Under the Waves: Diving in Deep Waters

The risk, we need scarcely say, was often considerable; hence the remuneration was good, and both Edgar and his man speedily acquired a considerable sum of money.

At the end of two years, the former came to the conclusion that he had a sufficient sum at his credit in the bank to warrant a visit to the cottage by the sea; and it was when this idea had grown into a fixed intention that he found himself, as we have mentioned, in rather comfortable circumstances at the bottom of the sea.

The particular part of the bottom lay off the west coast of England. Joe and a gang of men were hard at work on a pier when Edgar went down. He carried a slate and piece of pencil with him. The bottom was not very deep down. There was sufficient light to enable him to find his man easily.

Joe was busy laying a large stone in its bed. When he raised his burly form, after fixing the stone, Edgar stepped forward, and, touching him on the shoulder, held out the slate, whereon was written in a bold running hand:—

“Joe, I’m going off to get engaged, and after that, as soon as possible, to be married.”

Through the window of his helmet, Joe looked at his employer with an expression of pleased surprise. Then he took the slate, obliterated the information on it, and printed in an equally bold, but very sprawly hand:—

“Indeed? I wish you joy, sir.”

Thereupon Edgar took the slate and wrote:—

“Thank you, Joe. Now, I leave you in charge. Keep a sharp eye on the men—especially on that lazy fellow who has a tendency to sleep and shirk duty. If the rock in the fair-way is got ready before my return, blast it at once, without waiting for me. You will find one of Siebe and Gorman’s voltaic batteries in my lodging, also a frictional electrical machine, which you can use if you prefer it. In the store there is a large supply of tin-cases for gunpowder and compressed gun-cotton charges. There also you will find one of Heinke and Davis’s magneto-electric exploders. I leave it entirely to your own judgment which apparatus to use. All sorts are admirable in their way; quite fresh, and in good working order. Have you anything to say to me before I go?”

“All right, sir,” replied Joe, in his sprawly hand; “I’ll attend to orders. When do you start, and when do you expect to be back?”

“I start immediately. The day of my return is uncertain, but I’ll write to you.”

Rubbing this out, Joe wrote:—

“You’ll p’r’aps see my old ’ooman, sir. If you do, just give her my respects, an’ say the last pair o’ divin’ drawers she knitted for me was fust-rate. Tightish, if anything, round the waist, but a bit o’ rope-yarn putt that all right—they’re warm an’ comfortable. Good-bye, I wish you joy again, sir.”

“Good-bye,” replied Edgar.

It was impossible that our hero could follow his inclination, and nod with his stiff-necked iron head-piece at parting. He therefore made the motion of kissing his hand to his trusty man, and giving the requisite signal, spread his arms like a pair of wings, and flew up to the realms of light!

Joe grinned broadly, and made the motion of kissing his hand to the ponderous soles of his employer’s leaden boots as they passed him, then, turning to the granite masonry at his side, he bent down and resumed his work.

Arrived at the region of atmospheric air, Edgar Berrington clambered on board the attending vessel, took off his amphibious clothing, and arrayed himself in the ordinary habiliments of a gentleman, after which he went ashore, gave some instructions to the keeper of his lodgings, ordered his horse, galloped to the nearest railway station, flashed a telegraphic message to Miss Pritty to expect to see him that evening, and soon found himself rushing at forty miles an hour, away from the scene of his recent labours.

Receiving a telegraph envelope half-an-hour later, Miss Pritty turned pale, laid it on the table, sank on the sofa, shut her eyes, and attempted to reduce the violent beating of her heart, by pressing her left side tightly with both hands.

“It must be death!—or accident!” she murmured faintly to herself, for she happened to be alone at the time.

Poor Miss Pritty had no near relations in the world except Edgar, and therefore there was little or no probability that any one would telegraph to her in connection with accident or death, nevertheless she entertained such an unconquerable horror of a telegram, that the mere sight of the well-known envelope, with its large-type title, gave her a little shock; the reception of one was almost too much for her.

After suffering tortures for about as long a time as the telegram had taken to reach her, she at last summoned courage to open the envelope.

The first words, “Edgar Berrington,” induced a little scream of alarm. The next, “to Miss Pritty,” quieted her a little. When, however, she learned that instead of being visited by news of death and disaster, she was merely to be visited by her nephew that same evening, all anxiety vanished from her speaking countenance, and was replaced by a mixture of surprise and amusement. Then she sat down on the sofa—from which, in her agitation, she had risen—and fell into a state of perplexity.

“Now I do wish,” she said, aloud, “that Eddy had had the sense to tell me whether I am to let his friends the Hazlits know of his impending visit. Perhaps he telegraphed to me on purpose to give me time to call and prepare them for his arrival. On the other hand, perhaps he wishes to take them by surprise. It may be that he is not on good terms with Mr Hazlit, and intends to use me as a go-between. What shall I do?”

As her conscience was not appealed to in the matter, it gave no reply to the question; having little or no common sense to speak of, she could scarcely expect much of an answer from that part of her being. At last she made up her mind, and, according to a habit induced by a life of solitude, expressed it to the fireplace.

“Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I shall wait till near the time of the arrival of the last train, and then go straight off to Sea Cottage to spend the evening, leaving a message that if any one should call in my absence I am to be found there. This will give him an excuse, if he wants one, for calling, and if he does not want an excuse he can remain here till my return. I’ll have the fire made up, and tell my domestic to offer tea to any one who should chance to call.”

Miss Pritty thought it best, on the whole, to give an ambiguous order about the tea to her small domestic, for she knew that lively creature to be a compound of inquisitiveness and impudence, and did not choose to tell her who it was that she expected to call. She was very emphatic, however, in impressing on the small domestic the importance of being very civil and attentive, and of offering tea, insomuch that the child protested with much fervour that she would be sure to attend to orders.

This resulted in quite an evening’s amusement to the small domestic.

After Miss Pritty had gone out, the first person who chanced to call was the spouse of Mr Timms, the green-grocer, who had obviously recovered from her illness.

“Is Miss Pritty at ’ome?” she asked.

“No, ma’am, she ain’t, she’s hout,” answered the small domestic.

“Ah! Well, it don’t much matter. I on’y called to leave this ’ere little present of cabbidges an’ cawliflowers—with Mr Timms’ kind compliments and mine. She’s been wery kind to us, ’as Miss Pritty, an’ we wishes to acknowledge it.”

“Please, ma’am,” said the domestic with a broad smile, as she took the basket of vegetables, “would you like a cup of tea?”

“What d’you mean, girl?” asked the green-grocer’s wife in surprise.

“Please, ma’am, Miss Pritty told me to be sure to offer you a cup of tea.”

“Did she, indeed? That’s was wery kind of her, wery kind, though ’ow she come for to know I was a-goin’ to call beats my comprehension. ’Owever, tell her I’m greatly obleeged to her, but ’avin ’ad tea just afore comin’ out, an’ bein’ chock-full as I can ’old, I’d rather not. Best thanks, all the same.”

Mrs Timms went away deeply impressed with Miss Pritty’s thoughtful kindness, and the small domestic, shutting the door, indulged in a fit of that species of suppressed laughter which is usually indicated by a series of spurts through the top of the nose and the compressed lips.

She was suddenly interrupted by a tap at the knocker.

Allowing as many minutes to elapse as she thought would have sufficed for her ascent from the kitchen, she once more opened the door. It was only a beggar—a ragged disreputable man—and she was about to shut the door in his face, with that summary politeness so well understood by servant girls, when a thought struck her.

“Oh, sir,” she said, “would you like a cup of tea?”

The man evidently thought he was being made game of, for his face assumed such a threatening aspect that the small domestic incontinently shut the door with a sudden bang. The beggar amused himself by battering it with his stick for five minutes and then went away.

The next visitor was a lady.

“Is Miss Pritty at home, child?” she asked, regarding the domestic with a half-patronising, half-pitying air.

“No, ma’am, she’s hout.”

“Oh! That’s a pity,” said the lady, taking a book out of her pocket. “Will you tell her that I called for her subscription to the new hospital that is about to be built in the town? Your mistress does not know me personally, but she knows all about the hospital, and this book, which I shall call for to-morrow, will speak for itself. Be sure you give it to her, child.”

“Yes, ma’am. And, please, ma’am, would you like a cup of tea?”

The lady, who happened to possess a majestic pair of eyes, looked so astonished that the small domestic could scarcely contain herself.

“Are you deranged, child?” asked the lady.

“No, ma’am, if you please; but Miss Pritty told me to be sure to offer you a cup.”

“To offer me a cup, child!”

“Yes, ma’am. At least to offer a cup to any one who should call.”

It need scarcely be added that the lady declined the tea, and went away, observing to herself in an undertone, that “she must be deranged.”

The small domestic again shut the door and spurted.

It was in her estimation quite a rare, delicious, and novel species of fun. To one whose monotonous life was spent underground, with a prospect of bricks at two feet from her window, and in company with pots, pans, potato-peelings, and black-beetles, it was as good as a scene in a play.

The next visitor was the butcher’s boy, who came round to take “orders” for the following day. This boy had a tendency to chaff.

“Well, my lady, has your ladyship any orders?”

“Nothink to-day,” answered the domestic, curtly.

“What! Nothink at all? Goin’ to fast to-morrow, eh? Or to live on stooed hatmospheric hair with your own sauce for gravey—hey?”

“No, we doesn’t want nothink,” repeated the domestic, stoutly. “Missus said so, an’ she bid me ask you if you’d like a cup of tea?”

The butcher’s boy opened his mouth and eyes in amazement. To have his own weapons thus turned, as he thought, against him by one who was usually rather soft and somewhat shy of him, took him quite aback. He recovered, however, quickly, and made a rush at the girl, who, as before, attempted to shut the door with a bang, but the boy was too sharp for her. His foot prevented her succeeding, and there is no doubt that in another moment he would have forcibly entered the house, if he had not been seized from behind by the collar in the powerful grasp of Edgar Berrington, who sent him staggering into the street. The boy did not wait for more. With a wild-Indian war-whoop he turned and fled.

Excited, and, to some extent, exasperated by this last visit, the small domestic received Edgar with a one-third timid, one-third gleeful, and one-third reckless spirit.

“What did the boy mean?” asked Edgar, as he turned towards her.

“Please, sir, ’e wouldn’t ’ave a cup of tea, sir,” she replied meekly, then, with a gleam of hope in her eyes—“Will you ’ave one, sir?”

“You’re a curious creature,” answered Edgar, with a smile. “Is Miss Pritty at home?”

“No, sir, she ain’t.”

This answer appeared to surprise and annoy him.

“Very odd,” he said, with a little frown. “Did she not expect me?”

“No, sir, I think she didn’t. Leastways she didn’t say as she did, but she was very partikler in tellin’ me to be sure to hoffer you a cup of tea.”

Edgar looked at the small domestic, and, as he looked, his mouth expanded. Her mouth followed suit, and they both burst into a fit of laughter. After a moment or two the former recovered.

“This is all very pleasant, no doubt,” he said, “but it is uncommonly awkward. Did she say when she would be home?”

“No, sir, she didn’t, but she bid me say if any one wanted her, that they’d find her at Sea Cottage.”

“At Sea Cottage—who lives there?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Where is it?”

“On the sea-shore, sir.”

“Which way—this way or that way?” asked Edgar, pointing right and left.

“That way,” answered the girl, pointing left.

The impatient youth turned hastily to leave.

“Please, sir—” said the domestic.

“Well,” said Edgar, stopping.

“You’re sure, sir—” she stopped.

“Well?—go on.”

“That you wouldn’t like to ’ave a cup of tea?”

“Child,” said Edgar, as he turned finally away, “you’re mad—as mad as a March hare.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The small domestic shut the door and retired to the regions below, where, taking the pots and pans and black-beetles into her confidence, she shrieked with delight for full ten minutes, and hugged herself.

Chapter Twenty Six.

A Climax is reached

When Edgar Berrington discovered the cottage by the sea, and ascertained that Miss Pritty was within, he gave his name, and was ushered into the snug little room under the name of Mr Briggington. Aileen gave a particularly minute, but irrepressible and quite inaudible scream; Mr Hazlit sat bolt up in his chair, as if he had seen a ghost; and Miss Pritty—feeling, somehow, that her diplomacy had not become a brilliant success—shrank within herself, and wished it were to-morrow.

Their various expressions, however, were as nothing compared with Edgar’s blazing surprise.

“Mr Hazlit,” he stammered, “pray pardon my sudden intrusion at so unseasonable an hour; but, really, I was not aware that—did you not get my telegram, aunt?”

He turned abruptly to Miss Pritty.

“Why ye–es, but I thought that you—in fact—I could not imagine that—”

“Never mind explanations just now,” said Mr Hazlit, recovering himself, and rising with a bland smile, “you are welcome, Mr Berrington; no hour is unseasonable for one to whom we owe so much.”

They shook hands and laughed; then Edgar shook hands with Aileen and blushed, no doubt because she blushed, then he saluted his aunt, and took refuge in being very particular about her receipt of the telegram. This threw Miss Pritty into a state of unutterable confusion, because of her efforts to tell the truth and conceal the truth at one and the same time. After this they spent a very happy evening together, during the course of which Mr Hazlit took occasion to ask Edgar to accompany him into a little pigeon-hole of a room which, in deference to a few books that dwelt there, was styled the library.

“Mr Berrington,” he said, sitting down and pointing to a chair, “be seated. I wish to have a little private conversation with you. We are both practical men, and know the importance of thoroughly understanding each other. When I saw you last—now about two years ago—you indicated some disposition to—to regard—in fact to pay your addresses to my daughter. At that time I objected to you on the ground that you were penniless. Whether right or wrong in that objection is now a matter of no importance, because it turns out that I was right on other grounds, as I now find that you did not know your own feelings, and did not care for her—”

“Did not care for her?” interrupted Edgar, in sudden amazement, not unmingled with indignation.

“Of course,” continued Mr Hazlit, with undisturbed calmness, “I mean that you did not care for her sufficiently; that you did not regard her with that unconquerable affection which is usually styled ‘love’, and without which no union can be a happy one. The proof to me that your feeling towards her was evanescent, lies in the fact that you have taken no notice either of her or of me for two years. Had you gained my daughter’s affections, this might have caused me deep regret, but as she has seldom mentioned your name since we last saw you, save when I happened to refer to you, I perceive that her heart has been untouched—for which I feel exceedingly thankful, knowing as I do, only too well, that we cannot command our affections.”

Mr Hazlit paused a moment, and Edgar was so thunderstruck by the unexpected nature of his host’s discourse, that he could only stare at him in mute surprise and unbelief in the evidence of his own ears.

“Now,” resumed Mr Hazlit, “as things stand, I shall be very happy indeed that we should return to our old intimacy. I can never forget the debt of obligation we owe to you as our rescuer from worse than death—from slavery among brutalised men, and I shall be very happy indeed that you should make my little cottage by the sea—as Aileen loves to style it—your abode whenever business or pleasure call you to this part of the country.”

The merchant extended his hand with a smile of genuine urbanity. The youth took it, mechanically shook it, let it fall, and continued to stare in a manner that made Mr Hazlit feel quite uneasy. Suddenly he recovered, and, looking the latter earnestly in the face, said:—

“Mr Hazlit, did you not, two years ago, forbid me to enter your dwelling?”

“True, true,” replied the other somewhat disconcerted; “but the events which have occurred since that time warranted your considering that order as cancelled.”

“But you did not say it was cancelled. Moreover your first objection still remained, for I was nearly penniless then, although, in the good providence of God, I am comparatively rich now. I therefore resolved to obey your injunctions, sir, and keep away from your house and from your daughter’s distracting influence, until I could return with a few of those pence, which you appear to consider so vitally important.”

“Mr Berrington,” exclaimed the old gentleman, who was roused by this hit, “you mistake me. My opinions in regard to wealth have been considerably changed of late. But my daughter does not love you, and if you were as rich as Croesus, sir, you should not have her hand without her heart.”

Mr Hazlit said this stoutly, and, just as stoutly, Edgar replied:—

“If I were as rich as Croesus, sir, I would not accept her hand without her heart; but, Mr Hazlit, I am richer than Croesus!”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean that I am rich in the possession of that which a world’s wealth could not purchase—your daughter’s affections.”

“Impossible! Mr Berrington, your passion urges you to deceive yourself.”

“You will believe what she herself says, I suppose?” asked Edgar, plunging his hand into a breast-pocket.

“Of course I will.”

“Well then, listen,” said the youth, drawing out a small three-cornered note. “A good many months ago, when I found my business to be in a somewhat flourishing condition, I ventured to write to Aileen, telling her of my circumstances, of my unalterable love, and expressing a wish that she would write me at least one letter to give me hope that the love, which she, allowed me to understand was in her breast before you forbade our intercourse, still continued. This,” he added, handing the three-cornered note to the old gentleman, “is her reply.”

Mr Hazlit took the note, and, with a troubled countenance, read:—

“Dear Mr Berrington,—I am not sure that I am right in replying to you without my father’s knowledge, and only prevail on myself to do so because I intend that our correspondence shall go no further, and what I shall say will, I know, be in accordance with his sentiments. My feelings towards you remain unchanged. We cannot command feelings, but I consider the duty I owe to my dear father to be superior to my feelings, and I am resolved to be guided by his expressed wishes as long as I remain under his roof. He has forbidden me to have any intercourse with you: I will therefore obey until he sanctions a change of conduct. Even this brief note should not have been written were it not that it would be worse than rude to take no notice of a letter from one who has rendered us such signal service, and whom I shall never forget.—Yours sincerely, Aileen Hazlit.”

The last sentence—“and whom I shall never forget”—had been carefully scribbled out, but Edgar had set himself to work, with the care and earnest application of an engineer and a lover, to decipher the words.

“Dear child!” exclaimed Mr Hazlit, in a fit of abstraction, kissing the note; “this accounts for her never mentioning him;” then, recovering himself, and turning abruptly and sternly to Edgar, he said:– “How did you dare, sir, to write to her after my express prohibition?”

“Well,” replied Edgar, “some allowance ought to be made for a lover’s anxiety to know how matters stood, and I fully intended to follow up my letter to her with one to you; but I confess that I did wrong—”

“No, sir, no,” cried Mr Hazlit, abruptly starting up and grasping Edgar’s hand, which he shook violently, “you did not do wrong. You did quite right, sir. I would have done the same myself in similar circumstances.”

So saying, Mr Hazlit, feeling that he was compromising his dignity, shook Edgar’s hand again, and hastened from the room. He met Aileen descending the staircase. Brushing past her, he went into his bed-room, and shut and locked the door.

Much alarmed by such an unwonted display of haste and feeling, Aileen ran into the library.

“Oh! Mr Berrington, what is the matter with papa?”

“If you will sit down beside me, Aileen,” said Edgar, earnestly, tenderly, and firmly, taking her hand, “I will tell you.”

Aileen blushed, stammered, attempted to draw back, but was constrained to comply. Edgar, on the contrary, was as cool as a cucumber. He had evidently availed himself of his engineering knowledge, and fitted extra weights of at least seven thousand tons to the various safety-valves of his feelings.

“Your father,” he began, looking earnestly into the girl’s down-cast face, “is—”

But hold! Reader; we must not go on. If you are a boy, you won’t mind what followed; if a girl, you have no right to pry into such matters. We therefore beg leave at this point to shut the lids of our dexter eye, and drop the curtain.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The last

One day Joe Baldwin, assisted by his old friend, Rooney Machowl, was busily engaged down at the bottom of the sea, off the Irish coast, slinging a box of gold specie. He had given the signal to haul up, and Rooney had moved away to put slings round another box, when the chain to which the gold was suspended snapt, and the box descended on Joe. If it had hit him on the back in its descent it would certainly have killed him, but it only hit his collar-bone and broke it.

Joe had just time to give four pulls on his lines, and then fainted. He was instantly hauled up, carefully unrobed, and put to bed.

This was a turning-point in our diver’s career. The collar-bone was all right in the course of a month or two, but Mrs Baldwin positively refused to allow her goodman to go under water again.

“The little fortin’ you made out in Chiny,” she said one evening while seated with her husband at supper in company with Rooney and his wife, “pays for our rent, an’ somethin’ over. You’re a handy man, and can do a-many things to earn a penny, and I can wash enough myself to keep us both. You’ve bin a ’ard workin’ man, Joe, for many a year. You’ve bin long enough under water. You’ll git rheumatiz, or somethin’ o’ that sort, if you go on longer, so I’m resolved that you shan’t do it—there!”

“Molly, cushla!” said Machowl, in a modest tone, “I hope you won’t clap a stopper on my goin’ under water for some time yit—plaze.”

Molly laughed.

“Oh! It’s all very well for you to poke fun at me, Mister Machowl,” said Mrs Baldwin, “but you’re young yet, an’ my Joe’s past his prime. When you’ve done as much work as he’s done—there now, you’ve done it at last. I told you so.”