Jeff Benson, or the Young Coastguardsman, R. M. Ballantyne [best fiction novels .txt] 📗

man helpless—a strong, capable machine, that might do so much good in the world, useless?”

He spoke in an almost querulous tone, and looked inquiringly in his nurse’s face. It did not occur to the youth, as he looked at her, that the weak-bodied, soft, and gentle creature herself had been, and still was, doing more good to the world than a hundred young men such as he!

Miss Millet’s face was a wholesome one to look into. She did not shake her head and look solemn or shocked. Neither did she laugh at his petulance. She merely said, with the sweetest of little smiles, “You may live, Jeff, to be a very useful machine yet; if not quite as strong as you were—though even that is uncertain, for doctors are fallible, you know. Never forget that, Jeff—doctors are fallible. Besides, your living at all shows that God has something for you to do for Him.”

“Nonsense, auntie. If that is true of me, it is just as true of hundreds of men who live and die without making the smallest attempt to accomplish any work for God. Yet He lets them live for many years.”

“Quite true,” returned Miss Millet; “and God has work for all these men to do, though many of them refuse to do it. But I feel sure that that won’t be your case, Jeff. He finds work just suited to our capacities—at the time we need it, too, if we are only willing. Why, in my own very case, has He not sent you to me to be nursed, just as I had finished organising the new night-classes for the usher-boys; and I was puzzled—absolutely puzzled—as to what I should do next and here you step in, requiring my assistance, and giving me full employment.”

“That’s it—that’s it,” returned Jeff hastily. “I am without means, and a burden on you and Captain Millet. Oh! it is hard—very hard!”

“Yes, indeed, it is hard to bear. Of course that is what you mean, for, as God has done it we cannot suppose anything that He does is really hard. If your illness had been the result of dissipation, now, or through your own fault, you could not have said exactly it was God’s doing; but when it was the result of noble self-sacrifice—”

“Come, come, auntie; don’t make me more vain than I am. I’m bad enough as it is, and—and—I’m very weary.”

The poor youth’s head fell back on the pillow, and he sighed deeply as his nurse brought him some strengthening food. He needed it much, for he was reduced to a mere shadow of his former self.

His fine eyes had become quite awful in their size and solemnity. His once ruddy cheeks were hollow. His well-formed nose had become pinched, and his garments hung on, rather than clothed, a huge skeleton.

During all Jeff’s illness Captain Millet was unremitting in his attentions, insomuch that a certain careworn expression began to take up its settled abode on his countenance. But this was not altogether owing to sympathy with his friend, it was partly the consequence of his financial affairs.

Having lost his situation, as he had expected, he found it difficult to procure another, and was under the necessity of living on the small capital which he had accumulated in the course of laborious years. Had his own subsistence been all his care, he would have had little trouble; but Rose had to be supported and educated, his sister had to be assisted, his charities had to be kept up, and now Jeff Benson had to be maintained, and his doctor paid. The worst of it all was, that he could not talk on the subject to any of the three, which, to a sympathetic soul, was uncommonly hard—but unavoidable.

“Yes, quite unavoidable,” he muttered to himself one evening, when alone in his lodging. “They think I’m a rich old fellow, but I daren’t say a word. If I did, Jeff would refuse to eat another bite, an’ that would kill him. If I told Rosebud, it could do no good, and would only make her miserable. If I told Molly, I—I really don’t know what she’d do. She’d founder, I think. No, I must go on sailin’ under false colours. It’s a comfort, anyhow, to know that the funds will last some little time yet, even at the present rate of expenditure; but it’s perplexin’—very.”

He shook his head, wrinkled his brows, and then, rising, took a well-worn pocket-Bible from a shelf, and sought consolation therein.

Some time after that Captain Millet was seated in the same room, about the same hour, meditating on the same subject, with a few additional wrinkles on his brow, when he received a letter.

“From Hong Kong,” he muttered, opening it, and putting on his glasses.

The changes in his expressive face as he read were striking, and might have been instructive. Sadness first—then surprise—then blazing astonishment—then a pursing of the mouth and a prolonged whistle, followed by an expressive slap on the thigh. Then, crumpling the letter into his pocket he put on his glazed hat, sallied forth, and took the way to his sister’s cottage.

At that cottage, about the same time, a great change had taken place in Jeff Benson—spiritually, not physically, though even in the latter respect he was at all events not worse than usual. Having gone from bad to worse in his rebellion, he had at last reached that lowest depth wherein he not only despaired of the doctor’s power to cure him, and his own power of constitution, but began silently, and in his own mind, to charge his Maker with having made a complete failure in his creation.

“Life is a muddle, auntie, altogether!” he exclaimed when he reached this point. It was the lowest ebb—hopeless despair alike of himself and his God.

“A muddle, Jeff?” said the little woman, raising her eyebrows slightly. “How can that be possible in the work of a Perfect Creator, and a Perfect Saviour who redeems from all evil—your supposed ‘muddle’ included?”

Our young coastguardsman was silent. It was probably the great turning-point when the Holy Spirit opened his eyes to see Jesus, and all things in relation to Him. For a long time he did not speak. The lips of his nurse were also silent, but her heart was not so. At last Jeff spoke—

“It must be so. Perfection is bound to work out perfection. This apparent evil must be for good. ‘He doeth all things well.’ Surely I have read that somewhere!”

In a low clear voice his nurse said—

“‘He doeth all things well,’

    We say it now with tears;

But we shall sing it with those we love

    Through bright eternal years.”

“I think the light is dawning, auntie.”

“I am sure it is, Jeff.”

Again they were silent, and thus they remained while the natural light faded, until the western sky and sea were dyed in crimson.

The first thing that diverted their thoughts was a quick step outside, then a thunderous knock at the door, and next moment the captain stood before them, beaming with excitement, panting heavily, and quite unable for some minutes to talk coherently.

“Sister,” said he at last, “sit down an’ listen. Jeff, open your ears.”

He drew a crumpled letter from his pocket, spread it on his knee, put on his glasses, and read as follows:—

“‘My Dear Captain Millet,—

“‘You will, I know, be grieved, though not surprised, to hear that your old friend Nibsworth is dead. Poor fellow! his end came much as you and I had anticipated when we last parted. He followed his dear Clara about two months after her death. I suppose you know that she died three days after you left their house.

“‘My object in writing just now, however, is to convey to you a piece of good news; namely, that Nibsworth has left you the whole of his property, which, altogether, cannot amount to less, I should think, than eighty thousand pounds.’”

At this point the captain paused and looked over his glasses at his sister, who, with wide-open eyes, exclaimed—

“Brother! he must be joking!”

“Sister,” returned the captain, “my friend never jokes, except when in extremely congenial society, and then his jokes are bad—so bad as to be unworthy of repetition.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Miss Millet.

“Singular,” murmured Jeff, whose thoughts seemed to be engaged with some far-off prospect.

“He goes on,” continued the captain, reading: “‘I am left the sole executor of his affairs. Pray, therefore, write as to what you wish done. I am not at present conversant with the precise duties of an executor, but of course I will get the best advice possible in the circumstances, and do the best I can. I would recommend you to do the same at your end of the world, and let me have your instructions as soon as possible. The enclosed statement will show you the nature of your property. The greater part, you will observe, is in hard cash. I may add that the house and grounds here would sell well at present, if you feel inclined to dispose of them.

“‘In conclusion, allow me to congratulate you on this piece of good fortune—perhaps, knowing your character so well, I should have written, this good gift from God.’”

“Ay, my friend,” said the captain, folding the letter, “you might have written, ‘this unexpected and undeserved gift from God.’ But now, Molly, what think ye of it all?”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed the good lady in reply; and beyond this word she seemed unable to go for a time, save that, after a strong mental effort, she varied it to “amazing!” Suddenly she seemed to recover, and said with a quick, earnest look—

“Dick, what are you going to do?”

“Do?” exclaimed Captain Millet, smiting his knee and looking from his sister to Jeff with a broad smile. “I’ll run up to London, an’ take a mansion in the West End, call at Long Acre in passing, and buy a carriage and four. Then I’ll run down to Folkestone an’ buy a villa there, or a castle if they have one in stock; if not, I’ll order one o’ the newest pattern, with gas, water, electricity, and steam laid on. After that I’ll buy a steam-yacht and take a trip round the world, so as to calm my brain and think over it. Of course I’ll drop in at Hong Kong, in passing, to have a look at my property; and then—”

“Hush, brother! don’t run on with such nonsense when we ought to be only filled with serious thoughts.”

“How can a man be filled with serious thoughts, Molly, when a sort of Arabian Nights’ affair has tumbled on him all of a sudden—took him aback like a white squall, and thrown him on his beam-ends?”

“And what a selfish fellow you are, too!” said Jeff; “not one word in all you propose to do about anybody except yourself—no mention even of Rosebud.”

“Pooh! Jeff, are you so green as not to know that a wise man never puts his best foot foremost? Don’t you know that it is usual, when a man makes a speech, to keep tumblin’ out one point after another—clinkin’ ’em all as he goes along—until he comes to the ‘last but not least’ point? If you had let me alone, Molly, I was comin’ to Rosebud and yourself too; but as you’ve been so unmannerly, I’ll keep these points till another time. By the way, when you write to Rosebud, not a word about all this. It might unsettle the darlin’ with her lessons. An’ that reminds me that one o’ my first businesses will be to have her supplied wi’ the best of teachers—French, Italian, Spanish, German masters—Greek an’ Hebrew an’ Dutch ones too if the dear child wants ’em—to say nothin’ o’ dancin’ an’ drawin’ an’ calisthenics an’ mathematics, an’ the use o’ the globes, an’ conundrums o’ that sort.”

“Really, brother, if you go on like this, I’ll begin to think your good fortune, as you call it, has turned your brain.”

“Never fear, Molly, when I come to say what I’m going to