor amid her specimens, down before the drift-wood fire. she forgot her surroundings finally, so interested was she; and once the professor, glancing up, smiled a little at sight of the bent head and eager, intent face. he watched her, unperceived, for some seconds, then, with a nod of satisfaction, returned to his own labors. the three morning hours passed as one in this congenial labor, then there was the brisk walk home to meet the children at a light lunch, and look after baby. she found the little fellow supremely contented with his new quarters, having made loving advances to a gray kitten who, though suspicious of his favors, was too meek to escape them; and mrs. hoffstott declared he had been "so goot as nefar vas!" the older children were voluble over their school, morton talking most of the great, cheerful rooms, with their wonderful conveniences for study; while molly expatiated at large over a little girl with the euphonious name of henrietta may hendrington, with whom she seemed to have fallen rapturously in love! half-past one found them all at work again, and the afternoon hours were even shorter than those of the morning to all but baby, who began to grow homesick towards four o'clock, and who could not be comforted, even by the children, who were out of school at three. he wanted his "wawa," and no one else. it was really pathetic to see how the little fellow clung to her, hiding his pretty wet eyes in her neck, and lovingly patting her shoulder, as he crooned his wordless reproaches in her ear, and mrs. hoffstott, looking on, thought this must indeed be a good sister to win such hearty affection, and felt her own motherly heart warm to the forlorn little orphaned brood. but, as sara climbed the steep staircase, with the child clasped close, and opened the door of their little snuggery above, her heart was full. how had the loving father cared for his children! here she was, a princess indeed, in her own domain, surrounded by her loving subjects; and when she shut the door she seemed to shut out sorrow and care, for here all was peace. how they enjoyed the nice hot supper, and the visit afterward, baby in sara's lap, warming his pink toes before the bit of a blaze, which these chill nights of early spring demanded! then, when the little fellow was in bed, out came the books, and all was still, as molly hunted out lakes and rivers, morton puzzled over fractions, and sara revelled in owen, ready at any moment to give her help to the younger ones. perhaps some dainty miss of eighteen, enjoying her first winter in "society," and counting up her bouquets and admirers after last night's party, might think it too tame an existence; but to sara, reared amid toil, privation, and loneliness, it was a veritable bit of eden. it could not be expected that such a beautiful girl as sara could cross the campus several times a day, and pass unobserved by the hundreds of students who felt this to be their special stalking-ground; and finally, one morning when an unusual number of graceless young "sophs" and "freshes" were on guard there, she was subjected to so many stares, smiles, touchings of the hat, and half-heard remarks, that she entered the workroom with flushed cheeks and a perturbed manner which could not well escape the professor's keen eyes. "you have walked too fast, miss olmstead; there is no such hurry these sunny mornings." "it isn't that, sir; i--it is not agreeable crossing the campus." "ah!" with a lift of the eyebrows and a quizzical look at the lovely disturbed face before him. "i can well believe it! well, there's a better way, if you would like to try it; at least a more secluded one," giving her a keen glance. "when you come down college avenue, watch till you see a large brown house with a tower, and a porch with heavy pillars"-- "oh, yes, sir; and a deep green lawn in front; i've often noticed it." "very well," smiling agreeably, "that's my home. turn in at the carriage-drive, and follow it until you see an opening in the hedge; go through, and keep to the little foot-path; it will bring you here, for it's my own private way." "thank you," said sara, "i will be very glad to use it," and seated herself at her desk in the business-like way she was acquiring, much to the professor's secret amusement. that noon, as he sat opposite his wife at table, he said,-- "marian, i want you to look out of the window about a quarter past one, and you will see a _rara avis_." "goodness! henry, you're not having any of those horrid dinornis things brought to the house, are you?" he laughed. "no, my dear; this rare bird i have in mind is simply a handsome girl, who doesn't enjoy being stared at by the students,--in a word, my little helper, miss olmstead,--and i've told her to travel by my own cross- roads, because she comes in all of a flutter, mornings, after running the gantlet of those college scamps on the campus." his wife gave a quick, appreciative nod. she was a pale, dark-eyed woman, with a face of rare intelligence and sweetness. "indeed i do want a peep at her, henry; she's the fisher-girl with the family on her hands, that madame grandet told us about, isn't she?" "yes, the same; let me give you another croquette, wife." "no, thanks; i've sufficient. and how does she appear, very provincial?" "not at all, that i can see, unless to be modest as a violet, and business-like as a night-editor, be provincial. she speaks good english, and sensible, too, in a peculiarly pleasing voice, and has the most finished manners, to my notion; for she goes quietly about her affairs without fuss or remark, and says what there is to say in brief, clean words. no, she is anything but _outre_." "really, my dear, i never heard you praise a woman so highly before." he smiled quietly. "i neither praise nor dispraise, marian; they are, with one notable exception simply out of my ken, ordinarily; but i like this little girl, where she is, unusually well." "be sure, then, i shall watch for her with all my eyes! don't forget your papers, dear; oh, and turn your pockets inside out at once, please, till i see if you have any of my letters yet undelivered!" he obeyed with a matter-of-course air, which showed this to be a common occurrence with the absent-minded scientist, and having yielded up two dainty, square missives, which he had not carried more than two days, took his departure. an hour later sara turned in at the designated carriage-drive, and followed its windings up near the house, then off towards the dividing hedge, never seeing two bright, interested eyes which were peering through the filmy lace curtains, and taking pleased note of her trim, erect figure in its black dress, and lovely, thoughtful face, below its plain straw hat; then passed through the hedge, and, with all the delight of a child exploring some bit of woodland, followed the well- worn little path, which crossed a corner of the next yard, then skirted a tennis-court, wound by a rather suspicious-looking dog-kennel, then led into an unused grassy lane, reminding her so gently of home that she longed to linger; but, pressing on in her narrow way, she finally brought up before a gray stone pile, in which was a small door, and, opening it with some caution, found herself in the tiny square entry just back of the familiar cloak-room. professor macon took in her pleased face at a glance. "you liked my little by-way?" he asked. "immensely!" with a hearty accent. "may i always use it?" "most assuredly!" and without more words both bent to their absorbing tasks. chapter xiv. new friends, new duties, and a new loss. the sale of sara's collection to professor grandet brought her a neat little sum, with which she added a few much-needed articles of furniture to her rooms, making them more modern and comfortable; and through mrs. hoffstott she finally succeeded in finding a trusty little girl, who was glad to come during the hours of sara's absence to tend baby and do the left-over bits of work for the pittance she could afford to pay. even this left a perilously small amount for the house expenses, and the clothing of the four; but the latter necessity was made easier by madame grandet and miss prue, both of whom found they had many articles too good to throw away. the latter had pressed enough of these upon sara, during the packing, to make molly and herself quite comfortable, for, as miss prue always wore black, her dresses were suitable now; and, the madame had come to the rescue with some of the professor's cast-off trousers for morton's use. it was one saturday afternoon, and sara, consequently, at home by three o'clock, when she stood, armed with a pattern and some formidable- looking shears, about to attack a light gray pair of these, when there came a quick little "rat-tat-tat" at the door. "open it, molly," she said abstractedly, thinking it might be either kathie or grisel; but instead of the round pink and white face and yellow braids she looked for, there appeared a tall lady, richly dressed, whose pale, fine countenance was quite unfamiliar. the lady advanced. "this is miss olmstead, i know; and i am mrs. macon. i have often seen you through the window at home." sara greeted her with a blush, and drew forward the best chair, inwardly experiencing a deep regret that she had not changed the baby's pinafore, and had kept her cutting operations in the parlor. mrs. macon, however, seemed to notice neither, but praised the baby's pretty rings of hair, saying he reminded her of one of raphael's cherubs, and asked molly about her school, taking in, with evident amusement, the child's original answers, and little twists and tosses, till sara could recover her equanimity, and be her own quiet self once more. then she turned to her with some word of commendation for her laborious life, and added, with a light laugh,-- "you looked quite fierce with your great scissors as i came in. it wasn't the baby's hair you thought of cutting, i hope?" "oh, no, indeed! i wouldn't cut his dear little curls for anything! i was trying to--to cut out some pants for morton." "you poor child! what a genius you must be to attempt it! do you think you can?" the tone of perfect _camaraderie_ seemed to drive away the last vestige of sara's shyness. "i have once or twice at home, but it's different here: the boys dress better, you see, and morton's getting very particular. i've a good pattern, but i do feel a bit frightened to put my scissors into the goods." "of course you do," rising, and going over to the table to look at the pattern pinned carefully over the old garment. "but, my dear, couldn't you cut to better advantage by turning this a little? here, let me show you." with a rapid movement she unfastened and cast aside the jetted lace wrap she wore, and filling her mouth with pins, after the manner of womankind, began mumbling her explanations, as she turned and twisted the paper about, sara, meanwhile, looking on with the earnestness of a priestess of athene, listening to her oracle. months of meeting in fashionable parlors could not have made them so intimate as those ten minutes over that pattern, while their heads bobbed together, and their tongues ran on in unison. for when it was adjusted, mrs. macon insisted on superintending the cutting, and when this was satisfactorily accomplished, to the exclusion of the one worn place, and the ink-spatters, she was as elated as sara herself. "there! we've done it, we've done it! now, if you only get them together right; you're sure you'll remember which is the front, and which the back, and when you stitch them--where's your machine?" "i haven't any," said sara. "dear heart! and were you going to sew those long seams by hand?" sara nodded deprecatingly, as much as to say she knew it was wrong not to have a machine, but she couldn't help it; and her visitor was so charmed with the look in her sweet eyes, that she gave her cheek a playful little tap as she said,-- "it's not to be thought of! i've an excellent machine which stands useless half the time; you shall come and learn to use it: this will be just the thing to begin on. why can't you come now? i'm anxious to see them underway, and, besides, i haven't a doubt morton needs them; boys always are needing new trousers!" sara had to acknowledge that he did; and the upshot was, that in less time than it takes to tell it, baby was turned over to molly, and sara, with her bundle, found herself in mrs. macon's carriage, riding home with her, to the astonishment of the coachman, who had been preparing his mind for a long, sleepy afternoon on the box, while his mistress consulted her list, and made her formal visits. the fact is, she had forgotten all about them; just now the most interesting thing in her rather monotonous life was sara and those trousers. an acquaintance begun in this manner could never be quite formal again. mrs. macon was warm-hearted, and often-times weary of doing nothing in her great silent, childless house. she adopted sara and her little brood from that moment, and to be adopted by marion macon was to fall into good and gracious hands. she led sara, now, straight to the sewing-room, in which was the machine, throwing wide the blinds of the broad window before which it was placed. "did you ever use one?" she asked anxiously, as she removed the cover. "yes, once or twice. miss plunkett had one." "miss plunkett; that's a name i know. i have heard my mother mention a captain plunkett she knew as a girl; they were a good family, the plunketts. then you know them?" sara spoke of the life-long friendship between that family and her own, but in so modest a way that the lady's respect for her increased with every word; but both were too intent on business to give much time to genealogy. sara proved an apt learner, and soon was making the treadle fly, while her hostess, seeing her well underway, ran down-stairs for a time. when she came back sara had performed the cunning task of getting the pockets in place, and was finishing off the long seams. "how rapidly you work!" cried her new friend. "my husband told me how business-like you were." "did he say so? i'm glad he thinks i am!" cried sara, much pleased. "it would be so annoying to a man like him if i were not." "and why to him especially, miss olmstead?" asked the wife curiously. "because he is absorbed in his work, and cares for nothing outside. in fact, one always is with that work," enthusiastically; "it takes your whole being for the time." "yet the last girl he had was a dreadful little idler, and would interrupt him in the midst of his most interesting researches to ask the silliest questions." sara shook her head mournfully. "i don't see how she could!" "well, to tell the truth," bending forward confidentially, "isn't it awfully dry and uninteresting? there! i wouldn't dare lisp it before my husband, but isn't there a good deal of--of--well, humbug, about it?" "humbug!" sara's eyes glowed. "that's because you haven't studied these things, mrs. macon. think, think what it must be to have your husband's power to peer into the past! "think of taking two or three bones, and from them constructing an animal now extinct; or, think of knowing from an impress on a stone, made years ago, what animal had walked over its then soft surface. humbug! oh, mrs. macon!" the lady laughed. "well, don't for mercy's sake, ever hint that i suggested such a thing; i see you're nearly as far gone as henry himself. but, as for me, i must say i can't get specially interested in post-pliocene things, when there's so much going on around us; and how you, with all those children to look after, and their clothes to make, can care for fossils and bones, and bits of rock and mineral, is a conundrum to me." "i hope i don't neglect the children for the bones," said sara, so deprecatingly that mrs. macon laughed again. "don't worry about that! they look all right, anyhow, what i've seen of them. now come, it's getting too dark to sew, and you have these nicely together; fold them up, child, and come down-stairs with me." this was the first really elegant house sara had ever entered; and as she followed the lady over the soft carpets, past bronze and marble, into a beautiful room, through whose western end, wholly of glass, came a rosy glow from the setting sun, she could hardly keep back her cry of delight. it was the dining-room, and seemed dazzling to sara, with its rich tones in wall and rug, its buffet a-glitter with glass and silver, and its green garlanded windows; but her native instincts were nice, so it was only in her eyes that this astonished admiration found expression. mrs. macon made a careless gesture towards the table, which was partly laid. "sit down, my dear," she said, "and we will have a bit of a supper together; mr. macon has gone into the city, and won't be back until a very late dinner. how do you take your tea, please?" it was a delectable little spread, nearly all the dishes being novelties to sara, even the familiar lobster being scarcely recognizable in its frenchy dress; but she felt the refinement and delicacy of it all, as an infant feels the softness of velvet, not comprehending, only enjoying. in speaking of it afterwards to the children she remarked,-- "i can't tell you what it was, for i have eaten meals i really relished better; but it was there, and i have never experienced it anywhere else, not even at miss prue's. it seemed as if i were in a palace, with soft music and sweet odors about me; yet there was no music, and the only fragrance was from the tea. no, i can't tell what it was; but sometime-- _some_time, molly, i hope you will feel it too!" "well, if it's going to make me feel solemn and creepy i don't want to," said that young damsel with decision. "that's the way i felt the first few sundays in the church we go to here; it was so big and high, and had so many colors on the walls, and such dark, purple corners. i kept expecting something to happen; but i'm getting over it a little, for nothing ever does, you know, except the preaching and singing. only, sara, that reminds me: there's one thing i've been going to ask you about this ever so long; are the singers all hunchbacks, like zeba osterhaus?" "dear me! no, molly, i hope not. what a question!" "well, then, what makes them hide so behind those red curtains? i've tried and tried to see if they were like other folks, but i couldn't; and if they are, i don't see why they act so queer!" sara tried to explain, but molly evidently still held to her original opinion; there was some mysterious reason for their modesty, else why did they not stand out plain and high, as did the village choir at home? and it was many weeks before she could be moved from her stand in the matter. sara's work went on much the same after the close of the collegiate year, though now professor macon was away a large part of the time; yet, as he was constantly sending home cases of specimens, she was usually kept nearly as busy as before. but one day, sitting at her desk with only a few unimportant odds and ends of work before her, her thoughts drifted away, and soon formed themselves into words and sentences which seemed clamoring for definite expression. she seized her pen and some blank paper, setting them down as rapidly as possible, and before she quite realized what she was about had written several pages. finally, stopping to glance over her work, she felt encouraged to continue it, which she did till her working-hours were over. that night more thoughts came to her, and the next day she completed the article. reading it over, and correcting it carefully, she decided to copy it; and, while the impulse was upon her, even had the audacity to enclose it in an envelope and send it to a certain magazine having scientific tendencies, which came to the museum regularly. it was an article describing some oolitic formations she had been much interested in when at the old home; and she told of her ramblings, speculations, and discoveries, in a modest, face-to-face way which gave them a certain interest in addition to their scientific value. several days passed, and she had given up her fledgeling for lost, when one morning she saw amid the mail upon the professor's desk an envelope addressed to herself, and opening it found with astonishment that it was an acceptance of her sketch, enclosing a check for what seemed to her a large amount. that, she often said afterwards, was the proudest moment of her life. her whole frame thrilled with keenest satisfaction, her whole soul was uplifted in thanks for this gift that seemed directly from above. the professor, back from his trip, entered just then, saw the glow on her face, and looked the inquiry he would not speak. but sara understood the look. "i have been much pleased," she explained, "by this." and handed him the enclosure. "what! really an article in the _science made popular?_ well, miss olmstead, you are to be congratulated!" holding out his hand with great cordiality. "may i ask what you wrote about?" she told him, and he nodded vigorously. "very good, very good! i shall watch for its appearance; and now i've a proposition to make you. would you like to study latin and french?" "i?" gasped sara. "yes; they are much needed in our work, as well as german and greek; but there must be a beginning. i have all the books you will need, and will hear your latin recitation every morning. it won't take long, and i'm sure madame grandet will help you with the french." "but they're going away soon, are they not?" "he is, but she has half decided to remain. it's so delightfully quiet here in summer, and only a short run to the seashore; besides, she likes her boarding-place." sara's eyes shone. "i think every one is very good to me," she said softly. "heaven not only helps those who help themselves, but earth, too, miss olmstead; which is only another way of saying that real effort always brings appreciation. now we'll take hold of that last case i sent, if you please. i'll bring your books this afternoon--or, no; better stop in and let mrs. macon give them to you; she always enjoys a visit, you know." but pleasure and pain always keep as close together as light and shadow; and while everything seemed going so prosperously with sara in the business of her life, there came a new worry at home. baby was evidently ailing. each morning it became harder to leave that supplicating little face, and she would turn back to reiterate cautions to molly, who, being out of school now, saved the extra expense of the little nurse-girl. even after she had actually torn herself away from the fretful baby voice begging pitifully,-- "no go, wawa; 'tay baby!" she would stop below at mrs. hoffstott's door to beg, almost with tears, that she would look after things a little, and not let flighty molly neglect the child; which the good woman was always ready to do. those were anxious days, which even the madame's and mrs. macon's kindness could not wholly relieve. and they were very kind. the latter often took the two children to drive, while the former brought baby dainties and toys to brighten his languid eyes. a doctor was finally called, who said his ill feelings were entirely owing to his teeth, and left some mild powders for him to take. but there came a night when he was so feverish and flighty that sara dared not leave him in the morning, so sent a note by morton to the professor, stating the reason for her absence. the latter read it carefully, said a sympathizing word or two to the boy, who plainly showed his concern, then added kindly,-- "tell her not to worry at all about the work till the little one is quite well enough to be left; there is nothing pressing just now; and supposing you stop at the house as you go by, and let mrs. macon read this note. she is fond of the child." "yes, sir," said morton, and was about to start on his return, when the gentleman arrested him. "stay," he said, "what are you doing since school closed? are you working at anything?" "not much, sir; i'm helping mr. hoffstott in the bakery, carrying home orders on his busy days: it doesn't take all my time though." "i suppose you are used to the management of boats; you can row or sail one?" "oh, yes, sir!" his eyes lighting. "very well, i may have a proposition to make you soon, that's all. be sure and stop at mrs. macon's." morton obeyed, but only to find her gone into the neighboring city on a shopping excursion, so hurried on to deliver his kindly message from the professor, wondering all the way what that wise gentleman could have meant by his remark about the boat. but when he reached home all these thoughts fled; for he found molly just descending the stairs, crying bitterly; and when he asked what was the matter she only gave her hands a desperate wring and sobbed,-- "oh, the baby! the baby! where does that doctor live, anyhow?" hurrying in he found sara, her eyes wild with trouble, and mrs. hoffstott, fairly purple with consternation, both trying frantically to bring the child out of a spasm. "oh, run, run for the doctor, morton!" cried his sister. "baby's getting worse, i'm sure; and molly doesn't know the way." morton did run, but alas! it was of no avail. the poor little fellow had one moment of consciousness, in which he feebly tried to pat sara's colorless cheek and murmur, "wawa deah!" then the beautiful eyes rolled back, set and glassy, the limp, dimpled hand dropped on his breast, and the sweet baby life was over. sara gave a heart-rending cry, which reached morton and the doctor, now hurrying up the stairs; and when they entered she was calling piteously upon the little one with every loving term her tongue was used to. the doctor drew her gently away. "he is gone," he said with solemn emphasis; "his sufferings are over! madam," to mrs. hoffstott, "pray take her away for a time; her nerves are all unstrung." that good woman led the half-fainting girl below, and at once despatched grisel for madame grandet and the minister of the church the olmsteads attended, who were shortly there, doing their best for the grief- stricken little household; while in the evening both professor and mrs. macon came, the latter much grieved that she had been away when morton called. all was done that could be done; and sara, even in her grief, which was for the time almost overwhelming, so deeply had this one of her cares and responsibilities taken a hold upon her nature, was surprised at the number of friends who seemed to have sprung up around them. she did not know that the story of her love and her struggles had passed from mouth to mouth, and that for the moment she was a heroine in their estimation. nor did she know, till days later, that the lovely little blanket of white roses which wrapped the tiny white casket in its soft fragrance, was the gift of some of those very students who had brought the blushes to her cheek by their too pronounced admiration. it softened her grief to find so much genuine friendliness and good-will in the hearts of even the strangers about her; and when she wailed for baby through the lonely nights, so sadly missing the clasp of his warm, soft arms about her neck, there was no bitterness mingled with her sorrow. "he has gone to his mother," she wrote miss prue. "i sometimes think she must have longed for him even in heaven; and i hope she knows that, if i ever neglected him, it was only because i felt compelled." to which the good spinster answered,--"you have never neglected him, sara; to that i am ready to bear witness. if god has seemed to bereave you, it is because he sees it is best; meanwhile, take comfort in this: you have been tenderer than many mothers, and more patient than many sisters, to this dear little brother who loved you so well, so do not let self-reproach add to your sorrow." the words were a comfort, as they were meant to be; for, with the girl's supreme conscientiousness, she had been torturing herself for fear she had not done all that was possible for her dear one; and, as miss prue's word had always been law with her, so now she let it heal this unnecessary smart. chapter xv. morton has a picnic. the professor was almost fatherly kind to her when she took her place again at the familiar desk; and, seeing how fragile and weary she looked, gave her but short, light tasks through those long, hot summer days. nothing was said about renewing the so soon interrupted lessons for several days, then sara herself remarked half timidly,-- "i have begun my studies again, sir, it is so lonely, and there is so little to do at home," her voice faltering. he gave her a pleased look. "that is right; the best thing for you! work, my child, is not a curse, but a blessing to sorrowful man. study,--write too. i happen to know they are ready to accept another article from you in _science made popular;_ i am acquainted with its editor. why don't you give him some more of your rambles?" her sad eyes brightened. after all, there was something within her which no grief, no bereavement, could entirely affect. "i will," she said; "i will pick myself up and begin over again." "that's right. and try some walks here, miss olmstead; you'll find much of interest out on the old road leading west, for instance. you need more fresh air and exercise, i'm thinking." sara took his advice, with much benefit to her health, as well as gain to her information and purse; for she found that "knowledge is wealth" in more ways than one. morton had been such a good, helpful boy ever since their arrival in dartmoor, that sara was almost as glad as he when the professor's thought about the boat was finally unfolded, and proved to be a proposition that the lad should accompany him on a geological expedition down a certain river not far away. he wanted morton to help in managing the boat, as well as in foraging for extra game and provisions along the route, and watching the stores, while he studied, sought, and speculated over his stony treasures; for all of which the boy should receive a certain consideration in money, not to mention the fun. "just think, sara, to be paid, actually _paid_, for having the biggest kind of a picnic," he cried rapturously. "now, who cares for the mary jane?" for the next two days all was hurry and confusion, as he and molly ran errands, packed and planned, with sara to advise and help; and the third saw the grand start. as the river was at some distance, the first stage of the journey must be made by land (a great drawback in morton's opinion, but still to be borne with patience because of what was to follow), so the boat was mounted on a cart, and packed full of the camping apparatus, amid which the professor and the boy sat in state, while a grinning hibernian drove the mild animal in front. the professor, with his glasses, his white helmet and tennis-shirt, and a butterfly-net hung over his shoulder, was quite oriental and picturesque; while morton, with a broad straw hat on his cleanly shaven head, and a blue blouse belted with leather, enjoyed the thought that he looked like a cowboy, and perhaps he did: i've seen cowboys who did not look half so well. at any rate, he felt as free and joyous as one, and rode away with a ringing cheer, echoed shrilly by molly, who was wild to go herself, and could only be appeased by the promise of a real picnic with the hoffstotts in the near future. "oh, dear!" she said, on the verge of tears, as the long boat-cart swung out of sight around the corner, and was lost to view, "it's dreadful to think i've always got to be a girl, and i may have to live a hundred years." "well, my dear, console yourself, then," replied sara, "for you won't be a girl even ten years longer." "i won't?" "no." "now, sara olmstead, how do you know that? oh, yes, you're joking me, somehow; i can see by your eyes, for of course nobody knows when i'm going to stop living." "how old are you, molly?" "why, i'll be thirteen in eleven months." "that is," with a laugh," you were twelve last month; now in ten years how old will you be?" "let's see," bringing her fingers into play, "aught's an aught, and two's two," marking that down with her index finger in her left palm, "then one and one is two, why, that's twenty-two, isn't it?" "really, molly, i'm ashamed of you to be so slow in adding." "well, i never did like addition, it's substraction i'm so smart in." "yes, it must be _substraction_, i think," sarcastically. "yes, that's it," with entire oblivion of her sister's accent; "and now i begin to see, when i'm twenty-two i won't be a girl?" "hardly." "yes; but i'll be a woman, and that's worse, isn't it? oh! there's kathie, and she's got some cookies that are too dry to sell; i'm going to help her eat them," with which laudable purpose away she ran, to forget the limitations of her sex in an operation dear to both. about a week later came this letter from morton. dear sara and molly,--as i'm all alone, with nothing to do, and the gnats won't let me sleep, and i've got more than we need to eat, so it's no good to hunt or fish, i thought i'd start a letter, and when i get to a post-office again i'll mail it. to begin at the beginning, we launched the bonny doon about two o'clock, and at once set sail for the south (we really poled the boat along, for there wasn't a breath of wind, and it was hardly deep enough to keep her afloat; but it sounds better to say "set sail," you know), and were making about four knots an hour, when i saw the professor open a long wooden box i had noticed among the outfit, and take out a gun, all in sections, and begin to put it together. that made me feel better, for i was really afraid he had forgotten how useful a gun is out camping; and i was so taken up watching him fit it together that i almost forgot my poling, till he suddenly sung out, for all the world like a regular sailor, "hard a-port, lad! mind your course there, or we'll be swamped," and, sure enough, i had to swing her out into the stream, or we'd have run aground. but that was the end of the marshes, and then we did rig up our sail, and 'twas a fine old fly, i tell you. my, how i enjoyed it! the breeze had come up a little, and sent us cutting through the water as slick as your big knife cuts through a loaf of bread. we didn't stop at all, till it was time to make camp, and then we had a real good time, for the professor is just like a boy here. he cut saplings for tent-poles, and showed me how to make the pins, and fasten down the canvas, then we built a nice little fire, and put our camp-stove over it. it is nothing but a big piece of stove-pipe, i should think, with a griddle on top, but works first-rate; and then we got supper together. you ought to see his camp-chest, sara! it isn't much bigger than that old desk miss prue gave you, but it has everything in it, i should think; and there isn't an inch of waste room. i found everything i needed to set the table with, and we had canned things, and biscuit and cheese and coffee, and lots of nice things to eat. then i washed the dishes (i'm real glad now, that i learned at home, for the professor said i did it as neatly as a girl), and then he went off, poking around with his hammer, and i fished. you don't know much about fishing with a jack-light, do you? it's good fun. i caught enough for breakfast, nice little perch they were, and then we lay down on our blankets, stretched over pine-boughs in the tent, with mosquito-netting over all the openings, and slept like two tops. yesterday we had lots of adventures. first thing, i woke up just in time to save our provisions from some hogs which had smelled us out, and came down on us in a regular drove; and they got us so wide awake we concluded to stay up, though it wasn't really morning yet. but you don't know how good our fried fish did taste! i ate till i was ashamed, and then finished the bits in the spider; and i could have eaten as many more, i guess. then i cleared everything up ready to break camp, while the professor went off again, and then he came back, and we embarked. this was about six bells, i think. we hadn't gone more than two knots when the boat began to slip along so easy and fast i couldn't understand it, till the professor sung out,-- "we're coming to a dam! put her about, quick!" then he grabbed the oars and rowed with all his might for shore. it seemed at first as if we would be swept along in spite of ourselves; but he's got more strength in his arms than i'd thought for, and then, luckily, a great tree had fallen clear out into the stream, which i reached for. i threw myself almost out of the boat, just holding by the toes, and caught hold of a little twig, then a stronger one, and pulled the boat an inch at a time till we were safe alongside in a perfect little haven. then the professor dropped the oars, took off his helmet, and wiped his face, for he was dreadfully warm; but he only said,-- "that was a little close, morton; now we'll have to make a portage." well, that wasn't so much fun. i hadn't thought, before, we had one thing more than we needed, but now it seemed as if we had a thousand. sara, it took us four hours to make that portage, and my back hasn't got over aching yet! we managed to get two men to help us with the boat, but that was only a small lift, it seemed to me; and i was glad enough when the professor said we'd take a rest before we went on. but the dinner braced us up a good deal; one thing we had was some roasted green corn one of the men told us to pick in his field, and it was awfully good, but not up to the fish. then i stayed to watch camp while the professor went hunting for more stones and things, and then i had the biggest adventure of all. but i'll have to tell you about that in my next letter, if i come across any paper, for this is all i've got. yours truly, morton. it came in due time, fortunately for molly's welfare and sara's comfort, as the child was so consumed with curiosity over the adventure that she gave her no rest from questions and conjectures. here it is:-- dear sara and molly,--i think i stopped because i was out of paper, and so didn't tell you about the tramps. there were three of them, and i never saw worse looking men. i was sitting reading one of the books we brought, when i thought i heard something, and looked around just in time to see them come towards me out of the woods. i felt my heart leap right up, for i was all alone, and they did look wicked. the foremost man had a big stick for a cane, and both the others carried long switches they must have cut in the woods. as i jumped to my feet the first fellow said to sit still, sonny, he wasn't going to disturb anybody, and wanted to know where my pard was. i said, as careless as i could, that he was just down below, hoping they'd think i meant down on the shore; but they didn't, for another spoke up and said he was far enough away, "and don't stop to palaver, i want some grub!" i'd kept backing towards the tent all the time we were talking; and when he said that, i was right in the opening, and one look inside showed me the gun almost where i could reach it, and i knew it was loaded! i felt a good deal bolder then, so i told them,-- "you'll have to wait till the professor comes back; these are his things;" but the men only laughed in an awful fierce kind of way, and said they "guessed they didn't care about waiting, sonny, they wasn't making formal calls, and they hadn't brought their cards, but they'd leave suthin' to remember 'em by just the same!" the way they talked fairly froze me up, though 'twas a real hot day. so i ducked inside and grabbed the gun, but they thought i was so scared i was trying to hide; so they went around kicking things over a good deal, and swearing like everything, but i didn't care, for there wasn't much outside the tent anyhow, except the cooking things and some mouldy bread that they were welcome to if they wanted it. when they saw how it was, one of them came up towards me, and called to the rest to come on, they'd have to explore the tent to find what they wanted. i let him come to about two feet of the opening, then i stuck my gun in his face real quick, and yelled "halt!" as loud as i could, and he halted. i told him then he'd better get back, for this might go off, and he ripped out a big swear word, and told me to stop fooling with that gun or somebody'd get shot; and i said i was afraid they would! he kept backing all the time, and saying, "oh, put it down, put it down, sonny!" but i kinder thought i wouldn't. then they all stood off, and threw stones at me, and said they'd set fire to the tent, and for me to come out like a man, and they wouldn't hurt me; but i thought as i was just a boy i'd stay where i was. but i told 'em i'd shoot the first man that came near the tent, and their stones didn't amount to much anyhow, for they didn't reach me. but i really did not feel quite so saucy as i talked, for if they hadn't been regular cowards they could have made me lots of trouble, i guess; and when i saw the professor's big white helmet coming through the trees, i tell you i was glad! i called out, "don't mind the men, sir, i've got 'em covered with the gun!" and at that they gave one look at him, and ran for the woods. he stood still and looked after them as surprised as anything; but when i told him all about it, he laughed and laughed in that still, funny way he has, and said he guessed he didn't make any mistake when he chose his companion; and i thought perhaps he meant to praise me, but i'm not sure. this is all about the tramps. good-by, morton. p.s.--i've torn my pants; but the professor says, "never mind, there's more where they came from," and he looked at me kinder winkey when he said it, for you know they were made out of his old ones. this time it is really good-by, morton. sara was so proud of these letters that she could not resist showing them to madame grandet and mrs. macon, both of whom were greatly amused. "he has evidently gotten into henry's good graces, as well as his old clothes!" laughed the latter. "the boy is like you, sara, he doesn't know how brave he is." sara looked up quickly. "brave, i brave?" she asked in surprise. "i never did a really brave thing in my life!" "didn't you?" smiling, with a meaning look. "i thought you had done a good many." but she made no explanation of her words, and sara was too modest to ask what they meant. morton came home so brisk and rosy it was good to see him, and regaled molly for days with the accounts of his wonderful adventures. he seemed to have quite recovered from his longings for a sea-life, and was almost as much interested in certain scientific studies as sara herself. in fact, their autumn rambles together were pleasures whose memory lingered with both for many a year. one morning in november, sara saw, among the letters on the desk, a creamy square with her own name upon it, and nearly had her breath taken away upon opening it, to find it was an invitation to a dinner given by one of the faculty in honor of a distinguished scientist from abroad, who was to deliver a lecture before the students the coming week. she glanced from it to professor macon, who was busy writing, but, seeing no solution of the matter in his face, resolved to consult his wife about it, and stopped in on her way home that noon for the purpose. "oh, you are invited, then!" cried mrs. macon with satisfaction, as sara explained her errand. "i was sure you would be." "but how could you think so? i, a fisherman's daughter." "you, sara olmstead, the writer who is already being noticed in the literary world! why shouldn't you be asked, i'd like to know?" "but, dear mrs. macon, what shall i wear? how shall i act?" "ah! now you are talking sense. 'what shall you wear?' sara, you must have a white dress; something with long, soft folds, and--yes--and trimmed with swan's-down. that will be so becoming." "yes, and cost a small fortune!" "no, not as much as you think. a cashmere will do, and that reminds me, i'm to have a dressmaker here the first of the week; she shall give me an extra day or two, and make your dress, then i can be sure it is all right. and never mind about the swan's-down; for i have some on a dress, i think almost enough, that i have only worn once. she shall rip it off for you to wear on this great occasion." "o mrs. macon, how good you are!" "good? why, this is fun for me. you must go with us, of course. yes, and we'll ask the grandets to go in our carriage too; 'twill make five, but no matter; you're little, and can squeeze in between the two gentlemen for that short distance: and, fortunately, cashmere doesn't show mussing badly." "but, mrs. macon, i'm afraid"-- she stopped, coloring daintily. "well, of what?" "won't you be--ashamed of me? i never went to a dinner-party in my life. there are a great many forks and spoons to manage, aren't there?" "simplest thing in the world, that, my dear; begin with whatever is next your plate. if you think you are wrong at any time, dally a little, and watch your hostess. by the way, this invitation is for two weeks ahead, and thanksgiving is next week, thursday; you shall practise here! i was going to see you soon, to invite all three of you to dine with us that day; will you come? we shall ask the grandets also, but no one else." "you are exceedingly kind, mrs. macon; we will be more than happy to come. i had dreaded the day," softly. "yes, my dear, anniversaries are sad things; but we will try and enjoy this one. and don't hesitate to ask about anything that puzzles you at our table. these little fads of etiquette are easily learned, after one has acquired that real politeness which must become a part of the character; and that you have, sara." "thank you for your encouragement, dear mrs. macon; i shall try not to put you to the blush." chapter xvi. the princess holds a "drawing-room." when morton heard of the two invitations, and something of the foregoing conversation, as they sat over their cosey supper that evening, he kept quite still, while molly was running on with questions, suggestions, and comments, till there was a lull; then he looked up at his elder sister with a queer expression. "supposing, sara, i had gone with uncle jabez wanamead, and then should come home a rough fisherman, while you were learning how to be polite; would you have been ashamed of me?" "no, morton; but i shall be much prouder of you if you will have the bravery and honesty of a fisherman, with the education and manners of a gentleman, and the spirit of a christian; that ought to make a man for any sister to be proud of." "well," he said, drawing in his breath, "i'll say it now, sara, i'm glad you stuck out so against my going in the mary jane. while i was off with the professor we were by the sea a day or two, and i went aboard a smack. it was a better one than that, too; but i was glad i hadn't a berth there, for somehow things did look dreadfully rough to me that day. there was a boy about my age, and the men swore at him nearly every word they said, and he swore too, and chewed and smoked and drank his grog; and he seemed real proud to think he could take it down clear without staggering. i was glad to get back to the professor, sara, but i _would_ like to have a yacht of my own, and sail all over the world after specimens for the museum; wouldn't that be fine?" "perhaps you may some day; who knows? stranger things than that have happened." it was a very nice-looking trio which turned into mrs. macon's gate after church thanksgiving day. the checks sara received for her articles were of great assistance in clothing them comfortably for the winter; and she glanced with almost motherly pride from tall morton, in his neat overcoat and derby, to molly, pretty as a pink, with her flying curls and scarlet cheeks, in a dark blue serge trimmed with fur. she forgot herself, but no one else would have done so; for the slender figure in black, with a close-fitting jacket and trig little hat, was so symmetrical, while the face above had such a charm, both of feature and expression, that few could pass her by unnoted. mrs. macon welcomed them with gay cordiality. "dear me! how sweet you do look, sara!" giving her a motherly kiss. "but you'll have to look out for this young lady or she'll eclipse you yet!" pinching molly's dimpled cheek. "how the child is shooting up! i've a surprise for you, sara. i hope it will be a happy one." "i think your surprises are always happy, mrs. macon." "as are your remarks, sara. well, come, madame grandet is below." they descended to the beautiful drawing-room, where, in the softened light, sara was conscious of several figures; the madame, lovely in a frenchy toilet, with a dash of scarlet here and there, rose to greet them, while the little group of black coats just beyond separated and turned, resolving itself into her host, professor grandet, and--robert glendenning! the last named came forward with an eager movement, and sara's heart stood still a minute, then plunged on with rapid beats, as he took her hand and bent over it with an earnest greeting. he looked well, as she quickly observed, having broadened into proportions better suited to his height, and his eyes seemed more brilliant than ever as they met her own. "this is my surprise, sara," laughed mrs. macon; "and you know," mischievously, "they are always happy ones. i think you have remarked it yourself." but sara only answered by a look: her words did not come readily just then. "he have come last night," said the madame, beaming upon her nephew, "so that it was to all of us a surprise, for we have not expect him." "indeed! as if you could think, aunt felicie, that i would eat my thanksgiving turkey in a boarding-house, when"-- "ah! but that is what you would then do, if our friends had not so kindly invite us here, robare; are not your uncle and myself also in a boarding-house?" a reply which rather nonplussed the young man for a moment. but, fortunately for his embarrassment, the domestic just then announced dinner, and mrs. macon said,-- "henry, will you give your arm to madame? and you, mr. glendenning, to miss olmstead; i will do myself the honor of walking in with professor grandet; and i'm sure morton will be happy to escort his better half, as i suppose a twin sister may be called." as they passed through the hall, sara's escort said in a low tone,-- "i have heard of your sorrows and your joys through my good aunt. tell me one thing, is your life any happier, broader, better, amid these new surroundings?" "yes," said sara, "i believe it is; and yet, sometimes my very soul is sick for the sight and sound of the sea, and for the roughest greeting from one of our good old weather-beaten fishermen at home." "i am glad that is so. you are too loyal to forget easily; but still you would not go back, would you?" "no, never;" smiling up into his face. "there is no plan for going back in my life; only for going forward." he smiled in return, but the bustle of taking their seats prevented any answer. when all was quiet again, sara had time to notice that she had been placed where she could observe every motion of her hostess, and even as the thought crossed her mind, she caught that lady's eye and a telegraphic glance passed between them. sara's said, "help me!" mrs. macon's replied, "watch me!" at which both smiled slyly, and turned to the next neighbor with some light remark. morton and molly had been so drilled in their deportment before they came, that each sat now stiff and solemn as martinets awaiting some command; morton, eying hopelessly the tiny bouillon-cup before him, with the healthy appetite of a boy who had not eaten anything since an early breakfast; while molly, after a stony rigidity of perhaps two minutes, suddenly gave a little twist and drew a sigh as long and lugubrious as the wail of an autumn blast. professor macon looked at her with twinkling eyes. "don't be discouraged, miss molly," he whispered leaning towards her, "there is a turkey somewhere, i'm sure, for i had a sniff of it myself some time ago." her eyes brightened, and she whispered back in the same confidential way,-- "you see, i don't like beef-tea very well, and i do love turkey. but, of course, if it's the thing"--and she submissively took up her spoon, prepared to attack the decoction. sara's cheeks had grown red at this; but when the professor added,-- "between you and me, molly, i think it's only fit for sick folks myself; but i suppose, as the saying is, we must eat by the card;" at which everybody laughed good-naturedly, her worried feeling wore off, and she began to think it would not, perhaps, be an unforgivable offence if one of them did commit a blunder or two. in fact, by the time the bouillon disappeared to make room for the next course, she had quite forgotten her worries, so deeply was she interested in what robert was telling her of the wonderful growth and vigor of his city home, chicago; while the children, unwatched and well occupied, fell into order like well-trained soldiers; molly now and then flinging out some _naive_ remark which sent a ripple of laughter around the table, at which morton would begin trying to frown her down, in his elder-brotherly way, and end by laughing with the rest. when the ladies had returned to the drawing-room and coffee, leaving the gentlemen deep in a political discussion in the professor's snuggery, just off the dining-room, mrs. macon saw the children happily interested in some beautiful photographs of european scenes, viewed through a powerfully mounted lens, then turned to the others. "come," she said, "i want you to go up-stairs with me, and see sara's dress. my dressmaker has done wonders the past week, and it is nearly ready." they followed her to the little sewing-room, which sara so well remembered as the first apartment of this hospitable house into which she had ever been introduced, and there lay the white gown over a chair. after viewing it critically, sara in a quiet rapture, and madame with all a french woman's enthusiasm and epithets, mrs. macon said impulsively,-- "do try it on, sara; i'm a little afraid about this skirt; it looks short in front, and you know she has had to go almost entirely by measure, so far; here, let me pin the rest of this swan's-down in place, while you take off your dress." sara obeyed without a murmur, feeling all the delight of any young girl in trying on her first evening gown, while her two tire-women stood by, patting, punching, pulling, and commenting, as women will, pronouncing it a perfect fit, and quite long enough. when it was finally adjusted, they stepped back, and the little madame drew a long breath. "ah! but she is beautiful!" she said in her own language; "she might be one of the old noblesse," while mrs. macon, controlling her delight, remarked,-- "it is becoming, my dear: you have one of those peculiar complexions dead white only enhances. you look taller, too, a full inch, in that train. really, the children ought to see you; let's go down-stairs and take them by surprise." sara, believing them still alone, did not object; and mrs. macon, if she had heard a closing door, and steps through the hall below, did not think it necessary to mention the circumstance. so down they went, the two attendants in front, and sara following, with possibly a little intensification of her usual measured and stately tread. thus they entered the drawing-room, the two ladies parting to right and left before her, as might two maids of honor attending some royal personage, the stately white-robed figure advancing, with head slightly bent, as if in modest disclaiming of all this parade over one so young. "oh!" cried molly shrilly, "it's sara, and she looks like a queen!" while the three gentlemen, farther down the room, turned quickly from their talk, and one said, under his breath,-- "a princess, indeed!" then they all surrounded her, even dignified professor macon showing his enjoyment of the masquerade, while professor grandet spread out both hands, and cried, "beautifool! beautifool!" in a french rapture. only robert glendenning said nothing more, unless eyes speak; but sara did not seem to miss the lack of words on his part. "it is strange, now," observed the host reflectively, after the first outburst had subsided, "what a transformation dress is! i shall never again quite dare to think of miss sara as a little girl; she has crossed the brook, she has entered into woman's kingdom, and all because of a long white gown!" sara turned to him. "oh, please, sir, i'd rather be the little girl. i"--with a pathetic tremble in her voice, "i'm barely twenty yet, and i've never had much of a girlhood." the little cry, right from her heart, sent a thrill through every one; and there was not a person in the room, even to careless molly, who did not, then and there, resolve that whatever was in their power should be done to bring that brightness into her life, in which it had been so greatly lacking. robert glendenning sought his aunt's eyes, and in his she saw an indomitable resolution, while in hers he read a sudden yielding, which made his heart leap with joy; for he knew no step could be a happy one for him which did not meet with her full approval. the rest of the evening passed swiftly and merrily away, sara once more in her plain black dress, modestly bearing her part in the bright, animated conversation, in which even the children were interested, as well as instructed. when they separated to their homes, robert said,-- "miss sara, with your permission, i will walk home with you; i want to see where you live, and besides, there are a good many lawless students on the street to-night." "and won't we see you again, mr. glendenning?" asked his hostess. "i fear not, mrs. macon; i leave to-morrow at nine o'clock." "your stay is short." "yes, very; a business trip mostly, which i managed to bring about to take in thanksgiving day. let me thank you for helping to make it one of the happiest i have ever known." "i think," smiling mischievously, as she gave him her hand, "your thanks are due elsewhere; but as i never refuse anything that is offered me, so i won't these; and allow me to say," with intense meaning, "as far as i am concerned, you are _most welcome!_" "thank you again! miss olmstead, are you ready? i'll be home soon, aunt; good-night, professor macon," and sara was conducted down the steps, her heart beating, and her head whirling with new, strange, unfathomable thoughts. the dinner-party came off in due course of events, and sara went through the ordeal with credit to her quartet of guardians. indeed, she made so favorable an impression upon several that they really longed for a more extended acquaintance, and, for a time, invitations became quite a common affair. but she accepted these most sparingly. "i can never return them," she said to mrs. macon, "and i do not like to be under obligations, except to those i love," with a sweet look into her friend's face. "yes, my dear, that is right, only in these cases the people expect no return, knowing fully your circumstances; your acceptance and enjoyment repay them sufficiently." but sara shook her head. she had her own ideas of these things, and besides, it was no trial for her, the doing without society. here, as in killamet, she preferred books to people; though she was often charmed to find herself deeply interested in some individual, who upon acquaintance developed qualities she had only dreamed of before. but it was simply as individuals that these interested her; taken _en masse_ the world of men and women seemed cold almost to cruelty. after one or two evenings out, she went back to her books with a warm feeling of attachment. "you cannot disappoint me, dear old friends!" she whispered lovingly, and the next invitation was answered by a formal regret. so the winter passed quietly and swiftly away; for busy time is always swift time, and all three of our olmstead household were thoroughly busy: sara with her writing added to the museum work; morton with his studies, in which he was growing deeply interested; and molly in a little of everything. she had no special fondness for books, but a real genius for cookery and housework, most of which now devolved upon her in their modest establishment. but molly was growing very pretty too, not with sara's delicate, _spirituelle_ attractions, but with a saucy, piquant, bewitching charm of her own that the students were not slow to notice, and which molly was not slow to appreciate, and make the most of. still, sara did not for some time take any notice of this; for she could not understand that what to her was a nuisance, and to be gotten rid of at once, was to molly the source of the greatest amusement and delight, --their street admiration and attentions. it came upon her with a shock, one day, to find herself on the sidewalk behind some tall-hatted young sprig, accompanied by her little sister, rattling on to him with smiles, dimples, and tosses, in her own peculiar way, as if she had known him all her life, and she could scarcely wait to get the child indoors, before she began,-- "molly, who was that?" "that? why, i've forgotten his name," coolly. "he's a 'fresh' though, i believe." "and you're one, too, i should think!" strongly indignant. "what in the world were you doing?" "oh, just talking and laughing." "when you don't even know who he is? o molly!" "well, what of it? all the girls talk to them, coming home from school, and nobody thinks anything of it but you!" pouting and frowning, in her growing anger. sara looked at her with suddenly-awakened eyes. even in her petulance she was wonderfully pretty, with her great surprised eyes, saucy little nose, and exquisite coloring; and a sudden sense of her helplessness, if this little sister should also prove to be vain, and careless of her good name, came over her with such crushing force that she dropped into a chair, feeling almost faint for the moment. molly, frightened at her sudden pallor, cried out,-- "what is it, sara? what have i done? is it such a sin to walk with a student on the street?" sara shook her head helplessly. "if i could only make you understand, molly: you _must_ understand! see here," with intense earnestness, "we are all alone in the world, molly, you and morton and i, all alone, except for a few friends, whose only interest in us depends upon our worthiness. don't you see how careful we must be? we have no home, no money, no anything, except our good name: we must keep that! nothing, nothing, must take it from us. the bible says it is more precious than rubies, and it is, molly, it is; indeed, with us it is everything! if you had a father and mother to back you, possibly you could make such acquaintances without harm, though it seems to me a hazardous thing, even then; but now it is absolutely dangerous! promise me, molly, that this shall end it." "if i promise i shall break it," said the honest girl; "for they _will_ speak to me, and i shall forget when i'm away from you." "then, molly," with sudden resolution, "i shall resign my position, and take you back to killamet. i can make enough with my pen to keep us from starving." molly looked at her, and knowing she was in deadly earnest burst out,-- "oh, don't do that, sara; 'twould be too dreadful! i'll try, i really will; but you must remember i'm not like you. i don't care for books, and i do like people; and it's awfully lonesome with nobody but you and morton! other girls have parties and rides, and lots of nice times; and i don't even have girlfriends to come and visit me; it's lonesome, it is!" sara felt the force of this as she had never felt it before. here was a nature as opposite to her own as the two poles. the books, thoughts, and work, which gave her such pleasure were all a weariness to this sunny, companionable creature, longing for life, merriment, and all youthful pleasures. could she greatly blame the child? and her tones softened as she said,-- "poor little girl! have i kept you too close? believe me it was for your good." at this molly weakened instantly, and two arms flew about sara's neck, while a penitent voice cried,-- "i know i'm just as mean as i can be, and you're the best sister in the world; but oh! i do wish i could ride horse-back, and go to parties and picnics, and have stacks of girls all the time, then those silly students might go to gr--i mean to college, where they belong; for i wouldn't care a cent for the whole lot of them!" sara laughed. after all, there was something in this honest, transparent child, from which evil had always seemed to slide, as dust slips from a polished mirror; and she said with conviction,-- "molly, we'll both do differently. i like people too little, you perhaps too much; but after this i'll cultivate a fondness for them. there is no reason why we shouldn't both go out more, in certain ways, and see something of the life about us. if you will give up these wretched street acquaintances you shall have a party next saturday." "a party? o sara!" her eyes dazzling in their delight. "what kind of one?" "a tea-party. let's see, you might have nine girls, besides yourself; that would about fill our table, and i'll wait on you. i presume morton will be off, as usual, on a geological ramble, so we needn't count him." "o sara! and may i have the table trimmed, and flowers all around? and may i make the cake? and oh!" clasping her hands together, "may i have mr. hoffstott freeze some cream?" "yes," laughed sara; "yes, every one, if you'll keep your part of the contract." "sara," with intense solemnity, "if a student speaks to me i'll look right through him, like this," with a stare of gorgonian stoniness; "and if he isn't completely silenced, i'll wither him this way," and she swept her sister with a slow, lofty, contemptuous glance, that would have scathed an agent. "o molly! molly!" was all sara said, as she laughed in spite of herself; but she felt she could trust the child who, with all her faults, had not a grain of slyness or deception in her nature. chapter xvii. molly gives a party. the party came off, "according to contract," as molly observed, and for a few days kept the child in a flutter of delight. sara purposely left the preparations to her, only giving advice as it was requested; and even she, though so well acquainted with molly's housekeeping abilities, was astonished at the result. it gave her real respect for the girl to see the method with which she planned it all, from her list of invited guests to her list of grocer's stores, arranged with the probable cost at the side of each article, that sara might understand just how much money would be needed. then the dishes she compounded, after intense calculations over the cook-book, and frequent racings down-stairs to consult with mrs. hoffstott, were really toothsome and delicate; besides being brought about with precision and forethought, so that all might not crowd together at the end. "now," she said, friday night, consulting a much-worn bit of paper, and drawing a long, house-wifely sigh, "now i'm all ready, except the salad, and laying the table, and the decorating. if i only had a screen to put before the range, so that we needn't have the table in here! it will fill up so." sara looked up. "there is one in our cloak-room at the museum. perhaps the professor would let you take it for this grand occasion, if morton will bring it home for you." "would you, morton? would you?" "oh, i suppose so; anything for peace!" growled the latter, just glancing up from his burroughs. "that's a lovely boy! well, and the flowers--how glad i am they're so cheap, now"-- "oh, yes, molly! i forgot to tell you: mrs. macon says she has a quantity of early blossoms in her hot-bed, and you can have a picking from them." "now, sara, if you had forgotten that! how good she is! and i'm to have mrs. hoffstott's pretty old china, with the blue forget-me-nots, and-- well, isn't everybody kind, anyhow?" sara put down her book with a laugh. "go on, dear; what's the use in trying to read when there's a party going on? talk to me about it; i want to know all the arrangements;" and happy molly ran on like a thoroughly well-oiled windmill for at least twenty minutes without a stop. when, at the end of that time, there was a pause for breath, sara said,-- "and how about the students?" molly gave a merry little laugh. "it's the greatest fun, sara! they can't understand at all; they look at me as if i was a barnum's fat woman, or something, and i sail right by, with my head up, and never see them. i think" (reflectively), "if anything, it's better fun than the other way. that was too much like every girl you see, and this is just me alone: i really enjoy it." "molly, you are incorrigible!" "what's that? i wish you wouldn't use such big words, sara; i never could understand them; but if you mean i don't keep my promise, it isn't so! i do: you can ask maud wheeler if i don't." "is she coming to-morrow?" "yes; and she's your kind, sara,--good, you know. you'll like her, and so do i, when i'm in my right moods, but sometimes i don't. you don't know, sara," with a pathetic shake of her curls, "how hard it is to get along when you have bad streaks through you! why, sometimes i'll go on for at least three days as smooth as can be, getting all my lessons, and being just as good as anybody; and then there comes a day that upsets it all. i can't study, and i see all the funny things, and how i can make 'em funnier with a touch; and i want to giggle at everything, and--well, it's that naughty streak, and i can't help myself, any more than you can help being good." "well, molly," resignedly, "promise me this, that, whatever you do, you'll be out and out about it: no hiding, no shirking, no lies." "i never told a lie in my life, sara olmstead, never!" with a set of her bright head that was like the elder sister in her determined moods. "i'd feel mean forever!" sara smiled, and, with a rush of tenderness, bent forward and kissed her. "no, darling, you won't lie, thank god! now go to bed like a good girl, and be bright and rosy for to-morrow. good-night!" "good-night, you blessed old sweet thing, you!" and with twenty kisses, and a strangling hug, the merry child ran off to dream,--not of students in elevated hats, but of creams and comfits, and pleased guests around a long table; for she was but a large-hearted, hospitable matron in embryo. the party was really a brilliant success. mrs. macon sent a basketful of bright flowers, and some pretty draperies and decorations; while the professor willingly agreed to let the screen go, and insisted on sara's taking the whole day off to assist at the _fete_. the madame came herself, and with deft fingers, and perfect taste, helped the two convert the little flat into a bower. no one would have known the back room, with bright rugs covering its painted floor, and all the kitcheny suggestions hidden behind the ample screen; while the parlor was really charming in its tasteful dressings. when the girls began to arrive, sara watched her little sister with almost a dazed feeling. how rapidly this flower she had so cherished was unfolding before her eyes! and what was its quality to be? no modest daisy or violet certainly, nor yet a gaudy, flaunting tulip, but something bright, sweet, surprising, and enticing, all at once; and she thought of a carnation-pink shooting up from amid its ragged foliage, vivid, brilliant, and of a spicy fragrance. she watched the guests, also, with a critical eye, and was much pleased to note that molly had shown good taste in their selection. they were all ladylike girls, evidently from good, well-guarded homes, and, though merry and care- free, had not a touch of vulgarity. madame grandet had begged the privilege of remaining to help with the supper; and you may be sure every dish was served with a perfection and daintiness of touch only the french can give. yes, it was a great success; and when, after the last guest had departed, molly came and told her sister, almost with tears in her eyes, how happy she had been, sara felt repaid for the sacrifice of quiet and seclusion she had made. but she knew one party would not keep molly. the active, restless, rapidly-unfolding nature must have constant occupations and interests; so for the sister's sake she did what she never would have done for her own. she began to cultivate the social life of her church; went to christian endeavor meetings, socials, and y.m.c.a. addresses. she made morton go with them too, half dragging, half coaxing him; and soon the three, so dissimilar, yet all so intelligent and well-bred, came to be looked upon as most necessary factors in entertainments and social events. when sarah left killamet, though she wore her white cross, she did not change her membership into any new circle of king's daughters, but still remained one of miss prue's "helpful ten," as they called themselves in that little town. now she and molly joined a dartmoor circle, and were soon known as active working members. all this took time, thought, and money; and many times it was a puzzle to find the latter, though she had been drawing a slight advance in salary for several months, and morton, by working in the college laboratory at odd hours, was now earning enough to clothe himself. yet, even with an occasional extra cheque for her published articles, the expenses were so increased that she often had difficulty to meet them; though, to sara's great credit be it said, the girl had never allowed herself a useless debt. she dare not; the very thought frightened her, and providence having blessed her with health, and simple wants, it had been possible to live within her income. summer advanced with her languid days, and the great event of the year in dartmoor--class day--came and passed. last year her only interest in the parade had been that of a stranger seeing for the first time a novel spectacle; but this year things were different. she and molly now knew many of the students; knew them in an orthodox, well-regulated manner, and met them in both private and church parlors. morton sometimes brought them home at evening as well, and occasionally the girls went with one of them to a concert or lecture. mrs. macon often had the sisters to assist at her receptions, and occasional dinners also; and thus, without being society girls at all, in a certain sense they yet did see a good deal of the social life in dartmoor in one way and another. professor and madame grandet meanwhile were far away, the former having joined a governmental party bound for south america, while the latter had gone to chicago to be with her nephew during her husband's absence. she and sara had agreed to keep up an occasional correspondence; and it was impossible that these things could be kept out of the letters, when they occupied so much of her time and attention. one evening the madame and robert returned from a drive to washington park, by way of beautiful michigan avenue and drexel boulevard, and as they were re-entering their private sitting-room in the house where they boarded that lady espied a missive slipped into the edge of her door, and gave a little cry of pleasure as she tore off its end and drew forth the closely-written sheet. robert, too, knew the bold, graceful chirography, and watched her hungrily as she read. "i should think," he said at last in an ill-used tone, "you might read it aloud. it isn't very comforting to try and guess at it second-hand from your face, if it is a speaking one!" she looked up with a laugh. "but thou art cross, then, my poor boy? well, listen and i will read, though blame me not if it is not always so pleasant to hear. "my dear friend,--time slips by so rapidly in our busy life that i can hardly realize whence it has flown, or recall in just what manner the hours have been spent. i told you in my last about the bazar, and that an organ-concert was in progress. i'm sure you'll be interested to know it was a success, and the necessary funds are now nearly raised. molly gave a song, also a recitation, and i was so foolish as to consent to read an original sketch. "you should have heard and seen molly! i was surprised at her myself! her singing is so easy and natural, and her manner so vivacious, that no one seems to notice that she hasn't any voice. at any rate, they recalled her twice, and it was then she gave the recital on, which is half a song, you know, of 'christmas at the quarters.' "they fairly shook the house with applause then, but she would not go back again. "no," she said to me in her frank way, "it's time for the other girls to show off now--i'm done." "(i'm sure molly will never be too highly cultivated to call a spade a spade!) "morton is developing a good voice, and sang in the choruses. i think i have spoken to you of the young man he meets so often in the laboratory, and so greatly admires, mr. preston garth. he also sang that night--he has a magnificent baritone--and it was quite funny to hear his and molly's sparring, when he went home with us afterwards. "he tells her frankly that she has no method, no voice, no tone, etc.,--i am not used to musical terms,--and she saucily replies by telling him that, where one person will enjoy his studied renderings of the old masters, a score will appreciate and be the happier for her little ballads, simply because she discards all methods and sings from the heart; and usually molly talks him into silence, i suppose because he is too much of a gentleman to set her down as she deserves--the pert little miss! "it is useless for me to interfere, however, as both insist on finishing the argument in their own way. mrs. smythe has a party tonight; you remember mrs. smythe's parties--'a little gossip, less lemonade, and no cordiality'--to quote mr. garth"-- a sudden exclamation from robert, as he sprang to his feet, interrupted the reading. "what does that insufferable puppy mean? who would ever have thought that sara, little princess sara, would stoop to quote, and run around with, some fool of a singing student, an ill-natured one at that! i can't"-- "robert," said his aunt severely, "how can i then read if you do thus make a jack-that-jumps of yourself? can you not sit down once again while i continue?" he sat down, frowning fiercely, and she read on,-- "'which is too severe, but made it easier for me to refuse his kind invitation to accompany me there. i often wish i could learn to like society better, if only for molly's sake; but it is still too much in the way of a duty that i take what, to a well-regulated mind, should be a pleasure.'" "humph!" muttered the nephew, with a relieved look; and his aunt read the remaining page in peace. it spoke of the macons, her last article, etc., ending with the modest sentence, "and now, pray remember us all most kindly to your nephew." robert's face lighted up at this, though there was a lurking trouble in his eye. "aunt felicie," he said abruptly, "what am i waiting for?" "how can i that thing tell, my nephew? is it that you have need of me to mend a button, or"-- "don't tease, auntie! you know i don't mean any such trivial thing. see here," fiercely, "it's been nearly three years, instead of one, and i've never changed, not for a minute. i've kept myself as pure and true as a man could; i've done everything you told me to; and now how do i know but some fellow, with a voice, has stepped in and spoiled it all! i say, what am i waiting for? i've a good salary." "good enough for four, robert? if you do marry sara, it must be to adopt the twins also." "well, i will! we can scrimp along somehow; and morton will soon look after himself. i wish you were back at dartmoor this minute so i could"-- "a thousand thanks, my boy, it is a truly kind and filial wish," said his aunt demurely. "aunt felicie, you're enough to make a man wild! why don't you help me out of this, instead of tormenting me so?" "ah, robare, my too impatient one, could i then help you? no; if she loves you, then what is it to matter if there may be a hundred of fine young men about her now? and if she loves you not, then alas! could i create that love? do not so foolish be, my son." he felt the force of her remarks, but inwardly chafed at the way he seemed to be tied up here for the present, both by business and his aunt's presence. he dared not put his happiness to the test of a letter. that would seem abrupt and strange, with so little to lead up to it. no, he must do as he had been doing all along--just wait. "but not for long!" he muttered, as he bade his aunt a pre-occupied good-night and strode off to his room. "we'll 'bide a wee,' sara, but only a wee, or my name is not robert glendenning!" chapter xviii. a visit from miss prue. it was only a few days after sending this letter that sara received a proposition from mrs. macon which she was not slow to accept; namely, that she should give up her room, store her furniture in the loft of their stable, and keep the macon house for the summer, while its master and mistress took a long western trip. as they wished to retain their excellent cook as well as the gardener, these were to remain, at the macons' expense, and assist in caring for the premises. no need to say the olmsteads were delighted with the plan,--especially as sara had begun to feel that their rooms were far too close and stuffy to be healthy in warm weather,--so beautiful june had not yet begun to turn her back upon the young summer, when the olmstead family found themselves lodged as they had never hoped to be; while the macons, equally content with the arrangement, took their seats in a pullman sleeper, unvexed by visions of tramps and fire, moths and carpet-bugs, or precious books ruined by dampness and mice. the first morning after their arrival sara woke early, wooed from her light slumbers by a charming bird-matinee in the shrubbery without, and gazed contentedly about her. it was such a pretty bower. clean india matting on the floor, and airy cane furniture, dressed up in pink and blue ribbons, scattered about; through the sheer muslin hangings at the windows the early sunshine glinted between the closed shutters, and danced in bars of light upon the delicately-tinted walls. she nestled her head into the soft pillow with a sigh of intense satisfaction. "one whole summer of luxury!" she mused. "is it possible? how wonderfully good our father has been to us! friends, comfort, and a beautiful home," and with these serene thoughts, mingling with the pareppian carols without, she again dropped into her "beauty sleep." nor did this content vanish with her second waking, but seemed to grow with every passing day; for, as once all things seemed going against them, now all were in their favor. morton, who had for some time given desultory help in the college laboratory, was offered a permanent position there at a modest salary for next year, with limited hours, so that he might still keep on with recitations in school; and meanwhile was to act as clerk in a drug-store until the opening in september. as for molly, she was as happy as a bird in these pleasant surroundings, and danced about the house all day long; now concocting some delicate dish in the kitchen, under the supervision of hetty, the cook, who had taken a great fancy to her; now taking an old dress or bonnet of sara's, and, by a dexterous touch here, or a perked-up bow of fresh ribbon there, giving it an altogether new and elegant appearance; or else feeding the birds, or lounging in the hammock, chattering with a group of girls,--always busy, happy, and useful, if her studies were quite forgotten. for molly was as domestic as sara was bookish, and relieved the latter now of so many little cares, that she found much more time to devote to her writing, especially as her duties at the museum were merely nominal during the professor's absence, chiefly attending to the specimens he occasionally sent on, and forwarding such of his correspondence as she was not empowered to dispose of herself. to sara the most attractive room in the house was the library, and she passed some of the happiest hours of her life in its quiet recesses. here, every bit of wall-space, half way to the ceiling upon three sides, was given over to books; while the fourth, that opposite the door, contained a most artistic fireplace, above which, in lieu of the sometime mirror, the chimney had been divided to insert a window, one perfect sheet of plate glass, almost as clear as the ether itself through which was a delightful vista of green mingled with the vivid glow of blossoms. the three other windows formed arched niches, apparently cut through the book-shelves; and in one was a comfortable knee-hole desk, containing all the paraphernalia of a literary worker; while in the others were the most seductive of reading-chairs, with book-rests attached. she had been sitting one day, smiling and crying alternately over "bleak house," when a sudden thought brought her to an upright position,--why not invite miss prue to visit her? when would she ever again be so fortunately situated to entertain her pleasantly? "i'll do it at once!" she said, rising briskly; "molly will be as delighted as i with the idea, for she has often wished miss prue could see how well off we are;" and not giving her resolution time to cool, she seated herself before the desk and wrote the invitation. it was promptly accepted; and a week later morton met at the station, and conveyed home, a rather old little figure, with the traditional band-box and bird-cage in hand. "here we are!" she cried merrily to the waiting girls on the piazza. "both the spinsters, you see, for polly and i are too old to be separated!" and, setting down the cage, she proceeded to embrace each pretty young creature with motherly warmth, polly meanwhile remarking hoarsely,-- "how d'ye do? go 'long! come again! oh, you fools!" at which sam, the gardener, appeared wonderingly around the corner of the house. "beg parding, miss," jerking off his ragged straw hat, "but i thought as how you might be havin' trouble with a tramp," glaring savagely at miss prue; "thought i heered a strange voice." "oh, it's nothing, sam, nothing but a bird," laughed molly. "a burrd!" he cried, with an amazed look. "a burrd a-talkin' the likes o' thot? may all the saints defend us!" while the laughing group stood by, molly introduced the fowl, with proper explanations, at which polly, probably thinking it necessary to vindicate her powers, broke out with,-- "hold yer jaw! get out! shiver my timbers! what the"-- "you disgraceful old thing!" cried miss prue, snatching up the cage and rushing indoors, where she set it down with a thump on the hall-table; and, dragging off her black silk wrap, proceeded to muffle the profane creature in its shiny folds; then, turning to sara with a distressed look, she implored,-- "_will_ you tell me what makes her so wicked? i've tried my best to teach her nice little moral axioms from ben franklin and socrates, and bits of poetry from tupper, but whenever she wants to show off, she goes back to that dreadful old sailor-talk she learned on shipboard, nobody knows how many years ago; it's discouraging!" "it is, indeed!" laughed sara, while molly furtively lifted a corner of the wrap, in hopes to start polly off again. "but never mind polly's capers, dear miss prue, we know what a respectable old bird she is, in spite of her lapses. come into the library, where it's nice and cool, and tell me everything you can think of about dear old killamet. oh, how good, how good, it is to see you again, you blessed woman!" throwing an arm about her, and hugging her up rapturously, as they passed into the opposite apartment. "what a paradise!" cried the elder maiden, stopping short on the threshold. "do you tell me that is a window, in the middle of the chimney, or only some wonderful picture? i didn't know a room could be made so beautiful, could express so perfectly the refinement of work"-- then breaking loose from sara's embrace, she faced the young girl, and, taking her by the shoulders, held her at arm's length, and gazed at her critically. "let me look at you," she said, sweeping her glance slowly from the proud little head, with its earnest, refined face, down over the lissome figure in its sheer, white gown, even to the daintily-shod feet peeping from beneath it, "let me see whether this is the niche you were intended for. yes," slowly and reverently, "yes, i see. you fit in here; you are content, satisfied. it isn't the luxury, either, sara; that you could do without; it is that better part one can hardly name, only feel; and your maker has been slow in shaping you that you might fit the more perfectly. kiss me, dear, i am glad you are _my_ daughter!" sara kissed her tenderly, her eyes wet with tears of happiness; and molly and morton entering just then, with questions as to where polly should be suspended, turned the talk into lighter channels. the latter soon found herself chained to a perch of sam's contriving, out on the deep veranda, and for the rest of her stay had a string of admirers ranged along the sidewalk at nearly all hours of the day, bandying words with her ladyship. as for sam, he furtively admired her as much as the street-boys, and would be seen to slap his thighs and double over with silent merriment, when she was a little more wicked than usual; not that sam was an encourager of vice; by no means; but as he confided to hetty,-- "it do beat all nater to see that pious old gurrl so fond of a haythen creetur that's enough to disgrace a pirate hisself; an' the quareness of it just gets me, it do." as to the "pious old girl," (according to sam's disrespectful characterization of miss prue) she had quite given up in despair. "really, sara," she remarked with deep melancholy, "it must be the city atmosphere" (dartmoor was a town of perhaps fifteen thousand inhabitants), "for, you know, she never was so perverse in killamet. i'm afraid she'll disgrace us all!" upon which sara would comfort her by saying that, as most parrots were trained by rough people, nothing better could be expected, and she was sure nobody would blame them; while molly, the naughty little elf, would shake her curls with a solemn air, and exclaim,-- "it's a mercy the students and faculty are mostly away, miss prue; i'm afraid she'd have to be expelled if college was in session, in consideration of the morals of the institution!" but, in spite of polly's harrowing performances, it was a delightful visit; yet, as often happens with delightful things, it brought to sara a new worry and a great temptation. there were several of the young people present one evening; and miss prue, enjoying the moonlighted veranda and the music from the gas-lighted drawing-room, as well as anybody, watched the little by-plays with keen, interested eyes. among the group was mr. preston garth, a tall, shapely young fellow, whose face was redeemed from plainness by a pair of large intelligent gray eyes, and a ready smile, accented by the whitest of teeth. miss prue was attracted by his looks; and, being a close observer, she soon noted that, though he talked about laboratory matters with morton, and was ready to joke or sing with molly and the two older young ladies present, yet every time sara addressed him, he turned to answer with an eagerly respectful air, different from the rather careless manner usual with the others. the next day, as she sat with her favorite in the cool library, molly being away on an errand, she asked, apropos of nothing,-- "who is that mr. garth, sara?" the young girl smiled. "just what you see, miss prue; a college student, and seemingly a fine young man." "but where does he live?" "i believe in trenton." "know anything about his family?" "no, except that there are not many of them, i believe. at any rate, he has no parents. he's helping himself through college partly, though i understand he has a small property; that's why he works in the laboratory." "h'm," miss prue bent towards the light to pick up a dropped stitch in her knitting. "he looks like a fine fellow; does he come here often?" "yes, rather," sara answered carelessly, just then engaged in digging about the roots of a palm in the window with one of her hairpins; "he likes to sing with molly." miss prue did not answer, except by an expressive little grunt, and then, apparently, changed the subject. "do you ever hear from cousin jane nowadays?" ("cousin jane" was mrs. norris, jasper's mother.) "i haven't lately. she did write me a few times, and i answered; but the last letter came in cold weather,--i should say, before february." "yes. jasper has a schooner of his own now, did you know it?" "no; has he? that's fine!" "yes; jasper always was forehanded, and he has laid by quite a snug little sum; then of course his father helps him; you never hear from him?" "no; that is, he did write a postscript in one of his mother's letters." "did you answer it?" "not directly. i expressed my thanks, etc., to mrs. norris when i next wrote." sara had resumed her chair and sewing; but at this she laid it in her lap, and looked curiously at her old friend, wondering what categorical fiend possessed her this morning. miss prue knitted two or three rounds in silence, then remarked, with elaborate carelessness,-- "you and jasper have always been good friends?" as she ended with the rising inflection, sara answered,-- "oh, yes, always," and picked up her sewing. "i've about made up my mind," added miss prue, lowering her voice to a more confidential tone, "to make jasper my heir. his mother has been for years my nearest of kin, and jasper's a fine lad, honest and trustworthy. but i have some notions about woman's rights in property matters; and if i knew just the girl he would marry, i should leave it to both, share and share alike. i know whom he _wants_ to marry," she finished decisively. "is it dolly lee?" asked sara, all interest. "no, it isn't dolly lee," dryly; "it's sara olmstead." the sewing dropped again. "miss prue!" "well, it is, and you needn't speak as if i'd told a falsehood; for i _know!_" sara's cheeks had crimsoned warmly, and her voice faltered a little, as she asked,-- "did he tell you himself?" "not in so many words; but i've known it, so has his mother, for a long time. he has cared for you ever since he was a little boy. and sara," earnestly, "where would you find a better husband, a truer heart? i'm an old goose, i suppose, to speak out so plainly; but the fact is, jasper's a bit afraid of you, and doesn't dare to speak, i imagine." "afraid of _me?_" "yes, he thinks you some kind of a goddess probably; most men do till they are married, and then they're too apt to think their wives are kitchen-maids; but i don't think jasper'll be like that!" she added hastily. sara smiled. "i've no doubt, miss prue, that jasper would be all that is good and noble; ah! there is molly coming back; i wonder if she succeeded in matching your yarn," and rising with a relieved air, she hurried out to meet her sister. but the conversation lingered in her memory, and was often brought to mind by trivial events. during all of her visit, miss prue had an air of taking possession of sara, which was, if not new, at least accented greatly, and occasionally would drop such expressions as,-- "if you should ever live in killamet again," or "when you come back to us, sara," which gave the girl an uneasy feeling that her future was being settled for her, leaving no alternative. even her very last day, during the packing, there was an instance of this. sara and molly, revelling in the midst of bags and boxes, while pretending to help, came upon a little morocco case of antique appearance. "may i look at this, miss prue?" cried molly, holding it up. "of course, child; just hand me that bundle, sara; it's bandages i brought along in case of accidents; i always carry some in my hand-bag, besides my old indian ointment." "oh, how lovely!" exclaimed molly, as the cover of the case flew back, discovering a set of coral ornaments of exquisite workmanship, outlined against the faded blue satin lining. "coral's all out of style now, but it's wonderfully pretty, just the same; and what an odd design; see sara!" she held them out towards the latter, then by a sudden impulse took the ear-rings and placed them against her sister's shell-like ears. "oh! look miss prue. aren't they becoming?" "exceedingly," said that lady, looking around with a critical air: "coral always becomes such a complexion and hair. i've always intended those for jasper's wife." her accent and tone were so peculiar as she said this that even molly noticed it. "jap's wife?" she cried gayly. "there's your chance, sara. why don't you set your cap for him, and the corals?" "molly!" sara drew back her head sharply, and thrust the jewels from her, but her face crimsoned as she did so; and though molly dared say nothing further, her eyes danced with teasing merriment, while miss prue, pretending not to notice at all, took in every detail. "either she likes him so much she can't bear to have the subject made light of, or else the whole thing is distasteful to her; i wish i knew which it is," was her thought as she bustled about, apparently intent only on getting as many garments as possible into a given space. she ruminated all the way home next day, making up her mind that she would not be quite happy now until this affair was arranged, and resolved that if jasper happened to be at home when she reached there, she would have a word to say to him. meanwhile, sara's tranquillity, having been invaded by this new idea, was effectually destroyed. it had been her life-long habit to reverence and obey miss prue; if she went against her in this matter it would be an unprecedented event. then she could not but realize what a fine match it would be in a worldly point of view, allying her with those families she had, all her life, been taught to consider as first in her little world. it would give her dear ones certain comfort and herself rest from care and anxiety; she knew well what a warm nest jasper's wife would step into, admired, petted, and cousined by relatives innumerable. last of all, it would ally her to a young man she had always liked, and could thoroughly respect as well; one too, who would, she felt certain, be a tender, loyal mate. what was there against it? why--as molly would say-- didn't she "jump at the chance"? she felt really indignant at herself for her own perverseness; but, though she would not tell herself the reason why, she felt this thing to be impossible. better struggle along under her burdens as she had been doing, rather than go so reluctantly to that true and tender heart. "oh, i wish she had not spoken!" she whispered to herself passionately one day as these thoughts kept tormenting her. "i never knew miss prue to do so unkind a thing before! but why do i think about it? it's time enough to worry when jasper speaks. perhaps she's mistaken after all!" and she tried to content herself in this belief. when a letter came from her old friend, giving a lively description of her journey home, and of a disgraceful squabble between polly and a tiny pug, in which the former blasphemed, and the latter barked bravely from the arms of his mistress, until the wrathful conductor bundled both off into the baggage-car, but saying nothing of jasper, except a casual remark that his schooner was expected in soon, she felt relieved. "i have been making too much of nothing!" she said, and blushed all to herself at the thought that her vanity alone had caused her all these pangs. chapter xix. bertha gillette. there was a great deal of sickness that summer in dartmoor, and much suffering among the poor. sara, having little or no money to spare, felt she could only give herself, and thus set apart her saturday afternoons (upon which she was now free from museum work) to visit the sick whenever she was needed, the circle to which she belonged having systematized this charity that it might not fall too heavily upon any one. molly sometimes went with her, and the two bright faces brought comfort to many forlorn hearts. it was an intensely warm day, the first week in july, when a card bearing the silver cross reached her. "bad case in third ward. a young girl in the trask tenement-house, cor. g and tenth streets. can you go? get whatever you need at reed's, and ask for bertha gillette, third floor." she turned to molly. "is it to-day you have an engagement with the dressmaker?" "yes, at three; why?" sara read the card, adding,-- "i suppose i'll have to go alone, then. if i should be kept till dark, be sure and have morton come after me." "what makes you go, sara? it's fairly scorching outside!" "i know, but i must, you see. 'a young girl.' poor thing! she may have no friends, and be suffering for care. yes, i must go. i'll wear my thinnest muslin, and take the large umbrella." she was soon off, stepping briskly in spite of the heat. the air was scintillating under the almost vertical rays of the sun, whose intensity was merciless, and scarcely a leaf stirred; even the birds were drowsy, and kept in shelter, while every house was closed and barricaded against the heat as against an invading army. for a time sara had the shade of the great trees lining the sidewalks for protection; but as she left these wide avenues for the alleys of poverty, there was nothing but her umbrella between her and the scorching luminary, while mingled with the intensified heat were the dust and odors arising from unsprinkled and garbage-strewn streets. she felt faint before she reached the tenement-house, and only the consciousness that she must not give way to illness in this neighborhood gave her strength to proceed. once inside, she dropped down on the lowest step of the stairway, regardless of dust, until she had recovered somewhat, then wearily climbed the steps. half-way up she met a rough-looking man, who scowled at her, but said nothing; and she hurried by him, glad to see he kept on his way without looking back. reaching the third floor finally, she saw a rather pretty little girl standing in one of the many open doors, and asked which led to miss bertha gillette's room. "she ain't got no room," said the child shrilly; "she's in old mis' pierce's room, down thar," pointing to a closed door; "that's whar they took her when they brung her in. there wan't no room anywheres else." "oh! was she taken ill on the street?" the child nodded. "got a sunstroke, i guess," and sara hurried on to the designated door. she knocked lightly, then opened it and entered. it was a bare little room, with one window, but decently clean, and the sash was entirely removed, being replaced by a mosquito-netting tacked to the frame, so the air was not foul. on the old bed in the corner lay the young girl, white and still, and beside her sat an elderly woman with a kind, weather-beaten visage, who looked up inquiringly. "i am sara olmstead, a king's daughter," touching the cross on her breast; "can i do anything for you?" "i'm glad you've come," said the woman; "i've did what i could, but i've got to go to my work now. i'm meat cook in a restaurant, and i must git there by four; it's 'most that now; can you stay?" "yes," said sara. "please tell me all about her, the symptoms, and so on. was it a sunstroke?" "might be--set down, miss, you look tuckered out yourself," handing the one splint-bottomed rocker. "i don't know much more'n you. they picked her up down on the corner this morning and brought her into the hall,-- thought 'twas a fit, i guess. i come in while they was all tearin' around like a passel of geese, and when they didn't seem any place for her lower down, told 'em they might bring her to my room. i'm about the only one that rooms alone, i guess." "and hasn't she spoken at all?" "yes, she come to and told us her name, but that's about all. she grew flighty pretty soon; and now she either lies still and breathes hard, like you see her now, or mutters suthin', i can't make out what. if you need any help, mis' maloney's a good, kind woman, three doors to the left; she'll come in a minute, 'less the old man's drunk and she has to stay to watch the children; and here's her medicines. i got the health doctor right away, dr. browne. was it him sent you?" "i presume he reported the case to our circle, and they sent me word. you said a spoonful every half hour?" "yes; and if she gets so't she really senses things, she might want suthin' to eat. you'll find tea and bread in this cupboard, see? and i bile the water on this oil stove." sarah nodded wearily; she was feeling a strange lassitude from which it was difficult to rouse herself. the woman noticed her pallor. "you don't look strong yourself, miss, and i hate to leave you, but i guess there won't be much to do. if we don't have a big run at the restaurant,--and we won't, it's so hot--i'll git back by seven sure; and don't mind calling on mis' maloney, she's as clever as the day is long. well, good-by to you," and she was gone. sarah looked about her with some curiosity, noting the bare edges of the floor around the faded strip of cheap carpeting in the centre, the little stand with a white towel over the top, upon which was a lamp and a bible,--she was glad to see the bible--the woodcuts from illustrated journals tacked to the walls, and the one straggling geranium in a tin can on the window sill, then examined more closely the girl on the bed. she was extremely pale, and there were blue shadows about her nose and temples; but the brows were delicately pencilled, the lashes lying against the colorless cheek, thick and long, while the hair, of a brown so light as to be almost yellow, curled naturally around her forehead. "she is really pretty," thought sara, "but how thin and blue. and what mere claws her hands are!" looking at the one clutching a corner of the sheet. "poor girl! i don't believe she is much older than i, but she looks as if she had suffered enough for an old woman. ah! she's speaking." the lips were moving, but at first no sound came from them; then she caught one word, "mother," and then a tear rolled from the closed eyes over the white cheeks. sara gently wiped it away, thinking pitifully, "where can her mother be?" and while the thought was impressed upon her face in a look of tenderness and pity, the eyes of the young girl opened wide and gazed into her own. "who are--you?" she asked faintly. "an angel?" sara smiled. "no, only a girl like yourself." "then i am--not dead?" "no, indeed: you have been ill, but are better now. here is something for you to take," placing a spoon to her lips. the invalid swallowed the liquid docilely, never taking her large hazel eyes from sara's face. "who are you? where am i?" she asked again. "i am sara olmstead, a king's daughter, come to stay with you this afternoon; and you are in a good woman's room, who is now gone to her work." the eyes closed again, and an expression of pain or regret passed over the face. "do you suffer?" asked sara gently. the head was shaken slightly. "not in body, but i'm almost sorry it wasn't true." "what, bertha?" "my first thought, that it was all over, and you were the angel appointed to waken me in the other world." the tone, weak almost to whispering, was infinitely sad, and sarah thrilled with sympathy. that one so young should long for death seemed incredible to her hardy nature. but nothing more was said till, bethinking herself, sara asked,-- "could you eat anything now?" the eyes opened quickly. "yes," she said eagerly, "yes." sara hurried to light the little stove and make the tea, managing also to brown a slice of bread over the flame. she looked for milk and butter, but found none. "there is only sugar for your tea," she began. "never mind," said the eager voice again, "let me have it. oh, how good it smells!" sara brought the plain little repast to the bedside, and, rising to her elbow, the young girl partook with an eagerness that was pitiful. "poor thing!" thought sara, "i do believe she was starved!" then aloud, "if you can hold the cup, i'll make you some more toast; shall i?" "yes, please!" in a stronger voice, "i never tasted anything so good!" while she was eating the second piece, sara took a pencil and small notebook from her satin bag and scribbling a line, stepped hastily down the hall to the third door. it was opened by the same little girl who had first directed her. "is this mrs. maloney's room?" asked sara. "yes'm." "and you are her little girl?" "yes'm." "could i get you to do an errand for me?" "mebbe." "it's to take this paper to reed's store on g street, and bring home the things the clerk will give you. if you will i'll give you an orange when you come back." the child's eyes brightened. "i'll go," she said. "ma's down-stairs, and i'm minding the baby, but i'll call her." "thank you," said sara, and ran back to her charge. she was glad to see that the pale face on the pillow did not look so deathly now, and the blue shadows had nearly disappeared. she even smiled with some brightness, and her grateful eyes followed sara about the room. a breeze had arisen, and was blowing refreshingly through the window, and the latter gladly seated herself where she could catch it all. "you look better," she remarked, as she returned the sick girl's smile; "tell me, bertha, was it from hunger that you fainted? i am your friend and want to help you." "yes, it was. i haven't eaten since--what day is this?" "saturday; it is now about five o'clock." "then it was yesterday morning. i had a piece of bread about as large as my palm." "and nothing since?" "not a crumb." sara shuddered. "poor, poor girl! how did you come to such want?" tears of pity filling her sweet eyes. bertha gazed at her wonderingly. "how did you know me?" she asked. "what makes you care?" "i know your name because you gave it when you first came out of your faint, and how could i help caring? you are pretty near my own age, i think." "i'm twenty-two." "then you are a little the older. bertha, have you a mother?" she shook her head sadly. "no, i haven't anybody; it would have been better, i say. what can a girl do all alone in this great, wicked world?" "tell me about it, bertha; perhaps i can help you." no one could resist that tone; and bertha, after one long look into the sympathetic face, drew a sigh and began. "we were always poor, but not to real want. father had a small farm, and we lived off from it till he died. then it all went for debts and funeral expenses, and we took what little was left, mother and i, and came here. we managed to live while she was alive. she took in sewing, and i worked in ball's factory, and we were as cosey as could be in our one room; but last winter she died." her eyes filled with tears, and she stopped a moment, then went on. "the factory turned off a third of its hands in may, and i with them. i've tried everything since, but i'm not strong enough for many kinds of work. if i could only stand housework i could find plenty to do, but the heavy part is too much for me; twice i've broken down, lost my place, and had to use all the wages i'd saved up for doctor's bills. a second girl's work i could do, but it's difficult to get into those aristocratic houses, unless you have friends and recommends, especially in summer, when so many are closed while the families are away. "i've done shop-work, and indeed a little of everything; but for a week i haven't had a thing, and i was reduced to my last crumb. i knew, if i couldn't pay for my room to-night, i'd be turned into the street, so for two days i've walked and walked, hunting for work, till i actually dropped, as you see. there's one thing, though," with sudden fire, "i've kept straight! if i had been really dead, as i for a moment thought, i would not have been afraid to meet my mother. but it's been a hard struggle! do you wonder i was sorry when i found you weren't a real angel, and heaven was still far away?" sara, her eyes filled with tears, was about to answer, when nora maloney appeared at the door with her bundles. "i've got 'em, mum!" she cried, and at sight of her bright face both girls smiled again. "that's my good girl!" was sara's approving comment; "and here, didn't i promise you something?" "yes'm," her eyes snapping, "an orange." sara opened a package, and took out two. "what will you do with this, if i'll give it to you?" pointing to the extra one. "i'll hide 'em both till pa gets away, an' then i'll divvy up with nan and jack, and ma and baby," was the ready answer. sara handed over the two yellow globes. "that's right! i'm glad you're such a generous little girl, and i am much obliged to you for doing the errand. good-by." "good-by'm; thankee mum!" was nora's hearty answer, as she hurried home to show her treasures, before it should be necessary to hide them from the father whom drink had transformed into a brute; to be avoided if possible, and if not, to be fed and cajoled, then, if still implacable, fled from in terror as from any other ferocious, untamable beast. sara took from the bundles oranges, grapes, biscuit, and sliced ham, the sick girl watching her, meanwhile, with eyes that grew brighter every moment. "now we'll have supper together," said sara, arranging them neatly on the little stand; "for i'm getting hungry too, and while we're eating, we'll talk things over. that tea and toast will do for first course, try this bunch of grapes and the sandwich i am fixing for the second." bertha took them with a delighted air. "oh, how good! we used to have grapes at home; and father always cured his own hams. i was never really hungry in my life till nowadays. we've always been poor, and sometimes i didn't have any best dress, but there was never any lack of food. do you know"--solemnly--"it's an awful thing to get so hungry? i could have stolen--murdered almost--for food, only i didn't dare touch anything for fear of jail. all my ideas of right and wrong were confused, and for the time i was more of a wild beast than any thing else--oh, it was dreadful!" sara gently touched the thin hand. "poor girl!" she murmured, "i know something of it too!" then aloud, "bertha, how would the place of a companion suit you?" "a companion?" "yes, to an invalid lady. i know of a mrs. searle who needs one. she is rich, and ought to pay well; but she would want somebody who could read intelligibly--and i suspect it would require infinite patience to put up with her whims." "i haven't a bad temper," said bertha simply; "and i used to read aloud to mother while she was sewing--we both of us liked books. how i wish she would try me!" "perhaps she will; at any rate, you shall be looked after in some way. i am poor, myself, but i'm sure our circle will see that you find work. do you know what the 'king's daughters' are?" "i've heard of them, but you're the first i ever met. if they're all like you, the lord must be proud to own them." the sincere, almost childish, tone in which these words were said divested them of any irreverence. sara merely smiled, as she told bertha some of their aims and practices; and when mrs. pierce returned, she was astonished to see her patient sitting up in bed, with almost a flush on her cheeks, and a glad light in her eyes. "lawful suz!" she cried in the doorway, "what have you done to her?" "fed her," laughed sara; "and i have been helping her to take my prescriptions, you see. won't you join us?" "well, i'm beat! thank you--guess i will. was that all't ailded her-- jest hunger?" "that's all," answered bertha for herself, "and quite enough too!" then she repeated something of her story, thanking the good woman heartily for her kindness. it was decided she should stay till monday with mrs. pierce, who seemed anxious to befriend the girl, though so poor herself; and sara finally left them, still planning most amicably, in order to reach home before darkness should necessitate morton's coming after her. "how much cooler it seems!" she thought, as she stepped into the street, glancing up at the sky, which was partially overcast with purplish-black clouds; "i wish, now, i had brought a wrap." she hurried on; but the storm moved more rapidly than she, and just as she turned into the avenue she felt the splash of a large raindrop in her face. she attempted to raise her umbrella, but a sudden squall of wind nearly wrenched it from her grasp, and, becoming convinced it would be impossible to hold it against the now shrieking blast, she made no more effort to raise it, but ran on--the rain falling more heavily every moment. by the time she sprang up the steps into the shelter of the veranda, she was thoroughly drenched. morton met her there, just about to go in search of her, with a waterproof and overshoes, and cried,-- "why, sara, how wet you are!" "yes," she shivered, "i'm drenched," and hurried on and up to her room without more words. by the time she was disrobed, however, that same sensation, as of utter weariness, came over her, and she concluded to retire for the night, telling molly--who soon came up--that she was tired and thought she had better get some rest. "i've been to supper," she added; "and molly, tell morton when he goes to the store, to-night, that i'd like him to do an errand at mrs. searle's for me, on the way. just hand me a sheet of paper and a pen, dear." "won't it do in the morning, sara? you look so tired!" "no, to-morrow's sunday, you know, and this is something that must be attended to before anything happens." she took the writing materials from molly, and wrote the explanation and request in regard to bertha, then folding it with a listless gesture, handed it to her sister. "don't let him forget--it's important," she said wearily. "molly, i'm _so_ cold, can't i have another blanket?" molly brought it and ran down with the note. "don't stay late, morton," she urged in a worried tone; "if sara ever was sick, i should say she was going to be now." chapter xx. weakness. molly was confirmed in her surmise; for in an hour sara was in a burning fever, and there was little sleep in the house that night. to have _sara_ ill was unprecedented--almost unbearable--and the whole household was visibly affected by it. morton's face settled into a gravity which nothing could move, and molly's dimpled visage had never looked so long and care-full. hetty bustled up and down, important and anxious, while sam stood about in the hall, and asked everybody who passed along "how she wor a-doin' now." the doctor came, looked wise, talked about malaria, exposure to the heat and over-fatigue, left some pills and powders, and went away again-- after which the house settled down to that alert silence, so different from the restful quiet of an ordinary night. sara, tossing to and fro in the fiery grasp of fever, moaned and talked, hetty and molly watching alternately beside her, while morton tried to sleep in the next room, only to start from frightful dreams to the more harrowing reality that his beloved sister was actually and painfully ill. it was a sharp illness, but not of long duration. the fever was broken up on the fourteenth day, but it left a very weak and ghostly sara to struggle back to health once more. still, there were no relapses, thanks to good care, for hetty had been faithfulness itself, while molly had settled down to her new duties with a steadiness no one would have expected. as for morton, he would have brought up half the drugstore, if he had been permitted, and was made perfectly content whenever allowed to share the night-watches, which was seldom, as he had to work all day. in these hetty was soon relieved by those members of the circle who had become personal friends of the girls; and as there was little to do, except give the medicines regularly, they thus managed well without calling in a regular nurse. three weeks from the day of her seizure sara began to sit up in bed, looking once more something like the girl of old, though she still talked (to quote molly) as if she had hot pebbles in her mouth, and the veins on her temples were much too clearly defined beneath the white skin. thus sitting, one delightful day, she read a note from bertha, which had been awaiting her some time. it was a rapturous expression of thanks for the good place she had found with mrs. searle, and begged that she might see her as soon as sara was able. molly said, as she handed it, "she has been here two or three times, begging to do anything for you that was needed, and i promised you should see her just as soon as possible." so, a day or two later, bertha came. sara would hardly have known her, and indeed the two seemed to have changed places,--sara was the weakling now, bertha the strong and rosy one. "i have such a good place," she said, in answer to the former's questions; "mrs. searle is very kind to me. of course she is exacting and fretful at times, but that is only because of her illness, and i can get along with it; but she has given me a pretty room, and allows me an hour or two for air and exercise every day. i am happier there than i have been since mother died." "that is good!" said sara. "and only think," continued the pleased girl, "she is talking now of going to the seashore. you don't know how i long for a sight of the ocean! the only trouble is, she can't find a place quiet enough to suit her--she hates to go to a great hotel, or where there is a crowd." sara looked up with a sudden thought. "killamet would be quiet enough--how nice it would be if she'd take my house there!" "your house! have you a house?" "yes, the children and i; it's not much of one--just a cottage, but perfectly comfortable in summer. if mrs. searle would send down some furniture, i think she could really make it cosey." "i'll tell her about it" said bertha, and did, with the result that the lady decided to take it for the next two months, at a fair rental. this little excitement over, sara had only herself and the children to think of, and in her weak physical condition these thoughts were far from pleasant. what was to prevent bertha's experience from becoming her own, or possibly molly's, in case of evil fortune? if she should often be ill, who would care for them? she seemed to herself, just then, such a frail plank between them and want! she raised her white, blue-veined hands and looked at them; they did not seem made for struggling, and a sense of powerlessness, born of bodily weakness, enwrapped her in its hopeless gloom. there is a certain period, after convalescence is well progressed, that is even more trying to many natures than actual illness--that time when we are supposed to be well, and yet have not quite resumed our wonted strength. how the long-dropped burdens of our lives loom up before us now! is it possible we ever bent our backs to such a load? can we ever do it again? yet, even as we hesitate, relentless necessity pushes us on, and bids us hoist the burden. sara felt this often now, and all her former bravery seemed gone with her strength. she had already decided that, next monday, she must return to the museum, and bring up her neglected work; then there was a half- written article to be finished and copied, whose motive and central thought she had almost forgotten, while at her side loomed a basketful of stockings to be darned, and garments to be mended before the sabbath dawn. in this reluctant mood, trying to rally her forces for renewed conflict with life's hard duties, she could not help thinking how different it might all be--how she might be cared for, instead of looking out for others; how she might be the centre of a home, enclosed and guarded, rather than, as now, trying vainly to encompass one, making a wall of her feeble self to shelter others--and hot tears of rebellious weakness filled her eyes, and dropped slowly upon the trembling little hands, which were painfully weaving the threads to and fro through a preposterous hole in one of morton's socks. a step in the hall made her hasten to dash away the tell-tale drops, as hetty knocked, before peeping in to say,-- "there's a gentleman in the parlor asking to see you, miss olmstead." "a gentleman? one of the professors?" "i don't think it is; i never see him before--it's a young man." sara rose, adjusted her dress a little, and descended to the drawing- room. in its close-shuttered condition she did not at first recognize the figure which rose to meet her, but a second look wrung from her almost a cry. "jasper?" "yes, sairay, it's me. you--you've been sick, i hear." she bowed her head, unable to speak for the second. "and you show it too," with an awed look into her lovely face, spiritualized by illness, as he took her extended hand. "yes," recovering herself, "but i'm nearly well now--how are they all in killamet?" "oh, so-so, i guess; but i haven't been home to stay any since last month--soon after cousin prue was here, it was. i had business in norcross yesterday, and i come over from there by train. mother wrote about your having the fever." she had motioned him to a chair, and dropped into another herself, feeling weak in body, and perplexed in mind. why had he come? was _he_ the answer to her repining thoughts? his voice roused her from the sort of lethargic state into which she had dropped for a moment. "sairay," he said, with a little choke, "i--i couldn't stay away any longer--when i heard about you--and i've come"-- he stopped again, but she did not help him out--she could not. with her fingers locked together in her lap, she waited for what was coming, with the feeling that she was drifting down stream, and had neither the strength, nor inclination, to arrest her swift descent. he drew a sigh that was almost a gasp, and plunged on,-- "sairay, it's too hard for you--all--all this--and i--oh! you know how i love you--i've always loved you, and what is the use in your working so when i'd give my very eyes to take care of you? don't speak, sairay," raising his hand in protest, "i've got a-going, now, and i want to say it all. i know i'm not good enough for you--who is?--but if love that never tires, and kindness, and--and--being as true as steel, and as tender as a mother, can count for anything, they'll plead for me, sairay; i'm not much on fine speech-making, as you know." he had risen, and stood before her, tall and stalwart, and, for the moment, such strength and tenderness seemed good to her--why not accept them, and be at rest? perhaps he felt her yielding mood; at any rate, he held out both hands with an assured gesture. "say yes, sairay--tell me you"-- there was a jarring slam and a flood of light; one of the shutters had blown open. both started, glanced around, then faced each other again; but that noisy interruption had thoroughly aroused sara. she looked at jasper in this brighter light, and a quick revulsion of feeling swept over her. what was she doing? would she lie to him? she did not love him; did she dare to tell him that she did? a thought of another manly figure, bearing a certain refinement and nobility lacking in this, rose before her mind's eye, and when jasper finished his sentence--"tell me you love me!" her answer was ready. "i can't, jasper," she said low, but firmly, "it wouldn't be"-- he stopped her again. "don't answer me now; take time to think--take till tomorrow. this is too sudden; nobody can know their minds all in a minute. i'll come again when you've had time to think." she shook her head. "no, jasper, that is not necessary. you have always been one of my best friends--be so still! but--that is all. i can't give you what you ask for, and time will never change me--don't think it. the best way is to have perfect truth between us. now, jasper," trying to speak easily, "put this aside, and stay with us this evening. i want you to see morton and"-- "i can't," said jasper, in a voice of intense calmness (she could imagine him giving an order in just that tone, when life or death hung on the proper execution of it), "i--must go. you--you're sure you know your mind?" "yes, sure." he picked up his hat,--she noticed it was a silk tile, and thought vaguely how incongruous it looked upon him, though she was used to little else among the students,--and jammed it absently down on his head, as he was accustomed to fasten on his tarpaulin during a storm. "good-by" he said hoarsely, turning towards the door. she stepped towards him. "jasper, wait!" he obeyed--but reluctantly. "i beg of you, don't let this make you feel hard towards us all. i have depended on your goodness all my life--don't let it fail me now!" she held out her hand with that look which few could resist, a look of winning trustfulness words cannot describe. jasper hesitated, turned, looked into her face--and yielded. "sairay," he said, grasping her hand closely, "it's no use; you always did have your way, and you always will! i'll be anything to you that you want me to be, but--it's bitter hard luck!" and, wringing her hand till it ached, he left her. chapter xxi. the prince cometh. "a letter from mrs. macon, i think," said morton, handing it across the table to sara, with a glance at the western postmark. "i shouldn't wonder if it is to announce their return," she remarked, opening it. "heaven forbid!" groaned molly. "i love the macons, but i adore their home! why don't you praise these muffins, morton? i made 'em." "is that what ails them?" making a wry face. "give me another at once. we must make way with them as fast as possible!" and molly passed him the plate, with a well-pleased laugh. "yes," interrupted sara, looking up, "they will be at home inside of a fortnight, but she kindly says,-- "'don't hurry to find rooms. i want to help you decide, and i shall be so glad to come home to a houseful of young people rather than to the usual gloom and stuffiness of long-closed rooms; besides, i have a proposition to make you.'" "what can it be?" cried molly. "she may want me to stay, in place of hetty, for cook." "and me for coachman," added morton, buttering his third muffin. "then, sara, there is nothing left for you but to be lady's maid!" giggled the other twin. "i should rather like the position," smiled sara, "to read aloud to her, answer her notes, do her errands, and"-- "button her boots!" put in atrocious molly again, at which morton slapped at her with his napkin, when she fled--pursued by him--to the veranda, where decency demanded a cessation of hostilities. sara soon joined them, and a little later, preston garth,--who was back in town for a day or so, to assist in setting up some new apparatus lately arrived at the laboratory,--strolled up the walk. "you're too late!" exclaimed molly saucily, as he dropped upon the upper step, and began fanning himself vigorously with his hat; "morton's eaten up all the muffins, and i think sara finished the peaches." "and i suppose, as usual, miss molly had nothing," was the ironic reply. "oh, a trifle--not worth mentioning"-- "yes, molly has a starved appearance, as you may have observed," put in sara. "but, mr. garth, in spite of her discouraging remarks, i think we could find"-- "oh, thank you, miss olmstead--i have been to tea; just left the table, in fact, and am on my way back to the museum, so dropped in here. has anybody noticed the sunset to-night?" all turned to observe it (the house fronted towards the south), and simultaneously exclaimed at its grandeur. the sun was just dropping behind a thunderous bank of clouds, closely resembling a range of mountains capped with snow, now tinged ruddily with the dying light, and between these crowding peaks was an arched opening, as if a vaulted passageway had been blasted through the mass of rock, giving a vista of pale blue sky, from which radiated prismic bars of light, while way above the topmost peak, like some beacon-light suspended high, swung the new moon, a slender crescent, also near its setting. "oh, i saw it over my right shoulder!" cried molly gayly. "don't you long to hear what wish i made?" "not half so much as you long to tell it," replied morton cruelly. "how snubbed i feel!" she sniffed, amid the laughter, making a face at him. "but if you knew it included you--mr. garth, do you believe in omens?" "really, miss molly, i never thought--in fact, i don't know of any, do i? what omens?" "oh, that you're going to quarrel, if you spill the salt, and that it's bad luck to step over a crack in the floor, and you musn't begin things on friday, and"-- "molly, what nonsense! i thought we agreed to forget all that kind of thing when the mirror broke," said morton. "yes; when instead of bringing us misfortune it brought us comfort. did we ever tell you about that, mr. garth?" asked sara; then, as he gave a negative sign, she repeated the story. he listened interestedly. "where did you live, then, miss olmstead?" "in killamet--a tiny fishing-village on the coast. we are the children of a fisherman, perhaps you know." "you?" surprisedly. "i would never have thought it! i supposed"--he stopped in some confusion, and colored. "say it out!" urged morton. "yes, relieve your mind," added molly; "it won't stand too much pressure." "molly, be quiet!" interposed sara peremptorily. "well," said the young man at this, giving molly a queer glance, "i had always supposed fishermen to be a rude sort of people--entirely unlike you all, of course." "'with the exception of one,' you would say, if you dared," added molly instantly. "but you needn't blame any of my ancestors for my tongue-- sara will tell you our mother was a real lady, in speech and manners, and our father one of nature's noblemen. i was probably changed in the cradle by some wicked fairy." "let us thank the creature for leaving such a unique specimen, at least," laughed mr. garth, completely mollified; (if you will not accuse us of an insane desire to make a pun). "come, fairy changeling, and let's have a song together." "yes, if you won't insist upon classical music more than half the time. do you know what i'd like to sing to-night?" rising to go indoors; "one of those rollicking, rioting old sailor-songs, with no tune, and not many more words, but with a catchiness in the two or three bars that gives you the sensation of a ship rolling and pitching under your feet-- but sara won't let me, so"--laughing mischievously--"i suppose i'll have to come down to bach and wagner!" sara left alone outside, for morton now departed for the store, seated herself in one of the piazza-chairs to listen at her leisure. the twilight was deepening into the warm, scented dusk of a mid-summer eve, with nameless soft noises amid the dew and the perfume, as countless tiny creatures settled themselves to repose or came out for their nightly dance beneath the stars. the tender influences of night and silence inwrapped the girl as if in motherly arms, and she felt glad, and hushed, and still. what was the little struggle of a day when all this great, yet minute world lived, slept, woke and worked, subject to one will--a will mighty enough to control the universe, precise enough to make perfect and beautiful the down upon the wing of an insect invisible except under a powerful microscope? why should she fret, or worry, or dread? "i have but one care," she said, "to do right--to abide by my inner heaven-given instinct, which we call conscience, the rest is of the will." she leaned her head back restfully against the small down pillow tied by gay ribbons to her chair; but her resting soul leaned against an arm,-- mighty to save, and tender to feel. amid all her musings ran the sweet strains of the old english ballad the others were singing inside, whose refrain only was clear to her,-- "trust me, love, only trust!" a figure moving with a springing motion came swiftly up the gravelled walk and mounted the steps. not till then did sara notice it. she turned, rose, and stepped forward; and as the figure advanced to meet her, it stood full in the light streaming through the drawing-room windows. "robert?" she questioned, still in a dream, and not realizing that she had used a name only whispered in her own heart till now. "yes, sara," was the reply, "i have come--were you waiting for me?" still only half herself, so sudden and surprising was all this, she answered in his own tone, quiet, but threaded with deep meaning,-- "yes, i--think i was." he drew her to him, whispered three little words--and the new moon, just dipping her last upturned horn beneath the horizon, may have seen their kiss of betrothal; but if so, she modestly withdrew from sight, and never told the sweet secret. i suppose my story should properly end here, but sara felt that hers was just beginning. with arm linked in arm the two went softly down the steps, and strolled through the odorous hush of the garden, trying to tell the emotions of three years in as many minutes, while the unconscious couple within sang, and sparred, and sang again, perfectly certain of their unseen listener outside. after the first few moments, in which they could think of nothing but their own two selves, so strangely and quickly bound into one, sara asked,-- "but how did you happen to be here just now, robert?" "because i came! i was like a chained beast all the time you were ill, though molly's letters gave only the most cheering news, but i knew i couldn't see you if i were here, and i mustn't leave aunt; but when word came from uncle that he was down with a malarial attack at omaha, on his way home, and she started at once to nurse him, i made up my mind very shortly as to my next move--which was to pack my grip and come on, to 'put my courage to the test, to win or lose it all.'" "it required a great deal of courage!" laughed sara. "more than you think, sweetheart. i was not at all sure of your feelings towards me--to tell the truth, i have been horribly jealous of that singing-fellow--what's his name--garth, isn't it?" sara laughed merrily, and just then a booming strain rolled out from the drawing-room upon the silent air. "listen!" she said; "isn't that a fine baritone? that's something from offenbach, i think." "magnificent!" returned robert unsuspiciously, thrilling at her light, trustful touch upon his arm. "who is it? some friend of the macons?" "no, of ours. it is--mr. preston garth." he started, looked at her, and even in the dusk caught the amused flash of her eye. "the rascal! must i then run upon him the very first minute of my meeting you?" he queried tragically. "not necessarily--still perhaps, just for politeness' sake, we had better go back and say good-night to him. i think they have finished now, the music seems to have ceased." they turned back towards the house just as molly, who, with mr. garth, had now come out upon the veranda, cried excitedly, "why, she's gone. sara! sara! where are you?" "i am here, molly," advancing with her companion, "here with--mr. glendenning." "oh!" said molly; and mr. garth, feeling a sudden twinge of doubt and dread, waited but a moment longer, going through with the introductions almost mechanically--then, becoming suddenly aware of his neglected engagement at the museum, hastened on his way--leaving robert in full possession of the field. after answering a question of molly's he entered the house with the two girls. they had just stepped into the brightly-lighted drawing-room, when the younger, a trifle in advance, turned with some light remark, and was at once arrested by the beatified expression upon both faces. her remark died on her lips; and her eyes, filled with wonderment, travelled from one countenance to the other, as if determined to drag the secret from them by mesmeric force. "tell her, robert," said sara softly; upon which molly's hands came together sharply, after an old, childish trick of hers. "no need! no need!" she cried with her usual frankness; "i'm not blind-- and i never saw a couple so plainly ticketed 'sold' before!" then holding out a hand to each of the somewhat abashed pair, she cried merrily, "it's lovely, though! and remember, mr. glendenning, i always share in all sara's good things, so now you'll have to be my brother, if you have determined to be her--master," pointed by one of her indescribable grimaces. "master, eh?" queried the young man, raising his eyebrows. "do you know, molly, i shall be more than happy to be just her--husband?" "well, what's the difference? 'a rose by any other name,' you know; only look out for sara! i never saw a girl quite like her; while she's seeming to give up she always gets her way"-- "as she has now!" put in that maiden with a happy laugh. "don't tell robert all my faults tonight, dear; let him have a surprise now and then." "that means she is convinced that now you think her perfect," interrupted the saucy girl, with a trill of laughter. then growing suddenly as gentle and tender as she had been elfish before, she added sweetly, "and robert, you are right; you have won a real treasure--a perfect darling--as nobody knows better than her naughty, teasing sister." robert stayed a week, which time was to both lovers like a leaf blown back from eden. the weather, as if in chime with their mood, was simply exquisite; and after the more imperative duties at the museum were over, they passed the hours together, walking, riding, or boating on the river, as utterly self-centred, and as foolishly happy as if one were not a thorough-going business man, and the other a studious worker and writer, beginning to make a reputation for herself. just then the world, with its cares, its ambitions, and demands, was quite shut out, while love and happiness reigned supreme. such days, however, soon come to an end in this work-a-day world. an imperative telegram recalled robert to chicago and business; but not till he had won a definite promise from sara that the marriage should take place the following october. "so soon!" she cried, when he made the proposition. "but have you stopped to think? there is molly--yes, and morton, for i could not leave him here alone, though he is almost self-supporting now." "yes, i have thought it all out. my salary is not large for an expensive city, like chicago, but we can all live upon it modestly, even there; and fortunately we none of us have extravagant tastes." sara's eyes filled. "robert, how good you are! would you really burden yourself with my brother and sister? it is too much to ask!" "i shall not look upon it as a burden, dearest. if they are yours they are also mine; and, as you say, morton will soon take care of himself, for i can easily secure him a position there. as for molly, we'll send her to school a while yet; but mark me, sara, she'll be carried off before we know it, such a pretty girl as she." "well, there's one thing, robert, i can write: you won't object to that?" "object! i'm proud of it! write all you like, and be as learned as you please. the world may know you as a sage and a philosopher; but i,--ah! how little they guess what you are to me, my little princess by the sea! and now, if all your objections have been properly overruled, will you give me the answer i desire?" "yes," said sara, "if"-- "there! you have said all that is required," laying his finger on her lips, "don't spoil it with conjunctions. a simple affirmative is quite enough; i'll imagine the rest," and sara, only too happy to be thus overmastered, attempted no more objections to demands so sweet. * * * * * from this dream of bliss sara plunged directly into a deep vortex of house-cleaning, for she was determined that the premises should be in perfect order upon the macons' arrival. for four days chaos reigned, with the broom and scrubbing-brush for prime ministers. morton took refuge at the store, but poor sam, not so fortunate, had to face it all; and he felt as if the deluge had come again, with some new and harrowing accompaniments, in which woman's rights and demands were prominent. then, on the fifth, they rested from their labors in the clean, soap- charged atmosphere--walking gingerly over spick and span carpets, laying each book and paper demurely in place, and gazing, at a proper distance, through diamond-bright windows; and on the sixth the macons arrived. they seemed delighted to be at home once more, and both looked unusually well, having gained in flesh and color. the professor was genial and serene, mrs. macon full of life and sparkle. she ran from room to room, like a child; then through the gardens and shrubberies, returning quite out of breath. "o henry!" she cried, "isn't it nice to find everything in such good condition? i remember after our last long trip it was really dreadful for a week or two--everything yellow and musty; mice and cockroaches camping in the library and bedrooms, and spiders everywhere. by the way, sara, have you had to fight moths much?" "yes, occasionally. molly has made a raid on them every week or so, with gasoline, i believe--i don't think they've made much headway." "well, it's perfectly charming; and i should break out into 'home, sweet home,' or something else equally original, if i had an atom of a voice. now tell me all the news,--who's married, and to whom have the storks brought the blessed babies?" "yes, don't forget the babies," laughed her husband. "marian has spent most of her trip acting as nursemaid to poor little sticky-faced souls, whose mothers were utterly discouraged, i'm daily expecting that the society for the prevention of cruelty to children will send her a gold medal, for i am sure she richly deserves it." "well, i shall be far more proud of it than of any old fossilized remnant of antediluvial times, i can assure you," was the quick retort. "and henry needn't say anything, either, for he walked the coach-aisle a good half-hour with a crying baby yesterday--to be sure it had a lovely little mamma, who hadn't an idea how to manage it." "yes, it was all for the mamma," assented the professor demurely, with a twinkle at molly, who was heartily enjoying the scene, and only impatient to put in her oar, as now. "did you have many engaged couples on the train?" she questioned wickedly. "i think they're worse than babies--so uninteresting, you know, besides being oblivious to the point of idiotcy. i've been _so_ tired picking up after--oh! i nearly forgot myself--i mean generally speaking, of course." sara's face was a study, but one easy to decipher; for the cheeks crimsoned with embarrassment, the lips quivering with indignation, and the eyes aglow with a happiness no mortification could conceal, told all her secret in living characters. mrs. macon nearly sprang from her chair. "_who_ is it, sara? mr. garth--mr. steene--that little professor of mathematics with the bald head, or--oh! tell me, _is_ it mr. glendenning?" "what a wonderful guesser you are!" cried molly. "and not born in yankeedom, either!" laughed the professor, really pitying sara's distress. morton came to the rescue, as usual. "if it is mr. glendenning, that's no reason for blazening it around all over the country, as if you were too proud of it to keep still. robert glendenning's a nice fellow, but i never saw anybody quite good enough for sara." "nor i," said molly, entirely unruffled; "but she's like those of royal blood, you see--she makes a man honorable by marrying him." amid the laughter over the cool impudence of this assumption, sara recovered herself somewhat, and received with tranquillity the hearty congratulations which followed. "i'm not a bit surprised--i saw it as long ago as last thanksgiving," observed mrs. macon. "yes," put in her husband placidly, "mrs. macon's foresight is almost up to the irishman's." "well, you may laugh, but i did--and what's more, i gave my consent. i told him he was _most welcome_, and he understood me!" "that was generous," said the professor ironically, beginning to cut the leaves of half a dozen periodicals which awaited him upon the library table; at which the rest--taking the hint--adjourned to the veranda, to talk it over at their leisure. chapter xxii. good-by to killamet. the next day, as mrs. macon and sara found themselves alone in the former's special boudoir, that lady remarked,-- "you haven't asked me yet what the proposition is that i mentioned in my letter." "no," answered sara with a smile, remembering their conversation over it; "are you ready to make it now?" "yes, and more hopeful of the answer i desire since i have heard of your approaching marriage. sara, henry and i want to adopt molly." "adopt molly?" repeated the sister, with wide, astonished eyes. "yes; she is just what we both need to give us an interest in life, and to make our home the bright, joyous place we want it to be. my original proposition was to have been that, while we legally adopted her, and gave her our name in addition to her own, so that there need never be any trouble about property matters, you should still keep up all your ties of kindred, and that morton and yourself should find board near by, and make our house your second home. then henry would of course use all his influence to advance you both. your marriage will change the plan a trifle, leaving morton, as it does, somewhat unprovided for, and henry has commissioned me to say that, if you will consent to our adoption of molly, morton shall have a home here, also, till of age, and all the help we can give him--though we will not adopt him as our own. what do you think of it?" "i am so surprised, dazed, i can't think; it is most generous!" "not generous; we expect to receive all that we give; yet we won't be selfish, either. i don't ask you to give molly up at all, in one sense-- only to let us share with you in her love, and take from you all expense and care." "dear mrs. macon, you are a mother to us now--have been from the first day i saw you--and molly is a happy girl to have won your approbation! she shall decide this matter for herself; i will consent to whatever she wishes." "then will you tell her, sara? i want her to decide unbiassed by my presence;" to which sara readily agreed. but when told, molly was even more amazed than her sister had been, and at first ran and clung to her, like a child about to be torn from its mother's arms. the almost involuntary action touched sara deeply, and for a moment the sisters remained locked in a close embrace, each sobbing uncontrollably. after a little they grew more quiet, and talked the matter over in all its bearings, and sara could see that the idea pleased the child. "if it was to give you and morton up, i'd never consent," she said decidedly, "but it isn't. mrs. macon is just as fond of you as of me, sara, and all the difference is that now you and robert can marry without worrying over my future." "we have never worried, dear; lay that up to robert's credit, and remember that his offer of a home to you and morton was as hearty and sincere as mrs. macon's own. i should not have been so fond and proud of him otherwise." molly, sitting affectionately on her sister's knee, toyed with her hair a moment, then said diffidently,-- "sara." "well, molly?" "don't be provoked, dear, but i've sometimes thought you would marry jasper." "why, child?" trying not to color beneath the searching young eyes. "oh, he always seemed to like you so well; and miss prue too, i think she wanted it anyhow." sara hesitated a moment, then said gently,-- "i should consider it a great compliment if miss prue had felt so--and that makes me think--i must not delay longer to write her of these new plans of ours. and now, dear little sister, go to mrs. macon yourself, and tell her your decision. she is waiting in her own room." "but you'll come with me, sara?" "no, child, best go alone." "but what shall i say?" diffidently. "now, molly, as if you were ever at a loss." "but i so often say the wrong thing, and you never do, sara," with a sudden spasm of feeling that brought hot tears to her eyes; "it doesn't seem right! you've been so good, and look at all the hard times you've had, while i'm just _penetrated_ with naughtiness, and yet things always go smoothly with me!" "well, dear, then you have only to be thankful, and as good as possible; nor worry about me, god has blessed me abundantly." a little later, mrs. macon moving restlessly about her pleasant room, heard a timid knock at the door, most unlike molly's usual frank and earnest rapping; and at her invitation to enter, there appeared a much disguised edition of that damsel; for in place of the merry, fearless creature we all know, here stood a timid, blushing girl, apparently afraid to take another step forward. mrs. macon felt inclined to a burst of laughter, which verged closely upon tears, as molly sidled in, and began in a voice as soft as sara's own,-- "dear mrs. macon, i've come to be your child, if you want me, and it's easy to say i shall love you well, but"--suddenly breaking out into her usual frankness--"i'll tell you what it is, you're getting much the worst of the bargain!" "we can only leave that for time to tell, molly," drawing the girl to her with a tender kiss; "and now, mary olmstead macon, i formally claim you as my own dear daughter; will it be hard for you to call me mother?" "not hard, but strange, dear mrs.--mother--" blushing vividly; then, throwing her arms about the lady's neck with all the abandon she would have shown to sara, she said heartily, "no, it isn't hard, dear, sweet mother, for i'm going to love you with all my heart!" and mrs. macon held her close, with a new fondness, born of possession, thrilling all her being. after this there was no question but that sara should be married from this new home, as both the professor and his wife insisted upon it; and when she tried to speak of paying board, mrs. macon only laughed at her. "now, sara, do be quiet!" she said. "you may go on helping henry till you get his new assistant broken in, of course--i won't say a word against that--but you must have every cent for your _trousseau_-- and we'll show the madame some things that will make her open even her french eyes, i imagine!" this outburst having been called out by the receipt of a letter from the little woman that very morning. though it was one of warm approval and hearty good wishes, mrs. macon fancied she could read, between the lines of charming french-english, a desire to take the direction of affairs as soon as her husband's already improved condition should permit; and this did not suit the energetic manageress of this new family at all. she had never been so much in her element for years. she delighted in life, stir, youth, and business; she liked to direct people--and, fortunately, sara was one who could take even interference sweetly. so she arranged shopping tours, made engagements with dressmakers and milliners, and matched silk and lace with the greatest gusto, sara being occasionally allowed a word in the matter. sometimes the latter attempted a remonstrance. "but, mrs. macon," she whispered once, in alarm, "aren't you ordering more than i need of that silk? i'm afraid"-- "now, my dear, i'm not going to have your dress spoiled for the lack of a yard or two. it's all fixed, and the clerk understands--and see here, don't be buying thread and linings, and such things--i've more than enough at home, so don't let's clutter ourselves with useless articles." it was of no use to remonstrate--marian macon always had her way--and, if sara would have honestly preferred a less expensive outfit, entirely of her own purchasing, she felt that it was little enough to do to sacrifice her well-loved independence to the generous whims of so kind and true a friend. miss prue's answer to sara's letter, announcing her engagement, was prompt and characteristic. she wished her every happiness, and was enthusiastic over molly's good-fortune, but she could not help one little outburst. "i did think you loved the sea, and your own people, too well to leave us forever--but i see it is not so--and i must say you've turned all my plans topsy-turvy! but perhaps, if you'll come down, and talk it over with me, i can bring myself to forgive you. do come, sara! if you go so far away, i may never see you again; for polly and i are getting older, and more set in our ways, every day." "i must go," she said to mrs. macon, reading part of the letter aloud, "if only for a few days; perhaps, too, i can then make some definite arrangement in regard to our cottage--how i do wish i could find a purchaser for it!" she had expected to take the stage around the long way from norcross to killamet; but when she descended from the train what was her pleased surprise to be greeted by bertha and--of all people--jasper! they informed her they had rowed across the bay on purpose to take her home. she tried not to feel embarrassed in the latter's presence, and wondered how much he knew of her plans; but bertha was so bright and full of talk that there was little space for confusion or wonderings. "how well you're looking, bertha!" she said, as--now in the boat-- jasper pulled out from the sleepy little wharf. "you are as brown and rosy as any fisher-girl of us all." as she spoke, half-idly, her glance taking in both figures before her, she could almost have sworn that a lightning-like eye-signal passed between them, before bertha answered, with a conscious little laugh,-- "well, i enjoy the life as if i had been born to it. do you know, i can row--yes, and swim--as well as anybody, and i know all your old nooks, and"-- she paused suddenly, and sara cried,-- "all mine? why, who told you? some of them you could never have found, i'm sure." bertha blushed, but jasper spoke up bravely,-- "oh, i showed her. she's a great climber as you used to be, sairay." "that was nice of you, jasper! so you know the 'mermaid's castle,' and the pine walk, and all?" bertha assented, then turned the subject to mrs. searle, the cottage, etc., while sara began to have a dawning feeling that, possibly, she need not worry over jasper's future happiness, at least to the exclusion of her own. miss prue greeted her warmly; and everything was so exactly the same, from the white, curving beach, and long fish-sheds, the unpainted houses and the plants in the bow-windows, to the red and green carpet, and dragon-china in her little parlor, that sara could hardly believe she had ever been away. hester, seemingly not a day older, and wearing the identical turban she had last seen her in, sara felt certain, greeted her with respectful warmth, and polly grunted,-- "come in--shut the door--how d'ye do?--git out!" in her old familiar style. jasper had come with her to the door to carry the large valise, which was the only luggage she had brought; but bertha bade them _au revoir_ at the turn, saying she must hurry back to mrs. searle. "won't you come in and stay to supper, jasper?" asked miss prue, as he set the valise down and prepared to depart. "no, thank you, cousin prue, i've got some marketing to take home to mother that she sent for to norcross." "well, come down this evening, then." "guess i will, thank you. i told bertha i'd call around after her--she'd like to come too." "humph! very well," said his cousin, closing the door after him with more vim than was strictly necessary. "how good it seems to be here once more!" exclaimed sara, looking all about her. "you've had a new set of book-shelves put in, haven't you? that's all the change i see." "yes, and all you'll find in the whole village, likely, except in your own house--that you'd never know." "have you made acquaintance with mrs. searle and bertha?" asked sara, after miss prue had returned from trotting away with her wraps. "oh, yes; she's a nice woman when she isn't under the dominion of her nerves, and she says she hasn't been so well in years as she is here; the air seems to agree with her, and she enjoys the quiet." "i'm glad of that. how do you like bertha?" "oh, she's a nice girl," carelessly; "she thinks the world of you." "does she?" smiling a little; "it's mutual." then her hostess asked after the twins, the macons, etc., after which they went out to supper. in the evening bertha came with jasper. there was an abounding joyousness in her manner, which so tallied with sara's deep happiness that she could not but notice it; and it was evident that there was at least perfect good feeling, if nothing more, between her and jasper. after they had gone, sara turned with a mischievous look to her old friend. "i've an idea, miss prue, that bertha is quite in love with--killamet and its environs; she seems really enthusiastic. but how does it happen that jasper is at home now?" "well, the season is nearly over, and i believe his schooner is undergoing repairs--he's his own master now, and goes and comes as he likes." "yes; that must be pleasant! he seems unusually well; i never saw him looking so handsome." "humph!" said miss prue, and drew the curtain sharply, after which they adjourned for the night. sara found miss prue was right about her own house. two coats of paint outside gave it a decidedly spruce appearance, while, inside, that lady's vision as to its capabilities had been more than realized. the blending of roughness and luxury, of camp and home characteristics, gave the large central apartment a quaintness that had real charm for eyes weary of too great sameness in house-decoration; and when mrs. searle began negotiations for buying the place, sara felt, for a moment, very loath to sell. but she quickly conquered the feeling, knowing its uselessness; and as the purchaser was in real earnest, and no haggler, while the seller had not an idea how to drive a hard bargain, they soon came to terms satisfactory to both. as mrs. searle held out her feeble hand from her invalid chair to bid sara farewell, she retained the young girl's a moment to say,-- "you will not mind an old woman's congratulating you upon your future, will you? i knew robert glendenning's father in my youth; and if the son is like him in character, you may well be congratulated." sara blushingly murmured her acknowledgments, and the lady continued,-- "i want to thank you for sending me bertha, also; she's a real little treasure." "i'm so glad you like each other, mrs. searle! do you know, that whole affair has always seemed providential to me? i was a passive instrument in wiser hands." "as we all are, more often than we think---well, good- by, and when you long for a sight of the old home, and the sea, you will always be welcome here." it was sara's only visit to the cottage, for her stay in killamet was necessarily short. she spent all the time possible with her dear old friend, who she could plainly see, was losing in vigor daily. but though she frankly referred to her approaching marriage, and discussed her future plans in detail, it was not till the last day that either touched upon the subject as affecting jasper. he had sailed away that morning, bidding her a kind farewell, but reserving his last look and handclasp for bertha; and as the two girls walked back together from the beach, stopping to call on zeba osterhaus and mrs. updyke by the way, she could but notice how quiet her friend seemed, and mentioned it later to miss prue, with the bold comment,--- "she will miss jasper greatly, for, as i understand, they have been together almost constantly these last two months." her hostess knitted a round or two before she answered. "well, and i suppose you think that shows conclusively that he never cared anything for you---but it doesn't. jasper's as steady and faithful as the sun, and if you had married him he would have been a loyal husband to his dying day. but you wouldn't. at least that's my explanation of matters; i know he went down to norcross on business, and came home looking as if he had buried all his friends. he acknowledged he had seen you, and it didn't take me long to figure out the matter-- and, sara olmstead, i will own i was disappointed in you--dreadfully disappointed! he met bertha right here at my house--happened in one day when she was here on an errand--and she said something pleasant about you. that caught his attention, and i really believe, for a while, he sought that girl out just to hear her praises of you; and if it has grown to be something different with time, you ought to be the last one to blame him." "blame him? my dear miss prue, i think it's the nicest thing in the world--only, i came down here, you know, on purpose to win your forgiveness, and i'm not willing to go back without it." "oh, of course you'll get it--you know that--but i've got to go and plan out a whole new will, for i had determined to leave everything equally divided between you and jasper which i can't do now without splitting everything in two, so"-- "i'm to be cut off with a shilling?" gayly; "but i won't complain, if you'll only continue to give me your love--ah! dear miss prue, i am mercenary in one way, only--i do want all the affection i can beg or borrow!" for answer, the elder maiden took the younger in her arms and gave her a most tender kiss--so peace was made, and the ambassador who had failed to bring about the nuptials so ardently desired was at last propitiated. this time it was old adam standish who rowed sara over the bay to norcross,--adam, unchanged in lineament or costume,--while faithful friends, as before, watched from the beach. again she looked back with tear-dimmed eyes; for tender memories of father, mother, baby-brother, and all childhood's associations, tugged at her heart-strings--but there was now no dread and fear to paralyze her. she faced an uncertain future, it is true, but one bounded by tenderness and care, whose horizon-line glowed before her with rosy visions, which stretched away in glad promise to the infinite deeps of heaven! christine by amelia e. barr christine joan profit and loss three score and ten the measure of a man the winning of lucia playing with fire all the days of my life d. appleton & company publishers new york [illustration: when she came to the top of the cliff, she turned and gazed again at the sea. page ] christine a fife fisher girl by amelia e. barr author of "joan", "profit and loss", "the measure of a man", "all the days of my life", etc. frontispiece by stockton mulford "_the sea is his, and he made it_" d. appleton and company new york london copyright, , by d. appleton and company printed in the united states of america i inscribe this book to rutger bleecker jewett because he is my friend, and expresses all that jewel of a monosyllable requires and because, though a landsman, he loves the sea and in his dreams, he is a sailor. amelia e. barr. _january th, ._ contents chapter page i. fishers of culraine ii. christine and the domine iii. angus ballister iv. the fisherman's fair v. christine and angus vi. a child, two lovers, and a wedding vii. neil and a little child viii. an unexpected marriage ix. a happy bit of writing x. roberta interferes xi. christine mistress of ruleson cottage xii. neil's return home xiii. the right mate and the right time xiv. after many years chapter i fishers of culraine the hollow oak our palace is our heritage the sea. howe'er it be it seems to me 'tis only noble to be good. kind hearts are more than coronets and simple faith than norman blood. friends, who have wandered with me through england, and scotland, and old new york, come now to fife, and i will tell you the story of christina ruleson, who lived in the little fishing village of culraine, seventy years ago. you will not find culraine on the map, though it is one of that chain of wonderful little towns and villages which crown, as with a diadem, the forefront and the sea-front of the ancient kingdom of fife. most of these towns have some song or story, with which they glorify themselves, but culraine--hidden in the clefts of her sea-girt rocks--was _in_ the world, but not _of_ the world. her people lived between the sea and the sky, between their hard lives on the sea, and their glorious hopes of a land where there would be "no more sea." seventy years ago every man in culraine was a fisherman, a mighty, modest, blue-eyed goliath, with a serious, inscrutable face; naturally a silent man, and instinctively a very courteous one. he was exactly like his great-grandfathers, he had the same fishing ground, the same phenomena of tides and winds, the same boat of rude construction, and the same implements for its management. his modes of thought were just as stationary. it took the majesty of the free kirk movement, and its host of self-sacrificing clergy, to rouse again that passion of religious faith, which made him the most thorough and determined of the followers of john knox. the women of these fishermen were in many respects totally unlike the men. they had a character of their own, and they occupied a far more prominent position in the village than the men did. they were the agents through whom all sales were effected, and all the money passed through their hands. they were talkative, assertive, bustling, and a marked contrast to their gravely silent husbands. the fife fisherman dresses very much like a sailor--though he never looks like one--but the fife fisher-wife had then a distinctly foreign look. she delighted in the widest stripes, and the brightest colors. flaunting calicoes and many-colored kerchiefs were her steady fashion. her petticoats were very short, her feet trigly shod, and while unmarried she wore a most picturesque headdress of white muslin or linen, set a little backward over her always luxuriant hair. even in her girlhood she was the epitome of power and self-reliance, and the husband who could prevent her in womanhood from making the bargains and handling the money, must have been an extraordinarily clever man. i find that in representing a certain class of humanity, i have accurately described, mentally and physically, the father and mother of my heroine; and it is only necessary to say further that james ruleson was a sternly devout man. he trusted god heartily at all hazards, and submitted himself and all he loved to the will of god, with that complete self-abnegation which is perhaps one of the best fruits of a passionate calvinism. for a fisherman he was doubtless well-provided, but no one but his wife, margot ruleson, knew the exact sum of money lying to his credit in the bank of scotland; and margot kept such knowledge strictly private. ruleson owned his boat, and his cottage, and both were a little better and larger than the ordinary boat and cottage; while margot was a woman who could turn a penny ten times over better than any other woman in the cottages of culraine. ruleson also had been blessed with six sons and one daughter, and with the exception of the youngest, all the lads had served their time in their father's boat, and even the one daughter was not excused a single duty that a fisher-girl ought to do. culraine was not a pretty village, though its cottages were all alike whitewashed outside, and roofed with heather. they had but two rooms generally--a but and a ben, with no passage between. the majority were among the sand hills, but many were built on the lofty, sea-lashed rocks. james ruleson's stood on a wide shelf, too high up for the highest waves, though they often washed away the wall of the garden, where it touched the sandy shore. the house stood by itself. it had its own sea, and its own sky, and its own garden, the latter sloping in narrow, giddy paths to the very beach. sure feet were needed among its vegetables, and its thickets of gooseberry and currant bushes, and its straying tangles of blackberry vines. round the whole plot there was a low stone wall, covered with wall-flowers, wild thyme, rosemary, and house-leek. a few beds around the house held roses and lilies, and other floral treasures, but these were so exclusively margot's property, and margot's adoration, that i do not think she would like me even to write about them. sometimes she put a rosebud in the buttonhole of her husband's sunday coat, and sometimes christina had a similar favor, but margot was intimate with her flowers. she knew every one by a special name, and she counted them every morning. it really hurt her to cut short their beautiful lives, and her eldest son norman, after long experience said: "if mither cuts a flower, she'll ill to live wi'. i wouldna tine her good temper for a bit rosebud. it's a poor bargain." one afternoon, early in the june of , christine ruleson walked slowly up the narrow, flowery path of this mountain garden. she was heard before she was seen, for she was singing an east coast ballad, telling all the world around her, that she --cast her line in largo bay, and fishes she caught nine; three to boil, and three to fry, and three to bait the line. so much she sang, and then she turned to the sea. the boat of a solitary fisherman, and a lustrously white bird, were lying quietly on the bay, close together, and a large ship with all her sails set was dropping lazily along to the south. for a few moments she watched them, and then continued her song. she was tall and lovely, and browned and bloomed in the fresh salt winds. her hair had been loosened by the breeze, and had partially escaped from her cap. she had a broad, white brow, and the dark blue eyes that dwelt beneath it were full of soul--not a cloud in them, only a soft, radiant light, shaded by eyelids deeply fringed, and almost transparent--eyelids that were eloquent--full of secrets. her mouth was beautiful, her lips made for loving words--even little children wanted to kiss her. and she lived the very life of the sea. like it she was subject to ebb and flow. her love for it was perhaps prenatal, it might even have driven her into her present incarnation. when she came to the top of the cliff, she turned and gazed again at the sea. the sunshine then fell all over her, and her dress came into notice. it was simple enough, yet very effective--a white fluted cap, lying well back on her bright, rippling hair, long gold rings in her ears, and a vivid scarlet kerchief over her shoulders. her skirt was of wide blue and gray stripes, but it was hardly noticeable, for whoever looked in christine's face cared little about her dress. he could never tell what she wore. as she stood in the sunshine, a young man ran out of the house to meet her--a passing handsome youth, with his heart in his eager face and outstretched hands. "christine! christine!" he cried. "where at a' have you keepit yourself? i hae been watching and waiting for you, these three hours past." "cluny! you are crushing the bonnie flowers i' my hands, and i'm no thanking you for that." "and my puir heart! it is atween your twa hands, and it's crushing it you are, day after day. christine, it is most broke wi' the cruel grip o' longing and loving--and not a word o' hope or love to help it haud together." "you should learn seasonable times, cluny. it's few lasses that can be bothered wi' lovers that come sae early. women folk hae their hands full o' wark o' some kind, then." "ay, full o' flowers. they canna even find time to gie the grip o' their hand to the lad that loves them, maist to the death throe." "i'm not wanting any lad to love me to the death throe, and i'm not believing them, when they talk such-like nonsense. no indeed! the lad i love must be full o' life and _forthput_. he must be able to guide his boat, and throw and draw his nets single-handed--if needs be." "i love you so! i love you so! i can do nothing else, christine!" "_havers!_ love sweetens life, but it's a long way from being life itsel'. many a man, and many a woman, loses their love, but they dinna fling their life awa' because o' that misfortune--unless they have no kindred to love, and no god to fear." "you can't tell how it is, christine. you never were i' love, i'm thinking." "i'm thankfu' to say i never was; and from all i see, and hear, i am led to believe that being in love isna a superior state o' life. i'm just hoping that what you ca' love isna of a catching quality." "i wish it was! maybe then, you might catch love from me. oh christine, give me a hope, dear lass. i canna face life without it. 'deed i can not." "i might do such a thing. whiles women-folk are left to themsel's, and then it goes ill wi' them;" and she sighed and shook her head, as if she feared such a possibility was within her own fate. "what is it you mean? i'm seeking one word o' kindness from you, christine." then she looked at him, and she did not require speech. cluny dared to draw closer to her--to put his arm round her waist--to whisper such alluring words of love and promise, that she smiled and gave him a flower, and finally thought she might--perhaps--sometime--learn the lesson he would teach her, for, "this warld is fu' o' maybe's, cluny," she said, "and what's the good o' being young, if we dinna expect miracles?" "i'm looking for no miracle, christine. i'm asking for what a man may win by a woman's favor. i hae loved you, christine, since i was a bit laddie o' seven years auld. i'll love you till men carry me to the kirk yard. i'd die for your love. i'd live, and suffer a' things for it. lassie! dear, dear lassie, dinna fling love like mine awa'. there's every gude in it." she felt his heart throbbing in his words, but ere she could answer them, her brother neil called her three times, in a voice that admitted of no delay. "good-by, cluny!" she said hurriedly. "you ken neil isna to be put off." then she was gone, and cluny, full of bewildered loving and anxious feelings, rushed at headlong speed down the steep and narrow garden path, to his grandmother's cottage on the sands. neil stood by a little pine table covered with books and papers. he was nearly twenty-one years old, and compared with his family was small in stature, lightly built, and dark in complexion. his hair was black, his eyes somberly gray, and full of calculation. his nose, lean and sharp, indicated selfish adherence to the realities of life, and the narrow nostrils positively accused him of timidity and caution. his mouth was firm and discreet. taken as a whole, his face was handsome, though lean and thoughtful; but his manner was less pleasant. it was that of a serious snob, who thinks there is a destiny before him. he had been petted and spoiled all his life long, and his speech and conduct were full of the unpleasant survivals of this treatment. it spoiled him, and grated on christine's temperament, like grit in a fine salad. he had never made a shilling in his life, he was the gentleman of the family, elected by the family to that position. in his boyhood he had been delicate, and quite unfit for the rough labor of the boats, but as he had developed an extraordinary love for books and learning, the minister had advised his dedication to the service of either the law or the gospel. to this proposal the whole household cheerfully, even proudly, agreed. to have an educated man among the rulesons pleased everyone. they spoke together of the great scotch chancellors, and the great scotch clergy, and looked upon neil ruleson, by special choice and election, as destined in the future to stand high among scotland's clergy or scotland's lawyers. for this end, during eleven years, all had given their share without stint or holdback. that neil had finally chosen to become a lord of the law, and to sit on the bench, rather than stand in the pulpit, was a great disappointment to his father, who had stubbornly hoped his son would get the call no man can innocently refuse to answer. his mother and brothers were satisfied. norman ruleson had once seen the lords ride in civic pomp and splendid attire to edinburgh parliament house, and he was never weary of describing the majesty of the judges in their wigs and gowns, and the ceremonials that attended every step of the administration of justice. "and the big salary coming to the judges!" normany always added--"the salary, and the visible honors arena to be lightlied, or made little o'. compared wi' a minister's stipend, a judge's salary is stin-pen-dous! and they go wi' the best i' the land, and it isna anything o' a wonder, when a judge is made a lord. there was lord chancellor campbell, born in fife itsel', in the vera county town o' cupar. i have seen the house next the bell inn where he was born, and his feyther was the minister o' cupar. about the year ----" "you needna fash either us, or yoursel', norman, wi' names and dates; it will be time in plenty, when you can add our lad to the list." margot at this hour was inclined to side with her husband. margot believed in realities. she saw continually the honorable condition of the scotch clergy; norman's story about the royal state and power of the judges was like something read out of a book. however, now that neil was in his last year of study, and looking forward to the certificate which would place him among men in such a desirable condition, she would not darken his hopes, nor damp his ardor. neil's classes in the maraschal college at aberdeen were just closed, but he was very busy preparing papers for their opening in september. this was to be his final term, and he expected to deliver a valedictory speech. the table in the best room, which he was permitted to occupy as a study, was covered with notes, which he wished copied--with books from which he was anxious to recite--with work of many kinds, which was waiting for christine's clear brain and fine penmanship. it had been waiting an hour and neil was distinctly angry. "mother! where at all is christine?" he asked. "she went to your brither norman's cottage. his little lad isna as weel as he should be." "and my wark has to wait on a sick bairn. i'm not liking it. and i have no doubt she is wasting my time with cluny mcpherson--no doubt at all." "weel! that circumstance isna likely to be far out o' the way." "it is very far out of _my_ way. i can tell you that, mother." "weel, lad, there's no way always straight. it's right and left, and up and down, wi' every way o' life." "that is so, mother, but my work is waiting, and it puts me out of the right way, entirely!" "tut! tut! what are you complaining aboot? the lassie has been at your beck and call the best pairt o' her life. and it's vera seldom she can please you. if she gave you the whites o' her e'en, you would still hae a grumble. it's saturday afternoon. what's your will sae late i' the week's wark?" "ought i not to be at my studies, late and early?" "that stands to reason." "well then, i want christine's help, and i am going to call her." "you hae had her help ever sin' you learned your a b c's. she's twa years younger than you are, but she's twa years ahead o' you in the ordinary essentials. do you think i didna tak' notice that when she was hearing your tasks, she learned them the while you were stumbling all the way through them. dod! the lassie knew things if she only looked in the face o' them twice o'er, and it took you mair than an hour to get up to her--what you ca' history, and ge-o-graph-y she learned as if they were just a bairn's bit rhyming, and she was as quick wi' the slate and figures as you were slow. are you forgetting things like these?" "it is not kind in you to be reminding me of them, mother. it is not like you." "one o' my duties to a' my men-folk, is to keep them in mind o' the little bits o' kindness they are apt to forget. your feyther isna to mind, he ne'er misses the least o' them. your brother norman is like him, the rest o' you arena to lippen to--at a' times." "i think i have helped christine as much as she has helped me. she knows that, she has often said so." "i'll warrant! it was womanlike! she said it to mak' ye feel comfortable, when you o'erworked her. did ye ever say the like to her?" "i am going to call her. she is better with me than with cluny macpherson--that i am sure of." "you and her for it. settle the matter as it suits ye, but i can tell ye, i hae been parfectly annoyed, on several occasions, wi' your clear selfishness--and that is the vera outcome o' all my thoughts on this subject." then neil went to the door, and called christine thrice, and the power of long habit was ill to restrain, so she left her lover hurriedly and went to him. "i have been watching and waiting--waiting for you, christine, the last three hours." "tak' tent o' what you say, neil. it isna twa hours yet, since we had dinner." "you should have told me that you were intending to fritter and fool your afternoon away." "my mither bid me go and speir after norman's little laddie. he had a sair cold and fever, and----" "sit down. are your hands clean? i want you to copy a very important paper." "what aboot?" "differences in the english and scotch law." "i don't want to hae anything to do wi' the law. i canna understand it, and i'm no wanting to understand it." "it is not necessary that you should understand it, but you know what a peculiar writing comes from my pen. i can manage latin or greek, but i cannot write plainly the usual english. now, you write a clear, firm hand, and i want you to copy my important papers. i believe i have lost honors at college, just through my singular writing." "i wouldn't wonder. it is mair like the marks the robin's wee feet make on the snow, than the writing o' human hands. i wonder, too, if the robin kens his ain footmarks, and if they mean anything to him. maybe they say, 'it's vera cold this morning--and the ground is covered wi' snow--and i'm vera hungry--hae ye anything for me this morning?' the sma footmarks o' the wee birds might mean all o' this, and mair too, neil." "what nonsense you are talking! run away and wash your hands. they are stained and soiled with something." "wi' the wild thyme, and the rosemary, and the wall-flowers." "and the rough, tarry hand of cluny macpherson. be quick! i am in a hurry." "it is saturday afternoon, neil. feyther and eneas will be up from the boats anon. i dinna care to write for you, the now. mither said i was to please mysel' what i did, and i'm in the mind to go and see faith balcarry, and hae a long crack wi' her." neil looked at her in astonishment. there was a stubborn set to her lovely mouth, he had never seen there before. it was a feminine variety of an expression he understood well when he saw it on his father's lips. immediately he changed his tactics. "your eyes look luck on anything you write, christine, and you know how important these last papers are to me--and to all of us." "wouldna monday suit them, just as weel?" "no. there will be others for monday. i am trusting to you, christine. you always have helped me. you are my fail-me-never!" she blushed and smiled with the pleasure this acknowledgment gave her, but she did not relinquish her position. "i am vera sorry, neil," she answered, "but i dinna see how i can break my promise to faith balcarry. you ken weel what a friendless creature she is in this world. how could i disappoint a lass whose cup is running o'er wi' sorrow?" "i will make a bargain with you, christine. i will wait until monday, if you will promise me to keep cluny macpherson in his place. he has no business making love to you, and i will make trouble for him if he does so." "what ails you at cluny? he is in feyther's boat, and like to stay there. feyther trusts him, and eneas never has a word out o' the way with him, and you ken that eneas is often gey ill to wark wi', and vera demanding." "cluny macpherson is all right in the boat, but he is much out of his place holding your two hands, and making love to you. i saw him doing it, not ten minutes ago." "cluny has made love to me a' his life lang. there is nae harm in his love." "there is no good in it. just as soon as i am one of her majesty's councilors at law, i shall take an office in the town, and rent a small floor, and then i shall require you to keep house for me." "you are running before you can creep, neil. how are you going to pay rents, and buy furnishings? forbye, i couldna leave mither her lane. she hasna been hersel' this year past, and whiles she has sair attacks that gie us all a fearsome day or twa." "mither has had those attacks for years." "all the more reason for us to be feared o' them. neil, i canna even think o' my life, wanting mither." "but you love _me_! i am bound to bring all kinds o' good luck to our family." "mither is good luck hersel'. there would be nae luck about the house, if mither went awa'." "well then, you will give cluny up?" "i canna say that i will do anything o' that kind. every lass wants a lover, and i have nane but cluny." "i have a grand one in view for you." "wha may the lad be?" "my friend at the maraschal. he is the young master of brewster and ballister, and as fine a young fellow as walks in shoe leather. the old ballister mansion you must have seen every sabbath, as you went to the kirk." "ay, i hae seen the roof and turrets o' it, among the thick woods; but naebody has lived there, since i was born." "you are right, but ballister is going to open the place, and spend gold in its plenishing and furnishing. it is a grand estate, and the young master is worthy of it. i am his friend, and i mean to bring you two together. you are bonnie, and he is rich; it would be a proper match. i owe you something, christine, and i'll pay my debt with a husband worthy of you." "and how would i be worthy o' him? i hae neither learning nor siller. you are talking foolishness, neil." "you are not without learning. in my company you must have picked up much information. you could not hear my lessons and copy my exercises without acquiring a knowledge of many things." "ay, a smattering o' this and that. you wouldna call that an education, would you?" "it is a better one than most girls get, that is, in the verities and the essentials. the overcome is only in the ornamentals, or accomplishments--piano-playing, singing, dancing, and maybe what you call a smattering of the french tongue. there is a piano in ballister, and you would pick out a scotch song in no time, for you sing like a mavis. as for dancing, you foot it like a fairy, and a mouthful of french words would be at your own desire or pleasure." "i hae that mouthfu' already. did you think i wrote book after book full o' your french exercises, and heard you recite ollendorf twice through, and learned naething while i was doing it? neil, i am awa' to faith, i canna possibly break my word to a lass in trouble." "a moment, christina----" "i havna half a moment. i'll do your writing monday, neil." "christine! christine!" she was beyond his call, and before he got over his amazement, she was out of sight. then his first impulse was to go to his mother, but he remembered that she had not been sympathetic when he had before spoken of christine and cluny macpherson. "i will be wise, and take my own counsel," he thought, and he had no fear of wanting his own sympathy; yet when he reviewed his conversation with christine, he was annoyed at its freedom. "i ought not to have told her about ballister," he thought, "she will be watching for him at the kirk, and looking at the towers o' ballister house as if they were her own. and whatever made me say i thought of her as my housekeeper? she would be the most imprudent person. i would have the whole fishing-village at my house door, and very likely at my fireside; and that would be a constant set-down for me." this train of thought was capable of much discreet consideration, and he pursued it until he heard the stir of presence and conversation in the large living room. then he knew that his father and brother were at home, to keep the preparation for the sabbath. so he made himself look as lawyer-like as possible, and joined the family. everyone, and everything, had a semi-sabbath look. ruleson was in a blue flannel suit, so was eneas, and margot had put on a clean cap, and thrown over her shoulders a small tartan shawl. the hearth had been rid up, and the table was covered with a clean white cloth. in the oven the meat and pudding were cooking, and there was a not unpleasant sancta-serious air about the people, and the room. you might have fancied that even the fishing nets hanging against the wall knew it was saturday night, and no fishing on hand. christine was not there. and as it was only on saturday and sunday nights that james ruleson could be the priest of his family, these occasions were precious to him, and he was troubled if any of his family were absent. half an hour before christine returned home, he was worrying lest she forget the household rite, and when she came in he asked her, for the future, to bide at home on saturday and sabbath nights, saying he "didna feel all right," unless she was present. "i was doing your will, feyther, anent faith balcarry." "then you were doing right. how is the puir lassie?" "there's little to be done for her. she hasna a hope left, and when i spoke to her anent heaven, she said she knew nobody there, and the thought o' the loneliness she would feel frightened her." "you see, james," said margot, "puir faith never saw her father or mother, and if all accounts be true, no great loss, and i dinna believe the lassie ever knew anyone in this warld she would want to see in heaven. nae wonder she is sae sad and lonely." "there is the great multitude of saints there." "gudeman, it is our ain folk we will be seeking, and speiring after, in heaven. without them, we shall be as lonely as puir faith, who knows no one either in this world, or the next, that she's caring to see. i wouldn't wonder, james, if heaven might not feel lonely to those who win there, but find no one they know to welcome them." "we are told we shall be satisfied, margot." "i'm sure i hope sae! come now, and we will hae a gude dinner and eat it cheerfully." after dinner there was a pleasant evening during which fishers and fishers' wives came in, and chatted of the sea, and the boats, and the herring fishing just at hand; but at ten o'clock the big bible, bound round with brass, covered with green baize, and undivested of the books of the apocrypha, was laid before the master. as he was trying to find the place he wanted, margot stepped behind him, and looked over his shoulder: "gudeman," she said softly, "you needna be harmering through thae chapters o' proper names, in the book o' chronicles. the trouble is overganging the profit. read us one o' king david's psalms or canticles, then we'll go to our sleep wi' a song in our hearts." "your will be it, margot. hae you any choice?" "i was reading the seventy-first this afternoon, and i could gladly hear it o'er again." and o how blessed is that sleep into which we fall, hearing through the darkness and silence, the happy soul recalling itself--"in thee, o lord, do i put my trust--thou art my hope, o lord god--my trust from my youth--i will hope continually--and praise thee--more and more--my soul which thou hast--redeemed! which thou hast redeemed!" with that wonderful thought falling off into deep, sweet sleep--it might be into that mysteriously conscious sleep, informed by prophesying dreams, which is the walking of god through sleep. chapter ii christine and the domine i remember the black wharves and the boats, and the sea tides tossing free; and the fishermen with bearded lips, and the beauty and mystery of the ships, and the magic of the sea. the domine is a good man. if you only meet him on the street, and he speaks to you, you go for the rest of the day with your head up. one day leads to another, and even in the little, hidden-away village of culraine, no two days were exactly alike. everyone was indeed preparing for the great fishing season, and looking anxiously for its arrival, but if all were looking for the same event, it had for its outcome in every heart a different end, or desire. thus, james ruleson hoped its earnings would complete the sum required to build a cottage for his daughter's marriage portion, and margot wanted the money, though not for the same object. norman had a big doctor's bill to pay, and eneas thought of a two weeks' holiday, and a trip to edinburgh and glasgow; while neil was anxious about an increase in his allowance. he had his plea all ready--he wanted a new student's gown of scarlet flannel, and some law books, which, he said, everyone knew were double the price of any other books. it was his last session, and he did hope that he would be let finish it creditably. he talked to christine constantly on the subject, and she promised to stand up for the increase. "though you ken, neil," she added, "that you hae had full thirty pounds a session, and that is a lot for feyther to tak' out o' the sea; forbye mither was aye sending you a box full o' eggs and bacon, and fish and oatmeal, ne'er forgetting the cake that men-folk all seem sae extra fond o'. and you yoursel' were often speaking o' the lads who paid their fees and found their living out o' thirty pounds a session. isn't that sae?" "i do not deny the fact, but let me tell you how they manage it. they have a breakfast of porridge and milk, and then they are away for four hours' greek and latin. then they have two pennyworths of haddock and a few potatoes for dinner, and back to the college again, for more dead languages, and mathematics. they come back to their bit room in some poor, cold house, and if they can manage it, have a cup of tea and some oat cake, and they spend their evenings learning their lessons for the next day, by the light of a tallow candle." "they are brave, good lads, and i dinna wonder they win all, an' mair, than what they worked for. the lads o' maraschal college are fine scholars, and the vera pith o' men. the hard wark and the frugality are good for them, and, neil, we are expecting you to be head and front among them." "then i must have the books to help me there." "that stands to reason; and if you'll gie me your auld gown, i'll buy some flannel, and mak' you a new one, just like it." "the college has its own tailor, christine. i believe the gowns are difficult to make. and what is more, i shall be obligated to have a new kirk suit. you see i go out with ballister a good deal--very best families and all that--and i must have the clothes conforming to the company. ballister might--nae doubt would--lend me the money--but----" "what are you talking anent? borrowing is sorrowing, aye and shaming, likewise. i'm fairly astonished at you naming such a thing! if you are put to a shift like that, christine can let you hae the price o' a suit o' clothing." "o christine, if you would do that, it would be a great favor, and a great help to me. i'll pay you back, out of the first money i make. the price o' the books i shall have to coax from mother." "you'll hae no obligation to trouble mother. ask your feyther for the books you want. he would be the vera last to grudge them to you. speak to him straight, and bold, and you'll get the siller wi' a smile and a good word." "if _you_ would ask him for me." "i will not!" "yes, you will, christine. i have reasons for not doing so." "you hae just one reason--simple cowardice. o man! if you are a coward anent asking a new suit o' clothes for yoursel', what kind o' a lawyer will you mak' for ither folk?" "you know how father is about giving money." "ay, feyther earns his money wi' his life in his hands. he wants to be sure the thing sought is good and necessary. feyther's right. now my money was maistly gi'en me, i can mair easily risk it." "there is no risk in my promise to pay." "you havna any sure contract wi' good fortune, neil, and it will be good and bad wi' you, as it is wi' ither folk." "i do not approve of your remarks, christine. when people are talking of the fundamentals--and surely money is one of them--they ought to avoid irritating words." "you'll mak' an extraordinar lawyer, if you do that, but i'm no sure that you will win your case, wanting them. i thought they were sort o' necessitated; but crooked and straight is the law, and it is well known that what it calls truth today, may be far from truth tomorrow." "what ails you today, christine? has the law injured you in any way?" "ay, it played us a' a trick. when you took up the books, and went to the big school i' the toun to prepare for aberdeen, we all o' us thought it was king's college you were bound for, and then when you were ready for aberdeen, you turned your back on king's college, and went to the maraschal." "king's college is for the theology students. the maraschal is the law school." "i knew that. we a' know it. the maraschal spelt a big disappointment to feyther and mysel'." "i have some work to finish, christine, and i will be under an obligation if you will leave me now. you are in an upsetting temper, and i think you have fairly forgotten yourself." "well i'm awa, but mind you! when the fishing is on, i canna be at your bidding. i'm telling you!" "just so." "i'll hae no time for you, and your writing. i'll be helping mither wi' the fish, from the dawn to the dark." "would you do that?" "would i not?" she was at the open door of the room as she spoke, and neil said with provoking indifference: "if you are seeing father, you might speak to him anent the books i am needing." "i'll not do it! what are you feared for? you're parfectly unreasonable, parfectly ridic-lus!" and she emphasized her assertions by her decided manner of closing the door. on going into the yard, she found her father standing there, and he was looking gravely over the sea. "feyther!" she said, and he drew her close to his side, and looked into her lovely face with a smile. "are you watching for the fish, feyther?" "ay, i am! they are long in coming this year." "every year they are long in coming. perhaps we are impatient." "just sae. we are a' ready for them--watching for them--cluny went to cupar head to watch. he has a fine sea-sight. if they are within human ken, he will spot them, nae doubt. what hae you been doing a' the day lang?" "i hae been writing for neil. he is uncommon anxious about this session, feyther." "he ought to be." "he is requiring some expensive books, and he is feared to name them to you; he thinks you hae been sae liberal wi' him already--if i was you, feyther, i would be asking him--quietly when you were by your twa sel's--if he was requiring anything i' the way o' books." "he has had a big sum for that purpose already, christine." "i know it, feyther, but i'm not needing to tell you that a man must hae the tools his wark is requiring, or he canna do it. if you set neil to mak' a table, you'd hae to gie him the saw, and the hammer, and the full wherewithals, for the makin' o' a table; and when you are for putting him among the edinbro' law lords, you'll hae to gie him the books that can teach him their secrets. isn't that fair, feyther?" "i'm not denying it." "weel then, you'll do the fatherly thing, and seeing the laddie is feared to ask you for the books, you'll ask him, 'are you wanting any books for the finishing up, neil?' you see it is just here, feyther, he could borrow the books----" "hang borrowing!" "just sae, you are quite right, feyther. neil says if he has to borrow, he'll never get the book when he wants it, and that he would never get leave to keep it as long as he needed. now neil be to hae his ain books, feyther, he will mak' good use o' them, and we must not fail him at the last hour." "wha's talking o' failing him? not his feyther, i'm sure! do i expect to catch herrings without the nets and accessories? and i ken that i'll not mak' a lawyer o' neil, without the maraschal and the books it calls for." "you are the wisest and lovingest o' feythers. when you meet neil, and you twa are by yoursel's, put your hand on neil's shoulder, and ask neil, 'are you needing any books for your last lessons?'" "i'll do as you say, dear lass. it is right i should." "nay, but he should ask you to do it. if it was mysel', i could ask you for anything i ought to have, but neil is vera shy, and he kens weel how hard you wark for your money. he canna bear to speak o' his necessities, sae i'm speaking the word for him." "thy word goes wi' me--always. i'll ne'er say nay to thy yea," and he clasped her hand, and looked with a splendid smile of affection into her beautiful face. an english father would have certainly kissed her, but scotch fathers rarely give this token of affection. christine did not expect it, unless it was her birthday, or new year's morning. it was near the middle of july, when the herring arrived. then early one day, ruleson, watching the sea, smote his hands triumphantly, and lifting his cap with a shout of welcome, cried-- "there's our boat! cluny is sailing her! he's bringing the news! they hae found the fish! come awa' to the pier to meet them, christine." with hurrying steps they took the easier landward side of descent, but when they reached the pier there was already a crowd of men and women there, and the _sea gull_, james ruleson's boat, was making for it. she came in close-hauled to the wind, with a double reef in her sail. she came rushing across the bay, with the water splashing her gunwale. christine kept her eyes upon the lad at the tiller, a handsome lad, tanned to the temples. his cheeks were flushed, and the wind was in his hair, and the sunlight in his eyes, and he was steering the big herring boat into the harbor. the men were soon staggering down to the boats with the nets, coiling them up in apparently endless fashion, and as they were loaded they were very hard to get into the boats, and harder still to get out. just as the sun began to set, the oars were dipped, and the boats swept out of the harbor into the bay, and there they set their red-barked sails, and stood out for the open sea. ruleson's boat led the way, because it was ruleson's boat that had found the fish, and christine stood at the pier-edge cheering her strong, brave father, and not forgetting a smile and a wave of her hand for the handsome cluny at the tiller. to her these two represented the very topmost types of brave and honorable humanity. the herring they were seeking were easily found, for it was the grand shoal, and it altered the very look of the ocean, as it drove the water before it in a kind of flushing ripple. once, as the boats approached them, the shoal sank for at least ten minutes, and then rose in a body again, reflecting in the splendid sunset marvelous colors and silvery sheen. with a sweet happiness in her heart, christine went slowly home. she did not go into the village, she walked along the shore, over the wet sands to the little gate, which opened upon their garden. on her way she passed the life-boat. it was in full readiness for launching at a moment's notice, and she went close to it, and patted it on the bow, just as a farmer's daughter would pat the neck of a favorite horse. "ye hae saved the lives of men," she said. "god bless ye, boatie!" and she said it again, and then stooped and looked at a little brass plate screwed to the stern locker, on which were engraved these words: put your trust in god, and do your best. and as she climbed the garden, she thought of the lad who had left culraine thirty years ago, and gone to glasgow to learn ship building, and who had given this boat to his native village out of his first savings. "and it has been a lucky boat," she said softly, "every year it has saved lives," and then she remembered the well-known melody, and sang joyously-- "weel may the keel row, and better may she speed, weel may the keel row, that wins the bairnies' bread. "weel may the keel row, amid the stormy strife, weel may the keel row that saves the sailor's life. "god bless the life-boat! in the stormy strife, saving drowning men, on the seas o' fife. "weel may her keel row--" then with a merry, inward laugh she stopped, and said with pretended displeasure: "be quiet, christine! you're makin' poetry again, and you shouldna do the like o' that foolishness. neil thinks it isna becoming for women to mak' poetry--he says men lose their good sense when they do it, and women! he hadna the words for their shortcomings in the matter. he could only glower and shake his head, and look up at the ceiling, which he remarked needed a coat o' clean lime and water. weel, i suppose neil is right! there's many a thing not becomin' to women, and nae doubt makin' poetry up is among them." when she entered the cottage, she found the domine, dr. magnus trenabie, drinking a cup of tea at the fireside. he had been to the pier to see the boats sail, for all the men of his parish were near and dear to him. he was an extraordinary man--a scholar who had taken many degrees and honors, and not exhausted his mental powers in getting them--a calm, sabbatic mystic, usually so quiet that his simple presence had a sacramental efficacy--a man who never reasoned, being full of faith; a man enlightened by his heart, not by his brain. being spiritually of celestial race, he was lodged in a suitable body. its frame was norse, its blood celtic. he appeared to be a small man, when he stood among the gigantic fishermen who obeyed him like little children, but he was really of average height, graceful and slender. his head was remarkably long and deep, his light hair straight and fine. the expression of his face was usually calm and still, perhaps a little cold, but there was every now and then a look of flame. spiritually, he had a great, tender soul quite happy to dwell in a little house. men and women loved him, he was the angel on the hearth of every home in culraine. when christine entered the cottage, the atmosphere of the sea was around and about her. the salt air was in her clothing, the fresh wind in her loosened hair, and she had a touch of its impetuosity in the hurry of her feet, the toss of her manner, the ring of her voice. "o mither!" she cried, then seeing the domine, she made a little curtsey, and spoke to him first. "i was noticing you, sir, among the men on the pier. i thought you were going with them this night." "they have hard work this night, christine, and my heart tells me they will be wanting to say little words they would not like me to hear." "you could hae corrected them, sir." "i am not caring to correct them, tonight. words often help work, and tired fishers, casting their heavy nets overboard, don't do that work without a few words that help them. the words are not sinful, but they might not say them if i was present." "i know, sir," answered margot. "i hae a few o' such words always handy. when i'm hurried and flurried, i canna help them gettin' outside my lips--but there's nae ill in them--they just keep me going. i wad gie up, wanting them." "when soldiers, margot, are sent on a forlorn hope of capturing a strong fort, they go up to it cheering. when our men launch the big life-boat, how do they do it, christine?" "cheering, sir!" "to be sure, and when weary men cast the big, heavy nets, they find words to help them. i know a lad who always gets his nets overboard with shouting the name of the girl he loves. he has a name for her that nobody but himself can know, or he just shouts 'dearie,' and with one great heave, the nets are overboard." and as he said these words he glanced at christine, and her heart throbbed, and her eyes beamed, for she knew that the lad was cluny. "i was seeing our life-boat, as i came home," she said, "and i was feeling as if the boat could feel, and if she hadna been sae big, i would hae put my arms round about her. i hope that wasna any kind o' idolatry, sir?" "no, no, christine. it is a feeling of our humanity, that is wide as the world. whatever appears to struggle and suffer, appears to have life. see how a boat bares her breast to the storm, and in spite of winds and waves, wins her way home, not losing a life that has been committed to her. and nothing on earth can look more broken-hearted than a stranded boat, that has lost all her men. once i spent a few weeks among the hovellers--that is, among the sailors who man the life-boats stationed along godwin sands; and they used to call their boats 'darlings' and 'beauties' and praise them for behaving well." "why did they call the men hovellers?" asked margot. "that word seems to pull down a sailor. i don't like it. no, i don't." "i have been told, margot, that it is from the danish word, _overlever_, which means a deliverer." "i kent it wasna a decent scotch word," she answered, a little triumphantly; "no, nor even from the english. hoveller! you couldna find an uglier word for a life-saver, and if folk canna be satisfied wi' their ain natural tongue, and must hae a foreign name, they might choose a bonnie one. hoveller! hoveller indeed! it's downright wicked, to ca' a sailor a hoveller." the domine smiled, and continued--"every man and woman and child has loved something inanimate. your mother, christine, loves her wedding ring, your father loves his boat, you love your bible, i love the silver cup that holds the sacramental wine we drink 'in remembrance of him';" and he closed his eyes a moment, and was silent. then he gave his cup to christine. "no more," he said, "it was a good drink. thanks be! now our talk must come to an end. i leave blessing with you." they stood and watched him walk into the dusk in silence, and then margot said, "where's neil?" "feyther asked him to go wi' them for this night, and neil didna like to refuse. feyther has been vera kind to him, anent his books an' the like. he went to pleasure feyther. it was as little as he could do." "and he'll come hame sea-sick, and his clothes will be wet and uncomfortable as himsel'." "weel, that's his way, mither. i wish the night was o'er." "tak' patience. by god's leave the day will come." chapter iii angus ballister if love comes, it comes; but no reasoning can put it there. love gives a new meaning to life. her young heart blows leaf by leaf, coming out like a rose. the next morning the women of the village were early at the pier to watch the boats come in. they were already in the offing, their gunwales deep in the water, and rising heavily on the ascending waves; so they knew that there had been good fishing. margot was prominent among them, but christine had gone to the town to take orders from the fish dealers; for margot ruleson's kippered herring were famous, and eagerly sought for, as far as edinburgh, and even glasgow. it was a business christine liked, and in spite of her youth, she did it well, having all her mother's bargaining ability, and a readiness in computing values, that had been sharpened by her knowledge of figures and profits. this morning she was unusually fortunate in all her transactions, and brought home such large orders that they staggered margot. "i'll ne'er be able to handle sae many fish," she said, with a happy purposeful face, "but there's naething beats a trial, and i be to do my best." "and i'll help you, mither. it must ne'er be said that we twa turned good siller awa'." "i'm feared you canna do that today, christine. neil hasna been to speak wi', since he heard ye had gone to the toun; he wouldna' even hear me when i ca'ed breakfast." "neil be to wait at this time. it willna hurt him. if neil happens to hae a wish, he instantly feels it to be a necessity, and then he thinks the hale house should stop till his wish is gi'en him. i'm going to the herring shed wi' yoursel'." "then there will be trouble, and no one so sorry for it as christine! i'm telling you!" at this moment neil opened the door, and looked at the two women. "mother," he said in a tone of injury and suffering, "can i have any breakfast this morning?" "pray, wha's hindering you? your feyther had his, an hour syne. your porridge is yet boiling in the pot, the kettle is simmering on the hob, and the cheena still standing on the table. why didna you lift your ain porridge, and mak' yoursel' a cup o' tea? christine and mysel' had our breakfasts before it chappit six o'clock. you cam' hame wi' your feyther, you should hae ta'en your breakfast with him." "i was wet through, and covered with herring scales. i was in no condition to take a meal, or to sit with my books and christine all morning, writing." "i canna spare christine this morning, neil. that's a fact." his provoking neatness and deliberation were irritating to margot's sense of work and hurry, and she added, "get your breakfast as quick as you can. i'm wanting the dishes out o' the way." "i suppose i can get a mouthful for myself." "get a' you want," answered margot; but christine served him with his plate of porridge and basin of new milk, and as he ate it, she toasted a scone, and made him a cup of tea. "mother is cross this morning, christine. it is annoying to me." "it needna. there's a big take o' fish in, and every man and woman, and every lad and lass, are in the herring sheds. mither just run awa' from them, to see what orders for kippers i had brought--and i hae brought nine hundred mair than usual. i must rin awa' and help her now." "no, christine! i want you most particularly, this morning." "i'll be wi' you by three in the afternoon." "stay with me now. i'll be ready for you in half an hour." "i can hae fifty fish ready for mither in half an hour, and i be to go to her at once. i'll be back, laddie, by three o'clock." "i'm just distracted with the delay," but he stopped speaking, for he saw that he was alone. so he took time thoroughly to enjoy his scone and tea, and then, not being quite insensible to christine's kindness, he washed the dishes and put them away. he had just finished this little duty, when there was a knock at the outside door. he hesitated about opening it. he knew no villager would knock at his father's door, so it must be a stranger, and as he was not looking as professional and proper as he always desired to appear, he was going softly away, when the door was opened, and a bare-footed lad came forward, and gave him a letter. he opened it, and looked at the signature--"angus ballister." a sudden flush of pleasure made him appear almost handsome, and when he had read the epistle he was still more delighted, for it ran thus: dear neil, i am going to spend the rest of vacation at ballister mansion, and i want you with me. i require your help in a particular business investigation. i will pay you for your time and knowledge, and your company will be a great pleasure to me. this afternoon i will call and see you, and if you are busy with the nets, i shall enjoy helping you. your friend, angus ballister. neil was really much pleased with the message, and glad to hear of an opportunity to make money, for though the young man was selfish, he was not idle; and he instantly perceived that much lucrative business could follow this early initiation into the ballister affairs. he quickly finished his arrangement of the dishes and the kitchen, and then, putting on an old academic suit, made his room as scholarly and characteristic as possible. and it is amazing what an _air_ books and papers give to the most commonplace abode. even the old inkhorn and quill pens seemed to say to all who entered--"tread with respect. this is classic ground." his predominating thought during this interval was, however, not of himself, but of christine. she had promised to come to him at three o'clock. how would she come? he was anxious about her first appearance. if he could in any way have reached her, he would have sent his positive command to wear her best kirk clothes, but at this great season neither chick nor child was to be seen or heard tell of, and he concluded finally to leave what he could not change or direct to those household influences which usually manage things fairly well. as the day went on, and ballister did not arrive, he grew irritably nervous. he could not study, and he found himself scolding both ballister and christine for their delay. "christine was so ta'en up wi' the feesh, naething else was of any import to her. here was a scottish gentleman coming, who might be the makin' o' him, and a barrel o' herrin' stood in his way." he had actually fretted himself into his scotch form of speech, a thing no gael ever entirely forgets when really worried to the proper point. when he had said his heart's say of christine, he turned his impatience on ballister--his behavior was that o' the ordinary rich young man, who has naething but himsel' to think o'. he, neil ruleson, had lost a hale morning's wark, waiting on his lairdship. weel, he'd have to pay for it, in the long run. neil ruleson had no waste hours in his life. nae doubt ballister had heard o' a fast horse, or a fast---- then ballister knocked at the door, and neil stepped into his scholarly manner and speech, and answered ballister's hearty greeting in the best english style. "i am glad to see you, neil. i only came to ballister two days ago, and i have been thinking of you all the time." with these words the youth threw his glengary on the table, into the very center and front of neil's important papers. then he lifted his chair, and placed it before the open door, saying emphatically as he did so-- lands may be fair ayont the sea, but scotland's hills and lochs for me! o neil! love of your ain country is a wonderful thing. it makes a man of you." "without it you would not be a man." ballister did not answer at once, but stood a moment with his hand on the back of the deal, rush-bottomed chair, and his gaze fixed on the sea and the crowd of fishing boats waiting in the harbor. without being strictly handsome, ballister was very attractive. he had the tall, gaelic stature, and its reddish brown hair, also brown eyes, boyish and yet earnest. his face was bright and well formed, his conversation animated, his personality, in full effect, striking in its young alertness. "listen to me, neil," he said, as he sat down. "i came to my majority last march, when my uncle and i were in venice." "your uncle on your mother's side?" "no, on the sword side, uncle ballister. he told me i was now my own master, and that he would render into my hands the brewster and ballister estates. i am sure that he has done well by them, but he made me promise i would carefully go over all the papers relating to his trusteeship, and especially those concerning the item of interests. it seems that my father had a good deal of money out on interest--i know nothing about interest. do you, neil?" "i know everything that is to be known. in my profession it is a question of importance." "just so. now, i want to put all these papers, rents, leases, improvements, interest accounts, and so forth, in your hands, neil. come with me to ballister, and give the mornings to my affairs. find out what is the usual claim for such service, and i will gladly pay it." "i know the amount professionally charged, but----" "i will pay the professional amount. if we give the mornings to this work, in the afternoons we will ride, and sail, fish or swim, or pay visits--in the evenings there will be dinner, billiards, and conversation. are you willing?" "i am delighted at the prospect. let the arrangement stand, just so." "you will be ready tomorrow?" "the day after tomorrow." "good. i will----" then there was a tap at the door, and before neil could answer it, christine did so. as she entered, ballister stood up and looked at her, and his eyes grew round with delighted amazement. she was in full fisher costume--fluted cap on the back of her curly head, scarlet kerchief on her neck, long gold rings in her ears, gold beads round her throat, and a petticoat in broad blue and yellow stripes. "christine," said neil, who, suddenly relieved of his great anxiety, was unusually good-tempered. "christine, this is my friend, mr. angus ballister. you must have heard me speak of him?" "that's a fact. the man was your constant talk"--then turning to ballister--"i am weel pleased to see you, sir;" and she made him a little curtsey so full of independence that ballister knew well she was making it to herself--"and i'm wondering at you twa lads," she said, "sitting here in the house, when you might be sitting i' the garden, or on the rocks, and hae the scent o' the sea, or the flowers about ye." "miss ruleson is right," said ballister, in his most enthusiastic mood. "let us go into the garden. have you really a garden among these rocks? how wonderful!" how it came that ballister and christine took the lead, and that neil was in a manner left out, neil could not tell; but it struck him as very remarkable. he saw christine and his friend walking together, and he was walking behind them. christine, also, was perfectly unembarrassed, and apparently as much at home with ballister as if he had been some fisher-lad from the village. yet there was nothing strange in her easy manner and affable intimacy. it was absolutely natural. she had never realized the conditions of riches and poverty, as entailing a difference in courtesy or good comradeship; for in the village of culraine, there was no question of an equality founded on money. a man or woman was rated by moral, and perhaps a little by physical qualities--piety, honesty, courage, industry, and strength, and knowledge of the sea and of the fisherman's craft. christine would have treated the great duke of fife, or her majesty, victoria, with exactly the same pleasant familiarity. she showed ballister her mother's flower garden, that was something beyond the usual, and she was delighted at ballister's honest admiration and praise of the lovely, rose-sweet plot. both seemed to have forgotten neil's presence, and neil was silent, blundering about in his mind, looking for some subject which would give him predominance. happily strolling in and out the narrow walks, and eating ripe gooseberries from the bushes, they came to a little half-circle of laburnum trees, drooping with the profusion of their golden blossoms. there was a wooden bench under them, and as christine sat down a few petals fell into her lap. "see!" she cried, "the trees are glad o' our company," and she laid the petals in her palm, and added--"now we hae shaken hands." "what nonsense you are talking, christine," said neil. "weel then, professor, gie us a bit o' gude sense. folks must talk in some fashion." and neil could think of nothing but a skit against women, and in apologetic mood and manner answered: "i believe it is allowable, to talk foolishness, in reply to women's foolishness." "o neil, that is cheap! women hae as much gude sense as men hae, and whiles they better them"--and then she sang, freely and clearly as a bird, two lines of robert burns' opinion-- "he tried his prentice hand on man, and then he made the lasses o!" she still held the golden blossoms in her hand, and ballister said: "give them to me. do!" "you are vera welcome to them, sir. i dinna wonder you fancy them. laburnum trees are money-bringers, but they arena lucky for lovers. if i hed a sweetheart, i wouldna sit under a laburnum tree wi' him, but feyther is sure o' his sweetheart, and he likes to come here, and smoke his pipe. and mither and i like the place for our bit secret cracks. we dinna heed if the trees do hear us. they may tell the birds, and the birds may tell ither birds, but what o' that? there's few mortals wise enough to understand birds. now, neil, come awa wi' your gude sense, i'll trouble you nae langer wi' my foolishness. and good day to you, sir!" she said. "i'm real glad you are my brother's friend. i dinna think he will go out o' the way far, if you are wi' him." ballister entreated her to remain, but with a smile she vanished among the thick shrubbery. ballister was disappointed, and somehow neil was not equal to the occasion. it was hard to find a subject ballister felt any interest in, and after a short interval he bade neil good-bye and said he would see him on the following day. "no, on the day after tomorrow," corrected neil. "that was the time fixed, angus. tomorrow i will finish up my work for the university, and i will be at your service, very happily and gratefully, on friday morning." then neil led him down the garden path to the sandy shore, so he did not return to the cottage, but went away hungry for another sight of christine. neil was pleased, and displeased. he felt that it would have been better for him if christine had not interfered, but there was the delayed writing to be finished, and he hurried up the steep pathway to the cottage. some straying vines caught his careless footsteps, and threw him down, and though he was not hurt, the circumstance annoyed him. as soon as he entered the cottage, he was met by christine, and her first remark added to his discomfort: "whate'er hae you been doing to yoursel', neil ruleson? your coat is torn, and your face scratched. surely you werna fighting wi' your friend." "you know better, christine. i was thrown by those nasty blackberry vines. i intend to cut them all down. they catch everyone that passes them, and they are in everyone's way. they ought to be cleared out, and i will attend to them tomorrow morning, if i have to get up at four o'clock to do it." "you willna touch the vines. feyther likes their fruit, and mither is planning to preserve part o' it. and i, mysel', am vera fond o' vines. the wee wrens, and the robin redbreasts, look to the vines for food and shelter, and you'll not dare to hurt their feelings, for "the robin, wi' the red breast, the robin, and the wren, if you do them any wrong, you'll never thrive again." "stop, christine, i have a great deal to think of, and to ask your help in." "weel, neil, i was ready for you at three o'clock, and then you werna ready for me." "tell me why you dressed yourself up so much? did you know ballister was coming?" "not i! did you think i dressed mysel' up for angus ballister?" "i was wondering. it is very seldom you wear your gold necklace, and other things, for just home folk." "weel, i wasn't wearing them for just hame folk. jennie tweedie is to be married tonight, and mither had promised her i should come and help them lay the table for the supper, and the like o' that. sae i was dressed for jennie tweedie's bridal. i wasna thinking of either you, or your fine friend." "i thought perhaps you had heard he was coming. your fisher dress is very suitable to you. no doubt you look handsome in it. you likely thought its novelty would--would--make him fall in love with you." "i thought naething o' that sort. novelty! where would the novelty be? the lad is fife. if he was sae unnoticing as never to get acquaint wi' a culraine fisher-wife, he lived maist o' his boyhood in edinburgh. weel, he couldna escape seeing the newhaven fisherwomen there, nor escape hearing their wonderful cry o' 'caller herrin'!' and if he had ony feeling in his heart, if he once heard that cry, sae sweet, sae heartachy, and sae winning, he couldna help looking for the woman who was crying it; and then he couldna help seeing a fisher-wife, or lassie. i warn you not to think o' me, christine ruleson, planning and dressing mysel' for any man. you could spane my love awa' wi' a very few o' such remarks." "i meant nothing to wrong you, christine. all girls dress to please the men." "men think sae. they are vera mich mista'en. girls dress to outdress each ither. if you hae any writing to do, i want to gie you an hour's wark. i'll hae to leave the rest until morning." then neil told her the whole of the proposal angus had made him. he pointed out its benefits, both for the present and the future, and christine listened thoughtfully to all he said. she saw even further than neil did, the benefits, and she was the first to name the subject nearest to neil's anxieties. "you see, neil," she said, "if you go to ballister, you be to hae the proper dress for every occasion. the best suit ye hae now will be nane too good for you to wark, and to play in. you must hae a new suit for ordinary wear, forbye a full dress suit. i'll tell you what to do--david finlay, wha dresses a' the men gentry round about here, is an old, old friend o' feyther's. they herded together, and went to school and kirk togither, and feyther and him have helped each ither across hard places, a' their life long." "i don't want any favors from david finlay." "hae a little patience, lad. i'm not asking you to tak' favors from anyone. i, mysel', will find the money for you; but i canna tell you how men ought to dress, nor what they require in thae little odds and ends, which are so important." "odds and ends! what do you mean?" "neckties, gloves, handkerchiefs, hats, and a proper pocket book for your money. i saw ballister take his from his pocket, to put the laburnum leaves in, and i had a glint o' the bank bills in it, and i ken weel it is more genteel-like than a purse. i call things like these 'odds and ends.'" "such things cost a deal of money, christine." "i was coming to that, neil. i hae nearly ninety-six pounds in the bank. it hes been gathering there, ever since my grandfeyther put five pounds in for me at my baptisement--as a nest egg, ye ken--and all i hae earned, and all that feyther or mither hae gien me, has helped it gather; and on my last birthday, when feyther gave me a pound, and mither ten shillings, i had ninety-six pounds. now, neil, dear lad, you can hae the use o' it all, if so be you need it. just let dave finlay tell you what to get, and get it, and pay him for it--you can pay me back, when money comes easy to you." "thank you, christine! you have always been my good angel. i will pay you out o' my first earnings. i'll give you good interest, and a regular i. o. u. which will be----" "what are you saying, neil? interest! interest! interest on love? and do you dare to talk to me anent your i. o. u. if i canna trust your love, and your honor, i'll hae neither interest nor paper from you. tak my offer wi' just the word between us, you are vera welcome to the use o' the money. there's nae sign o' my marrying yet, and i'll not be likely to want it until my plenishing and napery is to buy. you'll go to finlay, i hope?" "i certainly will. he shall give me just what is right." "now then, my time is up. i will be ready to do your copying at five o'clock in the morning. then, after breakfast, you can go to the town, but you won't win into the bank before ten, and maist likely finlay will be just as late. leave out the best linen you hae, and i'll attend to it, wi' my ain hands." "oh, christine, how sweet and good you are! i'm afraid i am not worthy o' your love!" "vera likely you are not. few brothers love their sisters as they ought to. it willna be lang before you'll do like the lave o' them, and put some strange lass before me." "there's nae lass living that can ever be to me what you hae been, and are. you hae been mother and sister baith, to me." "dear lad, i love thee with a' my heart. all that is mine, is thine, for thy use and help, and between thee and me the word and the bond are the same thing." christine was much pleased because neil unconsciously had fallen into his scotch dialect. she knew then that his words were spontaneous, not of consideration, but of feeling from his very heart. in a week the change contemplated had been fully accomplished. neil had become accustomed to the luxury of his new home, and was making notable progress in the work which had brought him there. twice during the week margot had been made royally happy by large baskets of wonderful flowers and fruit, from the ballister gardens. they were brought by the ballister gardener, and came with neil's love and name, but margot had some secret thoughts of her own. she suspected they were the result of a deeper and sweeter reason than a mere admiration for her wonderful little garden among the rocks; but she kept such thoughts silent in her heart. one thing she knew well, that if christine were twitted on the subject, she would hate angus ballister, and utterly refuse to see him. so she referred to the gifts as entirely from neil, and affected a little anxiety about their influence on ballister. "i hope that young man isna thinking," she said, "that his baskets o' flowers and fruit is pay enough for neil's service." "mither, he promised to pay neil." "to be sure. but i didna hear o' any fixed sum. some rich people hae a way o' giving sma' favors, and forgetting standing siller." "he seemed a nice young man, mither, and he did admire your garden. i am sure he has told neil to send the flowers because you loved flowers. when folk love anything, they like others who love as they do. mebbe they who love flowers hae the same kind and order o' souls. you ken if a man loves dogs, he is friendly at once wi' a stranger who loves dogs; and there's the domine, who is just silly anent auld coins--copper, siller or gold--he cares not, if they're only auld enough. nannie grant, wha keeps his house, told katie tweedie that he took a beggar man into his parlor, and ate his dinner with him, just because he had a siller bit o' julius cæsar in his pouch, and wouldna part wi' it, even when he was wanting bread." "weel then, the domine doubtless wanted the penny." "vera likely, but he wouldna tak it frae the puir soul, wha thought sae much o' it; and nannie was saying that he went away wi' a guid many victoria pennies i' his pouch." "the domine is a queer man." "ay, but a vera guid man." "if he had a wife, he would be a' right." "and just as likely a' wrang. wha can tell?" "weel, that's an open question. what about your ain marriage?" "i'll marry when i find a man who loves the things i love." "weel, the change for neil, and for the a' of us has been--in a way--a gude thing. i'll say that." margot was right. even if we take change in its widest sense, it is a great and healthy manifestation, and it is only through changes that the best lives are made perfect. for every phase of life requires its own environment, in order to fulfill perfectly its intention and if it does not get it, then the intent, or the issue, loses much of its efficiency. "because they have no changes, therefore they fear not god," is a truth relative to the greatest nations, as well as to the humblest individual. neil was benefited in every way by the social uplift of a residence in a gentleman's home, and the active, curious temperament of angus stimulated him. angus was interested in every new thing, in every new idea, in every new book. the world was so large, and so busy, and he wanted to know all about its goings on. so when neil's business was over for the day, angus was eagerly waiting to tell him of something new or strange which he had just read, or heard tell of, and though neil did not realize the fact, he was actually receiving, in these lively discussions with his friend, the very best training for his future forensic and oratorical efforts. indeed he was greatly pleased with himself. he had not dreamed of being the possessor of so much skill in managing an opposite opinion; nor yet of the ready wit, which appeared to flow naturally with his national dialect. but all this clever discussion and disputing was excellent practice, and neil knew well that his visit to ballister had been a change full of benefits to him. one of the results of neil's investigations was the discovery that dr. magnus trenabie had been presented to the church of culraine by the father of angus, and that his salary had never been more than fifty pounds a year, with the likelihood that it had often been much less. angus was angry and annoyed. "i give my gamekeeper a larger salary," he said. "it is a shame! the doctor's salary must be doubled at once. if there are any technicalities about it, look to them as quickly as possible. did my father worship in that old church?" "he did, and i have heard my father tell very frequently, how the old man stood by the church when the great free kirk secession happened. he says that at that burning time everyone left dr. trenabie's church but ballister and ten o' his tenants, and that the doctor took no notice of their desertion, but just preached to your father and the ten faithful. he was never heard to blame the lost flock, and he never went into the wilderness after them. your father would not hear of his doing so. "magnus," he would say, "tak' time, and bide a wee. the puir wanderers will get hungry and weary in their free kirk conventicles, and as the night comes on, they'll come hame. nae fear o' them!" "did they come home?" "every one of them but three stubborn old men. they died out of its communion, and the old master pitied them, and told their friends he was feared that it would go a bit hard wi' them. he said, they had leaped the fence, and he shook his head, and looked down and doubtful anent the outcome, since naebody could tell what ill weeds were in a strange pasture." after this discovery angus went to the old church, where his father had worshiped, and there he saw christine, and there he fell freshly in love with her every sabbath day. it did not appear likely that love had much opportunity, in those few minutes in the kirk yard after the service, when neil and angus waited for margot and christine, to exchange the ordinary greetings and inquiries. james ruleson, being leading elder, always remained a few minutes after the congregation had left, in order to count the collection and give it to the domine, and in those few minutes love found his opportunity. while neil talked with his mother of their family affairs, angus talked with christine. his eyes rained love's influence, his voice was like a caress, the touch of his hand seemed to christine to draw her in some invisible way closer to him. she never remembered the words he said, she only knew their inarticulate meaning was love, always love. when it was time for ruleson to appear, margot turned to angus and thanked him for some special gift or kindness that had come to the cottage that week, and angus always laughed, and pointing to neil, said: "neil is the culprit, mrs. ruleson. it is neil's doing, i assure you." and of course this statement might be, in several ways, the truth. at any rate, the old proverb which advises us "never to look a gift horse in the mouth," is a good one. for the motive of the gift is more than the gift itself. these gifts were all simple enough, but they were such as delighted margot's childlike heart--an armful of dahlias or carnations--a basket of nectarines or apricots--two or three dozen fresh eggs--a pot of butter--a pair of guinea fowls, then rare in poultry yards, or a brood of young turkeys to feed and fatten for the new year's festival. about these fowls, neil wrote her elaborate directions. and margot was more delighted with these simple gifts than many have been with a great estate. and christine knew, and angus knew that she knew, and it was a subtle tie between them, made of meeting glances and clasping hands. chapter iv the fisherman's fair the winds go up and down upon the sea, and some they lightly clasp, entreating kindly, and waft them to the port where they would be: and other ships they buffet long and blindly. the cloud comes down on the great sinking deep, and on the shore, the watchers stand and weep. so the busy fishing season passed away, and was a very fortunate one, until it was nearly over. then there were several days of foggy, dismal weather, and one night when the nets were down a sudden violent storm drove from the north, and the boats, being at that time mostly open boats, shipped water at every sea. the greatest hurry and confusion followed, and they were finally compelled to cut the nets adrift, glad indeed to lose all, if they could only make the first shelter. and mothers and wives, standing helpless at the little windows of their cottages, watched the storm, while the men they loved were fighting the furious tempest in the black night. "god help my men!" prayed margot. she was weeping like a child, but yet in her anguish full of faith in god's mercy, and looking trustfully to him to send her men home again. "i'll ne'er fret for the nets," she said, "they'll hav' to go, nae doubt o' that. let them go! but oh, feyther i' heaven, send hame my men folk!" ah! women who spend such nights may well call caller herrin' "the lives o' men"! in the misty daylight, the men and the boats came into harbor, but the nets in every boat--each net about eight hundred and fifty yards long--were totally lost. however, the herring season was practically over. indeed, the men were at the point of exhaustion, for the total take had been very large, and there is scarcely any human labor more severe on the physical endurance, than the fishing for caller herrin'. it was just at this time that neil ruleson had to leave culraine for aberdeen. he was to finish his course at the maraschal college this year, and never before had he gone there so well provided, and never before had he felt so poor. for though he had received the unlooked-for sum of two hundred pounds for his services, he felt it to be unequal to his ambitious requirements, six weeks at ballister house having taught him to regard many little comforts as absolute necessities. "i am very nearly a lawyer now," he reflected, "a professional man, and i must try and look like it, and live like it. the bare room and unfashionable clothing of the past must be changed to more respectable quarters, and more appropriate garments." of course he knew that christine would not permit him to injure his future fine prospects, but he had promised to repay the ninety pounds he had borrowed from her out of his first earnings, and he felt that the money was now due, and that he ought to pay it. but if he did so, he must simplify all his plans, and he had taken so much pleasure and pains in arranging the surroundings of his last session, that he was exceedingly loth to surrender even the least important of them. while he was packing his trunk, and deliberating on this subject, the great storm came, and his father barely saved the boat and the lives of the men in her. the nets were gone, and his mother asked him plainly if he could not help his father to replace them. "i will do so gladly, mother," he answered, "when i have paid my college fees, and the like, i will see what i can spare--there is christine's money!" he continued, in a troubled, thoughtful manner--and margot answered, "ay, to be sure. if christine hadna loaned you her money, it would hae been at her feyther's will and want, this moment, but if you are going to keep your word, and pay christine out o' your first earnings, there's nae need to talk wi' you. christine will help your feyther and proud and glad to do the same." "you see, mother, it is nearly the end of things with me at aberdeen, and it would be hard if my future was scrimped at its beginning. that is what ballister thinks. 'neil,' he said to me, 'you will have to speak before the public--lawyers and people of full standing--and you must have the dress that is proper and fitting.'" "weel, your feyther will hae to get new nets--if he is to mak' bread for the lave o' us." "the herring season is over now, and there is no immediate expense regarding it." "you are much mista'en, and ye ken it fine! the barrels in which the fish are packed are to pay for, and the women who packed them are not fully paid. the coopers who closed the barrels, and the fishery office, hae yet to send in their bills." "the fishery office! what have we to do with the fishery office? it is a government affair." "mebbe sae. but the barrels canna be shipped until an officer frae the fishery office puts the crown brand on every barrel. do you think the man does that for naething?" "i never heard of such a thing." "weel, it has to be done, whether neil ruleson has heard o' the thing or not." "what for?" "the crown isna branded on any barrel unless the fish in it are fine, fresh, and unbroken. but as soon as the barrels get the crown, they can be shipped to foreign ports, mostly to stettin." "why stettin?" "i don't know. ask your feyther. you are just making a put-aff wi' your questions. answer me the one question i asked yoursel'--what can ye do to help your feyther? answer me that." "father will not use nets until the next herring season--a whole year away--in the winter, he always does line fishing. with your help, christine can weave new nets before they are needed." "i see weel that you dinna intend to pay your debt to christine, nor yet to help your feyther." "father has not asked me for help. everyone knows that father is well fore-handed." "o lad, the dear auld man barely saved the boat and the lives she carried! he has been roughly handled by winds and waves, and may hae to keep his bed awhile, and your brither eneas is that hurt and bruised, he will ne'er go fishing again, while your brither norman has a broken arm, an' a wife that has gane into hystericals about the lost nets. you'd think it was her man she was screaming for. and fae and tamsen waited too lang, and went o'er the boat wi' their nets, an' there's ithers that hae broken limbs, or joints out o' place, or trouble o' some sort." "i'm very sorry, mother. if i could do any good to the general ill, i would do it, but if i ruined all my future life i do not see that i could help anyone. i must be just, before i am generous." "to be sure. i hope you'll try to be just, for i am vera certain you'll ne'er be generous; and if you are just, you'll pay your sister back her ninety pounds." "i will have a conversation with christine, at once. where is she?" "the domine sent for her early, she has been helping him wi' the hurt folk, all day long. what hae you been doing?" "i went down to the pier, to look after the boat. i knew father would be anxious about it. then i had to go into the town. i was expecting an important letter, and the doctor was needing some medicines, and i brought them home with me. in one way, or another, the miserable day has gone. i hope father is not much hurt." "it's hard to hurt your feyther. his head keeps steady, and a steady head keeps the body as it should be--but he's strained, and kind o' shocked. the domine gied him a powder, and he's sleeping like a baby. he'll be a' right in a day or twa." "i would like to sit by him tonight, and do all i can, mother." "you may well do that, neil; but first go and bring your sister hame. i wouldn't wonder if you might find her in fae's cottage. his puir, silly wife let the baby fa', when she heard that her man and his boat was lost; and i heard tell christine had ta'en the bairn in charge. it would be just like her. weel, it's growing to candle lighting, and i'll put a crusie fu' o' oil in feyther's room, and that will light you through the night." neil found his sister sitting with judith macpherson and her grandson, cluny. cluny was not seriously hurt, but no man comes out of a life-and-death fight with the sea, and feels physically the better for it. such tragic encounters do finally lift the soul into the region of fearlessness, or into the still higher condition of trustfulness, but such an education--like that of godliness--requires line upon line, precept upon precept. james ruleson had been perfectly calm, even when for a few minutes it seemed as if men, as well as nets, must go to death and destruction; but james had been meeting the god "whose path is on the great waters," for more than forty years, and had seen there, not only his wonders, but his mercies, and he had learned to say with david, "though he slay me, yet will i put my trust in him." judith macpherson was of a different spirit. she was a passionate old woman, and the sea had taken her husband and five sons, and her only daughter. accordingly she hated the sea. that some day it would be "no more" was her triumphant consolation. she delighted in preaching to it this sentence of annihilation. if judith was seen standing on the cliffs, with her arms uplifted, and her white head thrown backward, the village knew she was reminding its proud waves of their doom of utter destruction. the passionate flaming language of her denunciations will not bear transcribing, but the oldest sailors said it was "awesome and no' to be listened to, or spoken o'." that afternoon she had been seen on the sands, in one of her frenzies of hatred, and when neil entered her cottage, she was still rocking herself to and fro, and muttering threats and curses. she had attended skillfully and tenderly to cluny's bruises and nervous excitement, but he was frightened and depressed by her mood, and he begged christine to stay wi' him an hour or twa. and christine had been willing. judith was always kind to her, and the handsome lad with his boyish adoration was at least a settled feature of her life. this night she let him tell her all his plans for their happy future, and did not feel any pressure of duty to deny his hopes. he had just come out of the very jaws of death. what could she do, but let him dream his dream and have his say? however, in all troubles, either personal or public, it is a great thing to be still, and to whisper to the soul--"this, too, will pass!" it is behind us today, tomorrow it will be still farther away. in a week we shall not talk of it, in a month it will have passed from life, and belong only to memory. there is scarcely any sorrow that may not be greatly helped and soothed by this reflection. for god does not willingly afflict the children of men, and it is he himself, that has appointed time to be the consoler of sorrow. by the end of october, the village was in its normal mood and condition. all the expenses of the fishing season had been paid, and the profits satisfactorily ascertained and divided. great quantities of cord had been procured, and the women and the older men were busily making nets for the next season, while the younger men were ready for the winter's line-fishing. there was an air of content and even of happiness over the small community. it was realized that, in spite of the storm, the season had been good, and the domine had reminded them on the last sabbath, that they had not yet rendered thanks to god, nor even visibly told each other how good god had been to them. for it was the custom of culraine to keep a day of thanks and rejoicing when the herring had been secured, and to send word to all the near-by fishers to come and rejoice with them. they began now to prepare for this festival, and in this preparation were greatly assisted by gifts from ballister house. neil had gone back to the maraschal, but angus was still at ballister. he had been royally generous to the village in its distress, had supplied the domine with necessary drugs and materials, and had seen to it that the injured had those little luxuries of food which tempt the convalescent. he was still more eager to help the fishers in their thanksgiving, margot ruleson being the authorized distributor of all his gifts, as she was also the director of all concerning the affair. this _foy_, or fair, was to be kept on the thirty-first of october, embracing particularly the hallowe'en night so dear to the peasantry of scotland. the domine had selected this date, possibly because he wished to prevent its usual superstitious observance. but though some old men and women doubtless lighted their hallowe'en fires, and baked their hallowe'en cake, with the usual magical ceremonies, the large majority were far too busy preparing for an actual and present pleasure, to trouble themselves about prophesying spells and charms. the day was opened by a short address to the people assembled in the old kirk. about thirty minutes covered the simple ceremony. first the domine stood up, and the people stood up with him, and all together they recited aloud the jubilant thirty-fourth psalm. then the domine said, "sit down, friends, and take heed to what i say. i have no sermon for you today. i have no sins to charge you with, and to beg you to forsake. i have just one message. it is three words long. 'god is love!' whatever you hear, whatever you do, no matter what happens to you, remember that god is love! you are heritage-born to the sea, but the way of the lord is through the great waters. god must see you in your struggles, and god must love the patient, brave, sailormen. christ showed you special favors. he might have chosen carpenters, but he chose fishermen. and for seeing god's wonders on the deep sea, you may be the sons and heirs of the prophet jonas. also, "the church is like unto a ship: the scriptures are the enclosing net and men the fishers are! well, then, as often as you come unto a sermon, consider how god by his preachers trawleth for your souls. friends, in all times of your joy and your sorrow, you have the key to god's council chamber, and to god's mercy chamber. it is just 'our father,' and the few blessed words that follow it. there is little need for long talk. this is the day you have set for thanksgiving. rejoice therein! god is as well pleased with your happiness, as he was and is with your good, brave work. the hard winter days wear on. make this day a memory to brighten them. amen." there was a considerable number of visitors from fishing villages as far south as largo, going from house to house, talking over old seasons with old comrades, and there were the sound of violins everywhere, and the laughter of children, in their sunday clothes, playing in the streets. even sorrowful faith balcarry was in a new dress, and was at least helping others to be happy. indeed, it was faith who suddenly burst into the hall when the decorations were nearly finished, and cried, "surely you'll show the flags o' the lads' boaties! they'll feel hurt if you slight their bits o' canvas! it is most like slighting themsel's." she had her arms full of these bits of canvas, and the men decorating the fishers' hall seized them triumphantly, and told faith they were just what they wanted; and so made faith for once in her sad life a person helpful and of importance. then in twenty minutes the red and blue and white ensigns were beautifully disposed among the green of larch and laurel, and the glory of marigolds and st. michael's daisies, and of holly oaks of every brilliant color. when the sun was setting angus looked in. everyone but christine and faith had finished his work and gone away. faith was brushing up the scattered leaves from the floor, christine was standing on the top step of the ladder, setting her father's flag in a halo of marigolds. he watched her without speaking until she turned, then the swift glory of her smile, and the joy of her surprise was a revelation. he had not dreamed before that she was so beautiful. he said he was hungry, and he hoped christine would not send him all the way to ballister for something to eat. then what could christine do but ask him to dinner? and she had already asked faith. so he walked between christine and faith up to ruleson's cottage. and the walk through the village was so exhilarating, he must have forgotten he was hungry, even if he was really so. there was music everywhere, there were groups of beautiful women, already dressed in their gayest gowns and finest ornaments, there were equal groups of handsome young fishermen, in their finest tweed suits, with flowing neckties of every resplendent color--there was such a sense of pleasure and content in the air, that everyone felt as if he were breathing happiness. and margot's welcome was in itself a tonic, if anybody had needed one. her table was already set, she was "only waiting for folks to find out they wanted their dinner--the dinner itsel' was waitin' and nane the better o' it." ruleson came in as she was speaking, and he welcomed the master of ballister with true scotch hospitality. they fell into an easy conversation on politics, and margot told christine and faith to mak' themsel's fit for company, and to be quick anent the business, or she wadna keep three folk waiting on a couple o' lasses. in half an hour both girls came down, dressed in white. christine had loaned faith a white frock, and a string of blue beads, and a broad blue sash. she had arranged her hair prettily, and made the girl feel that her appearance was of consequence. and light came into faith's eyes, and color to her cheeks, and for once she was happy, whether she knew it or not. christine had intended to wear a new pink silk frock, with all its pretty accessories, but a beautiful natural politeness forbade it. faith was so abnormally sensitive, she knew she would spoil the girl's evening if she outdressed her. so she also put on a white muslin gown, made in the modest fashion of the early victorian era. some lace and white satin ribbons softened it, and she had in her ears her long gold rings, and round her throat her gold beads, and amidst her beautiful hair large amber combs, that looked as if they had imprisoned the sunshine. margot was a good cook, and the dinner was an excellent one, prolonged--as margot thought--beyond all reasonable length, by a discussion, between ruleson and angus, of the conservative policy. ruleson smoked his pipe after dinner, and kept up the threep, and the girls put out of sight the used china, and the meat and pastries left, and margot put on her usual sabbath attire--a light-gray silk dress, a large white collar, and a borderless cap of lace over her dark hair. the indispensable bit of color was, in her case, supplied by a vivid scarlet shawl of chinese crêpe, one of those heavily embroidered shawls of dazzling color, which seem in these latter days to have disappeared. it was getting near to seven o'clock, when they entered the hall and found it already full and happy. they had not thought it necessary to wait in whispering silence, until the music came and opened the entertainment. they possessed among themselves many good story tellers, and they were heartily laughing in chorus at some comic incident which a fisherman was relating, when the ruleson party arrived. then there was one long, loud, unanimous cry for christine ruleson, for christine was preëminent as a vive-voce story teller, a rare art even among the nations of europe. she nodded and smiled, and without any affectation of reluctance, but with a sweet readiness to give pleasure, went at once to the platform, and as easily, and as naturally as if she were telling it at her home fireside, she raised her hand for attention, and said: * * * * * "_the wreck of the grosvenor_ "the _grosvenor_, an east indiaman, homeward bound, went to pieces on the coast of caffraria. there were a hundred and thirty-five souls on board, and they resolved to cross the trackless desert to the dutch settlements at the cape of good hope. a solitary child was among the passengers, a boy of seven years old, who had no relation on board, and when he saw the party beginning to move away, he cried after some member of it, who had been kind to him. the child's cry went to every heart. they accepted him as a sacred charge. "by turns they carried him through the deep sand and the long grass. they pushed him across broad rivers on a little raft. they shared with him such fish as they found to eat. beset by lions, by savages, by hunger and death in ghastly forms, they never--o father in heaven! thy name be blessed for it! they never forgot the child. the captain and his faithful coxswain sat down together to die, the rest go on for their lives--but they take the child with them. the carpenter, his chief friend, dies from eating, in his hunger, poisonous berries; the steward assumed the sacred guardianship of the boy. he carried him in his arms, when he himself was weak and suffering. he fed him, when he was griped with hunger. he laid his little white face against his sun-burned breast. he soothed him in all his suffering. "then there came a time when both were ill, and they begged their wretched companions--now very few in number--to wait for them one day. they waited two days. on the morning of the third day, they moved softly about preparing to resume their journey. the child was sleeping by the fire, and they would not wake him until the last moment. the moment comes, the fire is dying--the child is dead! "his faithful friend staggers on for a few days, then lies down in the desert and dies. what shall be said to these two men, who through all extremities loved and guarded this little child?" * * * * * christine had noticed the domine rise, and she pointedly addressed this question to him, and he understood her wish, and lifting up his hands and his voice, he cried out triumphantly: "they shall be raised up with the words--'inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto me!' these good men," he continued, "were men of the sea, mariners of england, "that guard our native seas, whose flag has braved a thousand years, the battle and the breeze!" the domine might have continued, but there was a sudden thrill of enchanting violins, the door was flung open, and the magical notes of a foursome reel filled the room, and set the feet of all tapping the floor, and made all faces radiant with anticipation. the good man then realized that it was not his hour, and he sat down, and watched the proceedings for a few minutes. then he saw james ruleson take his wife's hand, and watched their first steps in the joyous reel, and he was satisfied. if the dancing was under ruleson's control, he knew all would be done decently and in order, and he went away so quietly that his absence was not noticed for some time. now, if the dancing that followed was like some of our dancing of today, i should pass it with slight notice, or it might be, with earnest disapproval, but it was not. it was real dancing. it was not waltzing, nor tangoing, and it was as far as possible from the undressed posturing called classical dancing. everyone was modestly clothed, and had his shoes and stockings on. and naturally, and as a matter of course, they obeyed the principle of real dancing, which is articulation; that is, the foot strikes the ground with every accented note of the music. this is how goldsmith in "the vicar of wakefield" shows us olivia dancing--"her foot being as pat to the music, as its echo." all good dancing is beautiful, and it never requires immodesty, is indeed spoiled by any movement in this direction. however, as my fisher company danced modestly and gracefully, rendering naturally the artistic demands of the music, there is no necessity to pursue the subject. as the night wore on, the dancing became more enthusiastic, and graceful gestures were flung in, and little inspiring cries flung out, and often when the fiddles stopped, the happy feet went on for several bars without the aid of music. thus alternately telling stories, singing, and dancing, they passed the happy hours, mingling something of heart, and brain, and body, in all they did; and the midnight found them unwearied and good-tempered. angus had behaved beautifully. having made himself "hail! well met!" with the company, he forgot for the time that he was master of ballister, and entered into the happy spirit of the occasion with all the natural gayety of youth. as he had dined with faith balcarry, he danced with her several times; and no one could tell the pride and pleasure in the girl's heart. then christine introduced to her a young fisherman from largo town, and he liked faith's slender form, and childlike face, and fell truly in love with the lonely girl, and after this night no one ever heard faith complain that she had no one to love, and that no one loved her. this incident alone made christine very happy, for her heart said to her that it was well worth while. cluny was the only dissatisfied person present, but then nothing would have satisfied cluny but christine's undivided attention. she told him he was "unreasonable and selfish," and he went home with his grandmother, in a pet, and did not return. "he's weel enough awa'," said christine to faith. "if he couldna leave his bad temper at hame, he hadna ony right to bring it here." of course it was not possible for christine to avoid all dancing with angus, but he was reasonable and obedient, and danced cheerfully with all the partners she selected, and in return she promised to walk home in his company. he told her it was "a miraculous favor," and indeed he thought so. for never had she looked so bewilderingly lovely. her beauty appeared to fill the room, and the calm, confident authority with which she ordered and decided events, touched him with admiring astonishment. what she would become, when _he_ gave her the opportunity, he could not imagine. at nine o'clock there was a sideboard supper from a long table at one side of the hall, loaded with cold meats, pastry, and cake. every young man took what his partner desired, and carried it to her. then when the women were served, the men helped themselves, and stood eating and talking with the merry, chattering groups for a pleasant half-hour, which gave to the last dances and songs even more than their early enthusiasm. angus waited on christine and faith, and faith's admirer had quite a flush of vanity, in supposing himself to have cut the master of ballister out. he flattered himself thus, and faith let him think so, and christine shook her head, and called him "plucky and gay," epithets young men never object to, especially if they know they are neither the one nor the other. at twelve o'clock ruleson spoke to the musicians, and the violins dropped from the merry reel of "clydeside lasses" into the haunting melody of "caller herrin'," and old and young stood up to sing it. margot started the "cry" in her clear, clarion-like voice; but young and old joined in the imperishable song, in which the "cry" is vocalized: [illustration: music and lyrics: who'll buy cal-ler her-rin'? they're twa a pen-ny twa a pen-ny, who'll buy cal-ler her-rin'? they're new come fra loch fine. come friends sup-port the fish-er's trade. wha still in yer'll earns his bread. while 'round our coast aft tem-pest tost. he drags for cal-ler her-rin'. they're bon-nie fish, and dain-ty fa-ring. buy my cal-ler her-rin'. they're new come frae loch-flae. who'll buy my cal-ler her-rin'. there's nought wi' them will stand com-par-ing. e'en they hae like dia-monds. their sides like sil-ver shine. cal-ler her-rin', cal-ler her-rin'] at one o'clock the fishers' hall was dark and still, and the echo of a tender little laugh or song from some couple, who had taken the longest way round for the nearest way home, was all that remained of the mirth and melody of the evening. angus and christine sauntered slowly through the village. the young man was then passionately importunate in the protestations of his love. he wooed christine with all the honeyed words that men have used to the beloved woman, since the creation. and christine listened and was happy. at length, however, he was obliged to tell her news he had delayed as long as it was possible. "christine," he said. "dear christine, i am going with my uncle ballister to the united states. we intend to see both the northern and southern states, and in california shall doubtless find the ways and means to cross over to china and japan, and at hongkong get passage for india, and then----" "and then whar next?" "through europe to england. i dare say the journey will take us a whole year." "mair likely twa or even three years. whatna for are you going?" "because my uncle is going, and he is set on having me with him." "i wouldn't wonder. maybe he is going just for your sake. weel i hope you'll hae a brawly fine time, and come hame the better for it." "i cannot tell how i am to do without seeing you, for a whole year." "folk get used to doing without, vera easy, if the want isn't siller. love isna a necessity." "o, but it is! dear christine, it is the great necessity." "weel, i'm not believing it." then they were at the foot of the hill on which ruleson's house stood, and christine said, "your carriage is waiting for you, angus, and you be to bid me good night, here. i would rather rin up the hill by mysel', and nae doubt the puir horses are weary standin' sae lang. sae good night, and good-by, laddie!" "i shall not leave you, christine, until i have seen you safely home." "i am at hame here. this is ruleson's hill, and feyther and mither are waiting up for me." a few imperative words from angus put a stop to the dispute, and he climbed the hill with her. he went as slowly as possible, and told her at every step how beautiful she was, and how entirely he loved her. but christine was not responsive, and in spite of his eloquent tenderness, they felt the chill of their first disagreement. when they came in sight of the house, they saw that it was dimly lit, and christine stood still, and once more bade him good-by. angus clasped both her hands in his. "my love! my love!" he said. "if i spoke cross, forgive me." "i hae naething to forgive. i owe you for mair pleasure and happiness, than i can ever return." "give me one kiss of love and forgiveness, christine. then i will know you love angus"--and he tried gently to draw her closer to him. "just one kiss, darling." "na! na," she answered. "that canna be. i'm a fisher-lass, and we hae a law we dinna break--we keep our lips virgin pure, for the lad we mean to marry." "you are very hard and cruel. you send me away almost broken-hearted. may i write to you?" "if you'll tell me about a' the wonderfuls you see, i'll be gey glad to hear from you." "then farewell, my love! do not forget me!" "it's not likely i'll forget you," and her voice trembled, as she whispered "farewell!" and gave him her hand. he stooped, and kissed it. then he turned away. she watched him till in the dim distance she saw him raise his hat and then disappear. still she stood, until the roll of the carriage wheels gradually became inaudible. then she knew that she was weeping, and she wiped her eyes, and turned them upon the light in the cottage burning for her. and she thought tenderly of her lover, and whispered to her heart--"if he had only come back! i might hae given him a kiss. puir laddie! puir, dear laddie! his uncle has heard tell o' the fisher-lassie, and he's ta'en him awa' from christine--but he's his ain master--sae it's his ain fault! christine is o'er gude for anyone who can be wiled awa' by man, or woman, or pleasure, or gold. i'll be first, or i'll be naething at a'!" she found her father alone, and wide awake. "where is mither?" she asked. "i got her to go to bed. she was weary and full o' pain. keep a close watch on your mither, christine. the trouble in her heart grows warse, i fear. wha was wi' you in your hame-comin'?" "angus ballister." "weel, then?" "it is the last time he will be wi' me." "is that sae? it is just as weel." "he is awa' wi' his uncle ballister, for a year or mair." "is he thinking you'll wait, while he looks o'er the women-folk in the rest o' the warld?" "it seems sae." "you liked him weel enough?" "whiles--weel enough for a lover on trial. but what would a lass do wi' a husband wha could leave her for a year on his ain partic'lar pleasure." "i kent you wad act wiselike, when the time came to act. there's nae men sae true as fishermen. they hae ane dear woman to love, and she's the only woman in the warld for them. now cluny----" "we willna speak o' cluny, feyther. both you and mither, specially mither, are far out o' your usual health. what for did god gie you a daughter, if it wasna to be a comfort and help to you, when you needed it? i'm no carin' to marry any man." "please god, you arena fretting anent angus?" "what for would i fret? he was a grand lover while he lasted. but when a man is feared to honor his love with his name, a lass has a right to despise him." "just sae! but you mustna fret yoursel' sick after him." "me! not likely!" "he was bonnie enou', and he had siller--plenty o' siller!" "i'm no' thinkin' o' the siller, feyther! na, na, siller isn't in the matter, but-- "when your lover rins over the sea, he may never come back again; but this, or that, will na matter to me, for my heart! my heart is my ain!" "then a's weel, lassie. i'll just creep into neil's bed, for i dinna want to wake your mither for either this, or that, or ony ither thing. good night, dearie! you're a brave lassie! god bless you!" chapter v christine and angus they did not separate, as if nothing had happened. a sorrow we have looked in the face, can harm us no more. perhaps christine was not so brave as her father thought, but she had considered the likelihood of such a situation, and had decided that there was no dealing with it, except in a spirit of practical life. she knew, also, that in the long run sentiment would have to give way to common sense, and the more intimate she became with the character of angus ballister, the more certain she felt that his love for her would have to measure itself against the pride and will of his uncle, and the tyranny of social estimates and customs. she was therefore not astonished that angus had left both himself and her untrammeled by promises. he was a young man who never went to meet finalities, especially if there was anything unpleasant or serious in them; and marriage was a finality full of serious consequences, even if all its circumstances were socially proper. and what would society say, if angus ballister made a fisher-girl his wife! "i wasna wise to hae this, or that, to do wi' the lad," she whispered, and then after a few moments' reflection, she added, "nor was i altogether selfish i' the matter. neil relied on me making a friend o' him, and mither told me she knew my guid sense wad keep the lad in his proper place. weel, i hae done what was expected o' me, and what's the end o' the matter, christine? ye hae a sair heart, lass, an' if ye arena in love wi' a lad that can ne'er mak' you his wife, ye are precariously near to it." then she was silent, while lacing her shoes, but when this duty was well finished, she continued, "the lad has gien me many happy hours, and christine will never be the one to say, or even think, wrang o' him; we were baith in the fault--if it be a fault--as equally in the fault, as the fiddle and the fiddlestick are in the music. weel, then what's to do? duty stands high above pleasure, an' i must gie my heart to duty, an' my hands to duty, even if i tread pleasure underfoot in the highway in the doin' o' it." as she made these resolutions, some strong instinctive feeling induced her to dress herself in clean clothing from head to feet, and then add bright touches of color, and the glint of golden ornaments to her attire. "i hae taken a new mistress this morning," she said, as she clasped her gold beads around her white throat--"and i'll show folk that i'm not fretting mysel' anent the auld one." and in some unreasoning, occult way, this fresh, bright clothing strengthened her. indeed, margot was a little astonished when she saw her daughter. her husband had told her in a few words just how matters now lay between ballister and christine, and she was fully prepared with sympathy and counsels for the distracted, or angry, girl she expected to meet. so christine's beaming face, cheerful voice, and exceptional dress astonished her. "lassie!" she exclaimed. "whatna for hae you dressed yoursel' sae early in the day?" "i thought o' going into the toun, mither. i require some worsted for my knitting. i'm clean out o' all sizes." "i was wanting you to go to the manse this morning. i am feared for the pain in my breast, dearie, and the powders the domine gies me for it are gane. i dinna like to be without them." "i'll go for them, mither, this morning, as soon as i think the domine is out o' his study." "then i'll be contented. how are you feeling yoursel', christine?" "fine, mither!" "'twas a grand ploy last night. that lad, angus ballister, danced with a' and sundry, and sang, and ate wi' the best, and the worst o' us. i was hearing he was going awa' for a year or mair." "ay, to foreign parts. rich young men think they arena educated unless they get a touch o' france or italy, and even america isna out o' their way. you wad think a scotch university wad be the complement o' a scotch gentleman!" "did he bid you good-by? or is he coming here today?" "he isna likely to ever come here again." "what for no? he's been fain and glad to come up here. what's changed him?" "he isna changed. he has to go wi' his uncle." "what did he say about marrying you? he ought to hae asked your feyther for ye?" "for me?" "ay, for you." "don't say such words, mither. there was no talk of marriage between us. what would angus do with a girl like me for a wife?" "you are gude enou' for any man." "we are friends. we arena lovers. the lad has been friendly with the hale village. you mustna think wrang o' him." "i do think vera wrang o' him. he is just one kind o' a scoundrel." "you hurt me, mither. angus is my friend. i'll think nae wrang o' him. if he was wrang, i was wrang, and you should hae told me i was wrang." "i was feared o' hurting neil's chances wi' him." "sae we baith had a second motive." "ay, few folk are moved by a single one." "angus came, and he went, he liked me, and i liked him, but neither o' us will fret o'er the parting. it had to be, or it wouldn't hae been. them above order such things. they sort affairs better than we could." "i don't understand what you're up to, but i think you are acting vera unwomanly." "na, na, mither! i'll not play 'maiden all forlorn' for anyone. if angus can live without me, there isna a woman i' the world that can live without angus as weel as christine ruleson can. tuts! i hae you, mither, and my dear feyther, and my six big brothers, and surely their love is enough for any soul through this life; forbye, there is the love beyond all, and higher than all, and truer than all--the love of the father and the son." "i see ye hae made up your mind to stand by ballister. vera weel! do sae! as long as he keeps himsel' in foreign pairts, he'll ne'er fret me; but if he comes hame, he'll hae to keep a few hundred miles atween us." "nonsense! we'll a' be glad to see him hame." "your way be it. get your eating done wi', and then awa' to the manse, and get me thae powders. i'm restless and feared if i have none i' the house." "i'll be awa' in ten minutes now. ye ken the domine doesna care for seeing folk till after ten o'clock. he says he hes ither company i' the first hours o' daybreak." "like enou', but he'll be fain to hear about the doings last night, and he'll be pleased concerning faith getting a sweetheart. i doubt if she deserves the same." "mither! dinna say that. the puir lassie!" "puir lassie indeed! her feyther left her forty pounds a year, till she married, and then the principal to do as she willed wi'. i dinna approve o' women fretting and fearing anent naething." "but if they hae the fret and fear, what are they to do wi' it, mither?" "fight it. fighting is better than fearing. weel, tak' care o' yoursel' and mind every word that you say." "i'm going by the cliffs on the sea road." "that will keep you langer." "ay, but i'll no require to mind my words. i'll meet naebody on that road to talk wi'." "i would not say that much." a suspicion at once had entered margot's heart. "i wonder," she mused, as she watched christine out of sight--"i wonder if she is trysted wi' angus ballister on the cliff road. na, na, she would hae told me, whether or no, she would hae told me." the solitude of the sea, and of the lonely road, was good for christine. she was not weeping, but she had a bitter aching sense of something lost. she thought of her love lying dead outside her heart's shut door, and she could not help pitying both love and herself. "he was like sunshine on my life," she sighed. "it is dark night now. all is over. good-by forever, angus! oh, love, love!" she cried aloud to the sea. "oh, you dear old troubler o' the warld! i shall never feel young again. weel, weel, christine, i'll not hae ye going to meet trouble, it isna worth the compliment. angus may forget me, and find some ither lass to love--weel, then, if it be so, let it be so. i'll find the right kind o' strength for every hour o' need, and the outcome is sure to be right. god is love. surely that is a' i need. i'll just leave my heartache here, the sea can carry it awa', and the winds blow it far off"--and she began forthwith a tender little song, that died down every few bars, but was always lifted again, until it swelled out clear and strong, as she came in sight of the small, white manse, standing bravely near the edge of a cliff rising sheerly seven hundred feet above the ocean. the little old, old kirk, with its lonely acres full of sailors' graves, was close to it, and christine saw that the door stood wide open, though it was yet early morning. "it'll be a wedding, a stranger wedding," she thought. "hame folk wouldna be sae thoughtless, as to get wed in the morning--na, na, it will be some stranger." these speculations were interrupted by the domine's calling her, and as soon as she heard his voice, she saw him standing at the open door. "christine!" he cried. "come in! come in! i want you, lassie, very much. i was just wishing for you." "i am glad that i answered your wish, sir. i would aye like to do that, if it be his will." "come straight to my study, dear. you are a very godsend this morning." he went hurriedly into the house, and turned towards his study, and christine followed him. and before she crossed the threshold of the room, she saw angus and his uncle ballister, sitting at a table on which there were books and papers. angus rose to meet her at once. he did it as an involuntary act. he did not take a moment's counsel or consideration, but sprang to his feet with the joyful cry of a delighted boy. and christine's face reflected the cry in a wonderful, wonderful smile. then angus was at her side, he clasped her hands, he called her by her name in a tone of love and music, he drew her closer to his side. and the elder man smiled and looked at the domine, who remembered then the little ceremony he had forgotten. so he took christine by the hand, and led her to the stranger, and in that moment a great change came into the countenance and manner of the girl, while a peculiar light of satisfaction--almost of amusement--gleamed in her splendid eyes. "colonel ballister," said the domine, "i present to you miss christine ruleson, the friend of your nephew, the beloved of the whole village of culraine." "i am happy to make miss ruleson's acquaintance," he replied and christine said, "it is a great pleasure to meet you, sir. when you know angus, you wish to know the man who made angus well worth the love he wins." the domine and angus looked at the beautiful girl in utter amazement. she spoke perfect english, in the neat, precise, pleasant manner and intonation of the aberdeen educated class. but something in christine's manner compelled their silence. she willed it, and they obeyed her will. "sit down at the table with us, christine," said the domine. "we want your advice;" and she had the good manners to sit down, without affectations or apologies. "colonel, will you tell your own tale? there's none can do it like you." "it is thus, and so, miss ruleson. two nights ago as i sat thinking of angus in culraine, i remembered my own boyhood days in the village. i thought of the boats, and the sailors, and the happy hours out at sea with the nets, or the lines. i remembered how the sailors' wives petted me, and as i grew older teased me, and sang to me. and i said to my soul, 'we have been ungratefully neglectful, soul, and we will go at once, and see if any of the old playfellows are still alive.' so here i am, and though i find by the domine's kirk list that only three of my day are now in culraine, i want to do some good thing for the place. the question is, what. angus thinks, as my memories are all of playtime, i might buy land for a football field, or links for a golf club. what do you say to this idea, miss ruleson?" "i can say naething in its favor, sir. fishers are hard-worked men; they do not require to play hard, and call it amusement. i have heard my father say that ball games quickly turn to gambling games. a game of any sort would leave all the women out. their men are little at home, and it would be a heartache to them, if they took to spending that little in a ball field, or on the golf links." "their wives might go with them, christine," said angus. "they would require to leave many home duties, if they did so. it would not be right--our women would not do it. once i was at st. andrews, and i wanted to go to the golf links with my father, but the good woman with whom we were visiting said: 'james ruleson, go to the links if so be you want to go, but you'll no daur to tak' this young lassie there. the language on the links is just awfu'. it isna fit for a decent lass to hear. no, sir, golf links would be of no use to the women, and their value is very uncertain to men.'" "women's presence would doubtless make men more careful in their language," said angus. "weel, angus, it would be doing what my mither ca's 'letting the price o'er-gang the profit.'" "miss ruleson's objections are good and valid, and we admit them," said the colonel; "perhaps she will now give us some idea we can work out"--and when he looked at her for response, he caught his breath at the beauty and sweetness of the face before him. "what are you thinking of?" he asked, almost with an air of humility, for the visible presence of goodness and beauty could hardly have affected him more. and christine answered softly: "i was thinking of the little children." and the three men felt ashamed, and were silent. "i was thinking of the little children," she continued, "how they have neither schoolhouse, nor playhouse. they must go to the town, if they go to school; and there is the bad weather, and sickness, and busy mothers, and want of clothing and books, and shoes, and slates, and the like. our boys and girls get at the sunday school all the learning they have. the poor children. they have hard times in a fishing-village." "you have given us the best of advice, miss ruleson, and we will gladly follow it," said the colonel. "i am sure you are right. i will build a good schoolhouse in culraine. i will begin it at once. it shall be well supplied with books and maps, and i will pay a good teacher." "not a man teacher, sir. they have small patience with little children. they will use the taws on baby hands, that cannot make a 'k' or a 'z' at first sight. give them a woman teacher, who will not be afraid of the bairnies snuggling into her arms, and telling her all their little troubles." "domine," said the colonel, "we have received our orders. what say you?" "i say a school, by all means, sir. to the children of culraine it will be a dispensation." "first, we must have land for it." "i was thinking, as you spoke, of james ruleson's land. it lies at the foot of his hill, and would be the very best location for a schoolhouse." "then we will see james ruleson." "father is line-fishing now. he will not be home until five o'clock," said christine. "if possible, we will see him after five. come, domine, let us have a look through the old kirk." "i saw it standing open," said christine, "and i was thinking there might be a strange wedding there today." "no, no, christine. it was opened for the colonel, though there are no ballister effigies in it. if it was an old english kirk, there would be knights and crusaders, and soldiers lying there, in stone state. we do not like images in our kirks. the second command stands clean against it. come with us, christine, and when we return i will give you the medicine your mother requires." so the domine and the colonel led the way, and angus and christine followed. and when they reached the kirkyard, angus said, "stand here a moment, you dear, dear girl, and tell me how you could talk to my uncle in the high english of aberdeen. it was beautiful! how did you acquire it?" "through long years of practice, angus. i heard all neil's lessons, and i always spoke the english, when i was with neil. he didna like me to speak scotch, because he was feared of spoiling his english. it was our home secret, for it would have been a great offense, if i had used english in the village. you can see that." "yes, of course." "they dinna mind the domine speaking english, yet if he particularly wants them to do anything, he is maist sure to drop into the most familiar scotch." "neil must have had great influence over you, christine," and angus said the words disagreeably. he was feeling jealous of any influences but his own controlling christine. "ay, i always did what he told me to do. step softly, angus. the domine is talking." when they reached the domine's side, they found him turning the leaves of a very old bible. "you see, colonel," he said, "my father gave me the book when i first came here. my ancestors have preached from it since a.d. . it came to me through a long succession of good men. it has been my close, personal friend ever since. the finest bible in scotland could not take its place. there are pages in it that have been luminous to me. i have seen the glory shining out of the black letters. there are pages in it so sensitive to me that i feel a special spiritual emanation from them. i will be glad of a new cushion for the book, for the one on which it now lies is worn and shabby, and that ought not to be." "then i cannot give you a new bible, even for the church." "impossible! i could not preach from a new bible. colonel, it is not a book, it is a friend. we have secrets together. i have promises from it, that are yet owing me. it holds our confidences for thirty years. sometimes i think it really speaks to me. sometimes a glory seems to shine over the page i am reading, and my soul is so happy, that my tongue speaks aloud joyfully the shining words that have been given me." "i would not separate you from such a bible, sir." "i shall be grateful if you give me a new cushion for it. nothing is too good for the book." then they stood looking thoughtfully over the bare place. it had an old, past look. it was plain and moldy, and needed repairing in every way. the colonel made a note of what was required in the nave of the kirk, and then glanced upward. the gallery appeared to be in still worse condition, but in front of it there was a wonderfully beautiful model of a full-rigged ship. "ah!" exclaimed the colonel, "a ship instead of a clock! is that right, sir?" "quite. i put it there. it was made by a sailor lad born in culraine, who came here to die. long, painful, hopeless days were soothed by the fashioning of that miniature ship. all the village watched its progress, all felt an interest in the dying lad. he finished it on the eve of his death. young and old came to bid him good-by, and to see his white, trembling hands dress the topmost spar, and fly the blue peter. 'i am just about to sail,' he said, 'sae i'll up wi' the blue peter. that means i'm ready to go. let her carry it till i'm safely hame.' i put a new peter on the top-mast last year," said the domine, and his eyes filled with tears, as he looked steadfastly at the emblem. "we seem to expect a clock in the front of the gallery, sir. can a ship take its place?" "nothing, nothing, could be more appropriate. the favorite image of the church in all ages has been a ship, or a boat. the first preaching was connected with a ship, for while noah builded the ark, he preached repentance. the holiest object of the jewish tabernacle was the ark, made like a boat. all christ's known life is associated with boats. the favorite image of the early persecuted church was a boat beaten by the winds and waves, and our own churches preserve everywhere this world-wide idea, by calling the body of the church the nave, from navis, a ship." "that is very interesting information, sir," said angus. "you are going to venice, ballister; you will find many of the oldest churches in venice built in the shape of a ship; and near lisbon there is a chapel of marble, with pillars like masts, and its sails and cordage carved on the walls. is not this life a voyage to the eternal shores, and what could typify our safety better than a ship with christ for the captain of our salvation? you see, i will still be preaching. i make no excuse." "none is necessary. we are glad to listen." "come now, christine, and i will give you medicine for your mother. gentlemen, in a few minutes i will return here." when they were alone the domine said: "christine, you did wisely, and your speech was correct and beautiful, but i would advise you to keep your english for special occasions." "sir, not even my father and mother know i can drop the scotch. when the time comes to tell them, i----" "yes, yes. and the villagers? it might be an offense." "you are right, sir." "you speak as if you had learned to speak at the maraschal." "yes, sir. i learned it from neil. we always talked it together, for neil hated the dialect, and i made a bargain wi' him. i promised to talk as he taught me, if he would keep the circumstance from everyone. he said he would, and he has stood by his promise. sae have i, but i hae been talking english nearly five years now." "you wonderful woman! then this morning you gave yourself away." "i wanted to do it--i couldna resist the want. and it was only to you, and the twa ballisters. nane o' you three will go blabbing. anyway, when neil leaves the maraschal, he will care little how i talk. he'll hae finer folk than christine, to crack and claver wi'." "he will not find finer folk easily. now run home as quickly as you can, and prepare your father and mother for the ballister visit. i will come with him, and ask your mother to have a cup of tea by the fire for us." "will angus be wi' ye, sir?" "no, he will not." "why?" "because i am going to send him to the factor's, and also to lawyer semple's. you need not be looking for him. try and leave well alone. it is hard to make well better, and it is very easy to make it worse. if you hurry a little, i think you may be home by twelve o'clock." so christine hurried a little, and reached home by the noon hour. her dinner was ready, and her father very unexpectedly was sitting by the fireside. "feyther," she said, "i hope you arena sick," and then she smiled at the inquiry, for his broad, rosy face was the very picture of robust health. "sick! na, na, lassie! i'm weel enou', but norman was feeling badly. his arm hurts him sairly, and i was noticing that the fish had gane to deep waters. we'll hae a storm before long." then christine served the dinner waiting for her, and while they were eating, she told the great news of a school for culraine. ruleson was quickly enthusiastic. margot, out of pure contradiction, deplored the innovation. the walk to the toun, she said, was gude for the childer. if they were too tired to learn after it, it showed that learning was beyond their capabilities, and that they would be better making themsel's usefu' at hame. and what were women with large families to do without their big lads to bring water to wash wi', and their half-grown lasses to tak' care o' the babies, and help wi' the cooking and cleaning? "but, margot," said ruleson, "think o' the outcome for the childer----think o'----" "ye dinna require to tell me the outcome. as soon as the childer get what they ca' an education, they hurry awa' to some big city, or foreign country, and that's the end o' them. settle a school here, and i'll tell you the plain result--in a few years we'll hae neither lads nor boats, and the lasses now growing up will hae to go to largo, or to some unkent place for husbands. gie our lads books, and you'll ne'er get them into the boats. that's a fact! i'm tellin' you!" between margot and christine the argument continued all afternoon, but ruleson went to the foot of the hill, and looked at the land proposed for the site of the future school. he was glad that it was his land, and he was so much of a natural poet that he could see the white building, and the boys and girls trooping in and out of its wide doors. and the vision of the children playing together there was so clear to his imagination, that he carefully stepped off the acres he supposed would give them sufficient room for their games; and then shutting his eyes that he might see better, he decided that it was too small, and so stepped off another acre. "i'll ne'er scrimp the childer, god bless them!" he thought, "for it will be a happy day to james ruleson, when he sees them runnin' to these acres wi' books and balls in their hands." then he went home, and margot said something about his sunday claes, but james did not heed her. he put on a clean shirt, and a suit of blue flannel. his shirt was open at the throat, his feet were in boots that reached nearly to his knees. but he had a grandly satisfied look, and the beautiful courtesy of men who as a rule think only good of their neighbors, and do only good to them. margot, like christine, was in her fisher-costume, with little accentuations in christine's case; but margot was the very mate for the splendid man she called "her man." scotch, from head to feet, douce and domestic, yet cleverer than james, though obedient to him--a good woman, fit for the work of this world, and not forgetful concerning a better one. keeping in mind the domine's directions about a cup of tea, christine laid the table with their best linen and china, and though no difference was made in the food provided, christine saw that it was well cooked. after all, it was quite an event for james ruleson, and in the outcome of it he expected to realize one of the greatest pleasures that could come to him. about five o'clock the domine and ballister arrived. they entered a room full of the feeling of home. it was clean, and white as a snow drift, and there was a bright fire blazing on the hearth. the covered table with its knives and forks and spoons, and its gilt rimmed teacups, was in itself a symbol of hospitality. the domine looked at it, and then said, "margot, you are baking sea trout. i told you never to do that again, when i was coming, unless you intended asking me to help in the eating of it." "today, they were cooked special for you, sir, and i hope you will hae the good will to pleasure me in the eating o' them." "certainly, margot, certainly! i could not resist your invitation." hearing these words, ruleson rose, and said, "colonel, if you will join the domine at the meal god has gi'en us, james ruleson will gladly break bread with you." after these preliminaries, christine served the meal, and then waited on her parents and their guests. they ate the fish with great enjoyment. it was to the colonel a gastronomical discovery. no anchovy, no sauces of any kind, just the delicate fish, baked with a few slices of ayrshire ham, and served with potatoes boiled in their jackets so skillfully that the jackets dropped from them when touched. it was a dish pure and simple, and captivated every palate. nothing more was needed that christine's quiet service and the animated conversation did not supply. as to margot, she was kept busy filling small cups with that superexcellent tea we get in scotland, and find it next to impossible to get anywhere else. after the fish was fully eaten, christine--almost without notice--cleared the table, and brought on a rice pudding, and a large pitcher of cream. the men ate the whole of it. perhaps they did so unconsciously, for they were talking about the school in an enthusiastic manner, while it was disappearing. then james ruleson lit his pipe, and the colonel his cigar, and they sat down at the fireside. the domine, with a smile of perfect happiness, sat between them, and every remnant of dinner silently disappeared. during the hour following the domine drafted the principal items to be discussed and provided for, and it was further resolved to call a village meeting in the fishers' hall, for the next evening. then the colonel's carriage was waiting, and he rose, but really with some reluctance. he cast his eyes over the comfortable room, and looked with admiration on the good man who called it home, on the bright, cheery woman, whose love made it worth the name, and on the girl who filled it with her beauty; and he said to margot, "mrs. ruleson, i have eaten today the very best of dinners. i enjoyed every mouthful of it." "indeed, the dinner was good, colonel; and we were proud and glad o' your company." "and you will meet us in the hall tomorrow night, and bring all the women you can with you?" "i'll do my best, sir, but our women are a dour lot. they lay out their ain way, and then mak' the taking o' it a point o' duty." and all the way to ballister house the colonel wondered about his dinner--no flowers on the table, no napkins, no finger bowls, no courses, no condiments or pickles, no wine, not even a thimbleful of whiskey, nothing but excellently cooked fresh fish and potatoes, a good cup of tea with it, and then a rice pudding and plenty of cream. "wonderful!" he ejaculated. "upon my word, things are more evenly balanced than we think. i know noblemen and millionaires that are far from being as happy, or as well fed, as ruleson's family." the next morning the bellman went through the village calling men and women together at half-past seven, in the fishers' hall; and there was great excitement about the matter. even the boys and girls here took a noisy part in the discussion, for and against, the argument in this class being overwhelmingly in favor of the school. among the adults, opinion was also divided. there were lazy mothers who could not do without their girls' help, and greedy fathers who expected their little lads to make, or at least save them a few shillings a week; and christine feared the gift would be ungraciously taken. ruleson had a long talk with big peter brodie, and peter told him not to fash himsel' anent a lot o' ignorant women and men folk. if they were such fools, as not to ken a blessing when it was put into their vera hands, they ought to be made to understand the fact; and with a peculiar smile he intimated that he would take great satisfaction in gieing them as many lessons as they required. the meeting was, however, crowded, and when the colonel and the domine stepped on the platform, the audience were just in the mood to give them a rousing cheer. it opened the domine's mouth, and he said: "friends, i have great and good news for you. colonel ballister is going to build us a school of our own. we shall want some of you as trustees, and others will have to form an executive board. we are going to have a women's board as well. the men's board will look after the management of the school. the women's board will look after the bairns, and see that they get fair play in every respect. a women's board will be a new thing, but culraine is not afraid of new ways, if they be better ways." then he went into particulars, which we need not do, and concluded by telling them that james ruleson had given land both for the school and the playground, and that it was hoped james' approval would stand for many, and much. "we will now take the vote of both men and women for, or against, the school." then a man in the center of the crowded hall stood up. it was peter brodie. "gentlemen," he said, "a vote is outside necessity. we dinna vote as to whether we want sunshine, or fish, or bread. we are sure o' the matter. the school is mental bread and meat and sunshine to our lads and lasses. we thank god for it. there would be a deal o' trouble i' getting and counting names, and the like o' that. let us vote, gentlemen, as our forefathers voted for the solemn league and covenant, by just lifting their right hands above their heads. the domine could gie us the word, and if after it there is man or woman with baith hands down, peter brodie will be asking the reason why." this speech was received with acclamation, and when the tumult had subsided, the domine called for the silent vote of approval, that had ratified their immortal compact with their kirk. he described in picturesque words that wonderful scene in the greyfriars' kirkyard, when sixty thousand right hands rose as promptly as one hand for the true religion, and he told them that after the kirk, their first duty was the school. then he stood still a moment, and there was a profound silence. after it came the word: "stand!" men and women rose as by one impulse. "those who are in favor of a school in culraine, and grateful to god and man for it, let them lift up their right hands above their heads." every right hand was lifted. there was not a protesting hand, and peter brodie observed that if there had been one, it ought to be cut off, and cast into the fire, with a' the lave o' useless members. the meeting was then practically over, but many remained. the room was warm and lighted, and it seemed unreasonable not to have a song and story, and dance out of it. christine was entreated to remain, but she said her mither wasna feeling well, and she be to gae hame wi' her. in truth she was much depressed because angus had not come with his uncle. she did not like to ask why, and her heart was full of unhappy surmises. but she put the trouble aside while with her mother, and gave herself willingly to the discussion of peter brodie's ill-bred and forwardsome behavior. "i perfectly thought shame of his interference," said margot. "mercifully he spoke some kind o' scotch, for i hae heard him--special when he was angry--rave in his native gaelic, and then he got his ain way, for nae decent man or woman could answer his unpronounceable words. they were just a vain babblement." "jean pollok was a' for the school tonight; this morning she was raving against it." "that was to be looked for. there is as much two-facedness in some women, as there's meat in an egg." "but for all disputing, mither, everyone seemed to think the school would be a good thing." "it is this, and that, and what not, and how it will end nobody knows. some folks are ill to please, even when they get their ain way." "you could hardly make mary leslie keep her sitting. she wanted to stand up, and ask the domine how she was to cook and wash and clean and sew and nurse her baby, without the help o' her girls, jess and flora. she said there was eleven in her family, and she wanted to know how it was to be managed. it was hard to keep her still." "it was vera barefaced o' her. but she put up her hand wi' the rest." "ay, mither. she was feared for peter brodie quarreling with her man. that's peter's way o' managing women; he mak's their husbands responsible for a' they say, and do; he says, 'the husbands ought to hae brought up their wives better.' he has done it, you know, mither, several times." margot laughed. "ay," she said, "for tamson's wife. naebody blamed him. anne tamson has a parfectly unruly tongue, and her husband, watty, got the licking for what she said anent frazer and his wife. i wouldna fear the man mysel', and the maist o' our women could gie him as much--and mair--than he sends." so they talked until the cottage was reached, and the day was over. christine went gladly to her room. a crusie was burning on the table, and she removed her gown and uncoiled her long, brown hair. then all was still, and she let herself think, and her decision was, "if angus had wanted to come, he would have done so. "it isna my place," she continued, "to tak' care on the subject. i'll no mak' mysel' and ithers miserable anent him, forbye angus ballister is clear outside me, and my life." then she rose and took a large copy book from a drawer, and sitting down at the table, took pen and ink and wrote: november second. i was a little troubled all day about angus. he didna come, and he didna send, and there was neither sign nor sight o' him. weel, my warld went on wanting the lad, and the school talk filled the day, and at night i went wi' mither to the meeting about it. from this hour i begin to forget angus. i will ask god to keep my heart from all love's care and sorrow. then she put the book away, turned out the light and lay down. but the old mysterious, hungering sound of the sea had an angry sough in it; and she went to sleep fearing it, and thinking of it as a deep starless darkness, hanging over the dreamlike figures of dead sailors and fishers. at midnight she awoke, the storm her father had predicted was roaring over the great waters. she went to her little window and looked out--darkness, wildness, desolation--and she hasted and put plenty of peats on the fire, and carried her mother an extra quilt. "i hae made up the fire, mither dear," she said, "and if ye want to get up, you'll be warm, and i'll come and sit by you." "will i waken your feyther?" "whatna for? there's naething to fear. norman and eneas are doubtless at hame. most o' our men are. few would start after the dance. they would see the storm coming." "will it be a bad storm?" "i think it will. but the sea is his, and he made it. if there is a storm he is guiding it. ye ken how often we sing 'he plants his footsteps on the sea, and rides upon the storm.'" and so, sweet-eyed and fearless, she went away, but left peace and blessing behind her. in the living room, she laid more peats on the fire. then she went to her own room. some words had been singing in her heart as she moved about, and she took the big copy book out of the drawer, and stooping to the crusie burning on the table, she wrote them down: the night is black, the winds are wild, the waves are taking their own will, dear jesus, sleeping like a child, awake! and bid the storm be still. she read the words over with a smile. "they might be worse," she thought, "but christine! you hae been writing poetry. you'll hae to stop that nonsense! weel, it wasna my fault. it came o' itsel', and i dinna feel as if i had done anything much out o' the way--and i was maist asleep, if that is ony kind o' an excuse. i----" chapter vi a child, two lovers, and a wedding because i am, thy clay that weeps, thy dust that cares, contract my hour that i may climb and find relief. love, thou knowest, is full of jealousy. love's reasons are without reason. the summer had been full of interest and excitement, but it was over. there was the infallible sense of ended summer, even at noonday; and the dahlias and hollyhocks, dripping in the morning mist, seemed to be weeping for it. if it had been clear cold weather, the fishers would have been busy and happy, but it was gloomy, with black skies over the black sea, and bitter north winds that lashed the waves into fury. the open boats hardly dared to venture out, and the fish lay low, and were shy of bait. james ruleson, generally accompanied by cluny macpherson, was out every day that a boat could live on the sea, and margot and christine often stood together at their door or window, and watched them with anxious hearts, casting their lines in the lonely, leaden-colored sea. the boat would be one minute on the ridge of the billow, the next minute in the trough of the sea, with a wall of water on either hand of them. and through all, and over all, the plaintive pipe of the gulls and snipe, the creaking of the boat's cordage, the boom of the breakers on the shore, the sense and the presence of danger. and christine knew that cluny was in that danger for her sake. he had told her on the day after the storm, as she sat sympathetically by his side, that he was only waiting for her "yes or no." he said when she gave him either one or the other, he would go to the henderson steamboats, in one case to work for their future happiness and home, in the other to get beyond the power of her beauty, so that he might forget her. forget her! those two words kept christine uncertain and unhappy. she could not bear to think of cluny's forgetting her. cluny had been part of all her nineteen years of life. why must men be so one or the other? she asked fretfully. why force her to an uncertain decision? why was she so uncertain? then she boldly faced the question and asked herself--"is angus ballister the reason?" perhaps so, though she was equally uncertain about angus. she feared the almost insurmountable difficulties between them. caste, family, social usage and tradition, physical deficiencies in education and in all the incidentals of polite life, not to speak of what many would consider the greatest of all shortcomings, her poverty. how could two lives so dissimilar as angus ballister's and christine ruleson's become one? she asked her mother this question one day, and margot stopped beating her oat cakes and answered, "weel, there's a' kinds o' men, christine, and i'll no say it is a thing impossible; but i hae come to the conclusion that in the case o' angus and yoursel' you wouldna compluter if you lived together a' the rest o' this life." "why, mither?" "because you are--the baity o' you--so weel satisfied wi' your present mak' up. that's a'. and it is a' that is needfu' to keep you baith from going forwarder. there's a lump a' rank cowardice in it, too." "mother, do you think i am a coward?" "all women are frightened by what is said o' them, or even likely to be said o' them. and nae wonder. women are far harder judged than men are. you would think the ten commands were not made for men. yet if a woman breaks one o' them, god's sake! what a sinner she is!" "i don't see what you are meaning, mither." "it's plain enou'. men are not set down below notice, if they break the twa first a' their lives lang, if so be they pay their deficit to god in gold to the kirk. how many men do you know, christine, who never break the third command? how many men honor the fourth? as to the fifth, scots are maistly ready to tak' care o' their ain folk. the sixth, seventh and eighth belong to the criminal class, and ye'll allow its maistly made up o' bad men. concerning the ninth command, men are warse than women, but men call their ill-natured talk politics, or het'rodoxy, or some ither grand name; and i'll allow that as soon as they begin to covet their neighbor's house and wife and horses and cattle, they set to wark, and mak' money and build a bigger house than he hes, and get a bonnier wife, and finer-blooded horses and cattle--and i'm not saying whether they do well or ill--there is sae much depending on the outcome o' prosperity o' that kind. but tak' men as a whole, they leave the ten commands on the shoulders o' their wives." "and do the women obey them, mither?" "middling well. they do love god, and they do go to kirk. they don't swear, and as a general thing they honor their fathers and mothers. they don't, as a rule, murder or steal or tak' some ither woman's husband awa' from her. i'm no clear about women and the ninth and tenth command. they are apt to long for whatever is good and beautiful--and i don't blame them." "i wish i was better educated, mother. i would be able to decide between angus and cluny." "not you. the key of your life is in your heart, not in your brain." "it is a pity." "that is, as may be. in the long run, your feelings will decide, and they are likely to be mair sensible than your reasons. and where love is the because o' your inquiry, i'll warrant a bit o' good sense is best o' all advisers." "what is gude sense? how can a girl get it?" "gude sense is the outcome o' all our senses. as regards ballister, ca' to your decision a bit o' wholesome pride. ye ken what i mean." "weel, weel, angus is far awa', and cluny is only waiting the word i canna say, and what will i do when i hae nae lover at a', at a'?" "when you haven't what you love, you must love what you hae. and i fear there is a heart fu' o' cares ready for us to sort. geordie sinclair was telling your father that neil is flinging a big net i' aberdeen--dining wi' rich folk o' all kinds, and rinning as close friend wi' a lad ca'ed rath. he was saying, also, that rath has lying siller, plenty, o' it, and that he is studying law in the same classes as neil, at the maraschal." "i dinna see why we should fret oursel's anent neil dining wi' rich folk. he was aye talkin' o' his intention to do the same. the mair rich friends he has, the better; it isna puir folk that go to law. neil is casting his net vera prudently, nae doubt. i'll warrant it will be takin' for him even while he sleeps. worry is just wasted on neil." "i'm thinking that way mysel', but feyther is feared he will be spending money he shouldna spend." "he is lawyer enou' to ken the outcome o' that way. neil will be on the safe side--every day, and always! there's nae need to fash oursel's anent neil!" "weel then, your feyther is sairly heart-hurt anent allan's youngest laddie. last new year when he went to glasgow to see allan, he thought things were far wrang, and he has worried himsel' on the matter ever since. it is a dreadful thing to say, but the bairn is vera delicate, and his mother isna kind to him. she is a big strong woman, ne'er sick hersel', and without feeling for a bairn that is never well, and often vera sick. feyther said his heart was sair for the little fellow, lyin' wakefu' lang nights wi' pain and fear, and naebody in the house carin'. yesterday feyther hed a letter frae your brither allan, and he was fu' o' grief, and begging feyther to go and see the bairn, and if possible tak' him to culraine, and try if we could do anything to help him to health and happiness." "will she let feyther hae him?" "she's as uncertain as the wind, but the lad is named james after his grandfeyther, and he'll ask for him, on that plea." "o mither, get feyther to go at once! i'll tak' a' the trouble o' the child! only to think o' it! only to think o' it! a mither no carin' for her suffering child!" "she doesna ken what suffering is, hersel'. she ne'er tak's cold and she doesna see why ither folks should. she is never fearsome, or nervous, she never feels the dark to be full o' what terrifies her vera soul, and she canna understand her bairn's terror. she treats him vera much as she treats his brithers, but they are big, rugged lads, that naething hurts or frights. all right for them, but she is slowly killin' little james, and you couldna mak' her see it." "feyther ought not to lose an hour." "he'll hae to be vera cautious i' the matter. allan's wife isna easily managed. proud and strong in her health and youth, she is fairly scounfu' o' the weak and sick, but i think your feyther can manage her. i'll get him awa' tomorrow, if so be it's possible." then there was such pressure of the two women brought to bear upon the grandfather's heart, that he was eager for the morning to come, and before it was yet light he was away to the town, to catch the earliest train to edinburgh, from which place he could get quick transit to glasgow. "now, mither, we hae done a' we can, at the present, for allan's little lad," said christine. "do you think feyther will write to us?" "i'm sure he will not. he wad rayther do a hard day's work than write a letter. what are you going to do wi' your day, dearie?" "i am going to write to neil." "do. you might remind him that his feyther and mither are yet living in culraine." "that news isna worth while. if he wants to write, he'll write. if he doesna want to write, we arena begging letters. i'm thinking mair o' little james than i am o' neil. you dinna like his mither, i'm thinking?" "you're thinking right. allan picked her up in some unkent place, and when a man lives between sailing and docking, he hasna time to ken what he's doing. forbye, christine, new relations dinna get into their place easy. they mind me o' that new dress my sister sent me frae liverpool. it wanted a lot o' taking-in, and o' letting-out. it's just that way wi' new relations. allan's wife required plentiful taking-in, and the mair letting-out there was, the mair unfittable she became." then margot rubbed the end of her nose with an air of scorn, and said decidedly, "she wasna a comprehensible woman. i couldna be fashed wi' her. it isna the bringing o' bairns to the birth, that hurts the heart and spoils the life o' a mither, it's the way lads and lasses marry themsel's that mak's her wish she had neither lad nor lass to her name." "mither, that isna like you." "allan was just twenty-three when he married the woman, without word or wittens to any o' us. it was a bad day's wark, and he hes never been able to mend it. for there's nae takin'-in or lettin'-out wi' his wife. she is sure she is parfect, and what will you do, what can you do, wi' a parfect woman? i hope and pray that i'll never fall into that state; parfection isna suitable for this warld." "it ought to be a grand virtue, mither." "it's the warst o' all the vices. we hae three or four specimens o' it in the village o' culraine, and they are the maist unenlightened people we hae to tak' care o'. but when parfection is born o' ignorance, it is unconquerable. the domine said sae, and that only god could manage a parfect man or woman." "when little james comes, wouldn't it be well to hae the domine look him over? he can tell us what's the matter wi' the laddie, and what we ought to do for him." "that is a sensible observe, christine. there will be nae harm in doing what it calls for." "now i'll awa', and write to neil. hae ye ony special message for him, mither?" "you might say i would like to ken something anent thae raths. they arena fifemen, nor shetlanders, highland scots, nor lowland scots; and i'm thinking they may be irish, and if sae, i'm hopin' they hae the true faith." "mither dear, i wouldna fash wi' the raths. they are simply naething to us, and if we set neil on 'praising and proving,' he'll write pages anent them." "sae he will. you might name the ninety pound he's owing you." "it wouldna be advisable. neil will pay when it's fully convenient to himsel'. i'm not expecting a farthing until it is sae." "i can think o' nae ither thing. it seems vera superfluous to tell neil to be good, and to do good. he has the gift o' admiring himsel'. tell him he can be thankful, for it isna every man that has the same capability." "i'll read you my letter, mither, when i hae written it." "you'd better not. you'll say lots i wouldna say, and naething i would say, and the amends and contradictions would require another letter o' explanations. i'm going to look through my ain lads' outgrown breeks and jackets. i'll warrant wee james will come to us next door to naked." "i didna know that you had saved the lads' auld claes." "did you think i wad throw them awa'? all our lads grew quick, they ne'er wore out a suit, and i put their wee breeks and coaties awa'. i thought they might come in for their ain bairns, and lo and behold! allan's little lad is, like as not, to come into his feyther's sunday raiment." "did you save their shirts and such like?" "why wouldn't i? but vera few linen things are left. they were too easy to wear and tear, to be long-lived, but i fancy i can find a sleeping gown for the bairn, and maybe a shirt or twa. but stockings are beyond mention. they got them into unmendable holes, and left them in the boats, or the fish sheds, and i fairly wore my knitting needles awa' knitting for lads wha wouldna use their feet ony way but skin-bare." so the grandmother went to find what clothes she could for a little lad of eight years old, and christine sat down to answer neil's last letter. to herself she called it an "overflowing screed." indeed it was full of the great reginald rath, his fine family, his comfortable wealth, his sister, roberta, and her highly respectable house in the monteith row o'erby the green of glasgow city. christine told him in reply that she was glad he had found a friend so conformable to all his wishes. she asked him if he had heard lately from angus ballister, and casually mentioned that the domine had received ten days ago a letter from the colonel about the school building, and that angus had sent her some bonnie pictures of the city of rome. she also informed him that his nephew was coming to culraine, and that she herself was going to take the charge of him, and so might not have time to write as often as she had done. in the afternoon faith came from the village to help with the nets a-mending, and she brought the village gossip with her, and among the news of all kinds, the date of her own marriage. she was going to wed the largo man on christmas day, and she had forgotten her loneliness and melancholy, and laughed and joked pleasantly, as she went over her plans with christine. margot watched her, and listened to her with great interest, and when at sunset the lassie went down the hill, she said to christine: "wonders never cease. faith balcarry was moping melancholy, she is now as merry as a cricket. she was sick and going to die, she's now well and going to marry. she had nane to love her, and nane she loved. her whole talk now is o' the largo man, and the wonderfu' love he has for her, and the untelling love she has for him. weel! weel! i hae learned ane thing this afternoon." "what hae you learned, mither?" "i hae learned, that when a lass is dying wi' a sair affliction, that there is parfect salvation in a lad." it was the evening of the third day ere james ruleson returned home. he had met no difficulties with mrs. allan ruleson that were not easily removed by the gift of a sovereign. and he found the little lad quietly but anxiously waiting for him. "my feyther whispered to me that you would come," he said softly, as he snuggled into james' capacious breast. "i was watching for you, i thought i could hear your footsteps, after twelve o'clock today they were coming nearer, and nearer--when you chappit at the door, i knew it was you--grandfeyther!" and james held the child tighter and closer in his arms, and softly stroked the white, thin face that was pressed against his heart. "i'm going to tak' you hame to your grandmither, and your aunt christine," james whispered to the boy. "you are going to get well and strong, and big, and learn how to read and write and play, yoursel', like ither bairns." "how soon? how soon?" "tomorrow." "i thought god didna know about me. such long, long days and nights." "you puir little lad! god knew all the time. it is o'er by now." "will it come again?" "never! never again!" the next day they left glasgow about the noon hour. the child had no clothing but an old suit of his elder brother, and it was cold winter weather. but james made no remark, until he had the boy in the train for edinburgh. then he comforted him with all the kind words he could say, and after a good supper, they both went early to bed in a small edinburgh hostelry. in the morning, soon after nine o'clock, james took his grandson to a ready-made tailor's shop, and there he clothed him from head to feet in a blue cloth suit. from the little white shirt to the little blue cloth cap on his long fair hair, everything was fit and good, and the child looked as if he had been touched by a miracle. he was now a beautiful boy, spiritually frail and fair, almost angelic. ruleson looked at him, then he looked at the pile of ragged clothes that had fallen from his little shrunken form, and he kicked them with his big feet to the other end of the shop. a thick, warm overcoat, and new shoes and stockings, were added to the outfit, and then they were ready for their home train. as they walked slowly down prina's street, they met a regiment of highland soldiers, accompanied by a fine military band. the boy was enthralled, he could not speak his delight, but he looked into his grandfather's face with eyes painfully eloquent. it was evident that he had life to learn, not gradually, as the usual infant learns it; but that its good and evil would assail him through all his senses in their full force. and ruleson understood, partially, how abnormally large and important very trivial events might appear to him. soon after four o'clock they arrived at their destination, and found a train omnibus about to go their way. ruleson lifted his grandson into it, and the vehicle set them down at the foot of his own hill; then he carried the boy up to the cottage in his arms. the door was closed, but there was the shining of fire and candlelight through the windows. yet their arrival was unnoticed, until ruleson entered and stood the little child in the middle of the room. with a cry of welcome margot and christine rose. ruleson pointed to the child standing in their midst. the next moment christine was removing his coat and cap, and when margot turned to him, his beauty and the pathos of his thin, white face went straight to her heart. she took him in her arms and said, "bonnie wee laddie, do ye ken that i am your grandmither?" "ay, grandmither," he answered, "i ken. and i hae a grandfeyther too. i am vera happy. dinna send me awa', for ony sake." then the women set him in a big chair, and admired and loved him from head to feet--his fair hair, his wonderful eyes, his little hands so white and thin--his wee feet in their neat, well-fitting shoes--his dress so good and so becoming--this new bairn of theirs was altogether an unusual one in culraine. ruleson quickly made himself comfortable in his usual house dress. christine began to set the table for their evening meal, and margot buttered the hot scones and infused the tea. this meal had a certain air of festivity about it, and the guest of honor was the little child sitting at ruleson's right hand. they had scarcely begun the meal, when there was a knock at the door, and to margot's cheerful "come in, friend," dr. trenabie entered. "blessing on this house!" he said reverently, and then he walked straight to the child, and looked earnestly into his face. the boy looked steadily back at him, and as he did so he smiled, and held up his arms. then the domine stooped and kissed him, and the thin, weak arms clasped him round the neck. it was a tender, silent moment. the man's eyes were misty with tears, and his voice had a new tone in it as he said, "ruleson, this little lad is mine, as well as yours. i have been spoken to. through him we shall all be greatly blessed, and we shall yet see a grand preacher come out of the boats and the fisherman's cottage." there was a few moments' silence, and then margot said, "take your sitting, sir, and a cup o' tea will do you mair gude than doing without it." "i'll sit down gladly." then they talked of the child's extreme weakness and nervousness, and the domine said that with plenty of fresh milk, and fresh fish, and with all the fresh air he could breathe, and all the sleep he could shut his eyes for, the little one would soon be well. "then christine," he said, "must give him his first lessons. after they have been learned, it will be joy of magnus trenabie to see him safe through school and college. give me so much interest in the boy, ruleson, for he is called and chosen, and we have in our hands the making of a man of god." later in the evening, when the school affairs had been discussed and the boy and christine had disappeared, the domine was told the few sad incidents which made up the whole life of little james ruleson. there was a strong tendency on his grandfather's part to make excuses for the mother of the neglected boy. "you see, domine," he said, "she has never been sick, and her ither children are as rugged as hersel'. she couldna understand james. she didna ken what to do wi' him, or for him." "i know, ruleson, but physical pride is as real a sin as spiritual pride, and is the cause of much suffering and unhappiness. my own father was one of those bronze men, who thought weakness to be cowardice, and sickness to be mostly imagination. his children were all weak and sensitive, but he insisted on our roughing it. fagging and hazing were good for us, he enjoyed them. bodily strain and mental cram were healthy hardening processes. i had a little sister, she was weak and fearful, he insisted on her taking the cold water cure. nerves were all nonsense! 'look at me!' he would say proudly, 'i get up early, i work all day, i know nothing about headaches, or neuralgia, or nerves'--in the world he passed for a genial, hearty man." "we hae plenty o' such unfeeling fellows," said ruleson. "i dinna fret, when they hae a hard spell o' rheumatism. not i!" "it is not mere flesh and blood, ruleson, that moves the earth on its axis. it is men whose intelligent brows wear the constant plait of tension, whose manner reveals a debility beneath which we know that suffering lurks, and who have an unconscious plaintiveness about them. such men have fits of languor, but let the occasion come and they command their intellect and their hands just as easily as a workman commands his tools. the mother of this boy of ours was a physical tyrant in her home, and she never suspected that she had under her control and keeping a spirit touched and prepared for the finest issues of life. oh, ruleson, "sad it is to be weak, and sadder to be wrong, but if the strong god's statutes break, 'tis saddest to be strong." the child became rapidly an integral part of the household. no one thought of him as a transient guest, no one wanted him in that light, and he unconsciously made many changes. margot often spoke to christine of them: "were you noticing your feyther this afternoon, christine?" she asked one day, when little james had been two weeks with them. "were you noticing him?" "how, mither, or whatna for?" "weel, as soon as he was inside the house, the laddie had his hand, and when he sat down he was on his knee, and showing him the book, and saying his letters to him--without missing ane o' them, and granddad listening, and praising him, and telling him it was wonderfu', an' the like o' that." "weel, then, it is wonderfu'! he learns as if he was supping new milk. he'll be ready for the school when the school is ready for him. and he's nae trouble in ony way. the house would be gey dull wanting him." "that's truth itsel'. i like to hear his soft footsteps, and i would miss his crooning voice going o'er his lessons. you mustna gie him too lang, or too many lessons. i hae heard learning tasks were bad for sickly weans." "perhaps that was the cause o' his mither neglecting him anent his books, and such things?" "not it! his mither is a lazy, unfeeling hizzy! i'd like to hae the sorting o' her--fine!" "maybe he was too sick to be bothered wi' books and lessons." "maybe he wad niver hae been sick at a', if he had been gi'en a few books and lessons. griselda ruleson had better keep out o' my presence. if she ventures into it, the words arena to seek, that i'll gie her." one cold afternoon christine was hearing the boy's lessons when cluny macpherson called. he looked annoyed at the child's presence and said, "i saw your mither in the village, sae i thought i wad hae a chance to speak a few words to you, wi' nane by, but oursel's." "you needna mind wee james." "send him awa'. i want you, and nane but you." james was sent away, and then christine said, "you hae got your will, cluny. now what hae you to say to me, that the little one couldna listen to?" "i want to know, christine, when you will marry me. i hae been waiting months for that word, and i can wait nae langer. i'm goin' awa' tomorrow." "your waiting isna over, cluny. indeed no! i'm not thinking o' marriage, nor o' anything like it. i canna think o' it. mither isna fit for any hard wark, even the making o' a bed is mair than she ought to do. i'm not thinking o' marriage. not i!" "it is time you were. maist o' our girls marry when they are nineteen years auld." "i'm not nineteen yet. i don't want to marry. i hae my wark and my duty right here, i' this house--wark that god has set me, and i'll not desert it for wark i set mysel', to please mysel'." "that's the way wi' women. they bring up god and their duty to screen their neglect o' duty. hae ye nae duty towards me?" "not that i know of." "will you let a lad gie ye his life-lang love, and feel nae duty anent it?" "i dinna ask you for your love. i hae told you, mair than once, that i dinna want any man's love." "tuts! that is out o' all nature and custom. ye be to marry some man." "i havna seen the man yet." "i'm thinking it will be angus ballister. i'll mak' him black and blue from head to foot, if he comes near culraine again." "you talk foolishness. the ballisters own twenty houses or mair, in culraine." "houses! twa rooms, a but and a ben, and a heather roof. what are they bothering us the now for? they hae let culraine well alane for years--it is only sin' you and your beauty cam' to the forefront, that they hae remembered us. the factor, to gather their rents, was a' we saw o' them, till your brither brought that dandified lad here, and then the auld man had to come--on the report o' your beauty, nae doubt." there was a fishing net which required mending, hanging against the wall, and christine, standing in front of it, went on weaving the broken meshes together. she did not answer the jealous, impetuous young man, and all at once he became conscious of her silence. "why don't you speak to me, christine? oh lassie, canna you pity a lad sae miserable as i am, and a' for the love i hae for you. i'm sorry! i'm sorry! i'm broken-hearted, if i hae angered you! my dear! my dear love! will ye na speak ane word to me?" then she turned to him a face full of pity and anger, yet strangely beautiful. "cluny," she said, "i'll talk to you, if you'll speak o' yoursel' and let be a' ither folk." "how can i? i'm sick wi' the fear that you love, that you intend to marry ballister. tell me straight, and be done wi' it, if that is what you intend to do." "you havna any right to ask me such a question. i never gave you any right to do sae." "you hae let me love ye wi' a' my heart and soul for fifteen years. is that naething?" "ithers hae loved me, as weel as you." "they hev not. nane on this earth lo'es you as i lo'e you. nane!" the man was beyond himself in uttering these words. it was a cluny transfigured by a great love. the loftier inner man spoke for his mortal brother, and christine looked at him and was astonished. he appeared to be taller, he was wonderfully handsome, his attitude of entreaty in some way ennobled him, and his voice had a strange tone of winning command in it, as he stretched out his arms and said: "come to me, christine. i love you so! i love you so! you cannot say me 'nay' this afternoon. it is perhaps the last time. my dearie, i am going away tomorrow--it might be forever." "cluny! cluny! you distress me! what do you wish me to say, or do?" "tell me the truth about ballister. are you going to marry him?" "i am not." "perhaps not this year--but next year?" "i am never going to marry him in any year." "will you marry cluny macpherson?" "it is not unlikely." "when? be merciful, dearie." "there are several things in the way o' my marrying anyone just yet." "ay, there's that new bairn i' the house. whatna for is he here?" "he is my brither allan's son. he is sick, we are going to mak' him weel." "ay, and you'll wear a' your love on the little brat, and send a man that lo'es you to death awa' hungry." "cluny, i love no man better than i love you. will not that satisfy you?" "na. it's a mouthfu', that's a'. and it leaves me hungrier than ever;" and he smiled and clasped her hands so fondly, that she sat down beside him, and let him draw her close to his heart. "dearest woman on earth," he whispered, "when will you be my ain? my very ain! my wife!" "when the right time comes, laddie. i love none better than you. i'm not likely to love anyone better. when the right time comes----" "what do you ca' the right time?" "when i can marry without neglecting any duty that god has left in my hands to perform, or look after. i canna say mair. there are many things to consider. mither could not be left yet, and i am not going to leave her for any man--and i hae promised to tak' a' the care and charge o' allan's little lad, but it's mither i am thinking mainly on." "how soon will she be well?" "in god's good time." "christine, surely i hae trysted you this very hour. give me ane, just ane kiss, dearie. i'll get through years, if need be, wi' a kiss and a promise, and work will be easy to do, and siller be easy to save, if christine be at the end o' them." then he kissed her, and christine did not deny him, but when he took from his vest pocket a pretty gold ring holding an emerald stone, she shook her head. "it's your birthstone, dearie," he said, "and it will guard you, and bring you luck, and, mind you o' me beside. tak' it, frae cluny, do!" "na, na, cluny! i hae often heard my mither say, 'i hae plenty now, but the first thing i owned was my wedding ring.'" "i thought it would mind you o' cluny, and the promise ye hae just made him." "if i mak' a promise, cluny, i'll be requiring no reminder o' the same." "will you gie me a lock o' your bonnie brown hair, to wear next my heart?" "i'll hae no charms made out o' my hair. tak' my word, just as i gave it. as far as i know, i'll stand by my word, when the right time comes." "if you would just say a word anent the time. i mean as to the probabilities." "i won't. i can't, cluny. i havna the ordering o' events. you'll be back and forth doubtless. where are you going?" "to the mediterranean service, on ane o' the henderson boats. i'll be making siller on thae boats." "dinna mak' it for me. it is you, your ain sel' i'll marry, and i wouldna mind if we started wi' the wedding ring, as mither did. folks may happen live on love, but they canna live without it." "i would hae chosen you, christine, from out o' a warld fu' o' women, but i like to think o' you as mine by predestination, as well as choice." "i didna think your calvinism went that far, cluny. they'll be haeing a kirk session on your views, if you publicly say the like. ye be to ta' care o' the elders, laddie." they could talk now cheerfully and hopefully, and cluny went away from christine that night like a new man, for there is no pleasure like the pain of being loved, and loving. then every day seemed to be happier than the last. the child was sunshine in the house, whatever the weather might be. his thin, soft voice, his light step, above all, his shy little laugh, went to their hearts like music. he had only learned to laugh since he came to culraine. margot remembered the first time she had heard him laugh. she said he had been almost afraid, and that he had looked inquiringly into her face, as if he had done something he should not have done. so the weeks and the months wore away, and the winter came, but the weather was sunny and not very cold, and in early december ruleson wrapped his grandson up in one of his own pilot coats, and took him to the boat, and carried him to the fishing ground, and showed him how to cast and draw the line. and jamie took naturally to the sea, and loved it, and won ruleson's heart over again, whenever he begged to go with him. then christmas and new year were approaching, and there were many other pleasures and interests. faith's marriage was drawing near, and she was frequently at ruleson's, for the girl relied on christine's help and advice in all matters concerning the new life to which she was going. this year also, christmas was made memorable by a box full of gifts which came all the way from rome, with the compliments and good will of the ballisters and which contained many remembrances for the villagers. for ruleson himself there was a fine barometer, to margot a brooch and earrings of white cameo, and to christine some lovely lace, and a set of scarlet coral combs, beads, and earrings. to christine's care there was also intrusted a box full of roman ribbons, scarves, and neckties, their wonderful hues making them specially welcome gifts to people so fond of brilliant colors. from these gay treasures a scarf and sash were selected for the bride, and the rest were sent on christmas eve to the young girls of the village. many other pretty trifles were among the gifts--fans and sets of roman pearls, and laces for the neck and head, and pretty veils, and fancy handkerchiefs, and in a long letter angus directed christine to do her will with all he sent. he only wished to repay to the village the happy hours he had spent in it the past summer. this letter was not lover-like, but it was friendly, and sad. he said so much might have been, and yet nothing he longed for had happened. he recalled tender little episodes, and declared they were the only memories he valued. the whole tone of the letter was the tone of a disappointed and hopeless man, to whom life had lost all its salt and savor. christine read it carefully. she was determined not to deceive herself, and in a wakeful watch of the night, she went over it, and understood. "there isna ony truth in it," she said to herself, "and i needna gie a thought to the lad's fine words. he is writing anent a made-up sorrow. i'll warrant he is the gayest o' the gay, and that the memory o' christine is a little bit o' weariness to him. weel, he has gi'en what he could buy--that's his way, and he will mak' in his way a deal o' pleasure among the young lasses." and the next day the bits of brilliant silk were sorted and assigned, and then sent to the parties chosen, with the ballister compliments. the affair made quite a stir in the cottages, and angus would have been quite satisfied, if he could have heard the many complimentary things that the prettiest girls in culraine said of him. two days before christmas day, neil made his family a short visit. he was looking very well, was handsomely dressed, and had all the appearance and air of a man thoroughly satisfied with himself and his prospects. he only stayed a short afternoon, for his friend reginald was waiting for him at the hotel, and he made a great deal of his friend reginald. "you should hae brought him along wi' you," said margot, and neil looked at christine and answered--"i lost one friend, with bringing him here, and i am not a man who requires two lessons on any subject." "your friend had naething but kindness here, neil," answered christine, "and he isna o' your opinion." and then she told him of the christmas presents sent from rome. "exactly so! that is what i complain of. all these gifts to you and the villagers, were really taken from me. i have not been remembered. last christmas i was first of all. a woman between two men always makes loss and trouble. i ought to have known that." "weel, neil," said margot, "there's other kindnesses you can think o'er." "i have not had a single new year's gift this year--yet. i suppose reginald will not forget me. i have my little offering to him ready;" and he took a small box from his pocket, and showed them a rather pretty pair of sleeve buttons. "yes, they are pretty," he commented, "rather more than i could afford, but reginald will return the compliment. i dare say it will be the only one i shall receive." "you ought not to forget, neil," said margot, in a not very amiable tone, "you ought to remember, that you had your new year's gifts at midsummer." "oh, i never forget that! i could not, if i would," he answered with an air of injury, and christine to avert open disagreement, asked, "where will you stay in glasgow, neil?" "i shall stay with reginald, at his sister's house. she lives in highly respectable style, at number twelve, monteith row. the row is a fine row o' stone houses, facing the famous glasgow green, and the clyde river. she is a great beauty, and i expect to be the honored guest of the occasion." "will you hae time to hunt up your brithers in glasgow? some o' them will nae doubt be in port, and you might call at allan's house, and tell them that little jamie is doing fine." "i do not expect i shall have a moment to spare. if i have, i will make inquiries. i think, however, miss rath is going to make rather a gay time in my honor, and i shall feel obligated to observe all its occasions." "how old is miss rath?" asked christine. "i have never asked her age. i suppose she is over twenty, as she controls her own property." "happen you may lose your heart to her." "o! i am not a man to lose anything so important." "weel, weel, you're nae wiser than the lave o' men, neil." "i think i am, christine. at least, i have that reputation." "will you hae a cup o' tea, neil?" it was christine who asked him, and he answered, "no. i had just finished a good lunch, when i came here, and reginald said he should wait dinner for me. he orders very liberally, i must say," and he took out a new gold watch, and looked at the time. his mother saw it at once, and glanced at christine, who instantly followed an exclamation of wonder, by asking, "whoever gave ye the bonnie timepiece, neil?" "i gave it to myself, christine. i have been coaching reginald, and two or three other students, and it's rather a paying business. i shall do a great deal in that way after the new year. well, i think i must be going." "your feyther will be hame within an hour. he'll hae our wonderfu' bairn wi' him. you will surely stay and see them." "you mean allan's son?" "ay," answered christine, "he's a beauty, and he is sae clever, we'll be needing a school, and the set o' teachers in it, to keep the lad within the proper scope o' knowledge. he's a maist remarkable boy!" "i used to fill that position," said neil. "not you," said margot. "you were a puir weakling, every way. it took everyone's love and labor to bring you through. i'm not sure now, if you were worth it. it was scrimp and toil through long years for a' the rulesons." "i am not ungrateful, mother, and i shall no doubt win a high degree." "we hae nae doubt you will, neil. dinna go as soon as you come. feyther will be here anon." "i cannot keep reginald waiting. i will try and see father as i return." so he went, and mother and sister looked at each other, and were silent. margot opened and shut a drawer in the dresser, pushed the chair in which neil had sat violently into its place, and then lifted a broom and flung it down with a force that is best explained by the word 'temper.' she felt unable to speak, and finally burst into passionate weeping, mingled with angry words. "oh, mither! mither! dinna tak' on that way. it's nae new thing. it's just what we expectit. you hae looked it in the face many a time. oh, i'm sae glad his feyther wasna here!" "his feyther ought to hae been here." "na! na! we dinna want feyther to think a' his love and labor was thrown awa'. it wad fairly break his heart. we must just keep the mistake to oursel's. we can forgie, and still lo'e the puir lad, but feyther wad go to extremes, both wi' neil and himsel'. we can thole his selfishness. we aye knew it was there. we hae held our tongues sae far. we must gae on being silent. i wouldna hae feyther know for onything. let him hae his dream, mither!" "my heart feels like to break, lassie." "mine too, mither. but we needna gie feyther a heart-break. we'll just keep the visit quiet." "your way be it, christine." _women do such things!_ at this moment ruleson's voice was heard. he was coming up the hill with jamie's hand in his own. "they'll be inside in a minute, mither--a smile frae you is worth gold now," and she stooped and kissed her mother. this unusual token of love and care went to margot's heart with a bound. "you dear lassie," she said. "i'll do as you say," and that moment she was called upon to make good her words. ruleson was at the hearthstone, and jamie was at her knees, telling her what a splendid time they had had, and how many big fish they had caught. "did you bring ane o' the haddocks hame with you, james?" she asked, and ruleson answered, "i found tamsen's boy at the pier, waiting to buy all my catch, and i thought ye wad hae something better for us." "there's naething better than a fresh haddock. you canna cook them wrang, if you try; but i'll find something good for good fishermen like you and jamie." and she spread the table with good things, and ruleson said softly, as if to himself--"thou satisfieth my mouth with good things, my cup runneth over." and christine and her mother had come very close to each other and margot had forgotten her heart-break in christine's kiss, and almost forgotten neil's visit. at any rate she was quite happy to hide it from her husband. "he's like a' men," she reflected, "he doesna spit oot his anger like i do, and be rid o' it. he buries it in his heart, and he buries it alive, and it doesna gie him a moment's peace. christine is right, and i'm glad i held my tongue, even frae good words." when all the ballister christmas presents had been distributed the new year's festival was at hand, and the village was all agog about faith's marriage. the arrangements had been slightly changed, and after all she was to be married from ruleson's house. early in the morning she came up there with her simple bride garments in a leather trap, which she carried in her hand. she wanted christine to dress her. she said, christine had brought her all her good fortune, and she be to send her away, and then good would go with her. so christine dressed the timid little woman, and really made her look lovely, and at ten o'clock her largo lover, called willie anderson, came there also. he had a couple of friends with him, and ruleson himself took the place of faith's father, and gave her his arm, as they all walked together, very doucely and religiously, to the domine's house. the domine had been advised of the visit, and the large bible lay open on the table. standing before it the young couple received the domine's charge, and then in the presence of their witnesses, pledged themselves to life-long love and devotion. the domine entered the contract in his kirk book, and the witnesses signed it. then the simple ceremony was over. the domine blessed the bride, and she turned with a blushing, happy face to her husband. "my ain! my wife!" he said, and gave her his arm, and christine with her father and anderson's two friends followed. all were very silent. the bride and bridegroom were too happy to talk, and their friends understood and sympathized with the feeling. the day was fine and clear, and the walk back to ruleson's was still and sweet, and in spite of its silence, very pleasant; and they had no sooner opened ruleson's door, than their senses were refreshed by the sight of the festal table, and the odor of delicious foods. for margot had made a wedding dinner after her own heart. one of her precious turkeys had been sacrificed, and there was that wealth of pudding and cakes and pastry which no man loves and appreciates more than the fisherman. it was an excellent dinner, well cooked, and well enjoyed, and happily prolonged with pleasant conversation, until christine reminded them they were probably keeping the crowd asked to the fishers' hall waiting. in a pleasant haste they left all in james' care, and went in a body to the hall. there was quite a large company there, very well employed in practicing the steps of a new strathspey, and others in exhibiting their special bits of splendor. the whole room was flashing with roman colors, and judith macpherson's protestantism was angered by it. she said with her usual striking eloquence, that, in her opinion, they were nothing but emblems of popery. they came frae rome. why not? if we had elders in the kirk, worth the name o' elders, they wad ca' a session anent such a shamefu' exhibition o' the pope's vera signs and symbols. indeed, she told ruleson that she would stand up in the kirk on the next sabbath day, if he, or someone, didna tak' the proper steps in the matter, and "i'll tell you, james ruleson, i'm minded to go my ways to the manse right now, and bring the domine himsel' here, to see the wicked testimonies." then the bridal dance began, and ruleson drew judith aside, and told her he would himself speak anent the colors, if she thought they were sinfu'. "sinfu'!" she screamed. "why ruleson, man, they come frae the pope, and thae men they ca' socialists. i hae heard tell o' the tricolor, and of a' the misery and sin that cam' frae it in france. isna france i' the pope's dominions?" "oh no, judith, they arena the same countries." "james ruleson, they may be different countries, but that tricolor sin is the same everywhere, even if it get into a godly place like culraine. you must put a stop to our lasses wearing the pope's colors, james ruleson. that's a fact!" james promised to do so. in reality he would have promised anything she asked, rather than have her go to the manse and disturb the domine. he was only too grateful to observe that the wearers of the sinful colors were not disturbed by judith's suspicions, and that the sailormen and fishermen were apparently most in love with the girls who wore the greatest quantity of the offensive emblems. at three o'clock the dance was over, the greetings were all said and willie anderson anxious to carry off his bride on the tide top. "the waters are fu' at four o'clock," he said to ruleson, "and i want to lift anchor and spread sails at the same moment. then we'll hae wind and tide wi' us, and we'll win hame on the tide top. that would be a lucky thing, you ken, ruleson." "the ways o' a good man are a' lucky, anderson, for they are ordered of the lord, but a man must hae his way on his wedding day--maybe he'll ne'er get it again!" so ruleson said a few words to the chattering groups, and they instantly formed into line. the violins went first, then the bride and bridegroom. then ruleson and margot, christine and her brother norman, and the rest as fancy led them in the selection of partners. willie anderson's brand-new boat lay at the pier, and he had rigged up a little gangway trimmed with ivy between it and the shore. every boat in harbor was flying its flag, except anderson's boat--she was waiting for the bride, but as soon as the crowd had settled itself, anderson went to the gangway, and a little lad waiting there for that purpose handed him a parcel. it contained the new flag for the new boat, and it was blue as the sea, and had three white words in its center, "mine and thine." and while cheering filled the air, willie wrapped it round his bride's slim form, and then lifting her in his strong arms, he leaped into the boat with her. in a few minutes the flag was flying at the masthead, the anchor lifted, and the _mine and thine_ began her home journeying. and as they watched her, the tide turned, the sails filled, and she danced out of harbor, for the tide ran with her, and she was timed to reach home on the tide top. chapter vii neil and a little child fearful commenting is leaden servitor to dull delay. how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child. neil did not find it convenient on his return northward, to call again at the home in culraine. his mother was disappointed, and fretted to christine about the neglect. his father was silent, but james ruleson's silence often said far more than words. when all hope of a call was over, christine wrote to her brother, telling him in plain words what desire and hope and disappointment had filled the two days previous to the re-commencement of the maraschal classes. neil, dear lad, you must know that mither was watching the road up the hill, for the past two or three days, and for the same time feyther didna go near the boats. he was watching the road likewise, for he didna want to miss you again. they were, both o' them, sairly disappointed, when you neither came, nor sent word as to what was keeping you from sae evident a duty. ye be to remember that mither isna as well as she should be; and you must not neglect her now, neil. you might ne'er be able to make it up to her in the future, if you do. i'm telling you, dear lad, for your ain heart's ease. yesterday morning, she put on a clean cap and apron and sat down by the fireside to knit, and watch and listen. by and by, the cat began to wash her face, and mither was weel pleased wi' the circumstance, for she said it was a sure sign company was coming. so she went often to the door, and watched and listened, but no company came, till sun down, when the domine called. mither was so disappointed she couldna steady her voice, her eyes were full o' angry tears, and she drove poor old sandy off the hearth, and into the cold, calling him a "lying prophet," and ither hard names, to which sandy is not accustomed. forbye, she hasna gi'en him a drop o' milk since. do write mither a long letter, full o' love and hope o' better days, and make some good excuses to her, for your neglect. christine can make them out o' her ain loving heart. christine. indeed, christine in this letter did small justice to margot's indignant disappointment, and now that hope was over, she made no pretense of hiding her wrong and her sorrow. the domine saw as soon as he entered the cottage, that margot was in great trouble, and he more than guessed the reason, for he had been called to the town very early in the day, to meet an old friend on his way to the maraschal college, where he filled a professor's chair in the medical department. passing with this friend down the high street, he had seen neil with roberta rath on his arm, examining leisurely the attractive shop windows, while reginald trailed at speaking distance behind them. he kept still further behind. he had no desire to interfere. neil had never sought his confidence, and he did not know--except through christine's partial remarks--what the young man's private hopes and plans might be. so he listened to margot's passionate complaints a little coldly, and she was quick to perceive it. "you canna understand, domine, what i suffer. ye hae never had an ungratefu' bairn. and i'm feeling for his feyther too--the dear auld man, he'll be clean heart-broken!" "no, no, margot! a good heart that trusts in god, never breaks. it has no cause to break." "it is eleven years, domine, we hae all o' us been keepin' oursel's poor, for neil's sake." "the last eleven years, margot, you have missed no good thing. god has been good to you, and to yours. i have seen! i have not forgotten!" "just a few kind words would hae paid for a' we hae pinched and wanted." "there has been neither pinch nor want in your home, margot." "ye don't ken a' things, sir. my man has worked harder than he ought to hae worked." "i think you may be mistaken, margot. james ruleson trusts in god. why should he overwork himself?" "to keep the roof o'er our heads, and find food for the bairns." "nay, nay, margot! prayer, and lawful work, keep the door safe, and the table spread." "oh domine! if you feel that your love is slighted--that the bairn you love mair than yoursel' lightlies ye; if you feel that he's 'shamed o' you!" and margot covered her face, and her words were lost in heart-breaking sobs. "margot, you must cease weeping. will it do you any good to kill yourself? what will you say to your maker in such case?" "i willna be feared to say all that is in my heart to him. he knows a mither's heart, and the griefs it tholes and carries. i canna expect you to know how love feels when it is scorned, and made little o'." "i know something of that same sorrow, margot. i gave the love of my life to one who scorned it. only god knew my sorrow, but he was sufficient for my comfort. there is only one way of conquering wrongs against love, margot." margot did not speak, and after a moment's pause, he asked, "do you want to know that way?" "no, sir. if it is your way, i'm no able to follow it." "suppose you try. you think your youngest son has treated you badly?" "ay, i'm sure o' it, and he's treated his feyther and his brothers badly, and his one sister worse than a'. how can folk forget injuries that tread love under feet? they canna do it." "they can. do you want to know how? do you want to know how i did it?" "i couldna walk in your shoon, sir. they're o'er big for me." "tell mither, sir. tell her, she'll maybe find it easier than she thinks; and maybe i could help her;" and christine went and stood by her mother's chair, and drew her mother's head close to her breast, and kissed her softly, as she whispered, "ask the domine what to do wi' wrangs ye canna bear, and canna pay back?" "that's the sair part, sir. christine has touched the raw. if any man or woman in the village scorns or wrangs me, i can gie them as gude as they send--words or blows--and i wad do it! yes, i would!" "have you given up your kirk membership, margot?" "no, sir, i hae done naething yet, requiring me to do sae; but it's hard saying what i might be driven to, if somebody doesna mak' jess morrison quit meddling wi' my family affairs--the lying hizzy!" "margot! margot! my friend margot! you astonish me, you trouble me!" "weel, domine, i'm very sorry to trouble you. i wad rather trouble the hale village than you. what do you want me to do?" "just to try for one month, my plan of treating any injustice, or injury, i receive." "weel then, what is your plan? i'm no promising to do what i'm vera sure is far oot o' my way, but if you had been injured on every side o' your heart, as i hae been, what would you do?" "when i receive an injury, margot, i think it calmly over, and i am sure to find some excuse for part of it--the rest i forgive." "there's nae excuse in neil's case, sir." "yes, there are several. these rath's promise much for his future. he may even be in love with miss rath, and a man in love isna a responsible creature. you hae told me, in the course of years, how much norman's wife troubled you, and norman could not prevent her. i have heard the same kind of story about robert's and allan's, and alexander's wives. men do not seem to be responsible, when they are seeking some woman for a wife. take this into your thoughts, anent neil. there were also unhappy money considerations. evidently neil is not ready to pay christine's ninety pounds back, and he does not like to be questioned about it. he would rather keep out of the way. in both these cases, it is not neil. it is first the girl, then the money. he does not despise you, he is only too considerate about miss rath. in the case of the money, he is perhaps counting on its use for his advancement in life, and he would rather not talk about it. he does not hate or scorn his own people, he is only looking out for his future love, and his future living. that is such a common and natural feeling, we need not wonder and weep over it. there must be other excuses to make, if i knew all about neil's life and hopes, and for the rest of the faults against him--forgive them, as god forgives your faults against his long suffering love and patience." "mebbe that is the right way, but----" "right! say that word to yourself, margot. say it till it rings like a shout in your soul, till you feel it in your hand like a drawn sword. it is a conquering word. say it till your weak heart grows strong." "mither will feel better in a few days, sir." "to be sure she will. neither joy nor sorrow leaves us where it found us. poor neil!" "why 'poor neil,' sir?" "because he cannot see beyond his limit, and his limit is self, and selfishness is utter loss. they conquer who endure. live it down. deserting our own is a cruel, silent treason even if they deserve it. it is a sin that our souls are ashamed of. margot, your weakness tonight came o'er you in a moment when you were slack in faith. you are naturally and spiritually a brave woman, margot. what have you to fear?" "i dinna want the lad i hae nursed at my breast to be ashamed o' me--that is my fear, domine. i dinna want to lose his love." "does a man ever forget the mother who bore him? i can't believe it. when all other loves fade, that is green. it is nearly fifty years since i bid my mother 'good-by' for ever in this life. she is the dearest and sweetest mother to me yet. i remember her eyes, the touch of her lips, the soft caress of her hands, as if i had seen her yesterday. a man, however wicked, is not beyond hope, who yet loves his mother. neil is not a bad boy. he will love you to the end." "i fear, i fear, domine, that----" "no! you do not fear. you have nothing to fear. there was a noted preacher and poet, who shall tell you what your fear is. his name was crashaw, and he was an englishman, who died just about two hundred years ago and he says to a fearful soul: "there is no storm but this of your own cowardice, that braves you out. you are the storm that mocks yourself, you are the rocks of your own doubt. besides this fear of danger, there's no danger here, and they that here fear danger, do deserve their fear." "ay, that's what you ca' poetry. i dinna understand a word o' it, but i can mind that david said, he didna fear, even in the dead-mirk-dale; but it's a far-back thought to king david, and when a mither is angry at her bairn, she feels as if the lord, too, was like to lose sight o' her, and that earth and heaven are baith a' wrang." "well, then, margot, when you feel as if the lord was like to lose sight o' you, then you canna lose sight o' the lord. then, in the words of your covenanters' psalms, you be to cry out: 'how lang, o lord! will ye mind me nae mair? how long will ye hap yer face frae me?' and then, margot, you mind how the few verses of doubt and fear, end--'the lord he's wrought a' things neiborlie for me'. now, margot, i am not going to preach to you. your own leal heart can do that. i will just say goodnight with one verse from that same dear old book o' psalms--'let the words o' my mouth, an' the thought o' my heart, be for pleasure in yer sight, o lord, my strength, and my hame bringer.' i leave blessing with you." "you werna as kind as you should hae been to the domine, mither. he tried to comfort you," said christine. "that was in the way o' his duty. what does he know, puir fellow! anent a mither's love or sorrow?" "i'm glad feyther hes wee jamie for his comfort." "ay, but jamie doesna comfort me, in the place o' neil." "you hae me, mither. dinna forget christine." "would i do that? never! christine is worth a' the lads in scotland. they marry--and forget." "the domine says he loves his mother today, better than ever, and her dead near fifty years." "the domine is a wonder, and he ne'er put a wife in her place. i hope your feyther didna go to the toun today. where has jamie been?" "he went out with feyther, this morning. i think they went to the boats, but i canna weel say. they ought to be hame by this hour. i wonder what is keeping them sae late?" "weel, christine, the trouble hes gone by, this time, and we willna ca' it back. if your feyther didna come across the lad i' the town, it will mebbe be best to let him get back to the maraschal without remark or recollection." "to be sure, mither." "i wonder what's keeping your feyther? it is too late, and too cold, for jamie to be out." "i hear their voices, mither. they're coming up the hill. stir the fire into a blaze o' welcome. just listen to the laddie laughing--and feyther laughing too. whatever has happened to them?" james ruleson and the lad at his side came into the cottage the next moment. the light of the laugh was yet on their faces, and oh, what a happy stir their advent made in the cozy, firelit room! margot forgot she had been crying and complaining, she was helping her man take off his heavy coat, and christine was helping the child, who was in a state of great excitement: "i hae been to the circus!" he cried. "christine! gran'mither! i hae been to the circus! it was wonderful! i did not want to leave it. i wanted to stay always there. i want to go tomorrow. gran'feyther! will you take me tomorrow? say yes! do say yes!" "why, james!" cried margot, "i never heard tell o' the like! hae ye lost your senses, gudeman?" "no, i think i hae just found them. i am sair-hearted, because i didna send all the lads there. let us hae a cup o' tea, and we will tell you how we spent the day." then there was a ten minutes hurry, and at the end a well spread table, and four happy faces round it; and as margot handed ruleson his big tea cup, she said, "now, james ruleson, tell us what you and the lad hae been after today, that took you into such a sinfu' place as a circus. you'll hae to face the domine on the matter. you, a ruling elder, in a circus! i'm mair than astonished! i'm fairly shocked at ye! and i'm feared it was a premeditated sin. and ye ken what the domine thinks o' premeditated sins." "it was far from a sin o' any kind, gudewife. jamie and i were on our way to the boat, for a few hours' fishing, when we met a lad wi' a note from finlay, saying he wanted a few words o' advice from me, and i took a sudden thought o' a day's rest, and a bit o' pleasure wi' little jamie. sae, to the town we went, and first o' all to finlay's, and i had a long talk wi' him, about some railway shares he owns, on my advice; and they hae turned out sae weel, he wanted me to tak' part o' the profit. i wouldna do that, but i let him gie twenty pounds towards the school fund." "you might hae put that twenty in your ain pouch, gudeman, and nae fault in the same. you are too liberal anent the school. our ain lads get naething from it." "jamie will hae the gude o' it, and lots o' culraine lads and lasses until they get a better one. weel, so be it! after finlay and i had finished our crack, i took jamie to molly stark's, and we had a holiday dinner." "chicken pie! custard pudding! strawberry tarts! nuts and raisins! and a big orange! grandmither! oh, it was beautiful! beautiful!" "then we walked about the town a bit, and i saw a big tent, and men playing music before it, and when we got close pictures of animals and of horses, and men riding. and jamie saw many little lads going in, especially one big school, and he said, 'grandfeyther, tak' me in too!' and i took counsel wi' my ain heart for a minute, and it said to me, 'tak' the lad in,' and so i did." "and now you're blaming yoursel'?" "i am not. i think i did right. there was neither sound nor sight o' wrang, and the little laddie went wild wi' pleasure; and to tell the vera truth, i was pleased mysel' beyond a' my thoughts and expectations. i would like to tak' you, margot, and christine too. i would like it weel. let us a' go the morn's night." "i hae not lost my senses yet, james. me go to a circus! culraine wad ne'er get o'er the fact. it wad be a standing libel against margot ruleson. as for christine!" "i wad like weel to go wi' feyther." "i'm fairly astonished at you, christine! lassie, the women here would ne'er see you again, they wad feel sae far above ye. i'm not the keeper o' your feyther's gude name, but i hae a charge o'er yours, and it is clear and clean impossible, for you to go to a circus." "if feyther goes----" "your feyther hasna heard the last o' his spree yet. to think o' him leaving the narrow road. him, near saxty years old! the kirk session on the matter will be a notable one. elders through the length and breadth o' scotland will be takin' sides. dear me, james ruleson, that you, in your auld age, should come to this!" and then margot laughed merrily and her husband and christine understood she was only joking. "and you'll maybe go wi' us all some afternoon, margot?" "na, na, james! i'll not gie jess morrison, and the like o' her, any occasion for their ill tongues. they'd just glory in margot ruleson, elder ruleson's wife, going to the circus. i wouldn't be against going mysel' i'd like to go, but i wouldn't gie them the pleasure o' tossing my gude name on their ill-natured tongues." "i saw peter brodie there, and his three lads, and his daughter bella." "weel, james, tak' the little laddie again, if so you wish. peter will stand wi' you, and he's the real ruling elder. but christine is different. it lets a woman down to be talked about, whether she is right, or wrang." then jamie was allowed to give his version of the wonder and the joy of a circus, and the last cups of tea were turned into some glorious kind of a drink, by the laughter and delight his descriptions evoked. then and there it was resolved that his grandfather must take him again on the following day, and with this joyous expectation in his heart, the child at last fell asleep. when ruleson and his wife were alone, margot noticed that her man's face became very somber and thoughtful. he was taking his bed-time smoke by the fireside, and she waited beside him, with her knitting in her hands, though she frequently dropped it. she was sure he had something on his mind, and she waited patiently for its revealing. at length he shook the ashes from his pipe, and stood it in its proper corner of the hob, then going to the window, he looked out and said, "it's fair and calm, thank god! margot, i saw neil today." as he spoke, he sat down, and looked at her, almost sorrowfully. "what did he say for himsel'?" "i didna speak to him. i was in finlay's store, at the back o' it, whar finlay hes his office. a young man came into the store, and finlay got up and went to speak to him. it was rath, and when he went awa', finlay called me, and showed me a little group on the sidewalk. they were rath and his sister, our neil and provost blackie's son." "our provost blackie's son?" "just sae. and neil and him were as well met and friendly as if they had been brought up in the same cottage. the four o' them stood talking a few minutes, and then neil offered his arm to miss rath, and led the young lady to a carriage waiting for them. she smiled and said something, and neil turned and bowed to rath and young blackie, and then stepped into the carriage and took his seat beside the lady, and they drove off together." "gudeman, you arena leeing to me?" "i am telling you the plain evendown truth, margot." "did he see you?" "no. i keepit oot o' his way." "whatna for?" "i needna say the words." "i'll say them for you--you thought he would be ashamed o' you." "ay, he might hae been. dinna cry, woman. dear, dear woman, dinna cry! it's our ain fault--our ain fault. if we had stood firm for the pulpit, if we had said, 'you must be either a preacher or a schoolmaster,' this wouldna hae been. we were bent on makin' a gentleman o' him, and now he prefers gentlemen to fishermen--we ought to hae expectit it." "it is cruel, shamefu', ungratefu' as it can be!" "ay, but the lad is only seeking his ain good. if he still foregathered wi' our rough fisher-lads, we wouldn't like it. and we would tell him sae." "he might hae found time to rin down, and see us for an hour or twa, and gie us the reasons for this, and that." "he looked like he was courting the young lady--and we know of auld times, wife, that when our lads began courting, we hed to come after. i was wrang to gie in to his studying the law. studying the gospels, he wad hae learned that there are neither rich nor poor, in god's sight. we gave the lad to god, and then we took him awa' frae god, and would mak' a lawyer and a gentleman o' him. weel, as far as i can see, he is going to be a' we intended. we are getting what we hae worked for. there's nane to blame but oursel's." this reasoning quite silenced margot. she considered it constantly, and finally came to her husband's opinion. then she would not talk about neil, either one way, or the other, and it soon fell out that the lad's name was never mentioned in the home where he had once ruled almost despotically. only christine kept her faith in neil. she wrote him long letters constantly. she told him all that was going on in the village, all about his father and mother, the domine and the school house. she recalled pleasant little incidents of the past, and prefigured a future when she would see him every day. and she seldom named little jamie. she divined that neil was jealous of the position the child had gained in the household. and christine was no trouble-maker. her letters were all messages of peace and good will, and without any advice from her father she had personally come to very much the same conclusion that he had arrived at. "there has been a great mistake," she said softly to herself, "and we be to mak' the best o' it. it isna beyond god's power to sort it right yet." so neil was seldom named unless a letter came from him, which was not a frequent occurrence. the boxes filled with home delicacies were no longer sent, nor was their absence noted, nor their presence requested. neil was making money as a coach to younger and wealthier students. he now dined at the best hotel, and had a very good breakfast in his comfortable rooms. but christine felt that the breaking of this tie of "something good to eat" was a serious thing. home was a long way further off to neil, when the motherly baskets of homemade dainties ceased coming to him, and all christine's apologies--whether they touched his mother's ill health, or his own prosperity's making them unnecessary, did not mend the matter. they were just common bread and meat, mere physical things, but their want was heart-hunger, and doubt and suspicion, in place of the love and pleasure they had always caused. generally, however, as one interest in life dies out, another springs up, and the school building, and the little laddie kept the ruleson family happily busy. ruleson had been asked to superintend the building and he did the work with a completeness which was natural to him. he looked over every load of stone, and saw that the blocks of granite were well fitting, and perfect in color. he examined all the mortar made, lest the builders follow modern habits and put too much sand among the lime. he returned as unworthy many pounds of nails, which were either too short, or too slight, for the purposes for which they were intended; and the slating for the roof was a thing he did not trust to anyone but james ruleson. so the school house and his fishing kept him busy and happy, and margot and christine looked at him with wonder and pleasure. he was always smiling, and always listening to jamie, who was chattering at his side, whenever he was on land. so life at culraine pursued the even tenor of its way, until the middle of march, when the school was opened for a short quarter until the herring should come on in july. the building was by no means finished, but the walls were up, the windows in, the slate roof on, and the desks and forms in place. the master's room, the painting, plastering, and decoration were untouched. ruleson thought they could be attended to during the herring fishing, and the school formally opened in september. to a man quite unaccustomed to business, these were tremendous, yet delightful responsibilities; and ruleson lived between his boat and the school. when he was on land, jamie was always at his side. hitherto ruleson had been noted for his reticence. even among such a silent race as the fife fishers his silence was remarkable. he had held his peace even from good, but the child always chattering at his side had taught him to talk. jamie's thirst for knowledge was insatiable, he was always wanting to know something or other, and the inquisitive "why" was constantly on his lips. few people could remember james ruleson's laughing, now his big guffaw constantly carried on its echo the little lad's shrill treble laugh. ruleson had many amiable qualities unused and undeveloped that the boy brought out in many different ways. in his little grandson's company he was born again, and became as a little child. this was an actual and visible conversion. the whole village testified to this wonderful new birth. on the fourteenth of march the dream of his heart came true. he saw the little children come running through the sand hills, and over the heather, to the school. from far and near, they came, wearing their best clothes, and happy as if it was a holiday. he listened to them reciting, after their teachers, a morning prayer. he heard them learning in class together the alphabet, and the first lessons in numbers and addition, a lesson which all acquired rapidly by some secret natural process. for if the teacher asked how many two and two made, he had not to wait a moment for a correct answer from every baby mouth. it amazed ruleson, until he remembered that no one had ever taught him to count. through generations of clever bargaining mothers, had this ability become a natural instinct. the domine thought it might have done so. in some way or other, the school made christine's life very busy. she was helping weary mothers make little dresses, and little breeches, or doing a bit of cleaning for them, or perhaps cooking a meal, or nursing the baby for an hour. she was mending or weaving nets, she was redding up her own home. she was busy with the washing or ironing, or hearing jamie's lessons, or helping her mother with the cooking. her hands were never idle, and there was generally a smile on her face, a song on her lips, or a pleasant word for everyone within the sound of her cheerful voice. she had also her own peculiar duties. there were long and frequent letters from cluny to answer, and occasionally one from angus ballister, the latter always enclosing a pretty piece of lace, or a trifle of some kind, special to the city he was in. ballister's letters troubled her, for they were written still in that tone of "it might have been," with a certain faint sense of reproach, as if it was her fault, that it had not been. this was so cleverly insinuated, that there was nothing for her to deny, or to complain of. she wished he would not write, she wished he would cease sending her any reminders of "days forever gone." his sentimental letters were so evidently the outcome of a cultivated heart-breaking disappointment, that they deeply offended her sense of truth and sincerity. one day she received from him a letter dated madrid, and it contained a handsome lace collar, which she was asked to wear for his sake, and thus remember his love "so sorrowfully passionate, and alas, so early doomed to disappointment and despair!" "the leeing lad!" she angrily exclaimed. "i'll just tell him the truth, and be done wi' him. i'll send him the collar back, and tell him i'm no carin' to be reminded o' him, in ony shape or fashion. i'll tell him he kens naething about love, and is parfectly ignorant o' any honest way o' makin' love. i'll tell him that he never loved me, and that i never loved him worth talking about, and that i'll be obligated to him if he'll drop the makin' believe, and write to me anent village matters, or not write at a'." days so full and so happy went quickly away, and though there had been so much to do, never had the village been ready for the herring visit, as early, and so completely, as it was this summer. when margot's roses began to bloom, the nets were all leaded, and ready for the boats, and the boats themselves had all been overhauled and their cordage and sails put in perfect condition. there would be a few halcyon days of waiting and watching, but the men were gathering strength for the gigantic labor before them, as they lounged on the pier, and talked sleepily of their hopes and plans. it was in this restful interval that james and margot ruleson received a letter from their son neil, inviting them to the great commencement of his college. he said he was chosen to make the valedictory speech for his class, that he had passed his examination with honor, and would receive his commission as one of her majesty's attorneys at law. "if you would honor and please me by your presence, dear father and mother," he wrote, "i shall be made very happy, and i will secure a room for you in the house where i am living, and we can have our meals together." it is needless to say this letter canceled all faults. margot was delighted at the prospect of a railway journey, and a visit to aberdeen. she was going to see for hersel' what a university was like--to see the hundreds o' lads studying for the law and the gospel there--to hae a change in the weary sameness of her hard fisher life. for a few days she was going to be happy and play, hersel', and see her lad made a gentleman, by the gracious permission o' her majesty, queen victoria. the invitation being gladly accepted, margot had anxious consultations with christine about her dress. she knew that she was the handsomest woman in culraine, when she wore her best fishing costume; "but i canna wear the like o' it," she said in a lingering, rather longing tone. "na, na, mither, ye be to dress yoursel' like a' ither ladies. your gray silk is fine and fitting, but you must hae a new bonnet, and white gloves, and a pair o' patent leather shoon--a low shoe, wi' bows o' black ribbon on the instep. there's few women hae a neater foot than you hae, and we'll gae the morn and get a' things needfu' for your appearance. feyther hes his kirk suit, and he is requiring naething, if it be not a pair o' gloves." "he never puts a glove on his hand, christine." "ay, weel, he can carry them in his hand. they are as respectable in his hands, as on them. it is just to show folk that he can afford to glove his hands, if he wants to do it. that is maistly what people wear fine claes of all kinds for. they would be happier i' their ivery day loose and easy suits, i'm thinking," said christine. "i wonder why neil didna ask you, christine. you helped him many a weary hour to the place he is now standing on. if he had not asked anyone else, he ought to hae bidden you to his finishing and honoring. why didn't he do that proper thing? hae ye ony quarrel wi' him?" "not a word oot o' place between us. i wrote him a four-page letter three days syne." "what's the matter, then?" "he's feared for me, mither. he's feared his friend reginald will do as angus did, fa' in love wi' me, and then get oot o' love wi' him. men are silly as bairns anent some things. i'm not carin', mither. someone must bide at hame, and look after wee jamie, and you yoursel' will be mair contented if you ken i am here to tak' tent o' the house and bairn, and the lave o' things." "ay, it's better. you canna leave a house its lane, any mair than a bairn. the ane will get into dole and mischief, as quick as the ither. you'll be minding polly cromarty's bit cottage, taking fire and burning to the ground, and not a man, woman, or bairn near it. and bella simpson the same, and kate dalrymple losing a' her savings, and the house locked and barr'd and naebody in it, or near it. i'll go to aberdeen real happy if you are watching the house, while i'm awa' playing, mysel'." so there was a week of happy preparation, and then on a fine monday morning mr. and mrs. ruleson went to aberdeen. margot was satisfied to leave her house in christine's care, but at the last hour, she had discovered another likelihood of trouble. it was the herring. "they are maistly twa weeks earlier, or later than looked for, christine," she said, "and, of course, they'll be earlier this year. i wouldn't wonder that when we reach aberdeen, we'll find them there, if they arena at culraine itsel'. and if feyther's boat isna leading, it will be that meddlesome peter brodie's boat--and that would rile me a' the year through." "mither, it is too soon for the herrin'. you needna fret yoursel' anent the herrin'. if there are any signs o' the feesh, i'll gie young donald grant a smile, and he'll watch for them night and day to pleasure me. i'll not let peter hae a chance to find them." "that's a' right." and when they were fairly gone and out o' sight, christine sat down to consider, and to draw her personality together. she felt as if there were half-a-dozen christines, and she was equally conscious of an unusual house. its atmosphere was intense and restless, and slightly dissatisfied. christine considered it for a few moments, and then said, "nae wonder! everything in it is tapsalterie, and i'll just go through it, and make it tidy and clean, and proper for the hame-coming." at aberdeen railway station they found neil waiting for them. he took them to the house he called "home." it was a very respectable house, in a very respectable quarter of the city, kept by mrs. todd, a sea-captain's widow, a woman with "relatives weel kent, and o' the better class o' folk." she took to margot, and margot, with some reservations, took to her. ruleson was anxious to see the city. from the small window in his railway carriage his eyes had rested upon its granite towers and spires, and he went with neil to walk down maraschal and union streets, the latter being a most splendid roadway, with houses and pavements of gray granite. for a full mile's length, the street looked as if it had been cut and fashioned out of the solid rock, for the mortar used could not be seen. there were splendid shops on these streets, but there was no sign of a circus, nor of any other place of amusement. sitting at tea with the captain's widow, he named this fact. "i saw naething o' a circus," he said, "and a man with whom i talked a few minutes said there were no theaters or concert halls, or the like o' such places, in aberdeen." "just sae," answered the widow, "we hae nae amusements here, but preaching, preaching!" "gudeman, why were you seeking information anent amusements? they arena in your way." "i was just makin' a few interrogatories, margot. i wanted to ken how the people passed their days. i didna see any sign o' manufactories. what do they mak' then in aberdeen?" ruleson looked pointedly at the widow as he spoke, and she answered with an air of quiet superiority. "aberdeen mak's men--men out o' the raw material, for a' the marts and markets o' the warld. we hae lads to be made men o' frae every part o' scotland; for poor lads can get here the best o' learning for sma' cost. they can hae board for five shilling a week, and the professors' fees are only seven or eight pounds a session. a twenty-five-pound bursary will pay all expenses. many of the poor students board themselves, and a great deal can be done on porridge and milk, and fish, and meal. and we hae the gentry, too, sir! plenty of rich lads, as well as poor ones, and the one kind helps the ither." ruleson saw both kinds the next day--hundreds of braw young lads, running over with the joyous spirit of youth. hard to control, yet thoroughly under control, they filled the large university hall with an almost intoxicating influence of life. you could not feel old while breathing it. yet it all seemed very much like a church meeting to margot, until neil stepped to the front of the crowded platform. that sight brought her heart and soul home, and she laid her hand on her husband's hand, and sat still to listen. he looked handsome and gentlemanly, and held a folded paper in his hand. bowing to the professors, the provost, and the other dignitaries surrounding him, he then turned a smiling face to the audience, and commenced his speech. it was a very learned discussion on a point of law then causing international argument, and as his various points reached their climax, he was warmly applauded. at its close many stood up in their enthusiasm to honor him, and in the midst of this excitement, the president of the maraschal handed him, with the set formula, the credentials which made neil ruleson one of her majesty's gentlemen and councilors-at-law. neil's father sat motionless, but his grave face changed like the pages of a book which are being turned. margot was almost hysterical. she covered her face and wept, and all eyes were turned on her, and every heart said to itself, "she will be the lad's mother." and coming out of the hall, many nodded to her and smiled. they wanted her to feel that they rejoiced with her. outside the university, neil joined his father and mother, and as he passed through the crowd, with his mother on his arm, he was hailed with the congratulations both of those who knew him, and those who did not know him. it was a wonderful hour to the ruleson party, and perhaps only james ruleson had any shadow of regret in it. he did not once voice this regret, but it was present to his thoughts and imagination. neil as a gentleman of scotland and a member of the scottish bar was a great honor, but oh, if he had seen him in the minister's gown and bands, and heard his first sermon, how much greater his joy! how much prouder of his son's success he would have been! but he said nothing to margot which could dim her satisfaction. mrs. todd did that quite sufficiently. she spoke with contempt o' the fool-like way aberdeen folk went on, every time a lad happened to get a degree, or a bit o' school honor; and the thing happening a' the time, as it were. she made margot feel by her short, cool remarks, that neil's triumph might, after all, be an ordinary affair, and for a little season took all the glory out of neil's achievement, though in doing so, she was careful of the reputation of her native city, and candidly admitted that in spite of a' their well-kent scholarship, aberdeeners were kindly folk, aye ready to gie a shout o' encouragement to a new beginner. margot, however, quickly readjusted the dampened and discouraged feeling mrs. todd's opinions induced. "she's just jealous, because neil is a fife lad. that's a' there is to her say-so! i hae heard often that aberdeeners were a jealous folk. i'm saying naething against their kindliness. they hae treated neil weel, and nae doubt they understood weel enou' what they were doing." neil spent most of the day with his parents, but about six in the evening he came to them in full evening dress, and said he was going to the rath's hotel. "they have a dinner in my honor," he continued, "and the provost's son, and several important people will be there; and i am to be introduced to the hepburn of hepburn braes, a great nobleman in these parts. there will be ladies, too, of course, and i, am expecting a profitable and pleasant evening." and though margot was quite elated over her son's great friends, ruleson would have been far prouder had he known neil was going to take the chair at a session of elders connected with some kirk of which neil was the domine. the next morning they returned to culraine with hearts full of memories for which they could thank god, and they found their son allan sitting at their fireside. as soon as allan saw them enter, he rose and went to them, and took their hands in his hands, and said in a voice trembling with emotion, "father! mother! your kindness to my little lad has made you father and mother twice over to me." then what a happy hour followed! for as they were sitting down to their evening meal, the domine entered. he had heard of allan's visit and had become anxious about the child, lest he might be taken from them. and it was during these troubled hours he bethought him of the necessity for a legal adoption of little jamie by his grandfather and himself, a plan taken into consideration that very night, and within the next three months made binding as book and bond could fix it. the domine was a welcome addition to the family party. he slipped with a smile into christine's place, and she rose and served them with grace and sweetness. and as she went softly around the table, replenishing emptied plates, and refilling teacups, saying nothing, but seeing to everyone's comfort, her beauty took on an extraordinary charm. woman, or rather ministering angel, she seemed, and it was strange that all present took her beautiful service, as things of spiritual beauty are usually taken, without much notice. yet she was that night the golden band around the table, that kept the sweet influences of the meal peaceful and unbroken from the beginning to the end of it. a few happy hours followed, and then the domine took allan back to the manse with him. "they are a' tired here," he said, "but you and i, allan, can talk the night awa'." this they did, but there were only two or three sentences in their long conversation which concern this story. they referred to the happy family life of the rulesons. "i never go to your father's house, allan," said the domine, "without regretting that i did not marry. i have come to the conclusion that marriage is nature's way of coaxing the best out of us. a man puts his back into the uplift for wife and children, for to make them happy is better than riches or fame." "still you might have made a mistake, sir." "earth would be heaven, allan, if we never made mistakes. but in spite of mistakes, men live contented with the world, and happy with each other." chapter viii an unexpected marriage the tale that i relate this lesson seems to carry choose not alone a proper mate, but proper time to marry. the little enthusiasm incident to neil's success did not last long, for joy's the shyest bird, mortal ever heard, listen rapt and silent when he sings; do not seek to see, less the vision be but a flutter of departing wings. and if it is not tightly clasped, and well guarded, it soon fades away, especially if doubt or question come near it. the heart, which is never weary of recalling its sorrows, seems to have no echo for its finer joys. this, however, may be our own fault. let us remember for a moment or two how ruthlessly we transfer yesterday into today, and last week into this week. we have either no time or no inclination to entertain joys that have passed. they are all too quickly retired from our working consciousness, to some dim, little-visited nook in our memory. and taken broadly, this is well. life is generally precious, according to the strength and rapidity of its flow, and change is the splendid surge of a life of this kind. a perfect life is then one full of changes. it is also a safe life, for it is because men have no changes, that they fear not god. now the people of this little fishing village had lives lined with change. sudden deaths were inevitable, when life was lived on an element so full of change and peril as the great north sea. accidents were of daily occurrence. loss of boats and nets reduced families to unlooked-for poverty. sons were constantly going away to strange seas and strange countries, and others, who had been to the arctic ocean, or the ports of australia, coming back home. the miracle of the son's being dead and being alive again, was not infrequently repeated. indeed all the tragedies and joys of life found their way to this small hamlet, hidden among the rocks and sand dunes that guard the seas of fife. margot's triumph was very temporary. it was not of the ordinary kind. it had in it no flavor of the sea, and the lad who had won his honors had never identified himself with the fishers of culraine. he did not intend to live among them, and they had a salutary fear of the law, and no love for it. as a general thing neither the men nor women of culraine cared whether neil ruleson won his degree or not. such pleasure as they felt in his success was entirely for his father's sake. and margot was content that it should be so. she was not heart-pleased with neil, and not inclined to discuss his plans with her neighbors. she noticed also that neil's father had nothing to say about his son's success, and that if the subject was introduced, it was coldly met and quickly banished. it hurt christine. her life had been so intermingled with neil's hopes and plans, she could not let them drop unnoticed from her consciousness. "why do you say naething anent neil, mither?" she asked one wet morning, when the boats were in harbor, and ruleson had gone down to the new schoolhouse. "weel, christine, i hae said a' there is to say." "were you really disappointed, mither?" "in a way." "but neil succeeded." "in a way." "what way, mither?" "his ain way. he has been vera successful i' that way, sin' the day he was born. a wee, shrunken, puny infant he was, but he hes been a bit too much for us all--and there's seven big men in our family, forbye mysel' and christine. whiles i had a glimmering o' the real lad, but maistly i did the lad's way--like the rest o' us." "you said he was kind to you and feyther." "he hed to be. it's a law, like the laws o' the medes and persians, in aberdeen, that lads takin' honors should pay great attention to their feythers and mithers. some were auld and poor--far poorer than fisher-folk ever are--they had worked, and starved, and prayed for their lads, and they were going about aberdeen streets, linked on their lads' arms, and all o' them like to cry wi' joy. neil had to do like the lave, but i let his feyther gae his lane wi' him. i wasna carin' to mak' a show o' mysel'." "then you shouldna blame neil, mither." "should i not? i do, though." "what did he do wrang?" "he did little right, and that little he had nae pleasure in. i know! he should hae spent the evening wi' his feyther and mysel', and told us what plans he had made for the future, but he went to the raths' and left us alane. he had promised all along to come hame wi' us, and spend a few weeks wi' the boats--your feyther is short-handed since cluny macpherson went awa'--and there's little doing in the law business during july and august, but he said he had an invite to the raths' house on the isle of arran, and with them he has gane." "i'm sorry, sorry, mither." "sae am i, christine, but when things hae come to 'i'm sorry,' there's nae gude left i' them." "do you think he is engaged to roberta rath?" "i canna say. i don't think he kens himsel'." "did you see her?" "he pointed her out to me. she was getting into a carriage, and----" "weel?" "o, she was a little body; i saw naething o' her but a blue silk dress, and a white lace bonnet. it would be ordinary, nae doubt. she waved a white-gloved hand to neil, and the lad's face was like an illumination. she seemed vera sma' and thin--just a handfu' o' her. naething like yoursel' and our ain full-statured, weel-finished women." "i feel as if i had lost neil." "you may do sae, for a man can be lost by a woman, quite as completely as by the north sea." then ruleson entered the cottage. he was wet through, but his face was red with health, and radiant with excitement. he had been in the new schoolhouse, and seen three large boxes unpacked. "margot! christine!" he cried joyfully, "you'll be to come down the hill--the baith o' you--and see the wonderfu' things that hae come for ordering and plenishing o' our school. there's a round ball as big as that table, set in a frame--and it turns round, and round, and shows a' the countries and seas i' the wide warld. the maister said it was called a globe. there's maps o' scotland, and england and a' other nations to hang on the walls, and they are painted bonnily; and there's nae end o' copy books and slates, and bundles o' pencils, and big bottles o' ink, and, margot, i ne'er saw sae many school books i' a' my born days. naething has been forgotten. the maister said sae, and the domine said sae." "was the domine there?" "ay, was he. he and the maister unpacked the boxes. forbye, there is three prizes for the three best scholars--the bairns will go wild o'er them." "what are they?" "i canna tell you. the domine forbade me." "you'll hae to tell me, gudeman. i'll hae nae secrets between us twa, and i'm mair than astonished at the domine, throwing a married man into such a temptation." "i'll go wi' you how, feyther. i want to see the wonderfuls." "they are locked by for today. we are going to fix the school room monday, and hae a kind o' examination tuesday. i hope to goodness the herrin' will keep to the nor'ard for a few days." "listen to your feyther, christine! wishing the herrin' awa' for a lot o' school bairns." "weel, margot, woman, it's maist unlikely the feesh will be here for a week or mair, but they hae a will and a way o' their ain, and aince or twice, or mebbe mair than that, i hae seen them in these pairts in june." "i think the domine might hae notified christine. she ought, by rights, to hae been at that unpacking." "weel, margot, it cam' my way. i dinna think my lassie grudges me the pleasure." and christine looked at him with a smile that deified her lovely face, and made ruleson's heart thrill with pleasure. "i wad rayther you had the pleasure than mysel', feyther. you ken that," she said, and ruleson laid his hand on her head, and answered: "i ken it weel! god bless thee!" that evening, while christine and little jamie were busy over jamie's lessons, margot said to her husband, "gudeman, i'd like to ken what prizes hae been bought. the domine didna include me in his prohibition, or else he has less sense than i gie him credit for." "he said i had better tell naebody." "ay, but you had best tell me. what classes are you givin' prizes to? it's a vera unusual thing to gie prizes. i think little o' paying bairns to learn their lessons. but they're no likely to be worth the looking at----" "'deed are they--vera gude indeed, for the wee bairns for whom they were bought. there are three o' them. the first is for the infant lass, nane o' them over six years auld." "weel, what is it?" "the domine----" "says many a thing you ta' nae heed to. just sae. you needna heed him on this point. are not we twa one and the same? speak out, man." "the domine----" "wha's minding the domine here? are you mair feared for him, than for your wife?" then ruleson, with his great hearty laugh, pulled a chair to his side, and said, "sit down, margot. i'm mair afraid of you, than i am of any man living. i'm trem'ling wi' fear o' you, right now, and i'm just going to disobey the domine, for your sake. what will ye gie me, if i break a promise for your sake?" "i'll keep my promise to you, and say naething anent your transgression. what kind o' a prize could they gie to them babies i' the infant class--nane o' them five years auld? did you see it?" "ay, i unpacked it." "was it a rattle, set wi' wee bells?" "naething o' the kind. it was a big doll, bonnily dressed, and a little trunk fu' o' mair claes, and a full set o' doll cheena, and a doll bed and night claes; wonderfu', complete. my goodness! whoever gets it will be the proud wee lassie." "little polly craig will be getting it, o' course. who chose the presents?" "i'm thinking it was the domine and the schoolmaster's wife." "then they would be knowing wha' they were buying for?" "that goes without the saying. i didna hear onyone say the doll was for polly craig." "nor i, but polly's mother hasna been to hold, nor to bind, anent the infant's progress. the hale village is weary o' the story o' polly's remarkable intimacy wi' her alphabet and spelling. the bairn may be a' her mither says, but i'm thinking she's getting her abilities too aerly to be reliable. weel, then, who gets the next prize?" "willie tamsen." "i dinna ken the tamsens." "they're nice folk, from the south o' fife. willie is seven years auld, or thereby. he's clever, the schoolmaster says, in figures and geography, and weel-behaved, and quiet-like. the domine says he's first in his catechism class, and vera attentive to a' that concerns his lessons--a good little lad, wi' an astonishing power o' ken in him." "weel, what will you gie sae remarkable a bairn?" "a gold guinea." "a gold guinea! i ne'er heard o' such wild extravagance. it's fair sinfu'. whate'er will a lad o' seven years auld do wi' a guinea? buy sweeties wi' it. i dinna think the domine can sanction a bit o' nonsense like that." "i'm maist sure the domine gave the guinea out o' his ain pocket. the tamsens are vera poor, and the laddie is the warst-dressed lad i' the village, and he is to go and get a nice suit o' claes for himsel' wi' it. the domine knew what he was doing. the laddie will be twice as bright, when he gets claes for his little arms and legs." "weel, i hae naething against willie tamsen. he never meddled wi' my flowers, or stole my berries. i hope he'll get the claes. and there was to be three prizes?" "ay, one for the lads and lasses from eight to eleven years old, that takes in a large pairt o' the school. the bigger lads and lasses will come in the autumn, when the herrin' hae been, and gane." "i'm not asking anything anent that class. i dinna envy the schoolmaster and mistress that will hae them to manage. they'll hae their hands fu', or my name isna margot ruleson. wha will get the third prize?" "our jamie. and he has weel won it. jamie isna a lad o' the common order. the domine says he'll mak' the warld sit up and listen to him, when he comes to full stature." "the domine is as silly anent the bairn, as you are. after my ain lad, neil, i'm expecting naething oot o' the nazareth o' culraine. we were a' going to shout o'er neil ruleson--weel, we hae had our cry, and dried our eyes, and hae gane on our way again." "neil has done weel--considering." "gudeman, we hae better drop that 'consideration.' i was talking o' our jamie. what are they going to gie our second wonder o' a bairn?" "the maist beautiful book you ever saw--a big copy of robinson crusoe fu' o' pictures, and bound in blue wi' gold lettering. the bairn will hae wonder after wonder wi' it." "did you buy the book?" "not i. what mak's you ask that information?" "naething. jamie should hae had something he could hae halfed wi' christine. she has spent the best o' her hours teaching the bairn. few or nane o' the lads and lasses would hae the help o' any hame lessons. it was really christine put neil ruleson among her majesty's lawyers." "weel, then, she'll do her pairt in putting james ruleson among the ministers o' the everlasting god. that will be a great honor, and pay her handsome for a' her love and labor." "gudeman, ministers arena honored as they were when we were young. if preaching were to go oot o' fashion, we----" "what are you saying, margot ruleson? the preacher's license is to the 'end o' the warld.' the word o' the lord must be gien to men, as long as men people the earth." "vera weel! the word o' the lord is in everybody's hands the now; and everyone is being taught to read it. maist folk can read it as weel as the minister." "the word must be made flesh! nae book can tak' the place o' the face-to-face argument. preaching will last as long as men live." "weel, weel, i'm not going to get you to arguing. you arena in the clubroom, and i'm too tired to go into speculations wi' you. i'm obliged to you, gudeman, for the information you hae imparted. i wad, however, advise the domine to gie his next secret into the keeping o' some woman, say mysel'. women arena sae amiable as men, and whiles they can keep a secret, which is a thing impossible to men-folk." "if they are married, i'll admit there are difficulties." "gude night, and gude dreams to you, james ruleson." "ye ken weel, margot, that i never dream." "sae you lose the half o' your life, james. i'm sorry for you. i shall dream o' the three happy bairns, and their prizes. say, you might hae picked out another lassie; twa lads to one lass is o'erganging what's fair. i'm awa' to sleep--you needna answer." it was trying to the village that sabbath had to come and go, before the school examination. but everything waited for arrives in its time. and this was a monday worth waiting for. it was a perfect june day, and the sea, and the sun, and the wind held rejoicing with the green earth and the mortals on it. if there was envy, or jealousy, or bad temper among the villagers, they forgot it, or put it aside for future consideration. everyone was in his best clothes, the boys and girls being mostly in white, and the little place looked as if there were a great wedding on hand. christine had made an attempt to decorate the room a little. the boys cut larch boughs and trailing branches, the men loaned the flags of the boats, the women gave the few flowers from their window pots, and strips of garden, and margot, a little sadly, cut her roses, and gave permission to christine to add to them a few laburnum branches, now drooping with their golden blossoms. the room looked well. the flowers and the flags did not hide the globe and the maps. and the blackboard kept its look of authority, though a branch of laburnum bent over it. the schoolmaster was playing a merry fantasia as the company gathered, but at a given signal from christine he suddenly changed it to the children's marching song, and the rapid, orderly manner in which it led each class to its place was a wonderful sight to the men and women who had never seen children trained to obedience by music. the domine opened the examination by reading, in the intense silence that followed the cessation of the music, three verses from the eighteenth chapter of st. luke: "and they brought unto him infants that he would touch them, but when his disciples saw it, they rebuked them. "but jesus called them unto him, and said, 'suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of god. "'verily i say unto you, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of god as a little child, shall in no wise enter therein.'" then the schoolmistress touched a hand bell and a crowd of little children, none over five years old, gathered round her. contrary to the usual practice of children, their behavior and recitals were better than usual, and laughter and hand-clapping followed all their simple efforts. polly craig was their evident leader, and when she had told a charming story about a little girl who would do what she ought not to do, the records of the class were read by the domine, and the prize awarded to polly. willie tamsen and jamie ruleson's classes were treated in a similar way, and were equally successful in their recitations and equally delighted with their gifts. now, the real joy in giving gifts is found in giving them to children, for the child heart beats long after we think it has outgrown itself. the perfect charm of this gathering lay in the fact that men and women became for a few hours little children again. it was really a wonderful thing to see the half-grown girls, the married women, and even old judith macpherson, crowding round polly to admire the waxen beauty and the long fair curls of her prize doll. after the school exercises the adults slowly scattered, sauntering home with their wives, and carrying their babies as proudly as polly carried her new treasure. truly both men and women receive the kingdom of god and love, when they become as little children. the children remained for two hours longer in the school room. for the entertainment of their parents the youngest ones had danced some of those new dances just at that period introduced into scotland, called polkas and mazurkas, and now, to please themselves, they began a series of those mythic games which children played in the world's infancy, and which, thank god, have not yet perished from off the face of the earth. "how many miles to babylon?" "hide and seek," "in and out," "blind man's buff," and so forth, and in this part of the entertainment, everything and everyone depended upon christine. mothers, going home, called to her, "christine, look after my bairn," and then went contentedly away. they might contentedly do so, for whoever saw christine ruleson that afternoon, in the midst of those forty or fifty children, saw something as near to a vision of angels, as they were likely to see on this earth. she stood among them like some divine mother. a little one three years old was on her right arm. it pulled her earrings, and rumpled her hair, and crushed her lace collar, and she only kissed and held it closer. a little lad with a crooked spine, and the seraphic face which generally distinguishes such sufferers, held her tightly by her right hand. others clung to her dress, and called her name in every key of love and trust. she directed their games, and settled their disputes, and if anything went wrong, put it right with a kiss. the domine watched her for ten or fifteen minutes, then he went slowly up the hill. "where at a' is christine, domine?" asked margot. "i'm wanting her sairly." "christine is too busy to meddle with, margot. she's doing god's best work--ministering to little children. as i saw her half-an-hour ago, she was little lower than the angels. i'm doubting if an angel could be lovelier, or fuller of life and love, and every sweet influence." "christine is a handsome lass, nae doubt o' that, but our women are all o' them heritage handsome. i'm doubting if eve, being a jewess, could be worth evening wi' us." "eve was not a jewess. she was god's eldest daughter, margot." "then god's eldest daughter hasna a very gude character. she has been badly spoken of, ever since the warld began. and i do hope my christine will behave hersel' better than eve did--if all's true that is said anent her." "christine is a good girl, margot. if little children love a woman, and she loves them, the love of god is there. margot! margot! god comes to us in many ways, but the sweetest and tenderest of all of them, is when he sends jesus christ by the way of the cradle." all's well that ends well. if this be true, the first session of culraine school was a great success. it had brought an entirely new, and very happy estimate of a father's and a mother's duty to their children. it had even made them emulous of each other, in their care and attention to the highest wants of childhood. the whole village was yet talking of the examination when the herring came. then every woman went gladly to her appointed post and work, and every man--rested and eager for labor--hailed the news with a shout of welcome. peter brodie's big sam brought it very early one lovely summer morning, and having anchored his boat, ran through the sleeping village shouting--"caller herrin'! in culraine bay!" the call was an enchantment. it rang like a trumpet through the sleeping village, and windows were thrown up, and doors flung open, and half-dressed men were demanding in stentorian voices, "where are the fish, sam?" "outside culraine bay," he answered, still keeping up his exultant cry of "caller herrin'!" and in less than half an hour men were at work preparing for the amazing physical strain before them. much was to do if they were to cast their nets that evening, and the streets were soon busy with men and lads carrying nets and other necessities to the boats. it was up with the flag on every boat in commission, for the fishing, and this day's last preparations excited the place as if it were some great national holiday. the women were equally full of joyful business. they had to cook the breakfast, but immediately after it were all in the packing and curing sheds. you would have been sure they were keeping holiday. pleasant greetings, snatches of song, encouraging cries to the men struggling down to the boats with the leaded nets, shouts of hurry to the bewildered children, little flytings at their delays, o twenty different motives for clamor and haste were rife, and not unpleasant, because through all there was that tone of equal interest and good fellowship that can never be mistaken. margot had insisted on a visit to her special shed, to see whether all was in readiness for her special labor, but christine had entreated her to wait for her return from the town, where she was going for orders. she had left her mother with the clear understanding that she would not risk the walk and the chatter and the clatter until the following day. but as soon as she was alone, margot changed her intentions. "i must make the effort," she said to herself. "i'm feared of the pain, that's all about it." so she made the effort, and found out that there was something more than fear to be reckoned with. christine brought home astonishing orders, and margot's face flushed with pride and energy. "i'll not let that order slip through my fingers," she cried, "i'm going to the kippering, and what i canna do, christine can manage, following my say-so." this change in margot's work was the only shadow on that year's herring-tide. it was a change, however, that all felt would not be removed. margot said, with a little laugh, that she was teaching her lassie how to make a living, or how to help some gudeman to do it. "and i have a fine scholar," she soon began to add. "christine can now kipper a herring as weel as her mother, and why not? she has seen the kippering done, ever since she wore ankle tights." "and you will be glad of a bit rest to yourself, margot, no doubt," was the general answer. "ay, i have turned the corner of womanhood, and i'm wearing away down the hillside of life. i hae been in a dowie and desponding condition for a year or mair." "christine is clever with business, and folks do say she has a full sense of the value of money." "to be sure, nancy. there's no harm in the like of that. her feyther came from aberdeen folk, and it's weel recognized that aberdeen folk look at both sides of a penny." "christine is a clever lass, and good likewise, we were all saying that, a while ago." "weel, some folk, out of bad taste, or a natural want of good sense, may think different; but there--that's enough on the subject of christine. her feyther is gey touchy anent christine, and it will be as weel to let that subject alone." so, day after day, margot sat in a chair at her daughter's side, and christine filled the big orders as her mother instructed her. and they were well filled, in good time, and the outcome was beyond all expectation. yet christine looked sadly at the money, and margot turned her head away, to hide the unbidden tears in her eyes, as she said: "it's all yours, lassie. i'll not touch a farthing of it. you have fairly won it. it will happen help neil's deficiencies. oh, my dear lassie! mither has done her last kippering! i feel it." "then i'll kipper for you, mither, as long as we both live. the hill is now o'er much for you--and the noisy women, and skirling bairns! christine will go to mother's shed, and mother will bide at hame, and red up the house, and have a cup of tea ready for hungry folk, as they come weary hame." and margot let it go at that, but she was as she said, "dowie and despondent." ruleson begged her to go with him to edinburgh, and get the advice of a good physician, but margot would not listen to any entreaty. "i'll no do any such thing," she answered. "not likely! the domine can gie the pain a setback, and if god wants me here, he'll keep me here, sick or well, and if he doesna want me here, i'm willing to go where he does want me." from this position margot was not movable, and now that the herring fishing was over, there did not appear to be any reason for making her restless and unhappy. so she naturally drifted into that household position, where everyone took care not to tire, and not to vex, grandmother. one morning in the early days of october, christine was sitting sewing, and margot was making shortcake. they had been talking of neil and wondering where he was. "i'm thinking it is whole o' a month, since we heard from the lad," said margot. "i dare say it's mair, mother; and that letter was from some strange french seaside place, and he was thinking that they wouldna stay there very long. he has mebbe gane further awa' than france." "i wouldn't wonder--setting a young man traveling is like setting a ball rolling down a hill. baith o' them are hard to turn back." margot had scarcely finished speaking, when sam brodie opened the door. he had been to the town post office and seen, in the list of uncalled-for letters, a letter addressed to christine, so he had brought it along. it proved to be from neil, and had been posted in rome. christine was familiar with that postmark, and it still had power at least to raise her curiosity. neil's handwriting, however, spoke for itself, and before she broke the seal, she said, "why, mither! it is from neil." "i thought that, as soon as sam came in. i was dreaming of a letter from neil, last night. i dinna dream for naething. make haste with the news--good or bad--read it all. i want to hear the warst of it." then christine read aloud the following letter: dear christine, i want you to tell mother that i married miss rath in paris on the fifth of september ult. we were afraid that reginald was going to interfere, so we settled the matter to prevent quarreling--which, you know, is against my nature. reginald's opposition was quite unlooked for and, i must say, very ill-natured and discouraging. if there is anything in a man's life he should have full liberty and sympathy in, it is his marriage. i dare say mother will have some complaint or other to make. you must talk to her, until she sees things reasonably. we were married in the protestant episcopal church in paris, very quietly--only the necessary witnesses--and came on here at once. i disapproved so highly of reginald's behavior at this important period of my life, and of some insulting things he said to me, that i have resolved not to have any more relations with him. after all i have done for him, it is most disheartening. my wife feels her brother's conduct very much, but she has perfect trust in me. of course, if i had been married in scotland, i would have had my friends' presence, but i am quite sure that my best interests demanded an immediate marriage. we shall be home in a month, and then i propose to open a law office in glasgow _in my own name_. i shall do better without impedimenta like reginald rath. i trust to you to make all comfortable at home. i shall desire to bring my wife to see my mother. i am proud of roberta. she is stylish, and has a good deal more money than i expected. i shall not require reginald's money or patronage, they would now be offensive to my sense of honor and freedom. give my love to my father and mother, and remember i am always your loving brother, neil. there was a few moments' dead silence, and christine did not lift her eyes from the paper in her hand, until a passionate exclamation from margot demanded her notice. "oh, mither, mither!" she cried, "dinna mak' yoursel' sick; it's neil, our neil, that you are calling a scoundrel." "and i'll call a scoundrel by no ither name. it's gude enough for him." "we were talking one hour ago about him marrying miss rath, and you took to the idea then. now that he has done so, what for are you railing at him?" "i'm not railing at him for marrying the lass, she's doubtless better than he deserves. it's the way that he's done the business--the mean, blackguardly way he's done the business, that shames and angers me. dod! i would strike him on the face, if he was near my hand. i'm shamed o' him! he's a black disgrace to his father and mother, and to all the kind he came from." "generally speaking, mother, folks would say that neil had done weel to himsel' and praise him for it." "who are you alluding to? dinna call the name 'neil' in my hearing. scoundrel is gude enough to specify a scoundrel. i hae counts against him, and he must clear himself, before i'll pass his christened name o'er my lips." "what are your counts against him? maybe i can speak a word to explain them." "not you! first, he has, beyond a' doubt, deceived the lass's brother. he should hae spoken to him first of all, and the young man wouldna hae said insulting words if there wasna cause for the same." "the lady was of full age, and sae had the right to please herself, mither." "she had not. she was as bad as neil, or she would have sought her brother's consent." "perhaps neil wouldna let her tell her brither." "that's like enough. he has got the girl, and that means he has got full control o' her money. then he breaks his promise to go into partnership in business with the brother, and will open a law office in his ain name! he'll open it, ye ken, wi' the rath siller, in his ain name! having got plenty o' the rath siller to set himsel' up, he drops the man whom he used to fleech and flatter enou' to sicken a honest man. and he trusts to you to mak' all comfortable here--but no word or whisper anent the ninety pounds he's owing you. he has gotten mair money than he expectit wi' his stolen wife, and yet he hasna a thought for the sister wha emptied the small savings o' her lifetime into his unthankfu' hands. wae's me, but i'm the sorrowfu' mither this day." "for a' that, mither, dinna mak' yoursel' sick. luck o' some kind threw the rath siller in neil's way." "ay, and the scoundrel has ta'en all he could get o' it." "that's the way o' the warld, mother." "it isn't the way o' honest, honorable men. he ought to hae spoken to the young man plainly, and he ought not to hae quarreled wi' him anent their business proposal. i understand that the rath lad was na very knowing in the law nor indeed notable for managing his ain affairs, in any way." "weel, mither, it comes to this--neil had made up his mind to tak' his living out o' the rath purse, and he finally decided that he would rayther tak' it from the lady, than the gentleman." margot laughed at this remark. "you'll not be far wrang in that observe, christine," she said, "but the lad may be far out o' his reckoning, and i'm not carin' if it be so. nae doubt he thought the lassie wad be easier controlled than her brither, who, i was led to believe, had a vera uncertain temper. roberta may pay a' our wrangs yet. little women are gey often parfect tartars." "mither! mither! you wouldn't wish your ain lad to marry a tartar o' a wife, and sae be miserable." "wouldn't i? a stranger winning their way wi' the raths' siller, wouldna hae troubled me, it would hae been out o' my concern. christine, there are two things no good woman likes to do. one is to bring a fool into the warld, and the other is to bring one o' them clever fellows, who live on other people's money, instead o' working their way up, step by step. i'm shamed o' my motherhood this day!" "na, na, mither! think of norman, and allan, and the lave o' the lads!" "and forbye, i think shame o' any son o' mine being married in a foreign country, in france itsel', the french being our natural enemies." "not just now, mither, not just now." "our natural enemies! and a kind o' people, that dinna even speak like christians. ye ken i hae heard their language in this vera room, christine, and sorry i am to hae permitted the like." "there's nae harm in it, mither." "it led him astray. if ruleson's lad hadna kent the french tongue, he would hae persuaded thae raths that america was the only place to see the warld in." "well, mither, he went to the english church in france--the protestant episcopal church!" "another great wrang to our family. the rulesons are of the best covenanting stock. what would john knox say to a ruleson being married in an episcopal church, at the very horns o' the altar, as it were? an unchristened turk could do naething more unfitting." "mither, i hear feyther and jamie coming up the hill. let us hae peace this night. we will tak' counsel o' our pillows, and in the morning we'll see things in a different way, perhaps." "perhaps!" and the scorn margot threw into the seven letters of that one word, "perhaps," would have been an impossibility to any woman less ignorant, or less prejudiced in favor of her own creed and traditions. for it is in ignorance that faith finds its most invincible stronghold. ruleson came in with a newspaper in his hand. jamie was with him, but as soon as he entered the cottage, he snuggled up to his grandmother, and told her softly, "grandfather has had some bad news. it came in a newspaper." grandfather, however, said not a word concerning bad news, until he had had his tea, and smoked a pipe. then christine and jamie went to christine's room to read, and ruleson, after tapping the bowl of his pipe on the hob until it was clean, turned to margot, and said, "gudewife, i hae news today o' neil's marriage to miss rath." "ay, christine had a letter." "what do you think o' the circumstance?" "i'm wondering, when it was in a foreign country, and outside his ain kirk and creed, whether it was legal and lawful?" "neil is lawyer enough to ken he was all right. it is not the law side o' the question i am thinking of. it is the hame side. not a word to his ain folk, and not one o' us present at the ceremony!" "neither were any of the lady's family present. it was, i'm thinking, a marriage after neil ruleson's ain heart. neil first, and last, and altogether." "how's that? the young man, her brother----" "neil has quarreled wi' him. neil has got the lady and her money, and he is going to begin business in his ain name, exclusive! i consider neil something o' a scoundrel, and a mean one, at that." "i was talking to finlay anent the matter, and he says neil has done weel to himsel', and he thinks him a gey clever young man." "and i'd like to have finlay keep his false tongue out o' my family affairs. i say neil has done a dirty piece o' business with the raths, and that will be seen, and heard tell o'." "as i was saying, margot, it is the hame side o' the affair that gave me a shock. to think of a' we hae done, of a' his brithers hae done, and of the siller he got frae his sister! to think o' it! only to think o' it! and not ane o' us bid to his wedding. it fairly staggers me!" "nae wonder, gudeman! it's an unspeakable business! i'll not talk o' it! the lad i nursed on my heart, and he's fairly broken it at last. he's a sinful creature!" "we are all o' us sinfu' creatures, margot!" "we are not. you are much mista'en, james. there's plenty o' good men and women on every side o' us. neither you, nor mysel', would do as neil has done." "perhaps not--but we baith hae our ain way o' sinning, margot, you ken that." "speak for yoursel', gudeman!" "finlay said----" "kay! kay! i'll no be fashed wi' finlay's foolishness. i'm awa' to my sleep. my lad, my dear lad, you are heart-weary. i'm sorry for you." "wait a moment, margot. finlay says he has nae doubt neil has married ten thousand pounds a year. think o' that!" "i'll think of nae such foolishness. and if it was twenty thousand, the lad would need it all--we hae brought him up sae badly!" margot disappeared with the words, and the unhappy father as he covered the fire, and pottered about the house, said sorrowfully: "she's right! she's always right. if her words are in the way o' reproach, it's my fault! james ruleson's fault! i ought to hae stood out against the maraschal. if we had made him a minister, he would hae been obligated to set an example to a kirkful o' men and women, and folks will sin against their ain house, when they will do their duty to a kirkful." chapter ix a happy bit of writing the dead sailor, has peace that none may gain who live; and rest about him, that no love can give, and over him, while life and death shall be, the light and sound, and darkness of the sea! the winter following neil's marriage was a pleasant one to the village of culraine. the weather was favorable, the line fishing more than usually prosperous, and the school remarkably successful. ruleson took the greatest delight in its progress, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than a walk in its vicinity, when he could see the children coming and going, with their books and balls in their hands. they all knew him, but however large the group in the playground, he could pick little jamie out of it in a moment. and oh, how good it was to see the old man defying his failure with neil, and building still grander hopes on this lad of ten years old! truly, from the good heart hope springs eternal. it forgets that it is mortal, because it takes hold on immortality. christine heard constantly from cluny, but it was nearly a year since she had seen him, for the crew of a passenger steamer trading to foreign ports, do not obtain leave easily, especially in their first year. and cluny had never been in glasgow port long enough to make a journey to culraine and back possible. christine did not fret herself because of his absence. she was not as one of the foolish ones, who regard a lover and love-making as the great essential of life. she had proved in her own case, that duty was far above, and beyond love. she had known cases where honor had been put before love. she had seen angus ballister put mere social caste before love. it was a fact known to all the world, that gold laughed at love, and bought and sold love, as if he were merchandise in the market place. she loved cluny, but her love was subject to her duty, which at present was evidently in her own home. her father was strong and full of the joy of living, but his work was on the winter seas, and he needed the comfort of a well-ordered house and properly-cooked food after his hard day's fishing. her mother was sick and failing, and it appeared to christine's anxious heart that she was losing, instead of gaining, ground. margot denied this position, but christine noticed that one little household duty after another was allowed to drift quietly into her hands. then also there was jamie, whom she tenderly loved, and who was wholly dependent on her care and help. his food--his clothes--his lessons! what could jamie do without her? one morning in february, she had a letter from cluny, which set at naught all these claims. he had two hundred pounds in the bank of scotland, and he wanted to get married. he was studying navigation, and he would be third officer in another year. he was fairly wasting his life without christine. he was growing old with the disappointment he was getting constantly. he was next door to dying, with one put-off after another. if he came up on the fifteenth, would she walk over to the domine's with him? he felt as if the domine might bury him, if he didna marry him. he declared he had been sick with the love and pain of wanting her, ever since he could remember himself, "and yet, christine," he wrote, "you are mine. mine from your birth hour. mine whether you love me, or don't love me. mine if you marry someone else. mine even if you die, for then i would soon follow, and find you out, wherever you were." what was a girl of cool, reasonable nature, to do with a lover of this impetuous, vehement temper? she told her mother that cluny was coming, and she noticed that the news instantly changed the atmosphere of the room. margot had been sewing and chatting cheerfully in her chair by the fireside. she dropped her work, and became thoughtful and silent. christine knew why, and she said to herself, "mither is fearing i am going to marry cluny, and leave her alane! as if i would! the man never lived, who could make me do the like o' that." she waited ten minutes to give margot time to recover herself, but as she did not do so, she asked, "mither, are you doubting christine?" "no, dearie! i couldna do that." "what then?" "i'm doubting mysel'. doubting my power to look to your feyther's comfort, and the like o' that, and maybe fearing a strange woman in the house." "why a strange woman?" "there's things i canna do now--things i havna the strength for, and----" "you think that christine would leave you?" "weel, there is the peradventure." "mither, put your arm round me. to the end of your life, christine will put hers round you. naebody can part us twa. naebody!" "i thought cluny was coming--and--that----" "i would leave you. leave you now! leave you, and leave feyther without anyone to cook his meals, and leave wee jamie, who looks to me as if i was his mither. na, na! you mustna judge christine in that way. what for would i leave you? because a lad loves me out of a' sense and reason. even if i was his wife, love and duty would count your claim first. god said a man should leave feyther and mither, and cleave to his wife; but he didna tell a woman to leave her feyther and mither, and cleave to her husband." "he would mean it, christine." "then he would hae said it. he leaves nae room to question." "there might be what is called 'inferences.'" "na, na, mither! it is thus and so, and do, and do not, wi' god. there's nae inferences in any o' his commands. when folks break them, they ken well they are breaking them. but what will we be talking o' this matter for? you yoursel' are beyond the obligation." "i ne'er had it, i may say, for my feyther was drowned ere i was born, and my mither died ere i was five years old. it's different wi' you, dearie." "it is, but christine kens all o' her duty, and it will be her pleasure to fulfill it." and she clasped her mother's hands in hers, and kissed her. and margot's old pawky smile flitted o'er her face, and she said, "we must ask the domine anent this question"--then a little sarcastically--"or neil will gie us the common law o' scotland concerning it." so the trouble ended with a smile and the shout of jamie as he flung open the house door, in a storm of hurry and pleasure. "auntie! grandmither!" he cried. "we are going to have a tug-of-war between the english and the scotch, on the playground, at half-past twelve. i'm on the scotch side. gie me my dinner, auntie, and i'll be awa' to help floor geordie kent, and the rest of his upsetting crowd. geordie's mither is english, and he's always boasting about the circumstance." "are you going to tak' the brag out o' him, jamie?" "i am going to help do so, with all my might, but there's some border lads among the english set, and they are a hefty lot, and hard to beat." "that's right, jamie! fife lads shout when the boat wins the harbor, not till then. all the same, laddie, bring me word o' your victory." when dinner was over christine dressed herself for her visitor, and the light of love and expectation gave to her face an unusual beauty. she wore her fisher costume, for she thought cluny would like it best, but it was fresh and bright and quite coquettish, with its pretty fluted cap, its gold earrings, its sky-blue bodice and skirt of blue and yellow stripes, and the little kerchief of vivid scarlet round her shoulders. its final bit of vanity was a small white muslin apron, with little pockets finished off with bows of scarlet ribbon. if she had dressed herself for a fashionable masquerade ball she would have been its most picturesque belle and beauty. it was seven o'clock when cluny arrived. ruleson had gone to a meeting of the school trustees, a business, in his opinion, of the very greatest importance; and margot's womanly, motherly sense told her that cluny would rather have her absence than her company. so she had pleaded weariness, and gone to her room soon after tea was over, and cluny had "the fair opportunity," he so often declared he never obtained; for margot had said to jamie, "you'll come and sit wi' me, laddie, and gie me the full story o' your bloody defeat, and we'll mak' a consultation anent the best way o' mending it." "this is glorious!" cried cluny, as he stood alone with christine in the firelit room. "i have you all to mysel'! oh, you woman of all the world, what have you to say to me this night?" "what do you want me to say, cluny?" "tell me that you'll go before the domine with me, in the morning." "now, cluny, if you are going to begin that trouble again, i will not stay with you." "trouble, trouble? what trouble? is it a trouble to be my wife?" "i have told you before, i could not marry you till the right time came." "it is the right time now! it has to be! i'll wait no longer!" "you will wait forever, if you talk that way to me." "i'll take my ain life, christine, rayther than hae it crumbled awa' between your cruel fingers and lips! aye writing, and saying, 'at the proper time'! god help me! when is the proper time?" "when my mither is better, and able to care for hersel', and look after feyther and the house." "is she any better than she was?" "na, i'm feared she is worse." "she is maybe dying." "i am feared she is." "then if i wait till she dies----" "be quiet, cluny! how dare you calculate anything for my life, on my mither's death? do you think i would walk from her grave to the altar to marry you? i would hae to lose every gude sense, and every good feeling i have, ere i could be sae wicked." "do you mean that after your mither's death, you will still keep me waiting?" "you know right well, cluny, what our folk would say, if i didna observe the set time of mourning." "great scot! that's a full year!" "ay. if a bairn dies in our village, its folk wear blacks for a year. would i grudge a year's respect for my mither's memory? forbye there would be my poor heart-broken feyther, and a' his needs and griefs." "and the bairn, too, i suppose?" "ay, you're right. the bairn is in our keeping, till he is fourteen. then he goes to domine trenaby." "i hope the next storm will mak' an end o' me! i'm a broke man, in every worth-while. i hae money to mak' a home, but i canna hae a home without a wife, and the wife promised me puts one mountain after another in the way, that no man can win over"--and he passionately clasped and unclasped his hands, while tears, unrecognized, flowed freely, and somewhat relieved the heart tension that for a few moments made him speechless. it seems natural for a woman to weep, but it sends a thrill of pity and fear through a woman's heart to see a man break down in unconscious and ungovernable weeping. christine was shocked and strangely pitiful. she soothed, and kissed, and comforted him, with a gracious abandon she had never before shown. she could not alter circumstances, but she strengthened him for the bearing of them. she actually made him confess that she would lose something in his estimation, if she was capable of leaving her mother under present conditions. in his embrace she wept with him, and both of them learned that night the full sweetness of a love that is watered with mutual tears. so, at the last, she made him strong and confident in hopes for the future, because god is love, and the circumstances that separated them were of his ordering. and christine would think no ill of god, she was sure that life and death, and all things god ordained, were divinely good; and her influence overarched and enveloped cluny, and perhaps for the first time, the real meaning of life and its difficulties pealed through his heart and brain. then as they were talking, ruleson returned, and ruleson, liking cluny well, was rejoiced to see him, and they talked together with the greatest interest, while christine placed upon the table the simple luxuries she had prepared for this anticipated meal. it was indeed a wonderfully happy meal, prolonged by interesting conversation till nearly midnight, for ruleson wanted to hear all cluny could tell about the mediterranean, and cluny was pleased to listen to ruleson's enthusiastic description of the good work the school was doing. when cluny at length rose to depart, ruleson asked the date of his ship's next visit to glasgow, and then promised to meet him there, and to bring christine with him for a two or three days' pleasuring. cluny was delighted, for though christine only shook her head and smiled, he believed that in some way or other the visit could be managed. and margot was enthusiastic about it. she said christine must ask faith to come and stay with her, and norman would come to her through the night in case of trouble, and the domine would call and see her, and wee jamie was comfort and help baith. "forbye," she added, "i'm wanting to hear a' about neil and his wife, and their way o' living, christine, and if you'll just make them an hour's passing call, you can gie me a vera clear idea o' the same." so the hastily projected trip became an anticipatory pleasure for which there was constant preparation going on. it was a wonderful prospect to christine, who had never been five miles from her home, and margot entered heartily into the scheme for making it a notable affair. she said the time was a lucky ordering, for it was near enough easter to warrant a new spring suit, and she gave christine a five-pound note, and sent her into the town to buy one. "you'll get your ain choice, lassie," she said, "but i'm thinking, if it should be o' a light pearly-gray, it would suit you weel, and get your gloves and parasol o' the same shade, as near as may be, but buy your bonnet in glasgow town, for you will hae the height o' the fashion there, and scores o' shops to choose from." so for nearly a month this pleasant expectation kept the ruleson cottage busy and happy. christine's pearly-gray cashmere dress came home, and was greatly admired, even by the domine, who also took a great interest in the proposed visit to glasgow. he advised her to send neil word, as soon as she arrived there: "and do as you have always done, christine, strive for peace and family unity. there have been wrongs, no doubt, but you rulesons have all nursed one mother's breast, and learned your prayers at one mother's knees, so if there is any little trouble between neil and yourself, christine, forgive it." "i love neil, i hae loved him all my life, sir. i intend to go on loving him. ninety pounds could not part us. no, nor ninety hundred pounds. there's no money's-worth, can count love's-worth." how does a young girl feel on the eve of her first pleasure journey, when she has pretty new clothing to wear, and money enough to spend, and is going in the care of an indulgent father to have fresh and unknown entertainments, with a lover who adores her, and whom she admires and truly loves? is she not happy and joyous, and full of eager anticipation? and it was the last day of waiting. the valise which held her new dress and her father's best suit, was packed, faith had readily taken hold of the house duties, and margot had been, and was, unusually well and active. ruleson had gone fishing "to pass the time," he said, and all was ready for the early start they proposed to make in the morning. ruleson generally came home in time for his six o'clock meal, but christine, standing at the open door about four o'clock, saw him making for the harbor. "father's just like a bairn," she thought. "i'm gey uplifted mysel', but i'm plum steady, to what he is." then margot joined her. "is that your feyther coming, christine?" "ay, it's feyther, sure enou'!" "what for is he coming at this time o' day?" "he's just in a wave o' excitement, he isna heeding what the clock says." "what time is it?" "not quite four." "weel, you hed better put on the kettle; he's used to eating as soon as he comes hame, and if his head is wrang anent the time, his stomach is doubtless wrang anent its eating." so the women went inside, and christine put on the kettle, and margot began to lay the cloth, and set the china on the table. it took ruleson about half an hour to walk between his boat and his house, but suddenly margot noticed that he was overdue, and yet not in sight. she called christine, and they stood together at the land side door, and watched for him. a sudden silence fell between them, they stopped wondering about his delay, and kept their eyes on the road. the time seemed to stand still. margot went into the house and sat down. christine's life seemed to be in her eyes. every minute was like an hour. "feyther, feyther!" she said in an anxious whisper. "whatna for are you delaying? what at all is keeping you? come, feyther!" and to this strong cry of the inner woman, he turned a corner, and was in full view. christine saw in a moment that something was wrong. "he isna walking like himsel'! he must hae got hurt some way or ither!" and she ran like a deer to meet him. "feyther! feyther! whatever's ailing you?" he stood still and looked at her, and she was shocked at his appearance. "have you hurt yoursel', feyther?" "something has hurt me. i hae taken a sair cold and shivering. i am ill, lassie. i maun hae a doctor as soon as maybe. i am in a hot and cauld misery. i can hardly draw a breath." margot met them at the door. "feyther is ill, mither! where's jamie? he will run and tell the domine. get feyther into his bed, and if i canna find jamie, i'll away mysel' for the domine. perhaps i had better go to the town for doctor fraser." "feyther says no! he wants to see the domine, particular." "then i'll waste no time seeking jamie. i'll go mysel' to the manse, and i'll be back as quick as possible. keep a brave heart, mither. there's only you, till i get back." happily she found the domine more than halfway on his road to ruleson's. he said he had had a feeling an hour ago, that he was wanted there, and he was angry with himself for not obeying the word given him. then he took christine's hand, and they went hurriedly and in silence to the sick man. "my friend! my dear friend!" he said as he clasped ruleson's hot hand and listened to his labored breathing, "i am going as fast as i can for fraser. this is a trouble beyond my skill, and we want you well for the easter school exercises. the bairns willna be happy missing you. so i'll go quick as i can for fraser." then turning to margot, he said, "where is faith anderson? i thought she was with you." "she is, but she went to the village to see some o' her auld friends. she said she would be back by nine o'clock." "and jamie? he could go wi' me." "faith took jamie wi' her." then he went away, and margot and christine stood helplessly beside the suffering man. it grew dark, and no one came, and christine felt as if she was in some dreadful dream, and could not awaken herself. they expected norman about seven, but something detained him, and it was after nine when faith and jamie were heard on the hill. they were laughing and talking noisily, and christine ran to meet, and to silence them. the sick man was growing rapidly worse, and there was no sign of the domine and the doctor. indeed it was near midnight when they arrived, and by this time ruleson was unconscious. those who know anything of pneumonia will understand the hard, cruel fight that a man in the perfect health and strength of james ruleson made for his life. every step of the disease was contested, and it was only when his wonderful resistance gave out, and his strength failed him, that the doctor and the domine lost hope. at length, one sunny afternoon, the domine drew up the window shade, and let the light fall on the still, white face for a minute. christine was at his side, and he turned to her, and said, "i am going back to the manse for the blessed cup of remembrance. get the table and bread ready, and tell your mother it is the last time! she must try and eat it with him." christine looked at him with her soul in her eyes. she understood all he meant and she merely bowed her head and turned to the dying man. he lay as still as a cradled child. the struggle was over. he had given it up. it was peace at last. where was james ruleson at that hour? the domine had said, "do not disturb him. we know not what now is passing in his soul. let him learn in peace whatever god wishes him to learn, in this pause between one life and another." margot was on her bed in another room. christine knelt down at her side, and said gently, "mither, the great, wonderful hour has come. the domine has gane for the cup. with your ain dear hands you will spread the cloth, and cut the bread, for your last eating wi' him. and, mither, you won't cry out, and weep, as those do who have nae hope o' meeting again. you will mak' yoursel' do as the daughters o' god do, who call him 'feyther'! you'll be strong in the lord, mither, and bid feyther 'good-by,' like those who are sure they will meet to part no more." and margot whispered, "i was brought low, and he helped me." a few hours later, in this simple cottage bedroom, the miracle of love's last supper in the upper chamber at jerusalem, was remembered. with her own hands margot covered a little table at her husband's bedside with her finest and whitest linen. she cut the bread into the significant morsels, and when the domine came, he placed them solemnly on the silver plate of the consecrated service, and poured wine into the holy vessel of the communion. all was then ready, and they sat down to wait for that lightening which so often comes when the struggle is over and the end near. they waited long. ruleson's deep sleep lasted for hours, and the domine began to hope it might be that life-giving sleep which often introduces the apparently dying to a new lease of life. he awoke after midnight, with the word "margot" on his lips, and margot slipped her hand into his, and kissed him. "we are going to have supper with the lord christ. will you join us, ruleson?" "ay, will--i--gladly!" after the simple rite ruleson was quite happy. he said a few words privately to the domine, asked for his grandson, and told him to be a good man, and a minister of god, and promised if it was in god's will he would watch o'er him, and then blessed and sent him away. "i might hae another struggle at the last. i dinna want him to see it." "the struggle is over, james," answered the domine. "be still, and wait for the salvation of the lord." and for some hours, even until the day broke, and the shadows began to flee away, that dying room was in a strange peace. margot and christine sat almost motionless, watching their loved one's face growing more and more calm and content, and the domine stood or sat at the foot of the bed, and all was intensely still. "great things are passing in the soul now," he said to the women. "it is contemplating the past. it is judging itself. it is bearing witness to the righteousness and mercy of its maker. pray that it may come from this great assize justified through christ." soon after, he added "the tide has turned, he will go out with the tide. stand near him now, and sing softly with me his last human prayer: "jesus, lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly; while the nearer waters roll, while the tempest still is nigh: hide me, oh my saviour, hide! till the storm of life is past, safe into the haven guide, oh receive my soul at last!" once the dying man opened his eyes, once he smiled, but ere the last line was finished, james ruleson had gone on that long voyage all men take, and with angelic help, had once again, by unknown waters, entered a new world. time waits neither for the living nor the dead, and when a month had come and gone, margot and christine had accepted, in some measure, their inevitable condition. ruleson had left his small affairs beyond all dispute. his cottage was bequeathed entirely to his wife and daughter, "for all the days of their lives." his boat was to be sold, and the proceeds given to his widow. the two hundred cash he had in the bank was also margot's, and the few acres of land he owned he gave to his eldest son, norman, who had stood faithfully by his side through all his good and evil days. no one was dissatisfied except norman's wife, who said her man, being the eldest born, had a full right to house and cash, and a' there was, saving margot's lawful widow right. she said this so often that she positively convinced herself of its rightness and justice, "and some day," she frequently added, "i will let mistress and miss ruleson know the ground on which they stand." to norman, she was more explicit and denunciatory--and he let her talk. it had been very positively stated in the adoption of james ruleson, the younger, that the simple decease of his grandfather made him the adopted son of the domine, and it was thought best to carry out this provision without delay. margot had been seriously ill after the funeral, and she said calmly now, that she was only waiting until her change came. but life still struggled bravely within her for its promised length, and the domine said death would have to take her at unawares, if he succeeded yet awhile. this was the truth. the desire to live was still strong in margot's heart, she really wished earnestly to live out all her days. now, public sympathy soon wears out. the village which had gone _en masse_ to weep at james ruleson's funeral, had in two weeks chosen peter brodie to fill his place. the women who were now busy with their spring cleaning, and their preparations for the coming herring season, could not afford to weep any longer with "thae set-up rulesons." neil had ignored all of them at the funeral, margot's sorrow they judged to be "a vera dry manifestation," and christine would not talk about her father's last hours. the women generally disapproved of a grief that was so dry-eyed and silent. so gradually the little house on the hill became very solitary. jamie ran up from the school at the noon hour, and sometimes he stayed an hour or two with them after the school was closed. then the domine came for him, and they all had tea together. but as the evening twilight lengthened, the games in the playground lengthened, and the domine encouraged the lad in all physical exercises likely to increase his stature and his strength. then the herring season came, and the rulesons had nothing to do with it, and so they gradually lost their long preëminence. everyone was busy from early to late with his own affairs. and the rulesons? "had they not their gentleman son, neil? and their four lads wearing the henderson uniform? and the domine? and the lad cluny macpherson? did he care for any human creature but christine ruleson?" with these sentiments influencing the village society, it was no wonder that margot complained that her friends had deserted her. she had been the leader of the village women in their protective and social societies, and there was no doubt she had been authoritative, and even at times tyrannical. but margot did not believe she had ever gone too far. she was sure that her leniency and consideration were her great failing. so the winter came again, and christine looked exceedingly weary. while ruleson lived, margot had relied on him, she was sure that he would be sufficient, but after his death, she encouraged an unreasonable trial of various highly reputed physicians. they came to her from edinburgh and aberdeen, and she believed that every fresh physician was the right one. the expense of this method was far beyond the profit obtained. yet christine could not bear to make any protest. and the weeks went on, and there appeared to be neither profit nor pleasure in them. the domine watched christine with wonder, and in the second year of her vigil, with great anxiety. "christine will break down soon, margot," he said one day to the sick woman. "look at the black shadows under her eyes. and her eyes are losing all their beauty, her figure droops, and her walk lags and stumbles. could you not do with faith for a few days, and let christine get away for a change? you'll hae a sick daughter, if you don't do something, and that soon." "i canna stand faith anderson. she's o'er set up wi' hersel'. i am that full o' pain and sorrow that faith's bouncing happiness is a parfect blow in a body's face." "the schoolmaster's wife?" "i'm no a bairn, domine; and she treats auld and young as if they were bairns. she would want to teach me my alphabet, and my catechism o'er again." "there's nannie brodie. she is a gentle little thing. she will do all christine does for a few shillings a week." "what are you thinking of, domine? i couldna afford a few shillings a week. i hae wonderfu' expenses wi' doctors and medicines, and my purse feels gey light in my hand." "i see, margot, that my advice will come to little. yet consider, margot, if christine falls sick, who will nurse her? and what will become o' yourself?" he went away with the words, and he found christine sitting on the doorstep, watching the sea, as she used to watch it for her father's boat. she looked tired, but she smiled brightly when he called her name. "my dear lassie," he said, "you ought to have some new thoughts, since you are not likely to get new scenes. have you any nice books to read?" "no, sir. mither stopped _chambers magazine_ and _the scotsman_, and i ken a' the books we hae, as if they were school books. some o' them are neil's old readers." "you dear, lonely lassie! this day i will send you some grand novels, and some books of travel. try and lose yourself and your weariness in them." "o, sir! if you would do this, i can bear everything! i can do everything!" "i'll go home this hour, and the books will be here before dark. get as much fresh air as you can, and fill your mind with fresh pictures, and fresh ideas, and i wouldn't wonder if you win back your spirits, and your beauty. your mother is a great care, lassie!" "ay, doctor, but she is in god's care. i hae naething to do but help and pleasure her, when she's waking. she sleeps much o' her time now. i think the medicine o' the last doctor frae aberdeen, is the because o' her sleepiness. i was going to ask you to take a look at it." he did so, and said in reply, "there's no harm in it, but it would be well enough to give it with a double portion of water." then the domine went away, and christine did not know that this hour was really the turning point of her life. and it is perhaps well for the majority that this important crisis is seldom recognized on its arrival. there might be interferences, and blunderings of all kinds. but a destiny that is not realized, or meddled with, goes without let or hindrance to its appointed end. christine rose with a new strength in her heart and went to her mother. "come here, dear lass," said margot. "the domine was telling me thou art sick wi' the nursing o' me, and that thou must hae a change." "the domine had no right to say such a thing. i am quite well, mither. i should be sick, if i was one mile from you. i have no work and no pleasure away from your side, dear, dear mither! i am sorry the domine judged me sae hardly." "the domine is an interfering auld man. he is getting outside his pulpit. when i was saying i missed wee jamie, and i wished him to come mair often to see me, you should hae watched him bridle up. 'james must be more under control,' he said, in a vera pompous manner. i answered, 'the laddie is quite biddable, doctor,' and he said, 'mistress, that belongs to his years. he is yet under authority, and i cannot allow him too much freedom.' and the bairn is my ain! my ain grandchild! too much freedom wi' his sick grandmother! heard ye ever the like?" "weel, mither, he was right in a way. jamie has been a bit stiff-necked and self-willed lately." "there isna a thing wrang wi' the laddie." "weel, he behaves better wi' you than wi' any other person. the domine is making a fine lad o' him." "he was a' that, before the domine kent him at a'. i wasna carin' for the reverend this afternoon. i dinna wonder the village women are saying he has his fingers in everyone's pie." "it is for everyone's good, mither, if it be true; but you ken fine how little the village say-so can be trusted; and less now, than ever; for since you arena able to sort their clashes, they say what they like." "nae doubt o' it, christine." "the domine promised to send me some books to read. you see, mither, the pain you hae wearies you sae that you sleep a great deal, and i am glad o' it, for the sleep builds up what the pain pulls down, so that you hold up your ain side better than might be." "that's a plain truth, dearie." "then when you sleep, i am lonely, and i get to thinking and worrying anent this and that, and so i look tired when there's naething wrang. but if i had books to read, when i hadna yoursel' to talk wi', i would be gey happy, and maybe full o' wonderfuls to tell you as you lie wakin' and wearyful." "it is a maybe, and you hae to give maybes a trial." "you see, mither, we gave up our _chambers magazine_ and _the scotsman_ when feyther left us alane." "it was right to do sae; there was sae many expenses, what wi' the burying, and wi' my sickness, the last item being a constant outgo." "you must hae the medicines, and we be to gie up all expenses, if so be it was needed for that end." "weel, if i was to stay here, and be a troubler much langer, that might be needed, but i hae a few pounds left yet." "it will never be needed. the children o' the righteous hae a sure claim on the god o' the righteous, and he is bound and ready to answer it. those were almost the last words feyther said to me. i was wearying for books, and you see, he has sent them to me, without plack or bawbee." "weel, lassie, if books will mak' you happy, i am glad they are coming to you. whiles you can read a short story out o' _chambers_ to mysel'. i used to like thae little love tales, when you read one sometimes to us by the fireside. anyway, they were mair sensible than the village clash-ma-clavers; maist o' which are black, burning lees." "dear mither, we'll hae many a happy hour yet, wi' the tales i shall read to you." "nae doubt o' it. they'll all o' them be lees--made up lees--but the lees won't be anent folks we ken, and think weel of, or anent oursel's." "they won't be anent anybody, mither. the men who write the stories make up the men and women, and then make up the things they set them to do, and to say. it is all make-believe, ye ken, but many a good lesson is learned by good stories. they can teach, as well as sermons. folks that won't go and hear a sermon will maybe read a good story." "you wadna daur to read them in a kirk, for they arena the truth." "weel, there are many other things you wouldna care to read in the kirk--a perfectly honest love letter, for instance." "when did you hear frae cluny?" "yesterday. he is kept vera close to his business, and he is studying navigation, so that helps him to get the long hours in foreign ports over. he's hoping to get a step higher at the new year, and to be transferred to the atlantic boats. then he can perhaps get awa' a little oftener. mither, i was thinking when you got strong enough, we might move to glasgow. you would hae a' your lads, but norman, mair at your hand then." "ay, but norman is worth a' the lave o' them, and beside if i left this dear auld hame, norman would want to come here, and i couldna thole the thought o' that ill luck. yet it would be gey hard to refuse him, if he asked me, and harder still to think night and day o' his big, blundering, rough lads, among my flower beds, and destroying everything in baith house and bounds. i couldna think o' it! your feyther brought me here when the house was naething at a' but a but and a ben. a bed and a table, a few chairs, and a handfu' o' crockery was a' we had in the wide warld--save and forbye, as i hae often told you, my gold wedding ring." and margot held up her white, shrunken hand, and looked at it with tears streaming down her face. and oh, how tenderly christine kissed her hand and her face, and said she was right, and she did not wonder she feared norman's boys. they were a rough-and-tumble lot, but would make fine men, every one o' them being born for the sea, and the fishing. "just sae, christine. they'll do fine in a fishing boat, among nets and sails. but here! nay, nay! and then there's the mither o' them! that woman in my place! can you think o' it, lassie?" "we'll never speak again o' the matter. i ken how you feel, mither. it would be too cruel! it would be mair than you could bear." then there was a man's voice heard in the living room, and christine went to answer the call. it was the domine's messenger, with his arms full of books. and christine had them taken into her mother's room, and for a whole hour sat beside her and showed her books full of pictures, and read short anecdotes from the magazine volume, and margot for a while seemed interested, but finally said with an air of great weariness: "tak' them all awa', dearie. ye can hae the best bedroom for them." "dear mither, will you let me hae the use o' it? i will keep a' in order, and it is sae near to yoursel', i could hear you if you only spoke my name." "tak' the room and welcome. neil had it for many a year. it has a feeling o' books and lesson-larning in it." so that night, when her mother was in her first sleep, christine took her books into this large, silent room. it faced the sea. it had an atmosphere different from that of any other room in the house, and no one but herself was likely to enter it. there was a broad sill to the largest window, and christine arranged the domine's books on it. in the dozen or more volumes there was a pleasant variety--history, poetry and the popular novels of the time--especially the best work of george eliot, miss braddon, thackeray, and dickens. it was all so wonderful to christine, she could hardly believe it. she touched them lovingly, she could have kissed them. for in those days in scotland, good literature was yet a sort of luxury. a person in a country place who had a good novel, and was willing to loan it, was a benefactor. christine had borrowed from the schoolmaster's wife all she had to lend, and for several weeks had been without mental food and mental outlook. was there any wonder that she was depressed and weary-looking? now all quickly changed. the housework went with her as if it were paid to do so. she sang as she worked. she was running in and out of mither's room with unfailing cheerfulness, and margot caught her happy tone, and they were sufficient for each other. mother and books would have been sufficient alone, but they had also many outside ties and interests. the domine allowed jamie to go to grandmother's once a day. there were cluny and neil, and all the rest of the boys, the domine and the villagers, the kirk and the school; and always jamie came in the afternoon, and brought with him the daily _glasgow herald_. it was the domine's way. at first he had not consciously recognized what christine required, but as soon as the situation was evident to him, he hasted to perform the good work, and he did the duty liberally, and wearied not in it. so the days came and went, and neither margot nor christine counted them, and cluny came whenever he could by any travel get a few hours with christine. and the herring season came and went again, and was not very successful. margot and christine were sorry, but it was no longer a matter of supreme importance. still, the gossip concerning the fishing always interested margot, and someone generally brought it to her. if no one did, she frankly asked the domine what was going on, for he always knew everything affecting the people who sat in culraine kirk of scotland. certainly he watched christine's improvement with the greatest interest and pleasure. in six months she was a far more beautiful woman than she had ever before been. her soul was developing on the finest lines, and it was constantly beautifying its fleshly abode. the work was like that of a lapidary who, day by day, cuts and polishes a gem of great value. even margot occasionally looked intently at her daughter, and said wonderingly, "you are growing very bonnie, christine, the domine must hae lost his sight, when he thought you were sick and wearying for a change." "i'm never sick, mither. whiles, when i was worrying mysel' anent angus ballister, i used to hae a dowie weariness come o'er me; but since feyther went awa' i havena had as much as a headache. now if it suits you, mither, i'll gie you your knitting, i'm wanting to go and write down something." "weel, gie me the needles, and gie my love to cluny, and tell him to bring me ane o' them white fuchsia plants he saw in a glasgow window." "i hae given that word already, mither." "do it again, lassie. any man bides twice telling." but the writing christine wished to do was not a letter to her lover. it was some lines that had been running through her mind for an hour, and she knew that the only way in which she could lay their persistency, was to write them down. she had just finished this work, when the door was opened, and the domine came in, with a gust of wind, that blew the paper on which she was writing across the room. he caught it first, and he smiled when he saw it was poetry. "i'll even read it, christine, it might be worth while." "i couldna help writing the lines down, sir. they bothered me till i did sae. they always do." "oh-h! then the lines are your own. that is a circumstance i cannot pass." "gie them to me, sir. please!" "when i have read them, christine," and immediately he proceeded to read them aloud. he read them twice, the second time with care and sympathy: "the boats rocked idly on the bay, the nets hung straight within the deep, on the hard deck the fishers lay, lost in a deep and dreamless sleep. why should they care, and watch, and wake-- nets of the sleeping fishers take. only the sea the silence broke, until the master fisher spoke. "o christ, thou must have loved the sea, its waves held firm thy steady feet. wouldst thou not talk of boats and nets, if thou some fishermen shouldst meet? yes, thou wouldst speak of boats and nets, though walking on the golden street. "and if, o christ, thou met'st some day the fishermen from galilee, wouldst thou not speed the hours away, recalling life upon their sea? and sure their hearts would burn and thrill, remembering, thy 'peace be still!' "the crystal sea could ne'er replace the old earth sea, so wild and gray-- the strain, the struggle, and the race for daily bread, from day to day. o christ! we fishermen implore, say not, 'the sea shall be no more.' "its tides have seen thy godlike face-- look down into its hidden graves, have felt thy feet in solemn pace pass through the valley of its waves. fisher of galilee! we pray, let not the earth sea pass away." "weel, sir, will you give me the bit paper now?" "i want you to give it to me. in a year i should like to read it again, and see how you have improved." "take your will wi' it, sir." "to write poetry teaches you how to write prose--teaches you the words of the english language, their variety and value. a good prose writer can write poetry, for he is acquainted wi' words, and can always find the word he wants; but a good poet is not often a good prose writer." "how is that, sir?" "because he is satisfied with his own vehicle of expression. he thinks it is the best. i am glad you have begun by writing poetry--but do not stop there." as he was speaking he folded up the bit of paper in his hand, and put it into his pocketbook. then he went to speak to margot. "margot," he said, "what do you think? christine has been writing a poem, and it is better than might be." "christine has been making up poetry ever since she was a bit bairn. she reads a great deal o' poetry to me out o' the books you sent her. oh, domine, they hae been a wonderfu' pleasuring to us baith! though i never thought i wad live to find my only pleasure in novels and bits o' poetry. three or four years ago i wad hae laughed anyone to scorn who said such a thing could happen to margot ruleson. 'deed wad i!" "god often brings the impossible to pass, and even nourishes us on it. what has christine been reading to you?" "she has read to me the doings o' david copperfield, and about that puir lad, oliver twist. i was greatly ta'en up wi' the lads. i maist forgot mysel', listening to their troubles and adventures." "very good, margot. what is she reading to you now?" "a book by a mr. thackeray. his picture is in the book. it's what they ca' a frontispiece. he has a big head, and he isna handsome, but he looks like he could mak' up a good story." "is the book called 'vanity fair'?" "that's the very name. i dinna see yet the meaning o' it." "do you like it?" "weel, i like the folks best that i shouldna like. there's an auld woman in it, that i wad gie a cup o' tea and an hour's crack to, any day, and be glad o' the pleasure o' it; and there's the girl, called becky, that isna at a' a kirklike girl, but i canna help liking her weel. i think i wad hae been her marrow, if i had been born and brought up as she was. i'm sure it must be gey hard for men to mak' up the likeness o' a real good woman--they mak' them too good, you feel as if they should be in heaven, and mostly i find they send them there by early death, or some other disease, or mischance." "so you like becky?" "i do. there's circumstances, sir! they alter cases. they do that! if a woman has the fight wi' the warld on her hands, she'll be requiring a little o' the deil in her, just to keep the deil out o' her. i hope the man thackeray has had sense enou' to mak' becky come a' right at the lang end." "i believe she becomes very respectable, and joins the church of england." "that would be the right thing for her. i hae heard that it is a vera broad church, and that its deacons----" "wardens, margot." "wardens be it. i hae heard that they dinna dog its members round sunday and work days, as our deacons do. your ain deacons are vera officious, sir." "elder james ruleson, while he lived, saw that every kirk officer did his duty." "thank you, domine! it is good to hear his name. everyone seems to have forgotten him--everyone." "he is not forgotten, margot. his name is on nearly every page o' the kirk books, and the school will keep his memory green. i am going to propose a ruleson day, and on it give all the children a holiday. weel, margot, here comes christine, and i believe she has becky in hand." then he turned to christine and said, "you have taken steps on a fair road, go straight forward." and she smiled, and her smile was like sunshine, and the domine felt the better for it. he lifted his head higher, and took longer steps, and walked home with a new and pleasant hope in his heart. chapter x roberta interferes small service is true service while it lasts. he that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent. nearly two years had passed since james ruleson's death, and christine was facing an embarrassing condition. she was nearly without money. during the severe illness which followed her husband's death, margot had entrusted all she had to christine, except the sum she had retained for her own burial; and christine knew this was a provision all culraine women regarded as a sacred duty. to break into this sum would be a serious, perhaps a dangerous, trial to margot. however, there was the ninety pounds that neil had borrowed from her, and never repaid. now she must apply for it, must indeed urge its immediate return, and she wrote her brother the following letter: dear neil, we are in a sair strait. i am nearly without money, and mither has none left but her burial siller, and you know it will nearly kill her to break into that. i would not ask you to pay me the ninety pounds you owe me, if there was any other way i could do. i would go out and sell fish, before i would trouble you. but surely it will not be hurting you any way now, to pay ninety pounds. jim carnagie was telling me that you were doing a well-paying business. dear neil, it is for your mither! she pleaded for you to have your own will and wish all your life long. i need not remind you of all her thoughtfulness for your comfort, while you were at the maraschal. she is dying, a cruel, hard, long death. i cannot, no, i cannot, trouble her last days anent the siller she needs for food to keep her in life, and for medicines to soothe her great pain. neil, i have always loved and helped you. i was glad when miss rath took to you kindly, for i knew you had to have some woman to look after your special ways and likings. tell her the truth, and i am sure she will not oppose your paying such a just debt. neil, answer me at once. do not think about it, and delay and delay. you know, dear neil, it is getting on the fourth year, since i loaned you it, and you promised to pay me out of the first money you earned. i think, dear, you will now pay me as lovingly as i let you have it when you needed it so badly. mither does not know i am writing you, or even that we need money, so haste to make me more easy, for i am full of trouble and anxiety. your loving sister, christine. this letter had a singular fate. it was left at neil's house five minutes after neil had left his house for a journey to london, on some important business for the western bank. it was consequently given to mrs. ruleson. she looked at it curiously. it was a woman's writing, and the writing was familiar to her. the half-obliterated post office stamp assured her. it was from neil's home, and there was the word "haste" on the address, so there was probably trouble there. with some hesitation she opened and read it, read slowly and carefully, every word of it, and when she had done so, flung it from her in passionate contempt. "the lying, thieving, contemptible creature," she said, in a low, intense voice. "i gave him ninety pounds, when his father died. he told me then some weird story about this money. and i believed him. i, roberta rath, believed him! i am ashamed of myself! reginald told me long syne that he knew the little villain was making a private hoard for himself, and that the most o' his earnings went to it. i will look into that business next. reggie told me i would come to it. i cannot think of it now, my first care must be this poor, anxious girl, and her dying mother. i believe i will go to culraine and see them! he has always found out a reason for me not going. i will just show him i am capable of taking my own way." she reflected on this decision for a few moments, and then began to carry it out with a smiling hurry. she made arrangements with her cook for the carrying on of the household for her calculated absence of three days. then she dressed herself with becoming fashion and fitness, and in less than an hour, had visited the bank of scotland, and reached the railway station. of course she went first to edinburgh, and she lingered a little there, in the fur shops. she selected a pretty neck piece and muff of russian sable, and missed a train, and so it was dark, and too late when she reached the town to go to the village of culraine. "it is always my way," she murmured, as she sat over her lonely cup of tea in her hotel parlor. "i am so long in choosing what i want, that i lose my luck. i wonder now if i have really got the best and the bonniest. poor father, he was aye looking for a woman to be a mother to me, and never found one good enough. i was well in my twenties before i could decide on a husband; and i am pretty sure i waited too long. three women bought furs while i was swithering about mine. it is just possible to be too careful. liking may be better than consideration. johnny lockhart told me if i would trust my heart, instead of my brain, i would make better decisions. it might be so. who can tell?" in the morning, when she had finished her breakfast, she went to the window of her room and looked into the street. several culraine fishing-women were calling their fresh haddock and flounders, and she looked at them critically. "they are young and handsome," she thought, "but their dress is neither fashionable, nor becoming. i should think it was a trial for a pretty girl to wear it--too short petticoats--stripes too yellow and wide--too much color every way--earrings quite out of fashion--caps picturesque, but very trying, and a sailor hat would be less trouble and more attractive. well, as the fisherwomen are crying fresh haddock, i should think i may call on christine, and not break any social law of the place." christine was not now a very early riser. if margot had a restless, bad night, both of them often fell asleep at the dawning, and it had occasionally been as late as eight o'clock when their breakfast was over. roberta rath's visit happened to fall on one of these belated mornings. it was nearly nine o'clock, but margot had just had her breakfast, and was washed and dressed, and sitting in a big chair by the fireside of her room. christine was standing by a table in the living room. there was a large pan of hot water before her, and she was going to wash the breakfast dishes. then there was a soft, quick knock at the door, and she called a little peremptorily, "come in." she thought it was some girl from the school, who wanted to borrow a necklace or some bit of finery for an expected dance. and it is not always that the most obliging of women are delighted to lend their ornaments. when roberta answered her curt invitation, she was amazed. she did not know her, she had never seen roberta, nor even a likeness of her, for there were no photographs then, and the daguerreotype was expensive and not yet in common request. she looked with wide-open eyes at the lady, and the lady smiled. and her smile was entrancing, for she seemed to smile from head to feet. then she advanced and held out her hand. "i am roberta," she said. and christine laid down her cup and towel, and answered with eager pleasure, "you are vera welcome, roberta. i am christine." "of course! i know that. you are exactly the christine i have dreamed about," and she lifted up her small face, and christine kissed her, before she was aware. it was the most extraordinary thing, and christine blushed and burned, but yet was strangely pleased and satisfied. "can i stay with you till four this afternoon, christine? i want to very much." "you will be mair than welcome. mither will be beside hersel' wi' the visit. is neil wi' you?" "no. i have come of my own wish and will. neil is in london. let me speak to the man who drove me here, and then i will tell you how it is." she left the house for a few minutes, and came back with a beaming face, and a parcel in her hand. "suppose, christine," she said, "you show me where i can take off my bonnet and cloak and furs." so christine went with her to the best bedroom, and she cried out at the beauty of its view, and looked round at the books and papers, and the snow-white bed, and was wonder struck at the great tropic sea shell, hanging before the south window; for its wide rose-pink cavity was holding a fine plant of musk-flower, and its hanging sprays of bloom, and heavenly scent, enthralled her. "what a charming room!" she cried. "one could dream of heaven in it." "do you dream, roberta?" "every night." "do you like to dream?" "i would not like to go to bed, and not dream." "i am glad you feel that way. some people cannot dream." "poor things! neil could not understand me about dreaming. nor could i explain it to him." "lawyers don't dream. i have heard that. i suppose the folk in the other warld canna fash themselves wi' the quarreling o' this warld." roberta was untying the parcel containing the furs, as christine spoke, and her answer was to put the long boa of sable around christine's neck and place the muff in her right hand. now, good fur suits everyone--man or woman--and christine was regally transformed by it. "eh, roberta!" she cried. "what bonnie furs! i never saw the like o' them! never!" "but now they are yours!" "you dinna--you canna mean, that you gie them to me, roberta?" "i surely do mean just that. i give them to you with all my heart and you look like a norse princess in them. come, give me a kiss for the boa, and a kiss for the muff, and we will call the gift square." then roberta kissed christine and they laughed a sweet, gay little laugh together. and christine said, "i hae always wanted a sister. now i hae gotten one weel to my liking! and o, the bonnie furs! the bonnie furs! they suit me fine, roberta! they suit me fine!" and she smiled at herself in the little mirror, and was happy, beyond expression. "you are as happy as if you had found a fortune, christine!" "i hae found mair than a fortune, roberta! i hae found a sister! i wasna looking for such good luck to come to me!" "that is the way good luck comes--always as a surprise. we watch for it on the main road, and it just slips round a corner." then roberta took christine by the hand, and they went to the living-room, and christine began to wash her teacups, and as she laid them dripping on the tray, roberta took the towel and wiped them dry. "you shouldna do that, roberta." "why not, christine?" "it isna wark for you." "while father lived, i always washed the china beside him. then he read the newspaper, and we had happy talks. we were plain-living folk, until father died. then reggie and i set up for quality. we had the money, and reggie had quality friends, and i thought it would be fine." "do you think it is fine?" "it is no better than it is spoken of. christine, can you guess what brought me here?" "did you get a letter i wrote neil?" "yes." "then i know why you came." "neil had just left for london. you asked for no delay. so i brought the money, christine, and i had the bank calculate the proper amount of interest for four years, at five per cent." "there was no interest asked. there is none due. i didna lend a' the money i had on interest, but on love." "then here is the money, christine, and i must thank you for neil, for the long credit you have given him." "i havena been needing the siller until now, but now it is a real salvation." christine put the money in her breast, and then together they put the cleansed china in its proper place. just as they finished this duty, a little handbell tinkled, and christine said, "that is mither's call. let us go to her." "mither, dear roberta is here. she has come to see you." and the young woman stood looking into the old woman's face, and in a moment something inarticulate passed between them. they smiled at each other, and roberta stooped and kissed the white, worn face. there needed no further explanation. in a few minutes the three women were conversing in the most intimate and cheerful manner. to her mother, christine appeared to be rather silent. margot wished she would be more effusive, and she exerted herself to make up for christine's deficiency in this respect. but the release from great anxiety often leaves the most thankful heart apparently quiet, and apparently indifferent. many who have prayed fervently for help, when the help comes have no words on their tongues to speak their gratitude. flesh and spirit are exhausted, before the deliverer they are speechless. then he who knoweth our infirmities speaks for us. to make what dinner she could, and put the house in order was then christine's duty, and she went about it, leaving roberta with margot. they soon became quite at ease with each other, and christine could hear them laughing at their own conversation. after awhile they were very quiet, and christine wondered if her mother had again become sleepy. on the contrary, she found margot more alive and more interested than she had seen her since her husband's death. there was a crochet needle between them, and they were both absorbed in what it was doing. crochet was then a new thing on the earth, as far as england and scotland was concerned; and at this date it was the reigning womanly fad. margot had seen and dreamed over such patterns of it as had got into magazines and newspapers, but had never seen the work itself. now roberta was teaching her its easy stitches, and margot, with all a child's enthusiasm, was learning. "look, christine," she cried. "look, christine, at the bonnie wark i am learning! it is the crochet wark. we hae read about it, ye ken, but see for yoursel'. look, lassie," and she proudly held out a strip of the first simple edging. the three women then sat down together, and there was wonder and delight among them. a bit of fine, delicate crochet now gets little notice, but then it was a new sensation, and women thought they lacked an important source of pleasure, if they went anywhere without the little silk bag holding their crochet materials. roberta had crocheted in the train, as long as it was light, and she fully intended to crochet all day, as she sat talking to her new relations. margot could knit blindfolded, she learned by some native and natural instinct. in two days she would have been able to teach roberta. there was a simple dinner of baked fish, and a cup of tea, and christine beat an egg in a cup and was going to carry it to margot, when roberta stayed her. "does she like it in that sloppy way?" she asked. "weel, it is for her good. she has to like it." "we can make it far nicer. see here," and roberta beat the egg in the cupful of milk, added a little sugar, and placed it in the oven. in a few minutes it was a solid, excellent custard, and margot enjoyed it very much. "i ne'er liked raw food," she said, "and raw egg isna any more eatable than raw fish, or raw meat." in the afternoon the domine and jamie came in, and roberta won his heart readily with her gay good nature and thoughtful kindness to the sick woman. he had put a letter into christine's hand, as he came in and said to her, "go your ways ben, and read it, but say naething to your mither anent its contents. later i'll give you good reasons for this." so christine went away, and opened her letter, and there fell from it a five-pound note. and the letter was from a great magazine, and it said the money was for the "fisherman's prayer" and he would be very glad if she would write him more about fishers. there were also a few pleasant words of praise, but christine's eyes were full of happy tears, she could not read them. what she did was to lay the letter and the money on her bed, and kneel down beside it, and let her silence and her tears thank the god who had helped her. "i was brought low and he helped me," she whispered, as she bathed her eyes and then went back to the company. such a happy afternoon followed! the domine was in a delightful mood, jamie recited for the first time "how horatio kept the bridge," and margot was as busy as her weak, old fingers would let her be. with the domine's approval, christine showed her letter to roberta, and they, too, held a little triumph over the good, clever girl, for it was not vanity that induced her confidence, it was that desire for human sympathy, which even divinity feels, or he would not ask it, and himself prompt its offering. soon after five o'clock they had a cup of tea together, and roberta's cab was waiting, and the fortunate day was over. roberta was sorry to go away. she said she had had one of the happiest days of her life. she left her own little silk crochet bag with margot, and gave her gladly her pretty silver hook with its ivory handle, and the cotton she had with her. she said she would send hooks of different sizes, and the threads necessary for them, and also what easy patterns she could find. she went away amid smiles and blessings, and the domine and jamie went with her. they would see her safely to her hotel, they said, but she would not part with them so early. she entreated them to dine and spend the evening with her. and so they did. and their talk was of christine, of her love and patience, and her night-and-day care. even her orderly house and personal neatness were duly praised. roberta left for her glasgow home, early on the following morning, and arrived at monteith row a little wearied, but quite satisfied with the journey she had taken. what the result to herself would be, she could hardly imagine. but its uncertainty kept her restless. she had resolved to clean and prepare the house for winter, during her husband's absence, but she could not do it. a woman needs a stiff purpose in her heart, when she pulls her home to pieces. if anything is going to happen, it usually chooses such a time of discomfort and disorder. she found it far more pleasant to select crochet hooks and cotton for margot and herself. she sent the domine a book that she knew would be acceptable, and to jamie she sent a rugby school pocket-knife, containing not only the knives, but the other little tools a boy finds so necessary. to christine she sent a large, handsome portfolio, and such things as a person addicted to writing poetry requires. she could settle to nothing, for indeed she felt her position to be precarious. she knew that she could not live a day with neil, unless he was able to account satisfactorily for his theft--she called it theft to herself--of the first ninety pounds. neil had promised to be home in a week, but it was two weeks ere he returned. he said business had detained him, and what can a woman say to "business"? it appears to cover, and even cancel, all other obligations. if there had been any tendency in roberta's heart to excuse, or even to forgive her husband, he killed the feeling by his continual excuses for delay. the lawyer who had accompanied him was home. what was neil doing in london, when the principal in the case had returned? at last she received particular instructions as to the train by which he would arrive. she took no notice of them, though it had been her custom to meet him. he was a little cross at this neglect, and more so, when the sound of his peremptory ring at the door brought only a servant to open it. he did not ask after her, and she did not appear, so he gave his valise to the servant, with orders to take it into the dining room. "i suppose your mistress is there?" he asked. he was told she was there, and he added, "inform her that i am in my room preparing for dinner, and order the cook to serve it at once." roberta saw the valise brought in, and she made no inquiries concerning it. she saw the dinner brought on, and she seated herself in her place at the table, and drew the chair holding the valise almost to her side. then she waited. neil entered the room immediately. she did not turn her face to the door when it opened. she said as if speaking to a servant, "place the soup at the head of the table. mr. ruleson is home." when he took the head of the table, and so faced her, and could no longer be ignored, she said, "is it really you, neil? by what train did you arrive?" "i told you, in my last letter, at what time i should arrive in glasgow. you did not meet me, as i expected. i had to take a cab home." "the stable man said one of the horses was acting as if it did not feel well. he thought it had better not be driven." "he thought it would be more comfortable to stay at home this wet night. i had a very cold, disagreeable drive. i dare say i have taken a severe cold from it." "the soup waits, if you will serve it." he did so, remarking the while, "i sent you word i would be home by this train. did you receive my letter?" "yes." "then why?" "o you know, you have been coming by so many trains the past week, i thought it best not to take the sick horse out on such an uncertainty as your promise." "i was, as i told you, detained by business." "i hope you made it pay you." "a few hundreds." "ah! then you would not mind the expense of a cab." "do i ever mind necessary trifles?" "i have never considered the matter," and the little laugh of indifference which closed the sentence, made him look at her attentively. she was in full evening costume, and it struck him that tonight she looked almost handsome. "did you intend to go out this evening? has my coming home prevented some social pleasure?" "i had told reginald to meet me in my box at glover's theater. reginald is a social pleasure no woman would willingly miss." "i do not approve of reginald rath, and i would rather you did not invite him to our box. his presence there, you know, would assuredly preclude mine." "i cannot interfere with dear reggie's rights. the box is as much his, as mine. father bought it in perpetuity, when the theater was built. the merrys, and taits, and others did the same--and father left it to reggie and myself, equally." "it would be very unpleasant to you, if reginald married a woman you did not like--and you really approve of so few women--it is remarkable how few----" "yet i have found a woman since you went away, that is perfect--as good and clever as she is beautiful." "where did you find her?" "it is my little romance. i will tell you about her after dinner." "i am not impatient." this kind of half-querulous conversation continued during the service of dinner, but when the cloth had been drawn, and the wine and the nuts promised the absence of servants uncalled for, roberta's attitude changed. she took a letter from her bag, and pushed it towards neil. "it is your letter," she said, "it came ten days ago." "why did you open it?" "the word 'haste' was on it, and i thought it might be an announcement of your mother's death, or serious sickness--not that i thought you would care----" "of course, i care." "then you had better read the letter." she watched his face gathering gloom and anger as he did so, and when he threw it from him with some unintelligible words, she lifted and put it again in her bag. "that is my letter, roberta, give it to me." "you have just flung it away from you. i am going to keep it--it may be useful." "what do you mean?" "neil, you must now answer me one or two questions. on your answers our living together depends." he laughed softly, and said, "nothing so serious as that, surely, roberta!" "just that. when you went to your father's funeral, you told me that you owed your sister ninety pounds. you said it was her life's savings from both labor and gifts, and that she had loaned it to you, in order to make possible your final year at the maraschal. you said further, that your father was not a saving man, and you feared they would be pinched for money to bury him. and i loaned you ninety pounds, being glad to see such a touch of natural affection in you. this letter from christine says plainly that you never paid her the ninety pounds you borrowed from me. is christine telling the truth?" "yes." "yet, on your return, you gave me a rather tedious account of your mother's and christine's thankfulness for the money. it created in me a wrong impression of your mother and sister. i asked myself why they should be so crawlingly thankful to you for paying a just debt, and i thought meanly of them. why did you not pay them the ninety pounds you borrowed from them? and why did you invent that servile bit of thankfulness?" "i will tell you, roberta. when i got home i found the whole village on my father's place. the funeral arrangements were, for a man in my father's position, exceedingly extravagant, and i was astonished at my mother's recklessness, and want of oversight. christine was overcome with grief, and everything appeared to be left to men and women who were spending other people's money. i thought under the circumstances it was better not to pay christine at that time, and i think i was right." "so far, perhaps, you were prudent, but prudence is naturally mean and as often wrong as right. and why did you lie to me, so meanly and so tediously?" "you have to lie to women, if you alter in the least anything you have told them. you cannot explain to a woman, unless you want to stand all day doing it. there are times when a lie is simply an explanation, a better one than the truth would be. the great shakespeare held that such lies were more for number, than account." "i do not take my opinion of lies from william shakespeare. a lie is a lie. there was no need for a lie in this case. the lie you made up about it was for account, not for number--be sure of that. you admit that you did not give christine the ninety pounds you borrowed from me, in order to pay your debt to her. what did you do with the money?" "have you any right to ask me that question? if i borrowed ninety pounds from the bank, would they ask me what i did with it?" "i neither know nor care what the bank would do. i am seeking information for roberta ruleson, and i shall take my own way to obtain it." "what is it you want to know?" "what you did with that ninety pounds?" "i banked it." "in what bank? there is no record of it in the bank of scotland, where i have always supposed, until lately, our funds were kept." "i did not put it in the bank of scotland. every business man has an official banking account, and also a private banking account. i put that ninety pounds to my private bank account." "in what bank?" "i do not give that information to anyone." "it must be pretty well known, since it has come as a matter of gossip to me." "you had better say 'advice' in place of gossip. what advice did you get?" "i was told to look after my own money, that you were putting what little you made into the north british security." "i suppose your clever brother told you that. if reginald rath does not leave my affairs alone, i shall make him." "you will have a bad time doing it. your check books, no doubt, are in this valise. you will now write me a check on the north british for one hundred and eighty pounds. it is only fair that the north british should pay out, as well as take in." "why should i give you a check for a hundred and eighty pounds?" "i gave you ninety pounds when you went to your father's funeral, i took ninety pounds to culraine ten days ago, in answer to the letter christine wrote." "you went to culraine? you, yourself?" "i went, and i had there one of the happiest days of my life. i got right into your mother's heart, and taught her how to crochet. i saw and talked with your splendid sister. she is the most beautiful, intelligent girl, i ever met." "such nonsense! she knows nothing but what i taught her!" "she knows many things you know nothing about. i think she will become a famous woman." "when mother dies, she will marry cluny macpherson, who is a fife fisher, and settle down among her class." "i saw his picture, one of those new daguerreotypes. such a splendid-looking fellow! he was a fife fisher, he is now second officer on a henderson boat, and wears their uniform. but it is christine i am telling you about. there is a new _blackwood_ on the table at your right hand. turn to the eleventh page, and see what you find." he did so, and he found "the fisherman's prayer." with a scornful face he read it, and then asked, "do you believe that christine ruleson wrote that poem? i have no doubt it is the domine's work." "not it. i saw the domine. he and that lovable lad he has adopted----" "my nephew." "dined at the hotel with me. i never before met such a perfect man. i did not know such men lived. the domine was as happy as a child over christine's success. she got five pounds for that poem." "i do not believe it." "i read the letter in which it came. they praised the poem, and asked for more contributions." "if she is making money, why give her ninety pounds? it was absurd----" "it was just and right. you say you have made a few hundreds on this london case, you will now write me a check for the two loans of ninety pounds each." "i did not borrow the last ninety pounds. you took it to culraine of your own will and desire. i do not owe the last ninety pounds. i refuse to pay it." "i will give you until tomorrow morning to change your mind. when christine wrote you the letter, now in your hand, she had not a sixpence in the world--her luck came with the money i took her. i do not think she will ever require anyone's help again. oh, how could you grudge even your last penny to a sister like christine?" "she owes everything to me. i opened up her mind. i taught her to speak good english. i----" "'i borrowed all her life's savings, kept the money through the death of her father, the severe illness of her mother, and the total absence of anyone in her home to make money or in any way help her to bear the burden and fatigue of her great strait.' you can tell me in the morning what you propose to do." then she rose, and left the room, and neil made no offer to detain her. in fact he muttered to himself, "she is a little premature, but it may be as well." in the morning he rose while it was yet dark, and leaving word with a servant that he was going to dalkeith and might be away four days, or longer, he left in the gloom of fog and rain, and early twilight, the home he was never to enter again. he had grown accustomed to every luxury and refinement in its well-ordered plenty, and he had not the slightest intention of resigning its comfortable conditions, but he had no conception of the kind of woman with whom he had now to deal. the wives of culraine, while dominant in business, gave to their men, in the household, almost an unquestioned authority; and neil had no experience which could lead him to expect roberta would, in any essential thing, dare to disobey him. he even flattered himself that in leaving her alone he had left her to anxiety and unhappiness, and of course, repentance. "i will just give her a little lesson," he said to himself, complacently. "she gave me until this morning. i will give her four or five days of solitary reflection, and no letters. no letters, neil ruleson! i think that treatment will teach her other people have rights, as well as herself." roberta did not appear to be disquieted by his absence. she sent a messenger for her brother, and ate a leisurely, pleasant meal, with the _glasgow herald_ for a companion; and before she had quite finished it, reginald appeared. "your early message alarmed me, roberta," he said. "i hope all is well with you, dear?" "indeed, reggie, i don't know whether it is well, or ill. sit down and i will tell you exactly how my life stands." then she related circumstantially all that had occurred--neil's first request for ninety pounds at his father's death--his appropriation of that sum, and his refusal to say what had been done with it--christine's letter of recent date which she now handed to her brother. reginald read it with emotion, and said as he handed it back to his sister: "it is a sweet, pitiful, noble letter. of course he answered it properly." then roberta told him all the circumstances of her visit to culraine, and when she had finished her narration, her brother's eyes were full of tears. "now, reginald," she asked, "did i do wrong in going myself with the money?" "up to the receipt of christine's letter, you supposed it had been paid?" "certainly i did, and i thought neil's family rude and unmannerly for never making any allusion to its payment." "so you paid it again, resolving to fight the affair out with neil, when he came home. you really accepted the debt, and made it your own, and be sure that neil will find out a way to make you responsible for its payment in law. in point of truth and honor, and every holy affection, it was neil's obligation, and every good man and woman would cry shame on his shirking it. roberta, you have made the supreme mistake! you have allied yourself with a mean, dishonorable caitiff--a creature in whose character baseness and wickedness meet; and who has no natural affections. as i have told you before, and often, neil ruleson has one idea--money. all the comforts and refinements of this home would be instantly abandoned, if he had them to pay for. he has a miserly nature, and only his love of himself prevents him from living on a crust, or a few potato parings." "oh, reginald, you go too far." "i do not. when a man can grudge his good, loving mother on her death-bed anything, or all that he has, he is no longer fit for human companionship. he should go to a cave, or a garret, and live alone. what are you going to do? my dear, dear sister, what are you going to do?" "what you advise, reginald. for this reason i sent for you." "then listen. i knew a crisis of some kind must soon come between you and that--creature, and this is what i say--you must leave him. every day you stay with him insults your humanity, and your womanhood. he says he will be four or five days away, we will have plenty of time for my plan. before noon i will have here wagons and men in sufficient number to empty this house into menzie's granite storage in two days. send the silver to the bank. i will put it in a cab, and take it myself. pack things you value highly in one trunk, which can be specially insured. our pictures we will place in the ludin picture gallery. we can clear the house in three days, and on the morning of the fourth day, young bruce kinlock will move into it. if neil can face kinlock, it will be the worse for him, for kinlock's temper blazes if he but hear neil's name, and his hand goes to his side, for the dirk with which his fathers always answered an enemy." "then, reginald, when i have turned myself out of house and home, what follows?" "we will take a passage to new orleans." "new orleans! why there? such an out-of-the-way place." "exactly. that creature will argue thus--they have gone to some place on the continent--very likely france. and he will probably try to make you a deal of trouble. i have never named new orleans to anyone. even our friends will never suspect our destination, for we shall go first to france, and take a steamer from some french port, for new orleans. when we arrive there, we have a new world before us, and can please ourselves where we go, and where we stay. now, roberta, decide at once. we have time, but none too much, and i will work night and day to get you out of the power of such a husband." "he may repent." "we will give him time and reason to do so. he has been too comfortable. you have given him constant temptation to wrong you. he will not repent until he feels the pinch of poverty and the want of a home. then he may seek you in earnest, and i suppose you will forgive him." "what else could i do? would not god forgive him?" "that is a subject for later consideration. if you will take my advice you must do it with all your heart, and be as busy as i will be. we want no altercation with him just yet." "i give you my word, reggie, that for two years i will do as you advise. then we will reconsider the question." then reginald clasped her hand, and drew her to his side. "it is for your salvation, dear, every way, and loneliness and deprivation may be for his good. we will hope so." "you once liked him, reggie." "yes, i did. he betrayed me in every way he could. he purposely quarreled with me. he wanted a free hand to follow out his own business ideas--which were not mine. but this is now idle talk. neil will never be saved by people helping him. he must be left to help himself." "that is hope enough to work on. tell me now, exactly what to do." reginald's plans had long been perfected, and by the noon of the third day the beautiful home was nothing but bare walls and bare floors. that same night, reginald rath and his sister left glasgow by the midnight train, and the following morning, bruce kinlock, with his wife and five children, moved into the dismantled house, and in two days it was in a fairly habitable condition. there was, of course, confusion and a multitude of bustling servants and helpers, and a pretty, frail-looking little lady, sitting helplessly in a large chair, and bruce ordering round, and five children in every place they ought not be, but there was universal good temper, and pleasurable excitement, and a brilliantly lighted house, when on the following saturday night, neil drove up to his residence. he thought, at first, that mrs. ruleson had a dinner party, then he remembered roberta's reverence for the sabbath, and knew she would not permit any dancing and feasting so near its daybreaking. the sabbath observance was also his own strong religious tenet, he was an ardent supporter of doctor agnew and his extremist views, and therefore this illumination in the ruleson mansion, so near to the sabbath-day, offended him. "roberta knows that i am particular about my good name, and that i am jealously careful of the honor of the sabbath, and yet--yet! look at my house! it is lit up as if for a carnival of witches!" then he hurried the cab man, and his keys being in his hand, he applied the latch-key to the lock. it would not move it, and the noise in the house amazed him. he rang the bell violently, and no one answered it. he raged, and rang it again. there was plenty of movement in the house, and he could plainly hear a man's voice, and a guffaw of laughter. he kept the bell ringing, and kicked the door with his foot. then a passionate voice asked what he wanted. "i want to get in. this is my house." "it is not your house. it never was your house." "what number is this?" "twenty-three, western crescent. what tomfool asks?" "this is my house. open the door, or i will call the police." he did call the policeman on the beat, and the man said, "a new family moved in yesterday, sir, and i was taken from hillside crescent, only two days ago. i am on the night watch. i havena seen any o' them yet, but there seems to be a big lot o' them." "do you know where the family went, who lived in twenty-three previous to this new tenant?" "i heard they went abroad--left in a great hurry, as it were." then neil went back to the house, and rang the door bell with polite consideration. "the new-comers will certainly know more than the policeman," he thought, "and i can get no letter till monday morning. it will be very annoying to be in this doubt until then." he had plenty of time for these reflections, for the bell was not noticed, and he rang again with a little more impetuosity. this time it was answered by a huge highlander, with a dog by a leash, and a dogwhip in his hand; and neil trembled with fear. he knew the man. he had once been his lawyer, and lost his case, and the man had accused him of selling his case. there was no proof of the wrong, none at all, and it was not believed by anyone except reginald rath, and even roberta allowed he was too prejudiced to be fair. these circumstances passed like a flash through neil's heart, as bruce kinlock glared at him. "how dare you show your face at my door?" he asked. "be off, you whippersnapper, or i'll set the dog on you." "i have always believed, until the present moment, that this was my house. can you tell me where my family has removed to?" "you never had any right in this house but the right of sufferance. honest reginald rath has taken your wife away--he's done right. ye know well you are not fit company for the lady roberta. as for your family, they have the pity of everyone. what kind of a brute is it that has not a shilling for a dying mother, though he's owing his family ninety pounds, and far more love than he deserves. go, or it will be worse for you! you sneaking ne'er-do-well." kinlock had spoken with inconceivable passion, and the very sight of the red-headed, gigantic highlander, sputtering out words that cannot be written, and of the growling brute, that only required a relaxed hand to fly at his throat, made him faint with terror. "i am sure, mr. kinlock----" "how daur you 'mister' me? i am kinlock, of kinlock! you had better take yourself off. i'm at the end of my patience, and i cannot hold this kind of a brute much longer. and if he grabs any kind of a human being, he never lets go while there's life in him. i can't say how he would treat you--one dog does not eat another dog, as a rule." then he clashed-to the door, and neil was grateful. he did not ask again for it to be opened. he went to his office. perhaps there was a letter for him there. it was locked, and the man who kept the keys lived over the river. thoroughly weary and distressed, and full of anxious forebodings, he went to a hotel, and ordered supper in his own room. he did not feel as if he could look anyone in the face, with this dreadful uncertainty hanging over his life. what was the matter? thinking over things he came to no conclusion. it could not be his few words with roberta on the night of his return from london. a few words of contradiction with roberta were almost a daily occurrence, and she had always accepted such offers of conciliation as he made. and he was so morally obtuse that his treatment of his mother and sister, as influencing his wife, never entered his mind. what had roberta to do with his mother and christine? suppose he had treated them cruelly, what right, or reason, had she to complain of that? everything was personal to neil, even moralities; he was too small to comprehend the great natural feelings which make all men kin. he thought kinlock's reference to his dying mother a piece of far-fetched impertinence, but he understood very well the justice of kinlock's personal hatred, and he laughed scornfully as he reflected on the highlander's longing to strike him with the whip, and then set the dog to finish his quarrel. "the law! the gude common law o' scotland has the like o' sic villains as kinlock by the throat!" he said triumphantly. "he wad hae set the brute at my throat, if he hadna kent it wad put a rope round his ain red neck. i hae got to my scotch," he remarked, "and that isna a good sign. i'll be getting a headache next thing. i'll awa' to bed, and to sleep. monday will be a new day. i'll mebbe get some light then, on this iniquitous, unprecedented circumstance." chapter xi christine mistress of ruleson cottage now, therefore, keep thy sorrow to thyself and bear with a good courage that which hath befallen thee.--esdras ii, ch. , v. . be not afraid, neither doubt, for god is your guide.--esdras i, ch. , v. . it was a cold winter day at the end of january, and a streak of white rain was flying across the black sea. christine stood at the window, gazing at her brother's old boat edging away to windward, under very small canvas. there was a wild carry overhead, out of the northeast, and she was hoping that norman had noticed the tokens of the sky. margot saw her look of anxiety, and said: "you needna worry yoursel', christine. norman's boat is an auld-warld buckie skiff. they're the auldest model on a' our coasts, and they can fend in a sea that would founder a whole fishing fleet." "i noticed norman had lowered his mainsail and hoisted the mizzen in its place, and that he was edging away to windward." "ay, norman kens what he must do, and he does it. that's his way. ye needna fash anent norman, he'll tak' his old buckie skiff into a gale that yachts wi' their lockers fu' o' prizes wouldna daur to venture." "but, mither dear, there's a wind from the north blowing in savage gusts, and the black seas tumble wild and high, and send clouds of spindrift to smother the auld boat." "weel, weel! she'll give to the squalls, and it's vera near the turn o' the tide, then the wind will gae down, as the sea rises. the bit storm will tak' itsel' off in a heavy mist and a thick smur, nae doubt o' it." "and norman will know all this." "ay, will he! norman is a wonderfu' man, for a' perteening to his duty." then the door opened, and one of the brodie boys gave christine two letters. "i thought ye wad be glad o' them this gloomy day," he said to christine. "thank you, alick! you went a bit out o' your road to pleasure us." "that's naething. gude morning! i am in a wee hurry, there's a big game in the playground this afternoon." with these words the boy was gone, and christine stood with the letters in her hand. one was from cluny, and she put it in her breast, the other was from roberta, and she read it aloud to her mother. it was dated new orleans, and the first pages of the letter consisted entirely of a description of the place and her perfect delight in its climate and social life. margot listened impatiently. "i'm no carin' for that information, christine," she said. "why is roberta in new orleans? what is she doing in a foreign land, and nae word o' neil in the circumstance." "i am just coming to that, mither." then christine read carefully roberta's long accusation of her husband's methods. margot listened silently, and when christine ceased reading, did not express any opinion. "what do ye think, mither?" "i'll hae to hear neil's side, before i can judge. when she was here, she said naething against neil." "she did not name him at all. i noticed that." "put her letter awa' till we get neil's story. i'll ne'er blame my lad before i hae heard his side o' the wrang. i'm disappointed in roberta. wives shouldna speak ill o' their husbands. it isna lawfu', and it's vera unwise." "the faults she names are quite in the line o' neil's faults." "then it's a gude thing he was keepit out o' the ministry. the maraschal was gude enough. i'm thinking all the lad's faults are quite in the line o' the law. put the letter awa'. i'm not going to tak' it into my consideration, till neil has had his say-so. let us hae a good day wi' a book, christine." "so we will, mither. i'll red up the house, and read my letter, and be wi' you." "some wee, short love stories and poems, and the like. that verse you read me a week syne, anent the lord being our shepherd, is singing in my heart and brain, even the now. it was like as if the lord had but one sheep, and i mysel' was that one. gie me my crochet wark, and i will listen to it, until you are through wi' your little jobs." the day grew more and more stormy, but these two women made their own sunshine, for margot was now easy and pleasant to live with. nothing was more remarkable than the change that had taken place in her. once the most masterful, passionate, plain-spoken woman in the village, she had become, in the school of affliction and loss, as a little child, and the relations between herself and christine had been in many cases almost reversed. she now accepted the sweet authority of christine with pleasure, and while she held tenaciously to her own likings and opinions, she no longer bluffed away the opinions of others with that verbal contempt few were able to reply to. her whole nature had sweetened, and risen into a mental and spiritual region too high for angry or scornful personalities. her physical failure and decay had been very slow, and at first exceedingly painful, but as her strength left her, and her power to resist and struggle was taken away with it, she had traveled through the valley of the shadow of death almost cheerfully, for the lord was with her, and her own dear daughter was the rod that protected, and the staff that comforted her. they had a day of wonderful peace and pleasure, and after they had had their tea, and margot had been prepared for the night, christine had a long sweet session with her regarding her own affairs. she told her mother that cluny was coming to see her anent their marriage. "he really thinks, mither, he can be a great help and comfort to us baith," she said, "and it is but three or four days in a month he could be awa' from the ship." "do you want him here, dearie?" "it would be a great pleasure to me, mither. i spend many anxious hours about cluny, when the weather is bad." and margot remembered how rarely she spoke of this anxiety, or indeed of cluny at all. for the first time she seemed to realize the girl's unselfish love, and she looked at christine with eyes full of tears, and said: "write and tell cluny to come hame. he is welcome, and i'll gie ye baith my blessing!" and christine kissed and twice kissed her mother, and in that hour there was a great peace in the cottage. this concession regarding cluny was the breaking down of margot's last individual bulwark. not by assault, or even by prudence, was it taken. a long service of love and patience made the first breach, and then christine's sweet, uncomplaining reticence about her lover and her own hopes threw wide the gates, and the enemy was told to "come hame and welcome." it was a great moral triumph, it brought a great satisfaction, and after her surrender, margot fell into a deep, restful sleep, and christine wrote a joyful letter to cluny, and began to calculate the number of days that must wear away before cluny would receive the happy news. a few days after this event christine began to read to her mother "lady audley's secret," and she was much astonished to find her sleepy and indifferent. she continued in this mood for some days, and when she finally threw off this drowsy attitude, christine noticed a very marked change. what had taken place during that somnolent pause in life? had the silver cord been loosed, or the golden bowl broken, or the pitcher broken at the fountain? something had happened beyond human ken, and though margot made no complaint, and related no unusual experience, christine knew that her spirit was ready to return unto god who gave it. and she said to herself: "as i work, my heart must watch, for the door is on the latch, in her room; and it may be in the morning, he will come." in the afternoon little jamie came in, and christine told him to go very quietly to his grandmother, and speak to her. she smiled when he did so, and slowly opened her eyes. "good-by, jamie," she said. "be a good boy, be a good man, till i see ye again." "i will, grandmother. i will! i promise you." "what do you think o' her, jamie?" asked christine. "i think she is dying, auntie." "go hame as quick as you can, and tell your feyther to come, and not to lose a minute. tell him he must bring the cup wi' him, or i'm feared he'll be too late." the domine's voice roused margot a little. she put out her trembling hand, and the likeness of a smile was on her face. "is he come?" she asked. "only a few more shadows, margot, and he will come. i have brought the cup with me, margot. will you drink the wine of remembrance now?" "ay, will i--gladly!" the domine and christine ate and drank the sacred meal with her, and after it she seemed clearer and better, and the domine said to her, "margot, you will see my dear old friend, james ruleson, very soon now. will you tell him i send him my love? will you tell him little jamie is my son now, and that he is going to make the name of james ruleson stand high in the favor of god and man?" "i'll tell him a' anent jamie--and anent christine, too." "the dead wait and long for news of the living they love. someway, sooner or later, good news will find them out, and make even heaven happier. farewell, margot!" later in the evening there came that decided lightening which so often precedes death. margot asked for norman, and while he knelt beside her, she gave him some instructions about her burial, and charged him to stand by his sister christine. "she'll be her lane," she said, "'til my year is gane by, and the warld hates a lone woman who fends for hersel'. stay wi' christine tonight. tell christine to come to me." when christine was at her side, she asked, "do you remember the verses in the wee, green book?" "called 'coming'?" "ay"--and she added very slowly the first few words she wished to hear--"it may be when the midnight----" "is heavy upon the land, and the black waves lying dumbly along the sand, when the moonless night draws close, and the lights are out in the house, when the fires burn low and red, and the watch is ticking loudly, beside the bed. though you sleep tired out, on your couch still your heart must wake and watch, in the dark room. for it may be that at midnight, i will come." and then norman said solemnly, "in such an hour as you think not, he will come." about ten o'clock christine caught an anxious look in her eyes, and she asked, "what is it, mither, dear mither?" "neil!" she answered. "did ye send for the lad?" "three days ago." "when he does come, gie him the words i send him. you ken what they are." "i will say and do all you told me." "but dinna be cross wi' the laddie. gie him a fair hearing." "if he is sorry for a' he has done----" "he willna be sorry. ye must e'en forgie him, sorry or not--ye ken what the domine said to me--when i spoke--o' forgiving neil--when he--was sorry?" "the domine said you were to remember, that while we were yet sinners god loved us, and christ died for us." "ay, while we--were--yet--sinners! that leaves room for neil--and everybody else, christine--christine--i am weary, bairns--i will go to sleep now--gude night!" death had now become a matter of consent to margot. she surrendered herself to her maker, and bade her children "goodnight!" her life had many a hope and aim, duties enough and little cares, and now was quiet and now astir, until god's hand beckoned her into his school of affliction. now in the house not made with hands she understands the meaning of it all. the next week was a particularly hard one to christine. in the long seclusion of her mother's illness, and in the fascination which study now had for her, the primitive burial rites of culraine were an almost unbearable trial. every woman who had ever known margot came to bid her a last earthly farewell. some cried, some volubly praised her, some were sadly silent, but all were alike startled by the mighty change that affliction and death had made in the once powerful, handsome, tremendously vitalized woman, who had ruled them all by the sheer force of her powerful will and her wonderful vitality. pale and cold, her raven hair white as snow, her large strong hands, shrunk to skin and bone, clasped on her breast, and at rest forever--they could hardly believe that this image of absolute helplessness was all that was left of margot ruleson. for three days the house was always full, and christine was troubled and questioned on every hand. but for three days long a little brown bird sat on a holly tree by her window, and sang something that comforted her. and the sweet, strong song was for her alone. nobody else noticed it. she wondered if they even saw the little messenger. on the afternoon of the third day, the domine, standing at the head of the coffin, spoke to the men and women who filled the house. his eyes were dim with tears, but his voice had the strong, resonant ring of a faith that knew it was well with the dead that die in the lord. it was mainly to the living he spoke, asking them solemnly, "what does the lord require of you? only this service--that you do justly, and love mercy, and walk humbly with your god." then margot's sons, norman and eneas, lifted the light coffin. the domine walked in front of it, and all the men present followed them to the open grave, in the old kirk yard. in scotland women do not go to the grave. christine locked herself in her room, and the women mourners gradually returned to their homes. that night she was quite alone, and she could give free outlet to her love, and grief, and hope. she felt her mother in every room. she could not believe she had gone far away. at times, walking about the desolate house, she called her mother with passionate weeping again, in the soft low voice that she had used when soothing her pain and weariness. at length even her superb vitality gave way, and she fell upon her bed in a comforting, restorative sleep. morning found her ready and able to face the new life. she rose with the dawn, ate her breakfast, and then lifted the hardest duty before her. this was to brush and carefully fold away margot's last simple clothing. margot herself had cared for her one silk dress, her bits of lace, and the beads and rings and combs of the days of her health and vanity. christine had seen her face wet with tears as she locked them in the trunk, and had kissed those tears away with promises of renewed life. but there was no one with her to kiss away the tears she shed over the simple gowns of margot's last hard days. as she was doing this loving duty, she thought of the angels folding up neatly the simple linen garments in which christ had been buried. with such thoughts in her heart, oh how lovingly she stroked the plain cotton gowns, and the one black merino skirt, that had made up margot's last wardrobe. her tears dropped over them, and she turned the key with a little cry so heart-broken that no doubt her angel wept with her. "oh mither, mither!" she cried, "how little had ye for a' the days o' your hard, sorrowfu', painfu', fifty-five years--for a' your loveless girlhood--for a' your wifely watchings and fearings for feyther on the stormy seas--for a' your mitherhood's pains and cares--for the lang, cruel years you were walking i' the valley o' the shadow o' death--for a' the years o' your hard, daily wark, loving and tending your six sons and mysel', feeding, dressing, and makin' us learn our catechism and our bible verses--curing fish, and selling fish, makin' nets, and mending nets, cooking and knitting and sewing. surely the good master saw it all, and will gie you his 'well done,' and the wage ye hae earned." the bits of crochet work that her mother's trembling fingers had made--her last work one little table mat unfinished--had a strange sacredness, and a far more touching claim. she took these to her own room. "they hold mither's last thoughts. they seem a part o' her. i'll never lose sight o' them while i draw breath o' life. never!" and she kissed and folded them up, with the dried rose leaves from margot's garden. then she stayed her tears, and looked round the disordered house. everything was out of its proper place. that circumstance alone made her miserable, for christine was what her neighbors called a "pernickity" housekeeper. she must have a place for everything, and everything in its place. until she had her home in this precise condition, she resolved to take no other trouble into consideration. and simple and even derogatory as it appears to be, nothing is more certainly efficacious in soothing grief, than hard physical labor. it took her two days to put the cottage in its usual spotless condition, and during those two days, she gave herself no moment in which to think of any trouble before her. she knew well that there must be trouble. her mother's burial money, put away twenty-nine years previously, had proved quite insufficient for modern ideals and modern prices. she was nearly out of money and there would be debts to meet, and every debt would be to her like a wolf baying round the house. that was one trouble. cluny was another. she knew he would now urge an immediate marriage, and that his plea would have an appearance of extreme justice. she also knew that he would be supported by norman, whose wife had long set her heart on occupying the ruleson cottage. that was a second trouble. the third was neil. he had been immediately notified of his mother's death, and he had taken no notice of the event. the other boys not present, were all at sea, but where was neil? these things she would not yet permit her mind to consider.--in fact, the tossed-up, uncleanly house, dulled her faculties. she could not think clearly, until all was spotless and orderly. then she could meet trouble clear-headed and free-handed. however, on the third evening after her mother's burial, every corner of the house satisfied her. even her dusters and cleaning-cloths had been washed and gone to their special corner of the kitchen drawer; and she had felt, that afternoon, that she could comfortably arrange her paper and pencils on the table of her own room. she was eager to write. her heart and brain burned with the thoughts and feelings she longed to express. "tomorrow," she said to herself--"tomorrow, i shall go on with my book." three months previously she had begun a story to be called "a daughter of the sea," but lately she had been obliged to lay it aside. she found "the bits o' poetry," were all she could manage in the short intervals of time that were her own. my readers may reflect here, on the truth that there is no special education for a writer. the man or woman who has anything to say to the world, brings the ability to declare it with him. then all the accidents and events of life stimulate the power which dwells in the heart and brain, and the happy gift speaks for itself. christine had been making up poetry ever since she could remember, and while yet a child had been the favorite story-teller in all the social gatherings at culraine. and it is not unlikely that a good story-teller may turn out to be a good story-writer. about one-third of her first novel, "a daughter of the sea," was completed, and now, with a happy resolution, she sat down to finish it. she did not have the material to seek, she had only to recollect and write down. the day passed with incredible swiftness, and early in the evening norman opened the door, and saw her sitting by the fire. her hands were clasped above her head, and there was the shadow of a smile on her still face. "o norman!" she cried, "how glad i am to see you! nobody has been here since----" "i know, dear. folks hae thought it was the kinder thing to stop away, and let you get the house in order." "maybe it was. come in, and see it, now that everything is in its place." so norman went through all the large, pleasant rooms with her, and he could not help a sigh, as he contrasted them with his own untidy and not over-cleanly house. then they returned to the ordinary living-room, and when they were seated, norman lit his pipe, and they talked lovingly of the mother who had gone away, and left her earthly home full of sweet memories. they spoke in soft, tender voices. christine wept a little, and smiled a little, as she told of her mother's last days, and norman's mouth twitched, and his big brown eyes were heavy with unshed tears. after this delay, norman put away his pipe, and bending forward with his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands, he said, "christine, i hae brought you a message. i hated to bring it, but thought it would come more kindly from my lips, than in any ither way." "weel, norman, what is it? who sent you wi' it?" "my wife sent me. she says she will be obligated to you, if you'll move out o' the ruleson cottage, as soon as possible. she is wanting to get moved and settled ere the spring fishing begins. these words are hers, not mine, christine. i think however it is right you should know exactly what you hae to meet. what answer do you send her?" "you may tell her, norman, that i will ne'er move out o' the ruleson cottage. it is mine as long as i live, and i intend to hold, and to live in it." "jessy has persuaded hersel' and a good many o' the women in the village, that you ought to marry cluny as soon as he comes back to glasgow, and go and live in that city, so as to make a kind o' a home there, for the lad. there was a crowd o' them talking that way, when i came up frae the boat this afternoon, and old judith was just scattering them wi' her fearsome words." "norman, i shall not marry until a year is full o'er from mither's death. mither had the same fear in her heart, and i promised her on the sacred word, which was lying between us at the time, that i wouldna curtail her full year o' remembrance, no, not one minute! that is a promise made to the dead. i would not break it, for a' the living men in scotland." "they were talking of cluny's rights, and----" "cluny hes no rights but those my love gives him. i will not marry for a year, at least. i will not live in glasgow. i will bide in my ain hame. it suits me fine. i can do a' the writing i want to do in its white, still rooms. i can see wee jamie here every day. i am out o' clash and claver o' the village folk. i can watch the sea and the ships, and feel the winds, and the sunshine, and do my wark, and eat my morsel in parfect peace. na, na, the auld hame suits me fine! tell your wife christine ruleson will live and die in it." norman did not move or speak, and christine asked anxiously, "do you wish me to leave culraine, and go to glasgow, norman?" "no, i do not! your wish is mine, and if mither were here today, i know she would scorn any proposal that brought jessy here. she never liked jessy." "her liking or disliking did not influence her will about the house. she loved every stone in this cottage, and above all she loved her garden, and her flowers. tell me, norman, if jessy came here, how long would the house be in decent order? and where would mither's bonnie flower-garden be, by the end o' the spring weather? for mither's sake i'll tak' care o' the things she loved. they werna many, and they werna worth much, but they were all she had, for her hard working life, and her sair suffering. and she relied on you, norman. she said in her last hours, 'if things are contrary, christine, and you can't manage them, ca' on norman, and nane else. norman will stand by his sister, if a' the warld was against her.'" "ay, will he! blood is thicker than water. we had the same feyther and mither. nane better ever lived," and he stretched out his hand, and christine clasped it, and then he kissed her, and went away. jessy was waiting for him. "ye hae been a mortal lang time, norman," she said. "i hae been that narvous and unsettled i' my mind, i couldna even get a bite ready for ye." "weel ye be to settle yoursel' now, jessy; for my sister has her mind fixed on the way she has set hersel', and naebody will be able to move her. naebody!" "is she getting her wedding things ready?" "she is going to wear blacks for the full year." "there's nae occasion for her to cast them. she can put on a white gown for the ceremony. i suppose they will hae the domine come to the house and marry them." "you are going ayont a' probabilities, jessy. christine willna marry for a full year. i am not sure she will ever marry." "she be to marry! of course she'll marry! she canna mak' a leeving oot a' a few bits o' poetry! she be to marry! all women hae to marry. where is she going to bide?" "just where she is." "i'll not hear tell o' that. the house is yours. after the widow's death, the home comes to the auldest son. that's the law o' scotland, and i'm vera sure it's the law o' england likewise. it's the right law. when folks break it, the break is for sorrow. there was robert toddie, who left his house and land to his daughter jean, and she married her lad, and took him to live there--never heeding her brother's right--and baith her bairn and hersel' died within a twelvemonth, and sae robert cam' to his ain, and he's living in the toddie house this day. why dinna ye speak to me?" "i hae heard ye tell the toddie story till it's worn awa'." "how was the house looking?" "clean and bright as a new-made pin." "that's right! i'll just tak' the bairns and go up there! one room is a' she's needing, and i canna spare her that vera lang." "you'll not daur to tak' a step up there. ye hae no mair right there, than you hae in the schoolmaster's house." "i hae every right there. i hae got the best o' advice on the subject. i'm thinkin' the law stands aboon your opinion." "not even the law and the fifteen lords o' edinburgh could gie you the right to put your foot on that place, in the way of the right. christine is mistress o' ruleson's, mistress and owner. that, and naething less!" norman was very unhappy. he could not get the idea of his right to ruleson cottage out of his wife's mind, and he had understood from the laying of its first stone that the building was to be for a home for margot and christine as long as either of them lived. he had some sentimental feelings also about the place, for norman was a dumb poet, and both in his brain and heart the elements of humanity were finely mixed. but he was reticent and self-denying, and the work of his hands being needed by the rapidly increasing family, he had put forth no personal claims. longing for knowledge and the wisdom of the schools, he had gone silently and cheerfully to the boats and lifted the oars at his father's side. but the house he had helped to build was dear to him. the image of his grave, kind father still sat in the big chair by the fireside, and his mother's quick step, and cheerful voice, and busy household ways, were yet the spirit of the building. he loved its order and cleanliness, and its atmosphere of home and hospitality. sitting by his fireside that night, he constantly contrasted it with his own disorderly, noisy dwelling, with his slip-shod wife, and her uncertain and generally belated meals. and his purpose was immovable. during this silent session with himself, his wife never ceased talking. norman was oblivious both to her entreaties and her threats. but as he rose and laid down his pipe, she laid her hand on his arm, and said, "gudeman, ye hae heard what i hae said, and----" "i hae heard naething since i told you that christine was owner and mistress o' ruleson cottage. let be, jessy, i'm weary and ready for sleep." "you'll hear this word, and then ye may sleep awa' what little sense you hae left. i'll go the morn into the town, and see lawyer forbes, and you'll mebbe believe him when he serves christine wi' a notice to quit, and tak' her belongings--poems and a'--wi' her." "if such a thing could happen, i should at once hae it deeded back to her, as a gift. listen, woman, to my last word on this matter--if you could by any means get possession o' the house, ye would hae it from foundation to roof-bigging, all to yoursel'! neither i, nor any o' my children, would cross its doorstane. that's a fact, as sure as death!" "you couldna tak' my childer from me!" "i could, and i would. tak' your will, you foolish woman! i shall bide by every word i hae said." "but norman----" "let go! you hae never yet seen me in a blaze! dinna try it tonight! if i lift my hand it will be your ain fault. get out o' my sight, and hearing! quick, woman! quick! i'm no' able to stand you langer--o god! o god, help me!" jessy, cowed and shocked at this unexpected passion of a patient man, disappeared; but the next moment she was heard in the children's room, crying and scolding, and the sharp slapping of her hand followed. norman jumped to his feet, his heart throbbed and burned, he clenched his hands, and took a step forward. the next moment he had sat down, his eyes were closed, his hands were clasped, he had hid himself in that secret sanctuary which his hard life and early disappointments had revealed to him, when he was only a lad of seventeen. jessy's railing, the children's crying, his own angry voice, he heard them not! he was hiding in his pavilion, in the secret of his tabernacle. he had cast his burden upon the lord. he was in perfect peace. christine spent a restless, unhappy night. norman had put before her a future that frightened her. she had seen the misery made by little wicked innuendoes half a dozen words long. truly words could not kill her, but they could make life bitter and friendless, and there were women in the village she could neither conciliate, nor cope with, for the weapons they used were not in her armory. "mither had a sharp tongue," she said softly, "but even she couldna cope wi' a lying tongue. weel, there's words anent it, in the good book, and i'll seek them out, and they'll be helping me." after all, the central trouble of her heart was neither her house, nor her neighbors, nor even her lover. someway or other, they could and would be managed. but how was she to refill her empty purse? there was only one half-crown in it, and she had already found out the cruel uncertainty of literary work. it depended on too many people. her novel was three-fourths done, but she reasoned that if men were so long on finding out whether they liked half a dozen verses, it would be all of a year, ere they got her novel well-examined. after realizing this condition, she said firmly, and with no evidence of unusual trial, "i can tak' to the fish, in the meantime. i havna outgrown my fisher dress, nor forgot my fisher-calls, and culraine folk will help me sell, if i look to the boats for my bread. they dinna understand the writing business--nae wonder! there's few do! the domine was saying it belongs to the mysteries o' this life. weel, i'll get my pleasure out o' it, and the fish are ay sure to come, and sure to be caught, and if i set mysel' to the business, i can beat the auldest and youngest o' the fisherwomen in the selling o' them." when she came to this decision, the clock struck twelve, and she looked up at its face for a moment, and shook her head. "i canna sleep yet," she said, "and you needna be calling me. there's cluny and neil to think o', and dear me, wha' can neil be hiding himsel'? he canna hae heard o' mither's death, he would hae come here, and if he couldna come, he would hae written. there has been nae word, either, from that lass he married. she wrote seven lang pages o' faults and accusations again her lawful husband, and then let the matter drop, as if it was of no further consequence. i didn't answer her letter, and i am glad i didn't. and i canna write now, for i know no more anent her whereabouts, than i do anent neil's. i wouldn't wonder if they are together in some heathen country, where men fight duels, and kill each other for an ugly word. in a case like that, it would be fair murder for poor neil. i wish i knew where the misguided lad is! norman and neil had no marriage luck, and wha kens what my luck may be, in the way o' a husband!" this intensely personal reflection claimed her whole attention. it was long since she had seen cluny. shortly before her mother's death, he had gone as supercargo on a large merchant steamer, bound for new zealand. it was a most important post, and he had been promised, if successful, the first captaincy in the fleet of passenger steamers carrying between england and the united states, that was vacant. before leaving on this long trip to new zealand, he had only managed to see christine for three hours. he had reached culraine at eight o'clock. he had run like a deer the mile and quarter which lay between the railway station and the ruleson cottage, reaching his goal just as christine finished reading a goodnight psalm to her mother. she had heard his steps afar off, it had seemed as if the comforting words were read to them--then she was at the open door, and they met in each other's arms. three hours of pure, perfect happiness had followed. cluny went first to margot's side. he knew it was the last time he could ever stand there. in this world they would see each other no more, and he was sorrowfully shocked and touched by the change in the handsome woman, once so vibrant and full of life. sometimes they had not been very good friends, but this white, frail image, stretching out hands full of pleasure and goodwill to him--this gentle mother of the beloved christine, won in a moment all his best sympathies. he promised her everything she asked, and then she sent him away with her blessing. so it had been three hours of marvelous happiness. they had been content to forget all things but the joy of each other's presence. to the last possible minute he had remained with her, and their hopeful farewell had not been dimmed by a single tear. since that night, she had sent no anxious worrying thoughts after him. from every port at which his ship touched, he had written her long, loving letters, and now she was beginning to expect his return. any day she might have a letter from him, dated liverpool or glasgow. "lat them talk," she said with a little defiant laugh. "lat their tongues tak' their ain ill-way, i'm not feared. there's norman at my side, and the domine not far off, and god aboon us all. i'll speak to norman anent the fishing, and if needs be, i can kipper the herring as weel as mither did." then in a moment a wonderful change came over her, the angry scorn of her attitude, and the proud smile on her handsome face vanished. she clasped her hands, and with the light of unconquerable love on her face, she said with tender eagerness--"what does she do now? oh dear god, what is mither doing now? i canna tell. i canna tell, but it is thy will, i'm sure o' that." then the loving tears that followed this attitude washed away all traces of her scorn and anger, and she lay down with prayer on her lips, and fell sweetly asleep. chapter xii neil's return home they that sin, are enemies to their own life.--tobit, xii, . but thou sparest all, for they are thine, o lord, thou lover of souls.--wisdom of solomon, xi, . tomorrow is always another day, always a new day, and as long as we live, always our day. it will bring us our little freight of good or evil, and we must accept it, our salvation being that we have the power of turning the evil into good, by the manner in which we accept it. when christine awoke in the morning, she awoke all at once. no faculty of the inner woman dozed or lingered, every sense of the physical woman was attent, even sight--which often delays after its sister senses are conscious--promptly lifted its curtains, and christine knew in a moment that she was _all there_, every sense and faculty alert, and ready for whatever the new day brought her. she thought first of the trouble that jessy was likely to make. "the maist o' the women will side wi' jessy," she thought, "not because they like her, but because they dearly like a quarrel. i'll not quarrel with them. i'll bide at hame, and if they come up here, i'll bolt the doors on them. that's settled. i can neither keep back, nor hurry forward cluny, sae i'll just put him in god's care, and leave him there. neil has ta'en himsel' out o' my kindness and knowledge, i can only ask god to gie his angel a charge concerning him. the great queston is, how am i to get my bread and tea? there's plenty o' potatoes in the house, and a pennyworth o' fish will make me a meal. and i am getting a few eggs from the hens now, but there's this and that unaccountable thing wanted every day; and i hae just two-and-sixpence half-penny left. weel! i'll show my empty purse to the lord o' heaven and earth, and i'm not doubting but that he will gie me a' that is gude for me." she put down her tea cup decisively to this declaration, and then rose, tidied her house and herself, and sat down to her novel. with a smile she opened her manuscript, and looked at what she had accomplished. "you tiresome young woman," she said to her heroine. "you'll hae to make up your mind vera soon, now, whether ye'll hae sandy gilhaize, or roy brock. i'll advise you to tak' sandy, but i dinna think you'll do it, for you are a parfect daffodil o' vanity, and you think roy brock is mair of a gentleman than sandy. i dinna ken what to do wi' you!----" here the door was noisily opened, and jamie rushed in, crying "auntie, auntie! i hae three letters for you, and one o' them came a week ago." "oh jamie, why did you not go to the post office before this?" "i was getting ready for my exam----" "gie me the letters, laddie." "and i could not get off till this morning." there was a long letter from cluny, but it was not the delayed letter; and when jamie had gone home, she gave her whole heart to the reading of it. then she turned anxiously to the other two. both of them contained small checks for poems written so long ago that she had quite forgotten them. they were, however, veritable godsends, and she thanked god for them. now she could go to work. she could even take time to make her foolish heroine do the proper thing. she felt as rich, with her two pounds, as if the two had been twenty. and cluny was on his way home! her letter had been posted at auckland, and he was about to leave there, for home, when he wrote. the novel now progressed rapidly. it was writing itself, and "the daughter of the sea" was all the company christine wanted. norman came up the hill once in the day, or he sent his son will, in his place, and jamie always ate his lunch beside aunt christine, and sometimes judith called to see if there was any news of cluny. sunday was her day of trial. ill-will can make itself felt, and never say a word, and christine noticed that everyone drew away from her. if judith, or peter brodie, or anyone spoke to her, they were at once set apart. everyone else drew away, and the very girls to whom she had been kindest, drew furthest away. it was, perhaps, a good thing for her. she only drew the closer to god, and her pen was a never-failing friend and companion. the days flew by, in the nights she slept and dreamed, and now and then the domine came in, and comforted and strengthened her. then she read him little chapters from her book, and he gave her much good advice, and sufficient praise to encourage her. so week after week went on, and though the whole village really disapproved of her retaining the ruleson cottage, she nearly forgot the circumstance. and the book grew and grew in beauty, day by day, until on one lovely june afternoon, the pretty heroine married sandy gilhaize, and behaved very well ever afterward. the domine came in and found her flushed and excited over the wedding, and the parting, and he took the book away with him, and told her he would look after its sale, and she was to worry no more about it. "try and forget it exists, christine, then neither your wishing nor your fearing will interfere with the fortune your good angel intends for it." "i am going to gie the house a good clean, frae the roof to the doorstep," she answered, "and when i hae that business on hand, it is all i can think about." "is not cleaning the house again a work of supererogation?" "i dinna ken what kind o' wark that may be, sir, but mither always cleaned the house weel, before the herring came. she'll be expecting me to do the same thing." so the domine took away the manuscript, and christine cleaned her house with even extra care, and one night a week afterwards, she sat down to her cup of tea, telling herself that there wasna a speck o' dust from the roof to the doorstane. "even the knives and forks shine like siller," she said, "and the bath-brick board wouldna file the cleanest duster." she was personally in the same spotless condition, and the little scone, and bit of baked fish, and the cup of tea on the snow white tablecloth, only emphasized this sense of absolute purity. as she was drinking her tea, norman lifted the latch and entered, and she greeted him joyfully. "come awa' and welcome," she cried. "i was just longing to see you. bring a cup and saucer off the rack, laddie, and sit down, and tell me what's going on in the village." "weel, the great news is the nearness o' the herrin'. from a' accounts we may hae them in our bay in a week." "i am glad o' the news." "i dinna think you would be carin'." "why shouldn't i care? i am longing to mak' some money. i intend to tak' up my mither's kippering." "i'm glad o' that. why should ye let it slip through your fingers? i heard tell that nancy baird was thinking o' taking mither's place." "she'll do naething o' that kind. mither took pains to fit me for that wark, and i am going to do it wi' all my might. norman, what can you do to mak' it easy for me?" "that is what i came here to talk to you about. i'll tell willie he is your gillie, as it were, for the fishing. he will carry the fish to the shed for you, and dinna forget mither's cubby there is yours! feyther paid for the space, and put up all the fixtures. if they werna named in the will, and there is any question of my right in the matter, say, i hae given it to you." "but the kippering shed and fixtures were named and given to mither and mysel', and----" "they are yours. let no one put you oot o' your right. willie will bring the feesh to you--the finest i hae in my nets--and when they are kippered, he'll go to the town wi' you, and carry your basket." "that is all i need, norman, and i am vera gratefu' for your kindness." "and i'll be walking through the shed, to see that a' is right. and if anything is beyont you, sister, you'll send willie for me." christine could not speak, but she put her hand in his, and the look on her lovely face filled his eyes with tears. "you are wonderfu' like mither this afternoon, christine," he said softly. and both were silent a little while. when he spoke next, it was of neil--"hae ye had a word frae the lad yet?" he asked. "not one, nor from the lass he married. i don't know what to think." "weel, it is as easy to think good, as evil. if we dinna thing wrang, we won't do wrang. thinking no evil! that is what the good book advises. the puir lad was spoiled i' the making. if he comes back to any o' us, he will come back to you, christine. there was the son, wha left his hame, in the gospels--ye ken how he was treated?" "whenever neil comes hame, norman, he will hae a loving welcome from christine." "the puir lad made a mistake wi' his marriage. that is the warst of a' mistakes. no man wins o'er it. it is the bitter drop in a' he eats and drinks, it is the pebble in his shoe, whether he warks or plays. neil willna come hame till sorrow drives him here--then?" "i'll do all that love can do, norman." "and call on me, if you think it needfu'." the very next day christine went to see her mother's customers. the idea of nancy baird's stepping into her mother's shoes was intolerable. "i'll not thole a thing like that! it settles the question to me! if i didna need the money, i would kipper the herrin', but i'm needing the money, and the herrin' are my lawfu' venture." so to the town she went, and even far exceeded her usual orders. she was much elated by her success, and immediately began to prepare her mother's place for the work before her. it caused much talk in the village, but it prevented the baird woman's taking unauthorized possession of christine's place in the curing-shed. then while she was waiting and watching for the fish, she got a letter from cluny. he was at home again. he was coming to culraine on saturday. he would be there by noon, and he would remain in culraine until monday night. she was full of joy, and instantly began to prepare for her visitor. it was friday morning, and she had but little time, but that little was enough if things went with her. first she went to the village and asked judith to come and stay with her, until the following tuesday, and the old woman was delighted to do so. "we will hae cluny to oursel's then," she said, "and i'll tak' the house wark off your hands, christine, and you and cluny can hae the time for your ain talk and planning." "and man nor woman can say nae ill word anent cluny visiting me, if you are here." "lat them say their pleasure. they'll say naething oot o' the way, while i am here. they ken better." "why not?" "because i hae promised ane and all o' them to call a church session the first ill word i hear. i will hae their names read out frae the pulpit--christened name and surname--and then they will be oot o' communion wi' the kirk, till they confess their sin, standing up in the congregation, and asking to be forgiven. will ye think o' sally johnson, and kitty brawn, and a' that crowd o' sinful women making such a spectacle o' themsel's! gar! it makes me laugh." and she laughed, as women of the natural order do laugh, and such laughing is very contagious, and christine laughed also, as she gurgled out, "you never would do a thing like that, judith?" "wouldn't i? lat them try me." "the domine wouldn't do it." "he couldna help himsel'. it is in the 'ordering o' the kirk.' he wad be forced to call the session, and i wouldn't won'ner if he rayther liked the jarring occasion. he dislikes insulting women, and why shouldn't he like to gie them a galling withstanding. it wad be vera desirable i' my opinion." cluny had said, in his letter, that his next voyage would be the last before their marriage, and that he would have to sweeten the next half year with the memories of his coming visit. so christine killed her young, plump, spring chickens, and saved all her eggs, and provided every good thing she could for her expected lover. the next three days were days taken out of this work-a-day world, and planted in paradise. everything appeared to unite to make them so. judith looked after the house, the lovers wandered in the hill side garden. they were lovely days, green, shot with gold, and the whole sweet place was a caress of scent. the roses in margot's garden were in their first spring beauty, and the soul of a white jasmine vine, that surrounded the spot, breathed of heaven. the larkspurs stood around like watchful grenadiers. lilies and pansies were at their feet, and the laburnum hung its golden droops above them. all the day long, the sea was blue and calm, and the waves seemed to roll themselves asleep upon the shore. at night, there was a full moon above the water, and in its light the projecting rigging of some ships lying on it looked like spider webs on the gray firmament. the sun, and the moon, and the sea were all new, and the whole world was their own. talk of their marriage no longer made trouble, for christine now sweetly echoed his hopes and his dreams. she had said "on the fifteenth of next april, or there-abouts," and cluny seized and clung to the positive date. "let it be the fifteenth," he decided. "i cannot bear 'there-abouts,' or any other uncertainty." "the fifteenth might fall on a sunday." "then let it be sunday. there can be no better day;" and christine smiled and lifted her beautiful face, and he wanted to give her a thousand kisses. for nearly three days all the ancient ecstasies of love and youth were theirs. i need say no more. the morning redness of life and love has once tinged us all. judith went home the following day. nothing less than the joys and sorrows and contentions of the whole village, were sufficient for her troubled and troubling spirit. judith had everyone's affairs to look after, but she gave the supremacy of her attention to cluny and christine. christine, she said, was a by-ordinary girl. she had written a poem, and got gude siller for it, and there wasna anither lass in culraine, no, nor i' the hale o' scotland, could do the same thing. christine's first employment was to put her house in perfect order, then she took out her old fisher dresses, and selected one for the work before her. she hoped that her effort to take her mother's place in the kippering shed would put a stop to the fisherwives' opinion that she was "setting hersel' up aboon them a'." she longed for their good will, and she had no desire whatever to "tak' her mither's outstanding place," a fear of which intention some of the older women professed. her first visitor was her brother norman. he put a stop at once to all her good and kind intentions. "you mustna go near the kippering," he said. "i hae heard what must put a stop to that intent. the herrin' are near by, and may be here tonight. if so be, i will send my lad, willie, to the foot o' the hill wi' your feesh, by five o'clock in the morning. he will carry your basket easy, and do your bidding in a' things. gae yer ways to the town, and cry your feesh, and you'll hae the siller in your hand when you come hame." "why can i not kipper my fish, norman?" "it isna worth while tellin' ye. god alone understands quarrelsome women, but if you go to the kippering-shed, there will be trouble--and trouble for me, christine--for jessy is in wi' them." "i will do as you tell me, norman. hae the fish ready at six o'clock." then norman went away, and christine put back in its place the kippering suit, and took out her very prettiest selling suit. for her mourning dress touched only her domestic and social life, her business had its own dress, and the fisher dress was part of the business. she had no sense of humiliation in assuming it, nor yet in the selling of the fish. she had liked very well the little gossip with known householders, and had not been offended by the compliments she received from strangers and passersby. the first morning of this new season was really a little triumph. all her old friends wanted to hear about margot's sickness and death, and when her basket was empty, she sent willie home and stayed with an old friend of her mother's, and had a cup of tea and a fried herring with her. they had much to talk about, and christine resolved to stay with her until the mail should come in, which would be about eleven o'clock. then if there was any letter for her, she could get it at once. "the domine is aye thoughtless anent the mail," she reflected, and then with a little laugh added, "he hasna any love letters coming, or he would be thinking on it." she received two letters. one was a letter from cluny, mailed at moville, ireland. the other was from blackwood's publishing house, offering her a hundred and fifty pounds advance, and ten per cent royalty for her novel, or, if she preferred it, three hundred and fifty pounds for all rights. she went to the domine with this letter, and he advised her to accept three hundred and fifty pounds for all rights. "you will be requiring bride-dresses, and house-napery of many kinds," he said, "and, my dear girl, god has sent you this check. he knew you would have need of these things. you ought to be very happy in this thought." "i am, sir. you know how 'just enough' has been my daily bread; and i was worrying a little about wedding garments, and expenses." "well, christine, of all life's fare, god's daily bread is best. answer your letter here, and i will mail it for you. in a few days you will have plenty of money. go at once, and put it in the bank." "i will, sir. and when i get home, i will begin another book at once." "go with the fish, until you have the money in your hand. things unforeseen might happen to delay payment. good fortune does not like us to be too sure of her. i have seen her change her mind in that case." "you are always right, sir. i will do as you say." "in three days you may expect the money. do your work as if you were not expecting it. miss nothing of your duty." so christine went the second morning, and had extraordinary success. among the "quality houses" they were watching for her. they had never before seen such fine, and such fresh fish. they would have no others. she went home with her little purse full of silver, and her heart singing within her. it was not, after all, so bad to be a fisher-girl. if it was all small money, it was all ready money. and the people who had known her mother had remembered her, and spoken kindly of her, and christine loved them for it. she had not yet forgotten. oh no! many times in the day and night she cried softly, "mither! mither! where are ye? dinna forget christine!" on the third morning she had a little adventure. she was delaying, for she was waiting for the mail, and had taken a cup of tea with her mother's old friend. she stood in the doorway talking, and christine was on the sidewalk, at the foot of the steps. her empty basket was at her feet. she stood beside it, and the sunshine fell all over her. its searching light revealed nothing but a perfection of form, a loveliness of face, and a charm of manner, that defied all adverse criticism. she looked as the women of that elder world, who were the mothers of godlike heroes, must have looked. suddenly her friend ceased her conversation, and in a low hurried voice said, "here comes the young master, and his bride! look at them." then christine turned her face to the street, and as she did so, a carriage passed slowly, and angus ballister looked at her with an unmistakable intention. it was a stern, contemptuous gaze, that shocked christine. she could make no response but sheer amazement, and when the carriage had passed it required all her strength to say a steady "good-morning" to her friend, and hurry down the road homeward. not then, and there, would she think of the insult. she put it passionately beneath the surface, until she reached her home, and had locked herself within its shelter. then, she gave way utterly to her chagrin and sorrow, and wounded pride, and wept such bitter, cruel tears, as no other sorrow had ever caused her. she wept like a wounded child, who knows it has been cruelly treated, who comprehends the injustice of its pain and its own inability to defend itself, and finds no friend or helper in its suffering. finally, when perfectly exhausted, she fell asleep and slept till the sun set and the shadows of the night were on sea and land. then she arose, washed her tear-stained face, and made her tea. in her sleep she had been counseled and comforted, and she looked at the circumstance now with clear eyes. "i got just what i deserved," she said bluntly to herself. "why did i go to the fishing at all? i wasna sent there. god took me awa' from the fishing, and showed me what to do, just as he took king david from the sheep-cotes, and made him a soldier. if david had feared and doubted, and gone back to the sheep-cotes, he wouldna hae been king o' israel. weel, when god took the nets out o' my hands, and told me to sing, i got feared singing and story-telling wouldna feed me, and i went back to the nets. now then, christine, thank god for the snubbing you got. yesterday i knew money was coming, plenty o' it. why didn't i sit still or go to the wark he wants me to do. why? weel, if i must tell the bottom truth, i rayther fancied mysel' in my fisher dress. i was pleased wi' the admiration i got baith frae the men and the women. something else, christine? ay, my conscience, if i be to tell all, i liked the gossip o' the women--also the pride i had in my ain strength and beauty, and the power it gave me o'er baith men and women--ay, and i liked to mak' the siller in my ain fingers, as it were--to say to folk, 'here's your fish,' and then feel their siller in the palm o' my hand. i was wrang. i was vera wrang. i wad be served as i deserve, if thae book people went back on their word." just here the domine and jamie came, and the domine had the letter with the money in it. then he noticed that she had been crying, and he asked, "who has been hurting you, christine?" and she answered: "mysel', sir. i hae been hurting mysel'." then while he drank a cup of tea, she told him the little circumstance, which even yet made her draw her shoulders together, with a gasp of bitter chagrin. "christine, you will remember that i told you it was they who waited patiently on the lord, who received his blessing. are you satisfied now?" "oh, sir! do not ask me that question. you know i am satisfied." "then put this money in the bank, and go to wark with all your mind, and all your soul. being a woman you cannot preach, so god has chosen you for the pen of a ready writer. say all that is given you to say, whether you get paid by the handicrafters, or not. god will see that you get your wages. goodnight! you may let the bit ballister affair slip out of your mind. the young man isn't naturally bad. he is ashamed of himself by this time. no doubt of it." these things happened at the beginning of the herring season, and for two months christine had a blessed interval of forgetfulness. every man, woman and child, was busy about the fish. they had no time to think of the lonely girl, who had begun, and then suddenly abandoned the fishing--nobody knew what for. but they saw her in the kirk every sabbath, apparently well and happy, and old judith said she had nae doubt whatever that cluny had forbidden her to hae any pairt in the clash and quarreling o' the women folk in the herrin' sheds, and why not? cluny would be a full captain, wi' all his trimmings on, when he came to culraine next april for his wife, and was it likely he would be wanting his wife cryin' feesh, and haggling wi' dirty, clackin' women, for a few bawbees? christine was a lady born, she said, and her cluny would set her among the quality where she belonged. judith had no doubt whatever that christine was obeying an order from cluny, and jessy ruleson said she was glad the lass had found a master, she had always had too much o' her ain ill way. for nearly three months christine lived a quiet, methodical life, undisturbed by any outside influence, and free from all care. she rose very early, finding creative writing always easiest before noon. she went to bed very early, knowing that the sleep before midnight is the renewing sleep, and she hemmed the day, night and morn, with prayer, to keep it from unraveling. all that could happen between these two prayers was provided for, and she gave herself heart and soul to the delightful toil of story-writing. she wrote as she felt. she used the dialect and idioms of her people when it was necessary, and no one checked her for it. it was her style, and style is the stamp of individual intellect, as language is the stamp of race. certainly it is an habitual deviation from accuracy, but it is a deviation for the purpose of communicating freedom and feeling. the pen is neither grammar nor dictionary, its purpose is to be the interpreter of the heart. one morning in september she had a strange feeling of inability to work. the fog dulled her mind. nothing was firm and certain in her ideas. she found herself dreaming of incoherent and mysterious things, a woof of thought, as airy as the fog itself. "i'll put the paper and pencil awa'," she said, "and i'll build up the fire, and make some good bread, then if i am no mair awake i'll red up the house. there's dust on everything and little wonder if there's dust on my mind, too." then someone tried to open the door and she called out, "wait a wee! i'll slip the bolt in a minute." when she had done so, she opened the door and neil, in a low broken voice said, "christine! let me in! why am i bolted out?" and he whimpered out the words, like a hurt child, as he passed her. she looked at him in amazement. she could hardly believe her own senses. this was not her brother--a wan, trembling man, with the clothing of a laborer, and his hair clipped close to his head. "bolt the door again," he said, in his old authoritative way, "and give me something to eat. i am sick with hunger, and cold, and misery of all kinds." "i'll do all that, neil, but where hae you been this lang time, and what makes you sae poor, and sae broken down?" "get me something to eat, and i will tell you." so she left him crouching over the fire, with his elbows on his knees, and his face hidden in his hands. and she asked him no more questions, but when he had had a good meal, he said, "you asked where i had been, christine? i hae been in prison--in the house of correction. i was put there by that villain rath, who accused me of obtaining money under false pretenses." "i feared something of the kind. a man came here a short time before mother died----" "mother dead!" "ay, going on eight months now." and he cried out like some hurt animal, and christine hasted to say, "she left her love and her blessing. at the very last, she spoke o' you, neil." "the man you were speaking of, what did he say?" "he asked me for the particulars o' my loan to you. he pitied me, and said you had a way o' getting money on vera questionable pretenses." "well, what then?" "i said you made no pretenses to me, that you didna even ask me to lend you money, that i offered it to you, and refused a' bond, or acknowledgment, and only bid you pay me when money was easy wi' you. and i took the liberty o' calling him a sneaking scoundrel, and something else i'll not say o'er again. then i wrote, and told you the entire circumstance, and you never answered my letter." "i never received it. rath wanted to leave scotland, and the case was fairly rushed through. i was stunned. i think i lost my senses. i did get a lawyer, but i am sure rath bought him. anyway, i lost the case, and before i realized the situation, i found myself in prison for six months. i was made to work--look at my hands--i had dreadful food, dreadful companions. i was ill all the time. and when at last i was set free, someone had claimed my fine clothing, and left me these shameful rags." "oh neil! dear neil! had you no money?" "my lawyer charged me shamefully--literally robbed me--and i spent a great deal while in prison in getting proper food, and any comfort i could, at any price. after i got free, i was very ill in the hospital, and more went, and i have only enough left to pay my passage to america. i walked most of the way here. i'm a broken, dying man." "you are naething o' the kind. all men mak' mistakes, a good many hae a stumble on the vera threshold o' life, and they leap to their feet again, and go prosperously ever afterward. you hae made a mistake, you must master it, you hae had a sair stumble, and you are going to leap to your feet, and run the rest o' your life-race to a clean, clear victory. the first thing is your claes. i am going at once to the domine. you are about his size. i will get a suit, and some clean linen from him." "oh christine, he may tell----" "the domine betray you! what are you saying?" "i can't trust anyone but you." "but you must." "finlay knows my size and measure, exactly." "vera well, then go to finlay." "how can i go through the town, or even the village, in this dress? you will hae to go for me." "i will go to the domine. it is impossible for me to go and buy a man's full suit at finlay's. he is a great talker. he wad want to ken why and wherefore i was buying a man's suit--you ought to think o' this, neil. i'll ask norman to go." "norman will hae to tell that silly fool he married." "then i had better go to the domine. he willna cheep o' the matter to anyone. keep the doors bolted while i am awa', and go to your own old room. it is a' ready for you." only half satisfied with these arrangements, he went fretfully to bed, and christine went as quickly as she could to the manse. the domine listened to her story with an air of annoyance. "i know neil's story," he said, "and he has told it as far as his telling goes, as truthfully as i expected. i am not so sure about his need of money, the clothing is different. i will send over what is necessary, and call in the afternoon and see him." "dinna be cross wi' the lad, sir. he is sair broken down," and suddenly christine covered her face and began to cry with almost a child's complete surrender to circumstances. the domine soothed her as he would have soothed a child, and she said, "forgie me, sir, i had to give way. it is a' by now. i'm not a crying woman, you know that, sir." "i do, and i am the more angry at those who compel you to seek the relief of tears. but i'll be as patient as i can with neil, for your sake, and for his father's and mother's sake." so christine returned and neil was difficult to awaken, but he heard her finally, and opened the door, in a half-asleep condition. "so the domine refused you?" he said--"i thought he would." "he did not refuse me. he will send, or bring, what you need, later." "you should hae brought them with you, christine. i dislike to be seen in these disreputable rags. you should hae thought o' that." "i should, but i didna." then she cooked dinner, and he sat beside her, and told, and retold the wrongs and sufferings he had innocently endured. it was all reginald rath he blamed, and he would not admit that his behavior had been in any way provocative of it. "he was furious because i married his sister, and naturally took the management of her money into my own hands." "where are the raths now?" "i do not know. somewhere in california, i suspect." "why?" "my wife has a good deal of real estate there. it was of little value when deeded to her. its worth has increased enormously. rath hated the idea of it belonging to me." "neil, how does roberta feel toward you?" "she was angry as he was at first--but she loved me." "why do you not go to her?" "i do not know where she is." "why not go to california?" "i have not money enough. whatever set you to writing books, christine?" "how do you know i have been writing books?" "i saw a review of a book by christine ruleson. it praised the bit novel a good deal--did you get much for it?" "they paid me vera weel." "how much?" she hesitated a moment, and then said, "three hundred and fifty pounds." "that is a deal of money for a book--i mean a storybook, like a novel. i did not know writing novels paid so well, or i would have chosen it, in place of the law." "the domine thinks writing as a profession must choose you, that you cannot choose it." "the domine does not know everything. have the men who bought it paid you yet?" "the publishers? yes, they paid upon acceptance." "how did you learn to write?" "i never learned. i just wanted to write, and i wrote--something in me wrote. my writing is neither here nor there. go to your old room, and lie down and sleep. the domine may think it best for you to go somewhere at once." so neil went to his room but he could not sleep, and about four o'clock the domine called for him. they met very coldly. the domine had long ago lost all interest in him as a scholar, and he resented the way in which neil had quietly shuffled off his family, as soon as he supposed he had socially outgrown them. the young man was terribly humiliated by the necessity of appearing in his dirty, beggarly raiment, and the domine looked at him with a pitying dislike. the physical uncleanliness of neil was repellent to the spotless purity which was a strong note in the minister's personality. however, he thought of the father and mother of neil, and the look of aching entreaty in poor christine's face quite conquered his revulsion, and he said, not unkindly, "i am sorry to see you in such a sad case, neil. you will find all you need in that parcel; go and dress yourself, and then i shall be waiting for you." he then turned quickly to christine, and neil found himself unable to offer any excuse for his appearance. "poor neil!" sighed christine. "yes, indeed, poor neil," answered the domine. "what can man do for a fellow creature, who is incapable of being true, and hardly capable of being false?" "i advised him to go to his wife. he says she loved him once, but turned against him at her brother's request." "she did, and a wife who cries out has everyone's sympathy." "she will forgive him--if she loved him." "she may, i have known women to go on loving and trusting a man found out in fraud--only a woman could do that." "a man----" "no!" "oh, domine, for father's sake--you loved father--for his sake, be kind to poor, dispairing neil." "yes, child, 'despairing'--that is, because he knows he is wrong, and is not sorry for his fault. a good man in the presence of any misfortune stands up, feels exalted, and stretches out his arms to the great friendship--he never drifts like a dismasted ship." here neil entered the room again, looking very respectable in the new tweed suit which the domine had brought him. "does it fit you, neil?" he asked. "as if made for me, sir. i thank you for it." "it was altered for you. finlay knew your measure to a quarter of an inch, he said. i told him you were not fit to come." "was that prudent, sir?" "yes, for we are going away at once." "i would like to rest with christine for a few days." "how can you think of such a thing? do you want to ruin your sister as well as yourself? do you not know that rath is going to sue you as soon as your first sentence is served, for shortage in his money account? he will keep up this prosecution, if you stay in this country." "what can i do? what can i do?" "you must go to the united states, or argentine, or india, or----" "i have no money to spend in travel." "how much have you?" "thirty pounds--and a little over." "h-m-m! i will lend you twenty pounds, if you will repay it." "certainly, i will repay it. i will go to new york. i shall have a little left, when i get there, i suppose. i shall have to travel decently." "you can get a comfortable passage for twelve pounds. with the balance you can make a spoon, or spoil a horn. many a good man has built a fine fortune on less than forty pounds." "i can spare fifty pounds, sir. i will gladly give it." "you cannot spare it. you need every shilling of it, and as i have said--fifty pounds will make a man, or waste a man. any scotchman with youth, education, and fifty pounds, feels sure of his share of the world, or he is not worth his porridge." "you forget, sir, that i have the bonds of a false charge to fight." "the charge was not false. do what is right, in the future, and i promise you that it shall never more come up against you. but if you go on buying money with life and honor, you will have a second charge to meet. i know whereof i speak. i have had several interviews with mr. rath. he is my half-sister's nephew. he will do anything reasonable i ask of him." "my god! and you let me go to prison, and blasted my good name, and made a beggar and a wreck of me. i won't have your help," and he turned to christine, and cried out passionately, "christine! christine! save me from a friend like this! help me yoursel', dear lassie! help neil yoursel'! for mither's sake help neil yoursel'." she went quickly to his side. she put her arms round him--her white, strong, motherly arms. she kissed his face, and wept with him, and she said with a loving passion, all those soft, cruddling, little sentences with which a mother soothes a hurt child. "i'll gie you a' the siller you want, dearie. i'll gie it to you as a free gift. i'll stand by ye through thick and thin. guilty or not guilty, ye are my ain dear brither! i don't believe you're guilty! you are feyther's son, ye couldna be guilty. it's a' spite, and envy, and ill will. mither bid me be kind to you, and i will be kind, though all the warld's against me!" the domine watched this scene with eyes full of tears, and a tender fatherly look. he finally put his elbow on the table, and rested his face in his hand, and no doubt he was praying for counsel. for he presently stood up, and said in a kind, familiar voice, "neil, we must hurry, we have a little journey before us, if you get the next atlantic steamer. we will talk this matter fairly out, when we are alone. it is cruel to force it on your sister. she knows, and you know also, that you may safely put your trust in me." then christine left the room, and when she returned the two men were ready to leave the house. "where are you taking neil, domine?" she asked, in that lowered voice fear always uses. "where are you taking my brother?" "only to moville, christine. there may be spies watching the outgoing steamers--especially the american liners--so he had better go to moville, and take his passage from there." she did not answer. she bent her tearful, loving face to neil's, and kissed him again, and again, and whispered hurriedly--"write to me often, and soon," and when her hand unclasped from his, she left with him the money she had promised. the domine pretended not to see the loving transaction, and the next moment the two men were wrapped up in the thick darkness, which seemed to swallow up even the sound of their footsteps. that night christine mingled her lonely cup of tea with tears, but they were tears that had healing in them. those to whom love has caused no suffering, have never loved. all who have loved, have wept. christine had given away her heart, it had been bruised and wounded--but ought she to love her brother less, because he had proved himself unworthy? if anything could bring him back to her trust, would it not be the prayers and tears born from her desolation? to regret, and to desire, between these two emotions the horizons recede; they are two spiritual levers, by which the soul can work miracles of grace. so the days went on in alternating sunshine and storm. the domine or jamie came every day to see if all was well with her. sometimes norman stopped long enough on an evening visit, to talk about neil and to wonder over his past and future. for though he had reached new york safely, they knew little of his life. he said he had found a clerkship in the general store of a merchant in a small town on the hudson river, about sixty miles from new york; but he intimated it was only a resting place, till he felt ready to go to california. his great anxiety was to obtain the knowledge of his wife's hiding-place, for he was sure her brother was determined to keep them apart. and this conviction was gradually making a reconciliation with her the chief aim and desire of his unhappy life. he was sure the domine knew where she was, and his letters to christine urged on her constantly a determined effort to induce him to reveal her residence. christine had made three efforts to win the domine's confidence, and had then abandoned the attempt as utterly useless. the herring-fishery with all its preparatory and after duties and settlements was now quite past, and the school was in full swing again, and the quiet days of st. martin's summer were over the land. all the magnificent flowers of early autumn were dead, but the little purple daisy of st. michael filled the hedges, and the crannies of the moor. in the garden, among the stones of its wall, the mint and the thyme and the wall flowers still swung in sunny hours, faint ethereal perfume; but it was like the prayers of the dying, broken and intermittent, the last offering of the passing autumn. there were gray and ghostly vapors in the early morning, and the ships went through them like spirits. the rains sobbed at the windows, and the wind was weary of the rain. sometimes the wind got the best of both fog and rain, then it filled the sails of the ships, and with swelling canvas they strutted out with the gale. in the mornings, if the sea was willing, she saw the fishermen hastening to the boats, with their oilskins over their arms, and water bottle swinging at their sides. and it was the sea after all, that was her true companion. the everlasting hills were not far away, but they were young compared with the old, old, gray sea. its murmur, its loud beat of noisy waves, its still, small voice of mighty tides, circling majestically around the world, all spoke to her. her blood ran with its tide, she wrote best when they were inflowing. when it was high water with the sea, it was high water with christine's highest nature, spiritual and mental. their sympathy was perfect, and if taken away from the sea, she would have been as miserable as a stormy petrel in a cage. so then, with the sea spread out before her, and her paper and pencils in hand, she hardly missed human companionship. still there were days when she wanted to talk, when singing did not satisfy her, and one morning when she had watched a boat come ashore, broadside on the rocks, she felt this need almost like a pain in her heart. no lives had been lost, and she had watched her brother norman playing a godlike act of salvation with the life-boat, yet she had what she called "a sair heartache!" "it isna for the men," she said softly, "they are a' safe, through god's mercy, and norman's pluck and courage. i think it is for the poor, poor boat, beaten and lashed to pieces, on thae black, cruel rocks! poor boatie! left alane in her misery and death! and she did her best! nae doubt o' that! she did her best, and she had to die!" just then there was a knock at the door, and though she had a moment's wonder at anyone's coming up the hill, so early in such rough weather, she cried out, "come in. lift the hasp, and come in." then she turned round to see who would enter. it was roberta ruleson. chapter xiii the right mate and the right time for the destiny whereof they were worthy drew them unto this end.--wisdom of solomon, xix, . mercifully ordain that we may become aged together.--tobit, viii, . the bride of love and happiness! roberta ruleson was the last person in the world christine expected to see. she came in smiling, and with outstretched hand said, "dear christine, tell me that you are glad to see me." "there's nane living, roberta, saving your ain husband, i would be gladder to see." "i have sent the carriage away, can i stop with you this night?" "you can stay as long as you want to stay. i will be gey glad o' your company." "i have long looked for an opportunity to come to you. at last i pretended to be very sick with rheumatism, and had a famous physician to see me. of course i had looked up the symptoms i had to complain of, and i succeeded in deceiving him. he was puzzled about my freedom from fever, but i told him 'it came bad enough every third day,' and he said he would see me on the third day. my brother and his saucy wife left for edinburgh yesterday, and they think i am safe in bed. i am safe here. i left glasgow an hour after they did." "will you hae a cup of tea and a mouthful o' bread and broiled ham?" "i am hungry and cold, and shall be very glad of it." "then go and tak' off your bonnet and cloak, and come to the fireside. i'll hae the food ready for you, in ten minutes." christine wanted a few minutes to consider. was it right for her to tell roberta all she knew, or must she follow the domine's plan and be non-committal. she had not satisfied herself on this subject when roberta returned to her, and she then hastily decided to do right and tell the truth whatever turned up. the tea and ham and bread were ready and roberta sat down to them with the pleasant eagerness of a hungry child. she was, however, much changed. her face showed plainly the wear and tear of a troubled, anxious mind, and as soon as she had taken a long drink of tea, she asked abruptly, "christine, where is neil?" then all christine's hesitation vanished, and she answered frankly, "neil is in a little town on the hudson river, about a two hours' journey from new york." "what is he doing?" "he is bookkeeper in a shop there." "what is the name of the town? tell me truly, christine." "i will let you read his last letter. it came two days ago." "thank you! it would be a great comfort to me." there was a john knox teapot on the chimney-piece, and christine lifted it down, removed the lid, and took neil's letter out, and handed it to roberta. the woman's invincible sense of whatever was ridiculous or inconsistent, with a person or event, was instantly roused by the appearance of john knox. she laughed with girlish merriment. "to think of john knox interfering in my matrimonial difficulties!" she cried, "it is too funny! the old scold! how grim and gruff he looks! if he could speak, how he would rave about the outrageous authority of women. it is refreshing to know that he had a wife that snubbed him, and didn't believe in him, and did not honor and obey him, and----" she had unfolded the letter as she was speaking, and now her eyes were so busy, that her tongue got no message to deliver, and this was what she read:-- my dear sister christine, i am still here, waiting for the information i asked you to get me, namely the address of my dear wife. i am unhappy, i may say i am miserable; and i can never settle anywhere, till i see her. if she then refuses to hear and believe me, life will be over to me. but she will believe me, for i will tell her the truth, and she will see that though i was foolish, i was not criminal. the law separating these two conditions is far from being clear enough. i want to know where my wife is! she will believe me! she will trust me! you do. mother did. roberta has been very near and dear to me. she has been forced to abandon me. it is the injustice of my treatment that is killing me. if i could only clear myself in her sight, i could lift life again, and make the best of it. i am not half content in this place. i cannot believe the people here are representative americans, and i dislike small towns. traders and dwellers in small towns are generally covetous--they have a sinister arithmetic--they have no clear notions of right and wrong, and i think they are capable of every kind of malice known to man. i want to go to a big city, where big motives move men, and if you do not send me roberta's hiding place, i will put out for california, if i foot it every step of the way. i am stunned, but not broken. your loving brother, neil. when she had finished this letter, she was crying. "give it to me!" she sobbed, "it is all about me, christine. give it to me! poor neil! he has been badly used! oh christine, what must i do?" "you ought to go to his side, and help him to mak' a better life. what prevents ye?" "oh the shame of it! the atmosphere of the prison!" "you promised god to tak' him for better or worse, richer or poorer. you are breaking your promise every day, and every hour, that you stay away from him." "you must not blame me ignorantly, christine. my brother and i were left alone in the world, when he was ten years old, and i was eight. he at once assumed a tender and careful charge of my lonely life. i cannot tell you how good and thoughtful he was. when i left school he traveled all over europe with me, and he guarded my financial interests as carefully as if they were his own. and i gave him a great affection, and a very sincere obedience to all his wishes and advice. at first he seemed to favor my liking for neil, but he soon grew furiously jealous, and then all was very unpleasant. neil complained to me. he said he did not want me to take my brother's opinion without saying a few words in his own behalf, and so i soon began to take neil's side. then day by day things grew worse and worse, and partly because i liked neil, and partly because i was angry at reginald, and weary of his exacting authority, i became neil's wife." "that was an engagement for a' the days of your life. you hae broken it." "the law excused and encouraged me to do so." "were you happy in that course?" "about as unhappy as i could be. i was sure neil had been hardly dealt with, that advantage had been taken of his terror and grief, when he found himself in prison. i am sure the lawyer he employed was really seeking reginald's favor, and practically gave neil's case away, but i was angry at neil's want of spirit and pluck, in his own defense. reginald told me that he cried in the dock, and i shed a few passionate tears over his want of courage and manliness." "poor neil! if you had stood by him, he would have stood by himself. remember, roberta, that he was only just out of his college classes, and had had neither time nor opportunity to make friends; that his mither was dying, and that we had no money to defend him; that his wife had deserted him, and that he is naturally a man of little courage, and you will judge him very leniently." "reginald told me he was saving money in order to run away from me, and----" "if he was saving money to run awa' with, he intended to take you with him. if he was going awa' alone, a few pounds would hae been all he needed. and it seems to me you were the runaway from love and duty. but it is little matter now, who was most to blame. life is all repenting and beginning again, and that is everything that can be done in this case." "i will start for new york tomorrow. can you get doctor trenabie here for me?" "do you know him?" "he is a distant relative both of the raths and the ballisters." "he never said a word about his relationship, to me." "it would have been most unlike him had he done so, but i can tell you, he wrote me before my marriage, and advised me to be very cautious with mr. neil ruleson." "i will send for him," said christine, a little coldly, and then she drew the conversation towards the raths and ballisters. "were they closely connected with doctor trenabie?" she asked. "in a distant way," said roberta, "but they are firm friends, for many generations." "the domine does not talk much about himsel'." "no. he never did. he vowed himself early in life to chastity and poverty, for christ's sake, and he has faithfully kept his vow. old ballister gave him the kirk of culraine at fifty pounds a year, and when the death of his father made him a comparatively rich man, he continued his humble life, and put out all the balance of his money in loans to poor men in a strait, or in permanent gifts, when such are necessary. reginald used to consider him a saint, and many times he said that if i was married to a good man, he would try and live such a life as magnus trenabie." "once i knew colonel and angus ballister." "i heard angus lately boasting about his acquaintance with you--that is since your book has set the whole newspaper world to praising you." "he is married. i saw him with his bride." "a proud, saucy, beautiful canadian, educated in a tip-top new york boarding school, in all the pronounced fads of the day. now, i have seen new york girls of this progressive kind, and the polish being natural to them, they were not only dashing and impertinent, they were fascinating in all their dictatory moods. but this kind of polish is intolerable when laid over a hard, calculating, really puritanical scotch nature. such a girl has to kill some of her very best qualities, in order to take it on at all." "she would be gey hard to live wi'. i wouldn't stay wi' her--not a day." "yet, i can tell you, both english and scotch men are enslaved easily by this new kind of girl. she is only the girl of the period and the place, but they imagine her to be the very latest improvement in womanly styles. now, i will astonish you. reginald married the sister of angus ballister's wife. she is equally beautiful, equally impertinent and selfish, and she holds reginald in a leash. she makes fun of my dowdy dress and ways, and of my antiquated moralities, even to my brother, in my very presence, and reggie looks at me critically, and then at sabrina--that is the creature's name--and says--'roberta, you ought to get brina to show you how to dress, and how to behave. you should just see brina tread our old fogyish social laws under her feet. she makes a sensation in every room she enters.' and i answer pointedly--'i have no doubt of it.' she understands my laugh, though reggie is far from it. of course she hates me, and she has quite changed reggie. i have no longer any brother. i want to go and see if my husband cares for me." "of course he cares for you, more than for any ither thing. go to him. mak' a man every way of him. teach him to trust you, and you may trust him. now go and sleep until the domine comes, and he will tak' care of your further movements." when the domine came, he treated roberta very like a daughter, but he would not hear her tale of woe over again. he said, "there are faults on both sides. you cannot strike fire, without both flint and steel." "i have been so lonely and miserable, doctor, since i saw you last. reggie has quite deserted me for her." "well, then, roberta, walk your lonely room with god, and humbly dare to tell him all your heart." "i never had any suspicion of neil, until----" "roberta, women trust on all points, or are on all points suspicious." "i trusted neil, for as you know, he was under great obligations----" "obligations! obligations! that is a terrible word. love should not know it." "if i had never met neil----" "you only meet the people in this life, whom you were meant to meet. our destiny is human, it must come to us by human hearts and hands. marriage brings out the best and the worst a man or woman has. let your marriage, roberta, teach you the height and the depth of a woman's love. there are faults only a woman can forgive, and go on trusting and loving. try and reach that height and depth of love. then you can go boldly to god and say, 'forgive me my trespasses, as i have forgiven those who trespassed against me.' what do you want me to do for you?" "i want you, dear doctor, to go and take the very earliest passage to new york that you can get. any steamer and any line will do. also i want you to go to the bank of scotland, and tell them to transmit all my cash in their keeping to the bank of new york. also, there is a trunk at madame bonelle's i want placed on the steamer, as soon as my passage is taken. it has a carefully chosen wardrobe in it. brina thought it was full of dresses to be altered, according to american styles"--and this explanation of the dress episode she gave to christine with a smile so comically illuminating, that the doctor's smile perforce caught a gleam from it. but he was in an authoritative mood, and he said, "what is your intention, mrs. ruleson? this is a singular order for you to give." "doctor, i am going to my husband. christine has told me where he is. he loves me yet, and i want to go, and help, and comfort him." "that is right. it is converting love into action. if this is not done, love is indolent and unbelieving. it is not enough for neil to love you, your love must flow out to him in return, or your married life will be barren as sand." "i shall forgive him everything. he is longing to explain all to me." "forgive him before he explains. have no explanations, they turn to arguments, and an argument is a more hopeless barrier than a vigorous quarrel, or an indignant contradiction. you do not want to judge whether he is right or wrong. the more you judge, the less you love. take him just as he is, and begin your lives over again. will you do this?" "i will try." "roberta, you have a great work before you--the saving of a man--the lifting of him up from despair and ruin to confidence and hope, and success. he is well worth your effort. neil has fine traits, he comes of a religiously royal ancestry, and true nobility is virtue of race. you can save this man. some women could not, others would not, you can do it." "i will do it, sir, god helping me." "now i will go to glasgow, and do all you require. you must take some money with you, the bank----" "i have a thousand pounds in my purse." "you extravagant woman!" "money is necessary, in saving souls, sir." "i believe you. where shall i meet you in glasgow?" "at the victoria hotel--dinner at six." to these words the doctor disappeared, and roberta began to amplify and explain and justify her position and her intentions. she talked to christine, while christine cooked their meals and did all the necessary housework. she begged her to lock the doors against all intruders, and then making herself comfortable in the large cushioned chair by the fireside, she took off her tight shoes, and divested her hair of all its pads, and combs, and rats, and with a sigh of relief said, "now we can talk comfortably." they talked all day long, and they talked of neil. a little later, she was eager to tell christine all about her brother's unaccountable marriage. "i was really ashamed of the affair, christine," she said. "no consideration for others, scarcely time to make the wedding-dress, and i think she asked everyone she saw to come to her marriage. she talked the slang of every country she had visited, and the men all thought it 'so funny' when she kicked up her dress with her heel, and treated them to a bit of london or new york slang. the perfectly silly and easy way in which men are caught, and tied fast, always amazes me, christine. it is just like walking up to a horse's head, with a dish full of corn in one hand and a bridle in the other. this little sabrina wales walked up to reginald rath with a bit of london slang on her lips, and a wedding ring hid in the palm of her hand, and the poor man is her slave for life." "not necessarily a slave for life, roberta." "necessarily. no remission. no redemption. the contract reads 'until death us part.'" they discussed sabrina from head to feet--her hair, her eyes, her complexion, her carriage, her way of dressing, her gowns--all short in front and long behind--"can you guess what for, christine?" "perhaps she has pretty feet." "she has very small ones. i do not know whether they are pretty or not. but the effect is striking, if you watch her from the front--you can't help thinking of a turkey gobbler." the hours went happily enough, christine enjoyed them. after her paper heroine, this all-alive, scornful, loving and hating, talking and laughing woman was a great pleasure. christine baked delicious scones, and scalloped some fine oysters in bread crumbs and chopped parsley, and made one or two pots of pekoe and young hyson tea, and they nibbled and sipped, and talked over the whole sacred druidical family of the raths, even to aunt agatha, who was worth half a million pounds--"which i threw away for a good joke," said roberta. "look at the clock, it is near midnight! we must go to bed." "well, then, i have had the loveliest day. i shall never forget it, and i will tell neil all about it before long. dear christine, i am glad you are my sister, it lets me take nice little liberties with you; and you know, i love you, but that is inevitable. no one can help it." when roberta went, she seemed to take the sunshine with her. the summer of all saints, and the melancholy of its long fine weather was over, and there was the touch of winter in the frosty nights and mornings, but for five weeks christine heeded nothing but her new novel. for the time being, it fully absorbed her; and for the next few weeks she made great progress. then one morning norman came to see her. "christine," he said. "i am in great trouble. jessy is vera ill with scarlet fever, and i am anxious about the children." "bring them all here, norman." "they'll mebbe hinder you i' your writing." "but what is my writing worth, when the children are in danger? go and bring them here at once. get judith to come with them. with her help i can manage. i will come in the afternoon, and sit with jessy awhile." "no, you willna be permitted. the doctors say there are o'er many cases. they hae ordered the school closed, and they are marking every house in which there is sickness." this epidemic prostrated the village until the middle of january, taking a death toll from the little community, of nearly eighty, mostly women and children. but this loss was connected with wonderful acts of kindness, and self-denial. the men left their boats and nursed each other's children, the women who were well went from house to house, caring tenderly even for those they supposed themselves to be unfriends with. if the fever triumphed over its victims, love triumphed over the fever. in the valley of the shadow of death, they had forgotten everything but that they were fellow-sufferers. christine's house had been a home for children without a home, and she had spent a great part of her time in preparing strengthening and appetizing food for those who needed it more than any other thing. no one, now, had a word wrong to say of christine ruleson. she had been a helping and comforting angel in their trouble, and if there had been a woman or child more suffering and destitute than all the rest, christine had always taken her to her home. for in such times of sorrow, god reveals himself to the heart, not to the reason. oh, how far it is, from knowing god, to loving him! well, then, sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. and the mornings grew to be spring mornings, full of that sunshine that goes not only to the heart of man, but to the roots of every green thing. the silence of the receding hills was broken by streams glancing and dancing down the glens. the "incalculable laughter of the sea" was full of good promise, for those who had been sick, and for those who had perforce been long idle. the roar of angry billows was hushed, and it came up to the land, hard-edged with stiff, tinkling waves, and the convalescents rested on the shingles beside them, taking life with every breath, and enjoying that perfect rest that shingle knows how to give, because it takes the shape of the sleeper, whether he be young or old, or short or long. the days were of soft, delicate radiance, the nights full of stars. the moon in all her stages was clear as silver, the dawns came streaming up from the throbbing breast of the ocean. the springtime songs were bubbling in the birds' throats, they sang as if they never would grow old, and the honey bees were busy among the cherry blooms, delirious with delight. who speaks of sadness in such days? certainly christine did not. all the troubles of the hard winter were past, and her heart was running over with a new joy. cluny was coming home. very soon, the long waiting would be over. this thought made her restlessly busy. her home had to be renovated thoroughly. altogether twenty-eight children had been sheltered for short or longer periods there, and they had all left their mark on its usually spotless walls and floors. well, then, they must be cleaned--and men quickly appeared with lime and white paint, and women with soap and scrubbing brushes. and christine went through the rooms, and through the rooms, with them, directing and helping forward the beautifying work. she had also to think of her wedding-dress, and her wedding-breakfast, but these cheerful, lengthening days gave her time for everything. when the house pleased even her particular idea of what it ought to be, she turned to the garden. the seeds of the annuals were sown, and the roses trimmed, and not a weed left in the sacred little spot. then day after day added to all this beauty and purity, and one happy morning jamie brought the letter. cluny was in glasgow, and his letter was like the shout of a victor. he would be in culraine on thursday--first train he could make--they would be married saturday morning. christine could not put him off any longer. he had been waiting twenty-one years--for he had loved her when he was only nine years old--and he had fulfilled every obligation laid on him. and now! now! now! she was his wife, his very own! there was no one, and no circumstance, to dispute his claim! and so on, in sentences which stumbled over each other, because it was impossible for humanity to invent words for feelings transcending its comprehension. christine laughed softly and sweetly, kissed the incoherent letter, and put it in her breast. then she walked through the house and garden, and found everything as it should be. even the dress in which she would meet her lover, with its ribbons and ornaments, was laid out ready to put on the next morning. judith was in the kitchen. the wedding dress, and the wedding cake, would be brought home on friday morning. however, a woman, on such an occasion, wants to make the perfect still more perfect. she wondered if it would not be well to go and give her last directions and orders that afternoon, and finally decided to do so. she was just leaving the baker's, when colonel ballister entered. he met her with respectful effusiveness, and asked permission to walk home with her. and as they walked to the village together, the colonel said, "i spent four, long, delightful hours with captain macpherson last night. he is to be here tomorrow." "i didna ken you was acquaint wi' him, colonel." "mr. henderson introduced me to him, and then asked us both to dinner. we had a delightful three hours at henderson's, then the captain and i walked round and round the square for an hour, and we liked each other so well, that i got permission from him, to ask a great favor from you." "i dinna see how i can favor you, colonel, but if i can do sae, i'll be gey glad to do it." "i want you to allow me to be present at your marriage ceremony. i shall never forget the supper i ate with your father and mother. i respected them both with all my heart, and i am one of the most enthusiastic admirers of your writing, and you must know and feel that i am your sincere friend." "i do know it, sir. i thank you for your kind words anent my dear feyther and mither; and i shall be a very proud and happy girl, if you will stand a few minutes by the side o' cluny and christine. it will be for our honor and pleasure!" "captain macpherson asked me to call and see him, and i will then find out your arrangements, and very proudly drop into them." then he walked to the foot of the hill with her, and could not help noticing the school, from which at least eighty boys and girls were issuing with a shout and a leap for the playground. on this sight he looked pleasantly for a few moments, and then smiling at christine said: "our enterprise! it appears to be attractive." not knowing just what reply to make, she smiled, and nodded, and gave him her hand. "good-by, christine! may i call you christine? in a day or two it will not be permissible. may i say it until then?" "christine is my name. call me christine always." "captain macpherson would have something to say to that." "what for? he has naething to do with my name." "the first thing he does, after you are his wife, is to change it." "he can only change the family name. every one o' us in the family has that name. it is common to all, far and near. cluny can change that, and i hae no objections; but he wouldna daur to touch a letter of my christened name. that is my ain, as much as my hands and my eyes are my ain--ay, and a gey bit mair sae--for a man may claim the wark o' your hands, and the glint o' your e'en, but he canna mak' use o' your name. it is o'er near forgery--and punishment. sae i am christine to yoursel' neither for wark, nor for use, but just for pure honest friendship--christine, as lang as we baith wish it sae." "thank you, christine. i am proud of the favor!" now i am beggared for words, when i come to try any description of cluny's wonderful joy in the final fruition of his long-delayed hopes. when he landed, he was at first volubly happy. he told everyone he was going to be married. he expected everyone to rejoice with him. all his thoughts, words, and actions were tinctured with christine. men looked at him, and listened to him, with pity or envy, and one of the greatest of glasgow's mercantile magnates cried out enviously--"oh, man! man! i would gie all i possess to be as divinely mad as you are--just for one twenty-four hours!" but joy at its very deepest and holiest turns strangely silent. the words it needs have not yet been invented, and when cluny was free of all duty, and could come to the very presence of his beloved, he could say nothing but her name, "christine! christine!" almost in a whisper--and then a pause, a pause whose silence was sweeter far than any words could have been. speech came later, in passionate terms of long and faithful love, in wonder at her beauty, ten-fold finer than ever, in admiration of her lovely dress, her softer speech, her gentler manner. she was a christine mentalized by her reading and writing, and spiritualized by her contact with the sick and suffering little children of the past months. also, love purifies the heart it burns in. everything was ready for the marriage, and it was solemnized on saturday morning in the ruleson home. the large living room was a bower of fresh green things, and made gay and sweet with the first spring flowers. the marriage table was laid there also, but the domine stood on the hearthstone, and on the very altar of the home in which christine had grown to such a lovely and perfect womanhood, she became the wife of captain cluny macpherson. that day when cluny came in to the bridal, he wore for the very first time his uniform as captain of the new steamer just finishing for him. for he had asked one great favor for himself, which was readily granted, namely, that his commission as captain be dated on his wedding day. so then he received his wife and his ship at the same time. the room was crowded with men and women who had known him from boyhood, and when he appeared, it was hard work to refrain from greeting him with a shout of "welcome, captain!" but it was the light of joy and admiration in christine's face, which repaid him for the long years of working and waiting for this gloriously compensating hour. the colonel said he had the honor of assisting at the wedding of the handsomest couple in scotland. and it was not altogether an exaggeration. christine in her white satin gown, with white rose buds in her golden hair, and on her breast--tender, intelligent, intensely womanly was the very mate--in difference--for cluny, whose sea-beaten beauty, and splendid manhood were so fittingly emphasized by the gold bands and lace and buttons, which jamie had once called "his trimmings." he wore them now with becoming dignity, for he knew their value, because he had paid their price. there was a crowded breakfast table after the ceremony. the domine blessed the meal, and the colonel made a flattering speech to the people of culraine--his people--he called them; promising them better water, and better sanitary arrangements, and another teacher who would look especially after the boys' athletic games and exercises. during this speech the captain and his bride slipped away to the train, in the colonel's carriage, and when it returned for the colonel, the wedding guests were scattering, and the long-looked-for event was over. over to the public, but to the newly-wed couple it was just beginning. to them, the long, silent strings of hitherto meaningless life, were thrilling with strange and overwhelming melodies. marriage had instantly given a new meaning to both lives. for the key to life is in the heart, not in the brain; and marriage is the mystical blending of two souls, when self is lost, and found again in the being of another. it was with them, that ever working miracle of god, the green and vital mystery of love, still budding in the garden of the heart. the wedding festivities over, all excitement about it quickly subsided. christine would be sure to come back again, cluny would return at stated periods, and always bring with him the air and flavor of lands strange and far off. their farewells would always be short ones. their presence would always be a benefaction. there was nothing to discuss, or wonder over, and the preparations for the herring season were far behind-hand. they could talk about the wedding later, at present the nets and the boats were the great anxiety in every house in the village. so christine and cluny with little observation, sailed happily into the future, wherever their wishes inclined them; love and good fortune as shipmates, and troubles always a mile behind them.[*] [*] a fisherman's toast or blessing. chapter xiv after many years her life intensive rather than extensive; striking root downward, deep in the heart, not wide in the world. a memory of dew and light, threaded with tears. not long before the breaking out of the present european war, i was in london, and needed a typist, so i went to a proper intelligence office on the strand, and left a request directing them to send any likely applicant to my hotel for a conversation. on the next afternoon i heard a woman's voice in an altercation with the bellboy. i opened the door, and the boy said he could not quite make out the lady; he was very sorry indeed, but the lady would not explain; and so forth. the lady looked at the premature little man with contempt, and said a few passionate words of such unmistakable scotch, that i felt the bellboy to be well within the pale of excusable ignorance. "are you from the intelligence office?" i asked. "yes, madam. at the request of scott and lubbock i came to see you about copying a novel." "come in then," and as soon as the door was closed, i offered my hand, and said only one word--"fife?" "ay," she answered proudly, "fife! i can speak good english, but the stupid lad made me angry, and then i hae to tak' to the scotch. i don't hae the english words to quarrel wi', and indeed if you want a few words of that kind, the scotch words hae a tang in them that stings like a nettle, even if folk cannot quite make out the lady or gentleman that uses them." i could not help laughing. "what words did you use?" i asked. "naething oot o' the way, i just told him, in a ceevil manner, that he was a feckless, fashious gowk, or something or ither o' an idiotic make. he was just telling me he didn't speak french, when you opened the door," and then she laughed in a very infectious manner. "but this is not business, madam," she said, "and i will be glad to hear what you require." our business was soon pleasantly arranged, and just then, very opportunely, my five o'clock tea came in, and i asked miss sarah lochrigg to stay, and drink a cup with me, and tell me all about the scotland of her day. "it is fifty years since i left scotland," i said, "there will be many changes since then." she took off her hat and gloves and sat down. "i come from a fishing village on the coast of fife. they don't change easily, or quickly, in a fishing village." "what village? was it largo?" "no. culraine, a bit north of largo." "never!" "ay, culraine. do you know the place?" "i used to know people who lived there. doctor magnus trenabie, for instance. is he living yet?" "no, he went the way of the righteous, twenty years ago. i remember him very well. he preached until the last day of his life, but he was so weak, and his eyesight so bad, that one of the elders helped him up the pulpit stairs, and another went up at the close of the service, and helped him down, and saw him safely home. "one sabbath morning, though he made no complaint, he found it difficult to pronounce the benediction, but with a great effort he raised his hands and face heavenward, and said every word plainly. then he turned his face to the elder, and said, 'help me home, ruleson,' and both ruleson and tamsen took him there. he died sometime in the afternoon, while the whole kirk was praying for him, died so quietly, it was hard to tell the very time o' his flitting. he was here one minute, the next he was gone. in every cottage there was the feeling of death. he was really a rich man, and left a deal of money to the ruleson school in culraine village." "then norman ruleson is yet alive?" "ay, but his wearisome wife fretted herself into a-grave a good many years ago." "and the other ruleson boys? are they all alive yet?" "i cannot tell. they were all great wanderers. do you remember old judith macpherson?" "to be sure i do." "well, her grandson married the only girl ruleson, and they have ruled culraine ever since i can remember. the captain was very masterful, and after he was 'retired,' that was after he was sixty, i think, he lived at culraine, and culraine lived as much to his order as if they were the crew of his ship." "where did they live?" "in the old house, but they built large rooms round about it, and put on another story above all the rooms. they made no change in the old part of the house, except to lift the roof, and insert modern widows. the new rooms were finely papered and painted and furnished, the old living room is still whitewashed, and its uncarpeted floor is regularly scrubbed and sanded. the big hearthstone has no rug to it, and the rack against the wall is yet full of the old china that mrs. macpherson's mother used. all the macpherson boys and girls were married in that room, just in front of the hearthstone, or on it. i do not remember which. the captain's wife insisted on that part of the ceremony." "did you know the captain's wife?" "in a general way, only. she is very well known. she writes books--novels, and poems, and things like that. some people admire them very much, most of our folks thought them 'just so-so.' i can't say i ever read any of them. my mother believed all books but the bible doubtful. domine trenabie read them, and if you wanted captain macpherson's good will, you had to read them--at least, i have heard that said." "is she writing books yet?" "ay, she had one on the market last year. she did not write much while her children were growing up--how could she?" "how many children has she?" "i think eleven. i believe one died." "what are you telling me?" "the truth, all the truth, nothing but the truth. she has seven sons, and five girls. the youngest girl died, i heard." "she is older than i am. does she look older?" "no. she looks younger. her hair is thinner, as i can remember it, but pretty and bright, and always well dressed. i have seen her in her fisher's cap in the morning. in the afternoon she wears a rose and a ruffle of white lace, which she calls a cap. her gowns are long and handsome, and she has beautiful laces, but i never saw any jewelry on her. colonel ballister gave her a necklace of small, but exceedingly fine india pearls, but nobody ever saw it on her neck. perhaps she did not like to put them on. people said he bought them for the girl he hoped to marry when he returned home. she married someone else." "yes, i know. she made a great mistake." "weel, young angus ballister made a mistake, too. his wife wouldn't live anywhere but in paris, until the estate was like a moth-eaten garment. they had to come home, and she fretted then for california, but there wasn't money for anywhere but just ballister. mebbe there was some double work about the affair, for i ne'er heard tell of any scrimping in ballister mansion, and when he came to culraine he was free as ever with his siller and his promises--and he kept his promises, though some of them were the vera height of foolishness. he was thick as thack with the macphersons, and the captain and himsel' spent long days in macpherson's boat, laying out, and pretending to fish." "why 'pretending'?" "they never caught anything, if it wasn't a haddock or a flounder, when the water was crowded with them, and when, as little bruce brodie said, 'the feesh were jumping into the boat, out o' each other's way.'" "did you ever hear anything of neil ruleson, who was a lawyer and went to america?" "never until i was a full-grown lassie. then they came to pay a visit to mrs. macpherson. they are very rich. they have money, and houses, and land beyond all likelihood, and just one sickly son to heir it all." "neil ruleson's wife was the sister of a mr. reginald rath. do you remember anything of the raths?" "very little. rath and ballister married sisters. rath's wife died in rome, of fever. they had no children, and rath went to africa with general gordon. i do not think he ever came back, for i heard my brother reading in the _glasgow herald_, that the two claimants to the rath estate were likely to come to an agreement." we were silent for a few moments, and then i said, "there is one more person i would like to hear of. he was only a lad, when i knew him, but a very promising one, a grandson of old james ruleson, and called after him, though adopted by the domine." "i know who you mean, though he is now called trenabie. there was something in the way of the law, that made it right and best for him to take his adopted father's name, if he was to heir his property without trouble. the rulesons thought it fair, and made no opposition, and the lad loved the domine, and liked to be called after him. so he was ordained under the name of trenabie, and is known all over england and scotland as doctor james trenabie." "why james? the domine's name was magnus." "he would not have his christian name changed. he said he would rather lose ten fortunes, than touch a letter of his name. james had been solemnly given him in the kirk, and so written down in the kirk book, and he hoped in god's book also, and he believed it would be against his calling and salvation to alter it. folks thought it was very grand in him, but his aunt christine was no doubt at the bottom o' his stubbornness. for that matter he minds her yet, as obedient as if he was her bairn." "then he got the domine's money?" "the lion's share. the village and school of culraine got a good slice of it, and king's college, aberdeen, another slice, but jamie ruleson got the lion's share. he married the daughter of the greek professor in king's, and their first child was a laddie, who was called magnus. some are saying that his preaching isna quite orthodox, but rich and poor crowd any church he speaks in, and if you are going to glasgow, you will hardly be let awa' without hearing him." "how is that?" "this one and that one will be asking you, 'have you heard doctor trenabie preach? you'll never think o' going awa' without hearing the man?'" a little later i heard him. sarah lochrigg had not said too much. i saw and heard a preacher by grace of god--no cold, logical word-sifter, but a prophet inspired by his own evangel. he was full of a divine passion for heavenly things, and his eager, faithful words were illuminated by mystic flashes, just as a dark night is sometimes made wonderful by flashes of electricity. the subject of his sermon was "our immortality" and his first proposition startled me. "before asking if a man has a future life, let us ask, 'is he living now?' the narrow gateway to the cities not made with hands, eternal in the heavens, is conscience! if there is no conscience, is there any soul?" from this opening he reasoned of life, death and eternity, with that passionate stress of spirit which we owe entirely to christianity. the building seemed on fire, and it was difficult even for the reticent scot to restrain the vehement, impetuous cry of the jailer at old philippi--"what shall i do to be saved?" physically, his appearance was one well-fitting a man of god. he looked worthy of the name. he was tall, and slenderly built, and when some divinely gracious promise fell from his lips, his face broke up as if there were music in it. he had the massive chin, firm mouth and large, thoughtful gray eyes of his grandfather ruleson, and the classical air of a thoroughbred ecclesiastic that had distinguished doctor trenabie. surely the two men who so loved him on earth hear the angels speak of him in heaven, and are satisfied. it was a coincidence that on the following morning, i found, in a scotch magazine, three verses by his aunt christine. in the present stressful time of war and death, they cannot be inappropriate, and at any rate, they must have been among the last dominant thoughts of my heroine. we may easily imagine her, sitting at the open door of the large room which gave her such a wide outlook over the sea, and such a neighborly presence of the village, watching the ghost-like ships in the moonlight, and setting the simple lines either to the everlasting beat of noisy waves, or the still small voice of mighty tides circling majestically around the world: when the tide goes out full white moon upon a waste of ocean, high full tide upon the sandy shore, in the fisher's cot without a motion, waiteth he that never shall sail more. waiteth he, and one sad comrade sighing, speaking lowly, says, "without a doubt he will rest soon. some one calls the dying, when the tide goes out." some one calls the tide, when in its flowing, it hath touched the limits of its bound; some great voice, and all the billows knowing what omnipotence is in that sound, hasten back to ocean, none delaying for man's profit, pleasuring or doubt, backward to their source, not one wave straying, and the tide is out. some one calls the soul o'er life's dark ocean, when its tide breaks high upon the land, and it listens with such glad emotion, as the "called" alone can understand. listens, hastens, to its source of being, leaves the sands of time without a doubt; while we sadly wait, as yet but seeing that the tide is out. this was my last message from christine. for a few years she had sent me a paper or magazine containing a poem or story she thought i would like. then sarah lochrigg sent me a glasgow paper, with a sorrowful notice of her death in it, declaring that "it could hardly be called death. she just stepped from this life, into the next." sarah, in a later letter, added she had been busy in her house all morning and as cheerful and interested about the coming spring cleaning as if she was only twenty years old. about fifteen minutes before twelve she said, "now, i am tired. i will rest awhile," and she drew her father's large chair before the open door. the sea and the boats were spread out before her and the village lay at her feet. she could see the men fishing and the women going about the streets. "the tide is well in," she said to her maid, "it will be high tide at three minutes before noon. call me in about half an hour." so she was left alone and i do not doubt it was then she heard that unfathomable call, that voice from some distant world far off yet near, and that her soul instantly answered it. she did not leave this world worn out with pain and sickness. she went without hesitation, without fear, without seeking any human help. and i tell myself that she doubtless went out with the full tide and that some convoy of the sea angels was with her, for his way is in the sea, and his path in the great waters, and his footsteps are not known. she died no death to mourn, for "blessed are the dead that die in the lord!" * * * * * transcriber notes hyphenation standardized. original spellings, including expectit and keepit, preserved as printed. passages in italics indicated by _underscores_. the drama a quarterly review of dramatic literature no. november the good hope. a drama of the sea in four acts. by herman heijermans, jr. translated by harriet gampert higgins. the plays of herman heijermans. to those content with convenient superficialities the plays of a dramatist such as heijermans are easy of definition. he is dismissed as "a realistic writer," "a playwright of the naturalistic school," a follower of ibsen, or hauptmann, or tolstoy, or zola. even then, perhaps, the definitions are not exhausted. they spring from the encyclopedia of commonplaces, and are as chaotic as the minds of their authors. there is the adjective "meticulous," for example,--invaluable to critics. and "morbid,"--equally indispensable, in the form of "morbid psychology." "photographic" and "kinematographic" must not be forgotten; the latter an almost brand-new weapon of offence. for the rest, "grey," "faithful," "squalid" or "lifelike" will serve their turn, according to the critic's point of view. in phrases such as these we hear the echoes of a controversy now a generation old; a controversy dating back to the "free theatres" of the period in paris, berlin and london, the first performances of ibsen's "ghosts," and the early plays of hauptmann and strindberg. then the issues between realist and philistine were sharply defined; the very terms were mutually exclusive. to be modern, to be "free," was to be an ibsenite, an apostle of moral indignation, an author or playgoer burning to lay bare social hypocrisies and shams; not merely pour épater le bourgeois, but in order to assert the great truths of actual life, so recently discovered by the stage. it mattered little that ibsenites owed their existence to their misunderstanding of ibsen. he had supplied them with an essential war cry. the old domination of insincere sentiment and false romance in the theatre was indefensible and insupportable. all the enthusiasm of dramatic reformers was perforce directed to the advance of the new realistic movement. hence arose a battle of epithets between the two camps, with "antiquated," "conventional," "sentimental," "romantic" on the one hand, and "vulgar," "dreary," "indecent," "noisome" on the other. in anglo-saxon countries, naturally enough, the issue was made one of morality rather than artistic method. ibsen's views on marriage were suspect, and the whole dramatic movement lay in quarantine. indeed, realism in literature came to be regarded as an unsettling tendency, emanating from the continent, and directed against all british institutions from property to religion. the division of opinion may be studied in historical documents such as the criticisms of the london press on the first english performance of "hedda gabler," and the early prefaces of bernard shaw; the one side tilting at realism, the other at romance;--both, alas, the most shifty of windmills where morality is concerned. the provocative cry of "naturalism," raised by the newer dramatists and their supporters, was responsible for half the trouble. a naturalist, in good english usage, is taken to be a professor with a butterfly net or an inquirer into the lower forms of pond life; and there is a good deal to be said for the analogy as applied to the author of realistic literature. pins and chloroform may be his implements of tragedy; his coldly scientific method gives point to the comparison. undoubtedly the "naturalistic drama" suggested probable inhumanity and possible horror. in any case it clearly offered no hope of an enjoyable evening, and was condemned from the first to be unpopular. so much for the misconception encouraged by a purely journalistic phrase. useless to maintain that the older dramatists, from robertson and dumas fils to sardou, held a monopoly of the milk of human kindness, while ibsen, hauptmann, tolstoy and strindberg wallowed in mere brutal, original sin. the alleged "naturalism" of the latter belied its name. it ranged from revolutionary utopianism to the creation of most unnatural giants,--stage characters removed from the average of everyday life by their own distinction. indeed, the differences between the old school and the new were as nothing compared with the intellectual gulf between, say, strindberg and tolstoy. setting out from the common ground of external approximation to life, the dramatists of the period soon diverged upon individual paths. hauptmann passed from the vivid and revolutionary "weavers" to the mythology of "hannele" and the "sunken bell," and the simple domestic drama of "fuhrmann henschel" and "rose bernd." tolstoy became a preacher; strindberg a swedenborgian mystic. of the early playwrights of the french théâtre libre, courteline and ancey, practised the comédie rosse, or brutal comedy, until paris, tired of the uncouth novelty, turned to the more amiable and no less natural work of capus and donnay. brieux devoted himself to the composition of dramatic tracts. bernard shaw, after protesting that he "could none other" than dramatize slum landlords and rent collectors in "widowers' houses," found readier targets for his wit in bishops, professors of greek and millionaires. nature, in fact, proved too strong for naturalism. no formula could embrace all the individual playwrights of that stormy time. the most catholic of "schools" could not hold them. formulas, however, die hard; and it is still necessary to free heijermans from the "naturalistic" label so conveniently attached in to works like tolstoy's "power of darkness," hauptmann's vor sonnenaufgang and zola's "therèse raquin." all that his plays have in common with theirs is a faithful observation of life, and more particularly of life among the common people. moreover, he belongs to a newer generation. he had written several short pieces (notably ahasuerus and 'n jodenstreek?) in and , but "the ghetto" ( ) was his first important play. this three-act tragedy of the jewish quarter in a dutch city has been published in an english adaptation which woefully misrepresents the original, and i should rather refer readers to a german translation (berlin, fleische) revised by heijermans himself. like most early work, the play did not satisfy its author, and several versions exist. the story is simple enough. rafael, the son of an old jewish merchant, has an intrigue with the gentile maidservant, rose. his father, sachel, lives in an atmosphere of mistrust, hard dealing, thievery; a patriarch with all the immemorial wrongs of the ghetto upon his shoulders, and all the racial instinct to preserve property, family and religion from contact with "strange people." he is blind, but in the night he has heard the lovers' footsteps in the house. rose has lied to him; rafael, as usual, is neglecting his business for gentile companions. so the play opens. after some bargaining over the dowry, a marriage is arranged for rafael with the daughter of another merchant. the authority of the rabbi is called in, but rafael refuses. he is a freethinker; in the ghetto, but not of it. "oh, these little rooms of yours,--these hot, stifling chambers of despair, where no gust of wind penetrates, where the green of the leaves grows yellow, where the breath chokes and the soul withers! no, let me speak, rabbi haeser! now i am the priest; i, who am no jew and no christian, who feel god in the sunlight, in the summer fragrance, in the gleam of the water and the flowers upon my mother's grave ... i have pity for you, for your mean existence, for your ghettos and your little false gods--for the true god is yet to come, the god of the new community; the commonwealth without gods, without baseness, without slaves!" sachel is blamed for allowing this open rupture to come about. it is better to pay the girl off quietly and have done with her, argue the other jews. every woman has her price--and especially every gentile woman. a hundred gulden--perhaps two hundred if she is obstinate--will settle the matter. the money is offered, but rose is not to be bought. she has promised to go away with rafael as his wife. he has gone out, but he will return for her. the family tell her that the money is offered with his consent; that he is tired of her and has left home for good. but she is unmoved. she has learned to mistrust the word of the jews; she will only believe their sacred oath. at last old sachel swears by the roll of the commandments that his son will not return. in despair, rose throws herself into the canal and is drowned. rafael comes too late to save her. the god of the jews has taken his revenge. the play is perhaps a little naïve and crudely imagined, but it has all the essential characteristics of heijermans' later work; the intense humanitarian feeling, the burning rhetoric, the frankly partisan denunciation of society. indeed, it could not be otherwise. in dealing with such a case of bigotry and racial intolerance, it is idle for a playwright to hold the scales with abstract justice. at most he can only humanise the tragedy by humanising the villains of his piece, and showing them driven into cruelty by traditional forces beyond their control. that is the part of the "ankläger," the social prophet and public prosecutor; and it is the part which heijermans, above all others, has filled in the newer dramatic movement. in het pantser ("the coat of mail") his subject is the life of a dutch garrison town. "the coat of mail" is militarism; the creed of the governing caste. and the setting is peculiarly apt for the presentation of a social issue. in a small country such as holland military patriotism may be strong, but it is tempered by the knowledge that the country only exists by the tolerance, or the diplomatic agreement, of more powerful neighbours, and that in case of war it could do no more than sacrifice an army to the invader. to the philosophic workman, then, well read in revolutionary literature from marx to kropotkin, the standing army presents itself simply as a capitalist tool, a bulwark of the employing class against trade unionism. the industrial struggle is uncomplicated by sentimentality. patriotic stampedes to the conservative side are unknown. social democracy is strong. strikes are frequent, and the protection of "blackleg" labourers is in the hands of the garrison. that is the theme of this "romantic military play." mari, a second lieutenant, refuses to serve on strike duty. he is a weak but sincere idealist; his head full of humanitarian enthusiasm, his rooms stocked with anti-militarist pamphlets. he will leave the army rather than order his men to fire on the factory workers. around him stand the members of the military caste, linked together by tradition and family relationship. his father is a colonel in the same regiment; the father of his fiancée, martha, is commanding officer. one friend he has: an army doctor named berens, who has infected himself with cancer serum in attempting to discover a cure for the disease, and passes for a drunkard because he keeps the symptoms in check by alcohol. here a parallel is drawn between military bravery and the civilian courage of the scientist. mari is put under arrest, but the affair is kept secret in order to avoid a scandal. he can only be reinstated by full withdrawal and apology. martha comes to him and implores him to withdraw. the strike is thought to be over. he can plead the excitement of the moment in excuse, and the matter will be settled honorably. he gives way and apologises. a friendly discussion of the point with his superior officers is interrupted by a volley in the street outside. the troops have fired upon the mob, and the son of the shoemaker over the way has been shot. mari sends in his papers; but a newspaper has published the facts of the case, and he is met with the disgrace of immediate dismissal from the army. this does not suit martha. she must marry a soldier; civilian life with a dismissed lieutenant was not in the bond. so mari suffers another disillusionment, and the end of the play sees him setting out from home, while the old shoemaker is left to lament for his son. and the sum total of it all? a warm heart, a weakness for rhetoric, and--a study in vacillation. in ora et labora heijermans is less rhetorical; rather, one suspects, for lack of a mouthpiece. his peasants bear their fate, if not in silence, with almost inarticulate resignation. they are too hungry to waste words. moreover, there is no visible enemy to denounce, no coat of mail, no racial prejudice, no insatiate capitalism. winter is the villain of the piece. this is indeed naturalism, in the literal sense; humanity devoured by nature. everything is frost-bound: the canal, the soil, the very cattle. the barges are idle. there is no work and no warmth. when the last cow upon the farm dies of disease, its throat is cut so that it can be sold to the butcher. all hopes are centred in the father of the family, who is to sell the carcase in the town; but he spends the money and returns home drunk. as a last resort, his son eelke enlists in the army for six years' colonial service, leaving sytske, the girl he was about to marry. his advance pay buys fuel and food, but the lovers part with a hopeless quarrel, and the old peasants are left wrangling over the money he has brought. allerzielen ( ) is a later work. a village pastor finds a woman in a state of collapse upon his threshold. he takes her in, and she gives birth to a child. she is a stranger in the district, rita by name. the child is sent into the village to be nursed, while the pastor gives up his own room to the mother. she recovers slowly, and meanwhile the peasants set their tongues to work upon the scandal. the child is discovered to be illegitimate. a good village housewife is suckling a bastard. the pastor is housing an outcast, and shows no sign of sending her about her business. the neighbouring clergy are perturbed. dimly and distantly the bishop is said to be considering the facts.... amid alarums and excursions the affair pursues its course. the village passes from astonishment to ribaldry, from ribaldry to stone-throwing. the pastor speaks gently of christian charity and souls to be saved, but fails to appease his parishioners. they are hot upon the scent in a heresy-hunt. if they could see within the parsonage walls, they would yelp still louder. for rita proves to be an unblushing hedonist. no prayers for her, when the birth-pangs are once over; no tears, no repentance. she sings gaily in her room while the pastors argue about duty and morals. she feels "heavenly." she invades the study to enjoy a view of sunlight, clouds and sea. she finds the waves more musical than the wheezing of the church organ. if only the child were with her, her happiness would be complete. but the child is neglected by its foster mother. it sickens and dies. the pastor is driven from his church by the bishop, and leaves the broken windows of the parsonage to his successor. rita and he are both homeless now. and then the child's father comes,--another hedonist. the child is dead, but life remains. its body lies in unconsecrated ground, but the vows of love are renewed at the graveside. the church can only crush its own slaves. all roads are open to the spirits of the free. the pastor can only offer a hopeless "farewell" as the two set out upon their way. but rita calls after, "no,--no! you will come over to us." it matters nothing that this gospel of life has often been preached. heijermans has caught the spirit of it as well as the letter. his characters say and do nothing particularly original; nothing that would even pass for originality by reason of its manner. he works in vivid contrasts, without a shade of paradox. he figures the opposed forces of reaction and revolution in religion, in statecraft, in economics, in all human relationships, with a simplicity of mind which would draw a smile from the forever up-to-date "intellectual." reaction is a devilish superstition; revolution a prophetic angel pointing the way to the promised land. the one is false, the other true. there is no disputing the point, since truth and falsehood are absolute terms. perhaps the secret is that heijermans never tires of his own philosophy. he is content to see it firmly planted on the ground; he does not demand that it should walk the tight-rope or turn somersaults as an intellectual exercise. he has accepted a view of life which some call materialistic, and others positivist, or scientific, or humanitarian; but for him it is simply humane,--founded upon social justice and human need. a philosophy, however, does not make a dramatist. in the plays i have already described heijermans shows his power of translating the world-struggle of thought into the dramatic clash of will, but it is upon "the good hope" (op hoop van zegen) that his reputation chiefly depends. he chooses a great subject; not merely the conflict of shipowners and fishermen in the struggle for existence, but the sea-faring life and the ocean itself. truly "a sea-piece"; tempestuous, powerful. one can hear the breaking of the waves. from the opening scene, with the old men's tale of sharks, to the night of the storm in the third act, when the women and children huddle in kneirtje's cottage for shelter, the story is always the same. the sea is the symbol of fate. it takes a father here, a brother there. it seizes geert and barend alike; the one going aboard carelessly, the other screaming resistance. sometimes it plays with its victims on shore, making no sign, leaving months of hope to end in despair. in a more merciful mood it sends children running through the village to cry "'n ball op! 'n ball op!" as an overdue ship is signalled from the coastguard tower. and there an echo of the sea-ballad now and again; when raps are heard upon the door at the height of the storm, or a flapping curtain blows out the lamp, or a pallid face is seen at the window.... in sheer force of theatrical construction "the good hope" is still more striking. there are great moments, finely conceived. the play is full of natural rather than violent coincidence. barend has always feared death by drowning, and he makes his first and last voyage in a leaky trawler. his father sank in a wreck, and it is his mother, unable to maintain the household, who persuades him to go. she fears the disgrace of his refusal after the papers are signed, but he is dragged aboard by the harbour police. his brother geert sets out proudly enough, singing the marseillaise and preaching rebellion; but he sinks far away, impotent, unheard, and leaves his sweetheart to bear a fatherless child. old cobus can only reflect, "we take the fishes, and god takes us." that is perhaps the most dramatic thread of all,--the parallel of fate. the struggle for existence on land drives men to the fishing-boats and the dogger bank. from the minnows to leviathan, there is no escape. "we take the fishes, and god takes us." a gale of wind and rain whistles through the play, sweeping the decks of life, tossing men out into the unknown. let us turn to the social standpoint. the ship-owner, bos, is frankly a villain. he knows "the good hope" is unseaworthy, but he allows her to sail. true, the warning comes from a drunken ship's carpenter, but he understands the risks. business is business. the ship is well insured.... it is implied, then, that shipowners are unscrupulous scoundrels, and fishermen their unhappy victims. here is a bias which makes the actual tragedy no more impressive. good ships, as well as bad, may perish in a storm. nature is cruel enough without the help of man. the problem of the big fish and the little fish is one of size, not of morality. even sharks may possibly rejoice in an amiable temperament. it can only be said that heijermans has here chosen the right motive for his own particular type of drama. his sympathy is with the fishermen. he knows that, humanly speaking, in every conflict between employers and employed, the men are right and the masters wrong. impossible to redress the balance by individual virtue or kindliness. the masters stand for the exploiting system; for capital, for insurance, for power, for law and order and possession. their risks are less and their temptations greater. even from the standpoint of abstract justice, a dishonest employer may fairly be set against a drunken labourer or a gaol-bird fisherman. the one is no less natural than the other. but heijermans goes beyond all finicking considerations of this sort. he seeks to destroy and rebuild, not to repair or adjust. he avoids mere naturalism; the "conscientious transcription of all the visible and repetition of all the audible" is not for him. and here he is undoubtedly justified, not only by his own experience, but by that of other dramatists. there was no inspiration in the movement towards mere actuality on the stage. it sickened of its own surfeit of "life." its accumulated squalor became intolerable. it was choked by its own irrelevance, circumscribed by its own narrowness. for naturalism is like a prison courtyard; it offers only two ways of escape. one is the poet's upward flight, the other the revolutionist's battering-ram. heijermans has chosen his own weapon, and used it well. he has given us "the good hope," not as a mere pitiful study in disillusionment, but as a tragic symbol of human effort in the conquest of despair. ashley dukes. the good hope. a drama of the sea in four acts. by herman heijermans, jr. translated by harriet gampert higgins. persons. kneirtje, a fisherman's widow. geert } barend } her sons. jo, her niece. cobus, her brother. daantje, from the old men's home. clemens bos, a ship owner. clementine, his daughter. mathilde, his wife. simon, a ship carpenter's assistant. marietje, his daughter. mees, marietje's betrothed. kaps, a bookkeeper. saart, a fisherman's widow. truus, a fisherman's wife. jelle, a beggar. first policeman. second policeman. the drama is laid in a north sea fishing village. copyright by the dramatic publishing company. the good hope a drama of the sea in four acts. by herman heijermans, jr. act i. [kneirtje's home, a poor living-room. at the left, two wall bedsteads and a door; to the right, against the wall, a chest of drawers with holy images, vases and photographs. a chimney fireplace nearer front. at the back wall, near right corner, a wicket leading to the cooking shed; at left against the wall a cupboard; a cage with dove; window with flower pots, left of center; in back wall right of center a door overlooking a narrow cobblestone roadway backed by a view of beach with sea in middle distance and horizon. through the window to the left is seen the red tiled lower corner of roof of a cottage. time, noon.] clementine. [sketch book on her knee.] now, then! cobus! cobus. [who poses, awakes with a start, smiles.] he-he-he! i wasn't asleep--no, no-- clem. head this way--still more--what ails you now? you were sitting so natural. hand on the knee again. cobus. tja--when you sit still so long--you get stiff. clem. [impatiently.] please! please! stop chewing. cob. i haven't any chew. look. clem. then keep your mouth shut. daantje. [entering by the cooking shed.] good day. clem. good day. take a walk around the corner. daan. no, miss--time's up. [looking at sketch.] it don't look like him yet. clem. [smiling.] daan. [shifting his spectacles.] you see--if i may take the liberty, miss--his chin sets different--and his eyes don't suit me--but his nose--that's him--and--and--his necktie, that's mighty natural--i'd swear to that anywhere. clem. indeed. daan. and the bedstead with the curtains--that's fine. now, miss, don't you think you could use me? clem. perhaps. hand higher--keep your mouth still. cob. that's easy said--but when y'r used to chewing and ain't allowed to--then you can't hold your lips still--what do you say, daantje? daan. i say time's up. we eat at four and the matron is strict. clem. that will be necessary with you old fellows. daan. peh! we've a lot to bring in, haven't we? an old man's home is a jail--scoldings with your feed--as if y'r a beggar. coffee this morning like the bottom of the rain barrel--and peas as hard as y'r corns. clem. if i were in your place--keep your mouth still--i'd thank god my old age was provided for. cob. tja--tja--i don't want to blaspheme, but-- daan. thank god?--not me--sailed from my tenth year--voyages--more than you could count--suffered shipwreck--starvation--lost two sons at sea--no--no. i say the matron is a beast--i'd like to slap her jaw. clem. that will do! this is no dive. daan. i know that, but it makes your gorge rise. i wasn't allowed to go out last week because, begging your pardon, i missed and spat beside the sand box. now i ask, would you spit beside a box on purpose? an old man's home is a jail--and when they've shut you up, in one of them, decent, they're rid of you. wish the sharks had eaten me before i quit sailing. cob. [giggling.] he! he! he! man, the sharks wouldn't eat you--you were too tough for them. clem. keep your lips still! cob. tja, tja. daan. sharks not like me--they'll swallow a corpse. peh! i saw old willem bitten in two till the blood spouted on high. and he was a thin man. clem. was old willem eaten by a shark? daan. by one? by six. quick as he fell overboard they grabbed him. the water was red. clem. hey! how frightful. and yet--i'd rather like to see a thing like that. daan. like to see it! we had to. clem. did he scream? daan. did he scream! cob. tja, wouldn't you if you felt the teeth in your flesh? he--hehe! [sound of a fiddle is heard outside. cobus sways in his chair in time to the tune.] ta da da de--da da da-- clem. [hastily closing the sketch book.] there then! [rises.] tomorrow you sit still--you hear! cob. [stretching himself.] all stiff! [dances, snapping his fingers, his knees wabbling.] ta de da da--da-da-da. daan. [at the window.] psst! nobody home. jelle. [playing at window outside.] if you please. daan. nobody home. jelle. i come regular once a week. daan. they have gone to the harbor. clem. [throws a coin out of the window.] there! [playing stops.] jelle. thank you. [searches for the coin.] cob. behind that stone, stupid. daan. no; more that way. clem. i threw it out that way. hey! what a donkey! is he near-sighted? cob. he's got only half an eye--and with half an eye you don't see much. [to jelle.] behind you! jelle. i don't see anything. daan. [barend appears at door.] psst! hey! barend, you help him---- clem. there is a ten-cent piece out there. barend. [basket of driftwood on his back.] give it to 'im in his paws then. [enters.] [throws down basket with a thud.] here! cob. did you hear that impudent boy? clem. say there, big ape, were you speaking to me? bar. [shy and embarrassed.] no, miss. i did not know you were there, i thought---- cob. what right had you to think--better be thinking of going to sea again to earn your mother's bread. bar. that's none of your business. cob. just hear his insolence to me--when he's too bashful to open his mouth to others. [taunting.] i'm not afraid--he-he-he!--no, i don't get the belly ache when i must go to sea--he-he-he! daan. come along now. it's struck four. clem. ten o'clock tomorrow, cobus. daan. he can't do it, miss, we must pull weeds in the court yard. cob. yes, we must scratch the stones. clem. tomorrow afternoon, then. cob. tja! i'll be here, then. good day, miss. [to barend.] good day, pudding breeches. clem. [pinning on her hat.] he teases you, doesn't he? bar. [laughing bashfully.] yes, miss. clem. been out searching the beach? [he nods embarrassed.] found much? bar. no, it was ebb last night--and--and--[gets stuck.] clem. are you really afraid to go to sea, silly boy? [he nods, laughing.] they all go. bar. [dully.] yes, they all go. clem. a man must not be afraid---- bar. no, a man must not be afraid. clem. well, then? bar. [timidly.] i'd rather stay on shore. clem. i won't force you to go--how old are you? bar. rejected for the army last month. clem. rejected? bar. for my--for my--i don't know why, but i was rejected. clem. [laughing.] that's lucky--a soldier that's afraid! bar. [flaring up quickly.] i'm not afraid on land--let them come at me--i'll soon stick a knife through their ribs! clem. fine! bar. [again lapsing into embarrassment.] beg pardon, miss. [the soft tooting of a steamboat whistle is heard.] that's the anna--there's a corpse on board---- clem. another one dead? bar. the flag hung half-mast. clem. tu-tu-tu-tu--the second this week. first, the agatha maria---- bar. no, 'twas the charlotte. clem. oh, yes! the agatha was last week--do they know who? [he shakes his head.] haven't you any curiosity? bar. ach--you get used to it--and none of our family are aboard. [embarrassed silence.] father can't--hendrick can't--josef can't--you know about them--and--and--geert--he's still under arrest. clem. yes, he's brought disgrace on all of you. bar. disgrace--disgrace---- clem. when is he free? bar. i don't know. clem. you don't know? bar. they gave him six months--but they deduct the time before trial--we don't know how long that was, so we can't tell. kneirtje. [through the window.] good day, miss. clem. good day. kneir. how did the chickens get out? do look at that rooster! get out, you salamander! kischt! jo! jo! bar. let them alone. they'll go of themselves. kneir. [entering the room.] that's an endless devilment, miss. [to barend.] come, you, stick out your paws. must we have another row with ari? bar. then we'll have a row. [goes off indifferently, chases away the chickens, outside.] kneir. then we'll--such a lazy boy, i wish he'd never been born--sponger!--are you going so soon, miss? clem. i am curious to know what's happened on the anna. kneir. yes--i was on the way there--but it takes so long--and i've had my fill of waiting on the pier--if that pier could only talk. have you finished my brother's portrait? clem. tomorrow. i want to make a drawing of barend also--just as he came in with the basket on his shoulders. kneir. barend? well--all the same to me. clem. he doesn't seem to get much petting around here. kneir. [annoyed.] pet him! i should say not! the sooner i get rid of him, the better! [through the window.] chase them away! kischt! kischt! bar. [outside.] all that yelling makes the rooster afraid. kneir. afraid! he takes after you, then! kischt! clem. hahaha! hahaha! say, he's enjoying himself there on ari's roof. jo. [coming through the door at left. brown apron--gold head pieces on the black band around her head.] good day. kneir. the chickens are out again! the rooster is sitting on ari's roof. jo. [laughing merrily.] hahaha! he's not going to lay eggs there! kneir. [crossly.] hear her talk! she knows well enough we almost came to blows with ari because the hens walked in his potato patch. jo. i let them out myself, old cross patch--truus dug their potatoes yesterday. kneir. why didn't you say so then? jo. what am i doing now? oh, miss--she would die if she couldn't grumble; she even keeps it up in her sleep. last night she swore out loud in her dreams. hahaha! never mind! scold all you like; you're a good old mother just the same. [to barend, who enters the room.] ach, you poor thing! is the rooster setting on the roof? and does he refuse to come down? bar. you quit that now! jo. i'll wager if you pet the hens he will come down of himself from jealousy. hahaha! he looks pale with fear. clem. now, now. jo. say, aunt, you should make a baker of him. his little bare feet in the rye flour. hahaha! bar. you can all----[goes angrily off at left.] jo. [calling after him.] the poor little fellow! clem. now, stop teasing him. are you digging potatoes? jo. tja; since four o'clock this morning. nothing--aunt--all rotten. kneir. we poor people are surely cursed--rain--rain--the crops had to rot--they couldn't be saved--and so we go into the winter--the cruel winter--ach,--ach,--ach! jo. there! you're worrying again. come, mother, laugh. am i ever sad? geert may return at any moment. kneir. geert--and what then? jo. what then? then--then--then, nothing! cheer up! you don't add to your potatoes by fretting and grumbling. i have to talk like this all day to keep up her spirits--see, i caught a rabbit! clem. in a trap? jo. as neat as you please. the rascal was living on our poverty--the trap went snap as i was digging. a fat one--forty cents at the least. clem. that came easy--i must go now. bos. [at door.] hello! are you going to stay all day--may i come in? kneir. [friendly manner.] of course you may, meneer; come in, meneer. bos. my paws are dirty, children. kneir. that's nothing. a little dry sand doesn't matter--will you sit down? bos. glad to do so--yes, kneir, my girl, we're getting older every day--good day, little niece. jo. good day, meneer. [points, laughing, to her hands.] you see---- bos. have you put on gloves for the dance? jo. [nods saucily.] the hornpipe and the highland fling, hey? bos. hahaha! saucy black eye. [to clementine.] come, let me have a look. clem. [petulantly.] no, you don't understand it, anyway. bos. oh, thanks!--you educate a daughter. have her take drawing lessons, but must not ask to see--come! don't be so childish! clem. [with spoiled petulance.] no. when it is finished. bos. just one look. clem. hey, pa, don't bother me. bos. another scolding, ha ha ha! [barend enters.] bar. [bashfully.] good day, meneer. bos. well, barend, you come as if you were called. bar. [surprised laugh.] i? bos. we need you, my boy. bar. yes, meneer. bos. the deuce! how you have grown. bar. yes, meneer. bos. you're quite a man, now--how long have you been out of a job? bar. [shyly.] nine months. kneir. that's a lie--it's more than a year. bar. no, it isn't. jo. well, just count up--november, december-- bos. that'll do, children. no quarreling. life is too short. well, barend, how would the forty-seven suit you?--eh, what?---- bar. [anxiously.] the forty-seven---- bos. the good hope---- clem. [surprised.] are you going to send out the good hope?---- bos. [sharply.] you keep out of this! keep out, i say! clem. and this morning---- bos. [angrily.] clementine! clem. but pa---- bos. [angrily stamping his foot.] will you please go on? clem. [shrugging her shoulders.] hey! how contemptible, to get mad--how small--bonjour! [exits.] kneir. good day, miss. bos. [smiling.] a cat, eh! just like her mama, i have to raise the devil now and then,--hahaha!--or my wife and daughter would run the business--and i would be in the kitchen peeling the potatoes, hahaha! not but what i've done it in my youth. kneir. and don't i remember---- bos. [smacking his lips.] potatoes and fresh herring! but what's past is gone. with a fleet of eight luggers your mind is on other things--[smiling.] even if i do like the sight of saucy black eyes--don't mind me, i'm not dangerous--there was a time.----hahaha! kneir. go on, meneer. don't mind us. bos. well, our little friend here, what does he say? kneir. open your mouth, speak! bar. i would rather---- kneir. [angrily.] rather--rather! jo. hey! what a stupid!---- bos. children! no quarreling. boy, you must decide for yourself. last year at the herring catch the good hope made the sum of fourteen hundred guilders in four trips. she is fully equipped, hengst is skipper--all the sailors but one--and the boys--hengst spoke of you for oldest boy. bar. [nervously.] no, no, meneer---- kneir. ah, the obstinate beast! all my beating won't drive him aboard. jo. if i were a man---- bos. yes, but you're not; you're a pretty girl--ha, ha, ha! we can't use such sailors. well, daddy! and why don't you want to go? afraid of seasickness? you've already made one trip as middle boy---- kneir. and as play boy. jo. he'd rather loaf and beg. ah! what a big baby. bos. you are foolish, boy. i sailed with your grandfather. yes, i, too, would rather have sat by mother's pap-pot than held eels with my ice cold hands; rather bitten into a slice of bread and butter than bitten off the heads of the bait. and your father---- bar. [hoarsely.] my father was drowned--and brother hendrick--and josef--no, i won't go! bos. [rising.] well--if he feels that way--better not force him, mother kneirtje; i understand how he feels, my father didn't die in his bed, either--but if you begin to reason that way the whole fishery goes up the spout. kneir. [angrily.] it's enough to---- bos. softly--softly--you don't catch tipsy herrings with force---- jo. [laughing.] tipsy herring, i would like to see that! bos. [laughing.] she doesn't believe it, kneir! we know better! eh, what! kneir. ach--it's no joking matter, meneer, that miserable bad boy talks as if--as if--i had forgotten my husband--and my good josef--and--and--but i have not. [ends in low sobbing.] jo. come, foolish woman! please, aunty dear!--good-for-nothing torment! bos. don't cry, kneir! tears will not restore the dead to life---- kneir. no, meneer--i know that, meneer. next month it will be twelve years since the clementine went down. bos. yes, it was the clementine. kneir. november--' --he was a monkey of seven then, and yet he pretends to feel more than i do about it. bar. [nervously.] i didn't say that. i don't remember my father, nor my brothers--but--but---- bos. well, then? bar. i want another trade--i don't want to go to sea--no--no---- kneir. another trade--what else can you do? can't even read or write---- bar. is that my fault? kneir. no--it is mine, of course! three years i had an allowance--the first year three--the second two twenty-five--and the third one dollar--the other nine i had to root around for myself. bos. have you forgotten me entirely? kneir. i shall always be grateful to you, meneer. if you and the priest hadn't given me work and a warm bite now and then to take home--then--then--and that booby even reproaches me!---- bar. i don't reproach--i--i---- jo. out with it! the gentleman is looking for a place to live off his income. bar. shut up!--i will do anything--dig sand--plant broom--salting down--i'll be a mason, or a carpenter--or errand boy---- jo. or a burgomaster! or a policeman! hahaha! and walk about dark nights to catch thieves--oh!--oh!--what a brave man! bos. little vixen! bar. you make me tired!--did i complain when the salt ate the flesh off my paws so i couldn't sleep nights with the pain? kneir. wants to be a carpenter--the boy is insane--a mason--see the accidents that happen to masons. each trade has something. bos. yes, barendje--there are risks in all trades--my boy. just think of the miners, the machinists, the stokers--the--the--how often do not i, even now, climb the man rope, or row out to a lugger? fancies, my boy! you must not give way to them. kneir. and we have no choice. god alone knows what the winter will be. all the potatoes rotted late this fall, meneer. bos. yes, all over the district. well, boy? bar. no, meneer. kneir. [angrily.] get out of my house, then--sponger! bar. [faintly.] yes, mother. kneir. march! or i'll----[threatening.] bos. come, come. [a pause during which barend walks timidly away.] jo. if i had a son like that---- bos. better get a lover first---- jo. [brightly.] i've already got one!--if i had a son like that i'd bang him right and left! bah! a man that's afraid! [lightly.] a sailor never knows that sooner or later--he never thinks of that--if geert were that way--there, i know--aunt, imagine--geert---- bos. geert?---- jo. he'd face the devil--eh, aunt? now, i'm going to finish the potatoes. good bye, meneer. bos. say, black eyes--do you laugh all the time? jo. [with burst of laughter.] no, i'm going to cry. [calls back from the opened door.] aunt--speak of geert. [goes off.] bos. geert?--is that your son, who---- kneir. yes, meneer. bos. six months? kneir. yes, meneer. bos. insubordination? kneir. yes, meneer--couldn't keep his hands at home. bos. the stupid blockhead! kneir. i think they must have teased him---- bos. that's nonsense! they don't tease the marines. a fine state of affairs. discipline would be thrown overboard to the sharks if sailors could deal out blows every time things didn't go to suit them. kneir. that's so, meneer, but---- bos. and is she--smitten with that good-for-nothing? kneir. she's crazy about him, and well she may be. he's a handsome lad, takes after his father--and strong--there is his photograph--he still wore the uniform then--first class--now he is---- bos. degraded?---- kneir. no, discharged--when he gets out. he's been to india twice--it is hard--if he comes next week--or in two weeks--or tomorrow, i don't know when--i'll have him to feed, too--although--i must say it of him, he won't let the grass grow under his feet--a giant like him can always find a skipper. bos. a sweet beast--i tell you right now, kneir, i'd rather not take him--dissatisfied scoundrels are plenty enough these days--all that come from the navy, i'm damned if it isn't so--are unruly and i have no use for that kind--am i not right? kneir. certainly, meneer, but my boy---- bos. there was jacob--crooked jacob, the skipper had to discharge him. he was, god save him, dissatisfied with everything--claimed that i cheated at the count--yes--yes--insane. now he's trying it at maassluis. we don't stand for any nonsense. kneir. may i send him to the skipper then--or direct to the water bailiff's office? bos. yes, but you tell him---- kneir. yes, meneer. bos. if he comes in time, he can go out on the good hope. she's just off the docks. they are bringing the provisions and casks aboard now. she'll come back with a full cargo--you know that. kneir. [glad.] yes, meneer. bos. well--good bye! [murmur of voices outside.] what's that? kneir. people returning from the harbor. there's a corpse aboard the anna. bos. pieterse's steam trawler--the deuce! who is it? kneir. i don't know. i'm going to find out. [both go off--the stage remains empty--a vague murmur of voices outside. fishermen, in conversation, pass the window. sound of a tolling church bell. geert sneaks inside through the door at left. throws down a bundle tied in a red handkerchief. looks cautiously into the bedsteads, the cooking shed, peers through the window, then muttering he plumps down in a chair by the table, rests his head on his hand, rises again; savagely takes a loaf of bread from the back cupboard, cuts off a hunk. walks back to chair, chewing, lets the bread fall; wrathfully stares before him. the bell ceases to toll.] bar. [from the cooking shed.] who's there?--geert!--[entering.] geert. [curtly.] yes--it's me--well, why don't you give me a paw. bar. [shaking hands.] have you--have you seen mother yet? geert. [curtly.] no, where is she---- bar. mother, she--she---- geert. what are you staring at? bar. you--you--have you been sick? geert. sick? i'm never sick. bar. you look so--so pale---- geert. give me the looking-glass. i'll be damned. what a mug! [throws the mirror roughly down.] bar. [anxiously.] was it bad in prison? geert. no, fine!--what a question--they feed you on beefsteaks! is there any gin in the house? bar. no. geert. go and get some then--if i don't have a swallow, i'll keel over. bar. [embarrassed.] i haven't any money. geert. i have. [peers in his pocket, throws a handful of coins on the table.] earned that in prison--there!---- bar. at the "red" around the corner? geert. i don't care a damn--so you hurry. [calling after him.] is--is mother well? [a pause.]--and jo? bar. [at door.] she is digging potatoes. geert. are they mad at me? bar. why? geert. because i--[savagely.] don't stare so, stupid---- bar. [embarrassed.] i can't get used to your face--it's so queer. geert. queer face, eh! i must grow a beard at once!--say, did they make a devil of a row? [gruffly.] well?---- bar. i don't know. geert. go to the devil! you don't know anything. [a pause, barend slips out. jo enters, a dead rabbit in her hand.] jo. jesus! [lets the rabbit fall.]--geert! [rushes to him, throws her arms about his neck, sobbing hysterically.] geert. [in a muffled voice.] stop it! stop your damned bawling--stop! jo. [continuing to sob.] i am so happy--so happy, dear geert---- geert. [irritated.] now! now! jo. i can't help it. [sobs harder.] geert. [pulling her arms from his neck.]--now then! my head can't stand such a lot of noise---- jo. [startled.] a lot of noise? geert. [grumbling.] you don't understand it of course--six months solitary--in a dirty, stinking cell. [puts his hand before his eyes as if blinded by the light.] drop the curtain a bit--this sunshine drives me mad! jo. my god--geert---- geert. please!--that's better. jo. your beard---- geert. they didn't like my beard--the government took that--become ugly, haven't i?--look as if i'd lost my wits? eh? jo. [with hesitating laugh.] you? no--what makes you think that? you don't show it at all. [sobs again softly.] geert. well, damn it! is that all you have to say. [she laughs hysterically. he points to his temples.] become grey, eh? jo. no, geert. geert. you lie. [kicking away the mirror.] i saw it myself. the beggars; to shut up a sailor in a cage where you can't walk, where you can't speak, where you--[strikes wildly upon the table with his fist.] bar. here is the gin. jo. the gin? bar. for geert. geert. don't you meddle with this--where is a glass?--never mind--[swallows eagerly.]--that's a bracer! what time is it? bar. half past four. jo. did you take bread? were you hungry? geert. yes, no--no, yes. i don't know. [puts the bottle again to his lips.] jo. please, geert--no more--you can't stand it. geert. no more? [swallows.] ripping!--hahaha! that's the best way to tan your stomach. [swallows.] ripping! don't look so unhappy, girl--i won't get drunk! bah! it stinks! not accustomed to it--are there any provisions on board? jo. look--a fat one, eh? trapped him myself. [picks up the rabbit.] not dead an hour. geert. that will do for tomorrow--here, you, go and lay in a supply--some ham and some meat---- bar. meat, geert? jo. no--that's extravagance--if you want to buy meat, keep your money till sunday. geert. sunday--sunday--if you hadn't eaten anything for six months but rye bread, rats, horse beans--i'm too weak to set one foot before the other. stop your talk--hurry up! and--and a piece of cheese--i feel like eating myself into a colic. hahaha! shall i take another wee drop? [barend goes off.] jo. no. geert. good, not another drop. is there any tobacco? jo. god!--i'm glad to see you cheerful again. yes, there's some tobacco left--in the jar. geert. that's good. fine! is that my old pipe? jo. i saved it for you. geert. who did you flirt with, while i sat---- jo. [merrily.] with uncle cobus! geert. you women are all trash. [fills his pipe; smokes.] haven't had the taste in my mouth for half a year. this isn't tobacco; [exhales.] tastes like hay--bah! the gin stinks and the pipe stinks. jo. eat something first---- geert. [laying down the pipe.] say, do you still sleep with mother? jo. yes, next to the pig stye. geert. [laughing.] and must i sleep under the roof again? jo. you'll sleep nice and warm up there, dear. kneir. [outside.] why is the window curtain down? jo. [finger on her lips.] sst! [goes and stands before geert.] kneir. [inside.] what's going on here? why is the looking-glass on the floor? who sits---- geert. [rising.] well, little old one! kneir. god almighty! geert. no--it's me--geert---- kneir. [dropping into a chair.] oh!--oh!--my heart beats so! geert. hahaha! that's damned good! [tries to embrace her.] kneir. no--no--not yet--later. geert. not yet?--why later? kneir. [reproachfully.] you--what have you done to make me happy! jo. [coaxingly.] never mind that now---- geert. i've got enough in my head now. if you intend to reproach me?--i shall---- kneir. you shall---- geert. pack my bundle!---- kneir. and this is his home-coming! geert. do you expect me to sit on the sinner's bench? no, thank you. kneir. [anxious; almost crying.] the whole village talked about you--i couldn't go on an errand but---- geert. [curtly.] let them that talk say it to my face. i'm no thief or burglar. kneir. no, but you raised your hand against your superior. geert. [fiercely.] i should have twisted my fingers in his throat. kneir. boy--boy; you make us all unhappy. [begins to sob.] geert. [stamping.] treated like a beast, then i get the devil besides. [grabs his bundle.] i'm in no mood to stand it. [at the door, hesitates, throws down his bundle.] now! [lower voice.] don't cry, mother--i would rather--damn it! jo. please--auntie dear---- kneir. your father lies somewhere in the sea. never would he have looked at you again--and he also had a great deal to put up with. geert. i'm glad i'm different--not so submissive--it's a great honor to let them walk over you! i have no fish blood in me--now then, is it to go on raining? kneir. [embracing him.] if you would only repent. geert. [flaring up.] i'd knock the teeth out of his jaw tomorrow. kneir. how did it happen? jo. hey! yes--tell us all about it. come, now, sit down peaceably. geert. i've sat long enough, hahaha!--let me walk to get the hang of it. [lighting his pipe again.] bah! jo. stop smoking then, donkey! geert. now i'll--but for you it would never have happened---- jo. [laughing.] but for me?--that's a good one! geert. i warned you against him. jo. against who--what are you talking about? geert. that cad--don't you remember dancing with him at the tavern van de rooie? jo. i?--danced?---- geert. the night before we sailed. jo. with that cross-eyed quartermaster?--i don't understand a word of it--was it with him?--and you yourself wanted me to---- geert. you can't refuse a superior--on board ship he had stories. i overheard him tell the skipper that he---- jo. [angrily.] what? geert. that he--never mind what--he spoke of you as if you were any sailor's girl. jo. i!--the low down---- geert. when he came into the hold after the dog watch, i hammered him on the jaw with a marlin spike. five minutes later i sat in irons. kept in them six days--[sarcastically.] the provost was full; then two weeks provost; six months solitary; and suspended from the navy for ten years; that, damn me, is the most--i'd chop off my two hands to get back in; to be nigger-driven again; cursed as a beggar again; ruled as a slave again---- kneir. geert--geert--don't speak such words. in the bible it stands written---- geert. [grimly.] stands written--if there was only something written for us---- kneir. shame on you---- jo. well, wasn't he in the right? kneir. if he had gone politely to the commander---- geert. hahaha! you should have been a sailor, mother--hahaha! politely? they were too glad of the chance to clip and shear me. while i was in the provost they found newspapers in my bag i was not allowed to read--and pamphlets i was not allowed to read--that shut the door--otherwise they would have given me only third class---- kneir. newspapers you were not allowed to read? then why did you read them? geert. why--simple soul--ach!--when i look at your submissive face i see no way to tell why--why do men desert?--why, ten days before this happened to me, did peter the stoker cut off his two fingers?--just for a joke? no, on purpose! i can't blame you people--you knew no better--and i admired the uniform--but now that i've got some brains i would like to warn every boy that binds himself for fourteen years to murder. kneir. to murder? boy, don't say such dreadful things--you are excited---- geert. excited? no--not at all--worn out, in fact--in atjeh i fought with the rest--stuck my bayonet into the body of a poor devil till the blood spurted into my eyes--for that they gave me the atjeh medal. i have it still in my bundle. hand it here. [jo picks up the bundle; barend looks on.] where is the thing? [jerks the medal from his jacket, throws it out of the window.] away! you have dangled on my breast long enough! kneir. geert! geert! who has made you like this! i no longer know you---- geert. who--who took an innocent boy, that couldn't count ten, and kidnaped him for fourteen years? who drilled and trained him for a dog's life? who put him in irons when he defended his girl? irons--you should have seen me walking in them, groaning like an animal. near me walked another animal with irons on his leg, because of an insolent word to an officer of the watch. six days with the damned irons on your claws and no power to break them. six days lower than a beast. jo. don't talk about it any more, you are still so tired---- geert. [wrapped in the grimness of his story.] then the provost, that stinking, dark cage; your pig stye is a palace to it. a cage with no windows--no air--a cage where you can't stand or lie down. a cage where your bread and water is flung to you with a "there, dog, eat!" there was a big storm in those days,--two sloops were battered to pieces;--when you expected to go to the bottom any moment. never again to see anyone belongin' to me--neither you--nor you--nor you. to go down in that dark, stinking hole with no one to talk to--no comrade's hand!--no, no, let me talk--it lightens my chest! another drop. [drinks quickly.] from the provost to the court martial. a fellow has lots to bring in there. your mouth shut. sit up; mouth shut some more. gold epaulettes sitting in judgment on the trash god has kicked into the world to serve, to salute, to---- kneir. boy--boy---- geert. six months--six months in a cell for reformation. to be reformed by eating food you could not swallow;--rye bread, barley, pea soup, rats! three months i pasted paper bags, and when i saw the chance i ate the sour paste from hunger. three months i sorted peas; you'll not believe it, but may i never look on the sea again if i lie. at night, over my gas light, i would cook the peas i could nip in my slop pail. when the handle became too hot to hold any longer, i ate them half boiled--to fill my stomach. that's to reform you--reform you--for losing your temper and licking a blackguard that called your girl a vile name, and reading newspapers you were not allowed to read. kneir. [anxiously.] that was unjust. geert. unjust! how dare you say it! fresh from the sea--in a cell--no wind and no water, and no air--one small high window with grating like a partridge cage. the foul smell and the nights--the damned nights, when you couldn't sleep. when you sprang up and walked, like an insane man, back and forth--back and forth--four measured paces. the nights when you sat and prayed not to go insane--and cursed everything, everything, everything! [drops his head upon his hands.] jo. [after a long pause goes to him and throws her arms about his neck. kneirtje weeps, barend stands dazed.] geert! geert. now! don't let us--[forcibly controlling his tears.] a light! [smokes.] now, mother! [goes to the window--says to barend.] lay out the good things--[draws up the curtain.] i'll be damned! if the rooster isn't sitting on the roof again, ha, ha, ha! will you believe it? i would like to sail at once--two days on the sea! the sea! the sea!--and i'm my old self again. what?--why is truus crying as she walks by? truus! [calling.] kneir. ssst!--don't call after her. the anna has just come in without her husband. [a few sad-looking, low-speaking women walk past the window.] poor thing! six children---- geert. is ari--[she nods.] that's damned sad! [drops the window curtain, stands in somber thought.] curtain. act ii. [same room. time--early afternoon.] jo. [by the table.] hey! marietje. [entering.] they haven't come yet? simon. no, they haven't come yet. [starting to go.] jo. are you running away again? simon. that is to say---- marietje. good gracious, father, do stay awhile. simon. yes--i won't go far--i must---- marietje. you must nothing---- simon. well, salamander, am i a child? i must--i must----[abruptly off.] marietje. stop it if you can. it begins early in the morning. jo. is he bad again? marietje. you should have seen him day before yesterday--half the village at his heels. ach! ach! when mother was living he didn't dare. she used to slap his face for him when he smelled of gin--just let me try it. jo. [bursting into a laugh.] you say that as though--ha ha ha! mees ought to hear that. marietje. i never have seen mees drinking--and father very seldom formerly. ah well--i can't put a cork in his mouth, nor lead him around by a rope. [looks through the window.] gone, of course--to the rooie. horrid old drunkard. how old is kneirtje today? jo. sixty-one. young for her years, isn't she, eh? sit down and tell me [merrily.] when are you going to be married? marietje. that depends on the length of the voyage. you know we would like to marry at once [smiles, hesitates.] because--because----well, you understand. but mees had to send for his papers first--that takes two weeks--by that time he is far out at sea; now five weeks--five little weeks will pass quickly enough. jo. [joyfully confidential.] we shall be married in december. marietje. that's about the same----are you two!----now?----i told you everything---- [jo shrugs her shoulders and laughs.] kneir. [entering.] laughing as usual. marietje. [kissing her.] may you live to be a hundred---- kneir. god forbid!--a hundred years. i haven't the money for that! [opening a bag.] you may try one--you, too--gingerbread nuts--no, not two, you, with the grab-all fingers! for each of the boys a half pound gingerbread nuts--and a half pound chewing tobacco--and a package of cigars. do you know what i'm going to give barend since he has become so brave--look---- jo. now--you should give those to geert---- kneir. no, i'm so pleased with the lad that he has made up his mind i want to reward him. marietje. did you buy them? kneir. no, indeed! these are ever so old, they are earrings. my husband wore them sundays, when he was at home. marietje. there are little ships on them--masts--and sails--i wish i had them for a brooch. jo. why give them to that coward? that's not right. marietje. you had a time getting him to sign--eh! kneir. yes--yes. but he was willing to go with his brother--and now take it home to yourself--a boy that is not strong--not very strong--rejected for the army, and a boy who heard a lot about his father and josef. jo. i just can't stand that! first you curse and scold at him, and now nothing is too good. kneir. even so, no matter what has been. in an hour he will be gone, and you must never part in anger. have a sweet dram, marietje. we have fresh wafers and ginger cakes all laid in for my birthday--set it all ready, jo. saart is coming soon, and the boys may take a dram, too. cobus. [through the window. daantje with him.] a sweet young miss and a glass of anis-- i shall surely come in for this. kneir. throw your chew away before you come in. cob. indeed i'll not! [hides it in his red handkerchief.] no--now--you know what i want to say. daan. same here. same here. jo. i don't need to ask if----[pours the dram.] cob. no--no--go ahead--just a little more. jo. there!--now it is running over. cob. no matter, i shan't spill a drop. [bends trembling to the table. lips to the glass, sucks up the liquor.] he, he, he! daan. ginger cake? if you please. [yawns.] marietje. [imitating his yawn.] ah! thanks! daan. when you have my years!--hardly slept a wink last night--and no nap this afternoon. jo. creep into the bedstead. cob. that's what he would like to do---- marietje. better take a hot bottle, daan! cob. now, if i had my choice---- kneir. hold your tongue--story teller! the matron at the home has to help dress him. and yet he---- jo. ha, ha, ha! oh, uncle cobus! marietje. oh! oh! hahaha! cob. tja! the englishman says: "the old man misses the kisses, and the young man kisses the misses." do you know what that means? jo. yes, that means, "woman, take your cat inside, its beginning to rain." hahaha! hahaha! saart. [through door at left.] good day! congratulations everybody! cob. come in. saart. good day, daantje; day, cobus; and day, marietje; and day, jo. no, i'll not sit down. kneir. a dram---- saart. no, i'll not sit down. my kettle is on the fire. jo. come now! saart. no, i'm not going to do it--my door is ajar--and the cat may tip over the oil stove. no, just give it to me this way--so--so--many happy returns, and may your boys--where are the boys? kneir. geert has gone to say good bye, and barend has gone with mees to take the mattresses and chests in the yawl. they'll soon be here, for they must be on board by three o'clock. saart. hey, this burns my heart out. [refers to the anisette.] were you at leen's yesterday? kneir. no, couldn't go. saart. there was a lot of everything and more too. the bride was full,--three glasses "roses without thorns," two of "perfect love," and surely four glasses of "love in a mist." well! where she stowed it all i don't know. cob. give me the old fashioned dram, brandy and syrup--eh! daantje? daantje. [startled.] what? kneir. he's come here to sleep--you look as if you hadn't been to bed at all. cob. in his bed--he, he, he! daan. [crossly.] come, no jokes. cob. hehehe! [takes out his handkerchief.] kneir. no, i say, don't take out your chew. saart. old snooper! cob. snooper? no, you'd never guess how i got it. less than ten minutes ago i met bos the ship-owner, and he gave me--he gave me a little white roll--of--of tissue paper with tobacco inside. what do you call the things? marietje. cigarettes. cob. yes, catch me smoking a thing like that in--in paper--that's a chew with a shirt on. saart. and you're a crosspatch without a shirt. no, i'm not going to sit down. jo. it's already poured out. simon. [drunk.] day. kneir. day, simon--shove in, room for you here. simon. [plumps down by door at left.] i'll sit here. cob. have a sweet dram? marietje. no. simon. [huskily.] why no? marietje. you've had enough. simon. have i? salamanders! marietje. no, i won't have it. kneir. did you see geert? simon. [muttering.] wh--wh--geert! cob. give him just one, for a parting cup. marietje. [angrily.] no! no! simon. [thickly.] no? i'll be damned! [lights a nose warmer.] kneir. is there much work in the dry dock, simon? simon. that stands fast. saart. well--i'm going. jo. hey! how unsociable! they'll soon be here. come sit down---- saart. no, if i sit down i stay too long. well then, half a glass--no--no cookies. geert. [through door at left.] it looks like all hands on deck here! good day, everybody! [pointing to simon.] lazarus! eh, simon? simon. [muttering.] uh--ja---- marietje. let him alone. geert. the deuce, but you're touchy! we've got a quarter of an hour, boys! pour out the drinks, jo. [sits between kneir. and jo.] here's to you, mother! prost! santy, jo! santy, daantje! santys! jo. hahaha! fallen asleep with a ginger nut in his hand. kneir. isn't he well? cob. no. sick in the night--afraid to call the matron; walked about in his bare feet; got chilled. geert. afraid of the matron! are you eating charity bread? cob. it's easy for you to talk, but if you disturb her, she keeps you in for two weeks. geert. poor devils--i don't want to live to be so old. jo. oh, real sweet of you. we're not even married yet--and he's a widower already! geert. [gaily.] there's many a slip! hahaha! shall i give him a poke? i don't need a belaying pin----[sings.] "sailing, sailing, don't wait to be called; starboard watch, spring from your bunk; let the man at the wheel go to his rest; the rain is good and the wind is down. it's sailing, it's sailing, it's sailing for the starboard watch." [the others join him in beating time on the table with their fists.] hahaha! [general laugh.] daan. [awakes with a start.] you'll do the same when you're as old as i am. geert. hahaha! i'll never be old. leaky ships must sink. jo. now, geert. saart. never be old! you might have said that a while back when you looked like a wet dish rag. but now! prison life agreed with you, boy! cob. hehehe! now we can make up a song about you, pasting paper bags--just as domela--he he he! [sings in a piping voice.] my nevvy geert pastes paper bags, hi-ha, ho! my nevvy geert---- saart. pastes paper bags. daan., jo., marietje and cobus. hi--ha--ho! geert. [laughing.] go to thunder! you're making a joke of it! kneir. [anxiously.] please don't be so noisy. it isn't best. jo. oh! i expected that! this is your birthday, see! do take a chair, saart. saart. chair. i'm blest if i see---- marietje. i don't mind standing. saart. no--there's room here. [squeezes in beside cobus.] cob. i'll be falling off here! marietje. [standing beside her dazed father.] father! simon. [muttering.] they must--they must--not--not--that's fast. marietje. come, now! geert. let the man sail his own mast overboard! he isn't in the way. simon. [with dazed gesture.] you must--you must---- marietje. [crossly.] what's the matter now? simon. [mumbling.] the ribs--and--and----[firmly.] that's fast!---- geert, jo., cobus, daantje and saart. ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha! mees. [enters.] salute! kneir. [anxiously.] are you alone? where's barend? mees. i don't know. kneir. you went together to take the mattresses and chests---- mees. row with the skipper! he's no sailor! jo. a row? has the trouble begun already? mees. can't repeat a word of it--afraid--afraid--always afraid----[to marietje, who has induced her father to rise.] are you coming along? jo. no, take a dram before you go. it's aunt's birthday. mees. you don't say! now--now--kneir, many happy returns. kneir. you have made me anxious. jo. [laughing.] anxious! kneir. yes, anxious! she's surprised at that. i've taken an advance from bos. geert. he's signed, hasn't he? don't worry, mother! cob. perhaps he's saying good-bye to his girl. [sound of jelle's fiddle outside.] ta, de, da! saart. do sit still--one would think you'd eaten horse flesh. daan. they give us meat? not even a dead cat! jelle. [playing the old polka.] if you please! geert. come on in, old man! jo. poor old fellow, gets blinder every day. jelle. [playing.] i come regular once a week. geert. another tune first, old man! not that damned old polka. jo. yes, play that tune of--of--what do you call 'em? cob. yes, the one she mentions is fine. saart. you know, jelle, the one--that one that goes [sings.] "i know a song that charms the heart." mees. say! give us----[jelle begins the marseillaise.] that's better fare. [sings.] "alloose--vodela--bedeije--deboe--debie--de boolebie." marietje. hahaha! that's the french of a dead codfish! jo. hahaha! mees. laugh all you please! i've laid in a french port--and say, it was first rate! when i said pain they gave me bread--and when i said "open the port," they opened the door. great! geert. all gammon! begin again, jelle. why the devil! let's use the dutch words we've got for it. [jelle begins again. geert roars.] "arise men, brothers, all united! arise burgers, come join with us! your wrongs, your sorrows be avenged"-- bos. [who has stood at the open window listening during the singing, yells angrily.] what's going on here? [scared hush over all.] damn it! it's high time you were all on board! [goes off furious.] kneir. [after a long pause.] oh--oh--how he scared me--he! he! jo. what's the matter with him? mees. i couldn't think where the voice came from. saart. how stupid of you to roar like a weaned pig, when you know meneer bos lives only two doors away. marietje. lord, wasn't he mad. cob. hehehe! you'll never eat a sack of salt with him. kneir. what business had you to sing those low songs, anyway? geert. well, i'll be damned! am i in my own house or not? if he hadn't taken me by surprise! an old frog like that before your eyes of a sudden. i'd cleaned out his cupboard! play on, jelle! [jelle begins again.] kneir. ach, please don't, geert. i'm afraid that if meneer bos----[motions to jelle to stop.] geert. this one is afraid to sail, this one of the matron of the old men's home, this one of a little ship owner! forbids me in my own house! commands me as though i were a servant! saart. fun is fun, but if you were a ship owner, you wouldn't want your sailors singing like socialists either. kneir. when he knows how dependent i am, too. geert. [passionately.] dependent! don't be dependent! is it an honor to do his cleaning! why not pay for the privilege! thank him for letting you scrub! dependent! for mopping the office floor and licking his muddy boots you get fifty cents twice a week and the scraps off their plates. jo. don't get so angry, foolish boy! kneir. oh, what a row i'll get saturday! geert. a row, you? why should he row with you? if you hadn't all your life allowed this braggart who began with nothing to walk over you and treat you as a slave, while father and my brothers lost their lives on the sea making money for him, you'd give him a scolding and damn his hide for his insolence in opening his jaw. kneir. i--i--god forbid. geert. god forbids you to bend your neck. here--take it--jelle. next year mother will give you pennies to play. "arise men, brothers, all unite-e-ed"---- kneir. please, geert, please don't. [lays her hand on his mouth.] jo. hey! stop tormenting your old mother on her birthday. [jelle holds out his hand.] here, you can't stand on one leg. cob. do you want money from me? it's all in the bank. [pointing to daan.] he's the man to go to. daan. [crossly, drinking.] peh! don't make a fool of me. jelle. well, thanks to you both. [off.] mees. will you come along now? geert. i'll wait a few minutes for barend. what's your hurry? the boys will come by here any way. saart. don't you catch on that those two are--a good voyage. mees and marietje. [shaking hands.] good voyage! kneir. half past two--i'm uneasy. saart. half past two? have i staid so long--and my door ajar! good voyage. good day, kneir. [off.] bos. [brusquely coming through the kitchen door.] are you also planning to stay behind? geert. [gruffly.] are you speaking to me? bos. [angrily.] yes, to you. skipper hengst has my orders. understand? geert. [calmly to the others.] gone crazy---- bos. [more angry.] the police have been notified. geert. [with forced calm.] you and the police make me tired. [cobus and daantje slink away, stopping outside to listen at the window.] are you out of your head? who said i wasn't going? kneir. yes, meneer, he is all ready to go. bos. that other boy of yours that hengst engaged--refuses to go. kneir. oh, good god! bos. [to cobus and daan.] why are you listening? [they bow in a scared way and hastily go on.] this looks like a dive--drunkenness and rioting. jo. [excusing.] it's aunt's birthday. geert. [angrily.] mother's birthday or not, we do as we please here. bos. you change your tone or---- geert. my tone? you get out! kneir. [anxious.] ach--dear geert--don't take offense, meneer--he's quick tempered, and in anger one says---- bos. things he's no right to say. dirt is all the thanks you get for being good to you people. [threatening.] if you're not on board in ten minutes, i'll send the police for you! geert. you send--what do you take me for, any way! bos. what i take him for--he asks that--dares to ask----[to kneirtje.] you'll come to me again recommending a trouble-maker kicked out by the navy. geert. [mocking.] did you recommend? hahaha! you make me laugh! you pay wages and i do the work. for the rest you can go to hell. bos. you're just a big overgrown boy, that's all! geert. [threatening.] if it wasn't for mother--i'd---- kneir. [throwing her arms about him.] geert! geert! [a long pause.] bos. and this in your house! good day. [at the door.] kneir, kneir, consider well what you do--i gave you an advance in good faith---- kneir. ach, yes, meneer--ach, yes---- bos. haven't i always treated you well? kneir. yes, meneer--you and the priest---- bos. one of your sons refuses to go, the other--you'll come to a bad end, my little friend. geert. haul in your fore sheet! on board i'm a sailor--i'm the skipper here. such a topsy turvy! a ship owner layin' down the law; don't do this and don't do that! boring his nose through the window when you don't sing to suit him. bos. for my part, sing, but a sensible sailor expecting to marry ought to appreciate it when his employer is looking out for his good. your father was a thorough good man. did he ever threaten his employer? you young fellows have no respect for grey hairs. geert. respect for grey hairs? by thunder, yes! for grey hairs that have become grey in want and misery---- bos. [shrugging his shoulders.] your mother's seen me, as child, standing before the bait trays. i also have stood in an east wind that froze your ears, biting off bait heads---- geert. that'll do. we don't care for your stories, meneer. you have become a rich man, and a tyrant. good!--you are perhaps no worse than the rest, but don't interfere with me in my own house. my father was a different sort. we may all become different, and perhaps my son may live to see the day when he will come, as i did, twelve years ago, crying to the office, to ask if there's any news of his father and his two brothers! and not find their employer sitting by his warm fire and his strong box, drinking grog. he may not be damned for coming so often to ask the same thing, nor be turned from the door with snubs and the message, "when there's anything to tell you'll hear of it." bos. [roughly.] you lie--i never did anything of the sort. geert. i won't soil any more words over it. only to let you know i remember. my father's hair was grey, my mother's hair is grey, jelle, the poor devil who can't find a place in the old men's home because on one occasion in his life he was light-fingered--jelle has also grey hairs. bos. fine! reasoning without head or tail. if you hear him or crooked jacob, it's the same cuckoo song. [to kneir.] it's come out, eh? but now i'll give another word of advice, my friend, before you go under sail. you have an old mother, you expect to marry, good; you've been in prison six months--i won't talk of that; you have barked out your insolence to me in your own house, but if you attempt any of this talk on board the hope you'll find out there is a muster roll. geert. every year old child knows that. bos. when you've become older--and wiser--you'll be ashamed of your insolence--"the ship owner by his warm stove, and his grog"---- geert. and his strong box---- bos. [hotly.] and his cares, you haven't the wits to understand! who feeds you all? geert. [forced calmness.] who hauls the fish out of the sea? who risks his life every hour of the day? who doesn't take off his clothes in five or six weeks? who walks with hands covered with salt sores,--without water to wash face or hands? who sleep like beasts two in a bunk? who leave wives and mothers behind to beg alms? twelve head of us are presently going to sea--we get twenty-five per cent of the catch, you seventy-five. we do the work, you sit safely at home. your ship is insured, and we--we can go to the bottom in case of accident--we are not worth insuring---- kneir. [soothing.] geert! geert! geert! bos. that's an entertaining lad! you should be a clown in a circus! twenty-seven per cent isn't enough for him---- geert. i'll never eat salted codfish from your generosity! our whole share is in "profit and loss." when luck is with us we each make eight guilders a week, one guilder a day when we're lucky. one guilder a day at sea, to prepare salt fish, cod with livers for the people in the cities--hahaha!--a guilder a day--when you're lucky and don't go to the bottom. you fellows know what you're about when you engage us on shares. [old and young heads of fishermen appear at the window.] a voice. are you coming? [bos is politely greeted.] geert. i shall soon follow you. bos. good voyage, men! and say to the skipper--no, never mind--i'll be there myself----[a pause.] twenty-five minutes past two. now i'll take two minutes more, blockhead, to rub under your nose something i tried three times to say, but you gave me no chance to get in a word. when you lie in your bunk tonight--as a beast, of course!--try and think of my risks, by a poor catch--lost nets and cordage--by damages and lightning in the mast, by running aground, and god knows what else. the jacoba's just had her hatches torn off, the queen wilhelmina half her bulwarks washed away. you don't count that, for you don't have to pay for it! three months ago the expectation collided with a steamer. without a thought of the catch or the nets, the men sprang overboard, leaving the ship to drift! who thought of my interests? you laugh, boy, because you don't realize what cares i have. on the mathilde last week the men smuggled gin and tobacco in their mattresses to sell to the english. now the ship lies chained. do you pay the fine? geert. pluck feathers off a frog's back. hahaha! bos. if you were talking about conditions in middelharnis or pernis, you'd have reason for it. my men don't pay the harbor costs, don't pay for bait, towing, provisions, barrels, salt. i don't expect you to pay the loss of the cordage, if a gaff or a boom breaks. i go into my own pocket for it. i gave your mother an advance, your brother barend deserts. kneir. no, meneer, i can't believe that. bos. hengst telephoned me from the harbor, else i wouldn't have been here to be insulted by your oldest son, who's disturbing the whole neighborhood roaring his scandalous songs! i'm going to the ship! [angrily.] if you're not on board on time i'll apply "article sixteen" and fine you twenty-five guilders. geert. yes, why not? i can stand it! bos. [turning to kneir.] as for you, my wife doesn't need you at present, you're all a bad lot here. kneir. [anxiously.] ach, meneer, it isn't my fault! geert. must you punish the old woman too? bos. blame your own sons for that! after this voyage you can look for another employer, who enjoys throwing pearls before swine better than i do! geert. and now, get out! get out! [pushes the door shut after bos.] kneir. what a birthday! what a birthday! jo. don't hang your head so soon, aunt! geert was in the right---- kneir. in the right! what good does that do? geert. you're not running after him? kneir. no, to look for barend. great god, if he should desert--if he deserts--he also goes to prison--two sons who---- geert. aren't you going to wish me a good voyage--or don't you think that necessary? kneir. my head is queer. i'm coming to the harbor. yes, i'm coming---- jo. i'm sorry for her, the poor thing. geert. he's a hound, that fellow! jo. where's your sou'wester? hope it isn't mislaid. you gave him a talking to, didn't you? it was drunken simon that set him going. now don't look so solemn. here it is. [picks a geranium from a flower pot.] there! and you keep it on, so. [on his knee.] and you will think of me every night, will you? will you? [springing up.] what, are you back so soon? kneir. [enters.] isn't he in here? geert. he's in the pocket of my jacket! hahaha! kneir. truus saw him hanging around the house. ach! ach! ach! geert. we're going! come along with us. if that coward refuses to go, your sitting at home won't help a damn. kneir. no, no, no. jo. follow after us, then! kneir. [anxiously.] yes, yes, yes! don't forget your chewing tobacco and your cigars---- geert. [gaily.] if you're too late--i'll never look at you again! [exeunt geert and jo.] bar. [entering quickly from left.] s-s-s-st! kneir. you miserable bad boy! bar. s-ssst! kneir. what sssst! i'll shout the whole village together if you don't immediately run and follow geert and jo. bar. [panting.] if you can keep geert from going--call him back! kneir. have you gone crazy with fear, you big coward? bar. [panting.] the good hope is no good, no good--her ribs are rotten--the planking is rotten!---- kneir. don't stand there telling stories to excuse yourself. after half past two! march!---- bar. [almost crying.] if you don't believe me! kneir. i won't listen. march! or i'll slap your face. bar. strike me then! strike me then! ah, god! keep geert from going! simon the ship carpenter warned me. kneir. simon, the ship carpenter--that drunken sot who can't speak two words. you are a disgusting bad boy. first you sign, then you run away! get up! bar. me--you may beat me to death!--but i won't go on an unseaworthy ship! kneir. what do you know about it? hasn't the ship been lying in the dry docks? bar. there was no caulking her any more--simon---- kneir. shut your mouth with your simon! march, take your package of chewing tobacco. bar. [yelling.] i'm not going--i'm not going. you don't know--you didn't see it! the last voyage she had a foot of water in her hold! kneir. the last voyage? a ship that has just returned from her fourth voyage to the herring catch and that has brought fourteen loads! has it suddenly become unseaworthy, because you, you miserable coward, are going along? bar. [with feverish anxiety.] i looked in the hold--the barrels were floating. you can see death that is hiding down there. kneir. bilge water, as in every ship! the barrels floating! tell that to your grandmother, not to an old sailor's wife. skipper hengst is a child, eh! isn't hengst going and mees and gerrit and jacob and nellis--your own brother and truus' little peter? do you claim to know more than old seamen? [fiercely.] get up! i'm not going to stand it to see you taken aboard by the police---- bar. [crying.] oh, mother dear, mother dear, don't make me go! kneir. oh, god; how you have punished me in my children--my children are driving me to beggary. i've taken an advance--bos has refused to give me any more cleaning to do--and--and----[firmly.] well, then, let them come for you--you'd better be taken than run away. oh, oh, that this should happen in my family---- bar. [running to the cooking shed.] kneir. [barring the way.] you'll not get out---- bar. let me pass, mother. i don't know what i'm doing--i might hurt---- kneir. now he is brave, against his sixty year old mother----raise your hand if you dare! bar. [falls on a chair shaking his head between his hands.] oh, oh, oh--if they take me aboard, you'll never see me again--you'll never see geert again---- kneir. the ship is in god's hands. it's tempting god to rave this way with fear----[friendlier tone.] come, a man of your age must not cry like a child--come! i wanted to surprise you with father's earrings--come! bar. mother dear--i don't dare--i don't dare--i shall drown--hide me--hide me---- kneir. have you gone insane, boy! if i believed a word of your talk, would i let geert go? [puts a package in his pocket.] there's a package of tobacco, and one of cigars. now sit still, and i'll put in your earrings--look--[talking as to a child.]--real silver--ships on them with sails--sit still, now--there's one--there's two--walk to the looking glass---- bar. [crying.] no--no!---- kneir. come now, you're making me weak for nothing--please, dear boy--i do love you and your brother--you're all i have on earth. come now! every night i will pray to the good god to bring you home safely. you must get used to it, then you will become a brave seaman--and--and----[cries.] come now, barend, barend! [holds the mirror before him.] look at your earrings--what?---- st policeman. [coming in through door at left, good-natured manner.] skipper hengst has requested the police----if you please, my little man, we have no time to lose. bar. [screaming.] i won't go! i won't go! the ship--is rotten---- nd policeman. [smiling good naturedly.] then you should not have mustered in. must we use force? come now, little man. [taps him kindly on the shoulder.] bar. don't touch me! don't touch me! [clings desperately to the bedstead and door jamb.] nd policeman. must we put on the handcuffs, boy? bar. [moaning.] help me, mother! you'll never see me again! i shall drown in the dirty, stinking sea! st policeman. [crossly.] come, come! let go of the door jamb! [seizes his wrists.] bar. [clinging harder.] no! [shrieking.] cut off my hands! oh god, oh god, oh god! [crawls up against the wall, beside himself with terror.] kneir. [almost crying.] the boy is afraid---- st policeman. then you tell him to let go! kneir. [sobbing as she seizes barend's hands.] come now, boy--come now--god will not forsake you---- bar. [moaning as he loosens his hold, sobs despairingly.] you'll never see me again, never again---- st policeman. forward, march! [they exeunt, dragging barend.] kneir. oh, oh---- truus. [with anxious curiosity, at side door.] what was the matter, kneir? kneir. [sobbing.] barend had to be taken by the police. oh, and now i'm ashamed to go walk through the village, to tell them good bye--the disgrace--the disgrace---- curtain. act iii. [scene: same as before. evening. a lighted lamp--the illuminated chimney gives a red glow. a rushing wind howls about the house. jo and kneirtje discovered. kneirtje lying on bed, dressed, jo reading to her from prayerbook.] jo. and this verse is mighty fine. are you listening? [reads.] "mother mary! in piteousness, to your poor children of the sea, reach down your arms in their distress; with god their intercessor be. unto the heart divine your prayer will make an end to all their care." [staring into the bed.] are you asleep? aunt! are you asleep? [a knock--she tiptoes to cook-shed door, puts her finger to her lips in warning to clementine and kaps, who enter.] softly, miss. clementine. [to kaps.] shut the door. what a tempest! my eyes are full of sand. [to jo.] is kneir in bed? jo. she's lying down awhile in her clothes. she's not herself yet, feverish and coughing. clementine. i've brought her a plate of soup, and a half dozen eggs. now then, kaps! kaps! kaps. yes? clementine. on the table. what a bore! deaf as a post! what were you reading? jo. the "illustrated catholic." clementine. where did you put the eggs? kaps. i understand. kneirtje. [from the bedstead.] is anyone there? clementine. it's me, clementine. kneirtje. [rising.] hasn't the wind gone down yet? clementine. i've brought you some veal soup, kneir. it's delicious. well, almighty! you've spilled it all over. kaps. i'd like to see you carry a full pan with the sand blowing in your eyes. clementine. well, its mighty queer. there was twice as much meat in it. kaps. what? can't hear, with the wind. kneirtje. thank you kindly, miss. clementine. [counting the eggs.] one, two, three, four! the others? kaps. there's five--and--[looking at his hand, which drips with egg yolk.]--and---- clementine. broken, of course! kaps. [bringing out his handkerchief and purse covered with egg.] i put them away so carefully. what destruction! what a muss! jo. [laughing.] make an omelet of it. kaps. that's because you pushed against me. just look at my keys. clementine. [laughing.] he calls that putting them away carefully. you'd better go home. kaps. [peevishly.] no, that's not true. clementine. [louder.] you may go! i can find the way back alone! kaps. my purse, my handkerchief, my cork screw. [crossly.] good night. [off.] clementine. i don't know why father keeps that bookkeeper, deaf, and cross. does it taste good? kneirtje. yes, miss. you must thank your mother. clementine. indeed i'll not. pa and ma are obstinate. they haven't forgotten the row with your sons yet. mouth shut, or i'll get a scolding. may jo go to the beach with me to look at the sea? the waves have never been so high! jo. yes, i'll go, miss. kneirtje. no, don't leave me alone. go on the beach in such a storm! [crash outside, she screams.] jo. what was that? clementine. i heard something break. [enter cobus.] cob. god bless me! that missed me by a hair. jo. are you hurt? cob. i got a tap aft that struck the spot. lucky my head wasn't there! the tree beside the pig stye was broken in two like a pipe stem. kneirtje. did it come down on the pig stye? cob. i believe it did. kneirtje. i'm afraid it's fallen in. the wood is so rotten. jo. ach, no! aunt always expects the worst. [surprised.] uncle cobus, how do you come to be out, after eight o'clock, in this beastly weather? cob. to fetch the doctor for daan. clementine. is old daan sick? cob. tja. old age. took to his bed suddenly. can't keep anything on his stomach. the beans and pork gravy he ate---- clementine. beans and pork gravy for a sick old man? cob. tja. the matron broils him a chicken or a beefsteak--eh? she's even cross because she's got to beat an egg for his breakfast. this afternoon he was delirious, talking of setting out the nets, and paying out the buoy line. i sez to the matron, "his time's come." "look out or yours'll come," sez she. i sez, "the doctor should be sent for." "mind your own business," sez she, "am i the matron or are you?" then i sez, "you're the matron." "well then," sez she. just now, she sez, "you'd better go for the doctor." as if it couldn't a been done this afternoon. i go to the doctor and the doctor's out of town. now i've been to simon to take me to town in his dog car. jo. is simon coming here? clementine. if drunken simon drives, you're likely to roll off the dyke. cob. he isn't drunk tonight. jo. give him a chalk mark for that. must the doctor ride in the dog car? hahaha! cob. why not if he feels like it? shall i tell you something? hey, what a storm! listen! listen! the tiles will soon be coming down. jo. go on, now, tell us the rest. cob. what i want to say is, that it's a blessing for daantje he's out of his head, 'fraid as he's always been of death. afraid! jo. so is everyone else, cobus. cob. every one? that's all in the way you look at it. if my time should come tomorrow, then, i think, we must all! the waters of the sea will not wash away that fact. god has given, god has taken away. now, don't laugh, think! god takes us and we take the fish. on the fifth day he created the sea, great whales and the moving creatures that abound therein, and said: "be fruitful," and he blessed them. that was evening and that was morning, that was the fifth day. and on the sixth day he created man and said also: "be fruitful," and blessed them. that was again evening and again morning, that was the sixth day. no, now, don't laugh. you must think. when i was on the herring catch, or on the salting voyage, there were times when i didn't dare use the cleaning knife. because when you shove a herring's head to the left with your thumb, and you lift out the gullet with the blade, the creature looks at you with such knowing eyes, and yet you clean two hundred in an hour. and when you cut throats out of fourteen hundred cod, that makes twenty-eight hundred eyes that look at you! look! just look. ask me how many fish have i killed? i had few equals in boning and cutting livers. tja, tja, and how afraid they all were! afraid! they looked up at the clouds as if they were saying: "how about this now. he blessed us same as he blessed you?" i say: we take the fish and god takes us. we must all, the beasts must, and the men must, and because we all must, none of us should--now, that's just as if you'd pour a full barrel into an empty one. i'd be afraid to be left alone in the empty barrel, with every one else in the other barrel. no, being afraid is no good; being afraid is standing on your toes and looking over the edge. kneirtje. is that a way to talk at night? you act as if you'd had a dram. cob. a dram? no, not a drop! is that simon? kneirtje. [listening between the bedsteads.] am i right about the pig stye or not? hear how the poor animal is going on out there. i'm sure the wall has fallen in. jo. let me go then. don't you go outside! kneirtje. ach, don't bother me! [off.] jo. you pour yourself out a bowl, uncle cobus! i'll give her a helping hand. cob. take care of the lamp chimney. clementine. [at the window.] oh! oh! oh! what a gale! [returning to the table.] cobus, i'll thank god when the good hope is safely in. cob. tja. no ship is safe tonight. but the hope is an old ship, and old ships are the last to go down. clementine. that's what you say. cob. no, that's what every old sailor says. have a bowl, miss? clementine. [after a silence, staring.] all the same, i shall pray god tonight. cob. that's real good of you, miss. but the jacoba is out and the mathilda is out and the expectation is out. why should you pray for one ship? clementine. the good hope is rotten--so--so----[stops anxiously.] cob. [drinking coffee.] who said that? clementine. that's what----why--that's what----i thought----it just occurred to me. cob. no, you are lying now. clementine. oh, you are polite! cob. if the good hope was rotten, then your father would---- clementine. oh, shut your fool mouth, you'll make kneir anxious. quick, kneir, shut the door, for the lamp. kneirtje. [entering with jo.] good thing we looked. jo. the stye had blown down. kneirtje. oh, my poor boys! how scared barend will be, and just as they're homeward bound. jo. coffee, mother? aunt! funny, isn't it, eh? i keep saying mother. you take another cup, miss. the evening is still so long and so gloomy--yes? [enter simon and marietje, who is crying.] simon. good evening. salamanders, what a wind! stop your damn howling---- kneirtje. what's the matter? marietje. when i think of mees. kneirtje. now, now, look at jo. her lover is also--be a good seaman's wife. foolish girl! don't be childish. give her a bowl to cheer her up. marietje. it's going into the sixth week. cob. don't cry before you're hurt! you girls haven't had any trouble yet! is the carriage at the door? simon. i'm damned if i like the trip. if it wasn't for daan---- jo. here, this will warm you up, simon. simon. [drinking.] curse it, that's hot. it's happened to me before with the dog car, in a tempest like this. it was for katrien. she was expecting every minute. i was upset twice, car and all. and when the doctor came, katrien was dead and the child was dead, but if you ask me, i'd rather sit in my dog car tonight than to be on the sea. kneirtje. yes! yes! jo. another bowl? simon. no, don't let us waste our time. ready, cobus? cob. if you'll only be careful! good night, all! [both exit.] jo. jesus! don't sit around so solemn! let's talk, then we won't think of anything. marietje. last night was stormy, too, and i had such a bad dream. it was so awful. clementine. foolish girl! dreams are not real. marietje. i can't rightly say it was a dream. there was a rap on the window, once. i lay still. again a rap, then i got up. nothing to be seen. nothing. soon as i lay down there came another rap, so. [raps on the table with her knuckles.] and then i saw mees, his face was pale, pale as--god! oh, god! and there was nothing. nothing but the wind. kneirtje. [in deadly fear.] rapped three times? three times? marietje. each time--like that, so----[raps.] jo. you stupid, you, to scare the old woman into a fit with your raps. [a rap. all startled. enter saart and truus.] saart. how scared you all look! good evening, miss. truus. may we come in awhile? jo. hey! thank god you've come. saart. nasty outside! my ears and neck full of sand, and it's cold. just throw a couple of blocks on the fire. truus. i couldn't stand it at home either, children asleep, no one to talk to, and the howling of the wind. two mooring posts were washed away. kneir. [darning a sock.] two mooring posts! saart. talk about something else. jo. yes, i say so too. what's that to us----milk and sugar? yes, eh? saart. what a question! i take coffee without sugar! jo. well, geert never takes sugar. clementine. your little son was a brave boy, truus. i can see him now as he stood waving good-bye. truus. [knitting.] yes, that boy's a treasure, barely twelve. you should have seen him two and a half months ago. when the anna came in without ari. the child behaved like an angel, just like a grown man. he would sit up evenings to chat with me, the child knows more than i do. the lamb, hope he's not been awfully sea sick. saart. [knitting.] now, you may not believe it, but red spectacles keep you from being sea sick. jo. [mending a flannel garment.] hahaha! did you ever try it yourself? you're like the doctors, they let others swallow their doses. saart. many's the night i've slept on board; when my husband was alive i went along on many a voyage. jo. should like to have seen you in oil skins. clementine. were you ever married, saart? saart. hear, now, the young lady is flattering me. i'm not so bad looking as that, miss. yes, i was married. spliced good and fast, too! he was a good man. an excellent man. now and then, when things didn't go to suit him, without speaking ill of the dead, i may say, he couldn't keep his paws at home; then he'd smash things. i still have a coffee pot without a handle i keep as a remembrance.--i wouldn't part with it for a rix dollar. clementine. i won't even offer you a guilder! hahaha! jo. say, you're such a funny story teller, tell us about the harlemmer oil, saart. saart. yes, if it hadn't been for harlemmer oil i might not have been a widow. i could marry again! clementine. how odd! jo. you must hear her talk. come, drink faster! saart. i'm full to the brim! what are you staring at kneir? that's just the wind. now, then, my man was a comical chap. never was another like him. i'd bought him a knife in a leather sheath, paid a good price for it too, and when he'd come back in five weeks and i'd ask him: "jacob, have you lost your knife?" he'd say, "i don't know about my knife--you never gave me a knife." he was that scatter-brained. but when he'd undress himself for the first time in five weeks, and pulled off his rubber boots, bang, the knife would fall on the floor. he hadn't felt it in all that time. clementine. didn't take off his rubber boots in five weeks? saart. then i had to scrub 'im with soap and soda; he hadn't seen water, and covered with vermin. clementine. hey! ugh! saart. wish i could get a cent a dozen for all the lice on board; they get them thrown in with their share of the cargo. hahaha! now then, his last voyage a sheet of water threw him against the bulwarks just as they pulled the mizzen staysail to larboard, and his leg was broke. then they were in a fix--the skipper could poultice and cut a corn, but he couldn't mend a broken leg. then they wanted to shove a plank under it, but jacob wanted harlemmer oil rubbed on his leg. every day he had them rub it with harlemmer oil, and again harlemmer oil, and some more harlemmer oil. ach, the poor thing! when they came in his leg was a sight. you shouldn't have asked me to tell it. jo. last time you laughed about it yourself. saart. now, yes; you can't bring the dead back to life. and when you think of it, it's a dirty shame i can't marry again. clementine. why not? who prevents you? saart. who? those that pieced together the silly laws! a year later the changeable went down with man and mouse. then, bless me, you'd suppose, as your husband was dead, for he'd gone along with his leg and a half, you could marry another man. no, indeed. first you must advertise for him in the newspapers three times, and then if in three times he don't turn up, you may go and get a new license. truus. [monotonously knitting.] i don't think i'll ever marry again. saart. that's not surprisin' when you've been married twice already; if you don't know the men by this time. truus. i wish i could talk about things the way you do. no, it's anxiety. with my first it was a horror; with my second you know yourselves. clementine. go on, truus. i could sit up all night hearing tales of the sea. kneirtje. don't tell stories of suffering and death---- saart. hey! how fretful you are! come, pour us some more coffee. truus. [quietly knitting and speaking in a toneless voice.] ach, it couldn't have happened here, kneir. we lived in vlaardingen then, and i'd been married a year without any children. no, pietje was ari's child--and he went away on the magnet. yes, it was the magnet. on the herring catch. that's gone up now. and you understand what happened; else i wouldn't have got acquainted with ari and be living next door to you now. the magnet stayed on the sands or some other place. but i didn't know that then, and so didn't think of it. jo. ssst! keep still! saart. it's nothing. only the wind. truus. now in vlaardingen they have a tower and on the tower a lookout. marietje. same as at maassluis. truus. and this lookout hoists a red ball when he sees a lugger or a trawler or other boat in the distance. and when he sees who it is, he lets down the ball, runs to the ship owner and the families to warn them; that's to say: the albert koster or the good hope is coming. now mostly he's no need to warn the family. for, as soon as the ball is hoisted in the tower, the children run in the streets shouting, i did it, too, as a child: "the ball is up! the ball is up!" then the women run, and wait below for the lookout to come down, and when it's their ship they give him pennies. clementine. and then---- truus. [staring into the fire.] and--and--the magnet with my first husband, didn't i say i'd been married a year? the magnet stayed out seven weeks--with provisions for six--and each time the children shouted: "the ball is up, truus! the ball is up, truus!" then i ran like mad to the tower. no one looked at me. they all knew why i ran, and when the lookout came down i could have torn the words out of his mouth. but i would say: "have you tidings--tidings of the magnet?" then he'd say: "no, it's the maria," or the alert, or the concordia, and then i'd drag myself away slowly, so slowly, crying and thinking of my husband. my husband! and each day, when the children shouted, i got a shock through my brain, and each day i stood by the tower, praying that god--but the magnet did not come--did not come. at the last i didn't dare to go to the tower any more when the ball was hoisted. no longer dared to stand at the door waiting, if perhaps the lookout himself would bring the message. that lasted two months--two months--and then--well, then i believed it. [toneless voice.] the fish are dearly paid for. clementine. [after a silence.] and ari?--what happened to him? truus. ari? jo. now, that's so short a time since. truus. [calmly.] ach, child, i'd love to talk about it to every one, all day long. when you've been left with six children--a good man--never gave me a harsh word--never. in two hours he was gone. a blow from the capstan bar. he never spoke again. had it happened six days later they would have brought him in. we would have buried him here. the sharks already swam about the ship. they smell when there's a corpse aboard. kneirtje. yes, that's true, you never see them otherwise. truus. [resigned.] you'll never marry a fisherman, miss; but it's sad, sad; god, so sad! when they lash your dear one to a plank, wrapped in a piece of sail with a stone in it, three times around the big mast, and then, one, two, three, in god's name. the fish are dearly paid for. [sobs softly.] jo. [rising and embracing her.] now, truus! saart. pour her out another bowl. [to marietje.] are you crying again? she keeps thinking of mees? marietje. no, i wasn't thinking of mees, i was thinking of my little brother, who was also drowned. jo. [nervously.] you all seem to enjoy it. clementine. wasn't that on the herring catch? marietje. [going on with her knitting.] his second voyage, a blow from the fore sail, and he lay overboard. he was rope caster. the skipper reached him the herring shovel, but it was smooth and it slipped from his hands. then jerusalem, the mate, held out the broom to him--again he grabbed hold. the three of them pulled him up; then the broom gave way, he fell back into the waves, and for the third time the skipper threw him a line. god wanted my little brother, the line broke, and the end went down with him to the bottom of the sea. clementine. frightful! frightful!--grabbed it three times, and lost it three times. marietje. as if the child knew what was coming in the morning, he had lain crying all night. so the skipper told. crying for mother, who was sick. when the skipper tried to console him, he said: "no, skipper, even if mother does get well, i eat my last herring today." that's what started father to drinking. clementine. now, marietje. marietje. no, truly, miss, when he came back from pieterse's with the money, toontje's share of the cargo as rope caster, eighteen guilders and thirty-five cents for five and a half weeks. then he simply acted insane, he threw the money on the ground, then he cursed at--i won't repeat what--at everything. and i, how old was i then? fourteen. i picked up the money, crying. we needed it. mother's sickness and burial had cost a lot. eighteen guilders is a heap of money, a big heap. jo. eighteen guilders for your child, eighteen--[listening in alarm to the blasts of the wind.] hush! keep still! saart. nothing, nothing at all! what makes you so afraid tonight? jo. afraid? i afraid? no, say, hahaha!---- kneirtje. [staring straight ahead.] yes, yes, if the water could only speak. clementine. come now, you tell a tale of the sea. you've had so much experience. kneirtje. a tale? ach, miss, life on the sea is no tale. nothing between yourself and eternity but the thickness of a one-inch plank. it's hard on the men, and hard on the women. yesterday i passed by the garden of the burgomaster. they sat at table and ate cod from which the steam was rising, and the children sat with folded hands saying grace. then, thought i, in my ignorance--if it was wrong, may god forgive me--that it wasn't right of the burgomaster--not right of him--and not right of the others. for the wind blew so hard out of the east, and those fish came out of the same water in which our dead--how shall i say it?--in which our dead--you understand me. [a pause.] it was foolish to think such nonsense. it is our living, and we must not rebel against our living. truus. yes, i know how that is. kneirtje. [quietly darning.] my husband was a fisherman. one out of a thousand. when the lead was dropped he could tell by the taste of the sand where they were. often in the night he'd say we are on the th and on the th they'd be. and what experiences he had sailing! once he drifted about two days and nights in a boat with two others. that was the time they were taking in the net and a fog came up so thick they couldn't see the buoys, let alone find the lugger. two days and nights without food. later when the boat went to pieces--you should have heard him tell it--how he and old dirk swam to an overturned rowboat; he climbed on top. "i'll never forget that night," said he. dirk was too old or tired to get a hold. then my husband stuck his knife into the boat. dirk tried to grasp it as he was sinking, and he clutched in such a way that three of his fingers hung down. yes! yes! it all happened. then at the risk of his own life, my husband pulled dirk up onto the overturned boat. so the two of them drifted in the night, and dirk--old dirk--from loss of blood or from fear, went insane. he sat and glared at my husband with the eyes of a cat. he raved of the devil that was in him. of satan, and the blood, my husband said, ran all over the boat--the waves were kept busy washing it away. just at dawn dirk slipped off, insane as he was. my man was picked up by a freighter that sailed by. but it was no use, three years later--that's twelve years ago now--the clementine--named after you by your father--stranded on the doggerbanks with him and my two oldest. of what happened to them, i know nothing, nothing at all. never a buoy, or a hatch, washed ashore. nothing more, nothing. you can't realize it at first, but after so many years one can't recall their faces any more, and that's a blessing. for hard it would be if one remembered. now, i've told my story. every sailor's wife has something like this in her family, it's not new. truus is right: "the fish are dearly paid for." are you crying, miss? clementine. [bursting out.] god! if any ships should go down tonight. kneirtje. we are all in god's hands, and god is great and good. jo. [springing up wildly.] ships go down! ships go down! the one howls. the other cries. i wish i'd sat alone tonight. [beating her head with her fists.] you're all driving me mad, mad, mad! clementine. [amazed.] jo, what ails you? jo. [passionately.] her husband and her little brother--and my poor uncle--those horrible stories--instead of cheering us up! ask me now for my story! [shrieking.] my father was drowned, drowned, drowned, drowned! there are others--all--drowned, drowned!--and--you are all miserable wretches--you are! [violently bangs the door shut as she runs out.] truus. [anxiously.] i believe she's afraid. marietje. shall i go after her? kneirtje. no, child, she will quiet down by herself. nervous strain of the last two days. are you going now, miss? clementine. it has grown late, kneir, and your niece--your niece was a little unmannerly. no, i'm not offended. who is going to take me home? saart. if one goes, we all go. together we won't blow away. good night, kneir. marietje. [depressed.] good night, aunt kneir. kneirtje. thank you again, miss, for the soup and eggs. truus. are you coming to drink a bowl with me tomorrow night? please say yes. kneirtje. well, perhaps. good night, miss. good night, marietje. good night, saart. if you see jo send her in at once. [all go out except kneirtje. she clears away the cups. a fierce wind howls, shrieking about the house. she listens anxiously at the window, shoves her chair close to the chimney, stares into the fire. her lips move in a muttered prayer while she fingers a rosary. jo enters, drops into a chair by the window and nervously unpins her shawl.] kneirtje. you'd better go to bed. you are all unstrung. what an outburst! and that dear child that came out in the storm to bring me soup and eggs. jo. [roughly.] your sons are out in the storm for her and her father. kneirtje. and for us. jo. and for us. [a silence.] the sea is so wild. kneirtje. have you been to look? jo. [anxiously.] i couldn't stand against the wind. half the guard rail is washed away, the pier is under water. [a silence. kneirtje prays.] oh! oh! i'm dead from those miserable stories! kneirtje. you're not yourself tonight. you never went on like this when geert sailed with the navy. go to bed and pray. prayer is the only consolation. a sailor's wife must not be weak. in a month or two it will storm again; each time again. and there are many fishermen on the sea besides our boys. [her speech sinks into a soft murmur. her old fingers handle the rosary.] jo. barend, we almost drove him away! i taunted him to the last. [seeing that kneirtje prays, she walks to the window wringing her hands, pulls up the curtain uncertainly, stares through the window panes. then she cautiously opens a window shutter. the wind blows the curtain on high, the lamp dances, the light puffs out. she swiftly closes the window.] kneirtje. [angry from fear.] have you gone crazy! keep your paws off that window! jo. [moaning.] oh! oh! oh!---- kneirtje. [terrified.] shut your mouth! look for the matches! not so slow! quick! beside the soap dish. [a silence.] have you got them? [jo lights the lamp, shivering with fear.] i'm completely chilled. [to jo, who crouches sobbing by the chimney.] why do you sit there? jo. i'm afraid. kneirtje. [anxiously.] you must not be. jo. if anything happens--then--then---- kneirtje. be sensible. undress yourself. jo. no, i shall stay here all night. kneirtje. now, i ask you, how will it be when you're married? when you are a mother yourself? jo. [passionately.] you don't know what you say! you don't know what you say, aunt kneir! if geert--[stops, panting.] i didn't dare tell you. kneirtje. is it between you and geert? [jo sobs loudly.] that was not good of you--not good--to have secrets. your lover--your husband--is my son. [a silence, the wind shrieks.] don't stare that way into the fire. don't cry any more. i shall not speak any hard words. even if it was wrong of you and of him. come and sit opposite to me, then together we will--[lays her prayerbook on the table.] jo. [despairingly.] i don't want to pray. kneirtje. don't want to pray? jo. [excitedly.] if anything happens---- kneirtje. [vehemently.] nothing will happen! jo. [wildly.] if anything--anything--anything--then i'll never pray again, never again. then there is no god. no mother mary--then there is nothing--nothing---- kneirtje. [anxiously.] don't talk like that. jo. what good is a child without a husband! kneirtje. how dare you say that? jo. [beating her head on the table.] the wind! it drives me mad, mad! kneirtje. [opens the prayerbook, touches jo's arm. jo looks up, sobbing passionately, sees the prayerbook, shakes her head fiercely. again wailing, drops to the floor, which she beats with her hands. kneirtje's trembling voice sounds.] oh merciful god! i trust! with a firm faith, i trust. [the wind races with wild lashings about the house.] curtain. act iv. [an old-fashioned office. left, office door, separated from the main office by a wooden railing. between this door and railing are two benches; an old cupboard. in the background; three windows with view of the sunlit sea. in front of the middle window a standing desk and high stool. right, writing table with telephone--a safe, an inside door. on the walls, notices of wreckage, insurance, maps, etc. in the center a round iron stove.] [kaps, bos and mathilde discovered.] mathilde. clemens!---- kaps. [reading, with pipe in his mouth.] "the following wreckage, viz.: , ribs, marked kusta; ten sail sheets, marked 'm. s. g.'" mathilde. stop a moment, kaps. kaps. "four deck beams, two spars, five"---- mathilde. [giving him a tap.] finish your reading later. kaps. yes, mevrouw. bos. [impatiently.] i have no time now. mathilde. then make time. i have written the circular for the tower bell. say, ring up the burgomaster. bos. [ringing impatiently.] quick! connect me with the burgomaster! yes! this damn bother while i'm busy. up to my ears in--[sweetly.] are you there? my little wife asks---- mathilde. if mevrouw will come to the telephone about the circular. bos. [irritably.] yes! yes! not so long drawn--[sweetly.] if mevrouw will come to the telephone a moment? just so, burgomaster,--the ladies--hahaha! that's a good one. [curtly.] now? what do you want to say? cut it short. [to mathilde.] mathilde. here, read this circular out loud. then it can go to the printers. bos. [angrily.] that whole sheet! are you crazy? do you think i haven't anything on my mind! that damned---- mathilde. keep your temper! kaps!---- bos. go to hell! [sweetly.] yes, mevrouw. tomorrow. my wife? no, she can't come to the telephone herself, she doesn't know how. [irritably.] where is the rag? hurry up! [reaches out hand for paper. mathilde hands it to him.] my wife has written the circular for the tower bell. are you listening? [reads.] "date, postmark, mm." what did you say? you would rather have l. s.? yes, yes, quite right. do you hear? [reads.] "you are no doubt acquainted with the new church."--she says, "no," the stupid! i am reading, mevrouw, again. "you are no doubt acquainted with the new church. the church has, as you know, a high tower; that high tower points upward, and that is good, that is fortunate, and truly necessary for many children of our generation"---- mathilde. read more distinctly. bos. [to mathilde.] shut your mouth. pardon, i was speaking to my bookkeeper. [in telephone.] yes--yes--ha, ha, ha--[reads again from paper.] "but that tower could do something else that also is good. yes, and very useful. it can mark the time for us children of the times. that it does not do. it stands there since and has never answered to the question, 'what time is it?' that it should do. it was indeed built for it, there are four places visible for faces; for years in all sorts of ways"--did you say anything? no?--"for years the wish has been expressed by the surrounding inhabitants that they might have a clock--about three hundred guilders are needed. who will help? the committee, mevrouw"--what did you say? yes, you know the names, of course. yes, very nicely worded? yes--yes--all the ladies of the committee naturally sign for the same amount, a hundred guilders each? yes--yes--very well--my wife will be at home, mevrouw. [rings off angrily.] damned nonsense!--a hundred guilders gone to the devil! what is it to you if there's a clock on the damn thing or not? mathilde. [turns away.] i'll let you fry in your own fat. bos. she'll be here in her carriage in quarter of an hour. mathilde. bejour! bejour! if you drank less grog in the evenings you wouldn't have such a bad temper in the mornings. just hand me five guilders. bos. no, no! you took five guilders out of my purse this morning while i was asleep. i can keep no---- mathilde. i take a rix dollar! what an infamous lie. just one guilder! bah, what a man, who counts his money before he goes to bed! bos. bejour! bejour! mathilde. very well, don't give it--then i can treat the burgomaster's wife to a glass of gin presently--three jugs of old gin and not a single bottle of port or sherry! [bos angrily throws down two rix dollars.] say, am i your servant? if it wasn't for me you wouldn't be throwing rix dollars around!--bah! [goes off angrily.] kaps. [reading.] ijmuiden, december--today there were four sloops in the market with to live and , to , dead haddock and some--live cod--the live cod brought / --the dead---- bos. haven't you anything else to do? kaps. the dead haddock brought thirteen and a half guilders a basket. bos. [knocking on the desk.] i know all that! here, take hold! take your book--turn to the credit page of the expectation---- kaps. [looking.] the jacoba? no, the queen wilhelmina? no, the mathilde? no--the good hope?--we can whistle for her. the expectation? bos. what was the gross total? kaps. fourteen hundred and forty-three guilders and forty-seven cents. bos. i thought so. how could you be so ungodly stupid, to deduct four guilders, , for the widows and orphans' fund? kaps. let's see. [figuring.]-- , -- per cent off--that's , --that's gross three hundred and guilders--yes, it should be three guilders, , instead of four, . bos. [rising.] if you're going into your dotage, jackass! you can go. your errors are always on the wrong side! kaps. [with a knowing laugh.] there might be something to say against that, meneer--you didn't go after me when, when---- bos. now, that'll do, that'll do!---- kaps. and that was an error with a couple of big ciphers after it. [bos goes off impatiently at right.] hehehe! it all depends on what side---- [looks around, sees bos is gone, pokes up the fire; fills his pipe from bos's tobacco jar, carefully steals a couple of cigars from his box.] simon. [entering.] is bos here? kaps. mynheer bos, eh?--no. simon. is he out? kaps. can't you give me the message? simon. i ask you, is he out? kaps. yes. simon. no tidings? kaps. no. has this running back and forth begun again? meneer said that when he got news, he---- simon. it will be nine weeks tomorrow. kaps. the jacoba came in after fifty-nine days' lost time. simon. you are--you know more than you let on. kaps. are you loaded already? simon. not a drop. kaps. then it's time--i know more, eh? i'm holding off the ships by ropes, eh? simon. i warned you folks when that ship lay in the docks. what were the words i spoke then, eh? kaps. [shrugging his shoulders.] all tales on your part for a glass of gin! simon. you lie. you was there, and the miss was there. i says, "the ship is rotten, that caulking was damn useless. that a floating coffin like that"---- kaps. good! that's what you said. i don't deny it. what of it? are you so clever that when you're half drunk---- simon. [angry.] that's a damned lie! kaps. not drunk then, are you such an authority, you a shipmaster's assistant, that when you say "no," and the owner and the insurance company say "yes," my employer must put his ship in the dry docks? simon. damned rot! i warned you! and now, i say--now, i say--that if mees, my daughter's betrothed, not to speak of the others, if mees--there will be murder. kaps. you make me laugh! go get yourself a dram and talk sense. [enter marietje.] simon. better have stayed outside. no tidings. marietje. [softly sobbing.] no tidings. simon. murder will come of it. [both off.] bos. [enters.] who's here? kaps. simon and his daughter. threats! are you going out? bos. threats! is the fellow insane? i'll be back in ten minutes. whoever comes must wait. kaps. he spoke of---- bos. i don't care to hear! [off.] kaps. [goes back to his desk; the telephone rings. he solemnly listens at the receiver.] can't understand you. i am the bookkeeper. mynheer will be back in ten minutes. ring up again. [enter saart.] saart. good day, my dear. kaps. you here again? what do you want? saart. i want you--jesus! what a cold wind! may i warm my hands a moment? kaps. stay on that side of the railing. saart. sweet beast! you make me tired. mynheer bos just went round the corner. [warms herself.] no use asking about the hope. jesus! seven families. how lucky that outside of the children there were three unmarried men on board. nothing washed ashore anywhere? kaps. no, no! saart. now, don't eat me up. kaps. i wish you'd stay behind the railing. what do you want? saart. [looking in his pocket.] look out! or you'll break meneer's cigars. old thief! [he smiles.] kaps, do you want to make a guilder? kaps. that depends. saart. i'm engaged to bol, the skipper. kaps. i congratulate you! saart. he's lying here, with a load of peat for the city. now, how can i marry him? kaps. how can you? saart. i can't; because they don't know if my husband's dead. kaps. the legal limit is---- saart. i know that much myself. kaps. you must summons him, 'pro deo,' three times in the papers and if he doesn't come then, and that he'll not do, for there aren't any more ghosts in the world, then you can---- saart. now, if you'd attend to this little matter, bol and i would always be grateful to you. kaps. that is lawyer's business. you must go to the city for that. saart. gracious, what botheration! when your common sense tells you i haven't seen jacob in three years and the---- [cobus enters, trembling with agitation.] cob. there are tidings! there are tidings! kaps. tidings? what are you telling us? cob. [almost crying.] there must be tidings of the boys--of--of--the hope. kaps. nothing! [friendlier.] now, there is no use in your coming to this office day after day. i haven't any good news to give you, the bad you already know. sixty-two days---- cob. the water bailiff received a telegram. ach, ach, ach; meneer kaps, help us out of this uncertainty. my sister--and my niece--are simply insane with grief. [trembling violently.] kaps. on my word of honor. are you running away again? cob. my niece is sitting alone at home--my sister is at the priest's, cleaning house. there must be something--there must be something. kaps. who made you believe that? cob. the water bailiff's clerk said--said--ach, dear god----[off.] saart. perhaps he is right. kaps. everything is possible. saart. has meneer bos any hope? kaps. hope? nine weeks! that old ship! after that storm--all things are possible. no, i wouldn't give a cent for it. provisions for six weeks. if they had run into an english harbor, we would have had tidings. clementine. [enters.] good day, saart. are there visitors inside, kaps? kaps. [looking through window.] the burgomaster's carriage. committee meeting for the clock. a new span. i wish i had their money. clementine. [laying her sketch book on kaps's desk.] i saw cobus go by. poor thing! how he has aged. i hardly recognized him. [opening the sketch book.] look. that's the way he was three months ago, hale and jolly. you may look, too, kaps. kaps. no, miss, i haven't the time. saart. daantje's death was a blow to him--you always saw them together, always discussing. now he hasn't a friend in the "home"; that makes a big difference. clementine. do you recognize these? saart. well, that's kneir, that's barend with the basket on his back, and that's--[the telephone bell rings. clementine closes her book.] kaps. meneer is out. they rang once before. clementine. [listening at telephone.] yes!--papa isn't here. how long will he be, kaps? kaps. two or three minutes. clementine. [startled.] what did you say? a hatch marked --and--[trembling.]--i don't understand you. [screams and lets the receiver fall.] kaps. what's that? what's that? clementine. [painfully shocked.] i don't dare listen--oh, oh! kaps. was that the water bailiff? clementine. [passionately.] barend washed ashore. oh god, now it is ended! saart. barend?----barend?---- clementine. a telegram from nieuwediep. a hatch--and a corpse---- [enter bos.] bos. what's going on here? why are you crying? kaps. tidings of the good hope. bos. tidings? kaps. the water bailiff is on the 'phone. bos. the water bailiff?--step aside--go along, you! what are you gaping at? saart. i--i--[goes timidly off.] bos. [ringing.] hello! who is that? the water bailiff? a telegram from nieuwediep? north of the hook? i don't understand a word! stop your howling! a hatch, you say? ?--well, that's damned--miserable--that! the corpse--advanced stage of decomposition! barend--mustered in as oldest boy! recognized by who? by--oh!--the expectation has come into nieuwediep disabled? and did skipper maatsuiker recognize him? earrings? yes, yes, silver earrings. no, never mind that. so it isn't necessary to send any one from here for the identification? yes, damned sad--yes--yes--we are in god's hand--yes--yes--i no longer had any doubts--thank you--yes--i'd like to get the official report as soon as possible. i will inform the underwriters, bejour! [hangs up the receiver.] i'm simply dead! twelve men! kaps. barend? kneirtje's son? washed ashore? that's--that's a wonder. i never expected to hear of the ship again. with the clementine. bos. [angrily.] yes--yes--yes--yes--[to clementine.] go inside to your mother! what stupidity to repeat what you heard in that woman's presence. it won't be five minutes now till half the village is here! don't you understand me? you sit there, god save me, and take on as if your lover was aboard---- clementine. why didn't you listen? [sobs softly.] bos. listen! clementine. when simon, the shipbuilder's assistant---- bos. the fellow was drunk. clementine. [firmly.] he was not! bos. he was, too! and if he hadn't been, what right have you to stick your nose into matters you don't understand? clementine. dear god, now i am also guilty---- bos. [angrily.] guilty? guilty! have the novels you read gone to your head? guilty! are you possessed, to use those words after such an accident? clementine. he said that the ship was a floating coffin. then i heard you say that in any case it would be the last voyage for the hope. bos. [angrily at first.] that damned boarding school; those damned boarding school fads! walk if you like through the village like a fool, sketching the first rascal or beggar you meet! but don't blab out things you can be held to account for. a floating coffin! say, rather, a drunken authority--the north, of pieterse, and the surprise and the willem iii and the young john. i can keep on naming them. half of the fishing fleet and half the merchant fleet are floating coffins. did you hear that, kaps? kaps. [timidly.] no, meneer, i don't hear anything. bos. if you had asked me: "father, how is this?" i would have explained it to you. but you conceited young people meddle with everything and more, too! what stronger proof is there than the yearly inspection of the ships by the underwriters? do you suppose that when i presently ring up the underwriter and say to him, "meneer, you can plank down fourteen hundred guilders"--that he does that on loose grounds? you ought to have a face as red as a buoy in shame for the way you flapped out your nonsense! nonsense, i say! nonsense; that might take away my good name, if i wasn't so well known. clementine. [sadly.] if i were a ship owner--and i heard---- bos. god preserve the fishery from an owner who makes drawings and cries over pretty vases! i stand as a father at the head of a hundred homes. business is business. when you get sensitive you go head over heels. what, kaps? [kaps makes a motion that he cannot hear.] now, go to your mother. the burgomaster's wife is making a call. kaps. here is the muster roll. [reading.] willem hengst, aged thirty-seven, married, four children---- bos. wait a moment till my daughter---- clementine. i won't speak another word. kaps. [reading on.] jacob zwart, aged thirty-five years, married, three children. gerrit plas, aged twenty-five years, married, one child. geert vermeer, unmarried, aged twenty-six years. nellis boom, aged thirty-five years, married, seven children. klaas steen, aged twenty-four years, married. solomon bergen, aged twenty-five years, married, one child. mari stad, aged forty-five years, married. mees, aged nineteen years. jacob boom, aged twenty years. barend vermeer, aged nineteen years. pietje stappers, aged twelve years. bos. [cast down.] seven homes. clementine. sixteen children. [enter truus and marietje.] truus. [panting.] are there tidings? tidings of my little son? [wild despair.] ach, god! ach, god; don't make me unhappy, meneer!---- bos. i'm sorry, mrs. stappers---- marietje. [shrieking.] it can't be! it can't be! you lie!--it isn't possible!---- bos. [gently.] the burgomaster at nieuwediep has telegraphed the water bailiff. barend vermeer was washed ashore. you know what that means, and a hatch of the ---- truus. [loudly.] oh, mother mary, must i lose that child, too? that lamb of twelve years! [with a whimpering cry.] oh, oh, oh, oh! oh, oh, oh, oh!--pietje--pietje---- marietje. [bewildered.] then--then--[bursts into a hysterical laugh.] hahaha!--hahaha!---- bos. give her a glass of water. marietje. [striking the glass from clementine's hand.] go away! go away! [falling on her knees, her hands catching hold of the railing gate.] let me die!--let me die, please, dear god, dear god! clementine. [sobbing.] come marietje, be calm; get up. truus. on his first voyage. and so brave; as he stood there, waving, when the ship--[sobs loudly.] bos. it can't be helped, truus. it is a visitation. there hasn't been a storm like that in years. think of hengst with four children, and jacob and gerrit--and, although it's no consolation, i will hand you your boy's wages today, if you like. both of you go home now and resign yourselves to the inevitable--take her with you--she seems---- marietje. [with trembling sobs.] i don't want to go home. i want to die, die---- clementine. [supporting her.] cry, marietje, cry, poor lamb---- [they go off.] bos. [angrily walking back and forth.] what's the matter with you? are you too lazy to put pen to paper today? you needn't answer! have you the widows' and orphans' fund at hand? well! kaps. [shuffling to the safe.] the top drawer is still locked. [bos throws him the keys.] oh, thank you. [opens the safe, shuffles back to bos's desk with the book.] if you please, meneer. bos. ninety-five widows, fourteen old sailors and fishermen. kaps. yes, the fund fell short some time ago. we will have to put in another appeal. mathilde. [entering.] clemens, what a misfortune! the burgomaster's wife asks if you will come in for a moment. she sits there crying. bos. no! crying enough here. no time! mathilde. ach! ach! kaps, here is the copy for the circular. hurry, do you hear! bos. talk to her about making a public appeal for the unfortunates. mathilde. yes, but, clemens, isn't that overdoing it, two begging parties? bos. i will do it myself, then--[both exit.] clementine. [enters. softly weeping.] kaps! kaps! [goes to his desk and sits down opposite to him.] i feel so miserable---- kaps. very unwise, miss. many ships go down. the good hope scarcely counts. i have it here. where is it? where is it? the statement of veritas for october--october alone; lost, sailing vessels and steamships--that's a low estimate; fifteen hundred dead in one month. [pointing to the sea.] yes, when you see it as it appears today, so smooth, with the floating gulls, you wouldn't believe that it murders so many people. [enter jo and cobus.] clementine. [to jo and cobus, who sit alone in a dazed way.] come in, jo. jo! [jo slowly shakes her head.] cob. [trembling.] we have just run from home--for saart just as i said--just as i said---- [enter bos.] bos. [to jo.] here, sit down. [shoves a chair by the stove.] you stay where you are, cobus. you have no doubt heard?---- jo. [sobbing.] about barend? yes, but geert! it happens so often that they get off in row boats. bos. i can't give you that consolation. not only was there a hatch, but the corpse was in an extreme state of dissolution. jo. [anxiously.] yes! yes! but if it shouldn't be barend. who says it was barend? bos. skipper maatsuiker of the expectation identified him, and the earrings. jo. maatsuiker? maatsuiker? and if--he should be mistaken----i've come to ask you for money, meneer, so i can go to the helder myself. bos. come, that's foolish! jo. [crying.] barend must be buried any way. bos. the burgomaster of nieuwediep will take care of that---- [enter simon.] simon. [drunk.] i--i--heard----[makes a strong gesture towards bos.] bos. [nervous vehemence.] get out, you drunken sot! simon. [stammering.] i--i--won't murder you. i--i--have no evil intentions---- bos. [trembling.] send for a policeman, kaps. must that drunken fellow---- simon. [steadying himself by holding to the gate.] no--stay where you are--i'm going--i--i--only wanted to say how nicely it came out--with--with--the good hope. bos. you get out, immediately! simon. don't come so close to me--never come so close to a man with a knife----no-o-o-o--i have no bad intentions. i only wanted to say, that i warned you--when--she lay in the docks. bos. you lie, you rascal! simon. now just for the joke of it--you ask--ask--ask your bookkeeper and your daughter--who were there---- bos. [vehemently.] that's a lie. you're not worth an answer, you sot! i have nothing to do with you! my business is with your employer. did you understand me, kaps? simon. my employer--doesn't do the caulking himself. [to kaps, who has advanced to the gate.] didn't i warn him?--wasn't you there? kaps. [looking anxiously at bos.] no, i wasn't there, and even if i was, i didn't hear anything. bos. [to clementine.] and now, you! did that drunken sot---- clementine. [almost crying with anxiety.] papa! bos. [threatening.] as my daughter do you permit----[grimly.] answer me! clementine. [anxiously.] i don't remember---- simon. that's low--that's low--damned low! i said, the ship was rotten--rotten---- bos. a drunken man's stories. you're trying to drag in my bookkeeper and daughter, and you hear---- cob. yes, but--yes, but--now i remember also---- bos. by thunder! you warned us too, eh? cob. no, no, that would be lying. but your daughter--your daughter says now that she hadn't heard the ship was rotten. and on the second night of the storm, when she was alone with me at my sister kneirtje's, she did say that--that---- clementine. [trembling.] did i--say---- cob. yes, that you did! that very evening. these are my own words to you: "now you are fibbing, miss; for if your father knew the good hope was rotten"---- jo. [springing up wildly, speaking with piercing distinctness.] you, you lie! you began to cry. you were afraid ships would be lost. i was there, and truus was there, and----oh, you adders! bos. [banging his desk with his fist.] adders? adders? you scum! who gives you your feed, year in, year out? haven't you decency enough to believe us instead of that drunken beggar who reels as he stands there? jo. [raving with anger.] believe you? you! she lies and you lie! bos. [threatening.] get out of my office! jo. you had barend dragged on board by the police; geert was too proud to be taken! thief! thief! [overwrought, hysterical laugh.] no, no, you needn't point to your door! we are going. if i staid here any longer i would spit in your face--spit in your face! [makes threatening gesture.] cob. [restraining her.] come--come---- bos. [after a silence.] for your aunt's sake i will consider that you are overwrought; otherwise--otherwise----the good hope was seaworthy, was seaworthy! have i no loss? even if the ship was insured? and even had the fellow warned me--which is a lie, could i, a business man, take the word of a drunkard who can no longer get a job because he is unable to handle tools? simon. [stammering.] i--i told you and him and her--that a floating coffin like that. that stands fast! jo. [bursting out.] oh! oh! geert and barend and mees and the others! oh god, how could you allow it! [sinks on the chair sobbing.] give me the money to go to nieuwediep myself, then i won't speak of it any more. bos. [vindictively.] no! not a red cent! a girl that talks to me as rudely as you did---- jo. [confused, crying.] i don't know what i said--and--and--i don't believe that you--that you--that you would be worse than the devil. bos. the water-bailiff says that it isn't necessary to send any one to nieuwediep. jo. [staggering to the door.] not necessary! not necessary! what will become of me now?---- [cobus and simon follow her out.] [bos walks back and forth. kaps creeps up on his stool.] bos. [to clementine.] and you--don't you ever dare to set foot again in my office. clementine. [with a terrified look.] no, never again. [a long pause.] father, i ask myself [bursts into sobs.] how i can ever again respect you? ever again respect myself? [exits.] bos. crazy! she would be capable of ruining my good name--with her boarding-school whims. who ever comes now you send away, understand? trash! rabble! that whole set are no good! that damned drunkard! that fellow that stinks of gin! [sound of jelle's fiddle outside.] that too? [at the window.] go on! no, not a cent! [the music stops.] i am simply worn out. [falls into his chair, takes up clementine's sketch book; spitefully turns the leaves; throws it on the floor; stoops, jerks out a couple of leaves, tears them up. sits in thought a moment, then rings the telephone.] hello! with dirksen--dirksen, i say, the underwriter! [waits, looking sombre.] hello! are you there, dirksen? it's all up with the good hope. a hatch with my mark washed ashore and the body of a sailor. [changing to quarrelsome tone.] what do you say? i should say not! no question of it! sixty-two days! the probabilities are too small. [calmer.] good! i shall wait for you here at my office. but be quick about it! yes, fourteen hundred guilders. bejour. [rings off; at the last words kneirtje has entered.] kneirtje. [absently.] i----[she sinks on the bench, patiently weeping.] bos. [at the safe, without seeing her.] have you mislaid the policies? you never put a damn thing in its place. kaps. [pointing from his stool.] the policies are higher, behind the stocks. bos. [snappishly.] all right, shut your mouth, now! [turning around with the policies in his hand.] why don't you knock? kneirtje. i wanted to---- bos. [peevishly.] you've come five minutes too late. that hussy that lives with you has been in here kicking up such a scandal that i came near telephoning for the police. [crossly.] come in. close the gate after you. kneirtje. [speaking with difficulty.] is it true--is it true that----the priest said----[bos nods with a sombre expression.] oh, oh----[she stares helplessly, her arms hang limp.] bos. i have sympathy for you. i know you as a respectable woman--and your husband too. but your children! i'm sorry to have to say it to you now after such a blow, your children and that niece of yours have never been any good. [kneirtje's head sinks down.] how many years haven't we had you around, until your son geert threatened me with his fists, mocked my grey hairs, and all but threw me out of your house--and your other son----[frightened.] kneirtje! kneirtje! [rising.] kaps! water! [bathing her forehead and wrists.] i'll be damned! i'll be damned! kaps. shall i call mevrouw or your daughter? bos. no! stay here! she's coming to. [kneir. with long drawn out sobs, sits looking before her with a dazed stare.] kaps. kneir---- bos. keep still! let her have her cry. kneirtje. [in an agonized voice, broken with sobs.] he didn't want to go! he didn't want to go! and with my own hands i loosened his fingers from the door post. [moans softly.] bos. [in a muffled voice.] you have no cause to reproach yourself---- kneirtje. [in the same voice as before.] before he went i hung his father's rings in his ears. like--like a lamb to the slaughter---- bos. come---- kneirtje. [panting.] and my oldest boy that i didn't bid good bye----"if you're too late"--these were his words--"i'll never look at you again."--"never look at you again!" bos. [strongly moved.] stop! in god's name, stop!---- kneirtje. twelve years ago--when the clementine--i sat here as i am now. [sobs with her face between her trembling old hands.] bos. come now, be strong. [mathilde enters.] mathilde. clemens! ach, poor, dear kneir, i am so sorry for you. it's dreadful! it is frightful! two sons! kneirtje. [staring.] my husband and four sons---- mathilde. [consoling.] but don't you worry. we have written an appeal, the burgomaster's wife and i, and it's going to be in all the papers tomorrow. here, kaps----[hands kaps a sheet of paper which he places on desk--bos motions to her to go.] let her wait a while, clemens. [sweetly.] i have a couple of cold chops--that will brace her up--and--and--let's make up with her. you have no objections to her coming again to do the cleaning? we won't forget you, do you hear? good day, kneir. be brave. [exits.] bos. no, we will not forget you. kneirtje. now, my only hope is--my niece's child. bos. [surprised.] a child? kneirtje. that misfortune is added. she is with child by my son----[softly smiling.] misfortune? no, that isn't a misfortune now---- bos. and you sit and tell that? this immorality under your own roof? don't you know the rules of the fund, that no aid can be extended to anyone leading an immoral life, or whose conduct does not meet with our approval? kneirtje. [submissive voice.] i leave it to the gentlemen themselves--to do for me--the gentlemen---- bos. it will be a tussle with the committee--the committee of the fund--your son had been in prison and sang revolutionary songs. and your niece who----however, i will do my best. i shall recommend you, but i can't promise anything. there are seven new families, awaiting aid, sixteen new orphans. [rising and closing the safe.] no, sit awhile longer. my wife wants to give you something to take home with you. [exits.] mathilde. [invisible.] kaps! kaps! [the bookkeeper rises, disappears for a moment, and returns with a dish and an enamelled pan.] kaps. [kindly.] if you will return the dish when it's convenient, and if you'll come again saturday, to do the cleaning. [she stares vacantly. he closes her nerveless hands about the dish and pan; shuffles back to his stool. a silence. kneirtje sits motionless, in dazed agony; mumbles--moves her lips--rises with difficulty, stumbles out of the office.] kaps. [taking up sheet of paper from desk.] appeal, for the newspapers! [smiling sardonically, he comes to the foreground; leaning on bos's desk, he reads.] "benevolent fellow countrymen: again we urge upon your generosity an appeal in behalf of a number of destitute widows and orphans. the lugger good hope----[as he continues reading.] curtain. distributed proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net _the spell of the white sturgeon_ jim kjelgaard dodd, mead & company new york copyright, by jim kjelgaard all rights reserved no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher _library of congress catalog card number: - _ printed in the united states of america by vail-ballou press, inc., binghamton, n. y. to david leclair and richard smith _contents_ _chapter one_ storm _two_ wreck _three_ on the beach _four_ trouble for the _spray_ _five_ rescue _six_ new venture _seven_ partners _eight_ action _nine_ pirates _ten_ the great fish _eleven_ fisherman's luck _twelve_ the pond the characters and situations in this book are wholly fictional and imaginative: they do not portray and are not intended to portray any actual persons or parties. _the spell of the white sturgeon_ chapter one _storm_ ramsay cartou leaned on the rail of the ponderous side-wheeler, the _h. h. holter_, and watched without interest while a horse-drawn truck brought another load of cattle hides on board. the sweating stevedores who were loading the _holter_ and the belaboring mate who supervised them began stowing the hides into the hold. the _holter's_ winch, either ruined by an inexpert operator or about to fall apart anyhow, was broken. all the work had to be done by hand. ramsay turned to breathe the clean air that swept in from lake michigan. it was impossible, anywhere on the _holter_, to get away from the smell of the hides, but at least he did not have to look at them. not since he had left the brawling young city of chicago two days before, to make his way north to the equally lusty young city of milwaukee, had the sun shone. in those two days, while he waited for repairs to the engine hauling the train in which he was riding, he had seen nothing of the lake. now, from the mouth of the river where the _holter_ was anchored, he had a clear view, and it was exciting. the grays of the sky and the grays of the lake were indefinable, with no clear separation. ramsay shivered slightly. the lake was a cat, he thought, a great sinewy cat, and the whitecaps rolling into the harbor were its sheathed and unsheathed claws. it was an awesome thing, but at the same time a wonderful one. a trembling excitement rose within him. the lake was at once a challenge and a promise--a threat and a mighty lure. he stared, fascinated, and tried to trace the rolling course of the waves as they surged toward the bank. it was impossible to follow just one for, as soon as it swelled, it retreated, to lose itself in the immense lake and renew itself in endless forward surges. like recklessly charging soldiers, the waves cast themselves up on the bank and, exhausted, fell back. so absorbed was he in the spectacle and so fascinated by the lake, that for a moment he was unaware of the man beside him or of the words he spoke. then a rough hand grasped his shoulder and, reacting instantly, ramsay whirled around. "why ain't you at work with the rest, boy?" "take your hand off me!" the man who stood beside him was oddly like a rock, a great granite boulder. two inches taller than ramsay's six feet, he had a barrel chest and long, powerful arms. a leather jacket, with the sleeves cut off, hung loosely on his upper body, and beneath it he wore a homespun shirt. his black trousers had been fashioned by an exacting tailor but sadly misused. they were torn and patched with anything that might have been at hand. black hair straggled from beneath his crushed black hat and the hair needed cutting. his eyes, colorless, were oddly inanimate, like two glass balls with no special warmth or feeling. a black beard sprouted from his cheeks and half-hid his face, but the beard did not hide thick, coarse lips. he repeated, "them hides got to be loaded! get to work!" "load them yourself!" "i'll give you a lesson you won't forget, boy!" "do that!" ramsay tensed, awaiting the anticipated attack of the bigger, heavier man. he felt almost a grim pleasure. he had learned his fighting the hard way, as anybody brought up on the new york water-front, and with an irresponsible father had to learn it. the man who faced him was heavier by a good sixty pounds, but he was a bull of a man and, probably, he would fight like a bull. would he know about matadors? the man's eyes were narrowed to pinpoints, and they seemed to spark. sheer rage made his face livid, while his lips were distorted in a snarl. he drew back, readying himself for the spring that would overwhelm this brash youth who had dared dispute him. ramsay poised on lithe feet, prepared to side-step. then fat, fussy little captain schultz, skipper of the _holter_, stepped between them. he wheezed like an over-fat lap-dog, "vot you doin'?" "i want them hides loaded and the ship under way!" the man who faced ramsay snarled. "ach! dis man payin' passenger!" a deck hand, his eyes downcast, hurried past. the man who had ordered ramsay to get to work stood still for a moment, glaring. then, furiously, soundlessly, he turned on his heel and strode up the gangplank to the pier. ramsay watched him go, and he knew that, even if there had not been unpleasantness between them, he could never like this man. no matter where they met, or how, they would never get along together. captain schultz also turned to watch the man depart. then he gave his attention to ramsay. "ach! you should be careful 'pout startin' fights, poy." "so should other people!" ramsay said, still smarting. "you should, too. yaah!" and, as though he had settled that once and for all, captain schultz waddled away to speak to the mate who was supervising the stevedores. a little uncertainty arose in ramsay. this--this half-wilderness, half-civilization in which he found himself was a land of strong contradictions. lake michigan, with all its fear and all its terror, and all its inspiration, lapped the wisconsin shores. yet some man could be so little impressed by the vast lake that he could name a boat for himself. possibly a man capable of building or owning a ship like the _holter_ had a right to think of himself. ramsay turned again to look at the lake, and his mind projected him far away from the worn, slippery decks of the _holter_. almost he was unaware of the two silver dollars in his pocket, all the money he had left in the world, and of the uncertain future. at the same time, while his inmost being feasted on the lake, a part of his mind reviewed the events that had brought him here. he had an abrupt, uncomfortable revival of a new york memory. there was a lion, a great, black-maned lion, in the new york zoo. it was well fed and well cared for, its every need attended. but most times the lion had still seemed restless and unhappy, and sometimes it had been a tired thing. then it was hardly a lion at all but just a weary, living thing. ramsay had wondered often how that lion felt. he had never decided exactly how it did feel; within himself there were a dozen conflicting opinions. the lion paced its cage, and coming to the end of the very narrow limits granted to it, it turned and went back the other way. coming to the end of the cage, it turned again. but all it ever found was the place it had already left. once in a great while the lion had been very alert and very attentive. it was as though, now and again, the great animal could scent a wind of which nothing else was aware. that wind brought him memories of freedom, and happiness and the unhampered jungle life that had been. ramsay had gone often to see the lion, and though he never understood why, he always felt as though he had something in common with it, and he understood it partially. new york offered an abundance of opportunities, but they were well bound and well defined. there had always been a wild longing, a reckless yearning, within him, and often he thought that the newspapers which carried stories of the undeveloped midwest were to him what the faint jungle scents had been to the lion. he had devoured every story eagerly. the midwest was new, the papers had said. good farm land, if one wanted to be a farmer, could be had for as little as four dollars an acre. it was the land of the future. again ramsay jingled the two dollars in his pocket. he had answered the call of the midwest because he could not help answering it. he had to try and to go and see for himself, but at the same time a caution, inborn in his scotch mother and transplanted to him, could not be ignored. before he burned his bridges behind him he had wanted to make sure that there were some ahead, and correspondence with the manager of the three points tannery had led to the offer of a job when he came. a dollar and twenty-five cents a day the tannery was offering able-bodied men, and there were too few men. ramsay looked out upon the lake, and a little thrill of excitement swept through him. sometimes he had felt doubts about the wisdom of having left new york for the midwest. he had been sure of a place to sleep and enough to eat as long as he stayed in new york, and again he felt the two dollars in his pocket. troubled, he looked out on the surging lake, and knew an instant peace. it was worth seeing. it was something few new yorkers ever saw. the ocean was at their doorstep, and few of them even bothered looking at that; but the ocean was not like this. lake michigan was fresh and clean, different, wild and, as the papers had promised, new. ramsay tasted the wet air, liking it as he did so. he turned at a sudden squealing and clatter on the pier, and saw four men trying to fight a little black horse onto the ship. the horse, not trusting this strange craft and certainly not liking it, lashed out with striking hooves. dodging, the men finally fought it into a sort of small cage they had prepared. the horse thrust its head over the side and bugled shrilly. ramsay watched interestedly, distracted for the few minutes the men needed to get the horse into its cage. it reared as though it would climb over the confining bars, then stood quietly. a sensible horse, ramsay decided, and a good one. only fools, whether they were animals or men, fought when there was no chance of winning or battered their brains out against a stone wall. good animals and good men never considered anything hopeless, but they tried to fight with intelligence as well as brawn. ramsay glanced again at the horse. it was standing quietly but not resignedly. its head was up. its ears were alert and its eyes bright. it still did not like the ship, but it had not just given in. rather, it was waiting a good chance to get away. ramsay grinned. the next time, he decided, they would have a little more trouble getting that horse onto anything that floated. then he returned his attention to the loading of the _holter_. a continuous line of horse-drawn trucks loaded with hides was coming alongside the ship, and the stevedores were laboring mightily to stow the hides away. obviously whoever owned the _holter_ intended to load her with every last pound she would carry. he wanted a paying cargo that would pay off to the last cent. almost imperceptibly the ship settled into the water. the gangplank, that had been almost even with the deck, now tilted downward. once or twice ramsay saw the bearded, jacketed man with whom he had quarreled. but the man did not venture onto the _holter_ again. rather, he seemed more interested in getting the hides loaded. ramsay speculated on the scene he was witnessing, and then he found the whys and wherefores, the reasons behind it. this wisconsin country was still more than half a wilderness. it had its full share of wilderness men, but its fertile farm lands were attracting many dutch, swiss and german farmers. struggling with a half-tamed country, they did anything they could to earn a livelihood, and some of them raised beef cattle. the hides were a by-product and the world markets needed leather. but the leather could not be processed without necessary materials, and the hemlock trees which provided tan bark were being cut at three points. it was cheaper, and easier, to transport the hides to three points than it was to carry the cumbersome tan bark to milwaukee or chicago. from three points, harness leather, sole leather and almost every other kind, was shipped by boat to chicago and from there it was carried to the eastern markets by rail. * * * * * it was not until mid-afternoon that the last of the hides were loaded and the hatches battened down. the side wheel began to turn and the _holter_ moved cumbersomely down the river into lake michigan. standing in his enclosure, the little horse stamped restlessly and neighed again. he was nervous, but he was not afraid. ramsay approved. the little black horse didn't like his cage, but he would meet the situation as it existed rather than lose his head or become panic-stricken. ramsay walked over to the cage and the horse thrust his velvet muzzle against the bars. when the boy rubbed his nose, the horse twitched his ears and looked at him with friendly eyes. thick smoke belched from the _holter's_ stack and made a long plume over the lake, behind the plodding side-wheeler. a strong wind was screaming in from the north and lashing the water angrily into leaping waves. the ship nosed into the trough created by the waves and rose again on the opposite side. ramsay walked to the bow and leaned over the rail, and a mighty excitement rose anew within him. this, it seemed, was what he had wanted to find when he left new york to go roving. the lake, storm-lashed, was a wild and terrible thing. it was a beast, but something with a vast appeal lay behind its fury and its anger. lake michigan was the place for a man. it would never be free of challenge if there was anyone who dared to pick up the gauntlet it cast. there was motion beside ramsay, and the deck hand who had passed while he argued with the bearded man fell in beside him. he glanced at the man. the deck hand was about thirty-six, older than ramsay by eighteen years, and there was a seasoned, weather-beaten look about him. it was as though he had turned his face to many a raging storm and many a fierce wind. he grinned amiably. "hi!" "hi!" ramsay said. the deck hand chuckled. "boy, i thought you were in trouble sure when you were ruckusin' with old devil chad." "devil chad?" "yeah. the one who told you to help load hides. he'd of cleaned the deck with you." "maybe he would," ramsay said. "and then again, maybe he wouldn't." "he would," the deck hand asserted. "he can lick anybody or anything. owns half the country 'round here, he does, includin' most of the _holter_. what's more, he aims to keep it. one of the richest men in wisconsin." "quite a man," ramsay said drily. "yeah, an' quite a fighter. on'y reason he didn't clean your clock was on account captain schultz told him you was a payin' passenger. devil chad, he gets half the fare every passenger on the _holter_ pays, he does." ramsay knew a rising irritation. "what makes you so sure he can't be cut down to size?" "never has been, never will be," the deck hand asserted. he regarded the surging lake morosely, and then said, "one of these days this old tub is goin' to end up right at the bottom of michigan, it is. either that or on the beach. wish i was some'res else." "why don't you go somewhere else?" "one of these days i will," the deck hand threatened. "i'll just haul off an' go back to the ocean boats, i will. i was on 'em for fourteen years, an' quit to come here on account i got scar't of storms at sea. ha! worstest thing i ever see on the atlantic ain't nothin' to what this lake can throw at you." "is it really that bad?" ramsay asked eagerly. "bad?" the deck hand said. "boy, i've seen waves here taller'n a ship. in course nobody ever goes out when it's that bad on account, if they did, nobody'd ever get back." he scanned the horizon. "we're goin' to hit weather afore we ever gets to three points. goin' to hit it sure. wish this old tub wasn't loaded so heavy, an' with hides at that." a wave struck the bow, crested and broke in foaming spray that cast itself up and over the ship. ramsay felt it, cool on his face, and he licked eager lips. lake michigan was fresh water, not salt like the ocean, and it was as pure as an ice-cold artesian well. it was also, he thought, almost as cold. he looked into the clouded horizon, studying the storm that battered the _holter_. he smiled to himself. suddenly he became all eager interest, peering out into the driving waves and focusing his attention on one place. he thought he had seen something there, but because of the angry lake he could not be sure. it might have been just a drifting shadow, or just one more of the dark waves which seemed to fill the lake and to be of all shades. then, and plainly, he saw it again. it was a boat, a little boat no more than twenty-four feet from bowsprit to stern, and it was carrying almost a full load of sail as it tacked back and forth into the wind. ramsay had not seen the sails because, when he first spotted the boat, it had been heeled over so far that the sails did not show. now they were showing and full, and the little boat sailed like a proud swan with its wings spread. ramsay forgot the _holter_, the man beside him and everything else save the little boat. the _holter_ and nothing on it, with the possible exception of the little black horse, was even remotely interesting. but this was. ramsay breathed a sigh of relief. he should have known. he should have understood from the first that, when any water was as mighty and as exciting as lake michigan, there would be some to meet its challenge with daring, grace and spirit. the tiny craft was a mere cockleshell of a boat, a ridiculously small thing with which to venture upon such a water, but ramsay could not help feeling that it would be much better to sail on the little boat than on the _holter_. he kept fascinated eyes on it as it tacked back into the wind. again it heeled over, so far that it was almost hidden in the trough of a vast wave. saucily, jauntily it bobbed up again. the _holter_, that workhorse of the water, plodded stolidly on its appointed way. ramsay continued to watch the little boat, and now they were near enough so that he could see its crew of four. he gasped involuntarily. working into the wind, the little boat was coming back, and its course took it directly across the _holter's_ right of way. ramsay clenched his fingers and bit his lip fiercely. a collision seemed inevitable. wide-eyed, he watched the little boat. now he saw its name, not painted on with stencils but written in a fine, free-flowing script, _spray_, and the carved valkyrie maiden that was its figurehead. a big gull, obviously its tame one, sat on the very top of the mast and flapped its wings. the _spray_ had a crew of four, but ramsay concentrated on just one of them. he was huge, fully as tall as the black beard who had accosted ramsay and just as heavy, but he was a different kind of man. he balanced on his little boat's swaying deck with all the grace of a dancer, while he clung almost carelessly to a line that ran through a pulley. no inch of the man's shirt and trousers, which were all the clothing he wore, for he was bare-footed, remained dry, and the shaggy blond curls that carpeted his head were dripping. white teeth gleamed as he looked up at the _holter_ and laughed. ramsay leaned forward excitedly. he warmed to this man, even as he had been repelled by the black beard the deck hand called devil chad. the man on the boat was gay and spirited, and he seemed complete master of everything about him. the deck hand put cupped hands to his mouth and screamed, "sheer off! sheer off!" captain schultz's voice was heard. "_dumkopf!_ go 'way!" then, just as it seemed that collision could not be avoided, more sail bloomed on the _spray's_ mast and she danced lightly out of the way. the man with the shaggy curls looked back and waved a taunting hand. ramsay turned to watch, but the _spray_ disappeared in a curtain of mist that had draped itself between the _holter_ and the shore. his eyes shining, the boy turned to the deck hand. "who was that?" "a crazy dutch fisherman, named hans van doorst," the deck hand growled. "he'd sail that peanut shell right in to see old nick hisself, an' one of these days he will. he ain't even afraid of the white sturgeon." "what's the white sturgeon?" the deck hand looked at him queerly. "how long you been here, boy?" "a couple of days." "well, that accounts for it. you see the white sturgeon; you start prayin' right after. you'll need to. nobody except that crazy van doorst has ever saw him an' lived to tell about it. well, got to get to work." the deck hand wandered away. ramsay turned again to face the storm and let spray blow into his face. he thought of all that had happened since he had, at last, reached lake michigan. this wisconsin country was indeed a land of sharp contrasts. the _holter_ and the _spray_. captain schultz and the deck hand. devil chad and hans van doorst. a tannery and a fisherman. local superstition about a white sturgeon. ramsay knew a rising satisfaction. this semi-wilderness, lapped by a vast inland sea, might be a strange land, but nobody could say that it was not an interesting or a strong one. his last lingering doubts were set at rest and for the first time he was entirely satisfied because he had come. a strong country was always the place for strong people. ramsay raised his head, puzzled by something which, suddenly, seemed to be out of place. for a second he did not know what it was. then he realized that the crying gulls which had been following the _holter_ in the hope that scraps or garbage would be tossed to them or else interested in whatever debris the side wheel might churn up, were no longer there. ramsay knew a second's uneasiness, and he could not explain it. he did not know why he missed the gulls. it was just that they and their crying had seemed a part of the lake. now that they were gone, the lake was incomplete. the boy braced himself against a sudden, vicious burst of wind. even a land-lubber could tell that the storm's fury was increasing. a sharp patter of rain sliced like a shower of cold knives across the _holter's_ deck, and ramsay ducked his head. he raised it again, grinning sheepishly as he did so, then gripped the rail to steady himself. he watched with much interest as the storm raged even more strongly. it was driving directly out of the northwest, and it seemed to be perpetually re-born in the dark clouds that had possession of the sky. a howling wind accompanied it, and more shrapnel-bursts of rain. the waves rose to prodigious heights. dipping into them, the _holter_ seemed no more than a leaf on this tossing sea. turning, ramsay saw the helmsman clinging almost fiercely to his wheel, as though he would somehow soften the storm's rage by doing that. in his cage the little black horse nickered uncertainly. then there came something that was instantly apparent, even above the screaming wind. the rough rhythm of the _holter's_ throbbing engines seemed to halt. the ship shivered mightily, as though in pain. the engines stopped. chapter two _wreck_ shorn of her power, the _holter_ still followed her helmsman's course. but it became a listless, sluggish course. the ship was like a suddenly freed slave that does not know what to do with his own freedom. for six years she had plodded lake michigan, always with the biggest possible paying load and always working at top speed. many times she had groaned and protested, but she had been forced to obey the dictates of the engine that turned her side wheel. now the engine, the tyrant, was dead from misuse of its own power. but without it the _holter_ had neither mind nor will of her own. she smashed head-on into a mountainous wave that set her decks awash. for another moment or two she held her course, carried by her own momentum. then, slowly and unwillingly, as though afraid to do such a thing and not trusting herself to do it, she swung broadside to the waves. a muffled shout floated out of the engine room. fat little captain schultz, a slicker covering his round body and anxiety written on his face, was peering down an opened hatch. sluicing rain pelted the slicker and bounded off. ramsay's eyes found the deck hand. eyes wide and mouth agape, he was standing near the wheelhouse. naked terror was written on his face as he stared at something out in the lake. ramsay followed his gaze. to the starboard, the right side of the _holter_, the lake seemed strangely calm. it was as though the wind and the storm did not strike with outrageous strength there, and oddly as if that part of the water might be commanded by some inexplicable force. unable to tear his gaze away, expecting to see something special, ramsay kept his eyes riveted on the calm water. he saw a ripple, but not one born of storm and wind. there was something here that had nothing to do with the driving wind, or the cold rain, or even the tremendous waves. the deck hand covered his eyes with his hand. at that instant, a great white apparition swam up through the water. it was a ghost, a creature of nightmares, a terrible thing seen only in terror-ridden moments. ramsay controlled an impulse to shout or to flee. the thing came up to within inches of the surface and wallowed there like a greasy fat hog. whitish-gray, rather than pure white, it flipped an enormous tail while it sported near the surface. the thing, a fish, seemed fully nine feet long and possibly it carried a hundred pounds of weight for every foot. it bore no scales but seemed to be clothed in an overlapping series of armored plates. its snout, pointed somewhat like a pig's, was tipped with barbels, or feelers. dull eyes showed. again ramsay controlled his fear. the thing, sober judgment told him, was nothing more or less than a great sturgeon, the mightiest fish of these inland waters. the fact that it was white, rather than the conventional gray-green or olive-green, was of no significance whatever. all living creatures, from elephants down to mice, occasionally produced an albino. it was not beyond reason that there could be an albino sturgeon. ramsay watched while it swam, and some semblance of cool control returned to his fevered imagination. this was no grotesque monster from another world. telling himself again that it was nothing more or less than an unusual fish, he watched it sink back into the churning depths from which it had arisen. he put a shaking hand on the _holter's_ rail. it was a fish and nothing else. none but superstitious people believed in superstition. then the deck hand's terrified shriek rose above the keening wind. "it's him! we seen it! the white sturgeon! _gar-hhh!_" mouth agape, the deck hand kept his eyes on that place where the white sturgeon had disappeared. a great wave washed across the deck, and when it rolled away the deck hand was no longer visible. ramsay shook his head to clear it and looked again at the place where the deck hand had been standing. lake michigan could swallow a man even easier than a pond swallowed a pebble, for there had not been even a ripple to mark the place where the deck hand had disappeared. there was not the slightest possibility of rescuing him. the deck hand had seen the white sturgeon! a battering ram of a wave crashed into the _holter's_ starboard side, and ramsay felt a cold chill travel up and down his spine. fear laid its icy fingers there, but he shook them off. the fact that the water had been calm when the white sturgeon made its appearance and was angry now had nothing whatever to do with the fish. rather, the calm water could be attributed to some quirk, some phenomenon inherent in the storm itself. probably the white sturgeon appeared because, for the moment, the lake had been calm. knowing that, the big fish had nosed its way to the surface. now that the lake was again storm-deviled, the white sturgeon was gone. bracing himself against the wind, ramsay made his way across the deck to the wheelhouse. he shivered, for the first time aware of the fact that his clothing was rain-drenched and that he was very cold. it was a penetrating, creeping cold that reached the inmost marrow of his bones. when another wave smashed the _holter_, ramsay caught hold of the little horse's cage to steady himself. within the enclosure, nervous but still not terrified, the black horse looked hopefully at him. ramsay reached the wheelhouse, and came face to face with captain schultz. the little captain's slicker had blown open, so that now it was of no use whatever in warding off the rain, but he had not seen fit to close it again. it would do him no good if he did; his clothing was already soaked. ramsay shouted to make himself heard above the roar of the wind. "what happened?" "the enchin, she kaput. like that, she kaput." ramsay revised his opinions of the little captain. at the pier, captain schultz had been only a fat, fussy little man. facing this dire predicament, he was not terrified and had not given way to panic. he had risen to the emergency. maybe, ramsay thought, anyone who sailed lake michigan had to be able to rise to any emergency if he would continue to sail. he shouted again, "will the ship sink?" "ach, i don't know! if we can't get the enchin to go, she might." "what do we do then?" "find somet'ing. find anyt'ing, poy, an' swim. be sure you find somet'ing that does not sink mit you." "how far are we from land?" "ach! that i cannot tell you." "did you see the white sturgeon?" "yaah. we still try." captain schultz went all the way into the wheelhouse and disappeared into the hold. dimly, out of the open hatchway, came the sound of ringing hammers. there was a desperate tone in them, as though the men working in the _holter's_ hold were fully aware of the grave danger they faced. on sudden impulse ramsay ducked into the wheelhouse and descended into the engine-room. captain schultz held an oil lamp to illumine the labors of two men whom, so far, ramsay had not seen. presumably they were the _holter's_ engineer and fireman. another deck hand and the mate stood by, passing tools requested by the workers. down here, in the bowels of the _holter_, the storm seemed a faraway and almost an unreal thing. the howling wind was heard faintly, and if the ship had not been tossing so violently, they might have been in the power-room of any industrial plant. the sweating engineer, his face grease-streaked, turned from his labors to face ramsay. he spoke with a nasal new england twang. "was that white sturgeon really off the ship?" "i--i didn't see anything," ramsay answered. captain schultz flashed him a grateful smile. the workers went on with their toils. obviously, among lake michigan sailors, or anyhow some of them, there was a firm belief in the evil powers of the white sturgeon. ramsay looked again at the little captain's face. it was a concerned, worried face, what one might expect to see in a man who was in danger of losing his ship. at the same time, and even though captain schultz remained completely in command, there was about him a certain air that had nothing to do with getting the _holter's_ engine working again. ramsay sought for the answer, and finally he found it. a strong man in his own right, captain schultz had seen the white sturgeon and he believed in it. ramsay climbed the narrow ladder-way leading back to the deck. the _holter_ was strong, he assured himself. there was little danger that it could be pounded to pieces by any sea. then he looked at the wild and angry lake and knew the fallacy of his reasoning. the _holter_ was strong, but the lake was stronger. waves, the color of steel and with the strength of steel, smashed into the ship and made her shiver. ramsay heard a shrieking protest as some plank or stay beneath the deck tore loose. the _holter_ shuddered, like a big horse in pain, and settled so low in the water that waves washed continuously across her deck. there was another shriek, and she settled deeper into the lake. she was a very sluggish craft now, with no control or direction, and ramsay guessed that the hides in the hold were getting soaked. the ship's nose dipped to meet a wave, and it did not come up again. the imprisoned horse bugled his fright. captain schultz, the engineer, the fireman and the deck hand appeared on deck. there was no sign of the mate; perhaps he had already gone over. the engineer and the fireman struggled under the weight of a crude raft which they had knocked together from such timbers as were available. ramsay looked uncertainly toward them, and the engineer glared back. "get your own!" he snarled. "me an' pete made this, an' me an' pete are goin' to use it!" they carried their makeshift raft to the settling nose of the ship, laid it down, mounted it, and let the next wave carry them off. ramsay felt a turning nausea in the pit of his stomach. as the raft went over the rail, the man called pete was swept from it. only the engineer stayed on, clinging desperately as he was washed out into the angry lake. in a second or two he had disappeared. captain schultz rolled frightened eyes and said to ramsay, "get a door, or hatch cover, an' ride that." suiting his actions to his words, captain schultz seized a fire axe that was hanging near and pounded the wheelhouse door from its hinges. he dragged the door to the rail, threw it into the lake, and jumped after it. the deck hand wrestled with a hatch cover, finally pried it loose, and rode that away. ramsay was left alone on the sinking _holter_. he tried to keep a clear head, but he could not help an overwhelming fear. this was nothing he had ever faced before and now, facing it, he did not know what to do. finding anything that would float and riding it away seemed to be the answer. then the little horse bugled and he knew that he was not alone. water crept around his feet as he made his way across the deck to the cage. he put his hand on the bar, and as soon as he did that the little horse thrust a soft, warm nose against it. he muzzled ramsay's hand with almost violent intensity. all his life he had depended upon men for everything. now, in this peril, men would not desert him. softly ramsay stroked the soft muzzle, but only for a second. the _holter_ was going down fast. soon, as the gloomy deck hand had forecast, she would be on the bottom of lake michigan. there was no time to lose. ramsay unlatched the door of the cage, opened it, and when he did that the horse walked out. he stayed very near to the boy, fearing to leave, and once or twice bumped ramsay with his shoulder. ramsay studied the angry lake, and looked back at the horse. again he glanced out on the stormy water. there was nothing else in sight. those who, by one way or another, hoped to reach shore were already lost in swirling sheets of rain. ramsay bit his lower lip so hard that he drew blood. the men had either jumped, or else had merely ridden over the rail on a wave that set the decks awash, but the horse could not do that. there was real danger of his breaking a leg, or becoming otherwise injured, if he tried. ramsay turned and caught up the axe with which captain schultz had stricken down the door. the black horse crowded with him, afraid to be alone, and the boy had to go around him to get back to the rail. the horse pushed close to him again and ramsay spoke soothingly, "easy. take it easy now." he raised the axe and swung it, and felt its blade bite deeply into the wooden rail. he swung again and again, until he had slashed through it, then moved ten feet to one side, toward the rail's supporting post, and cut it there. the severed section was whisked into the wave-tormented lake as a match stick disappears in a whirlpool. ramsay threw the axe back onto the _holter's_ sinking deck and stepped aside. get something that would float, captain schultz had said, and be sure that it would keep him above water. but suddenly he could think of nothing that would float. wildly he cast about for a hatch cover or a door. there was not one to be seen. the _holter_ made a sudden list that carried her starboard deck beneath the lake. a wave surged across her. even the little horse had unsteady legs. ramsay tried hard to overcome the terror within him. then, together, he and the little horse were in the lake. he threw wild arms about the animal's neck, and a huge wave overwhelmed them. gasping, he arose. the lake was wilder and fiercer and colder than he had thought it could be. every nerve and muscle in his body seemed chilled, so that he was barely able to move. another wave washed in, over both the little black horse and himself, and for a moment they were deep beneath the churning waters. they broke onto the surface, ramsay with both hands entwined in the horse's mane, and the horse turned to look at him. there was uncertainty in the animal's eyes, and fright, but no terror. the little horse knew his own power, and the fact that a human being stayed with him gave him confidence in that strength. ramsay spoke reassuringly. "we're all right. we'll do all right, black. let's get out of it." the words were a tonic, the inspiration the horse needed. the next time a wave rolled in, he did not try to fight it. rather, he rose with it, swimming strongly. he had adjusted himself to many situations, now he met this one without panic. an intelligent beast, he had long ago learned that every crisis must be met with intelligence. ramsay stayed easily beside him, keeping just enough weight on the swimming animal to hold his own head above water and doing nothing that would interfere with the furious fight the horse was waging to keep from drowning. the lake was indeed cold, colder than any other water the boy had ever known, and he had to exercise every particle of his mind and will just to cling to the horse. the wind blew furiously, and sluicing rain poured down. then the rain dwindled away and heavy mist settled in. ramsay knew a moment's panic. it was impossible to see more than a few feet or to tell which way the shore lay. the lake was huge, and should they be heading towards the michigan shore, they would never get there. ramsay tried to remember all he had ever known of wind and drift and currents on lake michigan, and discovered that he could remember nothing. any direction at all could be north and he was unable to orient himself, but he controlled the rising panic. it would do no good at all to lose his head. the wind seemed to be dying, and the waves lessening. ramsay kept his hold on the little horse's mane. he saw a floating object pass and tried to catch it, but when he did so he almost lost his hold on the horse. kicking hard to catch up, he twined both hands in the horse's mane and tightened them there. then he felt a rebirth of confidence. already they had been in the lake for a long, long time and he had been able to hold his own. it was impossible to get much colder, or more numb, than he already was and he could still hang on. besides, the horse seemed to know where he was going. he swam strongly, and apparently he was swimming straight. at any rate, there was no evidence that he was traveling in circles or choosing an erratic course. ramsay had been told that animals have an instinct compared to which the most sensitive human's is coarse and blunted and maybe that was true. maybe the horse did know where it was going. now that the waves were not rising so high, the horse swam faster. the wind died almost completely, so that the lake's surface was merely ruffled, and ramsay felt a mounting confidence in his ability to live through this. in the overcast a gull cried, and things had started going wrong with the _holter_ when the gulls left it. now they were back. probably they, too, had known of the approaching storm and had flown to safety off the lake. the swimmers broke out of the mist and ramsay saw the beach. it was about a hundred yards away, a sand beach behind which a rocky cliff rose. this wore a crest of evergreens, and its face was spotted here and there with smaller trees. a cloud of white gulls screamed into the air as ramsay and the horse approached. they reached the shallows, and the little horse's back emerged from the water like that of some suddenly appearing sea monster. ramsay let go his hold on the animal's mane and swam. then, coming to waist-high water in which he could wade, he splashed toward the beach. the wind had died, but waves still pounded the beach and it was very cold. the near borders of this wild lake, ramsay decided, probably never warmed up. with an immense body of cold water lapping them, they were perpetually chilled. while the little horse looked gravely on, ramsay stripped his clothing off, wrung it out, and put the wet garments back on. the horse crowded very close, as though he were afraid to go away. he nibbled ramsay with his lips. as soon as the boy moved, he moved with him. he stayed very near as ramsay walked up the beach, a stretch of driftwood-spotted sand that varied from sixty to two hundred feet in width and reached clear back to the rising bluff. a belt of wet sand showed where the lake had crawled up onto the beach and fallen back. the boy stopped suddenly, and the little horse stopped with him. just ahead, in the belt of wet sand which the highest waves had washed, lay two tumbled figures. the little horse tossed his head uneasily, not liking this at all, and ramsay felt a cold lump rise in his throat. he advanced at a slow walk and, after some hesitation, the horse trotted to catch up with him. ramsay stopped again. the two drowned people were captain schultz of the _holter_ and the deck hand who had wished so fervently that he was somewhere else. ramsay cleared the lump in his throat, and was struck by the notion that at last the deck hand had gone somewhere else. then the black horse raised his head and nickered, and the boy looked around to see a man on a spotted black-and-white horse riding toward him. he rode at full trot, the reins hanging loosely around his mount's throat, and he wore an outlandish sort of affected cowboy's hat pulled low over his eyes. his features were heavy, and would be flabby when he had aged a few more years. blue jeans clung tightly around his legs, and straight black hair lay thick on his head. as he rode, he leveled a heavy pistol. "go on! beat it!" "but ..." "this is my find! i said beat it!" the pistol roared, and a heavy ball buried itself in the sand at ramsay's feet. the boy felt a quick anger and a disinclination to obey the order to leave. he took a step toward the horseman, knowing that he would need a few seconds to re-load his pistol. but almost by magic another pistol appeared in the man's hand and he leveled it steadily. "your last warnin'. go on!" ramsay shrugged, and the black horse followed him as he walked on. this was indeed a strange land, where men were willing to fight for the possession of corpses. what did the horseman want with them? the loot they might have in their pockets? perhaps, but that seemed very unlikely. captain schultz was not the type of person who would carry a great deal of money in his pockets, and certainly the deck hand wouldn't have enough to bother about. but obviously the horseman wanted the two bodies. ramsay walked on up the sand beach. gulls rose protestingly as he came in sight, and flocks of ducks scudded across the water. a pair of canada geese hissed at him as he passed. they were guarding a nest and they were ready to fight for it. ramsay gave them a wide berth and the horse walked faithfully beside him. the afternoon was half-spent when ramsay smelled wood smoke. he quickened his pace, but remained cautious. this was a wild land, with no part of it wilder than this lonely lake michigan beach, and there was never any certainty as to just what anyone would find or how he would be received. nevertheless, if these people were friendly, other humans would be welcome. ramsay was both hungry and tired to the point of exhaustion. he fingered the two dollars in his pocket. he could pay his way. he rounded a long, forested nose of land where the bluff cut the sand beach to a narrow five feet and looked out on a peaceful bay. the bluff gave way to gently rising, treeless hills. a rail fence hemmed part of them in, and black-and-white cattle grazed inside the fence. a stone house, of dutch architecture, stood on a knoll that commanded a view of the lake, and a suitable distance from it was a snug wooden barn. a small lake, or large pond, separated from lake michigan by a narrow neck of land, glowed like a blue sapphire. chickens, ducks and geese crowded noisily together in the barnyard, and a man with a wooden pail in his hand came out of the barn door. ramsay walked forward, as first uncertainly and then very steadily. a man might be afraid, but it was always to his advantage not to let the enemy, if enemy this might be, know he was afraid. the man at the barn door hesitated, and then stood still while the boy approached. ramsay greeted him pleasantly, "hello." "hello." the man was tall and supple, with a frank, open face and intelligent, blue eyes. he was perhaps six years older than ramsay and he spoke with a dutch accent. ramsay said, "i was sailing up to three points on the _holter_. now she's wrecked and i must walk...." "the _holter's_ wrecked?" the other broke in. "yes." "any drowned people on the beach?" "two, but a man on a black-and-white horse took them away from me at pistol point." ramsay knew a rising impatience. "why the dickens should he do that?" the other grinned faintly. "you get money for watching 'em until they can be brought in and buried proper, and money is not easy to come by. if there's a man already watching these, that would be joe mannis. he combs the beach night and day after storms, and he's got as much money as most people. what can i do for you?" "i'd like something to eat before i go on to three points." "that we can give you," the farmer said. "come." when the horse would have followed them to the house, the dutch farmer looked quizzically at ramsay. the boy grinned. "he's not mine. he was on the _holter_ and we swam ashore together. without him i might not have made it." "then he is yours," the farmer said. "by right of salvage he is yours. but marta, she wouldn't like a horse in the house." "it's hardly the place for a horse," ramsay agreed. "can we leave him here?" "yaah." the farmer opened the barnyard gate and ramsay walked in. the horse followed willingly. ramsay stepped out and shut the gate. he saw the little horse, its head over the bars, watching him as he walked toward the house. it was a clean house, and a scrubbed and shiny one. even the big flat stone that served as a back doorstep had almost an antiseptic cleanliness. the house was filled with the odors of freshly baked bread and spice and canned jam and curing hams. ramsay smiled at the slim, pleasant girl who met them at the door. "marta," the farmer said, "this man was ship-wrecked and is to be our guest for as long as he wants to stay. he is...?" "ramsay cartou," ramsay supplied. "yaah! ramsay cartou. i am pieter van hooven and this is my wife, marta." ramsay made himself comfortable in the neat kitchen while marta van hooven hurried efficiently about, preparing a meal. there was baked whitefish, venison, roasted goose, fluffy mashed potatoes, crisp salad, billowy fresh rolls, delicious cheese and milk. ramsay ate until he could eat no more, then pushed himself away from the table and smiled graciously at marta van hooven. "that was good!" he said feelingly. "you ate so little." ramsay grinned, "not more than enough to feed three good-sized horses. you can really cook." pieter van hooven glowed at this compliment extended to his wife. he filled and lighted a clay pipe, and puffed contentedly. "what are you going to do now?" he asked ramsay. "i," ramsay hesitated, "i'd like to pay for the meal." pieter van hooven smiled. "forget that. you were our guest." "how far is three points?" "six miles. just stay on the beach." "reckon i'll go up there then. i've got a job waiting for me at the tannery. by the way, do you have any use for that horse?" "a good horse can always be used on a farm. but i won't take him. i'll keep him, and you can have him any time you want." pieter van hooven looked queerly at ramsay. "you sure you want to go to three points?" "i've got a job there, and i need it." "then go, but remember that nobody starves in wisconsin. marta and me, we got no money but we got everything else. you don't like it in three points, you might come back here?" "i'll be glad to," ramsay said, a little puzzled. "then do that, my friend." well-fed and rested, ramsay walked alone up the sandy beach. stay on the sand, pieter van hooven had advised him, and he couldn't go wrong. three points, the tannery town, was right on the lake. two hours after he left the van hoovens, ramsay reached the village. three points nestled snugly in a gap which, only recently, had been hacked out of the hemlock forest. many big trees still stood on the edge of town, and some right in the center; and most of the houses were built of hemlock logs. there were a few, evidently belonging to three points' wealthier residents, that were massively built and patterned after the new england style of architecture. there was no mistaking the tannery; the smell would have guided one there, even if the mountains of hemlock bark piled all about had not. ramsay entered the long, low, shed-like building, and a man working at a steaming vat looked up curiously. ramsay approached him with "who's the boss man around here?" "i am," an unseen man said. ramsay whirled to look at the man who had spoken, and he came face to face with devil chad. chapter three _on the beach_ ramsay felt an instant tension and a bristling anger, and he knew now that he should have connected two incidents. the man who had written to him and offered him a job in the three points tannery had signed his name 'devlin chadbourne.' devlin chadbourne--devil chad--and ramsay took a backward step. never before had he met a man so capable of arousing in him a cordial dislike that was almost an urge to start fighting immediately. "where's the _holter_?" devil chad demanded. "i sent her back to milwaukee after captain schultz let me off here," ramsay said sarcastically. "don't get smart with me, boy." devil chad glowered. "you was on the _holter_ when she sailed." "where were you?" ramsay demanded. "i'll ask the questions here!" devil chad's thick lips curled in an ugly oblong. "where's the _holter_?" "at the bottom of lake michigan!" ramsay flared. "captain schultz and one of your deck hands are lying drowned on the beach! i don't know where the others are." devil chad's glass balls of eyes glinted. his face twisted into a horrible glare, and every inch of his big frame seemed to shrink and swell with the rage that consumed him. "you mean to tell me," he demanded furiously, "that all them hides was lost?" "men were lost," ramsay pointed out. "you mean to tell me," devil chad repeated, as though he had not heard ramsay, "that all them hides was lost?" "swim out and get 'em," ramsay invited. "i'll show you the place where i landed, and the _holter_ can't be more than a couple of miles out in the lake." "what did schultz do?" devil chad demanded. "drowned." "you're pretty flip, boy," devil chad warned, "an' i don't put up with flip people. you tell me what happened." "your greasy tub was carrying one third more than ever should have been put on her, her equipment was no good, we ran into a storm and the engines quit." "all them hides lost." devil chad was overwhelmed by this personal tragedy and could think of nothing else. "couldn't you of done somethin'?" "it wasn't my ship and they weren't my hides. what are you going to do for the families of the men who were lost?" "why should i do anything? they knew when they signed on that they was runnin' risks." devil chad turned his unreadable eyes squarely on ramsay. "what do you want here?" "nothing." "ain't you the boy who wrote me from new york, an' asked me for a job?" the man at the vat continued working and others stayed at their tasks, but ramsay was aware of a rippling under-current. there was an uneasiness among the men, and a fear; and in spite of the fact that they kept busy they turned covert eyes on ramsay and devil chad. the boy felt a flashing anger. who was this man, and what was he, that so many others could live in almost craven fear of him? "if you are," devil chad continued, still holding ramsay in the cage of his eyes, "you can have the job but i hold back twenty-five cents a day until them hides are paid for." "take your job!" ramsay exploded, "and go plumb to the bottom of the lake with it!" "i warned you, boy," devil chad was talking softly now. "i warned you. i don't put up with flip people, an' now i'm goin' to teach you the lesson that i should of given you on the _holter_." "why didn't you sail on the _holter_?" ramsay demanded. devil chad made no answer. he was in a half-crouch, his huge head bent to his chest and his fists knotted so tightly that the knuckles were whitened. his shaggy hair tumbled forward on his forehead, and his eyes still held no expression. ramsay raised his voice so all in the building could hear. "you filthy pup! you lily-livered slug! you knew the _holter_ was going to the bottom some day! even your deck hand knew it! you sent other men out to die, but didn't risk yourself! you haven't got enough money to hire me to work for you!" devil chad was inching forward, his head still bent; and when he had advanced a foot, he sprang. it was the rush of a bull, but not a cumbersome bull. he flung out both arms, intending to crush ramsay to his chest and break his ribs. it was the only way devil chad knew how to fight, but the boy knew other tricks. when the bigger, heavier man launched his charge, ramsay stood still. he saw those massive stretched arms, and knew their purpose, but he did not move until devil chad flung them out for his crushing embrace. then, and only then, did ramsay act. he flitted aside, balancing himself on the balls of his feet and whirling even as he evaded the other's lunge. like a snapping whip his clenched right fist flicked in to deliver a stinging blow to the side of his enemy's head. but the blow did little except spin devil chad around and arouse a mighty bellow in the depths of his enormous chest. ramsay remained poised, alert for the next charge, and an almost grim satisfaction drove other thoughts from his mind. he had not wanted this fight and had not forced it, but within him there was a curious feeling that it was fore-ordained, and now that it was here, he relished it. devil chad was not a man. he was an animal who thought as an animal thinks. other men, other human beings, had lost their lives in his overloaded, unseaworthy ship, and all this brute could think of was the fact that he had lost his cargo. devil chad's eyes, even in the heat of battle, remained opaque and strangely without expression. it was only his face, like a rubber mask expertly molded to form an expression of rage, that betrayed his fury. he swung heavily, running forward even as he launched his blow, and ramsay ducked beneath it. he came up to land a hard left and a right on devil chad's jaw. he might as well have struck a granite boulder. devil chad did not even flinch and the boy knew a moment's uncertainty. his enemy was a bull, but bulls were felled with pole-axes, not with fists. ramsay backed lightly away. all about now, knowing that devil chad was engrossed in the fight and had no time for them, men had openly stopped work and were staring at the battlers. on the faces of some was written incredulity. some looked on with delighted interest, and an expectant smile lighted the swarthy features of a little frenchman who had stopped moving cattle hides to watch ramsay weave away from devil chad. there was no man here who, in some silent way, did not cheer the boy on, but there were none who expected him to win. all knew their master. devil chad rushed again, swinging his fists like pistons as he did so, and again ramsay side-stepped. he landed a fierce blow squarely on the other's nose and was gratified to see a crimson stream of blood spout forth to mingle darkly with his antagonist's black beard and mustache. a cold uncertainty rose within ramsay. he had fought before, many times, and he had defeated his opponents and had been defeated, but never before had he fought a man just like this one. devil chad, apparently, was able to absorb an endless amount of punishment with no effect whatever on himself. he was as tough as one of the trees that grew on the outskirts of three points. ramsay risked a fleeting backward glance to see where he was going, and edged away from the wall. he was breathing hard because of the tremendous physical effort he had exerted, but he was far from exhausted and he knew that, as long as he could keep the battle in the open, he could avoid the other's charges. but the certainty that he could not win this battle solidified. it seemed possible to pound devil chad all day long without hurting him at all. "kill him!" an excited man shouted. devil chad paused just long enough to locate and identify this rash employee who dared encourage his enemy, and ramsay felt a nausea in the pit of his stomach. when the battle ended, no matter who won, at least one man would have some explaining to do and probably a beating to take. the boy kept his eyes on devil chad, anticipating the other's next move. then he tripped over an unseen and unsuspected block of wood and fell backward. even as he fell he tried to pick himself up and scoot out of the way. but a bludgeon, the toe of devil chad's heavy boot, collided soddenly with his ribs and a sickening pain shot through his entire body. he turned, snatching furiously at the boot as it was raised again and still trying to wriggle away. his arm flipped convulsively as devil chad kicked him squarely on the wrist, and he felt a creeping numbness that began there and spread to his shoulder. he rolled to escape his tormentor, rolled again, and struggled to his hands and knees. vaguely, as though he were viewing it in some fantastic dream, he saw the big black boot flying at his head. the boot was a huge thing and so clearly-outlined that ramsay saw every tiny wrinkle in it. he was aware of the stitching where the ponderous sole joined the upper leather, and he knew that he must get away. but that was a vague and misty thought, one he seemed unable to carry farther. a mighty rage flared within him. no more than a split second elapsed before the boot struck, but it seemed like hours. ramsay was aware of the fact that his two silver dollars, his last money, rolled out of his pockets and across the tannery's floor. a thousand colored lights danced in his head, and then he was back on the lake. he had loved the lake, he remembered, and there was something wonderfully cool and refreshing about returning to it. a small boat with a crazy dutch fisherman at her tiller danced out of the lake's gray stretches and sported gracefully before him. on top of the mast was a tame sea gull that clicked his mandibles and fluttered his wings. ramsay even saw the boat's name written in fine script across her bows. she was the _spray_. the _spray_ hove to very close to ramsay, and her skipper looked at him. he was a tall man, very powerful, and he was blond and easily laughing. there was no grimness about him, only grace and light spirit. several men had gone sailing on a raft made of cattle hides, he told ramsay, and they were in great trouble out on the lake. did ramsay care to go with him and help bring the unfortunates safely back? the sea gull, of course, would help too. when ramsay pretended not to hear, the crazy dutch fisherman obligingly repeated his information. again ramsay pretended not to hear; whereupon the dutch fisherman caught up a wooden bucket, dipped it into the lake and showered him with ice-cold water. he held the bucket waist-high, as though wondering whether more water was necessary, and the twinkle remained in his eyes and the laugh on his lips. it was impossible to be angry with him. laughing back, ramsay agreed to go help the foolish men who had sailed away on the cattle hides. then he awakened, to find a woman bathing his face with cold water. for a moment she was a distorted picture, a hazy vision that advanced toward him and retreated far away. again ramsay almost lost himself in the dim world into which devil chad's boots had kicked him. the cold cloth on his face brought him back, and he opened his eyes to see the woman very clearly. she was small, with a worn face, so weary from endless toil that the skin was drawn tightly over it. but her eyes were the brownest, the softest and the gentlest ramsay had ever seen. black hair was combed smoothly back on her head and caught in a knot at the base of her neck. again she laid the cold cloth on his face, and the boy closed his eyes at the luxury of such a thing. then he spoke, "where am i?" "_sh-h._ don't try to talk, m'sieu." the woman, unmistakably french, rose and went into another room. ramsay looked about him. the room in which he lay was walled with rough, unplaned boards, and the ceiling was made of the same material. only the floor, scrubbed so carefully that it glowed like a polished diamond, was of smooth boards. light was admitted by a single small pane of glass, and the light reflected on a crucifix that hung on the far wall. there were a few pictures, yellow with age, a table over which a deer skin was gracefully draped, and a candle-holder with a half-burned candle. everything was neat and spotlessly clean. the woman came back bearing a hollowed-out gourd. she passed an arm around ramsay's shoulders--despite her small size she was surprisingly strong--and assisted him to a half-sitting position. she held the gourd to his lips. ramsay drank deeply, and fell back sputtering. the gourd was partly-filled with cold water and partly with a whisky, so strong and violent that it burned his mouth and lips. he lay blinking, while tears welled in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks. the whisky, doubtless homemade, was strong enough to choke a horse. but, after a half-minute, it made itself felt. a warm glow spread from the roots of ramsay's hair to the tips of his toes. some of his many aches and pains lessened. "more?" the woman inquired softly. "uh ... no--no thank you." she put the gourd on the table and came over to lay a hand on his forehead. it was a calloused and work-hardened hand, but so gentle was she that her caress was scarcely a feather's touch. ramsay smiled his thanks. "how did i get here?" he asked again. "my man, pierre ledou, he brought you. but now you must rest, m'sieu, and try to sleep. badly have you been hurt." the woman drew an exquisite, hand-sewn lace curtain, an incongruous thing in these rough surroundings, over the window, and semi-gloom reigned in the room. she tiptoed out, closing the door behind her, and ramsay was left alone with his thoughts. that mighty rage mounted within him again. he had been fighting with devil chad, he remembered, and not doing badly until he fell over some unseen object. then he had been kicked into--into this. experimentally ramsay tried to move his legs, and found that he could do so. he clenched and unclenched his fists, and there in the half-light of an unknown room, in a stranger's house, he made a solemn vow. one day, no matter what else happened, he and devil chad would meet again. devil chad would pay, in full, for every twinge ramsay suffered. in that moment ramsay knew that he was not afraid. his burning anger became tempered with pleasant wonder. this was a harsh land, but there was room for tenderness. he was a stranger and had been in three points only long enough to get himself kicked into insensibility, but there were those in three points who knew compassion and friendship. otherwise, he would not now be lying in some unknown man's house and being ministered to by that man's wife. pierre--ramsay strove to recall the last name and could not. he fell into a quiet slumber. the next time he awakened, the candle on his table was burning and his host--vaguely ramsay remembered seeing him move hides about the tannery--was standing near. like his wife, he was small and gentle, with a manner that belied the fierce little black mustache clinging to his upper lip. he was too small and gentle, ramsay thought, ever to fit into a town such as three points. but certainly he was kind and good. he smiled, revealing flashing white teeth, and when he did ramsay remembered the name, pierre ledou. "how do you feel?" he asked briskly. "better." ramsay grinned. "he beat you," pierre ledou said. "_sacre!_ but he beat you!" the little man's eyes roved about the room, as though seeking the solution to a problem which he must solve, and ramsay knew that he, too, hated devil chad. "he kicked you!" pierre ledou said. "i know, and some day i'll pay him back for that." interest brightened in the little frenchman's eyes. "you think so, m'sieu--m'sieu ..." "cartou," ramsay said. "ramsay cartou. and i will not kill anybody unless i have to. but one day this devil chad will pay, ten times over, for everything he did to me." "he is very hard man." pierre ledou sighed. "so am i!" ramsay gritted, and again anger rose within him. "why should so many people tremble in their boots when he comes around?" pierre ledou shrugged eloquently. "the job. a man has to have the job." "i see. and devil chad controls 'the job'?" "not all," pierre ledou explained. "he does not walk so freely where the fishermen and farmers are." "i'm beginning to like these fishermen and farmers more and more." "they are nice," pierre agreed, "but wild. especially the fishermen. oh, so wild! out in the lake they go, afraid of nothing; but those that do not drown return with multitudes of fish." "do many drown?" "very many, but you cannot kill a fisherman. they say that the lake sends back two for every one it takes, and maybe that is so. at any rate, when a fisherman drowns, two more always appear. i would go fishing myself were it not that i am afraid. are you hungry, m'sieu?" "yes," ramsay answered frankly. "then i will get you something to eat." pierre ledou disappeared. ramsay lay back on the bed to think. now this half-wild, half-tame country into which he had come was assuming a definite pattern. some, like pierre ledou, had been attracted by the endless wealth offered, and had found only a back-breaking job with devil chad or his counterpart. others, and ramsay thought of hans van doorst and pieter van hooven, were finding wealth. it was not wealth that could be measured in terms of money; probably the crazy dutch fisherman and pieter van hooven had little money, but just the same it was wealth. rather than toil meekly for someone else and obey a master's every wish, they had chosen to discover for themselves the true richness of this endlessly rich land and they were discovering it. so some were afraid and some were not; and those who were not seemed to enjoy life at its fullest. and, as usual, there was the arrogant overlord, devil chad, who wanted everything for himself and who would take it if he could. he did not care what he did or whom he killed, as long as he got what he wanted. pierre ledou came back, bearing a bowl on a wooden platter. ramsay sniffed hungrily. the bowl was old and cracked, but like everything else in the house it was scrupulously clean, and the odors wafted from it would tempt the appetite of a dying man. pierre put the bowl and a wooden spoon down where ramsay could reach them, and ramsay saw a meat stew in which fluffy dumplings floated. "it is not much," the little frenchman apologized. "venison stew with dumplings, and that is all. would you like some spirits to go with it?" "uh!" ramsay remembered the fiery liquor. "no thanks. i would like some water." "i can offer you milk." "that will be fine." pierre disappeared, and returned with a bowl of milk and a beaker of the strong whisky. he gave the bowl to ramsay and held the whisky aloft. "your health, m'sieu," he said. he drained the beaker without even quivering, and ramsay suppressed a shudder. dipping the spoon in his venison stew, he tasted it. it was rich, with all the expertness of french cuisine behind it, and delicious. ramsay took a chunk of venison in his mouth and chewed it with relish. venison, fish and whatever else they could get out of the country doubtless meant much to the people who lived here. "how long have you worked in the tannery?" he asked pierre. "five years," the little frenchman said. "five long years. i shall work there much longer if god is kind." "may he always be kind to you!" ramsay said feelingly. "my thanks to you, m'sieu ramsay. and now, with your permission, i shall retire. i suggest that you sleep, for you look very weary. should you want anything you have only to call." ramsay fell into a restful slumber from which he was awakened by the sound of people stirring. the early morning sun, just rising, caressed the curtained window softly and a sleepy bird twittered outside the window. there was the sound of lifted stove lids and of people stirring. ramsay dozed off, then sprang guiltily awake and jumped out of bed. he felt good, with only an occasional twinge of pain here and there. hastily he pulled on his trousers and shirt, laced his shoes and smoothed his rumpled hair with his hand. when he had made himself as presentable as he could, he went into the other room. though the hour was still early and the sun not yet fairly up, pierre ledou had already left for his work in the tannery. his pleasant wife was pouring hot water from a pan on the stove into a big wooden bowl, evidently the receptacle in which dishes were washed. she turned around. "good morning!" ramsay said cheerfully. "good morning, m'sieu." then she cautioned him. "should you be out of bed?" "i feel fine." ramsay grinned. "strong as a bull and twice as hungry." "then i will prepare you something to eat. if m'sieu cares to do so, he may wash just outside the door." "thanks." ramsay went out the door. to one side, in front of the house, there was a big wooden bowl and two wooden pails filled with water. a well-worn trail threading away from the door obviously led to a well or spring. hanging on a wooden peg driven into a hole, drilled in the cabin's wall, were a clean towel and washcloth. even the door's hinges, cleverly carved pins that turned on holes drilled into wooden blocks attached to the cabin's wall, were wood. evidently, in this country, wood substituted for metal. ramsay filled the bowl with water, washed himself and went back into the cabin. pierre ledou's wife was bending over a skillet from which came the smell of frying fish. ramsay sniffed hungrily, and licked his lips. she turned the fish, let it cook a little while longer, and put it on the table, along with feather-light biscuits, butter and cold milk. ramsay ate hungrily, but tried to curb his appetite so he would also eat decently, and as he ate he talked. "why," he asked pierre ledou's wife, "did your husband bring me here?" "you were hurt and needed help," she said simply. in sudden haste ramsay felt his pocket, and discovered that the two silver dollars were gone. he remembered that he had lost them while he fought with devil chad, and a flood of embarrassment almost overwhelmed him. "i--i have no money to pay you," he said awkwardly. for the first time she looked reprovingly at him. "we did not ask for money, m'sieu. one does not." ramsay knew another awkward moment and a little shame. "it is very good of you," he said. she said, "one does not neglect a fellow human." ramsay finished eating and pushed his dishes back. pierre ledou's wife, who had already finished washing the rest of the dishes, put ramsay's in the dish water and left them there. she smiled at him. "it would be well if you rested." "i'm not tired. really i'm not." "you should rest. badly were you hurt." "let me sit here a while." "as long as you sit." she went to a cupboard and took from it a big ball of strong linen thread. from the table she caught up a small board. wrapping the thread twice around the board, she knotted it. slipping the thread from the board, she hung the loop she had made on a wooden peg and made a new loop. her hands flew so swiftly that in a few moments she had seventeen of the meshes, all joined together. "what are you doing?" ramsay inquired interestedly. "making a gill net," she explained. "it was ordered by baptiste leclair, a fisherman, and is to have a four and a half-inch mesh. so we use a mesh board that is exactly two and a quarter inches wide and wrap the thread twice around. now i have seventeen. see?" "i see." she strung the seventeen meshes on a wooden rod, placed two chairs far enough apart so that the meshes stretched, tied the rod to them and began knitting on the net she had started. "the net is to be seventeen meshes, or seventy-six and one-half inches, wide. now i lengthen it." under the boy's interested eyes the gill net grew swiftly, and as it lengthened she wrapped it around the rod. ramsay watched every move. "how long will it be?" he queried. "one net," she told him, "is about two hundred and fifty feet long. but usually several are tied together to form a box of nets. a box is about fourteen hundred feet." "isn't that a lot?" she smiled. "a crew of three good men, like hans van doorst or baptiste leclair, with a good mackinaw boat can handle two boxes." "could you make this net longer if you wished to?" "oh, yes. it could be many miles long. two hundred and fifty feet is a good length for one net because, if it is torn by strong water or heavy fish, it may be untied and repaired while the rest may still be used." "what else must you do?" "after the net is two hundred and fifty feet long, i will use fifteen- or sixteen-thread twine through from three to six meshes on the outer edge. this, in turn, will be tied to ninety-thread twine which extends the full length." ramsay was amazed at the way this quiet little woman reeled off these figures, as though she were reciting a well-learned lesson. but he wanted to know even more. "how do they set such a net?" "the fishermen gather small, flat stones, about three to the pound, and cut a groove around them so that they can be suspended from a rope. these are called sinkers, and are tied to the net about nine feet apart. for floats they use cedar blocks, about two feet long by one-quarter of an inch thick and an inch and a quarter wide. they bore a small hole one inch from the end, then split the block to the bored hole. the floats--and the number they use depends on the depth to which they sink the net--are pushed over the ninety-thread twine." "let me try!" ramsay was beginning to feel the effects of idleness and wanted action. "but of course, m'sieu." ramsay took the mesh board in his hand and, as he had seen her do, wrapped the thread twice around it. but, though it had looked simple when she did it, there was a distinct knack to doing it right. the mesh board slipped from his fingers and the twine unwound. madame ledou laughed. "let me show you." patiently, carefully, she guided his fingers through the knitting of a mesh, then another and a third and fourth. ramsay felt a rising elation. he had liked the _spray_ when he saw her and now he liked this. fishing, from the making of the nets to setting them, seemed more than ever a craft that was almost an art. he knitted a row of meshes across the gill net, and happily surveyed his work. at the same time he remained aware of the fact that she could knit three times as fast as he. ramsay thrust his tongue into his cheek and grimly continued at his work. after an hour madame ledou said soberly, "you do right well, m'sieu. but should you not rest now?" ramsay said, "this is fun." "it is well that you enjoy yourself. would you consider it uncivil if i left you for a while?" "please do what you must." she left, and ramsay continued to work on the net. as he did, his skill improved. though he was still unable to knit as swiftly as madame ledou, he could make a good net. and there was a feel, a tension, to the thread. within itself the thread had life and being. it was supple, strong and would not fail a fisherman who depended upon it. madame ledou returned, smiled at him and went unobtrusively about the task of preparing a lunch. so absorbed was he in his net-making that he scarcely tasted the food. all afternoon he worked on the net. madame ledou said approvingly, "you make a good net, m'sieu. you have knitted almost four pounds of thread into this one. the most skilled net-makers, those who have had years of experience, cannot knit more than six or seven pounds in one day." twilight shadows were lengthening when pierre ledou returned. the little man, as always, was courteous. but behind his inherited gallic grace and manners lay a troubled under-current. pierre spoke in rapid french to his wife, and she turned worried eyes on their guest. ramsay stopped knitting the net. all afternoon there had been growing upon him an awareness that he could not continue indefinitely to accept the ledou's hospitality, and now he knew that he must go. the pattern had definite shape, and the reason behind pierre's uneasiness was not hard to fathom. devil chad was the ruler, and devil chad must rule. who harbored his enemy must be his enemy, and pierre ledou needed the job in the tannery. should he lose it, the ledous could not live. with an air of spontaneity, anxious not to cause his host and hostess any embarrassment, ramsay rose and smiled. "it has been a most enjoyable stay at your home," he said. "but of course it cannot continue. i have work to find. if you will be kind enough to shelter me again tonight, i will go tomorrow, and i shall never forget the ledous." chapter four _trouble for the_ spray early the next morning, when pierre departed for work, ramsay bade farewell to madame ledou and left their house with his kind host. he did so with a little reluctance, now that all his money was gone and the future loomed more uncertainly than ever. at the same time there was about him a rising eagerness and an unfulfilled expectation. it seemed to him that, since swimming ashore from the sinking _holter_, he had ceased to be a boy and had become a man. and a man must know that all desirable things had their undesirable aspects. this country was wonderful. if, to stay in it, he must come to grips with other men--men as strong and as cruel as devil chad--and with nature too, ramsay felt himself willing to do that. as soon as the two were fifty yards from the ledou home he purposely dropped behind pierre and leaned against a huge hemlock until the little man was out of sight. pierre had said nothing and ramsay had not asked, but the latter knew devil chad had told the frenchman that, if he valued his job in the tannery, he must no longer shelter ramsay. the boy had no wish to further embarrass his host or to jeopardize his job by being seen with him. therefore he leaned against the tree until pierre had had time to reach and enter the tannery. slowly ramsay left his tree and walked down the same path that pierre had followed. badly as he needed a job, it was useless to try to get one in the tannery. he slowed his pace even more as he walked past the building. he had been beaten by devil chad, and he might be beaten a second time should they fight again; but he was not afraid to try. his body had been hurt, but not his courage. almost insolently ramsay stopped where he could be seen from the tannery's open door, and waited there. he was aware of curious, half-embarrassed glances from men hurrying into the place, and then they avoided looking at him. finally a man stopped. he spoke to a man who halted beside him. "all right, jules. get in an' start to work." he was a straw boss or foreman, ramsay decided, and his voice betrayed his new england forebears. an older man, with hair completely gray, like all the rest he was wrinkled and weathered. physically he was lean and tough, but he did not seem belligerent or even unkind. when the last worker had entered the tannery, he turned to ramsay. "you needn't be afraid, son. mr. chadbourne went to milwaukee last night." "i'm not afraid. i was just wondering if he wouldn't come out for a second start." "look, son," the other's air was that of an older and wiser person trying to reason with an impetuous boy, "you haven't got a chance. the best thing you can do is get out of town before mr. chadbourne comes back." "maybe i like this town." "you can only cause trouble by staying here." "i've been in trouble before, too." the older man shrugged, as though he had discharged his full responsibility in warning ramsay, and said, "it's your funeral, my boy. stay away from the tannery." "you needn't worry." ramsay strolled on down the dusty street, and in spite of himself he was a little relieved. if devil chad had gone to milwaukee, probably to arrange for another shipload of hides, it was unlikely that he would be back before night at the earliest. ramsay would not have to fight again today; presumably he was free to do as he pleased without any fear of interruption. he thrust his hands into empty pockets and, to cheer himself up, started to whistle. a fat indian, dressed in ragged trousers, which some white man had thrown out, and an equally-tattered black coat which he could not button across his immense, naked stomach, grinned at him. ramsay grinned back and winked. his friends in new york had been awe-stricken at the very thought of venturing into the wild midwest where, they thought, scalping parties occurred every few hours and no white man was safe from the savages. ramsay had enjoyed himself by elaborating on the part he would play when such a war party came along. but he had discovered for himself, before he left chicago, that the indians in this section of wisconsin were harmless. when they could they sold bead work and basketry to the settlers and they were not above stealing. but they were not warlike. ramsay strode past another building, a big one with two separate floors and an attic. its chimney belched smoke, and from within came the whine of saws and other machinery. in front of the building were stacked a great number of barrels, made of white pine and with hoops formed from the black ash tree. ramsay hesitated a moment and entered. three points was obviously a raw frontier town, but definitely it was not as raw as ramsay had expected it to be. obviously there was at least one industrial plant in addition to the tannery. it seemed to be a cooper's shop, engaged in the production of barrels, and it might hold a job for him. he stopped just inside the door, trying to adjust his ears to the scream of a big circular saw that was powered by a steam engine. beyond were lathes and various other machines, and a great many wooden pails were piled against the far wall. this factory, then, made both barrels and pails. presently a middle-aged man, with the neatest clothing ramsay had yet seen in three points, came out of an office and walked toward him. he shouted to make himself heard above the screaming saw, "yes?" "are you the manager here?" ramsay shouted back. "yes." "need any men?" "what?" ramsay grinned faintly. the factory, if not bedlam, was close to it. it was incredible that anyone at all could carry on an intelligent, or even an intelligible, conversation inside it. ramsay shouted, "let's go outside!" the other followed him out, and far enough from the door so they could hear each other. ramsay turned to his companion, "my name's ramsay cartou and i'm looking for a job. do you have any to offer?" the manager looked soberly at ramsay's battered face, then with the toe of his shoe he began tracing a circle in the dirt. he hesitated. then, "i'm afraid not." ramsay felt a stirring anger. definitely there was more work in three points than there were men to do it. the town had need of strong workers. for a moment he looked steadily at the manager, who looked away. then he swallowed and tried a new tack, "what do you do with all the barrels?" "most of them go to fishermen who use them to ship their catches to chicago. the pails are shipped by boat to wherever there is a market for them." "and you can't give me a job?" "that's right." "why?" ramsay challenged. "we--we have a full crew." "i see. now will you answer one question?" "certainly." "does 'mister' chadbourne own this place too?" "he has a financial interest ..." the other stopped short. "see here, young man! i have told you that i cannot offer you a job and that should be sufficient!" "i just wanted to know why," ramsay said. he turned and walked away from the cooper's shop. his chin was high, and anger seethed within him. devil chad, apparently, owned most of three points and a lot of other things between that and milwaukee. if there was an opportunity to earn a dollar, honest or dishonest, devil chad was seizing that opportunity. obviously the manager of the cooper's shop had heard of his fight with ramsay--in a small community like this everyone would have heard of it--and was afraid to give him a job. ramsay resumed his tuneless whistling. plainly he was going to get nowhere in three points. but definitely he had no intention of running away with his tail between his legs, like a whipped puppy. he liked this lakeshore country and he intended to stay in it. if he had to fight to do that, then he would fight. between the rugged trunks of tall hemlock trees he caught a glimpse of the lake, sparkling blue in the sunshine and gently ruffled by a soft south wind. he turned his steps toward it, and now he walked eagerly. the lake was magic, a world in itself which never had been tamed and never would be tamed. he shivered ecstatically. this was what he had come west to find. devil chad and his tannery, the town of three points, and even milwaukee paled into nothingness when compared to the lake. he broke from the last trees and saw lake michigan clearly. a heavy wooden pier extended out onto it, and a sailing vessel was tied up at one side. ramsay read her name. she was the _brilliant_, from ludington, michigan, and a line of men were toiling up a gangplank with heavy bags which they were stacking on the pier. on the pier's other side a steamer, a side-wheeler like the _holter_, was loading leather from devil chad's tannery. she was the _jackson_, a freighter that carried assorted cargoes between three points, milwaukee and chicago. ramsay strolled out on the pier and brightened when the cold lake air struck his face. it was impossible to be on the lake, or near it, and feel stolid or dull. it provided its own freshness, and ramsay thought it also furnished a constant inspiration. he watched the sweating men continue to bring loaded bags up from the sailing vessel and approached near enough to ask a burly deck hand, "what's this cargo?" the man looked surlily at him. "what's it look like?" "diamonds." ramsay grinned. "well, it ain't. it's salt." "what the blazes will anyone do with so much salt?" "eat it," the deck hand grunted. "people hereabouts like salt." then he, too, grinned. "naw, it's for fishermen. they got to have somethin' to salt their catches in." "oh. i see." ramsay added this bit of information to the lore he had already gathered. obviously fishing consisted of more than just catching fish. actually taking the fish, of course, was the most exciting and romantic part. but the fishermen could not ply their trade at all without women like madame ledou who made their nets, a shop like the three points' cooper's shop which provided the barrels into which the fish were packed, or vessels like the _brilliant_ which brought salt that kept the fish from spoiling. ramsay stayed on the pier until the _brilliant_ was unloaded, and licked his lips while he watched her crew eating thick sandwiches. they took a whole loaf of bread, sliced it lengthwise, packed the center with meat, cheese, fish and anything else they could lay their hands on, and, according to their taste, washed it down with cold lake water or beakers of whisky. ramsay looked away. madame ledou had provided him with a substantial breakfast, but this was an invigorating country wherein one soon became hungry again. ramsay patted his empty stomach. probably madame ledou would give him something to eat should he go back there, but he had already posed enough problems for the ledous. besides, he did not like the idea of asking for food. he left the pier to walk past the lake house, three points' only hotel. savory odors of cooking food wafted to his nostrils and made him drool. he walked past the lake house, then turned to walk back. he trotted up the steps and sat down at a table spread with a white cloth. a hard-eyed woman, wearing a brown dress over which she had tied a neat white apron, came up to him. ramsay leaned back. he had decided to make his play, and he might as well play it to the end. "what does the menu offer?" he asked almost haughtily. "whitefish at fifteen cents, venison at fifteen cents, a boiled dinner at ten cents." "what? no steak?" "the steak dinner," the woman said, "costs thirty cents. with it you get potatoes, coffee, salad and apple pie." "bring it to me," ramsay said. "and please be prompt. my time is valuable." "as soon as possible," the woman said. ramsay relaxed in his chair. a half-hour later the waitress brought him a broiled sirloin, so big that it overflowed the platter on which it rested. there were crisp fried potatoes, coffee--a rare beverage in this country--cream, a salad and a huge wedge of apple pie. ramsay ate hungrily, then the waitress approached him. "will you pay now?" "it is a lot," said ramsay, who could not have swallowed another crust, "to pay for such a puny meal." "i told you the price before you ordered." "it doesn't matter," ramsay waved a languid hand. "especially since i have no money. what do we do now?" ramsay stood in the kitchen of the lake house, and by the light of an oil lamp piled the last of what had been a mountain of dishes, into warm water. there must, he thought, have been thousands of them, but there were only a few more and he dropped one of those. instantly the woman who had served him popped into the kitchen. "must you be so clumsy?" "it is the only dish i have broken out of all i have washed," ramsay said. "don't you think i have paid off my dinner by this time?" "you knew the price before you ordered." "the way you've had me working since, i earned the whole cow. haven't i repaid you, with perhaps a bonus of a sandwich for supper?" "sit down, kid," the woman said gruffly. she brought him a sandwich, huge slices of fluffy homemade bread between which thick slices of beef nestled, and a bowl of milk. ramsay ate hungrily, and after he had finished his hostess talked to him. "you're the youngster devil chad beat up, aren't you?" "i tripped," ramsay said grimly. "devil chad trips 'em all. you're crazy if you think you can get away with anything. best thing you can do is leave." ramsay said, "i guess i'm just naturally crazy." the woman shrugged. "i'm tellin' you for your own good, kid. you'll get nowhere in three points as long as chad don't like you. why not be a smart little boy and beat it back to wherever you came from?" ramsay said, "that isn't a good idea." "you're a stubborn kid, ain't you?" "mule-headed," ramsay agreed. "even worse than a mule." "well, if you won't take good advice, there's not much i can do. would you like to sleep here tonight?" "nope. i'll be going now, and thanks for the steak." "well ... good luck, kid." "thanks." ramsay walked out into the darkness and drew his jacket tightly about him. the lake shore was cold by day, much colder by night when there was no sun to warm it. he had brought extra clothing, but all his personal belongings had gone down with the _holter_. he looked dismally at the dark town--three points seemed to go to bed with the setting sun--and wandered forlornly down toward the lake front. both the sailing vessel from ludington and the _jackson_ were gone. a little wind was driving wavelets gently against the shore, and the lap-lap of their rising and falling made pleasant music in the night. ramsay wandered out on the pier, where the stacked bags of salt were covered with tarpaulins. he looked furtively around. nobody else was on or even near the pier, and it seemed unlikely that anyone would come. he curled up close to the bags of salt and drew the flowing end of a tarpaulin over his body. he pillowed his head on a protruding bag and snuggled very near to the stack. the pier was hard, but he had slept on hard beds before and the barrier of salt broke the wind's force. the tarpaulin, of heavy duck, made a warm blanket. in spite of the odds he faced, ramsay felt a wonderful sense of well-being and peace. he went quietly to sleep. when he awakened, soft gray dawn was stealing like a fawn out of the summer sky. three points, not yet awake, slumbered in the dim morning. ramsay crawled out from beneath the tarpaulin and rose to look at the town. nobody gave up any battles; but nobody knocked his head against a stone wall or strove against hopeless odds. even the little black horse had not done that. he might just as well see things as they were. devil chad ruled three points and, with his present resources, ramsay could not fight devil chad. but it was certain that chad could not rule all of milwaukee, too, and milwaukee would need workers. he could go back there, get a job and plan his future after he had it. a sudden inspiration seemed to fall right out of the brightening sky. the van hoovens! pieter van hooven had told him to come back should he fail to find what he expected in three points, and pierre ledou had assured him that devil chad did not walk so freely among the farmers and fishermen. maybe pieter could give him a job, at least something that would offer security until he was able to get himself oriented; and if he could, ramsay wanted to stay in this part of the country. it was better than milwaukee. briskly he left the pier and struck down the sand beach. now that he had decided to take this step, he felt lighter and happier. maybe he would and maybe he would not have liked working in the tannery, even if that had been ruled by some other man than devil chad, but he knew that he would like the van hoovens and their way of life. he moved fast, staying far enough up on the beach so he need not step in wet sand but near enough the water so he could walk on sun-baked sand over which high water had already rolled. that was packed hard, almost to the consistency of concrete. the sun was well up when he came again to the van hooven's pleasant home. resolutely he walked up and knocked on the back door. a second later it opened, and marta van hooven flashed a warm smile of welcome. "oh! come in." pieter, who had already finished his milking and was now seated at the breakfast table, said, "hello." "hello," ramsay said. "i thought i'd stop in and see you on ..." he fumbled. "on my way back to milwaukee." pieter looked seriously at him. "you're not going to work in three points?" "no," ramsay said bluntly. "mr. chadbourne and i did not see eye to eye. in fact, three minutes after we met our fists were flying in each other's eyes." "you fought devil chad?" "i did, and got well-beaten." pieter said quietly, "some day somebody will kill him." "some day somebody might." "eat," pieter invited. he pushed a platter of eggs at the boy and forked a thick slice of home-cured ham onto his plate. then he placed the dish of yellow butter where ramsay could help himself and put a plate of feather-light fresh-baked rolls where he was able to reach it. marta came softly in from the kitchen with a bowl of cold milk. ramsay ate, primly at first, then gave way to his enormous appetite. pieter served him another slice of ham. the boy took two more eggs and another roll, which he spread lavishly with butter. sighing, unable to swallow another crumb, he pushed his plate back. pieter looked gravely at him. "do you have to go to milwaukee?" "no, i just thought i might find a job there." "you can," pieter assured him. "but if a job is what you want, a job is what i can give you. i can't pay you any money, at least until we have sold our fall crops, because we haven't any. but i can give you all you can eat, a good bed to sleep in, and i have some clothes that will fit you." ramsay said deliberately, "devil chad won't like you for that." "around here," and there was no air of braggadocio in pieter's words, "we don't much care what devil chad likes." ramsay looked hard at his host, and then the two young men grinned at each other. "you've got yourself a man," ramsay said. "what do we do first?" * * * * * hidden from the house by a jutting shoulder of land, ramsay stood beside the small lake on pieter van hooven's property and peeled off his clothes. all day long, interrupted in mid-morning by marta, who brought him a substantial lunch, at noon by a huge and delicious dinner and again in mid-afternoon with a lunch, he had toiled in pieter van hooven's sprouting corn. all day long the sun had beaten down and, though the lake shore was cool enough, a man doing hard physical labor could easily work up a sweat. but it was good. ramsay had felt the sun's rays penetrate to and warm the very marrow of his bones. in spite of the hard labor he had been doing, few times in his life had he felt as agile and supple and wholly alive as this. he plunged headlong into the lake and came up gasping. the water was cold, though not nearly as cold as the big lake; and after ramsay's body was adjusted to it, a delicious glow ran through his whole physical being. he dived again, then climbed up on the soft grass to let the lowering sun dry him before he put his clothes on. he dressed slowly, happily, and now all his cares were behind him. this was the place for him, and no longer did he have the slightest doubt that he was going to like everything about it. fresh and vigorous, the day's toil washed away, he walked slowly down to lake michigan and stared across it. supper in half an hour, pieter had said when he had advised ramsay to stop work and have a swim, and no more than half that time had elapsed. the rest could profitably be spent in just looking at this endlessly fascinating water. ramsay stared across the lake. more than ever it seemed a live creature and one of many moods. ramsay had seen it roaring-mad, and now he saw it gentle as a lamb. there was scarcely a ripple anywhere. absorbed in the lake, ramsay was aware of nothing else until a horse snorted very close to him. when he whirled, he knew that he had seen the same horse and rider before. it was the body-watcher, joe mannis, and he was riding the black-and-white horse which he had ridden when he had warned ramsay away from the drowned captain schultz and the deck hand. the huge cowboy hat tilted precariously on his head and the blue jeans, apparently unwashed in a good many months, clung tightly to his legs. thick black hair escaped from beneath the hat, and he looked ramsay up and down. "what are you doin' here?" "what's it to you?" "well, nothin' i expect. nothin' at all. but just don't bother me again when i'm workin' at my trade." "i won't," ramsay promised, "unless i have a couple of pistols, too." "just don't bother me when i'm workin' at my trade," the other repeated, "an' we'll get along fine." "you think so?" ramsay snapped. missing the challenge implied in ramsay's words, joe mannis trotted his horse up the sand beach toward three points. ramsay looked without interest at his retreating back. joe mannis was an unsavory man, he decided, but unlike devil chad, he was a stupid man. only when backed by his pistols would joe be much of a threat. ramsay pushed his drying hair back with his hands and went around to the rear of the van hooven house. that was also a custom, it seemed. formal visitors, if there were any, might enter by the front door; but everyone else went around to the rear. obviously the visitor who had arrived while ramsay bathed and stood on the shore, was not formal. he was a tall, gaunt man with a thin face and a hooked nose. except for a white shirt, the collar of which was adorned by a bright ribbon that could hardly be called a tie, from his stovepipe hat to his shoes he was dressed entirely in black. an outlandish rig, a four-wheeled cart with a fringed top supported on four posts, stood in the yard. its curtains were rolled up, and the cart seemed to contain everything from wash tubs to pins. pieter and the stranger were unhitching a gray horse that stood patiently between the cart's shafts. pieter called the boy over, "ramsay, this is mr. hammersly." mr. hammersly, so-called, turned and thrust forth a huge hand. "tradin' jack," he amended. "tradin' jack hammersly. you need anythin', i got it. fairer prices as you'll find in three points, chicago, or milwaukee. need a box of candy for that girl of yours, ramsay?" "i haven't any girl," ramsay said. "you'll have one," tradin' jack declared. "every young buck like you needs a pert doe. can't get along without 'em, i always say. yup, you'll have one. when you get one, remember tradin' jack." "i will," ramsay promised. while tradin' jack washed up at the stand beside the back door, pieter led the gray horse to the barn, stripped it of its harness and loosed it with the little black horse. the two animals touched friendly noses. pieter returned, and all three went in to the groaning table which marta had ready. it seemed a natural thing here, ramsay observed, to expect all passing wayfarers to share whatever there was to be had. gracefully tradin' jack lifted the tails of his long black coat and sat down. "left milwaukee day before yesterday," he said. "stopped off to see the blounts, down at blounts' landin'...." marta and pieter van hooven gave rapt attention, and even ramsay found himself interested. aside from being a trader, it appeared that tradin' jack hammersly was also a walking newspaper. he knew everything about everybody between three points and milwaukee, and between milwaukee and kenosha. endlessly he related tales of new babies, new weddings and new engagements. tradin' jack knew that wilhelm schmidt's horse had the colic but probably would recover, and that mrs. darmstedt, that would be the wife of pete darmstedt, had shot a black bear right in her own front yard. there was nothing about the people he did not know and not much that he was unwilling to tell. finished, he got down to business. "any eggs for me, marta?" "twenty dozen," she said, "all fresh." "fourteen cents a dozen," tradin' jack said promptly. "yaah," marta, too, was bargaining now, "i can get that in three points." "take it in trade an' i'll allow you fifteen," tradin' jack said. "got to keep my customers sweet." before he went to bed tradin' jack arranged with pieter to have a butchered pig ready for him when he returned from three points the day after tomorrow. two and a half cents a pound he would pay, or two and three-quarters if pieter would take it in trade. he left with the van hoovens a tempting array of calico, ribbons, needles, pins, a new axe and hammer, a box of nails and other things which were always useful and always needed. the next morning ramsay roused himself out of bed at dawn to find tradin' jack already gone. he had sensed the storm that was approaching, pieter said, and, if possible, he wanted to get into three points before it struck. ramsay felt a strange uneasiness and an unrest. going outside, he saw that yesterday's blue skies had given way to ominous masses of gray clouds. his uneasiness mounted. something terrible was being brewed within the giant lake, and shortly it would erupt. a strong wind sent high waves leaping up onto the shore. they fell back, only to be replaced with more waves. ramsay shuddered. if there was terror in this, there was also grandeur. the lake, angered, was a fearful and wonderful spectacle. it was a gargantuan thing which seemed to writhe in an agony which, somehow, was created by itself. a few drops of rain pattered down. the wind blew harder. pieter and ramsay went to the barn to repair tools, and neither spoke as they stared through the barn's open door. the waves were raging now, launching endless attacks on the shore and always rolling back. suddenly ramsay leaped to his feet and stifled a cry. far out in the lake's surging gray masses he thought that he had seen something pure white. but he could not be sure. a moment later he saw it again. a sail! then he was able clearly to identify a little peanut shell of a boat. she was the _spray_, and she was in serious trouble. chapter five _rescue_ a fresh gust of wind sent the waves leaping higher, and for a moment only the furious lake could be seen. ramsay rose, and pieter rose beside him; and both went to the barn door. they stood alert, still not speaking and not even certain of what they had seen. then they saw it again. beyond any possible doubt it was the _spray_, and she was working valiantly to get into shore. ramsay swallowed a lump in his throat. he had first seen the _spray_ as a dancing bit of gaiety on a lake as stormy as this one, and then she had seemed so sure of herself and so capable. now she was like a shot-wounded duck which, no longer able to rise in graceful flight, must lie on the water and flutter desperate wings. for another tense moment ramsay and pieter stood side by side. by inches the _spray_ was fighting her way toward shore, but a glance was sufficient to reveal the tremendous odds against her ever making safety. still, even in this terrible dilemma, there was a spirit about her which the _holter_ never had and never could have. the two men on the _spray_--and did not the crazy dutch fisherman usually carry a crew of four?--seemed to be working calmly and easily. there was, from this distance, no trace of the near-panic that had reigned when the _holter_ went down. ramsay knew a moment's intense gratification. this was part of the dream, part of the picture he had engraved in his heart when he first saw the _spray_ and her skipper. when they challenged the lake, they accepted it in all its aspects. now they were behaving as all fishermen should behave. before they could even begin to follow their trade they must make an unbreakable pact with their fortune on the water, be it good or bad. then the trance was broken. out on the lake, within sight of pieter and ramsay, men were about to die. they must not die if there was any way to help them. as though their eyes were guided by one common impulse, both men looked toward pieter's small boat. it was a clumsy craft, strongly-built of heavy timbers which pieter himself had hand-sawed in his spare time. usually, when pieter wasn't using the boat, it was pulled high enough on the beach so storm-driven battering rams of waves could not touch it, and so it was now. side by side, with no need to speak, pieter and ramsay left the barn and raced toward the boat. wind-driven rain soaked their clothing before they had gone ten feet, but they paid no attention to it. kneeling, one on either side of the fourteen-foot boat, they strove to push it back into the lake. pieter shouted to make himself heard above the roar of the wind and the smashing waves. "wait!" ramsay stopped pushing while pieter took the long oars out of their locks and laid them lengthwise in the boat. the boy nodded approvingly. as things were, it seemed all but impossible to launch the boat. if they launched it and lost an oar in the high seas, they were doomed to disaster, anyhow. "now!" pieter shouted. the boat scraped a deep furrow in the wet sand as, with a concerted effort, they pushed it backwards. not looking at the savage combers, ramsay gave all his attention to the boat. they would have to work with all possible speed to get it into the lake and the oars in place, because the waves were rising to enormous heights now. he felt the boat's square stern touch water. then an irresistible giant, a force that would bear no interference, took hold and shoved the little craft almost as far up on the beach as it had been when they tried to launch it. leaving the boat half-filled with water, the smashing wave washed away from the wet sand. ramsay stood erect to catch his breath. they had given all their strength to backing the boat into the lake, and as they were about to succeed it had been plucked from their hands as easily as a strong man might snatch a flower from the hands of a baby. he glanced out across the water to assure himself that the _spray_ was still floating, then looked desperately at pieter. "nose first!" pieter said. "turn it around!" he shouted to make himself heard, but there was about him an almost maddening calmness as he worked. ramsay restrained his impatience. they must not lose a second's time; but if they were going to do this at all, it must be done exactly right. both on one side of the boat, they raised it to let the water spill out. in spite of his drenched clothing and the cold air that blew in from the lake, ramsay was sweating. pieter's boat had been built by a farmer, not a fisherman. it was all right on a calm day when pieter wanted to go fishing, but certainly it had never been built to weather storms. so heavy was the craft that the combined strength of two men was needed to tip the water from it. they let the boat drop heavily back on its side, and the oars fell out. still calmly, refusing to become excited, pieter picked them up and placed them in the oar locks. again ramsay understood. both men knew this for a furious storm but both had underestimated its fury. at the best, should they be able to get the boat into the lake, they would have a split second to float her and the oars had to be ready. it was better to take a chance on losing an oar than to have the boat driven back onto the beach. kneeling, ramsay felt his muscles stand out like stretched cords as he gave every ounce of strength to turning the boat around. he was sweating again--and short of breath. only the pressing urgency and the great need for immediate action gave him the strength to continue. then the craft seemed to move a little easier, and ramsay glanced around to see marta working beside them. noting them from the house, and understanding their mission, she had thrown a shawl about her shoulders and raced out to help. with almost maddening slowness the boat turned until its curved nose faced the lake. ramsay on one side and pieter on the other slid it down the wet sand toward the water. the boy bit his lip fiercely to help keep control of himself. nothing must go amiss here, and a wrong or panic-stricken move could mean disaster. because this launching demanded machine-like precision, ramsay fought to control the fire in his brain. carefully he thought out each exact step. get the boat into the lake until it floated. then leap in beside pieter, grab an oar and time his strokes to pieter's. fight their way out to the stricken _spray_ and rescue those aboard her. it seemed a simple matter, but never before in his whole life had ramsay faced anything more complex. it couldn't be done, his mind said, while at the same time something else told him that it could and must be done. he glanced around and curiously, as though the picture were registering somewhere other than in his own eyes, he saw marta van hooven. she was standing at the edge of the lake, her dress and shawl sodden-wet and her rain-soaked blond hair clinging like a seal's fur to her head and shoulders. one hand covered her mouth, as though to stifle a cry that was half-born there, and in her eyes were a great pleading and a great prayer as she watched her husband. but the cry did not find life. she uttered no sound. while she did not want pieter to go, at the same time she knew that he must. only if help came did anyone left alive on the _spray_ have even a faint chance of staying alive. then they were in the lake, and a mighty wave burst like a water-filled bomb about them. it staggered ramsay and sent him reeling, but it did not unnerve him. because he had practised in his own imagination what he must do from here on in, he could do it. he felt cold water creeping about his shoes and then up around his knees. the boat which they had been dragging steadied itself as they reached water in which it could float. through the blinding spray that lashed at them ramsay looked across at pieter. he saw him only indistinctly, but it was as though they read each other's thoughts. at exactly the same moment they flung themselves into opposite sides of the rower's seat and each grabbed an oar. the boy bent his back to the man-killing job of rowing. the boat was sluggish, and again half-filled with water. but it floated, and as soon as they were free of the mighty waves that smashed against the beach it floated a little more easily. ramsay looked back across the steel-gray turmoil to see the van hooven farm, and marta still on the shore. then he returned all his attention to the task at hand. the lake was an insane thing, bent on destruction. they went into the trough of a wave and rose on the next one. ramsay risked a fleeting backward glance to see the _spray_, much nearer the shore and still afloat. suddenly they were in an almost-calm stretch of water. ramsay felt cold fear run up and down his spine. he had met this on the sinking _holter_, and now here it was again. almost fearfully he glanced sidewise at pieter, but he could not speak because the screaming wind would have drowned his words as soon as he uttered them. his eyes grew big. just behind, and again on the right side, an apparition drifted out of the depths. it was a ghost figure, a thing born of nightmares. ramsay gasped. the white sturgeon nosed to the surface, drifted lazily for a moment and disappeared back into the watery depths out of which it had come. ramsay risked a sidewise glance at pieter, whose face remained undisturbed, and he swallowed the lump in his own throat. sailors might fear the white sturgeon, but if pieter did, he was not showing his fear. the boy told himself again that the sturgeon was a fish, nothing more or less than a great fish which, through some freak of nature, was colored white. but it did seem to appear only when death and destruction stalked the lake. he forced such thoughts from his mind. they were again in storm-lashed water, striving to keep their boat straight and headed toward the _spray_. vast waves bore down upon them, plunging the little craft into their cold troughs and then shooting it up as though it were a plaything. from the crest of the waves ramsay could still see the _spray_. he worried. now there seemed to be only one man aboard her. there was a sharp, sickening crack and the sound of splintering wood, that rose above the roar of the wind and the surge of the waves. the boat slewed sideways, and for the first time pieter van hooven's face betrayed emotion. he brought in the stump of oar remaining in his hand and, at the risk of upsetting the little boat, leaned across the seat to snatch ramsay's oar from its lock. with that in his hand, he made a precarious way to the stern. he thrust the oar over the rear seat, trying to use it as a rudder, and the boy strove to overcome the fear he felt. the white sturgeon, the sailors' superstition said, always brought disaster. if you see it, the little deck hand had told ramsay, you can start praying right afterwards. for one terror-filled moment their predictions seemed correct. twice ramsay had seen the white sturgeon; each time he had been in immediate danger of death. then superstition subsided and reason came back to his aid. crouching in the back seat, with only one oar, pieter van hooven was doing his best to fight the angry lake. though he was a farmer, obviously he knew something of seamanship. for a brief moment, just long enough to keep from capsizing, he kept the little boat headed into the onrushing waves. when he turned it, he did so skilfully. working the oar only with the strength in his hard-muscled arms, he headed back towards shore. a mighty wave smashed the stern, throwing cold water over them and across the tiny craft. ramsay moved from side to side, doing all he could to help pieter by shifting his weight to where it was needed most. the boat was three-quarters filled with water. never made for a heavy sea, now it was an almost dead thing. but so strong were the waves and so powerful the wind, that they were driven at almost motor speed back into the beach. ramsay had one glimpse of marta. pieter lost the little control he had. turning sidewise, the boat lifted like a matchstick on the crest of a giant wave and spun dizzily down into the trough. it was lifted again, and just before it turned over ramsay flung himself clear. as he did, he saw pieter go over with him. he dived as deeply as he could, knowing that the boat would come crashing down and knowing also that it would kill him if it struck him on the head. far into the lake he went, swimming under water and groping his way. he surfaced to see the craft to one side and a bobbing object, which he thought was the head of pieter van hooven. a second later a tremendous wave deposited him on the sandy beach. he lay gasping, all the breath knocked out of him, and he wished desperately to get out of the path of the waves that were breaking over him. but it seemed impossible to move. his mind urged him to go, but he lacked the physical strength to obey. then he felt a pair of hands in his armpits, and his body was dragged over the scraping sand. ramsay looked up to see the frightened face of marta van hooven. "can you move?" she pleaded. "gi--give me a minute!" for what seemed an interminable time, but could not have been more than twenty seconds, ramsay lay still. he turned over so that he lay face down, and lifted himself with his arms. his legs and feet were made of jelly. vaguely he was aware of marta and pieter van hooven, one on each side, lifting him to his feet. a second later his strength returned. keening in from the lake, the wind made him stagger backwards. reaching mountainous heights, the breaking waves shattered themselves far up on the beach. ramsay looked across them. about two hundred yards out, the _spray_ was completely crippled. trailing from her broken mast, the sail bled water into the angry lake. down at the bows, the fisherman's boat seemed hung up on a rock or reef. every second wave that washed in broke completely over her and hid her from view. but the single man remaining on board still worked calmly with the broken half of an oar, to free the _spray_ from her prison. ramsay allowed himself another split second. the entire dream was coming true. there were some men who, to the last, could meet the challenge of the lake with grace and spirit. the man on the _spray_, identified even at this distance as hans van doorst, had not given up. the boy whirled on pieter van hooven. "a coil of rope!" he ejaculated. without waiting to see whether or not pieter followed his instructions, he raced for the barn. snatching a bridle from its wooden peg, he went more slowly toward the corral where the little black horse was confined. this had happened once before and it might happen again. a man's strength was as nothing in the raging lake, but a horse was many times as strong as a man. the black horse had brought him safely in when all the others had drowned. the little horse arched his neck and flicked his ears when his young friend approached and patted him. "easy," ramsay said reassuringly. "take it easy, black." the little horse rested his head over the boy's shoulder for a moment, then the latter stepped back to slip the bit into black's mouth, put the bridle over his ears and buckle the throat latch. the horse followed willingly behind him as he pushed the corral's gate aside. he mounted, and black reared and pranced, just to prove that he could. ramsay tried not to look at the lake, but he couldn't help looking. when he did, very lonely in the gray waves, he saw the reef- or rock-bound _spray_. the lone fisherman still could be seen, working to free his craft. ramsay leaned forward to pat the little horse on the neck. "we can do it," he murmured. "let's prove it." he took the bridle reins in his hand and trotted black toward the foaming lake. pieter, his eyes grave, tossed him a coil of half-inch rope. ramsay had one glimpse of marta's anguished face. he slipped the coil of rope over his shoulder and did not look back. as they approached the lake, the horse hesitated, to paw the sand with a front hoof. he looked around to eye the rider on his back, and again ramsay leaned forward. "all right," he said. "go on." the horse accepted his words but, more than that, his confidence. guided by the bridle's touch, he walked willingly into the pounding lake. another water bomb exploded about them. they submerged, but black came up swimming strongly. ramsay kept soft fingers on the bridle reins, not wanting to exert any pressure or do anything else that might divert the horse from the job at hand. tossing his head, black sneezed to empty his nose of water that had washed into it. he was timing himself capably and almost perfectly to meet the waves at their place of least resistance, and he rose and fell with them. from the crests ramsay could see the _spray_. from the troughs he could see nothing. a lump rose in his throat. the _spray_ was indeed sadly wounded. only part of her stern showed above water. hans van doorst still worked with a broken oar to free his boat, and as soon as he came near enough ramsay knew that he had been right. the dutch fisherman had been one with the lake when ramsay first saw him, and he was one with it now. unafraid, he fought the lake as gracefully as a swordsman. perched on the broken stump of mast, the sea gull fluttered his wings and clicked his mandibles. ramsay gauged the situation as precisely as he could. if he could throw his rope over the stranded _spray_, the little horse might be able to pull it from its anchor and back to shore. ramsay saw hans van doorst turn to watch him. the fisherman waved a friendly hand. still guiding black lightly, imposing no undue strain on the reins or bit, ramsay steered him across the _spray's_ sunken prow. he let the reins hang slackly on the horse's neck and took the coil of rope from his shoulder. as precisely as he could, he cast and watched the rope snake through the air. a sick feeling arose in the pit of his stomach and he moaned audibly. he had calculated the distance correctly but he had not allowed for the strength of the wind. the rope missed hans van doorst's outstretched hands by two feet and fell into the angry lake. of his own volition, black turned back toward shore. ramsay saw the squawking sea gull bounce a couple of feet into the air and spread his long wings. grasping the reins, for the first time the boy used strength as he strove to turn the horse back. he glanced over his shoulder to see what might be done next, and gasped. hans van doorst had gone to the raised stern of his wrecked boat to give himself a running start, and as ramsay looked, he dived. leaping as far as possible from the _spray_ to avoid striking the rock, he hurled himself into the storm-lashed lake, straight at his would-be rescuers. for a few seconds that seemed like hours, he disappeared into the churning depths, but when he surfaced he was squarely behind ramsay and he used both hands to grasp the horse's tail. black turned back toward shore. he swam more strongly now because he was going with the wind instead of against it, and his double burden did not seem unduly heavy. ramsay saw pieter and marta van hooven, pieter's hand protectingly over his wife's shoulder, as they waited to see what would happen. the last wave burst around them and they were back on shore. instantly ramsay slid from the little horse's back and looked around. a nausea seized him. hans van doorst was no longer in sight. ramsay had tried and failed. he glanced toward the _spray_, as though he expected to see the crazy dutch fisherman still there, and knew only that waves were smashing the boat into kindling wood. then, as though he had literally risen from the lake, hans van doorst picked himself up from the wreckage of a breaking wave and walked ashore. his tame sea gull fluttered out of the sky to alight on its master's shoulder. the dutchman reached up to stroke his pet as he looked at pieter and ramsay. "none but me and captain klaus?" he asked. "none, hans," pieter said. for a moment an infinite sadness, a melancholy born thousands of years ago in the first fisherman who had seen his mates lost, pervaded the dutchman. but it was only for a moment. pieter and ramsay walked to his side and offered their assistance. he declined it. "i'll walk," he said. ramsay felt a great warmth for and a vast sympathy with this man who, while daring all and losing all, could remain so very human. marta hovered solicitously near as they all went up to the house and wore their dripping clothes into her immaculate kitchen. hans van doorst sat down, tried to fold his arms across his chest, and winced. "you're hurt!" marta cried. "it is nothing." the dutch fisherman looked at the three. "it happened out on the lake. we struck something, i do not know what. perhaps the half-submerged hull of a sunken ship. then we were in trouble." marta was stooping beside him, gently unbuttoning his soaking-wet shirt. hans van doorst looked fondly down at her wet and bedraggled hair, and he offered no protest as his upper body was bared. there was a vast, ugly scar on the right side of his chest, and when marta touched him there his ribs moved. the dutchman sat very straight in his chair. though he must have felt pain, he showed none. ramsay and pieter stood aside while marta worked expertly. ripping one of her snow-white sheets into strips, she wound a bandage tightly around hans van doorst's broken ribs. ramsay and pieter looked significantly at each other. such an injury _might_ have resulted when wind or a heavy wave flung the fisherman against something. probably it had happened when hans flung himself forward in an effort to rescue a shipmate. marta finished her bandaging and stepped back. "you rest now." he grinned at her. "fishermen have no time for rest." "do as she says, hans," pieter urged. "come," said marta. she went to a bedroom, opened the door and waited expectantly. hans van doorst spread eloquent hands. "who can argue with a woman?" he asked. "especially a dutch woman?" he rose, went into the room, and closed the door behind him. ten minutes later, marta opened the door a crack and peeked in. she entered, and came out with hans van doorst's clothing. "he sleeps," she announced. "like a man worn out he sleeps." ramsay changed his wet clothes for some dry ones pieter had given him and went out to catch black. from the house's ridge pole, captain klaus, hans van doorst's tame sea gull, squawked at him. ramsay grinned back, walked up to the little horse, rubbed him down, and put him back in the corral. he did the rest of his chores, and when he went into the house for dinner hans van doorst was seated at the table. "i told him!" marta scolded. "i told him to stay in bed and i would bring him his food. but can i talk reason to a dutchman?" "marta," hans van doorst said softly, "there is fishing to be done." eager interest glowed in pieter's eyes. "are you going again, hans?" "i am a fisherman." "you are crazy," marta corrected. "one day you will kill yourself on that lake." again the sadness, the inborn melancholy, sat like a mask on the dutch fisherman. but only for a moment. "marta," he said, "fishermen do not die in bed." chapter six _new venture_ ramsay stirred sleepily and raised a restless hand to shield his eyes from the morning sun. almost the whole night through, until the first waking birds had begun to chatter just outside his window, he had lain restlessly awake. just thinking of hans van doorst, and fishing, had not permitted him to sleep. now, with the sun high, he was at last deep in slumber. ramsay could not know that pieter had arisen shortly after the first birds and had the milking all finished, or that hans van doorst sat in the kitchen, eating the hearty breakfast which marta had prepared for him. he knew only that he seemed to be hearing strange sounds. there were throaty chucklings and gurglings and low-pitched laughter, and all of it was punctuated by raucous squawks. troubled, ramsay rolled over in bed and covered his head with the quilt. even that did not shut out the sounds, and finally he came fully awake. sleepy-eyed, tousle-haired, he sat up in bed. for a moment he could not define the sounds, which seemed to originate very near the roof of the house, and he was puzzled. then he identified the various noises a sea gull makes. ramsay slipped out of bed, pushed the double windows open, and looked into a calm morning. there was a rustle of wings overhead and a flutter of feathers. captain klaus took strong wing to circle the house. he swung back to alight on the window ledge, and tilted his head sidewise while he regarded ramsay with bright, intelligent eyes. "_qu-uark!_" he chattered. ramsay grinned, but when he put out a hand to touch him captain klaus again took flight and sailed down to the now-calm lake. he alighted on the shore, folded his wings across his back, and walked down the beach until he found a storm-killed perch. with the fish in his bill, he flew back to the house's ridge-pole to eat his breakfast while he awaited the reappearance of hans van doorst. a little bit embarrassed, ramsay dressed hurriedly. the working day in this country began with dawn and ended with dark. everything that needed doing--and there was much to be done--had to be crowded into such daylight as there was, and there was never enough. hurrying down the steps leading to the kitchen, he saw hans van doorst at the table. marta greeted him pleasantly, "good morning." "good morning," ramsay replied. "i overslept! i didn't mean to. why didn't somebody call me?" "yaah!" marta laughed. "pieter said not to. you earned your sleep, pieter said. sit down with hans and have some breakfast." hans said, "men who are not hungry are sick. sit down." ramsay sat, and felt a free and easy sense of comradeship, as though he and the dutch fisherman had something in common. they felt alike and thought alike. hans van doorst had thanked ramsay with his eyes for rescuing him, but not once had he spoken of it and not once had he mentioned the wreck of the _spray_. the boy was grateful for that; he knew that he would be embarrassed if his part in yesterday's incident were brought into the limelight. marta busied herself at the big wood-burning stove, and ramsay speculated on the difficulties involved in just getting such a stove into this country. marta laughed. "while i make you the breakfast, you listen to the crazy tales the crazy fisherman tells you." hans turned his twinkling eyes on ramsay. "marta is a good girl," he said. "a good dutch girl. she thinks all men are crazy." "they all are," marta said. "especially you. what you need is a good farm and stay away from that wild lake." "farms and me wouldn't get along, marta." hans laughed. "i told you i'm a fisherman." "yaah? you lost everything with the _spray_. how are you going to go fishing again?" hans spread his two powerful hands. "these are what i had when i started. these are what i have now." "you need money, too. money for nets, money for ..." the door opened and pieter came in for breakfast. hanging his light jacket on a wooden peg in the hallway, he took his seat at the table. "why does hans need so much money?" he asked. "he says he's going fishing again." marta sniffed. "i've been telling him that he should get a farm, and we can put him up until he gets one, and ..." "are you really going fishing?" pieter broke in. "that i am. i'm a fisherman. now look, pieter, you get up at dawn to milk your cows. no? to be sure, you get all the milk you can drink; but if you're lucky, tradin' jack hammersly gives you maybe half of what your butter's worth. all winter long and all summer long you work for those cows. a fisherman, now, he works for four months, just four. . . ." pieter said, "it sounds good!" "pieter!" marta broke in sharply. "you are _not_ going fishing!" pieter wriggled uncomfortably. "well," he said, "i can at least listen to what the man says, can't i?" "one haul of the nets," hans continued, "and maybe one thousand, maybe two thousand pounds of whitefish. never less than five hundred. for that you get six cents a pound in the chicago market. you don't earn that on your farm, and besides, fishing is a lot more fun. a smart dutchman don't have to tend cows." "_uaah!_" pieter breathed. "pieter!" marta said. ramsay listened, dazzled by the prospects of a fisherman's life as compared to any future a farmer might have. determinedly marta brought a huge dish of wheat cakes and sausage over and thumped it firmly down on the table. "eat!" she commanded. the three gave all their attention to the food, and they did not speak while eating. then hans pushed his chair back. "if i am going to fish again, i must start," he announced. "first i will go down and see if there is any salvage." "we'll help you!" pieter exclaimed. "my boat was not badly smashed. a little work and it will be good as new." "pieter!" marta said. "you are not going fishing!" "now i ask you," pieter said plaintively, "is helping a man pick up his own property, his very own property, is that fishing? could anyone even think it was fishing? no. come on." the three left the kitchen and walked down to the lake. calm after the storm that had raged across it, only little waves were washing in. ramsay looked out at the rock, as though half expecting to see the _spray_ still there, and saw nothing. pieter gave a triumphant little exclamation and waded into shallow water to pick up something that bobbed back and forth. it was the carved valkyrie maiden that had been the _spray's_ figurehead. exquisitely and almost perfectly hand-carved, the wooden statue leaned forward, as though she would embrace the whole lake to her bosom. hans van doorst's eyes were soft as he took it from pieter. "my sweetheart!" he murmured. captain klaus winged down from the ridge pole of the house to alight near them. clucking softly to himself, happy because hans was once more with him, he followed the three men down the beach. ramsay found a coil of rope, then another, and farther on was the _spray's_ torn sail. ramsay pointed out onto the lake. "about there is where we saw the white sturgeon," he said. "i know," hans van doorst murmured. "we saw him a half-dozen times." ramsay looked at him, puzzled. then, "the sailors told me he always brings bad luck." "the sailors!" hans scoffed. "they know nothing about anything except maybe how to stuff themselves with good whitefish that the fishermen bring them! the white sturgeon noses his way to the top when a storm comes, so he is bad luck? do not believe it! he is good luck! he comes to the top so that he may show fishermen the way back to shore!" ramsay grinned appreciatively. this, in spite of the fact that the dutch fisherman's idea of the white sturgeon bringing good luck was as superstitious as the sailors' notion that he always brought bad, fitted in. it was what hans should have said. "how big is that sturgeon?" ramsay asked. "the grandfather of all lake fish," hans van doorst asserted solemnly. "have you not noticed that, like all grandfathers, he is white? in truth, i have never seen a bigger fish anywhere." "another coil of rope!" pieter said, pouncing on it. hans, who had grinned happily with each new find, did not even look around. ramsay looked at him questioningly. anything but stolid, the dutch fisherman had been bubbling over at the prospect of going fishing again. now he seemed melancholy, immersed within himself, and his whole attention was given to the lake. ramsay followed his gaze, but saw little. true, a vast number of small aquatic worms had been washed ashore by the pounding waves. there must have been countless millions of them, so many that they formed a living carpet as far up the beach as the waves had washed. the wriggling, writhing mass was now disentangling itself, and the worms that could were crawling back into the lake. a number of sea gulls and a number of land birds were gorging themselves, and new birds arrived by the flock. they scarcely made a dent in the multitude of worms. ramsay looked again at hans van doorst. "never, never!" the fisherman breathed. pieter, too, swung to look curiously at him. "what's the matter, hans?" "i went on the lake when i was a boy of thirteen," hans van doorst said. "that was fourteen years ago, in . i thought i had seen much, but never have i seen this!" "what?" ramsay asked impatiently. "look around you," hans said. "what do you see?" "worms." "not worms! food for whitefish! with these millions washed up, can you not imagine the vast amount remaining in the water? we are all rich men!" "you think so?" pieter queried. "there is no doubt of it! the whitefish go where their food is! there must be countless tons of whitefish here at your very door step, and here is where we shall fish!" "do whitefish eat only worms?" ramsay asked. "no. they feed on other things, too, notably their own spawn or that of other fish. but enough of this idle talk! i must have a net so we can start fishing at once! pieter, i would borrow your horse and cart!" "the cart you may have," pieter said. "the horse belongs to ramsay." "go ahead and take him," ramsay urged. hans tripped like a dancer to the barn, caught the little horse, and backed him between the shafts of pieter's two-wheeled cart. bubbling like a boiling kettle, entirely happy, he started at a fast trot up the sand beach to three points. with a startled squawk, captain klaus hurried to catch up. the tame sea gull settled affectionately on the rim of the cart's seat. as ramsay watched him go, he felt a vast envy of the light-hearted fisherman. if ever he could go away like that, he thought, he would have lived life at its fullest. not until he looked around did he discover that pieter was watching too, and his eyes were wistful. "there is work to be done!" marta called. they flushed and walked towards the barnyard, where marta was tending her poultry. geese, chickens and ducks swarmed around her and pigeons alighted on her shoulders. she kept her eyes on the men. as ramsay and pieter cleaned the cowbarn, both remained strangely silent. both thought of the dutch fisherman. then pieter, who had promised to have a dressed pig ready for tradin' jack hammersly, started honing a razor edge on his butchering tools. ramsay picked up a hoe, preparatory to returning to the corn-patch. "you think he'll get a net?" pieter asked. "i hope so!" moodily, scarcely seeing or knowing what he was doing, ramsay chopped at weeds that had stolen a home in the growing corn. the work suddenly lacked any flavor whatever. millions of worms, whitefish food, washed up on the beach and the bay in front of pieter's swarming with whitefish! that's what the dutch fisherman had said. marta brought his mid-morning lunch, and her eyes were troubled. "do you think hans will get what he wants?" she asked. "i don't know. marta, why don't you want pieter to go fishing?" "you heard what he said. last night he said it. fishermen do not die in bed. those were his words." "just talk. the lake's safe enough." "yaah? is that why joe mannis can make more money than anybody else around here, just watchin' bodies? aah! i worry about my man!" ramsay said gently, "don't worry, marta." marta returned to the house and ramsay continued working. in back of the barn pieter had his butchered pig strung up on a block and tackle, and the two men looked at each other. both were waiting for hans van doorst to return. about a half-hour before noon captain klaus soared back to his accustomed place on the house's ridge pole. a moment later the little black horse appeared on the beach, and hans drove to the barn. ramsay and pieter, meeting him, stifled their astonishment. when hans left them, to all outward appearances he had been a normal person. now blood had dried on his nose and his right eye was puffy and streaked with color. anger seethed within him. "there is no honor any more!" he said bitterly. "and men are not men!" "what happened?" ramsay inquired. "what happened? i went to three points to get us a pound net! carefully did i explain to that frog-mouthed fontan, whose wife knits the best pound nets on lake michigan, what i wanted. i know pound nets cost five hundred dollars, but i was very careful to prove that we have untold riches just waiting to be caught! as soon as we made some catches, i said, we would pay him his money, plus a bonus for his trouble. fontan became abusive." "then what?" pieter said. "he hit me twice. because of these thrice-cursed broken ribs i cannot move as swiftly as i should. then i hit him once, and the last i saw of him he was lying on one of his wife's pound nets. after that came the constable who, as everybody knows, is merely another one of devil chad's playthings, and said he would put me in jail. it was necessary to hit the constable, too." hans van doorst leaned against the side of the barn, glumly lost in his own bitter thoughts. coming from the house to meet hans and sensing the men's moodiness, marta fell silent beside her husband. ramsay unhitched the little black horse, put him back into the corral, and hung the harness on its wooden pegs. after five minutes, pieter van hooven broke the thick silence. "i do not know whether or not it will be any good, perhaps not. but last year a fisherman came here in a very small boat. he was going to three points, he said, to get himself a larger boat and he had to make time. i do not know what happened to him, for he never came back and i have not seen him since. probably joe mannis got him. but before he took his leave he asked me to store for him a box of nets and ..." "a box of nets!" hans van doorst's melancholy left him like a wind-blown puff of feathers. he put an almost passionate arm about pieter's shoulders. "all is lost! all is gone! then this--this miracle worker! he talks of a box of nets! tell me, pieter! tell me it is still there!" "it must be, for it was never taken away," pieter said. "then let us get it! let us get and look at it before i faint with excitement!" pieter and hans disappeared in the barn, and a moment later they reappeared with a long, deep wooden box between them. having lain in the barn for a year, the box and its contents were thick with dust and spiders had woven their own gossamer nets everywhere. hans van doorst patted the dust away. he looked with ecstatic eyes, and he unfolded a few feet of the net. ramsay saw that it was similar to the gill net insofar as it had stones--sinkers--on one side and a place for floats on the other. made of sixteen-thread twine, the net had a three-inch mesh. "a seine," hans van doorst pronounced, "and a well-made seine, though it was not made in two rivers. it was brought here by one of the ohio fishermen, for that is the way they tie their meshes. let us see some more. i would say that it is about eight hundred feet long. that is not ample; we still need good pound nets, but with it we may again go fishing. help me, pieter." pieter and hans dragged the box to a small tree, tied one end of the seine to the tree's trunk, and began to unwind the net toward another little tree. ramsay saw how shrewdly the dutch fisherman had guessed. the trees, within a few feet one way or the other, were just about eight hundred feet apart and hans van doorst tied the other end of the seine to the far tree. he stood still, a small happy grin lighting his face, and looked at their discovery. slowly, with ramsay, marta and pieter trailing him, he started to walk the length of the seine as it lay on the ground. he kept his eyes downward, and as he walked along he talked almost to himself. "a good seine, yes, a good seine, but it has received hard use. here is almost five feet where it scraped among sharp rocks, and the mesh is worn. under a heavy load of fish, it will break. that hole was made by a sunken log or other object, for you can see that it is a clean tear. this one was made by a huge fish, probably a sturgeon, for just see how the mesh is mangled where he lunged time after time against it. now this . . ." slowly, missing no inch of the seine, he traveled the length of it, and as he traveled he marked every hole and weak spot by telling himself about it. reaching the end, he stood nervously tapping a finger against his forehead. "my hands are more accustomed to pulling seines than mending them," he told the three. "still, if we are to make the catch we can make, this seine must be mended. i will try to mend it." "i worked on a net in three points!" ramsay said eagerly. "i stayed for a while with pierre ledou, and because there was nothing else to kill time, i helped madame ledou knit a gill net! this cannot be too different!" "you!" for a moment ramsay thought hans was going to kiss him. "so! everything works our way! yaah? you fix the seine!" his face fell. "no. we must have new twine. now where will i get it?" "i have some," marta spoke up. "good linen twine, easily a match for anything in this seine." "and you would give it?" pieter asked incredulously. marta shrugged. "you're going fishing, anyway, and i'm going with you. men always want all the fun." the smile hans turned on her was rare. "a good dutch girl," he said. "thank you, marta." pieter and hans cut tripods--three poles strung together at the top to form a standard--and at necessary intervals raised the seine to them so that it was completely off the ground. like a huge tennis net, broken only by the tripods, it stretched between the two trees. ramsay stood beside it with a one and one-half inch meshboard--this mesh was three inches--and a ball of the fine linen twine which marta had given him. he worked as fast as he could, while at the same time he did not sacrifice efficiency. more than ever fishing seemed to be an art within itself, and if the seine were not perfectly made, then it was better left alone. a slipshod or hasty knot could cost them a hundred pounds of fish, or even the seine itself. as ramsay went along, he judged for himself which parts needed repairing. any mesh that seemed to be worn must be replaced; a whole school of fish might follow each other through a single hole. for half an hour hans stood watching him. then, satisfied that ramsay knew what he was about, he went off to cut new floats and place them on top of the seine. a dozen times he went down to study the bay, looking carefully and judging for himself the depth at which they would find the largest schools of whitefish. coming back, he adjusted the stone sinkers accordingly. absorbed in his work, ramsay gave no thought to the passage of time until marta called him for supper. as soon as he had finished eating, he returned to the net. darkness deepened and still he worked on. "ach!" marta said. "you'll kill yourself working! can you not come in now?" "just a little while. bring me a lantern." ramsay heard hans van doorst murmur, "a fisherman, that one," and a yellow lantern glowed behind him. it was nothing more than a tallow candle set in a glass case but, ramsay thought, he really didn't need a stronger light. so sensitive had his fingers become to the feel of the net, and so expert was he in knitting new meshes, that, almost, he would have been able to do it with his eyes closed. he worked on while, held alternately by hans and pieter, the lantern moved with him. he forgot the ache in his fingers and the weariness in his body. he knew only that the sooner the net was in good working order, the sooner they could go fishing. the pre-dawn birds were again singing when ramsay finally bumped against something and, so absorbed had he been in his work, it took him a moment to realize that it was the other tree. he held the mesh board in fingers which, strangely and suddenly, seemed to lack all nerve or feeling. he blinked almost stupidly and stepped back. when he spoke, his words sounded almost silly. "well," he said, "there it is." "there indeed it is!" hans chuckled. "and there it will be until, as soon as possible, we get it into the water. come now and sleep, for with the morning's sun i would have you go with me." ramsay stumbled to his bedroom, took his shoes off, and without removing any of his other clothing, fell across the bed. instantly he was submerged in exhausted slumber from which he was awakened by a gentle hand on his shoulder. "come now," a voice said. ramsay sat up with a start, to see hans van doorst looking down at him. again with a guilty feeling, he knew that he had slept far beyond the time when any worker in this country should sleep. hastily he sprang out of bed. "i'll be right with you!" "compose yourself," said hans van doorst, who had awakened him. "there is no need for any mad rush. i thought you might wish to help me." "oh, sure!" ramsay grinned faintly when he discovered that, except for his shoes, he was fully dressed. he put his shoes on and tied them, went outside to wash at the wash stand, and came in to eat the breakfast marta had ready. scarcely noticing what he ate, he gulped it down. "easy," marta cautioned. "the stomach complaint you will be giving yourself!" "i must hurry! hans is waiting for me!" "with men it is always hurry, especially when they go to do what they wish to do anyway. aah! only a man would give up a good farm to go fishing!" "pieter has not given up his farm," ramsay pointed out. "he will," marta prophesied. "he will, and he will go fishing with you and that crazy hans." "oh, marta, don't be so sad about things! it ..." she was sunny again. "go along now. hans is waiting." hans had black hitched to the cart and was waiting outside the door. his wings calmly folded, captain klaus sat on the back of the seat. ramsay climbed up, and hans slapped the reins over the horse's back. they started up the sand beach--there was a corduroy road but the sand was smoother--toward three points. ramsay grinned impishly as they drove through the town, because he felt the questioning glances of the towns people. devil chad controlled all this, and devil chad had made it very clear that ramsay was not wanted in three points. maybe hans wasn't wanted either but, as pierre ledou had pointed out, the fishermen and farmers cared little what anyone else thought. ramsay looked about, hoping to see devil chad, but he was nowhere in sight. a little disappointed, he relaxed beside hans. they drove through the village and up a rutted little road that wound among gloomy hemlocks. ramsay saw a doe with a fawn at her side, staring at them. as they drew near the doe raised her white tail over her back and disappeared. hans grinned at her. "they shoot the mammas with the babies," he said, "just like they do the papas with the horns. there is no more right in that than there is in netting a spawning fish." "you mean because the babies will die?" "yaah. then, after there aren't any more deer, people just do not understand it. some awful disease, they say, carried them off. they do not know that their own lack of sense carried them off. it is the same with fish. those who seine in the spawning season kill maybe two hundred for every one they take. when there are not any more fish, they will invent a terrible disease that carried them off." ramsay felt a little alarm. "do you think there won't be any more?" "the whitefish," hans pronounced, "cannot last in numbers such as you find them in now. that is because so many of them are being caught. for maybe ten thousand years they are filling the lake until now no fish is more numerous. yaah, for many years they were a food staple of the indians. i myself have seen indians spearing them, or shooting them with bows and arrows. tribes came from as far as the mississippi river to fish here. but a net fisherman takes more in one season than a whole tribe of indians used to, and often the fishermen cannot even take care of what they catch. i have seen whitefish, good eating whitefish, stacked like cordwood along the beach and left to rot there. i have seen them fed to pigs. the best fishing along lake erie is already gone, due to such excesses. that is why fishermen from ohio come here." "will fishing end?" ramsay inquired. "that i do not think. considering it from all angles. now a fisherman will catch perhaps a thousand whitefish, and maybe a hundred sturgeon, for every trout. why? because the whitefish and sturgeon eat trout spawn is part of the reason. when the whitefish and sturgeon are gone, the trout will multiply until they are the big catch. if the trout are taken or die out, there will be something else. no. there will always be fishing here, but it will be better when men learn to fish wisely and not to take anything in the spawning season." "when is that?" ramsay inquired. "whitefish and trout both spawn in the fall, from the fifteenth of october until the fifteenth of december. the sturgeon, i think they are a river fish and that they go up the rivers to spawn. if ever the rivers are closed, there will be many fewer sturgeon." the gloomy little road swerved back toward the lake. they broke out of the trees, and ramsay saw the water again. built into it, at this point, was a rambling wooden pier. there was a house and a fishing shanty. tied to a stake in a patch of green grass, a sad-eyed brown cow munched placidly on a five-pound whitefish. tied to the pier, a saucy twenty-six-foot mackinaw boat, much like the _spray_, bobbed up and down. nearer the beach was another boat, evidently a sadly worn one. nets of various kinds were strung on reels close to the lake. the house's door opened, and a ferocious little black dog snarled toward them. showing white teeth, foaming at the mouth, he hurled himself straight at the visitors. hans laughed and swung down from the cart, and as soon as he did the little black dog leaped about him to wag an almost furious welcome. hans grinned and knelt to tickle the dog's ears. "like most frenchmen, you can do nothing unless you do it violently," he soothed. "where is your master?" the house's door opened and a man, whom at first ramsay thought was a boy, flung himself out. barely five feet tall, he was dressed in breeches, leather leggings with colored fringes and a shirt that seemed to sport every color in the rainbow. he threw himself at hans. "_mon ami!_" he screamed. "my friend! it has been so long, so very long since you honored us with a visit! tell me what has kept you away for so very long?" "baptiste," hans said, "meet one of my new partners, ramsay cartou. ramsay, baptiste leclaire." baptiste wrung ramsay's arm as though it were a pump handle and in spite of his small size, he was very strong. he looked frankly at the boy. "you have," he asked, "bought an interest in the _spray_?" "the _spray_ is no more," hans informed him. "she went back to the lake." "oh." for a moment baptiste was very sober. then both men laughed, as though they shared some huge secret which nobody else could ever understand. baptiste exploded. "what is it you need, my friend? my boats, my nets, my pier, my life? name it and it is yours!" "no," hans said. "what we need is barrels. good oaken barrels with pliant black ash hoops. we also need salt. we have a net and we have a boat." "that is all you need?" baptiste seemed disappointed. "that is all." baptiste turned and in rapid-fire french directed orders at three men who were lingering near. at once they began to take barrels built to hold two hundred pounds of fish from a huge pile near the fishing shanty and to stack them on baptiste's boat. ramsay read her name, _bon homme_. baptiste leclaire turned to his visitors. "now that you are here," he said, "share the hospitality of my poor home." "with pleasure," hans agreed. they went into the house to meet baptiste's wife, a sparkling little black-eyed french woman. producing the inevitable jug, baptiste filled three gourds with fiery whisky. hans and baptiste drained theirs with one gulp. ramsay nursed his, both men laughed at him. but the boy could partake of the delicious fish stew which baptiste's wife prepared. a half-hour after ramsay and hans returned to the van hooven farm, a white sail bloomed out in the bay. she was the _bon homme_, loaded halfway up the mast with barrels and salt. hans van doorst rubbed his hands in undisguised glee. "now," he chuckled, "we go fishing!" chapter seven _partners_ ramsay was puzzled. hans van doorst had arisen even before the first faint streaks of dawn cracked the night sky and without waiting for anyone else to get up, or for breakfast, he had gone out to work. he was not fishing, for he had assured ramsay that there would be no fishing until all could take part. furthermore, hans had said, the fishing would need all of them. one man alone could not take enough fish to make it worthwhile. still, hans had gone out before it was properly light enough to see. ramsay had heard captain klaus greet his master from the top of the house. what anyone would be doing out of bed at such an early hour remained a mystery. in the dim morning light, descending the steps to the kitchen, ramsay continued to wonder why hans had gone out when he did. he greeted the van hoovens, who were already washed up for breakfast, and marta went to the back door to call, "hans!" captain klaus' hoarse squawk broke the morning stillness, and a second later there was an answering call from hans. he was down at the beach, doing something there, and presently he came in. ramsay grinned appreciatively at his appearance, for the dutch fisherman's cheeks glowed like the rising sun. his eyes sparkled, and a perpetual chuckle seemed to gurgle in his throat. plainly hans had been doing some invigorating work, but it was work in which he took a vast pleasure. anything onerous could not possibly put such a shine upon anyone at all. hans washed at the basin outside the door. "ah!" he breathed as he sat down to the huge breakfast marta had readied. "this looks good!" "i should think a stale crust would look good to anyone who puts in a half-day's work before anyone else stirs," marta said. "it would!" hans agreed, helping himself to half a dozen eggs and an equal number of bacon slices. "it would, and many a time i have dined on only a crust! but fare such as this! fit for the angels! i'm the luckiest fisherman alive, i think!" "also the most oily-tongued," marta added. nonetheless she was pleased. "i suppose, when we are all wealthy from fishing, you will hire a cook for me?" "not i!" hans said. "never i! hiring anyone but you to do our cooking would be as out of place as hiring joe mannis instead of a preacher to do our praying! no, marta! not elsewhere in wisconsin is there one who equals your skill with cookery!" pieter, who often tried to beguile his wife but seldom succeeded, laughed. marta blushed. while hans devoured what he had already taken, then served himself to three more eggs, ramsay ate almost feverishly. today was the big day, the time all of them had been waiting for, because today they went fishing. ramsay finished and waited with ill-concealed impatience while pieter and hans mopped their plates with crusts of bread. all three went outside. squawking and chuckling, as though at some huge joke, captain klaus winged down from the rooftop to alight on his master's shoulder. he tilted, flapping his wings to balance himself, and caressed hans' cheek with his hard, cold bill, even while he kept up a running fire of sea gull chatter. hans reached up to stroke his pet. ramsay looked down at the beach, and saw two structures which had not been there yesterday. hans must have built them this morning. they were windlasses, made of peeled logs, and about eight hundred feet apart. one was the conventional windlass--a drum mounted on two uprights and with a crank that could be turned by hand. the spindle of the other--all these lake men could work miracles with logs or anything else at their command--was set vertically in a stone and log foundation and it had a long, stout shaft protruding from its center. ramsay looked questioningly at hans. the dutch fisherman shrugged. "it is simple," he explained. "we have but one horse. therefore, we men work the one while the horse turns the other. marta can lead it." ramsay was incredulous. "you mean we'll take so many fish that a horse will be needed to drag them in?" hans' throaty chuckle sounded. "if we do not," he said, "from now on forever you may say that hans van doorst is not a fisherman. say that he is just a little boy who plays at fishing." with a fisherman's skill, hans was coiling a rope. he settled it carefully in the bottom of the boat, so that it wouldn't kink or snarl when paid out, and was alert to avoid stepping on or tangling it in anyway. folded exactly as hans wanted it, with all the floats on one side and all the sinkers on the other, the net was overhauled on the stern of the boat. another coil of rope lay on the net, and hans tied one end of that to the spindle of the horse-powered windlass. then he looked happily at pieter and ramsay. "now," he said, "i need an oarsman." "i'll row!" ramsay offered eagerly. "go ahead." pieter grinned. so expertly that he scarcely ruffled the water and did not even disturb his net or rope, hans launched the boat. he waded in up to his knees, paying out more rope as he did so, and held the boat steady until ramsay waded out beside him and climbed into the rower's seat. ramsay tried to board cautiously, skilfully, as he had seen hans do. obviously a great deal of careful work had gone into folding the net and coiling the rope. everything had to be done exactly right, and one clumsy or ill-timed move could make a hopeless snarl out of all. still, hans seemed confident and sure of himself. probably, ramsay thought, he had done this so many times that doing it was almost second nature. the boy looked expectantly at hans. "straight into the lake," the dutch fisherman directed. "keep a straight right-angle course to the windlass; you can do that by sighting yourself from it. row as swiftly as you wish." with strong, surging strokes of the oars, ramsay sent the ponderous boat out into the quiet lake. he watched hans carefully, trying to note everything he did, and his respect for fishermen grew. the dutchman sat almost carelessly in the stern, to all outward appearances not even interested in what he was doing. but, as they continued out into the lake, the rope continued to slip smoothly over the stern. there was never a tangle or even a kink. it looked easy, but net-weaving had looked easy too before ramsay tried it. beyond any doubt, it took skill and long familiarity with the job to handle six or eight hundred feet of rope in such a fashion and do it perfectly. they came near the end of the rope and ramsay slowed his strokes a little. the laughing dutch fisherman turned to him. "sharp left," he directed. "stay about this far out in the lake and row a bit more slowly. now we set the seine." ramsay followed instructions, watching the beach line to make sure that he stayed the proper distance out, and hans began sliding the seine over the stern. he did it smoothly, gracefully, as he did everything connected with fishing. ramsay nodded approvingly to see how well hans laid his net and how expertly he had guaged the place in which it was to be laid. instead of curling toward the beach, the seine, obviously controlled by a current that swept into the lake, billowed outward. "does the lake have different currents?" ramsay asked interestedly. "that it does. when the wind blows toward shore, of course waves wash up on the shore. but the lake, she moves in a thousand different ways, and the currents that appear on the surface are not always like those that surge beneath the surface. ah, yes! many moods has lake michigan and," hans grinned, "not many of them are placid moods." "how could you tell that a current to hold the seine was right here?" "i felt it when i had hold of your horse's tail." ramsay pondered that information. the current holding the net certainly was not perceptible from the surface. it would not be evident at all, except to one who had a thorough understanding of such things and was able to sense the most minute change in the water that lay about him. of course, the stones, the sinkers, probably helped hold the seine in place too. foot by foot, the seine slipped into the lake and a long line of it stretched at an angle toward the boat. ramsay tried to judge for himself how far the net was going down. he could not because he had had too little experience in fishing, but he was sure the seine rested exactly where hans wanted it to rest. without seeming to move, hans leaned over to pick up the other coil of rope. smoothly he tied it, and the last few feet of seine slid over the boat's stern to disappear in the lake. ramsay waited expectantly for directions. they came. "straight as you can towards the other windlass," hans said. "then we are all ready." again ramsay turned at a right angle toward the other windlass. now he began to understand the setting of a seine. there were the two windlasses, the two six-hundred-foot ropes and the seine running parallel to the beach. now, ramsay supposed, they would beach the boat, tie this rope to the other windlass, and be ready to haul in the seine. if they did not make a good catch, they could lengthen the ropes and put the seine farther out in the lake. also, by adding more sinkers or subtracting some, they could raise or lower the seine. ramsay tried to make some observations about the water in which they were fishing. it was comparatively shallow, though at all places except very near the shore it would float a fair-sized ship. also, it seemed to have a rather smooth bottom. in addition, though the bay could at times be angry, it was more sheltered than some places. storms here probably would at no time reach the heights of fury that they reached on the open lake. because he was anxious to learn as much as he could about fishing, ramsay asked some questions. "are whitefish usually found in shallow water?" "almost always," hans said. "though they need not necessarily always be found close to shore. i myself know of reefs where we will be sure of wonderful catches as soon as we get some pound nets, and some of them are a mile or more out." "then the lake bottom varies?" "oh, yes! to get an idea of what the bottom of the lake is like, take a look at the land about you. here you find a hill, or a succession of rolling hills. here is a stretch of flat prairie. there are deep gulches and bluffs. you will find clay, sand, loam, small stones, boulders. as i've already said, the lake's bottom is almost exactly like the land about it." "what's the deepest part?" "baptiste leclaire and i once sounded a place off the wisconsin peninsula. we touched bottom with a thousand feet of line, and i think that may be the deepest place in lake michigan, though i cannot be sure. i have not sounded every place in the lake and, for that matter, neither has anyone else." "are there deep-water fish?" "the trout ordinarily seeks deep water, though they may be found in shallows in the spring. however, there are not enough trout to be worth a fisherman's while. some day this may change." "is there any way to set a net so a fisherman may be sure of a good catch?" "not once in ten times, if he is just beginning, can a fisherman be certain of a good catch, or of any catch. the tenth time is the exception. i am sure, for instance, that there must be a vast number of whitefish in this bay, because the food for them is here. otherwise, the fisherman must be taught by experience, or by another fisherman, where to set his nets so that he will make a good catch. watch it now. we are about to land." the nose of the little boat bumped gently against the sand beach, and hans stepped out into knee-deep water. paying no attention to his soaking-wet shoes and trousers, he uncoiled the rope as he walked up the beach and tied it through a hole which he had drilled in the spindle of the hand windlass. more gingerly, not afraid of getting wet but not anxious to do so, ramsay stepped to the nose of the boat and leaped onto the dry beach. pieter and marta joined them, and all turned puzzled glances on hans; they knew almost nothing about the technique of fishing and must look to him. ramsay watched the fisherman test the taut rope with his hand, and a little smile of satisfaction flitted across his face. excited himself, hans looked at the even more excited people about him. "relax." he grinned. "the seine is not going anywhere, and we will soon see what we have caught. ramsay, do you want to harness the horse and bring him down?" "sure." ramsay trotted to the barn, anxious to be doing anything that would help relieve the seething tension within him. everything he had done this morning--indeed, everything he had done since meeting hans van doorst--had been fascination itself. now, if hans' predictions were right, and the dutch fisherman seemed so absolutely sure of himself, they would soon be in the fishing business. ramsay laid a friendly hand on black's mane, and the little horse followed willingly into the barn. he stood quietly to be harnessed. ramsay fastened a singletree to the harness tugs and hooked a strong chain onto it. partaking of the humans' excitement, captain klaus winged low over the beach, crying and squawking as he wheeled and dipped in graceful circles. ramsay grinned at him. of all the pets a fisherman might have, surely a sea gull was the most fitting. ramsay led black toward the far windlass, the one the horse was to work, because hans, pieter and marta had gathered about it. captain klaus came out of the sky to alight on top of the windlass, and the horse scraped a restless front hoof across the sand beach. ramsay looked inquiringly at hans, who frowned and stepped back, then turned to the boy. "we need a longer chain," he decided. "will you get one?" "sure." ramsay ran back to the barn and returned with the longest chain pieter had. hans hooked it to the windlass shaft, laid it out flat, and then connected it to the chain ramsay had already brought. the boy nodded understandingly. the rope dipped into the lake, then rose to the windlass spindle. the chain had to be long enough so that the horse, in walking around and around, could step over the rope. hans turned to marta. "when i give the word," he said, "lead the horse in a circle around the windlass. lead him slowly; we do not want the seine to come in too fast. try to maintain a steady pace, and we will do our best to suit ours to yours. both ends of the seine must come in evenly." "yaah!" in spite of her dire forebodings about fishermen, marta's eyes were shining like stars. "yaah! i can do it." "good," hans said gently. "i know you can. ramsay, you and pieter come with me." the three men took their places by the other windlass, and ramsay tried to suppress a growing excitement. he waited tensely, both hands on the crank; pieter was on the other side of the windlass. looking once more at the taut rope stretching into the lake, hans van doorst raised his voice, "all right, marta!" grasping the cheek strap of the little horse's bridle, marta began to lead him slowly around and around. tense, sweating a little, ramsay took a fierce grip on the windlass crank and looked at hans. the dutch fisherman, his eyes on marta, timed the turning of the windlass. "now!" he said. ramsay strained with every muscle and nerve, and great beads of sweat dripped from his forehead. hans had built well and with a full appreciation of leverage and tension; nevertheless, the windlass was hard to turn. the seine itself would be responsible for part of that. dry, one man could carry it. but when lake water penetrated every one of its hundreds of meshes, the seine would surely weigh much more. however, no net of any description could within itself weigh this much. hans must have guessed correctly. there were endless fish in the bay and the incoming seine must be loaded with them. "faster!" hans exclaimed. ramsay gritted his teeth and turned the windlass faster. he shot a fleeting glance at marta, who was still leading the horse slowly. even so, black was going too fast. the combined strength of three men was no match for the strength of a horse. hans' bellow split the air, "marta, stop!" marta halted the little horse and ramsay leaned his weight against the windlass' crank so that they would not lose what they had already gained. he gulped in great, refreshing breaths. hans asked, "can you hold it?" ramsay and pieter nodded, and hans walked down to talk with marta. she must lead the horse even more slowly, for the men could not keep up with him. if both ends of the seine were not pulled in evenly, if the net was tilted or bent, the catch could well be lost. ramsay straightened as hans came back to take hold of the crank. "all right," he said. ramsay turned, setting his shoulder to the windlass while his breath came in excited little gasps. the rope, tight as a stretched wire, sloped into the lake. though it was stoutly built of heavy logs, the windlass trembled on its frame. the crank became harder to turn and the wet rope wrapped like a clinging hair about the spindle. ramsay gasped. out in the lake, just beyond the shallow water at the edge of the beach, the seine's floats showed. the seine itself was bent like a bow, its two ends straining toward the windlasses while the center arched into the lake. the gleam of silver in the seine seemed to cast a soft radiance over the lake and the beach, and even a powerful current could not have bowed the seine in such a fashion. ramsay set his shoulder to the windlass and helped give it two more turns. down at the other windlass, marta was watching them. she, too, had learned. the men could not keep up with the horse, so she was adjusting the horse's speed to them. farther up the seine came, so that some of the sinkers were dragging in the shallows. the floats were bowed over, forming a sort of half-sack, and the center of the seine still arched back into deep water. ramsay saw a tight little grin appear on hans van doorst's face. pieter was looking incredulously at the loaded net. "a little more!" hans pleaded. "just a little more! get the center up!" they took two more turns, brought the center of the seine into shallow water, and hans latched the windlass. with a wild whoop, the dutch fisherman raced down to the lake and stooped to grasp a hundred-and-fifty-pound sturgeon caught in the net. hans dragged it up onto the beach, left it there, and returned to get a bigger one. "nets unload!" he sang out. ramsay ran forward, heedless of water that surged about his knees. he stumbled, fell headlong, and arose sputtering. but, now that he was soaking-wet anyway, it no longer made any difference. he grabbed a six-pound whitefish in each hand and threw the pair far up the beach. he grinned as he watched pieter drag another big sturgeon out of the seine, and grabbed two more whitefish. "yaah! for once men work with a real will!" ramsay turned around to see marta, her spray-wet hair plastered close to her head. her feet were spread almost defiantly apart, and the smile on her lips and the laugh in her eyes were proof of the fact that she was now whole-heartedly with them. fishermen risked a lot. but who didn't risk when they played for big stakes? lake michigan was there, until now an almost untapped source of wealth; and if nobody dared to get this hoard, it would remain forever in the lake. somebody had to try. in that moment, as never before, ramsay knew that they were in the fishing business. only vaguely was he aware of pieter and hans working beside him, and he did not know how long it took to get all the fish out of the seine. he knew only that suddenly the net sagged emptily. he took two small whitefish out of it, threw them back into the lake, and watched them swim away; then he looked at hans van doorst. "let us bring the net up to dry," hans said. they reeled in the windlasses and stretched the soaking seine between them. ramsay turned for a look at the beach, and he could not see it because the sand was covered with fish. hans had been right. the bay in front of the van hooven home was a very paradise for fish. countless sturgeon and whitefish lay on the beach. ramsay heard hans say, "now we go to work." hans hitched the little horse, brought the cart down to the beach, and began throwing whitefish into it. the bigger, heavier sturgeon, of course, hans had to lift into the wagon box. when they had a load, he drove to the stacked barrels left by baptiste leclaire. ramsay watched interestedly. a little trickle of water wound into the lake at this point, and hans had dammed it in such a fashion that a miniature cataract fell over the stones and mud which he had placed in the water course. beside this were a big, flat wooden dish, evidently also made by hans, and several sacks of salt. the dutchman produced three razor-sharp fish knives, more salvage from the _spray_, and turned to pieter. "do you want to bring the rest of the fish up?" "yaah. i'll do that." hans caught up a six-pound whitefish and, seeming to use his knife very little, he cut its head off. leaving the fish unscaled, he sliced it down the backbone to the end of the tail and spilled the viscera out. he washed his fish in the dam's tiny spillway and, filling the wooden dish with salt, he rolled the split whitefish in dry salt. then he placed it carefully in a two-hundred-pound barrel. ramsay caught up a fish and a knife and tried to imitate exactly hans' procedure. but, though he thought he was doing everything precisely as the dutchman had done it, he was much slower. hans had two more fish ready and in the barrel before ramsay was finished with one. grimly ramsay worked on. if this was a part of fishing, it was a part he must and would learn. he picked up another fish and, as he worked, he gained skill. as soon as one barrel was filled, hans threw a couple of hands full of salt on top, fitted a head to it and clamped it down with a black ash hoop. again ramsay nodded understandingly. he had supposed that a brine solution in which to pack the fish must be prepared, but evidently none was necessary. enough water remained on the fish to form their own brine. packed in such a fashion, they would keep for many months. pieter brought another load of fish and another, and then set to work with a fish knife to help clean the catch and pack it. the big sturgeon, of course, had to be cut into suitable strips and salted before they were packed. some of them were filled with roe--caviar--and pieter carted pails full of that to feed marta's poultry. the remainder of the waste was loaded into the cart and hauled far away from the scene of the packing. then hans scrubbed everything carefully. fishermen who packed food for human consumption must be very clean. the sun was down and the moon up before they finished, but when they were done they had packed seven barrels--fourteen hundred pounds--of whitefish and three barrels of sturgeon. it was a rich haul. though they had worked for almost seventeen hours, each of them had earned more money than the average worker in devil chad's tannery received in a full month. ramsay sighed as he cleaned and honed his fish knife, and hans said, "the moon is bright and right for working, and we need a pier." "a pier?" "yaah. else how will a boat put in to pick our catch up? i work for an hour or so." ramsay, thinking of his comfortable bed, stumbled down to the lake to help hans put in an hour or two on the pier. chapter eight _action_ restlessly ramsay picked up a big whitefish and cleaned it. salting it, he threw the fish into a barrel and picked up another. a freckle-faced urchin about ten years old stood near, watching him. the youngster was johnny o'toole, son of shamus o'toole. in the summer shamus did odd jobs. in winter, when boats could not run, he drove one of the sleds that carried leather from three points to milwaukee and cattle hides from milwaukee to three points. "you goin' to fix a sturgeon?" johnny demanded. "sure," ramsay said absently. "pretty soon." ramsay's eyes kept straying out on the lake, past the solid wooden pier which hans, pieter and ramsay, had erected. the past days, it seemed, had been nothing but work. up with the dawn and out to make another catch of fish. pack the catch, and spend any time that remained working on the pier. weeds were sprouting as high as the corn, oats were heading untended and unheeded on their stalks, and the farm was getting only the skimpiest attention. all this because they had decided to gamble on fishing. when the _jackson_, summoned by hans, had nosed into their pier, she had taken on board a hundred and twenty barrels--twenty-four thousand pounds of whitefish--and forty thousand pounds of sturgeon. the whitefish, hans had assured them, would bring not less than five cents a pound in the chicago market and the sturgeon were worth three cents a pound. when they had their money they would be able to buy a pound net, a pound boat, more salt and barrels, and be ready for fishing on a really big scale. ramsay's eyes kept darting toward the lake. the _jackson's_ skipper had said that, depending on how much cargo he had to take on in chicago and the number of stops between chicago and three points, the ship would be back tuesday or wednesday. this was tuesday, and ramsay could not control his impatience. "fix a sturgeon," johnny pleaded. "fix a sturgeon now." "i ... all right, johnny." ramsay began to dismember a hundred-pound sturgeon, and johnny o'toole's eyes danced. he stood anxiously near, trying to remember his manners, but his impatience triumphed. "gimme his nose, will ya? can i have his nose?" "sure, johnny." ramsay, who had learned a lot about dressing fish since his first halting attempts, sliced the sturgeon's nose off with one clean stroke of his knife. the nose was round as a ball, and as rubbery, and every one of the numberless freckles on johnny o'toole's face danced with delight when ramsay tossed it to him. immediately, johnny began bouncing the sturgeon's nose up and down on the hard-packed ground. he had only to drop it, and the nose bounded higher than his head. this was the rubber ball, and sometimes the only plaything, of children who lived among the commercial fishermen of lake michigan. johnny began throwing the nose against a tree, catching it in his hand as it rebounded to him. ramsay--hans and pieter were down at the lake, strengthening the pier--picked up another sturgeon and filled a barrel. he sprinkled the usual two handfuls of salt on top of the filled barrel, fitted a head to it, and bound it tightly with a black ash hoop. ramsay looked at the two sturgeon remaining from this morning's catch, and decided that they would just about fill a barrel. he rolled one of their dwindling supply over. "can i have their noses, too?" johnny begged. "can i? huh?" "sure, johnny." "gee! thanks!" johnny o'toole began to play with his four sturgeon noses, sometimes bouncing all of them at once and sometimes juggling them. ramsay continued to steal glances at the lake. if everything worked out the way hans said it would, they would have ... ramsay dared not think of it, but, even after they paid the skipper of the _jackson_ for hauling their catch to chicago, there would be a great deal. "i'd better be goin'," johnny o'toole said. "my pa, he whales me if i stay out after dark. thanks for the sturgeon noses. i can trade two of 'em to my brother for a knife he's got." "you're welcome, johnny. come back when we have some more sturgeon." "i'll do that!" bouncing one of the sturgeon noses ahead of him, johnny o'toole started up the beach toward three points. ramsay watched him go, then cleaned the last of the sturgeon, put them in a barrel and sealed it. as the evening shadows lengthened, he looked again at the bay. the _jackson_ still had not put in, and he gave up. the ship would not be here until tomorrow. he left the barrels where they were and went toward the house. tradin' jack hammersly's four-wheeled cart was again in the yard, its curtains rolled up to reveal the trader's tempting array of wares. his gray horse was in the corral with the little black, and tradin' jack hammersly's stovepipe hat was decorously placed on the bench outside the door. ramsay grinned faintly as he washed up. the trader was an eccentric character, and ramsay suspected that his eccentricities were planned; they made good advertising. but he was likeable, and now they would get more news. ramsay went into the house. "hi, ramsay," tradin' jack greeted him. "how about a pretty ribbon for that girl of yours?" "i still haven't any girl." "slow," tradin' jack asserted. "so much time you have spent around here an' still no girl. too slow." "i'll get one," ramsay promised, "but i've been too busy fishing to look the field over." tradin' jack nodded sadly. "yes. i heard it. that's what i did, heard it. so you go fishin'. so what happens? can a trader trade fish? no. he can't. fish you sell in chicago. fishermen are the ruination of traders." "not everybody will go fishing," pieter pointed out. "enough will stay at farming to keep you supplied. besides, with all the money the fishermen are going to earn, they can buy a lot more of your goods." "that's so," tradin' jack agreed. "that's so, too, but a man's got to take everything into account. if he wants to stay in business, he has to. got any eggs for me, marta?" "yaah! crate after crate." "i'll take 'em. take 'em all. fourteen cents a dozen. fourteen and a half if you'll take it in trade." his mind on the _jackson_, which even now should be churning its way toward them, ramsay only half-listened as tradin' jack rattled on about the various events which, combined, went to make up life on the west shore of lake michigan. remembering little of what he had heard, ramsay went upstairs to bed. snuggling down into the soft, feather-filled mattress, he tried to stay awake and could not. the work was always too hard and the days too long to forego even one minute's slumber. * * * * * the sun was only half-awake when ramsay got up, breakfasted and went back to the place where they cleaned their fish. everything that could be was packed and the grounds were clean, but yesterday they had ripped a ragged gash in the seine and now that needed repair. ramsay, assisted by hans, set to work with a ball of linen twine. he lost himself in what he was doing. the important thing, if they wanted fish, was to get the net into the water and use it. even one half-hour must not be wasted. ramsay was jerked out of his absorption in the net by two shrill blasts. he sat up, and sprang to his feet as the blasts were repeated. looking in the direction of the pier, he saw the _jackson_, her wheel churning up a path of foam, nosing toward the mooring place. pieter appeared, and marta. all four raced to the pier, and they reached it before the approaching steamer did. ramsay and hans secured mooring lines which a deck hand threw to them, and captain williamson of the _jackson_ came down a short ladder. he was a bustling little man who wore a blue-and-gold uniform which, ramsay thought, would have graced an admiral in any navy. but he was efficient and he knew the lake. for eleven years he had been running the _jackson_ between three points and chicago without getting her into or even near trouble. captain williamson took a white sheet and a wallet from an inner pocket, and he read from the sheet, "twenty-four thousand pounds of whitefish you gave me. it brought five cents a pound, or twelve hundred dollars, less a cent a pound for the hauling. here you are, nine hundred and twenty dollars." from the wallet he extracted a sheaf of bills and handed them to hans. ramsay looked questioningly at him. "the sturgeon?" he asked. "ha!" captain williamson snorted. "there's enough sturgeon layin' on the chicago pier to run the whole city for the next six weeks. nobody's buying it but, since i hauled, i have to be paid. see you later, gentlemen." captain williamson scrambled back up his ladder, which was hauled in after him. snorting like an overworked draft horse, the _jackson_ backed away from her mooring, made a wide circle into the lake, and puffed on toward three points. ramsay looked incredulously at the money in hans' fist, slow to realize that, even if they split it among the four of them, it would be more than half a year's wages for each and they had earned it in less than two weeks. then he looked at marta's face and burst out laughing. from the first, marta had been with them only half-heartedly and only because pieter could not be swayed from fishing. now, seeing enough money to buy a farm, and with tangible evidence that fishing paid well, she had swung completely to their side. pieter and hans joined in ramsay's laughter while marta looked puzzled. she was, as hans had declared, a good dutch girl. definitely she was not avaricious, but no good dutch girl could fail to be impressed by the sight of so much money. hans clasped the bills firmly and looked at his partners. "what do you say?" he asked. "what do you mean?" ramsay inquired. "pound nets we need, pound boats. men to help us set them. more salt and more barrels. we owe baptiste. or shall we divide what we have and keep on fishing with the seine?" "will it take so much to buy those things of which you speak?" marta inquired. "this and more, if we really want to take fish." "then let's do it!" marta declared. "pieter?" hans inquired. "fishing beats farming." "ramsay?" "i came here to fish." "come with me." hans hitched the little black horse, and ramsay climbed up on the cart beside him. captain klaus, hurrying frantically from his perch atop the house, alighted on the cart and caressed hans with his bill. the dutch fisherman whistled happily as he drove along, and ramsay grinned. this was the way to get things done; work every second of every day to catch fish and then, without even thinking twice about it, invest everything they had earned in more equipment so they could catch even more fish. captain klaus winged off the cart to go and see what some of his wild relatives along the lake shore were doing. ramsay turned to hans, "how big is this pound net?" "ha! you have never seen one?" "never." "soon you will. very soon you will. there are a lot of pieces in each net and, all together, they weigh about six hundred and fifty pounds. it will cost, i think, about thirty cents a pound, or perhaps two hundred dollars for each net. then we shall need at least one pound boat, and that will cost an additional two hundred dollars. we shall need more rope, perhaps two hundred and fifty pounds, at a cost of about nine cents a pound. then we shall have to hire men to help us drive spiles for the net. we need more barrels, more salt. the money we have here will provide us with no more than one net." "how many should we have?" "i think that you, i and pieter could handle three on part time. we could very well use seven or eight if we gave full time to pound nets. however, as soon as we get three in working order--and meanwhile we will continue to seine--we will build a good mackinaw boat, like the _spray_, and use gill nets, too." ramsay whistled. "we're really getting in deep!" "ah, yes!" hans said gleefully. "but the fishing, it is a business! it is the only business for a man!" ramsay pondered thoughtfully. devil chad, who lately had seemed remote, was now near and his presence could be felt. probably, to anyone who knew devil chad, it would be impossible to go into three points without sensing his nearness. if devil chad had set out to control everything, then why hadn't he made an attempt to control fishing? certainly it was profitable. ramsay dismissed the thought. maybe devil chad had his hands full and lacked the time to intrude on the fisheries. it still seemed strange that he would lack time to intrude on anything that offered an honest, or even a dishonest, dollar. captain klaus came winging back to the cart and perched on the dutchman's shoulder. hans turned the little horse down a dim road, one ramsay had not yet noticed, on the edge of three points, and they came out on the borders of a river that emptied into the lake. there was a large shed with a chimney that leaned at a crazy angle and belched a thin trickle of smoke. hans halted the little horse, who immediately lowered his head to nibble at one of the few patches of green grass growing on this sand beach. ramsay turned his head to look at the place. lumber of various sizes and cuts was stacked all about it, and there was a pile of uncut logs left to season. ramsay saw the gleam of a saw and caught the scent of a wood-fired boiler. now the saw's shrill roar was stilled and the boiler's fires were banked. ramsay looked at the dozen boats that were drawn up on the river bank. they were sturdy, fourteen to sixteen feet long, and propelled wholly by oars. at the back of each was sort of a small winch. there were broad seats and long oars. ramsay turned to face the man who emerged from the shed. he was tall, blond and so big that he was almost fat. but his quick eyes were not those of a dull-witted fat man, and his big hands tapered into slim, expressive, artist's fingers. a ready smile seemed engraved on his thick lips, and his blue eyes lighted readily. "hans!" he exclaimed. "hello, tom," hans said. "what the dickens! i thought you'd gone off some place!" hans laughed. "not me! i wish you to meet one of my new partners, ramsay cartou. ramsay, tom nedley. he is an artist with the wood and could make fine violins, but he prefers to pass his time on this river bank, making pound boats for indigent fishermen." "glad to know you." tom wrung ramsay's hand. "what are you up to?" "we have come," hans announced, "to get a pound boat." "sure. take your pick." "we," hans said grandly, "have the money to pay for it." "gosh! i heard you lost the _spray_?" "that we did," hans conceded, "and three good men with it. but we shall build another boat as good. can you, by the way, supply me with a good oaken keel and cedar planking?" "sure. i'll even show you where there's some big cedar stumps that'll do for the ribbing." "i already know," hans said. "what we wish to have you do now is deliver a good pound boat to pieter van hooven's place. two hundred dollars?" "yup. but if you haven't the money ..." "we have it," hans assured him. he counted out some money and pressed it into tom nedley's hands. the big boatmaker looked both embarrassed and pleased. "gosh! thanks! got your spiles driven?" "nope." "for that you need two boats." "of that i am aware. but we do not have money to buy two." "i'll get my brother, my cousin and their sons," tom nedley offered. "be down in the mornin'." "for that we will pay you." "aw, hans ..." "take it." hans grinned. "we are certain to get rich fishing but, if we don't, you will have something." "aw shucks ..." "take it!" "we'll be there." "thanks," hans said. mounting the cart, he turned the horse around and at a smart trot drove up into the village. ramsay sat proudly erect, feeling strength like that of a young bull arise within him. this was the village from which he had been driven in disgrace by devil chad, but it was a village he dared return to. any time he felt like it he would return to three points, and let devil chad meet him if he dared. hans stopped the horse in front of a cottage which might have been an exact duplicate of the one occupied by pierre and madame ledou. letting the horse stand, hans leaped from the cart and faced ramsay. "this," he announced loudly, "is the home of frog-mouth fontan, whose good wife is about to sell us a pound net. frog-mouth, by the way, is one of devil chad's closest friends." as though summoned by the voice, one of the very few tall frenchmen ramsay had ever seen appeared at the door. his mouth, the boy noticed, was oddly like that of a frog. as soon as he recognized his visitor, he emitted an enraged bellow and charged. hans grinned, stepped aside, and swung. but frog-mouth fontan was an expert fighter, too. he dodged, pivoted and dealt two swift blows that set hans' head to rocking. then the dutchman found the range, and sent his pile-driver fist into frog-mouth's jaw. he hit again, and a third time. frog-mouth fontan staggered, weaved backwards, and with a silly grin on his face sat down against the cabin. he continued to grin foolishly, staring into the bright sun. a small, dark woman without any teeth appeared at the door. she looked at her husband, then spat at him. "_cochon!_" she said. "pig!" she looked at ramsay and hans. "what do you want?" "one of your excellent pound nets, madame fontan," hans murmured politely. "do you have the money to pay for it?" "we have it." "load the net." ramsay helped hans lift the folded net, four pieces of three-and-a-quarter-inch webbing, two pieces of six-and-a-quarter-inch, and seven pieces of eight-and-a-half-inch, onto the cart. the latter sagged beneath almost seven hundred pounds of net, and the little horse looked questioningly around. but he stepped out obediently when hans slapped the reins over his back, and captain klaus squawked over them as they returned to pieter's farm. * * * * * the next morning ramsay stared in astonishment at a unique craft coming down the lake. five men, one of whom was tom nedley, manned the outlandish rigging, and it was propelled by two sets of oars. ramsay strolled down to meet it, and noticed some spiles--poles--about thirty-five feet long, that were piled on the beach. evidently hans had cut them, or had them brought down, after he and ramsay returned home. the craft, and as it drew near, ramsay saw that it was two sixteen-foot pound boats, bound together by stout planks front and rear, nosed into the pier. the crew disembarked, and tom nedley introduced ramsay to his brother, his cousin and their two strapping sons. ramsay turned a curious gaze on the boats. they were lashed solidly together by planks that kept them about fifteen feet apart. on top of the planks was raised a sort of scaffolding, connected by a heavy beam whose nether surface was about twenty feet from the water. suspended from the beam was a four-pulley block with a rope through each pulley, and the ropes supported an iron drop hammer. there was another pulley whose use ramsay could not even guess. shouting and scrambling as though this were some sort of picnic especially arranged just for them, tom nedley's boisterous crew threw the spiles in the water and floated them out to the boats. they tied them to the stern, then set up a concerted shouting. "hans! hey, hans! pieter!" grinning, hans and pieter, who had lingered over their breakfast after ramsay was finished, appeared from the house. tom nedley's brother said plaintively, "twenty minutes of six! half the day gone already! don't you fellows ever do anything except sleep?" "yaah!" hans scoffed. "who is so filled with ambition?" he looked at the oarsman who had spoken and leaped lightly into the boat. "now we will see who is the best man." ramsay jumped on board just in time to keep from being left behind, and hans bent his mighty back to the oars. in the second boat the other oarsman tried to match hans' pace, and the unwieldy craft spurted away like a frightened deer. trailing behind, the spiles left a path of bubbly ripples. out of the bay they went and into the open lake. then they turned south, obviously hans had some destination in mind. at any rate, he seemed to know exactly where he was going. they stopped rowing on a reef about a mile from shore, and one of the men retrieved a spile. tom nedley spoke to ramsay. "feel strong?" "sure thing." "good. we'll need some strong men around here. wait until they're set, an' then i'll show you what to do." hans and another man up-ended the spile and probed toward the lake bottom with it. they hung it on the other pulley and, when it was in place, the end was about three feet below the drop-hammer. hans fastened it to the pulley, steadied it with his hands and sang out, "let her go!" tom nedley handed a long rope to ramsay, bade him hold it tight, and two men in the other boat took the other two ropes. jerking the rope in his hands, tom nedley tripped the latch holding the drop-hammer, and instantly ramsay felt the weight. he hung on very tightly and was reassured by tom nedley's quiet, "you'll soon get the hang of it. when i give the word, let the hammer fall just hard enough to hit the spile. stop it, of course, before it hits the boys steadyin' for us." ramsay waited, his eyes on tom nedley. the big man said, "now!" the hammer dropped squarely but not completely, because ramsay tried to stop it too soon. again tom nedley reassured him. "just let her fall," he urged, as he helped raise the hammer back into position. "there's plenty of time to stop her, but don't be careless. that hammer weighs a hundred and seventy five pounds, an' i doubt if even hans' head would take that much fallin' on it." this time ramsay got the rhythm. the hammer dropped swiftly, squarely and with full force. it seated the spile in the lake bottom, so that there was no longer any necessity for holding it. hans and the other stepped back. again and again ramsay helped drop the hammer, until the pole was driven about eight feet into the lake bottom and perhaps four feet remained above the surface. it had been about thirty-six feet to start with, therefore the water at this place was twenty-four feet deep. it should be right for whitefish. "let me take that rope a while," someone said. gladly ramsay relinquished his rope to pieter, and rested his aching shoulders while he watched interestedly. the piles were being driven in a geometrical pattern, a sort of square, and ramsay understood that the first nine were to hold the pot, the actual trap. measuring carefully, the boats moved away and more spiles were driven. these were for the hearts of the net. finally, running straight toward shore, spiles were driven in a pattern that resembled the forks of a 'y.' to these would be attached the tunnel, the webbing that guided fish through the hearts of the pound net and into the pot. ramsay straightened, easing his aching shoulders. it was hard work, very hard, to lift the hammer and let it fall for hours on end. but now the spiles for one pound net were driven. the boy turned to hans. "gee whiz! how about moving all this?" "you don't move a pound net except, of course, to take up the webbing when the lake freezes. otherwise, we'll leave this right where it is. it is possible to fish a pound net in the same location for fifty years or more." "what's next?" "set the net. i think there is still time." they rowed back to the pier, where marta, who had taken over the treasurer's post, paid tom nedley and his crew. the big man grinned his thanks. "you need us again, you know where to find us." "we'll probably take you up on that," hans said. the ropes binding the two boats were loosened and the scaffold taken down. leaving the boat hans had bought, tom nedley and his helpers piled into the other one and started rowing up the lake. hans, pieter and ramsay went to the pound net. the pot, the trap, was loaded first. then came the flaring, heart-shaped 'hearts,' and finally the leads, or tunnel. setting himself to the oars, hans rowed back to where they had driven the piles. he tied the lead, the beginning of the tunnel, to the spile. a five-pound stone fastened to the bottom rope carried it down into the lake. giving the oars to ramsay and cautioning him to travel slowly, hans fastened the lead to each spile and sank it with stones. the flaring hearts were set in the same way. coming to the pot, hans first fastened a four-foot chain with an attached pulley to the pile. then he tied a rope, double the depth of the water and with some allowance for shrinkage, to the bottom of the pot. he did this on each spile, and they put the whole pot into the water. ramsay began to understand. in effect, they had set a gigantic fly-trap. any fish that came along would be guided by the tunnel into the hearts, and then into the pot. should any escape, the flaring sides of the hearts would keep them trapped and, nine times out of ten, send them back into the pot instead of out through the tunnel. * * * * * ramsay labored under the weight of a two-hundred-pound sturgeon which had been dragged in by the seine. hans and pieter hadn't wanted to bother with sturgeon because there was no market for them, anyhow, but ramsay had permitted them to throw none back into the lake. cradling his slippery prize across his chest, as though it was a log, he carried it to the pond and threw it in. for a moment the sturgeon swam dazedly on the surface, then flipped his tail and submerged. ramsay gazed into the pond. it was alive with sturgeon weighing from seventy-five to almost three hundred pounds. there were so many that, to supplement the food in the pond, they were feeding them ground corn. ramsay stripped off his wet clothes and dived cleanly into the pond. water surged about him, washing off all the sweat and grime which he had accumulated during the day. he probed along the pond's bottom, and felt the smooth sides of a sturgeon beneath him. it was only a little one. he swam on until he had to surface for air, and dived again. across the pond's murky depths he prowled, his white body gleaming like some great worm in the water. finally he found what he was looking for. it was a big sturgeon, and it was feeding quietly. moving as slowly as possible, ramsay rubbed a hand across its back. suddenly he wrapped both arms about the fish and took a firm grasp with his bare legs. for a moment, while the dull sturgeon tried to determine what was happening, there was no movement. then the big fish awakened to danger and shot to the surface. with all the speed of an outboard motor he sliced along it, and a moment later he dived again. grinning, exhilarated, ramsay swam back to shore and dressed. tradin' jack hammersly's rig was in the yard, and ramsay heard the man say, "marta, what you been feedin' your hens?" "the best!" marta said indignantly. "the very best!" "the best of what?" "why grain, and scraps, and ..." "and sturgeon roe?" "why--yes." "what i thought," tradin' jack sighed. "ye'll have to stop it. ever' customer as got some of your eggs told me they taste like caviar!" a moment later there was a rapid-fire sputter of french expletives. his face red, seeming about to explode, baptiste leclaire raced around the corner of the house. "get your guns!" he screamed when he saw ramsay. "get your knives and clubs too! get everything! we have to kill everybody!" chapter nine _pirates_ baptiste was dancing up and down, flinging his arms like the blades of a windmill and screaming in french. ramsay wrinkled his brow. he had picked up some french, but not enough to translate the torrent of words that rolled out of the agitated man's mouth. and never before in his life had he seen anyone so mad. baptiste was invoking every evil he could think of, a most generous portion, upon someone's hapless head. ramsay made a move to stop him. "wait. i can't follow you...." a few english words, among which ramsay recognized pig, dog and son of a rotten fish, mingled with baptiste's violent gallic tirade. he continued to wave his arms and yell. ramsay waited helplessly, unable to understand or to do anything. attracted by the clamor, hans, pieter, marta and tradin' jack appeared. very quietly hans advanced to baptiste's side. "what is it, my friend?" almost tearfully, grateful because, at last, he had someone able to understand, baptiste turned his machine-gun rattle of french on hans. ramsay watched the dutch fisherman's face tighten, and then it was set in white-hot anger. he waited for baptiste to finish, and asked in english, "do you know who did it?" "no." having worn himself out, baptiste lapsed naturally into english, too. he turned his hot, angry face on the others. hans spoke again. "go to madame fontan in three points," he said to baptiste. "tell her that i, hans van doorst, said that you are to have the nets you need. if she has not enough woven, get them elsewhere. madame ledou makes excellent seines and gill nets. go to the store for the rope you need, and tell them i will pay for everything. we ourselves will come to help you drive new spiles and make new sets." "it is good of you," baptiste's face was still flaming with rage, "but we cannot let the matter rest there." "nor can we," hans' tone was calm and reasoning, "go about shooting people when we do not know who to shoot." "pah! i know! it is devil chad!" "have you proof of that?" "the proof is self-evident. who but devil chad would dare do such a thing?" "did you see him?" "does one see the wise fox when he comes in the night to steal a fat goose? no, i did not see him." "listen, my friend. listen carefully. if this sort of piracy has been started and we do not end it, we are lost. but ours will be a small triumph if all of us get ourselves hanged. we must proceed with caution." "i do not like caution." "nevertheless, we must now employ it. we cannot rush off with guns and shoot because we suspect. get your nets and whatever else you need, and start anew. when you can bring me proof of the pirates, i myself will be the first to shoot." "it is the stumbling way." "it is the only way. if there is to be war, then let there be war. but we cannot strike out blindly. to do that will be to turn every man's hand against us. we cannot fight at all if we do not know our enemies." for a moment the dark-visaged little frenchman stood uncertainly. then he looked directly at hans. "i will do as you say," he agreed. "but should i catch anyone at my nets, they or i will not live to speak of it afterwards." "the same will happen should i catch anyone at our nets," hans promised. "but let us catch them before we act." baptiste leclaire swept his hat off, made a courtly bow, murmured, "your health, madame and messieurs," and turned back toward the pier. expertly handled, the _bon homme_ sailed gracefully into the lake. astonished, ramsay stared at hans, and pieter and marta reflected his astonishment. "what's got him by the ear?" ramsay asked. "baptiste," hans said, "had three pound nets which he tended with pound boats. he had a number of gill nets which he visited with the _bon homme_, a proper gill net boat." hans stared out on the lake, as though seeking the answer to some question that plagued him. he turned to face the others. "baptiste has no more pound nets. they have all been raised and ripped to shreds. the spiles to which he attached them were broken. of the gill nets he once had, one remains. the rest were destroyed. aside from his years of labor, baptiste has lost more than two thousand dollars' worth of nets." "who did it?" ramsay gasped. hans shrugged. "someone who has discovered, at last, that there is money to be had in lake michigan fishing. someone who will stop at nothing to get all of it for himself." there was conviction in ramsay's "devil chad!" hans shrugged again. "so baptiste thinks." "what do you think?" hans swung so fiercely on him that ramsay retreated a step. "you heard what i told baptiste!" the dutch fisherman said. "we must be certain! it is not for us to appoint ourselves judge, jury and executioner! before we act we must be sure!" "should we call in the constable?" hans said scornfully, "devil chad's man!" "what must we do?" "watch ourselves," hans declared. "hereafter we must leave the nets unguarded and the lake without our own patrol, only when we are sure it is safe. if someone has come to take from us our right to fish, we must be our own protection. at the same time we must not act blindly. the lake is big enough for all. if one has come who would take everything for himself, we fight." "you know it's devil chad." "i know no such thing." "do you suspect him?" "yes," hans answered frankly. "then why not take action?" "look, boy," and ramsay writhed because never before had hans addressed him in such a fashion, "lives are now at stake. let us be sure before we lose ours or take someone else's!" "you are right," pieter approved. "yes, you are right." puzzled, ramsay looked at his two partners. it was absurd to suppose that either was afraid; they had proven their courage too many times. yet, though both thought devil chad the raider, both refused to move against him until they had proof of his piracies. ramsay thought of something he had read, 'a man is innocent until proven guilty.' maybe hans and pieter believed that sincerely, while the hot-headed baptiste was ready to strike at anything at all. ramsay felt a rising admiration for his partners. "what must we do?" he asked. "i doubt if they'll strike by day," hans said. "if they come, it will be in the night. we'll make three watches, and alternate on them. that way they cannot surprise us." "suppose they come?" hans shrugged eloquently. "then we will fight and fight hard, for it is certain that no one else will do our fighting for us. do either of you have a choice as to watches?" nobody had a choice. hans broke three straws of different lengths, concealed them in the palm of his hand, and held them out. they drew, and compared straws. pieter had the shortest, the first watch, ramsay the second and hans the third. hans looked thoughtfully at the twilight-softened lake. "pieter, do you want to go out at seven and stay until eleven?" "yaah." "good. ramsay, stay out until about two and awaken me." "all right." ramsay ate the excellent supper marta had prepared, listened idly to the chatter of tradin' jack, who knew what had happened and was nervous because of it, and went upstairs to bed. in spite of his inner tension and his excitement, his head had scarcely touched the pillow when he dozed off. a moment later, or so it seemed, pieter was touching his shoulder. "it's time." "i ... huh? oh, yes." ramsay came fully awake, and pieter lighted the candle in his room. its beams sparkled brightly on the shining barrel of the muzzle-loading fowling-piece pieter carried. of a huge bore, the gun was charged with black powder and loaded with lead slugs. ramsay shuddered as he accepted it. such a gun would be sure to work great havoc among anything it was shot at, but its recoil alone would probably set a mule back on its haunches. "anything happen?" ramsay whispered. "nothing," pieter said. "nobody came. the lake is calm and the boat awaits you on the beach." "i'll see you in the morning." "good luck." his shoes in one hand and the shotgun in the other, ramsay stole quietly down the stairs and out the back door. he stopped to put his shoes on, and looked around him. a pale moon shone through disheveled clouds that gave the sky the appearance of a man sadly in need of a hair-cut, and the faintest suspicion of a breeze kicked up small wavelets. asleep on the ridge pole, captain klaus was a dull, shapeless blob in the night sky. ramsay cradled the shotgun in his right elbow and walked down to the beach. the pound boat had wedged itself lightly against the sand. ramsay put the anchor back in, carefully laid the shotgun on the rower's seat, and stood in the stern until he had tilted the craft from its mooring. sitting down, with a vigorous stroke of the oars he sent the boat farther into the lake. in the bay a fish jumped out of water, and the sound of its falling back made a tinkling splash. ramsay, dipping his oars quietly, steered toward the first pound net they had set. at intervals he halted to rest on the oars. there were no sounds save those that should have been present. except for him and the pound boat, the lake seemed deserted. lingering in the shadows, ramsay circled the net and saw nothing. he started toward another of their pound nets. they had kept the seine busy, taken good catches from their pound nets, and turned most of their money back into additional equipment. they were getting ahead and setting themselves up in the fishing business. by next year they should have everything they needed. they would not have to buy any nets, or boats, and could begin to enjoy the profits they were earning. ramsay found himself thinking of devil chad. fishing was very hard work, and expensive, but whoever did it well could hope for a fine future. lake michigan was a vast reservoir of riches, and they were to be used. there was room for all, but so was there room in three points. devil chad wanted that for himself. who but devil chad could now be plotting to seize the lake michigan fisheries? ramsay shrugged such thoughts away. out here on the lake he seemed able to think with great clarity, and he knew that hans and pieter were right. they must not lash out in thoughtless anger and hit at devil chad because he was the logical one to raid their nets. they must have proof, and strike as hard as possible when they struck. ramsay visited all three pound nets, and rowed back to the first one. the lake remained calm and unruffled. when he thought it was two o'clock--the night was divided into one watch of four hours and two of three each--he went in to rouse hans. at half-past five, when they ate breakfast, hans had nothing to report. if pirates were out to get all nets, certainly they had not bothered theirs. late that afternoon, when the fishing was done and ramsay, much to the amusement of hans and pieter, had carried six more big sturgeon to the pond, hans hitched the black horse and invited ramsay to go with him to three points. captain klaus, as usual, flew to the back of the cart and perched where he could caress hans with his bill. hans turned the little horse down the road leading to tom nedley's. ramsay stirred with interest. big tom nedley came out of his shed, greeted them, and looked doubtfully at the little cart. he glanced from it to a long oaken beam that was supported on wooden horses. when he looked again at hans, his voice and manner were almost accusing. "you aim to drag that piece of oak?" "you think i'm a fool?" hans challenged. "didn't think you'd drag it." tom nedley seemed relieved. "there ain't another piece of oak like that one in wisconsin. how do you aim to get it home?" "you have an extra pair of wheels and an axle?" "sure, but ..." "ha! bring me a wrench!" the wrench in his hands, hans set to work unbolting the clamps that held the body on pieter's two-wheeled cart. he lifted the body and seat off, leaving the horse hitched only to the wheels and the axle that joined them. hans looked triumphantly at tom nedley, and the boatbuilder scratched his head. "you needn't think you're so smart. i'd of thought of that myself afore i let you drag that timber." "why didn't you?" while tom brought another pair of wheels, ramsay looked at the solid chunk of oak. about twenty-six feet long, it was very fine-grained and it hadn't a crack or flaw throughout its length--fully seasoned, so that not a drop of sap remained in it. even ramsay, whose knowledge of wood was limited, could tell that this was an exceptionally fine chunk of oak. hans and tom nedley seemed to look upon it as they would have looked upon some valuable jewel. hans patted it affectionately. "stronger than steel!" he said fondly. "can you not imagine what a boat the _spray ii_ will be?" tom nedley said, "building from that, you cannot fail." for a moment hans was wistful, as though he had gone back in memory to the first _spray_. tom nedley brought another set of wheels, rolled them into place, and covered the bare axle with a soft blanket. he used another blanket to pad the axle to which the horse was hitched, and hans steered the horse into position. hans, tom and ramsay lifted one end of the oaken beam onto the rear wheels. ramsay helped lift the other end onto the other set of wheels, and stood aside while hans lashed both with ropes. ramsay watched interestedly. hans used his ropes to permit flexibility, while at the same time he took no chances on their chafing or breaking. apparently fishermen could do anything with ropes. ramsay tied the unbolted seat and body to the top of the oaken beam. hans took the little horse's bridle and led him carefully back to the road. mounted on its four wheels, the long oaken beam swayed and turned. leading the little horse, careful of everything that lay in front, behind and on both sides, hans set a very slow pace. it was as though the beam were a very fragile thing that might break should it brush even the smallest tree. actually, if it hit one hard, it would have broken any small tree in its path and rocked the larger ones. hans continued to treat it as though it were a very delicate thing. destined to be the keel of the _spray ii_, when they reached pieter's house the beam was lovingly set up on three scaffoldings made of four-by-sixes and arranged near the lake. hans patted it as lovingly as he would have stroked a favorite dog. "we have a start!" he said happily. "why do we need another boat?" ramsay queried. "for setting gill nets," hans replied. "you are not a fisherman unless you know how to set a gill net, and you cannot set a gill net unless you have a proper mackinaw boat." he petted the oaken beam again. "as responsive as a canoe it shall be, but as strong as a pound boat! this one shall not break no matter what happens. the lake will not breed a storm that it will be unable to ride out." that night ramsay's was the first watch. he rowed the pound boat from one to another of their three pound nets. no strange vessel disturbed the lake, no hostile creature approached. ramsay gave his watch over to hans, and slept until dawn. they fished, processed their catch and loaded thirty thousand pounds of whitefish onto the _jackson_ when she nosed into their pier. ramsay went with hans and pieter to a place where some mighty cedar trees, that had grown for centuries, had been cut when the snow was deep. their weathered stumps thrust six feet or more above the green foliage that surrounded them, and hans chose very carefully. he wanted only those stumps with a fine, closely knit grain, those which, even in death, showed no cracks or flaws. he found three of which he approved, and ramsay and pieter used a cross-cut saw to cut them off very close to the earth. ramsay began to understand the project in hans' mind. because of weather conditions, pound nets, at the very most, could be used for only about three to four months out of every year. the seine, though under no circumstances would hans fish in the spawning season, could be dragged in until the bay froze. but gill nets could be used for seven or eight months if one had a proper boat, and hans wanted to build one that would ride out any storm. it was not to be an ordinary mackinaw boat, but one such as lake michigan had never seen. its oaken keel had been chosen with an eye to the heaviest seas and the ice that speckled those seas in spring or fall. though some fishermen used cedar planking for the ribbing of their boats, and steamed it until it could be bent into the desired shape, hans intended to cut his directly from cedar stumps that had already endured five hundred years and ten thousand storms. then the _spray ii_ would be sheathed with the best possible cedar planking and calked with the best obtainable oakum, or rope soaked in tar. they would not float her this season. neither effort nor expense were to be spared in the building of the _spray ii_, and constructing her properly would be a winter's job. but as soon as the ice broke next year she would be ready to float, and they would be ready to set their gill nets. ramsay grinned fleetingly as he tossed bushels of ground corn into the pond so that the numerous sturgeon he had imprisoned there would have enough to eat. it seemed so very long ago that he had thrown in with hans and pieter and decided to become a fisherman, and he still hadn't two silver dollars to jingle in his pocket. not one day, scarcely one hour had been free of grueling labor. but they had two pound boats, three pound nets, had bought another seine, and with spring they would have the _spray ii_. in addition, there was enough of the season left, so that they should be able to catch plenty of fish before either ice or the spawning period curtailed operations. that would give them enough money to buy gill nets, as well as anything else they needed. none of the four partners would come out of this season with money in their pockets. they would own a sufficient amount of equipment for next year, and much of what they earned then would be profit. that night ramsay took the third watch. he rowed softly from one pound net to the other, always keeping in the shadows so that there was small danger of his being noticed. he had been out about an hour, and had two more to go, when he saw a boat approaching. it came from the north, three points, and its row locks were so well greased that not the faintest sound came from them. the oarsman was expert; he dipped and raised his oars so that there was no splashing. ramsay raised the shot gun. he leveled it. unseen by the other boatmen, he lurked in the shadows and let them pass. ramsay was somewhat surprised to see them give a pound net a wide berth and head into the bay. he followed, rowing his own boat silently while he tried to discern the others' intentions. there were at least four, and perhaps five, men in the other boat and they were going toward the pier. ramsay let them draw ahead, then circled around them and as fast as he could without making any noise, he rowed straight toward the beach. grounding his boat, he stepped out. he was aware of the other boat being drawn up cautiously. he walked toward the nocturnal visitors until he was within a half-dozen rods. he could see them now, clustered about the pier. two started for the barrels and the barreled fish. there was a faint whispering. ramsay waited to hear no more. had these people been well-intentioned, they would not be so secretive. plainly they were up to no good. ramsay pointed the shotgun toward the sky--he had no wish to kill anyone--braced the stock against his shoulder, and pressed the trigger. the gun belched its load of leaden pellets, and red flame flashed from the muzzle. ramsay shouted as loudly as he could. "pieter! hans!" dropping the shotgun on the sand beach, he rushed forward. the two men who had started toward the barrels and barreled fish came running back. ramsay glared his anger. though he could not be positive because it was too dark to identify anything or anyone positively, he thought that the man who stood just a little to one side of the rest was joe mannis, the body-watcher. ramsay swerved toward him, sent his doubled fist into the other's stomach, and heard a mighty '_whoosh_' as he knocked the wind out of his enemy. up at the house a door slammed. then a club or blackjack collided soddenly with the side of ramsay's head and set him reeling. he stumbled forward, feeling a little foolish because all the strength had left him. without being sure that he did so, he sat down on the sand and blinked owlishly at the night visitors. dimly he was aware of the fact that they were launching their boat and that he must stop them, but he did not know how to do so. a nightgown flapping about his legs and a tasseled red cap on his head, hans van doorst appeared on the beach. a pair of trousers hastily strapped about his own nightgown, pieter followed. both men looked quietly at the retreating boat, which they might have followed and would have followed had not ramsay needed help. they lifted him to his feet. "what happened?" hans asked quietly. "i ... they came while i was out on the lake, but they didn't bother the nets. they rowed right into the pier, and i don't know what they wanted." "did you recognize any of them?" "i think joe mannis was one." "devil chad?" ramsay said positively, "he was not among them. i would have recognized him." "did you shoot at them?" "no, i shot to attract you and pieter." "well, that's all right, too. they won't be back tonight, or likely any other night. come on." they helped ramsay into the house, bathed his head and put him to bed. he awoke to a mist-filled morning. no breath of air stirred. visibility was almost non-existent; the mist was so heavy that it almost hid the lake. ramsay, with all the elasticity of youth, had recovered quickly from last night's incident and he had a good appetite for the breakfast marta had prepared. then marta tossed her head defiantly. "all of you have been away," she announced, "and you have done many things. i have been nowhere and i have not done anything. but today i go to three points to shop." "sure," pieter said. "i'll hitch the horse for you." they cheered marta on her way and went down to cast the seine. the pound nets, having been visited within the past two days, would not again be visited today. aside from that, they had seined tons of whitefish and sturgeon out of the bay in front of pieter's house. naturally the catches were growing smaller. if they didn't take the seine too far out, and set it shallow, three men could work the windlasses. then, just as they were ready to fish, and just about when marta should have reached three points, a man on a lathered horse came pounding down the sand beach. he drew his tired mount up. "quick!" he gasped. "an accident! marta is badly hurt!" chapter ten _the great fish_ the great white sturgeon was not, in the truest sense of the word, a native of the lake. more years ago than any living thing could remember, he had been born, along with thousands of brothers and sisters, halfway up one of the many rivers that emptied into the lake. the sturgeon remembered little about that time, but just the same it had helped to shape him and make him what he was. the spawning sturgeon, a vast number of them, had started up the river together. it was a journey as old as the lake itself. side by side they swam, in such numbers and so many evenly-spaced layers that none of the many indians who fished along the river was able to thrust his spear without striking a sturgeon. preying bears, otter, panthers, lynx and other creatures that liked fish, thronged the river's banks and struck at the horde as it passed. so little did all their raids combined matter that it was as though they had taken nothing. no creature that wanted one lacked a sturgeon to eat. but the great mass of fish, impelled by the desperate necessity of laying their eggs in the river, swam on. only when miles were behind them and they were about a third of the way to the river's source, did the vast schools start to thin out. then it was not because their enemies took too many, though they caught a great number. the schools started to lessen because many, too exhausted to go farther or content with spawning grounds already reached, dropped behind to spawn. finally only a few, not necessarily the biggest but invariably the most vigorous, were left. day after day, night after night, stopping only to rest or feed, they went on up the virgin river. buck deer, drinking, saw the fleeting shadows pass, snorted and leaped skittishly away. drinking buffalo raised their shaggy heads and, with water dribbling from their muzzles, stared after the migrating fish. everything seemed, in some small way, to sense the mystery that went with the swimming sturgeon. they were part of the abundance of this wealthy land, and when they were through spawning, that abundance would be increased. the very presence of the fish was within itself a promise that more were to follow. finally there were only half a dozen sturgeon left. one was a very strong female whose spawn-swollen body even now contained the egg, the cell, that was to be the great white sturgeon. swimming close beside her was an equally vigorous male. all the sturgeon that had been able to come this far were among the finest and best. they stopped in a quiet pool which, within itself, was almost a little lake. a third of a mile wide by a mile and a half long, the pool rolled smoothly down an almost level course. it was shaded on either side by gloomy pines that marched like soldiers in disordered rank for a very great distance. there were no grunting buffalo here, though an occasional white-tailed deer tripped daintily down to drink from the sweet, unpolluted water. on either side of the pool was a mat of green sedges and water-lilies, and in them a great horde of ducks were rearing their young. they skittered foolishly over the water, seeming to pay no attention to anything save the sheer joy of being alive. now and then the water beneath them would dimple and ripple in widening circles towards either bank; and when it did, invariably there would be one less duckling. nothing paid any attention whatever to such casualties. life teemed in the pool, and there life also fed on life. it was meant to be, and the mighty pike that lived in the pool had to eat, too. weary, but far from exhausted, the female carrying the white sturgeon-to-be pushed herself into the sedges and lay quietly while she rid herself of the burden that she had carried so far. a million or more eggs she left there, and almost before she was finished two little pike that made their home in the sedges had started gobbling them up. the female sturgeon paid absolutely no attention, and neither did her mate, when he came to fertilize the eggs. they were here to do, and knew how to do, only one thing. finished, they had no thought as to what might happen next. the two sturgeon swam back into the pool and rested before beginning their long return journey to the great lake. but they had chosen wisely and well. almost before the parent fish left, a mink that had long had his eye on the small pike swam quietly down to take one while it was feeding. the other one fled. though other things came to eat them, in due time what remained of the spawn hatched. the white sturgeon was the first to appear. the baby fish came of strong parents, so that there were almost no infertile eggs, but such inroads had already been made among them that not one in twenty ever knew life. immediately they were singled out by hungry enemies. the white sturgeon should have died first for, though all his brothers and sisters were almost the color of the water in which they found birth, he was distinctly different. he was lighter--perhaps a throwback to some distant age when all sturgeon were white--and thus he was the easiest to see. but he seemed to have been born with compensating factors. when a foot-long bass, a very monster of a thing compared with the baby sturgeon, swam among them, they scattered in wild panic. the feeding bass had only to snap here and there to get all he wanted, but the white sturgeon did not flee with the rest. instead, he sank down beside a cattail and did not move. a tiny cloud of mud-colored water drifted around and covered him. thus, from the very first, the white sturgeon seemed to have a keener brain, or a sharper instinct, that made up for his distinctive coloring. though he should have been the first to die, he did not die. he learned his lessons well, and saw how many of his brothers and sisters perished. thus he discovered how to stay alive. for weeks he lived near his birthplace, swimming scarcely two yards from it and feeding on minute particles of both vegetable and animal life. most of his time he spent feeding, and he grew very fast. not until encroaching winter drove him there did he move out into the pool. most of the ducks were gone before the first thin shell ice formed on the borders of the pool, and those that lingered after that flew out with the first snow. the snow blew in from the north on the heels of an unseasonably early winter wind, and the white sturgeon saw the mighty pines heaped with feathery snow. snow lay deep on the ground, and the deer that came down to the pool seemed almost jet-black against its virginal whiteness. lingering in the shallows, the white sturgeon held very still. his was the accumulated wisdom of ages. ancestors almost exactly like him had swum in antediluvian seas when huge, scaley monsters roamed the earth, and perhaps the white sturgeon knew that, as long as he held still near the snow-covered bank, he would be hard to see. or perhaps he merely found the snow, his own color matched at last, interesting. right after the snow stopped there was a spell of sub-zero weather that threw a sheathing of ice clear across the pool and froze the shallows to the very bottom. only then did the white sturgeon move out of them. he did not move far because it was not necessary to move far, and anyway the great pike lingered in the center of the pool. almost one third jaw, the pikes' mouths were edged with needle-sharp teeth that never let go and never failed to rip what they seized. of the young sturgeon that lived until fall, perhaps two hundred and fifty in all, the pike had half before the winter was well set. the rest were too wary to be easy prey. all winter long, living on the edge of the ice and finding all the food he needed in the soft mud floor of the pool, the white sturgeon led a solitary existence. but it was not a lonely life because, as yet, it was not in him to be lonely. all he knew, and all he had to know, was that he must survive. every effort was bent to that end. in the spring, shortly after the ice broke up and moved sluggishly down the river, the white sturgeon followed it. with him went three of his brothers and two sisters, and if more than that had survived he did not know about them or where they were. nor did he care. in his life there was no room for or meaning to affection; he traveled with his brothers and sisters merely because, like him, they too were going down the river. the journey was not at all hurried. the white sturgeon, who by this time knew much more about the various arts of survival than he had known when he left the pool, passed the next winter in another, smaller pool, less than two miles from his birthplace. he chose the pool largely because it was the home of a vast number of fish smaller than he, and they offered an easy living to the pike, bass and other things that lived by eating fish. grown fat and sluggish in the midst of super-abundance, these predators were not inclined to chase anything that cared to avoid them or to work at all for their living. all they had to do was lie still and sooner or later the living would come to them. for his part, the white sturgeon had no desire to hurt anything. his sole wish was to be left alone, so he could peacefully pursue his own path of destiny. he grubbed in the mud for his food and idled when he was not eating. but, because he had a prodigious appetite, he was eating most of the time. as a consequence, he continued to grow very rapidly. again and again, while he pursued his lazy journey down the river, the white sturgeon saw the lake sturgeon swim past him as they headed upstream toward the spawning grounds. swimming strongly, they came in huge schools. spent from the spawning, they swam slowly past him on their way back to the lake. vaguely the white sturgeon identified himself with these fish. never did he have more than a passing wish to join them. he wanted only to continue his leisurely trip down the river, and time meant nothing at all. though the white sturgeon did not realize it, everything was part of a mighty pattern and a vast scheme. though there had never been a time when he was not in danger, the river had not been an unkind school. there he had learned how to avoid his enemies and how to become the powerful fish which he must be were he to live. then the river gave him his last test. he was near the mouth, only a few miles from the lake, when he suddenly found himself face to face with a monstrous pike. the pike in the pool of his birth were big, but they were dwarfed by this one. out of the shadows he came, a long, sinewy thing with the heart of a tiger and the jaws of a pike. even wolves' jaws are not more terrible. the white sturgeon did as he always did when danger threatened; he held very still. but this time it was futile because the pike had already seen him. thus the thing which must never happen, did happen. the white sturgeon came face to face with danger in its deadliest form. if he lived through this, then never again would he have to fear an enemy that swam in the water. suddenly the pike whirled, flipped a contemptuous tail, and drifted back into the shadows out of which he had come. he was not afraid; no pike is ever afraid of anything, but the white sturgeon was nearly as large as he and even the pike never killed wantonly, or destroyed that which he could not eat. the white sturgeon swam on. he had graduated with honors from the river's school, and he seemed to know it. for the first time since his birth, a mighty restlessness gripped him. not again did he linger in the pools, or stop to feed for a week or a month wherever he found a rich feeding bed. urgings and commands within him that had been passive were suddenly active. with all this, he remained a harmless fish. never born to battle, he had no wish to fight and he did not abandon all his hard-won caution. if the pike had not hurt him, nothing that swam in the river or lake would hurt him; but the white sturgeon retained a fear of those creatures not born of the water. aliens, they would not abide by the creed of the water. while heeding a sudden and great wish to get out of the river and into the lake, the white sturgeon stayed far from both river banks. a ghost figure in the murky water, he shot out of the river's mouth and into the cold lake. for a while he sported like a dolphin, rising to the surface, showing his white back, and diving. an indian who was spearing fish from a canoe stared his astonishment. trembling, he sheathed his spear and paddled back to his encampment. he had seen the white sturgeon, the ghost fish, and that night a mighty storm knocked down a big pine near the indian's camp. two people were killed when it fell. knowing nothing of this, lying contentedly in thirty feet of water where he was aware of the storm only because his fine and deep senses made him aware of everything that occurred above, the white sturgeon grubbed for food in the lake's bottom. the next time his tribe left the lake to rush up the river, the white sturgeon journeyed with them. he went because he must, because it was a call even stronger than hunger and he could not resist it. the strongest of sturgeon, he stayed in the fore-front of the spawning horde and still remained away from the banks. the few indians who saw him were so astonished that they forgot to strike with their spears, and he never even came close to the prowling bears and other beasts that waxed so fat when the migrating sturgeon came back to spawn. guided by the most precise of instincts, the white sturgeon went exactly to that spawning bed in the sedges where he was born, and fertilized the eggs that a female left there. wan and spent, caring for nothing, once his main purpose in life had been realized, he turned and swam back into the lake. that was now his home. again and again the white sturgeon went up the river with his kind. only once, in all the trips he made, was he in real danger, and that time an indian's spear scratched his side. the indian, fishing with two companions, promptly fell into the river and drowned. thus the legend of the white sturgeon grew. born in a red man's fertile mind, it was handed from red man to white and distorted in the transfer. now none could trace its origin and none knew exactly how it had begun. lake men knew only of the white sturgeon, and he had learned much of men. but he lived in the present, not the past. years had elapsed since lake michigan was shadowed only by canoes. now there were the mackinaw boats, the pound boats, the churning side-wheelers and the rowboats. because it was his affair to know everything that went on in the lake, the white sturgeon knew them all. he knew also that it was good to rest in the lake's gentler places. not in years had he rushed up the river with his spawning comrades. the fires of his youth had long since been quenched, and besides, he was now far too big to travel up any river. perhaps the same quirk of nature that had granted him his pigment had given him his size. other sturgeon were thought to be huge when they attained a weight of two hundred and fifty pounds. the white sturgeon weighed almost a thousand pounds. he was still a gentle creature, though the sudden angers of age were apt to seize him, and on the morning that ramsay, pieter and hans were called to three points, the sturgeon was feeding quietly in the tunnel of the first pound net they had set. he stopped feeding when he sensed an approaching boat. it was a mackinaw boat, used for setting gill nets, and it was shrouded in mist that sat like a fleecy blanket upon the lake. the white sturgeon lay very still. he was not afraid but he had no wish to be disturbed, and if he remained very quiet, perhaps he would not be bothered. he was aware of something coming into the lake and of the boat's withdrawal into the shrouding mist. the white sturgeon decided to move, but when he tried to do so he found his way blocked. a gill net was stretched across the entrance to the pound net, effectively preventing anything outside from getting in or anything inside from getting out, and the white sturgeon was trapped by it. gently he nosed against the gill net, seeking a way through. when none offered, he swam a little ways and tried again. a third, a fourth and a fifth time he sought escape. there was none, and the white sturgeon's anger flared. he flung himself against the gill net, felt it cling to his mighty body, and twisted about. a hundred yards to one side, in a weak place, the net ripped completely in half. the white sturgeon threshed and twisted until he had reduced the entrapping folds to a mass of linen thread. segments of the ruined net clung to him as he swam away. chapter eleven _fisherman's luck_ the horse that had galloped from three points to pieter's farm in order to bring news of marta's misfortune was too spent to gallop back. nor could he carry more than one man, even if he had not been spent. ramsay, pieter and hans left horse and rider at the farm, while they started up the beach. for a short distance they stayed together. then ramsay, the youngest and best winded of the three, drew ahead. a cold dread and a great fear gnawed at him as he alternately walked and trotted. marta had become like a beloved sister to him, and the messenger carried no news except that she was injured. how or why, he had not said. ramsay glanced back over his shoulder to see if his companions were keeping up with him, and discovered that they were lost in the mist. in any event the day would have been unpleasant. there was just the right weather combination to make it so--a hint of rain combined with warm air to drape the fog over everything. and there was no indication that anything would change. somehow it seemed just the day to get bad news. ramsay lengthened out to trot again, and then increased his trot to a run. he was breathing hard, but far from exhausted, and with a little surprise he realized that he would not have been able to travel so far without halting, or so fast, when he first came to wisconsin. a fisherman's life had toughened him immeasurably. once more he slowed down and looked around to see if pieter and hans were in sight. they were not. he walked until he was rested, then trotted into three points. as though there was something in the village that drove it back, the mist had not invaded there. it was on all sides so thick that the lake could not be seen and the trees were ghost shapes, half-concealed and half-disclosed. most of three points was at work, but the few passers-by on the street glanced curiously at ramsay as he swung past them. he saw the little black horse, tied to a hitching post in front of the general store. he bounded up the wooden steps, pushed the door open and entered. marta, the lower part of her left leg encased in a clean white bandage, was sitting on a chair. she turned astonished eyes on him. "ramsay!" "are you all right?" he gasped. "why ... of course, i'm all right!" "you're not hurt?" "a scratch!" she sniffed disdainfully. "just a scratch! i stumbled when i stepped out of the cart. ach! such a clumsy one i was!" the storekeeper's wife, obviously the one who had bandaged marta's leg, smiled her reassurance. "it is not bad," she said. "oh!" ramsay felt a moment's clumsiness because he could think of nothing to say, and again he exclaimed, "oh!" panting hard, deep concern written on their faces, hans and pieter came into the store. marta's surprised eyes opened still wider. "i thought you boys were fishing!" "we--we had to come in for some more twine," ramsay said somewhat lamely. "three of you?" "yaah," hans, never slow to understand, smiled with affected laziness. "you know us men, marta. there wouldn't one of us stay there and work while another was loafing in three points." "that's right." slow pieter finally understood that there was more here than met the eye. "how'd you hurt yourself, marta?" the wondering gaze of the storekeeper and his wife were upon them now. still puzzled, marta glanced covertly at the three men. ramsay looked at the storekeeper's wife. "you should have sent somebody to tell us she was hurt." "but," the storekeeper's wife was completely bewildered, "she is not hurt." "what's the matter?" marta seemed worried now. "nothing," hans answered blandly. "nothing at all. we just decided to have a holiday in three points." "go long!" marta scoffed. "men! they're bigger babies than babies are!" "be sure to bring us some twine," hans said. "oh, sure. that i will do." "good." all three men were smiling easily. but as soon as they left the store and were out of marta's sight, the smiles faded and their faces became grim and intent. "who was the man who told us she was hurt?" ramsay asked. pieter shook his head, and hans said, "i never saw him before and i don't expect to see him again. probably he was riding into milwaukee anyway, and somebody gave him a dollar to report an accident." ramsay nodded. hans, as usual, was logical and there could be only one answer. somebody was indeed out to capture the fishing on lake michigan. they had started by destroying baptiste's nets and now they were moving against ramsay and his friends. but they knew well the prowess of the three and had no wish to strike while they were present. marta's reported accident had been only a ruse to draw them away. ramsay started toward the sand beach, but hans laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. "wait!" "we'd better get back and look to our nets." "there is time, and we'd better not go blindly." "what are we going to do?" hans said grimly, "find the constable and ask him to accompany us. then, if there is trouble, and i expect it, we will have the law with us rather than against us." "suppose the constable doesn't care to come along?" "he'll come," hans promised. they strolled down the street, stopping in various places, until they found jake hillis, the constable devil chad had put in office, in the lake house. the woman who had given ramsay the steak and then made him wash dishes to pay for it, looked up and smiled. "hello." "hi!" ramsay grinned. "you didn't run, after all." "nope. i didn't." the constable, standing at the bar, turned around to face the three. he hooked both thumbs in his belt, letting his fingers dangle. his right hand, ramsay could not help seeing, was not too far from the pistol that swung from his belt. there was no readable expression on his face, but the woman, who knew him well, went hastily into another room. flanked by ramsay and pieter, hans walked directly up to the constable. "we have something," he said softly, "that demands your attention." "what is it?" "it has to do with nets and a raid upon them." "i got no authority over what happens on lake michigan." "nevertheless, we need a good, honest man of the law with us. and we will pay you well enough." jake hillis shook his head. "i can't go off on any wild goose chases. my duty is to protect this town." hans' voice softened even more. "i am asking you again to come with us." the constable's right thumb slipped from his belt and his hand dropped to the butt of the revolver. his fingers curled around it. as though by accident, pieter stumbled forward. strong enough to stop a bull in its tracks, pieter wrapped his own steel fingers around the constable's right wrist, and when they disengaged the pistol was in pieter's hand. "excuse me!" he said contritely. "i am so clumsy!" "well?" hans inquired. jake hillis looked from one to the other. he was like a drum which almost always must sound the cadence someone else beats. strength was the only force he recognized, and now he saw himself surrounded by strong, determined men. for a moment he struggled with himself. then "i'll go," he said. hans responded graciously, "thank you. we knew that you would come as soon as you understood the reason in it." "here's your pistol." pieter extended the weapon. "i got to warn you," the constable pronounced, "that i am going to hold you responsible for anything that happens here while i am away. and i better tell you that i won't put up with any law-breaking." "good!" hans said. "you are a conscientious man!" the mist dipped and twisted about them as they started down the sand beach toward pieter's farm. ramsay tried to find answers to the many questions in his mind. certainly somebody had lured them away from their fishing gear. who had done so? was devil chad involved? if so, why did jake hillis accompany them at all? certainly the servant would not willingly provoke a fight with the master. if devil chad was the leader of the pirates, did he trust his minion so little that he had told him nothing? ramsay shrugged: they would have to wait and find out. reaching the farm, pieter entered the house to get the shotgun and a pair of exquisitely carved pistols which ramsay had never seen before. dueling pistols, they looked like, and ramsay glanced curiously at pieter. the man was anything except stolid, yet he never spoke of his past and of what had really brought him across the atlantic ocean to this wild inland sea. ramsay dismissed the thought. in this country it was often just as well to forget a man's past or that he had ever had a past. jake hillis looked narrowly as pieter handed hans a pistol, kept one for himself and gave the shotgun to ramsay. "i don't hold with shooting scrapes!" he said. "and i don't want any part of 'em!" "there'll be none," hans assured him, "unless we are shot at first." they launched a pound boat, and hans took the rower's seat. jake hillis sat beside pieter and ramsay crouched to one side. a shiver ran through him. the mist seemed to be settling in even more thickly; they had scarcely left the shore when they were unable to see it. from the top of the house, the bedraggled captain klaus squawked his protest at such weather. hans rowed swiftly but there was no trace of hesitation in his manner, and ramsay marveled. the mist was heavy enough to cut visibility to almost nothing, but hans steered as certainly as he would have on the sunniest of days. he seemed to know the lake so intimately that, no matter what happened, he could still find his way. they reached the first pound net, rowed around it. ramsay sighed with relief. if pirates had come to raid, they had not yet touched this net. ramsay shifted his position, and jake hillis stirred uneasily. then, almost beside the boat, the water rippled and the white sturgeon surfaced for a moment. nearly the color of the mist, he lay quietly on top of the water, then dived. hans' low laughter rippled. "we have a friend!" he said. they were near the second pound net now, and ramsay gripped his shotgun fiercely. he could see nothing, but something seemed to be present. it was a half-sensed threat, like an unseen tiger crouching in the darkness beside a campfire. they saw the spiles of the second pound net rising like a ghost's fingers. slowly hans started rowing around it. then ramsay glanced behind him and snapped the shotgun to his shoulder. from shorewards another mist-wreathed craft appeared. it was a mackinaw boat, like the _spray_, and the men on her were only half seen in the heavy overcast. ramsay breathed a warning, "watch it!" hans let the boat drift and took the pistol in his hand. almost carelessly, as though there was no hurry about anything at all, pieter did likewise. jake hillis drew his breath sharply. the two boats came closer together, and ramsay recognized joe mannis. there were also three nondescript loafers of the riff-raff type who are always found on any frontier and who will do anything for money. but ramsay centered his gaze on the fifth man in the mackinaw boat. there could be no mistaking him, even in the mist. it was devil chad. the other boat came nearer and was much easier to see. ramsay felt a cold chill seize him. all the men in the boat were armed with shotguns, and they could sweep the pound boat from one end to the other if there was to be a fight. ramsay glanced at jake hillis. the constable was sitting quietly, tense and strained, but he did not seem to be afraid. devil chad's bellow blasted, "what are you doin' here?" ramsay heard hans' low laugh and his quiet, "the man is most uncivil." "don't get smart with me!" devil chad threatened. "you come to rob our net, didn't you?" hans, surprised, made a momentary slip. "your net?" "yes, our net! you come to rob it like you robbed all the rest!" chad's expressionless eyes pierced jake hillis like daggers. "what are you doin' here?" hans answered calmly. "he is here as our guest, and at our invitation. now let us hear some more about 'your' net." "you know what i mean! touch it an' we start shootin'!" "but we haven't touched anything," hans said smilingly. he turned to jake hillis. "have we?" jake hillis, too dull-witted for quick evasion, said, "no, you haven't." cold rage mounted within ramsay. he swung his shotgun so that the muzzle centered squarely on devil chad. if it came to a gun battle, he decided grimly, his arch-enemy would at least be shot at. hans, unruffled, took command. "where is your net? show us." "right here." ramsay heard the mockery in hans' voice. "and i suppose that it is a gill net?" "how'd you know that?" devil chad challenged. "i gazed into my crystal ball," hans said smoothly, "and i discovered that, when one fisherman wishes to eliminate a competitor, he can always stretch a gill net across the tunnel of a pound net. there is certain to be a battle, and whoever survives controls the fishing." ramsay began to understand. fishing on lake michigan was governed by no enforceable law but only by the ethics of the fishermen themselves. most of them were ethical; when one found a good fishing ground, others usually respected his rights. but there was no law that said they had to respect them. should one fisherman care to trespass on the rights of another, he could always find some way to provoke a quarrel. then, regardless of anything else that happened, he could say that he was only trying to protect his property or claim in some other way that his was a just quarrel. few people would be able to prove to the contrary. then a blue-and-white buoy, a marker used on a gill net, floated into sight. hans saw it, too, and again his voice was mocking. "is that the net you mean?" there were subdued voices on the mackinaw boat. joe mannis put his shotgun down and stepped to the bow of the boat with a gaff hook in his hand. he lay prone, stabbed with the gaff, and hooked the buoy. foot by foot he reeled in thirty yards of tattered gill net. hans' scornful laughter rolled like a barrel through the mist and bounded back in echoes. ramsay, highly amused, echoed hans. "find your other buoy!" hans called. "pull it in, take it home, and repair your gill net! but do not again set it on our fishing grounds!" the mackinaw boat floated into the mist. ramsay saw the baffled rage on devil chad's face. but mostly he was aware of the contempt of hans for devil chad. "here!" hans called. "you're missing a man!" he turned to jake hillis. the constable glowered back, like a stupid horse. "want to swim over and join your little friends?" hans invited. "no." "well, we brought you out from the sand. we'll take you back to the sand." hans' shoulders were shaking with silent mirth as he bent his back to the pound boat's oars. he steered in to the pier they had built, and expertly nosed the boat in to its landing. a mist-draped wraith, marta, awaited them. "what happened?" she queried anxiously. "nothing," pieter assured her. "a great deal," hans corrected. "they caught the white sturgeon, for no other fish in the lake could have wrecked a net so completely. i told you we have a friend." he took a pouch from his pocket, counted five silver dollars from it, and dropped them into jake hillis' hand. captain klaus flew down from the house top to alight on hans' shoulder. "_quark!_" he squawked. as though he understood perfectly, hans said, "that is right, my little one." and to jake hillis he said, "if you see them, tell them not to come again." deliberately turning his back on the constable, hans stared out over the lake. then jake hillis was gone, and somehow it was as though he had never even been with them. ramsay waited expectantly. hans turned away from his intent study of the lake, and he was frowning as though there was some complicated problem which he must solve. yet when he spoke, his voice betrayed nothing abnormal and there was no sign that he might have been under the least strain. "perhaps it would be well not to fish again today. that is a shame, for the season draws to a close and we cannot fish much longer, anyway. still, we have done all that it is necessary to do, and next year we will be well-situated. we will have gear and tackle. i go to work on the boat." ramsay asked, "do you think they will come again?" hans answered deliberately, "i do not think so, but no man may say for certain. they are not without determined and intelligent leadership. if he does come again, he will come hard and directly at us. he will not bother with the nets. there is no need to keep a patrol on the lake tonight." without another word hans turned on his heel and strode off to where the _spray ii_ was supported on its blocks. ramsay went into the barn, shouldered a hundred-pound sack of cornmeal, and carried it to the pond in which he had imprisoned almost countless sturgeon. with both hands he cast the ground corn into the pool, and returned for another sack, and another. then he stood with the last empty sack limp in his hands, idly watching the pond. it had been an exciting summer, the most adventurous and most satisfying he could remember, but it must soon end. already there was a hint of frost in the air, and frost meant that the whitefish would soon spawn. nothing could persuade hans to fish in the spawning season, when every fish caught meant the loss of perhaps ten that might be. even if hans would have fished, autumn meant storms when none but a fool would venture onto the lake in a small boat. ramsay turned slowly away from the pond. he wandered over to where hans was working on the _spray ii_. it was to be a mackinaw boat, somewhat like a canoe, and it was to be used for setting gill nets. these, ramsay understood, could be set almost as soon as the ice went out. handy with almost any sort of tool, hans himself had fashioned a wood vise that turned on a wooden gear. he had a section of cedar stump clamped in the vise, and with a rasp and a fine-toothed saw he was painstakingly fashioning a rib for the _spray ii_. unhurried, a true artist, he shaped one side of the rib to the other. when he had finished, it was a perfect thing, so evenly balanced that a feather's weight on either side might have unbalanced it. ramsay wandered away, satisfied. the _spray ii_ was to be no ordinary vessel. there would not be another mackinaw boat on lake michigan to match it. restlessly ramsay worked on the seine until marta called them. he ate, went to bed, and dropped into his usual instant deep slumber. at first he was vaguely irritated because noises in the night disturbed him. then he identified those sounds as the crying of an alarmed sea gull. captain klaus, on top of the roof, was vehemently protesting something. ramsay became aware of a strange, unreal sunrise reflecting through his bedroom window. fully awake, he rushed to the window, and saw that, down on the beach, all their boats were burning fiercely. chapter twelve _the pond_ captain klaus made a swooping flight that carried him out toward the burning boats. frightened by a puff of smoke, he flew back to the top of the house and continued to call querulously. for a moment ramsay stood still, petrified by the spectacle. then his shout alarmed the house. "hans! pieter!" by the light that flickered through his window he sprang for his clothing and hastily pulled his trousers on. letting the tails and front hang out, he donned his shirt and put shoes on his bare feet. he was aware of muffled cries echoing from the rest of the house, and a lighted candle flared in the hall. he rushed out to meet hans coming from his bedroom, and a second later pieter's door flew open. only half-awake and less than half-dressed, the latter blinked like a sleepy dog in the candle's little light. marta peered uneasily over his shoulder. "what is it?" "the boats are burning!" ramsay gasped. with a mighty, outraged lion's roar, pieter came fully awake and sprang toward the stairs. for one brief second ramsay was aware of marta's face, dead-white, then he leaped to follow pieter. holding the candle aloft, hans followed. again the dutch fisherman seemed to take complete command of the situation. there was anger in his voice but no trace of panic when he warned the other two, "slowly! go slowly!" his hand on the kitchen door, pieter halted. ramsay paused uncertainly behind him, and hans blew the candle out. the dutch fisherman had weathered so many savage storms that he seemed to know exactly what to do, no matter what the crisis. ramsay watched and approved. he must learn to be more like hans and to rule the emergencies that arose rather than let them rule him. hans spoke again, "let us not go like sheep to the slaughter. if they came again, they are probably armed and they may shoot. pieter, get the guns." pieter shuffled off to the dark kitchen and came back. ramsay felt the familiar shotgun being pressed into his hands, and he knew that hans and pieter each had a pistol. because that seemed the thing to do, ramsay waited until hans acted. the dutch fisherman spoke again, and his voice remained unruffled. "we cannot tell who or what is out there. until we discover exactly, keep out of the light cast by the burning boats. do not use your guns unless they shoot first. then shoot to kill. come on." silent as a shadow, hans slipped into the blackness that reigned at the back of the house. pieter followed, while ramsay brought up the rear. he shivered, but only part of his chill was caused by the cold night. this afternoon on the pound boat he had felt only tense excitement. but then hans and pieter had backed him and their presence had been a very real thing. now, in the night, he was almost completely unaware of them. it was as though he stood completely alone. ramsay felt his way along the rear wall of the house to the corner, and there the darkness was broken by the glare from the burning boats. ramsay crept up beside hans and peered around the corner. the mist was gone, and a sharp breeze had sprung up in its wake. every night, when the fishing was done, or any time at all when they weren't being used, the pound boats were pulled far up on the shore. casting a circle of light over the water, the burning boats illuminated the rising waves whose whitecaps broke and fell. a fierce storm was in the making. ramsay's fear gave way to terrible anger. the wind from the lake would have fanned the flames anyway, but obviously, before they had been set on fire, the two pound boats had been coated with tar, pitch, or something else that would burn hard and assure their complete destruction. they were already charred beyond the faintest hope of salvation. ramsay gritted his teeth. hans left the house and swung back, away from the lake, on a course that would keep him in the shadows. ramsay followed, and he was aware of pieter following him. there was not the least sign of the raiders or of the boat they might have come in. ramsay hesitated. perhaps they had done their work and fled, or perhaps they were lurking in ambush near the burning boats. five shotguns could be ready to cut down whoever came. then ramsay set all his doubts at rest. he knew what he must do. there could no longer be any question but that this was devil chad's work. he controlled everything around three points that made any money. he was out to gain control of the fishing, too, and he was not a man who would leave any job half-done. failing to provoke a fight because the white sturgeon had ruined his gill net, he had taken the direct approach. beyond any doubt he would be able to produce any number of witnesses who would swear that hans, ramsay and pieter were the aggressors. ramsay knew what he was going to do about this. "take the shotgun," he whispered, and pressed the weapon upon pieter. "but ..." "take it," ramsay repeated. leaving the shotgun with the bewildered pieter, he dropped to the ground and wormed farther away from the circle of light. into the shadows he went, then on toward the lake. now he did not know where hans and pieter were or what they were doing, but he was positive that they would take any action necessary when the time came. he no longer felt alone. this was a thing that could never be settled with guns but must be slugged out toe to toe and man to man. the fishing was worthwhile, and any man who would get and keep anything worthwhile had to be ready to fight for it. if devil chad had already fled, tomorrow they must go into three points and seek him out. ramsay halted, peering around. he could see nothing clearly. the flames had died down and there was only dimness, filled with varying shadows that were most difficult to identify. but what was that down at the edge of the lake? it seemed to rise and fall with the rising and falling waves. most of the shadows were there one second and flitted away the next, but this did not flit away, and after another thirty seconds ramsay was fairly sure that it was a mackinaw boat, anchored out in the lake. its crew had waded ashore from it and, when and if they ran, they would wade back to it. ramsay began a slow, steady crawl toward the anchored craft. the burning pound boats flared brightly, seeming to ring him with a halo of light. he shrank back, certain he could be seen, then as the glare subsided, crawled forward again. if he could see no one in the darkness, neither could anyone see him. he was within thirty yards of the lake now, and he no longer gave a thought to hans and pieter. he was sure only that they would be present when they were needed and that his way was the right one. there could be no compromise with destruction and no lingering aftermath of this outrage. whatever was to be settled had to be settled completely, and tonight. ramsay was certain now that the thing he saw was an anchored mackinaw boat. it remained in the same place, rising and falling with the waves, and no nebulous shadow did that. intent on the boat, he was not aware of the man until he heard his voice, "gus, you fool! i said be quiet!" ramsay held very still, and a rising exultation flooded him. he had heard that voice before, and there was only one just like it. he had heard it first when he stood on the _holter_--that seemed years ago. he knew that he lay within feet of devil chad, who was indeed waiting in ambush with his men. the angry voice repeated, "be quiet! they'll come!" ramsay rose and rushed forward, flinging himself into this combat with all the fierce joy of a newly awakened warrior. he had given a full summer, an important part of his life, to building up a career which he greatly loved. now he stood ready to defend it with his muscles, his heart and, if need be, his life. he saw devil chad rise uncertainly to meet him, not knowing whether he was friend or foe. he aimed a mighty kick at the shotgun in the other's hands, and he knew that he had knocked it completely out of his enemy's grasp. he felt a fresh burst of wind on his cheek and, strangely, knew all about the storm that was brewing on the great lake. he closed with his enemy. devil chad and his men had come to destroy and, if necessary, to kill. but they had counted on ramsay, pieter and hans, charging angrily up the sand beach. outlined against the burning boats, they would be at a tremendous disadvantage. a hail of lead from five shotguns could cut them down in almost no time. they had their choice between surrendering or dying for what they believed in. it had never occurred to devil chad or his men that an enemy would dare crawl into their very midst. the darkness that had befriended them now became their enemy. nobody dared shoot because nobody could possibly be certain whether he were shooting at friend or foe. ramsay edged up to devil chad and swung a tremendous upper-cut to the other's jaw. he missed, felt his knuckles graze his enemy's cheek, and stepped back for a new try. only vaguely was he aware of muffled exclamations that became shouts and then grunts. he knew that pieter and hans had closed in. then it was as though he and devil chad were alone. this was something that had to be. the seed that made the task necessary had been planted long ago, on the _holter_. it had taken deep root during the fight in the tannery. since that time ramsay had met every challenge the lake had flung at him. now he would have to prove himself capable of meeting the challenges men flung at him. then, and only then, could he survive. ramsay's lips framed a grin. he had taken the risk, and he had won. for one brief second somebody might have shot him down, then the opportunity was forever gone. now nobody dared shoot. he found a firm footing on the lake sand. ramsay dodged a terrific blow that would have knocked him flat had it connected, and went back in with his arms swinging. he sunk a left and a right to his adversary's midriff and heard devil chad's breath whistle out of his clenched lips. he drew back to strike again. like the bull he was, devil chad charged recklessly. he took ramsay's stinging blows without flinching, and the boy had to give ground. but it was not lost ground, and for one brief, glorious second ramsay stood and traded blows. his head rocked, but he took what the other had to offer and returned it in full measure. then he learned his mistake. a pair of gigantic arms were flung about his middle. they tightened like a vise, bending him backward and seeming to compress him into a space not half-big enough. his spine was ready to crack, and lights danced in his head. he gasped for air. the many lessons he had been taught by hans van doorst came to his rescue. four months ago, and perhaps even one month ago, the fight would have been ended by that terrific bear hug. but now ramsay remembered in time that he was not fighting a man alone but a man who was part beast. and it was never wise to lose one's head. a man must always adapt himself and fight like a beast if he fought with one. summoning all his remaining strength, ramsay drew back his right foot and sent his heavy shoe smashing into devil chad's shin. the fellow relaxed his hold and staggered back into the darkness. ramsay stumbled away from him. devil chad was a bull, he remembered, and he did not know about matadors. the next time he rushed, the boy stepped aside and let his opponent's momentum carry him past. ramsay's strength and breath came back. he became cool, able to reason coolly. devil chad outweighed him by fifty pounds, so he must not close again. if he did not, and there were no accidents, he, ramsay, would win this fight. for the first time in his life devil chad was fighting his equal. ramsay felt strength swell within him. it was the strength of the lake, and it had flowed into his body through the numberless sturgeon he had carried to the pond and from the many times he had helped bring in the seine and from the many fish he had scooped from the raised pound nets. he was no longer a boy but a man. the burning pound boats were falling into embers now, and as the light they cast receded the blackness of the night became more intense. wind keened in from the lake, and the waves assaulting the sand beach made themselves heard. ramsay waded in, his fists flying. in the darkness he was aware of devil chad coming to meet him, but his deception of his opponent was complete. from the first, he had had no intention of meeting him squarely. he stepped aside, lashing out with both fists as he did so, and felt both of them collide soddenly with devil chad's chin. the latter bellowed, swung his head and hooked viciously. but he hooked falsely, for ramsay was not there. his lithe body, dodging and twisting, now here and now there, became like the cape that lures the bull to its doom. devil chad swung and kicked, and often he struck his target. but he did not strike hard enough to bring ramsay down, and he could not again get a grip with his giant arms, although he tried desperately. roaring wildly, he charged. but it was a blind, mad attack, directed almost completely by rage and desperation. ramsay licked his upper lip, vaguely aware of the fact that he was tasting his own blood but not caring. he felt no pain, and it was oddly as though he sat on some high pinnacle from which he could watch himself and direct himself. both his fists lashed squarely into devil chad's face, driven by all the strength in his hard, young body. devil chad paused, as though bewildered, and ramsay knew that he was stunned. not stopping, throwing some of his caution to the wind, he followed up his advantage. his fists worked like cracking whips as he struck again and again. devil chad spun around, took two halting steps, and sank to one knee. he remained there like some carved statue, and again ramsay licked away the blood that flowed down his face. now, if he did the correct thing, he would go in and end it with kicking feet. he would beat devil chad as mercilessly as he had been beaten. but he did not. he waited, cool and poised, while the other bowed before him. only when devil chad lurched to his feet and struck out drunkenly did ramsay go in again, and he went in with his fists. he beat a continuous, almost unopposed tatto on his enemy's chin. the second time devil chad collapsed he measured his full length on the sand, and he did not move again. ramsay stood watching intently for several moments. he wanted to make certain that he had met his enemy fairly and defeated him fairly. how long he had been fighting he did not know. it seemed like a few seconds, but it must have been much longer. he only knew that he had come out of the battle stronger than he was when he went into it. he called, "hans?" "here," the dutch fisherman answered. his voice was strained, but even now there was nothing of desperation in it. rather, it was a joyous voice. ramsay turned toward it and saw scuffling men. he approached them and reached out with groping hands until he touched another man. it was neither hans nor pieter, and as soon as he was sure of that he swung. he felt a strong disappointment, for the heat of battle flared strong within him and, instead of fighting back, the man merely collapsed on the sand. obviously he had already been manhandled by hans and had little strength left. ramsay looked strangely at him, as though there was something that should not be. then he became aware of the fact that dawn had come and he could see. he turned to help hans or pieter, whichever needed it the most, and he turned just in time to see hans hit joe mannis so hard that the body-watcher flew into the air, described a little backward whirl, and fell on the sand. hans stood, shaggy and huge, breathing hard, but unbeaten and unbeatable. moving over beside him, ramsay felt that at last he was worthy to stand there. both watched while pieter teased the single remaining man, one of the hired ruffians who had helped set the gill net, then slapped him resoundingly on both cheeks. as though he were unworthy of further notice, pieter whirled on his heel and left his foe. the man went weaving up the beach into the lightening morning. hans grinned wryly at ramsay. "your face, it looks like a horse stepped on it." "you've got a couple of mosquito bites yourself." "yaah." hans grinned again. ramsay said, "they got our boats." hans said, "they got our nets, too. joe mannis, he told me that when we fought. they would get us, he said." "they didn't." "no, they didn't." they turned at a sudden wooden scraping out on the lake, and saw the mackinaw boat under way. beaten and bruised, devil chad crouched at the oars. hurriedly he sent the boat farther out, toward the open lake. they watched as though this were some foreign sight of no interest whatever. hans walked over to prod joe mannis with the toe of his shoe. "get up," he said. joe mannis stirred and groaned. he opened his eyes, blinked stupidly and raised himself on one hand. there was a deceptive gentleness in hans' words and tone, but joe mannis was not deceived. he knew that hans meant it when he said, "come down the beach once more after this storm. you will find something to interest only you. then never let me see you again. if i do, i will drown you in the lake." hans looked out on the lake, into the gathering storm and at the receding mackinaw boat. high waves were already clawing at it, and devil chad was not yet out of the bay. hans said, "he is not a fisherman. he is not even a sailor. i myself would think twice about taking the _spray_ out now." near the boat something white, something not born of the rolling whitecaps, appeared for a second and disappeared. ramsay smiled softly. he knew that he had again seen the white sturgeon. he also knew what joe mannis would find in the morning. devil chad. the three partners walked back down the sand to the embers of the pound boats. they stood near them, warming themselves in the last of the fire. ramsay prodded the sand with his toe. they were right back where they had started. a whole summer's hard work had gone to satisfy the greed and lust of one man. what they had left was the seine, the row boat, the forming skeleton of the _spray ii_ and the pier. ramsay set his jaw. they could do it again. they had done it once. he looked toward the mackinaw boat, and discovered that it had gone out of the bay into the open lake. but his eyes were attracted by something else on the horizon. a moment later he identified it as a plume of smoke. five minutes afterward, storm-lashed but defiant, the _jackson_ nosed out of the lake into the sheltered bay. manned by able seamen, sure of herself, the _jackson_ came up to her accustomed place at the pier. ramsay, hans and pieter caught her mooring ropes. resplendent in his uniform, little captain williamson came down his rope ladder and strutted on the pier. "a blow," he said, as though a storm on lake michigan meant nothing to him. "we'll tie up here until it's over, then go back to chicago. have you got any fish?" "some," ramsay admitted. he thought of the ten barrels of whitefish that were ready for shipment, and he watched captain williamson's face fall. the little captain emitted a long sigh. "some, eh? i was hoping for better news. chicago's growing like a weed in the sun, and it's hungry. most of the fishermen made their last shipments ten days ago. the markets are almost empty, and even sturgeon's bringing five cents a pound." for one brief second the storm clouds parted and the sun shone through. then the sky was again overcast and the storm leaped furiously. ramsay turned his shining face toward hans and pieter. the tons of sturgeon in the pond ... at five cents a pound there would be more than enough money to replace everything and to buy the finest planking for the _spray ii_. ramsay said, "save plenty of room on the _jackson_. we'll need it." on top of the ridge-pole, captain klaus fluttered his long wings and curved his sinuous neck. as though he approved thoroughly he called, "_quark!_" * * * * * _books by jim kjelgaard_ big red rebel siege forest patrol buckskin brigade chip, the dam builder fire hunter irish red kalak of the ice a nose for trouble snow dog trailing trouble wild trek the spell of the white sturgeon the explorations of pere marquette