Part 36 (2/2)
And so like himself too--so romantically, so poetically! They were toasting the Lifeboat Inst.i.tution at the time. He seized my hand.
`f.a.n.n.y,' he said, in the deep manly tones in which he had just made the most brilliant speech of the evening, `f.a.n.n.y, my love--my life--my _lifeboat_--will you have me? will you _save_ me?' There was a dreadful noise at the time--a very storm of cheering. The whole room seemed in a whirl. My head was in a whirl too; and oh! _how_ my heart beat! I don't know what I said. I fear I burst into a fit of laughter, and then cried, and dear uncle carried me out--but it's all over now. That _darling_ Lifeboat Inst.i.tution, I shall never forget it; for they were sounding its praises at the very moment when my Queeker and I got into the same boat--for life!--Your happy f.a.n.n.y.”
To this the next post brought the following reply:--
”YARMOUTH.”
”MY DEAREST f.a.n.n.y,--Is it necessary for me to say that your last short letter has filled my heart with joy? It has cleared up a mystery too!
On Tuesday last, in the forenoon, Mr Queeker came by appointment to take lunch with us, and Stanley happened to mention that a supper was to be given to the Ramsgate lifeboat-men, and that he had heard _you_ were to be there. During lunch, Mr Queeker was very absent and restless, and appeared to be unhappy. At last he started up, made some hurried apology about the train for the south, and having urgent business to transact, looked at his watch, and rushed out of the house! We could not understand it at the time, but I knew that he had only a few minutes left to catch the train for the south, and I _now_ know that he caught it--and why! Ah, f.a.n.n.y, did I not always a.s.sure you that he would do it in desperation at last! My earnest prayer is, that your wedded life may be as happy as mine has. .h.i.therto been.
”When your honeymoon is over, you must promise to pay us a visit. You know that our villa is sufficiently far out of town to warrant your regarding us in the light of country friends; and Stanley bids me say that he will take no denial. Papa--who is at present romping round the room with my eldest boy on his shoulders, so that I scarce know what I write--bids me tell you, with his kind love and hearty congratulations, that he thinks you are `not throwing yourself away, for that Queeker is a first-rate little fellow, and a rising man!' Observe, please, that I quote papa's own words.
”I _must_ stop abruptly, because a tiny cry from the nursery informs me that King Baby is awake, and demands instant attention!--With kindest love and congratulations, your ever affectionate, KATIE HALL.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
CONCLUSION.
Once again, and for the last time, we visit the floating light.
It was a calm sunny evening, about the end of autumn, when the Trinity tender, having effected ”the relief” of the old Gull, left her in order to perform the same service for her sister light-vessels.
”Good-bye, Welton, good-bye, lads,” cried the superintendent, waving his hand as the tender's boat pushed off and left them, for another period of duty, in their floating home.
”Good-bye, sir,” replied the mate and men, touching their caps.
”Now, sir,” said d.i.c.k Moy to the mate, shortly after, when they were all, except the watch, a.s.sembled below round the galley stove, ”are you goin' to let us 'ave a bit o' that there letter, accordin' to promise?”
”What letter?” inquired Jack Shales, who having only accomplished half of his period of service on board--one month--had not come off with his comrades, and knew little or nothing of what had occurred on sh.o.r.e.
”A letter from the lighthouse from Jim,” said the mate, lighting his pipe, ”received it this forenoon just as we were gettin' ready to come off.”
”All well and hearty, I hope?” asked Jerry MacGowl, seating himself on a bench, and rolling some tobacco between his palms, preparatory to filling his pipe.
”All well,” replied the mate, pulling out the letter in question, and regarding the address with much interest; ”an' strange news in it.”
”Well, then, let's 'ear wot it's all about,” said d.i.c.k Moy; ”there's time to read it afore sunset, an it ain't fair to keep fellers in all the hagonies of hexpectation.”
”That's true enough,” said Jerry with a grin. ”Arrah! it's bustin I am already wid kooriosity. Heave ahead, sir, an' be marciful.”
Thus entreated, Mr Welton glanced at his watch, sat down, and, opening his letter, read as follows:--
”DEAR FATHER,--Here we are, thank G.o.d, comfortably settled in the new lighthouse, and Nora and I both agree that although it is more outlandish, it is much more cheerful in every way than our last abode, although it _is_ very wild-like, and far from the mainland. Billy Towler, my a.s.sistant,--who has become such a strapping fellow that you'd scarce know him,--is also much pleased with it. The children, too, give a decided opinion in favour of the place, and even the baby, little Morley, seems to know that he has made a change for the better!
”Baby's name brings me to the news that I've got to tell you. Morley Jones has come back! You'll be surprised to hear that, I daresay, but it's a fact. He got a ticket-of-leave, and never rested till he found out where Nora was. He came to us one evening some time ago, and fell down in a sort of fit close to the lighthouse-door, while Nora was sitting in front of it, and the children were romping with Neptune beside her. Poor fellow! he was so changed, so old, and so white-haired and worn, that we did not know him at first; but after we had washed the blood off his face--for he had cut himself when he fell--I recognised the old features.
”But he is changed in other respects too, in a way that has filled my dear wife's heart with joy. Of course you are aware that he got no drink during the seven years of his imprisonment. Now that he is free he refuses to let a drop of anything stronger than water pa.s.s his lips.
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