The fair complexion of the Captain’s youthful days had been darkened by
exposure to hard weather and extreme climates. His smooth face of twenty
years since was scored by the telltale marks of care; his dark beard was
beginning to present variety of color by means of streaks of gray; and
his hair was in course of undisguised retreat from his strong broad
forehead. Not rising above the middle height, the Captain’s spare figure
was well preserved. It revealed power and activity, severely tested
perhaps at some former time, but capable even yet of endurance under
trial. Although he looked older than his age, he was still, personally
speaking, an attractive man. In repose, his eyes were by habit sad and a
little weary in their expression. They only caught a brighter light
when he smiled. At such times, helped by this change and by his simple,
earnest manner, they recommended him to his fellow-creatures before he
opened his lips. Men and women taking shelter with him, for instance,
from the rain, found the temptation to talk with Captain Bennydeck
irresistible; and, when the weather cleared, they mostly carried away
with them the same favorable impression: “One would like to meet with
that gentleman again.”
Randal’s first words of welcome relieved the Captain of certain modest
doubts of his reception, which appeared to trouble him when he entered
the room. “I am glad to find you remember me as kindly as I remember
you.” Those were his first words when he and Randal shook hands.
“You might have felt sure of that,” Randal said.
The Captain’s modesty still doubted.
“You see, the circumstances were a little against me. We met at a
dull dinner, among wearisome worldly men, full of boastful talk
about themselves. It was all ‘I did this,’ and ‘I said that’--and the
gentlemen who were present had always been right; and the gentlemen
who were absent had always been wrong. And, oh, dear, when they came to
politics, how they bragged about what they would have done if they had
only been at the head of the Government; and how cruelly hard to please
they were in the matter of wine! Do you remember recommending me to
spend my next holiday in Scotland?”
“Perfectly. My advice was selfish--it really meant that I wanted to see
you again.”
“And you have your wish, at your brother’s house! The guide book did it.
First, I saw your family name. Then, I read on and discovered that there
were pictures at Mount Morven and that strangers were allowed to see
them. I like pictures. And here I am.”
This allusion to the house naturally reminded Randal of the master.
“I wish I could introduce you to my brother and his wife,” he said.
“Unhappily their only child is ill--”
Captain Bennydeck started to his feet. “I am ashamed of having intruded
on you,” he began. His new friend pressed him back into his chair
without ceremony. “On the contrary, you have arrived at the best of all
possible times--the time when our suspense is at an end. The doctor
has just told us that his poor little patient is out of danger. You may
imagine how happy we are.”
“And how grateful to God!” The Captain said those words in tones that
trembled--speaking to himself.
Randal was conscious of feeling a momentary embarrassment. The character
of his visitor had presented itself in a new light. Captain Bennydeck
looked at him--understood him--and returned to the subject of his
travels.
“Do you remember your holiday-time when you were a boy, and when you had
to go back to school?” he asked with a smile. “My mind is in much the
same state at leaving Scotland, and going back to my work in London. I
hardly know which I admire most--your beautiful country or the
people who inhabit it. I have had some pleasant talk with your poorer
neighbors; the one improvement I could wish for among them is a keener
sense of their religious duties.”
This was an objection new in Randal’s experience of travelers in
general.
“Our Highlanders have noble qualities,” he said. “If you knew them as
well as I do, you would find a true sense of religion among them; not
presenting itself, however, to strangers as strongly--I had almost
said as aggressively--as the devotional feeling of the Lowland Scotch.
Different races, different temperaments.”
“And all,” the Captain added, gravely and gently, “with souls to be
saved. If I sent to these poor people some copies of the New Testament,
translated into their own language, would my gift be accepted?”
Strongly interested by this time, in studying Captain Bennydeck’s
character on the side of it which was new to him, Randal owned that he
observed with surprise the interest which his friend felt in perfect
strangers. The Captain seemed to wonder why this impression should have
been produced by what he had just said.
“I only try,” he answered, “to do what good I can, wherever I go.”
“Your life must be a happy one,” Randal said.
Captain Bennydeck’s head drooped. The shadows that attend on the gloom
of melancholy remembrance showed their darkening presence on his face.
Briefly, almost sternly, he set Randal right.
“No, sir.”
“Forgive me,” the younger man pleaded, “if I have spoken thoughtlessly.”
“You have mistaken me,” the Captain explained; “and it is my fault.
My life is an atonement for the sins of my youth. I have reached my
fortieth year--and that one purpose is before me for the rest of my
days. Sufferings and dangers which but few men undergo awakened my
conscience. My last exercise of the duties of my profession associated
me with an expedition to the Polar Seas. Our ship was crushed in the
ice. Our march to the nearest regions inhabited by humanity was a
hopeless struggle of starving men, rotten with scurvy, against the
merciless forces of Nature. One by one my comrades dropped and died. Out
of twenty men there were three left with a last flicker in them of the
vital flame when the party of rescue found us. One of the three died on
the homeward journey. One lived to reach his native place, and to sink
to rest with his wife and children round his bed. The last man left,
out of that band of martyrs to a hopeless cause, lives to be worthier
of God’s mercy--and tries to make God’s creatures better and happier in
this world, and worthier of the world that is to come.”
Randal’s generous nature felt the appeal that had been made to it. “Will
you let me take your hand, Captain?” he said.
They clasped hands in silence.
Captain Bennydeck was the first to speak again. That modest distrust
of himself, which a man essentially noble and brave is generally the
readiest of men to feel, seemed to be troubling him once more--just as
it had troubled him when he first found himself in Randal’s presence.
“I hope you won’t think me vain,” he resumed; “I seldom say so much
about myself as I have said to you.”
“I only wish you would say more,” Randal rejoined. “Can’t you put off
your return to London for a day or two?”
The thing was not to be done. Duties which it was impossible to trifle
with called the Captain back. “It’s quite likely,” he said, alluding
pleasantly to the impression which he had produced in speaking of the
Highlanders, “that I shall find more strangers to interest me in the
great city.”
“Are they always strangers?” Randal asked. “Have you never met by
accident with persons whom you may once have known?”
“Never--yet. But it may happen on my return.”
“In what way?”
“In this way. I have been in search of a poor girl who has lost both her
parents: she has, I fear, been left helpless at the mercy of the world.
Her father was an old friend of mine--once an officer in the Navy like
myself. The agent whom I formerly employed (without success) to trace
her, writes me word that he has reason to believe she has obtained a
situation as pupil-teacher at a school in the suburbs of London; and
I am going back (among other things) to try if I can follow the clew
myself. Good-by, my friend. I am heartily sorry to go!”
“Life is made up of partings,” Randal answered.
“And of meetings,” the Captain wisely reminded him. “When you are in
London, you will always hear of me at the club.”
Heartily reciprocating his good wishes, Randal attended Captain
Bennydeck to the door. On the way back to the drawing-room, he found
his mind dwelling, rather to his surprise, on the Captain’s contemplated
search for the lost girl.
Was the good man likely to find her? It seemed useless enough to
inquire--and yet Randal asked himself the question. Her father had been
described as an officer in the Navy. Well, and what did that matter?
Inclined to laugh at his own idle curiosity, he was suddenly struck by
a new idea. What had his brother told him of Miss Westerfield? _She_ was
the daughter of an officer in the Navy; _she_ had been pupil-teacher at
a school. Was it really possible that Sydney Westerfield could be the
person whom Captain Bennydeck was attempting to trace? Randal threw up
the window which overlooked the drive in front of the house. Too late!
The carriage which had brought the Captain to Mount Morven was no longer
in sight.
The one other course that he could take was to mention Captain
Bennydeck’s name to Sydney, and be guided by the result.
As he approached the bell, determining to send a message upstairs,
he heard the door opened behind him. Mrs. Presty had entered the
drawing-room, with a purpose (as it seemed) in which Randal was
concerned.