Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

"Let us return to your lodgings. I am better there than elsewhere in this strange inn, and there I will remain alone with thee the seven days thou sayest it will take for my father to reach me."

Poor Mrs. Van Tromp!

In moments of great excitement all kinds and classes of people are apt to fall into the same homely idiomatic language. Therefore Mrs. Van Tromp said, or rather shouted, at this terrible instant, "The brazen hussy!" and with one fierce scowl that took in both Macfarren and the Lady Marian, and with a wild rustle of draperies, she flew down the corridor, the swish-swish of her trained dress sounding like the flapping wings of a frightened domestic fowl.

"You've done it now," was Macfarren's involuntary exclamation; but he was too loyal to his new-found love to let any other word escape him. There was nothing for him but to take her back to his apartments, call up the proprietor, and settle upon some temporary plan for the protection of this solitary and beautiful young creature. "Come," said he, leading the way.

"Perhaps," said Marian, as they walked rapidly down the long, narrow, red-carpeted hall, "I was hasty with the mercer's wife; but the low-bred creature did vex me with her lies. But I think she hath not all her wits about her. Didst thou not observe the strange ways of speech she had?" tapping her forehead significantly.

"Perhaps," said Macfarren; "but here is the door." He opened it, and ushered her into his little drawing-room as if she had been a queen. Marian turned and locked the door behind them. "To keep the mad woman out," she explained.

Macfarren led her to a sofa. "Now," said he, "let us determine upon your immediate future. Rest assured, all that reverence and the tenderest respect can do for you shall be done."

"I believe thee," answered Marian, turning her large clear gaze upon him. "I know not who nor what thou art, but this: thou art a gentleman; and that is enough."

Macfarren bowed to the ground.

"But it seems plain to me," she continued. "London, thou sayest, is but seven days from here by land."

"By land and water," corrected Macfarren.

"Well, it matters not," she said, impatiently, "so it be seven days. My father is there, and will quickly send a trusty person after me. Now, tell me, friend, who are the persons of chief consideration in this town?"

Macfarren stopped to think a moment. He answered, not according to his own conviction, but merely by the general estimate: "The--the--Vanderbilts and the Astors, I presume."

"Who are they?" demanded Marian.

"Rich merchants," responded Macfarren.

"That will do then," said Marian, decisively. "This, then, is my plan. I will go to the house of the first thou didst name. No doubt they will be pleased to entertain a daughter of the house of Winstanley. I will crave their hospitality until my father doth send or come; and in leaving I will present them with this string of pearls, which will do doubt delight their honest hearts, unused to the gold and glitter of the great. Thou shalt take me; so get thy sword and mantle and come."

She was evidently determined; but at that moment a tremendous knocking came at the door. "Open! open!" he heard half a dozen voices shout, and "Murder!" He recognized the voices. There was the loud basso of the proprietor and the weak treble of the room-clerk, and there was Marsden, his particular chum, and Smithers, the greatest gossip of the hotel smoking-room, all bellowing in chorus, and the door must yield soon. A cold horror seized him. Marian, the woman he would have died to save--and then, strongly, strangely, the coward's longing to escape from it all possessed him like a devil; had he a pistol all would soon be over. In one moment was concentrated the agony of a lifetime. He thought he was going mad. He put his hands to his reeling head, and felt himself sinking by inches into black forgetfulness.

* * * * *

"I say, old fellow, you had a close call!" was what he next heard, in Marsden's voice. "Your clothes were smoking; the picture's burned to a crisp; and next time you fall asleep with a lighted cigar in your mouth just have the fire-brigade handy. This'll cost you in the neighborhood of five hundred dollars' damage to furniture and books alone."

"Thank God!" was all Macfarren answered.

LITTLE MISSY.

Do you know the feeling of living in a house pervaded by an unseen presence--a person who has lived there once, and whose spirit seems to dwell there forever afterward? That was what Mrs. Jack Hereford felt when she and her husband took refuge from New York and Newport and Tuxedo at Malvern, the old Virginia plantation, with its tumbledown house, full of rickety furniture, and staring daubs of family portraits in every room in it. The house and everything in it, and six hundred acres of land grown up with pine saplings, had been bought for a song from the heirs of the estate, who had never seen it, and never wanted to see it.

Colonel Baskerville had been the last owner of the place, and he had been dead ten years; also Mrs. Baskerville. And there had been three children--two sons, one of whom was shot dead at Gettysburg, and the other had died of wounds and exposure. The daughter, Amy Baskerville, too, was no more. All this Mrs. Hereford gathered from the one or two persons she had met, and the old doctor who was her nearest and only neighbor.

It was this Amy Baskerville whose shadowy, girlish presence was all over Malvern. She was only twenty when she died, as the plain headstone in the old family burying-ground said. The brick walls of the graveyard were crumbling, and the iron gate had given way. Cattle and sheep browsed on the green mounds. Many of the tombs of the dead-and-gone Baskervilles were marble slabs supported on pillars, of which the solid brick and mortar had disappeared, leaving them like gigantic tables. The later graves were sunken, especially those of Colonel Baskerville and his wife, over which a simple monument was raised, inscribed to the memory of Colonel Marmaduke Baskerville and Nancy, his wife. Those over the two sons were highly ornate, and bore long epitaphs: "Marmaduke, who was killed while gallantly leading his regiment, after the fall of both his colonel and lieutenant-colonel," followed by a long list of Marmaduke's virtues; and "George, who died of wounds contracted in the service of his country, at the early age of eighteen." The story was plain. The poor old colonel and his wife had put up the showy tombstones with Pity weeping over an urn, and their executors had put up the plain stones over the father and mother and little Amy.

Hanging in the grim library, with its few old-fashioned books upon the crazy shelves, were portraits of the colonel, a veritable Virginia colonel, with a tremendous shirt ruffle rushing out of his generous bosom, and his rosy face wearing a look of majestic solemnity common in portraits, but which Colonel Baskerville never wore for five consecutive minutes in his life. Then there were portraits of George and Marmaduke, both handsome lads, both as alike as two peas, and, besides, a portrait of little Amy. She was about sixteen when it was painted. It was so sweet, so sad! There was not a trace of weakness in the half-womanish, half-childish mouth and chin. In the delicate, well-poised head one could see more will power, more intellect, than in the portly colonel and both of the handsome, frank-faced boys put together. This was not Amy's only picture. There was an old daguerreotype on the drawing-room table which revealed her in a white dress, and half a dozen faded photographs of her in her riding-habit, in fancy dress, in numerous other costumes and attitudes, sometimes with one, sometimes with another, of her brothers; and a whole bookful of sketches, scribbled all over, "The Book of Amy. Life and Adventures of Amy Baskerville. By G. B., Esq.," in which G. B., who had considerable skill, pictured Amy in numberless grotesque and humiliating circumstances, and once or twice as she must truly have been, graceful and picturesque.

Then there were piles of old-fashioned, desperately sentimental songs on the broken-down old piano in the drawing-room, which had once been sung by Amy's fresh young voice. One day Mrs. Hereford came across a frayed little white satin slipper that had been Amy's, and had evidently done good service. It was the saddest little reminder in the world. It was like the ghost of youth and joy. And there was a broken fan, laid away in tissue paper, and inscribed, "To be mended." Mrs. Hereford locked these little girlish relics up carefully in the drawer of the dressing-table in what had been Amy's room. On the dressing-table was an old-fashioned swinging glass, in which Amy had once been wont to look roguishly, admiring her own fresh beauty. The glass remained, but Amy was dust and ashes.

One afternoon Mrs. Hereford, sitting on the porch, around which the vines had grown in neglected luxuriance, saw an old negro woman coming up the pathway toward the house. She was very infirm, and leaned upon the shoulder of a little darky about ten years old, who dutifully supported her. She stopped at the foot of the steps, and, with an old-fashioned courtesy, said, "Good-evenin', my mistis."

"Good-evening, aunty," replied Mrs. Hereford, having learned that much of Southern etiquette. "Won't you walk in and rest yourself?"

She crept painfully up the steps, and sat down in the rush-bottomed chair offered her. The little darky squatted on the steps, and fixed a pair of bright black beads on "de lady f'um de Norf," which he never removed.

"You will 'scuse me, lady, fur troublin' you so much as ter come here. But I hed to come--I _hed_ to come. It seem like I couldn't die 'twell I hed done seed de ole place," she said, presently.

"You are quite welcome," replied Mrs. Hereford.

"You see," she said, glancing deprecatingly at Mrs. Hereford, while she smoothed down the clean but faded handkerchief on her breast, "I was de head 'oman in dis here house. I was ole mistis' maid, an' den I nuss dem two boys, an' Miss Amy, and arter dey was all gone I went, too. But I done hed de ager so bad, an' I feel so po'ly I don't never 'spect ter be able ter git here no mo'. So I come, jest ter tell ole marse an' all un 'em how things is lookin'. Kase I 'spects ter fin' 'em all when I gits to glory, an' ole marse he sho to say, 'Keziah, how's things gwine at Malvern?' Lord! when I got ter tell him de Yankees done bought de place an' livin' here!"

"But, gra'mammy," said the little darky, who had been to school and had imbibed some theology, "dey doan' keer nuttin' 'bout Norverners an' Souverners in heaben--"

"You shet yo' mouf, boy! You didn' never know ole marse. Doan' make no diff'unce whar he is, I lay he gwine cuss like a trooper when I done tole him de Yankees is livin' at Malvern--an' he sho' to arsk."

The youngster, more cowed by Aunt Keziah's energy than her arguments, maintained a discreet silence after this. Mrs. Hereford, who was a gentle and merciful woman, said to her:

"Wouldn't you like to go inside? It's very little changed since we came."

"Thankee, lady," she said, rising and hobbling to the hall door. Her uncertain step was heard going toward the library; then a long pause, and a quicker return. "I c'yarn do it!--I c'yarn," she panted, sitting down in her chair. "I thot I'd go ev'ywhar, all 'bout de house, an' set down in ev'y room; but seems ter me I hear dem voices callin'--ole marse bawlin' out 'Keziah!' an' little missy (she lisp when she talk) she say 'Kethiah'--an' I couldn't stay no longer. I was sorry I come."

"Was it very long ago that it all happened?"

"'Twarn't so long dat I kin forgit it. Fust time I ever feel like trouble was comin' was one mornin' when little marse--dat was Marmaduke, an' all de black folks call him young marse, 'cause he was tall like he pa, an' was more'n twenty-one; but I had done rock him when he was a baby, an' I never could call him nuttin' but little marse--he rid away fur to whip de Yankees. He help ter raise a comp'ny, an' he was 'lected cap'n, an' dat mornin,' right arter breakfast, he was gwine away. All de black folks 'bout de house was out here on dis here porch fur to tell him good-by, an' marse an' missis an' little missy, an' Marse George an' me, an' all on 'em was smilin' an mighty gay 'cept me an' Marse George. He was lookin' sorter black an' sulky 'cause he want ter go ter de war too; but he warn't but sixteen years old, an' ole marse an' missis wouldn't let him. When little marse come out, he look so fine in his bran'-new uniform, an' Jake--dat was he body servant--was settin' on one o' ole marse's best horses, holdin' little marse's horse by de bridle, an' jes' a grinnin', he was so happy. Young marse had he sword in he hand, an' little missy--she warn't but fifteen--tooken it from him an' snatch he cap off, an' strut up an' down ter make ole marse laugh; an' den she buckle de sword on agin, an' little marse he went up an' shook hands wid ole marse, an' he say: 'Good-by, father. You'll see me back 'fore de leaves fall. 'Twon't take long to whip dem chicken-hearted Yankees.' An' missis she hol' him in her arms, an' she kiss him, but she keep on smilin' an never shed a tear.

"I cry so hard I had ter run upsty'ars, an' I went in little marse's room, an' set down in de cheer, an' cried 'twell I couldn't cry no mo'. I got up den, an' was gittin' out he nice white shirts an' he high beaver hat fur to put 'em away 'ginst he come home, when little missy she walk in. Her cheeks was white like chalk, an' her big black eyes had a kinder skeert look in 'em, an' she steal up ter me, an' say, 'Oh, mammy, do you think he'll ever come back?' an' fust thing _I_ know she was cryin' wusser'n me, an' I jes' took her in my lap like I useter when she was a little gal, an' set down, an' say, 'H'ish! h'ish! in course he gwine ter come back.' All dat day little missy she hang on ter me. Old marse he stay down in de fiel' making 'tense he was lookin' arter de han's, an' missis she shet herself up in de store-room ter fix up de house-keepin' book, an' I didn't see neither one 'twell dinner-time. Den dey talk mighty cheerful, an' little missy she plague George 'bout gwine ter de army, but I didn't hear none on 'em say a word 'bout little marse. But _I_ know dey didn't furgit him.

"Arter dat things was mighty cur'us. Missis she couldn't get no mo' clo'es, an' she put away all her fine silks an' satins, an' all little missy's too, an' her diamond comb, an' her lace shawl, an' wear nuttin' but homespun. Little marse, he wroten heaps 'o letters, an' he didn' furgit he po' ole black mammy. He wroten me hisse'f, an' I got dem letters in my chis' now. I c'yarn read 'em, but I loves 'em. An' all de time, I kep' a-honin' fur him, an' skeert 'bout him. Mistis, she was a brave 'oman--she never let on she was skeert. Night an' mornin', when she read pr'yars in de dinin'-room, wid ole marse an' little missy an' de house-servants settin' roun', she pray fur little marse, 'twell sometimes ole marse he wipe he eyes, an' I hed to fling my ap'on over my hade an' cry; but her voice never shake none. But _I_ never did 'spect ter see him no mo', an' one night--"

Here she hesitated. The dead and gone tragedy rose up bodily before her eyes, and she paused a moment, gasping in contemplation of it.

"One night I was settin' by de charmber fire, an' I hear a cart come up ter de front do'; an' I wonder what kin' o' folks 'twas comin' dat time o' night in a cart. So I run out an' open de do' as soon as I heerd de knock--an' 'twas our Jake. 'Whar's little marse?' I ask him, ketchin' hol' on him. Jake look at me, an' he was kinder ashy, an' he couldn't speak. An' I hear ole marse an' missis comin'; an' sumpin' was in de cart all covered up, an' two men was takin' it out. When Jake seed missis, he start ter trimble; an' ole marse he shout, 'Whar's yo' marster?--whar's my son?' An' Jake he pint ter de cart."

At this point she stopped. She took out a tattered handkerchief and began to finger it nervously. The afternoon shadows had lengthened since she had begun.

"Dey brung de coffin in de parlor, an' sot it down on cheers. He look jes' like he did de mornin' he rid away, but bofe legs was broke. Nobody teched him but me an' Jake. He hed two letters in he pocket, an' one was a letter I had done got little missy ter write fur me, tellin' him to take keer o' hisself. Ole marse, he do mighty queer. Arter ev'ything was fixed, he come an' set down by de coffin, an' he never cry nor nuttin'--he jes' put he han' ev'y now an' den on little marse's head, an' say, 'My son, my son Marmaduke!' Missis she set by him, an' talk ter him, an' pray wid him, an' read de Bible to him, an' seem like she didn't think 'bout nuttin' but comfortin' old marse. Little missy she creep upsty'ars into little marse's room an' flung herself on de floor, an' lay like she was dead, 'twell I took her up in my arms, and settin' down in de rockin'-cheer, she see me cryin', an' she cry too.

"Ole marse he do jes' de same arter de funeral. He set an' look at little marse's picter, an' he wouldn't let nobody move he whip off'n de rack, nor a ole p'yar o' spurs o' little marse's.

"Georgie hed been 'way at school. But one day a letter come. Marse George hed done run away ter jine de army. When dat letter come I seed missis put on a look I ain't furgot ter dis day. Georgie was her favorite. An' 'fo' de winter was out--'twas in de fall when Georgie run away--he died in de horspital. He hed been writin' 'twarn't nuttin' matter wid him, an' he'd be outen de horspital 'fo' missis could git ter him; but she was gwine ter start de naix day. Ole marse fotch him home. He warn't eighteen, an' he hed a little muffstach comin', and he didn't look any older den little missy when dey laid him by little marse. He was de handsomest o' all de chillen.

"Dat kilt missis. Ole marse he done fur her jes' like she hed done for him, an' little missy stay by her night an' day; but one night, when de doctor say she was gittin' better, she call me, an' she say: 'Keziah, I'm dyin', an' I know it. Don't leave yo' marster an' Amy. Stay by 'em faithful like you has been ter me an' de boys.' An' de very naix week she died. Missis was a Chrischun, if ever I seed one. She would 'a lived if she could; but what kilt Georgie kilt her too. Seemed ter me arter dat like poor Keziah have ter see ole marse an' little missy go too; but I kep' up as well as I knowed how. Little missy was mighty pretty den. She was mos' twenty, an' she kep' gittin' mo' an' mo' like Georgie. De war was over den, an' some de han's went off, an' dere warn't nobody but me in de house, an' de cook an' Jake did de res' o' de work. Ole marse he walk 'bout like he didn't keer fur nuttin'. One day two men drive up in a shiny new buggy, an' I hear 'em talkin' mighty sassy to ole marse on de porch, an' pres'ny ole marse stan' up, an' he say out loud: 'Gent'men, take all. Take my plantation, my house an' furniture, my horses an' cattle an' stock an' ev'ything. I'm a bankrup', but I'm a honest man.' An' dey try ter smoove him down, an' arter a while dey went off.

"'Bout dat time I heerd dey was some Yankee orficers campin' out in de woods, an' one arternoon one on 'em rid up ter de do' an' got down. Ole marse an' little missy was settin' out;--'twas summer-time. De minute I seed him I seed he was like little marse, and little missy seed it too, 'cause she tole me so. He was a gent'mun, ef ever I see one--an' black folks kin tell gent'muns quicker'n white folks kin--an' when he walk up de steps he bow low to bofe on 'em, an' hol' he cap in he han' all de time he was talkin'. He tole ole marse he was a ingineer, an' hed come fur to make some maps or sumpin', and he had done foun' a good place fur a camp on de place, an' de Government tell him he kin camp anywhar, but he wouldn't like ter put up he tents an' things 'cept he had ole marse's consent. Ole marse say, 'De Government done took my two sons, all my servants, my horses, cattle, sheep, an' ev'ything I hed, so I s'pose it can take my plantation too.' De orficer turned red as a beet, an' so did little missy, an' she got up an' put her hand on ole marse's shoulder and said, 'Father!' jes' like missis. Den marser sorter cooled down, an' said he didn't keer a cuss 'bout de camp, an' de orficer thank him like he had give him de plantation, and den he made a bow, an' one ter little missy, an' git on he horse an' ride away.

"Arter dat he was here ev'y day. 'Twas allers to see ole marse 'bout sumpin--'bout de crick, an' de way de lan' slope, an' sich; but I watch him, an' I see he warn't half listenin' ter ole marse, an' he kep' he eyes on little missy. An' she useter look at him sometimes, an' smile, an' turn away. An' den he met me on de road one Sunday when I was gwine ter meetin', an' he stop he horse an' say: 'Good-mornin', aunty. How's yo' mistis?' An' when I tole him she was right peart, he laugh, an drop a gol' dollar in my han'. I went home an' tole little missy, and she turn red, an' say, 'It was very saucy of him, mammy, an' I've got a great mind ter make you send that money back.' But she didn't.

"He kep' comin', an' missy kep' gittin' kinder ter him, an' he was so perlite an' he voice were so nice an' he were se'ch a gent'mun I couldn't help thinkin' she gwi' fall in love wid him. An' one night he come, an' arter he hed done tole ole marse good-night, she come ter de door, an' he axed her to come out on de porch, an' pres'ny, arter he hed been talkin' ter her in a kinder whisper, he stan' up straight an' open he arms, an' she slip in an' laid her head on he shoulder.

"Jes' den ole marse come out. He look so white it skeered me. Little missy raise her head, but de orficer wouldn't let go her han'. Ole marse he shake like he hed de ager, an' he say: 'Take yo' choice. Go wid dat man, an' take yo' father's curse, an' never darken these doors, or sen' him away where he b'longs, an' never speak ter him again.' De orficer say: 'Colonel Baskerville, I love your daughter, an' she loves me. You can't separate us.' But ole marse he p'int he finger, an' he holler, 'Take yo' choice.' An' little missy she stan' fur a minnit or two like stone, an' den she take her han' away an' say, 'Father can't do without me. It would kill him. You must go.' De orficer he look like he would hol' on ter her, but she turn an' walk in de house, an' he got on he horse, lookin' black an mizerbul, an' gallop off as hard as he could.

"I seed a look naix day in little missy's face like missis when dey got dat letter 'bout Georgie. She was gwine ter die--I knowed it. Warn't nuttin' matter wid her--she went like missis. Ole marse he done ev'ything fur her; she never say a cross word ter him, but I b'lieve he wish she hed. Ev'y night I ondress her an' put her ter bed like when she was a little gal, an' ev'y night she got lighter an' lighter. 'Oh, mammy,' she would say, 'I'm so tired!' an' she didn't do nuttin' either. Ole marse he walk de floor all night. I heerd him, an' so did little missy. 'Poor father!' she would say. Den one day, arter de doctor hed been here an' gone, ole marse he go in de library an' he write a letter, an' he tear it up; an' he write 'nother one, an' he tear dat one up; an' at las' he write one an' he tooken it upst'yars an' he lay it on little missy's bed an' went out. 'Twas ter de orficer. Little missy she read it, an' she say, 'It's too late.' An' sho 'nough, 'twas."

She stopped again and paused. The shadows were very long by this. It was nearly night.

"He got here befo' dey put her in de groun'. He stan' by de grave, an' when de yearth fell in on de coffin he say to hisself, 'Amy! Amy!'

"I stayed by ole marse. I knowed 'twarn't fur long. It come one day when he was settin' in he cheer on de porch. He didn't move fur so long I was skeered. I went up to him, an' he was dead. Arter dat I went away. De orficer he give me some money, an' he tole me he'd sen' me some mo' ev'y year--an' dat's what I lives on. I c'yarn come here no mo'. I c'yarn go to de graveyard. Evy'whar I sees my chillen like when dey was little. I hear little missy sayin', 'Kethiah! Kethiah!' I 'spects ter see 'em soon, an' I wants ter tell 'em 'bout de ole place. I thankee kindly fur takin' keer o' things."

She limped down the steps and soon was far down the narrow path, and her bent and crippled form melted away into the twilight.

THE SEA FORTUNES OF DICKY CAREW.

I.

The sun shone so bright at Portsmouth Harbor that afternoon that everything was gold and green and white except the black hulls of the ships and the great gray forts, out of which the guns sometimes bellowed warnings to Boney across the water. And right out in the golden light lay his Majesty's ship-of-the-line Xantippe, riding statelily at anchor, like a queen of the seas upon her throne, so noble and commanding was she. But all the beauty and glory of sunlit harbor and white-walled town and sky and ships was as black as midnight to Dicky Carew when the dreadful summons came:

"Please, sir, the captain wants to see you in his cabin."

When Dicky stood inside the cabin facing the captain, stern, handsome, and as neat as wax, a sorrier-looking object than Dicky Carew would have been hard to find. His cap, which he held in his hand and twirled dolefully, had a big hole torn in the top, his jacket was white with dust, and right across his nose was a large black smut. Captain Sarsfield examined him carefully from the top of his tousled yellow head down to his unblacked shoes, Dicky blushing furiously all the while.

"A pretty spectacle you are, Mr. Carew, for an officer and a gentleman!" For although Dicky was only fifteen and barely five feet high, he was a middy and a gentleman.

Dicky said nothing, but continued to twirl his cap, while his eyes roamed uneasily around the captain's orderly cabin. And there, sitting on a sofa, with a dolly in her lap, was a little dark-eyed girl dressed in mourning, who was watching Dicky with great interest.

"What have you been doing, sir, to get yourself in such a mess as you are?"

"Catching cockroaches down in the hold, sir, with Barham," answered Dicky, in a quavering voice.

"A nice employment for two young gentlemen. When I was a midshipman, I employed my leisure in studying my profession."

"Yes, sir. That's what all the officers tell us. Barham and I are the only fellows I ever heard of that did anything but study their profession."

Captain Sarsfield looked very hard indeed at Dicky. Was it possible that this dirty and ingenuous youth was poking fun at a post-captain? But could deceit reside in those innocent eyes and that timid, boyish voice? The captain was in doubt.

"At all events," he continued, with an appalling look at the smut on Dicky's sunburned nose, "your appearance, sir, is disgraceful. I believe you are the dirtiest midshipman in his Majesty's service, and you will be docked of leave to go ashore for the next eight days."

The captain was about to deliver Dicky a lecture, when an orderly tapped at the cabin door and saluted.

"The new cutter has come, sir, and is about to be taken aboard."

The captain got up and went out without remembering to send Dicky back into the steerage, where he belonged.

As Dicky continued to stand, cap in hand, he would certainly have boohooed right out if he had not been an officer and a gentleman. Dicky, when he remembered that, gulped down two large sobs that rose in his throat, and winked his eyes to keep the tears back. Was there ever another such unlucky fellow as he, Dicky Carew, he asked himself, dismally. There was Barham, that was just as busy with the cockroaches as he was, and yet Barham's jacket wasn't dirty nor his nose smutted, and if the captain had sent for him he would have turned up as trig as the captain himself. And how many times a week Dicky was mast-headed for untidiness, and how often had he ridden to London and back on the spanker boom for that same fault, only Dicky himself could tell.

While he was pursuing these melancholy reflections the little girl on the sofa had fixed her dark eyes on him.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked.

"I'm dirty," answered Dicky, desperately. "I tub and scrub as much as any of 'em, but the captain can't see what I am underneath, and he thinks because I'm dirty outside I'm dirty all over."

"The captain is my papa," said Miss Bright Eyes.

"I wish he was _my_ papa," remarked Dicky, sadly, "if he'd be any easier on me."

Girls, as a rule, possessed no charm for Dicky; but this was such a very little one--not more than ten years old--that he regarded her as an infant, and rather a pretty one.

"I'm staying in Portsmouth," she continued, nursing her dolly very carefully, "with my governess and my nurse. My mamma is dead. She died only a month ago--before papa's ship got here--and I come on board nearly every day to see my papa. Sometimes, if it rains, I stay all night. I have a funny little bed made up in papa's sleeping cabin, and in the morning I get up and make his tea for him."

That story about her mamma went to Dicky's heart.

"And my mother got to Portsmouth this morning to see me, and she hasn't much money, and can only stay a week, and I can't go ashore to see her because I didn't keep my face clean and mussed my jacket."

"Why didn't you behave yourself, then?" promptly and severely asked his young friend. "Papa always behaved himself when he was a little boy like you."

This last very much incensed Dicky.

"Now look here, young lady," he said, "I'm an officer and a gentleman! Didn't you hear your father call me so just now? And if people in this ship call the officers 'little boys,' they'll get put in irons as likely as not. As for the officers behaving themselves when they were midshipmen, everybody knows they were angels--sea-angels--and the steerage was a little heaven. Oh, they didn't catch cockroaches--not they! And all the time they weren't on duty they were studying or saying their prayers. And as for skylarking, why, they never heard of such a thing! I'll tell you what--eh, what's your name?"

"Polly," answered Bright Eyes.

"Well, Polly, it ain't true that 'whom the gods love die young'; for if it were, there wouldn't be an officer of this ship alive to-day. Barham and I ain't going to die young, though. The gods don't love us, nor the captain neither."

"You oughtn't to talk so about dying," answered Polly, gravely. "You never had your mamma to die. Sometimes, when I've stayed on board all night, I've waked up and seen papa sitting by me, looking so strange and sad, and I know he is thinking about mamma, although he says, 'Go to sleep, my dear, nothing is the matter!' and I can see the tears on his cheek; and my papa is a brave sailor too. He says he knows I ought to go to school, but he can't bear to part with me." This very proudly.

"I dare say," said Dicky, mournfully, "it will break my mother's heart when she has come all this long way to see me, and can't see me. And she will be sure to think I have done something scandalous. I know she will!"

This worked so upon Polly's feelings that she said:

"Come here, and I'll get some pictures and show you."

"I can't," answered Dicky. "I've got to stand here until the captain comes back."

"Then I'll come to you," said Polly.

When the captain got back he found Polly sitting on the floor, with her lap full of pictures, and Dicky on the floor too, explaining them to her. The captain was quite in the cabin before Dicky heard a step. Then he jumped up, stood perfectly rigid, and blushed scarlet. It was bad enough to be caught at boyish tricks on the quarter-deck, which had sometimes happened, but to be found playing on the floor with a little girl was a reflection on his manhood. However, the captain did not seem very angry. He only said, "You may go, sir, and don't let me have to speak to you again about your personal appearance!" and Dicky fancied he saw something like a smile on Captain Sarsfield's face. Dicky said, "Yes, sir," and bowed to the captain, and then to the little girl.

"Good-by, Miss Polly," said he. It had been "Polly" and "Dicky" before the captain came in.

"Ain't you going to give me a kiss?" asked Polly in a surprised voice.

Dicky could get no redder than he was, but his hair almost stood on end, while he darted out and down the ladder, never stopping until he got to his own nook in the steerage.

"Girls are deuced bothersome--damme if they ain't," he remarked to Barham--these young gentlemen, in privacy, swearing quite mannishly, and discussing the feminine sex with a great assumption of knowingness.

Up in the cabin, the captain had said, "Polly!" in a reproving voice, and Polly had climbed up on his knee and kissed him, by way of answer.

"Do you know, papa, Dicky's mother is poor. She is the widow of an officer who was killed by that wicked Boney at the battle of the Nile"--for in those days Boney was supposed to command on sea as well as on land--"and Dicky was only ten years old, and his mother has come to Portsmouth to see him, and she can only stay a week, so Dicky won't be able to see her."

"Ah," said the captain, stroking his little daughter's hair.

"And she is staying in a little gray house, the next but one to the gate leading into the great dock yard. Papa, I would like to go to see Dicky's mother the next time we go ashore, and tell her that Dicky hasn't done anything very bad--because he says she'll think he has been very, very naughty--and tell her it's only because he is so dirty."

"You may go this afternoon," said the captain; "and perhaps I may let Dicky off before the week is out."

The next day, as Dicky was rather disconsolately poring over a book on seamanship, another summons came to the cabin. Dicky was in perfect order, for a wonder, and looked considerably less frowsy and blowzy than he had the day before. When he entered the captain's room the captain was at the table, writing, and Polly, on her knees on the cushioned seat, was peering out of the port-hole; but she turned around when Dick entered.

"Mr. Carew," said the captain, sternly, "I hope I impressed upon you yesterday the necessity for absolute personal neatness in your attire. The punishment I gave you, however, I have concluded to partially remit. After to-day, you may go ashore when you can get leave."

"Thank you, sir," replied Dicky, blushing with pleasure; "and--and--Captain Sarsfield, I'm not--as dirty as I look."

"I am glad to hear it, sir," responded Captain Sarsfield, gravely. "Good afternoon."

Still Dicky lingered. He wanted to say a word to Polly, but he couldn't do it with the captain's grave eyes fixed on him. So he only hung about for a moment, then said, "Good-by, Miss Polly," and vanished.

Dicky's mother was delighted to see him next day, and Dicky gave her such a bear hug, as he sometimes did Barham, that his mother shrieked, while she laughed and covered his face with kisses.

"And Dicky, such a dear little girl, all dressed in black, came here yesterday with her nurse! She was little Polly Sarsfield, the captain's daughter, and she told me why you couldn't come ashore, and that the captain, hearing I was here, had concluded to remit your punishment. I knew my dear boy wasn't punished for insubordination, or swearing, or gambling. If I thought that possible, it would break your mother's heart."

Dicky felt rather uncomfortable at his mother's supreme confidence in him, and was glad she didn't know everything that went on among the young gentlemen in the steerage.

"And Polly is a jolly little thing," remarked Dicky. "Nothing but a baby, though."

"Polly will be a young lady by the time you are a man," answered his mother, who did not take Dicky's assumption of manliness seriously.

"Oh, pshaw!" remarked Dicky, with a blush.

II.

In those days, when England was at war with France and half of Europe, promotion was sometimes rapid; and when Dicky had not got very far in his twenties he had been gazetted three times, and actually commanded a little eighteen-gun brig that carried as much manliness and courage as anything afloat. Dicky walked the deck of his little vessel, the Hornet, as proudly as Captain Sarsfield walked his splendid quarter-deck on his new line-of-battle ship--the Indomptable, finer even than the old Xantippe. And Dicky had developed into a model of sailor-and-officer-like neatness, and kept his ship as clean as a lady's boudoir. And one bright day the Hornet came sailing into Portsmouth Harbor, her sails and rigging roughly patched where the shot had torn through, with holes covered with bright new planking in her black sides, with four of her guns shattered at their muzzles, but bravely towing a French sloop of war almost twice as big as the little Hornet. The Frenchman, too, could barely keep afloat, but he had ten good guns that Dicky had brought home in place of the four he had lost. And Dicky, seeing the great, big, splendid Indomptable anchored in the harbor, stood boldly in and dropped his anchor just astern of her. Dicky knew well enough who commanded the Indomptable.

Oh, what shouting and hurrahing there was when the people in the ships and those on shore made out the little Hornet! And what dipping of flags and waving of caps and cheering when the little vessel had come to anchor! And then, when Dicky, in a very small and shabby gig, with only four men at the oars, and some of them with their heads or their legs bound up, was rowed to the admiral's ship, there was more cheering and shouting, which made Dicky's heart swell.

That very afternoon, by the time Dicky had got back on board the Hornet, a gig very unlike the Hornet's gig put off from the big Indomptable, and presently Captain Sarsfield clambered up the side, and Dicky, looking very red and pleased, holding his cap in his hand very much as he had done when Captain Sarsfield sent for him to scold him about his untidiness and general naughtiness, received the captain at the gangway.

"Let me congratulate you," said Captain Sarsfield, shaking his hand warmly. "What a trouncing you gave the Frenchman to be sure! How you managed to keep afloat I can't see."

"We are badly knocked to pieces," answered Dicky, "and on that account I hope you will excuse the appearance of things. The ship isn't as clean as I'd like her to be."

The Hornet was, though, as clean as hands could make her, her brass-work shining and her deck snow-white, although some of her spars were in splinters and things generally broken up. As for Dicky, he looked as if he had been parboiled and sand-papered and then hung out to dry, so clean was he; and he had the air of having just stepped out of a bandbox. Captain Sarsfield grinned at Dicky.

"You are certainly cleaner than you used to be," said he.

The captain had to hear all about the fight off Cherbourg, where Dicky sailed in under the very guns of the forts and made the Frenchman come out to fight. It seemed very unequal at first, as the Frenchman had the most men and the most metal. But Dicky plainly had the most seamanship, and, in a running fight that lasted four hours, he cut the French ship up so that at last, when she struck, nothing but a tow line and her nearness to Portsmouth saved her from going to the bottom. Both the Frenchman and Dicky were too far gone to carry the prisoners back to Portsmouth. These had been transferred to another vessel, but Dicky had the Frenchman's captain and her ensign and ten guns, which was good for Dicky.

Dicky was dying to ask Captain Sarsfield about Polly; but, although he had been gazetted three times, he was so afraid of the captain that he could not get it out to save his life until just as Captain Sarsfield was leaving.

"And--how--how is Miss Polly?" asked Dicky, looking sheepish and blushing furiously.

"Very well," answered the captain, "and at present paying me a little visit. When you come to dinner to-morrow you will see her. She is quite a young lady--sixteen her last birthday."

Young ladies grew up earlier then, and sixteen was considered quite old. So Dicky went, and found Polly a grown-up young lady, with full muslin skirts down to her heels, a short-waisted bodice belted just under her arms, and a large poke-bonnet. Dicky was very shy, but Polly was not, and rallied him unmercifully, even cruelly alluding to the smut on his nose, which she had remembered all those years.

Things were very pleasant about that time to Dicky; but then the war closed soon after, much to Dicky's disgust, who had wild dreams of commanding a fifty-gun sloop of war at least before Boney was finally done for; and Dicky saw, disconsolately enough, that he was well off to have got the little Hornet, and that he would not get anything better for a long while.

Meanwhile, Dicky had been making hay while the sun shone, and a day had come when he went on board the Indomptable to ask Captain Sarsfield a very important question indeed--which was whether Polly and himself could get married. Dicky was terribly frightened, but managed to appear tolerably self-possessed as he sat in Captain Sarsfield's cabin, although he could not help twiddling his cap desperately under the table. The captain was as grave and stern as ever, and gave Dicky no manner of help while he was blundering and floundering about, trying to tell the captain how much he loved Polly, although it was perfectly plain that Captain Sarsfield, or anybody with half an eye, for that matter, must have known directly what ailed Dicky.

Then Dicky told the captain that he had a snug sum of prize money put by, which should be Polly's, and the captain had said that Polly was not quite dowerless, and the whole thing was arranged, Captain Sarsfield shaking Dicky's hand formally, and wishing the young couple might be as happy as he and Polly's mother had been, long years ago. And for a wonder, Captain Sarsfield appeared to think that perhaps Polly and Dicky might have something to say to each other, and considerately stalked up and down the quarter-deck for a full hour, while the young ones had a rapturous interview in the cabin. When Dicky got back to the Hornet, he sent for Barham, who was his first-lieutenant, and they hugged each other and danced round in the cabin very much as they had done when they found amusement in catching cockroaches in the old Xantippe.

Polly and Dicky were to be married in the spring. Dicky was cruising about the English Channel, getting into Portsmouth for a few days every month, where the Indomptable was lying awaiting her turn to be overhauled and repaired, for she too had got a shot or two from Boney before he got away to Elba.

One bright day in spring, as bright as the one on which Dicky first met Polly, the Hornet was coming into Portsmouth. There was a spanking breeze from the sea that tossed the white caps high, and the little Hornet was skimming along under all the sail she could carry. Now, although French ships had begun to appear again in English ports by that time, they were rather unusual; so Dicky, who was on the bridge of the Hornet, was rather surprised to see a big French frigate, the Alceste, sailing slowly out of the inner harbor. She was a fine ship, but she was sailing like a hay-stack, one mile ahead and three miles to leeward. The passage into the harbor of Portsmouth is narrow--not more than four or five hundred yards across--and from the lubberly way the Alceste was tacking about, she would probably take all the room there was, and considerably more if she could get it, to come out, and leave none at all for the little Hornet; but Dicky wasn't afraid of that. When it came to navigating a ship in a tight place, young Captain Carew was a match for any man who sailed the seas. In those days England claimed the sovereignty of the narrow seas, and exacted that a man-of-war, of any other nation whatsoever, on meeting a British war-ship in those waters, should salute the British ensign by lowering her topsails. Naturally, this was peculiarly hateful to French captains, who not infrequently omitted it, when the French ship was very big and the British ship very little. Then a long official correspondence would follow, but no French captain was ever punished for this defiance of the might of England. Dicky Carew, however, was not the man to consider the difference between a big ship and a little one where the respect due the flag he carried was at stake. His ensign was set, which was a hint to the French ship that her topsails must come down.

But the Alceste seemed in no hurry to show her manners. The fresh breeze that filled her ill-set sails kept most of her people busy, the sailors bustling about the decks with more chattering and noise than Captain Carew would have allowed on his ship in a month. But not a man went near her topsail halliards.

From the way the Alceste was lurching about, it began to look very doubtful if the little Hornet could pass in the narrow passage to the harbor, where it was plain they would meet; but Dicky Carew had no notion of shortening sail and hanging around outside until the Frenchman had got out. So in contrast to the great lumbering Alceste, the little Hornet came dashing on, with a free wind, making about two knots to the Alceste's one, and her course as straight as the crow flies. The French captain, who was also on his bridge, saw that the Hornet had no mind to stand out of his way, but he laughed as he looked at his own big hull and towering masts, and saw the little Hornet, whose mainmast was no higher than the Alceste's lower spars. And not the slightest sign was made that his topsails were to be lowered.

Now Dicky could stand the Alceste's bad seamanship, but it didn't suit him to take the Alceste's snub, and then sit down and write to the Admiralty and complain about it. He had been used to teaching Frenchmen to behave themselves, and he meant to do so now.

"Barham," said he to his first lieutenant, "the rascals don't mean to salute."

"Report 'em to the Admiralty as soon as we come to anchor," responded Barham.

"Wouldn't it be better to smash his cabin windows, and splinter one of his starboard boats beforehand--eh?"

"Decidedly better," said Barham, whose blood was up too. "With such a lot of landsmen and marines as they've got aloft, it will go hard if the Hornet can't scrape some of the paint off his sides."

By this time the French captain saw what was coming. The Hornet was standing up beautifully to the breeze, and apparently making straight for the Alceste. In two minutes more she was right on his starboard quarter, and the French sailors began to yell. Barham had taken the wheel, and kept his eye on Captain Carew, when, as Dicky waved his hand, Barham threw down the helm, and the little Hornet scraped so close to the Alceste that the quartermaster, taking up a boat-hook, jammed it through the Alceste's cabin windows, bawling:

"Take that for yer manners, ye ornsightly lubbers!"

And then there was a crash--a boat on the Alceste's starboard quarter was gone, and as the big frigate lurched across the yard of blue water between them, the little Hornet's stanch mizzen mast struck the Alceste's lower spars, that were only half secured, and tore through the rigging as if it were a cobweb. In another minute the Hornet with her helm righted had danced off, her men cheering and jeering, while the French captain fairly danced with rage, and shook his fist at Captain Carew, who raised his cap, and bowed and smiled politely.

Of course it was very wrong, and Captain Carew knew it, particularly when he saw the Alceste deliberately put about to return to Portsmouth. Dicky began to have dreadful visions of being obliged to go on the Alceste in full uniform, and make an apology to the French captain, than which he would much rather have had an arm cut off.