Johnny Ludlow Fourth Series Part 44

"And Edward was the son of Captain Pym's first wife, papa's sister.

Then, in point of fact, he is not related to Mrs. Letsom at all. Well, it all happened ages ago," added Coralie, with supreme indifference, "long before our time."

Just so. Edward Pym, grown to manhood now, and chief-mate of the _Rose of Delhi_, was the son of that Captain Pym and his first wife. When Captain Pym died, a relative of his, who had no children of his own, took to the child, then only five years old, and brought him up. The boy turned out anything but good, and when he was fourteen he ran away to sea. He found he had to stick to the sea, for his offended relative would do no more for him: except that, some years later, when he died, Edward found that he was down for five hundred pounds in his will.

Edward stayed on sh.o.r.e to spend it, and then went to sea again, this time as first officer in an American brig. Chance, or something else, took the vessel to the West India Islands, and at one of them he fell in with Sir Dace Fontaine, who was, in fact, his uncle, but who had never taken the smallest thought for him--hardly remembered he had such a nephew--and made acquaintance with his two cousins. He and Verena fell in love with one another; and, on her side, at any rate, it was not the pa.s.sing fancy sometimes called by the name, but one likely to last for all time. They often met, the young officer having the run of his uncle's house whenever he could get ash.o.r.e; and Edward, who could be as full of tricks and turns as a fox when it suited his convenience to be so, contrived to put himself into hospital when the brig was about to sail, saying he was sick; so he was left behind. The brig fairly off, Mr. Edward Pym grew well again, and looked to have a good time of idleness and love-making. But he reckoned without his host. A chance word, dropped inadvertently, opened the eyes of Sir Dace to the treason around. The first thing he did was to forbid Mr. Edward Pym his house; the second thing was to take pa.s.sage with his family for America. Never would he allow his youngest and prettiest and best-loved daughter to become the wife of an ill-conducted, penniless s.h.i.+p's mate; and that man a cousin! The very thought was preposterous! So Edward Pym, thrown upon his beam-ends, joined a vessel bound for Calcutta. Arrived there, he took the post of chief mate on the good s.h.i.+p _Rose of Delhi_, Captain Tanerton, bound for England.

"What is this nonsense I hear, about your wanting to leave the sea, John?"

The question, put in the Rector of Timberdale's repellent, chilly tone, more intensified when anything displeased him, brought only a smile to the pleasant face of his brother. Ever hopeful, sunny-tempered Jack, had reached the Rectory the previous night to make a short visit. They sat in the cheerful, bow-windowed room, the sun s.h.i.+ning on Jack, as some days before it had shone on Grace; the Rector in his easy-chair at the fire.

"Well, I suppose it is only what you say, Herbert--nonsense," answered Jack, who was playing with the little dog, Dash. "I should like to leave the sea well enough, but I don't see my way clear to do it at present."

"_Why_ should you like to leave it?"

"Alice is anxious that I should. She cannot always sail with me now; and there are the little ones to be seen to, you know, Herbert. Her mother is of course--well, very kind, and all that," went on Jack, after an imperceptible pause, "but Alice would prefer to train her children herself; and, to do that, she must remain permanently on sh.o.r.e. It would not be a pleasant life for us, Herbert, she on sh.o.r.e and I at sea."

"Do you ever think of _duty_, John?"

"Of duty? In what way?"

"When a man has deliberately chosen his calling in life, and spent his first years in it, it is his duty to continue in that calling, and to make the best of it."

"I suppose it is, in a general way," said Jack, all smiles and good-humour. "But--if I could get a living on sh.o.r.e, Herbert, I don't see but what my duty would lie in doing it as much as it now lies at sea."

"_You_ may not see it, John. Chopping and changing often brings a man to poverty."

"Oh, I'd take care, I hope, not to come to poverty. Down, Das.h.!.+ Had I a farm of two or three hundred acres, I could make it answer well, if any man could. You know what a good farmer I was as a boy, Herbert--in practical knowledge, I mean--and how I loved it. I like the sea very well, but I _love_ farming. It was my born vocation."

"I wish you'd not talk at random!" cried Herbert, fretfully. "Born vocation! You might just as well say you were born to be a mountebank!

And where would you get the money to stock a farm of two or three hundred acres? You have put none by, I expect. You never could keep your pence in your pocket when a lad: they were thrown away right and left."

"That's true," laughed Jack. "Other lads used to borrow them. True also that I have not put money by, Herbert. I have not been able to."

"Of course you have not! It wouldn't be you if you had."

"No, Dash, there's not a bit more; you've had it all," cried Jack to the dog. But he, ever generous-natured, did not tell his brother _why_ he had not been able to put by: that the calls made upon him by his wife's mother--Aunt Dean, as they still styled her--were so heavy and so perpetual. She wanted a great deal for herself, and she presented vast claims for the expenses of Jack's two little children, and for the maintenance of her daughter when Alice stayed on sh.o.r.e. Alice whispered to Jack she believed her mother was making a private purse for herself.

Good-natured Jack thought it very likely, but he did not stop the supplies. Just as Aunt Dean had been a perpetual drain upon her brother, Jacob Lewis, during his lifetime, so she now drained Jack.

"Then, with no means at command, what utter folly it is for you to think of leaving the sea?" resumed the parson.

"So it is, Herbert," acquiesced Jack. "I a.s.sure you I don't think of it."

"Alice does."

"Ay, poor girl, because she wishes it."

"Do you see any _chance_ of leaving it?"

"Not a bit," readily acknowledged Jack.

"Then where's the use of talking about it--of harping upon it?"

"None in the world," said Jack.

"Then we'll drop the subject, if you please," pursued Herbert, forgetting, perhaps, that it was he who introduced it.

"Jump then, Das.h.!.+ Jump, good little Das.h.!.+"

"What a worry you make with that dog, John! Attend to me. I want to know why you came to London instead of to Liverpool."

"She was laid on for London this time," answered Jack.

"_Laid on!_" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Herbert, who knew as much about sailor's phrases as he did of Hebrew.

Jack laughed. "The agents in Calcutta chartered the s.h.i.+p for London, freights for that port being higher than for Liverpool. The _Rose of Delhi_ is a free s.h.i.+p."

"Oh," responded Herbert. "I thought perhaps she had changed owners."

"No. But our broker in London is brother to the owners in Liverpool.

There are three of them in all. James Freeman is the broker; Charles and Richard are the owners. Rich men they must be!"

"When do you think you shall sail again?"

"It depends upon when they can begin to reload and get the fresh cargo in."

"That does not take long, I suppose," remarked Herbert, slightingly.

"She may be loaded in three days if the cargo is ready and waiting. It may be three weeks if the cargo's not--or more than that."

"And Alice does not go with you?"

Jack shook his head: something like a cloud pa.s.sed over his fresh, frank face. "No, not this time."

We were all glad to see Jack Tanerton again. He had paid Timberdale but one visit, and that a flying one, since he took command of the _Rose of Delhi_. It was the old Jack Tanerton, frank of face, hearty of manner, flying to all the nooks and corners of the parish with outstretched hands to rich and poor, with kind words and generous help for the sick and sorrowful: just the same, only with a few more years gone over his head. I don't say but Herbert was also glad to see him; only Herbert never displayed much gladness at anything.

One morning Jack and I chanced to be out together; when, in pa.s.sing through the green and shady lane, that would be fragrant in summer with wild roses and woodbine, and that skirted Maythorn Bank, we saw some one stooping to peer through the sweetbriar hedge, as if he wanted to see what the house was like, and did not care to look at it openly. He sprang up at sound of our footsteps. It was a slight, handsome young man of five or six-and-twenty, rather under the middle height, with a warm colour, bright dark eyes, and dark whiskers. The gold band on his cap showed that he was a sailor, and he seemed to recognize Jack with a start.

"Good-morning, sir," he cried, hurriedly.

"Is it you, Mr. Pym?--good-morning," returned Jack, in a cool tone.

"What are you doing down here?"

"The s.h.i.+p's finished unloading, and is gone into dry dock to be re-coppered, so I've got a holiday," replied the young man: and he walked away with a brisk step, as if not caring to be questioned further.

"Who is he?" I asked, as we went on in the opposite direction.

"My late chief mate: a man named Pym."