CHAPTER XXXIII.
HOME FROM SEA
“The dark-blue jacket that enfolds the sailor’s manly breast
Bears more of real honor than the star and ermine vest;
The tithe of folly in his head may wake the landsman’s mirth,
But Nature proudly owns him as her child of sterling worth.”
– Eliza Cook.
“Clear the track! off we go! whip up old lazybones there, and don’t let him crawl on at that snail’s pace! That’s more like; now for it, at five knots an hour! It’s pleasant to see the old familiar faces again, after knocking about in strange ports for half a dozen years – don’t you think so, messmate?” and the speaker, a dashing, handsome, good-humored-looking young fellow, with the unmistakable air of a sailor about him, gave his fellow-passenger, an elderly, cross-looking old gentleman, who sat beside him on the roof of the stage-coach, a confidential dig with his elbow, that nearly pushed him, head-first, out of his seat.
“Lord bless my soul! young man, there’s no necessity for breaking a man’s ribs about it – is there?” said the old gentleman, snappishly. “I dare say, it’s all very nice, but you needn’t dislocate your neighbor’s bones about it. Do you belong to this place?” asked the old man, after a short pause, during which his companion had politely apologized for the unnecessary force of the blow in the ribs.
“Yes, sir,” said the young man, with emphasis, “that I do! and in all my rambles round the world, I never saw a place I liked better! No place like home, you know. Hurrah! for good old Judestown!”
“I wonder you go to sea, then,” said the old man, crossly; “you’re a fool to do it, getting drowned fifty times a day. I warrant you, you are always on the spree whenever you get on shore, like the rest of them, spending all your money instead of putting it in the savings bank, as you ought to do, as a provision for your old age.”
“Me get on the spree?” said the sailor, drawing himself up; “no, sir-ee. All my money goes to provide bread and molasses for my wife and family.”
“Why, bless my soul and body!” exclaimed the old gentleman, surveying his young companion through his spectacles in utter surprise, “you’re surely not married yet, youngster.”
“Yes, I regret to say I am,” said the youngster in question in a passive tone, “and got a large family with large appetites to support. It’s melancholy to reflect upon, but it’s true. My wife keeps a billiard-saloon, and the children keep apple-stands at the corner of the streets, except my oldest daughter, and she’s at service. Fine family, sir! Halloa! here we are, at the Judestown House, and there’s my old friend, Mrs. Gudge.”
“Humph!” grunted the old gentleman, doubtfully; “where are you from last, young man?”
“Liverpool – ship ‘Sea Nymph;’ master, Burleigh; first mate, Randolph Lawless, Esq., late of Heath Hill. Had some distinguished passengers out with us, too,” said the young man, tightening his belt.
“Humph!” again grunted the old man. “Who were they, may I ask?”
“Certainly, you may ask, and I have great pleasure in answering, the Earl and Countess De Courcy, and their daughter, Lady Rita – perhaps you’re acquainted with them already,” said the young man, with a wicked look in his knowing eyes.
“No, sir, I’m not,” snapped the old man, “and, what’s more, I don’t want to be, either, whether you believe it or not.”
“Well, it’s their loss then; that’s all I have to say about it. Here we are at anchor, at last. Halloa, Mrs. Gudge! don’t you know me?” exclaimed the young man, springing lightly from his lofty perch and alighting like a cat on his feet.
“Why, Master Ranty! is this yourself?” cried Mrs. Gudge, clasping her fat hands and going off into a transport of delight, wonderful to behold. “Dearie me! how glad I am! how tall you are, and how brown, and handsomer than ever, I declare!”
Our old friend, Ranty, laughed, and dashed back his sun-browned locks off his happy, thoughtless face, as he answered:
“I believe you, Mrs. Gudge; so handsome, in fact, that they wanted to take away the Apollo Belvidere – a gentleman you are not acquainted with, Mrs. Gudge – and put me in his place. My modesty, of which I have at least the full of a tar-bucket, would not permit me to listen to such a proposal a moment. And now, my dear madam, how are all my friends at Heath Hill and Old Barrens?”
“First-rate!” replied Mrs. Gudge; “the judge was here, not ten minutes ago, with that big, rough fellow, with all the hair about his face; Black Bart they call him.”
“One of those notorious smugglers! whew! I hope my excellent father is not taking to contraband courses in his latter days. What, in the name of Amphitrite, could he want of Black Bart?”
“Well, he said he wanted information about the smugglers, and he sent my old man to look for Bart.”
“Humph! Set a fox to catch a fox! I wonder how he succeeded. Seen our Pet, lately?”
“No, not since one day she dressed herself in my Bobby’s clothes, and drove young Mr. Germaine and Miss Erminie over to the cottage,” said Mrs. Gudge, laughing.
“Dressed herself in Bob’s clothes! what the dickens did she do that for?”
“For fun, she said; none of us knew them that day except her, and she drove them over without their ever finding her out. Miss Pet always is doing something out of the way, you know, Master Ranty.”
“And how is Mr. Germaine and Miss Erminie, Mrs. Gudge?”
“Very well, indeed! Lor’ bless me! you would hardly know Mr. Ray; he’s shot up like a Maypole, and got one of them nasty mustarches onto his upper lip. Of all the ugly things they beats all. It actually makes my flesh creep to see them eating or drinking with them on. I’m glad you don’t wear one, Master Ranty, for of all the disgraceful things – ” Mrs. Gudge paused, and rolled her eyes as in intense disgust, by way of filling up the hiatus.
“It’s no merit of mine, I am afraid,” said Ranty, passing his hand over his lip; “I’ve been mowing away for the last three years; but owing to some mysterious dispensation of Providence, or the barrenness of the soil, or some other inscrutable reason, nothing can be induced to sprout. I feel myself put upon by Fate, I do so, Mrs. Gudge! There’s Ray, now with whiskers, flourishing, no doubt, like a green bay tree; and here am I, a young man twice as deserving, with a face as smooth as a sheet of foolscap. It’s a darned shame, and I won’t put up with it, hanged if I do! Mrs. Gudge, let me have a horse and wagon, or a superannuated gander, or a go-cart, or some other quadruped to take me home. Since I must tear myself away, I may as well do it first as last.”
Mrs. Gudge opened the door, and called to Bobby to bring round a horse; and soon after that hopeful made his appearance, leading the animal by the bridle. Ranty waved a good-by to Mrs. Gudge, flung a handful of coppers to her son, jumped into the saddle, and was off, as Bob Gudge afterward expressed it “like Old Nick in a gale of wind.”
Ranty’s eyes lit up with pleasure as the old, familiar scenes came once more in view. There was the forest road, bringing back the memory of the dangerous, practical joke they had played on Pet. There was Dismal Hollow, silent, grim gloomy, and lonely – a fit habitation for Miss Priscilla Toosypegs. There was the Barrens; there was the little, white, vine-shaded cottage; and yonder in the distance, dazzling in its spotless paint, was the staring, garish White Squall. There, too, was the brown-scorched road leading through the purple bloom of the heath to his own ancestral home of Heath Hill.
“Now to give them a surprise,” said Ranty, as he alighted at the little cottage-gate and approached the door; “wonder if Minnie will know me; I hope she is in.”
The parlor-door lay wide open, and he looked in unobserved. It was the day on which Judge Lawless had proposed, a few hours later; and Erminie, whose gentle nature had not quite recovered from the wound his threats and harsh words had given her, sat alone with the evening shadows falling around her – her head resting on her hand, and her large, soft blue eyes dark with unshed tears. Pet had just departed; and the quietness and reaction following the luster of her exciting presence made the silence and loneliness more dreary still.
Ranty’s first impulse had been to rush in, catch her in his arms, and give her a rousing salute; but the moment he saw her sweet, pale face and drooping figure, a feeling more nearly approaching to timidity than anything our impudent young sailor had ever felt before, held him back. Somehow he had expected to see a slender, delicate little girl, such as he had last beheld her; but she had passed away forever, and here in her place sat a tall, elegant girl, with a face as lovely as the hazel-haired Madonna’s that had smiled upon him in the dim, old cathedral-aisles of glorious Italy. He took one step forward; she lifted her head with a startled look; her eyes met his, and she started impetuously to her feet.
“Erminie!”
“Ranty! Oh, Ranty! I am so glad!”
She caught his hand in both hers, while her face, a moment before so pale, flushed with delight, and the violet eyes were fairly radiant with joy.
“Oh, Ranty, I am so glad! When did you come?”
“Got to Baltimore day before yesterday. I suppose you hardly expected to see me to-night, Erminie?”
“No, indeed! And it is the most delightful surprise!" exclaimed Erminie, her beautiful face irradiated with joy, and forgetting she was no longer speaking to the boy Ranty. But when she caught his eyes fixed upon her with a look the boy had never worn, the flush rose painfully even to her very forehead. She dropped his hand, while her eyes fell, and she said, in a less assured tone:
“Sit down; you must be tired after your journey. I am very sorry Ray is not at home to meet you.”
“Never mind; I will see him to-morrow. And all my friends have been quite well since I left, Erminie?”
“Yes, all. If you had arrived ten minutes sooner, you would have seen Pet. She has just gone.”
“Well, I will shortly have that pleasure. How tall you have grown, and how you have changed since I saw you last, Erminie!”
He meant more the emphatic but undefinable change from childhood to womanhood, than that of her looks. Perhaps Erminie understood him, for she said, laughing:
“Not for the worse, I hope. You, too, have changed, Master Ranty.”
“Well, not much, I think; I have grown five or six feet taller, and my complexion has become a genteel brown; but, otherwise, I am the same Ranty Lawless I went away.”
“A little quieter, I should hope, for the peace and well-being of the community at large. Do you still retain the high opinion you had of yourself before you left?”
“Yes, slightly increased,” said Ranty, who had now recovered all his customary nonchalance of manner. “There was a little lady out with us from England whose precious life I had the pleasure of saving; and with whose raven eyes and coal-black hair I would have fallen in love, but for the thought of a dear little blue-eyed fairy at home, who promised to wait for me until I could come back. Do you remember that promise, Erminie?”
“I only remember you were very absurd,” said Erminie, laughing and blushing. “Don’t talk nonsense; but tell me how you were so fortunate as to save the lady’s life?”
“Well, one windy evening, a little before dark, this little Lady Rita, who by the way, though the haughtiest, sauciest young damsel I ever encountered, was quite courageous, came upon deck, and insisted on remaining there, in spite of all expostulations to the contrary. She was leaning over the side, and I was standing near, watching her, for want of something better to do, when the vessel gave a sudden lurch round. I heard a scream, and beheld the place where her little ladyship had lately stood vacant. I caught sight of her the next moment struggling in the waves; and, in a twinkling, I was in after her. Lady Rita, who had hitherto looked down upon me and all the rest of us with sublimest hauteur and vestal prudery, made not the slightest objection to be caught in my arms now; on the contrary, she held on with an energy that nearly strangled me. A boat was lowered, and we were fished up, clinging to each other, as if bound to hold on to the last gasp. Lady Rita, according to the incomprehensible custom of the female sex in general, fainted stone dead the moment she found herself in safety. It’s interesting to faint, and I was looking round for a nice place to follow her example; but upon second thoughts I concluded I wouldn’t. There were no nice young ladies round who understood my case; and to be tickled with burnt feathers, and be drenched with cold water by a lot of sailors, was not to be thought of. Lady Rita was carried to the cabin; and a great fuss and commotion reigned there for the next two or three hours, while I was taking life easy, smoking a cigar on deck. Then the earl, her ‘parient,’ made his appearance, and completely deluged me with gratitude and thanks, which I stood like a hero, until the countess also came. Her tears and protestations of everlasting gratitude were a little too much, and I fled. I blush to say it, but I beat an inglorious retreat, for thanks are things one easily gets a surfeit of.”
“Why, Ranty, you have sailed in high company lately,” said Erminie; “earl and countess – dear me! I begin to feel quite an awe of you.”
“So you ought; and I hope you’ll continue to cherish the feeling. But, Erminie, do you know – though, as you have never seen him, it’s likely you don’t – but you have the most wonderful resemblance to Lord De Courcy I ever beheld in my life.”
“Lord De Courcy!” exclaimed Erminie, growing pale as she remembered Ketura’s fearful denunciations against all who bore that name.
“Yes, Lord and Lady De Courcy are at present in Washington City. The earl says he always felt a desire to visit this country; but, hitherto, circumstances prevented him. The countess is a lovely woman – one of the most beautiful, I think, I ever saw; and as good as she is beautiful, every one says.”
“I have heard of her before,” said Erminie, in a low, subdued tone. “Mr. Toosypegs saw her many years ago, when he was in England. At least, I imagine it was her; for she was the wife of the old earl’s son, and Mr. Toosypegs says that since the death of his father he has been Lord De Courcy.”
“Yes, so he has,” said Ranty; “he was then Lord Villiers; but really, Minnie, your likeness to him is quite wonderful.”
“Well, it is not unusual for strangers to resemble one another; though I suppose I ought to feel flattered by looking in the remotest degree like one so great and distinguished. How much I should like to see them both!” said Erminie, musingly. “I have heard so much about them from Mr. Toosypegs, and – another, that my curiosity is quite excited. And their daughter – this Lady Rita – was that what you called her? By the way, Ranty, I never heard they had a daughter.”
“Yes, they had two; the oldest died, I believe, when a child; and Lady Rita – well, some say she is not their daughter, but an adopted child. I don’t know how that may be; though, certain it is, she does not look like either of them – not half so much as you do, Erminie. Both of them have very fair complexions, while Lady Rita is as dark as a creole. The countess, to be sure, has dark hair and eyes; but still her haughty little daughter does not resemble her in the least.”
“Do they remain here long?” said Erminie, half musingly. “Oh, Ranty, how much I should like to see them!”
“Well, perhaps you may; in the overflowing of their gratitude, they made me promise to visit them en famille, while they remained; and if you’ll only consent to keep your promise, and become Mrs. Lawless, why, you can come with me, and I know they will be delighted to welcome my wife.”
“Nonsense, Ranty,” said Erminie, a little impatiently, “how absurd you are! I am not to be accountable for your silly talk when we parted, I hope?”
“Well, all I have to say about it is, that there will be a case of ‘breach of promise’ up before the court one of these days, if you attempt to back out. Are you prepared to pay me five or six thousand dollars damages, as a plaster for my wounded feelings, may I ask, Miss Germaine?”
“As if your affections were worth one-tenth that sum, Mr. Lawless! Now, do be sensible, if you can, and tell me how long you are going to stay home.”
“As to being sensible, Miss Germaine, I flatter myself I am that now; and my stay, or departure, must depend in a great measure on you.”
“Now, Ranty, I shall get angry if you don’t stop being so nonsensical!” said Erminie, flushing slightly. “I did hope going to sea would have put a little sense into your head; but I perceive it has had quite a contrary effect. I wish you could see Ray. These six years have made him as grave and thoughtful as a judge. I expect he will be quite famous in his profession yet.”
“Well, I wish him joy of it,” said Ranty. “But how any man can reconcile it to his conscience to be a lawyer, while honest, straight-forward piracy is flourishing in the South Seas, and old-fashioned, upright brigands infest the Pyrenees, is beyond my comprehension! However, every one to their taste; and, luckily, this is a free country. Good-by, now, Miss Germaine. Fate and the approach of night compels me to be off; but you may look out for me an hour or so before day-dawn to-morrow.”
And Ranty got up, shook hands with Erminie, mounted his horse, and rode off.
“Now Ranty Lawless,” said that gentleman to himself, when fairly on the road, “it’s my private belief and impression that you are falling in love, young man! What a sweet, artless, lovely face the girl has got, any way! And those eyes – those wistful, tender, violet eyes – how they do go through a fellow’s vest-pattern, though! Ranty, my son, take care! Have you escaped the witchery of dark-eyed Spanish donas; the melting glances of Italia’s raven-haired daughters; the enchantment of the little knobby-footed, suffron-skinned ladies of the Celestial Empire; the bedevilment of the free-and-easy mesdames of free-and-easy France, to be hooked the moment you land, by the blue eyes, golden hair, pearly skin, and pink cheeks of this little cottage-girl, Erminie? What will the governor say, I want to know? Well, it’s time enough to think of that yet. No use worrying till the time comes. ‘Care killed a cat,’ they say; so, lest I should share in that unfortunate quadruped’s fate, I shall take things easy. There’s the White Squall. I think I shall go over and see my worthy uncle, the admiral.”
So saying, Ranty rode rapidly in the direction of the flaring white mansion, and entered, without ceremony. The admiral, as usual, was alone in the parlor, and gave his nephew a boisterous welcome, shaking his hand as if he had hold of the handle of a pump, until Ranty winced and jerked it away. Then, having replied to the avalanche of questions with which the ancient mariner overwhelmed him, Ranty rose, and rode homeward, to surprise the household there.
Surprise the household he did – at least all of them to be found – which were only the servants. The judge was gone, and so was Pet.
“Why, Aunt Deb, Pet started for home nearly an hour ago,” said Ranty, somewhat alarmed. “What can have become of her?”
“Lors! Mars’r Ranty, how de debbil I know?” said Aunt Deb, who was given to profanity now and then. “Dar ain’t nebber no tellin’ whar dat ar little limb pokes herself. She might be at dem old Bar’ns, or she might be at Dismal Holler, or she might be gone to old Harry – ”
“Old Harry!” interrupted Ranty, angrily. “What do you mean?”
“Why, ole Mars’r Harry Hateful; dar ain’t no tellin’ whar she is!”
“Well, that’s true enough. I wish she were here, however. Perhaps she won’t be back to-night,” said Ranty, walking up and down the room, and whistling a sea air.
Aunt Deb bustled out to prepare supper, to which meal our young sailor sat down alone, wondering, alternately, where Pet could be, and thinking of the witching, violet eyes of Erminie. Then, when it was over, he took up a book, to beguile time, hoping still to see Pet; but when eleven o’clock struck, he gave up the idea of seeing her that night, and retired to bed, to dream of Erminie.
As he had partaken of the evening meal alone the evening before, so was he forced to sit solo at breakfast. Neither Pet nor the judge had returned, nor were any tidings to be obtained of their whereabouts; and, after breakfast, Ranty immediately rode over to the Barrens.
In the cottage he found Ray, who had just returned, who was receiving an account of Ranty’s arrival from the lips of Erminie, when the entrance of that young gentleman himself cut it short. Warm and hearty was the greeting between the two friends; for never brothers loved each other better than did they.
“I suppose Pet was in perfect ecstasies of delight at your unexpected return,” said Erminie, taking her work and sitting down on her low rocking-chair by the window.
“Pet! why the little gadabout never was at home at all last night; and where the deuce to find her, I don’t know.”
“Not at home!” said Erminie, in surprise. “Why, where can she be, then?”
“Well, Miss Germaine, that is just what I would feel very much obliged to you to tell me. It’s very like looking for a needle in a hay-stack, I’m inclined to think, to go hunting for her. The best way, is to take things easy, and let her come home when she likes.”
“Why, it is most singular,” said Erminie. “I know she started for home, and took the road leading to Heath Hill. Perhaps she changed her mind, and went to the White Squall.”
“No; that she didn’t,” said Ranty. “I was there last night after leaving here. The girl’s bewitched; and perhaps she rode off on some Quixotic expedition by herself.”
“She was on foot,” said Erminie, now really growing alarmed. “Starlight was lame or something; so she started to walk home. Oh, Ranty! I am afraid that something has happened to her,” she cried, looking up in terror.
“Oh, pooh, Ermie! What could happen to her between this and Heath Hill? Nonsense!” said Ranty, beginning to look uneasy.
“What hour did she leave here, Minnie?” asked Ray, his dark face paling slightly at the thought of danger to her.
“It was nearly dark, and she had to walk all alone over that lonesome heath. Oh, Ray! something must have happened to her!” cried Erminie, growing white with vague alarm.
“Why, what in Heaven’s name could have happened to her?” asked Ranty, catching the infection of Erminie’s fears. “No one has ever been molested on the heath.”
“Those lawless smugglers are continually prowling around now; and it is very unsafe for a young girl to venture in such a lonely place, unprotected, after night. Good heavens! if she should have fallen into their hands!” cried Ray starting up, in consternation.
“Oh, Ray! I hope not. Oh, Ray! do you really think she has?” exclaimed Erminie, clasping her hands in mortal terror.
“There is no telling. Some of that lawless gang are continually prowling about the woods, and shore, and heath, and if they saw Pet – Miss Lawless,” he added, checking himself, and biting his lip – “they would have made her a prisoner at once. There is no deed of violence too dark or dreadful for them to do. They are something worse than smugglers, I more than suspect. This smuggling, I fancy, serves but as a cloak for the far worse crime of piracy. I have heard that their leader – Captain Reginald, they call him – is one of the most reckless and daring desperadoes that ever made general war under the black flag; and those of his crew that I have seen roving about here, look to be cut-throats, savage enough for anything, from wholesale murder downward. Great Heaven! if Petronilla should have fallen into their hands!” said Ray, pacing up and down in much agitation.
“But it cannot be, Ray; it is impossible, absurd, I tell you. Why, man, what could these buccaneers possibly want with Pet? A nice prize she would be for any one to take in tow!” said Ranty, getting alarmed in spite of himself.
“They might take her in the hope of obtaining a large ransom for her release, or they might – oh! the thought is too horrible to contemplate!” exclaimed Ray, almost fiercely. “Ranty, why are we losing time here, when your sister may be in such danger? This is no time for idle talking. About! mount! and off in search of her! I will instantly follow!”
“Well, but wait a minute, Ray, before starting on this wild-goose chase,” said Ranty. “How do we know that she is not safely housed in Dismal Hollow, or somewhere in Judestown, all this time, while we are raving about pirates and abductors?”
“Oh, she is not! she is not!” cried Erminie, wringing her hands. “She started for Heath Hill, and had no intention of going anywhere else. Wild and daring as she is, she would not venture to walk alone through the forest after night. Oh, holy saints! what can have become of her?”
“We are losing time talking,” said Ray, whose face was now perfectly colorless with contending emotions. “Mount, Ranty, and ride back to Heath Hill and the White Squall, and see if she has returned to either place since you left. I will go to Dismal Hollow and Judestown, and search for her there. If she is to be found in neither of these places, then it must be too true that she has fallen into the hands of the smugglers.”
Ranty, alarmed, but still incredulous, sprung on his horse and galloped rapidly in the direction of the White Squall, while Ray, at an equally rapid and excited pace, took the opposite road leading to Dismal Hollow. And Erminie, white with vague, nameless, but terrible apprehension, remained behind, to pace up and down the floor, wring her hands and strain her eyes in anxious watching for their return.
Ranty was the first to return, with the alarming tidings that nothing had been heard of her at either place since. Nearly wild with terror now, Erminie continued her excited pace up and down the room, crying bitterly.
“Oh! I should not have let her go! I should not have let her go! I ought to have kept her all night. I knew it was dangerous crossing the heath, and I should not have let her attempt it alone. Oh, if Ray would only come!”
But another long, seemingly interminable hour passed before Ray made his appearance, and then he came dashing up, pale, wild and excited.
His eyes met Ranty’s as he entered. That glance told all – both had failed.
“You have not found her?” said Ranty, hurriedly.
“No; but I heard enough to confirm my worst suspicions. Late yesterday afternoon, Orlando Toosypegs says he saw one of the gang, a fellow called Black Bart, accompanied by some one else, he could not discern who, but doubtless another of the outlaws, take the forest-road leading this way. Pet has been waylaid and entrapped by them, there can be no doubt; for neither of them have been seen since.”
Erminie dropped, like one suddenly stricken, into a seat, and hid her face in her hands. Brother and lover looked in each other’s pale faces with an unspoken: “What next?”