There were not a few surprising and unexpected meetings that day on Ramsgate pier1. Foremost among the hundreds who pressed forward to shake the lifeboat-men by the hand, and to sympathise with and congratulate the wrecked3 and rescued people, was Mr George Durant. It mattered nothing to that stout4 enthusiast5 that his hat had been swept away into hopeless destruction during his frantic6 efforts to get to the front, leaving his polished head exposed to the still considerable fury of the blast and the intermittent7 violence of the sun; and it mattered, if possible, still less that the wreck2 turned out to be one of his own vessels8; but it was a matter of the greatest interest and amazement9 to him to find that the first man he should meet in the crowd and seize in a hearty10 embrace, was his young friend, Stanley Hall.
“What, Stanney!” he exclaimed in unmitigated surprise; “is it—can it be? Prodigious11 sight!”
The old gentleman could say no more, but continued for a few seconds to wring12 the hands of his young friend, gaze in his face, and vent13 himself in gusts14 of surprise and bursts of tearful laughter, to the great interest and amusement of the bystanders.
Mr Durant’s inconsistent conduct may be partly accounted for and excused by the fact that Stanley had stepped on the pier with no other garments on than a pair of trousers and a shirt, the former having a large rent on the right knee, and the latter being torn open at the breast, in consequence of the violent removal of all the buttons when its owner was dragged into the lifeboat. As, in addition to this, the young man’s dishevelled hair did duty for a cap, and his face and hands were smeared15 with oil and tar16 from the flare-lights which he had assisted to keep up so energetically, it is not surprising that the first sight of him had a powerful effect on Mr Durant.
“Why, Stanney,” he said at length, “you look as if you were some strange sea-monster just broke loose from Neptune17’s menagerie!”
Perhaps this idea had been suggested by the rope round Stanley’s waist, the cut end of which still dangled18 at his side, for Mr Durant took hold of it inquiringly.
“Ay, sir,” put in the coxswain, who chanced to be near him, “that bit of rope is a scarf of honour. He saved the life of a soldier’s widow with it.”
There was a tendency to cheer on the part of the bystanders who heard this.
“God bless you, Stanney, my boy! Come and get dressed,” said the old gentleman, suddenly seizing his friend’s arm and pushing his way through the crowd, “come along; oh, don’t talk to me of the ship. I know that it’s lost; no matter—you are saved. And do you come along with us Wel—Wel—what’s the name of —? Ah! Welton—come; my daughter is here somewhere. I left her near the parapet. Never mind, she knows her way home.”
Katie certainly was there, and when, over the heads of the people—for she had mounted with characteristic energy on the parapet, assisted by Queeker and accompanied by Fanny Hennings—she beheld19 Stanley Hall in such a plight20, she felt a disposition21 to laugh and cry and faint all at once. She resisted the tendency, however, although the expression of her face and her rapid change of colour induced Queeker with anxious haste to throw out his arms to catch her.
“Ha!” exclaimed Queeker, “I knew it!”
What Queeker knew he never explained. It may have had reference to certain suspicions entertained in regard to the impression made by the young student on Katie the night of their first meeting; we cannot tell, but we know that he followed up the exclamation22 with the muttered remark, “It was fortunate that I pulled up in time.”
Herein Queeker exhibited the innate23 tendency of the human heart to deceive itself. That furious little poetical24 fox-hunter had, by his own confession25, felt the pangs26 of a guilty conscience in turning, just because he could not help it, from Katie to Fanny, yet here he was now basely and coolly taking credit to himself for having “pulled up in time!”
“Oh, look at the dear little children!” exclaimed Fanny, pointing towards a part of the crowd where several seamen27 were carrying the rescued and still terrified little ones in their strong arms, while others assisted the women along, and wrapped dry shawls round them.
“How dreadful to think,” said Katie, making a hard struggle to suppress her agitation28, “that all these would have been lost but for the lifeboat; and how wonderful to think that some of our own friends should be among them!”
“Ay, there be many more besides these saved last night, miss,” remarked a sturdy old boatman who chanced to be standing29 beside her. “All along the east coast the lifeboats has bin30 out, miss, you may be sure; and they don’t often shove off without bringin’ somethin’ back to show for their pains, though they don’t all ’ave steamers for to tug31 ’em out. There’s the Broadstairs boat, now; I’ve jist heerd she was out all night an’ saved fifteen lives; an’ the Walmer and Deal boats has fetched in a lot, I believe, though we han’t got particklers yet.”
Besides those whom we have mentioned as gazing with the crowd at the arrival of the lifeboat, Morley Jones, and Nora, and Billy Towler were there. Jones and Billy had returned from London together the night before the storm, and, like nearly every one else in the town, had turned out to witness the arrival of the lifeboat.
Dick Moy also was there, and that huge lump of good-nature spent the time in making sagacious remarks and wise comments on wind and weather, wrecks32 and rescues, in a manner that commanded the intense admiration33 of a knot of visitors who happened to be near him, and who regarded him as a choice specimen—a sort of type—of the British son of Neptune.
“This is wot I says,” observed Dick, while the people were landing “so long as there’s ’ope, ’old on. Never say die, and never give in; them’s my sentiments. ’Cause why? no one never knows wot may turn up. If your ship goes down; w’y, wot then? Strike out, to be sure. P’r’aps you may be picked up afore long. If sharks is near, p’r’aps you may be picked down. You can never tell. If you gets on a shoal, wot then? w’y, stick to the ship till a lifeboat comes off to ’ee. Don’t never go for to take to your own boats. If you do—capsize, an’ Davy Jones’s locker34 is the word. If the lifeboat can’t git alongside; w’y, wait till it can. If it can’t; w’y, it can only be said that it couldn’t. No use cryin’ over spilt milk, you know. Not that I cares for milk. It don’t keep at sea, d’ye see; an’s only fit for babbys. If the lifeboat capsizes; w’y, then, owin’ to her parfection o’ build, she rights again, an’ you, ’avin’ on cork35 jackets, p’r’aps, gits into ’er by the lifelines, all handy. If you ’aven’t got no cork jackets on, w’y, them that has’ll pick ’ee up. If not, it’s like enough you’ll go down. But no matter, you’ve did yer best, an’ man, woman, or child can do no more. You can only die once, d’ye see?”
Whether the admiring audience did or did not see the full force of these remarks, they undoubtedly36 saw enough in the gigantic tar to esteem37 him a marvel38 of philosophic39 wisdom. Judging by their looks that he was highly appreciated, it is just possible that Dick Moy might have been tempted40 to extend his discourse41, had not a move in the crowd showed a general tendency towards dispersion, the rescued people having been removed, some to the Sailor’s Home, others to the residences of hospitable42 people in the town.
Now, it must not be imagined that all these characters in our tale have been thus brought together, merely at our pleasure, without rhyme or reason, and in utter disregard of the law of probabilities. By no means.
Mr Robert Queeker had started for Ramsgate, as the reader knows, on a secret mission, which, as is also well known, was somewhat violently interrupted by the sporting tendencies of that poetical law-clerk; but no sooner did Queeker recover from his wounds than—with the irresistible44 ardour of a Wellington, or a Blucher, or a bull-dog, or a boarding-school belle—he returned to the charge, made out his intended visit, set his traps, baited his lines, fastened his snares45, and whatever else appertained to his secret mission, so entirely46 to the satisfaction of Messrs Merryheart and Dashope, that these estimable men resolved, some time afterwards, to send him back again to the scene of his labours, to push still further the dark workings of his mission. Elate with success the earnest Queeker prepared to go. Oh, what joy if she would only go with him!
“And why not?” cried Queeker, starting up when this thought struck him, as if it had struck him too hard and he were about to retaliate,—“Why not? That is the question.”
He emphasised that as if all other questions, Hamlet’s included, sank into insignificance47 by contrast.
“Only last night,” continued Queeker to himself, still standing bolt upright in a frenzy48 of inspiration, and running his fingers fiercely through his hair, so as to make it stand bolt upright too—“only last night I heard old Durant say he could not make up his mind where to go to spend the autumn this year. Why not Ramsgate? why not Ramsgate?
“Its chalky cliffs, and yellow sand,
And rides, and walks, and weather,
Its windows, which a view command
Of everything together.
“Its pleasant walks, and pretty shops,
“Its boats and boatmen, brave and true,
Who lounge upon the jetty,
And smile upon the girls too—
At least when they are pretty.
“Oh! Ramsgate, where in all the earth,
Beside the lovely sea,
Can any town of note or worth
Be found to equal thee?
“Nowhere!” said Queeker, bringing his fist down on the table with a force that made the ink leap, when he had finished these verses—verses, however, which cost him two hours and a profuse52 perspiration53 to produce.
It was exactly a quarter to eight p.m. by the Yarmouth custom-house clock, due allowance being made for variation, when this “Nowhere!” was uttered, and it was precisely54 a quarter past nine p.m. that day week when the Durants drove up to the door of the Fortress55 Hotel in Ramsgate, and ordered beds and tea,—so powerful was the influence of a great mind when brought to bear on Fanny Hennings, who exercised irresistible influence over the good-natured Katie, whose power over her indulgent father was absolute!
Not less natural was the presence, in Ramsgate, of Billy Towler. We have already mentioned that, for peculiarly crooked56 ends of his own, Morley Jones had changed his abode57 to Ramsgate—his country abode, that is. His headquarters and town department continued as before to flourish in Gravesend, in the form of a public-house, which had once caught fire at a time, strange to say, when the spirit and beer casks were all nearly empty, a curious fact which the proprietor58 alone was aware of, but thought it advisable not to mention when he went to receive the 200 pounds of insurance which had been effected on the premises59 a few weeks before! It will thus be seen that Mr Jones’s assurance, in the matter of dealing60 with insurance, was considerable.
Having taken up his temporary abode, then, in Ramsgate, and placed his mother and daughter therein as permanent residents, Mr Jones commenced such a close investigation61 as to the sudden disappearance62 of his ally Billy, that he wormed out of the unwilling63 but helpless Nora not only what had become of him, but the name and place of his habitation. Having accomplished64 this, he dressed himself in a blue nautical65 suit with brass66 buttons, took the morning train to London, and in due course presented himself at the door of the Grotto67, where he requested permission to see the boy Towler.
The request being granted, he was shown into a room, and Billy was soon after let in upon him.
“Hallo! young Walleye, why, what ever has come over you?” he exclaimed in great surprise, on observing that Billy’s face was clean, in which condition he had never before seen it, and his hair brushed, an extraordinary novelty; and, most astonishing of all, that he wore unragged garments.
Billy, who, although outwardly much altered, had apparently68 lost none of his hearty ways and sharp intelligence, stopped short in the middle of the room, thrust both hands deep into his trousers pockets, opened his eyes very wide, and gave vent to a low prolonged whistle.
“You are greatly improved, Billy,” said Jones, holding out his hand.
“I’m not aweer,” replied the boy, drawing back, “as I’ve got to thank you for it.”
“Come, Billy, this ain’t friendly, is it, after all I’ve done for you?” said Jones, remonstratively; “I only want you to come out an’ ’ave a talk with me about things, an’ I’ll give ’ee a swig o’ beer or whatever you take a fancy to. You ain’t goin’ to show the white feather and become a milksop, are you?”
“Now, look here, Mister Jones,” said the boy, with an air of decision that there was no mistaking, as he retreated nearer to the door; “I don’t want for to have nothin’ more to do with you. I’ve see’d much more than enough of ’ee. You knows me pretty well, an’ you knows that wotiver else I may be, I ain’t a hippercrite. I knows enough o’ your doin’s to make you look pretty blue if I like, but for reasons of my own, wot you’ve got nothink to do with, I don’t mean to peach. All I ax is, that you goes your way an’ let me alone. That’s where it is. The people here seem to ’ave got a notion that I’ve got a soul as well as a body, and that it ain’t ’xactly sitch a worthless thing as to be never thought of, and throw’d away like an old shoe. They may be wrong, and they may be right, but I’m inclined to agree with ’em. Let me tell ’ee that you ’ave did more than anybody else to show me the evil of wicked ways, so you needn’t stand there grinnin’ like a rackishoot wi’ the toothache. I’ve jined the Band of Hope, too, so I don’t want none o’ your beer nor nothin’ else, an’ if you offers to lay hands on me, I’ll yell out like a she-spurtindeel, an’ bring in the guv’nor, wot’s fit to wollop six o’ you any day with his left hand.”
This last part of Billy’s speech was made with additional fire, in consequence of Morley Jones taking a step towards him in anger.
“Well, boy,” he said, sternly, “hypocrite or not, you’ve learned yer lesson pretty pat, so you may do as you please. It’s little that a chip like you could do to get me convicted on anything you’ve seen or heard as yet, an’ if ye did succeed, it would only serve to give yourself a lift on the way to the gallows70. But it wasn’t to trouble myself about you and your wishes that I came here for (the wily rascal71 assumed an air and tone of indifference72 at this point); if you had only waited to hear what I’d got to say, before you began to spit fire, you might have saved your breath. The fact is that my Nora is very ill—so ill that I fear she stands a poor chance o’ gittin’ better. I’m goin’ to send her away on a long sea voyage. P’r’aps that may do her good; if not, it’s all up with her. She begged and prayed me so earnestly to come here and take you down to see her before she goes, that I could not refuse her—particularly as I happened to have business in London anyhow. If I’d known how you would take it, I would have saved myself the trouble of comin’. However, I’ll bid you good-day now.”
“Jones,” said the boy earnestly, “that’s a lie.”
“Very good,” retorted the man, putting on his hat carelessly, “I’ll take back that message with your compliments—eh?”
“No; but,” said Billy, almost whimpering with anxiety, “is Nora really ill?”
“I don’t wish you to come if you don’t want to,” replied Jones; “you can stop here till doomsday for me. But do you suppose I’d come here for the mere43 amusement of hearing you give me the lie?”
“I’ll go!” said Billy, with as much emphasis as he had previously73 expressed on declining to go.
The matter was soon explained to the manager of the Grotto. Mr Jones was so plausible74, and gave such unexceptionable references, that it is no disparagement75 to the penetration76 of the superintendent77 of that day to say that he was deceived. The result was, as we have shown, that Billy ere long found his way to Ramsgate.
When Mr Jones introduced him ceremoniously to Nora, he indulged in a prolonged and hearty fit of laughter. Nora gazed at Billy with a look of intense amazement, and Billy stared at Nora with a very mingled78 expression of countenance79, for he at once saw through the deception80 that had been practised on him, and fully81 appreciated the difficulty of his position—his powers of explanation being hampered82 by a warning, given him long ago by his friend Jim Welton, that he must be careful how he let Nora into the full knowledge of her father’s wickedness.
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1
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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7
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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8
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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9
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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11
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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12
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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15
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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17
Neptune
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| n.海王星 | |
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18
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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19
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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20
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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22
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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27
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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28
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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29
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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30
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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31
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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33
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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38
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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41
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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42
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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43
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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44
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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45
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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48
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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50
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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51
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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52
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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54
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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55
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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56
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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57
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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