tells of an unlooked-for return, and describes a great feast.
if, as we have elsewhere observed in this narrative, time and tide wait for no man, it is not less true that time and tide work wonderful changes in man and his affairs and fortunes. some of those changes we will now glance at, premising that seven years have passed away since the occurrence of the events recorded in our last chapter.
on the evening of a somewhat gloomy day in the month of sunny showers, four men of rough aspect, and clad in coarse but not disreputable garments, stopped in front of a public-house in one of the lowest localities of london, and looked about them. there was something quite peculiar in their aspect. they seemed to be filled with mingled curiosity and surprise, and looked somewhat scared, as a bird does when suddenly set free from its cage.
two of the men were of an extremely low type of humanity—low-browed and scowling—and their language betokened that their minds were in keeping with their faces. the other two were better-looking and better-spoken, one of them having evidently been a handsome man in his day. his hair was blanched as white as snow although it still retained the curls of youth. his figure was much bent, and he appeared like one who had been smitten with premature old age.
“well, uncommon queer changes bin goin’ on here,” said one of the men, gazing round him.
one of the others admitted that there certainly had been wonderful changes, and expressed a fear that if the change in himself was as great, his old pals wouldn’t know him.
“hows’ever,” observed he who had spoken first, “they won’t see such a difference as they would have seen if we’d got the whole fourteen. good luck to the ticket-of-leave system, say i.”
the others laughed at this, and one of them suggested that they should enter the public-house and have a glass of grog in memory of old times. three of the men at once agreed to this proposal, and said that as it would not be long before they were in the stone jug again it behoved them to make the most of their freedom while it lasted. the man with white hair, however, objected, and it was not until his companions had chaffed and rallied him a good deal that he consented to enter the house, observing, as he followed them slowly, that he had not tasted a drop for seven years.
“well, well,” replied one of the others, “it don’t matter; you’ll relish it all the more now, old feller. it’ll go down like oil, an’ call up the memory of old times—”
“the memory of old times!” cried the white-haired man, stopping short, with a sudden blaze of ferocity which amazed his companions.
he stood glaring at them for a few moments, with his hands tightly clenched; then, without uttering another word, he turned round and rushed from the house.
“mad!” exclaimed one of the other three, looking at his companions when they had recovered from their surprise, “mad as a march hare. hows’ever, that don’t consarn us. come along, my hearties.—hallo! landlord, fetch drink here—your best, and plenty of it. now, boys, fill up and i’ll give ’ee a toast.”
saying this the man filled his glass, the others followed his example—the toast was given and drunk—more toasts were given and drunk—the three men returned to their drink and their old ways, and haunts and comrades, as the sow returns to her wallowing in the mire.
meanwhile the white-haired man wandered away as if he had no settled purpose. day after day he moved on through towns and villages and fields, offering to work, but seldom being employed, begging his bread from door to door, but carefully avoiding the taverns; sleeping where he could, or where he was permitted—sometimes in the barn of a kindly farmer, sometimes under a hay-stack, not unfrequently under a hedge—until at last he found himself in the town of ramsgate.
here he made inquiries of various people, and immediately set forth again on his travels through the land until he reached a remote part of the coast of england, where he found his further progress checked by the sea, but, by dint of begging a free passage from fishermen here and there, he managed at last to reach one of our outlying reefs, where, on a small islet, a magnificent lighthouse reared its white and stately column, and looked abroad upon the ocean, with its glowing eye. there was a small village on the islet, in which dwelt a few families of fishermen. they were a hard-working community, and appeared to be contented and happy.
the lighthouse occupied an elevated plateau above the cliffs at the sea-ward extremity of the isle, about quarter of a mile distant from the fishing village. thither the old man wended his way. the tower, rising high above shrubs and intervening rocks, rendered a guide unnecessary. it was a calm evening. the path, which was narrow and rugged, wound its serpentine course amid grey rocks, luxuriant brambles, grasses, and flowering shrubs. there were no trees. the want of shelter on that exposed spot rendered their growth impossible. the few that had been planted had been cut down by the nor’-west wind as with a scythe.
as he drew near to the lighthouse, the old man observed a woman sitting on a stool in front of the door, busily engaged with her needle, while three children—two girls and a boy—were romping on the grass plat beside her. the boy was just old enough to walk with the steadiness of an exceedingly drunk man, and betrayed a wonderful tendency to sit down suddenly and gaze—astonished! the girls, apparently though not really twins, were just wild enough to enjoy their brother’s tumbles, and helped him to accomplish more of them than would have resulted from his own incapacity to walk.
a magnificent black newfoundland dog, with grey paws and a benignant countenance, couched beside the woman and watched the children at play. he frequently betrayed a desire to join them in their gambols, but either laziness or a sense of his own dignity induced him to sit still.
“nora,” called the mother, who was a young and exceedingly beautiful mother, “nora, come here; go tell your father that i see a stranger coming up the path. quick, darling.”
little nora bounded away like a small fairy, with her fair curls streaming in the wind which her own speed created.
“katie,” said the mother, turning to her second daughter, “don’t rumple him up quite so violently. you must remember that he is a tiny fellow yet, and can’t stand such rough treatment.”
“but he likes it, ma,” objected katie, with a look of glee, although she obeyed the order at once. “don’t you, morley?”
little morley stopped in the middle of an ecstatic laugh, scrambled upon his fat legs and staggered towards his mother, with his fists doubled, as if to take summary vengeance on her for having stopped the fun.
“oh, baby boy; my little morley, what a wild fellow you are!” cried the mother, catching up her child and tossing him in the air.
the old man had approached near enough to overhear the words and recognise the face. tears sprang to his eyes and ran down his cheeks, as he fell forward on the path with his face in the dust.
at the same moment the lighthouse-keeper issued from the door of the building. running towards the old man, he and his wife quickly raised him and loosened his neckcloth. his face had been slightly cut by the fall. blood and dust besmeared it and soiled his white locks.
“poor old man!” said the keeper, as his mate, the assistant light-keeper, joined him. “lend a hand, billy, to carry him in. he ain’t very heavy.”
the assistant—a strapping young fellow, with a powerful, well-made frame, sparkling eyes and a handsome face, on which at that moment there was a look of intense pity—assisted his comrade to raise the old man. they carried him with tender care into the lighthouse and laid him on a couch which at that time, owing to lack of room in the building, happened to be little nora’s bed.
for a few moments he lay apparently in a state of insensibility, while the mother of the family brought a basin of water and began carefully to remove the blood and dust which rendered his face unrecognisable. the first touch of the cold sponge caused him to open his eyes and gaze earnestly in the woman’s face—so earnestly that she was constrained to pause and return the gaze inquiringly.
“you seem to know me,” she said.
the old man made no reply, but, slowly clasping his hands and closing his eyes, exclaimed “thank god!” fervently.
let us glance, now, at a few more of the changes which had been wrought in the condition and circumstances of several of the actors in this tale by the wonder-working hand of time.
on another evening of another month in this same year, mr robert queeker—having just completed an ode to a star which had been recently discovered by the astronomer-royal—walked from the door of the fortress hotel, ramsgate, and, wending his way leisurely along harbour street, directed his steps towards saint james’s hall.
seven years had wrought a great change for the better in mr robert queeker. his once smooth face was decorated with a superb pair of light-brown whiskers of the stamp now styled dundreary. his clothes fitted him well, and displayed to advantage a figure which, although short, was well made and athletic. it was evident that time had not caused his shadow to grow less. there was a jaunty, confident air about him, too, which might have been thought quite in keeping with a red coat and top-boots by his friends in jenkinsjoy, and would have induced hospitable mr stoutheart to let him once more try his fortune on the back of slapover without much anxiety as to the result; ay, even although the sweet but reckless amy were to be his leader in the field! nevertheless there was nothing of the coxcomb about queeker—no self-assertion; nothing but amiableness, self-satisfaction, and enthusiasm.
queeker smiled and hummed a tune to himself as he walked along drawing on his gloves, which were lavender kid and exceedingly tight.
“it will be a great night,” he murmured; “a grand, a glorious night.”
as there was nothing peculiarly grand in the aspect of the weather, it is to be presumed that he referred to something else, but he said nothing more at the time, although he smiled a good deal and hummed a good many snatches of popular airs as he walked along, still struggling with the refractory fingers of the lavender kid gloves.
arrived at saint james’s hall, he took up a position outside the door, and remained there as if waiting for some one.
it was evident that mr queeker’s brief remark had reference to the proceedings that were going on at the hall, because everything in and around it, on that occasion, gave unquestionable evidence that there was to be a “great night” there. the lobby blazed with light, and resounded with voices and bustle, as people streamed in continuously. the interior of the hall itself glowed like a red-hot chamber of gold, and was tastefully decorated with flowers and flags and evergreens; while the floor of the room was covered with long tables, which groaned under the glittering accessories of an approaching feast. fair ladies were among the assembling company, and busy gentlemen, who acted the part of stewards, hurried to and fro, giving directions and keeping order. a large portion of the company consisted of men whose hard hands, powerful frames, and bronzed faces, proclaimed them the sons of toil, and whose manly tones and holiday garments smacked of gales and salt water.
“what be goin’ on here, measter?” inquired a country fellow, nudging mr queeker with his elbow.
queeker looked at his questioner in surprise, and told him that it was a supper which was about to be given to the lifeboat-men by the people of the town.
“an’ who be the lifeboat-men, measter?”
“‘shades of the mighty dead;’ not to mention the glorious living!” exclaimed queeker, aghast; “have you never heard of the noble fellows who man the lifeboats all round the coasts of this great country, and save hundreds of lives every year? have you not read of their daring exploits in the newspapers? have you never heard of the famous ramsgate lifeboat?”
“well, now ’ee mention it, i doos remember summat about loifboats,” replied the country fellow, after pondering a moment or two; “but, bless ’ee, i never read nothin’ about ’em, not bein’ able to read; an’ as i’ve lived all my loif fur inland, an’ on’y comed here to-day, it ain’t to be thow’t as i knows much about yer ramsgate loifboats. be there mony loifboat men in ramsgate, measter?”
“my good fellow,” said queeker, taking the man by the sleeve, and gazing at him with a look of earnest pity, “there are dozens of ’em. splendid fellows, who have saved hundreds of men, women, and children from the raging deep; and they are all to be assembled in this hall to-night, to the number of nearly a hundred—for there are to be present not only the men who now constitute the crew of the ramsgate boat, but all the men who have formed part of her crew in time past. every man among them is a hero,” continued queeker, warming as he went on, and shaking the country fellow’s arm in his earnestness, “and every man to-night will—”
he stopped short abruptly, for at that moment a carriage drove up to the door, and a gentleman jumping out assisted a lady to alight.
without a word of explanation to the astonished country fellow, queeker thrust him aside, dashed forward, presented himself before the lady, and, holding out his hand, exclaimed—
“how do you do, miss hennings? i’m so glad to have been fortunate enough to meet you.”
“mr quee— queeker,” exclaimed fanny, blushing scarlet; “i—i was not aware—so very unexpected—i thought—dear me!—but, pardon me—allow me to introduce my uncle, mr hemmings. mr queeker, uncle, whom you have often heard mamma speak about.”
mr hennings, a six-feet-two man, stooped to shake queeker by the hand. an impatient cabman shouted, “move on.” fanny seized her uncle’s arm, and was led away. queeker followed close, and all three were wedged together in the crowd, and swept towards the banquet-hall.
“are you one of the stewards?” asked fanny, during a momentary pause.
how exquisite she looks! thought queeker, as she glanced over her shoulder at him. he felt inclined to call her an angel, or something of that sort, but restrained himself, and replied that he was not a steward, but a guest—an honoured guest—and that he would have no objection to be a dishonoured guest, if only, by being expelled from the festive board, he could manage to find an excuse to sit beside her in the ladies’ gallery.
“but that may not be,” he said, with a sigh. “i shall not be able to see you from my allotted position. alas! we separate here—though—though—lost to sight, to memory dear!”
the latter part of this remark was said hurriedly and in desperation, in consequence of a sudden rush of the crowd, rendering abrupt separation unavoidable. but, although parted from his lady-love, and unable to gaze upon her, queeker kept her steadily in his mind’s eye all that evening, made all his speeches to her, sang all his songs to her, and finally—but hold! we must not anticipate.
as we have said—or, rather, as we have recorded that queeker said—all the lifeboat men of the town of ramsgate sat down to that supper, to the number of nearly one hundred men. all sturdy men of tried courage. some were old, with none of the fire that had nerved them to rescue lives in days gone by, save that which still gleamed in their eyes; some were young, with the glow of irrepressible enthusiasm on their smooth faces, and the intense wish to have a chance to dare and do swelling their bold hearts; others were middle-aged, iron-moulded; as able and as bold to the full as the younger men, with the coolness and self-restraint of the old ones; but all, old, middle-aged, and young, looking proud and pleased, and so gentle in their demeanour (owing, no doubt, to the presence of the fair sex), that it seemed as if a small breeze of wind would have made them all turn tail and run away,—especially if the breeze were raised by the women!
that the reception of these lion-like men (converted into lambs that night) was hearty, was evinced by the thunders of applause which greeted every reference to their brave deeds. that their reception was intensely earnest, was made plain by the scroll, emblazoned on a huge banner that spanned the upper end of the room, bearing the words. “god bless the lifeboat crews.”
we need not refer to the viands set forth on that great occasion. of course they were of the best. we may just mention that they included “baccy and grog!” we merely record the fact. whether buns and tea would have been equally effective is a question not now under consideration. we refrain from expressing an opinion on that point here.
of course the first toast was the queen, and as jack always does everything heartily, it need scarcely be said that this toast was utterly divested of its usual formality of character. the chairman’s appropriate reference to her majesty’s well-known sympathy with the distressed, especially with those who had suffered from shipwreck, intensified the enthusiasm of the loyal lifeboat-men.
a band of amateur christy minstrels (the “genuine original” amateur band, of course) enlivened the evening with appropriate songs, to the immense delight of all present, especially of mr robert queeker, whose passionate love for music, ever since his attendance at the singing-class, long long ago, had strengthened with time to such an extent that language fails to convey any idea of it. it mattered not to queeker whether the music were good or bad. sufficient for him that it carried him back, with a gush, to that dear temple of music in yarmouth where the learners were perpetually checked at critical points, and told by their callous teacher (tormentor, we had almost written) to “try it again!” and where he first beheld the perplexing and beautiful fanny.
when the toast of the evening was given—“success to the ramsgate lifeboat,”—it was, as a matter of course, received with deafening cheers and enthusiastic waving of handkerchiefs from the gallery in which the fair sex were accommodated, among which handkerchiefs queeker, by turning his head very much round, tried to see, and believed that he saw, the precious bit of cambric wherewith fanny hennings was accustomed to salute her transcendental nose. the chairman spoke with enthusiasm of the noble deeds accomplished by the ramsgate lifeboat in time past, and referred with pride, and with a touch of feeling, to the brave old coxswain, then present (loud cheers), who had been compelled, by increasing years, to resign a service which, they all knew better than he did, taxed the energies, courage, and endurance of the stoutest and youngest man among them to the uttermost. he expressed a firm belief in the courage and prowess of the coxswain who had succeeded him (renewed cheers), and felt assured that the success of the boat in time to come would at the least fully equal its successes in time past. he then referred to some of the more prominent achievements of the boat, especially to a night which all of them must remember, seven years ago, when the ramsgate boat, with the aid of the steam-tug, was the means of saving so many lives—not to mention property—and among others the life of their brave townsman, james welton (cheers), and a young doctor, the friend, and now the son-in-law, of one whose genial spirit and extensive charities were well known and highly appreciated—he referred to mr george durant (renewed cheers), whose niece at that moment graced the gallery with her presence.
at this there was a burst of loud and prolonged applause which terminated in a roar of laughter, owing to the fact that mr queeker, cheering and waving his hands in a state of wild enthusiasm, knocked the neck off a bottle of wine and flooded the table in his immediate vicinity! covered with confusion, queeker sat down amid continued laughter and rapturous applause.
the chairman then went on to say that the event to which he had referred—the rescue of the crew and passengers of the wellington on the night of the great storm—had been eclipsed by some of the more recent doings of the same boat; and, after touching upon some of these, said that, although they had met there to do honour to the crews of their own lifeboat, they must not forget other and neighbouring lifeboats, which did their work nobly—the brave crews of which were represented by the coxswains of the margate and broadstairs lifeboats, who sat at that board that night as honoured guests (loud cheers, during which several of the men nearest to them shook hands with the coxswains referred to). he could not—the chairman went on to say—sit down without making special reference to the steam-tug, without which, and the courage as well as knowledge of her master, mate, and crew (renewed cheers), the lifeboat could not overtake a tenth part of the noble work which she annually accomplished. he concluded by praying that a kind providence would continue to watch over and bless the ramsgate lifeboat and her crew.
we need scarcely add that this toast was drunk with enthusiastic applause, and that it was followed up by the amateur minstrels with admirable effect.
many songs were sung, and many toasts were proposed that night, and warm was the expression of feeling towards the men who were ever so ready to imperil their lives in the hope of saving those of their fellow-creatures, and who had already, oftentimes, given such ample proof that they were thoroughly able to do, as well as to dare, almost anything. several singers with good, and one or two with splendid, voices, gave a variety of songs which greatly enhanced the brilliancy of the evening, and were highly appreciated in the gallery; and a few bad singers with miserable voices (who volunteered their songs) did really good service by impressing upon the audience very forcibly the immense differences between good and bad music, and thus kindly acted as shadows to the vocal lights of the evening—as useful touches of discord in the general harmony which by contrast rendered the latter all the sweeter.
but of all the solos sung that night none afforded such delight as a national melody sung by our friend jerry macgowl, in a voice that rang out like the voices of three first-class bo’s’ns rolled into one. that worthy son of the emerald isle, and dick moy, and jack shales, happened to be enjoying their month on shore when the supper to the lifeboat-men was planned, and they were all there in virtue of their having been instrumental in saving life on more than one occasion during their residence in ramsgate. jerry’s song was, as we have said, highly appreciated, but the applause with which it was greeted was as nothing compared with the shouts and cheers that shook the roof of saint james’s hall, when, on being asked to repeat it, jerry modestly said that he “would prefer to give them a duet—perhaps it was a trayo—av his mates jack shales and dick moy would only strike in wid bass and tenor.”
the men of the floating light then sang “the minute-gun at sea” magnificently, each taking the part that suited him best or struck his fancy at the moment, and jerry varying from tenor to bass and bass to treble according to taste.
“now, mister chairman,” said the bold jerry macgowl, when the cheers had subsided, “it’s my turn to call for a song, so i ax mr queeker to favour the company wid—” thunders of applause drowned the remainder of the sentence.
poor queeker was thrown into great confusion, and sought to explain that he could not sing, even in private—much less in public.
“oh yes, you can, sir. try it, sir, no fear of ’ee. sure it’s yourself as can do it, an’ no mistake,” were the remarks with which his explanation was interrupted.
“i assure you honestly,” cried queeker, “that i cannot sing, but” (here breathless silence ensued) “if the chairman will kindly permit me, i will give you a toast.”
loud cheers from all sides, and a good-humoured nod from the chairman greeted this announcement.
“mr chairman and friends,” said queeker, “the ladies have—” a perfect storm of laughter and cheers interrupted him for at least two minutes.
“yes,” resumed queeker, suddenly blazing up with enthusiasm, “i repeat—the ladies—”
“that’s the girls, blissin’s on the swate darlints,” murmured jerry in a tone which set the whole table again in a roar.
“i echo the sentiment; blessings on them,” said queeker, with a good-humoured glance at jerry. “yes, as i was going to say, i propose the ladies, who are, always were, and ever will be, the solace of man’s life, the sweet drops in his otherwise bitter cup, the lights in his otherwise dark dwelling, the jewels in his—in his—crown, and the bright stars that glitter in the otherwise dark firmament of his destiny (vociferous cheering). yes,” continued queeker, waxing more and more energetic, and striking the table with his fist, whereby he overturned his neighbour’s glass of grog, “yes, i re-assert it—the ladies are all that, and much more! (hear, hear.) i propose their health—and, after all, i may be said to have some sort of claim to do so, having already unintentionally poured a whole bottle of wine on the tablecloth as a libation to them! (laughter and applause.) what, i ask,” continued queeker, raising his voice and hand at the same moment, and setting his hair straight upon end, “what, i ask, would man be without the ladies?” (“what indeed?” said a voice near the foot of the table, which called forth another burst of laughter.) “just try to think, my friends, what would be the hideous gloom of this terrestrial ball if there were no girls! oh woman! softener of man’s rugged nature! what—in the words of the poet.” he carefully refrained from saying what poet!
“what were earth and all its joys;
what were wealth with all its toys;
what the life of men and boys
but for lovely woman?
“what if mothers were no more;
if wives and sisters fled our shore,
and left no sweethearts to the fore—
no sign of darling woman?
“what dreary darkness would ensue—
what moral wastes devoid of dew—
if no strong hearts of men like you
beat for charming woman?
“who would rise at duty’s call;
who would fight to win or fall;
who would care to live at all,
were it not for woman?”
prolonged and rapturous cheers greeted this effusion, in the midst of which the enthusiastic jerry macgowl sprang to his feet, waved his glass above his head—spilling half of its contents on the pate of a bald skipper who sat next to him—and cheered lustily.
“men of the ramsgate lifeboat,” shouted queeker, “i call on you to pledge the ladies—with all the honours!”
it is unnecessary to say that the call was responded to with a degree of enthusiasm that threatened, as dick moy said to jack shales, “to smash all the glasses an’ blow the roof off.” in the midst of the noise and confusion queeker left the hall, ascended to the gallery, and sat himself down beside fanny hennings, with an air of intense decision.
“oh, mr queeker!” exclaimed fanny.
“listen, fanny,” said the tall uncle at that moment, “they are giving one of the most important toasts of the evening—the royal national lifeboat institution.”
fanny tried to listen, and had caught a few words, when she felt her hand suddenly seized and held fast. turning her head quickly, she beheld the face of queeker turned to bright scarlet.
what more she heard or saw after that it would be extremely difficult to tell. perhaps the best way of conveying an idea of it is to lay before the reader the short epistle which fanny penned that same night to her old friend katie hall. it ran thus:—
“ramsgate.
“oh, katie! darling katie!—he has done it at last! dear fellow! and so like himself too—so romantically, so poetically! they were toasting the lifeboat institution at the time. he seized my hand. ‘fanny,’ he said, in the deep manly tones in which he had just made the most brilliant speech of the evening, ‘fanny, my love—my life—my lifeboat—will you have me? will you save me?’ there was a dreadful noise at the time—a very storm of cheering. the whole room seemed in a whirl. my head was in a whirl too; and oh! how my heart beat! i don’t know what i said. i fear i burst into a fit of laughter, and then cried, and dear uncle carried me out—but it’s all over now. that darling lifeboat institution, i shall never forget it; for they were sounding its praises at the very moment when my queeker and i got into the same boat—for life!—your happy fanny.”
to this the next post brought the following reply:—
“yarmouth.”
“my dearest fanny,—is it necessary for me to say that your last short letter has filled my heart with joy? it has cleared up a mystery too! on tuesday last, in the forenoon, mr queeker came by appointment to take lunch with us, and stanley happened to mention that a supper was to be given to the ramsgate lifeboat-men, and that he had heard you were to be there. during lunch, mr queeker was very absent and restless, and appeared to be unhappy. at last he started up, made some hurried apology about the train for the south, and having urgent business to transact, looked at his watch, and rushed out of the house! we could not understand it at the time, but i knew that he had only a few minutes left to catch the train for the south, and i now know that he caught it—and why! ah, fanny, did i not always assure you that he would do it in desperation at last! my earnest prayer is, that your wedded life may be as happy as mine has hitherto been.
“when your honeymoon is over, you must promise to pay us a visit. you know that our villa is sufficiently far out of town to warrant your regarding us in the light of country friends; and stanley bids me say that he will take no denial. papa—who is at present romping round the room with my eldest boy on his shoulders, so that i scarce know what i write—bids me tell you, with his kind love and hearty congratulations, that he thinks you are ‘not throwing yourself away, for that queeker is a first-rate little fellow, and a rising man!’ observe, please, that i quote papa’s own words.
“i must stop abruptly, because a tiny cry from the nursery informs me that king baby is awake, and demands instant attention!—with kindest love and congratulations, your ever affectionate, katie hall.”
