There were not a few surprising and unexpected meetings that day on
Ramsgate pier. Foremost among the hundreds who pressed forward to shake
the lifeboat-men by the hand, and to sympathise with and congratulate
the wrecked and rescued people, was Mr George Durant. It mattered
nothing to that stout enthusiast that his hat had been swept away into
hopeless destruction during his frantic efforts to get to the front,
leaving his polished head exposed to the still considerable fury of the
blast and the intermittent violence of the sun; and it mattered, if
possible, still less that the wreck turned out to be one of his own
vessels; but it was a matter of the greatest interest and amazement to
him to find that the first man he should meet in the crowd and seize in
a hearty embrace, was his young friend, Stanley Hall.
"What, Stanney!" he exclaimed in unmitigated surprise; "is it--can it
be? Prodigious sight!"
The old gentleman could say no more, but continued for a few seconds to
wring the hands of his young friend, gaze in his face, and vent himself
in gusts of surprise and bursts of tearful laughter, to the great
interest and amusement of the bystanders.
Mr Durant's inconsistent conduct may be partly accounted for and
excused by the fact that Stanley had stepped on the pier with no other
garments on than a pair of trousers and a shirt, the former having a
large rent on the right knee, and the latter being torn open at the
breast, in consequence of the violent removal of all the buttons when
its owner was dragged into the lifeboat. As, in addition to this, the
young man's dishevelled hair did duty for a cap, and his face and hands
were smeared with oil and tar from the flare-lights which he had
assisted to keep up so energetically, it is not surprising that the
first sight of him had a powerful effect on Mr Durant.
"Why, Stanney," he said at length, "you look as if you were some strange
sea-monster just broke loose from Neptune's menagerie!"
Perhaps this idea had been suggested by the rope round Stanley's waist,
the cut end of which still dangled at his side, for Mr Durant took hold
of it inquiringly.
"Ay, sir," put in the coxswain, who chanced to be near him, "that bit of
rope is a scarf of honour. He saved the life of a soldier's widow with
it."
There was a tendency to cheer on the part of the bystanders who heard
this.
"God bless you, Stanney, my boy! Come and get dressed," said the old
gentleman, suddenly seizing his friend's arm and pushing his way through
the crowd, "come along; oh, don't talk to me of the ship. I know that
it's lost; no matter--you are saved. And do _you_ come along with us
Wel--Wel--what's the name of --? Ah! Welton--come; my daughter is here
somewhere. I left her near the parapet. Never mind, she knows her way
home."
Katie certainly was there, and when, over the heads of the people--for
she had mounted with characteristic energy on the parapet, assisted by
Queeker and accompanied by Fanny Hennings--she beheld Stanley Hall in
such a plight, she felt a disposition to laugh and cry and faint all at
once. She resisted the tendency, however, although the expression of
her face and her rapid change of colour induced Queeker with anxious
haste to throw out his arms to catch her.
"Ha!" exclaimed Queeker, "_I knew it_!"
What Queeker knew he never explained. It may have had reference to
certain suspicions entertained in regard to the impression made by the
young student on Katie the night of their first meeting; we cannot tell,
but we know that he followed up the exclamation with the muttered
remark, "It was fortunate that I pulled up in time."
Herein Queeker exhibited the innate tendency of the human heart to
deceive itself. That furious little poetical fox-hunter had, by his own
confession, felt the pangs of a guilty conscience in turning, just
because he could not help it, from Katie to Fanny, yet here he was now
basely and coolly taking credit to himself for having "pulled up in
time!"
"Oh, look at the _dear_ little children!" exclaimed Fanny, pointing
towards a part of the crowd where several seamen were carrying the
rescued and still terrified little ones in their strong arms, while
others assisted the women along, and wrapped dry shawls round them.
"How dreadful to think," said Katie, making a hard struggle to suppress
her agitation, "that all these would have been lost but for the
lifeboat; and how wonderful to think that some of our own friends should
be among them!"
"Ay, there be many more besides these saved last night, miss," remarked
a sturdy old boatman who chanced to be standing beside her. "All along
the east coast the lifeboats has bin out, miss, you may be sure; and
they don't often shove off without bringin' somethin' back to show for
their pains, though they don't all 'ave steamers for to tug 'em out.
There's the Broadstairs boat, now; I've jist heerd she was out all night
an' saved fifteen lives; an' the Walmer and Deal boats has fetched in a
lot, I believe, though we han't got particklers yet."
Besides those whom we have mentioned as gazing with the crowd at the
arrival of the lifeboat, Morley Jones, and Nora, and Billy Towler were
there. Jones and Billy had returned from London together the night
before the storm, and, like nearly every one else in the town, had
turned out to witness the arrival of the lifeboat.
Dick Moy also was there, and that huge lump of good-nature spent the
time in making sagacious remarks and wise comments on wind and weather,
wrecks and rescues, in a manner that commanded the intense admiration of
a knot of visitors who happened to be near him, and who regarded him as
a choice specimen--a sort of type--of the British son of Neptune.
"This is wot _I_ says," observed Dick, while the people were landing "so
long as there's 'ope, 'old on. Never say die, and never give in; them's
my sentiments. 'Cause why? no one never knows wot may turn up. If your
ship goes down; w'y, wot then? Strike out, to be sure. P'r'aps you may
be picked up afore long. If sharks is near, p'r'aps you may be picked
down. You can never tell. If you gets on a shoal, wot then? w'y, stick
to the ship till a lifeboat comes off to 'ee. Don't never go for to
take to your own boats. If you do--capsize, an' Davy Jones's locker is
the word. If the lifeboat can't git alongside; w'y, wait till it can.
If it can't; w'y, it can only be said that it couldn't. No use cryin'
over spilt milk, you know. Not that I cares for milk. It don't keep at
sea, d'ye see; an's only fit for babbys. If the lifeboat capsizes; w'y,
then, owin' to her parfection o' build, she rights again, an' you,
'avin' on cork jackets, p'r'aps, gits into 'er by the lifelines, all
handy. If you 'aven't got no cork jackets on, w'y, them that has'll
pick 'ee up. If not, it's like enough you'll go down. But no matter,
you've did yer best, an' man, woman, or child can do no more. You can
only die once, d'ye see?"
Whether the admiring audience did or did not see the full force of these
remarks, they undoubtedly saw enough in the gigantic tar to esteem him a
marvel of philosophic wisdom. Judging by their looks that he was highly
appreciated, it is just possible that Dick Moy might have been tempted
to extend his discourse, had not a move in the crowd showed a general
tendency towards dispersion, the rescued people having been removed,
some to the Sailor's Home, others to the residences of hospitable people
in the town.
Now, it must not be imagined that all these characters in our tale have
been thus brought together, merely at our pleasure, without rhyme or
reason, and in utter disregard of the law of probabilities. By no
means.
Mr Robert Queeker had started for Ramsgate, as the reader knows, on a
secret mission, which, as is also well known, was somewhat violently
interrupted by the sporting tendencies of that poetical law-clerk; but
no sooner did Queeker recover from his wounds than--with the
irresistible ardour of a Wellington, or a Blucher, or a bull-dog, or a
boarding-school belle--he returned to the charge, made out his intended
visit, set his traps, baited his lines, fastened his snares, and
whatever else appertained to his secret mission, so entirely to the
satisfaction of Messrs. Merryheart and Dashope, that these estimable men
resolved, some time afterwards, to send him back again to the scene of
his labours, to push still further the dark workings of his mission.
Elate with success the earnest Queeker prepared to go. Oh, what joy if
_she_ would only go with him!
"And why not?" cried Queeker, starting up when this thought struck him,
as if it had struck him too hard and he were about to retaliate,--"Why
not? _That_ is the question."
He emphasised _that_ as if all other questions, Hamlet's included, sank
into insignificance by contrast.
"Only last night," continued Queeker to himself, still standing bolt
upright in a frenzy of inspiration, and running his fingers fiercely
through his hair, so as to make it stand bolt upright too--"only last
night I heard old Durant say he could not make up his mind where to go
to spend the autumn this year. Why not Ramsgate? why not Ramsgate?
"Its chalky cliffs, and yellow sand,
And rides, and walks, and weather,
Its windows, which a view command
Of everything together.
"Its pleasant walks, and pretty shops,
To fascinate the belles,
Its foaming waves, like washing-slops,
To captivate the swells.
"Its boats and boatmen, brave and true,
Who lounge upon the jetty,
And smile upon the girls too--
At least when they are pretty.
"Oh! Ramsgate, where in all the earth,
Beside the lovely sea,
Can any town of note or worth
Be found to equal thee?
"Nowhere!" said Queeker, bringing his fist down on the table with a
force that made the ink leap, when he had finished these verses--verses,
however, which cost him two hours and a profuse perspiration to produce.
It was exactly a quarter to eight p.m. by the Yarmouth custom-house
clock, due allowance being made for variation, when this "Nowhere!" was
uttered, and it was precisely a quarter past nine p.m. that day week
when the Durants drove up to the door of the Fortress Hotel in Ramsgate,
and ordered beds and tea,--so powerful was the influence of a great mind
when brought to bear on Fanny Hennings, who exercised irresistible
influence over the good-natured Katie, whose power over her indulgent
father was absolute!
Not less natural was the presence, in Ramsgate, of Billy Towler. We
have already mentioned that, for peculiarly crooked ends of his own,
Morley Jones had changed his abode to Ramsgate--his country abode, that
is. His headquarters and town department continued as before to
flourish in Gravesend, in the form of a public-house, which had once
caught fire at a time, strange to say, when the spirit and beer casks
were all nearly empty, a curious fact which the proprietor alone was
aware of, but thought it advisable not to mention when he went to
receive the 200 pounds of insurance which had been effected on the
premises a few weeks before! It will thus be seen that Mr Jones's
assurance, in the matter of dealing with insurance, was considerable.
Having taken up his temporary abode, then, in Ramsgate, and placed his
mother and daughter therein as permanent residents, Mr Jones commenced
such a close investigation as to the sudden disappearance of his ally
Billy, that he wormed out of the unwilling but helpless Nora not only
what had become of him, but the name and place of his habitation.
Having accomplished this, he dressed himself in a blue nautical suit
with brass buttons, took the morning train to London, and in due course
presented himself at the door of the Grotto, where he requested
permission to see the boy Towler.
The request being granted, he was shown into a room, and Billy was soon
after let in upon him.
"Hallo! young Walleye, why, what ever has come over you?" he exclaimed
in great surprise, on observing that Billy's face was clean, in which
condition he had never before seen it, and his hair brushed, an
extraordinary novelty; and, most astonishing of all, that he wore
unragged garments.
Billy, who, although outwardly much altered, had apparently lost none of
his hearty ways and sharp intelligence, stopped short in the middle of
the room, thrust both hands deep into his trousers pockets, opened his
eyes very wide, and gave vent to a low prolonged whistle.
"What game may _you_ be up to?" he said, at the end of the musical
prelude.
"You are greatly improved, Billy," said Jones, holding out his hand.
"I'm not aweer," replied the boy, drawing back, "as I've got to thank
_you_ for it."
"Come, Billy, this ain't friendly, is it, after all I've done for you?"
said Jones, remonstratively; "I only want you to come out an' 'ave a
talk with me about things, an' I'll give 'ee a swig o' beer or whatever
you take a fancy to. You ain't goin' to show the white feather and
become a milksop, are you?"
"Now, look here, Mister Jones," said the boy, with an air of decision
that there was no mistaking, as he retreated nearer to the door; "I
don't want for to have nothin' more to do with _you_. I've see'd much
more than enough of 'ee. You knows me pretty well, an' you knows that
wotiver else I may be, I ain't a hippercrite. I knows enough o' your
doin's to make you look pretty blue if I like, but for reasons of my
own, wot you've got nothink to do with, I don't mean to peach. All I ax
is, that you goes your way an' let me alone. That's where it is. The
people here seem to 'ave got a notion that I've got a soul as well as a
body, and that it ain't 'xactly sitch a worthless thing as to be never
thought of, and throw'd away like an old shoe. They may be wrong, and
they may be right, but I'm inclined to agree with 'em. Let me tell 'ee
that _you_ 'ave did more than anybody else to show me the evil of wicked
ways, so you needn't stand there grinnin' like a rackishoot wi' the
toothache. I've jined the Band of Hope, too, so I don't want none o'
your beer nor nothin' else, an' if you offers to lay hands on me, I'll
yell out like a she-spurtindeel, an' bring in the guv'nor, wot's fit to
wollop six o' you any day with his left hand."
This last part of Billy's speech was made with additional fire, in
consequence of Morley Jones taking a step towards him in anger.
"Well, boy," he said, sternly, "hypocrite or not, you've learned yer
lesson pretty pat, so you may do as you please. It's little that a chip
like you could do to get me convicted on anything you've seen or heard
as yet, an' if ye did succeed, it would only serve to give yourself a
lift on the way to the gallows. But it wasn't to trouble myself about
you and your wishes that I came here for (the wily rascal assumed an air
and tone of indifference at this point); if you had only waited to hear
what I'd got to say, before you began to spit fire, you might have saved
your breath. The fact is that my Nora is very ill--so ill that I fear
she stands a poor chance o' gittin' better. I'm goin' to send her away
on a long sea voyage. P'r'aps that may do her good; if not, it's all up
with her. She begged and prayed me so earnestly to come here and take
you down to see her before she goes, that I could not refuse her--
particularly as I happened to have business in London anyhow. If I'd
known how you would take it, I would have saved myself the trouble of
comin'. However, I'll bid you good-day now."
"Jones," said the boy earnestly, "that's a lie."
"Very good," retorted the man, putting on his hat carelessly, "I'll take
back that message with your compliments--eh?"
"No; but," said Billy, almost whimpering with anxiety, "is Nora _really_
ill?"
"I don't wish you to come if you don't want to," replied Jones; "you can
stop here till doomsday for me. But do you suppose I'd come here for
the mere amusement of hearing you give me the lie?"
"I'll go!" said Billy, with as much emphasis as he had previously
expressed on declining to go.
The matter was soon explained to the manager of the Grotto. Mr Jones
was so plausible, and gave such unexceptionable references, that it is
no disparagement to the penetration of the superintendent of that day to
say that he was deceived. The result was, as we have shown, that Billy
ere long found his way to Ramsgate.
When Mr Jones introduced him ceremoniously to Nora, he indulged in a
prolonged and hearty fit of laughter. Nora gazed at Billy with a look
of intense amazement, and Billy stared at Nora with a very mingled
expression of countenance, for he at once saw through the deception that
had been practised on him, and fully appreciated the difficulty of his
position--his powers of explanation being hampered by a warning, given
him long ago by his friend Jim Welton, that he must be careful how he
let Nora into the full knowledge of her father's wickedness.