CHAPTER X.

"JACK, I FEEL THERE IS SOMETHING WANTING IN MY LIFE."

"Then all is well. In this full tide of love Wave heralds wave: thy match shall follow mine. . . . . . . . Meanwhile farewell Old friends. Old patriarch oaks farewell."--TENNYSON.

The character of Captain Max Colmore is not one of those which commands any very great amount of respect, and I should willingly have left it out of my story. But then if we have no shading in a picture we cannot so well appreciate the high lights. Besides, he was Bertha's brother, and independently of that fact, his death had a bearing on our "ower true" tale, even if his life had none.

They say that a certain dark gentleman, whose nama it is best not to mention in polite society, is not so black as he is painted. Happily the task of acting as his biographer does not devolve upon me, but the old saying reminds me that even in the character of a man like Max there may be something of good to record. I am willing to let him have the benefit of this. He was no coward then. There were very few cowards in the army in those old days, though I fear it is different now that men of muscle have in competitive examinations often enough to lower their flags to those with long memories, puny bodies, and hearts no bigger than a bantam chick's.

Max Colmore----

"ne'er refused When foeman bade him draw his blade."

In fact, he rather liked drawing his blade than otherwise, whether the man who suggested his doing so were a foeman or a quondam friend, for Max was a somewhat famous duellist, and quite as clever with the pistol as the sword. Faith in his own ability, however, rendered him somewhat of a blusterer, while abuse in the matter of potable table luxuries made him hot-headed, and apt to take offence where no offence had been meant. Even until this day, although duelling has gone out of fashion, and is punishable as a crime, we could understand, and even give some meed of praise to a man who drew his weapon to defend the honour of his country, the name of majesty, or injured innocence. But we view matters from a different light when we read of a quarrel at mess from one hasty word or look, leading up to a fight to the death.

Such was the case one night at a dinner given in honour of Colonel Stuart's birthday, and to which nearly a score of as happy young fellows as ever used knife and fork sat down. The dinner passed by pleasantly and cheerfully enough too, until even dessert was finished and the colonel had retired. Some of the younger bloods reseated themselves at table, among them Max, among them too a youthful merchant, at whose house many of the officers had been most hospitably received and treated. Mr. Drake, the name of this young merchant, had a young sister who resided with him, and whom Max Colmore, rosy now about the gills, and with a strange sparkle in his eye, proposed as "a toast" in a not over-complimentary manner.

It was surely only natural that Drake should lose his temper.

"It is only a coward and a fool," he said, "who would dare to behave so."

"This to me, Mr. Snip, and from such a fellow as you, a miserable purveyor of silks and sarcenet. Have that," cried Max.

The word "that" was accompanied by the contents of a glass of claret, thrown full in the face of poor young Mr. Drake.

All rose to their feet, and the insulted gentleman made a motion as if to throw a decanter at the blustering Max.

But Lieutenant Moore restrained him.

"Stay, Drake, stay your hand," he exclaimed. "This is my quarrel. You are my guest. Captain Colmore, you account to me for this gross insult to a friend of mine."

"To the pair of you," said Colmore, "if you prefer it."

"Mr. Snip," he added, "I'll have you first, if you please."

"So be it," said Drake, very calmly and quietly.

Early next morning, soon after the birds had begun to sing, and before the dew had left the grass, or the cicada had given voice, the combatants met with all due formality in a beautiful green grove, not far from the chief fort.

Did no thoughts of his far-off home, near the quiet and peaceful Norfolk broad, or of his mother and gentle sister, steal across the young man's mind as he stood, pistol in hand, waiting the word to fire? Probably none, for he looked half dazed from the dissipation of the previous evening, and his body was far from steady.

"At the word 'three' you will fire. One--two--three."

The pistols rang out almost simultaneously on the still air of morning, and for a second or two it seemed as if neither belligerent had been hit. Then Max Colmore's weapon dropped suddenly from his hand, and he sank in a heap on the ground beside it.

He neither opened his eyes again, nor spoke.

Captain Colmore was dead.

And to all intents and purposes he had died a death that was fraught with dishonour, for he had owed an apology, and had refused to pay it.

* * * *

At the time that Captain Max Colmore met with his death the great battle of Trafalgar was quite a thing of the past; indeed, two years had passed away since that splendid victory, which had cost Britain her cherished hero, but gained for her the supremacy of the seas. These years had not been uneventful for either Tom Bure or Lord Raventree. Both had gained additional glory and renown at sea, and poor Tom had gained something else--which in the dashing days of old frequently accompanied honour and glory--a severe wound in the left forearm, which would prevent his serving again for a year at least, if not for ever.

He was brought home an invalid in the end of 1807, from that marvellous expedition against the Danes, by which they lost the whole of their large navy, and had their capital city, Copenhagen, laid in red-hot ashes.

Tom was not sorry to find himself once more an inmate of his foster-father's little cottage, near the peaceful broad, with Ruth and his foster-mother to wait upon him.

He found but little change in either of the latter; but Dan was getting old, yet hale and hearty in his declining years, and it was the greatest delight of his life when the sweet springtime brought bud and burgeon to the trees, and the wild flowers to the marshes, to row the invalid Captain Tom, as he with some pardonable pride called our hero, out and away over the broad.

Nor were his friends at the great hall, as Colmore Manor was invariably called, otherwise than delighted to see him on their return from the south.

But partly through his being an invalid, and partly, perhaps, through being a sailor--sailors being, you know, always shy--Tom was half afraid to address the tall and willowy girl who now stood before him as Bertha.

Bertha had grown up very beautiful, and was likewise very accomplished, as far as accomplishments went in those days. She could talk more than one language at all events, and play well on the harp and spinet. But there were times when the graceful and accomplished girl had moods of innocent playfulness, in which she appeared to Tom precisely like the wilful wee tottie of six or eight she was in the early days of his acquaintance with her. Strangely enough, Tom Bure liked her best in these moods, and longed to catch her in his arms, or rather in his one utility arm, and give her a kiss; but then his invalid or sailor shyness, whichever it was, overflowed his breast, and he didn't or couldn't.

* * * * *

Those days of war and bloodshed were eventful enough both by land and sea, and it need surprise no one to be told that the ship which ought to have brought the news of Max Colmore's sad death, as trim a brig as ever sailed the seas when she left Jamaica, was never heard of any more. Whether she had caught fire and been burned at sea, foundered during some terrible gale, or been taken aback and gone down in a white squall nobody ever knew. But her non-arrival prevented the account of her son's end from reaching Lady Colmore for many months after she ought to have known of it.

When the news did arrive at last, then the crash came, and her ladyship knew she was no longer mistress of Colmore Manor, and that its real owner was some distant relative of her late husband, for the estate was an entailed one.

Very soon after Lady Colmore did a thing which proves that her pride--and she had a good deal of it--was really genuine and heartfelt, that it was indeed part and parcel of her nature. As soon as the heir, or the gentleman who was described as such by his solicitors, put in an appearance she left the county, and went no soul knew whither. To all seeming she and Bertha had vanished from off the face of the earth.

Tom, before the crash came, had found himself so much better, that he determined to travel for a month or two for the benefit of his health, and wounded arm, which still remained a most unserviceable limb to him.

Previous to his going away, his old friend, Jack Merryweather, became the husband of poor little innocent Ruth. Jack was indeed a happy soul, and I believe I am justified in adding he was not the only happy soul at the quiet wedding in Dan's cottage.

One thing Jack had done before leading his bride to the altar, was to polish up that wooden leg of his till it shone like Whitby jet.

It so happened that Captain Lord Raventree was in the country at that time. There was no word of his marrying. His sword was his bride, and would be till the peace came. But he came to Jack Merryweather's wedding all the same, and it is currently reported that he had even kissed the bride. If he did it was quite in accordance with his character.

Then away went Tom and he together in Ashley's boat, which they chartered for the occasion, for a coasting cruise up north.

They enjoyed themselves as only sailors and old messmates can. Tom going so far as to affirm it was the happiest time ever he had had in all his life.

Of course these two friends were like brothers, and had no secrets the one from the other. So Tom had confessed that he was exceedingly fond of Bertha, and that he wasn't at all sure Bertha wasn't just as fond of him.

"Then why don't you go in and win, man?" cried Raventree. "What would our mutual friend, Nelson, have thought of any officer hanging fire when there was something before him that was a duty?"

"A duty, Raventree?"

"Yes, your duty to posterity, Tom."

"Not that posterity ever did anything for me as yet," said Tom Bure thoughtfully; "but now that you've mentioned dear old Nelson, I--I--will go in and win."

But lo! when Tom returned to the cottage, and his friend went off to Raventree Court, the first thing he heard was about the Colmore crash, the second the disappearance of Lady Colmore and her daughter, and the third and most wonderful of all, that he, Captain Tom Bure, R.N., was the nearest heir to the estates of Colmore, and not the other fellow.

All this news coming of a heap, as old Dan phrased it, quite took our hero's breath away, and it was some time before he fully realised his position.

"It was all owing to that black box," said Dan, "that your poor Uncle Bob took so much pains to save, and that I took up to the banker at Yarmouth. That proved it all, and there's none livin' that can disprove it."

Whether Tom's uppermost thoughts at this moment were those of joy or sorrow, it is probably hard to tell.

"Poor Bertha!" he muttered half aloud, "shall I never, never see her more?"

* * * *

Long months after Tom Bure was settled in his new home, he continued by every means he could think of, his endeavours to find out the whereabouts of Lady Colmore and Bertha. But all in vain. It was rumoured that her ladyship had died of a broken heart, or of a combination of pride and poverty, leaving her daughter to stem a sea of adversity as best she might.

Tom, in something akin to hopeless sorrow, settled down to look after his estates in good earnest now.

He fain would have built a new house for his foster-father Dan on the grounds, so that he might have the old couple close to him. But Dan would not hear of leaving his bit o' property, where he and his old wife had lived so long and happy, and where poor Uncle Bob had died.

Tom soon found out that recreation was good for him, or diversion, as Jack Merryweather phrased it, so he often went to town, and with his friend was frequently at concerts, fêtes, and plays.

One evening, after a quiet dinner together, Jack addressed his friend as follows:

"Tom, you appear in doleful dumps to-night. You have sat opposite me for ten minutes, and never said a word."

"I'm not over merry at heart, Jack," said Tom. "The fact is, amidst all this fun and gaiety I feel there is something wanting in my life."

"And isn't it a fool you are," cried Jack, "to go on mourning for the partial loss of one hand? Look at me--one leg only and a timber toe. Do I mourn and lament?"

Jack held up that wooden extremity of his, which shone to-night like an ebony ruler.

"Bah! Tom, what's the use of it?"

And Merryweather burst into the old song--

"Life let us cherish While the wasting taper glows."

"Come along with me, Tom. There's something good going on to-night at the old Drury."

Tom Bure yawned through three acts of a somewhat dreary play.

As shifting of scenery necessitated a longer interval than usual between the third and fourth acts, a beautiful girl came on to sing a charming Irish song. It was, the play-bill said, her first appearance on any stage.

At the first sound of her voice Tom pricked up his ears.

At the first glance he started as if he had been shot again.

Then he disappeared--went tearing out of the box, as Jack afterwards described it. He tore down below, and almost fought his way behind the scenes.

He was just in time to meet the young lady walking off the stage with a whole lap-full of bouquets.

"Bertha!"

It was Tom's voice.

And as he went awkwardly rushing forwards, somehow or other she dropped everyone of those bouquets on the deck of the stage--I think they call it the deck. If they don't they ought to.

Never mind, I have this to add: Bertha's first appearance on any stage was likewise her last.

And just as Bertha dropped those bouquets am I now going to drop anchor, and almost quite as suddenly. I do not wish that a good boy's story should degenerate into an ordinary love yarn, else I should devote a dozen pages to telling you how it came about that two months after this our hero, Tom Bure, was married to the orphan girl, Bertha Colmore, in presence of Jack Merryweather, Lord Raventree, and honest Dan himself.

And just as the happy couple were standing on the deck of the saucy _Yarmouth Belle_--same old skipper, same old mate--that was to bear them from London to the North, "I say, Tom," said the same old Merryweather, "I misunderstood you that evening after dinner."

"Never mind," said Tom, "I have at last found the something that was wanting in my life. Good-bye."

"Mate!" roared the skipper.

"Yes," cried the mate.

"On this auspicious occasion, mate----"

"Let us----" said the mate.

"That's it. _Let us splice the main-brace_."

"Hurrah!"

FINIS.

LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.