"`Lisbon, 10th March, 1808.
"`Dear Captain Brand,--I am about to quit this place for the East in a
few days, and shall probably never see you again. Pray accept the
accompanying case of jewels as a small token of the love and esteem in
which you are held by a heart-broken father. I feel assured that if
it had been in the power of man to have saved my drowning child your
gallant efforts would have been successful. It was ordained
otherwise; and I now pray that I may be enabled to say "God's will be
done." But I cannot bear the sight of these ornaments. I have no
relatives--none at least who deserve them half so well as yourself.
Do not pain me by refusing them. They may be of use to you if you are
ever in want of money, being worth, I believe, between three and four
hundred pounds. Of course, you cannot misunderstand my motive in
mentioning this. No amount of money could in any measure represent
the gratitude I owe to the man who risked his life to save my child.
May God bless you, sir.'"
The letter ended thus, without signature; and the captain ceased to read
aloud. But there was an addition to the letter written in pencil, in
the hand of the late Captain Brand, which neither he nor Minnie had yet
found courage to read to the poor widow. It ran thus:--
"Our doom is sealed. My schooner is on the Bell Rock. It is blowing
a gale from the North East, and she is going to pieces fast. We are
all standing under the lee of a ledge of rock--six of us. In half an
hour the tide will be roaring over the spot. God in Christ help us!
It is an awful end. If this letter and box is ever found, I ask the
finder to send it, with my blessing, to Mrs Brand, my beloved wife,
in Arbroath."
The writing was tremulous, and the paper bore the marks of having been
soiled with seaweed. It was unsigned. The writer had evidently been
obliged to close it hastily.
After reading this in silence the captain refolded the letter.
"No wonder, Minnie, that Swankie did not dare to offer such things for
sale. He would certainly have been found out. Wasn't it lucky that we
heard him tell Spink the spot under his floor where he had hidden them?"
At that moment there came a low knock to the door. Minnie opened it,
and admitted Davy Spink, who stood in the middle of the room twitching
his cap nervously, and glancing uneasily from one to another of the
party.
"Hallo, Spink!" cried the captain, pushing his spectacles up on his
forehead, and gazing at the fisherman in surprise, "you don't seem to be
quite easy in your mind. Hope your fortunes have not sprung a leak!"
"Weel, Captain Ogilvy, they just have; gone to the bottom, I might
a'most say. I've come to tell ye--that--the fact is, that the
press-gang have catched us at last, and ta'en awa' my mate, Jock
Swankie, better kenn'd as Big Swankie."
"Hem--well, my lad, in so far as that does damage to you, I'm sorry for
it; but as regards society at large, I rather think that Swankie havin'
tripped his anchor is a decided advantage. If you lose by this in one
way, you gain much in another; for your mate's companionship did ye no
good. Birds of a feather should flock together. You're better apart,
for I believe you to be an honest man, Spink."
Davy looked at the captain in unfeigned astonishment.
"Weel, ye're the first man that iver said that, an' I thank 'ee, sir,
but you're wrang, though I wush ye was right. But that's no' what I
cam' to tell ye."
Here the fisherman's indecision of manner returned.
"Come, make a clean breast of it, lad. There are none here but
friends."
"Weel, sir, Ruby Brand--"
He paused, and Minnie turned deadly pale, for she jumped at once to the
right conclusion. The widow, on the other hand, listened for more with
deep anxiety, but did not guess the truth.
"The fact is, Ruby's catched too, an' he's awa' to the wars, and he sent
me to--ech, sirs! the auld wuman's fentit."
Poor Widow Brand had indeed fallen back in her chair in a state
bordering on insensibility. Minnie was able to restrain her feelings so
as to attend to her. She and the captain raised her gently, and led her
into her own room, from whence the captain returned, and shut the door
behind him.
"Now, Spink," said he, "tell me all about it, an' be partic'lar."
Davy at once complied, and related all that the reader already knows, in
a deep, serious tone of voice, for he felt that in the captain he had a
sympathetic listener.
When he had concluded, Captain Ogilvy heaved a sigh so deep that it
might have been almost considered a groan, then he sat down on his
armchair, and, pointing to the chair from which the widow had recently
risen, said, "Sit down, lad."
As he advanced to comply, Spink's eyes for the first time fell on the
case of jewels. He started, paused, and looked with a troubled air at
the captain.
"Ha!" exclaimed the latter with a grin; "you seem to know these things;
old acquaintances, eh?"
"It wasna' me that stole them," said Spink hastily.
"I did not say that anyone stole them."
"Weel, I mean that--that--"
He stopped abruptly, for he felt that in whatever way he might attempt
to clear himself, he would unavoidably criminate, by implication, his
absent mate.
"I know what you mean, my lad; sit down."
Spink sat down on the edge of the chair, and looked at the other
uneasily.
"Have a cup of tea?" said the captain abruptly, seizing the small pot
and pouring out a cupful.
"Thank 'ee--I--I niver tak' tea."
"Take it to-night, then. It will do you good."
Spink put the cup to his lips, and a look of deep surprise overspread
his rugged countenance as he sipped the contents. The captain nodded.
Spink's look of surprise changed into a confidential smile; he also
nodded, winked, and drained the cup to the bottom.
"Yes," resumed the captain; "you mean that you did not take the case of
jewels from old Brand's pocket on that day when you found his body on
the Bell Rock, though you were present, and saw your comrade pocket the
booty. You see I know all about it, Davy, an' your only fault lay in
concealing the matter, and in keepin' company with that scoundrel."
The gaze of surprise with which Spink listened to the first part of this
speech changed to a look of sadness towards the end of it.
"Captain Ogilvy," said he, in a tone of solemnity that was a strong
contrast to his usual easy, careless manner of speaking, "you ca'd me an
honest man, an' ye think I'm clear o' guilt in this matter, but ye're
mista'en. Hoo ye cam' to find oot a' this I canna divine, but I can
tell ye somethin' mair than ye ken. D'ye see that bag?"
He pulled a small leather purse out of his coat pocket, and laid it with
a little bang on the table.
The captain nodded.
"Weel, sir, that was _my_ share o' the plunder, thretty goolden
sovereigns. We tossed which o' us was to hae them, an' the siller fell
to me. But I've niver spent a boddle o't. Mony a time have I been
tempit, an' mony a time wad I hae gi'en in to the temptation, but for a
certain lass ca'd Janet, that's been an angel, it's my belief, sent doon
frae heeven to keep me frae gawin to the deevil a'thegither. But be
that as it may, I've brought the siller to them that owns it by right,
an' so my conscience is clear o't at lang last."
The sigh of relief with which Davy Spink pushed the bag of gold towards
his companion, showed that the poor man's mind was in truth released
from a heavy load that had crushed it for years.
The captain, who had lit his pipe, stared at the fisherman through the
smoke for some time in silence; then he began to untie the purse, and
said slowly, "Spink, I said you were an honest man, an' I see no cause
to alter my opinion."
He counted out the thirty gold pieces, put them back into the bag, and
the bag into his pocket. Then he continued, "Spink, if this gold was
mine I would--but no matter, it's not mine, it belongs to Widow Brand,
to whom I shall deliver it up. Meantime, I'll bid you good night. All
these things require reflection. Call back here to-morrow, my fine
fellow, and I'll have something to say to you. Another cup of tea?"
"Weel, I'll no objec'."
Davy Spink rose, swallowed the beverage, and left the cottage. The
captain returned, and stood for some time irresolute with his hand on
the handle of the door of his sister's room. As he listened, he heard a
sob, and the tones of Minnie's voice as if in prayer. Changing his
mind, he walked softly across the kitchen into his own room, where,
having trimmed the candle, refilled and lit his pipe, he sat down at the
table, and, resting his arms thereon, began to meditate.