Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
Captain Gump was silent for several seconds;
Mrs. Evendale, who was almost trembling with nervousness,
expected an outburst of passion, perhaps an insulting retort.
THE
HARTLEY BROTHERS
OR
THE KNIGHTS OF SAINT JOHN
BY
A. L. O. E.
AUTHORESS OF "THE WHITE BEAR'S DEN," "NED FRANKS,"
"THE CLAREMONT TALES,"
ETC.
London.
GALL AND INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE;
AND EDINBURGH
PRINTED
AND BOUND BY
GALL AND INGLIS
LUTTON PLACE
EDINBURGH
Contents.
CHAPTER.
[XXIV. MEETINGS AND GREETINGS]
To those who have happened to read my two former volumes, "Pictures of St. Paul," and "Pictures of St. Peter in an English Home," the Hartley Brothers will already be familiar, for this little work is a sequel to their story. There would have been more symmetry in my arrangement, could I have given the third book the title of "Pictures of St. John," but this could not be accomplished. We know too little of the career of "The Apostle of Love" to treat his history in the same way as the histories of "The Apostle of Faith" and "The Apostle of Hope;" while St. Peter and St. John are so often mentioned together in the Gospels, that much going over ground already trodden would have been rendered inevitable. All that the writer has been able to do is to try to represent the spirit of the disciple whom Jesus loved, as exhibited in those who in modern days tread in his steps. As the Bible itself may be said never to grow old, so the characters of those of whom we read in the Bible are reproduced, generation after generation, in such as are followers of the early Christians. We look on such plants in our gardens now as Adam himself may have tended; in like manner the fruits of the Spirit never die out, they reappear in every age; love, joy, peace are perennial wherever true Christianity exists.
A.L.O.E. may once more remind her readers that she is a Missionary, only employing her pen as supplementary work to humble labours amongst the natives of India, to help on that work by supplying her purse. If writing interferes with evangelisation, the pen ought at once to be laid aside; but practically it does not interfere: it is a handmaid, and not a rival.
And so A.L.O.E. sends forth this book, this child of her old age, to do such humble work as the Lord may permit it to do, looking to Him for the blessing without which all labour is vain.
[A NEW YEAR'S GIFT]
FROM A. L. O. E.
OFTEN, at the festive season, young people want some new amusement to give pleasant occupation in wet days, and during dark evenings. A.L.O.E. has written this little poem to supply such a want; if well learned by heart, and clearly recited, it may make children's parties go off more pleasantly, and, it is hoped, more profitably also. A.L.O.E.'s dear young readers—and perhaps families of old readers also—may welcome this small New Year's Gift, sent across the wide sea from a Missionary's home in India.
(The Old Year comes to bid good-bye to certain, young people.)
OLD YEAR.
When first, my young friends, I came to this place,
('Twas almost a twelvemonth ago),
With joy you beheld my merry young face,
Though my beard is now white as the snow.
I gave each a book, on its pages to trace
A journal, as days onward flow;
Now what's in it writ,
Let me look upon it,
For I very much want to know.
CHORUS OF YOUNG PEOPLE.
Oh! What's in it writ,
Let us look upon it,
We all very much want to know.
FIRST BOY.
In my book there's a great deal of pleasure and fun,
Ninety-nine games I played, yes, and three matches won!
A ball came and hit me right in the eye,
I was made for three days in darkness to lie,
But I jumped up again, for I "never say die!"
I lost one whole day in a troublesome thicket;
There's little put down but of racing and cricket!
OLD YEAR.
Oh! Look at your pages, look at them, do!
The idle fish-insect has nibbled them through.
Let play have its place—
The game and the race,
But duty comes first in a noble boy's case.
SECOND BOY.
My book tells a great deal of lessons and work,
For I go at my reading and sums—like a Turk,
Make nothing of Grammar, noun, pronoun, or verb;
My hand-writing, too, you will please to observe.
Oh! Was I not proud when I got the first prize,
Overcoming a chap I dislike and despise!
My greatest delight was to see his surprise,
For he counted himself so exceedingly wise.
He'll never beat me, if for ever he tries!
OLD YEAR.
Oh! Quick turn aside,
Such pages to hide,
They are blotted all o'er with ill-nature and pride!
SICK CHILD.
I've been so long ill, I've had little to write,
For months it was pain, both by day and by night;
I tried to be patient, indeed I did try
Not to give so much trouble, and never to cry,
But sometimes a tear came, and sometimes a sigh!
Oh! How much I owe to my dear Mother's care,
Her smiles and her soothing, her sweet words of prayer!
I'm sure, but for her, I'd have died in my pain,
But I'm getting so well and so happy again!
I think you will find,
On each page, underlined,
That God is so good, and my Mother so kind!
OLD YEAR.
And sickness, we find,
Left a blessing behind,
The rose-leaves of patience, a spirit resigned.
A GIRL.
My journal looked much like a milliner's bill,
With lace and with lappets, with flounce and with frill,
With choosing and trying,
And fitting and buying,
To fashions applying,
The looking-glass eyeing,
'Twas all rather frivolous, there's no denying.
A spark fell on my book,
Oh! Look at it, look!
'Tis almost as black as a raven or rook!
ALL.
Oh! Look at it, look!
'Tis a cinder-like book,
There's nothing to show for the time which it took!
A LAD.
I scarcely remember a word that I wrote;
There was nothing to praise, and little to note;
Three hundred and sixty-five days went so fast,
I scarce could believe when we came to the last.
But many a blunder and fault there has been.
OLD YEAR.
I cannot find one, they are blotted out clean.
I see against sin you have manfully striven,
Each fault was mourned over, confessed and forgiven,
Then effaced by the blood-purchased mercy of Heaven.
But other things stay, quite forgotten by you,
In bright golden letters they flash on the view;
I think that the hand of some kind angel wrote
The actions you thought were too trifling to note.
Let others now read them, as they will appear
In the glorious Day, when the whole world shall hear.
FIRST BOY READS—
Three hundred times written—"took care of young brother."
SECOND BOY READS—
And hundreds of times—"went on errands for Mother."
GIRL READS—
Dropped last shilling (unseen) in Miss'nary box.
(Alas! All mine went in trimming my frocks!)
SICK CHILD.
Oft, when I was ill, he watched by my side,
I ate all the fruit his wee garden supplied,—
FIRST BOY.
My time spent in play, in hard work he employed.
SECOND BOY.
Though he won no prize, my success he enjoyed.
GIRL.
All those gold dots stand for praises and prayer,—
My book is but ashes—and his is so fair!
SICK CHILD.
I think even angels with pleasure will look
On the bright shining lines in that beautiful book!
OLD YEAR.
O children! My moments are passing away,
But hear the last words which the Old Year can say.
You will soon a new book, on a new year, begin,
Pray God to preserve it from records of sin!
Oh! Ask that His grace may your spirits pervade,
Whether working or playing, in sunshine or shade,
That the Lord and His angels with pleasure may look
On the bright shining lines in each beautiful book!
THE
HARTLEY BROTHERS;
OR,
THE KNIGHTS OF SAINT JOHN.
[CHAPTER I.]
STARTING FOR INDIA.
"FAREWELL Clarence! Ida—good-bye! God's blessing rest on those whom we leave behind us!"
There is the last grasp of the hand—the last wistful gaze on familiar faces—and the bridge is raised, the connecting link with the shore broken. The little crowd assembled on the platform give a faint cheer, and handkerchiefs are waved, as the vessel, starting on her long voyage to India, slowly moves forward through the mass of craft of various kinds that half block up the River Thames. The brown water curdles into cream-like foam under the paddle-wheels, and the smoke from the funnel streams backwards.
Each one on board is taking a last look of old London with her dingy Tower, and the friends lining the shore, who may never be seen again. Now faces can be distinguished no more; the "Alligator" increases her speed as her course is more clear; some of the passengers dive down below into their respective cabins, for a drizzling rain is falling, and soon Loudon herself can no more be viewed behind the forest of masts, swathed in her dun mantle of smoky mist.
Two young men keep their place on the deck, leaning against the bulwarks, unconscious of dripping rain. The taller and finer looking of the two, wrapt in a cloak, might at first sight be recognised as a clergyman, though Harold Hartley took orders but a few months ago. The younger is little more than a lad, numbering, perhaps, sixteen or seventeen summers, with broad shoulders, a form made more for activity than grace, a sunburnt face, and a rough head of hair under his wide-awake; his locks are brown in colour with a little dash of auburn red, which also tints the thick eyebrows which overhang bright intelligent eyes.
"So, Robin, we are fairly started for India!" said Harold, laying his hand on his brother's arm. "We have the meeting with our father to look forward to now; all the partings are over."
"The one bitter parting was over six months ago," observed Robin with feeling, "when we stood by her deathbed, and received her last blessing. Our strongest tie to old England is the grave of our more than mother; though," added the youth, "I never think of her as in the grave." Robin raised his eyes for a moment towards a bit of clear blue in the cloudy sky, which looked to him like a smile from above.
"You and I must not give way to sad thoughts," observed Harold Hartley.
"They are not sad thoughts now," said Robin, "I consider such memories to be like a treasure in a golden casket, to be carried about with us wherever we go; or rather—they are pictures in an album, and when we are far-away in the East, how often shall we open the clasp, and turn over the leaves! There is dear old William Lodge, where we spent such jolly days; the little arbour in the shrubbery—the cote where I kept my pigeons, the parlour where we met for our evening readings, the chair where she—" Robin paused abruptly, and pressed his lips together to keep in a sigh.
"It is a great satisfaction to me," observed Harold, "that she who adopted us, and loved us as her own sons, so fully approved of our giving ourselves to mission work in India."
"The thought of it made Mother so happy!" said Robin, with animation. "Perhaps our going makes her all the happier now, for Mother may be watching us still. I do not like to think how much trouble I gave her, little unmanageable cub that I was!"
"You never gave her a tithe of the trouble that I did," remarked Harold regretfully; "but Mother had the patience of a saint. If I ever do anything for my Master in the mission field, I owe it—under grace—to her."
The rain after a while ceased, and passengers emerged from below to have a sight of Greenwich, as Elizabeth's stately old palace was passed. Suddenly the brothers were surprised by a shrill, familiar voice behind them exclaiming, "Dear me! Can it be! Yes, Harold and Robin Hartley! Though almost grown out of knowledge!"
"Miss Petty!" cried both the brothers at once, turning round to greet an old acquaintance whom they had not seen for seven long years, yet whom they would have recognised by her peculiarities had the seven been numbered thrice.
There stood the small, thin form, a little more shrivelled and bent, there was the familiar face, a good deal more wrinkled, but otherwise little altered. It was surmounted by a bonnet almost as gay as that which, in Robin's childhood, had diverted his attention in church by its gaudy wreath of artificial flowers. There was exactly the same inquisitive expression in the narrow slits of eyes, but the lashes had become white, for eye-lashes are not so easily dyed as hair on head or brows.
"Miss Petty, are you really going to India?" asked Harold, with unaffected surprise; he had almost added "at your age," but happily checked himself ere the words passed his lips. Poor Miss Petty indulged herself in a dream of perpetual youth, from which it would have been discourteous to have awakened her.
"You wonder at my having the courage to cross the sea, but you see I had a reason, a very particular reason," said Miss Petty in a confidential tone, which she was fond of assuming. "My dear friend, Lady O'More—you have of course heard of Sir Patrick O'More—very distinguished man—in high command—had to leave her only child in England last year, on account of measles or mumps, or something of the catching kind of illness. Now Lady O'More wants to have her Shelah with her—such a fond mother, you know; and she could not trust the darling to anyone but me, so I consented, as guardian, you understand, to my dear friend's child, to take her under my care as far as Bombay."
The Hartleys did not inquire whether the friendship, now first heard of by them, was a mere formal correspondence concerning what was really a simple matter of business, Miss Petty, for a consideration, undertaking to play the nurse to a baronet's child. If they guessed this, their guess was not far from the truth, for Miss Petty was so much accustomed to exaggeration, to giving out fiction as fact, merely because she wished it to be so, that her mind had gradually lost all power to discriminate between false and the true. As some persons have no sense of smell, so had she none of the delicate spiritual perception of—and disgust at falsehood, possessed those of sensitive conscience. Miss Petty had not the warning of danger which such perception bestows.
"But what are you going to India for?" inquired Miss Petty, looking up curiously at the tall, graceful, intellectual man whom she had known in his boyhood and early youth.
"I am going out as a missionary," was Harold's reply.
"Oh, dear! What a pity! You might have done much better in England!"
"I do not think so," said Harold.
"I am certain of it," cried Miss Petty. "I saw in the 'Times' that you had taken honours, and come out a double First. You might in time have been a Lord Chancellor, or a Lord Mayor, and have ridden in your carriage and four. Missionaries are as poor as rats, no one thinks anything of them, they ain't in society, you know! You would have done ever so much better for yourself, had you remained at home."
Harold answered with a smile, "I am quite contented with my lot."
"Well, well, you'll repent of your choice one of these days. But what on earth is taking you across the sea, Master Robin? You ought to be learning Greek and Latin at home. You're not fledged; you can't fly about the world as a missionary yet."
"No," laughed Robin, "I'm a callow downy nestling; but I can hop about a little, and I hope to fly when my feathers are grown."
"What can you do?" persisted Miss Petty, who had seated herself on a bench by the bulwarks, prepared for what she called a good long chat with old friends.
"Not much, but I can do something," said Robin, good-humouredly. "I can make a box, pack it, and carry it; groom a horse, shoe it, and ride it; act as clerk or medicine compounder; cut down a tree and light a fire; cook a dinner and eat it, and make myself useful to my father and brother in a general sort of way—at least I'll try to do so."
"But all that won't bring in a penny," observed sage Miss Petty.
"You know that when a piece of machinery is packed up in a box to go some distance, one sticks in little odd items to fill up the crannies and corners, to keep the instrument from being shaken by the jolts on the journey. My brother is the machine, and I—well, I'm one of the odd items to keep him safe and steady," said Robin, gaily.
"You won't like India," observed Miss Petty, shaking her head; "no more shall I, but I don't mean to stay in it long. I hear that snakes, scorpions, cockroaches, and mosquitoes are as plentiful as the blackberries on our hedges, and you feel like a leg of mutton being turned round on a spit before a big kitchen fire!"
Robin laughed so merrily at this description of the miseries before him that his mirth was infectious. "I can't enter into the feelings of a leg of mutton in such a predicament," he cried.
"Ah! Master Robin, you were always fond of joke," said Theresa Petty; "but you'll find life in India no joke, I warrant you. Besides, I can never make out what missionaries want to do with those dirty blackies. Not that I know much about them; I never saw one but that wretched creature whom my cousin brought home as a bearer."
Every trace of mirth vanished from Robin's face in a moment. "You must not—you shall not speak so of dear Prem Dás!" he exclaimed. "Do you not know that he was converted, that my father baptised him, and that he lived Christ's true servant?"
"And died Christ's faithful martyr," was added in Harold's deep rich voice, but in a tone almost too low to catch Miss Petty's attention.
"Oh! You need not fire up, Master Robin; you were not always so very fond. I've heard that one day when you found the idiot praying to a plaster-of-Paris figure, you kicked him as you would have kicked a dog."
"I was a dog when I did so!" exclaimed Robin passionately. "And you do ill to bring up against me an act of childish brutality, of which I shall repent to my dying day!" The youth fiercely strode away to a distant part of the deck, his heart boiling over with anger.
"I see that Robin has lost none of his pepper and mustard," observed Miss Petty in a testy manner; "he never knew how to treat a lady."
"A more courteous, generous-hearted fellow never existed!" exclaimed Harold, almost as indignant as his brother, though he had much more command over his feelings.
"Ah, well! Ah, well! I can't sit gossiping here now, I must go and look after my Lammikin!" cried Miss Petty, rising, and then shuffling towards the companion ladder which led down to the saloon and cabins below. Harold heard her muttering to herself, "None lose their tempers as soon as your saints!"
The old lady had some difficulty in descending the steep steps, for the "Alligator" was beginning to heave up and down, as the ship was nearing the Nore.
Miss Petty made her way to No. 6, the number of her cabin, after blunderingly looking into 4 and 5. She was never clever at finding her way. On pushing back the sliding door of her cabin, she saw her young charge seated on the floor, happily engaged in eating toffy.
Shelah O'More was a child of about five years of age, with fiery red hair and a freckled face. Her nose had an inclination to turn upwards, to counterbalance which the corners of her mouth had a tendency to turn downwards when anything aroused the little girl's ire. Shelah's mouth, however, looked good-tempered enough at the moment, for it was full of the sweets which bedaubed her lips with brown, while her treacle-covered fingers had left an unbecoming smudge of the same on her saucy little nose.
"You dirty young pup! I'm ashamed of you! You're not fit to be seen!" exclaimed the guardian of the baronet's child. "Have you gobbled up all your toffy already?"
"No," replied Shelah, speaking indistinctly and with difficulty, on account of the sticky lump which she was serenely sucking. "I've put what's left in that thing," and the brown-smeared, thick-tipped finger pointed to Miss Petty's new yellow satin workbag.
"Oh! You mischievous monkey; you—you—" And poor Miss Petty made a dash at the bag, which Shelah did not surrender without a struggle. Miss Petty then opened it, and found reels of cotton, bodkin, needle-case, scissors, and thimble, all sticking together in most unlovely union, her exploration only ending in her soiling her own fingers, and utterly losing her temper. The guardian caught hold of Lammikin by the shoulders and gave her a hearty shake, which vigorous action produced a loud roar which resounded over the ship.
This was the first, but was not to be the last struggle between the guardian and her Lammikin charge.
[CHAPTER II.]
CONTRASTS.
ROBIN, after a brief rapid striding up and down deck, returned to the side of his brother. The youth was flushed and excited.
"Harold, if that woman tack herself on to us during all the voyage, what shall we do?" he exclaimed.
"Bear and forbear," was the quiet reply.
"That's easy enough for a calm, self-possessed, sensible fellow like you, but not so for me!" cried Robin. "Of all things on earth, what I most dislike is an elderly butterfly, with dyed hair, and a mischief-making tongue."
"A species unknown to entomology," observed Harold.
The remark brought a smile to Robin's downy lip, and so almost restored his good-humour.
"I am afraid that we shall have a very disagreeable voyage," said Robin, "and the worst of it to me is—that I am to blame for all that we may have to bear."
"How so?" inquired his brother.
"If I had not been in such a desperate hurry to join our father and begin our work, we would never have embarked in this 'Alligator.' Instead of waiting till the proper month, October, I was eager to start in August."
"I was your partner in that piece of folly," said Harold.
"Then it was your kindness to me that made you choose a vessel for cheapness rather than for anything else, so that what would have taken you to India comfortably had you travelled alone, might cover the expenses of two."
"If I thought that my boy's company would more than compensate for petty discomforts, this second piece of folly must be entered entirely on my side of the account," said Harold, looking with a loving smile on his brother.
"I am afraid that we shall have more than petty discomforts," observed Robin; "one can laugh at trials if they are confined to rough fare, bad accommodation, slower sailing, or such-like trifles; but one cannot be quite indifferent as to the company which one keeps. Miss Petty always puts one out of patience, and from what I have heard and seen of the captain, I am sure that he is neither a gentleman nor a Christian!"
"Dear old boy, I thought that you and I had resolved to speak evil of no one," said the young clergyman.
"Ah! Broken resolutions! They vex me more than anything!" cried poor Robin, throwing himself on the bench which Miss Petty had vacated. Harold, more leisurely, took his seat beside his brother. "You know, Harold, that we have lately been studying together the life and character of St. John, and I have been setting that loved and loving disciple before me as a model, determined that I would, by God's help, try to be in every thing like the holy apostle. New, I have not been a day on board before I have flared up like a fury, said bitter things, and thought more bitter, just as if I were still just a foolish, passionate child."
"My brother," said Harold, and he intuitively drew nearer to Robin as he spoke, "do you think that the Apostle John was born a saint, or that he developed into a saint?"
"I think that he became one by living very very near to His Lord, resting on His sacred bosom, and learning love from close intercourse with Him who is Love itself."
"John seems to have been naturally of a fiery disposition," observed Harold Hartley. "Christ gave to him and his brother the title of 'Sons of thunder,' and it is remarkable that it was the disciple whom we commonly associate with ideas of gentleness and tenderness who proposed to call down fire from heaven on an inhospitable village."
"It is some comfort to know that even the beloved disciple had human imperfections," said Robin, "as it prevents our being utterly discouraged at our own. But, Harold, some people, and good people too, think that they can attain to perfection even in this life."
"It seems to me," observed the young missionary, "that they do so by unconsciously lowering the standard of perfection which God has placed before us. It is not even St. John, but his Divine Master, whom we are to seek to resemble. It is indeed only a growing likeness, such as was doubtless seen in St. John; but would not the apostle, even when almost ripe for heaven, have shrunk from indulging such a thought as this: 'I am as good, as holy, as perfect as was Christ, my Divine Master, when on earth'?"
"John would have rejected such a thought as blasphemous," exclaimed Robin. "St. John's words are, 'We know that when He shall appear we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.'"
"And this assurance of future perfection in the Divine Presence made the apostle add, 'Every man that hath this hope in him, purifieth himself even as He is pure,'" remarked Harold.
Robin was silent for several minutes, and then observed in a different tone, "It would have been much easier for me to have kept my good resolutions, if I had not had Miss Petty for a travelling companion."
"Do you think that her being in the same ship is a matter of chance? Is it not possible that she may have been made our fellow-traveller without any choice on our part, on purpose to show us how imperfect is our patience, and to give us an opportunity of improving it by practice?" Harold smiled as he spoke, but his words were not uttered in jest.
"Then you think that intercourse with those whom we naturally dislike or despise may be an actual means of grace?" inquired Robin.
"Undoubtedly so, if we are enabled to conquer the inclination to dislike and despise them," said Harold.
The conversation then took another turn. "If I can in the least, judge of character by face, I think that there is one of our fellow-passengers whom we shall like," observed Harold, glancing in the direction of a lady, past middle age, who—clad in deep mourning—was sitting on the other side of the deck, engaged in reading.
"What a beautiful chastened expression is hers!" exclaimed Robin. "That is a face that can never grow old; it has the stamp of heaven's loveliness on it. Do you know who the lady is?"
"One of our people," replied Harold Hartley. "I was so much struck by her gentle meek dignity when Captain Gump spoke to her in his rough way about her luggage; her mildness made me inquire about her. 'Mrs. Evendale' is marked on her boxes, and I understand that the lady is the widow of a missionary, and that she is going out to take charge of some orphanage in South India."
"I shall try to sit next to her at table," said Robin; "one could fancy Mary of Nazareth like our fellow-passenger, allowing for the difference of costume, and the veil over the dark braided hair, and the simple drapery of her dress, makes even that difference less striking. The lady looks like one chastened by deep sorrow—sorrow borne in calm faith; one who has trod a thorny path, but with heaven's brightness upon it."
"My informant told me that Mrs. Evendale is not only widowed but bereaved of her children," said Harold. "She received the tidings of the death of one son by a fearful accident, when she was closing the eyes of the other."
"I wish that I could be as a son to her," said kind-hearted Robin. "Mrs. Evendale reminds me a little of our mother in expression, though not in feature and colouring. Our mother was so fair, and Mrs. Evendale looks like a daughter of Italy. Perhaps this fellow-traveller, such a contrast to the other, may not have been sent to us by chance."
A sudden puff of wind blew away from Mrs. Evendale a packet of papers which she had placed on the seat beside her, and sent them careering over the deck. Robin sprang up and gave chase to the fluttering leaves, glad of the opportunity of doing some slight service to the widow who interested him so much.
When the youth had picked up the last paper, he courteously carried all back to their owner. The lady thanked him in a voice which was melodious as music. Thus began an intercourse between the elder and younger traveller, which was to be fraught with consequences to both, which,—could they have been foreseen,—would have sent a strange thrill through their hearts. They now met for the first time, but they were only to be parted by—but we must not anticipate the rest of the story.
[CHAPTER III.]
BALKING THE BEAR.
THE "Alligator" had quitted the dock on a dull morning, when the August sun had been dimly visible through yellowish mist, and rain fell in a drizzling shower; but the evening sunset was glorious, and as the vessel steamed over the heaving waters of the Channel, rosy radiance fell on Albion's chalky cliffs, crimsoned the clouds, and made a pathway of light over the waves. The evening was one of calm beauty; there was now scarcely a breeze to waft slowly along the aërial islands which floated above.
The brothers again stood on the deck watching the changing aspect of the shore which they were quitting. After a brief silence, Robin began the conversation.
"I don't want to give all my hours to idleness during the voyage, though I have not, like you, Harold, made the eight feet square of our cabin into a floating library of commentaries, dictionaries, and grammars in languages living and dead."
"A soldier must have his weapons and the workman his tools," observed Harold.
"You are pretty well up in Urdu already, as you have kept up that language since childhood. Of course you need works in Persian and Hindi type. But I cannot understand why you burden yourself with big Arabic books—Koran, dictionary, and grammar—seeing that Arabia is not our field. It seems to me like a soldier of the Victorian era loading himself, in addition to modern weapons, with the cumbrous ones used at the time of the Conquest."
"Hardly so," said Harold, smiling. "You must remember that in India I shall be brought into contact with many Mahomedans, and that Arabic is the sacred language in which the Koran is written, which is used by all learned men, of whatever nation, who follow the False Prophet. What you look upon as a superannuated pike or battle-axe, is the weapon now, as it has ever been, of educated Mahomedans, whether met with in Palestine, India, Africa, Arabia, or Persia. Arabic holds the same place with Orientals that Hebrew and Greek do with us."
"My stupid head never took in much Greek," observed Robin, "and of Hebrew I knew not a letter. I left all that learning to you. I don't believe that I should ever manage Arabic."
"You are very quick—much quicker than myself—in acquiring language colloquially," said Harold. "In our Continental tour, you put me to shame with your French; I might have something packed in my brain, but yours was always at the end of your fingers."
"Oh! That's a different thing," cried Robin, amongst whose failings vanity was not to be reckoned. "One can't help drawing in air when it's all around, one learns to drink it as children drink, and to jabber a language even as they do. But learning from big books is to me like pulling up water from a very deep well; mine is too small a bucket," added Robin, tapping his own forehead, "it holds little, and goes swinging about, dropping its contents before ever it reaches the top. Do what you will, you can't make me into an Arabic grammar, or a walking encyclopedia."
"Well, my boy, you said just now that you did not mean to give the voyage to idleness; what are you going to learn? You have already caught up a good deal of nautical knowledge during visits to the coast, but may not be quite qualified to manage a steamer."
"I did not mean that sort of thing," replied Robin. "I am not going to apprentice myself to Captain Gump. I intend to do something in the way of learning by heart. I might commit to memory the First Epistle of St. John."
"You would possess yourself of a treasure."
"One ready to be used on every occasion, when a book is not at hand," observed Robin. "I want to drink in the spirit of St. John, and if his works are in my memory and heart, they will intuitively come to mind when I am going to give way to some fit of temper; they may,—don't you think so?—act as a kind of restraint?"
"'Thy Word have I hid in any heart, that I sin not against Thee,'" said Harold. "Your design is good; I will try to learn the same portion of Scripture in Arabic."
"It would never seem the same as in the dear mother tongue," observed Robin; "but perhaps it is foolish to think so; the Epistle was, of course, not first written in English. Harold, there's another thing which I want to ask you. Don't you think that you, as a clergyman, could do something for the sailors and our fellow-passengers here?"
"That thought has been in my mind all day," replied Harold; "I have been waiting for an opportunity of speaking to Captain Gump on the subject."
"There he is," said Robin. "Does he not look like a bear standing on his hind legs, or a chess-castle wrapped in a shaggy brown coat? I'm afraid, from what people say, that you'll not find him an easy customer to deal with. He is not like one of the pleasant, gentlemanly men usually chosen to command passenger ships. He must be an adept in ill manners to have shown rudeness to Mrs. Evendale, as he did this morning."
The appearance of Captain Gump was certainly not prepossessing. In stature he was almost dwarfish; but he made up in breadth for want of height, being a remarkably powerful man. The captain's face was blackened by superabundant hair, which seemed to be always of three days' growth; no one could remember having seen him clean-shaven, even on a Sunday, and the captain's black bristles, like the porcupine's quills, had a "touch-me-who-dares" appearance about them.
When Harold walked up to the captain with a courteous "Good evening, sir," the commander of the "Alligator" only returned the greeting with a grunt. Captain Gump had taken a dislike to Harold from the minute that he saw the young clergyman step on deck, partly because Hartley was a missionary, partly because of his height, for Gump bore a grudge against any man who happened to be a foot taller than himself.
"I wish to say to you, sir," said Harold, politely, "that if you propose to have services on board your ship, as there seems to be no minister on board but myself, I shall be most willing to conduct them."
"I propose no such thing," was the blunt reply; "this is a vessel, and not a Methodist chapel."
"But I think—"
"I don't care what you think," interrupted the bear. "Who are you, that you want to bring your preaching and prosing here?"
"I am a missionary," was Harold's reply.
"One of those amiable idiots who expect to wash blackamoors white," growled the captain; "not even a reg'lar parson."
"I am in orders," said the young clergyman, who was slightly nettled by the remark.
"Orders! What are your orders to me? There are no orders here to be obeyed but mine;" the captain emphasised his words by giving a slight stamp with his broad, heavy foot. "And we don't want no Jonahs here; I've read enough of the Bible in schooldays to know that the first 'un with his preaching nearly sent a ship—crew, cargo, and all—to the bottom o' the sea. I won't have that sort of thing in my vessel," added the captain, with a profane oath.
"'Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain,'" said Harold, sternly.
"Did you ever hear the story of the 'cute captain who
made his Jack-tars obey him without so much us a touch of the cat?"
cried Robin.
Gump looked as if he were going to spring at the man who had dared to rebuke him on his own deck, and in the presence of others, for the swearer's loud voice had drawn some listeners to the spot. Robin saw the storm brewing, and with his quick wit managed to act as a lightning-conductor ere the fierce captain's fury had time to burst.
"Did you ever hear the story of the 'cute captain who over-reached his Jack-tars, and made them obey his will without so much as a touch of the cat?" cried Robin.
"Hold your tongue, boy," rudely growled the captain.
But Robin was not to be silenced when he had a good story to tell, especially when he had an object in telling it. He put himself between his brother and Gump, and went on with what the captain thought effrontery quite astounding.
"The captain was new to the ship, and the crew were a rough lot, a very rough lot, you see. So the captain got them together, and made a kind of short speech; perhaps you did so to your salts, though not such a very odd speech as was made by that very eccentric captain."
Even Gump's curiosity was slightly aroused; he was much more given to cursing and swearing than to making speeches, but he had spoken a few words to his men when assuming command.
"The captain said," continued Robin, "'My hearties, I've a favour to ask of you all.'"
"Ask a favour of his own tars! What a muff he must have been!" muttered Gump.
Robin went on with animation, as if unconscious of any interruption, or any probability of giving offence. "'Then,' said the captain, 'I ask you to let me swear the first oath on this ship.'"
"Not much to ask," said Gump, with a grim smile.
"Oh! But it was something," cried Robin, "for of course the tars agreed to do what the captain wished, and as he never swore the first oath, they had no chance of swearing at all!"
Captain Gump's anger, as Robin intended, was now turned upon him instead of his brother. The swearer was all the more provoked because some of the hearers laughed at the story, and glanced at him to see if the arrow had hit the mark. Gump began in a loud, fierce tone, "You're a young Jack-a—"
But Robin gave him no time to finish the sentence, adroitly ending the title in a way not intended by Gump—
"Jack of all trades, yes, that's what folk call me; and here is one of my tricks!" And with the agility of a cat, the youth sprang at one of the ropes of the ship, clambered up, and was looking laughingly down from the shrouds before Gump had sufficiently recovered from his surprise at the sudden feat to be able to utter a word.
Shelah O'More clapped her hands, and Miss Petty exclaimed:
"Robin was always climbing; he'll break his neck one of these days."
"The sooner the better!" grumbled Gump, as he walked to another part of the deck; but he spoke with a grin on his face. He could not refrain from a chuckle, Robin had so utterly taken him by surprise, and when an angry man has once been drawn into a laugh, or anything like it, it is difficult to him to resume his ill-humour.
Robin, having accomplished his object, swung himself down by a rope and rejoined his brother.
"Suppose that we enjoy the quiet of the saloon below, and leave the captain's red-heat time to cool down," said Robin playfully to Harold.
The brothers accordingly went below, and sat down to a game of chess. Harold gave grave attention to the game and won it: he was of a calm, self-possessed nature now, though fiery in earlier youth; but the excitement of the scene on deck filled Robin with mingled indignation and mirth, distracting his thoughts from the board. Robin moved his castle as if it were a knight, jumping over the heads of a couple of pawns, and captured his own queen by mistake in a very triumphant manner.
"Chess is too dull and sober a game for me!" exclaimed Robin, starting from his seat when Harold gave the inevitable checkmate; "I always feel inclined to go head-over-heels when I'm done, to recover from the strain of so much thinking!"
[CHAPTER IV.]
A BATTLE, AND ITS RESULT.
"I AM glad to see you able to come on deck, Miss Petty," said Harold, on the following morning, when the old lady, looking paler and more wrinkled than she had done on the preceding day, made her way to a bench. "We have had a wonderfully quiet night for the Channel; Neptune is treating us kindly."
"I don't know what you mean by a quiet night," was the peevish reply; "and his name is not Neptune but Gump."
Harold did not consider himself obliged to correct the old lady's mistake, and suppressed the smile which rose to his lips.
"I was as miserable as I could be!" continued Miss Petty. "I was boxed up in a swinging cage which would not keep steady for a minute, and with a cat for a companion!"
"A cat?" repeated Harold.
"Yes; a cat, a wild cat—a tiger cat!" exclaimed the Lammikin's guardian, looking angrily in the direction of Shelah, who was standing staring at the man at the wheel. "There were two berths—that's what they call them—one over the other. I've never had Master Robin's fancy for climbing, so I chose the lower berth for myself, and helped the child up to hers as well as I could. I bade Shelah keep quiet and go to sleep. I was just dropping off myself, in spite of the sickening motion of the ship, when down comes a foot on my nose, and before I have time to so much as cry out, there is Miss Mischief with a bang on the cabin floor, as if she had taken a flying leap, and had fallen flat on her face! She roared, and I left her to roar; I was not going to hoist her up again, to go tumbling about like a monkey. I've made up my mind to one thing; never—no, never—take charge of a child on ship-board again!"
Harold looked concerned, but it was not on account of the trials endured by the guardian. He felt that poor Shelah had not a chance of learning the sweetness of Christian love whilst under the care of one who knew it only by name.
"I wish to speak to you on a different subject, Miss Petty," said Harold Hartley. "Captain Gump, I regret to say, resolutely sets his face against religious services here, and his commands are lawn on his deck. But no one can prevent Christian passengers from reading and praying together in the saloon, and I hope that some few will unite in asking for a blessing on all on board, and listening to a short exposition from the Word of God. Mrs. Evendale suggested our holding this little meeting, and we have fixed on twelve o'clock as our hour. Will you let us count you among our number?"
Miss Petty hesitated, but only for a moment. She cared not for religious meetings in themselves, but she knew that something of the sort was considered respectable even by the world. Theresa also wished to keep up close intercourse with the Hartleys, who were the only ones amongst the gentlemen on board who did not either treat her with silent neglect or make her the butt of rude jokes. To those unrestrained by Christian courtesy, it was difficult not to laugh at poor, selfish, silly Miss Petty, and the old dame and her Lammikin were already by-words on board.
"I should be charmed to come," said Miss Petty, "if there were any one else to take care of that mischievous magpie; one never knows what she will be at."
Shelah was busy at the moment in trying to uncoil a bit of rope, and pull it to pieces.
"Bring Shelah with you," suggested Harold.
Miss Petty shrugged her shoulders to express how impossible it would be to do anything, or listen to anything, if Shelah were allowed to be present. But the guardian made no other reply.
Mrs. Evendale was sitting in her former place, Robin not far-away, leaning over the side of the vessel as if watching the waves, but really absorbed in listening. While the widow was plying her needle, in a low melodious voice she was singing to herself, quite unconscious of a listener near. The air which she sang was plaintive and sweet:
MISSIONARY HYMN.
"For Thy sake,
And in Thy name,
We offerings make—
Lord! Send down flame!
"With Thy Word
We face the foe,
We grasp the sword,—
Lord! Speed the blow!
"For Thy love
We scatter grain;
Lord! From above
Send down the rain!
"Through life's hour
To work be mine;
The glory, power,
The harvest—Thine!"
"Forgive me for listening," said Robin, as the song ceased; "I am passionately fond of music, and could listen to you for hours."
"Music is a great solace to me," said the lady. "It has been well observed that hymns are like wings,—they bear us up towards heaven."
"Is that hymn printed in any collection?" asked Robin.
"Scarcely could it be so," replied Mrs. Evendale, with a faint smile, "as it was the outcome of a sleepless hour last night."
"And the air also?" asked young Hartley.
"No; the simple air is one which I learned in childhood from my grandmother. She was of Italian birth, and sang what the Tuscan peasants sing."
"Might I ask you to sing again, and let my brother listen also?" said Robin, as Miss Petty and Harold approached. Shelah was kneeling on a bench at a little distance, looking at bits of brown sea-weed floating below in the sea.
Mrs. Evendale made room on her bench for Miss Petty, and again softly began to sing. But this time the lady chose a well-known English hymn in which the Hartleys could join. Theresa Petty would greatly have preferred gossip, in which she herself was an adept, for the most soul-elevating hymn could not lift her spirit from earth.
Instead of listening, Miss Petty sat watching the movements of Shelah, and before the first verse of the hymn was finished, the guardian started up with almost a scream.
"Oh! The mischievous minx! If she has not thrown her own hat overboard!"
"It's my boat; see how it floats!" cried Shelah, clapping her hands.
"You goose! You donkey!" exclaimed the indignant guardian. "Your new Leghorn—trimmed with real lace! Where are you to get another hat for the voyage?"
"Don't want one," cried Shelah saucily, shaking her fiery locks. The child thought her covering of thick, untidy hair quite sufficient for comfort.
"You may not want one now," observed Harold Hartley, "but the protection of a hat will be quite necessary when we encounter the heat of the tropics."
"You'll have sun-stroke, and coup-de-soleil, and fall down in a fit!" cried Miss Petty. "And what will your father and mother say to me after all the trouble I've taken with their child!"
Robin good-naturedly clapped his own wide-awake over the little girl's head; but the hat being much too large for Shelah, it extinguished her forehead and eyes, only arrested by the turned-up tip of her nose.
Shelah pulled off the wide-awake, and laughed as she flung it back to its owner.
"I think that I can improvise something which will at least keep out the heat," said Mrs. Evendale, after some minutes' consideration. "I have a round, fancy basket below, which is, I think, about the right size for the crown of a hat, and I could quilt a brim if I had proper materials. Ah! This will supply both the wadding and silk," and the lady drew from behind her a small red cushion which had been given for a comfort during the voyage. "The gay colour will not matter on the head of a child."
"I like gay colours," said Shelah; "I won't throw your hat into the sea."
Mrs. Evendale gave no hint that the basket was one which she prized, or that the cushion was one that she would miss; a weakness in her back making the pillow almost a necessary to the widow. Mrs. Evendale went down to the cabin for her workbox and basket, and after removing the handle from the latter, tried it on the head of Shelah O'More.
"Nothing could fit better," observed Miss Petty.
The widow then sat down to cut up her cushion, and begin a puzzling task for the benefit of a disagreeable child, who was not likely even to think of thanks.
To make the quilted covering took hours, but they were pleasant hours to the widow, for, as she plied scissors or needle, she and the Hartleys conversed together on the theme of that love to God which makes us love our brother also. It is that love which pours itself forth in deeds of kindness, as the sun sheddeth forth rays, and apparently with as little effort.
Miss Petty had gone down below, and Shelah for a time was quiet, making up for her restless night by having a sleep on the deck, wrapped up snugly in Mrs. Evendale's travelling rug.
When Shelah awoke, and Miss Petty's gay bonnet again appeared on deck, the hat was finished. It was certainly a most original hat, the colour of the cushion having been scarlet, and it was soft and sun-proof, and—at least, so thought Robin—had a peculiar grace of its own, imparted by the worker, not by the wearer.
"A regular cardinal's hat," observed Harold. "What do you say to Mrs. Evendale for her kindness?" he added, as the lady tied the strings firmly under the chin of the child, and then gave her a kiss, rather to the surprise of both Miss Petty and Shelah herself.
"I'll say she's a good kind woman," answered the girl.
"Oh! That's not the way to speak of a lady!" exclaimed Miss Petty, who prided herself on her knowledge of forms of politeness, and thought that the word "woman" conveyed an insult.
"I won't say it of you," observed Shelah.
"I hope not indeed!" exclaimed Miss Petty.
"I'll say you're a cross bad woman!" cried the saucy child, with a look of defiance.
Miss Petty had already almost exhausted her zoological vocabulary on her troublesome Lammikin, but she had still one shaft left. "You little toad!" she cried, seizing the child by the arm, and dragging her by force towards the companion ladder. "I will shut you up in the cabin, I will, and you shall have no dinner till you humbly beg my pardon."
Shelah resisted, struggled, kicked and roared, and Miss Petty had no easy task to get her downstairs; but her guardian was resolute, especially as she heard some of the passengers laughing at the battle, and laying bets as to who would win it.
"This is painful," observed Mrs. Evendale, who longed to interpose, but felt that she had no right to do so.
"Miss Petty will ruin that child's temper," said Harold.
"And crack her voice; just hear how she screams!" added Robin.
The roaring was too loud to go on very long. In about five minutes it was succeeded by silence, and Miss Petty emerged from below, much ruffled in temper, and very red in the face.
"I've shut her in—she can't get out—I'll bring her into order, it's the only way to deal with such wild beasts," said the guardian, seating herself by Mrs. Evendale, and fanning herself with her handkerchief after her fight.
"Miss Petty, would you allow me to try if I can bring Shelah to herself?" said Mrs. Evendale, in a gentle, courteous manner.
"You'll never manage a child, you are a deal too soft," observed Miss Petty.
"I have brought up children," began the bereaved mother, but she could not finish the sentence, her voice faltered, and her eyes filled with tears.
"Let Mrs. Evendale try how she can manage," said Robin; and he thought to himself, "I am sure, that one reproving look from that sweet face would have had more effect with me when I was a child, than any amount of beating and abuse."
"Oh! Let Mrs. Evendale try what she can do!" exclaimed Theresa, wishing from her heart that the stranger would take full possession of the child, so long as all the credit and profit pertaining to the office of a guardian should fall to her own share.
Mrs. Evendale rose, crossed part of the deck, and descended the companion ladder. She proceeded to No. 6, but found the sliding door of that cabin secured from without by a piece of strong tape.
With some difficulty, the lady unfastened the knot; she then pushed back the door and entered the cabin just in time to see Shelah's booted feet projecting inwards from the port-hole, which she blocked up with her little body. The next instant the feet vanished, the port-hole was clear, there was the sound of a splash in the sea below, and the terror-stricken lady rushed up on deck, with the cry, "A child overboard!" ringing in her ears.
[CHAPTER V.]
TO THE RESCUE!
"A CHILD overboard! A child overboard!" How terribly that cry resounded over the ship, with a shriek from Miss Petty as the scarlet had disappeared under the waves! Every passenger then on deck rushed to the side of the vessel from whence he could look down on the scene of the catastrophe, uttering exclamations of horror.
Gump's loud voice was heard over all, giving orders to "Let off steam! Back the ship! Lower the boat!" For with all his faults, Gump was a true British seaman, and could not see a little girl drowned without at least making efforts to save her.
But Robin was the promptest of all; his coat was off in two seconds, and the third saw him over the side of the vessel before anything could be done with the boat. It was an exceedingly perilous leap from a steamer, but Robin had not given a thought to his own danger, he was absorbed in that of the child.
Close to where Mrs. Evendale had been seated was a life-buoy, fastened up in case of shipwreck. The lady's large scissors were lying on the seat close to Harold Hartley at the moment when the splash and the shriek made him start from his seat. With great rapidity, he seized the scissors and severed the cords that fastened the buoy. Then the young man threw it over the waves with such force and precision, that, though the motion of the vessel before it could be backed had carried it far beyond Robin, the belt fell splashing into the water not many yards from his arms, now extended in swimming.