CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

CONTENTS

SEA-MONSTERS.
FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.
SKETCHES IN VANCOUVER ISLAND.
THE ADMIRAL'S SECOND WIFE.
A LEGEND OF 'THE FORTY-FIVE.'
THE MONTH: SCIENCE AND ARTS.
A STRANGE PAIR.

SEA-MONSTERS.

Whether the sea contains any creature at all answering to the popular idea of a 'sea-serpent'—that ophidian monster which is annually reported to have been interviewed by various crews and persons—is a problem which will only be solved by the actual capture of one of those visitors. There are, as will presently be pointed out, certain well-known true sea-snakes, the Hydrophidæ of the Indian Ocean, which swim by means of their compressed fin-like tails; but whether these marine serpents will correspond to the 'sea-serpents' of popular tales, is a matter deserving further investigation. The wide ocean presents features well suited to tempt the imagination to stray into the wildest flights. Its vastness; the difficulty of exploring even a small portion of its surface, as well as its enormous depths; its capacity for containing the strangest and most gigantic objects that fancy can picture: these are attributes of the mighty deep that have ever attracted the attention and prompted the weird imaginings of man.

It is a curious fact that recent scientific research has revealed the existence in the sea, at the greatest depths, of most minute and wonderfully formed organisms, the beauty and rarity of which necessarily secure our admiration; but instances of animals of enormous size being met with beyond those already known, are few and far between. This fact may be accounted for by the circumstance that while it is easy to construct instruments for capturing the smaller creatures living in the deep, it is a very different matter to entrap and secure an unseen monster, whose very size must endow him with enormous strength. The whale, so far as we know, is the largest denizen of the deep. Whether it is possible that it can be equalled by giants of some other order or race, is the point which public curiosity is very keen to have settled.

The appearance of great snakes at sea is recorded by more than one old voyager; but it would seem to have been only of late years that the idea of their existence has been generally confined to one, familiar to us all as the 'Great sea-serpent.'

In Opuscula Omnia Botanica, Thomæ Johnsoni, 1629, we have an account of a great serpent captured off Sandwich by two men, who found it stranded among the shoal water by the sea-shore. It is described as being fifty feet long, and of a fiery colour. We are also told that they conveyed the carcase home, and after eating it, stuffed the skin with hay, to preserve it 'as a perpetual remembrance of the fact.'

In David Crantz's History of Greenland, published in 1766, we have an extract (illustrated by a drawing) concerning the kraken, from the narrative of a Captain Paul Egede, supposed to be the brother of a famous Danish missionary of the same name. The kraken, it is however necessary to remark, is the northern name for a giant cuttle-fish, the existence of such a monster being now a matter of scientific fact.

'On the 6th of July 1734,' says this old seaman, 'as I was proceeding on my second voyage to Greenland, in the latitude of the Cape of Good Hope, a hideous monster was seen to raise its body so high above the water that its head overtopped our main-sail. It had a pointed nose, and spouted out water like a whale; instead of fins it had great broad flaps like wings; its body seemed to be grown over with shell-work, and its skin was very rugged and uneven; when it dived into the water again, it threw up its tail, which was like that of a serpent, and was at least a whole ship's length above the water; we judged the body to be equal in bulk to our ship, and to be three or four times as long.'

Eric Pontoppidan, Bishop of Bergen, celebrated in his days as a naturalist, though he never actually saw it or met any one who had seen it, believed implicitly in the great sea-serpent existing somewhere; and in his writings has a good deal to tell us about its ways and habits; and it is upon record that Sir Lawrence de Ferry, commander of the old castle of Bergen, not only saw the monster, but shot at it on the high seas, wounded it, was pursued by it, in its pain and fury, so closely that he narrowly escaped with his life.

In 1801 there was cast ashore on the coast of Dorsetshire a snake twenty-eight feet in length and twenty feet in circumference; but this has since been alleged to have been a Basking-shark; and the same has been said of a great snake-like carcase that was beaten to pieces by a tempest, and cast ashore on one of the Orkney Isles in the autumn of 1809, and some fragments of which, the Scots Magazine for that year states, were lodged in the Museum of the Edinburgh University.

A very distinct description of the sea-serpent occurs in Dr Hooker's Testimony respecting it, and communicated to Dr Brewster's Journal of Science. About half-past six o'clock on a cloudless evening at sea, the doctor heard suddenly a rushing noise ahead of the ship, which at first he supposed to be a whale spouting, but soon found to be a colossal serpent, of which he made a sketch as it passed the vessel at fifty yards' distance, slowly, neither turning to the right nor left. 'As soon as his head had reached the stern, he gradually laid it down in a horizontal position with his body, and floated along like the mast of a vessel. That there was upwards of sixty feet visible, is shewn by the circumstance that the length of the ship was a hundred and twenty feet, and that at the time his head was off the stern, the other end had not passed the main-mast.... His motion in the water was meandering, like that of an eel; and the wake he left behind him, was like that occasioned by a small craft passing through the water.... The humps on his back resembled in size and shape those of a dromedary.'

Dr Hooker states further, that the description precisely accorded with that of a serpent seen five years before by Captain Bennet of Boston. At a later period, three officers in Her Majesty's service—namely, Captain Sullivan, Lieutenant Maclachlan, and Ensign Malcolm of the Rifle Brigade—beheld a similar creature gambolling in the sea near Halifax; but they asserted that it was at least one hundred and eighty feet in length, and thicker than the trunk of a moderately sized tree. Nor must we forget the official account which was transmitted in 1848 to the Lords of the Admiralty, by Captain Peter M'Quhae of Her Majesty's ship Dædalus, past which, he and his crew saw the great sea-serpent swimming merrily—a document which produced, or provoked, a learned paper in the Westminster Review; while Professor Owen asserted that what was seen from the deck of the Dædalus, would be nothing more than a large seal borne rapidly southward on a floe or iceberg.

Recently, the appearances of the serpent have been amusingly frequent and clearly detailed. He has been seen in the north seas and the south seas, and in many places nearer home; in the Firth of Forth, off Filey Bay and the North Foreland, off Hastings and the Isle of Arran, the Menai Strait and Prawle Point; and in 1875, a battle between it and a whale was viewed from the deck of the good ship Pauline of London, Captain Drevar, when proceeding with a cargo of coals from Shields to Zanzibar, destined for Her Majesty's ship London. When the Pauline reached the region of the trade-winds and equatorial currents, she was carried out of her course, and after a severe storm, found herself off Cape Roque, where several sperm-whales were seen playing about her. While the crew were watching them, they suddenly beheld a sight that filled every man on board with terror. Starting straight from the bosom of the deep, a gigantic serpent rose and wound itself twice in two mighty coils round the largest of the whales, which it proceeded to crush in genuine boa-constrictor fashion. In vain did the hapless whale struggle, lash the water into foam, and even bellow, for all its efforts were as nothing against the supernatural powers of its dreadful adversary, whose strength 'may be further imagined,' says a leader in the Daily Telegraph, 'from the fact that the ribs of the ill-fated fish were distinctly heard cracking one after the other with a report like that of a small cannon. Soon the struggles of the wretched whale grew fainter and fainter; its bellowings ceased, and the great serpent sank with its prey beneath the surface of the ocean.'

Its total length was estimated at fifty yards, and its aspect was allowed to be simply 'terrific.' Twice again it reared its crest sixty feet out of the water, as if meditating an attack upon the Pauline, which bore away with all her canvas spread. Her crew told their terrible story. But critics there were who averred that what they had seen was no serpent at all, but only a bottle-nosed whale attacked by grampuses!

In a letter to the London prints concerning this affair, we have another description of our old friend the serpent, as he appeared off St David's Head, to John Abes, mate of a merchantman, in 1863. 'I was the first who saw the monster, and shouted out. A terrible-looking thing it was! Seen at a little distance in the moonlight, his two eyes appeared about the size of plates, and were very bright and sparkling.' All on board thought his length about ninety feet; but as he curled and twirled rapidly, it was a difficult matter to determine. Captain Taylor ordered him to be noosed lasso-fashion with a rope; which John Abes tells us he got on the bowsprit to throw, but in the attempt, threw himself overboard. 'The horror of my feelings at the moment I must leave you to imagine,' continues this remarkable epistle (which is dated from Totterdown, Bristol, September 19, 1875). 'The brute was then within a few yards of me, with its monstrous head and wavy body, looking ten times more terrible than it did on board the brig. I shiver even now when I think of it. Whether the noise made by throwing the ropes over to save me scared him, I cannot say; but he went down suddenly, though not more so than I came up. After a few minutes he appeared some distance from us, and then we lost him.'

When next we hear of the sea-serpent after his adventure off Cape Roque, he was beheld by the crew of no less a ship than Her Majesty's yacht the Osborne, the captain and officers of which, in June 1877, forwarded an official Report to the Admiralty, containing an account of the monster's appearance off the coast of Sicily on the 2d of that month. 'The time was five o'clock in the afternoon. The sea was exceptionally smooth, and the officers were provided with good telescopes. The monster had a smooth skin, devoid of scales, a bullet-shaped head, and a face like an alligator. It was of immense length, and along the back was a ridge of fins about fifteen feet in length and six feet apart. It moved slowly, and was seen by all the ship's officers.'

This account was further supplemented by a sketch in a well-known illustrated paper, from the pencil of Lieutenant W. P. Hynes of the Osborne, who to the above description adds, that the fins were of irregular height, and about forty feet in extent, and 'as we were passing through the water at ten and a half knots, I could only get a view of it "end on."' It was about fifteen or twenty feet broad at the shoulders, with flappers or fins that seemed to have a semi-revolving motion. 'From the top of the head to the part of the back where it became immersed, I should consider about fifty feet, and that seemed about a third of the whole length. All this part was smooth, resembling a seal.'

In the following month, the Scottish prints reported, that when the Earl of Glasgow's steam-yacht Valetta was cruising off Garroch Head, on the coast of Bute, with a party of ladies and gentlemen on board, an enormous fish or serpent, forty feet in length and about fifteen in diameter, suddenly rose from the sea. Under sail and steam the Valetta gave chase. A gentleman on board speared it with a salmon 'leister;' on which the serpent dived, and after a time reappeared with the iron part of the weapon sticking in its back. The monster scudded along for some minutes, again dived, and was not seen afterwards. There is little doubt, however, that the animal which figured in this instance was a very large basking-shark (Selache maxima).

An animal of exactly similar shape and dimensions was reported as being seen in the subsequent August by twelve persons in Massachusetts Bay; and soon after on three different occasions in the same quarter by the crew of a coasting vessel.

In May 1877, the 'sea-serpent' would seem to have shifted his quarters to the Indian Ocean, which it must be remarked is the habitat of the true sea-snakes. On the 21st of that month, in latitude 2° north and longitude 90° 53′ east, the monster was alleged to have been seen by the crew of the barque Georgina, bound from Rangoon to Falmouth. It seemed to be about fifty feet long, 'gray and yellow in colour, and ten or eleven inches thick. It was on view for about twenty minutes, during which time it crossed the bow, and ultimately disappeared under the port quarter.' A second account of this affair stated, that 'for some days previously the crew had seen several smaller serpents, of from six to ten feet in length, playing about the vessel.'

Strange as all these stories seem, it is difficult to suppose they are all quite untrue, for nautical superstition apart, we have the ready testimony of various men of education and veracity. That there is only one serpentine monster in the ocean, is an idea which the great disparity in the various descriptions would seem to contradict; and certainly the most astounding aspect presented by this supposed and most ubiquitous animal, was his form and size when seen by the officers of the Queen's yacht off the coast of Sicily; though it is somewhat singular that these gentlemen made no attempt to kill or capture the mighty fish, or whatever it was they saw.

By way of conclusion to these remarks we may briefly summarise the chief facts presented by 'sea-serpent tales' as they appear under the light of scientific criticism. There is, it must firstly be remarked, nothing in the slightest degree improbable in the idea that an ordinary species of sea-snake, belonging to a well-known group of reptiles, may undergo a gigantic development and appear as a monster serpent of the deep. The experience of comparative anatomists is decidedly in agreement with such an opinion. Largely developed individuals of almost every species of animals and plants occasionally occur. Within the past few years new species of cuttle-fishes—of dimensions compared with which the largest of hitherto known forms are mere pigmies—have been brought to light. And if huge cuttle-fishes may thus be developed, why, it may be asked, may not sea-snakes of ordinary size be elevated, through extraordinary development, to become veritable 'leviathans' of the deep? That there is a strong reason for belief in the veracity of sea-serpent tales, is supported by the consideration of the utter want of any motive for prevarication, and by the very different and varied accounts given of the monsters seen. That the appearances cannot always be explained on the supposition that lifeless objects, such as trees, sea-weed, &c. have been seen, is equally evident from the detailed nature of many of the accounts of the animals, which have been inspected from a near distance. And it may also be remarked that in some cases, in which largely developed sea-snakes themselves may not have appeared, certain fishes may have represented the reptilian inhabitants of the ocean. As Dr Andrew Wilson has insisted, a giant tape-fish viewed from a distance would personate a 'sea-serpent' in a very successful manner; and there can be no doubt that tape-fishes have occasionally been described as 'sea-serpents.'

On the whole, if we admit the probability of giant-developments of ordinary species of sea-snakes; or the existence (and why not?) of enormous species of sea-snakes and certain fishes as yet unknown to science, the solution of the sea-serpent problem is not likely to be any longer a matter of difficulty.

FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.

Strange and terrible tidings reached Enderby the day after that. As Deborah Fleming was standing in the red sunset, she saw old Jordan, in his scarlet waistcoat and shirt sleeves, running bare-headed towards her under the archway. Deborah went quietly forward to meet him, dreading and yet hoping, she knew not what.

'Master Sinclair's shot!' gasped the old man. 'Killed a-duelling!'

'Who shot him?' asked Deborah, with the blood coursing in a fierce wild tide of joy through her veins, and yet a sure foreboding of the truth. 'Who? Who?'

'Need ye ask, Mistress Deborah?' asked Jordan, shaking his gray head, and regarding her with a wild reproachful gaze. 'Why, Master Charlie. Who else?'

'But he killed him in fair fight, Jordan?' panted Deborah, with her hands pressed over her beating heart, and a loud ringing in her ears. 'No one can blame him or touch him for that! O Charlie, O my brother!' and she fell in a dead-faint at old Jordan's feet. He caught her up, and bore her in to Marjory; with anxious earnest tenderness they cared for her. But Deborah was soon herself. Rousing, she saw the two old sorrowful faces; and with a hand on a shoulder of each ancient lover, burst into a wild laugh of joy. 'Free! free!' she cried. 'Free to act and think, and laugh and weep! Charlie has set me free! The old man is dead! Oh, poor sad old man, whither has fled his soul?—Jordan, is Charlie hurt? Tell me truly; is my poor, sweet, gallant, faithful Charlie hurt?' And she sat up, erect and resolute.

'No, no, my lamb; he ain't hurt; he's safe enow; only he must be off for a time out o' this. Master Charlie has done for the "old fox," Mistress Deborah!' and Jordan began to chuckle triumphantly. Deborah laughed too, aloud. Marjory looked on scared and scandalised.

'Oh, am I mad?' quoth Deborah, as she started up and began to pace the stone hall like a wild creature. 'Am I mad, that I care not for bloodshed, or that old man's hereafter, or anything, so long as I get freedom? Free! free!' she cried aloud in ecstasy, as she ran from one window to another laughing wildly; and then, while the two old servants stood half-aghast, she sped away into the open air, into the sun—and liberty! There, alone, on the green turf, under the waving trees, under the blue and boundless sky; where chased the little white clouds like winged spirits; while through all the beautiful demesne, where the birds were singing melodiously, and all nature was glad, Deborah Fleming wept her wild heart calm.

But Mistress Fleming? Young Mistress Margaret Fleming? She shed not a tear that day. With a heart relieved of a mighty weight, yet overcharged with anxiety, love, and fear, she watched till darkness fell, ever thinking of Deborah's wild and radiant face, till, late on in the night, or rather early morning, tidings were sent her of her love.

And where was Charlie Fleming then? Far, far away—hunted by the dogs of vengeance and the law. Mounted on his good bay horse, he passed through Enderby that night, in his wild flight; and as he fled, looked back, with hand uplifted to the high dim lights of Enderby, and bade it—a long adieu. Turrets, towers, and trees passed from him, like shadows in a dream....

Deborah's trials were not ended. Where was her poor unhappy father? Gone, gone again, ere she knew of it; and she was terribly anxious about him—as to how he would take this news; terribly anxious too, now that reason and calmness had returned to her, about her exiled brother, though Mistress Margaret had told her that he was safe out of England. Thoughts, wild and vague too, of her lover and kinsman haunted her. Where was he? She had enough to drive her distraught; but Deborah possessed a bold heart and iron will, and would not be subdued; and ever the glorious sense of recovered freedom made her heart throb with ecstasy of joy.

Some days after the duel at Lincoln, while Deborah was restlessly pacing the great lonely saloon, the outer bell rang. What now? Tidings good or evil? She felt prepared for anything that might befall. Old Marjory came to the door.

'Master Parry, Mistress Deborah;' and a small thin wizened man entered, with a bag in his hand. Deborah Fleming, from her stately height, looked down on the sly crafty face and shrinking figure, and with a woman's swift instinctive judgment, disliked and distrusted him. She bowed, ever so slightly. He, the cunning man of law and of the world, was half abashed and wholly uneasy at the full gaze bent upon him, and at the girl's bold and easy bearing. She waited for him to speak.

'Mistress Fleming,' he said with a low bow, 'at this sad time I must humbly apologise for this intrusion. I would have spoken with Sir Vincent; but he is away, I find. May I venture then to address his daughter in his stead? For my business, Mistress Fleming, is with you.'

'Certainly. Sit down, Master Parry, and say what you have to say.'

With another low bow he drew up a chair, and placing his hat on the table, and glancing first at the closed door, said in a mysterious tone: 'I come to you, Mistress Fleming, as the bearer of two great good pieces of intelligence; one, I am sure will afford Mistress Fleming's generous heart great joy, and that I will reserve till last.'

Deborah bowed in silence; her instinctive thoughts uttered 'Hypocrite!'

'Mistress Fleming,' continued the lawyer, still uneasy under that steady gaze, but still overflowing with polite urbanity and humble deference, 'I, as the sole executor of the late Adam Sinclair' (and his countenance lengthened visibly and his eyelids fell), 'have the pleasure of informing you that "Deborah Fleming" is left by his will the sole inheritor of all his property, landed and personal, unconditionally and without reserve.'

There was silence for a moment; Deborah had started and then kept still and calm, while first a great horror of the dead man's gold, and then thoughts of her father and brother and Enderby, coursed through her startled mind. In that moment the lawyer Parry shot one furtive glance from his crafty eyes, and perceived her deep in abstracted thought; and marvelled at her coolness and dignity, little guessing the combative thoughts that were surging in her breast.

'This was generous of Master Sinclair,' said Deborah. 'You have something else to tell me?' She turned her eyes on him. He fidgeted; he avoided her gaze; he looked down, he looked out on the sky, he looked up at the carved chimney-piece, where grotesque faces grinned down at him; he looked anywhere but at Deborah. It was but a slight tremor, a slight hesitation, only very quick eyes would have discerned it, under the flow of ready words: 'Yes, Mistress Fleming; it relates to your brother, Master Charles Fleming; and though it is a proof sure and convincing that will clear him from a foul aspersion which has incidentally (incidentally, mind you) come to my knowledge; at the same time—and with deep reluctance I say it—it shews Master Sinclair in ill colours, and casts bitter blame on his memory. But mark, Mistress Fleming; Master Sinclair was my oldest friend, my benefactor; what I tell you now, I tell you in confidence, and the secret had best perish between your family and myself. But first I will shew what I mean.' He then drew some papers from a bag, and spread them before Deborah's eyes, with his hands upon them. 'See, see!' he muttered, apparently trembling with sudden excitement, 'what Adam Sinclair and his myrmidons have done! And to get you in his power, Mistress Fleming! All to win your favour! I swear it, for I discovered them in the act! This writing you would say is your brother's? There too is his signature. But I hereby swear it to be a base forgery, and no more Master Fleming's writing than it is mine. This was a plot to throw dust in Sir Vincent's eyes, and disgrace on his son's name, by proving that Master Fleming had secretly raised money on this estate.'

'I know it—I know it all,' said Deborah, very white and calm. 'Cannot you tell me who wrote this?' And she laid her finger on her brother's name, and fixed her clear eyes upon the wrinkled crafty being before her, till they seemed to read his soul.

'I cannot inform you of that, Mistress Fleming,' he answered with sorrowful regret, and looked away, and up at the grinning faces that seemed to mock him, so that he glanced quickly away from them again.

'You are generous,' said Deborah; but a look of unutterable disdain was clouding those clear eyes with passion and with scorn. 'You will tell me thus far, but no further, not even this creature's name. Why, I would give all my new possessions, Master Parry, just to bring him to justice for this. But what is your purpose in bringing this paper to me? Am I to buy it of you, as Master Sinclair would have done, had not death taken him? I heard your name and his in connection with this matter; no other.'

Master Parry wished himself away from Enderby, and well out of it all, with a heavy purse. 'Mistress Fleming,' he said, 'what you suspect, or what charge you would bring against me, I know not. I only swear to you that I got possession of this paper by great and grievous trouble, and no small exercise of talent. The villain's name who compassed this forgery I cannot divulge; but if ye would shield the dead man's memory, save the honour of your name, and that of your father and brother, and prevent this paper for ever from seeing light—take it of me.'

'Ye do trade on it then?' said Deborah, still with those eyes and lips of ineffable disdain.

'Mistress Fleming, another trades with me,' answered the man of law, with a semblance of grave and dignified reproof and a glance of injured innocence. 'I have suffered much already in this cause, and small thanks I get. If I am not well paid therefore, this paper must go back to the owner, and he makes it public. If I am well paid, it is mine—it is yours—to burn, to do with it what you will.'

'I see now, Master Parry, why it is more convenient to negotiate with Mistress Fleming than with Sir Vincent. I am a woman. You can threaten me, and think to daunt me; but you shall find yourself mistaken. If ye are not this arch-villain himself, ye are playing into his hands. Why, I tell ye, girl as I am, and ignorant, I know the emptiness of your threats! To what end would this forged paper be published? What harm could it do Charles Fleming? To publish this'—and Deborah rose with a laugh of scorn, and struck her hand upon it—'would be but to bring disgrace on him who published it—disgrace! ay, and death! My brother's innocence would be proved, and this man brought to the gallows. Now, would ye have me buy it, Master Parry? Nay, you had better not, for I would have no mercy on the author of this villainy. Destroy it! Nay; I would publish it to all the world.'

'Ah Mistress, ye know little of the world then, or of the result of such a trial. It might go hard with Master Fleming, I warn ye. But if ye will have it so, I'll e'en give this back, and let him work his will. He's not a man to be made a foe of with impunity. I sadly fear ye will rue this rash act. I might have saved you. But be it, Mistress Fleming, as you will.'

With a savage consciousness of having been worsted, nay, utterly defeated, by a young and dauntless maiden, Master Parry stood with hat and bag in hand. Mistress Fleming had read him through. He had won neither gold nor favour from the future Mistress of Lincoln, only stern defiance and proud disdain.

How he hated her, but how blandly he smiled!

'I am not afraid,' quoth haughty Mistress Fleming; and looking beyond the lawyer and over his head, she bowed him calmly to the door.

One low reverence and a muttered curse between his teeth, and the doors of Enderby closed for aye on Master Parry.

Deborah was herself then. With thoughts collected and brows lowering she threw open all the windows; then standing on the hearth, she muttered: 'He has done it himself. I am trembling now with passion—only I would not vent it on a thing so mean—though my hands ached to be at him, woman as I am! Have I acted and judged aright? Oh, I know not; I know naught o' business; I cannot abide it. But I have acted a woman's part in this; not from pity, but because it would shame me to drag the name of Fleming through such mud. Only I was fain to shew the worm what I could do. O King, King! where art thou? O dear father; and poor, brave, gallant, honourable Charlie! Where, where is father, that I may tell him this great good news? O my precious brother, to think we should e'er have doubted thee! Well-a-day! I am a rich heiress—I am a great lady; I will pay all our debts; and Enderby—Enderby is mine! to give away to father and to Charlie! O wretched Adam Sinclair—poor perjured soul! Would your wealth not do such untold good, I would none of it. Honour and charity together shall wipe the stains from off your gold, and make it good for use.'

Sir Vincent came home late one evening, some days after Adam Sinclair's death. Some one, some careless tongue had told him suddenly that Adam Sinclair had met his death at the hand of Charles Fleming. He stopped at the lodge, and got off his horse feebly.

'Mistress Dinnage,' said he, 'where is my boy Charlie?'

She gazed at him earnestly, then answered: 'He is gone away on a journey, Sir Vincent. He'll be home again before long.'

'Before long! Ah, he's a good boy to the old man, with all his faults, whatever they may say. Where's Adam Sinclair?'

She evaded that question. 'Come home with me,' she said tenderly; and unwonted tears lurked in the dark splendour of her eyes.

So, arm in arm, proud young Mistress Fleming and the poor broken-down master of Enderby walked slowly home.

Deborah saw them pass the window; and started forward and met them. But the glorious tidings of Charlie's unstained honour, the proud consciousness of power and position, the brightness in her eyes, and the bright colour in her cheeks, left her, on looking on her father. He stretched out his hands; there was terrible pathos in that feeble but impassioned gesture, and a sad and wandering smile replaced the light of intellect.

'Deb, little Deb! O my darling! I have been looking for thee. They told me thou wert dead! It shook me terribly. Thank God, thou'rt alive and well. And how is it with thee, my dove?'

'He is wandering,' whispered Margaret below her breath. 'We must nurse him, Mistress Deborah dear; he will soon be well.'

For Deborah, leaning her brave heart on her father's breast, was trembling like a leaf, and tears of agony were gathered in her eyes. Was that strong mind, that tender father's care, dead to her for ever? Would he never, never know the innocence of his darling, whose imagined treachery had stricken him thus? 'Father!' she cried, in piercing accents of despair, 'father! Charlie is innocent. Charlie never wrote that paper, father dear; but a bad man did it, forging Charlie's name! Charlie never, never raised money upon Enderby! He is as guiltless and as true to thee as Deborah! Dost hear me, father? Dost hear me? Dost understand?'

He smiled at her vehemence, and stroked back her hair. 'Ay; I understand thee. Charlie is a good fellow, and our own dear brave boy. Though that running off from school, Deb,' he whispered, 'was the wild blood cropping up! Ha, ha, ha! that was a mistake; eh, Deb?' and he laughed vehemently again.

'O Mistress Fleming,' said Deborah, with her hand to her brow, 'this is harder to me than all. Margaret, Margaret! what shall we do? This is death in life.—O father, dear father! dost not know me? We have stood side by side in all our troubles, and now all trouble is at an end. We are rich! and Enderby, Enderby, father, is ours! We have money, father—riches, plenty! Charlie shall come home to thee—come home and live at Enderby! O sweet father, be thyself! Be calm, love, and God will restore thee, make thee well. Father, father, I am little Deb! Be my own dear father. Be thyself. Look! better times are coming, father, for Charlie and for thee!' Wild, sweet, impassioned were Deborah's words and tones and looks.

Sir Vincent Fleming raised his hand to his head, and gazed all round, and gazed at her and Margaret. 'Deb,' he said, 'I am tired, very tired of this world, dear love. Take me home, home to thy mother and to Enderby. I must rest.'

Pale and tearless, Deborah glanced at Mistress Fleming, and led the old man to his chair by the fireside. But for Mistress Fleming, she could see no more; her eyes were blind with tears.

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH.

That night Charlie's secretly made wife Meg Dinnage wrote and despatched a letter to Kingston Fleming, in this wise: 'Master Kingston Fleming, we are in a sore strait. Master Sinclair is dead; ye may have heard it. Master Charles Fleming is gone away. My Lady Deb is all alone, for her poor father is helpless on our hands. As ye are kind and true, come with speed to Enderby. You will be welcome.'

That same night Mistress Fleming and Deborah conferred long together, and talked themselves light-hearted about the future. Then said Mistress Fleming: 'Let me brush your lovely long hair, Lady Deb; for soon you will have a maid for this and a maid for that. Lady o' Lincoln Castle! Oh, who would have thought on such luck! I no longer hate the poor fox who has died and left you all, but pity him from my heart. Ah, Lady Deb, I wish Master Fleming could hear o' this.'

'You know where he is hiding, Mistress Dinnage, but will not tell me.'

'Nay; I am under oath. But why should Master Fleming tell "Mistress Dinnage" his hiding-place?'

'Ye cannot blind me, Margaret; you are also a maiden; you are happy. Nay; come round to me, dear. The time has come. But my own selfish sorrows have kept me dumb hitherto. Margaret, you love him! He has spoken!' Deborah leaned back in her chair, gazing up, with her hair falling like a golden shower behind her.

Mistress Fleming, dark-haired, dark-eyed, blushing, drooped, till she sank and laid her head on Deborah's knees. The action was eloquent.

'And ye have kept this from me?' whispered Deborah, drooping over her. 'O Mistress Dinnage, Mistress Dinnage! but you shall be wedded now as soon as ever Lincoln tragedy is blown over, and poor Adam Sinclair's fate forgot. Meantime, what doeth Charlie, dear? Speak! I will guard the secret.'

'He has gone to fight. He has 'listed with the Irish to fight against England. Ye have driven me to add to your sorrows, Lady Deb; lightening my own heart to tell you this.'

'O Margaret, Margaret! what could induce him to do this mad thing? Has he really joined?'

'A week ago.'

'And a private! O Charlie Fleming, this is a sore trouble, yet no disgrace. But you thought yourself a ruined man.'

'We must pray for him, Lady Deb. Oh, night and day he is my prayer. God guard him!'

'It is well father cannot know of this;' and Deborah fell into deep thought.

'Mistress Dinnage,' said she suddenly, 'I was happy this morning: I heard from May Warriston.'

'I saw you did.'

'She told me news. Mistress Blancheflower was married a month ago at Naples to Count Mazzini. There was a very grand wedding.'

'What! Did she desert Master King Fleming then, for this foreign count?'

'Ay, she did!' said Deborah bitterly. 'I would not have believed it. And I taunted him, and called him false and a traitor, Mistress Dinnage, when he came over last and told me he was free. And now I hear that she threw him over so soon as the rich count appeared. Heaven forgive her! She has cost me much.'

'For naught,' added Mistress Fleming fiercely; and then Mistress Fleming thought, and laughed to herself. 'When Master King Fleming comes again,' she continued softly, 'you will not chide him then. No; you will be kind, for sake of those hard words. I like Master King Fleming dearly.'

'Nay,' answered Deborah, speaking coldly and blushing warmly; 'I have more to forgive than he. We both spoke hotly; but King said a hard thing of me anent my wedding Master Sinclair. We were both hot. But take my word for it, Mistress Dinnage, he will come no more to Enderby.'

'He will, and will be welcome too. He would make the Master his old self again; so father says, and I well believe it.'

'O hush, Mistress Dinnage, hush! He will come no more to Enderby, nor do we need him now.'

One long day passed; but another dawn brought Kingston Fleming. Mistress Margaret, eagerly watching from her window, saw him ride up, and was out before Marjory. As she stood in the early sun, he wondered at her beauty, though his soul was in another's. She held his horse; he wondered at her graciousness, little wotting that the girl's proud heart was all subdued by the same subtle shaft that quivered in his own. She thought of herself no more.

'Thank ye,' said Kingston. 'And thank ye, dear Mistress Dinnage, for the little letter. Did Deborah know of that?'

'Nay; I writ without her knowledge. But she will welcome ye. Only try.'

'O Mistress Dinnage, I was hard and brutal with her.'

'She has forgot. Only try.'

'Where is she? And the poor old master?'

'They are in the house. I will run to him; and Lady Deb shall go into the garden, unwitting you are here. It is best so. Go round.'

'But stay, Mistress Dinnage, one moment. Where is Charlie Fleming?'

'How can I tell you?' replied Mistress Margaret with her old hauteur. 'His sister would better know;' and turned away, as the scarlet blood dyed face and throat and hands.

So Kingston sauntered round, just as if his heart were not knocking against his side with tumultuous love and desperate longing hope.

There soon walked his sweet love into the garden. Little did Kingston, there watching through the trees, know of the great fortune that had befallen her, or he would have seen himself far enough away before seeking Deborah Fleming's ear. Hark! she is singing. She is passing close to him while she sings, his first—last—only love! She was looking pale and sorrowful, that sweet Rose of Enderby. O to pluck that fair Rose from the thorny stem of Enderby, and wear it for ever on his breast! As he gazed, Kingston Fleming felt himself capable of anything for her dear sake. His heart swelled with joy and triumph, to think that she was poor and lonely, and that he could hew a place for her amongst the great ones of the earth. He stepped forward, and faltered—'Deborah!'

Deborah was taken aback. She stood, and first faded to a white rose and then flushed to a red, and not a word to say.

'Deborah,' said Kingston Fleming, 'don't resent my coming. I heard of my uncle Vincent's illness—and, of Master Sinclair's death. Love! I will not offend by word or look or deed; only bid me serve thee!'

'And hast forgiven me, Kingston?' faltered the girl, her passionate love pleading wildly within her breast, and quelling all else beside, forgetting utterly that she too had thought herself aggrieved.

'Forgiven thee, Deb?' asked Kingston, paling. 'Hast thou forgiven me? I did thee grievous wrong; I knew my words were base and false, my noble one!'

'Ah, speak not of that, for heaven's sake! We were mad, King, and both maybe have been to blame in our past lives. We know all now; there is no secret between us.'

'No. If I know of Master Sinclair's death, you know of Mistress Blancheflower's wedding.'

'Dost know all, King?' asked Deborah suddenly, and tears and laughter were lurking in her upraised eyes.

'Nay; what more? Naught will surprise me.'

'Charlie has cut himself off from England, and enlisted with the Irish rebels. Master Sinclair, little knowing my brother would kill him, has left me all his wealth and lands.'

Kingston started; he had frowned at the first tidings, but the last overclouded his brow like night. 'I knew naught of all this,' he answered calmly.

'Yes, King,' continued Mistress Fleming, with her old gaiety, 'I am a great lady now! It seems so strange for poor Deborah Fleming to be an heiress. But bethink ye: this will save Charlie; we will have him back soon!'

'Ay; it will save Charlie,' muttered Kingston thoughtfully.

'Why, you are not glad at my good fortune! Father, dear father, when he is himself, will be right glad to hear it. King, you once told me you would be proud of me if I were a grand lady. Now, ye have not a word o' congratulation to offer me, though I am Lady of Lincoln!'

'I wish ye were aught else. Deb, I would ye were a beggar!'

'O loving wish! I have been beggar long enough. Why dost wish this? Tell me.'

'Because it is Adam Sinclair's gold; because ye owe all to him. But Deb, I must bid ye adieu, love, when I have seen your father. I came but for a few hours; I have business at Granta.'

'Always going! always gone! King, ye are like a wreath of smoke—ever evanishing in thin air.'

He wrung her hand, and turned away; yet he saw that tears were in her eyes. Deborah felt that if he went, he went for ever. The truth flashed upon her: he loved her still, but her fortune sundered them in his eyes. What should she do? Woo him? He knew not even of her love. She plucked a daisy from the grass, and gave it him: 'King, rememberest thou? "He loved me not?"'

'Who loved thee not?' And he stood and gazed upon her.

Trembling like an aspen leaf at her own boldness, she answered tremulously: 'Why, Kingston Fleming.'

'Didst love Kingston Fleming then?'

'Then—now—and always!' And she sank upon his breast.

(To be concluded next month.)

SKETCHES IN VANCOUVER ISLAND.

Vancouver Island, which forms part of British North America, and stretches a length of three hundred miles along the coast of the Pacific, is still little known, although singularly attractive for its picturesque beauty, its fine climate, and its many interesting objects in natural history. The writer of this happened to be a resident in that beautiful island in 1876, and is able to say something of its scenery and products.

We were particularly struck with the grandeur of the forests. The huge dimensions of some of the trees fill one with amazement; nor is there less surprise at the profusion of gem-like berries of many varieties. The moist alluvial soil produces the delicious salmon-berry, in appearance a glowing jewel of gold; these, with cranberries, bramble-berries, currants, and a small black gooseberry, are very abundant. The most arid and rocky situations are often fairly black with grape-like bunches of the sweet sellal berry, which grows on a low hardy evergreen, and defies frosts until late in the season. Another variety of the gooseberry, larger than the black ones, with a skin covered with a bitter and glutinous secretion, grows very abundantly on the dryer soils. Its pulp when ripe is similar to cultivated varieties. The red huckleberry, strawberry, and raspberry, with some others, abound in the gravelly pine-lands. Man's constant need of timber is abundantly met in these forests. The Douglas or red fir, a tough dense wood, attains a great size, and prevails almost universally. The red cedar, hemlock, spruce, white pine, balsam pine, and other useful conifers, are plentiful; while among deciduous trees may be mentioned maples, beeches, cherries, and oaks, which are more sparsely distributed.

To the lover of natural scenery few things are more delightful than a canoe cruise along this coast and among the intricate avenue-like channels which surround the adjacent islands. The rocky shores, mostly of a sandstone formation, are for miles wrought and carved by ocean tides and sands until they resemble fantastic Gothic architecture. The lofty snow-clad peaks of the neighbouring continent afford a sublime background to the clear azure sea and verdant graces of the nearer coasts, whose inviting bays and tiny coves seem to bid the voyager to land and explore.

Both Siwash and Cloochman, as the males and females of Vancouver Island are respectively styled, ply the paddle and sail with great dexterity. Canoeing is their forte. Many families spend more than half their lives on the water, travelling immense distances, and boldly crossing wide straits in seas that are often boisterous. Most picturesque in its details is an Indian encampment, as seen every day in the vicinity of Nanaimo, Comet, and other settlements on the eastern coast. The capacious canoe is hauled beyond reach of tides, and if in sunny weather, carefully shaded, to prevent cracking. Everything needed for use is removed to the camping-ground. A few poles and rush-mats form the necessary shelter. In making the mats the squaws (women) are very skilful, and form an ever-present and prominent adjunct to the Indian household. If the family have just returned from a successful hunt, they will probably have four or five deer to skin and dress; besides a dozen or two of grouse, a few ducks and geese; and often a seal, or elk, or black bear adds variety to the bill of fare. The skins of the animals are stretched, dried, and sold, together with such superfluous meat as can be disposed of. Two or three small wolfish dogs are generally to be seen tied up and eyeing the butchering operations with keen interest. Towards evening, presuming the necessary tasks have been accomplished, men, women and children recline lazily upon their mats, and for hours make the night hideous with their peculiar clucking language.

Besides the substantial supplies already enumerated, Ocean furnishes with no niggardly hand his gleaming luxuries, of which the salmon forms the chief. In a fragile bark which holds but one, and can be lifted with one hand, Siwash or Cloochman starts for the salmon-grounds, often a mile or two from the village. Trolling a line of about twenty yards with a spoon bait or natural fish attached, he or she paddles at a moderate pace, carefully avoiding entanglement with sea-weed. The line being held with the paddle, each stroke of the latter gives the bait a spasmodic and life-like movement, highly conducive to success. Many salmon (of inferior quality) are taken in the rivers by spearing; and though the river-banks are frequently offensive from the number of fish that have died from injuries received in ascending to and returning from the spawning-ground, hungry bears and sea-fowl innumerable perform the scavenger's cleanly offices.

The natives have a peculiar mode of catching a small fish which resembles a herring, but is inferior to it in size. Taking a lath-like stick of tough wood, the edge of the end not handled being armed for several feet with thin iron spikes, they proceed slowly in search of their prey, using their implement like a paddle, and darting it rapidly through the finny droves. By this manœuvre a dozen or two are frequently impaled at a stroke, and adroitly transferred to the canoe to be used as bait. Herring and herring-spawn are largely eaten, both fresh and dried, the spawn being obtained by placing fir branches in the quiet bays which the herring frequent. As soon as the branches are covered, the spawn is collected and dried in the sun. Halibut and rock-cod are also caught in these waters. Among shell-fish may be mentioned a poor apology for the oyster, which seldom attains a diameter exceeding an inch. Its near neighbour the clam atones for this deficiency, and is frequently got upwards of a pound in weight. Very dear to the heart of Siwash is this mud-loving crustacean, which plays an active part in rustic repasts. The bivalve is often smoked, dried, and put on long skewers; and together with dried salmon, forms an unfailing adjunct to the Indian cuisine. Besides the oyster and clam, the mussel, razor-fish, cockle, and a few others are found on these coasts.

The Vancouver Islanders are a broad-shouldered, stalwart race, though perhaps a trifle below the medium stature. On their 'reservations' a few families raise stock, grain, and potatoes. This result, however, has not been obtained without much official encouragement. A few are employed as occasional day-labourers about the Nanaimo coal-mines, and some are employed more steadily by the miners underground. The storekeepers avail themselves of their services when they need porters. Many households also employ the women for washing, &c. A language called Chinook is learned both by whites and reds, for mutual convenience in trading and ordinary intercourse. This mixture of many tongues was introduced by the Hudson Bay Company, but can scarcely be called a classical language, being far more useful than elegant, English, French, and native dialects being among its constituent parts. Another remaining mark of Hudson Bay influence is found in the curious currency existing among these people. Probably no race has ever had so bulky a circulating medium as the ordinary blanket, which in the rude lodges of the richer chiefs is stored up by hundreds, and is everywhere acknowledged to be the token of wealth.

The squaws are cunning in the manufacture of water-tight baskets, which are used for many household purposes. Their bark canoe-balers are also unique though simple in construction. Not only in canoe-building do the Siwashes display their handicraft, but many of the villages are ornamented with grotesque carvings, apparently of heathen deities. At Comox and Nanaimo might be seen a short time ago poles two or three feet in diameter with fantastic figures carved one over the other nearly to the top. At the latter place a colossal painting of a fish resembling a salmon, though perhaps intended for a whale, confronted us as we approached the village from the water.

Weird and ghostly in appearance is the Indian burial-ground hard by this spot. Steering up towards the head of the broad Nanaimo Bay until the rising ground with its heavy forests casts darkling shadows over the waters, one sees two strange goblin-like figures, hideous with paint and ghastly protruding eyeballs, apparently keeping guard over this 'city of the dead.' By the side of each of these wooden figures are poles supporting white flags, which may be intended as emblems of that truce to evil thoughts which all humanity observes towards the dead. These simple children of Nature, like some who claim more refinement, seem sadly loath to be placed underground, many of the Indian corpses being laid upon beds and covered with blankets, while a rude wooden hut is erected around. Within reach of the dead Indian's hand is often placed a piece of tobacco; and food and water are added by loving survivors. The Methodists have laboured devotedly here, together with Episcopalians and Roman Catholics.

The aboriginal tribes of the island, now that they are being brought face to face with modern civilisation, are rapidly disappearing. Small-pox has reaped its thousands, and vice and intemperance their tens of thousands, among these and neighbouring races. In Victoria and other of the towns and settlements, one remarks the comfortable European attire of many of the Indians, particularly the younger ones, who seem to prize such apparel more than most of the Pacific tribes do. During the long winter evenings, men, women, and children will gather together in one of their capacious halls and hold their sports far into the night. The hall, often more than one hundred feet in length and fifty broad, is brilliantly lighted and warmed by huge fires of bark or pitch pine; the fires being built on the earthen floor, three in a row on each side of the interior, and having an attendant specially detailed to look after them. Seldom more than one person dances at once. If a Siwash is performing, he is often decorated with a garland of feathers, with perhaps a panther or bear skin loosely thrown across the shoulders, and bells fastened around the ankles. His movements are agile rather than graceful, a succession of high leaps and bounds being often accompanied with dumb-show and singing, in which latter the audience join strenuously. When the broad-faced, good-humoured Cloochman (the literal meaning in Chinook of the last word is goodman!) appears in the arena, her dress is often of the usual cotton fabric, her features are daubed with paint, and her thick raven locks absurdly smothered in white downy feathers. She sometimes jingles an instrument like a tambourine, and from her movements appears deeply impressed with the motto 'Excelsior;' but alas! her vast superfluity of adipose tissue and the forces of gravity combine to extinguish her lofty aspirations. If mortal eyes could behold a well-fed duck striving earnestly for gymnastic fame, its performances would probably resemble those of our lady-friend. No conventional ideas bid her to use the toe more than the heel in dancing. Upon making careful inquiries, the spectator will discover that the performers in these dances are generally in a kind of delirium, the result of severe fasting extended over many days. Their utterances are regarded as the inspirations of the Great Spirit, and the dancers doubtless obtain a tribute of reverence from their comrades in return for their privations.

Another peculiar custom is to hold a potlatch, or free distribution of gifts, at the principal villages every summer. Potlatch in Chinook signifies 'to give,' or 'a gift.' These meetings of many tribes are the scenes of much festivity. Clad in the skins of the bear, panther, wolf, beaver, eagle, or elk, Indians represent the respective animals, imitating their peculiar cries and other characteristics with wonderful fidelity to nature. When the time arrives, the chief and principal men among the hosts proceed to distribute large supplies of blankets and muskets, the latter being often thrown into the sea and dived for. Much honour is accorded to the greatest giver, and the chiefs need to be large-hearted as well as wealthy to retain their dignity.

When the writer of this sketch left the island, its mineral wealth was very considerable, and still continues to be so. Many thousand tons of the best coal on the Pacific coast were exported every month from Nanaimo and vicinity. Other large veins known to exist, were not worked, from a lack of capital and for other reasons best known to the proprietors. The Texada iron mountain, in the Straits of Georgia, together with other metallic deposits, may in the future claim the attention they deserve. When finished, the Canadian Pacific Railway will bring the right kind of emigrants to these shores, and doubtless more extensive quantities of arable land than are now cultivated will be found in the interior, when the demand for it is increased. The present race of settlers are a hardy, hospitable class of men, expert with the axe, daring and dexterous canoeists, and very ingenious in meeting the continual difficulties and vicissitudes of backwoods life. Keen hunters are often to be met among them, men who are so successful with the rifle that their families keep a full larder without the aid of butcher or poulterer.

An enlightened system of free schools enables the widely scattered children of this island and of the other portions of British Columbia to obtain a substantial education at the public expense; and much credit is due to the energy and ability of the school superintendent, whose task it has been to organise and perfect the present satisfactory educational arrangements. We shall be glad if these sketches help to stir up an interest concerning this beautiful and productive island.