OTHER THINGS BESIDES MURDER “WILL OUT.”

Meanwhile Davy Spink, with his heart full, returned slowly to the shore.

He was long of reaching it, the boat being very heavy for one man to pull.  On landing he hurried up to his poor little cottage, which was in a very low part of the town, and in a rather out-of-the-way corner of that part.

“Janet,” said he, flinging himself into a rickety old armchair that stood by the fireplace, “the press-gang has catched us at last, and they’ve took Big Swankie away, and, worse than that ­”

“Oh!” cried Janet, unable to wait for more, “that’s the best news I’ve heard for mony a day.  Ye’re sure they have him safe?”

“Ay, sure enough,” said Spink dryly; “but ye needna be sae glad aboot it, for.  Swankie was aye good to you.”

“Ay, Davy,” cried Janet, putting her arm round her husband’s neck, and kissing him, “but he wasna good to you.  He led ye into evil ways mony a time when ye would rather hae keepit oot o’ them.  Na, na, Davy, ye needna shake yer heed; I ken’d fine.”

“Weel, weel, hae’d yer ain way, lass, but Swankie’s awa’ to the wars, and so’s Ruby Brand, for they’ve gotten him as weel.”

“Ruby Brand!” exclaimed the woman.

“Ay, Ruby Brand; and this is the way they did it.”

Here Spink detailed to his helpmate, who sat with folded hands and staring eyes opposite to her husband, all that had happened.  When he had concluded, they discussed the subject together.  Presently the little girl came bouncing into the room, with rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, a dirty face, and fair ringlets very much dishevelled, and with a pitcher of hot soup in her hands.

Davy caught her up, and kissing her, said abruptly, “Maggie, Big
Swankie’s awa’ to the wars.”

The child looked enquiringly in her father’s face, and he had to repeat his words twice before she quite realised the import of them.

“Are ye jokin’, daddy?”

“No, Maggie; it’s true.  The press-gang got him and took him awa’, an’ I doot we’ll never see him again.”

The little girl’s expression changed while he spoke, then her lip trembled, and she burst into tears.

“See there, Janet,” said Spink, pointing to Maggie, and looking earnestly at his wife.

“Weel-a-weel,” replied Janet, somewhat softened, yet with much firmness, “I’ll no deny that the man was fond o’ the bairn, and it liked him weel enough; but, my certes! he wad hae made a bad man o’ you if he could.  But I’m real sorry for Ruby Brand; and what’ll the puir lassie Gray do?  Ye’ll hae to gang up an’ gie them the message.”

“So I will; but that’s like somethin’ to eat, I think?”

Spink pointed to the soup.

“Ay, it’s a’ we’ve got, so let’s fa’ to; and haste ye, lad.  It’s a sair heart she’ll hae this night ­wae’s me!”

While Spink and his wife were thus employed, Widow Brand, Minnie Gray, and Captain Ogilvy were seated at tea, round the little table in the snug kitchen of the widow’s cottage.

It might have been observed that there were two teapots on the table, a large one and a small, and that the captain helped himself out of the small one, and did not take either milk or sugar.  But the captain’s teapot did not necessarily imply tea.  In fact, since the death of the captain’s mother, that small teapot had been accustomed to strong drink only.  It never tasted tea.

“I wonder if Ruby will get leave of absence,” said the captain, throwing himself back in his armchair, in order to be able to admire, with greater ease, the smoke, as it curled towards the ceiling from his mouth and pipe.

“I do hope so,” said Mrs Brand, looking up from her knitting, with a little sigh.  Mrs Brand usually followed up all her remarks with a little sigh.  Sometimes the sigh was very little.  It depended a good deal on the nature of her remark whether the sigh was of the little, less, or least description; but it never failed, in one or other degree, to close her every observation.

“I think he will,” said Minnie, as she poured a second cup of tea for the widow.

“Ay, that’s right, lass,” observed the captain; “there’s nothin’ like hope ­

  “`The pleasures of hope told a flatterin’ tale
  Regardin’ the fleet when Lord Nelson set sail.’

“Fill me out another cup of tea, Hebe.”

It was a pleasant little fiction with the captain to call his beverage “tea”.  Minnie filled out a small cupful of the contents of the little teapot, which did, indeed, resemble tea, but which smelt marvellously like hot rum and water.

“Enough, enough.  Come on, Macduff!  Ah!  Minnie, this is prime Jamaica; it’s got such a ­but I forgot; you don’t understand nothin’ about nectar of this sort.”

The captain smoked in silence for a few minutes, and then said, with a sudden chuckle ­

“Wasn’t it odd, sister, that we should have found it all out in such an easy sort o’ way?  If criminals would always tell on themselves as plainly as Big Swankie did, there would be no use for lawyers.”

“Swankie would not have spoken so freely,” said Minnie, with a laugh, “if he had known that we were listening.”

“That’s true, girl,” said the captain, with sudden gravity; “and I don’t feel quite easy in my mind about that same eavesdropping.  It’s a dirty thing to do ­especially for an old sailor, who likes everything to be fair and above-board; but then, you see, the natur’ o’ the words we couldn’t help hearin’ justified us in waitin’ to hear more.  Yes, it was quite right, as it turned out.  A little more tea, Minnie.  Thank’ee, lass.  Now go, get the case, and let us look over it again.”

The girl rose, and, going to a drawer, quickly returned with a small red leather case in her hand.  It was the identical jewel-case that Swankie had found on the dead body at the Bell Rock!

“Ah! that’s it; now, let us see; let us see.”  He laid aside his pipe, and for some time felt all his pockets, and looked round the room, as if in search of something.

“What are you looking for, uncle?”

“The specs, lass; these specs’ll be the death o’ me.”

Minnie laughed.  “They’re on your brow, uncle!”

“So they are!  Well, well ­”

The captain smiled deprecatingly, and, drawing his chair close to the table, began to examine the box.

Its contents were a strange mixture, and it was evident that the case had not been made to hold them.

There was a lady’s gold watch, of very small size, and beautifully formed; a set of ornaments, consisting of necklace, bracelets, ring, and ear-rings of turquoise and pearls set in gold, of the most delicate and exquisite chasing; also, an antique diamond cross of great beauty, besides a number of rings and bracelets of considerable value.

As the captain took these out one by one, and commented on them, he made use of Minnie’s pretty hand and arm to try the effect of each, and truly the ornaments could not have found a more appropriate resting-place among the fairest ladies of the land.

Minnie submitted to be made use of in this way with a pleased and amused expression; for, while she greatly admired the costly gems, she could not help smiling at the awkwardness of the captain in putting them on.

“Read the paper again,” said Minnie, after the contents of the box had been examined.

The captain took up a small parcel covered with oiled cloth, which contained a letter.  Opening it, he began to read, but was interrupted by Mrs Brand, who had paid little attention to the jewels.

“Read it out loud, brother,” said she, “I don’t hear you well.  Read it out; I love to hear of my darling’s gallant deeds.”

The captain cleared his throat, raised his voice, and read slowly: ­

  “`Lisbon, 10th March, 1808.

“`Dear Captain Brand, ­I am about to quit this place for the East in a few days, and shall probably never see you again.  Pray accept the accompanying case of jewels as a small token of the love and esteem in which you are held by a heart-broken father.  I feel assured that if it had been in the power of man to have saved my drowning child your gallant efforts would have been successful.  It was ordained otherwise; and I now pray that I may be enabled to say “God’s will be done.”  But I cannot bear the sight of these ornaments.  I have no relatives ­none at least who deserve them half so well as yourself.  Do not pain me by refusing them.  They may be of use to you if you are ever in want of money, being worth, I believe, between three and four hundred pounds.  Of course, you cannot misunderstand my motive in mentioning this.  No amount of money could in any measure represent the gratitude I owe to the man who risked his life to save my child.  May God bless you, sir.’”

The letter ended thus, without signature; and the captain ceased to read aloud.  But there was an addition to the letter written in pencil, in the hand of the late Captain Brand, which neither he nor Minnie had yet found courage to read to the poor widow.  It ran thus: ­

“Our doom is sealed.  My schooner is on the Bell Rock.  It is blowing a gale from the North East, and she is going to pieces fast.  We are all standing under the lee of a ledge of rock ­six of us.  In half an hour the tide will be roaring over the spot.  God in Christ help us!  It is an awful end.  If this letter and box is ever found, I ask the finder to send it, with my blessing, to Mrs Brand, my beloved wife, in Arbroath.”

The writing was tremulous, and the paper bore the marks of having been soiled with seaweed.  It was unsigned.  The writer had evidently been obliged to close it hastily.

After reading this in silence the captain refolded the letter.

“No wonder, Minnie, that Swankie did not dare to offer such things for sale.  He would certainly have been found out.  Wasn’t it lucky that we heard him tell Spink the spot under his floor where he had hidden them?”

At that moment there came a low knock to the door.  Minnie opened it, and admitted Davy Spink, who stood in the middle of the room twitching his cap nervously, and glancing uneasily from one to another of the party.

“Hallo, Spink!” cried the captain, pushing his spectacles up on his forehead, and gazing at the fisherman in surprise, “you don’t seem to be quite easy in your mind.  Hope your fortunes have not sprung a leak!”

“Weel, Captain Ogilvy, they just have; gone to the bottom, I might a’most say.  I’ve come to tell ye ­that ­the fact is, that the press-gang have catched us at last, and ta’en awa’ my mate, Jock Swankie, better kenn’d as Big Swankie.”

“Hem ­well, my lad, in so far as that does damage to you, I’m sorry for it; but as regards society at large, I rather think that Swankie havin’ tripped his anchor is a decided advantage.  If you lose by this in one way, you gain much in another; for your mate’s companionship did ye no good.  Birds of a feather should flock together.  You’re better apart, for I believe you to be an honest man, Spink.”

Davy looked at the captain in unfeigned astonishment.

“Weel, ye’re the first man that iver said that, an’ I thank ’ee, sir, but you’re wrang, though I wush ye was right.  But that’s no’ what I cam’ to tell ye.”

Here the fisherman’s indecision of manner returned.

“Come, make a clean breast of it, lad.  There are none here but friends.”

“Weel, sir, Ruby Brand ­”

He paused, and Minnie turned deadly pale, for she jumped at once to the right conclusion.  The widow, on the other hand, listened for more with deep anxiety, but did not guess the truth.

“The fact is, Ruby’s catched too, an’ he’s awa’ to the wars, and he sent me to ­ech, sirs! the auld wuman’s fentit.”

Poor Widow Brand had indeed fallen back in her chair in a state bordering on insensibility.  Minnie was able to restrain her feelings so as to attend to her.  She and the captain raised her gently, and led her into her own room, from whence the captain returned, and shut the door behind him.

“Now, Spink,” said he, “tell me all about it, an’ be partic’lar.”

Davy at once complied, and related all that the reader already knows, in a deep, serious tone of voice, for he felt that in the captain he had a sympathetic listener.

When he had concluded, Captain Ogilvy heaved a sigh so deep that it might have been almost considered a groan, then he sat down on his armchair, and, pointing to the chair from which the widow had recently risen, said, “Sit down, lad.”

As he advanced to comply, Spink’s eyes for the first time fell on the case of jewels.  He started, paused, and looked with a troubled air at the captain.

“Ha!” exclaimed the latter with a grin; “you seem to know these things; old acquaintances, eh?”

“It wasna’ me that stole them,” said Spink hastily.

“I did not say that anyone stole them.”

“Weel, I mean that ­that ­”

He stopped abruptly, for he felt that in whatever way he might attempt to clear himself, he would unavoidably criminate, by implication, his absent mate.

“I know what you mean, my lad; sit down.”

Spink sat down on the edge of the chair, and looked at the other uneasily.

“Have a cup of tea?” said the captain abruptly, seizing the small pot and pouring out a cupful.

“Thank ‘ee ­I ­I niver tak’ tea.”

“Take it to-night, then.  It will do you good.”

Spink put the cup to his lips, and a look of deep surprise overspread his rugged countenance as he sipped the contents.  The captain nodded.  Spink’s look of surprise changed into a confidential smile; he also nodded, winked, and drained the cup to the bottom.

“Yes,” resumed the captain; “you mean that you did not take the case of jewels from old Brand’s pocket on that day when you found his body on the Bell Rock, though you were present, and saw your comrade pocket the booty.  You see I know all about it, Davy, an’ your only fault lay in concealing the matter, and in keepin’ company with that scoundrel.”

The gaze of surprise with which Spink listened to the first part of this speech changed to a look of sadness towards the end of it.

“Captain Ogilvy,” said he, in a tone of solemnity that was a strong contrast to his usual easy, careless manner of speaking, “you ca’d me an honest man, an’ ye think I’m clear o’ guilt in this matter, but ye’re mista’en.  Hoo ye cam’ to find oot a’ this I canna divine, but I can tell ye somethin’ mair than ye ken.  D’ye see that bag?”

He pulled a small leather purse out of his coat pocket, and laid it with a little bang on the table.

The captain nodded.

“Weel, sir, that was my share o’ the plunder, thretty goolden sovereigns.  We tossed which o’ us was to hae them, an’ the siller fell to me.  But I’ve niver spent a boddle o’t.  Mony a time have I been tempit, an’ mony a time wad I hae gi’en in to the temptation, but for a certain lass ca’d Janet, that’s been an angel, it’s my belief, sent doon frae heeven to keep me frae gawin to the deevil a’thegither.  But be that as it may, I’ve brought the siller to them that owns it by right, an’ so my conscience is clear o’t at lang last.”

The sigh of relief with which Davy Spink pushed the bag of gold towards his companion, showed that the poor man’s mind was in truth released from a heavy load that had crushed it for years.

The captain, who had lit his pipe, stared at the fisherman through the smoke for some time in silence; then he began to untie the purse, and said slowly, “Spink, I said you were an honest man, an’ I see no cause to alter my opinion.”

He counted out the thirty gold pieces, put them back into the bag, and the bag into his pocket.  Then he continued, “Spink, if this gold was mine I would ­but no matter, it’s not mine, it belongs to Widow Brand, to whom I shall deliver it up.  Meantime, I’ll bid you good night.  All these things require reflection.  Call back here to-morrow, my fine fellow, and I’ll have something to say to you.  Another cup of tea?”

“Weel, I’ll no objec’.”

Davy Spink rose, swallowed the beverage, and left the cottage.  The captain returned, and stood for some time irresolute with his hand on the handle of the door of his sister’s room.  As he listened, he heard a sob, and the tones of Minnie’s voice as if in prayer.  Changing his mind, he walked softly across the kitchen into his own room, where, having trimmed the candle, refilled and lit his pipe, he sat down at the table, and, resting his arms thereon, began to meditate.