“You can still fire them!” added another.
And the skipper, laughing like the mirth of a hoarse wave, taking him firmly by the ear with his finger and thumb, said—“Gather them up, sir—gather up your firearms!” And, as Mr Stafford persisted in disobeying, another twitch was given to his ear, and another and another, while he screamed and wept through passion and pain, danced and twisted to be free, to the amusement of the spectators, who enjoyed his punishment and humiliation.
“Sir,” said Isabella, addressing his tormentor, the frantic cries of Mr Stafford having brought her from the cabin, where she retired at the beginning of their altercation; “if a fly sting us, we may drive it away, without taking pleasure in its tortures; and it is but a cowardly revenge to torment an insect.”
“Well, ma’am,” said the skipper, withdrawing his hand from the ear of the other; “I have no wish to hurt the thing; only, after his impudence to you, as well as to mysel’, he had better have a care what sort o’ colours he hoists for the rest o’ the passage—that’s all.” The agony and confusion of Mr Stafford cannot be described. He blushed, swore, threatened, and wept by turns—rushed to the cabin, hurried back, threw his card in the captain’s face—stamped, stormed, and vowed vengeance, till he became silent from exhaustion. A few weeks before, he had left London for the north, partly to avoid the importunities of his creditors, whose claims had been discharged after his departure by the too fond indulgence of a foolish mother, but chiefly to carry into effect his long-cherished designs against the beautiful wife of his college companion, whose misfortunes caused him now to look upon her as an easy and lawful prize; and it was under this conviction that he watched her departure for London, and took his passage in the same vessel. Mortified at the ridiculous figure he exhibited, he resolved to suspend all further attempts until they arrived at London.
But three days were not past, notwithstanding the misfortune of the pistol-case, until the Honourable Edward Stafford, through the assistance of self-confidence or impudence, with pretended wit and foppish extravagance, was again the principal personage in the vessel. His brandy, his claret, and his cigars, operated marvellously in his favour with the gentlemen; every one sought his society, and called him a good fellow. The weather had hitherto been too fine for sea-sickness, and his agreeable attentions, his vivacity and elegant compliments, rendered him not less a favourite with the ladies. Isabella alone despised him; while he, affecting to despise her in return, circulated foul whispers against her character. Whatever doubts there might be in the minds of his auditory respecting the veracity of his accusation, the breath of slander is exhaled from a poison so black, that for a time its passing shadow will veil the holiness of a saint, and bedim the radiance of a seraph. Isabella, therefore, was shunned by her own sex as contagious, and by the other treated with cold indifference. Occasionally she observed their scrutinizing glances, or coloured at their half audible whispers, but, in the purity of her own heart, she suspected not the cause. In the master of the vessel only she still found a friend, who, although rough as his own element, evinced towards her the tenderness of a parent.
For some days the wind was adverse, and on the Sabbath morning, being the fifth from their leaving Newcastle, it was a dead calm. The skipper was walking backward and forward upon the deck, now glancing at the clouds, and now at the shore, with the countenance of a man who considers he has reason neither to be satisfied with himself nor with others. In the cabin some appeared to read, others yawned, while some went to the deck and instantly returned. The ladies looked at each other, whispered, fretted, and exclaimed—“How tedious!” Isabella sat silent amidst the unhappy group, “among them, but not of them.”
Mr Stafford, who hitherto had been whistling at his toilette, turned round and exclaimed—“Dumb as the foundations of a Quaker’s chapel! Come,” continued he, placing a couple of bottles of claret upon the table, “my pantomimic company of tragedians, allow me to administer the comforts of a calm to the necessities of your poor dumb mouths;” and, as he poured out the wine, he sang a few lines of an idle song. The company looked upon each other with a flitting expression of horror—none of them had been accustomed to hear the Sabbath so desecrated, though, as he proceeded, a few of them relaxed into a smile. But Isabella, rising, said emphatically—“Sir, the FOOL hath said in his heart, There is no God!” And she pronounced the word, fool, with a pointed sarcasm, which, although it in some measure took from the spirit of the original, rendered it more poignant in its present application.
“Your ladyship!” replied he, sneeringly, and, bowing to her with an air of mock humility. “Lily of the saints!” he added, “preach on, that the humblest of thy slaves may treasure up in his heart of hearts the pious honey of thine own sweet lips!”
He paused, and continuing his attitude of mock humility, commenced to hum the tune which he before had attempted to sing.
“Sir,” said Isabella, glancing upon him with scorn and compassion, “I pity you.”