JAMES ANDERSON SEEKS AND OBTAINS AN INTERVIEW WITH MRS. WILLIAMS.
The report which, in accordance with what he had heard from Mrs.
Williams, Jack Pringle felt himself compelled to make to the young man
whom he had saved from the wreck, but too surely convinced him that all
his hopes were dashed to the ground, and that it was indeed but too
true that Helen had consented to become the wife of another.
There could be no mistake in the affair, or the slightest loophole for
escaping an entire and complete conviction of the faithlessness of her
in whom he had so deeply confided for his future happiness.
The blow appeared to fall upon him with a stunning effect, and for some
time he seemed to be quite incapable of thought or action. But Jack
Pringle rallied him upon this state of things, and tried hard to induce
him to view the matter with the same kind of philosophy that he would
have brought to bear upon it.
“Come, come,” he said, “don’t be downhearted about a woman. Cheer up,
my lad; there’s many a better fish in the sea than has ever yet been
got out of it, you may depend upon that.”
“I could have staked my life upon her good faith.”
“Likely enough, and so can we all upon the good faith of the woman
we happen to love and admire; but what is there in the whole world
so common as being jilted by a wench, and when it does happen, a man
should whistle her down the wind, and forget her all at once, and for
ever.”
“I have no doubt,” said James Anderson, “that such is good philosophy;
but it’s a hard thing to tear away from the heart at once an image that
has lain enshrined in its inmost recesses for many a month.”
“Perhaps it is. But the best remedy in all the world, is to look about
for another, I know that from experience in these matters. You do so,
and you will soon be able to forget the girl who has jilted you.”
James Anderson shook his head, and smiled faintly, as he said,—
“I fear I should never love another as I have loved her. The heart,
when once it has loved as I have loved, can never know another feeling.
I cannot with any hopes of success undertake such a mode of cure as
that which you point out to me.”
“Oh! you will think differently in a little while, I can tell you. Time
does wonders in these cases, and before you are a month older, you will
be in quite a different frame of mind to what you are now.”
“I must confess I should not like to be all my life the subject of
never-ending regret; but at the same time I do feel, that let what
chances may befall me, I shall never feel another disappointment so
bitter as this.”
James Anderson, upon making these few remarks, shewed a disposition to
drop the subject, and as it was one which certainly concerned himself
more than any one else, Jack Pringle and the fisherman both agreed to
say no more about it, and it rested.
But although he said nothing, the matter was far indeed from being
absent from the mind of James Anderson, for it occupied him wholly,
and engaged his attention to that extent, that all other thoughts were
excluded therefrom most entirely and completely.
Those who had afforded him so kindly a shelter, were not unobservant
spectators of this state of his mind, and Jack Pringle strove to move
him from it, by calling his attention to his obligations and duties in
other respects.
“Come, messmate,” he said, “ain’t it time you should think of going to
London to make your report of how you lost the dispatches that your
captain committed to your care?”
“It is so,” said James Anderson, “and I shall start this evening.”
“That’s right, and the best thing you can possibly do, I can tell you.
You will get some new appointment, and in the bustle of life you will
soon forget all disappointments whatever. If you go regularly into the
service, you are young enough yet to rise in it, and you may yet live
to have a pair of swabs upon your shoulders, I can tell you.”
“At all events,” said Anderson, “I can have the comfort of knowing that
I have, by being wrecked here, made some acquaintance, which I hope I
may always have the pleasure to retain. I feel myself now quite well
enough to walk, and I will go into the town and make some preparations
for getting on to London, which I am, by your liberality, Mr. Pringle,
enabled to do.”
Jack made a wry face, as he said,—
“Whatever you do, messmate, don’t call me Mr. Pringle—my name’s Jack
Pringle. It always has been Jack Pringle, and it always will be. I
begin to think as something must be the matter when anybody calls me
Mr. Pringle, and I don’t like it a bit.”
“I won’t again then offend you by calling you Mr., but you shall be
Jack Pringle, if you like, to me; and I can only say that a more
esteemed friend than yourself, it is not likely I shall ever encounter
in this world.”
Jack was always much more easy under censure, let it come from where
it might, than under praise, and consequently he fidgeted about in a
most alarming manner, while James Anderson was professing to him his
grateful feeling, and at length he said,—
“Belay there, belay there, old fellow—that will do. I don’t want any
more of that, I can tell you. It’s a d—d hard thing that a man cannot
save a fellow man’s life, without it being at all sorts of odd times
thrown in his teeth in this way. Don’t say any more about it, I ain’t
used to being _parsecuted_.”
This was no affectation in Jack Pringle. On the contrary, it really was
to him a positive persecution to be praised; and, as James Anderson
now felt fully convinced that such was the case, he determined upon
avoiding such for the future.
Towards the dusk of the evening, having attired himself as respectably
as the wardrobe of the old seaman and his son would permit him, for
his own clothing had been completely spoiled by the salt water, he
proceeded to the town of Anderbury.
By so proceeding, Jack Pringle considered that his principal business
would be to get some means of quick conveyance to London; but James
Anderson had another motive in his walk to the town, which he
communicated to no one.
That motive was a strong desire to see Helen Williams, if he possibly
could, before he left, in order that he might hear from her own lips
what it was that prevented her continuing her plighted faith towards
him; for he could not, from all he knew of her character, bring himself
to believe that it was the wealth of her new suitor that had had any
effect upon her.
“No, no,” he said; “I know her far better than for one half instant
to do her such an injustice; she must have been imposed upon with
some account of my death; or some artful and well-arranged tale of,
perhaps, faithlessness upon my part has hurried her into the acceptance
of the first offer that has been made to her. If I could but obtain
an interview with her for a few brief moments, I should know all, and
either be able to take her to my heart again, or to find ample reason
for forgetting her.”
He knew the way well to that house where he had frequently watched
Helen enter and emerge from; but how to send any message to her was a
matter which required great consideration.
He had been absent long enough, no doubt, for some changes to have been
made in Mrs. Williams’s household; so that, although there had been in
old times a servant who was favourable to him, and who would not only
have taken his message to Helen, but would have told him all the news
of the family, she, no doubt, had long since left.
After thinking over the matter for some time, so as to come to a
conclusion that the difficulty about getting any message or note
delivered to Helen almost amounted to an impossibility, he saw a boy
come out of the house, apparently to go on some errand, and with a
feeling more of desperation than reflection, he spoke to him, saying,—
“I think you came out of Mrs. Williams’s house, my lad.”
“Yes, I did,” said the boy; “what of that—hit one of your own size; I
haven’t done nothing to you.”
“You mistake altogether, my boy; I am not going to touch you, you may
depend; but, on the contrary, I will reward you if you will answer me
what questions I shall propose to you, and I assure you they are all
such as you may honestly answer.”
“Well, I don’t know. How much?”
“One shilling for every question.”
“That’s a rum way of doing business, but it ain’t so bad either. Ask
away, and you’ll soon see how I’ll earn the shillings.”
“Is Miss Helen going to be married?”
“Yes—a shilling.”
“Who to?”
“To the Baron Stollandmare and a Salt Bug—two shillings.”
“Will you take a note from me to her if I reward you extra for so
doing.”
“Oh, I begin to smell a rat. Yes, I will. You is some other lover, you
is—three shillings.”
“I am—one shilling.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, my young friend, if I pay you a shilling a question, I don’t see
why I should not charge you at the same rate; so don’t ask me anything,
and then you will get all the shillings to yourself, you understand.”
“Oh, I doesn’t see any joke in that; I don’t want to ask any
questions—not I.—What will you give me for taking the note? I think I
ought to have half-a-crown, between you and me and the post; because,
you see, if old Mother Williams was to cotch me, she would serve me out
pretty tidy.”
“You shall have your own price of half-a-crown, and here is the note,
which I charge you mind to deliver into no hands but those of Helen
herself.”
[Illustration: James gives Caleb the note for Helen.]
“Oh, I’ll do it; and what shall I get if I bring you an answer back?”
“Another half-crown; so, you see, you will make a very good evening’s
work of it, indeed, if you are clever and faithful.”
“Give me the note; I’ll do it. You may always trust me, when there’s
anything to be got by it. My father brought me up to get my living, and
he used to say to me, ‘Caleb,’ says he, ‘always do your duty, Caleb,
to those who employ you when you go out to service in a family, unless
somebody offers you something more not to do it.’”
“Quite a philosophical maxim,” said James Anderson; “I suppose you are
in the service of Mrs. Williams?”
“Yes, I am page of all work, I am; I do a little of everything, and
make myself generally useful. Where will you wait for me?”
“At this corner; and, with a due regard to performing your part well,
be as quick as you can on your mission, for I am rather impatient to
see its results.”
Caleb, the page of all work, duly promised to be quick, and after
completing an errand that he had been sent upon by Mrs. Williams, he
returned to that lady’s house.
We cannot help thinking that after the principles in which Caleb had
announced he had been brought up, it was rather an indiscreet thing
of Anderson to trust him with the note that he had already prepared
for Helen, in case an opportunity should present itself of getting
it delivered to her; but he was desperate, and, perhaps, did not so
accurately weigh the pros and cons of the affair, as he undoubtedly
ought to have done.
As it was, however, he had a faith in his messenger, which we are
sorry to say was most decidedly misplaced, for Caleb did shew that he
had not forgotten the lessons of his paternal relative, but that, on
the contrary, he was disposed to carry them out with great tack and
perseverance.
Whether or not he would, of his own accord, have set about scheming
in the matter we cannot say, but, at all events he was spared that
trouble, for Mrs. Williams had seen, from one of the windows of her own
house, his interview with one who was a stranger to her; for, although
she had once, before he went to sea, seen James Anderson, he was much
altered, and she did not recognise him; and when Caleb came in she
called him into the parlour and shut the door.
“Caleb,” she said, “I insist upon knowing immediately who you were
talking to just now in the street, and who gave you a note.”
Caleb was rather staggered at this home question, for he did not think
that Mrs. Williams had seen him, and, after a moment’s pause, he said,—
“What will you give, missus, to know?”
“Give—give! How dare you ask me such a question?”
“It’s no use, missus, getting in a passion about it. I’ve got an
opportunity of earning eight shillings snugly and comfortably. If you
will give me sixteen shillings I will tell you all about it; and I
don’t mind saying, beforehand, that I know, missus, as you won’t think
it dear at that price; no, nor at three times as much, if you could
only guess what it was.”
“Sixteen shillings! It must be something wonderful, in the way of news,
that I would give you such a sum for.”
“That’s just what it is, missus. Come, now, is it a bargain? because
I’m in a hurry, and have got never such a load of things to do.”
“Well, well, Caleb; tell me what it is, and give me the note.”
“Not till I haves the money, missus. Oh, no; I knows better than that.
I’ve got a hold on the fellow as you saw me with, but I haven’t on
you. Oh, no; the deuce a bit. I must have the cash first, and then you
shall have the information; and, I tell you again, that it ain’t dear
at the price, as you will own yourself.”
The curiosity, as well as the suspicions, of Mrs. Williams were
strongly excited; for she began to suspect that something or another
was going on in which her interests were involved; inasmuch as, upon
mature consideration, she had come to a conclusion, that there was more
in the visit of Admiral Green than quite met the eye.
“Well, well,” she said, “I have only gold in my purse; but you shall
have the amount, you may depend, Caleb, if I promise you.”
“I haven’t a doubt in the world,” said Caleb; “but there is nothing
like ready money, missus; so just hand us a sovereign, and here is four
shillings change; which will be right, you know, all the world over.”
This was vexatious; but, as it was quite clear that Caleb had
thoroughly made up his mind not to part with his information without
the cash, Mrs. Williams was compelled to hand the amount to him, which
she did not do with the best grace in the world, and then she said,—
“Now, I expect you to tell me all.”
“So I means, missus. You don’t suppose I’d take sixteen shillings of
you, and not tell you all as I have to tell you. No, missus; I’d scorn
the action.”
“Well, well, don’t keep me in suspense; but go on at once.”
“I will. There’s a chap at the corner of the street, as wants me to
give this here letter to Miss Helen, and bring him back an answer.”
“A letter to Helen! This is news, indeed. And who was he?”
“That I don’t know. I was going to ask him, but, somehow or another,
I found out it was a great deal better left alone. But I should not
wonder, missus, but you will find out who he his, if you read the note.
People, you know, usually put their blessed names at the end of their
letters, unless they sends what is called a _synonymous_ one.”
This was a good suggestion of Caleb’s, and Mrs. Williams, without
the smallest scruple as to the fact of opening a letter addressed to
another person, tore asunder the envelope that covered young Anderson’s
epistle, and read as follows, in a sufficiently audible tone to enable
Caleb to hear every word of it; for, in her intense eagerness, she
forgot the fact of his presence:—
“Dearest Helen,—I can still address you as such, because I have not yet
heard from your own lips, although I have from the lips of others, that
you have forgotten me. Can it be true, that you are about, in the face
of Heaven, to plight those vows to another which were to be mine, and
mine only?
“I ask of you but to meet me, and tell me yourself that such is the
case, and you will meet with neither persecutions or reproaches from
me. Tell me that you are oppressed, and you know well that in me you
have a defender. Name your own time and place of meeting me; and by the
boy who will deliver this to you, let me beg of you, by the memory of
our old affection, to send me an answer.
“Yours ever,
+“James Anderson.”+
“I say, missus, that’s pitching it rather strong,” said Caleb.