Debenham's Vow

Front matter

VOL. BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS, AUTHOB OF 'BARBARA'S HISTORY,' etc. etc. IN THREE YOLUMES. VOL. II. LONDON: HURST AND BLAGKETT, PUBLISHEBS, 13 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1870. Tiie right of Translation is reserved. LONDON : SlRANGEWAYS AND WaLDEN, PRINTERS, Castle St., Loiccster Sq. CONTENTS TO VOL. II. PAGE- I. PHILISTINES AND FIG-TREES ... 1 II. PAST AND PRESENT .... S III. HAD SHE FORGOTTEN 1 ... 18 IV. BROTHER AND SISTER AT HOME . . 31 V. THE RISING OF THE TIDE ... 40 MR. HARDWICKE'S TEMPTATION VI. 48 VII. THE STORMY PETREL .... 57 VIII. ' THE ATHEN S OF PERICLES ' ... 69 IX. RUNNING THE BLOCKADE ... 73 X. THE FIRST NUGGET .... 88 XL NOT A BAD BARGAIN .... 97 XII. LORD STOCKBRIDGE . . . . 10G XIII. SENATOR SHIRLEY SPEEDS THE PARTING GUEST . . . . . . 121 XIV. LETTERS FROM HOME .... VI CONTENTS.

PAGE XV. HOW THE WORLD WENT ROUND 1C3 XVI. THE SABRINA MEETS THE STORMY PETREL 1C3 XVII. PERILS ON SHORE . . . . . 176 XVIII. THE FORTUNE OF WAR . . . . 192 XIX. IN DURANCE VILE .... 210 XX. THE CASE OF MADEIRA .... 219 XXI. THE PERILS AND DANGERS OF THE DEEP . 235 XXII. ' HOME, SWEET HOME ' .... 2J5 XXIII. A PASSAGE OF ARMS .... DEBENHAM'S VOW.

Chapter I. Philistines And Fig-tbees

De Benham was off the next day to Squillace, a distance of ten miles by the coast. There he waited upon the British consul, and busied himself with inquiries as to the ways and means by which the Fairy Queen might be got afloat again. He consulted the harbour-master, and several ship-owners and shipping agents, about the char tering of a vessel for the transport of the cargo ; but he found no ship-builder in the place, and only a ship-builder could relaunch the Fairy Queen. Unsuccessful, therefore, at Squillace, he had no resource but to go to Reggio on the western coast, some eighty or ninety miles distant. Find ing himself a mere mark for every kind of extor tion at Reggio, he crossed over to Messina. But it seemed to him that, wherever he went, news of his purpose had gone before him. Informed, appayol. n. B rently, of the urgency of the case, Calabrians and Sicilians alike concurred in asking about eight times more than the ordinary tariff for the work he wanted done.

Shipping agents, ship-owners, and ship-builders, seemed banded in a conspiracy against him. Referred from one to another, wearied to death with consultations, bargainings, disputes, estimates, obstacles wilfully raised, diffi culties wilfully exaggerated, and repeated journey ings to and fro by land and sea, De Benham was almost driven to despair. He knew now exactly what it would be necessary to do, and he had taken pains to learn what should be the cost of doing it. Thus armed, he fought the ground over inch by inch, first with one contractor, then with another, till at last, thanks to his uncompromising determination to resist imposition, he succeeded. ' You will be glad to know that our worst trou bles are well-nigh over,' he said, writing to Mr. Hardwicke from the Albergo del Sole about a fortnight from the time of his first arrival at Sove rato. ' The Bella Lucia of Messina is chartered for the work of reshipment, and is even now on her way hither; and I have finally concluded with Paoli, of Reggio, for the refitting and launching of the Fairy Queen.

He was here nearly all day yesterday with one of his head men, and came to my terms at last. We signed and sealed before PHILISTINES AND FIG-TREES. 3 parting. I enclose a copy of both agreements for your perusal. ' The Bella Lucia bears a good character in Messina — a mere cargo vessel — one of Paoli's build, by the way — not a fast sailer, but in all other respects satisfactory — burden 980 tons — commander, one Alessandro Ciardi, a capital sea man, I am told, and, as Sicilians go, trustworthy. He would fain have backed up his owner in ex torting another three hundred ducats for the hire of the ship, if I could have been brought to give it; but he would regard this, probably, as no more than his duty, and an orthodox spoiling of the Philistines. ' Captain Barclay is making rapid progress to wards recovery.

He left his room yesterday for the first time, and was sitting this morning in the shade of the good padre's fig-tree. I trust that by the time the Bella Lucia has taken in her cargo, he will be sufficiently recovered to admit of my send ing Mackenzie with Ciardi, to see all safely deli vered at the docks. I think this would, for many reasons, be satisfactory and desirable. ' As soon as the Bella Lucia is gone, Paoli will set. to work without delay. He says the steepness of the beach at this point is much in our favour, and that, had it been a long and gradual incline, as in the neighbourhood of Montauro and other places hereabouts, the cost of getting the ship off, laying down stocks, &c, would have been immensely increased. ' Since writing the above, the Bella Lucia, I am glad to say, has come in.

Ciardi has fortunately found good anchorage in the cove where the Fairy Queen is stranded. To-morrow, at daybreak, we shall begin transferring cargo.' Such, with the addition of certain details, tech nical and financial, was the letter in which Temple De Benham reported progress to his employer, and which Mr. Hardwicke (with some inward con sciousness of relief, but much outward show of foreseen triumph) handed to his managing clerk to read. ' I think, Mr. Knott,' he said, leaning back in his chair with a self-complacent smile, ' I think you will admit that this is an eminently satisfactory letter. I think you will admit that my confidence in this young man's abilities has not been mis placed. You were of opinion that I had acted rashly in this matter ; but even in commerce, Mr. Knott, — even in commerce, where, as a rule, so much precaution is necessary — the power of read ing character may occasionally be serviceable.

I read this young man's character at a glance — at a glance, Mr. Knott.' PHILISTINES AND FIG-TREES. The managing clerk returned the letter without a word of comment. 'Well? Well?' said Mr. Hardwicke, im patiently. ' I don't like the tone of it,' said Mr. Knott. ' The tone of it ? ' echoed Mr. Hardwicke. He of the relentless eye shook his head, coughed a dry cough, and solemnly took snuff. ' The tone of it, sir,' he said, ' is not commercial. Philistines, indeed ! and fig-trees ! What call has any young man, writing to his employer on the business of the house, to bring in such topics as Philistines and fig-trees?' ' I am glad you have no greater fault to find with Mr. Debenham than the vivacity of his style/ said the merchant, with a twinkle of suppressed amusement in his eye. Mr. Knott gave utterance to a little snort of scornful indignation. ' Vivacity, sir ! ' he ejaculated. ' No young man in this young man's position has any right to be vivacious.

It's highly objectionable. It's irre levant. It's — as I said before — it's uncom mercial.' And with this expression of opinion, Mr. Knott abruptly left the room. Then Mr. Hardwicke laughed — a little quiet, self-complacent laugh, all to himself; rubbed his hands softly together ; folded the letter, and put it away carefully in his desk. That old Knott should disapprove was only to be expected ; that old Knott should even be jealous was also likely enough — old Knott, who was nothing if not com mercial — old Knott, who, having lived all his life in the one well-worn groove, would fain bring the rest of the world to the test of his own narrow gauge, and recognise no other ! Amusing enough, all this — ay, and an additional testimony, if such additional testimony were needed, to young Deben ham's merits.

Uncommercial, indeed ! Uncom mercial, perhaps, in the sense that a pure Cali fornian nugget, as yet unadulterated by baser admixture, as yet misused in the common mould and filed down to the vulgar standard, is not a legal tender ! But then it is pure gold, and ready to be converted into coin of the realm — just as this young man, with his talents, and his energv, and his fine education, had in him the making of fifty such commercial machines as old Timothy Knott. For if Mr. Hardwicke had ever trembled for the results of his experiments, he now entertained no doubt that his new employe was a treasure — a treasure to be appropriated to his own use, and worked for his own exclusive benefit. And he foresaw so many ways in which the treasure PHILISTINES AND FIG-TREES. 7 might be turned to good account.

There was that affair at St. Petersburg, for instance, given up long since as a bad debt — what if he were to send out this young man with orders to sift it to the bot tom ? Why might it not be possible, even now, to recover every farthing? And then, again, that admirable scheme for monopolising the wool-trade of Lassa — a scheme hitherto impossible of fulfil ment by reason of the laws excluding foreigners from Central Thibet; but now, if confided to a man fluent in languages, fearless of danger, ready in emergencies .... Mr. Hardwicke drew a deep breath, rose from his chair, and began pacing to and fro between the window and the door. Visions of daring enterprise and brilliant success floated before his mind's eye, and he resolved to come to some definite under standing with De Benham as soon as possible.

He was, in fact, so charmed with his own perspicacity in having been the discoverer of this same treasure, that he was willing to pay for it liberally. ' I will offer him,' said he, half aloud, ' three hundred a-year. An increasing salary beginning at three hundred a-year, or at four, if three don't content him. He'll never refuse that. He knows his own value ; but he'll never refuse that ! '

Chapter II. Past And Present

A changed and busy life was Temple De Benham's under the new regime. Mr. Hardwicke continued to regard him as a rara avis; and though, in so rapidly achieving a position of high trust and favour, the young man found himself not wholly unassailed by those minor perils to which the race of rarœ aves are liable in a world of jealous, hun gry, fighting, commonplace sparrows, he continued, nevertheless, to soar and prosper even beyond his hopes. That he should be an object of envy and mistrust to those City sparrows in Mr. Hardwicke's employment amongst whom he had suddenly alighted, was only to be expected. But their enmity was of little moment. They could neither injure nor annoy him ; for his work was not their work, and his place wras not among them. His work, indeed, lay for the most part far enough away; and, to the sore trial of that one loving heart that had never borne to be parted from him for more than a few hours at a time, his life was henceforth given up to pursuits that carried him far afield for weeks, and even months, together.

And now that tide which governs the affairs of men seemed to have turned in his favour. He had found an employer who knew how to value him, and who was willing to deal with him liberally. For that first trip to Italy, he received, on his return to England, Mr. Hardwicke's cheque for one hundred guineas. He had never possessed such a sum, nor even the quarter part of such a sum, in his life ; and though he knew that he had earned it well, and that he was not overpaid by it, he could not help marvelling at his own riches. One hundred guineas ! Yes, the tide had turned, and was leading on to fortune ! And yet he had worked hard for his hundred guineas. He had been three months in Calabria, toiling at his task by day and night, and putting into those three months the work of six. Then, having re-shipped his cargo to England and got the Fairy Queen off safe, sound, and thoroughly refitted before he left the spot, he succeeded in reaching home just in time to spend his Christmas Day in the little lodging at Canonbury.

A happy Christmas Day for her who had been dwelling all solitary in that obscure, unlovely home debenham's vow. 10 all these three weary months, living on his letters and praying for his safe return. Happy, yet not perhaps so happy as those earlier times when he was yet a youth, and all her own ; when no sterner stuff leavened the high enthusiasm of his nature ; when his ambition and his genius went hand in hand, and Beethoven and Mozart, Handel, Haydn, Mendelssohn, and Spohr, were the gods of his idolatry. Ah, those old college days ! those plea sant winter holidays ! those Christmas examina tions, each richer in triumph than the last, when he, her darling and her pride, used to come home from the crowded hall, pale and exhausted, but always successful, to lay his prizes in her lap ! Then, too, came the joyous 24th of December, when the young men went out to the woods in troops to fetch in the Christmas trees, coming back at dusk with songs and torches, and laden with winter greenery — her boy among the rest, bringing home a young fir-tree to gladden their one sitting room with the scent and hues of the forest.

And then came Christmas Day, ushered in by early carol-singing and much ringing of bells, when mother and son used to go to the choral service at the Grand Duke's Chapel in the morning; and then after church, if it was fine, walk together in the public gardens, to see all the little world of Zollenstrasse in its holiday smartness — the peasants in their picturesque costumes, the officers in their uniforms, the professors in their gowns. How happy, too, were those little un-English Christ mas dinners — the chicken and jam sauce, the braten that betrayed no flavour of beef, the apple kitchen, and the thin red wine which seemed all the thinner for being spiced and mulled in the stove! And then, when evening came, Temple used to play Handel's Pastoral Symphony, and the Soldiers' Chorus from Beethoven's Mount of Olives; and sometimes they read aloud to each other Milton's Hymn on the Nativity, or a dialogue of Plato, or an act from Shakespeare or Schiller.

Those were the Christmas days of the past, before the tide had turned. It was different now. The young eager-eyed musician, whose very soul was in his art and whose every dream was, as it were, set to music, was gone. Gone — changed — transformed ; and in his place there sat this bronzed and bearded man, whose talk was of ships, and seas, and foreign shores, and future enterprises leading on to wealth. He had much to tell, and she was never weary of listening. Still, proud as she was of his skill and energy, she looked back and sighed, and inly wondered whether any of this world's prizes were worth that Eden of poetry and art upon whicli her wanderer had turned his back for ever? Time debenham's yow. was when Lady De Benham had regarded that very art with eyes of doubt and disfavour; but those prejudices had long since worn themselves away.

She had lived eleven years in Zollenstrasse since then ■ — Zollenstrasse, that later Weimar, of which it might almost be said that the cultivation of the fine arts was the religion of the state. Yielding to the influences of the place, she had become reconciled to music as the profession of her darling's choice ; but to commerce . . . alas ! not all the gold of Pactolus could reconcile her to this hist degradation. That her son, her Temple, the last of the De Benhams, should sell his per sonal liberty ; accept this man's pay ; go east, west, north, or south, at this man's bidding; soil his hands with trade and traffic .... these things were intolerable to her. She felt them bitterly. She wept over them in secret. She told herself that no end, however desirable, could com pensate for such humiliation.

But all this she suffered in silence, and therefore suffered the more keenly. Not for the world, now, would she have advised or expostulated. He chose to do it ; deemed it right to do it ; would have done it years ago, had she not withheld the secret from him. Lady De Benham never forgot that half implied reproach. Had her son thought fit to drive a cab, or sweep a crossing, or serve be hind a counter, she w-ould have broken her heart sooner than breathe one syllable of remon strance. He had not many days to spend in England — less than a week, indeed ; and was bound next for St. Petersburg. In the meanwhile, having a world of work to get through, and being detained in the City by Mr. Hardwicke for several hours each day, he found little time for home. Now Temple De Benham loved his mother so very dearly that this press of occupation, as it kept him from her in the present moment, and as it threat ened to keep him from her in the future, grieved him sorely.

Till now, he had never left her. And she was so solitary when he was away . . . . and he was likely now to be away so often ! She had no friends in London — no acquaintances — not a soul to come and sit with her if she was ill. The utmost he could do for her was to subscribe to a library, and beg Archie to go and see her very often in his absence. . . . No ! there was one thing more that he might do, if he would. He might give her an acquaintance, a friend, a daughter, in Miss AUeyne. Should he do this? Would it be wise to do it ? He asked himself these questions very often, and could by no means answer them to his satisfaction. At last, being a good deal troubled in his mind, he mentioned the subject somewhat vaguely and circuitously to Archibald Blyth. 'You see, Archie,' he said, 'it's a delightful thing to feel one's self really moving on ; but it has one drawback.

I am obliged to leave my mother so much alone.' They had been down together to the docks, and, coming back up Lower Thames Street, had turned in by the front of the Custom House for a breath of open air and a glimpse of the river. ' Of course, she misses you dreadfully,' said Archie, not knowing what other reply to make. 'Ay; but that's not all,' replied De Benham. ' She knows no one, except yourself, in all London. Not a soul.' ' And I am not particularly well worth her knowing,' said Archie, ruefully. ' However, I can change her books at Mudie's, and all that sort of thing, you know. I 'd call upon her every day with pleasure — only I know I should bore her awfully.' ' My dear Archie,' said De Benham, ' you are the best fellow in the world.' And then he paused ; for he did not knowhow to say what was in his mind. 'But she knows Miss AUeyne!' exclaimed Archie, suddenly.

De Benham shook his head. 'No,' he said, 'I left England, you know, before they came back from Chillingford, and — and I 've only been home three days myself.' ' You don't mean to say you 've not seen her yet?' ' I mean to say,' said Temple, reddening, ' that till now it has been impossible. You seem to forget how my time has been taken up, and how far it is from Canonbury to Kensington.' ' That fellow Leander used to swim across the Hellespont,' said Archie, with a sidelong glance at his companion. ' But I am going to call there to-day — now, in fact ; before going home.' ' And won't you introduce them before you go aw-ay ? ' 'I don't know — I scarcely think You see, Archie, there is no engagement between Miss AUeyne and myself. And I don't want to — to precipitate matters.' Archie pursed up his mouth, and uttered a prolonged whistle. ' Which, being translated,' said he, ' means that you have seen somebody else out there in Italy whom you like better.' ' It means nothing of the kind,' said De Ben ham, angrily. ' Well, you have changed your mind, perhaps.' ' Good heavens, no !

I admire Miss AUeyne as much as ever. If I were a rich man, I would ask her to marry me to-morrow. But I am not a rich man. I am a very poor man. I must work hard for years, before I dare think of marriage. Therefore I hesitate about making Miss Al leyne known to my mother. I — I feel I have no right.' ' Then, my dear fellow, don't do it,' said Archie, emphatically. ' When a man feels he has " no right" to do the decisive thing in a case of this kind, it generally means that he is not quite sure he cares to have that right.' ' If you think I have ceased to love her, Archie, you wrong me,' said De Benham, earnestly. 'Upon my honour, you wrong me. My feelings are unchanged. She is the only woman I have ever cared for, or ever shall care for.' ' I'm not blaming you,' said Archie. ' Of course not.

Neither should I deserve vour blame. There's not a grain of fickleness in my nature.' And he said this with the utmost sincerity, knowing that he had never given one look or thought to any other, and believing, for the time, that he loved her as much as ever. ' Then I don't understand your scruples,' said Archie. ' It may be so many years before I am in a position to many.' 'But your prospects are better than ever.' ' My prospects,' said De Benham, quickly, ' would be ruined, if I were to incur the responsi bilities of . . . There, we won't talk of it, Archie. Believe me, I am actuated by a stern necessity. You '11 understand it all, some day.' And so it was. In all good faith, he believed in that ' stern necessity.' It never occurred to him that the necessity was of his own making. He was, indeed, long past that point at which a man is capable of analysing his own motives, and he had no idea that he was ruled by a passion stronger than love. As for Archie, he was silenced and puzzled, and knew not what to think. c YOL.

Chapter III. Had She

FORGOTTEN? The young men parted company at the Mansion House, where De Benham hailed a Hansom and desired the driver to take him to Campden Hill, Kensington. For those days were past in which he would walk any number of miles to save a cab fare, and time had come to be of more value than money. It was now nearly four months since he had seen Miss AUeyne ; and during the whole of that time there had been no communication of any kind between them. This, however, was not his fault. She had forbidden him to write to her, and he had obeyed to the letter. He had told himself again and again, when he was in Calabria, that he was not only blameless in so keeping silence, but that he was somewhat hardly used in being required to do so. It might have been for twelve months instead of three ; it might have been to Australia instead of Italy ; he ? 19 might have fallen sick among strangers, and she would have been none the wiser.

Now, however, that he was about to see her for the first time in her own home — for the first time since that morning in the porch at Chillingford when she had pro mised to wear his ring, and think of him ' by day and night,' while they were parted — he began to doubt whether he had been quite justified in taking her au pied de la lettre. Perhaps, considering the circumstances of his journey, it would have been better had he set that edict aside, and written for once to tell her what had become of him. Yet he well knew that the thought of doing so had occurred to him repeatedly; but always as a thing which it would be wiser to leave undone. In the mean while, what had she thought of his prolonged silence ? Had she waited, and watched, and wea ried for his coming? Would she receive him with reproaches ?

Would it all be as if they had parted only yesterday ? Or, would there be a difference, a restraint, a sense of estrangement ? So absorbed was he in these doubts and ques tionings, that he found himself rattling through Kensington before he knew that he had passed Hyde Park Corner. It seemed to him that the cabman's horse must have had wings, or that the road had suddeidy grown shorter. He stopped the driver at once, however, and said he would w-alk the rest of the distance. And then he went into a shop and bought a pair of gloves. These gloves took a long time to choose, and a long time to put on ; and when they were at last satisfac torily adjusted, he walked very slowly towards Campden Hill. The locality was strange to him, for he had never been further in this direction than Kensington Church.

So he went up and down inquiring his way, but making no especial haste to find it. He felt, indeed, nervous and embarrassed, and had he not come upon the house sooner than he expected, he would have been glad to turn back again for a few moments, to collect his thoughts before going in. It was a pretty little house, with a long flight of steps leading up to the door, and — although it was winter — flowers in every window. He knocked, and a neat parlour-maid answered the summons. Was Mr. AUeyne at home ? Mr. AUeyne was at home ; but in his painting-room, and particularly engaged. Was Miss AUeyne at home? No — Miss AUeyne was out. De Benham had no card to leave — had, indeed, never possessed such a superfluity in his life ; but he pencilled his name on the back of somebody else's card, and desired the maid to tell Miss AUeyne that he had been abroad for the last three months, and was leaving England again the day ? 21 after to-morrow.

Then he inquired how they were, and was told that they were both quite well; and so, with a lingering glance at the statuettes and evergreens in the hall, and the vista of con servatory beyond, he departed by the way he had come. His first feeling, as he turned away, was of relieved embarrassment ; his next, of disappoint ment. Now that she was not to be found, he would have given much to find her. It was surely a hard chance that took her away from home that one only afternoon, when it was in his power to seek her there ! A hard, hard chance that took him away from England for the second time with out once again listening to the music of her voice — for he loved her! Ay, in spite of all that Archie had said, he certainly loved her. How ever stern the hand that Fate had laid upon him (for he would call it Fate) — however cruel the sacrifices he might be called upon to make — he was quite sure that he loved her.

He dwelt upon this point, indeed, with so much insistence in his own mind, and repeated it to himself so often during that first half-mile of his homeward walk, that it almost seemed as if he needed re-assurance from within. Retracing his steps through a network of squares, terraces, and lanes, he emerged presently through a sort of passage upon Kensington Palace Gardens, purposing to walk through the Gardens and the Park as far as the Marble Arch, and thence to take a cab home to Canonburv. It was now verging towards three o'clock, and the afternoon was growing grey and cold. The Gardens, as he turned in by the broad walk running east and west beside the palace, looked chill and deserted. There were a few pedestrians scat tered up and down the main walk between Ken sington and Bayswater, and a solitary couple by the pond, feeding ducks ; but the children and the boats, the nurses and perambulators, the life guardsmen and the daily loiterers, were all long since gone.

He went up to the pond, and stood there for some time watching that solitary couple and the ducks, in a dreary, discontented way, thinking of many things, but chiefly of the long fight that lay before him, and somewhat also of Miss AUeyne. Was it not almost hopeless ? Had he not condemned himself to a life of peril, and privation, and hope deferred ? Would the battle ever be won ? Or, if won, might it not be that victory would come too late ? Of what use to tri umph when youth was past, and hair was grey, and the wine of life had lost its flavour? See that pair — they looked poor, but they looked happy. The man's hat was shabby, but the girl's face was ? 23 bright and loving. A coronet was a fine thing ; but supposing that one had to give up the bright face in order to gain it, might not the shabby hat be better worth the wearing ?