by Ellen Wood
William tore open the letter, glanced at its contents, swallowed down his dinner at a speed enough to choke him, and then went to his own room, to digest the letter at leisure. But it had come at a most unlucky time, filled, as it was, with a seductive description of Harry Vane’s sea life, painted in accordance with his peculiar temperament, his highly-wrought imagination. He had not deceived himself; his satisfaction in it was as great as he had expected it would be; and he expressed his regret that William was not with him; or, at any rate, on board a ship of some sort. He said he had been in a storm at sea; that no description could do justice to its terrific grandeur, and that he had felt subdued and awe-struck, but never for one instant alarmed. The letter also contained some charming anecdotes of Madeira — all in midshipman style — and of other places where they had touched; and it concluded with the information that the captain was a “stunner,” and the “grub” good.
William read the letter over and over again. To his jaundiced mind, it appeared to contain — that is, the ship — all that can exist of earthly Elysium. A dim thought which had long hovered over his mind, and as often been thrust away again, came rushing on now with ominous force. It brought a hot glow to his face. He made some resistance to it, for the conscience was at variance with the will. But the mental repugnance grew fainter and fainter; and at length William Allair rose up, yielding to the temptation, and his fate in life was sealed.
CHAPTER XI.
A RACE WITH A GIG.
IT was a battle; but not a great one. Where the wish to do wrong is powerful, and the conscience deadened, resistance does not cost much.
The resolve to run away had come over William Allair. The wicked resolve. He determined to quit his father’s house clandestinely, proceed to London or Liverpool, and get himself engaged on board a ship about to sail for some distant port. He leaned his head upon his hand, and thought it over. While he did so, a wavering arose within him, and at the same moment a harsh, discordant noise was heard, as of some bird of prey flying over the house. Why did he not take the ill omen as a warning? He wavered, I say. And then he set himself deliberately to recall Mr Carter’s glowing descriptions, his marine tales, and again read Harry Vane’s letter: just as though he wished to subdue the wavering. He was deliberating, he thought. But he was deliberating in a partial manner, all the bias leaning to one side. So the faint, still small voice that would have saved him was disregarded; and he rose up with his resolution fixed.
Yet, pause ere you execute it, William Allair! As you value your happiness in this life, and, it may be, in the next, pause! If no other thought can deter you, remember your mother. You were her first-born; you are dearer to her than any other tie on earth: the love she bears for you is planted in every fibre of her heart, is interwoven with her existence. She guarded you in infancy, watched over you in sickness, soothed you in your wayward childhood. She has looked at you until her eyes were dim with tears in her excess of love; she has caught you to her bosom, praying that God would have mercy on you, and keep you in this world and in the next. When you have been wrathful, when you have committed faults, and others have chidden, she has found excuses for you in her heart, loving you all the more for their harshness. Others may, and do, love you; but not as she does. The love of a mother stands alone; there is nothing on earth so deep and so holy.
There is no passion, no affection in the whole wide world of nature, that can be compared in its enduring strength with that of a mother. A brother loves his sister, a sister her brother; a father loves his child, the child its father; and there is another love spoken of in the world, William Allair, which it may chance you will some day experience, but which, all-potent as it is, cannot stand beside a mother’s; for her love for you will be green and fresh, when all of that transient one, save its remembrance, shall have passed away. The heart of all — father, sister, brother — may grow cold to you; but your mother’s, never. Shame, poverty, guilt, every ill that will cause others to shun you, does but draw closer the love of a mother; it is the only solace that will cling to you in your depth of guilt and sorrow. And you would fly from a shield such as this? My boy, in mercy to your mother, desert her not.
Think what you are about to do. To isolate yourself from her, to leave her to anxiety and despair, ignorant of your destination, uncertain what your fate may be. Pause, ere you thus requite her love, and embitter her whole future life with this black ingratitude!
Know you not, that if she could fathom your project, she would cast herself on her knees before you, and implore you, with tears and kisses, not to fly from her; not to turn her tranquil days to one long, bitter, unavailing yearning — the yearning to behold you, her dearest and best-beloved child? Know you not that, night and morning, she bends before God in supplication for you, that you may be good, dutiful, kept from the evil? Know you not that she would rather lose life in this world, than that you should lose it?
Oh! pause, pause, William Allair! pause, ere you fling back this all-enduring love! It is a painful thing to rend a mother’s heart; to bring grey hairs upon her head before their time; to shorten her declining years of life with anguish. It is a sin that must cry aloud in its ascent to heaven: pause, ere you are guilty of it! Have you forgotten that it was she who taught you certain commandments with her own lips, and bade you strive to keep them? Have you forgotten this one? “HONOUR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER: THAT THY DAYS
MAY BE LONG IN THE LAND WHICH THE LORD THY GOD GIVETH THEE.”
No, you have not forgotten it, William Allair: the words rush to your mind now, and your conscience shrinks. But you attempt to make a compromise with your conscience. You resolve that you will one day come back to your mother’s hearth, at no great distance of time — when you shall have been over the broad seas, or to those foreign lands you seem so desirous to visit — and then you will implore her pardon with tears and contrition, and be all to her that a son should be. But does no shadow of the future cross you? does no suggestion whisper that it is just possible you never may return? that you may die in one of those foreign lands, or on those broad seas? You will do well to pause. I tell it you for the last time.
You will not?
Then you must follow your own course. Yet, remember, when you are on the world of waters — when, as Mrs Vane aptly expressed it, there is only a plank between you and eternity, and the waves rush, and the winds shriek around you, and the good ship seems destined to sink — when you call in anguish upon your father and mother’s name, and would fain implore their forgiveness before appearing at the bar of a higher tribunal; remember that it is you who have placed yourself beyond the power of receiving it.
William Allair shook off his reverie, shook off compunction with it, unlocked a drawer, and examined his purse. It contained eighteen shillings. Had it been Harry Vane’s, it would not have contained eighteen farthings; but William had always been more inclined to save than to spend.
Mrs Allair also held a sovereign of his. A few days previously, his uncle had sent him one as a present, wishing him at the same time joy of his articles.
“He knows they are a bitter pill,” was William’s remark at the time.
He tied up a few things in a pocket-handkerchief, sailor fashion, locked the bundle in a drawer, lest it should be espied, and went down stairs. The tea-things were on the table, but only his mother and sisters were in the room.
“Mamma, you have a sovereign of mine. The one my uncle sent me. I want it, please.”
“Very well. But don’t go spending it in waste, William.”
“Waste! oh, dear, no. Can you give it me now?”
Alice looked up. “You can’t want it now, William: you are not going out. Let mamma give it you at her leisure.”
“It is no affair of yours, Alice. Mamma, please! I really do want it.”
Mrs Allair laughed, as she rose to get the money. “That you may have the pleasure of seeing it in your own purse,” she said, as she handed it to him.
But he was not dead
to all feeling. No, no. In spite of the wicked project which occupied his mind, which appeared to him so fraught with glowing colours for the future, he felt miserably wretched. And when his mother bent over him for her good-night kiss, he thought his heart would have broken.
When everybody was at rest, and the house quiet, he opened the door of his chamber to steal down stairs. He stood listening for some moments, and then moved forward. Alice’s door was before him, his mother’s at the end of the corridor. William could see them, in the faint light that came in from the corridor window, and almost expected them in his self-consciousness to open, and somebody to come out and pounce upon him. Holding by the balustrades when he reached the stairs, he attempted to go a little quicker; but the stairs began to creak alarmingly, and he stood still, his face hot, his breath hushed.
What excuse could he make if he were found? He could not offer the plea that he was going for a walk: people don’t take walks at midnight, as a matter of choice. He could not say he made a mistake, and got up thinking it was morning: they’d ask him whether he dressed in the dark. And he could not well say he was promendaing in his sleep. Mr William Allair’s face grew hotter.
But things remained quiet, and he went more slowly, step by step, the stairs creaking dreadfully — just as you have found them creak, boys, when wishing to steal up or down unnoticed. Unmolested, he at length gained the street door, and was about to unlock it, when he remembered he had left his bundle behind.
For one single moment the thought came over him, should he relinquish his expedition? Oh that he had! that he had suffered the delay to sway him, to act upon him as an omen!
He crept up stairs again, reached his room, got the bundle, and crept down. This time he opened the door, and got safely out, closing it as softly as possible after him.
There was no moon; but the stars were shining, and the night was warm and light. He stood a moment deliberating upon his course, and then he started. He had resolved to go to Liverpool. Not towards any railway station went he. He was afraid of that, afraid he might be traced; but chose rather bye-roads. The way once chosen, onward he pressed; now walking with rapid strides, now running swiftly, terribly afraid lest he should be missed and overtaken.
Very slowly did the hours of the night seem to pass; and on, went he, putting more distance between himself and Whittermead. “They’ll be sure not to miss me before breakfast-time,” he kept repeating to himself: but there was an under-current of fear at work within him, whispering that he might be missed earlier, and overtaken. He thought the night would never go.
It was just past four in the morning, for William had his watch with him; the sun was rising, and he was pelting along at a fine pace, tired to death; when he heard the sound of wheels behind. Were they after him? One hasty look back, and away he tore as fast as his legs could carry him. Something there was, at a great distance, coming along at a strapping pace; but what, he could not yet discern.
Away he dashed. The vehicle came dashing on faster. William snatched another look, and saw that it was a gig.
A gig! His father’s, no doubt. There was no feasible way of escape for William. On either side of the road was a perpendicular embankment, the-climbing which was impossible. There was nothing for it but to go blindly on, or to turn back and face the gig.
Another stolen glance. Yes, sure enough, it was their gig, and one gentleman in it: his father, of course. What was he to do? What was he to do? William had heard of earthquakes. He began to wish that one would obligingly sever the earth just then, and allow him to drop into the chasm.
On it came at full gallop, he was sure; and on went William at full gallop also: his face streaming down with perspiration, his breath panting. He thought of Dick Turpin’s ride to York, and questioned if the renowned highwayman had ridden faster than he was then running.
But he could not keep up the pace, and the gig gained upon him; canter, canter, canter; nearer, nearer, nearer. It was at his heels now; and now — it was abreast of him.
With a desperate effort he turned his face towards it; no good in holding out longer; and there he beheld — what? Why, sufficient to impress fully on his mind the old adage, “Conscience doth make cowards of us all.”
It was neither his father, nor his father’s gig; but a farmer on his way to a market-town. The stranger accosted him.
“So, young gentleman, you are pretty fast! Why, you weren’t afraid of me — eh?”
“Afraid! oh, no!” panted William, alarmed lest suspicion should be excited. “I am in a hurry, and, seeing your gig coming, I thought I’d have a race with it. It has got me on, you see.”
“You have got on, pretty smartly. I have come at a tolerable pace, for I’m later than I thought to be. I am going on to Brickborough, a matter of eleven miles yet. It’s the fair there to-day.”
Brickborough was the very town William was making for, where he would take the rail. How he wished the farmer would invite him into the gig! “I am going on to Brickborough, too,” he said.
The farmer did invite him; perhaps, taking the hint. “Will you accept a seat in my chay?” he asked. “You are heartily welcome to it.”
And very welcome, indeed, did it prove to the tired runaway, who parried the farmer’s questions cleverly, and arrived safely at Brickborough. Thence he would make his way to Liverpool in the best manner that he could.
“They’ll make sure I have gone up to London to join Carter, and will raise the hue-and-cry in that direction,” he cogitated, “which will give me time to get clear off on the briny ocean. Ah, ha! I am too deep for them!” Ah, William! deep and clever as you deem yourself now, the time will come when you would give all your future existence to re-live the period of this ill-starred journey, so that you might have been less “deep,” and have suffered yourself to be overtaken!
CHAPTER XII.
MR GRUFF JONES AGAIN.
WHEN the morning broke at Whittermead, and the Allairs assembled at breakfast, William’s place was vacant.
“Lazy boy! he has overslept himself,” said Rose.
A servant was placing a dish of toasted bacon on the table. Mrs Allair spoke to her.
“Go up to Master William’s room, Sarah. Tell him we are at breakfast.”
Sarah went, stayed some minutes, and came back again. “I’ve knocked till I’m tired, ma’am,” said she. “He won’t answer.”
“Perhaps he is not awake yet,” suggested Rose.
“Oh, I know,” said Alice. “He thinks that there’s no seven o’clock school now, and won’t get up. He is sure to be awake; he has allowed Sarah to knock to tease her.”
“Go up again, Sarah,” said Mrs Allair. “If he does not answer, go into his room. It is possible he may have overslept himself. He said last night he was very tired.”
The servant did as she was bid, and the next minute came flying into the room big with excitement, her eyes staring and her mouth open.
“Oh, ma’am! oh, sir! whatever has happened? Master William is not in his room, and the bed has never been slept in! Where can he have took himself to?”
“Nonsense! You must be mistaken, Sarah,” spoke Mr Allair. But Mrs Allair turned deadly pale.
“How can I be mistaken, sir? There’s the bed for anybody to see. And I am sure he is not in the room.”
Alice and Rose Allair ran up the stairs. Mrs Allair followed more slowly; she knew not what she was dreading. Mr Allair came after her. The chamber was empty, as the servant had said. There was no trace of William: no trace that he had been in since the previous evening, Mrs Allair turned her gaze upon her husband, words faltering from her ashy lips. “What can be the meaning of this?”
“I’ll let Master William know what is the meaning, when I catch hold of him,” was the angry rejoinder. “He must have got out on some spree with the schoolboys. But it is strange, too! He never attempted such a thing before.”
“He came up to bed all right last night, sir, and went into his room,” interposed Sarah, who st
ood in as much consternation as anybody, whilst poor Edmund looked vacantly from side to side. “The young ladies came up at the same time.”
Mrs Allair drew her husband aside. “A fearful, strange dread is upon me,” she uttered. “I fear he has run away.”
“Run away!” repeated Mr Allair, incredulously. “What for? Where should he run to?”
She would have said “To sea,” but the words refused to come. She seized hold of a chair to save herself from falling.
“Don’t distress yourself,” said her husband, soothingly; “there’s nothing to be alarmed at. It is not likely he should have run away, as you call it. If he has, we’ll soon bring him back again, I can promise him that.”
A shriek from Sarah interrupted Mr Allair. She had been gratifying her curiosity by an inspection of William’s drawers. “Some of his things are gone,” she called out. “Here’s only three of his shirts, and not half his handkechers. He must have gone off somewhere, on the sly, I should be afeared, meaning to stop. What’s that?”
It was a fall. Mrs Allair had fainted away.
The news of William’s disappearance went forth to Whittermead, and the village was speedily up in arms. When back news came to be gathered and combined, scraps of fact, items of suspicion, it appeared to be only too conclusive that William had run away. His pressing for the sovereign the previous night appeared one very conclusive fact against him. Mr Allair did not at first admit the probability; but he was obliged to yield. Some of the schoolboys privately told him that William had “for certain” gone off to be a sailor: had gone, “for certain,” to join James Carter. Mr Allair at length adopted the same view, and departed for London by the first train, in search of him.
But that was not the only surprise Whittermead was favoured with that day.
A brown, lanky, worn-looking object arrived in the afternoon at Whittermead. A contrite sort of object, with hanging head and bent eyelids. He bore some resemblance, the village thought, to Master Gruff Jones; but Master Gruff had never been seen in a shamefaced plight such as this.