"I will not go without you. Let us both get in together."

"The rope will hardly bear two. Besides, I doubt if there is strength enough above to pull us up. Get in, get in."

Barton still hesitated. "I am afraid to leave you alone. Promise me if I go that you will not--. I can't say what I mean, but if anything happened to you I should be the cause of it."

"For shame, sir, shame. I guess what you mean, but I have not forgotten who made me, though I have been sorely tried. In with you at once." He suddenly lifted Barton up in his arms, and almost threw him into the basket, raising a loud shout, upon which the basket again ascended the cliff more rapidly than on the first occasion. Hawkstone fell upon his knees at the base of the cliff, while the waves roared at him like wild beasts held back from their victim. He was alone with them and with the G.o.d in whom his simple faith taught him to trust as being mightier than all the waves. Down came the basket with great rapidity, and Hawkstone had a hard fight before he could drag it out from the waves and get into it. Drenched from head to foot, and cold and trembling with excitement and grief, he again shouted, and the basket once more ascended. He remembered no more. A sudden faintness overcame him, and the first thing he remembered was feeling himself borne along on a kind of extemporary litter, and hearing kind voices saying that he was "coming to," and would soon be all right again.

Luckily there was no scandal. It was thought quite natural that Hawkstone should be with Nelly, and Barton was supposed to have been there by accident. Of course, we knew what the real state of the case was, and were glad that Barton had got a good fright; but we kept our own counsel.

CHAPTER VII.--CONCLUSION.

Very soon after the events recorded in the last chapter, the Reading Party broke up, and it only remains now for the writer of this veracious narrative to disclose any information he may have subsequently obtained as to the fate of his characters. Porkington still holds an honoured position in the University, and still continues to take young men in the summer vacation to such places as Mrs. Porkington considers sufficiently invigorating to her const.i.tution. They grow better friends every year, but the grey mare will always be the better horse. One cause of difference has disappeared. The Drag died very shortly after leaving Babbicombe; not at all, I believe, in consequence of her ducking in the harbour; but, being of a peevish and "worritting" disposition, she had worn herself out in her attempts to make other people's lives a burden to them. I do not know what has become of Harry Barton; but I know that he has never revisited Babbicombe, nor even written to the fair Nelly. I suppose he is helping to manage his father's cotton mill, and will in due course marry the daughter of a wealthy manufacturer. Glenville has become quite a rising barrister, popular in both branches of his profession, and has announced his fixed intention to remain happy and unmarried till his death. Looking into the future, however, with the eye of a prophet, the present writer thinks he can see Glenville walking arm in arm with a tall, graceful lady, attended by two little girls to whom he is laughingly talking--but the dream fades from me, and I wonder will it ever come true. Thornton, of course, married Miss Delamere (how could it be otherwise), but, alas! there are no children, and this unhappy want is hardly compensated by the indefatigable attentions of Mamma Delamere, who is never weary of condoling with that poor, desolate couple, imploring them to resign themselves to the fate which has been a.s.signed to them, and to strengthen their minds by the principles of true philosophy and the writings of great thinkers; by which she hopes they may acquire that harmony of the soul in private life which is so much to be desiderated in both politics and religion. n.o.body knows what she means.

Nelly was not forgiven for one whole year. When she and Hawkstone met, they used only the customary expressions of mere acquaintances; but lovers are known to make use of signals which are unperceived by the outside world; and, after a year's skirmishing, a peace was finally concluded, and a happier couple than John Hawkstone and Nelly cannot be found in the whole country, and I am afraid to say how many of their children are already tumbling about the boats in the harbour.

The colonel died, and Mrs. Bagshaw lamented his death most truly, and has nothing but gentleness left in her nature. Her daughter has married the young artist, whose pictures of brown-sailed boats and fresh seas breaking in white foam against the dark rocks have become quite the rage at the Academy. The minor characters have disappeared beneath the waves, and nothing remains to be said except the last word, "farewell."

A FARRAGO OF VERSES.

MY BOATING SONG.

I.

Oh this earth is a mineful of treasure, A goblet, that's full to the brim, And each man may take for his pleasure The thing that's most pleasant to him; Then let all, who are birds of my feather, Throw heart and soul into my song; Mark the time, pick it up all together, And merrily row it along.

Hurrah, boys, or losing or winning, Feel your stretchers and make the blades bend; Hard on to it, catch the beginning, And pull it clean through to the end.

II.

I'll admit 'tis delicious to plunge in Clear pools, with their shadows at rest; 'Tis nimble to parry, or lunge in Your foil at the enemy's chest; 'Tis rapture to take a man's wicket, Or lash round to leg for a four; But somehow the glories of cricket Depend on the state of the score.

But in boating, or losing or winning, Though victory may not attend; Oh, 'tis jolly to catch the beginning, And pull it clean through to the end.

III.

'Tis brave over hill and dale sweeping, To be in at the death of the fox; Or to whip, where the salmon are leaping, The river that roars o'er the rocks; 'Tis prime to bring down the c.o.c.k pheasant; And yachting is certainly great; But, beyond all expression, 'tis pleasant To row in a rattling good eight.

Then, hurrah, boys, or losing or winning, What matter what labour we spend?

Hard on to it, catch the beginning, And pull it clean through to the end.

IV.

Shove her off! Half a stroke! Now, get ready!

Five seconds! Four, three, two, one, gun!

Well started! Well rowed! Keep her steady!

You'll want all your wind e'er you've done.

Now you're straight! Let the pace become swifter!

Roll the wash to the left and the right!

Pick it up all together, and lift her, As though she would bound out of sight!

Hurrah, Hall! Hall, now you're winning, Feel your stretchers and make the blades bend; Hard on to it, catch the beginning, And pull it clean through to the end.

V.

b.u.mp! b.u.mp! O ye G.o.ds, how I pity The ears those sweet sounds never heard; More tuneful than loveliest ditty E'er poured from the throat of a bird.

There's a prize for each honest endeavour, But none for the man who's a shirk; And the pluck that we've showed on the river, Shall tell in the rest of our work.

At the last, whether losing or winning, This thought with all memories blend,-- We forgot not to catch the beginning, And we pulled it clean through to the end.

LETTER FROM THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE.

I.

Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

I ask no more Than one plain field, shut in by hedgerows four, Contentment sweet to yield.

For I am not fastidious, And, with a proud demeanour, I Will not affect invidious Distinctions about scenery.

I sigh not for the fir trees where they rise Against Italian skies, Swiss lakes, or Scottish heather, Set off with glorious weather; Such sights as these The most exacting please; But I, lone wanderer in London streets, Where every face one meets Is full of care, And seems to wear A troubled air, Of being late for some affair Of life or death:--thus I, ev'n I, Long for a field of gra.s.s, flat, square, and green Thick hedges set between, Without or house or bield, A sense of quietude to yield; And heave my longing sigh, Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

II.

For here the loud streets roar themselves to rest With hoa.r.s.eness every night; And greet returning light With noise and roar, renewed with greater zest.

Where'er I go, Full well I know The eternal grinding wheels will never cease.

There is no place of peace!

Rumbling, roaring, and rushing, Hurrying, crowding, and crushing, Noise and confusion, and worry, and fret, From early morning to late sunset-- Ah me! but when shall I respite get-- What cave can hide me, or what covert shield?

So still I sigh, And raise my cry, Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

III.

Oh for a field, where all concealed, From this life's fret and noise, I sip delights from rural sights, And simple rustic joys.

Where, stretching forth my limbs at rest, I lie and think what likes me best; Or stroll about where'er I list, Nor fear to be run over By sheep, contented to exist Only on gra.s.s and clover.

In town, as through the throng I steer, Confiding in the Muses, My finest thoughts are drowned in fear Of cabs and omnibuses.

I dream I'm on Parna.s.sus hill, With laurels whispering o'er me, When suddenly I feel a chill-- What was it pa.s.sed before me?

A lady bowed her gracious head From yonder natty brougham-- The windows were as dull as lead, I didn't know her through them.

She'll say I saw her, cut her dead,-- I've lost my opportunity; I take my hat off when she's fled, And bow to the community!

Or sometimes comes a hansom cab, Just as I near the crossing; The "cabby" gives his reins a grab, The steed is wildly tossing.

Me, haply fleeing from his horse, He greets with language somewhat coa.r.s.e, To which there's no replying; A brewer's dray comes down that way, And simply sends me flying!

I try the quiet streets, but there I find an all-pervading air Of death in life, which my despair In no degree diminishes.