When Jack was quite recovered, the clergyman gave him some money to enable him to reach his home without begging his way.
Now this case also occurred before the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society was instituted. I cannot say that such cases of rough handling were frequent; but cases in which true-blue shipwrecked tars were treated as impostors were numerous, so that, in those days, knaves and rascals often throve as wrecked seamen, while the genuine and unfortunate men were often turned rudely from door to door. This state of things does not exist now. It cannot exist now, for honorary agents of the society are to be found on every part of our coasts, so that the moment a wrecked man touches the land, no matter whether he be a Briton or a foreigner, he is at once taken care of, clothed, housed, fed, supplied with a little money, and forwarded to his home, or to the nearest consul of his nation. The society has therefore accomplished two great and good objects, for which the entire nation owes it a debt of gratitude; it has rid the land of begging impostors clad in sailors’ clothes, and it has provided relief and assistance to the shipwrecked among our brave and hardy seamen who are in every sense the bulwarks of our island, and without whose labours, in the most perilous of all callings, Great Britain would be one of the poorest and most uninfluential kingdoms on the face of the earth.
But the society does a great deal more than that, for it comforts and assists with money and advice hundreds and thousands of widows and orphans whose husbands, fathers, or brothers have been drowned; and this it does from year to year regularly—as regularly as the storms come and scatter death and destruction on our shores. It cannot be too earnestly impressed on the people of England, and especially on those who dwell inland, that at least a thousand lives are lost, two thousand ships are wrecked, and two millions sterling are thrown away upon the coasts of this country every year.
It is owing to the untiring energy of the National Lifeboat Institution that those figures are not much, very much higher; and it is the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society that alleviates much, very much, of the woe resulting from storms and wrecks upon our shores. Sailors and fishermen know this well, and support both institutions largely. I would that ladies and gentlemen knew this better, and felt that they have a positive duty incumbent on them in regard to these societies, for they are not local but national.
“Now, madam,” said I, again addressing myself pointedly to Miss Flouncer, “would you like to hear a few interesting facts in reference to the objects of this Society?”
Miss Flouncer smiled and undulated in order to express her readiness to listen; at the same time she glanced at Sir Richard, who, I observed, was sound asleep. I also noticed that Mrs Bingley sniffed impatiently; but I felt that I had a duty to perform, so with unalterable resolution I prepared to continue my address, when Miss Peppy, who had been nearly asleep during the greater part of the time I was speaking, suddenly said to Miss Flouncer—
“Well, it is a most surprising state of things that people will go to sea and get wrecked just to let societies like these spring up like mushrooms all over the land. For my part, I think I would rather do without the things that ships bring to us from foreign lands than always hear of those dreadful wrecks, and—but really one cannot expect the world to alter just to please one, so I suppose people must go on being drowned and saved by rocket-boats and lifeboats; so we had better retire to the drawing-room, my dear.”
The last observation was addressed to Mrs Bingley, who responded to it with a bow of assent as she drew on her gloves.
Immediately after, the ladies rose, and I was thus constrained to postpone my narration of interesting facts, until another opportunity should offer.
Chapter Seventeen.
Mrs Gaff endeavours fruitlessly to understand the Nature of Cash, Principal, and Interest
At first, as I have said, poor Mrs Gaff was quite inconsolable at the bereavements she had sustained in the loss of her husband and son and brother. For a long time she refused to be comforted, or to allow her spirit to be soothed by the visits, (the “angel visits” as she styled them), of Lizzie Gordon, and the entrance of God’s Word into her heart.
Much of the violence of the good woman’s character was the result of training and example on an impulsive and sanguine, yet kindly spirit. She had loved Stephen and Billy with a true and ardent love, and she could not forgive herself for what she styled her “cruelty to the dear boy.” Neither could she prevail on herself to enjoy or touch a single penny of the money which ought, she said, to have been her husband’s.
Night after night would Mrs Gaff sit down by the cottage fireside to rest after her day of hard toll, and, making Tottie sit down on a stool at her feet, would take her head into her lap, and stroke the hair and the soft cheek gently with her big rough hand, while she discoursed of the good qualities of Stephen, and the bravery of her darling boy, to whom she had been such a cruel monster in days gone by.
Poor Tottie, being of a sympathetic nature, would pat her mother’s knee and weep. One evening while they were sitting thus she suddenly seemed to be struck with a new idea.
“Maybe, mother,” said she, “Daddy an’ Billy will come back. We’ve never hearn that they’s been drownded.”
“Tottie,” replied Mrs Gaff earnestly, “I’ve thoughten o’ that afore now.”
Little more was said, but from that night Mrs Gaff changed her manner and her practice. She set herself earnestly and doggedly to prepare for the return of her husband and child!
On the day that followed this radical change in her feelings and plans, Mrs Gaff received a visit from Haco Barepoles.
“How d’ye find yerself to-day, Mrs Gaff?” said the big skipper, seating himself carefully on a chair, at which he cast an earnest glance before sitting down.
This little touch of anxiety in reference to the chair was the result of many years of experience, which told him that his weight was too much for most ordinary chairs, unless they were in sound condition.
“Well and hearty,” replied Mrs Gaff, sitting down and seizing Tottie’s head, which she began to smooth. She always smoothed Tottie, if she were at hand, when she had nothing better to do.
“Heh!” exclaimed Haco, with a slight look of surprise. “Glad to hear it, lass. Nothin’ turned up, has there?”
“No, nothin’; but I’ve bin busy preparin’ for Stephen and Billy comin’ home, an’ that puts one in good spirits, you know.”
A shade of anxiety crossed Haco’s brow as he looked earnestly into the woman’s face, under the impression that grief had shaken her reason, but she returned his glance with such a calm self-possessed look that he felt reassured.
“I hope they’ll come, lass,” he said sadly; “what makes ye think they will?”
“I feel sure on it. I feel it here,” replied the woman, placing her hand on her breast. “Sweet Miss Lizzie Gordon and me prayed together that the Lord would send ’em home if it was His will, an’ ever since then the load’s bin off my heart.”
Haco shook his head for a moment, then nodded it, and said cheerily, “Well, I hope it may be so for your sake, lass. An’ what sort o’ preparations are ye goin’ to make?”
Mrs Gaff smiled as she rose, and silently went to a cupboard, which stood close to the Dutch clock with the horrified countenance, and took therefrom a tea-caddy, which she set on the table with peculiar emphasis. Tottie watched her with an expression of awe, for she had seen her mother weeping frequently over that tea-caddy, and believed that it must certainly contain something very dreadful.
“The preparations,” said Mrs Gaff, as she searched her pocket for the key of the box, “will depend on what I’m able to afford.”
“You’ll be able to afford a good deal, then, if all that’s reported be true, for I’m told ye’ve got ten thousand pounds.”
“Is that the sum?” asked Mrs Gaff, still searching for the key, which, like all other keys in like circumstances, seemed to have gone in for a game of hide-and-seek; “I’m sure I ought to know, for the lawyer took great pains to teach me that; ay, there ye are,” (to the key); “found ye at last. Now then, Haco, we’ll have a look at the book and see.”
To Tottie’s surprise and no small disappointment, the only object that came out of the mysterious tea-caddy was a small book, which Mrs Gaff, however, seemed to look upon with respect, and to handle as if she half-expected it would bite.
“There, that’s my banker’s book. You read off the figures, Haco, for I can’t. To be sure if I had wanted to know, Tottie could have told me, but I haven’t had the heart to look at it till to-day.”
“Ten thousand, an’ no mistake!” said Haco, looking at the figures with intense gravity.
“Now, then, the question is,” said Mrs Gaff, sitting down and again seizing Tottie’s head for stroking purposes, while she put the question with deep solemnity—“the question is, how long will that last?”
Haco was a good deal puzzled. He bit his thumb nail, and knit his shaggy brows for some time, and then said—
“Well, you know, that depends on how much you spend at a time. If you go for to spend a thousand pounds a day, now, it’ll just last ten days. If you spend a thousand pounds a year, it’ll last ten years. If you spend a thousand pounds in ten years, it’ll last a hundred years—d’ye see? It all depends on the spendin’. But, then, Mrs Gaff,” said the skipper remonstratively, “you mustn’t go for to live on the principal, you know.”
“What’s the principal?” demanded Mrs Gaff.
“Why, the whole sum; the money itself, you know.”
“D’ye suppose that I’m a born fool, Mr Barepoles, that I should try to live on the money itself? I never heerd on anybody bilin’ up money in a kettle an’ suppin’ goold soup, and I’m not a-goin’ for to try.”
With infinite difficulty, and much futile effort at illustration, did Haco explain to Mrs Gaff the difference between principal and interest; telling her to live on the latter, and never on any account to touch the former, unless she wished to “end her days in a work’us.”
“I wonder what it’s like,” said Mrs Gaff.
“What what’s like?” inquired the skipper.
“Ten thousand pounds.”
“Well, that depends too, you know, on what it’s made of—whether copper, silver, goold, or paper.”
“What! is it ever made o’ paper?”
In attempting to explain this point, Haco became unintelligible even to himself, and Mrs Gaff became wildly confused.
“Well, well,” said the latter, “never mind; but try to tell me how much I’ll have a year.”
“That depends too—”
“Everything seems to depend,” cried Mrs Gaff somewhat testily.
“Of course it does,” said Haco, “everything does depend on somethin’ else, and everything will go on dependin’ to the end of time: it depends on how you invest it, and what interest ye git for it.”
“Oh, dearie me!” sighed Mrs Gaff, beginning for the first time to realise in a small degree the anxieties and troubles inseparable from wealth; “can’t ye tell me what it’s likely to be about?”
“Couldn’t say,” observed Haco, drawing out his pipe as if he were about to appeal to it for information; “it’s too deep for me.”
“Well, but,” pursued Mrs Gaff, becoming confidential, “tell me now, d’ye think it would be enough to let me make some grand improvements on the cottage against Stephen and Billy’s return?”
“Why, that depends on what the improvements is to be,” returned Haco with a profound look.
“Ay, just so. Well, here are some on ’em. First of all, I wants to get a noo grate an’ a brass tea-kettle. There’s nothing like a cheery fire of a cold night, and my Stephen liked a cheery fire—an’ so did Billy for the matter o’ that; but the trouble I had wi’ that there grate is past belief. Now, a noo grate’s indispens’ble.”
“Well?” said Haco, puffing his smoke up the chimney, and regarding the woman earnestly.
“Well; then I want to get a noo clock. That one in the corner is a perfit fright. A noo table, too, for the leg o’ that one has bin mended so often that it won’t never stand another splice. Then a noo tea-pot an’ a fender and fire-irons would be a comfort. But my great wish is to get a big mahogany four-post bed with curtains. Stephen says he never did sleep in a four-poster, and often wondered what it would be like—no more did I, so I would like to take him by surprise, you see. Then I want to git—”
“Well?” said Haco, when she paused.
“I’m awful keen to git a carpit, but I doubt I’m thinkin’ o’ too many things. D’ye think the first year’s—what d’ye call it?”
“Interest,” said Haco.
“Ay, interest—would pay for all that?”
“Yes, an’ more,” said the skipper confidently.
“If I only knew how much it is to be,” said Mrs Gaff thoughtfully.
At that moment the door opened, and Kenneth Stuart entered, followed by his friend Gildart Bingley. After inquiring as to her welfare Kenneth said:
“I’ve come to pay you the monthly sum which is allowed you by the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society. Mr Bingley asked me to call as he could not do so; but from all accounts I believe you won’t need it. May I congratulate you on your good fortune, Mrs Gaff.”
Kenneth took out his purse as he spoke to pay the sum due to her.
Mrs Gaff seemed to be struck with a sudden thought. She thanked Kenneth for his congratulations, and then said:
“As to my not needin’ the money you’ve brought me, young man, I take leave to say that I do need it; so you’ll obleege me by handin’ it over.”
Kenneth obeyed in surprise not unmingled with disappointment in finding such a grasping spirit in one whom he had hitherto thought well of. He paid the money, however, in silence, and was about to take his leave when Mrs Gaff stopped him.
“This sum has bin paid to me riglarly for the last three months.”
“I believe it has,” said Kenneth.
“And,” continued Mrs Gaff, “it’s been the means o’ keepin’ me and my Tottie from starvation.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” returned Kenneth, who began to wonder what was to follow; but he was left to wonder, for Mrs Gaff abruptly asked him and Gildart to be seated, as she was anxious to find out a fact or two in regard to principal and interest.
Gildart could scarce avoid laughing as he glanced at his companion.
“Now,” began Mrs Gaff, seating herself opposite Kenneth, with a hand on each knee, “I wants to know what a principal of ten thousand pounds comes to in the way of interest in a twel’month.”
“Well, Mrs Gaff,” said Kenneth, “that depends—”
“Dear me!” cried Mrs Gaff petulantly, “every mortial thing that has to do with money seeps to depend. Could ye not tell me somethin’ about it, now, that doesn’t depend?”
“Not easily,” replied Kenneth with a laugh; “but I was going to say that if you get it invested at five per cent, that would give you an income of five hundred pounds a year.”
“How much?” inquired Mrs Gaff in a high key, while her eyes widened with astonishment.
Kenneth repeated the sum.
“Young man, you’re jokin’.”
“Indeed I am not,” said Kenneth earnestly, with an appealing glance at Gildart.
“True—as Johnson’s Dictionary,” said the middy. Mrs Gaff spent a few moments in silent and solemn reflection.
“The Independent clergyman,” she said in a low meditative tone, “has only two hundred a year—so I’m told; an’ the doctor at the west end has got four hundred, and he keeps a fine house an’ servants; an’ Sam Balls, the rich hosier, has got six hundred—so they say; and Mrs Gaff, the poor critter, has only got five hundred! That’ll do,” she continued, with a sudden burst of animation, “shake out the reefs in yer tops’ls, lass, slack off yer sheets, ease the helm, an’ make the most on it while the fair wind lasts.”
Having thus spoken, Mrs Gaff hastily folded up in a napkin the sum just given her, and put it, along with the bank-book, into the tea-caddy, which she locked and deposited safely in the corner cupboard. Immediately after, her visitors, much surprised at her eccentric conduct, rose and took their leave.
Chapter Eighteen.
Mrs Gaff becomes a Woman of Business, and finds it awfully Hard Work
Soon after the conversation narrated in the last chapter, the clerks in the bank of Wreckumoft were not a little interested by the entrance of a portly woman of comely appearance and large proportions. She was dressed in a gaudy cotton gown and an enormously large bonnet, which fluttered a good deal, owing as much to its own magnitude and instability as to the quantity of pink ribbons and bows wherewith it was adorned.
The woman led by the hand a very pretty little girl, whose dress was much the same in pattern, though smaller in proportion. Both woman and child looked about them with that air of uncertainty peculiar to females of the lower order when placed in circumstances in which they know not exactly how to act.
Taking pity upon them, a clerk left his perch, and going forward, asked the woman what she wanted.
To this she replied promptly, that she wanted money.
She was much flushed and very warm, and appeared to have come some distance on foot, as well as to be in a state of considerable agitation, which, however, she determinedly subdued by the force of a strong will.
“If you go to yonder rail and present your cheque,” replied the clerk kindly, “you’ll get the money.”
“Present what, young man?”
“Your cheque,” replied the clerk.
“What’s that?”
“Have you not a cheque-book—or a slip of paper to—”
“Oh! ay, a book. Of course I’ve got a book, young man.”
Saying this, Mrs Gaff, (for it was she), produced from a huge bag the bank-book that had erstwhile reposed in the mysterious tea-caddy.
“Have you no other book than this?”
“No, young man,” replied Mrs Gaff, feeling, but not exhibiting, slight alarm.
The clerk, after glancing at the book, and with some curiosity at its owner, then explained that a cheque-book was desirable, although not absolutely necessary, and went and got one, and showed her the use of it,—how the sum to be drawn should be entered with the date, etcetera, on the margin in figures, and then the cheque itself drawn out in words, “not in figures,” and signed; after which he advised Mrs Gaff to draw out a cheque on the spot for what she wanted.
“But, young man,” said Mrs Gaff, who had listened to it all with an expression of imbecility on her good-looking face, “I never wrote a stroke in my life ’xcept once, when I tried to show my Billy how to do it, and only made a big blot on his copy, for which I gave him a slap on the face, poor ill-used boy.”
“Well, then, tell me how much you want, and I will write it out for you,” said the clerk, sitting down at a table and taking up a pen.
Mrs Gaff pondered for a few seconds, then she drew Tottie aside and carried on an earnest and animated conversation with her in hoarse whispers, accompanied by much nodding and quivering of both bonnets, leading to the conclusion that what the one propounded the other heartily agreed to.
Returning to the table, Mrs Gaff said that she wanted a hundred pounds.
“How much?” demanded the clerk in surprise.
“A hundred pound, young man,” repeated Mrs Gaff, somewhat sternly, for she had made up her mind to go through with it come what might; “if ye have as much in the shop just now—if not I’ll take the half, and call back for the other half to-morry—though it be raither a longish walk fro’ Cove and back for a woman o’ my size.”
The clerk smiled, wrote out the cheque, and bade her sign it with a cross. She did so, not only with a cross, but with two large and irregular blots. The clerk then pointed to a partition about five feet six in height, where she was to present it. Going to the partition she looked about for a door by which to enter, but found none. Looking back to the clerk for information, she perceived that he was gone. Pickpockets and thieves instantly occurred to her, but, on searching for the bank-book and finding that it was safe, she felt relieved. Just as she was beginning to wonder whether she was not being made game of, she heard a voice above her, and, looking up, observed a man’s head stretched over the top of the partition and looking down at her.
“Now, then, good woman, what do you want?” said the head.
“I wants a hundred pound,” said Mrs Gaff, presenting her cheque in a somewhat defiant manner, for she began to feel badgered.
The head put over a hand, took the cheque, and then both disappeared.
Mrs Gaff stood for some time waiting anxiously for the result, and as no result followed, she began again to think of thieves and pickpockets, and even meditated as to the propriety of setting up a sudden cry of thieves, murder, and fire, in order to make sure of the clerk being arrested before he should get quite clear of the building, when she became aware of a fluttering of some sort just above her. Looking up she observed her cheque quivering on the top of the partition. Wondering what this could mean, she gazed at it with an expression of solemn interest.
Twice the cheque fluttered, with increasing violence each time, as though it were impatient, and then the head re-appeared suddenly.
“Why don’t you take your cheque?” it demanded with some asperity.
“Because I don’t want it, young man; I wants my money,” retorted Mrs Gaff, whose ire was beginning to rise.
The head smiled, dropped the cheque on the floor, and, pointing with its nose to a gentleman who stood behind a long counter in a sort of stall surrounded with brass rails, told her to present it to the teller, and she’d get the money. Having said which the head disappeared; but it might have been noted by a self-possessed observer, that as soon as Mrs Gaff had picked up the cheque, (bursting two buttons off her gown in the act), the head re-appeared, grinning in company with several other heads, all of which grinned and watched the further movements of Mrs Gaff with interest.
There were four gentlemen standing behind the long counter in brazen stalls. Three of these Mrs Gaff passed on her way to the one to whom she had been directed by the head’s nose.
“Now, sir,” said Mrs Gaff, (she could not say “young man” this time, for the teller was an elderly gentleman), “I hope ye’ll pay me the money without any more worrittin’ of me. I’m sure ye might ha’ done it at once without shovin’ about a poor ignorant woman like me.”
Having appealed to the teller’s feelings in this last observation, Mrs Gaff’s own feelings were slightly affected, and she whimpered a little. Tottie, being violently sympathetic, at once began to weep silently.
“How would you like to have it, my good woman?” asked the teller kindly.
“Eh?” exclaimed Mrs Gaff.
“Would you like to have it in notes or gold?” said the teller.
“In goold, of course, sir.”
Tottie here glanced upwards through her tears. Observing that her mother had ceased to whimper, and was gazing in undisguised admiration at the proceedings of the teller, she turned her eyes in his direction, and forgot to cry any more.
The teller was shovelling golden sovereigns into a pair of scales with a brass shovel as coolly as if he were a grocer’s boy scooping out raw sugar. Having weighed the glittering pile, he threw them carelessly out of the scale into the brass shovel, and shot them at Mrs Gaff, who suddenly thrust her ample bosom against the counter, under the impression that the coins were about to be scattered on the floor. She was mistaken. They were checked in their career by a ledge, and lay before her unbelieving eyes in a glittering mass.
Suddenly she looked at the teller with an expression of severe reproof.
“You’ve forgot to count ’em, sir.”
“You’ll find them all right,” replied the teller, with a laugh.
Thereupon Mrs Gaff, in an extremely unbelieving state of mind, began to count the gold pieces one by one into a little cotton bag which had been prepared by her for this very purpose, and which Tottie held open with both hands. In ten minutes, after much care and many sighs, she counted it all, and found that there were two sovereigns too many, which she offered to return to the teller with a triumphant air, but that incredulous man smiled benignantly, and advised her to count it again. She did count it again, and found that there were four pieces too few. Whereupon she retired with the bag to a side table, and, in a state of profuse perspiration, began to count it over a third time with deliberate care.
Tottie watched and checked each piece like a lynx, and the sum was at last found to be correct!
Mrs Gaff quitted the bank with a feeling of intense relief, and met Lizzie Gordon walking with Emmie Wilson just outside the door.
“My dear Miss Gordon,” exclaimed the poor woman, kissing Lizzie’s hand in the fulness of her heart, “you’ve no ideer what agonies I’ve bin a-sufferin’ in that there bank. If they’re a-goin’ to treat me in this way always, I’ll draw out the whole o’ my ten hundred thousand pound—if that’s the sum—an’ stow it away in my Stephen’s sea-chest, what he’s left behind him.”
“Dear Mrs Gaff, what have they done to you?” asked Lizzie in some concern.
“Oh, it’s too long a story to tell ye here, my dear. Come with me. I’m a-goin’ straight to yer uncle’s, Captain Bingley. Be he to home? But stop; did ye ever see a hundred golden pounds?”
Mrs Gaff cautiously opened the mouth of her bag and allowed Lizzie to peep in, but refused to answer any questions regarding her future intentions.
Meanwhile Emmie and Tottie had flown into each other’s arms. The former had often seen my niece, both at the house of Mr Stuart and at my own, as our respective ladies interchanged frequent visits, and Miss Peppy always brought Emmie when she came to see us. Lizzie had taken such a fancy to the orphan that she begged Miss Peppy to allow her to go with her and me sometimes on our visits to the houses of distressed sailors and fishermen. In this way Emmie and Tottie had become acquainted, and they were soon bosom friends, for the gentle, dark-eyed daughter of Mrs Gaff seemed to have been formed by nature as a harmonious counterpart to the volatile, fair-haired orphan. Emmie, I may here remark in passing, had by this time become a recognised inmate of Mr Stuart’s house. What his intentions in regard to her were, no one knew. He had at first vowed that the foundling should be cast upon the parish, but when the illness, that attacked the child after the ship-wreck, had passed away, he allowed her to remain without further remark than that she must be kept carefully out of his way. Kenneth, therefore, held to his first intention of not letting his father or any one else know that the poor girl was indeed related to him by the closest tie. Meanwhile he determined that Emmie’s education should not be neglected.
Immediately on arriving at my residence, Mrs Gaff was, at her own request, ushered into my study, accompanied by Tottie.
I bade her good-day, and, after a few words of inquiry as to her health, asked if I could be of any service to her.
“No, capting, thank ’ee,” she said, fumbling with her bag as if in search of something.
“No news of Stephen or Billy, I suppose?” said I in a sad tone.
“Not yet, capting, but I expect ’em one o’ these days, an’ I’m a-gettin’ things ready for ’em.”
“Indeed! what induces you to expect them so confidently?”
“Well, capting, I can’t well tell ’ee, but I do, an’ in the meantime I’ve come to thank ’ee for all yer kindness to Tottie an’ me when we was in distress. Yer Society, capting, has saved me an’ Tottie fro’ starvation, an’ so I’ve come for to give ye back the money ye sent me by Mr Stuart, for there’s many a poor widder as’ll need it more nor I do.”
So saying, she placed the money on the table, and I thanked her heartily, adding that I was glad to be able to congratulate her on her recent good fortune.
“Moreover,” continued Mrs Gaff, taking a small bag from the large one which hung on her arm, and laying it also on the table, “I feel so thankful to the Almighty, as well as to you, sir, that I’ve come to give ye a small matter o’ goold for the benefit o’ the Society ye b’longs to, an’ there it be.”
“How much is here?” said I, lifting up the bag.
“A hundred pound. Ye needn’t count it, capting, for it’s all c’rekt, though it was shovelled out to me as if it war no better than coals or sugar. Good-day, capting.”
Mrs Gaff, turning hastily round as if to avoid my thanks, or my remonstrances at so poor a woman giving so large a sum, seized Tottie by the wrist and dragged her towards the door.
“Stop, stop, my good woman,” said I; “at least let me give you a receipt.”
“Please, capting, I doesn’t want one. Surely I can trust ye, an’ I’ve had my heart nigh broke with bits o’ paper this good day.”
“Well, but I am required by the rules of the Society to give a receipt for all sums received.”
Mrs Gaff was prevailed on to wait for the receipt, but the instant it was handed to her, she got up, bounced out of the room, and out of the house into the street. I hastened to the window, and saw her and Tottie walking smartly away in the direction of Cove, with their enormous bonnets quivering violently, and their ribbons streaming in the breeze.
Half an hour afterwards, Dan Horsey, who had been sent to me with a note from my friend Stuart, went down into my kitchen, and finding Susan Barepoles there alone, put his arm round her waist.
“Don’t,” said Susan, struggling unsuccessfully to get free. “What d’ye think Mrs Gaff has bin an’ done?”
“Don’t know, my jewel, no more nor a pig as has niver seen the light o’ day,” said Dan.
“She’s bin—and gone—and given—” said Susan, with great deliberation, “one—hundred—gold sovereigns—to the Shipwrecked thingumbob Society!”
“How d’ye know that, darlint?” inquired Dan.
“Master told Miss Lizzie, Miss Lizzie told missis, and missis told me.”
“You don’t say so! Well, I wish I wor the Shipwrecked thing-me-bob Society, I do,” said Dan with a sigh; “but I an’t, so I’ll have to cut my stick, clap spurs to my horse, as the story books say, for Capting Bingley towld me to make haste. But there’s wan thing, Susan, as I wouldn’t guv for twice the sum.”