A HAPPY NIGHT.
The Captain of the Fancy, coming out of the streets where there was
little light, into a small room where there was less, could see
nothing of the occupants but shadowy outlines, and had to take it
for granted that he had brought himself to anchor in a friendly port.
He appeared to have no doubt upon the point; but then it belonged to
his profession to be as confident in danger as in safety, and to be
able to steer amidst rocks with a bold heart. So, like a true seaman,
he kept his own counsel. If he had any evidence to guide him to a
satisfactory assurance other than his sense of sight might have
afforded him, he did not show the acknowledgment of it. But there
being no sun, he could not take an observation; the darkness in the
room was like a fog at sea. He may have had other evidence; voices
that were familiar to him may have been one. As on the ocean, when
night usurps the place of day, and not an hour of the twenty-four
brings a glimpse of sunlight, peculiar murmurings of the solemn waters
whisper to the skilful ear warning of danger or assurance of safety.
But what familiar voices could he have heard in this humble room of
crowded Soho, seeing that he was Captain of the Fancy, and just come
ashore? And yet he seemed to consider himself quite at home, although
he and those in whose presence he found himself could not distinguish
each other's faces.
He had a gruff and kindly voice had the Captain of the Fancy, and he
wore rough blue trousers, and a rough pea-jacket, and a rough cap. But
notwithstanding that everything about him outwardly was as rough as
rough could be, it is not unreasonable to assume that he had a kind
heart and a gentle spirit. Otherwise, he would scarcely have been
here on his present errand, where there was no freight charges to
receive--nothing but the overflowing gratitude of a poor little child,
who had never had a doll, and who lived contentedly upon the thought
of one, for a long, long time past. Insubstantial payment this, but
evidently sufficient in the Captain's eyes, as his conduct proved. He
could not have been more in his element on the ocean than he showed
himself in this dark room, in which he had set foot for the first time
on this summer evening.
It was a peaceful evening, and everything in the narrow street was in
harmony with it. The window of the room in which he stood was open,
and there were flowers on the sill. There were flowers also on other
window-sills in the street, in pots and boxes; and he saw on the
opposite side, in a room which was lighted up, a woman covering a
bird-cage, in which doubtless a pet canary sang during the day.
Harmonious influences these: a weird contrast which was to be found in
a labyrinth of curiously-shaped thoroughfares a few hundred yards
away, in a very tangle of dwarf streets and alleys, where the glare of
light dazzled the eye and bewildered the senses. A strange scene
indeed, but so frequent and common in the great City as to possess no
novelty to the accustomed gaze; affording no food for reflection to
any but those whose hearts are in their eyes. Poor people were there
in shoals, bargaining and eking out their poor means to the best
advantage: trucks and barrows, filled with the commonest and meanest
necessaries of life, so choked the spaces as to render straight
walking an impossibility. Hoarse voiced men were bawling out
inducements to intending purchasers, who stood debating and reckoning
up before making the bold plunge. Some of the barrows were presided
over by pale-faced women, as nervous anxious-looking as many of the
timid ones who bargained for their wares. Here, a foreigner, having
made his purchase, hurried away with hanging head, as if what was
hidden beneath his coat was something to be ashamed of, or was so
precious that it needed swift lodgment in his garret before he could
consider it safe. Here lingered a hungry man, looking and longing, or
a cunning beggar who, by the counterfeit misery on his face, drew
pence and halfpence from others needier than himself. But what was
given was given ungrudgingly and with earnest sympathy. Here stood an
old man and a little girl with a basket on her arm. The old man was
sliding some coppers and two or three small pieces of silver in the
palm of his hand, calculating what it would buy for the Sunday dinner,
and the girl was looking up into his face with a pleasant light in her
eyes; a light which it was not hard to see often warmed the old man's
heart. He was a long time before he decided; and when he had made up
his mind, the foolish fellow jeopardised Monday's necessities by
purchasing a picture-book and a bunch of flowers for his little
granddaughter, Commerce, as represented in the market, did not show to
advantage. It was a shabby and second-hand institution; from the
damaged fruit and vegetables (which wore a frayed appearance) to the
old clothes, patched and mended, and the second-hand boots and shoes
(should it not be second-foot), with an excruciating polish on them,
like paint on the cheeks of age, to hide the ravages of time. Art was
not neglected; for here was a second-hand bookstall, and here an
inverted open umbrella, the interior of which was lined with prints
and engravings torn from old books, marked up at "a penny apiece, and
take your choice." The roar of voices from this busy mart came to the
Captain's ears, subdued and, sounding like the soft lapping of the
sea, added to the peacefulness of the quiet street.
How it was that Lily's grandfather asked "What ship?" when the
stranger announced himself as a Captain, he could not have explained.
But it may be rightly surmised that it was prompted by his sympathy
with Pollypod, and by his gladness that she was not to be
disappointed. When Lily heard the Captain's voice--which most surely
have been unfamiliar to her, it was so gruff--she relinquished
Pollypod's hand, and softly went to her seat. There are some moments
which are very precious to us; now and again in our lives visions of
pure happiness come, and, indistinct and undefinable as they are, we
forget all else for the time; and with awe and gladness resign
ourselves to influences which fill the present with peace and joy.
Such times are the stars in our life's record, and the memory of them
never dies.
Pollypod, standing by the Captain's side, exclaimed with tearful joy,
"I'm the little girl."
"And I'm the Captain."
"I knew you would come!" (Her voice was so full and rich, that it was
a pleasure to hear it.) "Felix said you would, and he saw you such a
long way off. You _have_ brought her!"
"Yes, here she is in my arms, little one. Dressed."
"In what?"
"Mauve silk, I think she told me."
"O!"
A volume of words could not have expressed more.
"Hold hard!" cried the Captain, as he heard the scraping of a match
against a box, and guessed that it was intended to light up. "Let us
talk in the dark a bit."
He knew that there were two persons, an old man and a little girl,
present besides himself, and the momentary flash of the match, as it
was drawn across the sand-paper, did not reveal to him a third, for
Lily was sitting in the darkest shadow of the room, and he was not
looking that way. The old man readily assented to the proposition to
talk in the dark a bit, and the shadows of the peaceful summer night
lay about the room undisturbed. But the Captain appearing to consider
that his proposition was too abruptly made, and scarcely justifiable,
he being a stranger and almost an intruder, added immediately,
"That is, if you have no objection, and if you will pardon me for
suggesting it."
"No apology is necessary," replied the old man, "from one accredited
as you are, and coming on such an errand."
"It's a Captain's fancy," said the stranger.
"And it's yours by right, as Captain of the Fancy," observed the old
man, in a gentle and courteous tone.
"You are kind enough to say so. Of all the hours of the twenty-four,
I love that the most during which the day steals away to the other
side of the world. There's no time at sea so pleasant as night, when
it is fine and balmy, as this summer's night is, and when you can look
over the bulwarks into the water, and see it wake into living light as
the ship sails on. Then, when the moon rises, the heavens, as well as
the water, are filled with glory; though, for the matter of that, they
are always filled with natural beauty, whether it is dark or light."
He spoke like a sailor, heartily though gruffly, and it almost seemed
as if the salt of the sea had got into his voice, and had given it a
flavour. So the old man thought evidently, and thought the flavour was
of the pleasantest (but there could be no mistaking that), for he
encouraged the Captain to proceed by asking,
"How's the moon to-night, Skipper?"
Thus showing that he had read of the sea, or at some time of his life
had travelled on it.
"'Tis a few days old, and soon we shall see it, pure and clear and
bright--like truth, like modesty, like virtue, like the heart of an
innocent maid, like anything that is good."
Almost a poet as well as a Captain. But what else could be expected
from one who commanded the good ship Fancy? The old man rubbed his
hands in satisfaction, and being drawn still closer to the newcomer by
the sympathy that dwells in kindly natures, farther encouraged him by
remarking,
"You know all about the moon, Skipper?"
"Not all, but something--sufficient for my purpose; and about the
stars also. I ought to, for they're the sailor's friends."
"Yes," responded the old man; "they are nearer to sailors than to us.
They are more than visible signs at sea; they are testimony. On land,
we glance at them carelessly, regardless of their beauty and of the
lessons they teach. I never travelled much myself, but a generation
ago I knew one----"
Here, however, the old man paused, as if he were being drawn on by the
attractiveness of the theme to speak at greater length than he deemed
proper, or as if this were not the right time to relate personal
experiences. But the Captain of the Fancy said, in a tone of the
deepest interest,
"Proceed, sir, I pray. You knew one----"
--"Who passed an adventurous life, and who, being wrecked, floated on
a spar on the wild seas for three days and three nights, being happily
picked up then by a passing vessel. What you said just now about the
stars brought him to my mind. He was alone, and but for the stars,
which were like companions to him, he would have relinquished his hold
of the spar, and bade good-bye to life. 'Hope on,' the stars said to
him; 'Do not despair. You are not forsaken.' The sight of them gave
him courage to persevere and to suffer; and they taught him the lesson
that, however lonely, however forsaken, however utterly wretched a man
may be in the world, the future contains for him a revelation in which
there is much goodness and sweetness. Which is surely true. For this
beautiful world, with all its wonders, was not made in vain; and we,
the highest form of intelligence it contains, have not played out the
parts allotted to us when the curtain drops upon our lives. The poet
says truly that the grave is not the goal of life, and only the
utterly selfish man can believe that it is the be-all and the end-all.
This friend of mine was almost a sceptic before he had the good
fortune to be wrecked; but the stars taught him differently. They
instilled a kind of faith into him. If a dark night had come, when he
could not have seen his consolers, he might have despaired. But he was
saved, happily. You say right. The stars are the sailor's friends."
Pollypod found this dialogue so entrancing, that, eager as she was to
ask questions, she did not interrupt it. Taking advantage now of the
pause that followed, she asked of the Captain,
"How did you find us out?"
"Very easily, my lass; my friend Felix directed me."
"Where is Felix?"
"You will see him soon. Did you think I was not coming?"
"I knew you would come. I told Snap so, and everybody. Are you Felix's
brother?"
"No, my lass. What makes you think so?"
"You speak like Felix, and yet your voice is different. Where have you
been to with your ship?"
"The Fancy sails all over the world, and under it, and in the middle
of it, for that matter."
"I want to know! How can a ship do all that?"
"My ship can, and does, little one."
"Are you a wizard, then, as well as Felix?" asked the pertinacious
little maid, who was in her glory, asking questions, and nursing the
doll, which was enveloped in silver tissue paper.
"Being Captain of the Fancy, I may say, Yes. Else how could I see into
the heart of a little girl when I was so many miles away, and how
could I know that she was waiting and hoping and hoping that father's
ship would come home?"
Then, to please the child, the Captain told of some wondrous voyages
he had made in the Fancy; spoke of mermaids and coral reefs, and
wonderful lands across the seas, where it was always summer. According
to his reckoning, life contained no sorrow; and "O, how I should
like to be there! O, how I should like to see!" murmured Pollypod, as
the bright pictures were presented to her young mind. Even the old
man, who had tasted the bitterest of experiences, listened approval to
the utterings of the Captain of the Fancy, divining, perchance, the
motive which prompted them. Lily said not a word; but when the Captain
came to the end of one of the prettiest flights of the Fancy, Pollypod
exclaimed, with enthusiasm,
"O Lily! isn't it beautiful!"
Whereupon, singular to say, the Captain's eloquence suddenly deserted
him. Somewhat of an awkward silence followed; broken by the old man
asking, in an amused voice, whether Pollypod did not want to see her
doll. The child answering, "Yes, yes!" eagerly, the old man lit the
lamp. They all looked with curiosity at the Captain, who, however, had
found something exceedingly interesting in the street, and as he was
looking out of window, they could see only his back. When he turned to
them, as he could not help doing presently, he had a very red face;
yet there was a sly gleam of humour in his eyes as he advanced to the
old man and said,
"It was only for Pollypod's amusement, and for my own selfish
pleasure, that I sailed under false colours, sir. I did not expect to
find myself here."
Unwinding a large handkerchief which was round his neck, and which
partially hid his face, he presented himself to them in his proper
colours. When Pollypod discovered that Felix and the Captain were one,
her delight may be imagined. She ran out of the room, and called her
mother excitedly, and then ran back and jumped into Felix's arms,
forgetting even her doll for the moment. Mrs. Podmore coming
down-stairs, and being informed of the part that Felix had played,
said aside to Lily, in a tone of complete admiration, "Well, I never!
But it's just like him. _I_ never saw such a gentleman in all my born
days!"
The old man shook hands with Felix, and bade him heartily welcome, and
Lily also in her gentle manner, and in two or three minutes they were
as much at home together as if they had known each other all their
lives. Then came the important ceremony of unwrapping the doll, and
revealing its glories. Its reputation as the most beautiful doll that
ever was seen was firmly established in a moment. Pollypod gazed at it
in mute ecstacy, and worshipped the giver with all her heart and soul.
The great longing of her life was satisfied, and she was supremely
happy. She was allowed by her mother to sit up later than usual in
honour of Felix; but the excitement of the day proved too much for
her, and after a little while she fell asleep with the doll in her
arms.
The others sat by the window, and the old man and Felix, finding in
each other much that was congenial, talked unreservedly of many
matters. It seemed to be tacitly understood that the painful incidents
which had occurred on the day of the funeral should not be spoken of,
and no reference was therefore made to them. Lily took but little part
in the conversation; she sat and listened with a soul in harmony with
everything about her. It was very seldom that her grandfather had the
opportunity of enjoying a quiet hour with a nature which so nearly
resembled his own. Both he and Felix evidently loved to look at common
things from almost an ideal point of view, and the most ordinary
matters, as they conversed upon them, were occasionally invested with
bright bits of colour which matter-of-fact and prosaic minds would
have utterly failed to see. Only once was Lily's mother referred to;
the reference arose from a remark made by Felix concerning the
singular peculiarity in the room that nearly everything was on
castors. The old man explained that it originated from his daughter's
sickness.
"Every little noise fretted her," he said, "and as I had learnt
turning in my young days, I amused myself by making small wheels to
whatever I laid hands on, so that it could be moved about without
noise. It was not quite an idle whim, therefore; it has occupied my
time, which otherwise would have hung heavily, and I have really grown
to believe that it could be made to serve many useful purposes. The
man who first conceived the idea of a wheel was a great benefactor.
Civilization," he added, with a pleasant laugh, "would be at a
standstill without its wheel."
One thing leading to another, in the course of conversation they found
themselves conversing upon deeper than mundane matters. They had been
talking of the comparative value of creeds, and the old man said,
"Faith is everything. So long as a man believes--if his belief be
associated with anything that is pure and good in itself--it matters
little what it is. To me it is the worst kind of arrogance, the worst
kind of intolerance, for a man to say, 'Believe as I believe, or you
are lost.'"
"And those who don't believe?" suggested Felix.
"Degrade themselves. We are but part of a system, they say, and we
live and wither and die like birds and beasts and plants. Our parts
being played out, we perish utterly, and make room for others. Do they
ever consider that man is the only form of life which seems to be
capable of improvement--that only man advances, improves, discovers,
acquires, and that all other things in Nature are the same now as they
were in the beginning? That the sun rises as in the olden time; that
the seasons are the same; that all forms of vegetable life show no
change in all these centuries; that beasts make their lairs as of
yore, and birds their nests,--that all these, according to the laws of
nature, are sufficient for and in themselves, and that of all the
wonders that fill the earth, man is the only one that thinks, aspires,
thirsts to know, and conquers?"
In this strain they talked until nearly midnight. Long before their
talk was over, Pollypod had been taken to bed so fast asleep, that she
could not even wake to kiss Felix. She smiled as he kissed her, and
Mrs. Podmore thrilled with joy as she gazed, in thankful, full-hearted
admiration, on the beautiful face of her child as she lay in her arms.
Unclouded happiness rested in Polly's face, and rested also in the
hearts of all present, old and young.