If, as we have elsewhere observed in this narrative, time and tide wait
for no man, it is not less true that time and tide work wonderful
changes in man and his affairs and fortunes. Some of those changes we
will now glance at, premising that seven years have passed away since
the occurrence of the events recorded in our last chapter.
On the evening of a somewhat gloomy day in the month of sunny showers,
four men of rough aspect, and clad in coarse but not disreputable
garments, stopped in front of a public-house in one of the lowest
localities of London, and looked about them. There was something quite
peculiar in their aspect. They seemed to be filled with mingled
curiosity and surprise, and looked somewhat scared, as a bird does when
suddenly set free from its cage.
Two of the men were of an extremely low type of humanity--low-browed and
scowling--and their language betokened that their minds were in keeping
with their faces. The other two were better-looking and better-spoken,
one of them having evidently been a handsome man in his day. His hair
was blanched as white as snow although it still retained the curls of
youth. His figure was much bent, and he appeared like one who had been
smitten with premature old age.
"Well, uncommon queer changes bin goin' on here," said one of the men,
gazing round him.
One of the others admitted that there certainly had been wonderful
changes, and expressed a fear that if the change in himself was as
great, his old pals wouldn't know him.
"Hows'ever," observed he who had spoken first, "they won't see such a
difference as they would have seen if we'd got the whole fourteen. Good
luck to the ticket-of-leave system, say I."
The others laughed at this, and one of them suggested that they should
enter the public-house and have a glass of grog in memory of old times.
Three of the men at once agreed to this proposal, and said that as it
would not be long before they were in the stone jug again it behoved
them to make the most of their freedom while it lasted. The man with
white hair, however, objected, and it was not until his companions had
chaffed and rallied him a good deal that he consented to enter the
house, observing, as he followed them slowly, that he had not tasted a
drop for seven years.
"Well, well," replied one of the others, "it don't matter; you'll relish
it all the more now, old feller. It'll go down like oil, an' call up
the memory of old times--"
"The memory of old times!" cried the white-haired man, stopping short,
with a sudden blaze of ferocity which amazed his companions.
He stood glaring at them for a few moments, with his hands tightly
clenched; then, without uttering another word, he turned round and
rushed from the house.
"Mad!" exclaimed one of the other three, looking at his companions when
they had recovered from their surprise, "mad as a March hare.
Hows'ever, that don't consarn us. Come along, my hearties.--Hallo!
landlord, fetch drink here--your best, and plenty of it. Now, boys,
fill up and I'll give 'ee a toast."
Saying this the man filled his glass, the others followed his example--
the toast was given and drunk--more toasts were given and drunk--the
three men returned to their drink and their old ways, and haunts and
comrades, as the sow returns to her wallowing in the mire.
Meanwhile the white-haired man wandered away as if he had no settled
purpose. Day after day he moved on through towns and villages and
fields, offering to work, but seldom being employed, begging his bread
from door to door, but carefully avoiding the taverns; sleeping where he
could, or where he was permitted--sometimes in the barn of a kindly
farmer, sometimes under a hay-stack, not unfrequently under a hedge--
until at last he found himself in the town of Ramsgate.
Here he made inquiries of various people, and immediately set forth
again on his travels through the land until he reached a remote part of
the coast of England, where he found his further progress checked by the
sea, but, by dint of begging a free passage from fishermen here and
there, he managed at last to reach one of our outlying reefs, where, on
a small islet, a magnificent lighthouse reared its white and stately
column, and looked abroad upon the ocean, with its glowing eye. There
was a small village on the islet, in which dwelt a few families of
fishermen. They were a hard-working community, and appeared to be
contented and happy.
The lighthouse occupied an elevated plateau above the cliffs at the
sea-ward extremity of the isle, about quarter of a mile distant from the
fishing village. Thither the old man wended his way. The tower, rising
high above shrubs and intervening rocks, rendered a guide unnecessary.
It was a calm evening. The path, which was narrow and rugged, wound its
serpentine course amid grey rocks, luxuriant brambles, grasses, and
flowering shrubs. There were no trees. The want of shelter on that
exposed spot rendered their growth impossible. The few that had been
planted had been cut down by the nor'-west wind as with a scythe.
As he drew near to the lighthouse, the old man observed a woman sitting
on a stool in front of the door, busily engaged with her needle, while
three children--two girls and a boy--were romping on the grass plat
beside her. The boy was just old enough to walk with the steadiness of
an exceedingly drunk man, and betrayed a wonderful tendency to sit down
suddenly and gaze--astonished! The girls, apparently though not really
twins, were just wild enough to enjoy their brother's tumbles, and
helped him to accomplish more of them than would have resulted from his
own incapacity to walk.
A magnificent black Newfoundland dog, with grey paws and a benignant
countenance, couched beside the woman and watched the children at play.
He frequently betrayed a desire to join them in their gambols, but
either laziness or a sense of his own dignity induced him to sit still.
"Nora," called the mother, who was a young and exceedingly beautiful
mother, "Nora, come here; go tell your father that I see a stranger
coming up the path. Quick, darling."
Little Nora bounded away like a small fairy, with her fair curls
streaming in the wind which her own speed created.
"Katie," said the mother, turning to her second daughter, "don't rumple
him up quite so violently. You must remember that he is a tiny fellow
yet, and can't stand such rough treatment."
"But he likes it, ma," objected Katie, with a look of glee, although she
obeyed the order at once. "Don't you, Morley?"
Little Morley stopped in the middle of an ecstatic laugh, scrambled upon
his fat legs and staggered towards his mother, with his fists doubled,
as if to take summary vengeance on her for having stopped the fun.
"Oh, baby boy; my little Morley, what a wild fellow you are!" cried the
mother, catching up her child and tossing him in the air.
The old man had approached near enough to overhear the words and
recognise the face. Tears sprang to his eyes and ran down his cheeks,
as he fell forward on the path with his face in the dust.
At the same moment the lighthouse-keeper issued from the door of the
building. Running towards the old man, he and his wife quickly raised
him and loosened his neckcloth. His face had been slightly cut by the
fall. Blood and dust besmeared it and soiled his white locks.
"Poor old man!" said the keeper, as his mate, the assistant
light-keeper, joined him. "Lend a hand, Billy, to carry him in. He
ain't very heavy."
The assistant--a strapping young fellow, with a powerful, well-made
frame, sparkling eyes and a handsome face, on which at that moment there
was a look of intense pity--assisted his comrade to raise the old man.
They carried him with tender care into the lighthouse and laid him on a
couch which at that time, owing to lack of room in the building,
happened to be little Nora's bed.
For a few moments he lay apparently in a state of insensibility, while
the mother of the family brought a basin of water and began carefully to
remove the blood and dust which rendered his face unrecognisable. The
first touch of the cold sponge caused him to open his eyes and gaze
earnestly in the woman's face--so earnestly that she was constrained to
pause and return the gaze inquiringly.
"You seem to know me," she said.
The old man made no reply, but, slowly clasping his hands and closing
his eyes, exclaimed "Thank God!" fervently.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Let us glance, now, at a few more of the changes which had been wrought
in the condition and circumstances of several of the actors in this tale
by the wonder-working hand of time.
On another evening of another month in this same year, Mr Robert
Queeker--having just completed an ode to a star which had been recently
discovered by the Astronomer-Royal--walked from the door of the Fortress
Hotel, Ramsgate, and, wending his way leisurely along Harbour Street,
directed his steps towards Saint James's Hall.
Seven years had wrought a great change for the better in Mr Robert
Queeker. His once smooth face was decorated with a superb pair of
light-brown whiskers of the stamp now styled Dundreary. His clothes
fitted him well, and displayed to advantage a figure which, although
short, was well made and athletic. It was evident that time had not
caused his shadow to grow less. There was a jaunty, confident air about
him, too, which might have been thought quite in keeping with a red coat
and top-boots by his friends in Jenkinsjoy, and would have induced
hospitable Mr Stoutheart to let him once more try his fortune on the
back of Slapover without much anxiety as to the result; ay, even
although the sweet but reckless Amy were to be his leader in the field!
Nevertheless there was nothing of the coxcomb about Queeker--no
self-assertion; nothing but amiableness, self-satisfaction, and
enthusiasm.
Queeker smiled and hummed a tune to himself as he walked along drawing
on his gloves, which were lavender kid and exceedingly tight.
"It will be a great night," he murmured; "a grand, a glorious night."
As there was nothing peculiarly grand in the aspect of the weather, it
is to be presumed that he referred to something else, but he said
nothing more at the time, although he smiled a good deal and hummed a
good many snatches of popular airs as he walked along, still struggling
with the refractory fingers of the lavender kid gloves.
Arrived at Saint James's Hall, he took up a position outside the door,
and remained there as if waiting for some one.
It was evident that Mr Queeker's brief remark had reference to the
proceedings that were going on at the hall, because everything in and
around it, on that occasion, gave unquestionable evidence that there was
to be a "great night" there. The lobby blazed with light, and resounded
with voices and bustle, as people streamed in continuously. The
interior of the hall itself glowed like a red-hot chamber of gold, and
was tastefully decorated with flowers and flags and evergreens; while
the floor of the room was covered with long tables, which groaned under
the glittering accessories of an approaching feast. Fair ladies were
among the assembling company, and busy gentlemen, who acted the part of
stewards, hurried to and fro, giving directions and keeping order. A
large portion of the company consisted of men whose hard hands, powerful
frames, and bronzed faces, proclaimed them the sons of toil, and whose
manly tones and holiday garments smacked of gales and salt water.
"What be goin' on here, measter?" inquired a country fellow, nudging Mr
Queeker with his elbow.
Queeker looked at his questioner in surprise, and told him that it was a
supper which was about to be given to the lifeboat-men by the people of
the town.
"An' who be the lifeboat-men, measter?"
"`Shades of the mighty dead;' not to mention the glorious living!"
exclaimed Queeker, aghast; "have you never heard of the noble fellows
who man the lifeboats all round the coasts of this great country, and
save hundreds of lives every year? Have you not read of their daring
exploits in the newspapers? Have you never heard of the famous Ramsgate
lifeboat?"
"Well, now 'ee mention it, I doos remember summat about loifboats,"
replied the country fellow, after pondering a moment or two; "but, bless
'ee, I never read nothin' about 'em, not bein' able to read; an' as I've
lived all my loif fur inland, an' on'y comed here to-day, it ain't to be
thow't as I knows much about yer Ramsgate loifboats. Be there mony
loifboat men in Ramsgate, measter?"
"My good fellow," said Queeker, taking the man by the sleeve, and gazing
at him with a look of earnest pity, "there are dozens of 'em. Splendid
fellows, who have saved hundreds of men, women, and children from the
raging deep; and they are all to be assembled in this hall to-night, to
the number of nearly a hundred--for there are to be present not only the
men who now constitute the crew of the Ramsgate boat, but all the men
who have formed part of her crew in time past. Every man among them is
a hero," continued Queeker, warming as he went on, and shaking the
country fellow's arm in his earnestness, "and every man to-night will--"
He stopped short abruptly, for at that moment a carriage drove up to the
door, and a gentleman jumping out assisted a lady to alight.
Without a word of explanation to the astonished country fellow, Queeker
thrust him aside, dashed forward, presented himself before the lady,
and, holding out his hand, exclaimed--
"How _do_ you do, Miss Hennings? I'm _so_ glad to have been fortunate
enough to meet you."
"Mr Quee--Queeker," exclaimed Fanny, blushing scarlet; "I--I was not
aware--so very unexpected--I thought--dear me!--but, pardon me--allow me
to introduce my uncle, Mr Hemmings. Mr Queeker, uncle, whom you have
often heard mamma speak about."
Mr Hennings, a six-feet-two man, stooped to shake Queeker by the hand.
An impatient cabman shouted, "Move on." Fanny seized her uncle's arm,
and was led away. Queeker followed close, and all three were wedged
together in the crowd, and swept towards the banquet-hall.
"Are you one of the stewards?" asked Fanny, during a momentary pause.
How exquisite she looks! thought Queeker, as she glanced over her
shoulder at him. He felt inclined to call her an angel, or something of
that sort, but restrained himself, and replied that he was not a
steward, but a guest--an honoured guest--and that he would have no
objection to be a dishonoured guest, if only, by being expelled from the
festive board, he could manage to find an excuse to sit beside her in
the ladies' gallery.
"But that may not be," he said, with a sigh. "I shall not be able to
see you from my allotted position. Alas! we separate here--though--
though--lost to sight, to memory dear!"
The latter part of this remark was said hurriedly and in desperation, in
consequence of a sudden rush of the crowd, rendering abrupt separation
unavoidable. But, although parted from his lady-love, and unable to
gaze upon her, Queeker kept her steadily in his mind's eye all that
evening, made all his speeches to her, sang all his songs to her, and
finally--but hold! we must not anticipate.
As we have said--or, rather, as we have recorded that Queeker said--all
the lifeboat men of the town of Ramsgate sat down to that supper, to the
number of nearly one hundred men. All sturdy men of tried courage.
Some were old, with none of the fire that had nerved them to rescue
lives in days gone by, save that which still gleamed in their eyes; some
were young, with the glow of irrepressible enthusiasm on their smooth
faces, and the intense wish to have a chance to dare and do swelling
their bold hearts; others were middle-aged, iron-moulded; as able and as
bold to the full as the younger men, with the coolness and
self-restraint of the old ones; but all, old, middle-aged, and young,
looking proud and pleased, and so gentle in their demeanour (owing, no
doubt, to the presence of the fair sex), that it seemed as if a small
breeze of wind would have made them all turn tail and run away,--
especially if the breeze were raised by the women!
That the reception of these lion-like men (converted into lambs that
night) was hearty, was evinced by the thunders of applause which greeted
every reference to their brave deeds. That their reception was
intensely earnest, was made plain by the scroll, emblazoned on a huge
banner that spanned the upper end of the room, bearing the words. "God
bless the Lifeboat Crews."
We need not refer to the viands set forth on that great occasion. Of
course they were of the best. We may just mention that they included
"baccy and grog!" We merely record the fact. Whether buns and tea
would have been equally effective is a question not now under
consideration. We refrain from expressing an opinion on that point
here.
Of course the first toast was the Queen, and as Jack always does
everything heartily, it need scarcely be said that this toast was
utterly divested of its usual formality of character. The chairman's
appropriate reference to her Majesty's well-known sympathy with the
distressed, especially with those who had suffered from shipwreck,
intensified the enthusiasm of the loyal lifeboat-men.
A band of amateur Christy Minstrels (the "genuine original" amateur
band, of course) enlivened the evening with appropriate songs, to the
immense delight of all present, especially of Mr Robert Queeker, whose
passionate love for music, ever since his attendance at the
singing-class, long long ago, had strengthened with time to such an
extent that language fails to convey any idea of it. It mattered not to
Queeker whether the music were good or bad. Sufficient for him that it
carried him back, with a _gush_, to that dear temple of music in
Yarmouth where the learners were perpetually checked at critical points,
and told by their callous teacher (tormentor, we had almost written) to
"try it again!" and where he first beheld the perplexing and beautiful
Fanny.
When the toast of the evening was given--"Success to the Ramsgate
Lifeboat,"--it was, as a matter of course, received with deafening
cheers and enthusiastic waving of handkerchiefs from the gallery in
which the fair sex were accommodated, among which handkerchiefs Queeker,
by turning his head very much round, tried to see, and believed that he
saw, the precious bit of cambric wherewith Fanny Hennings was accustomed
to salute her transcendental nose. The chairman spoke with enthusiasm
of the noble deeds accomplished by the Ramsgate lifeboat in time past,
and referred with pride, and with a touch of feeling, to the brave old
coxswain, then present (loud cheers), who had been compelled, by
increasing years, to resign a service which, they all knew better than
he did, taxed the energies, courage, and endurance of the stoutest and
youngest man among them to the uttermost. He expressed a firm belief in
the courage and prowess of the coxswain who had succeeded him (renewed
cheers), and felt assured that the success of the boat in time to come
would at the least fully equal its successes in time past. He then
referred to some of the more prominent achievements of the boat,
especially to a night which all of them must remember, seven years ago,
when the Ramsgate boat, with the aid of the steam-tug, was the means of
saving so many lives--not to mention property--and among others the life
of their brave townsman, James Welton (cheers), and a young doctor, the
friend, and now the son-in-law, of one whose genial spirit and extensive
charities were well known and highly appreciated--he referred to Mr
George Durant (renewed cheers), whose niece at that moment graced the
gallery with her presence.
At this there was a burst of loud and prolonged applause which
terminated in a roar of laughter, owing to the fact that Mr Queeker,
cheering and waving his hands in a state of wild enthusiasm, knocked the
neck off a bottle of wine and flooded the table in his immediate
vicinity! Covered with confusion, Queeker sat down amid continued
laughter and rapturous applause.
The chairman then went on to say that the event to which he had
referred--the rescue of the crew and passengers of the Wellington on the
night of the great storm--had been eclipsed by some of the more recent
doings of the same boat; and, after touching upon some of these, said
that, although they had met there to do honour to the crews of their own
lifeboat, they must not forget other and neighbouring lifeboats, which
did their work nobly--the brave crews of which were represented by the
coxswains of the Margate and Broadstairs lifeboats, who sat at that
board that night as honoured guests (loud cheers, during which several
of the men nearest to them shook hands with the coxswains referred to).
He could not--the chairman went on to say--sit down without making
special reference to the steam-tug, without which, and the courage as
well as knowledge of her master, mate, and crew (renewed cheers), the
lifeboat could not overtake a tenth part of the noble work which she
annually accomplished. He concluded by praying that a kind Providence
would continue to watch over and bless the Ramsgate lifeboat and her
crew.
We need scarcely add that this toast was drunk with enthusiastic
applause, and that it was followed up by the amateur minstrels with
admirable effect.
Many songs were sung, and many toasts were proposed that night, and warm
was the expression of feeling towards the men who were ever so ready to
imperil their lives in the hope of saving those of their
fellow-creatures, and who had already, oftentimes, given such ample
proof that they were thoroughly able to do, as well as to dare, almost
anything. Several singers with good, and one or two with splendid,
voices, gave a variety of songs which greatly enhanced the brilliancy of
the evening, and were highly appreciated in the gallery; and a few bad
singers with miserable voices (who volunteered their songs) did really
good service by impressing upon the audience very forcibly the immense
differences between good and bad music, and thus kindly acted as shadows
to the vocal lights of the evening--as useful touches of discord in the
general harmony which by contrast rendered the latter all the sweeter.
But of all the solos sung that night none afforded such delight as a
national melody sung by our friend Jerry MacGowl, in a voice that rang
out like the voices of three first-class bo's'ns rolled into one. That
worthy son of the Emerald Isle, and Dick Moy, and Jack Shales, happened
to be enjoying their month on shore when the supper to the lifeboat-men
was planned, and they were all there in virtue of their having been
instrumental in saving life on more than one occasion during their
residence in Ramsgate. Jerry's song was, as we have said, highly
appreciated, but the applause with which it was greeted was as nothing
compared with the shouts and cheers that shook the roof of Saint James's
Hall, when, on being asked to repeat it, Jerry modestly said that he
"would prefer to give them a duet--perhaps it was a trayo--av his mates
Jack Shales and Dick Moy would only strike in wid bass and tenor."
The men of the floating light then sang "The Minute-Gun at Sea"
magnificently, each taking the part that suited him best or struck his
fancy at the moment, and Jerry varying from tenor to bass and bass to
treble according to taste.
"Now, Mister Chairman," said the bold Jerry MacGowl, when the cheers had
subsided, "it's my turn to call for a song, so I ax Mr Queeker to
favour the company wid--" Thunders of applause drowned the remainder of
the sentence.
Poor Queeker was thrown into great confusion, and sought to explain that
he could not sing, even in private--much less in public.
"Oh yes, you can, sir. Try it, sir, no fear of 'ee. Sure it's yourself
as can do it, an' no mistake," were the remarks with which his
explanation was interrupted.
"I assure you honestly," cried Queeker, "that I cannot sing, _but_"
(here breathless silence ensued) "if the chairman will kindly permit me,
I will give you a toast."
Loud cheers from all sides, and a good-humoured nod from the chairman
greeted this announcement.
"Mr Chairman and Friends," said Queeker, "the ladies have--" A perfect
storm of laughter and cheers interrupted him for at least two minutes.
"Yes," resumed Queeker, suddenly blazing up with enthusiasm, "I repeat--
the ladies--"
"That's the girls, blissin's on the swate darlints," murmured Jerry in a
tone which set the whole table again in a roar.
"I echo the sentiment; blessings on them," said Queeker, with a
good-humoured glance at Jerry. "Yes, as I was going to say, I propose
the Ladies, who are, always were, and ever will be, the solace of man's
life, the sweet drops in his otherwise bitter cup, the lights in his
otherwise dark dwelling, the jewels in his--in his--crown, and the
bright stars that glitter in the otherwise dark firmament of his destiny
(vociferous cheering). Yes," continued Queeker, waxing more and more
energetic, and striking the table with his fist, whereby he overturned
his neighbour's glass of grog, "yes, I re-assert it--the ladies are all
that, and _much more_! (Hear, hear.) I propose their health--and,
after all, I may be said to have some sort of claim to do so, having
already unintentionally poured a whole bottle of wine on the tablecloth
as a libation to them! (Laughter and applause.) What, I ask,"
continued Queeker, raising his voice and hand at the same moment, and
setting his hair straight upon end, "what, I ask, would man be _without_
the ladies?" ("What indeed?" said a voice near the foot of the table,
which called forth another burst of laughter.) "Just try to think, my
friends, what would be the hideous gloom of this terrestrial ball if
there were no girls! Oh woman! softener of man's rugged nature! What--
in the words of the poet." He carefully refrained from saying what
poet!
"What were earth and all its joys;
what were wealth with all its toys;
what the life of men and boys
But for lovely woman?
"What if mothers were no more;
If wives and sisters fled our shore,
And left no sweethearts to the fore--
No sign of darling woman?
"What dreary darkness would ensue--
what moral wastes devoid of dew--
If no strong hearts of men like you
Beat for charming woman?
"Who would rise at duty's call;
Who would fight to win or fall;
Who would care to live at all,
Were it not for woman?"
Prolonged and rapturous cheers greeted this effusion, in the midst of
which the enthusiastic Jerry MacGowl sprang to his feet, waved his glass
above his head--spilling half of its contents on the pate of a bald
skipper who sat next to him--and cheered lustily.
"Men of the Ramsgate lifeboat," shouted Queeker, "I call on you to
pledge the ladies--with all the honours!"
It is unnecessary to say that the call was responded to with a degree of
enthusiasm that threatened, as Dick Moy said to Jack Shales, "to smash
all the glasses an' blow the roof off." In the midst of the noise and
confusion Queeker left the hall, ascended to the gallery, and sat
himself down beside Fanny Hennings, with an air of intense decision.
"Oh, Mr Queeker!" exclaimed Fanny.
"Listen, Fanny," said the tall uncle at that moment, "they are giving
one of the most important toasts of the evening--The Royal National
Lifeboat Institution."
Fanny tried to listen, and had caught a few words, when she felt her
hand suddenly seized and held fast. Turning her head quickly, she
beheld the face of Queeker turned to bright scarlet.
What more she heard or saw after that it would be extremely difficult to
tell. Perhaps the best way of conveying an idea of it is to lay before
the reader the short epistle which Fanny penned that same night to her
old friend Katie Hall. It ran thus:--
"RAMSGATE.
"OH, KATIE! DARLING KATIE!--He has done it _at last_! Dear fellow!
And so like himself too--so romantically, so poetically! They were
toasting the Lifeboat Institution at the time. He seized my hand.
`Fanny,' he said, in the deep manly tones in which he had just made the
most brilliant speech of the evening, `Fanny, my love--my life--my
_lifeboat_--will you have me? will you _save_ me?' There was a dreadful
noise at the time--a very storm of cheering. The whole room seemed in a
whirl. My head was in a whirl too; and oh! _how_ my heart beat! I
don't know what I said. I fear I burst into a fit of laughter, and then
cried, and dear uncle carried me out--but it's all over now. That
_darling_ Lifeboat Institution, I shall never forget it; for they were
sounding its praises at the very moment when my Queeker and I got into
the same boat--for life!--Your happy FANNY."