Before he left on this cruise, the men and officers of the _Tonneraire_ were delighted to receive letters from home. Jack took his little packet with a beating heart, and, retiring to his cabin, gave orders that he was not to be disturbed until he should again appear.

Ah, no one save a sailor knows the real delight experienced in receiving letters from home! And here was one in his father's handwriting. Why, it was dated from Ireland; and that is where the general was stationed, waiting, as he said, to give a true Highland welcome to the French as soon as they should land. It said nothing about the lost estate and the bonnie house that once was their home; but it was bold and hopeful throughout. The general had heard of all Jack's doings, and was proud of such a son. He concluded with a fatherly blessing, bidding him never forget he was a Grant Mackenzie.

Then he opened Flora's letter. Sisterly throughout. She was as happy at Torquay as she could expect to be, but longed--oh so much--to see her dear brother once more. Then she went on to talk of old times, and how happy they would be when they were all together once again. So it concluded, without one word about Gerty.

He laid the letter down with a sigh. A strange sense of loneliness, of forsakenness, took possession of his heart. He thought he had forgotten his false love. At this moment she seemed dearer to him than ever.

He next took slowly up from the table a letter in a strange, ill-spelt, scrawly hand, and opened it mechanically. But his face brightened as he began to read. I append a portion of it with a few corrections:--

"MY DEAR LUV,--Which it is me as misses you. Yes, Master Jack, me and missus too, though you promised to marry me when you grew a man, and used to give me such sweet kisses. Oh, I wish I had some now! I know'd as that was only Jack's little joke. Me a servant girl, and you a big, tall, beautiful officer. But, la! the larks as we used to 'ave when putting you to bed. It makes me larf now to think of 'em; and how you wouldn't go to sleep till I lay down beside you and sung you off. Yes, missus misses you, and so do I.

And poor old Sir Digby has been laid up with the gout; and poor dear missus says as how she won't marry him for two years yet to come. And old master's content because he says he knows she'll be Lady Digby by-and-by. But missus she do look so sad and peaky sometimes; only when old Mr. Richards comes she just goes wild with joy, and sits on his knee just like old times, and sometimes, poor child, goes to sleep with her head on his shoulder. But here comes missus, only she mustn't see this letter. No more at present, but remains yours till death, with luv and sweet kisses.--MARY."

Love and sweet kisses, indeed! Jack laughed aloud. Then he read Mary's letter all over again. Then, will it be believed? he kissed it. After this, can you credit it? he placed it in his bosom. What did Jack mean, I wonder?

The next letter was a right hearty one, from kind old Mr. Richards.

There was a deal of business in it, and a deal that wasn't; but the sentence that pleased Jack best was this: "I'm looking after Gerty. I'm saving her for _you_. Old Keane _may_ sacrifice his daughter to Sir Digby, but there will be two moons in the sky that day, and another in the duck-pond. Keep up your heart, boy. I'm laying the prettiest little trap for Sir Digby ever you saw. Gee-ho! Cheerily does it."

Cheerily did do it. All the gloom that poor Flora's kind letter had left in Jack's heart was banished now, and he had begun to sing.

He was leaving his room, when he ran foul of Tom Fairlie.

Tom was singing too, and smiling.

Jack pulled him right into his cabin and shut the door.

"What are you all smiles about?" said Jack.

"Why are you all smiles?" said Tom.

"Had a letter from Flora?"

"Heard about Gerty?"

Then something very funny or very joyous seemed to tickle the pair of them at precisely the same moment, and they laughed aloud till all the gla.s.ses on the swing-table rang out a jingling chorus.

"I say, Tom," said Jack at last, "I feel I can fight the French now."

"Precisely how I feel. Ha! ha! ha!"

"Well, come and dine with me to-night--all alone." And Tom did.

CHAPTER XVII.

IN A FOOL'S PARADISE.

"The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows fu' weel; And mickle lighter is the boat When love bears up the creel."--_Old Song._

In the interests of truth, I have now to record that my hero, Captain Jack Mackenzie, formed one of the most ridiculous resolutions any young man could have been guilty of making. It is all very well building castles in the air--indeed, it is rather a pretty pastime than otherwise, and may at times be productive of good; but when it comes to building for one's self, willingly and with wide-open eyes, a whole paradise--fool's, of course--and quietly taking up one's abode therein, the absurdity of the speculation must be apparent to every one.

But this is just what our Jack now set about doing. For many a long month back he had worked and slaved, and fought battles, and sailed his ship, and did all he could, it must be confessed, to make everybody around him happy, while a load of sorrow, which felt as big as a bag of shrapnel or a kedge anchor, lay at his own heart. He now determined to get rid of this incubus, to leave it, or creep out from under it somehow. During all these months he had tried, and tried hard, to forget his lost love Gerty, but all in vain. Trying to forget her made matters infinitely worse, so now he meant to indulge himself in the sweet belief that she still was his, still loved him; that there was no such individual in the world as silly old Sir Digby; and that he, Jack, had only to go home, if it pleased Heaven to spare him, and claim the dear girl as his wife.

He certainly did not mean to force himself to think about her, only he would do nothing to impede the flow of happy thoughts whenever they showed a tendency to come stealing over his soul. These are his own words, spoken to himself in the privacy of his state-room. And between you and me and the binnacle, reader, not to let it go any further, I believe it was poor Mary's letter, with its "dear luv" and its "sweet kisses," that was at the bottom of Jack's resolve. For had she not written, as plain as quill can write, the magical sentence, "Yes, missus misses you; so do I"? It didn't matter a spoonful of tar about the "so do I," but there was the "missus misses you." Ah! it was around these simple, euphonious words that hope hung like a garland of forget-me-not.

Why did missus miss him? Mary wouldn't have said that missus missed him if missus didn't. So ran Jack's thoughts as he walked up and down the floor of his cabin. No, Mary wasn't a girl of that sort. Missus missed him, and there was an end of it. Missus missed him, _ergo_ missus must sometimes think about him, and upon this belief he meant to hinge his happiness. Missus must--

"Rat--tat--tat--tat."

"Come in. Ah, Tom, there you are! Glad you've come a little before dinner is served. Well, we're all ready for sea, I suppose?"

"Yes; as soon as you like to-morrow morning, sir."

"Well, dowse the 'sir,' Tom, else I'll send you away without a morsel of dinner. We're not on the quarter-deck now, you know. You're Tom, and I'm just Jack."

A few minutes afterwards, Tom, strolling carelessly towards Jack's writing-table, picked up a sheet of paper, and to his astonishment read as follows:--

"Missus missed thee, so do I, Drop the tear and sigh the sigh; Yet ne'er let sorrow cloud thy brow-- She loved thee once, she loves thee now."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Tom aloud.

Jack got as red as a tomato, and rushed to rescue the ma.n.u.script.

"Put it down at once, Tom! How dare you?"

But Tom only laughed the more. He read Jack's inspiration from end to end, in spite of all that Jack could do.

"Well," he said when he had finished, "I knew you could fight a bit, but this is a revelation. 'Missus missed thee'--ha! ha! ha!"

It was well for Jack and Tom both that the steward and servants entered at that moment with the dinner. Poetry soon gave place to soup, and sentiment fled on the appearance of the roast-beef.

But when dessert was placed upon the table, and the servants had gone, Jack, feeling bound to open his heart to somebody, told Tom about the fool's paradise to which he meant to flit from Castle Despair, in which he had dwelt so long.

Tom was a thoroughly practical kind of a young fellow, and now he shook his head consideringly.

"M--m--m, well," he said, "the notion isn't half a bad one, you know, perhaps. But, Jack, doesn't it savour somewhat of the reckless? Scotsmen are all reckless, I know, especially, I believe, the Grant Mackenzies; and your idea may be good, but--a--"

"Well, well, Tom, out with it, man. What _are_ you humming and hawing about?"

"Why, it's like this, you see--and, mind, I speak to you as a brother--it may be very pleasant, say, for a few friends met together to take an extra gla.s.s of wine, and spend a happy evening, but shouldn't they think of their heads in the morning?"

"I _have_ thought of my head in the morning, Tom; I _have_ thought of the awakening. I do know that some day I shall see an announcement in the _Times_ of the marriage of Sir Digby Auld and--heigh-ho! Gerty; that then I shall have to leave my pretty paradise, and that the flaming sword of honour will forbid my ever entering there again. But till then, Tom, till then. Bother it all, man, you wouldn't have a fellow make himself miserable all his life, simply because he knows he has got to go to Davy Jones' locker at the finish?"

"Oh no," said Tom, gravely.

"Well, then, brother mine, I mean to live in my fool's paradise as long as ever I can, and when the end comes I'll flit."