Chapter Five.
Miss Millet Receives a Surprise, Rosebud a Disappointment, and our Hero Another Blow.
Miss Millet was one of those cheery, unselfish, active-minded women who are not easily thrown off their balance—deranged, as the French say—by untoward circumstances.
The arrival of any two friends at two in the morning would have failed to disturb the good nature or weaken the hospitality of that amiable creature. Her joy, therefore, at the sudden, though untimely, appearance of her brother and friend was not marred by selfish considerations; and although she was eager to bear what the captain had to say, she would not let him begin until he and Jeff had retired to an attic chamber and put on dry habiliments.
How male attire came to be so handy in a spinster’s house is easily accounted for by the fact that her regard for the memory of her departed father was so great as to have induced her to leave his hat and stick in the passage in their wonted places after his death, and to leave undisturbed the chest of drawers which contained the greater part of his wardrobe. Nothing short of absolute necessity would have induced Miss Millet to disturb these sacred relics; but she knew that death might result from sitting in drenched clothes, and her well-balanced mind at once pointed out that here was a case which demanded a sacrifice. She therefore bowed to the inevitable, and handed her brother the key of the chest of drawers.
As the late Mr Millet had been a large man, the result was that her visitors were admirably fitted out—the only disadvantage being that the captain had to turn up the legs of the trousers and the cuffs of the coat.
Meanwhile Miss Millet lighted a gas-stove, which she had always ready for invalid purposes, and Rose arranged the table, so that when their visitors returned to the parlour, they were greeted with the sight of food and the singing of the tea-kettle.
“I can offer you brandy, brother,” said the little hostess, “as a medicine!”
“Thankee, Molly—not even as a medicine,” said the captain, with a benignant look; “tea is better in the circumstances. I can speak from a vast amount of experience. But of course I speak only for myself. I don’t know what Jeff’s principles—”
“My principles,” interrupted the coastguardsman, “are to leave every man to judge for himself. My judgment for myself is, that, as I don’t require strong drink, I’m much better without it.”
“My principles go much further than that,” said Miss Millet who was an enthusiastic total abstainer. “The Bible justifies me in denying myself the use of wine and all spirituous liquors for my brother’s sake, so that I may set him an example, and also have more weight when I reason with him, and try to get him to adopt my views.”
“Why, Molly, to hear you talk like that about giving up drink for your brother’s sake, one would think that I had bin a tippler all my life!”
“You know that I refer to my brother—man, brother.”
“Ah, of course—of course; and also your sister-woman, I suppose,” cried the captain, seizing the loaf and beginning to cut it into inch-and-a-half slices. “What’s your opinion, Rosebud, on the drink question?”
Rose, whose cheeks emulated her namesake flower, replied that, never having tasted wine or spirits in her life, or thought upon the drink question at all, she had no opinion to express.
“Long may you continue in that innocent and humble state of mind, my Rosebud,” cried the captain, with a laugh which caused him to choke on his first mouthful of tea. After recovering himself and wiping his eyes, he said—
“Now, Moll, I must tell you all about the wreck;” on which he launched out into a graphic description of what the reader already knows.
You may be sure that he did not underrate the services and heroism of Jeff, who sat wonderfully silent during the recital, and only acknowledged references to himself with a faint smile.
“But, brother,” exclaimed Miss Millet, with sudden energy when he had finished, “what will the consequences of this wreck be?”
“The consequences, my dear, will be that the owners will lose a good many thousand pounds, for neither ship nor cargo were insured. An’ it sarves ’em right for the vessel was not fit to go to sea; an’ they knew it, but were too graspin’ to go to the expense o’ refittin’. Besides, they’ve bin what they call so lucky in past years that they thought, I fancy, there was no fear o’ their luck departin’.”
“But I was not thinking of the owners, brother; I was thinking of the consequences to yourself.”
“Why, as to that, Molly, as I’ve lost my ship, I’m pretty safe to lose my situation; for, from what I know of the owners, they are sure to lay all the blame they can upon my shoulders, so that I won’t find it easy to get another ship. Worse than all, I had made a little private adventure of my own, which was very successful, and the result o’ which I was bringin’ home in gold-dust; and now every nugget o’ that is at the bottom o’ the sea. So you see, Molly, it’s loss an’ disaster everywhere—nothin’ but a black horizon all round.”
Jeff glanced quickly at Miss Millet. This seemed to bear somewhat on their recent discussions. Miss Millet as quickly returned the glance.
“I know what you are thinking, Jeff,” she said, with an intelligent look.
“Well, auntie,” returned the youth, “it does seem hard to think that any good can come out of all this—doesn’t it?”
“Young man,” said the captain, regarding Jeff with an almost stern look, “if a savage were taken into a factory and shown the whirling wheels and bands and rollers working in all directions, and saw filthy old rags boiled and mixed up with grass and evil-smelling substances, and torn to shreds and reduced to pulp in the midst of dirt and clattering noise and apparent confusion; and if that savage were to say, ‘Surely nothin’ good can come out of all this!’ wouldn’t you—knowin’ that great rolls of fair and spotless paper were to come out of it—pronounce that savage a fool, or, at least, a presumptuous fellow?”
“True, captain; I accept the rebuke,” said Jeff, with a short laugh and a swift glance at Rose, who, however, was gazing demurely at her tea-cup, as if lost in the contemplation of its pattern. Possibly she was thinking of the absurdity of taking tea at all at such an hour!
“Well, then, Jeff,” continued the captain, “don’t you go and judge unfinished work. Perfect men and women are, in this world, only in process of manufacture. When you see them finished, you’ll be better able to judge of the process.”
Jeff did not quite agree with his friend; for, gazing at Rose, he could not help feeling that at least one woman had, to his mind, been almost perfectly finished even here! However, he said nothing.
At this point the conversation was turned by Miss Millet suddenly recalling to mind her brother’s generous friend in China.
“You have no idea, Dick, how much good I have been able to do with that money. Of course it could not pay for the swimming-bath, or the church, or but here, I have a note of it all.”
She pulled a soiled red note-book from her pocket and was about to refer to it, when she was arrested by the grave, sad expression that had overspread her brother’s countenance.
“Ah, Molly,” he said, “dear Clara Nibsworth was dying when I last saw her, and I fear her father won’t survive her long. You remember, I told you the poor girl was delicate and her father old, and the excitement and exertion of that night of the fire was too much for both of them. When I arrived this time in China, I took a run up to their place to see them, and found Clara almost at the point of death. I had little time to spare, and meant to have returned the next day; but the poor broken-down father entreated me so earnestly to remain that I at last agreed to spend three days wi’ them. Durin’ that time I read the Bible a good deal to the poor girl, and found that she had got her feet firm on the Rock of Ages. She was very grateful, poor thing, and I never saw one so unselfish. She had little thought about herself, although dyin’ and in great sufferin’. Her chief anxiety was about her old father, and what he would do when she was gone.
“It was impossible for me to stay to the end, for no one could guess how long the poor thing would hold out. I did my best to comfort the father, and then I left, bringing away a kind message to you, my poor Rosebud. She seems to have loved you dearly, and said you were very kind to her at school.”
Rose had covered her face with her hands, and with difficulty restrained her tears.
“But you said the doctors had some hope, father; didn’t you?” she asked.
“No, darling, the doctors had none—no more had I. It was her poor father who hoped against hope. Death was written on her sweet face, and it could not be far off. I doubt not she is now with the Lord. When I was leaving, she gave me a small packet for you; but that, with everything else in the North Star, has gone to the bottom. But we must be goin’ now,” continued the captain, rising. “I see Jeff is gettin’ wearied—an’ no wonder. Besides, it won’t do to keep you two up here talkin’ till daylight.”
Jeff protested that he was not weary—that in such company it was impossible for him to tire! but Rose was too much distressed by her father’s narrative to observe the compliment.
Still, in spite of his protest, there was something in our hero’s manner and look which belied his words; and when he returned to the coastguard station that day, and was about to lie down for much-needed repose, his friend and mate, David Bowers, was surprised to see him turn deadly pale, stagger, and fall on his bed in a state of insensibility.
“Hallo! Jeff, what’s wrong?” exclaimed Bowers, starting up, seizing his friend’s arm, and giving him a shake, for he was much puzzled. To see a man knocked into a state of insensibility was nothing new or unfamiliar to Bowers, but to see a powerful young fellow like Jeff go off in a fainting fit like a woman was quite out of his experience.
Jeff, however, remained deaf to his mate’s hallo! and when at last a doctor was fetched, it was found that he had been seriously injured; insomuch that the medical man stood amazed when he heard how he had walked several miles and sat up for several hours after his exertions and accident at the wreck. That medical man, you see, happened to be an old bachelor, and probably did not know what love can accomplish!
“I very much fear,” he said to Captain Millet, after inspecting his patient, “that the poor fellow has received some bad internal injuries. The mast, or whatever it was, must have struck him a tremendous blow, for his side is severely bruised, and two of his ribs are broken.”
“Pretty tough ribs to break, too,” remarked the captain, with a look of profound distress.
“You are right,” returned the doctor; “remarkably tough, but not quite fitted to withstand such a powerful battering-ram as the mainmast of a six-hundred-ton barque.”
“Now, doctor, what’s to be done with him? You see, the poor young fellow is not only my friend, but he has saved my life, so I feel bound to look well after him; and this isn’t quite the sort o’ place to be ill in,” he added, looking round the somewhat bare apartment, whose walls were adorned with carbines and cutlasses.
“The wisest thing for him to do is to go into hospital, where he will receive the best of medical treatment and careful nursing.”
“Wouldn’t the nursing of an old lady that loves him like a mother, and a comfortable cottage, do as well?”
“No doubt it would,” said the doctor, with a smile, “if he also had proper medical attendance—”
“Just so. Well, that’s all settled, then,” interrupted the captain. “I’ll have him removed at once, and you’ll attend him, doctor—who better?—that is, if you can spare the time.”
The doctor was quite ready to spare the time, and the captain bustled off to tell his sister what was in store for her, and to order Rosebud to pack up and return to school without delay, so as to make room for the patient.
Great was his astonishment that his Rosebud burst into tears on receiving the news.
“My Bud, my darling, don’t cry,” he said, tenderly drawing the fair head to his rugged bosom. “I know it must be a great disappointment to have a week cut off your holidays, but I’ll go down to Folkestone with you, an’ take a lodging there, an you an’ I will have a jolly time of it together—till I get another ship—”
“Oh! father, it’s not that!” exclaimed poor Rose almost indignantly; “it’s—it’s—”
Not being able to explain exactly what it was that ailed her, she took refuge in another flood of tears.
“Oh!” she thought to herself, “if I might only stay and nurse him!” but she blushed at the very thought, for she was well aware that she knew no more about scientific nursing than a tortoiseshell cat! Three months of the most tender and careful nursing by Miss Millet failed, however, to set Jeffrey Benson on his legs. He was very patient and courageous. Hope was strong, and he listened with approval and gratitude to his nurse’s teachings.
There came a day, however, which tried him.
“You think me not much better, doctor?” he asked, somewhat anxiously.
“Not much,” returned the doctor, in a low, tender tone; “and I fear that you must make up your mind never again to be quite the same man you were.”
“Never again?” exclaimed the youth, in startled surprise.
The doctor said nothing, but his look was—“never again.”
Chapter Six.
Good News to the Captain—Also to Jeff.
There is a period, probably, in the life of every man, when a feeling akin to despair creeps over him, and the natural tendency of his heart to rebel against his Maker becomes unquestionable. There may be some on whom this epoch descends gently—others, perhaps, who may even question whether they have met with it at all; but there must be many, of whom Jeff was one, on whom it comes like a thunderbolt, scathing for a time all the finer qualities of heart and mind.
“If it had only come at a later period of life, or in some other form, auntie,” he said one day, as he lay on a sofa at the open window of the cottage, looking out upon the sea; “but to be bowled over at my age, when the world was all before me, and I was so well able—physically, at least—to fight my way. It is terrible, and seems so outrageous! What good can possibly come of rendering a young man helpless—a strong, capable machine, that might do so much good in the world, useless?”
He spoke in an almost querulous tone, and looked inquiringly in his nurse’s face. It did not occur to the youth, as he looked at her, that the weak-bodied, soft, and gentle creature herself had been, and still was, doing more good to the world than a hundred young men such as he!
Miss Millet’s face was a wholesome one to look into. She did not shake her head and look solemn or shocked. Neither did she laugh at his petulance. She merely said, with the sweetest of little smiles, “You may live, Jeff, to be a very useful machine yet; if not quite as strong as you were—though even that is uncertain, for doctors are fallible, you know. Never forget that, Jeff—doctors are fallible. Besides, your living at all shows that God has something for you to do for Him.”
“Nonsense, auntie. If that is true of me, it is just as true of hundreds of men who live and die without making the smallest attempt to accomplish any work for God. Yet He lets them live for many years.”
“Quite true,” returned Miss Millet; “and God has work for all these men to do, though many of them refuse to do it. But I feel sure that that won’t be your case, Jeff. He finds work just suited to our capacities—at the time we need it, too, if we are only willing. Why, in my own very case, has He not sent you to me to be nursed, just as I had finished organising the new night-classes for the usher-boys; and I was puzzled—absolutely puzzled—as to what I should do next and here you step in, requiring my assistance, and giving me full employment.”
“That’s it—that’s it,” returned Jeff hastily. “I am without means, and a burden on you and Captain Millet. Oh! it is hard—very hard!”
“Yes, indeed, it is hard to bear. Of course that is what you mean, for, as God has done it we cannot suppose anything that He does is really hard. If your illness had been the result of dissipation, now, or through your own fault, you could not have said exactly it was God’s doing; but when it was the result of noble self-sacrifice—”
“Come, come, auntie; don’t make me more vain than I am. I’m bad enough as it is, and—and—I’m very weary.”
The poor youth’s head fell back on the pillow, and he sighed deeply as his nurse brought him some strengthening food. He needed it much, for he was reduced to a mere shadow of his former self.
His fine eyes had become quite awful in their size and solemnity. His once ruddy cheeks were hollow. His well-formed nose had become pinched, and his garments hung on, rather than clothed, a huge skeleton.
During all Jeff’s illness Captain Millet was unremitting in his attentions, insomuch that a certain careworn expression began to take up its settled abode on his countenance. But this was not altogether owing to sympathy with his friend, it was partly the consequence of his financial affairs.
Having lost his situation, as he had expected, he found it difficult to procure another, and was under the necessity of living on the small capital which he had accumulated in the course of laborious years. Had his own subsistence been all his care, he would have had little trouble; but Rose had to be supported and educated, his sister had to be assisted, his charities had to be kept up, and now Jeff Benson had to be maintained, and his doctor paid. The worst of it all was, that he could not talk on the subject to any of the three, which, to a sympathetic soul, was uncommonly hard—but unavoidable.
“Yes, quite unavoidable,” he muttered to himself one evening, when alone in his lodging. “They think I’m a rich old fellow, but I daren’t say a word. If I did, Jeff would refuse to eat another bite, an’ that would kill him. If I told Rosebud, it could do no good, and would only make her miserable. If I told Molly, I—I really don’t know what she’d do. She’d founder, I think. No, I must go on sailin’ under false colours. It’s a comfort, anyhow, to know that the funds will last some little time yet, even at the present rate of expenditure; but it’s perplexin’—very.”
He shook his head, wrinkled his brows, and then, rising, took a well-worn pocket-Bible from a shelf, and sought consolation therein.
Some time after that Captain Millet was seated in the same room, about the same hour, meditating on the same subject, with a few additional wrinkles on his brow, when he received a letter.
“From Hong Kong,” he muttered, opening it, and putting on his glasses.
The changes in his expressive face as he read were striking, and might have been instructive. Sadness first—then surprise—then blazing astonishment—then a pursing of the mouth and a prolonged whistle, followed by an expressive slap on the thigh. Then, crumpling the letter into his pocket he put on his glazed hat, sallied forth, and took the way to his sister’s cottage.
At that cottage, about the same time, a great change had taken place in Jeff Benson—spiritually, not physically, though even in the latter respect he was at all events not worse than usual. Having gone from bad to worse in his rebellion, he had at last reached that lowest depth wherein he not only despaired of the doctor’s power to cure him, and his own power of constitution, but began silently, and in his own mind, to charge his Maker with having made a complete failure in his creation.
“Life is a muddle, auntie, altogether!” he exclaimed when he reached this point. It was the lowest ebb—hopeless despair alike of himself and his God.
“A muddle, Jeff?” said the little woman, raising her eyebrows slightly. “How can that be possible in the work of a Perfect Creator, and a Perfect Saviour who redeems from all evil—your supposed ‘muddle’ included?”
Our young coastguardsman was silent. It was probably the great turning-point when the Holy Spirit opened his eyes to see Jesus, and all things in relation to Him. For a long time he did not speak. The lips of his nurse were also silent, but her heart was not so. At last Jeff spoke—
“It must be so. Perfection is bound to work out perfection. This apparent evil must be for good. ‘He doeth all things well.’ Surely I have read that somewhere!”
In a low clear voice his nurse said—
“‘He doeth all things well,’
We say it now with tears;
But we shall sing it with those we love
Through bright eternal years.”
“I think the light is dawning, auntie.”
“I am sure it is, Jeff.”
Again they were silent, and thus they remained while the natural light faded, until the western sky and sea were dyed in crimson.
The first thing that diverted their thoughts was a quick step outside, then a thunderous knock at the door, and next moment the captain stood before them, beaming with excitement, panting heavily, and quite unable for some minutes to talk coherently.
“Sister,” said he at last, “sit down an’ listen. Jeff, open your ears.”
He drew a crumpled letter from his pocket, spread it on his knee, put on his glasses, and read as follows:—
“‘My Dear Captain Millet,—
“‘You will, I know, be grieved, though not surprised, to hear that your old friend Nibsworth is dead. Poor fellow! his end came much as you and I had anticipated when we last parted. He followed his dear Clara about two months after her death. I suppose you know that she died three days after you left their house.
“‘My object in writing just now, however, is to convey to you a piece of good news; namely, that Nibsworth has left you the whole of his property, which, altogether, cannot amount to less, I should think, than eighty thousand pounds.’”
At this point the captain paused and looked over his glasses at his sister, who, with wide-open eyes, exclaimed—
“Brother! he must be joking!”
“Sister,” returned the captain, “my friend never jokes, except when in extremely congenial society, and then his jokes are bad—so bad as to be unworthy of repetition.”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Miss Millet.
“Singular,” murmured Jeff, whose thoughts seemed to be engaged with some far-off prospect.
“He goes on,” continued the captain, reading: “‘I am left the sole executor of his affairs. Pray, therefore, write as to what you wish done. I am not at present conversant with the precise duties of an executor, but of course I will get the best advice possible in the circumstances, and do the best I can. I would recommend you to do the same at your end of the world, and let me have your instructions as soon as possible. The enclosed statement will show you the nature of your property. The greater part, you will observe, is in hard cash. I may add that the house and grounds here would sell well at present, if you feel inclined to dispose of them.
“‘In conclusion, allow me to congratulate you on this piece of good fortune—perhaps, knowing your character so well, I should have written, this good gift from God.’”
“Ay, my friend,” said the captain, folding the letter, “you might have written, ‘this unexpected and undeserved gift from God.’ But now, Molly, what think ye of it all?”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed the good lady in reply; and beyond this word she seemed unable to go for a time, save that, after a strong mental effort, she varied it to “amazing!” Suddenly she seemed to recover, and said with a quick, earnest look—
“Dick, what are you going to do?”
“Do?” exclaimed Captain Millet, smiting his knee and looking from his sister to Jeff with a broad smile. “I’ll run up to London, an’ take a mansion in the West End, call at Long Acre in passing, and buy a carriage and four. Then I’ll run down to Folkestone an’ buy a villa there, or a castle if they have one in stock; if not, I’ll order one o’ the newest pattern, with gas, water, electricity, and steam laid on. After that I’ll buy a steam-yacht and take a trip round the world, so as to calm my brain and think over it. Of course I’ll drop in at Hong Kong, in passing, to have a look at my property; and then—”
“Hush, brother! don’t run on with such nonsense when we ought to be only filled with serious thoughts.”
“How can a man be filled with serious thoughts, Molly, when a sort of Arabian Nights’ affair has tumbled on him all of a sudden—took him aback like a white squall, and thrown him on his beam-ends?”
“And what a selfish fellow you are, too!” said Jeff; “not one word in all you propose to do about anybody except yourself—no mention even of Rosebud.”
“Pooh! Jeff, are you so green as not to know that a wise man never puts his best foot foremost? Don’t you know that it is usual, when a man makes a speech, to keep tumblin’ out one point after another—clinkin’ ’em all as he goes along—until he comes to the ‘last but not least’ point? If you had let me alone, Molly, I was comin’ to Rosebud and yourself too; but as you’ve been so unmannerly, I’ll keep these points till another time. By the way, when you write to Rosebud, not a word about all this. It might unsettle the darlin’ with her lessons. An’ that reminds me that one o’ my first businesses will be to have her supplied wi’ the best of teachers—French, Italian, Spanish, German masters—Greek an’ Hebrew an’ Dutch ones too if the dear child wants ’em—to say nothin’ o’ dancin’ an’ drawin’ an’ calisthenics an’ mathematics, an’ the use o’ the globes, an’ conundrums o’ that sort.”
“Really, brother, if you go on like this, I’ll begin to think your good fortune, as you call it, has turned your brain.”
“Never fear, Molly, when I come to say what I’m going to do about the little church, an’ the night-classes, an’ the soup-kitchens, and the model-houses and the swimming-bath, you’ll whistle another tune. But come, Jeff; it’s time to ask how you are gettin’ along. You look better, my boy.”
“I am better, captain—much, much better,” returned the youth, with a flushed cheek and sparkling eye, “for I, too, have got news this morning of a fortune which exceeds yours in value, and the security is better.”
The captain was puzzled. “A fortune, Jeff?”
“Yes; but my news will keep. You are too much excited to hear about it just now. Enough to say that I am much better. Now, if you are wise, you will go without delay and take some steps about this affair.”
“You’re right, lad,” returned the captain, rising quietly and clapping on his hat; “so good-bye to ’ee both. I’ll soon be back. At present I’m off to consult my—my—solicitor! though I don’t know who he is yet, more than the man in the moon.”
Chapter Seven.
An Unquiet, Adventurous Morning in the Shell-Cave.
“I think,” said Jeff Benson one fine morning, as he got up and stretched himself, “that I feel well enough to-day to get down to the shore without assistance. You know, auntie, I shall never be able to walk alone if I give way to laziness, and lean so much on others. I’m like the babies now, and must be encouraged to try it on my own hook.”
He looked at Miss Millet with a half-pitiful smile, for there was something woefully true in his words, and his good little nurse found it necessary to go in search of the household keys for a minute or so before answering.
“Well, Jeff, perhaps you are right and the day is splendid—sunny, calm, and warm—so you won’t be likely to catch cold. Only don’t go far, for you might become tired out. So, promise that you won’t go far, and then I will let you go.”
Jeff promised; but of course he did not do exactly as his nurse wished, for, in such circumstances, the word “far” has a wonderfully varied significance. At first, leaning on his stick and pausing frequently to recover strength, he made his way to the shore; but when there, the invigorating air and the exhilarating sound of ripples on the sand, and a rest on the rocks, made him feel so much better, that he thought he might walk the length of the shell-cave without breaking his promise.
He tried, and succeeded, but was so fatigued, when at length he threw himself on the soft sand at the cave’s mouth, that he felt uneasy about getting home again.
The shell-cave was a favourite nook in a lonely part of the cliffs, which Jeff had been wont to frequent in his coastguard days, especially at that particular time when he seemed to expect the revival of the smuggling traffic near Miss Millet’s cottage. He had frequently spoken of it to Rose as a beautiful spot where innumerable sea-shells were to be found, and had once taken her to see it.
It was, as we have said, a lonely spot, far removed from the fishing town, and was sought out by Jeff because he did not yet feel strong enough to hold much intercourse with his friends and former mates—none of whom had seen him since his illness began. But the poor invalid was doomed to several interruptions that day.
The first comer was his comrade Wilson, of the coastguard, whose place he had taken on the eventful night of the wreck. On rounding the point of rock, and coming suddenly on our hero, that worthy was struck dumb and motionless for at least a minute, while his eyes gradually opened wide with surprise, and his mouth partially followed suit.
“Not Jeff Benson!” said Wilson at last, in quite a solemn tone.
“What’s left of him,” answered Jeff, with a faint smile.
“An’ it ain’t much!” returned Wilson, with a kind of gasp, as he approached softly.
“Not much more than the bones an’ clothes,” said Jeff, with a laugh at his friend’s expression; “also,” he added more seriously, “a good deal of the spirit, thank God. How are all the lads, Wilson?”
The man tried to answer, but could not. The sight of his old stalwart chum so reduced was too much for him. He could only go down on one knee, and take the thin large hand in his. Seeing this, Jeff returned his squeeze, and relieved him by saying—
“You can beat me now, Wilson, but I could squeeze till I made you howl once, and mayhap I’ll do it again—who knows? But you must not think me unkind if I ask you to leave me, Wilson. The Doctor is always insisting that I must keep quiet; so, good-day to you, my boy, an’ remember me kindly to my comrades.”
The next visitor, who appeared half an hour later, was the terrier dog of the station. Bounce belonged, of right, to David Bowers, but, being amiable, it acknowledged the part-ownership of all the men. On suddenly beholding Jeff, it rushed at him with a mingled bark and squeal of joy, and thereafter, for full two minutes, danced round him, a mass of wriggling hair from tip of tail to snout, in uncontrollable ecstasy. Mingled misery and surprise at Jeff’s sudden and unaccountable disappearance, prolonged agonies of disappointed expectation, the sickness of heart resulting from hope long deferred, all were forgotten in that supreme moment of joy at reunion with his long-lost human friend!
Jeff had to rise and sit down on a shelf of rock to escape some of Bounce’s overwhelming affection. Presently Bounce’s owner appeared, and went through something of a similar performance—humanised, however, and with more of dignity.
“I can’t tell ’ee how glad I am to see you again, Jeff,” said Bowers, sitting down beside him, and grasping his hand. “But oh, man, how thin—”
The huge coastguardsman choked at this point, as Wilson had done before him; but, being more ready of resource, he turned it into a cough, and declared, sternly, that night-work must have given him a cold, or “suthin’ o’ that sort.” After which he made a great demonstration of clearing his throat and blowing his nose.
“But you’ll soon be yours—at least, somethin’ like your old self, before long, Jeff. The doctor told us that, the last time he was at the station.”
“If God wills,” returned Jeff, softly; “I am in His hands, and willing to be what He chooses. You remember, David, the talk we once had about Miss Millet’s argument, that God brings good out of evil. I didn’t believe it then; I believe it now. I’ve bin to school since I last saw you, David, and I’ve learned a good lesson, for I can say from my heart it has been good for me that I was afflicted.”
Bowers did not reply, but looked at his friend with an expression of puzzled surprise.
“Yes,” continued Jeff, with rising enthusiasm; “I have lost my health—the doctor thinks permanently. I’ve lost the strength that I used to be so proud of, and with it the hope of being able to make a living in any active line of life; and I’ve lost much more besides. But what I have found in my Saviour far more than makes up for it all.”
In the “much more besides,” poor Jeff mentally referred to his loss of all hope of ever gaining the hand of Rose Millet; for if his chance seemed small before, how immeasurably was it reduced now that his health was shattered, and his power even of supporting himself gone. No; he felt that that door was closed—that he must avoid the girl as much as possible in future; and, above all, be particularly careful not to fall in love with her. Of course, it was only a passing fancy as yet, and, like fruit, would never ripen unless the sun shone. He would avoid the sunshine! Meanwhile, of all these rapidly fleeting thoughts, he said never a word to his friend David Bowers, but after a little more conversation, begged him also to go away and let him rest.
All very good, friend Jeff; but what if the sun should shine in spite of you?
Just about that time, in the course of his eager and somewhat erratic wanderings among solicitors and other men of business, Captain Millet made a sudden pause, and, by way of taking breath, rushed down to Folkestone, brought Rose up to Cranby, hired a dog-cart, and drove along the sands at low tide, in the direction of his sister’s cottage.
“I think it probable that you may see him today, Rosebud,” he said, “though I’m not quite sure, for the doctor is afraid of a relapse, and friends are not yet allowed to visit him. To be sure bein’ only a little girl, you probably wouldn’t disturb him at all—’specially if you didn’t speak. Anyhow, you’ll see auntie, which will be more to the purpose.”
“Father,” said Rose, whose name seemed remarkably appropriate at that moment, “I should like to get down here, and walk the rest of the way. By the time I arrive, you’ll have had a little talk with poor Jeff and auntie. Besides, there is a pretty cave that I used to gather shells in when I was last here. I would like so much to pay it a visit in passing.”
Of course the captain had no objection, and thus it came to pass that Jeff’s fourth visitor on that unquiet morning was the Rosebud!
How feeble are written words to convey ideas at times! If you could have obtained one glance of Rose and Jeff at that moment, reader, words would not be required. No peony ever blushed like that Rose—to say nothing of the blank amazement in those wide blue eyes. Jeff, still seated on the rock, became petrified.
Recovering first, as women always do, Rose hurried forward with—“I’m so glad, Mr —,” but there she stopped abruptly, for the unexpected sight of that stalwart coastguardsman, reduced to a big skeleton with pale face, hollow cheeks, cavernous eyes, and an old-man stoop, was too much for her. She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
What could Jeff do? He forgot his prudent resolves. He forgot his weakness because his strength seemed to have suddenly returned. He sprang up, intending to comfort the poor girl in a brotherly sort of way. Somehow—he never could clearly remember how—he had her seated on the rock beside him, with his arm round her waist and her head on his shoulder.
A few moments later—he never could tell how many—the wickedness of his conduct came down upon Jeff like a thunderbolt. He removed his arm, drew away from her about three inches, and looked in her surprised face with a solemn, self-condemned expression.
“Forgive me, Rose,” he said, in the deep, hollow voice which had become natural to him since his illness began; “my love for you proved too strong to be restrained just now: but believe me, I had fully made up my mind never to open my lips to you on the subject; for what right have I, a helpless, and, I fear, hopeless, invalid, to dare to aspire—”
There must have been something peculiar in the very slight, almost pathetic, smile which overspread the tearful face of Rose at that moment: for the arm was suddenly replaced, the three inches were reduced to nothing, the fair head again rested on the once stalwart shoulder, and thus they remained until the cavern was filled with the sounds:—
“Hi! Ho! Hallo! Rose—Rosebud ahoy! That girl would worry any man to death! Where are you? Hi! Ship ahoy! Hallo-o-o!”
We need scarcely remark that Rose did not wait for the last stentorian halloo! Bounding from her lover’s side, she ran to meet her father—red at first and then pale—exclaiming, “Oh! father I’ve found him!”
“Found who, child?”
“Jeff— I mean Mister—”
“Not dead?” exclaimed the Captain, interrupting with awful solemnity.
He was answered by the invalid himself coming out of the cavern, and wishing him good-morning with a confused and guilty air.
“Well now,” said Captain Millet after a moment’s pause, while he glanced from the one to the other, “this beats the polar regions all to sticks and stivers. Rose, my dear, you go round the p’int, an’ wait by the dog-cart till I come to ’ee.”
“So, young man,” he said, turning sternly to Jeff, “you’ve bin cruisin’ after my little girl without leave.”
“I am guilty, Captain Millet,” said Jeff humbly, “but not intentionally so. Long ago, when I learned that there was no hope of recovering my old strength, I had determined to give up all thoughts of dear Rose; but I was taken by surprise this morning—was off my guard—and, I confess, wickedly took advantage of my opportunity to tell her how dearly I loved her. Yet it was done under a sudden, irresistible impulse. I do not excuse myself. I would give worlds to undo the evil I may have done. But after all it may be undone. Rose may have mistaken her extreme sympathy and pity for love. If so, she will not suffer much, or long. Indeed, now I think of it, she won’t suffer at all, except regret at having been led to raise false hopes in my breast.”
The mere thought of this was so depressing, that Jeff, who was already almost worn out with excitement, leaned heavily on his stick for support.
“Jeff,” returned the captain severely, “how could you do it?”
“I hardly know,” rejoined Jeff, feeling something of the old Adam rising in his breast; “but my intentions were honourable, whatever my conduct may have been under impulse and strong temptation. Perhaps I might appeal to your own experience. Have you never done that which you did not mean to under the power of impulse?”
“You’ve hit me there, boy, below the water-line,” said the captain, relaxing a little: “for I not only put the question to my old woman without leave, but carried her off with flyin’ colours against orders; but it came all right at last, though I didn’t deserve it. However, Jeff, you’ve no need to look so blue. My little girl has raised no false hopes in your breast. Moreover, let me tell you, for your comfort, that I saw the doctor this morning, and he says that your constitution is so strong that you’re in a fair way to pull through in spite of him, and that you’ll be fit for good service yet—though not exactly what you were before. So, keep up your heart, Jeff! Never say die, and you shall wed my Rosebud yet, as sure as my name’s Dick Millet.”
There was need for these words of comfort, for the poor youth was obliged to sit down on the sand for a few minutes to recover strength.
“I’ve had a pretty stiff morning altogether, captain,” he said apologetically; “but I’m thankful—very thankful—for the succession of events that have brought me to this happy hour.”
“And yet, Jeff,” said the captain, sitting down beside him, “you and I thought these events—the wreck, and the loss of employment, and the overturning o’ the lifeboat, and the thump on the ribs, and the long illness—nothing but misfortunes and full of evil at first. There,—I’m not goin’ to draw no moral. I never was good at that. Come, now, if you’ve rested enough, we’ll up anchor and away. I’ve got a dog-cart beatin’ off an’ on round the p’int there, an’ my Rosebud will be gettin’ impatient.”
This was true—Rose was becoming not only impatient but anxious. When, however, she saw her father and lover approach, all her anxieties vanished.
Chapter Eight.
Conclusion of the Whole Matter.
The wonder-working power of Time is proverbial. Behold Jeffrey Benson once again, looking like his old self, at the hospitable board of Miss Millet. It is an occasion of importance. Opposite to her sits her brother. Jeff is on her right hand. On the left sits Rose—prettier, brighter, and more womanly than ever. A gold circlet on one of the fingers of her left hand proclaims a great fact. A happy smile on her face proves that her confidence has not been misplaced.
Jeff is nearly as stout and strong as he ever was; of his severe illness scarcely a trace remains. The doctor does not know what it was, and it is not to be expected that we should know. Sufficient for us to state the fact that it is gone.
But our hero is not now a coastguardsman. Listen, and the captain will explain why.
“Molly, my dear, another cup of your superb tea, to web my whistle before I begin. It ought to be good, for I know the man that grew it, and the firm through which it came. Well, now, both you and Rosebud will nat’rally want to know about the situation which I’ve obtained for Jeff. You’ll be surprised to hear that he is now Secretary of State to King Richard Longpurse.”
“In other words,” interrupted Jeff, with a laugh, “your brother thinks—”
“If you think, sir,” interrupted the captain in his turn, “that King Richard cannot explain matters in his own words, you had better say so at once, and I will abdicate in your favour.”
“Go on, sire—I submit,” said Jeff.
“Well then, Molly, I was about to say, when my secretary interrupted me, that he and I have at last come to an agreement. After much explanation, I have got him to understand that a king cannot possibly manage all his own affairs with his own hands, and that I am forced to have a secretary, who can at least do the ‘three R’s’ pretty well. You see, although my edication has not been neglected, it still remains a fact that I can’t read without specs, that in cipherin’ I am slow—slow, though sure—and that in the matter of penmanship I am neither swift nor legible. Therefore, seein’ that in such things I don’t differ much from other kings and great men, Jeff has generously consented to refuse the lucrative sitooation under Goverment, with nothin’ partik’lar to do, which has been offered to him, and to accept the secretary of state-ship, now at the disposal of King Richard, who will give him at least as good a salary as Government, and at the same time keep his nose closer to the grindstone.”
“Oh! Jeff,” said Rosebud at this point, shaking her finger at her husband, “I knew there was something in the wind!”
“My child,” remarked the captain, “there is always something in the wind. According to the best authorities, you may count on findin’ oxygen, nitrogen, and carbonic-acid gases in it—not to mention foreign substances at times, such as dust leaves, bits of old newspaper and the like, except at sea, where it is always pure and good.”
“But with plenty of salt in it,” interposed Miss Millet, “though not enough to cure you of bad habits, brother. Come now, tell us really what you mean.”
“Well, sister, what I really mean is this: that the fortune which has been sent to me is far too big for one pair of hands and one brain to manage: so my son-in-law has agreed to help me—and the labourer, you know, is worthy of his hire! Surely I don’t need to explain the meaning of that text to you! Since we last conversed in this room on the disposal of my surplus funds, Jeff and I have had many a long talk and walk together. Moreover, I have kept the young secretary’s nose so tight to the grindstone for some months past that he has produced results which will, I think, interest—it may be even surprise—you.”
“Before going further,” continued the captain, pushing in his cup, “let’s have some more o’ that brew to wet my whistle. Well, you will be pleased to hear that I have changed my mind about the carriage and four, and the mansion in Belgravia, and the castle at Folkestone, and the steam-yacht—given ’em all up, and decided to come here an’ live quietly beside you, sister.”
“Are you in earnest brother?” asked Miss Millet, with sparkling eyes.
“Never more in earnest in my life; but get out your plans an’ papers, secretary, an’ explain ’em.”
Jeff rose, left the room, and returned with a business-like bundle of papers, which he untied and arranged on the table before him. Taking up one, he said—
“This is a list of the poor people in Cranby, in whom Miss Millet has been accustomed to take special interest. The first on the list is old Susan Jenkins.”
“My dear old woman, who has been bedridden so long, and in such terrible poverty?” asked Miss Millet.
“The same,” answered Jeff. “Captain Millet has succeeded in getting her admission into the hospital for incurables. We have only just received intimation of the appointment; and as the old woman does not know of it yet, we thought it best to let you be the bearer of the news.”
“Oh, brother!” exclaimed Miss Millet, clasping her hands in delight. She knew now that the captain was in earnest, for he would sooner have cut off his own hand than trifle with her feelings.
“Go on, secretary,” cried the captain, taking a considerable swig of tea, “an’ don’t you interrupt, Molly, else we’ll never get through.”
“The next name is Martha Brand.”
“What, ragged little Martha?” exclaimed Miss Millet.
“The same. A new rig-out has been ordered for Martha, and she is to be sent to school. Joe Puncheon, better known as Vagabond Joe, has been apprenticed to a carpenter—by his own special desire—and goes to work on Monday next in a suit of suitable clothes.”
“Come, sir, none o’ that in business hours,” cried the captain, “and heave that list overboard. It would take us half the night to get through with it. Come to the plans, sir; open the plans.”
Putting aside the list, the obedient secretary took up a large document, and, unfolding it, spread it on the table.
“This,” said Jeff, with business-like gravity, “is a plan of the Cranby Swimming Bath. The coast near the town being rocky, and in many ways inconvenient for bathing, sea-water is to be pumped into this bath daily by a steam-engine. A professor of swimming is appointed to give gratuitous instruction in his art. The bath is to be in two parts—one for ladies, one for gentlemen—and will have dressing-boxes all round, besides diving-boards and every sort of convenience. At certain hours of the morning and evening it will be open free of charge to all comers; so that there will be no excuse for any man, woman, or child in Cranby being dirty or unable to swim.”
“What a blessing it would be,” exclaimed the enthusiastic Miss Millet, “if such baths existed all over the kingdom!”
“It is a disgrace to the kingdom,” said Jeff, “that a bath such as this does not exist in every town of the kingdom. A mere tithe of the money wasted on drink and tobacco,” (“and tea,” muttered the captain, pushing in his cup for more), “would suffice to do it.”
“Come, Jeff, clap a stopper on your long-winded lectures, and go ahead wi’ the next plan,” said the captain, “and don’t moralise if you can help it.”
“But, brother, can you afford all this?” asked Miss Millet.
“Afford it? Of course I can. It’s wonderful, Molly, what men can afford when they’re willing to spend. Why, I’ve known a man myself who was so uncommon willin’ to spend that he ruined his baker an’ butcher an’ greengrocer before he had done spendin’. If that’s so with them as hasn’t got money to spend, surely it’s for a man like me to do so who’s rollin’ in four thousand a year, more or less. Besides, I’m goin’ to invest some o’ the capital in a way that’ll pay back three or four hundred per cent interest! I’m not goin’ to leave it all to my Rosebud. A reasonable provision she shall have—not more. You see, Molly, I’m of opinion that whatever a man has—whether he makes it by the use of his talents, or inherits it from his father, or has it sent to him unexpected, like mine—he holds it all in trust, to be used for the glory of God and the good of men. Now, cut along, secretary.”
“This,” said Jeff, “is the plan of the People’s Free Library. The purchase of the site was effected last week, and the building is to be commenced next month.”
“Ay, and the Prince of Wales is coming to lay the foundation stone,” cried the captain; “leastwise I’ve asked him to do it, and no doubt he’ll come if he’s got time. But look here, Molly,” he added, becoming impatient and opening out all the plans at once—“here you’ve got the lecture-hall an’ the gymnasium, an’ the church, an’ the ragged school—all ship-shape—an’ what d’ye think this is? Explain it, secretary.”
“This is a plan of two cottages exactly the shape and size of this one in which we sit, but with a few more rooms and out-houses behind. The empty space between them represents the site of this cottage. The one on the right is intended for Captain Millet. That on the left for—”
“For the secretary and his wife,” cried the captain again, taking up the discourse. “An’ look here, what d’ye think the double lines in pencil ’tween your cottage an’ mine means?”
“A wash-house, perhaps.”
“A wash’us,” repeated the captain, with contempt. “No; that’s a passage from one house to the other, so as you an’ I can visit comfortably in wet weather. There’s a door in the middle with two locks, one on each side; so that if either of us should chance to be in the dumps, we’ve got only to turn the key on our own side. But the passage ain’t in the plan, you see. It’s only a suggestion. Then, Rosebud, what d’ye think that thing is atop of my cottage?”
“It—it looks like a—a pepper-box,” replied Rose, with some hesitation.
“Pepper-box!” repeated the captain, in disgust; “why, it’s a plate-glass outlook, where I can sweep the horizon with my glass all round, an’ smoke my pipe in peace and comfort, and sometimes have you up, my girl, to have a chat about old times. But that’s not all, Molly. Here’s a letter which you can put in your pocket an’ read at your leisure. It says that the tin mine in which you have shares has become so prosperous that you could sell at ten or twenty times the price of your original shares; so,—you see, you are independent of me altogether as to your livelihood. Now, old girl, what d’ye think of all that?”
The captain threw himself back in his chair, wiped his brow and looked at his sister with an air of thorough satisfaction.
“I think,” returned Miss Millet slowly, “that God has been very good to us all.”
“He has, sister, He has; and yet the beginning of it all did not seem very promising.”
The captain cast a glance at Jeff as he spoke. The youth met the glance with a candid smile.
“I know what you think, father,” he said. “You and I are agreed on that point now. I admit that what appears to be evil may be made to work for good.”
“True, Jeff,” returned the captain; “but I have lived long enough to see, also, that the opposite holds good—that things which are questionably good in themselves sometimes work out what appears to be evil. For instance, I have known a poor, respectable man become suddenly and unexpectedly rich, and the result was that he went in for extravagant expenditure and dissipation which ended in his ruin.”
“But that,” said Miss Millet quickly, “was because he did not accept the gift as from God to be used in His service, but misused it.”
“True, Molly, true; and such will be my fate if I am not kept by the Holy Spirit from misusing what has been given to me.”
The Rosebud opened not her lips, only her ears, while this conversation was going on; but the next day, seated on a stool at Jeff’s feet, with her fair little hands clasped on his knee and looking up in his kind, manly face, she said—
“I wonder, Jeff, what auntie would say if, instead of working out such pleasant consequences to us, all these things had ended only in what we term disaster, and bad luck, and poverty, and death—as happens so often to many people.”
“I wonder, too, my Rosebud,” returned Jeff. “Suppose we go and put the question to her.”
Accordingly they went, and found the quiet old lady busy, as usual, knitting socks for the poor.
“Now, auntie,” said Jeff, after stating the question, “if everything had turned out apparently ill for us—according to what men usually call ill—would you still hold that everything had really turned out well?”
“Certainly I would, Jeff, on the simple ground that God is good and cannot err, though He has many and strange methods of bringing about His ends. You can prove it by taking an extreme case. Go to one of the early martyrs, who lost not only property, and health, and friends, and liberty, but finally his life at the stake. The unbeliever’s view would be that everything had gone against him; his own view, that God had put on him great honour in counting him worthy to suffer and die for Jesus; and you could not doubt his sincerity when you heard his hymns of praise on the way to the stake—ay, even in the fire.”
“Then, whatever happens—good or bad—auntie,” said Rose, “you would say, ‘All is well.’”
“I would believe it, dear, whether I had courage to say it or not. If strength were given, I would certainly acquiesce, and say, ‘Thy will be done.’”
“Amen! Long may we live to say that, Molly,” said Captain Millet, entering the cottage at that moment. And the captain’s prayer was granted; for he and Molly—and the ex-coastguardsman with his Rosebud lived many a year after that to see the completion of the swimming-bath, and the people’s’ library, and the gymnasium, and the evening classes, and the model houses, etcetera, and to experience the truth of that blessed Word which tells us that “all things work together for good to them that love God.”