Guy Waterman. A novel

Preface

. There are only two ways in which an artist, who, receiving nothing from Fortune, gives many hostages to it, can hope to obtain his legitimate ends : the one is, to devote himself to labours apart from his true calling, and wait and hope for the leisure and peace which may never (thus) come ; the other, to accept that calling as his only one, even if it involves temporary sacrifices of individual taste and feeling in the struggle for popu larity, which to him and his means — bread. The present writer tried the first method, and it cost him many years to produce a single work (' Love's Martyrdom'), by which he would consent to be judged; and then he learned the mistake he had made, in supposing that, in the higher branches of

PREFACE.

. literature, a man need only produce fitting credentials to be able thenceforward to de vote himself to his OAvn work in his own way. He accepted from that time the only alter native. The first method having failed, he adopted the second : — ' The Shadow in the House,' ' Martin Pole ' (a collection of fugi tive tales written at different times), and ' Abel Drake's Wife,' are in one direction — and ' Gujr Waterman,' in another — the re sults. The first three books are studies, leading, it is hoped, ultimately to some finished work or works ; the fourth was pro duced with no higher literary aim than that of helping to amuse the novel - reading public. ' Guy Waterman ' (founded on a sketch which will be remembered by the readers of ' Martin Pole ') was written for the ' Penny Illustrated Paper.' The author had to accept the known facts of the public taste, and make

PREFACE.

. V the best of them. If he had not thought he could do this innocently, he has a right to say he would not have done it at all. But the tale was written — Avas successful (so the writer is assured by those who have the strongest motives for estimating accurately its reception) — is to be republished in an other periodical — and is now proposed (for the second or third time) to be issued in the ordinary library form. As the latest proposition comes from the author's pub lishers, he cannot but consent, were it only on the ground of their considerate patience towards him (and upon which he is still obliged to trespass), as regards a long-pro mised successor to ' Abel Drake's Wife.' He has only to add that the story has been revised throughout for the present issue, and that large portions of it have been re written.

London, April, 1864. ( ™ ) CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CHAP. PAGB 1. — A Mother's Letter 1 TL— On the Deck of the ' Black Gull ' 11 III. — A Parley and Surrender 25 IV.— In the Cabin at Night 33 V.— The Boat of the ' Marco Polo ' 42 VT. — Washed Ashore 48 VII.— The last of the 'Black Gull' 55 VTIL— Phœbe 63 IX.— Of the Two Roads— which ? 79 X. — Susan Beck and her little Daughter .... 97 XI. — Phœbe Waterman's Home 112 XII. — How Guy obtained his Name 125 XIII. — An innocent Impostor lying in State .... 137 XIV.— The Workshop at Tanfield 156 XV. — Phœbe and Susan come to an Armistice . . . 168 XVI. — After her Day's Work Phœbe enjoys her Supper 177 XVTI. — Susanna's Legacy 192 XVIIL— Phœbe's Perplexities 209 XIX.— A Light in the Workshop 223 ,XX. — A young Warrior from his first Battle-field . . 231 XXI.— Mr. Pample's Cousin 241 XXII. — In which the Squire upsets Everybody's Plans . 257 XXIIL— Lucy 266 XXIV. — Natural but unwelcome Advice * . 280 XXV— The Fishpond 286 XXVL— Phœbe has bad Dreams 299 XXVIL— The future Lady of Branhape CHAPTEE I. a mother's letter. ' To Phœbe Waterman. ' Branhape Hal], Sunday Evening. ' Dear Nurse, — Don't he alarmed when I tell you to read this secretly, and to burn it the moment you have read ; unless, indeed, you refuse my prayer, which I do not, cannot, believe. 1 must not see you, not just now, for reasons you will understand.

Read this letter, then, I entreat you, very carefully ; so that the directions in it may not be mistaken. Oh, take care of that ! so much will depend upon it. But when you have done so, and consented, as I am sure you will consent, then commit this to the flames ; for lam about to tell you in it things that VOL I. B you alone must ever know, and of which I should shudder to think any record existed except that which may live in your heart. You have always professed affection for me ; you have appeared de voted to me ; and I, in return, have treated you more as a friend than as one conscious of, or caring for, our different worldly positions. Well, 1 am now about to try all your devotedness. I have determined to leave this place to-morrow, perhaps for ever, and I will not go without my child.

But I do not ask you simply to give him up to me. No ; I want you to go with him, and with me. Do not be afraid. You shall return in a very few months ; and your husband shall find you come back enriched beyond his utmost desires. I cannot nurse my boy ; that you know. I have again solemnly promised my husband, at the doctor's urgent request, that I will not do so. But I must go ; I must take him with me ; and now, Phœbe, will you not come with us both, and remove from me my last danger and difficulty ? I do not ask you to leave your own babe behind, unless you have some friend or relative in whom you can entirely trust. If you wish to bring him with you, do so ; and as you have been a mother to my child from the very hour of its birth, when you were so unexpectedly called to my aid, so will I be a true mother to yours.

Born within a fortnight of each other, nourished by the same milk, who can tell but that their fates are intentionally knit together by a Providential hand ? But if you take him you must find a companion to nurse one of the children. The girl you now employ would be too young to travel. Choose a discreet person. I will pay her Avell. There are several young women in the village who will be glad to be so engaged. Be silent at first about the voyage across the seas. Only take care to find a person that can go on Avith us, when you finally explain to her what is wanted. If she then refuses — say at the seaport where we shall meet — we will seek other aid ; and she will have been useful in the meantime in helping us to get away from here. ' For, O dear Phœbe, I do want to get away ! And I am strong enough now.

I walked for an hour this morning in the park in order to try what b2 I could do. There is that in my spirit which will make up for all the deficiencies of the frame. I can go now, and I must. It is not only this mes sage from my dying sister that moves me ; it is not even the spiritual danger to my boy's soul, who will be educated as a heretic if I stay ; hut, O Phœbe, it is this — either my husband no longer loves me, or I have ceased to love him. Which it is I know not. You have seen much, and I know you have guessed more. But even you cannot tell what an aching heart I have had since these conversations with him about, our child's future. When I married him (and never shall I cease to be grateful for the motives that prompted him to come to me in my loneliness, in my bitter distress and misery) I did not so much weigh his generosity, or the station or shelter he offered me, or even his delicate sympathy with my love for the dead — all these influenced me, of course ; but above and beyond them all was the paramount thought that I should be an instrument in God's hand to bring him to the true Church ; that I should be able to advance the interests of our faiih by the spectacle of so noble and influential a convert.

And, looking in that direction exclu sively, I saw beyond this success a vision of domestic peace and affection aud unity that fascinated me, and made me forget for a time my sorrow and my depression. ' Dear Phœbe, you who shared secretly my hopes must, I know, have participated keenly in all my disappointments. I cannot bear to dwell on them. Enough, I know now he is unchangeable. He is willing enough to respect my faith, but he forbids interference with his. And on one occasion he spoke with such sternness that my very blood froze as I listened for the first time to other than kindly tones from his lips. Well, I know now the worst. The doing away with this delusion of my influence over his spiritual welfare has, I fear, destroyed at the same time another delusion, that we loved each other as man and wife should love.

Perhaps I may err in this. Perhaps I am just now estimating things at false values. But what am I to do ? My sister cries to me with her dying breath to visit her; my husband refuses practically, though not in words, his consent to my taking the child with me if I do undertake so distant a voyage ; and the whole future of my dear, dear babe hang3 on this my present decision. Can I leave him to be reared as a Protestant ? Impossible ! I must then either violate my duty to my husband or my duty to my child. Which shall it be ? Oh, Phœbe, 1 have asked myself this question endlessly for days and nights past; I have knelt to ask it, have prayed while asking it, have felt at times my whole being dissolved in tears as I asked it, and looked around, up, everywhere, in vain, for a clear sufficing answer. ' Perhaps even now I could not go, but that I see he is willing to allow me to depart, provided I go alone.

Still I do not blame him. He is perhaps as bitterly disappointed as I am at the state of our present relations ; and he is proud and little in clined to speak when wounded. No, I cannot blame him ; I blame only myself; I ought not to have married. My heart, for all useful purposes, was in the grave. Religion gave it a new life, but he did not respond, as I hoped, to its quickening in fluence ; and now — Heaven help me ! — there is our child, dear to us both, but making a gulf between us both while we are together. Am I not right, then, to decide to leave him ? — I do not say inten tionally for ever. I will not undertake to deal with issues that are not in my hand ; but let us secure the present. I can go, happily, without exciting any noticeable or injurious comment. The servants have been aware for days that the question of my voyage is in agitation ; and, if he be hurt or angry that the child is removed without his consent, he will not, I am certain, make any useless or un necessary exposure.

I shall take care that, by the time he learns you have gone away with the boy, he shall know by letter it is to meet me ; and that I pray alike to him and to Heaven for forgiveness if I err. ' I have told you, Phœbe, all this because I know that you already suspect the greater part of the truth ; and because I have no right to ask so much confidence from you without giving something in return. ' Now, then, to business. I shall leave here to morrow night for Plymouth, with my husband's consent. He will not, I am quite sure, ask me any thing about the boy ; knowing how dangerous a sub ject it is, and believing that he remains behind. Do not you move or make any sign until he has been or sent to you after my departure. He will then want to know that the child is safe ; but when that visit is over, be prompt and decisive in all you do.

You must, if possible, so manage matters that you shall not be missed by anybody for a day or so longer ; but do not delay after once letting them see that you and the child are safe in the cottage after I shall have gone away. We must risk something. If only Ave get the child safely on board the ship, I can depend upon the captain. His vessel is in part my sister's property, and for that reason she wished me to sail with him. ' I enclose twenty pounds, five of it in gold and silver, so that you may not by any unusual display of means excite suspicion while making any necessary outlay in the village. 'And now, Phœbe, all my prospects of future peace— if any such there be — and all my hopes of securing my child's spiritual welfare, are in your hands. You, too, are a Catholic; and you have, if I did not mistake you, shown to me, so far as you could venture, that you were prepared to sacrifice something, not only for me personally, but for the true faith.

Now, then, I test you. If you abso lutely refuse, return me this package entire, just as you receive it, within one hour after you receive it. If you agree, and that means if you have any sin cere love for me or for my babe that now hangs at your breast, you need take no notice whatever. Only be sure of your messenger if you do send. What would become of me were I to reach Ply mouth and see neither you nor my babe ? You will not treat me thus ? Think, too, what it would be for you knowingly to let my boy suck poison from you. Yet is it a less matter to allow anyone, even a father, to poison his soul ? Oh, no ! ' Ever your friend and mistress, ' Amy Dalrymple. 'P.S. — One hour, recollect! See yourself that your messenger does come to the hall, if you send one. But again I say, you will not, cannot do that, my own faithful Phœbe ?

No ; you will destroy this letter as soon as you have read it, as I at first requested, and ensure for ever the grateful affection of A. D. ' 2nd P.S. — On reading this again, I have remem bered that, though I cannot from here see your cot tage, there is a room that commands a view of the shed in the fields where your husband sometimes works. With a glass I can see it perfectly. If, then, you will go there and wave a white handker chief three times, I shall know all is well. I go now to watch for the signal. ' I forgot to say the enclosure is the address of the shipping agent at Plymouth. And now, Phœbe, once more I say, I wait your signal.'

Chapter II. On The Deck Of The

' BLACK GULL.' It was close upon seven by the captain's watch — seven in the evening of the 20th of July, being the sixth day on Avhich the ' Black Gull ' had lain be calmed just within sight of the Irish shore. Six days her sails had been lazily flapping about her masts, A'ainly wooing the breeze that would not come. Six days her crew had been wondering and specu lating hour by hour how much longer they would see the faint strip of coast that represented to them all the broad lands and people of Great Britain. Six days her captain had searched incessantly all points of the compass in the hope of discovering tokens of a coming change. Six days the timbers of the ' Black Gull ' had been whitening and gaping in many a seam, under the fierce, blistering, burning sun. Still she lay as though she were spell-bound ; and the tiny transparent ripples broke against the black sides as calmly as if it were a little island that had never moved since the sea was made, and never would move more till the sea should leave its bed.

But what ails her crew just now ? Is there a dream Avithin the dream that seems to possess the ' Black Gull ? ' Every man moves as if he were afraid to break the silence. Here and there are little groups of men that don't seem to talk, and yet look into each other's faces with a mutual under standing and gloomy sympathy. The captain ap pears to be especially disturbed. He walks apart, glancing almost furtively, and as if half-ashamed, at a book that one might suppose, did not the idea seem so very absurd, to be a Common Prayer-book. In the centre of the vessel, under a kind of awning hung round and projecting from the mainmast, are two females, one of peculiar beauty and delicacy, wear ing the garb of a lady of rank ; the other, who is also good-looking, but Avhose face is clouded and distorted with grief and passion, appears to be her maid, judging from the dress she wears.

She has a child on her knee, which she rocks to and fro ; and which occasionally she stoops to kiss and to strain to her bosom under the impulse of some overmastering trouble. It is evidently not this child who is ill or in danger. He is a fine chubby infant, of that severe kind of beauty which Ave find in the pictures of Raphael. The lady leans over her with one hand on her shoulder, and occasionally whispers some kind word or soothing phrase, and calls her ' dear Phœbe,' while begging her to restrain the tumults of her grief. The signal, then, had been answered ; the lady of Branhape Hall was here with her trusted nurse and confidante, and one child. But what of the other ? There is, back there in the afterpart of the vessel, a woman talking Avith the wife of the purser or steward, but her arms are empty, and she stands, looks and moves as though her occupation were over.

Is one of the children dead ? Has the ill-omened voy age begun in calamity ? It is not Mrs. Dalrymple who has been stricken. All her anxiety is evidently for her companion, except when now and then she starts forward somewhat apprehensively, lest Phœbe, in her sudden and impulsive gesture, will let fall or crush in her fierce embrace the babe on her knee. As the captain, in his uneasy wanderings with that mysterious book in his hand, passed a couple of men in the forepart of the vessel, he said, ' 'Tis nearly time.' ' Ay, ay, sir ; all ready ! ' was the response, and the two men (who were more impassive than the rest, as though duty admitted of no feeling) began to look ever the vessel's side, and gossip in a low, dreamy undertone, while they watched with half shut eyes the sea-gulls flashing like specks of silver as they hovered between them and the purple line of coast.

Lazily, also, they began to watch the fishing-smacks — sailless — putting off in a cluster like a little black band of conspirators on the still waters in the intense quiet of the evening. North, south, and eœt, spread a cloudless blue sky above a shadowless sea — a sea so placid that its billows appeared but as lines scratched upon its glassy surface at regular intervals. North, south, and east — sky, air, and ocean lay under the spell of the golden calm ; but in the west, prominent and lurid like a red eye starting from its socket, hung the sun, and as its edge dipped into the sea it seemed to set the quiet waters on fire, and to spread a flaming pathway right across them up to the ship's black side. One of the two men had turned to gaze with lack-lustre eye on the wondrous spectacle, and he was even yawning in its face ; but his companion, who had apparently found something to attract his attention, presently remarked, ' I say, Jack, what's that boat after, such a long way out at sea ?

Any of us run away ? It seems coming arter us.' ' I don't know,' replied Jack, after another pro longed yawn, ' and I'm sure I don't care. A de tective 'ud be a godsend now. I never was so sick of anything in my life as these here blessed six days aboard o' this here blessed Black Gull.' ' I suppose,' continued the first speaker, ' it's only an amoosement party — Lord love 'em I — that wants to pay a visit to the sea, and daren't take not no such liberties except in this uncommon fine weather.' They were interrupted by the captain, who came up to them, saying, 'Now, boys, this business must be got over some how, while the light lasts. Fetch up the mate. Tell him we are quite ready. Tom Tute, you must be the sexton and clerk in one. The Powers above only know how I shall get through the job.

The more I try to understand what I am to read, the more I get muddled.' Tom Tute, an old man with little sparkling black eyes, touched the black corkscrew ringlet hanging over one of them, and made for the cabin ; while Jack, going a little towards the centre of the ship, began to clear away coils of rope and other matters that lay about, so as to make a vacant space, extending from where the females remained under the awning to a particular part of the side of the vessel. Mrs. Dalrymple saw the movement, and redoubled her attentions to her companion. Phœbe saw it too, and began to rock to and fro with increased agitation ancT \iolence, and with a foot that at times seemed to strike tRe boards in fierce defiance. the other occupants of the deck also saw what Jack was about, and most of them appeared to feel a kind of relief that they knew now they were not chosen for so disagreeable a task, and one that with a superstitious class like sailors is naturally avoided if possible.

There was a moment's pause, and then the car penter ascended from the steerage, carrying a plank which he turned over and over in his hands as thousrh its smoothness and whiteness redeemed to his notions the object for which it was required. He handed it to Tom Tute, who had followed him from below. The old sailor took it without even looking at it ; and, balancing it on his shoulder, strode with a rolling gait towards the ladies' cabin. Many eyes watched the plank, and the head dis appearing dowmvards lower and lower, until both were out of sight. And then the same eyes watched still more intently for their reappearance. At last, a dark head rose, but instead of Tom Tute's appeared the stolid, pale, black-whiskered face of the mate ; who turned, from time to time, as though giving directions, and restraining from a too hasty appearance those who were following^ Then vol. i. c the captain, who knew his time had come, hemmed and hawed two or three times, looked uneasily round, took another glance of the sky, and found some comfort apparently there, for he at once plunged into the duty he had undertaken, which was no other than to read the affecting, beautiful, and solemn burial service of the Church of Eng land.

All the hearers started at the unwonted sound, which, though long expected, came not the less strangely from the unlettered captain's Sten torian Aoice. He read with feeling if not Avith taste. His manner was rude, but it was evident there was a certain manly tenderness of heart below, for now and then there Avas a pause, and a glance towards the anguished mother, and a softer inflexion of the not naturally soft tone's as he resumed. Mrs. Dalrymple and Phœbe had simultaneously looked at each other as they heard the captain's first few words, which seemed to disturb them ; then hastily making the sign of the cross, they began to mutter to themselves. And still the eyes of the crew turned towards the cabin. Presently Avas heard the tread of a heavy. careful foot, and the rope banister began to shake as if grasped below by an unsteady hand ; then, before anything else, appeared the hand emerging above the stairs, clasping the rope, and looking rough and horny in the broad sunlight.

They watched it make two moves upwards along the rope, and then rose a bare head, with a face looking downwards. A step higher and Tom Tute came out with the white plank on his shoulder, and on the plank all that remained of Poor Phœbe's child. He crossed the deck to that part of the vessel's side which Jack had cleared, and rested his double burden across the bulwark, and then stood still, with the same immovable face as ever. A rustling of silk was now heard ; and the sailors, who had come near to give a look at the white little face — white and cold, and dead as marble— drew back respectfully to a distant part of the ship. The captain continued to read, though ever and anon he could not help glancing about, and always as he did so lost his place, and grew confused in the finding. Mrs. Dalrymple gave one long, fixed look, stooped and kissed the pale clay, then turned o2 and resumed her place under the awning, and drew her rosary from beneath her cloak.

She evidently expected Phœbe would noAv give her the child, and go to take her last farewell also. But the bereaved mother only gazed towards the dead babe and stooped low, and huddled more and more yearningly to her breast the living child that lay across her knees crowing and laughing in the poor nurse's face. Mrs. Dalrymple was about to remind her how rapidly the time of her babe's presence was fleeting away, when, to the surprise of all on board a loud and vigorous hail was heard near at hand. ' Ship ahoy ! Black Gull, ahoy ! ' ' Ay, ay ! what cheer ? What's amiss now ? ' replied the captain, in his natural tone, and for getting in an instant the solemnity in which he had been engaged. ' Hold hard ! we want to come on board ! ' ' Hold hard ! ' echoed the captain. ' I thought we'd had enough o' that these six days past.' Then, raising his voice, he cried out, ' Make haste, for if a wind rises I wouldn't stop for King George himself, and I s'pose you haven't got him with you.' But what ails the lady, as she listens and turns to even a deeper paleness than that which usually overspreads her face ?

Hurriedly she whispers to Phœbe, ' We are pursued. It is either my husband who comes or some one sent by him. Oh, what shall I do ? What shall I do ? ' She began to wring her hands. The captain suddenly came up to her, and said bluntly, ' You have nothing to fear. No one shall touch you if you do not wish to go back.' ' Oh, it is not me, it is the child — the child he wants.' ' Then give the word, and the child he shall not have. Here ! ' said he, in his usual tone of com mand, ' Tom Tute, go back all of you out of ear shot, but where you can see if you are wanted.' All the sailors drew back, but looked uncommonly in quisitive ; and as though the incident was, as Tom Tute had phrased it, a godsend to men six days becalmed. ' Now, madam,' said the captain, ' if you Avill only be so good as to tell me what you wish to be done we can proceed safely to action.

They will be on deck in another five minutes.' But Mrs. Dalrymple seemed lost in the double anguish of being obliged to stand before her hus band or her husband's messenger in a rebellious, defying mood, or to choose as the only alternative the giving up the babe, perhaps never again to see it except when groAvn into manhood as a confirmed heretic. She could only feebly murmur, ' Oh ! is it possible to get the child away without unseemly contests or violence ? Is it possible ? ' The captain stopped, looked down ; then, as if to get clearer insight into the case, tried to see how the weather was going on ; and, in turning his eye for that purpose, it fell on the plank and the dead baby lying on the deck, the burial of which had been so unexpectedly stopped. But he did not like to say what he thought, and so gazed dubiously towards the lady, who seemed to divine he had a thought, and who said, 'Speak!