After Jessy and Mrs. Cheviott had left the room, one of the little girls
exclaimed, “I don’t like that Miss Bettesworth; for she asked me whether
I did not wish that Fanny was gone, because she refused to let me have a
peach that was not ripe. I am sure I wish Fanny may always stay here.”
There was a person in the room who seemed to join most fervently in
this wish: this was Mr. Reynolds, the drawing-master. For some time his
thoughts had been greatly occupied by Fanny. At first, he was struck
with her beauty; but he had discovered that Mr. Folingsby was in love
with her, and had carefully attended to her conduct, resolving not to
offer himself till he was sure on a point so serious. Her modesty and
prudence fixed his affections; and he now became impatient to declare
his passion. He was a man of excellent temper and character; and his
activity and talents were such as to ensure independence to a wife and
family.
Mrs. Hungerford, though a proud, was not a selfish woman: she was glad
that Mr. Reynolds was desirous to obtain Fanny, though she was sorry to
part with one who was so useful in her family. Fanny had now lived
with her nearly two years; and she was much attached to her. A distant
relation, about this time, left her five children a small legacy of ten
guineas each. Gustavus, though he had some ambition to be master of
a watch, was the first to propose that this legacy should be given to
Fanny. His brothers and sisters applauded the idea; and Mrs. Hungerford
added fifty guineas to their fifty. “I had put by this money,” said she,
“to purchase a looking-glass for my drawing-room; but it will be much
better applied in rewarding one who has been of real service to my
children.”
Fanny was now mistress of two hundred guineas; a hundred given to her by
Mr. Folingsby, fifty by Mrs. Hungerford, and fifty by the children. Her
joy and gratitude were extreme: for with this money she knew she could
relieve her father; this was the first wish of her heart; and it was a
wish in which her lover so eagerly joined that she smiled on him, and
said, “Now I am sure you really love me.”
“Let us go to your father directly,” said Mr. Reynolds. “Let me be
present when you give him this money.”
“You shall,” said Fanny; “but first I must consult my sister Patty and
my brothers; for we must all go together; that is our agreement. The
first day of next month is my father’s birthday; and, on that day, we
are all to meet at the almshouse. What a happy day it will be!”
But what has James been about all this time? How has he gone on with his
master, Mr. Cleghorn, the haberdasher?
During the eighteen months that James had spent in Mr. Cleghorn’s shop,
he never gave his master the slightest reason to complain of him; on
the contrary, this young man made his employer’s interests his own; and,
consequently, completely deserved his confidence. It was not, however,
always easy to deal with Mr. Cleghorn; for he dreaded to be flattered,
yet could not bear to be contradicted. James was very near losing his
favour for ever, upon the following occasion.
One evening, when it was nearly dusk, and James was just shutting up
shop, a strange-looking man, prodigiously corpulent, and with huge
pockets to his coat, came in. He leaned his elbows on the counter,
opposite to James, and stared him full in the face without speaking.
James swept some loose money off the counter into the till. The stranger
smiled, as if purposely to show him this did not escape his quick eye.
There was in his countenance an expression of roguery and humour: the
humour seemed to be affected, the roguery natural. “What are you pleased
to want, sir?” said James.
“A glass of brandy, and your master.”
“My master is not at home, sir; and we have no brandy. You will find
brandy, I believe, at the house over the way.”
“I believe I know where to find brandy a little better than you do; and
better brandy than you ever tasted, or the devil’s in it,” replied the
stranger. “I want none of your brandy. I only asked for it to try what
sort of a chap you were. So you don’t know who I am?”
“No, sir; not in the least.”
“No! Never heard of Admiral Tipsey! Where do you come from? Never heard
of Admiral Tipsey! whose noble paunch is worth more than a Laplander
could reckon,” cried he, striking the huge rotundity he praised. “Let me
into this back parlour; I’ll wait there till your master comes home.”
“Sir, you cannot possibly go into that parlour; there is a young lady,
Mr. Cleghorn’s daughter, sir, at tea in that room: she must not be
disturbed,” said James, holding the lock of the parlour door. He thought
the stranger was either drunk or pretending to be drunk; and contended,
with all his force, to prevent him from getting into the parlour.
Whilst they were struggling, Mr. Cleghorn came home. “Heyday! what’s
the matter? O admiral, is it you?” said Mr. Cleghorn in a voice of
familiarity that astonished James. “Let us by, James; you don’t know the
admiral.”
Admiral Tipsey was a smuggler: he had the command of two or three
smuggling vessels, and thereupon created himself an admiral: a dignity
which few dared to dispute with him, whilst he held his oak stick in his
hand. As to the name of Tipsey, no one could be so unjust as to question
his claim to it; for he was never known to be perfectly sober, during
a whole day, from one year’s end to another. To James’s great surprise,
the admiral, after he had drunk one dish of tea, unbuttoned his
waist-coat from top to bottom, and deliberately began to unpack his huge
false corpulence! Round him were wound innumerable pieces of lace, and
fold after fold of fine cambric. When he was completely unpacked, it was
difficult to believe that he was the same person, he looked so thin and
shrunk.
He then called for some clean straw, and began to stuff himself out
again to what he called a passable size. “Did not I tell you, young man,
I carried that under my waistcoat which would make a fool stare? The
lace that’s on the floor, to say nothing of the cambric, is worth full
twice the sum for which you shall have it, Cleghorn. Good night. I’ll
call again to-morrow, to settle our affairs; but don’t let your young
man here shut the door, as he did to-day, in the admiral’s face. Here is
a cravat for you, notwithstanding,” continued he, turning to James, and
throwing him a piece of very fine cambric. “I must ‘list you in Admiral
Tipsey’s service.”
James followed him to the door, and returned the cambric in despite of
all his entreaties that he would “wear it, or sell it, for the admiral’s
sake.”
“So, James,” said Mr. Cleghorn, when the smuggler was gone, “you do not
seem to like our admiral.”
“I know nothing of him, sir, except that he is a smuggler; and for that
reason I do not wish to have any thing to do with him.”
“I am sorry for that,” said Mr. Cleghorn, with a mixture of shame and
anger in his countenance: “my conscience is as nice as other people’s;
and yet I have a notion I shall have something to do with him, though he
is a smuggler; and, if I am not mistaken, shall make a deal of money by
him. I have not had any thing to do with smugglers yet; but I see many
in Monmouth who are making large fortunes by their assistance. There is
our neighbour, Mr. Raikes; what a rich man he is become! And why should
I, or why should you, be more scrupulous than others? Many gentlemen,
ay, gentlemen, in the country are connected with them; and why should
a shopkeeper be more conscientious than they? Speak; I must have your
opinion.”
With all the respect due to his master, James gave it as his opinion
that it would be best to have nothing to do with Admiral Tipsey, or with
any of the smugglers. He observed that men who carried on an illicit
trade, and who were in the daily habit of cheating, or of taking false
oaths, could not be safe partners. Even putting morality out of the
question, he remarked that the smuggling trade was a sort of gaming, by
which one year a man might make a deal of money, and another might be
ruined.
“Upon my word!” said Mr. Cleghorn, in an ironical tone, “you talk very
wisely, for so young a man! Pray, where did you learn all this wisdom?”
“From my father, sir; from whom I learned every thing that I know; every
thing that is good, I mean. I had an uncle once, who was ruined by his
dealings with smugglers; and who would have died in jail, if it had not
been for my father. I was but a young lad at the time this happened; but
I remember my father saying to me, the day my uncle was arrested, when
my aunt and all the children were crying, ‘Take warning by this, my dear
James: you are to be in trade, some day or other, yourself: never forget
that honesty is the best policy. The fair trader will always have the
advantage, at the long run.’”
“Well, well, no more of this,” interrupted Mr. Cleghorn. “Good night
to you. You may finish the rest of your sermon against smugglers to my
daughter there, whom it seems to suit better than it pleases me.”
The next day, when Mr. Cleghorn went into the shop, he scarcely spoke
to James, except to find fault with him. This he bore with patience,
knowing that he meant well, and that his master would recover his temper
in time.
“So the parcels were all sent, and the bills made out, as I desired,”
said Mr. Cleghorn. “You are not in the wrong there. You know what you
are about, James, very well; but why should not you deal openly by me,
according to your father’s maxim, that ‘honesty is the best policy?’ Why
should not you fairly tell me what were your secret views, in the advice
you gave me about Admiral Tipsey and the smugglers?”
“I have no secret views, sir,” said James, with a look of such sincerity
that his master could not help believing him: “nor can I guess what
you mean by _secret views_. If I consulted my own advantage instead of
yours, I should certainly use all my influence with you in favour of
this smuggler: for here is a letter, which I received from him this
morning, ‘hoping for my friendship,’ and enclosing a ten pound note,
which I returned to him.”
Mr. Cleghorn was pleased by the openness and simplicity with which James
told him all this; and immediately throwing aside the reserve of his
manner, said, “James, I beg your pardon; I see I have misunderstood you.
I am convinced you were not acting like a double dealer, in the advice
you gave me last night. It was my daughter’s colouring so much that led
me astray. I did, to be sure, think you had an eye to her more than to
me, in what you said: but if you had, I am sure you would tell me so
fairly.”
James was at a loss to comprehend how the advice that he gave concerning
Admiral Tipsey and the smugglers could relate to Miss Cleghorn, except
so far as it related to her father. He waited in silence for a farther
explanation.
“You don’t know, then,” continued Mr. Cleghorn, “that Admiral Tipsey, as
he calls himself, is able to leave his nephew, young Raikes, more than
I can leave my daughter? It is his whim to go about dressed in that
strange way in which you saw him yesterday; and it is his diversion to
carry on the smuggling trade, by which he has made so much; but he is
in reality a rich old fellow, and has proposed that I should marry my
daughter to his nephew. Now you begin to understand me, I see. The lad
is a smart lad: he is to come here this evening. Don’t prejudice my girl
against him. Not a word more against smugglers, before her, I beg.”
“You shall be obeyed, sir,” said James. His voice altered, and he turned
pale as he spoke; circumstances which did not escape Mr. Cleghorn’s
observation.
Young Raikes, and his uncle, the rich smuggler, paid their visit. Miss
Cleghorn expressed a decided dislike to both uncle and nephew. Her
father was extremely provoked; and in the height of his anger, declared
he believed she was in love with James Frankland; that he was a
treacherous rascal; and that he should leave the house within three
days, if his daughter did not, before that time, consent to marry the
man he had chosen for her husband. It was in vain that his daughter
endeavoured to soften her father’s rage, and to exculpate poor James, by
protesting he had never directly or indirectly attempted to engage her
affections; neither had he ever said one syllable that could prejudice
her against the man whom her father recommended. Mr. Cleghorn’s high
notions of subordination applied, on this occasion, equally to his
daughter and to his foreman: he considered them both as presumptuous and
ungrateful; and said to himself, as he walked up and down the room in
a rage, “My foreman to preach to me indeed! I thought what he was about
all the time! But it sha’n’t do--it sha’n’t do! My daughter shall do
as I bid her, or I’ll know why! Have not I been all my life making a
fortune for her? and now she won’t do as I bid her! She would, if this
fellow were out of the house; and out he shall go, in three days, if she
does not come to her senses. I was cheated by my last shopman out of my
money: I won’t be duped by this fellow out of my daughter. No! no! Off
he shall trudge! A shopman, indeed, to think of his master’s daughter
without his consent! What insolence! What the times are come to! Such
a thing could not have been done in my days! I never thought of my
master’s daughter, I’ll take my oath! And then the treachery of the
rascal! To carry it all on so slily! I could forgive him anything but
that: for that he shall go out of this house in three days, as sure as
he and I are alive, if this young lady does not give him up before that
time.”
Passion so completely deafened Mr. Cleghorn that he would not listen
to James, who assured him he had never, for one moment, aspired to the
honour of marrying his daughter. “Can you deny that you love her? Can
you deny,” cried Mr. Cleghorn, “that you turned pale yesterday, when you
said I should be obeyed?”
James could not deny either of these charges; but he firmly persisted
in asserting that he had been guilty of no treachery; that he had never
attempted secretly to engage the young lady’s affections; and that, on
the contrary, he was sure she had no suspicion of his attachment. “It is
easy to prove all this to me, by persuading my girl to do as I bid her.
Prevail on her to marry Mr. Raikes, and all is well.”
“That is out of my power, sir,” replied James. “I have no right to
interfere, and will not. Indeed, I am sure I should betray myself, if I
were to attempt to say a word to Miss Cleghorn in favour of another man:
that is a task I could not undertake, even if I had the highest opinion
of this Mr. Raikes; but I know nothing concerning him, and therefore
should do wrong to speak in his favour merely to please you. I am sorry,
very sorry, sir, that you have not the confidence in me which I hoped
I had deserved; but the time will come when you will do me justice. The
sooner I leave you now, I believe, the better you will be satisfied;
and far from wishing to stay three days, I do not desire to stay three
minutes in your house, sir, against your will.”
Mr. Cleghorn was touched by the feeling and honest pride with which
James spoke.
“Do as I bid you, sir,” said he; “and neither more nor less,--Stay out
your three days; and may be, in that time, this saucy girl may come
to reason. If she does not know you love her, you are not _so much_ to
blame.”
The three days passed away, and the morning came on which James was
to leave his master. The young lady persisted in her resolution not to
marry Mr. Raikes; and expressed much concern at the injustice with which
James was treated on her account. She offered to leave home, and spend
some time with an aunt, who lived in the north of England. She did not
deny that James appeared to her the most agreeable young man she had
seen; but added, she could not possibly have any thoughts of marrying
him, because he had never given her the least reason to believe that he
was attached to her.
Mr. Cleghorn was agitated, yet positive in his determination that James
should quit the house. James went into his master’s room to take leave
of him. “So then you are really going?” said Mr. Cleghorn. “You have
buckled that portmanteau of yours like a blockhead; I’ll do it better:
stand aside. So you are positively going? Why, this is a sad thing!
But then it is a thing, as your own sense and honour tell you--it is a
thing--” (Mr. Cleghorn took snuff at every pause of his speech; but even
this could not carry him through it;) when he pronounced the words, “It
is a thing that must be done,” the tears fairly started from his eyes.
“Now this is ridiculous!” resumed he. “In my days, in my younger days,
I mean, a man could part with his foreman as easily as he could take
off his glove. I am sure my master would as soon have thought of turning
bankrupt as of shedding a tear at parting with me; and yet I was as good
a foreman, in my day, as another. Not so good a one as you are, to be
sure. But it is no time now to think of your goodness. Well! what do we
stand here for? When a thing is to be done, the sooner it is done the
better. Shake hands before you go.”
Mr. Cleghorn put into James’s hand a fifty pound note, and a letter of
recommendation to a Liverpool merchant. James left the house without
taking leave of Miss Cleghorn, who did not think the worse of him for
his want of gallantry. His master had taken care to recommend him to an
excellent house in Liverpool, where his salary would be nearly double
that which he had hitherto received; but James was notwithstanding very
sorry to leave Monmouth, where his dear brother, sister, and father
lived,--to say nothing of Miss Cleghorn.
Late at night, James was going to the inn at which the Liverpool stage
set up, where he was to sleep: as he passed through a street that
leads down to the river Wye, he heard a great noise of men quarrelling
violently. The moon shone bright, and he saw a party of men who appeared
to be fighting in a boat that was just come to shore. He asked a person
who came out of the public-house, and who seemed to have nothing to
do with the fray, what was the matter? “Only some smugglers, who are
quarrelling with one another about the division of their booty,” said
the passenger, who walked on, eager to get out of their way. James also
quickened his pace, but presently heard the cry of “Murder! murder!
Help! help!” and then all was silence.
A few seconds afterwards he thought that he heard groans. He could not
forbear going to the spot whence the groans proceeded, in hopes of being
of some service to a fellow-creature. By the time he got thither, the
groans had ceased: he looked about, but could only see the men in the
boat, who were rowing fast down the river. As he stood on the shore
listening, he for some minutes heard no sound but that of their oars;
but afterwards a man in the boat exclaimed, with a terrible oath, “There
he is! There he is! All alive again! We have not done him business! D--n
it, he’ll do ours!” The boatmen rowed faster away, and James again heard
the groans, though they were now much feebler than before. He searched
and found the wounded man; who, having been thrown overboard, had with
great difficulty swam to shore, and fainted with the exertion as soon
as he reached the land. When he came to his senses, he begged James, for
mercy’s sake, to carry him into the next public-house, and to send for
a surgeon to dress his wounds. The surgeon came, examined them, and
declared his fears that the poor man could not live four-and-twenty
hours. As soon as he was able to speak intelligibly, he said he had been
drinking with a party of smugglers, who had just brought in some fresh
brandy, and that they had quarrelled violently about a keg of contraband
liquor: he said that he could swear to the man who gave him the mortal
wound.
The smugglers were pursued immediately, and taken. When they were
brought into the sick man’s room, James beheld amongst them three
persons whom he little expected to meet in such a situation: Idle Isaac,
Wild Will, and Bullying Bob. The wounded man swore positively to their
persons. Bullying Bob was the person who gave him the fatal blow; but
Wild Will began the assault, and Idle Isaac shoved him overboard;
they were all implicated in the guilt; and, instead of expressing any
contrition for their crime, began to dispute about which was most to
blame: they appealed to James; and, as he would be subpoenaed on their
trial, each endeavoured to engage him in his favour. Idle Isaac took him
aside, and said to him, “You have no reason to befriend my brothers. I
can tell you a secret: they are the greatest enemies your family ever
had. It was they who set fire to your father’s hay-rick. Will was
provoked by your sister Fanny’s refusing him; so he determined, as
he told me, to carry her off; and he meant to have done so, in the
confusion that was caused by the fire; but Bob and he quarrelled the
very hour that she was to have been carried off; so that part of the
scheme failed. Now I had no hand in all this, being fast asleep in
my bed; so I have more claim to your good word, at any rate, than my
brothers can have: and so, when we come to trial, I hope you’ll speak to
my character.”
Wild Will next tried his eloquence. As soon as he found that his brother
Isaac had betrayed the secret, he went to James, and assured him the
mischief that had been done was a mere accident; that it was true he
had intended, for the frolic’s sake, to raise a cry of fire, in order to
draw Fanny out of the house; but that he was shocked when he found how
the jest ended.
As to Bullying Bob, he brazened the matter out; declaring he had been
affronted by the Franklands, and that he was glad he had taken his
revenge of them; that, if the thing was to be done over again, he would
do it; that James might give him what character he pleased upon trial,
for that a man could be hanged but once.
Such were the absurd, bravadoing speeches he made, while he had an
alehouse audience round him, to admire his spirit; but a few hours
changed his tone. He and his brothers were taken before a magistrate.
Till the committal was actually made out, they had hopes of being
bailed: they had despatched a messenger to Admiral Tipsey, whose men
they called themselves, and expected he would offer bail for them to
any amount; but the bail of their friend Admiral Tipsey was not deemed
sufficient by the magistrate.
“In the first place, I could not bail these men; and if I could, do you
think it possible,” said the magistrate, “I could take the bail of such
a man as that?”
“I understood that he was worth a deal of money,” whispered James.
“You are mistaken, sir,” said the magistrate: “he is what he deserves to
be, a ruined man. I have good reasons for knowing this. He has a nephew,
a Mr. Raikes, who is a gamester: whilst the uncle has been carrying on
the smuggling trade here, at the hazard of his life, the nephew, who was
bred up at Oxford to be a fine gentleman, has gamed away all the money
his uncle has made during twenty years, by his contraband traffic. At
the long run, these fellows never thrive. Tipsey is not worth a groat.”
James was much surprised by this information, and resolved to return
immediately to Mr. Cleghorn, to tell him what he had heard, and put him
on his guard.
Early in the morning he went to his house--“You look as if you were not
pleased to see me again,” said he to Mr. Cleghorn; “and perhaps you will
impute what I am going to say to bad motives; but my regard to you, sir,
determines me to acquaint you with what I have heard: you will make what
use of the information you please.”
James then related what had passed at the magistrate’s; and when
Mr. Cleghorn had heard all that he had to say, he thanked him in the
strongest manner for this instance of his regard; and begged he would
remain in Monmouth a few days longer.
Alarmed by the information he received from James, Mr. Cleghorn
privately made inquiries concerning young Raikes and his uncle. The
distress into which the young man had plunged himself by gambling had
been kept a profound secret from his relations. It was easy to deceive
them as to his conduct, because his time had been spent at a distance
from them: he had but just returned home, after _completing his
education._
The magistrate from whom James first heard of his extravagance happened
to have a son at Oxford, who gave him this intelligence: he confirmed
all he had said to Mr. Cleghorn, who trembled at the danger to which he
had exposed his daughter. The match with young Raikes was immediately
broken off; and all connexion with Admiral Tipsey and the smugglers was
for ever dissolved by Mr. Cleghorn.
His gratitude to James was expressed with all the natural warmth of his
character. “Come back and live with me,” said he. “You have saved me and
my daughter from ruin. You shall not be my shopman any longer, you shall
be my partner: and, you know, when you are my partner, there can be
nothing said against your thinking of my daughter. But all in good time.
I would not have seen the girl again if she had married my shopman; but
my partner will be quite another thing. You have worked your way up in
the world by your own deserts, and I give you joy. I believe, now it’s
over, it would have gone nigh to break my heart to part with you; but
you must be sensible I was right to keep up my authority in my own
family. Now things are changed: I give my consent: nobody has a right to
say a word. When I am pleased with my daughter’s choice, that is enough.
There’s only one thing that goes against my pride: your father--”
“Oh! sir,” interrupted James, “if you are going to say any thing
disrespectful of my father, do not say it to me; I beseech you, do not;
for I cannot bear it. Indeed I cannot, and will not. He is the best of
fathers!”
“I am sure he has the best of children; and a greater blessing there
cannot be in this world. I was not going to say any thing disrespectful
of him: I was only going to lament that he should be in an almshouse,”
said Mr. Cleghorn.
“He has determined to remain there,” said James, “till his children have
earned money enough to support him without hurting themselves. I, my
brother, and both my sisters, are to meet at the almshouse on the first
day of next month, which is my father’s birthday; then we shall join all
our earnings together, and see what can be done.”
“Remember, you are my partner,” said Mr. Cleghorn. “On that day you must
take me along with you. My good-will is part of your earnings, and my
good-will shall never be shown merely in words.”