ROUGH WEATHER.
I would be a mermaid fair,
I would sing to myself the whole of the day;
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair,
And still as I comb'd, I would sing and say,
"Who is it loves me? who loves not me?"
--Tennyson.
One day there was a gale. It came up suddenly, and some ladies sitting on
a bench were swept off by a roll and sudden lurch. The deck was soon
cleared of the feminine element, with the exception of Bluebell, who
enjoyed an immunity from _malheur de mer_, and knew she would not be much
better off in her cabin, where Mrs. Oliphant had gradually ousted her
from everything but sleeping accommodation.
A huge roller had hurled itself over the steerage, and broken a man's
arm; but the part of the vessel she was on kept pretty dry. Stormy
petrels were hovering in flocks; the ship, plunging head foremost into
deep troughs, seemed as if it must break its back or be swallowed up, but
always borne on the crest of a wave only to repeat the header next
minute.
Bluebell was lying (for no other position could be preserved) on some
rigs by the wheel, and holding on by a rope to prevent sliding about. She
felt excited by the grandeur of the situation, and, in the pauses of the
wind, sang low some wild German Volkslied.
"Are you a Lorelei?" asked Mr. Dutton, who was never far off. "What do
you intend to do with the steamer?"
"I don't mean any harm to the ship, but I shan't lull the winds yet. How
delightful and magnificent it is!"
"If you really don't mean to engulf us, and won't comb your golden hair,
pray go on singing. I'll risk it."
Bluebell nodded, and gave full play to her magnificent voice in the
wildest Lieder she could remember. The man at the wheel, if he had ever
heard of a Lorelei, might have been excused for mistaking her for one. A
lady to sit and sing in such a gale was not an every-day experience. Her
bright hair was only covered by the hood of a deep-blue cloak, from which
her large eyes seemed to have caught a reflection, so dark were the
pupils dilated with enthusiasm.
"You might be a corsair's bride," said Mr. Dutton, admiringly, "you are
so indifferent to discomfort and danger. I can't fancy you shut up in a
poky school-room, taking regular walks, and teaching Dr. Watts to
tiresome children."
"I have only one pupil of a musical and romantic turn. You are altogether
wrong in thinking me indifferent to luxury; I am quite longing to be in a
comfortable house again."
"Your penance will be over in a day or two. Why do you stay out to be
drenched with spray and perished with cold?" very discontentedly.
"How can I be either with all these wraps? and, when you are not sulky,
your society _is_ preferable to Mrs. Oliphant's!"
"Yes; that is about my place in your--what shall I call it? Regard is a
nice, proper word,--just more acceptable than the plainest and most
spiteful woman on board."
"Rather more than that," said Bluebell, gently. "It would have been far
worse without you; but after this voyage we are not likely to meet again,
though I shall never think of it without remembering my friend."
"What a nice word!" savagely. "Why don't you add,--
'Others may woo me--thou art my friend?'
Do you know that song, Miss Leigh?"
"Yes," laughing.
"'Lonely and sadly his young life did end;
Pause by my tombstone, and pity thy friend.'
It's enough to draw tears from one's eyes."
"Well!" said the lieutenant, "I never met a Canadian girl before, but I
see now they are the coldest, most insensible--oh! of course, you only
laugh. How do you know we shall never meet again? Suppose I call on you
in your new--situation."
"Governesses are not allowed 'followers.' I mean, male visitors would be
considered as such."
"Couldn't I get a tutorship in the same family?"
"There are no boys. Gracious! what a wave. Surely it is getting rougher,
Mr. Dutton?"
"Well, yes. I think I must take you down. The next roller may wash over
you. Lean all your weight on me, or you'll be blown off your feet."
In a most incoherent manner she reached the gangway, and, clinging to the
banisters, reeled into her cabin, where was Mrs. Oliphant in hysterics.
The stewardess was in attendance, and she was insisting on her
immediately fetching the captain, as, without his assurance that there
was no danger, she declined to be calm.
"As if the captain could leave his bridge!" said Bluebell, laughing. "And
I am sure the ship would go down if he did."
Another shriek from Mrs. Oliphant, who, with a desperate effort, seized
on a life-belt, and called to the stewardess to assist in its adjustment.
"Oh, dear!" cried Bluebell. "And what is to become of me? However, you
are quite welcome to it. I had sooner be drowned at once than bob about
on a wave, with sharks nibbling at my toes for an hour or two
previously."
"Perhaps, ma'am, now this young lady be come, who seems to have a good
heart," said the stewardess, "you will let me go to Mrs. Preston and Mrs.
Butler, who have been wanting me ever so long."
"No; I will not be deserted. Mrs. Butler has her husband and Mrs. Preston
has her maid."
"Oh, she is worse than all! She sent down for Mrs. Preston to come up and
speak to her, as she was dying as fast as she could, and the poor lady
couldn't as much as lift her own 'ead."
"And you are not so very bad," said Bluebell, encouragingly. "Think of
Mrs. Dove, of the 100th 'Scatterers,' and don't give way."
So, partly by laughing and partly by gentle determination, she brought
her round, and favoured the escape of the stewardess.
It was not a very agreeable task soothing this selfish and cowardly
woman; and she was by no means assured that there was no cause for
anxiety. Her thoughts reverted to Bertie. Suppose they were all drowned.
In theory she hoped Cecil would be happy with him. Still there was a
_soupçon_ of gratification in imagining him mourning in secret anguish
and remorse over her untimely end. She remembered his favourite poem in
the "Wanderer" that Cecil used to read, and the lines,--
"I thought were she only living still,
How I could forgive her and love her."
Only in this instance forgiveness was more due from her.
Mr. Dutton here knocked at the door, to offer to help them up stairs to
dinner; but Mrs. Oliphant had dropped asleep, exhausted by her emotions,
so they went up alone. Only a few gentlemen were in the saloon, and the
widow lady, whom everybody had begun to like, she was so unselfish and
contented.
Dinner was consumed in a picnic fashion. Bluebell's modicum of sherry had
to be tossed off at once in a tumbler, for the glasses were dancing a
hornpipe on the table, plates required a restraining hand, and their
contents to be conveyed to the mouth with as much accuracy of aim as was
attainable.
She thought compassionately of the careworn mother of H'Emma, who
probably would have been quite neglected during the gale, and determined
to take her something, and get Mr. Dutton to carry it and steady her own
footsteps. Nothing could exceed the discomfort in which they found them.
The nursery-maid was imbecile from terror and prostrate with sickness,
and the harassed mother doing the best she could.
To begin with, H'Emma had received a whipping, which, however undeserved,
was probably the most judicious course, by inspiring fortitude, and
cutting off all hopes of undue indulgence.
The poor woman was very grateful for the visit. "No one had been near
them," she said; "and the girl was so frightened, and H'Emma had screamed
so, she was at her wits' end."
"I am surprised at you, Emma!" said Mr. Dutton. "When, you are grown
up you may be as frightened as you please; but if you don't practise
self-command as a child, you'll be very properly whipped."
At this allusion to her misfortunes another howl seemed impending, only
that her attention was arrested by an orange tossed carelessly in the
air.
"Whoever catches it may have it. Don't look at mamma; she has abdicated
for the present, and we are here to put the kingdom to rights. Don't you
think, Emma," in a whisper, "it would be a very good thing if that
squalling, bald-headed young fraternity of yours were slapped?"
"Mammy says it is his teeth."
"No reason he should set ours on edge. I'd compose him if I had the
chance! Well, Miss Leigh, if I can't fetch anything else for this lady,
I'll go on deck, and return presently to report progress and help you
back again."
The storm raged for many hours more, and struck terror into the hearts of
the women and children. Mr. Dutton and some of the other gentlemen were
up all night, as well as the captain and officers; but the morning rose
calm and delicious over a sleeping sea, and cheerfulness and high spirits
reigned in the ship. They were within a day of land, too--a more welcome
prospect than ever, after the perils and dangers of the night. The
dinner-table had scarcely an absentee, and was far more lively than it
had ever been yet.
"One can sleep comfortably to-night, being so near land," cried the
thoughtless Mrs. Butler.
"There have been more shipwrecks off the coast of Ireland than any
other," said Mr. Dutton, sardonically. He was the only one who did not
display unmixed delight at reaching England; and, when other people are
exuberantly rejoicing at the very thing that is annoying ourselves, to
moderate their transports a little is a satisfaction.
"Oh, how can you be so shocking! But I don't believe you. Once we are in
sight of land, if there were any danger, what would prevent us getting
into boats and rowing to it?"
And then Mr. Dutton plunged into a ghastly tale of a steamer that had
struck on the Irish coast at night, and the passengers had to take to the
boats in their bed-clothes. One poor mother, with a baby tied on her back
with a shawl, and another child in her arms, found the shawl empty, the
infant having slipped out into the sea; and how they remained beating
about for hours before they could land, nearly perished with cold from
insufficient clothing.
Everybody seemed provided with similar anecdotes, and yarn succeeded yarn
till late in the evening, when a message from the captain that Ireland
was in sight brought them all on deck. The moon was shining softly over
the beautiful mountains and valleys of ----. A more exquisite little
picture could hardly have been presented to the eye wearied of perpetual
gazing on the pathless ocean. Exclamations of delight were heard on all
sides, while some prosaically remarked it was almost as fine as scenes in
"Peep o' Day" or "The Colleen Bawn." To Bluebell it was fairy-land. To
begin with, she had never seen a mountain, and the picturesque in Canada
is on too large a scale for the little details that give beauty to
scenery. Her conception of the Emerald Isle, founded on Lover's ballads
and Lever's romances, was completely realized.
"How haunting!" said she, in a hushed whisper. "What a pity to go any
further, and be disenchanted, perhaps!"
"I wish," said Mr. Dutton, "you would think you might go further and fare
worse in another case,"--which ambiguous speech, it must be supposed, was
not intended to be taken literally; for, though youthful susceptibility
and propinquity had given birth to a hasty passion, and he was savage
enough at the prospect of parting, to a young man dependent on an uncle
and residing chiefly at sea a penniless wife might have its
embarrassments.
Bluebell had glided down the companion again. The mails were landed, the
pilot came on board, and next morning they were steaming into the Mersey.
Many of the passengers had got letters, and were talking of their plans
and fussing about luggage.
"How refreshing it is to see some one without that business look!" cried
Mr. Dutton to Bluebell, who was leisurely reading in the saloon. "But
have you no goods or chattels, Miss Leigh? And ought not you to have a
letter with sailing orders?"
"I have two boxes somewhere in the hold. No, I didn't expect a letter, I
was to telegraph at Liverpool, and come right off. This is the address:--
"Mrs. Leighton,
"Leighton Court
"Calmshire."
"Why, that is my line!" said the sailor, mendaciously. "I can travel with
you as far as Calmshire."
"Can you really? How very strange! But I suppose England _is_ a small
place," said Bluebell, _naively_.
"Oh, extremely insignificant! I shall be able to see you safely to your
journey's end. So that's all settled. Now I will go and look if your
luggage is coming up, for I suppose we shall land in an hour or two."
Bluebell's curiosity was excited by the _Times_ newspaper, which a
gentleman had just laid down. It was only the advertisement sheet, for
some one else had immediately snapped up the rest, and she glanced
vaguely down the first columns, puzzling over such enigmatical insertions
as "Our tree, our bridge, our walk," "What shall we do with the Tusk?"
and that "John is entreated to write and send remittances to his
afflicted Teapot,"--when her eye lit upon the following name among the
deaths:--
"On the 22nd inst., at Leighton Court, of scarlet fever, Evelyn Cora,
only child of Mrs. and the late Henry Leighton, Esq., aged eleven
years."
Bluebell sat petrified,--the ground cut beneath her feet,--she could only
be shocked for the poor child whom she had never known. But what was to
become of herself in a strange land, with no place to go to? Besides
Leighton Court there was not a place in all England, except an inn, that
she would have a right to enter; and in a few minutes more the shelter
of the ship would be withdrawn,--even now she could see the smoke of the
tug coming to disembark them. Perfectly appalled and unnerved, she pushed
the paragraph towards Mr. Dutton, who had just entered, and gazed
helplessly at him with large frightened eyes.
He took in the situation at a glance, and the thought that had struck him
before of the strangeness of sending this beautiful girl, like a bale of
goods, to an unknown country, where she had no connections, returned with
confirmed force. How friendless she was! But slenderly supplied with
money, of course. A daring possibility had darted into his mind. It was
an irresistible temptation,--and sailors are proverbially reckless.
Matrimony hitherto had never entered into his views. It would entail
leaving the navy and living with his uncle, who, though kind, was
arbitrary enough, and would have very decided opinions upon whom his
choice should fall. Connection, money, he knew would be a _sine qua non_.
More than one well-born and tochered _débutante_ had successively been
indicated to him as a bride that would in all respects suit Lord
Bromley's views; and Bluebell, as far as he knew, fulfilled none of these
conditions. All the same the struggle in his mind was in combatting the
difficulties that opposed his resolution to marry her.
Bluebell, of course, could not guess his thoughts, and she only felt very
desponding that he seemed unable to suggest anything.
"Oh, Mr. Dutton," she cried, "do go and tell the captain, and ask him
what I had better do! He is sure to think of something,--for a day or
two, at any rate."
The young man looked up with a strange smile, but there were other
persons present. "Certainly," he said, with rather a constrained manner.
"I will go and tell him,"--and Bluebell, mistaking his reserve for
coolness, felt disappointed.
The captain was very busy, and not too well pleased at being interrupted,
but when he had mastered the intelligence he gave it his whole attention
directly.
"Eh, the puir lassie!" he ejaculated, "wha's to become of her!"
"There's only one thing that I can do," said the lieutenant, briefly.
"You!" said the skipper, whose remark had been an exclamation, not an
interrogation. "What the mischief could you do? I am doubting what the
guidwife will say, but I am thinking I must _jeest_ take her home."
"Oh, how good of you, sir!" said the young man, seizing his hand,
unobservant of the dry cynical look in his eyes. "But I trust it will not
be for long, as I must tell you, in confidence, if she will only consent,
I intend--I hope to marry Miss Leigh immediately."
"You be d--d! I will have no such goings on. If the lassie comes to me,
she will act conformable; and, if you think you are in a position to
maintain a wife, you may consult your _feymily_; I'll have no such
responsibility."
"You are, of course omnipotent in your own ship," said the young sailor,
angrily, "but you need not forget you are speaking to a gentleman."
"As far as I can see they are no honester than other people. I only
belong to the respectable class myself, and I'll no have it."
"What a fool I was to tell you! But surely," half laughing, "matrimony is
an honourable institution."
"I kenna--I kenna. I'll give the bairn shelter till she hears from her
kin, but I'll have no marrying or such like, to be called to account for
mayhap afterwards."
But Mr. Dutton, only made more eager by opposition, sprang away to the
saloon, where Bluebell was sitting.
"Yes, I have a message for you," said he, in answer to her inquiring
look. "Will you come on deck? Here are your cloak and hood."
He led her away, with rather a pale face, to the most secluded part of
it.
"What did the captain say?" she asked.
"The captain is a canny, suspicious, pigheaded old Scottish-man!"
"Of course, of course," very despondingly, "no one can do anything for
me. I must go to a lodging, and advertise for another situation."
"They will want a recommendation from your last place."
"Well, I can get it from Canada."
"And that will take a month. Bluebell, listen to me; for there's no time
to beat about the bush. I love you, my sweet child; but that you know
already. Will you marry me? Don't start. I know it is sudden, but it
will be all easy. Directly we land we can drive to a register office;
they will ask no questions, but marry us right off, and we can have it
done over again in a church, if you like."
Bluebell began to wonder how many more sensational minutes this hour was
to contain.
"Mr. Dutton," she gasped, in a horrified tone, "what _are_ you saying?
You must know it is impossible."
"Summon all your moral courage, Bluebell. You were not afraid in the
storm. Why do you shrink from acting a little out of the common?"
This speech was so like what Bertie would have said, that it nearly
brought the tears to her eyes.
"Pray say no more," said she, shrinking away from him. "How could I ever
_dream_ of such a thing!"
"_Can't_ you care for me, Bluebell--ever so little?" pleaded Harry
Dutton.
"But that would be so _very_ much!"
Her strange wooer grew more eager, for the moments were passing, and
Bluebell was at her wit's end, when the skipper came rolling up to them.
The delight and relief with which his proposal of taking her home was
received was far from pleasing to Mr. Dutton, and Bluebell, in her
lightened heart, felt some self-reproach at the sight of his gloomy
countenance.
The captain was hurrying her away, but she lingered a moment, and, with
one of those speaking glances he had learnt to look for and love, put out
her hand to the young sailor.
"Stay with me," he whispered; "it is not yet too late." She shook her
head, "I believe you hate me!" he muttered, savagely.
"No," said Bluebell, impulsively saying more than she felt. "I like you
only too well--but not enough for that."
"Any more last words?" said the skipper, who had stood aside
good-humouredly, master of the situation.
"I have nothing further to say," said the young man, stiffly, making way
for her to pass.
A minute more, and she was rowing to shore in the captain's boat, who
then put her into a cab to drive to his home.
Now, the good skipper, such an autocrat on board his vessel, was by no
means so under his own roof-tree, and sundry misgivings obtruded
themselves as to the welcome he might receive from the wife of his bosom
when a comely young lady was to be included in it.
"She'll no jeest like it at first," he muttered, half aloud; and as the
moment approached and apprehension intensified, he repeated the remark
still louder.
This moderate expectation was amply justified by the event. The good lady
received the explanatory introduction with a snort, and a countenance
expressive of contempt and disbelief, while she ironically "feared there
would be nothing in the house good enough for her."
Bluebell endeavoured to excuse her unlucky presence, the best argument
she could think of being that she would advertise for another situation
immediately. Only for the fear of offending the captain, she would have
added that she was prepared to pay for her board, which, by putting it on
a business footing, would doubtless have commended itself to the dominant
passion of her hostess's mind, and dispersed the misgivings she at
present entertained of this "fine madam."
The general stiffness was relieved by the boisterous greetings of the
captain's boys, who had just rushed in from school; but it was a terrible
evening to Bluebell, feeling _de trop_, and unable to calculate how soon
she should be released.
"Ye'll jeest put her in Phemie's room," the skipper had said. (Phemie was
a daughter lately married.) "How will I do that," was the responding
retort, "when the carpet is up, and the iron bedstead was broke by Rab a
week syne?"
"Well, then, Rab will jeest let her have his bed," said the captain,
equably brewing himself some whiskey-and-water,--and so on through the
evening, during which Mrs. Davidson by no means softened the trouble and
inconvenience Bluebell's presence occasioned, whose spirits fell to their
lowest depth.
Was it to be wondered at that Harry Dutton recurred pretty constantly to
her mind? She could think calmly now of the proposal that had so startled
her before. It was, at any rate, a sincere, straightforward offer of
marriage, and so far he contrasted favourably with Bertie, whom she had
determined to forget. But, then, she had dismissed him--he had gone away
to his uncle's, and they would probably never meet again; and as when a
thing is out of reach it becomes immediately enhanced in value, she began
to regret her lost lover, and to think that there, perhaps, might have
been a short cut out of her difficulties. We are aware that this unlucky
admission must depose her at once from the rank of a heroine, as it is
well known a heroine never for an instant suffers interest to enter into
the sacred claims of love.