Chapter Thirty Five.

Chapter Thirty Five.A Retrospect that the Parties may all start Fair again.We must now leave our hero on his way to the Hall, while we acquaint our readers with the movements of other parties connected with our history. A correspondence had been kept up between O’Donahue and McShane. O’Donahue had succeeded in obtaining the pardon of the emperor, and employment in the Russian army, in which he had rapidly risen to the rank of general. Five or six years had elapsed since he had married, and both O’Donahue and his wife were anxious to visit England; a letter at last came, announcing that he had obtained leave of absence from the emperor, and would in all probability arrive in the ensuing spring.During this period McShane had continued at his old quarters, Mrs McShane still carrying on the business, which every year became more lucrative; so much so, indeed, that her husband had for some time thought very seriously of retiring altogether, as they had already amassed a large sum, when McShane received the letter from O’Donahue, announcing that in a few months he would arrive in England. Major McShane, who was very far from being satisfied with his negative position in society, pressed the matter more earnestly to his wife, who, although she was perfectly content with her own position, did not oppose his entreaties. McShane found that after disposing of the goodwill of the business, and of the house, they would have a clear 30,000 pounds, which he considered more than enough for their wants, uncumbered as they were with children.Let it not be supposed that McShane had ceased in his inquiries after our hero; on the contrary, he had resorted to all that his invention could suggest to trace him out, but, as the reader must be aware, without success. Both McShane and his wife mourned his loss, as if they had been bereaved of their own child; they still indulged the idea that some day he would reappear, but when, they could not surmise. McShane had not only searched for our hero, but had traced his father with as little success, and he had now made up his mind that he should see no more of Joey, if he ever did see him again, until after the death of his father, when there would no longer be any occasion for secrecy. Our hero and his fate were a continual source of conversation between McShane and his wife; but latterly, after not having heard of him for more than five years, the subject had not been so often renewed. As soon as McShane had wound up his affairs, and taken his leave of the eating-house, he looked out for an estate in the country, resolving to lay out two-thirds of his money in land, and leave the remainder in the funds. After about three months’ search he found a property which suited him, and, as it so happened, about six miles from the domains held by Mr Austin. He had taken possession and furnished it. As a retired officer in the army he was well received; and if Mrs McShane was sometimes laughed at for her housekeeper-like appearance, still her sweetness of temper and unassuming behaviour soon won her friends, and McShane found himself in a very short time comfortable and happy. The O’Donahues were expected to arrive very shortly, and McShane had now a domicile fit for the reception of his old friend, who had promised to pay him a visit as soon as he arrived.Of the Austins little more can be said that has not been said already. Austin was a miserable, unhappy man; his cup of bliss—for he had every means of procuring all that this world considers as bliss, being in possession of station, wealth, and respect—was poisoned by the one heavy crime which passion had urged him to commit, and which was now a source of hourly and unavailing repentance. His son, who should have inherited his wealth, was lost to him, and he dared not mention that he was in existence. Every day Austin became more nervous and irritable, more exclusive and averse to society; he trembled at shadows, and his strong constitution was rapidly giving way to the heavy weight on his conscience. He could not sleep without opiates, and he dreaded to sleep lest he should reveal everything of the past in his slumbers. Each year added to the irascibility of his temper, and the harshness with which he treated his servants and his unhappy wife. His chief amusement was hunting, and he rode in so reckless a manner that people often thought that he was anxious to break his neck. Perhaps he was. Mrs Austin was much to be pitied; she knew how much her husband suffered; how the worm gnawed within; and, having that knowledge, she submitted to all his harshness, pitying him instead of condemning him; but her life was still more embittered by the loss of her child, and many were the bitter tears which she would shed when alone, for she dared not in her husband’s presence, as he would have taken them as a reproof to himself. Her whole soul yearned after our hero, and that one feeling rendered her indifferent, not only to all the worldly advantages by which she was surrounded, but to the unkindness and hard-heartedness of her husband. Mary, who had entered her service as kitchen-maid, was very soon a favourite, and had been advanced to the situation of Mrs Austin’s own attendant Mrs Austin considered her a treasure, and she daily became more partial to and more confidential with her. Such was the state of affairs, when one morning, as Austin was riding to cover, a gentleman of the neighbourhood said to him, in the course of conversation—“By-the-bye, Austin, have you heard that you have a new neighbour?”“What!—on the Frampton estate, I suppose; I heard that it had been sold.”“Yes; I have seen him. He is one of your profession—a lively, amusing sort of Irish major; gentlemanlike, nevertheless. The wife not very high-bred, but very fat, and very good-humoured, and amusing from her downright simpleness of heart. You will call upon them, I presume?”“Oh, of course,” replied Austin. “What is his name did you say?”“Major McShane, formerly of the 53rd Regiment, I believe.”Had a bullet passed through the heart of Austin, he could not have received a more sudden shock, and the start which he made from his saddle attracted the notice of his companion.“What’s the matter, Austin, you look pale; you are not well.”“No,” replied Austin, recollecting himself; “I am not; one of those twinges from an old wound in the breast came on. I shall be better directly.”Austin stopped his horse, and put his hand to his heart. His companion rode up, and remained near him.“It is worse than usual; I thought it was coming on last night; I fear that I must go home.”“Shall I go with you?”“O, no; I must not spoil your sport. I am better now a great deal; it is going off fast. Come, let us proceed, or we shall be too late at cover.”Austin had resolved to conquer his feelings. His friend had no suspicion, it is true; but when we are guilty we imagine that everybody suspects us. They rode a few minutes in silence.“Well I am glad that you did not go home,” observed his friend; “for you will meet your new neighbour; he has subscribed to the pack, and they say he is well mounted; we shall see how he rides.”Austin made no reply; but, after riding on a few yards farther, he pulled up, saying that the pain was coming on again, and that he could not proceed. His companion expressed his sorrow at Austin’s indisposition, and they separated.Austin immediately returned home, dismounted his horse, and hastened to his private sitting-room. Mrs Austin, who had seen him return, and could not imagine the cause, went in to her husband.“What is the matter, my dear?” said Mrs Austin.“Matter!” replied Austin, bitterly, pacing up and down the room; “heaven and hell conspire against us!”“Dear Austin, don’t talk in that way. What has happened?”“Something which will compel me, I expect, to remain a prisoner in my own house, or lead to something unpleasant. We must not stay here.”Austin then threw himself down on the sofa, and was silent. At last the persuasions and endearments of his wife overcame his humour. He told her that McShane was the major of his regiment when he was a private; that he would inevitably recognise him; and that, if nothing else occurred from McShane’s knowledge of his former name, at all events, the general supposition of his having been an officer in the army would be contradicted, and it would lower him in the estimation of the county gentlemen.“It is indeed a very annoying circumstance, my dear Austin; but are you sure that he would, after so long a period, recognise the private soldier in the gentleman of fortune?”“As sure as I sit here,” replied Austin, gloomily; “I wish I were dead.”“Don’t say so, dear Austin, it makes me miserable.”“I never am otherwise,” replied Austin, clasping his hands. “God forgive me! I have sinned, but have I not been punished?”“You have, indeed; and as repentance is availing, my dear husband, you will receive God’s mercy.”“The greatest boon, the greatest mercy, would be death,” replied the unhappy man; “I envy the pedlar.” Mrs Austin wept. Her husband, irritated at tears which, to him, seemed to imply reproach, sternly ordered her to leave the room.That Austin repented bitterly of the crime which he had committed is not to be doubted; but it was not with the subdued soul of a Christian. His pride was continually struggling within him, and was not yet conquered; this it was that made him alternately self-condemning and irascible, and it was the continual warfare in his soul which was undermining his constitution.Austin sent for medical advice for his supposed complaint. The country practitioner, who could discover nothing, pronounced it to be an affection of the heart. He was not far wrong; and Mr Austin’s illness was generally promulgated. Cards and calls were the consequence, and Austin kept himself a close but impatient prisoner in his own house. His hunters remained in the stables, his dogs in the kennel, and every one intimated that Mr Austin was labouring under a disease from which he would not recover. At first this was extremely irksome to Austin, and he was very impatient; but gradually he became reconciled, and even preferred his sedentary and solitary existence. Books were his chief amusement, but nothing could minister to a mind diseased, or drive out the rooted memory of the brain. Austin became more morose and misanthropic every day, and at last would permit no one to come near him but his valet and his wife.Such was the position of his parents, when Joey was proceeding to their abode.

We must now leave our hero on his way to the Hall, while we acquaint our readers with the movements of other parties connected with our history. A correspondence had been kept up between O’Donahue and McShane. O’Donahue had succeeded in obtaining the pardon of the emperor, and employment in the Russian army, in which he had rapidly risen to the rank of general. Five or six years had elapsed since he had married, and both O’Donahue and his wife were anxious to visit England; a letter at last came, announcing that he had obtained leave of absence from the emperor, and would in all probability arrive in the ensuing spring.

During this period McShane had continued at his old quarters, Mrs McShane still carrying on the business, which every year became more lucrative; so much so, indeed, that her husband had for some time thought very seriously of retiring altogether, as they had already amassed a large sum, when McShane received the letter from O’Donahue, announcing that in a few months he would arrive in England. Major McShane, who was very far from being satisfied with his negative position in society, pressed the matter more earnestly to his wife, who, although she was perfectly content with her own position, did not oppose his entreaties. McShane found that after disposing of the goodwill of the business, and of the house, they would have a clear 30,000 pounds, which he considered more than enough for their wants, uncumbered as they were with children.

Let it not be supposed that McShane had ceased in his inquiries after our hero; on the contrary, he had resorted to all that his invention could suggest to trace him out, but, as the reader must be aware, without success. Both McShane and his wife mourned his loss, as if they had been bereaved of their own child; they still indulged the idea that some day he would reappear, but when, they could not surmise. McShane had not only searched for our hero, but had traced his father with as little success, and he had now made up his mind that he should see no more of Joey, if he ever did see him again, until after the death of his father, when there would no longer be any occasion for secrecy. Our hero and his fate were a continual source of conversation between McShane and his wife; but latterly, after not having heard of him for more than five years, the subject had not been so often renewed. As soon as McShane had wound up his affairs, and taken his leave of the eating-house, he looked out for an estate in the country, resolving to lay out two-thirds of his money in land, and leave the remainder in the funds. After about three months’ search he found a property which suited him, and, as it so happened, about six miles from the domains held by Mr Austin. He had taken possession and furnished it. As a retired officer in the army he was well received; and if Mrs McShane was sometimes laughed at for her housekeeper-like appearance, still her sweetness of temper and unassuming behaviour soon won her friends, and McShane found himself in a very short time comfortable and happy. The O’Donahues were expected to arrive very shortly, and McShane had now a domicile fit for the reception of his old friend, who had promised to pay him a visit as soon as he arrived.

Of the Austins little more can be said that has not been said already. Austin was a miserable, unhappy man; his cup of bliss—for he had every means of procuring all that this world considers as bliss, being in possession of station, wealth, and respect—was poisoned by the one heavy crime which passion had urged him to commit, and which was now a source of hourly and unavailing repentance. His son, who should have inherited his wealth, was lost to him, and he dared not mention that he was in existence. Every day Austin became more nervous and irritable, more exclusive and averse to society; he trembled at shadows, and his strong constitution was rapidly giving way to the heavy weight on his conscience. He could not sleep without opiates, and he dreaded to sleep lest he should reveal everything of the past in his slumbers. Each year added to the irascibility of his temper, and the harshness with which he treated his servants and his unhappy wife. His chief amusement was hunting, and he rode in so reckless a manner that people often thought that he was anxious to break his neck. Perhaps he was. Mrs Austin was much to be pitied; she knew how much her husband suffered; how the worm gnawed within; and, having that knowledge, she submitted to all his harshness, pitying him instead of condemning him; but her life was still more embittered by the loss of her child, and many were the bitter tears which she would shed when alone, for she dared not in her husband’s presence, as he would have taken them as a reproof to himself. Her whole soul yearned after our hero, and that one feeling rendered her indifferent, not only to all the worldly advantages by which she was surrounded, but to the unkindness and hard-heartedness of her husband. Mary, who had entered her service as kitchen-maid, was very soon a favourite, and had been advanced to the situation of Mrs Austin’s own attendant Mrs Austin considered her a treasure, and she daily became more partial to and more confidential with her. Such was the state of affairs, when one morning, as Austin was riding to cover, a gentleman of the neighbourhood said to him, in the course of conversation—

“By-the-bye, Austin, have you heard that you have a new neighbour?”

“What!—on the Frampton estate, I suppose; I heard that it had been sold.”

“Yes; I have seen him. He is one of your profession—a lively, amusing sort of Irish major; gentlemanlike, nevertheless. The wife not very high-bred, but very fat, and very good-humoured, and amusing from her downright simpleness of heart. You will call upon them, I presume?”

“Oh, of course,” replied Austin. “What is his name did you say?”

“Major McShane, formerly of the 53rd Regiment, I believe.”

Had a bullet passed through the heart of Austin, he could not have received a more sudden shock, and the start which he made from his saddle attracted the notice of his companion.

“What’s the matter, Austin, you look pale; you are not well.”

“No,” replied Austin, recollecting himself; “I am not; one of those twinges from an old wound in the breast came on. I shall be better directly.”

Austin stopped his horse, and put his hand to his heart. His companion rode up, and remained near him.

“It is worse than usual; I thought it was coming on last night; I fear that I must go home.”

“Shall I go with you?”

“O, no; I must not spoil your sport. I am better now a great deal; it is going off fast. Come, let us proceed, or we shall be too late at cover.”

Austin had resolved to conquer his feelings. His friend had no suspicion, it is true; but when we are guilty we imagine that everybody suspects us. They rode a few minutes in silence.

“Well I am glad that you did not go home,” observed his friend; “for you will meet your new neighbour; he has subscribed to the pack, and they say he is well mounted; we shall see how he rides.”

Austin made no reply; but, after riding on a few yards farther, he pulled up, saying that the pain was coming on again, and that he could not proceed. His companion expressed his sorrow at Austin’s indisposition, and they separated.

Austin immediately returned home, dismounted his horse, and hastened to his private sitting-room. Mrs Austin, who had seen him return, and could not imagine the cause, went in to her husband.

“What is the matter, my dear?” said Mrs Austin.

“Matter!” replied Austin, bitterly, pacing up and down the room; “heaven and hell conspire against us!”

“Dear Austin, don’t talk in that way. What has happened?”

“Something which will compel me, I expect, to remain a prisoner in my own house, or lead to something unpleasant. We must not stay here.”

Austin then threw himself down on the sofa, and was silent. At last the persuasions and endearments of his wife overcame his humour. He told her that McShane was the major of his regiment when he was a private; that he would inevitably recognise him; and that, if nothing else occurred from McShane’s knowledge of his former name, at all events, the general supposition of his having been an officer in the army would be contradicted, and it would lower him in the estimation of the county gentlemen.

“It is indeed a very annoying circumstance, my dear Austin; but are you sure that he would, after so long a period, recognise the private soldier in the gentleman of fortune?”

“As sure as I sit here,” replied Austin, gloomily; “I wish I were dead.”

“Don’t say so, dear Austin, it makes me miserable.”

“I never am otherwise,” replied Austin, clasping his hands. “God forgive me! I have sinned, but have I not been punished?”

“You have, indeed; and as repentance is availing, my dear husband, you will receive God’s mercy.”

“The greatest boon, the greatest mercy, would be death,” replied the unhappy man; “I envy the pedlar.” Mrs Austin wept. Her husband, irritated at tears which, to him, seemed to imply reproach, sternly ordered her to leave the room.

That Austin repented bitterly of the crime which he had committed is not to be doubted; but it was not with the subdued soul of a Christian. His pride was continually struggling within him, and was not yet conquered; this it was that made him alternately self-condemning and irascible, and it was the continual warfare in his soul which was undermining his constitution.

Austin sent for medical advice for his supposed complaint. The country practitioner, who could discover nothing, pronounced it to be an affection of the heart. He was not far wrong; and Mr Austin’s illness was generally promulgated. Cards and calls were the consequence, and Austin kept himself a close but impatient prisoner in his own house. His hunters remained in the stables, his dogs in the kennel, and every one intimated that Mr Austin was labouring under a disease from which he would not recover. At first this was extremely irksome to Austin, and he was very impatient; but gradually he became reconciled, and even preferred his sedentary and solitary existence. Books were his chief amusement, but nothing could minister to a mind diseased, or drive out the rooted memory of the brain. Austin became more morose and misanthropic every day, and at last would permit no one to come near him but his valet and his wife.

Such was the position of his parents, when Joey was proceeding to their abode.

Chapter Thirty Six.Our Hero falls in with an old Acquaintance, and is not very much Delighted.We left our hero rolling his knife-grinder’s wheel towards his father’s house. It must be confessed that he did it very unwillingly. He was never very fond of it at any time; but, since he had taken possession of Spikeman’s property, and had received from Mary the intelligence that he was worth 350 pounds more, he had taken a positive aversion to it. It retarded his movements, and it was hard work when he had not to get his livelihood by it. More than once he thought of rolling it into a horsepond, and leaving it below low-water mark; but then he thought it a sort of protection against inquiry, and against assault, for it told of poverty and honest employment; so Joey rolled on, but not with any feelings of regard towards his companion.How many castles did our hero build as he went along the road! The sum of money left to him appeared to be enormous. He planned and planned again; and, like most people, at the close of the day, he was just as undetermined as at the commencement. Nevertheless, he was very happy, as people always are, in anticipation; unfortunately, more so than when they grasp what they have been seeking. Time rolled on, as well as the grindstone, and at last Joey found himself at the ale-house where he and Mary had put up previously to her obtaining a situation at the Hall. He immediately wrote a letter to her, acquainting her with his arrival. He would have taken the letter himself, only he recollected the treatment he had received, and found another messenger in the butcher’s boy, who was going up to the Hall for orders. The answer returned by the same party was, that Mary would come down and see him that evening. When Mary came down Joey was astonished at the improvement in her appearance. She looked much younger than she did when they had parted, and her dress was so very different that our hero could with difficulty imagine that it was the same person who had been his companion from Gravesend. The careless air and manner had disappeared; there was aretenue—a dignity about her which astonished him and he felt a sort of respect, mingled with his regard, for her, of which he could not divest himself. But, if she looked younger (as may well be imagined) from her change of life, she also looked more sedate, except when she smiled, or when occasionally, but very rarely, her merry laughter reminded him of the careless, good-tempered Nancy of former times. That the greeting was warm need hardly be said. It was the greeting of a sister and younger brother who loved each other dearly.“You are very much grown, Joey,” said Mary. “Dear boy, how happy I am to see you!”“And you, Mary, you’re younger in the face, but older in your manners. Are you as happy in your situation as you have told me in your letters?”“Quite happy; more happy than ever I deserve to be, my dear boy; and now tell me, Joey, what do you think of doing? You have now the means of establishing yourself.”“Yes, I have been thinking of it; but I don’t know what to do.”“Well, you must look out, and do not be in too great a hurry. Recollect, Joey, that if anything offers which you have any reason to believe will suit you, you shall have my money as well as your own.”“Nay, Mary, why should I take that?”“Because, as it is of no use to me, it must be idle; besides, you know, if you succeed, you will be able to pay me interest for it; so I shall gain as well as you. You must not refuse your sister, my dear boy.”“Dear Mary, how I wish we could live in the same house!”“That cannot be now, Joey; you are above my situation at the Hall, even allowing that you would ever enter it.”“That I never will, if I can help it; not that I feel angry now, but I like to be independent.”“Of course you do.”“And as for that grindstone, I hate the sight of it; it has made Spikeman’s fortune, but it never shall make mine.”“You don’t agree then with your former companion,” rejoined Mary, “that a tinker’s is the nearest profession to that of a gentleman which you know of.”“I certainly do not,” replied our hero; “and as soon as I can get rid of it I will; I have rolled it here, but I will not roll it much farther. I only wish I knew where to go.”“I have something in my pocket which puts me in mind of a piece of news which I received the other day, since my return. First let me give you what I have in my pocket,”—and Mary pulled out the pencil-case sent to Joey by Emma Phillips. “There you know already who that is from.”“Yes, and I shall value it very much, for she was a dear, kind little creature; and when I was very, very miserable, she comforted me.”“Well, Joey, Miss Phillips requested me to write when I came back, as she wished to hear that I had arrived safe at the Hall. It was very kind of her, and I did so, of course. Since that I have received a letter from her, stating that her grandmother is dead, and that her mother is going to quit Gravesend for Portsmouth, to reside with her brother, who is now a widower.”“I will go to Portsmouth,” replied our hero.“I was thinking that, as her brother is a navy agent, and Mrs Phillips is interested about you, you could not do better. If anything turns up, then you will have good advice, and your money is not so likely to be thrown away. I think, therefore, you had better go to Portsmouth, and try your fortune.”“I am very glad you have mentioned this, Mary, for, till now, one place was as indifferent to me as another; but now it is otherwise, and to Portsmouth I will certainly go.”Our hero remained two or three days longer at the village, during which time Mary was with him every evening, and once she obtained leave to go to the banker’s about her money. She then turned over to Joey’s account the sum due to him, and arrangements were made with the bank so that Joey could draw his capital out whenever he pleased.After which our hero took leave of Mary, promising to correspond more freely than before; and once more putting the strap of his knife-grinder’s wheel over his shoulders, he set off on his journey to Portsmouth.Joey had not gained two miles from the village when he asked himself the question, “What shall I do with my grindstone?” He did not like to leave it on the road; he did not know to whom he could give it away. He rolled it on for about six miles farther, and then, quite tired, he resolved to follow the plan formerly adopted by Spikeman, and repose a little upon the turf on the road-side. The sun was very warm, and after a time Joey retreated to the other side of the hedge, which was shaded; and having taken his bundle from the side of the wheel where it hung, he first made his dinner of the provender he had brought with him, and then, laying his head on the bundle, was soon in a sound sleep, from which he was awakened by hearing voices on the other side of the hedge. He turned round, and perceived two men on the side of the road, close to his knife-grinder’s wheel. They were in their shirts and trousers only and sitting down on the turf.“It would be a very good plan,” observed one of them; “we should then travel without suspicion.”“Yes; if we could get off with it without being discovered. Where can the owner of it be.”“Well, I dare say he is away upon some business or another, and has left the wheel here till he comes back. Now, suppose we were to take it—how should we manage?”“Why, we cannot go along this road with it. We must get over the gates and hedges till we get across the country into another road; and then by travelling all night, we might be quite clear.”“Yes, and then we should do well; for even if our description as deserters was sent out from Portsmouth, we should be considered as travelling tinkers and there would be no suspicion.”“Well, I’m ready for it. If we can only get it off the road, and conceal it till night, we may then easily manage it. But first let’s see if the fellow it belongs to may not be somewhere about here.”As the man said this, he rose up and turned his face towards the hedge, and our hero immediately perceived that it was his old acquaintance, Furness, the schoolmaster and marine. What to do he hardly knew. At last he perceived Furness advancing towards the gate of the field, which was close to where he was lying, and, as escape was impossible, our hero covered his face with his arms, and pretended to be fast asleep. He soon heard a “Hush!” given, as a signal to the other man, and, after a while, footsteps close to him. Joey pretended to snore loudly, and a whispering then took place. At last he heard Furness say—“Do you watch by him while I wheel away the grindstone.”“But if he wakes, what shall I do?”“Brain him with that big stone. If he does not wake up when I am past the second field, follow me.”That our hero had no inclination to wake after this notice may be easily imagined; he heard the gate opened, and the wheel trundled away, much to his delight, as Furness was the party who had it in charge; and Joey continued to snore hard, until at last he heard the departing footsteps of Furness’s comrade, who had watched him. He thought it prudent to continue motionless for some time longer, to give them time to be well away from him, and then he gradually turned round and looked in the direction in which they had gone; he could see nothing of them, and it was not until he had risen up, and climbed up on the gate, that he perceived them two or three fields off running away at a rapid pace. Thanking heaven that he had escaped the danger that he was in, and delighted with the loss of his property, our hero recommenced his journey with his bundle over his shoulder, and before night he was safe outside one of the stages which took him to a town, from which there was another which would carry him to Portsmouth, at which sea-port he arrived the next evening without further adventure.As our hero sat on the outside of the coach and reflected upon his last adventure, the more he felt he had reason to congratulate himself. That Furness had deserted from the Marine Barracks at Portsmouth was evident; and if he had not, that he would have recognised Joey some time or other was almost certain. Now, he felt sure that he was safe at Portsmouth, as it would be the last place at which Furness would make his appearance; and he also felt that his knife-grinder’s wheel, in supplying Furness with the ostensible means of livelihood, and thereby preventing his being taken up as a deserter, had proved the best friend to him, and could not have been disposed of better. Another piece of good fortune was his having secured his bundle and money; for had he left it with the wheel, it would have, of course, shared its fate. “Besides,” thought Joey, “if I should chance to fall, in with Furness again, and he attempts to approach me, I can threaten to have him taken as a deserter, and this may deter him from so doing.” It was with a grateful heart that our hero laid his head upon his pillow, in the humble inn at which he had taken up his quarters.

We left our hero rolling his knife-grinder’s wheel towards his father’s house. It must be confessed that he did it very unwillingly. He was never very fond of it at any time; but, since he had taken possession of Spikeman’s property, and had received from Mary the intelligence that he was worth 350 pounds more, he had taken a positive aversion to it. It retarded his movements, and it was hard work when he had not to get his livelihood by it. More than once he thought of rolling it into a horsepond, and leaving it below low-water mark; but then he thought it a sort of protection against inquiry, and against assault, for it told of poverty and honest employment; so Joey rolled on, but not with any feelings of regard towards his companion.

How many castles did our hero build as he went along the road! The sum of money left to him appeared to be enormous. He planned and planned again; and, like most people, at the close of the day, he was just as undetermined as at the commencement. Nevertheless, he was very happy, as people always are, in anticipation; unfortunately, more so than when they grasp what they have been seeking. Time rolled on, as well as the grindstone, and at last Joey found himself at the ale-house where he and Mary had put up previously to her obtaining a situation at the Hall. He immediately wrote a letter to her, acquainting her with his arrival. He would have taken the letter himself, only he recollected the treatment he had received, and found another messenger in the butcher’s boy, who was going up to the Hall for orders. The answer returned by the same party was, that Mary would come down and see him that evening. When Mary came down Joey was astonished at the improvement in her appearance. She looked much younger than she did when they had parted, and her dress was so very different that our hero could with difficulty imagine that it was the same person who had been his companion from Gravesend. The careless air and manner had disappeared; there was aretenue—a dignity about her which astonished him and he felt a sort of respect, mingled with his regard, for her, of which he could not divest himself. But, if she looked younger (as may well be imagined) from her change of life, she also looked more sedate, except when she smiled, or when occasionally, but very rarely, her merry laughter reminded him of the careless, good-tempered Nancy of former times. That the greeting was warm need hardly be said. It was the greeting of a sister and younger brother who loved each other dearly.

“You are very much grown, Joey,” said Mary. “Dear boy, how happy I am to see you!”

“And you, Mary, you’re younger in the face, but older in your manners. Are you as happy in your situation as you have told me in your letters?”

“Quite happy; more happy than ever I deserve to be, my dear boy; and now tell me, Joey, what do you think of doing? You have now the means of establishing yourself.”

“Yes, I have been thinking of it; but I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, you must look out, and do not be in too great a hurry. Recollect, Joey, that if anything offers which you have any reason to believe will suit you, you shall have my money as well as your own.”

“Nay, Mary, why should I take that?”

“Because, as it is of no use to me, it must be idle; besides, you know, if you succeed, you will be able to pay me interest for it; so I shall gain as well as you. You must not refuse your sister, my dear boy.”

“Dear Mary, how I wish we could live in the same house!”

“That cannot be now, Joey; you are above my situation at the Hall, even allowing that you would ever enter it.”

“That I never will, if I can help it; not that I feel angry now, but I like to be independent.”

“Of course you do.”

“And as for that grindstone, I hate the sight of it; it has made Spikeman’s fortune, but it never shall make mine.”

“You don’t agree then with your former companion,” rejoined Mary, “that a tinker’s is the nearest profession to that of a gentleman which you know of.”

“I certainly do not,” replied our hero; “and as soon as I can get rid of it I will; I have rolled it here, but I will not roll it much farther. I only wish I knew where to go.”

“I have something in my pocket which puts me in mind of a piece of news which I received the other day, since my return. First let me give you what I have in my pocket,”—and Mary pulled out the pencil-case sent to Joey by Emma Phillips. “There you know already who that is from.”

“Yes, and I shall value it very much, for she was a dear, kind little creature; and when I was very, very miserable, she comforted me.”

“Well, Joey, Miss Phillips requested me to write when I came back, as she wished to hear that I had arrived safe at the Hall. It was very kind of her, and I did so, of course. Since that I have received a letter from her, stating that her grandmother is dead, and that her mother is going to quit Gravesend for Portsmouth, to reside with her brother, who is now a widower.”

“I will go to Portsmouth,” replied our hero.

“I was thinking that, as her brother is a navy agent, and Mrs Phillips is interested about you, you could not do better. If anything turns up, then you will have good advice, and your money is not so likely to be thrown away. I think, therefore, you had better go to Portsmouth, and try your fortune.”

“I am very glad you have mentioned this, Mary, for, till now, one place was as indifferent to me as another; but now it is otherwise, and to Portsmouth I will certainly go.”

Our hero remained two or three days longer at the village, during which time Mary was with him every evening, and once she obtained leave to go to the banker’s about her money. She then turned over to Joey’s account the sum due to him, and arrangements were made with the bank so that Joey could draw his capital out whenever he pleased.

After which our hero took leave of Mary, promising to correspond more freely than before; and once more putting the strap of his knife-grinder’s wheel over his shoulders, he set off on his journey to Portsmouth.

Joey had not gained two miles from the village when he asked himself the question, “What shall I do with my grindstone?” He did not like to leave it on the road; he did not know to whom he could give it away. He rolled it on for about six miles farther, and then, quite tired, he resolved to follow the plan formerly adopted by Spikeman, and repose a little upon the turf on the road-side. The sun was very warm, and after a time Joey retreated to the other side of the hedge, which was shaded; and having taken his bundle from the side of the wheel where it hung, he first made his dinner of the provender he had brought with him, and then, laying his head on the bundle, was soon in a sound sleep, from which he was awakened by hearing voices on the other side of the hedge. He turned round, and perceived two men on the side of the road, close to his knife-grinder’s wheel. They were in their shirts and trousers only and sitting down on the turf.

“It would be a very good plan,” observed one of them; “we should then travel without suspicion.”

“Yes; if we could get off with it without being discovered. Where can the owner of it be.”

“Well, I dare say he is away upon some business or another, and has left the wheel here till he comes back. Now, suppose we were to take it—how should we manage?”

“Why, we cannot go along this road with it. We must get over the gates and hedges till we get across the country into another road; and then by travelling all night, we might be quite clear.”

“Yes, and then we should do well; for even if our description as deserters was sent out from Portsmouth, we should be considered as travelling tinkers and there would be no suspicion.”

“Well, I’m ready for it. If we can only get it off the road, and conceal it till night, we may then easily manage it. But first let’s see if the fellow it belongs to may not be somewhere about here.”

As the man said this, he rose up and turned his face towards the hedge, and our hero immediately perceived that it was his old acquaintance, Furness, the schoolmaster and marine. What to do he hardly knew. At last he perceived Furness advancing towards the gate of the field, which was close to where he was lying, and, as escape was impossible, our hero covered his face with his arms, and pretended to be fast asleep. He soon heard a “Hush!” given, as a signal to the other man, and, after a while, footsteps close to him. Joey pretended to snore loudly, and a whispering then took place. At last he heard Furness say—

“Do you watch by him while I wheel away the grindstone.”

“But if he wakes, what shall I do?”

“Brain him with that big stone. If he does not wake up when I am past the second field, follow me.”

That our hero had no inclination to wake after this notice may be easily imagined; he heard the gate opened, and the wheel trundled away, much to his delight, as Furness was the party who had it in charge; and Joey continued to snore hard, until at last he heard the departing footsteps of Furness’s comrade, who had watched him. He thought it prudent to continue motionless for some time longer, to give them time to be well away from him, and then he gradually turned round and looked in the direction in which they had gone; he could see nothing of them, and it was not until he had risen up, and climbed up on the gate, that he perceived them two or three fields off running away at a rapid pace. Thanking heaven that he had escaped the danger that he was in, and delighted with the loss of his property, our hero recommenced his journey with his bundle over his shoulder, and before night he was safe outside one of the stages which took him to a town, from which there was another which would carry him to Portsmouth, at which sea-port he arrived the next evening without further adventure.

As our hero sat on the outside of the coach and reflected upon his last adventure, the more he felt he had reason to congratulate himself. That Furness had deserted from the Marine Barracks at Portsmouth was evident; and if he had not, that he would have recognised Joey some time or other was almost certain. Now, he felt sure that he was safe at Portsmouth, as it would be the last place at which Furness would make his appearance; and he also felt that his knife-grinder’s wheel, in supplying Furness with the ostensible means of livelihood, and thereby preventing his being taken up as a deserter, had proved the best friend to him, and could not have been disposed of better. Another piece of good fortune was his having secured his bundle and money; for had he left it with the wheel, it would have, of course, shared its fate. “Besides,” thought Joey, “if I should chance to fall, in with Furness again, and he attempts to approach me, I can threaten to have him taken as a deserter, and this may deter him from so doing.” It was with a grateful heart that our hero laid his head upon his pillow, in the humble inn at which he had taken up his quarters.

Chapter Thirty Seven.In which our Hero returns to his Former Employment, but on a Grander Scale of Operation.Our hero had received from Mary the name and address of Mrs Phillips’s brother, and, on inquiry, found that he was known by everybody. Joey dressed himself in his best suit, and presented himself at the door about ten o’clock in the morning, as Joseph O’Donahue, the name which he had taken when he went to Gravesend, and by which name he had been known to Mrs Phillips and her daughter Emma, when he made occasional visits to their house. He was admitted, and found himself once more in company with his friend Emma, who was now fast growing up into womanhood. After the first congratulations and inquiries, he stated his intentions in coming down to Portsmouth, and their assistance was immediately promised. They then requested a detail of his adventures since he quitted Gravesend, of which Joey told everything that he safely could; passing over his meeting with Furness, by simply stating that, while he was asleep, his knife-grinder’s wheel had been stolen by two men, and that when he awoke he dared not offer an opposition. Mrs Phillips and her daughter both knew that there was some mystery about our hero, which had induced him to come to, and also to leave Gravesend; but, being assured by Mary and himself; that he was not to blame, they did not press him to say more than he wished; and, as soon as he finished his history, they proposed introducing him to Mr Small, the brother of Mrs Phillips, in whose house they were then residing, and who was then in his office.“But, perhaps, mamma, it will be better to wait till tomorrow, and in the meantime you will be able to tell my uncle all about Joey,” observed Emma.“I think it will be better, my dear,” replied Mrs Phillips; “but there is Marianne’s tap at the door, for the second time; she wants me downstairs, so I must leave you for a little while; but you need not go away, O’Donahue; I will be back soon.”Mrs Phillips left the room, and our hero found himself alone with Emma.“You have grown very much, Joey,” said Emma; “and so have I, too, they tell me.”“Yes, you have indeed,” replied Joey; “you are no longer the little girl who comforted me when I was so unhappy. Do you recollect that day?”“Yes, indeed I do, as if it were but yesterday. But you have never told me why you lead so wandering a life; you won’t trust me.”“I would trust you with anything but that which is not mine to trust, as I told you four years ago; it is not my secret; as soon as I can I will tell you everything; but I hope not to lead a wandering life any longer, for I have come down here to settle, if I can.”“What made you think of coming down here?” asked Emma.“Because you were here; Mary told me so. I have not yet thanked you for your present, but I have not forgotten your kindness in thinking of a poor boy like me, when he was far away; here it is,” continued Joey, taking out the pencil-case, “and I have loved it dearly,” added he, kissing it, “ever since I have had it in my possession. I very often have taken it out and thought of you.”“Now you are so rich a man, you should give me something to keep for your sake,” replied Emma; “and I will be very careful of it, for old acquaintance’ sake.”“What can I offer to you? you are a young lady; I would give you all I had in the world, if I dared, but—”“When I first saw you,” rejoined Emma, “you were dressed as a young gentleman.”“Yes, I was,” replied Joey, with a sigh; and as the observation of Emma recalled to his mind the kindness of the McShanes, he passed his hand across his eyes to brush away a tear or two that started.“I did not mean to make you unhappy,” said Emma, taking our hero’s hand.“I am sure you did not,” replied Joey, smiling. “Yes, I was then as you say; but recollect that lately I have been a knife-grinder.”“Well, you know, your friend said, that it was the nearest thing to a gentleman; and now I hope you will be quite a gentleman again.”“Not a gentleman, for I must turn to some business or another,” replied Joey.“I did not mean an idle gentleman; I meant a respectable profession,” said Emma. “My uncle is a very odd man, but very good-hearted; you must not mind his way towards you. He is very fond of mamma and me, and I have no doubt will interest himself about you, and see that your money is not thrown away. Perhaps you would like to set up a bumboat on your own account?” added Emma, laughing.“No, I thank you; I had enough of that. Poor Mrs Chopper! what a kind creature she was! I’m sure I ought to be very grateful to her for thinking of me as she did.”“I believe,” said Emma, “that she was a very good woman, and so does mamma. Recollect Joey, when you speak to my uncle, you must not contradict him.”“I am sure I shall not,” replied Joey; “why should I contradict a person so far my superior in years and everything else?”“Certainly not; and as he is fond of argument, you had better give up to him at once; and, indeed,” continued Emma, laughing, “everybody else does in the end. I hope you will find a nice situation, and that we shall see a great deal of you.”“I am sure I do,” replied Joey, “for I have no friends that I may see, except you. How I wish that you did know everything!”A silence ensued between the young people, which was not interrupted until by the appearance of Mrs Phillips, who had seen Mr Small, and had made an engagement for our hero to present himself at nine o’clock on the following morning, after which communication our hero took his leave. He amused himself during the remainder of that day in walking over the town, which at that time presented a most bustling appearance, as an expedition was fitting out; the streets were crowded with officers of the army, navy, and marines, in their uniforms; soldiers and sailors, more or less tipsy; flaunting ribbons and gaudy colours, and every variety of noise was to be heard that could be well imagined, from the quacking of a duck, with its head out of the basket in which it was confined to be taken on board, to the martial music, the rolling of the drums, and the occasional salutes of artillery, to let the world know that some great man had put his foot on board of a ship, or had again deigned to tread uponterra firma. All was bustle and excitement, hurrying, jostling, cursing, and swearing; and Joey found himself, by the manner in which he was shoved about right and left, to be in the way of everybody.At the time appointed our hero made his appearance at the door, and, having given his name, was asked into the counting-house of the establishment, where sat Mr Small and his factotum, Mr Sleek. It may be as well here to describe the persons and peculiarities of these two gentlemen.Mr Small certainly did not accord with his name, for he was a man full six feet high, and stout in proportion; he was in face extremely plain, with a turned-up nose; but, at the same time, there was a lurking good-humour in his countenance, and a twinkle in his eye, which immediately prepossessed you, and in a few minutes you forgot that he was not well-favoured. Mr Small was very fond of an argument and a joke, and he had such a forcible way of maintaining his argument when he happened to be near you, that, as Emma had told our hero, few people after a time ventured to contradict him. This mode of argument was nothing more than digging the hard knuckles of his large hand into the ribs of his opponent—we should rather say gradually gimleting, as it were, a hole in your side—as he heated in his illustrations. He was the last person in the world in his disposition to inflict pain, even upon an insect—and yet, from this habit, no one perhaps gave more, or appeared to do so with more malice, as his countenance was radiant with good-humour, at the very time when his knuckles were taking away your breath. What made it worse, was, that he had a knack of seizing the coat lappet with the other hand, so that escape was difficult; and when he had exhausted all his reasoning, he would follow it up with a pressure of his knuckles under the fifth rib, saying, “Now you feel the force of my argument, don’t you?” Everybody did, and no one would oppose him unless the table was between them. It was much the same with his jokes: he would utter them, and then with a loud laugh, and the insidious insertion of his knuckles, say, “Do you take that, eh?” Mr Sleek had also his peculiarity, and was not an agreeable person to argue with, for he had learnt to argue from his many years’ constant companionship with the head of the firm. Mr Sleek was a spare man, deeply pock-marked in the face, and with a very large mouth; and, when speaking, he sputtered to such a degree, that a quarter of an hour’s conversation with him was as good as a shower-bath. At long range Mr Sleek could heat his superior out of the field; but if Mr Small approached once to close quarters, Mr Sleek gave in immediately. The captains of the navy used to assert that this fibbing enforcement of histruths, on the part of Small, was quite contrary to all the rules of modern warfare, and never would stand it, unless they required an advance of money; and then, by submitting to a certain quantity of digs in the ribs in proportion to the unreasonableness of their demand, they usually obtained their object; as they said he “knuckled down” in the end. As for Mr Sleek, although the best man in the world, he was their abhorrence; he was nothing but a watering-pot, and they were not plants which required his aid to add to their vigour. Mr Sleek, even in the largest company, invariably found himself alone, and could never imagine why. Still he was an important personage; and when stock is to be got on board in a hurry, officers in his Majesty’s service do not care about a little spray.Mr Small was, as we have observed, a navy agent—that is to say, he was a general provider of the officers and captains of his Majesty’s service. He obtained their agency on any captures which they might send in, or he cashed their bills, advanced them money, supplied them with their wine, and every variety of stock which might be required; and in consequence was reported to be accumulating a fortune. As is usually the case, he kept open house for the captains who were his clients, and occasionally invited the junior officers to the hospitalities of his table, so that Mrs Phillips and Emma were of great use to him, and had quite sufficient to do in superintending such an establishment. Having thus made our readers better acquainted with our new characters, we shall proceed.“Well, young man, I’ve heard all about you from my sister. So you wish to leave off vagabondising, do you?”“Yes, sir,” replied Joey.“How old are you? can you keep books?”“I am seventeen, and have kept books,” replied our hero, in innocence; for he considered Mrs Chopper’s day-books to come under that denomination.“And you have some money—how much?”Joey replied that he had so much of his own, and that his sister had so much more.“Seven hundred pounds; eh, youngster? I began business with 100 pounds less; and here I am. Money breeds money; do you understand that?” and here Joey received a knuckle in his ribs, which almost took his breath away, but which he bore without flinching, as he presumed it was a mark of good will.“What can we do with this lad, Sleek?” said Mr Small; “and what can we do with his money?”“Let him stay in the counting-house here for a week,” replied Mr Sleek, “and we shall see what he can do; and, as for his money, it will be as safe here as in a country bank, until we know how to employ it, and we can allow five per cent for it.” All this was said in a shower of spray, which induced Joey to wipe his face with his pocket-handkerchief.“Yes, I think that will do for the present,” rejoined Mr Small; “but you observe, Sleek, that this young lad has very powerful interest, and we shall be expected to do something for him, or we shall have the worst of it. You understand that?” continued he, giving Joey a knuckle again. “The ladies! no standing against them!”Joey thought there was no standing such digs in the ribs, but he said nothing.“I leave him to you, Sleek. I must be off to call upon Captain James. See to the lad’s food and lodging. There’s an order from the gun-room of theHecate.” So saying, Mr Small departed.Mr Sleek asked our hero where he was stopping; recommended him another lodging close to the house, with directions how to proceed, and what arrangements to make; told him to haste as much as he could, and then come back to the counting-house.In a couple of hours our hero was back again.“Look on this list; do you understand it?” said Mr Sleek to Joey; “it is sea-stock for theHecatewhich sails in a day or two. If I send a porter with you to the people we deal with, would you be able to get all these things which are marked with a cross? the wine and the others we have here.”Joey looked over it, and was quite at home; it was only bumboating on a large scale. “O, yes; and I know the prices of all these things,” replied he; “I have been used to the supplying of ships at Gravesend.”“Why then,” said Mr Sleek, “you are the very person I want; for I have no time to attend to out-door work now.”The porter was sent for, and our hero soon executed his task, not only with a precision but with a rapidity that was highly satisfactory to Mr Sleek. As soon as the articles were all collected, Joey asked whether he should take them on board—“I understand the work, Mr Sleek, and not even an egg shall be broke, I promise you.” The second part of the commission was executed with the same precision by our hero, who returned with a receipt of every article having been delivered safe and in good condition. Mr Sleek was delighted with our hero, and told Mr Small so when they met in the evening. Mr Sleek’s opinion was given in the presence of Mrs Phillips and Emma, who exchanged glances of satisfaction at Joey’s fortunatedébût.

Our hero had received from Mary the name and address of Mrs Phillips’s brother, and, on inquiry, found that he was known by everybody. Joey dressed himself in his best suit, and presented himself at the door about ten o’clock in the morning, as Joseph O’Donahue, the name which he had taken when he went to Gravesend, and by which name he had been known to Mrs Phillips and her daughter Emma, when he made occasional visits to their house. He was admitted, and found himself once more in company with his friend Emma, who was now fast growing up into womanhood. After the first congratulations and inquiries, he stated his intentions in coming down to Portsmouth, and their assistance was immediately promised. They then requested a detail of his adventures since he quitted Gravesend, of which Joey told everything that he safely could; passing over his meeting with Furness, by simply stating that, while he was asleep, his knife-grinder’s wheel had been stolen by two men, and that when he awoke he dared not offer an opposition. Mrs Phillips and her daughter both knew that there was some mystery about our hero, which had induced him to come to, and also to leave Gravesend; but, being assured by Mary and himself; that he was not to blame, they did not press him to say more than he wished; and, as soon as he finished his history, they proposed introducing him to Mr Small, the brother of Mrs Phillips, in whose house they were then residing, and who was then in his office.

“But, perhaps, mamma, it will be better to wait till tomorrow, and in the meantime you will be able to tell my uncle all about Joey,” observed Emma.

“I think it will be better, my dear,” replied Mrs Phillips; “but there is Marianne’s tap at the door, for the second time; she wants me downstairs, so I must leave you for a little while; but you need not go away, O’Donahue; I will be back soon.”

Mrs Phillips left the room, and our hero found himself alone with Emma.

“You have grown very much, Joey,” said Emma; “and so have I, too, they tell me.”

“Yes, you have indeed,” replied Joey; “you are no longer the little girl who comforted me when I was so unhappy. Do you recollect that day?”

“Yes, indeed I do, as if it were but yesterday. But you have never told me why you lead so wandering a life; you won’t trust me.”

“I would trust you with anything but that which is not mine to trust, as I told you four years ago; it is not my secret; as soon as I can I will tell you everything; but I hope not to lead a wandering life any longer, for I have come down here to settle, if I can.”

“What made you think of coming down here?” asked Emma.

“Because you were here; Mary told me so. I have not yet thanked you for your present, but I have not forgotten your kindness in thinking of a poor boy like me, when he was far away; here it is,” continued Joey, taking out the pencil-case, “and I have loved it dearly,” added he, kissing it, “ever since I have had it in my possession. I very often have taken it out and thought of you.”

“Now you are so rich a man, you should give me something to keep for your sake,” replied Emma; “and I will be very careful of it, for old acquaintance’ sake.”

“What can I offer to you? you are a young lady; I would give you all I had in the world, if I dared, but—”

“When I first saw you,” rejoined Emma, “you were dressed as a young gentleman.”

“Yes, I was,” replied Joey, with a sigh; and as the observation of Emma recalled to his mind the kindness of the McShanes, he passed his hand across his eyes to brush away a tear or two that started.

“I did not mean to make you unhappy,” said Emma, taking our hero’s hand.

“I am sure you did not,” replied Joey, smiling. “Yes, I was then as you say; but recollect that lately I have been a knife-grinder.”

“Well, you know, your friend said, that it was the nearest thing to a gentleman; and now I hope you will be quite a gentleman again.”

“Not a gentleman, for I must turn to some business or another,” replied Joey.

“I did not mean an idle gentleman; I meant a respectable profession,” said Emma. “My uncle is a very odd man, but very good-hearted; you must not mind his way towards you. He is very fond of mamma and me, and I have no doubt will interest himself about you, and see that your money is not thrown away. Perhaps you would like to set up a bumboat on your own account?” added Emma, laughing.

“No, I thank you; I had enough of that. Poor Mrs Chopper! what a kind creature she was! I’m sure I ought to be very grateful to her for thinking of me as she did.”

“I believe,” said Emma, “that she was a very good woman, and so does mamma. Recollect Joey, when you speak to my uncle, you must not contradict him.”

“I am sure I shall not,” replied Joey; “why should I contradict a person so far my superior in years and everything else?”

“Certainly not; and as he is fond of argument, you had better give up to him at once; and, indeed,” continued Emma, laughing, “everybody else does in the end. I hope you will find a nice situation, and that we shall see a great deal of you.”

“I am sure I do,” replied Joey, “for I have no friends that I may see, except you. How I wish that you did know everything!”

A silence ensued between the young people, which was not interrupted until by the appearance of Mrs Phillips, who had seen Mr Small, and had made an engagement for our hero to present himself at nine o’clock on the following morning, after which communication our hero took his leave. He amused himself during the remainder of that day in walking over the town, which at that time presented a most bustling appearance, as an expedition was fitting out; the streets were crowded with officers of the army, navy, and marines, in their uniforms; soldiers and sailors, more or less tipsy; flaunting ribbons and gaudy colours, and every variety of noise was to be heard that could be well imagined, from the quacking of a duck, with its head out of the basket in which it was confined to be taken on board, to the martial music, the rolling of the drums, and the occasional salutes of artillery, to let the world know that some great man had put his foot on board of a ship, or had again deigned to tread uponterra firma. All was bustle and excitement, hurrying, jostling, cursing, and swearing; and Joey found himself, by the manner in which he was shoved about right and left, to be in the way of everybody.

At the time appointed our hero made his appearance at the door, and, having given his name, was asked into the counting-house of the establishment, where sat Mr Small and his factotum, Mr Sleek. It may be as well here to describe the persons and peculiarities of these two gentlemen.

Mr Small certainly did not accord with his name, for he was a man full six feet high, and stout in proportion; he was in face extremely plain, with a turned-up nose; but, at the same time, there was a lurking good-humour in his countenance, and a twinkle in his eye, which immediately prepossessed you, and in a few minutes you forgot that he was not well-favoured. Mr Small was very fond of an argument and a joke, and he had such a forcible way of maintaining his argument when he happened to be near you, that, as Emma had told our hero, few people after a time ventured to contradict him. This mode of argument was nothing more than digging the hard knuckles of his large hand into the ribs of his opponent—we should rather say gradually gimleting, as it were, a hole in your side—as he heated in his illustrations. He was the last person in the world in his disposition to inflict pain, even upon an insect—and yet, from this habit, no one perhaps gave more, or appeared to do so with more malice, as his countenance was radiant with good-humour, at the very time when his knuckles were taking away your breath. What made it worse, was, that he had a knack of seizing the coat lappet with the other hand, so that escape was difficult; and when he had exhausted all his reasoning, he would follow it up with a pressure of his knuckles under the fifth rib, saying, “Now you feel the force of my argument, don’t you?” Everybody did, and no one would oppose him unless the table was between them. It was much the same with his jokes: he would utter them, and then with a loud laugh, and the insidious insertion of his knuckles, say, “Do you take that, eh?” Mr Sleek had also his peculiarity, and was not an agreeable person to argue with, for he had learnt to argue from his many years’ constant companionship with the head of the firm. Mr Sleek was a spare man, deeply pock-marked in the face, and with a very large mouth; and, when speaking, he sputtered to such a degree, that a quarter of an hour’s conversation with him was as good as a shower-bath. At long range Mr Sleek could heat his superior out of the field; but if Mr Small approached once to close quarters, Mr Sleek gave in immediately. The captains of the navy used to assert that this fibbing enforcement of histruths, on the part of Small, was quite contrary to all the rules of modern warfare, and never would stand it, unless they required an advance of money; and then, by submitting to a certain quantity of digs in the ribs in proportion to the unreasonableness of their demand, they usually obtained their object; as they said he “knuckled down” in the end. As for Mr Sleek, although the best man in the world, he was their abhorrence; he was nothing but a watering-pot, and they were not plants which required his aid to add to their vigour. Mr Sleek, even in the largest company, invariably found himself alone, and could never imagine why. Still he was an important personage; and when stock is to be got on board in a hurry, officers in his Majesty’s service do not care about a little spray.

Mr Small was, as we have observed, a navy agent—that is to say, he was a general provider of the officers and captains of his Majesty’s service. He obtained their agency on any captures which they might send in, or he cashed their bills, advanced them money, supplied them with their wine, and every variety of stock which might be required; and in consequence was reported to be accumulating a fortune. As is usually the case, he kept open house for the captains who were his clients, and occasionally invited the junior officers to the hospitalities of his table, so that Mrs Phillips and Emma were of great use to him, and had quite sufficient to do in superintending such an establishment. Having thus made our readers better acquainted with our new characters, we shall proceed.

“Well, young man, I’ve heard all about you from my sister. So you wish to leave off vagabondising, do you?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Joey.

“How old are you? can you keep books?”

“I am seventeen, and have kept books,” replied our hero, in innocence; for he considered Mrs Chopper’s day-books to come under that denomination.

“And you have some money—how much?”

Joey replied that he had so much of his own, and that his sister had so much more.

“Seven hundred pounds; eh, youngster? I began business with 100 pounds less; and here I am. Money breeds money; do you understand that?” and here Joey received a knuckle in his ribs, which almost took his breath away, but which he bore without flinching, as he presumed it was a mark of good will.

“What can we do with this lad, Sleek?” said Mr Small; “and what can we do with his money?”

“Let him stay in the counting-house here for a week,” replied Mr Sleek, “and we shall see what he can do; and, as for his money, it will be as safe here as in a country bank, until we know how to employ it, and we can allow five per cent for it.” All this was said in a shower of spray, which induced Joey to wipe his face with his pocket-handkerchief.

“Yes, I think that will do for the present,” rejoined Mr Small; “but you observe, Sleek, that this young lad has very powerful interest, and we shall be expected to do something for him, or we shall have the worst of it. You understand that?” continued he, giving Joey a knuckle again. “The ladies! no standing against them!”

Joey thought there was no standing such digs in the ribs, but he said nothing.

“I leave him to you, Sleek. I must be off to call upon Captain James. See to the lad’s food and lodging. There’s an order from the gun-room of theHecate.” So saying, Mr Small departed.

Mr Sleek asked our hero where he was stopping; recommended him another lodging close to the house, with directions how to proceed, and what arrangements to make; told him to haste as much as he could, and then come back to the counting-house.

In a couple of hours our hero was back again.

“Look on this list; do you understand it?” said Mr Sleek to Joey; “it is sea-stock for theHecatewhich sails in a day or two. If I send a porter with you to the people we deal with, would you be able to get all these things which are marked with a cross? the wine and the others we have here.”

Joey looked over it, and was quite at home; it was only bumboating on a large scale. “O, yes; and I know the prices of all these things,” replied he; “I have been used to the supplying of ships at Gravesend.”

“Why then,” said Mr Sleek, “you are the very person I want; for I have no time to attend to out-door work now.”

The porter was sent for, and our hero soon executed his task, not only with a precision but with a rapidity that was highly satisfactory to Mr Sleek. As soon as the articles were all collected, Joey asked whether he should take them on board—“I understand the work, Mr Sleek, and not even an egg shall be broke, I promise you.” The second part of the commission was executed with the same precision by our hero, who returned with a receipt of every article having been delivered safe and in good condition. Mr Sleek was delighted with our hero, and told Mr Small so when they met in the evening. Mr Sleek’s opinion was given in the presence of Mrs Phillips and Emma, who exchanged glances of satisfaction at Joey’s fortunatedébût.

Chapter Thirty Eight.In which the Wheel of Fortune turns a Spoke or two in Favour of our Hero.If we were to analyse the feelings of our hero towards Emma Phillips, we should hardly be warranted in saying that he was in love with her, although at seventeen years young men are very apt to be, or so to fancy themselves. The difference in their positions was so great, that, although our hero would, in his dreams, often fancy himself on most intimate terms with his kind little patroness, in his waking thoughts she was more an object of adoration and respect,—a being to whom he was most ardently and devotedly attached,—one whose friendship and kindness had so wrought upon his best feelings, that he would have thought it no sacrifice to die for her; but the idea of ever being closer allied to her than he now was had not yet entered into his imagination; all he ever thought was that, if ever he united himself to any female for life, the party selected must be like Emma Phillips; or, if not, he would remain single. All his endeavours were to prove himself worthy of her patronage, and to be rewarded by her smiles of encouragement when they met. She was the lodestar which guided him on to his path of duty, and, stimulated by his wishes to find favour in her sight, Joey never relaxed in his exertions; naturally active and methodical, he was indefatigable, and gave the greatest satisfaction to Mr Sleek, who found more than half the labour taken off his hands; and, further, that if Joey once said a thing should be done, it was not only well done, but done to the very time that was stipulated for its completion. Joey cared not for meals, or anything of that kind, and often went without his dinner.“Sleek,” said Small, one day, “that poor boy will be starved.”“It’s not my fault, sir; he won’t go to his dinner if there is anything to do; and, as there is always something to do, it’s as clear as the day that he can get no dinner. I wish he was living in the house altogether, and came to his meals with us after the work was done; it would be very advantageous, and much time saved.”“Time is money, Sleek. Time saved is money saved; and therefore he is worthy of his food. It shall be so. Do you see to it.”Thus, in about two months after his arrival, Joey found himself installed in a nice little bedroom, and living at the table of his patron, not only constantly in company with the naval officers, but, what was of more value to him, in the company of Mrs Phillips and Emma.We must pass over more than a year, during which time our hero had become a person of some importance. He was a great favourite with the naval captains, as his punctuality and rapidity corresponded with their ideas of doing business; and it was constantly said to Mr Sleek or to Mr Small, “Let O’Donahue and I settle the matter, and all will go right.” Mr Small had already established him at a salary of 150 pounds per annum, besides his living in the house, and our hero was comfortable and happy. He was well known to all the officers, from his being constantly on board of their ships, and was a great favourite: Joey soon discovered that Emma had a fancy for natural curiosities; and as he boarded almost every man-of-war which came into the port, he soon filled her room with a variety of shells and of birds, which he procured her. These were presents which he could make, and which she could accept, and not a week passed without our hero adding something to her museum of live and dead objects. Indeed, Emma was now grown up, and was paid such attention to by the officers who frequented her uncle’s house (not only on account of her beauty, but on account of the expectation that her uncle, who was without children, would give her a handsome fortune), that some emotions of jealousy, of which he was hardly conscious, would occasionally give severe pain to our hero. Perhaps as his fortunes rose, so did his hopes; certain it is, that sometimes he was very grave.Emma was too clear-sighted not to perceive the cause, and hastened, by her little attentions, to remove the feeling: not that she had any definite ideas upon the subject any more than Joey; but she could not bear to see him look unhappy.Such was the state of things, when one day Mr Small said to Joey, as he was busy copying an order into the books, “O’Donahue, I have been laying out some of your money for you.”“Indeed, sir! I’m very much obliged to you.”“Yes; there was a large stock of claret sold at auction to-day: it was good, and went cheap. I have purchased to the amount of 600 pounds on your account. You may bottle and bin it here, and sell it as you can. If you don’t like the bargain, I’ll take it off your hands.”“I am very grateful to you, sir,” replied Joey, who knew the kindness of the act, which in two months more than doubled his capital; and, as he was permitted to continue the business on his own account, he was very soon in a position amounting to independence, the French wine business being ever afterwards considered as exclusively belonging to our hero.One morning, as Joey happened to be in the counting-house by himself—which was rather an unusual occurrence,—a midshipman came in. Joey remembered him very well, as he had been often there before. “Good morning, Mr O’Donahue,” said the midshipman; “is Mr Small within?”“No, he is not; can I do anything for you?”“Yes, if you can tell me how I am to persuade Mr Small to advance me a little money upon my pay, you can do something for me.”“I never heard of such an application before,” replied Joey, smiling.“No, that I venture you did not, and it requires all the impudence of a midshipman to make such a one; but the fact is, Mr O’Donahue, I am a mate with 40 pounds a year, and upon that I have continued to assist my poor old mother up to the present. She now requires 10 pounds in consequence of illness, and I have not a farthing. I will repay it if I live, that is certain; but I have little hopes of obtaining it, and nothing but my affection for the old lady would induce me to risk the mortification of a refusal. It’s true enough that ‘he who goes a-borrowing goes a-sorrowing.’”“I fear it is; but I will so far assist you as to let you know what your only chance is. State your case to Mr Small as you have to me to-day, and then stand close to him while he answers; if he puts his knuckles into your ribs to enforce his arguments, don’t shrink, and then wait the result without interrupting him.”“Well, I’d do more than that for the old lady,” replied the poor midshipman, as Mr Small made his appearance.The midshipman told his story in very few words, and Mr Small heard him without interruption. When he had finished, Mr Small commenced, “You see my man, you ask me to do what no navy-agent ever did before—to lend upon a promise to pay, and that promise to pay from a midshipman. In the first place, I have only the promise without the security; that’s one point, do you observe? (A punch with the knuckles.) And then the promise to pay depends whether you are in the country or not. Again, if you have the money, you may not have the inclination to pay; that’s another point. (Then came another sharp impression into the ribs of the middy.) Then, again, it is not even personal security, as you may be drowned, shot, blown up, or taken out of the world before any pay is due to you; and by your death you would be unable to pay, if so inclined; there’s a third point. (And there was a third dig, which the middy stood boldly up against.) Insure your life you cannot, for you have no money; you therefore require me to lend my money upon no security whatever; for even allowing that you would pay if you could, yet your death might prevent it; there’s another point, (and the knuckles again penetrated into the midshipman’s side who felt the torture increasing as hope was departing.) But,” continued Mr Small, who was evidently much pleased with his own ratiocination, “there is another point not yet touched upon, which is, that as good Christians, we must sometimes lend money upon no security, or even give it away, for so are we commanded; and therefore, Mr O’Donahue, you will tell Mr Sleek to let him have the money; there’s the last and best point of all, eh?” wound up Mr Small, with a thumping blow upon the ribs of the middy, that almost took away his breath. We give this as a specimen of Mr Small’s style of practical and theoretical logic combined.“The admiral, sir, is coming down the street,” said Sleek, entering, “and I think he is coming here.”Mr Small, who did not venture to chop logic with admirals, but was excessively polite to such great people, went out to receive the admiral, hat in hand.“Now, Mr Small,” said the admiral, “the counting-house for business, if you please. I have very unexpected orders to leave Portsmouth. I must save the next tide, if possible. The ships will be ready, for you know what our navy can do when required: but as you know, I have not one atom of stock on board. The flood-tide has made almost an hour, and we must sail at the first of the ebb, as twelve hours’ delay may be most serious. Now, tell me—here is the list of what is required; boats will be ready and men in plenty to get it on board;—can you get it ready by that time?”“By that time, Sir William?” replied Small, looking over the tremendous catalogue.“It is now eleven o’clock; can it all be down by four o’clock—that is the latest I can give you?”“Impossible, Sir William.”“It is of the greatest importance that we sail at five o’clock; the fact is, I must and will; but it’s hard that I must starve for a whole cruise.”“Indeed, Sir William,” said Mr Small, “if it were possible; but two cows, so many sheep, hay, and everything to be got from the country; we never could manage it. To-morrow morning, perhaps.”“Well, Mr Small, I have appointed no prize-agent yet; had you obliged me—”Our hero now stepped forward and ran over the list.“Can you inform me, sir,” said he to the flag-captain, “whether theZenobiaorOrestessail with the squadron?”“No, they do not,” was the reply.“I beg your pardon, Mr Small,” said Joey, “but I do think we can accomplish this with a little arrangement.”“Indeed!” cried Sir William.“Yes, Sir William; if you would immediately make the signals for two boats to come on shore, with steady crews to assist me, I promise it shall be done.”“Well said, O’Donahue!” cried the captain; “we are all right now, admiral; if he says it shall be done, it will be done.”“May I depend upon you, Mr O’Donahue.”“Yes, Sir William; everything shall be as you wish.”“Well, Mr Small, if your young man keeps his word, you shall be my prize-agent. Good morning to you.”“How could you promise?” cried Small, addressing our hero, when the admiral and suite had left the counting-house.“Because I can perform, sir,” replied Joey; “I have the cows and sheep for theZenobiaandOrestes, as well as the fodder, all ready in the town; we can get others for them to-morrow, and I know where to lay my hands on everything else.”“Well, that’s lucky! but there is no time to be lost.”Our hero, with his usual promptitude and activity, kept his promise; and, as Mr Small said, it was lucky, for the prize-agency, in a few months afterwards, proved worth to him nearly 5,000 pounds.It is not to be supposed that Joey neglected his correspondence either with Mary or Spikeman, although with the latter it was not so frequent. Mary wrote to him every month; she had not many subjects to enter upon, chiefly replying to Joey’s communications, and congratulating him upon his success. Indeed, now that our hero had been nearly four years with Mr Small, he might be said to be a very rising and independent person. His capital, which had increased very considerably, had been thrown into the business, and he was now a junior partner, instead of a clerk, and had long enjoyed the full confidence both of his superior and of Mr Sleek, who now entrusted him with almost everything. In short, Joey was in the fair way to competence and distinction.

If we were to analyse the feelings of our hero towards Emma Phillips, we should hardly be warranted in saying that he was in love with her, although at seventeen years young men are very apt to be, or so to fancy themselves. The difference in their positions was so great, that, although our hero would, in his dreams, often fancy himself on most intimate terms with his kind little patroness, in his waking thoughts she was more an object of adoration and respect,—a being to whom he was most ardently and devotedly attached,—one whose friendship and kindness had so wrought upon his best feelings, that he would have thought it no sacrifice to die for her; but the idea of ever being closer allied to her than he now was had not yet entered into his imagination; all he ever thought was that, if ever he united himself to any female for life, the party selected must be like Emma Phillips; or, if not, he would remain single. All his endeavours were to prove himself worthy of her patronage, and to be rewarded by her smiles of encouragement when they met. She was the lodestar which guided him on to his path of duty, and, stimulated by his wishes to find favour in her sight, Joey never relaxed in his exertions; naturally active and methodical, he was indefatigable, and gave the greatest satisfaction to Mr Sleek, who found more than half the labour taken off his hands; and, further, that if Joey once said a thing should be done, it was not only well done, but done to the very time that was stipulated for its completion. Joey cared not for meals, or anything of that kind, and often went without his dinner.

“Sleek,” said Small, one day, “that poor boy will be starved.”

“It’s not my fault, sir; he won’t go to his dinner if there is anything to do; and, as there is always something to do, it’s as clear as the day that he can get no dinner. I wish he was living in the house altogether, and came to his meals with us after the work was done; it would be very advantageous, and much time saved.”

“Time is money, Sleek. Time saved is money saved; and therefore he is worthy of his food. It shall be so. Do you see to it.”

Thus, in about two months after his arrival, Joey found himself installed in a nice little bedroom, and living at the table of his patron, not only constantly in company with the naval officers, but, what was of more value to him, in the company of Mrs Phillips and Emma.

We must pass over more than a year, during which time our hero had become a person of some importance. He was a great favourite with the naval captains, as his punctuality and rapidity corresponded with their ideas of doing business; and it was constantly said to Mr Sleek or to Mr Small, “Let O’Donahue and I settle the matter, and all will go right.” Mr Small had already established him at a salary of 150 pounds per annum, besides his living in the house, and our hero was comfortable and happy. He was well known to all the officers, from his being constantly on board of their ships, and was a great favourite: Joey soon discovered that Emma had a fancy for natural curiosities; and as he boarded almost every man-of-war which came into the port, he soon filled her room with a variety of shells and of birds, which he procured her. These were presents which he could make, and which she could accept, and not a week passed without our hero adding something to her museum of live and dead objects. Indeed, Emma was now grown up, and was paid such attention to by the officers who frequented her uncle’s house (not only on account of her beauty, but on account of the expectation that her uncle, who was without children, would give her a handsome fortune), that some emotions of jealousy, of which he was hardly conscious, would occasionally give severe pain to our hero. Perhaps as his fortunes rose, so did his hopes; certain it is, that sometimes he was very grave.

Emma was too clear-sighted not to perceive the cause, and hastened, by her little attentions, to remove the feeling: not that she had any definite ideas upon the subject any more than Joey; but she could not bear to see him look unhappy.

Such was the state of things, when one day Mr Small said to Joey, as he was busy copying an order into the books, “O’Donahue, I have been laying out some of your money for you.”

“Indeed, sir! I’m very much obliged to you.”

“Yes; there was a large stock of claret sold at auction to-day: it was good, and went cheap. I have purchased to the amount of 600 pounds on your account. You may bottle and bin it here, and sell it as you can. If you don’t like the bargain, I’ll take it off your hands.”

“I am very grateful to you, sir,” replied Joey, who knew the kindness of the act, which in two months more than doubled his capital; and, as he was permitted to continue the business on his own account, he was very soon in a position amounting to independence, the French wine business being ever afterwards considered as exclusively belonging to our hero.

One morning, as Joey happened to be in the counting-house by himself—which was rather an unusual occurrence,—a midshipman came in. Joey remembered him very well, as he had been often there before. “Good morning, Mr O’Donahue,” said the midshipman; “is Mr Small within?”

“No, he is not; can I do anything for you?”

“Yes, if you can tell me how I am to persuade Mr Small to advance me a little money upon my pay, you can do something for me.”

“I never heard of such an application before,” replied Joey, smiling.

“No, that I venture you did not, and it requires all the impudence of a midshipman to make such a one; but the fact is, Mr O’Donahue, I am a mate with 40 pounds a year, and upon that I have continued to assist my poor old mother up to the present. She now requires 10 pounds in consequence of illness, and I have not a farthing. I will repay it if I live, that is certain; but I have little hopes of obtaining it, and nothing but my affection for the old lady would induce me to risk the mortification of a refusal. It’s true enough that ‘he who goes a-borrowing goes a-sorrowing.’”

“I fear it is; but I will so far assist you as to let you know what your only chance is. State your case to Mr Small as you have to me to-day, and then stand close to him while he answers; if he puts his knuckles into your ribs to enforce his arguments, don’t shrink, and then wait the result without interrupting him.”

“Well, I’d do more than that for the old lady,” replied the poor midshipman, as Mr Small made his appearance.

The midshipman told his story in very few words, and Mr Small heard him without interruption. When he had finished, Mr Small commenced, “You see my man, you ask me to do what no navy-agent ever did before—to lend upon a promise to pay, and that promise to pay from a midshipman. In the first place, I have only the promise without the security; that’s one point, do you observe? (A punch with the knuckles.) And then the promise to pay depends whether you are in the country or not. Again, if you have the money, you may not have the inclination to pay; that’s another point. (Then came another sharp impression into the ribs of the middy.) Then, again, it is not even personal security, as you may be drowned, shot, blown up, or taken out of the world before any pay is due to you; and by your death you would be unable to pay, if so inclined; there’s a third point. (And there was a third dig, which the middy stood boldly up against.) Insure your life you cannot, for you have no money; you therefore require me to lend my money upon no security whatever; for even allowing that you would pay if you could, yet your death might prevent it; there’s another point, (and the knuckles again penetrated into the midshipman’s side who felt the torture increasing as hope was departing.) But,” continued Mr Small, who was evidently much pleased with his own ratiocination, “there is another point not yet touched upon, which is, that as good Christians, we must sometimes lend money upon no security, or even give it away, for so are we commanded; and therefore, Mr O’Donahue, you will tell Mr Sleek to let him have the money; there’s the last and best point of all, eh?” wound up Mr Small, with a thumping blow upon the ribs of the middy, that almost took away his breath. We give this as a specimen of Mr Small’s style of practical and theoretical logic combined.

“The admiral, sir, is coming down the street,” said Sleek, entering, “and I think he is coming here.”

Mr Small, who did not venture to chop logic with admirals, but was excessively polite to such great people, went out to receive the admiral, hat in hand.

“Now, Mr Small,” said the admiral, “the counting-house for business, if you please. I have very unexpected orders to leave Portsmouth. I must save the next tide, if possible. The ships will be ready, for you know what our navy can do when required: but as you know, I have not one atom of stock on board. The flood-tide has made almost an hour, and we must sail at the first of the ebb, as twelve hours’ delay may be most serious. Now, tell me—here is the list of what is required; boats will be ready and men in plenty to get it on board;—can you get it ready by that time?”

“By that time, Sir William?” replied Small, looking over the tremendous catalogue.

“It is now eleven o’clock; can it all be down by four o’clock—that is the latest I can give you?”

“Impossible, Sir William.”

“It is of the greatest importance that we sail at five o’clock; the fact is, I must and will; but it’s hard that I must starve for a whole cruise.”

“Indeed, Sir William,” said Mr Small, “if it were possible; but two cows, so many sheep, hay, and everything to be got from the country; we never could manage it. To-morrow morning, perhaps.”

“Well, Mr Small, I have appointed no prize-agent yet; had you obliged me—”

Our hero now stepped forward and ran over the list.

“Can you inform me, sir,” said he to the flag-captain, “whether theZenobiaorOrestessail with the squadron?”

“No, they do not,” was the reply.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Small,” said Joey, “but I do think we can accomplish this with a little arrangement.”

“Indeed!” cried Sir William.

“Yes, Sir William; if you would immediately make the signals for two boats to come on shore, with steady crews to assist me, I promise it shall be done.”

“Well said, O’Donahue!” cried the captain; “we are all right now, admiral; if he says it shall be done, it will be done.”

“May I depend upon you, Mr O’Donahue.”

“Yes, Sir William; everything shall be as you wish.”

“Well, Mr Small, if your young man keeps his word, you shall be my prize-agent. Good morning to you.”

“How could you promise?” cried Small, addressing our hero, when the admiral and suite had left the counting-house.

“Because I can perform, sir,” replied Joey; “I have the cows and sheep for theZenobiaandOrestes, as well as the fodder, all ready in the town; we can get others for them to-morrow, and I know where to lay my hands on everything else.”

“Well, that’s lucky! but there is no time to be lost.”

Our hero, with his usual promptitude and activity, kept his promise; and, as Mr Small said, it was lucky, for the prize-agency, in a few months afterwards, proved worth to him nearly 5,000 pounds.

It is not to be supposed that Joey neglected his correspondence either with Mary or Spikeman, although with the latter it was not so frequent. Mary wrote to him every month; she had not many subjects to enter upon, chiefly replying to Joey’s communications, and congratulating him upon his success. Indeed, now that our hero had been nearly four years with Mr Small, he might be said to be a very rising and independent person. His capital, which had increased very considerably, had been thrown into the business, and he was now a junior partner, instead of a clerk, and had long enjoyed the full confidence both of his superior and of Mr Sleek, who now entrusted him with almost everything. In short, Joey was in the fair way to competence and distinction.

Chapter Thirty Nine.Chapter of Infinite Variety, containing Agony, Law, Love, Quarrelling, and Suicide.It may be a subject of interest on the part of the reader to inquire what were the relative positions of Emma Phillips and our hero, now that four years had passed, during which time he had been continually in her company, and gradually, as he rose in importance, removing the distance that was between them. We have only to reply that the consequences natural to such a case did ensue. Every year their intimacy increased—every year added to the hopes of our hero, who now no longer looked upon an alliance with Emma as impossible; yet he still never felt sufficient confidence in himself or his fortunes to intimate such a thought to her; indeed, from a long habit of veneration and respect, he was in the position of a subject before a queen who feels a partiality towards him; he dared not give vent to his thoughts, and it remained for her to have the unfeminine task of intimating to him that he might venture. But, although to outward appearance there was nothing but respect and feelings of gratitude on his part, and condescension and amiability on hers, there was a rapid adhesion going on within. Their interviews were more restrained, their words more selected; for both parties felt how strong were the feelings which they would repress; they were both pensive, silent, and distant—would talk unconnectedly, running from one subject to another, attempting to be lively and unconcerned when they were most inclined to be otherwise, and not daring to scrutinise too minutely their own feelings when they found themselves alone; but what they would fain conceal from themselves their very attempts to conceal made known to other people who were standing by. Both Mrs Phillips and Mr Small perceived how matters stood, and, had they any objections, would have immediately no longer permitted them to be in contact; but they had no objections, for our hero had long won the hearts of both mother and uncle, and they awaited quietly the time which should arrive when the young parties should no longer conceal their feelings for each other.It was when affairs were between our hero and Emma Phillips as we have just stated, that a circumstance took place which for a time embittered all our hero’s happiness. He was walking down High Street, when he perceived a file of marines marching towards him, with two men between them, handcuffed, evidently deserters who had been taken up. A feeling of alarm pervaded our hero; he had a presentiment which induced him to go into a perfumer’s shop, and to remain there, so as to have a view of the faces of the deserters as they passed along, without their being able to see him. His forebodings were correct: one of them was his old enemy and persecutor, Furness, the schoolmaster.Had a dagger been plunged into Joey’s bosom, the sensation could not have been more painful than what he felt when he once more found himself so near to his dreaded denouncer. For a short time he remained so transfixed, that the woman who was attending in the shop asked whether she should bring him a glass of water. This inquiry made him recollect himself, and, complaining of a sudden pain in the side, he sat down, and took the water when it was brought; but he went home in despair, quite forgetting the business which brought him out, and retired to his own room, that he might collect his thoughts. What was he to do? This man had been brought back to the barracks; he would be tried and punished, and afterwards be set at liberty. How was it possible that he could always avoid him, or escape being recognised? and how little chance had he of escape from Furness’s searching eye! Could he bribe him? Yes, he could now; he was rich enough; but, if he did, one bribe would only be followed up by a demand for another, and a threat of denouncement if he refused. Flight appeared his only chance; but to leave his present position—to leave Emma—it was impossible. Our hero did not leave his room for the remainder of the day, but retired early to bed, that he might cogitate, for sleep he could not. After a night of misery, the effects of which were too visibly marked in his countenance on the ensuing morning, Joey determined to make some inquiries relative to what the fate of Furness might be; and, having made up his mind, he accosted a sergeant of marines, with whom he had a slight acquaintance, and whom he fell in with in the streets. He observed to him that he perceived they had deserters brought in yesterday, and inquired from what ship they had deserted, or from the barracks. The sergeant replied that they had deserted from theNiobefrigate, and had committed theft previous to desertion; that they would remain in confinement at the barracks till theNiobearrived; and that then they would be tried by a court-martial, and, without doubt, for the double offence, would go through the fleet.Joey wished the sergeant good morning, and passed on in his way home. His altered appearance had attracted the notice of not only his partners, but of Mrs Phillips, and had caused much distress to the latter. Our hero remained the whole day in the counting-house, apparently unconcerned, but in reality thinking and rethinking, over and over again, his former thoughts. At last he made up his mind that he would wait the issue of the court-martial before he took any decided steps; indeed, what to do he knew not.We leave the reader to guess the state of mind in which Joey remained for a fortnight previous to the return of theNiobefrigate from a Channel cruise. Two days after her arrival, the signal was made for a court-martial. The sentence was well known before night; it was, that the culprits were to go through the fleet on the ensuing day.This was, however, no consolation to our hero; he did not feel animosity against Furness so much as he did dread of him; he did not want his punishment, but his absence, and security against future annoyance. It was about nine o’clock on the next morning, when the punishment was to take place, that Joey came down from his own room. He had been thinking all night, and had decided that he had no other resource but to quit Portsmouth, Emma, and his fair prospects for ever; he had resolved so to do, to make this sacrifice; it was a bitter conclusion to arrive at, but it had been come to. His haggard countenance when he made his appearance at the breakfast-table, shocked Mrs Phillips and Emma; but they made no remarks. The breakfast was passed over in silence, and soon afterwards our hero found himself alone with Emma, who immediately went to him, and, with tears in her eyes, said, “What is the matter with you?—you look so ill, you alarm us all, and you make me quite miserable.”“I am afraid, Miss Phillips—”“Miss Phillips!” replied Emma.“I beg your pardon; but, Emma, I am afraid that I must leave you.”“Leave us!”“Yes, leave you and Portsmouth for ever, perhaps.”“Why, what has occurred?”“I cannot, dare not tell. Will you so far oblige me to say nothing at present; but you recollect that I was obliged to leave Gravesend on a sudden.”“I recollect you did, but why I know not; only Mary said that it was not your fault.”“I trust it was not so; but it was my misfortune. Emma, I am almost distracted; I have not slept for weeks; but pray believe me, when I say that I have done no wrong; indeed—”“We are interrupted,” said Emma, hurriedly; “there is somebody coming upstairs.”She had hardly time to remove a few feet from our hero, when Captain B—, of theNiobe, entered the room.“Good morning, Miss Phillips, I hope you are well; I just looked in for a moment before I go to the Admiral’s office; we have had a catastrophe on board theNiobe, which I must report immediately.”“Indeed,” replied Emma; “nothing very serious, I hope.”“Why, no, only rid of a blackguard not worth hanging; one of the marines, who was to have gone round the fleet this morning, when he went to the forepart of the ship under the sentry’s charge, leaped overboard, and drowned himself.”“What was his name, Captain B—?” inquired Joey, seizing him by the arm.“His name—why, how can that interest you, O’Donahue? Well, if you wish to know, it was Furness.”“I am very sorry for him,” replied our hero; “I knew him once when he was in better circumstances, that is all;” and Joey, no longer daring to trust himself with others, quitted the room, and went to his own apartment. As soon as he was there, he knelt down and returned thanks, not for the death of Furness, but for the removal of the load which had so oppressed his mind. In an hour his relief was so great that he felt himself sufficiently composed to go downstairs; he went into the drawing-room to find Emma, but she was not there. He longed to have some explanation with her, but it was not until the next day that he had an opportunity.“I hardly know what to say to you,” said our hero, “or how to explain my conduct of yesterday.”“It certainly appeared very strange, especially to Captain B—, who told me that he thought you were mad.”“I care little what he thinks, but I care much what you think, Emma; and I must now tell you what, perhaps, this man’s death may permit me to do. That he has been most strangely connected with my life is most true; he it was who knew me, and who would, if he could, have put me in a situation in which I must either have suffered myself to be thought guilty of a crime which I am incapable of; or, let it suffice to say, have done, to exculpate myself, what, I trust, I never would have done, or ever will do. I can say no more than that, without betraying a secret which I am bound to keep, and the keeping of which may still prove my own destruction. When you first saw me on the wayside, Emma, it was this man who forced me from a happy home to wander about the world; it was the reappearance of this man, and his recognition of me that induced me to quit Gravesend so suddenly. I again met him, and avoided him when he was deserting; and I trusted that, as he had deserted, I could be certain of living safely in this town without meeting with him. It was his reappearance here, as a deserter taken up, which put me in that state of agony which you have seen me in for these last three weeks; and it was the knowledge that, after his punishment, he would be again free, and likely to meet with me when walking about here, which resolved me to quit Portsmouth, as I said to you yesterday morning. Can you, therefore, be surprised at my emotion when I heard that he was removed, and that there was now no necessity for my quitting my kind patrons and you?”“Certainly, after this explanation, I cannot be surprised at your emotion; but what does surprise me, Mr O’Donahue, is that you should have a secret of such importance that it cannot be revealed, and which has made you tremble at the recognition of that man, when at the same time you declare your innocence. Did innocence and mystery ever walk hand in hand?”“Your addressing me as Mr O’Donahue, Miss Phillips, has pointed out to me the impropriety I have been guilty of in making use of your Christian name. I thought that that confidence which you placed in me when, as a mere boy, I told you exactly what I now repeat, that the secret was not my own, would not have been now so cruelly withdrawn. I have never varied in my tale, and I can honestly say that I have never felt degraded when I have admitted that I have a mystery connected with me; nay, if it should please Heaven that I have the option given me to suffer in my own person, or reveal the secret in question, I trust that I shall submit to my fate with constancy, and be supported in my misfortune by the conviction of my innocence. I feel that I was not wrong in the communication that I made to you yesterday morning that I must leave this place. I came here because you were living here—you to whom I felt so devoted for your kindness and sympathy when I was poor and friendless; now that I am otherwise, you are pleased to withdraw not only your good will, but your confidence in me; and as the spell is broken which has drawn me to this spot, I repeat, that as soon as I can, with justice to my patrons, I shall withdraw myself from your presence.”Our hero’s voice faltered before he had finished speaking; and then turning away slowly, without looking up, he quitted the room.

It may be a subject of interest on the part of the reader to inquire what were the relative positions of Emma Phillips and our hero, now that four years had passed, during which time he had been continually in her company, and gradually, as he rose in importance, removing the distance that was between them. We have only to reply that the consequences natural to such a case did ensue. Every year their intimacy increased—every year added to the hopes of our hero, who now no longer looked upon an alliance with Emma as impossible; yet he still never felt sufficient confidence in himself or his fortunes to intimate such a thought to her; indeed, from a long habit of veneration and respect, he was in the position of a subject before a queen who feels a partiality towards him; he dared not give vent to his thoughts, and it remained for her to have the unfeminine task of intimating to him that he might venture. But, although to outward appearance there was nothing but respect and feelings of gratitude on his part, and condescension and amiability on hers, there was a rapid adhesion going on within. Their interviews were more restrained, their words more selected; for both parties felt how strong were the feelings which they would repress; they were both pensive, silent, and distant—would talk unconnectedly, running from one subject to another, attempting to be lively and unconcerned when they were most inclined to be otherwise, and not daring to scrutinise too minutely their own feelings when they found themselves alone; but what they would fain conceal from themselves their very attempts to conceal made known to other people who were standing by. Both Mrs Phillips and Mr Small perceived how matters stood, and, had they any objections, would have immediately no longer permitted them to be in contact; but they had no objections, for our hero had long won the hearts of both mother and uncle, and they awaited quietly the time which should arrive when the young parties should no longer conceal their feelings for each other.

It was when affairs were between our hero and Emma Phillips as we have just stated, that a circumstance took place which for a time embittered all our hero’s happiness. He was walking down High Street, when he perceived a file of marines marching towards him, with two men between them, handcuffed, evidently deserters who had been taken up. A feeling of alarm pervaded our hero; he had a presentiment which induced him to go into a perfumer’s shop, and to remain there, so as to have a view of the faces of the deserters as they passed along, without their being able to see him. His forebodings were correct: one of them was his old enemy and persecutor, Furness, the schoolmaster.

Had a dagger been plunged into Joey’s bosom, the sensation could not have been more painful than what he felt when he once more found himself so near to his dreaded denouncer. For a short time he remained so transfixed, that the woman who was attending in the shop asked whether she should bring him a glass of water. This inquiry made him recollect himself, and, complaining of a sudden pain in the side, he sat down, and took the water when it was brought; but he went home in despair, quite forgetting the business which brought him out, and retired to his own room, that he might collect his thoughts. What was he to do? This man had been brought back to the barracks; he would be tried and punished, and afterwards be set at liberty. How was it possible that he could always avoid him, or escape being recognised? and how little chance had he of escape from Furness’s searching eye! Could he bribe him? Yes, he could now; he was rich enough; but, if he did, one bribe would only be followed up by a demand for another, and a threat of denouncement if he refused. Flight appeared his only chance; but to leave his present position—to leave Emma—it was impossible. Our hero did not leave his room for the remainder of the day, but retired early to bed, that he might cogitate, for sleep he could not. After a night of misery, the effects of which were too visibly marked in his countenance on the ensuing morning, Joey determined to make some inquiries relative to what the fate of Furness might be; and, having made up his mind, he accosted a sergeant of marines, with whom he had a slight acquaintance, and whom he fell in with in the streets. He observed to him that he perceived they had deserters brought in yesterday, and inquired from what ship they had deserted, or from the barracks. The sergeant replied that they had deserted from theNiobefrigate, and had committed theft previous to desertion; that they would remain in confinement at the barracks till theNiobearrived; and that then they would be tried by a court-martial, and, without doubt, for the double offence, would go through the fleet.

Joey wished the sergeant good morning, and passed on in his way home. His altered appearance had attracted the notice of not only his partners, but of Mrs Phillips, and had caused much distress to the latter. Our hero remained the whole day in the counting-house, apparently unconcerned, but in reality thinking and rethinking, over and over again, his former thoughts. At last he made up his mind that he would wait the issue of the court-martial before he took any decided steps; indeed, what to do he knew not.

We leave the reader to guess the state of mind in which Joey remained for a fortnight previous to the return of theNiobefrigate from a Channel cruise. Two days after her arrival, the signal was made for a court-martial. The sentence was well known before night; it was, that the culprits were to go through the fleet on the ensuing day.

This was, however, no consolation to our hero; he did not feel animosity against Furness so much as he did dread of him; he did not want his punishment, but his absence, and security against future annoyance. It was about nine o’clock on the next morning, when the punishment was to take place, that Joey came down from his own room. He had been thinking all night, and had decided that he had no other resource but to quit Portsmouth, Emma, and his fair prospects for ever; he had resolved so to do, to make this sacrifice; it was a bitter conclusion to arrive at, but it had been come to. His haggard countenance when he made his appearance at the breakfast-table, shocked Mrs Phillips and Emma; but they made no remarks. The breakfast was passed over in silence, and soon afterwards our hero found himself alone with Emma, who immediately went to him, and, with tears in her eyes, said, “What is the matter with you?—you look so ill, you alarm us all, and you make me quite miserable.”

“I am afraid, Miss Phillips—”

“Miss Phillips!” replied Emma.

“I beg your pardon; but, Emma, I am afraid that I must leave you.”

“Leave us!”

“Yes, leave you and Portsmouth for ever, perhaps.”

“Why, what has occurred?”

“I cannot, dare not tell. Will you so far oblige me to say nothing at present; but you recollect that I was obliged to leave Gravesend on a sudden.”

“I recollect you did, but why I know not; only Mary said that it was not your fault.”

“I trust it was not so; but it was my misfortune. Emma, I am almost distracted; I have not slept for weeks; but pray believe me, when I say that I have done no wrong; indeed—”

“We are interrupted,” said Emma, hurriedly; “there is somebody coming upstairs.”

She had hardly time to remove a few feet from our hero, when Captain B—, of theNiobe, entered the room.

“Good morning, Miss Phillips, I hope you are well; I just looked in for a moment before I go to the Admiral’s office; we have had a catastrophe on board theNiobe, which I must report immediately.”

“Indeed,” replied Emma; “nothing very serious, I hope.”

“Why, no, only rid of a blackguard not worth hanging; one of the marines, who was to have gone round the fleet this morning, when he went to the forepart of the ship under the sentry’s charge, leaped overboard, and drowned himself.”

“What was his name, Captain B—?” inquired Joey, seizing him by the arm.

“His name—why, how can that interest you, O’Donahue? Well, if you wish to know, it was Furness.”

“I am very sorry for him,” replied our hero; “I knew him once when he was in better circumstances, that is all;” and Joey, no longer daring to trust himself with others, quitted the room, and went to his own apartment. As soon as he was there, he knelt down and returned thanks, not for the death of Furness, but for the removal of the load which had so oppressed his mind. In an hour his relief was so great that he felt himself sufficiently composed to go downstairs; he went into the drawing-room to find Emma, but she was not there. He longed to have some explanation with her, but it was not until the next day that he had an opportunity.

“I hardly know what to say to you,” said our hero, “or how to explain my conduct of yesterday.”

“It certainly appeared very strange, especially to Captain B—, who told me that he thought you were mad.”

“I care little what he thinks, but I care much what you think, Emma; and I must now tell you what, perhaps, this man’s death may permit me to do. That he has been most strangely connected with my life is most true; he it was who knew me, and who would, if he could, have put me in a situation in which I must either have suffered myself to be thought guilty of a crime which I am incapable of; or, let it suffice to say, have done, to exculpate myself, what, I trust, I never would have done, or ever will do. I can say no more than that, without betraying a secret which I am bound to keep, and the keeping of which may still prove my own destruction. When you first saw me on the wayside, Emma, it was this man who forced me from a happy home to wander about the world; it was the reappearance of this man, and his recognition of me that induced me to quit Gravesend so suddenly. I again met him, and avoided him when he was deserting; and I trusted that, as he had deserted, I could be certain of living safely in this town without meeting with him. It was his reappearance here, as a deserter taken up, which put me in that state of agony which you have seen me in for these last three weeks; and it was the knowledge that, after his punishment, he would be again free, and likely to meet with me when walking about here, which resolved me to quit Portsmouth, as I said to you yesterday morning. Can you, therefore, be surprised at my emotion when I heard that he was removed, and that there was now no necessity for my quitting my kind patrons and you?”

“Certainly, after this explanation, I cannot be surprised at your emotion; but what does surprise me, Mr O’Donahue, is that you should have a secret of such importance that it cannot be revealed, and which has made you tremble at the recognition of that man, when at the same time you declare your innocence. Did innocence and mystery ever walk hand in hand?”

“Your addressing me as Mr O’Donahue, Miss Phillips, has pointed out to me the impropriety I have been guilty of in making use of your Christian name. I thought that that confidence which you placed in me when, as a mere boy, I told you exactly what I now repeat, that the secret was not my own, would not have been now so cruelly withdrawn. I have never varied in my tale, and I can honestly say that I have never felt degraded when I have admitted that I have a mystery connected with me; nay, if it should please Heaven that I have the option given me to suffer in my own person, or reveal the secret in question, I trust that I shall submit to my fate with constancy, and be supported in my misfortune by the conviction of my innocence. I feel that I was not wrong in the communication that I made to you yesterday morning that I must leave this place. I came here because you were living here—you to whom I felt so devoted for your kindness and sympathy when I was poor and friendless; now that I am otherwise, you are pleased to withdraw not only your good will, but your confidence in me; and as the spell is broken which has drawn me to this spot, I repeat, that as soon as I can, with justice to my patrons, I shall withdraw myself from your presence.”

Our hero’s voice faltered before he had finished speaking; and then turning away slowly, without looking up, he quitted the room.

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