Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1809 page)

“Here, Tom!” said the captain, in a low voice.  “Here’s something in your line.  Here’s an old lady poorly and low in her spirits.  Cheer her up a bit, Tom.  Cheer ‘em all up.”

Mr. Pettifer, with a brisk nod of intelligence, immediately assumed his steward face, and went with his quiet, helpful, steward step into the parlour, where the captain had the great satisfaction of seeing him, through the glass door, take the child in his arms (who offered no objection), and bend over Mrs. Raybrock, administering soft words of consolation.

“Though what he finds to say, unless he’s telling her that ‘t’ll soon be over, or that most people is so at first, or that it’ll do her good afterward, I cannot imaginate!” was the captain’s reflection as he followed the lovers.

He had not far to follow them, since it was but a short descent down the stony ways to the cottage of Kitty’s father.  But short as the distance was, it was long enough to enable the captain to observe that he was fast becoming the village Ogre; for there was not a woman standing working at her door, or a fisherman coming up or going down, who saw Young Raybrock unhappy and little Kitty in tears, but he or she instantly darted a suspicious and indignant glance at the captain, as the foreigner who must somehow be responsible for this unusual spectacle.  Consequently, when they came into Tregarthen’s little garden, — which formed the platform from which the captain had seen Kitty peeping over the wall, — the captain brought to, and stood off and on at the gate, while Kitty hurried to hide her tears in her own room, and Alfred spoke with her father, who was working in the garden.  He was a rather infirm man, but could scarcely be called old yet, with an agreeable face and a promising air of making the best of things.  The conversation began on his side with great cheerfulness and good humour, but soon became distrustful, and soon angry.  That was the captain’s cue for striking both into the conversation and the garden.

“Morning, sir!” said Captain Jorgan.  “How do you do?”

“The gentleman I am going away with,” said the young fisherman to Tregarthen.

“O!” returned Kitty’s father, surveying the unfortunate captain with a look of extreme disfavour.  “I confess that I can’t say I am glad to see you.”

“No,” said the captain, “and, to admit the truth, that seems to be the general opinion in these parts.  But don’t be hasty; you may think better of me by-and-by.”

“I hope so,” observed Tregarthen.

“Wa’al,
I
hope so,” observed the captain, quite at his ease; “more than that, I believe so, — though you don’t.  Now, Mr. Tregarthen, you don’t want to exchange words of mistrust with me; and if you did, you couldn’t, because I wouldn’t.  You and I are old enough to know better than to judge against experience from surfaces and appearances; and if you haven’t lived to find out the evil and injustice of such judgments, you are a lucky man.”

The other seemed to shrink under this remark, and replied, “Sir, I
have
lived to feel it deeply.”

“Wa’al,” said the captain, mollified, “then I’ve made a good cast without knowing it.  Now, Tregarthen, there stands the lover of your only child, and here stand I who know his secret.  I warrant it a righteous secret, and none of his making, though bound to be of his keeping.  I want to help him out with it, and tewwards that end we ask you to favour us with the names of two or three old residents in the village of Lanrean.  As I am taking out my pocket-book and pencil to put the names down, I may as well observe to you that this, wrote atop of the first page here, is my name and address: ‘Silas Jonas Jorgan, Salem, Massachusetts, United States.’  If ever you take it in your head to run over any morning, I shall be glad to welcome you.  Now, what may be the spelling of these said names?”

“There was an elderly man,” said Tregarthen, “named David Polreath.  He may be dead.”

“Wa’al,” said the captain, cheerfully, “if Polreath’s dead and buried, and can be made of any service to us, Polreath won’t object to our digging of him up.  Polreath’s down, anyhow.”

“There was another named Penrewen.  I don’t know his Christian name.”

“Never mind his Chris’en name,” said the captain; “Penrewen, for short.”

“There was another named John Tredgear.”

“And a pleasant-sounding name, too,” said the captain; “John Tredgear’s booked.”

“I can recall no other except old Parvis.”

“One of old Parvis’s fam’ly I reckon,” said the captain, “kept a dry-goods store in New York city, and realised a handsome competency by burning his house to ashes.  Same name, anyhow.  David Polreath, Unchris’en Penrewen, John Tredgear, and old Arson Parvis.”

“I cannot recall any others at the moment.”

“Thank’ee,” said the captain.  “And so, Tregarthen, hoping for your good opinion yet, and likewise for the fair Devonshire Flower’s, your daughter’s, I give you my hand, sir, and wish you good day.”

Young Raybrock accompanied him disconsolately; for there was no Kitty at the window when he looked up, no Kitty in the garden when he shut the gate, no Kitty gazing after them along the stony ways when they begin to climb back.

“Now I tell you what,” said the captain.  “Not being at present calculated to promote harmony in your family, I won’t come in.  You go and get your dinner at home, and I’ll get mine at the little hotel.  Let our hour of meeting be two o’clock, and you’ll find me smoking a cigar in the sun afore the hotel door.  Tell Tom Pettifer, my steward, to consider himself on duty, and to look after your people till we come back; you’ll find he’ll have made himself useful to ‘em already, and will be quite acceptable.”

All was done as Captain Jorgan directed.  Punctually at two o’clock the young fisherman appeared with his knapsack at his back; and punctually at two o’clock the captain jerked away the last feather-end of his cigar.

“Let me carry your baggage, Captain Jorgan; I can easily take it with mine.”

“Thank’ee,” said the captain.  “I’ll carry it myself.  It’s only a comb.”

They climbed out of the village, and paused among the trees and fern on the summit of the hill above, to take breath, and to look down at the beautiful sea.  Suddenly the captain gave his leg a resounding slap, and cried, “Never knew such a right thing in all my life!” — and ran away.

The cause of this abrupt retirement on the part of the captain was little Kitty among the trees.  The captain went out of sight and waited, and kept out of sight and waited, until it occurred to him to beguile the time with another cigar.  He lighted it, and smoked it out, and still he was out of sight and waiting.  He stole within sight at last, and saw the lovers, with their arms entwined and their bent heads touching, moving slowly among the trees.  It was the golden time of the afternoon then, and the captain said to himself, “Golden sun, golden sea, golden sails, golden leaves, golden love, golden youth, — a golden state of things altogether!”

Nevertheless the captain found it necessary to hail his young companion before going out of sight again.  In a few moments more he came up and they began their journey.

“That still young woman with the fatherless child,” said Captain Jorgan, as they fell into step, “didn’t throw her words away; but good honest words are never thrown away.  And now that I am conveying you off from that tender little thing that loves, and relies, and hopes, I feel just as if I was the snarling crittur in the picters, with the tight legs, the long nose, and the feather in his cap, the tips of whose moustaches get up nearer to his eyes the wickeder he gets.”

The young fisherman knew nothing of Mephistopheles; but he smiled when the captain stopped to double himself up and slap his leg, and they went along in right goodfellowship.

CHAPTER 4

Who was the Seafaring Man? And what might he have to say for himself? He answers those questions in his own words:

I begin by mentioning what happened on my journey, northwards, from Falmouth in Cornwall, to Steepways in Devonshire. I have no occasion to say (being here) that it brought me last night to Lanrean. I had business in hand which was part very serious, and part (as I hoped) very joyful — and this business, you will please to remember, was the cause of my journey.

After landing at Falmouth, I travelled on foot; because of the expense of riding, and because I had anxieties heavy on my mind, and walking was the best way I knew of to lighten them. The first two days of my journey the weather was fine and soft, the wind being mostly light airs from south, and south and by west. On the third day, I took a wrong turning, and had to fetch a long circuit to get right again. Towards evening, while I was still on the road, the wind shifted; and a sea-fog came rolling in on the land. I went on through, what I ask leave to call, the white darkness; keeping the sound of the sea on my left hand for a guide, and feeling those anxieties of mine before mentioned, pulling heavier and heavier at my mind, as the fog thickened and the wet trickled down my face.

It was still early in the evening, when I heard a dog bark, away in the distance, on the right-hand side of me. Following the sound as well as I could, and shouting to the dog, from time to time, to set him barking again, I stumbled up at last against the back of a house; and, hearing voices inside, groped my way round to the door, and knocked on it smartly with the flat of my hand.

The door was opened by a slip-slop young hussey in a torn gown; and the first inquiries I made of her discovered to me that the house was an inn.

Before I could ask more questions, the landlord opened the parlour door of the inn and came out. A clamour of voices, and a fine comforting smell of fire and grog and tobacco, came out, also, along with him.

“The taproom fire’s out,” says the landlord. “You don’t think you would dry more comfortable, like, if you went to bed?” says he, looking hard at me.

“No,” says I, looking hard at
him;
“I don’t.”

Before more words were spoken, a jolly voice hailed us from inside the parlour.

“What’s the matter, landlord?” says the jolly voice. “Who is it?”

“A seafaring man, by the looks of him,” says the landlord, turning round from me, and speaking into the parlour.

“Let’s have the seafaring man in,” says the voice. “Let’s vote him free of the Club, for this night only.”

A lot of other voices thereupon said, “Hear! hear!” in a solemn manner, as if it was church service. After which there was a hammering, as if it was a trunk-maker’s shop. After which the landlord took me by the arm; gave me a push into the parlour; and there I was, free of the Club.

The change from the fog outside to the warm room and the shining candles so completely dazed me, that I stood blinking at the company more like an owl than a man. Upon which the company again said, “Hear! hear!” Upon which I returned for answer, “Hear! Hear!” — considering those words to mean, in the Club’s language, something similar to “How-d’ye-do.” The landlord then took me to a round table by the fire, where I got my supper, together with the information that my bedroom, when I wanted it, was number four, up-stairs.

I noticed before I fell to with my knife and fork that the room was full, and that the chairman at the top of the table was the man with the jolly voice, and was seemingly amusing the company by telling them a story. I paid more attention to my supper than to what he was saying; and all I can now report of it is, that his story-telling and my eating and drinking both came to an end together.