THE SCOTCH PACKET SHIP.—THE SUICIDE.
It was in pursuance of this resolution, so strangely and suddenly
formed, that the unhappy Varney rose on the following morning and went
to that region of pitch, slop clothing, red herrings, and dirt—the
docks.
But yet, somehow, although the docks may not be the cleanest or the
most refined part of the vast city of London, the coarseness and the
litter there—for after all it is more litter than dirt—are by no means
so repulsive as those bad addenda to other localities.
There is a kind of rough freshness induced by the proximity of the
water which has a physical and moral effect, we are inclined to think,
upon the place and the people, and which takes off much of what would
otherwise wear the aspect of what is called low life.
But this is all by the way, and we will at once proceed to follow the
fortunes of Varney, in carrying out his plan of self annihilation.
The hour was an early one, and many a curious glance was cast at him,
for although he had humanised and modernised his apparel to a great
extent, he could not get rid of the strange, unworld-like (if we may
use the phrase) look of his face. He was very pale too, and jaded
looking, for the thoughts that had recently occupied him were not such
as to do good to the looks of any one.
He cared little in what vessel he embarked. He had but one object in
embarking at all, and that was to get out to sea, so that the ultimate
destination of the ship that should receive so very odd and equivocal a
passenger was a matter of no moment.
Stopping a personage who had about him a sea faring look, Varney,
pointing to a bustling place of embarkation, said,
“Does any vessel start from there to-day?”
“Yes, there’s one going now, or as soon as the tide serves her, She is
for Leith?”
“On the coast of Scotland, I think?”
“Yes, to be sure.”
Varney walked on until he came to a kind of counting-house, where sat a
man with books before him, and, not to take up more valuable space, he
secured what was called a berth on board the “Ocean”, a dirty, small,
ill-convenient ship bound for the port near the Scotch metropolis of
Edinburgh.
Not wishing to be himself much noticed, and having no desire to notice
anybody, Varney went down below, and seated himself in a dark corner
of the generally dingy cabin, and there, amid all the noise, bawling,
abuse, and bustle contingent upon getting the ill-conditioned bark
under weigh, he never moved or uttered a word to any one, although the
cabin was frequently visited.
But Varney had no idea of the amount of annoyance to which he was
likely, in the course of the evening, to be subjected.
The vessel was got under weigh, and as both wind and tide happened to
be favourable, she dropped down the river rapidly, and soon was clear
of the Nore-light, and holding on her course northward.
The cabin now began to fill with the passengers, and extraordinary as
the fact may appear, there were many Scotchmen actually going back
again. They were, however, only going to pay visits, for it is one of
the popular delusions that Scotchmen try to keep up in this country,
that they have left something dear and delightful behind them in
Scotland, and that, take it altogether, it is one of the most desirable
spots in the whole world. It becomes, therefore, quite necessary for
them to go back now and then, in order to keep up that delusion.
Personal vanity, too, is one of the great characteristics of the
nation; and many a Scotchman goes back to Edinburgh, for example, to
make an appearance among his old friends and family connexions, totally
incompatible with his real position in London.
By about nine o’clock at night, when the shore to the west could only
be discovered as a dim, grey line on the horizon, the cabin of the
“Ocean” packet was crammed.
Whisky was produced, and a drink that the Scotch call “bottled yell,”
meaning ale; and as these two heady liquids began to take effect
“Auld Lang Syne” was chaunted in the vernacular by the whole party.
At length a feeling of annoyance began to grow up from the fact of
the isolated aspect of Varney, and the quiet, unobtrusive manner in
which he looked on at the proceedings, appearing not in the smallest
degree enthusiastic, even when the most uproarious Scotch songs, in
the most unintelligible of all jargons, were sung, for strange to say,
the authors of that nation take a pride in slaughtering the English
language.
At length a Scotchman approached Varney and said,—
“Ye’ll take a glass to auld Reekie mon?”
[Edinburgh is called Reekie in consequence of the absence of drainage,
giving it a horrible fœtid smell, a reeky atmosphere, in a manner
of speaking; which may be illustrated by the Scotchman, who was
returning to that place from England, on the top of a stage coach,
when within about fifty miles he began sniffing and working his nose
in an extraordinary manner.—“What are you doing that for?” said an
Englishman. “Eh! mon, I can smell the gude auld toon.”]
“I do not understand your language,” said Varney, and he walked from
the cabin to the deck of the vessel. He recoiled an instant, for the
moon was rising.
“Ever thus, even thus,” he said, “how strange it is that I never dream
of ridding myself of the suffering of living, but the moon is shining
brightly. Can its rays penetrate the ocean?”
The deck was very still and silent indeed. The man at the helm, and
one other pacing to and fro, were all that occupied it, save Varney
himself, and he stood by the side gazing in the direction, where he had
last seen the dim grey speck of land.
“A pleasant run, sir, we shall have of it,” said the man who had been
pacing the deck, “if this kindly wind continues.”
“It blows from the west.”
“Yes, nearly due-west; but that suits us. We keep her head a few points
in shore, and do well with such a wind, although a south-west by south
is our choice.”
“How far are we from land?”
“It’s the coast of Suffolk that is to our left, but we are I hope a
good thirty miles or more from it.”
“You hope?”
“Yes, sir. Perhaps you are not sufficient of a sailor to know that we
never hug the shore if we can possibly help it.”
“I understand. And there?”
“Oh, there lies the German Ocean.”
“How deep now should you say the sea was here?”
“Can’t say, sir, but it’s blue water.”
This was not much information to Varney, but he bowed his head and
walked forward, as much as to say that he had had enough of the
information and conversation of the man, who was the mate of the
vessel, and quite disposed to be communicative. Perhaps in the very dim
light he did not see exactly what a strange-looking personage he was
talking to.
“Thirty miles from land,” thought Varney, “surely that is far enough,
and I need have no dread of floating to the shore through such a mass
of water as that thirty miles. The distance is very great; I can
to-night in another hour make the attempt.”
To his great joy some heavy clouds climbed up the sky along with the
moon, and congregating around the beautiful satellite, effectually
obscured the greater number of its beams. There was in fact, no
absolute moonlight, but a soft reflected kind of twilight coming
through the clouds, and dispersed far and wide.
“This will do,” muttered Varney. “All I have to fear are the direct
moonbeams. It is they that have the effect of revivifying such as I am.”
The man who had been pacing the deck finally sat down, and appeared to
drop off to sleep, so that all was still, and as Varney kept to the
head of the vessel, the man at the wheel could see nothing of him,
there being many intervening obstacles. He was perfectly alone.
Now and then, with a loud roaring about, he heard some boisterous
drinking chorus come from the cabin, and then a rattle of glasses as
fists were thumped upon the tables in token of boisterous approbation,
and then all would be still again.
Varney looked up to the sky and his lips moved, but he uttered no
sound. He went closer to the vessel’s side and gazed upon the water as
it lazily rippled past. How calm and peaceful, he thought, he ought to
be, far beneath that tide.
A sudden plunge into the sea would have made a splash that would have
been heard, and that he wished of all things to avoid. He clambered
slowly over the side, and only held on by his hands for a moment. The
cool night air tossed about his long elfin locks, and in another moment
he was gone.