Will Weatherhelm: The Yarn of an Old Sailor

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“You my nephew! I heard that without doubt he was dead. Yet let me look at you, boy!” she exclaimed, taking both my hands and fixing her eyes on my countenance. “Yes, you are Willand—you are my own dear boy—welcome, welcome back to life, and to one who loved you as her own son!” And she flung her arms round my neck and burst into tears. “Oh, Willand, had but dear mother been alive, how it would have done her heart good to see you! She never ceased talking of you, and always felt sure that you would come back when you could.”

I will not describe the scene any farther. I pretty nearly cried too—indeed I am not certain that I did not, but they were tears of happiness, and not yet entirely of happiness. There was sorrow for one I had lost—regret for my own obstinacy and thoughtlessness, and many other emotions mingled with the satisfaction of finding myself under the roof of one in whom I had the most perfect confidence, who I knew loved me sincerely. I think I have said it before, but if not, I now urge those who are blessed with real friends, to prize the lore their hearts bestow as a jewel above price, which wealth cannot purchase, and which, let them wander the world round, they may never find again.

After my aunt and I had sat a little time, in came the fine old gentleman I had met. I now guessed who he must be. He very quickly understood who I was. “You are not the first seaman I have known who has been lost for years, and has at last turned up again when he was least expected,” said he; “but welcome, Willand, I’m very glad to see you, and to own you for my nephew.” He very soon gave evidence of the sincerity of his words, for a kinder, better-hearted man I never met, and I felt thankful that Aunt Bretta had married a man so well worthy of her.

My uncle accompanied me back to the inn where I had left my chest and bag, and we got a porter to carry them to his house; and now, for the first time since I went to sea, I found myself settled with my relations quietly on shore. I had been very happy with the La Mottes, but still they were strangers. My kind aunt never seemed tired of trying to find out what would please me. She had done something to spoil me as a boy—it appeared as if there was a great probability of her spoiling me as a man. We had much to talk about. I told her of my falling in with the old lady at Plymouth, and of my visit to my grandmother’s tomb. I found that Miss Rundle had never written to her, or if she had written, the letter had not reached her.

“I suspect that she was afraid I might answer her letter, and she did not like the idea of having to pay the return postage. It shows that she does not consider my friendship worth ninepence.”

Still I was surprised that Miss Rundle had not written, as she had so positively promised to do. I could not exactly make it out. I found that my aunt knew nothing of old Mrs Sandon and her niece. She was very much interested with my description of the young lady. “So, Willand,” said she, “I hope you will go back to Plymouth and find her out again. There are very many good girls in the world, but, like sweet violets, they often bloom unseen, and it is not so easy to find them. From what you tell me of her, and I can bring her clearly before my mind’s eye, she is just the sort of person to make a man a good wife, and I hope that you may be able to win her.” Now, when my aunt spoke thus, I laughed, and said that I had not thought of settling, and that it was not likely I should win a young lady like her, who was a great deal too good to be the wife of a foremast man like me, and anything else I never expected to be.

“You need not say that, Willand,” replied Aunt Bretta. “I have something to say to you on that subject. You must know, Willand, that your father left some money to your grandmother for her life, and afterwards it was to go to you; but when you were supposed to be dead I took possession of it. Now, my dear boy, that you have come back, your uncle and I have been preparing to give it up to you. It is yours by every law of right, so do not say a word about it. We can manage very well without it.”

“Indeed, I will not deprive you of a farthing of it, dear aunt!” I exclaimed. “I would rather go to sea for a dozen years longer and never come back again, than take the bread out of your mouths. I won’t take it, so don’t be pressing it on me. I have got plenty without it. There, take care of that.” And I gave her the cash I had been carrying in my pocket. “You can make me your heir, if you like, and I hope it will be a very long time before I come into my fortune.”

My uncle soon after came in, and we had a long talk over the matter. I succeeded at last in making them keep the money. The fact was, I knew myself better than they knew me, and I felt pretty certain that some day or other I might spend it all, and nobody would be the better for it. This affair settled, we lived together still more pleasantly than ever, for they had it off their minds, and I felt that I had done what was right. I found that my uncle had once been what Miss Rundle called a common sailor—that is to say, he had been mate of a merchantman, and had been pressed on board a man-of-war, where he had obtained a warrant as boatswain. While acting as such, he had lost his leg. After he had recovered he got command of a large merchantman, for he was a good navigator as well as a first-rate seaman. He was not very refined, according to some people’s notions, I dare say, nor were some of his acquaintance. He valued them, as he did all things, for their sterling qualities, and cared very little for their outside. A good many of his old friends and shipmates used to look in on him, and I was much struck by the kind and hospitable way in which my aunt always received them. “They are my husband’s friends, and I inquire no further,” she used to say. “I know that he will never ask anybody I shall not be glad to receive.”

Scarcely an evening passed without our having one or more guests, and this made it very pleasant. Just as we were sitting down to tea one evening, a ring was heard, and on my uncle’s opening the door (I found that he always did that sort of work), I heard him exclaim, “Come in, Jerry! come in, old boy! There is only my nephew here, and he won’t be sorry to hear you talk, I’m sure.” There was a shuffling and cleaning of shoes, and then my uncle ushered in as odd a looking old man as I ever saw. He was of diminutive figure, very wizened and wiry, with long grizzly hair and small bright eyes, with a wonderfully roguish expression in them.