Part 35 (1/2)

”Nora,” called the mother, who was a young and exceedingly beautiful mother, ”Nora, come here; go tell your father that I see a stranger coming up the path. Quick, darling.”

Little Nora bounded away like a small fairy, with her fair curls streaming in the wind which her own speed created.

”Katie,” said the mother, turning to her second daughter, ”don't rumple him up quite so violently. You must remember that he is a tiny fellow yet, and can't stand such rough treatment.”

”But he likes it, ma,” objected Katie, with a look of glee, although she obeyed the order at once. ”Don't you, Morley?”

Little Morley stopped in the middle of an ecstatic laugh, scrambled upon his fat legs and staggered towards his mother, with his fists doubled, as if to take summary vengeance on her for having stopped the fun.

”Oh, baby boy; my little Morley, what a wild fellow you are!” cried the mother, catching up her child and tossing him in the air.

The old man had approached near enough to overhear the words and recognise the face. Tears sprang to his eyes and ran down his cheeks, as he fell forward on the path with his face in the dust.

At the same moment the lighthouse-keeper issued from the door of the building. Running towards the old man, he and his wife quickly raised him and loosened his neckcloth. His face had been slightly cut by the fall. Blood and dust besmeared it and soiled his white locks.

”Poor old man!” said the keeper, as his mate, the a.s.sistant light-keeper, joined him. ”Lend a hand, Billy, to carry him in. He ain't very heavy.”

The a.s.sistant--a strapping young fellow, with a powerful, well-made frame, sparkling eyes and a handsome face, on which at that moment there was a look of intense pity--a.s.sisted his comrade to raise the old man.

They carried him with tender care into the lighthouse and laid him on a couch which at that time, owing to lack of room in the building, happened to be little Nora's bed.

For a few moments he lay apparently in a state of insensibility, while the mother of the family brought a basin of water and began carefully to remove the blood and dust which rendered his face unrecognisable. The first touch of the cold sponge caused him to open his eyes and gaze earnestly in the woman's face--so earnestly that she was constrained to pause and return the gaze inquiringly.

”You seem to know me,” she said.

The old man made no reply, but, slowly clasping his hands and closing his eyes, exclaimed ”Thank G.o.d!” fervently.

Let us glance, now, at a few more of the changes which had been wrought in the condition and circ.u.mstances of several of the actors in this tale by the wonder-working hand of time.

On another evening of another month in this same year, Mr Robert Queeker--having just completed an ode to a star which had been recently discovered by the Astronomer-Royal--walked from the door of the Fortress Hotel, Ramsgate, and, wending his way leisurely along Harbour Street, directed his steps towards Saint James's Hall.

Seven years had wrought a great change for the better in Mr Robert Queeker. His once smooth face was decorated with a superb pair of light-brown whiskers of the stamp now styled Dundreary. His clothes fitted him well, and displayed to advantage a figure which, although short, was well made and athletic. It was evident that time had not caused his shadow to grow less. There was a jaunty, confident air about him, too, which might have been thought quite in keeping with a red coat and top-boots by his friends in Jenkinsjoy, and would have induced hospitable Mr Stoutheart to let him once more try his fortune on the back of Slapover without much anxiety as to the result; ay, even although the sweet but reckless Amy were to be his leader in the field!

Nevertheless there was nothing of the c.o.xcomb about Queeker--no self-a.s.sertion; nothing but amiableness, self-satisfaction, and enthusiasm.

Queeker smiled and hummed a tune to himself as he walked along drawing on his gloves, which were lavender kid and exceedingly tight.

”It will be a great night,” he murmured; ”a grand, a glorious night.”

As there was nothing peculiarly grand in the aspect of the weather, it is to be presumed that he referred to something else, but he said nothing more at the time, although he smiled a good deal and hummed a good many s.n.a.t.c.hes of popular airs as he walked along, still struggling with the refractory fingers of the lavender kid gloves.

Arrived at Saint James's Hall, he took up a position outside the door, and remained there as if waiting for some one.

It was evident that Mr Queeker's brief remark had reference to the proceedings that were going on at the hall, because everything in and around it, on that occasion, gave unquestionable evidence that there was to be a ”great night” there. The lobby blazed with light, and resounded with voices and bustle, as people streamed in continuously. The interior of the hall itself glowed like a red-hot chamber of gold, and was tastefully decorated with flowers and flags and evergreens; while the floor of the room was covered with long tables, which groaned under the glittering accessories of an approaching feast. Fair ladies were among the a.s.sembling company, and busy gentlemen, who acted the part of stewards, hurried to and fro, giving directions and keeping order. A large portion of the company consisted of men whose hard hands, powerful frames, and bronzed faces, proclaimed them the sons of toil, and whose manly tones and holiday garments smacked of gales and salt water.

”What be goin' on here, measter?” inquired a country fellow, nudging Mr Queeker with his elbow.

Queeker looked at his questioner in surprise, and told him that it was a supper which was about to be given to the lifeboat-men by the people of the town.

”An' who be the lifeboat-men, measter?”

”`Shades of the mighty dead;' not to mention the glorious living!”