The Floating Light of the Goodwin Sands Part 36

But of all the solos sung that night none afforded such delight as a national melody sung by our friend Jerry MacGowl, in a voice that rang out like the voices of three first-cla.s.s bo's'ns rolled into one. That worthy son of the Emerald Isle, and d.i.c.k Moy, and Jack Shales, happened to be enjoying their month on sh.o.r.e when the supper to the lifeboat-men was planned, and they were all there in virtue of their having been instrumental in saving life on more than one occasion during their residence in Ramsgate. Jerry's song was, as we have said, highly appreciated, but the applause with which it was greeted was as nothing compared with the shouts and cheers that shook the roof of Saint James's Hall, when, on being asked to repeat it, Jerry modestly said that he "would prefer to give them a duet--perhaps it was a trayo--av his mates Jack Shales and d.i.c.k Moy would only strike in wid ba.s.s and tenor."

The men of the floating light then sang "The Minute-Gun at Sea"

magnificently, each taking the part that suited him best or struck his fancy at the moment, and Jerry varying from tenor to ba.s.s and ba.s.s to treble according to taste.

"Now, Mister Chairman," said the bold Jerry MacGowl, when the cheers had subsided, "it's my turn to call for a song, so I ax Mr Queeker to favour the company wid--" Thunders of applause drowned the remainder of the sentence.

Poor Queeker was thrown into great confusion, and sought to explain that he could not sing, even in private--much less in public.

"Oh yes, you can, sir. Try it, sir, no fear of 'ee. Sure it's yourself as can do it, an' no mistake," were the remarks with which his explanation was interrupted.

"I a.s.sure you honestly," cried Queeker, "that I cannot sing, _but_"

(here breathless silence ensued) "if the chairman will kindly permit me, I will give you a toast."

Loud cheers from all sides, and a good-humoured nod from the chairman greeted this announcement.

"Mr Chairman and Friends," said Queeker, "the ladies have--" A perfect storm of laughter and cheers interrupted him for at least two minutes.

"Yes," resumed Queeker, suddenly blazing up with enthusiasm, "I repeat-- the ladies--"

"That's the girls, blissin's on the swate darlints," murmured Jerry in a tone which set the whole table again in a roar.

"I echo the sentiment; blessings on them," said Queeker, with a good-humoured glance at Jerry. "Yes, as I was going to say, I propose the Ladies, who are, always were, and ever will be, the solace of man's life, the sweet drops in his otherwise bitter cup, the lights in his otherwise dark dwelling, the jewels in his--in his--crown, and the bright stars that glitter in the otherwise dark firmament of his destiny (vociferous cheering). Yes," continued Queeker, waxing more and more energetic, and striking the table with his fist, whereby he overturned his neighbour's gla.s.s of grog, "yes, I re-a.s.sert it--the ladies are all that, and _much more_! (Hear, hear.) I propose their health--and, after all, I may be said to have some sort of claim to do so, having already unintentionally poured a whole bottle of wine on the tablecloth as a libation to them! (Laughter and applause.) What, I ask,"

continued Queeker, raising his voice and hand at the same moment, and setting his hair straight upon end, "what, I ask, would man be _without_ the ladies?" ("What indeed?" said a voice near the foot of the table, which called forth another burst of laughter.) "Just try to think, my friends, what would be the hideous gloom of this terrestrial ball if there were no girls! Oh woman! softener of man's rugged nature! What-- in the words of the poet." He carefully refrained from saying what poet!

"What were earth and all its joys; what were wealth with all its toys; what the life of men and boys But for lovely woman?

"What if mothers were no more; If wives and sisters fled our sh.o.r.e, And left no sweethearts to the fore-- No sign of darling woman?

"What dreary darkness would ensue-- what moral wastes devoid of dew-- If no strong hearts of men like you Beat for charming woman?

"Who would rise at duty's call; Who would fight to win or fall; Who would care to live at all, Were it not for woman?"

Prolonged and rapturous cheers greeted this effusion, in the midst of which the enthusiastic Jerry MacGowl sprang to his feet, waved his gla.s.s above his head--spilling half of its contents on the pate of a bald skipper who sat next to him--and cheered l.u.s.tily.

"Men of the Ramsgate lifeboat," shouted Queeker, "I call on you to pledge the ladies--with all the honours!"

It is unnecessary to say that the call was responded to with a degree of enthusiasm that threatened, as d.i.c.k Moy said to Jack Shales, "to smash all the gla.s.ses an' blow the roof off." In the midst of the noise and confusion Queeker left the hall, ascended to the gallery, and sat himself down beside f.a.n.n.y Hennings, with an air of intense decision.

"Oh, Mr Queeker!" exclaimed f.a.n.n.y.

"Listen, f.a.n.n.y," said the tall uncle at that moment, "they are giving one of the most important toasts of the evening--The Royal National Lifeboat Inst.i.tution."

f.a.n.n.y tried to listen, and had caught a few words, when she felt her hand suddenly seized and held fast. Turning her head quickly, she beheld the face of Queeker turned to bright scarlet.

What more she heard or saw after that it would be extremely difficult to tell. Perhaps the best way of conveying an idea of it is to lay before the reader the short epistle which f.a.n.n.y penned that same night to her old friend Katie Hall. It ran thus:--

"RAMSGATE.

"OH, KATIE! DARLING KATIE!--He has done it _at last_! Dear fellow!

And so like himself too--so romantically, so poetically! They were toasting the Lifeboat Inst.i.tution at the time. He seized my hand.

`f.a.n.n.y,' he said, in the deep manly tones in which he had just made the most brilliant speech of the evening, `f.a.n.n.y, my love--my life--my _lifeboat_--will you have me? will you _save_ me?' There was a dreadful noise at the time--a very storm of cheering. The whole room seemed in a whirl. My head was in a whirl too; and oh! _how_ my heart beat! I don't know what I said. I fear I burst into a fit of laughter, and then cried, and dear uncle carried me out--but it's all over now. That _darling_ Lifeboat Inst.i.tution, I shall never forget it; for they were sounding its praises at the very moment when my Queeker and I got into the same boat--for life!--Your happy f.a.n.n.y."

To this the next post brought the following reply:--

"YARMOUTH."

"MY DEAREST f.a.n.n.y,--Is it necessary for me to say that your last short letter has filled my heart with joy? It has cleared up a mystery too!

On Tuesday last, in the forenoon, Mr Queeker came by appointment to take lunch with us, and Stanley happened to mention that a supper was to be given to the Ramsgate lifeboat-men, and that he had heard _you_ were to be there. During lunch, Mr Queeker was very absent and restless, and appeared to be unhappy. At last he started up, made some hurried apology about the train for the south, and having urgent business to transact, looked at his watch, and rushed out of the house! We could not understand it at the time, but I knew that he had only a few minutes left to catch the train for the south, and I _now_ know that he caught it--and why! Ah, f.a.n.n.y, did I not always a.s.sure you that he would do it in desperation at last! My earnest prayer is, that your wedded life may be as happy as mine has. .h.i.therto been.

"When your honeymoon is over, you must promise to pay us a visit. You know that our villa is sufficiently far out of town to warrant your regarding us in the light of country friends; and Stanley bids me say that he will take no denial. Papa--who is at present romping round the room with my eldest boy on his shoulders, so that I scarce know what I write--bids me tell you, with his kind love and hearty congratulations, that he thinks you are `not throwing yourself away, for that Queeker is a first-rate little fellow, and a rising man!' Observe, please, that I quote papa's own words.

"I _must_ stop abruptly, because a tiny cry from the nursery informs me that King Baby is awake, and demands instant attention!--With kindest love and congratulations, your ever affectionate, KATIE HALL."

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

CONCLUSION.

Once again, and for the last time, we visit the floating light.

It was a calm sunny evening, about the end of autumn, when the Trinity tender, having effected "the relief" of the old Gull, left her in order to perform the same service for her sister light-vessels.

"Good-bye, Welton, good-bye, lads," cried the superintendent, waving his hand as the tender's boat pushed off and left them, for another period of duty, in their floating home.

"Good-bye, sir," replied the mate and men, touching their caps.

"Now, sir," said d.i.c.k Moy to the mate, shortly after, when they were all, except the watch, a.s.sembled below round the galley stove, "are you goin' to let us 'ave a bit o' that there letter, accordin' to promise?"

"What letter?" inquired Jack Shales, who having only accomplished half of his period of service on board--one month--had not come off with his comrades, and knew little or nothing of what had occurred on sh.o.r.e.

"A letter from the lighthouse from Jim," said the mate, lighting his pipe, "received it this forenoon just as we were gettin' ready to come off."

"All well and hearty, I hope?" asked Jerry MacGowl, seating himself on a bench, and rolling some tobacco between his palms, preparatory to filling his pipe.

"All well," replied the mate, pulling out the letter in question, and regarding the address with much interest; "an' strange news in it."

"Well, then, let's 'ear wot it's all about," said d.i.c.k Moy; "there's time to read it afore sunset, an it ain't fair to keep fellers in all the hagonies of hexpectation."

"That's true enough," said Jerry with a grin. "Arrah! it's bustin I am already wid kooriosity. Heave ahead, sir, an' be marciful."

Thus entreated, Mr Welton glanced at his watch, sat down, and, opening his letter, read as follows:--

"DEAR FATHER,--Here we are, thank G.o.d, comfortably settled in the new lighthouse, and Nora and I both agree that although it is more outlandish, it is much more cheerful in every way than our last abode, although it _is_ very wild-like, and far from the mainland. Billy Towler, my a.s.sistant,--who has become such a strapping fellow that you'd scarce know him,--is also much pleased with it. The children, too, give a decided opinion in favour of the place, and even the baby, little Morley, seems to know that he has made a change for the better!

"Baby's name brings me to the news that I've got to tell you. Morley Jones has come back! You'll be surprised to hear that, I daresay, but it's a fact. He got a ticket-of-leave, and never rested till he found out where Nora was. He came to us one evening some time ago, and fell down in a sort of fit close to the lighthouse-door, while Nora was sitting in front of it, and the children were romping with Neptune beside her. Poor fellow! he was so changed, so old, and so white-haired and worn, that we did not know him at first; but after we had washed the blood off his face--for he had cut himself when he fell--I recognised the old features.

"But he is changed in other respects too, in a way that has filled my dear wife's heart with joy. Of course you are aware that he got no drink during the seven years of his imprisonment. Now that he is free he refuses to let a drop of anything stronger than water pa.s.s his lips.