There was quite a little crowd at the end of the pier to see Fisherman
Dick and some others busy with boathooks searching for the fragments of
Cora Dean's pony carriage, and for want of something better to stare at,
the fastening of a rope to first one pair of wheels and then to the
other, and the hauling ashore, formed thrilling incidents.
Two rich carriage-cloaks were cast ashore by the tide, miles away, and
the rug was found right under the pier, but there were several articles
still missing. Cora's reticule, containing her purse and cut-glass
scent-bottle; a little carriage-clock used by Mrs Dean, who was always
very particular about the lapse of time, and that lady's reticule and
purse.
It was Fisherman Dick's special task to search for them when the tide
was low, and this he did by going to work as a setter does in a field,
quartering the ground and hunting it all over to and fro.
But Fisherman Dick did his work with a shrimping-net, and one day he
took home the little carriage-clock and showed it to his wife.
Another day he found Mrs Dean's reticule, and caught a great many
shrimps as well.
Then the tide did not serve for several days, and he had to wait,
shaking his head and telling Mrs Miggles he was afraid the sand would
have covered everything.
"Then give it up," said Mrs Miggles, who was trying to sew with the
little girl in her lap, but was prevented by the tiny thing making
dashes at her broad-brimmed silver spectacles, which it kept taking off
and flourishing in one little plump hand.
"Well done, little 'un," cried the fisherman, grinning. "No, missus, I
don't like being beat."
He went off, looking very serious, with his net over one shoulder, the
creel over the other, and after going to and fro patiently waist and
often breast deep, he was successful in finding Cora Dean's reticule,
with its purse and cut-glass bottle; and that night he went home amply
rewarded, Cora having been very generous, and Mrs Dean saying several
times over that she wouldn't have believed that a great rough man like
that would have been so honest.
"I declare, Betsy, he's just like a man in a play--the good man who
finds the treasure and gives it up. Why, he might have kep' your puss,
and my puss too, and nobody been a bit the wiser."
That was all that was missing; but every day for a week, during the
times that the tide was low, Fisherman Dick was busy, pushing his
shrimping-net before him, and stopping every now and then to raise it,
throw out the rubbish, and transfer the few shrimps he caught to his
creel.
It was not a good place for shrimping--it was too deep; but he kept on
with his laborious task, wading out as far as ever he could go; and more
than one of his fellow-mermen grinned at his empty creel.
"Why don't you try the shallows, Dick?" said one of the blue-jerseyed
fellows, who seemed to be trying to grow a hump on his back by leaning
over the rail at the edge of the cliff.
"'Cause I like to try the deeps," growled Fisherman Dick.
"Ah, you want to make your fortune too quick, my lad; that's plain."
Dick winked, and went home; and the next day he winked, and went out
shrimping again, and caught very few, and went home again, put on his
dry clothes, and said:
"Give us the babby."
Mrs Miggles gave him the "babby," and Dick took her and nursed her,
smiling down at the little thing as she climbed up his chest, and
tangled her little fingers in his great beard; while Mrs Miggles gave
the few shrimps a pick over and a shake up before she consigned the
hopping unfortunates to the boiling bath that should turn them from
blackish grey to red.
"What is it, old man?" said Mrs Miggles; "sperrits?"
Fisherman Dick shook his head, and began to sing gruffly to the child
about a "galliant" maiden who went to sea in search of her true "lovy-er
along of a British crew."
"What is it, then--lace?"
Fisherman Dick shook his head again, and bellowed out the word "crew,"
the little child looking at him wonderingly, but not in the least
alarmed.
"I never did see such an oyster as you are, old man," said Mrs Miggles.
"You're the closest chap in the place."
"Ay!" said Fisherman Dick; and he went on with his song.
He went shrimping off the end of the pier for the delectation of the
mincing crowd of promenaders twice more. Lord Carboro' saw him; so did
Major Rockley and Sir Harry Payne. Sir Matthew Bray was too busy
dancing attendance upon Lady Drelincourt to pay any attention.
The Master of the Ceremonies saw him too, as he bowed to one, smiled
upon a second, and took snuff with a third; and several times, as he
watched the fisherman wading out there, he followed his movements
attentively, and appeared to be gazing without his mask of
artificiality.
The man's calm, dreamy ways seemed to have an attraction, as if he were
wishing that he could change places with him, and lead so simple and
peaceful a life. And as he watched him, very far out now, Dick raised
his net, emptied it, shook it with his back to the people, and then
began to wade in quite another direction, going back no more to the
ground off the pier.
The Master of the Ceremonies did not look himself that day, and twice
over he found himself on the edge of the pier gazing out to sea, where
everything seemed so peaceful and still.
There was a buzz of voices going on about him, but he heard nothing,
till all at once a voice, quite familiar to him, exclaimed sharply:
"Well, what is it?"
"Message from Mr Barclay, sir."
"Well?"
"I took your note, sir, and he'll be glad to see you to-morrow morning
at twelve."
"That will do. Now take the other."
Stuart Denville could not restrain himself as he heard those voices just
behind, and it was as if some power had turned him sharply round to see
Major Rockley in conversation with one of the private dragoons of his
regiment.
The man had delivered his message to his master, and then turned stiffly
to go, coming face to face with Denville, whose whole manner changed.
He turned deadly pale, of an unwholesome pallor, and then the blood
seemed to flush to his face and head. His eyes flashed and his lips
parted as if to speak, but the dragoon saluted, turned upon his heel,
and strode away.
"Anything the matter, Denville?" said the Major, who had seen something
of the encounter.
"Matter, matter," said the old man hoarsely, and he now began to tremble
violently. "No--no,--a little faint. You'll pardon me,--a chair,--a--"
The old man would have fallen, but the Major caught his arm and helped
him to a seat, where a crowd of fashionables surrounded him, and did all
they possibly could to prevent his recovery from his fit by keeping away
every breath of air, and thrusting at him bottles of salts,
vinaigrettes, and scents of every fashionable kind.
"What's the matter with the old fellow?" said the Major, as he twirled
his moustache. "Could he have known about the note? Impossible; and if
he had known, why should he turn faint? Bah! Absurd! The heat. He's
little better than a shadow, after all."
Volume One, Chapter XXII.