Chapter CXV…

Chapter CXV

THE RETURN OF THE RESUSCITATED MAN, AND THE ROBBERY AT ANDERBURY HOUSE.

The morning after the occurrences that took place in the bone-house of Anderbury, broke dimly and obscurely over the ocean in the neighbourhood of that town. For leagues away, as far as the eye could reach, there was a haziness in the atmosphere which the fresh wind that blew did not dissipate.

There was a white light rising in the horizon, which did not cast the warm glow over the bosom of the ocean as it sometimes does; it was dull, cold, and cheerless; there was nothing that could be called beautiful.

The waves dashed about, and came tumbling over each other, their crests now and then covered with foam, which was swept off by the fresh breeze that blew over the ocean. It was just daylight.

There was nought in the landscape save the water and the sky—nothing else to be seen for miles. Yes, there was one object, and that was a boat washed to and fro by the waves as it sat on the bosom of the sea, wafted hither and thither, as the waves impelled the boat, which appeared to be empty, for no oar was used, and no human form was visible.

But that boat, so lonely, and left to its own guidance, or rather that of the waves, contained a living being; it was he who had striven so hard to escape from the baron on the preceding evening.

He sat alone in the bottom of the boat; he was fatigued—he was shivering from the cold. The great exertions he had undergone were followed by a reaction; but he knew not where he was, or in which direction to pull, or where the shore lay.

How long he lay in this helpless condition it is not known; but he occasionally lifted his eyes upwards and across the sea, to watch which way the vessels sailed, and if any should come in sight.

The scene was one of singular desolation and dreariness, in which nothing could be seen that could cheer the eye or gladden the mind of man. Now and then, to be sure, a gleam of sunlight would cross the dreary water, but it seemed to enliven only a small spot, and that but for a very short time, for it soon again became obscure.

There was the dreary ocean with its leaden-coloured sky, and then the boat at the mercy and direction of the wind and waves, both of which seemed in no placid humour, though not absolutely squally.

• • • • •

A vessel from Cherbourg, with brandies, for the port of London, was sailing direct for the mouth of the Thames, making for the Foreland, where it would have to round the point, and then enter the mouth of the river.

There were three or four men and a couple of boys on board; when they came near the boat,—

“Boat, ahoy!” shouted the man on the look out; “boat ahoy!”

No answer was returned to the shout, and the men on board shouted too, and crowded to the side of the vessel to see what was going on, and who was in the boat. The captain came up; he had been in the cabin, but hearing the shout, he came on deck to see what was the matter.

“What is the matter?” inquired the captain, looking around.

“Boat on the starboard,” said one of the men; “nobody in it, I think; she seems to be drifting.”

The captain looked at the boat for some minutes attentively, when one of the men said,—

“Perhaps some wreck, and the boat has been swept away by the waves, or the crew hadn’t time to get into her, or something of the sort.”

“No,” said the captain, “she’s not a ship’s boat—a shore boat, that’s what it is, lads. She’s got washed out, or somebody’s drowned, upset, or rolled out.”

“Something of the sort, I dare say, sir.”

“Well, we needn’t heave to for her—she’s no service to us, and we can’t spare time.”

“I think there’s some one in her.”

“But the boat’s drifting,” said the captain; “but she’s coming this way, and that will be the easiest way to ascertain the truth of our conjectures.”

They steered the vessel so as to meet the boat, which the sea was beating towards them; and in about twenty minutes or half an hour, they came within a couple of score yards of the boat, when they could plainly perceive that some one was sitting in the bottom of the boat.

“Hilloa!” shouted the captain; “boat ahoy!—ahoy!”

The man who was in the boat looked up, and seeing the vessel, he answered the cheer.

“Throw him a rope,” said the captain to one of the men who were standing by.

A rope was made fast to the vessel, and then it was thrown by a strong arm to the boat, and came right athwart it, and was immediately made fast by the man who was in it.

He then began immediately to haul up the rope, and so draw his boat up alongside of the vessel, and then he came on deck.

“How now, shipmate, what do you do out at sea in such a cockle-shell as that?”

“Nothing,” replied the other.

“Nothing! Well, you have come a long way to do that. What induced you to come to sea, or were you driven out, or how was it you came here?”

“I was driven out against my will,” replied the man; “I was rowing about shore, when I fell asleep, thinking myself safe, having secured the boat, as I believed, safely enough.”

“Ay, ay,” said the captain; “and so you found out, when you awoke, your mistake?”

“I did. My moorings had broken away, which was only a boat-hook and a rope; the tide coming up, lifted the boat hook out, and I have been out to sea ever since, and don’t know where I am.”

“Why that must have been last night,” said the captain.

“Last night it was,” said the stranger.

“You have been to sea all night then?” added the captain, taking a long gaze at the stranger.

“Indeed, I have, and I am quite cold and hungry. I had nothing with me. I rowed some time in hopes of getting in shore again, but unfortunately didn’t succeed. I suppose I got further out to sea, rather than nearer in shore.”

“Well, that is about the fact; you must be about fifteen miles out at sea,” said the captain; “you are a long pull away from shore, I can tell you, and how you will get back again, I don’t know; but, at all events, you are a very queer-looking fish, and I suppose your being out at sea all night, and no stores, makes you look as you do; though, upon my soul, I don’t know what to make of you; but you mustn’t starve. Here, lad, bring up some coffee and boiled pork. Can you eat any?”

“Thank you,” said the unfortunate being, “I can. I have been out for many hours.”

“Well, sit down, or rather go below, and eat; when you have done, come up, and we will tell you where the land lies, though I don’t know how you will keep it in sight for the life of me.”

The man then went below, where there was some coffee royal made for him—that is, coffee and brandy—and some salt pork was given to him, of which he partook most plentifully, apparently, while the captain muttered to himself,—

“Well, of all the odd-complexioned shore-going sharks as ever I saw, you are the oddest! D—d if I should think he was wholesome—there’s a great deal of the churchyard about him.”

“There isn’t a very agreeable look about him,” said one of the men; “but I suppose he has been so much frightened, that he looks more like a vampyre than anything else.”

“Aye; or a revivified corpse.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But that arises from his being so terrified and starved, as well as fatigued; exposure all night, all added together, has almost changed the current of his blood.”

The man came up now, having had sufficient provisions below, and had expressed himself much gratified with the coffee-royal to the cook, who, in his own mind, thereupon declared that he must be a Christian after all, though he had obtained by some means the complexion of a white negro.

“And now,” said the captain, “if you like to go with us to London, you shall go with us, for, as I said before, we cannot run into any port before we get there, for the wind is favourable and strong.”

“I would sooner get back by means of my boat,” replied the man, “if I were sure of making land.”

“You might, if you could keep in a straight course, but there is the difficulty; you cannot do so very well without a compass, and that you have not got.”

“No, indeed, I have not—though with it I have no doubt of being able to reach the land.”

“I have,” said the captain, “a small one below, a pocket compass; you shall have that, and see what can be done; and if you get ashore, it will have done some service at all events.”

“I shall be greatly obliged to you for your kindness,” said the stranger; “but I am wholly at a loss to know how I shall ever be able to repay your kindness.”

“Say nothing about that; we who get our bread upon the sea, know well the risks we all run, and therefore do not mind lending a hand to each other when in distress and trouble.”

“I will endeavour to save some one else in your line of life, if I cannot you,” replied the stranger, “and so, if it be possible, make some return.”

“Aye, that will do mate; do a Christian’s charity to any one whom you may cross, and I shall be well paid for my trouble.”

The boat was now brought up alongside the vessel, and, before the stranger embarked, the captain said to him, as he held the compass in his hand,—

“You must place this compass on one of the thwarts of your boat, shipmate.”

“I will.”

“A precious vessel she is, for a voyage out of sight of land; but, never mind, you are safe enough, unless a sea was to come and roll over you—but that’s neither here nor there. Mind you keep your boat’s head to the north-west, and, by so doing, you’ll make land at the nearest point from where we are now.”

“Thank you,” said the man.

“Moreover, you must pull so as to keep her head in the direction I tell you. It will be too long a pull for you to get there by rowing—you would get too tired to keep your seat, and you are unused to it, too.”

“I am obliged to you,” said the man; “if I get to shore safe, I shall be under great obligations to you. You will have saved my life.”

“I have ordered enough biscuit, and grog, and cold beef, to last you till night—you will get to shore before that time, I have every reason to believe. In five or six hours you ought to get there; but, in case of accidents, there is enough to last till night.”

“You have loaded me with obligations.”

“Say no more; be off with you and pull away from the vessel as quickly as you can; for we have slackened our speed for you.”

“Farewell; a pleasant voyage to you,” said the man.

“Good bye, and good luck go with you,” replied the captain. “Keep to the north-west, and all will be well; push off, and keep your eye on the compass.”

The man did as he was desired; laid the compass on one of the thwarts; took the oars in his hands, and began to row away with good will.

The crew of the vessel crowded to the side and witnessed the departure of the boat, and when she was a few hundred yards off, the sails were spread, and the vessel ploughed through the waves, leaving the boat behind, a mere speck on the sea, diminishing each moment.

But yet while the boat was within hailing distance, the captain said to the crew,—

“Give him a cheer—he may meet with a score of accidents before he reaches shore, any one of which will be sufficient to destroy him.”

The crew obeyed, and gave a loud shout to the boat, and the captain added his own voice; the cheering huzzah reached the boat, for the occupant elevated his oar, and returned it. The solitary cheer was borne to the vessel faintly but distinctly; however, they gave him one cheer more, and then pursued their way over the trackless waters.

• • • • •

The boat pursued its course for some distance, until it was too far from the vessel to be seen, and then, slackening his pace, he contented himself with merely keeping the boat’s head in the direction which he had been told, and in which he knew the land lay.

There was no hurry and desire to reach the land, but merely to keep where he was; and when any vessel hove in sight, he pulled so as to keep clear of her and out of hail; and there were a great many who passed near him, and would have aided him had he required any; but that did not seem to be his object.

Midday was passed, and the sun began to decline towards the west, when the boat was gradually brought nearer and nearer in shore.

Not only was the shore visible, but the very houses might be counted, and yet he would not come ashore, but appeared to be awaiting the sinking of the sun before the boat chose to seek the protection of the land.

It was about sun-set that the provisions, which were given by the captain of the vessel, were now consumed, and that while they were being eaten, the occupant of the boat sat still with his eyes fixed upon the town, which was every moment becoming hidden in the approaching denseness of the night; and, at length, could not be distinguished, save by the existence of numerous lights, that shewed the precise position in which it lay.

Darkness now came on, and nothing was to be seen on the ocean whatever, and he remained yet longer at sea; but at length there was no danger of being noticed; he gradually rowed his boat in shore and secured it.

Then jumping ashore, he wandered about the town from one place to another, and, finally, he determined to make his way to Anderbury House.

“There is, at least, plenty of everything there,” he muttered; “and, though there are plenty of servants, yet, in so large a place, there is ample room to secret oneself, and plenty to be had for the trouble of taking it.”

He came to a small public-house, which he entered, with the view of resting a short time, and of ascertaining what was going on in the town.

There were several people seated in the public-room, and he now seated himself up in one corner of the room, unobserved by anybody.

“Well, well,” said one; “there is more than one strange thing of late that has happened. The baron has given some very handsome entertainments.”

“Aye, so he has,” said one.

“And more than that, they say he’s going to keep ’em up till he gets a wife; though I cannot tell why he should leave them off then, because women like that sort of thing too well to make any objection to its being carried on after marriage.”

“The baron is very right; if he carried it on then, he would be watched by his wife, who would take good care to rate him for any attention he might pay to any of the ladies; and, therefore, it would only be keeping up the means for being scolded to keep up the balls.”

“Ay, it would only be getting into hot water, and keeping the kettle boiling on purpose.”

“He would,” said another man, “merely be keeping the entertainments on for the purpose of showing off his wife and her self-will, as well as her power over him, and showing them all how she could rule a man—a very favourite pastime with married women, who, when they have a partner who don’t like fighting and quarrelling, and who does love peace and quietness, know how to give it him.”

“I think better of the baron, who, I think, is a man who wouldn’t stand much of that.”

“Ah, you don’t know what an upas-tree a woman can become, when she pleases.”

“Well,” said another, “the strangest thing that I know of is the loss of Bill Wright’s boat.”

“Oh! what was that? I have heard something about it, though I can’t say I have heard the rights of it yet. What was it all about, eh?”

“Why, he says, when he went to bed, he left his boat safe enough moored to other boats and afloat. Bill says he’ll swear she couldn’t get clear without help; but she did get clear, and there is nothing to be seen of it now, at all events, and poor Bill is in a devil of a way about it, too, I can tell you, and good reason enough.”

“Yes. Bill will scarce be able to get another boat, unless some good friend should give him one, and that is scarce likely, I think as times go.”

“There’s no ball at Anderbury House, to-night, I believe,” said one of the visitors.

“None, that I know of.”

“No, there is none,” said another, “because I know of several who have got leave of absence; so they are short-handed there, and they would not be so if they had anything particular going on, for the baron does the thing handsomely.”

“So he does.”

The stranger listened to all this conversation very quietly, for some time, muttering to himself,—

“That is well. It will suit my purpose very well. I will go and see how the land lies in that quarter. I have objects in view, and some of the valuables to be found there, at all events, will aid my projects, and assist in my comfort, and I may as well have them from there as anywhere else; besides, I know more of that place. It suits my taste to do so, and will be somewhat in the shape of revenge.”

• • • • •

Calling for his reckoning, which he paid, he left the house, and proceeded towards Anderbury House.

It was now nine o’clock or a little later. No one was about, or scarcely any, and those few the moving figure endeavoured to avoid. He turned out of the usual paths, and walked over the fields and unfrequented ways, keeping near the hedge-rows, until he came to the bounds of the grounds of Anderbury House.

Here he paused, and bethought himself of the best means of entering the house unseen and unsuspected by any one, else his object would be defeated.

However, after a few moments’ thought, he determined to proceed, and, for that purpose, he made for a spot where the fence was low, and ran by some trees that had been cut down and grew bushy.

Having reached there, he, by aid of the branches, contrived to get over into the grounds, and then made his way swiftly towards a plantation that ran up close to the house, and by means of which he hoped to reach the house, and perhaps to enter it.

Silently he made his way into the plantation, and just as he reached it, he saw the moon rise in the east; it was just rising above the horizon.

“Thanks,” he muttered, looking towards the luminary, “thanks you did not appear before; but now you are welcome, for I can keep under cover of the trees, and the deeper the shadow, the safer I am from observation.”

This was right enough.

The moon rose full, but not bright, for some clouds seemed to intervene, or rather some thin vapours, which gave her a strange colour, and, at the same time, increased her apparent size; but she rose rapidly, and as she rose that would wear off, and she would resume her silvery appearance and usual diameter.

He was now safe in the plantation, but, at the same time, it would require some caution not to be discovered, for, at times, even the plantations formed beautiful evening walks, in which many of the inhabitants of Anderbury House had indulged at various times, and especially when there was what was termed a family party.

On a moonlight night, when there were several members of the family who knew the grounds well, then they would find ample amusement in wandering about.

However, there was no such parties on this evening, and as it followed, he ran no danger. Lightly, therefore, he crept forward, making no sounds save such as it was impossible to avoid.

The foot fall upon dried leaves—the cracking of sticks, and the rustling of the smaller under-growth, when he came in contact with it.

“How I shall be able to pass the open spaces, I know not,” he muttered; “but I have passed worse spots than this, and I may be pretty confident I shall succeed in escaping detection on this occasion; however, it shall be tried. There are few who are about—all is quiet and still—the very watch dogs are quiet and asleep.”

He crept onward now until he came within some hundred and fifty yards of the house itself, when he paused and listened, but hearing nothing, he again came forward and approached to within a few score yards of the house, when he was suddenly arrested by the sound of voices.

He paused and listened; it was a female voice spoke near; she was evidently speaking to a man.

“Now, William,” she said, “do you really believe you can get in without making any noise?”

“I am sure of it, providing you leave the window open, and the rope there.”

“Yes, yes, I will. Well, that room is empty; pull off your shoes, and creep out of the door; don’t let it bang together, or it may alarm some one.”

“Yes, yes; I’ll take care.”

“Well, then, remain in the passage or room until I come to you; but should you be disturbed, you can hide yourself in any of the closets, or go up stairs, which will bring you to the floor on which is my room.”

“I’ll take care; but don’t forget the rope, and to leave the window open.”

“I’ll not forget. I’ll throw the rope on one side, so as to hang among the vine leaves, so that it will not be detected by any one accidentally coming this way, though that is very unlike, indeed.”

“I understand; for the matter of that, I think the vine is strong enough to bear me without the rope.”

“I would not have you make the attempt lest you fall, and are killed, William; be sure you do not make the trial; what a thing it would be if you were discovered, and all were to come out—I should be ruined.”

“Never fear that; I will take care, both for your sake as well as my own.”

“Then good bye.”

Some words were then uttered in a whisper, the import of which he did not hear, but it continued for a minute or two, and then the female said,—

“Wait here a few minutes, and you will see me come to yon window, and let down the rope; and then begone as quickly as you can.”

“Never fear for me; I will wait here until I see you at the window, and then I will leave.”

The female figure he saw glide quickly away, and he watched it until she was out of sight, and then he watched for the signal also. He could see the form of the male figure, who stood within about three or four yards from the spot where he was concealed.

Then, after a time, he saw the female figure come to the window indicated by her, and then throw the rope out of it, and cause it to hang down by the side, or among the leaves of the vine, so that it could not be seen, except it were looked for.

When this was done, and the figure saw the female had withdrawn, he turned from the spot, and walked hastily away further in the plantation, and when he was quite out of hearing, and the stranger could no longer hear his footsteps among the dried rubbish in the wood, he walked cautiously forward to the edge of the grounds, and then gazed up at the house, and listened carefully to ascertain if there was any sound at all indicative of the vicinity of any human being.

Hearing none, he assumed another attitude, and prepared to make a dart forward to the window, as he muttered,—

“The coast is clear, and it will be hard, indeed, if I do not now succeed. Once in the house, I will soon secure myself, and the contents of some of the baron’s drawers—some of his gold will be mine.”

Again taking a cautious survey, and, being perfectly satisfied that he was unobserved, he dashed across towards the root of the vine, and, in a moment more, he had seized the end of the rope; but he heard the sound of footsteps. What to do he could not tell, but sprang up a few feet, and buried himself among the leaves of the vine, which were very luxuriant.

The footsteps were heard closer and closer, until he could perceive the very female who had thrown the rope out of the window stop within a few inches of him, and then seize hold of the very rope he had been about to seize.

Her object was to ascertain if the rope was low enough to be reached; and, when she had adjusted it to her mind, she exclaimed, in a low voice, to herself,—

“Ah! that will do; he will easily find it, I dare say; and it will be all right. Nobody will see it.”

Having satisfied herself of that, she left the spot, and returned the same way she came. It was an awkward situation as anyone could well indulge in without discovery.

“It was a very narrow escape,” he muttered. “I had no idea of her coming back in that way; I never dreamed of such a thing. But no matter; I believe I am quite safe now; if not, I shall have some other escape. She must have been next to blind not to see me.”

However, he got down, and then pulled down the rope straight; and, by the help of that and the vine, he then pulled himself up to the window, into which he speedily got, and found himself in an empty room.

Here he paused, to ascertain if he could hear any one moving about; but he heard nothing, and at once proceeded to feel his way, cautiously, along to the door, which he approached with a cat-like step.

Opening the door, he paused to listen, before he ventured into the landing to which it opened; but, finding the coast clear, he went through that, and then into the next room, which was apparently a store room, being filled with a variety of things of a miscellaneous character, and which were only of occasional use in the house.

This he closed, and went up stairs, where he came to a suite of servants’ bed-rooms, and thence he walked about from room to room, until he came to a portion of the house he recognised, and then he made direct for the baron’s own room.

“There,” he muttered, “I am likely to meet with what I want; and the carpets are soft, and give no noise. I can sleep for a short time, if I will.”

He made at once for the baron’s sleeping room, which he opened and entered. It was empty, and he at once closed the door; then he made an instant search about for a place of concealment; and, having found one, he began to make a search for some other matters, that were not of the same, but a more valuable character in the market.

However, he found out the drawers and depositories; but he was unable to open them, because they were locked; and he must wait until the baron had gone to sleep, and then, taking his keys, he would be able to help himself, without any difficulty, to what he most desired.

He had scarcely made this determination, before he was alarmed by the footsteps of the baron, as he ascended the stairs. This produced a necessity for instant concealment; and he immediately flew to the spot which he had chosen; and, scarcely had he done so, before the room-door was opened, and in walked the baron himself, who brought in a light with him.

He remained walking about some time, examining a variety of matters, but appeared as though he never intended to go to sleep. There was every probability of his discovering the place of concealment; which was easily done, had he but turned his head, or moved his hand, under certain circumstances; but, as fortune willed it, the baron did not.

It was near an hour before the baron sought the repose he might have taken, but for the dominion of the spirit of restlessness; and it was even then some time before he fell into a sound slumber, apparently being engaged in deep thought.

However, he did fall asleep, and the tongue of Morpheus spoke loudly—like some human beings, through the nose; and then it was the hero of Anderbury church-yard stole from his concealment, and began to examine the chamber.

“Where are his keys, I wonder?” he thought. “He must carry them about him; but he must have left them somewhere in his clothes; and if I can obtain, and use them, without making any noise, it will be fortunate.”

He found the keys, though not without making a slight jingle with them, but that caused no motion on the part of the baron, who lay snoring in his bed.

He stole to the drawers, and the key fitted; he quietly unlocked it and drew it open.

“Fortune befriends me,” he muttered.

At that moment the baron turned in his bed and heaved a deep sigh, and appeared for a minute or two restless, and as if on the point of waking up.

The intruder, however, stopped short in his depredations, and paused, and then crouched down, lest the sleeper might open his eyes, and, by a momentary glance, detect him.

Suddenly he spoke, but indistinctly—very indistinctly, and yet loudly enough. The stranger started—he thought himself detected; but he found that the baron was only dreaming. He drew nearer to him, and listened to what he said.

“Ha!” sighed the baron; “she is very beautiful—very beautiful. Ha! her form and face are perfection!”

He paused, and again went on, but too indistinctly. A word or two was heard plain enough now and then, but it was impossible to form any sense of them—they had no connection with one another.

“She is very beautiful,” again muttered the baron in his sleep. “She is lovely—amiable—what a wife!”

Then he again fell into a train of half-mumblings, from which nothing could be gathered.

“Heavens, what a prize!” exclaimed the baron, and again he relapsed, but appeared more composed and quiet.

“I would he were nine fathoms deep below the level of the sea,” muttered the robber; “and then I should not be bothered by him. Sleep, or let it alone,” he exclaimed, between his teeth. “It would almost be safest to kill——and yet, one cry might bring the whole household upon me.”

Turning to the door, he ascertained that it was locked. He turned the key, and, in doing so, made a noise with the lock which had the effect of causing the baron to start in his sleep.

“What was that?” he muttered, in sleepy accents. “I thought I heard the door go; but it can’t. I locked it—I remember very well I locked it.”

After this speech he fell fast asleep.

“Another escape,” muttered the intruder, who rose from his crouching posture, and setting the door open, so that he could, in case of an accident, make his escape from the room.

Then he again turned towards the drawers, and began to help himself to the contents, when he accidentally struck the keys, which fell with a clash to the floor. In an instant the baron started up on his elbow, and pulled aside the curtain, to see what was the cause of the disturbance.

In a moment the light was put out, and the intruder had assumed a motionless posture; but it was too late to escape the quick eye of the baron, who instantly jumped up, exclaiming, as he laid his hand upon a pistol, which he had under his pillow, and cocked it,—

“Ah! robber—assassin! Stand, or I fire!”

The sound of the cocking of the pistol was quite enough. It came distinctly to the ear, and suggested the idea of more than ordinary danger with it; and he dashed past, heedless of the command of the baron, who called upon him to stand.

The baron fired, and in an instant the house was filled with a stunning report, which echoed and re-echoed from room to room, filling the inmates with wonder and alarm.

The sensation produced by the sound was of that description that can hardly be described. To be awaked from a sound sleep by such a dreadful, stunning report, which carried such a sense of danger with it, that they remained in an alarming stupor for nearly the space of a minute, until, indeed, they were aroused by the shouts of the baron, was rather terrifying.

Hardly had the stunning and deafening report died away, when the baron leaped from his bed to ascertain if his shot had taken effect.

The intruder heeded not the commands or the shot of the baron, for he dashed out of the room at his utmost speed, making his way towards the lower portion of the house, that offering greater facilities for escape.

The baron, as soon as he had recovered from his first surprise, jumped out, and seizing a heavy cane that was lying across one of the chairs, he rushed after the flying figure, shouting and calling to his people to get up.

“Robbers! thieves!” he shouted. “Here, help—help to secure the robbers who are in the house.”

The intruder made for the lower stairs, but was closely followed by the baron, who could just see the dusky form of the object of his pursuit before him; but now, in the lower rooms, where there was no light at all, the shutters being up, he missed him.

The robber had taken advantage of the darkness, and doubled upon his pursuer, and hastened up stairs with the view of reaching the place where he entered.

In doing this, however, he was met by one of the men who was coming down. There was no time for deliberation, and he dashed up, regardless of the blow the man aimed at him, who said,—

“Here you are. Here goes for one on ’em.”

As, however, the battle is said not always to be with the strong, so in this instance he was unable to accomplish his object, for the blow, by the agility of the robber, was evaded, and the result was, that the serving man was suddenly whirled down the stairs, and being once on the descent, he did not stop until he got to the bottom.

“Murder! murder!” shouted the unhappy individual, as he rolled down stair after stair, until his cries were stilled by a violent concussion of the head.

In the meantime the stranger rushed up stairs at a headlong speed, until he attained the landing which led to the room at the window of which he entered. Securing the door behind him, and then getting out of the window, and seizing the rope, he began to descend very rapidly, fearing he would be intercepted by those below.

He slipped down the rope rather than let himself down, and before he had got half way down, he met with an impediment, which, however, quickly gave way, and they both came down plump to the earth together.

“My God! my God!” exclaimed a man’s voice, in great terror and tribulation. “What’s that? what’s that? Mercy—mercy! I didn’t mean to do any wrong.”

The stranger heeded not the words of the terrified swain, who, it would appear, had begun to ascend to reach the dormitory of his fair but frail one, when his flame was so unceremoniously quenched in the way we have related, but dashed away from the spot, and was speedily lost in the plantation, whither the unfortunate individual when he had sufficiently recovered his senses, and released his head from the imprisonment of his hat, soon after betook himself, thankful the affair was no worse.

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Chapter CXVI

JACK PRINGLE FALLS IN LOVE, AND HAS RATHER AN UNHAPPY ADVENTURE WITH A BOLD DRAGOON.

Jack Pringle, like other men, was subject to the vicissitudes of the passions, which placed him under a certain string of circumstances that produce results quite at variance with those which are usually anticipated when an individual enters upon the pursuits of the tender passion.

Indeed, Jack could see nothing at all unhappy, or in the least degree unfortunate, in the black eyes and rosy lips of Susan, who was most certainly the “maid of the inn,” though not in precisely the same rank as the one alluded to by the song.

He had taken up his residence at the inn, had Jack. Indeed, he was partial to inns in general—there was usually a greater latitude permitted there than elsewhere; not only each one being allowed to accommodate himself as he pleased, but he could have what ’baccy and grog he chose to order, as long as there was a shot in the locker.

This being the state of affairs, Jack found another inducement to stay where he was, and that was the existence of the before-mentioned Susan, who appeared to be as kind as she was good-natured.

She never refused to answer Jack’s call; and when she came, she always said,—

“What did you please to want, Mr. Pringle?”

“Mr. Pringle,” thought Jack. “Well, that sounds pretty from such a pair of lips.”

Jack scratched his head, and turning his quid in his mouth, was often lost in admiration, and forgot all his wants at that moment, and it was not until the question was more than once repeated, that Jack was aware that he really did not want anything, especially as his grog was not all gone.

“Well,” exclaimed Jack, looking at the glass, “I forgot; but never mind, Susan, I’ll have another can while this is going—so I sha’n’t hurry you. I wouldn’t hurry you, Susan—no, that I wouldn’t.”

The course of true love never did run smooth—that is, we know, a rule that is as old as the hills—but then it is of constant recurrence, and one that it may fairly be presumed always will, to the end of the world, and possibly after.

However that may be, Jack was not without a rival, and one of a very formidable character; not that Jack valued him a piece of rotten yarn. No; he never did think anything of a landsman, especially a soldier, for it was to that class this rival belonged.

“Susan,” said Jack, as he sat in the kitchen, watching the various evolutions to which the hands of Susan were applied, in the performance of her multitudinous duties.

“Well, Mr. Pringle,” said Susan.

“Ah!” said Jack; and then there was a pause, during which Jack forgot even to chaw his quid, and was quite abstracted in manner and thought. He had intended to say something, but it had quite escaped him; and it was difficult for Jack to hold his thoughts, as it is for countrymen to hold a pig by the tail when this latter member was well greased, and when it was of that description usually denominated a “bob-tail,” a common occurrence.

“What did you say, Mr. Pringle?” said Susan, bustling about. “I am sure you were about to say something.”

“Well, I suppose I was,” said Jack; “but I don’t know what it was now; but perhaps you do.”

“How should I know? I can’t tell what you are thinking about. What made you think that?”

“Because your black eyes seems to go through me, Susan, like a forty-two pounder. I tell you what, you ought to know what I want to say, because I’m always thinking of you.”

“Are you, though?”

“Yes, I am,” said Jack; “you’re a light craft—a rare pretty figure-head you’d make.”

“Lor! Mr. Pringle,” said Susan.

“Well, you would, though; and I’ll take three dozen and never wink, if there’s one to be found half as handsome in the whole British navy, or in any other.”

“To think,” said Susan, “that I should be called a figure-head! Well, I declare, I never heard the like. Why, what will you not say next? I never thought that of you.”

“Why,” said Jack, who was very much bewildered, and didn’t know precisely what to say—the turn the compliment had taken was one he couldn’t understand—“why, you see, Susan, the figure-head is the beautifulest part of the ship, except may be her rigging, her port-holes, her sides, and her trim; but then, you see, them things ain’t no manner of likeness to anything human, especially you, Susan.”

“Ain’t they, Mr. Pringle? Well, you know best; but I dare say it’s all right, for you must know best. But my cousin says I am more like the Venus day Meditchy, than anything else.”

Jack stared.

“Who?” he inquired, with his eyes opening very wide.

“The Venus day Meditchy,” said Susan, speaking in a very slow, emphatic manner, for Jack’s behoof.

“Don’t know her,” said Jack. “I’ll go bail there ain’t such a ship in the navy. There never was such a thing heard of, unless some of them d—d French craft; but your cousin ought to be well cobbed for saying you were like anything French. Why, you are true blue, and no French about you—is there, Susan?”

“I don’t know; but I never heard there was, and I don’t know if there is; but that’s what he said, and he’s been a long way.”

“Who is he?” said Jack, laying emphasis upon the last word, to indicate that the sound was displeasing.

“Oh! my cousin.”

“Well, but who is your cousin?” inquired Jack. “Have you see him very lately?”

“Yes, I saw him this morning; his regiment is quartered only a few miles from this place.”

“Oh!” said Jack, “he’s a soldier, then?”

“Yes, he is—a horse-soldier,” added Susan.

“A horse-marine. Ah! I know ’em afore to-day; they are a rare lot to lie and gallop away. But lord bless you, they never lay alongside an enemy till you’ve beaten him. No—no—they can’t do that.”

“He’ll be here to-night,” said Susan. “You shall see him, Mr. Pringle; he’s coming all this way to see me.”

“To see you!” said Jack Pringle, who was much displeased with this piece of particular attention in the cousin, and he could not help saying so.

“But he is my cousin,” said Susan; “and you know one cannot refuse to see one’s friends and relations; besides, he has been at all times very kind and good-natured to me, so that I cannot do otherwise than receive him kindly.”

“Oh, to be sure,” said Jack; “by all manner of means; only we must understand each other, Susan; there can’t be more than one captain aboard at a time.”

“How very odd you do talk, Mr. Pringle. My cousin will ask you what you mean.”

“Will he now?” said Jack. “Well, he may do so, if he like; but my lingo will be as good as his, I am sure; but we shall see him, however; but, Susan, you don’t care anything about him, you know.”

“Not a bit, Mr. Pringle; only as a cousin, you know.”

“Oh! very well,” said Jack; “I don’t care about that a bit; but if so be you’re going to carry on any games, you know, why, I won’t stand it.”

“Oh, honour,” said Susan, looking tenderly at Jack; “honour, you know. Do you think I could be capable of doing so? No, I never do anything unbeknown to a person. No, I say, let all be fair and no preference.”

“Well,” said Jack, “but I want all fair, but I should have no objection to a little preference, too. Don’t you give no preference to me over a soldier, Susan?”

“Don’t know,” said Susan; but she gave a look towards Jack that made him suspend the libation he was about to pour down his throat.

“Oh! I see how it is with you, Susy,” said Jack, becoming more familiar and pleased, for Susan’s black eye had a magical effect upon Jack, and he felt as if Susan must love him as much as he loved Susan; her eyes told him more than her tongue; Jack was quite sure of that.

“When is he coming?” said Jack.

“To-night,” said Susan; “and you must promise me you will be very quiet and civil, and then you shall see him; only you won’t take any notice of what he says or does.”

“No, no,” said Jack; “it’s all right; I understand. I won’t quarrel with him; no, not even if he were to—but splinter my mainmast, if I could stand that!”

“Stand what?” inquired Susan, demurely.

“Kissing of you,” said Jack, striking the table with his fist, so as to make the glasses that happened to be there tremble; “I couldn’t; I could stand the cat first.”

“Lor, Mr. Pringle! who asked you to do so? I am sure, I would not do such a thing.”

“What?” said Jack.

“Why to let him kiss me, to be sure.”

Jack looked, perhaps felt, electrified, and, after a moment’s pause, took his quid out of his mouth, hitched up his trousers, and then seized Susan by the waist, and gave her a kiss. It was a kiss; such a one only as a man-of-war’s man could give; it went off like the report of a pistol.

“Lor, Mr. Pringle!” said Susan, “I thought you were quite another sort of a man. What would my cousin, the dragoon, have said, if he had seen you? Dear me! you must have alarmed the whole house; I didn’t think you were going to make so much noise, though.”

A footstep approached, and the landlady thrust her head in; but Susan was busy, and Jack was chewing his quid as grand as an admiral.

“Susan.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Susan.

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t know, ma’am. Didn’t know there was anything wrong at all, ma’am.”

“I thought I heard a plate smash just now. Are you sure you haven’t broken anything.”

“Yes; quite, ma’am.”

“Oh!” said the landlady. “I certainly thought I heard a smash; but, I suppose, it was a mistake altogether, However I am glad of it.”

“There!” said Susan, when she had gone; “I told you how you had alarmed the place.”

“Well,” said Jack, who felt much abashed at what had happened, “I didn’t make so much noise, either. But never mind; I’ll take more care another time.”

• • • • •

The evening came round, and with it came the dragoon, as fine a specimen of military dress, discipline, and riotism as can well be let loose upon a decent community, and Susan met him in the passage.

“Ah! my pretty Susan,” said the son of Mars, “the star of my destiny, and the hope of my heart. While I wear spurs, I will love you, ever dearest.”

“Oh! come, none of that nonsense, you know, Robert; it won’t do; you say too many fine things, you know.”

“Of course I do; but can I say them without occasion. No; as well might you want day without daylight—the moon without moonlight. You inspire me, you see, and without you I couldn’t say anything.”

“I dare say not,” replied Susan; “you are such a man, that you make one believe what you say.”

“You ought, since I speak the truth, and nothing else; but, come, come, we’ll go in. I want to talk to you, Susan; I came on purpose to see you. There’s the barmaid at the Plough and Gooseberry-bush, quite sulky because I didn’t stop there; but I know I promised you I would come, and so I would be as good as my word.”

“Are you sure she was sulky?”

“Certain, because she did would not say good bye.”

“Well, but now I want to speak to you about something I want to explain.”

“Explain, my dear. I’ll explain anything that can be explained—I don’t mind what it is. You’ll never find me backward in coming forward with any amount of explanation that you can by any possibility require.”

“That is not what I want. I have a cousin here.”

“Aye; I’m not particular. I will pay her every kind of attention. I am sure you will acknowledge I am not wanting in any attentions to you.”

“Oh! dear, no; but it is not a female cousin that I want to speak to you about.”

“Indeed! I can’t tolerate another.”

“Yes, but you must. He’s just come from sea, and is a very odd man, but an uncommonly good-hearted man, so don’t take any particular notice of what he says or does.”

“I don’t mind him a bit—not the value of a pinch of snuff.”

“Yes, but you must do that, only don’t do anything to vex him. You can be pleasant company when you please, I know.”

“And so I will.”

“To please me you will; for though I don’t care anything for him more than if he were my brother, yet he’s very fond of me.”

“That’s no recommendation to me,” said the dragoon; “a spoony anchor buttons, I suppose.”

“You must be civil to him, or I will never see you any more.”

“Well, then, my charmer, I will say anything you like to this salt-water fish of yours; but he mustn’t lay hands upon you; if he should do so, why, I should be obliged to chastise him.”

“But he’s a man-of-war’s man.”

“And I am a man of war myself, my dear.”

“Lor!” said Susan.

Upon which she turned her eyes and face towards the dragoon, who could not let such an opportunity slip, and he immediately saluted her in true military style, but he did not commit the same offence that Jack Pringle did, for the former told no tale by the report—it was all quiet; and he followed Susan until they came to the room in which Jack was sitting.

“This is Mr. John Pringle,” she said.

“Aye, aye,” said Jack; “here am I—Jack Pringle—afloat or on shore, all the same.”

“And this,” continued Susan, “is Mr. Robert Swabbem.”

“How d’ye do,” said Jack, “Mr. Swabbem? I dare say it is so; but since we are to be shipmates, we may as well be friends—how d’ye do?”

“Pretty well, I thank you, Mr. Pringle—very well, indeed. Hope I see you quite well, and at home?”

“Yes, quite so—both ways; well, and at home.”

“The devil!”

“Yes, we call him Davy Jones; but, then, I suppose, you have one on purpose, in your line?”

“Why, there’s a little of the devil in us—that is pretty well admitted on all hands; and that’s as much as we have any wish to have in the way of connection with the gentleman whom you name.”

“Aye, aye; maybe you’ll know more on him afore you are done; but no matter—sit down, messmate, we can discuss a can of grog, I reckon.”

“Yes, easily. I can do my duty in any point, friend, you may best please. Facing an enemy, drinking a can, or kissing a lass. What more can you say?”

“I can do the same myself as some I know can testify, if they chose to speak,” said Jack, who gave a sly look at Susan; but at the same time she nearly fell a laughing, when reminded of Jack’s tremendous smack, which the landlady mistook for a smashing of crockery; “but, howsomever,” cried Jack, who had relapsed into a grim smile, “we’ll have a can together.”

“Very well; Susan, will you do what is needful for us? If the landlady would allow me, I’d wait upon you and do all your work.”

“And a pretty bobbery,” said Susan, “she would make of it; you would soon get discharged for tasting the grog on its way from the bar to the parlour.”

“Ah! well, I might get into trouble if I did that. What do you say, friend Jingle?”

“Pringle,” said Jack.

“Oh, ah! Ringle. I have it now distinctly.”

“Why, you swab,” said Jack in a rage, “I ain’t got no such kickshaw names as them—mine’s quite different altogether, so say what you like.”

“My name,” said the soldier, “ain’t Swab—but Swabbem, at your service.”

“Ah,” said Jack, “whether Swab or Swabbem, it don’t much matter—we all must fill our place—some are luckier than others, though they might be cousins.”

“Cousins! curse cousins, say I.”

“Same here,” said Jack; and then they both stared at each other, believing each other cousins to Susan, though not to each other.

“I am glad you are here,” said Susan; “I have the grog for you; it is extra strong. I know, because I put some more into it; I turned the tap on into each, and she didn’t see me do it.”

“Ah, Susan, I see you have a great regard for me; but it is not more than you ought, when you come to consider how I respect you,” said the soldier.

“The same here,” said Jack, who thought this pretty good for a cousin; “I admire Susan—she’s got such eyes, and such cheeks——”

“So she has—they are like diamonds set in roses; that they are.”

“Yes,” said Jack, “and as soft as velvet.”

“Damme,” said the soldier, “you beat me hollow. I say, messmate, where did you learn to fire your great guns off in that manner, eh?”

“Where!” said Jack, putting the can down; “why, where there were men to fire into us again. I’ll warrant you it was none of your field days, where people are tearing their hearts out to look fine—no, no; the lee scuppers ran with blood, and every heart was a true British sailor’s.”

“Well, that was good; but when I served on foreign service, there was no getting out of the way of danger, behind a wall, stone, brick, or wooden.”

“No, nor even laying on the ground—we had not even that; for as we fought, we destroyed the very building which supported us, and we had the spirits of the sea to contend against, as well as the dangers of the fight.”

“Oh, it’s all very well,” said the soldier, “but danger’s danger, and there’s an end of the matter; only I wish there was no such thing as bad grog.”

“That’s a great evil. Why, what d’ye think we did at Portsmouth the day after we landed? The landlord gave us bad grog, and how do you think we served him? Why, we made him drink till he was so drunk he couldn’t lay down without being afraid of falling, and then we cut his hair all off.”

“Well, I recollect a place in Portugal where they brought us some wine which we couldn’t drink. It was horribly thin and sour. We had in vain asked for better, but none was to be had at our bidding; indeed, we felt sure there was better, and we determined to have it.

“We called our landlord and told him we were resolved to ruin him if he didn’t bring it up—we would have better wine; but he protested he had not got any.

“Now, we were resolved to search, and accordingly we did search until we came upon some beautiful wine—some of the best port ever I tasted, and we made free with it. At all events, we drank as much as we could drink, and then fell fast asleep, and forgot to punish our landlord for the rascality; but I suppose he was well aware of what he deserved, for he endeavoured to excite some of the peasantry about to murder us while we slept, and when we awoke, we found ourselves surrounded by a dozen men.

“There was but three of us, but we were armed, and the peasants had nothing but a miscellaneous description of weapons—old guns, swords, and clubs; but they were not the men we were.

“Well, it came to a hard fight; more blows were struck, however, than did any mischief, because we could make use of our tools, and fought so hard, that they were glad to leave us victors.”

“Lor!” said Susan; “you don’t mean that—do you?”

“I do, indeed; but that was nothing. I frightened a whole regiment of the enemy.”

“Eh?” said Jack; “what, a whole ship’s compliment, eh? Well, that will do; go a-head; you beat all the cousins as ever I heard of, if you don’t never mind me, that is all about it; a good yarn, well spun, is worth a glass of grog at any time.”

“Well, I’ll tell you all about it; it’s sooner told than done, I can tell you; but never mind, Susan, don’t be frightened; it’s all past now, though it was true; but the best things must have an end some time or other, and this had one too.

“I was serving in Spain. I fought against the French then; and though I say so, you may depend upon it I took my chance as well as another man. However, I had many inclinations to go a step or two beyond my strict duty, and do more than I was obliged; but what of it? If you succeed, you are sure to be rewarded; and I wanted, if I could, to capture a pair of colours, which would give me a step in my regiment.

“‘Charge, my brave boys!’ shouted the colonel, as the enemy appeared coming down upon us.

“They were three or four to one, besides a reserve at a short distance. But we thought nothing of that; we had every reason to believe we were outnumbered; but that was all; and we drove hard at them.

“It was a glorious sight to see us full tear at the heavy-armed cavalry, in squadrons; but they had the advantage of weight and number of men; yet our shock was so great, that many of the enemy were thrown out of their saddles, and many more were killed; we hewed and hacked at each other for some time, until, in fact, the enemy began to give way.

“As soon as we began to find out that, we urged our horses on, and ourselves to strain our utmost, and we forced them back, and they began to turn about in right earnest, and show us their heels.

“Unfortunately for us there were no other troops at hand to support us. I say unfortunately, for while we were engaged in beating a larger force than our own, and which even then outnumbered us, we were taken in the rear by the reserve, and many men were cut down before our men could be called off.

“Among those who were taken prisoners was myself. I had received one or two severe wounds, which were, indeed, considered mortal; but which were not so dangerous as they were believed.

“However, as I kept my saddle, I was taken prisoner; indeed, I was unable to offer any resistance; my eyes were filled with blood—”

“Lor! how dreadful,” said Susan.

“It was dreadful to think of it, then; but I did not; I was too much occupied with my desire to do my duty, so heated and excited, to think anything about it. I was dragged away.

“Then what became of me, I don’t know; but I have some recollection of having a cloak thrown over me; and I rode away in company with them. I know we went away very fast, for they dreaded another charge of our men; and they had succeeded in escaping and reforming, and they were hovering, reinforced, upon our march.

“Well, that night, as I was deemed too badly wounded to give them any trouble, or attempting to make an escape, they let me lie in a stable.

“I fainted away; and, after several attempts to restore me, they left me as a hopeless case; but it was no matter to them, they didn’t grieve. I wondered in my own mind, as to the reason of their doing so much; but I suppose it was that prisoners were at a premium with them at that time; and they were anxious to return as large a number of prisoners as possible; and, upon the principle which induced the elderly dame to attempt emptying the sea with a tea-spoon, that every little was a help, they thought that if I lived I should be one more, and where the numbers were small, one was of importance.

“They gave me up as a bad job altogether, and after they had racked up their horses, they sat down for the evening to their meat and their wine. They had been all conversing together, but they were about to lie down and have some sleep, when suddenly I awoke from my trance, and walked out without at all knowing what I did.

“The men stared at me, and shook like so many aspens, but did not stir, till one of them said,—

“A ghost—a ghost!”

“This had the effect of clearing the place, for they all jumped up and ran away from the spot, leaving me master of the place; and judging that I was alone, I very soon made my way back to the quarters of the English, and got to the quarters of my old regiment, where I was kindly received, my comrades having given me up as lost.”

“Well,” said Jack Pringle, “you were very nearly gone certainly, though you warn’t quite a ghost; but that ain’t half so bad as a fire-ship—especially in towing a fire-ship among the enemy. I was once on an expedition of that sort when I was in the Mediterranean.”

“Lor, a fire-ship! What’s that?” inquired Susan.

“A ship-load of fire, with lots of combustibles,” said Jack. “It’s a thing that won’t do for a plaything.

“Well, the enemy had several, and, as we came up to them, we found they had the wind in their favour, and the first thing they did was to put out several of these fire-ships. But the wind was not direct for them, it was shifting. Well, we were ordered to man the boats, and tow the fire-ships back again amongst the enemy.

“Well, you may be sure they didn’t like that, especially when the fire-ships blew up. They did so with a dreadful explosion, setting fire to friend and enemy, and blowing them out of the water.

“This we did, and, as we towed the vessels along, we were fired at at a pretty smart rate, I can tell you; why, the very sea seemed to boil around us.”

“Lor!” said Susan, “how dreadful! Why it’s horrible here when the pot boils, and Heaven knows what it must have been there. Why, I am sure, I wonder how you escaped being scalded to death.”

“Why, some on ’em did get killed,” said Jack. “My starboard man was shot through the head, and one or two more went on an errand to Davy Jones.”

“It was lucky for them,” said Susan, “that they were sent out of the way when there was so much danger going on around you. I am sure I should have been glad.”

“May be so,” said Jack, turning his quid; “but I know this, them as was sent upon that errand never came back any more; they stayed away altogether; many of them becoming food for the sharks. However, we towed away, and, the breeze shifting, we got pretty well among them, and then we left the fire-ships where they ought to be, among the enemy.

“Well, we had a hard pull to get back, there being five or six ships firing broadside after broadside at us; but they never hit the boat. The other boat they did hit, and a shot went clean through her, and she went down in deep water.”

“And what became of the poor men that were in it?” inquired Susan, horrified at the detail.

“Some on ’em were drowned, and some we saved,” said Jack; “but we had scarcely reached our own vessel, when the fire-ships blew up, setting fire to and damaging several of the enemy, who were near at hand, and covering the sea with bits of burning timber, and many fell into the ships, setting fire to their rigging, and knocking men on the head, and doing a world of mischief besides.”

“Goodness me!” said Susan, “what a dreadful thing, to be sure. I should not like to be near a fire-ship. At all events, missus is quite a fire-ship here.”

There were but few observations to make. Jack thought he had quieted the dragoon, and had given him a dose of salt water; and, moreover, Jack ogled the “maid of the inn” in such a way that speedily brought the military hero to a sense of his danger, so, curling his moustache with his finger, he said,—

“Well, it’s all very well talking of the dangers of the sea, but it’s nothing to a storming party.”

“A storming party! what’s that?” inquired Susan.

“Why, I’ll tell you, my dear, and then you’ll know all about it. You see, we were at the siege of Bangpowder.”

“Never heard of such a place,” interposed Jack; “what’s the bearing of that outlandish place?”

“Oh, never there, eh?” said the dragoon, contemptuously; “then you don’t know it. Talk of danger, you should have been there, and you would have known what danger was. However, I’ll enlighten your ignorance.

“You must see, Susan, my dear, that at Bangpowder we were very little use in the way of assisting the siege, except that we acted as outposts—foraging parties—and kept off the light troops of the enemy when they shewed themselves, while the infantry set to work in the trenches to work the guns.

“They did work them above a bit, too. For weeks together there was firing day and night, on our side and on theirs, so the air was never without a strong smell of gunpowder, which you might smell for twelve leagues quite strong.”

“Lor!” said Susan.

“Smash my timbers,” said Jack Pringle, “if you ain’t a coming it strong this time.”

“Well,” continued the dragoon, taking no notice of what was said; “well, that was nothing—that was a mere trifle. After some weeks’ firing, we made a hole in the wall, which increased day after day until big enough for a man to enter.

“After that, a storming party was ordered; but, after more than one attempt, our men gave it up as a bad job. Our captain, being a dare-devil sort of fellow, and not liking to see men beaten back, said the breach was practicable, and could be entered.

“This was denied by the officers and men who had been defeated, and he said if his own troop would volunteer, he would undertake to enter the place.

“This was told us, and we all at once volunteered to follow him to the devil, if he chose to go.

“He at once informed the commander-in-chief, and we were ordered to mount the breech. To do this we of course dismounted, and went on foot.

“There was some little excitement upon this matter, but we were cheered as we passed, and when we arrived within a few yards of the walls, we were met by a tremendous fire of all arms.

“This, however, did not daunt us, though it thinned our ranks, and we were less in number; but up the breech we went, one man at a time. Six of them, one after another, were knocked over dead as herrings. Well, the men began to look blue over this; they wouldn’t have minded rushing on in a body, and giving and taking till they all died; but to get on the top of a brick wall, one at a time, to be shot at, why it was more than they liked, especially as they had not struck one blow, or fired a single shot in return.

“‘Hurrah, lads!’ said I; ‘I’ll have a shy, now; come on, and follow me quick.’

“I jumped up and cleared the wall, though a thousand bullets were fired, and got over clear without a shot, save one, that shaved some of my whisker off.

“We all got over, and soon after we were followed by some of the other regiments, and the place was our own; but we were nearly stripped naked.”

“Oh, lor! how was that?” inquired Susan, interested.

“Why, we had so many narrow escapes, that our clothes were all shot to shreds.”

“Goodness!”

“Oh, but it is true,” said the dragoon rising, and going out of the kitchen.

In a few moments afterwards Susan left it also, and Jack, after turning his quid, and squirting the tobacco juice on the floor, rose, and hitching up his trousers with a preliminary “damme!” left the kitchen also; but he hadn’t got far, when, oh, horror! he perceived Susan in the arms of the dragoon, whose moustachioed lips more than once met hers.

“Sink the ship,” muttered Jack, “here’s a pretty go—the black-looking piratical thief.”

But Jack’s peace was soon held, and he listened to an assignation which Jack was determined he would keep himself, to the discomfiture of the dragoon.

Having made up his mind upon this point, he returned to the kitchen, and Susan also in a very few moments; but Jack pretended to be asleep, and wouldn’t speak to her, because he thought she hadn’t behaved well in this affair of the dragoon; he was resolved, however, in substituting himself for the soldier, or, at all events, of making a row.

The time came and Jack stationed himself upon a position where he could with ease lift the dragoon into the water-butt below, in case he offered any opposition to the substitution before named.

The moment came round, and the dragoon was seen slowly and cautiously mounting the way to the window of Susan. It was a kind of leads just above the water-butt, accessible by means of some wooden steps.

“Avast, there,” said Jack, when he got up to the level with the top. “What do you do there?”

“What is that to you?” inquired the dragoon.

“A great deal,” replied Jack; “but you don’t come here—I heard all about it; but I tell you what, you ain’t a coming here, at all events.”

“But I am.”

“Don’t attempt, or I’ll sink you. I will, by all that’s good—so keep back, and go away.”

“I’ll see you d—d first,” said the dragoon. “I have mounted a worse breach than this before to-day; but I suspect there isn’t much danger here.”

He ran up, and soon faced Jack, who seized him round the waist, would have lifted him up in his arms, and could have thrown him into the water-butt, only Jack’s foot suddenly slipped, and he fell down, the soldier upon him, who in an instant regained his feet, and rolled Jack over and over, until he came to the water-butt.

Into this Jack went, head first, and kicked and floundered about; and if the water-butt had not been very rotten, and gave way, letting all the water escape, it is very doubtful if Jack would not have found a watery grave in the confined space of a water-butt.

As it was, he was more than blind and breathless, and sat down in the midst of the water on the stones, to recover himself from the immersion he had undergone.

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Chapter CXVII

THE PROPOSAL OF JACK PRINGLE TO TAKE ANDERSON TO THE WEDDING.

A circumstance now occurred which soon enabled Jack Pringle to console himself for the misadventure he had had, which he was delighted to think was not known to any of those persons with whom he came ordinarily into contact.

The pleasant circumstance to which we allude, was the reception of a letter from the admiral, and by the mere fact of his writing such an epistle to Jack, it would seem to be perfectly true that he really felt unhappy without the companionship of that worthy.

The letter was to the following effect:—

“Jack, you mutinous rascal, your leave of absence has expired, and you know you ought to have a round dozen when you come back to your ship; but as it turns out you may stay where you are, for a reason that I am going to tell you.

“There is to be a wedding at the very place where you are staying, between some odd fish, a Baron Something, I don’t know who; but as we have been all invited, we are coming down the whole lot of us, and shall arrive on Thursday, so that you may look out from the mast-head as soon as you like, and you will see us coming with all sails set.

“No more at present from, you vagabond, you know who.”

“What an affectionate letter,” said Jack; “I knew the old fellow couldn’t do without me long—he is quite an old baby, that’s what he is; and if I wasn’t to take a little notice of him, he would be as miserable as possible. Hilloa! What cheer? have you come back?”

These last words were addressed to James Anderson, who at that moment made his appearance in the cottage of the old seaman, he having just left the house of the Williamses, after the painful interview which we have recorded took place between him and Mrs. Williams, during which she had succeeded in convincing him that all his hopes, as regarded Helen, were crushed completely.

The appearance of deep dejection that was upon his countenance was such, as to convince Jack Pringle the nature of the business he had been upon, and he cried,—

“Come, come—cheer up, man. I guess, now, you have been looking after that sweetheart of yours, who is no better than she should be.”

“I have, indeed,” said James Anderson, “been to extinguish all hope—nothing now lives in my breast but despair. I shall proceed to London at once, to make my report to the Admiralty, as it is my duty to do so; and, after that, I care not what becomes of me.”

“Stuff, stuff,” said Jack; “I have got some news for you. My old admiral, that I take care of, has had an invitation to the very wedding, as I take it to be, of your old sweetheart.”

“What! is it possible—do you mean an invitation to Helen Williams’s wedding with the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh?”

“Yes, I do; that’s just what I do mean, and no mistake. Here is his letter which he has written to me to go, and I think I shall let the old fellow, for it will amuse him. Just read that.”

Jack handed the admiral’s letter to James Anderson, which he read with a great deal of interest, and when he had concluded, he said,—

“Mr. Pringle, a sudden thought strikes me——”

“About ship,” said Jack, “and begin again. I told you before not to call me Mr. Pringle—I cannot stand it. Call me Jack, and then go on telling me what your sudden thought is.”

“Well, then, Jack, my sudden thought is this, that your friend the admiral might be induced, upon your representation, to let me join his party, and I would take care to conceal my features and general appearance so that I should not be known, while I had the mournful satisfaction of taking a last look upon that occasion of her who I have loved, before she becomes irrecoverably the wife of another.”

“If you wish it,” said Jack, “it shall be done. I’ll undertake there shall be no objection on the part of the admiral; and as for the Bannerworths, they are good sort of people, and would do all they can for anybody, I am sure.”

“I should take it as a peculiar favour; for although I feel now that my hopes are blasted, and I can have no possible expectation of beholding her with eyes of pleasure, I still wish to look upon her, that I may see if anything of regret is upon her countenance, or if she has quite forgotten the past.”

“Say no more,” said Jack, “but consider it as done. I’d take care though, if I were you, that she did not find me out; for I wouldn’t let the finest woman that ever breathed—no, not if she was seven feet high, and as big as a hogshead—fancy that I cared so much for her as to go to her wedding after she had jilted me.”

“She shall not see me,” said James Anderson; “she shall not see me, you may depend; for, without doubt, the guests will be very numerous, so that I can easily keep myself in the back-ground, and look upon her face without her being at all aware of the presence of such a person at the ceremony.”

“Yes, you can manage that; and, if I were you, just as I was going away, I’d give the baron a jolly good kick, and tell him you wished him joy of his bargain. I wouldn’t do anything violent, you know, but a little quiet thing like that would just show them all what you thought of the business.”

“A sense of my wrongs,” said James Anderson, “should not extinguish a sense of justice; and I have no means of knowing that the baron is at all in fault in this matter.”

“Oh, you are too nice by one half. If a fellow takes away my sweetheart, hang me if I care who is at fault.”

“Oh, but it is necessary that we should be just at all events; but still, Jack, accept my sincerest thanks for placing me in the way of looking upon Helen. I’d rather see that she was happy and contented with her lot, than I would observe evidences upon her face of any passionate regret. The former would reconcile me, by making me think I had made a great mistake in the object of my attachment; while the latter would leave in my heart a never ceasing pain.”

“Gammon,” said Jack.

“I fear I tax your patience, Jack Pringle, when I talk in such a strain as this.”

“I’ll be hanged if you don’t. What do you mean by it? There is lots of women in the world. I have no patience with a fellow that, because one girl uses him ill, goes snivelling and crying about his feelings, and his agony, and his chest, and all that sort of thing. I should recommend a bottle of rum.”

“Well, well, Jack, it may happen some day with even you, and then you may feel some of the mental agony of knowing that another has possessed himself of her whom you thought all your own.”

This was hitting Jack rather hard, although James Anderson did not know it; so he said,—

“Ah, well, to be sure, there is something in that, after all, and I don’t mean to say there ain’t; but, however, keep up your heart, my boy, and there is no saying what may happen yet.”

“Alas! there can nothing happen that can give me pleasure; all is lost now, and the only hope I can have, is to forget.”

Jack would have written a letter back to the admiral in reply to the one which he had received, only that somehow or other he was not a first-rate penman; and as he said it was such a bother to know where to begin, and when you did begin, it was such a bother to know where to leave off, that, taking all things into consideration, he rather on the whole declined writing at all; and, as the appointed day was near at hand, on which the wedding was to take place, he thought it would do quite as well if he kept the look out which the admiral had suggested for the arrival of the Bannerworths.

As for the scheme of James Anderson to be present at the wedding, the more Jack thought of it, the more he liked it, because he considered that it afforded a chance, at all events, if not a good prospect, of as general a disturbance as any that had ever existed.

“Lor! what fun,” he said, “if he would but kick the baron, and then if the baron would but fall foul of him, and the girl scream, and old mother Williams go into hysterics. That would be a lark, and no doubt about it; shouldn’t I enjoy it above a bit. I’d give them a helping hand somehow or another; and then, who knows but the girl may have been regularly badgered by the old cat of a mother into the match, and may wish for all the world to get out of it.”

There can be no doubt but that if Helen Williams, even at that last moment, chose to make any appeal, it would not be made in vain to Jack Pringle, who, with all his faults, and they were numerous enough, had in his heart a chivalrous love of right, and a hatred of anything in the shape of oppression, which nothing could subdue; and such qualities as these surely are amply sufficient to atone for a multitude of minor errors, which were more those of habit and defective education, than anything else.

It very much delighted him to think that the admiral and the Bannerworths were coming down to Anderbury, because such a fact not only prolonged his stay there, which he was pleased it should do, because he was really very much delighted with the place, but it at the same time threw him again into the company he so much liked; and his attachment to the Bannerworth family had really become quite a strong feeling.

He waited quite with impatience until the Thursday came on which the admiral had announced his arrival; and instead of being in the town, or on the outskirts, to watch for him, which would have been but a tiresome operation, Jack walked boldly on to meet them by the high road, which he knew they must traverse.

After he had gone about four miles, he had the satisfaction of seeing, in the distance, a travelling-carriage, manned, as he called it, with four horses, rapidly approaching, and Jack immediately produced a large silk handkerchief that he had purchased, which was a representation of the national flag of Great Britain. This he fastened to the end of a stick, and commenced waving it about as a signal to the admiral of his presence in the road.

At this moment, too, it happened, fortunately for Jack Pringle, as he considered, that a man came across a stile in the immediate vicinity where he was with a gun in his hand.

“Hilloa, friend,” said Jack Pringle, “just let me look at that gun a minute.”

“I’ll see you further first,” said the man; “you seem to me as if you were out of your mind.”

So saying, he levelled the piece at some birds which were flying over-head, and fired first one barrel and then the other in rapid succession.

“Thank ye,” said Jack, “that was all I wanted; and it will answer my purpose exactly; there is nothing like, when you display your flag, firing a gun or two. It’s all right—he sees me, he sees me.”

The admiral had actually been looking from the window of the carriage, although he had not expected to see Jack quite so soon; but the appearance of the handkerchief, which was made so much to resemble a flag, convinced him of the fact that Jack had come that distance to meet them; and when he heard the gun fired twice, he was quite delighted, and leaning back in the carriage, he cried,—

“Ah, Flora, my dear, it is a great pity that Jack is so given to rum, for he is a remarkably clever fellow. You would hardly believe it, now, but he has contrived to hoist a flag just because he sees me coming.”

“Indeed, uncle.”

“Yes, my dear, he has; and didn’t you hear that he actually managed to fire a couple of guns, some way or another?”

“I certainly did hear the report, but had no idea that we were indebted to Jack Pringle’s management for them.”

“Oh, yes, I can see him a short distance ahead. He is lying to, now; and, if the wind wasn’t against us, we should be up to him in a few minutes, but don’t you feel it blowing in your face?”

Notwithstanding the admiral considered, which he certainly did, that the wind was a real impediment to the progress of the carriage, they did in a few moments reach to where Jack Pringle was waiting, when the admiral called out from the window in a loud voice,—

“Hilloa! what ship, and where are you bound to?”

“The Jack Pringle,” was the reply, “from Anderbury, and to fall in with the Admiral Bell, convoy of the pretty Flora.”

“There now,” said the admiral; “didn’t I tell you what a clever fellow Jack was? What shore-going humbug, who had never been to sea, would have thought of such a thing?”

“Well,” said Jack, as he walked up to the coach window, for the postillions had been ordered to halt, or, as the admiral had expressed it, “to heave to,” “well, here you are, all of you.”

“Yes, Jack,” said the admiral; “and I was just saying I thought you a very clever fellow.”

“I am sorry I can’t return the compliment, you poor old creature,” said Jack; “I hope you haven’t got yourself into any trouble since I have been away from you. What a miserable old hulk you do look, to be sure. There you go, again; now you are getting into a passion, as usual; what a dreadful thing temper is, to be sure, when you can’t manage it.”

Jack scrambled up behind into the rumble before the admiral could make any reply to him, for indignation stopped his utterance a moment or two; and, when he did speak, it was to Flora he addressed himself more particularly, saying,—

“Now, did you ever know a more ungrateful son-of-a-gun than that? After I had just told him that I thought him a clever fellow, for him to burst out abusing me at that rate! Now I have done with him.”

“Oh, you may depend, Admiral Bell,” said Flora, “that he don’t at all mean what he says; and I am convinced that he entertains for you the highest possible respect, and that he is only jesting when he uses those expressions which would seem as if it were otherwise.”

“Let’s just wait,” said the admiral, “till the wedding is over, and then I’ll let him know whether a boatswain is to make a joke of an admiral of the fleet.

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Chapter CXVIII

THE BARON’S PREPARATIONS FOR THE MARRIAGE, AND THE WEDDING MORNING.

During this time neither Mrs. Williams nor the Baron Stolmuyer were idle spectators of the progress of the hours; but, on the contrary, they made the best possible use of the week which was to elapse before the marriage ceremony took place after Helen had given her consent to it.

Five hundred pounds in the hands of such a person as Mrs. Williams, will go a long way, and produce an amazing amount of show and glitter; so that she managed, before the day on which the ceremony was to be performed arrived, to make quite certain that herself and her daughters would present a most dazzling appearance; and she thought it not at all improbable that even at the very church some meritorious individual might be dazzled into thinking of matrimony with one of her other daughters, upon seeing what a brilliant appearance they managed to present upon the marriage of Helen.

“I am quite sure that no harm can come of it,” she said, “if no good does; and, at all events if no good is done at the church, the baron will soon be giving parties enough to bring out the dear girls to perfection, particularly as I fully intend we shall all live at Anderbury House.”

Mrs. Williams considered this as a settled point, whether the baron liked it or not; and, knowing as she did the gentle and quiet disposition of Helen, she did not doubt for a moment of being permitted to rule completely over the domestic affairs of her establishment. All this was amazingly satisfactory to such a lady as Mrs. Williams, and the very thing of all others she would have liked, had she been looking out for what would please her in the marriage of her daughter.

We shall shortly see how these views and opinions were verified by the fact.

All the other preparations were left to the baron; and when he wrote a letter to Mrs. Williams, saying, that he would be ready by ten o’clock on the morning which had been named for the nuptials, and would send one of his carriages for the bride, Mrs. Williams was perfectly satisfied that all was quite correct.

There was no very good excuse for calling at Anderbury House; but, if she had then called, she certainly would have been astonished at the preparations which the baron was making for that day which was so near at hand.

It was quite terrific the expense he went to; and the gorgeous manner in which he fitted up one of the largest apartments in the house for a dance looked really like expenditure of the most reckless character, and such as indeed it must have required an immense fortune to withstand.

The walls of that apartment were hung with crimson draperies of a rich texture, and such beauty of design that they were the admiration of the very workmen themselves who were employed upon the premises.

Then the magnificent order he gave for a feast upon the occasion, and the wines he laid in, really almost exceeded belief; and such proceedings were indeed highly calculated to give people most exaggerated versions regarding his wealth.

He had indeed mentioned to Mrs. Williams, that he had silver mines on some of his estates abroad; and that fact to her mind was quite sufficient to account for any amount of money he might possess, because, to her ideas of geology and mineralogy, the discovery of a silver mine meant, finding a hole of immense width and depth, crammed with the precious metal.

But be this as it may, and whether the Baron Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh, owed his wealth to silver mines, or to other sources, one thing was quite clear, and that was, that he had it.

And that was the grand point; for in a highly civilised and evangelical country like this, the question of how a man got his money is not near so often asked, as, has he got it; and it is quite amazing what liberality of feeling and sentiment is immediately infused into people by the fact of successful speculation of any kind; while failure immediately incurs the greatest of opprobrium and contempt.

And now the day was so close at hand, that Mrs. Williams got into a terrible flutter of spirits, and began really to wish it over; for she was completely ready, and each minute became an hour of impatience to her.

She was continually bothering the baron with notes and messages upon different subjects, and he had the urbanity to answer two or three of them; but he soon left that off, and the last half dozen, at the least, were, to Mrs. Williams’s great mortification, taken no notice of at all.

Some of these notes were upon the most nonsensical points, and several of them, although they did not actually ask it, pretty strongly hinted that more money would be a very desirable thing.

The baron would not understand any hint, however, upon the subject; so Mrs. Williams became fully convinced that she must make the best of it she could, and put up for the present with the five hundred pounds she had already received.

But when the day had actually dawned on when the auspicious event was to come off, and, upon looking around her, she found herself surrounded by gay apparel and jewellery, she almost dreaded that even yet it would turn out to be some delusion, or a dream, for she could scarcely believe in the reality of such glory and magnificence belonging to her.

But facts are stubborn things, and, whether for good or for evil, are not likely to be got over; so, when she looked out of the windows and saw that a bright morning’s sun was shining, and that the life, animation, and bustle of the day was commencing, she told herself that it was, indeed, real, and that she had reached very nearly the summit of her desires and expectations.

“Yes,” she exclaimed; “I shall be mother-in-law to a baron; and I dare say I shall have at least twenty servants in Anderbury House to command and control continually.”

A more gratifying reflection than this could not possibly have presented itself to Mrs. Williams; for if any one thing could be more delightful than another, it certainly was that kind of petty power which gives an individual a control over a large establishment.

After she had arisen on that eventful morning, she did not allow her establishment many minutes’ repose; but, in the course of half-an-hour, all was bustle, excitement, and no small share of confusion.

And while she was thus energetically pushing on her preparations, let us see what the Bannerworths are about, now that they have fairly arrived at Anderbury, and are in readiness, probably, to be present at the ceremony.

By Flora’s intercession, a peace was established between Jack and the admiral; and the former took the latter down to the old seaman’s cottage, in order to introduce him to James Anderson; and on the road he made him acquainted with the particulars of the young man’s story; at the same time informing him of the wish that Anderson had expressed to be permitted to join their party.

“Oh, certainly,” said the admiral, “certainly; let him come by all means, although I must say that he ought to leave for London, at once, with his despatches, or at all events with the news that he had lost them. However, I am not on active service; and, therefore, have no right to do anything more than advise him in the matter.”

“Oh, he will go,” said Jack, “as soon as he has seen his sweetheart, and perhaps kicked the baron; for though he said he wouldn’t, I live in hopes yet that he will be aggravated enough to do it.”

The admiral liked James Anderson so much, that he not only promised him he should go to the wedding under cover of the general invitation which he, the admiral, had received, but he proposed, likewise, that he should come home with him at once and be introduced to the Bannerworths; and by home he meant the inn at Anderbury, where they were staying.

The young man expressed himself highly gratified at this invitation, and at once accepted it, so that they walked towards the inn together, and began to make preparations for their appearance at Anderbury House.

Flora and the Bannerworths, as well as Charles, received young Anderson very graciously, and they each expressed to him their sympathy for the painful situation in which the baron’s marriage was placing him.

Flora and Charles Holland, as may be well supposed, could both feel, and feel acutely too for any one crossed in his affection, as poor James Anderson was; and it certainly much damped the satisfaction they had in going to what everybody told them would certainly be the most brilliant wedding that had taken place in that part of the country for many a year.

“Let us hope,” said Henry Bannerworth, “that you will find some other, Mr. Anderson, who will be more worthy of your esteem, than she who has treated so lightly your affection and her own faith.”

“I know not,” said Anderson, “whether to accuse her not; for who knows but after all she may be the victim of treachery, notwithstanding the apparent powerful evidence that has been given to me by her mother?”

The Bannerworth family were determined, and so was the admiral, that they would bestow what credit they could upon those who had so kindly invited them; and, accordingly, when they started for the Hall in the handsome carriage which had brought them down to Anderbury, they certainly presented a rather showy and attractive appearance.

But still when they reached the entrance to Anderbury House, they found that their’s was by no means the only equipage of the kind that was there to be seen; for although both the entrances were open for the reception of guests, they had to wait a considerable time before they could get up to either of them.

One hundred and fifty guests, sixty or eighty of whom kept equipages, were calculated to make some little degree of confusion; but when the Bannerworth family fairly got within the house, everything else was forgotten in their admiration of the brilliant arrangements within.

The richest carpets were laid down that money could purchase, and servants in gorgeous liveries ushered the guests into an immense hall, in which the marriage ceremony was to take place, and which was decorated with a splendour that was perfectly regal.

And here a new set of domestics glided noiselessly about with various refreshments upon silver salvers, and the place began rapidly to fill with such an assemblage of wealth, and beauty, and rank, as perhaps scarcely ever had been congregated in one place before.

But among those whose beauty attracted much attention, we may need well reckon our friend, Flora Bell, as she was now properly called, and whose sweet countenance was the cause of many a passing observation, couched in the most flattering terms.

It wanted yet an hour to the time of the ceremony being performed, and the Bannerworths, as they saw that their companion, young Anderson, was in a painful state of excitement, all sat down in the deep recess of a large window to wait the coming of the bride and bridegroom.

“I don’t think, Mr. Anderson,” said Henry, “that your coming here at all was a well advised step; but since you are here, you should muster up resolution enough not to betray any feeling.”

“I will not betray it, although I feel it,” said Anderson. “Rely upon it, that I shall look much firmer, and act much firmer when she whom I wish to see is actually here, than I do at present—I am enduring suspense now, and that is the worst of all.”

“I do wish,” interposed Flora, “that you had seen her whom you love before this ceremony, for in that case, although you might have endured the pang of finding that she was willing to call herself another’s, you would have been spared the pain of this day’s proceeding.”

“I wish to Heaven I had seen her; but I knew not how to arrange such a meeting; and when I was shewn, in her own handwriting—which I knew too well to doubt—a consent to be the wife of another, I no longer had the spirit and the perseverance to ask to see her; and it was an afterthought that made me wish to look upon her face once more before I left her for ever.”

“What,” said Jack Pringle, suddenly making his appearance, “is he gammoning you with his feelings?”

“Oh! so you have got in, have you?” said the admiral.

“So I have got in—why, what do you mean by that? Of course I have got in; wasn’t I invited? I do think you get a little stupider every day; and, in course of time, you won’t know what you are about. I should not be surprised to see you take out your handkerchief to blow your eye instead of your nose.”

Latterly, Jack, when he made one of these speeches, always walked away very quickly, leaving the admiral’s anger to evaporate as best it might; so that he escaped the retort which otherwise he might have received.

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CXIX. A RATHER STRANGE CIRCUMSTANCE AT THE BARON’S WEDDING

At length, the hour came, so anxiously looked for and expected by all the Baron Stolmuyer’s guests; and the great clock which was in one of the turrets of Anderbury House proclaimed that the minute had arrived when all was presumed to be ready for the union.

All eyes were directed to a large table that was placed at one extremity of the hall, and covered with crimson velvet, and at which the ceremony was to be performed.

The Bannerworths were a little forward, so that they commanded a good view of everything, and James Anderson was completely hidden from observation behind the bulky form of the admiral. Now, a small door opened, and an archdeacon somebody—who had been engaged, as you would engage a celebrated performer, at some theatre, to perform the ceremony—made his appearance, accompanied by several ladies and gentlemen, whom he had brought with him to partake of some of the baron’s good things.

In a few moments, from another doorway, came the bride, accompanied by six bridesmaids, but she was covered with such a massive lace veil from her head to her feet, that not the slightest vestige of her countenance was visible.

But, still, Flora thought that, as the bride first came in, she heard from beneath that veil a deep and agonised sob; and she remarked the circumstance to Charles, who confirmed her opinion by at once saying,—

“It was so, and I don’t think it at all likely that we should both be mistaken.”

There was a slight murmur of applause and admiration among the assembled guests as the bride took her seat by the table; for although there were many there who had never seen her face, there were likewise many who had; and even those who had not, could not but perceive, by her graceful movements and the delicate outline of her figure, that they were looking upon a creature of rare beauty and worth.

It was astonishing that the bridegroom should be late, and the audience who were present began to be indignant at such a fact, and whispered together concerning it in language not very flattering to the baronet, who, had he heard it, would have found that he must mind what he was about, or his rapidly-acquired popularity would soon be at a discount.

Minute after minute thus passed, and Mrs. Williams, who was attired in a richly-flowing garment of white silk, embroidered with flowers, began to be in a most particular fidget.

“Where could be the baron—good God! where is the baron?” and some one or two said, “D—n the baron!” When suddenly the door at which the bride had entered was again flung open, and two servants in rich liveries made their appearance, one standing on each side of it. Then there was heard approaching a slow and measured footstep, and presently, attired in a court suit of rich velvet, the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh appeared in the hall, and marched up to the table.

He had but just time to execute half a bow to the assembled multitude, when Admiral Bell called out in a voice that awakened every echo in the place,—

“It’s Varney, the vampyre, by G—d!”

• • • • •

Yes, it was Varney—the bold, reckless, audacious Varney, who had thus come out in a new character, and, with vast pecuniary resources, acquired Heavens knows how or where, was seeking to ally himself to one so young and beautiful as Helen Williams.

We do absolutely and positively despair of giving an adequate idea to the reader of the scene that followed.

Ladies shrieked—the bride fainted—Mrs. Williams went into strong hysterics, and kicked everybody—Jack Pringle shouted until he was hoarse; while Varney turned and made a dash to escape through the door at which he had just entered.

James Anderson, however, by springing over a table, succeeded in clutching him by the collar behind; but Varney turned on the instant, and lifting him from the ground as if he had been a child, he flung him among a tray of confectionery and wine, and from thence he rolled into Mrs. Williams’s lap.

Following close, however, upon the footsteps of Anderson in pursuit of Varney had been Henry Bannerworth; but he accomplished nothing, except to strike his head violently against the door through which Varney escaped, and which was dashed in his face, and immediately bolted on the other side.

“He is a vampyre,” shouted the admiral—“I tell you all he is a vampyre—Varney, the vampyre, and no more a baron than I am a broomstick. Stop that d—d old woman from making such a noise.”

“It’s the bride’s mother,” said somebody.

“What’s that to me?” roared the admiral; “it don’t make her a bit less of a nuisance. I offer a hundred pounds reward for Varney, the vampyre; and there must be some people here that know the house well enough to catch him.”

“Do you mean a hundred pounds for master, sir?” said a great footman, with yellow plush breeches.

“Yes, I do, you hog in armour,” said the admiral.

The footman rushed through another doorway in a moment, and then Jack Pringle jumped upon a chair, and, waving his hat, cried,—

“Hurra, hurra, hurra! Three cheers for old Varney! I’ll tell you what it is, messmates, he is the meanest fellow as ever you see; and as for you ladies who have been disappointed of the marriage, I’ll come and kiss you all in a minute, and we’ll drink up old Varney’s wine, and eat up his dinner like bricks. My eye, what a game we will have, to be sure. I am coming——”

At this moment the admiral gave such a kick to one of the hind legs of the chair, that down came Jack as quickly as if he had disappeared through some trap-door.

“Hold your noise, will you,” said the admiral, “you great brawling brute!”

“I’ll settle him,” said Mrs. Williams, who had suddenly recovered; and had not Jack suddenly made his escape, it is highly probable she would have make him a regular scape-goat in the affair, and that he alone—for Anderson had pretty quickly escaped her—would have felt the consequences of her deep disappointment.

The confusion now became, if anything, worse than at first, for many of the guests who had looked on apparently quite stunned and paralyzed at what had taken place, now recovered, and joined their voices to the general clamour.

Some, to rush out of the place, took the opportunity of going through the different rooms; while a number, who had heard of the wide-spread fame of Varney, the vampyre, and who were utterly astonished to find him and the baron one and the same person, joined in the pursuit, with the hope of taking prisoner so alarming a personage.

No one knew for some time what had become of the clergyman, until Jack Pringle saw a human foot sticking out from under the table, upon which he took hold of it, and with a pull dragged the archdeacon somebody fairly out, to the great horror of some very religious old ladies who were present, who considered that an archdeacon must be somebody very wonderful indeed.

“Hilloa! Mr. Parson,” said Jack; “I suppose you thought it was your old friend the devil come for you before your time; but cheer up, I know him; it’s only a vampyre, and that’s nothing when you’re used to it.”

Jack did not seem at all to think that it was necessary he should assist in the capture of Varney, and probably the real fact was, he did not care whether Varney was captured or not, so he walked to one of the tables which were loaded with refreshments, and knocking the neck off a bottle of champagne, he gave a nod to Mrs. Williams, saying,—

“Come, old girl, take something to drink. That red nose of yours looks as if you knew something of the bottle. It’s only me, so you needn’t be shy. Ah, it’s devilish good wine, though. I do give old Varney credit for getting up the thing decently, which he certainly has, and no mistake.”

“Who has seen my daughter? Where is my daughter?” cried Mrs. Williams, as she looked about her in vain for Helen.

“You needn’t trouble yourself, ma’am,” said the admiral; “she has just walked off with a little fellow of the name of Anderson, who, although he was no match for Varney, the vampyre, I think will turn out to be one for your daughter.”

Mrs. Williams was thoroughly thunderstricken, and she sat down in a chair, and commenced wringing her hands, muttering as she did so,—

“Oh, that I should have lived to see this day. Oh, that I should have existed to be so—so——”

“Jolly well humbugged, ma’am,” said Jack Pringle, “with a vampyre, instead of a baron; why, lord bless you, ma’am, nobody in their senses would have taken old Varney for a baron; why, he is a regular old blood-sucker, he is, and a nice family you would have had; but, however, if you are fond of him, you can marry him yourself, you know, now; and I shouldn’t at all wonder, but he will consent, for a man will put up with any d—d old cat, when he finds he can’t get a better.”

“Good God,” said Mrs. Williams, “I think I know your voice now; ain’t you Admiral Green?”

“Avast, there,” said Jack; “I ain’t anything of the kind; they calls me Colonel Bluebottle, of the horse-marines.”

“The what?”

“The horse-marines. Didn’t you never hear of them, ma’am?”

“I certainly never did. But don’t try to deceive me, sir; you are Admiral Green and if you will, my dear sir, spare me a few minutes of your valuable time, I shall be able to explain to you——”

“What?” said Jack.

“Why, that really—you will scarcely believe it—but really, Admiral Green, my daughter Julia is, although I say it, one of the best of girls.”

“Oh, I dare say she is, ma’am; but I don’t know as that much matters to me.”

“Excuse me, Admiral Green, but it really does, and you must know—of course it’s quite between ourselves this—that she happened to see you when you did me the honour of calling upon me.”

“Did she really?”

“Yes, my dear admiral; and, do you know, ever since then she has been positively raving about you; and as you were good enough to say, the baron should not stand in the way of your affections, allow me to recommend Julia to you.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it!” said Jack. “Well, ma’am, I should not have said no, only that you ain’t half particular enough for me!”

“Not particular! Oh, good God.”

“No, ma’am, you ain’t. Here you would have married one of your daughters to a vampyre, and how do I know what other sort of odd fish you might bring into the family.”

“But, my dear Admiral——”

“Oh! gammon. I tell you what, now, I will do—I don’t mind standing something devilish handsome, if you will marry old Varney yourself.”

“What! the baron that was, and the vampyre that is? I marry him! Oh, dear, no, I really could not—that is to say, how much would you give, Admiral Green?”

“Ah!” said Jack, “I knew it. Who says, after this, that women won’t marry the very devil himself, if they only have the chance. And now, Mother Williams, I’ll just tell you what you have done. The fact is, I took a fancy to you myself, and that’s why I came here at all to-day. I meant to have proposed to you, and if you had only said you would not have the Baron Vampyre for any money, d—n it, I would have had you myself, and settled a matter of £15,000 a-year upon you.”

“Oh, gracious Providence! what do I hear?”

“Just what I says. I’m a man of my word, ma’am, and would have done it.”

Mrs. Williams was so affected at the chance she had lost, that she quite forgot to look after Helen, but was actually compelled to indulge herself with a glass or two of something strong and powerful, which she said was sherry, but which somebody else said was brandy, in order to recover from the faint feeling that would come over her.

After this, Jack thought he had had about the bitterest revenge upon Mrs. Williams that it was possible to achieve, and he was quite right as far as that went. The old admiral, too, who overheard some part of the colloquy, was quite delighted with it, and again told himself what a clever fellow Jack was, and quite a wonderful character in his way.

“Ah!” he said, “one would have to sail a tolerable lot of voyages before finding anybody as was exactly Jack’s equal; and I’ll be hanged if I don’t forgive him for the next piece of mutinous conduct he is guilty of, on account of the way he has served out that horrid old Mother Williams; for in all my life I never saw a woman I disliked more. Stop, what am I saying? Did I really forget Mrs. Chillingworth, the doctor’s wife? That was too bad.”

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CXX. THE HUNT FOR THE VAMPYRE IN THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE

The information that had been given to Mrs. Williams respecting her daughter and James Anderson having together left the great hall of Anderbury House, was perfectly correct.

The voice of Anderson, whispering words of affection in the ear of Helen, was sufficient to arouse her from the state of syncope into which she had fallen; and when she recovered and looked in his face, the expression of joy which her countenance wore, at once dispelled all his doubts.

“Helen, dear Helen!” he whispered; “are you, indeed, still, in heart, mine?”

“Still, as ever,” she replied.

“Come with me; I have much to tell you; and we need not heed the thoughts and feelings of the throng that is here. If you can walk, place your arm in mine, and lean upon me, and we will get out of all this trouble and confusion.”

Helen was but too glad to avail herself of such an offer, and she accordingly at once did so; and leaning for support upon that arm, which, of all others, she most loved to bear upon, they together passed out of the great hall, through one of the numerous doorways leading from it.

Being both of them quite ignorant of what may be called the topography of Anderbury House, they went on till they came to a small but very elegant apartment, in which a table was laid with wines, and some costly refreshments, which, from the fact of an extremely clerical-looking shovel hat being upon one of the chairs, there was no great difficulty in coming to the conclusion that this had been a reception-room, got up purposely for the reverend gentleman who was to perform the ceremony of marriage between the baron and Miss Williams, and in which he had refreshed himself prior to the performance of that dreadfully arduous task, for which, no doubt, as all persons are, he was so very insufficiently paid.

A glass of wine, which James Anderson poured out for Helen, tended much to recover her; and then he said to her in accents of the greatest affection,—

“Helen—Helen! is it possible that you really so far forgot me, as to promise your hand to another?”

She burst into tears as she clung to his arm, saying,—

“I know you cannot, you ought not to forgive me. I did promise; but I did not forget you; and if you know the cruel persecution to which I have been subjected, you would pity, perhaps, as much as you condemn me.”

“You did not know that some days since I wrote you a note.”

“Me a note? Oh, heavens! no—no. What became of it? To whom did you entrust it? Oh! James, had I but thought you were near me, do you think that for one moment I would have yielded, even to the representations which were made to me?”

“I see it all,” he said. “Your mother has carried on this matter with more tact than candour and honesty of purpose. I do not condemn you, dear Helen; and no one shall ever disturb you in your possession of a heart which is wholly yours.”

“And can you forget——”

“All but that I love you I can and will forget, Helen.”

“I do not deserve this noble generosity, for I ought not to have yielded, James. I feel that I ought to have clung to the remembrance of your affection, and found in that an abundant consolation, as well as abundant strength, to resist the whole world.”

“Say no more, dearest, upon that head; but let us, to the full, enjoy the happiness of this meeting, without the drawback of a single doubt.”

“We will never part again.”

“Never—never.”

“But, James, what was the meaning of that sudden exclamation, from one of the guests, as regarded the baron?”

“You allude to Admiral Bell proclaiming him to be a vampyre; and, I must say, it fills me with quite as much astonishment as it can you. I did hear a strange story of that sort from a sailor a short time ago, but I looked upon it as a mere superstition and paid no attention to it. You know what it means, I presume, and that a vampyre is supposed to be a half-supernatural creature who supports a spurious and horrible existence, by feeding upon the blood of any one whom he can make his victim.”

“If this horrible superstition,” said Helen, with a shudder, “be true, what a dreadful fate have I escaped!”

“It surely must be some error of judgement; but still, dear one, you have escaped a dreadful fate, a fate worse than any vampyre would have inflicted upon you—the fate of being united to one whom you cannot love.”

“Yes,” said Helen; “that is, indeed, an escape; but how came you, of all persons in the world, a guest here?”

“I came, Helen, under cover of a general invitation, with a most worthy family, to whose kindness I feel myself much indebted, and which empowered them to bring with them whom they pleased. My wish and object was to take one last look at the face I had loved so well before I left you for ever.”

“Oh, Heavens!” said Helen, “and I was so near being sacrificed while you were by. Even now I shudder at the dreadful chasm; I feel that you ought not to forgive me.”

“Say no more—say no more; all that, Helen, is now past and forgotten, and I can well imagine how your mother would torture you with supplications, because she believed this man to be rich, and consequently the sort of person, above all others, as most desirable for her to have as a son-in-law. We will only consider that a great anxiety and a great danger has passed away, and we will not stop to ask ourselves what it was.”

“Ever good, and ever generous,” resumed Helen, as her head reposed upon her lover’s breast.

“Oh,” said Jack Pringle, as he popped his head in at the door; “I beg your pardon, you are better engaged; but we are going to have a grand vampyre hunt through the house, and I thought you would like to join in it, perhaps.”

“Stay a moment, stay,” cried Anderson. “Do you mean to tell me, really, that this is the person who gave your friends, the Bannerworths, so much trouble and inconvenience?”

“Yes, I do,” said Jack; “lor bless you, he is quite an old acquaintance of ours, is old Varney; sometimes he hunts us, sometimes we hunt him. He is rather a troublesome acquaintance, notwithstanding, and I think there are a good many people in the world, a jolly right worse vampyres than Varney.”

“I have no cause to hunt him,” said Anderson, “and so, therefore, I feel certainly more inclined to decline, than otherwise, engaging in such a transaction.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Jack; “you are a deuced deal better engaged, and there needs no excuses.”

Jack was quite correct as regarded the projected hunt for the unfortunate Varney in Anderbury House; for the liberal offer of reward which the admiral had made to any one who would secure him, was calculated to stimulate every possible exertion that people could make upon the occasion; so much so, indeed, that the Bannerworths, after a brief consultation among themselves, thought that for the protection of Varney it would be much better that they should find him, than now leave him with the character that had been given him as such a dangerous member of society.

The servants, and some of the guests, even, had gone very systematically to work for the purpose of taking Varney prisoner; for, in the first instance, they had secured all the outlets from the house, so that, as the footman with the yellow plush continuations remarked, he must jump over the cliff if he wanted to get away.

The admiral and Henry agreed with each other that they would be foremost in the search, in order to protect Varney from any violence; for although this conduct of his might be considered as very bad, and an outrage upon society in passing himself off as a baron, and endeavouring to effect an alliance with a young and innocent girl, yet they, the Bannerworths, had nothing to complain of in the transaction whatever.

Consequently was it that they felt an inclination to defend Varney from personal violence.

And this was, to a certain extent, to be dreaded, because Anderbury being so short a distance from Bannerworth, it was not to be supposed but that some news of the mysterious appearance of the vampyre had reached the ears of almost every one who happened to be present at the baron’s wedding.

And although these persons might be supposed to belong to a class of society not likely to commit acts of violence, yet there was no knowing what, in the excitement of the moment, might be done.

While the search went on, Flora was introduced to Helen Williams, and remained with her, commencing a friendship which lasted afterwards, to the great advantage of Helen, for many a year.

The Bannerworths would have been pleased and interested at going over Anderbury House, under any other circumstances than the present one, for truly the baron had made it a most magnificent abode.

By judicious additions to the antique furniture which had belonged to it when he took it, he had made some of the apartments look gorgeous in the extreme; and while he had not disturbed the character of the decorations, he had certainly shown a very fine taste in adding to them.

But their minds were by far too much occupied with considerations connected with Varney to pay much attention to his house; and, as they traversed room after room in search of him without finding him, they began to think that, with his usual good fortune, he had contrived entirely to escape.

The servants, who knew the place well, perhaps better than Varney did himself, searched for him in almost impossible places, until it began to be the general opinion that he must have escaped.

They were standing by a large bay-window, which commanded a view of the gardens, when one of the servants suddenly exclaimed,

“I see him—I see him; there he goes,” and pointed into the garden, where, for one instant, Henry Bannerworth, as well as the admiral, saw Varney, in his rich suit of wedding apparel, dart from among the bushes, towards a summer-house that was in the garden near at hand.

“’Tis he, indeed,” said Henry. “Let us get down instantly, or he may yet effect his escape.”

“No, no,” cried one of the servants, “he cannot do that; the garden wall is too high, and the men are stationed at the gate. It’s quite clear to me what he is about. Look at him; he is going towards the old passage that leads to the sea shore.”

“Then he will escape, of course,” said Henry, “for no one can hope to overtake him.”

“Don’t you be afraid of that, sir,” cried the servant; “one of my mates has gone round to the beach to watch, and he won’t let the door be opened that leads out on to the sands, so he cannot get away by that mode.”

“In that case, then, we have him completely entrapped, and, as you say, he cannot escape. It must be the madness of positive desperation that induces him to go to that place.”

“Let us be off at once after him,” said the admiral; “that is our only plan. Come on at once. The sooner we get hold of him the better, for his own sake as well as for ours.”

Thus urged, they all proceeded towards the garden, in which was the mysterious, well-like entrance to the subterraneous passage, which formed so great a feature in the estate of Anderbury, on the moment, and which, at the time that Varney had taken the mansion, had evidently formed to him one of its principal attractions.

To the admiral and his party, as well as to several of the guests, who joined from motives of curiosity in the pursuit for Varney, this place was perfectly new, and it certainly, to look down it, did not present by any means an inviting prospect; for although it sloped sufficiently to take off the absolute appearance of being a downright hole in the earth, yet, beyond a few feet in depth, the gloom had something positively terrific about it.

“Well,” said the admiral, “I’ve been into the hold of many a ship, but never one that looked half so gloomy as this, I can say. What do you say to it, Jack?”

“It’s no use saying anything to such places,” said Jack. “The only way, if we want to catch old Varney, which I suppose we do, is to pop down it at once and done with it; so come along, I won’t flinch if it was ten times worse. Come on, admiral, let’s go down after the enemy.”

“I cannot say it’s exactly the kind of place I admire,” said the admiral; “but, howsomedever, if one must go down it, who shall say that Admiral Bell flinched from it? Come on, all of you. Let all who will follow.”

The passage did not look a very inviting one; and it was found that the courage of the guests began to cool down wonderfully when, instead of rushing from apartment to apartment, in search of Varney, the vampyre, they found that they had to encounter the gloom and darkness of that underground abode.

Out of the positive throng which had been pursuing Varney, only four, in addition to the admiral and the male portion of his party, ventured to descend into that black-looking place.

“What!” cried Jack, “have we got such a lot of skulkers whenever we come to close quarters with the enemy? Well, shiver my timbers, if I didn’t expect as much from a lot of land lubbers, who don’t know what they are about any more than a marine in a squall. But who cares? Come along, admiral; and, if we do have all the fighting, we shall, at all events, have all the glory.”

“I hope there will be nothing of the one, at all events,” said Henry; “for my intention is rather to save Varney from injury than to injure him.

“We must have lights,” said the admiral. “I don’t mind going down into a queer place to look for Varney, but I must have the means of seeing what I am about when I get there.”

“They will be here, sir, directly,” said the big footman, who from the first had made himself conspicuous in the pursuit of Varney; that is to say, ever since the reward of £100 had been offered by the admiral to any one who would take him prisoner.

And in a few moments, some of the links, which were always kept in the kitchen of Anderbury House, for the express purpose of descending into the subterraneous passages with, were produced and lighted. By this time, too, the four guests had decreased to three, and two of those seemed to hang back rather a little; while one of them seemed disposed to make up as much as possible for any deficiency of courage on the part of the others, by declaring his intention of ferreting out Varney, let him be hidden where he might.

“I am with you, sir,” he said to the admiral, “let this place lead where it may; for I have heard so much about vampyres, and really am so curious to know more about them.”

“You don’t believe in them, do you?”

“I cannot say that I do, sir. But, at the same time, when we hear such well authenticated cases brought forward about them, it is very difficult, indeed, to say at once, that one has no belief in such things.”

“Well, you are right enough there; and if you knew as much about Varney, the vampyre, as we do, I think you would be a little puzzled to know what to say about him; for I’ll be hanged if he don’t puzzle me above a bit, and I don’t know now what to think of him.”

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Chapter CXXI

THE DEATH OF THE INQUISITIVE GUEST.—THE ESCAPE OF SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.

The guest who was so valorous, and so very impatient for the capture of Varney, would have preceded everybody in descending to the passage cut in the cliff, but Henry Bannerworth thought not only was it more particularly his concern to do so, but that as he knew Varney better, it was desirable that he should go first.

He thought there would less likelihood of any mischief by adopting such a kind of procedure, for he did not anticipate that Varney would willingly do him any injury; while, as regarded what he might do if any stranger should attempt to seize him, that was quite another affair.

“You do not know him as we know him,” said Henry, to the guest. “He is a dangerous man, and in all respects such an one as your prudence might well induce you to keep clear of. Allow me to precede you, therefore, for the sake of preventing the probability of the most unpleasant consequences.”

This argument appeared to have its effect and to damp a little the ardour of this individual, which it might well enough do, without casting any imputation upon his courage whatever; for, after all, he could have no strong motive in the pursuit of Varney, since he was in a line of life which would have prevented him, even if he had been the sole captor of Varney, from taking the reward which the admiral had offered for his apprehension.

The sudden change from the daylight, and all the noise and bustle which had animated the scene above, to the silence, the darkness, and the strange atmosphere which reigned in the underground region, could not fail of having some effect upon the imagination of every one present.

This effect would, of course, vary in different individuals, being the greatest in those of a highly excitable and imaginative turn of mind, and the less in those who were of a more matter-of-fact kind of intellect. Probably, Henry Bannerworth felt more acutely than any one else the full effect which such a scene was likely to produce, and he was profoundly silent upon the occasion for some time.

Under even the most extraordinary circumstances, the descent into such a place must have affected the mind to some extent, for it seems like leaving the world altogether for a time, and bidding farewell to everything which we have been in the habit of enjoying and thinking beautiful.

No one ever thought of accusing Admiral Bell of being very imaginative; but, upon this occasion, although he was the first to speak, what he did say, showed that he had felt some of those sensations to which we have alluded.

“How do you feel, Henry?” he said. “I’ll be hanged if I don’t seem as if I were going into my grave before my time.”

“And I, too,” said Henry; “but I rather like the solemn feeling which such a place as this inspires.”

“Gentlemen,” said the tall footman with the yellow plush what-do-you-call-em’s, “gentlemen, I think, after all, that I somehow will go back again. I don’t seem, actually, in a manner of speaking, to care to catch the baron, somehow; so, if you please, gentlemen, I rather think I’ll go back.”

“Why don’t you say you are afraid, at once, John?” said the admiral.

“Who, me, sir? I afraid? Oh, dear, no, sir. It would take a trifle, indeed, to frighten me, I rather think. Oh! no, no, sir you mistake me. It’s my feelings—it’s my feelings, sir.”

“Why, what the deuce have your feelings to do with it?”

“Everything in the world, sir. Haven’t I drank his beer, sir, and haven’t I eat his beef, and his bread, and his tatoes, sir, and shall I now hunt him up among his own ice-wells? No; perish the thought—perish the blessed idea. Perish the—the—the—good bye, gentlemen.”

With these words, the chivalrous footman gave up all idea of continuing the chase for Varney, the vampyre, and turning quickly, so as to stop the possibility of his hearing any further remonstrance, he went from the place with great speed.

Still, however, with the departure of this individual, whose courage from the first had had about it a very suspicious colour, they were in quite sufficient strength to have accomplished the capture of the vampyre, if they could get hold of him, and always provided he was not sufficiently armed with powers of mischief to their number, by taking perchance the life of some one of them.

There was one circumstance connected with a search for anybody in that strange region, which spoke much in favour of a successful result, and that was that the passage was narrow, and that there were no hiding-places except the ice-wells, to explore which, at all events, could not be a very difficult task; and as they proceeded, they felt certain that they must be driving Varney before them.

Before they had got very far, Henry Bannerworth thought it would be advisable to announce to Varney the precise intentions of himself and the admiral, always provided he were equally peaceably inclined, and within hearing of what was said to him.

He accordingly raised his voice, inquiring,—

“Sir Francis Varney, you no doubt recognise, by my tones, that it is Henry Bannerworth who speaks to you; and therefore you may feel convinced that no harm is intended you; but you are implored to come forth and meet your friends, who, from former circumstances, you ought to know you can trust.”

There was no reply whatever to this appeal, and when the echoes of Henry’s voice had died away, the same death-like stillness reigned in the place that had before characterised it.

“He will not answer,” said the admiral; “and yet, if the other end of this passage be guarded as it is said to be, he must be here. Let us come on at once—I have no wish of my own to stay in this damp, chalky hole a moment longer than may be absolutely necessary.”

“Nor I,” remarked Henry; “so let us proceed, and it will be necessary that we keep an accurate watch upon our progress, for I am told that there are ice-wells here of great depth, down which you may fall and come by an awful death when you least expect, unless you are very cautious in looking where you tread.”

“There’s no doubt of that, sir,” said one of his guests. “This place is considered to be one of the most curious that Anderbury can boast of, and I have been told that there are ice-houses, in which all kinds of provisions may be kept with ease and safety in the most violent heat of the summer months.”

After a few moments they came upon one of the ice-wells, which yawned terrifically before them, and had they not been very careful and watchful upon the occasion, one or more of them might have been precipitated down the well, and the loss of life must have been the result.

“I scarcely think,” said Henry, “that ordinary caution has been used in the construction of these places, or they never would have been left in such a state as they are now in. The ice-well, you perceive, lies directly in the very pathway?”

“Yes,” said the admiral, “it does seem so, Master Henry; but if you look a little closer you will perceive that at one time there has been a wooden bridge exactly over this chasm.”

“Ah, I do, indeed, now perceive such has been the case.”

“Yes, and that made the place both safe and convenient; for no doubt there was a means of lowering down any baskets of wine or other matters that required a low temperature.”

The admiral was perfectly right in his supposition, for that was just the way in which the ice-wells of Anderbury House were constructed; and now, since the bridge had been broken down, there was but a very narrow pathway, indeed, by which the well could be passed, unless it was jumped over, which might be done by any active person.

They would not pass this ice well without an examination of it, and that was accomplished by lying down upon the rough pathway of the passage, and holding a light at arm’s-length down it, when the bottom was clearly visible.

“He is not there,” said Henry, who was the person who made the experiment; “he is not there, so we must pass on.”

They accordingly did so, until they came to another such ice-well, and then the guest which had shown such eagerness in the chase, and accompanied them so far, went through the process of stooping down the chasm to ascertain if it contained anything unusual beyond the debris of broken bottles, old flint-stones, &c., which might fairly be expected to be there.

“Do you see anything?” inquired Henry, as the guest seemed to be looking very intently over the precipice.

He was about to reply something, for some sound came from his lips, when he suddenly, as if he had been impelled to do by some unseen power, toppled over the edge and disappeared, torch and all, into the abyss below.

“Good God!” cried Henry, “he has fallen.”

“Good night,” said the admiral, with characteristic coolness; “I suspect, my friend, that your career is at an end.”

“Listen! for God’s sake, listen!” cried Henry; “does he speak?”

There was a strange scuffling noise, and then a low deep groan from the bottom of the ice-pit, and then all was still; and from the character of the sound, Henry was of opinion that this well was of much greater depth than the former one, which he had so successfully examined.

“He has met with his death,” said Henry.

“Don’t be too sure,” said the admiral; “we must have a good stout rope, and somebody must go down; if nobody likes the job, I will go myself.”

“If ropes are wanted,” said one of the other two persons who were present, “I can show you where they may be found, for I was at the inquest on the body of the man who was found dead in this place some time ago, and I marked that the ropes by which his body had been got out of one of the ice-wells were left where they had been used.”

“That, then,” said the other, “is further on, and nearer the beach.”

“Yes; lend me the light, and I will get the rope as quickly as I can; for I don’t think, as well as I can remember, that there is another well between this one and that which is nearer the beach entrance.”

This was done, and for a few moments Henry and the admiral were left in darkness while the ropes were being searched for. It was a darkness so total and complete, that it did indeed seem like that darkness which it requires but a little stretch of the imagination to fancy it can be felt.

“Henry,” said the admiral—“Henry!”

“Yes; I am here.”

“Were you ever in such a confounded dark hole in all your life?”

“Scarcely, I think, ever. It is certainly tremendous, and it is a grievous thing to think that a life had been sacrificed, as no doubt it has, in this adventure.”

“Ah, well! we must all go to Davy Jones’s locker some day, you——But—but don’t lay hold of me so!”

“I lay hold of you! I am not near you, sir.”

“D—n it! who is it, then? Somebody has got hold of me as if I were in a vice. Stand off, I say! Who are you?”

“Varney, the vampyre,” said a deep sepulchral voice; “who warns you, and all others, that there is abundance of danger in visiting here, and nothing to be gained.”

Almost as these words were spoken, Henry suddenly found himself whirled round with such force, that it was only by a great effort that he succeeded in keeping his feet, and he felt convinced that some one had passed him. Who could that one be but Sir Francis Varney, the much dreaded vampyre?

In the next moment the light glanced again upon the walls of the subterranean passage, and the admiral cried,—

“He has escaped, unless some one stops him above. But let us think of nothing else at present, but to find out if the poor fellow who fell down here be alive or dead.”

Henry descended by the assistance of the ropes, and found the adventurous guest quite dead. They raised the body from the well, and conveying it, as best they could, among them, they arrived, after some troubles on account of their burden, in the gardens, and, finally, in the great hall of Anderbury House, on a table in which they laid the corpse.

It was quite evident now to the admiral and to the Bannerworths that Varney had escaped, so they could have no desire to remain at the house, over which Mr. Leek was running like a madman, wondering what he should do. Flora had invited Helen Williams to accompany her to the inn, so that the whole party of the Bannerworths went away together, with the one addition to it of that poor girl who had so narrow an escape of becoming the vampyre’s bride. Horrible destiny!

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Chapter CXXII

MRS. WILLIAMS VISITS THE BANNERWORTHS AT THE INN.—THE MARRIAGE OF JAMES ANDERSON WITH HELEN.

Let us fancy now, after all these singular circumstances had taken place, the Bannerworth family, with James Anderson and Helen Williams, seated in a comfortable room at the inn at Anderbury, where they had put up when they came to that place, in pursuance of the invitation they had received from Mrs. Williams.

And that lady, probably could she have foreseen what was about to occur, would have taken most especial pains to prevent such an invitation from ever reaching such a destination; but she had fallen a victim to her own love of display, and not being content with inviting people whom she did know, she must, forsooth, give them a carte blanche to bring with them people whom she did not know at all.

And thus it was that she had been horrified by what had taken place, and had had all her brightest visions of the future levelled with the dust.

When Jack Pringle told Mrs. Williams that he believed she would quite willingly have sold her daughter to a vampyre, he was right; for she would have done so, always provided that the vampyre, as aforesaid, had a good property, and was able to convince her of that most important fact.

The only person of all the little party that was assembled at the inn, who looked pale and anxious, was poor Helen, and she certainly did look so; for when we come to consider her novel position we shall not wonder at it.

She had thrown herself completely upon the consideration of strangers, and was severed from all those natural ties which ought to have for ever held her in their gentle bondage. But this conduct, or rather the conduct of that one who ought to have protected her though all trouble and anxieties—her mother—had been such as to deprive her of the feeling that she had a home at all.

Flora saw that her guest, as indeed she considered Helen, looked sad and dejected, and she made every effort within her power to rescue her from such a state of things.

“Do not despair of much happiness,” she whispered to her; “but rather thank good fortune, which, at the last moment, rescued you from one whom you could not love. Be assured that now you will enjoy the protection of those who will soon be able to prevail upon your mother to look with a favourable eye upon any new arrangement.”

“I am much beholden to you,” said Helen—“very much beholden to you, and I feel that I ought to congratulate myself upon my escape. But my heart does feel sad, because the state of things, to avoid which I made myself a sacrifice, may now ensue in all their terrors.”

“My dear,” said the admiral, who overheard her, “don’t you believe any such rubbish as all that. I have no doubt you have been regularly persecuted into the match with the supposed baron, and you would, perhaps, have found out afterwards that one-half of the things you were told, to induce you to consent, had no foundation but in somebody’s active imagination.”

“Do you think so, sir?”

“Do I think so! To be sure I do. Now, I dare say you were told how, if you married the Baron What’s-his-name, you would be doing something wonderful for all your family.”

“Yes—yes.”

“Oh, of course; I can see through all that clearly enough; and I tell you, my lass, that you have had a most fortunate escape, and that there is, and shall be, no reason on the face of the earth why you should not be married to the man of your choice. He has been to sea, and so, of course, he has finished what may be called his education. If he had been on shore all his life, you might have doubted about the prudence of having him; but, as it is, it’s quite another matter.”

“Sir, I thank you for your kind advocacy of my cause,” said James Anderson; “and I shall ever consider, as one of the most fortunate accidents of my life, the meeting with Admiral Bell.”

“Oh, don’t say anything about that. I know some of the people at the Admiralty, and when you go to make the report of how you have been shipwrecked, and how you lost your despatches, I will give you a letter of introduction, which, I dare say, won’t do you any harm.”

“Indeed, sir, this is more kindness than I ought to expect.”

“Not at all, my boy—not at all. Don’t put yourself out of the way about that. Only I tell you what I would do. You need not take my advice unless you like; but, if I were you, I’d be hanged if I moved an inch anywhere till I had made Helen Williams my wife.”

“Can you suppose,” cried James Anderson, while his eyes sparkled with delight—“can you suppose, my dear sir, that such advice could be other than most welcome to me?”

“And what do you say, Helen, to it?” whispered Flora.

“What can I say?”

“You can say yes, I suppose?” said the admiral.

Helen was silent.

“Very good,” added the admiral. “When a girl don’t say no, of course she means yes; and you can make sure of your prize now you have got her, Master Anderson. Let’s see; you manage these affairs with what you call a special license, don’t you?”

“Yes, uncle,” said Flora; “that is the way. You seem to know all about it, and I almost suspect you really must have had some experience in those matters.”

“I experience, you little gypsy!—what do you mean? I never was married in all my life, and I don’t intend to be.”

“Don’t make too sure, uncle. But, despite all that, no one could more warmly second your advice to Mr. Anderson than myself.”

“Very good. For that speech I forgive you. And now, Mr. Anderson, just come along with me, for I want to say a few words to you which nobody else has anything to do with.”

When the admiral got James Anderson alone, he said to him,—

“Of course you are without funds, so it’s no use making any fuss of delicacy about it. I have no doubt but that, with my interest, I shall be able to get you into an appointment of some sort; but, in the meantime, I beg that you will not cross me in my desire to serve you; and mind, I take your word of honour to repay me, so, you see, there is no obligation.”

“Sir, this noble generosity——”

“There, there—that’s quite enough; for the fact is, it ain’t noble generosity at all, so hold your tongue about it, and be so good as to let me consider that as settled. Here are fifty pounds for you, which will enable you to go to London like a gentleman, and to conduct your marriage either here or there, as you may yourself think proper, and as your bride may consent.”

“Sir, I would fain make Helen my own here.”

“Very good. I don’t pretend to understand how to manage these things: but set about it as quickly as you can, and don’t be deterred by anybody.”

This short but, to James Anderson, deeply interesting conversation, because it relieved his mind from a load of anxiety, took place a few paces from the inn door only, so that they returned at once; but scarcely had they joined the rest of the party, and were considering what they should order for dinner, when one of the waiters of the establishment came to say,

“If you please, there’s a lady who wants to come in. I asked her her name, but she won’t give it; but she says she must see everybody.”

“The deuce she must!” cried the admiral. “What sort of a craft is she?”

“Sort of a what, sir?”

“My fears tell me,” sobbed Helen, “that it is my mother.”

The admiral whistled, and then he said,—

“I suppose we shall have a breeze; but the sooner it’s over the better. Let the lady come in; and don’t you be afraid of anything, my lass. Why, you look as pale as if you expected—here she is.”

The door was flung open, and Mrs. Williams made her appearance. Anger was upon her face, and it required but a small amount of penetration to perceive that she came fully charged with all sorts of reproaches. Helen trembled and shrunk back for she had an habitual fear of her mother, which the imperious conduct of that individual had induced in the mind of so gentle a creature as Helen from her very childhood.

“Well, madam,” said Henry, stepping forward; “to what are we indebted for the honour of this visit from one who has not the courtesy to wait for an invitation?”

“Oh! I expected this,” said Mrs. Williams, with a shivering toss of her head; “I quite expected this, I can assure you—of course. But I’ll pretty soon let you know, sir, what I came about. I have come for my daughter, sir. What have you got to say against that?”

“Nothing, madam; if your daughter chooses to comply with your request.”

“Helen!” screamed Mrs. Williams. “Helen! I command you to come home this moment!”

“Mother, hear me!” said Helen. “Consent to my happiness with one whom I can love, with the same readiness that you would have seen me the bride of one for whom I never could hope to feel anything in the shape of affection, and I will accompany you home at once.”

“Oh, dear, yes—of course. Consent to ruin—consent to nonsense! Consent to your marrying a scapegrace who cannot even keep himself—far less a wife! No, Helen; you cannot expect that I should ever consent to your marrying such a poor wretch.”

“But don’t you think,” said Henry, “that any poor wretch is better than a vampyre?”

“No; I do not.”

“Oh! very good, then,” said the admiral; “if that’s the lady’s opinion, what can we say to her? And, as for commanding Miss Helen, here, to go home, I command her to stay.”

“You command her?”

“Yes, to be sure. Ain’t I an admiral? What have you got to say against that, I should like to know? I shall take good care that James Anderson is no poor wretch by getting him some good appointment; and, as your daughter is of age, old girl, and so can choose for herself, you may as well weigh anchor, and be off at once, for nobody wants to be bothered with you.”

“Do you mean to say you are a real admiral, and have nothing to do with the horse-marines?”

“Nothing whatever, ma’am. Good day to you—we are all waiting for our dinners, and don’t feel disposed to talk any more; so be off with you.”

Mrs. Williams seemed to be considering for a moment, and then she said,—

“Oh, gracious! a mother’s feelings must always be excused. I almost think that—just to please you, admiral—I will consent.”

“You will, mother?” exclaimed Helen.

“Why, in a manner of speaking,” said Mrs. Williams, “I should not mind; but it’s quite, you see, a dreadful thing to think of, when we consider what an expense I have gone to in all these matters, and that I have not had so much as one farthing from the baron, although he did say he would pay all the cost I might be put to.”

“From resources which, in course of time, industry may procure me,” said James Anderson, eagerly, “you shall be repaid all that you can possibly say has been expended for Helen.”

“Ah! well, then, if Admiral Bell, here, will say that he will see me paid, I consent.”

“Very well,” said the admiral; “I’ll see you paid. If you had acted generously in the matter, you should have been a gainer; but, as it is, you shall be paid, and we decline your acquaintance.”

Mrs. Williams began, from the tone and manner of her daughter’s new friends, to suspect that it would have been more prudent on her part if she had behaved in a very different manner towards them, and complied with a good grace with their wishes; for, as regarded the baron, anything in the shape of a more extended connexion with him was clearly out of the question.

But she had gone almost too far for reconciliation, and, although there was no such thing as denying the genius of the lady, she was, for a few minutes, puzzled to know what to do. At length, however, she thought it would not be a bad plan to be suddenly quite overcome with her feelings, and make a desperate scene.

Accordingly, to the surprise of every one, and the consternation of the admiral, she suddenly uttered a piercing scream, and commenced a good exhibition of hysterics.

“D—n it!” cried the admiral; “what does she mean by that? Come, come, I say, Mother Williams, we cannot stand all that noise, you know; it is quite out of the question!”

“Let us all leave the room,” said Henry, “and send Jack Pringle to her. I have heard him say that he has some mode of recovering ladies from hysterics by throwing a pail-full of salt water over them, and then biting their thumb-nails off.”

“The wretch!” exclaimed Mrs. Williams, suddenly recovering. “The wretch! I’d let him know soon enough what it was to interfere with my nails!”

“Oh! you are better, are you?” said the admiral.

“What’s that to you?” shrieked Mrs. Williams. “I’ll go at once to a lawyer, and see what can be done with you. I look upon you all with odium and contempt!”

“Ah! words easily spoken,” said the admiral; “and just like young chickens, they commonly go home to roost.”

Mrs. Williams darted an angry look at the whole party, which she intended should be expressive at once of the immense contempt in which she held them, and of her determination to have vengeance upon their heads, which double-dealing look, however, had no effect upon them of an intimidating character, and then she bounced from the room.

“My dear,” said the admiral, turning to Helen, who he saw was affected at the proceeding. “My dear, don’t you fret yourself. Your mother cannot make us angry; and, as far as regards her own anger, it will all subside, and then we will forget that she has said anything at all uncivil to us. So don’t you fret yourself about what is of no consequence at all.”

“You may depend,” said Henry, “that such will be the fact, and that in a very short time you will find that your mother has completely recovered from her anger, and will be as pleasant with us all as possible. I grieve to say so to you, but the fact is, what you must perceive, namely, that, as regards your mother, your marriage is merely a matter of pounds, shillings, and pence, and when she finds that the baron’s fortune cannot be had, she will content herself with reflecting upon the prospects of Mr. James Anderson, who, if he do well, will soon be quite a favourite.”

It was humiliating to poor Helen to be forced to confess that this was the correct view to take of the question, but she could not help doing so at all; and, after a time, she did not regret having sufficient moral courage to resist the command of her mother to return home.

In the society of him whom she loved, and upheld and encouraged, too, as she was by Flora, who was just about the best and kindest companion such a person as Helen could have had, the minutes began to fly past upon rosy pinions, and the remainder of that day she confessed, even to the admiral, was the happiest she had known for many a weary month.

The Bannerworths and James Anderson fully expected another visit from Mrs. Williams on the morrow, but she did not come; and, although they had expected her to do so, her not coming was no disappointment, but, on the contrary, a matter for some congratulation.

But no time was lost; and, as James Anderson was really most anxious to get to London to report himself at the Admiralty, and as that was an anxiety in which the admiral much encouraged him, so that as it was quite an understood thing among them all that the marriage of the fair Helen should take place before he again left her, a special license was procured, and the ceremony arranged to take place at nine o’clock in the morning, on the second morning after the strange and exciting occurrences at Anderbury House.

This marriage was conducted in the most private manner possible; because, as it had been so well known throughout the whole of Anderbury that Helen Williams was the chosen of the great and rich Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, who had turned out to be such an equivocal character, the news of her marriage with any one else would have been sure to have created a vast amount of pubic curiosity.

All this they escaped by fixing the hour at which the ceremony was to be performed at an early hour in the morning, and trusting no one out of their own party with the secret.

Of course, from what the reader knows of the gentle and timid disposition of Helen Williams, he may well suppose how glad she would have been to have had the countenance of her mother at her marriage, notwithstanding the conduct of that mother was certainly not what should have entitled her to the esteem of any one whatever, not excepting her own child.

But this was a feeling which, when she came to consider the new tie she was forming, was likely soon to wear away; and, although, while she pronounced those words which were irrevocably to make her another’s, the tears gushed to her eyes, they were far different from those bitter drops she had shed when she considered that, beyond all hope of redemption, she was condemned to become the bride of the baron.

When the ceremony was over, they all went back very quietly and comfortably to the inn, and, after a good breakfast, and many healths had been drank to the bride, James Anderson, according to arrangement, took his departure for London, leaving Helen in the care of the Bannerworths until he should come back to claim her, as he now could do, despite all the plots and machinations of Mrs. Williams, who, as yet, was in a state of blessed ignorance as to the fact of her daughter’s wedding, and who had not quite made up her mind as to what she should do next in so delicate and troublesome a transaction.

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Chapter CXXIII

MRS. WILLIAMS TAKES THE INITIATIVE, AND NEARLY CATCHES AN ADMIRAL.

Mrs. Williams, when she reached home after what must be called her very unsuccessful attempt to make a disturbance, and to do the grand at the inn where the Bannerworths were, set herself seriously to think what would be the best course for her to adopt in the rather perplexing aspect of her affairs.

The few words she had used at the inn, indicative of her censure of all the proceedings, had been of rather a strong and energetic character, so that she had a very uncomfortable suspicion upon her mind that she would find it rather a difficult task to pacify her daughter’s new friends.

The offer which the admiral had made to repay to her any expense she had been at, impressed her with a belief that he surely must be in possession of what, to her, was the most delightful thing in the world, and comprehended all sorts of virtue, namely, money; and of course her feelings became instantly most wonderfully ameliorated.

“I’m very much afraid I have been too precipitate,” she said. “I really am afraid I have, and that ain’t a pleasant reflection by any means. What can I do to get good friends with them all, and particularly the dear old gentleman who promised to pay me?”

This was the problem which Mrs. Williams presented to her mind, for the captivating idea of actually having been paid £500 by the baron, and thus sending in a bill of the same amount to the admiral, took wonderful and complete possession of her.

This was, indeed, she considered, a masterstroke of policy, and all she had now to consider was, the means of getting on such good terms with the admiral that he should neither question items nor amount of the account she intended to send him in.

“If he only pays the £500 as well as the baron has paid his, I shall not come out of the transaction so badly,” said Mrs. Williams.

While she was in this state of perplexity, she was sitting by the window of her dining-room, which commanded a view of the street, and, as she sat there, she was much surprised to see Jack Pringle, who she still had a lingering suspicion might, notwithstanding his disclaimer of the title, be Admiral Green, on the other side of the way, making various significant movements of his hands and head, as if he had something of an exceedingly secret and strange mysterious nature to communicate to her, Mrs. Williams.

This was quite sufficient to call for that lady’s most serious attention, and accordingly she walked graciously so close to the window that her aristocratic nose touched the glass, and nodded to Jack, after which she beckoned him across the way, after the manner of the ghost in Hamlet, upon which Jack, with a nod, came across the way forthwith.

In another moment Mrs. Williams opened the street-door herself, and said,—

“Mr. What’s-your-name, have you got anything to say to me?”

“Rather,” said Jack.

“What is it, then—pray what is it, Mr. What’s-your-name?”

“Don’t call me What’s-your-name, ma’am, any longer; my name is Jack Pringle.”

“Mr. John Pringle, I suppose?”

“No such thing; nothing but plain Jack, ma’am; so you see you are mistaken. But I have got something to say to you, ma’am, as you ought to know.”

Any one who had known Jack would have seen, by a certain mischievous twinkling of the eyes, that he had on hand what he considered one of the most excellent of jokes in all the world, and was about to perpetrate what he thought some famous piece of jollity. What it was, we shall quickly perceive, from his communication with Mrs. Williams.

“Well, ma’am,” he added, “you know Admiral Bell, I believe?”

“Oh, yes—yes; certainly, I do.”

“Well, I don’t know as I ought to tell you, Mrs. W., what I’m going to tell you; but, first of all, the old admiral, what with prize money, pay, and one thing and another, is so immensely rich, that he really don’t know what to do with his money.”

“How dreadful!” said Mrs. Williams; “I think I could really suggest to him some few things to do.”

“Oh, he is so desperately obstinate, he will listen to nobody; and, you see, as he never married, who as he got to leave it to? At least that’s what we have been all wondering, for I don’t know how long; but now what do you think we have found out, Mrs. Williams?”

“Well, that’s very difficult, of course, for me to say. Perhaps you will be so good as to tell me.”

“You ought to know. He has fallen in love, ma’am—actually in love, for the first time in his life. Yes, he has actually fallen in love, Mrs. Williams; there’s a go.”

“And with one of my daughters! It’s with Julia—I did mention her to him, and I thought I saw a curious expression come across his face. Of course, I’m quite delighted to hear it; for, with the feelings of a mother, I like to get my girls off hand as well as I can; and, as Admiral Bell is so very respectable a person, I can have no sort of objection in the world.”

“There you go, again,” said Jack; “you are quite mistaken, I can tell you. You never made a greater blunder than that in all your life, Mother Williams—excuse me, ma’am, but that’s my way.”

“Oh, don’t mention it—but where’s the mistake, my dear sir?”

“Why, just here, ma’am—just here. The admiral is not so young as he was twenty-five years ago, and he ain’t quite such a fool as to think that a young girl can care anything for him. But he is in love, for all that. Only you see, ma’am, it happens to be with somebody else.”

“Good gracious! Who is it?—and why do you come to me about it?”

“Because it’s you.”

“Me! me! oh, gracious Providence, you don’t mean that! In love with me! The rich old admiral—he cannot live long. How much money, take it altogether, do you really think he has got? I declare you have taken me so by surprise, that I don’t know what I am saying. Of course he will propose a very handsome settlement.”

“You may depend upon all that,” said Jack; “but the odd thing is, you see, ma’am, that although he is quite over head and ears in love, he won’t own it, but walks about like a bear with a bad place on his back, doing nothing but growl, growl, from morning till night.”

“Then how can you tell,” said Mrs. Williams, “if he never said so?”

“Oh, he does say so. He mumbles it out to himself, and we have heard him say,—

“‘Damn it all! that Mrs. Williams is the craft for my money; but what’s the use of me bothering her about it?—she wouldn’t have an old hulk like me, so I won’t say anything about it to anybody.’”

“What an amiable idea!”

“Very, ma’am, very; and what I have come to you for now is to say, that if you have no objection to the match, you might as well make the old man happy, by letting him know, in some sort of way, that you wouldn’t be so hard-hearted as he thinks, but would have him if he would say the word.”

“How can I express how much obliged I am to you, Mr. Wingle!”

“Pringle, if you please, ma’am, is my name; and as to being obliged to me, you ain’t at all, and I’ll tell you how; you see, I and the admiral have sailed with each other many a voyage, and I have a sort of feeling for the old man that makes me, when I see that he has a fancy, try my best to gratify him; and, without thinking of anybody but him, I’ve come to you just to tell you what I know about the affair, and I must leave it to you to do what you like.”

“Still I am very much obliged to you. What if I were to call and ask for a private interview with the old man?”

“A good idea,” said Jack. “It was only the other day I heard him say you was his pearl, and the main chain of his heart, I can tell you, and ever such a load more. He will be taking his dinner at four to-day, and after that he usually takes a sleep in an arm chair, in a room by himself, and if you like to come then, you will catch him.”

“Be assured, my dear sir, I shall be there punctually to the minute. You will be so good as to receive me, and introduce me to him, and, perhaps, it would remove some of his timidity if I were to let him know that I was aware that he had called me his pearl, and the main chain of his heart.”

“Of course it would,” said Jack. “You put him in mind of it, ma’am, and if you find him back’erd a little, don’t you mind about giving him a little encouragement, because you know all the while he really means it, so you need not care about it.”

“Well, Mr.—a—a—Bingle, all I can say is, that I feel very much obliged to you indeed, for letting me know this matter; and my great respect for you and for the old admiral will, I assure you, induce me to consent to what you propose.—A-hem! of course I have many offers, as you may well suppose, Mr. Cringle.”

“Damn it,” said Jack, “I’ve told you before that my name is Pringle, and if you can’t recollect that, just call me Jack, and have done with it—you won’t forget Jack, I’ll be bound. Call me that, and I sha’n’t quarrel with you about it, ma’am; but don’t be inventing all sorts of odd names for me.”

“Pray excuse me, my dear sir, I certainly will do no such thing; and at three o’clock, I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you. I believe it’s the Red Lion where you are staying?”

“Yes, the Red Lion Inn; and at three I shall be on the look out for you, ma’am, you may depend; and I only hope you won’t mistake the admiral’s bashfulness for anything else, because, I assure you, he is mad in love with you, but don’t like to own it, ma’am; so just you bring him out a little, and don’t you mind what he says.”

Mrs. Williams duly promised she would not mind what the old man said, and, from what we know of that lady, we are quite inclined, for once in a way, to give her credit for sincerity in that matter, and the greatest possible amount of candour.

As for Jack, when he left her house, and had got fairly round the corner and out of sight, he laughed to that excess that several passers-by stopped to look at him in wonder, and had he not ceased, he certainly would have had a crowd round him in a very few minutes longer, that would have perhaps thought him out of his senses.

But after a few minutes, the explosion of his bottled-up mirth had subsided, and after giving a boy, who was the nearest to him of the admiring spectators, a good rap on the head, he walked to the inn.

Jack would have been glad to have told some one of the capital joke he was playing off at the admiral’s expense, but he was afraid of being betrayed; so he wisely kept the secret of the forthcoming jest all to himself; although Henry Bannerworth and Charles Holland might both, after such a thing happened, or even during its progress, have a good laugh at it, it is not to be supposed, entertaining as they did so great a respect for the old admiral, that they would have lent themselves to the perpetration of such a joke.

As may be supposed, Mrs. Williams was all flutter and expectation, and the idea of at length mending her decayed fortune by an union with the old man, who was reported to be immensely rich, and who had already reached an age when his life could not be depended upon one week from another, was one of the most gratifying circumstances on record to her.

No possible plan could have been devised which was so likely to chime in with her humour as this, and if she had been asked in which way she would like to make money, it would have been that which she would have undoubtedly chosen.

“Now,” she thought, “I shall, after all, make an admirable thing of this affair, there can be no doubt. I shall, of course, soon be a widow again, for the old sea monster cannot live long. I shall insist upon a very liberal settlement indeed, and then I suppose, while he does live, I must keep him in a good humour, so that he may leave me, at all events, the bulk of his property when he dies, and then I can live in the style I like, and make everybody die of envy.”

To excite an extraordinary amount of envy was the very height of felicity to Mrs. Williams, as, indeed, it is to many people of far greater pretensions than that lady; and we cannot help thinking, when we see gaudy equipages and all the glittering and costly paraphernalia of parvenu wealth, that the great object of it is to excite envy far more than admiration and pleasure.

“There are the Narrowidges, and the Staples, and the Jenkinses,” thought Mrs. Williams. “Oh! I know they will all be ready to eat their very heads off, when they hear that I am married, and that, too, so well. Oh! they will die of spite, and particularly Mrs. Jenkins. I am quite sure she will have a serious illness.”

These were the kind of triumphs upon which Mrs. Williams felicitated herself, and pictured to her imagination as the result of her marriage with the admiral, which she now looked upon as quite a settled thing; because, if he were willing, she felt perfectly sure that she was; and, therefore, what was to prevent the union from taking place?

What pleasant anticipations these were! Really, we can almost consider them, while they lasted, as sufficient to counterbalance any disappointment which was likely afterwards to take place; and the hour or two which Mrs. Williams devoted to the gorgeous dream of wealth she so fully expected to enjoy, were probably the most delightful she had ever passed. And certainly so far she had to thank Jack Pringle for giving her so much satisfaction, although, as will be seen, she did not feel towards him any great amount of gratitude on the momentous occasion.

Mrs. Williams, no doubt, still thought herself quite a fascinating woman; and when she had failed in guessing that it was to herself that the admiral was, according to Jack’s account, devoted, it was not that she entertained a modest and quiet opinion of her own attractions, but from the force of habit, seeing that so long a period had elapsed without her having an admirer, that she could not believe she had one then, until actually assured in plain language of the fact.

And now, about half an hour before the appointed time, the lady arrayed herself in what she considered an extremely becoming and fashionable costume, and started to keep her appointment with Jack Pringle, who, in her affections, now held quite a pleasant place, and towards whom she considered herself so much indebted for the kind information she had received at his hands.

The distance from any house in Anderbury to any other, was but short, so that Mrs. Williams was within the time mentioned, when she reached the door of the Red Lion; but she was gratified to find that Jack Pringle was there, apparently on the look out for her, because it showed that nothing had happened to alter the aspect of affairs, but that the chances of her becoming Mrs. Admiral Bell were as strong as ever.

“I’m glad you have come,” said Jack. “They got over their dinner rather quick, and that’s a fact; and the old man is fast asleep as usual, so you can commence operations at once.”

“A thousand thanks—a thousand thanks, my good friend, and you may depend upon my gratitude.”

“Hush! never mind that,” said Jack; “I don’t want nothing. This way—this way, ma’am, if you please.”

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Chapter CXXVI

THE ADMIRAL IN A BREEZE.—A GENERAL COMMOTION, AND JACK PRINGLE MUCH WANTED, BUT NOT TO BE FOUND.

To say that Mrs. Williams was on the tiptoe of expectation, is to say very little that can convey a good idea of what was her real condition, nervously speaking, as she followed Jack Pringle up, not the principal, but a back staircase of the inn, toward the room where the admiral took his nap, which was

“His custom always of an afternoon.”

The fact is, that Jack had a great dread of Mrs. Williams being seen by any of the Bannerworth family, because they all knew her; and the nice little plot he had got up for the purpose of holding out the admiral to ridicule, while at the same time he enjoyed the immense satisfaction of having some revenge upon Mrs. Williams.

Hence was it, that, like many a great politician, he went up the back staircase instead of the front, in order to avoid unnecessary observation and remark.

By good fortune, as well as good management, Jack met nobody, but succeeded in reaching the room door, within which the admiral was sleeping, in perfect safety.

“Now, ma’am,” said Jack, “don’t you be back’erd in going for’erd, cos, as I tell you, the old man is dying by inches for you, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t have his half a million of money, as well as anybody else. Ah! and a good deal better, too, when one comes to consider all things.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pringle, thank you. I really don’t know how to express my obligations to you, upon my word. You are so very kind and considerate in all you say.”

“Oh! don’t mention it, ma’am. Walk in, and there you will find the old baby. I shouldn’t wonder but he’s disturbing his old brains by dreaming of you now.”

Jack opened the door, and Mrs. Williams glided noiselessly into an apartment, where, seated, sure enough, in an easy chair, with a silk handkerchief over his face, sat the admiral, fast asleep, enjoying that comfortable siesta, which he never for one moment imagined would be disturbed in the manner it was about to be.

“Well,” said Mrs. Williams, “there he is, to be sure, just as Jack Pringle said,—asleep, and no doubt dreaming of me. I must make sure of the old fool in one interview, or he may slip through my fingers, and that would not be at all pleasant after counting upon him, and taking some trouble in the matter.”

But although she made up her mind that nothing should be wanting, upon her part, to make sure of him, yet she debated whether she ought to awaken him or not; for she well knew that many old people, especially men, were very irascible if they are awakened suddenly, and from what she had already seen of the admiral, she could very well imagine that such might be the case with him.

This was getting rather a quandary, out of which Mrs. Williams did not exactly see her way; and yet the proposition that the admiral was to be, and must be, awakened in some way, remained as firmly as ever fixed in her mind. And then, too, the idea—a very natural one under the circumstances—came across her that each minute was fraught with danger, and that, for all she knew, the yea or nay of the whole affair might depend upon the promptitude with which it was concluded.

What, if, she asked herself, some of the odious Bannerworth people were to come in and find her there—of course they would awaken the admiral at once, and in consequence of their presence, she would lose all opportunity of exercising those little blandishments which she meant to bring to bear upon him.

This was positively alarming. The idea of all being lost, prompted her at all events to attempt something; so Mrs. Williams thought that the mildest way of awakening the admiral was by a loud sneeze, which she executed without producing the least effect, as might have been expected; for the man who had many a time slept soundly in the wildest fury of the elements, was not likely to awaken because somebody sneezed.

“Dear me, how sound he sleeps. A—hem!—hem! A—chew!—a—a—hem!—A chewaway!”

The admiral was proof against all this, and Mrs. Williams might just as well have spared herself the trouble of exciting such an amount of artificial sneezes, for the admiral slept on, and it was quite clear that something much more sonorous would be required for the purpose of awaking him.

“How vexatious,” she thought; “how very vexatious. But there’s no help for it. Awakened he must be, that’s quite clear; and if fair means won’t do it, why, foul must.”

Acting upon this resolve, Mrs. Williams hesitated no longer, but, approaching the sleeping admiral, she dragged the handkerchief off his face, and its passage over his nose, no doubt, produced the tickling sensation that induced him to give that organ a very hard rub, indeed, and start wide awake with an exclamation that was much more forcible than elegant, and that consequently we need not transfer to our pages at all.

“Oh! admiral,” said Mrs. Williams, assuming a look that ought at once to have melted a heart of stone; “oh! admiral, can you, indeed, forgive me?”

“The devil!” said the admiral.

“Can you, indeed, look over the fact, that in my anxiety to see that face, I took from before it the envious, and yet fortunate handkerchief that covered it? It was my act, and upon my head fall all the censure, my dear, good, kind admiral.”

The old man rubbed his eyes very hard with his knuckles, as he said,—

“I suppose I’m awake.”

“You are awake, my dear sir. It is, indeed, no dream, let me assure you, that disturbs you, but a living reality. You are awake, my dear sir.”

“Why—why, what do you mean? I begin to think I am awake, with a vengeance; but who are you? Hang me if I don’t think you are old Mother Williams!”

“Oh! my dear admiral, you are so facetious—so very facetious; but can you for one moment fancy, my dear sir, that I am insensible to your merit? Can you fancy that I could look with other than indulgent eyes upon a Bell?”

“Upon a what?”

“A Bell—an Admiral Bell. Indeed, I may say—with a slight but pardonable alteration of a word—an admirable Bell. My dear sir, your pearl speaks to you.”

The admiral was so amazed at this address, accompanied as it was by most languishing looks, that, with his mouth wide open, and his eyes preternaturally distended, he gazed upon Mrs. Williams without saying a word; from which she inferred that he was beginning to see that she was aware of his attachment to her, and was thinking of how he could best express his gratitude for her taking the initiative in the matter.

Thus encouraged, then, she spoke again, saying, as she advanced close to him,—

“Oh, my dear sir, what a thing the human heart is. Only to think now, that from the first moment I saw you, I should whisper to myself—there—yes, there is the only human being for whose sake I could again enter into that holy state from which the death of Mr. Williams released me.”

“Why, good God!” said the admiral, “the woman’s mad!”

“Oh! no—no. The world—the horrid, low, work-a-day world, may make invidious remarks about us, but your pearl will recompense you for all that, and, in the sweet concord of domestic life, we shall never sigh for more than we shall have, which will be, of course, if I understand rightly, a large income—I don’t know how much a year, and if I ask, it is only out of curiosity, my dear sir, and nothing else. Love—absolute and beautiful love, is all I ask.”

“Hilloa!” roared the admiral; “Charles! Henry! Jack! Where the devil are you all? D—n it, you are all ready enough when I don’t want you; but now, when I am going to be boarded by a mad woman, you can’t come one of you. Hilloa! help! Charles! Jack, you lubber, where the deuce have you taken yourself to, and why don’t you tumble up when you are sent for?”

“But, my dear sir, why need you trouble yourself to call so many witnesses to our happiness? Let us be privately married in some rural church.”

“Privately d—d first, I’d be,” said the old admiral.

“Oh, then, it shall be a public alliance, if you wish it,” exclaimed Mrs. Williams, as she made up her mind to clinch the affair at once by a coup de main; and advancing to the admiral, she flung her arms around his neck just as a door at the other end of the apartment opened, and Charles and Henry, with Flora, made their appearance, and looked with the most intense astonishment at the scene before them.

“Well, uncle,” said Charles, “I certainly should not have expected this of you. I am astonished, I must confess.”

“Nor I,” said Henry; “why, admiral, I had no idea you were so dangerous a personage.”

Mrs. Williams, when she saw what arrivals had taken place, gave a faint scream, and released the admiral, and then she added,—

“Oh, admiral, how could you hold me so when you hear somebody coming? How shall I ever survive such a scene as this? My character will be gone for ever, unless I am immediately married to you, and I have no doubt but that all your friends will at once see the propriety of such a step.”

“I do,” said Charles.

“And I,” said Henry.

“And I,” of course, said Flora.

Mrs. Williams burst into tears when she saw this unanimity of opinion; but the admiral’s face got the colour of a piece of beet-root, and he was only silent for a moment or two, while he was made the subject of these cruel remarks, until he could sufficiently recover to speak with the energy that did characterise him when he really began.

We are not exactly in the vein to transfer to our pages the violent expletives with which he garnished his outburst of passion, and our readers, if they recall to their minds a large amount of nautical oaths, can have no difficulty in supposing that the admiral uttered every one of them with a volubility that was perfectly alarming.

“D—n it! do you mean to kill me, all of you, or to drive me mad? (Five oaths in a string came in here.) Do you want to cut me up, you——? (Three horrible epithets.) What do you mean by setting this old woman upon me? Whose precious idea was this, I should like to know, to put an elderly she-dragon upon me, whom I hate and be —— (ten oaths at least) when I was enjoying a comfortable nap?”

“Hate!” exclaimed Mrs. Williams; “did you say hate, you old seducing villain! when you knew you said I was your pearl, you hoary-headed ruffian!”

“That’s a thundering crammer,” cried the admiral; “you said it yourself; and as for hating you, d—n it, if I don’t do that with all my heart.”

“And is this the way I’m to be treated before people? Oh! you wicked old sinner, I understand you now. Your intentions were not honourable, and now you find that my virtue is proof against your horrid old fascinations, you want to pretend that it’s all a mistake.”

“Really,” said Charles, “we must confess, uncle, that we found Mrs. Williams and you—ahem!—rather loving, you know; and the gentleman on these occasions is usually asked to account for such things, I take it.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Williams; “I’ll bring an action against the admiral, and I shall call upon you all to be witnesses for me. Oh! you old sinner, I’ll make you pay for this!”

“We certainly can all be witnesses,” said Flora, “that the admiral called for help; and when we came we found Mrs. Williams holding him fast round the neck, to which he seemed to have the greatest possible repugnance.”

“That’s right! hurrah! That’s the truth, Flora, my dear. That’s just how it was. This horrid old woman come all of a sudden and laid hold of me after awakening me, and then I called for help. That’s how it was.”

“But these gentlemen,” said Mrs. Williams, appealing to Henry and Charles, “will swear quite different.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Williams,” said Charles; “if we are brought forward to swear anything, we must be correct; and, therefore, we shall have to say just what this lady has stated; and perhaps your best plan will be to go away and say no more about it; but consider that you have made a mistake.”

“A mistake!” screamed Mrs. Williams; “how could I make a mistake, when Mr. John Pringle, who knows the admiral so well, told me that he was dying to see me, and in love with me to never such an extent, only that he was afraid I would not have anything to say to him on such a subject.”

The admiral drew a long breath and sat down. Then, clenching his hand, he shook it above his head, saying, in a voice of deep and concentrated anger,—

“I thought as much. D—n it, if I did not. It’s all that infernal scoundrel Jack Pringle’s doings, I find. It’s one of that lubberly, mutinous thief’s tricks, and it’s the last one he shall ever play me.”

“A trick!” screamed Mrs. Williams; “a trick! You don’t mean that! Ah, me! what compensation shall I get for the dreadful circumstance which has made me confess the secret of my heart! What shall I do—oh, what shall I do? When shall I hope for consolation! What sum of money, even if you, my dear admiral, were to offer it to me, would be a sufficient balm now to my wounded heart?”

“Madam,” said Henry, “it seems that you have been imposed upon, and made the victim of a practical joke, which we nor the admiral can have nothing to do with; and the only consolation we can offer to your wounded heart, is, that we will keep the secret of your attachment most inviolate.”

“What compensation is that to me? I’ll bring my action for breach of promise of marriage, if I don’t get something, and that something very handsome too. It’s all very fine to talk to me about your mistakes; I’ll be paid—ah, and paid well, too, or I’ll make the whole country ring again with the matter.”

“Madam,” said Charles, “I dare say the admiral don’t care one straw whether the country rings again or not, and you can do just as you please; but since you have commenced threatening, you will, I hope, see the obvious propriety of at once leaving his place.”

“I will leave this place, but it shall be to go direct to my solicitor, and see what he will say to a lone woman being treated in this way. I’ll swear that he called me his pearl—and if that don’t get me a verdict and most exemplary damages, I don’t know what will. We shall see what we shall see, and, in the meantime, you wretches, I leave you all to contempt. Yes, contempt.”

“Stop a bit, ma’am,” said the admiral. “It’s quite plain to me that you don’t mind how you earn a trifle, so that you do get it; and now I’ll tell you, that if you find out that rascal, Jack Pringle, and give him a good trouncing for his share in the business, you may come to me for a reward.”

Mrs. Williams, whatever might have been her personal feelings on this head, did not deign to make the least reply to this intimation, but suddenly cried—

“I want to see my daughter.”

“She is not here at present,” said Flora; “and, if she were, she is Mrs. Anderson now, and therefore would of course decline accompanying you to your home—and she is only waiting some arrangements of her husband’s, prior, most probably, to going to London with him.”

This speech brought to the recollection of Mrs. Williams, that the admiral had promised her all the expenses that she had been at contingent upon the broken-off marriage of her daughter with the baron, and she began to consider that her action for breach of promise of marriage against him might fail, and that, if it succeeded, it might not bring in half so much as the amount of the bill she could by fair means get out of him.

These considerations were of great pith and amount, and they had their full effect upon Mrs. Williams; so, instead of bursting out with any further reproaches, she sat down and commenced a softening process by a copious flood of tears which she had always at command.

“Oh,” said the old admiral, “you may well cry over it, old girl. I suppose you really thought you had hooked the old man at last, eh? But never do you mind, you may make a good thing of it yet, if you get hold of that scoundrel, Pringle, and serve him out well. I’ll pay for that job more willingly than for anything else I know of just at present.”

“Don’t speak to me of that brute, my dear sir,” sobbed Mrs. Williams. “It’s a very cruel thing, of course, to be used in this way, and, as it’s all a mistake on my part, I hope you will excuse and look over what has happened. I am sure I should be the last person in the world to trouble anybody with visits who did not want to see me; and so, I dare say, we shall only meet once again in this world.”

“Once again, madam! What is the use of our ever meeting again?”

“It would look decidedly disrespectful on my part, if I were not to hand you the bill myself for the little matters that you were kind enough to say you would pay for on account of what I had expended on Helen’s projected marriage with the vampyre baron, you know, admiral.”

“Oh, ah! I recollect now. Well, well; I don’t want to go back from my word, and as I did promise you, why, I will pay you; but as I don’t want, on any account, the pleasure of your company again, you will be so kind, ma’am, as to take this twenty-pounds note, and keep the change.”

This the admiral thought liberal enough; for his idea of matrimonial preparations consisted of a new dress or two, or so, and which twenty pounds ought fairly enough to cover; and he thought he would do well enough by overpaying Mrs. Williams, as he believed, with that amount.

When Mrs. Williams recovered from her surprise, not unmingled with indignation, into which this most audacious and, to her, extraordinary offer threw her, she spoke with a kind of scream, that made the old admiral jump again, as she shouted in his ears,—

“What! twenty pounds? Are you in your senses? Twenty pounds! Why, my bill will be, at least, five hundred pounds.”

“What?” roared the admiral. “Are you in your senses? D—n it, ma’am! you may swallow your bill; and you had better do so, for all the good it is likely to do you; for, if I pay a farthing more, may I be hung up at my own yard-arm. Why, you must think that a British admiral is another name for a fool.”

“Then I tell you what,” said Mrs. Williams—“I tell you what, you stupid, old, atrocious sinner—I tell you, I will bring my action against you for breach of promise of marriage; and I’ll swear that, before your gang of people here came in—who, of course, will swear black is white, and white is crimson for you, because, I believe, you are the father of them all—that you first asked me to live with you, and when I refused, you said you would marry me by special licence to-morrow.”

“Madam,” said Charles, “now that you think proper entirely to forget that you are a lady, allow me to beg of you to retire; because it is quite impossible, after what has happened, that I should hold any further conversation with you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Williams,” said Henry, “I hope you will perceive the propriety of at once leaving.”

At this moment a note was handed to Henry, who, upon opening it, read aloud,—

“The Baron Stolmuyer, of Salzburgh, presents his compliments to Mr. Bannerworth, and begs to state that Mrs. Williams has received from him the sum of five hundred pounds for expenses to be incurred on account of the wedding of her daughter; and he hereby fully empowers Mr. Bannerworth to demand of Mrs. Williams that sum, and to devote it to the service and uses of Mr. James Anderson, of whose existence the baron was not aware when he made his proposal to Mrs. Williams for her daughter, whom she sold to him, the baron, for that sum.”

“Hilloa!” cried the admiral; “what do you think of that, Mrs. Williams? I don’t know what you will say to it; but I know very well that I should consider it a shot between wind and water.”

“I trust,” said Henry, “that you will now still further see the propriety of leaving here, and of letting this matter completely rest; because it strikes me that the more you investigate it, madam, the more it will turn out greatly to your disadvantage.”

“I don’t care a pin’s head for any of you, nor half a farthing,” cried Mrs. Williams. “The baron gave me the money, and he has no power to get it back again, as you know well enough. I’ll bring my action, and my principal witness shall be Mr. Pringle, who came to my house, and who, if put upon his oath, will be obliged to swear——”

“That it was all a lark,” said Jack, popping his head just within the amazingly short distance that he opened the door, and then he disappeared before a word could be said to him.

Mrs. Williams who, notwithstanding all her threats, seemed to have a lingering impression that she was victimised in the transaction, had all the ire of her nature aroused at once by the sight of Jack, and she at once rushed after him, leaving the admiral and the Bannerworths not at all lamenting her loss.

Jack had no idea that he would be followed by anybody but the admiral, and to distance him he knew there was no occasion to run; so, when he had got down to the hall of the hotel, he subsided into a walk, until he heard a tremendous scuffling of feet behind him, and, upon looking round, saw Mrs. Williams in full chase, and with an expression upon her countenance which plainly enough indicated that her intentions were not at all of a jocular character.

“The devil!” said Jack; “if here ain’t Mother Williams coming full sail, and at fourteen knots an hour, too, with a fair wind, I’ll be bound. Never mind—a stern chase is a long chase, so here goes.”

As Jack uttered these remarks, he dashed onwards at tremendous speed; but the sight of him again, had inflamed Mrs. Williams’s wrath to madness, and she made the most incredible exertion to come up with him, so that it was really wonderful to see her.

But Jack, being less encumbered by apparel than the lady, would have distanced her, but for an unlucky accident, that gave her a temporary mastery. The fates would have it, that a baker with a tray upon his head, containing sundry pies, was coming up the street, and as people do sometimes, when they are mutually anxious to pass each other without coming in contact, they dodged from side to side for a few seconds, and then, of course, ran against each other as if they really meant it, with such force, that down came Jack, and baker, and pies, in one grand smash.

In another moment the enraged Mrs. Williams reached the spot.

To snatch up the only whole pie there was left, was to the lady the work of a moment, and to reverse it upon Jack’s face, was the work of another moment; and then, in the vindictiveness of her rage, she stamped upon the bottom of the dish until his head was embedded in damsons, and he was nearly smothered.

From the window of the inn the Bannerworths and the admiral saw all this take place, and the delight of the old man was of the most extravagant character, exceeding all bounds, while the Bannerworths, for the life of them, could not help laughing most heartily.

“Now, you wretch!” said Mrs. Williams, “I hope this will be a lesson to you. Take that—and that—and that, you sea-snake! you odious tar-barrel!”

As she spoke, she hammered on the dish till it broke, and that was for Jack the best thing that could have happened, for it gave him a little air, and by a frantic effort he scrambled to a sitting posture, and commenced dragging the damsons out of his eyes and mouth. Mrs. Williams then thought it was high time to leave, and so muttering threats, to the immense amusement of a crowd of persons who had assembled, she walked away, leaving Jack by no means delighted with the end of the adventure, and to settle with the infuriated baker as best he might.

It was no small additional mortification to Jack to look up and see the admiral and the Bannerworths at the window of the hotel, enjoying his discomfiture, and laughing most heartily at his expense.

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