CHAPTER XIV. THE TABLES TURNED—THE SAILOR’S STORY.
“As thou urgest justice, be assur’d
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir’st.”
Shakspere.
Proverbs may be musty matters; but take them generally, and how admirably do they establish facts! “Between the cup and lip” slips are frequent and, as events turned out, Mr. Montague, of comic celebrity, was fated to point that moral.
Nothing could have been attended with more decisive success than the villany of the Jew. His boundless audacity had imposed upon a weak-headed country gentleman; and the information he had acquired at the Cock and Punch-bowl by listening at the wanderer’s door, enabled him to describe the property, alleged to have been stolen, with an accuracy that induced the greater number of those who heard the charge, to believe the story of the robbery confirmed. The hour of revenge was come. The girl, deprived of her protector, and thrown loose upon the world, would once more be at his mercy; and the Jew’s dark eyes brightened with fiendish delight. The man who had crossed his schemes, and treated him with contumely, would now be tenant of a prison; and the woman who had turned from him with contempt, and rejected his overtures with abhorrence, might soon be taught to feel that hatred often follows fast upon the steps of love.
But what appeared to the Jew to be the hour of his triumph, proved unexpectedly, that of retribution; for to mortal villany Providence assigns a limit.
The sudden appearance of the sailor, and the confusion it had occasioned, prevented the entrance of a second personage from being generally observed. Indeed, he slided so quietly into the room, that he seemed modestly endeavouring to avoid any particular attention. The stranger was a stout well-proportioned man, of middle height, and apparently of middle age; and from dress and appearance, it would have been impossible to guess to what order of the body politic he especially appertained. Except for a certain wide-awake expression of the face, he might have passed current for a mail-coachman, a publican, or a drover. Probably, to a horse-dealer he bore the closest affinity. He was dressed in a blue coat with gilt buttons, and extensive skirts and pockets. His vest was scarlet; his unmentionables drab kerseymere, to which jockey-boots were added. Round his neck a spotted silk handkerchief was knotted; and a white hat, with a remarkably broad brim, completed his costume.
Every eye had been directed upon the sailor and the companion of Mark Antony; but lie of the scarlet vest seemed unmoved by a scene that had interested all besides. Indeed, he was a person on whom effect, such as Napoleon would term “theatrical,” would have been absolutely thrown away. His feelings were impervious even to a fainting fit; and he had no more sentiment about him than an oyster. Gliding behind the backs of the spectators, he reached the spot whence Mr. Montague had delivered his address to the man of worship, and stooping to the Jew’s ear, whispered something which possessed the charm of a spell. To the very lip, colour fled from the sallow countenance of the Israelite. He appeared as motionless as if he had been mesmerized; while by a sort of sleight-of-hand the red-vested operator united his wrists together, quickly as if it had been done by magic, next moment it was discovered that Mr. Montague was manacled. The stranger then handed a paper to the gentleman upon the bench, with a request that he would “back that warrant for the apprehension of the prisoner, Ikey Lazarus.”
Of all the descendants of “the Shallows” Mr. Blundell looked the silliest. At last, however, he managed to comprehend that the Israelite was a returned convict, and added his signature to the order for the Jew’s arrest. The court, “in most admired disorder,” was broken up; the runner retiring with his captive; the sergeant and his companions to finish a compotation from which they had been unexpectedly disturbed; and the fosterer to seek some tidings of his lost mistress, who, as he was informed, had been removed by the sailor in a carriage to the inn.
“When consciousness returned, the poor wanderer found herself in the same apartment from which, not an hour since, she had been removed on a charge of felony. She unclosed her eyes. Was it an illusion? A look of love was bent upon her pallid countenance—and a long lost brother held her to his heart.
“William,” she murmured.
“Dear, dear, Julia,” returned the sailor, with a kiss.
“Am I waking?—are you alive, William?”
“Ay, girl,” replied the sailor, “and sound and hearty as English oak itself.”
“‘Twas said you were dead—that you had been slain in battle. How came you here? how have you escaped?”
“The story’s long, my sister. I’ll tell it to you presently. Enough; the squall has now blown over; and, d——n it—we shall all be happy once more.”
“No, no, no—I shall never know peace of mind. Would that I could be forgiven!” and tears rolled in fast succession down the poor wanderer’s cheeks.
“Forgiven!” exclaimed the sailor. “For what, Julia?—For being swindled by the false story of a betrayer; and afterwards, with more than woman’s love, clinging to the scoundrel who deceived you, until the grave closed upon his crimes.”
“I have indeed,” said the girl, with a sigh, “suffered for my offending. Oh, when I think of it, it almost maddens me! To have deserted my poor father, broken the old man’s heart, and by my misconduct brought him to the grave.” She paused, for sobs choked her utterance.
“You didn’t, God bless ye, break his heart,” exclaimed the sailor. “Had you run off a dozen times, he wouldn’t have mattered it a stranded rope-yarn. No, no, it was other disappointments that finished uncle Josh.”
“Finished uncle Josh?” inquired the wanderer.
“Ay; he’s gone to Davy’s locker, and the village has been quiet ever since. Three clients compromised their suits within one term; that killed our uncle, and Josh never raised his head afterwards.”
“No, no, William—my father—my dear, dear, father—” she made a pause, and then, in a suppressed voice, added, “Is he not dead too?”
“Dead!” replied the sailor. “He must have died since morning. I left him at a town ten miles off, while I came in pursuit of you, in company with a Bow-street officer, who was on another track, but offered to assist in your recovery.”
“Then,” exclaimed the girl, with breathless haste, “the death I read in the newspaper—”
“Was that of our loving uncle. I suppose it was George Gripp that inserted the old boy’s departure; for I believe the bailiff was the only being who regretted him.”
“And shall I once more, William, see my dear, dear, father?” said the actress.
“Ay, Julia, and before you sleep, the old man’s kiss shall welcome you, and his blessing seal your pardon.”
To the hurried narrative of his sister, the warm-hearted sailor listened with the deepest interest. The sufferings she had undergone; the death of her betrayer; her deliverance from the Jew; the kindness of Mrs. O’Leary, and the generous protection of the fosterer, all had their excitement, and elicited from William Rawlings by turns an execration or a burst of gratitude. No, wonder, therefore, that when Mark Antony joined the wanderer and her new protector, his welcome was a warm one. And yet how mingled in life’s history is pain and pleasure!—how soon is unexpected happiness dashed with some latent regret! The prospect of an immediate parting alloyed the triumph of success. Neither Mark Antony nor the quarter-master’s daughter felt at ease; and a similar cause of disquietude pressed heavily upon the breast of both. Under different terms, the feeling was the same; the fosterer called it by the right name—love; the lady by the wrong one—gratitude. Had the hearts of both been analysed, the chymist would have had results perfectly the same.
“William,” said the sailor’s sister, “you have not yet told me by what strange fortunes, one believed to be dead so long, has been again restored to those who love him. Oh! how vividly does that fatal evening return to memory, when you left your sister and your home. Alas! William, had you but known how desperately I was circumstanced, you would not have deprived me of my brother and my adviser.”
“That unregretted relative,” replied the sailor, “now in the grave, occasioned the rash act I then committed. No shadow of blame could have attached itself to me; for with the unfortunate homicide which occurred that evening I was totally unconnected. My savage uncle, who should have allayed my fears, alarmed me by hinting at the disgrace of incarceration; and, with the full conviction of innocence, I was weak enough to believe him. Hence, Julia, to evade an imaginary indignity, I madly left my home—and that at a moment, too, when my presence was most required. The adventures which befell me may interest you, my sister, and I shall briefly narrate them.”