Jeff Benson, or the Young Coastguardsman

“Then the townsman have beaten the seaman after all,” exclaimed one who was inclined to triumph.

“Not so,” returned Jeff quickly, “for I’m a seaman myself and take sides with the fishermen.”

“Well said; give us your hand, mate,” cried John Golding, one of the latter, holding out his hand, which our hero grasped warmly, for he had known the man in former years.

“You’ve done well in credit o’ the sea.”

“An’ better still,” said little Reuben, “in doing credit to the land by refusin’ to boast.”

Nevertheless, though Jeff Benson did not boast, it is but just to say that he felt considerable satisfaction in his triumph, and rejoiced in the possession of so powerful a frame, as he continued his walk to Miss Millet’s house. It did not occur to him, however, to thank God for his strength of body, because at that time “God was not in all his thoughts.”

Miss Millet was a woman of action and projects. Her whole being was absorbed in one idea—that of doing good; but her means were small, very small, for, besides being exceedingly poor, she was in delicate health and getting old. She subsisted on quite a microscopic annuity; but, instead of trying to increase it, she devoted the whole of her time to labours of love and charity. The labour that suited her health and circumstances best was knitting socks for the poor, because that demanded little thought and set her mind free to form unlimited projects.

The delight which Miss Millet, experienced in meeting with her old friend Jeffrey Benson was displayed in the vivacity of her reception of him and the tremulosity of her little cap.

“It’s just like coming home, auntie—may I still venture to call you so?”

Jeff had been wont to sit on a stool at the good lady’s feet. He did so now—on the old stool.

“You may call me what you please, Jeff. It was your child-fancy to accord to me that honourable relationship; so you may continue it if you will. How you are grown, too! I could not have known you had I met you—so big, and with that horrible black beard.”

“Horrible! Miss Millet?”

“Well, terrible, if you prefer it. It’s so bushy and unnatural for one so young.”

“That can hardly be, auntie,” rejoined the youth, with a smile that sent quite a ripple down the objectionable beard, “because my beard was provided by Nature.”

“Well, Jeff,” returned the spinster promptly, “were not scissors and razors provided by—no, it was art that provided them,” she continued with a little smile of confusion; “but they are provided all the same, and— But we won’t pursue that subject, for you men are incorrigible! Now tell me, Jeff, where you have been, and why you didn’t come to see me sooner, and why your letters have been so few—though I admit they were long.”

We will not inflict on the reader all the conversation that ensued. When Jeff had exhausted his narrative, Miss Millet discovered that it was tea-time; and, while engaged in preparations for the evening meal, she enlarged upon some of her projects, being encouraged thereto by Jeff, whose heart was naturally sympathetic.

“But some of my projects are impossible,” she said, with a little sigh. “Some small things, indeed, I have accomplished, with God’s blessing; but there are others which are quite beyond me.”

“Indeed! Tell me now, auntie, if you had Aladdin’s wonderful lamp, what would you ask for?”

“I’d ask for—let me see (the old face became quite thoughtful here)—I’d ask for a library. You see, Cranby is very badly off for books, and people cannot easily improve without reading, you know. Then I would ask for a new church, and a school room, and a town-hall where we might have lectures and concerts, and for a whole street of model-houses for the poor, and a gymnasium, and a swimming-bath and—”

“A swimming-bath, auntie!” exclaimed Jeff. “Isn’t the sea big enough?”

“Yes, but children won’t learn in the sea. They’re too fond of running about the edge, and of romping in the shallow water. Besides, the bath could be used in winter, when the sea is too cold. But I’m praying for all these things. If God sees fit, He will give them. If not, I am content with what He has already given.”

A somewhat sceptical smile rested for a moment on the young man’s lips. Happily his heavy moustache concealed it, and saved Miss Millet’s feelings. But she went on to vindicate the ways of God with man, and to impress upon Jeff the fact that in His good wisdom “ills” or “wells,” and things that seem to us only evil, work out gracious ends.

Jeff listened, but said little, and evidently his difficulties were not all removed. Presently, observing that three cups were laid on the table, he asked, “Do you expect company?”

“Yes, my brother the captain is coming to tea. He is about to start for China, and I’m so glad you happen to be here; for I’d like you to know each other, and you’re sure to like him.”

Jeff did not feel quite so sure on that point, for he had counted on a long tête-à-tête with his old friend. He took care, however, to conceal his disappointment, and before he had time to reply, the door opened with a crash.

“What cheer, old girl? what cheer?” resounded in bo’sun’s-mate tones through the house, and next moment a rugged sea-captain stood before them.

Chapter Two

A Sea-Captain Relates his Adventures, and Refuses to Draw Morals

Captain Richard Millet, like his sister, was rather eccentric. Unlike her, however, he was large, broad, and powerful. It would have taken considerably more than “half a gale” to blow him away. Even a gale and a half might have failed to do that.

“Glad to meet you,” he said, extending his solid-looking hand with a frank, hearty air, on being introduced to Jeff. “My sister Molly has often spoken of you. Sorry to hear you’ve left the sea. Great mistake, young man—great mistake. There’s no school like the sea for teaching a man his dependence on his Maker.”

“The school is not very successful, if one may judge from the character of most of its pupils,” replied the youth.

“Perhaps you misjudge their character,” returned the captain, with a look of good-natured severity.

“I’m sure he does,” cried Miss Millet, with enthusiasm. “Noble-hearted, simple men, who would probably never go wrong at all if it were not for their unsuspecting trustfulness and bad companions! Come, sit down, Dick. Tea is ready.”

“Yes, young man,” continued Captain Millet “you misjudge ’em. You should not judge of a school by the shouting and mischief of the worst boys, who always flaunt their colours, while the good ones steer quietly on their course. You’ll understand that better when your beard is grey. Youth is fond o’ lookin’ at the surface, an’ so is apt to misjudge the character of men as well as the ways of Providence.”

Jeff took the rebuke in good part, readily admitted that youth was prone to err, and slily expressed a hope that in his case coming in contact with age might do him good.

“If you mean that for a shot at me,” cried the captain, with a loud guffaw, “you’ve missed the mark; for I’m only forty-five, an’ that isn’t age; is it, Molly?”

“Of course not. Why, you’re little more than a baby yet,” replied Miss Millet who greatly enjoyed even a small joke—indeed, she enjoyed almost everything, more or less, that was not wicked. “But now, Dick, I want you to tell Jeff some of your adventures in foreign parts—especially those that have a moral, you know.”

“Why, Molly, that’s a hard job—you don’t want me to draw the moral, do you? I never was good at that, though I’ve known fellows with that peculiar cast o’ brain as could draw a moral out of a marline-spike if they were hard put to it. Seems to me that it’s best to let morals draw themselves. For instance, that time when I was wrecked on the South American coast, I came to a shallow river, an’ had to wade across, but was too lazy to pull off my boots, ’cause they were long fisherman’s boots, right up to the hip an’ rather tight; so in I went boots an’ all. Just as I was gettin’ to the other side, a most awful alligator seized hold o’ my right foot. It’s wonderful how easy my boot came off just then! Although I was used to tug, an’ shove, and gasp, and pull, at that boot of a night, no sooner did the alligator lay hold on it than my leg came out like a cork out of a bottle, and I was out o’ the water and up the bank like a squirrel. Now, Molly, what would you say was the moral that should be drawn from that—Never use an alligator as a boot-jack—eh?”

“I should say, Never wade across a South American river without your boots on,” suggested Jeff.

“Well, now, I should say, Never wade across a South American river at all,” said Miss Millet; “but, brother, that’s not what I meant. Before you arrived, Jeff and I had been talking about God’s ways with man, and I was trying to show that disasters and what we call misfortunes are not necessarily evil, but are often the means of great blessing. I don’t think Jeff quite sees that. I can’t explain myself clearly, brother; but you know what I mean.”

While the old lady was speaking, the captain had become thoughtful.

“Yes, I know what you mean,” he replied, “and I agree with you heartily. Is it not written of our Saviour, ‘He hath done all things well?’ and is He not unchangeable? Of course it is not to be expected that we shall always see through and understand His ways though we can always trust Him; but sometimes He lifts a corner of the veil and lets us see. Very odd, Molly,” continued the captain, extracting a large black pocket-book with some difficulty from a breast-pocket, “very odd that you should have touched on this question, for I have somethin’ to say to you that bears on it. Look here. What’s that?”

He handed an oblong piece of paper to his sister, who examined it slowly.

“Why, Dick, it’s a cheque for 500 pounds.”

“Just so, old girl, an’ it’s yours.”

“Mine!”

“Ay, I might have given it to you when I first came back, but I took a fancy to keep it as a little surprise for our last evenin’ together, so that I might leave you with a good taste in your mouth. Now, listen, an’ I’ll spin you an’ Jeff a yarn. But first fill up my cup. I’m fond o’ tea—nat’rally, bein’ a teetotaler. Up to the brim, Molly; I like a good bucketful. Thankee—now, let me see.”

The captain put his hand to his rugged brow, became thoughtful for a few moments, and then resumed.

“Just before startin’ on my last voyage to China I ran down to Folkestone to see Rosebud—that’s my little daughter, Jeff. Surely you must have seen her when knocking about here?”

“You forget, Captain, I have not been in these parts for six years. Nevertheless, I did see Rosebud some ten or twelve years ago with her nurse in this very room.”