mysterious doings.
we return, now, to the coast of kent, and beg the reader to follow us into the smuggler’s cave at saint margaret’s bay.
here, in a dark corner, sat old jeph. it was a stormy sunday afternoon. the old man had gone to the bay to visit coleman, and accompany him to his place of worship. jeph had wandered alone in the direction of the cave after church. he found that some one had recently cleared its mouth of the rubbish that usually filled it, and that, by bending low, he could gain an entrance.
being of an adventurous disposition, the old man went in, and, seating himself on a projecting rock in a dark corner, fell into a profound reverie. he was startled out of this by the sound of approaching footsteps.
“come in, come in,” said a deep hoarse voice, which jeph at once recognised as that of long orrick, his old enemy. “come in, nick; you seem to have got a’feer’d o’ the dark of late. we’ll be out o’ sight here, and i’ll amuse ye till this squall blows over with an account o’ what i heer’d the old man say.”
“this squall, as ye call it, won’t blow over so soon as ye think,” replied rodney nick in a sulky tone. “hows’ever, we may as well wait here as anywhere else; or die here for all that i care!”
“hallo! messmate, wot’s ado that ye should go into the blues when we’re on the pint o’ making our fortins?” said orrick.
“ado!” cried rodney angrily, “is it not bad enough to be called messmate by you, and not be able to deny it?”
“you’re civil, anyhow,” said orrick, with an oath.
“i mean to be,” retorted nick, fiercely.
“come, come, it’s no use quarrelling,” said orrick, with an affectation of good-humour. “never say die! nick; them’s the words o’ the immortial nelson, w’en he gave the signal to blaze away at trafalgar. but sit ye down here on this rock, and i’ll tell ye all about wot i see’d last night. ye’d like to know, i dessay.”
“i’d like to have know’d sooner, if you had seen fit to tell me,” said rodney nick, in a gruff tone.
“well, then, keep yer mind easy, and here goes. you know as how i chanced to hear old jeph make an appointment with that young puppy, guy foster, to meet him at the darkest hour o’ night at the tomb o’ mary bax. thinks i, it won’t be for nothin’ you’re goin’ to meet at sich an hour in sich a place, my hearties, so i’ll go an’ keep ye company in a private way!
“you may be sure i was up to time. two hours did i wait in the ditch behind the tomb, and i can tell ye, nick, it’s desprit eerie work a-sittin’ there all alone of a dark night, a-countin’ of the beatins of yer ’art, an’ thinkin’ every shadow of the clouds is a ghost. hows’ever, the old man came at last, and lies down flat on the grave, and begins to groan a bit. arter that he takes to prayin’, an’, d’ye know, the way that old feller prays is a caution. the parsons couldn’t hold a candle to him. not that i ever heer’d ony of ’em, but i s’pose they couldn’t!
“well, he was cut short in the middle by the arrival of the puppy—.”
“wot puppy?” inquired rodney.
“guy, to be sure; ain’t he the biggest puppy in deal?” said orrick.
“mayhap, but he ain’t the longest,” retorted rodney; “go on.”
“humph!—well, down sits guy on the head o’ the tombstone, and pats old jeph on the shoulder.
“‘here i am, jeph; come now, what is it you are so anxious to tell me?’
“the old man sat up: ‘i’m goin’ to die,’ says he.
“‘nonsense,’ cried the young ’un, in a cheerie tone, by way of “don’t say that.” ‘you’re as tough as an old bo’sn. come, that wasn’t what you wanted to tell me, i’m sure.’
“‘ay, but it was,’ says the old man in sich an earnest voice that the young ’un was forced to become serious. ‘listen, guy,’ he goes on, ‘i’m goin’ to die, an’ there’s no one in this world as i’ve got to look after me.’
“guy was goin’ to interrupt him at this point, but he laid his hand on his shoulder and bade him be silent.
“‘i’ve got no relations, guy, except two,’ says he, ‘an’ i’ve no childer. i never married. the only girl i ever loved lies under the cold, cold sod. you know that i’m a poor man, an’ the two relations i spoke of are rich—rich—ay, and they’re fond o’ money. mayhap that’s the reason they are rich! moreover, they know i’ve got the matter o’ forty pounds or thereabouts, and i know that when i die they’ll fight for it—small though it is, and rich though they be—and my poor fortune will either go to them or to the lawyers. now, guy, this must not be; so i want you to do me a kindness. i’m too old and frail to go about matters o’ business, an’ i never was good at wot they call business in my best days, so i want you to pay all my debts for me, and bring me the receipts.’
“‘i’ll do it, jeph,’ said guy, ‘and much more than that, if you’ll only tell me how i can serve you; but you mustn’t speak in that sorrowful way about dying.’
“‘sorrowful!’ cries the old man, quite surprised like; ‘bless your heart, i’m not sorrowful. don’t the book say, “it’s better to be absent from the body and present with the lord?”’ (ah, you may grin as you please, nick, but i give ye the ’xact words o’ the old hypocrite.) ‘no, no, guy,’ continued jeph, ‘i’ll be right glad to go; many a sad yet pleasant hour have i spent here, but i’m weary now, and would fain go, if the lord will. now, it’s my opinion that i’ve just two weeks to live—’
“‘jeph!’ exclaimed guy.
“‘don’t interrupt me, lad. i’ve got two weeks to live, so i want you to go and arrange about my funeral. get a coffin made—i used to be six feet when i was young, but i dessay i’m shorter now—and get the undertaker to cast up beforehand wot it’ll all come to, and pay him, and bring me the receipts. will ye do this, lad?’
“‘i will, if you wish it, but—’
“‘if i didn’t wish it i wouldn’t ask it.’
“‘well, jeph,’ said guy, earnestly, ‘i will do it.’
“‘thank’ee, lad, thank ’ee. i know’d ye would, so i brought the money with me. here it is—forty pounds all told; you’ll pay for the things, and bring me the receipts, and keep the rest and use it in the service of god. i know i can trust you, lad, so that’s enough. all i want is to prevent my small savin’s goin’ to the winds, or to those as don’t need ’em; you understand how to give it to those as do.’”
“is that all?” said rodney nick, impatiently.
“no that’s not all,” replied his companion, “though if it was all, it’s a rather coorious fact, for which ye might thank me for takin’ the trouble to tell you. but you’re thankless by nature. it seems to me that nother you nor me’s likely to trouble guy foster to look arter our spare cash in that way! but that ain’t the end o’ my story yet.”
“what! you didn’t rob ’em? eh! you didn’t pitch into the ‘puppy,’ and ease him o’ the shiners?”
rodney nick said this with a sneer, for he was well aware that his boastful companion would not have risked a single-handed encounter with guy on any consideration.
“no, i didn’t; it warn’t worth the trouble,” said orrick, “but—you shall hear. arter the old man had said his say, guy asked him if that was all, for if it was, he didn’t see no occasion to make no secret about it.”
“‘no,’ said the old man, ‘that’s not all. i want you to take charge of a packet, and give it to bax after i’m gone. no one must break the seal but bax. poor bax, i’d thought to have seen him once again before i went. i’ll leave the old house to him; it ain’t worth much, but you can look arter it for him, or for tommy bogey, if bax don’t want it. many a happy evening we’ve spent in it together. i wanted to give you the parcel here—here out on the dark sandhills, where no one but god hears us. it’s wonderful what a place the town is for eavesdroppin’! so i made you come out here. you must promise me never to open the packet unless you find that bax is dead; then you may open it, and do as you think fit. you promise me this?’
“‘i do,’ said guy, as the old man pulled a small packet, wrapped in brown paper, from his breast pocket, and put it into his hands. then, they rose and went away together.”
“well?” said rodney nick.
“well!” echoed long orrick, “wot then?”
“what next? what d’ye want to do?” inquired rodney.
“do,” cried orrick, “i mean to get hold o’ that packet if i can, by fair means or by foul, that’s wot i mean to do, and i mean that you shall help me!”
the reader may imagine what were the feelings of the poor old man as he sat in the dark corner of the cave listening to this circumstantial relation of his most secret affairs. when he heard long orrick’s last words, and felt how utterly powerless he was in his weakness to counteract him in his designs, he could not prevent the escape of a deep groan.
the effect on the two men was electrical. they sprang up, filled with superstitious horror, and fled precipitately from the cave.
old jeph staggered out after them, and made for the cottage of his friend coleman. the latter met him near the threshold.
“why, jeph, is this you? i’ve bin searchin’ for ye more than an hour, and come to the conclusion ye must ha’ gone home; but why, you’re ill, jeph!”
“ay, i’m ill, come, help me home.”
“nay, not this night, you shall stop with me; the missus’ll give you a cup o’ tea as will do yer old heart good.”
“no, i must go home now,” said jeph, in a tone so decided that his friend was staggered.
“you can’t walk it, you know, in a stormy night like this.”
“i will walk it,” said jeph.
“come, then, if you’re bent on it, you’d better go in your own lugger; it’s here just now, agoin’ to put off in ten minutes or so. nothin’ ever stops bluenose, blow high, blow low. w’en he wants to go off to sea, he goes off, right or wrong. but you’ll take a glass o’ grog first.”
old jeph would not do this, so he was led down to the beach by coleman, where they found the boat being launched.
“good-bye, old man,” said coleman, helping him over the side.
“good-bye,—farewell,” said jeph earnestly. “i came here to-day a-purpose to say farewell; shake hands, god bless you.”
the coast-guard-man was surprised by the warmth of his friend’s manner, as well as by his words; but before he could ask him what he meant, the boat was run down the beach and out to sea. an hour later old jeph was carefully put to bed in his own cottage, by his friend captain bluenose.
