Resuming our story, we remind the reader that we left off just as the Ramsgate lifeboat had gained a glorious victory over a great storm.
Availing ourselves of an author’s privilege, we now change the scene to the parlour of Mrs Foster’s temporary lodgings at Ramsgate, whither the worthy lady had gone for change of air, in company with her son Guy, her daughter-in-law Lucy, her little grandson Charlie, and her adopted daughter Amy Russell.
Bax is standing there alone. He looks like his former self in regard to costume, for the only man approaching his own size, who could lend him a suit of dry clothing, happened to be a boatman, so he is clad in the familiar rough coat with huge buttons, the wide pantaloons, and the sou’-wester of former days. His countenance is changed, however; it is pale and troubled.
On the way up from the harbour Guy had told him that he was married, and was surprised when Bax, instead of expressing a desire to be introduced to his wife, made some wild proposal about going and looking after the people who had been saved! He was pleased, however, when Bax suddenly congratulated him with great warmth, and thereafter said, with much firmness, that he would go up to the house and see her. On this occasion, also, Bax had told his friend that all the produce of his labour since he went away now lay buried in the Goodwin Sands.
Bax was ruminating on these things when the door opened, and Guy entered, leading Lucy by the hand.
“Miss Burton!” exclaimed Bax, springing forward.
“My wife,” said Guy, with a puzzled look.
“Bax!” exclaimed Lucy, grasping his hand warmly and kissing it; “surely you knew that I was married to Guy?”
Bax did not reply. His chest heaved, his lips were tightly compressed, and his nostrils dilated, as he gazed alternately at Guy and Lucy. At last he spoke in deep, almost inaudible tones:
“Miss Russell—is she still—”
“My sister is still with us. I have told her you are come. She will be here directly,” said Guy.
As he spoke the door opened, and Mrs Foster entered, with Amy leaning on her arm. The latter was very pale, and trembled slightly. On seeing Bax the blood rushed to her temples, and then fled back to her heart. She sank on a chair. The sailor was at her side in a moment; he caught her as she was in the act of falling, and going down on one knee, supported her head on his shoulder.
“Bring water, she has fainted,” he cried. “Dear Miss Russell!—dearest Amy!—oh my beloved girl, look up.”
Stunned and terrified though poor Mrs Foster was, as she rushed about the room in search of water and scent-bottles, she was taken aback somewhat by the warmth of these expressions, which Bax, in the strength of his feelings, and the excitement of the moment, uttered quite unconsciously. Guy was utterly confounded, for the truth now for the first time flashed upon him, and when he beheld his friend tenderly press his lips on the fair forehead of the still insensible Amy, it became clear beyond a doubt. Lucy was also amazed, for although she was aware of Amy’s love for Bax, she had never dreamed that it was returned.
Suddenly Guy’s pent-up surprise and excitement broke forth. Seizing Mrs Foster by the shoulders, he stared into her face, and said, “Mother, I have been an ass! an absolute donkey!—and a blind one, too. Oh!—ha! come along, I’ll explain myself. Lucy, I shall require your assistance.”
Without more ado Guy led his mother and Lucy forcibly out of the room, and Bax and Amy were left alone.
Again we change the scene. The Sandhills lying to the north of Deal are before us, and the shadows of night are beginning to deepen over the bleak expanse of downs. A fortnight has passed away.
During that period Bax experienced the great delight of feeling assured that Amy loved him, and the great misery of knowing that he had not a sixpence in the world. Of course, Guy sought to cheer him by saying that there would be no difficulty in getting him the command of a ship; but Bax was not cheered by the suggestion; he felt depressed, and proposed to Guy that they should take a ramble together over the Sandhills.
Leaving the cottage, to which the family had returned the day before, the two friends walked in the direction of Sandown Castle.
“What say you to visit old Jeph?” said Guy; “I have never felt easy about him since he made me order his coffin and pay his debts.”
“With all my heart,” said Bax. “I spent a couple of hours with him this forenoon, and he appeared to me better than usual. Seeing Tommy and me again has cheered him greatly, poor old man.”
“Stay, I will run back for the packet he left with me to give to you. He may perhaps wish to give it you with his own hand.”
Guy ran back to the cottage, and quickly returned with the packet.
Old Jeph’s door was open when they approached his humble abode. Guy knocked gently, but, receiving no answer, entered the house. To their surprise and alarm they found the old man’s bed empty. Everything else in the room was in its usual place. The little table stood at the bedside, with the large old Bible on it and the bundle of receipts that Guy had placed there on the day he paid the old man’s debts. In a corner lay the black coffin, with the winding-sheet carefully folded on the lid. There was no sign of violence having been done, and the friends were forced to the conclusion that Jeph had quitted the place of his own accord. As he had been confined to bed ever since his illness—about two weeks—this sudden disappearance was naturally alarming.
“There seems to have been no foul play,” said Bax, examining hastily the several closets in the room. “Where can he have gone?”
“The tomb!” said Guy, as Jeph’s old habit recurred to his memory.
“Right,” exclaimed Bax, eagerly. “Come, let’s go quickly.”
They hastened out, and, breaking into a smart run, soon reached the Sandhills. Neither of them spoke, for each felt deep anxiety about the old man, whose weak condition rendered it extremely improbable that he could long survive the shock that his system must have sustained by such a walk at such an hour.
Passing the Checkers of the Hope, they soon reached Mary Bax’s tomb. The solitary stone threw a long dark shadow over the waste as the moon rose slowly behind it. This shadow concealed the grave until they were close beside it.
“Ah! he is here,” said Bax, kneeling down.
Guy knelt beside him, and assisted to raise their old friend, who lay extended on the grave. Bax moved him so as to get from beneath the shadow of the stone, and called him gently by name, but he did not answer. When the moonlight next moment fell on his countenance, the reason of his silence was sufficiently obvious.
Old Jeph was dead!
With tender care they lifted the body in their arms and bore it to the cottage, where they laid it on the bed, and, sitting down beside it, conversed for some time in low sad tones.
“Bax,” said Guy, pulling the sealed packet from his breast-pocket, “had you not better open this? It may perhaps contain some instructions having reference to his last resting-place.”
“True,” replied Bax, breaking the seals. “Dear old Jeph, it is sad to lose you in this sudden way, without a parting word or blessing. What have we here?” he continued, unrolling several pieces of brown paper. “It feels like a key.”
As he spoke a small letter dropt from the folds of the brown paper, with an old-fashioned key tied to it by a piece of twine. Opening the letter he read as follows:—
“Dear Bax,—When you get this I shall be where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. There is a hide in the north-west corner of my room in the old house, between the beam and the wall. The key that is enclosed herewith will open it. I used to hide baccy there in my smugglin’ days, but since I left off that I’ve never used it. There you will find a bag of gold. How much is in it I know not. It was placed there by an old mate of mine more than forty years ago. He was a great man for the guinea trade that was carried on with France in the time of Boney’s wars. I never rightly myself understood that business. I’m told that Boney tried to get all the gold out o’ this country, by payin’ three shillings more than each guinea was worth for it, but that seems unreasonable to me. Hows’ever, although I never could rightly understand it, there is no doubt that some of our lads were consarned in smugglin’ guineas across the channel, and two or three of ’em made a good thing of it. My mate was one o’ the lucky ones. One night he came home with a bag o’ gold and tumbled it out on the table before me. I had my suspicions that he had not come honestly by it, so would have nothin’ to do with it. When I told him so, he put it back into the bag, tied it up, and replaced it in the hide, and went away in a rage. He never came back. There was a storm from the east’ard that night. Two or three boats were capsized, and my mate and one or two more lads were drowned. The guineas have lain in the hide ever since. I’ve often thought o’ usin’ them; but somehow or other never could make up my mind. You may call this foolish, mayhap it was; anyhow I now leave the gold to you;—to Tommy, if you never come back, or to Guy if he don’t turn up. Bluenose don’t want it: it would only bother him if I put it in his way.
“This is all I’ve got to say: The old house ain’t worth much, but such as it is, it’s yours, or it may go the same way as the guineas.
“Now, Bax, may God bless you, and make you one of His own children, through Jesus Christ. My heart warms to you for your own sake, and for the sake of her whose name you bear. Farewell.—Your old friend and mate, Jeph.”
Bax stooped over the bed, and pressed his lips to the dead man’s forehead, when he had finished reading this letter. For some time the two friends sat talking of old Jeph’s sayings and doings in former days, forgetful of the treasure of which the epistle spoke. At last Bax rose and drew a table to the corner mentioned in the letter. Getting upon this, he found an old board nailed against the wall.
“Hand me that axe, Guy; it must be behind this.”
The board was soon wrenched off, and a small door revealed in the wall. The key opened it at once, and inside a bag was found. Untying this, Bax emptied the glittering contents on the table. It was a large heap, amounting to five hundred guineas!
“I congratulate you, Bax,” said Guy; “this removes a great difficulty out of your way. Five hundred guineas will give you a fair start.”
“Do you suppose that I will appropriate this to myself?” said Bax. “You and Tommy are mentioned in the letter as well as me.”
“You may do as you please in regard to Tommy,” said Guy, “but as for me, I have a good salary, and won’t touch a guinea of it.”
“Well, well,” said Bax, with a sad smile, “this is neither the time nor place to talk of such matters. It is time to give notice of the old man’s death.”
Saying this, he returned the gold to its former place, locked the hide, and replaced the board. As he was doing this, a peculiar cut in the beam over his head caught his eye.
“I do believe here is another hide,” said he. “Hand the axe again.”
A piece of wood was soon forced out of the side of the beam next the wall, and it was discovered that the beam itself was hollow. Nothing was found in it, however, except a crumpled piece of paper.
“See here, there is writing on this,” said Guy, picking up the paper which Bax flung down. “It is a crabbed hand, but I think I can make it out:— ‘Dear Bogue, you will find the tubs down Pegwell Bay, with the sinkers on ’em; the rest of the swag in Fiddler’s Cave.’”
“Humph! an old smuggler’s letter,” said Bax. “Mayhap the tubs and swag are there yet!”
We may remark here, that, long after the events now related, Bax and Guy remembered this note and visited the spots mentioned out of curiosity, but neither “tubs” nor “swag” were found!
Quitting the room with heavy hearts, the two friends locked the door, and went in search of those who are wont to perform the last offices to the dead.
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