TOM'S ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY GUINEAS.
THE "Juno" was back in Plymouth in less than two years. And when Tom
and Gideon were paid off, Tom was in a fever of anxiety to see Robins
and hear how his venture had prospered. He chose to go alone. Robins
had a house in the Barbican, where his wife and children lived, and
there Tom found him, and was informed that his twenty-five guineas had
been turned and turned again to such advantage that one other voyage
would make him the owner of one hundred and fifty guineas.
Now, Tom Adderley, though ignorant, was no fool, and Gideon's words had
opened his eyes. He knew as well as any one could that money is not
made thus rapidly in honest, lawful trade. Robins told him nothing,
and he asked no questions, but he knew perfectly that the man was
a smuggler, and that he ought to have nothing to say to him. But—a
hundred and fifty guineas! Fancy walking into Burdeck the owner of such
a sum as that! Why, no one in Burdeck had ever seen so much money! Very
likely there were few that could count it. Tom felt that he could not
give up the chance of this triumph, and he told himself that even if he
took his money now, it had been made in the same way, so where was the
use of stopping short of that magnificent hundred and fifty? And he did
not actually know that Robins was a smuggler—only that Gideon was sure
to say so.
Gideon did say so, and said a good deal more than that. In fact, he
made himself so unpleasant that he and Tom had high words for the first
time, and Tom went off and entered his name on board the "Inconstant,"
a frigate which had been in commission for some little time, and had
put into Plymouth for repairs and a few new hands. She sailed the next
day, so that Tom did not see Gideon again even to tell him what he had
done.
Charlie Egerton was on board the "Inconstant," and when Tom came to
himself and was very sorry for his behaviour to Gideon, he got Mr.
Egerton to write a letter for him, which was sent to Captain Egerton,
now living near Plymouth, who would, Tom was sure, do his best to find
the old sailor.
The "Inconstant" was paid off in about a year, and Tom found himself
once more in Plymouth, and free.
As soon as he could shake off the companionship of his late shipmates,
he hastened to the house in the Barbican where he had left the Robins
family. Alas! He found strangers living there, who did not even know
the name of Robins. Tom knew no one in the neighbourhood, but he felt
that he must make inquiries, at any risk; and it seemed possible that
at the nearest public-house he might hear something of Robins.
He walked into the bar, asked for a glass of ale, and said to the lad
who drew it for him, "I came here to see an old messmate of mine—a man
called Peter Robins—and he lived over the way there, at the corner
house. Do you know where he is now?"
"I'm sure I don't know, sir," said the youth, carelessly.
But a door, which was already half-way open, was now opened a little
more, and a jolly, good-tempered-looking woman, with bright ribbons in
her cap, looked in at Tom. After watching him for a few moments, she
said—
"Look here, you Jack ashore—you in the blue cap. Step this way. I want
to speak to you."
Tom followed her into her snug little parlour, and she shut the door.
"Was it you I heard asking about Peter Robins just now?"
"It was, ma'am. He is an old shipmate of mine."
"Don't tell me! Robins never sailed in a king's ship!"
"No, ma'am; merchant ship—'Star of the Sea,' from Liverpool. I was in
her too, but was pressed for the navy."
"Ay—that's more likely! Well, you're a decent looking lad, and I'll
do you a good turn. Don't be heard asking for Robins any more.
Robins—well, truth's best—he was a friend of mine, and many and many a
keg of Hollands—But that don't matter to you. He got too venturesome,
did Robins, with lace. 'Twas the lace that ruined him. His boat was
seized, and he had a mighty narrow shave of being hung. And if you want
to find him now, you may start for Botany Bay. That's the truth, young
man. Why, what's the matter now?"
"My money!" moaned poor Tom. "Oh, mother, mother! What's to become of
me now?"
He broke away from her, and ran out of the house. The fresh air brought
him so far to himself that he walked along quietly. The next thing he
knew, he was standing on the Hoe, near the Citadel, gazing out to sea.
All his money gone! Mother's golden guineas, father's little farm, his
own fortune that he was so proud of—all gone! What was he to do now? He
had about ten guineas—no more. For, counting on the money from Robins,
and being without old Gideon's care and kindness, he had been a little
extravagant of late. Only last night he had lost a good deal of money
at some game, and still more in betting on his own play. He could
never face his mother and father now! To be more than ten years away,
and to return no richer than he went! That he would never do. To set
to work again to save money? There was no prize-money to be had now,
and it would be years before he could scrape together any considerable
sum. To go to sea again, to forget his mother, put away all thoughts
of home, to forget Gideon and his teaching, and enjoy life like other
sailors;—this, he thought, was the only thing left for him to do.
"I'll go back to the 'Royal Tar,' treat the fellows all round, spend
my money as fast as I can, and go to sea again. It's no use thinking
of anything else. Gideon warned me, and I wouldn't heed him. I've lost
him, and I've lost my own people, and there's no use in trying to be
good; the bad comes more natural. I give up, and I'll have some fun,
anyhow."
And in order to begin as soon as possible to be exceedingly jolly and
merry, Tom here began to sing. He had a fine mellow voice, sweet and
tuneful. And as he strode along, meaning to go through Plymouth and
make his way to the public-house in Dock (as Devonport was then called)
where he had left his comrades, he shouted out a long ditty about "the
saucy 'Arethusa,'" and dashed along at a great pace.
Presently he almost ran against a gentleman with only one arm, who was
coming out of a shop. And at the same moment, some one laid hold of
him, saying—
"I'd know his pipe among a thousand! Stay a moment, Tom."
Tom turned. The speaker was Gideon Terlizzeck, and the gentleman was
Captain Egerton.
"Why, Adderley, is this you?" said the captain, doubtfully; not
doubting that this was Tom, but doubting much whether Tom was in a fit
condition to be spoken to by his old captain.
"'Tis me, sir," said Tom. And he added, after a pause, "I'm all right,
sir. I'm quite sober."
"Yes, I see you are.—Gideon, bring him home with you.—Mrs. Egerton's
waiting for me, but I shall see you again presently, Tom. Gideon has
been looking for you. We heard this morning that the 'Inconstant' was
paid off."
"Yes, sir. You're very kind, Captain Egerton.—Oh, Gideon, Gideon, but I
wish I'd never left you!"
"Come along, my lad; come with me now. Where have you been staying,
Tom?"
"'Royal Tar,' near the dockyard gate."
"Ay, I know it. Your kit will be safe there; 'tis an honest house. The
captain lives out the other way, on the Laira Road; and I live with
him."
"Don't go to sea no more?" asked Tom.
"No more—unless the captain goes, and wishes to take me. He's served
his time for his flag, and will be an admiral pretty soon, and his
health has not been the same since he lost his arm. So I think his
sea-going days are over; and, if so, mine are over too."
"Ay, ay," said Tom, in a dreary, absent tone. He did not more than half
understand what Gideon said, and though he walked along beside his old
friend, he did not know where he was going. His mind was in such a
tumult of grief and anger—anger with Robins, not with himself—that he
could think of nothing else. And all the time a small voice kept saying
to him, "You are rightly served; you deserved to lose your money."
Gideon became silent when he saw that Tom did not attend to him. They
left the town behind them, and walked along a fine open road, with the
Laira (an inlet of the harbour) on one side, and on the other pretty
little domains with gardens and comfortable houses, mostly inhabited by
half-pay naval officers. At the gate of one of these Gideon stopped.
There was a tiny red-brick gate-house, and to this he led the way.
"Here's where I've slung my hammock," said he, as he unlocked the door.
Tom roused up for the first time, and looked round with some interest.
The one room was in the most exquisite state of cleanliness and order,
but to our eyes it would have looked very bare. There was just enough
furniture for one person, with an extra chair for a visitor. The
floor was tiled, and the tiles were rubbed till they were as red as
if new. Before the clumsy, comfortable, wooden armchair lay a small
square of carpet, neatly edged round with fringe. On the white walls,
which might have been white-washed that morning, hung a model of a
frigate, and a picture representing a sea-fight, wherein smoke was the
most conspicuous feature; a coffee-pot, a frying-pan, and a small tin
saucepan. The little grate held a spark of fire, and a shining kettle
set on the hob. Big hooks in the walls showed that when Gideon said he
slung his hammock here, he had used no figure of speech; indeed, the
hammock, its canvas as white as snow, lay rolled up neatly on a low
shelf. Another shelf held a few cups and saucers and plates, and there
was a cupboard for provisions. Gideon drew Tom in, and shut the door.
"My house, Tom. You're welcome, my son, right welcome. Do you know,
I've prayed for this moment, many and many a time. Isn't it snug, Tom?
Isn't it, now?" the old man said, looking proudly round.
He had taken Tom's hand in his. But now Tom pulled it away, dropped
into the armchair, and laid his arms on the table. Down went his head,
till his face was hidden on his outstretched arms, and then great sobs
shook his broad shoulders, and poor Tom, quite broken down by Gideon's
kindness and a sudden sense of his own unworthiness, cried like a baby.
"My lad! My dear lad! I sought you all yesterday and this morning, for
to break the bad news to you like, but never went to the 'Royal Tar.' I
went to the quiet old place where you and I used to stop."
"You know, then, about Robins, Gideon?" said Tom, raising his head and
rubbing the tears away.
"Yes. The captain was in Plymouth the day his boat, and some others
too, were seized, and he happened to mention it to me."
"Does the captain know about my money?"
"Yes; I told him as how Robins was an old comrade of yours, and that
you had trusted him with some money to trade with. I had for to tell
him that much—I'll explain why presently. How did you hear of it?"
"I went to his house, and the woman who has the public-house opposite
told me. I was going back to the 'Royal Tar' when you met me."
[Illustration: GREAT SOBS SHOOK HIS BROAD SHOULDERS, AND POOR TOM . . .
CRIED LIKE A BABY.]
"Tom, I'm sorry, 'very' sorry for you."
"Gideon, you're not sorry that I've lost that money. You can't be; for
you 'are' good and upright. You warned me. I mind you said,—
"'Get back your twenty-five guineas that you gave him, and don't take
another shilling, for his earnings are dishonest money, and you'll have
no blessing on it.'
"Those were your words, and I wouldn't mind them. And now I'm ruined
altogether."
"You've lost the money, Tom, but you've escaped a much worse thing
than that. You'll soon see that you've a deal to be thankful for. That
fellow Robins saved his life by turning king's evidence, and he gave
your name as having given funds towards the business. 'Twere then I
told the captain about it. And he went and got a lawyer, and they saw
Robins, and made him own up that he told you 'twas all honest trade.
And so, by saying how you had sailed with him, and giving you a good
character, the captain got you out of that scrape, which might have
been a very ugly one."
"Gideon, I'll tell you the truth. Robins told me 'twas all right, as
you say, but I didn't believe him—not that last time."
"Well, I never was asked about anything but the first time. You never
gave him any more, did you?"
"No. 'Twas very good of the captain to do all this for me, but 'twas
better of you, Gideon, for I behaved ungrateful to you."
"You was angry, but you wrote, if you remember. Indeed, I didn't wait
for that to forgive you, Tom. That letter was the means of bringing me
to my present comfortable anchorage. I'm gardener, under the mistress,
and I mind the pony, under the captain; and I get my dinner at the
house, and live here in great peace and comfort. At first I had a girl
to do for me, but, bless you, she made work for me—she did indeed.
Females don't seem to me to know straight from crooked, nor yet how to
put a real finish on anything. I do for myself now. Have a pipe, Tom?
'Twill soothe your spirits."
Pipes being lighted, both men were silent for a time. Presently a
well-known voice called—
"Lodge ahoy! Are you there, Terlizzeck? Gate!"
Gideon hurried out to admit the pony carriage. Mrs. Egerton was
driving, and as soon as she was inside the gate, she drew up.
"Adderley here?" said the captain.
"Ay, ay, sir," answered Tom, appearing at the door.
"Oh, come here, Tom Adderley," said Mrs. Egerton, "and let me thank you
for saving my boy. It's an old story now, I know, but, you see, I never
met you before."
"I'm sure, ma'am, you're very welcome," said Tom, blushing all over.
"Come up to the house to dinner with Gideon," said the captain, "and
you'll see Mr. Egerton. He is at home, you know."
"Is he going afloat again, sir?" inquired Tom.
"Oh no, not just yet," Mrs. Egerton replied hastily.
The captain laughed, and said, "Drive on, Carrie." And off they drove.
"Nov, Tom, you stay here and make yourself at home, till such time as I
hail you from the other end of the drive; then come to me. I must go to
take the pony and make all snug."
"Let me go along and help you," said Tom. "I haven't forgotten how to
tackle a pony yet."
By the time the pony was rubbed down, and the carriage washed, and the
neat little stable, coach-house, and yard made snug, a bell rang.
"That's for dinner," said Gideon. "I used to live altogether in my own
berth, but the mistress found out that I am no great hand at cooking,
beyond a slice of fried bacon or an egg, so she regulated that I
should dine here, and the moment the captain is served—and of course
Mr. Charlie or any visitor—she carves for me, and I has my dinner in
a little room off the kitchen. All to myself, like Joseph and his
brethren—ye mind that, Tom? This way."
After dinner, Tom had a few kind words from the captain and Mrs.
Egerton, and was then taken by Gideon to see the garden. Mrs. Egerton
understood gardening well, and in Gideon she had a most zealous and
painstaking assistant. The rows of peas and beans were as straight and
even as if made by machinery. The cabbages were cut in rows—no looking
about for the best was permitted here; and as each row disappeared, the
ground was dug over and raked smooth. Not a morsel of rough ground was
to be seen. As to weeds, they never had a chance of getting beyond two
saucy little leaves.
The only point upon which Gideon and his mistress differed was that he,
in his love of order, wanted to tie the rose trees to sticks, and to
force every one of them to grow in exactly the same form; also, when a
bed of mignonette began to look a little bit straggling, though still
in full blossom, Gideon would have liked to pull it all up and rake the
bed over, "trim and tidy." These things Mrs. Egerton would not allow,
but, in spite of her, the flower garden was somewhat severely tidy.
Tom, however, approved of all he saw, and thought of mother's little
garden at home with the bees in the flowers—mother's garden that he
would never see again.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]