Chapter Seven.

 

 

An Unquiet, Adventurous Morning in the Shell-Cave.

 

“I think,” said Jeff Benson one fine morning, as he got up and stretched himself, “that I feel well enough to-day to get down to the shore without assistance. You know, auntie, I shall never be able to walk alone if I give way to laziness, and lean so much on others. I’m like the babies now, and must be encouraged to try it on my own hook.”

 

He looked at Miss Millet with a half-pitiful smile, for there was something woefully true in his words, and his good little nurse found it necessary to go in search of the household keys for a minute or so before answering.

 

“Well, Jeff, perhaps you are right and the day is splendid—sunny, calm, and warm—so you won’t be likely to catch cold. Only don’t go far, for you might become tired out. So, promise that you won’t go far, and then I will let you go.”

 

Jeff promised; but of course he did not do exactly as his nurse wished, for, in such circumstances, the word “far” has a wonderfully varied significance. At first, leaning on his stick and pausing frequently to recover strength, he made his way to the shore; but when there, the invigorating air and the exhilarating sound of ripples on the sand, and a rest on the rocks, made him feel so much better, that he thought he might walk the length of the shell-cave without breaking his promise.

 

He tried, and succeeded, but was so fatigued, when at length he threw himself on the soft sand at the cave’s mouth, that he felt uneasy about getting home again.

 

The shell-cave was a favourite nook in a lonely part of the cliffs, which Jeff had been wont to frequent in his coastguard days, especially at that particular time when he seemed to expect the revival of the smuggling traffic near Miss Millet’s cottage. He had frequently spoken of it to Rose as a beautiful spot where innumerable sea-shells were to be found, and had once taken her to see it.

 

It was, as we have said, a lonely spot, far removed from the fishing town, and was sought out by Jeff because he did not yet feel strong enough to hold much intercourse with his friends and former mates—none of whom had seen him since his illness began. But the poor invalid was doomed to several interruptions that day.

 

The first comer was his comrade Wilson, of the coastguard, whose place he had taken on the eventful night of the wreck. On rounding the point of rock, and coming suddenly on our hero, that worthy was struck dumb and motionless for at least a minute, while his eyes gradually opened wide with surprise, and his mouth partially followed suit.

 

“Not Jeff Benson!” said Wilson at last, in quite a solemn tone.

 

“What’s left of him,” answered Jeff, with a faint smile.

 

“An’ it ain’t much!” returned Wilson, with a kind of gasp, as he approached softly.

 

“Not much more than the bones an’ clothes,” said Jeff, with a laugh at his friend’s expression; “also,” he added more seriously, “a good deal of the spirit, thank God. How are all the lads, Wilson?”

 

The man tried to answer, but could not. The sight of his old stalwart chum so reduced was too much for him. He could only go down on one knee, and take the thin large hand in his. Seeing this, Jeff returned his squeeze, and relieved him by saying—

 

“You can beat me now, Wilson, but I could squeeze till I made you howl once, and mayhap I’ll do it again—who knows? But you must not think me unkind if I ask you to leave me, Wilson. The Doctor is always insisting that I must keep quiet; so, good-day to you, my boy, an’ remember me kindly to my comrades.”

 

The next visitor, who appeared half an hour later, was the terrier dog of the station. Bounce belonged, of right, to David Bowers, but, being amiable, it acknowledged the part-ownership of all the men. On suddenly beholding Jeff, it rushed at him with a mingled bark and squeal of joy, and thereafter, for full two minutes, danced round him, a mass of wriggling hair from tip of tail to snout, in uncontrollable ecstasy. Mingled misery and surprise at Jeff’s sudden and unaccountable disappearance, prolonged agonies of disappointed expectation, the sickness of heart resulting from hope long deferred, all were forgotten in that supreme moment of joy at reunion with his long-lost human friend!

 

Jeff had to rise and sit down on a shelf of rock to escape some of Bounce’s overwhelming affection. Presently Bounce’s owner appeared, and went through something of a similar performance—humanised, however, and with more of dignity.

 

“I can’t tell ’ee how glad I am to see you again, Jeff,” said Bowers, sitting down beside him, and grasping his hand. “But oh, man, how thin—”

 

The huge coastguardsman choked at this point, as Wilson had done before him; but, being more ready of resource, he turned it into a cough, and declared, sternly, that night-work must have given him a cold, or “suthin’ o’ that sort.” After which he made a great demonstration of clearing his throat and blowing his nose.

 

“But you’ll soon be yours—at least, somethin’ like your old self, before long, Jeff. The doctor told us that, the last time he was at the station.”

 

“If God wills,” returned Jeff, softly; “I am in His hands, and willing to be what He chooses. You remember, David, the talk we once had about Miss Millet’s argument, that God brings good out of evil. I didn’t believe it then; I believe it now. I’ve bin to school since I last saw you, David, and I’ve learned a good lesson, for I can say from my heart it has been good for me that I was afflicted.”

 

Bowers did not reply, but looked at his friend with an expression of puzzled surprise.

 

“Yes,” continued Jeff, with rising enthusiasm; “I have lost my health—the doctor thinks permanently. I’ve lost the strength that I used to be so proud of, and with it the hope of being able to make a living in any active line of life; and I’ve lost much more besides. But what I have found in my Saviour far more than makes up for it all.”

 

In the “much more besides,” poor Jeff mentally referred to his loss of all hope of ever gaining the hand of Rose Millet; for if his chance seemed small before, how immeasurably was it reduced now that his health was shattered, and his power even of supporting himself gone. No; he felt that that door was closed—that he must avoid the girl as much as possible in future; and, above all, be particularly careful not to fall in love with her. Of course, it was only a passing fancy as yet, and, like fruit, would never ripen unless the sun shone. He would avoid the sunshine! Meanwhile, of all these rapidly fleeting thoughts, he said never a word to his friend David Bowers, but after a little more conversation, begged him also to go away and let him rest.

 

All very good, friend Jeff; but what if the sun should shine in spite of you?

 

Just about that time, in the course of his eager and somewhat erratic wanderings among solicitors and other men of business, Captain Millet made a sudden pause, and, by way of taking breath, rushed down to Folkestone, brought Rose up to Cranby, hired a dog-cart, and drove along the sands at low tide, in the direction of his sister’s cottage.

 

“I think it probable that you may see him today, Rosebud,” he said, “though I’m not quite sure, for the doctor is afraid of a relapse, and friends are not yet allowed to visit him. To be sure bein’ only a little girl, you probably wouldn’t disturb him at all—’specially if you didn’t speak. Anyhow, you’ll see auntie, which will be more to the purpose.”

 

“Father,” said Rose, whose name seemed remarkably appropriate at that moment, “I should like to get down here, and walk the rest of the way. By the time I arrive, you’ll have had a little talk with poor Jeff and auntie. Besides, there is a pretty cave that I used to gather shells in when I was last here. I would like so much to pay it a visit in passing.”

 

Of course the captain had no objection, and thus it came to pass that Jeff’s fourth visitor on that unquiet morning was the Rosebud!

 

How feeble are written words to convey ideas at times! If you could have obtained one glance of Rose and Jeff at that moment, reader, words would not be required. No peony ever blushed like that Rose—to say nothing of the blank amazement in those wide blue eyes. Jeff, still seated on the rock, became petrified.

 

Recovering first, as women always do, Rose hurried forward with—“I’m so glad, Mr —,” but there she stopped abruptly, for the unexpected sight of that stalwart coastguardsman, reduced to a big skeleton with pale face, hollow cheeks, cavernous eyes, and an old-man stoop, was too much for her. She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

 

What could Jeff do? He forgot his prudent resolves. He forgot his weakness because his strength seemed to have suddenly returned. He sprang up, intending to comfort the poor girl in a brotherly sort of way. Somehow—he never could clearly remember how—he had her seated on the rock beside him, with his arm round her waist and her head on his shoulder.

 

A few moments later—he never could tell how many—the wickedness of his conduct came down upon Jeff like a thunderbolt. He removed his arm, drew away from her about three inches, and looked in her surprised face with a solemn, self-condemned expression.

 

“Forgive me, Rose,” he said, in the deep, hollow voice which had become natural to him since his illness began; “my love for you proved too strong to be restrained just now: but believe me, I had fully made up my mind never to open my lips to you on the subject; for what right have I, a helpless, and, I fear, hopeless, invalid, to dare to aspire—”

 

There must have been something peculiar in the very slight, almost pathetic, smile which overspread the tearful face of Rose at that moment: for the arm was suddenly replaced, the three inches were reduced to nothing, the fair head again rested on the once stalwart shoulder, and thus they remained until the cavern was filled with the sounds:—

 

“Hi! Ho! Hallo! Rose—Rosebud ahoy! That girl would worry any man to death! Where are you? Hi! Ship ahoy! Hallo-o-o!”

 

We need scarcely remark that Rose did not wait for the last stentorian halloo! Bounding from her lover’s side, she ran to meet her father—red at first and then pale—exclaiming, “Oh! father I’ve found him!”

 

“Found who, child?”

 

“Jeff— I mean Mister—”

 

“Not dead?” exclaimed the Captain, interrupting with awful solemnity.

 

He was answered by the invalid himself coming out of the cavern, and wishing him good-morning with a confused and guilty air.

 

“Well now,” said Captain Millet after a moment’s pause, while he glanced from the one to the other, “this beats the polar regions all to sticks and stivers. Rose, my dear, you go round the p’int, an’ wait by the dog-cart till I come to ’ee.”

 

“So, young man,” he said, turning sternly to Jeff, “you’ve bin cruisin’ after my little girl without leave.”

 

“I am guilty, Captain Millet,” said Jeff humbly, “but not intentionally so. Long ago, when I learned that there was no hope of recovering my old strength, I had determined to give up all thoughts of dear Rose; but I was taken by surprise this morning—was off my guard—and, I confess, wickedly took advantage of my opportunity to tell her how dearly I loved her. Yet it was done under a sudden, irresistible impulse. I do not excuse myself. I would give worlds to undo the evil I may have done. But after all it may be undone. Rose may have mistaken her extreme sympathy and pity for love. If so, she will not suffer much, or long. Indeed, now I think of it, she won’t suffer at all, except regret at having been led to raise false hopes in my breast.”

 

The mere thought of this was so depressing, that Jeff, who was already almost worn out with excitement, leaned heavily on his stick for support.

 

“Jeff,” returned the captain severely, “how could you do it?”

 

“I hardly know,” rejoined Jeff, feeling something of the old Adam rising in his breast; “but my intentions were honourable, whatever my conduct may have been under impulse and strong temptation. Perhaps I might appeal to your own experience. Have you never done that which you did not mean to under the power of impulse?”

 

“You’ve hit me there, boy, below the water-line,” said the captain, relaxing a little: “for I not only put the question to my old woman without leave, but carried her off with flyin’ colours against orders; but it came all right at last, though I didn’t deserve it. However, Jeff, you’ve no need to look so blue. My little girl has raised no false hopes in your breast. Moreover, let me tell you, for your comfort, that I saw the doctor this morning, and he says that your constitution is so strong that you’re in a fair way to pull through in spite of him, and that you’ll be fit for good service yet—though not exactly what you were before. So, keep up your heart, Jeff! Never say die, and you shall wed my Rosebud yet, as sure as my name’s Dick Millet.”

 

There was need for these words of comfort, for the poor youth was obliged to sit down on the sand for a few minutes to recover strength.

 

“I’ve had a pretty stiff morning altogether, captain,” he said apologetically; “but I’m thankful—very thankful—for the succession of events that have brought me to this happy hour.”

 

“And yet, Jeff,” said the captain, sitting down beside him, “you and I thought these events—the wreck, and the loss of employment, and the overturning o’ the lifeboat, and the thump on the ribs, and the long illness—nothing but misfortunes and full of evil at first. There,—I’m not goin’ to draw no moral. I never was good at that. Come, now, if you’ve rested enough, we’ll up anchor and away. I’ve got a dog-cart beatin’ off an’ on round the p’int there, an’ my Rosebud will be gettin’ impatient.”

 

This was true—Rose was becoming not only impatient but anxious. When, however, she saw her father and lover approach, all her anxieties vanished.