Bertha was our oldest sister and tea-maker general. She had no sinecure office of it; but, in spite often of the most remarkable demands, she dispensed the beverage with the most perfect justice and good humour. Not unsatisfactory were the visits paid to the sideboard, covered as it was with brawn, and ham, and tongue, and a piece of cold beef, and such like substantial fare.
Suddenly the tenor of our conversation was turned by the entrance of the servant with the post-bag. The elders were silent for a few minutes,—our father and mother and Bertha, and Cedric, who was at home from college. Our mother had a large circle of correspondents, and seldom a post arrived without a letter for her. Our father had fewer; but this morning he received one, in a large official-looking cover, which absorbed his attention. Still the clatter of tongues went on among us younger ones. Our father and mother had grown so accustomed to it, that, as the miller awakes when his mill stops, so they would have looked up to ascertain what was the matter had we been silent.
“Which of you would like to become a midshipman?” asked our father looking up suddenly.
The question had an effect rarely produced in the family. We were all silent. Our mother put down her letters, and her fond eyes glanced round on our faces. Her countenance was unusually grave.
Again my father looked at the document in his hand. “Captain Collyer says he should not be more than fourteen. Marmaduke, that is your age. What do you say on the subject?” said my father.
“Joliffe, what is it all about?” asked my mother, with a slight trepidation in her voice.
“I forgot that I had not read the letter. It is rather long. It is from my old friend, Dick Collyer, and a better fellow does not breathe. The tenor of it is that he has got command of a fine frigate, the Doris, fitting with all despatch for sea, and that he will take one of our boys as a midshipman, if we like to send the youngster with him. There is no time to lose, as he expects to be ready in a week or ten days; so we must decide at once.”
The question was put indirectly to me, “Should I like to go to sea?” Now, I had never even seen the sea, and had never realised what a man-of-war was like. The largest floating thing to which I was accustomed was the miller’s punt, in which my brothers and I used occasionally to paddle about on the mill-pond; in which mill-pond, by the bye, we had all learned to swim. I had seen pictures of ships, though as to the size of one, and the number of men she might carry, I was profoundly ignorant. I was, therefore, not very well qualified to come to a decision. Suddenly I recollected a visit paid to us by Tom Welby, an old schoolfellow, after his first trip to sea, and what a jolly life I thought he must lead as he described his adventures, and how fine a fellow he looked as he strutted about with his dirk at his side, the white patch on his collar, and the cockade in his hat. I decided at once. “If you wish it, father, I’m ready to go,” said I.
My father looked at me affectionately. There was, I am certain, a conflict going on in his mind whether or not he should part with me; but prudence conquered love.
“Of course, you must all have professions, boys, and the navy is a very fine one,” he observed. “What do you say, Mary?”