‘Marian,’ said Tom, ‘you were present at my trial. You remember how
glibly he gave his evidence and answered questions on his oath. Will he
take his oath now that his story was true? You Rotch, here stands my
friend Bates, who has judged me throughout a wronged man; here stands
Miss Johnstone’s cousin, who believes me innocent; here stands that
Miss Johnstone about whom I have so often talked to you. They hear me.
They will listen to you. Is it true that I attempted to scuttle the
_Arab Chief_?’

Rotch kept silence.

‘Bates, Johnstone,’ continued Tom, ‘you see how it is? He swore it on
the Bible. He made a felon of me. He ruined my life--broke my heart.
He’s mute now. Observe him. Does he fear to speak because I’m armed?’

He whipped the pistol out of his pocket, pointed it down and fired it
into the deck.

‘Now, take courage! Speak! Did I attempt to scuttle the _Arab Chief_,
or was the charge yours and Nodder’s conspiracy against me?’

The man, with an ashen face, now folded his arms, but made no reply,
keeping his eyes still rooted to the deck.

‘Captain Rotch,’ exclaimed Mr. Bates, ‘it’s clear to my mind--it’s
been clear to me all through--that you’ve done this gentleman such
a horrible wrong that no fiend could imagine anything worse or more
cruel! Act the man now and own to it. Clear him, and by so doing
sweeten your own conscience against that call which’ll be coming to you
from God sooner or later. You’ll fare less ill by shelling out than by
keeping silent. Look, man, how you are in our power!’

At these words Rotch lifted his eyes and gazed steadily at Tom. Never
could I have imagined such an expression of hate in the human face. He
gazed, then sank his eyes again, but never spoke.

‘Rotch, you shall have time,’ Tom said. ‘In this brig you remain till
the confession you dictate has been signed by you and witnessed by
those who are in the vessel. Time you shall have. Its duration Mr.
Bates and I will settle. If at the expiration of the time I allow you
refuse to prove me the innocent man you know me to be, then, by the
Eternal God of heaven and justice, I’ll hang you at the yardarm!’

This said, he strode to the after end of the cabin, and opening the
door of the last berth on the port side, he cried out, ‘Walk in here!’

Rotch raised his head and slowly looked around him. A wonderful change
had happened in the man’s countenance. He was bloated and swollen.
Parts of his face were livid, and parts a ghastly white. His eyes had
a strained appearance and seemed to project. I once saw a man tumble
down in a fit near my house at Stepney, and Rotch’s face reminded me of
that man’s when they turned him over and lifted his head.

‘Walk into this berth!’ cried Tom.

This time the villain obeyed. He moved slowly, supporting himself by
the table as he went. He entered the little cabin, and Tom shut the
door and locked it.

‘He’s as much astounded as frightened,’ said Bates. ‘Surely he’d
have thought to meet any one down here sooner than you. Where would
he reckon you are, Butler, if not across the seas? Not afloat and in
charge of a smart little brig, anyhow.’

‘Tom,’ said I, ‘he’ll hang rather than confess. He looked at you with a
horribly malicious, wicked eye.’

My sweetheart came to the table and leaned upon it to breathe and
rally. He was very pale, but his eyes glowed with the light of a savage
satisfaction, and his general expression was one of sullen, wrathful
exultation. The hour was now about four o’clock. We had made no
mid-day meal. I asked Tom if I should get some dinner for the little
company of us.

‘Aye,’ said he; ‘but first I want a word with our new hand. Take the
wheel from him, Will, and send him in.’

The man Collins entered, dangling his Scotch cap. He was scared; the
pistol report had no doubt frightened him heartily. The wheel stood
right in front of the house, the door and little windows were open, and
the man would need to be deaf not to hear what had passed.

‘What is your name?’ said Tom.

‘John Collins, sir.’

‘What was your rating aboard the _Arab Chief_?’

‘Able seaman, sir.’

‘I’m master of this little brig till I find an owner for her,’ said
Tom. ‘We’re going to work her north so as to get Great Britain handy
aboard, should any of us turn sick of the sea and want to go ashore.
We’re not bound to the Cape, as you’ve been led to believe. It’s all
the same to you, I suppose?’

‘I’d rather make a straight passage home, of course,’ answered the man.

‘We’re not pirates, as what you’ve been listening to might lead you
to fear. You can cheer up, my lad, reckon that you’ve got a good
berth, and that all will go well with you. See here, now: I commanded
the _Arab Chief_ when Rotch was her chief mate and Nodder second and
carpenter. Those two scoundrels swore that I attempted to scuttle her
to defraud the insurance offices; they brought me before the court
and got me sentenced to a term of transportation. I happen to be here
in this brig off the island of Tristan d’Acunha when they, along with
you, are sent aboard me as shipwrecked men wanting to get away. This
is the act of God, Collins! Collins, it’s a large and beautiful mercy
shown to a broken-hearted man, and an opportunity he’s been made too
much of a devil by Rotch to despise. Before my two villains leave this
brig they sign a confession, declaring that their charge against me was
a shocking, horrible lie; that they themselves made the holes in the
barque and hid the auger in my cabin. Rotch is the bigger villain; the
other’s an illiterate, drunken scoundrel. Rotch shall have time granted
him if he----’

‘Tom,’ I interrupted, ‘Collins wants to speak.’

I had been watching the fellow whilst my sweetheart addressed him, and
observed his face take a sort of colour and grow full of meaning. Tom
arrested his speech. Collins, twisting his Scotch cap in both hands,
exclaimed:

‘Captain, it’s come upon me now! I had a sort o’ fancy o’ ’t whilst I
stood a-listening. You’ll be the party meant, and I’ll just give you
what’s in my head whilst I’ve got it. I was at the wheel one night from
ten to twelve, about a fortnight afore we was burnt out of the ship.’

‘You mean the _Arab Chief_?’ said Mr. Bates.

‘Oh yes!’ I cried wildly. ‘For God’s sake, don’t interrupt him, Mr.
Bates!’

‘Well, as I says,’ continued the man, after a pause and a slow,
unintelligent stare at me, ‘I was at the wheel. Nodder, he had charge
of the deck. He’d been drinking. I’ll say here that that there Nodder
was never off drinking. I don’t believe he was sober two hours together
down to the moment when we was burnt out. He gives me a certain course
to steer by. ’Twarn’t the course the chap I’d relieved had named. The
capt’n--that’s Rotch--comes up, looks into the binnacle, calls Nodder,
and hazes him for being off his course. Nodder gives it him back. I
reckon that the capt’n had taken a drop too much himself. They clenches
fists, and snorts all kinds of insults at each other. Nodder says:
“I’ll gibbet ye yet for a bloody conspirator against an honester man
than ever slept in your fired skin. ’Twas you who put me up to that
job. I ha’n’t had no peace since, and where is my fifty pounds?” Here
Rotch whispers through his teeth and takes him by the arm, and falls
a-shoving of him out of my hearing. And still Nodder sings out whilst
t’other was a-shoving: “I’ll gibbet ye yet. The lie was yourn, the
whole b’iling of it was yourn. Who hid the auger? Who told me to spin
that yarn to the crew about the capt’n coming for’ards to ask me to
lend him an auger?”’

Tom struck the table a furious blow with his clenched fist.

‘Tell us all you know, Collins,’ I cried.

‘Why,’ said he, picking up his cap and fastening a nervous eye on Tom,
‘that’s pretty nigh all I do know. They shut up arter this and went
below for a drink, then walked the deck. Capt’n Rotch seemed to make
nothen of my overhearing him, as though ’twasn’t a business the likes
of me was going to trouble his head over. And he was right. I don’t
recollect mentioning what I’d heard except once, about a week afore we
was burnt out, when there was some trouble over the starboard watch’s
allowance of sugar; then I tells one of my mates that the capt’n and
Nodder had got some dirty secret between them, and that each seemed in
t’other’s power. But nothen was made of this, and then comes the fire.
It whips into my head whilst I stood a-listening to ye just now, and,
capt’n, I’ve told ye the truth.’

‘This should be taken down,’ said Bates.

‘Can you write, Collins?’ asked Tom.

The man, with a grin, answered ‘No.’

‘Give Collins a glass of grog,’ said Tom.

I mixed a draught, and the man drank our health. Tom then said:

‘Collins, will you dictate to this lady the yarn you’ve just spun us?’

‘Willingly, sir.’

‘I thank you,’ said Tom.

He then bade me procure writing materials whilst he and Bates went to
the forecastle to look at Nodder. I told Collins to sit, and wrote
down just as he talked. I felt heartily grateful to the man; here,
now, was a piece of valuable testimony in Tom’s favour; this sailor,
when he told his story, did not even know the name of the man he was
addressing; and then, how could he have invented that stroke about the
auger and that other point which had made Tom strike the table--I mean
the statement that Captain Butler had asked Nodder for the loan of the
auger?

I was so pleased that, guessing he might be hungry, I put before him
the best cold meal I could hastily collect, and made him drink some
wine. Indeed, I waited upon him as though this poor, plain, silly-eyed
sailor had been Tom himself. I asked many questions about Rotch and
Nodder. He had nothing very ill to say of Rotch; Nodder he called a
drunken, bungersome nughead. (He was of Somersetshire.)

When he had finished eating he relieved Will. I told my cousin to see
to the galley fire and laid the cloth for a late dinner, and whilst I
was thus busy, Tom and Bates, talking together very earnestly, came
along the deck and entered the cabin. I showed my sweetheart what I had
taken down; he said: ‘Let the man put his mark here, and the three of
you witness it whilst I hold the wheel.’

Bates read the deposition aloud, and then Collins made a cross, and we
signed our names. This was a precious document. I would not have parted
with it for all I was worth. I put it carefully away in the desk we
had found in the cabin I occupied, and then returning I eagerly asked
Tom what he had to tell me about Nodder.

‘He’s a surly, stubborn hound,’ said he; ‘very ill, and, in my opinion,
dying. We lighted the forecastle lamp; we found him lying in the dark
and groaning now and again. I stood apart while Bates spoke to him.
Bates asked him how he did. He answered, with an oath, that he felt
very low. Bates long-windedly put further questions to him. He then
said: “D’ye know what brig you’re aboard of?” “The _Old Stormy_, ain’t
it?” says Nodder. “Yes,” says Bates; “and d’ye know who her captain
is?” “No,” answers the carpenter. “He’s Captain Butler,” says Bates,
“who was in command of the _Arab Chief_, that you and Rotch charged
him with attempting to scuttle.” The man lay silent a bit, and then
said: “I don’t believe it.” “Rotch does,” said Bates; “he’s locked
up, and Captain Butler means to hang him if, after a given time, he
doesn’t confess that you and he conspired together to ruin him.” Here
Nodder, who had been lying on his back all this while, sat up and
said: “There’s no Butler in this ship. I heered him sentenced, and he
was lagged for fourteen year.” On this I stepped out of the eyes of
the forecastle, where I had stood unobserved, and coming under the
lamp, where he could see me plainly, I said: “D’ye know me? Your memory
should be as good as Rotch’s.” The scoundrel looked, shut his eyes,
looked, blinked and looked again, cursed awhile, and lay back. I’d made
up my mind to head on a new tack with this fellow--that is, to trim him
differently from my handling of Rotch. I said quietly: “Nodder, you’re
a sick and a dying man. How did you serve me who never injured you? You
ruined me, made a convict of me, broke my heart. You were a tool in
Rotch’s hands, and I believe you’d have undone the mischief before we
reached England had you found courage. Rotch was the villain, you were
his instrument.” He now turned his head to look at me, and lay like a
corpse with his eyes fastened upon my face. I couldn’t swear that he
had his mind, that he clearly understood; the fright and wonder of
seeing me stirred the mud in his soul and thickened his brain. Still I
talked on. I told him that I had Rotch under lock and key, and should
hang him if he didn’t confess. I repeated what Collins had told me.
I then said that my enemy was Rotch; that he was the man I meant to
get at and punish. “If you’ll dictate the truth to me,” said I, “tell
us the full story of the diabolical plot, and sign it, that your
signature may be witnessed, I’ll let you go. If you live to get north,
I’ll put you ashore, and you shall be no more troubled, unless you are
willing to turn Queen’s evidence so as to help me to bring Rotch to
his trial.” This was, in effect, what I said. I spoke quietly, even
kindly. Like Rotch, he made no answer; he lay looking at me, and when I
had done, still looked; and I waited for him to speak. Bates implored
him to confess. The fellow, silent as a ghost, turned over in his bunk
and gave us his back. But it was early times. I was resolved not to
threaten him. After waiting, I said to Bates, “We’ll go.” As we passed
through the hatch, he called out in his harsh, hideous voice, though
feebly enough: “Won’t you send me a drop of sperrits? I don’t want
nothin’ to eat.” “You shall be attended to,” said I, and we came away.’

‘What hopes of him have you?’

‘He may be brought to confess.’

‘Would his unsupported confession suffice, Tom?’

‘Suffice for what?’

‘To obtain a full pardon.’

He looked at me gravely, then, with a slight smile, said: ‘We’ll think
of the navigation of the brig for the present, and talk of full pardons
by-and-by.’

CHAPTER XLIV

SHE WITNESSES NODDER’S CONFESSION

The islanders had brought some fresh meat on board; I fried a steak,
also boiled some eggs, potatoes, and vegetables. Taking the _Childe
Harold_ first, and now this _Old Stormy_, we had been keeping the sea
many weeks. Tom’s fare in the convict ship had been the prison’s, Will
had fed upon forecastle food, Mr. Bates and I had done just a little
better--he at the cabin table and I at the scrap basket. The island
produce, then, must make us a delicious meal.

The island was about three hours astern of us, distant about ten or
twelve miles, a pile of sapphire, and the sea was of the same beautiful
hue. The sky in the north was frosted with snow-white cloud running
in links like chains, with a little plumy shooting as of mares’ tails
along the advanced brow of the delicately compacted stuff. The wind
blew out of that quarter; it was a dead-on-end wind for us; but the
brig, under topsails and foresail, looked well up; and now that Will
had loosed the fore and main topgallant-sails, which had been sheeted
home and the yards hoisted whilst I was in the galley, the little
vessel was beginning to buzz over the wide blue heave of swell, and the
wrinkles from her cutwater broke into thin lines of snow abreast of the
gangways, as her nimble and metalled forefoot ate its way to windward.

I spied a white sail down in the south-west. She looked to be standing
for the island. It was as likely as not we had been just in time to
secure Messrs. Rotch and Nodder.

The discipline of the little ship had been settled by the hour I had
done with my cooking. We were now four sailors and a girl who could
make herself generally useful.

Whilst I was dishing the dinner, Will told me he had carried a pannikin
of rum and some bread and meat into the forecastle. Nodder drained the
pannikin, but refused the food. Will accosted him civilly, having
received his cue from Tom. The brute, after drinking, sat up and asked
how it was that Captain Butler was out of quod. ‘He was transported
for fourteen years,’ he said. ‘He’s got eleven or twelve year to sarve
yet. Who’s the smothered bloke that was down here a-calling of hisself
Captain Butler?’ Will answered: ‘Rotch knows.’ ‘What’s been done to
him?’ ‘He’s locked up just now,’ says Will. ‘Are they a-going to hang
him?’ ‘If he don’t confess.’ On this Nodder lay back and turned his
face to the brig’s side, and Will came away.

When we sat down to dinner, Collins being at the helm, Tom cut some
beef and filled a tumbler half full of wine, and sent the meal by Mr.
Bates to Rotch. Bates was some time in the cabin with the villain;
indeed, his own dinner was cooling. Suddenly Tom jumped up, and,
going to my berth, which he used when he worked out his sights,
the navigating instruments and charts being there, fetched some
writing-paper, pen and ink. Bates at that moment appeared at the end of
the cabin; Tom called to him, ‘Oblige me by putting these things into
Rotch’s berth.’

Bates did so, locked the door, sat down, and fell to his meal.

‘Did he speak?’ said Tom.

‘Yes,’ said the mate. ‘He has an evil eye. He’s aged ten years, too.
He said: “Captain Butler talks of hanging me. Does he mean it?” “Yes,”
said I; “but you know how to save your life.” “He hang me! That ’u’d
be murder! Curse him! You’re a brother sailor. Would you stand by and
allow it to be done?” “I’m no brother sailor of yours,” said I. “Right
the man you’ve diabolically wronged by making a clean breast of your
wickedness. If you don’t, there’s never a brother sailor aboard this
brig that won’t pull all his beef into the rope that yardarms ye!” I
thought he’d fling himself upon me. His face was as full of devilish
malice as you could have squeezed out of all hands aboard the convict
ship. I put down his grub and came away. He didn’t speak when I took in
the paper and ink.’

The subject was changed, and the talk that followed mainly concerned
the routine to be adopted.

When I had cleared the table I stepped out to look at the island, and
saw no more than a large, faint shadow seventeen or eighteen miles
away. The wind had veered a trifle, and we were making a better course
for the northern climb, though where we were bound to I no more knew
than how this wild, strange adventure was to end. I felt weary, and,
entering the deck-house, sat down at the foremost end of the table
close to Tom’s cabin-door. I leaned my cheek on my hand and gave myself
up to thought. Strange as it may seem, I was sensible of a secret
grievous disappointment that the island scheme was closed. I longed
to be Tom’s wife. Had we arranged with Governor Glass to settle at
Tristan, I might in a few weeks have been Tom’s bride. At this rate,
when were we to be married? If my sweetheart waited for Rotch to speak,
the villain might keep us sailing about for months; unless, indeed, Tom
hanged him, which was less likely to happen as time cooled his blood
and mine. And, certainly, to hang the man would be to murder him, as
already I understood; though assuredly had Tom put the yardarm rope
into my hand and bade me pull, I’d have dragged--on that or on any
other day--with less compunction than I’d have squashed a spider.

Whilst I thus sat thinking over such matters as these, in stepped Will;
he looked about and sat down. I heard a noise of feet overhead, and
guessed that Tom and Bates walked the deck together. The sailor Collins
steered; the sunset glowed like a sheet of burning gold upon the
skylight.

‘Marian,’ said Will, ‘how long is this roaming to last?’

‘I wish I could tell you,’ I answered.

‘Butler’s one goading idea just now is revenge. But I want to get
home--rig out afresh--sign for a new ship--and start again. This sort
of thing is merely pickling one. It will qualify me as a lobscouser, I
dare say, but I’m learning nothing useful, never have a quadrant in my
hand, and get no jobs of seamanship to do.’

‘Tom told you he’ll steer the brig straight for England, and put you
and Bates in the way of getting home. What more do you want? But for
him you’d have been murdered by the convicts. Or you might be lying
dead in an open boat along with Captain Sutherland and the others. But
you’re safe, and Tom’s steering you home.’

I spoke hotly and raised my voice. He stammered; he had not before
taken this view of his deliverance perhaps.

‘Well,’ said he, ‘but look here, Marian; granted that Butler sends
Bates and me home; you stay behind, what’s to become of you?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Not yours only. I’m closer to you than Butler till you’re married.
I’ve a right to consider your safety, anyway. You’re here through my
help; your convict ship adventure was of my bringing about. It’s my
duty to see you safe out of the mess your romancing love has carried
you into.’

An angry answer was on my lips when the door of the berth close beside
me was opened, and Tom stepped out. I had not imagined he was there.
Will changed colour. My sweetheart, with the pleasantest smile I had
yet seen on his face, put his hand on the lad’s shoulder, and exclaimed:

‘I couldn’t help overhearing you, Johnstone. But I’m in time, I hope,
to stop more from being said than you’d wish me to catch. I admire
your devotion to your cousin and thank you for it. It is what I should
expect of one with Marian’s blood in him. Step this way, that our
friend in the after-cabin yonder may not hear me.’

He led us into the berth I slept in, and closed the door.

‘Johnstone,’ said he, ‘I’ll ask you a question or two. How do you know
that I didn’t attempt to scuttle the _Arab Chief_?’

The lad looked startled, and answered: ‘I don’t know, yet I’ll swear
you never made the attempt.’

‘You wish to think me innocent, but you can’t be sure?’

‘On the top of Collins’s story I am sure,’ said Will.

‘Chaw! What is that evidence? Mere hearsay; the talk of a scoundrel
seaman perhaps against his captain, and it’s two to one still even at
that. How is Bates to know I’m guiltless? How is Marian, except of her
great love and noble devotion and faith in me, to hold me innocent of
a charge on which an intelligent jury and a sagacious judge condemned
me, imprisoned me, expatriated me? Now,’ said he, talking with perfect
temper, ‘I’ve a right to prove myself an honest man to you all, haven’t
I? The machinery of proof, by a marvellous ordering of Providence,
happens to be on board; I’m a little at a loss how to handle it; advise
me, Johnstone.’

I seated myself at this point, and he put his arm round my neck, with a
light, sarcastic smile as he looked at the lad.

‘There’s nothing to be done but wring the truth out of the beast,’ said
Will.

‘How? As you wring a swab! Advise me, Johnstone.’

My cousin coloured, looked down, and was silent.

‘My lad,’ said Tom, after a pause, ‘you cannot counsel me. Of course
not. Neither can Bates. What’s the key, then, to fit this lock? Why,
patience. And patience means that I must keep my brace of villains
aboard this brig till they confess, or sicken and die, never parting
with them till I’ve torn the jewel they’ve robbed me of out of their
black hearts. If I send you home you’ll have nothing to complain of!’

‘No, sir. But Marian----’

‘Marian shall accompany you.’

‘Never!’ I cried, flinging his arm from my neck to look at him.

‘Marian,’ he said tenderly, ‘you will do what I wish when the time
comes. No man could swiftly strike out of such an amazing business as
this a full and satisfying plan. You’ll do what I wish, and help me by
obeying.’

‘But you mean to hang Rotch, Captain Butler?’ said Will.

‘In time I may, Johnstone, even if I have to carry him to the South
Seas to do it. But the villain’s span, you see, is not yet allotted, as
far as I am concerned.’

‘Captain,’ said Will, ‘I’m sorry I interfered or spoke to Marian.
You’re a man of honour; you’ll do what’s right by my cousin.’

Tom smiled at him.

‘You will never get me to leave you!’ said I, jumping up and grasping
my sweetheart’s arm.

‘You’re tired, dear; the air is soft on deck, the evening is cloudless
and beautiful. Wrap yourself up and I’ll carry a chair for you on to
the deck-house roof.’

But matters were to come to a head more swiftly than ever I had dared
dream. We had left Tristan five days behind us. In all this time the
brig had gnawed her way to windward on a taut bowline, the breeze
holding fresh and steady off the bow, the blue seas flowing in long,
deep lines. Rotch throughout was waited upon by Mr. Bates. And first as
to this man Rotch.

I frequently questioned the mate about him, and gathered this: He spoke
little and ate poorly; he craved for drink as though he burnt with a
perpetual thirst of fever; and Bates put plenty of fresh water into
his cabin, and rum enough to poison him out of hand, if ever he should
have a mind for what I would now call a Barney-Abram drench. Bates told
us the fellow was growing very thin in the face and falling away in the
body; already his clothes were fitting him ill. He was restless, and
Bates seldom entered his cabin without finding him pacing the little
square of deck. It was Tom’s wish that Bates should attend to the man;
he was afraid to trust himself with him; and Will was young and green,
and might by some well-meant whisper balk my sweetheart’s scheme to
terrify the man into a confession of truth.

Once, when Bates went in with the prisoner’s dinner, Rotch, leaning
against his bunk with his arms folded--so the mate described him--asked
where they were sailing the brig to. Bates answered plainly, ‘To
England.’ Rotch said: ‘What does the man Butler mean to do with me?’
Bates replied: ‘He means to keep you with him till you prove his
innocence; time will be granted; if you then fail, he’ll hang you. He’s
a man of his word; when you made a convict of him, you made a devil of
him. He no longer holds human life in value. He’d shoot you through the
head with as easy a heart as a felon brains a warder.’ ‘Suppose I do
what he wants--what then?’ asked Rotch. ‘I don’t know,’ answered Bates.
‘Find out,’ said the man. (When this was put to Tom, he said: ‘Let him
confess, let the document bear his signature and be properly witnessed,
and I’ll hand him over to you, Bates--to you and to Will along with
this brig and cargo--I’ll leave you in the Channel by the first
Frenchman who’ll put me ashore in his country; what Miss Johnstone will
do we’ll consider. First let the man confess.’) This was repeated to
Rotch, who said to the mate: ‘What would you do with me?’ ‘Establish
Captain Butler’s innocence,’ answers the mate. ‘The sooner you do it,
the better you’ll be used.’ Rotch made no answer.

From this time, during the days I am now dealing with, he continued
obstinately silent, a sullen, scowling figure of a man as Bates
pictured him, losing flesh as though he fasted, asking for nothing but
fresh water to mix his rum with; for nothing but that. The brig had a
few books; the mate placed two or three in Rotch’s berth; they were
never touched. Thus it was with Captain Samuel Rotch, whom I never once
set eyes on after the day when he had been ordered into his berth and
locked up by Tom. He was perfectly quiet; I’d sometimes fancy I heard
a noise like a muttering, and I’d creep to his door to listen, hoping
to hear him babble about Tom in a fit of delirium or out of the liquor
which Bates told us he swallowed in quantities. But it was always
imagination on my part; his berth was for ever as silent as a coffin.

As for Nodder--Mr. Bates waited upon that man for the reason that he
waited upon Rotch. Tom distrusted his own temper, and was advised by me
and Bates never to go into the forecastle. It was the mate’s own wish
to attend upon Nodder; he told me he was gaining a sort of influence
over the fellow, who was miserably ill and suffering fearfully from
some internal trouble, and who, attempting once at Bates’s suggestion
to quit his bunk and come on deck for fresh air, was in such agony when
he stood that he fell down in a swoon, and Bates had to put his head
through the scuttle and bawl to Will to help him pick the man up and
put him into his bunk again.

I never can forget Mr. Bates’s kindness at this time. The tears stand
in my eyes, and I find myself loving his memory as that of a dear
friend when I recall his unwearied anxiety and efforts to get the
truth from the two villains. He was a person of a religious cast of
mind, and in that, I think, strange as it may seem, lay his influence
over Nodder, who seemed fully sensible that he was a dying man, and
found a sort of consolation in conversing with the mate. It luckily
happened that there were one or two points of sympathy between them.
For example, Bates’s mother had been a native of Nodder’s birthplace;
he knew the seaport well, and mentioned names, street’s, shops, and the
like, with which the man of course was well acquainted. Then the mate
had sailed with a man who commanded a ship in which Nodder had made
a voyage, and this man was the only person for whom Nodder had a good
word.

This and much more the mate would tell Tom and me on his return from
his forecastle visits. But all the while the villain answered no
questions as to my sweetheart’s guilt or innocence. He was too wary
to say a word about Rotch, though Bates directly challenged him on
one occasion about that point in Collins’s statement, when during the
drunken quarrel Nodder had asked the other what had become of the fifty
pounds he had promised him.

‘Yet,’ said the mate to me, in the course of a long earnest talk, ‘I
honestly believe, Miss Johnstone, the fellow will shell out before he
dies. How long he’ll take in sinking I don’t know. His looks aren’t
sweet and lively; I’ve known pleasanter minutes in my time than talking
to that carroty head, bolstered up, flickering out to the slush lamp
with a dirty old blanket drawn to its throat. Yet he’s now fallen into
the trick of a wall-eyed look that makes me hopeful. I seem to see the
truth rising like a whale coming up to blow, though before it touches
the surface it settles again.’

‘How long do you give him to live?’ said I.

‘Why, a sea-dog of his cut,’ said he, ‘often holds on with such a grip
as disappoints the most humane calculations. It isn’t so much dying as
drying out. Nature kind of embalms him, as a Yankee would say. It’s
salt and sun that does it. This chap might live to be sent ashore in
the English Channel. Just the sort of a man he is to walk slowly, in
shiny cloth and a face of tallow, out of a hospital, and sign articles
a month afterwards for a warm voyage.’

Now, as well as I can remember, it was two days after this talk with
Mr. Bates that I was in my berth mending my dress with a needle and
thread from a sailor’s housewife that had been found in the forecastle.
I don’t recollect that we had taken the south-east trade-wind; the
yards were square, a fresh, merry, sparkling breeze blew over the
quarter, and the brig floated fast before it, sitting very upright,
with a slow, small, majestical curtseying motion in the length of her
as she was underswept by the Atlantic swell that ran with the breeze.

Suddenly, someone knocked in an agitated manner upon my door; I cried:
‘Who’s there?’

The voice of Mr. Bates, not less indicative of excitement than his
knuckles, cried: ‘I want paper and ink as quickly as possible, Miss
Johnstone.’

Here in my berth, which had been the captain’s, was kept the brig’s
small stock of writing materials. Somehow I guessed what the mate
wanted paper and pen for. I whipped on my dress and opened the door.
He took what he needed, just saying, ‘Nodder’s offered to confess!’
and hastened away. My heart at this news leapt up and half choked me
with a sudden transport. It was drawing on to four o’clock in the
afternoon; Tom was in his cabin resting. I put on my hat and went on to
the deck and found Collins at the wheel. Will, who was in Tom’s watch,
according to the disposition of our little company, was lying down.

Collins exclaimed: ‘If you’re seeking Mr. Bates, he’s in the
forecastle.’ I paced up and down in what is called the gangway between
the deck-house front and caboose, and still, as I turned my back on
the fore part of the brig, I’d for ever be looking behind me toward
the fore hatch, through which Mr. Bates must emerge. Saving that time
that I waited for the decision of the jury in the Old Bailey, I had
never suffered such agony of suspense. Was Nodder dictating to Mr.
Bates at this instant? If so, what was he saying? Convicting himself
and Rotch of as shocking a perjury as any in the criminal records, or
declaring that the evidence he and the other had given was true? Would
the sullen, drunken, dying animal dictate at all when Bates sat beside
him ready to write? These were distracting thoughts, and I walked the
deck like one distraught. I did not want to see Mr. Bates too soon; I
dreaded his emergence, for that would signify the villain had fallen
stubborn and mute, and yet my impatience was an anguish; again and
again I’d stop in the cabin-doorway to look at the clock. Collins, who
could see the time through the window, exclaimed: ‘It’s after four.
Will Mr. Johnstone relieve me?’

‘Wait for Mr. Bates,’ said I; and I started off afresh on my gangway
march.

At last, on a sudden, I saw Mr. Bates’s face in the hatch; he gravely
motioned me to approach; when I had drawn near he said: ‘It’s all
right; I have it down. It’s a complete acquittal. What a piece of
villainy! Pray run aft now, put Captain Butler to the wheel, and bring
Johnstone and Collins into the forecastle to hear what’s been written,
to witness Nodder’s signature, and to sign their own names.’

I sped to the cabin and ran breathless into Tom’s berth. I put my hand
upon his shoulder and shook him violently. He opened his eyes and
instantly started up, collecting his wits with the nimble dexterity of
one used to instant and urgent calls.

‘Nodder has confessed!’ I cried. ‘Bates has it down in writing; he
wants Will and me and Collins in the forecastle as witnesses. Jump up
and take the wheel whilst I call Will.’

Before the words were fairly off my lips he was out of his bunk,
pulling on his coat. I rushed to Will’s cabin and dragged the dear boy
half out of bed in my eagerness to awaken and get him forward quickly.
His berth was next to Rotch’s; the bulkhead between was stout, but a
voice exerted strongly was easily to be heard through the partition.
I cried out in loud, clear tones that Nodder had confessed Tom’s
innocence, that Mr. Bates had taken his statement down in writing, and
that he (Will) was instantly required in the forecastle.

Tom was at the wheel. He had sent Collins forward. Will and I ran to
the forecastle hatch and descended. I found myself in a small, gloomy,
wooden cave; a lamp burning with a large, dim, smoky flame swayed at
the end of a lanyard under a grimy central beam. Some bunks were built
on either hand of this forecastle. The place contained a sea-chest
or two left by the sailors, some remains of bedding, a few odds and
ends of wearing apparel. Mr. Bates sat upon a chest under the lamp; a
bunk-board he had used as a writing-desk stood before him. He held a
sheet of foolscap paper.

In a bunk immediately abreast lay Nodder. I could not distinguish much
of the man. An old blanket partially covered him. His arms, clothed in
a sleeve-waistcoat, lay outside the blanket. His colour was sickly,
dingy, hideous. His long red hair, like peelings and slicings of
carrots, stood harsh and stiff about his brow and coiled wire-like
upon the bolster. His wall-eye seemed to be fastened upon me; the
other looked straight up. Collins stood near the mate, who, on our
descending, exclaimed:

‘I’ll read this confession aloud, that Nodder may hear it’s all right.
He’ll then sign, and we four’ll witness.’

Here Nodder turned his head and said: ‘Who’s that female?’

‘The lady Captain Butler’s to be married to,’ answered Mr. Bates.

‘Didn’t know there was e’er a woman aboard,’ said Nodder, speaking
as though his throat was raw with drink. Nothing so harsh, rasping,
sawlike, did I ever hear.

I got my disgust under and stepped close to the villain. ‘I hope you
don’t suffer much?’ I said softly and kindly.

‘I do, then,’ he answered. ‘When there’s hell in the belly and hell
in the heart, there’s bound to be suffering. It was all along of that
Rotch. Toon up, Mr. Bates, and let’s get the gallus job over.’

I drew back. The having such a face as his near me made me feel sick.
Then, again, the atmosphere of his bunk was charged with a smell of
spirits, and reminded me of the fumes which rose through the _Childe
Harold’s_ skylights that night we left her.

Mr. Bates, standing up, read aloud, in a solemn and emphatic manner, as
follows:--

  ‘September 27, 1835, Samuel Rotch, mate of the barque _Arab Chief_,
  comes to me, Benjamin Nodder, carpenter of the said ship, then
  sitting in my berth forward, smoking a pipe, and asked me if I’d
  give that matter he’d talked to me afore on another thought. I says
  yes, and in consideration of his promises I was agreeable to help
  him, but he must contrive the job so artfully as to make sure I
  shouldn’t get into trouble. He answers that there could be no risks
  at all; him and me would be witnesses, and we would take some of the
  sailors into the lazarette to hear the water running in, and then
  carry them to Captain Butler’s berth, where we’d find the treenail
  auger, the sailors looking on. Captain Thomas Butler was master of
  the said barque _Arab Chief_. The understanding was this: If the plot
  answered and Rotch got command he was to use his interest and make me
  mate under him. He was likewise to pay me fifty pounds on our return
  to England. This money’s still a-owing: he was always putting off
  the payment with promises, and swore when we started that he’d tell
  down the money in Spanish dollars at Callao, to which port the _Arab
  Chief_ was bound when she was burned. It was likewise agreed that
  I was to have the run of the spirits after we had confined Captain
  Butler to his cabin. Rotch told me that the punishment for scuttling
  a ship was light, not like the punishment for actually sinking of
  her. I didn’t suppose it would come to a term of transportation, or
  I swear by the blood of my heart I’d never have done it. It was to
  be a small punishment, Rotch says, that would put Butler out of the
  way for a spell--long enough to enable Rotch to get command and to
  give me a berth at good wages. I made the holes and plugged the inner
  skin, and Rotch hid the auger. It was all Rotch’s planning, and I
  helped. I’d have owned up several times when we were going home in
  the ship-of-war along with Captain Butler for the trial, but Rotch
  told me it was too late, that I’d already committed perjury before
  the Consul at Rio, and both him and me stood to be transported for
  life if I confessed. Captain Butler was nothing to me one way or the
  other; I never liked nor disliked him. Rotch, he hated the man; never
  said why. I allow he was ate up with jealousy; from his toes to his
  hair he was fired with it. I’ll make no excuses for myself. Drink
  was at bottom and not caring. I never reckoned it would have come
  to fourteen years’ transportation. I hope this here confession will
  clear Captain Butler’s character, and set him right again in the eyes
  of the world. And now, willing to sign this document in the presence
  of witnesses, I’ve got nothing more to say.’

Bates ceased to read.

‘Some one fill my pannikin,’ said Nodder. ‘Hearing that yarn over
again’s taken it out of me.’

Bates pointed to a bottle; Will mixed a draught, and Nodder, sitting
up, lifted the pannikin with both hands, trembling violently.

I had listened with a mad heart; recollection of what Tom had been made
to suffer by that foul, drunken, hideous scoundrel rushed upon me. The
villain had owned it was drink and not caring; he had done it for a
promise of fifty pounds and the run of the rum casks and a mate’s berth
at some hundred shillings a month! I could have torn the poisonous
rat’s eyes out as he lay, and turned my back upon him to hide my face.

He threw the pannikin he had emptied on to the deck: and said: ‘Gi’ me
hold of a pen whilst I’m setting up; it’ll be a bruisy queer scrawl.
What music’s a-playing that these hands keep dancing?’ He looked at his
fingers with a horrid grin.

Bates put the bunk-board on the fellow’s knees, and called to Will to
hold the lamp close. My temper was under control again, and I looked
at the man as he sat up in his bunk, fearing that even now he might
cheat us by refusing to sign, though I supposed that, in any case, the
confession made to Mr. Bates, and heard read aloud by us in Nodder’s
presence, would be counted good evidence.

The man’s hand trembled so violently that twice or thrice he let
fall the pen. ‘Hold my wrist,’ said he, with a vile oath. Helped by
Mr. Bates, he scrawled his name; we then signed as witnesses, Bates
leading, Collins ending with a cross; the date was added, the name of
the brig, her situation at noon.

Nodder had fallen back, and lay watching us while we signed. As Mr.
Bates handed me the written confession, the fellow in his raw,
squawking voice exclaimed: ‘Mix me another pannikin, one of yer; then
clear out. You’ve got what you want, ha’n’t you?’

I passed through the hatch quickly, fearful of the man’s language; Will
accompanied me. I glanced at him in the bright western daylight; he
looked shocked, almost stunned.

‘I always knew he was innocent,’ he exclaimed.

But I was mad to join Tom. I held up the paper as I ran towards the
wheel, at which stood Tom’s fine commanding figure, solitary on the
brig’s decks. He was pale, and the shadow of bitter expectation lay
like a scowl or frown upon him.

‘Has he confessed?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

Will took the wheel, and I followed my sweetheart into the cabin. He
put the paper upon the table, and bent his head to read the precious
document. I watched his face with impassioned intentness. I thought he
had read to the end of the writing when he lifted his head; he rubbed
his eyes and pressed his temples betwixt his hands, bent his head to
the paper again, and now I was very sure he had not read a quarter down.

Mr. Bates came along the deck and entered the cabin-door; I put my
finger to my lips, and he halted close behind Tom, who seemed not to
have heard him come. In this manner three or four minutes passed,
neither Bates nor I speaking, and Tom appearing to read. My sweetheart
then fetched a deep breath, and, looking round to me without seeing
Bates, he said: ‘That such a man should have had it in his power
to injure me so!’ I saw a mist in his eyes, and his breathing was
laboured; then perceiving Bates he grasped him by both hands.

‘Dear friend,’ he cried, ‘it is a ruined, broken-hearted convict sailor
who thanks you!’

‘No more of that, Butler, for my sake,’ answered the mate. ‘You are no
convict, and your heart’s not broken. All’s well with us now, and I’ll
be dancing at your wedding very soon.’

‘I was innocent! I was always innocent! I told you so!’ cried Tom.

‘Did I ever doubt it, Butler?’ exclaimed the mate. ‘And this lady’s
marvellous devotion! Match me such perfect faith, such beautiful
loyalty.’

Tom stretched out his arms, and in a moment I was locked to his heart.

CHAPTER XLV

SHE CONCLUDES HER STORY

Presently the mate told us of the trouble Nodder had cost him; how at
one moment the sulky villain bade him fetch paper and pen, for that he
meant to confess; how, as Bates sprang to the hatch, the fellow rasped
out that he had changed his mind--bruised if he was going to confess.
Butler had never offered him an extra glass of grog all the time they
were together; it was for Rotch to own up, not him. First let him hear
what Rotch had to say. This went on till Bates, losing his temper, told
him he had as good as confessed already; if he refused to dictate the
confession civilly asked of him, he (that is, Bates) would quit the
forecastle, clap the hatch on, leave him to crawl about in the dark,
stop his supply of rum, and in every way abandon him to a dreadful and
miserable fate. ‘You’ve no friend on board but myself,’ Bates told
him. ‘But for me you’d get nothing to eat or drink. If Rotch confesses
first, he’ll put in a claim as Queen’s evidence, the whole burden of
this enormous crime will be laid upon your shoulders, and whilst I’ll
take my oath that the punishment for it is nothing less than the hulks
and transportation for life, I’ll not swear, as I’m no lawyer, that it
isn’t a hanging offence. Then I bade him think of Rotch’s promise of
fifty pounds, and of the horrible mess that villain had got him into,
and by degrees so worked upon him as to bring up his meanderings at
last with a round turn. “Jaw me no more!” growled the beggar. “Go and
fetch the smotherin’ writing-gear!” And there it is,’ said the mate,
with a smile, pointing to the table.

In this while the sun was beyond north-west and reddening rapidly, and
now whilst we listened to Mr. Bates the wind breezed up in a shrill
puff that heeled the vessel and despatched Tom and the mate with a
little run on deck. I took Nodder’s confession and stowed it carefully
away along with Collins’s deposition. My heart was full of fire and
rejoicing; I raged at the thought of Tom having been ruined by two such
detestable, contemptible villains as Rotch and Nodder, and I exulted
in knowing that it was now in our power to bring both men to justice
whether Rotch confessed or not.

Whilst they looked after the brig I prepared the evening repast in the
galley. A little before six we sat down to supper. It was then blowing
no more than a pleasant fresh wind; a long swell hurled the brig
forward, and she drove along under a maintopgallant-sail, whitening out
twice her breadth of water as she sped curtseying onwards. Tom, Bates,
and I seated ourselves, Collins steered, and Will kept a look-out on
the top of the house.

I got ready a small tray of food for Rotch; Bates was carrying it to
the fellow’s berth when Tom stopped him to say: ‘Tell him that Nodder’s
confessed, but add little or nothing to that, Bates. Let the fact sink
with him. Whilst we sup we’ll talk things over.’

The mate returned after a very short absence, and quietly took his
place at table.

‘Did you tell him?’ said Tom. Bates answered, ‘Yes.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He eyed me with a wicked look and made no reply. His eyes have
gone bloodshot and shine queerly. There’s a hardness in that chap’s
countenance that makes me believe he’ll never shell out.’

‘It will not matter,’ said I, ‘we have evidence enough. They’ll never
refuse us a free pardon on what we have.’

‘A free pardon!’ exclaimed Tom, looking at me.

‘Yes--certainly,’ said Mr. Bates, gravely cutting himself a piece
of salt beef; ‘your innocence is already established; nothing to go
through now but a sort of form which the lawyers will put you up to.’

‘Uncle Johnstone will do everything for us,’ said I; ‘and, oh!’ I half
shrieked, clapping my hands, ‘the joy I shall feel in seeing him read
Nodder’s confession!’

Tom’s face was moody and dark.

‘I’ll not ask for nor would I accept a free pardon!’ he exclaimed. ‘For
what am I to be pardoned, and what to me would be the particular virtue
of a pardon?’ he added sarcastically. ‘When I sailed out of the Thames
in a convict ship, I left England for ever. What could induce me to
dwell in a land I abominate, among a people I detest?’

‘A very natural prejudice, Butler,’ said Bates, ‘under the
circumstances; but it will wear off.’

‘Marian,’ said Tom, ‘whatever else I may do, whatever else may happen
to me, I shall never again live in England.’

‘Be it so, dear.’

‘I could rant and talk like a stage-tragedy man on that subject,’ he
continued. ‘We’ll hold Nodder’s, and, if we can get it, we’ll hold
Rotch’s confession. We’ll take very great care of them indeed. Oh, yes;
they shall be as precious--as precious--as what, Bates? Well, let’s
say Bank of England notes of the highest value; because they might yet
prove serviceable by enabling me to deal with that ruffian blunderer
called British law, should its blind-guided hand make for my throat
again in the distant place where you and I may settle, Marian. But I’ll
have no asking for a pardon.’

‘We’re a long way from home yet,’ said Bates. ‘The sight of the north
star is bound to work a change in your humour, Butler.’

‘Bates, you don’t know what you’re talking about!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Keep
this in mind, that under any circumstances I’d sooner cut my throat
than sue for pardon for sins I’m guiltless of. But when you talk of
Nodder’s confession you forget this: First, if I return to England,
I’m a returned convict at large during sentence, which is a felony
punishable by transportation for life. Next, they’d charge me with
piracy and bloodshed as being concerned with others in seizing the
transport _Childe Harold_. Those are what Johnstone’s father would call
“counts,” I suppose. Is Nodder’s confession going to carry me clear of
them?’

‘I was mate of the transport. Butler,’ said Mr. Bates. ‘Then there’s
young Johnstone, who was an apprentice. Would not our evidence weigh?
We could prove you innocent of complicity in that seizure, and tell a
story that should do you honour--how you saved my life; how you forced
the convicts to yield up the women and children.’

‘I want no pardon! I’d take none!’ cried Tom, striking the table with
his fist. ‘I’ll never live in England again. I’ll take a new name under
any flag that flies, and the flag whose people hate the English most is
the flag I’ll love best.’

‘Then,’ said Mr. Bates, looking at me, ‘I don’t see what’s the good of
Butler troubling himself to extort a confession from Rotch.’

‘Rotch! yes!’ cried Tom, shouting his words in a sudden fury. ‘He’ll
have to confess! He must confirm Nodder’s statement and whitewash me
with another coat for your edification, and to enable young Johnstone
to put a bit more of accent and colour into the yarn he’ll spin his
father and his mother. I’ll keep him till he does, and, by God’s
thunder, I’ll hang him if he doesn’t!’

‘Mr. Bates,’ said I, ‘you have managed marvellously well with Nodder.
Surely you’ll bring the other wretch to confess.’

‘Read Nodder’s statement to him,’ said Tom.

‘He might snatch it from me and destroy it,’ said the mate. ‘There
should be two of us.’

‘Will’s too young!’ I exclaimed.

‘I’ll go with you,’ said Tom.

They settled it so, and fixed six o’clock for the visit.

We were so slender a company in that brig that I was often put to the
wheel; I never regularly stood a trick, as sailors say; when they were
all wanted I steered till one of them relieved me. I went to the helm
to send Collins on the deck-house top that Will might get his supper.
As I quitted the cabin Bates and Tom went to Rotch’s berth. There was
some noise in the wind at this hour; the breeze blew fresh, the short
seas ran sharp and burst shrilly, the race of foam on either hand sent
up a note of boiling, there was much merry whistling in the rigging,
and a faint small thunder of wind sweeping out of the hollows through
the curved foot of the sails.

So it happened that I could hear but little of what passed in the
cabin. The wheel was small; I gripped it strongly; I put my mind into
the binnacle-stand and watched the card very earnestly, that the brig
should not run away with me.

Twenty minutes might thus have passed when I heard noises that rose
high above the sound of the sea and the cries in the rigging. Will
shouted, ‘Marian, there’s murder doing!’

I dared not let go of the wheel lest the vessel should broach to and
lose her spars. I shrieked with all my might to Collins, who came
running headlong down the steps.

‘Take the helm,’ I cried, and I sprang through the cabin-door.

At that instant Tom and Bates came out of Rotch’s berth. The mate
turned the key and thrust his shoulder against the door to make sure
all was fast. Tom held a handkerchief to his jaw. He removed it to look
at it; it was stained with blood.

‘What has happened?’ I called out.

‘He jumped upon me, threw me down, and his teeth met in my cheek--a
true hound of hounds, a very dog of very dogs,’ said Tom.

I drew his hand from his face and witnessed the marks of a severe bite
above the right jaw; a little blood flowed.

‘It is nothing at all,’ said he. ‘But how consistent is his trick of
fighting with the nature of the animal!’

I hastened to the galley for some warm water, carefully bathed the
wound, and bound it up. Mr. Bates, whose face was very pale, had gone
on deck to look after the brig; he now returned and found Tom at the
table with his face swathed.

‘Has the villain gone mad?’ said I.

‘Butler,’ said the mate, ‘the sight of you and your talking to him
drove him mad. I feared it. That man’ll never confess.’

‘He’ll hang then,’ said Tom in a fierce, muttering voice.

‘In the face of Nodder’s confession,’ cried Mr. Bates, with more
excitement in his manner than I had ever before witnessed, ‘the
scoundrel swears that Butler was guilty of the attempt. When we entered
I addressed him quietly, almost soothingly; Butler did not speak, he
stood in readiness to prevent Rotch from snatching Nodder’s confession
out of my hands. I read the carpenter’s statement. He listened with
his head hung. When I had ended, Butler said to him: “You see now how
it has worked out. When do you intend to make your declaration to Mr.
Bates?” The man in an instant leaped upon Butler and bore him to the
deck. I got hold of his throat to drag him away, and saw the devil’s
teeth in Butler’s cheek. I’m an old sea-going hand, Miss Johnstone,
and have been forced to listen to some bad language in my time, but
never heard I the like of what left Rotch’s lips after I had choked
him off Butler and flung him aside. His brain’s giving way,’ said he,
addressing Tom.

‘If he’s mad,’ I exclaimed, heartily frightened, ‘his bite may have
poisoned you, Tom.’

‘He’s dog-like enough,’ said he, ‘but I don’t fear his teeth. Bates,
you forgot to tell Miss Johnstone that before he sprang upon me he
called out, “You made the attempt,” using one of the choicest of his
diabolical expressions.’

‘We have Nodder’s confession,’ I exclaimed.

‘But he shall confess--he shall confess,’ said Tom, with deep and
thrilling intensity of tone; ‘I have him--he can never escape me. He
shall confess, or he swings for it by my hand as surely as God’s his
judge.’

Saying this, he left the table and went on deck.

‘Mr. Bates,’ said I, ‘how is the man to be brought to own his crime?’

The mate looked at me earnestly and slowly and shook his head.

‘He’ll go out of his mind,’ said he. ‘That’s often how God punishes the
like of such wretches. He may confess as a madman, but never while his
wits yield light enough to hold his hate in sight. Hate! Why, with him
the deadliest of human passions lives wrapped up, pure and unalloyed,
in flesh, stalking on two legs, and calling itself Rotch.’

He left me, and for many minutes I stood alone, leaning with my hand
upon the cabin table, lost in deep and distracting thought.

It so befell, however, that we were not long to wait before this
degrading, loathsome and maddening business of Rotch was settled
for us, and this without any demand upon our own ingenuity, though
the thing worked out to its issue in strict correspondence with the
inhuman devil’s nature and with all that is base and wretched in this
narrative. Whether the man had been a little mad at the root all
through; whether he really feared that Tom would execute his threat and
hang him; whether he supposed that, taking it that Tom did not hang
him, he would be fearfully punished for the conspiracy and perjury
which Nodder had deposed to; or whether his conscience, working like
a fiend, grew too strong for him during his long, solitary hours of
imprisonment, he, one day, fulfilled the prediction of the mate and
went mad.

We were then in the northern verge of the south-east trade-wind,
sweeping smoothly toward the Equator. I was asleep in my cabin, and was
awakened by a great disturbance and shouts. The hour was some time
in the afternoon. By the time I had put on my dress and run out, the
cries and sounds of scuffling had ceased; but on stepping a few paces
aft, I heard a strange noise of moaning and snapping yells proceeding
from Rotch’s cabin. It was such a noise as might be made by a couple of
dogs, who, though half dead with worrying each other, still fight on.

I ran to the wheel, where I found Will, who told me that while Bates
was in Rotch’s cabin, whither he had carried some drinking water,
Rotch, giving a loud shout, whipped a table knife out of his bunk; he
lunged at Bates, who very nimbly tripped him up, got the knife out of
his hand, and lay wrestling on the deck with Rotch, bawling for help.
Tom and Collins rushed to his assistance, and amongst them dragged the
villain into his berth again.

Whilst Will was telling me this, Tom and the others came out of Rotch’s
cabin. And now I heard that the man had gone mad, and that to prevent
him doing himself or us a mischief they had secured his legs and bound
his arms to his side.

This was a very great calamity; had he jumped overboard or cut his
throat all would have been well, but here now was a madman to watch.
Our little ship’s company was miserably few, and the requirements of
the brig totally prohibited our telling off any one of us to look after
the lunatic fiend. Then again, being mad, his confession (whatever
might prove the delirious gabble he chose to regale Mr. Bates with)
could be of no use to Tom, who would thus be balked in his iron-hard
resolve of carrying him to some part of the seas where he could hang
him if he did not confess.

But it was not a thing to be mended by lamentation; whilst madness
raged in the unhappy, wicked wretch, he was to be kept bound, and
rendered as helpless by cords and lines as Tom in his sanity had been
by leg-irons and handcuffs. Mr. Bates from time to time looked in upon
him, cut up his meat, fed him, and gave him drink. I never went near
the monster’s cabin nor set eyes upon him. If Tom looked in, Rotch
spat at him, howled, expressed by contortions and grimaces a hundred
hellish passions, and struggled with fury and with the power of a giant
to liberate himself that he might get at him. The madman’s cabin-door
was in various ways strengthened to provide against all possibility of
his breaking out. Otherwise he lay lodged as securely as if his prison
had been the sentinelled and barricaded ’tweendecks of the _Childe
Harold_.

This was his condition for about a week, dating from the hour of his
going mad; Bates then told us that the fellow was cooling down and
exhibiting some return of mind; a small light of intelligence was in
his eyes, and the fire of insanity was waning in them. He begged for
the freedom of his limbs, and Bates gave him the use of his arms. One
morning the mate came out of Rotch’s berth, and said to me, who was
sitting at the cabin table:

‘A strange change has come over that miserable creature. He cries like
a whipped boy, and his mind seems in a state of panic terror. He lay
hold of my hand just now and wriggled as though to fall upon his knees,
and implored me not to let Captain Butler come near him. “He’ll hang
me,” he whimpered; “that’s what he’s keeping me here for. Why don’t
he send me ashore? I’m not fit to die. I’ve got a wife and children
dependent upon me.” Then he blazed out: “But he dursn’t hang me. It
would be the bloodiest of all murders to swing a poor sick man like
me!” And he muttered about having a house of furniture and a little
money at home, all of which he’d give me if I’d smuggle a knife into
his berth, and then send Captain Butler to him alone on pretence of
hearing him confess.’

It was on Friday that Bates told me this. On the following Sunday we
sat down to dinner as usual at one o’clock. It was a very quiet day,
clear and bright; the brig was flapping leisurely along clothed to her
royals before a small air of hot wind blowing almost directly over
the stern. Tom put a slice of pork on a plate, and Bates cut it up to
carry it with biscuit, a pannikin of rum and water, and other matters
to Rotch’s berth. The mate went to the door of Rotch’s cabin, and put
the tray down to turn the key and shift one of the uprights which
protected the entrance. My eye was upon him; he opened the door, cried
out, and sprang back, tossing his arms with a gesture of horror and
consternation.

‘What is it?’ called Tom.

‘Come and look, Butler! Come and see for yourself!’ cried the mate.

Tom rushed aft and stood beside Bates. In a moment or two he turned
his face toward me and said, whilst he pointed to the cabin, with his
finger a little elevated: ‘Marian, he has hanged himself!’ He then went
in. Bates, with a white face, came running to the table for a knife,
and then joined Tom. I sat quite still. I had not the courage to view
an object which I guessed would haunt my memory as a phantom of ghastly
horror whilst life lasted. My heart beat with sick, fast throbs whilst
I waited. They were ten minutes in cutting him down and making sure he
was dead. They then came out, closing the door behind them, and drew
slowly to the table.

‘Miss Johnstone,’ said the mate, ‘he’s stone dead.’

‘Is it not God who wins, surely and always, in the end?’ exclaimed Tom.

POSTSCRIPT

When the venerable lady--the Marian Johnstone of the preceding
narrative--had arrived at this point, she declined to proceed. She said
she had told enough. If a sequel was necessary, it must be invented.
She had several grandchildren, and she did not choose to vex or
distress them by unnecessary candour.

With much coaxing, however, and during repeated visits, she let fall
enough to admit of a truthful ending to her strange tale, and the few
things material omitted by her were supplied by Admiralty records and
certain files of shipping papers.

It seems that amongst them they safely carried the little brig _Old
Stormy_ to the English Channel, where, hauling in close to the French
coast, they spoke a French smack, and Captain Butler went ashore to
await Marian Johnstone in some French or Flemish town that had been
agreed upon. The brig then stretched across to the English coast and
landed Nodder, who died twenty-four hours after his arrival in England.
Then, with the assistance of a few ’longshoremen, the vessel was
carried to the Thames.

Miss Johnstone at once called upon her uncle. No particulars of an
interview, which surely must have been memorable and remarkable, were
to be procured. Though Captain Butler had sworn that he would not
accept a free pardon if it were granted, nor ever again set foot in his
native country, Miss Johnstone went to work nevertheless to render him
what is called by the lawyers an unattainted person. It might have been
that Captain Butler knew the law better than she; it is certain that
her uncle, Mr. Johnstone, a shrewd old lawyer, gave her neither hope
nor encouragement. His reasons are probably indicated in an ‘opinion’
he obtained from one who stood high as a legal authority in his day.
The following extract may be given:

‘The unfortunate master has apparently been guilty of no less than
three different felonies within the jurisdiction of the Lord High
Admiral, _i.e._ on the high seas. The three felonies are (1) scuttling,
of which he is wrongfully convicted and transported; (2) being at large
during a sentence of transportation without lawful excise--felony
under 5 Geo. IV., c. 84, s. 24; and (3) of being concerned with other
convicts in piracy with bloodshed, under 18 Geo. II., c. 30, s. 2.
As to pardons: All convictions are to be presumed, of course, to be
correctly made until the contrary be shown. By 7 Geo. IV., c. 28, a
warrant under the royal sign manual is equivalent to a pardon under
the great seal, and this only as a pardon as to the specific felony
committed by the pardoned, and does not avail as to any offence
committed subsequently to that pardoned and not mentioned in the
pardon.’

The seizure of the _Childe Harold_ had occurred subsequently to
Butler’s conviction for attempting to scuttle the _Arab Chief_. He
was also at large whilst still a convict. Miss Johnstone, with much
spirit, but with a good deal of wrong-headed obstinacy also, persisted
in struggling in the direction of a pardon for her sweetheart until
certain convincing representations finally determined her to desist.
Having made all necessary arrangements with regard to her property, she
joined Captain Butler abroad and was married to him. They ultimately
went to the United States, and it is understood that for some years
Captain Butler had command of a fine clipper ship flying the Stars
and Stripes and trading between Boston and the western South American
seaboard.

The award for the salving of the _Old Stormy_ made a considerable sum.
The cargo proved to be exceedingly valuable. Some of the pictures were
by great masters, and the consignment of china alone was valued at
eleven thousand pounds. Captain Butler, through Miss Johnstone, refused
to touch one penny of the award; the money was therefore paid in sums
proportioned by the rating to Mr. Bates, Will Johnstone, and the man
Collins.

It is remarkable that the cabin story of the abandonment of the _Old
Stormy_ proved absolutely true. A single survivor of the crew was
rescued; he was carried to Sierra Leone, where he died; before he
died he detailed the facts of the mutiny, murders, and abandonment,
precisely as they were recited in the document found in the brig.

The _Childe Harold_ was fallen in with by a large heavily armed
Portuguese man-of-war, thirty leagues west of the island of Tristan
d’Acunha. She had been wrecked aloft in a gale; the convicts were in
terrible distress, they were short of water, they had wantonly wasted
the ship’s stock of provisions. The commander of the Portuguese ship
perceiving the vessel’s character sent a number of armed men on board,
and then, strangely enough, towed her for a supply of fresh water
to Tristan d’Acunha, where both ships arrived three weeks after the
departure of the _Old Stormy_ from that island. The transport was then
conveyed to Table Bay, refitted, placed in charge of a new captain
and officers along with a strong crew, and despatched on her voyage
to Hobart Town, where she safely arrived. How the ringleaders were
punished has not been ascertained.

The long-boat, containing Captain Sutherland, Captain Barrett, the
soldiers, women and children, was fallen in within seven or eight
degrees north latitude, and the people, who were all in good health
in spite of great sufferings from exposure--one death only, a child,
having happened--were carried round the Horn before there occurred an
opportunity to tranship and send them home. But the quarter-boats in
which the seamen had been sent adrift were never accounted for.

This, then, is the true sequel of the extraordinary adventures of the
remarkable young woman who has been styled in this narrative of her
experiences Marian Johnstone.

THE END

  PRINTED BY
  SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
  LONDON

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.


DOR. What's the matter? (_hands back matches_)

GAN. Weal cutlet for supper--that's wot's the matter! (DORVASTON
_crosses up back to window_. GANDY _puts matches on mantelpiece_) I've
always done my dooty by mother, so I picked a bit, and then I went
to bed and dreamt I was superintendin' my own funeral. Weal cutlet!
(_crosses up steps_) Mother gets above herself.

DOR. (_at window_) Have you tried a drop of brandy?

GAN. I 'ave. (_first step_)

DOR. I should try another.

GAN. (_second step_) I mean to. (DORVASTON _strolls out through the
window and off_ R. MISS PILLENGER _enters_ L., GANDY _giving way_)

MISS P. Gandy, can you tell me what has happened to my shoes?

GAN. No.

MISS P. I put them outside my door last night, but this morning I find
one of them still uncleaned and the other has disappeared. You haven't
seen it, I suppose?

GAN. I 'aven't.

MISS P. Very singular! (_crosses to window up back._ GANDY _goes up
stairs_) Have you seen Miss Lucy? She is not in her room!

GAN. No.

  (MR. PILLENGER _enters_ L. GANDY _gives way. He has cut his cheek
    while shaving and is wearing a piece of black sticking plaster._)

PIL. Good morning!

MISS P. Good morning, Audley.

PIL. (_to_ GANDY) Has the post come?

GAN. No, it ain't. (_he goes off_ L.)

MISS P. You appear to have had an accident.

PIL. Accident!

MISS P. In completing your toilette.

PIL. Eh? Hum--yes. The razor slipped. My nervous system is slightly
disorganized.

MISS P. The result of last night.

PIL. (_startled_) Last night? I--er--fail to understand you.

MISS P. I was referring to your indisposition.

PIL. Oh!--Ah!--exactly. (_crosses to window_)

MISS P. Are you going out?

PIL. I thought the fresh morning air might be beneficial.

MISS P. I must ask you to remain. I have a most painful subject to
talk over with you. (_sits_ R.)

PIL. Need we deal with it now? Painful subjects should never be
discussed on an empty--before breakfast.

MISS P. It does not admit of delay. We may have to face a serious
scandal.

PIL. (_crosses to chair_ L.) Scandal! I trust, Hannah, you are weighing
your words very carefully.

MISS P. I am not in the habit of speaking heedlessly. What I have to
tell you refers to Cook--(DORVASTON _appears at the window--he has_
MISS PILLENGER'S _shoe in his hand_)--and to Captain Dorvaston.

                     (DORVASTON _enters smoking_.)

PIL. Ah! here--is--er--Captain Dorvaston. (_he crosses to_ L. _and
indicates to_ DORVASTON _that_ MISS PILLENGER _is in the room_.
DORVASTON _throws cigarette away and comes to top of chair_ R. C.)

DOR. Good morning, sir. Good morning, ma'am! (MISS PILLENGER _bows
frigidly_. DORVASTON _crosses to chair_)

PIL. Hannah was just--er--mentioning, as you entered, that--you----

DOR. (_quietly beating the back of chair with shoe_) Yes, I fancied I
caught my name. What were you saying, ma'am?

MISS P. I was saying, Captain Dorvaston---- (_she notices the shoe_)
What are you doing with that shoe?

DOR. Just picked it up.

MISS P. Why did you touch it? Your doing so seems to me to be strangely
wanting in delicacy.

DOR. Don't see anything indelicate in picking up an old shoe. I found
it on the garden path.

MISS P. My shoe on the garden path!

DOR. Yours! I thought it was Gandy's.

MISS P. If you thought to keep me a prisoner in my room by the removal
of my shoe, the expedient was abortive. I have several other pairs.

DOR. Don't know what the deuce you're driving at, ma'am. Sorry I
disturbed the thing. Shall I put it back?

MISS P. I will thank you to restore it to me. (DORVASTON _hands shoe,
and_ MISS PILLENGER _crosses, and puts it on cabinet_ R.) Thank you!
(_she returns and sits_ L. _of table_) Now, with your permission, I
will resume what I was saying to Mr. Pillenger when you came in. (_the
men exchange glances_) I warned you last night I should consider it my
duty to acquaint Lucy with the details of--my--very painful discovery
(DORVASTON _starts to go off at window_; PILLENGER _follows his
example upstairs_) but I find she has gone out for a walk--at least
so I imagine. Well--Audley--Audley (MISS PILLENGER _calls_ PILLENGER
_back, and he calls_ DORVASTON _back_; PILLENGER _sits on settle, and_
DORVASTON _leans on balustrade_) Well, Audley, the painful discovery I
allude to was this. After returning home last night I had occasion to
visit the kitchen in order to speak to Cook for a moment. While doing
so, I heard a mysterious noise. I investigated its origin, and found
Captain Dorvaston concealed in the broom cupboard. He was unable to
give me any lucid explanation. I now leave the matter in your hands.
(_slight pause_)

DOR. I don't know whether it's much good me saying anything--is it, sir?

PIL. (_rises_) I think otherwise. (DORVASTON _surprised_) I shall be
very happy to hear anything you care to tell me. Appearances are often
misleading.

MISS P. But, Audley, surely----

PIL. Hannah, the matter has now been submitted to my judgment. I shall
not approach it in a spirit of carping doubt. If our dear friend can
give us his personal assurance that the whole thing was--a--little joke
for instance----

MISS P. A little joke!

PIL. If he could tell us that in concealing himself in the--er--broom
cupboard, he had an idea of jumping out suddenly and startling somebody
by saying "Boo"--not you particularly--but Cook, or Keziah, or
myself----

MISS P. You? What should you be doing in the kitchen?

PIL. No--that is so; but still, though I deprecate practical joking
as a rule, I should consider the explanation as not being without a
certain measure of antecedent plausibility.

MISS P. You appear to be putting words into Captain Dorvaston's mouth.

PIL. No, pardon me, I merely say that such a line of defence would
carry conviction to an unbiased mind. The army is proverbially a
light-hearted profession.

DOR. Well, sir, I'm afraid I can't exactly say that.

MISS P. There!

PIL. In any case, Hannah, our friend Dorvaston is Lucy's
responsibility. (_leans on mantel_)

MISS P. At all events, Cook is _yours_!

PIL. Eh? Hum--yes----

MISS P. You will of course ring the bell and discharge her.

PIL. I--really think we should endeavour to avoid any----

MISS P. (_rises_) Her continued presence in the house would be an
insult to _me_.

PIL. (_loudly_) To avoid any appearance of temper--do you hear me,
Hannah?--of temper.

DOR. (_coming to_ MISS PILLENGER) Upon my soul, ma'am, Cook hadn't
anything to do with it. I was there against her wish.

PIL. (_crossing to_ C.) Surely that is a most convincing testimony.

DOR. I know last night things didn't look quite square, but whatever
fault there _was_, was my fault.

PIL. Precisely! No doubt! (_the men look at each other_)

DOR. I was chatting to Cook--it was a stoopid thing to do--but there
was no harm in it.

PIL. None whatever, I feel sure.

DOR. In fact, the governor knows there wasn't!

MISS P. How should my brother know?

PIL. Hum!--tut--tut!

DOR. How! Why, because he was in the lar---- (_pause_, MISS PILLENGER
_stares, both men stare at each other with their mouths open_)

PIL. (_eagerly_) I was sure to take a broad-minded view. Doubtless that
is our friend's meaning.

DOR. Yes, that is what I meant. It got late, and I heard you coming,
ma'am, and I knew you're a bit strict, don't you know!

PIL. Quite so!

DOR. And as I was supposed to be seedy, I thought you'd take my being
there the wrong way, don't you see? So I--nipped into the broom
cupboard, don't you understand? (_crosses up back_)

PIL. (_crosses to top of table_) To a moderately impartial intelligence
the whole thing is as clear as day, and really reflects discredit on no
one.

MISS P. Is it your intention to say nothing to Cook on the subject?

PIL. I think we should give her to understand that careful
investigation has tended to modify our original misconception of the
true facts of the case.

MISS P. (_rising_) Then, Audley, I have this to say---- (_crosses to_
R.)

                          (GANDY _enters_ L.)

GAN. (_at top of steps_) I've just found a gent in the dry ditch at the
end of the garden.

PIL. (_pause_) A gent in the ditch! (DORVASTON _crosses to balustrade_)
What gent?--er--gentleman?

GAN. 'E was asleep and I shook 'im--'e grunted, and I shook 'im again.
'E says his name's Crayll, and 'e'd like to see you.

PIL. Crayll! (_to_ DORVASTON) That is the person who called on you
yesterday?

DOR. Yes, I know him.

PIL. He wished to see _me_? (_to_ GANDY)

GAN. 'E said so.

PIL. Show him in. (GANDY _goes out_. DORVASTON _crosses_ L.) Surely a
most singular circumstance! Why did he go to sleep in my ditch? (MISS
PILLENGER _crosses up to top of window_)

DOR. I suppose, as he's an acquaintance of mine, he thought you
wouldn't object.

PIL. He must be very eccentric. (_crosses to_ R. _corner_)

DOR. Yes, he's a rum sort of chap! (GANDY _enters, followed by_ CRAYLL,
_who looks rather dilapidated_)

GAN. Mr. Crayll! (_at top of steps--he goes out_--CRAYLL _is at top of
steps_)

CRAY. Good mornin'! (_at top of steps_)

PIL. Good morning!

CRAY. (_to_ DORVASTON) How are you? (_crosses down and puts hat on
settle_)

DOR. How are you?

CRAY. Think I'll sit down. (_crosses_ R.) Feel rather shaky. (_he sits_
L. _of table_; DORVASTON _is standing with his back to the fireplace_)

PIL. By all means. (_indicating_ MISS PILLENGER) My sister!

CRAY. Oh! (_he nods carelessly_)

PIL. But, my dear sir, (_sits_ R.) I understand you passed the
night--or some portion of it--in er--the ditch?

CRAY. 'Pears I did.

PIL. But--how did you get there?

CRAY. How the devil should I know?

PIL. Tut, tut!

CRAY. I must have bin sprung last night, that's about the size of it.
I seem to recollect somebody pickin' me up, and then chuckin' me down
again, like a sack of coals. (_to_ PILLENGER) It wasn't you, was it?

PIL. Certainly not! But you seem to be shivering. May I offer you
anything?

MISS P. (_from back of table--coming down a little_) A hot cup of tea?

CRAY. Tea be damned!

PIL. Tut! (MISS PILLENGER _is shocked, and goes up_)

CRAY. No, I should like a hair of the dog that bit me.

PIL. (_rises excitedly and leans over table_) Bitten by a dog! Good
Heavens! My dear sir, the place should be cauterised at once--no time
should be lost!

CRAY. Oh, don't be such an ass! I mean whiskey. (_looking closely at_
PILLENGER) What's that on your face? What is it? What's that filthy
black thing crawling over your face?

PIL. I--er--you probably----

CRAY. What is it? (_loudly--rises excitedly_) Why the devil don't you
tell me what it is?

PIL. A slight accident in shaving. My razor is somewhat out of
condition--merely sticking plaster.

CRAY. Oh! (_subsiding_) Thought it was a spider. (_pause_) I want to
talk to you.

PIL. Yes. (_sits_)

CRAY. Want to say a word or two about your Cook. (DORVASTON _makes a
slight movement_; MISS PILLENGER _crosses down to chair_)

PIL. Indeed!

CRAY. I s'pose you didn't know much about her when you took her. Did
you?

MISS P. No.

PIL. Hannah, permit me! In answer to your inquiry, I may say we
obtained the highest testimonials from the Duchess of Sturton.

CRAY. Oh yes, that's all right--they're pals. (_all start_) Did she
tell you your Cook was married.

MISS P. Married?

PIL. Hannah! Hannah! No, sir, she did not.

CRAY. Well she _is_. Did she say she was a well-known society woman,
who wasn't living with her husband?

MISS P. Good gracious!

PIL. Her Grace did not mention the fact--if it _is_ a fact.

CRAY. It _is_--you may lay your shirt on it. That ain't quite the sort
of party you want in your kitchen, is it? Now I happen to know the
husband'd be willin' to overlook the past--and take her back again----

PIL. Er--really?

CRAY. He's a good-natured beggar, and he don't bear malice. He put it
to her, but she's an obstinate devil--she didn't listen to reason. Now
it struck me that as you're a magpie----

PIL. Tut!

MISS P. A magpie?

CRAY. Beg pardon--I mean as you're a parson, with your eye on the
marriage service--"Those who Heaven joined" and all that kind of
thing--you might see your way to chuckin' her out, neck and crop,
without a character--D'you see?--and so bring her to a sense of dooty.

MISS P. Really, Audley, there is something to be said for this
gentleman's suggestion.

PIL. Whatever course it may ultimately be desirable for me to adopt, I
shall require more definite information than I at present possess as to
the intentions and--er--general identity--of the alleged husband.

CRAY. You can have it. I'm her husband.

PIL. You! (MISS PILLENGER _also conveys surprise_)

CRAY. Yes, you ask her; she'll admit she's been married all right.

MISS P. I'll ring for her at once. (_makes movement, rises and crosses
to_ L.)

CRAY. (_hastily_) Hold hard! Stop that, old woman! (MISS PILLENGER
_pauses_) I don't want to see her--there wouldn't be any good in
that--the meeting would be painful all round. (_rising_) No! you do
what I say--tell her to pack up her traps and go--and then my arms
will be open to her. (MISS PILLENGER _returns and sits_) Good mornin'!
(_crosses_ C.)

            (CRAYLL _goes_ L., DORVASTON _intercepts him_.)

DOR. You're not leaving us?

CRAY. Yes, I am!

DOR. I think not!

CRAY. What d'you mean? I suppose I can go when I like? (_moves forward_)

DOR. You will go when I like; and before you do, you've got to face
the lady you've just been trying to injure. Sit down there (_pointing
to settle_) and don't move, or I shall hurt you! (CRAYLL _hesitates_)
Sit down! (CRAYLL _sits sulkily_) Now I'm going to ring the bell, and
Mr. Pillenger will send for Mrs. Crayll; but if you try to get away, I
shall probably hurt you rather badly. Do you follow me?

CRAY. Yes.

DOR. That's all right. (_crosses and rings bell; to_ MR. PILLENGER)
Sorry to take the business out of your hands, sir, but we've got to see
it through, don't you know?

PIL. I think it would undoubtedly be desirable. (GANDY _enters_)
Will you ask Mrs.--er--I mean--er--kindly inform Cook we should like
to speak to her. (GANDY _goes out_, MISS PILLENGER _sits; long pause,
during which no one moves_) Er--wonderful how the--eh--fine weather
lasts! (_another pause_)

  (_Then_ CAROLINE _enters in outdoor costume; she is putting on her
    gloves. She comes down the steps and advances quietly to the
    table._)

CAR. You have something to say to me?

MISS P. Yes, we have.

CAR. That is fortunate, because I have something to say to you.

PIL. (MISS PILLENGER _makes to speak_) Hannah, you will greatly oblige
me by remaining silent. We wished, Cook----

CAR. (_near chair_ C.) Pardon me, Mr. Pillenger, I have no longer any
claim to that title--I beg to hand in my resignation.

PIL. You contemplate leaving us?

CAR. Yes. I've sent for a fly.

MISS P. Audley, since this lady objects to be referred to as Cook, I
think you should address her by her name--her real name.

CAR. (_glancing at_ MISS PILLENGER) I doubt if you know it.

MISS P. We are better informed than you imagine, Mrs. Crayll!

CAR. Oh, that's it!

PIL. (_rises_) My dear madam, pray believe the--er--somewhat startling
information came to us unsought. Our informant was that gentleman.
(_points to_ CRAYLL)

CAR. What gentleman?

DOR. (_to_ CRAYLL) You can stand up now. (CRAYLL _rises and crosses
down_ L. C., _and advances a step or two_. COOK _turns and sees him_)

CAR. I see! (_slight pause_) Well, what has he told you?

MISS P. This gentleman came here this morning to beg us----

CAR. To turn me out?

MISS P. Be that as it may, he is anxious to make an appeal to his, I
fear, misguided wife.

CAR. Is he indeed?

CRAY. I've been tellin' 'em I want you to come back--man can't say
more, can he?

CAR. What else did he tell you?

MISS P. He mentioned you were a well-known woman in society--and that
you had been living apart from your husband.

CAR. Quite so! Was that all he said?

PIL. I think that embraced the whole of Mr. Crayll's statement.
(_pause_)

CAR. Up to a certain point he told the truth. I did marry him some
years ago.

MISS P. You concealed the fact when you entered our service.

CAR. It wasn't a thing I felt inclined to boast of. As he was so
confidential, it seems odd he forgot to tell you we were recently
divorced.

PIL. Divorced!

MISS P. Divorced!

CAR. There is one other thing--I think it is only fair you should know
what a distinguished individual you have been entertaining in the
person of Mr. Crayll.

CRAY. Keep your infernal tongue between your teeth!

CAR. This gentleman----

CRAY. I shan't stay here to be baited--and badgered. (_going_)

DOR. (_advancing_) You'll stay where you are!

CAR. This gentleman is Lord Huntworth, I am--I was Lady Huntworth.
(_all convey astonishment_) Last night Lord Huntworth dropped in the
kitchen a letter. It was from a firm of solicitors.

CRAY. (_putting his hand to his breast pocket_) Damn!

CAR. Telling him I had inherited a large sum of money. Lord Huntworth
is rather hard up just now. There is nothing unusual in the
circumstance, but I mention it because it explains the reason of his
generous offer to condone the past. (_pause_) Here is your letter;
(_producing it_) you needn't trouble to answer it--I shall call on
Messrs. Brampton and Stokes in the course of the day. (CRAYLL _snatches
the letter_) I don't think we need detain you any longer, need we?
(CRAYLL _turns for hat_ L., _snarls at_ DORVASTON _and exits up steps_;
CAROLINE _watches him off_)

PIL. Is it actually the case that you are the Lady Huntworth?

CAR. (_turns to the_ PILLENGERS) Yes, I am the Lady Huntworth who is so
widely and so very unfavourably known. (_turns to_ DORVASTON) Would you
oblige me by ringing the bell, Captain Dorvaston?

DOR. Certainly? (_he does so_)

CAR. (_again speaking to the_ PILLENGERS) If I thought there was even
a chance that you could understand my doing what I have done I would
try to make it clear to you, but you couldn't--I should only waste your
time and my own. (GANDY _enters_) Gandy, has the fly come?

GAN. It 'as.

CAR. Thanks! Good-bye! (_she holds out her hand, he takes it
respectfully_) We've been good friends, haven't we?

GAN. We 'ave; servin' with you 'as bin a honour. (_exit_)

CAR. (_smiling and to the_ PILLENGERS) Mr. Pillenger--(_he rises_)
You have done everything in your power to render my little experiment
a pleasant one. I am grateful; and if your thoughts should ever turn
in my direction I hope you will let your mind dwell on the excellence
of my curried chicken, rather than on the supposed hopelessness of my
moral character. Good-bye.

PIL. (_bows sadly_) Good-bye! (_sits disconsolate_; COOK _nods to_ MR.
PILLENGER _pleasantly; then turns and gives a very stately bow to_ MISS
PILLENGER, _who stiffly returns it_; COOK _then goes_ L., _but pauses
as she mounts the steps and speaks to_ DORVASTON)

CAR. We have already taken leave of each other, but it has occurred to
me that perhaps you might care to let me hear from you. I am leaving
England for some time, but that address will find me. (_gives a card to
him_) Poste Restante, Brussels.

DOR. Poste Restante, Brussels.

CAR. Yes. Good-bye!

DOR. (_with a sigh_) Good-bye! (_sits down on settle; she goes out_)

  (_After she has gone_ DORVASTON _sits pensively on the settle;
    there is a pause; all three sit staring at nothing; then_ GANDY
    _enters with newspapers at window; he goes to_ PILLENGER.)

GAN. (_crosses to_ R. _to_ PILLENGER) "Standard!" (PILLENGER _takes
it, but allows it to drop by his side_; GANDY _then crosses to_ MISS
PILLENGER) "Church Times!" (_he then crosses to_ DORVASTON _and hands
him the other paper_) "Sportin' Life!" (PILLENGER _and_ DORVASTON _pick
up papers and try to read_; MISS DORVASTON _reads_, GANDY _goes up two
steps, then turns_) 'Ow about dinner?

PIL. Eh?

DOR. What?

GAN. 'Ow about dinner?

PIL. Don't dare allude to it. (_rises and sits at exit_)

DOR. Get out of the room! (_rises and sits at exit_)

  (GANDY _goes out, the two men open their papers firmly and
    begin to read_; LUCY _enters at window followed nervously by_
    THORSBY--LUCY _dragging him into_ C.; LUCY _is_ L. C., THORSBY R.
    C.)

LUCY. Good-morning, everybody!

MISS P. Good morning!

PIL. (_not looking up_) Good morning!

DOR. (_doing the same_) Good morning!

LUCY. I've brought Mr. Thorsby with me.

MISS P. Good day, Mr. Thorsby! (_he bows_)

DOR. (_not looking round_) Ah, Thorsby! (THORSBY _bows_)

DOR. (_not looking round_) How are you, Thorsby? (THORSBY _bows once
more_)

LUCY. We've just been married.

  MISS P. } What? (_all rise and throw down papers_;
  PIL.    } DORVASTON _immediately takes Bradshaw off_
  DOR.    } _mantel and sits on settle looking out trains_)

LUCY. Uncle, it wasn't Harry's doing, so if you feel riled you
must pitch into me. I'm responsible. Harry hated the deception all
through--didn't you?

THOR. I----

LUCY. All right, don't interrupt. We started early, biked over to
Ingledene Church--did the trick--rode back, and we want everybody's
blessing, and a good breakfast.

PIL. As you are practically independent of my control I fear I have no
power to withhold the blessing. The good breakfast may be less easily
obtained.

LUCY. Why?

PIL. Cook has left us? (_crosses up to desk_ R., _kicking the papers
from his feet viciously as he goes_)

LUCY. Oh! I'm sorry! She got up early, and made us some coffee, (_takes
hat up_ R. C.)

DOR. Then she knew?

LUCY. Of course she did! I told her.

MISS P. She would naturally take a prominent part in any duplicity.
(_crossing to window_; THORSBY _goes up after her to make his peace_)

LUCY. That's all rot. She was a real good sort--a long way better than
most of us (_she goes to_ DORVASTON) Jack, old boy!

DOR. Yes, little woman? (_sitting_ L. _looking at Bradshaw_)

LUCY. You're the only one that matters. I cared for Harry--and you
didn't care for me--did you? Tell me you didn't, or I shall hate
myself. You'd have married me and tried to look pleasant, but it would
have taken you all your time. Now, Jack, I want to hear you take your
oath you don't mind.

DOR. (_rises_) Mind! (_rings bell, returns, and takes_ LUCY _by both
hands_) My dear child, you don't know what a turn you've done me by
throwing me over for a better man. Mind? (_crosses to_ THORSBY, _claps
him on the shoulder_) My dear Thorsby, I wish you all the luck you
could wish yourself--and you'll get it! A chap who could carry out a
thing of this kind in such an exceptional way has all the makings of a
future bishop. (GANDY _enters_) Pack my things at once; I must catch
the 11:15 to town. (GANDY _goes out_)

LUCY. Going to leave us?

DOR. (_crosses to_ LUCY) I must, little woman--but I won't forget
to send you a wedding present--silver mug--no, that's later! (LUCY
_crosses to_ THORSBY U. B. _To_ PILLENGER) Good-bye, sir. (PILLENGER
_rises, and they shake hands across the table, he then sits again_)
Keep your head up and your liver active.

PIL. Good-bye!

DOR. (_to_ MISS PILLENGER) Good-bye, ma'am. I mean to be quite
respectable by the time we meet again. (_they shake hands_)

MISS P. I hope so.

DOR. (_to_ THORSBY) Good-bye, young fellah! Give that little filly her
head, and she won't want the whip. (_crosses_ L. _of_ LUCY _and the
others_) Good-bye, little woman! (_kisses her_) God bless you! (_kisses
her--runs up steps_)

LUCY. Good-bye, dear old boy! (_leans over balustrade; he is going_)
You'll let us hear from you?

DOR. Yes! (_runs up steps_)

LUCY. Where will a letter find you?

DOR. (_hastily taking out card and looking at it. Turns to her_) Poste
Restante, Brussels! (_as he goes off the_

                             CURTAIN FALLS.

  TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

  Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical
  errors.

  Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.

  Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

  Enclosed distinctive font in ~tildes~.