“Why, mother, I really did not like to ask for such things.”

  “No, there it is; you’ve grown so fine all of a sudden. These are no use, for nobody will come to my shop to buy them.”

  “I thought you would like to keep them yourself, mother.”

  “Keep them? Oh, they are keepsakes, are they? Look you, Jack, if they are to be kept you had better take them away at once, and give them to the young girls. Girls like keepsakes, old women like money.”

  “Well, mother, sell them if you please; they are your own.”

  “Sell them? let me see — yes, I think I know where there is a sort of curiosity-shop, in Church Street; but it’s a long way to walk Jack, and that — let me see,” continued she, counting the different articles, “one, two, three — seven times, Jack.”

  “But why not take them all at once.”

  “All at once, you stupid boy! I should get no more for two than for one. No, no; one at a time, and I may make a few shillings. Well, Jack, it’s very kind of you after all, so don’t mind my being a little cross; it was not on account of the things, but because you did not come to see me and I’ve been looking out for you.”

  “If I had thought that, I would have come sooner, mother, although it would not have been convenient.”

  “I believe you, Jack, I believe you; but you young people can’t feel as an old woman like I do. There is but one thing I love in the world, Jack, now, and that’s you; and when I get weary of waiting for that one thing, and it don’t come, Jack, it does make a poor old woman like me a little cross for the time.”

  I was touched with this last speech of old Nanny’s, who had never shown me any such a decided mark of kindness before. “Mother,” said I, “depend upon it, whenever I return to Greenwich, you shall be the first person that I come to see after I have been to my mother’s.”

  “That’s kind, Jack, and you keep your promise always. Now sit down; you don’t want to go away already, do you?”

  “No, mother, I came to spend the whole morning with you.”

  “Well, then, sit down — take care, Jack, you’ll knock down that bottle. Now tell me, what do you intend to do with your hundred pounds?”

  “I have settled that already, mother. I have given it away.”

  “Already! Why, the boy has one hundred pounds given him on the morning, and he gives it away before night. Mercy on us! who would ever think of leaving you any money?”

  “No one, mother; and I never expect any except what I earn.”

  “Why, Jack, do you know how much one hundred pounds is?”

  “I think so.”

  “Now, Jack, tell me the truth, who did you give it to, your father, or your little sister; or who? for I can’t understand how a person could give away one hundred pounds in any way or to anybody.”

  “Well, then, I gave it to my mother.”

  “Your mother! your mother, who has hated you, wished you dead, half-starved you! Jack, is that possible?”

  “My mother has not been fond of me, but she has worked hard for my sister. This hundred pounds will enable her to do much better than she does now, and it’s of no use to me. Mother may love me yet, Nanny.”

  “She ought to,” replied old Nanny, gravely; and then she covered her face up with her hands. “Oh, what a difference!” ejaculated she at last.

  “Difference, mother, difference? in what?”

  “Oh, Jack, between you and — somebody else. Don’t talk about it any more, Jack,” said Nanny, casting her eyes down to the presents I had brought her. “I recollect the time,” continued she, evidently talking to herself, “that I had plenty of presents; ay, and when it was thought a great favour if I would accept them. That was when I was young and beautiful; yes, people would laugh if they heard me, — young and very beautiful, or men’s smiles and women’s hate were thrown away —

  “‘Why so pale and wan, fond lover;

  Prithee, why so pale?’

  “Yes, yes, bygones are bygones.”

  I was much surprised to hear old Nanny attempt to sing, and could hardly help laughing; but I restrained myself. She didn’t speak again, but continued bent over one of the baskets, as if thinking about former days. I broke the silence by saying: —

  “What part of the country did you live in when you were young, mother?”

  “In the north part. But never ask questions.”

  “Yes, but, mother, I wish to ask questions. I wish you to tell me your whole history. I will not tell it again to any one, I promise you.”

  “But why should you wish to know the history of a poor old thing like me?”

  “Because, mother, I am sure you must have seen better days.”

  “And if I have, Jack, is it kind to ask me to bring up to memory the days when I was fair and rich, when the world smiled upon me, and I was fool enough to think that it would always smile? is it kind to recall what was to an old, miserable, deserted wretch like me, struggling to keep out of the workhouse? Look at me now, Jack, and see what I now am: is it not cruel to bring to my mind what I once was? Go to, Jack, you’re a selfish boy, and I don’t love you.”

  “Indeed, mother, if I thought it would have given you pain, I never would have asked you; but you cannot wonder at me. Recollect that you have ever been my best friend; you trusted me when nobody else would; and can you be surprised at my feeling an interest about you? Why, mother, I don’t even know your name.”

  “Well, Jack, you have put things in a better light. I do believe that you care for me, and who else does? But, Jack, my name you never shall know, even if I am to tell you all the rest.”

  “Were you ever married, mother?”

  “Yes, child, I was married. Now, what’s the next question?” continued she, impatiently.

  “Had you any children?”

  “Yes, boy, I had one — one that was a source of misery and shame to his doting mother.” Old Nanny pressed her eyeballs with her knuckles as if in agony.

  “I won’t ask you any more questions,” said I mournfully.

  “Not now, Jack, that’s a good boy; some other day, perhaps, I’ll tell you all. There’s a lesson in every life, and a warning in too many. You’ll come again, Jack — yes, I know you’ll come to hear my story, so I shall see you once more before you leave: go now.” Old Nanny rose and went indoors, taking her stool in her hand, and leaving the presents where they lay, outside — a proof that she was in great agitation. I put them inside the threshold, and then went homewards.

  I could not help remarking, as I walked home, that old Nanny’s language and manner appeared very superior when she broke out in these reminiscences of the past, and I felt more interest in her then I ever had before. On my return, I found Bramble, who had come down sooner than he was expected, sitting in the parlour with Peter Anderson and my father, all smoking, with porter on the table.

  “Well, Tom,” said Bramble, “here I am two days before my time, but that’s better than being two days after it, and, what’s more, I’ve got the money, both yours and mine. They told me I should not get it for three months at least; but I sent up my name to the Board, and explained to them that a pilot could not wait like a purser while they were passing accounts, so the gentleman laughed, and gave me an order for it; and I’ve got all my pilotage too, so I’m a rich man just now. Come, I’ll give you yours at once, and I hope it may not be the last hundred pounds that you’ll pick up.”

  Bramble pulled his leathern case out of his pilot jacket, and counted out ten ten-pound notes. “There, Jack, you ought to give me a receipt, for I signed for you at the India House.”

  “Oh, you’ve plenty of witnesses,” replied I, as I collected the notes, and giving them to Virginia, told her to take them to my mother, who was upstairs in her room.

  “To tell you the truth, Jack, this two hundred pounds, which I earned so easily, has just come in the right time, and with it and my pilotage I shall now be able to do what I have long wished.”

  “And what’s that?” inquired I. “Something for Bessy, I suppose.”

  “Exactly, Tom, it is something for Bessy; that is, it will be by-and-bye. I’ve a good matter of money, which I’ve laid by year after year, and worked hard for it too, and I never have known what to do with it. I can’t understand the Funds and those sort of things, so I have kept some here and some there. Now, you know the grass land at the back of the cottage: it forms part of a tidy little farm, which is rented for seventy pounds a year, by a good man, and it has been for sale these three years; but I never could manage the price till now. When we go back to Deal, I shall try if I can buy that farm; for, you see, money may slip through a man’s fingers in many ways, but land can’t run away; and, as you say, it will be Bessy’s one of these days — and more too, if I can scrape it up.”

  “You are right, Bramble,” said Peter Anderson, “and I am glad to hear that you can afford to buy the land.”

  “Why, there’s money to be picked up by pilotage if you work hard, and aren’t afraid of heavy ships,” replied Bramble.

  “Well, I never had a piece of hand, and never shall have, I suppose,” said my father. “I wonder how a man must feel who can stand on a piece of ground and say, ‘This is my own!’”

  “Who knows, father? it’s not impossible but you may.”

  “Impossible! No, nothing’s impossible, as they say on board of a man-of-war. It’s not impossible to get an apology out of a midshipman, but it’s the next thing to it.”

  “Why do they say that, father?”

  “Because midshipmen are so saucy — why, I don’t know. They haven’t no rank as officers, nor so much pay as a petty officer, and yet they give themselves more airs than a lieutenant.”

  “I’ll tell you why,” replied Anderson. “A lieutenant takes care what he is about. He is an officer, and has something to lose; but a midshipman has nothing to lose, and therefore he cares about nothing. You can’t break a midshipman, as the saying is, unless you break his neck. And they have necks which aren’t easily broken, that’s sartain.”

  “They do seem to me to have more lives than a cat,” observed my father, who, after a pause, continued, “Well, I was saying how hard it was to get an apology out of a midshipman. I’ll just tell you what took place on board of one ship I served in. There was a young midshipman on board who was mighty free with his tongue; he didn’t care what he said to anybody, from the captain downward. He’d have his joke, come what would, and he’d set everybody a-laughing; punish him as much as you please, it was all the same. One day, when we were off Halifax Harbour, the master, who was a good-tempered fellow enough, but not over bright, was angry with this young chap for something that he had not done, and called him a ‘confounded young bear,’ upon which the youngster runs to the jacob-ladder of the main rigging, climbs up, and as soon as he had gained the main rattlings he cries out, ‘Well, if I’m a bear, you aren’t fit to carry guts to a bear.’ ‘What, sir?’ cried the master. ‘Mutiny, by heavens! Up to the masthead, sir, directly.’ ‘Don’t you see that I was going of my own accord?’ replied the midshipman; for, you see, he knew that he would be sent there, so he went up the rigging on purpose. Well, this was rather a serious affair, and so the master reports it to the first lieutenant, who reports it to the captain, who sends for the youngster on the quarter-deck, at the time that the ship’s company were at quarters. ‘Mr—’ (I forget his name), said the captain (drawing himself up to his full height, and perhaps an inch or two above it, as they say), ‘you have been guilty of disrespect to your superior officer, in telling him that he was not fit to carry guts to a bear’ (the captain could hardly help laughing). ‘Now, sir,’ continued he, recovering himself, ‘I give you your choice: either you will make an apology to Mr Owen on this quarter-deck, or you must quit my ship immediately.’ ‘Sir,’ replied the midshipman, ‘I don’t think it quite fair that the master should first punish me himself and then complain to you afterwards. He has taken the law into his own hands already by mastheading me for eight hours, and now he makes a complaint to you; but I am always ready to do as you wish, and, to please you, I will make an apology.’ ‘There is some truth in your observation,’ replied the captain, ‘and I have pointed the same out to the master; but still, this is a breach of discipline which cannot be passed over, and requires a public retraction before the whole ship’s company. I therefore insist upon your retracting what you have said.’ ‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the youngster. ‘Mr Owen,’ continued he, turning to the master, ‘I said that you were not fit to carry guts to a bear. I was in the wrong, and I retract with pleasure, for I am perfectly satisfied that you are fit to carry them.’ ‘Sir!’ cried the captain. ‘Oh, Captain G — !’ interrupted the master, who did not take the joke, ‘I’m perfectly satisfied. The young gentleman sees his error, and has retracted; I ask no more.’ ‘If you are satisfied, sir,’ replied the captain, biting his lips, ‘of course I have nothing more to say. Youngster, you may go to your duty, and recollect that you never again use such expressions to your superior officer,’ and, said he in a low tone, ‘I may add, never venture in my presence to make such an apology as that again.’”

  I never saw old Anderson laugh so much as he did at this story of my father’s. They continued to talk and smoke their pipes till about nine o’clock, when my father and he went to the hospital, and Bramble took possession of a bed which had been prepared for hints in my mother’s house.

  Chapter Twenty Nine.

  In which I learn the history of Old Nanny.

  The next day, as soon as I had finished a letter to Bessy, in which I gave her a detail of what had passed, I went to old Nanny’s to persuade her, if possible, to tell me her history. She was not at home, the door of her house was locked, and the shutters of the shop fastened. I was about to return to Fisher’s Alley, when I perceived her hobbling down the street. I thought it better to make it appear as if I met her by accident; so I crossed over the way and walked towards her. “Well, mother,” said I, “are you out so early?”

  “Ah, Jack, is it you? Yes, it is through you that I have had to take so long a walk.”

  “Through me?”

  “Yes, those presents you brought me. I’m almost dead. Why do you bring such things? But I did not do badly, that’s the truth.”

  I knew from this admission that old Nanny had sold them for more than she expected; indeed, she proved it by saying, as she arrived at her house, “Well, Jack, it’s very troublesome to have to walk so far; but as you cannot get me bottles or those kind of things, you must bring me what you can, and I must make the best of them. I don’t mind trouble for your sake, Jack. Now take the key, unlock the door, and then take down the shutters; and mind how you walk about, Jack, or you’ll break half the things in my shop.” I did as she requested, and then we sat down together at the door as usual.

  “I think I shall go away to-morrow, or early the next morning, mother,” said I, “for Bramble is here, and he never stays long from his work.”

  “That’s all right, he sets a good example; and, Jack, if you do go, see if you can’t beg a few more shells for me: I like shells.”

  “Yes, mother, I will not forget; but, as this is the last day I shall see you for some time, will you not keep your promise to me, and tell me your history?”

  “Jack, Jack, you are the most persevering creature I ever did see. I’m sure I shall be worried out of my life until I tell you, and so I may as well tell you at once, and there’ll be an end of it; but I wish you had not asked me, Jack, I do indeed. I thought of it last night when I was in bed, and at one time I made up my mind that I would not tell you, and then I thought again that I would; for, Jack, as I said yesterday, there’s a lesson in every life, and a warning in too many, and maybe mine will prove a warning to you, so far as to make you prevent a mother from being so foolish as I have been.

  “Now, Jack, listen to me: mine is an old story, but in most cases the consequences have not been so fatal. I shall not tell you my name; it was once a fair one, but now tarnished. I was the only daughter of a merchant and shipowner, a rich man, and the first person in consequence in the seaport town where I was born and brought up. I never knew my mother, who died a year after I was born. I was brought up as most girls are who have no mother or brothers; in short, I was much indulged by my father and flattered by other people. I was well educated, as you may suppose; and, moreover, what you may not credit quite so easily, I was very handsome. In short, I was a beauty and a fortune, at the head of the society of the place, caressed, indulged, and flattered by all. This, if it did not spoil me, at least made me wilful. I had many offers, and many intended offers, which I nipped in the bud, and I was twenty-three before I saw any one who pleased me. At last a vessel came in consigned to the house and the captain was invited to dinner. He was a handsome careless young man, constantly talking about the qualities of his ship, and, to my surprise, paying me little or none of that attention which I now considered as my due. This piqued me, and in the end I set my affections on him; either he did not or would not perceive it, and he sailed without showing me any preference. In six months he returned, and whether it was that he was told of by others, or at last perceived, my feelings towards him, he joined the crowd of suitors, made a proposal in his offhand manner, as if he was indifferent as to my reply, and was accepted. My father, to whom he communicated the intelligence as carelessly as if he were talking about freight, did not approve of the match. ‘Very well,’ replied he, ‘I shall say no more; as long as a man has a ship he does not want a wife.’ He returned and stated what had passed, and my father also spoke to me. I was self-willed and determined, and my father yielded. We were married, and I certainly had no reason to complain of my husband, who was very kind to me. But I was jealous of — what do you think? Of his ship! For he cared more for it than he did for me; and three months after our marriage, notwithstanding all my tears and entreaties, and the expostulations of my father, he would sail again. He offered to take me with him, and I would gladly have gone, but my father would not listen to it. He sailed, and I never saw him again; his vessel, with all hands, foundered, with many others, in a heavy gale. The news did not arrive until many months afterwards, and I had not been a mother more than six weeks when I found that I was a widow. I have passed all this over quickly, Jack, because it is of less moment — my trials had not commenced.