Chapter CIV…

Chapter CIV

THE BONE-HOUSE OF THE CHURCHYARD OF ANDERBURY.—THE RESUSCITATION.—THE FIGHT, AND THE ESCAPE OF THE DEAD.—THE BOAT, AND THE VAIN PURSUIT.

The coroner, after the inquest was over, issued his precept for the interment of the body of the man who was found in the ice-well of Anderbury House, and whose body was deposited at the bone-house in Anderbury churchyard.

There was an end now to these proceedings, though it was much too fresh in people’s minds to enable them to forget it; yet, once the coroner’s inquiry over, it usually happens that a feeling of satiety, arising from excitement, in the first place, or following that excitement, and induced by the knowledge that all is done that can be towards unravelling the mystery that had caused such a sensation, takes place.

The town of Anderbury was first subsiding to its original quietude, and the only indication of any excitement was that among a few old topers, who met in the early part of the evening, to discuss anything that there might be stirring to talk about, and to do that required but little inducement, to talk being their principal, not to say only, amusement; indeed, to have deprived them of that would have been to have deprived them of nearly their only inducement to work and to live, that they may indulge in their evening conversations at the alehouse.

There was a very general belief among such people that, as the whole affair was unexplained, that it was mysterious, and the nods and winks were numerous; indeed, it was thought that there was more than the usual amount of mystery. However, this has its limit, and when all is said that can be said, there must be an end to the discussion, which is usually dropped for want of fuel to feed it.

• • • • •

That night the baron sat alone in his apartment, apparently buried in deep thought; but, now and then, he might have been seen to lift up his eyes towards the east, as if watching for something, and then he would cast them towards a magnificent timepiece on the mantelpiece, and then he would again relapse into thoughtfulness.

There were several such fits as these, that were broken in the same manner as before, and, at length, the arose and took a small book off one of the tables, and examined a certain page and a certain column, and then he half-muttered to himself,

“Yes—yes; it is as I thought—the moon will rise in about an hour and a half; that will do. I will now go to the bone-house, and there watch the body, and ascertain if my fears are correct; if not, I shall be well repaid for my trouble; and should they be, why, I must endeavour to make the affair take the best turn I can. I must try and prevent the completion of my own deed from being disturbed in its integrity. The dead must remain so; and, if not, to that condition he must return, and lie where no moon’s ray will reach him.”

He arose, and, wrapping his cloak around him, went to the door of his apartment, and paused, as if listening.

“No one is stirring,” he muttered; “no one is about.”

He stole softly out of the apartment, and descended the stairs, making his way towards a small private door, which opened into the garden, which he secured behind him.

Then he walked rapidly but softly through the garden, which he quitted by another private door, and which he also secured after him; and then proceeded quickly and silently towards the church yard of Anderbury church, which was but ill-qualified to keep intruders out of it, seeing that there was but a low wall and a hedge for the purpose of a fence, which could at various places be easily scaled; indeed, there are few country churchyards that cannot be so entered; and it does not appear usually the practice to endeavour to keep out human beings, but rather to keep the yard clear of all brute intruders, for it was open to all who should choose to come.

The scene was not very distinct; the moon was not yet risen, and darkness reigned upon the earth; he could see but a short way, and he cared but little for that.

“If darkness prevents my seeing, it also prevents others seeing me; therefore, it is welcome. The moon will rise soon enough to aid me in my watch, and if it rise not at all, it would be agreeably satisfactory, seeing that there would be no probability of what I suspect happening without her rays.”

He hurried onwards towards the churchyard. The sea was close by, and the night breeze, as if swept across the face of the ocean, gave the indistinct roar, which never ceases, but only increases and abates as a storm or calm prevails at the time, and as the wind increases or diminishes, thus increasing or diminishing the intensity of the roar; but it never entirely ceases at any time.

The baron made his way towards the churchyard by an unfrequented path that was well know to him; but as he was about to get over a stile into a field, he thought he heard a voice speaking on the other side of the hedge.

He paused a moment, and crept along the hedge, until he came to the spot where the voice seemed to come from, and then he paused, until he heard them speak again.

“I tell you what it is, Jack; it’s a very strange affair—a very strange thing, indeed.”

“So it is.”

“And one I can’t understand at all, though I have endeavoured to do all I can that way. I have thought the matter over very often; but it always comes to this—that it is a very strange affair.”

“What can be the cause of it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you seen it?”

“I thought I did once,” said the second; “but it was misty and dark; but I think I couldn’t be mistaken.”

“Nor I.”

“You have see it oftener than I; have you not?”

“Yes—yes—I have, several times.”

“How did you see it?”

“Why, thus: I was looking out for the lugger, and there away in the east I saw something white coming across the sea. It came very steady and slow, and looked small at first.”

“Yes—yes.”

“Well, then, after that it came closer and closer, until I saw it changed its shape to a gigantic woman.”

“A woman!” exclaimed the other.

“Yes, or may be a man in a winding-sheet; that is most likely though, after all.”

“I think so, too,” he replied; “as sure as there are dead bodies in Anderbury churchyard, it forebodes some great evil—of that I am very well persuaded.”

“What great evil do you think will happen?”

“How can I tell? I am no prophet. I cannot imagine in what shape it should come; but come it will depend upon it; if it comes not now, when it does come, remember my words.”

“I will.”

“And you will find them all true some day or other, if it don’t come too soon to be pleasant; but I think something may happen to the lugger.”

“She has not been seen these two days; and it is now past the time when she ought to have been in. Thus it was with the other lugger that the revenue cutter took.”

“Did you see the apparition?”

“No; but there was a token, I believe; but I was not in those parts at that time.”

“Well; but how did it happen that they let the lugger be taken by the king’s men?”

“Oh! they couldn’t well help it, you may depend upon that. She was coming from Cherbourg, laden with brandy and with lace, a good cargo, and worth something, I assure you.”

“She must have been worth something.”

“She was. Well, she had a very good run for a part of the way, when a fog came on. Well, it wasn’t well understand what they were to do. Some were for putting back; others for standing where they were, and some few for running in shore.

“I shall run in shore,” said the captain. “I know every hole upon the coast; and I know the exact spot where we are, and how to steer. I can run the vessel to an inch.”

“And that inch may do the business for us all,” said one of the crew; “but I’m ready.”

“And I, too,” said the captain; “and I will run her where there will be no chance of any meeting with the preventive people; but the fact is, we can neither see nor be seen; we are safe, boys. A good run on shore, and a swift voyage home.”

“Huzza!” shouted the men; and the vessel was run towards the shore, and, at the same time, they were going under an easy sail safe and secure, and had no thought of any evil.

There was a look-out, at the same time we could not see two yards beyond the vessel. The watch was alert, but he could see nothing; but suddenly he called out,—

“Ship ahead! Port your helm!”

“What ship’s that?” inquired a voice, and, in another moment, they found themselves alongside the revenue cutter, from whom they had so long and so often escaped.

“Board!” shouted the officer on board, and then he called upon our people to surrender; but the captain drew his sword, and called out to the crew to do as he did, and defend the ship; and as he spoke, he cut one man down, but was immediately met by a pistol-shot, which laid him dead on the deck.

After that there was no resistance; the men didn’t want to endanger their lives by resisting men who were doing their duty, and protected by law; they were, moreover, out-numbered by the revenue people, and if they resisted, they would be liable to hanging, whereas they could but imprison them.

“They were all taken, and they were all imprisoned for different crimes—all, however, getting free after a term.”

“Did that ruin the owners?”

“Oh! no; they calculated upon a loss now and then, and can well afford it too.”

“Well, what do you think of the baron at Anderbury House?”

“Think! Why, think he’s a trump. What a glorious haul there would be there, if we could get hold of it.”

“How do you mean?”

“Why, the plate and other things that are valuable. Look you now, if we could load the lugger with the contents of the house, what would they not fetch in Paris?”

“We should not get it if we were to take it there.”

“We should obtain a heavier profit than ever we should under any other circumstances; and I think it will be a very good plan, indeed, to take Anderbury House by storm. There’s some thousands of pounds’ worth of plate and jewellery there.”

“So there is.”

“Well, what do you say to make the attempt? Attempt, I say; but I shall not call it an attempt, for there will be no attempt at resistance—we shall have only to walk in and frighten a few servants; there will be nothing but to carry away what we can lay our hands on.”

“That will do—anything that will pay.”

The baron had been an attentive listener. He had, moreover, had some thoughts in his own mind of jumping over the hedge, and seizing the two men; but, upon second thoughts, he believed that this was the worst that could be done.

“I will frighten them, and thus prevent them from putting their designs into practice to my damage.”

The baron silently collected several large stones and clods of earth into one space, and then he peeped through the hedge. He saw where they lay, and took up two clods, pitched one on each of their heads, and then he said, when they started up,—

“Miserable sinners! the eye of Heaven is upon you; go your ways and repent while there is time.”

The men were for a moment horrified, and stood still, chained to the spot; but suddenly they were released, and in a moment they rushed from the spot with the fleetness of deer.

The baron watched them out of sight, and then he muttered to himself,—

“’Tis well; they are now out of sight; they are gone, and they will make no attempt upon Anderbury House, I’ll warrant them they think their design will be penetrated by others, and they will suffer for it should they attempt it. I trust I can make a very good resistance; however, it is worth thinking of.”

He paused a few moments longer, and then turned towards the churchyard.

He pursued his way, however, thoughtfully; every now and then, however, he looked around to ascertain if any one were present, but he was satisfied there was none, and thus he was quite and entirely alone in his walk.

There was now light enough to enable him to distinguish objects at a short distance, and he quickened his pace, as he thought of the moon’s rising; but a few minutes brought him into view of the church of Anderbury.

The old church was seen to advantage at such an hour, for as the sky was cloudless, and the stars were out, the tapering spire looked like some great and gigantic indication raised there for some purpose pointing heavenward.

There was a deep gloom surrounding the whole place, for there was not a shadow cast by any one object, neither had the church one side that was lighter than the other.

In a very short time the baron reached the charnel-house, or the bone-house, as it was more usually called. It was a small place, attached to the church itself. The wants of the population were not great; and, therefore, all these public places were built with the view only of a limited use.

It was large enough for all purposes, and as large as it is usual for them to be in such places; and the baron, before he attempted to enter the place, took a walk all the way round, to ascertain if there was any one lurking about; but finding none, he returned to the door of the charnel-house with the full intention of going in.

However, there was no key, and he could not, therefore, enter it by the usual way, and he must find some other.

“There is sure to be something or other,” he muttered, “to cause a temporary stop to one’s career in some place or other; but I will not be deterred by such a trifle—there is a place in the roof somewhere here, I think, where I can get in with but little trouble.”

The baron looked about for a place that would enable him to climb up, but he suddenly withdrew his hand, exclaiming,—

“Hilloa! what have we here?”

It was soon settled, and the baron held up between him and the light the key of the charnel-house, which he had found as he put his fingers into a niche to assist him in lifting himself up to the roof.

“This is lucky, and will save me much trouble; but I have not much time to spare.”

He put the key into the lock, and found it fitted the lock, and he in another moment opened the door of the charnel-house, and entered its unwholesome precincts.

There were but few who would have entered that place at that hour, knowing, too, that a man was lying dead that had died a violent death; few, indeed, would have done so, but the baron was himself above such considerations; and besides, he had an object in view, which was of some importance.

He desired to watch the body of the murdered man—he desired to stay there, and watch the effects of the moon’s rays upon it. He now smelt where he was, for there was that fœtid smell of death, which always hangs about the bone-house, which is a receptacle of all the mortal remains of man, which have been once cast into the grave, for which their friends have paid large fees—as well for the ceremony, as for the quiet enjoyment of the home of death; but which bargain must be continually violated, and the bones of a man’s ancestor, instead of ornamenting some museum, or his carcass doing some good by way of instruction, lie rotting in the grave-yard, till the sexton digs up the same ground and takes fresh his fees, but burning the bones of the former.

The baron entered the receptacle of the remains of mortality. One after the other have men’s bones been thrown in here, or, perhaps they have been mixed together, so that it would have puzzled an angel to have separated them from each other.

What more could mortals expect? their bones, at least, will form a fuel to be sure; but very indifferent fuel, too.

Here, however, the baron entered, and stepped lightly into the place. It was an uncomfortable place at best—cold, cheerless, very bare, save of such things as would remind one of the sexton’s duty, and of the nature of the place in which he was.

The first thing the baron did, was to look towards the place where the window was placed, but no light came in. He advanced to it, and gazed out upon the night.

“Well, well,” he muttered, “the moon is just rising; there will be time enough, and I can remain in this place as long as any of its rays penetrate the windows.”

He paused a few moments, during which he looked out upon the country; but all was wrapped up in gloom and darkness, save where some of the moon’s beams fell, and then there could be seen some dark spots more prominent than the rest; and then, after awhile, he could distinguish between the different objects, though he could not always tell their different parts.

“Well,” he muttered, “I am here now, and am housed. Faugh! how the place smells. I shall never be able to remain here. I shall never get the scent from my nostrils.”

He turned from the window, and examined the place. It was a square room, with bare walls. A few shelves, and some odd lumber thrown into one corner, a ladder, some tools, trestles, and a lot of rubbish in the shape of old pieces of coffins, bones, and other matters that belonged to a churchyard. There was very little in all this, to make the place at all likely to become popular with anybody.

The shell in which the man had been placed was, from some cause or other, upset from off the trestles, and the body had rolled out. It lay in all its ghastly proportions at full length upon the ground, somewhat on one side, and looking towards the window. The posture shewed the body was deprived of life. It was still and motionless—not a sound or motion escaped the lips of the baron, as he gazed upon the victim of the ice-well.

Well did the baron mark the position of the body, and marvel at the singularity of the accident which had exposed the body in the way in which it laid.

“I wonder what could have been the cause of such an accident? Who could have thought it would have happened? I am sure I never could have expected it should have happened.”

He took one of the trestles that lay near the body, and placed it so that he could gaze upon the corpse, and out at the window, alternately, without any disturbance to himself.

“Here I can watch the progress of the moon,” he thought, “and the body, too; and if I find my conjectures are right, I will soon prevent his quitting this place, and put him in such a position as shall preclude the possibility of the revivifying powers of the moon ever reaching him again. He shall lie till corruption visits his body, and then a return to life be impossible.”

Thus muttered the baron, as he gazed fixedly at the body of the man, who had met his death in the manner related, and of whom the baron entertained some singular suspicions.

The moon was rising above the horizon, and shed a soft light over the fields and woods. It was strange and silent, save when the church clock struck out the hours as they fled.

It was a strange sound, and almost startled the baron to hear the hour come booming through the building, and gave such a sound, that it broke the awful stillness of the night which reigned; the moon all the while rising higher and higher in the heavens, until its beams came very near the window.

The baron’s patience became somewhat impaired; he saw that the time would soon arrive, when his curiosity must be satisfied, and when the truth would at once break in upon him.

“Can it be,” he muttered, “that the dead should ever again rise to communicate with the world, and live to lead a loathsome life? Impossible! and yet ’tis said so by many, who assert they speak but the evidence of their own senses; if it is to be depended upon at all, it will be as well for me as they.

“Why should I not be satisfied as well as they are? I have, moreover, more than ordinary motives for satisfaction. The human bloodsucker shall not live. I am resolved upon that.”

The moonbeams now entered the window of the charnel-house. At first it was but a pencil ray, so small and minute, that the baron himself could scarce perceive it; but he did see it, and kept his eye intently fixed upon it, watching its increase in size and change of position with intense excitement.

There was the moon rising high in the heaven, with all its myriads of stars, and black canopy, studding the vault with innumerable gems; and as it rose, so it gave a far greater change to the aspect of the landscape than would have been expected.

The whole side of the charnel-house was illuminated by the moon’s rays, but they fell aslant and only entered the window in one direction, which cast them on one side, near where the baron sat.

He could now see how the place was furnished; the significant appurtenances of the charnel-house were easily discernible, and would have given a melancholy turn to the thoughts of anybody who might have examined them; but not so the baron—he was by far too excited to heed them, though he honoured them with a passing glance.

They are used by the sexton in the prosecution of his business, in the performance of his duties; therefore, there need be but little attention paid to them; they cannot harm any one, but are the means of frightening fools.

To frighten the baron was, however, something more than a mere matter of course; his nerves were strung to the purpose with which he visited the place, and they were not to be disturbed by any insignia whatever. There were plenty of ghastly objects about; bones, legs, hands, arms, and even skulls, were lying about in profusion, or rather they were heaped up in one corner of the place, and there was an attempt to hide them by heaping up old boards in front of them, as if it were done on purpose to prevent the prying eye of man from peeping and seeing the secrets of the charnel-house.

It is strange, but true, being accustomed to such scenes as these causes a diminution of the awe and fear in which such things are usually held. Soldiers and sailors care not much for death; they are used to exposure, and the loss of life does not seem to them so terrible as to those who have never faced danger.

So with the sexton: he turns up the remains of mortality, as if they were so much rubbish, and never had been endowed with life; indeed, it is only necessary to become familiar with the remains of man, and then much of the awe and mystery attending them dies away.

What cares the grave-digger whether the burial service has been read over the remains or not? What cares he if the ground in which they have been placed is consecrated ground? He can’t tell the difference, and it matters not to him; he is above such consideration, and so is he and his patrons, as to whether the spot in which the remains lie, has been bought and paid for long ago.

He has no objection to sell again that which has been sold, and that which has been used as the resting-place of some one or other. No matter, they say; the mystery, the freemasonry, and all, have been instituted for the multitude, and not for those who are behind the curtain, and pocket the fees; that is the great object of the conspirators.

However, here they were, all lumped up together, on one side, or rather in one corner, with a few boards thrown over them, as if to prevent their being seen by any incidental intruder.

Here the baron sat, watching the moonlight in its slow progress towards the dead body; and, as it crept towards the object, he felt more and more excited, but yet remained perfectly immovable. He turned his eyes sometimes from the body to the streak of moonlight that passed through the small window, and then to the small window itself, from which he could see the moon himself, but that was fast rising too high, and was becoming invisible by changing its position, so that the baron could not see it.

“The moon travels fast,” he muttered, “and a few more minutes will tell me what I am to expect.”

As he spoke these words, he felt in his pocket, and appeared satisfied with what he found there—possibly some weapon. The moon’s rays were now within an inch or so of the body, an all was as still and silent as the grave; no sound, no motion, not even a breath of air stirred to interrupt the silence and stillness of the scene; even the breathing of the baron himself was suppressed, and he strove to watch without motion.

The moonlight appeared to grow more brilliant, more beautifully white, and cast, as he thought, a stronger and more sickly light than usual into the charnel-house. There was nothing that he had ever before seen like it, and he looked around him more than once to assure himself that he was where he was, and that he was alone with the body in the bone-house.

At such moments the fancy is apt to play us strange freaks, and, if not a strong and nervous man—capable of throwing off any extraneous influence, why he would soon be bowed down by the weight of mental terror and agony—that is, nothing short of temporary madness, and which probably would make a permanent impression, and leave the seeds of mental disease for ever.

But the baron was not easily moved; he had not been brought up in schools where the mind is bound, enchained from infancy by artificial means, which seem to bind the powers of the mind in after years, and, in moments of doubt and difficulty, to render it dependent upon any extraneous circumstance, rather than itself.

However, there were few things thought of then by the baron, who sat intently watching the progress of the moon’s beams towards the body, which was now touched by them.

The light fell strong, it edged the white garments that were thrown around the body; the baron watched more and more intently, and each moment lessened the space of time when the truth would come out—when he would be assured of the truth of his conjectures.

There was no ray on the body yet, but it slowly and slowly let the light approach the body; the edge was illumined, and then the moonbeams fell more and more upon it; gradually did they enlarge its surface till the whole body was in the light of the moon.

The baron’s excitement and expectation were now at the highest, for the whole body was illuminated.

“Now!” he exclaimed, in a muttered whisper; “now is the moment.”

No sooner was the whole of the body, the breast, and the face illumined, than there was a perceptible quiver through that form.

“Ha!” exclaimed the baron, with a start.

The features presented a ghastly spectacle; there was a peculiar sickly and horrible expression in the countenance, much of which was caused by the peculiar position in which it was placed; the peculiar colour of the moon’s rays and the additional horrors of the place, all seemed to give an effect to an object peculiarly ghastly and horrible.

The body, after a few moments, as if awakening to life and recollection, lifted up its head, and turned over upon one side towards the moonlight; and then, after a moment, it looked up in the moon’s rays, which seem to pour down upon the countenance that lifted up towards it.

The baron rose softly and stealthily.

“You shall feel that this is your last hour. The newly awakened life which feeds upon the blood of others, shall never exist to carry on its disgusting career.”

As he muttered these thoughts to himself, he drew a short dagger from his pocket; at the same moment the figure turned its face towards him.

It gave a half unearthly scream, as its eyes met those of the baron’s, who exclaimed,

“Now—now’s the time—death to the monster.”

As he spoke, he threw himself headlong on the prostrate form of the vampyre, for such it was; which, as he did so, endeavoured to rise up and escape. The baron, who had aimed a deadly blow at him, as he threw himself upon him, caused him to fall back again; but the fearful being had contrived to ward off the blow, either with its arms, or by means of shifting its position, or something of the sort; the baron missed the blow, and was now in a deadly struggle with the vampyre.

The struggle was fierce; no signs of shrinking on the part of the baron, who carried it on with the full intention of its ending fatally to his opponent, while he was exerting himself to escape the muscular grasp of the baron.

The baron, however, was not a match for the more than superhuman strength of the vampyre, who, endued with all the energy of love of a newly-acquired life, struggled with a desperation scarcely to be conceived.

Had any one looked in, from without, upon the struggle that was going on within, they would have believed that some demons of the dead had suddenly become endued with the power of appearing upon earth, and had chosen that spot upon which they could exercise their malignity in combat with each other.

Suddenly, however, the baron was thrown with great force upon the ground, and he lay for a moment half stunned; then the vampyre, disengaged as he was, stopped to cast a magnificent look of triumph upon his fallen foe, and dashed out of the bone-house by the same entrance as that which afforded ingress to the place to the baron.

In another moment the baron rose up and rushed after the flying vampyre; his defeat by no means extinguishing his courage or ardour.

He soon caught sight of the vampyre as he was flying from the bone-house; indeed, the moonlight was now so strong, that it seemed almost day.

Every object, far or near, appeared distinct and observable; while the waves of the ocean appeared every now and then to throw off the silvery light, like a thousand moving mirrors.

Beautiful as the scene was, there was none there who stood to look upon it. The only living and breathing persons present, were those who were engaged in the chase. Not a soul, save these two, were about—none saw them—none witnessed the fearful efforts of the two.

The place looked like some spot of earth spoken of by the enchanters; all was motionless and still, save these two, and the ceaseless motion of the ocean waves.

The vampyre made for the shore, with the baron a short distance behind him. They strained every nerve; and the baron thought he should succeed in securing him on the beach.

There were some boats that were secured on the beach, and towards these the vampyre sped with the fleetness of the wind; and, no sooner did he reach one, than seizing its head, he caused it to run through the sand by the impetus he had acquired in running, and it was afloat in a moment.

There was no time to lose, for just as he had pushed into deep water, the baron had rushed down almost in time to seize the boat but missed it.

He then made for the boats, and succeeded in reaching one that was afloat, secured only by a rope.

In this he pushed out on the waves in pursuit of the object of his search. Away they both went; the sea was comparatively smooth; they both rowed with velocity, that promised much as regarded their capability as rowers.

The spray of the water was thrown up by their oars and by the boats’ heads. The baron, however, had the worst of it; he rowed to disadvantage; because, every now and then, he had to turn his head to see which way the object of his pursuit was rowing; and, therefore, a loss of speed occurred; but yet he kept up well in the wake of the vampyre.

There was, however, no attention paid as to where he was going; as long as it was straight in the wake of the flying, he was satisfied. But he saw nothing else, nor looked at aught else; indeed, the world might have been there, and he would not have been aware of the fact. His whole faculties were bound up in the object before him, to reach which, he exerted his whole strength. However, upon looking up again, he could nowhere see the vampyre. He looked long and steadily in all quarters, but saw him not. He had eluded him.

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Chapter CV

THE BARON PROPOSES FOR HELEN WILLIAMS, AND IS DULY ACCEPTED, WITH A COMPLIMENT ON HIS BEAUTY.

The baron had put out to sea in chase of the vampyre, without considering that there was really great danger in so doing, inasmuch as that the elements were not quite in a kindly disposed condition, and there was a heavy sea.

Where he had obtained his skill as a seaman, Heaven only knows; but certain it is he had obtained such knowledge somewhere, for he commenced navigating the boat with the greatest skill, and soon succeeded in getting close in shore.

The moment the keel grated upon the beach, a man rushed into the water, and laid hold of the boat with one hand, and the baron with the other, exclaiming,—

“You are my prisoner! You took my boat, and I don’t care who or what you are, I will have justice.”

“How much money do you require?”

“More than you will like to pay. I sha’n’t let you off under a pound.”

“Here are five pounds.”

“Lor! Excuse me, your honour; I didn’t mean what I said; if so be as your honour is such a gentleman as I now sees as your honour is, it don’t make any matter in the world. I hopes as how your honour will always take my boat when you wants one, and no mistake.”

The baron made no reply to all these compliments, but walked away at once towards his own house on the cliffs.

“I have missed him,” he muttered, “and all my labour has been in vain. I thought that at least I had got rid of that affliction; I thought that he at least would have rotted in the tomb. Curse on the tardiness that left him unburied until the moonbeams had rested upon him. After that all was in vain, unless some new death had come over him.”

There was a flush of anger upon the baron’s face as he reached his own house, and let himself into it by a garden-gate that he always kept the key of, which would have effectually prevented any of his servants from taking any notice of him, had they met him.

But at such an hour, it was not likely he should meet any one, nor did he do so.

He at once sought his own chamber, where he remained for some time immersed in deep thought. This thought was not wholly devoted to a consideration of his annoyance at the escape of the vampyre; but he took into his most serious thoughts the circumstances attending upon his entertainment.

The question of to marry, or not to marry, was not one that had to be settled by the baron. No, that he had done already; and he had not made the announcement he had to Mr. Leek, of his matrimonial intention, unadvisedly.

What the baron now considered was, whether he should propose to Miss Helen Williams or not.

He certainly had been somewhat struck by the quiet beauty of the young girl; and probably he was aware that he was not just the sort of person to win a young maiden’s heart, and that if he achieved such a honour at all, it would most probably be in consequence of acting upon the cupidity of her relations.

As he was determined, therefore, to marry, it became necessary that he should select some one for his victim who, in addition to the personal charms which appeared to him to be a desideratum, should be of so pliant and amiable a disposition as to give way to those solicitations and incessant remonstrances which she was likely to be assailed with if she resisted.

It was fortunate for Mr. Leek that the baron did fix his regards upon Helen Williams; because, from what we know of Mrs. Williams, we can well perceive that it is quite evident she will not let any considerations of her daughter’s happiness stand in the way of an equitable arrangement with that gentleman.

And although there might have been, and indeed were, persons at the baron’s entertainment whom he would more gladly have called by the name of bride than Helen Williams, yet he was not slow to perceive that those parties had wills of their own, and, if their relatives had pleased to do so, they would not themselves have admitted that they were up for sale to the highest bidder.

The result of the baron’s considerations, therefore, was, that Helen Williams would suit him very well, and that the poverty of her family was just the circumstance of all others which insured his success.

“I will wed her,” he said, “although I cannot win her. She will be mine, because I shall purchase her; which, to my mind, is a much more admirable mode of embarking in a matrimonial career than the trouble of a tedious courtship, with all its frivolities and follies.”

Whether or not the baron was used to matrimonial affairs, we cannot say; but certain it is he did not seem to consider that the proposing for a young lady and marrying her was a matter of very grave or serious moment; but really, by the style in which he considered it, anybody would have thought it one of the most ordinary concerns of life.

During his short stay at Anderbury, he had managed, by the magic power of wealth, to procure everything he required in the shape of servants, carriages, and horses; and now, on the morning after his most strange and mysterious adventure with the corpse of the murdered man, he ordered his carriage, and went out to pay a number of visits to the parties who had been present at his entertainment.

Among those visits he included one to the Williams’s family, and by about twelve o’clock in the day reached their residence, and was received with such an extraordinary amount of bustle, that it was quite ludicrous to see it; but still it suited him, because it showed how they worshipped wealth, with the exception of Helen, and she did not make her appearance at all.

Mrs. Williams was all smiles and sweetness, paying so many compliments to the baron, that, although he knew nothing of the diplomatic arrangement of Mr. Leek, he yet felt quite certain that he had her with him most completely, and that none of her exertions would be wanting for the purpose of securing his victim.

After these compliments had somewhat subsided, the baron said,—

“Madam, I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing your daughter Helen, who did me the honour of being at my poor entertainment the other evening, and attracted while there the eyes of all beholders.”

“Oh, certainly, my lord baron. I have not the slightest doubt in my own mind but that Helen is quite—quite panting, in a manner of speaking, for the honour of seeing you again.”

“You are very obliging, madam; and I can assure you that one of the most gratifying circumstances that have occurred to me during my short residence in this neighbourhood, had consisted in the fact of my making the acquaintance of you and your amiable family.”

“Will you excuse me for one moment?” said Mrs. Williams; and, after a courteous bow from the baron, she left the apartment, and proceeded to the room of her daughter Helen, whom she addressed, saying,—

“Helen, are you aware that the baron is here—the great baron, the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh? Good God! how can you be so foolish? He has actually asked for you, and you are not there; when you know as well as I do, Helen, that such a man as that, to whom the expense is no object, might pop in a moment.”

“He might what, mother?”

“Pop the question—propose, of course. Don’t tell me that you don’t know what I mean. I have no patience with such nonsense. Only think how rich he is. You know as well as I that it would be the making of you and the whole family; and I can tell you, Helen, that, if you are not a positive fool, in my opinion, he will pop, for there was quite a particular expression upon his face when he asked for you.”

“But I fancy, mother, there is always a particular expression upon his face—a particularly ugly one, I mean; for, beyond all question, he is the most ordinary man I ever saw in my life.”

“Now, really, Helen, you are enough to vex a saint. What can a man’s looks have to do with his property?”

“But what’s his property to me, mother?”

“Oh! good gracious! Have I lived to hear a child of mine ask what a man’s property is to her, when he begins to be attentive! I did not expect it—I will confess, I did not expect it. I did think there would be a little consideration on the part of a child of my own, when she knows I have to strive, and strive, and stretch our means like a thin piece of Indian rubber, to make both ends meet.”

“But, mother, if I cannot love this man, wherefore should I for one moment entertain the thought of making him my husband?”

“Self, self!” exclaimed Mrs. Williams, lifting up her hands; “nothing but self.”

“I cannot suppose, mother, that it is an extraordinary act to decline sacrificing one’s whole existence for the sake of marrying a man with money, who can not only not love, but who is an object of positive aversion as this man is to me.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Mrs. Williams; “that’s right. See me dragged to prison, and see us all without shoes to our feet. That’s what you would do, rather than give up your nonsensical notion about people’s looks.”

“But, why,” said Helen, “should these calamities, which have never yet appeared, all suddenly come over us, because I do not feel inclined to marry the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh?”

“And as for the man’s looks,” added Mrs. Williams, rather adroitly shifting the argument, and declining to answer the rather home question put by Helen—“as for the man’s looks, I am quite ashamed of any daughter of mine talking about men’s looks—it’s indelicate, positively indelicate.”

“I cannot see your argument, mother, and I implore you not to persecute me about this man, whom I really cannot love.”

“Persecute, indeed! but I tell you what it is, Helen, you don’t seem to be at all aware, first of all, that I am drowned in debt; secondly, that I shall have to bring your brother Charles home from college to make him a tailor, or a shoemaker, or something of that sort, and you will have to go out as a daily governess, while I rot away by slow degrees in a prison.”

“But, mother, if these evils are all about to fall upon us, cannot some fair means be adopted of extrication from them. Your income, I always understood, was a certain one, and surely it almost amounts to criminality to live far beyond it.”

“Not at all, when you expect your daughter to be a reasonable Christian, and to marry decently and respectably. Really, my dear, I must say that I little expected such remarks as you make, from a child of mine, I can tell you.”

Mrs. Williams was right enough there, for it was a wonder that such remarks should come from a child of her’s, who could not be supposed to have heard any such sentiments, but who must have, from the mere force of a just and admirable disposition, given utterance to them.

“Mother,” she said, after a pause, “do not fancy that I would not do much to relieve you from any burthens you may have; and, if difficulties have arisen, they are to be remedied in the best way we can, as well as regretted. But I pray you not to ask me to wed this man, whom I cannot love.”

“Well, well. I’m sure you make a terrible fuss, and I don’t know what about, for my part. It’s nothing, I rather suppose; and, after all, the baron may not be going to propose at all for you, and I may be wrong.”

As Mrs. Williams thus admitted the possibility that she might be wrong, she looked with an expression of countenance, as much as to say, “Did you ever, in all your life, hear of such virtue as that, or such self-denial?”

“Then what do you wish for me to do, mother?”

“To see him. You cannot put such a slight—indeed, I might almost say, an insult upon him, as not to see him when he actually calls and asks for you. He is, you know, after all, a gentleman.”

Helen found it difficult to say that she would not see the baron, so, although it was done with great reluctance, she followed her mother to the room in which that lady had left him, and where he did most anxiously expect her. He felt that his cause was not quite so good as it had been, and that the non-appearance of Helen got up some serious doubts as to the complying disposition he thought she had.

When, however, he at length saw her, some of those fears were dispelled, and he began to imagine that his suit did not look quite so desperate.

There was certainly about the baron a rather courtly air and manner, which, as Mrs. Williams said, shewed that he lived in the best society; and Helen would not allow her aversion to the man to carry her so far as not to behave to him with politeness, so that for some moments that the conversation proceeded, any one would have thought that those three persons were upon the most amicable of terms with each other.

But Mrs. Williams, like some skilful old general, was well versed in matrimonial tactics, and, after making a few remarks, she deliberately left the room, to poor Helen’s great chagrin; for, although she had consented out of ordinary civility to see the baron, she had by no means intended to have a tete-a-tete with him.

That was quite another affair, and one may well suppose what a degree of indignation she felt at being forced into such circumstances, and by her mother, too, who, of all persons in the world, ought to have protected her, and to whom she ought to have looked certainly for very different things indeed.

It was a very awkward situation to be placed in for poor Helen, inasmuch as she now really could not leave the baron completely alone without great rudeness; and yet she much dreaded, in consequence of the hints that her mother had thrown out, what the interview would be that was about to ensue.

How devoutly and particularly she hoped that, after all, the supposition of her mother that the baron had any matrimonial intentions towards her was a mistake, and she felt that the first words he might utter would be the means of chance letting her know if such really was the case, or if she was to be what she could not help styling, the victim of his addresses.

Of course the baron knew perfectly well that Mrs. Williams had taken her departure for the express purpose of giving him an opportunity of pressing his suit to her daughter, if he felt so disposed, and as he did feel so disposed, he was not at all likely to neglect the opportunity.

None but a man of great tact and discretion, however, could have made so good use of such an opportunity as the baron; for although he certainly did not succeed in removing from the mind of Helen Williams a strong feeling that he was an uncommonly disagreeable man, he did not add to that impression.

“Miss Williams,” he said, “I have not until now had an opportunity of thanking you for the very great favour you did me, by making one at the party at Anderbury House.”

“The obligation,” said Helen, “was on my side, sir, and I beg that you will not pay me so empty a compliment as to endeavour to make it otherwise.”

“You do yourself a great injustice. The grace which you lent to my entertainment was to my mind its greatest charm. I feel, I assure you, compelled to say so much, because it is the genuine truth, and not for the purpose of paying to you an empty compliment, which I have too much respect for you to do.”

Helen was silent, for she knew not very well what to reply to this speech, inasmuch as it was one of those general ones that require no reply, unless the persons to whom they are uttered choose to enter at length into a civil complimentary kind of warfare, for the express purpose of so doing.

The baron waited for some reply to be made, and then, as none came, he spoke himself, saying, after at least two minutes’ pause,—

“Miss Williams, you may, or you may not, have heard that my principal intention in settling in this neighbourhood—which I was informed, and I find correctly so, is celebrated for the respectability of its inhabitants—was to marry.”

“Sir,” said Helen, “I know nothing of that matter, nor do I think it is one with which I ought to be in any way troubled.”

“Without explanation, certainly not, Miss Williams; but will you allow me to add, that unless my speech had contained certainly something more than a mere compliment, or a mere desire to give you a piece of gossiping information, I should not have uttered it on any account; but I have something to add to it, which does concern your private ear most particularly, and which I do hope will meet with your favourable consideration.”

He paused again, and, as Helen returned no answer, he after a time continued, saying, in a still lower tone,—

“May I venture to hope that no preconceived prejudice will have the effect of diminishing any expectations and hopes with which I have pleased myself?”

It is said, and said most truly too, that there are none so blind as those who won’t see, and the same rule may be most unquestionably applied to those who won’t hear or understand; and although it was, of course, impossible that Helen Williams could have any doubt as to what the baron meant, she was resolved that he should speak out plainly, in order that she might, without giving room for any ambiguity, likewise speak as plainly to him, in answer to the proposition that was upon his lips.

Perhaps the baron was wise enough to see that much, for he proceeded now with much more clearness to declare what he meant, when he said,—

“I told you, Miss Williams, that my object in coming here was to contract a matrimonial alliance, being tired of the solitary life I had been leading for some years. I should not have troubled you with such a communication, had it not been in my power to add to it another, that will explain why I did so.”

Helen merely inclined her head, to signify that she heard him.

“That other communication,” he continued, “is to the effect that I have found the person on whom I feel convinced that I can fix my affections, without the possibility of their ever wandering again from the dear object. Amid all the rank, beauty, and intelligence that graced my halls on that occasion which will ever be hallowed in my imagination, I had eyes but for one form, and ears but for one voice.”

Still Helen was silent.

“There may be many who, in the possession of much attraction and much virtue, may make many happy homes; but the heart culls its own flower, and will think that it presents the most delicate and most beautiful tints to the eye. That flower, from amidst all the galaxy of beauty, I think—nay, I know, that I have selected. Can you not now guess the purport of my simple words, Helen?”

It was tolerably familiar to call her Helen upon so short an acquaintance, and she drew back, looking some astonishment, which he perceiving, and divining the cause—for no one could accuse the baron of want of tact—replied to.

“Forgive me, if, in conversing with you, my heart seems to forget the distance that is between us, and I think of you by that name which, certainly, it is presumptuous on my part to call you by; but there are persons in whose thoughts and feelings we so deeply sympathise, and who, from the first moment that we see them, become bound to us by so many mysterious links of feeling, that we seem as if we had known them for ages, and as if, from that moment, we could be as familiar—ay, much more so—than with many whom we may have met often in the great world.”

This was true, and, what is more, it happened to be a truth that touched a right chord in the breast of Helen Williams; for she felt what he said recall recollections of the past, when there was one whom she had seen, and, from the first moment that she had seen him, had felt that time and circumstances could effect no change in those first dear and delightful impressions which had swept across her heart.

The baron saw the contemplative aspect of her face, and he added,—

“You feel the truth of what I utter?”

She started, for she had indeed felt the truth of the sentiment, although her heart was far away, and for a moment she had completely forgotten the existence of the baron, or that it was from his lips she had heard the sentiment expressed.

It was a mortification to him to see this—for he did see it—and he said,—

“Miss Williams, I hope I have said enough, at all events, to convince you that I am not one of those cold, worldly-minded spirits who have none of what may be truly called the higher and the nobler feelings of humanity; but who can, and who do feel and think that there is much of beauty and much of innocence in life, and that both are the dearest and best gifts of Heaven.”

“I have nothing to say in contradiction to what you have uttered,” said Helen; “but you will, I trust, now excuse me, sir, from continuing a conversation which can have no good result, and which, between persons who are nearly perfect strangers, is scarcely desirable.”

This was a speech which, if anything would, was calculated to bring the baron to the point at once; and, as she rose while she uttered it; as with an intention of leaving the room, he at once said,—

“Nay, as I am here, allow me to utter that which I came to speak, and do not, I pray you, hastily decide upon a question of more importance to yourself and to me than any which can be ordinarily asked. Let me beg of you, Miss Williams, to be seated, and to believe that, in my manner of putting this question to you, there shall be nothing which can, in the slightest degree, prove offensive to you.”

Thus urged, it would have been something savouring of ill-manners, if Helen Williams had refused to accede to his request; and, although there was nothing she so devoutly wished as that that interview should be over, and over quickly, she felt that perhaps the surest way of accomplishing that object, was to listen quietly to what he had to say; and accordingly she did so, reseating herself again on the chair she had so recently occupied, and determined in her own mind to give him a decisive answer. He then seemed rather in doubt as to how he should commence, and, as he spoke, there was an air of hesitation and doubt about him such as he, indeed, very seldom wore.

Probably, he felt that it was rather a climax that he had arrived at, and that if he was to accomplish anything in the matrimonial way, it was a very doubtful case as regarded his present application.

“I cannot but feel,” he said, “that what I am about to say sounds hasty and premature, considering that we have known each other for so short a space of time. It is not for me to enlarge upon circumstances which, I fear, will have but little weight with you; but still it is my duty to mention that I have a large fortune, and consequently can afford to place the object of my affections in such a position in life as that she shall feel surrounded with everything that can make her existence pleasant and desirable.”

“Go on, sir,” said Helen; “I am staying to hear you, in order that I might clearly and distinctly answer you.”

This was by no means encouraging; but still the baron proceeded:—

“I wish to make you an offer of my hand and heart; and, as the Baroness Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, I am quite certain that you will add a dignity to that title, instead of receiving one from it.”

“Sir,” said Helen, “an offer of this kind from any gentleman is a compliment which ought always to be appreciated, and I assure you it is one which I feel highly; but as one’s future happiness in a marriage is by far too important an affair to be trifled with, I must beg to decline the honour you intend me.”

“Decline!” said the baron.

“Yes, sir, I said decline; and I trust that the justice of the Baron Stolmuyer will effectually preserve me from anything in the shape of a persecution for so declining.”

At this moment, and before the baron could make any answer to what was said to him by Helen in this firm and determined manner, the door was flung open, and Mrs. Williams rushed into the room.

“My dear sir,” she cried to the baron, “of course you understand these matters perfectly well. Girls, you know, are always so very unreasonable, that you can’t expect anything from them but a refusal at first, although they may really mean quite the reverse.”

“Mother, is this just or fair?” said Helen, reproachfully.

“Oh, stuff—stuff! don’t speak to me about justice and fairness, indeed, when you are so absurd as to behave in this dreadful manner towards the baron.”

“But, madam,” said the baron, “I fear——”

“Fear nothing, my lord; but if you will have the kindness to step into the next apartment for a few minutes, I will join you, and we can talk this matter over.”

Mrs. Williams did not think it at all necessary to make any excuse for having listened to the baron’s overtures; and perhaps, indeed, she thought that it was not necessary to do so, and that her interest in the affair was a sufficient extenuation of what certainly was a most abominable proceeding.

Shame and disgust at her mother’s conduct now kept Helen silent; and as the baron was perfectly willing to give himself all the chances he could, he made a low bow, and left the apartment, in conformity with the desires of Mrs. Williams, wondering much in his own mind by what miracle she purposed influencing her daughter’s decision after the extremely positive negative she had given to his proposal.

He waited with much impatience, as well as curiosity, and as our readers may, as well as the baron, be a little curious to know what arguments Mrs. Williams used, we shall proceed to give them a brief outline of what she said.

“Are you mad?” was the first ejaculation. “Are you thoroughly and entirely out of your senses, that you behave yourself in this extraordinary manner?”

“In what extraordinary manner? A man asks me if I can wed him and love him, and, as he asks me politely, I tell him as politely that I cannot, which is the whole of the affair. Is there anything so very extraordinary in such behaviour as that?”

“Indeed, I think there is something very extraordinary in it. I tell you what it is, Helen, Mr. Leek is firmly of opinion that the baron’s income must be at least ten thousand pounds a-year.”

“I do not think I shall marry a man for his income, if it were ten times that amount.”

“This is insanity—positive insanity. Have you really the least idea of what you are talking about? But I know what it is well enough; I know very well what it is; of course it’s that fellow, James Anderson, that comes between you and your wits. That’s the scamp that prevents you from exercising a proper control over yourself, and you know it is; but he is gone to sea, and it is to be hoped we shall never look upon him again. I don’t wish to see him, and I am quite sure you need not, so you had better make up your mind to marry the baron at once.”

“This is too cruel—much too cruel; and but that I see it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it possible.”

She burst into tears as she spoke, and then for a brief moment—but it was only for a moment—the heart of the mother was a little touched. The love of money again assumed its sway, and the happiness of her child sunk into insignificance compared with that worst of passions.

“Listen to me, Helen,” she said; “it’s all very well to make choice of who you like, and to refuse who you like, when it can be done; but I tell you that, in this case, it cannot be done, for we are all of us on the brink of ruin, and, if you will not by this marriage rescue us from that state, destruction must come upon us all. You can save me, you can save your sisters, and you can save your brother, if you will. Of course, if you will not, I cannot make you; and you will have the consolation of knowing that, although you had it in your power to save us all from destruction, you did not do it.”

“But why should I be placed in so cruel a situation as to be called upon to sacrifice myself completely for my family? Would it not be nobler to meet difficulties, if they have arisen, with a good spirit?”

“As you please—as you please; I can say no more.”

Mrs. Williams moved towards the door; but Helen called to her, saying,—

“Give me time to think—I only ask you to give me time to think.”

This was a grand concession, and Mrs. Williams at once acceded to the proposition, that it was prudent to leave well enough alone in such a case, and that, having once seen that persecution would do something, it was highly desirable to leave it to work its way.

She accordingly at once left the room, and proceeded into the adjoining apartment, to which the baron had retired; and where, from his attitude, it seemed highly probable that he had taken example by Mrs. Williams; and, as she had listened to his conversation with her daughter, he had, in like manner, listened to her.

“I have the pleasure to inform you, baron,” she said, “that my daughter, although at first taken a little by surprise as regards your offer, now accepts it; and I can only add, for my own part, that it is with great pleasure I contemplate having so handsome and distinguished a son-in-law.”

“Madam, I highly esteem your compliment; and I must beg of you as a favour, that you will fix the wedding-day as quickly as you please or can; and that, as it must put you to some expense as well as your other daughters, and as it would be very unjust that, on my account, you should expend one penny piece, you will do me the favour of accepting from me a £500 note to cover those expenses.”

Mrs. Williams quite instinctively held out her hand, but the baron added, with a bow that damped her expectations a little—

“A sum which I shall have the pleasure of handing to you as soon as the wedding-day is fixed.”

It would be doing great injustice to the acuteness of Mrs. Williams, if we did not say she quite understood this to be a bribe for expediting proceedings; and if anything was likely to clench the matter, and to place the marriage of the baron with Helen beyond the shadow of a doubt, it certainly was this fact, that £500 was offered to the mother for what we cannot help calling the sale of her child.

But these kind of things are much more common in society than people are at all aware; and one half the marriages that take place at all, are most unquestionably matters of barter. When the highest bidder obtains the prize, if prize that can be called, which generally consists of a shallow, conceited heart, nurtured in all kinds of selfishness, and full of feelings, not one of which can be considered great or estimable.

It is sad, indeed, when, as in the case of Helen Williams, the victim is made a victim on account of her better and nobler feelings, and where it is not her own selfishness, but the selfishness of others, which she is condemned to be victimised to. Whether she will or will not consent, under the circumstances we have narrated, to become the bride of the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, we shall shortly discover; but certain it is that he entertained a strong notion she would, and that Mrs. Williams thoroughly made up her mind that she should.

Nothing can save Helen but a determination of character, which we fear we cannot say she possesses.

Her correct reason makes her say things which, if she could carry them out, would be as proper and as decisive as possible; but the great fault of her character consists in a weakness of purpose, which effectually prevents her from carrying out the suggestion presented to her by her own superior intellect.

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Chapter CVI

THE PREPARATIONS FOR THE BARON’S MARRIAGE.—THE YOUNG LOVER, AND THE REMONSTRANCE.

So it appeared that the baron was right, and that with all his disqualifications he had succeeded in obtaining the promise of a wife, because he had the one great qualification which outshone everything to his disadvantage, namely, wealth.

And he was not so blind, or so foolish, as not fully to understand, and to know, that it was to the relatives of the bride, and not to the bride herself, that he was indebted for an answer in the affirmative to his proposition.

Well he knew that although he had dazzled their eyes and awakened their cupidity, he had produced no such an effect upon the young and beautiful being who was about thus to be sacrificed upon the altar of Mammon; and probably if anything could have added to his earnest desire to make her his, it was that he saw she was untouched by the power of his gold, and therefore he could not but respect, as well as admire her; and he much preferred taking to his arms one for whom he entertained a supreme and sovereign contempt.

She felt that she was a victim, and that if she consented to become his, she must look upon herself as blighted and sacrificed for ever.

But he was too selfish to hesitate on such a ground as that. His feelings were far from being so human as to stop short, because he knew the alliance was viewed by her with hatred and horror. And that she did view it with those feelings, spared him, at all events, as he told himself, some trouble, for it took away from the necessity of keeping up the constant shew and glitter of wealth, for that shew and glitter affected her not, and therefore would have been presented to her imagination in vain.

But far different was it regarded her friends and connections, who had arrogated to themselves the power of deciding upon this matter of life and death to her.

To them he felt that he must shew all the glitter of display that belonged to his extensive means, or they would be disappointed, for they not only wanted riches themselves, but they wanted the worldly reputation contingent upon having so rich a relative.

Therefore was it that he determined that nothing should be wanting at his approaching nuptials to make them most magnificent, and he racked his imagination to discover a mode by which he could spend a large sum of money, so as to get for it the greatest amount of display. This was a matter which a man such as he was eminently calculated to achieve; and, as he succeeded in fixing his nuptials to take place in a fortnight from that time, he had ample time to make all such preparations as he might consider requisite.

It so happened that on the following evening to that on which he had obtained so strange a consent, through another party, to his matrimonial speculation, that the sun sunk upon the coast with every appearance of approaching stormy weather.

Scarcely had its disc sunk below the western horizon, when a furious gale arose, and, for the first time since his residence at Anderbury Hall, he felt what it was to hold an estate so near to the sea-coast.

The sea rose tempestuously, appearing to shake the mansion to its very foundation, and more than one half of the excavation leading from the grounds to the sea-coast was filled with water. The gale blew off the sea, and one or two trees upon the Anderbury estate were torn up by their roots, spreading destruction around them among the numerous shrubs and flowers.

Some of the windows of the mansion were dashed in, and the wind came roaring into the house, whistling up the staircases, opening and shutting doors, and altogether producing a scene of devastation and uproar which would have terrified most persons.

The baron, however, on the contrary, notwithstanding whatever damage was done was of course done to his property, took the matter with the greatest ease and composure in the world; and, in fact, rather seemed to enjoy the fury of the elements than to be awed by them.

He remained out of doors the whole time and although the rain now and then fell in torrents, and drenched him to the skin, he seemed scarcely conscious of that circumstance, or, if he were, he evidently thought it too trivial to take any notice of.

The servants looked at him in amazement, scarcely believing it possible that any one in his senses could be so indifferent to the rage of the elements that was proceeding; but they little knew the real character of the man whom they had for a master, or they would have wondered at nothing, and been surprised at nothing that they saw of him or heard of him.

The storm continued until the night completely set in, and still it showed no signs whatever of anything in the shape of an end; and it seemed but too evident that it was likely to continue in all its wild and ungovernable fury for many an hour to come.

He got as close as he could to the beach, so as not to leave his own estate, and from there he listened attentively to the howling of the blast, seeming rather pleased with the idea than otherwise, that much mischief was being done by that most terrific storm.

A servant brought him a telescope, so that he could look out upon the waste of waters, and see some of the struggling vessels that, with might and main, were endeavouring to keep off the shore, but which, despite all their efforts, were being hurried to destruction—a destruction which they could not avoid, and which must present itself in the most serious aspect, because it appears inevitable, and is invested with all the misery of a protracted execution.

And in particular he remarked one vessel which was drifting onward to certain and inevitable destruction.

He could see the rockets and the blue lights that they burnt now and then through the storm; while, ever and anon, with a booming strange sound over the waste of waters there would come the signal gun of distress, with its awful reverberations, awakening feelings of sympathy in the breast of every one but the baron, and he seemed impenetrable to all human feeling, for he looked on with a strange calmness, a calmness that one might suppose would set upon some man who had nothing to do with human hopes, human thoughts, or human feelings, but not by any means that calmness of a pure spirit looking upon things which it would aid, if it could, but which are beyond its power of action.

He saw the anxious throng of persons on the beach precisely below his own estate.

He saw them launch a boat, and, with a grim smile, he saw it swamped in the surge, and the brave bold men, who had made the gallant endeavour to save their fellows, met themselves, with but one exception, a watery grave.

And then even the baron smiled, and muttered to himself,—

“What is all this to me? what have I to do with human hopes and feelings? What is it to me whether they live or die, or whether yon ship, that I now see struggling through the waste of waters, reaches its destination, or is engulfed for ever in the foaming surge? What is it to me, I repeat, whether these bold brave men live or die? Will they not be the very persons to hunt me from the face of society? Will they not be the very persons who would declare that I was unfit to live? And shall I trouble myself with one thought as to whether they live or die? Ah! they come nearer, nearer, nearer still, and I shall see such a sight as may not often be observed by one such as I am, and on such a coast as this.”

There was a strange, wild, wailing cry, and the ship, which was a large one, struck heavily upon a rock about a mile distant from the shore, and very close, indeed, to where the Anderbury estates commenced.

Now, as if seized with a sudden impulse, although we cannot and do not think it was one of humanity, the baron descended by a large fissure in the rock to the beach. This took him some time to accomplish, for he had to walk completely through the grounds of Anderbury Hall, and half-a-mile beyond, before he reached it, and then it took him some time to walk down, because he had to do so with extreme caution, inasmuch as the heavy rain that had fallen had made the ground so slippery that it was with great difficulty he could at all keep his feet.

When he arrived in sight of the beach, the ship was gone, but a life-boat was being launched, amid the hurras of the multitude, for the purpose of picking up some of the survivors of the wreck who were noticed drifting upon portions of its hulk.

The baron had brought his telescope with him, and he placed it to his eye, and took a long and steady look at the boat.

A muttered malediction came from his lips, and, having shut the telescope, he turned, and hastily pursued his path again to Anderbury House.

• • • • •

After the wedding, Jack Pringle really felt himself so upset by the quantity of healths he had drunk, and the general manner in which he had disposed of a quantity of rum, that he told the admiral he found himself not quite so well as he ought to be, and that he thought it was all owing to having been out of sight of water for so many months.

This was a plea which sounded very reasonable to the admiral, and when Jack said,—

“You know it ain’t possible to live very long without a glimpse, at least, of an arm of the sea, or something of that sort.”

The old man assented to the proposition at once, and replied,—

“Why, that’s true enough, Jack, and I shall have to go somewhere myself soon, or else get musty; for, you may depend, it never was intended that human beings should live all their lives on land.”

“I should think not,” said Jack, “and I what I was going to say was, that you must try and take care of yourself, you old baby, for a day or two, while I take a run to the coast. It ain’t above twenty-five miles; and mind you don’t get into any mischief till I come back.”

“Confound your impudence! It’s a very odd thing that you can’t come into my presence without a lie in your mouth. You know you have been as much trouble to me as a cargo of monkeys in a storm. Be off with ye, and if I never see your face again, it will be a good job.”

Jack considered that he had quite sufficiently announced his departure, so he set off at once, and made his way towards the coast, not a little pleased, as he neared it, to fancy that, every now and then, he kept snuffing the sea air; and when the coach in which he went put him down within about four miles of a little village inhabited by fishermen, he walked that distance, although, sailor-like, it was an exercise he was by no means fond of, and, to his great joy, once more stood upon a sandy beach, and heard the murmur of the ocean, and saw the waves curling at his feet.

He was quite delighted, and really felt, or fancied that he felt, which was the same thing, wonderfully invigorated by the change, and quite another thing to what he had been.

Under such circumstances, Jack was sure not to be long in picking up a companion, so, in one of the cottages into which, with all the free and easy manner of a sailor, he strolled, he found an old man-of-war’s man, retired there to spend the remainder of his days along with his son and daughter.

We feel that it would be quite impossible for us to do justice to the meeting between those two worthies, for they soon found out the capabilities of each.

Some grog, which Jack thought the sweetest he had tasted for a long time, because it was drunk within sight of the ocean, was produced, and then the tales they set to telling each other of their adventures afloat, would have been enough to stun any one.

We have rather a fear, likewise, that in some cases, they were not so strictly particular as they might have been had they been upon their oaths, as regards truth; but they seemed to be upon the principle of mutual forbearance, and the implied understanding of “You believe me, and I’ll believe you.”

Whenever this kind of rivalry, however, commences between inveterate story-tellers, there is no saying to what length they will go, and Jack certainly related some extraordinary things.

They happened both to have been to the same latitude, but, of course, they had not both seen the same sights exactly, or enjoyed the same adventures; so what one did not know or could not invent, the other pretty soon did; so that between them they made up a most entertaining conversation, and one which really would, to any one who was willing to be amused and not very particular about veracity, have had great charms.

“Ah,” said the old sailor, “when I was on the coast of Ingee, the hair melted off my head.”

“Did it,” said Jack. “Oh! that’s nothing at all; we had a couple of men roasted at the wheel with the heat, and they didn’t know it, till they were both done brown.”

“You don’t say so?”

“Yes, I does, and, what’s more, we always had our meat cooked over again upon one of the gun slides; and, after that, when we were a long way southward, it was so cold not one of the crew shut his eyes for a week.”

“Indeed! But you spoke of a man as you called Safety Jack; who was he? I should like all for to know.”

“When I was on board the Fame, our captain was a know-nothing sort of shore-going lubber, who had been guved a pair of swabs over better men’s heads, and uncommon afeared he was of getting into any danger. He’d always come on deck on a morning, and guving a kind of a hurry-skurry skeared look all round him, he’d say, if so be as he seed no land,—

“‘Where are we? Is there any danger?’

“Then our first luff he’d say,—

“‘No danger, sir; only a little fear.’

“Then the captain he’d say, all the while looking as skeared as a marine in a squall,—

“‘Let us be safe—let us be safe, that’s all.’

“So we called him Safety Jack, in consekense o’ that peculiarity. Well, you must know as we were running for the Cape, and Safety Jack he wouldn’t be persuaded, but insisted upon hugging the coast of Africa all the way, cos, as he said, it looked safer to see the land. So, as it happened, when we neared the Cape, we got into a regular north-westerly current, that set clear away south-east, or it might be a few points more southerly. The wind, too, blew in the same direction, and it seemed a bad job altogether. Our luff then says, says he to the captain—that’s Safety Jack, you must understand,—

“‘It will take us some time to work into the bay with this wind and current, but we can do it.’

“‘Is it safe?’ said Safety Jack.

“‘Oh, yes,’ said t’other; ‘though I have known a vessel of small draught to be capsized hereaway.’

“Safety Jack at this turns very pale, and he says,—

“‘Well, run before the wind a few leagues to the south; it’s safer—and—and the gale may go down, and we may get out of the current—and—and—besides, it’s safer.’

“Well, everybody grumbled, but Safety Jack would have his own way, and we went spanking along with the wind and current nearly due south.

“But instead of getting out of the current we got further into it, and the gale increased to a hurricane. We went through the water at such a rate that the men who stood facing the wind could not button their jackets, or shut their eyes, and there was the mate and five able-bodied men holding the captain’s hair on his head. The men’s teeth, too, were all blown out of their mouths, and kept rattling among the rigging like half-a-dozen old shot in a locker. On we went, faster and faster, till all of a sudden we saw the sails flapping against the masts, and the ship was evidently turning round in spite of the helm.

“‘We’re out of it now,’ mumbles Safety Jack.

“‘I think we’re in for it,’ cried the mate. ‘This is a whirlpool!’

“And so it was; round and round we flew like lightning, coming nearer to one point at each turn. The men all fell down on the deck as giddy as geese, and Safety Jack he begins screaming. Just to give you an idea of how we went round, there was two of the crew as had a squabble about a bottle of rum, and one on ’em says—‘If I can’t have it you sha’n’t, and there it goes,’ shieing it behind him. Well, you’ll hardly believe it—but the ship was going round so fast in a circle of about a mile, that afore the bottle could drop the man as threw it was brought round to it again, and it knocked his eye out. Well, presently the ship gives a kind of shivering and stops for half a moment, and Safety Jack he screams again. Then the water opened like a well-hole, and just for a moment we could see it bubbling and lashing like a boiling cauldron. Then down we went into the foaming surge like a lump of lead.”

“You don’t mean to swear to that?”

“Yes, I do; at any time and any day; I should think so, and rather think I ought to know, as I was there.”

“And how did you get saved? That’s the question, my boy.”

“You ought to be satisfied about that, I should think,” said Jack, “by seeing me here. If I had not escaped, I rather suppose I shouldn’t have been here to have told you about it.”

“That’s all very well; but I ask you how you escaped?”

“Oh, that’s quite another thing. I floated about for eight weeks upon an empty tar barrel.”

“Eight weeks, did you say?”

“Yes; eight weeks, two days, four hours, and three-quarters.”

“The deuce you did! How came you to be so mighty particular as to the three-quarters?”

“Because I thought some fool would be sure to ask me.”

“Oh, that indeed; but the most odd thing that happened to me, I will say, was when I was once wrecked on an island that we called Flee Island.”

“Flee Island; what a rum name! What made you call it that, I should like to know?”

“Oh, a trifling circumstance—there was nothing in it but flees, and they were as big as elephants.”

“Very good,” said Jack; “I can believe that, because there is nothing outrageous about it. I don’t consider myself at all difficult to please, and so long as you stick to such things as that nobody can doubt you will find it all right with me.”

“I am very much obliged—but should you happen ever to come across that captain of yours again——”

“Yes, but it were a good while afterwards I was on board a whaler, and I saw something floating that looked like a great lump of chalk, and when we picked it up, who should it turn out to be but Safety Jack, what they call putrefied, and turned to something like white coral.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do; we keep him out of curiosity for about a week lashed up to the mainmast, but the men of the night watch were scared at him, and threw him overboard, because they said, when the moonlight fell upon him, he for all the world looked like a ghost, and they couldn’t keep their eyes off him, which I dare say was somewhere about the truth.”

“You certainly have seen a little service; but mix yourself another glass of grog, and I shall do the same, for I don’t mean to turn into hammock to-night.”

“What for?”

“Because there is going to be a storm. I have not been looking at the weather for so many years without being able to tell that before it comes. There will be a storm before twenty-four hours are over, and I think it will blow off the sea, so that there will be no end of mischief.”

Jack Pringle went to the door of the fisherman’s hut, and, although the evening had set in, he cast a scrutinizing glance at the heavens, looked earnestly in the direction from whence the wind proceeded, and when he came back again and sat down by the side of the old sailor, he said,—

“You are right; there will not only be a storm, but such a one too as they hav’n’t seen for some time; so I shall no more think of turning in than you do. Who knows but that some vessel may be drifted in shore, and then we who are seamen will be able to do more good than a score of your shore-going fellows, who are afraid if the saltwater gets above their ankles.”

“That’s true enough; when the wind does rise in this way, and blows a strong gale, it is pretty clear that there will be something in the shape of wreck to look at.”

The prognostications of Jack and the old sailor turned out, as we know, to be tolerably correct, for the storm which they anticipated was precisely that severe one which roused the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh from his lethargy, and induced him to go down to the beach, to see what was likely to be the fate of the vessel from which the signals of distress had proceeded.

So soon as the wind began to howl, and the waves to dash upon the shore, Jack Pringle and the old sailor left the cottage, and stood with great anxiety upon the beach, anxious to render what assistance they could to those who were suffering from the fury of the storm.

We have before mentioned that a boat that the Baron Stolmuyer saw swamped, had ventured out to the assistance of the crew.

In that boat had been Jack Pringle; and he had refused to allow the old sailor to accompany him, on account of his age.

“No, no,” said Jack; “this is a work for youngsters, and they and they only ought to set about it. You remain where you are. We know well enough that your will is good, and let that be sufficient; and now, my lads, who will go with me?”

Jack soon got a few good volunteers, and started out on his chivalrous expedition, to see what could be done towards rescuing some of the crew of the distressed ship.

But, alas! what the baron had said about the fate of that boat was true, although he was incorrect as regarded the consequences of its swamping to all on board; for Jack Pringle, in consequence of being a first-rate swimmer, and possessed likewise as he was of great coolness and presence of mind, contrived to reach shore again, although he was the only one of the ill-fated crew who really did so.

But, as Jack himself said, they died in a noble cause, and as everybody must die some time in some sort of way, he didn’t see that they had anything very particular to complain of in that respect.

It was on the second occasion, however, that Jack was going out with a life-boat, that the baron reached the beach, and then, as if indignant that such daring attempts should be made to save what he evidently thought so little of, namely, human life, he retired in indignation again to his home.

But not all the barons in the world would have stopped Jack in his chivalrous enterprise, and so he proceeded at once to carry it out to the best of his ability; and he did pick up a man who was nearly exhausted, and clinging, with but a faint hope of deliverance, to a portion of wreck.

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Chapter CVII

THE YOUNG SAILOR SAVED BY JACK PRINGLE TURNS OUT TO BE AN IMPORTANT PERSONAGE.

It was not the least gratifying part by any means of Jack Pringle’s, going to the sea-side, that, in consequence of that occurrence, he had been instrumental in saving the life of a fellow-creature; and when he returned to the cottage of the fisherman, bearing in his arms the apparently lifeless remains of a young man, who had been clinging to a portion of the wreck, the cheer that greeted him from the bystanders was certainly the most grateful music that had ever greeted his ears.

He had a strong impression on his own mind, that the young man whom he had removed from the wreck would recover, and that impression he was wonderfully well pleased to find verified by the fact.

The care and assiduity of the family, upon whose hospitality the young stranger was thus by the fury of the elements thrown, succeeded shortly in restoring him to perfect consciousness.

He showed a disposition, then, to arise, but this Jack Pringle and the old fisherman would not permit, for they both knew from experience in such cases, how essential rest was; so they darkened the room in which he lay, and left him to himself.

“Well,” said Jack, as they sat together; “what do you think of that young fellow? I cannot, for my own part, make out very well what he is, although I can say what he is not, and that’s a seaman.”

“No, he is no sailor, certainly; and he is more likely to have been a passenger on board the merchantman, than anything else; and if so, it’s an odd thing that he should have been the only one saved out of the ship’s crew, when there much have been men used to such disasters, and one would think capable of taking care of themselves.”

“It is an odd thing; but there is no accounting for it; we shall hear all about it, though, when he recovers sufficiently to speak to us without doing himself any mischief.”

“Certainly; and that will be after he has had a sleep, for then he will be all right; for, mind you, I don’t think he was insensible on account of having been in the water so much, as because he was so thoroughly tired out, that he didn’t know what he was about.”

The stranger slept for about four hours; and then he awakened, greatly refreshed by the slumber, and quite able to give some account of himself without fatigue.

After expressing his most grateful thanks for the service that had been rendered to him, to which Jack listened with great impatience, because he really did not consider it a service at all, but one of the most natural things in the world for a man to do, who saw another in distress, he said,—

“I was captain’s clerk on board a king’s ship called the Undine, and we had a smart affair with a nest of pirates on the African coast. We were absolutely attacked by four or five of their vessels at once, and, having sunk three and captured the remainder, during which, however, we lost some officers and a number of men, our captain determined upon sending home a dispatch of the transaction, which he entrusted to my care.”

“Hang pirates!” said Jack. “They ought all to be hung up at the yard-arm, without judge or jury; but, I suppose, they are by this time pretty well settled.”

“I have no doubt of it, for it was the captain’s intention to steer to the nearest port, and there be evidence against them, and get them in due course executed. He put me on board a merchant vessel with my dispatches, and a more prosperous and pleasant voyage we could not have, until the storm which arose off the coast here, and proved the destruction of our vessel.”

“Ah!” said Jack, “it’s always the case, if anything happens, it’s within sight almost of the port you are bound to.”

“So it is,” said the old fisherman. “All is safe out in the blue waters; but, when you least expect it, and things are looking quite pleasant, and people a-brushing themselves up to go on shore, then, all of a sudden, something will occur, and you will find yourselves a wreck.”

“It would seem so,” said the young stranger; “and, at all events, that was our evil fortune, whatever it may be any one else’s, for we were, indeed, just congratulating ourselves upon being at home, or nearly so, when this terrific storm arose, and, I suppose, I am the only survivor out a crew of twenty-eight men.”

“The only one,” said Jack, “I am sorry to say. All had sunk before the life-boat had reached you, and, what’s more, several brave fellows lost their lives in the first attempt to pick up some of the crew; so it has been a most disastrous matter altogether.”

“But cheer up,” said the fisherman; “it might have been worse, for I have known cases when a ship has gone down, and not left one survivor to say who or what she was; or tell the tale of her destruction.”

“And I too,” said Jack.

“On what part of the coast,” said the stranger, “am I? for, during the night, we have drifted so far, and been so beaten about by the gale, that whether we came twenty miles or a hundred I cannot tell.”

“Why, the town close at hand here is called Anderbury.”

“Anderbury!” exclaimed the young man. “Is it possible that my faculties have been so confused by the danger I have been in, as not to know this coast. This is the very place to which I should have proceeded post-haste, directly I concluded my business in London at the Admiralty.”

“Indeed. Then you had better stay here at once, and go to the Admiralty afterwards; for, I dare say, that will answer the purpose just as well, at all events. And, I suppose, you have lost your dispatches.”

“I have, indeed; but yet it is my duty to report myself, as soon as possible. But, now that I am in Anderbury, I cannot resist the opportunity of calling upon a dear friend, who resides in this town. Do you happen to know a family of the name of Williams?”

“No,” said Jack; “I never heard of them, except you mean a Bill Williams, that was once on board the Ocean frigate, as cook.”

“No, no. I mean a family residing here, one of the members of which is dearer to me than life itself.”

“Well,” said Jack, “it’s good fortune that has cast you here, since that is the case. It is not likely that I should know anything of the people you speak of, because I am a stranger in the place myself, and have come a distance of twenty-five miles, just to have a look at the sea, and nothing else, and good fortune brought me here in time, it appears, to save your life, and I only hope you will find your sweetheart true to you.”

“I can have no doubt of that.”

“Well, it is a good thing to be confident; but, for my part, I always had very serious doubts, and, when I came off a voyage, I frequently found that my sweetheart had picked up with somebody else, in the course of about a week after I was gone.”

“But, in this case,” said the young stranger, “I would stake my life upon the fidelity of her whom I wish so much now to see.”

“Well,” said Jack, “of course you please yourself; but, before you make a fool of yourself, by calling upon her, just satisfy yourself upon the subject, that’s all, and get some friend to make an inquiry for you, or else, perhaps, you will be served as I was once.”

“How was that?”

“Why, the fact is, when I was younger than I am now, I took a fancy to a nice little creature, of the name of Jemima West, whom I fully intended to marry, and so I told her, before I started upon one voyage that I meant to be my last; for, you see, I had a pretty good stock of prize money, and I meant to set up a public-house at Liverpool.”

“And did she prove false to you?”

“A little. When I came home, of course I walked off straight to where she lived. Her father and mother were very respectable people, and amused themselves with selling coals and potatoes. So, in I walked, as I used to do, into the shop, and so on, bang into the parlour, and there sat Jemima, much as usual, neither very clean, and neither very dirty. Well, on the other side of the fire-place was a fellow smoking a pipe, and, when I caught hold of her, and gave her half-a-dozen regular kisses, he takes his pipe out of his mouth, and opens his eyes like an old crocodile.

“‘Well, my girl,’ I said; ‘how are you?’

“‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said; ‘I didn’t expect to see you any more.’

“‘No,’ said the fellow, with the pipe, ‘and I’m d—d if ever I expected to see you at all. Who the devil are you?’

“‘Who the devil are you?’ says I; ‘but, however, that don’t much matter, for be you whom you may, if you don’t pretty quick take yourself off, I’ll kick you out.’

“‘That’s a good joke,’ says he, ‘to talk of kicking a man out of his own house, after coming in and kissing his wife like a steam-engine. A very good joke.’

“‘Wife!’ says I. ‘Do you say you are this fellow’s wife?’

“‘Yes,’ says she, and she pretended to wipe something out of the corner of her eye with her apron. ‘Yes,’ says she; ‘I thought you were drowned long ago, and so I thought I might as well be Mrs. Juggles.’

“Now you may guess, messmate, what a d—d fool I looked after that, and how glad I was to back out; so, you see, I advise you to make some inquiries just before you take upon yourself to be so positive about your sweetheart.”

The young man laughed, as he said,—

“I think I’ll chance it; and, notwithstanding your misadventure, I have some reason to believe that I shall not be so unfortunate; but at all events I will take your advice and make some previous inquiries. It shall not be said that I fell into any misadventure of that nature for want of ordinary caution.”

“That’s right, don’t be above taking advice; and, do you know, I sha’n’t be at all surprised, that you will find your sweetheart going to be Mrs. Somebody else; but come, here’s dinner will be ready directly.”

“Yes,” said the old man; “it will as soon as my son returns from Anderbury, where he has gone to buy a bit of fresh meat for you, for I thought you would be tired of fish, and we had nothing else in the house.”

“I regret much giving you so much trouble; but I shall have my pay to receive when I reach London, and will take care that you are amply recompensed.”

“Oh, don’t mention that; and, by-the-bye, here he comes. Well, Tom, what have you brought?”

“A leg of mutton,” said Tom; “I ain’t a judge of nothing else, but I thought I might venture upon that, at all events. I think somebody told me it was very good with shrimp sauce.”

“Rather an odd mixture, that, Tom, and not quite usual I should say.”

“Well, the fellow was on the grin that told me, on account of an old woman that had been to them to ask for some more credit for a month or two, because her daughter was going to be married to a baron somebody, who they say has taken Anderbury-on-the-Mount, and is immensely rich.”

“Did you hear her name, Tom?”

“Oh, yes; I have seen her before in the town. It’s old Mother Williams, and it’s her daughter Helen as is going to be married.”

“Well, I never!” cried Jack; “I say, messmate, didn’t I tell you? The murder is out, now; that’s your sweetheart, ain’t it?”

The young man turned very pale, and for a few moments he did not speak; but when he did so, he said,—

“There must be some mistake; I could stake my life upon her constancy.”

“Then a precious goose you would be,” said Jack, “to do any such thing, for I wouldn’t stake my little finger upon any woman. Why, man, it’s just what you ought to have expected. It’s the way with them all, out of sight out of mind, and I am only surprised at a fellow of your sense not knowing that, for you seem to be up to a thing or two.”

“It cannot be—it cannot be—I must go myself to seek Helen, and at once put a stop to these rumours, which, I am convinced, arise from some misconstruction, and probably a confusion of names. I know that Mrs. Williams is a selfish woman, and it is possible that she might not hesitate in sacrificing one of her daughters to gold, but that one cannot be Helen, who has pledged her faith to me.”

“Well,” said Jack, “take advantage of any doubt you can, but it would be very absurd for you to go interfering in the matter yourself. You leave it to me to make the necessary inquiries, whilst you remain here snug and unknown, and I promise you, on the word of a British seaman, that I’ll bring you exact news all about it.”

“I accept your offer gratefully, for if she be faithless to me, I wish never to encounter her again, but to leave her to enjoy what happiness she can with that other for whom she has broken her faith with me.”

“Good,” said Jack; “that’s the wisest plan, for, after all, you see, in these affairs who’s to blame but the girl herself? and you can’t very well give her a thrashing, you know; for, as regards the fellow, of course, she don’t say anything to him about you, and he can’t tell but what she is a regular free trader.”

“True—true—and the best thing, therefore, I can do, to make certain of controlling my temper in the transaction, is not to see her, unless I can make certain that she is faithful to the vows she has plighted to me; but let me beg of you, as quickly as possible, to end my state of suspense and doubt.”

“I believe you,” said Jack; “I’ll go at once to find it all out. You sha’n’t be in doubt much longer, and, of course, I hope that things will turn out to your satisfaction; although I can’t say I expect they will.”

“The hope that they will, is life itself to me, and I shall wait here with an impatience bordering upon positive agony for your report.”

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Chapter CVIII

THE DECISION AGAINST THE DOCTOR, AND MORE NEWS OF VARNEY, THE VAMPYRE.

It will be remembered that Dr. Chillingworth, although he had, without doubt, ascertained that Varney had proceeded to London, hesitated about following him there without the full connivance and consent of the Bannerworths; and now, at the very first opportunity he had, when he found the admiral and Henry together, he introduced the subject.

He detailed what he had already done in the way of tracing Varney from place to place, and ended by declaring his conviction the he was to be found in London.

“It is not only of importance,” he said, “to discover Varney on account of the property which I think he has taken with him, but it really amounts almost to a public duty to do so, when we consider the evil he has succeeded in bringing upon us, and that some other family may be soon suffering from similar machinations.”

“But, doctor,” said Henry, “I presume you have no disinclination to admit that the principal view you take of this subject, is as regards its connexion with the supposed sum of money which Varney has taken with him?”

“I freely own,” said the doctor, “that I should like to place that money in your hands, because I think you are entitled to it; and, perhaps, that is my principal motive, but it certainly is not my only one; for, as I consider Varney quite a curiosity in a medical point of view, I certainly wish to follow him up, and should be extremely sorry to lose sight of him altogether.”

“But you must be aware, doctor,” said Henry, “that there really is something like positive danger in following such a man up; and, although he feels himself under such great obligations to you, that I do not think he would willingly do you an injury, yet there is no knowing what so strange and irascible a temper might not be goaded to.”

“I have no dread of danger.”

“I dare say you have not,” said the admiral; “but I give my vote against having anything further to do with Varney.”

“And,” said Henry, “although I cannot withhold an expression of admiration for the doctor’s perseverance, I beg him to think that we oppose his pilgrimage in search of the vampyre, because we feel more for his personal safety than we fear any of the machinations of Varney.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said the doctor, “since I am in a minority, of course I must give in, and say no more about it. I should certainly have liked to find the fellow; for it is my impression that he certainly has a good many thousands of your money in his possession. But, as it is, I will say no more about it; although I shall retain my opinion that you are ill-advised in not following him up.”

“Oh,” said the admiral, “it wouldn’t do to follow people up always.”

“I don’t know that. There’s that Quaker, for instance, who has got possession of Dearbrook.”

“The Quaker!” shouted the admiral. “D—n the Quaker! I’ll follow him up while I have a guinea left, or a leg to stand on. What the deuce made you mention him? for you know the very sound of his name is enough to put me in a fever. The Quaker be hanged, an infernal thief as he is!”

It was well known to both Henry and the doctor, and, in fact, to all the family now, that the mention of the Quaker was always enough to drive the admiral nearly frantic; so that we are inclined to think Dr. Chillingworth was actuated by a little spirit of vengeance when he made that remark, and that, on the whole, he was so vexed at the non-participation of the Bannerworths and the admiral in his views concerning Sir Francis Varney, that, on the irritation of the moment, he did not scruple to say something which he thought would be annoying; but his downright good feeling so got the better of anything of that sort, that, turning to the admiral, he said,—

“I do apologise—I ought to apologise for my calling to your attention anything of a disagreeable character; for I have no right whatever to do so; and it was only upon the impulse of a moment, I assure you, that I uttered the words.”

“Doctor,” said the admiral, “I know all that as well as you can tell me; so just say no more about it, if you please, for I don’t want to hear one word upon such a subject.”

“Well, then,” said the doctor, “now that I stand acquitted of doing or saying anything of a doubtful or disagreeable character, I can only tell you that I shall persevere in my opinion, and that it is just possible, though not very likely, that I may, upon my own account, do something in the matter.”

“All of which,” said Henry, “I am very sorry to hear you say, doctor.”

“But why are you sorry?”

“Because I cannot help anticipating danger. I feel almost certain that it will ensue, and, in that case, no one will more bitterly regret that you mixed yourself up in the affair than I shall.”

“Oh, do not presume any such thing,” said the doctor, jestingly. “You may depend Varney and I understand each other too well for there to be much danger in my intercourse with him. There is something about the fellow yet that will not permit him to do any deliberate wrong to me; and, strange as the feeling may appear, I cannot help acknowledging that I like him in some things, and that, having been the means of restoring him to life, I feel, somehow or another, as if I were bound to look after him.”

“Well, that is rather absurd,” said the admiral, “I must confess. But, however, doctor, if you have any such feeling, by all means carry it out—I won’t say nay; but by any means find him out, if you like, and if you can make him a decent member of society, in Heaven’s name do so.”

“I do not expect that,” said the doctor; “and if I only keep him out of mischief, I shall be sufficiently satisfied, for that would be accomplishing a great deal with such a man.”

“Promise me one thing,” said Henry, “in connection with this affair.”

“What may that be?”

“It is that you will not take any step in the matter without letting us know. Of course, you are a free-agent in the transaction, and have as much right as anybody to say or to do anything as regards Varney, the vampyre; but still, knowing so much of him as we do, I, for one, certainly would be glad to be made aware of anything you were attempting concerning him.”

“That I will promise you, so you need be under no possible apprehension on such a score, but feel completely at your ease that nothing is being done unless you know of it.”

At this juncture, a servant entered the room with a letter, which was addressed to Henry Bannerworth, and, upon opening it, he uttered a sudden exclamation of surprise.

“What is it?” said the admiral; “you seem astonished, Henry.”

“I am, indeed, astonished, and I may be. Who do you suppose, admiral, this letter is from?”

“I can’t possibly take upon myself to say.”

“Why, from no other person than Varney, the vampyre.”

“Indeed!” cried Dr. Chillingworth; “and does he offer restitution?—does he offer to return the money he so wrongfully has got possession of?—tell me that.”

“I cannot answer you, for I have not read one word of the epistle; I only see by the signature that it is his; but as it is impossible that there can be any secrets between myself and Varney, I shall read it to you aloud, and you shall both of you be able to judge concerning it.”

The admiral and the doctor assumed attitudes of attention, while Henry, after glancing his eyes slightly down the contents of the letter, commenced reading it as follows:—

“To Henry Bannerworth.

“Sir,—Probably the last person in the world from whom you might expect to receive a communication, is he who now pens this epistle; but as it is penned with a good feeling towards you and yours, I hope and trust it will be received in a kindly spirit.

“Admitting that the circumstances under which I left the protection of your house were such as to require some explanation from me, it is that explanation which I now proceed to give.

“Circumstances made it imperatively necessary that I should adopt a course of conduct that should no longer make me a burden to those who had more cause to wish me dead, than to assist me in maintaining existence.

“Without, then, the least sinister motive towards you or any one belonging to you, I left your home secretly, and at once, not being willing to listen to remonstrances that I knew would be spoken kindly, but which I knew at the same time could not be very serious, inasmuch as my presence cannot possibly be otherwise than a severe tax upon your kindness and your patience.

“I cannot be so besotted as to think for a moment, that you can forget, although a generosity of temper, for which I give you full credit, might enable you to forgive, the injuries you have received from me; but I could not make up my mind to reside under your roof on such terms; and since my recovery from the violence of a lawless mob, the question in my mind has been, not whether I should leave you or not, but how I should leave you, and where I should betake myself to.

“At length, finding it impossible to come to any rational conclusion upon these points, and that time was rapidly wearing, so that it became necessary, if I came to a conclusion at all, I should come to it quickly, I resolved to leave without giving you any notice of the fact, and set up my staff, as it were, in the wilderness, and proceed in whatever direction chance might point out to me.

“This, I say, was my resolve, and I have carried it into execution. All I ask of you is, to forget me, and not to waste any thought upon the man who will never do any injury to you, or to any one belonging to you, and who hopes you will make no inquiry for him; but, should you meet him ever, you will pass him by as if you knew him not.

“These few words come from him who was

“+Varney, the Vampyre+.”

There was a dead silence when this epistle was concluded, and all seemed busy with their own opinions as regarded this communication, which certainly was one of a singular nature, and highly calculated to excite their surprise.

Upon the whole, though, there was one extremely evident conclusion to be drawn from it, and that was, that Varney was extremely anxious not to be interfered with.

“Can anything be more transparent?” exclaimed the doctor; “it is just as I say, Varney wants to try some new scheme, and is very much afraid that he may come across us in some way, and be baulked in it, by our exposing what his real character is; and, if anything could give me a stronger impulse than another to follow him and see what he is about, it would certainly be that letter.”

“I do not think you need be afraid,” said Henry; “for the letter, bearing as it does that signification, is such a one as induces me to believe he is fearful that some circumstances may throw him in our way, and in that case, that we may spoil his sport; and of the likelihood of such a thing occurring, he is, of course, a much better judge than we can be. So I should say, let him alone, and see if anything really turns up concerning him; if it does, we have a fair principle of action before us, for we have no occasion, merely because he has asked us, to be quiet and peaceable, if we find him playing any pranks, or attempting to play any pranks.”

“That’s my opinion, too,” said the admiral; “be quiet and take no notice, and it will be an odd thing to me, then, if you don’t soon hear something of Master Varney, and that may be a something, too, that may astonish us.”

“It that all the letter?” said Dr. Chillingworth.

“Yes, with the exception of these words in a postscript,—

“Any communication addressed to V. V., General Post-office, London, will reach my hands promptly.”

“Ah! then there’s the gist of the matter,” said the doctor; “the vagabond wants to be assured that we shall not interfere with him; and then he has got some rascality in hand, you may depend, which he would set to work about in real earnest.”

“I shall not write to him,” said Henry, “but shall pursue quite a different course of policy, and wait patiently for what may happen, for I am convinced that is the only plan to pursue with any chance of benefit or success.”

“And you will bear in mind, doctor,” said the admiral, “that the fellow in this letter talks of giving us an explanation, and yet not one word does he say about jumping upon your back from the garden-wall. The deuce a bit does he explain that.”

“No,” said the doctor; “nor did I expect he would. Such a man as Varney is not likely to criminate himself; and, while there is a doubt about whether he is that person or not, you may depend he will not be the man to take any pains to dispel it.”

“Of course not—of course not.”

“Well,” said the doctor, “I can only tell you all one thing, and that is, that, whatever you may think or flatter yourselves, this affair is very far indeed from being over, and sooner or later, something yet very serious will occur in connection with Varney, the vampyre. Do not fancy that you have got rid of him, for, most certainly, you have not.”

The doctor spoke these words so oracularly, that they sounded extremely like one of those predictions founded upon such a firm basis, that they are sure to be carried out by future facts, and both Henry and the admiral felt as if they had heard truth from some one who knew well! what he was uttering, and was not likely to be mistaken.

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Chapter CIX

THE PREPARATIONS FOR THE WEDDING OF THE BARON STOLMUYER OF SALTZBURGH.

There is a common adage which inculcates the necessity of striking while the iron is hot, and this was an adage which, to judge from her conduct, seemed to have made a great impression upon the mind of Mrs. Williams, and she thought that, as regarded her daughter’s feelings, the iron was hot, and that, if she struck now, she might be able to wring from her a consent, no matter how reluctant, to call the Baron Stolmuyer her husband.

The objects which Mrs. Williams felt certain she should succeed in achieving by such an union in her family, were far too weighty to be easily dispensed with. They not only comprehended the five hundred pounds which the baron had so judiciously promised her upon the wedding day being fixed, but she had an eye to after circumstances, and considered that the son-in-law who could spare five hundred pounds, as a mere bribe to her, would be an endless source, from whence she could draw her pecuniary supplies.

“And then,” thought Mrs. Williams, “there are the other girls to get off, too, and what a famous opportunity it will be to do that, when they can be at all the grand parties the baron will give at Anderbury House.”

To an intriguing woman, such as Mrs. Williams was in reality, all these advantages appeared in full force; and, if ever she made up her mind thoroughly and entirely about anything in the world, she certainly did that her daughter Helen should be the Baroness Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh.

She certainly wished, in her own heart, that the baron had chosen one of her other daughters, because then she knew that she would not have had to encounter the opposition she had done, and, perhaps, had still to encounter, in the case of Helen; but, as it was, that part of the business could not be helped, and she, Helen, was to be sacrificed.

If the baron had thought for twelve-months over the matter, he could not have come to a better conclusion, as to the best means of making Mrs. Williams a zealous partisan of his, than by distinctly naming a sum of money that she should have, and when she should have it, for now she considered that each moment’s delay was a piece of actual criminality on the part of Helen, inasmuch as it was keeping her, Mrs. Williams, out of a large sum of money.

There was one thing, however, which she did at once; and that was to go to the different tradespeople who had had the awful insolence to stop the supplies, and tell them that her daughter Helen was about to become the Baroness Stolmuyer, and that, if they continued to execute orders, and to wait with patience, they would all get paid within one month.

This positive announcement staggered some of them, for they would hardly have thought it possible that she would have made it, if there had not been some great foundation for truth in it, of some sort, and it was one of these announcements which, as the reader is aware, had been overheard by Tom, the son of the old sailor, and which, when reported, had created so much consternation in the mind of the young man who had been saved by Jack Pringle from the wreck.

On the following morning, the lady received a laconic note from the baron, in which were the words:—

Madam,—Have you settled with your daughter the day and hour of my nuptials with her? I have drawn a cheque in your favour, and only wait your further proceeding in the affair to sign it, and send it to you.

“I have the honour to be, madam, yours truly,

+“Stolmuyer+. “Mrs. Williams.”

This note put Mrs. Williams into a perfect fury of impatience. The idea, that actually a cheque for five hundred pounds should be drawn in her favour, and only awaiting the signature of the baron, and that, by one word, her daughter Helen could procure that signature, was absolutely maddening.

She rushed, at once, to Helen’s room.

• • • • •

Poor Helen knew enough of her mother to feel convinced, from the first, that no possible exertion would be spared for the purpose of forcing her into that marriage, which had no charms, alas, for her, but which, on the contrary, presented itself to her in the most hideous of all possible aspects.

From the first moment that her mother had broached it, it had seemed in its remembrance to lie at her heart like a lump of lead. She seemed already to feel that, after an unavailing resistance, she would have to yield, and then that her future existence would involve in it all the pangs of despair and regret.

“Alas—alas!” she said; “under what fatal planet was I born, that I should be so unhappy as I now am? What will become of me, and how shall I gather resolution enough either to bear with seeming patience the fate that afflicts me, or to resist the machinations of my mother, who would force me to wed this man whom I cannot love.”

The long absence of her lover was so perplexing a source of woe and reflection to her, that already it had sapped much of the joy of her young existence.

“He surely ought,” she said, “and might have found some means of communicating to me long ere this. He might well know, and must know, that suspense is, of all feelings, the worst to bear. Oh! why am I thus deserted by all, and left to the mercy of the worst of circumstances?”

With her sisters, poor Helen could have no sympathies in common; either of them would have been delighted to change places with her, as regarded the fact of becoming the Baroness of Saltzburgh, and they had towards her a tolerably cordial ill-will, on account of her superior charms, which made her so much admired, while they were left to “pine in maiden meditation fancy free.”

But to Helen Williams, this gift of beauty was what it truly has often been described—a most dangerous one, and she would have given the world to have been able to wear an appearance that would have repelled, instead of attracted, the Baron Stolmuyer.

She was in this desponding state of mind, revolving in her mind her dismal prospects, if she should consent to wed the baron, and her equally dismal ones if she should refuse—for well she knew how painful a position with her family such a refusal would place her in—when her mother entered the room.

Mrs. Williams had so thoroughly determined that this marriage should take place, that she could not be said to have now sought her daughter to persuade her to it; but, on the contrary, to insist upon it. The sisters, too, with whom this unnatural mother—or rather, perhaps, we ought to say, too natural, but too common mother—had held a conversation upon the subject, were anxious, despite their jealousy upon the occasion, that the affair should proceed, because certainly the next best thing to themselves making such an alliance was to succeed in getting it made by some other of the family, and they fully intended making Anderbury-on-the-Mount their home.

“What, Helen!” exclaimed Mrs. Williams—“in tears as usual!”

“Have I not cause for weeping, mother?”

“Well, well; I cannot say much to you beyond the few words I have come to say. I have, I fear, as regarded this affair of the offer that was made to you by the Baron Stolmuyer, behaved precipitately.”

“Oh, mother,” cried Helen, with renewed hope, “I am rejoiced to hear you say so. Then you will not now ask me to sacrifice myself to a man whom I can never love? Say no more of the past. It is sufficient that you have awakened to better resolves now, dear mother, and I shall be happy.”

Such words as these ought to have softened the mother’s heart; but such a woman had no heart to soften; and, after a pause, she proceeded in her plan of operations.

“Well my dear, perhaps it is all for the best.”

“It must be for the best, mother, because it never can be for good that I should have consented to plight my vows to one whom, of all others, I cannot look upon with the least affectionate regard. Indeed, mother, so much as I can absolutely dislike any one, I dislike that man.”

“There’s no occasion to say anything more about it, my dear. I have come to bid you farewell, and Heaven only knows when we may meet again.”

“What do you mean, mother?”

“I mean, my dear, just what I say; I am going now at once to a prison.”

“A prison?”

“Yes. It certainly is not an agreeable idea; but, as I told you, I was too sanguine, and built too much upon your consenting to marry the baron, so I borrowed a sum of money to pay some pressing debts; but as I have not been able to repay it, I am arrested, and have now only persuaded the man to go away upon giving him my solemn promise that I will, in half-an-hour’s time, be at the gates of the town gaol.”

Helen heard this declaration with a feeling of perfect horror. She was too little acquainted with the usages of society to see what a transparent lie it really was, and, to her mind, it did not appear improbable that a man who came to arrest anybody should take their word to come to the gaol in half-an-hour.

“Oh! mother, mother,” she sobbed, “can this be?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Williams, “if it can be or not. All I know is, that it is so, and that I am perfectly willing to pass the remainder of my days in a dungeon.”

Helen’s ideas of prisons were all procured from romances, and she was not at all surprised, consequently, to hear her mother talk of a dungeon; and if she had added something about chains, and bread and water, and a heap of straw merely for a bed, it would have found a ready credence with poor Helen.

No wonder, therefore, that the idea of such a catastrophe presented itself to her in the most terrific colours; and she saw at once all her recent congratulations upon an escape from a marriage with the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh scattered to the winds of Heaven.

She was so petrified with astonishment and grief, that for some moments she could not speak, and Mrs. Williams took care to improve upon that silence by adding,—

“I am sure I should be the last person in the world to ask any daughter of mine to make a sacrifice; but as I have been so foolish, because I took a pride in my family, as to go into expenses I cannot stand, why, of course, I must take the consequences.”

“Oh! no, no.”

“Oh! it’s all very well to say, ‘Oh! no, no,’ but it’s oh! yes, yes; and all I have to ask of you now is, to say that business has compelled me to leave this part of the country, and after that, the best way will be to say that I am dead.”

“Heaven help me!”

“And then, of course,” continued Mrs. Williams, in the most martyr-like and self-denying tone in all the world; “and then, of course, people will leave off making any inquiries about me, and you may all of you in time manage to forget me likewise.”

“Mother, mother, is not this cruel?”

“My dear, I really cannot say that I think it is. I am, and have been, mistaken, and perhaps I did push the affair of your marriage with the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh a little too far, and too much counted upon it. I know I am apt to be too sanguine—I am well aware of that. It’s a little peculiarity of mine, but I cannot help it; and when we have those little peculiarities, all we can do, is to put up with it as best we may.”

“But, mother——.”

“Oh! it’s no use talking.”

“Is the creditor so very inexorable?”

“Yes, and only on one account; he thinks I have deceived him, that’s the fact; and having asked me to give a decided answer if the wedding-day was fixed between you and the baron, for nothing else would satisfy him, and as of course I could not say that, he got quite furious, and at once threatened me with law proceedings, which I did not think he really meant; but it appears he did, for here I am arrested.”

“But can nothing be done?”

“Not that I see. The baron, when he made the proposal, was anxious for an immediate reply, and then he would have made some very handsome settlement, which would have been soon known, and anybody would have trusted me. But as it is, the only thing that can save you all, will be for me to go to prison at once, and so disappear.”

Helen wept bitterly.

“And therefore, my dear, I beg you won’t think anything of it. I am quite willing to go at once, without any more fuss about it. But I have not yet said anything to your sisters, because I thought that the first explanation was due to you in the affair, since you were the most mixed up with it.”

“Oh! this is too dreadful—much too dreadful!”

“Farewell—farewell. We may meet again, or we may not. I wish you all manner of happiness.”

Mrs. Williams moved towards the door, but before she reached it, Helen sprung after her, and detaining her, cried,—

“No, no. It must not be. If there is an imperative necessity for some victim, let me be it. Oh! let me be it.”

“What do you mean, Helen?” asked Mrs. Williams, in pretended surprise.

“I—I mean, mother, that—that I will, to save you, give up all hopes of happiness in this world, and that although I would far rather go at once to my grave, I will, since my destiny seems to point out that it must be so, consent.”

“Consent to become the Baroness Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, &c., &c. Do I hear aright?”

“Yes, yes. Heaven help me! I feel that I have no other hope. The dreadful alternative that is presented to me, leaves me no other course to pursue. I must, and I do consent, if it will at once save you from the prison.”

“It will, my dear, if I can succeed in convincing my importunate creditor that you have really consented, and that it is not a scheme of mine merely to escape a prison. But if you write a few words signifying your consent, that will be quite sufficient.”

This was an artful proceeding on the part of Mrs. Williams, for although she by no means intended to put the baron in possession of such a document, yet she considered that by having it, she completely protected herself from any reproaches which he might otherwise cast upon her, should any hitch arise in the proceedings, or anything go wrong with the affair, even at the last moment.

The few words in writing, which sufficed, as Mrs. Williams thought, fully to commit poor Helen to the marriage, were freely written, for there was no duplicity in the character of Helen, and what she said she would consent to, she was quite willing to write.

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Williams, “although you don’t feel happy just now about the marriage, you may depend upon it you will enjoy your existence very much; for when you get a little older, you will find that it is, after all, the possession of ample means that is the most important thing to look to.”

Helen shook her head, but she made no reply. She did not at all agree with what her mother said, but she felt by far too much depressed to argue the point with her just then.

“You will all your life,” added Mrs. Williams, as she left the room, “have the great consolation of knowing that you saved me from a prison, and in so doing, absolutely saved my life, for although I did not say before, I am quite sure I should have died.”

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Chapter CX

JACK PRINGLE CALLS UPON MRS. WILLIAMS, AND TELLS HER A PIECE OF HIS MIND UPON AFFAIRS IN GENERAL.

Jack Pringle never promised anything without an intention of performing it, whether he could succeed or not; and accordingly, when he promised that he would make due and diligent inquiry, for the purpose of ascertaining if Helen Williams was indeed faithless, he proceeded at once to do so in the most direct manner in the world, viz. by calling upon no less a personage than Mrs. Williams herself, and popping the question to her in a manner which almost precluded the possibility of her returning anything but a direct answer.

This was a measure which few persons would have attempted; but having, as it had, all the characteristics of boldness about it, it was not one that he was likely to fail in, but, upon the contrary, calculated in every respect to be eminently successful.

He proceeded to the town in perfect ignorance of its locality, or even of the abode of Mrs. Williams, except so far as a very involved description had been given to him of the route to her house by the old sailor’s son, Tom, who certainly was not the best hand in the world at a direction.

But Jack was never at a loss, for, some how or another, by the force of a good-tempered manner that he had, he contrived to make friends wherever he went, and among them he soon found one who was willing in every respect to take pains with him, and to walk with him to the door of Mrs. Williams.

“Thank ye, messmate,” said Jack; “and if ever I meet you again you may make up your mind that you have met a friend. And so this is Mrs. Williams’s is it?”

“Yes,” said the man; “this is Mrs. Williams’s.”

“And what sort of a creature is she?”

“Oh, why, as to that, she is not the sort of woman I like; but there is no accounting for tastes, you know, and other people might like her very well.”

“You are a sensible fellow,” said Jack; “and I should say you have quite wit enough about you, that if you fell into the fire you would get out again as soon as you could.”

The man hardly knew whether to take this as a compliment or not; but at all events he bade Jack good-day civilly enough, and took no notice of it.

Jack then boldly knocked at the door, and when the one miserable servant of the Williamses made her appearance, and asked him what he wanted, he replied,—

“Why, I have principally called to tell you what a remarkably fine girl you are, and after that I should like to see mother Williams.”

“Go along with ye,” said the girl; “you are only joking, and I can tell you that missis would just as soon give you to a constable as look at you.”

“Oh, no, she wouldn’t,” said Jack; “for good-looking fellows are scarce, and I dare say she knows that as well as possible, and she would much rather keep me herself than give me to anybody.”

“Well, I’m sure!” said the girl. “You are like all the rest of the men, and have a pretty good opinion of yourself; but, if you really want to see missis, I may as well tell her at once.”

“To be sure,” said Jack.

Mrs. Williams, from a room on the ground floor, had heard that some sort of conversation was going on at the street door, and she called out—

“Susan, Susan; how dare you be talking there to anybody! Who is that, I say—tell me who that is immediately?”

“It is me, ma’am,” cried Jack.

“And who is me?”

“Why, ma’am, I have come on a delicate mission; I have got something to say to you as is rather particular.”

Mrs. Williams’s curiosity was excited, and perhaps some of her fears, for when she had told Helen that she was drowned in debt, she had, hyperbolically speaking, not far exceeded the truth, and therefore she dreaded refusing seeing any one who came to ask for her, lest, smarting under the aggravation of such a proceeding, the party, be he whom he might, should leave some message that it would not be quite pleasant to her for Susan to hear.

This was the respect, then, which placed Mrs. Williams positively at the mercy of any one who chose to call upon her, and which induced her to give an audience even to Jack Pringle, who, under ordinary circumstances, she would, as Susan had correctly observed, have not scrupled to place in the hands of some guardian of the public peace as an intruder into her house.

When Jack was shown into the apartment where the lady waited to receive him, he made what he considered a highly fashionable and elegant bow, which consisted in laying hold of a lock of his hair in front, and giving it a jerking pull at the same moment that he kicked out his foot behind and upset a chair.

“How do you do, ma’am?” said Jack.

“You have the advantage of me,” said Mrs. Williams.

“I rather think I have,” said Jack, “and I mean to keep it, and an-out and out thing it would be if I hadn’t, seeing the many voyages I have had, when I dare say you was never out of sight of land in all your life.”

“I certainly never was,” said Mrs. Williams; “and I hope I am speaking to some officer, and not to anybody common.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” said Jack; “I’m a rear-admiral of the green, and what I come to ask you, is, if there is going to be a marriage in your family?”

“Rather an eccentric character,” thought Mrs. Williams; “but anybody may see in a moment he is a gentleman, or else he would not be an admiral of the green; I know there are admirals of all sorts of colours—and so I have no doubt he is quite correct. Yes, sir, there is going to be a marriage in my family, I am proud to say, for my daughter Helen is going to marry what might be called quite a foreign potentate.”

“A foreign potato. None of your gammon—don’t be poking your fun at me.”

“A foreign potentate, I said, sir—a kind of monarch—a potentate, you know.”

“Oh, I understands; I dare say them fellows lives on potatoes, and that’s why they calls them such. But are you sure it’s your daughter Helen, because I was thinking of proposing for her myself?”

“Really, then, Admiral Green, I am very sorry, but she is going to be married to the Baron Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh.”

“The baron what? did you say? Stonemason and Saltpot? What a d—d odd name, to be sure.”

“Dear me, what an eccentric character!” thought Mrs. Williams; “but quite the gentleman. Admiral Green, it’s Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh is the baron’s name.”

“Oh, I knew it was something about salt; but, however, it don’t matter; and when is the ceremony to come off, ma’am?”

“It is left to me, sir, to fix the day, and I shall do so, of course, at my convenience; and I can only express my great regret, Admiral Green, that you should have been too late; but, you see, the baron’s offer was so unexceptionable, and he is really quite a wealthy individual—which his offering me a cheque for five hundred pounds, is a convincing proof—that I really could not think of refusing him.”

“What! five hundred pounds?”

“Yes; I assure you, Admiral Green, that he had pressed upon my acceptance five hundred pounds.”

“The stingy devil.”

“Stingy!”

“Rather. Why, I meant to have asked you to accept of a couple of thousands, and a large estate that I have got, which brings in as much every year, and that I really don’t want.”

“Two thousand pounds and a estate! Gracious Providence! I don’t know what to say to that; really Admiral Green, you are so very liberal, that, upon my word, I am quite puzzled. Two thousand pounds, and an estate worth two thousand pounds a year!—did you really mean that, Admiral Green?”

“To be sure I did. What else could I mean? but I don’t want to interfere with a foreign potato and a Baron Saltbox.”

“Well, but, my dear sir, stop a moment—let me think.”

“No, ma’am,” said Jack, “I ain’t quite such a humbug as you takes me for. I say nothing, but it’s very likely that your baron will turn out to be some half-starved swindler who is going to wind up his affairs by doing you, and sarves you right, too—I wishes you good morning, ma’am.”

So saying, Jack, despite the remonstrances of Mrs. Williams, whose cupidity was so strongly excited by what he had said, that she would gladly have thrown overboard the baron, and who now began to look with something like contempt upon the five hundred pounds which she had before thought was quite a large sum.

“How odd it is,” she exclaimed, when she was alone; “how odd it is, that after I have been looking about, I don’t know how long, for a decent match for some of the girls, all the men should come at once, and want Helen—it’s an extraordinary thing to me, very extraordinary. Dear me, if I could but have secured Admiral Green for Juliana, and so got her married on the same day with Helen, there would have been two thousand five hundred pounds for me at once. What a capital thing! I would not have spoken of it to anybody, but I would have paid all the tradespeople about here eightpence in the pound as a composition, and then I could have gone and lived in London quite comfortably.

Thus is it ever with such schemers as Mrs. Williams—success brings with it quite as many evils and distressful feelings as failure, and now the agony of what she thought she had lost, much more than counterbalanced any satisfaction she might have had in procuring her daughter’s consent to the marriage with the baron.

This consent, although we know how it was wrung from Helen, we certainly much blame her for giving, because no human power could really force her to marry any one who was not her choice, and the mere fact that her mother represented how deeply she was in debt, ought not to have been sufficient to induce Helen to consent.

She might and ought to have taken a much higher view of the subject—a view which should have excluded a consideration of James Anderson: that view should have been a refusal to commit the perjury of solemnly vowing before Heaven to love and honour a man for whom she entertained such opposite feelings.

But Helen was not a close reasoner, and although all the argument was upon her side, and all the propriety, and all the justice, we grieve to say that she did not avail herself of either to the extent she ought to have done; but, on the contrary, gave up those moments to regret which should have been far better employed in resistance.

When the consent which we have recorded had been wrung from her, she gave herself up to the most melancholy reflections, weeping incessantly, and calling upon Heaven to help her from the pressure of circumstances which she was quite competent to relieve herself from, if she could have persuaded herself to make the necessary efforts.

At last it seemed to her that she had hit upon a plan which might afford her some relief, but in projecting it, she little knew the real character of the man she had to deal with.

This scheme was to tell the baron candidly that she loved another, and, whether that other was living of dead, his remembrance would so cling to her, that she could never love another, and that, in making her his wife, he, the baron, would be laying up for himself a source of regret and disquietude, in the feeling that he possessed one whose affections he could never hope to obtain.

“Surely,” thought Helen, “if he be at all human, and if he have any of the natural pride of manhood about him, he will shrink from attempting to continue a suit that must be mortifying in every one of its stages, and which cannot confer upon him even the shadow of happiness.”

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CXI. THE WEDDING-DAY FIXED, AND THE GUESTS INVITED

When she was to receive so handsome a reward for the intelligence that she had wrung a reluctant consent from Helen to be the baron’s bride, it was not likely that Mrs. Williams would let a long time elapse before she communicated that fact to him, and, accordingly, she started to do so personally.

It would appear that the baron fully expected her, for he made no remark at all expressive of surprise, but received her with that courtly grace which Mrs. Williams attributed to his intercourse with the highest and the noblest.

He did not seem so impatient as any one would have supposed a very ardent lover would have been, and, before he would allow Mrs. Williams at all to enter into the object of her visit, he requested her to be seated, and would insist upon placing before her some of the very choicest refreshment.

Indeed, as often as she then attempted to enter into the subject-matter which had brought her there, he interrupted her with some remark of a different nature, so that she found it very difficult to say anything regarding it.

At length, however, when he had satisfied the claims of hospitality, he said,—

“I presume that I shall have the pleasure of listening to something particularly pleasant and delightful to me, inasmuch as it will convey to me the realisation of my dearest hopes.”

“Why, my lord baron, I must confess,” said Mrs. Williams, “that notwithstanding the extremely liberal offers of Admiral Green——”

“Admiral Green, madam? This is the first moment I have heard of such a personage.”

“No doubt—no doubt; but for all that, since we have had the honour of your offer for the hand of Helen, Admiral Green has made one, and such a liberal one that it’s quite distressing to refuse him.”

“Then allow me to say, madam, that I hope you won’t distress yourself about it, but accept of Admiral Green at once. I should be very sorry indeed to stand in the way of any advantageous arrangement, and, therefore, I beg you will close with Admiral Green.”

The adage about coming to the ground between two stools forcibly presented itself to the memory of Mrs. Williams, and she replied, in a great hurry,—

“Oh, no, baron, certainly not—certainly not. I have refused the admiral on your account. I told him, most distinctly, I could not think of entertaining his offer for a moment, and I refused him at once.”

“Then why trouble me about him, madam?”

“Oh, I thought I would only merely mention it, because the admiral said he would have great pleasure—which, of course, was a very liberal thing of him—in handing me a cheque for two thousand pounds.”

“Oh, now I understand,” said the baron. “I give you credit, madam, for having a good reason for making this report to me. You think that I may be induced to emulate the munificence of Admiral Green; but when I assure you that I have not the remotest intention of so doing, probably you will think that it would have been just as well if the matter had never been mentioned.”

The baron was right; for Mrs. Williams did think so; and she felt all that bitterness of disappointment which wonderfully clever people do feel when they find that some pet scheme has most signally failed, leaving behind it all the consequences of a failure; and, whatever people may say to the contrary, failures do always have bad consequences, and never leave the circumstances exactly where they were.

There was rather an awkward pause of some moments’ duration, and then Mrs. Williams thought she would get over the baron completely, for she put on the most amiable smile she could, and said,—

“My dear baron, I am sure we shall all be the most happy and united family that can possibly be imagined; and it is the greatest pleasure to me to be able to give you the intelligence that my daughter has consented to become yours.”

“Madam, I am much obliged.”

“And, although Admiral Green did say that if I would bring him similar intelligence he would there and then, on the spot, without any further delay, hand me two thousand pounds, I said to him,—‘Admiral Green, I am only to get five hundred pounds from the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, and that five hundred pounds he has likewise promised to pay me down.’ Down—you understand, baron?”

“Madam, I am not deaf.”

“But you understand—down?”

“Oh, I begin to see; you want the money. Why could you not say so at once? It’s of no use hinting things to me; but if you had said to me at once,—‘Baron, I have brought you the consent to the marriage, and now I expect at once the five hundred pounds that I am to receive for so doing,’ I should have understood you, and said at once,—‘Oh, certainly, madam; here is the money,’—as I do now. You will find that check drawn for the amount.”

“What a charming thing it is,” said Mrs. Williams; “what a charming thing it is to do business in such a real business sort of way; but there are so few people, baron, with your habits, and upon whom one can so thoroughly depend, as one can upon you.”

“Madam, you do me too much honour. Of course, having promised you this insignificant sum of money, it was not likely that I should but keep my word; and now let me ask, when is to be the happy day?”

“If this day week will suit you, baron.”

“Wonderfully well, madam—wonderfully well.”

“Then, we will consider that as settled. I suppose you will have a public marriage?”

“No—no, strictly private. I am resolved, madam, not to have more than one hundred and fifty people, and to keep the expenses within a thousand pounds; so you see, I am going to do it in the plainest possible manner, and make no fuss at all about it.”

“Gracious Providence!” thought Mrs. Williams; “what would he call a public marriage, if he considers a thousand pounds expense, and one hundred and fifty guests, a private one, and making no fuss about it.”

“On one of my former marriages——” said the baron, with an air of abstraction.

“One of them?” said Mrs. Williams; “may I presume to ask how often you have been married, my lord?”

“Oh, certainly. Let me see; I think eleven times.”

“Eleven! and pray, sir, what became of your wives?”

“Why, really, madam, I cannot say. I hope the majority of them went to Heaven; but there were one or two I most heartily wished at the other place.”

“My gracious!” thought Mrs. Williams, “he is quite a bluebeard; but, however, things have gone too far now; and I am not going to give up my cheque if he had twenty wives; and, after all, it shows he must be a man of great experience, and of great wealth, too, or so many women would not have had him; but, if that little fact about all his wives should come to the ears of Helen, I am really afraid she wouldn’t have him, so I must caution him about it.”

“My lord baron.”

“Yes, madam.”

“I think, between you and I, my lord baron, that it would be quite as well to say nothing to my daughter about her being the twelfth wife; but just let her quietly think she is the first, because, you know, my lord, young people have prejudices upon those subjects, and she might not exactly like the idea.”

“Oh, certainly, madam, I shall not mention the little affairs that have preceded her’s. I assure you I am quite aware that it is likely there should be a prejudice against a man who has had eleven wives; and people will think that he smothered a few of them.”

“Good gracious!” said Mrs. Williams; “you don’t mean that, my lord baron. I hope that nobody ever accused you of such a thing.”

“Nay,” said the baron; “how are the best of us to escape censure? You know as well as I, Mrs. Williams, what a bad world it is we live in; and how dreadfully selfish people are.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Williams, “that’s remarkably true; but it ain’t often, my lord baron, that one man has eleven wives.”

“No; and it ain’t often that such a man would exactly like to venture upon a twelfth.”

“Well, no, there is something in that; but I will now, my lord, take my leave, entertaining no doubt whatever, but that this will be an extremely happy marriage, and in every respect just what we might all of us desire.”

Mrs. Williams left the baron with these words; but, to say that she believed them, would be to make by far too powerful an experiment upon the credulity of our readers.

When he was alone, the baron smiled a strange and ghastly smile.

“That woman,” he said, “is so fond of gold, that she sells her child without hesitation to me. If, upon hearing of my pretended marriages, she had given me back my money, I should have thought some good of her; but no, that she could not do. Money is her idol, and when once in her possession, she could not dream of parting with it. But what is it to me? Have I not made up my mind to this affair, let the consequences be what they may? Have I not resolved upon it in every possible shape? Henceforward I will cast aside all feelings of regret, and live for myself alone; for what have I now to hope, and what have I now to fear, from mankind?”

“Hope! did I say I had nothing to hope? I was wrong; I have something to hope; and it is a something I will have—it is revenge. Yes, it is revenge—revenge! which I must and will have against society, that has made me what I am; and the time shall yet come when my name shall be a greater terror than it is, and that to some were needless, for it is such a terror already, that but to mention it, would cause a commotion of frightful inquietude.”

He looked from one of the windows of his house, and he saw Mrs. Williams, as she proceeded down one of the garden walks, take his cheque from out her reticule, where she had placed it, and look at it attentively.

“Ah!” he said, “now she is worshipping her divinity, gold. She knows that that piece of paper carries weight with it, and that, flimsy as it looks, it is sufficient to purchase her. Fool! fool! and she thinks she is buying contentment.”

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CXII. THE SINGULAR INVITATION TO THE BARON’S WEDDING

About three days after the transactions which we have just recorded, the admiral received a call from his friend, the attorney, and that call had a double object.

In the first place, the man of law wanted to tell him how he was proceeding, as regarded the Quaker, and there they had a great tussle about what was to be done, for, when the attorney said to him,

“Now, admiral, as regards this assault upon Mr. Shepperd, all that can be done is to let him prove his case, and then come up for judgment, and move in the court in mitigation. I dare say, you will dragged up to Westminster Hall for judgment, and I should not at all wonder, but you will get off with a fine of six-and-eightpence.”

“What do you mean,” said the admiral, “by letting him do what he likes?”

“In effect, it is the same thing as pleading guilty, you know, to a charge brought against you, and, by so doing, you, to a great extent, disarm justice.”

“Guilty!” roared the admiral; “guilty! You will be a long time, indeed, in convincing me that there is any guilt in kicking a Quaker, and especially such a Quaker as Mr. Shepperd. Why, I’ll do it again, and think it, as I do now, a meritorious action.”

“Yes; but you misunderstand me. It’s called guilt, you know, in law, to do anything contrary to law; and, by pleading guilty, you do no more than just admit the fact that you have kicked the Quaker.”

“That’s quite another thing. I have no objection to the fact, whatever, but don’t call it being guilty, for that’s all moonshine, and I won’t have it, at any price. Guilty be hanged! I think I see it. Guilty of kicking a Quaker, indeed; I have half a mind to go and kick him again, just on purpose; and I don’t know but what I may do it yet.”

“Well, well, admiral, now that we have settled that knotty point, I have got something else to tell you, of a more agreeable nature.”

“Out with it—out with it.”

“It is this. You recollect that, upon the marriage of Miss Flora Bannerworth with your nephew, Mr. Charles Holland——”

“The marriage feast, you mean, for, as far as the marriage was concerned, they all got the better of the old man.”

“Yes; the marriage feast. You recollect that, upon that occasion, you gave me leave to invite a number of persons, all of whom were very grateful, and thought very highly of you and the honour of coming into your company.”

“A devil of a sensible fellow this lawyer is,” thought the admiral. “It’s enough to make one take to lawyers, I’ll be hanged if it ain’t. Go on—go on; what of all that? I am sure I was as well pleased to see them all as they were to see me.”

“Well, sir, it appears that some of these persons, and especially a family of the name of Clark, have been exceedingly anxious to bestow some civility upon you in return; and, as they have been invited to a wedding, they wish to prevail upon you to go with them, as it will be a very stylish affair.”

“Well, I don’t mind,” said the admiral. “Where is it?”

“It’s as far as twenty miles off, at a place called Anderbury, and it is wished that you should bring anybody you like with you, upon the occasion.”

“Well, it’s civil, at all events, and I don’t mind, if Henry and Charles and Flora like it, going. But, when you mention Anderbury, I’ll be hanged if I don’t think it’s the very place that Jack Pringle has gone to, to get a sight of the salt water, for the benefit of his health.”

“Well, sir, it will have none the less recommendation to you, I dare say, that it is close to the sea.”

“You are right there, and, I can tell you, I was thinking of going myself, because you know, what suits Jack, in those respects, is pretty well sure to suit me; and I thought, as that vagabond was enjoying himself down by the sea coast, I might as well go and do so likewise.”

“Well, sir, then I may consider I have your full consent to the arrangement, and I am sure it will be received by the parties with a great deal of satisfaction, indeed.”

“Well, well, somehow or another, you talk me over to things, so I’ll go, without making any more fuss about it; and I will take Henry with me, and Charles, and Flora, and I’d take old Varney, the Vampyre, too, if we had him here. It would be a good bit of fun to take such a fellow as that to a wedding.”

“He would not be the most welcome guest in the world.”

“No; I should think not. But who are our invitations to come from?”

“They will come from the bride’s mother, as the people I have told you are so anxious to take you with them are friends of hers.”

“Very good—very good; so, as it’s all right, I will speak to Henry about it, and Flora, and, I dare say, we shall all manage to get there comfortably enough. Let me see; it’s just two stages for post-horses. Well, well, lawyer, you may look upon it as decided; it is to be, and there is an end of it.”

In due course, on the following day, there came a note to Admiral Bell, enclosing a card, on which was said,

“Mrs. Williams requests the honour of Admiral Bell’s company, with his party, to breakfast, on the 10th instant, at two o’clock, on the occasion of the celebration of the nuptials of Miss Helen Fedora Williams with the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, &c., &c., at Anderbury-on-the-Mount.”

“The devil!” said the admiral. “This is an odd affair—something slashing, and out of the way, I should say. Breakfast at two o’clock! that’s the d—dest piece of humbug in the whole affair. Who the devil is to wait for their breakfast till two o’clock? I never heard anything better than that; but I suppose there will be something to eat, so I shall take the liberty of having my breakfast at seven in the morning, and calling that my dinner, and my lunch I will manage to get at some inn on the road.”

With this card of invitation in his hand, the admiral went to Flora, and laid it before her, saying,—

“Here will be fine fun, Flora, for you. This is the invitation I spoke to you of, and they are going to have breakfast at two o’clock, lunch, I suppose, at five, dinner at nine, a cup of coffee at about twelve, supper at four o’clock in the morning, and I suppose they will get to bed at about daybreak.”

Flora laughed as she perused the card, and then she said,—

“It certainly promises to be quite a fine affair, uncle; and, at all events, as we are only guests, we shall be able fully to enter into the amusement of the affair, if there be any, and I am inclined to think there will be, by the rather pompous reading of the card of invitation which has been so civilly sent to us.”

“If they are ridiculous people,” said the admiral, “we will laugh at them, and they cannot expect but that we should; and if they should turn out to be otherwise, they may become very pleasant acquaintances, you know.”

“Assuredly; and it will not do to judge of people always by such a trivial piece of evidence as a card of invitation can afford to one; so I will endeavour to go to the wedding with an impression that they are agreeable people—an impression which, considering the complimentary manner in which they have invited us, we ought to cultivate.”

“Very good; and do you speak to Charles about it, for I have not had an opportunity of so doing; and as the people have invited us handsomely, I think we ought to go in a manner so as to do them as much credit as possible; and, therefore, I should say that a coach and four, with postillions, will be the plan, and look rather stylish.”

“Oh, uncle, you will be mistaken for the bridegroom.”

“Shall I? Very well, I am quite willing that I should be, always provided I may chance to admire the bride; but if I do not, you may be sure that I shall take pretty good care to explain the error.”

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Chapter CXIII

JAMES ANDERSON SEEKS AND OBTAINS AN INTERVIEW WITH MRS. WILLIAMS.

The report which, in accordance with what he had heard from Mrs. Williams, Jack Pringle felt himself compelled to make to the young man whom he had saved from the wreck, but too surely convinced him that all his hopes were dashed to the ground, and that it was indeed but too true that Helen had consented to become the wife of another.

There could be no mistake in the affair, or the slightest loophole for escaping an entire and complete conviction of the faithlessness of her in whom he had so deeply confided for his future happiness.

The blow appeared to fall upon him with a stunning effect, and for some time he seemed to be quite incapable of thought or action. But Jack Pringle rallied him upon this state of things, and tried hard to induce him to view the matter with the same kind of philosophy that he would have brought to bear upon it.

“Come, come,” he said, “don’t be downhearted about a woman. Cheer up, my lad; there’s many a better fish in the sea than has ever yet been got out of it, you may depend upon that.”

“I could have staked my life upon her good faith.”

“Likely enough, and so can we all upon the good faith of the woman we happen to love and admire; but what is there in the whole world so common as being jilted by a wench, and when it does happen, a man should whistle her down the wind, and forget her all at once, and for ever.”

“I have no doubt,” said James Anderson, “that such is good philosophy; but it’s a hard thing to tear away from the heart at once an image that has lain enshrined in its inmost recesses for many a month.”

“Perhaps it is. But the best remedy in all the world, is to look about for another, I know that from experience in these matters. You do so, and you will soon be able to forget the girl who has jilted you.”

James Anderson shook his head, and smiled faintly, as he said,—

“I fear I should never love another as I have loved her. The heart, when once it has loved as I have loved, can never know another feeling. I cannot with any hopes of success undertake such a mode of cure as that which you point out to me.”

“Oh! you will think differently in a little while, I can tell you. Time does wonders in these cases, and before you are a month older, you will be in quite a different frame of mind to what you are now.”

“I must confess I should not like to be all my life the subject of never-ending regret; but at the same time I do feel, that let what chances may befall me, I shall never feel another disappointment so bitter as this.”

James Anderson, upon making these few remarks, shewed a disposition to drop the subject, and as it was one which certainly concerned himself more than any one else, Jack Pringle and the fisherman both agreed to say no more about it, and it rested.

But although he said nothing, the matter was far indeed from being absent from the mind of James Anderson, for it occupied him wholly, and engaged his attention to that extent, that all other thoughts were excluded therefrom most entirely and completely.

Those who had afforded him so kindly a shelter, were not unobservant spectators of this state of his mind, and Jack Pringle strove to move him from it, by calling his attention to his obligations and duties in other respects.

“Come, messmate,” he said, “ain’t it time you should think of going to London to make your report of how you lost the dispatches that your captain committed to your care?”

“It is so,” said James Anderson, “and I shall start this evening.”

“That’s right, and the best thing you can possibly do, I can tell you. You will get some new appointment, and in the bustle of life you will soon forget all disappointments whatever. If you go regularly into the service, you are young enough yet to rise in it, and you may yet live to have a pair of swabs upon your shoulders, I can tell you.”

“At all events,” said Anderson, “I can have the comfort of knowing that I have, by being wrecked here, made some acquaintance, which I hope I may always have the pleasure to retain. I feel myself now quite well enough to walk, and I will go into the town and make some preparations for getting on to London, which I am, by your liberality, Mr. Pringle, enabled to do.”

Jack made a wry face, as he said,—

“Whatever you do, messmate, don’t call me Mr. Pringle—my name’s Jack Pringle. It always has been Jack Pringle, and it always will be. I begin to think as something must be the matter when anybody calls me Mr. Pringle, and I don’t like it a bit.”

“I won’t again then offend you by calling you Mr., but you shall be Jack Pringle, if you like, to me; and I can only say that a more esteemed friend than yourself, it is not likely I shall ever encounter in this world.”

Jack was always much more easy under censure, let it come from where it might, than under praise, and consequently he fidgeted about in a most alarming manner, while James Anderson was professing to him his grateful feeling, and at length he said,—

“Belay there, belay there, old fellow—that will do. I don’t want any more of that, I can tell you. It’s a d—d hard thing that a man cannot save a fellow man’s life, without it being at all sorts of odd times thrown in his teeth in this way. Don’t say any more about it, I ain’t used to being parsecuted.”

This was no affectation in Jack Pringle. On the contrary, it really was to him a positive persecution to be praised; and, as James Anderson now felt fully convinced that such was the case, he determined upon avoiding such for the future.

Towards the dusk of the evening, having attired himself as respectably as the wardrobe of the old seaman and his son would permit him, for his own clothing had been completely spoiled by the salt water, he proceeded to the town of Anderbury.

By so proceeding, Jack Pringle considered that his principal business would be to get some means of quick conveyance to London; but James Anderson had another motive in his walk to the town, which he communicated to no one.

That motive was a strong desire to see Helen Williams, if he possibly could, before he left, in order that he might hear from her own lips what it was that prevented her continuing her plighted faith towards him; for he could not, from all he knew of her character, bring himself to believe that it was the wealth of her new suitor that had had any effect upon her.

“No, no,” he said; “I know her far better than for one half instant to do her such an injustice; she must have been imposed upon with some account of my death; or some artful and well-arranged tale of, perhaps, faithlessness upon my part has hurried her into the acceptance of the first offer that has been made to her. If I could but obtain an interview with her for a few brief moments, I should know all, and either be able to take her to my heart again, or to find ample reason for forgetting her.”

He knew the way well to that house where he had frequently watched Helen enter and emerge from; but how to send any message to her was a matter which required great consideration.

He had been absent long enough, no doubt, for some changes to have been made in Mrs. Williams’s household; so that, although there had been in old times a servant who was favourable to him, and who would not only have taken his message to Helen, but would have told him all the news of the family, she, no doubt, had long since left.

After thinking over the matter for some time, so as to come to a conclusion that the difficulty about getting any message or note delivered to Helen almost amounted to an impossibility, he saw a boy come out of the house, apparently to go on some errand, and with a feeling more of desperation than reflection, he spoke to him, saying,—

“I think you came out of Mrs. Williams’s house, my lad.”

“Yes, I did,” said the boy; “what of that—hit one of your own size; I haven’t done nothing to you.”

“You mistake altogether, my boy; I am not going to touch you, you may depend; but, on the contrary, I will reward you if you will answer me what questions I shall propose to you, and I assure you they are all such as you may honestly answer.”

“Well, I don’t know. How much?”

“One shilling for every question.”

“That’s a rum way of doing business, but it ain’t so bad either. Ask away, and you’ll soon see how I’ll earn the shillings.”

“Is Miss Helen going to be married?”

“Yes—a shilling.”

“Who to?”

“To the Baron Stollandmare and a Salt Bug—two shillings.”

“Will you take a note from me to her if I reward you extra for so doing.”

“Oh, I begin to smell a rat. Yes, I will. You is some other lover, you is—three shillings.”

“I am—one shilling.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, my young friend, if I pay you a shilling a question, I don’t see why I should not charge you at the same rate; so don’t ask me anything, and then you will get all the shillings to yourself, you understand.”

“Oh, I doesn’t see any joke in that; I don’t want to ask any questions—not I.—What will you give me for taking the note? I think I ought to have half-a-crown, between you and me and the post; because, you see, if old Mother Williams was to cotch me, she would serve me out pretty tidy.”

“You shall have your own price of half-a-crown, and here is the note, which I charge you mind to deliver into no hands but those of Helen herself.”

“Oh, I’ll do it; and what shall I get if I bring you an answer back?”

“Another half-crown; so, you see, you will make a very good evening’s work of it, indeed, if you are clever and faithful.”

“Give me the note; I’ll do it. You may always trust me, when there’s anything to be got by it. My father brought me up to get my living, and he used to say to me, ‘Caleb,’ says he, ‘always do your duty, Caleb, to those who employ you when you go out to service in a family, unless somebody offers you something more not to do it.’”

“Quite a philosophical maxim,” said James Anderson; “I suppose you are in the service of Mrs. Williams?”

“Yes, I am page of all work, I am; I do a little of everything, and make myself generally useful. Where will you wait for me?”

“At this corner; and, with a due regard to performing your part well, be as quick as you can on your mission, for I am rather impatient to see its results.”

Caleb, the page of all work, duly promised to be quick, and after completing an errand that he had been sent upon by Mrs. Williams, he returned to that lady’s house.

We cannot help thinking that after the principles in which Caleb had announced he had been brought up, it was rather an indiscreet thing of Anderson to trust him with the note that he had already prepared for Helen, in case an opportunity should present itself of getting it delivered to her; but he was desperate, and, perhaps, did not so accurately weigh the pros and cons of the affair, as he undoubtedly ought to have done.

As it was, however, he had a faith in his messenger, which we are sorry to say was most decidedly misplaced, for Caleb did shew that he had not forgotten the lessons of his paternal relative, but that, on the contrary, he was disposed to carry them out with great tack and perseverance.

Whether or not he would, of his own accord, have set about scheming in the matter we cannot say, but, at all events he was spared that trouble, for Mrs. Williams had seen, from one of the windows of her own house, his interview with one who was a stranger to her; for, although she had once, before he went to sea, seen James Anderson, he was much altered, and she did not recognise him; and when Caleb came in she called him into the parlour and shut the door.

“Caleb,” she said, “I insist upon knowing immediately who you were talking to just now in the street, and who gave you a note.”

Caleb was rather staggered at this home question, for he did not think that Mrs. Williams had seen him, and, after a moment’s pause, he said,—

“What will you give, missus, to know?”

“Give—give! How dare you ask me such a question?”

“It’s no use, missus, getting in a passion about it. I’ve got an opportunity of earning eight shillings snugly and comfortably. If you will give me sixteen shillings I will tell you all about it; and I don’t mind saying, beforehand, that I know, missus, as you won’t think it dear at that price; no, nor at three times as much, if you could only guess what it was.”

“Sixteen shillings! It must be something wonderful, in the way of news, that I would give you such a sum for.”

“That’s just what it is, missus. Come, now, is it a bargain? because I’m in a hurry, and have got never such a load of things to do.”

“Well, well, Caleb; tell me what it is, and give me the note.”

“Not till I haves the money, missus. Oh, no; I knows better than that. I’ve got a hold on the fellow as you saw me with, but I haven’t on you. Oh, no; the deuce a bit. I must have the cash first, and then you shall have the information; and, I tell you again, that it ain’t dear at the price, as you will own yourself.”

The curiosity, as well as the suspicions, of Mrs. Williams were strongly excited; for she began to suspect that something or another was going on in which her interests were involved; inasmuch as, upon mature consideration, she had come to a conclusion, that there was more in the visit of Admiral Green than quite met the eye.

“Well, well,” she said, “I have only gold in my purse; but you shall have the amount, you may depend, Caleb, if I promise you.”

“I haven’t a doubt in the world,” said Caleb; “but there is nothing like ready money, missus; so just hand us a sovereign, and here is four shillings change; which will be right, you know, all the world over.”

This was vexatious; but, as it was quite clear that Caleb had thoroughly made up his mind not to part with his information without the cash, Mrs. Williams was compelled to hand the amount to him, which she did not do with the best grace in the world, and then she said,—

“Now, I expect you to tell me all.”

“So I means, missus. You don’t suppose I’d take sixteen shillings of you, and not tell you all as I have to tell you. No, missus; I’d scorn the action.”

“Well, well, don’t keep me in suspense; but go on at once.”

“I will. There’s a chap at the corner of the street, as wants me to give this here letter to Miss Helen, and bring him back an answer.”

“A letter to Helen! This is news, indeed. And who was he?”

“That I don’t know. I was going to ask him, but, somehow or another, I found out it was a great deal better left alone. But I should not wonder, missus, but you will find out who he his, if you read the note. People, you know, usually put their blessed names at the end of their letters, unless they sends what is called a synonymous one.”

This was a good suggestion of Caleb’s, and Mrs. Williams, without the smallest scruple as to the fact of opening a letter addressed to another person, tore asunder the envelope that covered young Anderson’s epistle, and read as follows, in a sufficiently audible tone to enable Caleb to hear every word of it; for, in her intense eagerness, she forgot the fact of his presence:—

“Dearest Helen,—I can still address you as such, because I have not yet heard from your own lips, although I have from the lips of others, that you have forgotten me. Can it be true, that you are about, in the face of Heaven, to plight those vows to another which were to be mine, and mine only?

“I ask of you but to meet me, and tell me yourself that such is the case, and you will meet with neither persecutions or reproaches from me. Tell me that you are oppressed, and you know well that in me you have a defender. Name your own time and place of meeting me; and by the boy who will deliver this to you, let me beg of you, by the memory of our old affection, to send me an answer.

“Yours ever, +“James Anderson.”+

“I say, missus, that’s pitching it rather strong,” said Caleb.

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CXIV. MRS. WILLIAMS’S MANŒUVRE TO GET RID OF ANDERSON

This exclamation from Caleb informed Mrs. Williams of the fact of his presence; and duly indignant was she at that circumstance; for, in her anger, she immediately rose to execute upon him some vengeance; and, had he not adroitly eluded her, by leaving the room, there is no doubt she would have well made him remember indulging in such a piece of impertinent curiosity.

“That wretch,” she exclaimed, “has overheard me; and who knows, now, that he may actually go and tell the other. If he would betray him, he would betray me; and what redress should I get for such a circumstance?”

This was a mental suggestion which made it necessary Mrs. Williams should not only look over the fact of Caleb having stayed to listen to the letter, but likewise see him, and hold out some other inducements to him to be faithful to her, however he might chose to behave himself to other persons.

“Caleb,” she said, when she had summoned him again into her presence; “Caleb, you may depend I will make it well worth your while to attend to me in this affair, and to no one else. I can, and will, pay you well; and, when the baron marries Miss Helen, I dare say, if you would like it, I should be able to get you some great place at Anderbury House.”

“Well, missus,” said Caleb, “I looks upon myself as put up to auction, and the highest bidder always has me. I don’t mean to say but what you have done the right thing, as regards the sixteen shillings; so what would you like me to do next, missus?”

“I want you to take a note back, in answer to that which you have brought me; but, of course, the young man who gave it must suppose that it came from my daughter Helen.”

“How much?”

“What do you mean by how much?”

“How much am I to get, I mean.”

“Oh, I understand you. How much do you expect for such a piece of service?”

“Something handsome, I should say. What do you think of ten shillings and sixpence, missus?”

“I think it rather high, Caleb; but, nevertheless, I shall not stop at a trifle in rewarding you, provided always I may depend upon you.”

“Money down,” said Caleb; “you know, short reckonings make long friends, missus; besides, it’s always better not to let these things accumulate; for, if we goes on doing business in this here sort of way, it would come to a good bit in a short time, and then you would think it was too much, and wouldn’t like to pay it.”

With a bad grace—for Mrs. Williams never liked parting with her money—she produced the sum which Caleb required for this new service, remarking, as she did,—

“Well, Caleb, you will soon grow rich, if you go on this way.”

“Likely enough, ma’am,” said Caleb; “I likes to be paid, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

Mrs. Williams soon handed him the note, which merely contained the words,

“Come at eight o’clock, and ring the door bell.”

These words she wrote as much as possible in her daughter Helen’s hand, and, having sealed up this extremely laconic epistle, she handed it to Caleb, directing him to go at once and deliver it to the party who was expecting him, and we must say, that this lad appeared to be one of the most thoroughly selfish rascals the world had ever produced, for he was now quite willing for money to betray Mrs. Williams to James Anderson, if there was any likelihood of his accomplishing such a purpose with safety.

But here some difficulties presented themselves, which Caleb’s natural acuteness enabled him very well to see. In the first place, James Anderson, he shrewdly suspected, was not the sort of individual to be trafficked with, as Mrs. Williams was, and, considering that he had already committed an immense breach of trust, in giving the letter to Mrs. Williams, instead of to Helen, he thought, and, we are inclined to think, correctly enough, that it would be rather a hazardous thing to say anything to him about it.

“No, no,” he said; “I’ll just give him missus’s letter, and then back out of the whole affair, for I don’t half begin to like it. That young fellow looks a chap that wouldn’t mind wringing one’s neck for one—for half a pin; so I’ll just leave him alone, and say nothing more about it.”

James Anderson waited round the corner with considerable impatience, for, in consequence of the proceedings that had taken place at Mrs. Williams’s, Caleb had been considerably delayed.

When, however, he saw him coming, hope again sprung up in his bosom, and he felt all the agitation of extreme pleasure, as he saw that Caleb had in his hand what was undoubtedly a letter.

When the boy reached him, he advanced to meet him, eagerly exclaiming, as he did so,—

“You have the letter—you have seen her, and you have her answer?”

Now, as Caleb had made up his mind to commit himself but as little as he possibly could with the young stranger, he went upon the good old adage of the least said being the soonest mended, and, accordingly, instead of making any remark which might, at a future occasion, be thrown at his teeth, he satisfied himself by placing his finger by the side of his nose and nodding his head sagaciously.

He then handed to James Anderson the letter, in the contents of which that individual became too much absorbed, short as they were, to pay any further attention to the messenger.

Caleb thought this a good opportunity of being off at once, before any troublesome questions should be asked him, so he made a retreat, with all the expedition that was in his power.

James Anderson, when he looked up from the perusal of the one sentence which the letter contained, was astonished to find his messenger gone, considering how very eager he had before been on the subject of the reward which he was to get for that service.

“What can have become of the boy?” he said; “I had a hundred questions to ask him.”

So well had Mrs. Williams succeeded in imitating the handwriting of her daughter Helen, that James Anderson was fully convinced the letter was written by the chosen object of his heart.

He certainly did think that it was cold and distant, and that there might have been a word or two of affection, at all events, in it, especially considering how long he had been absent, and with what an untiring affection he had ever thought of her.

“She might have told me that her heart was the same,” he murmured to himself, “or else she should have let me known at once that it was so altered I should not know it for the same. But still it is something to look forward to an interview with her. She may not have had the time to write more, or, perhaps, she may have doubted the messenger, and thought it unsafe to utter anything concerning her real feelings in this epistle.”

Thus hoping, and trying to persuade himself of the best, did James Anderson anxiously expect the hour when, by the note that had been sent him, he expected once again to look upon the face of her, the remembrance of whom had cheered him in many a solitary hour, and enabled him to bear up against evils and misfortunes which otherwise had been insurmountable.

It wanted but a very short time to eight o’clock, and, at five minutes before that hour, James Anderson walked, with trembling eagerness, up the steps of Mrs. Williams’s house door. His hand shook, as he placed it upon the bell-handle, and told himself that the time was come when all his doubts would be resolved, and he should really know what he had to hope, or expect, or to fear.

There was certainly a something weighing heavily upon his heart, an undefined dread that all was not well, and, during the interval between his ringing and the opening of the door, he felt all that sickening sensation which is ever the accompaniment of intense anxiety, and which renders it so fearfully painful a feeling.

The door was opened by a female servant, who had received her instructions from Mrs. Williams, so that she knew exactly what to say, and, without waiting for the visitor to announce himself, she said,

“Are you Mr. Anderson, sir?”

“Yes—yes,” he said.

“Then I am ordered to ask you to step into the back parlour.”

“All is right,” thought James Anderson; “she expects me, and has prepared for my reception.”

He followed his guide implicitly, for he fully believed, as who would not, under the circumstances, that she was in Helen’s confidence, and so could be safely trusted.

She led him into the back parlour, where there was no one, and then she said,—

“If you will be seated for a few minutes, sir, my mistress will come to you.”

“Her young mistress, she means,” thought James; and he prepared himself to wait, with what patience he could assume, and that, under the circumstances, was by no means a large amount; for he had been kept in such a constant worry by what had occurred, that suspense became one of the most agonizing feelings that he could possibly endure, now that his fate was about so nearly to be decided.

It was no part of Mrs. Williams’s plan to keep him waiting, for she certainly had no fancy for retaining such a customer in the house as James Anderson; for, playing the double part that she was, she knew not what sudden accident might happen to derange her plans, and, probably, render them completely abortive.

For all she could tell, Helen herself might actually descend the stairs, and enter that very room where she hoped a short conference would suffice to get rid of the troublesome claims of James Anderson for ever.

She was in the front parlour when he was shown into the back, for they communicated by folding doors. She had but to open these doors, and at once show herself to the astonished Anderson, who little expected on that occasion to behold the mother instead of the daughter.

He gave a sudden and violent start of surprise; but, as Mrs. Williams had determined to do the dignified, and to call herself quite an injured person, she took no notice of the evident agitation of his manner, but said, with an assurance that only she could have aspired to,—

“May I ask, sir, under what pretence you write notes to my daughter, at such a time as this?—notes which appear to me to be highly calculated to do her some serious injury, and, consequently, which I cannot but think are intended for that precise purpose.”

“Mrs. Williams,” said James Anderson, “since it appears that I have been betrayed, and that the messenger I perhaps foolishly trusted, has delivered to you, instead of your daughter, the note I addressed to her, I have only to say ——”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Mrs. Williams, interrupting him; “but as it was from my daughter I received your note, you may spare yourself the trouble of blaming the lad whom you had to seduce from his duty by bribes and corruption.”

“From your daughter?”

“Yes, sir; from my daughter; and I flatter myself that there is too good an understanding between my daughter and me, for her to keep as a secret such a circumstance.”

This was a very unexpected blow to James Anderson—a blow, indeed, which he was totally unprepared for; and yet, although he doubted, he had no means of disproving what Mrs. Williams chose to assert in the matter; and she quickly saw the victory she had gained over him, and the difficulty in which he found himself.

“Sir,” she said, “if you have anything more to add to what you have already said, my daughter desires that you should inform me of it, and if it consists of such matter as she can properly take notice of, she will reply to it by letter; but she most unhesitatingly declines an interview, which she considers cannot be productive of anything but unpleasantness to all parties, and most of all to her, considering her peculiar situation, and that she is so soon about to alter her condition, and become the wife of the Baron Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh.”

“I’ll not believe it,” said James Anderson, “unless I hear it from her own lips.”

“I suppose, sir, when you see it announced in the ‘County Chronicle,’ you will believe it?”

“That,” said James Anderson, “it never will be; for I cannot, will not, dare not think that one whom I have loved so well could be so false.”

“False, sir! What do you mean by that? I shall really have to speak to the baron, if you use such expressions towards his intended wife.”

“I’ll speak to the baron,” said James, “and that in a language he shall understand, too, if I come across him.”

“If you threaten, it will be my duty to inform the baron, so that he may take such legal steps as he may be advised.”

“I repeat to you, Mrs. Williams, that I will not believe it; and since you force me to such a declaration, I have no hesitation in saying that I think you are quite capable of selling your daughter to the highest bidder, and that the baron you mention probably occupies that unenviable position—a position which no gentleman would, for a moment, wish to occupy, and which he perhaps is not fully aware of. I will see him, and explain to him that there are prior claims to the hand as well as to the affections of your daughter.”

This threat rather alarmed Mrs. Williams; for she thought it possible that, if the baron really found there had been a former lover in the case, probably much encouraged by the lady, he might think his chances of happiness rather slender, and decline keeping the engagement which she considered was so auspiciously commenced.

This might or might not be the result; but at all events it was worth consideration, and placed the matter in rather a serious light.

Therefore was it, then, that Mrs. Williams determined to have recourse to her last expedient, and that was the production of the written promise to marry the baron, which it will be recollected, in the excitement and impulse of the moment, she had succeeded in procuring from Helen.

“Well, sir,” she said, “since you will not be convinced by any ordinary arguments, and since you doubt my word in this matter, I shall be under the necessity of adopting some means of explaining to you the matter fully, and of showing you that there is abundance of proof of what I have asserted.”

“Proof, madam! Nothing but an assurance from Helen herself can come to me in the character of proof in such an affair as this. Let me see her; for the mere fact that you sedulously keep her from me, involves the affair in a general aspect of suspicion.”

“Read that, sir, and if you know anything of the handwriting of her whom you affect so much to admire, it ought to resolve your doubts.”

James Anderson took the paper in his hand, and glanced upon it, and by the sudden change that came across his countenance as he did so, Mrs. Williams saw that it was having all its effect.

He could not doubt it. He knew that signature too well. He had it to some affectionate documents, which he felt would remain by him to the latest day of his existence.

It was indeed a horrible confirmation of all that had been told him—such a confirmation as he had never expected to see, and which, at one blow, dashed all doubt to the ground.

“Now, sir,” said Mrs. Williams, with a triumphant air, “I trust that you are satisfied—at all events, of one fact, and that is, that my daughter had consented to become the Baroness Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh; and without at all entering into the question of anything which may have passed between you and her upon other occasions, I think you ought, as a gentleman, to perceive that the sooner you go away the better.”

“It is enough,” said James Anderson. “Falsehood, thy name is woman.”

“I really can’t see, sir, what you have got to complain of, for people have a right to alter their minds upon the little affairs of life, and I don’t see, then, wherefore they should not have a similar privilege as regards things of more importance.”

“Enough, madam—enough. What steps I may hereafter take, upon a due consideration of these affairs, I know not; but now I bid you farewell.”

Mrs. Williams was very glad to hear these words, or rather the last of them, because she was in perpetual dread, during the whole of the interview, that something would occur by which a meeting would take place between James Anderson and Helen herself, at which some very disagreeable explanation might take place.

It was a wonderful relief to her when he had left the house, and she heard the street-door close behind him, and she drew a long breath when such was the case, as she said to herself,—

“Well, thank the fates, that job is over, and a good thing it is. There is no knowing what mischief might have been the end of it, if it hadn’t been stopped as it has. He is not a bad-looking young man, and if he had had a few thousands a year, I certainly should not have made any objections to his being my son-in-law; but I possibly cannot, and will not, have poor people in the family. There is no end of trouble and bother with them; and instead of getting your daughters off hand, it’s just taking on hand, in addition, some man for their amusement.”

James Anderson went sorrowfully enough back to the fisherman’s cottage, where he related to the sympathising old seaman what had occurred; for Jack Pringle was not there, and if he had been, James Anderson knew very well he would have got no sympathy from him on account of the circumstance; for the frailties of the softer sex did not seem to have any material effect upon Jack Pringle or his sympathies, since, by his own account, he had been jilted so often, that he now thought nothing at all of it.

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