Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fourteen.The Morning after the Storm.On the fifth morning that succeeded the breaking of the storm, described in the last chapter, the sun rose in gorgeous splendour and shone upon a sea that was clear and burnished like a sheet of glass. The wind had ceased suddenly, and a perfect calm prevailed; but although no breath of air ruffled the surface of the deep, the long swell rose and fell as if the breast of ocean were still throbbing from its recent agitation.All along the east coast of England this swell met the shore in a succession of slow-rolling waves, which curled majestically over, and appeared almost to pause for a moment ere they fell, with deep solemn roar, in a magnificent burst of foam.Everywhere the effects of the storm were painfully evident. Wrecks could be counted by the dozen from some of the bold headlands that commanded an extensive view of the shore. The work of destruction was not yet over. The services of our lifeboats could not yet be dispensed with although the fury of the winds had ceased.It is a mistake to suppose that when a gale has ceased, all danger to man and destruction to his property is over. We are apt to attribute too much influence to the winds. Undoubtedly they are the origin of the evil that befalls us in storms, but they are not theimmediatecause of the wholesale destruction that takes place annually among the shipping of the kingdom. It is the mighty hydraulic force of the sea,—the tremendous lifting power of the waves, that does it all.Although the storm was over and the wind had gone down, the swell of the ocean had not yet ceased to act. On many a headland, and in many a rocky bay, brigs, schooners, barques, and ships of large size and stout frame, were that day lifted and battered, rent, torn, riven, and split by the sea as if they had been toys; their great timbers snapped like pipe-stems, and their iron bars and copper bolts twisted and gnarled as if they had been made of wire.The hardy men of Deal were still out in those powerful boats, that seem to be capable of bidding defiance to most storms, saving property to the nation, and earning—hardly earning—salvage for themselves. The lifeboats, too, were out,—in some cases saving life, in others, saving property when there were no lives in danger.How inadequate are our conceptions of these things when formed from a written account of one or two incidents, even although these be graphically described! How difficult it is to realise the actual scenes that are presented all along the coast during and immediately after each great storm that visits our shores.If we could, by the exercise of supernatural power, gaze down at these shores as from a bird’s-eye point of view, and take them in, with all their stirring incidents, at one glance; if we could see the wrecks, large and small—colliers with their four or five hands; emigrant ships with their hundreds of passengers—beating and grinding furiously on rocks that appear to rise out of and sink into a sea of foam; if we could witness our lifeboats, with their noble-hearted crews, creeping out of every nook and bay in the very teeth of what seems to be inevitable destruction; if we could witness the hundred deeds of individual daring done by men with bronzed faces and rough garments, who carry their lives habitually in their hands, and think nothing of it; if we could behold the flash of the rockets, and hear the crack of the mortars and the boom of minute guns from John o’ Groat’s to the Land’s End, at the dead and dark hours of night, when dwellers in our inland districts are abed, all ignorant, it may be, or thoughtless, in regard to these things; above all, if we could hear the shrieks of the perishing, the sobs and thanksgivings of the rescued, and the wild cheers of the rescuers; and hear and see all this at one single glance, so that our hearts might be more filled than they are at present with a sense of the terrible dangers of our shores, and the heroism of our men of the coast, it is probable that our prayers for those who “go down to the sea in ships” would be more frequent and fervent, and our respect for those who risk life and limb to save the shipwrecked would be deeper. It is also probable that we might think it worth our while to contribute more largely than we do to the support of that noble Institution whose work it is to place lifeboats where they are wanted on our coasts, and to recognise, reward, and chronicle the deeds of those who distinguish themselves in the great work of saving human life.Let us put a question to you, good reader. If France, or any other first-rate Power, were to begin the practice of making a sudden descent on us about once a month, on an average, all the year round, slaying some hundreds of our fishermen and seamen each time; occasionally cutting off some of our first-class emigrant ships, and killing all on board—men, women, and children,—thus filling the land with repeated wails of sorrow, with widows and with fatherless children: What would you do?What!—do you say that you “would fortify every island on the coast, plant Martello towers on every flat beach, crown every height with cannon, and station iron-clads in every harbour and bay, so that the entire coast should bristle with artillery?” That sounds well, but what guarantee have we that you really would act thus if France were to become so outrageous?“Common sense might assure me of it,” you reply.So it might, and so it would, if we had not evidence to the contrary in the fact that our countryisthus assailed month after month—year after year—by a more inveterate enemy than France ever was or will be, and yet how little is done to defend ourselves against his attacks, compared with what might be, with whatoughtto be, done!This enemy is the storm; but, like France, he is not ournaturalenemy. We have only chosen in time past to allow him to become so. The storm has been wisely and beneficently ordained by God to purify the world’s atmosphere, and to convey health and happiness to every land under heaven. If we will not take the obvious and quite possible precautions that are requisite to secure ourselves from his violence, have we not ourselves to blame?There are far too few harbours of refuge on our exposed coasts; the consequence is that our fishing-boats are caught by the storm and wrecked, and not unfrequently as many as a hundred lives are lost in a few hours: Who is to blame? A large vessel goes on the rocks because there is no lighthouse there to give warning of danger; a post has been neglected and the enemy has crept in: Who neglected that post? After the ship has got on the rocks, it is made known to the horrified passengers that there are no ship’s lifeboats aboard, neither are there any life-belts: Whose blame is that? Still there seems hope, for the shore is not far off, and anxious people line it; but no ordinary boat can live in such a sea. There is no rocket apparatus on this part of the coast; no mortar apparatus by which a line might be sent on board: Why not? The nearest lifeboat station is fifteen miles off: Whose fault is that? Is the storm our enemy here? Is not selfish, calculating, miserly man his own enemy in this case? So the ship goes to pieces, and the result is that the loss of this single vessel makes 60 widows and 150 fatherless children in one night! not to speak of thousands of pounds’ worth of property lost to the nation.If you doubt this, reader, consult the pages of theLifeboat Journal, in which you will find facts, related in a grave, succinct, unimpassioned way, that ought to make your hair stand on end!Thoughts strongly resembling those recorded in the last few pages filled the mind and the heart of Bax, as he stood on that calm bright morning on the sea-shore. It was a somewhat lonely spot at the foot of tall cliffs, not far from which the shattered hull of a small brig lay jammed between two rocks. Tommy Bogey stood beside him, and both man and boy gazed long and silently at the wrack which lined the shore. Every nook, every crevice and creek at the foot of the cliff was filled choke full of broken planks and spars, all smashed up into pieces so small that, with the exception of the stump of a main-mast and the heel of a bowsprit, there was not a morsel that exceeded three feet in length, and all laid side by side in such regular order by the swashing of the sea in and out of the narrower creeks, that it seemed as if they had been piled there by the hand of man.They gazed silently, because they had just come upon a sight which filled their hearts with sadness. Close beside a large rock lay the form of an old white-haired man with his head resting on a mass of sea-weed, as if he were asleep. Beside him lay a little girl, whose head rested on the old man’s breast, while her long golden hair lay in wild confusion over his face. The countenances of both were deadly pale, and their lips blue. It required no doctor’s skill to tell that both were dead.“Ah’s me! Tommy, ’tis a sad sight,” said Bax.Tommy made no reply for a few seconds, but after an ineffectual effort to command himself, he burst into tears.“If we had only been here last night,” he sobbed at length, “we might have saved them.”“So we might, so we might, Tommy; who knows? Some one should have been here anyhow. It seems to me that things ain’t well managed in these days. They haven’t half enough of appliances to save life, that’s a fact.”Bax said this somewhat sternly.“Whose fault is it, Bax?” said Tommy, looking up in his friend’s face.“Ha, Tommy,” replied the other with a smile, “it don’t become the like o’ you or me to say who’s to blame. You’re too young to understand the outs and ins o’ such matters, and I’m too ignorant.”The boy smiled incredulously. The idea of Bax being “ignorant” was too gross and absurd to be entertained for a moment, even although stated by himself.“Well, but,” urged Tommy stoutly, “if thingsarewrong, it’s clear that they ain’t right, and surely I’ve a right to say so.”“True, lad, true,” returned Bax, with an approving nod; “that’s just the point which I’d like you and me to stick to: when we see things to be wrong don’t let’s shirk sayin’ so as flat as we can; but don’t let us go, like too many shallow-pates, and say that we knowwho’swrong andwhythey’re wrong, and offer to put them all right on the shortest notice. Mayhap” (here Bax spoke in a soft meditative tone, as if he had forgotten his young friend, and were only thinking aloud) “mayhap we may come to understand the matter one of these days, and have a better right to speak out—who knows?”“That I’m certain of!” cried Tommy, in a tone and with an air that made Bax smile despite the sad sight before him.“Come, lad,” he said, with sudden energy, “we must get ’em removed. Away! and fetch a couple of men. I’ll arrange them.”Tommy was off in a moment, and Bax proceeded with gentle care to arrange the dress and limbs of the old man and the child. Two men soon arrived, and assisted to carry them away. Who they were no one knew and few cared. They were only two of the many who are thus cast annually, and by no meansunavoidably, on our stormy shores.Do not misunderstand us, good reader. Compared with what is done by other lands in this matter, Britain does her duty well; but, compared with what is required by God at the hands of those who call themselves Christians, we still fall far short of our duty, both as a nation and as individuals.

On the fifth morning that succeeded the breaking of the storm, described in the last chapter, the sun rose in gorgeous splendour and shone upon a sea that was clear and burnished like a sheet of glass. The wind had ceased suddenly, and a perfect calm prevailed; but although no breath of air ruffled the surface of the deep, the long swell rose and fell as if the breast of ocean were still throbbing from its recent agitation.

All along the east coast of England this swell met the shore in a succession of slow-rolling waves, which curled majestically over, and appeared almost to pause for a moment ere they fell, with deep solemn roar, in a magnificent burst of foam.

Everywhere the effects of the storm were painfully evident. Wrecks could be counted by the dozen from some of the bold headlands that commanded an extensive view of the shore. The work of destruction was not yet over. The services of our lifeboats could not yet be dispensed with although the fury of the winds had ceased.

It is a mistake to suppose that when a gale has ceased, all danger to man and destruction to his property is over. We are apt to attribute too much influence to the winds. Undoubtedly they are the origin of the evil that befalls us in storms, but they are not theimmediatecause of the wholesale destruction that takes place annually among the shipping of the kingdom. It is the mighty hydraulic force of the sea,—the tremendous lifting power of the waves, that does it all.

Although the storm was over and the wind had gone down, the swell of the ocean had not yet ceased to act. On many a headland, and in many a rocky bay, brigs, schooners, barques, and ships of large size and stout frame, were that day lifted and battered, rent, torn, riven, and split by the sea as if they had been toys; their great timbers snapped like pipe-stems, and their iron bars and copper bolts twisted and gnarled as if they had been made of wire.

The hardy men of Deal were still out in those powerful boats, that seem to be capable of bidding defiance to most storms, saving property to the nation, and earning—hardly earning—salvage for themselves. The lifeboats, too, were out,—in some cases saving life, in others, saving property when there were no lives in danger.

How inadequate are our conceptions of these things when formed from a written account of one or two incidents, even although these be graphically described! How difficult it is to realise the actual scenes that are presented all along the coast during and immediately after each great storm that visits our shores.

If we could, by the exercise of supernatural power, gaze down at these shores as from a bird’s-eye point of view, and take them in, with all their stirring incidents, at one glance; if we could see the wrecks, large and small—colliers with their four or five hands; emigrant ships with their hundreds of passengers—beating and grinding furiously on rocks that appear to rise out of and sink into a sea of foam; if we could witness our lifeboats, with their noble-hearted crews, creeping out of every nook and bay in the very teeth of what seems to be inevitable destruction; if we could witness the hundred deeds of individual daring done by men with bronzed faces and rough garments, who carry their lives habitually in their hands, and think nothing of it; if we could behold the flash of the rockets, and hear the crack of the mortars and the boom of minute guns from John o’ Groat’s to the Land’s End, at the dead and dark hours of night, when dwellers in our inland districts are abed, all ignorant, it may be, or thoughtless, in regard to these things; above all, if we could hear the shrieks of the perishing, the sobs and thanksgivings of the rescued, and the wild cheers of the rescuers; and hear and see all this at one single glance, so that our hearts might be more filled than they are at present with a sense of the terrible dangers of our shores, and the heroism of our men of the coast, it is probable that our prayers for those who “go down to the sea in ships” would be more frequent and fervent, and our respect for those who risk life and limb to save the shipwrecked would be deeper. It is also probable that we might think it worth our while to contribute more largely than we do to the support of that noble Institution whose work it is to place lifeboats where they are wanted on our coasts, and to recognise, reward, and chronicle the deeds of those who distinguish themselves in the great work of saving human life.

Let us put a question to you, good reader. If France, or any other first-rate Power, were to begin the practice of making a sudden descent on us about once a month, on an average, all the year round, slaying some hundreds of our fishermen and seamen each time; occasionally cutting off some of our first-class emigrant ships, and killing all on board—men, women, and children,—thus filling the land with repeated wails of sorrow, with widows and with fatherless children: What would you do?

What!—do you say that you “would fortify every island on the coast, plant Martello towers on every flat beach, crown every height with cannon, and station iron-clads in every harbour and bay, so that the entire coast should bristle with artillery?” That sounds well, but what guarantee have we that you really would act thus if France were to become so outrageous?

“Common sense might assure me of it,” you reply.

So it might, and so it would, if we had not evidence to the contrary in the fact that our countryisthus assailed month after month—year after year—by a more inveterate enemy than France ever was or will be, and yet how little is done to defend ourselves against his attacks, compared with what might be, with whatoughtto be, done!

This enemy is the storm; but, like France, he is not ournaturalenemy. We have only chosen in time past to allow him to become so. The storm has been wisely and beneficently ordained by God to purify the world’s atmosphere, and to convey health and happiness to every land under heaven. If we will not take the obvious and quite possible precautions that are requisite to secure ourselves from his violence, have we not ourselves to blame?

There are far too few harbours of refuge on our exposed coasts; the consequence is that our fishing-boats are caught by the storm and wrecked, and not unfrequently as many as a hundred lives are lost in a few hours: Who is to blame? A large vessel goes on the rocks because there is no lighthouse there to give warning of danger; a post has been neglected and the enemy has crept in: Who neglected that post? After the ship has got on the rocks, it is made known to the horrified passengers that there are no ship’s lifeboats aboard, neither are there any life-belts: Whose blame is that? Still there seems hope, for the shore is not far off, and anxious people line it; but no ordinary boat can live in such a sea. There is no rocket apparatus on this part of the coast; no mortar apparatus by which a line might be sent on board: Why not? The nearest lifeboat station is fifteen miles off: Whose fault is that? Is the storm our enemy here? Is not selfish, calculating, miserly man his own enemy in this case? So the ship goes to pieces, and the result is that the loss of this single vessel makes 60 widows and 150 fatherless children in one night! not to speak of thousands of pounds’ worth of property lost to the nation.

If you doubt this, reader, consult the pages of theLifeboat Journal, in which you will find facts, related in a grave, succinct, unimpassioned way, that ought to make your hair stand on end!

Thoughts strongly resembling those recorded in the last few pages filled the mind and the heart of Bax, as he stood on that calm bright morning on the sea-shore. It was a somewhat lonely spot at the foot of tall cliffs, not far from which the shattered hull of a small brig lay jammed between two rocks. Tommy Bogey stood beside him, and both man and boy gazed long and silently at the wrack which lined the shore. Every nook, every crevice and creek at the foot of the cliff was filled choke full of broken planks and spars, all smashed up into pieces so small that, with the exception of the stump of a main-mast and the heel of a bowsprit, there was not a morsel that exceeded three feet in length, and all laid side by side in such regular order by the swashing of the sea in and out of the narrower creeks, that it seemed as if they had been piled there by the hand of man.

They gazed silently, because they had just come upon a sight which filled their hearts with sadness. Close beside a large rock lay the form of an old white-haired man with his head resting on a mass of sea-weed, as if he were asleep. Beside him lay a little girl, whose head rested on the old man’s breast, while her long golden hair lay in wild confusion over his face. The countenances of both were deadly pale, and their lips blue. It required no doctor’s skill to tell that both were dead.

“Ah’s me! Tommy, ’tis a sad sight,” said Bax.

Tommy made no reply for a few seconds, but after an ineffectual effort to command himself, he burst into tears.

“If we had only been here last night,” he sobbed at length, “we might have saved them.”

“So we might, so we might, Tommy; who knows? Some one should have been here anyhow. It seems to me that things ain’t well managed in these days. They haven’t half enough of appliances to save life, that’s a fact.”

Bax said this somewhat sternly.

“Whose fault is it, Bax?” said Tommy, looking up in his friend’s face.

“Ha, Tommy,” replied the other with a smile, “it don’t become the like o’ you or me to say who’s to blame. You’re too young to understand the outs and ins o’ such matters, and I’m too ignorant.”

The boy smiled incredulously. The idea of Bax being “ignorant” was too gross and absurd to be entertained for a moment, even although stated by himself.

“Well, but,” urged Tommy stoutly, “if thingsarewrong, it’s clear that they ain’t right, and surely I’ve a right to say so.”

“True, lad, true,” returned Bax, with an approving nod; “that’s just the point which I’d like you and me to stick to: when we see things to be wrong don’t let’s shirk sayin’ so as flat as we can; but don’t let us go, like too many shallow-pates, and say that we knowwho’swrong andwhythey’re wrong, and offer to put them all right on the shortest notice. Mayhap” (here Bax spoke in a soft meditative tone, as if he had forgotten his young friend, and were only thinking aloud) “mayhap we may come to understand the matter one of these days, and have a better right to speak out—who knows?”

“That I’m certain of!” cried Tommy, in a tone and with an air that made Bax smile despite the sad sight before him.

“Come, lad,” he said, with sudden energy, “we must get ’em removed. Away! and fetch a couple of men. I’ll arrange them.”

Tommy was off in a moment, and Bax proceeded with gentle care to arrange the dress and limbs of the old man and the child. Two men soon arrived, and assisted to carry them away. Who they were no one knew and few cared. They were only two of the many who are thus cast annually, and by no meansunavoidably, on our stormy shores.

Do not misunderstand us, good reader. Compared with what is done by other lands in this matter, Britain does her duty well; but, compared with what is required by God at the hands of those who call themselves Christians, we still fall far short of our duty, both as a nation and as individuals.

Chapter Fifteen.Relates to Love, Cross Purposes and Mistakes, etcetera.Storms may rage, orphans and widows may weep, but the world must not pause in its regular routine of business and of pleasure. This is natural and right. It was not intended that men should walk perpetually in sackcloth and ashes because of the sorrows that surround them. But equally true is it that they were never meant to shut their eyes and ears to those woes, and dance and sing through life heedlessly, as far too many do until some thunderbolt falls on their own hearts, and brings the truth home.The command is twofold: “Weep with those that weep, and rejoice with those that do rejoice.”Come then, reader, let us visit good Mrs Foster, and rejoice with her as she sits at her tea-table contemplating her gallant son with a mother’s pride. She has some reason to be proud of him. Guy has just received the gold medal awarded him by the Lifeboat Institution. Bax and Tommy have also received their medals, and all three are taking tea with the widow on the occasion. Lucy Burton and Amy Russell are there too, but both of these young ladies are naturally much more taken up with Tommy’s medal than with those of Guy or of Bax!And well they may be, for never a breast, large or small, was more worthy of the decoration it supported.“My brave boy,” said the widow, referring to Tommy, and taking him by the arm as he sat beside her, but looking, irresistibly, at her son, “it was a noble deed. If I had the giving of medals I would have made yours twice the size, with a diamond in the middle of it.”“What a capital idea!” said Lucy, with a silvery laugh, that obliged her to display a double row of brilliant little teeth.“A coral ring set with pearls would be finer, don’t you think?” said Guy, gravely.Tommy grinned and said that that was a toothy remark!Lucy blushed, and said laughingly, that she thought Mrs Foster’s idea better, whereupon the widow waxed vainglorious, and tried to suggest some improvements.Guy, fearing that he had been presumptuous in paying this sly compliment, anxiously sought to make amends by directing most of his conversation to Amy.Bax, who was unusually quiet that evening, was thus left to make himself agreeable to Lucy. But he found it hard work, poor fellow. It was quite evident that he was ill at ease.On most occasions, although habitually grave, Bax was hearty, and had always plenty to say without being obtrusive in his conversation. Moreover, his manners were good, and his deportment unconstrained and easy. But when he visited the widow’s cottage he became awkward and diffident, and seemed to feel great difficulty in carrying on conversation. During the short time he had been at Deal since the wreck of the “Nancy,” he had been up at the cottage every day on one errand or another, and generally met the young ladies either in the house or in the garden.Could it be that Bax was in love? There was no doubt whatever of the fact in his own mind; but, strange to say, no one else suspected it. His character was grave, simple, and straightforward. He did not assume any of those peculiar airs by which young men make donkeys of themselves when in this condition! He feared, too, that it might be interfering with the hopes of his friend Guy, whose affections, he had latterly been led to suspect, lay in the same direction with his own. This made him very circumspect and modest in his behaviour. Had he been quite sure of the state of Guy’s heart he would have retired at once, for it never occurred to him for a moment to imagine that the girl whom Guy loved might not love Guy, and might, possibly, love himself.Be this as it may, Bax resolved to watch his friend that night closely, and act according to the indications given. Little did poor Guy know what a momentous hour that was in the life of his friend, and the importance of the part he was then performing.Bax rose to go sooner than usual.“You are very kind, ma’am,” he said, in reply to Mrs Foster’s remonstrances; “I have to visit an old friend to-night, and as it is probable I may never see him again, I trust you’ll excuse my going so early.”Mrs Foster was obliged to acquiesce. Bax shook hands hurriedly, but very earnestly, with each of the party, and quitted the cottage in company with Guy.“Come, Guy, let us walk over the sandhills.”“A strange walk on so dark a night; don’t you think it would be more cheerful on the beach?”“So it would, so it would,” said Bax, somewhat hastily, “but I want to be alone with you, and we’re likely to meet some of our chums on the beach. Besides, I want to have a quiet talk, and to tell ye something.—You’re in love, Guy.”Bax said this so abruptly that his friend started, and for a few seconds was silent. Then, with a laugh, he replied—“Well, Bax, you’ve a blunt way of broaching a subject, but, now that you put the thing to me, I feel inclined to believe that I am. You’re a sharper fellow than I gave you credit for, to have found me out so soon.”“It needs but little sharpness to guess that when two young folk are thrown much together and find each other agreeable, they’re likely to fall in love.”Bax’s voice sank to its deepest tones; he felt that his hopes had now received their deathblow, and in spite of himself he faltered. With a mighty effort he crushed down the feeling, and continued in a tone of forced gaiety—“Come, I’m rejoiced at your good luck, my boy; she’s one of a thousand, Guy.”“So she is,” said Guy, “but I’m not so sure of my good luck as you seem to be; for I have not yet ventured to speak to her on the subject of love.”“No?” exclaimed Bax in surprise, “that’s strange.”“Why so?” said Guy.“Because you’ve had lots of time and opportunity, lad.”“True,” said Guy, “I have had enough of both, but some folk are not so bold and prompt as others in this curious matter of love.”“Ah, very true,” observed Bax, “some men do take more time than others, and yet it seems to me that there has been time enough for a sharp fellow like you to have settled that question. However, I’ve no doubt myself of the fact that she loves you, Guy, and I do call that uncommon good luck.”“Well, it may seem a vain thing to say, but I do fancy that she likes me a bit,” said the other, in a half jocular tone.The two friends refrained from mentioning the name of the fair one. The heart and mind of each was filled with one object, but each felt a strange disinclination to mention her name.“But it seems to me,” continued Guy, “that instead of wanting to tell me something, as you said, when you brought me out for a walk in this dreary waste of furze and sand at such a time of night, your real object was to pump me!”“Not so,” replied Bax, in a tone so deep and sad as to surprise his friend; “I brought you here because the lonely place accords with my feelings to-night. I have made up my mind to go to Australia.”Guy stopped abruptly. “You jest, Bax,” said he.“I am in earnest,” replied the other, “and since I have forced myself into your confidence, I think it but fair to give you mine. The cause of my going is love! Yes, Guy, I too am in love, but alas! my love is not returned; it is hopeless.”“Say not so,” began Guy, earnestly; but his companion went on without noticing the interruption.“The case is a peculiar one,” said he. “I have known the sweet girl long enough to know that she does not love me, and that shedoeslove another man. Moreover,Ilove that man too. He is my friend; so, the long and the short of it is, I’m going to up-anchor, away to the gold-fields, and leave the coast clear to him.”“This must not be, Bax; you may be wrong in supposing your case hopeless. May I ask her name?”“Forgive me, Guy, Imustnot mention it,” said Bax.It is not necessary to weary the reader with the variety of arguments with which Guy plied his friend in order to turn him from his purpose, as they wandered slowly over the sandhills together. He was unsuccessful in his efforts to arouse hope in the bosom of his friend, or to induce him to suspend his determination for a time. Nor was he more fortunate in attempting to make Bax say who was the friend—for whom he was about to make so great a sacrifice,—little suspecting that it was himself!“Now,” said Bax, after having firmly resisted his companion’s utmost efforts, “I want you to leave me here alone. I may seem to you to be obstinate and ungracious to-night” (he stopped and seized Guy’s hand), “but, believe me, I am not so. My heart is terribly down, and you know I’m a rough matter-of-fact fellow, not given to be sentimental, so I can’t speak to you as I would wish on this subject; but wherever I may go in this world, I will never cease to pray for God’s blessing on you and yours, Guy.”“I like to hear you say that, Bax,” returned the other; “it will rejoice my heart to think that love for me will be the means of taking you often to the throne of God.”“You’re a good fellow, Guy; perhaps what you have often said to me has not been thrown away as much as you suppose. Come, now, instead of you having to urge the subject on me, I’ll ask you to give me a text. Supposing that you and I were partingto-nightfor the last time, and that I were going off to Australiato-morrow, what would you say to me in the way of advice and encouragement?”Guy paused thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, “Delight thyself in the Lord, trust also in Him, and He will give thee the desires of thine heart.”“Thank ’ee, lad, I’ll not forget the words,” said Bax, wringing his friend’s hand.“Perhaps I’ll think of another and more suitable text when the time for parting really comes,” said Guy, sadly. “Good-night, Bax; mind you come up to the cottage to-morrow, and let me know your plans.”“I shall be busy to-morrow, but I’ll write,” said Bax, as his friend left him. “Ay,” he added, “there goes a real Christian, and a true-hearted friend. Ah’s me! I’ll never see him more!”Bax wandered slowly and without aim over the dark waste for some time. Almost unintentionally he followed the path that led past the Checkers of the Hope. A solitary light burned in one of the lower windows of the old inn, but no sound of revelry issued from its doors. Leaving it behind him, Bax soon found himself standing within a few yards of the tombstone of the ill-fated Mary whose name he bore.“Poor thing, ’twas a sad fate!” he murmured, as he contemplated the grave of the murdered girl, who had been a cousin of his own grandfather. “Poor Mary, you’re at rest now, which is more than I am.”For some minutes Bax stood gazing dreamily at the grave which was barely visible in the faint light afforded by a few stars that shone through the cloudy sky. Suddenly he started, and every fibre of his strong frame was shaken with horror as he beheld the surface of the grave move, and saw, or fancied he saw, a dim figure raise itself partially from the earth.Bax was no coward in any sense of that word. Many brave men there are who, although quite fearless in regard to danger and death, are the most arrant cowards in the matter of superstition, and could be made to flee before a mere fancy. But our hero was not one of these. His mind was strong, like his body, and well balanced. He stood his ground and prepared to face the matter out. He would indeed have been more than human if such an unexpected sight, in such circumstances, had failed to horrify him, but the effect of the shock soon passed away.“Who comes here to disturb me?” said a weak voice that evidently belonged to this ghost.“Hallo! Jeph, is that you?” exclaimed Bax, springing forward and gazing into the old man’s face.“Ay, it’s me, and I’m sorry you’ve found me out, for I like to be let alone in my grief.”“Why, Jeph, you don’t need to be testy with your friend. I’ll quit ye this moment if you bid me; but I think you might find a warmer and more fitting bed for your old bones than poor Mary Bax’s grave. Come, let me help you up.”Bax said this so kindly, that old Jeph’s temporary anger at having been discovered passed away.“Well, well,” said he, “the only two people who have found me out are the two I like best, so it don’t much matter.”“Indeed,” exclaimed the young man in surprise, “who is number two, Jeph?”“Tommy Bogey. He found me here on the night when Long Orrick was chased by Supple Jim.”“Strange, he never told me about it,” said Bax.“’Cause I told him to hold his tongue,” replied Jeph, “and Tommy’s a good fellow and knows how to shut his mouth w’en a friend asks him to—as I now ask you, Bax, for I don’t want people know that I come here every night.”“What! do you come hereeverynight?” cried Bax in surprise.“Ay, every night, fair weather and foul; I’ve been used to both for a long time now, and I’m too tough to be easily damaged.”“But why do you this, Jeph? You are not mad! If you were, I could understand it.”“No matter, no matter,” said the old man, turning to gaze at the tombstone before quitting the place. “Some people are fond of having secrets. I’ve got one, and I like to keep it.”“Well, I won’t try to pump it out of you, my old friend. Moreover, I haven’t got too much time to spare. I meant to go straight to your house to-night, Jeph, to tell you that I’m off to Australia to-morrow by peep o’ day.”“Australia!” exclaimed Jeph, with a perplexed look in his old face.“Ay, the blue peter’s at the mast-head and the anchor tripped.”Here Bax related to his old comrade what he had previously told to Guy. At first Jeph shook his head, but when the young sailor spoke of love being the cause of his sudden departure, he made him sit down on the grave, and listened earnestly.“So, so, Bax,” he said, when the latter had concluded, “you’re quite sure she’s fond o’ the other feller, are ye?”“Quite. I had it from his own lips. At least he told me he’s fond ofher, and I could see with my own eyes she’s fond ofhim.”“Poor lad,” said Jeph, patting his friend’s shoulder as if he had been a child, “you’re quite right to go. I know what love is. You’ll never get cured inthiscountry; mayhap foreign air’ll do it. I refused to tell you what made me come out here lad; but now that I knows how the wind blows withyou, I don’t mind if I let ye into my secret. Love! ay, it’s the old story; love has brought me here night after night since ever I was a boy.”“Love!” exclaimed his companion; “love of whom?”“Why, who should it be but the love o’ the dear girl as lies under this sod?” said the old man, putting his hand affectionately on the grave. “Ay, you may well look at me in wonderment, but I wasn’t always the wrinkled old man I am now. I was a good-lookin’ lad once, though I don’t look like it now. When poor Mary was murdered I was nineteen. I won’t tell ye how I loved that dear girl. Ye couldn’t understand me. When she was murdered by that”—(he paused abruptly for a moment, and then resumed)—“when she was murdered, I thought I should have gone mad. Iwasmad, I believe, for a time; but when I came back here to stay, after wanderin’ in foreign parts for many years, I took to comin’ to the grave at nights. At first I got no good. I thought my heart would burst altogether, but at last the Lord sent peace into my soul. I began to think of her as an angel in heaven, and now the sweetest hours of my life are spent on this grave. Poor Mary! She was gentle and kind, especially to the poor and the afflicted. She took a great interest in the ways and means we had for savin’ people from wrecks, and used often to say it was a pity they couldn’t get a boat made that would neither upset nor sink in a storm. She had read o’ some such contrivance somewhere, for she was a great reader. Ever since that time I’ve bin trying, in my poor way, to make something o’ the sort, but I’ve not managed it yet. I like to think she would have been pleased to see me at it.”Old Jeph stopped at this point, and shook his head slowly. Then he continued—“I find that as long as I keep near this grave my love for Mary can’t die, and I don’t want it to. But that’s why I think you’re right to go abroad. It won’t do for a man like you to go moping through life as I have done. Mayhap there’s some truth in the sayin’, Out o’ sight out o’ mind.”“Ah’s me!” said Bax; “isn’t it likely that there may be some truth too in the words o’ the old song, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ But you’re right, Jeph, it wouldn’t do formeto go moping through life as long as there’s work to do. Besides, old boy, there’s plenty ofthissort o’ thing to be done; and I’ll do it better now that I don’t have anybody in particular to live for.”Bax said this with reckless gaiety, and touched the medal awarded to him by the Lifeboat Institution, which still hung on his breast where it had been fastened that evening by Lucy Burton.The two friends rose and returned together to Jeph’s cottage, where Bax meant to remain but a few minutes, to leave sundry messages to various friends. He was shaking hands with the old man and bidding him farewell, when the door was burst open and Tommy Bogey rushed into the room. Bax seized the boy in his arms, and pressed him to his breast.“Hallo! I say, is it murder ye’re after, or d’ye mistake me for a polar bear?” cried Tommy, on being put down; “wot a hug, to be sure! Lucky for me that my timbers ain’t easy stove in. Wot d’ye mean by it?”Bax laughed, and patted Tommy’s head. “Nothin’, lad, only I feel as if I should ha’ bin your mother.”“Well, I won’t say ye’re far out,” rejoined the boy, waggishly, “for I do think ye’re becomin’ an old wife. But, I say, what can be wrong with Guy Foster? He came back to the cottage a short while ago lookin’ quite glum, and shut himself up in his room, and he won’t say what’s wrong, so I come down here to look for you, for I knew I’d find ye with old Jeph or Bluenose.”“Ye’re too inquisitive,” said Bax, drawing Tommy towards him, and sitting down on a chair, so that the boy’s face might be on a level with his. “No doubt Guy will explain it to you in the morning. I say, Tommy, I have sometimes wondered whether I could depend on the friendship which you so often profess for me.”The boy’s face flushed, and he looked for a moment really hurt.“Tutts, Tommy, you’re gettin’ thin-skinned. I do but jest.”“Well, jest or no jest,” said the boy, not half pleased, “you know very well that nothing could ever make me turn my back onyou.”“Are you sure?” said Bax, smiling. “Suppose, now, that I was to do something very bad to you, something unkind, or thatlookedunkind—what then?”“In the first place you couldn’t do that, and, in the second place, if you did I’d like you just as well.”“Ay, but suppose,” continued Bax, in a jocular strain, “that what I did wasverybad.”“Well, let’s hear what you call very bad.”Bax paused as if to consider, then he said: “Suppose, now, that I were to go off suddenly to some far part of the world for many years without so much as saying good-bye to ye, what would you think?”“I’d find out where you had gone to, and follow you, and pitch into you when I found you,” said Tommy stoutly.“Ay, but I did not ask what you’d do; I asked what you’d think?”“Why, I would think something had happened to prevent you lettin’ me know, but I’d never think ill of you,” replied Tommy.“I believe you, boy,” said Bax, earnestly. “But come, enough o’ this idle talk. I want you to go up to the cottage with a message to Guy. Tell him not to speak to any one to-night or to-morrow about what I said to him when we were walking on the sandhills; and be off, lad, as fast as you can, lest he should let it out before you get there.”“Anything to do with smugglers?” inquired the boy, with a knowing look, as they stood outside the door.“Why, n–no, not exactly.”“Well, good-night, Bax; good-night, old Jeph.”Tommy departed, and the two men stood alone.“God bless the lad. You’ll be kind to him, Jeph, when I’m away?”“Trust me, Bax,” said the old man, grasping his friend’s hand.Without another word, Bax turned on his heel, and his tall, stalwart figure was quickly lost to view in the dark shadows of the night.

Storms may rage, orphans and widows may weep, but the world must not pause in its regular routine of business and of pleasure. This is natural and right. It was not intended that men should walk perpetually in sackcloth and ashes because of the sorrows that surround them. But equally true is it that they were never meant to shut their eyes and ears to those woes, and dance and sing through life heedlessly, as far too many do until some thunderbolt falls on their own hearts, and brings the truth home.

The command is twofold: “Weep with those that weep, and rejoice with those that do rejoice.”

Come then, reader, let us visit good Mrs Foster, and rejoice with her as she sits at her tea-table contemplating her gallant son with a mother’s pride. She has some reason to be proud of him. Guy has just received the gold medal awarded him by the Lifeboat Institution. Bax and Tommy have also received their medals, and all three are taking tea with the widow on the occasion. Lucy Burton and Amy Russell are there too, but both of these young ladies are naturally much more taken up with Tommy’s medal than with those of Guy or of Bax!

And well they may be, for never a breast, large or small, was more worthy of the decoration it supported.

“My brave boy,” said the widow, referring to Tommy, and taking him by the arm as he sat beside her, but looking, irresistibly, at her son, “it was a noble deed. If I had the giving of medals I would have made yours twice the size, with a diamond in the middle of it.”

“What a capital idea!” said Lucy, with a silvery laugh, that obliged her to display a double row of brilliant little teeth.

“A coral ring set with pearls would be finer, don’t you think?” said Guy, gravely.

Tommy grinned and said that that was a toothy remark!

Lucy blushed, and said laughingly, that she thought Mrs Foster’s idea better, whereupon the widow waxed vainglorious, and tried to suggest some improvements.

Guy, fearing that he had been presumptuous in paying this sly compliment, anxiously sought to make amends by directing most of his conversation to Amy.

Bax, who was unusually quiet that evening, was thus left to make himself agreeable to Lucy. But he found it hard work, poor fellow. It was quite evident that he was ill at ease.

On most occasions, although habitually grave, Bax was hearty, and had always plenty to say without being obtrusive in his conversation. Moreover, his manners were good, and his deportment unconstrained and easy. But when he visited the widow’s cottage he became awkward and diffident, and seemed to feel great difficulty in carrying on conversation. During the short time he had been at Deal since the wreck of the “Nancy,” he had been up at the cottage every day on one errand or another, and generally met the young ladies either in the house or in the garden.

Could it be that Bax was in love? There was no doubt whatever of the fact in his own mind; but, strange to say, no one else suspected it. His character was grave, simple, and straightforward. He did not assume any of those peculiar airs by which young men make donkeys of themselves when in this condition! He feared, too, that it might be interfering with the hopes of his friend Guy, whose affections, he had latterly been led to suspect, lay in the same direction with his own. This made him very circumspect and modest in his behaviour. Had he been quite sure of the state of Guy’s heart he would have retired at once, for it never occurred to him for a moment to imagine that the girl whom Guy loved might not love Guy, and might, possibly, love himself.

Be this as it may, Bax resolved to watch his friend that night closely, and act according to the indications given. Little did poor Guy know what a momentous hour that was in the life of his friend, and the importance of the part he was then performing.

Bax rose to go sooner than usual.

“You are very kind, ma’am,” he said, in reply to Mrs Foster’s remonstrances; “I have to visit an old friend to-night, and as it is probable I may never see him again, I trust you’ll excuse my going so early.”

Mrs Foster was obliged to acquiesce. Bax shook hands hurriedly, but very earnestly, with each of the party, and quitted the cottage in company with Guy.

“Come, Guy, let us walk over the sandhills.”

“A strange walk on so dark a night; don’t you think it would be more cheerful on the beach?”

“So it would, so it would,” said Bax, somewhat hastily, “but I want to be alone with you, and we’re likely to meet some of our chums on the beach. Besides, I want to have a quiet talk, and to tell ye something.—You’re in love, Guy.”

Bax said this so abruptly that his friend started, and for a few seconds was silent. Then, with a laugh, he replied—

“Well, Bax, you’ve a blunt way of broaching a subject, but, now that you put the thing to me, I feel inclined to believe that I am. You’re a sharper fellow than I gave you credit for, to have found me out so soon.”

“It needs but little sharpness to guess that when two young folk are thrown much together and find each other agreeable, they’re likely to fall in love.”

Bax’s voice sank to its deepest tones; he felt that his hopes had now received their deathblow, and in spite of himself he faltered. With a mighty effort he crushed down the feeling, and continued in a tone of forced gaiety—

“Come, I’m rejoiced at your good luck, my boy; she’s one of a thousand, Guy.”

“So she is,” said Guy, “but I’m not so sure of my good luck as you seem to be; for I have not yet ventured to speak to her on the subject of love.”

“No?” exclaimed Bax in surprise, “that’s strange.”

“Why so?” said Guy.

“Because you’ve had lots of time and opportunity, lad.”

“True,” said Guy, “I have had enough of both, but some folk are not so bold and prompt as others in this curious matter of love.”

“Ah, very true,” observed Bax, “some men do take more time than others, and yet it seems to me that there has been time enough for a sharp fellow like you to have settled that question. However, I’ve no doubt myself of the fact that she loves you, Guy, and I do call that uncommon good luck.”

“Well, it may seem a vain thing to say, but I do fancy that she likes me a bit,” said the other, in a half jocular tone.

The two friends refrained from mentioning the name of the fair one. The heart and mind of each was filled with one object, but each felt a strange disinclination to mention her name.

“But it seems to me,” continued Guy, “that instead of wanting to tell me something, as you said, when you brought me out for a walk in this dreary waste of furze and sand at such a time of night, your real object was to pump me!”

“Not so,” replied Bax, in a tone so deep and sad as to surprise his friend; “I brought you here because the lonely place accords with my feelings to-night. I have made up my mind to go to Australia.”

Guy stopped abruptly. “You jest, Bax,” said he.

“I am in earnest,” replied the other, “and since I have forced myself into your confidence, I think it but fair to give you mine. The cause of my going is love! Yes, Guy, I too am in love, but alas! my love is not returned; it is hopeless.”

“Say not so,” began Guy, earnestly; but his companion went on without noticing the interruption.

“The case is a peculiar one,” said he. “I have known the sweet girl long enough to know that she does not love me, and that shedoeslove another man. Moreover,Ilove that man too. He is my friend; so, the long and the short of it is, I’m going to up-anchor, away to the gold-fields, and leave the coast clear to him.”

“This must not be, Bax; you may be wrong in supposing your case hopeless. May I ask her name?”

“Forgive me, Guy, Imustnot mention it,” said Bax.

It is not necessary to weary the reader with the variety of arguments with which Guy plied his friend in order to turn him from his purpose, as they wandered slowly over the sandhills together. He was unsuccessful in his efforts to arouse hope in the bosom of his friend, or to induce him to suspend his determination for a time. Nor was he more fortunate in attempting to make Bax say who was the friend—for whom he was about to make so great a sacrifice,—little suspecting that it was himself!

“Now,” said Bax, after having firmly resisted his companion’s utmost efforts, “I want you to leave me here alone. I may seem to you to be obstinate and ungracious to-night” (he stopped and seized Guy’s hand), “but, believe me, I am not so. My heart is terribly down, and you know I’m a rough matter-of-fact fellow, not given to be sentimental, so I can’t speak to you as I would wish on this subject; but wherever I may go in this world, I will never cease to pray for God’s blessing on you and yours, Guy.”

“I like to hear you say that, Bax,” returned the other; “it will rejoice my heart to think that love for me will be the means of taking you often to the throne of God.”

“You’re a good fellow, Guy; perhaps what you have often said to me has not been thrown away as much as you suppose. Come, now, instead of you having to urge the subject on me, I’ll ask you to give me a text. Supposing that you and I were partingto-nightfor the last time, and that I were going off to Australiato-morrow, what would you say to me in the way of advice and encouragement?”

Guy paused thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, “Delight thyself in the Lord, trust also in Him, and He will give thee the desires of thine heart.”

“Thank ’ee, lad, I’ll not forget the words,” said Bax, wringing his friend’s hand.

“Perhaps I’ll think of another and more suitable text when the time for parting really comes,” said Guy, sadly. “Good-night, Bax; mind you come up to the cottage to-morrow, and let me know your plans.”

“I shall be busy to-morrow, but I’ll write,” said Bax, as his friend left him. “Ay,” he added, “there goes a real Christian, and a true-hearted friend. Ah’s me! I’ll never see him more!”

Bax wandered slowly and without aim over the dark waste for some time. Almost unintentionally he followed the path that led past the Checkers of the Hope. A solitary light burned in one of the lower windows of the old inn, but no sound of revelry issued from its doors. Leaving it behind him, Bax soon found himself standing within a few yards of the tombstone of the ill-fated Mary whose name he bore.

“Poor thing, ’twas a sad fate!” he murmured, as he contemplated the grave of the murdered girl, who had been a cousin of his own grandfather. “Poor Mary, you’re at rest now, which is more than I am.”

For some minutes Bax stood gazing dreamily at the grave which was barely visible in the faint light afforded by a few stars that shone through the cloudy sky. Suddenly he started, and every fibre of his strong frame was shaken with horror as he beheld the surface of the grave move, and saw, or fancied he saw, a dim figure raise itself partially from the earth.

Bax was no coward in any sense of that word. Many brave men there are who, although quite fearless in regard to danger and death, are the most arrant cowards in the matter of superstition, and could be made to flee before a mere fancy. But our hero was not one of these. His mind was strong, like his body, and well balanced. He stood his ground and prepared to face the matter out. He would indeed have been more than human if such an unexpected sight, in such circumstances, had failed to horrify him, but the effect of the shock soon passed away.

“Who comes here to disturb me?” said a weak voice that evidently belonged to this ghost.

“Hallo! Jeph, is that you?” exclaimed Bax, springing forward and gazing into the old man’s face.

“Ay, it’s me, and I’m sorry you’ve found me out, for I like to be let alone in my grief.”

“Why, Jeph, you don’t need to be testy with your friend. I’ll quit ye this moment if you bid me; but I think you might find a warmer and more fitting bed for your old bones than poor Mary Bax’s grave. Come, let me help you up.”

Bax said this so kindly, that old Jeph’s temporary anger at having been discovered passed away.

“Well, well,” said he, “the only two people who have found me out are the two I like best, so it don’t much matter.”

“Indeed,” exclaimed the young man in surprise, “who is number two, Jeph?”

“Tommy Bogey. He found me here on the night when Long Orrick was chased by Supple Jim.”

“Strange, he never told me about it,” said Bax.

“’Cause I told him to hold his tongue,” replied Jeph, “and Tommy’s a good fellow and knows how to shut his mouth w’en a friend asks him to—as I now ask you, Bax, for I don’t want people know that I come here every night.”

“What! do you come hereeverynight?” cried Bax in surprise.

“Ay, every night, fair weather and foul; I’ve been used to both for a long time now, and I’m too tough to be easily damaged.”

“But why do you this, Jeph? You are not mad! If you were, I could understand it.”

“No matter, no matter,” said the old man, turning to gaze at the tombstone before quitting the place. “Some people are fond of having secrets. I’ve got one, and I like to keep it.”

“Well, I won’t try to pump it out of you, my old friend. Moreover, I haven’t got too much time to spare. I meant to go straight to your house to-night, Jeph, to tell you that I’m off to Australia to-morrow by peep o’ day.”

“Australia!” exclaimed Jeph, with a perplexed look in his old face.

“Ay, the blue peter’s at the mast-head and the anchor tripped.”

Here Bax related to his old comrade what he had previously told to Guy. At first Jeph shook his head, but when the young sailor spoke of love being the cause of his sudden departure, he made him sit down on the grave, and listened earnestly.

“So, so, Bax,” he said, when the latter had concluded, “you’re quite sure she’s fond o’ the other feller, are ye?”

“Quite. I had it from his own lips. At least he told me he’s fond ofher, and I could see with my own eyes she’s fond ofhim.”

“Poor lad,” said Jeph, patting his friend’s shoulder as if he had been a child, “you’re quite right to go. I know what love is. You’ll never get cured inthiscountry; mayhap foreign air’ll do it. I refused to tell you what made me come out here lad; but now that I knows how the wind blows withyou, I don’t mind if I let ye into my secret. Love! ay, it’s the old story; love has brought me here night after night since ever I was a boy.”

“Love!” exclaimed his companion; “love of whom?”

“Why, who should it be but the love o’ the dear girl as lies under this sod?” said the old man, putting his hand affectionately on the grave. “Ay, you may well look at me in wonderment, but I wasn’t always the wrinkled old man I am now. I was a good-lookin’ lad once, though I don’t look like it now. When poor Mary was murdered I was nineteen. I won’t tell ye how I loved that dear girl. Ye couldn’t understand me. When she was murdered by that”—(he paused abruptly for a moment, and then resumed)—“when she was murdered, I thought I should have gone mad. Iwasmad, I believe, for a time; but when I came back here to stay, after wanderin’ in foreign parts for many years, I took to comin’ to the grave at nights. At first I got no good. I thought my heart would burst altogether, but at last the Lord sent peace into my soul. I began to think of her as an angel in heaven, and now the sweetest hours of my life are spent on this grave. Poor Mary! She was gentle and kind, especially to the poor and the afflicted. She took a great interest in the ways and means we had for savin’ people from wrecks, and used often to say it was a pity they couldn’t get a boat made that would neither upset nor sink in a storm. She had read o’ some such contrivance somewhere, for she was a great reader. Ever since that time I’ve bin trying, in my poor way, to make something o’ the sort, but I’ve not managed it yet. I like to think she would have been pleased to see me at it.”

Old Jeph stopped at this point, and shook his head slowly. Then he continued—

“I find that as long as I keep near this grave my love for Mary can’t die, and I don’t want it to. But that’s why I think you’re right to go abroad. It won’t do for a man like you to go moping through life as I have done. Mayhap there’s some truth in the sayin’, Out o’ sight out o’ mind.”

“Ah’s me!” said Bax; “isn’t it likely that there may be some truth too in the words o’ the old song, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ But you’re right, Jeph, it wouldn’t do formeto go moping through life as long as there’s work to do. Besides, old boy, there’s plenty ofthissort o’ thing to be done; and I’ll do it better now that I don’t have anybody in particular to live for.”

Bax said this with reckless gaiety, and touched the medal awarded to him by the Lifeboat Institution, which still hung on his breast where it had been fastened that evening by Lucy Burton.

The two friends rose and returned together to Jeph’s cottage, where Bax meant to remain but a few minutes, to leave sundry messages to various friends. He was shaking hands with the old man and bidding him farewell, when the door was burst open and Tommy Bogey rushed into the room. Bax seized the boy in his arms, and pressed him to his breast.

“Hallo! I say, is it murder ye’re after, or d’ye mistake me for a polar bear?” cried Tommy, on being put down; “wot a hug, to be sure! Lucky for me that my timbers ain’t easy stove in. Wot d’ye mean by it?”

Bax laughed, and patted Tommy’s head. “Nothin’, lad, only I feel as if I should ha’ bin your mother.”

“Well, I won’t say ye’re far out,” rejoined the boy, waggishly, “for I do think ye’re becomin’ an old wife. But, I say, what can be wrong with Guy Foster? He came back to the cottage a short while ago lookin’ quite glum, and shut himself up in his room, and he won’t say what’s wrong, so I come down here to look for you, for I knew I’d find ye with old Jeph or Bluenose.”

“Ye’re too inquisitive,” said Bax, drawing Tommy towards him, and sitting down on a chair, so that the boy’s face might be on a level with his. “No doubt Guy will explain it to you in the morning. I say, Tommy, I have sometimes wondered whether I could depend on the friendship which you so often profess for me.”

The boy’s face flushed, and he looked for a moment really hurt.

“Tutts, Tommy, you’re gettin’ thin-skinned. I do but jest.”

“Well, jest or no jest,” said the boy, not half pleased, “you know very well that nothing could ever make me turn my back onyou.”

“Are you sure?” said Bax, smiling. “Suppose, now, that I was to do something very bad to you, something unkind, or thatlookedunkind—what then?”

“In the first place you couldn’t do that, and, in the second place, if you did I’d like you just as well.”

“Ay, but suppose,” continued Bax, in a jocular strain, “that what I did wasverybad.”

“Well, let’s hear what you call very bad.”

Bax paused as if to consider, then he said: “Suppose, now, that I were to go off suddenly to some far part of the world for many years without so much as saying good-bye to ye, what would you think?”

“I’d find out where you had gone to, and follow you, and pitch into you when I found you,” said Tommy stoutly.

“Ay, but I did not ask what you’d do; I asked what you’d think?”

“Why, I would think something had happened to prevent you lettin’ me know, but I’d never think ill of you,” replied Tommy.

“I believe you, boy,” said Bax, earnestly. “But come, enough o’ this idle talk. I want you to go up to the cottage with a message to Guy. Tell him not to speak to any one to-night or to-morrow about what I said to him when we were walking on the sandhills; and be off, lad, as fast as you can, lest he should let it out before you get there.”

“Anything to do with smugglers?” inquired the boy, with a knowing look, as they stood outside the door.

“Why, n–no, not exactly.”

“Well, good-night, Bax; good-night, old Jeph.”

Tommy departed, and the two men stood alone.

“God bless the lad. You’ll be kind to him, Jeph, when I’m away?”

“Trust me, Bax,” said the old man, grasping his friend’s hand.

Without another word, Bax turned on his heel, and his tall, stalwart figure was quickly lost to view in the dark shadows of the night.

Chapter Sixteen.Tommy Bogey forms a Mighty Resolve, and Mr Denham, being Perplexed, becomes Liberal.When Tommy Bogey discovered the terrible fact that his friend Bax had really gone from him, perhaps for ever, he went straight up to the cottage, sat down on the kitchen floor at the feet of Mrs Laker, laid his head on her lap, and wept as if his heart would break.“My poor boy!” said the sympathising Laker, stroking his head, and endeavouring to comfort him more by tone and manner than by words.But Tommy refused to be comforted. The strongest affection he had ever known was rudely and suddenly crushed. It was hard in Bax to have done it; so Tommy felt, though he would not admit it in so many words. So Bax himself felt when the first wild rush of sorrow was past, and he had leisure to consider the hasty step he had taken, while sailing away over the distant sea towards the antipodes. Bitterly did he blame himself and repent when repentance was of no avail.Tommy’s grief was deep, but not loud. He did not express it with a howling accompaniment. It burst from him in gasping sobs for a time, then it subsided into the recesses of his young heart and gnawed there. It did not again break bounds, but it somewhat changed the boy’s character. It made him almost a man in thought and action. He experienced that strong emotion which is known to most young hearts at certain periods of early life, and which shows itself in the formation of a fixed resolve to take some prompt and mighty step! What that step should be he did not know at first, and did not care to know. Sufficient for him, that coming to an unalterable determination of some indefinite sort afforded him great relief.After the first paroxysm was over, Tommy rose up, kissed Mrs Laker on the cheek, bade her goodnight with unwonted decision of manner, and went straight to the amphibious hut of his friend Bluenose, whom he found taking a one-eyed survey of the Downs through a telescope, from mere force of habit.The Captain’s name was more appropriate that day than it had been for many years. He was looking uncommonly “blue” indeed. He had just heard of the disappearance of Bax, for the news soon spread among the men on Deal beach. Being ignorant of the cause of his friend’s sudden departure, and knowing his deliberate, sensible nature, the whole subject was involved in a degree of mystery which his philosophy utterly failed to clear up. Being a bachelor, and never having been in love, or met with any striking incidents of a tender nature in his career, it did not occur to him that woman could be at the bottom of it!“Uncle,” said Tommy, “Bax is gone!”“Tommy, I knows it,” was the brief reply, and the telescope was shut up with a bang, as the seaman sat down on a little chest, and stared vacantly in the boy’s face.“Why did he do it?” asked Tommy.“Dun’ know. Who knows? S’pose he must ha’ gone mad, though it don’t seem likely. If it wasn’t Guy as told me I’d not believe it.”“Does Guy not know why he’s gone?”“Apperiently he does, but he says he’s bound not to tell. Hope Bax han’t bin and done somethin’ not ’xactly right—”“Baxdo anything not exactly right!” cried Tommy, with a look and tone of amazed indignation.“Right, lad, you’re right,” said Bluenose apologetically. “I’ve no doubt myself he could explain it all quite clear if he wos here for to do so. That’s my opinion; and I’ve no doubt either that the first letter he sends home will make all straight an’ snug, depend on it.”“Uncle,” said Tommy, “Iam going to Australia.”Bluenose, who had just lighted his pipe, looked at the boy through the smoke, smiled, and said, “No, Tommy, you ain’t.”“Uncle,” repeated Tommy, “I am. I once heard Bax say he’d rather go there than anywhere else, if he was to go abroad; so I’m certain he has gone there, and I’m going to seek for him.”“Wery good, my lad,” said the Captain coolly; “d’ye go by steamer to-night, or by rail to-morrow mornin’? P’raps you’d better go by telegraph; it’s quicker, I’m told.”“You think I’m jokin’, Uncle, but I’m not, as you’ll very soon find out.”So saying, Tommy rose and left the hut. This was all he said on the subject. He was a strong-minded little fellow. He at once assumed the position of an independent man, and merely stated his intentions to one or two intimate friends, such as Bluenose, Laker, and old Jeph. As these regarded his statement as the wild fancy of an enthusiastic boy in the first gush of disappointment, they treated it with good-natured raillery. So Tommy resolved, as he would have himself have expressed it, “to shut up, and keep his own counsel.”When Guy told Lucy Burton that the man who had saved her life had gone off thus suddenly, she burst into tears; but her tears had not flowed long before she asked Guy the reason of his strange and abrupt departure.Of course Guy could not tell. He had been pledged to secrecy as to the cause.When Lucy Burton went to tell Amy Russell, she did so with a trembling heart. For some time past she had suspected that Amy loved Bax and not Guy, as she had at first mistakenly supposed. Knowing that if her suspicions were true, the news would be terrible indeed to her friend, she considerately went to her room and told her privately.Amy turned deadly pale, stood speechless for a few seconds, and then fainted in her friend’s arms.On recovering she confessed her love, but made Lucy solemnly pledge herself to secrecy.“No one shall ever know of this but yourself, dear Lucy,” said Amy, laying her head on her friend’s bosom, and finding relief in tears.Time passed away, as time is wont to do, and it seemed as if Tommy Bogey had forgotten to carry out his determination. From that day forward he never referred to it, and the few friends to whom he had mentioned it supposed that he had given up the idea altogether as impracticable.They did not know the mettle that Tommy was made of. After maturely considering the matter, he had made up his mind to delay carrying out his plan until Bax should have time to write home and acquaint him with his whereabouts. Meanwhile, he would set himself to make and save up money by every means in his power, for he had sense enough to know that a moneyless traveller must be a helpless creature.Peekins was permanently received into Sandhill Cottage as page-in-buttons, in which capacity he presented a miserably attenuated figure, but gave great satisfaction. Tommy and he continued good friends; the former devoting as much of his leisure time to the latter as he could spare. He had not much to spare, however, for he had, among other things, set himself energetically to the study of arithmetic and navigation under the united guidance of old Jeph and Bluenose.Lucy Burton paid a long visit to Mrs Foster, and roamed over the Sandhills day after day with her friend Amy, until her father, the missionary, came and claimed her and carried her back to Ramsgate. During Lucy’s stay, Guy Foster remained at the cottage, busily engaged in various ways, but especially in making himself agreeable to Lucy, in which effort he seemed to be very successful.When the latter left, he suddenly discovered that he was wasting his time sadly, and told his mother that he meant to look out for something to do. With this end in view he set out for London, that mighty hive of industry and idleness into which there is a ceaseless flow of men who “want something to do,” and of men who “don’t know what to do.”And what of Denham, Crumps, and Company during this period?The rats in and around Red Wharf Lane could have told you, had they been able to speak, that things prospered with that firm. These jovial creatures, that revelled so luxuriously in the slime and mud and miscellaneous abominations of that locality, could have told you that, every morning regularly, they were caught rioting in the lane and sent squealing out of it, by a boy in blue (the successor of poor Peekins) who opened the office and prepared it for the business of the day; that about half an hour later they, the rats, were again disturbed by the arrival of the head-clerk, closely followed by the juniors, who were almost as closely followed by Crumps—he being a timid old man who stood in awe of his senior partner; that, after this, they had a good long period of comparative quiet, during which they held a riotous game of hide-and-seek across the lane and down among sewers and dust holes, and delightfully noisome and fetid places of a similar character; interrupted at irregular intervals by a vagrant street boy, or a daring cat, or an inquisitive cur; that this game was stopped at about ten o’clock by the advent of Mr Denham, who generally gave them, the rats, a smile of recognition as he passed to his office, concluding, no doubt, by a natural process of ratiocination, that they were kindred spirits, because they delighted in bad smells and filthy garbage, just as he (Denham) rejoiced in Thames air and filthy lucre.One fine morning, speaking from a rat’s point of view, when the air was so thick and heavy and moist that it was difficult to see more than a few yards in any direction, Denham came down the lane about half-an-hour later than usual, with a brisk step and an unusually smiling countenance.Peekins’ successor relieved him of his hat, topcoat, and umbrella, and one of the clerks brought him the letters. Before opening these he shouted—“Mr Crumps!”Crumps came meekly out of his cell, as if he had been a bad dog who knew he deserved, and expected, a whipping.“Nothing wrong, I trust,” he said anxiously.“No; on the contrary, everything right,” (Crumps’ old face brightened), “I’ve succeeded in getting that ship at what I call a real bargain—500 less than I had anticipated and was prepared to give.” (Crumps rubbed his hands.) “Now, I mean to send this ship out to Australia, with a miscellaneous cargo, as soon as she can be got ready for sea. The gold fever is at its height just now, and it strikes me that, with a little judgment and prudence, a good thing may be made out there. At any rate, I mean to venture; for our speculations last year have, as you know, turned out well, with the exception of that unfortunate ‘Trident,’ and we are sufficiently in funds just at this time to afford to run considerable risk.”Crumps expressed great satisfaction, and agreed with all that Denham said. He also asked what the name of the new ship was to be.“The ‘Trident,’” said Mr Denham.“What! the name of the ship we lost in Saint Margaret’s Bay?” exclaimed Crumps, in surprise.“I thought you knew the name of the ship we lost in Saint Margaret’s Bay,” said Denham sarcastically.“Of course, of course,” replied Crumps, in some confusion, “but I mean—that is, don’t you think it looks like flying in the face of Providence to give it the same name?”“Mr Crumps,” said Denham, with an air of dignified reproof, “it is most unnatural, most uncalled for, to talk of Providence in connexion with business. It is a word, sir, that may be appropriately used on Sundays and in churches, but not in offices, and I beg that you will not again allude to it. There is no such thing, sir, as Providence in business matters—at least such is my opinion; and I say this in order that you may understand that any remarks of that kind are quite thrown away on me. I am a plain practical man of business, Mr Crumps; once for all, allow me to say that, I object to the very unbusinesslike remarks of a theological nature which you are sometimes pleased to introduce into our conversations. I again repeat that there is no such thing as Providence in business,—at all events, not inmybusiness.”“I will not again offend you,” said poor Crumps, who stood looking confused and moving his legs uneasily during the delivery of this oration, “but as you have condescended to argue the matter slightly, may I venture to hint that our ships are propelled chiefly by means of sails, and that the winds are in the hands of Providence.”“There, sir, I utterly disagree with you,” retorted Denham, “the winds are guided in their courses by the fixed laws of Nature, and cannot be altered or modified by the wishes or powers of man; therefore, it is quite unnecessary, because useless, to regard them in matters of business. I am utterly devoid, sir, of superstition; and it is partly in order to make this clear to all with whom I have to do, that I intend to name our new ship the ‘Trident,’ and to order her to sail on a Friday.”As Mr Denham accompanied his last word with an inclination of the head which was equivalent to a dismissal, Mr Crumps sighed and retired to his den. His practical and unsuperstitious partner opened and read the letters.While Denham was thus engaged a tap came to the door, and old Mr Summers entered the room.“Ah! Summers, glad to see you, how are you?” said Denham, somewhat heartily—for him.“Thank you, Denham, I’m well,” replied the benign old gentleman with a smile, as he fixed a pair of gold spectacles on his nose, and sat down in a most businesslike way to examine a bundle of papers which he pulled out of his coat-pocket.Mr Summers was a very old friend of Denham, and had been the friend of his father before him; butthatwas not the reason of Denham’s regard for him. The old gentleman happened to be a merchant in the city, with whom Denham, Crumps, and Company did extensive and advantageous business. This was the cause of Denham’s unwonted urbanity. He cared little for the old man’s friendship. In fact, he would have dispensed with it without much regret, for he was sometimes pressed to contribute to charities by his philanthropic friend.“See, I have settled that matter for you satisfactorily,” said Mr Summers; “there are the papers, which you can look over at your leisure.”“Thank you, Mr Summers,” said Denham impressively, “this isindeedvery kind of you. But for your interference in this affair I am convinced that I should have lost a thousand pounds, if not more.”“Indeed!” exclaimed the old gentleman with a bright smile, “come, I’m glad to hear you say so, and it makes my second errand all the more easy.”“And what may your second errand be?” said Denham, with a sudden gravity of countenance, which showed that he more than suspected it.“Well, the fact is,” began Summers, “it’s a little matter of begging that I have undertaken for the purpose of raising funds to establish one or two lifeboats on parts of our coast where they are very much needed. (Denham fidgeted in his chair.) You know I have a villa near Deal, and frequently witness the terrible scenes of shipwreck that are so common and so fatal on that coast. I am sorry to say that my begging expedition has not been attended with so much success as I had anticipated. It is not such agreeable work as one might suppose, I assure you, one gets so many unexpected rebuffs. Did you ever try begging, Denham?”Denham said he never had, and, unless reduced to it by circumstances, did not mean to do so!“Ah,” continued Mr Summers, “if you ever do try you’ll be surprised to find how difficult it is to screw money out of some people.” (Mr Denham thought that that difficulty would not surprise him at all.) “But you’ll be delighted to find, on the other hand, what a number of truly liberal souls there are. It’s quite a treat, for instance, to meet with a man,—as I did the other day,—who gives his charity in the light of such principles as these:— ‘The Lord loveth a cheerful giver;’ ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive;’ ‘He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord,’—one who lays aside a certain proportion of his income for charitable purposes, and who, therefore, knowing exactly how much he has to give at any moment, gives or refuses, as the case may be, promptly and with a good grace.”“Ha!” exclaimed Denham, whose soul abhorred this sort of talk, but whose self-interest compelled him to listen to it.“Really,” pursued Mr Summers, “it is quite interesting to study the outs and ins of Christian philanthropy. Have you ever given much attention to the subject, Mr Denham? Of course, I mean in a philosophical way.”“Ha a-hem! well, I cannot say that I have, except perhaps in my capacity of a poor-law guardian in this district of the city.”“Indeed, I would recommend it to you. It is quite a relief to men of business like you and me, who are necessarily swallowed up all day in the matter of making money, to have the mind occasionally directed to the consideration of the best methods of getting rid of a little of their superabundance. It would do them a world of good—I can safely say so from experience—to consider such matters. I daresay that you also know something of this from experience.”“Ha!” ejaculated Mr Denham, who felt himself getting internally warm, but was constrained (of course from disinterested motives) to keep cool and appear amiable.“But forgive my taking up so much of your time, my dear sir,” said Mr Summers, rising; “what shall I put you down for?”Denham groaned inaudibly and said, “Well, I’ve no objection to give twenty pounds.”“How much?” said the old gentleman, as though he had heard imperfectly, at the same time pulling out a notebook.There was a slight peculiarity in the tone of the question that induced Denham to say he would give fifty pounds.“Ah! fifty,” said Summers, preparing to write, “thank you, Mr Denham (here he looked up gravely and added), the subject, however, is one which deserves liberal consideration at the hands of society in general;especially of ship owners. Shall we say a hundred, my dear sir?”Denham was about to plead poverty, but recollecting that he had just admitted that his friend had been the means of saving a thousand pounds to the business, he said, “Well, let it be a hundred,” with the best grace he could.“Thank you, Mr Denham, a thousand thanks,” said the old gentleman, shaking his friend’s hand, and quitting the room with the active step of a man who had much more business to do that day before dinner.Mr Denham returned to the perusal of his letters with the feelings of a man who has come by a heavy loss. Yet, strange to say, he comforted himself on his way home that evening with the thought that, after all, he had done a liberal thing! that he had “given away a hundred pounds sterling in charity.”Givenit! Poor Denham! he did not know that, up to that period, he had nevergivenaway a single farthing of his wealth in the true spirit of liberality—although he had given much in the name of charity.

When Tommy Bogey discovered the terrible fact that his friend Bax had really gone from him, perhaps for ever, he went straight up to the cottage, sat down on the kitchen floor at the feet of Mrs Laker, laid his head on her lap, and wept as if his heart would break.

“My poor boy!” said the sympathising Laker, stroking his head, and endeavouring to comfort him more by tone and manner than by words.

But Tommy refused to be comforted. The strongest affection he had ever known was rudely and suddenly crushed. It was hard in Bax to have done it; so Tommy felt, though he would not admit it in so many words. So Bax himself felt when the first wild rush of sorrow was past, and he had leisure to consider the hasty step he had taken, while sailing away over the distant sea towards the antipodes. Bitterly did he blame himself and repent when repentance was of no avail.

Tommy’s grief was deep, but not loud. He did not express it with a howling accompaniment. It burst from him in gasping sobs for a time, then it subsided into the recesses of his young heart and gnawed there. It did not again break bounds, but it somewhat changed the boy’s character. It made him almost a man in thought and action. He experienced that strong emotion which is known to most young hearts at certain periods of early life, and which shows itself in the formation of a fixed resolve to take some prompt and mighty step! What that step should be he did not know at first, and did not care to know. Sufficient for him, that coming to an unalterable determination of some indefinite sort afforded him great relief.

After the first paroxysm was over, Tommy rose up, kissed Mrs Laker on the cheek, bade her goodnight with unwonted decision of manner, and went straight to the amphibious hut of his friend Bluenose, whom he found taking a one-eyed survey of the Downs through a telescope, from mere force of habit.

The Captain’s name was more appropriate that day than it had been for many years. He was looking uncommonly “blue” indeed. He had just heard of the disappearance of Bax, for the news soon spread among the men on Deal beach. Being ignorant of the cause of his friend’s sudden departure, and knowing his deliberate, sensible nature, the whole subject was involved in a degree of mystery which his philosophy utterly failed to clear up. Being a bachelor, and never having been in love, or met with any striking incidents of a tender nature in his career, it did not occur to him that woman could be at the bottom of it!

“Uncle,” said Tommy, “Bax is gone!”

“Tommy, I knows it,” was the brief reply, and the telescope was shut up with a bang, as the seaman sat down on a little chest, and stared vacantly in the boy’s face.

“Why did he do it?” asked Tommy.

“Dun’ know. Who knows? S’pose he must ha’ gone mad, though it don’t seem likely. If it wasn’t Guy as told me I’d not believe it.”

“Does Guy not know why he’s gone?”

“Apperiently he does, but he says he’s bound not to tell. Hope Bax han’t bin and done somethin’ not ’xactly right—”

“Baxdo anything not exactly right!” cried Tommy, with a look and tone of amazed indignation.

“Right, lad, you’re right,” said Bluenose apologetically. “I’ve no doubt myself he could explain it all quite clear if he wos here for to do so. That’s my opinion; and I’ve no doubt either that the first letter he sends home will make all straight an’ snug, depend on it.”

“Uncle,” said Tommy, “Iam going to Australia.”

Bluenose, who had just lighted his pipe, looked at the boy through the smoke, smiled, and said, “No, Tommy, you ain’t.”

“Uncle,” repeated Tommy, “I am. I once heard Bax say he’d rather go there than anywhere else, if he was to go abroad; so I’m certain he has gone there, and I’m going to seek for him.”

“Wery good, my lad,” said the Captain coolly; “d’ye go by steamer to-night, or by rail to-morrow mornin’? P’raps you’d better go by telegraph; it’s quicker, I’m told.”

“You think I’m jokin’, Uncle, but I’m not, as you’ll very soon find out.”

So saying, Tommy rose and left the hut. This was all he said on the subject. He was a strong-minded little fellow. He at once assumed the position of an independent man, and merely stated his intentions to one or two intimate friends, such as Bluenose, Laker, and old Jeph. As these regarded his statement as the wild fancy of an enthusiastic boy in the first gush of disappointment, they treated it with good-natured raillery. So Tommy resolved, as he would have himself have expressed it, “to shut up, and keep his own counsel.”

When Guy told Lucy Burton that the man who had saved her life had gone off thus suddenly, she burst into tears; but her tears had not flowed long before she asked Guy the reason of his strange and abrupt departure.

Of course Guy could not tell. He had been pledged to secrecy as to the cause.

When Lucy Burton went to tell Amy Russell, she did so with a trembling heart. For some time past she had suspected that Amy loved Bax and not Guy, as she had at first mistakenly supposed. Knowing that if her suspicions were true, the news would be terrible indeed to her friend, she considerately went to her room and told her privately.

Amy turned deadly pale, stood speechless for a few seconds, and then fainted in her friend’s arms.

On recovering she confessed her love, but made Lucy solemnly pledge herself to secrecy.

“No one shall ever know of this but yourself, dear Lucy,” said Amy, laying her head on her friend’s bosom, and finding relief in tears.

Time passed away, as time is wont to do, and it seemed as if Tommy Bogey had forgotten to carry out his determination. From that day forward he never referred to it, and the few friends to whom he had mentioned it supposed that he had given up the idea altogether as impracticable.

They did not know the mettle that Tommy was made of. After maturely considering the matter, he had made up his mind to delay carrying out his plan until Bax should have time to write home and acquaint him with his whereabouts. Meanwhile, he would set himself to make and save up money by every means in his power, for he had sense enough to know that a moneyless traveller must be a helpless creature.

Peekins was permanently received into Sandhill Cottage as page-in-buttons, in which capacity he presented a miserably attenuated figure, but gave great satisfaction. Tommy and he continued good friends; the former devoting as much of his leisure time to the latter as he could spare. He had not much to spare, however, for he had, among other things, set himself energetically to the study of arithmetic and navigation under the united guidance of old Jeph and Bluenose.

Lucy Burton paid a long visit to Mrs Foster, and roamed over the Sandhills day after day with her friend Amy, until her father, the missionary, came and claimed her and carried her back to Ramsgate. During Lucy’s stay, Guy Foster remained at the cottage, busily engaged in various ways, but especially in making himself agreeable to Lucy, in which effort he seemed to be very successful.

When the latter left, he suddenly discovered that he was wasting his time sadly, and told his mother that he meant to look out for something to do. With this end in view he set out for London, that mighty hive of industry and idleness into which there is a ceaseless flow of men who “want something to do,” and of men who “don’t know what to do.”

And what of Denham, Crumps, and Company during this period?

The rats in and around Red Wharf Lane could have told you, had they been able to speak, that things prospered with that firm. These jovial creatures, that revelled so luxuriously in the slime and mud and miscellaneous abominations of that locality, could have told you that, every morning regularly, they were caught rioting in the lane and sent squealing out of it, by a boy in blue (the successor of poor Peekins) who opened the office and prepared it for the business of the day; that about half an hour later they, the rats, were again disturbed by the arrival of the head-clerk, closely followed by the juniors, who were almost as closely followed by Crumps—he being a timid old man who stood in awe of his senior partner; that, after this, they had a good long period of comparative quiet, during which they held a riotous game of hide-and-seek across the lane and down among sewers and dust holes, and delightfully noisome and fetid places of a similar character; interrupted at irregular intervals by a vagrant street boy, or a daring cat, or an inquisitive cur; that this game was stopped at about ten o’clock by the advent of Mr Denham, who generally gave them, the rats, a smile of recognition as he passed to his office, concluding, no doubt, by a natural process of ratiocination, that they were kindred spirits, because they delighted in bad smells and filthy garbage, just as he (Denham) rejoiced in Thames air and filthy lucre.

One fine morning, speaking from a rat’s point of view, when the air was so thick and heavy and moist that it was difficult to see more than a few yards in any direction, Denham came down the lane about half-an-hour later than usual, with a brisk step and an unusually smiling countenance.

Peekins’ successor relieved him of his hat, topcoat, and umbrella, and one of the clerks brought him the letters. Before opening these he shouted—

“Mr Crumps!”

Crumps came meekly out of his cell, as if he had been a bad dog who knew he deserved, and expected, a whipping.

“Nothing wrong, I trust,” he said anxiously.

“No; on the contrary, everything right,” (Crumps’ old face brightened), “I’ve succeeded in getting that ship at what I call a real bargain—500 less than I had anticipated and was prepared to give.” (Crumps rubbed his hands.) “Now, I mean to send this ship out to Australia, with a miscellaneous cargo, as soon as she can be got ready for sea. The gold fever is at its height just now, and it strikes me that, with a little judgment and prudence, a good thing may be made out there. At any rate, I mean to venture; for our speculations last year have, as you know, turned out well, with the exception of that unfortunate ‘Trident,’ and we are sufficiently in funds just at this time to afford to run considerable risk.”

Crumps expressed great satisfaction, and agreed with all that Denham said. He also asked what the name of the new ship was to be.

“The ‘Trident,’” said Mr Denham.

“What! the name of the ship we lost in Saint Margaret’s Bay?” exclaimed Crumps, in surprise.

“I thought you knew the name of the ship we lost in Saint Margaret’s Bay,” said Denham sarcastically.

“Of course, of course,” replied Crumps, in some confusion, “but I mean—that is, don’t you think it looks like flying in the face of Providence to give it the same name?”

“Mr Crumps,” said Denham, with an air of dignified reproof, “it is most unnatural, most uncalled for, to talk of Providence in connexion with business. It is a word, sir, that may be appropriately used on Sundays and in churches, but not in offices, and I beg that you will not again allude to it. There is no such thing, sir, as Providence in business matters—at least such is my opinion; and I say this in order that you may understand that any remarks of that kind are quite thrown away on me. I am a plain practical man of business, Mr Crumps; once for all, allow me to say that, I object to the very unbusinesslike remarks of a theological nature which you are sometimes pleased to introduce into our conversations. I again repeat that there is no such thing as Providence in business,—at all events, not inmybusiness.”

“I will not again offend you,” said poor Crumps, who stood looking confused and moving his legs uneasily during the delivery of this oration, “but as you have condescended to argue the matter slightly, may I venture to hint that our ships are propelled chiefly by means of sails, and that the winds are in the hands of Providence.”

“There, sir, I utterly disagree with you,” retorted Denham, “the winds are guided in their courses by the fixed laws of Nature, and cannot be altered or modified by the wishes or powers of man; therefore, it is quite unnecessary, because useless, to regard them in matters of business. I am utterly devoid, sir, of superstition; and it is partly in order to make this clear to all with whom I have to do, that I intend to name our new ship the ‘Trident,’ and to order her to sail on a Friday.”

As Mr Denham accompanied his last word with an inclination of the head which was equivalent to a dismissal, Mr Crumps sighed and retired to his den. His practical and unsuperstitious partner opened and read the letters.

While Denham was thus engaged a tap came to the door, and old Mr Summers entered the room.

“Ah! Summers, glad to see you, how are you?” said Denham, somewhat heartily—for him.

“Thank you, Denham, I’m well,” replied the benign old gentleman with a smile, as he fixed a pair of gold spectacles on his nose, and sat down in a most businesslike way to examine a bundle of papers which he pulled out of his coat-pocket.

Mr Summers was a very old friend of Denham, and had been the friend of his father before him; butthatwas not the reason of Denham’s regard for him. The old gentleman happened to be a merchant in the city, with whom Denham, Crumps, and Company did extensive and advantageous business. This was the cause of Denham’s unwonted urbanity. He cared little for the old man’s friendship. In fact, he would have dispensed with it without much regret, for he was sometimes pressed to contribute to charities by his philanthropic friend.

“See, I have settled that matter for you satisfactorily,” said Mr Summers; “there are the papers, which you can look over at your leisure.”

“Thank you, Mr Summers,” said Denham impressively, “this isindeedvery kind of you. But for your interference in this affair I am convinced that I should have lost a thousand pounds, if not more.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the old gentleman with a bright smile, “come, I’m glad to hear you say so, and it makes my second errand all the more easy.”

“And what may your second errand be?” said Denham, with a sudden gravity of countenance, which showed that he more than suspected it.

“Well, the fact is,” began Summers, “it’s a little matter of begging that I have undertaken for the purpose of raising funds to establish one or two lifeboats on parts of our coast where they are very much needed. (Denham fidgeted in his chair.) You know I have a villa near Deal, and frequently witness the terrible scenes of shipwreck that are so common and so fatal on that coast. I am sorry to say that my begging expedition has not been attended with so much success as I had anticipated. It is not such agreeable work as one might suppose, I assure you, one gets so many unexpected rebuffs. Did you ever try begging, Denham?”

Denham said he never had, and, unless reduced to it by circumstances, did not mean to do so!

“Ah,” continued Mr Summers, “if you ever do try you’ll be surprised to find how difficult it is to screw money out of some people.” (Mr Denham thought that that difficulty would not surprise him at all.) “But you’ll be delighted to find, on the other hand, what a number of truly liberal souls there are. It’s quite a treat, for instance, to meet with a man,—as I did the other day,—who gives his charity in the light of such principles as these:— ‘The Lord loveth a cheerful giver;’ ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive;’ ‘He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord,’—one who lays aside a certain proportion of his income for charitable purposes, and who, therefore, knowing exactly how much he has to give at any moment, gives or refuses, as the case may be, promptly and with a good grace.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Denham, whose soul abhorred this sort of talk, but whose self-interest compelled him to listen to it.

“Really,” pursued Mr Summers, “it is quite interesting to study the outs and ins of Christian philanthropy. Have you ever given much attention to the subject, Mr Denham? Of course, I mean in a philosophical way.”

“Ha a-hem! well, I cannot say that I have, except perhaps in my capacity of a poor-law guardian in this district of the city.”

“Indeed, I would recommend it to you. It is quite a relief to men of business like you and me, who are necessarily swallowed up all day in the matter of making money, to have the mind occasionally directed to the consideration of the best methods of getting rid of a little of their superabundance. It would do them a world of good—I can safely say so from experience—to consider such matters. I daresay that you also know something of this from experience.”

“Ha!” ejaculated Mr Denham, who felt himself getting internally warm, but was constrained (of course from disinterested motives) to keep cool and appear amiable.

“But forgive my taking up so much of your time, my dear sir,” said Mr Summers, rising; “what shall I put you down for?”

Denham groaned inaudibly and said, “Well, I’ve no objection to give twenty pounds.”

“How much?” said the old gentleman, as though he had heard imperfectly, at the same time pulling out a notebook.

There was a slight peculiarity in the tone of the question that induced Denham to say he would give fifty pounds.

“Ah! fifty,” said Summers, preparing to write, “thank you, Mr Denham (here he looked up gravely and added), the subject, however, is one which deserves liberal consideration at the hands of society in general;especially of ship owners. Shall we say a hundred, my dear sir?”

Denham was about to plead poverty, but recollecting that he had just admitted that his friend had been the means of saving a thousand pounds to the business, he said, “Well, let it be a hundred,” with the best grace he could.

“Thank you, Mr Denham, a thousand thanks,” said the old gentleman, shaking his friend’s hand, and quitting the room with the active step of a man who had much more business to do that day before dinner.

Mr Denham returned to the perusal of his letters with the feelings of a man who has come by a heavy loss. Yet, strange to say, he comforted himself on his way home that evening with the thought that, after all, he had done a liberal thing! that he had “given away a hundred pounds sterling in charity.”

Givenit! Poor Denham! he did not know that, up to that period, he had nevergivenaway a single farthing of his wealth in the true spirit of liberality—although he had given much in the name of charity.

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