BUGSBY'S HOLE.
At the date of this story, remote as it is, the East India Docks were
much as they now are, saving in certain non-essential points, such as
the funnel. Dismount the funnel of to-day, and leave the pole-mast
schooner rigged with its derrick, and old men of that age, stumbling
with flapping skirts and breast-wide hats, would scarcely witness a
change.
On a certain day, when, strange to relate, it was fine weather over the
Isle of Dogs, a great plenty of tall and stately ships lay in these East
India Docks. Some were loaded deep, and ready for the voyage, fresh with
paint, and sparkling with the glory of glittering gilt and radiant
counters. Some had but recently hauled in, and showed signs of bitter
conflict with the ocean; the red stain drained from the bolt, the bolt
was twisted, a length of bulwark was stove.
Up in a corner, inside a fine West Indiaman, lay Captain Jackman's brig,
about which we have already heard a great deal. His father had owned
her, and when young had sailed her, and in his time had made money out
of her. He bequeathed the little ship to his son Walter, praying that he
would take good care of her, as she inherited several fine traditions,
was the noblest sailer of all vessels so rigged that ever he had known,
and was a magnificent sea boat.
They were painting her black this day; the parts the painters over the
side were covering showed of a dirty white. They were likewise sending
her yards aloft, and Captain Jackman, as he came along, could not fail
to admire the exquisite precision with which the two masts were stayed.
He saw speed in their gentle devoir to the bow; he stopped a minute to
watch the painters, and to observe the man who was gilding the small
figure-head under the long bowsprit over-laid by the jibbooms. He then
went on board.
A man dressed in the style of a master-rigger touched his cap on
Jackman's entering. A number of hands were in motion about the decks;
the little ship was full of business, there had evidently come some
final call.
'Well, Tomson,' said Jackman to the man who had touched his cap, 'how
are you getting on?'
'Smartly, sir. Your ship shall be ready for you by your date.'
'Can you contrive to convert that maintop into a schooner rig on
emergency?'
'It can be done, sir.'
As the man spoke these words a messenger came over the gangway and
handed the captain a letter. He looked at it, slightly changed colour,
and walked right aft, where he was alone. The missive, dated from
Commander Conway's house, ran thus--
'MY DEAREST WALTER,
'I hasten to communicate what I hope will prove a useful piece of
intelligence to you. I have been busily making inquiries about disused
smugglers' caves down west, with this result. A sailor named Butler came
to me yesterday and said he could produce a man, a rather old man, who
could furnish information of a curious cave striking from the roof of
the cliff to the wash of the sea. It had not been used since 1807, but
you can still at ebb walk from the lower orifice on to the beach, and
from the next to the lower orifice you can use a boat whilst the tide is
making. I will give you the name and address of the owner on your
passing through here, as _that_ you must do, for it is my particular
desire to see you.
'How far has been your advance in this tremendous business? Pray do not
be communicative to strangers. Are not you apt to be a little candid,
and to forget that you were so? The sailor is a character of perfect
sensibility, and he has to carefully guard himself against the worldly
people he meets ashore--people who will wring his business out of him,
and then, if they can make no use of it, fling it to the dogs. Oh, I
quite forgot to say in its place that with these subterranean stairs to
the sea is associated a little house that stands close to the main
entrance, and you can enter it by a manhole in the house itself. This
might prove useful.
'The district is very desolate, the old man told me--a livid, gale-swept
moor with no habitation within a good drive. Revenue people, I am
informed, are occasionally seen on that part of the coast, but at such
long intervals that they might as well be viewed as strange objects of
interest. The revenue cutter may also be seen plying off the land; but
her business would seem to be far higher up.
'I am never weary of admiring your glorious gift. Oh, how beautifully it
sparkles by candlelight! My father's mood is as stern and unbending as
ever. I believe he would strike me if I even referred to you. I heard
Captain Burgoyne asking, in his coarse way, which the commander
relishes, "Don't you want your wench to get married at all, Conway?
Suppose you pop off on a sudden--and I may tell you I've long viewed
with anxiety that stout throat and immense chest of yours--what is your
girl to do? She is unmated. Who is to look after her? And she is
pre-eminently one of those young parties who need looking after."
'I was listening greedily halfway up the stairs, down which I was coming
at the moment of arrest, dressed for a visit. My father answered, "I am
not going to have for a son-in-law a man who may end his career at the
gibbet within the next month." "Chaw! you dined with him. He was an
honourable gentleman then." My father began to bluster. Here stupid Mrs.
Dove came creaking downstairs, and called to me to go into the hall and
turn that she might admire me.
'All the same I managed to catch a fragment of Captain Burgoyne's
remark. "He is good-looking. He is qualified to command a ship. He can
handle a ship when he pleases." "No," thundered the commander--and as I
passed through the hall door, after giving Mrs. Dove a nod--"Are you,"
shouted my father, "going to be satisfied with his cool statement of
that large loss of money?"
'I could not linger, as Mrs. Dove was watching me with affectionate
interest from the staircase, and so I left the house. Nothing that my
father can say can affect my love. I am dying to be your wife, and you
will find me ready at the first signal you hoist. Wherever you are I am,
in spirit and devotion.'
She concluded in terms of fervent affection.
The captain kissed the letter, and read it twice, and whilst he was
putting it in his pocket with the care of a document worth thousands, he
was hailed from the quay alongside.
'How d'ye, Jackman?'
He looked over and saw a middle-aged man dressed in the pilot cloth of
the master's wear.
'How are you, Phillips?'
'Any good news for me in that letter you've just now pocketed?'
Jackman made no reply.
'Got a ship yet?'
The other flourished his hand over his brig.
'Ah, but that's the monkey eating his own tail.' After a pause--'Has
any further news,' cried the captain on the quay, 'been heard of the
money you were robbed of?'
'It's long ago washed down fifteen hundred throats, and purchased
enjoyment of fifteen hundred hideous revelries,' answered Jackman,
nodding and smiling; and saying this, he passed forward, and the captain
ashore walked on, with a single turn of his head to gaze at the ship, as
if considering Jackman's business in fitting her out and how much the
job cost.
Jackman was a master in expression of face; had he combined the other
necessary qualities he would have been the greatest actor of his day,
and risen to the large reputation of Mr. Kemble or Mr. Kean. Nobody but
must have imagined that he was vastly tickled by the inquiries about the
stolen money sung up by the captain on the quay. His face, having
recovered from its smile, wore its ordinary placid and even sweet
expression, and with that face upon him he conversed about the affairs
of the brig with the man who had touched his hat to him on his entering
the vessel. He did not carry the dramatic airs of the sailor; that
generation of seamen were leaving those airs for the American boasters
to import. He looked a thorough gentleman, dressed indeed with some
reference to his vocation, but as one who does not love to represent
himself a sailor by his clothes.
He roamed a little while about his brig, and spoke a friendly word here
and there to some of the men.
This brig would be laughed at in this age as a heavy old waggon, and so
she showed as she sat upon the water, because of her very square stern,
her breadth of beam, and the very preposterous steeve which they gave to
their bowsprits in the beginning of this age. Yet, carrying lofty masts,
and being very square-rigged, she did not show as the stumpy bulk which
she looked when you gazed forward from her taffrail. Her lines at her
cutwater, running well aft, might have been laid in Aberdeen, and,
though she was plump aft, they had given her a lift of counter which
raised her after-part clear of that drawing roll of sea, which plump
ships of this sort are in the habit of dragging with them. On deck she
was simply equipped as a trading brig should be. She had a little green
caboose for cooking the men's dinner in; a forecastle under deck, with a
square hole to enter by, painted casks for liquor and meat; skylights
aft, and a plain companion conducting to the cabin.
Such was the brig _Gypsy_, 180 tons, Jackman commander, bequeathed to
him by his father, who had also received her as a bequest from _his_
father.
He lingered on board the greater part of the day, superintending the
business of fitting out, but in a furtive sort of way, almost noticeable
to any one with sharp sight, as though, in fact, he did not belong to
the brig. He went ashore at five o'clock, walking slowly, and carefully
reading his sweetheart's letter.
A journey by coach to anywhere, in the time of this book, was an
achievement more or less significant. Men made their wills before their
departure. They were in the right. What are the risks of the rail as
compared with the risks of the road? You have the collision. In the
good old times you had the masked highwayman with the loaded pistols,
and the horrible threat; you had the deep ditch into which the great
lumbering coach, in some transport of downhill manoeuvring, was overset.
You had lanes of mud, in which all got out and shoved; you had the
dangers of long exposure to the air, so that when you finally arrived
you were nearly dead with some affection of the chest.
Some hundreds of miles away from London, measurable now in a day by
steam, in those times in about a week, stood a little village of the
hard Cornwall grey stone that makes Penzance, in spite of its
architecture, picturesque. The village was on the coast, distant about
two miles from the sea, and was pretty with many little gardens, and
remarkable in its air of genial originality; as though, having grown so
far afield, it had borrowed its prejudices nowhere. A village inn
fronted the high road. It swung the sign of 'Nelson.' Nelson was still
much in the public mind in those days. A stoutly built fellow in a
lazy, lounging walk, came to the door, and, looking up the road, said
to some one within--
'What makes the coach late?'
'They time themselves out o' greediness, and can't keep their word!'
exclaimed a female voice.
Now, as this was said, a noise of distant thunder was heard, and lo! the
coach, at hard gallop, turned the corner, the guard bugling, and the
foam flaking from the horses' mouths. It rattled up, with all the fine
effect of those glistening, grandly handled vehicles, to the door of the
'Nelson,' and stopped, the horses blowing smoke, and one white female
face, prim in a Quaker's bonnet, staring through an inside window.
There was a single traveller on top of the coach. He had his cloak
rolled well around him, and descended with the movements of a
half-frozen man. He asked for something to eat and drink, and was shown
into a parlour where, with as little loss of time as possible, they
served him handsomely with chops and potatoes and excellent beer. He
then produced a pipe, and sat with his feet to the fire. On the entrance
of the landlord to remove the dishes, Captain Jackman said languidly--
'Can I have a bed in your house?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I am here to visit a man named Thomas Bruton. Do you know him?'
'Well, I've known Tom half my life.'
'Do you think he would come across and talk with me on a business matter
I have in mind?'
'I'll fetch him for you now, sir. If he's out, he can't be far off. He
lives but five doors down.'
The landlord went out with a load of plates and dishes, and Captain
Jackman sat musing in front of the fire, of whose warmth and comfort he
was greatly in need. After a short absence the landlord returned,
accompanied by a man whose extremely ugly face discovered many marks of
astonishment. He bobbed from side to side to catch a view of the
gentleman who wanted him. He wore a little grey wig, and was deeply
pitted with small-pox; he was blind of one eye, and the other looked
into his nose, so that it amazed those he conversed with that he saw
them.
'Is it Thomas Bruton that you want, gentleman?' said the man, stepping
round the table to the side of the captain and staring at him.
'Are you he?' answered Jackman, rising and smiling.
'Ay, and not ashamed of it,' responded the fellow, whose appearance was
decidedly villainous.
'I want ten minutes' talk with you; sit down. Landlord, fetch this
gentleman a pint of ale, and kindly leave us.'
This was done. Bruton continued to run his malevolent eye with amazement
all over the captain, who resumed his seat.
'I understand,' began Captain Jackman, 'that you are the proprietor of a
little property, some twelve or fifteen miles down the coast here,
called Bugsby's Hole.'
'They're right who says so,' answered the man, sitting squarely before
his liquor.
'You want to sell it?'
'To him as 'll buy, yes.'
'First, what's your price?'
'Sixty pound cash down. I've lived in that house myself, and can warrant
it.'
'I'll give you that money for it, if the house and the neighbourhood and
the cave suit me,' said Jackman.
'You want the cave too!' said the man, with an ugly expressive grin.
'I buy the house because I may require the cave.'
'Well,' said the man after a little reflection, 'ye shall have the cave
in. First class of their sort they are; but they never would ha' been
included if ye hadn't offered for the house outright, nor would I ha'
been willin' to let the house on any terms.'
'So I had gathered, and was prepared for. Ask no questions,' said the
captain, 'and I'll ask none. When can I view the property?'
Bruton pulled out a heavy gold watch.
'Not to-day!' exclaimed the captain, 'I am dog-tired. Can you procure a
vehicle so that we may start to-morrow at about ten o'clock?'
'Right, sir!' said the man with a great manner of cheerfulness.
At the hour named Bruton drove up to the 'Nelson Inn' in a light cart
drawn by a small strong horse, and Captain Jackman got in. A little
crowd had collected to witness their going. A stranger was the rarest of
coast gulls in those parts. His face, his apparel, his bearing,
suggested a distant place and another sort of civilization. Bruton
flicked his horse, and they started down a pebbly roaring road. There
was no talking. They went over ruts and ridges presently at a rate of
about ten miles an hour, and the captain was flung over Bruton's knee,
and still there was no talking.
At last they came to a level plain of moor, sallow, discoloured,
desolate as the edge of coast and rim of sea that was now sweeping round
to their progress so as to meet them. Then the captain could make Bruton
hear this--
'Do you ever use your house for the running of goods?'
'Who are you that I should report myself?' And the squint turned
fiercely upon Jackman.
'Oh, I can be candid with such as you,' exclaimed the captain, with a
loud laugh. '_You_ don't peach. You have secrets which keep you men of
honour. See here, now.' He laid his hand upon Bruton's shoulder, and
said, 'I am pirate and smuggler!'
'Where have you been running?'
'Folkestone.'
'Ye h'ant got the looks of one of us.'
'I am a gentleman,' exclaimed Jackman warmly, 'with as determined a
resolution to make a fortune as others have. The sea promises a good
yield. You must have done well out of her to live without work at your
time of life.'
'The ocean's paid me well. I'm bound to say that,' said Mr. Bruton,
relaxing. 'And since you're so free, so'll I be. The cottage and the
cave I'm a-driving you to, and which'll soon heave in sight, was used by
me and my missis and the children as a dwelling-house and a storeroom
for the choicest of the run goods, the rest being stowed in secret
places, or in the steps.'
'The steps,' echoed the captain.
'Ay, you can step down to the foam of the water. It's a low front of
cliff hereabouts.'
'Were you successful in your hidings?'
'To tell you the truth,' the man answered in a grumbling note of
laughter, 'we were so rarely troubled that I believe we came off with
nigh everything we got ashore.'
'Piracy is a dangerous trade,' said Captain Jackman, talking to this man
as if he was a brother pirate. 'My ship is not to be seen once too often
in that market, and newly rigged and freshly painted, she may complete
the sum of money I want, and which as a gentleman I cannot possibly live
without, if we rig her afresh and paint her a new colour.'
Bruton turned his squint eye upon his companion. He scarcely knew what
to think of him. 'Where's your gang?' said he.
'I have men fit to board and capture a line-of-battle ship,' was the
answer.
Bruton pointed dumbly ahead with his whip; and Jackman saw a little
cottage upon the horizon, the most melancholy picture in the world under
the grey sky, and set to the music of the wind that was now coming a
little wildly off that opening eye of sea on their left. They drove
rapidly, and drew up at the cottage door. It was a strong house, fit for
a powder-magazine, built of Cornish flag, put together with a
heedlessness of aspect that lent it beauty of the roughest sort.
It had several little windows on either side, a fair piece of ground
plotted out at the back, a small front garden, and was certainly a dead
broke bargain with its stairs, even for moral living, at the money
asked.
Bruton made his horse fast, pulled out a key, and they entered his
singular, very much detached house. It was dusty and grimy, and showed a
great plenty of beer stains, and rum stains, and perhaps blood stains.
It was naked to the windows of furniture. It stood waiting for the
hurricanes of that iron coast to beat it down and lay its spirit to
soil.
'This will do,' said Jackman, after looking over the house. 'Show me
your stairs, Mr. Bruton.'
But first Mr. Bruton exposed a number of secret hiding-places in the
house itself, the sight of which greatly delighted Captain Jackman. They
were perfect, he thought, as places of concealment. They next went to
the stairs. These were entered from without. They had no trap or cover.
'What's the good of a hatch?' said Mr. Bruton, descending.
The sea-flash in the base gave them light, and the light behind followed
them. Mr. Bruton pointed to one or two avenues in which he said Captain
Jackman and his hearties would find hiding-places--none more perfect
along the coast, all open now, and so discoverable, being no longer
needed. They stood on a step clear of the massive belch of the breaker.
'There's some fine weather here for landing, I suppose?'
'If there wasn't,' said Mr. Bruton, 'how should I be now worth my
fourteen thousand pounds, two 'ouses, not counting this one, and a
comfortable lugger for my diversion, if I hadn't snicked it all off the
revenue?'
'Good, come up,' cried Captain Jackman, with excitement. 'Let your gains
be mine, and I'll bless your name.'
'Will you buy the house?' said the man.
'Yes,' answered the captain, 'and return with you to the town, where
you'll recommend me to people who'll clean and furnish it comfortably
whilst I am away on business elsewhere.'
'That shall be done, sir, and under my superintendence,' said Bruton, as
they emerged, followed by the distant hollow roar of the sea.
* * * * *
Commander Conway strode impatiently about his little parlour. It was
breakfast time, and there was a smell of fried fish in the house.
Putting his head out he caught sight of Mrs. Dove at the end of the
passage, and cried--
'Why does Miss Ada keep me waiting? Go and let her know that breakfast
is ready, and tell her to come down, dressed or undressed.'
He was warm with temper, and wiped his face. His daughter had for years
been a mortification to him in a quiet way. She would snub him in
company, she would decline to walk with him. She was for ever expressing
detestation of the place, knowing that her father, in stern reality,
could not afford a move. In the depths of his soul, the old gentleman
felt a little sick of these yearly experiences of his, and was perfectly
willing to marry her to any one whom he should think fit to be her
husband. Jackman was not that man. What was there in that man that made
the austere, keen-eyed commander witness a character in his beauty
invisible to the girl? Conway had mixed with men, and knew human nature.
Of one dark side of man's character or spirit he could claim a
particular knowledge.
These thoughts ran in his head whilst he waited. Suddenly he heard Mrs.
Dove, who was a very slow woman, come tumbling downstairs, and in a
moment she had fallen against Conway.
'What now?' said the commander, sternly thrusting her back.
'As I live to say it, sir,' cried the poor old lady, in broken tones of
purest agitation and fright, 'Miss Ada didn't sleep under your roof last
night!'
The enraged commander studied the old working face with a gaze horrible
with menace, then thrusting past her he went upstairs and entered his
daughter's room. The bed had been untouched. Certainly she had said
'Good-night' to him on the landing. She had left when the house was in
darkness, suppose an hour after saying 'Good-night.' With whom had she
eloped? Most undoubtedly with that scoundrel, Captain Jackman.
The commander stood in the middle of his daughter's room, looking round
him. His strong breast hove a sob once, and he muttered to himself,
'What shall I do?' The runaway had ten hours' advantage of any pursuit;
but whither, to what place should she be pursued? Had she left no note,
no communication? But then, although she had not slept in her bed, _had_
she eloped? The commander went downstairs to eat his breakfast.
Mrs. Dove stood in the room, white with anxiety and agitation.
'Oh, commander, is she gone, do you think? Is she gone off, do you
imagine, with the sea captain?' And she wrung her hands, and her face
worked in wrinkles.
'With whom else?' sternly replied the commander, seating himself before
his favourite fried sole, and beginning a breakfast that scarcely
promised its usual heartiness.
'What can be done, sir, to save her?'
'Don't you know, ma'm,' answered the commander, 'it has been said, that
the virtue that needs a sentinel is not worth guarding? What would _you_
do to save her? She's ahead of us by ten or eleven hours. The heart of
ice had no damned right to leave me without a single farewell or word of
her intention.'
'I can't believe that, sir. I _can't_ believe she'd go off without
leaving a note. I'll make another search.'
She stumped upstairs. The commander ate his fish, often looking hard out
of the window. Keen distress worked in his bosom. But his face of iron
masked it. She had left no letter, he thought to himself. _She_ would
have no talent at kindness in unkindness. She must sheath her knife to
the hilt to make the stroke effectual to her. As he thought thus, Mrs.
Dove entered bearing a note. Her face had lost its working wrinkles of
horror; she entered with something of gaiety.
'I've found this behind the dressing-table, where it had been blown down
by the draught from the open window. I knew--I knew, dear heart, she
wouldn't go away without saying good-bye.'
She handed the letter to the commander, who quietly put down his knife
and fork, took the letter, and read--
'Commander Conway, R.N.'
He then opened the letter. It was of two folded sheets, with very little
in them, and the missive ran thus--
'DEAR FATHER,
'I am eloping to-night with my darling Walter Jackman. This
uncomfortable form of marriage need not have happened had you proved
reasonable, but you were ever in extremes in your likes and dislikes. I
am now going to be happy after many years of dulness and contemptible
vexations, where my beauty was fast yellowing, and where I had not a
friend whom I valued. I do not say where we are going, for I do not want
you to give yourself the trouble of following me. It is impossible for
you to miss me. We saw so little of each other. It was only the sense of
my being in the house that gave you satisfaction. I will write to you
when I am settled, and shall hope to hear from you. And so, with love,
and a kiss of farewell, and begging you will not take this too much to
heart,
'I am,
'Your always affectionate daughter,
'ADA CONWAY.'
'Always affectionate daughter!' rasped out the commander, bringing his
fist down on a sheet of the letter. 'How do you like the notion of
calling Ada Conway Mrs. Walter Jackman?'
And he ground his teeth, and left the breakfast-table.
'I am glad I found the letter,' said Mrs. Dove. 'It shows she's not so
bad. But, oh, she's wicked--she's wicked to treat her poor old father
so.'
Conway cut the old woman short by stepping on to his lawn. He filled a
pipe, and paced to and fro. A little cannon stood at each corner of this
lawn, and amidships there had been reared a mighty flagstaff, which one
night came down in a gale of wind with an incredible thunder of noise.
It did little mischief; yet had it struck the commander's house, it is
odds, seeing that his bedroom immediately faced it, if it had not
smashed him as flat as his roof.
He walked for some time meditating in exasperation. He was helpless.
What could he do? Presently there came along the cliff's side, within
easy hail of the commander, Mr. Leaddropper and Captain Burgoyne. Both
men were wrapped in stout pilot-cloth, and the sea never shaped,
chiselled, coloured, clothed, and sent adrift to get a living a more
perfect sailor than Burgoyne.
They saw Conway, and came rolling across.
'Sorry to hear the bad news, commander,' said Leaddropper.
Conway stared. 'How the devil should you know it?' he roared. 'It's
scarcely known to myself yet!'
'We met the butcher, who had called for orders,' said Burgoyne. 'You'll
never get a servant to keep a secret. And it's nigh halfway over the
town already.'
'Commander,' exclaimed old Leaddropper in a broken voice, 'I am truly
sorry for you.'
'A plague on all sorrow!' burst out Conway, breathing short.
'But it's the business of all parents to get their daughters married,'
continued the pilot; 'and you weren't going to find soundings for her in
that way here. She's done for herself; and since she's done it, why,'
cried he, with a rollicking air, 'let us take the earliest occasion to
drink their healths!'
'Leaddropper,' said Burgoyne, who saw that Conway could scarcely
contain his rage, 'I don't think the commander rightly relishes this
talk just now. Can I be of any service to you?' he exclaimed, frankly
addressing Conway.
'Thanks. I am an old man, and this blow has somewhat stunned me. She was
my only child, and I am a widower. I should wish for prudent counsel.
Although they be married, I should like to know whether she's not to be
torn from the beggar's embraces, and brought back here and locked up
clear of him.'
His companions gravely shook their heads.
'Have you any idea where she's gone to?' asked the pilot.
'To sea in the beggar's brig; that's my opinion.'
'So he's got a brig,' said the pilot, interested. 'He may turn out
better than you think.'
They discoursed for some time in this style. They were all equally
ignorant, and had therefore nothing to suggest or communicate. This idle
council concluded by the commander swearing that he would go to London
by next day's coach, visit the owners of the _Lovelace_, and make all
human and possible inquiries in the docks about the man Jackman, his
brig, his antecedents; and, for all he knew, he might in this way get to
find out where his daughter was; for the scoundrel Jackman was pretty
certain to make sail for London, where his brig was, and where also he
could easily get married.
It was a tremendous undertaking--very expensive, very cold at that time
of the year, tedious beyond any words in human speech, and it was now
twelve years since the commander had visited the Metropolis on top of a
West of England mail-coach. Behold him next day seated on the roof of a
stout, handsome, well-apparelled vehicle! On his arrival in London he
was nearly dead, in spite of the several comfortable breaks. He had long
been used to his own armchair and his own bed, and hated travelling by
coach. Nevertheless, here he was at last in that marvellous Metropolis,
which staggers the nose more than any other sense on one's first entry
on top of a vehicle from miles of turnips and acres of grain.
It was twelve o'clock in the day. The commander descended stiff from the
coach, entered a neighbouring eating-house, where he called for a plate
of beef and a pint of ale, which did him good. He then, after making
full inquiry, walked to the offices of the owners of the ship
_Lovelace_. Only one of her owners was at business. This was the tall,
rather gentlemanly man, Sir William Williams, who bent his body in
halves when he talked, and preserved most of the styles of the last age.
On his learning that the tall gentleman was an owner, the commander told
him who he was, and begged for an interview. This was immediately
granted, and they repaired together to a small back office, bulk-headed
off by glass panels.
'I have travelled many leagues, sir,' began the commander, 'to obtain at
this office any information that may enable me to get at one Captain
Jackman, who, I bitterly lament to say, after haunting our parts, has,'
he continued, colouring with emotion and shame, 'run away with my
daughter, my only child.'
Sir William looked at him gravely and sympathetically. 'I will not go
behind anything your feelings may dictate,' he said. 'We hold our own
opinion of the fellow at this office. I do not think it's likely that he
will find employment under any other house-flag, let alone ours. His
name has become notorious through his loss of the fifteen hundred
sovereigns belonging to us.'
'It was no more stolen from him----' began the commander.
Sir William lifted his hand, with a grave smile. 'We know that he has
been spending money in your parts,' he said; 'but, then, he may tell you
that that is the money with which we paid him off. He has equipped his
brig. He will prove to you that he has borrowed money upon her for
trading purposes. Unless he may be convicted, we would rather not touch
him. Proofs to the hilt, or silence, that is my theory of our British
law.'
'Has he been seen about the docks?' asked the commander.
'I don't know.'
'He is fitting out his brig, isn't he?'
'She sailed some days ago.'
'Where bound to?'
'Nominally to Oporto,' answered Sir William, smiling.
'_He_ could not have been in charge. The fellow has only a few hours'
start of me.'
'They may have come up to London to be married, and they may join the
brig after they're man and wife,' said Sir William, viewing the
commander's face with concern.
'Then she'll be hove to, waiting for them!' cried Conway. 'Surely she'd
be in the river! By Heaven, I may intercept them yet, and give him hell,
if nothing worse happens!'
Sir William, who lived very strictly after the fashion of most
shipowners, looked very grave for a moment; then, unbending, he said--
'Your ear, sir.' And after whispering he sprang erect.
And the commander shouted, 'I had suspected it from the moment of my
setting eyes on him! The brig must be in the river! They'll join her
leisurely! She'll want to see the sights! I'll intercept her! But they
will be married--they will be married!'
Sir William accompanied him to the pavement, and promised him all the
information he could obtain, both as to the man and as to the brig.