A MEETING AND AN EXPLANATION.
For George Jernam's young wife, the days passed sadly enough in the
pleasant village of Allanbay. Fair as the scene of her life was, to
poor Rosamond it seemed as if the earth were overshadowed by dark
clouds, through which no ray of sunlight could penetrate. The affection
which had sprung up between her and Susan Jernam was deep and strong,
and the only gleam of happiness which Rosamond experienced in her
melancholy existence came from the affection of her husband's aunt.
If Rosamond's existence was not happy, it was, at least in all outward
seeming, peaceful. But the heart of the deserted wife knew not peace.
She was perpetually brooding over the strange circumstances of George's
departure--perpetually asking herself why it was he had left her.
She could shape no answer to that constantly repeated question.
Had he ceased to love her? No! surely that could not be, for the change
which arises in the most inconstant heart is, at least, gradual. George
Jernam had changed in a day--in an hour.
Reason upon the subject as she might, the conviction at which Rosamond
arrived at last was always the same. She believed that the mysterious
change that had arisen in the husband she so fondly loved was a change
in the mind itself--a sudden monomania, beyond the influence of the
outer world--a wild hallucination of the brain, not to be cured by any
ordinary physician.
Believing this, the wife's heart was tortured as she thought of the
perils that surrounded her husband's life--perils that were doubly
terrible for one whose mind had lost its even balance.
She watched every alteration in the atmosphere, every cloud in the sky,
with unspeakable anxiety. As the autumn gave place to winter, as the
winds blew loud above the broad expanse of ocean, as the foam-crests of
the dark waves rose high, and gleamed white and silvery in the dim
twilight, her heart sank with an awful fear for the absent wanderer.
Night and day her prayers arose to heaven--such prayers as only the
loving heart of woman breathes for the object of all her thoughts.
While Rosamond occupied the abode which Captain Jernam had chosen for
her, River View Cottage was abandoned entirely to the care of Mrs.
Mugby and Susan Trott, and the trim house had a desolate look in the
dismal autumn days, and the darkening winter twilights, carefully as it
was kept by Mrs. Mugby, who aired the rooms, and dusted and polished
the furniture every day, as industriously as if she had been certain of
the captain's return before night-fall.
"He may come this night, or he may not come for a year," she said to
Susan very often, when Miss Trott was a little disposed to neglect some
of her duties, in the way of dusting and polishing; "but mark my words,
Susan, when he does come, he'll come sudden, without so much as one
line of warning, or notice enough to get a bit of dinner ready for him."
The day came at last when the housekeeper was gratified to find that
all her dusting and polishing had not been thrown away. Captain
Duncombe returned exactly as she had prophesied he would return,
without sending either note or message to give warning of his arrival.
He rang the bell one day, and walked into the garden, and from the
garden into the house, with the air of a man who had just come home
from a morning's walk, much to the astonishment of Susan Trott, who
admitted him, and who stared at him with eyes opened to their widest
extent, as he strode hurriedly past her.
He went straight into the parlour he had been accustomed to sit in. A
fire was burning brightly in the polished steel grate, and everything
bore the appearance of extreme comfort.
The merchant-captain looked round the room with an air of satisfaction.
"There's nothing like a trip to the Indies for making a man appreciate
the comforts of his own home," he exclaimed. "How cheery it all looks;
and a man must be a fool who couldn't enjoy himself at home after
tossing about in a hurricane off Gibraltar for a week at a stretch. But
where's your mistress?" cried Joe Duncombe, suddenly, turning to the
astonished Susan. "Where's Mrs. Jernam?--where's my daughter? Doesn't
she hear her old father's gruff voice? Isn't she coming to bid me
welcome after all I've gone through to earn more money for her?"
Before Susan could answer, Mrs. Mugby had heard the voice of her
master, and came hurrying in to greet him.
"Thank you for your hearty welcome," said the captain, hurriedly; "but
where's my daughter? Is she out of doors this cold winter day, gadding
about London streets?--or how the deuce is it she doesn't come to give
her old father a kiss, and bid him welcome home?"
"Lor', sir," cried Mrs. Mugby, "you don't mean to say as you haven't
heard from Miss Rosa--begging your pardon, Mrs. Jernam--but the other
do come so much more natural?"
"Heard from her!" exclaimed the captain. "Not I, I haven't had a line
from her. But heaven have mercy on us! how the woman does stare! There
isn't anything wrong with my daughter, is there? She's well--eh?"
The captain's honest face grew pale, as a sudden fear arose in his mind.
"Don't tell me my daughter is ill," he gasped; "or worse--"
"No, no, no, captain," cried Mrs. Mugby. "I heard from Mrs. Jernam only
a week ago, and she was quite well; but she is residing down in
Devonshire, where she removed with her husband last July; and I made
sure you would have received a letter telling you of the change."
"What!" roared Joseph Duncombe; "did my daughter go and turn her back
upon the comfortable little box her father built for her--the place he
spent his hard-won earnings upon for her sake? So Rosy got tired of the
cottage, did she? It wasn't good enough for her, I suppose. Well, well,
that does seem rather hard somehow--it does seem hard."
The captain dropped heavily down into the chair nearest him. He was
deeply wounded by the idea that his daughter had deserted the home
which he had made for her.
"Begging your pardon, sir," interposed Mrs. Mugby, in her most
insinuating tone, "which I am well aware it's not my place to interfere
in family matters; but knowing as devotion itself is a word not strong
enough to express Mrs. Jernam's feelings for her pa, I cannot stand by
and see her misunderstood by that very pa. It was no doings of hers as
she left River View, Captain Buncombe, for the place was very dear to
her; but Captain Jernam, he took it into his head all of a sudden he'd
set off for foreign parts in his ship the 'Albert's horse'; and before
he went, he insisted on taking Mrs. Jernam down to Devonshire, which
burying her alive would be too mild a word for such cruelty, I think."
"What! he deserted his post, did he?" exclaimed the captain. "Ran away
from his pretty young wife, after promising to stop with her till I
came back! Now, I don't call that an honest man's conduct," added the
captain, indignantly.
"No more would any one, sir," answered the housekeeper. "A wild, roving
life is all very well in its way, but if a man who is just married to a
pretty young wife, that worships the very ground he walks on, can't
stay at home quiet, I should like to know who can?"
"So he went to sea himself, and took his wife down to Devonshire before
he sailed, eh?" said the captain. "Very fine goings on, upon my word!
And did Miss Rosy consent to leave her father's home without a murmur?"
he asked, angrily.
"Begging your pardon, sir," pleaded Mrs. Mugby, "Miss Rosamond was not
the one to murmur before servants, whatever she might feel in her
heart. I overheard her crying and sobbing dreadful one night, poor
dear, when she little thought as there was any one to overhear her."
"Did she say anything to you before she left?"
"Not till the night before she went away, and then she came to me in my
kitchen, and said, 'Mrs. Mugby, it's my husband's wish I should go down
to Devonshire and live there, while he's away with his ship. Of course,
I am very sorry to leave the house that my dear father made such a
happy home for me, and in which he and I lived so peaceably together;
but I am bound to obey my husband, let him ask what he will. I shall
write to my dear father, and tell him how sorry I am to leave my home.'"
"Did she say that?" said the captain, evidently touched by this proof
of his child's affection. "Then I won't belie her so much as to doubt
her love for me. I never got her letter; and why George Jernam should
kick up his heels directly I was gone, and be off with his ship
goodness knows where, is more than I can tell. I begin to think the
best sailor that ever roamed the seas is a bad bargain for a husband.
I'm sorry I ever let my girl marry a rover. However, I'll just settle
my business in London, and be off to Devonshire to see my poor little
deserted Rosy. I suppose she's gone to live at that sea-coast village
where Jernam's aunt lives?"
"Yes, sir, Allandale--or Allanbay--or some such name, I think, they
call the place."
"Yes, Allanbay--I remember," answered the captain. "I'll try and get
through the business I've got on hand to-night, and be off to
Devonshire to-morrow."
Mrs. Mugby exerted herself to the uttermost in her endeavour to make
the captain's first dinner at home a great culinary triumph, but the
disappointment he had experienced that morning had quite taken away his
appetite. He had anticipated such delight from his unannounced return
to River View Cottage; he had pictured to himself his daughter's
rapturous welcome; he had fancied her rushing to greet him at the first
sound of his voice; and had almost felt her soft arm clasped around his
neck, her kisses on his face.
Instead of the realization of this bright dream, he had found only
disappointment.
Susan Trott placed the materials for the captain's favourite punch upon
the table after she had removed the cloth; but Joseph Duncombe did not
appear to see the cherry preparations for a comfortable evening. He
rose hastily from his chair, put on his hat, and went out, much to the
discomfiture of the worthy Mrs. Mugby.
"After what I went through with standing over that roaring furnace of a
kitchen-range, it does seem hard to see my sole just turned over and
played with, like, and my chicking not so much as touched," said the
dame. "Oh, Miss Rosamond, Miss Rosamond, you've a deal to answer for!"
Captain Duncombe walked along the dark road between the cottage and
Ratcliff Highway at a rapid pace. He soon reached the flaring lights of
the sailors' quarter, through which he made his way as fast as he could
to a respectable and comfortable little tavern near the Tower, much
frequented by officers of the merchant service.
He had promised to meet an old shipmate at this house, and was very
glad of an excuse for spending his evening away from home.
In the little parlour he found the friend he expected to see, and the
two sailors took their glasses of grog together in a very friendly
manner, and then parted, the captain's friend going away first, as he
had a long distance to walk, in order to reach his suburban home.
The captain was sitting by the fire meditating, and sipping his last
glass of grog, when the door was opened, and some one came into the
room.
Joseph Duncombe looked up with a start as the new-comer entered, and,
to his intense astonishment, recognized George Jernam.
"Jernam!" he cried; "you in London? Well, this is the greatest surprise
of all."
"Indeed, Captain Duncombe," answered the other, coolly; "the
'Albatross' only entered the port of London this afternoon. This is the
first place I have come to, and of all men on earth I least expected to
meet you here."
"And from your tone, youngster, it seems as if the surprise were by no
means a pleasant one," cried Joseph Duncombe. "May I ask how Rosamond
Duncombe's husband comes to address his wife's father in the tone you
have just used to me?"
"You are Rosamond's father," answered George; "that is sufficient
reason that Valentine Jernam's brother should keep aloof from you."
"The man's mad," muttered Captain Duncombe; "undoubtedly mad."
"No," answered George Jernam, "I am not mad--I am only too acutely
conscious of the misery of my position. I love your daughter, Joseph
Duncombe; love her as fondly and truly as ever a man loved the wife of
his choice. And yet here am I skulking in London, alone and miserable,
at the hour when I should be hurrying back to the home of my darling.
Dear though she is to me--truly as I love her--I dare not go back to
her; for between her and me there rises the phantom of my murdered
brother Valentine!"
"What on earth has my daughter Rosamond to do with the wretched fate of
your brother?" asked the captain.
"In her own person, nothing; but it is her misfortune to be allied to
one who was in league with the assassin, or assassins, of my unhappy
brother."
"What, in heaven's name, do you mean?" asked the bewildered captain of
the "Vixen."
"Do not press me for my meaning, Captain Duncombe," answered George, in
a repellant tone; "you are my father-in-law. The knowledge which
accident revealed to me of one dark secret in your life of seeming
honesty came too late to prevent that tie between us. When the fatal
truth revealed itself to me I was already your daughter's husband. That
secures my silence. Do not force yourself upon me. I shall do my duty
to your daughter as if you and your crime had never been upon this
earth. But you and I can never meet again except as foes. The
remembrance of my brother Valentine is part and parcel of my life, and
a wrong done to him is twice a wrong to myself."
The captain of the "Vixen" had arisen from his chair. He stood before
his son-in-law, breathless, crimson with passion.
"George Jernam," he cried, "do you want me to knock you down? Egad, my
fine gentleman, you may consider yourself lucky that I have not done it
before this. What do you mean by all that balderdash you've been
talking? What does it all mean, I say? Are you drunk, or mad, or both?"
"Captain Duncombe," said George, calmly, "do you really wish me to
speak plainly?"
"It will be very much the worse for you if you don't," retorted the
infuriated captain.
"First, then, let me tell you that before I left River View Cottage
last July, your daughter pressed me to avail myself of the contents of
your desk one day when I was in want of foreign letter-paper."
"Well, what then?"
"Very much against my own inclination, I consented to open that desk
with a key in Rosamond's possession. I did not pry into the secrets of
its contents; but before me, in the tray intended for pens, I saw an
object which could not fail to attract my attention--which riveted my
gaze as surely as if I had 'lighted on a snake."
"What in the name of all that's bewildering could that object have
been?" cried the captain. "I don't keep many curiosities in my
writing-desk!"
"I will show you what I found that day," answered George. "The finding
of it changed the whole current of my life, and sent me away from that
once happy home a restless and miserable wanderer."
"The man's mad," muttered Captain Duncombe to himself; "he must be mad!"
George Jernam took from his waistcoat pocket a tiny parcel, and
unfolding the paper covering, revealed a gold coin--the bent Brazilian
coin--which he placed in the captain's hands.
"Why! heaven have mercy on us!" cried Joseph Duncombe, "if that isn't
the ghost's money!"
There was astonishment plainly depicted on his countenance; but no look
of guilt. George Jernam watched his face as he contemplated the token,
and saw that it was not the face of a guilty man.
"Oh, captain, captain!" he exclaimed, remorsefully, "if I have
suspected you all this time for nothing?"
"Suspected me of what?"
"Of being concerned, more or less, in my brother's murder. That piece
of gold which you now hold in your hand was a farewell token, given by
me to him; you may see my initials scratched upon it. I found it in
your desk."
"And therefore suspected that I was the aider and abettor of thieves
and murderers!" exclaimed the captain of the "Vixen." "George Jernam, I
am ashamed of you."
There was a depth of reproach in the words, common-place though they
were.
George Jernam covered his face with his hands, and sat with bent head
before the man he had so cruelly wronged.
"If I was a proud man," said Joseph Duncombe, "I shouldn't stoop to
make any explanation to you. But as I am not a proud man, and as you
are my daughter's husband, I'll tell you how that bit of gold came into
my keeping; and when I've told you my story, I'll bring witnesses to
prove that it's true. Yes, George, I'll not ask you to believe my word;
for how can you take the word of a man you have thought base enough to
be the accomplice of a murderer? Oh, George, it was too cruel--too
cruel!"
There was a brief silence; and then Captain Duncombe told the story of
the appearance of old Screwton's ghost, and the coin found in the
kitchen at River View Cottage after the departure of that apparition.
"I've faced many a danger in my lifetime, George Jernam," said Captain
Duncombe; "and I don't think there's any man who ever walked the ship's
deck beside me that would call me coward; and yet I'll confess to you I
was frightened that night. Flesh and blood I'll face anywhere and
anyhow; I'll stand up alone, and fight for my life, one against
six--one against twenty, if needs be; but when it comes to a visit from
the other world, Joseph Duncombe is done. He shuts up, sir, like an
oyster."
"And do you really believe the man you saw that night was a visitant
from the other world?"
"What else can I believe? I'd heard the description of old Screwton's
ghost, and what I saw answered to the description as close as could be."
"Visitors from the other world do not leave substantial evidences of
their presence behind them," answered George. "The man who dropped that
gold coin was no ghost. We'll see into this business, Captain Duncombe;
we'll fathom it, mysterious as it is. I expect Joyce Harker back from
Ceylon in a month or so. He knows more of my brother's fate than any
man living, except those who were concerned in the doing of the deed.
He'll get to the bottom of this business, depend upon it, if any man
can. And now, friend--father, can you find it in your heart to forgive
me for the bitter wrong I have done you?"
"Well, George," answered Joseph Duncombe, gravely, "I'm not an
unforgiving chap; but there are some things try the easiest of men
rather hard, and this is one of them. However, for my little Rosy's
sake, and out of remembrance of the long night-watches you and I have
kept together out upon the lonesome sea, I forgive you. There's my hand
and my heart with it."
George's eyes were full of tears as he grasped his old captain's strong
hand.
"God bless you," he murmured; "and heaven be praised that I came into
this room to-night! You don't know the weight you've lifted off my
heart; you don't know what I've suffered."
"More fool you," cried Joe Duncombe; "and now say no more. We'll start
for Devonshire together by the first coach that leaves London to-morrow
morning."
* * * * *