that blinded, and the lump in his throat that well-nigh choked him.
After the first wild miscellaneous embrace all round was over, Jack (or
Teddie, as the home-circle called him) found relief by catching up
Dobbin and burying his face in his neck and curls, regardless of the
treacle with which that gentleman was plentifully besmeared.
"I've got bad news for you, Teddie, my boy," said his father, after they
had moderated a little.
"Nobody ill or--dead?" asked Jack, with a look of anxiety.
"No, nobody."
"Then I'm prepared for any other kind of bad news," said our philosopher
with a quiet smile.
"The Blankow Bank," said his father, laying a hand impressively on his
shoulder, "has failed, and every penny of your gold is gone!"
The family had become very grave. Jack looked from one to the other
with a bewildered air.
"You are jesting, father."
"No, my boy; I would that it were not true. The distress that is abroad
in the land because of this calamity is very great. Not only is all
your fortune gone, Ted, but anything that you may have brought home with
you will be taken to pay the creditors of the bank; and they require so
much money that it would ruin you, though you had thousands upon
thousands of pounds."
A strange smile flitted across the youth's face as he replied--
"What I brought home with me won't benefit them much, for it lies with
the wreck of the _Rainbow_ at the bottom of the sea."
This was indeed a surprise to the old couple, who now learned, for the
first time, that the wrecked ship, about which a rumour had just reached
them, was that in which their son had come home.
"But, father," continued Jack, with a look of deepening anxiety, "if
this be as you say, then my comrades must also be ruined, for their gold
was all invested by Mr Wilkins in the same bank."
"All ruined," replied the old man in a sad tone. "Mr Wilkins himself
is bankrupt--the first call brought him and many others down."
"And yourself father; I hope you had no shares in it."
"None, my boy, thank God. Prosperity has attended me ever since I got
the first money you sent home. _That_ saved me, Teddie."
A gleam of joy overspread Philosopher Jack's countenance as he started
to his feet.
"Then am I well and undeservedly rewarded, daddy," he exclaimed; "but
all this news is pretty tough. I must go out to tackle it. I'll be
back in a few minutes."
He sprang through the cottage door and sped away over the moor like a
greyhound. Reaching the top of a rising ground--from which he could see
a boundless stretch of border-land, with the sea in the far distance and
the sun setting in a flood of golden light--he drew himself up, and
pushing back the hair from his temples with both hands, stood gazing
wistfully into the radiant glory.
"So like a dream--so like a dream!" he murmured. "It was God who gave;
surely it is He who has taken away. Can there be anything but good in
all this?"
His hands dropped to his side as he spoke, and he sauntered slowly down
the slope on which he stood. Entering a small plantation of fir-trees
at the foot of it, he disappeared.
When he returned to the cottage all trace of strong feeling was gone.
"We won't talk of the bank to-night," he said, "let's be jolly," and
jolly he was accordingly. Not only so, but he made Dobbin jolly too, by
supplying him with such a number of treacle-pieces that the child could
hardly gasp his refusal of the last slice offered, and was made sticky
from the ends of his filthy fingers to the crown of his curly head.
It is not necessary, nor would it be pleasant to describe minutely the
effect of the "bad news" on the other members of our gold-digging party.
Captain Samson and Watty Wilkins took it well, but Polly and Simon
O'Rook could not easily reconcile themselves to their fate. The former,
it is true, sorrowed not for herself, but for her father. O'Rook,
however, was more selfish, and came down very heavily on what he called
his "luck."
"Sure it's a misfortunate pig I've been iver since I left Owld Ireland,"
he remarked to his pipe one day after dinner, being alone with that
implement at the time; "an no sooner does the first stroke of good luck
befall me, an me fortune's made intirely, than whoop! down goes the
whole consarn to the bottom of the say. It's well, hows'ever, that ye
didn't go down yerself along with it, Simon. Ye've raison to be
thankful for that, anyhow."
If O'Rook's pipe did not offer him a comforting reply it appeared to
console him with its fumes, for after a pause, during which the smoke
played voluminously about his nose, he wrinkled his visage into a smile
of good humour.
"Now, Simon," he said, rising and putting the black little implement in
his pocket, "you're in a fit state to go an' comfort the widdy."
Saying which he went out of the cheap refreshment room in which he had
dined, and betook himself to the principal street of the city, whose
name we have already declined to mention.
To explain his remark, we may state here that after the most diligent
inquiry without success, the Irishman had, by the merest chance,
discovered the widow of David Ban--in this very city, to which he had
accompanied Philosopher Jack and Captain Samson, after clearly
ascertaining that every vestige of the wreck of the _Rainbow_ had
disappeared, and that all his gold was irrevocably gone. Walking along
the principal street one day, he had been attracted by a temperance
eating-house named the "Holly Tree." Entering it for the purpose of, as
he said, "revictualling the ship," he was rooted to the spot by hearing
a customer call out, "Another cup of coffee, please, Mrs Bancroft,"
while at the same moment an assistant at the counter addressed the
comely woman, who replied, "Yes, sir," by the name of "Lucy." Could
proof be more conclusive? Upon inquiry "Lucy" turned out in very truth
to be the widow of David Bancroft, and the lock of hair corresponded.
Of course O'Rook revealed to her the sad circumstances connected with
her husband's end. To say that Mrs Bancroft was overwhelmed with grief
would not be true. She had long mourned him as dead, and although the
information, corroborated as it afterwards was by Edwin Jack and Captain
Samson, did re-open the old wound to some extent, she nevertheless bore
it heroically, and took Simon O'Rook's comforting observations in good
part. But we must not anticipate. Let us return to Watty Wilkins.
Having broken the news of Ben Trench's death to the Bailie and his
family--and a terrible duty he found it to be,--Watty went straight to
his father's house. We drop the curtain on the meeting. The joy of the
elder Wilkins can only be fully understood by those who can say of an
only son, "He was lost and is found."
"Now, Watty, dear boy," said Mr Wilkins when they came to talk of
ordinary matters, "God has mingled mercy with my sorrows. My business
has indeed been ruined, and I have passed through the bankruptcy court;
but I am by no means so unfortunate as hundreds of people who have been
reduced to absolute poverty by this crash. You remember my brother
James--Uncle Jimmy? well, he has got a flourishing business in the West
Indies. For some years past he had been meditating the establishment of
an agency in connection with it in this city. The moment he heard of my
failure he offered to make me his agent here, with a good salary. Of
course I was only too glad and thankful to accept the offer, and after
my affairs were wound up, entered upon the office. So now, you see,
here I am, through God's goodness, still inhabiting the old house, which
I now rent from the person who purchased it. Of course I can no longer
keep a carriage, and it will cost me some calculation and economy to
make the two ends meet, but these are small matters."
"Oh, father, I'm so glad and thankful!" said Watty with sparkling eyes.
"But," continued Mr Wilkins, with a look of profound gravity, "at
present I happen to be troubled with a great difficulty."
"What's that?" asked his little son, with a ready sympathy that was
natural to him, and which his recent experiences had rendered much more
powerful.
"I find the nature of my duties too much for me," replied Mr Wilkins
with a peculiar smile, "and it is almost impossible that I can get along
without a clever, honest, intelligent clerk, or, shall we say,
secretary--a character that is not easily found in these degenerate
days. Can you recommend one, Watty?"
"O yes," cried the youth, springing up and seizing his father's hand in
both of his; "you mean _me_! Don't you, now? You _can't_ get on
without me."
Watty felt inclined to dance a hornpipe, but he sat down instead, and,
covering his face with his hands, burst into tears of joy. Being a
tender-hearted man, Mr Wilkins could not help joining him, but in a
moderate degree. We will leave them thus engaged, merely remarking that
if the act was a weakness, it nevertheless seemed to do them a world of
good.
After a considerable time had elapsed, Philosopher Jack left the Border
cottage one day, went up to town, and presented himself at his old
lodgings to Mrs Niven. That lady's feelings, under the influence of
surprise, had a tendency, as we have shown, to lay her flat on the
floor. But the faithful Peggy had come to understand her tendencies,
and was usually too much for her. When her old lodger made his
appearance in her parlour, Mrs Niven exhibited symptoms which caused
Peggy to glide swiftly forward and receive her in her arms, whence she
was transferred to an easy-chair.
Recovering, she gave Jack what, in the circumstances, was a hearty
welcome.
"Losh me, laddie, ye'll be the death o' me!"
"I hope not, Mrs Niven," said Jack, laughing, as he shook her hand
heartily and sat down, "for my own sake as well as yours; because I have
come to take my old room if it is vacant."
"Yer auld room, Maister Jack!" exclaimed the bewildered woman.
"Yes, if it is not already occupied."
"The yin wi' the reeky lum and the view o' chimbley-pots frae the
wundy?"
"The same. I hope I can have it, for I'm going to college again, and
I've an affection for the old place, despite the smoky chimney and the
cans on the cats' parade."
"Yer jokin', Maister Jack."
"Indeed I am not, Mrs Niven."
"They telt me ye was in Callyforny, an had made 'eer fortin there by
howkin' gold."
"Well, they told the truth, my good woman, but I happened to invest all
in Blankow Bank shares, and--"
"Wow! wow!" exclaimed Mrs Niven, whimpering, for she understood full
well the meaning of that, "an' 'ee've been ruined! Oh dear! Weel,
weel, ay, ay, an it's come to that. Jist like my kind freen' Maister
Black. Losh me! man," she added in a sudden burst of indignation, "what
for disna the Government order a penny subscription ower the hail
kingdom to git the puir guiltless shareholders oot o' their
diffeeculties?"
Philosopher Jack declined to enter upon so subtle a question, but after
finding that his old room was vacant, retook it, and then went out to
the region of the docks to pay a visit to Captain Samson. He found that
old salt in possession of his old lodging, but it was wonderfully
changed, and, perhaps, not for the better. Polly was there, however,
and her presence would have made any place charming.
"Sit down. There is an empty keg to offer a friend," said the captain,
looking round the almost empty room. "You see they've cleared me out.
Had to sell everything a'most."
This was true. The marine stores, coils of rope, kegs, charts,
telescopes, log-lines, sextants, foreign shells, model ships, Chinese
idols--all were gone, excepting a table, a chair, a child's crib in a
corner, and the hammock, which latter looked more like an overwhelmingly
heavy cloud than ever, as it hung over the clean but desolate scene.
"But we're going to have _such_ a nice tea," said Polly, "and you shall
stay and have some."
She bustled about the fire, but it had so little heart that even her
coaxing nearly failed to make it burn. Jack offered to assist.
"Take care," said Polly with some anxiety; "if you cough or sneeze
you'll put it out."
"But I promise neither to cough nor sneeze," said Jack.
Under their united efforts the fire blazed, and tea with buttered toast
ere long smoked on the board.
"Polly's going to London," said the captain suddenly--almost fiercely.
"Yes," said Polly, hastening to explain; "you see, my aunt Maria has
been so good as to offer to take me to live with her and put me to
school."
"Ha!" said the captain, almost blowing the buttered toast out of his
mouth with contempt, "and Aunt Maria says she'll make a lady of Polly!
Think o' that, Jack; _make_ a lady out of an angel!"
The captain was so tickled with the idea that he went off into a roar of
sarcastic laughter.
"I'll tell 'ee what it is, Jack," he continued on recovering, "I
shouldn't wonder it in the course of a few months' residence with her,
Polly was to make a lady out of Aunt Maria--supposin' that to be
possible."
"Oh! father," remonstrated Polly.
"Come," cried the captain savagely, "give us a nor'-wester--that's it;
another--thank 'ee. The fact is, I'm goin' in for nor'-westers durin'
the next fortnight--goin' to have it blow a regular hurricane of 'em."
Philosopher Jack hoped, if at all allowable, that he might be permitted
to come under the influence of the gale, and then asked why Polly was
leaving her father.
"She's not leavin' me, bless you," said the captain, "it's me that's
leavin' _her_. The fact is, I've got a ship. What's left of me is not
over young, but it's uncommon tough, so I mean to use it up as long as
it lasts for Polly. I'm off to the East Indies in two or three weeks.
If it hadn't been for this Aunt Maria I shouldn't have known what to do
for Polly, so I've no call to abuse the stupid old thing. A lady,
indeed--ha!"
"You might have been quite sure that my father's house would have been
open to Polly," said Jack quite warmly, "or Mr Wilkins's, for the
matter of that."
"I know it lad, I know it" returned the captain, slapping his friend on
the shoulder, "but after all, this Aunt Maria--this lady-like
individual--is the most natural protector. But now, tell me, what of
O'Rook?"
"I know nothing of him. Haven't seen him for several days. When I last
met him he seemed to be much depressed, poor fellow. I don't wonder,
considering the fortune he has lost. However, Wilkins's father is sure
to do the best he can for him. He feels so deeply having led him and
the rest of us into this--though it was no fault of his, and he went in
and suffered along with us. I couldn't understand, however, what O'Rook
meant by some wild remarks he made the other day about taking to the
temperance line and going in for coffee and mutton chops up a
holly-tree. I hope it hasn't unseated his reason, poor fellow."
While the trio were thus discussing O'Rook over a cup of tea, that bold
Irishman was busily engaged "comforting the widdy" over a cup of coffee
in Mrs Bancroft's private parlour.
It is only just to O'Rook to say that he originally sought the widow
from a simple desire to tell her of her husband's sad end, which, as we
have seen, had made a deep impression on his sympathetic heart. When,
however, he found that the widow was young, cheery, and good-looking,
his sympathy was naturally increased, and the feeling was not
unnaturally intensified when he found her engaged in the management of
so excellent an institution as the "Holly Tree Public House without
Drink." At first O'Rook confined his visits to pure sympathy; then,
when he had allowed a "raisonable" time to elapse, he made somewhat
warmer approaches, and finally laid siege to the widow's heart. But the
widow was obdurate.
"Why won't ye have me, now?" asked the poor man one evening, with a
perplexed look; "sure it's not bad-lookin' I am, though I've no occasion
to boast of gud looks neither."
"No, it's not your looks," said Mrs Bancroft with a laugh, as she
raised her eyes from her knitting and looked at her sister Flo, who sat
opposite, also knitting, and who took a smiling but comparatively
indifferent view of the matter.
"Then it must be because I'm not owld enough. Sure if ye wait a year or
two I'll be as owld as yourself, every bit," said O'Rook.
"No, it's not that either," said the widow.
"Ah, then, it can't be because I'm poor," persisted O'Rook, "for with
this good business you don't want money, an' I'm great at cookin',
besides havin' the willin' hands that can turn to a'most anything. If
ye'd seen me diggin' for goold, bad luck to it, ye'd belaive what I tell
ye. Ah!" he added with a sigh, "it's a rich man I'd have been this day
if that ship had only kep' afloat a few hours longer. Well, well, I
needn't grumble, when me own comrades, that thought it so safe in the
Blankow Bank, are about as badly off as me. When was it they began to
suspec' the bank was shaky?"
"Oh, long ago," said Mrs Bancroft, "soon after the disappearance of Mr
Luke, the cashier--"
"Mr who?" demanded O'Rook with a start.
"Mr Luke. Did you know him?"
"I've heard of such a man," replied O'Rook with assumed carelessness;
"what about _him_?"
"Well, it was supposed that he was goin' deranged, poor fellow, and at
last he suddenly disappeared, no one could tell why; but it's clear
enough now, for he was made to put the accounts all wrong, and I suppose
the struggle in his mind drove him to suicide, for he was a long, thin,
weakly sort of man, without much brains except for figures."
Hereupon O'Rook told the widow all he knew about the strange passenger
of that name with whom he had sailed to the Southern Seas and worked at
the gold fields. The conclusion which they came to was that the
gold-digging passenger was the absconded cashier. Having settled this,
O'Rook renewed the siege on the widow's heart but without success,
though she did not cast him off altogether. The poor man, however, lost
patience, and, finally, giving it up in despair, went off to sea.
"I've been too hard on him," remarked the widow, sadly, to her sister
Flo, after he was gone.
"You have," was Flo's comforting reply, as she rose to serve a clamorous
customer of the Holly Tree.
Philosopher Jack from that time forth devoted himself heartily to study,
and gradually ceased to think of the golden dreams which had for so long
a time beset him by night and by day. He had now found the gold which
cannot perish, and while he studied medicine and surgery to enable him
to cure the bodies of men, he devoted much of his time to the study of
the Book which would enable him to cure their souls.
The captain came and went across the seas in the course of his rough
calling, and he never came without a heart full of love and hands full
of foreign nick-nacks, which he conveyed to Polly in London, and never
went away without a rousing nor'-wester.
Watty and his father worked on together in vigorous contentment and many
a visit did the former pay to Bailie Trench, attracted by the strong
resemblance in Susan to the bosom friend who had reached the "Better
Land" before him.
Thus time rolled quietly on, until an event occurred which modified the
career of more than one of those whose fortunes we have followed so
long.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE MATTER.
If it be true that there is "many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip"--
which we have no reason to doubt--it is not less true that many a cup of
good fortune is, unexpectedly and unsought, raised to the lips of
thankless man.
Captain Samson was seated one fine summer evening in his shore-going
cabin, that used to be the abode of fishy smells, marine-stores, Polly,
and bliss, but which now presented an unfurnished and desolate aspect.
He had just returned from a voyage. Little "kickshaws" for Polly lay on
the table before him, and a small fire burned in the grate, with a huge
kettle thereon. A stormy sigh escaped the captain as he glanced round
the old room.
"Come, come, Samson," he exclaimed, apostrophising himself, "this will
never do. You mustn't give way to the blues. It's true you haven't got
as much to leave to Polly when you slip your cable as you once had; but
you have scraped together a little these few years past, and there's
lots of work in you yet, old boy. Besides, it's His way of ordering
events, and that way _must_ be right, whatever it appears to me. Why,
Samson, for all your preaching to others, your own faith isn't as big as
a grain of mustard seed. Ah! Polly, you're a woman now a'most--and a
beauty, I'll be bound. I wish you'd come though. You're not up to
time, young 'ooman. It's as well you've got one or two faults, just to
keep you in sympathy with other mortals. Ah, here you come."
He hastened to answer a double knock at the door, and checked himself,
not a moment too soon, from giving a warm embrace to the postman. Under
a strong impulse to knock the man down he took a letter from him, flung
it on the table, and shut the door. After pacing the room for some time
impatiently he sat down, opened the letter, and read it aloud. It ran
thus:--
"Sir--Having been for some years past engaged in diving operations at
the wreck of the _Rainbow_--lost off the coast of Cornwall in 18
hundred and something, I write to say that I have recovered a large
chest of gold with your name on the inside of it, and that of a man
named Simon O'Rook. Most of the gold recovered from the _Rainbow_ has
been scattered about, but in all cases when ownership could be proved,
I have handed over the property. If you can give such an account of
the contents of the chest referred to as shall satisfy me that it is
yours, the part of its contents which belongs to you shall be
restored.
"I would feel obliged if you could give me any clew to the whereabouts
of O'Rook.--I am, etcetera."
"The whereabouts of O'Rook!" cried the captain, starting up and gazing
at the letter; "why, he's my own first mate, an' close alongside at this
good hour!"
"True for ye," cried a man outside the window, as he flattened his nose
against the glass, "an is it polite to kape yer own first mate rappin'
the skin off his knuckles at the door?"
The captain at once let in his follower, and showed him the letter. His
surprise may be better imagined than described.
"But d'ee think it's true, cap'n?"
"I haven't a doubt of it, but we can settle that to-morrow by a visit to
the writer of the letter."
"That's true," said O'Rook; "which o' the boxes, now, that belonged to
us d'ee think it is?"
"It can only be one," replied the captain, "that box of mine in which
you asked me to stuff the remnant of the gold-dust that you hadn't room
for in your own boxes. It was the strongest box o' the lot, which
accounts for its not breakin' up like the others."
"It must be that. I rowled it up in an owld leather coat bought from an
Injin the day before we left the diggin's. It's but a small remainder
o' me fortune--a thousand pounds, more or less,--but sure, it's found
money an comes handy this good day, which reminds me I've got some noose
for 'ee. What d'ee think, cap'n?" continued O'Rook, with a very
conscious look.
"How can I think if ye don't give me somethin' to think about?"
"The widdy's tuk me after all!" said O'Rook.
"What! widow Bancroft?"
O'Rook nodded impressively. "Moreover," he said, "she's tuk me as a
poor beggar with nothin' but his pay, for better and for worse, an',
sure now, it's better I'll be than she tuk me for."
The captain was interrupted in his congratulations of the mate by
another knock at the door. He opened it, and next moment was seized
round the neck by a tall, graceful, beautiful, exquisite--oh! reader,
you know who we mean.
"Why didn't you come up to time, old girl?" demanded the captain, while
O'Rook looked on in admiration.
"Oh, father," gasped Polly, "don't crush me so and I'll tell you."
When she had explained that delay in the train had caused her want of
punctuality, she shook hands with O'Rook, with whom she had renewed
acquaintance at the time of his being appointed first mate to her
father's ship. Then she was bid stand up in a corner to be
"overhauled." The captain retired to an opposite corner, and gazed at
his daughter critically, as though she had been a fine portrait.
"Yes, Polly, you'll do," he said, while an approving smile wrinkled his
vast countenance. "Fit for a queen any day. A _lady_--ha! ha! Have
you done your duty to Aunt Maria, Polly, eh? Have you made a lady of
her, eh? Have you infused into her something allied to the angelic, eh?
Come, now, a rousing nor'-wester!"
With a laugh worthy of her girlhood, Polly ran out of her corner and
obeyed orders.