Part 17

There was not a moment to lose; a spark caught the maintopsail; the canvas, as dry as tinder with the excessive heat, was in a blaze in a moment; and, with lightning-like rapidity, sail after sail on the mainmast caught fire, and blazing for a moment with a broad and brilliant glare, shrivelled up, and flew in burning tatters to leeward. It was an awful sight, that pyramid of flame, rising as it were from the bosom of the deep. Not a sound was to be heard, but that of the rapidly-moving oars, and the rushing, moaning, and crackling sound of the flame. The men tugged at their oars in the silence of desperate energy; life and death depended upon their exertions, and their voices seemed to be hushed by the extremity of the danger. In the meantime, sail was made upon the Recovery, and the breeze having partially died away, she crawled slowly up on the weather-quarter of the stranger, and again hove to. Boat after boat soon joined her, and, having deposited their freight, hastened back to the scene of danger for more. The greater part of the crew of the burning ship were soon safely bestowed on board of the Recovery, when Philip, who had already made two trips to the stranger with the boat under his command, pulled towards her again, to bring off the remainder of her men. He was fast approaching her when he was hailed by the officer of one of the other boats, who told him that he had taken off the last of the crew. He was just on the point of returning to his ship, when he heard sounds of remonstrance and entreaty from another boat which was slowly approaching; the crew seemed undecided whether to proceed or return; and, at the same time, he observed by the light of the fire the officer of the boat struggling with a man in the stern-sheets, who was apparently endeavouring to jump overboard.

"It would be madness--downright madness to return," exclaimed the officer; "I will not risk the lives of my men--she will blow up immediately."

"Let me go!" shouted the stranger; "if I cannot save her, let me die with her." At this moment the stranger's eye caught sight of Philip, who was standing up in the boat, and, with a loud and startling cry, he shouted, "Philip, Philip, save her! Save Catherine!" It was Edward Douglas! At the same time a shrill scream came over the water, and a female form was seen at the gangway, waving her hands over her head, and wringing them in all the anguish of despair. For a moment Philip was paralysed; it was but for a moment.

"We will save her or perish!" shouted he; "what say you, my lads?" The men answered him with a cheer, as the boat sprung through the water under the impulse of their bending oars; and a few vigorous strokes brought them alongside the blazing ship. It was but the work of a moment for Philip and one of the boat's crew to spring up the ship's side, and to lower the fainting Catherine into the arms of the men below. With careful haste she was laid down in the stern-sheets, and the water foamed beneath the bows of the boat as her gallant crew bent desperately to their oars. A handful of water sprinkled on Catherine's face revived her for a moment; she opened her eyes upon her deliverer, and, murmuring "Philip!" closed them again, with a shudder, and relapsed into unconsciousness. The moment the boat reached the Recovery, the ship's mainyard was filled, the lower tacks were hauled on board, the small sails set, and she stood to windward, to widen her distance. The precaution, however, was scarcely necessary, as the blazing wreck was drifting fast to leeward. Almost immediately after the boat had left her, she had paid off before the wind, the sails on the foremast caught fire, and in a very short time the blazing wreck of spars fell forward over the bows. All eyes were now eagerly directed towards her, to watch the finale of the catastrophe. They were not kept long in suspense: a dense cloud of smoke burst from her fore-hatchway, followed by a rush of bright flame, and a loud and deafening explosion, and then all was darkness--the hull had disappeared, and not a vestige of the unfortunate vessel remained, except the fragments of the wreck, which fell far and wide, pattering and hissing in the water.

It was with a feeling of breathless awe and silent thanksgiving that the rescued crew gazed upon the scene; and many a cheek among them was blanched with shuddering horror at the thought of the miserable fate they had so providentially and narrowly escaped. The most daring and reckless among them were sobered for a time, and many a half-suppressed expression of thankfulness to an overruling Providence burst from lips to which oaths and curses had been but too familiar. As soon as all was over, sail was made upon the Recovery, the watch was called out, and arrangements were made for the accommodation of the unexpected addition to her crew. The name of the unfortunate ship was the Victory--a fine vessel of six hundred tons. The fire had been occasioned by the negligence of the steward, who, while unpacking a case of wine, had left a light burning in the after orlop, which had set fire to the loose straw, from which the flame was soon communicated to the spirit-room.

"All that men _could_ do, we did," said the captain, when telling the story; "but, from the first, I had no hope of saving the ship, and slight was our chance of escape in the boats. When the sound of your gun reached us, it was as a messenger of hope--a promise of rescue; and three cheers burst from our crew, as we put our helm up, and stood away to join you. My men behaved nobly; with death staring them in the face, they never for a moment failed in their duty, or flinched from the danger, and exerted themselves to the utmost to keep the fire under, and to prevent its communicating to the sails. Thanks to a merciful Providence, and to you, its gallant agents, we have been rescued from a dreadful doom!"

In the meantime, our friend Philip had hastened to the cabin which had been appropriated to Edward Douglas, and, knocking at the door, was immediately admitted.

"Philip!" exclaimed Edward, grasping his hand, while the tears stood in his eyes, and his voice trembled with emotion; "my dear, my gallant deliverer!--what an awful fate have you saved us from! If I had lost my child, how valueless would have been my own preservation! To you, under Heaven, I owe both: how can I express my gratitude?"

"Oh, speak not thus to me, dear sir; I but did my duty, and am I not already more than repaid? But how is Miss Douglas?"

"Miss Douglas!" said Edward; "cold and formal indeed! Why not Catherine?--your Catherine? Have you not earned a right to call her yours?"

Philip trembled, and turned pale; and then, when the warm blood, rushing to his cheeks again, flushed them with emotion, he exclaimed--

"Oh, Mr Douglas! My whole efforts, since we parted, have been to smother feelings and wishes which your words have again called into life."

"And long may they live, my dear Philip!--my dear son I hope soon to call you. I will no longer strive against fate. You have saved Catherine's life; and, if you still retain her love, you have a grateful father's full and free permission to avail yourself of it. For the rest, we will trust to Providence, and to the exertions of your own active and energetic spirit."

"Mr Douglas," said Philip, "your kindness overpowers me. I would risk a thousand lives, if I had them, for such a recompense; but I must not take advantage of your excited feelings to obtain a boon, however dear to me, which your prudence would deny. The same obstacles remain which at first existed. I am still poor and friendless; the obscurity of my birth has not been cleared up; and, circumstanced as I am at present, ought I to avail myself of an accidental advantage, and of your too generous appreciation of it, to fetter the free choice of your daughter, who probably may now see those obstacles with far different eyes than in her early days?"

"Better times may come, Philip; and, in the meanwhile, my daughter's dowery will be sufficient to afford you both all the comforts, though not the luxuries of life; your own energy and industry must do the rest. But you must consult Catherine on the subject--gain her consent; mine you have, without further condition, already."

After a consultation with his officers, the captain of the Recovery deemed it expedient to put into the Cape; and the ship's course was accordingly altered. The wind continuing fair and steady, on the evening of the fourth day from the disaster, she was close in with the coast; and the breeze dying away, and a thick fog coming on, she was hove to for the night. The next morning the fog still continued; nothing was to be seen of the land, though every eye was strained to penetrate the gloom, till at last the glad cry was heard from the mast-head, "High land ahead, sir! Close aboard of us!" All eyes were now turned upwards; and there, frowning above the bank of fog, appeared the dark outline of the Table-land. The fog soon cleared off; and, in an hour or two, the ship rounded Green Point, and came to an anchor in Table Bay. After Edward Douglas and the rest of the passengers were landed at Cape Town, Philip, being second officer and _idler_, obtained leave of absence for a couple of days, and went on shore to join his friends. The boarding-houses were all crowded; for there were several ships in the roads, one of which, full of passengers from Bengal, had arrived the day after the Recovery; but Edward Douglas had contrived to secure accommodation for Philip in the same house with himself. Several passengers by the newly-arrived ship had taken up their quarters there; and among them a fine-looking, elderly man, a General Fortescue, of the Bengal army. This gentleman happened, on his first arrival, to be shown into the room where Philip and Edward Douglas were conversing together. They both rose at his entrance, and he returned the salutation of the latter with the free and unembarrassed air of a man of the world; but, when he turned to Philip, he started, and gazed at him for some moments with a look so fixed and earnest as to call the colour into his cheek.

"Excuse me, sir," said he, at length--"excuse my involuntary rudeness. Your features awakened recollections of other times, and of long-lost and dearly-loved friends; and, for the moment, my thoughts wandered into forgetfulness of the courtesy due to a stranger."

"I hope at least, sir, that the recollections I recalled were not unpleasing ones?"

"When you have lived to my age, young sir, bitter experience will have taught you that the 'thread of life is woven of mingled yarn;' and that shades of sorrow and disappointment may darken the brightest pictures in memory's retrospect. Few, very few, can look back to the past years of life with unmingled pleasure, or forward to the future with unmixed hope."

Both Edward Douglas and Philip became greatly interested in this new acquaintance, especially the latter, who in turn seemed to be the object of the general's almost exclusive attention. He seemed to watch Philip's every movement with eager interest, often cast upon him earnest and inquiring looks, and would then, with a heavy sigh, withdraw his gaze, as if his features had recalled some faint and shadowy image of the past, which his memory was in vain endeavouring to realise. A party was formed to visit the far-famed farm of Constantia, on which the well-known choice wine of that name is manufactured; and the three friends set off together on horseback after breakfast next morning. General Fortescue, notwithstanding the habitual shade of melancholy which clouded his countenance, proved himself to be an animated and most agreeable companion. His mind was stored with varied knowledge, and his conversation was enlivened with anecdotes of events and characters which had come under the personal observation of a keen and penetrating mind.

"I know not how it is, Mr Douglas," said he, "but I have not felt for years such a springiness of spirit as I experience to-day. I suppose it is because this beautiful country recalls to my recollection our own dear England. Suppose we dismount, and ramble for awhile among the trees; with our feet upon the soft grass, and under the cooling shade, our recollections of our distant home will return with greater warmth and freshness."

This proposal was gladly acceded to by his companions; and, having given their horses to the care of their attendant, they wandered about for some time, and at last finding a grassy spot sheltered from the rays of the sun, they seated themselves, and entered into an animated and cheerful conversation.

"Pray, Mr Douglas," said General Fortescue, addressing himself to Philip, "is your father a Scotchman? I should think so from the name."

Philip coloured painfully; and the general, perceiving his confusion, added, "Excuse the liberty I have taken in asking the question--it did not arise from idle curiosity. The dearest friend of my early days was a Douglas, and the name is connected in my remembrance with scenes in which I spent many of my happiest days, when hope gilded my visions of the future, alas! only to deceive me. Yes, if Gavin Douglas still survives, I must find him out."

"Gavin Douglas!" said Edward, in surprise; "was he a Douglas of Eskhall?"

"The same," replied he.

"My father!" said Edward.

"Is it possible! And art thou really the son of my dearest and earliest friend? Wonderful are the mysterious sympathies of nature! How strangely was I attracted towards you both, but more especially towards your friend, whom I presume to be your younger brother?"

"No, he is not even a connection, though I hope he soon will be one."

"Then whose son is he?"

Philip, with cheeks glowing, and eyes flashing with vainly-resisted emotion, answered, in rapid and passionate accents--

"The son of one who was ashamed to own him; who deserted him in his infancy, and cast him shelterless upon the casual bounty of strangers; the nameless son of a nameless father; perhaps"--and his eye fell, and his voice trembled--"the offspring of shame, as of misfortune."

"Never, Philip!" said Edward; "the pure stream rises from the pure spring. Whoever your father may be, were he the highest in the land, did he know his son, he would be proud, not ashamed, to own him as such. But, as we have excited the general's curiosity, have you any objection to my gratifying it, by reciting the history of your life?"

Philip made a movement of assent; and Edward proceeded to give a rapid sketch of the events which we have already narrated, from the time of Philip's desertion down to his gallant conduct on board the Recovery.

The general had listened to his narrative with breathless interest; and, when it was concluded, asked, in a hurried and agitated manner--

"Was there no clue by which to trace his parentage? No writing, or other notice of his birth?"

"Yes--a paper, stating his name to be Philip, and that he was born of good family; and a ring."

"Here it is," said Philip, producing it.

The moment the general's eyes glanced upon it, his cheek turned deadly pale, he leaned for a moment backward against a tree, and then, with an eager and trembling hand, he touched a spring at the back of the seal, and the shield flying open, the initials "P. & M. F." appeared engraved behind.

"My son!" exclaimed the general, embracing Philip, while the tears poured down his cheeks--"my long-lost Philip! Merciful Heaven! I thank thee! How blind I was, not to trace before the resemblance to your sainted mother! The very eyes and forehead of my beloved Mary! My son, my son! This hour repays me for years saddened by the misery of uncertainty!"

Philip, with tears of grateful joy, warmly returned the embraces of his newly-found parent, and, even in that moment of agitation, his thoughts gladly reverted to the removal of that which had been the principal obstacle to Catherine, the mystery of his birth. Edward Douglas, much affected by the unexpected recognition, had retired to some little distance, to leave the father and son to the free expression of their mutual feelings; but he was soon recalled to his former station by the general, who, shaking him heartily by the hand, said--

"Son of my dearest friend, I owe it to myself and to my boy to narrate to you the history of my past life, and to account to you both for what must appear my culpable and unpardonable neglect of him whose uncertain fate has caused me so many bitter moments."

The tale which followed we give in our own words, as our space will not allow us to be so diffuse as was the excited narrator.

The father of General Fortescue was a man of high family and extensive landed property in Ireland; proud of his only son, but prouder still of the ancient name and large possessions which he fondly hoped that son was destined to inherit. His mother had died in his early childhood, and his education was prosecuted under the superintendence of a worthy and excellent tutor, a Scotchman of the name of Campbell. The elder Fortescue, who had himself been brought up at Eton, and who had a strong prejudice in favour of public education, sent his boy, when he was sufficiently old, to finish his education at that college. There it was his good fortune to be associated with Gavin Douglas, who was two years his senior, and immeasurably his superior in talent and character. Mild and gentle in demeanour, but firm and uncompromising in principle, Gavin was generally respected and beloved; his society was courted by all his fellow-students--but he distinguished young Fortescue with his particular friendship; and to the influence of that friendship the latter was indebted for all the better traits that adorned his character. Philip, in his letters, had often written, in the most glowing terms of youthful enthusiasm, of his talented and estimable friend; and his father, ever anxious to administer to his gratification, invited Gavin, whose parents were at the time on the Continent, to spend his vacation at Mount Fortescue, where he spent some weeks, delighted with his hospitable reception, but surprised at the luxury and profusion that surrounded him. But the scene was soon to change. Fortescue had been for years living in a style of splendid and careless hospitality, which had from time to time called forth ineffectual remonstrances from his faithful steward, and at last affairs were brought to a crisis by the villany of one for whom he had become security to a very considerable amount. To meet the demands of his creditors, his estates were sold; and, with about ten thousand pounds saved from their wreck, he retired to a small town on the shores of the Frith of Clyde, and, having procured a cadetship for his boy, sent him out to Bengal. This was a severe trial to old Fortescue. The loss of his estates he could have borne with comparative firmness, as far as his own comforts were concerned; but his pride as well as his affection was wounded, when he thought that his son would be obliged to seek in a _foreign_ land that fortune which, but for his careless negligence and profusion, he would have inherited in his _own_. Philip, full of the energy of youthful hope, was but little affected by the change in his father's circumstances, for the future was to him bright of promise; but he was greatly grieved at parting with his father, whose many excellent qualities had endeared him to his son's affection, and whose chief weakness was his high aristocratic pride. After ten years' residence in India, young Fortescue returned home on furlough, with the rank of captain, and found his father much altered in person, but equally unchanged in affection towards him, and in that pride of birth which had ever been his besetting sin--one of the fruits of which was, frequent invectives against ill-assorted marriages between those whose rank in life was unequal. After staying with his father for a short time, Captain Fortescue hastened to pay a long-promised visit to his friend Gavin Douglas, whose wife had lately died, and who was now living with his family at Eskhall. On his return, Gavin accompanied him, and remained for several weeks at Mr Fortescue's. During one of their rambles in the neighbourhood, they discovered, accidentally, that a daughter of Mr Campbell, Fortescue's former tutor, was living near them, under the protection of a maternal aunt. The young men soon sought and obtained an introduction to these ladies, by whom they were most cordially received, as friends of the departed Campbell. Mary Campbell was a beautiful, highly-accomplished girl of eighteen, perfectly natural and unaffected, and unconscious of the power of her charms. Not so young Fortescue. In vain did his more quick-sighted and prudent friend, Douglas, warn him of his danger; in vain did he remind him of the obstacle which his father's pride would offer to the prosperous indulgence of his growing passion: he renewed his visits day after day; and, though he had not spoken of love, his heart was no longer his own. She who was ever present to his thoughts became naturally the frequent theme of his conversation, until his father remarked it, and scornfully and bitterly taunted him with his love for one so much his inferior in rank.

"Think no more of her, Philip," said he; "for, with my consent, you shall never degrade yourself by marrying one so much beneath you."