bloom and the cuckoo was singing in the trees, he passed peacefully to
his Rest. Just before death he recovered speech and consciousness; but
the chief thing he said was that he left his love to Jack.
After the funeral the will was opened. It had not been touched
since that long past year when Jack had gone away to sea. Out of the
eight-hundred a year descended from their mother, Jack had a hundred
and fifty; Herbert the rest. Aunt Dean made a hideous frown for once in
her life; a hundred and fifty pounds a year for Jack, was only, as she
looked upon it, so much robbery on Herbert and Alice. Out of the little
money saved by the Rector, five hundred pounds were left to his sister,
Rebecca Dean; the rest was to be divided equally between Herbert and
Jack; and his furniture and effects went to Herbert. On the whole, Aunt
Dean was tolerably satisfied.
She was a woman who liked strictly to keep up appearances, and she made
a move to leave the young parson at the end of a week or two's time, and
go back to Liverpool. Herbert did not detain her. His own course was
uncertain until a fresh Rector should be appointed. The living was in
the gift of a neighbouring baronet, and it was fancied by some that he
might give it to Herbert. One thing did surprise Mrs. Dean; angered
her too: that Herbert had not made his offer to Alice before their
departure. Now that he had his own fortune at command, there was no
necessity to wait for a living.
News greeted them on their arrival. The _Rose of Delhi_ was on her way
home once more, with John Tanerton in command. Captain Druce had been
left behind at Calcutta, dangerously ill. Alice's colour came and went.
She looked out for the homeward-bound vessels passing upwards, and felt
quite sick with anxiety lest Jack should fail in any way, and never
bring home the ship at all.
"The _Rose of Delhi_, Captain Tanerton." Alice Dean cast her eyes on the
shipping news in the morning paper, and read the announcement amidst the
arrivals. Just for an instant her sight left her.
"Mamma," she presently said, quietly passing over the newspaper, "the
_Rose of Delhi_ is in."
"The _Rose of Delhi_, Captain Tanerton," read Mrs. Dean. "The idea of
their sticking in Jack's name as captain! He will have to go down again
as soon as Captain Druce returns. A fine captain I dare say he has
made!"
"At least he has brought the ship home safely and quickly," Alice
ventured to say. "It must have passed after dark last night."
"Why after dark?"
Alice did not reply--Because I was watching till daylight faded--which
would have been the truth. "Had it passed before, some of us might have
seen it, mamma."
The day was waning before Jack came up. Captain Tanerton. Jack was never
to go back again to his chief-mateship, as Aunt Dean had surmised, for
the owners had given him permanent command of the _Rose of Delhi_. The
last mail had brought news from Captain Druce that he should never be
well enough for the command again, and the owners were only too glad to
give it to the younger and more active man. Officers and crew alike
reported that never a better master sailed than Jack had proved himself
on this homeward voyage.
"Don't you think I have been very lucky on the whole, Aunt Dean? Fancy a
young fellow like me getting such a beautiful ship as that!"
"Oh, very lucky," returned Aunt Dean.
Jack looked like a captain too. He was broad and manly, with an
intelligent, honest, handsome face, and the quick keen eye of a sailor.
Jack was particular in his attire too: and some sailors are not so: he
dressed as a gentleman when on shore.
"Only a hundred and fifty left to me!" cried Jack, when he was told the
news. "Well, perhaps Herbert may require more than I, poor fellow," he
added in his good nature; "he may not get a good living, and then he'll
be glad of it. I shall be sure to do well now I've got the ship."
"You'll be at sea always, Jack, and will have no use for money," said
Mrs. Dean.
"Oh, I don't know about having no use for it, Aunt. Anyway, my father
thought it right to leave it so, and I am content. I wish I could have
said farewell to him before he died!"
A few more days, and Aunt Dean was thrown on her beam-ends at a
worse angle than ever the _Rose of Delhi_ hoped to be. Jack and Alice
discussed matters between themselves, and the result was disclosed to
her. They were going to be married.
It was Alice who told her. Jack had just left, and she and her mother
were sitting together in the summer twilight. At first Mrs. Dean thought
Alice was joking: she was like a mad woman when she found it true. Her
great dream had never foreshadowed this.
"How dare you attempt to think of so monstrous a thing, you wicked girl?
Marry your own brother-in-law!--it would be no better. It is Herbert
that is to be your husband."
Alice shook her head with a smile. "Herbert would not have me, mamma;
nor would I have him. Herbert will marry Grace Coney."
"Who?" cried Mrs. Dean.
"Grace Coney. They have been in love with each other ever so many years.
I have known it all along. He will marry her as soon as his future is
settled. I had promised to be one of the bridesmaids, but I suppose I
shall not have the chance now."
"Grace Coney--that beggarly girl!" shrieked Mrs. Dean. "But for her
uncle's giving her shelter she must have turned out in the world when
her father died and earned her living how she could. She is not a lady.
She is not Herbert's equal."
"Oh yes, she is, mamma. She is a very nice girl and will make him a
perfect wife. Herbert would not exchange her for the richest lady in the
land."
"If Herbert chooses to make a spectacle of himself, you never shall!"
cried poor Mrs. Dean, all her golden visions fast melting into air. "I
would see that wicked Jack Tanerton at the bottom of the sea first."
"Mother, dear, listen to me. Jack and I have cared for each other for
years and years, and we should neither of us marry any one else. There
is nothing to wait for; Jack is as well off as he will be for years to
come: and--and we have settled it so, and I hope you will not oppose
it."
It was a cruel moment for Aunt Dean. Her love for other people had been
all pretence, but she did love her daughter. Besides that, she was
ambitious for her.
"I can never let you marry a sailor, Alice. Anything but that."
"It was you who made Jack a sailor, mother, and there's no help for it,"
said Alice, in low tones. "I would rather he had been anything else in
the world. I should have liked him to have had land and farmed it. We
should have done well. Jack had his four hundred a year clear, you know.
At least, he ought to have had it. Oh, mother, don't you see that while
you have been plotting against Jack you have plotted against me?"
Aunt Dean felt sick with memories that were crowding upon her. The
mistake she had made was a frightful one.
"You cannot join your fate to Jack's, Alice," she repeated, wringing her
hands. "A sailor's wife is too liable to be made a widow."
"I know it, mother. I shall share his danger, for I am going out in the
_Rose of Delhi_. The owners have consented, and Jack is fitting up a
lovely little cabin for me that is to be my own saloon."
"My daughter sail over the seas in a merchant ship!" gasped Aunt Dean.
"Never!"
"I should be no true wife if I could let my husband sail without me.
Mother, it is you alone who have carved out our destiny. Better have
left it to God."
In a startled way, her heart full of remorse, she was beginning to see
it; and she sat down, half fainting, on a chair.
"It is a miserable prospect, Alice."
"Mother, we shall get on. There's the hundred and fifty a year certain,
you know. That we shall put by; and, as long as I sail with him, a good
deal more besides. Jack's pay is settled at twenty pounds a month, and
he will make more by commission: perhaps as much again. Have no fear for
us on that score. Jack has been unjustly deprived of his birthright; and
I think sometimes that perhaps as a recompense Heaven will prosper him."
"But the danger, Alice! The danger of a sea-life!"
"Do you know what Jack says about the danger, mother? He says God is
over us on the sea as well as on land and will take care of those who
put their trust in Him. In the wildest storm I will try to let that
great truth help me to feel peace."
Alas for Aunt Dean! Arguments slipped away from her hands just as her
plans had slipped from them. In her bitter repentance, she lay on the
floor of her room that night and asked God to have pity upon her, for
her trouble seemed greater than she could bear.
The morning's post brought news from Herbert. He was made Rector of
Timberdale. Aunt Dean wrote back, telling him what had taken place, and
asking, nay, almost commanding, that he should restore an equal share
of the property to Jack. Herbert replied that he should abide by his
stepfather's will. The living of Timberdale was not a rich one, and he
wished Grace, his future wife, to be comfortable. "Herbert was always
intensely selfish," groaned Aunt Dean. Look on which side she would,
there was no comfort.
The _Rose of Delhi_, Captain Tanerton, sailed out of port again,
carrying also with her Mrs. Tanerton, the captain's wife. And Aunt Dean
was left to bemoan her fate, and wish she had never tried to shape out
other people's destinies. Better, as Alice said, that she had left that
to God.
VIII.
GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL.
We had to make a rush for it. And making a rush did not suit the Squire,
any more than it does other people who have come to an age when the
body's heavy and the breath nowhere. He reached the train, pushed
head-foremost into a carriage, and then remembered the tickets. "Bless
my heart?" he exclaimed, as he jumped out again, and nearly upset a lady
who had a little dog in her arms, and a mass of fashionable hair on her
head, that the Squire, in his hurry, mistook for tow.
"Plenty of time, sir," said a guard who was passing. "Three minutes to
spare."
Instead of saying he was obliged to the man for his civility, or
relieved to find the tickets might still be had, the Squire snatched out
his old watch, and began abusing the railway clocks for being slow. Had
Tod been there he would have told him to his face that the watch was
fast, braving all retort, for the Squire believed in his watch as he did
in himself, and would rather have been told that _he_ could go wrong
than that the watch could. But there was only me: and I wouldn't have
said it for anything.
"Keep two back-seats there, Johnny," said the Squire.
I put my coat on the corner furthest from the door, and the rug on the
one next to it, and followed him into the station. When the Squire
was late in starting, he was apt to get into the greatest flurry
conceivable; and the first thing I saw was himself blocking up the
ticket-place, and undoing his pocket-book with nervous fingers. He had
some loose gold about him, silver too, but the pocket-book came to his
hand first, so he pulled it out. These flurried moments of the Squire's
amused Tod beyond everything; he was so cool himself.
"Can you change this?" said the Squire, drawing out one from a roll of
five-pound notes.
"No, I can't," was the answer, in the surly tones put on by
ticket-clerks.
How the Squire crumpled up the note again, and searched in his breeches
pocket for gold, and came away with the two tickets and the change, I'm
sure he never knew. A crowd had gathered round, wanting to take their
tickets in turn, and knowing that he was keeping them flurried him all
the more. He stood at the back a moment, put the roll of notes into his
case, fastened it and returned it to the breast of his over-coat, sent
the change down into another pocket without counting it, and went out
with the tickets in hand. Not to the carriage; but to stare at the big
clock in front.
"Don't you see, Johnny? exactly four minutes and a half difference," he
cried, holding out his watch to me. "It is a strange thing they can't
keep these railway clocks in order."
"My watch keeps good time, sir, and mine is with the railway. I think it
is right."
"Hold your tongue, Johnny. How dare you! Right? You send your watch to
be regulated the first opportunity, sir; don't _you_ get into the habit
of being too late or too early."
When we finally went to the carriage there were some people in it, but
our seats were left for us. Squire Todhetley sat down by the further
door, and settled himself and his coats and his things comfortably,
which he had been too flurried to do before. Cool as a cucumber was
he, now the bustle was over; cool as Tod could have been. At the other
door, with his face to the engine, sat a dark, gentleman-like man of
forty, who had made room for us to pass as we got in. He had a large
signet-ring on one hand, and a lavender glove on the other. The other
three seats opposite to us were vacant. Next to me sat a little man with
a fresh colour and gold spectacles, who was already reading; and beyond
him, in the corner, face to face with the dark man, was a lunatic.
That's to mention him politely. Of all the restless, fidgety, worrying,
hot-tempered passengers that ever put themselves into a carriage to
travel with people in their senses, he was the worst. In fifteen moments
he had made as many darts; now after his hat-box and things above his
head; now calling the guard and the porters to ask senseless questions
about his luggage; now treading on our toes, and trying the corner seat
opposite the Squire, and then darting back to his own. He wore a wig of
a decided green tinge, the effect of keeping, perhaps, and his skin was
dry and shrivelled as an Egyptian mummy's.
A servant, in undress livery, came to the door, and touched his hat,
which had a cockade on it, as he spoke to the dark man.
"Your ticket, my lord."
Lords are not travelled with every day, and some of us looked up. The
gentleman took the ticket from the man's hand and slipped it into his
waistcoat pocket.
"You can get me a newspaper, Wilkins. The _Times_, if it is to be had."
"Yes, my lord."
"Yes, there's room here, ma'am," interrupted the guard, sending the door
back for a lady who stood at it. "Make haste, please."
The lady who stepped in was the same the Squire had bolted against.
She sat down in the seat opposite me, and looked at every one of us by
turns. There was a sort of violet bloom on her face and some soft white
powder, seen plain enough through her veil. She took the longest gaze at
the dark gentleman, bending a little forward to do it; for, as he was in
a line with her, and also had his head turned from her, her curiosity
could only catch a view of his side-face. Mrs. Todhetley might have
said she had not put on her company manners. In the midst of this, the
man-servant came back again.
"The _Times_ is not here yet, my lord. They are expecting the papers in
by the next down-train."
"Never mind, then. You can get me one at the next station, Wilkins."
"Very well, my lord."
Wilkins must certainly have had to scramble for his carriage, for we
started before he had well left the door. It was not an express-train,
and we should have to stop at several stations. Where the Squire and I
had been staying does not matter; it has nothing to do with what I have
to tell. It was a long way from our own home, and that's saying enough.
"Would you mind changing seats with me, sir?"
I looked up, to find the lady's face close to mine; she had spoken in
a half-whisper. The Squire, who carried his old-fashioned notions of
politeness with him when he went travelling, at once got up to offer her
the corner. But she declined it, saying she was subject to face-ache,
and did not care to be next the window. So she took my seat, and I sat
down on the one opposite Mr. Todhetley.
"Which of the peers is that?" I heard her ask him in a loud whisper, as
the lord put his head out at his window.
"Don't know at all, ma'am," said the Squire. "Don't know many of the
peers myself, except those of my own county: Lyttleton, and Beauchamp,
and----"
Of all snarling barks, the worst was given that moment in the Squire's
face, suddenly ending the list. The little dog, an ugly, hairy,
vile-tempered Scotch terrier, had been kept concealed under the
lady's jacket, and now struggled itself free. The Squire's look of
consternation was good! He had not known any animal was there.
"Be quiet, Wasp. How dare you bark at the gentleman? He will not bite,
sir: he----"
"Who has a dog in the carriage?" shrieked the lunatic, starting up in a
passion. "Dogs don't travel with passengers. Here! Guard! Guard!"
To call out for the guard when a train is going at full speed is
generally useless. The lunatic had to sit down again; and the lady
defied him, so to say, coolly avowing that she had hidden the dog from
the guard on purpose, staring him in the face while she said it.
After this there was a lull, and we went speeding along, the lady
talking now and again to the Squire. She seemed to want to grow
confidential with him; but the Squire did not seem to care for it,
though he was quite civil. She held the dog huddled up in her lap, so
that nothing but his head peeped out.
"Halloa! How dare they be so negligent? There's no lamp in this
carriage."
It was the lunatic again, and we all looked at the lamp. It had no light
in it; but that it _had_ when we first reached the carriage was certain;
for, as the Squire went stumbling in, his head nearly touched the lamp,
and I had noticed the flame. It seems the Squire had also.
"They must have put it out while we were getting our tickets," he said.
"I'll know the reason why when we stop," cried the lunatic, fiercely.
"After passing the next station, we dash into the long tunnel. The idea
of going through it in pitch darkness! It would not be safe."
"Especially with a dog in the carriage," spoke the lord, in a chaffing
kind of tone, but with a good-natured smile. "We will have the lamp
lighted, however."
As if to reward him for interfering, the dog barked up loudly, and tried
to make a spring at him; upon which the lady smothered the animal up,
head and all.
Another minute or two, and the train began to slacken speed. It was only
an insignificant station, one not likely to be halted at for above a
minute. The lunatic twisted his body out of the window, and shouted for
the guard long before we were at a standstill.
"Allow me to manage this," said the lord, quietly putting him down.
"They know me on the line. Wilkins!"
The man came rushing up at the call. He must have been out already,
though we were not quite at a standstill yet.
"Is it for the _Times_, my lord? I am going for it."
"Never mind the _Times_. This lamp is not lighted, Wilkins. See the
guard, and _get it done_. At once."
"And ask him what the mischief he means by his carelessness," roared out
the lunatic after Wilkins, who went flying off. "Sending us on our road
without a light!--and that dangerous tunnel close at hand."
The authority laid upon the words "Get it done," seemed an earnest that
the speaker was accustomed to be obeyed, and would be this time. For
once the lunatic sat quiet, watching the lamp, and for the light that
was to be dropped into it from the top; and so did I, and so did the
lady. We were all deceived, however, and the train went puffing on. The
lunatic shrieked, the lord put his head out of the carriage and shouted
for Wilkins.
No good. Shouting after a train is off never is much good. The lord
sat down on his seat again, an angry frown crossing his face, and the
lunatic got up and danced with rage.
"I do not know where the blame lies," observed the lord. "Not with my
servant, I think: he is attentive, and has been with me some years."
"I'll know where it lies," retorted the lunatic. "I am a director on the
line, though I don't often travel on it. This _is_ management, this is!
A few minutes more and we shall be in the dark tunnel."
"Of course it would have been satisfactory to have a light; but it is
not of so much consequence," said the nobleman, wishing to soothe him.
"There's no danger in the dark."
"No danger! No danger, sir! I think there is danger. Who's to know
that dog won't spring out and bite us? Who's to know there won't be
an accident in the tunnel? A light is a protection against having our
pockets picked, if it's a protection against nothing else."
"I fancy our pockets are pretty safe to-day," said the lord, glancing
round at us with a good-natured smile; as much as to say that none of us
looked like thieves. "And I certainly trust we shall get through the
tunnel safely."
"And I'll take care the dog does not bite you in the dark," spoke up the
lady, pushing her head forward to give the lunatic a nod or two that
you'd hardly have matched for defying impudence. "You'll be good, won't
you, Wasp? But I should like the lamp lighted myself. You will perhaps
be so kind, my lord, as to see that there's no mistake made about it at
the next station!"
He slightly raised his hat to her and bowed in answer, but did not
speak. The lunatic buttoned up his coat with fingers that were either
nervous or angry, and then disturbed the little gentleman next him,
who had read his big book throughout the whole commotion without once
lifting his eyes, by hunting everywhere for his pocket-handkerchief.
"Here's the tunnel!" he cried out resentfully, as we dashed with a
shriek into pitch darkness.
It was all very well for her to say she would take care of the dog, but
the first thing the young beast did was to make a spring at me and then
at the Squire, barking and yelping frightfully. The Squire pushed it
away in a commotion. Though well accustomed to dogs he always fought shy
of strange ones. The lady chattered and laughed, and did not seem to try
to get hold of him, but we couldn't see, you know; the Squire hissed at
him, the dog snarled and growled; altogether there was noise enough to
deafen anything but a tunnel.
"Pitch him out at the window," cried the lunatic.
"Pitch yourself out," answered the lady. And whether she propelled the
dog, or whether he went of his own accord, the beast sprang to the other
end of the carriage, and was seized upon by the nobleman.
"I think, madam, you had better put him under your mantle and keep
him there," said he, bringing the dog back to her and speaking quite
civilly, but in the same tone of authority he had used to his servant
about the lamp. "I have not the slightest objection to dogs myself, but
many people have, and it is not altogether pleasant to have them loose
in a railway carriage. I beg your pardon; I cannot see; is this your
hand?"
It was her hand, I suppose, for the dog was left with her, and he went
back to his seat again. When we emerged out of the tunnel into daylight,
the lunatic's face was blue.
"Ma'am, if that miserable brute had laid hold of me by so much as
the corner of my great-coat tail, I'd have had the law of you. It is
perfectly monstrous that any one, putting themselves into a first-class
carriage, should attempt to outrage railway laws, and upset the comfort
of travellers with impunity. I shall complain to the guard."
"He does not bite, sir; he never bites," she answered softly, as if
sorry for the escapade, and wishing to conciliate him. "The poor little
bijou is frightened at darkness, and leaped from my arms unawares.
There! I'll promise that you shall neither see nor hear him again."
She had tucked the dog so completely out of sight, that no one could
have suspected one was there, just as it had been on first entering. The
train was drawn up to the next station; when it stopped, the servant
came and opened the carriage-door for his master to get out.
"Did you understand me, Wilkins, when I told you to get this lamp
lighted?"
"My lord, I'm very sorry; I understood your lordship perfectly, but
I couldn't see the guard," answered Wilkins. "I caught sight of him
running up to his van-door at the last moment, but the train began to
move off, and I had to jump in myself, or else be left behind."
The guard passed as he was explaining this, and the nobleman drew his
attention to the lamp, curtly ordering him to "light it instantly."
Lifting his hat to us by way of farewell, he disappeared; and the
lunatic began upon the guard as if he were commencing a lecture to
a deaf audience. The guard seemed not to hear it, so lost was he in
astonishment at there being no light.
"Why, what can have douted it?" he cried aloud, staring up at the lamp.
And the Squire smiled at the familiar word, so common in our ears at
home, and had a great mind to ask the guard where he came from.
"I lighted all these here lamps myself afore we started, and I see 'em
all burning," said he. There was no mistaking the home accent now, and
the Squire looked down the carriage with a beaming face.