CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
RELATES TO LOVE, CROSS PURPOSES AND MISTAKES, ETCETERA.
Storms may rage, orphans and widows may weep, but the world must notpause in its regular routine of business and of pleasure. This isnatural and right. It was not intended that men should walk perpetuallyin sackcloth and ashes because of the sorrows that surround them. Butequally true is it that they were never meant to shut their eyes andears to those woes, and dance and sing through life heedlessly, as fartoo many do until some thunderbolt falls on their own hearts, and bringsthe truth home.
The command is twofold: "Weep with those that weep, and rejoice withthose that do rejoice."
Come then, reader, let us visit good Mrs Foster, and rejoice with heras she sits at her tea-table contemplating her gallant son with amother's pride. She has some reason to be proud of him. Guy has justreceived the gold medal awarded him by the Lifeboat Institution. Baxand Tommy have also received their medals, and all three are taking teawith the widow on the occasion. Lucy Burton and Amy Russell are theretoo, but both of these young ladies are naturally much more taken upwith Tommy's medal than with those of Guy or of Bax!
And well they may be, for never a breast, large or small, was moreworthy of the decoration it supported.
"My brave boy," said the widow, referring to Tommy, and taking him bythe arm as he sat beside her, but looking, irresistibly, at her son, "itwas a noble deed. If I had the giving of medals I would have made yourstwice the size, with a diamond in the middle of it."
"What a capital idea!" said Lucy, with a silvery laugh, that obliged herto display a double row of brilliant little teeth.
"A coral ring set with pearls would be finer, don't you think?" saidGuy, gravely.
Tommy grinned and said that that was a toothy remark!
Lucy blushed, and said laughingly, that she thought Mrs Foster's ideabetter, whereupon the widow waxed vainglorious, and tried to suggestsome improvements.
Guy, fearing that he had been presumptuous in paying this slycompliment, anxiously sought to make amends by directing most of hisconversation to Amy.
Bax, who was unusually quiet that evening, was thus left to make himselfagreeable to Lucy. But he found it hard work, poor fellow. It wasquite evident that he was ill at ease.
On most occasions, although habitually grave, Bax was hearty, and hadalways plenty to say without being obtrusive in his conversation.Moreover, his manners were good, and his deportment unconstrained andeasy. But when he visited the widow's cottage he became awkward anddiffident, and seemed to feel great difficulty in carrying onconversation. During the short time he had been at Deal since the wreckof the "Nancy," he had been up at the cottage every day on one errand oranother, and generally met the young ladies either in the house or inthe garden.
Could it be that Bax was in love? There was no doubt whatever of thefact in his own mind; but, strange to say, no one else suspected it.His character was grave, simple, and straightforward. He did not assumeany of those peculiar airs by which young men make donkeys of themselveswhen in this condition! He feared, too, that it might be interferingwith the hopes of his friend Guy, whose affections, he had latterly beenled to suspect, lay in the same direction with his own. This made himvery circumspect and modest in his behaviour. Had he been quite sure ofthe state of Guy's heart he would have retired at once, for it neveroccurred to him for a moment to imagine that the girl whom Guy lovedmight not love Guy, and might, possibly, love himself.
Be this as it may, Bax resolved to watch his friend that night closely,and act according to the indications given. Little did poor Guy knowwhat a momentous hour that was in the life of his friend, and theimportance of the part he was then performing.
Bax rose to go sooner than usual.
"You are very kind, ma'am," he said, in reply to Mrs Foster'sremonstrances; "I have to visit an old friend to-night, and as it isprobable I may never see him again, I trust you'll excuse my going soearly."
Mrs Foster was obliged to acquiesce. Bax shook hands hurriedly, butvery earnestly, with each of the party, and quitted the cottage incompany with Guy.
"Come, Guy, let us walk over the sandhills."
"A strange walk on so dark a night; don't you think it would be morecheerful on the beach?"
"So it would, so it would," said Bax, somewhat hastily, "but I want tobe alone with you, and we're likely to meet some of our chums on thebeach. Besides, I want to have a quiet talk, and to tell yesomething.--You're in love, Guy."
Bax said this so abruptly that his friend started, and for a few secondswas silent. Then, with a laugh, he replied--
"Well, Bax, you've a blunt way of broaching a subject, but, now that youput the thing to me, I feel inclined to believe that I am. You're asharper fellow than I gave you credit for, to have found me out sosoon."
"It needs but little sharpness to guess that when two young folk arethrown much together and find each other agreeable, they're likely tofall in love."
Bax's voice sank to its deepest tones; he felt that his hopes had nowreceived their deathblow, and in spite of himself he faltered. With amighty effort he crushed down the feeling, and continued in a tone offorced gaiety--
"Come, I'm rejoiced at your good luck, my boy; she's one of a thousand,Guy."
"So she is," said Guy, "but I'm not so sure of my good luck as you seemto be; for I have not yet ventured to speak to her on the subject oflove."
"No?" exclaimed Bax in surprise, "that's strange."
"Why so?" said Guy.
"Because you've had lots of time and opportunity, lad."
"True," said Guy, "I have had enough of both, but some folk are not sobold and prompt as others in this curious matter of love."
"Ah, very true," observed Bax, "some men do take more time than others,and yet it seems to me that there has been time enough for a sharpfellow like you to have settled that question. However, I've no doubtmyself of the fact that she loves you, Guy, and I do call that uncommongood luck."
"Well, it may seem a vain thing to say, but I do fancy that she likes mea bit," said the other, in a half jocular tone.
The two friends refrained from mentioning the name of the fair one. Theheart and mind of each was filled with one object, but each felt astrange disinclination to mention her name.
"But it seems to me," continued Guy, "that instead of wanting to tell mesomething, as you said, when you brought me out for a walk in thisdreary waste of furze and sand at such a time of night, your real objectwas to pump me!"
"Not so," replied Bax, in a tone so deep and sad as to surprise hisfriend; "I brought you here because the lonely place accords with myfeelings to-night. I have made up my mind to go to Australia."
Guy stopped abruptly. "You jest, Bax," said he.
"I am in earnest," replied the other, "and since I have forced myselfinto your confidence, I think it but fair to give you mine. The causeof my going is love! Yes, Guy, I too am in love, but alas! my love isnot returned; it is hopeless."
"Say not so," began Guy, earnestly; but his companion went on withoutnoticing the interruption.
"The case is a peculiar one," said he. "I have known the sweet girllong enough to know that she does not love me, and that she _does_ loveanother man. Moreover, _I_ love that man too. He is my friend; so, thelong and the short of it is, I'm going to up-anchor, away to thegold-fields, and leave the coast clear to him."
"This must not be, Bax; you may be wrong in supposing your casehopeless. May I ask her name?"
"Forgive me, Guy, I _must_ not mention it," said Bax.
It is not necessary to weary the reader with the variety of argumentswith which Guy plied his friend in order to turn him from his purpose,as they wandered slowly over the sandhills together. He wasunsuccessful in his efforts to arouse hope in the bosom of his friend,or to induce him to suspend his determination for a time. Nor was hemore fortunate in attempting to make Bax say who was the friend--forwhom he was about to make so great a sacrifice,--little
suspecting thatit was himself!
"Now," said Bax, after having firmly resisted his companion's utmostefforts, "I want you to leave me here alone. I may seem to you to beobstinate and ungracious to-night" (he stopped and seized Guy's hand),"but, believe me, I am not so. My heart is terribly down, and you knowI'm a rough matter-of-fact fellow, not given to be sentimental, so Ican't speak to you as I would wish on this subject; but wherever I maygo in this world, I will never cease to pray for God's blessing on youand yours, Guy."
"I like to hear you say that, Bax," returned the other; "it will rejoicemy heart to think that love for me will be the means of taking you oftento the throne of God."
"You're a good fellow, Guy; perhaps what you have often said to me hasnot been thrown away as much as you suppose. Come, now, instead of youhaving to urge the subject on me, I'll ask you to give me a text.Supposing that you and I were parting _to-night_ for the last time, andthat I were going off to Australia _to-morrow_, what would you say to mein the way of advice and encouragement?"
Guy paused thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, "Delight thyself inthe Lord, trust also in Him, and He will give thee the desires of thineheart."
"Thank 'ee, lad, I'll not forget the words," said Bax, wringing hisfriend's hand.
"Perhaps I'll think of another and more suitable text when the time forparting really comes," said Guy, sadly. "Good-night, Bax; mind you comeup to the cottage to-morrow, and let me know your plans."
"I shall be busy to-morrow, but I'll write," said Bax, as his friendleft him. "Ay," he added, "there goes a real Christian, and atrue-hearted friend. Ah's me! I'll never see him more!"
Bax wandered slowly and without aim over the dark waste for some time.Almost unintentionally he followed the path that led past the Checkersof the Hope. A solitary light burned in one of the lower windows of theold inn, but no sound of revelry issued from its doors. Leaving itbehind him, Bax soon found himself standing within a few yards of thetombstone of the ill-fated Mary whose name he bore.
"Poor thing, 'twas a sad fate!" he murmured, as he contemplated thegrave of the murdered girl, who had been a cousin of his owngrandfather. "Poor Mary, you're at rest now, which is more than I am."
For some minutes Bax stood gazing dreamily at the grave which was barelyvisible in the faint light afforded by a few stars that shone throughthe cloudy sky. Suddenly he started, and every fibre of his strongframe was shaken with horror as he beheld the surface of the grave move,and saw, or fancied he saw, a dim figure raise itself partially from theearth.
Bax was no coward in any sense of that word. Many brave men there arewho, although quite fearless in regard to danger and death, are the mostarrant cowards in the matter of superstition, and could be made to fleebefore a mere fancy. But our hero was not one of these. His mind wasstrong, like his body, and well balanced. He stood his ground andprepared to face the matter out. He would indeed have been more thanhuman if such an unexpected sight, in such circumstances, had failed tohorrify him, but the effect of the shock soon passed away.
"Who comes here to disturb me?" said a weak voice that evidentlybelonged to this ghost.
"Hallo! Jeph, is that you?" exclaimed Bax, springing forward and gazinginto the old man's face.
"Ay, it's me, and I'm sorry you've found me out, for I like to be letalone in my grief."
"Why, Jeph, you don't need to be testy with your friend. I'll quit yethis moment if you bid me; but I think you might find a warmer and morefitting bed for your old bones than poor Mary Bax's grave. Come, let mehelp you up."
Bax said this so kindly, that old Jeph's temporary anger at having beendiscovered passed away.
"Well, well," said he, "the only two people who have found me out arethe two I like best, so it don't much matter."
"Indeed," exclaimed the young man in surprise, "who is number two,Jeph?"
"Tommy Bogey. He found me here on the night when Long Orrick was chasedby Supple Jim."
"Strange, he never told me about it," said Bax.
"'Cause I told him to hold his tongue," replied Jeph, "and Tommy's agood fellow and knows how to shut his mouth w'en a friend asks him to--as I now ask you, Bax, for I don't want people know that I come hereevery night."
"What! do you come here _every_ night?" cried Bax in surprise.
"Ay, every night, fair weather and foul; I've been used to both for along time now, and I'm too tough to be easily damaged."
"But why do you this, Jeph? You are not mad! If you were, I couldunderstand it."
"No matter, no matter," said the old man, turning to gaze at thetombstone before quitting the place. "Some people are fond of havingsecrets. I've got one, and I like to keep it."
"Well, I won't try to pump it out of you, my old friend. Moreover, Ihaven't got too much time to spare. I meant to go straight to yourhouse to-night, Jeph, to tell you that I'm off to Australia to-morrow bypeep o' day."
"Australia!" exclaimed Jeph, with a perplexed look in his old face.
"Ay, the blue peter's at the mast-head and the anchor tripped."
Here Bax related to his old comrade what he had previously told to Guy.At first Jeph shook his head, but when the young sailor spoke of lovebeing the cause of his sudden departure, he made him sit down on thegrave, and listened earnestly.
"So, so, Bax," he said, when the latter had concluded, "you're quitesure she's fond o' the other feller, are ye?"
"Quite. I had it from his own lips. At least he told me he's fond of_her_, and I could see with my own eyes she's fond of _him_."
"Poor lad," said Jeph, patting his friend's shoulder as if he had been achild, "you're quite right to go. I know what love is. You'll neverget cured in _this_ country; mayhap foreign air'll do it. I refused totell you what made me come out here lad; but now that I knows how thewind blows with _you_, I don't mind if I let ye into my secret. Love!ay, it's the old story; love has brought me here night after night sinceever I was a boy."
"Love!" exclaimed his companion; "love of whom?"
"Why, who should it be but the love o' the dear girl as lies under thissod?" said the old man, putting his hand affectionately on the grave."Ay, you may well look at me in wonderment, but I wasn't always thewrinkled old man I am now. I was a good-lookin' lad once, though Idon't look like it now. When poor Mary was murdered I was nineteen. Iwon't tell ye how I loved that dear girl. Ye couldn't understand me.When she was murdered by that"--(he paused abruptly for a moment, andthen resumed)--"when she was murdered, I thought I should have gone mad.I _was_ mad, I believe, for a time; but when I came back here to stay,after wanderin' in foreign parts for many years, I took to comin' to thegrave at nights. At first I got no good. I thought my heart wouldburst altogether, but at last the Lord sent peace into my soul. I beganto think of her as an angel in heaven, and now the sweetest hours of mylife are spent on this grave. Poor Mary! She was gentle and kind,especially to the poor and the afflicted. She took a great interest inthe ways and means we had for savin' people from wrecks, and used oftento say it was a pity they couldn't get a boat made that would neitherupset nor sink in a storm. She had read o' some such contrivancesomewhere, for she was a great reader. Ever since that time I've bintrying, in my poor way, to make something o' the sort, but I've notmanaged it yet. I like to think she would have been pleased to see meat it."
Old Jeph stopped at this point, and shook his head slowly. Then hecontinued--
"I find that as long as I keep near this grave my love for Mary can'tdie, and I don't want it to. But that's why I think you're right to goabroad. It won't do for a man like you to go moping through life as Ihave done. Mayhap there's some truth in the sayin', Out o' sight out o'mind."
"Ah's me!" said Bax; "isn't it likely that there may be some truth tooin the words o' the old song, `Absence makes the heart grow fonder.'But you're right, Jeph, it wouldn't do for _me_ to go moping throughlife as long as there's work to do. Besides, old boy, there's plenty of_this_ sort o' thing to be done; and I'll d
o it better now that I don'thave anybody in particular to live for."
Bax said this with reckless gaiety, and touched the medal awarded to himby the Lifeboat Institution, which still hung on his breast where it hadbeen fastened that evening by Lucy Burton.
The two friends rose and returned together to Jeph's cottage, where Baxmeant to remain but a few minutes, to leave sundry messages to variousfriends. He was shaking hands with the old man and bidding himfarewell, when the door was burst open and Tommy Bogey rushed into theroom. Bax seized the boy in his arms, and pressed him to his breast.
"Hallo! I say, is it murder ye're after, or d'ye mistake me for a polarbear?" cried Tommy, on being put down; "wot a hug, to be sure! Luckyfor me that my timbers ain't easy stove in. Wot d'ye mean by it?"
Bax laughed, and patted Tommy's head. "Nothin', lad, only I feel as ifI should ha' bin your mother."
"Well, I won't say ye're far out," rejoined the boy, waggishly, "for Ido think ye're becomin' an old wife. But, I say, what can be wrong withGuy Foster? He came back to the cottage a short while ago lookin' quiteglum, and shut himself up in his room, and he won't say what's wrong, soI come down here to look for you, for I knew I'd find ye with old Jephor Bluenose."
"Ye're too inquisitive," said Bax, drawing Tommy towards him, andsitting down on a chair, so that the boy's face might be on a level withhis. "No doubt Guy will explain it to you in the morning. I say,Tommy, I have sometimes wondered whether I could depend on thefriendship which you so often profess for me."
The boy's face flushed, and he looked for a moment really hurt.
"Tutts, Tommy, you're gettin' thin-skinned. I do but jest."
"Well, jest or no jest," said the boy, not half pleased, "you know verywell that nothing could ever make me turn my back on _you_."
"Are you sure?" said Bax, smiling. "Suppose, now, that I was to dosomething very bad to you, something unkind, or that _looked_ unkind--what then?"
"In the first place you couldn't do that, and, in the second place, ifyou did I'd like you just as well."
"Ay, but suppose," continued Bax, in a jocular strain, "that what I didwas _very_ bad."
"Well, let's hear what you call very bad."
Bax paused as if to consider, then he said: "Suppose, now, that I wereto go off suddenly to some far part of the world for many years withoutso much as saying good-bye to ye, what would you think?"
"I'd find out where you had gone to, and follow you, and pitch into youwhen I found you," said Tommy stoutly.
"Ay, but I did not ask what you'd do; I asked what you'd think?"
"Why, I would think something had happened to prevent you lettin' meknow, but I'd never think ill of you," replied Tommy.
"I believe you, boy," said Bax, earnestly. "But come, enough o' thisidle talk. I want you to go up to the cottage with a message to Guy.Tell him not to speak to any one to-night or to-morrow about what I saidto him when we were walking on the sandhills; and be off, lad, as fastas you can, lest he should let it out before you get there."
"Anything to do with smugglers?" inquired the boy, with a knowing look,as they stood outside the door.
"Why, n-no, not exactly."
"Well, good-night, Bax; good-night, old Jeph."
Tommy departed, and the two men stood alone.
"God bless the lad. You'll be kind to him, Jeph, when I'm away?"
"Trust me, Bax," said the old man, grasping his friend's hand.
Without another word, Bax turned on his heel, and his tall, stalwartfigure was quickly lost to view in the dark shadows of the night.