We return, now, to the coast of Kent, and beg the reader to follow us
into the Smuggler's Cave at Saint Margaret's Bay.
Here, in a dark corner, sat old Jeph. It was a stormy Sunday afternoon.
The old man had gone to the Bay to visit Coleman, and accompany him to
his place of worship. Jeph had wandered alone in the direction of the
cave after church. He found that some one had recently cleared its
mouth of the rubbish that usually filled it, and that, by bending low,
he could gain an entrance.
Being of an adventurous disposition, the old man went in, and, seating
himself on a projecting rock in a dark corner, fell into a profound
reverie. He was startled out of this by the sound of approaching
footsteps.
"Come in, come in," said a deep hoarse voice, which Jeph at once
recognised as that of Long Orrick, his old enemy. "Come in, Nick; you
seem to have got a'feer'd o' the dark of late. We'll be out o' sight
here, and I'll amuse ye till this squall blows over with an account o'
what I heer'd the old man say."
"This squall, as ye call it, won't blow over so soon as ye think,"
replied Rodney Nick in a sulky tone. "Hows'ever, we may as well wait
here as anywhere else; or die here for all that I care!"
"Hallo! messmate, wot's ado that ye should go into the blues when we're
on the pint o' making our fortins?" said Orrick.
"Ado!" cried Rodney angrily, "is it not bad enough to be called messmate
by _you_, and not be able to deny it?"
"You're civil, anyhow," said Orrick, with an oath.
"I mean to be," retorted Nick, fiercely.
"Come, come, it's no use quarrelling," said Orrick, with an affectation
of good-humour. "Never say die! Nick; them's the words o' the
immortial Nelson, w'en he gave the signal to blaze away at Trafalgar.
But sit ye down here on this rock, and I'll tell ye all about wot I
see'd last night. Ye'd like to know, I dessay."
"I'd like to have know'd sooner, if you had seen fit to tell me," said
Rodney Nick, in a gruff tone.
"Well, then, keep yer mind easy, and here goes. You know as how I
chanced to hear old Jeph make an appointment with that young puppy, Guy
Foster, to meet him at the darkest hour o' night at the tomb o' Mary
Bax. Thinks I, it won't be for nothin' you're goin' to meet at sich an
hour in sich a place, my hearties, so I'll go an' keep ye company in a
_private_ way!
"You may be sure I was up to time. Two hours did I wait in the ditch
behind the tomb, and I can tell ye, Nick, it's desprit eerie work
a-sittin' there all alone of a dark night, a-countin' of the beatins of
yer 'art, an' thinkin' every shadow of the clouds is a ghost.
Hows'ever, the old man came at last, and lies down flat on the grave,
and begins to groan a bit. Arter that he takes to prayin', an', d'ye
know, the way that old feller prays is a caution. The parsons couldn't
hold a candle to him. Not that I ever heer'd ony of 'em, but I _s'pose_
they couldn't!
"Well, he was cut short in the middle by the arrival of the puppy--."
"Wot puppy?" inquired Rodney.
"Guy, to be sure; ain't he the biggest puppy in Deal?" said Orrick.
"Mayhap, but he ain't the _longest_," retorted Rodney; "go on."
"Humph!--well, down sits Guy on the head o' the tombstone, and pats old
Jeph on the shoulder.
"`Here I am, Jeph; come now, what is it you are so anxious to tell me?'
"The old man sat up: `I'm goin' to die,' says he.
"`Nonsense,' cried the young 'un, in a cheerie tone, by way of "don't
say that." `You're as tough as an old bo'sn. Come, that wasn't what
you wanted to tell me, I'm sure.'
"`Ay, but it was,' says the old man in sich an earnest voice that the
young 'un was forced to become serious. `Listen, Guy,' he goes on, `I'm
goin' to die, an' there's no one in this world as I've got to look after
me.'
"Guy was goin' to interrupt him at this point, but he laid his hand on
his shoulder and bade him be silent.
"`I've got no relations, Guy, except two,' says he, `an' I've no
childer. I never married. The only girl I ever loved lies under the
cold, cold sod. You know that I'm a poor man, an' the two relations I
spoke of are rich--rich--ay, and they're fond o' money. Mayhap that's
the reason they _are_ rich! Moreover, they know I've got the matter o'
forty pounds or thereabouts, and I know that when I die they'll fight
for it--small though it is, and rich though they be--and my poor fortune
will either go to them or to the lawyers. Now, Guy, this must not be;
so I want you to do me a kindness. I'm too old and frail to go about
matters o' business, an' I never was good at wot they call business in
my best days, so I want you to pay all my debts for me, and bring me the
receipts.'
"`I'll do it, Jeph,' said Guy, `and much more than that, if you'll only
tell me how I can serve you; but you mustn't speak in that sorrowful way
about dying.'
"`Sorrowful!' cries the old man, quite surprised like; `bless your
heart, I'm not sorrowful. Don't the Book say, "It's better to be absent
from the body and present with the Lord?"' (ah, you may grin as you
please, Nick, but I give ye the 'xact words o' the old hypocrite.) `No,
no, Guy,' continued Jeph, `I'll be right glad to go; many a sad yet
pleasant hour have I spent here, but I'm weary now, and would fain go,
if the Lord will. Now, it's my opinion that I've just two weeks to
live--'
"`Jeph!' exclaimed Guy.
"`Don't interrupt me, lad. I've got _two weeks to live_, so I want you
to go and arrange about my funeral. Get a coffin made--I used to be six
feet when I was young, but I dessay I'm shorter now--and get the
undertaker to cast up beforehand wot it'll all come to, and pay him, and
bring me the receipts. Will ye do this, lad?'
"`I will, if you wish it, but--'
"`If I didn't wish it I wouldn't ask it.'
"`Well, Jeph,' said Guy, earnestly, `I _will_ do it.'
"`Thank'ee, lad, thank 'ee. I know'd ye would, so I brought the money
with me. Here it is--forty pounds all told; you'll pay for the things,
and bring me the receipts, and _keep the rest and use it in the service
of God_. I know I can trust you, lad, so that's enough. All I want is
to prevent my small savin's goin' to the winds, or to those as don't
need 'em; _you_ understand how to give it to those as do.'"
"Is that all?" said Rodney Nick, impatiently.
"No that's not all," replied his companion, "though if it _was_ all,
it's a rather coorious fact, for which ye might thank me for takin' the
trouble to tell you. But you're thankless by nature. It seems to me
that nother you nor me's likely to trouble Guy Foster to look arter
_our_ spare cash in that way! But that ain't the end o' my story yet."
"What! you didn't rob 'em? eh! you didn't pitch into the `Puppy,' and
ease him o' the shiners?"
Rodney Nick said this with a sneer, for he was well aware that his
boastful companion would not have risked a single-handed encounter with
Guy on any consideration.
"No, I didn't; it warn't worth the trouble," said Orrick, "but--you
shall hear. Arter the old man had said his say, Guy asked him if that
was all, for if it was, he didn't see no occasion to make no secret
about it."
"`No,' said the old man, `that's not all. I want you to take charge of
a packet, and give it to Bax after I'm gone. No one must break the seal
but Bax. Poor Bax, I'd thought to have seen him once again before I
went. I'll leave the old house to him; it ain't worth much, but you can
look arter it for him, or for Tommy Bogey, if Bax don't want it. Many a
happy evening we've spent in it together. I wanted to give you the
parcel here--here out on the dark Sandhills, where no one but God hears
us. It's wonderful what a place the town is for eavesdroppin'! so I
made you come out here. You must promise me never to open the packet
unless you find that Bax is dead; _then_ you may open it, and do as you
think fit. You promise me this?'
"`I do,' said Guy, as the old man pulled a small packet, wrapped in
brown paper, from his breast pocket, and put it into his hands. Then,
they rose and went away together."
"Well?" said Rodney Nick.
"Well!" echoed Long Orrick, "wot then?"
"What next? what d'ye want to do?" inquired Rodney.
"Do," cried Orrick, "I mean to get hold o' that packet if I can, by fair
means or by foul, _that's_ wot I mean to do, and I mean that you shall
help me!"
The reader may imagine what were the feelings of the poor old man as he
sat in the dark corner of the cave listening to this circumstantial
relation of his most secret affairs. When he heard Long Orrick's last
words, and felt how utterly powerless he was in his weakness to
counteract him in his designs, he could not prevent the escape of a deep
groan.
The effect on the two men was electrical. They sprang up, filled with
superstitious horror, and fled precipitately from the cave.
Old Jeph staggered out after them, and made for the cottage of his
friend Coleman. The latter met him near the threshold.
"Why, Jeph, is this you? I've bin searchin' for ye more than an hour,
and come to the conclusion ye must ha' gone home; but why, you're ill,
Jeph!"
"Ay, I'm ill, come, help me home."
"Nay, not this night, you shall stop with me; the missus'll give you a
cup o' tea as will do yer old heart good."
"No, I must go home now," said Jeph, in a tone so decided that his
friend was staggered.
"You can't walk it, you know, in a stormy night like this."
"I _will_ walk it," said Jeph.
"Come, then, if you're bent on it, you'd better go in your own lugger;
it's here just now, agoin' to put off in ten minutes or so. Nothin'
ever stops Bluenose, blow high, blow low. W'en he wants to go off to
sea, he _goes_ off, right or wrong. But you'll take a glass o' grog
first."
Old Jeph would not do this, so he was led down to the beach by Coleman,
where they found the boat being launched.
"Good-bye, old man," said Coleman, helping him over the side.
"_Good-bye,--farewell_," said Jeph earnestly. "I came here to-day
a-purpose to say farewell; shake hands, God bless you."
The coast-guard-man was surprised by the warmth of his friend's manner,
as well as by his words; but before he could ask him what he meant, the
boat was run down the beach and out to sea. An hour later old Jeph was
carefully put to bed in his own cottage, by his friend Captain Bluenose.