THE RETURN
Arthur Jollyboy, Esquire, of the Old Hulk, sat on the top of a tall
three-legged stool in his own snug little office in the sea-port town of
Bilton, with his legs swinging to and fro; his socks displayed a
considerable way above the tops of his gaiters; his hands thrust deep
into his breeches pockets; his spectacles high on his bald forehead, and
his eyes looking through the open letter that lay before him; through the
desk underneath it; through the plank floor, cellars and foundations of
the edifice; and through the entire world into the distant future beyond.
"Four thousand pair of socks," he murmured, pulling down his spectacles
and consulting the open letter for the tenth time; "four thousand pair of
socks, with the hitch, same as last bale, but a very little coarser in
material."
"Four thousand pair! and who's to make them, I wonder. If poor Mrs.
Dorothy Grumbit were here--ah! well, she's gone, so it can't be helped.
Four thousand!--dear me who _will_ make them. Do _you_ know?"
This question was addressed to his youngest clerk, who sat on the
opposite side of the desk staring at Mr. Jollyboy with that open
impudence of expression peculiar to young puppy-dogs whose masters are
unusually indulgent.
"No, sir, I don't," said the clerk with a broad grin.
Before the perplexed merchant could come at any conclusion on this knotty
subject the door opened and Martin Rattler entered the room, followed by
his friend Barney O'Flannagan.
"You've come to the wrong room, friends," said Mr. Jollyboy with a
benignant smile. "My principal clerk engages men and pays wages. His
office is just opposite; first door in the passage."
"We don't want to engage," said Martin; "we wish to speak with you, sir."
"Oh, beg pardon!" cried Mr. Jollyboy, leaping off the stool with
surprising agility for a man of his years. "Come in this way. Pray be
seated--Eh! ah, surely I've seen you before, my good fellow?"
"Yis, sir, that ye have. I've sailed aboard your ships many a time. My
name's Barney O'Flannagan, at yer sarvice."
"Ah! I recollect; and a good man you are, I've been told, Barney; but I
have lost sight of you for some years. Been on a long voyage, I suppose?"
"Well, not 'xactly; but I've been on a long cruise, an' no mistake, in
the woods o' Brazil. I wos wrecked on the coast there, in the _Firefly_."
"Ah! to be sure. I remember. And your young messmate here, was he
with you?"
"Yes, sir, I was," said Martin, answering for himself; "and I had once
the pleasure of your acquaintance. Perhaps if you look steadily in my
face you may--"
"Ah, then! don't try to bamboozle him. He might as well look at a bit o'
mahogany as at your faygurhead. Tell him at wance, Martin dear."
"Martin?" exclaimed the puzzled old gentleman, seizing the young sailor
by the shoulders and gazing intently into his face. "Martin! Martin!
Surely not--yes! eh? Martin Rattler?"
"Ay that am I, dear Mr. Jollyboy, safe and sound, and--"
Martin's speech was cut short in consequence of his being violently
throttled by Mr. Jollyboy, who flung his arms round his neck and
staggered recklessly about the office with him! This was the great point
which Barney had expected; it was the climax to which he had been looking
forward all the morning: and it did not come short of his anticipations;
for Mr. Jollyboy danced round Martin and embraced him for at least ten
minutes, asking him at the same time a shower of questions which he gave
him no time to answer. In the excess of his delight Barney smote his
thigh with his broad hand so forcibly that it burst upon the startled
clerk like a pistol-shot, and caused him to spring off his stool!
"Don't be afeared, young un," said Barney, winking and poking the small
clerk jocosely in the ribs with his thumb. "Isn't it beautiful to see
them. Arrah, now! isn't it purty?"
"Keep your thumbs to yourself, you sea monster," said the small clerk,
angrily, and laying his hand on the ruler. But Barney minded him not, and
continued to smite his thigh and rub his hands, while he performed a sort
of gigantic war-dance round Mr. Jollyboy and Martin.
In a few minutes the old gentleman subsided sufficiently to understand
questions.
"But, my aunt," said Martin, anxiously; "you have said nothing about Aunt
Dorothy. How is she? where is she? is she well?"
To these questions Mr. Jollyboy returned no answer, but sitting suddenly
down on a chair, he covered his face with his hands.
"She is not ill?" inquired Martin in a husky voice, while his heart beat
violently. "Speak, Mr. Jollyboy, is she--is she--"
"No, she's not ill," returned the old gentleman; "but she's--"
"She is dead!" said Martin, in a tone so deep and sorrowful that the old
gentleman started up.
"No, no, not dead, my dear boy; I did not mean that. Forgive my
stupidity, Martin. Aunt Dorothy is gone,--left the village a year ago;
and I have never seen or heard of her since."
Terrible though this news was, Martin felt a slight degree of relief to
know that she was not dead;--at least there was reason to hope that she
might be still alive.
"But when did she go? and why? and where?"
"She went about twelve months ago," replied Mr. Jollyboy. "You see,
Martin, after she lost you she seemed to lose all hope and all spirit;
and at last she gave up making socks for me, and did little but moan in
her seat in the window and look out towards the sea. So I got a pleasant
young girl to take care of her; and she did not want for any of the
comforts of life. One day the little girl came to me here, having run all
the way from the village, to say that Mrs. Grumbit had packed up a bundle
of clothes and gone off to Liverpool by the coach. She took the
opportunity of the girl's absence on some errand to escape; and we should
never have known it, had not some boys of the village seen her get into
the coach and tell the guard that she was going to make inquiries after
Martin. I instantly set out for Liverpool; but long before I arrived the
coach had discharged its passengers, and the coachman, not suspecting
that anything was wrong, had taken no notice of her after arriving. From
that day to this I have not ceased to advertise and make all possible
inquiries, but without success."
Martin heard the narrative in silence, and when it was finished he sat a
few minutes gazing vacantly before him, like one in a dream. Then
starting up suddenly, he wrung Mr. Jollyboy's hand, "Good-bye, my dear
friend; good-bye. I shall go to Liverpool. We shall meet again."
"Stay, Martin, stay--"
But Martin had rushed from the room, followed by his faithful friend, and
in less than half an hour they were in the village of Ashford. The coach
was to pass in twenty minutes, so, bidding Barney engage two outside
seats, he hastened round by the road towards the cottage. There it stood,
quaint, time-worn, and old-fashioned, as when he had last seen it,--the
little garden in which he had so often played,--the bower in which, on
fine weather, Aunt Dorothy used to sit, and the door-step on which the
white kitten used to gambol. But the shutters were closed, and the door
was locked, and there was an air of desolation and a deep silence
brooding over the place, that sank more poignantly into Martin's heart
than if he had come and found every vestige of the home of his childhood
swept away. It was like the body without the soul. The flowers, and
stones, and well-known forms were there; but she who had given animation
to the whole was gone. Sitting down on the door-step, Martin buried his
face in his hands and wept.
He was quickly aroused by the bugle of the approaching coach. Springing
up, he dashed the tears away and hurried towards the high-road. In a few
minutes Barney and he were seated on the top of the coach, and dashing,
at the rate of ten miles an hour, along the road to Liverpool.