L I E) RAFLY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVLRS ITY 
 
 Of ILLI NOIS 
 
 82.3 
 B:^38r
 
 ^f
 
 EICHAED CABLE 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 THE LIGHTSHIPMAN 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 MEHALAH ' ' JOHN HERRING ' ' COURT ROYAL 
 
 ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 
 YOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1888 
 
 [All rights reserved]
 
 ?2Z 
 
 V, / 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 0- Y 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. 
 
 THE LIGHTSHIP . . . . 
 
 II. 
 
 JOSEPHINE .... 
 
 III. 
 
 A SEA-NETTLE . : 
 
 IV. 
 
 ROSE COTTAGE .... 
 
 V. 
 
 HANFOPvD HALL . . . . 
 
 VI. 
 
 BESSIE 
 
 VII. 
 
 AN INSULT 
 
 VIII. 
 
 PAT-A-CAKE .... 
 
 IX. 
 
 ON THE TERRACE . . . . 
 
 X, 
 
 JACOB'S LADDER 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE SELLWOODS . . . , 
 
 XII. 
 
 AN INDISCRETION 
 
 XIII. 
 
 BURNT OUT .... 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE TANGLE .... 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE ' JOSEPHINE ' . 
 
 XVI. 
 
 IN DOCK, OUT NETTLE 
 
 XVII. 
 
 AS THE HARE RAN 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 THE YOUNG CUCKOO 
 
 XIX. 
 
 THE ' WINDSTREW ' 
 
 XX. 
 
 THE FLOWERING OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 XXI. 
 
 THE PILOT .... 
 
 ■i:^ 
 
 
 RAGE 
 1 
 15 
 30 
 47 
 63 
 76 
 89 
 105 
 121 
 136 
 152 
 167 
 181 
 196 
 212 
 227 
 243 
 258 
 275 
 291 
 306 
 
 vS
 
 EICHAED CABLE 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE LIGHTSHIP. 
 
 In the cabin of a lightship off the Essex coast 
 sat Richard Cable, knitting a baby's sock or 
 boot. The sock was small, so small that when 
 he thrnst his great thumb into it, his thumb 
 filled it. 
 
 ' Thirteenth row,' said Eichard Cable. 
 ' One, two, three, four,' he began aloud, and 
 went from four to forty-seven in decreasing 
 tone, reaching finally an inaudible whisper. 
 Then he raised his voice again : ' Two to- 
 gether ; one, two, three, four, five, six. Two 
 together ; one, two, three, four.' His tones 
 died away again. He moved his hps ; but no 
 sound issued from them till he reached forty- 
 seven, and that he uttered as if it exploded on 
 his lips. Eichard Cable was a fine, strongly- 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 RICHAED CABLE 
 
 built, well-proportioned man, about half-way 
 between thirty and forty, with browm curly 
 hair, and eyes of clear blue. His face was 
 tanned with exposure ; but the nape of his 
 neck, as visible, now that his head was bent 
 over the knitting-needles, was of a nutty 
 brown, many degrees redder than his face. 
 He wore a knitted blue worsted jersey, with 
 a pair of thick warm dark-blue loose trousers 
 beneath and below the jersey. On his head 
 was a round, brimless sailor's cap, with rib- 
 bons behind. He had shoes on his feet and 
 white stockings. 
 
 Although he was about thirty-five, he had 
 all the freshness of youth about him, and not 
 a trace of care, not the furrow of a trial on 
 his honest brow. The mouth was firm ; but 
 as he knitted he smiled with the most pleasant 
 smile. His face was agreeable, kindly, open ; 
 however roughened by wind and spray, its 
 expression was gentle, now especially so, as it 
 was turned to the baby-sock. 
 
 ' Fourteenth row,' said Cable, ' plain. — 
 Darn the boy ! I wish he were l^ack.' 
 
 Cable was not on deck ; he was, as already 
 said, in his cabin, and the light fell on him 
 from above. When he raised his eyes, he 
 could see the blue sky through the deck- 
 lights ; and across the strip of blue sky, white
 
 THE LIGHTSHIP 3 
 
 flakes of ck)uds were flying fast, like swans 
 and Brent geese on their autumnal migration. 
 
 ' Fifteenth row. One, two, three, four/ 
 Cable began very loud, but went diminuendo 
 as he progressed. He also emphasised the 
 first few numbers ; but he slurred over the 
 next, and only recovered emphasis at the 
 last. When he came to forty-seven, he 
 changed the position of his feet, and said : 
 ' Knit two together. One, two, three, four. 
 Two together — Darn him ! What creatures 
 boys are to eat ; who'd ever thought of his 
 gorging all the bread ! 'Tis too provoking to 
 have to send for more.' 
 
 The lightship lay about four miles ofl* 
 the shore, the low flat shore of Essex, near the 
 little fishing-port of Hanford, a port so insig- 
 nificant, carrying on so little trade, that 
 Trinity House ignored it, and would do 
 nothing for it, not even concern itself about 
 the entrance to the harbour, and take on it 
 the charge of the lightship. This vessel was 
 stationed where it was, manned, and supplied 
 by the Hanfordites. It was a convenience to 
 them, that is, to the oyster and fishing vessels 
 which put out from the little place on Monday 
 and came home on Saturday. 
 
 The sea on the Essex coast is shallow, so 
 shallow that it cannot form a wave on the 
 
 B 2
 
 4 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 margin large enough to sweep away the frail 
 dike that has been thrown up to oppose 
 further invasion. 
 
 Through the shallows outside Hanford ran 
 one deep line of water, and at the entrance 
 to this lay the lightship. The coast-line was 
 marked in that random in-and-out course 
 which prevails in hedge demarcation inland ; 
 hind was divided from water in a loose and 
 arbitrary fashion, without the existence of any 
 physical reason why one patch should be ac- 
 counted land and another sea. What was 
 arable was arable only because it lay behind 
 the dike ; and on the other side of the bank 
 v/ere acres of land as good that might have 
 been reclaimed. There were three stashes in 
 which the soil stood : for a mile out seaward 
 were flats on which grew seaweed, overwashed 
 by every tide ; nearer land, in creeks and 
 estuaries, were flats of the same soil that grew 
 thrift and sea-lavender and glasswort, and 
 where occasionally sheep were sent to browse. 
 These patches were only covered at very high 
 tides. Then came the seawall ; and behind 
 that was pasture and arable land, and the 
 water only swept over the bank upon it once 
 in ten, fifteen, or twenty years, when high- 
 tide coincided with an inshore gale. 
 
 The outer flats grew their own crops ; but
 
 THE LIGHTSHIP 5 
 
 the crops were distinctively marine, a long 
 ribbon weed and winkles. After every gale, 
 the weed and countless winkles were swept 
 ashore in black wreaths, and the weed 
 whitened in the sun to a thin ash-like film. 
 
 ' Sixteenth row, knit plain.' 
 
 On the seaface of the seawall a strip of 
 sand and gravel ran the length of the coast, 
 varying in width from a foot to half a dozen 
 yards. Between this beach and the clay beds 
 lay a depression, scooped by the retreating 
 current as the tide went out, filled with black 
 slime, formed of decomposed seaweed and 
 winkles, dead crabs, and all the refuse of the 
 sea that it washed up and could not withdraw 
 again. Tlie flats grown over with winkles, 
 thick as daisies in a meadow, formed a happy 
 hunting-ground for boys and girls alike, who 
 went out on them with ' splashers ' on their 
 feet to gather shellfish. The splasher is a flat 
 hoard fastened to the foot ; on it the mud can 
 be traversed by human beings as easily as by 
 webfooted aquatic birds. 
 
 ' Seventeenth row ! One, two Drat 
 
 that boy ! ' 
 
 Eichard Cable stood up, laid his knitting 
 down on a locker and went on deck. He 
 looked landwards. A line of foam marked 
 where the deep sea broke over the submerged
 
 6 eicpiaud cable 
 
 banks of clay. A glare of sun was on a belt 
 of willows, that seemed white, against a gloomy 
 mass of vapour that hung on the horizon. 
 The trees were live or six miles distant ; but 
 they were perfectly visible, and looked against 
 the dark background like tufts of cotton- 
 grass. 
 
 <^ Ah ! ' said Eichard Cable, ' there he 
 conies. I can see the boat. If lie don't look 
 smart, the squall will be on him and caj)size 
 him before he gets here.' 
 
 The lightship was rolling and straining. 
 The wind was rising. From the bed of 
 black cloud lines extended, shadow rays 
 over the sky. The sea seemed to be uneasy, 
 and had become fretful. The brightness was 
 gone from the day, the colour from the 
 water. 
 
 ' Darn the boy ! ' said Cable, looking aloft. 
 ' We shall have dirty weather on us in ten 
 minutes, and he not here. Then he returned 
 to the cabin and resumed the knitting-pins 
 and the little sock. He had done the tiny 
 foi^t ; he put his fingers into it and turned 
 it about and looked at it. The fellow was 
 already done, in white wool, and lay on a 
 polished ash-wood stool. He took it up and 
 measured the sole of the sock he was knitting 
 by the other foot. ' Eight you are,' he said ;
 
 THE LIGHTSHIP 7 
 
 then, after a pause : ' By ginger ! it does seem 
 a time to be away from the httle 'uns — a 
 whole fortnight. I don't know how I should 
 manage it, if I hadn't the knitting of their 
 socks and stockings to keep me in mind of 
 their little pattering feet. What a beauty the 
 baby is ! That she is, indeed, and nobody can 
 deny it ! ' Then he sighed. ' Poor Polly ! ' 
 and he vriped his eye with the sole of the little 
 sock he was knitting. ' Drat it ! ' said he ; 
 ' I've dropped a stitch. Eighteenth row. 
 First two together. Lord ! w^hat wonderful 
 little toes the baby has got. They're like a 
 row of peas in a pod, only no green about 
 them, pink instead ; and then, tlie little nails ! 
 what mites they be, to be sure, not half- 
 quarter so big as one of my stitches. And to 
 see the way the baby works his toes, just as 
 though he'd be as handy with them as with 
 fingers. This little pig went to market ; this 
 little pig stayed at home ; this little pig had 
 
 roast beef No ! Baby hasn't got to that 
 
 pitch of reason and understanding that she 
 can count her toes and take in all about the 
 pigs. She's not equal to Pat-a-cake Baker's 
 man yet. What a pleasure it will be when 
 she's old enou^^h to la,uo;h at Pat-a-cake ! — 
 Darn the boy ! Not here yet, and the gale is 
 on us.'
 
 8 rtlCIlARD CABLE 
 
 The ship was struck by a great wave, and 
 a blast of wind screamed over it. 
 
 ' He's been dawdhng, that he has. Tie 
 ought to have been back with the bread an 
 hour agone. What a pL^gue boys are ! It's a 
 mystery how ever rehable, sensible men grow 
 out of such untrustworthy louts ; but then tlie 
 plant and the seedling differ in every par 
 ticular.' He put down the sock again. ' I 
 can't get along of my knitting because of 
 Trinity House. Why doesn't Trinity House 
 take the light upon its hands ? Then it would 
 not be undermanned ; I should not be left 
 here, alone with a hulking, scatterbrained boy. 
 I must go on deck and have another look 
 after him.' 
 
 He climbed the ladder. The aspect of the 
 sky and sea was changed. The sky was over- 
 cast with black whirling vapours ; the sea, 
 from being fretful, was angry ; a shadow as 
 of an impending w^oe crept over the face of 
 nature. 
 
 The wind was off shore, so that the waves 
 were not considerable ; but behind the spit of 
 land and the willows the coast bent away to 
 the south, and the wind was able to heap up 
 the waters there and roll them round in a sort 
 of race beyond the spit, a line of leaping, shak- 
 ing, angry tumblers, dark as ink when not
 
 TPIE LIGHTSHIP 9 
 
 maned with foam, meeting and driving back 
 the muddy, churned wavelets that were swept 
 outwards from the shallow shore and mud- 
 flats. 
 
 ' Blow that boy ! If he gets swamped, 
 his mother will lay all the blame on me for 
 certain.' He stood clutching the bulwarks, 
 lookincr at the boat. He could not see dis- 
 tinctly ; the wind, charged with foam, drove 
 in his eyes, and in the dancing water, the boat 
 was as often hidden as seen. — ' By gorra ! ' he 
 exclaimed suddenly, ' it ain't Joe after all ! 
 Why — who in the world can it be ? Dashed 
 if it ain't a gal ! ' He drew his jersey sleeve 
 across his eyes. ' Joe never can ha' gone and 
 changed his sex. He can't have bided ashore 
 and sent his sister. Of all unreliable creatures, 
 there never was the likes of a boy. Here's a 
 pretty go ! Sending a gal out with the bread 
 — and me a widower.' Then suddenly his 
 heart stood still, and a feeling of sickness 
 came over him. ' There can't have nothing 
 happened to the little \ms — and mother have 
 sent ! — not to baby ! — and me knitting her 
 socks.' 
 
 The lightship pitched and rolled ; anchored 
 as she was, she was subject to more violent 
 and abrupt motions than if she had been free. 
 Cable went on one knee and held his hand
 
 10 PvICHARD CABLE 
 
 over his eyes, to assist in taking a more steady 
 observation. 
 
 ' It ain't our boat,' lie said. Then he 
 shouted. The boat was now near. A girl 
 was in it, rowing towards the vessel She wore 
 a glazed, black, sailor's hat ; from under it her 
 hair, long and dark, flew about in the wind. 
 
 ' Come under the lee ! ' shouted Eichard 
 Cable. The girl slightly turned her head ; 
 as she did so the wind covered her face with 
 her hair. She seemed all but completely ex- 
 hausted. She pulled with long and laboured 
 strokes. 
 
 ' She's a young thing, and looks like a 
 lady,' m-used Cable. ' However she comes out 
 here, it is not about the little 'uns. Mother 
 is no fool.' 
 
 The girl, perhaps dazed wiih the hair and 
 salt water in her eyes, and overcome with ex- 
 haustion, let go one oar to raise her hand and 
 brush the hair from her face. The boat 
 swung about at once. 
 
 ' Hold hard ! ' shouted Cable. ' Don't lose 
 heart. Here's a rope-end.' He caught up 
 and cast a rope to her w^ith such true aim 
 that it fell athwart the boat ; and the girl 
 seized it with both hands, and in so doing let 
 go the other oar, which was at once carried 
 off by the sea.
 
 THE LIGHTSHIP 11. 
 
 ' She's lost her head,' said Eichard. ' It's 
 lucky she didn't do it afore she came within 
 reacli.' Then he called to her : ' Make fast 
 round the thwart, and I'll haul you in. Don't 
 lose your head, whatever you do. Hold to- 
 gether, if but for a minute.' 
 
 The girl was staggering to her feet in the 
 rolling boat. 
 
 ' Keep hold of the rope ! ' he shouted. 
 Then the boat touched the side of the light- 
 ship, which rolled at the moment. He caught 
 the girl's hands, extended imploringly. The 
 ship swung over, and he managed to raise the 
 girl to the deck ; but as she sprang from the 
 boat, the spurn of her foot, or the recoil from 
 the side of the vessel, sent her little boat adrift. 
 The next moment it was swept away by the 
 waves, whither Cable could not see — he had 
 not the time to look ; the condition of the girl 
 he had saved engrossed his attention. 
 
 She was tall ; in dark-blue navy serge 
 gown, with a leather belt round lier waist. 
 She could not speak. Her breast was heav- 
 ing ; her breath came short and fast. Her 
 cheeks were on fire, but her eyes were dim. 
 Her consciousness was deserting her. 
 
 ' You're pretty nigh done,' said Cable ; 
 ' let me fetch you a drop of brand}^, miss.' 
 
 She put out her hand to arrest him, and
 
 12 KICHARD CABLE 
 
 held to the bulwark with the other. She 
 could not keep her feet. The motion of the 
 vessel was irregular. It rolled, and was 
 brought up w^ith a jerk. 
 
 ' I see,' said he ; ' you must not be left 
 alone. Drat it ! — that's a souser ! ' as a wave 
 went over the deck, covering him and the girl 
 wdth a drench of spray . ' Come down with me 
 — or, stay ! let me carry you into the cabin.' 
 
 She offered no resistance, so he caught her 
 in his arms and took her to the ladder. Her 
 heart, under his hand, was fluttering like a 
 butterfly at a window. Her breath came in 
 sobs. He bore her to the ladder with long 
 strides and descended with her to the outer 
 cabin ; this was where the coals were stow^ed 
 and the "oil stored ; Avhere he cleaned and 
 trimmed the lamps. Beyond was a low door- 
 way, that led into the main cabin, wdiich in 
 shape and relative proportions was like the 
 toe-half of a boot. At the narrow end was 
 the fireplace or stove ; round the sides were 
 lockers for the stowing away of sundries of 
 every kind. The tops of the lockers served as 
 seats. There was no table. On each side of 
 the cabin was an aperture about two feet 
 square, closed at pleasure with a sliding panel ; 
 this gave access to the bunk or sleeping-berth. 
 By crawling in at the hole one found a mat-
 
 THE LIGHTSHIP 13 
 
 tress, and space, but only just space enough to 
 lie down, with the nose six inches from the 
 nether surface of the deck. The smallest trifle 
 in the cabin had its proper place, and every- 
 thing was beautifully clean and orderly. 
 
 ' There, miss,' Cable said. ' I doubt you 
 won't be able to stow yourself properly into 
 one of these here bunks without knocking 
 yourself about ; and if I was to put you on 
 the locker, with the lurching you might slide 
 off; so you had better just lie down on the 
 cabin floor, with your feet to the fire. I'll 
 spread a mattress for you. Lie down till 
 you've got your breath again, and recovered 
 from your fright a bit. You'd better 
 presently, when you can manage it, whip off 
 that gown, which is wet, and let me cover you 
 up with blankets and give you a drop of hot 
 brandy and water. Then try to get to sleep. 
 Don't you mind me, miss. I'm the father of 
 a family. I'm the father of seven httle girls, 
 and two of them twins. When you're able 
 to look about you, miss, you'll see a pair of 
 socks I've been knitting for the baby. I've 
 one done, and t' other's getting on. Excuse 
 the liberty if I throw my pilot coat over you 
 — your goAvn was wet by that wave, and you 
 seem so exhausted you might get your death 
 of a chill. I've got to go aloft after the light,
 
 14 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 wliich will occupy me some time. Then you 
 can take off your gown. The darned boy has 
 gorged all the bread, and there was none left ; 
 and I sent him ashore for more, and he hasn't 
 come back, or he would act as your lady's- 
 maid. Very sorry, miss, I can't do better ; 
 but don't think anything of me. I'm the 
 father of seven children, and there's ne'er a 
 boy among them, and two of them are twins, 
 so there's no occasion to be afraid of me.* 
 
 He did not like to leave her in her condi- 
 tion of exhaustion, so he made an excuse to 
 remain till he saw her a little recovered. He 
 put the kettle on the stove. ' We'll have the 
 water boiling directly. It don't mix well with 
 the brandy if it isn't boiling.' Then he lit the 
 pendent lamp, for the cabin was dark, and 
 poked the fire, and coaxed the kettle, and 
 groped for the sugar. When he had mixed 
 her a glass, he brought it to her where she 
 lay. The light of the lamp was on her face. 
 ' Why — I declare, miss ! ' he exclaimed, ' why 
 — surely, you're Miss Josephine Cornellis.' 
 
 She shghtly nodded. 
 
 ' Lord ! Whatever brought you here ? ' 
 he asked. 
 
 ' I was running away.* 
 
 'From what?' 
 
 ' My own thoughts.*
 
 15 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 The storm increased to fury as darkness fell. 
 Eicliard Cable stood on deck. To the south- 
 west was no light whatever, only purple 
 blackness. To the north, however, was a 
 coppery streak, over which hung a whirling, 
 spreading mass of angry vapour, casting down 
 lines of heavy rain in dense bands. Then 
 rapidly the growing darkness wiped out this 
 band of light, and left only the east clear, and 
 the clouds swept overhead like curling waves, 
 and fell beyond, cutting off all sunlight there 
 also, till on all sides nothing was visible but 
 leaping water and shaken foam-heads ; and 
 above, a wild hunt of tearing, galloping clouds, 
 lashed by the wind, with now and then a 
 blinding streak of lightning shot through 
 them, stinging them to fresh paroxysms of 
 flying terror. Richard Cable had ascended to 
 the masthead and kindled the light. The 
 mast was but low, perhaps fifteen feet above
 
 16 PJCHARD CABLE 
 
 the deck, topped with a liuge glass globe, that 
 contained a powerful swinging light. 
 
 As Cable clung to the mast, he and it and 
 the light swung, and the liglit described arcs 
 and curves in the sky, against the driving 
 smoky clouds and the gathering night. Now 
 and again a great wave leaped up, and the 
 swaying lamp irradiated its crest, and glared 
 a glittering eye at it, that was reflected by the 
 angry water, which rushed away under the 
 keel, and threw it aloft, as if diving to get 
 away from the blazing eye. The ship reeled 
 and almost plunged its fire-point in the water; 
 it tantalised the waves with it ; it heeled 
 almost to overbalance, and held the light 
 above some hissing, hungry wave, which 
 gathered itself together, rose at it to snap, 
 and suddenly, with a whish and a streak of 
 fiery ribbon, away went the luminous globe, 
 and the wave roared and tore itself to ragged 
 foam in rage at being balked. Then a gull 
 hovered in the radiancy of the lamp, beating 
 its long white wings about it, coming out of 
 the darkness and spray-dust that filled the air, 
 and disappearing back into it again, as man 
 comes out of the Unknown, flickers a little 
 span in the light of Life, and dives back into 
 the Unknown. The wind had shifted several 
 points, but it was hard for Cable to make out
 
 JOSEPHINE 17 
 
 from whence it blew ; the hghtship was 
 anchored, and swung about her anchor, seem- 
 ingly describing circles, pitching, tossing, 
 heading at the wind, running before it, 
 brought up with a jerk, lurching sullenly at 
 it. She was moored to a couple of anchors, 
 one of them a ' mushroom ' (so called from its 
 shape), for greater security against dragging, 
 and Cable had paid out more chain to each. 
 In such a gale, with such rollers, she must be 
 given room to battle with the sea. Cable 
 was by no means satisfied that she could hold 
 where she was. The bank to which she was 
 anchored was a shifting bank, formed by 
 the swirl of the water round the ness ; a 
 treacherous bank, that formed and reformed, 
 that w^as now a strip, then a disc, that eased 
 this way and that, according to the drift of the 
 sea at equinoctial gales. He looked land- 
 wards, but saw nothing, no blink of light 
 from behind the willows, where lay Hanford ; 
 and outside Hanford, near the beach, a little 
 white cottage with green windows, and under 
 its brown tile roof seven little fair heads on 
 white pillows. 
 
 As he stood looking through the darkness 
 in the direction of the sleeping heads, he was 
 startled by a voice at his elbow. 
 
 ' Captain, is the worst over ? ' 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 ' Miss ! You sliould not be here/ 
 
 ' I cannot help myself ; I was suffocating 
 below. I fancied we must part our anchor. 
 I have plenty of pluck. My strength, not 
 my courage, failed me in the boat. I lost 
 my head because I was losing consciousness. 
 I am well again. Is the gale spent ? ' 
 
 There was a lull in the wind, though the 
 waves were still running. ' You must go be- 
 low — you must, indeed,' said Cable. ' No ; 
 the gale is not over ; it goes as a teetotum 
 spins, and we're now at the peg. Wait, and 
 it will be on us harder than ever again.' 
 
 ' Can I be of any assistance ? ' 
 
 ' You ! ' Cable laughed. ' Yes, go down 
 below and be ballast.' 
 
 The girl was in his pilot coat, which he 
 had throv/n over her on the floor. She wore 
 his glazed hat. The hair that had been dis- 
 persed was gathered in a knot again. 
 
 ' If we are likely to drown,' she said, ' I 
 will not drown in the hold, like a mouse in a 
 
 cage.' 
 
 ' Go down at once, whilst you may. You 
 will be swept overboard if you stay here.' 
 
 ' I will not,' she ansvv^ered. ' Lash me to 
 the mast, and let me look death and storm in 
 the face.' 
 
 Cable saw that it was in vain to arcrue
 
 JOSEPHINE 19 
 
 with her. There was no time to be lost ; he 
 heard the roar of the gale again ajDproach- 
 
 ' Here ! ' she said ; ' this is my leather 
 strap. Pass it round the mast and my waist. 
 It is long and it is strong. Quick ! ' 
 
 He obeyed with a growl : ' Girls are as 
 darned unruly as boys.' 
 
 The storm was on them again. It had 
 paused to gather strength, and then rush in 
 concentrated fury and accumulated force to 
 destroy the defiant little lightship, that tossed 
 its glittering head so dauntlessly, even defi- 
 antly, in its teeth. 
 
 They could hear it coming far away, in a 
 roar that waxed in volume, and seemed like 
 an enveloping thunder when it smote them 
 with foam and a blast that struck like an 
 open hand. But the wind was not one- 
 handed, but as a Briareus, many-armed, tear- 
 ing^ while it bellowed at what it could not 
 bedt down. At the stress of the blow, one 
 of the cables gave way, a link having snapped 
 somewhere under water. Then the main 
 anchor, the chain having got foul of it, began 
 to drag, and at once the lightship was adrift, 
 at the mercy of wind and sea, swept before 
 the hurricane. From force of habit Cable 
 flew to the helm, but as quickly dropped it 
 
 c 2
 
 20 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 again. He was helpless. The dragging of 
 the anchor kept the vessel's head to wind, 
 which was so far in their favour, and also 
 steadied her to some extent. Now and then 
 the anchor caught for a moment, and then 
 let go again, and the ship was driven farther 
 out, always heading to the wind, like a living 
 being forced to retreat, but reluctant to yield 
 an inch to the infuriated assailants. 
 
 Cable looked at the girl, on whom the 
 flicker of the lamp fell ; she did not cry, or, 
 if she did, he did not hear her. She was fast 
 bound by the belt, and stood, apparently, as 
 firm as the mast to which she was strapped. 
 Cable folded his arms. He could do nothing. 
 He thought of his little ones. Had they 
 prayed that night, before going to rest, for 
 their father ? Never had he more needed 
 their prayers. He thought he knew the 
 danger that threatened ; but he did not. He 
 .saw indeed that shipwreck was imminent ; 
 but he httle imagined that another and very 
 different shipwreck menaced him. How old 
 were the seven daughters of Eichard Cable ? 
 The eldest was just thirteen ; then came the 
 twins of eleven ; then a child of ten ; and the 
 pan-pipe descended in a regular fall to the 
 baby, aged a year. They had come so fast 
 as to exhaust the strength of the mother.
 
 JOSEPHINE 21 
 
 who had died shortly after giving hfe to the 
 youngest. 
 
 Eichard Cable raised his eyes, half-blind 
 with salt, and, through the film of brine, 
 looked at the swaying lamp, that seemed to 
 blaze with prismatic colours, and shoot forth 
 rays and draw them in again, like a fiery por- 
 cupine. And then he tliought no more of 
 the light and the darkness in which it danced, 
 and saw far away into dreamland. Then 
 through the cold salt spray on his face, a 
 warm sweat broke forth. 
 
 ' Poor little ones ! ' he said ; Mf I am 
 taken, whatever will become of them ! ' 
 
 At that moment he heard the girl's voice : 
 ' Mr. Cable ! Loosen the band — my arms are 
 frozen.' 
 
 Her voice jarred on him at that moment, 
 he knew not why ; but it called him back 
 from the consideration of his children to 
 thoughts about her. He went to her and 
 did what she required. He didn't speak to 
 her ; and, when he had complied with her 
 wishes, he went back to the place where he 
 had stood before. He tried to think of his 
 home, of his children, and could not ; her 
 face, her voice had distracted him, and dis- 
 turbed the visions he tried to call up. 
 
 How much of the night passed tlius he
 
 22 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 did not know : he was roused by a grating 
 sound that made itself felt in every fibre of 
 his body. The ship was aground ; she had 
 struck, not on a rock, but on a sandbank. 
 Cable stood for a moment motionless. Then 
 a wave came, raised the bows, ran midships, 
 then to the stern, and carried the vessel far- 
 ther on the bank. Thereupon, Cable left his 
 place and came to the mast. ' Miss Cor- 
 nellis,' he said, ' we're aground. I believe 
 my little ones' prayers have helped me to- 
 night.' He laid his hand on the mast and 
 grasped the thong that bound Josephine. 
 ' Young lady,' he said, ' in ten minutes we 
 shall know our fate.' He stood still, holding 
 the thong. He said no more for full twenty 
 minutes. Tlie vessel lay over somewhat on 
 one side, and the water she had shipped 
 poured out of her lee scuppers. 
 
 'I can see the horizon on the south- south- 
 west,' said the girl. 
 
 ' Yes j the worst of the gale is over.' 
 
 The waves no longer washed the deck. 
 
 ' The tide is ebbing,' said Cable. He un- 
 lashed Josephine. ' Danger is over. Turn in 
 and sleep.' 
 
 ' But you ? ' 
 
 ' I stay on deck awhile, and then I shall 
 coil up in the forecastle.'
 
 JOSEPHINE 23 
 
 ' Good-niglit,' she said, and held out her 
 hand. 
 
 ' I wish you sleep,' he said in reply. 
 ' Mind the knitting-pins and the little sock in 
 the cabin. They may be on the floor — any- 
 where.' 
 
 Next morning Cable woke early. The 
 sun was shining. He descended the ladder 
 to the outer cabin. Almost at the same 
 moment the girl tlirew open the door and 
 stood in it. She wore her blue serge gown. 
 Her hair was fairly smoothed, though she 
 was unprovided with brushes, and the leather 
 belt was about her waist. She laughed. 
 Her cheeks were fluslied and her eyes spar- 
 kled. ' Not in Davy Jones's locker, after all,' 
 she said. ' I must run on deck and look 
 around me.' 
 
 ' And I, Miss Cornelhs, Avill get the fire 
 lighted, the kettle boihng, and some breakfast 
 ready.' 
 
 Half an hour later both were to£?ether on 
 deck. The vessel was not so much inclined 
 that it was difficult to walk the deck. When 
 she had struck the sand was in motion, and 
 she had sunk almost upright in it. The 
 morning was fresh, the sky clear, but for 
 some lagging, white, fleecy clouds that flew 
 high aloft after the storm. Except for the
 
 24 EICHAED CABLE 
 
 roll of tlie sea and the foam-wreaths round 
 the bank, every trace of the terrible hurri- 
 cane was gone. That storm had been short 
 and violeat ; it had spun its spiral course 
 over land and sea, doing damage wherever it 
 passed ; it had strewn the Essex level land 
 with up-turned elms ; it had torn the leaves 
 of the chestnuts to threads, and blackened 
 the young beech as if a breath from a furnace 
 had seared them. Here and there it had 
 taken a rick and sifted it and scattered the 
 straw over the adjoining fields. It had 
 ripped roofs, and tossed the brown tiles about 
 and heaped them like russet autumn leaves. 
 At sea it had caught and foundered coal- 
 barges from the North, and sunk fishing- 
 smacks. It had torn great gaps in seawalls, 
 like the bites made by children's teetli in 
 rounds of bread and butter. It had twisted 
 and turned about old sandbanks, had swept 
 some away, and torn channels where had 
 been no road. For some miles out to sea, 
 for two or three days, there was neither crjs- 
 talline purity nor amethyst blue in the water ; 
 it was cloudy and brown with the mud it 
 had churned and that it held in suspension. 
 Along the shore lay wreaths of foam, not 
 white, but brown ; not evanescent as a bub- 
 ble, but drying into a crust.
 
 JOSEPHINE 25 
 
 The lightship lay far away from the zone 
 of turbid sea, and the ocean about the bank 
 in which she was wedged was deeply blue, 
 full of laughter and shake of silver curl, as 
 though bent on passing off its late fury- fit as 
 an excusable frolic. 
 
 ' Where are we ? ' asked Josephine. 
 
 ' I fancy tliat I know,' answered Cable ; 
 ' but without a chart I cannot make you 
 understand. Now here Ave must bide till we 
 are taken off, and you may tell me what 
 brought you to the lightship.' 
 
 ' I was out rowing yesterday afternoon,' 
 said the girl, • and I was caught unawares, 
 the storm came on so suddenl3\ I rowed 
 against the wind till I could row no more, 
 and I saw I could do nothing. I was beino; 
 carried out to sea ; and then I felt that my 
 only chance was to reach your vessel.' 
 
 ' Tiiat Avas Avise of you. But your fatlier 
 should not liaA'e let you come out alone.' 
 
 ' Oh, I go out, and go alone, Avhen I 
 choose.' 
 
 'But — if he had looked at the glass, he 
 Avould have seen the fall.' 
 
 ' 1 did not ask his leave. I Avent because 
 I Avanted fresh air, to blow tlie bad thouglits 
 out of my head that troubled me.' 
 
 ' Bad thoughts trouble you ! ' exclaimed
 
 26 TtlCILirvD CABLE 
 
 Cable, and looked steadily at her out of his 
 crystalline blue eyes, clear and sparkling as 
 the sea that surrounded them. ' I should not 
 have supposed that possible. Where the 
 head is that of an angel, one does not expect 
 that it shall hold bad thoughts. No one looks 
 for explosives in a porcelain vase.' 
 
 Josephine laughed a short impatient laugh, 
 and tossed her chin. The elastic was tight ; 
 she put her finger under it ; the skin was 
 compressed and reddened by the band. 
 
 She w^as a handsome dark girl, with trans- 
 parent olive skin, and large lustrous eyes like 
 agates. Tlie lashes were long ; when she 
 half-closed her lids they gave a languor to the 
 orbs, dispelled at once when full lifted. Her 
 cheek flushed not the rose pink, but the ripe 
 hue of the apricot. She had very dark hair, 
 a rounded chin, broad temples ; was firmly 
 built. To anyone experienced in detecting 
 types, a tinge of Jewish blood would have 
 been recognised in the features and hue. 
 
 'Well,' she said, and laughed again, ' the 
 hurricane has blown my bad thoughts out of 
 my head, as it has carried the down from the 
 willow flowers and scattered them — heaven 
 knows where. Woe be to him who picks 
 them up ! — they will detonate and injure his 
 hands.'
 
 JOSEPHINE 27 
 
 ' Were tliey so bad ? ' 
 
 ' You said yourself — explosives.' 
 
 * Miss Cornellis, I made a clumsy compa- 
 rison. If I may ask — What were these 
 thoughts ? ' 
 
 She fidgeted with her feet and plucked at 
 the elastic band. In her nervous confusion, 
 she drew it out, let it slip, and the elastic 
 snapped on her delicate skin so sharply as to 
 make her cry out. Then she took off her hat, 
 and holding her knees, swung the hat from 
 her finger, and let the wind play with her 
 hair, and unravel it, and scatter it and toss 
 about the short growth over her brow. 
 
 ' Were the thoughts like to explode ? ' 
 asked Cable. 
 
 ' The questions you put to me are not fair, 
 captain,' said the girl. ' My thoughts are my 
 own.' 
 
 ' !N'ot a bit. Miss Cornellis : you said yourself 
 they were blown about for anyone to pick up.' 
 
 ' \Vell — and I am too much indebted to 
 you to wish you to gather them. They are 
 dangerous. Hands off! ' She hugged her 
 knees, and played with the string of her cap, 
 and looked at the plunging waves on the 
 sand. Her brow darkened, and her eyes lost 
 their sparkle. ' Captain, when shall we get 
 home — I to my worries — you to your babes ?'
 
 28 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 Cable sliook his head. ' We must wait. 
 Ah, miss, patience is an article of which a 
 good cargo is laid in, in a lightship. One 
 consumes a lot of it in a fortnight — separated 
 from all one loves at home, and with none to 
 speak to but a lout of a boy with no more 
 intelligence than a jelly-fish.' 
 
 ' I should think it pleasant to live in a 
 lightship. I could be Avell content to stay 
 where I am now. If I go liome, I shall get 
 into troubles again.' 
 
 ' But — what are your troubles ? ' 
 
 ' I'm adrift,' said the girl. ' As I stood 
 bound to the mast last night, and the wind 
 and the waves carried the boat and me where 
 they would, I thought it Avas a picture of 
 myself morally. You have your seven little 
 anchors holding you. I have nothing. You 
 are tied by many little fibres to hearth and 
 home. I have none of these fibres : if I have, 
 they hold to nothing.' 
 
 She was still looking before her. She put 
 the elastic band of her hat between her teeth, 
 and bit and tore till it parted. 
 
 ' There ! ' said Cable. ' Now, how are you 
 to keep your hat on ? ' 
 
 She looked at the broken string. ' I did 
 not know what I was about,' she said ; ' I was 
 thinking my thoughts again.'
 
 JOSEPHINE 29 
 
 ' I see,' said Cable. ' These same thoughts 
 are not wholesome : they hurt her who 
 harbours them and those they concern.' 
 
 'Yes,' she said; ' they drive me mad. I 
 do not know what to do, where to go. I care 
 for no tie any more than that of my hat I 
 have torn. I would tear any one of them that 
 restrained me.' 
 
 ' I do not understand you,' said the light- 
 shipman, shaking his head. ' I've seven little 
 girls at home, and I'd be sorry to think any 
 one of them should grow up with such 
 thoughts as you have in your head.' 
 
 ' They will not. Do not be afraid. They 
 will always look up to and respect you. Did 
 you not see how the lantern swung at the 
 masthead all throuo-h the storm ? It never 
 went out ; it burned all night ; no wave en- 
 gulphed it. We could always look up to 
 that. You are the light to the little vessel of 
 your family, and your children will look up 
 to that.' 
 
 ' And you, my dear young lady ? ' 
 
 ' I — I have no light above me.' 
 
 ' And what about helm and helmsman, 
 compass, chart. Miss Cornelhs ? ' 
 
 ' I have nothing, neither helm nor helms- 
 man, nor compass, chart, nor anchor, nor 
 light. I am — drifting: — a derelict.'
 
 30 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A SEA-FETTLE. 
 
 Cable went about his work as usual. He 
 ■would not have to relight the lamp, as the 
 boat was not at the station, but a castaway ; 
 however, he cleaned the lamp as usual and 
 put the burners in order. Then he went into 
 the cabin to clear away the breakfast and 
 make all tidy, after the night. It had not 
 occurred to Josephine to do anything. She 
 was not accustomed to put her hand to menial 
 work ; she expected to be waited upon. 
 
 She half sat, lialf lay on the side of the 
 vessel that leaned over, nearest the water, 
 listening to the pleasant lap of the waves, with 
 the glitter on her face from the sun reflected 
 in the glassy water. She amused herself with 
 watching the foam bubbles dance along, with 
 w^onderinf^r what the dark tliint^s were beneath 
 the green surface that drifted by. Then she 
 looked up and let the hot sun burn her face ; 
 she shut her eyes, and basked, or opened them
 
 A SEA-yETTLE 31 
 
 to see the gulls and kittiwakes hover and dart 
 above. Then she put both her hands about 
 her eyes, and tried to distinguish whether 
 that faint white patch far away in tlie blue 
 were the moon or a ghostly cloud. The tide 
 had risen, a-nd occasionally the waves came 
 up so high that her hand over the side dipped 
 in the water, and she sought to catch the 
 weeds that were floating on it. With her 
 fingers hanging over the buhvarks, with salt 
 drops falling from them, she sang the Mer- 
 maid's air in Oberon : 
 
 O wie wogt es sich schon auf der Fluth 
 Wenn die miide Welle im Schlummer ruht ! 
 
 She was happy, doing nothing, inhahng the 
 fresh sea air, basking in the bright'sun. 
 
 Josephine Cornellis was the daughter of a 
 gentleman of some independent mxcans, who 
 lived in a villa or cottage near the sea at 
 Hanford. The house was not beautiful, built 
 of white brick, and square, but it was com- 
 fortable. It had a ghass conservatory to the 
 south before the drawing-room vrindows ; and 
 a pretty garden, inclosed within tarred wooden 
 boards, that went down to the seawall. Mr. 
 Cornellis lived in Eose Cottage vrith'. his un- 
 married sister and his daughter. lie was a 
 man of Vvdiose antecedents little v\'as known.
 
 32 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 He had boiiglit Eose Cottage some seven or 
 eight years ago, and had come there with his 
 sick wife because the doctors ordered her sea 
 air and the chlorine effluvium from the rotting 
 seaweed. She had died there, a feeble, dis- 
 pirited woman, whom few had got to know ; 
 and the husband remained on, as widower, 
 with the little daughter, whom he allowed to 
 go much her own way. 
 
 Mr. Cornellis was suspected of having 
 Jewish blood in him ; but no one knew any- 
 thing about his ancestry. His true history 
 was this. His great-grandfather, the first of 
 the name, was an Austrian Jew, who came by 
 his appellation in this way. The Emperor 
 Joseph H. issued an order that all Jews in his 
 dominions were to provide themselves with 
 fixed surnames. Accordingly, the Hebrew 
 Levis and Samuels and Isaacs chose for them- 
 selves the most Howery appellations they could , 
 invent, and became a mountain of Eoses 
 (Eosenberg), or a Valley of Lihes (Lilienthal), 
 or affected heraldic distinctions, as Eedshield 
 (Eothschild), or Golden Star (Goldenstern), or 
 simply Stag (Hirsch), or Lion (Lowe). But old 
 Moses Israel had not a Hvely imagination nor 
 much ambition, and when summoned before 
 the magistrate to have his name registered, he 
 was at a loss what to call himself. ' Come, old
 
 A SEA-NETTLE 33 
 
 skinflint,' said the official, taking the pen from 
 his ear — ' come— the name.' 
 
 ' The name ! ' stammered Moses IsraeL 
 
 ' The surname. It must be entered on 
 the protocoL 1 have no time to waste on 
 you.' 
 
 ' Surname ! ' repeated the Jew, and put up 
 his hand to his head. 
 
 ' I see,' said the magistrate, * you have a 
 cornehan ring on your forefinger. Cornehan 
 shall be your name, or ' 
 
 ' Or 1 ' Moses Israel accepted the appel- 
 lation given him from his ring rather than risk 
 the alternative. Austrian officials did not make 
 many bones of a Jew in those days. So the 
 son of Moses Israel called himself after his 
 father, Levi Carneols, but came to England, 
 where he softened the Carneols into Cornellis. 
 He married an Englishwoman, and professed 
 Christianity. The great-grandson of old 
 Moses Israel was Justin Cornellis. As his 
 father was not well off, and he was obliged to 
 do something for a livehhood, and as he had no 
 love of hard work, he attached himself to a 
 missionary society, and was sent about Asia and 
 Korthern Africa in quest of the Lost Tribes. 
 He drew three hundred a year from this society, 
 and rambled about, sending home occasional 
 reports, pure fabrications, based on absolutely 
 
 VOL. L D
 
 34 EICIIATiD CABLE 
 
 no facts, spiced with appeals to fanaticism 
 and piety. This lasted till somewhere in the 
 Levant he caught the affections of a young 
 Enghsh lady, the daughter of a merchant, and 
 eloped with her, got married, and then threw 
 up his position as missionary to the Lost Tribes. 
 
 The relations of his wife were very angry 
 at the marriage, and Cornellis did not get 
 with her as much money as he had calculated 
 on securing. Nevertheless, he got something 
 — her mother's portion ; and with her and her 
 income, he settled in England, where he did 
 his best to dissipate her fortune on his own 
 selfish pleasures. He neglected his wife, and 
 spent much of his time in town. She became 
 a mother, and then her health gave way. Slie 
 had not the spirit to bear up against her dis- 
 appointments. She had idealised the earnest, 
 handsome missionary ; and when she found 
 him a sceptical, selfish man, her disappoint- 
 ment crushed her spirit. She lived on several 
 years, till her daughter Josephine was about 
 twelve, and then died. 
 
 Mr. Cornelhs was a man who knew human 
 nature, or prided himself on knowing it ; but he 
 knew only its weaknesses. He held mankind 
 in contempt, as somethiug to be preyed on by 
 the man who had intelhgence. 
 
 Associated with such a father, void of
 
 A SEA-NETTLE 35 
 
 principle, it may be understood how Josephine 
 could speak of herself as a derehct, without 
 anchor, light, or chart. She was a girl with 
 natural warmth of character and generous 
 feehngs ; but they were blighted by the cold 
 sarcastic breath of her father's spirit, a spirit 
 that sneered at kindliness, yet affected it in 
 public ; that made a mock of enthusiasm, yet 
 pretended to it when likely to be profitable. 
 
 For some time Mr. CornelHs had cut himself 
 completely adrift from all his old associates ; 
 but as his means became reduced, he beizan 
 again to court them, and resumed his cloak of 
 piety and benevolence, as occasion served, 
 much as an actor would put on his costume for 
 the part he was prepared to represent. 
 
 There are hypocrites of all sorts in the 
 world ; the most common kind is that which 
 deceives itself. Those who belong to this 
 breed are unconscious hypocrites, and no one 
 would be more surprised than themselves to 
 be stripped of their masquerade. But Mr. 
 Cornellis knew perfectly what he was about. 
 He wanted something of a certain class of 
 men, and he dressed his window to catch 
 them. At home he made no pretence to be- 
 lieve in the goodness of the articles exposed ; 
 he scofled at the fools who were caught by 
 them. 
 
 d2
 
 36 EICIIARD CABLE 
 
 Josephine respected her father for his 
 abiht}^, but could not love him. He showed 
 her little affection ; he ridiculed all exhibition 
 of feeling. 
 
 Her aunt was not an interesting woman. 
 She was a butt for her brother's jokes. A 
 woman with a mind essentially commonplace, 
 without taste, refinement, and ability. She 
 was stout and plain. There was in her, how- 
 ever, a certain amount of honesty and kindli- 
 ness. Josephine despised Aunt Judith because 
 she was stupid. There was no one about her 
 whom she could love. 
 
 Pdchard Cable came up, took a bucket, 
 turned it over, and seated himself on it, with 
 his knitting, near Josephine. 
 
 ' I have been watching a violet- coloured 
 jelly-fish,' she said languidly. ' It opens and 
 shuts like a parasol, and so works its way 
 along ; but how it can think to do this per- 
 plexes me, as it has no brains.' 
 
 ' There are certain to be jelly-fish where 
 the water is shallow and warm.' 
 
 ' What an ideally perfect life they lead, 
 floating when the sun shines, sinking when 
 storm threatens.' 
 
 ' But, Miss Cornellis, it is not a good life 
 at all for such as us — we must always keep 
 up, never sink.'
 
 A SEA-XETTLE 37 
 
 ' And, to drift with tlie tide,' she said. 
 
 ' This makes the difference between us and 
 jelly-fish,' said the sailor. 'They go with the 
 current, and we swim against the tide. God 
 has withdrawn brain from the creature be- 
 cause it does not deserve one, floating as it 
 does with the tide. Brain is needed only for 
 those whose life is made up of effort.' 
 
 'Yes,' she answered, and laughed : ' I sup- 
 pose it is so. And yet, there is a luxury in 
 having the consciousness of brain power in 
 one, and yet — swimming with the tide.' 
 
 ' That is not a luxury — it is a treason,' said 
 Cable. 'Would you be a jelly-fish. Miss 
 Cornellis ? Then choose only lukewarm and 
 shallow w^ater as your element.' There was 
 a tone of reproach in his voice. 
 
 She was displeased at it, and pouted. 
 
 'Would you lilvc a net, miss, and try to 
 catch prawns ? ' he asked after a pause. 
 
 ' No. I want to be a jelly-fish for the 
 nonce — do nothing, think of nothing, but 
 enjoy the sun and the glitter of the water.' 
 
 Ai^ain a silence of some duration. 
 
 ' Did you chance to see my mother and 
 any of my little ones about, before you 
 left Hanford ? ' asked Cable. ' Excuse my 
 asking ; but I have not S3en them for ten 
 days.'
 
 38 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 ' Xo,' answered Josephine. ' I don't know 
 tliem by sight.' 
 
 ' There are seven,' said Cable. 
 
 ' So I have heard. — You have lost your 
 wife?' 
 
 ' Yes. Poor Polly died ten months ago.' 
 
 ' Tell me somethino^ about the children,' 
 said Josephine. She lacked sympathy to hear 
 concerning them. She spoke carelessly. She 
 was vexed in her idle mood at being disturbed. 
 She w^as in no way interested in the children ; 
 if they had been drowmed, she would not have 
 cared. 
 
 ' It's a funny thing for a man to do, to 
 knit,' she said sleepily. 
 
 ' I knit for my babe ; and I knit the love 
 of my heart in and out with the wool, to keep 
 the dear little feet warm.' 
 
 ' I suppose you are fond of it. — I hate 
 babies.' 
 
 Cable said nothiuGf. He looked at Joseph- 
 ine's handsome face and wondered. He knitted 
 a round, thinking, and then he said : ' Some 
 day you may have babes of your own, and 
 then you Avould like them to have a thousand 
 feet, and to clothe all the little feet in socks 
 knitted out of your heart-strings. You would 
 give them everything you had ; you would 
 love them so dearly.'
 
 A SEA-NETTLE 39 
 
 ' I cannot understand you. Are you talk- 
 ins^ Chinese ? ' 
 
 ' No — the lanc^uacre of nature.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I suppose it is so. Cats and dogs, 
 and I have no doubt also jelly-fish, love their 
 young. As the brain gains, there is less of 
 this animal affection. My father is a very 
 clever man. He does not care much for me. 
 You see, I am of no use to him.' 
 
 ' He not care for you I ' 
 
 ' Oh, he cares for me, because he has the 
 trusteeship of my mother's little fortune. 
 You must see, Mr. Cable, disinterested affec- 
 tion is, and must be, irrational. That, I 
 should think, was obvious to the meanest 
 capacity.' 
 
 Cable continued his knitting. Her words 
 troubled him, and his hand was unsteady ; he 
 dropped a stitch. 
 
 Josephine had her eyes half-closed, watch- 
 ing him, and a smile twinkled on her lips. 
 She was amused at him, he was so simple. 
 He loved his children, he had little brain. 
 Then she lauo-hed out. 
 
 o 
 
 Cable raised his bright blue eyes and met 
 hers. He did not speak ; but he questioned 
 the occasion of her lauc^h with them. He had 
 a suspicion that she laughed at him. 
 
 ' I only want one thing to make me quite
 
 40 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 happy,' she said. 'I was thinking of some 
 chocolate creams I left on my dressing-table. 
 Do you know that when I have been missed, 
 Aunt Judith will eat my chocolate creams, 
 and so console herself for my being drowned ? 
 — What is there for dinner to day ? ' 
 
 ' Salt pork. I have nothing else.' 
 
 ' It is well Aunt Judith is not here. She 
 would be more troubled at having salt pork, 
 than at being cast away on a sandbank.' 
 
 'You do not speak respectfully of your 
 aunt.' 
 
 ' I do not respect her.' 
 
 'I wish, miss,' said Cable, 'you would 
 promise me, when you are on shore, that you 
 would look at my little ones.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; I will carry them bonbons ; but 
 I give you fair warning that I shall not fall in 
 love with them.' 
 
 Eichard Cable's brow was troubled, and 
 his hands would not make the stitches right. 
 He laid the little sock aside, and folded his 
 rough brown hands round his knee. He was 
 a man who thought a good deal. Isolated 
 from all companions for every alternate fort- 
 night, except only from the tiresome, stupid 
 boy, who was no associate, he lived much in 
 his own thoughts. In the lightship he had 
 time on his hands, time in which to think ; and
 
 A SEA-NETTLE 41 
 
 perhaps the nature of his occupation, perhaps 
 natural proclivity, had made of him a man 
 who lived an inner life, a quiet, serene-souled 
 man, who had never known a greater trouble 
 than the death of Polly, his young wife, whcm 
 he had married when she was eifrhteen, and 
 he hardly one-and-twenty. At seaside places, 
 where there is much fishing, the men marry 
 early. He had loved his Polly warmly, 
 placidly, not passionately. There had been 
 no cross-currents in his courtinf^ • all had crone 
 smoothly to marriage ; and since marriage, the 
 course had also been smooth till the great 
 breakdown ten months as^o. He was a God- 
 fearing man, with a simple, childlike trust and 
 faith ; and he was a kindly man to all around 
 him. Thoug-h he swore at and o^rumbled 
 about the boy Joe who was associated with 
 him, he was considerate of him, and gentle 
 with him, sparing him hard work, and careful 
 to speak no unseemly word before him. Joe 
 looked up to him as a dog to its master, with 
 a hearty devotion ; and his parents were in- 
 clined to joke him about his references to 
 Master Cable's opinions, as though they were 
 infaUible. 
 
 When Eichard's fortnight was out, and he 
 came back to Hanford, no man could be 
 happier than he, as he sat with the baby on
 
 42 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 his knee, and put his rough linger into its 
 mouth and let it try its new tooth on it ; with 
 the six other httle girls round him, all fair- 
 haired, with clear complexions and blue eyes. 
 But though he dearly loved them all, and 
 made most fuss with the baby, the eldest, 
 Mary, sat nearest his heart. She was called 
 after his dead wife ; and there was a look 
 about her eyes and something in all the upper 
 part of her face that made him think of Polly. 
 He took her to walk with him, but did not 
 speak much. He was a silent man, thinking 
 his own thouo'hts. These thouf^hts were of a 
 simple order, and the revolution in his brain 
 was by no means eccentric ; but now he was 
 brought in contact with a young girl who 
 belonged not only to a different social sphere, 
 but to a distinct moral and mental order ; 
 and against his will, she exerted a powerful 
 disturbing influence on his mind. He did not 
 understand her ; he was uncertain Vvdiether 
 she spoke out the real feeling of her heart ; 
 or whether she dissembled with him, and 
 affected a callousness which she did not 
 actually feel. He looked long and steadily at 
 her, trying to read her character. She felt 
 his eyes on her, and every now and then half- 
 opened her lids and looked at him in reply to 
 his gaze ; then he started and turned his head
 
 A SEA-^'ETTLE 43 
 
 away with a sensation as if he had received a 
 shot. 
 
 ' How long is it since your father died ? ' 
 asked Josephine, sitting up and putting on her 
 hat. 
 
 He paused a while to gather his thoughts 
 before he replied, then he said quietly, gravely, 
 without a muscle chanoincr in his face : ' I 
 have lost him since I was an infant. I do not 
 remember him.' 
 
 ' What did he die of? Was he drowned 
 at sea ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know that he is dead.' 
 
 ' Not dead ! ' She opened her beautiful 
 brown eyes in surprise. ' Where is he, 
 then ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know.' 
 
 ' How droll ! Why does he not live with 
 your mother and you ? ' 
 
 He paused again — a dark colour mantled 
 his brow and temples. ' He deserted my 
 mother.' 
 
 ' And you have never been after him ? ' 
 
 ' No.' He moved uneasily. 
 
 ' Nor would I — unless he had money.' 
 
 Cable stood up and paced the deck with 
 his head down. He raised it now and then 
 and looked over the sea to the horizon. He 
 was wishing that a sail was visible. He
 
 44 RICIIAIID CABLE 
 
 became uneasy at being cast away on a sand- 
 bank with this girh Her presence disturbed 
 the equanimity of his mind. He was attracted 
 by her, yet she repelled him. He pitied her 
 yet he feared her. 
 
 Presently he came up to her, and she 
 raised her brown eyes to him to ask what he 
 wanted. He bent his away. ' Look into the 
 water,' he said a little roughl}-. 
 
 ' The water is falling ; I can see through 
 to the sand.' 
 
 ' Do you see yonder yellow mass floating 
 by?' 
 
 'Yes — like a ghostly sponge.' 
 
 ' Do you know what it is ? ' 
 
 'A sort of jelly-fish.' 
 
 ' It is a sea-nettle,' 
 
 ' A plant ? ' 
 
 ' No ; a living being. If you were to 
 touch it, it would sting 3'ou, perhaps paralyse 
 you. I have known bathers in deep water 
 who have encountered one of these harmless- 
 looking creatures, and the touch has deadened 
 their nerves, so that they have sunk as lead 
 and never came up again alive,' 
 
 ' It is a pretty thing, too, with its long 
 filaments. You hinted that there were human 
 beings like jelly-fish.' 
 
 ' There are. What I say, I think. And
 
 A SEA-NETTLE 45 
 
 there are human beings, even beautiful young 
 girls, like sea- nettles. The jelly-fish have no 
 heads ; they do not hurt. The sea-nettles 
 have no hearts ; they sting and kill.' 
 
 ' And I ! ' laughed Josephine, ' I am one of 
 the latter ! You are not complimentary. I 
 have not hurt you — at least I have had no 
 intention of doino- so.' 
 
 ' The sea-nettle has no thought of hurting 
 the bather ; its touch palsies without its having 
 spiteful purpose, simply because it don't con- 
 sider the feelings of those it encounters.' 
 
 Her face became grave, and she turned it 
 abruptly away towards the sea. 
 
 He continued his walk. Then he went 
 into the cabin and fetched his telescope. He 
 looked intently in one direction ; Josephine 
 looked over the bulwarks in another ; he at 
 the far off, she at the near — the ebbing tide 
 and the drifting weed and living creatures in 
 the shallows. Then he came across to her. 
 ' I am sorry I spoke rudely,' he said. 
 
 She turned her face. There were tears in 
 her eyes, perhaps of mortified vanity. She 
 put out her hand^to him. ' Do not be afraid 
 to touch me,' she said with a forced laugh ; 
 ' I will not hurt you. I would not do so for 
 a great deal. I dare say I am hard. I am 
 unhappy. I trust no one ; believe in nothing ;
 
 46 EICflARD CABLE 
 
 have no love, no hope. I will not sting. 
 Tell me the truth always, however unpalatable. 
 I hate lies.' 
 
 Then he stooped and touched the tips of 
 her fingers with his lips. ' I pity you in- 
 finitely,' he said. ' You must find some one 
 or something to love, or you will be lost.' 
 
 His voice was so kind, his manner so 
 deferential, such genuine, ]iearty compassion 
 streamed out of his honest eyes, that she was 
 softened. ' I will come and see you some- 
 times,' she said ; ' I will see your mother and 
 the children. I will try to get interested in 
 them, and get out of myself, and away from 
 the hateful atmospliere that surrounds me 
 at home.' Then she laughed. ' Mr. Cable, 
 throw me a rope now and then, and haul me 
 out of the shallow water in which I live, and 
 where I shall become a sea-nettle.' 
 
 'With God's help, I will do what I can/ 
 he said gravely, and put his hand to his cap, 
 as ofTerinfT a salute.
 
 47 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 EOSE COTTAGE. 
 
 Mr. Coenellis was standing at the window 
 of his drawing-room, looking out into the 
 conservatory, with his hands in his pockets. 
 He was a dark, handsome man, with brown 
 eyes, hke those of his daughter, but harder : 
 pohshed pebbles without any softness in them. 
 He wore a moustache, no beard or whisker ; 
 he affected nothing clerical in his dress, but 
 he wore black, chiefly because he thought it 
 suited him. He was particular about his 
 clothes, always was neat, and with fresh white, 
 starched cuffs and collar "and shirt-front ; and 
 his cloth suit fitted him admirably. One 
 might have supposed that, with his rambling 
 life in the East, he would have contracted un- 
 tidy, careless habits ; but this was not the 
 case ; he affected to be a well-dressed man. 
 He knew how important it is for a man in 
 Europe to maintain a good exterior, if he is to
 
 48 EICIIAliD CABLE 
 
 command the respect of men. Xo one will 
 believe that the moral character is out at 
 elbows, when the cloth coat is without creases ; 
 and everyone mistrusts the uprightness of the 
 man whose trousers bulge at the knees. Why 
 not ? Is not a dog with a patchy back out of 
 sorts ? and a moulting fowl an unprofitable 
 creature? Hoav are we to judge except by 
 tlie exterior ? There are telescopes con- 
 structed by which we can peer under water, 
 and see what lies far down in the deeps ; but 
 we liave no such apparatus for thrusting down 
 men's throats and prying into the abysses of 
 their hearts. Besides, if we had them, our 
 fellows would decline to allow us to use them. 
 There are stetlioscopes by which the doctor 
 can hear the inhalations of our lungs, the in- 
 flation of its vessels, and can detect which 
 are sound and which carious ; but there are 
 no spiritual stethoscopes which we can apply 
 to our neighbours' temples, and hear through 
 them the operation of the brain, and distin- 
 guish base from healthy thoughts there. I 
 maintain that we are justified in judging of 
 a man by his coat and continuations, by his 
 hat and gloves and his boots ; for there is 
 congruity in all creatures, and tlie exterior 
 does almost invariably correspond with the 
 interior. The face is the index of the mind.
 
 ROSE COTTAGE 49 
 
 and the gloves of the souL Who does not 
 know that the pair of lavenders with the 
 iino-ers showini^ at tlie ends indicates radical 
 shabbiness throu^^h all the integ:uments of the 
 character ? and the dirty left-hand and clean 
 right-hand dogskin an ill-balanced spirit ? 
 
 Mr. Cornellis was piping low to himself 
 between his very white front teeth, which 
 were just so far apart as to allow the breath 
 to hiss or whistle between them. It was un- 
 usual with him to have liis hands in his pockets : 
 that was a luxury in which he indulged him- 
 self only at home. Abroad, he played with 
 his o'old watchchain, curlino- it round his fore- 
 finger. He was now lookins; at a Marechal 
 Niel rose that hung its drops of yellow flowers 
 from the roof ; the sun streamed in through 
 its pale green leaves upon the beautiful 
 blossoms. Then Mr. Cornellis opened the 
 French window and went into the conserva- 
 tory, and still hissing, plucked off the withered 
 blooms, which he put in a basket kept for the 
 purpose. He was tidy in that also. Then he 
 pulled up a weed he saw in an azalea pot ; 
 tlien opened his penknife with a threepenny 
 bit, lest he should break his nail, and carefully 
 cut a charming bud off the creeping rose. He 
 came back into the parlour, laid the flower on 
 tlie table, and said : ' Put it in water, Judith.' 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 ' For myself ? ' asked Miss Cornellis, wLlo 
 was lounging with lier back to the window in 
 an arm-chair. 
 
 ' For Gabriel,' answered Mr. Cornellis. 
 
 ' You never give me anything, Justin.' 
 
 ' Because you take what you want, Judith. 
 
 ' I really cannot think how you can have 
 the heart to be squashing aphis and picking 
 roses ' 
 
 ' I am not, and I have not been, what you 
 call squashing aphis. If I want to kill the 
 aphis, I use an insecticide or brushes.' 
 
 ' I don't care how you do it,' said Miss 
 Cornellis. ' It is heartless of you, whether 
 done with your fingers, or with brushes 
 or Ghishurst's Compound. — Poor Josephine ! 
 Who knows where she may be ? Perhaps 
 floating dead on the surface, perhaps sunk in 
 the deeps.' 
 
 ' Am not I her father ? ' said Mr. Cornellis 
 sharply. ' Have I not the feelings proper to 
 my position ? Of course I am troubled and 
 anxious ; but I do not forestall evils. If the 
 worst come to pass, her life is insured for a 
 thousand pounds. You would not have me 
 sit moistening handkerchiefs, at the prospect of 
 an evil which may not have occurred.' 
 
 ' Where is Josephine ? She went out in 
 the boat, and neither she nor the boat has
 
 ROSE COTTAGE 51 
 
 turned up since. I don't say that I expect 
 you to blubber ' 
 
 ' Merciful heavens ? Judith, how coarse 
 you are. I said moisten, and that word is 
 expressive enough. It is a mark of bad 
 breeding to use exaggerated terms.' 
 
 ' Justin, I don't care twopence about the 
 word ; it is the thing concerns me. You don't 
 seem to half feel Josephine's disappearance, 
 and then — to talk in that cold-blooded way of 
 havinsf insured her life ! ' 
 
 ' I did insure her, two years ago ; and if 
 she be lost, I shall claim the money.' 
 
 ' I never doubted that,' said Judith. 
 ^ You will always view everything from a 
 monetary point of sight, even your daughter's 
 death.' 
 
 ' My dear sister, one must live. I do not 
 wear my heart exposed to all the world, 
 trailed to the light, spread out, tied to 
 wires, and call everyone to admire its tears, 
 like the blossoms of a Marechal Kiel. What 
 are you about now with your back to the 
 light?' 
 
 ' I Nothing, Justin.' 
 
 ' I am positive you are doing something 
 that affects your speech.' 
 
 His sister hesitated a moment, and then 
 said : ' I have been searching poor dear 
 
 e2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 RICHAUD CABLE 
 
 Josephine's room, in hopes of finding some 
 clue to her whereabouts.' 
 
 ' And pray, do you suppose she has gone 
 a cruise in her own bedroom, and has run 
 aground on the fireraat, or shipped a sea in 
 the wash-hand basin ? ' 
 
 ' I thought I might lind some trace of 
 where she had gone.' 
 
 ' That is hke your wisdom, Judith. Per- 
 haps you suppose she had gone out meditating 
 suicide, and had left a note to inform us of 
 her intentions. You are hardly gifted with 
 sufficient imagination to conceive of such 
 nonsense as that. Well — what did you find ? ' 
 
 ' Only a box of chocolate creams.' 
 
 ' And you are munching them ! Eeally 
 Judith, you are heartless, not I.' 
 
 ' There is no harm in eating chocolate 
 creams.' 
 
 ' None in the least, only — it is greedy to 
 munch when you should suck. — Hand the 
 box to me.' 
 
 Mr. Cornellis put a bonbon into his mouth. 
 Were these tivo, the father and the aunt, un- 
 feeling in consuming the contents of Josephine's 
 box of chocolate, uncertain of the fate of the 
 girl ? We have no right to draw such a con- 
 clusion. Miss Cornellis looked at her brother, 
 and thought liim heartless because he sucked ;
 
 ROSE COTTAGE 53 
 
 and Mr. Cornellis considered his sister callous 
 because she chewed ; and we regard them 
 both as lacking in proper feeling because they 
 ate. Are we not as prejudiced, as unjust to 
 both, as the one was to the other ? When we 
 attend the funeral of a dear relative, do we 
 not partake of the breakfast ? Do we not 
 expect a well- spread table as the necessary 
 concomitant to hearse and hatband ? Are 
 we entirely indifferent to the quality of the 
 sherry? and whether we have the liver wing 
 or the drumstick of the chicken handed to us ? 
 and does not gall make itself felt in the 
 chambers of the heart, if we are balked of one 
 slice of tongue with the chicken ? The widow 
 upstairs has her eyes red with tears, but is 
 quite sensible whether there is sugar enough 
 with the mint sauce with the lamb ; and 
 afterwards, in the hush of the eveninof, when 
 the masons have closed up the tomb about 
 her darlino', and the mourners are aone, she 
 will speak to the cook in a broken voice full 
 of suppressed tears, and bid her mind another 
 time and stir the sugar in the saucedish before 
 sending it in, and chop the mint a little finer. 
 So also the widower, who, with manly self- 
 constraint, has ])ottled up his tears and talked 
 of the weather, thrusts the crust of his cold 
 veal pie impatiently to the margin of his plate.
 
 54 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 because the paste is not flaky, and curses liis 
 destiny because now lie has no one to keep 
 his cook up to the mark. 
 
 Then, why should we take offence at Mr. 
 and Miss Cornellis consuming chocolate creams 
 when they are not in the least certain that 
 Josephine is dead ? We are all humbugs and 
 hypocrites, more or less ; we draw a purely 
 conventional line, and denounce every trans- 
 gression of that hue as evidence of inhumanity 
 or want of taste ; but within that arbitrary 
 boundary we are Pharisees, thanking God we 
 are not as other men are, who eat chocolate 
 creams in times of family bereavement, but 
 content ourselves with gooseberry pie and 
 custard, and blanc-mange and cabinet-pud- 
 ding. 
 
 * The lightship is lost,' said Mr. Cornellis, 
 'and that fellow Cable has gone to the 
 bottom.' 
 
 ' He leaves a large family.' 
 
 Mr. Cornellis shrugged his shoulders. 
 ' They will wriggle on. I knew a collier once 
 who drowned himself because he thought his 
 family would be well cared for if he were 
 away, judging by the prosperity of the widows 
 and orphans of some of his mates.' 
 
 ' No tidings whatever of Josephine's boat?' 
 
 ' Not hke to have them, with the gale off
 
 ROSE COTTAGE 55 
 
 sliore. If waslied up anywhere, it will be on 
 the Dutch coast.' 
 
 'Do you really flatter yourself she is 
 alive ? ' 
 
 ' I will not believe otherwise till I am 
 forced to it.' 
 
 ' Gabriel is much fidgeted about her dis- 
 appearance. He makes more ado than you. 
 He has taken greater fancy to her than I 
 thought possible, considering how she treats 
 him.' 
 
 Judith had hardly said the words, before 
 the door opened, and a man came in, a gentle- 
 man distinctly, but a feeble, mean creature, 
 with a thin face, almost transparent nose, a 
 low brow, and with faded, watery blue eyes. 
 His face was pale, and the muscles twitched 
 in it. The head shook on the neck with a 
 nervous, convulsive tremor. The expression 
 of his countenance was a curious mixture of 
 conceit and appeal. He wore a bottle-green 
 coat with velvet collar. As he entered, a 
 smell of opium pervaded the room, and neu- 
 tralised the fragrance of the tea-rose. 
 
 ' Mr. Gotham ! ' said Aunt Judith, ' we 
 were just speaking of you.' 
 
 ' Eh, eh ! My left ear was burning. What 
 was it? No good, no good, of course.' 
 
 ' Certainly not, squire,' said Mr. CornelHs,
 
 56 EICHAKD CABLE 
 
 going up to liim and clasping his hand with 
 frank and almost boisterous geniaUty. ' My 
 sister has been shaking her head over you, 
 wondering whether you have sowed all your 
 wild-oats yet ; telling nie what a scapegrace 
 you are, what a roystering, dashing blade you 
 .are, and was asking me to deny you access to 
 our house — and see ! in you walk without 
 ringing at tlie front door, or tapping here at 
 the parlour entrance, just as if you were 
 hail-fellow-well-met, and had the run of our 
 house, and a right to the first place at 
 ,our table. And, by George ! squire, you 
 are right ; you are lord of the manor, and I 
 have to do homage to you annually with a 
 straw.' 
 
 Mr. Gotham's weak eyes twinkled, and a 
 pink blush suffused his nose. He looked from 
 one to another and giggled. 
 
 ' Come here, squire,' said Mr. Cornelhs, 
 handing him an arm-chair. ' What sort of 
 sport have you had with the harriers ? ' 
 
 ' Not much. The last meet, killed two.' 
 
 'Any nasty jumps?' 
 
 • Two or three.' 
 
 • Glad to see you ahve, squire.' 
 
 ' I don't myself care for a hare-hunt,' said 
 Mr. Gotham, letting himself stiffly and slowly 
 down into the chair. ' We run in a circle.
 
 E03E COTTAGE 57 
 
 you know. Xothing like a fox-liunt ; but no 
 more of that till next season.' 
 
 ' Who were out ? ' 
 
 ' I — I — I can hardly say. I Avasn't there. 
 I had my neuralgic pains again, and so, at the 
 last moment, reconsidered my purpose. But 
 I intended to go, I intended fully. I began 
 to dress for it, and got on my boots ; but the 
 neuralgia took me when I stooped, and I was 
 obliged to have recourse to my drops. So 
 
 Judith,! frighten you, do I? No occasion 
 
 for that. I am sadly changed, sadly — a 
 poor broken being now.' He looked eagerly, 
 questioningly from sister to brother, and back 
 again. 
 
 ' Broken fiddlesticks ! ' exclaimed Mr. Cor- 
 nellis. ' Do you suppose, if Judith thought 
 that, slie would have been pulling a Marechal 
 Kiel for your button-hole ? Ladies don't lavish 
 flowers on broken beings and weaklings, but 
 on boisterous fox-hunters and jolly dogs. I 
 know women's hearts ; but Lord ! so do you, 
 you rascal ! ' 
 
 Mr. Gotham chuckled and blushed. 
 ' There,' he said ; ' I have come to hear 
 about poor Josephine. I am so troubled. 
 I could not sleep last night thinking about 
 Iier. The anxiety brought on my neuralgia 
 . — all thinking and worry does — and I should
 
 58 racHARD cable 
 
 not have slept last niglit at all but for my 
 drops.' 
 
 ' It is really very kind of you, squire, to 
 give her so much thought. We have been 
 in sad distress, as you may judge. I am a 
 father — her father; you must excuse me, 
 Gabriel. I try to talk of other matters, but 
 I can only think of my child ; she is my own 
 flesh and blood.' 
 
 Mr. Gotham began to fidget in his chair ; 
 he put up his hand to his brow, and said in a 
 tremulous voice : ' Any news of the lightship ? 
 It is lost, I hear, and — I have not been par- 
 ticular in inquiries about it ; I was afraid of 
 seeming too particular.' 
 
 'Xone,' answered Mr. Cornellis with his 
 hard eyes on the man. 
 
 He, feeble creature, looked at Miss Judith, 
 then at her brother, as if he wanted to say 
 more, but was afraid to commit himself. 
 
 ' You need not hesitate,' said Mr. Cornellis. 
 'My sister knows all, and is close as the 
 grave.' 
 
 ' I am very uneasy, very unhappy. I — I 
 do not know vvdiat I ouo-ht to do. I could 
 
 not possibly — and yet You can hardly 
 
 conceive how I have suffered, how the neu- 
 ralgia has tortured me in consequence of — 
 of You can understand me.'
 
 ROSE COTTAGE 59 
 
 'Let bygones be bygones,' said Mr. Cor- 
 nellis. 'I knew an old bastion where the dead 
 had been buried after a siege two hundred 
 years ago. Lately, a speculative builder ran 
 up houses over the site, disturbed the earth 
 for his foundations and kitchens, and tbe 
 first inmates of his new houses died of 
 diphtheria. Never rake up old grave-ground, 
 squire.' 
 
 'No. I suppose you are right.' Mr. 
 Gotham stood up. ' But I shoukl like to 
 talk the matter over with you in my house, 
 when the worst is known. I'm not happy. 
 I feel the pains coming on again. I think I 
 must go home.' 
 
 ' Very well. I will come over. Take 
 something at once to soothe your lacerated 
 nerves ? ' 
 
 Mr. Gotham nodded. 
 
 ' Do not forget your rose,' said Cornellis. 
 ' My sister picked it expressly for you, but is 
 too shy to offer it you with her own fair 
 hands.' 
 
 ' The rose will lose half its charm unless 
 it be presented by her,' said Gotham with a 
 bow ; and when he had left the room, he 
 sniggered. ' He, he ! I can turn a pretty 
 speech to a lady ! I'm an old buck ! Am I 
 not, Justin ? '
 
 60 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 'Not old. Why, what are your years — 
 forty-five ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, more than that, alas ! ' 
 
 ' You don't look it. But it is the hunting, 
 the fresh air. The back of a horse makes 
 you, as Polixenes says, to be boy eternal.' 
 
 ' Yes. I subscribe very liberally to both 
 the Foxhounds and the Harriers.' 
 
 ' And you are out with them continually.' 
 
 ' When I can. I have my horses and my 
 hunting suit ; but the neuralgia interferes 
 terribly with my sports. You will come in — 
 you Avill be sure to come in, after I have had 
 some rest — say, in three hours. I am so 
 uneasy. There is really nothing heard of the 
 lightship ? ' He looked appe.alingly to Cor- 
 nellis. 
 
 'Nothing. And believe me, Gabriel, it 
 ^vill be best for all if the blue sea covers 
 him.' 
 
 Gotham's hand trembled in that of Cor- 
 nellis. ' I — I do not know. I am in pain. I 
 cannot bear my sufferings. I must go home. 
 You will come to me ? ' 
 
 ' You are overdone, squire, with the 
 hunt.' 
 
 ' I only intended to go.' 
 
 ' But — the exertion, even of that ! And 
 the drawinc^ on of the boots, to a man so
 
 ROSE COTTAGE 6l 
 
 agonised with pain as yourself. Good 
 heavens ! the heroism, the self-master}^ ! 
 What men there are in the world ! ' 
 
 He stood in his door, looking after the 
 squire, who had not far to walk ; his gate 
 was within a stone's-throw of Eose Cottage. 
 
 Not a muscle in his face changed, to show 
 in what way his thoughts turned. Then he 
 went back to the sitting-room. 
 
 ' Justin,' said his sister, ' I really think you 
 might say a word to him. He is killing him- 
 self with opium.' 
 
 'My dear Judith, when you see a man on 
 his way to the devil, let him alone. If you 
 try to divert him, he will go another way ; 
 but the destination will be the same, and the 
 blame of his going will attach to you. — Give 
 me another of those chocolate creams.' 
 
 ' You know best,' said Judith. ' You are 
 very clever, and I am dull ; but you might do 
 something, I think.' 
 
 The door suddenly opened, and Josephine 
 appeared in it, browned from exposure, her 
 eyes dancing. ' I knew it, I knew it ! I said 
 as much to Eichard Cable. Eating my choco- 
 late creams ! ' 
 
 ' Josephine ! ' Her father stepped forward ; 
 her aunt sprang up. 
 
 ' Well, I knew aunt would be at them. I
 
 62 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 did not think it of you, papa. Pah ! how the 
 room smells of opium. I know that cousin 
 Gotham has been here.' 
 
 -'I am very, very glad to see you again, 
 Josephine,' said her father. ' Give me a kiss. 
 Where have you been ? What has hap- 
 pened ? ' 
 
 ' I — I have been on the lightship with 
 Dicky Cable.' 
 
 ' He is not dead — not drowned ? ' 
 
 ' No more than myself.' 
 
 Mr. Cornellis was silent; his brow con- 
 tracted. 
 
 ' Upon my word ! ' exclaimed Josephine, 
 ' what ravages you two have made on my 
 box of chocolate creams ! '
 
 63 
 
 CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 HANFORD HALL. 
 
 Mr. Gabriel Gotham lived in wliat was called 
 Hanford Hall, but in Essex every farmliouse 
 is a Hall. It was, however, the manor-house, 
 and was the best house in the place — a long 
 rambling building, plastered, and the windows 
 painted Indian-red ; a house long and shallow. 
 It was embowered in trees. The grounds 
 were not extensive, but they were pretty. A 
 steep slope to the sea, with noble elms on it ; 
 a set of terraces, where roses grew luxuriantly, 
 and where, in summer, the beds of calceolaria 
 and geranium made a gay contrast to the dense 
 green of tlie trees and the sweeps of grass. 
 Here and tliere on the terraces stood statues 
 of plaster painted, somewhat spotted with 
 black and green decay. The terraces were 
 gravelled from the beach with grit that would 
 not bind, and was carried about by the boots 
 of him who walked on it over the grass and 
 into the rooms. The entrance ^ates were
 
 64 RICHAPvD CABLE 
 
 somewhat pretentions ; the posts supported 
 heraldic Uons holding shields ; but these also 
 were of plaster, not stone, and were painted. 
 
 When the tide was in, the view from the 
 terraces and from the windows of the house 
 was very beautiful, through peeps among the 
 elms to the sea, and across Hanford water to 
 a coast beyond, also studded with trees. The 
 w^ater was generally enlivened by passing sails, 
 as Hanford was a colony of fishermen, either 
 owning their own boats or going shares as a 
 company in one smack. Barges came to Han- 
 ford wdth coal from Yorkshire and Newcastle ; 
 and barges left Hanford piled up on deck with 
 straw, veritable floating stacks, for London. At 
 certain seasons, the sprat fishery supplied the 
 farmers with unctuous dressing for their 
 fields ; at such times, clouds of gulls fluttered 
 over the land thus manured, and unless the 
 fish were quickly ploughed in, rapidly reduced 
 the supply spread over the surface. At such 
 times, the inhabitants of Hanford, gifted with 
 the sense of smell, were heartily glad Avhen 
 the plough did turn the glebe over the dead 
 fish ; but there was a worse smell than that 
 of sprats to which the Hanfordians were peri- 
 odically subjected, and that was when a ship- 
 load arrived of what was locally termed 
 ' London muck,' that is, the scrapings of the
 
 HANFOED HALL 65 
 
 London streets and the refuse of the London 
 ashpits. When such a cargo arrived, it an- 
 nounced its presence to leeward for two or 
 three miles ; whereupon the farmers lifted up 
 their noses, ordered out their wagons, and 
 distributed the stench broadcast over the 
 country. The gulls were unattracted by this 
 dressing ; consequently, the farmers were less 
 precipitate in working it in. 
 
 At all times, daily, throughout the year, 
 the noses of the Hanfordians were required 
 to inhale the effluvium of decomposing weed 
 when the tide went out, and so nature pro- 
 vidently blunted the organ against offence 
 through the periodical dressings of sprats 
 and London muck. The smells, if not plea- 
 sant, were salubrious, according to the opinion 
 of the inhabitants ; and, to judge from their 
 robust forms and florid complexions, these 
 odours cannot have been nocuous. 
 
 The marshes, backwaters, and ditches bred 
 countless mosquitoes, which lay in w^ait for 
 strangers, whom they tortured to madness ; 
 but they did not touch natives. On a warm 
 summer evening, the gnats might be seen 
 hovering in clouds over the elms and oaks, so 
 dense and so black, that the stranger supposed 
 the trees were on fire and smoking. The 
 mosquitoes brought birds, and the trees 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 racHARD cable 
 
 resounded with the song of nightingale, thrush, 
 and blackbird. In vrinter, the water was 
 covered with gray geese and wild duck, and 
 the shooting of these occupied the men, when 
 nothing was to be got by the fishing. 
 
 What was it that made Mr. Gotham start 
 and tremble and shrink back, as he passed 
 through the side gate for foot-passengers into 
 the grounds ? Before him stood a w^oman, old, 
 with gray hair, holding a baby in her arms, 
 whilst two Httle children clung to her skirts. 
 She was a fine woman, commanding, with 
 bright eyes, and a strongly marked nose. 
 She held herself very erect, and there were 
 dignity and sternness in her manner and 
 attitude as she confronted Gabriel Gotham. 
 He, quivering and speechless, shrank from 
 her, as trying to hide himself from her eye. 
 He had occasion thus to cower before her ; 
 for if ever a despicable man had done a das- 
 tardly act, that man was Gotham, and the 
 proud woman before him was the one he had 
 wronged. Gabriel Gotham's father had been 
 a solicitor at Newcastle ; but his uncle, Jeremy 
 Gotham, a successful merchant, had purchased 
 the manor of Hanford and the Hall. Jeremy 
 had lived there in his old age, and as he had 
 no children of his own, invited his nephew, 
 Gabriel, to stay w^ith him ; also his brother
 
 HAJSTOKD HALL 67 
 
 and his sister-in-law occasionally. As a boy, 
 Gabriel liked to be with his uncle ; the old 
 man made much of him, and was liberal in 
 supplying him with pocket-money. He had a 
 pony and a boat at Hanford, and was called 
 by the hangers-on ' the young squire.' But 
 Gabriel was a weak, lanky boy, badly put 
 together, without colour in his cheeks, and 
 with pale blue eyes and fair limp hair — not at 
 all the ideal young squire that his uncle would 
 have desired as his successor. He supposed 
 that the boy had been overworked at school 
 or overtasked in his father's office, and insisted 
 that the sea-air of Hanford would set him up. 
 He urged him to out-of-door pursuits, to ride 
 with the hounds and to row. But Gabriel 
 preferred to jog to the meet and then ride 
 home ; and if he went out in the boat, to sit 
 in the stern with his hands in his pockets and 
 let some one else row him. 
 
 Jeremy was very proud of his position as 
 lord of the manor, and made himself disliked 
 by exacting all kinds of rights which he 
 believed to be his legally, but which had been 
 ignored or encroached on by the fishermen of 
 Hanford. By the shore was a piece of sandy 
 ground overgrown with coarse turf, occasion- 
 ally covered by tides of extraordinary height. 
 On this the Hanfordian youth were accus- 
 
 F 2
 
 68 RICHAKD CABLE 
 
 tomed to play cricket. Jeremy Gotham 
 laid claim to it ; as lord of tlie manor it was 
 his. If the young men ran over it, they 
 would establish a precedent, and he would be 
 unable to inclose and extend his grounds in 
 that direction. Consequently, he railed it off. 
 Thereupon the young men tore down his rails. 
 He repalisaded the ground : it was again 
 assailed. Tlien ensued a lawsuit, which he 
 gained. But he had accumulated against 
 himself so much ill-will that he was fain to 
 accept a compromise, and allow the cricket 
 club the use of the land for a small annual 
 acknowledgment. Then, again, as lord of 
 the manor he had heriot rights over two 
 farms ; and on the death of one of the farmers, 
 he demanded the two best horses out of his 
 stable. He had a right to the horses ; but to 
 exact his right was unwise, and brought on 
 him bitter ill-will. There was a copious and 
 unfailing spring in his stable-yard. The vil- 
 lagers were badly off for drinking-water, they 
 were supplied with surface-water collected in 
 tanks. This failed in dry summers, and they 
 came with their cans and pails to his pump. 
 He bore the inconvenience a little while ; but 
 when a farmer sent a barrel on a cart to be 
 filled, he put a chain and padlock on the 
 pump, and refused to remove it, and allow of
 
 HANFORD HALL 69 
 
 water being taken from his well except at an 
 acknowledgment — every cottager to pay him 
 a shilling per annum, and every farmer 
 five. 
 
 The dislike felt for the retired merchant 
 who had set up as squire extended to his 
 nephew ; and Gabriel was jeered at when he 
 rode out, and had stones or mud thrown at 
 him when he showed himself in the village 
 street. He was conscious of his own deficien- 
 cies, because told of them by his uncle, and 
 because they were flung contemptuously in 
 his face by the village lads. At the same 
 time, his position as heir to the estate and 
 house made him proud, or rather — for there 
 is dignity in pride — conceited. Thus he grew 
 up a mixture of diffidence and vanity. At the 
 lodo"e lived a woman who had been wife of 
 the boatman of the former squire, a Cornish 
 woman, named Cable. She was left with 
 an only daughter. Her husband had been 
 drowned one night going out in a punt after 
 wild-fowl. Mr. Jeremy Gotham kept her as 
 a lodge- keeper, and she did charing in the 
 house. The daughter was two or three years 
 older than Gabriel, a strong handsome girl, 
 determined in character ; and she constituted 
 herself the protector of the young squire. 
 When he had been assailed with stones or bad
 
 70 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 word?, he would tell her ; and if she knew the 
 name of the offender, and he was of or near 
 her age, she would chastise him with her fist 
 or witli a stick. She often rowed him out, 
 when he had a fancy to be on the sea, and 
 looked after him — that he had his greatcoat 
 with him ; that he wore his muffler ; that he 
 did not wet his feet, or, if they were wet, that 
 he changed his socks as soon as he came home. 
 This sort of intimacy had sprung up when 
 they were children, and continued when they 
 had grown up. No one thought seriously of 
 it, as she was older than he, full of sense 
 and strength of purpose ; and he, a weak, 
 washed-out creature without manliness. Never- 
 theless, she became attached to him. She was 
 one of those strong characters which do not 
 look for a support, but to become a support, 
 and find satisfaction in sustaining the feeble 
 creeper that pulls itself aloft by its means. 
 There were several young fishermen in Han- 
 ford who tried to get Bessie Cable to walk out 
 of a Sunday witli them ; but she gave en- 
 couragement to none, and finally left the place 
 as servant to Mrs. Giles Gotham of Newcastle, 
 who had taken a fancy to her when on a visit 
 to her brother-in-law. Mrs. Giles could never 
 get on with her servants, and laid all the 
 blame on the Newcastle girls. If she could
 
 HANFORD HALL 71 
 
 induce a young woman to come to her from a 
 distance, she would be sure of keeping her for 
 a twelvemonth. Moreover, the mother of 
 Bessie being in the service of the Gotham 
 family, the daughter might be reckoned on to 
 do her utmost to have the interest of the 
 Gothams at heart. The handiness, the wil- 
 lingness, the robustness of Bessie, pleased Mrs. 
 Giles ; and so Bessie, whom her mother relin- 
 quished somewhat reluctantly, departed with 
 her to Newcastle. 
 
 Gabriel remained with his uncle some time 
 after his mother left. He was now a young 
 man, who looked as if a good shake would 
 shake him to pieces. His legs and arms hung 
 too loosely to his trunk, his back was bent. 
 He never, apparently, could get a tailor to 
 master the conformation of his body and 
 clothe him well. He maundered about, after 
 Bessie was gone, much at a loss for a com- 
 panion. He had clung to her and made an 
 associate of her, had looked up to her and 
 trusted her ; and very forlorn he felt when 
 deprived of her company and protection. 
 
 One day, a few months later, Mrs. Cable 
 died suddenly of a stroke. The distance 
 from Newcastle was too great for Bessie to 
 come down to the funeral, and the poor 
 woman left but a few trifles for Bessie to
 
 72 RICIIArvD CABLE 
 
 inherit. These Gabriel undertook to have 
 put away safely for her. 
 
 Before Christmas, Gabriel went home to 
 Newcastle, taking with him such things of 
 her mother's as Bessie wanted. His uncle 
 was reluctant to let him depart, but could 
 not dispute the right of his parents to reclaim 
 him for a while. At Easter, Gabriel was to 
 return to Hanford Hall. But at Easter, 
 Gabriel did not appear ; at midsummer, 
 however, he did, looking the same — a limp 
 creature without vigour of body or mind. 
 What had happened in the interim between 
 him and Bessie, his parents and uncle — only 
 these interested parties — knew. What had 
 occurred was this. On his return to New- 
 castle with plenty of money, which his uncle 
 had given him, Gabriel was delighted to 
 renew his friendship with Bessie. But cir- 
 cumstances were different. She was servant 
 in his father's house, and that house was in 
 the town. She had her duties, and could not 
 row him on the sea or saunter w^ith him in 
 the garden. He found his way down into 
 the kitchen, to complain to her about his 
 mother's tyrannical ways ; but Mrs. Giles 
 came after him and pinned a dishclout to his 
 coat, and warned him not to go below stairs 
 again.
 
 IIANFOED HALL 73 
 
 Gabriel was almost a stranger in New- 
 castle, and had no friends there of his own 
 sex and age. He was not a man to make 
 friends, except of boys and girls. He was 
 not muscular enough to feel himself the equal 
 of those of his own age ; he could not cricket, 
 or shoot, or play bilUards. If he found a 
 boy before whom he could swagger, he would 
 take him up for a day or two and patronise 
 him and give him tartlets ; but boys speedily 
 found him out, and despised him and deserted 
 him ; occasionally, he caught them caricatur- 
 ing him. Girls did not pay him attention ; 
 they slighted him ; only Bessie Cable stood 
 by liim, ready to fight his battles and hold 
 him up, and be to him the tower of strength 
 he needed. His father despised him ; his 
 mother bullied him ; but Bessie loved him 
 with infinite pity and disinterested fidelity. 
 He was flattered and touched, and in his 
 loneliness drew towards her the more because 
 forbidden to associate with her. 
 
 One day, both had disappeared from Mr. 
 Giles Gotham's house. Gabriel had per- 
 suaded Bessie to elope with him over the 
 Scottish frontier and to be married. Married 
 they were in Scotland ; and from Scotland, 
 Gabriel wrote to his father and his uncle 
 announcing the step he had taken. He re-
 
 74 PwICHARD CABLE 
 
 ceived no answer from eitlicr. He remained 
 in Scotland with liis Bessie for some weeks, 
 as long as his money lasted, the money 
 wherewith he had been provided by his 
 uncle ; and when that was expended, he 
 wrote for more. Then he heard from Mr. 
 Jeremy Gotham. His uncle was furious. 
 He would disinherit him, unless he at once 
 separated from the low-born maid -of- all- work 
 he had mated with, and whom Mr. Jeremy 
 absolutely refused to acknowdedge. Then, 
 Gabriel wrote a penitent letter to his father. 
 Mr. Giles came to Scotland, and discovered 
 that the marriag^e could be invalidated. Ac- 
 cording to the Act of Parliament on the 
 subject, one of the parties contracting a 
 marriage in Scotland must have been resident 
 there twenty-one days previous to the cere- 
 mony. Gabriel had not resided there with 
 Bessie the full time : it was short by exactly 
 five hours ; therefore, the marriae^e could be 
 upset. With Gabriel's consent, it was upset. 
 He was in no position to earn a livelihood ; 
 he was destitute of private means ; he listened 
 to reason, as his father said, and deserted 
 Bessie. Mr. Giles had the marriac^e cancelled ; 
 and when Bessie became a mother, her child 
 was not qualified to bear his father's name. 
 Three years passed before she reappeared
 
 HANFORD HALL 7o 
 
 in Hanford with her boy Eichard. There 
 she remained. Of her story, nothing was 
 known : she never spoke of it. She had lost 
 her character whilst in service, people said ; 
 but so had many another maid, and the par- 
 ticulars did not transpire. Gabriel was re- 
 ceived again into favour by his uncle. He 
 and Bessie never met again to speak ; she 
 avoided him, as he avoided her. In his base 
 mind rankled a sense of degradation, of 
 shame for his desertion of the faithful crea- 
 ture. Her pride sustained her. She could 
 not forgive his treachery. So she lived by 
 herself, and reared her son, and the son did 
 not know who was his father. 
 
 JSTo wonder that now, after a lapse of but 
 a little short of forty years, Mr. Gabriel 
 Gotham started and shrank from the woman 
 he had wronged, when she broke through 
 her reserve and came to meet him within his 
 own gates.
 
 76 EICIIARD CABLE 
 
 CHAPTER yi. 
 
 BESSIE. 
 
 * What — what lias brought you here ? ' asked 
 Mr. Gabriel in a trembling voice. He had a 
 walking-stick, and he held it horizontally 
 with both hands, one at the ferrule, the other 
 at the handle, and thrust it before him, as 
 making a barrier between himself and the 
 woman. 
 
 ' Not myself — my wants and my wrongs,* 
 she answered sternly. ' For myself I ask 
 nothing but to be left to myself; I have no 
 wants. My wrongs are buried in my heart, 
 known to none but you ; no — not even to 
 my son — to your son. He has never learnt 
 who was his father. I should cover my face 
 with shame, were it known.' 
 
 ' Then, what — what do you want, Bessie.^' 
 
 ' I say, I want nothing for myself I 
 
 have come here not for myself. God forbid ! 
 
 I would not receive anything of you for 
 
 myself No — if I w^ere drowning as my
 
 BESSIE 77 
 
 father drowned, and as my poor son has 
 drowned, and you held out a hand, I would 
 clench my fist and smite it away, and sink, 
 rather than owe my hfe to you.' 
 
 'Then — what is it?' asked Mr. Gotham, 
 with his knees quaking under him. ' You 
 agitate me.' 
 
 ' No wonder that I agitate you. The 
 wonder to me is that the agitation has not 
 become a Saint Yitus's dance that never 
 leaves you. God forgive me ! I loved you 
 once. I could tear my flesh off my hand 
 with my teeth now — after these many years 
 — at the thought that it ever held yours. I 
 loved you ! ' She reared her proud form ; 
 in spite of age, it was full of nobility and 
 reminiscence of grace and beauty. ' I loved 
 you ! ' She looked at him with scorn. ' I 
 ask myself, whenever I see you pass along 
 the road, what could I find in you to 
 love ? ' 
 
 'I was rich,' said Gotham; and as he 
 spoke, he raised his stick level with his face, 
 as if to ward off the blow that he deserved 
 for the sneer. 
 
 ' You coward ! ' cried Bessie. ' How dare 
 you hint at that ! As if I cared for anything 
 but you. And you I cared for only because 
 I was your help and support, your nurse
 
 78 IIICIIAIID CABLE 
 
 almost ; I cared for you because you were 
 laughed at, cold-shouldered, delicate, help- 
 less, and clung to nie as this babe now clings 
 to my bosom.' 
 
 ' It is of no use, Bessie,' said Gabriel, with 
 quavering voice — ' it is of no use raking up 
 old graves — that is what Mr. Cornelhs has 
 just said.' 
 
 ' It is of use,' answered the woman, ' when 
 the bones do not lie in holy ground. The 
 ghost will walk and flap its winding-sheet and 
 scream in the black, still night, and you must 
 see it and hear it. I — I have not spoken out 
 my heart all these weary years. I have seen 
 you, and you have seen me, but we have not 
 spoken. I, sitting on the hard bench in the 
 aisle, have looked to the squire's pew in the 
 chancel, and watched you there during ser- 
 vice. Once, when my seat was taken, I came 
 over and occupied a bench outside your pew, 
 and leaned back with my ear to the board, 
 and heard your shaky pipe whine: " We have 
 left undone those things which we ought to 
 have done, and we have done those things we 
 ousfht not to have done, and there is no health 
 in us." Did you feel the pew shake, that 
 Sunday morning, Gabriel ? I was not crying ; 
 I trembled with rage, and the pew trembled 
 with me. Then you stood up and looked
 
 BESSIE 79 
 
 over ; and when 5^011 saw me there outside, 
 sitting and lying back with my eyes raised, 
 you thought you saw a ghost, and sank again 
 to your knees. For all these many j-ears we 
 have been no nearer each other than on that 
 occasion ; and then we neither spoke, but our 
 eyes met, and I saw that baseness was in yours 
 still.' 
 
 ' Why do you talk like this, Bessie ? It 
 can do no good. You are so fierce, you 
 frighten me. My nerves are unstrung and 
 sensitive.' 
 
 ' Unstrung and sensitive ! ' scofied the 
 woman, her noble face gathering grandeur 
 and beauty in her passion. ' I will tell you 
 why I talk. Because, for six-and-thirty years 
 I have nursed my wrongs in my heart, which 
 has boiled and boiled, but never been poured 
 out. To whom could I pour it out? Who 
 was to hear the story of my wrong ? Was it 
 one to shout to the parish ? To jDublish in 
 the papers ? ' 
 
 ' For pity's sake, Bessie, consider me : do 
 not speak so loud ; neither of us wishes that 
 story to be known.' 
 
 ' Ah ! on whom fell the shame ? On me, 
 who was innocent of all wrong, save of havino- 
 loved a wretch without manhness. I could 
 have the pity of the place if I told my tale ;
 
 80 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 but what care I for pity ? I let tliem think 
 me a lost woman, because I did not care to 
 have it thought I had trusted you — you.' 
 
 ' Well, Bessie, the marriage was not legal. 
 The court annulled it.' 
 
 ' Witli your consent. Could you not have 
 made it right, had you chosen ? Have made 
 me an honest woman, and your son legiti- 
 mate ? No ; you were mean enough to cast 
 me over because you could not trouble your- 
 self to fight through life in poverty. What 
 if you had been disinherited? You need not 
 have worked for a living ; I would have 
 worked for both. You might have sat at 
 home with your hands in your pockets, and 
 rocked the cradle with your foot ; but you 
 would not have had your luxuries then, and 
 therefore I was thrust aside.' 
 
 ' You cannot say, Bessie, that my father 
 and uncle did not make you an offer that was 
 reasonable. They promised you a yearly 
 allowance.' 
 
 ' I spurned it ; I refused it. I would have 
 nothing of theirs, nothing of yours any more. 
 If I knew what drops in my son's veins were 
 drawn from you, I would wring them forth. 
 If I thought in his heart were any seeds of 
 your baseness, I would dig them out with my 
 nails.'
 
 BESSIE 81 
 
 ' Even now, after these many years, I will 
 help you, if you will allow me to do it.' 
 
 ' I do not want your help — not for myself, 
 I would not take anything of you for myself. 
 I have gone on all these years alone, and now 
 I do not need you. I worked and sustained 
 myself and my son till he was old enough to 
 work and sustain me. Then he married ' 
 
 ' If, Bessie, he had only looked higher. If 
 you had allowed me to assist — under the rose, 
 without letting people know the circumstances ; 
 if he could have been put into some more 
 respectable situation, say a clerkship — tvhy, in 
 time ' 
 
 ' If, if, if — and in time ! ' repeated the 
 woman wrathfully. ' Why should he be other 
 than my father, who was a plain man of the 
 people ? If my father had been a gentleman, 
 perhaps he also would not have been straight 
 and true and thorough to liis wife and his 
 child, his duties and his God. No ; I would 
 not have Eichard a gentleman ; he might have 
 learned falseness and been cruel to me, as you 
 were cruel. I have kept him in my station. 
 He is a poor, rough, plain man, with simple 
 thoughts and simple faith, a simple life, and 
 simple knowledge of right and wrong. I 
 would not have him thrown into that tangle 
 which you call social life, where every duty is 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 blunted with an if^ and every act is a patch- 
 work of compromises.' 
 
 She paused to take breath, and then 
 Gabriel Gotham made a movement to shuffle 
 off. 
 
 ' Stay ! ' she ordered. ' You are sneaking 
 away from my reproaches ; but I say to you 
 with loud voice now only what your con- 
 science says to you nightly in whispers. You 
 can do nothing for me now. You could do 
 nothing for me after that one great act of 
 treachery. Then, then only did I measure to 
 the bottom of your baseness. If you had 
 come to me later and said you would remarry 
 me, I would have refused you, because I knew 
 you, and I could never have trusted you more.' 
 
 ' What do you mean by bullying me so ? * 
 whined the miserable man. ' You have no 
 consideration for my nerves. You do not 
 know, or if you know, you do not think, what 
 a martyr I am to them ; and j^ou tear at my 
 nerves as if you were ripping a harp to pieces. 
 You used to be more kind and pitiful.' 
 
 ' If you had kept me by your side,' said 
 the woman with a touch of softness, as the 
 appeal of weakness always did melt her, ' I 
 do not think that you would have done amiss 
 for your own self, Gabriel.' She looked at 
 him steadily, and the glare went out of her
 
 BESSIE 83 
 
 eyes. 'A poor, pitiful, broken creature you 
 are, who has shpped into bad ways, because 
 he has none that love him by his side to check 
 and rally him. You are killing yourself, not 
 by inches, but by feet, with opium, Gabriel, as 
 all Hanford knows.' 
 
 ' I take my drops because I suffer such 
 pain.' 
 
 She disregarded his explanation. ' A 
 lonely, unhappy man, suspicious of all about 
 you ; preyed upon by the designing ; clinging 
 to those that are unscrupulous, who flatter 
 you because they seek your money. You 
 have no one near you to bar the way you are 
 stumbhng down ; no one to give you a hand 
 to help you up ; no one to cheer your spirits 
 when evil fancies and buried transgressions 
 start up to frighten you. — I say, Gabriel, that 
 had you acted as a man and a Christian, you 
 would not be the God-forsaken wretch you 
 now are. You would have a faithful woman 
 at your side to stay you ; and a gallant son, 
 on whom you could look with pride and love ; 
 and seven little angels to intercede with heaven 
 for you. — Look at these ! ' — she turned her 
 head to the children who were hanging to her 
 skirts — ' see here ! ' She threw back the shawl 
 and exposed the sleeping babe she carried. 
 She f^azed down with a softened face on the 
 
 o 
 
 G 2
 
 84 RICIIARD CABLE 
 
 slumbering infant. ' A dry stick,' she said, 
 raising her head, and recovering some of her 
 sternness ; ' that is what you are ; and in my 
 house is Aaron's rod that buddeth, and putteth 
 forth blossoms, and beareth almonds. You, 
 the wrong-doer, are accursed and barren. J, 
 the wronged, am blessed, as a bedewed field.' 
 Then, all at once, her tears burst forth. ' No ! ' 
 she said ; ' my Aaron's rod is cut asunder, and 
 all the little blossoms will wither. I am like 
 the prophet who took to him two rods, and he 
 called the one Beauty, and the other Bands ; 
 and first was Beauty broken, and then the 
 strong rod also, — Do you see these three chil- 
 dren? There are four more, and all are 
 orphans. They have lost their mother eleven 
 months a^ro, and now their father is taken 
 from them. My Eichard is drowned, as was 
 his grandfather ; and these little ones have 
 none to look to but me. I am getting on in 
 years.' She recovered her composure with an 
 effort ; what she had to say concerned the 
 children and their welfare, and she would not 
 allow her own emotion to interfere with her 
 purpose for their advantage. ' I am getting 
 on in years. You, Gabriel, are younger than 
 me ; but I am still the strong one. For a 
 while I may be able to earn enough to support 
 the seven ; but one is a babe, and I cannot
 
 BESSIE 85 
 
 leave it and take work. They do not bear 
 your name, yet they have your blood in them. 
 Eor myself, I ask nothing ; I would take 
 nothing ; but I ask you not to forget these 
 orphans, your own grandchildren.' 
 
 ' I — will do something,' faltered Gotham. 
 He had lowered his stick when Bessie's rough 
 tone passed away, and now he leaned one 
 hand on it and shook his head, and shuffled 
 his feet on the gravel. ' But, Bessie, I must 
 do it slyly. I mustn't let it be supposed that 
 any obligation attaches to me. I particularly 
 do not wish to have that unfortunate affair 
 brought up now. I — I dislike to have my 
 private matters talked about. I am sensitive, 
 and the least trouble affects my nerves.' 
 
 ' I am not going to speak ; rely on me,*' 
 said Bessie gravely. ' Let all the past be 
 dead, buried the wrong and the sin. Forgive- 
 ness is a hard plant to grow ; it does not 
 strike root freely. I cannot say that it grows 
 lustily in my bosom. There is certain soil in 
 wdiich it Avill not thrive, nurse it how you 
 may. — But, as for these children, I can do 
 much for them. For their sakes I have come 
 here to-day, for their sakes I plead. I would 
 not die and leave them destitute in the world, 
 beautiful little maids — seven of them, father- 
 less, motherless, friendless. For their sakes I
 
 86 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 will strike my plant Forgiveness once more, 
 and pray God to make it flourish.' 
 
 ' I will consult with Mr. Cornellis ; I will 
 take his opinion how best to manage it ; I will 
 do something.' 
 
 ' Consult with no one but your own con- 
 science, and on your knees with God,' said 
 Bessie Cable. 
 
 ' I cannot — I cannot act without advice.' 
 
 ' It has always been so,' said she, lialf im- 
 patiently, half sadly. ' You never were able 
 in the old days to do anything by yourself. 
 Then you came to me. Now you go elsewhere.' 
 
 'I assure you that I will do something. 
 Mr. Cornellis knows all about the matter.' 
 
 Just then, Mr. Gotham felt something 
 touch his hand. Little Susie, attracted by his 
 ring, had deserted tlie skirts of her grand- 
 mother, and, unnoticed, had stolen over to 
 Mr. Gotham, and as his hand hung limply 
 down, she took his finger in her small hands 
 and began to pull at the ring. 
 
 ' What — what is it ? ' he asked with a start. 
 Then lie looked down and saw the fair head, 
 the sweet face, with blue eyes and delicate 
 complexion. A lovely little child, with a 
 truly angel face. Gabriel studied it, nervously 
 twitching liis head from side to side, and 
 asked : ' What is your name, my dear ? '
 
 BESSIE 87 
 
 ' Susie.' 
 
 ' Do you want my ring ? You shall have 
 
 it ; and keep it as a proof that — that 
 
 Bessie, I will do what is right by the little 
 ones. It is a pretty child, and might — might 
 do me credit. I think I trace a likeness to 
 myself, when about the same age ; she has 
 my hair and my eyes and complexion.' 
 
 The little girl still held his finger, and 
 twisted the golden hoop. The touch of the 
 tiny fingers was one so strange to Gabriel, the 
 beauty of the child was so attractive, and its 
 confidence so engaging, that the feeble man 
 was moved. 
 
 ' I would like to kiss you, child — Susie,' 
 he said, ' but I am afraid of stooping. I 
 might fall ; it would bring on neuralgic pains. 
 — Would you mind, Bessie, holding her up, 
 that I might kiss her ? ' 
 
 The woman hesitated. She had the baby 
 in her arms. She could not do as required 
 unless she disposed of it. She stooped, laid 
 the shawl on the gravel at Mr. Gotham's feet, 
 then placed the sleeping infant gently upon it. 
 She put her hands to Susie and raised the 
 child, whilst the other little girl, Lettice, 
 stood by, still holding her grandmother's 
 skirt ; but she now extended the other hand 
 and grasped Gotham's cane low down, about
 
 88 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 two feet from the ferrule. Thus, uncon- 
 sciously, the child Lettice linked these two 
 together ; and at the same moment he pressed 
 his lips to the cheeks of Susie. 
 
 Susie turned her face sharply away — the 
 smell of opium oppressed her. ' I want the 
 ring,' she said. 
 
 Then, an explosion, followed by a clatter 
 of bells in the church tower hard at hand, 
 and a cheer. ' What is the matter ? ' asked 
 Gotham with a start. 
 
 The explosion was caused, as he guessed, 
 by the discharge of a small cannon on the 
 shore, iired on grand occasions. 
 
 The side-gate opened, and Mr. CornelHs 
 came in, walking quickly. He drew back 
 when he saw the group. ' What ! ' he ex- 
 claimed, ' attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes, 
 Gabriel. Drawing your blood, eh? — Mrs. 
 Cable, you had better run home. Your son 
 has returned ; and the lads are giving him an 
 ovation.' 
 
 ' I want my ring,' said little Susie. 
 
 'Another time,' answered Gabriel nervously. 
 ' I — I — had better not. It would lead to in- 
 quiries ; it might rouse suspicion ; and my 
 nerves must not be shaken. I cannot bear it. 
 I will send you some sweeties ; but I cannot 
 part with my ring.'
 
 89 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 AN IXSULT. 
 
 Gabriel eagerly caught the arm of Mr. Cor- 
 nelhs, and passing his hand through it, suffered 
 himself to be led away from the gate through 
 the winding drive to the house. He did not 
 look back to see the woman and children ; his 
 shuffling feet moved hastily, and his arm and 
 head were jerked forward spasmodically, in- 
 dicating eagerness to get away from an inter- 
 view that had distressed him. 
 
 Mr. Cornellis helped him up the steps and 
 in at his door, and almost led the way to the 
 library, a snug little room, where, indeed, 
 were a few books, but where very little study 
 was done. 
 
 Gabriel let himself down into his easy- 
 chair with a groan, and held out his stick to 
 Cornellis, who took it and put it on a rack 
 where Gotham kept an array of hunting-whips 
 and walking-sticks and fishing-rods. The 
 wretched creature was full of small vanities. 
 He liked to deceive himself and others into
 
 90 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 the belief that he was a strong athletic man, 
 only deterred from showing his powers by his 
 nervous malady. He talked as if he hunted 
 and shot and fished ; but he did none of these 
 things — he never had. He had long given up 
 boating, because the damp and cold on the 
 water brought on neuralgia ; and he rarely 
 mounted his horse, because he was too weak 
 to endure the jolting. He had his top-boots, 
 his corduroys, and scarlet coat : but he never 
 wore them except once, to be painted in them. 
 He had a sailor's blue jersey, a complete boat- 
 ing costume, which he put on occasionally, 
 but wore it about the house and grounds, not 
 on the sea. His gun was never discharged, 
 not even at sparrows and starhngs, because 
 the noise so near his ear shocked his highly 
 strung and irritable nerves. 
 
 He was made up of pretence. Now he 
 was playing with a new assumption, and 
 Justin Cornellis helped to amuse him with it, 
 and flatter him into belief that there was 
 reality in it. This new assumption was that 
 he was going to contest the county at the 
 next general election. He never asked him- 
 self whether he seriously contemplated the 
 expense and effort ; he amused himself with 
 talking about the campaign, making sketches 
 of electioneering addresses, and drawing up
 
 AN INSULT 91 
 
 lists of voters who must be canvassed. So 
 little in earnest was Mr. Gotham that he had 
 not decided on his politics ; he rather thought 
 of standing as an Independent candidate, but 
 whether the shade was to be Liberal Conser- 
 vative or Conservative Liberal remained un- 
 determined. 
 
 Justin Cornellis humoured and flattered 
 him in all his pretences, affected to regard 
 them as serious, and obtained great influence 
 over him accordingly. He never laughed at 
 Gotham, who was sensitive to ridicule, having 
 a lurking consciousness of his inability to do 
 those things to which he pretended. He was 
 incapable of judging for himself, and felt about 
 him for some one stronger than himself to 
 whom he could appeal, and on whom devolve 
 irksome and perplexing duties. 
 
 The management of his property was be- 
 yond his abilities, and he was jealous and 
 suspicious of every solicitor and agent whom 
 he employed. He had no power of concen- 
 trating his attention for long on any subject, 
 or of supervising accounts, or considering the 
 nature of the leases and agreements he was 
 required to sign. He invited Mr. Cornelhs, 
 as a disinterested person, to assist him, and 
 soon delegated everything he could delegate 
 to him, to save himself the trouble of going
 
 92 EICIIAED CABLE 
 
 into the matter. He had hmiself thrust his 
 neighbour the ex-missionary into the position 
 of unpaid agent for his property, which con- 
 sisted not only of the manor of Hanford, but 
 of houses in London, and investments in 
 various securities foreign and domestic. His 
 uncle had been a shrewd business man, so also 
 had been his father, and till the death of the 
 latter, Gabriel had allowed Mr. Giles to man- 
 age his money matters for him, satisfied so 
 long as he had enough to spend ; but after the 
 death of his father, he had put his affairs in 
 several hands, changing out of suspicion that 
 he was being defrauded, and invariably being 
 most apprehensive of dishonesty in the more 
 upright men, because they were straight- 
 forward and did not flatter him. 
 
 With his usual inherent meanness, he 
 played a part with Cornellis. He was related 
 to Justin Cornellis, whose mother had been a 
 Gotham; and it was partly for his wife's 
 health, and chiefly to be near a man of means 
 to the reversion of whose estate he miglit lay 
 claim, that Cornelhs had settled at Hanford. 
 Mr. Gabriel Gotham encouraged tlie ex- 
 missionary to think that he would inherit the 
 property after his, Gabriel's, death — without, 
 however, having really so by will disposed of 
 his property. By holding out this hope before
 
 AN INSULT 93 
 
 Cornellis, lie secured his fidelity and obtained 
 his services. 
 
 But Gabriel Gotham was only an extreme 
 instance of that shallow pretence which cloaks 
 the life of everyone of us who moves in society. 
 Our very waistcoats are a pretence : they 
 assume to be all cloth, and are only cloth on , 
 the front that shows ; they are calico behind. 
 And so is it with our manners, our conversa- 
 tion : it is all only half what it pretends to be ; 
 the cloth does not go the whole way round 
 the heart. We have smiles and a squeeze of 
 the hand for an acquaintance — a front of 
 cordiality, a back of indifierence. We are 
 liberal in opinion, generous in action, frank in 
 demeanour, sympathetic in intercourse ; but 
 the backing is all narrowness, meanness, close- 
 ness, and selfishness. The writer once thus 
 addressed a little boy : ' Why, Fred, what an 
 extraordinary fit your nether garments are ! ' 
 — ' Yes, sir,' answered Fred ; ' they are rever- 
 sible. When I've sat out one side, I turn 'em 
 about and sit out the other.' Which of us 
 dare reverse our moral garment, that has only 
 one face good ? Which of us dare expose the 
 calico and hide the cloth ? Yet let the moral- 
 ist growl : there is merit in pretence. The 
 world would be an unendurable world were it 
 not for the painted screens, and the disguises
 
 94 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 whicli conceal its ugliness, its waste and 
 lumber. What pleasure should we reap from 
 social intercourse, were our acquaintance to 
 tell us exactly what they thought of us ? Do 
 they not exercise self-restraint in hiding from 
 us that we bore them ? Why should the 
 worst side be thrust to the fore? Every 
 picture has two sides, every flower has an 
 ugly sordid root. We show the blossom of 
 life to our neighbours, and do not thrust the 
 root into their faces. The man who blurts 
 out all his mind, and the woman who despises 
 conventionalities, are shunned — they are agree- 
 able to no one, not even to themselves. To 
 a meal belong empty wine-bottles, potato 
 parings, cabbage stalks, old bones, and fag- 
 ends of grizzle, together with cinders and dust 
 from the kitchen fire ; but also very good wine 
 and toothsome dishes. The ash-heap and the 
 pig-pail get the first, and we the rest. We 
 are not swine, to be given the refuse ; nor 
 scavengers, to carry off the dust. Life is a 
 milk-pan ; and to it belong cream and sedi- 
 ment ; we exhibit the cream and cast away 
 the sediment ; we retain the thin skimmed 
 milk for our private consumption. Then, not 
 a word against pretence ! It invests life with 
 grace ; it saves it from becoming material. 
 Without it, life is not worth having.
 
 AN INSULT 95 
 
 There is even heroic virtue in pretence. 
 It is generous, it is unselfish. We offer the 
 best to others ; we keep the thin and poor for 
 ourselves. Our neighbours know that what 
 we offer is superficial ; but they are superficial 
 likewise, and give us back in return their 
 best — hearty welcome, smiles, cheerful con- 
 versation — in a word, they give us all their 
 cream. When our faces have vanished, they 
 sit down to sup ' sky-blue.' The fire blazes in 
 the drawing-room for the visitor ; but the lady 
 shivers at her needlework in her fireless room 
 upstairs. The visitor enjoys the warmth for 
 ten minutes ; she endures the cold the long 
 day, because the coal-bill is too heavy to allow 
 of a second fire. The visitor has hot mutton ; 
 when he is gone, the family eats the cold 
 remains. The visitor has the silver candle- 
 stick, and every one else a benzoline lamp. 
 For the guest, the best Worcester or Swansea 
 service is produced ; when he is gone, it is put 
 away, and the household dines off very cheap 
 chipped ware. The guest, if very young and 
 green, goes away impressed with the comfort- 
 able circumstances of his late liost. 
 
 Then, I say again, not a word against 
 pretence ; it is one of the first of human 
 virtues. 
 
 There are pretences and pretences. Mr.
 
 96 RIOHAED CABLE 
 
 Gabriel Gotham was contemptible because 
 his pretences profited no one ; not because 
 they were in themselves pretence. We are 
 selfish in our estimate of pretence. We con- 
 done, even applaud that which conduces to 
 our own comfort, and blame and deprecate 
 that out of which we reap no advantage. 
 
 ' So, they have been here sponging,' said 
 Mr. Cornellis. ' I knew it would be so. But 
 the old woman did not know her man. She 
 thought you soft, weak, easily moved by the 
 tale of misery. The whole thing was cleverly 
 got up, a theatrical effect — the baby, the 
 twins. But you see through these sort of 
 things. Not so soft as supposed, eh, Gab- 
 riel?' 
 
 ' Mrs. Cable thought her son was drowned, 
 and was in distress about the children.' 
 
 ' yes — of course. Yet the bells are 
 rinoinor for the return of Eichard. She knew 
 he was safe ; but she wanted to wrest a pro- 
 mise of help from you before the news 
 reached you. It was ingenious, but not 
 honest. With another man, it might have 
 succeeded, but not with you.' 
 
 'No,' said Gabriel dispiritedly; 'perhaps 
 not with me. She said I was weak. Indeed, 
 she was not polite.' 
 
 ' Tried the domineering dodge, did she ? '
 
 AN INSULT 97 
 
 said Cornellis. ' Had no consideration for 
 your nerves ? ' 
 
 ' None in the least,' answered Gabriel. 
 ' What I have suffered is more than words 
 can describe — I will ring the bell. I must 
 have some Chartreuse ; I am so shaken, so 
 overcome by the scene. It was very distress- 
 ing to me. — You will have some of the liqueur 
 also. I feel as if I should sink if I did not 
 take some ; and all my nerves are in a quiver.' 
 
 ' If she comes again, send her to me.' 
 
 ' I will do so, Cornellis ; I cannot endure 
 another interview.' 
 
 ' You have made no promise.' 
 
 ' I — I only said that if the children were 
 really left orphans, I would consider what 
 was to be done. I would not let them starve ; 
 but I made the condition that nothing was to 
 transpire ; and I thought it would be wise 
 for me to manage the matter through you, 
 so that no suspicion might attach to me, and 
 because I really am not equal to the fatigue 
 and excitement. Bessie is a very aharming 
 woman, so impulsive, threatening.' 
 
 ' That is like you, ever cautious and pru- 
 dent. Ah ! what a man you are ! ' exclaimed 
 Cornellis ; ' always ready at an emergency. 
 And with those shattered nerves too ! If I 
 did not see it, it would seem incredible.' 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 r.lCIlAED CABLE 
 
 The Chartreuse was brought in. Gab- 
 riel's hand shook so that he was unable to 
 fill the liqueur glasses ; therefore Mr. Cornellis 
 helped his friend and himself. As he was 
 sipping his Chartreuse, he laughed, and put 
 down the glass. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' asked Gotham, with a sus- 
 picious twitch in his mouth. He disliked to 
 hear laughter ; he thought that he was the 
 object of derision. 
 
 ' I was thinking of the condition of those 
 Cables,' said the ex-missionary. ' Supposing 
 they carried their point, and all the seven 
 little brats became heiresses of your estate, 
 what a scramble there would be among the 
 ragtag of the place for them ! What airs the 
 young misses would give themselves ! How 
 they would flout about in fine feathers and 
 silks, and brag of their grandfather, talking 
 in their broad vulgar Essex dialect, so close 
 akin to Cockney, of wessels and winegar and 
 poins and wiolets.' 
 
 ' Yery funny,' sniggered Gotham. 'But 
 they have not got my property yet.' 
 
 ' And never will,' said Cornellis. ' If you 
 wanted to send them to the bad, you could 
 not better insure their ruin. They make re- 
 spectable mudlarks. Dress them in peacock 
 plumes, and they become vulgar fowl.'
 
 AN INSULT 99 
 
 ' They are pretty,' said Gotham. 
 
 ' As children. But with that ckss, good 
 looks disappear early. Good looks associated 
 with bad manners, dirty nails, line clothes, 
 and dropped As, make a hideous muddle.' 
 
 ' I suppose you are right,' said Gabriel 
 with a sigh. He thought of the little hand 
 closed about his finger, and the w^arm sense 
 that stole from it up his arm to his heart. 
 ' Poor little things ! They have my blood in 
 them — that accounts for their good looks.' 
 
 ' But how diluted with ditch-water ! If 
 Eichard had married some one of a superior 
 class, there might have been improvement ; 
 but as it is, the deterioration is irretrievable.' 
 
 ' You know what I have done, Justin,' 
 said Mr. Gotham, after a pause. ' Give me 
 another glass of Chartreuse ; I spilled half 
 the last, my hand shakes so.' 
 
 'I beg your pardon. What have you 
 done ? ' 
 
 ' You know what I have done. I could 
 not manage in any other way to keep my 
 mem.ory clear of reproach and to save my 
 conscience. I have left everything to you, 
 and you have my secret instructions. Should 
 Eichard be ever in want of money, you will 
 let him have it ; and the Httle girls must not 
 be allowed to need. You will manage all
 
 100 EICHAED CABLE 
 
 that for me. I am a poor frail creature, and 
 may drop off any day.' 
 
 'Xot a bit — not a bit. You have to be- 
 come an M.P. yet, squire. It will do you 
 good to contest an election. By Jove ! I 
 would not be the man to stand against you, 
 known as you are, and respected in the 
 county, and generally beloved.' 
 
 ' I am respected, I believe.' 
 
 ' And loved. Every one sympathises Avitli 
 your infirmities.' 
 
 ' They are temporary. I may look to a 
 time when I shall be able to go out after the 
 hounds, and speak and take my place in the 
 House without being subject to these neu- 
 ralgic attacks.' 
 
 ' Certainly you may. I believe they have 
 been brought on by worry. This wretched 
 affair of the Cable woman has tormented you 
 for years.' 
 
 ' For near on forty years,' said Gotham. 
 
 'You have felt that something must be 
 done, and yet you could not, with respect for 
 yourself, your name and position, in any way 
 countenance a claim. Now you have, with 
 your usual sagacity, hit on a mode of extri- 
 cation out of the dilemma. Eely on me. I 
 am a plain, straightforward man, and I will 
 execute your wishes with fidelity, should the
 
 AN INSULT 101 
 
 time come when I am called on to do so ; 
 
 but ' Cornellis laughed. ' By Jove ! 
 
 Gotham, which is the most likely to outlive 
 the other? I have been battered about in 
 the East and in Africa, and have had fevers 
 and privations ; whilst you — you tough old 
 fox-liunting squire, lapped in luxury, have a 
 constitution like heart of oak, only tempo- 
 rarily troubled by neuralgia — all brought 
 about by external worry — produced by that 
 insinuatino^ woman. Don't tell me the con- 
 trary — she ran away with you She was 
 half a dozen years older than yourself. 
 
 ' Only two.' 
 
 ' A woman ripens before a man, in wits as 
 in everything else. She drew you on — it was 
 a plant ; and uncommonly lucky you were to 
 get out of your difficulty as you did. I am 
 not sure, you clever dog, that you had not 
 prepared the loop-hole beforehand.' 
 
 ' On my honour, it was not so.' 
 
 ' In love, as in war, all is fair,' said Corn- 
 ellis. ' In this little game the play was first- 
 rate. It was checkmate after the first two 
 moves.' 
 
 Mr. Gotham held out his glass for more 
 liqueur. ' As Eichard has returned, it is pos- 
 sible that Josephine may not be lost,' he said, 
 as Mr. Cornellis poured out the Chartreuse.
 
 102 I^ICOArvD CABLE 
 
 ' She is not lost ; slie lias come home.' 
 
 ' What — Josephme ! How did she escape ? ' 
 
 ' In a some-what singular manner. She 
 was blown out to sea, and picked up by the 
 lightship, wdiich also lost its moorings, and 
 was wrecked on a sandbank.' 
 
 ' What — Eichard and Josephine ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Cable was in the vessel.' 
 
 ' But not the boy. I heard he had come 
 ashore before the gale, so that Eichard was 
 alone in the boat.' 
 
 ' No, the boy was not there.' 
 
 ' Only Eichard and Josephine. That was 
 quite romantic — Paul and Virginia.' 
 
 Mr. Cornelhs bit his hp. ' Excuse me, 
 Gabriel; I do not like this joke. You are 
 clever and witty, but my daughter must not 
 be made a subject of your satire.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Cornelhs/ said Gabriel with a sigh, 
 * that was a pity, that marriage of Eichard's. 
 If he had but looked above him. If, for 
 instance, he could have aspired to your 
 Josephine.' 
 
 ' He would not have had her,' said Cornelhs. 
 
 ' Why not ? I could then, perhaps, have 
 done something^ for him throuc^h you.'" 
 
 ' I would not have suffered it.' Tlie ex- 
 missionary for a moment lost his temper. ' I 
 could not allow my daughter to marry a
 
 AN INSULT 103 
 
 common sailor, and one who is without a 
 father.' 
 
 Gabriel fidgeted in his chair, with his 
 elbows on the arms of the seat, and spilt his 
 Chartreuse down his waistcoat. ' I was but 
 supposing a case,' he said — ' supposing it for 
 my own convenience. If I had particularly 
 wished it, Justin, perhaps you would have 
 yielded. The fellow has good blood in his 
 veins, you know, though the world does not 
 know it.' 
 
 ' Exactly — the world does not ; and we 
 must consider the opinion of the world. A 
 man may have the blood of a peer ; but if he 
 is not in Debrett, he is a commoner to me. 
 Let us change the subject, Gabriel. Let us 
 go over together the list of the voters.' 
 
 ' Not now, Justin ; I cannot attend to busi- 
 ness. Do you not see how white, how twitch- 
 ing my poor cheek is ? There is a nerve 
 which reaches from the brain down the whole 
 side of the system to the small toe — that nerve 
 is just as tliough pulled and twisted and 
 nipped with pincers. I am in indescribable 
 pain. I cannot remain here any longer. You 
 wdll allow me to go upstairs ; I must have re- 
 course to my drops for relief. Take some 
 more Chartreuse. There is noyau, if you prefer 
 it, or absinthe. You will not be offended if I
 
 104 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 leave you. I have been over-wrought. I 
 shall not be in a condition to see you till to- 
 morrow afternoon ; I must have complete rest 
 after the trials and exertions of to-day.' He 
 shuffled to the door. 
 
 Cornellis did not remain after Gotham re- 
 tired. He was angered out of his usual 
 equanimity ; the suggestion made by the 
 wretched man had stung him like an insult. 
 ' That he should dare — should dare to think 
 of such a thing ! ' he muttered as he walked 
 back to Eose Cottage. ' My Josephine and 
 
 his ' He clenched his fist, and did not 
 
 complete his sentence.
 
 105 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 PAT-A-CAKE. 
 
 The cottage inhabited by Mrs. Cable with her 
 grandchildren, and by Eichard, her son, when 
 ashore, was small, bnilt of boards, painted 
 white, with green windows, and a vivid green 
 door. A good many houses in this part were 
 of wood. When a wreck was broken up, the 
 planks of the deck, sold very cheap, were 
 bought, and served for the construction of 
 cottages ; they were laid on, feathered or 
 weather-boarded, so that no joint could let in 
 wind and rain. In the west of England such 
 houses w^ould not last ; the ever moist atmo- 
 sphere w^ould bring about rot ; but along the 
 east coast the sun is hot and the air dry, and 
 these wooden houses will endure for a centur}'. 
 The cottage was tiled ; and over the brown 
 tiles was laid a trellis of wood, on which a 
 vine was stretched. The vine was not allowed 
 to extend over the wooden walls ; but it 
 rioted on the roof and there ripened its purple
 
 106 rJCILlRD CABLE 
 
 clusters. That was a great day for the elder 
 of the seven children, wlien father ascended a 
 ladder and scrambled over the roof, plucking 
 the grape bunches, sweet and Avarni from the 
 sun's kisses, and gave a cluster to each. 
 
 Between the road and the cottao'e was a 
 
 o 
 
 narrow strip of garden, hedged vv^th sweet- 
 briar. In this strip grew tulips, narcissi, 
 polyanthi, and velvety, brown, yellow-eyed 
 auriculas. The soil suited bulbs, as does that 
 of Holland. 
 
 The principal garden was at the back of 
 the cottage ; it covered an acre, and extended 
 to a ditch and a line of willows, fine trees that 
 whitened in every wind. In those willows the 
 nio:liting:ale3 built every vear. Xear the dike 
 also grew a large ungainly mulberry ; it had 
 been originally a branch of an old tree, cut off 
 by a former inhabitant of the cottage who had 
 been gardener at the Hall ; and he had stuck 
 the branch into the soil of his own garden, 
 where it had taken root and grown into a tree 
 that bore fruit in due season, but never grew 
 into a gainly, goodly tree. Nor could the 
 children enjoy all its fruit, for it leaned to- 
 wards the dike, and dropped many of its fleshy 
 berries into the water, where they floated, nib- 
 bled at by tadpoles and gudgeon. But there 
 were enough for the little ones shed upon the
 
 PAT-A-CAKE 107 
 
 gravel and grass, and tliey picked tliem up at 
 the time when they fell, and put them in bottles 
 with sugar, and ate tliem as they listed, smear- 
 ing their lips and hands Avith purple. 
 
 In the hedge were some sloe bushes 
 clipped like thorns, and the bitter blue berries 
 were also eagerly sought by the children ; but 
 they were not suffered to pick the bull ace, tiny 
 round plums off a small tree in the angle of 
 the garden. These grandmother made into 
 preserves against the season when tliere was 
 no fruit. 
 
 Now was spring, and there was promise of 
 yield ; the storm had torn off the petals of the 
 apples, but the low-growing bullace and the 
 sloe blossoms had set before the storm. 
 
 The children were all out in the sun, 
 sitting on the bank, with the sloe bushes be- 
 hind them. They wore no hats or caps ; the 
 light air played with their shining yellow hair. 
 They sat watching their father, who was dig- 
 ging in the garden ; and Mary, the eldest, had 
 the baby on her lap. Grandmother Avas with- 
 in, engaged on household duties. Numerous 
 white butterflies were about, chasing each 
 other, gambolling over the broccoli plants, and 
 seemed like flickering willow leaves adrift in 
 the air. Every Essex garden along the coast 
 has its bed of white poppies. The people
 
 108 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 sufferinix from a^ue and low fever have faith 
 in the decoction of the round seed-vessels ; 
 but there were no poppies in Cable's garden. 
 Bessie had never approved of the use of the 
 narcotic, because her mother had insisted that, 
 in Cornwall, folks got on very well without it. 
 
 Eichard had a bundle of peasticks ; and 
 after he had earthed up his early potatoes, 
 he began to stake the delicate trailing peas that 
 were already bursting into white blossom. 
 They should have been staked before ; but 
 his duties on the lightship had prevented his 
 attending to them earlier. 
 
 Little Susie sat nearest the herb-bed, which 
 was laid out on the slope to the hedge, and 
 faced the sun. A way to the beach went 
 behind this hedge ; it had a wall between it 
 and the garden — a low wall, three feet high, 
 and from the wall into the garden sloped the 
 bank. On top of it grew the sloes. The 
 wall and bank ended at the dike, and thence 
 the path dissipated itself in strands of gravel 
 among coarse turf ; a trodden way from the 
 vilLage led to the expanse of wild ground, 
 and from the edge of that every one went liis 
 own path. 
 
 Tlie herbs grown on this bank were thyme, 
 marjoram, mint, and rue. Baby, asleep on. 
 Mary's lap, had a handful of crushed young
 
 PAT-A-CAKE 109 
 
 leaves of mint in her tiny grasp. She had 
 been allowed to feel and smell the fresh leaves, 
 and had grabbed them to thrust them into 
 her mouth. When plucked away she had 
 retained a handful, and gone to sleep still 
 holding it. 
 
 The bees were busy over the garden, 
 searching in the fidl sweet flowers ; and Susie 
 watched a great bumble which was clogging 
 his hind legs with pollen from the blossoms, 
 when she was startled to see something like a 
 big spider creep from under the leafy sloes 
 and run down among the thyme towards her. 
 It was a thin white human hand, with the 
 nerves strongly accentuated, and the blue veins 
 puffed on the back. On one finger was a gold 
 ring with a bloodstone in it, engraved with 
 arms. Susie knew nothing of arms, but she 
 recognised the ring, and the bottle-green cuff 
 on the arm to which the hand belono-ed ; and 
 throwiniT herself over on her breast, she laid 
 hold of the hand with both hers, and pro- 
 ceeded to pull at the ring, which she had 
 failed to secure two days before in the grounds 
 of the Hall. 
 
 As she lay among the thyme trying to get 
 the ring off, she saw under the dense foliage 
 of the sloes, between the stems, the face of 
 the gentleman who had spoken to granny in
 
 110 EICHAHU CABLE 
 
 the Hall rounds. Slie could make out that 
 it was the same ; she saw liis pale blue watery 
 eyes aud his thin nose. The sun shone now on 
 one side of his nose, and she thought that 
 she could see crimson on the other side instead 
 of shadow. He held his finger up to his lips 
 and nose, and his head nodded. 
 
 Susie tugged at the hand and twdsted the 
 rincf, but could not o-et it off. 
 
 ' What are you about, Susie ? — crushing 
 the thyme?' called her father. 
 
 The little child turned her golden head 
 round, let go the finger, and made some 
 answer which Eichard did not catch and un- 
 derstand. When Susie looked again for the 
 hand, it was withdrawn. 
 
 Voices were audible on the path behind the 
 hedge. 
 
 'What! Mr. Gotham, you here.^ Come 
 out to solicit votes from the winkles, or to 
 tally-ho after the crabs ? ' 
 
 ' I — I don't like being chaffed,' answered 
 the gentleman. ' I am glad to see you, dear 
 Josephine, after your fortunate escape from 
 the sea.' 
 
 ' To-day is the hist meet of the harriers,' 
 said the girl. ' Why are you not with them? 
 Cousin Gotham, are not you something like 
 the crab and lobster, that assume their scarlet
 
 PAT-A-CAKE 111 
 
 when their hunting days are over, and they 
 are boiled and done for ? ' 
 
 ' Yonr peril of hfe has not improved you,' 
 complained Gabriel. ' You are very hard and 
 unkind.' 
 
 ' I ! ' laughed the girl. ' Not a bit ; only 
 I do not humbug you, like others. Now I 
 must leave you.' 
 
 ' What are you doing here, so far from 
 home ? ' 
 
 ' I have come to thank my preserver and 
 see his little ones, for whom I have brought 
 some sweetmeats.' 
 
 ' You came across the turf, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. Have I been trespassing ? Will 
 you prosecute me ? ' 
 
 Eichard Cable had heard Josephine's voice 
 and what she said. He stood upright, hold- 
 ing a pea-stick, and his face became of a warm 
 colour. He liesitated whether to leave his 
 work and go to the bank and speak to lier over 
 the hedge, or remain where he was, and wait 
 till she came. Whilst he hesitated, he heard 
 her calling him from behind the dike. 
 
 ' Mr. Cable ! Have you a plank ? I will 
 come over to you this way, instead of going 
 round by the street.' 
 
 ' There is a bridge, miss, a little farther 
 down.'
 
 112 lilCHAUD CABLE 
 
 He threw down the stick, and walked 
 along the brink of the ditch to the end, and 
 opened a wicket-gate that closed the passage 
 over a plank. 
 
 She tripped across and came through the 
 gate. ' Where are the children ? ' she asked ; 
 then answered herself : ' Oh — there ! sitting 
 in the sun. What yellow heads they all have, 
 and blue eyes. How many? Seven did you 
 say ? I see but six. Ah ! one carries the 
 baby. What a frightful burden a baby must 
 be — like an imposition at school.' 
 
 ' Did you ever, when a little child, go out 
 a walk in spring and dig up a primrose, and 
 carry it home in the lap of your pinafore? ' 
 asked Cable. 
 
 ' I did not w^ear pinafores when I went out 
 of doors.' 
 
 ' Of your frock, then ? ' 
 
 ' I dare say I may have done so.' 
 
 ' It was a burden ; but it was a delight. I 
 have seven little roots of primroses in my 
 arms, and I carry them gladly wherever I go, 
 thinking nothing of their weight,' said Eichard 
 Cable. ' Love lightens burdens.' 
 
 ' If ever I did dig up a flower, you may 
 be sure I made the nurse carry it for me.' 
 
 ' I will let no one carry mine for me,' he 
 said, and caught up the baby and kissed it ;
 
 PAT-A-CAKE 113 
 
 then Mary, held her to his heart a moment 
 and set her down agam ; then Susie, Effie, 
 Jane, Martha, Lettice ; and as he held up 
 each, he named the child, only the baby he 
 did not name — that was Bessie, called after 
 his mother. ' Look here. Miss Cornellis ; 
 Bessie is wearing the socks I knitted when we 
 were wrecked. I finished them before I got 
 home.' 
 
 ' I am not surprised at the children loving 
 you,' said Josephine. ' I should love any one 
 who cared for me.' 
 
 ' Have you no one to do that ? ' 
 
 She shook her head. ' My father — after 
 his fashion ; my aunt — after hers ; neither, 
 no one — after yours.' 
 
 He looked at her attentively. It seemed 
 to him indeed a marvellous thing that this 
 beautiful girl should complain of lack of 
 love. 
 
 ' Go on,' she said, ' with your gardening. 
 I will not disturb you. Let me sit on the 
 bank with the children and talk to them, and 
 watch you, and I will sing to them a song and 
 feed them with sweetmeats.' 
 
 Then, almost reluctantly, he returned to 
 the 2:)lanting of the pea-rods ; and as he worked 
 he looked across between the alder-sticks at 
 Josephine, who had taken a place on the 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 PJCHAED CABLE 
 
 sloping bank and thrown off lier hat, as the 
 shadow of the twmkhng willows fell atliwart 
 the place she had selected. She took out a 
 cornet from a small basket she carried, and 
 the children instinctively gathered round her. 
 
 ' It is a duty,' she said to herself — ' a duty 
 that must be gone through. I promised Cable 
 to visit and play with his white mice.' Then, 
 as she held up a candied elval plum, and the 
 little creatures raised themselves towards it 
 with wide eyes and open mouths, and their 
 golden hair rolled back over their shoulders 
 — 'After all, the creatures are pretty, and 
 perhaps less insupportable than most children 
 are,' she said to herself. 
 
 She wore a light dress, with a crimson 
 ribbon about her throat supporting a gold 
 locket. There were crimson bows on her 
 pretty dress, sprigged and spotted with rose. 
 The red agreed with her dark hair and com- 
 plexion. 
 
 Eichard Cable continued to observe her 
 as he worked. He was flattered and pleased 
 that she took notice of his children and sat 
 down among them to amuse them. 
 
 She sang to them. She had a rich, cul- 
 tivated voice; she sang the same mermaid's 
 air that she had sung in the stranded ship — 
 the som? from Oheron. Pdchard Cable could
 
 PAT-A-CAKE 115 
 
 not understand the words, knew nothing of 
 the origin of the song ; but he recalled the 
 melody at once — a lovely melody, lovely among 
 all the beautiful creations of Weber. Josephine 
 took little Bessie, the baby, in her arms, and 
 swayed the child as she sang — 
 
 O wie wogt es sich sclion auf der Fliitli, 
 Wenn die mlide Welle im Schlummer rulit ! 
 
 Cable signed to Mary, who looked round 
 to her father with a pleased face ; and Mary 
 started to her feet and ran to him when he 
 beckoned. 
 
 ' Bring me her hat ; do not let her see,' 
 whispered Cable. 
 
 Then the child rejoined the group, and 
 presently returned with the straw hat of 
 Josephine. 
 
 Eichard had stooped to the border of red 
 double daisies and gathered some, and these 
 he now thrust under the red ribbon that 
 girded the white straw. Then he resumed 
 his work ; and when Josephine had ceased 
 she heard a whistle, soft and sweet, repeating 
 from among the pea-sticks the air of the 
 mermaid's song. 
 
 ' Hark, hark ! ' exclaimed Josephine laugh- 
 ing ; 'do you hear the nightingale ? It has 
 caught my air.' 
 
 I 2
 
 116 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 ' No ! ' said little Effie. ' It is dada wliist- 
 
 ling.' 
 
 ' He knows that tune,' said Mary. ' He 
 has whistled it since he came home to us.' 
 
 Eichard Cable had not known it before he 
 heard the girl sing it on the stranded light- 
 ship ; after that, he could not shake it out of 
 his head. Why did not Cable leave his work 
 and go up to the girl and speak to her? Was 
 his w^ork of so great importance that it could 
 not be neglected for a few minutes ? Was his 
 time so precious that he could devote none of 
 it to her ? No ; he was afraid of her. He 
 was indeed attracted by her ; but the attraction 
 she exercised on him alarmed him. He had 
 thoufjht a crood deal about her since he had 
 returned home ; as the tune of the mermaid's 
 song hung about his memory, so did her face, 
 so did the words she had said, the intonation 
 of her voice, the movements of her graceful 
 body. All the time that she sang and played 
 with his children, he was aware of a power 
 exerted to draw him to her through the bar- 
 rier he built up between of pea-sticks. Never- 
 theless, he would not yield to the force, because 
 he had an instinctive consciousness that it was 
 harmful to him, would disturb his peace of 
 mind, and trouble his relations to his children. 
 She, also, as she sat with the children, wanted
 
 PAT-A CAKE 117 
 
 him to leave his gardening and come to her. 
 She was drawn to him by his simplicity, his 
 sympathy, gentleness, and truth — qualities she 
 did not meet with in her own home, and which 
 possessed a strange fascination for her. She 
 had told him to continue his work, but was 
 vexed that he had taken her at her word. 
 
 Then she called out : ' Come here, Mr. 
 Cable ! I must show you something.' 
 
 He could not refuse ; he came slowly to- 
 wards her, shyly, with his cap off, and the 
 sun on his curling hair. 
 
 ' See ! ' she exclaimed gleefully ; ' I have 
 taught your baby something. It can even 
 now enjoy Pat-a-cake Baker's man. You told 
 me on the ship that it had not reached that 
 pitch of education ; I have carried her over 
 the Eubicon.' 
 
 Cable smiled as he saw Josephine repeat 
 the infantile verses whilst she struck the 
 baby's httle palms. As the group was intent 
 on the play, they heard a cough ; and Joseph- 
 ine, looking round, was surprised to see her 
 father in the garden. She coloured, rose up, 
 and gave the baby to Mary. 
 
 ' I have come to see you, Mr. Cable,' said 
 Cornellis. ' I little supposed that I should 
 find my daughter here. She ought to be at 
 home ; it is her practising hour on the
 
 118 " RICHARD CABLE 
 
 piano ; but her late escapade has unhinged 
 her : she neither recognises what she ought to 
 do, nor is aware where she ought not to go.' 
 
 ' How did you come here, papa ? ' asked 
 Josephine, not at all abashed. 
 
 ' I came by the door of the house. Mrs. 
 Cable told me I should hnd her son in the 
 garden ; she did not tell me I would find you 
 here.' 
 
 ' She did not know. I came over the 
 dike.' 
 
 ' It is indifferent to me how you came ; I 
 shall take good care to see you back,' he said 
 coldly. ' I am here to speak not to you, but 
 to Mr. Cable.' He turned to Eichard, who 
 looked at him with a puzzled expression. 
 
 ' You were good enough to save Miss 
 Cornelhs from drowning,' said the gentleman 
 stiffly, with a cold face. ' I have felt it my 
 duty to come here to offer you a small gratuity 
 — acknowledgment, I mean, for your services. 
 I cannot in conscience allow your act to pass 
 unrewarded.' 
 
 Cable became very red. 
 
 Josephine looked sharply at him. 
 
 ' I expect no acknowledgment,' said the 
 sailor curtly. 
 
 ' You may not expect it ; but that Avill not 
 prevent your accepting it — a ten-pound note.'
 
 PAT-A-CAKE 119 
 
 Cable put liis hand behind him. ' I will 
 receive nothing, sir,' he said. ' What I did for 
 Miss Josephine was my duty. I would do it 
 for any one. I refuse an acknowledgment. I 
 am paid already, over and over, by Miss 
 Josephine's visit to-day.' 
 
 ' That is right,' said Josephine, with a flash 
 out of her brown eyes. ' I knew you would 
 refuse.' 
 
 ' Of course I do. I would do anything in 
 the world for you, if you were in any danger, 
 in any trouble ; you know that, I hope ? ' 
 
 ' I am sure of it,' said the girl. 
 
 Cable was agitated, partly with anger at 
 the proposal of the father, partly with exulta- 
 tion at the daughter's recognition of his readi- 
 ness to serve her unrewarded. 
 
 ' Papa,' said Josephine, with a wicked light 
 in her eyes and her lips twitching maliciously, 
 ' if you are really grateful to Dicky Cable and 
 wish to please him, not humiliate him, shall I 
 tell you what to do ? ' 
 
 ' What ? ' he asked frowning. 
 
 'Play Pat-a-cake with the baby.' She 
 stooped, caught up little Bessie, gave her a 
 kiss, and held the child towards her father. 
 
 Mr. Cornellis turned sharply away. ' How 
 can you be so inconsiderate, so foolish, 
 Josephine ! Come home instantly with me.'
 
 120 EIGIIARD CABLE 
 
 From beliind the sloe hedge sounded a 
 cackhng laugh ; but though Cornellis heard 
 it, he gave it no heed. 
 
 As he left the cottage with Josephine, he 
 turned to her with an ugly expression on liis 
 mouth, and said : ' You are a fool. Do you 
 not know what you are exposing yourself to ? 
 Do you not think that people will talk ? ' 
 
 ' Talk— talk about what ? ' 
 
 ' I say you are a fool. I've heard sneers 
 already — about you and that lout.' 
 
 ' AVhat lout ? ' 
 
 ' Eichard Cable.' 
 
 ' Dicky ? I do not care.'
 
 121 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ox THE TEKKACE. 
 
 JosEPHiXE lived in a condition of feud witli 
 lier father. In her heart she repented of her 
 rebelHousness ; but when present with him, 
 the antagonism broke out again, in spite of 
 good intentions. She had naturally a good 
 heart, truthful character, and abhorrence of 
 meanness, but met at every turn with evi- 
 dences of her father's insincerity and self- 
 seeking. This condition of warfare had em- 
 bittered her heart and sharpened her tongue. 
 We beo'in life as believers, and end it as 
 sceptics. We begin with trustfulness, and go 
 on through every stao'e of disillusion into 
 absolute mistrust. As children, we look up 
 to everyone ; as old men we look down on all. 
 We expect this process to take place w^ithin 
 us : to find out one subterfuge after another, 
 to discover hollowness wherever we tap, and 
 dust behind every rind ; and we are pleased 
 at the ingenuousness of the young, who believe
 
 122 PJCHArvD CABLE 
 
 all tilings to be solid and the rind to cover 
 richness. 
 
 Josephine was brought up in an atmosphere 
 so clear that no illusion was possible in it. 
 Her father's conversation dispelled all faith in 
 what is good and noble and real. His ex- 
 ample w^as level with his opinion. He made 
 no scruple to let his sister and daughter see 
 the strings that controlled his movements, the 
 hollow^ness of all his profession. Instead, 
 therefore, of beginning life as a child with 
 belief, she began with suspicion and distrust. 
 
 She was drawn to Eichard Cable and his 
 household by the contrast he and it exhibited 
 to her father and her own home. She stepped 
 at once from the scenery of a theatre to 
 natural landscape, from a hothouse to breezy 
 open air. And as that which is true and 
 wholesome always exercises attraction on a 
 nature not wholly depraved, Josephine woke 
 to consciousness of many fibres in her soul 
 linking her to the Cable family, and to ac- 
 knowledge a fascination which she could not 
 explain. 
 
 Her father did not forbid her to go to the 
 cottage ; perhaps he so completely disbelieved 
 in her obedience, that he thought it useless to 
 do so. Instead, he sneered and threw about 
 insinuations which offended her, and stirred
 
 ON THE TERRACE 123 
 
 in her the spirit of opposition, which always 
 slumbered in her heart, waiting to be aroused. 
 His remarks about Cable were so unjust and 
 ungenerous, that she resented them indig- 
 nantly ; their injustice spurred her sensG of 
 fairness into assertion. The perverse tactics 
 of Justin Cornellis recoiled on himself. Had 
 he forbidden Josephine to go to the cottage, 
 she would have obeyed sullenly, and admitted 
 in the end that he had ordered discreetly ; 
 but as he took the other course, she persisted 
 in her visits against her better judgment. 
 
 Aunt Judith exercised neither authority 
 nor influence on the wayward girl. She was 
 a lazy woman, who believed in her brotlier's 
 cleverness, and thrust all responsibilities upon 
 his shoulders. So long as she was comfort- 
 able all was well. The profitable was always 
 right, and success was the sanction of conduct 
 however tortuous. She reflected, in this, the 
 general opinion, took her tone from what pre- 
 vails. We heap scorn on Mrs. Grundy when 
 she shakes her head over the gentleman who 
 has. a good cellar, and his lady who gives 
 splendid balls ; she is only listened to when 
 she utters her doubts about the propriety of 
 calling on that couple which drives a pony- 
 chaise, and the grass-widow whose garden 
 is too circumscribed for lawn-tennis. Those
 
 124 BICHARD CABLE 
 
 who have diiFiciilty in making both ends meet 
 have every one picking at their frayed edges ; 
 but those whose incomes are double-breasted 
 are panophed as in armour. When we reckon 
 our income by hundreds, we scarce dare ex- 
 press an opinion ; but when by thousands, we 
 may calculate on our platitudes being regarded 
 as words to be treasured. We return cold- 
 shoulder to him, who, when we drop in unex- 
 pectedly, gives us cold leg of mutton at 
 dinner. A surgeon must put his groom in 
 livery and drive a dashing turn-out before he 
 receives a fee. If he walks to see his patients, 
 no one will give a fig for his opinion. I know 
 a banker who stopped a run and averted 
 ruin by putting his footman into red velvet 
 breeches : no one supposed that the bank was 
 tottering, when Jeames assumed new carnation 
 inexpressibles. 
 
 ' I wish, Josephine,' said Mr. Cornellis, 
 ' you would run across to the Hall and learn 
 what has become of Mr. Gotham. I have not 
 seen him these three days. He has not been 
 here ; and when I went to inquire, he was not 
 visible; stupified with oj^ium, I suppose. Tell 
 him that I will come over and have a game of 
 billiards with him if he be so inclined. Throw 
 in a word about Aunt Judith,' he added, with 
 a scornful lauixh.
 
 ON THE TERRACE 125 
 
 ' Yes and no, papa,' answered Josephine. 
 ' I will go, and I will say nothing about my 
 aunt.' She took her hat and went to the Hall. 
 
 Mr. Gotham was in his garden, on the ter- 
 race, and the servant c^nided her to him. ' I 
 have had the geraniums bedded out,' he said. 
 ' I like to look on. Do you see how my roses 
 are cominof out ? ' 
 
 ' Shall I tell papa you do not care for 
 billiards to-day ? ' asked Josephine, who was 
 impatient to be gone. 
 
 ' I do not know ; I will consider. Stay 
 a while, and talk to me. That will be 
 better than billiards. I am a little easier 
 to day, and am enjoying the sun. — TJiese are 
 very lovely grounds, are they not, dear 
 Josephine ? ' 
 
 ' Yery lovely.' 
 
 ' Hardly anyone sees them. It will not 
 do for me to allow people the run of them ; 
 they would pull off the branches, pluck the 
 flowers, and trample the grass. Yet, I sup- 
 pose, if I am going to stand for the county, I 
 must do this, allow a free day for the public, 
 and keep indoors all that day as a prisoner. 
 I do not mind your walking here whenever you 
 like.' 
 
 ' Thank you. Cousin Gotham.' 
 
 'It has occurred to me,' he said in a shy
 
 126 PJCIIAIJD CABLE 
 
 manner, twitching his head from side to side, 
 ' that those children I saw you witli the other 
 day might hke to see the grounds. Who 
 were they ? What were their names ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, the seven Httle daughters of Eichard 
 Cable, the lightshipman.' 
 
 ' They are pretty children. I peeped 
 through the hedge as I was passing, and saw 
 you surrounded by them.' 
 
 ' I thought I saw you peeping before I 
 went into the garden.' 
 
 ' I peeped twice — once before, once after. 
 In f\ict, I heard the chatter of little voices, 
 and sawsomethinnj shininfy under the leaves and 
 thorn-boughs : and could not make out what 
 it was, till I stooped, and then I saw it was 
 the golden hair of little children sitting on the 
 bank. Afterwards, I heard you singing to 
 them, and I peeped again. You like them, I 
 presume? What are their names?' 
 
 ' Cable.' 
 
 ' I mean their Christian names.' 
 
 ' Mary and Effie and Jane, Martha, Lettice, 
 Susan, and Bessie. I think that is the order, 
 but am not sure. Effie and Jane are twins.' 
 
 ' Bessie — Bessie Cable,' murmured the old 
 man, and he rubbed one trembling hand over 
 the other. ' I wonder why she is called Bessie. ' 
 
 'After her irrandmother.'
 
 ox THE TERRACE 127 
 
 ' Has she dark hair and dark eyes Uke — 
 hke her ? ' 
 
 ' No. All tlie children are fair, very fair. 
 They remind me of a group of cherubs' faces 
 by Sir Joshua Eeynolds.' 
 
 ' It is strange to find such beauty among 
 persons so low in life,' said Gabriel Gotham. — 
 ' Sit down, Josephine, on this garden seat by 
 me — sit and talk. I enjoy the sun ; it does 
 my neuralgia good, now that the wind is less 
 cold and without east in it. I suppose that 
 these children take after their father ? ' 
 
 ' I never saw their mother. You know 
 she is dead.' 
 
 ' I know ! — I know nothing wliatever 
 about them. Is she dead ? Oh, I did hear 
 about it. She was a maid at the rectory, I 
 fancy. Eichard might have looked higher. 
 He is a handsome man. He is not like his 
 mother.' 
 
 ' She is a very hue old woman, so stately, 
 with a grand way about her. I tliink Mr. 
 Cable derives something in his manner and 
 his reserved way from her ; but she is dark, 
 and he is fair. Did you ever know" his 
 father ? ' 
 
 ' His father ! ' Mr. Gotham started. 
 
 ' There is some mystery about liim. 
 Piichard Cable says he never saw him ; he
 
 128 PJCIIAKD CABLE 
 
 deserted Mrs. Cable when he, Eichard, was 
 an infant.' 
 
 Mr. Gotham fidgeted. ' You see those 
 httle children occasionally,' he said evasively. 
 ' Perhaps it would please them to come into 
 these grounds. I — I will have the wicket on 
 the seawall open, and you can bring them in 
 some day, and take them about ; and if they 
 like to pick any of the syringa, or laburnum, 
 or rhododendron, I shall not mind. It would 
 be pretty — would it not — to put the labur- 
 num chains about their little gold heads ? ' 
 
 ' No doubt it would please them.' 
 
 ' You will not say anything about this to 
 Mrs. Cable ; she might object. Take them 
 out for a stroll on the shore, and you will 
 find the gate unlocked. Give a push, and it 
 will opeii ; then bring them in. I shall not 
 be in the garden ; I shall know nothing about 
 their being here. No precedent will be 
 established. But say nothing to Mrs. Cable.' 
 
 'Why not? She would have no objec- 
 tions.' 
 
 ' I do not know ; she would think it an 
 intrusion. She might fear the children 
 would do damage, and forbid it. I had 
 rather you said nothing to her either before 
 or after.' 
 
 ' I will do as you wish.'
 
 ON THE TERrtACE 129 
 
 ' When ? This afternoon ? ' 
 
 ' No ; to-morrow.' 
 
 ' I — I thmk there are some empty nests 
 in the Banksian rose trailed ag^ainst the ter- 
 race walL If you look in, or hold up the 
 little ones to peep in, they may perhaps find 
 eggs there — pink and white, almond and 
 sugar. That would please them — make them 
 laugh, eh ? ' 
 
 ' I am sure it would.' 
 
 ' I shall not be here ; I shall be in my 
 room. I shall perhaps hear them laugh, and 
 it will divert me, especially if I am in pain 
 at the time. But I shall not appear, my 
 green jalousies will be down. If I appeared, 
 I might seem to sanction the intrusion, and 
 there is no knowino- where invasion would 
 stop. I should liave all tlie parish coming 
 here to pull up my bulbs, and pluck my 
 roses, and break the statues and vases. I 
 do not like the public ; it is boisterous, and 
 leaves traces where it romps of sandwich 
 papers and empty ginger-beer bottles. When 
 grounds are thrown open to it, the public is 
 noisy, and I cannot bear noise. I suffer 
 acutely in my nerves. There is a long nerve 
 
 extending from the temple to the foot 
 
 But there ; I will not speak of that. It 
 begins to twitch and shoot the moment I 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 allude to it. Eicliard Cable is a fine man, a 
 handsome man. — Look at this standard rose, 
 Josephine. Do you know what it is ? Gene- 
 ral Jacqueminot, a hybrid perennial. It is a 
 superb rose. Do you know on what it grows ? 
 On wild-brier stock. It is budded. Below 
 the bud, the root, the stem, are all wild, 
 vulgar, hedge dog-rose. I should think 
 Richard Cable was a budded rose ; we know 
 the stock is common, but — consider ! What 
 a man the father must have been, to have 
 such a tall, stalwart, handsome son ! You 
 do not knoAV Greek, Josephine, or you would 
 understand what I mean when I say anax 
 andron — a king of men.' 
 
 ' I dare say. It is a pity his father does 
 not see him. Cable is a man to be proud of; 
 he is not only a fine man, but he is a true 
 and good man.' 
 
 ' The children are pretty children, are 
 they not? Like Eeynolds's angels, you said.' 
 
 ' They are very pretty, unusually pretty 
 children.' 
 
 'They do not take after their grand- 
 mother ; Mrs. Cable is dark.' 
 
 ' But perhaps their mother was fair.' 
 
 ' Oh, their mother was nothing, a very 
 common sort of creature. If they do not 
 take after their grandmother, it must be after
 
 ON THE TEERACE 131 
 
 their grandfather. He must have been pos- 
 sessed of great personal beauty when he was 
 young.' 
 
 To this Josephine made no reply ; she 
 was not interested in the question as to the 
 appearance of the unknown grandfather. 
 
 ' There is, I hear, a good deal of high 
 quality, self-respect, and sterhng goodness in 
 Eichard Cable ? ' 
 
 'He is a thorough man.' 
 
 ' He could not have had that from his 
 mother, who is only a common woman.' 
 
 ' Why not ? She is a superior person. 
 I like her ; she is so dignified.' 
 
 ' He has not her eyes and hair. Eely on 
 it, he draws also his moral and mental quali- 
 ties from the other side. What a man that 
 father must have been ! ' 
 
 ' I do not think it or he would not have 
 deserted him.' 
 
 Mr. Gotham kicked the gravel about with 
 his toes, first with one foot, then with the 
 other, and worked a hole with his stick 
 among the shingle that covered the terrace. 
 
 ' What does your father think of Eichard 
 Cable ? ' he asked at length. 
 
 ' Papa ! Oh, he calls him a lout and a 
 booby.' 
 
 ' He does not like him ? ' 
 
 K 2
 
 132 EICIIARD CABLE 
 
 ' No — he has taken a prejudice against 
 him ; why, I cannot telh' 
 
 ' I suppose he lias done something to 
 testify to Eichard Cable his gratitude for the 
 services he rendered you ? ' 
 
 ' He offered him a ten-pound note, and 
 Eichard refused it, I am glad to say.' 
 
 'You are glad Why?' 
 
 ' Because papa should have given him 
 either a great deal, or nothing at all.' 
 
 ' Cable deserves something for his good- 
 ness to you, his care and his kindness.' 
 
 ' He deserves a great deal ; but he is too 
 proud — too much of a gentleman at heart, to 
 accept anything, offered as my father offered 
 it.' 
 
 Mr. Gotham considered a while, still 
 working a hole in the ground with the end 
 of his stick. He looked slyly out of the 
 corners of his eyes at Josephine, and then 
 down at the burrow he was making. ' It is 
 no concern of mine,' said he after a while. 
 ' But for the sake of something to talk about, 
 we will pursue the subject I suppose Cable 
 has his ambitions. What is he going to do 
 now? Go on with his duties as lightshipman, 
 or take to some otlier line of life?' 
 
 ' Nothing else offers. The ship will be 
 replaced ; I suj^pose a better one than that
 
 r r E TERRACE 133 
 
 old cut- down tub. But I fancy Elchard 
 would rather take to something Avhicli did 
 not withdraw him so much from home. I 
 heard him one day say that if he only had a 
 boat of his own, he would be a fisherman.' 
 ' Why should he not have a boat ? ' 
 'He cannot afford one. Boats are ex- 
 pensive.' 
 
 ' Why should not you give him one ? ' 
 ' I ! ' Josephine almost started to her 
 feet, she was so astonished at the proposi- 
 tion. 
 
 'Yes, you. Why not? He saved your 
 life. You feel indebted to him. Give him 
 what would make him happy. Do not ask 
 him if he will have it and give him oppor- 
 tunity of declining ; make it his.' 
 
 ' But, Mr. Gotham ' — her liandsome face 
 was flushed as she turned it to him — ' how 
 can I ? I have no money — tliat is to say, of 
 course I shall have my mother's money some 
 day; but my father is trustee, and my guardian, 
 and would not let me have the sum for the 
 purpose. Nothing would please me better 
 than to give this surprise and gratification to 
 a kind, good man. But it is not of any use 
 proposing it to my father ; he would not hear 
 of it ; he would cover me with ridicule, jeer 
 at the suggestion, and dismiss it.'
 
 134 mCHARD CABLE 
 
 'But I suppose that, when of age, you 
 can claim your money to do with it what you 
 wiU?' 
 
 ' I do not know. I am of age next month ; 
 but it does not follow that I shall get my 
 money if I ask for it. I am not going to 
 have a lawsuit with my father for it.' 
 
 ' I will make a suggestion, Josephine,' said 
 the old man, still working his stick, and work- 
 ing it faster. ' I have money at my disposal 
 which I am ready to lend you for this pur- 
 pose. You shall borrow it of me, giving 
 me an acknowledgment, and you shall buy 
 Eichard a ship. There is a new and beauti- 
 ful little cutter being built by Messrs. Grimes 
 and Newbold. She is very nearly ready for 
 sea. What do you say to buying her and 
 fitting her up with everything necessary, and 
 presenting her to Eichard Cable ? ' 
 
 ' My father will never allow it.' Jose- 
 phine's face was burning, her dark eyes 
 sparkUng. 
 
 ' Do not say a word about it to him. The 
 arrangement is between you and me. I think 
 with you that some fitting acknowledgment 
 should be made to Eichard. He was right 
 to refuse ten pounds. Tlie world will cry 
 shame on your father and you unless some- 
 thing be done for your preserver. Do not
 
 ON THE TERRACE 135 
 
 bring me in. I lend you the money ; I do 
 nothing more. I am ignorant of the purpose 
 for which you borrow it — it is a business 
 transaction.' 
 
 ' But ' Josephine hesitated. She was 
 
 pleased with the idea, yet something in her 
 cautioned her not to close with the proposal. 
 ' But, Mr. Gotham ' — she coloured deeply — • 
 ' will not people consider it odd ? Will it not 
 give occasion to talk ? ' 
 
 ' People will suppose your father has in 
 this way recompensed Cable. They need not 
 know that he has nothing to do with it, any 
 more than they need know that I have helped 
 in the matter. The talk will be that Mr. Justin 
 Cornellis has done the right thing, and done 
 it handsomely. Do not let it get wind that 
 he offered ten pounds ; that would make talk, 
 and talk not pleasant to hear. Folk would 
 say he valued you cheaply. You shall buy 
 the boat of Messrs. Grimes and Newbold, and 
 name her.' 
 
 ' What shall she be named — the Bessie ? ' 
 
 ' The Bessie ! ' Mr. Gotham shrank back. 
 ' No — on no account — the Josephine.'
 
 136 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 Jacob's ladder. 
 
 ' You have been a long time at the Hall,' said 
 Mr. Cornellis, when his daughter returned 
 with a lieightened colour. 
 
 ' Have I ? I did not know I had been 
 absent any considerable time.' 
 
 ' The hour and a half must have passed 
 very agreeably. You do not usually find the 
 society of that old imbecile entertaining ; nor 
 he 3^ours sufficiently pleasant to make him 
 care to detain you. Perhaps,' he added with 
 a sneer, ' you have been elsewliere.' 
 
 ' I have not been elsewhere, papa.' 
 
 ' And pray , what has kept you all this wliile ? ' 
 
 ' We have been talking.' 
 
 ' Does he want me to play billiards with 
 him ? ' 
 
 Josephine considered a moment, then 
 laughed, and said : ' Eeally, papa, I do not 
 know. I forget. If he told me, I do not re- 
 member.'
 
 Jx\COB-S LADDER 137 
 
 ' Your conversation must have been 
 miglitily engrossing if you cannot recall an 
 answer to a message. What was it about ? ' 
 
 ' You desire me to tell you ? ' 
 
 ' no,' answered Mr. Cornelhs in his cold, 
 contemptuous tone. ' If I were to insist, and 
 you were indisposed to comply, you would tell 
 me lies.' 
 
 Josephine's cheeks flushed. She had some 
 difficulty in controlling herself sufficiently to 
 say in a subdued tone : ' Do I generally tell 
 you lies, papa ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know. I do not care to inquire. 
 I dare say you do, when asked inconvenient 
 questions.' 
 
 Josephine walked up and down the room. 
 ' Why, papa, do you always imagine evil 
 of me, and — of everyone? It is enough to 
 make one bad. Is the world full of nothing 
 but swindlers and liars and hypocrites ? ' 
 
 ' Angels do not tenant earth here.' 
 
 ' I^or devils either.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not — a generation which is a 
 mixture of both ; but the gravitation is down- 
 wards. Did you ever hear of any one flying 
 off* into angel-tenanted space ? Ko, my dear ; 
 we keep our feet planted on the earth, and 
 are insensible to centrifugal action, but alive 
 to that which is centripetal.'
 
 138 KICIIARD CABLE 
 
 ' Papa, do you remember that man on the 
 pier at Walton with an apparatus by means 
 of which he pretended he could see through 
 a brick ? ' 
 
 'What of that?' 
 
 ' He did nothing of the sort. You ex- 
 plained it as an optical deception, contrived 
 by a series of mirrors liid in the apparatus. 
 Those who peered through the spyglass 
 thought they saw through a brick, but they 
 did nothing of the kind.' 
 
 ' Eight : it was a deception.' 
 
 ' Well, I believe you are equally deceived 
 when you assert that you see through every 
 one you come across.' 
 
 Mr. Cornellis bit his lip. He turned testily 
 to his daughter and said : ' You need not pace 
 the room as if you were still striding the deck 
 of the lightship.' 
 
 She desisted at once, and left the room. She 
 went out of the house, through the garden gate, 
 upon the seawall, and walked there. The tide 
 was out ; a wide expanse of mud showed, and 
 the mud exhaled its usual unsavoury steam. 
 Gulls made a clatter over it, collecting food ; 
 a heron rushed up and flew away as Jose- 
 phine approached where it fed. The tears 
 were in her eyes. She was hurt by her father's 
 remark that she w^ould answer him with lies.
 
 JACOBS LA.DDER 139 
 
 She knew his ways of thinkmg and speaking ; 
 she had rebelled occasionally heretofore ; her 
 conscience had acquired fresh sensitiveness 
 of late, and she shook off his ugly scepticism, 
 as false to human nature. She had seen a 
 true man, had met with genuine unselfish 
 love, and had felt the charm it exercised. 
 She began to suspect that there was a poetry 
 and picturesqueness and music in the moral 
 sphere as well as in mere external nature. 
 She had been taught by her father, or had 
 gathered from his conversation, scorn for the 
 weaknesses of humanity, and now, with 
 genuine surprise, perceived that there was 
 infinite pathos and beauty in those very w^eak- 
 nesses. 
 
 The willows were quivering in the light 
 wind, the leaves slenderly attached to the stem 
 fluttered and flickered with a breath — their 
 vibration exposed their silver lining. At one 
 moment the trees stood dark against the sky, 
 then a feeble pufi sweeping over the mud-flat, 
 brushed up the leaves, and converted the 
 whole tree into a tree of snow exquisitely beau- 
 tiful, a very tree for fairyland. Josephine did 
 not walk up and down the seawall, lest she 
 should seem to be pacing a deck ; she felt in 
 her heart her father's sneer. Accordingly, 
 instead of pacing to and fro, she walked along
 
 140 raciiARD cable 
 
 it, and came, unintentionally, to the willows 
 and the dike, and looked into Cable's garden. 
 Thence she heard children's voices. She went 
 to the bridge, crossed the water, and entered 
 the garden. She was drawn on by an invin- 
 cible attraction. She saw a ladder set against 
 the side of the house, a short ladder, for the 
 cottage was but one storey high, and Eichard 
 Cable was above the ladder on the roof, 
 pruning the vine. He had his foot on tlie 
 topmost rung, but rested his body on the 
 trelhs ; and as he lopped off a young shoot 
 with leaves and tendrils, he stooped with it to his 
 little Mary, who sat just below her father's foot 
 on a lower bar; and she stooped and handed 
 the cluster of leaves to Effie, who sat a stage 
 lower ; Effie handed it to her twin-sister, and 
 Jane to Martha, and she to Lettice, and Lettice 
 to Susie, and at the bottom sat Mrs. Cable 
 with the baby, and insisted on the tiny hands 
 receivino^ the cool beautiful leaves from the 
 little sister. The pretty children were thus 
 on steps of the ladder one above the other, 
 with the evening sun on their shining golden 
 heads and white pinafores, and their smiling 
 faces and dancing blue eyes. 
 
 Presently, Cable called for some tying bast, 
 and the baby was made to hold it to Susie, 
 who received it and raised her arms over her
 
 JACOBS LADDER 141 
 
 head, when Lettice bowed and took the bast 
 and passed it in like manner above her head 
 to Martha, wlio in similar style delivered the 
 bast to Jane, and so to Effie, and Effie like- 
 wise to Mary, and Mary to her father. The 
 children were seated as masons on a ladder, 
 when loading a scaffold. 
 
 Josephine stood where she had crossed, 
 looking at the j)ictnre. It strangely moved 
 her, it w^as so beautiful a picture of peaceful 
 happiness. She did not know whether she had 
 been observed. She hoped that she had been 
 unobserved, and drew back. She would not 
 break the happy chain, disturb the simple 
 pleasure, by her appearance. She went back 
 over the plank to the farther side of the moat, 
 where were the willows, and walked on. 
 
 She felt very lonely, more so, after having 
 witnessed this simple domestic interlude, than 
 before. She thouo^ht of her father. What 
 would have been his remark on what she had 
 witnessed ? The thought of him took the 
 poetry out of the scene. She seated herself 
 on the wall, built of chalk blocks brought 
 from Kent by sea. Southernwood sprouted 
 from the chinks, and fescue-grass ; and sea- 
 lettuce, now vividly green, pushed up its juicy 
 fronds. She pulled some blades of grass and 
 bit the wiry stems. Slie contrasted her life
 
 142 EICIIARD CABLE 
 
 with that of Cable. His was direct, real, and 
 transparent. Hers was twisted, artificial, and 
 clouded. There was not a spark of sincerity 
 in it. Her whole course of education had 
 been directed towards making her false. She 
 had been taught accomplishments, not because, 
 in music, in history, in knowledge generally, 
 there was anything worth pursuit, but because 
 it was necessary for her to be acquainted with 
 sufficient to fill her place in conversation with- 
 out exposing ignorance. She took a sprig of 
 white southernwood between her hands and 
 rubbed it, and was suffused with the strong 
 odour from the bruised leaves. 
 
 The tide was running in along a channel 
 between tlie seawall and the mudbanks, sweep- 
 ing along with it fragments of seatangle, little 
 green crabs, and various small shells. She 
 pulled off her stockings and shoes and put her 
 foot down into the running; fresh water. She 
 still bit the fescue-grass, musingly, looking 
 into the tide as it curled about her delicate 
 foot. It was a pleasure to be alone, and free 
 to do as she liked ; to sit, if she chose, with 
 one foot in the water instead of two. She 
 was startled to hear a step behind her. She 
 looked round, pulled the grass out of her 
 mouth, and drew up her foot. 
 
 Eichard Cable was there. ' Miss Corn-
 
 JACOBS LADDER 143 
 
 ellis, I saw you pass our gate. As you did 
 not come to us, I have come to you.' 
 
 ' Mr. Cable ! ' — she always called him 
 Mr. to his face, only ' Dicky ' when speaking 
 of him to her father — ' I did not like to in- 
 terrupt you whilst you were pruning your 
 vine.' 
 
 ' I was giving my pets a lesson,' he said. 
 
 ' A lesson ! Of what sort ? ' 
 
 ' A double lesson — to take their several 
 seats and sit there content ; and to form a 
 part of the great chain of life, each assisting 
 and assisted by the other.' 
 
 ' What ! ' exclaimed Josephine, with a 
 tinge of her father's sarcasm in her tone. 
 ' Delivering a moral lecture to the infants ! ' 
 
 ^ No,' he answered. — ' May I stay here a 
 moment by you, miss ? I said nothing to 
 them. They take in these ideas naturally. 
 Did you see how they were, all of them, dear 
 mites ! on the ladder, and me at top, passing 
 things up and down P It is not necessary for 
 me to give a lecture on it. They couldn't 
 understand it now if I did ; but afterwards, 
 when each takes her place in the social scale, 
 she'll maybe remember how she sat on the 
 ladder, and will pass good things down to 
 those below, and also hand up what is due to 
 those above. It is a picture of life, miss.'
 
 144 rJCIIAIlD CABLE 
 
 ' You are a moralist, Mr. Cable.' 
 
 ' I don't know tliat, Miss Cornellis ; but I 
 
 have time to think aboard my ship, and turn 
 
 tilings about in my head, and so I see much 
 
 that escapes others who are in active work and 
 
 have no leisure for considering. In autumn, 
 
 when the grapes are ripe, I shall be on the 
 
 trellis again, and all the children on the 
 
 ladder. Then I shall pass down the bunches ; 
 
 and the first bunch Mary will deliver to EfRe, 
 
 and Effie to Jane, and so down to baby, and 
 
 not one of them will touch a grape. Then the 
 
 next will go down like to Susie, untasted by 
 
 all those above, and the third to Lettice, and 
 
 the fourth to Martha, and the seventh and 
 
 last to Mary. I need not give a word of 
 
 teaching about it ; they learn of themselves that 
 
 the strong and the older, and those high up, 
 
 must stoop to help the weak and the young and 
 
 the lowly. It comes of itself, without words.' 
 
 ' I do not know that your picture is a true 
 
 parable,' said Josephine rather bitterly. 'I 
 
 think that on the ladder of life we are all 
 
 plundering the grapes and upsetting each 
 
 other, to secure our seats and the first touch 
 
 of the clusters.' 
 
 ' The children will not do that ; they see 
 their father above them.' Then Pdchard Cable 
 said in a lower tone, with great gentleness in
 
 JACOB'S LADDER 145 
 
 his voice : ' Excuse me, Miss Cornellis ; I 
 came to you now because, whilst I was up the 
 ladder about the vine, I saw at one moment 
 all the seven pairs of blue eyes looking up to 
 me — and then I thought of something you 
 had said aboard the stranded boat, and I 
 came down after you to tell you about it, for 
 what you said troubled me.' 
 
 ' What was that ? ' asked Josephine. 
 
 ' Do you remember saying that you had 
 no trust, no faith ; nothing and no one to 
 look up to ? ' 
 
 'I may have said it. T do not remember.' 
 
 ' I do. It hurt me to think it was possible ; 
 and when I saw all the little eyes on the lad- 
 der looking up to their father — I thouglit of 
 a pair of brown eyes that were not uplifted. 
 Excuse me, miss.' He stood up, and without 
 another word walked away along the seawall. 
 
 Then Josephine let down her foot again 
 into the water and stirred it in the transparent 
 stream, and thought. Her face was grave, 
 and the muscles about her mouth worked, 
 and every now and then twitched convulsively. 
 She sat on till the tide, rising higher, drove 
 her from where she sat ; then she put on her 
 stockings and shoes again, and walked slowly 
 along the seawall homewards. As she passed 
 the garden of the Cables she looked into it 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 without stopping. The children, Eichard, 
 were no longer there. The shadows of the 
 great willows fell athwart the garden, cool 
 and gray. She went on to her own home, 
 and in and to her own room. There she saw 
 her jacket thrown on the bed ; her soap, 
 which after she had last washed her hands, 
 had slipped off the marble top of her stand, 
 lay on the floor where it had fallen. Her 
 comb was on the pincushion, her brush in 
 the window, one of her walking-boots on the 
 hearthrug, the other on a chair. She was 
 angry, and went to the bell to summon the 
 maid and scold her for neglect. But it 
 occurred to her, as she had her hand on the 
 rope, that her father was expecting company 
 to dinner. The household was not large, and 
 the few servants were required to bestir them- 
 selves and make a show. Anne was cleaning 
 the plate ; she was parlour-maid, lady's-maid, 
 and butler all in one. Anne must lay the 
 cloth, have the silver and glass in excellent 
 order, answer the door, dress the table with 
 flowers, and bring in dinner. How could she 
 also attend to Josephine's room ? 
 
 ' On the ladder, on occasion, we must stoop 
 and help each other,' said Josephine, letting go 
 the bell-pull, half pouting, half smiling, and 
 bending to gather up the fallen piece of
 
 JACOB'rf LADDER 147 
 
 almond curd soap. ' I know what I will do 
 — I will do more on the ladder. I will go 
 doAvn and arrange the flowers in the glasses 
 for the table.' 
 
 Whilst she was thus engaged, her father 
 came into the dining-room. 
 
 ' Papa,' she said, ' will you, or shall I, 
 decant the wine ? ' 
 
 ' I will do it. We must not have the 
 cheapest. The rector pretends to know good 
 from bad ; but he is an impostor. His son, 
 who is in the army, may have a more cultivated 
 taste, and detect rubbish, so we must have 
 some decent wine for him.' 
 
 ' Is any one else coming ? ' 
 
 ' The rector's wife — that is all. I do not 
 want a large party to-night. Dress becom- 
 ingly, and show your best manners. When 
 I bring out my inferior wines, you may wear 
 what you like, and be rude. Behave yourself 
 to-night ; lay yourself out to please.' 
 
 ' To please whom ? The rector ? ' 
 
 ' No ; liis son. Captain Sellwood.' 
 
 ' And pray, papa, why should I make an 
 effort to please him ? ' 
 
 ' Because I always thought he admired 
 you. He is heir to a good fortune ; and it 
 is important that you should not let him 
 slip through your fingers.'
 
 148 rJCIIAPtD CABLE 
 
 Josephine's brow reddened, and lier eyes 
 sparkled with an angry hght. 
 
 Mr. Cornelhs looked coldly at her, and 
 said : ' Do not put on stage attitudes and 
 attempt heroics. I have invited the family 
 here solely on your account. If you do not 
 provide for yourself, I will not provide for you.' 
 
 ' I have no particular eagerness to fish for 
 husbands ; I have no taste for that sport.' 
 
 'It is high time, Josephine, that you should 
 understand your position. I am nearly at the 
 end of my means.' 
 
 ' There is my mother's fortune,' said the 
 girl with a shrug of the shoulder and a toss 
 of her head. 
 
 ' Dissipated, my dear.' 
 
 ' How dissipated ? It is mine.' 
 
 ' I was left trustee with full power to ex- 
 pend what was necessary on your maintenance 
 and education.' 
 
 'That has not exhausted it.' 
 
 'It matters not how it is gone — gone 
 it is.' 
 
 ' Then,' said Josephine bitterly, ' you mis- 
 stated the situation, papa, by the use of a 
 wrong possessive pronoun, when you said that 
 you were nearly at the end of }' our means ; 
 you should have said you had come to the 
 end of my means.'
 
 J.ICOBS LADDER 149 
 
 ' I am not going to excuse myself to you,' 
 Mr. Cornellis said. ' Your education, dress, 
 and caprices have cost much money. The 
 little fortune your mother left ' 
 
 ' Papa,' exclaimed Josephine, ' I always 
 heard that my mother was well off.' 
 
 ' Then you heard wrong. Her relations 
 were displeased with her for marrying me, 
 and she got nothing but what could not be 
 kept from her. A good deal of that went 
 before she died.' 
 
 ' JSTot all — there is surely the principal.' 
 
 ' The principal has been going like old 
 Stilton. There is not much left ; and before 
 it is known that you are portionless, you must 
 secure a husband.' 
 
 ' Under false pretences ? ' 
 
 'You would not blurt out to everyone that 
 we are on the eve of a financial collapse ? I 
 am not going to argue with you. A woman 
 is usually keen-Avitted in such matters.' He 
 left the room with quick steps to get the 
 wine. 
 
 Josephine had been arranging white lilacs 
 and forget-me-nots in a little opal glass vase. 
 Her hand trembled so that she shook out the 
 flowers, and they fell on the white cloth. She 
 tried to pick them up and put them in, but 
 could not do so ; and as Anne then entered.
 
 150 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 she held out the flowers and vessel to the 
 girl, and, with averted face, said : ' Finish 
 doing this for me, Anne.' Then she ran up- 
 stairs. Her cheeks were burning, her eyes 
 hot, her temples throbbing. She was angry 
 as w^ell as distressed. Her father had robbed 
 her, and had acknowledged it with effrontery. 
 Not only so, but he told her this coolly just 
 as company were expected to dinner. She 
 must bury her wrath and humiliation in her 
 heart, and appear with a smiling face, affect 
 a careless spirit, and use her efforts to entrap 
 a man into an engagement, letting him be- 
 lieve her to be the mistress of a handsome 
 fortune. 
 
 She leaned her elbows on the window-sill 
 and looked over the garden out to sea. The 
 tide was in, the bay was full of blue water. 
 The sun had set, a still, sweet evening closed 
 in the day. She saw a flight of white and 
 brown winged fishing-boats coming in with 
 the wind and tide. The sailors were returning 
 to their homes with their spoils, to spend a 
 quiet Sunday with their wives and children 
 and parents ; they were returning with light 
 consciences ; they had earned the bread for 
 all the mouths that depended on them. It 
 was otherwise in Eose Cottage. There, thought 
 Josephine, the father, instead of laying by for
 
 JACOB'S LADDER 161 
 
 his child, has wasted her fortune, and then 
 bids her go forth and fish for herself with 
 the net of fraud. 
 
 Her chin rested m her hands ; her brows 
 were knit ; her lips quivered. No tears came 
 into her eyes. ' Was there ever,' she said, ' a 
 more miserable, forlorn girl than I ? What I 
 said to Eichard Cable is true. I have no one 
 to whom I can look up. My ladder is lost in 
 cloud.'
 
 152 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE SELLWOODS. 
 
 Mr. Cork'ELLIS could make himself an ac^ree- 
 able host, and he took pams that evening to 
 make it pass pleasantly to his guests. The 
 rector was a florid man, a gentleman of good 
 family, easy-going, generous, never harsh in 
 judging anyone, perhaps too ready to make 
 allowances for the shortcomings of his parish- 
 ioners. He, like Mr. Cornellis, knew the 
 weaknesses of human nature, but made a dif- 
 ferent use of his knowledge. When his 
 gardener had been detected selling his pears 
 and grapes to a fruiterer at Walton, he 
 shrugged his shoulders and said it was human 
 nature, lectured him, but did not dismiss him. 
 When he heard that some of his Sunday-school 
 teachers had got into moral scrapes, he said : 
 ' It is human nature ; w^e must lind substi- 
 tutes ; ' and when Mrs. Sellwood showed him 
 lumps of alum in the bread, he laughed, and 
 said : ' Millers and bakers are human beings ! '
 
 THE SELL WOODS 153 
 
 and would not take away his custom. On 
 Christmas Day, his clerk was tipsy, and put in 
 his Aniens wrong. ' After all,' said the rector, 
 ' it is human nature to rejoice on this day : 
 we will pass it over.' 
 
 His son. Captain Sellwood, was home from 
 India, a handsome, ox-eyed man, with hght 
 hair, but dark eyelashes, a man with an inex- 
 pressive face and solemn inscrutable eyes. He 
 was not a man of words. He sat listening? to 
 conversation, twiddlinsf his moustache and 
 sharpening it to needle-points, with his great 
 gloomy eyes on tlic speakers, moving tliem 
 from one to the other as they interchanged 
 talk, but saying nothing himself. Some con- 
 sidered him stupid. This was not the case ; 
 he had plenty of intelligence, but he was not 
 a talker. Ladies condescended to him, and 
 tried to draw him out on the subject of India ; 
 but though he could speak on Indian topics, 
 he felt that he was condescended to wlien 
 India was brought on the carpet, and he left 
 India lying there. 
 
 He felt keenly his inability to sparkle in 
 society ; the consciousness came on him in 
 spasms. When such a spasm of conscious- 
 ness came on, he uncrossed his legs and put 
 the right leg over the left ; at the next spasm, 
 he put the left leg over the right. Some
 
 154 IIICIIAPJ) CABLE 
 
 people, as already said, declared that Captain 
 Sellwood's silence arose from stupidity ; otliers 
 said, from liver ; others, again — and these 
 were in the right — that liis father had talked 
 him down. The rector was a ready man in 
 conversation, and fond of liearing his own 
 voice. At his own table he monopolised the 
 conversation, and this had affected the captain 
 when he was a boy, and had made of him a 
 listener, not a speaker. He had a wondering 
 admiration for light badinage and small joking, 
 for he was wholly incompetent to attain to 
 sportiveness. 
 
 Mr. Cornellis took in Mrs. Sell wood ; and 
 the rector gave his arm to Aunt Judith ; 
 therefore, Josephine fell to the captain. She 
 screwed up her mouth. She was not pleased, 
 both because he was a dull partner and she 
 was not in a humour to talk ; but also, and 
 chiefly, because she knew her father's inten- 
 tions, and her spirit rose in rebellion against 
 him and his schemes. 
 
 ' It is with dining as witli virtue,' said Mr. 
 Cornellis. ' We shoidd love eating as we love 
 virtue, for its own sake, not for what it may 
 advantage us. — You will have sauterne with 
 your fish, captain — tell me your opinion of it. 
 I flatter myself it is good.' Captain Sellwood 
 bowed and said, ' Very nice,' but in sucli a
 
 THE SELLWOODS 155 
 
 toneless way that Cornellis was unable to dis- 
 cover what his real opinion was. Cornellis 
 always made much of his wines, talked of 
 their age, bouquet, and brand, as if he had a 
 first-rate cellar ; whereas he had no cellar at 
 all, only a cupboard in the coal-hole where he 
 kept a few dozen, and got his wine in as he 
 wanted it. But by talking about his wine, 
 and telhng stories concerning the way in 
 which he picked up this lot and that lot at 
 sales or from old friends, he had acquired the 
 credit of being not only a connoisseur, but of 
 giving first-rate wine at his table. 
 
 The sauterne on this occasion was good. 
 It was not alwa3^s so ; but this evening Corn- 
 elhs did his utmost to catch the captain for 
 his daughter, and did not withhold his best 
 either in eating or in drinking. He used to 
 say that Zriny, Ban of Croatia, when he went 
 against the Turks, put purses full of gold 
 under his belt, so that if he fell, the enemy 
 might hold his body in esteem ; thus would 
 all the world esteem the man who put good 
 dinners under his waistcoat. The rector and 
 his son would hardly suspect their host to be 
 on the verge of bankruptcy when he gave 
 them so excellent a repast. 
 
 But the captain, thougli he liked a good 
 dinner, was not a man to lay store by it, and,
 
 15G rvICIIARD CABLE 
 
 perhaps, after the spiced dishes of India, he 
 preferred plain Enghsh roast and boiled joints 
 to any entremets, however delicate. He would 
 have preferred a seat opposite Josephine, where 
 he could have looked at her, instead of a place 
 at her side, where he was obliged to talk to 
 her. His observations came at intervals, and 
 had no connection with each other. He said 
 something about the weatlier, then was silent ; 
 and after ten minutes, asked Josephine if she 
 painted now ; when she said tliat she did not, 
 he fidgeted with his napkin, wiped his mous- 
 tache, listened to what his father and Miss 
 Judith were talking about, and then inquired 
 whether Josephine's aunt had been well during 
 the preceding winter. 
 
 The jovial rector was in full flov/ of talk 
 about parish matters. ' I've no right to be 
 here,' he said ; ' I ought to be in prison with 
 hard labour for a month. Instead of improv- 
 ing my parishioners, I demoralise them. What 
 do you think is my last experience ? I par- 
 celled out my glebe so that some of the 
 labourers might have fields and keep cows. 
 I thought it hard that they should not have 
 sometliing to supplement their earnings on the 
 farm. I even lent a couple of them money 
 to buy covrs. John Ilarvey was one, and he 
 has got a month for it now.'
 
 THE SELLWOODS 157 
 
 ' How SO, rector ? ' 
 
 ' Because he has been steahnc^ mancfold and 
 turnips through the winter to feed his cow 
 with, from Farmer Barons, with whom he 
 worked. Barons thought his mancfold was 
 going, and so set a pohceman to watch ; then 
 Harvey was caught. He argued that his cow 
 must not starve, and that he had not the land 
 or capital to till rootcrops for her, and that 
 I Avas to blame for letting him have the cow. 
 He was once an honest man ; I had converted 
 him, with the best intentions, into a thief.' 
 
 ' He is let off pretty easy,' said Aunt 
 Judith. 
 
 ' Tliat is not all. The farmers who em- 
 ployed the other men that have cows have 
 given them notice to leave their service, so 
 they will be thrown out of situations and lay 
 the blame on me.' 
 
 ' Is it not usually the case,' said Josephine, 
 ' that when we seek to do good we blunder 
 into mischief? Therefore, it is best to let men 
 go their own wretched way for themselves.' 
 
 Captain Sellwood turned and looked at the 
 girl fixedly ; his great eyes said nothing, but 
 he wondered in his heart that one so vouDf>^ 
 should speak with such want of feeling. 
 
 ' I don't agree with you. Miss Josephine,' 
 said the rector. ' It is human to err. We do
 
 158 RICHAPtD CABLE 
 
 not see things from all sides at once, and so 
 we make mistakes. Some suffer ; but we learn 
 lessons, and correct our mistakes.' 
 
 ' We should try our experiments on our- 
 selves, not on others,' said Josephine. ' You 
 have been practising on the peasant, and the 
 result is that the peasant has to suffer, not 
 you.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon ; I suffer also. I shall 
 not see back the twenty pounds I lent for the 
 cow.' 
 
 ' It seems to me that you good people are 
 always making plans for the bettering of 
 others, and all your plans when carried out 
 aggravate the evil. Leave the poor and suf- 
 fering alone, to work out their problems for 
 themselves.' 
 
 The great ox eyes of the captain were 
 again on Josephine, and they annoyed her. 
 She was determined, if possible, to bring some 
 life into them, so she said : ' I believe in living 
 only for self. Every animal does it. Why not 
 we ? We involve ourselves in a tangle when 
 we begin to consider others, and get no thanks 
 for our pains. Let us all light our own way, 
 and slap each other in the face if he per- 
 sists in encumbering our path. I want help 
 from no one, and will give no help to any 
 one.'
 
 THE SELLWOODS 159 
 
 ' My clear Josephine,' said her father in a 
 tone of sad reproach, but with eyes that ex- 
 pressed anger, ' you are talking at random.' 
 
 'Not a bit. I have well considered tlie 
 law of existence. That is my law, simple, 
 straightforward and successful, like, yes, like 
 the way of the sea-nettle in the tide.' 
 
 ' I do not think, my dear,' said the rector, 
 ' that it is a way that w^ill draw after it a wake 
 of love and light.' 
 
 ' I speak what I think and feel,' said 
 Josephine, disregarding her father's warning 
 glances, encouraged by perceiving some ex- 
 pression in the ox eyes of the captain, like a 
 cat's-paw of wind in a quarry pool. 
 
 ' No, my dear,' said the rector, with a 
 cheery smile on his red face ; ' I won't allow 
 that you feel and think this, though you say 
 it. Neither will I admit for a moment your 
 likening yourself to a sea-nettle. To a cactus, 
 if you choose — that has on it needles. A girl 
 sometimes puts forth a bristle of sharp and 
 piquant speeches ; but it is not human nature, 
 any more than it is cactus nature to produce 
 only stings — the flower bursts out in the end, 
 large, glorious, beautiful, and we forget all 
 about the bristles as we stand over and admire 
 the flower.' 
 
 Josephine went on maliciously : ' Mrs. Sell-
 
 IGO KICIIARD CABLE 
 
 •vvood lias been most kind to that boy Joe 
 Cudmore.' 
 
 ' Yes ; he is crippled with rheumatism, and 
 bedridden.' 
 
 ' She lias spent hours in the dirty cottage 
 and the insufferable stuffiness of the sickroom 
 teaching the boy to read.' 
 
 ' Well — yes,' said the rector. ' It was so 
 sad to see the poor fellow confined to his bed 
 with nothing to relieve tlie tedium.' 
 
 ' And — with what result ? ' 
 
 ' He can read.' 
 
 ' Exactly. I was in the cottage the other 
 day. We wanted the mother to come and 
 char for us, and I found him devouring the 
 police intelligence. You have roused in him 
 a hunger for criminal biography.' 
 
 ' He reads his Bible too.' 
 
 ' I saw his Bible ; you gave him one, with 
 red edo;es, and the edf^es stuck toc^ether. It 
 
 O ' CD O 
 
 had not been read. What chance has the 
 story of Abraham against that of Eush who 
 murdered a household ? That boy longs to 
 recover the use of his limbs that he may emu- 
 late the glorious deeds of burglars, or at least 
 of pickpockets.' 
 
 ' Y^ou paint things in extreme colours,' said 
 the rector, a little discouraged. 
 
 ' And the schools,' continued Josephine —
 
 THE SELL WOODS 161 
 
 ' I knoAV how enthusiastic you are about them. 
 The education given there has unfitted all the 
 young people for the work required of them, 
 or has given them a distaste for it. The 
 farmers complain that of the risinc^ e^eneration 
 not one lad understands hedging ; and their 
 wives, that the girls will have nothing to do 
 with milking cows and making butter.' 
 
 ' I remember,' said the rector, in an apolo- 
 getic tone — he was unable to deny that there 
 was truth in Josephine's words — ' I remember 
 some years ago there was not a man or woman 
 in my congregation wlio could use the Prayer- 
 book and Hymnal.' 
 
 ' And now,' said Josephine, ' that they can 
 use them, they value them so little that the 
 fires in the stove are lighted with the torn 
 pages out of them ; and the road between 
 the school and church is scattered with 
 dishevelled sacred literature.' 
 
 Then the captain said : ' Am I to under- 
 stand that you think no attempt should be 
 made to do any good to any one ? ' 
 
 ' To any one except ourselves — yes,' an- 
 swered Josephine. 
 
 ' You would in India allow suttees to con- 
 tinue, and Juggernaut's car to roll on and crush 
 bones for ever unobstructed ? ' 
 
 * Why not ? Is not India becoming over- 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 KICHARD CABLE 
 
 peopled, and tlie problem springing up, what 
 is to be done with the overflow of population ? ' 
 
 'I think,' said Mr. Cornellis with sup- 
 jDressed wrath, ' I will ask you, rector, to 
 return thanks.' 
 
 ' No,' said the rector ; ' I am not going to 
 say grace on such a sentiment. My dear Miss 
 Josej)hine, we must not shirk a duty because 
 it opens the door to a problem. It is the very 
 fact that we are meeting problems which duty 
 insists on our solving, that gives a zest and 
 purpose to life. We make our blunders — 
 well, that is inevitable ; it is human to err ; 
 and our sons profit by our experience and 
 avoid our mistakes. A child makes pothooks 
 before it draws strai2^ht lines, and strums dis- 
 cords before it finds the way to harmonies. 
 We must set an ideal before us, and aim for 
 that ; we may go wrong ways to work, but 
 with a right heart ; that will excuse our errors. 
 Now, I will say grace, if you like.' 
 
 When the ladies were in the drawing;- 
 room, Mrs. Sellwood took a low chair before 
 the fire, and in two minutes was asleep. The 
 rector's wife was an excellent woman, who 
 rose every morning at five, made her own fire, 
 did her accounts, read the lessons for the day, 
 and gardened, before the maid servants ap- 
 peared. But it is not possible for the most
 
 THE SELLWOODS 163 
 
 energetic person to burn the candle at both 
 ends with impunity, and she made up for her 
 wakefulness in the morning by sleepiness at 
 night, and invariably dozed off after dinner, 
 wherever she was. This was so well known 
 by her hosts that she was generally allowed to 
 go off quietly to sleep and have her nap before 
 the gentlemen came from their wine. 
 
 Aunt Judith made no attempt to keep her 
 guest awake ; when she saw her nodding, she 
 drew Josephine into the conservatory, and 
 said : ' My dear, how came you to speak as you 
 did at table ? You frightened the captain, and 
 shocked his father.' 
 
 ' I am glad I produced some effect on the 
 former, who seems to me to have inherited his 
 mother's somnolence.' 
 
 ' But, Josephine, you know that Captain 
 Algernon Sellwood has long been your ad- 
 mirer, and you are doing your best to drive 
 him away.' 
 
 ' Let him go. I shall breathe freely when 
 he withdraws his great dreamy eyes from me.' 
 ' My dear niece, I must be serious with you. 
 He is a man worth having ; he will have about 
 fifteen thousand a year on the death of his 
 aunt. Miss Otterbourne. He is a fine man, 
 and belongs to a family of position. You 
 could not expect to do better than take him. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 EICIIARD CABLE 
 
 I Speak now as 3^our aunt, full of interest in 
 your welfare. I must remark that your extra- 
 ordinary and repellent manner tliis evening is 
 not one to attract liim to your feet. You are 
 trifling with your opportunities, and before 
 you are aware, you will be left an old maid.' 
 
 ' I do not care. An old maid can go her 
 own way, and a married woman cannot.' 
 
 ' No, my dear ; an old maid cannot go her 
 own way, unless she has a fortune at her 
 disposal. Can I ? I am helpless, bound to 
 helplessness. I do not follow a husband ; I 
 have to follow your father. Eemember, you 
 have not a fortune. Your father has told you 
 that misfortunes have fallen on us, and your 
 money is gone. Have you made up your 
 mind not to take Algernon Sellwood, if he 
 offers ? ' 
 
 'I don't know ; I have not thought about it.' 
 
 * Do not take the matter so lightly. I am 
 eeriously alarmed about you — so is your father. 
 Sooner or later, we shall have to give up our 
 establishment, and disappear into some smaller 
 place, and cut our expenses doAvn to a low 
 fi o-ure. It is not pleasant to have to pinch 
 and clip. What stands in your way ? You 
 have never shown yourself so perverse before. 
 Upon my word, I believe your head has been
 
 THE SELLWOODS 165 
 
 turned ever since tliat unfortunate affair of the 
 lightship and Cable.' 
 
 ' Do not mention him,' said Josephine 
 abruptly. 
 
 ' Who ? Algernon Selhvood ? ' 
 
 ' No ; the other, Eichard Cable.' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' 
 
 ' Because ^vhen you do, I see what a man 
 ought to be, and the captain pales into nothing 
 before him. Whether Algernon Selhvood has 
 brains and heart, I do not know ; he is to me 
 a doll that rolls its eyes, not a man with a soul.' 
 
 ' For heaven's sake ! ' gasped poor Aunt 
 Judith, ' what do you mean, Josephine ? 
 Gracious powers ! you do not hint at such a 
 preposterous folly as that ' 
 
 ' As that, what ? Speak out ! ' 
 
 ' As that I really cannot speak it.' 
 
 ' As that I have lost my heart to Eichard 
 Cable, the lightshipman, the widower, father 
 of seven little cliildren ? No ; I have not. 
 Now, are you satisfied ? I am not such a fool 
 as you take me for.' 
 
 Aunt Judith drew a long breath. 'It 
 would be impossible for you to marry beneath 
 you — and to such a man ! ' 
 
 ' Beneath me ! — Above me. We are all 
 being dragged down. It is my fate never to
 
 166 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 have one to whom I can look up, whom I can 
 call my own. — There come the gentlemen.' 
 
 As she and Aunt Judith entered the draw- 
 ino:-room through the French window, Mrs. 
 Sellwood woke up, was wide-awake, and said : 
 ' Yes — buttered eggs ! I said so, Miss Corn- 
 ellis — buttered eggs ! ' 
 
 ' Been asleep, dear ? ' asked the rector, 
 tapping his wife on the shoulder. 
 
 ' No, Eobert. I have been talking to Miss 
 Cornellis about buttered eggs.' 
 
 ' Not even closed your eyes ? ' 
 
 ' I may have closed them to consider better, 
 but I have nothQen asleep. I have been giving 
 a receipt for buttered eggs.'
 
 167 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 AN INDISCRETION. 
 
 When the guests were gone, Aunt Judith 
 retired. She was sleepy. She had eaten a 
 good dinner, and eaten heartily, and wanted 
 her rest after it. 
 
 ' You are going to bed ? ' said she in the 
 door to her niece. 
 
 ' Eventually,' answered Josephine. ' I 
 must play some good music on the piano first, 
 to dissipate the reminiscence of Strauss and 
 Waldteufel I have been strumming.' 
 
 ' Why did you not play good music ? ' 
 
 'Because good music is desecrated if 
 played to those who don't listen, don't value 
 it, and prefer what is bad.' 
 
 Aunt Judith yawned, said nothing in reply, 
 and withdrew. 
 
 Josephine went to the window and threw 
 it open. The room was warm and close. 
 One window unfolded upon the garden ; the 
 other at right angles into the conservatory.
 
 168 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 She opened the garden Avindow and stepped 
 out to inhale the fresh air ; then, fearful of 
 catching cold, as the dew might be falling, 
 and she had on a low dress, she went in again, 
 and stood in the window, leaning against tlie 
 side, lookiniT out. She rested the elbow of 
 her right arm in the palm of her left, and held 
 her chin, with the forefinger extended on her 
 cheek. She was in a pretty rose silk dress, 
 with lace about the neck, and short sleeves. 
 The hue suited her admirably ; she had looked 
 very pretty that evening, especially when her 
 colour came and her eyes flashed with excite- 
 ment during her passage of arms with the 
 rector. In her hair was a sprig of azalea, 
 now faded, Madame van Cruyzen, a crimson 
 azalea ; and another sprig was in her bosom. 
 
 Aunt Judith, a frugal woman, had extin- 
 guished all the lights in the drawing-room, 
 except those on the piano, which she left 
 because her niece wished to play, and a little 
 lamp in the conservatory, which she forgot. 
 This latter was placed among ferns, and was 
 of red glass, so that it diffused a warm glow 
 over the plants. 
 
 Josephine did not care to play from notes, 
 so she blew out the candles before she went 
 to the window. The moon was sliining ; just 
 over the top of the palings at the bottom of
 
 AN INDISCRETION 169 
 
 the garden could be seen the sea, a quivering 
 sheet of silver, under the moon ; the evening 
 was light, so light that there seemed no black- 
 ness in the shadows, only deep blue ; the sky 
 was blue, the trees blue, the bushes blue, the 
 moonlight bluish. It may have been tlie 
 contrast to the red light in the conservatory 
 that gave Josephine this impression, the con- 
 trast of coolness of colour also to her own 
 warm tints of dress. 
 
 She thought of Captain Sellwood. She had 
 known him as a child, before he went to 
 India ; and had seen him since, when he 
 returned on leave. He had hung about her 
 whenever he came home ; she knew that he 
 liked her, and yet he never got far in showing 
 his hking. She remembered once making her 
 father laugh by calling him the ' Morbid Fly.' 
 She had meant that he clung about, was half 
 asleep, a little troublesome and not very in- 
 teresting. She had used the expression when 
 she was much younger and did not know the 
 meaning of words. She had intended to call 
 him torpid. Ever after, he had gone in the 
 house by the name of the Morbid Fly. 
 
 She knew that he was more gifted than he 
 seemed. His fellow-officers spoke highly of 
 him. He had done well in his examinations 
 before aoins^ out, so that he could not be
 
 170 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 deficient in brain ; but he was not an inte- 
 resting man. As the Frenchman said of 
 Truth : it is so precious, ' il faut la bien 
 ^conomiser ; ' so might Captain Sellwood have 
 said of his wits ; he husbanded them so jea- 
 lously that many doubted if he possessed any. 
 That he was an honourable man, Josephine 
 could not doubt. The rector was so high- 
 principled, and sound at core, that a son of 
 his could hardly fail to inherit something of 
 his good quality. On occasion, he had shown 
 that there was energy in him, but only on 
 occasion. All good qualities were in him, as 
 heat and its correlative light are in a stick 
 or a piece of lump -sugar — latent, only to be 
 made manifest by friction. There are blaze 
 and bang in a percussion cap, but they are 
 developed only by a blow ; and when not 
 beaten, a percussion cap is an uninteresting 
 object, deficient in self-assertion. 
 
 ' Eeally,' said Josephine, ' I do not want a 
 husband who will be invaluable in emergen- 
 cies, and a cypher at all other times. Besides, 
 I am not so sure that he would do and say 
 the right thing when roused. It is a weak- 
 ness of such persons often to do just what is 
 not apropos, and, like his mother, say buttered 
 eggs, wdien no one is thinking about such 
 things.'
 
 AN INDISCRETION 171 
 
 She stepped to the piano and closed it ; 
 she would not play any more that night. It 
 might disturb her father and aunt. 
 
 She would go out into the pavilion, a 
 small summer-house in the garden, on raised 
 ground that commanded a sea- view ; in it she 
 could sit, get cool, and perhaps sleepy. It 
 was of no use her going to bed now ; she was 
 far too excited to sleep. Had she spoken her 
 own opinions in her controversy with tlie 
 rector ? She had no opinions. Her moral 
 sense, her views of life, were inchoate. She 
 had merely repeated what she had heard fall 
 from her father, opinions which her mind 
 received without consenting to them, or re- 
 jecting them. Slie had measured arms with 
 the rector out of perversity, because she knew 
 that her father wished her to gain the old 
 parson's good opinion, and because she owed 
 her father a grudge for having wasted her 
 property. That she was cutting off her own 
 nose to spite herself she was aware, but in- 
 different to the consequences. That she would 
 meet with angry. rebuke, and sneers worse to 
 bear than rebuke, from her father, she also 
 knew, and did not care. She was in that 
 condition of soul most dangerous in a young 
 person, a spiritual condition analogous to that 
 of one who in a dark room has lost all his
 
 172 KICnARD CABLE 
 
 bearings, does not know where door or window 
 or table or wardrobe is ; who beats about 
 with the hands, moves this way, then that, 
 and at last goes forward desperately, knowing 
 that a blow or a fall must ensue, and give the 
 proper bearings of the room. Josephine's 
 mind was in confusion ; she hardly could dis- 
 tinguish between riglit and wrong, and she 
 was perfectly incapable of judging what was 
 her proper course. 
 
 She did not care about her fortune that 
 was squandered, because she had made no 
 scheme, built up no hopes on the future 
 when she would be her own mistress. She 
 had one passion — for music, and at one time 
 she thought of going on the stage ; so she 
 would escape from home ; but she doubted 
 whether she had the perseverance to pass 
 through the drudgery of apprenticeship for 
 the opera ; and it was to the opera she turned, 
 with her musical ear and sj)lendid voice. 
 
 There had been lonsr simmerini^ in her 
 heart indignation against her fatlier, and im- 
 patience with Aunt Judith ; and now this 
 boiled over. The baseness of her father had 
 never seemed to her so odious as since she 
 had made the acquaintance of Eichard Cable, 
 nor the supineness of her aunt less inexcus- 
 able. Her rebellious temper impelled her to
 
 AN INDISCRETION 173 
 
 no positive line of action ; it made lier disposed 
 to quarrel with every one who came in her 
 way, and oppose everything that was suggested 
 to her. In nervous disorders the patient is 
 irritable, and almost insufferable to his nurses ; 
 and Josephine was spiritually ill ; her moral 
 tissue was in a state of angry excitation. We 
 are her nurses sitting round her, reading her 
 mind, with our fingers on her pulse, counting 
 its furious throbbing. We must be patient 
 with her, and not angry because she seems to 
 us unreasonable. The moral sickness must be 
 borne w^ith as tenderly as the sickness that is 
 physical. Have we not ourselves had our 
 periods of ethical giddiness, when everything 
 swam round us and the ground gave way 
 under our feet ? When we put out our hands 
 grasping in vacuum we caught at things that 
 could not stay us up. 
 
 Or to vary the simile somewhat, may we 
 not consider our span of life as a tight- rope 
 on which we have to dance our hour ? We 
 can do it with the balance-pole in our hands 
 that we are supplied with — a balance-pole of 
 some sort or another — moral principle or 
 social etiquette. How we pirouette, and leap 
 and fall and rebound, and trip and spin on 
 tiptoe, with a smiling face ! We have our 
 pole. And what pranks we play with that same
 
 174 PJCIIAED CABLE 
 
 pole ! Now we bear it liorizontally, and then 
 all the lookers-on know we are safe. Anon 
 we balance it on onr noses, and folding our arms 
 across the breast caper a hornpipe ; thereat 
 every breath is held, for all expect our fall. 
 Anon we toss the pole from hand to hand, 
 and sway in our dancing precariously : a gasp 
 from the spectators ; w^e have cast our pole 
 from us high into the air. We are lost ! No ; a 
 somersault is turned on the rope, and the 
 hands grasp the falling pole in time to steady 
 us again. So we go along our rope to the 
 end ; and whether we carry our pole off it at 
 the extremity depends on what the balancing - 
 23ole has been. 
 
 Some acrobats are sent along the rope 
 without any pole at all, to balance themselves 
 as best they may with outstretched arms ; 
 and under some nets are spread, which may 
 receive them if they fall ; but to others are 
 only the hard stones of the pavement and 
 sharp flints. When these go down they never 
 go aloft to dance again ; they cause a talk for 
 a day, and ai'e then forgotten. The broken 
 creatures lie all about us ; they can be counted 
 by the scores. We thank God we are not 
 as they ; we have our balancing-poles and our 
 receiving-nets, and have not our spasms of 
 supreme agony, when our feet totter, our
 
 AX ixriscrtETioN 175 
 
 heads whirl, and we know we are lost. Not 
 we. We have social etiquette, which can never 
 fail us, which will always restore our equili- 
 brium, always remain in our hands and keep 
 us upright ; always, that is, till we reach the 
 end of our cord, and then we throAV it away 
 for ever. 
 
 As Josephine sat in the summer-house she 
 was quite in the dark. The house was of 
 board, painted, witli a conical roof, no vv^indow, 
 only a side door. Through this door she 
 looked on the quivering silver belt of the sea. 
 A cloud obscured the moon, but not the rays 
 that fell on the sea, Avhich gained in brilliancy 
 by the obscuration of the moon. Slie knew 
 that the tide was full. The hour was mid- 
 night, and when the tide was at noonday or 
 nitrht then were the highest tides at Hanford. 
 She could hear the lap of the water on the 
 seawall outside the garden palings — a cool, 
 pleasant murmur that soothed her. Without 
 thinking of what she was doing, moved 
 by the sight of the glittering water and 
 the sound of the tide, she begfan to sinij^ the 
 mermaid's air in Oberon. As she sung she 
 thought slie heard a sweet whistle repeating 
 the air ; she stopped, and the whistle continued 
 it. She flushed in the dark. Pdcliard Cable 
 was without, on the seawall, in the moonlig;ht,
 
 176 PJCIIAED CABLE 
 
 watching the tide, by the garden gate. She 
 sang another verse and stopped, and agam the 
 whistle echoed the strain 
 
 Then she started up. ' What can have 
 brouG^ht him here? He has been thinkin^j 
 about me ! I have some crackers for his 
 chiklren ; I put the box aside in the conserva- 
 tory.' She did not stop to consider what she 
 was about ; she ran to the house, stepped into 
 the httle glass veranda and took the box. 
 Then she also stooped and carefully raised the 
 ruby-globed lamp, and went out into the 
 garden with the box of gilt crackers in one 
 hand and the ruby lamp in the other. She 
 took the lamp partly that she might show 
 Eichard the pretty crackers by its light, as 
 the moon was hidden ; partly, also, out of a 
 sense of vanity, because she wished him to see 
 her in her rose silk evening dress, and artifi- 
 cial light was necessary to bring out its colour. 
 Another, a third reason, also influenced her, 
 as unacknowledged as her vanity ; an instinc- 
 tive sense of imprudence in going out of the 
 garden gate at midnight to speak to a man, 
 and a fancy that the bearing of a light would 
 modify the imprudence. 
 
 Josephine for her trip along the rope of 
 life had been given by her father no balancing- 
 pole whatever, certainly no moral principle.
 
 AN INDISCRETIOX 177 
 
 She walked through the garden, softly singing 
 the mermaid's song, bearing the coloured 
 light ; a pretty object, had there been anyone 
 there to see her. The garden gate could be 
 opened by the hand from the inside, but only 
 by a latch-key from without. When she came 
 to it she put the box of crackers under her 
 chin, and held it thus whilst her diseno^aired 
 hand drew back the latch. Then in a moment 
 she stepped through, and with a merry laugh 
 stood lamp in hand before Cable, and the 
 door closed behind her unregarded. She 
 raised the lamp and let the rosy light fall 
 over her face and hair and bare neck and 
 shoulders. 
 
 The boatman took off his cap and stood 
 as one dumb-founded, holding his cap to his 
 breast with both hands, looking at her. 
 
 ' Are you not surprised to see me, Mr. 
 Cable ? ' 
 
 ' Very — miss. I thouglit I saw a fairy, or 
 a vision.' 
 
 ' And I,' she said smiling, ' I was surprised 
 too. I sang and heard an echo. I came out 
 to see whence the echo came, and found you. 
 How came you here at this time of night ? ' 
 
 ' Well, miss,' answered Cable deferen- 
 tially, ' I am up so much of nights when 
 aboard the lightship, looking after my lamp ; 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 EICHAED CABLE 
 
 and now that I am ashore, I can't always 
 sleep ; and this being a beautiful night and 
 the tide flowing full, I thought I'd walk on 
 the wall. But, miss, excuse me, you ought 
 not to be here/ 
 
 'Oh, I have only come to give you this 
 box of gilt crackers — it will amuse tli€ chil- 
 dren. Each contains a trifle — a brooch, or a 
 ring, or an anchor. How they will laugh over 
 them ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Cable ; ' but I had rather you 
 had not brought them noAV.' 
 
 ' I give you them ; take them. I must go 
 back.' 
 
 ' Yes, miss, at once.' 
 
 She put her hand to the garden door ; it 
 was fast. ' Mr. Cable ! ' she exclaimed, as 
 her heart stood still. 
 
 ' Hush ! ' He put his finger to his lip. 
 
 Both heard voices close at hand, on the 
 seawall. The wall made a bend at the garden 
 paling, so that those approaching from one 
 direction were invisible. On the other side 
 it extended straight forward for a mile. 
 
 The moon burst forth in a flood of light. 
 Instinctively Cable and Josephine looked along 
 the wall. No escape was possible in that 
 direction. Seaward also was no escape ; the 
 tide was in and washed the base of the dike.
 
 AN INDISCRETION i79 
 
 The sailor put his foot against the door ; it 
 was too strong to be burst open. 
 
 Josephine blew out the light, and then 
 was aware that it was useless for her to do 
 this ; she could not be hid. She stood in her 
 evening dress, in the glare of full moon, 
 against the painted, boarded wall, and Cable 
 beside her, exposed to the sight of anyone 
 turning the corner, without possibility of 
 escape, without a place where she could hide. 
 
 Scarce a moment was afforded her to de- 
 termine what to do, when round the angle 
 came the rector and his son, arm in arm. 
 
 ' My dear Algernon,' said Parson Sellwood, 
 ' you need not be afraid ; she is right at heart. 
 It is human nature to be perverse.' 
 
 Then, all at once, the two gentlemen saw 
 those before them. 
 
 ' My dear Josephine ! ' exclaimed the rector. 
 ' Good ojracious ! what is the meanin<z of tliis?' 
 
 Josephine looked down, and her voice fal- 
 tered as she said : ' I came with crackers for 
 the children, and the gate closed — and — and 
 I asked Mr. Cable to take the crackers home 
 to his little ones.' 
 
 ' The gate fast ? ' asked the rector. ' Locked 
 out on the wall at midnight. Josephine ! ' 
 
 In a moment, the captain threw his over- 
 coat that he had on his arm upon the spikes 
 
 If 2
 
 180 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 that incrusted the top of the paUngs, and 
 laymg both his hands on the ^coat, Hfted him- 
 self over, and in another minute had opened 
 the door. 
 
 ' We are inconsiderate,' said Captain Sell- 
 wood ; ' we must not keep Miss Cornellis 
 standing here making explanations.' 
 
 ' No,' said the rector, ' inventing explana- 
 tions.' He clicked his tongue in his mouth. 
 ' What a pity it is you have lost your mother. 
 To a young girl nothing can replace a mother 
 — no, not the best of aunts. Shut the gate. 
 Come on, Algy.' He said nothing to Cable ; 
 but as he relinked his arm in that of his son, 
 after a few paces in silence, he muttered : 
 ' No ; it won't do. I am sorry. There is good 
 in the girl; but— it won't do, Algernon. 
 Look elsewhere.'
 
 181 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 BURNT OUT. 
 
 Josephine staggered to the pavilion and threw 
 herself on a bench in its shadow. She must 
 get out of the moonlight, retire among the 
 blackest of shadows to hide her humiliation. 
 What had she done ? What would the vicar 
 and his son think of her ! What a talk in the 
 place would spring out of this ! She could 
 never hold up her head again, never look 
 anyone in the face. Was it possible that the 
 story she had told would be received ? Ap- 
 pearances were too strongly against her. For 
 a moment the temptation came on her to open 
 the gate again, run out, and throw herself 
 into the sea. 
 
 What a fortunate thing for us if we could 
 see the consequences of our acts before they 
 took place. Then we should never wish to 
 do, certainly never do, foolish things. Judg- 
 ment comes late, after the act, as thunder 
 follows lif^^htninf]^. We do not hear the ^rowl
 
 182 rJciiArvD cable 
 
 till it is too late to recall the flash. Josephine 
 was alive to her indiscretion, now that it was 
 committed, and would have given half the 
 fortune her father had cast away to have had 
 it undone. She was angry with herself for 
 her want of forethought; angry with the 
 children for liking crackers ; angry with the 
 vicar for pottering along the wall after mid- 
 night ; angry with Cable for not jumping over 
 the fence ; and with the captain for jumping 
 over it. Cable ought to have had the readi- 
 ness of wit, at the first sound of the voices, to 
 have relieved her from the situation at the 
 cost of his hands ; the captain ought not to 
 have gone over the paling, for by so doing he 
 had let her see that he knew she was there 
 clandestinely, and would be ashamed to go 
 to the front door of the house to ask ad- 
 mission. 
 
 Everyone was in fault, but she most of all. 
 She resolved never to speak to Eichard Cable 
 again. He was guilty of insolence in echoing 
 her song. She would take no more notice of 
 his odious brats. She would never attempt 
 to do a good-natured act again. It was all 
 good-nature which had precipitated her into 
 this predicament. 
 
 She returned slowly to the house without 
 the lamp ; she had left that on the table in
 
 BURNT OUT 183 
 
 tlie summer-lioiise ; that could be fetched to- 
 morrow. She entered the drawing-room and 
 groped for her candle with the matches by it, 
 usually put on a side- table. She would light 
 her candle, then close the shutters, and ex- 
 clude the moonlight. Her candle was indeed 
 in the usual place, but not the box of lucifers. 
 This was provoking, as she had none in her 
 room ; her box there, she remembered, was 
 exhausted. She considered a moment, and 
 resolved to go into the kitchen, or into the 
 pantry, where she was sure to find what she 
 required. She left the room with the window 
 hasped, but not barricaded, and put off her 
 thin shoes, so as to make no noise in the house, 
 lest she should disturb and alarm anyone. 
 She had remained up much later than she had 
 intended. Aunt Judith would be asleep, her 
 father also, at this time. 
 
 When she softly opened the door into the 
 hall, it struck her that the air was strongly 
 impregnated with paraffin. A little hght 
 came in from the staircase window, and 
 by that she was able to find her way to the 
 pantry. She put down her candle on the hall 
 table and went in, but stepped back at once. 
 The floor was wet. Her feet Avere moistened ; 
 she had trodden in a pool of oil. 
 
 'How stupid — how like Anne! She has
 
 184 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 upset the can. I must not go in there for 
 matches.' 
 
 She stepped towards the kitchen, very 
 lightly, with inaudible tread. There she found 
 fire still smouldering in the grate, and the 
 oven door open, showing that it was filled 
 with sticks. Moreover, there was wood on 
 the hot-plate of the stove. 
 
 ' How careless cook is ! She is drying the 
 kindlers for to-morrow, and has not raked out 
 the fire first.' 
 
 She stooped to remove some of the 'wood 
 which lay on the ground, and which she felt 
 as she walked without her shoes ; and again 
 was conscious of the smell of petroleum. 
 She was surprised ; but then recalled that she 
 had stepped in the slopped oil in the pantry, 
 and concluded that she smelt what she had 
 brought away with her. Then she put her 
 hand on the mantel- shelf for the lucifers, and 
 found the box. She had left her candlestick 
 in the hall, so she returned to it in the dark, 
 and was about to strike a light, when she 
 thought she heard a sound as of some one 
 stirring in the dining-room. She stood per- 
 fectly still, not daring to breathe, listening. 
 Again she heard the noise. There was cer- 
 tainly some one in the room. The first im- 
 pulse was to cry ; but she controlled herself.
 
 BURNT OUT 185 
 
 and considered what had better be done. The 
 noise might proceed from a cat. She stepped 
 very Hghtly to the door, which was ajar, 
 touched it, and drove it open sufficiently to 
 admit her, sidelong, and she looked in. The 
 shutters, which had been fastened, were 
 open, and the moonhght flowed into the room. 
 Every trace of dinner had been cleared away 
 from the table, which now had on its usual 
 2:)rinted cover. 
 
 Josephine saw something, or — was it some 
 one, on the floor, moving ? The light through 
 the French window was so clear that she was 
 left in doubt only a moment. She saw a pro- 
 file against the window-pane and recognised 
 at once her father. He was on his knees, and 
 was creeping about with a can, the oil-can, 
 in his hand. She saw him decanting? it on the 
 carpet near the window curtains. He was in 
 his dress suit, as she had last seen him, saying 
 good-bye to his guests. 
 
 ' Papa,' she said, ' what are you about ? ' 
 
 He started to his feet with an exclamation, 
 either of terror or of surprise. 
 
 Josephine stepped fully into the room. 
 ' What is it, papa ? Have you lost some- 
 thing ? — or What are you doing ? ' 
 
 He stood back, a^^ainst the window cur- 
 tain, and put his hands behind him, with the
 
 186 PJCIIARD CABLE 
 
 can. The moonlight was strong, and his 
 position was against it, so that his black 
 silhouette was sharp, as if cut out of lamp- 
 blacked paper. She saw the movement of 
 his lips, and his tongue shot out, like a 
 serpent's, then drawn in again. He said 
 nothing. 
 
 'Papa, there is a very strong odour of 
 petroleum ; have you spilled the oil ? ' 
 
 He replied in a suppressed voice, vibra- 
 ting with anger : ' What are you doing here ? 
 Spying on me, are you ? — Yes, I have spilled 
 a little oil here.' 
 
 ' But why have you brought the can in 
 here ? ' 
 
 ' Because,' he answered in the same tone, 
 ' that fool Anne upset the gravy from the 
 roast duck on the carpet, and I am trying to 
 get the grease out.' 
 
 ' Is not that better done by day, papa ? ' 
 
 ' I know best when it is to be done ; I 
 must apply the oil before the grease is trodden 
 in.' 
 
 ' You have no light.' 
 
 ' Am I a madman to take a candle when I 
 am using paraffin ? ' 
 
 'True, papa; I did not think of that. 
 There is a pool of the oil in the pantry. I 
 suppose you spilled that. It Avould have been
 
 BURNT OUT 187 
 
 better, I think, to have left the extraction of 
 the grease till to-morrow.' 
 
 'I know what I am about.' She knew by 
 the quiver of his voice that he was angry. 
 ' Get to bed with you, and do not meddle 
 with me.' 
 
 She was too much afraid of her father to 
 disobey him. She returned to the hall, struck 
 a match, lit her candle, and then — to her 
 surprise saw a heap of wood, and a number 
 of old newspapers that her father filed in his 
 study, cast beneath the stairs. What was the 
 meaning of this ? Why had her father brought 
 his newspapers there, and wliy had he also 
 placed with them the sticks that had been cut 
 and piled up for dahlia supports ? She did not 
 ask him ; she went up the stairs to her own 
 room, shut herself in, and undressed. Then 
 the recollection of what had happened to her- 
 self returned, and displaced the thoughts of 
 her father's strange proceedings. 
 
 When she was in bed, she could not sleep 
 for some time, thinking of what had taken 
 place, and blaming herself for her want of 
 consideration. When at last she did fall into 
 slumber, it was into a feverish, fantastic dream, 
 in which she believed herself to be awake and 
 struggling with sleep. She thought that she was 
 arraigned before court for having stolen gilt
 
 188 PJCIIAED CABLE 
 
 crackers, and that her father wore a wig, and 
 was counsel for the prosecution ; and Eichard 
 Cable also wore a wig, and was counsel for 
 the defence ; and that the rector sat as judge ; 
 and under his seat was the captain, looking 
 dreamily at her, with pen in hand, as clerk, 
 waiting to take down the evidence for and 
 against her. On the table stood the ruby 
 lamp, and the entire court was irradiated by 
 it. She was annoyed with the lamp because 
 it diffused so red a glow that it made her look 
 as if she were blushing. Besides, it diffused 
 heat as well as light, and the air in the court 
 became oppressive because of the lamp. Then 
 she asked to have it turned down ; and the 
 captain put liis hand to the screw and turned 
 it up so that the flame shot out at the top 
 above the cliimney, and the redness in the 
 court seemed to deej^en, and the heat to 
 become more intense. The rector's gown, 
 instead of being black, was scarlet, like the 
 habit of a criminal court judge, and his face 
 was as red as his gown. Then lie raised his 
 hand and pointed to Josephine, and said : ' She 
 blushes; she convicts herself;' and she was 
 conscious of beiuG^ suffused with colour and 
 shame and anger. She could endure no longer 
 the heat and the glitter of the eyes turned on 
 her in that red lic^ht, and she cried out and
 
 BUENT OUT 189 
 
 started up in bed, and in a moment was aware 
 of a smell of fire, and of unusual heat, and of 
 a crackling sound. She saw a light strike 
 along her floor from under the door, and 
 knew that the house was in flames. She 
 sprang from bed, slipped on her clothes, and 
 opened her door. Then she saw that the 
 lower part of the staircase was in a blaze, that 
 flames were pouring through the doors of the 
 dining-room and the pantry, where the petro- 
 leum had been upset. To descend to the hall 
 was impossible. 
 
 She ran to her aunt's door, opened it, 
 roused Judith Cornellis, and then hastened 
 to her father. His door was locked. She 
 knocked long at it before he answered ; then 
 he was some time before he had lisrhted a 
 candle, put on his dressing-gown and slippers, 
 and unlocked. 
 
 ' Papa,' she cried, ' do be quick ; the 
 house is in a blaze. We cannot go below. 
 It is all flaming.' 
 
 ' Indeed. How comes that about ? ' 
 
 ' Papa, what is to be done ? ' 
 
 He smoothed his chin, and said : ' The 
 gardener has been trimming the Ayrshire 
 rose, and has left the ladder against the 
 window on the landing. It is quite provi- 
 dential.'
 
 190 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 She looked at him in surprise. He took 
 the matter with singular coolness. 
 
 ' Now,' he said, ' run and rouse the ser- 
 vants. If the backstairs are on fire, we must 
 all escape by the ladder.' 
 
 At the same moment a violent hammering 
 at the front door and ringing of the bell were 
 heard. The policeman in going his rounds 
 had observed the fire, and had run up to 
 rouse the house. 
 
 In a few minutes the whole of the inmates 
 were awake, and had scrambled into their 
 clothes, and were gathered at the head of the 
 stairs. 
 
 ' Quick ! ' said Mr. Cornellis. — ' Josepliine, 
 Judith ! save any of your trinkets and trifles. 
 We must get out as quickly as we can.' 
 
 Then a spout of flame rushed up the 
 stairs. The policeman and some one he had 
 called to his aid had made their way in 
 through the conservatory and drawing-room ; 
 and on opening the door, the air had fanned 
 the fire into a blaze. Conscious of his mis- 
 take, the policeman hastily reclosed the door, 
 went out, and ran round to the back kitchen. 
 The flames were raging there also. The whole 
 of the lower storey, except the drawing-room 
 and study, seemed to be on fire. It was
 
 BURNT OUT 191 
 
 extraordinary with what rapidity the con- 
 flagration had spread. 
 
 Mr. Cornelhs retained his composure. 
 Miss Judith would have remained collecting 
 the treasures in her bedroom, had not he 
 precipitated her movements by snatching her 
 bundle from her and throwing it out of the 
 window. Then he made her descend the 
 ladder. All were speedily in safety on the 
 grass in the garden, looking up at the burn- 
 ing house. Very httle could be saved. A 
 few pieces of furniture from the drawing- 
 room, some pictures of no value, bedding, and 
 the contents of some wardrobes — that w^as all. 
 The iire gained hold of the house rapidly ; 
 the floors of the bedrooms were hot, smoulder- 
 ing, the smoke thick ; and there was no fire- 
 engine nearer than nine miles off*. Neverthe- 
 less, a rider was at once despatched for the 
 engine, which arrived when too late to save any- 
 thing, but not too late to spoil wdth the water 
 such things as had been spared by the fire. 
 
 Mr. Cornellis flew about in his slippers and 
 dressing-gown. He had not had time to dress 
 himself completely. Indeed, no man could 
 have been more taken by surprise ; he had 
 lost everything, except a pair of trousers, 
 slippers, a figured Turkish yellow dressing-
 
 192 RICHAPtD CABLE 
 
 gown, and his shirt. He did not lose his 
 presence of mind. Some place of refuge 
 must be found for his sister and daughter. 
 He considered a moment, and then ran to the 
 Hall and knocked up Mr. Gotham, who, when 
 brought to understand what had taken place, 
 consented to receive the family under his roof. 
 The servants of the Hall were roused ; but, 
 indeed, the whole village was awake and 
 out, and the grounds of Eose Cottage and 
 the road and seawall were crowded ; the 
 boatmen who appeared were prompt in their 
 offers of assistance, and formed lines to pass 
 buckets of water to the burning house, but de- 
 sisted when they found that the pailfuls were 
 unavailing ; the fire had gained too great a 
 hold on the house. The few goods that had 
 been rescued were carried by them to the 
 Hall, and then they drove their hands into 
 their pockets and stood watching the progress 
 of the flames. 
 
 The rector appeared without his hat. He 
 caught sight of Josephine, grasped her wrist, 
 and drew her aside. 'How comes this about?' 
 he asked bluntly. 
 
 ' The fire ! Oh, Mr. Sellwood, how can I 
 tell?' 
 
 ' Eh ? Is it the result of your night- 
 wanderings ? After what I saw, I am not
 
 BURNT OUT 193 
 
 surprised at any act of thoughtlessness. You 
 had a lamp in your hand. What did you do 
 with it ? ' 
 
 ' It Avas extinguished. I left it in the 
 summer-house.' 
 
 ' This is not the result of your inconsider- 
 ateness.^ Eh?' 
 
 ' No, Mr. Sellwood ; indeed, it is not ! ' 
 
 ' Then how came it about ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know.' 
 
 ' Is the house insured ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know.' 
 
 ' What are you going to do ? Where are 
 you going? You must not stay here.' 
 
 Then up came Mr. Cornelhs in his dressing- 
 gown. 
 
 ' I say, Cornellis,' said the rector, ' this is 
 a bad job. How did it come about ? — But 
 no ; no questions now. We must put the 
 ladies under shelter. Poor Miss Judith looks 
 ready to die. My vicarage is at your dis- 
 posal.' 
 
 ' You are too kind, rector. But I cannot 
 take the generous offer. Gotham has invited 
 us to the Hall, and I have accepted. We are 
 relatives.' 
 
 ' well. You would have been welcome. 
 I fear this w^ill be a sad loss to you.' 
 
 ' When Providence ' 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 ' Yes ; exactly. Insured ? ' 
 
 'Fortunately I am.' 
 
 ^ Got your policies ? Or are they burnt ? ' 
 
 * They are at the bank.' 
 
 ' Insured well ? ' 
 
 ' Middling.' 
 
 ' And the furniture ? ' 
 
 ' Insured also.' 
 
 ' The books ? ' 
 
 ' Also.' 
 
 ' And the plate ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 'And the wine?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Then — anything not insured ? ' 
 
 ' Not my clothes, unfortunately.' 
 
 ' I'm glad you were insured ; the loss won't 
 be ruinous.' 
 
 ' The loss must be heavy, very heavy, 
 almost crushing.' 
 
 ' I'm glad you were insured. — Now, get 
 the ladies under cover. They must not be 
 out any longer. I hope you were heavily 
 insured ? ' 
 
 'Middling.' 
 
 ' Insured long ? ' 
 
 ' Only a twelvemonth for furniture and 
 wines, and books and plate. The house was 
 insured directly I bought it.'
 
 BURNT OUT 195 
 
 ' For how mucli ? ' 
 
 ' About its value.' 
 
 ' And your cellar of wines — all your fortu- 
 nate purchases. By Jove ! you may recover 
 their value, but not the wines.' 
 
 ' That is what I feel. Then there are my 
 oriental books, my Hebrew Bible and Greek 
 Testament, full of marginal notes. I can 
 never replace them. But Providence ' 
 
 ' Exactly,' interrupted the vicar. He had 
 an abhorrence of cant, and whenever he sus- 
 pected any one with whom he was in con- 
 versation lapsing into it, he cut him short, 
 and in so doing sometimes acted unjustly, 
 interrupting expressions of real feeling. But 
 he was a blunt and downright man. ' I'm 
 sorry for you — I am, with all my heart. 
 How came it about? But here is Gotham, 
 looking out for you. The ladies must be 
 taken under shelter. I am selfish detaining 
 you. I am glad joii are insured all round.' 
 
 o2
 
 196 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 THE TANGLE. 
 
 The Cornellis family settled into the Hall, as 
 if they had no intention of leaving it. At all 
 events, neither Mr. Cornellis nor his sister 
 bestirred themselves to find other quarters. 
 Mr. Gotham did not care. So long as he was 
 allowed to move about, and was flattered by 
 Justin Cornelhs, and was undisturbed in his 
 study, he was content. Cornellis had made 
 himself indispensable to him, and Gabriel 
 clung to him. It was in his nature to cling, 
 and just now his grapple of the ex-missionary 
 was tenacious, and to another man would 
 have been embarrassing. But Cornelhs un- 
 derstood Gotham, or thought he did, and 
 believed that by humouring his vanity and 
 sloth, and by not standing in the way of his 
 pleasures, he could twist him about to suit 
 his own purposes. Mr. Gotham now did, 
 what he had said he had done, execute a will 
 in his favour, leaving him his entire estate ;
 
 THE TANGLE 197 
 
 making him executor and residuary legatee 
 as well ; but he gave him his private instruc- 
 tions, which he had made the ex-missionary 
 solemnly promise to execute. It was in keep- 
 ing with the miserable vanity of the man that 
 he could not endure the prospect that even 
 after death his conduct should be known ; 
 that people should be able to point to Bessie 
 as his wife, whom he had basely deserted, 
 after having deceived her ; and to Eichard, 
 the lightship man, the vulgar sailor, as his 
 son. He was conscious that he had behaved 
 dishonourably, and he shrank from being 
 found out, and having his cowardly action 
 published, to be commented on by the world. 
 
 The destruction of Eose Cottage was com- 
 plete. Nothing worth preservation remained. 
 It had been cheaply built, the walls thin, and 
 when the floors and roof fell in, the gray brick 
 flanks collapsed as well. All that remained 
 of it intact was the green boarded summer- 
 house in the garden. 
 
 The agent of the insurance office came to 
 Hanford and inspected the ruins. Mr. Corn- 
 ellis showed him over the fallen walls, the 
 charred beams, the trampled garden. He was 
 frank. There had been a dinner-party that 
 night. The servants had been hard-worked, 
 and possibly there had been some neglect.
 
 198 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 Servants are careless. He confessed that lie 
 ought to have gone round the house that 
 -nisfht after all had retired, and seen that the 
 fires were extinguished and the house locked 
 up. He had not done so, having a sick head- 
 ache. His dau2[hter had roused him about 
 two o'clock — he could not tell the hour 
 exactly, he had been too bewildered to look 
 at his watch. When he came out on the stair- 
 head, he saw that the staircase was on fire 
 and fiames rushing from the kitchen. He 
 had spoken several times to the cook about 
 putting the wood for the kindling of the fires 
 in the oven and on the hot-plate. He had 
 forbidden it ; but servants are not always 
 obedient any more than they are prudent. 
 As far as he was able to judge, the fire had 
 originated in the kitchen, communicated with 
 the pantry, where the paraffin oil was kept for 
 the lamps, also a can of benzoline. When the 
 oils had become ignited, such a volume of 
 flame gushed forth that the stairs caught fire. 
 This he suspected was the explanation of the 
 conflagration ; but he was in too great alarm 
 and excitement when roused to take accurate 
 observation ; moreover, he had the women to 
 look after and save. Every day he felt more 
 keenly his loss of a wife who would have kept 
 the maids in order. A man cannot do that
 
 THE TANGLE 199 
 
 effectually, and a young girl like his daughter 
 had not grown into the part of housekeeper. 
 With great candour, he told the agent that it 
 was after a disturbance with his maids relative 
 to their reading novels in bed, and going to sleep 
 with the benzoline light burning on the chair 
 at the bed-head, close to the pillow, that he 
 had doubled his insurance, and had taken the 
 precaution to insure everything he possessed 
 in the house. 
 
 The agent questioned the cook, who ad- 
 mitted having put the sticks into the oven 
 and on the hot-plate, because they were damp 
 and would not ignite. Anne could not re- 
 member whether she had left her cans of oil 
 in the pantry or in tlie kitchen, whether they 
 were corked or not. It was true that master 
 had spoken to her about reading in bed a year 
 ago, when she had set fire to and burnt a hole 
 in the sheet by going to sleep leaving the lamp 
 ahght, and turning over in bed and upsetting 
 the lamp. 
 
 The insurance was allowed. There was no 
 reason why it should not be. Not tlie smallest 
 suspicion was aroused that the fire was occa- 
 sioned by any other cause than the careless- 
 ness of the cook, who received her dismissal 
 and a lecture on disobedience. Mr. Cornellis 
 refused her a month's wage on the grounds
 
 200 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 of her having set fire to the house, and the 
 woman was so concerned that it had been 
 burnt down through her inadvertence that 
 she made no demur to the loss of wage. 
 
 Josephine was not present at the visit of 
 the agent, but she heard about it, and heard 
 the origin of the fire discussed. It was dis- 
 cussed by her father at table. She was uneasy. 
 Not a word was said about his having been up 
 and about after midnight. Only when she 
 found that all the blame was laid on the cook 
 and Anne did she interfere, and then she 
 spoke to her father when they were alone. 
 
 ' Papa, why is not a word said about your 
 cleaning up the gravy with petroleum? If 
 Anne did leave the can in the kitchen, you 
 must know, as you used it in the dining-room. 
 The oil was spilled in the pantry — there was 
 quite a pond there. I trod in it.' 
 
 ' Was tliere a pond in the pantry ? Then 
 the can leaked.' 
 
 ' But you had the can, papa.' 
 
 ' I had not. I employed turpentine. I did 
 not go near the pantry.' 
 
 Josephine was not satisfied. She could 
 not tell her father that she disbelieved what 
 he said ; she mistrusted him. When she 
 heard the rector and Mr. Gotham lament the 
 loss of his wines, she opened her eyes. He
 
 THE TANGLE 201 
 
 liad no wines — a feAV dozen only in tlie coal- 
 hole cupboard ; he had no cellar. 
 
 The fire had this effect, that it drew her 
 mind away from the consideration of her own 
 trouble. She knew it might also distract the 
 rector, and thought .j.hat he would make no 
 further allusion to it. But in this she was 
 mistaken. He called at the Hall a few days 
 after the fire, and as she was in the garden, 
 went to her, and took her hand in his, in his 
 kindly, fatherly way. ' I have a crow to pluck 
 with you, Josephine. I have left the crow 
 unpicked for some while, but he has been put 
 aside, not buried.' 
 
 She knew at once what he meant, and 
 coloured, and sharply withdrew her hand. If 
 she had trusted him and told him the truth, he 
 would have been satisfied. The rector was easily 
 satisfied, because his heart w^ent out to meet 
 every one who had done wrong and frankly ac- 
 knowledc^ed the fault. But she took another 
 course, a mistaken one, a course she would 
 not have taken had slie been in a condition to 
 judge calmly. Her father's conduct on the 
 night of tlie fire had been so suspicious that 
 she was unhappy and uncomfortable, thinking 
 him guilty of a great act of dishonesty, and 
 this made her peevish and jealous of inter- 
 ference. She dare not say what she thought ;
 
 202 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 she dreaded lest her suspicions should betray 
 themselves, were her confidence gained by the 
 vicar. So she armed herself with reserve, 
 bound her lieart about with pride, and met 
 his advance without cordiality. 
 
 ' My dear Josephine,' he said, ' I am not 
 satisfied about two matters — your being on 
 the seawall at midnight, and the fire following 
 so soon after. I cannot shake out of my mind 
 the thought that the two incidents are con- 
 nected.' 
 
 'I told you, rector, that they were not, 
 when you made the same remark on the 
 morning of the fire.' 
 
 ' It is strange. You were the last person 
 up.' 
 
 ' Is it necessary for me to repeat the asser- 
 tion, Mr. Sellwood ? I have already said that 
 there is no connection between the two events.' 
 
 He shook his head. He disliked her tone. 
 He looked in her face ; he was displeased with 
 the expression there. ' I see, I see ; it is of no 
 use my speaking to you. You are in an 
 obstinate, defiant mood. I only sought your 
 good.' 
 
 ' You sought the good of the labourers 
 when you gave them cows, and you landed 
 them in jail.' 
 
 ' Only one — only one. It is my duty to
 
 THE TANGLE 203 
 
 try to do good, though, God knows, I make 
 sad bungles in dohig it. I must follow my 
 nose, though it leads me to flounder in a bog. 
 I can do no other. — All I wanted to say, 
 Josephine, was, that if you had thrown down 
 a match, or upset a lamp, or left a candle 
 burning, so that the fire broke out, it is your 
 duty to mention it. You w^ere up after every 
 one else was in bed. Have you told your 
 father that ? If the fire came from the 
 kitchen, you would have smelt burning wood 
 when you went into the hall. Not more than 
 two hours after you retired the house was in 
 a blaze. Have you told your father you were 
 up?' 
 
 ' Xo.' She looked down. She could not 
 say that he knew it, lest the rector should ask 
 further questions. 
 
 ' Then tell him. — Look here, Josephine. 
 Eollow, as I do, the nose. The nose does not 
 go far into the future ; it does not turn 
 corners ; it makes no convolutions. It always 
 points straight at what is under the eyes. Do 
 what is a plain duty, and don't consider what 
 is far ahead. It seems to me that this is a 
 simple and direct obhgation. Tell your father.' 
 
 She was silent, unable to answer. 
 
 ' Now, Josephine,' said the vicar, ' I know 
 what you are considering, and that is, the
 
 20 i rJCIIARD CABLE 
 
 question he will ask, why you were up at mid-^ 
 night. Tell him you had gone out into the 
 garden, and through the gate to the seawall. 
 Here I arrive at the chief bone I have to pick 
 with you. If you had said to me on that 
 night that you had come out to see the full 
 tide flowing in the moonlight, I would have 
 believed you. Your interview with Dick Cable 
 would in my eyes have been accidental. But 
 you did not say this. You told me that you 
 came there — at midnight, remember, when 
 every one else at Eose Cottage was in bed — 
 to give Dick a box of gilt crackers for his 
 children. You held out the box, to substan- 
 tiate your story. Did you consider what this 
 implied ? It implied that you knew Cable 
 was out at the gate at that time. You could 
 only have known that by making an appoint- 
 ment with him to be there ; and this — really, 
 Josephine, with the respect I have always 
 felt for you, and for Dicky Cable — this is a 
 thought that troubles me a great deal.' 
 
 ' I had made no appointment.' 
 
 ' I am relieved to hear you say so. Then 
 how did you know he was there ? ' 
 
 'Because I heard him whistling on the 
 wall a tune — the mermaid's song in Oheron.' 
 
 ' Eeally, Josephine ! — God fo]-give me ! I 
 do not wish to entertain evil thoughts of any
 
 THE TANGLE 205 
 
 one, least of all of you. But this is most 
 extraordinary. I have heard of housemaids 
 arranofinf? with their swains to wdiistle for 
 them when they are outside the back-yard — 
 and this looks much like the housemaid 
 practice exalted to parlour tricks.' 
 
 ' I am sorry you think so/ said the girl 
 haughtily. ' I cannot help your thoughts, 
 rector. It was, hoAvever, no such thini?.' 
 
 ' I believe you. Charity hopeth all things, 
 charity believeth all things. But I am puzzled, 
 nevertheless.' 
 
 ' I will tell you how it came about,' said 
 Josephine after a long pause. ' Mr. Cable had 
 learned the tune from me wdien we were 
 wrecked together. After you left us, and 
 Aunt Judith had said good-night, instead of 
 going to bed, I sat out in the summer-house, 
 and wdiilst there, I heard Mr. Cable whistle 
 the air. Then I recollected I had put aside a 
 box of crackers for his children, and I fetched 
 them, and took them out to him.' 
 
 ' It was most inconsiderate, Josephine.' 
 
 ' No doubt it was ; but I did not suppose 
 you would have caught me.' 
 
 'Whether I caught you or not is beside 
 the matter. You should not do such thinfys. 
 
 o 
 
 You should think.' 
 
 ' I follow^ed my nose,' said Josephine. ' I
 
 206 PJCHARD CABLE 
 
 did not consider consequences. I acted on 
 the impulse of the moment — a harmless one.' 
 
 ' A most improper one.' 
 
 ' What ! To give sugar-plums to little 
 children ! ' 
 
 ' To go out in the dead of night to meet a 
 single man, to whatever class of life he may 
 belong. My dear, what a pity you have no 
 mother ! ' 
 
 'Shall I ask my father to give me 
 another ? ' 
 
 'Josephine, this is no joking matter. If 
 you are not more considerate, you will com- 
 promise yourself past recovery. You may be 
 thankful no one knew of this escapade except 
 myself and Algernon. Now, go and tell your 
 father about it.' 
 
 ' He knows I was up that night.' 
 
 ' What ! Does he know everything ?' 
 
 ' No — only that I was up.' 
 
 ' Tell him all. Never seek to be other 
 than open. I am glad you told him that. It 
 will make it easier for you to tell him the 
 whole truth — the rest that has been kept from 
 him.' 
 
 ' No, rector,' said Josephine impatiently ; 
 ' I will tell him nothing ; I have told him 
 nothing^.' 
 
 ' Yet you say he knows.'
 
 THE TANGLE 207 
 
 ' I do not say I told him. He may suspect. 
 He may have seen me come in.' 
 
 ' No, Josephine ; he went to bed directly 
 after Algy and I left, as he suffered from a 
 bilious headache. I thought he was not him- 
 self that evening. So he was asleep long 
 before you were on the seawall, and he did 
 not wake till you roused him.' 
 
 'Who told you that?' 
 
 ' Himself. I heard him say so several 
 times — to the insurance agent, for one.' 
 
 ' Then I will say nothing more,' exclaimed 
 Josephine. ' Think what you will of me. I 
 cannot clear myself.' She laughed bitterly. 
 ' I have a maid-servant mind. I make ap- 
 pointments to meet my young man on the sly 
 after midnight ; I bid him whistle when he is 
 at the trysting-place ; I slink out and meet 
 him. What a pity you came, rector, and 
 interfered ; we miglit have eloped together, 
 and then been had up and charged with 
 incendiarism, and sentenced to hard labour 
 for seven years. What fun ! I should have 
 liked that amazingly — seven years taken care 
 of, thought for, with no responsibilities, no 
 enigmas to puzzle out, no society before which 
 to wear a mask, no necessity laid on me for 
 lies and dissimulation.' 
 
 ' Josephine ! Have you lost your head ? '
 
 208 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 ' No, rector, except with excitement at the 
 prospect of such blessedness as to be in for 
 seven years. rector ! let me rob you of 
 your watch and get convicted. I should 
 dearly like it. To think of knowing exactly 
 where I was, of having a perfect conviction 
 that the ground under my feet was solid, of 
 having all one's world in sharply defined cate- 
 gories ; these men are warders, and not 
 criminals ; these are criminals, myself in- 
 cluded — I burn down houses, you say — and 
 are not warders. And this man in a black 
 coat, with wdiiskers and wdiite tie, is not a 
 criminal nor a warder, but a chaplain. Here, 
 without, no one knows who is who, and what 
 is what. You, dressed as a parson, may be 
 my warder ; and Eichard Cable, disguised as 
 a sailor, may be my chaplain ; and my father, 
 who carried the gospel to the dispersed Tribes, 
 may be a lost Israelite, wanting the gospel 
 more than the rest. Who can tell ? What am 
 I ? I do not know — a true girl, a liar, honour- 
 able, deceitful — a lady, a maid-servant ? I do 
 not know myself what I am, much less do I 
 know others.' 
 
 ' Josephine,' said the rector gravely, ' you 
 are talkincr in a random manner. I souijht 
 your confidence, and you have refused it me. 
 I cannot allow you to act as recklessly as you
 
 THE TANGLE 209 
 
 talk. I shall be forced — what I wished to 
 have avoided — to speak to Miss Judith about 
 you.' 
 
 ' As you will,' said Josephine with a sigh. 
 'I do not wish, dear rector, to reject your 
 offer, but I cannot help myself. Do you 
 understand how sometimes one may be 
 jDuzzhng with a tangled skein of silk or 
 common twine, trying to undo the knots and 
 to find the end ; and how that then, if another 
 comes up and offers to assist you, you decline 
 the help, because you are sure the second set 
 of fingers will complicate the tangle and un- 
 ravel nothing ? ' 
 
 'What is the skein you are engaged in 
 bringing to order ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know — my life, my ideas — the 
 whole of that vast complexity, social, moral, 
 religious, in which I find myself. Now, rector, 
 do you understand me ? ' 
 
 He shook his head. ' My dear Josephine, 
 it seems to me that, instead of unravellingf 
 anything, you are involving yourself in a 
 tangle. As for the moral and religious 
 orders ' 
 
 ' There is no order in them.' 
 
 * Pardon me — my ofiice is to help- 
 
 ' Excuse me, dear Mr. Sellwood. No one, 
 not even you, can help me. I must work out 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 PJCIIARD CABLE 
 
 my puzzle for myself. Say it is not a tangle, 
 but a cat's- cradle.' 
 
 ' That needs two to play at it.' 
 
 ' Yes, but I must choose my own partner.' 
 
 ' Let me say one word, dear Josephine, 
 and that shall be my last, on this matter. 
 You speak of a tangle. There always will be, 
 there always must be, complexity in life. At 
 the same time, there is one little gold thread 
 which, if you will hold and follow, will help 
 you to unlace every loop, and unweave every 
 knot, w^hich will help to draw out every con- 
 volved thread, and establish complexity where 
 you have supposed was confusion. Look for 
 the golden thread, Josephine. — Good-bye.' 
 
 The corners of his mouth were working. 
 He had a kind heart. He had known the 
 girl from childhood. He pitied her, and lie 
 was in serious alarm for her. 
 
 ' I have muddled even this,' said Josephine 
 to herself. ' I have been rude and offended 
 him, and he is kind ; but he also, with his 
 kind intentions, is always doing wrong things. 
 It seems to me as if I were set a task to write 
 a copy of copperplate penmanship on a sheet 
 of blotting-paper. Where I want to make 
 hair-strokes, I make smudges ; and every 
 flourish I attempt resolves itself into a shape- 
 less blot. Now, with every desire to do me
 
 THE TANGLE 211 
 
 good, the rector will make matters worse ; he 
 will tell Aunt Judith all, and she will speak to 
 my father. So he complicates the tangle in 
 which — how wrong he was ! — there is no 
 golden thread, only base twine and strands of 
 dirty silk.' 
 
 p 2
 
 212 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 THE 'JOSEPHINE.' 
 
 Josephine remained brooding where the rector 
 had left her, with knitted brows and plaited 
 fingers and set lips. ' I wish I were out of 
 this — living a simpler life, where I could see 
 my way plain before me.' 
 
 Then she heard ' Hist ! hist ! ' and looked 
 about her, but discovered no one. Then 
 again ' Hist ! hist ! ' and looked up, and beheld 
 the wan face of Mr. Gabriel Gotham, with 
 bleached eyes, and faded hair, and weak 
 trembling lips, looking down on ]ier from the 
 balustrade of the terrace above. She had 
 been pacing a walk below the terrace — the 
 verbena walk — with the rector. 
 
 The shaking white hand of the squire was 
 round the base of a plaster vase ; she could 
 see only his nodding head and his hand, the 
 fincfers of which worked on the vase as if he 
 were practising on a piano.
 
 THE 'JOSEPHINE' 213 
 
 ' Don't come up,' he said, as Josephine 
 turned to the steps that led to the terrace ; 
 then he thrust his walking-stick between the 
 pillars of the balustrade and indicated a spot 
 below where she was to stand. 
 
 Josephine took up the position he re- 
 quired ; and he spoke to her over the stone 
 rail, with his chin resting; on it and his hands 
 hanging over it — a picture of imbecility. As 
 his chin was on the stone, when he spoke the 
 upper portion of his head moved, instead of 
 the chin. 
 
 ' What is it? What have you been doing ? 
 What about Eichard Cable ? ' 
 
 Josephine's frown deepened. It was too 
 vexatious to have had her conversation with 
 the rector overheard. ' Cousin,' she said, ' I 
 have had a private conversation with Mr. 
 Sellwood. I did not solicit it. He thrust it 
 upon me. Neither he nor I desired that it 
 should have taken place within the hearing of 
 an eavesdropper.' 
 
 ' How rude you are to me ! ' 
 
 ' A privilege of relations.' 
 
 ' I did not intend to listen. I was here, 
 and you were beneath. I did not hear every- 
 thing. I did not suppose that you and the 
 rector had anything to say to each other 
 which the world might not hear.'
 
 214 rJCHAED CABLE 
 
 ' What did you hear ? ' asked Josephine 
 shortly. 
 
 ' I — I do not rightly understand. I think 
 something was said of your meeting Eichard 
 Cable at night, without your father's know- 
 ledge, on the seawall. But I did not catch 
 how long these private interviews had been 
 going on. — Oh ! how improper ! ' then he ex- 
 ploded in a cackling laugh. 
 
 Josephine coloured. ' You have just heard 
 enough to let your fancy run away with you, 
 Mr. Gotham,' said she. ' It is true that I did 
 go out through the gate at night to Mr. Cable, 
 because I had some bonbons for his children. 
 It was a brilliant moonlight night, as light as 
 day, and I never for a moment thought there 
 was any harm in my doing so. Honi soit qui 
 mal y pense' 
 
 ' Did I hear that the hour was past mid- 
 night ? ' His blear eyes twinkled with 
 cunning. 
 
 ' Yes ; it was past midnight. The vicar 
 and Captain Sellwood had been dining with 
 us. After dinner, I took the box down to 
 Mr. Cable.' 
 
 ' How did you know he was there ? Had 
 you appointed that he should be in waiting to 
 receive the box ? ' 
 
 'Cousin Gotham,' exclaimed Josephine
 
 THE 'JOSEPHINE' 215 
 
 angrily, but with tears of mortification rising 
 into her eyes, ' why am I to be subjected to 
 catechism by you as well as by the rector, 
 and go over to you the same story, make to 
 you the same self-exculpation ? ' 
 
 ' Because, my dear, I have heard of the 
 circumstances. You will have to explain them 
 and exculpate yourself to everyone who hears 
 about this midnight meeting, the sweet tete- 
 a-tete.' 
 
 ' Xo one else will hear of it. It was an 
 accident. It was a bit of thoughtless im- 
 prudence on my part. I will not do it 
 
 agam. 
 
 ' A nine days' wonder to all the parish. 
 How the old women will talk, and the sailors 
 joke over their ale about it ! ' 
 
 ' Xo one will know anything about it but 
 yourself, who have surprised the secret — not 
 that it is a secret. I meant nought by going 
 out on the wall but what I have said, to carry 
 a bonbon box to the children. I declare ! ' 
 Josephine burst forth angrily, ' I will never 
 attempt to do a kind thing again. It is not 
 often the fancy takes me. When I do a con- 
 siderate act, I have to suffer for it. You are 
 learning that. Cousin Gotham, also. You 
 have housed us after the five, and cannot 
 shake us off.'
 
 216 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 'I do not want to be rid of you, Jose- 
 phine.' 
 
 ' And Aunt Judith ? Is the attachment so 
 great that you cannot part with her ? ' 
 
 Mr. Gotham laughed, his head wagghng 
 on the balustrade as though it were loose and 
 rolled on it, and might at any moment roll 
 off. 
 
 ' Have you read of the Struldbrugs, Cousin 
 Gotham ? ' 
 
 ^ What— in "Gulliver's Travels?" The 
 old people who never die ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. Papa says that he cannot believe 
 in Struldbrugs, because they would have all 
 their juices drawn out of them by their friends 
 and acquaintances. Friends and acquaint- 
 ances become to old people barnacles that 
 adhere and perforate. They can be shaken 
 off by those who are young, but not by the 
 old, and they cover up and corrode the latter. 
 I think we are barnacles stuck upon you.' 
 
 ' Am I a Struldbrug ? or a drift-log ? Did 
 your father say that ? Or is this a piece of 
 your pertness ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, he was not particularly alluding to 
 you,' answered Josephine. ' At least I do not 
 remember that he was.' 
 
 Mr. Gotham got up, and let Josephine see 
 that he did not consist only of head and hands.
 
 THE 'JOSEPHINE' 217 
 
 ' Shall we go a little stroll together ? ' he said. 
 ' Will you take ray arm ? ' 
 
 ' I shall be dehghted,' answered Josephine, 
 and waited, and held out her arm for him to 
 take. That was what he meant by her taking 
 his arm : she was to support him. 
 
 He came tottering down the steps. Jose- 
 phine, tall and vigorous, full of the bloom of 
 youth, formed a striking contrast to this mean, 
 decrepit old man. 
 
 ' Am I a Struldbrug ? ' he asked, leering 
 up in her face. ' What was your father 
 talking about that lie should come upon the 
 Struldbrugs ? ' 
 
 ' I really do not remember.' 
 
 ' Or old logs washed up covered with 
 barnacles ? ' 
 
 ' No ; he did not speak of you as a log, 
 cousin.' 
 
 ' I should not be surprised if he had been 
 thinking of me. I suspect he speaks one 
 thing to my face and another to my back. I 
 may be esteemed a Struldbrug or a log ; but 
 I am not one or other. I have eyes in the 
 lobes of my ears, and can see more than some 
 suspect.' Then he cackled. 'The barnacles 
 may not find so much to suck out of me as 
 they reckon upon.' 
 
 ' Where shall we go. Cousin Gotham ? '
 
 218 EICIIAPvD CABLE 
 
 ' Oh, ail}' where. I want a change. — On 
 to tlic seawall,' he contmuecl, laughing, shak- 
 ing his sides and the hand that rested on 
 Josephine's arm. 
 
 ' That lire has been a terrible loss to your 
 father,' lie said, still laiio^hincf. 'His books — 
 his wine — his plate ! He will save something 
 in housekeeping by living liere, barnacling on 
 me, as you call it. The insurance was heavy. 
 I really should not have thought your fatlier 
 had such valuable furniture and wines and 
 books. But it will not be paid for six months, 
 I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' I know nothing about it,' said Josephine 
 abruptly. 
 
 'Why do you not call me Cousin Gabriel?' 
 asked Mr. Gotham. 'You know we are rela- 
 tions. Your father's mother was a Gotham, 
 sister of my father, and of old Uncle Jeremy, 
 who bought this place.' 
 
 ' Which way shall we go ? ' asked Jose- 
 phine, without answering his question. 
 
 He waved his stick in tlie direction he 
 desired to walk ; then he went on : ' Your 
 father no doubt reckons on having the Hall 
 when I am gone. Has he ever spoken of the 
 chamres he will be makincf in it? Trees he 
 will cut down, rooms he will alter?' He 
 peered up in her face craftily.
 
 THE 'JOSEPHINE' 219 
 
 Mr. Cornellis had done this. Josephine 
 would not say lie had not, so she diverted the 
 attention of the old man to something else, 
 a thing easily done. ' I suppose now I can 
 bring the Cable children here any day, as 
 you desired, to look for sugared almonds in 
 the wren-nests ? ' 
 
 'Not for the world!' exclaimed Gabriel 
 with a start. ' I would not have it done 
 now, whilst your father is here. It might be 
 thought a precedent, and he would not like 
 it ; he who is to inherit the place when that 
 old Struldbrug, Gotham, is withered and cast 
 away, when that old log is so barnacle-bored 
 as to be worthless.' 
 
 ' He could not object, if you wished it.' 
 
 'I wish it no longer.' 
 
 ' I am sorry I mentioned the Struldbrugs 
 to you. You continue referring to them, 
 as though my father or I had associated 
 you with them in idea, which is not the 
 case.' 
 
 ' I do not desire that the children should 
 be brought to the garden now. It was 
 another matter before. Then I had nothing 
 to amuse me, now I have you.' 
 
 'I will do what I can for you, Cousin 
 Gotham. I shall make you skip and wince 
 with the stings of my sharp tongue.'
 
 220 mCIIAED CABLE 
 
 'I do not mind that; but I do object to 
 be riddled by barnacles.' 
 
 They were near the willows and the cot- 
 tage inhabited by the Cables. Gabriel looked 
 uneasily about him, as though seeking some- 
 thing, yet fearing to find it. He started as, 
 turning the corner of the wall, he came upon 
 Eichard. 
 
 Eichard Cable removed his cap respect- 
 fully to him and to Josephine. The latter 
 coloured and smiled. 
 
 ' How are the little white mice ?' she asked. 
 ' All seven snug and neat and happy ? ' 
 
 'Thank you, miss; my children are well 
 and happy, praised be God ! ' 
 
 ' Mr. Eichard Cable,' said Gabriel Gotham 
 with a faltering voice, ' would you do Miss 
 Cornellis the favour of following^ us to Messrs. 
 Grimes and Newbold's dock ? ' 
 
 Josephine hastily turned and looked at 
 the old man. She had forgotten all about 
 the ship in the excitement consequent on the 
 fire. Gabriel had not again alluded to it ; 
 and she had concluded, if for a moment she 
 had considered the proposal, that it had 
 passed from his feeble memory. Now she was 
 quite unable to pay for a ship, as her money 
 was gone ; and since tliat afiliir of the night 
 of the fire, it would not be proper for her to
 
 THE 'JOSEPHINE' 221 
 
 give the vessel to Eicliard. She tried to 
 catch Mr. Gotham's eye, to show him that 
 the suggested visit displeased her ; but lie 
 studiously averted his face. 
 
 ' Mr. Cable,' said Josephine, ' do not come 
 with us. Mr. Gotham and I were engaged in 
 conversation which we must finish. Follow 
 us in a few minutes in the direction of the 
 dock. First run in and kiss the little ones 
 for me. By that time Mr. Gotham and I 
 will have finished our business together.' 
 
 Eichard obeyed. He went over the plank- 
 bridge to his garden. Then Josephine, drop- 
 ping Gabriel's arm, said hastily, eagerly : ' It 
 won't do. It must not be. I thought you 
 had forgotten all about the boat, or I would 
 have spoken earlier.' 
 
 ' Why not ? The vessel is ready ; she is 
 painted, and named. The orders were given 
 directly we had made tlie arrangement.' 
 
 ' Mr. Gotham, what is to be done ? ' 
 gasped Josephine. ' I cannot pay you, neither 
 now nor in the future.' 
 
 ' Cannot pay now ; but you have your 
 money coming in shortly.' 
 
 ' Not at all. Papa—that is — there has 
 been a bad investment. I do not know ex- 
 actly how it is, but — papa has been unfor- 
 tunate about my money. He put it where
 
 222 EICIIARD CABLE 
 
 lie tliouglit he had the best security, and — 
 the money is all gone.' 
 
 ' Your mother's fortune gone ? ' 
 
 ' All gone. I have nothing.' 
 
 Then he cackled. ' What an unfortunate 
 fire that was at Eose Cottai^e ! ' 
 
 Josephine, in distress and annoyance, 
 turned sharply away. ' You understand, 
 Cousin Gotham, I cannot pay for the ship 
 — now — never.' 
 
 ' But it is bought and paid for in your 
 name, and your name stands in gold letters 
 on the bows. A pity we did not have a cast 
 from your face for the figurehead.' 
 
 ' Mr. Gotham ! ' — she clasped her hands 
 — ' why did you act with such precipitation ? ' 
 
 'Why did you not tell me in time that 
 you were without means ? You can sue your 
 father, and make him indemnify you out of 
 the insurance-money.' He laughed. 
 
 'I cannot do that,' she said vehemently. 
 ' Why do you laugh ? This is no joke. You 
 have brought me into great difficulties.' 
 
 ' There ; do not be so distressed. I have 
 risked the money without taking a written 
 authority from you. I have been incautious. 
 I must bear the loss.' 
 
 ' But I cannot take advantage of you in 
 this w^ay.'
 
 TEIE ' JOSEPHINE ' 22 o 
 
 ' Let me take your arm again, and go on 
 to the yard. Set your mind at rest. You 
 and your father and aunt are my nearest kin- 
 dred. If you cannot pay, it does not greatly 
 matter. I must leave you something in my 
 will. I will forgive you the debt in my last 
 testament ; you shall consider it as the pre- 
 sent of Cousin Gabriel. That will set your 
 conscience at rest. Eh ? ' He peered up at 
 her. 
 
 Josephine was not satisfied. She was 
 vexed with Mr. Gotham, who was a man to 
 talk, but not to act ; and he had sprung a 
 surprise upon her which increased her diffi- 
 culties. ' These unreliable men,' she thought, 
 ' always do the things which had better be 
 left alone, and neglect what they ought to 
 execute promptly. Who would have sup- 
 posed he would take me at my vv^ord without 
 further consultation.^ What will my father 
 say?' 
 
 As they reached the yard, Eichard Cable 
 caught them up, and w^alked respectfully be- 
 hind. 
 
 ' Come on, Mr. Cable ; don't lag,' said 
 Gabriel. ' Miss Cornellis has come to see this 
 smack that Messrs. Grimes and Newbold have 
 been building, and which she has bought — a 
 yacht, you understand. She is so. fond of the
 
 224 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 sea, had such a taste of it when she was out m 
 the hghtship, that she wants more. She would 
 like your opinion of the vessel, Mr. Cable. I 
 am no judge. I have nothing to do with it 
 except to act for her as her agent in the 
 matter. If she had ordered me to engage for 
 her a Newfoundland dog, I would have done so.' 
 
 Josephine's face was dark with annoyance 
 and shame. She would have protested, but 
 saw that it would avail her nothing. The 
 mischief was done, the ship was ordered and 
 paid for in her name. It was hers whether 
 she wished it or not ; and of course she could 
 not retain it herself. The little craft was one 
 to charm a sailor's heart, trim and fresh, beau- 
 tifully proportioned from stem to stern. She 
 had plenty of floor, while her lines aft were 
 delicately fine, and her long hoist and light 
 draught promised fast sailing powers. Her 
 builders, Messrs. Grimes and Newbold, were 
 proud of her ; and the fishermen and sailors 
 who studied her as they walked round her, 
 like dealers about a horse, gave their opinion 
 in her favour as a model combination of 
 strength and speed. She was freshly painted, 
 and her figurehead glittered with the new 
 gilding put on it. 
 
 'Well, Mr. Cable,' said Gabriel Gotham, 
 ' what do you say to her ? '
 
 THE 'JOSEPHINE' 225 
 
 ' She's a beauty,' answered Eichard — ' no 
 mistake.' 
 
 ' Ought to be a beauty,' sniggered the 
 squire ; ' named after Mss CorneUis. You see 
 — she is the " Josephine." ' 
 
 'Yes,' said Pdchard. 'And not beautiful 
 only. She is all spank with paint and gilding 
 now, and that will be battered away with 
 wind and wave, and worn with time ; but she 
 will be good and seaworthy, and obey her 
 helm.' 
 
 ' Should you like to be captain of the 
 " Josephine " ? ' asked Gotham, looking slyly 
 first at him, and then round at the builder 
 and some of the workmen who stood by, and 
 were listening. 
 
 ' I've not the chance,' said Cable. 
 
 ' If you had the chance ?' asked the squire. 
 
 ' I'd do my duty by her,' answered Cable. 
 
 ' You would do your duty by any trust,' 
 said Josephine, gathering up the courage to 
 speak. She was afraid of what Mr. Gotham 
 might say ; she did not like his tone — it chafed 
 her. If the announcement must be made, it 
 were better that it came from her. 
 
 ' Mr. Cable,' she said, and, as she spoke, 
 she trembled with nervousness, ' you rendered 
 me a great service when I might have been 
 lost. I owe you my life. I have not suffi- 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 22G EICIIARD CABLE 
 
 ciently thanked you for your great kindness to 
 me in my peril and distress.' She spoke so far 
 with downcast eyes ; but as she remembered 
 the hghtship and what had passed on it, his 
 pity, his gentleness towards her, she looked up 
 into his face. Her olive skin was suffused 
 with colour ; her large beautiful eyes trembled 
 with timidity, and she continued : ' You will 
 not be so unkind now, Mr. Cable, as to refuse 
 to accept from me this little acknowledgment 
 of -your goodness to a poor storm-tossed, ship- 
 wrecked girl. It would hurt me inexpressibly 
 were you to do so. Will you — will you ac- 
 cept the " Josephine," and be her captain and 
 owner ? ' • . 
 
 She put out her hand — her heart was 
 full, partly with fear, partly with warm feel- 
 ing — and laid it on Cable's arm. He caught 
 her hand between his rough palms, and said : 
 'I thank you. I will not refuse. I cannot 
 refuse. I will do my duty by her, miss.'
 
 227 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 IX DOCK, OUT Js^ETTLE. 
 
 ' Ha ! ' said Mr. Gotham, ' there is the rector. 
 — Excuse me, Josephine ; I must leave you 
 here. I have business with Mr. Selhvood, 
 and shall be Avith him a little while. You 
 must walk home alone, or — or get Mr. Cable 
 to escort you.' Then he hobbled, wheezing, 
 to the rector, holding out his hand. 
 
 ' If Miss Cornelhs wishes an escort,' said 
 the captain, who was with his father, ' I offer 
 myself.' 
 
 ' Thank you. Captain Sellwood ; I accept 
 it,' answered Josephine, and turned to go back 
 to the Hall along the shore without another 
 look or word for Eichard Cable. It would 
 not do for her further to favour him, after 
 the gift of the vessel, especially in the pre- 
 sence of so many bystanders. She walked 
 slowly along the shore beside the captain. On 
 the right was the seawall for a little way, 
 with a ditch behind it full of bukushes, 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 waving their red-brown heads. On the left, 
 the flats of mud, with the tide running in the 
 channels. Their feet were on the narrow 
 strip of shingle, made up of flints, fragments 
 of rolled chalk, and lumps of coral rag. A 
 film of bleached seaweed and cast crab shells 
 formed an almost unbroken fringe. A little 
 further ahead was rising ground, broken 
 banks covered with old oaks, under which, in 
 spring, the bluebells abounded ; they were 
 now in flower, flushing with blue bloom the 
 little slope. Here there was no seawall ; there 
 was no need for one. Beneath the bank Avas 
 a long strip of coarse smooth grass, which 
 went locally by the name of the Bowling-green. 
 This was only covered by high spring tides. 
 It was perfectly level, and may at one time 
 have been used in the way its name implied. 
 It was not suitable for cricket, because it was 
 narrow. Moreover, a spring oozed out of the 
 bank, and became a swamp on the land side 
 of the bowhng-green. At the extremity of 
 the green walk this rill discharged itself into 
 the sea ; and there a few piles had been driven 
 into the soft soil, on which the feet could rest 
 whilst passing over to solid ground beyond. 
 Then the sandy cHfl^ — if clifl* it can be called 
 where no stone showed — ceased, dying away, 
 and the seawall began again.
 
 IN DOCK, OUT NETTLE 229 
 
 Captain Sellwood walked beside Josephine 
 without saying much, and she was too much 
 occupied with her thoughts to desire conver- 
 sation. When, however, they came on the 
 bowhng-green, the only picturesque bit of the 
 coast where utter flatness and mud did not 
 force themselves on notice. Captain Sellwood 
 worked himself up to converse. 
 
 ' It is a fine day, to-day.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I perceive it is so.' 
 
 ' I am sorry so many of the old oaks here 
 have been cut down.' 
 
 ' I also am sorry. We cannot afford, on 
 this coast, to part with a single element of 
 beauty. He who pollards a willow or destroys 
 an oak should be stoned to death.' 
 
 ' We should have to send over to Kent 
 for the stones, as we produce none on the 
 spot.' 
 
 They walked on a little further in silence ; 
 then the captain said : ' I may not have such 
 another opportunity. Miss Cornellis, so I seize 
 on this for a few private ' 
 
 ' Oh, Captain Sellwood ! in pity spare me. 
 I have had two keelhauls already to-day ; 
 first by your father, and then by Mr. Gotham.' 
 
 ' I am not going to keelhaul you.' 
 
 ' Then let us have no private and con- 
 fidential communications. Do look at the
 
 230 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 bluebells, and admire the mixture of red-robin, 
 also the occasional speckle of stellaria.' 
 
 ' I nmst speak to you, Miss Cornellis. 
 The happiness of my life depends on the 
 answer ' 
 
 Again she interrupted him ; she was 
 nervous, annoyed. She suspected at once 
 what he was about to say, and was un- 
 prepared for it. She had not thought of 
 Algernon Sellwood except as a butt for her 
 ridicule, the slow man, who had nothing to 
 say for himself, the Morbid Fly. 
 
 ' Mr. Sellwood,' she said hastily, ' we are 
 old acquaintances, I may almost say friends. 
 You are about to assume the privilege of a 
 friend, and lecture me for my imprudence the 
 other niorht. I have committed another im- 
 prudence to-day. I have made a present of 
 the new boat Messrs. Grimes and Newbold 
 are building, to Eichard Cable, because he 
 saved my worthless life ; and — here is the 
 absurdity of the situation — I have not a 
 penny wdierewith to pay for the vessel. It 
 was ordered when I thought myself rich, and 
 I have woke up to the fact tliat I am a 
 pauper. I am going out as a governess; 
 no — I could not endure the children — as a 
 seamstress or milliner, or something of the 
 sort, to earn my bread.'
 
 IN DOCK, OUT NETTLE 231 
 
 ' Is this possible, Miss Josephine ? ' 
 
 ' It is certain, Captain Selhvood. My father 
 has had terrible losses ; and my money — I 
 mean what my mother left — that is all lost 
 also ; so that we are left as mere barnacles, 
 clinging to Cousin Gotham.' 
 
 ' Dear Miss Josephine, as this is so, it only 
 makes me more resolved to proceed.' 
 
 ' Do you know what it is to be a barnacle, 
 Captain Sellwood ? To have all the faculties 
 of the mind concentrated on suction ? — No ; 
 you do not. I have read in some book of 
 Natural History that the barnacle is a nautilus, 
 provided with silver wings to sail on the sur- 
 face of the summer sea ; but as it gets battered 
 by winds and upset by waves, it draws in its 
 ghttering sails and sinks and attaches itself to 
 a stump or a keel ; absorbs its wings, or con- 
 verts them into a proboscis or foot, or what- 
 ever it is by which it can adhere, and is 
 degraded at once utterly and for ever from a 
 nautilus to a barnacle. Well — we have furled 
 our wings, doffed our mother-of-pearl lustre, 
 and have become scaly and purple, and begun 
 to taste of copperas ; we have lost all our 
 independence, and are converted into para- 
 sites.' 
 
 ' Dear Miss Josephine,' said the captain, 
 ' you are throwing me off, trying at least to
 
 232 mCIIAED CABLE 
 
 do so ; but you shall not divert me from my 
 purpose. I must speak.' 
 
 ' What about ? My folly the night of the 
 fire ? Oh, Captain Sellwood, I would not have 
 believed it, unless convinced by my eyes, that 
 you could in an emergency be so ready. How 
 spiritedly you went over the pales ! Was 
 your light overcoat much torn ? The wood 
 bristles with hooks like a teasel. And your 
 sense of les convenances was as much lacerated 
 as your overcoat by my preposterous be- 
 haviour.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. Miss Cornellis ; you 
 explained how you came on the wall, and 
 that was enough. Neither my father nor I 
 had the slightest right to ask an explanation. 
 When you gave us one, we accepted it as 
 final.' 
 
 ' Not your father — he refused to receive 
 it. He has done so again to-day.' 
 
 ' I received it ; I have not presumed to 
 question it.' 
 
 ' You are more charitable than even your 
 father.' 
 
 ' Towards you there is no call for charity.' 
 
 ' You think better of me than does eitlier 
 your father or my cousin Gotham.' 
 
 ' I think the very best of you. I know 
 that you are incapable of doing anything
 
 IN DOCK, OUT NETTLE 233 
 
 which could make me regard you otherwise 
 than with respect, as I do ' — he paused, and 
 then said in a low tone — ' and with love.' 
 
 ' With friendship,' corrected Josephine. ' I 
 thank you for your kindly estimate ; it is 
 more generous than I deserve. Come — what 
 do you think of my conduct of giving away a 
 ship to Mr. Cable when I have not the money 
 to pay for it ? Is not that a swindle ? ' 
 
 ' I think, Miss Josephine, that your gene- 
 rosity outruns your judgment, whether in the 
 matter of ships or of crackers.' 
 
 ' 1 thank you for your kind opinion,' she 
 said, touched at his consideration. She had 
 laughed at him as silent and dull, yet now he 
 spoke well and easily. She might possibly have 
 yielded to a warmer feeling, had she not re- 
 called her father's words, and remembered 
 that he had schemed that she should take the 
 captain. Her rebelhous temper at once rose, 
 and she said : ' You only half know me. I 
 am like the palings, full of hooks and spikes ; 
 those whom I catch I tear ; those who rest a 
 hand on me, I pierce with wounds.' 
 
 ' Miss Josephine, when you were a child 
 and played Blind-man's BufF, when caught, you 
 wriggled, and wrenched, and ducked till you 
 had corkscrewed your way out of the grasp 
 of the Blind-man. You are trying the same
 
 234 PJCIIARD CALLE 
 
 game with me now ; but it will not succeed. 
 I have come here determined to say what I" 
 have at lieart and to know your answer.' 
 
 ' I give you the answer at once, before 
 you ask the question. It is conditional. — 
 Does your father hold me in as high esteem 
 as yourself ? ' 
 
 He hesitated. ' My father is the most 
 kind of men.' 
 
 ' And yet,' said Josephine, ' he thinks ill 
 of me. He does not approve of your speak- 
 ing to me to-day. I know he does not. — 
 Say no more. Your father must think of me 
 as you profess to think, before I listen to 
 another word of what you have at heart.' 
 
 ' You will not hear me out ? ' 
 
 ' No ; I have ducked and eluded your 
 grasp. Yonder is the path to the rectory. I 
 am going home, sir, and need no further 
 escort.' Then she burst into a merry laugh. 
 
 'What is the joke?' asked the captain 
 with a reproachful look in his great dark 
 eyes. -Is it a joke. Miss Cornellis, that a 
 man should have laid his heart at your feet 
 and you should have trodden on it ? ' 
 
 ' How serious you are. Captain Algernon ! ' 
 she said, the laugh dying on her lips. ' Ex- 
 cuse me, if I see droll similitudes. You are 
 generally so silent, and have so little to say
 
 IN DOCK, OUT NETTLE 235 
 
 wlien we talk on common matters, and now 
 you are eloquent.' 
 
 ' Because it is not a common matter on 
 which we speak.' 
 
 ' No ; you are like the gannet. I had a 
 tame one in the crarden for some time. It 
 could not fly because it was on level ground. 
 It flapped its short wings against the grass 
 and waddled. One day I set the bird on the 
 top of a high wall ; at once it precipitated 
 itself into the ah% and away it flew, and 
 soared, and was speedily out of siglit. The 
 solan goose is incapable of doing more than 
 flap and waddle when on a level ; it must 
 be on high to be able to start for a flight. 
 Is not that like yourself, Captain Sellwood ? 
 Have I hurt you ? Gave la cheville barbelee ! 
 I warned you against the spikes and crooked 
 nails. — There is your path, and this way lies 
 mine.' 
 
 He obeyed her, and went along the path 
 through the clover field she indicated. She 
 looked after him, and at once rei^retted that 
 she had spoken about the solan goose. It 
 was not kind, after his deference to her. They 
 had known each other for years, and she had 
 often challenged him with her jokes, and 
 laughed because he was slow to respond, or, 
 to speak more truly, incapable of responding.
 
 236 PJCIIAKD CABLE 
 
 She liad carried her joke too far ; she had 
 indeed wounded the man when he had shown 
 her a good and generous heart. As he 02:)ened 
 it to her, she liad struck it. Did she dishke 
 him ? No ; she had a regard for him — not a 
 keen one ; he had never interested her ; but 
 as a member of a worthy and well-to-do family- 
 she respected him ; as an old associate of 
 childhood she liked him. That was all. Eeo-ard, 
 respect, liking, went no further. Only to-day 
 did she see that there was in him more than 
 showed in common life. Only now did she 
 perceive that in him was that which might 
 convert negative regard into positive affection. 
 She felt tempted to run after him and say : 
 ' I am sorry. Captain Sellwood, that I spoke 
 about the gannet and made fun of you. I 
 was in a perverse mood.' 
 
 Bat her pride would not suffer her to do 
 this. If she had done this, he would have 
 forgiven her immediately, as she well knew, 
 as also that he would immediately have pur- 
 sued liis advantage and proposed fully to her. 
 She did not wish that. She did not know her 
 own mind. It was true slie did not love him, 
 but she loved no one. If she must marry, 
 Captain Sellwood was harmless ; and a husband 
 who would not be exacting and promised 
 docility might suit her better than another.
 
 IN DOCK, OUT NETTLE 237 
 
 She had made a mistake again. She had 
 treated a serious offer with levity. She had 
 met it in an improper spirit ; and she had 
 insulted the man who had shown her the 
 most generous trust, in spite of appearances 
 to her disadvantage. 
 
 It was her fate to be always saying and 
 doing the wrong things. Why w^as she so 
 wayward in heart that she revolted against 
 those who proposed to lead, her and against 
 anything suggested to her ? The reason she 
 did not know. The reason was that from 
 childhood she had seen only falseness, and 
 had contracted suspicion against her father, 
 her aunt, against everyone and everything, so 
 that the natural truthfulness of her nature 
 was in a chronic condition of hedgehog with 
 bristles erect. She was perverse because she 
 wanted to go straight where all was crooked, 
 and when she came among those who were 
 sincere and honourable, she was unable at 
 once to take her direction. There are condi- 
 tions of the body in which the eyesight is dis- 
 turbed, and sees the air full of floating black 
 spots. The eye may look into the purest of 
 skies, but the vision is blurred with these 
 sailing stains, as clouds of midges. It is so 
 with the mental vision ; wlien the spirit is not 
 in good health, it also sees obscurely, and its
 
 238 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 vision is full of deceptive black spots. It was 
 tlius with Josephine. The moment the captain 
 was gone, she knew that she had behaved 
 badly ; she had seen only the ridiculous in 
 him, and that she had thrown away a chance 
 wliich she ought not to have cast aside uncon- 
 sidered. When we are troubled with floating 
 black specks, we know at once that we need a 
 tonic or an alterative dose. We consult a doc- 
 tor, and are uncomfortable till these irritating 
 black spots clear from our sight, and we can 
 look our neighbours in the face, or into the 
 silver summer cloud, without seeing that dis- 
 turbino- drift. But we are not so anxious to 
 correct the moral vision ; and we are content 
 to look at all who surround us, and see these 
 specks, and let them thicken and become 
 multitudinous, without an effort to dispel 
 them, and — here is the singularity of the 
 case — we do not seem aware that the spots 
 are not where we look, but in ourselves. 
 It is our own disordered mind which sends 
 them up as a cloud of midges from a stagnant 
 pool. 
 
 Josepliine was startled out of her brown 
 study by a hare that dashed over the seawall 
 and ran splashing through the water athwart 
 the mudflats towards the sea. Quite small 
 matters sometimes divert our minds from
 
 IN DOCK, OUT NETTLE 239 
 
 great considerations, and it was so noAV with 
 Josephine. She looked round, and saw that 
 the captain in crossing the clover field had 
 disturbed the hare, and the creature raced 
 away towards the open sea. 
 
 ' You poor fool,' she said, ' flying from an 
 imaginary danger, you are running to your 
 death.' 
 
 The captain had no gun. A race of water, 
 now shallow, lay between the flats and the 
 shore. Unless the hare returned immediately, 
 the rising tide would intercept it before the 
 flats were flooded. 
 
 She looked after the hare till she could 
 see it no more. Then she walked on to the 
 willows, and, feeling tired, not so much from 
 walking as from worry of mind, she seated 
 herself on the little plank-bridge, with her 
 feet hanging above the placid water of the 
 dike. The dike was here broad and deep. 
 Along the coast, a channel behind the seaw^all 
 receives the drainage from the land, and at 
 intervals discharges itself into the sea througli 
 sluices so contrived that the rising tide closes 
 the doors. When, however, the sea has fallen, 
 then the pressure of the fresh water behind 
 opens the sluices, and the stream pours away 
 down a channel it has cut for itself and also 
 paved for itself with pebbles, lying between
 
 240 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 tlie clay banks. One such channel extended 
 from the dike to the open sea at the end of 
 Cable's garden. Up channels such as this 
 boats can approach the shore, and in such 
 channels bathers disport themselves without 
 fear of sinking in the mud, because of the 
 pebbly floor. The tide was out, consequently 
 there was movement in the moat ; all the 
 blossoming, white, yellow-centred water-plan- 
 tain was drifting one way with the current. 
 By the margin, the pink flowering rush 
 stooped in the same direction. 
 
 Josephine's head was throbbing and hot ; 
 she removed her hat, and bending down to the 
 water, gathered a couple of handfuls of plan- 
 tain, and filled her hat with it and put it on 
 her head. The cold wet leaves and flowers 
 sent freshness into her heated brain ; the 
 water ran down her cheeks, her hair, and 
 over her forehead. She sat still, enjoying the 
 coolness, resolving, when the leaves had spent 
 their freshness, to replace them with others. 
 Then Eichard Cable came to the plank end 
 and said: 'You here, miss! What are you 
 doing ? ' Then, seeing the moisture on her 
 cheeks, ' Surely not crying ? ' 
 
 ' In dock, out nettle,' answered Josephine. 
 ' I am drawing the fire out of my brain with 
 water-plants.'
 
 IN DOCK, OUT NETTLE 241 
 
 ' Still troubled with bad thoughts, Miss 
 Cornellis ? ' 
 
 ' Ahvays. I cannot get rid of them — 
 always stinging and burning ; and I am angry 
 with myself to-day ; I have done so many 
 foolish things. There ; these plantains give 
 me no more ease.' She took off her hat and 
 threw out the crushed herbs. ' Am I in your 
 path ? Do you want to go by, Mr. Cable ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said he. ' Do not let me disturb 
 you. Is your head very hot ? ' 
 
 * Like a coal of fire.' 
 
 Then he put his rough sailor hand on her 
 head ; but though the hand was rough, the 
 touch was gentle as if a plantain leaf had 
 lighted on it. 
 
 ' Hold your hand there,' said Josephine, 
 ' it is better than the dripping leaves.' 
 
 ' Do you remember what I said to you a 
 little while ago ? ' he asked, still with his hand 
 on her throbbing head. 
 
 'What? ' she asked, without stirring. 
 
 'It was anent the ladder, miss. You will 
 never have a cool head and walk with steady 
 heart till you can do that.' 
 
 ' Do what ? ' she asked again, and did not 
 move her head. 
 
 'Please, miss,' he said, his rough voice 
 lowered and becoming soft, ' when I was a 
 
 VOL. 1. R
 
 242 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 little chap, I was sent up the shrouds in a gale 
 of wind. When I was aloft, I looked down,^ 
 and it seemed as if I was lost — the sea was 
 like as if it was rising to swallow me, and the 
 ship was heeling over, and I must fall and be 
 drowned. My head went round like a teeto- 
 tum, and my heart sank into my shoes. I 
 should have let go and gone overboard, and 
 there'd have been no Dicky Cable ahve now ; 
 but the mate — he saw what was up, and he 
 shouted to me : " Looh aloft^ lad — look aloft ! " 
 and I did, miss. You'll excuse if I'm forward. 
 No impertinence meant, miss.' 
 
 He withdrew his hand and the fire came 
 back into her brain. 
 
 ' I cannot,' she said ; ' indeed, I cannot. I 
 have not the power.'
 
 243 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 AS THE HARE RAN. 
 
 EiCHARD Cable entered his cottage quietly ; 
 his mother was enoracred with the children, 
 preparing them for bed. Six little white 
 things sat side by side in their nightshirts, 
 with their small feet hanging down, on the 
 bedside, their yellow hair combed out, wet, 
 and spread over their shoulders. Mrs. Cable 
 was washing the baby, who was quite naked ; 
 and she had a thick towel, and was rubbing 
 the little head, and working the short hair 
 into curls by doing so. The baby did not 
 mind the water or the towel ; but the towel 
 had a fringe, and the tiny fingers tried to 
 catch the fringe and pull it out, with a view, 
 doubtless, to ultimately eating it. 
 
 Over the bed was cast a blue-and-white 
 check coverlet ; and the walls were white- 
 washed. There were white valance and cur- 
 tains to the small window. Above the bed 
 was a coloured chromo-lithograph of Christ 
 
 b2
 
 244 EICHAllD CABLE 
 
 blessing little cliildren ; and under that, a 
 photograpli of Polly, the mother of the seven. 
 
 ' There is your father,' said Bessie Cable ; 
 ' say your prayers to him. — Now — not all of 
 you at once off the bed. — Sit still, Effie and 
 Jane ; take care of Lettice and Susie ; they 
 will tumble. — Mary first ; only the twins shall 
 say their prayers together, because they are 
 twins.' 
 
 So Mary, as the eldest, descended from the 
 bed and came over the floor, her little feet, 
 still wet, printing themselves on the deal- 
 boards. She knelt down at her father's knees 
 as he sat on a low chair, and began her 
 prayers. He removed his hat, and as the 
 golden evening liglit poured into his face 
 through the window, he put his hand over 
 his eyes. Then, when Mary had done, she 
 stood up, kissed her father, and scrambled on 
 to the bed again ; whilst Effie and Jane slid 
 down and knelt, one at the right foot, the 
 other at the left, of their father and closed 
 their little hands on his knees. 
 
 When all had done but the baby, then 
 there were six of the prettiest httle heads laid 
 on white pillows in one bed, three at head 
 and three at foot, all with twinkling blue 
 eyes and smiling lips and golden hair. Then 
 Eichard, with his great rough hand, smoothed
 
 AS THE HARE RAN 245 
 
 the sheet, turned down at top under all the 
 httle chms, and stood and looked at them. 
 
 ' Do you know,' said he, ' that here on 
 this flat Essex coast in spring the sea-birds 
 come and make their nests in the marshes and 
 on the saltings ? Now, if there were to be 
 high tides then, the poor little fledglings would 
 be drowned, and the parent birds would fly 
 about screaming, broken-hearted, unable to 
 do anything for their young. But God thinks 
 of the sea-birds, and in spring on this coast, 
 He sends us the bird-tides — that is, very low 
 tides — all the while the little ones are in the 
 nests and unable to escape. When your 
 father was in the storm, and his boat broke 
 from her anchors and was swept away and 
 wrecked, he was not drowned. God thought 
 of the little birds in their downy nest, and 
 spared him for their sakes. There are bird- 
 tides to men as there are to feathered fowl. — 
 Now, go to sleep.' 
 
 His mother said : ' Dick ! do look how 
 baby has torn out my gray hair ! ' 
 
 He took the child, and spread out the 
 tiny hand in his own great palm and sat 
 studying it. The infant was quite happy 
 on her father's knee, feeling one strong arm 
 about her. 
 
 ' What is it, Dick ? ' asked Mrs. Cable.
 
 246 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 ' Nothing,' he rephed ; ' only, I was lookmg 
 at the httle mite of a hand, and thinking if 
 there were not bird-tides to us, these tiny 
 fingers and dehcate httle bones would never 
 come to be great and strong and hard as 
 mine.' 
 
 'I wish you'd take the bath down for 
 me,' said Mrs Cable. ' It's heavier than I can 
 carry.' 
 
 ' I'll give the soapy water to the young 
 lettuce and broccoli — it mil keep away the 
 slugs,' said Eichard. 
 
 Then he went down the few steps into the 
 basement, holding the wooden tub, blue- 
 painted, half-full of soapy water, in which his 
 seven little children had been bathed. It w^as 
 not easy to carry it down without spilling the 
 contents in splashes on the stair ; but Dick 
 Cable was steady and sure-footed, as a sailor 
 need be, and not a drop was upset. Then he 
 went out with the tub into the garden and 
 set it down near the bed of young plants that 
 were to be soused with it. He returned to 
 the kitchen for a bowl wherewith to ladle the 
 water out, and found a tin one with a wooden 
 handle. He knelt down by the tub and 
 dipped the bowl. The sun was set — set to 
 the garden ; but some of the light still caught 
 the willow- trees, and the dancing leaves were
 
 AS THE HARE RAN 247 
 
 as of gold against the blue sky. He scattered 
 the soapy water over the bed of seedlings ; 
 then he paused, kneehng on one knee, resting 
 the bowl on the ground, and lapsed into 
 thought. His face was troubled ; usually 
 open as the day, a cloud was on it now, a 
 cloud that would not disperse. From far 
 away, the mutter of the sea could be heard as 
 the waves broke upon the clay banks ; it 
 formed a pleasant murmur, a low bass tune, 
 whilst in the wind the twinkling willow leaves 
 whispered falsetto. He dipped the bowl again 
 and distributed some more soapy water. 
 
 The evening was very still. A dog was 
 barking on a farm perhaps a couple of miles 
 away. Mosquitoes began to hum about his 
 ears. He paid them no heed ; they would 
 not molest him. 
 
 Presently his mother came out and sur- 
 prised him, when he had not half emptied the 
 tub. ' What, Dick ! Not done this yet ? ' 
 
 ' I must not pour it all at once on the bed, 
 but let it sop in little by little.' 
 
 ' Dick, what is the matter with you ? ' 
 
 ' With me, mother ? ' He turned his head 
 and looked up at her, he, still kneeling, she 
 standing behind him. 
 
 ' Yes, Dick. There is somethin<T. You've 
 been more silent and thoughtful of late ; and
 
 248 IIICHARD CABLE 
 
 when you've taken the baby of nights, when 
 fractious, and walked up and down trying to 
 soothe it, you've not sung " There's Grog in 
 the Captain's Cabin — Water down below," as 
 you always used, but another tune altogether, 
 that has no words to it.' 
 
 ' I suppose I tired of the old song,' he said, 
 smiling. 
 
 ' And — " In the Bay of Biscay, ! " you 
 have not sung that, she said. 
 
 ' I'm tired of that also, perhaps.' 
 
 'But the new song has no words to it. — 
 What is the matter with joi\, Dick ? ' 
 
 ' Mother,' he answered gravely, ' I'll tell 
 you straight out. For the first time in my 
 life, I don't see my way plain before me. That 
 is it.' 
 
 ' What has come to obscure it, Dick P ' 
 
 ' Mother, do you know that Miss Cornellis 
 has given me a ship — that which has been 
 building of late in Grimes's yard ; and she has 
 called it after herself, the " Josephine" ! ' 
 
 ' Well ? ' Mrs. Cable asked with a catch in 
 her breath. 
 
 ' And I don't know whether I ought to 
 have accepted her, and I don't see how I 
 could have refused ; and I'm puzzled alto- 
 gether — I am.' 
 
 ' Why do you think you ought not to have
 
 AS THE HARE RAN 249 
 
 accepted the boat?' asked his mother, lookmg 
 mtently at him. 
 
 He hastily ladled out some more soapy 
 water. ' That's not so easy to answer,' he 
 said, and considered again. 
 
 'Dick, you've been thinking a good deal 
 of late of this Miss Josephine.' 
 
 ' Yes, mother, I have ; I could not help it.' 
 
 ' You should have fought against the 
 thought.' 
 
 ' I do not know that. She seems to me 
 to be just as I seed her that night of the 
 storm, tossing and distracted, not knowing 
 whither she is going, or how to row.' 
 
 ' She's nothing to you. You are not her 
 captain.' 
 
 He started ; he remembered the words 
 addressed to him when he was offered the 
 boat. ' I'm troubled about her, mother.' 
 
 'But you can do nought for her.' 
 
 He did not answer at once ; he threw out 
 some more soapy water. ' If I could help 
 her, and she called me to help her, I would 
 be bound to do my best. — Mother, what would 
 you think of the captain who, in a gale o' 
 wind, saw another vessel in distress, signalling, 
 and were to go on his course and give no 
 heed ? Nelson, when he was engaged in a 
 naval battle, was told that his admiral had
 
 250 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 sicfiialled to retreat. Then Nelson turned his 
 blmd eye in that direction, and vowed he 
 could not see the summons to run away. But, 
 mother, you would have me clap a bhnd eye 
 to the quarter whence ' a poor httle drifting, 
 helmless, water-logged craft is appealing for 
 help. 'Taint seamanship that, mother.' Then 
 he laid aside the bowl, but remained kneeling, 
 looking down into the tub of soapy water, 
 where two bubbles were floating, and he 
 watched these bubbles curiously, as though 
 their course concerned him. One was a large 
 bubble, the other small ; the water was in 
 vibration, and they swung from side to side ; 
 but also, as it had a circular motion, they 
 floated near each other, and the little one 
 drew towards the great bubble, and the great 
 one seemed about to take the small one in 
 tow — no — at one moment as if they would 
 coalesce in one. He was wonderfully taken 
 up with these soap-bubbles. His mother 
 stood by, looking at him, and he looked at 
 these globes. 
 
 ' My dear Dick,' said Mrs. Cable, ' you're 
 deceiving of your own self. You think you're 
 acting out of pure charity, and it's no such 
 thing. There's something more than charity 
 in your heart — there is love.' 
 
 He made no answer ; he was engrossed in
 
 AS THE HARE EAN 251 
 
 the course of those bubbles ; they were riding 
 side by side, swinging round the tub. 
 
 ' It is of no use, Dick. You've heard what 
 the sailors tell of the spirit-ship ; all white 
 painted, with white sails and gilded prow, 
 crowding by in the moonlight. When she is 
 hailed, she makes no answer ; and when you 
 are drawn on, all at once you are on a rock or 
 a sandbank, and the spirit-ship has disap- 
 peared. She is this ship. She is very beau- 
 tiful and strano'e, and an alto<::^ether unknown 
 and un-understood craft to the likes of you. 
 She belongs to another world to yours — and 
 woe betide you if you follow her ! She will 
 lead you to your ruin. The sailors say that 
 there are troubled souls in the spirit-ship that 
 will find no rest till she is brought into port 
 and to anchor. But what are you to board 
 her and take the helm and conduct her ? That 
 is not for you — for such as you. It won't do. 
 The spirits must man and guide the spirit-ship, 
 and the mortals keep their distance.' 
 
 Then Eichard Cable, still following the 
 bubbles, put his finger to them, to insist on 
 their uniting ; and instantly they burst, and 
 no trace remained. 
 
 ' Dick,' continued his mother, ' it is all 
 folly. She is a born lady, with a fortune and 
 education, and gentle belongings and tastes
 
 252 EICIIAPwD CABLE 
 
 and cultivated tliouglits ; and you're nought 
 but a common sailor lad, with no money and 
 no learning, and only a vulgar mother, and 
 seven little children.' 
 
 He seized his mother's hand and kissed it, 
 when she said — a vulgar mother. She took 
 no notice, but went on : ' Seven little children, 
 all exacting, and needing much forethought 
 and patience to rear them aright. Now, how 
 can you think it possible that such a one as 
 Miss Josephine Cornellis should stoop so low 
 as to you ? ' 
 
 ' I do not think it,' he said hastily ; ' I never 
 have dared to think it possible. I would not 
 ask it. But I cannot help myself. I must do 
 wliat I can for her when she comes in her 
 pleading way to me. She has no thought of 
 me, nor I of her, other than as one vessel at 
 sea signals to another, and that other makes 
 towards her. Mother, when that is so, there 
 is no thought of lashing the two together.' 
 
 ' If the two vessels were so lashed what 
 would happen ? ' 
 
 ' If the sea were rough, they'd sink each 
 other, of course.' 
 
 ' They'd sink each other, of course,' re- 
 peated Mrs. Cable. ' Eemember that, Dick, 
 and don't go too near her, nor let her come too 
 near you. Keep a wide berth between you.'
 
 AS THE HARE RAN 253 
 
 ' Mother,' said he, with his fingers in the 
 soapy water, ' what am I to do about the boat 
 she's given me ? ' Then he wrote with his 
 finger in the water, the name ' Josephine.' 
 
 ' I do not know. I must consider. You 
 will give up liglitship work if you keep her.' 
 
 ' Can I refuse her ? ' 
 
 ' If you mind to stick to your present line 
 of life, you can make that an excuse.' 
 
 ' But I should hurt her, were I to refuse.' 
 
 'It may hurt her if you keep the boat. 
 Folks will talk.' 
 
 ' I might let the craft out and bide on in 
 the Hanford port service myself as lightship- 
 man.' 
 
 ' It is a bad job either way. I wish you'd 
 never come across Miss Cornellis.' 
 
 Eichard shook his head. ' She was brouo-ht 
 to me ; I did not seek her. I was looking: 
 away to land over the dark frothing sea, to 
 the belt of willows, thinking of my babes and 
 of you, mother, when all at once I saw her, 
 and that she needed help.' 
 
 ' And she drew you away in thought from 
 them and from me ? ' 
 
 Again he shook his head. ' They are never 
 out of my heart. Mother, it's just like this 
 house ; sometimes the children are sinmnop 
 and laughing in it, and sometimes they're coiled
 
 254 RICIlArvD CABLE 
 
 lip and asleep. If I'm still at any moment, I 
 think I can hear them all seven breathing, "^ 
 deep in me ; and whilst I wait, I see their eyes 
 open and smile at me. They are always there, 
 but not always cliirping.' 
 
 ' And now you've let a young cuckoo in 
 who will kick your own out.' 
 
 ' That is not possible,' answered Eichard 
 Cable. ' If the Lord bade the cuckoo egg 
 be laid, and the young cuckoo be reared 
 in the same nest with yellowhammers, is it 
 for tlie parent bird and nest-builder to kick 
 out the es^cf ? The one heart can warm them 
 all.' 
 
 ' I wish to heaven you'd never seen any- 
 thing of her ! I can't wish she were drowned, 
 but anything short of that ; and I wish you'd 
 not been called in to save her, and contract 
 an acquaintance wliich will do you mischief, 
 and no good.' 
 
 ' I did not seek it. I keep away from her 
 now as much as ever I can ; but it comes over 
 me that she is sent to me, or perhaps that I'm 
 called to pilot her. I cannot help myself. I 
 do my duty up to my liglit. In past times, 
 there was no difficulty in seeing my way, 
 and now there is — it begins to be not so 
 plain. There's something disturbing the com- 
 pass, and what that is, I cannot tell ; but I'll
 
 AS THE HARE RAN 255 
 
 get my bearings all right again shortly, never 
 fear.' 
 
 ' Dick,' said his mother, ' I've never spoken 
 to you of your father, because it is no pleasure 
 to either of us to think of him. He was a 
 gentleman. I, a poor girl, an orphan. I was 
 ignorant, and I thought, like you, that I could 
 be a help and comfort to him. I found out my 
 error too late. He was false and treacherous, 
 and forsook me and you. All seemed to me 
 right and simple before I took him : I could 
 be of use to him in a thousand ways such as 
 no lady could ; and he was a man that needed 
 me and all my little acquirements, homely as 
 they were. But when we were married, then 
 we found out that we did not agree together ; 
 he had his ways, and I mine ; he was out of 
 heart at once, and left me. You're making 
 the same mistake that I did. Do you suppose 
 that the ostrich and the eagle think alike and 
 have the same tastes ? Why the eagle is all 
 for flying, and the ostrich for running : and 
 the latter hides his head in the sand, and the 
 other looks the sun full in the face without 
 blinking. Tliey see differently, think differ- 
 ently, have different pursuits. No, no, Kichard, 
 Miss Cornellis is a soaring, bold, and beautiful 
 eagle ; and you're nothing but an ungainly 
 ostrich. Though I'm your mother, I say it.'
 
 25G EICHAPtD CABLE 
 
 ThenRicliard laughed and stood up, liold- 
 ing the tub in both hands, and as he laughed, 
 the soapy water danced and splashed in the 
 tub. He took it to the head of the sloping 
 bed, and tilted it on one side, and allowed the 
 water to run down the furrows between the 
 young plants, not quickly, but slowly, that it 
 might sink in. 
 
 The evening had closed, but there was 
 light in the sky, that beautiful pearly twiliglit 
 which makes the June nights an echo of the 
 day. As he was thus tilting the bath, he 
 heard a cry, upset the rest of the water, 
 sprang up the bank, and looked in the direc- 
 tion whence he heard it. In another moment 
 he was over the bank. He had seen someone 
 — a girl — Josephine in the channel, running 
 in the shallow water, seawards with extended 
 arms ; then he saw her fall, then pick herself 
 up and run on. He pursued her. In that 
 pebble-floored channel, the water deepened, 
 the cold wavelets ran in from the open sea ; if 
 any one went on far enough, that person would 
 be soon out of depth, between the clay banks, 
 up which there was no climbing. The water 
 was already deep ; it was above her knees ; 
 she could no longer run ; she threw herself 
 down in the waves, and was at once caught 
 and drawn out and held up by Cable.
 
 AS THE HAHE ean 257 
 
 ' Miss Cornellis — Miss Josephine ! \yliat is 
 it?' 
 
 She uttered another cry ; she could not 
 speak ; but she put her arms round his neck 
 and clung to him ; and he carried her back, 
 wading in the water, till he came to the sea- 
 wall, then he crossed his plank bridge, and 
 bore her into the cottac^e. As the hare had 
 run a few hours before — poor fool ! — so had 
 she. 
 
 VOL. I,
 
 258 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE YOUNG CUCKOO. 
 
 Josephine was wet, shivering, not uncon- 
 scious, but as one distracted, unable to answer 
 questions. A second time Eichard Cable bore 
 her in his arms ; but before she had been hot, 
 with throbbing heart and heaving bosom ; 
 now she was cold, trembling, and her breath 
 coming in sobs. How she clung — with every 
 finger as though it were a claw. Eichard 
 could feel each several finger through his 
 jersey. Her gasping breath was on his cheek. 
 She made no attempt to speak, to explain her 
 conduct, to account for what she had been 
 doing. 
 
 He did not ask anything after the first 
 hasty query, but carried her in his strong 
 arms as firmly, as evenly as he had carried 
 the bath of soapy water previously. He took 
 her upstairs, and placed her in his mother's 
 chair in the same room with the seven little 
 children. There were only two bedrooms in
 
 THE YOUNG CUCKOO 259 
 
 the cottage — that occupied by the babes and 
 their grandmother, and his own ; the latter a 
 lean-to room, into which the stair opened, 
 and where only on one side was it possible to 
 stand upright. Mrs. Cable followed him si- 
 lently. The first thing to be done was to 
 change the girl's clothes. 
 
 ' I will run to the Hall for a dry suit,' said 
 Eichard. 
 
 Then Josephine started up and held out 
 her hands with palms extended, quivering 
 in remonstrance. 
 
 ' Do you not wish it ? ' he asked gently. 
 She shook her head. He saw that she tried 
 to speak, opening her mouth ; the lips were 
 white, but she could not utter anything. ' Sit 
 down again in the chair,' he said persuasively ; 
 ' my mother will lend you dry things.' 
 
 Then he went downstairs and made up the 
 iire. A second time Josephine had been in 
 his arms, a second time he had saved her from 
 a watery death, and this time she was seek- 
 ing her death. What had happened at the 
 Hall ? 
 
 Eichard Cable left the room below ; he 
 could not be quiet ; a restless fit came on 
 him, and he went into the garden. He walked 
 about there, found the blue tub empty, and 
 brought it indoors. He listened, but could 
 
 s 2
 
 260 RICHAKD CABLE 
 
 not hear that Josephine was speaking. His 
 mother was silently attending on her. He 
 heard the heavy tread of the old woman on 
 the boards. 
 
 Ouf?lit he to go at once to the Hall and 
 communicate with Mr. Cornellis ? He did not 
 know. Josephine evidently disliked the idea 
 of his going there ; but was it not his duty to 
 go ? He must wait a while till Josephine 
 could explain what had occurred, and then he 
 would know what course to adopt. He could 
 not see the window of the bedroom from the 
 garden ; it looked out on the road ; on the 
 garden side was only roof. He went round 
 into the highway and walked in the road, and 
 looked up at the window. There was no light 
 m it. No candle was needed ; it looked north- 
 west, and the northern sky was full of silvery 
 light. Were all the children asleep ? There 
 was no little voice heard, not even that of tlie 
 baby, who, as a privilege, was laid to sleep in 
 its father's bed, and only taken into its grand- 
 mother's when she retired for the night. How 
 shrewd little Bessie was ! She would go to 
 sleep in no other bed. In vain did her grand- 
 mother try to lull her to roost in her own 
 room ; the blue peepers would not shut. They 
 looked dazed ; and the heavy eyehds fell over 
 them, then drew up again, and intelhgence
 
 THE YOUNG CUCKOO 261 
 
 came into tlie eyes, and, alas, at the same 
 time a peevish look, and wliining began. 
 Nothing would satisfy the tiny creature but 
 to be put to sleep in the mean little lean-to 
 room, on the small hard bed of the father, a 
 bed he only occupied when off duty from the 
 lightship. Of lightships, of duty, nine-month- 
 old Bessie knew nothing ; but slie knew the 
 lean-to roof and the little bed ; and, by some 
 mysterious instinct, was aware that it was her 
 father's, and that she could sleep better in it 
 than elsewhere. 
 
 When Eichard Cable came upstairs for the 
 night, the baby was gone, but in the pillow 
 was a dint such as his fist mi^iht have made, 
 and he knew it was the impress of Bessie's 
 head. 
 
 He had spent thirteen contented years . 
 with his Polly : he had been much attached to 
 Polly, whom he respected ; but there had 
 been no close union of souls in their marriage. 
 Polly Avas a lusty lass when he married her, 
 a hard-workincr mrl, much enf^rossed in her 
 daily tasks, and able to think and talk of 
 nothing else. Eichard was a meditative man ; 
 his mind was always engaged, though his 
 hands were sometimes idle. His occupation 
 on tlie lightship had fostered this habit. He 
 did not open to many ; he had few friends.
 
 2G2 KICIIAIID CABLE 
 
 but every one respected him. He had in- 
 herited from his mother the tendency to feel 
 most interest in those who needed help, to love 
 those who clung to him. His wife had been 
 an independent woman, going lier own emi- 
 nently practical way, asking for no guidance 
 and support, because slie needed neither ; but 
 it was different, of course, witli the babes ; 
 they all were helpless ; they all depended on 
 their father, and therefore they filled a greater 
 part of his heart than Polly had done. It is 
 the place of the elm to sustain the vine ; it is 
 the privilege of the vine to cling to and ramble 
 
 over the elm : 
 
 Ulmisque adjimgere Adtes, 
 Conveniat — 
 
 as every schoolboy reading the ' Georgics' 
 knows. 
 
 Nature has made some plants creepers and 
 others sustainers. The creepers sometimes 
 strangle their supports, if too embracing, con- 
 tracting, exacting. A sustainer can hold up 
 without hurt a vast amount of parasitic growth 
 — honeysuckle wreaths, exhaling sweetness ; 
 evergreen, glistening ivy ; crimson and gold 
 clothed Virginian creeper. It is only when 
 the clambering plant has tlirown its tendrils 
 over the head of the supporting tree that the 
 tree breaks down under its burden. It is
 
 THE YOUKG CUCKOO 263 
 
 wonderful, sometimes, what a glory a common- 
 place tree will acquire from the parasite that 
 clings to it : in itself it is nothing ; as a means 
 of displaying its mate, it is beautiful. I have 
 seen an old dead trunk wreathed about with 
 wisteria, beautiful with the lilac chains that 
 hung about it; surrounding it with an atmos- 
 phere of honeyed sweetness ; and I have seen 
 human wisterias clinging, trailing, embalming, 
 adorning dead memories. Though what they 
 envelop and beautify is dead, it matters not ; 
 it is something about which they can cast 
 their arms and hang their chains of flowers, 
 and breathe forth the incense of their inno- 
 cent souls. 
 
 These same chmbers deserve a chapter in 
 the great gardening manual of human souls. 
 How indifferent they are to what they lay 
 hold of, if only they may have a support. 
 How the delicate little pink hands of the Am- 
 2yelopsis grapple a piece of granite, and hold it 
 that you cannot tear them away, and riot over 
 it, and wave triumphant wreaths of victory 
 and rejoicing ! How the jessamine laces with 
 ribbons of green round the rugged-barked 
 pine, in preference to the smooth- skinned 
 beech ; and the pure Devoniensis holds to the 
 common clay garden wall and laughs, leaning 
 against it, with thousands of delicately blush-
 
 264 IIICHARD CABLE 
 
 ing blooms, flowery whispers of happiness 
 and love and pride ; whereas it scarce shows 
 a few blossoms, and the buds decay unburst 
 against the stately hewn-stone mansion wall. 
 Why does the Bankshire prefer a cold and 
 cheerless aspect to that which is hot with sun ? 
 Verily, the creepers deserve attention in the 
 world-garden of humanity. 
 
 But, what are we about, rambling con- 
 cerning ramblers? when our subject is the 
 prop up which seven little climbers are throw- 
 ing their tendrils, and, at this moment, an 
 eighth, no seedling, has cast her arms and 
 asked to be sustained, and lifted high out of 
 the sordid soil ? 
 
 Eichard Cable saw the blind drawn in the 
 lower cottage window, and then a flush of 
 light over it ; so he knew that his mother was 
 below, and had kindled the lamp. Thereupon 
 he went indoors, and found Josephine in his 
 mother's Sunday dress, seated by the fire, in 
 his mother's high-backed leather chair, a 
 chair that had belons^ed to her father, who 
 was drowned. Josephine was very pale and 
 sallow ; her hands rested on her lap ; she was 
 looking into the fire, and the flames reflected 
 themselves in the large dark irises. She did 
 not seem to observe Eichard's entrance ; she 
 did not turn her head or raise her eyes.
 
 THE YOUNG CUCKOO 265 
 
 Mrs. Cable was eiif^ai^ed between the back 
 and front kitchen, getting some of Josephine's 
 wet clothes cleaned of the mud that adhered, 
 wringing them out, and putting them on lines 
 where they might drip and dry. 
 
 Eichard Cable went to the fireplace, and 
 leaned against the brick jamb, looking at the 
 girl. In the wooden houses of the coast, the 
 chimneys are built of brick, and there is a 
 brick basement on which the wooden walls rest. 
 
 ' Please, Miss CorneUis, I'm sorry to inter- 
 fere ; but I'm bound to ask — what is to be 
 done ? ' 
 
 She folded her hands, slightly raised her 
 chin, and then her head sank again, and the 
 eyes remained staring at tlie fire. 
 
 He waited a minute, still observing her, 
 and then he said again, in a low, gentle voice : 
 ' I'm sorry to be disturbing you wi' axing of 
 questions as may seem impertinent, miss ; but 
 I'm bound to repeat the same thing — what is 
 to be done ? ' 
 
 Again she made a slight movement witli 
 her chin, and unclosed, then reclenched her 
 hands ; but she said notliing. 
 
 Presentl}^ little Bessie began to cry upstairs, 
 and Mrs. Cable ran up. It was the child's 
 hour for supper, and she was exact to her 
 time in demandiui:^ her bread and milk.
 
 266 RICIIAKD CABLE 
 
 A third time Cable asked the question, 
 and then Josephine shghtly shook her head. 
 
 He must extract an answer from her ; he 
 must do somethins^. She could not remain in 
 his house without his letting her father know. 
 He took a step towards her, and laid his hand 
 upon her head, as he had laid it that same 
 afternoon, and now, as then, the dark hair 
 was wet. ' Is the head burning ? ' he asked. 
 
 Then she looked up at him without moving 
 her head ; her eyes were large, and had a 
 strange far-away look in them. 
 
 ' Now, Miss Cornellis, answer me — what is 
 to be done ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know,' she replied. 
 
 ' But,' he said, ' I must be told. I must 
 do something about this matter.' 
 
 ' I leave it all to you.' 
 
 ' May I take you back to the Hall ? If 
 you cannot walk, I will carry you.' 
 
 She held her head steady under his hand ; 
 she did not shake ii, but said : ' No ; I will 
 not go back there. I will stay here ; if you 
 will take me in. If not, I will go back into 
 the sea.' 
 
 ' Miss CorneUis,' he said after a long silence, 
 ' I do not understand what has happened.' 
 Then he took away his hand from her head, 
 which was not hot, but cold, and knelt down
 
 THE YOUNG CUCKOO 267 
 
 by the fire on one knee, and stirred up the 
 logs, and threw on a few small sticks that 
 crackled and blazed. 
 
 ' I will not go home any more.' 
 
 ' But the Hall is not your home ; it belongs 
 to Mr. Gotham.' 
 
 ' I will not go home to my father again.' 
 
 ' Has there been a quarrel ? ' 
 
 ' He has been angry. I will not go near 
 him again.' 
 
 ' Did he — did he strike you ? ' 
 
 ' Strike me ? — Oh, not with his hands. I 
 should not mind that.' 
 
 ' What did he do ? I must ask. You 
 leave me to decide what is to be settled about 
 you ; and I cannot decide without knowing 
 the circumstances.' 
 
 ' I am not going back to him.' 
 
 ' Did he — excuse me — drive you out of 
 the house ? ' 
 
 ' I left, because I could not stay.' 
 
 ' Why could you not stay ? ' 
 
 Her fingers in her lap worked nervously ; 
 she platted and unplatted them ; she twisted 
 them on one hand, and then smoothed them 
 with the other. 
 
 ' I cannot tell you all. Would you take 
 the lamp away ? The light hurts my eyes.' 
 
 He complied with her wish, and placed
 
 2G8 KICIIARU CABLE 
 
 the lamp in the back kitchen. Upstairs was 
 Mrs. Cable getting the baby to sleep. Eichard 
 heard her singing : 
 
 There's grog in the captain's cabin, 
 Water down below. 
 
 He returned to the fireplace and stood against 
 the jamb, opposite her, and said : ' Tell me 
 everything. Miss Josephine. I am your friend. 
 I will advise.' 
 
 ' I know you are my friend,' she answered. 
 'I will tell , you what I can; but my head 
 spins, and I cannot think ; I cannot recollect 
 everything.' She was in no hurry ; she 
 knitted her brows, trying to recollect the 
 chain of circumstances. Presently she said : 
 ' It was the rector's fault ; he told Aunt 
 Judith, and she, of course, went at once to 
 papa and told him.' 
 
 ' Told what ? ' 
 
 ' I had seen the rector this morning, and 
 he took me to task about going on the wall 
 to you the nif^ht of the fire.' 
 
 ' It was an unwise thino-.' 
 
 ' You also are against me. I will say no 
 more. Every one is turned against me. 
 Everything I say works people up into hatred 
 of me. I am a miserable, unhappy girl.' 
 
 ' Miss Cornellis, I am not turned a2[ainst
 
 THE YOUNG CUCKOO 269 
 
 you. I say \Yliat your own common sense 
 has told you, that you acted miprudently that 
 night. — The rector spoke about it to Miss 
 Judith ? ' 
 
 ' And she, blundering, stupid old creature, 
 went with it at once to papa. I was not in 
 then. When he did speak to me, I saw he 
 was angry. He does not turn red, but a 
 greenish white, and he speaks slowly, but 
 every w^ord cuts like a razor ; and not only 
 so, but every word is dipped in venom, so that 
 when it has cut you, the wound goes on fes- 
 tering for months, and perhaps never heals at 
 all.' 
 
 ' Your father ! ' — Eichard spoke in slow 
 wonder — ' a father hurt, poison the blood of 
 his child ! ' It was to him inconceivable. He 
 would have allowed his flesh to be torn ofl 
 his bones with red-hot hooks and pincers, 
 rather than wound or bruise one of these 
 tender, fragile little innocents that looked up 
 to him in love and trust. 
 
 ' My father as he speaks, when he is very 
 angry, has a face like a dead man ; but his 
 eyes bhnk, and now and then he quivers, just 
 as though he felt an electric shock ; and then 
 he is as if he Avould hurt with his hands ; but 
 he controls himself again, and stabs instead 
 with his tongue.'
 
 270 PJCIIAED CABLE 
 
 Eichard Cable drew a long breath, and 
 put Ills hand across his chest to the mantel- 
 shelf. 
 
 ' When my papa spoke to me, I knew at 
 once he was in one of his worst moods. And 
 I — as I alwa^^s do — was ready to fire up. I 
 am not afraid of him ; he does not cow me. 
 He makes my heart boil and foam over.' 
 
 ' Does he not take you to him, and put his 
 arm round you, and speak low, and tell jou 
 that you have pained him, and that he loves 
 you very, very dearly ? ' 
 
 ' Never ! ' said Josephine decisively. She 
 was recovering herself. As she thought over 
 the scene she was describing, the heat returned 
 to her heart and fired her veins. 
 
 ' Then I acknowledged it all when he 
 charged me ; and when he sneered, I said that 
 was not all. I told him that I had bought 
 you the ship, given it my name, and that I 
 should pay for it out of the insurance-money 
 for Eose Cottage.' 
 
 ' What is that? ' asked Cable. 
 
 She was excited now, and went on, dis- 
 regarding his interruption. 'He was trustee 
 for my little fortune left me by my mother, and 
 he has made away with that — how, I do not 
 know. I did not know it was gone when I 
 ordered the vessel. Now that it is bought,
 
 THE YOUNG CUCKOO 271 
 
 I thought I should hke to pay for it, though 
 it does not really matter, as my cousin Gotham 
 will advance — will give me the money. Yet 
 when my father took this line with me, I was 
 angry and said I would claim from him some 
 of my money out of what he would get from 
 the insurance company. Then he stung me 
 worse and worse ; and just as a hornet will 
 drive a horse mad, so did he make me forget 
 everything but my pain and wrath — and I said 
 
 something about the fire ' She paused, 
 
 hesitated. ' Even to you, I cannot repeat it.' 
 She halted again. ' But I believe that Avhat 
 I said was true.' She stammered. ' Yet, I 
 ought not to have said it. He is my fother.' 
 Then she drew her feet together, and put her 
 hands on the elbows of the chair, and raised 
 herself, and her face flamed crimson, and the 
 very hair on her brow seemed to bristle with 
 electric excitation, and sparks to shoot out of 
 her eyes. ' It was then he used words to me 
 that I shall never forget — never forgive ! ' She 
 stood shivering with wrath, looking very tall 
 in the long black dress of Mrs. Cable, and in 
 the dark room, with the firelight alone illumin- 
 ing her. ' After that, I would not stay.' She 
 spoke slowly, and with intervals between her 
 sentences, which came forth as the discharge 
 of minute guns at sea from a foundering vessel.
 
 272 lUCHARD CABLE 
 
 ' I could not stay.' She shook so that she 
 rattled the armchair, which she touched with 
 one liand. ' I had no home more.' 
 
 ' But,' said Eichard, ' though he angered 
 you, he was your father, and a father ' 
 
 She did not allow him to conclude ; she 
 said harshly : 'Do you not understand ? There 
 are things which even a father may not s^j. 
 As there is a blasphemy which has no forgive- 
 ness, neither in this world nor in the world to 
 come, so is there an insult which cannot be 
 endured nor be forgotten.' Her face was dark, 
 and startled Cable with the rage and bitter- 
 ness that Avas in it, lit with the glare from the 
 hre. 
 
 ' Why did you not go to the rector ? ' asked 
 Eichard. 
 
 ' The rector ! — after I had refused his son, 
 and laudied at him ? ' She shook her head. 
 There was no place to which I could go. Eose 
 Cottage is burnt down. The Hall is no more 
 a home. The rectory doors I have closed 
 against myself. To this house I could not 
 come.' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' 
 
 She looked at him, then her eyes fell, and 
 she looked into the fire. ' Because of what 
 my father had said. There was no place for 
 me — but the sea.' Then, unable to sustain
 
 THE YOUNG CUCKOO 273 
 
 herself longer on her feet, she sank back into 
 the chair. 
 
 After considering a while, Eichard Cable 
 said : ' ]\iiss Cornellis, it was God's doing that 
 I was the means of saving you before in the 
 lightship. It is God's doing that I have been 
 the means of saving you this night. There- 
 fore, what am I, to oppose His will ? I will go 
 at once to the Hall and tell Mr. Cornellis that 
 you are here and will remain here.' 
 
 ' He will insult you.' 
 
 ' I am not afraid of him or of his words. 
 And when I've told him, miss, that you are 
 here, then I'll get out my boat and row away 
 to the new hghtship, and stay there for ten 
 days or a fortnight.' 
 
 Then, as he moved to go, she started to 
 her feet again, and caught his arm with both 
 her hands, and quivering with excitement, 
 said : ' Do not go — do not leave me helpless, 
 friendless. I cannot bear it. There, there — 
 I will kneel to you, if need be, and entreat 
 3^ou. Be Master, Captain, Pilot— everything 
 to the " Josephine." ' 
 
 He took her hand between his own, and 
 said very gravely : ' As I said before, I say 
 again — I'll do my duty by her, so help me 
 God!' 
 
 Then Bessie Cable came in, and a brilliant 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 light from the lamp she carried fell over them, 
 hand in hand. 
 
 ' And now,' said he earnestly, ' I go with 
 a firm confidence to your father, for I have a 
 right to speak in your defence and for you.' 
 
 But Mrs. Cable looking on, put her hand 
 to her brow and said : ' The young cuckoo is 
 in the nest ! '
 
 97^ 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE ' W I N D S T R E W.' 
 
 Gabriel Gotham returned somewhat late to 
 the Hall ; he was exhausted ; it was not often 
 that he took so much exercise, and was away 
 from his house so long ; but he was pleased 
 with himself ; he chuckled and rubbed his left 
 hand over the back of the right, which held 
 the walking-stick. As he came in at his gates, 
 he met Mr. Cornellis, hardly recovered from 
 his agitation caused by the interview with his 
 daughter. 
 
 ' Where is Josephine ? I want her,' said 
 Gabriel. 
 
 ' I do not know where she is. I have had 
 a talk with her. I am incensed. I have 
 had to reprimand her pretty sharply. She is 
 inconsiderate, aggravating.' 
 
 ' Come with me to the Piatt. I must have 
 some cura^oa or Chartreuse, or cherry brandy. 
 I am fagged. You look pale as well.' 
 
 T 2
 
 276 KICIIARD CABLE 
 
 Tlie Piatt was a square platform about 
 seven feet liigli, built of brick, witli a con- 
 creted top, to wliicli a fliglit of steps led from 
 the garden. It was said to have been origin- 
 ally a winnowing-floor, when wheat was grown 
 where now lay the Hall gardens. Here, ad- 
 vantage was taken of the breeze from off the 
 water to clear the corn of the husk. Such 
 platforms still exist in different parts of Eng- 
 land, and in the west are called ' windstrews.' 
 They occupy a high situation, exposed to every 
 breeze. Here, it was near the sea, because 
 the air always stirred there, even when, at a 
 rifle-shot inland, it was calm. This windstrew 
 would probably have been broken down, and 
 the bricks used for other purposes, had not 
 the proprietors of the Hall considered it a 
 pleasant spot on which to sit when the 
 weather was hot, and enjoy the cool air off 
 the water, and see the boats coming in or 
 going out with the tide. It went now by the 
 name of the Piatt, whatever its former desig- 
 nation had been, Piatt being perhaps a con- 
 traction for platform. It adjoined the garden 
 wall, and occupied an angle in it, the wall 
 rising just high enough above the platform to 
 serve as a back to benches. On the garden 
 side it was unrailed. The steps ran up the 
 side of the wall to it. At the bottom of the
 
 THE 'WI^'DS^REW' 277 
 
 steps was the garden wicket-gate, almost in- 
 variably fastened. 
 
 ' Where is Josephine ? I want to speak 
 to Josephine,' said Gotham again. 
 
 ' I do not know where she is. She has 
 left me in one of her tantrums. I had to 
 speak decidedly ; and she dislikes dictation : 
 she is wayward as an unbroken filly.' 
 
 ' Go into the house, Justin,' said the 
 squire ; ' tell one of the servants to bring us 
 glasses and the liqueurs to the Piatt. I can- 
 not bear up much longer. I am too hot to 
 go indoors. If you see Josephine, send her 
 to me.' 
 
 Mr. Cornellis bit his lip and obeyed. He 
 did not like being ordered about by Mr. 
 Gotham ; but he dared not show that he was 
 annoyed. At this time he was much ruffled. 
 His interview with his daughter had dis- 
 turbed him more than he showed. He was 
 a man who hated opposition, and above 
 opposition, a will as strong as his own, and 
 a mind above beinix humbucfcred. He knew 
 that he could not delude his daughter into 
 submission, and now he was discovering that 
 he could not browbeat her. Accustomed to 
 the easy natures of his sister Judith and his 
 cousin Gotham, he was provoked at encoun- 
 tering opposition in his own child. He had
 
 278 PJCHAPvD CABLE 
 
 made his plans, and these pLans ^vere dis- 
 turbed by the rebelliousness of Josephine. 
 He wanted her to marry Captain Sellwood, 
 partly because he desired to be free from 
 the encumbrance of his child, and partly be- 
 cause he could rely on Captain Selhvood not 
 troubling him about Josephine's fortune, 
 which he had spent. An energetic and 
 greedy son-in-law might make matters un- 
 pleasant for him. The Sellwoods were too 
 comfortably off to care for a small jointure, 
 and too gentlemanly and well connected to 
 have recourse to law, and so expose his con- 
 duct to public notice. If they found he had 
 behaved badly, they would hush up the 
 matter in the family interest. His plan was, 
 as soon as Josephine was settled, to saddle 
 her with Judith, and himself depart, and do 
 the best he could for himself with what 
 money he got out of the insurance company, 
 till Gabriel Gotham's death put him in pos- 
 session of the Hanford estate. This event 
 could not be far distant ; the wretched squire 
 was failing rapidly, and as he failed, drank 
 more, and dosed himself with larger portions 
 of narcotics. He was now half imbecile, and 
 his brain would certainly soften, and paralysis 
 ensue very speedily. For a while, Mr. Cor- 
 nellis had been uneasy because Gabriel would
 
 THE 'WINDSTREW 279 
 
 sjDeak of the past, and revert, especially in ]iis 
 niaiicUin moods, to the wrong he had done to 
 Bessie and her son. 
 
 * Pshaw ! ' said Cornellis. ' If every one 
 of ns took to heart the faults of his youth, 
 as you do, none of us would come to grey 
 hairs. Your father and uncle made the 
 woman a good offer; she refused it, and with 
 that the matter came to an end. You are 
 quit.' 
 
 But this did not wholly satisfy Gabriel. 
 The recollection of his treachery haunted 
 him, and he took to liqueur-drinking and 
 opiates, as much to still the voice of self- 
 reproach as to lull the nervous j)ains he felt. 
 
 If Bessie Cable had not lived in the same 
 place, it would have been better for him. 
 The occasional sight of her and of her son 
 renewed in him the stings of conscience. But 
 though he felt these stings, he was too cowardly 
 and weak to redress the old wrong. 
 
 Bessie had stood in the way of his marry- 
 ing. At one time, he had visited a neighbour- 
 ing squire and paid attention to his daughter 
 — one of his daughters ; and because the 
 squire had five sons and six daughters, and 
 his estate was heavily burdened, he would 
 have been glad to dispose of one of the girls 
 to the owner of Hanford. Miss Wakeham
 
 280 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 also, knowing herself to be slenderly provided 
 for, would have accepted him. Gabriel rode 
 over twice a week to Woodley Park, and 
 walked and flirted with Miss Wakeham ; but 
 just as everyone supposed he was about to 
 declare himself, Bessie Cable reappeared in 
 Hanford, and Gotham became frightened. He 
 expected that she would repeat the story of 
 his conduct to her, if he proceeded : and he 
 hung back, ceased to visit Woodley, and re- 
 mained an old bachelor. 
 
 Would Bessie have interfered ? He never 
 knew. She, perhaps, herself was undecided 
 how to act. But he resolved not to risk the 
 unpleasantness such a disclosure would cause. 
 He was certain that the Wakehams would re- 
 fuse the connection, if it came to their ears ; 
 they were a somewhat pinched but a proud 
 family. 
 
 The conduct of Gabriel to Miss Fanny 
 Wakeham was commented on, and was the 
 occasion of some coldness between the Wake- 
 hams and him ; but when she, after a twelve- 
 month, married a Baronet, and became Lady 
 Brentwood, this coldness disappeared ; the 
 Wakehams were even grateful to Mr. Gotham 
 that he had withdrawn his pretensions. The 
 vanity of the man was enhanced by the mar- 
 riage of Miss Fanny, and he liked to boast
 
 THE ' WINDSTREW ' 281 
 
 to Cornellis and other intimates, of liis old 
 flame, Lady Brentwood, by whom, by George ! 
 he was nearly caught ; but hearing that she 
 had a deuce of a temper, he had been wise 
 enough to cry ' Hands off.' 
 
 Justin Cornellis had gained his power 
 over Gabriel Gotham at first by his know- 
 ledge of the secret which embittered the life 
 of the latter. He knew it, because it was 
 a family secret ; consequently, Judith also 
 knew about it. But Cornellis did not know 
 that there was a son, and that mother and 
 son lived in Hanford, till he came there and 
 took and inhabited Eose Cottaiie. When the 
 Cornellis family came to Hanford, Gotham 
 was disturbed in mind lest the story should 
 get out by their indiscretion. He was just 
 then desirous of being made a Deputy Lieu- 
 tenant for the county, and a Justice of Peace ; 
 and he knew that it would be fatal to his 
 chance, w^ere the scandal to get wind ; so he 
 cringed to Cornellis, and offered him a loan 
 of money, were he in want of temporary 
 accommodation, as many a man is when 
 buying a house and fitting it up. Cornellis 
 soon got the upper hand of the squire, and 
 maintained such a hold on him, that, as Justin 
 supposed, Gotham was unable to act in any 
 way without him. He did not refrain from
 
 282 RICIIArvD CABLE 
 
 jesting about the boatman's lass Bessie, the 
 very old girl who had taken advantage of the 
 inexperience of the young squire ; and to 
 sneer at the lout of a son, and his marriage 
 with the servant from the rector3\ Cornellis 
 did not see that he was overshootinor his 
 mark. His contemptuous jests about the 
 Cables recoiled on and hurt Gotham. If 
 Bessie was such a despicable creature, what 
 a fool Gabriel himself must have been to take 
 up with her ; if tlie son were such a booby, 
 the father must liave been a poor creature. 
 Gotham did not like the jokes of Cornellis ; 
 they galled him, and wrought in him great 
 bitterness against his cousin ; and sometimes, 
 when he was alone, it boiled up, and he 
 clenched liis fists and gnaslied his teeth at 
 the thought of the man who had become 
 indispensable to him, but whom he hated. 
 Cornellis did not consider that a weak man is 
 a man on whom you can never lean ; he is 
 always devising some meanness whereby he 
 can deceive those upon whom he fawns and 
 to whom he clings. In playing a game with 
 a stupid man, the faculties become lulled ; 
 w^e think we know exactly what moves he 
 will make, and we are beforehand ready to 
 countermove. But it sometimes happens that 
 stupidity simulates genius, because it sinks
 
 THE 'WINDSTREW 283 
 
 to depths beyond calculation, and surprises 
 us by a step for which we were quite unpre- 
 pared. Mr. CorneUis overestimated his own 
 power, and undervalued the parts of the 
 squire. He had no suspicion that Gabriel 
 regarded him with mistrust. 
 
 Mr. Gotham seated himself on the seat, 
 with his back to the wall, on the raised wind- 
 strew, took off his hat, and removing slowly 
 his handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his 
 head with a shaking hand. His weak e3^es 
 were watering, his narrow forehead was 
 covered with moisture. The evening was 
 warm, and he was tired. He looked about 
 him, at his pretty garden and groves and 
 terraces. What a pretty place it was ! Yet 
 he hardly enjoyed it. He had a conservatory, 
 and bought for it rare plants, not that he 
 cared for them, but that he might boast of 
 the sum he had paid for this new orchid or 
 that rare lily. He had a good stable, two 
 hunters ; but he rarely rode them, never 
 hunted with them ; all the pleasure he had 
 from them was to talk about them and what 
 they cost him. Some of his neighbours 
 humoured him, but laughed at him in their 
 sleeves. They humoured him for the sake of 
 his subscriptions to the hunt and the balls, 
 and because he aave ijood dinners. He was
 
 284 RICIIAIID CABLE 
 
 mean in some things, extravagant in others, 
 as oftens happens Avith weak men. 
 
 Now, as he looked about him, he felt un- 
 comfortable. The idea glimmered in his 
 cloudy mind that he must before very long 
 leave this pretty place, his greenhouses, his 
 pines, his hunters, his cellars, his china. All 
 would pass from him to another. He could 
 see the church tower behind the trees. His 
 w^alled garden adjoined the graveyard, and 
 was beheved to have been taken out of it ; 
 certainly, bones were dug up on the north 
 side of it ; but the strawberries along that 
 bed were splendid. ' I wish the Chartreuse 
 would come,' he grumbled. ' What is that 
 fellow Justin about ? — So : he has been talkimx 
 of the changes he Avill make when I am dead, 
 calculating on the improvements he wdll effect. 
 My grapes — my muscatel house ; I have been 
 particular to have the muscat vines all to- 
 gether ; you can't have the proper flavour 
 where they are mixed. He'll be eating my 
 pines wdien the worms are eating me ! Shall 
 he — shall he ! ' He uttered these last words 
 aloud. 
 
 'Shall he! — shall who?' asked Cornellis, 
 ascending the steps, and taking his place on 
 the other seat, at right angles to that occupied 
 by Gotham. He had his back to the sea.
 
 THE 'WINDSTKEW 285 
 
 He asked tlie question with indifference ; lie 
 had no idea that it concerned himself. 
 
 ' I — I have been unwell to-day ; I have 
 been thinkincr that my health is breakino^ 
 up.' 
 
 ' Pshaw ! You are in low spirits. Break- 
 ing up ! when you have been trotting about 
 all the afternoon like a boy of sixteen. It is 
 I, not you, who have cause to be in the 
 dumps. I have been irritated past endurance 
 by that daughter of mine. — Thank you, I will 
 have green Chartreuse.' 
 
 ' What has she been doin^^ ? ' 
 
 'Doing! Will you believe it? She has 
 refused Captain Sellwood ! ' 
 
 Mr. Gotham's mouth opened, and he 
 stared at Cornelhs with feeble astonishment, 
 mixed with amusement. 
 
 Cornelhs remarked the latter, and said 
 somewhat testily : ' There is nothing so funny 
 about this. To me it is indescribably morti- 
 fying. He will have eventually fifteen thou- 
 sand.' 
 
 'And she has, from her mother, about 
 five hundred pounds in all,' said Gotham with 
 a chuckle. 
 
 'Not so much ; no — hardly four.' 
 
 ' You have been very careful of it,' said 
 Gabriel, crouching with his hands on his
 
 286 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 stick. His glass of Chartreuse was so full, 
 and liis hands so shaking, that he did not 
 venture to raise the glass to his lips ; he 
 stooped to the table and put his mouth to the 
 glass and sucked the brimmino^ contents. He 
 looked so mean and wretched as thus bent, 
 with his blear eyes on CornelHs, that the 
 latter had difficulty in checking the expression 
 of contempt that began to curl his lips. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered ; ' I have been a care- 
 ful trustee.' 
 
 ' So Josephine told me,' said Gabriel. 
 
 Mr. Cornellis started, and the colour went 
 out of his brow, which turned deadly white. 
 The movement w^as so sudden that Gabriel 
 was frightened, and upset the glass with his 
 nose or chin. 
 
 ' There ! ' said he ; 'I have spilt my glass 
 before I have half drunk it. It cost me twelve 
 shillings a bottle, and a bottle don't hold 
 much ; it is soon gone.' 
 
 Mr. Cornellis considered whether he should 
 ask what Josephine had said. He thought it 
 best not to pursue the subject. 
 
 ' Pour me out a little more,' said Gotham ; 
 ' my hand is unsteady.' 
 
 Whilst Mr. Cornellis complied, Gabriel 
 said to him : ' So, Josephine has refused Cap- 
 tain Sellwood.'
 
 THE 'WINDSTREW' 287 
 
 ' Slie told me so herself. It is monstrous ! ' 
 
 'There must be a prior attachment.' 
 
 Now the hand of Justin Cornelhs shook, 
 and he spilled some drops on the little table. 
 ' Prior attachment ! Of course not. To 
 whom could she be attached ? Pooh ! It is 
 absurd.' 
 
 ' What was that I heard about a meeting 
 on the night of the fire ? ' 
 
 ' Meeting ! I know nothing about one.' 
 
 ' Do you know what I have been doing 
 to-day, Justin ? ' 
 
 'No, squire.' 
 
 ' I have been to Grimes and Newbold's 
 dock, to see the vessel Jose2:)liine has 
 bought, called after her name, and given to 
 Eichard.' 
 
 ' Josephine cannot buy a boat. She has 
 not the money ; and I will see her at Jericho 
 before I advance the requisite sum.' 
 
 'I have advanced it, Justin. You — you 
 can repay me at your leisure out of Jose- 
 phine's money.' 
 
 ' You ! ' Mr. Cornellis looked at him with 
 astonishment. This mean little man had 
 meddled to make mischief. 'Do you know 
 what you have done ? ' 
 
 ' I think I do know,' chuckled Gotham. 
 
 ' I think you do not,' said CornelHs angrily.
 
 288 PJCIIxVRD CABLE 
 
 His face was becoming pale, and the lines in 
 it liard, as if cut with a gouge in stone. ' I 
 do not think you are aware that you 
 have compromised my daughter's character. 
 It was bad enough that she was on the light- 
 ship alone with that fellow ; but this is worse. 
 She gives him a vessel which she calls after 
 her own name, and you help her, you en- 
 courage her to do so.' 
 
 ' Why should she not ? ' 
 
 ' I say, because she makes the tongues 
 wao^ about her. Ever since that confounded 
 affair of the lightship, she has been running 
 in and out of the man's cottage.' 
 
 ' And,' said Gabriel, ' she has met him at 
 nio^ht on the seawall.' 
 
 ' People will talk. There will be plenty 
 of scandal floating. And do you expect me 
 to put up with it ? ' 
 
 ' Let them talk. Something may come of 
 it that would please me well.' 
 
 ' What is that, Gabriel ? ' Mr. Cornelhs's 
 cheeks blanched, and his hands closed. He 
 was very angry. 
 
 ' Why should she not take him ? ' said 
 Gabriel. ' She likes him well ; of that I am 
 sure, and that would satisfy me.' 
 
 ' It would not suit me,' said Cornelhs in a 
 husky voice.
 
 THE 'WINDSTREW 289 
 
 ' It would suit me excellently, Justin, as 
 you may see, for then I could leave what little 
 I have to Josephine, and so Eichard would 
 get it. That would be a great satisfaction to 
 my conscience, and — do not look at me in 
 that strange way ; I do not like it, Justin — I 
 say it would just fit in with my wishes ; no 
 one would know who he was, and my con- 
 science would be clear.' 
 
 ' Is that what you intend ! ' exclaimed 
 Cornelhs, starting up, and leaning forward, 
 his face hvid, his hps drawn back, showing 
 his white teeth. 'Is that it? — That you shall 
 never do ! ' 
 
 Gotham stacfc^ered to his feet also, and 
 shrank back ; he was frightened at the ghastly 
 face and malignant expression of Justin Cor- 
 nellis. 
 
 ' You dare to utter this to me ! ' said the 
 ex-missionary, and with his elbows drawn 
 back. He took a step towards Gotham. ' I'll 
 throttle you first.' 
 
 Gotham, trembling, let fall his glass of 
 Chartreuse, and backed before the angry 
 father, who suddenly thrust forth both his 
 hands to grip him. 
 
 At that moment, up the steps of the 
 windstrew came Eichard Cable. 
 
 Gabriel Gotham uttered a feeble cry, 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 whether of terror at the approach of Cor- 
 nelhs, or of surprise at the apparition of 
 Cable, neither knew, and in a moment he 
 fell headlong from the Piatt upon the garden 
 walk below.
 
 291 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE FLOWERINa OP FORGIVENESS. 
 
 JosEPHiXE was still before the fire in the 
 cottage when Richard Cable returned. He 
 came in quietly. Though a solidly built man, 
 he walked lightly, and his step as he entered 
 the kitchen was so little audible that Josephine 
 did not hear it. She was busied in her own 
 thoughts. 
 
 But Mrs. Cable saw and heard her son, 
 and at once perceived that something had 
 happened. 'What is it.^' she asked; but 
 Richard, instead of answering her, went to 
 the fireplace, took Josephine by the hand, 
 and raised her. 
 
 ' Look at me, miss,' he said. ' You have 
 given me a right to exercise some sort of 
 authority over you, for you have thrown 
 yourself on my protection and chosen me as 
 your adviser. I give you my opinion now, and 
 tell you what I wish you to do, what I am 
 sure you ought to do.' 
 
 V 2
 
 292 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 She looked steadily into his face. He 
 was very grave, even pale. She also saw 
 that something had happened. 
 
 ' There has been an accident at tlie Hall. 
 You must return to it at once.' 
 
 Her lips began to move in protest, and a 
 flicker came into her eyes of reviving oppo- 
 sition. 
 
 ' Listen to me, Miss Josephine. I would 
 not advise this unless I were sure it was right. 
 It is right all round — right for yourself, right 
 for your father, right for your poor cousin, 
 right for me.' 
 
 'My cousin?' 
 
 ' There has been an accident. When I 
 came to the garden gate, I found it unhasped, 
 and- ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I came out that way, and may not 
 have fastened it behind me.' 
 
 ' And as I heard your father's voice close 
 by I opened the gate and went in. I did not 
 wish to see him in the house ; I preferred 
 meeting him in the garden.' 
 
 ' I can understand that,' said Josephine. 
 ' Was he alone ? ' 
 
 ' No ; he was on that raised place at the 
 bottom of the garden, once used, they say, 
 for winnowing corn.' 
 
 ' Yes, the Piatt.'
 
 THE FLOWERING OF FORGIVENESS 293 
 
 ' He was there with Mr. Gotham.' 
 
 Mrs. Cable drew near, a great fear rising 
 in her heart. 
 
 'I came up the steps. I do not quite 
 know what happened. It seemed to me that 
 there was an altercation going on ; but I 
 cannot say. I came in quickly through the 
 gate and up the steps, and did not listen to 
 what they were saying, nor see them till I 
 was right on them. Mr. Cornellis was leaning 
 forward with his hand towards Mr. Gotham^ 
 who stood inwards, so to speak, with his back 
 to the garden, where there is no wall ; and I 
 cannot say how it came about, whether he 
 was surprised at my sudden appearance, or 
 whether he lost his balance stepping back 
 from Mr. Cornellis. I say, I cannot tell how 
 it came about, but he fell backwards off the 
 Piatt, headlong into the garden.' 
 
 Bessie Cable uttered a cry, and stood with 
 her eyes distended with terror, looking at her 
 son, her hands clenched, her arms stiff, 
 stretched out at her sides. 
 
 ' Mr. Cornellis and I ran down to his aid 
 at once. I raised him in my arms. He was 
 not conscious. I sent your father to the 
 house, and when help came he was removed 
 to his bedroom, and the doctor sent for.' 
 
 ' Cousin Gabriel ! ' exclaimed Josephine, the
 
 294 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 tears rising in her eyes. ' poor Cousin 
 Gabriel ! What did the doctor say ? ' 
 
 ' I did not wait to hear.' 
 
 ' Is he — very seriously hurt ? ' 
 
 'I fear so. He did not speak. The 
 gardener has pots and other things in the 
 corner where he fell, and I am afraid he 
 struck his head on some hard substance. He 
 was not conscious. He did not know that he 
 was being moved, and I suspect his spine is 
 also injured.' 
 
 ' You think he will die ! ' cried Josephine 
 in terror. She had not realised at first the 
 seriousness of the accident. 
 
 ' I do not doubt it.' 
 
 Josephine stood in hesitation. She put 
 her knuckles to her lips. ' What am I to do ? 
 What ought I to do ? ' 
 
 ' I have told you,' said Eichard Cable. 
 ' You must go to the Hall.' 
 
 Then Mrs. Cable closed her strong hand 
 about Josephine's wrist ; she did not speak, 
 but she drew her with her. She did not wait 
 to put anything over her head ; she went 
 forth as she was, and Josephine unresistingly 
 went with her. 
 
 The house was in commotion. Aunt Judith 
 was useless. She had retired to her own room 
 and rang for sherry, as she felt faint. The
 
 THE FLOWERING OF FORGIVENESS 295 
 
 servants had lost their heads, and were order- 
 ing each other about to do impossible or 
 useless things. No one attended to Miss 
 Judith's bell, which rang violently every few 
 minutes. 
 
 Mrs. Cable and Josephine entered unnoticed, 
 and proceeded at once to the room where the 
 unfortunate man lay. As they entered, Mr. 
 Cornelhs, who was there, started. He had 
 been overhauhng Gotham's secretaire. He 
 knew^ the will was there ; but he wished to 
 satisfy himself that it had not been destroyed. 
 It was there, with the date on the envelope 
 when it was made. 
 
 Gabriel Gotham had not been undressed ; 
 he lay on the bed just as he had been placed 
 there, and his condition remained unaltered. 
 His eyes were dull, like those of a man drunk 
 with sleep, and his breathing was stertorous. 
 There was certainly pressure on the brain. 
 The pillow was stained with blood that flowed 
 from a wound in tlie back of his head. 
 
 Mr. Cornellis took no notice of his daugh- 
 ter. He had not the smallest suspicion that 
 she had attempted her life and been saved by 
 Cable. He looked hard at her dress — she 
 was in a gown of Mrs. Cable's that did not fit 
 her — but he asked no question. He supposed 
 his daughter had been playing some new
 
 296 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 vagary, which did not greatly concern him, and 
 about which he need not inquire. He said to 
 Bessie Cable ; ' Your son startled Mr. Gotham. 
 He came in on him unexpectedly. Why Mr. 
 Gotham should have been so surprised by 
 seeing him I cannot tell ; he sprang back 
 as if he had seen a ghost, and though I 
 put out my hand to save him, I was too 
 late : he fell off the windstrew, and I fear 
 has met with a fatal injury. — What do you 
 want?' This was addressed to a servant-girl 
 who hovered at the bedroom door with a 
 frightened face. 
 
 ' Please, sir,' said the girl, ' do you know 
 where the key of the cellarette is ? Miss 
 Cornelhs seed the master being took upstairs, 
 and it has upset her so bad that she wants 
 some sherry, and we don't know where the 
 key is.' 
 
 ' It is in your master's pocket,' said Mr. 
 Cornellis. ' She must wait till it can be taken 
 from him — till he is undressed.' 
 
 Steps were heard on the stairs. The 
 surgeon had come. 
 
 ' I have not ventured to have him touched 
 till you could see him,' said Mr. Cornellis to 
 the medical man. ' Poor fellow ! poor fellow ! ' 
 He was agitated ; his voice shook, he turned 
 his face away that his emotion might not be
 
 THE FLOWERING OF FORGIVENESS 297 
 
 seen. ' The whole thing was done so suddenly. 
 It is a fearful shock to us all.' Then he 
 repeated the account of how Gabriel fell, as 
 he had given it to Bessie, only adding, whilst 
 his eye was fixed on her : ' Why he started 
 was no doubt this — he was astonished at the 
 intrusion. My cousin was very tenacious of 
 his privacy. Hoav the man got in, I do not 
 know.' 
 
 ' By the gate,' said Josephine. ' I left it 
 open.' 
 
 ' Or what he wanted, I cannot conjecture.' 
 added Mr. Cornellis. 
 
 ' I cannot examine him till he is undressed,' 
 said the surgeon. ' We must have a nurse.' 
 
 ' I am here,' said Bessie. ' Let Mr. and 
 Miss Cornellis leave the room.' 
 
 The ex-missionary hesitated a moment, 
 and then complied. As he went through the 
 door, he saw the maid again, who asked : 
 ' Please, sir, have you got the key ? ' 
 
 ' Key. What key ? ' 
 
 ' Please, sir, ffiss Cornellis has the hys- 
 terics for want of sherry. There goes her bell 
 again.' 
 
 ' Bother her sherry ! Stand out of the 
 way.' 
 
 Half an hour later, Mr. Cornellis was sum- 
 moned.
 
 298 PJCIIARD CABLE 
 
 The surgeon was a plain blunt man. ' I've 
 overhauled hhn,' he said. ' It is of no use 
 giving you false hopes. He can live only a 
 few hours.' 
 
 Mr. Cornellis nodded ; he was sure of this 
 before the doctor came. 
 
 ' Can you stay ?' he asked. 
 
 ' I will call again later. I can do no good. 
 If I could I would stay. — Let Mrs. Cable re- 
 main Yfitli him ; he must not be left alone.' 
 Then he gave a few perfunctory directions and 
 departed. 
 
 Cornellis looked at Bessie Cable with a 
 sarcastic smile : ' Too late, my good woman.' 
 
 ' Too late for what ? ' she asked, turning 
 slowly, haughtily towards him. Poor and 
 iornorant woman thou2:h she was, she had a 
 certain stateliness in all her actions, a dignity 
 in all she did. 
 
 ' Merely, dear Mrs. Cable, that you are too 
 late to get anything from him. He vdll not 
 recover consciousness.' 
 
 ' Too late to get ? ' she asked gravely, rais- 
 ing her tall form and looking coldly at the ex- 
 missionary. ' To get what ? I want nothing 
 of him.' 
 
 ' no, my good woman ; of course not. 
 I know your story. You might, had you 
 been in time, have secured something ; but
 
 THE FLOWERING OF FORGIVENESS 299 
 
 —you are too late. He will never move hand 
 or tongue again.' 
 
 ' I — / take anything of him ? / ask any- 
 thing of him ? ' She shook her head. ' You 
 may know my story, but you do not know 
 me. I came, not to get, but to give.' 
 
 ' To give what ? ' 
 
 ' What you would neither understand nor 
 value. Leave me alone with him.' 
 
 He did not care to remain. He went over 
 to the secretaire, locked it, and took away the 
 key. 
 
 ' You will call me if he is worse, if there is 
 any change,' he said in a tone of indifference. 
 He did not care to keep up appearances be- 
 fore Bessie Cable, who could injure or benefit 
 him in no way. She slightly bowed her head. 
 Then, twirling the key on his forefinger, he 
 went out. 
 
 ' Please, sir,' said the maid, ' is that the 
 key? Miss Cornellis has pulled down the 
 bellrope ; she do want her sherry — awful ! ' 
 
 When Bessie Cable was alone in the room 
 with Gabriel Gotham, she took the lamp, and 
 with steady hand carried it to the bedside and 
 held it up, that the light might fall full on 
 him. He lay before her a poor broken wretch, 
 with a bandage round his head, the back of 
 which was crushed in, and with an injured
 
 300 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 spine. Had the skull alone been fractured, 
 the surgeon would have operated ; with the 
 broken spine it was useless. His eyehds were 
 half closed ; the glitter of the white of the 
 eyes could be seen beneath them. His breath- 
 ing was noisy, showing pressure on the brain. 
 The weak mouth was half open, shoAving the 
 teeth. There was no beauty, no nobility in 
 the face, nothing to attract love. 
 
 Bessie had not so steadily and for long- 
 looked at him since he had betrayed and left 
 her. Now, as she studied him, in the bright 
 circle of light cast by the lamp, she thought 
 how wonderful it was that, after their long 
 separation, she should be with him again, 
 that he should be without a loving hand to 
 smooth his pillow, a tearful eye to watch for 
 his last breath. 
 
 In that very room, many, many years ago, 
 she had watched him when he was ill with 
 scarlet fever. Then she had insisted on being 
 his nurse, and she had attended him faithfully, 
 till she herself took the fever. When she was 
 ill, he did not come near her in the lodge. 
 
 She looked round the room. Old times 
 came back. She tried to trace the features of 
 the sick boy, laid on that same bed, in the 
 face of the dying man. The face was much 
 changed, and yet it was the same : tlie face is
 
 THE FLOWERING OF FORGIVENESS 301 
 
 the hieroglyph of the soul, the picture that 
 gives expression to the idea. Here, all 
 through life had been a cowardly, selfish, ig- 
 noble mind ; and it had written its characters 
 in every line and curve of the commonplace 
 face. 
 
 As Bessie looked at him, her e3'es were dry, 
 a sternness was in them, and her brows were 
 set as were her lips. When she knew he was 
 injured and dying, she went to him. Who 
 had such a ri^ht as she? In the time of his 
 prosperity, she kept away ; but when he was 
 cast down and broken, she came to him, as 
 was natural. 
 
 As she stood, considering his face, her 
 mind ranged over the time they were together, 
 their childhood, the protection she had ex- 
 tended to the feeble lad, and the love and 
 pity, the love that had sprung out of the pity 
 wherewith she had regarded him. She had 
 loved him. She had loved none but him, and 
 it seemed strani2^e to herself now that this 
 could have been. 
 
 Then she thought of the short happiness 
 of their married life, and then the agony of 
 her disenchantment. Now the hand tliat held 
 the lamp began to tremble, and the lights and 
 shadows about the sick man's face to dance ; 
 her hand trembled with wrath at the recollec-
 
 302 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 tion of the injustice done lier — done lier by 
 tliis man, lying before her. 
 
 The hand of God had sought and found 
 him, and punished him. She believed Cor- 
 nell is's story. What more probable than that 
 the sudden apparition of his son should make 
 Gabriel Gotham spring back, oblivious of the 
 gap behind him.^ Could he have seen him 
 appear and remain seated, unmoved? Her 
 heart was filled with conflicting emotions — 
 wrath at her wrong, pity for his condition. 
 
 ' That is true which I said to hun,' she 
 muttered ; ' the plant Forgiveness is hard to 
 strike, and difficult to get to flower.' 
 
 He had embittered, he had ruined her 
 whole life. She who had been so strong and 
 confident, had lost her hope in life after her 
 betrayal. Without any fault of her own, her 
 character had been blasted ; and a stain rested 
 on her son. She had scarce mentioned his 
 father to Pdchard, and Eichard had refrained 
 from asking about him. He feared to know 
 all. She was a dishonoured woman in the eyes 
 of her son ; this wretched man on the bed had 
 put a barrier of suspicion between her son and 
 her. Eichard could not regard her with that 
 holy reverence that a son should have for a 
 mother whose name is without a spot. 
 
 She had had a hard battle to fight for some
 
 THE FLOWERING OF FORGIVENESS 303 
 
 years to maintain herself and lier cliild, too 
 proud to accept assistance from the Gotham 
 family. She. who might have been an honest 
 man's wife, ruling her house, surrounded by 
 her children, had been for long alone, poor, un- 
 happy. Indeed, she had a great debt of wrong 
 written up in her heart against this man she 
 was now looking at. 
 
 In physics, all forces are correlated ; heat 
 and light are but different phases of the same 
 force, which manifests itself now in one way, 
 then in another ; and heat translates itself into 
 light, and light relapses into mere heat. It is 
 the same in psychics. The various passions 
 are correlated, various manifestations of the 
 same energy. Love becomes momentarily 
 hate, but then sometimes as momentarily 
 reverts to love. 
 
 For nearly forty years Bessie Cable had 
 nursed her wrongs, and had eaten out her 
 heart with rage and gall ; and now, as she 
 looked at the cause of all her misery, the 
 bitterness rose up and overflowed her soul ; 
 but at the same moment, Gabriel opened his 
 eyes ; for one brief instant they seemed 
 to gather consciousness, and he muttered, 
 ' Bessie ! ' 
 
 In a minute, all the hate, the wrath, were 
 gone. In a minute, love, pity, sweetness,
 
 304 EICHARD CABLE 
 
 gushed hot and strong through her heart. It 
 is said that the Amazon is sometimes checked 
 by beUs of weed that form across the river, 
 and weave into a vegetable felt, upwards, 
 downwards, athwart, and in and out, making 
 a dense impenetrable barrier ; and the mighty 
 stream, the main artery of a continent, is 
 arrested, and thrown back to inundate vast 
 tracts of land. Then, all at once it breaks its 
 chain of green, and the mighty volume sweeps 
 along its proper channel, carrying with it, in 
 fragments rolled over and torn to shreds, the 
 weedy belt. So is it with the human heart, so 
 was it now with that of gray-haired Bessie 
 Cable. Everything was forgotten — the wrongs, 
 resentment, privations, heartaches, the woven 
 and interlaced hedge of stubborn pride — all 
 went down and went away in a moment, and the 
 great natural artery of Love burst and poured 
 forth and suffused the poor wretch on his 
 deathbed — a creature as unconscious now of 
 what he received as he had ever been in- 
 able of valuing that precious flood. 
 
 Wondrous is the generosity, the power of 
 forgiveness in the human heart ! Mercy, says 
 Shakespeare, droppeth as the gentle rain from 
 heaven upon the earth beneath ; but forgive- 
 ness wells up from the deeps of the heart 
 itself It may be stamped down, and choked
 
 THE FLOWERING OF FORGIVENESS 305 
 
 and overpavecl, till it seems that it is no more 
 there ; and yet at last, at an unconsidered 
 moment, it breaks forth, it dissolves the hardest 
 crust, and flows in newness, all-embracingness, 
 purifying and refreshing. 
 
 Bessie was on her knees by the bed, and 
 the tears rolled down her aged cheeks. She 
 held the hand that had been given her once, 
 and been withdrawn from her. She looked 
 longingly at the dull eyes that had recognised 
 her for a moment, listened to hear again her 
 name coupled with a word of love from the 
 lips that had spoken. 
 
 The house was still that night. The ser- 
 vants had gone to bed. Mr. Cornellis w^as in 
 his own room ; he was satisfied. In an hour 
 or two the inheritance would be his, and his 
 embarrassments at an end. Miss Judith was 
 quiet ; slie had got her sherry. 
 
 Bessie was glad that she was undisturbed, 
 that she was left alone with Gabriel that night 
 when he passed away — but did not pass till 
 the plant Forgiveness had flowered, and been 
 laid on his dead heart. 
 
 VOL. L
 
 306 EICHAUD CABLE 
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 THE PILOT. 
 
 The funeral of Mr. Gabriel Gotham, J. P. — lie 
 never gained tlie distinction of D.L. — was 
 fairly well attended. The coffin was preceded 
 by a detachment of police, walking two and 
 two, wearing white gloves ; and was followed 
 by the Cornellis family and by several of the 
 gentry of the neighbourhood. The coffin was 
 of polished oak, with brass mountings. The 
 church bell tolled ; and the pulpit and altar 
 and the family pew were in mourning. It 
 was a funeral so flattering to the vanity of the 
 dead man, that the wonder was he didn't rub 
 his hands in his coffin and cackle a pleased 
 laugh ! 
 
 After the funeral, a few came back to the 
 Hall to partake of refreshments whilst their 
 carriages were being got ready. The rector 
 speedily took off his surplice and scarf and 
 curled up his black kid gloves, and came. 
 The lawyer of the deceased was also there, a
 
 THE PILOT 307 
 
 local man, who lived in Hanford, who made 
 out the leases for Mr. Gotham. 
 
 When the guests from a distance were 
 gone, and only the rector and the solicitor 
 remained, Justin Cornellis said with a sad 
 smile : ' It is, I suppose, usual on these 
 melancholy occasions to produce and read 
 the will; but Mr. Coxe no doubt is aware 
 of the arrangement made by my poor cousin. 
 I have the key of his bureau. The will is in 
 it, I believe. I will run upstairs and bring 
 it down, if Mr. Coxe would like to see it. 
 There is, however, no necessity ; I will have 
 it proved forthwith at Somerset House.' 
 
 ' I have it, sir,' said the lawyer. 
 
 ' You have it ! ' exclaimed Mr. Cornellis, 
 stopping short on his way to the door. 
 
 'Mr. Gotham made his will at my office 
 the day he met with his fatal accident ; in 
 fact, only a few hours before — perhaps not 
 more than an hour and a half previous.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon ! Is this possible ? 
 With what object ? ' Mr. Cornelhs looked 
 very blank. 
 
 ' Well, sir, I suppose he changed his 
 mind. I have the will here. It is short and 
 to the point. The rector and my clerk wit- 
 nessed it.' 
 
 ' 1 came down to the beach,' said the 
 
 X 2
 
 308 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 rector, ' when poor Gotham was there with 
 Miss Josephine inspecting a new vessel 
 just built by Grimes ; and he, poor fellow, 
 asked me to do him the favour of stepping 
 with him to the office of his solicitor. It 
 turned out that he wanted to make his will, 
 and get me to attest it. I suppose he felt 
 unwell that day ; had some premonition of 
 what would happen. I suspect the true ex- 
 planation of his fall is that he had a stroke, 
 and that is what made him lose his balance. 
 It was an odd coincidence his making a will 
 the same day he lost his faculties.' 
 
 ' Let me look at it,' said Cornellis, huskily. 
 
 ' Nothing can be simpler,' said the law- 
 yer Coxe. ' He has left everything to your 
 daughter, Miss Josephine — that is, to the 
 rector, myself, and Mr. Cable, in trust for 
 her, till she is of age, and not under cover- 
 ture. — I must ask that Miss Cornellis may be 
 present whilst I read the will, as it concerns 
 her more than any one else.' 
 
 'And — myself?' stammered the ex-mis- 
 sionary. 
 
 ' There is a hundred pounds apiece left to 
 me, sir, to the rector, and Cable, as execu- 
 tors ; to^the servants, a small remembrance. 
 That is all. You are not mentioned.' 
 
 Mr. Cornelhs said no more. He rang the
 
 THE PILOT 309 
 
 bell for his daughter. He remained silent 
 whilst the will was being; read. 
 
 The rector and the sohcitor left, and then 
 he was alone with Josephine. The calmness 
 he had assumed during the presence of the 
 two gentlemen deserted him. He became 
 limp in body and haggard in face. His usual 
 assurance and self-confidence were gone, 
 knocked down by this unexpected blow, and 
 he did not know what line to take. He felt 
 that his position was critical. The object of 
 the wretched old squire was clear to him. 
 Mr. Gotham had made Josephine his heiress 
 because he believed she Avould marry Eichard 
 Cable ; and he had so entangled her with 
 Cable, that it would not be easy for her to 
 break away without a slur remaining on her 
 character. This was why he had advanced 
 the money for the purchase of the boat, why 
 he had had it called the ' Josephine ' ; and 
 made the girl give it to Cable. This also 
 was why he had made him trustee with the 
 rector and Coxe. 
 
 He was no hero to his daughter ; he had 
 contemptuously flung away his natural oppor- 
 tunities of gaining her respect and securing 
 her love ; and now he regretted this mistake, 
 because he was disappointed of his ambition 
 and made dependent on her. He had wasted
 
 310 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 all the money his wife had brought ; nothing 
 of it remained, except what he could secure 
 from the insurance company, in compen- 
 sation for his house and goods consumed by 
 fire. 
 
 ' Well, Josephine,' he said, not looking her 
 in the face, ' luck smiles on you, and turns 
 her back on me. Look at poor Gotham's old 
 will. By it, everything fell to me ; and now, 
 at the last moment, when he was half-crazed, 
 lie went and made a fresh disposition of the 
 property. I might contest the new will ; in- 
 deed, I have a mind to serve a caveat ac^ainst 
 its being proved, till I have considered the 
 matter. The new will is so preposterous that 
 it cannot stand. Poor fellow ! He was off 
 his head when he made it. But it will not do 
 to have quarrels in families. It would be 
 a scandal if you and I were ranged against 
 one another in court ; and I propose a com- 
 promise.' 
 
 ' I think, papa, you had better settle that 
 with the trustees — Mr. Sellwood and Mr. Coxe 
 and Eichard Cable.' 
 
 He frowned. ' I can have nothing to do 
 with Mr. Sellwood, nor you either, since you 
 have refused his son ! No, Josephine ; I speak 
 as a father to a child. I want no law; I 
 want a fair arrangement between us. If you
 
 THE PILOT 311 
 
 satisfy me, I will withdraw my opposition to 
 the will.' 
 
 'I do not know what the property of poor 
 Cousin Gabriel is worth,' said Josephine. 
 
 ' About two thousand five hundred gross ; 
 but nett, nothing like that sum.' 
 
 'Papa, I will talk the matter over with 
 Eichard ' 
 
 ' Pdchard ! ' he exclaimed. ' What the 
 deuce do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' Piichard Cable,' answered Josephine. ' I 
 have put myself in his hands. I did so when 
 I thought myself a poor girl ; now I am rich, 
 I cannot twist myself out of his hands.' 
 
 ' Oh, as to that,' said her father, ' give 
 yourself no concern ; I'll manage it. What 
 was absurd yesterday is impossible now.' 
 
 ' I did not mean that I could not extricate 
 myself, papa, but that I would not.' 
 
 ' Then you are a fool,' said he bluntly — 
 * a greater fool than I conceived you to be. 
 The man is a vulgar sailor, talks broad Essex, 
 and blows his nose with his fingers.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, papa. He is a man 
 of honour and integrity — a gentleman at 
 heart.' 
 
 ' I do not profess to know his heart. If 
 his gentility is within, turn liim inside. out, 
 please, before presenting him to me and the
 
 312 RICIIAED CABLE 
 
 world.' He langliecl contemptuously. ' I sup- 
 pose your mother-in-law will char for you — 
 ninepence a day with six meals and her beer.' 
 
 Josephine coloured. 
 
 'As for the snivelling babies,' he said 
 scornfully — ' insist on a free application of 
 soap, and the use of a tooth-comb before 
 introducing them into this house.' Then, 
 impatiently : ' Pshaw ! The thing is too 
 absurd. I cannot believe in such a climax 
 of folly as tliat my own daughter should 
 voluntarily set herself up to be the laughing- 
 stock of the neio-hbourhood. I'll offer the 
 lout a hundred pounds to marry Betty the 
 scullery-maid, and get rid of him that way.' 
 
 ' Papa,' said Josephine, with a troubled 
 face, 'you cannot alter matters by talking 
 in that way. You drove me mad the other 
 day, and I tried to drown myself; then 
 Eichard saved me for the second time from 
 death. I had no one to whom to look for 
 succour, advice, comfort, and I turned to 
 him.' 
 
 ' There— there ! ' said Mr. Cornelhs. ' Like 
 a Newfoundland dog, I suppose, he went into 
 the water after you. It does not follow that 
 because a dog draws you out of the water, 
 you are to worship and obey Ponto ever after ; 
 a pat and a bone will suffice for him. My
 
 THE PILOT 313 
 
 dear Josepliine, it is only in the fairy tale that 
 Beauty, when she marries the Beast, finds him 
 transform himself into a glittering Prince. In 
 real life, when Beauty thus descends, she 
 finds the Beast become infinitely and degrad- 
 ingly more beastly.' Then, unable to keep 
 his temper any longer under semblance of 
 control, he left the room, took up his hat, and 
 walked througli the garden, out at the gate, 
 and along the seawall to the Cables' cottage. 
 He walked in, after having rapped at the 
 door, with his hat on, and asked Mrs. Cable for 
 her son. She told him he was in the garden, 
 and he went through the house to him. 
 
 ' Good evening,' he said, a little roughly, 
 for his temper was nettled. ' I've come for a 
 word or two with you. — What is this Miss 
 Josephine tells me about her trying to drown 
 herself, and throwing herself on your protec- 
 tion ? ' 
 
 Eichard stood up, and looked Mr. Cor- 
 nellis in the face gravely out of his clear 
 steady eyes. ' Has she told you aught about 
 it, sir? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Yes, she has — some rodomontade. I bei? 
 your pardon ; you probably do not under- 
 stand the word, and would be at a loss to 
 spell it. Some nonsense, I mean. She tumbled 
 into the mud, and you picked her out.'
 
 314 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 ' Sir, it happened as Miss Josephine said.' 
 
 ' She entered into no particulars. She 
 was in one of her tall moods, giving herself 
 tiptoe airs. I do not care for the particulars. 
 How she got into the mud is naught to me ; 
 how she got out is more my concern. Did 
 she scramble out, or did you pull her out ? ' 
 
 ' I brought her here, sir. She was in the 
 water, not in the mud.' 
 
 ' You brought her here ! Why not to her 
 home ? ' 
 
 ' Because she refused to be taken home.' 
 
 ' And then she threw herself on you for 
 advice and protection — advice as to nothing, 
 protection against nobody. Not a soul de- 
 sired to hurt her, and it is a matter of no 
 importance what and who advised her, for she 
 is so headstrong that she will go only her own 
 way.' 
 
 ' What she asked me, sir,' said the sailor, 
 ' and what was said, are between herself and 
 me.' 
 
 ' You refuse to tell me what passed ? ' 
 
 ' Miss Josephine spoke to me in confi- 
 dence.' 
 
 There was something so offensive and 
 irritating in the tone of Mr. Cornellis, that 
 Eichard began to see how it was possible for 
 the poor girl to be worked into a condition of
 
 THE PILOT 315 
 
 exasperation by her father, such that she 
 should try to destroy herself. 
 
 The ex-missionary looked hard at the 
 sailor, who met his eye frankly. 
 
 'I do not know what tomfoolery my 
 daughter has been playing with you, but you 
 will please to understand that whatever she 
 said, she said in joke.' 
 
 ' Miss Josephine knows that best, sir. If 
 she spoke in joke — so ; if in earnest — so.' He 
 was not to be brow-beaten ; he was calm, 
 grave, and earnest. 
 
 ' I do not know how she expressed her- 
 self; words are various in their meanings, 
 and a simple word lightly said may be taken 
 seriously, and have grave consequences. You 
 must distinctly understand, my man, that 
 Miss Cornelhs has acted contrary to my wishes 
 in coming here to play with your brats — 
 children. There are children to be played 
 with on her own level of life, without stoop- 
 ing to yours. — I mean no offence. Your 
 children may be very nice and dear and all 
 that sort of thing, but they are as apart from 
 the sphere in which my daughter moves as if 
 they belonged to the Dog-star.' 
 
 ' The stars are above,' said Cable coolly. 
 
 Mr. Cornellis was beating about the bush. 
 He did not want to admit that his daughter
 
 316 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 had spoken seriously to liim about an engage- 
 ment with Cable ; he desired to hear Cable's 
 version of the interview, and then to take his 
 course. But Eichard was reserved. Mr. 
 Justin Cornellis could get nothing out of him, 
 and was himself losing his temper. 
 
 ' Now, look here,' said he. ' My daughter 
 has made you a present of a boat. I advanced 
 the money. She gave it to you. I thought 
 it would seem to come more gracefully from 
 her ; but don't you build any ambitions on 
 that transaction. She owed you a debt, and 
 has paid it ; and she is now quit. I dare say 
 she has said some nonsense to you since. 
 Girls have no control over their fancies and 
 tongues. — Mind you, my good fellow, I object 
 to her coming here. If she returns, she will 
 incur my severe disj)leasure ; and I warn you 
 that no serious intention lurks behind her 
 words.' 
 
 ' What words, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Any words she may have said.' 
 
 Cable considered a moment, then he said 
 with self-restraint : ' Sir, I have listened to 
 what you have said ; but I can't make much 
 out of it. You don't wish the young lady to 
 come here to see my kids ; very well, sir. 
 She shall not come if I can help it. I would 
 not have one of my little gh^ls disobey me ;
 
 THE PILOT 317 
 
 and if I led your daughter into disobedience, 
 I should expect to be punished in like manner 
 in my own children. — But, sir. Miss Josephine 
 spoke to me when she was much in earnest 
 and was very unhappy. I know well we be 
 of different build. She's a clipper yacht, and 
 I a coal-barge ; but that is neither here nor 
 there. She appealed to me, and I answered 
 her. If she meant naught by it, I am content. 
 I will go with you to the Hall, sir, and see 
 her in your presence, and she shall tell me 
 what she means. Whichever way she decides, 
 I am content.' 
 
 As the two men turned to leave the garden 
 by the way of the bridge, Josephine herself 
 appeared from under the willows, crossed the 
 plank, opened the wicket, and came towards 
 them. 
 
 ' I knew papa had come here,' she said ; 
 ' so I have followed.' 
 
 ' I am glad you are on the spot,' said Mr. 
 Cornellis — but his looks belied his words — ■ 
 ' that you may hear what I have been saying 
 to Mr. Cable. I have told him that you have 
 used random words to him, the purport of 
 which I know, though I do not know the 
 exact expressions used. You were excited at 
 the time, possibly light-headed. Your words 
 are not to be taken at the foot of the letter.
 
 318 RICHARD CABLE 
 
 What you said in lieat you regret in cool. A 
 lady is always allowed to change her mind ; 
 and circumstances having altered, you have 
 altered your purpose. — You will understand, 
 Mr. Cable, that the girl is not of age.' 
 
 ' Papa,' said Josephine, turning to him, 
 and then to Cable, ' Eichard — I can now say 
 to both what must be said. I am not a 
 weathercock. When I give my word I stick 
 to it. I put myself in the hands of Eichard 
 Cable, and asked him to direct the course of 
 my life, when I felt that I had lost confidence 
 in you, papa — in every one ; when I believed 
 myself to be a poor girl without a penny. 
 Mr. Cable does not know what has happened 
 to alter my circumstances ; that, however, 
 does not alter my purpose, but intensifies my 
 resolution. If before, when I was poor and 
 without responsibilities, I wanted a help, now 
 that I am well off, and am likely to have 
 many responsibilities, I shall need assistance 
 much more. He is the only man to whom I 
 can look with perfect trust, and to him I still 
 turn. I do not wish to reproach you, papa ; 
 but as you have mismanaged my little fortune 
 left me by my mother, I do not wish you to 
 play ducks and drakes with that bequeathed 
 to me by my cousin. Besides, he did not 
 appoint you executor and trustee, but he
 
 THE PILOT 319 
 
 appointed Eichard Cable. There is no one — 
 no one to whom I can look up as I look up 
 to him. I dare say my choice will shock the 
 neighbourhood ; but I do not care : I must 
 seek my own happiness and welfare above 
 everything else. When a poor creature is 
 drowning, she clings to the spar that is float- 
 ing near her, and which she knows will sustain 
 her, and does not apologise to the hencoops 
 and empty barrels drifting around that she 
 does not lay hold of them instead of the spar.' 
 
 Mr. Cornellis turned livid. ' Take care, 
 Josephine ; you almost persuade me that a 
 lunatic asylum is your proper home.' 
 
 ' I ask Eichard Cable to protect me. He 
 will see that I am not spirited avfay to a mad- 
 house. — I am sorry,' she continued, ' very 
 sorry, not at all glad, that Cousin Gotham has 
 made me his heiress. I had ten thousand 
 times rather have been a poor man's wife, in 
 such a position that the road of duty was 
 straight and clear before me. Now I fear my 
 way will be less obvious ; but I shall have 
 one to steer me who is the best of pilots.' 
 She extended her hand to Eichard. 
 
 EXD OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
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