to go to London on business; and there he found out and introduced
himself to our young friend. Few young men of his age possessed greater
powers of pleasing than Philip; there was a frank ingenuousness in his
manner and address which, seconded by the remarkable beauty of his
features, immediately made a favourable impression upon a stranger--an
impression which a further intimacy seldom failed to strengthen into
affection and esteem. Such was the effect of his introduction to Edward
Douglas. They were mutually pleased with each other, and every hour
that Philip could spare from professional duties was devoted to his new
friend, rendered doubly dear to him by his near connection with her
whose name he dared not mention, though ever in his thoughts.
"My dear fellow," said Douglas to him one day, "I am aware of the
sacrifice you have made of feeling to principle, and I honour and esteem
you for it. Would to heaven your circumstances and my own were
different! Situated as you are, without the means of supporting even
_yourself_, I think I know you too well already to imagine that you
would willingly expose her you love to poverty and humiliation. Were my
circumstances such as to enable me to enrich my daughter, and to follow
the inclinations of my own heart, I know no one for whom I would more
willingly use a father's influence than yourself."
Philip's heart was too full for words; yet, though he felt the hardship,
he acknowledged the justice, of Edward Douglas's objections, and felt
greatly affected by his kind expressions of friendly feeling towards
him. They parted with mutual regret; Edward to return to Eskhall, and
Philip to join his ship at Gravesend.
"Ah!" said Gavin Douglas, one morning, about a fortnight after the above
parting, as the family were seated round the breakfast-table, "there is
the post-bag. Bring it here, James" (to the servant). "It looks too thin
to contain anything, I am afraid. Yes; here is a letter from dear Phil."
"When is he to return, grandfather?" asked Emma, now a full-grown woman.
Catherine was seized with a sudden curiosity to look at a pamphlet which
lay upon the table, and which she held very close to her eyes.
"Return, my love!" said Gavin; "when his voyage is over, I hope. This
letter was sent on shore by the pilot, and is dated 'Off Scilly.' But,
mercy upon us! what is the matter with Catherine?"
The pamphlet had fallen from her hand; the cheek which had flushed to
crimson at the mention of Philip's name was now of death-like paleness;
and she was leaning back in her chair, with her eyes closed, and panting
for breath.
"Thoughtless blockhead that I was!" muttered Gavin Douglas. And he then
set himself to repair the mischief he had done, by bustling about to
procure the necessary remedies, which at last succeeded in restoring
Catherine to consciousness.
"It was a sudden spasm," said she; "I shall soon recover from it."
"Poor girl!" thought Gavin, "I fear not; the evil is more deeply rooted
than I imagined."
From this period, Catherine became quite an altered character. A settled
melancholy seemed to weigh upon her heart. She was mild, gentle, and
affectionate as ever; but the buoyancy of her spirit was gone, and the
smile, which now but seldom brightened her countenance, was evidently
but grief in disguise. Her friends, with delicate consideration, avoided
all allusion to the cause of her sorrow, which was but too well known to
them all; and her fond and grieving father hoped that time and absence,
and the novel scenes she was about to enter into, might work,
imperceptibly to herself, a gradual cure.
Nearly nine months had elapsed since Philip's departure; Catherine, half
broken-hearted, had accompanied her father on shipboard, and was far on
her way to the East; and the Recovery, Philip's ship, was on her
homeward voyage. One fine night in March, the Recovery was running along
the Lagullas Bank, taking advantage of the current which sweeps round
the Cape of Good Hope to the eastward. The wind was light but steady
from the S.E., and the night cloudy, when the look-out man on the
forecastle called out, "A light on the larboard bow, sir!" A small
glimmering light was seen on the horizon to windward, which gradually
enlarged to a broad flame, wavering and flickering in the breeze; and
almost immediately the dull sound of a gun came faintly moaning over the
waters, and a long train of arrowy light went rushing up into the sky,
where it hung for a moment, and then burst into separate flashes, which
gradually died away as they descended. The officer of the deck ran in to
the captain immediately. "I am afraid, sir, there is a ship on fire to
windward. There is a strong light on our weather-beam, and I heard the
report of a gun, and saw the flash of a rocket."
"Indeed! Tell the gunner to clear away one of the guns. Call the hands
out. I will be out in a minute."
The light, in the meantime, was gradually increasing in size, and it was
evident, from the wavering outline which it presented, that the first
conjecture respecting its origin was a correct one; and gun after gun
confirmed it. The captain speedily made his appearance on deck, and,
after a moment's glance to windward, called to the chief mate, "Run the
stunsails in, Mr Waring. Brace sharp up, and bring the ship to the wind.
Are you all ready with that gun, Mr Wad?"
"All ready, sir!"
"Then, fire! Bear a hand, clear away another gun."
The Recovery was now hauled close to the wind, and was slipping rapidly
through the water in the direction of the light; all hands were on deck,
and, after the bustle of taking in and stowing the studdingsails had
subsided, the eyes of all were directed with the greatest anxiety
towards the horizon on the weather-bow, where the flame was now
distinctly seen, sometimes barely visible above the water, and then
bursting upward in broad and vivid jets, waving fitfully in the breeze.
All at once it disappeared, and half suppressed murmurs and ejaculations
burst from the excited crew of the Recovery.
"I fear we are too late, sir!" said Waring, the mate; "the light has
disappeared."
"Very strange!" replied the captain, straining his eyes through the
night-glass. "I hope not! Oh no! I see how it is. Don't you observe that
the red fiery haze still hangs round the spot?--and, hark! there is
another gun! She is on fire abaft, and is running down before the wind.
She has heard our signals. Fire another gun!"
The vessel to windward still continued firing minute-guns, by the louder
report of which it was evident she was rapidly approaching; and in a
short time the dark mass of her canvas was distinctly visible, standing
out in bold relief from its fiery background.
"Have the quarter cutters clear for lowering, Mr Waring," said the
captain. "Away aloft there, topmen; send down whips for the yard
tackles, and have the large cutter all clear for tossing out."
These orders were instantly and actively obeyed; the crew seemed to vie
with each other in their exertions, and strained every nerve in their
eager emulation. They could now clearly discern the dark hull of the
ship, the sails forward hiding the body of the flame, broad masses of
which were seen, with every roll she took, flaring out from each side,
alternately, of the dark screen of canvas.
"Man the gear of the courses!--up courses!--in royals and
topgallantsails!--back the mainyard!" were the orders which now rapidly
succeeded each other; and, in a few moments, the Recovery lay as
motionless as a log on the water.
"Call the hands--out boats!"
The large cutter was quickly hoisted out, the quarter-boats were lowered
and manned, and kept alongside, in readiness to push off at a moment's
warning. The burning ship was rapidly approaching, and was now within
two miles of the Recovery.
"Fire a gun to windward, and burn a blue light," exclaimed the captain;
"she is quite near enough."
The stranger now came slowly and gradually up to the wind, and hove to,
with her maintopsail to the mast, about a mile ahead, and to windward of
the Recovery. An involuntary shout of horror and admiration burst from
the crew of that ship, when the change in the position of the stranger
revealed to them the terrific extent of her danger--of horror for the
imminent peril of her crew, and of irrepressible admiration of the
splendid scene so suddenly unveiled to them. Broad masses of flame were
bursting apparently from her gun-room, and waving over her quarter;
while thick clouds of smoke, glittering with sparks, shot upwards, and
were borne far off to leeward by the breeze. Every rope in the ship was
as distinctly traceable by the glare of the flame, as if it had been
broad daylight. Her mainsail was hauled close up; and her crew, seeming
to have been aware that their only chance of rescue was in flight, had
been actively employed in keeping her headsails wet with streams of
water from the fire-engine, for it was very evident that no earthly
power could check the progress of the flames abaft.
The dark forms of the crew were seen hurrying about her decks,
apparently employed in clearing away the boats, one of which soon pushed
off from her, loaded till her gunwales were within a few inches of the
water, and pulled slowly towards them.
"Shove off in the boats," shouted the captain of the Recovery, "and give
way, my hearties, with a will."
There was not a moment to lose; a spark caught the maintopsail; the
canvas, as dry as tinder with the excessive heat, was in a blaze in a
moment; and, with lightning-like rapidity, sail after sail on the
mainmast caught fire, and blazing for a moment with a broad and
brilliant glare, shrivelled up, and flew in burning tatters to leeward.
It was an awful sight, that pyramid of flame, rising as it were from
the bosom of the deep. Not a sound was to be heard, but that of the
rapidly-moving oars, and the rushing, moaning, and crackling sound of
the flame. The men tugged at their oars in the silence of desperate
energy; life and death depended upon their exertions, and their voices
seemed to be hushed by the extremity of the danger. In the meantime,
sail was made upon the Recovery, and the breeze having partially died
away, she crawled slowly up on the weather-quarter of the stranger, and
again hove to. Boat after boat soon joined her, and, having deposited
their freight, hastened back to the scene of danger for more. The
greater part of the crew of the burning ship were soon safely bestowed
on board of the Recovery, when Philip, who had already made two trips to
the stranger with the boat under his command, pulled towards her again,
to bring off the remainder of her men. He was fast approaching her when
he was hailed by the officer of one of the other boats, who told him
that he had taken off the last of the crew. He was just on the point of
returning to his ship, when he heard sounds of remonstrance and entreaty
from another boat which was slowly approaching; the crew seemed
undecided whether to proceed or return; and, at the same time, he
observed by the light of the fire the officer of the boat struggling
with a man in the stern-sheets, who was apparently endeavouring to jump
overboard.
"It would be madness--downright madness to return," exclaimed the
officer; "I will not risk the lives of my men--she will blow up
immediately."
"Let me go!" shouted the stranger; "if I cannot save her, let me die
with her." At this moment the stranger's eye caught sight of Philip, who
was standing up in the boat, and, with a loud and startling cry, he
shouted, "Philip, Philip, save her! Save Catherine!" It was Edward
Douglas! At the same time a shrill scream came over the water, and a
female form was seen at the gangway, waving her hands over her head, and
wringing them in all the anguish of despair. For a moment Philip was
paralysed; it was but for a moment.
"We will save her or perish!" shouted he; "what say you, my lads?" The
men answered him with a cheer, as the boat sprung through the water
under the impulse of their bending oars; and a few vigorous strokes
brought them alongside the blazing ship. It was but the work of a moment
for Philip and one of the boat's crew to spring up the ship's side, and
to lower the fainting Catherine into the arms of the men below. With
careful haste she was laid down in the stern-sheets, and the water
foamed beneath the bows of the boat as her gallant crew bent desperately
to their oars. A handful of water sprinkled on Catherine's face revived
her for a moment; she opened her eyes upon her deliverer, and, murmuring
"Philip!" closed them again, with a shudder, and relapsed into
unconsciousness. The moment the boat reached the Recovery, the ship's
mainyard was filled, the lower tacks were hauled on board, the small
sails set, and she stood to windward, to widen her distance. The
precaution, however, was scarcely necessary, as the blazing wreck was
drifting fast to leeward. Almost immediately after the boat had left
her, she had paid off before the wind, the sails on the foremast caught
fire, and in a very short time the blazing wreck of spars fell forward
over the bows. All eyes were now eagerly directed towards her, to watch
the finale of the catastrophe. They were not kept long in suspense: a
dense cloud of smoke burst from her fore-hatchway, followed by a rush of
bright flame, and a loud and deafening explosion, and then all was
darkness--the hull had disappeared, and not a vestige of the unfortunate
vessel remained, except the fragments of the wreck, which fell far and
wide, pattering and hissing in the water.
It was with a feeling of breathless awe and silent thanksgiving that the
rescued crew gazed upon the scene; and many a cheek among them was
blanched with shuddering horror at the thought of the miserable fate
they had so providentially and narrowly escaped. The most daring and
reckless among them were sobered for a time, and many a half-suppressed
expression of thankfulness to an overruling Providence burst from lips
to which oaths and curses had been but too familiar. As soon as all was
over, sail was made upon the Recovery, the watch was called out, and
arrangements were made for the accommodation of the unexpected addition
to her crew. The name of the unfortunate ship was the Victory--a fine
vessel of six hundred tons. The fire had been occasioned by the
negligence of the steward, who, while unpacking a case of wine, had left
a light burning in the after orlop, which had set fire to the loose
straw, from which the flame was soon communicated to the spirit-room.
"All that men _could_ do, we did," said the captain, when telling the
story; "but, from the first, I had no hope of saving the ship, and
slight was our chance of escape in the boats. When the sound of your gun
reached us, it was as a messenger of hope--a promise of rescue; and
three cheers burst from our crew, as we put our helm up, and stood away
to join you. My men behaved nobly; with death staring them in the face,
they never for a moment failed in their duty, or flinched from the
danger, and exerted themselves to the utmost to keep the fire under, and
to prevent its communicating to the sails. Thanks to a merciful
Providence, and to you, its gallant agents, we have been rescued from a
dreadful doom!"
In the meantime, our friend Philip had hastened to the cabin which had
been appropriated to Edward Douglas, and, knocking at the door, was
immediately admitted.
"Philip!" exclaimed Edward, grasping his hand, while the tears stood in
his eyes, and his voice trembled with emotion; "my dear, my gallant
deliverer!--what an awful fate have you saved us from! If I had lost my
child, how valueless would have been my own preservation! To you, under
Heaven, I owe both: how can I express my gratitude?"
"Oh, speak not thus to me, dear sir; I but did my duty, and am I not
already more than repaid? But how is Miss Douglas?"
"Miss Douglas!" said Edward; "cold and formal indeed! Why not
Catherine?--your Catherine? Have you not earned a right to call her
yours?"
Philip trembled, and turned pale; and then, when the warm blood, rushing
to his cheeks again, flushed them with emotion, he exclaimed--
"Oh, Mr Douglas! My whole efforts, since we parted, have been to smother
feelings and wishes which your words have again called into life."
"And long may they live, my dear Philip!--my dear son I hope soon to
call you. I will no longer strive against fate. You have saved
Catherine's life; and, if you still retain her love, you have a grateful
father's full and free permission to avail yourself of it. For the rest,
we will trust to Providence, and to the exertions of your own active and
energetic spirit."
"Mr Douglas," said Philip, "your kindness overpowers me. I would risk a
thousand lives, if I had them, for such a recompense; but I must not
take advantage of your excited feelings to obtain a boon, however dear
to me, which your prudence would deny. The same obstacles remain which
at first existed. I am still poor and friendless; the obscurity of my
birth has not been cleared up; and, circumstanced as I am at present,
ought I to avail myself of an accidental advantage, and of your too
generous appreciation of it, to fetter the free choice of your daughter,
who probably may now see those obstacles with far different eyes than in
her early days?"
"Better times may come, Philip; and, in the meanwhile, my daughter's
dowery will be sufficient to afford you both all the comforts, though
not the luxuries of life; your own energy and industry must do the rest.
But you must consult Catherine on the subject--gain her consent; mine
you have, without further condition, already."
After a consultation with his officers, the captain of the Recovery
deemed it expedient to put into the Cape; and the ship's course was
accordingly altered. The wind continuing fair and steady, on the evening
of the fourth day from the disaster, she was close in with the coast;
and the breeze dying away, and a thick fog coming on, she was hove to
for the night. The next morning the fog still continued; nothing was to
be seen of the land, though every eye was strained to penetrate the
gloom, till at last the glad cry was heard from the mast-head, "High
land ahead, sir! Close aboard of us!" All eyes were now turned upwards;
and there, frowning above the bank of fog, appeared the dark outline of
the Table-land. The fog soon cleared off; and, in an hour or two, the
ship rounded Green Point, and came to an anchor in Table Bay. After
Edward Douglas and the rest of the passengers were landed at Cape Town,
Philip, being second officer and _idler_, obtained leave of absence for
a couple of days, and went on shore to join his friends. The
boarding-houses were all crowded; for there were several ships in the
roads, one of which, full of passengers from Bengal, had arrived the day
after the Recovery; but Edward Douglas had contrived to secure
accommodation for Philip in the same house with himself. Several
passengers by the newly-arrived ship had taken up their quarters there;
and among them a fine-looking, elderly man, a General Fortescue, of the
Bengal army. This gentleman happened, on his first arrival, to be shown
into the room where Philip and Edward Douglas were conversing together.
They both rose at his entrance, and he returned the salutation of the
latter with the free and unembarrassed air of a man of the world; but,
when he turned to Philip, he started, and gazed at him for some moments
with a look so fixed and earnest as to call the colour into his cheek.
"Excuse me, sir," said he, at length--"excuse my involuntary rudeness.
Your features awakened recollections of other times, and of long-lost
and dearly-loved friends; and, for the moment, my thoughts wandered into
forgetfulness of the courtesy due to a stranger."
"I hope at least, sir, that the recollections I recalled were not
unpleasing ones?"
"When you have lived to my age, young sir, bitter experience will have
taught you that the 'thread of life is woven of mingled yarn;' and that
shades of sorrow and disappointment may darken the brightest pictures in
memory's retrospect. Few, very few, can look back to the past years of
life with unmingled pleasure, or forward to the future with unmixed
hope."
Both Edward Douglas and Philip became greatly interested in this new
acquaintance, especially the latter, who in turn seemed to be the object
of the general's almost exclusive attention. He seemed to watch Philip's
every movement with eager interest, often cast upon him earnest and
inquiring looks, and would then, with a heavy sigh, withdraw his gaze,
as if his features had recalled some faint and shadowy image of the
past, which his memory was in vain endeavouring to realise. A party was
formed to visit the far-famed farm of Constantia, on which the
well-known choice wine of that name is manufactured; and the three
friends set off together on horseback after breakfast next morning.
General Fortescue, notwithstanding the habitual shade of melancholy
which clouded his countenance, proved himself to be an animated and most
agreeable companion. His mind was stored with varied knowledge, and his
conversation was enlivened with anecdotes of events and characters
which had come under the personal observation of a keen and penetrating
mind.
"I know not how it is, Mr Douglas," said he, "but I have not felt for
years such a springiness of spirit as I experience to-day. I suppose it
is because this beautiful country recalls to my recollection our own
dear England. Suppose we dismount, and ramble for awhile among the
trees; with our feet upon the soft grass, and under the cooling shade,
our recollections of our distant home will return with greater warmth
and freshness."
This proposal was gladly acceded to by his companions; and, having given
their horses to the care of their attendant, they wandered about for
some time, and at last finding a grassy spot sheltered from the rays of
the sun, they seated themselves, and entered into an animated and
cheerful conversation.
"Pray, Mr Douglas," said General Fortescue, addressing himself to
Philip, "is your father a Scotchman? I should think so from the name."
Philip coloured painfully; and the general, perceiving his confusion,
added, "Excuse the liberty I have taken in asking the question--it did
not arise from idle curiosity. The dearest friend of my early days was a
Douglas, and the name is connected in my remembrance with scenes in
which I spent many of my happiest days, when hope gilded my visions of
the future, alas! only to deceive me. Yes, if Gavin Douglas still
survives, I must find him out."
"Gavin Douglas!" said Edward, in surprise; "was he a Douglas of
Eskhall?"
"The same," replied he.
"My father!" said Edward.
"Is it possible! And art thou really the son of my dearest and earliest
friend? Wonderful are the mysterious sympathies of nature! How strangely
was I attracted towards you both, but more especially towards your
friend, whom I presume to be your younger brother?"
"No, he is not even a connection, though I hope he soon will be one."
"Then whose son is he?"
Philip, with cheeks glowing, and eyes flashing with vainly-resisted
emotion, answered, in rapid and passionate accents--
"The son of one who was ashamed to own him; who deserted him in his
infancy, and cast him shelterless upon the casual bounty of strangers;
the nameless son of a nameless father; perhaps"--and his eye fell, and
his voice trembled--"the offspring of shame, as of misfortune."
"Never, Philip!" said Edward; "the pure stream rises from the pure
spring. Whoever your father may be, were he the highest in the land, did
he know his son, he would be proud, not ashamed, to own him as such.
But, as we have excited the general's curiosity, have you any objection
to my gratifying it, by reciting the history of your life?"
Philip made a movement of assent; and Edward proceeded to give a rapid
sketch of the events which we have already narrated, from the time of
Philip's desertion down to his gallant conduct on board the Recovery.
The general had listened to his narrative with breathless interest; and,
when it was concluded, asked, in a hurried and agitated manner--
"Was there no clue by which to trace his parentage? No writing, or other
notice of his birth?"
"Yes--a paper, stating his name to be Philip, and that he was born of
good family; and a ring."
"Here it is," said Philip, producing it.
The moment the general's eyes glanced upon it, his cheek turned deadly
pale, he leaned for a moment backward against a tree, and then, with an
eager and trembling hand, he touched a spring at the back of the seal,
and the shield flying open, the initials "P. & M. F." appeared engraved
behind.