When his pockets were lined, why his life should be mended,
  The laws he had broken he’d never break more. 
  SEA SONG.

On his return to London, McElvina immediately repaired to the residence of his patron, that he might enter into the necessary explanations relative to the capture of the vessel, and the circumstances which had produced his release from the penalties and imprisonment to which he had been subjected by his lawless career.  Previous, however, to narrating the events which occurred upon his arrival, it will be advisable to offer some remarks relative to McElvina, which, when they have been suggested to the reader, will serve to remove much of the apparent inconsistency of his character.  That a person who, from his earliest childhood, had been brought up to fraud and deceit, should, of his own accord, and so suddenly, return to honesty, may at first appear problematical.  But let it be remembered, that McElvina was not in the situation of those who, having their choice of good and evil, had preferred the latter.  From infancy he had been brought up to, and had heard every encomium upon dishonesty, without having one friend to point out to him the advantages of pursuing another course.  The same Spirit of emulation which would have made him strenuous in the right path, urged him forward in his career of error.  If, after his discharge from the Philanthropic School, he had had time to observe the advantages, in practice, of those maxims which had only been inculcated in theory, it is not improbable that he might have reformed:  this, however, was prevented by the injudicious conduct of his master.

But although the principles which had been instilled were not sufficiently powerful, unassisted by reflection, to resist the force of habit, the germ, smothered as it was for the time, was not destroyed; and after McElvina’s seven years’ servitude in a profession remarkable for candour and sincerity, and in which he had neither temptation nor opportunity to return to his evil courses, habit had been counteracted by habit.  The tares and wheat were of equal growth.  This is substantiated by the single fact of his inclination to be honest when he found the pocket-book.  A confirmed rogue would never have thought of returning it, even if it had not been worth five shillings.  It is true, if it had contained hundreds, that, in his distressed circumstances, the temptation might have been too strong; but this remark by no means disproves the assertion, that he had the inclination to be honest.  “There is a tide in the affairs of men,” and it was on this decision between retaining or returning the pocket-book that depended the future misery or welfare of McElvina.  Fortunately, the sum was not sufficient to turn the nicely balanced scale, and the generosity of old Hornblow confirmed the victory on the side of virtue.  I do not mean to assert that, for some time subsequent to this transaction, McElvina was influenced by a religious, or even a moral feeling.  It was rather by interested motives that he was convinced; but convinced he was; and whether he was proud of his return to comparative virtue, or found it necessary to refresh his memory, his constant injunctions to others to be honest (upon the same principle that a man who tells a story repeatedly eventually believes it to be true) assisted to keep him steadfast in his good resolutions.

Upon the other points of his character it will be unnecessary to dilate.  For his gentlemanly appearance and address he was indebted to nature, who does not always choose to acknowledge the claims which aristocracy thinks proper to assert, and occasionally mocks the idea, by bestowing graces on a cottager which might be envied by the inhabitants of a palace.  Of McElvina it may with justice be asserted, that his faults were those of education ­his courage, generosity, and many good qualities were his own.

McElvina, who knew exactly at what hour of the day his patron would be abroad, took the precaution of not going to the house until the time at which he would be certain to find Susan, as usual, in the little parlour, alone, and occupied with her needle or her book.  The street-door had just been opened by the maid to receive some articles of domestic use, which a tradesman had sent home; and McElvina, putting his finger to his lips to ensure the silence of the girl, who would have run to communicate the welcome intelligence of his arrival, stepped past her into the passage, and found the door of the little parlour.  Gently admitting himself, he discovered Susan, whom he had not disturbed, sitting opposite to the window, with her back towards him.  He crept in softly behind her chair.  She was in deep thought; one hand rested on her cheek, and the other held the pen with which she had been arranging the accounts of the former week, to submit them, as usual, to her father on the Monday evening.  Of whom and what she was thinking was, however, soon manifested to McElvina; for she commenced scribbling and drawing with her pen on the blotting-paper before her, until she at last wrote several times, as if she were practising to see how it would look as a signature: 

  “Susan McElvina.”

  “Susan McElvina.”

  “Susan McElvina.”

Although delighted at this proof that he was occupying her thoughts, McElvina had the delicacy to retire unperceived, and Susan, as if recollecting herself, slightly coloured, as she twisted up the paper and threw it under the grate; in doing which, she perceived McElvina, who still remained at the door.  A cry of surprise, a deep blush of pleasure over her pale face, and a hand frankly extended, which McElvina could with difficulty resist the impulse to raise to his lips, were followed up by the hasty interrogation of ­“Why, your arm is in a sling?  You did not say that you were hurt when you wrote from Plymouth?”

“It was not worth mentioning, Susan ­it’s almost well; but tell me, how did your father bear the loss of the vessel?”

“Oh! pretty well!  But, Captain McElvina, you could not have done me a greater favour, or my father a greater kindness.  He has now wound up his affairs, and intends to retire from all speculation.  He has purchased a house in the country, and I hope, when we go there, that I shall be more happy, and have better health than I have had of late.”

“And what is to become of me?” observed McElvina, gravely.

“Oh, I don’t know; you are the best judge of that.”

“Well, then, I will confess to you, Susan, that I am just as well pleased that all this has taken place as you are; for I am not sorry to give up a profession respecting which, between ourselves, I have lately had many scruples of conscience.  I have not saved much, it is true; but I have enough to live upon, as long as I have no one to take care of except myself.”

“You raise yourself in my opinion by saying so,” replied Susan; “although it is painful to me to condemn a practice which impeaches my father.  Your courage and talents may be better applied.  Thank God, that it is all over.”

“But, Susan, you said that you hoped to have better health.  Have you not been well?”

“Not very ill,” replied Susan; “but I have had a good deal of anxiety.  The loss of the vessel, ­your capture, ­has affected my father, and, of course, has worried me.”

The discourse was now interrupted by old Hornblow, who had returned home to his dinner.  He received McElvina in the most friendly manner, and they sat down to table.

After dinner, McElvina entered into a minute detail of all that had occurred, and, as far as he was concerned, with a modesty which enhanced his meritorious conduct.

Susan listened to the narrative with intense interest; and as soon as it was over, retired to her room, leaving old Hornblow and McElvina over their bottle.

“Well, McElvina, what do you mean to do with yourself?” said the old man.  “You know that Susan has at last persuaded me into retiring from business.  I have just concluded the purchase of a little property near the seaside, about seven miles from the village of –­ in Norfolk ­it adjoins the great Rainscourt estate.  You know that part of the coast.”

“Very well, sir; there is a famous landing-place there, on the Rainscourt estate.  It was formerly the property of Admiral De Courcy.”

“Ah! we don’t mean to smuggle any more, so that’s no use.  I should not have known that it was near the Rainscourt property, only they inserted it in the particulars of sale, as an advantage; though I confess I do not see any particular advantage in a poor man living too near a rich one.  But answer my question ­what are you going to do with yourself?  If I can assist you, McElvina, I will.”

“I do not intend to go to sea any more.”

“No! what then?  I suppose you would like to marry, and settle on shore?  Well, if I can assist you, McElvina, I will.”

“You could, indeed, assist me there, sir.”

“Oh!  Susan, I suppose.  Nay, don’t colour up; I’ve seen it long enough, and if I had not meant that it should be so, I should have put an end to it before.  You are an honest man, McElvina, and I know nobody to whom I would give my girl sooner than to you.”

“You have, indeed, removed a weight from my mind, sir, and I hardly know how to express my thanks to you for your good wishes; but I have yet to obtain your daughter’s consent.”

“I know you have; you cannot expect that she will anticipate your wishes as I have done.  But as I wish this business to be decided at once, I shall send her down to you, and I’ll take a walk in the mean time.  All I can say is, that if she says she has no mind to you, don’t you believe her, for I know better.”

“Susan!” said old Hornblow, going to the door.

“Yes, father.”

“Come down, my dear, and stay with Captain McElvina.  I am obliged to go out.”

Old Hornblow reached down his hat, put on his spencer, and departed; while Susan, whose heart told her that so unusual a movement on her father’s part was not without some good reason, descended to the parlour with a quickened pulse.

“Susan!” said McElvina, who had risen from his chair to receive her, as soon as he heard her footsteps, “I have much to say to you, and I must be as brief as I can, for my mind is in too agitated a state to bear with much temporising.  Do me the favour to take a chair, and listen while I make you acquainted with what you do not know.”

Susan trembled; and the colour flew from her cheeks, as she sat down on the chair which McElvina handed to her.

“Your father, Susan, took me by the hand at the time that I was in great distress, in consequence of my having pleased him by an act of common honesty.  You know how kind and considerate a patron he has been to me since, and I have now been in his employ some years.  This evening he has overpowered me with a weight of gratitude, by allowing me to aspire to that which I most covet on earth, and has consented to my robbing him, if I can, of his greatest treasure.  You cannot mistake what I mean.  But, previous to my requesting an answer on a point in which my future happiness is involved, I have an act of justice to perform towards you, and of conscience towards myself, which must be fulfilled.  It is to be candid, and not allow you to be entrapped into an alliance with a person of whose life you, at present, know but the fair side.

“First, let me state to you, Susan, that my parentage is as obscure as it well can be; and secondly, that the early part of my life was as vicious.  I may, indeed, extenuate it when I enter into an explanation, and with great justice:  but I have now only stated the facts generally.  If you wish me to enter into particulars, much as I shall blush at the exposure, and painful as the task assigned will be, I shall not refuse, even at the risk of losing all I covet by the confession; for, much as my happiness is at stake, I have too sincere a regard for you to allow you to contract any engagement with me without making this candid avowal.  Now, Susan, answer me frankly ­whether, in the first place, you wish me to discover the particulars of my early life; in the next place (if you decline hearing them), whether, after this general avowal, you will listen to any solicitations, on my part, to induce you to unite your future destiny with mine?”

“Captain McElvina, I thank you for your candour,” replied Susan, “and will imitate you in my answer.  Your obscure parentage cannot be a matter of consideration to one who has no descent to boast of.  That you have not always been leading a creditable life, I am sorry for; more sorry because I am sure it must be a source of repentance and mortification to you; but I have not an idle curiosity to wish you to impart that which would not tend to my happiness to divulge.  I did once hear an old gentlewoman, who had been conversant with the world, declare that if every man was obliged to confess the secrets of his life before marriage, few young women would be persuaded to go up to the altar.  I hope it is not true; but whether it is or not, it does not exactly bear upon the subject in agitation.  I again thank you for your candour, and disclaim all wish to know any further.  I believe I have now answered your question.”

“Not yet, Susan, ­you have not yet answered the latter part of it.”

“What was it? ­I don’t recollect.”

“It was,” said McElvina, picking up the piece of twisted paper which Susan had thrown under the grate, “whether you would listen to my entreaties to sign your name in future as on this paper?”

“Oh, McElvina,” cried Susan, ­“how unfair ­how ungenerous!  Now I detest you!”

“I’ll not believe that.  I have your own handwriting to the contrary, and I’ll appeal to your father.”

“Nay, rather than that ­you have set me an example of candour, and shall profit by it.  Promise me, McElvina, always to treat me as you have this day, ­and here is my hand.”

“Who would not be honest, to be so rewarded?” replied McElvina, as he embraced the blushing girl.

“Ah, ­all’s right, I perceive,” cried old Hornblow, who had opened the door unperceived.  “Come, my children, take my blessing ­long may you live happy and united.”