Page images
PDF
EPUB

for which he was so celebrated, asked them why they were all so silent.

"Is it not enough," he whined, "that I should be condemned to such a wretched place as thiseternal noise, and no means of escaping it—heat and no punkah—a little bit of a pokey cabin-no servants, at least only one, which is as bad-a cursed stench all day long, of rum and bilge water, and Lord knows what besides-but that you must all stand round staring at, instead of trying to amuse me-me, who have lost my health, toiling, toiling, all day, to supply you women's extravagancies?" My dear Poggleton !"

66

[merged small][ocr errors]

"Is it not enough, I say," continued the sick man, not heeding these remonstrances-" is it not enough, that I should be compelled to give up every possible comfort-to have left Calcutta, when the godown was full of ice, and I might have had a maund a-day if I had liked it-to come on board this horrid ship, at such a time of year as this, with that rascally south-west monsoon blowing full in our teeth, with nothing to drink but cursedly hot water, not even so much as cooled with saltpetre-it is not enough, I say, to be subjected to all this, without my very family—my own flesh and blood, turning upon me and conspiring to make me wretched?"

66

My dear Poggleton!-how can you say so?" "Dear papa, I'm sure that we have tried"Tried!" interrupted the irritable invalid, “I

don't know what you've tried; but I'm as miserable as I well can be! What an ass I was, ever to let that confounded visiting member of the medical board ever darken the doors of my house. The cook here don't even know so much as how to make drinkable jug-soup, and there is as much trouble about getting a chicken for broth, as in procuring a whole hecatomb of oxen on shore-and then, too, to think of touching at Madras. What captain in his senses would ever do that, at such a time of year, as this?—' Pledged to take home a party.' Confound his pledges and the south-west monsoon— bout ship every two hours-day and night-and then one's cabin is first up to windward, right out of the sea, and then down to leeward under water— to wake in the night and find one's head at the bottom of an inclined plane, and every loose thing in the cabin driving down to leeward every time. Well, well, I'm heartily sick of it-I wish to God I were safe in Calcutta."

"You will soon be used to it," said Peregrine Pultuney, the moment that the amiable sufferer had ceased to speak, for he was fearful lest Julia should say something, and get another rebuff. "You will soon be used to it, uncle."

"And who taught you, young gentleman, to be such a Job's comforter?" returned Mr. Poggleton, sharply. "I shall be used to it soon, shall I? Yes; by the time that all the thousand nuisances of this horrid ship have ground me to death, and I am

[blocks in formation]

safe in my coffin, I shall be used to it indeedthen you will all get used to it-I shall be out of your way, and you will get used to doing without me."

"Dearest papa, how can you talk thus?" urged Julia Poggleton, sorrowfully;-" you don't know what pain you give us."

"I know what pain I endure," returned Mr. Poggleton, in a whining, querulous voice. "No one knows better than I do what pain is-real pain. I know what it is to feel as though the blade of a pruning-knife were sticking into my right side. Well, well-don't stay here with me-go and amuse yourselves. You young people had better go and take a walk, and tell one another what a fretful old wretch you have left behind you, immoveable in the arm-chair. Go along-go along-you are both of you longing for a walk."

"We had better go," whispered Julia.

Peregrine did not need another word to persuade him; in a moment he was on his legs, and Julia's arm was linked in his. They took several turns along the deck without either of them uttering a word; at last Peregrine broke the silence-" Shall you be very glad, Julia," he said, "when we anchor in the Madras roads?"

"N—0—0—no-certainly not, that is, for papa's sake, Peregrine-for his sake, I shall be glad." "And not for your own sake, Julia?"

Julia saw a pin on the deck and stooped down

to pick it up, with a benevolent desire, no doubt, to prevent it from running into the bare foot of a sailor; but Peregrine repeated the question.

"And not for your own sake, Julia?"

66

My sake-I don't know-I am-that is to say -shall you be very glad, Peregrine?"

"Sorry-most sorry," said Peregrine, in a tone of voice that by no means belied his words, "what shall I do at Madras?"

"I don't know," returned Julia, vaguely.

"I shall be very wretched," resumed Peregrine, -"very wretched indeed. I don't know what I shall do."

66

"Oh!" cried Julia, with assumed cheerfulness, you will be happy enough-you will regain your health. You will-enjoy yourself.”

"Never," returned Peregrine, "never. I shall not enjoy myself at all."

[ocr errors]

Why not?" asked Julia. "Why should you not? I cannot see why you should not."

"I do," sighed Peregrine.

"Do you?" asked Julia, scarcely knowing what she said, and looking down at a "bull's-eye" in the deck.

"Yes," urged Peregrine, rapidly articulating, in a low and not very clear voice-"Yes, that I do, but too well. Julia, we are sad hypocrites-very sad hypocrites indeed. It is no earthly use, my dearest Julia, to pretend not to care-either you or I-about our approaching separation. You care-I

care, but too much; we cannot veil this truth from one another-we are wretched; we are doomed to be wretched, if something is not done, and that shortly, to extricate us from our present too painful position. This is truth, Julia. I love you-you know I do. I could not help it; it was so natural, so very natural, dearest, that I cannot accuse myself of a very great fault, evil as have been the consequences. Yes, evil, Julia-most evil, for I cannot ask you to become my wife. This is an old storyvery old-much love, but a beggar. I cannot tell how much love-I cannot tell you:-this is sheer madness, I know it is-I feel it is-but what can I do? Tell me, Julia, what can I do? Love you I must always. Yes, always-for ever. It is a long time a very long time; but my love-Julia, why don't you answer me? say something; why don't you answer me ?"

But as Peregrine had not put any distinct question, it is probable that the young lady did not know precisely what it was she was called upon to answer. Our hero's address, it must be acknowledged, was very much unlike the set, poetical declarations, which young gentlemen make in love-stories and romances, being nothing more than a tissue of incoherences and repetitions, very lover-like and very confused. Julia knew what he was talking about, but nothing more-her head swam round, and she caught not a single word that was uttered-she only knew that he was talking about love.

« PreviousContinue »