Paul Nancolas, accompanied by his little charge, prepared to set sail. Hitherto (as I have said) the boy had gone with him but halfway; but, upon this night,—the fishing season being a good one, and Paul deeming he might need the lad’s help—he had wrung from the parents a reluctant consent that the little fellow should be his midnight companion.
The sunlight was fading into ten thousand broad red streaks upon the vast expanse of water; and as the sun sank into the bosom of the ocean, the tide bore them steadily to the mouth of the Bay. It was a calm and beautiful evening, and nature looked very lovely in the declining light of day: the sun cast its departing rays upon the grey stone of the old castles, and tinged the tops of the tiny waves: it was still: the breeze bore on it, at intervals, the laughter from the window of the little village alehouse that stood upon the shore; and from the boat a mile ahead of them, the ditty of the fisherman came mingling with the pleasant air, as the light faded gradually; and the moon, with its mild beams, turned into silver what had been the streaks of gold, lighting up the darkening landscape with its soft mellowy beams. All things were so quiet, it seemed as if, in its own calm, nature had lulled herself to sleep.
The twinkling lights that dotted here and there the shore, became each moment paler in the distance; the rustling of the trees was lost in the murmur of the ocean; the land receded further and further from their view, till they appeared alone upon the moonlit sea. Nancolas began now to be alarmed at the protracted absence of Tregillian, whose boat he ought to have met some time before: he was the more uneasy, as the old man had complained before starting of giddiness, and had of late been ailing.
It was about this time that, resting on his oars, looking round, Paul observed that the boat from the owner of which they had heard the ditty proceeding was making towards them; and the fisherman, as he rowed along, was chaunting the burden of an old song, that had been a favourite with Nancolas, long before the birth of little Tregillian.
Heaven knows for what reason, but of all the revellers who jeered at his temperate habits, Nancolas had avoided this man. Tolbody, for that was his name, had staid out later, much later, than was usual for him to do, and was making his way to land with a heavy draught of fish; rowing hard against wind and tide.
As they neared, Tolbody hailed Nancolas, and brought his fishing-boat alongside.
“Why, mate, we see nought of ye now,” began Tolbody; “if thee don’t care about taking a sup, ye needn’t be above a pipe, now and then.”
Nancolas bade him a good-night, and would have rowed on.
“Stop, stop, mate!” roared the other; “what’s the hoorry? Sure the fishes won’t come the sooner to thy nets, for thy speed; I want something to speak to thee about.”
The fisherman stopped irresolutely on his oars. He had been nettled that day, more than once, at the ridicule he had had to endure from his old associates; who invariably made it a point, on each succeeding anniversary of his taking the pledge, to follow Paul to the beach with a derisive cheer. This day was the twelfth anniversary, and he had writhed under the yearly torment thus inflicted. If he passed this man without a greeting,—if he refused to throw him a word, his motive might be misconstrued, and that act set down as one of fear, which would have been done in reality from the wish to avoid an altercation.
“I’m in a hurry, master,” returned Nancolas; “I want to make the best use of wind and tide.”
“Why, mate, you’re not afraid?”
“Afraid—no! What should I be afraid on? You’ve little cause to say so. Master Tolbody.”
Tolbody laughed sneeringly, and winking at Nancolas, lifted his hand to his mouth, raising his little finger in the an*.
“Fourteenth of August!” he added. “This is the day, isn’t it, friend? Why they say you’re ’bliged to swear, or you couldn’t keep your promise.”
Stung with the last retort, and smarting under the jeers of his former friends on shore, Nancolas answered roughly—that it would be well if some minded business of their own, and that for his part he wanted no promise to bind him; he bade the other good-night, and resumed his oars.
“Stay, stay, man alive: we know each other. I don’t believe what they say of you. Too many’s the day we’ve come across each other, for me to be afraid to stake my davy, that if Nancolas says he’ll do a thing, why done that thing will be. I’d trust you with a bottle when there wasn’t a soul looking on, with the devil himself to tempt ye.”
Nancolas released the oar from his hand, and grasped that of Tolbodys.
The shot had struck home. The man whose reformation had been born of a baby’s love, was moved by the kind word from one whose ridicule he feared.
“That’s hearty, master! You’re one of the only mates that’s had a faith in Paul Nancolas, and I honour you for it.”
“Here,” cried the other, feeling in his pocket; “take this as a proof that I mean what I say. I’ll wager the cork won’t be drawn before I set eyes on it agen!”
So saying, he flung a corked wicker-bottle into the boat, and bidding Nancolas “God-speed,” made the best of his way towards the shore, to tell the tale to the group of fishermen, who nightly met at the Jolly Sailor, and impatiently to await the return of what he believed would be the drunken fisherman.
The sky had become overcast; large black clouds were fast obscuring the moon; the wind, too, had risen, and by the faint light which occasionally penetrated the darkness, breakers ahead were discernible.
Large drops of rain began now to fall, the sky was every moment growing darker; and the stillness and blackness of the night was broken only by the distant peals of thunder, and the vivid streaks of lightning, which seemed to split the horizon. Nancolas was hardened to such sights; but he was anxious for the boy, who, shivering with cold, had crept into the forepart of the boat. For-