Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XIV Part 15

Owing to a long continuance of easterly winds, the Cornwallis made a tedious pa.s.sage up the Channel, and our travellers were detained for some days at Gravesend, awaiting her arrival. To Philip this delay was most welcome; the bustling scenes around him seemed to arouse the latent energies of his nature. Accustomed to the quiet and peaceful monotony of a country life, he felt as if a new sphere of existence was opened to him; and everything he beheld bore, in his eyes, the stamp of novelty and excitement. His great delight was to loiter for hours at the stairs (Gravesend did not then boast of the handsome jetty which now adorns it), and to gaze at the numerous craft floating on the bosom of the majestic Thames; some lying at anchor, and others taking advantage of the tide to hasten towards their various destinations. Frank and open in his manner, eager and anxious in his thirst for information, the watermen, who were always lounging in numbers about the stairs, felt a pleasure in gratifying his curiosity, and in initiating him into all the mysteries of river seamans.h.i.+p; and he soon learned to distinguish the different "riggs" of the pa.s.sing vessels, from the lowly "peter-boat" to the majestic s.h.i.+p. One morning there was a dead calm; the river was gliding past unruffled by the slightest air; the cheerful "Yo, heave oh!" of the sailors, and the loud clanking of the windla.s.s "pauls," were heard distinctly from some of the distant colliers, shortening in cable, preparatory to making a start; while the rattling, clattering sounds of the chains were heard from others which were just "bringing up"--for it was high-water, and the upward-bound vessels were obliged to come to anchor. Philip had been at his usual post for some time, when his attention was attracted by the heavy, sluggish cloud of smoke which hung in the wake of two steamers, whose low painted chimneys were seen over the land, which they flitted past with great rapidity, while the tall, naked spars of a large s.h.i.+p towered far above them. At length their hulls became distinctly visible.

"Hand here the gla.s.s, Jem," said a waterman who was anxiously observing them, to his comrade; "let me have a squint at her. Ah, I'd swear to her among a thousand! That's the old Cornwallis! Jump into the boat, Jem, and let's push out into the stream."

Away flew our friend Philip to the inn, to tell his father, as he called him, the welcome news. The old gentleman hurried down to the stairs, and the Cornwallis had hardly let go her anchor in Gravesend Reach, before he and Philip were on her quarterdeck, inquiring for Catherine Douglas.

Captain M'Dougall of the Cornwallis received them with the greatest politeness, and, upon Gavin Douglas informing him of the cause of his visit, he was immediately ushered into one of the round-house cabins, where a little dark-eyed girl was playing with her ayah.

"Catherine, my dear," said Captain M'Dougall, "here is your grandpapa come to visit you."

Little Catherine, as we said before, was seven years old, and, like most Indian children, quick and clever beyond her years. She was a brunette in complexion--so much so, indeed, that she might have been mistaken for a descendant from parentage of the climate in which she had been reared.

Her eyes were dark, lively, and brilliant, and a profusion of rich black hair fell in cl.u.s.ters upon her shoulders. The moment she heard Captain M'Dougall's announcement, she dropped the toy with which she was playing, and ran eagerly up to Douglas:--

"Are you really grandpapa Gavin?"

"Yes, my love," said the old gentleman, almost smothering her with kisses.

"Are you quite sure?" said she: "then," looking smilingly up in his face, "I think I love you very much, grandpapa."

Philip was now introduced, and, in five minutes' time the two young people were sworn friends. Catherine had shown Philip all her rich store of toys, and had answered all his eager questions about the voyage, the s.h.i.+p, the uses of various things in the cabin, &c. Be not impatient, gentle reader, at the details of this childish meeting; the happiness or misery of life often depends upon trifles light as air, and our friend Philip's future destiny took its hue from the consequences of that intimacy of which we have just been describing the commencement. In the course of a fortnight, the travellers with their young charge returned to Eskhall, where the little stranger met with the most affectionate welcome. The banks of the Esk were beautiful as ever; but, to Philip's eyes, they had lost great part of their attraction; he had had a glimpse of the scenes of active life, and he was eager to engage in them. The country sports in which he used to take such delight began to lose their relish; and his princ.i.p.al amus.e.m.e.nt now was to wander in the green fields with little Catherine, and to listen to the tales she told of her recollections of the distant lands she had left. His curiosity was excited, and he burned with impatience to visit them, and to judge for himself; and he expressed to Gavin Douglas his predilection for a sailor's life, and his eager wish to commence his career as soon as circ.u.mstances would allow. Gavin's heart yearned towards the handsome and spirited boy, whose eye sparkled, and whose tongue became eloquent, as he urged his suit; and he felt that the time was come, which he had long looked forward to with pain, when this young and ardent spirit must leave his guardian care, and be intrusted to its own impulses. He talked seriously and affectionately to the boy on the subject of his wishes; told him--what had hitherto been kept a secret from him--the history of his first appearance at Eskhall; a.s.sured him that he always would be, as he hitherto had been, in the place of a father to him; and concluded with saying--"Reflect seriously upon what I have pointed out to you, my dear boy; I have laid before you, as far as my experience goes, all the advantages and disadvantages of the profession which you wish to adopt; weigh the matter carefully in your thoughts; and if, at the end of a week, you continue in the same mind, I will do all in my power to promote your wishes."

Poor Philip's astonishment and distress was unbounded, when Gavin informed him of the mystery that hung over his birth. He had always. .h.i.therto been known by the name of Douglas, and had been accustomed to consider himself as Gavin's grandson; and the truth burst upon him with the astounding effect of a thunderbolt. Pale as ashes, with the tears streaming down his cheeks, he exclaimed--

"Not your grandson, sir? Then who am I? Good heavens! have I been living from my earliest years a poor dependant upon your bounty? O my generous benefactor! my more than father! how can I ever prove my grat.i.tude to you for your unvaried affection and kindness?"

"You have already proved it, Philip, by repaying affection with affection; by your steady obedience, and constant attention to my slightest wish. I have a father's love for you, Philip; and, poor, and unknown, and alien as you are, you have made yourself as dear to me as if you were my own flesh and blood. I feared that this disclosure would fall like a blight upon your young spirit; but, painful as it is, it was necessary that it should be made. Cheer up, my boy! brighter days will come. I feel a conviction that the secret of your birth will be one day discovered, and that you will have no reason to blush for your parentage."

"Heaven grant it may be so, sir! but I dare not hope. If I had not been a cause of shame to my parents, would they have deserted me?"

Douglas shook his head, and said--

"Time will show. At all events, my dear Philip, look upon me as your father until you find a better."

"That can never be, my dear, dear gr----benefactor."

The week of reflection pa.s.sed away; but not so Philip's resolution, which was now confirmed and strengthened by his eager desire to relieve Mr. Douglas from the burden of his support, and by the hope that he might by some fortunate chance be guided to the discovery of his true parents. On his making known his decision, Gavin Douglas immediately wrote to a friend in town, through whose interest he obtained for him an appointment as mids.h.i.+pman on board an Indiaman which was on the point of sailing for Bengal and China, and which it was necessary for him to "join" immediately. Before he left Eskhall, Gavin delivered into his hands the ring and other articles that had been found in the basket in which he was exposed when an infant, that he might have some clue whereby to endeavour to trace out his parents. Delighted as Philip was at the prospect of entering upon his new profession, he felt the greatest sorrow at parting from his kind and liberal benefactor, and from those whom he had been so long accustomed to look upon as near and dear relations; but still more deeply was he affected at leaving his beloved little playmate, Catherine. _Her_ grief on the occasion was excessive. Philip had been her constant companion in all her little rambles, and her resource and comfort in all her childish difficulties and sorrows. He had scarcely ever left her side; and now she was to part with him--perhaps for ever! Poor Philip himself was obliged to exert all the pride of precocious manhood to resist the contagious example of her tears; but he did all in his power to comfort the little mourner, and at last partially succeeded, by reminding her that in a few months the voyage would be over.

"And _then_, dear Phil, will you come back again?"

"That I will."

"Oh, how glad I shall be to see you again!" And she jumped about, clapping her little hands for joy, till the recollection of the long separation that must intervene called forth a fresh torrent of tears.

At length the parting scene was over; and, freighted with the blessings and good wishes of all who knew him, Philip was fairly launched into the rough ocean of life, to be exposed to all its storms and quicksands, from which he had been hitherto safely sheltered in the calm haven of domestic peace. The first voyage pa.s.sed safely and happily; and some years flew by in the same routine of leave-takings and glad meetings.

Philip loved his profession enthusiastically; but, at every successive parting, he felt more and more unwilling to tear himself from Eskhall and its beloved inmates. Catherine was now a lovely, elegant girl of eighteen; her childish preference for Philip had been gradually and imperceptibly gaining strength, till it had become the ruling pa.s.sion of her heart. _He_ loved _her_ fondly and tenderly; but his fears were excited by her constantly-increasing reserve towards him; there was such apparent inconsistency between the attentive kindness of her actions, and the distance and almost coldness of her manner, that he was puzzled as well as surprised. But the eyes of Gavin Douglas's experience were open, and he had for some time read--in the changing complexion of Catherine whenever Philip approached her, in the embarra.s.sment of her manner whenever she addressed him, and in the suppressed eagerness of her interest in whatever concerned him--that secret which she shrunk from confessing even to her own heart. Though he dreaded the consequence of an attachment which he thought might be productive of only misery and disappointment, yet he had too much confidence in Philip's honour and discretion to fear any clandestine avowal of love on his part. He wrote to his son Edward in Calcutta, informing him of his suspicions and fears as to the state of Catherine's affections--telling him all the particulars of Philip's history, and leaving it to his own judgment to act as he thought circ.u.mstances required.

"In the meantime," wrote he, "I cannot openly interfere, lest, by striving to remedy, I should only increase the evil; but I will endeavour, quietly and un.o.btrusively, to keep the young people apart until I hear your decision. My opinion is, that a final separation will be the only means of weaning them from each other. Catherine has a father's home to receive her--when poor _Philip_ leaves _me_, he leaves his only earthly protector; and, even for my grand-daughter's sake, I cannot part with one whose amiable and affectionate dispositions have rendered him dear to me as a son."

The result of this communication was a letter to Catherine from her father, telling her that he was obliged to visit England for a few months, on business, and begging her to hold herself in readiness to accompany him on his return to Calcutta. Philip had just arrived from abroad when he received this news; and, as is often the case, it was not till he feared he was going to part with Catherine for ever, that he felt how deeply and fondly he loved her. He became restless and unhappy; and wandered away, day after day, alone, under pretence of seeking amus.e.m.e.nt in rural sports, but in reality for the sake of indulging the sorrow that was preying upon his mind. He shunned all society, even that of her whose image was ever present to him, and absented himself as much as he possibly could from the family meetings at meals. His dejection began to have an evident effect upon his health, and the kind-hearted Gavin grieved to see his young favourite pining under the influence of his hidden sorrow.

"Philip, my son," said he to him, one day, "why have you not confided in me, your oldest and dearest friend? I have penetrated your secret, Philip, and I honour you for endeavouring to confine it to your own bosom; but you must rouse all your energies to shake off the tyranny of a pa.s.sion which your high sense of principle must tell you cannot safely be indulged in, and is only likely to be productive of sorrow and disappointment." He then proceeded to remind him delicately of the cloud that hung over his birth, of his want of means to maintain the woman of his choice in comfort, and of the absolute necessity for his strenuous exertions to rise in his profession, as the only chance of bettering his condition in life; "for though," added the generous man, "it is my intention to make some provision for you in my will, yet there are so many claims of relations.h.i.+p upon me, that your proportion will, I fear, be but small."

Philip's heart swelled, and his eye glistened, as he pressed the old man's hand, in mute acknowledgment of his kindness; and some moments elapsed ere he could sufficiently command his feelings to give expression to them in words. At length, in broken and hurried accents, he expressed his heartfelt grat.i.tude; he confessed that he had long loved Catherine, but said that he had never "told his love," hoping that his prospects might brighten, and that he might then be enabled to prove himself worthy of the happiness he sought. He acknowledged the justice and propriety of all Mr Douglas had said, and expressed his conviction that it was his duty, however painful it might be to his feelings, to tear himself from the society of one whose presence was so dangerous to his peace, and to endeavour, however vain that endeavour might be, for _her_ sake as well as for his own, to conceal, though he could not stifle, the pa.s.sion which reigned in his heart. It was agreed upon between the two friends that Philip should employ his time while on sh.o.r.e in travelling, till his s.h.i.+p was again ready for sea, and that he should then join her, without taking leave a second time of his friends, except by letter. Poor Philip could hardly command his feelings, when taking what he considered to be his final farewell of Catherine. He knew that, when he next returned home, Eskhall would have lost its princ.i.p.al charm in his eyes--that _she_ would no longer be there, and that, in all human probability, they might never meet again. Catherine only felt, or appeared to feel, the uneasiness attending a temporary parting; but her voice trembled slightly as, with a pale but steady countenance, she bade him adieu; and, leaving the room, with a calm though melancholy manner, she hurried to her chamber, and, securing the door, gave way to the sorrow which in his presence she had successfully endeavoured to restrain. Time pa.s.sed slowly and heavily with Philip during a rambling tour which he made through different parts of England and Wales. He fought manfully against the sorrow that oppressed him, and endeavoured, by rapidity of motion, and constant variation of scene, to turn his thoughts into another channel; but in vain--the arrow was fixed too deeply in his heart. He hurried from place to place, and from change to change; but he could not fly from himself. In vain did nature present her varied beauties to his eyes; he gazed listlessly and vacantly upon all he beheld--he looked as though he saw not, for his heart was elsewhere, and he felt that for him the charm of existence was over. In the meantime, Catherine's father had arrived at Eskhall, and had been informed by Gavin Douglas of Philip's n.o.ble struggle with his unfortunately-placed pa.s.sion, and of the anguish of mind which his resolution had cost him.

"Generous young man!" exclaimed Edward Douglas; "he deserves a happier fate. Would that I could favour his suit! But, poor, unknown, and perhaps basely born as he is, it is my duty as a father to oppose it."

Shortly before Philip's s.h.i.+p _came afloat_, Edward Douglas was obliged to go to London on business; and there he found out and introduced himself to our young friend. Few young men of his age possessed greater powers of pleasing than Philip; there was a frank ingenuousness in his manner and address which, seconded by the remarkable beauty of his features, immediately made a favourable impression upon a stranger--an impression which a further intimacy seldom failed to strengthen into affection and esteem. Such was the effect of his introduction to Edward Douglas. They were mutually pleased with each other, and every hour that Philip could spare from professional duties was devoted to his new friend, rendered doubly dear to him by his near connection with her whose name he dared not mention, though ever in his thoughts.

"My dear fellow," said Douglas to him one day, "I am aware of the sacrifice you have made of feeling to principle, and I honour and esteem you for it. Would to heaven your circ.u.mstances and my own were different! Situated as you are, without the means of supporting even _yourself_, I think I know you too well already to imagine that you would willingly expose her you love to poverty and humiliation. Were my circ.u.mstances such as to enable me to enrich my daughter, and to follow the inclinations of my own heart, I know no one for whom I would more willingly use a father's influence than yourself."

Philip's heart was too full for words; yet, though he felt the hards.h.i.+p, he acknowledged the justice, of Edward Douglas's objections, and felt greatly affected by his kind expressions of friendly feeling towards him. They parted with mutual regret; Edward to return to Eskhall, and Philip to join his s.h.i.+p at Gravesend.

"Ah!" said Gavin Douglas, one morning, about a fortnight after the above parting, as the family were seated round the breakfast-table, "there is the post-bag. Bring it here, James" (to the servant). "It looks too thin to contain anything, I am afraid. Yes; here is a letter from dear Phil."

"When is he to return, grandfather?" asked Emma, now a full-grown woman.

Catherine was seized with a sudden curiosity to look at a pamphlet which lay upon the table, and which she held very close to her eyes.

"Return, my love!" said Gavin; "when his voyage is over, I hope. This letter was sent on sh.o.r.e by the pilot, and is dated 'Off Scilly.' But, mercy upon us! what is the matter with Catherine?"

The pamphlet had fallen from her hand; the cheek which had flushed to crimson at the mention of Philip's name was now of death-like paleness; and she was leaning back in her chair, with her eyes closed, and panting for breath.

"Thoughtless blockhead that I was!" muttered Gavin Douglas. And he then set himself to repair the mischief he had done, by bustling about to procure the necessary remedies, which at last succeeded in restoring Catherine to consciousness.

"It was a sudden spasm," said she; "I shall soon recover from it."

"Poor girl!" thought Gavin, "I fear not; the evil is more deeply rooted than I imagined."

From this period, Catherine became quite an altered character. A settled melancholy seemed to weigh upon her heart. She was mild, gentle, and affectionate as ever; but the buoyancy of her spirit was gone, and the smile, which now but seldom brightened her countenance, was evidently but grief in disguise. Her friends, with delicate consideration, avoided all allusion to the cause of her sorrow, which was but too well known to them all; and her fond and grieving father hoped that time and absence, and the novel scenes she was about to enter into, might work, imperceptibly to herself, a gradual cure.

Nearly nine months had elapsed since Philip's departure; Catherine, half broken-hearted, had accompanied her father on s.h.i.+pboard, and was far on her way to the East; and the Recovery, Philip's s.h.i.+p, was on her homeward voyage. One fine night in March, the Recovery was running along the Lagullas Bank, taking advantage of the current which sweeps round the Cape of Good Hope to the eastward. The wind was light but steady from the S.E., and the night cloudy, when the look-out man on the forecastle called out, "A light on the larboard bow, sir!" A small glimmering light was seen on the horizon to windward, which gradually enlarged to a broad flame, wavering and flickering in the breeze; and almost immediately the dull sound of a gun came faintly moaning over the waters, and a long train of arrowy light went rus.h.i.+ng up into the sky, where it hung for a moment, and then burst into separate flashes, which gradually died away as they descended. The officer of the deck ran in to the captain immediately. "I am afraid, sir, there is a s.h.i.+p on fire to windward. There is a strong light on our weather-beam, and I heard the report of a gun, and saw the flash of a rocket."

"Indeed! Tell the gunner to clear away one of the guns. Call the hands out. I will be out in a minute."

The light, in the meantime, was gradually increasing in size, and it was evident, from the wavering outline which it presented, that the first conjecture respecting its origin was a correct one; and gun after gun confirmed it. The captain speedily made his appearance on deck, and, after a moment's glance to windward, called to the chief mate, "Run the stunsails in, Mr Waring. Brace sharp up, and bring the s.h.i.+p to the wind.

Are you all ready with that gun, Mr Wad?"

"All ready, sir!"

"Then, fire! Bear a hand, clear away another gun."

The Recovery was now hauled close to the wind, and was slipping rapidly through the water in the direction of the light; all hands were on deck, and, after the bustle of taking in and stowing the studdingsails had subsided, the eyes of all were directed with the greatest anxiety towards the horizon on the weather-bow, where the flame was now distinctly seen, sometimes barely visible above the water, and then bursting upward in broad and vivid jets, waving fitfully in the breeze.

All at once it disappeared, and half suppressed murmurs and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns burst from the excited crew of the Recovery.

"I fear we are too late, sir!" said Waring, the mate; "the light has disappeared."

"Very strange!" replied the captain, straining his eyes through the night-gla.s.s. "I hope not! Oh no! I see how it is. Don't you observe that the red fiery haze still hangs round the spot?--and, hark! there is another gun! She is on fire abaft, and is running down before the wind.

She has heard our signals. Fire another gun!"

The vessel to windward still continued firing minute-guns, by the louder report of which it was evident she was rapidly approaching; and in a short time the dark ma.s.s of her canvas was distinctly visible, standing out in bold relief from its fiery background.