persons present, went to Church again, in respect of the steward’s hat. And a most especially agitated and memorable face the captain produced from it, after a short pause.
“Now, Tom,” said the captain, “I spoke to you, when we first came here, respecting your constitutional weakness on the subject of sunstroke.”
“You did, sir.”
“Will my slow friend,” said the captain, “lend me his arm, or I shall sink right back’ards into this blessed steward’s cookery? Now, Tom,” pursued the captain, when the required assistance was given, “on your oath as a steward, didn’t you take that desk to pieces to make a better one of it, and put it together fresh,—or something of the kind?”
“On my oath I did, sir,” replied the steward.
“And by the blessing of Heaven, my friends, one and all,” cried the captain, radiant with joy,—”of the Heaven that put it into this Tom Pettifer’s head to take so much care of his head against the bright sun,—he lined his hat with the original leaf in Tregarthen’s writing,—and here it is!”
With that the captain, to the utter destruction of Mr. Pettifer’s favourite hat, produced the book-leaf, very much worn, but still legible, and gave both his legs such tremendous slaps that they were heard far off in the bay, and never accounted for.
“A quarter past five p.m.,” said the captain, pulling out his watch, “and that’s thirty-three hours and a quarter in all, and a pritty run!”
How they were all overpowered with delight and triumph; how the money was restored, then and there, to Tregarthen; how Tregarthen, then and there, gave it all to his daughter; how the captain undertook to go to Dringworth Brothers and re-establish the reputation of their forgotten old clerk; how Kitty came in, and was nearly torn to pieces, and the marriage was reappointed, needs not to be told. Nor how she and the young fisherman went home to the post-office to prepare the way for the captain’s coming, by declaring him to be the mightiest of men, who had made all their fortunes,—and then dutifully withdrew together, in order that he might have the domestic coast entirely to himself. How he availed himself of it is all that remains to tell.
Deeply delighted with his trust, and putting his heart into it, he raised the latch of the post-office parlour where Mrs. Raybrock and the young widow sat, and said, -
“May I come in?”
“Sure you may, Captain Jorgan!” replied the old lady. “And good reason you have to be free of the house, though you have not been too well used in it by some who ought to have known better. I ask your pardon.”
“No you don’t, ma’am,” said the captain, “for I won’t let you. Wa’al, to be sure!”
By this time he had taken a chair on the hearth between them.
“Never felt such an evil spirit in the whole course of my life! There! I tell you! I could a’most have cut my own connection. Like the dealer in my country, away West, who when he had let himself be outdone in a bargain, said to himself, ‘Now I tell you what! I’ll never speak to you again.’ And he never did, but joined a settlement of oysters, and translated the multiplication table into their language,—which is a fact that can be proved. If you doubt it, mention it to any oyster you come across, and see if he’ll have the face to contradict it.”
He took the child from her mother’s lap and set it on his knee.
“Not a bit afraid of me now, you see. Knows I am fond of small people. I have a child, and she’s a girl, and I sing to her sometimes.”
“What do you sing?” asked Margaret.
“Not a long song, my dear.
Silas Jorgan Played the organ.
That’s about all. And sometimes I tell her stories,—stories of sailors supposed to be lost, and recovered after all hope was abandoned.” Here the captain musingly went back to his song, -
Silas Jorgan Played the organ;
repeating it with his eyes on the fire, as he softly danced the child on his knee. For he felt that Margaret had stopped working.
“Yes,” said the captain, still looking at the fire, “I make up stories and tell ‘em to that child. Stories of shipwreck on desert islands, and long delay in getting back to civilised lauds. It is to stories the like of that, mostly, that
Silas Jorgan Plays the organ.”
There was no light in the room but the light of the fire; for the shades of night were on the village, and the stars had begun to peep out of the sky one by one, as the houses of the village peeped out from among the foliage when the night departed. The captain felt that Margaret’s eyes were upon him, and thought it discreetest to keep his own eyes on the fire.
“Yes; I make ‘em up,” said the captain. “I make up stories of brothers brought together by the good providence of GOD,—of sons brought back to mothers, husbands brought back to wives, fathers raised from the deep, for little children like herself.”
Margaret’s touch was on his arm, and he could not choose but look round now. Next moment her hand moved imploringly to his breast, and she was on her knees before him,—supporting the mother, who was also kneeling.
“What’s the matter?” said the captain. “What’s the matter?
Silas Jorgan Played the -
Their looks and tears were too much for him, and he could not finish the song, short as it was.
“Mistress Margaret, you have borne ill fortune well. Could you bear good fortune equally well, if it was to come?”
“I hope so. I thankfully and humbly and earnestly hope so!”
“Wa’al, my dear,” said the captain, “p’rhaps it has come. He’s— don’t be frightened—shall I say the word —”
“Alive?”
“Yes!”
The thanks they fervently addressed to Heaven were again too much for the captain, who openly took out his handkerchief and dried his eyes.
