Wesley laughed.
“I ventured nothing, my good friend,” he said. “I came upon the shipwrecked man by the blessing of God, in good time. I have been wondering since I rose if he had suffered shipwreck. Did you learn so much at the village—and pray hath he fully recovered himself?”
“I dare not say fully, but he has recovered himself enough to be able to tell his story,” replied Hartwell.
“And he was wrecked?”
“Only swamped at sea. He is a ship-master, Snowdon, by name, but 'twas not his own craft that went down, but only a miserable coasting ketch that ventured from Bristol port to Poole with a cargo of pottery—something eminently sinkable. Strange to say, Captain Snowdon set out from Bristol, wanting to go no further than our own port; for why? you ask. Why, sir, for a true lover's reason, which may be reckoned by some folk as no reason at all—namely a hope to get speedily by the side of his mistress, this lady being none other than our friend, the pretty and virtuous young woman known as Nelly Polwhele.”
“Ah! Nelly Polwhele?”
“None other, sir. It seems that Nelly met this good master-mariner a year ago at Bristol, and following the usage of all our swains, he falls in love with her. And she, contrary to her usage of the stay-at-home swains who piped to her, replies with love for love. But a long voyage loomed before him, so after getting her promise, he sails for the China Seas and the coast of the Great Mogul. Returning with a full heart and, I doubt not, a full pocket as well, he is too impatient to wait for the sailing of a middle-sized packet for Falmouth or Plymouth, he must needs take a passage in the first thing shaped like a boat that meant to come round the Lizard, and this was a ketch of some ten ton, that opened every seam before the seas that the hurricane of yesterday raised up in the Channel, and so got swamped when trying to run ashore on some soft ground. Nelly's shipmaster, Mr. Snowdon, must have been struggling in the water for something like four hours, and was washed up, well-nigh at the very door of the young woman's cottage, and so—well, you know more of the remainder of the story than doth any living man—not even excepting the Captain himself.”
“And the young woman—have you heard how she received her lover?” asked Wesley.
“Ah, that is the point at which Rumour becomes, for a marvel, discreetly silent,” replied Hartwell. “I suppose it is taken for granted that the theme has been dealt with too frequently by the poets to have need to be further illustrated by a fisherman's daughter. Take my word for it, sir, the young woman, despite her abundance of womanly traits, is a good and kind and true girl at heart. She hath not been spoiled by the education which she received as companion to the Squire's young ladies.”
“That was my judgment, too,” said Wesley. “I pray that the man will be a good husband to her. His worldly position as the master of an East Indiaman is an excellent one.”