Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “Captain George is right, though,” answered the clerk. “Jernam Brothers are growing rich; Jernam Brothers are prospering. But you haven’t told me your plans yet, captain.”

  “Well, since you say I had better cut this quarter, I suppose I must; though I like to see the rigging above the housetops, and to hear the jolly voices of the sailors, and to know that the ‘Pizarro’ lies hard by in the Pool. However, there’s an old aunt of mine, down in a sleepy little village in Devonshire, who’d be glad to see me, and none the worse for a small slice of Jernam Brothers’ good luck; so I’ll take a place on the Plymouth coach to-morrow morning, and go down and have a peep at her. You’ll be able to keep a look-out on the repairs aboard of the ‘Pizarro’, and I can be back in time to meet George on the fifth.”

  “Where are you to meet him?”

  “In this room.”

  The factotum shook his head.

  “You’re both a good deal too fond of this house,” he said. “The people that have got it now are strangers to us. They’ve bought the business since our last trip. I don’t like the look on them.”

  “No more do I, if it comes to that. I was sorry to hear the old folks had been done up. But come, Joyce, some more rum-and-water. Let’s enjoy ourselves to-night, man, if I’m to start by the first coach to-morrow morning. What’s that?”

  The captain stopped, with the bell-rope in his hand, to listen to the sound of music close at hand. A woman’s voice, fresh and clear as the song of a sky-lark, was singing “Wapping Old Stairs,” to the accompaniment of a feeble old piano.

  “What a voice!” cried the sailor. “Why, it seems to pierce to the very core of my heart as I listen to it. Let’s go and hear the music, Joyce.”

  “Better not, captain,” answered the warning voice of the clerk. “I tell you they’re a bad lot in this house. It’s a sort of concert they give of a night; an excuse for drunkenness, and riot, and low company. If you’re going by the coach to-morrow, you’d better get to bed early to-night. You’ve been drinking quite enough as it is.”

  “Drinking!” cried Valentine Jernam; “why, I’m as sober as a judge.

  Come, Joyce, let’s go and listen to that girl’s singing.”

  The captain left the room, and Harker followed, shrugging his shoulders as he went.

  “There’s nothing so hard to manage as a baby of thirty years old,” he muttered; “a blessed infant that one’s obliged to call master.”

  He followed the captain, through a dingy little passage, into a room with a sanded floor, and a little platform at one end. The room was full of sailors and disreputable-looking women; and was lighted by several jets of coarse gas, which flared in the bleak March wind.

  A group of black-bearded, foreign-looking seamen made room for the captain and his companion at one of the tables. Jernam acknowledged their courtesy with a friendly nod.

  “I don’t mind standing treat for a civil fellow like you,” he said; “come, mates, what do you say to a bowl of punch?”

  The men looked at him and grinned a ready assent.

  Valentine Jernam called the landlord, and ordered a bowl of rum-punch.

  “Plenty of it, remember, and be sure you are not too liberal with the water,” said the captain.

  The landlord nodded and laughed. He was a broad-shouldered, square-built man, with a flat, pale face, broad and square, like his figure — not a pleasant-looking man by any means.

  Valentine Jernam folded his arms on the rickety, liquor-stained table, and took a leisurely survey of the apartment.

  There was a pause in the concert just now. The girl had finished her song, and sat by the old square piano, waiting till she should be required to sing again. There were only two performers in this primitive species of concert — the girl who sang, and an old blind man, who accompanied her on the piano; but such entertainment was quite sufficient for the patrons of the ‘Jolly Tar’, seven-and-twenty years ago, before the splendours of modern music-halls had arisen in the land.

  Valentine Jernam’s dark eyes wandered round the room, till they lighted on the face of the girl sitting by the piano. There they fixed themselves all at once, and seemed as if rooted to the face on which they looked. It was a pale, oval face, framed in bands of smooth black hair, and lighted by splendid black eyes; the face of a Roman empress rather than a singing-girl at a public-house in Shadwell. Never before had Valentine Jernam looked on so fair a woman. He had never been a student or admirer of the weaker sex. He had a vague kind of idea that there were women, and mermaids, and other dangerous creatures, lurking somewhere in this world, for the destruction of honest men; but beyond this he had very few ideas on the subject.

  Other people were taking very little notice of the singer. The regular patrons of the ‘Jolly Tar’ were accustomed to her beauty and her singing, and thought very little about her. The girl was very quiet, very modest. She came and went under the care of the old blind pianist, whom she called her grandfather, and she seemed to shrink alike from observation or admiration.

  She began to sing again presently.

  She stood by the piano, facing the audience, calm as a statue, with her large black eyes looking straight before her. The old man listened to her eagerly, as he played, and nodded fond approval every now and then, as the full, rich notes fell upon his ear. The poor blind face was illuminated with the musician’s rapture. It seemed as if the noisy, disreputable audience had no existence for these two people.

  “What a lovely creature!” exclaimed the captain, in a tone of subdued intensity.

  “Yes, she’s a pretty girl,” muttered the clerk, coolly.

  “A pretty girl!” echoed Jernam; “an angel, you mean! I did not know there were such women in the world; and to think that such a woman should be here, in this place, in the midst of all this tobacco-smoke, and noise, and blasphemy! It seems hard, doesn’t it, Joyce?”

  “I don’t see that it’s any harder for a pretty woman than an ugly one,” replied Harker, sententiously. “If the girl had red hair and a snub nose, you wouldn’t take the trouble to pity her. I don’t see why you should concern yourself about her, because she happens to have black eyes and red lips. I dare say she’s a bad lot, like most of ’em about here, and would as soon pick your pocket as look at you, if you gave her the chance.”

  Valentine Jernam made no reply to these observations. It is possible that he scarcely heard them. The punch came presently; but he pushed the bowl towards Joyce, and bade that gentleman dispense the mixture. His own glass remained before him untouched, while the foreign seamen and Joyce Harker emptied the bowl. When the girl sang, he listened; when she sat in a listless attitude, in the pauses between her songs, he watched her face.

  Until she had finished her last song, and left the platform, leading her blind companion by the hand, the captain of the ‘Pizarro’ seemed like a creature under the influence of a spell. There was only one exit from the room, so the singing-girl and her grandfather had to pass along the narrow space between the two rows of tables. Her dark stuff dress brushed against Jernam as she passed him. To the last, his eyes followed her with the same entranced gaze.

  When she had gone, and the door had closed upon her, he started suddenly to his feet, and followed. He was just in time to see her leave the house with her grandfather, and with a big, ill-looking man, half-sailor, half-landsman, who had been drinking at the bar.

  The landlord was standing behind the bar, drawing beer, as Jernam looked out into the street, watching the receding figures of the girl and her two companions.

  “She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?” said the landlord, as Jernam shut the door.

  “She is, indeed!” cried the sailor. “Who is she? — where does she come from? — what’s her name?”

  “Her name is Jenny Milsom, and she lives with her father, a very respectable man.”

  “Was that her father who went out with her just now?”

  “Yes, that’s Tom Milsom.”

  “He doesn�
�t look very respectable. I don’t think I ever set eyes on a worse-looking fellow.”

  “A man can’t help his looks,” answered the landlord, rather sulkily; “I’ve known Tom Milsom these ten years, and I’ve never known any harm of him.”

  “No, nor any good either, I should think, Dennis Wayman,” said a man who was lounging at the bar; “Black Milsom is the name we gave him over at Rotherhithe. I worked with him in a shipbuilder’s yard seven years ago: a surly brute he was then, and a surly brute he is now; and a lazy, skulking vagabond into the bargain, living an idle life out at that cottage of his among the marshes, and eating up his pretty daughter’s earnings.”

  “You seem to know Milsom’s business as well as you do your own, Joe

  Dermot,” answered the landlord, with some touch of anger in his tone.

  “It’s no use looking savage at me, Dennis,” returned Dermot; “I never did trust Black Milsom, and never will. There are men who would take your life’s blood for the price of a gallon of beer, and I think Milsom is one of ‘em.”

  Valentine Jernam listened attentively to this conversation — not because he was interested in Black Milsom’s character, but because he wanted to hear anything that could enlighten him about the girl who had awakened such a new sentiment in his breast.

  The clerk had followed his master, and stood in the shadow of the doorway, listening even more attentively than his employer; the small, restless eyes shifted to and fro between the faces of the speakers.

  More might have been said about Mr. Thomas Milsom; but it was evident that the landlord of the ‘Jolly Tar’ was inclined to resent any disrespectful allusion to that individual. The man called Joe Dermot paid his score, and went away. The captain and his factotum retired to the two dingy little apartments which were to accommodate them for the night.

  All through that night, sleeping or waking, Valentine Jernam was haunted by the vision of a beautiful face, the sound of a melodious voice, and the face and the voice belonged alike to the singing-girl.

  The captain of the ‘Pizarro’ left his room at five o’clock, and tapped at Joyce Marker’s door with the intention of bidding him goodbye.

  “I’m off, Joyce,” he said; “be sure you keep your eye upon the repairs between this and the fifth.”

  He was prepared to receive a drowsy answer; but to his surprise the door was opened, and Joyce stood dressed upon the threshold.

  “I’m coming to the coach-office with you, captain,” answered Harker. “I don’t like this place, and I want to see you safe out of it, never to come back to it any more.”

  “Nonsense, Joyce; the place suits me well enough.”

  “Does it?” asked the factotum, in a whisper; “and the landlord suits you, I suppose? — and that man they call Black Milsom? There’s something more than common between those two men, Captain Jernam. However that is, you take my advice. Don’t you come back to this house till you come to meet Captain George. Captain George is a cool hand, and I’m not afraid of him; but you’re too wild and too free-spoken for such folks as hang about the ‘Jolly Tar’. You sported your pocket-book too freely last night, when you were paying for the punch. I saw the landlord spot the notes and gold, and I haven’t trusted myself to sleep too soundly all night, for fear there should be any attempt at foul play.”

  “You’re a good fellow, Joyce; but though you’ve pluck enough for twenty in a storm at sea, you’re as timid as a baby at home.”

  “I’m like a dog, captain — I can smell danger when it threatens those I love. Hark! what’s that?”

  They were going down stairs quietly, in the darkness of the early spring morning. The clerk’s quick ear caught the sound of a stealthy footstep; and in the next minute they were face to face with a man who was ascending the narrow stairs.

  “You’re early astir, Mr. Wayman,” said Joyce Harker, recognizing the landlord of the ‘Jolly Tar’.

  “And so are you, for the matter of that,” answered the host.

  “My captain is off by an early coach, and I’m going to walk to the office with him,” returned Joyce.

  “Off by an early coach, is he? Then, if he can stop to drink it, I’ll make him a cup of coffee.”

  “You’re very good,” answered Joyce, hastily; “but you see, the captain hasn’t time for that, if he’s going to catch the coach.”

  “Are you going into the country for long, captain?” asked the landlord.

  “Well, no; not for long, mate; for I’ve got an appointment to keep in this house, on the fifth of April, with a brother of mine, who’s homeward-bound from Barbadoes. You see, my brother and me are partners; whatever good luck one has he shares it with the other. We’ve been uncommon lucky lately.”

  The captain slapped his hand upon one of his capacious pockets as he spoke. Dennis Wayman watched the gesture with eager eyes. All through Valentine’s speech, Joyce Harker had been trying to arrest his attention, but trying in vain. When the owner of the ‘Pizarro’ began to talk, it was very difficult to stop him.

  The captain bade the landlord a cheerful good day, and departed with his faithful follower.

  Out in the street, Joyce Harker remonstrated with his employer.

  “I told you that fellow was not to be trusted, captain,” he said; “and yet you blabbed to him about the money.”

  “Nonsense, Joyce. I didn’t say a word about money.”

  “Didn’t you though, captain? You said quite enough to let that man know you’d got the cash about you. But you won’t go back to that place till you go to meet Captain George on the fifth?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You won’t change your mind, captain?”

  “Not I.”

  “Because, you see, I shall be down at Blackwall, looking after the repairs, for it will be sharp work to get finished against you want to sail for Rio. So, you see, I shall be out of the way. And if you did go back to that house alone, Lord knows what they might try on.”

  “Don’t you be afraid, Joyce. In the first place I shan’t go back there till twelve o’clock on the fifth. I’ll come up from Plymouth by the night coach, and put up at the ‘Golden Cross’ like a gentleman. And, in the second place, I flatter myself I’m a match for any set of land-sharks in creation.”

  “No, you’re not, captain. No honest man is ever a match for a scoundrel.”

  Jernam and his companion carried the captain’s portmanteau between them. They hailed a hackney-coach presently, and drove to the “Golden Cross,” through the chill, gray streets, where the closed shutters had a funereal aspect.

  At the coach-office they parted, with many friendly words on both sides; but to the last, Joyce Harker was grave and anxious.

  The last he saw of his friend and employer was the captain’s dark face looking out of the coach-window; the captain’s hand waved in cordial farewell.

  “What a good fellow he is! — what a noble fellow!” thought the wizen little clerk, as he trudged back towards the City. “But was there ever a baby so helpless on shore? — was there ever an innocent infant that needed so much looking after?”

  * * * * *

  Valentine Jernam arrived at Plymouth early the next morning, and walked from Plymouth to the little village of Allanbay, in which lived the only relative he had in the world, except his brother George. Walking at a leisurely pace along the quiet road, Captain Jernam, although not usually a thoughtful person, was fain to think about something, and fell to thinking over the past.

  Light-hearted and cheery of spirit as the adventurous sailor was now-a-days, his childhood had been a very sad one. Motherless at eight years of age, and ill-used by a drunken father, the boy had suffered as the children of the poor too often suffer.

  His mother had died, leaving George an infant of less than twelve months old; and from the hour of her death, Valentine had been the infant’s sole nurse and protector; standing between the helpless little one and the father’s brutality; enduring all hardships cheerfully, so long as he was abl
e to shelter little Georgy.

  On more than one occasion, the elder boy had braved and defied his father in defence of the younger brother.

  It was scarcely strange, therefore, that there should arise between the two brothers an affection beyond the ordinary measure of brotherly love. Valentine had supplied the place of both parents to his brother George, — the place of the mother, who lay buried in Allanbay churchyard; the place of the father, who had sunk into a living death of drunkenness and profligacy.

  They were not peasant-born these Jernams. The father had been a lieutenant in the Royal Navy; but had deservedly lost his commission, and had come, with his devoted wife, to hide his disgrace at Allanbay. The vices which had caused his expulsion from the navy had increased with every year, until the family had sunk to the lowest depths of poverty and degradation, in spite of the wife’s heroic efforts to accomplish the reform of a reprobate. She had struggled nobly till the last, and had died broken-hearted, leaving the helpless children to the mercy of a wretch whose nature had become utterly debased and brutalized.

  Throughout their desolate childhood the brothers had been all in all to each other, and as soon as George was old enough to face the world with his brother, the two boys ran away to sea, and obtained employment on board a small trading vessel.

  At sea, as on shore, Valentine stood between his younger brother and all hardships. But the rough sailors were kinder than the drunken father had been, and the two lads fared pretty well.

  Thus began the career of the two Jernams. Through all changes of fortune, the brothers had clung to each other. Despite all differences of character, their love for each other had known neither change nor diminution; and to-day, walking alone upon this quiet country road, the tears clouded Valentine Jernam’s eyes as he remembered how often he had trodden it in the old time with his little brother in his arms.