As I was now my own master again, — for although appointed to the Circe, I had nothing but my pennant to look at, — I thought that, by way of a little change, I would pass a few days at the Isle of Wight; for this was the yachting season, and I had made the acquaintance of many of the gentlemen who belonged to the club. That I had no difficulty in getting into society may easily be imagined. A post-captain’s commission in his Majesty’s navy is a certain passport with all liberal and really aristocratical people; and, as it is well known that a person who has not had the advantage of interest and family connections to advance in the service, must have gained his promotion by his own merits, his rank is sufficient to establish his claims to family connections or personal merit, either of which is almost universally acknowledged; I say almost universally, because, strange to say, for a succession of reigns, the navy never has been popular at court. In that region, where merit of any kind is seldom permitted to intrude, the navy have generally been at a discount. Each succession of the House of Hanover has been hailed by its members with fresh hopes of a change in their favour, which hopes have ended in disappointment; but perhaps it is as well. The navy require no prophet to tell it, in the literal sense of the word, that one cannot touch pitch without being defiled; but there is a moral pitch, the meanness, the dishonesty, and servility of Court, with which, I trust, our noble service will never be contaminated.

  I have, however, somewhat wandered from my subject, which was brought up in consequence of a gentleman who had paid me every attention at a large club down at Cowes, to which I had been invited, inquiring of me, across the table, if I were connected with the Keenes of — ? My reply was ready: “I did not think that I was; my father had died a young man in the East Indies. I knew that he was of Scotch descent (which he was), but I was too young to know anything about his connections, whom he had quitted at an early age; since that I had been educated and brought forward by Lord de Versely, who had, since the death of my mother, treated me as if I were his own son.” This was said openly, and being strictly true, of course without hesitation on my part. It was quite sufficient; I had noble patronage, and it was therefore to be presumed that I was somebody, or that patronage would not have been extended. I mention this, because it was the only time that I was ever questioned about my family; it was therefore to be presumed that my reply was considered satisfactory.

  I accepted an invitation on board of the yacht and sailed about for several days, very much amused and flattered by the attention shown to me by the noble commodore and others. One day I fell in with an old acquaintance. A small vessel, of about twenty tons, cutter-rigged, came down under the stern of the commodore’s yacht; it was then very smooth water, very light wind, and, moreover, very hot weather; and one of the squadron, who was standing by me on the taffrail, said, “Keene, do look at this craft coming down under our stern — there’s quite a curiosity in it. It is a yacht belonging to an Irish Major O’Flinn, as he calls himself; why the O, I don’t know; but he’s a good fellow, and very amusing; there he is abaft; he has the largest whiskers you ever saw; but it is not of him I would speak. Wait a little, and as soon as the square sail is out of the way, you will see his wife. Such a whapper! I believe she weighs more than the rhinoceros did which was at Post-down fair.”

  As the vessel neared, I did behold a most enormous woman in a sky-blue silk dress, and a large sky-blue parasol over her head; the bonnet having been taken off, I presume, on account of the heat. “She is a monster,” replied I; “the major was a bold man; I think I have seen the face before.”

  “I am told that she was the daughter of a purser, and had a lot of money,” continued my friend.

  I recollected then, and I replied, “Yes; I know now, her name was Culpepper.”

  “That was the name,” replied he; “I recollect now.”

  The reader may probably recollect Miss Medea, who knew so well how to put that and that together; and her mother, who I presumed had long ago been suffocated in her own fat, a fate which I thought that Mrs O’Flinn would meet with as well as her mother. The lady did not recognise me, which I was not sorry for. I certainly should have cut her dead. I walked forward, and my thoughts reverted to the time when my mother first brought me down to embark, and I was taken care of by Bob Cross. This recollection of Bob Cross reminded me that I had promised to be at his wedding, and that it was to take place on the following day, which I had quite forgotten. So that Mrs O’Flinn did me a good turn at last, as I should have neglected my promise, if she had not made her appearance, sailing along like an elephantine Cleopatra.

  Chapter Thirty Three.

  I had not called upon old Waghorn, the uncle of Jane; as I was fearful that he might recognise the pretended agent of former days with the now captain of the Circe. The blind are very acute in all their other senses, — a species of reparation made by nature by way of indemnification for the severe loss which they have sustained.

  As I grew older I grew wiser, and I could not help remarking, that the acts of deceit, which as a midshipman I thought not only very justifiable, but good fun, were invariably attended with unpleasant results. Even in this trifle my heart misgave me, whether on my appearance at the wedding I might not I be recognised, and be the cause of creating a breach, by raising suspicions on the part of the blind man which might prevent the wedding; and I had stated my fears to Bob Cross. “Well, Captain Keene, it was all done with good intentions, and I do not think that there is much fear. It’s a long while back, and you were not so much of a man as you are now. They do say, that cheating never thrives, and I believe that it seldom does in the long run. Jane will be much disappointed if you do not come.”

  “There is no help for it, Bob; I must disguise my voice; I must cheat a little now to hide the first cheat. That’s always the case in this world.”

  “I don’t call it cheating, sir; my ideas are, that if you cheat to get advantage for yourself, then you do cheat; but when you do so to help another, there’s no great cheating in the case.”

  “I cannot agree with you, Bob; but let us say no more about it. I will be with you at ten o’clock, which you say is the hour that you go to church.”

  This conversation took place on the morning of the wedding. About eight o’clock, I dressed and breakfasted, and then took a wherry over to Gosport, and in half an hour was at the house, which was full of people with white favours, and in such a bustle, that it reminded me of a hive of bees just previous to a swarm.

  “Here’s the captain come, sir,” said Bob, who had received me; for the bride was still in her room with her mother.

  “Happy to see you, sir; I wish you joy, Mr Waghorn,” replied I, taking his hand.

  “You’re Captain Keene, then, whose letters to the Admiralty Jane has so often read to me in the newspapers. Where have we met? I’ve heard that voice before.”

  “Indeed sir,” replied I, rather confused.

  “Yes, I have; I always know a voice again; let me see — why, captain, you were here with Cross, the first time I ever heard him — you were an agent, and now you’re a captain,” continued the old man, looking very grave.

  “Hush, sir,” replied I: “pray don’t speak so loud. Do you recollect what I came about? Do you suppose that when I was a party to the escape of a prisoner I could let you know, being a perfect stranger, that I was an officer in his Majesty’s service?”

  “Very true,” replied the old man, “I cannot blame you for that. But was Cross an officer in the service at that time?”

  “No, sir, he was not,” replied I; “he was appointed boatswain to my ship by the admiral in the West Indies.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I thought Cross might have deceived me also; every one tries to cheat a blind man — and the blind are suspicious. I’m glad that Cross did not deceive me, or I would have seen my niece in her coffin before — but say no more about it, you could not do otherwise; all’s right, sir, and I’m very glad to see you, and to have the honour of your company. Sit down, sir, I beg. By the bye, Captain Keene, have you heard of the girl since?”

  “My dear sir,” replied I, glad to give him my confidence, “there are no secrets between us now; it was no girl, but the son of the captain of the Dutch frigate, and an officer, whose escape you assisted in.”

  “I don’t wonder, then, at your not making yourself known,” replied the old man. “Why, if I had known it had been an officer, I never would have had a hand in the job — but a poor girl, it was mere charity to assist her, and I thought I was acting the part of a Christian, poor blind sinner that I am.”

  “You did a kind act, sir, and Heaven will reward you.”

  “We are sad, wicked creatures, Captain Keene,” replied he. “I wish this day was over, and my poor Jane made happy; and then I should have nothing to do but to read my Bible, and prepare for being called away; it’s never too soon, depend upon it, sir.”

  The appearance of the bride with her bridesmaids put an end to our conversation, which I was not sorry for. The order of march was arranged, and we started off for the church on foot, making a very long and very gay procession. In half an hour it was all over, and we returned. I then had an opportunity of telling Cross what had passed between me and old Waghorn.

  “It was touch and go, sir, that’s sartin,” replied Bob; “for if the old gentleman had not been satisfied, he is so obstinate that the match would have been broken off at the church door. Well, sir, I always said that you were the best to get out of a scrape that I ever knew when you were a middy, and you don’t appear to have lost the talent; it was well managed.”

  “Perhaps so, Bob; but in future I do not intend to get into them, which will be managing better still.” I then left Cross, and went to talk to Jane, who certainly looked very handsome. The tables for dinner were laid out in the garden, for it was a beautiful warm autumnal day. We sat down about twenty, and a merrier party I never was at. Old Waghorn was the only one who got tipsy on the occasion, and it was very ridiculous to hear him quoting scraps of Scripture in extenuation, and then calling himself a poor blind old sinner. It was not till eight o’clock in the evening that the party broke up, and I had then some difficulty to persuade some to go away. As for the old man, he had been put to bed an hour before. I staid a few minutes after all were gone, and then, kissing Jane, and shaking hands with Bob, I went back to Portsmouth.

  Chapter Thirty Four.

  As soon as I was at home again, the events of the day, from association of ideas, naturally brought Minnie Vanderwelt into my head, and I recollected that I had not written to her since my promotion and appointment to the Circe; I therefore sat down and indited a long letter, ending with expressing my regret at not having received an answer from the many I had written, especially the last, which informed them of my arrival in England, and gave them the knowledge where to address me. I also requested to know what had become of young Vangilt, whose escape I had contrived. Having enclosed that letter to the agent, and begged him to have it forwarded to Hamburg, I went to bed, and, after the excitement of the day, had a variety of dreams, in which Minnie’s form was continually making its appearance.

  The following morning brought me a long letter from my aunt, Mrs Bridgeman, very lively and very amusing: the only news in it was the marriage of Lieutenant Flat to a tavern-keeper’s daughter, which had given great offence to the marine corps, as she was said to be rather light of carriage. She begged me very much to pay them a visit, but that was not all to my wishes, I most candidly confess. My pride revolted at it; I even doubt if I would have fitted out a ship at Chatham where people could point their finger at me, and say — That post-captain’s father was a marine in those barracks. Another letter from Lord de Versely, announcing his arrival at Madeline Hall, and requesting me to join him as soon as possible, was infinitely more to my taste, and I resolved to start next day, which I did. I was very cordially received by his lordship, and very graciously by the old lady, who expressed a hope that I would now make a long visit. About an hour after I had arrived, Colonel Delmar made his appearance: he was a cousin of Lord de Versely’s, but I certainly should not, from his appearance, have supposed him to be a Delmar: for he was short, round-shouldered, and with a fat, rubicund face, apparently about forty years of age. I observed, after our introduction, that his eyes were very often directed towards me; but his manner was courteous, and, although his appearance at first sight was not prepossessing, his conversation was very agreeable, and he was very gentleman-like. Before dinner was over, I felt a great liking for him.

  As the first of September had not yet arrived, the birds had still two days of peace and quietness, leading their broods through the stubbles, and pointing out to them the corn which had spilled on the ground, for their food. That the old birds had some idea of a gun, it is to be supposed, from their having escaped the season before; but the young coveys had still that pleasure to come; in two days more they were to be initiated into the astonishing fact, that fast as feathers could fly, lead could fly faster, and overtake them.

  The two or three days before the shooting season begins are invariably very tedious in the country, and I passed my morning chiefly in roaming through the park and pleasure grounds, and I hardly need say that, during those rambles, my thoughts were chiefly occupied with the intimacy which had taken place between my mother and Lord de Versely. On the third morning after my arrival I had been strolling for more than two hours, when I came to a very retired sort of Gothic cell, formed of the distended limbs of an old oak, intermixed with stones and grass. It faced towards the park, and was built up on the green lawn amidst clumps of laurel and other evergreens. I threw myself on the benches. It was just the place for a man to select for a rendezvous: just the secret spot where a maiden could listen without trembling at intruders; and it struck me that this must have been the trysting place of my parents. For an hour I remained there, castle-building for the future, and musing on the past, when I heard a voice, close to me on the other side of the cell, the back of which was turned towards the hall. I knew the voice to be that of the old lady, who, it appears, had, as usual, come out in her garden chair, and was dragged by her attendant, Phillis: the wheels had made no noise on the velvet lawn, and, until roused by her voice, I was not aware of their approach.

  “Nonsense, Phillis; why, child, what should you know about such things?” said the old lady.

  “If you please to recollect, ma’am,” replied Phillis, who certainly was old enough to recollect all the passages in a woman’s life, “I was your maid at the time that it happened, and I was constantly in company with Bella Mason. She was very respectful towards you, but you did not know what her temper was; there never was so proud a young woman, or who considered herself of such consequence as she did — so much so, that she treated even Mr Jonas, the butler, and Mrs Short, the housekeeper, with disdain.”

  “Well, well, I know that she was proud; her mother was always a proud woman. Mr Mason, in his younger days, held property of his own, at least his father did, but he ran through it revelling and horse-racing; but what does that prove?”

  “I only say, madam, what was said at the time by everybody, that Bella Mason never would have married that marine, whom she looked upon with contempt, although he certainly was a good-looking young man, if she had not been obliged to do so.”

  “But why obliged, Phillis?”

  “To conceal her shame, madam; for, if you recollect, the child was born three months after marriage.”

  “I recollect that, very well,” replied Miss Delmar; “it was a sad thing, and, as my nephew said, I ought to have looked out sharper after Bella than I did, and not have allowed her to be so much in company with that marine.”

  “That marine, ma’am! he was innocent enough; Bella was not likely to listen to one like him.”

  “Who can you mean then, Phillis?”

  “Why, Lord de Versely, ma’am, to be sure. Everybody in the Hall was sure the child was his; he and Bella were for ever together for months before her marriage.”

  “Phillis, Phillis, you don’t know what you are saying — it’s impossible; indeed, I recollect talking the matter over with Lord de Versely, who was then Captain Delmar, and he was more shocked at the impropriety than even I was, and offered to give the marine a good whipping.”

  “That may be, madam, but still Captain Delmar was the father of that boy; for, if you recollect, old Mrs Mason came to the Hall, and went away almost immediately.”

  “Well, what of that? she was displeased no doubt.”

  “Yes, indeed she was, madam; but she had a private meeting with Captain Delmar; and Mrs Short, the housekeeper, overheard what passed, and I understand that the captain did not deny it to her. One thing is certain, that Mrs Mason, as she was going away, in her rage made use of language about Captain Delmar, which otherwise she never would have dared. And, then, madam, only look at Captain Keene, — why, he is the very image of his lordship.”

  “He is very like him, certainly,” said the old lady, musing.

  “And then, madam, do you think his lordship would have brought the boy up in the service, and made him a post-captain, if he had been the son of a marine? And then, madam, see how fond his lordship is of him; why, he dotes upon him; and would he ask the son of his own servant to come down to Madeline Hall, as fit company for you? No; so, madam, depend upon it, Captain Keene is a Delmar, and no wonder his lordship is so fond of him, madam; for he is his only child, and I dare say his lordship would give him his right hand if he could leave him the barony and estates, instead of them going away, as they will, to his younger brother’s children.”