“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.”
THE SAILOR’S STORY
I need not tell you, Julia, that, with whatever apparent firmness I might have taken leave of you, to tear myself from a home, a parent, and a sister that I loved so fondly, was a trial which taxed my fortitude to its utmost extent. It is true, that I had been long weary of inaction, and longing after those scenes of wild excitement which war every day presents, and which to the ardent fancy of young minds are always so engrossing. Yet I hesitated to take the step; for, in my pursuit of that phantom, glory, how many objects of affection must be abandoned! The accidental embarrassment arising from the smuggling outrage of the evening confirmed me in a course already half resolved upon. I obeyed the impulse; parted from you, love; and at midnight found myself on board that gallant “thing of life,”—a British frigate.
Of her own noble class of vessels, the Harpy was among the finest; and she had a picked crew, and dashing commander. Cæsar O’Brien was an Irishman of humble family, and yet at the early age of twenty-four, he found himself a post-captain. But to no underhand interest was he indebted for his rapid preferment. His career had been gloriously distinguished; he could look back upon it with honest pride, and claim every step he got on the score of professional deserving. Justly considered one of the ablest officers in the service, it was strange that upon his merits his own crew held a divided opinion. The younger portion declared him a man without a fault; the older, however, discovered a failing in his character.—“The captain,” they complained, “had too much fight in him. It was true, he had an Irishman’s good luck; but, in the long run, it would bring him into trouble.”