In Strange Company Part 14

It was close upon Christmas when we arrived, the Serpentine was frozen, and skating parties were in full swing. Now skating is an amus.e.m.e.nt of which I have always been fond, though naturally in my profession I did not get many opportunities of indulging in it. For this reason, when I did I made the most of them, and that season was a notable instance.

One morning, on the Serpentine, I had the good fortune to catch a young lady just as she was about to fall in such a manner that the consequence could only have been a nasty sprain. She thanked me prettily, and a few moments later her protector on the ice crossed over to where I sat taking off my skates, and added an expression of his grat.i.tude. Somehow his face seemed strangely familiar to me, and it was not long before I recognized in him a nephew of Sir Benjamin Plowden, with whom I had been slightly acquainted in by-gone days. Making myself known, I was taken across and formally introduced to the lady, who turned out to be his wife. We strolled part of the way back together, and next day, to my surprise, I received a card for an "At Home" at their residence the following night.

Now though I am not particularly fond of "At Homes," I suppose my destiny ordained that I should accept this invitation. It was altogether a brilliant affair, and as there was dancing, and Captain Plowden (for that was my host's name) was kind enough to see that I did not want for partners, I enjoyed myself hugely.

Towards the middle of the evening I happened to be standing near the door of the ball-room, when, to my astonishment and delight, who should enter but Maud, leaning on her father's arm. To make myself known to Sir Benjamin (for I had altered so much since my last interview with him that I doubt very much if he would have known me else) was the work of an instant, and before a spectator could have counted a hundred I had completed the necessary preliminaries, and was waltzing up the room, my arm round Maud's waist, and my whole being intoxicated with the fragrance of her presence.

Whether I danced well or ill, whether my step suited hers, what the music was, or why we did not collide with every other couple on the floor, I do not know. I was only conscious that I was dancing with Maud, that I held her in my arms, that I was looking into her face and listening to her voice. When the music ceased I led her through the drawing-room into the conservatory, and finding two vacant seats settled myself beside her.

How can I describe all the delights of that evening! It would be impossible, for beyond the fact that just before supper I blurted out a question which had been on the tip of my tongue for years, it is all one mist of rose-coloured light.

When I left the house I trod on air, I was the happiest man in England, for I had proposed to Maud, _and she had accepted me_! Though it was considerably past two o'clock when I reached home, what must I do but wake the mother up to tell her my glorious tidings; and I know her congratulations were genuine, though, in her confused state, the dear old soul could hardly make head or tail of what I said to her.

As early next morning as my conscience would permit, I set off to call upon Sir Benjamin, hoping to catch him and get my interview over before he should leave for the city. Arriving at the house, I was shown into the morning-room, and I had not been there two minutes before Maud entered. If she had appeared adorable the night before, she was doubly so now, and the pretty little air of embarra.s.sment which possessed her did not, I promise you, detract from her beauty in my eyes.

"Oh, Jack," she began--for somehow every one calls me Jack--"how good of you to come so early!"

I thought it was rather a matter for shame, but didn't say so.

"I have come to see your father, Maud," I answered, making, I do not doubt, a rueful face; "and though I know him so well, I feel for all the world like a criminal going to execution. Have you said anything to him about it?"

"Yes," she whispered, nestling her head on my shoulder, "I could not help it, Jack; you see I have no mother to advise me, and I felt that I must tell somebody. You don't mind?"

"Mind, my darling, as if I should mind anything you might do. And what did he say to it?" I asked this rather anxiously. "I know he won't altogether approve, but does he dislike the idea so very much?"

Maud made what is, I believe, correctly termed a little _moue_ before she replied.

"Well, to tell you the truth, Jack, I'm afraid he's not overjoyed about it; but then perhaps it's quite natural; you see, I'm his only child, and--well, he's not seen as much of you as I have, so he doesn't know all your good qualities."

The proper answer to such a speech cannot be put on paper, and, even if it could, I doubt whether it would prove of very much interest here. It was accomplished only just in time, for next moment Sir Benjamin entered, and Maud with an encouraging glance at me withdrew.

Though he had aged a good deal since I had left his employ, he was brisk enough this morning, and to my sorrow I could see not best pleased. I cannot, however, conscientiously say that his greeting was any the less sincere, but his tone was a little more curt, and his demeanour decidedly stiffer, than when I had met him on the previous evening. He seated himself opposite me, and came to business at once.

"I suppose you're aware, Mr. Ramsay, that my daughter has told me of the offer you made her last night?"

When I had signified that I was, he continued--

"Now I'll be bound you don't know what a shock a piece of information like that gives to a man of my years. I was, of course, quite aware that Maud would be likely to marry sooner or later, but somehow I had never brought myself face to face with the actual situation before. Do you know that she is a very considerable heiress?"

I ventured to remark that I had been so informed, and started to try and convince him that my offer had nothing whatever to do with such a circ.u.mstance. But he stopped me.

"I know exactly what you're going to say. If I mistake not, I said it myself once upon a time. But tell me, John Ramsay, what would you say of a young man, five-and-twenty years of age, mate of a sailing ship, with nothing but his pay to depend upon, who proposed to a rich merchant's daughter with an income of something like six thousand a year. Reflect for a minute, and then tell me what you would think of him?"

This was a poser, but I made shift to answer it.

"I should say that it couldn't matter how much money she had if he really loved her, and thought he could make her happy."

He sniffed scornfully.

"Exactly what I thought. Now that's all very pretty. But to look at it in another light. We'll suppose that I give my consent to your marriage, what are your intentions then? Are you going to remain at sea, and leave your wife unprotected ash.o.r.e, or are you going to abandon your profession, and live a life of idle luxury on her money? For, as I warned you years ago, you're fit for no other calling now."

I could not answer either way, and I think he saw my difficulty, for he rose and came over to me. Putting his hand on my shoulder, and speaking in a kinder tone than he had adopted yet, he said--

"Jack Ramsay, you understand what a problem it is. I like you, my boy, and I like your family; I think you're a steady, honest young fellow, and a credit to your calling; what is more, I know you love my girl, and I'm certain that she loves you. For these reasons I shall not definitely forbid your engagement."

"Oh, Sir Benjamin," I hastened to say, "how can I express my grat.i.tude!"

"Hold on, sir, hear me out. Though, as I say, I shall not definitely forbid your engagement, yet remember, I do not sanction it. I shall not do so until I see how you behave. If I know that you work hard, and do your best to advance in your profession, it will be something for me to go upon, and I may eventually find sufficient reason to allow your marriage. Now, good-morning. Maud, I don't doubt, is awaiting you in the drawing-room. You had better tell her what I've told you."

So saying, the worthy merchant shook me by the hand, and hobbled from the room, leaving me a good deal more relieved than I had expected to be by the nature of his communication.

Over the bliss of the succeeding fortnight I must draw a curtain. Of course I saw Maud every day; and equally, of course, each twenty-four hours convinced me more and more of the wisdom of my choice. But, like the school-boy's Black Monday, the fatal day of parting had to come; and, accordingly, one miserable Wednesday night I bade my darling farewell, and next morning, with a heavy heart, rejoined my ship and put back to sea.

CHAPTER II.

A CHEQUERED CAREER.

To a sailor, perhaps the most trying parts of his courtship are the lengthy periods he is compelled to spend away from the presence of his beloved one; and yet, curiously enough, when in later life he comes to look back upon the whole business, he is pretty certain to discover that they were not the least pleasant portions of it. However that may be, it is a crucial test of the genuineness of his affection; and then it is that he has an opportunity of realizing what truth there is in the old saying, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." How often, when pacing his lonely watch, do you suppose his sweetheart's face rises before him?

How often, when a stiff breeze is blowing, filling the canvas like great balloons, and driving the good ship, homeward bound, for all she is worth, do you think the thought of her he will soon hold in his arms, whose lips he will soon kiss, into whose eyes he will gaze with so fond a rapture, will cross his mind? Or, if his ship's head be turned away from home, hasn't he the sweet knowledge ever present with him that a certain voluminous epistle will meet him at the other end, destined amply to compensate for the bitterness of parting? Well, I protest, though separation may be one of the hardest parts of a sailor's courtship, yet, all things considered, it is worth undergoing, if only for the joy of reuniting. As the Frenchman has it--

"L'absence est a l'amour ce qu'est au feu le vent; Il eteint le pet.i.t, il allume le grand."

When I bade Maud my first good-bye after our engagement, I was, though I did not know it, bound on a long cruise. We visited Calcutta, Singapore, and Hong Kong, crossed the Pacific to San Francisco, thence round the Horn to Rio; finally returning, _via_ New York, home. By that time, as may be supposed, I was ravenous--no other word so fully expresses it--for a glimpse of my darling's face; I felt as if I had not seen her for a lifetime.

So soon, therefore, as we were docked, and I could be spared, away I sped, first home to the old mother, and then, as early as I could decently excuse myself, to Maud. By the time my cab pulled up at her door I was in a fever, and I remember well the cabman's expression of surprise when he realized that instead of his legal fare of eighteen-pence I had given him five shillings. Summers, the same ancient butler who opened the door to me on the day I first saw my sweetheart, invited me to enter now, and the grip I gave his honest hand he professes to feel even at this distant date. A minute later I was entering the drawing-room, prepared to clasp my dear girl in my arms.

At this point occurred a trifling circ.u.mstance--so trifling regarded in the white light of these later days that I almost hesitate to narrate it--that was, nevertheless, destined to alter the whole current of my after life, and indirectly to bring me into touch with all the curious things I have set myself to tell.

As I have just said, I entered the drawing-room, prepared to bestow upon Maud the hungry embrace of a long-parted lover. My intentions, however, were dashed to the ground by the presence of a third party--a man. As he stood watching us there was nothing for it but to behave like commonplace mortals, but I promise you I was not grateful to him for his presence. To say that Maud looked prettier than when I had left her last would perhaps be hardly the truth (though to my eyes she was incomparably sweet), for her face had a worn and harra.s.sed expression which had not been there when I bade her good-bye. Her welcome was as warm as I could expect under the circ.u.mstances, but nevertheless I was bitterly disappointed by it.

Her companion's name was Welbourne, Captain Horatio Welbourne, of one of the Household Regiments, I believe. We exchanged glances, and from that moment I became furiously jealous of him. I must, however, do him the justice to admit that he was a fine figure of a man, tall and soldierly, as befitted his calling. Our introduction effected, Maud proceeded to dispense the tea she was pouring out when I entered.

Inwardly chafing to have my sweetheart to myself, it was with the utmost difficulty I could engage myself in the insipid conversation, through the mazes of which the gallant captain led us. When he rose to depart another relay of fashionables arrived, and after standing it for nearly an hour I made my excuses, and raging against the whole world fled the house.

The next afternoon I called again. This time I was fortunate enough to find Maud alone. I think she was vexed with me for deserting her the previous day; at any rate, her manner was distinctly cold. As it happened, we had hardly been a quarter of an hour together before the self-same Captain Welbourne must needs put in an appearance, bringing with him the peculiar air of being the tame cat of the house I had noticed on the previous occasion. I fancy Maud must have had some idea of what was in my mind, for she became painfully embarra.s.sed, and noticing this, my suspicions grew and grew. How unjust I was to her, I can now see, but at the time I could not help remembering that she was an heiress, and that the gallant captain was really a most attractive person. Yet I determined I would not allow myself to become jealous without good cause.

That was, however, soon forthcoming, and, I blush to relate it now, through the gossip of a female t.i.ttle-tattler. Unhappily I was in such a state that I had no option but to believe it true. And, being ever impetuous and hot-headed, nothing would suit me then but I must call upon Maud while under the influence of my anger. Naturally enough she resented the terms in which I couched my remarks, and I left the house in high dudgeon, more than ever convinced that she was false to me. A week went by without a word on either side, and at the end of it I put back to sea nearly broken-hearted. As if to accentuate the sting, that was my first voyage as chief officer.

From this point I date my downfall. Perhaps I was tired of the sea, or perhaps I was still piqued by what I could not help considering Maud's ill-treatment of me; at any rate, I got it into my poor addled brain that when we reached South Australia I would cry quits with the nautical profession, and if possible settle down out there to a life ash.o.r.e. This scheme I put into practice, with the result that, after much jobbery, I obtained a situation in a ship-chandler's office in Port Adelaide, retaining it until my employer's fraudulent insolvency threw me on the world again. Then, a new gold-field breaking out inland, off I tramped to it, imbued with the intention of making my fortune, and returning to the mother-country a millionaire. This venture, however, was no more successful than the last, and after nearly three months' hard work, all I had to show for it were six dwts. of gold, and a bad attack of typhoid fever that nearly made an end of me. For nearly ten weeks I was confined to my bed in the tent-hospital, to leave it more like a skeleton than a human being.

What to do now I had no idea. I was bankrupt; my claim had been seized; I was too weak to tramp the bush in search of work; and indeed had I found any I doubt if I could have undertaken it. Added to all this, or perhaps I should say as the result of all this, I grew exceedingly despondent. Indeed the horrors of that period I am loth to dwell upon, save that it gave me an opportunity of experiencing one of those little touches of kindness which go to prove that after all humanity in the abstract is not quite so bad as it is usually made out to be.

From the gold-field where I had contracted my illness, I had wandered, partly by Government a.s.sistance and partly by my own exertions, as far as the famous silver-mining town of Broken Hill, just over the New South Wales border. Here, in the midst of barbaric waste and splendour, a relapse seized me, and for nigh upon three weeks I hovered, in the Town Hospital, on the border-land of Life and Death.

When I said farewell to that kindly inst.i.tution, I was at my wits' end as to my future. I had no money, and I was without the means of earning any. Fortunately it was summer time, and sleeping in the open air was not only quite possible but very pleasant, so I had no concern about lodgings; that, however, was only a minor matter, for I was starving.