Collected Works of Frances Trollope, page 231
She awakened from it greatly refreshed, and sufficiently herself again, to slip off her bed, arrange her ruffled garments, add to her dress a wrapping shawl that she knew gave her an air of dignity, and then, with her parasol in hand, she mounted the companion-way in search of the captain. She found him standing with his arms behind him, still watching Mr. O’Donagough and Jack at their everlasting game; while Miss Patty, as usual, was consoling herself for her exclusion from it, by following Jack’s every movement with her eyes, and endeavouring with all her might to make him cheat her papa.
It might be presumed from external symptoms, that every emotion of anger disagreed very violently with the sensitive frame of Mrs. O’Donagough; for it invariably caused an appearance of swelling over her whole person, and she now approached the group, who were amusing themselves on the quarter-deck, with a gait and movement, nearly resembling those of a stately turkey-cock, when some circumstance has in like manner ruffled his plumage and his temper.
Mrs. O’Donagough had not lost flesh during her residence in New South Wales; on the contrary, indeed, the greatest change which her appearance had undergone during the fifteen years of her absence from her native shores, arose from the general enlargement of her person, and there was now, therefore, something exceedingly striking and impressive in her aspect when under the influence of any indignant feeling.
Mr. Allen O’Donagough of course knew these symptoms well, and adopting his usual demeanour upon such occasions, appeared, instead of seeing her half as big again as usual, not to see her at all. But he need not have given himself the trouble of feigning, for he had nothing whatever to do with her present emotion, while the captain, who had continued to stand innocently unsuspicious, and without taking the least care of himself, within reach of her arm, was the sole object of her attention.
It was gently, however, that she extended that arm, and laid hold of his. “Captain Wilkins,” said she, in a tone of voice which, notwithstanding her inward agitation, was more than usually civil; “Captain Wilkins, will you be so kind as to let me speak to you for half a moment?”
Though a very good sort of fellow in many ways, Captain Wilkins had less of that devoted and undiscriminating gallantry to the fair sex, which is usually found in men of his profession, than Mrs. O’Donagough could have wished; she was quite aware of this, and did not scruple to confess to anybody who would listen to her, that Captain Wilkins was no particular favourite of hers. The captain, on his side, might have been aware of this also, or he might not; but be that as it may, he did not like Mrs. O’Donagough at all: and when, soon after they set sail, the first mate remarked to him that he thought Madame O’Donagough would still be a capital fine woman, if she was not so unaccountably big, the captain replied, “There’s no accounting for taste, Mr. Happerton, but to my fancy, she is altogether the most sprawling pattern of a female that I ever looked at on sea or land.”
When, therefore, he felt Mrs. O’Donagough’s gentle touch, and heard her invitation to a tête-à-tête, he looked as if he would not have been at all sorry if his more easily pleased first mate could have taken the duty instead of him. However, he was much too civil to say so, and bending his head with something between a nod and a bow, replied, “At your pleasure, ma’am.”
“I must detain you one instant, sir,’’ said the lady, hastening towards the retirement offered by a seat on the opposite side of the quarter-deck; “just sit down here one moment, and you shall hear quietly what I have got to say.”
“I prefer standing, ma’am, I thank ye,” replied the captain, placing himself before her at the distance of about five feet.
“Dear me, captain! I don’t want to bawl out so that the whole ship’s crew shall hear me, and I shan’t poison you, I suppose, if you do come a little nearer.”
Upon this, Captain Wilkins made a step, but not a very long one, in advance, and again placed himself in act to hear. Mrs. O’Donagough felt as if she would have liked to throw him overboard; but this did not prevent her again addressing him in a very civil, and almost in a coaxing tone, as she said, “My dear Captain Wilkins, I think it is my bounden duty not to keep you in the dark respecting the extraordinary impertinence of your black steward. I am quite sure, sir, that were you aware of it, you would take instant measures to prevent anything of the kind from ever occurring again; and therefore it is that I make this point of speaking to you. Is it your wish, sir, that your black negro-servant should insult your passengers, your lady passengers, Captain Wilkins?”
Now, the truth was, that during Mrs. O’Donagough’s refreshing slumber, Black Billy had been beforehand with her, and recorded to his master the whole scene which had passed between them; a statement in which the Captain, without any undue partiality towards his steward, felt entire confidence, both from his knowledge of the parties, and from all the circumstances connected with Mrs. O’Donagough’s curiosity, and Billy’s resistance to it.
However, his answer betrayed nothing of all this, for he only replied, “Oh! no, ma’am, neither black nor white, we must have no insultings.”
“You had better not, sir, I can tell you, as far as regards myself. I presume that you are in some degree aware, though not so much as you might be, perhaps, that my daughter and myself are not to be looked upon at all in the same light as any other person on board; nor my husband, Mr. O’Donagough, either, of course. My family and connections, sir, fill the very highest rank in English society, and a young lady who is going home, I may say for the express purpose of being presented at court, is hardly to be considered as the same sort of thing as a Sydney grazier’s wife, or the daughter of a felon consigned to her cousins in England, like that flaunting miss that is always trying to parade the decks with Miss O’Donagough, only I won’t let her.”
“As to that, madam,” replied the captain, “I never in my life was guilty of making any difference whatsoever between one passenger and another; if they all pay me honestly, they are all honest people to me, and I care not a straw about, their grandfathers.”
“I have not asked you, sir, to make any difference; any lady, treated as I have been by an insolent blackamoor, ought to know that he was punished for it.”
“And what, if you please, madam, do you think I ought to do to Black Billy, for not answering your questions about the young fellows of my crew?”
This sudden and unexpected retort again made Mrs. Donagough feel very unwell, and she heartily wished herself lying upon the cloaks and coats again; nevertheless her spirits did not desert her entirely, and she continued to say, “Upon my word, Captain Wilkins, you would consult your own interest better if you did take a little notice of the difference of station between one passenger and another, instead of treating them all alike, with the vulgarity that seems natural to you.”
“My interest, madam, is not very likely to be touched, one way or another, by my passengers. The Atalanta is nowise like an American liner or a steam-ship moving between Dover and Calais; for you know, madam, if any of my customers was to cross back again, it would most likely be the King — God bless him! — and not me, who would have the bringing of them.”
Here Mrs. O’Donagough became too ill to hear another word, and catching hold of a sailor who was passing, to take his turn at the helm, she got him to help her down stairs; when, crawling again into her berth, she continued to lie there in no very comfortable position for several hours, till at length Miss Patty came to look after her, and by the help of a little coaxing, induced her to get up and show papa in which package the other jars of pickled onions could be found.
For the rest of the voyage Mrs. O’Donagough continued on very unsatisfactory terms both with the captain and Billy, seldom indeed exchanging a word with either, and remaining altogether too sick and too much out of temper to make any further efforts for the discovery of Jack’s secret history, if any such were, in truth, attached to him; a point upon which happily, perhaps, for her own tranquillity, she began to be considerably less sanguine than when her researches commenced; for the youth satisfactorily proved his plebeian origin, by never appearing conscious that so distinguished a person as herself was on board.
“How can you bear to play every day with that vulgar boy as you do? you, and your father too, Martha! It is perfectly wonderful to me how you can endure his manners! But any amusement, I suppose, is better than none, as long as we are confined to this beastly, horrid ship. Only you must remember, my dear, that when you get to England, all things will be different. We must have no more vulgar acquaintance, if you please. But now you must go on playing, I suppose, with anybody you can find, for God knows I am too ill to amuse you myself.”
Such was the harangue uttered by Mrs. O’Donagough to her daughter when their voyage was about half completed; and to avoid all unnecessary concealments, the soliloquy which followed it on the part of the young lady, as she turned from her mother and hung over the blue waves as they lashed the vessel on her course, shall be given likewise.
“Vulgar boy! — That’s your notion of a vulgar boy, is it? — I don’t care whether he is a sailor-boy or a prince — not — one — single — cent.” — It was thus that she deliberately murmured forth her steadfast mind. “But this I know, that if my dear, dear, beautiful, lovely Jack, will only consent to marry me as soon as I am fifteen — and that’s old enough for any woman — if he will only have me for his wife, I won’t care neither for father nor mother, nor uncles, nor aunts, no more than if they were so many brass buttons.”
Such were the sentiments of Mr. Allen O’Donagough’s heiress when she had traversed half the briny space which divides the old world from the new; and ere the remaining half was halved, her young heart was more thoroughly devoted still. But as the adventure which led to this is perfectly novel and highly interesting, it must have a chapter to itself.
CHAPTER VII.
IT happened one morning after rather a squally night, that the youngest boy on board having been sent out to the extremest point of the bowsprit, for the purpose of setting to rights something that the blustering wind had made wrong, became so entangled in the tackle, and by his own unskilful attempts to set it right, as to become too thoroughly puzzled to handle it in the usual way; when, taking an unsailor-like hold of some rope or other, it failed him — he lost his head and his footing together, and with the piercing cry of a shrill young voice, that made itself heard athwart the hoarse grumbling of the fretted sea, dropped into the water.
Happily the vessel was upon a tack, and did not pass over him; so that Jack, who heard the cry, and sprung instantly to the ship’s side, saw the body rise at the distance of a few feet from him. It is not by the result of that valuable process of mind called meditation, that great deeds arc done by men or boys either. Had Jack meditated, he would have remembered that he was by no means a very skilful swimmer, and probably come to the conclusion that it would be unwise to put two human lives in jeopardy instead of one; but as he did not meditate at all, an impulse which, if not better was decidedly stronger than reason, caused him to jump upon the bulwarks, and plunge into the sea after him.
In an instant, three-fourths of the crew were hanging over the ship’s side, and eagerly handling ropes to throw after him. The captain, who had been among the first to see both the accident and the bold deed which followed, could hardly have been more zealous in his efforts to rescue the lads, if either or both of them had been his own. With his own arm he seized the helm, and put the ship about so skilfully, as to bring her within a few feet of poor Jack, who was evidently struggling with difficulty to sustain the boy whom he had succeeded in catching hold of, while with his other arm he laboured to approach and seize upon the friendly rope that had been sent to help him. But the joint action of the wind and waves made this very difficult, and had not the captain’s first order, which was to lower the boat, been promptly obeyed, Jack would never have puzzled or pleased fair lady more.
As it was, however, the adventure ended in the very best style; the young hero and his protégé were both laid safely, though perfectly insensible, upon the deck, with all the passengers, and nearly the whole crew, gazing upon them with all sorts of affectionate and admiring looks.
But beyond all question, the person most acutely interested in the scene, was Miss Martha O’Donagough. Like all other good female sailors, this young lady had a strong aversion to remaining below, and no sooner had the wind sufficiently abated to permit her to keep her feet upon the deck, than coaxing the captain to withdraw, for her at least, his prohibition against the appearance of the ladies in rough weather, she contrived to make her way to the side of the vessel, and, rolling herself up in her cloak, with a firm grasp upon the bulwarks, to enjoy the fresh breeze after a very sorry night, together with the pleasant hope that her friend Jack would presently see and approach her.
Nor was she disappointed; Jack did see her, and the next moment came laughing to her side, declaring that she must be a mermaid, to look so well and happy in such weather. Then followed some delightful fun in watching the frolics of the tempest-loving tribes, who never condescend to visit the surface of the water when it is smooth; and then Jack helped to secure her bonnet more comfortably by putting a silk handkerchief over it, and tying it under her chin; and then her cloak wanted fastening, and very often she was in danger of being blown backwards, only Jack was so kind as to prevent it. In short, Miss Martha was enjoying herself exceedingly, when the cry of the falling boy smote their ears. The violent movement occasioned by putting about the ship, which she had to endure without any arm to help her, threw her down, and prevented her seeing either the floating body of the boy, or the noble effort made by her companion to save him. But no sooner had she recovered her feet, and her hold upon the bulwarks, to which she firmly clung, notwithstanding the requests of many sailors that she would stand aside, that she perceived all that had happened, and from that moment ceased not to harass all around her by a succession of screams, till the boat and the three men let down in her, had done their work, and the two rescued lads were stretched before her on the deck. Then she screamed no more; friendship claimed its rights, and undeterred by any idle scruples, Martha sat down upon the deck, and placed the head of poor Jack upon her knee.
“Avast, my girl!” cried one of the men whose exertions had saved him, “he must not be stifled up that fashion.” But the cruel interference was of no avail, for at that very moment Jack opened his bright eyes, and began very hopefully to look about him.
For a moment he seemed puzzled; and the first symptom of recovered memory, was a short, quick, question of “Where is the boy?”
“Here, Jack, here!” responded from all sides; and the next feeling led, as it seemed, to a momentary communing within, for he put his hands before his eyes, and his lips moved, but without his uttering any sound.
Some movement of the young girl then caused him to look up, and he perceived where and how he was situated.
“My dear little girl, is that you?” said he, in a voice that spoke much grateful feeling.
A jovial laugh, and something very like a cheer from the surrounding group, at once seemed to welcome their favourite back to life, and to compliment the young lady upon her kindness. Jack, at the same moment, made an effort to rise, and Martha did the same; so they stood up together, both dripping wet with the sea-water, and as neither Mr nor Mrs. O’Donagough had yet left their beds, the captain took it upon himself to recommend that their daughter should go below and change her wet garments.
This tall, stout, and decidedly precocious young lady, certainly never looked so nearly beautiful as she did at that moment. Much paler than usual, with large black eyes that shone through genuine tears (for she had truly been most terribly frightened), and, moreover, a little abashed at her situation, the young Martha could hardly fail of appearing both fair and interesting to the eyes of her playfellow. Jack looked at her much more earnestly than he had ever done before, and thought that she was not only the kindest-hearted little girl in the world, but very handsome; a fact of which, perhaps, he had never till that moment been sufficiently aware.
“Take care of yourself, my dear child,” said he, very kindly taking her by the hand. “But I must not touch you, Martha, for if I do you will be wetter still.”
“And look to yourself, Jack,” replied Martha, with equal kindness; “I’ll go and change, if you will.”
“That’s a bargain then,” he replied, smiling, but with very gentle feelings, at her naïveté; “and when we are all got dry again, it will be something to talk about, will it not?”
Martha smiled too; and nodding to him with a look, the kindness of which was no longer veiled by tears, prepared to follow his advice, and by the help of his steadying hand, reached the companion-way, and descended.
This adventure could not easily be forgotten by either, — neither was it. Jack long considered Martha as the kindest-hearted and prettiest girl in the world; and Martha considered Jack as the perfection of sweethearts, and the model of everything that was handsomest in the male creation.
This occurrence helped on, at least to the young people, the last lingering weeks of the voyage: for not only did it, as Jack had prophesied, give them something to talk of, but the ardent gratitude of the fine lad he had saved, and the daily-increasing interest that Martha testified for all that concerned him, could not but touch so tender a heart as Jack’s, who, moreover, always remembering that he was but a poor sailor-boy, conceived a strong feeling of gratitude and esteem for the young girl, whose unsophisticated nature led her so completely to overlook all distinctions of rank.
