"It is all true, and independent of the five or six people half killed, you will have to answer for a whole death besides, for Tom has intimated to me that if he fails in his suit he will have recourse to the big bottle of laudanum. You must further know that he has taxed my friendship to make known to you his deplorable condition, being unequal to the task himself."

"He must be mad," observed Mrs St. Felix, quietly.

"He flatters himself that you have given him encouragement. I asked him in what way; he says you always laugh at him."

"True as the Bible—I can't help laughing at such a droll figure as he makes of himself. Mercy on me! what are men made of? Well, Tom, I'm sure I ought to be flattered, for (let it be a secret between us, Tom) this is the second offer I have received within these twenty-four hours."

"The doctor, I presume; Tom says that he is jealous."

"I mention no names. This is all very foolish."

"But you have not yet rejected both: Tom awaits his answer."

"Tell him anything that you please. By-the-bye, you may just as well add that instead of taking the laudanum, he had better resort to his old remedy—of liquorice and water. It will look just as killing in the phial, and not be quite so fatal in its results."

"I shall certainly execute your commission in as delicate a way as I possibly can."

"Do, Tom, and pray let me hear no more of this nonsense, for, ridiculous as it may appear, it is to me very painful. Leave me now—I am nervous and low-spirited. Good bye. Come this evening with your sister, I shall be better then."

Mrs St. Felix went into the back parlour, and I left the shop. I had turned the wrong way, almost forgetting to give Tom his answer, when I recollected myself, and returned to the doctor's house.

"Well?" said Tom, eagerly.

"Why," replied I, hardly having made my mind up what to say, yet not wishing to hurt his feelings, "the fact is, Tom, that the widow has a very good opinion of you."

"I knew that," interrupted Tom.

"And if she were ever to marry again—why, you would have quite as good a chance as the doctor."

"I was sure of that," said he.

"But at present, the widow—for reasons which she cannot explain to anybody—cannot think of entering into any new engagement."

"I see—no regular engagement."

"Exactly so; but as soon as she feels herself at liberty—"

"Yes," said Tom, breathless.

"Why, then she'll send, I presume, and let you know."

"I see, then, I may hope."

"Why, not exactly—but there will be no occasion to take laudanum."

"Not a drop, my dear fellow, depend upon it."

"There is no saying what may come to pass, you see, Tom: two, or three, or four years may—"

"Four years—that's a very long time."

"Nothing to a man sincerely in love."

"No, nothing—that's very true."

"So all you have to do is to follow up your profession quietly and steadily, and wait and see what time may bring forth."

"So I will—I'll wait twenty years, if that's all."

I wished Tom good bye, thinking that it was probable that he would wait a great deal longer; but at all events, he was pacified and contented for the time, and there would be no great harm done, even if he did continue to make the widow the object of his passion for a year or two longer. It would keep him out of mischief, and away from Anny Whistle.

On my return home I met with a severe shock, in consequence of information which my mother did not scruple to communicate to me. Perhaps it was all for the best, as it broke the last link of an unhappy attachment. She informed me very abruptly that the shutters of Mr Wilson's house were closed in consequence of his having received intelligence of the death of Lady —-. Poor Janet had expired in her first confinement, and the mother and child were to be consigned to the same tomb. This intelligence drove me to my chamber, and I may be considered weak, but I shed many tears for her untimely end. I did not go with my sister to Mrs St. Felix, but remained alone till the next day, when Virginia came, and persuaded me to walk with her to the hospital, as she had a message for my father.

After we had seen my father we walked down to the hospital terrace, by the riverside. We had not been there but a few minutes when we heard Bill Harness strike up with his fiddle:—

"Oh, cruel was my parents as tore my love from me, And cruel was the press-gang as took him off to sea And cruel was the little boat as row'd him from the strand, But crueller the big ship as sail'd him from the land. Sing tura-la, tura-la, tura-lara hey.

"Oh, cruel was the water as bore my love from Mary, And cruel was the fair wind as wouldn't blow contrary; And cruel was the captain, his boatswain, and his men, As didn't care a farding if we never meet again. Sing tura-la, tura-la, tura-lara hey.

"Oh, cruel was th' engagement in which my true love fought, And cruel was the cannon-ball as knock'd his right eye out; He used to ogle me with peepers full of fun, But now he looks askew at me, because he's only one. Sing tura-la, etcetera, etcetera."

"Eh! wid your tura-la. You call dat singing?" cried Opposition Bill, stumping up, with his fiddle in his hand. "Stop a little. How you do, Mr Tom? how you do, pretty lady? Now I sing you a song, and show dat fellow how to make music. Stop a little, Miss Virginny."

"Well," said Bill Harness, "I'll just let you sing, that Miss Saunders may judge between us."

Virginia felt half inclined to go away; but as the pensioners always treated her with as much respect as any of the ladies of the officers of the hospital, I pressed her arm that she might stay. Opposition Bill then struck up as follows, saying, "Now I give you a new 'Getting upstairs.'"

"On board of a man-of-war dey hauled me one day, And pitch me up de side just like one truss of hay. Such a getting upstairs I nebber did see, Such a getting upstairs.

"Dey show me de mast head, and tell me I must go, I tumble on de rattling, and break my lilly toe. Such a getting upstairs I nebber did see, etcetera.

"Dey pipe de hands up anchor, and Massa Boatswain's cane Come rattle on our backs, for all de world like rain. Such a getting upstairs, etcetera.

"And den dey man de rigging, the topsails for to reef, And up we scull together, just like a flock of sheep. Such a getting upstairs, etcetera.

"Dey send de boats away, a Frenchman for to board, We climb de side with one hand, de oder hold de sword. Such a getting upstairs, etcetera.

"Now here I sent to Greenwich because I lost a leg, And ab to climb up to de ward upon my wooden peg. Such a getting upstairs, etcetera.

"Dere, now; I ask you, Mister Tom, and de young lady, which sing best, dat fellow, or your humble servant Bill—dat's me?"

"You sing very well, Bill," said Virginia, laughing, "but I'm not able to decide such a difficult point."

"Nor more can I; it is impossible to say which I like best," continued I. "We must go home now, so good bye."

"Thanky you, Mister Tom; thanky you, Missy. I see you wish to spare him feelings; but I know what you tink in your heart."

Virginia and I now left the hospital. There was one subject which was often discussed between my sister and me, which was, my situation with regard to Bramble and Bessy. I had no secrets from her, and she earnestly advised me to try if I could not make up my mind to an union with a person of whom I could not possibly speak but with the highest encomiums.

"Depend upon it, my dear Tom," said she, "she will make you a good wife; and with her as a companion, you will soon forget the unhappy attachment which has made you so miserable. I am not qualified from experience to advise you on this point, but I have a conviction in my own mind that Bessy is really just the sort of partner for life who will make you happy. And then, you owe much to Bramble, and you are aware how happy it would make him; and as her partiality for you is already proved, I do wish that you would think seriously upon what I now say. I long to see and make her acquaintance, but I really long much more to embrace her as a sister."

I could not help acknowledging that Bessy was as perfect as I could expect any one to be, where none are perfect. I admitted the truth and good sense of my sister's reasoning, and the death of Janet contributed not a little to assist her arguments; but she was not the only one who appeared to take an interest in this point: my father would hint at it jocosely, and Mrs St. Felix did once compliment me on my good fortune in having the chance of success with a person whom every one admired and praised. The party, however, who had most weight with me was old Anderson, who spoke to me unreservedly and seriously.

"Tom," said he, "you must be aware that Bramble and I are great friends, and have been so for many years. He has no secrets from me, and I have no hesitation in telling you that his regards and affections are so equally bestowed between you and his adopted child, that it is difficult for himself to say to which he is the most attached; further, as he has told me, his fervent and his dearest wish—the one thing which will make him happy, and the only one without which he will not be happy, although he may be resigned—is that an union should take place between you and Bessy. I am not one of those who would persuade you to marry her out of gratitude to Bramble. Gratitude may be carried too far; but she is, by all accounts, amiable and beautiful, devoted to excess, and capable of any exertion and any sacrifice for those she loves; and, Tom, she loves you. With her I consider that you have every prospect of being happy in the most important step in life. You may say that you do not love her, although you respect, and admire, and esteem her: granted; but on such feelings towards a woman is the firmest love based, and must eventually grow. Depend upon it, Tom, that that hasty and violent attachment which is usually termed love, and which so blinds both parties that they cannot before marriage perceive each other's faults, those matches which are called love matches, seldom or ever turn out happily. I do not mean to say but that they sometimes do; but, like a lottery, there are many blanks for one prize. Believe me, Tom, there is no one who has your interest and welfare at heart more than I have. I have known you since you were a child, and have watched you with as much solicitude as any parent. Do you think, then, that I would persuade you to what I thought would not contribute to your happiness? Do, my dear boy, make Bramble, Bessy, yourself, and all of us happy, by weaning yourself from the memory of one who was undeserving of you, and fixing your affections upon her who will be as steadfast and as true to you as the other was false and capricious."

I promised Anderson that I would think seriously of what he said; and I kept my word, using all my endeavours to drive the image of Janet from my memory, and substitute that of Bessy. I often recalled the latter to my mind as she lay, beautiful and motionless after her having rescued her father from the waves, and at last dwelt upon the image with something more than interest. The great point when you wish to bring yourself to do anything is to make up your mind to it. I did so, and soon found that Bessy was rapidly gaining possession of my heart.

I remained several days at Greenwich. My mother was still as busy as ever, attempting to obtain lodgers in her house who were people of family, and this unwearied system was a source of great vexation to my sister. "Oh, Tom," she would sometimes say, "I almost wish sometimes, selfish as it is, that you were married to Bessy, for then I should be able to live with you, and escape from this persecution."

"Better marry yourself, dear," replied I.

"There is but little chance of that, Tom," replied Virginia, shaking her head.

On my return to Deal I found Bramble had remained at the cottage ever since my departure. Our greeting was warm, and when I went over to Bessy, for the first time since she had returned from school, I kissed her. She coloured up, poor girl, burst into tears, and hastened to her own room.

"I hope that was in earnest, Tom," said Bramble, fixing his eye upon me inquiringly, "otherwise it was cruel."

"It was indeed, father," replied I, taking him by the hand.

"Then all's right, and God bless you, my dear good boy. You don't know how happy you have made me—yes, and now I will say it—poor Bessy also."



CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

IN WHICH A NEW CHARACTER APPEARS UPON THE STAGE, AND I PLAY THE PART OF A PILOT ON SHORE.

"A frigate has anchored in the Downs, Tom, and makes the signal for a pilot," said Bramble, coming into the cottage, with my telescope in his hand. "There is but you and I here—what do you say?—will you venture to take her up to the Medway?"

"To be sure I will, father; I would not refuse a line-of-battle ship. Why should I? the tides are the same, and the sands have not shifted. Would you not trust me?"

"Ay, that I would, Tom, and perhaps better than myself; for my eyes are not so good as they were. Well, then, you had better be off."

I got my bundle ready, and was about to start, when I perceived my telescope lying down where Bramble had placed it on the table. "They are not very fond of letting pilots have their glasses on board of a King's ship," said I, "so I will take mine this time."

"You're right, Tom; you can't take the spy-glass out of the captain's hand, as you do in a merchant vessel."

"Well, good bye, father; I shall come down again as soon as I can— there's another gun, the captain of the frigate is in a hurry."

"They always are on board of a man-of-war, if no attention is paid to their orders or their signals. Come, start away."

I went down to the beach, the men launched the galley, and I was soon on board. As I gained the quarter-deck I was met by the captain and first lieutenant, who were standing there.

"Well," said the captain, "where's the pilot?"

"I am, sir," replied I, taking off my hat.

"Where's your warrant?"

"There, sir," replied I, offering him the tin case in which I carried it.

"Well, all is right, my good fellow; but you seem but a young hand."

"Not so young as to lose so fine a vessel as this, I trust, sir," replied I.

"I hope not, too; and I daresay you are as good as many with grey hairs. At all events, your warrant is sufficient for me, and the frigate is now under your charge. Will you weigh directly?"

"If you please; the wind will probably fail as the sun goes down, and, if so, we may just as well lie off the Foreland to-night."

The frigate was soon under weigh; she was evidently well manned, and as well commanded. The wind fell, as I expected, and after dark we barely stemmed the ebb tide. Of course I was up all night, as was my duty, and occasionally entered into conversation with the officer of the watch and midshipmen. From them I learnt that the frigate, which was called the Euphrosyne, had just returned from the West India station; that they had been out four years, during which they had two single-handed encounters, and captured two French frigates, besides assisting at many combined expeditions; that they were commanded by Sir James O'Connor, who had distinguished himself very much, and was considered one of the best officers in the service; that the frigate had suffered so from the conflicts in which they had been engaged, that she had been sent home to be surveyed; it was found that she must be docked, and undergo a thorough repair, and consequently they had been ordered to Sheerness, where the ship would be paid off. At daylight there was a leading wind up the river, and we made sail, carrying with us three-fourths of the flood. The discipline and order of the ship's company were so great that I felt much more confidence in piloting this vessel, notwithstanding her greater draught of water, than I did a merchant vessel, in which you had to wait so long before the people could execute what you required: here, it was but to speak and it was done, well done, and done immediately; the vessel appeared to obey the will of the pilot as if endued with sense and volition, and the men at the lead gave quick and correct soundings; the consequence was that I had every confidence, and while the captain and officers sometimes appeared anxious at the decrease of the depth of water, I was indifferent, and I daresay appeared to them careless, but such was not the case.

"Quarter less five."

"Quarter less five. Pilot, do you know what water we draw?"

"Yes, Sir James, I do; we shall have half four directly, and after that the water will deepen."

As it proved exactly as I stated, the captain had after that more confidence in me. At all events, the frigate was brought safely to an anchor in the river Medway, and Sir James O'Connor went down to his cabin, leaving the first lieutenant to moor her, for such were the port orders. As I had nothing more to do, I thought I might as well go on shore, and get a cast down by one of the night coaches to Dover. I therefore begged the first lieutenant to order my certificate of pilotage to be made out, and to inquire if I could take anything down to Deal for the captain. A few minutes afterwards I was summoned down to the captain. I found him sitting at his table with wine before him. My certificates, which the clerk had before made out, were signed, but my name was not inserted.

"I must have your name, pilot, to fill in here."

"Thomas Saunders, Sir James," replied I.

"Well, my lad, you're young for a pilot; but you appear to know your business well, and you have brought this ship up in good style. Here are your certificates," said he, as he filled in my name.

I had my spy-glass in my hand, and, to take up the certificates and fold them to fit them into my tin case, I laid my glass down on the table close to him. Sir James looked at it as if surprised, took it up in his hand, turned it round, and appeared quite taken aback. He then looked at the brass rim where the name had been erased, and perceived where it had been filed away.

"Mr Saunders," said he at last, "if not taking a liberty, may I ask where you procured this spy-glass?"

"Yes, Sir James, it was given me by a person who has been very kind to me ever since I was a boy."

"Mr Saunders, I beg your pardon—I do not ask this question out of mere curiosity—I have seen this glass before; it once belonged to a very dear friend of mine. Can you give me any further information? You said it was given you by—"

"A very amiable woman, Sir James."

"Did she ever tell you how it came into her hands?"

"She never did, sir."

"Mr Saunders, oblige me by sitting down; and if you can give me any information on this point, you will confer on me a very great favour. Can you tell me what sort of a person this lady is—where she lives—and what countrywoman she is?"

"Yes, Sir James; I will first state that she is Irish, and that she lives at present at Greenwich." I then described her person.

"This is strange, very strange," said Sir James, with his hand up to his forehead as he leant his elbow on the table.

After a pause, "Mr Saunders, will you answer me one question candidly? I feel I am not speaking to a mere Thames pilot—I do not wish to compliment, and if I did not feel as I state, I should not put these questions. Do you not know more about this person than you appear willing to divulge? There is something in your manner which tells me so."

"That I know more than I have divulged is true, Sir James; but that I know more than I am willing to divulge is not the case, provided I find that the party who asks the question is sufficiently interested to warrant my so doing."

"There can be no one more interested than I am," replied Sir James, mournfully. "You tell me she is Irish—you describe a person such as I expected would be described, and my curiosity is naturally excited. May I ask what is her name?"

"The name that she goes by at present is St. Felix."

"She had distant relations of that name; it may be one of them—yet how could they have obtained—? Yes, they might, sure enough!"

"That is not her real name, Sir James."

"Not her real name! Do you then know what is her real name?"

"I believe I do, but I obtained it without her knowledge, from another party, who is since dead."

"Ah! may I ask that name?"

"A man who died in the hospital, who went by the name of Spicer, but whose real name was Walter James; he saw the glass in my hand, recognised it, and on his death-bed revealed all connected with it; but he never knew that the party was still alive when he did so."

"If Walter James confessed all to you on his death-bed, Mr Saunders, it is certain that you can answer me one question. Was not her real name Fitzgerald?"

"It was, Sir James, as I have understood."

Sir James O'Connor fell back in his chair, and was silent for some time. He then poured out a tumbler of wine, and drank it off.

"Mr Saunders, do others know of this as well as you?"

"I have never told anyone, except to one old and dearest friend, in case of accident to myself. Mrs St. Felix is ignorant of my knowledge, as well as others."

"Mr Saunders, that I am most deeply interested in that person I pledge you my honour as an officer and a gentleman. Will you now do me the favour to detail all you do know on this subject, and what were the confessions made you by that man Walter James?"

"I have already, sir, told you more than I intended. I will be candid with you; so much do I respect and value the person in question, that I will do nothing without I have your assurance that it will not tend to her unhappiness."

"Then, on my honour, if it turns out as I expect, it will, I think, make her the happiest woman under the sun."

"You said that the spy-glass belonged to a dear friend?"

"I did, Mr Saunders; and if I find, from what you can tell me, that Mrs St. Felix is the real Mrs Fitzgerald, I will produce that friend and her husband. Now are you satisfied?"

"I am," replied I, "and I will now tell you everything." I then entered into a detail from the time that Mrs St. Felix gave me the spy-glass, and erased the name, until the death of Spicer. "I have now done, sir," replied I, "and you must draw your own conclusions."

"I thank you, sir," replied he; "allow me now to ask you one or two other questions. How does Mrs St. Felix gain her livelihood, and what character does she bear?"

I replied to the former by stating that she kept a tobacconist's shop; and to the latter by saying that she was a person of most unimpeachable character, and highly respected.

Sir James O'Connor filled a tumbler of wine for me, and then his own. As soon as he had drunk his own off, he said, "Mr Saunders, you don't know how you have obliged me. I am excessively anxious about this matter, and I wish, if you are not obliged to go back to Deal immediately, that you would undertake for me a commission to Greenwich. Any trouble or expense—"

"I will do anything for Mrs St. Felix, Sir James; and I shall not consider trouble or expense," replied I.

"Will you then oblige me by taking a letter to Greenwich immediately? I cannot leave my ship at present—it is impossible."

"Certainly I will, Sir James."

"And will you bring her down here?"

"If she will come. The letter I presume will explain everything, and prevent any too sudden shock."

"You are right, Mr Saunders; and indeed I am wrong not to confide in you more. You have kept her secret so well that, trusting to your honour, you shall now have mine."

"I pledge my honour, Sir James."

"Then, Mr Saunders, I spoke of a dear friend, but the truth is, I am the owner of that spy-glass. When I returned to Ireland, and found that she had, as I supposed, made away with herself, as soon as my grief had a little subsided, I did perceive that, although her apparel remained, all her other articles of any value had disappeared; but I concluded that they had been pillaged by her relations, or other people. I then entered on board of a man-of-war, under the name of O'Connor, was put on the quarter-deck, and by great good fortune have risen to the station in which I now am. That is my secret—not that I care about its being divulged, now that I have found my wife. I did nothing to disgrace myself before I entered on board of a man-of-war, but having changed my name, I do not wish it to be known that I ever had another until I can change it again on a fitting opportunity. Now, Mr Saunders, will you execute my message?"

"Most joyfully, Sir James; and I now can do it with proper caution; by to-morrow morning I will be down here with Mrs St. Felix."

"You must post the whole way, as hard as you can, there and back, Mr Saunders. Here is some money," said he, thrusting a bundle of notes in my hand, "you can return me what is left. Good bye, and many, many thanks."

"But where shall I meet you, sir?"

"Very true; I will be at the King's Arms Hotel, Chatham."

I lost no time. As soon as the boat put me on shore, I hired a chaise, and posted to Greenwich, where I arrived about half-past nine o'clock. I dismissed the chaise at the upper end of the town, and walked down to Mrs St. Felix's. I found her at home, as I expected, and to my great delight the doctor was not there.

"Why, Mr Pilot, when did you come back?" said she.

"But this minute—I come from Chatham."

"And have you been home?"

"No, not yet; I thought I would come and spend the evening with you."

"With me! Why, that's something new; I don't suppose you intend to court me, do you, as the doctor does?"

"No, but I wish that you would give me some tea in your little back parlour, and let Jane mind the shop in the meantime."

"Jane's very busy, Mr Tom, so I'm afraid that I can't oblige you."

"But you must, Mrs St. Felix. I'm determined I will not leave this house till you give me some tea; I want to have a long talk with you."

"Why, what's in the wind now?"

"I'm not in the wind, at all events, for you see I'm perfectly sober; indeed, Mrs St. Felix, I ask it as a particular favour. You have done me many kindnesses, now do oblige me this time: the fact is, something has happened to me of the greatest importance, and I must have your advice how to act; and, in this instance, I prefer yours to that of any other person."

"Well, Tom, if it really is serious, and you wish to consult me, for such a compliment the least I can do is to give you a cup of tea." Mrs St. Felix ordered Jane to take the tea-things into the back parlour, and then to attend in the shop.

"And pray say that you are not at home, even to the doctor."

"Well, really the affairs looks serious," replied she, "but it shall be so if you wish it."

We took our tea before I opened the business, for I was thinking how I should commence: at last I put down my cup, and said, "Mrs St. Felix, I must first acquaint you with what is known to no one here but myself." I then told her the history of old Nanny; then I went on to Spicer's recognition of the spy-glass—his attempt to murder his mother, the consequences, and the disclosure on his death-bed.

Mrs St. Felix was much moved.

"But why tell me all this?" said she, at last: "it proves, certainly, that my husband was not hanged, which is some consolation, but now I shall be ever restless until I know what has become of him—perhaps he still lives."

"Mrs St. Felix, you ask me why do I tell you all this? I beg you to reply to my question: having known this so long, why have I not told you before?"

"I cannot tell."

"Then I will tell you: because I did feel that such knowledge as I had then would only make you, as you truly say, unhappy and restless. Nor would I have told you now, had it not been that I have gained further intelligence on board of a frigate which I this afternoon took into the Medway."

Mrs St. Felix gasped for breath. "And what is that?" said she, faintly.

"The spy-glass was recognised by a person on board, who told me that your husband still lives."

I ran out for a glass of water, for Mrs St. Felix fell back in her chair as pale as death.

I gave her the water, and threw some in her face: she recovered, and put her handkerchief up to her eyes. At first she was silent, then sobbed bitterly; after a while she sank from the chair down on her knees, and remained there some time. When she rose and resumed her seat, she took my hand and said, "You may tell me all now."

As she was quite calm and composed, I did so; I repeated all that had passed between Sir James O'Connor and me, and ended with his wish that I should accompany her at once to Chatham.

"And now, Mrs St. Felix, you had better go to bed. I told Sir James that I would be down to-morrow morning. I will come here at seven o'clock, and then we will go to the upper part of the town and hire a chaise. Will you be ready?"

"Yes," replied she, smiling. "Heaven bless you, Tom! and now good night."

I did not go to my mother's, but to an inn in the town, where I asked for a bed. In the morning I went down. As soon as Mrs St. Felix saw me she came out, and followed me at a little distance. We went up to where the chaises were to be obtained, and in less than three hours were at the King's Arms, Chatham. I asked to be shown into a room, into which I led Mrs St. Felix, trembling like an aspen leaf. I seated her on the sofa, and then asked to be shown in to Sir James O'Connor.

"She is here, sir," said I.

"Where?"

"Follow me, Sir James."

I opened the door of the room, and closed it upon them.



CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

MY SISTER VIRGINIA IS AT LAST PLACED IN A SITUATION WHICH IS SATISFACTORY TO MY MOTHER AS WELL AS TO HERSELF.

I remained very quietly in the coffee-room of the hotel, in case I should be sent for; which I presumed I should be before the day was over. In the afternoon a waiter came to say that Sir James O'Connor wished to speak to me, and I was ushered into his room, where I found Mrs St. Felix on the sofa.

As soon as the door was closed, Sir James took me by the hand, and led me up, saying, "Allow me to introduce your old friend as Lady O'Connor."

"My dear Tom," said she, taking me by the hand, "I am and ever shall be Mrs St. Felix with you. Come, now, and sit down. You will again have to take charge of me, for I am to return to Greenwich, and—leave it in a respectable manner. I daresay they have already reported that I have run away from my creditors. Sir James thinks I must go back as if nothing had happened, give out that I had some property left me by a relation, and then settle everything, and sell the goodwill of my shop. It certainly will be better than to give grounds for the surmises and reports which may take place at my sudden disappearance,—not that I am very likely to fall in with my old acquaintances at Greenwich."

"Don't you think so, Tom?—for Tom I must call you, in earnest of our future friendship," said Sir James.

"I do think it will be the best plan, sir."

"Well, then, you must convey her ladyship to Greenwich again this evening, and to-morrow the report must be spread, and the next day you will be able to re-escort her here. I hope you feel the compliment that I pay you in trusting you with my new-found treasure. Now let us sit down to dinner. Pray don't look at your dress, Tom; at all events, it's quite as respectable as her ladyship's."

After dinner a chaise was ordered, and Lady O'Connor and I returned to Greenwich, arriving there after dark. We walked down to her house: I then left her, and hastened to my mother's.

"Well, mother," said I, after the first salutations were over, "have you heard the news about Mrs St. Felix?"

"No, what has she done now?"

"Oh, she has done nothing, but a relation in Ireland has left her a lot of money, and she is going over there immediately. Whether she will come back again nobody knows."

"Well, we can do without her," replied my mother, with pique. "I'm very glad that she's going, for I have always protested at Virginia's being so intimate with her—a tobacco-shop is not a place for a young lady."

"Mother," replied Virginia, "when we lived in Fisher's Alley Mrs St. Felix was above us in situation."

"I have desired you very often, Virginia, not to refer to Fisher's Alley, you know I do not like it—the very best families have had their reverses."

"I cannot help thinking that such has been the case with Mrs St. Felix," replied Virginia.

"If you please, Miss Saunders, we'll drop the subject," replied my mother, haughtily.

The news soon spread; indeed, I walked to several places where I knew it would be circulated, and before morning all Greenwich knew that Mrs St. Felix had been left a fortune: some said ten thousand pounds, others had magnified it to ten thousand a year. When I called upon her the next day, I found that she had made arrangements for carrying on her business during her absence, not having stated that she quitted for ever, but that she would write and let them know as soon as she arrived in Ireland what her decision would be, as she was not aware what might be the property left her. The doctor, who had undertaken to conduct her affairs during her absence, looked very woebegone indeed, and I pitied him; he had become so used to her company, that he felt miserable at the idea of her departure, although all hopes of ever marrying her had long been dismissed from his mind. Mrs St. Felix told me that she would be ready that evening, and I returned home and found Virginia in tears; her mother had again assailed her on account of her feelings towards Mrs St. Felix; and Virginia told me that she was crying at the idea of Mrs St. Felix going away, much more than at what her mother had said; and she requested me to walk with her to Mrs St. Felix that she might wish her farewell.

When we arrived Mrs St. Felix embraced Virginia warmly, and took her into the little back parlour. Virginia burst into tears. "You are the only friend in the town that I dearly love," said she, "and now you are going."

"My dear girl, I am more sorry to part with you and Tom than I can well express—our pain is mutual, but we shall meet again."

"I see no chance of that," said Virginia, mournfully.

"But I do; and what is more, I have thought about it since I have had the news. Tom, your sister, of course, only knows the common report?"

"Of course she knows no more than anybody else."

"Well, you do, at all events; and I give you leave, as I know she is to be trusted, to confide my secret to her. And, Virginia, dear, when I tell you that I shall want you to come and stay with me, and shall arrange accordingly, after you have heard what your brother has to tell to you, you will understand that we may meet again. Good bye, and God bless you, dearest; go away now, for I have much to do."

When I told to Virginia what the reader is well acquainted with, her joy was excessive. "Yes," said she, "I see now: my mother is so anxious that I should be taken into some grand family as a companion; and when Lady O'Connor agrees to receive me, she will never have an idea that it is Mrs St. Felix: if she had, nothing would induce her to let me go, that I am sure of; for she has taken an aversion to her for reasons known only to herself."

I returned to Mrs St. Felix's house as soon as I had escorted Virginia home, leaving her very happy. The doctor was there, mute and melancholy; and I was thinking that we should have some difficulty in getting rid of him, when Tom made his appearance.

"If you please, sir," said he, "Mrs Fallover wants you immediately; she's taken very bad."

"I can't help it."

"Indeed, but you must help it, doctor," said Mrs St. Felix; "the poor woman is, as you know, in her first confinement, and you must not neglect her, so let's say good bye at once, and a happy return. I asked Tom to come down, that I might call upon his sister and one or two other people before I go; so you see, doctor, as you can't go with me, you may just as well go and attend to the poor woman; so good bye, Doctor Tadpole, I will write to you as soon as I know what I'm to do."

The doctor took her hand, and after a pause said, "Mrs St. Felix, Eheu, me infelix!" and hastened out of the shop.

"Poor fellow!" said she, "he'll miss me, and that's the truth. Good bye, Jane; mind you look after everything till I come back, and take care of the dog and cat. Come, Tom, we'll go now."

I threw her trunk on my shoulders, and followed her till we came to the post-house: the chaise was ordered out, and we set off.

"Tom," said Lady O'Connor, as I again call her, now that she is clear of Greenwich, "there is one portion of my history which you do not know—a very trifling part indeed. When I saw in the newspapers that my husband had, as I supposed, been executed, I am ashamed to say that I first thought of suicide; but my better feelings prevailed, and I then resolved to change my name, and to let people suppose that I was dead. It was for that reason that I left my bonnet by the river-side, and all my apparel in the house, only taking away a few trinkets and valuables, to dispose of for my future subsistence. I obtained a passage in a transport bound to Woolwich, on the plea of my husband having arrived from abroad; and, by mere accident, I found the goodwill of the tobacconist's shop to be sold; it suited me—and there is the whole of my history which you do not know.

"And now, as to Virginia, I intend to have her with me very soon. Your mother is anxious that she should get into a high family, trusting that her beauty will captivate some of the members—a bad kind of speculation. I will advertise for a companion, and so arrange that your mother shall not see me; and when your sister does come to me, it shall not be as a companion, but as a child of my own. I owe you much, Tom— indeed, almost everything; and it is the only way in which I can repay you. I have already spoken to Sir James on the subject: he is equally ready to pay the debt of gratitude, and therefore in future Virginia is our adopted child."

"You are more than repaying me, Lady O'Connor," replied I, "and you are obliging me in the quarter where I feel the obligation the greatest."

"That I believe, Tom; so now say no more about it."

I may as well here inform the reader that I remained a week at Chatham, and that during that time Lady O'Connor put an advertisement in the county paper, such as we knew would be a bait to my mother. This paper I forwarded to Virginia, marking the advertisement. My mother immediately replied to it, and Sir James O'Connor went up to Greenwich and had an interview with my mother and Virginia, at apartments he had taken at the hotel; appeared pleased with my sister, and said that as soon as Lady O'Connor was sufficiently recovered she would send for her to Chatham. This took place in two days afterwards; my mother escorted Virginia there. Sir James stated that her ladyship was too unwell to see anybody, but that she would speak a few words to Virginia, and leave Sir James to settle the rest with my mother. Virginia came down to her mother, declared that Lady O'Connor was a very ladylike elegant person, and that she should wish to take the situation. The terms were handsome, and my mother, although she regretted not seeing her ladyship, was satisfied, and Virginia was to come in two days afterwards, which she did. Thus was my sister comfortably settled, and after remaining two days I took my leave of Sir James and Lady O'Connor, intending to return to Deal, when I received a letter from Peter Anderson, informing me that old Nanny had been suddenly taken very ill, and that Doctor Tadpole did not think it possible that she would survive more than twenty-four hours; that she was very anxious to see me, and that he hoped I would come up immediately.

I showed the letter to Lady O'Connor, who said, "You will go, of course, Tom."

"Immediately," replied I, "and the more so as this letter is dated three days back; how it has been delayed I do not know. Farewell, Lady O'Connor; and farewell, dearest Virginia. Old Nanny, as you both know, has many claims upon my gratitude."



CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

MY FATHER, MUCH TO HIS SURPRISE, HAS A BIT OF LAND TO PUT HIS FOOT UPON, AND SAY, "THIS IS MY OWN."

"You're too late, Tom," said Ben the Whaler, as I jumped down from off the basket of the coach; "the old woman died last night."

"I'm sorry for it, Ben," replied I, "as she wished so much to see me; but I did not receive Anderson's letter till this morning, and I could not get here sooner."

This intelligence induced me to direct my course to the hospital, where I had no doubt that I should find old Anderson, and obtain every information. I met him as he was walking towards the bench on the terrace facing the river, where he usually was seated when the weather was fine. "Well, Tom," said he, "I expected you, and did hope that you would have been here sooner. Come, sit down here, and I will give you the information which I know you have most at your heart. The old woman made a very happy end. I was with her till she died. She left many kind wishes for you, and I think her only regret was that she did not see you before she was called away."

"Poor old Nanny! she had suffered much."

"Yes, and there are great excuses to be made for her; and as we feel so here, surely there will be indulgence from above, where the secrets of all hearts are known. She was not insane, Tom; but from the time that she supposed that her son had been gibbeted, there was something like insanity about her: the blow had oppressed her brain—it had stupefied her, and blunted her moral sense of right and wrong. She told me, after you had communicated to her that her son was in the hospital, and had died penitent, that she felt as if a heavy weight had been taken off her mind; that she had been rid of an oppression which had ever borne down her faculties—a sort of giddiness and confusion in the brain, which had made her indifferent, if not reckless, to everything; and I do believe it, from the change which took place in her during the short time which has since elapsed."

"What change was that? for you know that I have been too busy during the short intervals I have been here to call upon her."

"A change in her appearance and manners: she appeared to recover in part her former position in life; she was always clean in her person, as far as she could be in such a shop as hers; and if she had nothing else, she always had a clean cap and apron."

"Indeed?"

"Yes; and on Sundays she dressed very neat and tidy. She did not go to church, but she purchased a large Bible and a pair of spectacles, and was often to be seen reading it at the door; and when I talked to her she was glad to enter upon serious things. I spoke to her about her fondness for money, and pointed out that it was a sin. She replied that she did feel very fond of money for a long while, for she always thought that some one was nigh her snatching at it, and had done so ever since her son had robbed her; but that since she knew what had become of him she did not feel fond of it—that is, not so fond of it as before; and I believe that such was the case. Her love of money arose from her peculiar state of mind. She had many comforts about her house when she died, which were not in it when I called to see her at the time when she was first ill; but her purchasing the large Bible on account of the print was to me a satisfactory proof that she had no longer such avaricious feelings."

"I am very glad to hear all this, Anderson, I assure you, for she was one of my earliest friends, and I loved her."

"Not more than she loved you, Tom. Her last words almost were calling down blessings on your head; and, thanks be to God! she died as a Christian should die, and, I trust, is now happy."

"Amen!" said I; for I was much moved at Anderson's discourse.

After a pause Anderson said, "You know, Tom, that she has left you all that she had. She told me before that such was her intention, although I said nothing to you about it, but I thought it as well that Mr Wilson should make out a paper for her to put her name to, which she did. Ben and I witnessed it, but as for what she has left you, I cannot imagine it can be much, for we examined and found no money except about seven pounds in two small boxes: and then in her will she has left your sister Virginia ten pounds; now, when that comes to be paid, I'm sure I don't know whether the things in the shop will fetch so much money as will pay your sister's legacy and the expenses of her funeral."

"It's of no consequence," replied I, smiling; "but we shall see. At all events, all her debts shall be paid, and her funeral shall be decent and respectable. Good bye now, Anderson, I must go up and see my mother and sister."

Old Nanny's remains were consigned to the tomb on the following Monday. Her funeral was, as I had desired it to be, very respectable, and she was followed to the grave by Anderson, my father, Ben, and me. As soon as it was over, I requested Anderson to walk with me to Mr Wilson's.

"I'm afraid, Tom," said Mr Wilson, "you'll find, like a great many other residuary legatees, that you've not gained much by the compliment."

"Nevertheless, will you oblige me by walking down with Anderson and me to her house?"

"And take off the seals, I presume, in your presence? But the fact is, Tom, that not thinking the property quite safe there, even under seal, I have kept it all in my own pocket."

"Nevertheless, oblige me by coming down."

"Oh, with all my heart, since you do not like to take possession unless in due form."

As soon as we arrived at the hovel, I went into the bed-room, and threw open the window. I then, to their great astonishment, went to the fire-grate, threw out some rubbish which was put into it, pulled up the iron back, and removed the bricks. In a short time I produced two small boxes, one of them very heavy. There was nothing else in the hole.

"Here," said I, "Mr Wilson, is a portion of the property which you have overlooked."

"No wonder," replied he. "Pray let us see what it is."

I opened the boxes, and, to their surprise, made up in a variety of packages, I counted out gold coin to the amount of four hundred and twenty pounds.

"Not a bad legacy," said Mr Wilson. "Then you knew of this?"

"Of course; I have known it some time—ever since the attempt to rob her."

"But what are those papers?"

On one was written "Arsenic-Poison;" on the other, "Receipt for Toothache."

"Nothing of any value," said I, "by the outside."

I opened them, and found, to my surprise, bank-notes to the exact amount of two hundred pounds.

"Well, I declare," said I, smiling, "I had nearly thrown all this money away."

"And now you see what induced the old woman to write those labels on the outside of it: in case she should be robbed, that the robbers might have thrown the papers away—as you nearly did, and as very probably they might have done."

"Well, Mr Wilson, I have no further search to make. Will you oblige me by taking care of this money for me?"

"Yes; that is, if you'll carry the gold, which is rather heavy, up to my house, and then I will give you a receipt for the whole."

Anderson then left us, and I followed Mr Wilson home. As soon as the money was all re-counted, and a note made of it, Mr Wilson asked me what I wished that he should do with it. I replied, what was the truth, that I really did not know what to do with it, but still I should like to lay it out in something tangible.

"You want to buy a farm, I suppose, and be a landed proprietor, like Bramble; but I'm afraid there is not enough. But I tell you what, Tom: we lawyers know many things which do not come to everybody's ears, and I know that the proprietor of the house in which your mother lives wishes to sell it; and I think, as he is much pinched for money, that this sum will about buy it. Now your mother pays fifty-five guineas a year for it, and if it sells for six hundred pounds, that will give you more than nine per cent for your money. What do you think?"

"Well, sir, I think it's the very best thing I can do; if more should be necessary, I have saved a little besides, which Bramble takes care of. Well, then, I'll see about it."

A few days afterwards Mr Wilson told me that the house was to be had for five hundred and sixty pounds, and that he had closed the bargain.

"I thank you, sir," replied I. "Since I have been with you I have been thinking about it, and I wish now you would make it over to my father for his life. You see, sir, my father does put my mother to some expense, and I should like him to be more independent of her. If the house belongs to him, the rent will more than meet any demands he may make upon her purse—and it will be pleasant for both parties—and my mother will pay more respect to my father."

"I shall do it with pleasure, Tom. You deserve money, for you make a good use of it—I must say that. Come to me to-morrow."

The next day I went to my father, and gave him the deed by which he was owner of my mother's house. "Well, now, Tom," said he, after I had explained why I did so, "this is the kindest thing that ever was done, and God bless you, boy, and a thousand thanks. I shan't mind now calling for two extra pots of porter when I have friends—and I say, Tom, is the garden mine too?"

"Yes, and the summer-house, father, all your own property."

"Well, then," replied he, chuckling, "I have a bit of land of my own to stick my timber toe on after all. Well, I never did expect that. I must go up there, and stand upon it, and feel how I feel."

I communicated to my mother that my father was in future her landlord, at which she expressed much surprise, until I told her how I became possessed of the money. When my father came in, which he did shortly after, she said rather sharply:—

"Well, Mr Saunders, I suppose I must pay you my rent now every quarter?"

"Pay me!" exclaimed my father; "come, not so bad as that, neither. Haven't you found me in beer, without a grumble, for these many years, and do you think I've forgotten it? No, no! You've been a kind woman to me, after all, although things did go a little cross at first, and so here's the paper for you to keep for me; and there's an end of the matter, only—"

"Only what?" inquired my mother, looking very kindly at my father.

"Only let's have a pot of beer now, to drink Tom's health, that's all."

Having thus satisfactorily settled this point, I returned to Chatham. I had promised to take a farewell of my sister and the O'Connors, as I expected they would leave previous to my again coming up the river.



CHAPTER FIFTY.

AN ADVENTURE WHICH AT FIRST PROMISED TO BE THE MOST UNFORTUNATE, AND EVENTUALLY PROVED THE MOST FORTUNATE IN MY LIFE.

As Sir James O'Connor would have to remain at least a fortnight longer at Chatham, until his ship was paid off, I made Lady O'Connor promise to write to me, and then started for Deal. I found Bramble and Bessy as usual delighted to see me, and Mrs Maddox was as talkative as ever. I received a letter from Lady O'Connor, and also one from Dr Tadpole, written at the request of my father, informing me that by a letter from Mrs St. Felix there was little prospect of her return to Greenwich. I had not been a week at Deal when a large ship dropped her anchor in the Downs, and made the signal for a pilot.

"Well, Tom," said Bramble, "I think I shall take a turn now, for I want to go up and see old Anderson."

"I will take her through, if you please, father; and you may go as a passenger. You don't want money, and I do."

"All's right, Tom;—well, then, I'll go as a passenger, and you shall be pilot."

"Why must you go at all, father? Why not go to Greenwich by the stage?" exclaimed Bessy. "When will you leave off, my dear father? Surely you've enough now, and might let Tom go without you."

"Quite enough money, but not quite enough of the salt water yet, Bessy," replied Bramble; "and when I do travel, I won't go by land, when I can sail under canvas."

"Well, you may go this time, father, but this is the last: if you won't leave off, I will not stay here, that's positive; so when you come on shore some fine day, you may expect to find me absent without leave."

"Very well; then I'll send Tom to look after you: he'll soon bring you back again."

"Tom! he wouldn't take the trouble to look after me."

"Very true," replied I: "every woman who requires looking after is not worth the trouble; but I've no fear but we shall find you when we come back."

"Tom, I hate you," replied Bessy. "Why do you not join me in persuading father to stay on shore?"

"Well, if you hate me, Bessy, it proves, at all events, that I'm not indifferent to you," said I, laughing; "but really and truly, Bessy, I do not consider there is any very great risk in your father going up the river with me, as he will be in smooth water before dark."

"Well, but, allowing that, why should father go at all?"

"I want to see old Anderson, my love," replied Bramble, taking his pipe out of his mouth.

"Yes, and if you once begin again, you'll not leave off—I know it well: you will never come home except to get clean linen, and be off again; and I shall be in a constant state of alarm and misery. How selfish of you, father! You had better by far have left me to drown on the Goodwin Sands—it would have been more kind," replied Bessy, weeping.

"Bessy," said Bramble, "it's my opinion that you are in love."

"In love!" cried Bessy, colouring to her throat.

"Yes, in love, my dear, or you would not talk such nonsense."

"If loving you as my father is being in love, I am, unfortunately."

"That's only half of the story; now give us the other," said Bramble, smiling.

"What do you mean?" inquired Bessy, turning to him.

"Why, how do you love Tom?"

"Not half so much as I love her," said I.

"Well, if that's the case," replied Bramble, "we may as well publish the banns; for Bessy's in love right over the ankles."

"Father, this may be very pleasant mockery; but I think it is not kind to breed ill-will between those who live under the same roof. Now you may go away; and if the knowledge that you have made me unhappy will add to the pleasure of your journey, I can assure you that you have succeeded." Bessy having said this, immediately left the room and went upstairs.

"Well," said Bramble, after a pause, "I'm glad that I never was in love; for people so situated do make themselves very silly, that's a fact. Tom, if you're going, it's time to be off."

"Why—" replied I, hesitatingly.

"I know—but I tell you, Tom, no such thing. She'll have a good cry, and then she'll come down as well as ever. Leave her alone till we come back."

Bramble and I then left the cottage, jumped into the galley, and were soon on board of the ship.

On our arrival on board we found that the vessel was a Dutch Indiaman, which had been captured by one of our cruisers on her voyage home from Java. She was laden very deeply with cinnamon, nutmegs, cloves, and other spices, besides pepper, and was valued at four hundred thousand pounds sterling. She had come home from the island of St. Helena, with convoy, and was now proceeding up the river, to be given in charge of the prize agents in London. Not only her hold, but even her main deck, as far aft as the main-mast, was filled up with her cargo; in short, she was a very valuable prize, and although when I came on board the pepper made me sneeze for ten minutes, the officer in charge told me very truly that she was a prize "not to be sneezed at." She was manned by a lieutenant and eighteen men belonging to the frigate which had captured her—hardly sufficient for so large a vessel, but no more could be spared.

"We'll up anchor as soon as you please, pilot," said the lieutenant, "for I shall not be sorry to get rid of my charge, I assure you."

"I don't doubt you, sir," replied Bramble. "Well, you've not much farther to go."

We weighed with the young flood; the weather was fine, but, as usual at that time of the year, thick fogs prevailed. We had, however, a leading wind, and had well rounded the North Foreland, and entered the Queen's Channel, when it came on very thick.

"Tom, have you the bearings?" said Bramble; "if not, take them at once, for the fog will soon be over the land."

"I have them," replied I, "and we may as well put them down on the log-board:—North Foreland Light Nor'-Nor'-West and a quarter West. Why, we should see the Tongue buoy. Now we'll drop the anchor and furl the sails, if you please, sir—we can do nothing at present." We did so: the fog came on thicker than before, and with it a drizzling rain and wind from the S. At dusk there was no change, or prospect of it. The men went down to supper, and the watch was set. Bramble and I did not turn in: we lay down on the lockers of the cabin, and every now and then went on deck to see how the weather was. About eleven o'clock we were awakened by a noise: we both started up, and went on deck. To our surprise it was full of men—we had been boarded by a French privateer, and they had gained possession of the deck without any alarm being given, for the men who had the watch had sheltered themselves from the rain down the hatchway. As soon as we came up, we were collared and seized.

"Pilot," said Bramble.

"Pilot," said I.

They then asked us in English how many men were on board.

As it was no use concealing the fact, we replied: a portion of the privateer's men then went down, and surprised them all in their beds. In about five minutes they came up again, leading the lieutenant and his men, in their shirts. By the directions of the French captain they were immediately passed over the side into the privateer, and Bramble and I were the only two Englishmen left on board of the ship.

The French captain then asked us if we knew where we were, and whether there was any danger. We replied that we were among the sands, and that it would be difficult to get her out of them with that wind, and impossible until the tide turned.

"When will the tide turn?" said the captain.

"In an hour or less," replied Bramble, appealing to me. I replied in the affirmative.

"Well, then, you will take this vessel clear of the shoals, my men; and if you do not, your lives are worth nothing:—hold pistols to their heads," continued he to the officer, "and the moment that the ship touches, blow their brains out."

Here Bramble, to my astonishment, went on his knees. "Spare our lives," said he, "and we will take the vessel safe to the French coast;" at the same time he gave me a pinch.

"If you do not you shall not live a minute," said the captain (another pinch from Bramble). I now understood him, and I also went down on my knees, and pretended to cry. "We can't take her out if this weather lasts," said I, whimpering. "It's impossible."

"No, no! not if this weather lasts," said Bramble, "but as soon as it changes we will do it."

"Very well, so long as you do it when you can, that is all I ask. Now," said he to the officer he had before addressed, "you'll have twenty men—keep a sharp look-out—and don't lose a moment in getting under weigh as soon as you can."

The captain then returned to the privateer with the rest of the men, leaving the ship in charge of the prizemaster. The privateer was boomed off; but whether she dropped her anchor near to us, or remained under weigh, I could not tell. The men who had held the pistols to our heads now went away with the others to plunder, according to the manners and customs of all privateer's-men, of whatever nation they may happen to be. Bramble and I walked aft.

"Pinned once more, by all that's blue! Well, it can't be helped—but we're not in a French prison yet."

"Why did you go down on your knees to those fellows?" said I, rather sulkily.

"Why, because I wished them to think we were chicken-hearted, and that we should not be watched, and might have a chance—who knows?"

"Two against twenty are heavy odds," replied I.

"That depends upon whether you trust to your head or your arms. It must be head work this time. You see, Tom, we have so far a chance, that we cannot weigh till it clears up—they know that as well as we do. I'm pretty sure it will be thick all to-morrow, and perhaps longer; so you see something may turn up by that time. We are well in, and right in the Channel, for vessels up or down. I say again we are not in a French prison yet. They can't take her out of this—we must do it; and we may run on shore if we like: and I tell you what, Tom, if it wasn't for Bessy, I'd just as soon that my brains should be blown out as that these French fellows should take such a rich prize. Now let's go below—we mustn't be seen talking together too much; but look out sharp, Tom, and watch my motions."

The officer who had charge of the vessel now came on deck, and looked round him: he could speak English sufficient to carry on a conversation. The weather was very thick, and the rain drove down with the wind: he saw that it was impossible that the ship could be moved. He told us that we should have a hundred guineas each and our liberty if we took the ship safe either to Ostend or any French port. We replied that we should be very glad to do so, as it would be ten times as much as we should have received for piloting her up the Thames; and then we went down below. In the meantime the men were sent for on deck, divided into watches, and when the watch was set the others went down below again. After taking a glass or two of wine, for the Frenchmen had soon rummaged out what there was to be drunk in the cabin, Bramble and I returned on deck. We found the Frenchmen in charge of the watch diligent: one was looking out forward, another at the taffrail; the remaining three were walking the deck. Bramble went to the gangway, and I followed him.

"Tom, I see the hatchway grating is on deck—I only wish we once had them all beneath it."

"I only wish we had all but the watch—I'd have a try for it then," replied I.

"No, no, Tom, that wouldn't do; but we must trust to Providence and a sharp look-out. See where you can put your hand upon a crow bar or handspike, in case you want it; but don't touch it. Come, there's nothing to be done in any way just now, so let's go down and take a snooze for an hour or two; and, Tom, if they ask us to drink, drink with them, and pretend to be half fuddled."

We went down again, and found the privateer's-men getting very jolly; but they did not offer us anything to drink, so we laid on some spare sails outside the cabin, and tried to go to sleep, but I could not, for I was very unhappy. I could see no chance of our escape, as nothing but a man-of-war would be likely to interfere and re-capture us. I thought of Virginia and Lady O'Connor, and then I thought of poor Bessy, and having left her in such an unfriendly way, perhaps to remain in a French prison for years. Bramble and I were fully aware that the promises of the prizemaster were only to cajole us, and that once in a French port, had we claimed the fulfilment of them, a kick would have been all which we should, in all probability, receive for our pains.

About one o'clock in the morning I rose and went on deck. The watch had been relieved, the weather also looked brighter, as if it were going to clear up, and I became still more depressed. Bramble soon followed me.

"It's clearing up," said I, "but I don't think it will last."

"Never a bit," replied Bramble; "in half an hour it will be thicker than ever, so now I'll go and call the officer, and tell him he had better get under weigh: that will make him have less suspicion of us."

Bramble did so. The officer came on deck, the men were turned out, and the windlass was manned; for, although so large a vessel, she had no capstan. The men hove in the cable in silence, and were short stay apeak, when, as we had foreseen, it came on thicker than ever. Bramble pointed it out to the officer, who was perfectly satisfied that nothing could be done; the cable was veered out again, and the men sent below.

"We hope you'll think of your promise to us, sir," said Bramble to the officer, as he was going down.

"Yes, I will, I swear," replied he, slapping Bramble on the back.

The morning broke, and the weather continued the same; it was not possible to see ten yards clear of the ship, and, of course, in such weather it was not likely that any other vessels would be attempting to pass through the Channel. At noon it cleared up a little, and the windlass was again manned; but in a short time the fog became thicker than ever. The Frenchmen now became very impatient, but there was no help for it; they walked about the deck, swearing and stamping, and throwing out invectives against the fog and rain as they looked up at it. The night closed in; the men were kept on deck until eleven o'clock, when the flood tide made, and then they were sent down again, as nothing could be done until the ebb. At twelve o'clock the weather became worse, the wind freshened considerably, and veered more to the southward, the rain poured down in torrents, and the men of the watch sheltered themselves down the hatchway. The officer came up on the deck, and called Bramble, who had been down below. Bramble told him, what was very true, that the wind would probably shift and the weather clear up in a few hours, and that we should be able to weigh with the coming down of the ebb. He asked Bramble whether he thought it would blow hard. Bramble could not say, but it would be better that the men should not turn in, as they might be wanted; and that if the fore-topmast staysail was hoisted, she would lie better at her anchor, and in case of parting, he would be able to manage her till sail was set. This advice was followed, and all the men sat up in the cabin drinking, those who had the watch occasionally coming down to refresh themselves.

They gave us a glass of grog each that night, a proof that they had drunk until they were good-natured. Bramble said to me, as we sat down outside, "It will be clear to-morrow morning, Tom, that's sartain—it must be to-night or never. I've been thinking of lowering the quarter boat down, when they are a little more mizzled; they are getting on pretty fast, for Frenchmen haven't the heads for drinking that Englishmen have. Now it pours down beautifully, and here they come down again for shelter."

For three hours we watched; it was then four o'clock, and the men were most of them asleep or more than half drunk. Those of the middle watch came down dripping wet, and called the others to relieve them, but only two of them answered to the call. They who had come down began to drink freely, to warm themselves after their ducking, and by half-past four, except the two men on deck, every Frenchman was either fast asleep or muddled.

"Tom," said Bramble, "now's our time. Slip up on deck, go forward if no one is there, and saw through the cable as quickly as you can; it won't take long, for it's a coir rope. As soon as you have got through two strands out of the three, come aft."

I went on deck, and looked round; I could not see the two men, it was so dark. I then walked forward, and looking well round to see that they were not on the forecastle, I sat down before the windlass and commenced operations. In a couple of minutes I had divided the two strands, and I went aft, where I found Bramble at the binnacle, in which a light was burning.

"I have done it," said I, "and if the wind freshens at all, she will part."

"All's right," said Bramble, "those two fellows are fast asleep under the taffrail, covered up with the trysail, which lies there. Now, Tom, for a bold push: go down once more, and see how they are getting on in the cabin."

I went down: every man was asleep—some on the locker, some with their heads on the table. I came on deck: it rained harder than ever.

"This will be a clearing shower, Tom, depend upon it; and the wind is freshening up again. Now, have you looked out for a hand-spike or crowbar?"

"Yes, I know where there are two."

"Then come with me: we must unship the ladder, and pull it up on deck, and then put on the grating; after that we must take our chance: we may succeed, and we may not—all depends upon their not waking too soon."

We went to the hatchway, cut the cleat-lashings, hauled the ladder on deck, and then put on the grating.

"That will do, Tom, for the present. Now do you take the helm, with a crowbar all ready by your side. I will go forward and cut the cable: if those fellows rouse up while I am forward, you must do your best. I leave you, Tom, because you are more powerful than I am."

"I'll manage them both, never fear," whispered I.

"When she swings, mind you put the helm a-starboard, Tom," said Bramble in my ear.

This was the most nervous part of the whole transaction: the men abaft might wake, and I should have to master them how I could—and even if I did, the scuffle might awake those below, who were not yet secured; although, for a time, it would be difficult for them to get on deck. But fortune favoured us: the cable was severed, the ship swung round, and Bramble returned aft, and took the helm.

"Now is the time to see if I'm a pilot or not, Tom," said he. "I think I can steer her through by compass, now that it's nearly high water— luck's all." It was fortunate that we got the staysail hoisted for us, or we could have made nothing of it.

"It's clearing up fast," said I, as I kept my eyes upon where the men were lying abaft; "and there'll be plenty of wind."

"Yes, and we'll have daylight soon. Tom, I don't want you: I should like you to step aft, and stand over those two chaps; if they wake, knock them senseless—don't kill them, as you can easily bind them while they are stupefied. And, Tom, look about you for some seizings all ready. I wish they would wake, for we are not safe while they are not secure. Put a handspike by me, and, if necessary, I will leave the helm for a minute, and help you: it's better that she should go on shore than they should master us. We're pretty safe now, at all events: I see the land—all's right."

It was now daylight. After this whispering with Bramble, I went aft with a handspike in my hand; and I had not been there more than two minutes when one of the privateer's-men turned the canvas on one side, and looked up. The handspike came down upon his head, and he dropped senseless; but the noise roused up the other, and I dealt him a blow more severe than the first. I then threw down my weapon, and, perceiving the deep-sea lead-line coiled up on the reel, I cut off sufficient, and in a short time had bound them both by the hands and feet. They groaned heavily, and I was afraid that I had killed them; but there was no help for it.

"They are safe," said I, returning to Bramble.

"I thought I heard you, but I did not look round at the time. Half an hour more, Tom, and, even with this wind, we shall be safe—and, Tom, our fortune's made. If they wake below, we must fight hard for it, for we've a right to salvage, my boy—one-eighth of the whole cargo—that's worth fighting for. Depend upon it, they'll be stirring soon; so, Tom, go aft, and drag the trysail here, and put it on the hatchway grating— its weight will prevent their lifting it up in a hurry. If we can only hold our own for twenty minutes longer she is ours, and all right."

As soon as I had stowed the trysail on the hatchway grating, I looked about to see what else I could put on the skylight, which they might also attempt to force up. I could find nothing but the coils of rope, which I piled on; but, while. I was so doing, a pistol was fired at me from below, and the ball passed through the calf of my leg; it was, however, not a wound to disable me, and I bound it up with my handkerchief.

"They're all alive now, Tom, so you must keep your eyes open. However, we're pretty safe—the light vessel is not a mile off. Keep away from the skylight—you had better stand upon the trysail, Tom—you will help to keep the hatchway down, for they are working at it."

Another pistol was now fired at Bramble, which missed him.

"Tom, see if there's no bunting aft, and, if so, just throw some over this part of the skylight, it will blind them, at all events; otherwise I'm just a capital mark for them."

I ran aft, and gathered some flags, which I brought and laid over the skylight, so as to intercept their view of Bramble; but whilst I was so doing another pistol-shot was fired—it passed me, but hit Bramble, taking off one of his fingers.

"That's no miss, but we've got through the worst of it, Tom—I don't think they can see me now—don't put that English ensign on, but hoist it Union downwards. I shall round-to now; there's the men-of-war in the Medway. Why don't the fools look out, and they will see that they can't escape?"

"They've only the stern windows to look out of: the quarter-galleries are boarded up."

"Then, Tom, just look if they have not beat them out, for you know they may climb on deck by them."

It was fortunate that Bramble mentioned this: I went aft with the handspike in my hand, and when I was about to look over, I met face to face a Frenchman, who had climbed out of the starboard quarter-gallery, and was just gaining the deck. A blow with the handspike sent him overboard, and he went astern; but another was following him, and I stood prepared to receive him. It was the officer in command, who spoke English. He paused at the sight of the other man falling overboard and my uplifted handspike; and I said to him, "It's of no use—look at the English men-of-war close to you: if you do not go back to the cabin, and keep your men quiet, when the men-of-war's men come on board we will show you no quarter."

We were now entering the Medway, and the Frenchman perceived that they could not escape, and would only bring mischief on themselves by any further assaults, so he got into the quarter-gallery again, and spoke to his men. As soon as I perceived that he was entering, I ran over to the other side to the larboard quarter-gallery, and there again I found a Frenchman had nearly gained the deck. I levelled the handspike at his head, but he dodged, and returned to the cabin by the way he came; and after that there were no more attempts at recovering the vessel. In five minutes more we were abreast of the Euphrosyne, Sir James O'Connor's frigate, which was now lying, with only her lower masts in, alongside of the hulk. I hailed for assistance, and let fly the fore-topmast staysail sheet, while Bramble rounded the ship to. The boats were sent on board immediately; and as we had not a cable bent, they made the ship fast to the hulk astern of them. We stated our case in few words to the officer; and having ascertained that Sir James O'Connor was on board, requested that we might be sent to the frigate.

"Is it you?" said Sir James, as I came on the gangway; "what is it all about—are you hurt? Come down in the cabin."

Bramble and I followed him down into the cabin, and I stated the whole particulars of the capture and re-capture.

"Excellent—most excellent! I wish you both joy; but first we must have the surgeon here." Sir James rang the bell; and when the surgeon came he went on deck to give orders.

The ball had passed through my leg, so that the surgeon had little to do to me. Bramble's finger was amputated, and in a few minutes we were all right, and Sir James came down again.

"I should say, stay on board till you are able to get about again; but the ship will be paid off to-morrow, so I had better send you up to Chatham directly. You are entitled to salvage if ever men were, for you have earned it gloriously; and I will take care that you are done justice to. I must go now and report the vessel and particulars to the admiral, and the first lieutenant will send you to Chatham in one of the cutters. You'll be in good hands, Tom, for you will have two nurses."

We were taken up to Chatham to the hotel, where we found Lady O'Connor and Virginia very much surprised, as may be imagined, at our being brought there wounded; however, we were neither of us ill enough to go to bed, and had a sitting-room next to theirs.

This recapture made a great deal of noise. At first the agent for the prize wrote down a handsome letter to us, complimenting us upon our behaviour, and stating that he was authorised to present us each with five hundred pounds for our conduct. But Sir James O'Connor answered the letter, informing him that we claimed, and would have, our one-eighth, as entitled to by law, and that he would see us righted. Mr Wilson, whom we employed as our legal adviser, immediately gave the prize agent notice of an action in the Court of Admiralty, and finding we were so powerfully backed, and that he could not help himself, he offered forty thousand pounds, which was one-eighth, valuing the cargo at three hundred and twenty thousand pounds. The cargo proved to be worth more than four hundred thousand pounds, but Mr Wilson advised us to close with the offer, as it was better than litigating the question; so we assented to it, and the money was paid over.

In a fortnight we were both ready to travel again. Sir James O'Connor had remained a week longer than he intended to have done at Chatham on our account. We now took leave of them, and having presented Virginia with five thousand pounds, which I had directed Mr Wilson to settle upon her, we parted, the O'Connors and Virginia for Leamington, and Bramble and I for Deal.



CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

BEING THE LAST CHAPTER, THE READER MAY PRETTY WELL GUESS THE CONTENTS OF IT.

"Tom, do you know that I very often find myself looking about me, and asking myself if all that has happened is true or a dream," said Bramble to me, as we sat inside of the coach to Dover, for there were no other inside passengers but ourselves. "I can't help thinking that great good fortune is as astounding as great calamity. Who would have thought, when I would, in spite of all Bessy's remonstrances, go round in that ship with you, that in the first place we should have been taken possession of by a privateer in the very narrows (he was a bold cruiser, that Frenchman)? After we were captured I said to myself, Bessy must have had a forewarning of what was to happen, or she never would have been, as I thought, so perverse. And since it has turned out so fortunately, I can't help saying how fortunate it was that we did not allow her to persuade us; for had we not both gone, nothing could have been done. Well, I think we may promise Bessy this time when we meet her, that we will not trust ourselves to salt water again in a hurry. What do you think, Tom?"

"No; I think the best thing I can do is to marry, and live on shore," replied I.

"Yes, Tom, that's it. Give me your hand, you don't know how happy you make me; we'll all live together. But where shall we live? for the poor little cottage that I thought quite big enough for us a month ago will not do now."

"We have plenty of time to talk that over, father. I love the cottage for many reasons; although, as you say, it is not large enough now for our means, or future way of living."

"And I love it too, boy; I love to look out of the door and see the spot where my Bessy rescued me from death. God bless her! she is a noble girl, Tom, though I say it who—but I'm not her father, after all, and if I were, I would still say it."

"It is evident, by her letter to you, that she has been most anxious about us. What will she say when she hears we have both been wounded?"

"Ay! it wouldn't have done to have told her that, or she would have set off for Chatham, as sure as we are sitting here."

Here a pause ensued for some time, and we were busied with our own thoughts: the silence was at last broken by me.

"Father," said I, "I should like to ask my father and Peter Anderson to come down to us; they can easily get leave."

"Is it to be present at your wedding, Tom?"

"Exactly—if Bessy will consent."

"Well, I have no doubt of that, Tom; but she will now require a little courting, you know why."

"Why, became all women like it, I suppose."

"No, Tom; it is because she was in love before you were, d'ye understand?—and now that things are all smooth, and you follow her, why, it's natural, I suppose, that she should shy off a little in her turn. You must mind that, Tom; it's a sort of soothing to the mortification of having at one time found herself, as it were, rejected."

"Well, I shan't mind that; it will only serve me right for being such a fool as not to have perceived her value before. But how do you understand women so well, father?"

"Because, Tom, I've been looking on, and not performing, all my life: except in one instance in a long life, I've only been a bystander in the way of courtship and matrimony. Here we are at last, and now for a chaise to Deal. Thank God, we can afford to shorten the time, for Bessy's sake, poor thing!"

We arrived at the cottage: the sound of the wheels had called out not only Bessy and Mrs Maddox, but all the neighbours; for they had heard of our good fortune. Bessy, as soon as she had satisfied herself that it was Bramble and me, went into the cottage again. Once more we entered the humble roof. Bessy flew into her father's arms, and hung weeping on his shoulder.

"Haven't you a kind word to say for Tom?" said Bramble, kissing her as he released himself.

"Does he deserve it, to leave me as he did, laughing at my distress? He had no right to treat me so."

"Indeed, Bessy, you do me injustice. I said at the time that I thought there was no risk, and I certainly did think there was none. Who would have expected a privateer half-way up the Thames, any more than a vessel with twenty men on board could be re-captured by two men?"

"Well, Bessy, you ought to make friends with him, for without his arm, your father would not have been back here quite so soon. He beat down the Frenchmen, one after another, in good style, when they attempted to recover the vessel—that he did, I can tell you, wounded as he was."

"Wounded?" cried Bessy; starting, her eyes running over me to find out where.

"Yes, with a bullet in his leg; I didn't like to say a word about it in the letter. But I suppose if he had been killed you would not have cared?"

"Oh, father!" cried Bessy, as she turned towards me, and I received her in my arms.

Bessy soon recovered her smiles, and thankful for our preservation and good fortune, and satisfied with our mutual affection, we passed a most happy evening. Somehow or another Bramble, having sent Mrs Maddox on a message, found out that it was very sultry indoors, and that he would take his pipe on the beach. He left me alone with Bessy; and now, for the first time, I plainly told her the state of my affections, and asked her to consent to be my wife. I did not plead in vain, as the reader may suppose from what he has already been made acquainted with.

After Bessy had retired, and I was sitting with Bramble, who had his glass of grog and pipe as usual, I made him acquainted with my success.

"All right, Tom," said he, "I'm thankful—and God bless you both."

And had I not reason also to be thankful? When I had retired to my room that night, I thought over the various passages in my life. What might I have been if Providence had not watched over me? When neglected in my youth, in a situation which exposed me to every temptation, had not old Anderson been sent as a guardian to keep me in the right path, to instruct me, and to give me that education, without which my future success might have turned out a disadvantage instead of a source of gratitude? In Bramble, again, I had met with a father, to supply the place of one who was not in a situation to do his duty to me or forward me in life. In old Nanny I had met with a kind friend, one who, at the same time that she would lead me right, was a warning to me from her sufferings. To Mrs St. Felix I was equally indebted, and had I not been permitted to pay the debt of gratitude to both of them? Even my mother's harshness, which appeared at first to my short-sightedness to have been so indefensible, was of great advantage to me, as it had stimulated me to exertion and industry, and pointed out to me the value of independence. Was I not also most fortunate in having escaped front the entanglement of Janet, who, had I married her, would, in all probability, have proved an useless if not a faithless helpmate; and still more so, in finding that there was, as it were, especially reserved for me the affection of such a noble, right-minded creature as Bessy? My life, commenced in rags and poverty, had, by industry and exertion, and the kindness of others, step by step progressed to competence, and every prospect of mundane happiness. Had I not, therefore, reason to be grateful, and to feel that there had been a little cherub who had watched over the life of Poor Jack? On my bended knees I acknowledged it fervently and gratefully, and prayed that, should it please Heaven that I should in after life meet any reverse, I might bear it without repining, and say, with all humility, "Thy will and not mine, O Lord, be done!"

How bright was the next morning, and how cheerful did the dancing waves appear to me!—and Bessy's eyes were radiant as the day, and her smiles followed in rapid succession; and Bramble looked so many years younger— he was almost too happy to smoke—it was really the sunshine of the heart which illumined our cottage. And thus did the few days pass, until Anderson and my father made their appearance. They were both surprised at Bessy's beauty, and told me so: they had heard that she was handsome, but they were not prepared for her uncommon style; for now that her countenance was lighted up with joy, she was indeed lovely.

"Well, Tom," observed my father, "there's only one thing which surprises me."

"What is that?"

"Why, how, with such a fine craft in view, you could ever have sailed in the wake of such a little privateer as—but I must not mention her— never mind, don't answer me that;—but another question—when are you going to be spliced?"

"Very soon, I hope; but I really don't exactly know: all I can say is the sooner the better."

"And so say I. Shall I bring up the subject on the plea of my leave being only for ten days?"

"Yes, father, I wish you would, as it is really a good reason to allege for its taking place immediately."

"Tom, my dear boy," said old Anderson, "from what I can perceive, you have great reason to be thankful in having obtained this young woman for your future partner in life. I admire her exceedingly, and I trust in Heaven that you will be happy."

"I ought to be," replied I, "and grateful also, particularly to you, to whom, under Providence, I am so much indebted."

"If the seed is sown upon good ground, it will always yield a good harvest, Tom. You are a proof of it, so thank Heaven, and not me. I wish to tell you what your father has mentioned to me. The fact is, Tom, he is in what may be called a false position at Greenwich. He is a pensioner, and has now sufficient not to require the charity, and he thinks that he ought not to avail himself of it, now that you have made him independent; but if he leaves the hospital and remains at Greenwich, he and your mother would not agree well together; they are very good friends at a certain distance, but I do not think, with her high notions, that they could ever live together in the same house. He says that he should like to live either with you or near you; and I think myself, now that he is become so very steady a character, it does require your consideration whether you ought not to permit him. He will be a very good companion for Bramble, and they will get on well together. I do not mean to say that it might not be more agreeable if he were to remain at Greenwich, but he is your father, Tom, and you should make some sacrifice for a parent."

"As far as I am concerned, Anderson, I most gladly consent. Bramble is to live with us—that is arranged, and if no objections are raised by others you may be sure of my acceding, and, indeed, if objections should be raised, of persuading all I can."

"You can do no more, Tom," replied Anderson; "nor can more be expected."

This point was very satisfactorily arranged. Bramble and Bessy both gave their cheerful consent, and it was settled that as soon as we had a house to receive him, my father should quit Greenwich, and live with us. The arguments of my father, added to the persuasions of Bramble and me, had their due weight, and on the 13th of September, 1807, Bessy and I exchanged our vows, and I embraced her as my own.