University of Virginia Library

1. BONFIELD.

1. CHAPTER I.
THE BOATMAN.

Still shorter was a short winter's day
rendered by a heavy and gloomy mist
that filled the atmosphere and made it
murky twilight long before the sun went
down. It had just ended, in blasts and
pelting rain, when a Thames boatman,
chilled and wet by exposure, and with
a pair of oars upon his shoulder, entered
the door of his humble abode by the
river side.

His habitation, although wretched
enough, seemed to be a palace of comfort
in his eyes, as they met the cheerful
blaze upon the hearth, with his good
wife stooping down and cooking a warm
supper for him, and beheld upon a few
coals, seething most invitingly, a mug
of egg flip. The sight made him smile
with a cheery expression upon his dark,
sun-browned face, which, as he first entered,
looked sour and discomposed:
and when his young wife, and handsome
withal, rose up and turned to welcome
him with `I am so glad you have
come in, Martin!' spoken in the tones
that only a loving wife can utter, his
gloomy aspect disappeared entirely, and
he responded with a kindliness of look
and voice which showed that he not only
loved his wife, but had his heart in the
right place:

`And glad am I to come in, Martha,
for the night is as cheerless and cold as
I ever would care to be abroad in!' he
said, placing his oars in beckets over
the door.

`Then I am rejoiced that you havn't
to go on the river! It is so rare that I
have you at home with me so early, that
I feel grateful to the storm and darkness
that keeps travelers in their houses. How
drenched your muffler is?' she added
with a look of surprise and sympathy, as
she untied it from his neck and hung it
dripping upon a chair by the fire. `What
a time you must have had!'

`Yes, and no fares at that, Martha,'
he answered, removing his heavy, wet
over-coat, the numerous patches upon
which showed both the poverty of the
husband and the tenderness and skill of
the wife. It also revealed, suspended by

a ribbon upon his breast, a silver medal.

`I have been since three o'clock
pacing up and down the pier-head in the
cold and mist that fairly penetrates the
marrow of one's bones! Such an afternoon
I haven't seen of late! But in it
all, for three hours, have I been at my
stand waiting for a fare; sometimes I
would shelter myself in the nook of the
stairs, and sometimes I would have to
get under the coal-sheds; but I nearly
perished with cold! This fire is so comfortable!
Don't you think the flip is
done?' he asked, as he took his seat before
the fire in a chair which she placed
for him with assiduous attention; for,
from the moment of his coming in, she
seemed to think of nothing but to make
him forget his past discomforts in the
comforts of the present. And she would
have succeeded, but for a weight that
was upon his heart, the weight of want
and poverty, which he could not altogether
throw off.

`You should have come home sooner,
Martin. I am sorry you stayed so
late. If you had thought you might
have seen nobody would have wanted
to go off such an evening! There!' she
added, placing in his hands the mug of
flip. which she had taken up from the
fire, and was stirring and preparing for
him while she was saying this; `there!
drink part of this, and I know you will
feel better and be warm in a minute!'

`It is very nice, Martha,' he answered
as he took the mug from his lips.—
`You make flip better than any boatman's
wife on the Thames. I ought to
be happy and fling ugly thoughts to the
winds when I think how good and loving
a wife I've got! But one can't help
feeling!'

`Yes, but perhaps to-morrow you will
be more successful! You don't have to
pay the money until to-morrow night at
six o'clock, and between this and then
who knows but you will get the money!
Ten fares, at a shilling each, will make
it up; and you know, last year, you
have some days had as many as fifteen
fares in a day!'

`But last year was somehow a better
year, for I call to mind what will follow
the want of the money I have been straining
every nerve to earn by the time it is
due. I cannot help feeling anxious.
`Your father's life, dear Martha,' he
added in an under tone, and glancing
his eye to a door of an inner room,
`may depend on it.'

`I feel this, Martin, I feel it as keenly
as you do, for he is my own father, and
yours only in being mine! But I do not
despair.'

`You know how inexorable his creditor
is, and that unless the whole sum
is paid at the hour he will again be dragged
to prison. And in his present feeble
state, it would be to die there!'

`As he let him come out on your
pledge to pay the debt of twenty pounds
in sixty days, he may still extend the
time, Martin.'

`He refuses to do so. I went to see
him yesterday. He is immoveable. It
was not real humanity that caused him
to let your father come out, but because
he feared he would die in prison, and he
did not like very well to have such a
thing as that said of him!'

`And he will still dislike it. He will
not take him back, even if you cannot
pay.'

`He will, assuredly. The old man is
now much better, and we know is recovering
his health and strength fast. He
will see the change in him. He will remove
him without hesitation.'

`Wont he take what we can raise?'

`I asked him yesterday if he would
take eighteen pounds, if I could not
raise the twenty. He answered me, that
unless I paid the debt to the utmost farthing,

your father should go back again
to prison!'

`How can men be so cruel!'

`I accused him of cruelty, saying that
if he were taken back to prison he would
not live long. But he said that he was
so far from being cruel he had on my
simple word and bond to pay the debt,
released him and given him up to us.—
Now if the debt is not paid and he goes
back to prison and dies there, the world
cannot blame me! I have done what
no other man would have done! Such,
Martha, was his stern reply.'

`I see,' said the young wife, sighing,
`I see that we have no hope but in the
favor of God. If we had not given this
creditor in part security every thing we
have got in this world, scarcely twelve
pounds value as it is, we might sell something
to make up the ten shillings. But
we have no right to do this!'

`I am half tempted to do it. I have
just been seriously thinking of the very
way. If we pay him, he will not know
of it; and the furniture, clothes and
things will be ours as soon as the money
is handed to him.'

`It don't seem to me right, Martin,'
said the conscientious young wife.

`It may be wrong, but it will do no
harm.'

`Harm is wrong, Martin,' she said, seriously.

`I will wait till the last minute I can,
and then, if there is no other help I will
pawn the beds and dresser-things, and
get the balance.'

`Don't think of doing evil that good
may come. I would rather my poor father,
dearly as I love him, should be carback
to prison and even die there than
keep him by an unjust act. Trust in
God and do good and verily it shall be
well with thee, is the spirit of the good
book we both profess to make our guide,
Martin; and do not let us depart from it.'

`You are right, Martha; but I am resolved
they shall not take the dear old
man back his cell, if it can be helped.
I will trust in Providence till the last
moment.'

`And that is not trusting in Providence
at all. Say you will not think of
it again,' she said entreatingly and smiling
upon him affectionately, and with a
look of confidence in his integrity which
he could not resist.

`Well, dear wife, I will, then, put my
trust in a good and merciful Providence
to send us that help which I can't see
any way of getting except it do come
from the skies.'

`Now we shall be sure to have it!' she
cried with ingenuous delight. `Now be
assured that we shall be assisted in some
good way, now that you manfully and
piously reject every temptation to do what
is evil.'

`What a true faith you have, Martha.
It seems to me that I can almost see the
whole twenty pounds laying beside me
on the table!'

More than once during this conversation
their eyes had fallen upon the silver
medal which hung upon his breast, but
only for an instant. Each knew the
thoughts of the other; but neither spoke.

`Hist! I hear voices at the door!' she
cried, placing her hand upon her lip as
if listening to hear them repeated.

Suddenly a sharp knock upon the
door startled them both, and Martin
sprung to his feet.

`Ho, wherryman, ho!' cried a man
outside, at the same time endeavoring to
get the door open which was latched
within. The voice, though earnest, was
low, as if the person did not wish to be
overheard.

`It is some one who wants a boat,'
said Martin, going to the door to unlatch
it.

`I hope not, this dark and stormy

night!' cried Martha, with wifely alarm,
as she heard the storm drive loudly past
the door as Martin opened it.

`It will be one fare, and every shilling
helps, Martha,' he said, in reply, as he
turned to admit the stranger, who was a
tall man, wrapped to the eyes in a cloak,
and wearing a hat slouched so closely
over his eyes that Martin could not discern
a feature.

`Are you a boatman?' demanded the
stranger in a hurried, yet authoritative
tone, which with the air and carriage of
the individual convinced the humble
boatman that he was a man of rank.

`Yes, sir.'

`Get your oars at once and take me
off!'

`In what direction, sir?' asked Martin,
putting on his cap and coat and eveloping
his hands in his mittens.

`It is not a long pull. You shall know
when I get into your boat.'

`Will you step in, sir. My husband
will be ready in a moment,' said Martha,
with a pleasant manner.

`Thank you,' answered the stranger,
`I am in some haste. Your room looks
comfortable enough, compared with the
out-doors, to invite any one. Are you
ready?'

Martin finished tying his muffler, took
down his oars from their beckets above
the door, and then answered,

`Yes, sir, as soon as I light my lantern.'

`I have a lantern here,' he answered,
turning to a man whom Martin did not
before discover in the darkness without.
`Paul, open the slide.'

`Ah, Paul, how do you do to-night?'
said Martin, recognising an acquaintance
in the man, whose features, though almost
hid under a huge collar and handkerchief,
the name enabled him to recognise.

`Do not stop to talk,' cried the gen
tleman, quickly. `Lead on to your
boat. Be active, and I will reward you.'

`Good bye, Martin; I will be back
in an hour or two I dare say. This may
be a part of your Providence, so don't
look sad.'

`It is so wild on the water!' she said.
But he did not hear her. Closing the
door after him, he was already on his
way to the stairs by the river side, where
his boat was secured.

The night was pitchy dark. A sharp,
cold rain, as fine as mist, filled the air,
and drifted swiftly past upon the whistling
winds. The stones of the pier were
slippery, and with the strength of the
storm, it was difficult to keep the footing.
The stairs were but a minute's
walk from the door of Martin's abode.—
The man Paul went ahead with the lantern—Martin
followed him closely with
the oars upon his shoulder, and the tall
stranger came on a step or two behind
them.'

`It will be a wild night upon the river,
sir,' said Martin, as he stopped at the
top of the stairs and laid down his oars,
while he descended to unlock his boat
from the ring.

`Yes, but I am told you are are a
skilful boatman, and I trust to your
courage and tact.'

`I will do my best, sir; but I would
rather that the wind blew less. The
waves run high, by the dashing and the
noise!'

`Yes,' said Paul, `it is an ugly time
to be in a boat! I am glad I am not
going off in her.'

`And are you not going?' asked Martin.

`No. I am to wait here till he returns!'
answered Paul, as he stooped to
hold the light for Martin to unlock the
boat, which was about seven steps lower
than the top of the pier.

`Who is he, Paul?'

`Are you ready, boatman?' demanded
the gentleman, descending the stairs, so
that the question remained unanswered.

`All ready, sir!' responded Martin,
springing into the light wherry, which
the waves as they dashed against the
stairs, tossed madly about, so that it was
with difficulty he could steady her.

With some peril, the stranger at length
placed himself in the stern of the boat,
and Martin, letting go with his hook
from the pier, took his oars and began
to pull out into the dark river. Paul
stood upon the stairs with his lantern,
watching their departure; but in three
minutes they were out of sight in the
gloom, which his eyes could no longer
penetrate.

`That boat would hardly live if any
other man was its manager, but Martin
Hart,' he said, ascending the steps to the
pier, and wrapping his cape about his
face, to shield it from the storm. `I
wonder what my lord can be doing off
on the river such a night as this. It
must be a matter of life or death. But
this is none of my business. I am well
paid for what I have done, and I dare
say Martin will be. I think I will just
drop in and have a little gossip with
Mistress Martha for a quarter of an hour
or so! It is rather uncomfortable waiting
here! The mist is fairly frozen,
and pricks like needles. His Lordship
wont be ashore, he said, under half an
hour!'

With this resolution the man proceeded
towards the door of Martin's house,
and rapped for admittance.

`Who is it?' demanded Martha, in a
firm voice from within.

`It is me, Paul!'

`Paul Layton?'

`Yes, Mistress Martha!'

The door opened, and the man was
admitted, though not till he had permitted
Martha to see his features, that
she might be sure she was not deceived
by any rogue, who, taking advantage of
Martin's absence, might wish to rob.

`It is a hard storm, mistress,' said
the man, shaking himself from the rain
at the door, and then advancing into the
room.

`Yes it is, Master Paul, and I am sorry
that Martin has had to go out into it to-night.
But a licensed boatman can
never refuse. Rain or shine he must
ply his oars at call!'

`That is true,' answered Paul, who
upon opening his outer coat, and turning
the collar back, and doffing his cap,
showed himself to be a stout, good-looking
man of thirty, in a handsome livery
of blue and white. He had jet black
hair and brows, and a very white, even
set of teeth. He was of good height and
figure, and his air was frank and bold.
`That is a true word, Mistress, and
therefore, I would not care to be a boatman.
Mine is an easier life, though it
does sometimes bring me abroad at such
a time as this. I would not have gone
on the water in that boat for fifty guineas!'

`Is it so dangerous, then?'

`I would'nt alarm you, Mistress,' he
answered, taking a seat by the fire, `but
I would rather be ashore to-night as
simple Paul Layton, the lacquey, than in
the boat as my lord.'

`And it was his lordship then?' exclaimed
Martha, with surprise. `Dear
me! and I asked him so familiarly to
walk into this poor place and sit down!
But I hope Martin will be careful. He
is very expert with a boat!'

`That is his reputation the river up
and down. When my lord came to me
and asked me if I knew a safe and skilful
boatman, who would venture out upon
the river, I named Martin at once, though
we had to pass half a score of wherry
stands to get here. But I knew his

Lordship would be safe with Martin at
the oars!

`You were very kind to remember
him, Master Paul; but I would rather
he sat now where you sit, than he should
be upon the dark waters to-night. But
God will preseve him. Was he to go
far?'

`That I can't say, mistress Martin.—
My lord did not make a confidant of
me. I was in the hall just at dark chatting
with the footman, when my lord
rung for me. I was surprised, I assure
you, for I supposed he was at the palace,
where I knew he had gone an hour before.
I hastened to him and found him
in the library. He had on his cloak,
but his hat lay upon the table. He
seemed to looked as if something uncommon
was upon his mind; for generally,
mistress Martin, my lord is always
cool and quiet. As soon as I came in,
he said to me quickly—

`Paul, do you know a skillful boatman
near at hand who will take me safely
upon the river to-night?'

`To-night, my lord!' I exclaimed; for
I knew it was beginning to storm tremendously,
and while I was speaking
the wind made the casement rattle; for
the mansion where my lord lives has
been built this three hundred years and
is not in the best condition; but he
likes to reside in it when he is in town
because his ancestors always did.'

`Yes, to-night,' he answered me sharply;
to-night and now!' I never knew
him so peremptory.

`I know a man, my lord,' said I, seeing
that he was so earnest, `who has
the name of being the best boatman on
the Thames. He got the medal in the
last year's regatta.'

`Put on your weather-coat, take a
lantern and conduct me along the shore
to his boat,' said he at once.

I lost no time in making myself ready
and in three minutes I was prepared to
attend his lordship. On going out and
not seeing the carriage, I was about to
ask him if I should call it or a cab,
when he said impatiently, `Go on! I
proceed on foot. It is not far I trust.'

`No, my lord,' said I. `Not more
than seven minutes walk. But your
lordship will not go on foot?' I added.

`Not a word!' said he. `Open your
lantern and lead the way.'

I said no more, and as the house
where his lordship lives is within one
square of fronting on the river, we had
only to come down the Foley Street and
so take our way along the pier row by
the shore until we reached here! What
his lordship has gone off in the boat for I
don't know any more than you do, mistress
Martha. I forgot to say he promised
me an extra guinea for bringing
me out at such a time!'

`I have no doubt then,' said Martha,
impuvelsily, `he will give something
more than the fare to Martin.'

`Be assured of that. His lordship
pays freely. He always loves to give
poor men that serve him more than they
ask. It is his way.'

`And a very good way it is,' answered
Martha, as she placed upon the dresser
the last dish which had been used at the
supper table, which she neatly wiped
down and set against the wall. She
then took her knitting from a basket and
drawing a low chair near the fire-place
began to count, by fire-light, the stitches
upon the needles and then proceeded to
ply them with nimble and industrious
fingers. Paul was seated opposite to
her drying his shoes with his legs stretched
out to the fire. The room was cheerful
with the flickering blaze reflected
from the bright pewter dishes upon the
dresser and the small panes of glass in
the only window in front. There had
been two other windows but they were

both nailed up on account of the glass-tax,
which would make merchandize of
the free light of Heaven. The sense of
comfort in the room was increased by
the sound of the gale heard beating
without. At one moment it would howl
and shrilly whistle about the walls and
seem almost to lift the roof. Then
again the large driving rain would dash
and rattle upon the door and window,
and ever and anon the whole house
would be shaken as if by an earthquake.
The wind and waves could be heard too
mingling their roar upon the river, the
blast shrieking like spirits of the storm
through the cordage of the numerous
craft that lay at the wharves or were
moored in the stream.

`Hark! what was that!' cried both,
simultaneously, after they had been
sometime silent and thoughtful.

It was a fearful crashing that rose
above the increasing noise of the tempest,
and with it loud cries reached their
ears. Paul rose and sprung to the door.
He threw it open and gazed out! But
all was darkness as impenetrable as was
ever the darkness of Egypt. Martha
with fluttering heart stood out by his side.
They could see nothing! The sounds
had ceased save only the roar and wail
of the storm.

`It must have been a vessel broke from
its moorings and dashed against another,'
he said in a fearful tone.

`And all perished!' exclaimed Martha,
with alarm.

`Perhaps not. We should have heard
the cries longer and louder.'

`Oh, what will become of Martin.
He will assuredly be lost,' she cried,
wringing her hands.

`If any boat can live on the river his
will, be assured, Mistress Martha. Do
not be alarmed.'

`I cannot feel otherwise. There is
another accident. See, the lights quick
ly moving to and fro. Hear the shouts.'

`It is two vessels driving against each
other for I can hear them call to each
other to fend off. What an awful time.
There is a fearful crashing again! I
wish, in my soul, Martin and my lord
were both safely here!'

`Oh, I fear I shall never see my husband
again!'

`What is it, Martha, dear? What is
this great noise?' cried an old man of
seventy, of dignified appearance, a head
white as snow, and a countenance care-worn
but singularly benevolent. He
was half-dressed in an old surtout which
he had thrown on as he came from the
sleeping-room on the left, alarmed and
awakened by the combined sounds of the
crashing vessels, the outcries and the
wild uproar of the storm.

`It is a fearful tempest, dear father,
that has arisen since you went to bed,
and vessels are driving against one
another in the river! But do not get
up!'

`Who is this?' he asked fixing his
eyes upon the spruce body servant of the
noble.

`It is master Paul Layton!' she answered.

`Where is Martin? I don't see him
here!'

`He is gone upon the river, father!'

`Then he is lost,' answered the old
man with startling emphasis.