The Lighthouse. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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extra hand. Remembering his former troubles in connexion with the press-gang, he resolved to conceal his name from the captain and crew, who chanced to be all strangers to him.
It must not be supposed that Mrs Brand had not heard of Ruby since he left her. On the contrary, both she and Minnie Gray got letters as frequently as the postal arrangements of those days would admit of; and from time to time they received remittances of money, which enabled them to live in comparative comfort. It happened, however, that the last of these remittances had been lost, so that Mrs Brand had to depend for subsistence on Minnie’s exertions, and on her brother’s liberality. The brother’s power was limited, however, and Minnie had been ailing for some time past, in consequence of her close application to work, so that she could not earn as much as usual. Hence it fell out that at this particular time the widow found herself in greater pecuniary difficulties than she had ever been in before.
Ruby was somewhat of an original. It is probable that every hero is. He resolved to surprise his mother by pouring the money he had brought into her lap, and for this purpose had, while in Hull, converted all his savings into copper, silver, and gold. Those precious metals he stowed separately into the pockets of his huge pea-jacket, and, thus heavily laden, went ashore about dark, as soon as the skipper returned.
At this precise hour it happened that Mrs Brand, Minnie Gray, and Captain Ogilvy were seated at their supper in the kitchen of the cottage.
Two days previously the captain had called, and said to Mrs Brand—
“I tell ’ee what it is, sister, I’m tired of livin’ a solitary bachelor life, all by myself, so I’m goin’ to make a change, lass.”
Mrs Brand was for some moments speechless, and Minnie, who was sewing near the window, dropped her hands and work on her lap, and looked up with inexpressible amazement in her sweet blue eyes.
“Brother,” said Mrs Brand earnestly, “you don’t mean to tell me that you’re going to marry at your time of life?”
“Eh! what? Marry?”
The captain looked, if possible, more amazed than his sister for a second or two, then his red face relaxed into a broad grin, and he sat down on a chair and chuckled, wiping the perspiration (he seemed always more or less in a state of perspiration) from his bald head the while.
“Why, no, sister, I’m not going to marry; did I speak of marryin’?”
“No; but you spoke of being tired of a bachelor life, and wishing to change.”
“Ah! you women,” said the captain, shaking his head—“always suspecting that we poor men are wantin’ to marry you. Well, pr’aps you ain’t far wrong neither; but I’m not goin’ to be spliced yet-a-while, lass. Marry, indeed!
“‘Shall I, wastin’ in despair,
Die, ’cause why? a woman’s rare?’”
“Oh! Captain Ogilvy, that’s not rightly quoted,” cried Minnie, with a merry laugh.
“Ain’t it?” said the captain, somewhat put out; for he did not like to have his powers of memory doubted.
“No; surely women are not rare,” said Minnie.
“Good ones are,” said the captain stoutly.
“Well; but that’s not the right word.”
“What is the right word, then?” asked the captain with affected sternness, for, although by nature disinclined to admit that he could be wrong, he had no objection to be put right by Minnie.
“Die because a woman’s f—,” said Minnie, prompting him.
“F—, ‘funny?’” guessed the captain.
“No; it’s not ‘funny,’” cried Minnie, laughing heartily.
“Of course not,” assented the captain, “it could not be ‘funny’ nohow, because ‘funny’ don’t rhyme with ‘despair;’ besides, lots o’ women ain’t funny a bit, an’ if they was, that’s no reason why a man should die for ’em; what is the word, lass?”
“What am I?” asked Minnie, with an arch smile, as she passed her fingers through the clustering masses of her beautiful hair.
“An angel, beyond all doubt,” said the gallant captain, with a burst of sincerity which caused Minnie to blush and then to laugh.
“You’re incorrigible, captain, and you are so stupid that it’s of no use trying to teach you.”
Mrs Brand—who listened to this conversation with an expression of deep anxiety on her meek face, for she could not get rid of her first idea that her brother was going to marry—here broke in with the question—
“When is it to be, brother?”
“When is what to be, sister?”
“The—the marriage.”
“I tell you I ain’t a-goin’ to marry,” repeated the captain; “though why a stout young feller like me, just turned sixty-four, shouldn’t marry, is more than I can see. You know the old proverbs, lass—‘It’s never too late to marry;’ ‘Never ventur’, never give in;’ ‘John Anderson my jo John, when we was first—first—’”
“Married,” suggested Minnie.
“Just so,” responded the captain, “and everybody knows that he was an old man. But no, I’m not goin’ to marry; I’m only goin’ to give up my house, sell off the furniture, and come and live with you.”
“Live with me!” ejaculated Mrs Brand.
“Ay, an’ why not? What’s the use o’ goin’ to the expense of two houses when one’ll do, an’ when we’re both raither scrimp o’ the ready? You’ll just let me have the parlour. It never was a comf’rable room to sit in, so it don’t matter much your givin’ it up; it’s a good enough sleepin’ and smokin’ cabin, an’ we’ll all live together in the kitchen. I’ll throw the whole of my treemendous income into the general purse, always exceptin’ a few odd coppers, which I’ll retain to keep me a-goin’ in baccy. We’ll sail under the same flag, an’ sit round the same fire, an’ sup at the same table, and sleep in the same—no, not exactly that, but under the same roof-tree, which’ll be a more hoconomical way o’ doin’ business, you know; an’ so, old girl, as the song says—
“‘Come an’ let us be happy together,
For where there’s a will there’s a way,
An’ we won’t care a rap for the weather
So long as there’s nothin’ to pay.’”
“Would it not be better to say, ‘so long as there’s something to pay?’” suggested Minnie.
“No, lass, it wouldn’t,” retorted the captain. “You’re too fond of improvin’ things. I’m a stanch old Tory, I am. I’ll stick to the old flag till all’s blue. None o’ your changes or improvements for me.”
This was a rather bold statement for a man to make who improved upon almost every line he ever quoted; but the reader is no doubt acquainted with parallel instances of inconsistency in good men even in the present day.
“Now, sister,” continued Captain Ogilvy, “what d’ye think of my plan?”
“I like it well, brother,” replied Mrs Brand with a gentle smile. “Will you come soon?”
“To-morrow, about eight bells,” answered the captain promptly.
This was all that was said on the subject. The thing was, as the captain said, settled off-hand, and accordingly next morning he conveyed such of his worldly goods as he meant to retain possession of to his sister’s cottage—“the new ship”, as he styled it. He carried his traps on his own broad shoulders, and the conveyance of them cost him three distinct trips.
They consisted of a