"If he does anything against the laws," said Jim in a low voice. "It isn't that I'm afraid of my good name--I'd even let that go, for _your_ sake, if by so doing I could get him out of mischief; and as long as I know nothing against him _for certain_, I'll stand by him. But if he does fall, and I come to know it, I _must_ leave him, Nora, because I won't be art and part in it. I could no longer go on my knees to pray for him if I did that, Nora. Moreover, if anything o' that sort should happen, I must leave the country, because he'd be sure to be caught and tried, and I will never stand witness against _your_ father if I can avoid it by fair means."

Poor Nora hung her head as she asked in a low voice if Jim really thought her father was engaged in illegal practices.

"I can't say that I do," replied the youth earnestly. "Come, cheer up, dearest Nora. After all, it is chiefly through reports that my suspicions have been aroused, and we all know how easy it is for an enemy to raise an evil report. But, Nora, I wish you had not bound me to secrecy as to my reason for sticking by your father. Why should I not say boldly that it's all for love of you?"

"Why should you wish to give any reason at all, Jim, and above all, _that_ reason?" asked Nora, looking up with a blush.

"Because," said the youth, with a perplexed look, "my secrecy about the matter has puzzled my father to such an extent that his confidence in me is entirely shaken. I have been all my life accustomed to open all my heart to him, and now, without rhyme or reason, as he thinks, I have suddenly gone right round on the other tack, and at the same time, as he says, I have taken up with doubtful company. Now, if--"

The sound of approaching footsteps here brought the interview to an abrupt close. Nora ran back to her poor home, and Jim Welton, directing his steps towards the harbour, returned on board the little sloop which had been named after the girl of his heart.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

TREATS OF QUEEKER AND OTHERS--ALSO OF YOUTHFUL JEALOUSY, LOVE, POETRY, AND CONFUSION OF IDEAS.

Returning, now, to the moon-struck and Katie-smitten Queeker, we find that poetic individual walking disconsolately in front of Mr George Durant's mansion.

In a previous chapter it has been said that, after composing his celebrated lines to the lantern of the floating light, he resolved to drop in upon the Durants about tea-time--and well did Queeker know their tea-time, although, every time he went there uninvited, the miserable hypocrite expressed surprise at finding them engaged with that meal, and said he had supposed they must have finished tea by that time!

But, on arriving at the corner of the street, his fluttering heart failed him. The thought of the cousin was a stumbling-block which he could not surmount. He had never met her before; he feared that she might be witty, or sarcastic, or sharp in some way or other, and would certainly make game of him in the presence of Katie. He had observed this cousin narrowly at the singing-cla.s.s, and had been much impressed with her appearance; but whether this impression was favourable or unfavourable was to him, in the then confused state of his feelings, a matter of great uncertainty. Now that he was about to face her, he felt convinced that she must be a cynic, who would poison the mind of Katie against him, and no power within his unfortunate body was capable of inducing him to advance and raise the knocker.

Thus he hung in torments of suspense until nine o'clock, when--in a fit of desperation, he rushed madly at the door and committed himself by hitting it with his fist.

His equanimity was not restored by its being opened by Mr Durant himself.

"Queeker!" exclaimed the old gentleman in surprise; "come in, my dear sir; did you stumble against the door? I hope you haven't hurt yourself?"

"Not at all--a--no, not at all; the fact is, I ran up the steps rather hastily, and--how do you do, Miss Durant? I hope you are _quite_ well?"

Poor Queeker said this and shook hands with as much earnestness as if he had not seen Katie for five years.

"Quite well, thank you. My cousin, f.a.n.n.y Hennings--Mr Queeker."

f.a.n.n.y bowed and Mr Queeker bowed, and, with a flushed countenance, asked her about the state of her health with unnatural anxiety.

"Thank you, Mr Squeeker, I am very well," replied f.a.n.n.y.

The unhappy youth would have corrected her in regard to his name, but hesitated and missed the opportunity, and when, shortly afterwards, while engaged in conversation with Mr Durant, he observed f.a.n.n.y giggling violently in a corner by herself, he felt a.s.sured that Katie had kindly made the correction for him.

The announcement of supper relieved him slightly, and he was beginning to calm down over a piece of bread and cheese when the door-bell rang.

Immediately after a heavy foot was heard in the pa.s.sage, the parlour door was flung open, the maid announced Mr Hall, and a tall elegant young man entered the room. His figure was slender, but his chest was deep and his shoulders were broad and square. An incipient moustache of fair hair floated like a summer cloud on his upper lip, which expanded with a hearty smile as he advanced towards Mr Durant and held out his hand.

"You have forgotten me, I fear," he said.

"Forgotten you!" exclaimed the old gentleman, starting up and seizing the young man's hand, which he shook violently--"forgotten Stanley Hall--little Stanney, as I used to call you? Man, how you _are_ grown, to be sure. What a wonderful change!"

"For the worse, I fear!" exclaimed the youth, laughing.

"Come, no fishing for compliments, sir. Let me introduce you to my daughter Katie, my niece f.a.n.n.y Hennings, and my young friend Queeker.

Now, then, sit down, and make yourself at home; you're just in time; we've only just begun; ring the bell for another plate, Katie. How glad I am to see you, Stanney, my boy--I can't call you by any other than the old name, you see. How did you leave your father, and what brings you here? Come, out with it all at once. I declare you have quite excited me."

Well was it for poor Queeker that every one was too much occupied with the newcomer to pay any attention to him, for he could not prevent his visage from betraying something of the feelings which harrowed up his soul. The moment he set eyes on Stanley Hall, mortal jealousy--keen, rampant, virulent jealousy of the worst type--penetrated every fibre of his being, and turned his heart to stone! We cannot afford s.p.a.ce to detail the various shades of agony, the degrees of despair, through which this unfortunate young man pa.s.sed during that evening. A thick volume would not suffice to contain it all. Language is powerless to express it. Only those who have similarly suffered can conceive it.

Of course, we need scarcely add that there was no occasion for jealousy.

Nothing was further from the mind of Stanley than the idea of falling in love with Katie. Nevertheless, politeness required that he should address himself to her occasionally. At such times, Queeker's soul was stabbed in an unutterable manner. He managed to command himself, notwithstanding. To his credit, be it said, that he refrained from using the carving-knife. He even joined with some show of interest (of course hypocritical) in the conversation.

Stanley Hall was not only good-looking, but good-humoured, and full of quiet fun and anecdote, so that he quickly ingratiated himself with all the members of the family.

"D'you know it makes me feel young again to hear these old stories about your father's college-life," said Mr Durant. "Have some more cheese, Stanney--you look like a man who ought to have a good appet.i.te--fill your gla.s.s and pa.s.s the bottle--thanks. Now, how comes it that you have turned up in this out-of-the-way part of the world? By-the-bye, I hope you intend to stay some time, and that you will take up your quarters with me? You can't imagine how much pleasure it would give me to have the son of my old companion as a guest for some time. I'm sure that Katie joins me heartily in this hope."

Queeker's spirit sank with horror, and when Katie smilingly seconded her father's proposal, his heart stood still with dismay. f.a.n.n.y Hennings, who had begun to suspect that there was something wrong with Queeker, put her handkerchief to her mouth, and coughed with what appeared to be unreasonable energy.

"I regret," said Stanley (and Queeker's breath came more freely), "that my stay must necessarily be short. I need not say that it would afford me the highest pleasure to accept your kind invitation" (he turned with a slight bow to Katie, and Queeker almost fainted), "but the truth is, that I have come down on a particular piece of business, in regard to which I wish to have your advice, and must return to London to-morrow or next day at furthest."

Queeker's heart resumed its office.

"I am sorry to hear that--very sorry. However, you shall stay to-night at all events; and you shall have the best advice I can give you on any subject you choose to mention. By the way talking of advice, you're an M.D. now, I fancy?"

"Not yet," replied Stanley. "I am not quite fledged, although nearly so, and I wish to go on a voyage before completing my course."

"Quite right, quite right--see a little of life first, eh? But how comes it, Stanney, that you took kindly to the work at last, for, when I knew you first you could not bear the idea of becoming a doctor?"

"One's ideas change, I suppose," replied the youth, with a smile,--"probably my making the discovery that I had some talent in that direction had something to do with it."

"H'm; how did you make that discovery, my boy?" asked the old gentleman.

"That question can't easily be answered except by my inflicting on you a chapter of my early life," replied Stanley, laughing.

"Then inflict it on us without delay, my boy. I shall delight to listen, and so, I am sure, will Katie and f.a.n.n.y. As to my young friend Queeker, he is of a somewhat literary turn, and may perhaps throw the incidents into verse, if they are of a sufficiently romantic character!"

Katie and f.a.n.n.y declared they would be charmed to hear about it, and Queeker said, in a savagely jesting tone, that he was so used to things being inflicted on him, that he didn't mind--rather liked it than otherwise!

"But you must not imagine," said Stanley, "that I have a thrilling narrative to give you, I can merely relate the two incidents which fixed my destiny in regard to a profession. You remember, I daresay, that my heart was once set upon going to sea. Well, like most boys, I refused to listen to advice on that point, and told my father that I should never make a surgeon--that I had no taste or talent for the medical profession. The more my father tried to reason me out of my desire, the more obstinate I became. The only excuse that I can plead is that I was very young, very ignorant, and very stupid. One day, however, I was left in the surgery with a number of dirty phials to wash--my father having gone to visit a patient at a short distance, when our servant came running in, saying that there was a cab at the door with a poor boy who had got his cheek badly cut. As I knew that my father would be at home in less than quarter of an hour, I ordered him to be brought in.

The poor child--a little delicate boy--was very pale, and bleeding profusely from a deep gash in the cheek, made accidentally by a knife with which he had been playing. The mouth was cut open almost to the ear. We laid him on a sofa, and I did what I could to stop the flow of blood. I was not sixteen at the time, and, being very small for my age, had never before felt myself in a position to offer advice, and indeed I had not much to offer. But one of the bystanders said to me while we were looking at the child,--

"`What do you think should be done, sir?'

"The mere fact of being asked my opinion gratified my vanity, and the respectful `sir' with which the question concluded caused my heart to beat high with unwonted emotion. It was the first time I had ever been addressed gravely as a man; it was a new sensation, and I think may be regarded as an era in my existence.

"With much gravity I replied that of course the wound ought to be sewed up.

"`Then sooner it's done the better, I think,' said the bystander, `for the poor child will bleed to death if it is allowed to go on like that.'

"A sudden resolution entered into my mind. I stroked my chin and frowned, as if in deep thought, then, turning to the man who had spoken, said,--`It ought certainly to be done with as little delay as possible; I expect my father to return every minute; but as it is an urgent case, I will myself undertake it, if the parents of the child have no objection.'

"`Seems to me, lad,' remarked a country fellow, who had helped to carry the child in, `that it beant a time to talk o' parients objectin' w'en the cheeld's blood'n to deth. Ye'd better fa' to work at once--if 'ee knows how.'