"I will have no refusal, man," he went on, as the sergeant shook his head. "Your presence here will be almost as great a comfort, to me, as to the child. I am a lonely man. For years, I have cut myself loose from the world. I have neither associates nor friends. But now that this great load is off my mind, my first want is a friend; and who could be so great a friend, who could enter into my plans and hopes for the future so well, as yourself, who would have an interest in them equal to my own?"
The sergeant was much moved by the squire's earnestness. He saw that the latter had really at heart the proposal he made.
"You are very good, squire," he said in a low voice; "but even if I could bring myself to eat another man's bread, as long as I can work for my own, it would not do. I am neither by birth nor education fitted for such a position as that you offer to me."
"Pooh, nonsense!" the squire said hotly. "You have seen the world. You have travelled and mixed with men. You are fit to associate as an equal with anyone. Don't you deceive yourself; you certainly do not deceive me.
"It is pride that stands in your way. For that you are going to risk the happiness of your granddaughter, to say nothing of mine; for you don't suppose that either of us is going to feel comfortable and happy, when the snow is whirling round, and the wind sweeping the moors, to think of you trudging along about the country, while we are sitting snugly here by a warm fire.
"You are wanting to spoil everything, now that it has all come right at last, by just the same obstinate pride which wrecked the lives of our children. I won't have it, man. I won't hear of it.
"Come, say no more. I want a friend badly, and I am sure we shall suit each other. I want a companion. Why, man, if I were a rich old lady, and you were a poor old lady, and I asked you to come as my companion, you would see nothing derogatory in the offer. You shall come as my companion, now, or if you like as joint guardian to the child. You shall have your own rooms in the house; and when you feel inclined to be grumpy, and don't care to take your meals with the child and me, you can take them apart.
"At any rate, try it for a month, and if you are not comfortable then I will let you go, though your rooms shall always be in readiness for you, whenever you are disposed to come back.
"Come, give me your hand on the bargain."
Sergeant Wilks could resist no longer. The last two years work, without the child, had indeed been heavy, and especially in winter, when the wind blew strong across the uplands, he began to feel that he was no longer as strong as he used to be. The prospect of having Aggie always near him was, however, a far greater temptation than that of ending his days in quiet and comfort.
His hand and that of the squire met in a cordial grip, and the matter was settled. Fortunately, as the sergeant reflected, he had still his pension of ten shillings a week, which would suffice to supply clothes and other little necessaries which he might require, and would thus save him from being altogether dependent on the squire.
Aggie was wild with delight, when she was called in and informed of the arrangement. The thought of her grandfather tramping the country, alone, had been the one drawback to the pleasure of her life at Mrs. Walsham's, and many a time she had cried herself to sleep, as she pictured to herself his loneliness. That he was to be with her always, was to give up his work to settle down in comfort, was indeed a delight to her.
Greatly pleased was she, also, to hear that Mrs. Walsham was to be asked to come up to be her governess.
"Oh, it will be nice!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. "Just like the fairy stories you used to tell me, grampa, when everyone was made happy at the end by the good fairy. Grandpapa is the good fairy, and you and I are the prince and princess; and James--and what is to be done with James? Is he to come up, too?"
"No, my dear," the squire said, smiling. "James is to go to a good school, but you will see him when he comes home for his holidays. But that part of it is not arranged yet, you know; but if you will put on your hat, you can walk down with us to the town, and introduce me to Mrs. Walsham."
Mrs. Walsham had just dismissed her pupils, when the party arrived, and was thinking how quiet and dull the house was without Aggie, when the door opened, and the child rushed in and threw her arms round her neck.
"Oh, I have such good news to tell you! Grandpapa is so good and kind, and grampa is going to live with us, and you are to come up, too, and James is to go to school. Isn't it all splendid?"
"What are you talking about, Aggie?" Mrs. Walsham asked, bewildered, as the child poured out her news.
"Aggie is too fast, madam," the squire said, entering the room accompanied by the sergeant. "She is taking it all for granted, while it has yet to be arranged. I must apologize for coming in without knocking; but the child opened the door and rushed in, and the best thing to do was, we thought, to follow her.
"I have come, in the first place, to thank you for your great kindness to my little granddaughter, and to tell your son how deeply I feel indebted to him, for having saved her life two years ago.
"Now, Aggie, you run away and look for your friend, while I talk matters over with Mrs. Walsham."
Aggie scampered away to find James, who was at work at his books, and to tell him the news, while the squire unfolded his plans to Mrs. Walsham.
His offers were so handsome that Mrs. Walsham accepted them, without an instant's hesitation. She was to have the entire charge of the child during the day, with the option of either returning home in the evening, when Aggie went in to dessert after dinner, or of living entirely at the Hall. The squire explained his intention of sending James to a good school at Exeter, as an instalment of the debt he owed him for saving the child's life, and he pointed out that, when he was at home for his holidays, Aggie could have her holidays, too, and Mrs. Walsham need only come up to the Hall when she felt inclined.
Mrs. Walsham was delighted with the offer, even more for James's sake than her own, although the prospect for herself was most pleasant. To have only Aggie to teach, and walk with, would be delightful after the monotony of drilling successive batches of girls, often inordinately tiresome and stupid. She said, at once, that she should prefer returning home at night--a decision which pleased the squire, for he had wondered what he should do with her in the evening.
The arrangement was at once carried into effect. The school was broken up, and, as the parents of the children were almost all tenants of the squire, they offered no objection to the girls being suddenly left on their hands, when they heard that their teacher was going to live as governess at the Hall. Indeed, the surprise of Sidmouth and the neighbourhood, at learning that the little girl at Mrs. Walsham's was the squire's granddaughter, and that the showman was therefore a connection of the squire, and was going also to live at the Hall, was so great, that there was no room for any other emotion. Save for wrecks, or the arrival of shoals of fish off the coast, or of troubles between the smugglers and the revenue officers, Sidmouth had few excitements, and the present news afforded food for endless talk and conjecture.
On comparing notes, it appeared that there was not a woman in the place who had not been, all along, convinced that the little girl at Mrs. Walsham's was something more than she seemed to be, and that the showman was a man quite out of the ordinary way. And when, on the following Sunday, the sergeant, who had in the meantime been to Exeter, walked quietly into church with the squire, all agreed that the well-dressed military-looking man was a gentleman, and that he had only been masquerading under the name of Sergeant Wilks until, somehow or other, the quarrel between him and the squire was arranged, and the little heiress restored to her position; and Sidmouth remained in that belief to the end.
The sergeant's military title was henceforth dropped. Mr. Linthorne introduced him to his acquaintances--who soon began to flock in, when it was known that the squire's granddaughter had come home, and that he was willing to see his friends and join in society again--as "My friend Mr. Wilks, the father of my poor boy's wife."
And the impression made was generally favourable.
None had ever known the exact story of Herbert's marriage. It was generally supposed that he had married beneath him; but the opinion now was that this must have been a mistake, for there was nothing in any way vulgar about the quiet, military-looking gentleman, with whom the squire was evidently on terms of warm friendship.
The only person somewhat dissatisfied with the arrangement was James Walsham. He loved his mother so much, that he had never offered the slightest dissent to her plan, that he should follow in his father's footsteps. She was so much set on the matter, that he could never bring himself to utter a word in opposition. At heart, however, he longed for a more stirring and more adventurous life, such as that of a soldier or sailor, and he had all along cherished a secret hope, that something might occur to prevent his preparing for the medical profession, and so enable him to carry out his secret wishes. But the present arrangement seemed to put an end to all such hopes, and, although grateful to the squire for sending him to a good school, he wished, with all his heart, that he had chosen some other way of manifesting his gratitude.
Four years passed quietly. James Walsham worked hard when at school, and, during his holidays, spent his time for the most part on board the fishermen's boats. Sometimes he went up to the Hall, generally at the invitation of Mr. Wilks.
"Why don't you come oftener, Jim?" the latter asked him one day. "Aggie was saying, only yesterday, that you used to be such friends with her, and now you hardly ever come near her. The squire is as pleased as I am to see you."
"I don't know," Jim replied. "You see, I am always comfortable with you. I can chat with you, and tell you about school, and about fishing, and so on. The squire is very kind, but I know it is only because of that picking Aggie out of the water, and I never seem to know what to talk about with him. And then, you see, Aggie is growing a young lady, and can't go rambling about at my heels as she used to do, when she was a little girl. I like her, you know, Mr. Wilks, just as I used to do; but I can't carry her on my shoulder now, and make a playfellow of her."
"I suppose that's all natural enough, Jim," Aggie's grandfather said; "but I do think it is a pity you don't come up more often. You know we are all fond of you, and it will give us a pleasure to have you here."
Jim was, in fact, getting to the awkward age with boys. When younger, they tyrannize over their little sisters, when older they may again take pleasure in girls' society; but there is an age, in every boy's life, when he is inclined to think girls a nuisance, as creatures incapable of joining in games, and as being apt to get in the way.
Still, Jim was very fond of his former playmate, and had she been still living down in Sidmouth with his mother, they would have been as great friends as ever.
At the end of the fourth year, Richard Horton came back, after an absence of five years. He was now nearly twenty, and had just passed as lieutenant. He was bronzed with the Eastern sun, and had grown from a good-looking boy into a handsome young man, and was perfectly conscious of his good looks. Among his comrades, he had gained the nickname of "The Dandy"--a name which he accepted in good part, although it had not been intended as complimentary, for Richard Horton was by no means a popular member of his mess.
Boys are quick to detect each other's failings, and several sharp thrashings, when he first joined, had taught Richard that it was very inexpedient to tell a lie on board a ship, if there was any chance of its being detected. As he had become one of the senior midshipmen, his natural haughtiness made him disliked by the younger lads; while, among those of his own standing, he had not one sincere friend, for there was a general feeling, among them, that although Richard Horton was a pleasant companion, and a very agreeable fellow when he liked, he was not somehow straight, not the sort of fellow to be depended upon in all emergencies.
By the captain and lieutenants, he was considered a smart young officer. He was always careful to do his duty, quiet, and gentlemanly in manner, and in point of appearance, and dress, a credit to the ship. Accordingly, all the reports that his captain had sent home of him had been favourable.
Great as was the rage and disappointment which Richard had felt, when he received the letter from his uncle telling him of the discovery of his long-lost granddaughter, he had the tact to prevent any signs of his feelings being visible, in the letter in which he replied. The squire had told him that, although the discovery would, of course, make a considerable difference in his prospects, he should still, if the reports of his conduct continued satisfactory, feel it his duty to make a handsome provision for him.
"Thanks to my quiet life during the last ten years," the squire had written, "I have plenty for both of you. The estate will, of course, go to her; but, always supposing that your conduct will be satisfactory, I shall continue, during my lifetime, the allowance you at present receive, and you will find yourself set down, in my will, for the sum of twenty thousand pounds."
Richard had replied in terms which delighted the squire.
"You see, the boy has a good heart," he said, as he handed the letter to Mr. Wilks. "No one could express himself better."
His companion read the letter over in silence.
"Charmingly expressed," he said as he returned it. "Almost too charmingly, it seems to me."
"Come, come, Wilks, you are prejudiced against the young fellow, for that business with Aggie and young Walsham."
"I hope I am not prejudiced, squire," his friend replied; "but when I know that a lad is a liar, and that he will bring false accusations to shield himself, and when I know that he was detested by all who came in contact with him--John Petersham, the gardener, and the grooms--I require a good deal more than a few satisfactory reports from his captain, who can know very little of his private character, and a soft-soldering letter like that, to reinstate him in my good opinion. I will wager that, if you and I had been standing behind him when he opened your letter, you would have heard an expression of very different sentiments from those he writes you here.
"Look at this: 'I regret, indeed, my dear uncle, that my new cousin must have such a bad opinion of me, owing to my roughness in that unfortunate affair, which I have never ceased to regret; but I hope that, when we meet, I shall be able to overcome the dislike which she must feel for me.'
"Bah!" the old soldier said scornfully. "I would lay all my pension, to a shilling, that boy has already made up his mind that someday he will marry Aggie, and so contrive to get the estates after all."
The squire burst into a good-humoured laugh.
"It's well I don't take up your wager. Such ideas as that might occur to you and me, but hardly to a lad not yet seventeen."
"Well, we shall see," the other said, cooling down. "I hope I may be mistaken in him. We shall see when he comes home."
When he did come home, the old soldier could find but little fault with the young man. He had a frank and open manner, such as is common to men of his profession. He was full of life and anecdote. His manner to the squire was admirable, affectionate, and quietly respectful, without any air of endeavouring especially to ingratiate himself with him. Nor could the ex-sergeant find anything to complain of in the young man's manner towards himself. He took the first opportunity, when they were alone, to say how glad he had been, to hear that his grandfather had met with a friend and companion in his lonely life, and to express a hope that the bad opinion, which he had doubtless formed of him from his conduct when a boy, would not be allowed to operate against him now.
But, though there was nothing he could find fault with, the old soldier's prejudices were in no way shaken, and, indeed, his antipathy was increased, rather than diminished, by the young officer's conduct towards Aggie. It might be, of course, that he was only striving to overcome the prejudiced feeling against him; but every time the old soldier saw him with his granddaughter, he felt angry.
In point of fact, Aggie was disposed to like Richard, even before his arrival. Six years had eradicated every tinge of animosity for that shove on the sand. His letters had been long, bright, and amusing, and with the mementos of travel which he picked up in the ports of India and China, and from time to time sent home to his uncle, there was always a little box with some pretty trinket "for my cousin." She found him now a delightful companion. He treated her as if she had been seventeen, instead of eleven; was ready to ride or walk with her, or to tell her stories of the countries he had seen, as she might choose; and to humour all her whims and fancies.
"Confound him and his pleasant manners!" the ex-sergeant would mutter to himself, as he watched them together, and saw, as he believed, in the distance, the overthrow of the scheme he had at heart. "He is turning the child's head; and that foolish boy, James, is throwing away his chances."
James, indeed, came home from school for the last time, two or three weeks after Richard Horton's return. He was now nearly eighteen, and, although a broad and powerful fellow, was still a boy at heart. He did not show to advantage by the side of Richard Horton. The first time he went up to the Hall, after his return, the latter had met him with outstretched hand.
"I am glad to meet you again," he said. "I behaved like a blackguard, last time we met, and you gave me the thrashing which I deserved. I hope we shall get on better, in the future."
Aggie and her two grandfathers were present, and James Walsham certainly did not show to advantage, by the side of the easy and self-possessed young officer. He muttered something about its being all right, and then found nothing else to say, being uncomfortable, and ill at ease. He made some excuse about being wanted at home, and took his leave; nor did he again go up to call. Several times, the old soldier went down to Sidmouth to see him, and on one occasion remonstrated with him for not coming up to the Hall.
"What's the use?" James said, roughly. "I have got lots of reading to do, for in two months, you know, I am to go up to London, to walk the hospitals. No one wants me up there. Aggie has got that cousin of hers to amuse her, and I should feel only in the way, if I went."
Mr. Wilks was fairly out of temper at the way things were going. He was angry with James; angry with the squire, who evidently viewed with satisfaction the good understanding between his granddaughter and nephew; angry, for the first time in his life, with Aggie herself.
"You are growing a downright little flirt, Miss Aggie," he said one day, when the girl came in from the garden, where she had been laughing and chatting with her cousin.
He had intended to speak playfully, but there was an earnestness in his tone which the girl, at once, detected.
"Are you really in earnest, grampa?" she asked, for she still retained the childish name for her grandfather--so distinguishing him from the squire, whom she always called grandpapa.
"No; I don't know that I am in earnest, Aggie," he said, trying to speak lightly; "and yet, perhaps, to some extent I am."
"I am sure you are," the girl said. "Oh, grampa! You are not really cross with me, are you?" and the tears at once sprang into her eyes. "I have not been doing anything wrong, have I?"
"No, my dear, not in the least wrong," her grandfather said hastily. "Still, you know, I don't like seeing Jim, who has always been so good and kind to you, quite neglected, now this young fellow, who is not fit to hold a candle to him, has turned up."
"Well, I haven't neglected him, grampa. He has neglected me. He has never been near since that first day, and you know I can't very well go round to Sidmouth, and say to him, 'Please come up to the Hall.'"
"No, my dear, I know you can't, and he is behaving like a young fool."
"Why is he?" Aggie asked, surprised. "If he likes sailing about better than coming up here, why shouldn't he?"
"I don't think it's for that he stays away, Aggie. In fact, you see, Jim has only just left school, and he feels he can't laugh, and talk, and tell you stories about foreign countries, as this young fellow can, and having been so long accustomed to have you to himself, he naturally would not like the playing second fiddle to Richard Horton."
"But he hasn't been here much," the girl said, "ever since I came here. He used to be so nice, and so kind, in the old days when I lived down there, that I can't make out why he has changed so."
"My dear, I don't think he has changed. He has been only a boy, and the fact is, he is only a boy still. He is fond of sailing, and of the amusements boys take to, and he doesn't feel at home, and comfortable here, as he did with you when you were a little girl at his mother's. But mind, Aggie, James is true as steel. He is an honourable and upright young fellow. He is worth fifty of this self-satisfied, pleasant-spoken young sailor."
"I know James is good and kind, grampa," the girl said earnestly; "but you see, he is not very amusing, and Richard is very nice."
"Nice! Yes," the old soldier said; "a fair weather sort of niceness, Aggie. Richard Horton is the squire's nephew, and I don't wish to say anything against him; but mark my words, and remember them, there's more goodness in James's little finger, than there is in his whole body. But there, I am a fool to be talking about it. There is your cousin calling you, in the garden. Go along with you."
The girl went off slowly, wondering at her grandfather's earnestness. She knew she liked her old playmate far better than Richard Horton, although the latter's attentions pleased and flattered her. The old soldier went straight off to the squire's study.
"Squire," he said, "you remember that talk we had, three years ago, when your nephew's answer came to your letter, telling him that Aggie was found. I told you that I would wager he had made up his mind to marry her. You laughed at me; but I was right. Child though she still is, he is already paving the way for the future."
"Master Richard certainly is carrying on a sort of flirtation with the little witch," the squire said, smiling; "but as she is such a mere child as you say, what does it matter?"
"I think it matters a great deal," the old soldier said seriously. "I see, squire, the young fellow has quite regained your good opinion; and unless I am mistaken, you have already thought, to yourself, that it would not be a bad thing if they were to come together someday.
"I have thought it over, and have made up my mind that, in spite of your four years' continued kindness to me, and of the warm friendship between us, I must go away for a time. My box is still lying at Exeter, and I would rather tramp the country again, and live on it and my pension, than stay here and see my darling growing up a woman with that future before her. I am sorry to say, squire, that what you call my prejudice is as strong as ever. I doubt that young fellow as strongly as I did before he came home. Then, I only had his past conduct and his letter to go by. Now I have the evidence of my own senses. You may ask me what I have against him. I tell you--nothing; but I misdoubt him from my heart. I feel that he is false, that what he was when a boy, he is now. There is no true ring about him."
The squire was silent for a minute or two. He had a very sincere friendship and liking for his companion, a thorough confidence in his judgment and principles. He knew his self-sacrificing nature, and that he was only speaking from his love for his grandchild.
"Do not let us talk about it now, old friend," he said quietly. "You and I put, before all other things, Aggie's happiness. Disagreement between us there can be none on the subject. Give me tonight to think over what you have said, and we will talk about it again tomorrow."
After breakfast next morning, the squire asked his friend to go with him into his study.
"I have been thinking this matter over," he said, "very seriously, and, upon reflection, I agree with you that it is undesirable that Aggie should see much of Richard, until she is of an age to form a fair opinion for herself, and to compare him with other young men. I agree with you, also, that we have not yet sufficient proofs that he is completely changed. I hope that he is. You think he is not. At any rate, he must have a longer trial, and until it is proved to your satisfaction, as well as mine, that he is in every way a desirable husband for Aggie, the less they see of each other, the better. I therefore propose to write at once to my friend Admiral Hewson, to ask him to use his influence, at the admiralty, to get the young fellow appointed to a ship. Does that meet your approval, my friend?"
"Quite so," the other said cordially. "Nothing could be better. In the meantime, as you say, should Richard turn out well, and the young people take a liking for each other, no match could be more satisfactory. What I want is that she should take no girlish fancy for him, at present."
"So be it, then," the squire said. "I think, you know, that we are a couple of old fools, to be troubling ourselves about Aggie's future, at present. Still, in a matter which concerns us both so nearly, we cannot be too careful. If we had a woman with us, we could safely leave the matter in her hands; as it is, we must blunder on, as best we may."
And so it was settled, and a week later, Richard Horton received an official letter from the admiralty, ordering him to proceed at once to Portsmouth to join the Thetis, to which he was appointed as fourth lieutenant. The order gave Richard extreme satisfaction. He was beginning to find his life desperately dull, and he was heartily sick of playing the attentive nephew. He was well content with the progress he had made; nothing had gone wrong since he returned, his uncle had clearly taken him back into his favour, and he had no doubt that Aggie quite appreciated the pains he had bestowed to gain her liking.
He detested the squire's companion, for he felt that the latter disliked and distrusted him, and that his projects would meet with a warm opposition on his part. Still, with the squire and Aggie herself on his side, he did not fear the result. As to James Walsham, whom he had come home prepared to regard as a possible rival, from his early intimacy with the child, and the fact that his mother was her governess, he now regarded him with contempt, mingled with a revengeful determination to pay off the old score, should a chance ever present itself.
He therefore started next day in high spirits, assuming, however, a great reluctance to tear himself away. A few days later a letter came from him, saying that he hoped that he should be able to come back, sometimes, for a day or two, as the Thetis was at present to be attached to the Channel squadron, and it was not expected that she would, for some time, proceed on foreign service.
Early in October, James Walsham was to go up to London, to commence his medical course. A week before he was to start, Mr. Wilks went down in the morning, intending to insist on his returning with him to the Hall. As he went down towards Sidmouth, the old soldier noticed how strongly the wind was blowing, the trees were swaying and thrashing in the wind, the clouds were flying past overhead. Everything portended a severe gale.
Finding, at Mrs. Walsham's, that James was down on the beach, he continued his course until he joined him there. James was standing with a group of fishermen, who were looking seaward. Now that he was exposed to the full force of the wind, Mr. Wilks felt that, not only was it going to blow a gale, but that it was blowing one already. The heavy clouds on the horizon seemed to lie upon the water, the waves were breaking with great force upon the beach, and the fishermen had hauled their boats up across the road.
"It's blowing hard, Jim," he said, laying his hand on the young fellow's shoulder.
"It is blowing hard, and it will blow a great deal harder before nightfall. The fishermen all think it is going to be an exceptional gale. It is blowing dead on shore. It will be bad work for any ships that happen to be coming up Channel today. Eight or ten of our boats are out. We thought we had made out three of them just before you came, but the cloud closed down on them. The fishermen are just going to get lifelines ready. I am afraid we are going to have a terrible night of it."
"I came down to ask you if you will come up to lunch, Jim, but I suppose you will not be able to tear yourself away from here."
"I shouldn't like to leave now, indeed. There is no saying what may happen. Besides, so many of the fishermen are away, that I may be useful here if a vessel comes ashore, and there may be half a dozen before the morning. Every hand will be wanted to give assistance."
"But you could not get a boat out through those breakers, could you, Jim?"
"Yes," Jim replied, "we might get one of the big boats through it now; but it's going to be worse, presently. When I went out, last year, with a boat to the brig which was driven ashore, it was worse than this.
"I shall be very glad to come up tomorrow, if you will let me. I hear that fellow Horton went away last week."
"Yes, he went away, Jim. But why his being there should have kept you from going up is beyond me."
"I don't like the fellow, Mr. Wilks. He may mean very well, but I don't like him. I have been in one row about him with the squire, and I don't want another; but I am quite sure, if I had gone up much while he was there, it would have ended in my trying to punch his head again."
"In that case, perhaps," the old soldier said, smiling, "you were wise to stay away, Jim. I don't like the lad myself. Still, punching his head would not have been a desirable thing."
"I am glad you don't like him," James said, warmly. "Somehow I made up my mind that you were all sure to like him, and I don't suppose the idea made me like him any the better. He was just the free-and-easy sort of fellow to get along well, and I was quite sure that Aggie would not want me, when she had him to go about with her. I saw him drive through in the pony carriage with her, two or three times, and it was easy to see how thoroughly she was enjoying herself."
"Well, it was your own fault, my boy. If you choose to sulk down here, and never to go up to the Hall, you can't blame Aggie for letting herself be amused by someone else."
"Oh! I don't blame her," James said hastily. "Of course, it is all right that she should enjoy herself with her cousin. Only somehow, you know, after being great friends with anyone, one doesn't like to see someone else stepping into your place."
"But as I have told you, over and over again, during the last three years, Jim, you have willfully stepped out of your place. You know how often I have asked you to come up, and how seldom you have come. You have never shown Aggie that you have any wish to continue on the footing of friendship, on which you stood towards each other when she was at your mother's, and as you have chosen to throw her over, I don't see why she shouldn't take to anyone else who takes pains to make himself pleasant to her."
"Oh! I don't blame her a bit, Mr. Wilks. How could you think such a thing! I was very fond of little Aggie when she was at my mother's; but of course, I was not ass enough to suppose that she was going trotting about the country with me, when she once went up to the Hall as the squire's granddaughter. Of course, the whole thing was changed.
"Ah! Here comes the rain."
As he spoke, a sudden splash of rain struck them. It might have been noticed coming across the water in a white line. With it came a gust of wind, to which that which had already been blowing was a trifle. There was no more talking, for nothing less than a shout could have been heard above the roaring of the wind. It was scarcely possible to stand against the fury of the squall, and they were driven across the road, and took shelter at the corner of some houses, where the fishermen had already retired.
The squall lasted but a few minutes, but was soon succeeded by another, almost equally furious, and this seemed to increase in strength, until the wind was blowing a perfect hurricane; but the fishermen now struggled across the road again, for, between the rain squalls, a glimpse had been caught of two of the fishing boats, and these were now approaching the shore. A mere rag of sail was set on each, and yet they tore over the waves at tremendous speed.
One was some two hundred yards ahead of the other, and by the course they were making, they would come ashore nearly at the same spot. The news that two boats were in sight spread rapidly, and many of the fishermen's wives, with shawls over their heads, ran down and stood peering out from behind shelter, for it was well-nigh impossible to stand exposed to the fury of the gale.
An old fisherman stood, with a coil of rope in his hand, close to the water's edge. Several of the others stood close to him, and four of them had hold of the other end of the rope. When the boat was within fifty yards of shore, the sail was lowered; but she still drove straight on before the wind, with scarce an abatement in her speed. A man stood in her bow, also with a coil of rope in his hand, and, as he approached, threw it far ahead. The fisherman rushed waist deep into the water and caught the end of it, which in a moment was knotted to the one in his hand.
"Run along with her," he shouted.
For a moment, the boat towered on the top of a wave, which raced in towards the shore. The next, as it came, took her stern, and she was in the act of swinging round, when the strain of the rope came upon her, and brought her straight again. Higher and higher the wave rose, and then crashed down, and the boat shot forward, like an arrow, in the foam. The fishermen rushed forward and caught it, those on board leapt out waist-deep; all were taken off their feet by the backward rush, but they clung to the sides of the boat, while the men at the head rope, with their heels dug deeply into the sand, withstood the strain, and kept her from being swept out again.
A few seconds, and the boat was left dry, and the next wave carried it high up on the beach, amid a loud cheer from the fishermen and lookers on; but there was no time to waste, for the next boat was close at hand. Again, the rope was thrown to the shore, but this time the strain came a moment too late, the following wave turned the boat round, the next struck it broadside and rolled it, over and over, towards the shore. The fishermen, in an instant, joined hands, and rushing down into the water, strove to grasp the men.
Several times, those in front were knocked down and rolled up on the beach, but three of the crew were brought in with them. There was one still missing, and there was a shout as he was seen, clinging to an oar, just outside the line of breakers. James Walsham had been working with the fishermen in saving those already brought to shore. He now fastened the end of a line round his body.
"You can never get through those rollers--they will break you up like an eggshell," the old fisherman shouted.
"I will dive through them," Jim shouted back. "Give me plenty of slack, and don't pull, till you see I have got him."
The lad waited for his opportunity, and then, rushing down after the sheet of white foam, he stood, waist deep, as a great wave, some twelve feet high, towered up like a wall towards him. It was just going to break, when James plunged, head foremost, into it. There was a crash which shook the earth, a mass of wildly rushing foam, and then, some ten yards beyond the spot where the wave had broken, Jim's head appeared above the surface. It was but for a moment, for he immediately dived again, under the next wave, and then came up within a few yards of the floating oar. A stroke or two, and he was alongside. He seized the man, and held up one arm as a signal. In a moment the rope tightened, and they moved towards shore. When they were close to the edge of the breaking waves, Jim held up his hand, and the strain stopped.
"Now," he said to the man, "the moment they begin to pull, leave go of the oar, and throw your arms round me."
He waited until a wave, bigger than ordinary, approached, and, just as it began to pass under him, gave the signal. Higher and higher they seemed to rise, then they were dashed down with a tremendous shock. There was a moment's confusion as they were swept along in the white water. Jim felt a terrific strain, and it seemed to him that the rope would cut him in sunder. Then he was seized by a dozen strong arms, and carried high and dry, before the next wave could reach him.
For a minute or two he was scarce conscious. The breath had been almost knocked out of his body, with the break of the wave, and the rushing water seemed still singing in his ears.
"Are you hurt, my boy? Are you hurt, James?" were the first words he clearly heard.
"No, I think I am all right," he said, trying to sit up. "Is the other fellow all right?"
"He has broke his arm," one of the fishermen, who had just helped the man to his feet, replied. "He may be thankful it's no worse."
James was now helped to his feet.
"I am all right," he repeated to Mr. Wilks, "except that I feel as if I had a hot iron round my body. That rope has taken the skin off all round me, I fancy, and doesn't it smart, just, with the salt water!"
"Oh, James, how could you do it?" a girl's voice said suddenly.
The fishermen drew aside, and Aggie Linthorne pressed forward.
The squire had gone into her schoolroom and had said:
"Mrs. Walsham, I think you had better give up your lessons for the morning, and get home. It is blowing a gale now, and we shall probably have the rain down before long. I will walk down with you. The wind is dead on the shore, and it will be a grand sight."
Aggie at once set her mind on going, too; but the squire refused, until Mrs. Walsham suggested that, if it came on wet, Aggie could stop at her house until it cleared up, or, if necessary, till morning. Whereupon, the squire had given way, and the three had started together for Sidmouth, leaving Mrs. Walsham at her house as they passed. The others had struggled down, against the wind, until they came within sight of the sea. The first boat had just been run safely on shore when they arrived, and Aggie gave a cry, and put her hands over her face, as the second boat was seen to capsize.
"Cling to me, Aggie," the squire said. "See, they are rushing in the water to save them. They will have them, yet!"
At the cheer which broke out from the spectators, clustering thickly now, as the first of the shipwrecked crew was brought to shore, Aggie looked out again. It was a sight she never forgot. With the great waves crashing down on the shore, and the line of straggling figures, waist deep in the white foam, in which were scattered, here and there, portions of the boat, oars, sails, and nets.
"Well done, well done!" the squire exclaimed. "They have dragged up three of them. I don't know whether there are any more."
"Yes, yes, look!" Aggie cried; "there, out in the waves--there, I can see a head. That's just about where I was nearly drowned. Oh, grandpapa, take me away, I can't look at it."
"There's someone going out to save him, Aggie. Listen to the cheer."
Aggie looked again.
"Oh, grandpapa, stop him, stop him!" she cried, "it's James."
But at the same moment the plunge was made, and the figure lost to sight.
Aggie threw her arms round her grandfather, and hid her face.
"I can't look, I can't look," she cried. "Tell me about it."
"There, he is up; bravo!" the squire exclaimed, almost as excited as she was. "He has dived again, dear,"--then, after a pause--"there he is close to him. He has got him, Aggie! Now he is waving his hand; now they are tightening the rope; now he is waving his hand again, and they are waiting. There!"
There was a pause, which seemed to the girl to be endless, then the squire cried:
"They have got them out, both of them;" and a loud cheer broke from all standing round.
"Come along, grandpapa, let us go down to them."
"Stay a moment, my dear. They may be hurt. It's better you should not go."
The girl stood, with her hands clasped, gazing at the fishermen grouped on the shore, stooping over the prostrate figures. Then one of them stood up and waved his hand, and the spectators knew that all was well. Then the girl ran down to join them.
"Why, Aggie!" James exclaimed in astonishment, as she pressed forward. "Why, my dear, what brings you here in this storm? Whatever will the squire say?"
"The squire has brought her down himself," Mr. Linthorne said, following closely behind his granddaughter; "and he is glad he did, James, for she has seen a grand sight.
"You are a fine fellow;" and he wrung the lad's hand.
"A grand fellow, Wilks, isn't he?"
"I always said so, squire," the old soldier said, his face beaming with satisfaction; "but now, let us get him home, and Aggie, too. The child will be blown away."
But, for a minute or two, they could not carry James off, so closely did the men and women press round him, and shake him by the hand. At last they got him away, and, escorted by a crowd of cheering boys, led him back to his mother's.
"Your son is a hero, Mrs. Walsham!" the squire exclaimed as they entered; "but don't talk to him now, but mix him a glass of hot grog.
"Wilks, you get him between the blankets directly. I will tell his mother all about it, while she is mixing the grog.
"Hallo, Aggie! Why, bless the child, she's fainted."
The girl had borne up till they reached the house, towards which the wind had blown her along, as she clung to her grandfather's arm; but the excitement had been too much for her, and, the instant they entered the room, she had dropped into an armchair, and at once lost consciousness.
Mrs. Walsham kept her presence of mind, in spite of her bewilderment at these sudden occurrences. She at once laid the girl on the sofa, removed her dripping bonnet and cloak, and poured a few drops of brandy between her lips, while she set the squire to work, to chafe her hands. Aggie soon opened her eyes, and recovered her consciousness.
"Don't try to get up, Aggie," Mrs. Walsham said. "You are faint and shaken with all this excitement. Your grandpapa and I were two very foolish people, to let you come out.
"Now, Mr. Wilks, the best thing you can do, is to find a boy outside, and send him up to the Hall, with a message that the carriage is to come down directly.
"I think, Mr. Linthorne, she had better get back home. I should be glad enough, as you know, to keep her here for the night; but this house is rocking with the wind, now, and she would not be likely to get any sleep here. I will run up and see how James is, and if he is all right, I will come up with her and stop the night. She is very much shaken, and had better not be alone."
Mrs. Walsham soon came downstairs again, and said that James said he never felt better in his life, and that, by all means, she was to go up to the Hall. She then set about and prepared a cup of tea, which greatly restored Aggie, and, by the time the carriage arrived, the girl was able to walk to the gate.
Mr. Wilks had offered to remain with James, but the latter would not hear of it. The lad was, indeed, well pleased to hear that they were all going up to the Hall, as thereby he escaped hearing any more of his own praises. Besides, he was most anxious to get down to the beach again, for no one could say what might take place there before morning.
As soon, therefore, as he heard the door close, he jumped out of bed, and when, peeping through the blinds, he saw the carriage drive off with its four occupants, he at once began to dress. He felt bruised and sore from the blows he had received, and a red wheal round his chest, beneath the arms, showed where the rope had almost cut into the flesh. However, he soon dressed himself, and descended the stairs, went into the kitchen, and told the astonished girl that he was going out; then, having made a hasty meal of bread and cold meat, he put on his oilskins again, and started for the shore.
He did not, however, wait long. So heavy was the sea, now, that nothing whatever could be done should any vessel drive ashore, and, as for the fisher boats, the sailors shook their heads as they spoke of them.
"They were farther away to the west, so the chaps as got ashore tells us. They may have got in, somewhere, before it got to the worst. If not, it must have gone hard with them."
Finding that there was nothing to be done, and that he was much more stiff and bruised than he had believed, Jim made his way back again, and turned into bed; where he soon fell asleep, and did not wake until the following morning.
One of the grooms had come down from the Hall, at six o'clock, to inquire how he was, and the message given by the girl, that he had been out, but that he had come back and was now sound asleep, satisfied Mrs. Walsham, and enabled her to devote her undivided attention to her charge, who needed her care more than her son. Before night, indeed, the squire had sent down to Sidmouth for Dr. Walsham's successor, who said that Aggie was very feverish, and must be kept perfectly quiet for some days. He sent her up a soothing draught, and Mrs. Walsham sat up with her all night. She slept but little, and talked almost incessantly, sometimes rambling a little.
The first thing in the morning, the doctor was again sent for, and on his recommendation the squire at once sent off a man, on horseback, to Exeter, for the leading physician of that town. When he arrived, late in the afternoon, Aggie was somewhat quieter, and his report was more cheering.
"Her pulse is very high," he said; "but Mr. Langford tells me that it is not so rapid as it was in the morning, and that he thinks the symptoms are abating. Undoubtedly, it is a sharp feverish attack, brought on by excitement and exposure. A very little more, and it would have been a case of brain fever, but I trust now that it will soon pass off. The sedatives that have been administered are taking effect, and I trust she will soon fall asleep.
"As you requested, I have made my arrangements for staying here tonight, and I trust that, by the morning, we shall have her convalescent."
Mr. Wilks had gone down, the first thing in the morning, to see James, and found him up and about as usual. He was very greatly concerned, at hearing that Aggie had passed a bad night, and came four times up to the Hall, during the day, to inquire about her; and on his last visit, late in the evening, he was told that she was sleeping quietly, and that the doctor had every hope that she would wake, in the morning, free from fever. This proved to be the case; but she was ordered to keep her bed for a day or two.
On the morning after the storm, the wind had gone down much, although a tremendous sea was still breaking on the shore. Messages arrived, in the course of the day, to say that all the missing boats, with one exception, had succeeded in gaining the shore before the storm was full on. The missing boat was never heard of again.
Two days later, James Walsham had strolled up the hill to the east of the town, and was lying, with a book before him, in a favourite nook of his looking over the sea. It was one of the lovely days which sometimes come late in autumn, as if the summer were determined to show itself at its best, before leaving. It could not be said that James was studying, for he was watching the vessels passing far out at sea, and inwardly moaning over the fact that he was destined for a profession for which he had no real liking, instead of being free to choose one of travel and adventure.
Presently, he heard voices behind him. The position, in which he was lying, was a little distance down on the slopes, on the seaward side of the path, and, as a screen of bushes grew behind it, he could not be seen by anyone passing along.
"All the men, with their pistols and cutlasses, are to assemble here at ten o'clock tonight, Johnson. But do not give them orders till late, and let them come up, one by one, so as not to attract attention. Lipscombe's men are to assemble at the same hour, and march to meet us. This time, I think, there is no mistake. The cargo is to be landed where I told you. It will be high tide at twelve o'clock, and they are sure to choose that hour, so that the cutter can run close in. I have sent off a man on horseback to Weymouth, for the revenue cutter to come round. If she's in time, we shall catch that troublesome lugger, as well as her cargo. She has been a thorn in our side for the last year. This time, I do hope we shall have her."
The speakers then moved on out of hearing, but James Walsham recognized the voice, as that of the revenue officer commanding the force at Sidmouth.
Smuggling was, at that time, carried on on a large scale along the coast, and there were frequent collisions between those engaged in it and the revenue officers. The sympathies of the population were wholly with the smugglers, and the cheating of the revenue was not at all considered in the light of a crime.
Many of the fishermen, from time to time, took a hand in smuggling cruises, and the country people were always ready to lend assistance in landing and carrying the cargoes.
When out in their boats at night, James had often heard the fishermen tell stories of their smuggling adventures, and more than once he had been with them, when they had boarded a lugger laden with contraband, to warn them that the revenue cutter was on the cruising ground, and it would not be safe to attempt to run cargo at present. He now determined, at once, that he would warn the smugglers of their danger. The question was, where was the cargo to be run? The officer had not mentioned the spot, but, as the force from the next station to the east was to cooperate, it must be somewhere between the two.
Waiting till the speakers must have gone well along the cliff, he rose to his feet, and returned to Sidmouth. He thought, at first, of telling some of the fishermen what he had heard, but as, in the event of an affray, it might come out how the smugglers had been warned of the intention of the revenue officers, he thought there would be less risk in giving them warning himself. He knew every path down the cliff for miles, and trusted that he should be able to make his way down, and give the boats notice of their danger, before the revenue men reached the shore.
At nine o'clock he dressed himself, in the rough sailor's suit he wore when he went out with the fishermen, and started along the cliff. For some distance he kept well inland, as the officer might have placed a man on the lookout, to stop anyone going towards the scene of action. The spot he thought the most likely was a mile and a half along the shore. There was a good landing place, and an easy path up the cliff, and he knew that cargoes had been more than once run here. Accordingly, when he reached this spot, he sat down among some bushes on the edge of the cliff, and waited for some sort of signal. Half an hour later, he heard the tramp of a number of men, passing along behind him.
"There go the revenue men," he thought to himself. "I suppose they are going to meet those coming the other way."
An hour passed without further sound, and James began to get uneasy. If this was the spot fixed for the landing, some of the country people ought to be arriving, by this time, to help to carry off the cargo. They might, for aught he knew, be already near, waiting for the signal before they descended the path. No doubt the revenue men would be lying in wait, a short distance off, and would allow the friends of the smugglers to go down to the water, without letting them know of their presence.
He kept his eyes fixed on the water to the east, watching anxiously for the appearance of a light. Presently he started. Immediately in front of him, about a mile at sea, a bright light was shown. In a second, it disappeared. Three times it flashed out, and then all was dark. The night was a very dark one. There was no moon, and the stars were obscured, and although he strained his eyes to the utmost, he could not make out the vessel from which the light had been shown.
"How foolish to show such a bright light!" he said to himself. "It would have been almost sure to attract the attention of anyone on the watch."
He made his way to the path, and descended to the edge of the water, and waited, expecting momentarily to be joined by people from above. But no one came. He strained his ears listening for the fall of approaching oars; but all was silent.
Half an hour passed, and then it flashed across him that the signal must have been made to deceive the revenue men, and to cause them to assemble at that spot, and so leave the point really determined upon free for operations.
With an exclamation of disgust at his own stupidity, in having been deceived, James ran up the path again at the top of his speed, and then took the road along the cliff. For two miles, he ran without interruption, and then saw a dark mass in front of him. He turned off, instantly, to the left. Doubtless he had been heard approaching, for two or three men detached themselves from the rest, and started to cut him off. James ran straight inland, and in the darkness soon lost sight of his pursuers. Then he turned, and made for the cliff again. Two or three hundred yards farther along, there was another path to the shore, and this he had no doubt, now, was the one the smugglers were about to use. He struck the cliff within a few yards of the spot. In an instant, two men jumped up and seized him.
"Who are you?"
For an instant, James thought that his assailants were revenue men, but, even in the darkness, he saw that they were countrymen.
"Quick!" he said. "The revenue men are close at hand. They are watching, two or three hundred yards along. Listen! Here they come."
A tramping of feet coming rapidly along the cliff was clearly heard, and the men, with an oath, released their hold and ran off, giving a loud whistle, and made for their carts, which were stationed a few hundred yards inland. James dashed down the path, shouting at the top of his voice. He had not gone many yards before he met a number of men, coming up with tubs of spirits on their shoulders.
"Throw them down," he cried, "and make along the shore. The revenue men are close behind."
His advice was taken at once. The tubs were thrown down, and went leaping and bounding down to the shore, while the men followed James, at full speed, down the path.
Their pursuers were close behind. There was no longer any use in concealment. Their officer shouted to them to press forward at full speed, while, from the beach below, a hubbub of voices suddenly broke out, and, at the same moment, a blue light was lit on the cliff above.
"Beat them back, my lads," one of the smugglers was shouting, as James ran down to the little crowd of men standing near two boats. "We are five to one against them. Come on."
"Surrender in the king's name," the revenue officer shouted, as he rushed forward, followed by his men.
The answer was a pistol shot, and, in a moment, a furious melee began. The advantage in numbers was all on the side of the smugglers. Those who had landed with the kegs were all armed with pistol and cutlass, and the countrymen had heavy sticks and bludgeons. The ten revenue men would have been overpowered, but suddenly a shout was heard, and another party of sailors ran up along the shore, and joined in the fray. It was the detachment from the other station, which had been waiting, at some little distance along the shore, for the signal from above.
"To the boats, lads," the leader of the smugglers shouted. "We are caught in a trap."
The smugglers rushed to the boats, and James, who was standing by the water's edge, leaped on board with them. Most of the country people fled at once along the shore, pursued by some of the revenue men, while the others made a rush for the boats. These had been kept afloat a few yards from the shore. Grapnels had been dropped over their sterns, and, as the men in charge hauled out the moment the fight began, they were in water shoulder deep when the smugglers scrambled on board.
The revenue men dashed in after them, and strove to hold the boats; but they were beaten off with oars and cutlasses, and the boats were soon hauled out into deep water. The grapnels were lifted, and the men, many of whom were wounded more or less severely in the fray, got out their oars and pulled to the lugger, amid a dropping fire of pistol shots from shore.
Many and deep were the maledictions uttered, as the smugglers climbed on board their vessel; but their captain said cheerily:
"Never mind, lads, it might have been worse. It was only the first cargo of tubs, and half of those weren't ashore. The lace and silk are all right, so no great harm is done. Set to work, and get up sail as soon as you can. Likely enough there is a cutter in the offing; that blue light must have been a signal. They seem to have got news of our landing, somehow."
The crew at once set to work to get up sail. Three or four of the countrymen, who had, like James, got on board the boats, stood in a group looking on, confused and helpless; but James lent his assistance, until the sails were hoisted and the craft began to move through the water.
"Now, then," the captain said, "let us go below and look at the wounds. We daren't show a light, here on deck."
The wounds were, for the most part, slashes and blows with cutlasses; for in the darkness and confusion of the fight, only two of the bullets had taken effect. One of the smugglers had fallen, shot through the head, while one of those on board had his arm broken by a pistol ball.
"Now for our passengers," the captain said, after the wounds had been bandaged.
"Who are you?" and he lifted a lantern to James's face.
"Why, it is young Mr. Walsham!" he exclaimed in surprise.
James knew the man now, for the lugger had several times put in at Sidmouth, where, coming in as a peaceable trader, the revenue officers, although well aware of the nature of her vocation, were unable to touch her, as vessels could only be seized when they had contraband on board.
"Why, what brings you into this affair, young master?"
James related the conversation he had overheard, and his determination to warn the smugglers of their danger.
"I should have managed it, in plenty of time, if I had known the exact spot on which you were going to land; but I saw a signal light, two miles down the coast, and that kept me there for half an hour. It struck me, then, it was a ruse to attract the officers from the real spot of landing, but though I ran as hard as I could, I was only just before them."
"Thank you heartily," the smuggler said. "I expect you saved us from a much worse mess than we got into. I have no doubt they meant to capture the tubs, as they were loaded, without raising an alarm; and the fellows on the shore would have come up quietly, and taken us by surprise as we were landing the last boat loads. Thanks to you, we have got well out of it, and have only lost one of our hands, and a score or so of tubs."
"You can't put me ashore, I suppose?" James said.
"That I can't," the smuggler replied. "I have no doubt that cutter from Weymouth is somewhere outside us, and we must get well off the coast before morning. If we give her the slip, I will send you off in a boat sometime tomorrow. I must go ashore, myself, to make fresh arrangements for getting my cargo landed."
James went on deck again. The breeze was light, and the lugger was slipping along quietly through the water. He could faintly see the loom of the cliffs on his right, and knew that the lugger was running west, keeping as close inshore as she could, to avoid the cutter watching for her outside. He wondered what they would say at home, when it was found that he was missing; but consoled himself by thinking that his mother, who was still up at the Hall, would no doubt suppose that he had gone out for a night's fishing, as he had often done before, and that, as she was away, he had forgotten to leave word with the servant.
Suddenly, a blue light burned out on the top of the cliff. An angry exclamation broke from the captain, who was standing at the helm.
"Confound it!" he exclaimed. "They have caught sight of us from the cliff, and are signalling our whereabouts to the cutter."
As he spoke, he turned the vessel's head seaward, and, for a quarter of an hour, sailed straight out.
"Now," he said quietly, "I think we must be out of sight of those fellows on shore. Get her on the other tack, lads, but be as quiet as you can about it. There's no saying how close the cutter may be to us."
The great sails were lowered, as the boat's head paid off to the east. The yards were shifted to the other sides of the masts, and the sails hoisted again, and the lugger began to retrace her way back along the coast.
"It's just a chance, now," the captain said to James, who was standing close by him, "whether the commander of the cutter guesses, or not, that we shall change our course. He will know we are likely enough to do it."
"What should you do if you were in his place?" James said.
"I should run straight out to sea, and lay to, eight or ten miles off. He would be able to make us out then at daylight, whichever course we take; whereas, by trying to follow in the dark, he would run the chance of missing us altogether. I wish the wind would get up a bit. We are not moving through the water more than three knots an hour, and it's dying away. However, I fancy it will blow up again in the morning."
"Do you know whether she is faster than you are?" James asked.
"There is not much difference," the captain replied. "If the wind is strong, we have the legs of her; but in a light breeze, she is the fastest. She has chased us half a dozen times already, but we have always given her the slip."
"Then, even if she does run out to sea, as you say," James said, "we ought to be safe, as we should be a dozen miles or so along the coast."
"Yes, but not that ahead of her," the captain answered, "for she would be so much to the seaward. Still, that would be far enough; but she will begin to fire long before we are in range, and will bring any other king's ship within hearing down on us. However, I daresay we shall give her the slip, as we have done before."
The hours passed slowly. The wind continued to drop, until the vessel scarcely moved through the water, and, after a while, the sweeps were got out, and were worked until the day broke. All eyes were on the lookout for the cutter, as the day dawn began to steal over the sky.
"There she is, sure enough," the captain exclaimed at length, "lying to on the watch, some eight miles to the west. She must have seen us, for we are against the light sky; but, like, ourselves, she is becalmed."
It was a quarter of an hour, however, before the position of the cutter was seen to change. Then her head was suddenly turned east.
"She has got the wind," the captain said. "Now we only want a good breeze, and you'll have a lively day of it, lads."
From the time when she had turned, the lugger had made only about eight miles along the coast to the east, and an equal distance seaward, for the tide had set against her. The morning was bright and clear, the sea was perfectly smooth. As yet, the sails hung idly down, but there were dark lines on the water that showed that a breeze was coming.
"We shall have plenty of wind presently," the skipper said. "See how light the sky is to the south. There will be white tops on the waves in an hour or two.
"Here comes a flaw. Haul in your sheets, lads, now she begins to move."
The puff did not last long, dying away to nothing in a few minutes, and then the lugger lay immovable again. The men whistled, stamped the deck impatiently, and cast anxious glances back at the cutter.
"She is walking along fast," the skipper said, as he examined her through a glass. "She has got the wind steady, and must be slipping along at six knots an hour. This is hard luck on us. If we don't get the breeze soon, it will be a close thing of it."
Another quarter of an hour passed without a breath of wind ruffling the water. The cutter was fully two miles nearer to them than when she had first been seen, and was holding the wind steadily.
"Here it comes, lads," the skipper said cheerfully. "Another ten minutes, and we shall have our share."
The time seemed long, indeed, before the dark line on the water reached the lugger, and there was something like a cheer, from the crew, as the craft heeled slightly over, and then began to move through the water. It was the true breeze this time, and increased every moment in force, till the lugger was lying well over, with a white wave at her bow.
But the cutter had first gained by the freshening breeze, and James Walsham, looking back at her, judged that there were not more than four miles of water between the boats. The breeze was nearly due west, and, as the lugger was headed as close as she would lie to it, the cutter had hauled in her sheets and lay up on the same course, so that they were now sailing almost parallel to each other.
"If we could change places," the skipper said, "we should be safe. We can sail nearer the wind than she can, but she can edge away now, and has all the advantage of us."
James had already perceived this, and wondered that the lugger did not pay off before the wind, so as to make a stern chase of it.
"I want to get a few miles farther out," the skipper said. "Likely enough there is another cutter somewhere inshore. It is quite enough to have one of these fellows at one's heels."
Another half hour and the cutter, edging in, was little over three miles distant. Then the skipper gave the word, the helm was put down, the sheets slackened off, and, in a minute, the lugger was running dead before the wind with her sails boomed out, one on either side. The cutter followed her example, and hoisted a large square sail.
The wind was blowing fresh now, and the sea was getting up. Not a cloud was to be seen in the sky, and the sun shone brightly on the white heads which were beginning to show on the water. The lugger was tearing along, occasionally throwing a cloud of spray over her bows, and leaving a track of white water behind her.
"I think she still gains on us," the captain said to the mate, who had taken the helm.
"Ay, she is gaining," the sailor agreed, "but the wind is freshening every minute. She can't carry that topsail much longer. It's pressing her bows under now."
"She will go almost as fast without it," the skipper said.
The commander of the cutter seemed to be of the same opinion, for, just as he spoke, the topsail was seen to flutter, and then descended to the deck. It was a quarter of an hour before the skipper spoke again.
"I think we just about hold our own," he said. "I didn't think the Polly could have held her running."
"She couldn't, in a light wind," the mate replied; "but with this wind, it will want a fast boat to beat her."
The hands were now set to work, shifting the kegs further aft.
"That's better," the skipper said presently. "I am sure we are gaining ground, and our masts will stand it, if the cutter's will."
With her stern low in the water, the lugger was now tearing along at a tremendous pace. Stout as were her masts, and strong the stays, James Walsham wondered at their standing the strain of the great brown sails, as they seemed, at times, almost to lift her bodily out of the water. Buoyant as the craft was, the waves broke over her bows and flooded her decks, and sheets of spray flew over her.
The cutter, with her sharper bows and all her sail forward, was feeling it still more severely, and the spirits of all on board the lugger rose rapidly, as it was evident that they were dropping their pursuers. Suddenly, the gaff of the cutter's mainsail was seen to droop, and the boom was hauled on board.
"I thought it would be too much for them," the skipper said exultantly. "They are going to reef."
"We had better reef down too, I think," the mate said. "She has had as much as she could bear for some time."
"I'll hold on ten minutes longer," the skipper said. "Every half mile counts."
But before that time was up, the sails were one after another reefed, for the wind continued to freshen. The sky was still cloudless, but there was a misty light in the air, and a heavy sea was beginning to run.
Suddenly, a gun flashed out from the cutter. The skipper uttered an oath. Their pursuer was more than three miles astern, and he knew that she could only be firing as a signal.
There were several large ships in sight on their way up or down the Channel. To these, little attention had been paid. The skipper shaded his eyes with a hand, and gazed earnestly at a large ship on the weather beam, some four miles away.
"That is a frigate, sure enough," he exclaimed. "We are fairly caught between them.