“--Quid Virtus et quid Sapientia possit
Utile proposuit nobis exemplar Ulssem.” HOR.
[“He has proposed to us Ulysses as a useful example of how
much may be accomplished by Virtue and Wisdom.”]
Meanwhile the object of their search, on quitting Mr. Morton’s shop, had
walked slowly and sadly on, through the plashing streets, till he came
to a public house in the outskirts and on the high road to London. Here
he took shelter for a short time, drying himself by the kitchen fire,
with the license purchased by fourpenny-worth of gin; and having learned
that the next coach to London would not pass for some hours, he finally
settled himself in the Ingle, till the guard’s horn should arouse him.
By the same coach that the night before had conveyed Philip to N----,
had the very man he sought been also a passenger!
The poor fellow was sickly and wearied out: he had settled into a doze,
when he was suddenly wakened by the wheels of a coach and the trampling
of horses. Not knowing how long he had slept, and imagining that the
vehicle he had awaited was at the door, he ran out. It was a coach
coming from London, and the driver was joking with a pretty barmaid who,
in rather short petticoats, was fielding up to him the customary glass.
The man, after satisfying himself that his time was not yet come, was
turning back to the fire, when a head popped itself out of the window,
and a voice cried, “Stars and garters! Will--so that’s you!” At the
sound of the voice the man halted abruptly, turned very pale, and his
limbs trembled. The inside passenger opened the door, jumped out with
a little carpet-bag in his hand, took forth a long leathern purse
from which he ostentatiously selected the coins that paid his fare and
satisfied the coachman, and then, passing his arm through that of the
acquaintance he had discovered, led him back into the house.
“Will--Will,” he whispered, “you have been to the Mortons. Never
moind--let’s hear all. Jenny or Dolly, or whatever your sweet praetty
name is--a private room and a pint of brandy, my dear. Hot water and
lots of the grocery. That’s right.”
And as soon as the pair found themselves, with the brandy before them,
in a small parlour with a good fire, the last comer went to the door,
shut it cautiously, flung his bag under the table, took off his gloves,
spread himself wider and wider before the fire, until he had entirely
excluded every ray from his friend, and then suddenly turning so that
the back might enjoy what the front had gained, he exclaimed.
“Damme, Will, you’re a praetty sort of a broather to give me the slip in
that way. But in this world every man for his-self!”
“I tell you,” said William, with something like decision in his voice,
“that I will not do any wrong to these young men if they live.”
“Who asks you to do a wrong to them?--booby! Perhaps I may be the
best friend they may have yet--ay, or you too, though you’re the
ungratefulest whimsicallist sort of a son of a gun that ever I came
across. Come, help yourself, and don’t roll up your eyes in that way,
like a Muggletonian asoide of a Fye-Fye!”
Here the speaker paused a moment, and with a graver and more natural
tone of voice proceeded:
“So you did not believe me when I told you that these brothers were
dead, and you have been to the Mortons to learn more?”
“Yes.”
“Well, and what have you learned?”
“Nothing. Morton declares that he does not know that they are alive, but
he says also that he does not know that they are dead.”
“Indeed,” said the other, listening with great attention; “and you
really think that he does not know anything about them?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Hum! Is he a sort of man who would post down the rhino to help the
search?”
“He looked as if he had the yellow fever when I said I was poor,”
returned William, turning round, and trying to catch a glimpse at the
fire, as he gulped his brandy and water.
“Then I’ll be d---d if I run the risk of calling. I have done some
things in this town by way of business before now; and though it’s
a long time ago, yet folks don’t forget a haundsome man in a
hurry--especially if he has done ‘em! Now, then, listen to me. You see,
I have given this matter all the ‘tention in my power. ‘If the lads be
dead,’ said I to you, ‘it is no use burning one’s fingers by holding
a candle to bones in a coffin. But Mr. Beaufort need not know they are
dead, and we’ll see what we can get out of him; and if I succeeds, as
I think I shall, you and I may hold up our heads for the rest of our
life.’ Accordingly, as I told you, I went to Mr. Beaufort, and--‘Gad,
I thought we had it all our own way. But since I saw you last, there’s
been the devil and all. When I called again, Will, I was shown in to an
old lord, sharp as a gimblet. Hang me, William, if he did not frighten
me out of my seven senses!”
Here Captain Smith (the reader has, no doubt, already discovered that
the speaker was no less a personage) took three or four nervous strides
across the room, returned to the table, threw himself in a chair, placed
one foot on one hob, and one on the other, laid his finger on his nose,
and, with a significant wink, said in a whisper, “Will, he knew I
had been lagged! He not only refused to hear all I had to say, but
threatened to prosecute--persecute, hang, draw, and quarter us both, if
we ever dared to come out with the truth.”
“But what’s the good of the truth if the boys are dead?” said William,
timidly.
The captain, without heeding this question, continued, as he stirred the
sugar in his glass, “Well, out I sneaked, and as soon as I had got to
my own door I turned round and saw Sharp the runner on the other side of
the way--I felt deuced queer. However, I went in, sat down, and began
to think. I saw that it was up with us, so far as the old uns were
concerned; and it might be worth while to find out if the young uns
really were dead.”
“Then you did not know that after all! I thought so. Oh, Jerry!”
“Why, look you, man, it was not our interest to take their side if we
could make our bargain out of the other. ‘Cause why? You are only one
witness--you are a good fellow, but poor, and with very shaky nerves,
Will. You does not know what them big wigs are when a man’s caged in a
witness-box--they flank one up, and they flank one down, and they bully
and bother, till one’s like a horse at Astley’s dancing on hot iron.
If your testimony broke down, why it would be all up with the case,
and what then would become of us? Besides,” added the captain, with
dignified candour, “I have been lagged, it’s no use denying it; I am
back before my time. Inquiries about your respectability would soon
bring the bulkies about me. And you would not have poor Jerry sent back
to that d---d low place on t’other side of the herring-pond, would you?”
“Ah, Jerry!” said William, kindly placing his hand in his brother’s,
“you know I helped you to escape; I left all to come over with you.”
“So you did, and you’re a good fellow; though as to leaving all, why you
had got rid of all first. And when you told me about the marriage, did
not I say that I saw our way to a snug thing for life? But to return
to my story. There is a danger in going with the youngsters. But since,
Will,--since nothing but hard words is to be got on the other side,
we’ll do our duty, and I’ll find them out, and do the best I can for
us--that is, if they be yet above ground. And now I’ll own to you that I
think I knows that the younger one is alive.”
“You do?”
“Yes! But as he won’t come in for anything unless his brother is dead,
we must have a hunt for the heir. Now I told you that, many years ago,
there was a lad with me, who, putting all things together--seeing how
the Beauforts came after him, and recollecting different things he let
out at the time--I feel pretty sure is your old master’s Hopeful. I know
that poor Will Gawtrey gave this lad the address of Old Gregg, a friend
of mine. So after watching Sharp off the sly, I went that very night, or
rather at two in the morning, to Gregg’s house, and, after brushing
up his memory, I found that the lad had been to him, and gone over
afterwards to Paris in search of Gawtrey, who was then keeping a
matrimony shop. As I was not rich enough to go off to Paris in a
pleasant, gentlemanlike way, I allowed Gregg to put me up to a noice
quiet little bit of business. Don’t shake your head--all safe--a rural
affair! That took some days. You see it has helped to new rig me,” and
the captain glanced complacently over a very smart suit of clothes.
“Well, on my return I went to call on you, but you had flown. I half
suspected you might have gone to the mother’s relations here; and I
thought, at all events, that I could not do better than go myself and
see what they knew of the matter. From what you say I feel I had better
now let that alone, and go over to Paris at once; leave me alone to
find out. And faith, what with Sharp and the old lord, the sooner I quit
England the better.”
“And you really think you shall get hold of them after all? Oh, never
fear my nerves if I’m once in the right; it’s living with you, and
seeing you do wrong, and hearing you talk wickedly, that makes me
tremble.”
“Bother!” said the captain, “you need not crow over me. Stand up, Will;
there now, look at us two in the glass! Why, I look ten years younger
than you do, in spite of all my troubles. I dress like a gentleman, as
I am; I have money in my pocket; I put money in yours; without me you’d
starve. Look you, you carried over a little fortune to Australia--you
married--you farmed--you lived honestly, and yet that d---d
shilly-shally disposition of yours, ‘ticed into one speculation to-day,
and scared out of another to-morrow, ruined you!”
“Jerry! Jerry!” cried William, writhing; “don’t--don’t.”
“But it’s all true, and I wants to cure you of preaching. And then,
when you were nearly run out, instead of putting a bold face on it, and
setting your shoulder to the wheel, you gives it up--you sells what you
have--you bolts over, wife and all, to Boston, because some one tells
you you can do better in America--you are out of the way when a search
is made for you--years ago when you could have benefited yourself and
your master’s family without any danger to you or me--nobody can find
you; ‘cause why, you could not bear that your old friends in England, or
in the colony either, should know that you were turned a slave-driver in
Kentucky. You kick up a mutiny among the niggers by moaning over them,
instead of keeping ‘em to it--you get kicked out yourself--your wife
begs you to go back to Australia, where her relations will do something
for you--you work your passage out, looking as ragged as a colt
from grass--wife’s uncle don’t like ragged nephews-in-law--wife dies
broken-hearted--and you might be breaking stones on the roads with the
convicts, if I, myself a convict, had not taken compassion on you. Don’t
cry, Will, it is all for your own good--I hates cant! Whereas I, my own
master from eighteen, never stooped to serve any other--have dressed
like a gentleman--kissed the pretty girls--drove my pheaton--been in all
the papers as ‘the celebrated Dashing Jerry’--never wanted a guinea in
my pocket, and even when lagged at last, had a pretty little sum in
the colonial bank to lighten my misfortunes. I escape,--I bring you
over--and here I am, supporting you, and in all probability, the one on
whom depends the fate of one of the first families in the country. And
you preaches at me, do you? Look you, Will;--in this world, honesty’s
nothing without force of character! And so your health!”
Here the captain emptied the rest of the brandy into his glass, drained
it at a draught, and, while poor William was wiping his eyes with a
ragged blue pocket-handkerchief, rang the bell, and asked what coaches
would pass that way to -----, a seaport town at some distance. On
hearing that there was one at six o’clock, the captain ordered the best
dinner the larder would afford to be got ready as soon as possible; and,
when they were again alone, thus accosted his brother:--
“Now you go back to town--here are four shiners for you. Keep
quiet--don’t speak to a soul--don’t put your foot in it, that’s all I
beg, and I’ll find out whatever there is to be found. It is damnably out
of my way embarking at -----, but I had best keep clear of Lunnon. And I
tell you what, if these youngsters have hopped the twig, there’s another
bird on the bough that may prove a goldfinch after all--Young Arthur
Beaufort: I hear he is a wild, expensive chap, and one who can’t live
without lots of money. Now, it’s easy to frighten a man of that sort,
and I sha’n’t have the old lord at his elbow.”
“But I tell you, that I only care for my poor master’s children.”
“Yes; but if they are dead, and by saying they are alive, one can make
old age comfortable, there’s no harm in it--eh?”
“I don’t know,” said William, irresolutely. “But certainly it is a hard
thing to be so poor at my time of life; and so honest a man as I’ve
been, too!”
Captain Smith went a little too far when he said that “honesty’s nothing
without force of character.” Still, Honesty has no business to be
helpless and draggle-tailed;--she must be active and brisk, and make use
of her wits; or, though she keep clear or the prison, ‘tis no very great
wonder if she fall on the parish.