The Shipowner's Daughter. A novel. ... Second edition

Preface

. Two subjects have for many years deeply interested the present writer, namely, the state of our seafaring and the state of our mining populations. These classes have certain remarkable and deeply interesting features in common. As individuals they often unite to the simplicity, ignorance, and credulity of a child the most heroic qualities of the man. In regard to their calling, the miner's is picturesque, the seaman's poetic and picturesque, beyond all others. Both are dangerous, far more dangerous than they ought to or need be ; and both demand, therefore, a vital reform of the conditions under which they are pursued. Having some two years ago, in ' Israel

PREFACE.

. VI Mort Overman,' prepared for the press a ' Story of the Mine,' the Author, in the ensuing pages, has dealt, to the best of his ability, with the seaman and the ship. It is, perhaps, hardly necessary to say that he has obtained his material from original sources ; almost exclusively, indeed, from the actors in the incidents recorded; while he has verified those narratives that might seem at all surprising, by careful inquiry in independent quarters. He has only further to add that the story of the ' Shipowner's Daughter ' appeared in its first form as a serial in the 'Day of Rest,' under the title of ' Humphrey Brothers, Ship owners ; ' but has since then been so altered and so rewritten throughout that a change of title has been adopted to mark the extent and character of the change in the book.

May 7, 1876. CONTENTS OF YOL. I. CHAP. PAGE I. JOHN HTTMPHEEY, SHIPOWNER ... 1 II. THE LOOK OUT ... 10 III. EVE ... ... ... ... ... 21 IT. NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON BUSINESS 36 V. IN THE CONSEEVATOEY ... ... 55 VI. THE SERMON IN THE MAEINEBS' CHURCH ... ... ... ... 81 vii. eve's VISION ... ... ... ... 91 VIII. IN "WHICH EVE CONFESSES HEE WICKEDNESS ... ... ... 100 IX. FANSHAw's STOEY ... ... ... 133 X. DEPAETUEE OF THE SHIP ... ... 146 XI. A deserter's EETTTEN ... ... 153 XII. COMMUNION ... ... ... ... 166 XIII. HANDS FOR THE SHIP ... ... 189 XIV. SHIPOWNER AND CAPTAIN ... ... THE SHIPOWNEE'S DAUGHTER.

Chapter I. John Humphrey, Shipowner

' /^ALL no man fortunate till he dies' — was y~J not, but should have been, the family motto of the gentleman whose name heads this opening chapter. Never, surely, did any man's lines seem cast in more pleasant places than his. Up to the age of twenty-five, though he was poor and strug gling, he had not known one day of serious men tal trouble, or bodily illness ; and could hardly avoid a laugh lighting up his broad, handsome face, as he listened to the recital of other men's maladies. It was not that he intended anything unkind, but simply he did not understand the VOL. I. l case. He could but go back to his own experi ences, and smile. At twenty-five two events occurred. The first of these was the death of his careful, over-anxious mother. She had been a widow many years ; and had so devoted herself to John's tastes, habits, interests, and conveniences, that he passed through those clays of narrow means and incessant anxieties without in the least partaking of them ; and only dimly conscious, now and then, that the mother bore his share and her own.

Bore it so patiently, sadty, }ret (to Him at least, who saw and knew all) so sweetly, that when the day and the hour came that compels even love itself to cease from its ministrations, her one burden of grief was not for her own wasted and joyless life, but that there was no one left behind to care as usual for her darling boy. Something of this alarm escaped in her last feeble flickering breath; and so moved her son, that he could not but strive to satisfy her ; and he did so, by saying, — ' Oh, dear mother, don't fret for me. I shall do well enough, trust me ! Be sure of that ! ' And his face so entirely confirmed the assurance, that, just for a moment, the fond mother felt with a spasm at the heart the awful fear that John Humphrey after all did not care for her. But every faculty of her being was in a moment in arms against so shocking, so wicked a fancj' ; and then, with a burst of tears, and in a passion of kisses, that grew more and more weak, and with un uttered but most fervent prayer to God, to bless and prosper him, she passed away : one of that noble army of mother-martyrs of whom the world hears little and seemingly cares less.

It was a great blow to John Humphrey. He felt it acutely in many ways. It was not, as he said to himself, merely the ordinary loss of one we love, but of one whose practical daily life was so entwined with his daily life, that every hour, every meal, every personal necessity, reminded him of his loss. Of course, therefore, he needed all possible consolation. And naturally he thought most of the things that were likely to help him in that respect. One reflection distressed, because he felt it half solaced him. In his ambitious dreaming hours, when he had shaped out all sorts of things for his future, even to the house he would have, and the sort of order and rule he would establish in it, he had often stopped when he got to that point, as seeing how unfit his poor mother would be for such a post.

She would be painfully saving him sixpences, when she ought to be grandly expending or distributing pounds. Ah, well, she at least would now be spared the knowledge of any possible deficiencies. That was a comfort. And John Humphrey never felt to love his mother better than at that moment of her possible consolation in his consolation. And as if Fortune had been waiting for him with her hands full of benefactions, so that he might get them at the happiest moment, his mother had not died more than a few weeks when a friend to whom he had accidentally rendered an important service aided him to begin business with his younger brother James as shipowners in a humble, tentative sort of way, and thus to begin the career that has made him, at the period of the opening of this chronicle, one of the most eminent men of his class in the great port of Bristol.

Fortunate es ever in what he gi.ined, and in the circumstances of his loss, when he did lose, his brother James proved to be one of those cautious, plodding, yet able and energetic per sons, who are invaluable as partners to men whose faculty lies rather in their brilliant fore cast of commercial tendencies and successes, and in their inventive and speculative talent, than in the prosaic routine paths of ordinary industry. Thus James Humphrey established where John only devised and set going ; and when all was per formed, and heads of departments began to make James feel they were pushing him from his stool, and to show John how easy in case of accident or calamity future management would be, James died peacefully, unmarried, and left all he possessed between his brother and his brother's child.

For before this event John had married a rich wife, who bore him a daughter ; but within four years she too died, while he was busy with the plans of his new house ; so busy, that unhappily he delayed a little too long his return home in answer to a summons from the doctor, and when he got there found only his dead wife and screaming child clinging to her mother's neck, and refusing to be taken away. Thus within a few years John Humphrey lost by death mother, brother, wife. It might seem to a more impressionable man that Death was giving stern, solemn, and reiterated warning of some kind, which it would be well to heed. But John Humphrey had no such misgivings. It was his part to play the man, he thought — to bend sub missively to the Divine decrees — and not sit in selfish judgment on the Almighty.

So he had borne the last stroke as bravely as he had borne the others, and again he found wondrous consolation in the daughter left. Xindly thoughts hovered about the departed wife, as John Humphrey thought (and wept over the pathos of the position), that she seemed but to have been born and to have lived to marry him — and give him such a peerless treasure as this fair girl who was now ever by his side. That was her mission ; she fulfilled it — and went away. He was elected to the common council ; and in an unusually early period afterwards, Alder man John Humphrey's name was of frequent appearance in the papers, as a sitting magistrate in petty sessions. But the circumstance that most pleased and touched him — as evidence not simply of his growing popularity, but of the religious regard in which he was held by his fellow-parishioners, was the proposal to elect him to the post of church warden at a period of great local excitement con cerning the supposed tendencies of a new incum bent, and when the post was obviously one of special importance and dignity.

This, however, he declined with tears in his eyes, while pointing out that as he was building himself a new home, a few miles distant, he could not long be a fellow parishioner. Was that the only and real motive that moved him to such an act of self-denial ? It is probable he did not even himself know exactly. In trying to sound the depths of his own religious character, might he not unawares have lighted upon some revelation, dim and unexpected, that sent him hurriedly back in the de termination to inquire no farther ? People now began to think and say that John Humphrey had reached his culminating point ; had no more Alps, social or otherwise, to mount ; had only the duty to guard what he had, and reasonably to enjoy it. The shipowner himself, however, laughed to scorn all such ideas. He felt really beginning his career — and that all past life had been but the necessary preparation.

And yet it began to be noticed that his face grew thinner, was less demonstrative of smiles ; that his spirits had lost all their natural elasticity and impulse. ' It strikes me,' said a bystander, talking to a merchant in the Exchange on the subject, ' he feels now the burden that his brother James used to bear for him, and which John therefore made so light of. It is a terrible thing to some men. I know I should find it so, to have ships sailing in every sea ; to have so many ventures abroad, in each of which a decent fortune may be won or lost under possible contingencies, and therefore to have to think out all the multitudinous details, to shape all the necessary arrangements — and to have to keep on so doing — year after year. That's where he feels it. In old times he had only to go to James Humphrey and say, " Brother, here's a ' capital chance opening ' " — explain his idea — which was wonderfully clear and coherent, and then finish off with asking — " James, can you do it?" and to get back, after due and most deliberate meditation, the same fixed reply, which he never wished to have a change in — " John, I think I can," and he always did.' ' Ah,' rejoined the merchant, ' there's more in it than that.

I notice now he's not exactly . the same man even in his own way. There's more dash, and less accurate judgment. More speculation — just when one might suppose he'd incline to less.' ' You don't mean ? ' said the other, nerv ously, as if the matter concerned him personally. ' I mean nothing — pray don't misunderstand me. I wish you good morning ! ' Perhaps one might venture to draw from these remarks, the conclusion that Janus-faced Fortune, getting tired of smiling on her protege, was beginning at last to turn upon him her more sinister aspect,

Chapter II. The Look Out

JOHN HUMPHREY'S principal place of business was by his great dockyard in Bristol ; but when he resolved on building himself a stately mansion, and began to look for a site, it struck him that for various reasons, some of which he did not choose to particularize even to himself, it would be a good thing to have a lesser dock and ship-yard by the sea (as the Bristol Channel may well be called), which is a few miles distant, but can only be reached by the narrowest, muddiest, most sinuous, and most picturesque river channel the world can show as a place of passage for great ships. Looking for one thing he found two : a creek, which he might turn into a dock ; and a neighbouring site for his house so lovely, that he had not stood upon it and walked about it for ten minutes, before he decided, with a laugh, that his luck had not deserted him — here he would build.

And there the house now is. Mount Avon he calls it, on account of the elevated site and its proximity to the river. It stands on the hill slope almost over-hanging the sea, and is com pletely environed by that and the garden, and by circling hills wood-crowned and studded with villas. John Humphrey was a man of too fine taste to dream of placing his domestic Eden in juxtaposi tion with the dirt and ugliness of the dock and ship-yard. So he divided them from each other by a piece of hilly ground that he left in its own natural wild grace, to indicate to the obtrusive tokens of business, ' Thus far and no farther.' All obvious connection with his home was thus thoroughly broken ; though in sleepless nights, such as he is now getting, the master of the house hears the far-off baying of his watch-dog, let loose in the dockyard, and roaming about in the enjoyment of his nocturnal liberty.

Nothing flourished in this intermediate space of ground, for it was trodden by many feet when it became accessible through the shipowner's pur chase. Children from the village were allowed to play there. The dockyard men used it as a shorter way to their homes. Pilots waiting for a call, or seamen just landed from a neighbouring ship, found it a pleasant spot to smoke their pipes, look out seawards, and discuss the country and character of the latest arrivals as they dropped anchor and furled sails. One of these called it ' The Look Out.' The name pleased and became permanent. Strangers also came, tempted by the beauty and extent of the prospect it commanded. But when the shipowner noticed that some of these in strolling about would lie down on the green slope at the exact and only spot from which the operations of the ship-yard could be overlooked, he put up a seat, with a canopy for shelter against sun and rain, on the highest point of the hill ; and having thus pleased the general public of the neighbourhood, with whom he was very popular on account of his liberality about this pretty bit of ground, he then raised a screen of trees at the spot he did not wish people to go to, and so obtained, as he thought, once more the desired privacy.

Could Mr Humphrey, however, watch the movements of a certain person who has begun of late to haunt the hill, he might be inclined to think his screen was not so much a screen for the ship-yard as for an observer, wanting to study the ship-yard without being himself observed in return. The habits of this person are most strange. He keeps away when other people or even children are likely to come. And it is but seldom that he ventures hither during the busy hours of the place. But as regularly as the numerous workmen go off to meals or for the night does he come shortly after, take his seat under the canopy, draw out his pocket telescope, and once more examine the sur rounding beauties of land and sea, as if he would never tire of them. But after a while he at least tires of his sitting posture, and begins to stroll, and to peer into the tangled undergrowth, as if looking for wild flowers; or gaze up into the lofty trees, as eager to dis cover the whereabouts of the songster who is making the air ring with his delicious melodies.

But wherever he moves, however he occupies himself, the end is always the same, a quick glance round through every point of the compass, and then a disappearance among the young trees, so thoughtfully erected by Mr Humphrey for his accommodation. And there, at their farthest edge, he lies on his breast, spy-glass in hands, studying with eager interest the great ship that is in the dock undergoing repair. On this particular evening the yard is empty of workmen, who have done for the day; and the only forms he sees through the dusk are a clerk hurrying after the artisans ; a woman with a child and a basket ascending the steps of the foreman's house; the foreman himself bus)' un fastening the chain of the dog at the gate ; and lastly the shipowner, Mr John Humphrey, who passes across the yard, pauses, looks about as if conscious it is his last look for the day, glances upward, glances at the very place where the tube of the telescope is pointed at him, and where the stranger lies studying intently his every move ment, and almost fancying he sees every change of thought on the face of the shipowner, who turns and goes out at the gate, leaving the dog — mildly gambolling, and baying at all kinds of imaginary enemies — undisputed master of the yard.

The dusk deepens and the telescope is shut up, and the stranger changes his posture to a sitting position, but otherwise remains immov able, as lost in reverie. The moon appears and gradually lights up the dock, and the stranger is again busy with his telescope — fascinated apparently by the weird beauty of the ship. Its light, almost white hull, wet with falling dew, and covered with streaks of colour, appears under the tremulous lovely light as if it were a supernatural vision. In vain he tries to discover images to liken it to that can satisfy him. One moment he thinks of a gigantic faery ship of mother of pearl ; then of a ship, which the spirits of the deep have in laid with all the choicest fish-scales known to them through their wide domain ; and then, by another freak of fancy, he likens it to a dying dolphin, but stops abruptly with a bitter laugh, and says aloud : — ' Ships don't die — shipowners take care of that — not till they go down !

But, as Christian people are expected to die in their beds, so Christian shipowners, perhaps, think ships should only die in theirs — the deep.' It is with difficulty the stranger tears himself away from the wondrous spectacle of the ship ; its beauty moving him, even while it suggests association with terrible things lying hidden in his own breast. And when he does go, it is only to return to the place with the first gleams of light in the morning, to satisfy himself that he has been under no delusion as to the identity of the ship. Yes, there it lies, foul, stained, hideous in its rottenness. Ah, yes, it is the same ship — that looked so lovely last night, — and about whose past and future he has so often speculated. His mobile face changes with the increas ing gloom and self-mocking character of his thoughts : — ' Well, has the time come yet ?

Or must I have another month or so, to think things over ? ' He takes a letter from his pocket and looks at without opening it. ' My father's letter. Do I now mean to read the record that shames my inaction ? Or shall I once more put it by, knowing that if I open it and read there is an end to my present life of indulgences— to all my unmanly excuses for evading the most solemn duty that was ever im posed on a son ? ' Why, then, do I hesitate ? Shall I go on lying to my own soul, and discovering new advantages for every new delay? Or shall I own the truth that I have seen a woman — a girl — beautiful, no doubt ; but his daughter, and I am therefore spell-bound ! 0 worthy reason ! 0 noble motive ! that makes my hands drop to my side, my eyes humbly seek the ground, my legs carry me stealthily away, whenever I happen but to see him near, and think — Whj^, he may be about to challenge me ! ' I will read ! and I mil act ; or else own that doing nothing is best, for I am so poor, so pitiful a scoundrel, that I should only spoil the work I pretended to do.' ' My dear Son, ' Had I written this fourteen years ago, when our calamity was fresh, I should have said, — " Robert, the day after you have seen the last of me in the grave, go to England, and bring the monster to justice at any cost." ' Or had I undertaken this duty in more VOL. I. recent years, when peace had come with prosperity and new friends, I should still have said, " Go, if you will, but satisfy yourself afresh of this man's guilt, take nothing on trust, and then prosecute, or publicly expose and leave him." ' But now in my dying hours I would say, if it were of any use, what I have often said in our talk together — " Leave him alone with God — and wreck not your own welfare on such an under taking !

" But unhappily for us both my own earlier thoughts and wishes have gone so deeply into your heart, and so grown with your years and strength, that I see plainly to stay your going now would be a greater curse to you than I dare contemplate. ' Go, then ! But judge him according to his present works. If they be well let there be no punishment for the past, except such as you may call forth in his own heart ; and that accomplished, let him have my entire forgiveness. ' Mind, there is not in all the world a more glozing tongue than his. Hell itself is not fuller of falsity. Beware, then, lest he turn you to shame — while you think only to bring him to that pass. Whatever you do, do quickly, and Heaven bless and prosper you. ' Your loving father, ' Gilbert Ullathorne.' The words — ' Hell itself is not fuller of falsity ' — had been blotted over and over again, as if the dying man had perceived after writing them they half revealed the truth he wanted to conceal, that he was not so much moved by his unwillingness to let the offender be driven to extremities as by fear of his son's becoming the instrument.

But that son had never rested after his father's death till he deciphered the words beneath that ugly blot. He treasured them afterwards all the more carefully in his heart of hearts, as understanding his father's motive for their obliteration. ' Whatever you do, do quickly.' ' Quickly ! Let me see.' He took out a note-book and read in it — ' " Landed at Liverpool, June 7th." "Ar rived at Bristol, June 8th." " Made inquiries there and came here, June 9th." And now I make yet one more entry. What is to-day ? My God, that I should have to ask such a question ! August 13th ? No, it must be at least the 14th. ' I have been here, then, from June 9th, as above, to this 14th of August; and have done nothing, except in undoing. And this day I have read again and for the first time in this country my father's letter.' He closed and put away the book, looked at his watch, and with hurried steps went down the hill towards the sea.

Chapter III. Eve

IF ever a place reflected faithfully and completely the character of its owner, surely it was the bed-room of the shipowner's daughter, Eve. Had any stranger, who was himself capable of understanding such a character, been intro duced into it blindfold, so that no sort of pre possession could have taken hold of him, derived from the display of her father's wealth on the way by which he had come, he could hardly have failed to realize the nature of the life spent there, or avoid being impressed with the sense of its beauty. We may imagine his ejaculations as his eye roams around, and is attracted in succession by different objects. ''What a charming room — how full of refine ment — and yet, as far as I see, not a single costly article of furniture in it. The occupant must be far from wealthy ; or if wealthy in herself, or by her relations, must have studiously determined to be surrounded with things valuable only for their intrinsic use.

Is that a sign of humility ? 'The pretty snow-white bed, with deeply fringed counterpane, stands in the corner — has a circular blue canopy, but no curtains — -and yet is sheltered even from the idea ofobservation by the screen that interposes between the doors and much of the room on the side where the sleeper must dress and undress : and where body and soul are thus alike accustomed to breathe a pure free atmosphere. ' The screen is covered with water-colour drawings, chiefly landscapes, probably her own production ; for there is a hesitancy of touch mingling with true artistic feeling, that reveals the amateur. ' Why, she must live great part of her life here, and not merely her nights ; for that writing table (with its pot of mignonette), chair, and desk, show signs of constant use. Ah ! if one only dared look inside that book — that appears so like a diary — only just to lift the cover — but that you cannot do — it is locked.

Why ? Is she secretive ? EVE ' She loves art — and has the sense to deepen and purify that love by concentrating it on the study of a few supremely excellent works. A glorious photograph of a Madonna and Child meets her eye every time she pauses in her writing to look up. But is that her love of art only, or is it the desire to feed her own nature from the inexhaustible well-springs of such a mother's loving soul ? ' She likes music, but sacred only, or chiefly ; for there is her harmonium in the corner, the keys displayed, the music-book open, the last night's candles left just as she extinguished them. How plain the case, how noble the tone, even as I touch it. What would it be under her hands ? What was it she played last? "Angels ever bright and fair." ' She loves literature, is a student, and not simply in one language.

Here, in a low, walnut wood case against the wall, with leather-edgings to the shelves for protection against dust, are her books, chiefly in vellum bindings, all well-worn from continual use and the being carried about in pockets and bags ; the Germans Schiller and Goethe, in their own tongue ; Dante and Tasso in theirs ; Racine and Corneille in theirs. But what do those tiny curtains, hung out a few inches from the wall on each side of her bed, which is away from the wall, portend ? Pardon, gentle spirits, guardian angels, who keep watch over this place, the rude hand that reverently draws them aside for a moment only, and to see — what ? Books again. No doubt the choicest to her spirit, the dearest to her heart, the most trusted to when there is need of their silent com munion. First and nearest to her hand stands the little Bible, with many silken strings dis persed among the leaves, ready to guide the loving and accustomed fingers at once to the well known but ever fresh truths and comfortings they seek : its margin full of delicate pencil notes and marks.

Then Milton and Shakspeare, a Life of Lady Jane Grey, the Trial of Joan of Arc, George Herbert's Poems, and, lastly, the Life and Diary of Mdlle de Guerin ; and these are all. True, one may guess that periodical changes occur in some, if not all of these, except the Bible.' The room is filled with the double light of EVE the sky and sea ; and on these summer mornings Eve's strong young eyes waken to it as unflinch ingly as the flowers at her window. One can scarcely look at her, knowing her name, without thinking of Milton's picture of our first parent. She owes this resemblance to her deceased mother; in whom it was so strong that John Humphrey determined to have their child named Eve in acknowledgment of the Mil tonic original. A grave-faced female relative re minded him who it was that brought sin into the world : — ' All the more necessary, ma'am,' was John's reply, ' that other Eves should compensate for her misdoing.' So Eve it was.