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[Illustration: "I am in the power of a maniac" Honoria murmured.--Page
100. Henry French, del. E. Evans, sc.]
RUN TO EARTH
A NOVEL
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," "AURORA FLOYD"
"ISHMAEL," "VIXEN," "WYLLARD'S WEIRD"
ETC. ETC.
CONTENTS.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I. WARNED IN A DREAM
CHAPTER II. DONE IN THE DARKNESS
CHAPTER III. DISINHERITED
CHAPTER IV. OUT OF THE DEPTHS
CHAPTER V. "EVIL, BE THOU MY GOOD!"
CHAPTER VI. AULD ROBIN GRAY
CHAPTER VII. "O BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY!"
CHAPTER VIII. AFTER THE PIC-NIC
CHAPTER IX. ON YARBOROUGH TOWER
CHAPTER X. "HOW ART THOU LOST! HOW ON A SUDDEN LOST!"
CHAPTER XI. "THE WILL! THE TESTAMENT!"
CHAPTER XII. A FRIEND IN NEED
CHAPTER XIII. IN YOUR PATIENCE YE ARE STRONG
CHAPTER XIV. A GHOSTLY VISITANT
CHAPTER XV. A TERRIBLE RESOLVE
CHAPTER XVI. WAITING AND WATCHING
CHAPTER XVII. DOUBTFUL SOCIETY
CHAPTER XVIII. AT ANCHOR
CHAPTER XIX. A FAMILIAR TOKEN
CHAPTER XX. ON GUARD
CHAPTER XXI. DOWN IN DORSETSHIRE
CHAPTER XXII. ARCH-TRAITOR WITHIN, ARCH-PLOTTER WITHOUT
CHAPTER XXIII. "ANSWER ME, IF THIS BE DONE?"
CHAPTER XXIV. "I AM WEARY OF MY PART"
CHAPTER XXV. A DANGEROUS ALLIANCE
CHAPTER XXVI. MOVE THE FIRST
CHAPTER XXVII. WEAVE THE WARP, AND WEAVE THE WOOF
CHAPTER XXVIII. PREPARING THE GROUND
CHAPTER XXIX. AT WATCH
CHAPTER XXX. FOUND WANTING
CHAPTER XXXI. "A WORTHLESS WOMAN, MERE COLD CLAY"
CHAPTER XXXII. A MEETING AND AN EXPLANATION
CHAPTER XXXIII. "TREASON HAS DONE HIS WORST"
CHAPTER XXXIV. CAUGHT IN THE TOILS
CHAPTER XXXV. LARKSPUR TO THE RESCUE!
CHAPTER XXXVI. ON THE TRACK
CHAPTER XXXVII. "O, ABOVE MEASURE FALSE!"
CHAPTER XXXVIII. "THY DAY IS COME"
CHAPTER XXXIX. "CONFUSION WORSE THAN DEATH"
CHAPTER XL. "SO SHALL YE REAP"
CHAPTER I.
WARNED IN A DREAM.
Seven-and-twenty years ago, and a bleak evening in March. There are
gas-lamps flaring down in Ratcliff Highway, and the sound of squeaking
fiddles and trampling feet in many public-houses tell of festivity
provided for Jack-along-shore. The emporiums of slop-sellers are
illuminated for the better display of tarpaulin coats and hats, so
stiff of build that they look like so many sea-faring suicides, pendent
from the low ceilings. These emporiums are here and there enlivened by
festoons of many-coloured bandana handkerchief's; and on every pane of
glass in shop or tavern window is painted the glowing representation of
Britannia's pride, the immortal Union Jack.
Two men sat drinking and smoking in a little parlour at the back of an
old public-house in Shadwell. The room was about as large as a
good-sized cupboard, and was illuminated in the day-time by a window
commanding a pleasant prospect of coal-shed and dead wall. The paper on
the walls was dark and greasy with age; and every bit of clumsy,
bulging deal furniture in the room had been transformed into a kind of
ebony by the action of time and dirt, the greasy backs and elbows of
idle loungers, the tobacco-smoke and beer-stains of half a century.
It was evident that the two men smoking and drinking in this darksome
little den belonged to the seafaring community. In this they resembled
each other; but in nothing else. One was tall and stalwart; the other
was small, and wizen, and misshapen. One had a dark, bronzed face, with
a frank, fearless expression; the other was pale and freckled, and had
small, light-gray eyes, that shifted and blinked perpetually, and
shifted and blinked most when he was talking with most animation. The
first had a sonorous bass voice and a resonant laugh; the second spoke
in suppressed tones, and had a trick of dropping his voice to a whisper
whenever he was most energetic.
The first was captain and half-owner of the brigantine 'Pizarro',
trading between the port of London, and the coast of Mexico. The second
was his clerk, factotum, and confidant; half-sailor, half-landsman;
able to take the helm in dangerous weather, if need were; and able to
afford his employer counsel in the most intricate questions of trading
and speculation.
The name of the captain was Valentine Jernam, that of his factotum
Joyce Harker. The captain had found him in an American hospital, had
taken compassion upon him, and had offered him a free passage home. On
the homeward voyage, Joyce Harker had shown himself so handy a
personage, that Captain Jernam had declined to part with him at the end
of the cruise: and from that time, the wizen little hunchback had been
the stalwart seaman's friend and companion. For fifteen years, during
which Valentine Jernam and his younger brother, George, had been
traders on the high seas, things had gone well with these two brothers;
but never had fortune so liberally favoured their trading as during the
four years in which Joyce Harker had prompted every commercial
adventure, and guided every speculation.
"Four years to-day, Joyce, since I first set eyes upon your face in the
hospital at New Orleans," said Captain Jernam, in the confidence of
this jovial hour. "'Why, the fellow's dead,' said I. 'No; he's only
dying,' says the doctor. 'What's the matter with him?' asked I.
'Home-sickness and empty pockets,' says the doctor; 'he was employed in
a gaming-house in the city, got knocked on the head in some row, and
was brought here. We've got him through a fever that was likely enough
to have finished him; but there he lies, as weak as a starved rat. He
has neither money nor friends. He wants to get back to England; but he
has no more hope of ever seeing that country than I have of being
Emperor of Mexico.' 'Hasn't he?' says I; 'we'll tell you a different
story about that, Mr. Doctor. If you can patch the poor devil up
between this and next Monday, I'll take him home in my ship, without
the passage costing him sixpence.' You don't feel offended with me for
having called you a poor devil, eh, Joyce?--for you really were, you
know--you really were an uncommonly poor creature just then," murmured
the captain, apologetically.
"Offended with you!" exclaimed the factotum; "that's a likely thing.
Don't I owe you my life? How many more of my countrymen passed me by as
I lay on that hospital-bed, and left me to rot there, for all they
cared? I heard their loud voices and their creaking boots as I lay
there, too weak to lift my eyelids and look at them; but not too weak
to curse them."
"No, Joyce, don't say that."
"But I do say it; and what's more, I mean it. I'll tell you what it is,
captain, there's a general opinion that when a man's shoulders are
crooked, his mind is crooked too; and that, if his poor unfortunate
legs have shrivelled up small, his heart must have shrivelled up small
to match 'em. I dare say there's some truth in the general opinion;
for, you see, it doesn't improve a man's temper to find himself cut out
according to a different pattern from that his fellow-creatures have
been made by, and to find his fellow-creatures setting themselves
against him because of that difference; and it doesn't soften a poor
wretch's heart towards the world in general, to find the world in
general harder than stone against him, for no better reason than his
poor weak legs and his poor crooked back. But never mind talking about
me and my feelings, captain. I ain't of so much account as to make it
worth while for a fine fellow like you to waste words upon me. What I
want to know is your plans. You don't intend to stop down this way, do
you?"
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Because it's a dangerous way for a man who carries his fortune about
him, as you do. I wish you'd make up your mind to bank that money,
captain."
"Not if I know it," answered the sailor, with a look of profound
wisdom; "not if I know it, Joyce Harker. I know what your bankers are.
You go to them some fine afternoon, and find a lot of clerks standing
behind a bran new mahogany counter, everything bright, and shining, and
respectable. 'Can I leave a few hundreds on deposit?' asks you. 'Why,
of course you can,' reply they; and then you hand over your money, and
then they hand you back a little bit of paper. 'That's your receipt,'
say they. 'All right,' say you; and off you sheer. Perhaps you feel
just a little bit queerish, when you get outside, to think that all
your solid cash has been melted down into that morsel of paper; but
being a light-hearted, easy-going fellow, you don't think any more of
it, till you come home from your next voyage, and go ashore again, and
want your money; when it's ten to one if you don't find your fine new
bank shut up, and your clerks and bran-new mahogany counter vanished.
No, Joyce, I'll trust no bankers."
"I'd rather trust the bankers than the people down this way, any day in
the week," answered the clerk, thoughtfully.
"Don't you worry yourself, Joyce! The money won't be in my keeping very
long. George is to meet me in London on the fifth of April, at the
latest, he says, unless winds and waves are more contrary than ever
they've been since he's had to do with them; and you know George is my
banker. I'm only a sleeping partner in the firm of Jernam Brothers.
George takes the money, and George does what he likes with it--puts it
here and there, and speculates in this and speculates in that. You've
got a business head of your own, Joyce; you're one of George's own
sort; and you are up to all his dodges, which is more than I am.
However, he tells me we're getting rich, and that's pleasant
enough--not that I think I should break my heart about it if we were
getting poor. I love the sea because it is the sea, and I love my ship
for her own sake."
"Captain George is right, though," answered the clerk. "Jernam Brothers
are growing rich; Jernam Brothers are prospering. But you haven't told
me your plans yet, captain."
"Well, since you say I had better cut this quarter, I suppose I must;
though I like to see the rigging above the housetops, and to hear the
jolly voices of the sailors, and to know that the 'Pizarro' lies hard
by in the Pool. However, there's an old aunt of mine, down in a sleepy
little village in Devonshire, who'd be glad to see me, and none the
worse for a small slice of Jernam Brothers' good luck; so I'll take a
place on the Plymouth coach to-morrow morning, and go down and have a
peep at her. You'll be able to keep a look-out on the repairs aboard of
the 'Pizarro', and I can be back in time to meet George on the fifth."
"Where are you to meet him?"
"In this room."
The factotum shook his head.
"You're both a good deal too fond of this house," he said. "The people
that have got it now are strangers to us. They've bought the business
since our last trip. I don't like the look on them."
"No more do I, if it comes to that. I was sorry to hear the old folks
had been done up. But come, Joyce, some more rum-and-water. Let's enjoy
ourselves to-night, man, if I'm to start by the first coach to-morrow
morning. What's that?"
The captain stopped, with the bell-rope in his hand, to listen to the
sound of music close at hand. A woman's voice, fresh and clear as the
song of a sky-lark, was singing "Wapping Old Stairs," to the
accompaniment of a feeble old piano.
"What a voice!" cried the sailor. "Why, it seems to pierce to the very
core of my heart as I listen to it. Let's go and hear the music, Joyce."
"Better not, captain," answered the warning voice of the clerk. "I tell
you they're a bad lot in this house. It's a sort of concert they give
of a night; an excuse for drunkenness, and riot, and low company. If
you're going by the coach to-morrow, you'd better get to bed early
to-night. You've been drinking quite enough as it is."
"Drinking!" cried Valentine Jernam; "why, I'm as sober as a judge.
Come, Joyce, let's go and listen to that girl's singing."
The captain left the room, and Harker followed, shrugging his shoulders
as he went.
"There's nothing so hard to manage as a baby of thirty years old," he
muttered; "a blessed infant that one's obliged to call master."
He followed the captain, through a dingy little passage, into a room
with a sanded floor, and a little platform at one end. The room was
full of sailors and disreputable-looking women; and was lighted by
several jets of coarse gas, which flared in the bleak March wind.
A group of black-bearded, foreign-looking seamen made room for the
captain and his companion at one of the tables. Jernam acknowledged
their courtesy with a friendly nod.
"I don't mind standing treat for a civil fellow like you," he said;
"come, mates, what do you say to a bowl of punch?"
The men looked at him and grinned a ready assent.
Valentine Jernam called the landlord, and ordered a bowl of rum-punch.
"Plenty of it, remember, and be sure you are not too liberal with the
water," said the captain.
The landlord nodded and laughed. He was a broad-shouldered,
square-built man, with a flat, pale face, broad and square, like his
figure--not a pleasant-looking man by any means.
Valentine Jernam folded his arms on the rickety, liquor-stained table,
and took a leisurely survey of the apartment.
There was a pause in the concert just now. The girl had finished her
song, and sat by the old square piano, waiting till she should be
required to sing again. There were only two performers in this
primitive species of concert--the girl who sang, and an old blind man,
who accompanied her on the piano; but such entertainment was quite
sufficient for the patrons of the 'Jolly Tar', seven-and-twenty years
ago, before the splendours of modern music-halls had arisen in the land.
Valentine Jernam's dark eyes wandered round the room, till they lighted
on the face of the girl sitting by the piano. There they fixed
themselves all at once, and seemed as if rooted to the face on which
they looked. It was a pale, oval face, framed in bands of smooth black
hair, and lighted by splendid black eyes; the face of a Roman empress
rather than a singing-girl at a public-house in Shadwell. Never before
had Valentine Jernam looked on so fair a woman. He had never been a
student or admirer of the weaker sex. He had a vague kind of idea that
there were women, and mermaids, and other dangerous creatures, lurking
somewhere in this world, for the destruction of honest men; but beyond
this he had very few ideas on the subject.
Other people were taking very little notice of the singer. The regular
patrons of the 'Jolly Tar' were accustomed to her beauty and her
singing, and thought very little about her. The girl was very quiet,
very modest. She came and went under the care of the old blind pianist,
whom she called her grandfather, and she seemed to shrink alike from
observation or admiration.
She began to sing again presently.
She stood by the piano, facing the audience, calm as a statue, with her
large black eyes looking straight before her. The old man listened to
her eagerly, as he played, and nodded fond approval every now and then,
as the full, rich notes fell upon his ear. The poor blind face was
illuminated with the musician's rapture. It seemed as if the noisy,
disreputable audience had no existence for these two people.
"What a lovely creature!" exclaimed the captain, in a tone of subdued
intensity.
"Yes, she's a pretty girl," muttered the clerk, coolly.
"A pretty girl!" echoed Jernam; "an angel, you mean! I did not know
there were such women in the world; and to think that such a woman
should be here, in this place, in the midst of all this tobacco-smoke,
and noise, and blasphemy! It seems hard, doesn't it, Joyce?"
"I don't see that it's any harder for a pretty woman than an ugly one,"
replied Harker, sententiously. "If the girl had red hair and a snub
nose, you wouldn't take the trouble to pity her. I don't see why you
should concern yourself about her, because she happens to have black
eyes and red lips. I dare say she's a bad lot, like most of 'em about
here, and would as soon pick your pocket as look at you, if you gave
her the chance."
Valentine Jernam made no reply to these observations. It is possible
that he scarcely heard them. The punch came presently; but he pushed
the bowl towards Joyce, and bade that gentleman dispense the mixture.
His own glass remained before him untouched, while the foreign seamen
and Joyce Harker emptied the bowl. When the girl sang, he listened;
when she sat in a listless attitude, in the pauses between her songs,
he watched her face.
Until she had finished her last song, and left the platform, leading
her blind companion by the hand, the captain of the 'Pizarro' seemed
like a creature under the influence of a spell. There was only one exit
from the room, so the singing-girl and her grandfather had to pass
along the narrow space between the two rows of tables. Her dark stuff
dress brushed against Jernam as she passed him. To the last, his eyes
followed her with the same entranced gaze.
When she had gone, and the door had closed upon her, he started
suddenly to his feet, and followed. He was just in time to see her
leave the house with her grandfather, and with a big, ill-looking man,
half-sailor, half-landsman, who had been drinking at the bar.
The landlord was standing behind the bar, drawing beer, as Jernam
looked out into the street, watching the receding figures of the girl
and her two companions.
"She's a pretty girl, isn't she?" said the landlord, as Jernam shut the
door.
"She is, indeed!" cried the sailor. "Who is she?--where does she come
from?--what's her name?"
"Her name is Jenny Milsom, and she lives with her father, a very
respectable man."
"Was that her father who went out with her just now?"
"Yes, that's Tom Milsom."
"He doesn't look very respectable. I don't think I ever set eyes on a
worse-looking fellow."
"A man can't help his looks," answered the landlord, rather sulkily;
"I've known Tom Milsom these ten years, and I've never known any harm
of him."
"No, nor any good either, I should think, Dennis Wayman," said a man
who was lounging at the bar; "Black Milsom is the name we gave him over
at Rotherhithe. I worked with him in a shipbuilder's yard seven years
ago: a surly brute he was then, and a surly brute he is now; and a
lazy, skulking vagabond into the bargain, living an idle life out at
that cottage of his among the marshes, and eating up his pretty
daughter's earnings."
"You seem to know Milsom's business as well as you do your own, Joe
Dermot," answered the landlord, with some touch of anger in his tone.
"It's no use looking savage at me, Dennis," returned Dermot; "I never
did trust Black Milsom, and never will. There are men who would take
your life's blood for the price of a gallon of beer, and I think Milsom
is one of 'em."
Valentine Jernam listened attentively to this conversation--not because
he was interested in Black Milsom's character, but because he wanted to
hear anything that could enlighten him about the girl who had awakened
such a new sentiment in his breast.
The clerk had followed his master, and stood in the shadow of the
doorway, listening even more attentively than his employer; the small,
restless eyes shifted to and fro between the faces of the speakers.
More might have been said about Mr. Thomas Milsom; but it was evident
that the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar' was inclined to resent any
disrespectful allusion to that individual. The man called Joe Dermot
paid his score, and went away. The captain and his factotum retired to
the two dingy little apartments which were to accommodate them for the
night.
All through that night, sleeping or waking, Valentine Jernam was
haunted by the vision of a beautiful face, the sound of a melodious
voice, and the face and the voice belonged alike to the singing-girl.
The captain of the 'Pizarro' left his room at five o'clock, and tapped
at Joyce Marker's door with the intention of bidding him goodbye.
"I'm off, Joyce," he said; "be sure you keep your eye upon the repairs
between this and the fifth."
He was prepared to receive a drowsy answer; but to his surprise the
door was opened, and Joyce stood dressed upon the threshold.
"I'm coming to the coach-office with you, captain," answered Harker. "I
don't like this place, and I want to see you safe out of it, never to
come back to it any more."
"Nonsense, Joyce; the place suits me well enough."
"Does it?" asked the factotum, in a whisper; "and the landlord suits
you, I suppose?--and that man they call Black Milsom? There's something
more than common between those two men, Captain Jernam. However that
is, you take my advice. Don't you come back to this house till you come
to meet Captain George. Captain George is a cool hand, and I'm not
afraid of him; but you're too wild and too free-spoken for such folks
as hang about the 'Jolly Tar'. You sported your pocket-book too freely
last night, when you were paying for the punch. I saw the landlord spot
the notes and gold, and I haven't trusted myself to sleep too soundly
all night, for fear there should be any attempt at foul play."
"You're a good fellow, Joyce; but though you've pluck enough for twenty
in a storm at sea, you're as timid as a baby at home."
"I'm like a dog, captain--I can smell danger when it threatens those I
love. Hark! what's that?"
They were going down stairs quietly, in the darkness of the early
spring morning. The clerk's quick ear caught the sound of a stealthy
footstep; and in the next minute they were face to face with a man who
was ascending the narrow stairs.
"You're early astir, Mr. Wayman," said Joyce Harker, recognizing the
landlord of the 'Jolly Tar'.
"And so are you, for the matter of that," answered the host.
"My captain is off by an early coach, and I'm going to walk to the
office with him," returned Joyce.
"Off by an early coach, is he? Then, if he can stop to drink it, I'll
make him a cup of coffee."
"You're very good," answered Joyce, hastily; "but you see, the captain
hasn't time for that, if he's going to catch the coach."
"Are you going into the country for long, captain?" asked the landlord.
"Well, no; not for long, mate; for I've got an appointment to keep in
this house, on the fifth of April, with a brother of mine, who's
homeward-bound from Barbadoes. You see, my brother and me are partners;
whatever good luck one has he shares it with the other. We've been
uncommon lucky lately."
The captain slapped his hand upon one of his capacious pockets as he
spoke. Dennis Wayman watched the gesture with eager eyes. All through
Valentine's speech, Joyce Harker had been trying to arrest his
attention, but trying in vain. When the owner of the 'Pizarro' began to
talk, it was very difficult to stop him.
The captain bade the landlord a cheerful good day, and departed with
his faithful follower.
Out in the street, Joyce Harker remonstrated with his employer.
"I told you that fellow was not to be trusted, captain," he said; "and
yet you blabbed to him about the money."
"Nonsense, Joyce. I didn't say a word about money."
"Didn't you though, captain? You said quite enough to let that man know
you'd got the cash about you. But you won't go back to that place till
you go to meet Captain George on the fifth?"
"Of course not."
"You won't change your mind, captain?"
"Not I."
"Because, you see, I shall be down at Blackwall, looking after the
repairs, for it will be sharp work to get finished against you want to
sail for Rio. So, you see, I shall be out of the way. And if you did go
back to that house alone, Lord knows what they might try on."
"Don't you be afraid, Joyce. In the first place I shan't go back there
till twelve o'clock on the fifth. I'll come up from Plymouth by the
night coach, and put up at the 'Golden Cross' like a gentleman. And, in
the second place, I flatter myself I'm a match for any set of
land-sharks in creation."
"No, you're not, captain. No honest man is ever a match for a
scoundrel."
Jernam and his companion carried the captain's portmanteau between
them. They hailed a hackney-coach presently, and drove to the "Golden
Cross," through the chill, gray streets, where the closed shutters had
a funereal aspect.
At the coach-office they parted, with many friendly words on both
sides; but to the last, Joyce Harker was grave and anxious.
The last he saw of his friend and employer was the captain's dark face
looking out of the coach-window; the captain's hand waved in cordial
farewell.
"What a good fellow he is!--what a noble fellow!" thought the wizen
little clerk, as he trudged back towards the City. "But was there ever
a baby so helpless on shore?--was there ever an innocent infant that
needed so much looking after?"
* * * * *
Valentine Jernam arrived at Plymouth early the next morning, and walked
from Plymouth to the little village of Allanbay, in which lived the
only relative he had in the world, except his brother George. Walking
at a leisurely pace along the quiet road, Captain Jernam, although not
usually a thoughtful person, was fain to think about something, and
fell to thinking over the past.
Light-hearted and cheery of spirit as the adventurous sailor was
now-a-days, his childhood had been a very sad one. Motherless at eight
years of age, and ill-used by a drunken father, the boy had suffered as
the children of the poor too often suffer.
His mother had died, leaving George an infant of less than twelve
months old; and from the hour of her death, Valentine had been the
infant's sole nurse and protector; standing between the helpless little
one and the father's brutality; enduring all hardships cheerfully, so
long as he was able to shelter little Georgy.
On more than one occasion, the elder boy had braved and defied his
father in defence of the younger brother.
It was scarcely strange, therefore, that there should arise between the
two brothers an affection beyond the ordinary measure of brotherly
love. Valentine had supplied the place of both parents to his brother
George,--the place of the mother, who lay buried in Allanbay
churchyard; the place of the father, who had sunk into a living death
of drunkenness and profligacy.
They were not peasant-born these Jernams. The father had been a
lieutenant in the Royal Navy; but had deservedly lost his commission,
and had come, with his devoted wife, to hide his disgrace at Allanbay.
The vices which had caused his expulsion from the navy had increased
with every year, until the family had sunk to the lowest depths of
poverty and degradation, in spite of the wife's heroic efforts to
accomplish the reform of a reprobate. She had struggled nobly till the
last, and had died broken-hearted, leaving the helpless children to the
mercy of a wretch whose nature had become utterly debased and
brutalized.
Throughout their desolate childhood the brothers had been all in all to
each other, and as soon as George was old enough to face the world with
his brother, the two boys ran away to sea, and obtained employment on
board a small trading vessel.
At sea, as on shore, Valentine stood between his younger brother and
all hardships. But the rough sailors were kinder than the drunken
father had been, and the two lads fared pretty well.
Thus began the career of the two Jernams. Through all changes of
fortune, the brothers had clung to each other. Despite all differences
of character, their love for each other had known neither change nor
diminution; and to-day, walking alone upon this quiet country road, the
tears clouded Valentine Jernam's eyes as he remembered how often he had
trodden it in the old time with his little brother in his arms.
"I shall see his dear face on the fifth," he thought; "God bless him!"
The old aunt lived in a cottage near the entrance to the village. She
was comfortably off now--thanks to the two merchant captains; but she
had been very poor in the days of their childhood, and had been able to
do but little for the neglected lads. She had given them shelter,
however, when they had been afraid to go home to their father, and had
shared her humble fare with them very often.
Mrs. Jernam, as she was called by her neighbours, in right of her sixty
years of age, was sitting by the window when her nephew opened the
little garden-gate: but she had opened the door before he could knock,
and was standing on the threshold ready to embrace him.
"My boy," she exclaimed, "I have been looking for you so long!"
That day was given up to pleasant talk between the aunt and nephew. She
was so anxious to hear his adventures, and he was so willing to tell
them. He sat before the fire smoking, while Susan Jernam's busy fingers
plied her knitting-needles, and relating his hair-breadth escapes and
perils between the puffs of blue smoke.
The captain was regaled with an excellent dinner, and a bottle of wine
of his own importation. After dinner, he strolled out into the village,
saw his old friends and acquaintances, and talked over old times.
Altogether his first day at Allanbay passed very pleasantly.
The second day at Allanbay, however, hung heavily on the captain's
hands. He had told all his adventures; he had seen all his old
acquaintances. The face of the ballad-singer haunted him perpetually;
and he spent the best part of the day leaning over the garden-gate and
smoking. Mrs. Jernam was not offended by her nephew's conduct.
"Ah! my boy," she said, smiling fondly on her handsome kinsman, "it's
fortunate Providence made you a sailor, for you'd have been ill-fitted
for any but a roving life."
The third day of Valentine Jernam's stay at Allanbay was the second of
April, and on that morning his patience was exhausted. The face which
had made itself a part of his very mind lured him back to London. He
was a man who had never accustomed himself to school his impulses; and
the impulse that drew him back to London was irresistible.
"I must and will see her once more," he said to himself; "perhaps, if I
see her face again, I shall find out it's only a common face after all,
and get the better of this folly. But I must see her. After the fifth,
George will be with me, and I shan't be my own master. I must see her
before the fifth."
Impetuous in all things, Valentine Jernam was not slow to act upon his
resolution. He told his aunt that he had business to transact in
London. He left Allanbay at noon, walked to Plymouth, took the
afternoon coach, and rode into London on the following day.
It was one o'clock when Captain Jernam found himself once more in the
familiar seafaring quarter; early as it was, the noise of riot and
revelry had begun already.
The landlord looked up with an expression of considerable surprise as
the captain of the 'Pizarro' crossed the threshold.
"Why, captain," he said, "I thought we weren't to see you till the
fifth."
"Well, you see, I had some business to do in this neighbourhood, so I
changed my mind."
"I'm very glad you did," answered Dennis Wayman, cordially; "you've
just come in time to take a snack of dinner with me and my missus, so
you can sit down, and make yourself at home, without ceremony."
The captain was too good-natured to refuse an invitation that seemed
proffered in such a hearty spirit. And beyond this, he wanted to hear
more about Jenny Milsom, the ballad-singer.
So he ate his dinner with Mr. Wayman and his wife, and found himself
asking all manner of questions about the singing-girl in the course of
his hospitable entertainment.
He asked if the girl was going to sing at the tavern to-night.
"No," answered the landlord; "this is Friday. She only sings at my
place on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays."
"And what does she do with herself for the rest of the week?"
"Ah! that's more than I know; but very likely her father will look in
here in the course of the afternoon, and he can tell you. I say,
though, captain, you seem uncommonly sweet on this girl," added the
landlord, with a leer and a wink.
"Well, perhaps I am sweet upon her," replied Valentine Jernam "perhaps
I'm fool enough to be caught by a pretty face, and not wise enough to
keep my folly a secret."
"I've got a Little business to see to over in Rotherhithe," said Mr.
Wayman, presently; "you'll see after the bar while I'm gone, Nancy.
There's the little private room at your service, captain, and I dare
say you can make yourself comfortable there with your pipe and the
newspaper. It's ten to one but what Tom Milsom will look in before the
day's out, and he'll tell you all about his daughter."
Upon this the landlord departed, and Valentine Jernam retired to the
little den called a private room, where he speedily fell asleep,
wearied out by his journey on the previous night.
His slumbers were not pleasant. He sat in an uneasy position, upon a
hard wooden chair, with his arms folded on the table before him, and
his head resting on his folded arms.
There was a miserable pretence of a fire, made with bad coals and damp
wood.
Sleeping in that wretched atmosphere, in that uncomfortable attitude,
it was scarcely strange if Valentine Jernam dreamt a bad dream.
He dreamt that he fell asleep at broad day in his cabin on board the
'Pizarro', and that he woke suddenly and found himself in darkness. He
dreamt that he groped his way up the companion-way, and on to the deck.
There, as below, he found gloom and darkness, and instead of a busy
crew, utter loneliness, perfect silence. A stillness like the stillness
of death reigned on the level waters around the motionless ship.
The captain shouted, but his voice died away among the shrouds.
Presently a glimmer of star-light pierced the universal gloom, and in
that uncertain light a shadowy figure came gliding towards him across
the ocean--a face shone upon him beneath the radiance of the stars. It
was the face of the ballad-singer.
The shadow drew nearer to him, with a strange gliding motion. The
shadow lifted a white, transparent hand, and pointed.
To what?
To a tombstone, which glimmered cold and white through the gloom of sky
and waters.
The starlight shone upon the tombstone, and on it the sleeper read this
inscription--"_In memory of Valentine Jernam, aged 33_."
The sailor awoke suddenly with a cry, and, looking up, saw the man they
called Black Milsom sitting on the opposite side of the table, looking
at him earnestly.
"Well, you are a restless sleeper, captain!" said this man: "I dropped
in here just now, thinking to find Dennis Wayman, and I've been looking
on while you finished your nap. I never saw a harder sleeper."
"I had a bad dream," answered Jernam, starting to his feet.
"A bad dream! What about, captain?"
"About your daughter!"