PORT IN A STORM
"Papa," said my sister Effie, one evening as we all sat about thedrawing-room fire. One after another, as nothing followed, we turnedour eyes upon her. There she sat, still silent, embroidering thecorner of a cambric hand-kerchief, apparently unaware that she hadspoken.
It was a very cold night in the beginning of winter. My father hadcome home early, and we had dined early that we might have a longevening together, for it was my father's and mother's wedding-day, andwe always kept it as the homeliest of holidays. My father was seatedin an easy-chair by the chimney corner, with a jug of Burgundy nearhim, and my mother sat by his side, now and then taking a sip out ofhis glass.
Effie was now nearly nineteen; the rest of us were younger. What shewas thinking about we did not know then, though we could all guessnow. Suddenly she looked up, and seeing all eyes fixed upon her,became either aware or suspicious, and blushed rosy red.
"You spoke to me, Effie. What was it, my dear?"
"O yes, papa. I wanted to ask you whether you wouldn't tell us,to-night, the story about how you--"
"Well, my love?"
"--About how you--"
"I am listening, my dear."
"I mean, about mamma and you."
"Yes, yes. About how I got your mamma for a mother to you. Yes. I paida dozen of port for her."
We all and each exclaimed _Papa_! and my mother laughed.
"Tell us all about it," was the general cry.
"Well, I will," answered my father. "I must begin at the beginning,though."
And, filling his glass with Burgundy, he began.
"As far back as I can remember, I lived with my father in an oldmanor-house in the country. It did not belong to my father, but to anelder brother of his, who at that time was captain of a seventy-four.He loved the sea more than his life; and, as yet apparently, had lovedhis ship better than any woman. At least he was not married.
"My mother had been dead for some years, and my father was now in verydelicate health. He had never been strong, and since my mother'sdeath, I believe, though I was too young to notice it, he had pinedaway. I am not going to tell you anything about him just now, becauseit does not belong to my story. When I was about five years old, asnearly as I can judge, the doctors advised him to leave England. Thehouse was put into the hands of an agent to let--at least, so Isuppose; and he took me with him to Madeira, where he died. I wasbrought home by his servant, and by my uncle's directions, sent to aboarding-school; from there to Eton, and from there to Oxford.
"Before I had finished my studies, my uncle had been an admiral forsome time. The year before I left Oxford, he married Lady GeorgianaThornbury, a widow lady, with one daughter. Thereupon he bade farewellto the sea, though I dare say he did not like the parting, and retiredwith his bride to the house where he was born--the same house I toldyou I was born in, which had been in the family for many generations,and which your cousin now lives in.
"It was late in the autumn when they arrived at Culverwood. They wereno sooner settled than my uncle wrote to me, inviting me to spendChristmas-tide with them at the old place. And here you may see thatmy story has arrived at its beginning.
"It was with strange feelings that I entered the house. It looked soold-fashioned, and stately, and grand, to eyes which had beenaccustomed to all the modern commonplaces! Yet the shadowyrecollections which hung about it gave an air of homeliness to theplace, which, along with the grandeur, occasioned a sense of raredelight. For what can be better than to feel that you are in statelycompany, and at the same time perfectly at home in it? I am gratefulto this day for the lesson I had from the sense of which I havespoken--that of mingled awe and tenderness in the aspect of the oldhall as I entered it for the first time after fifteen years, havingleft it a mere child.
"I was cordially received by my old uncle and my new aunt. But themoment Kate Thornbury entered I lost my heart, and have never found itagain to this day. I get on wonderfully well without it, though, for Ihave got the loan of a far better one till I find my own, which,therefore, I hope I never shall."
My father glanced at my mother as he said this, and she returned hislook in a way which I can now interpret as a quiet satisfiedconfidence. But the tears came in Effie's eyes. She had trouble beforelong, poor girl! But it is not her story I have to tell.--My fatherwent on:
"Your mother was prettier then than she is now, but not so beautiful;beautiful enough, though, to make me think there never had been orcould again be anything so beautiful. She met me kindly, and I met herawkwardly."
"You made me feel that I had no business there," said my mother,speaking for the first time in the course of the story.
"See there, girls," said my father. "You are always so confident infirst impressions, and instinctive judgment! I was awkward because, asI said, I fell in love with your mother the moment I saw her; and shethought I regarded her as an intruder into the old family precincts.
"I will not follow the story of the days. I was very happy, exceptwhen I felt too keenly how unworthy I was of Kate Thornbury; not thatshe meant to make me feel it, for she was never other than kind; butshe was such that I could not help feeling it. I gathered courage,however, and before three days were over, I began to tell her all myslowly reviving memories of the place, with my childish adventuresassociated with this and that room or outhouse or spot in the grounds;for the longer I was in the place the more my old associations with itrevived, till I was quite astonished to find how much of my history inconnection with Culverwood had been thoroughly imprinted on my memory.She never showed, at least, that she was weary of my stories; which,however interesting to me, must have been tiresome to any one who didnot sympathize with what I felt towards my old nest. From room to roomwe rambled, talking or silent; and nothing could have given me abetter chance, I believe, with a heart like your mother's. I think itwas not long before she began to like me, at least, and liking hadevery opportunity of growing into something stronger, if only she toodid not come to the conclusion that I was unworthy of her.
"My uncle received me like the jolly old tar that he was--welcomed meto the old ship--hoped we should make many a voyage together--and thatI would take the run of the craft--all but in one thing.
"'You see, my boy,' he said, 'I married above my station, and I don'twant my wife's friends to say that I laid alongside of her to get holdof her daughter's fortune. No, no, my boy; your old uncle has too muchsalt water in him to do a dog's trick like that. So you take care ofyourself--that's all. She might turn the head of a wiser man than evercame out of our family.'
"I did not tell my uncle that his advice was already too late; forthat, though it was not an hour since I had first seen her, my headwas so far turned already, that the only way to get it right again,was to go on turning it in the same direction; though, no doubt, therewas a danger of overhauling the screw. The old gentleman neverreferred to the matter again, nor took any notice of our increasingintimacy; so that I sometimes doubt even now if he could have been inearnest in the very simple warning he gave me. Fortunately, LadyGeorgiana liked me--at least I thought she did, and that gave mecourage.
"That's all nonsense, my dear," said my mother. "Mamma was nearly asfond of you as I was; but you never wanted courage."
"I knew better than to show my cowardice, I dare say," returned myfather. "But," he continued, "things grew worse and worse, till I wascertain I should kill myself, or go straight out of my mind, if yourmother would not have me. So it went on for a few days, and Christmaswas at hand.
"The admiral had invited several old friends to come and spend theChristmas week with him. Now you must remember that, although you lookon me as an old-fashioned fogie--"
"Oh, papa!" we all interrupted; but he went on.
"Yet my old uncle was an older-fashioned fogie, and his friends weremuch the same as himself. Now, I am fond of a glass of port, though Idare not take it, and must content myself with Burgundy. Uncle Bobwould have called Burgundy pig-wash. He could not do without his
port,though he was a moderate enough man, as customs were. Fancy, then, hisdismay when, on questioning his butler, an old coxen of his own, andafter going down to inspect in person, he found that there wasscarcely more than a dozen of port in the wine-cellar. He turned whitewith dismay, and, till he had brought the blood back to hiscountenance by swearing, he was something awful to behold in the dimlight of the tallow candle old Jacob held in his tattooed fist. I willnot repeat the words he used; fortunately, they are out of fashionamongst gentlemen, although ladies, I understand, are beginning torevive the custom, now old, and always ugly. Jacob reminded his honourthat he would not have more put down till he had got a proper cellarbuilt, for the one there was, he had said, was not fit to put anythingbut dead men in. Thereupon, after abusing Jacob for not reminding himof the necessities of the coming season, he turned to me, and began,certainly not to swear at his own father, but to expostulate sidewayswith the absent shade for not having provided a decent cellar beforehis departure from this world of dinners and wine, hinting that it wassomewhat selfish, and very inconsiderate of the welfare of those whowere to come after him. Having a little exhausted his indignation, hecame up, and wrote the most peremptory order to his wine-merchant, inLiverpool, to let him have thirty dozen of port before Christmas Day,even if he had to send it by post-chaise. I took the letter to thepost myself, for the old man would trust nobody but me, and indeedwould have preferred taking it himself; but in winter he was alwayslame from the effects of a bruise he had received from a falling sparin the battle of Aboukir.
"That night I remember well. I lay in bed wondering whether I mightventure to say a word, or even to give a hint to your mother thatthere was a word that pined to be said if it might. All at once Iheard a whine of the wind in the old chimney. How well I knew thatwhine! For my kind aunt had taken the trouble to find out from me whatroom I had occupied as a boy, and, by the third night I spent there,she had got it ready for me. I jumped out of bed, and found that thesnow was falling fast and thick. I jumped into bed again, and beganwondering what my uncle would do if the port did not arrive. And thenI thought that, if the snow went on falling as it did, and if the windrose any higher, it might turn out that the roads through the hillypart of Yorkshire in which Culverwood lay, might very well be blockedup.
"The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow,And what will my uncle do then, poor thing? He'll run for his port, But he will run short,And have too much water to drink, poor thing!
"With the influences of the chamber of my childhood crowding upon me,I kept repenting the travestied rhyme to myself, till I fell asleep.
"Now, boys and girls, if I were writing a novel, I should like to makeyou, somehow or other, put together the facts--that I was in the roomI have mentioned; that I had been in the cellar with my uncle for thefirst time that evening; that I had seen my uncle's distress, andheard his reflections upon his father. I may add that I was notmyself, even then, so indifferent to the merits of a good glass ofport as to be unable to enter into my uncle's dismay, and that of hisguests at last, if they should find that the snow-storm had actuallyclosed up the sweet approaches of the expected port. If I waspersonally indifferent to the matter, I fear it is to be attributed toyour mother, and not to myself."
"Nonsense!" interposed my mother once more. "I never knew such a manfor making little of himself and much of other people. You never dranka glass too much port in your life."
"That's why I'm so fond of it, my dear," returned my father. "Ideclare you make me quite discontented with my pig-wash here.
"That night I had a dream.
"The next day the visitors began to arrive. Before the evening after,they had all come. There were five of them--three tars and twoland-crabs, as they called each other when they got jolly, which,by-the-way, they would not have done long without me.
"My uncle's anxiety visibly increased. Each guest, as he came down tobreakfast, received each morning a more constrained greeting.--I begyour pardon, ladies; I forgot to mention that my aunt hadlady-visitors, of course. But the fact is, it is only theport-drinking visitors in whom my story is interested, always exceptedyour mother.
"These ladies my admiral uncle greeted with something even approachingto servility. I understood him well enough. He instinctively sought tomake a party to protect him when the awful secret of his cellar shouldbe found out. But for two preliminary days or so, his resources wouldserve; for he had plenty of excellent claret and Madeira--stuff Idon't know much about--and both Jacob and himself condescended tomanoeuvre a little.
"The wine did not arrive. But the morning of Christmas Eve did. I wassitting in my room, trying to write a song for Kate--that's yourmother, my dears--"
"I know, papa," said Effie, as if she were very knowing to know that.
"--when my uncle came into the room, looking like Sintram with Deathand the Other One after him--that's the nonsense you read to me theother day, isn't it; Effie?"
"Not nonsense, dear papa," remonstrated Effie; and I loved her forsaying it, for surely _that_ is not nonsense.
"I didn't mean it," said my father; and turning to my mother, added:"It must be your fault, my dear, that my children are so serious thatthey always take a joke for earnest. However, it was no joke with myuncle. If he didn't look like Sintram he looked like t'other one.
"'The roads are frozen--I mean snowed up,' he said. 'There's just onebottle of port left, and what Captain Calker will say--I dare say Iknow, but I'd rather not. Damn this weather!--God forgive me!--that'snot right--but it is trying--ain't it, my boy?'
"'What will you give me for a dozen of port, uncle?' was all myanswer.
"'Give you? I'll give you Culverwood, you rogue.'
"'Done,' I cried.
"'That is,' stammered my uncle, 'that is,' and he reddened like thefunnel of one of his hated steamers, 'that is, you know, alwaysprovided, you know. It wouldn't be fair to Lady Georgiana, now, wouldit? I put it to yourself--if she took the trouble, you know. Youunderstand me, my boy?'
"'That's of course, uncle,' I said.
"'Ah! I see you're a gentleman like your father, not to trip a manwhen he stumbles,' said my uncle. For such was the dear old man'ssense of honour, that he was actually uncomfortable about the hastypromise he had made without first specifying the exception. Theexception, you know, has Culverwood at the present hour, and rightwelcome he is.
"'Of course, uncle,' I said--'between gentlemen, you know. Still, Iwant my joke out, too. What will you give me for a dozen of port totide you over Christmas Day?'
"'Give you, my boy? I'll give you--'
"But here he checked himself, as one that had been burned already.
"'Bah!' he said, turning his back, and going towards the door; 'what'sthe use of joking about serious affairs like this?'
"And so he left the room. And I let him go. For I had heard that theroad from Liverpool was impassable, the wind and snow having continuedevery day since that night of which I told you. Meantime, I had neverbeen able to summon the courage to say one word to your mother--I begher pardon, I mean Miss Thornbury.
"Christmas Day arrived. My uncle was awful to behold. His friends wereevidently anxious about him. They thought he was ill. There was such ahesitation about him, like a shark with a bait, and such a flurry,like a whale in his last agonies. He had a horrible secret which hedared not tell, and which yet _would_ come out of its grave at theappointed hour.
"Down in the kitchen the roast beef and turkey were meeting their deserts.Up in the store-room--for Lady Georgiana was not above housekeeping, anymore than her daughter--the ladies of the house were doing their part;and I was oscillating between my uncle and his niece, making myselfamazingly useful now to one and now to the other. The turkey and the beefwere on the table, nay, they had been well eaten, before I felt that mymoment was come. Outside, the wind was howling, and driving the snow withsoft pats against the window-panes. Eager-eyed I watched GeneralFortescue, who despised sherry or Madeira even during dinner, and wouldno more tou
ch champagne than he would _eau sucree_, but drank port afterfish or with cheese indiscriminately--with eager eyes I watched how thelast bottle dwindled out its fading life in the clear decanter. Glassafter glass was supplied to General Fortescue by the fearless cockswain,who, if he might have had his choice, would rather have boarded aFrenchman than waited for what was to follow. My uncle scarcely ate atall, and the only thing that stopped his face from growing longer withthe removal of every dish was that nothing but death could have made itlonger than it was already. It was my interest to let matters go as faras they might up to a certain point, beyond which it was not my interestto let them go, if I could help it. At the same time I was curious toknow how my uncle would announce--confess the terrible fact that in hishouse, on Christmas Day, having invited his oldest friends to share withhim the festivities of the season, there was not one bottle more of portto be had.
"I waited till the last moment--till I fancied the admiral was openinghis mouth; like a fish in despair, to make his confession. He had noteven dared to make a confidante of his wife in such an awful dilemma.Then I pretended to have dropped my table-napkin behind my chair, andrising to seek it, stole round behind my uncle, and whispered in hisear:
"'What will you give me for a dozen of port now, uncle?'
"'Bah!' he said, 'I'm at the gratings; don't torture me.'
"'I'm in earnest, uncle.'
"He looked round at me with a sudden flash of bewildered hope in hiseye. In the last agony he was capable of believing in a miracle. Buthe made me no reply. He only stared.
"'Will you give me Kate? I want Kate,' I whispered.
"'I will, my boy. That is, if she'll have you. That is, I mean to say,if you produce the true tawny.'
"'Of course, uncle; honour bright--as port in a storm,' I answered,trembling in my shoes and everything else I had on, for I was not morethan three parts confident in the result.
"The gentlemen beside Kate happening at the moment to be occupied,each with the lady on his other side, I went behind her, and whisperedto her as I had whispered to my uncle, though not exactly in the sameterms. Perhaps I had got a little courage from the champagne I haddrunk; perhaps the presence of the company gave me a kind of mesmericstrength; perhaps the excitement of the whole venture kept me up;perhaps Kate herself gave me courage, like a goddess of old, in someway I did not understand. At all events I said to her:
"'Kate,'--we had got so far even then--'my uncle hasn't another bottleof port in his cellar. Consider what a state General Fortescue will bein soon. He'll be tipsy for want of it. Will you come and help me tofind a bottle or two?'
"She rose at once, with a white-rose blush--so delicate I don'tbelieve any one saw it but myself. But the shadow of a stray ringletcould not fall on her cheek without my seeing it.
"When we got into the hall, the wind was roaring loud, and the fewlights were flickering and waving gustily with alternate light andshade across the old portraits which I had known so well as achild--for I used to think what each would say first, if he or shecame down out of the frame and spoke to me.
"I stopped, and taking Kate's hand, I said--
"'I daren't let you come farther, Kate, before I tell you anotherthing: my uncle has promised, if I find him a dozen of port--you musthave seen what a state the poor man is in--to let me say something toyou--I suppose he meant your mamma, but I prefer saying it to you, ifyou will let me. Will you come and help me to find the port?'
"She said nothing, but took up a candle that was on a table in thehall, and stood waiting. I ventured to look at her. Her face was nowcelestial rosy red, and I could not doubt that she had understood me.She looked so beautiful that I stood staring at her without moving.What the servants could have been about that not one of them crossedthe hall, I can't think.
"At last Kate laughed and said--'Well?' I started, and I dare say tookmy turn at blushing. At least I did not know what to say. I hadforgotten all about the guests inside. 'Where's the port?' said Kate.I caught hold of her hand again and kissed it."
"You needn't be quite so minute in your account, my dear," said mymother, smiling.
"I will be more careful in future, my love," returned my father.
"'What do you want me to do?' said Kate.
"'Only to hold the candle for me,' I answered, restored to my sevensenses at last; and, taking it from her, I led the way, and shefollowed, till we had passed through the kitchen and reached thecellar-stairs. These were steep and awkward, and she let me help herdown."
"Now, Edward!" said my mother.
"Yes, yes, my love, I understand," returned my father.
"Up to this time your mother had asked no questions; but when we stoodin a vast, low cellar, which we had made several turns to reach, and Igave her the candle, and took up a great crowbar which lay on thefloor, she said at last--
"'Edward, are you going to bury me alive? or what _are_ you going todo?'
"'I'm going to dig you out,' I said, for I was nearly beside myselfwith joy, as I struck the crowbar like a battering-ram into the wall.You can fancy, John, that I didn't work the worse that Kate washolding the candle for me.
"Very soon, though with great effort, I had dislodged a brick, and thenext blow I gave into the hole sent back a dull echo. I was right!
"I worked now like a madman, and, in a very few minutes more, I haddislodged the whole of the brick-thick wall which filled up an archwayof stone and curtained an ancient door in the lock of which the keynow showed itself. It had been well greased, and I turned it withoutmuch difficulty.
"I took the candle from Kate, and led her into a spacious region ofsawdust, cobweb, and wine-fungus.
"'There, Kate!' I cried, in delight.
"'But,' said Kate, 'will the wine be good?'
"'General Fortescue will answer you that,' I returned, exultantly.'Now come, and hold the light again while I find the port-bin.'
"I soon found not one, but several well-filled port-bins. Which tochoose I could not tell. I must chance that. Kate carried a bottle andthe candle, and I carried two bottles very carefully. We put them downin the kitchen with orders they should not be touched. We had sooncarried the dozen to the hall-table by the dining-room door.
"When at length, with Jacob chuckling and rubbing his hands behind us,we entered the dining-room, Kate and I, for Kate would not part withher share in the joyful business, loaded with a level bottle in eachhand, which we carefully erected on the sideboard, I presume, from thestare of the company, that we presented a rather remarkableappearance--Kate in her white muslin, and I in my best clothes,covered with brick-dust, and cobwebs, and lime. But we could not behalf so amusing to them as they were to us. There they sat with thedessert before them but no wine-decanters forthcoming. How long theyhad sat thus, I have no idea. If you think your mamma has, you may askher. Captain Calker and General Fortescue looked positively whiteabout the gills. My uncle, clinging to the last hope, despairingly,had sat still and said nothing, and the guests could not understandthe awful delay. Even Lady Georgiana had begun to fear a mutiny in thekitchen, or something equally awful. But to see the flash that passedacross my uncle's face, when he saw us appear with _ported arms_! Heimmediately began to pretend that nothing had been the matter.
"'What the deuce has kept you, Ned, my boy?' he said. 'Fair Hebe,' hewent on, 'I beg your pardon. Jacob, you can go on decanting. It wasvery careless of you to forget it. Meantime, Hebe, bring that bottleto General Jupiter, there. He's got a corkscrew in the tail of hisrobe, or I'm mistaken.'
"Out came General Fortescue's corkscrew. I was trembling once morewith anxiety. The cork gave the genuine plop; the bottle was lowered;glug, glug, glug, came from its beneficent throat, and out flowedsomething tawny as a lion's mane. The general lifted it lazily to hislips, saluting his nose on the way.
"'Fifteen! by Gyeove!' he cried. 'Well, Admiral, this _was_ worthwaiting for! Take care how you decant that, Jacob--on peril of yourlife.'
"My uncle was triumphant. He winked hard at me not to te
ll. Kate and Iretired, she to change her dress, I to get mine well brushed, and myhands washed. By the time I returned to the dining-room, no one hadany questions to ask. For Kate, the ladies had gone to thedrawing-room before she was ready, and I believe she had somedifficulty in keeping my uncle's counsel. But she did.--Need I saythat was the happiest Christmas I ever spent?"
"But how did you find the cellar, papa?" asked Effie.
"Where are your brains, Effie? Don't you remember I told you that Ihad a dream?"
"Yes. But you don't mean to say the existence of that wine-cellar wasrevealed to you in a dream?"
"But I do, indeed. I had seen the wine-cellar built up just before weleft for Madeira. It was my father's plan for securing the wine whenthe house was let. And very well it turned out for the wine, and metoo. I had forgotten all about it. Everything had conspired to bringit to my memory, but had just failed of success. I had fallen asleepunder all the influences I told you of--influences from the region ofmy childhood. They operated still when I was asleep, and, all otherdistracting influences being removed, at length roused in my sleepingbrain the memory of what I had seen. In the morning I remembered notmy dream only, but the event of which my dream was a reproduction.Still, I was under considerable doubt about the place, and in this Ifollowed the dream only, as near as I could judge.
"The admiral kept his word, and interposed no difficulties betweenKate and me. Not that, to tell the truth, I was ever very anxiousabout that rock ahead; but it was very possible that his fastidioushonour or pride might have occasioned a considerable interference withour happiness for a time. As it turned out, he could not leave meCulverwood, and I regretted the fact as little as he did himself. Hisgratitude to me was, however, excessive, assuming occasionallyludicrous outbursts of thankfulness. I do not believe he could havebeen more grateful if I had saved his ship and its whole crew. For hishospitality was at stake. Kind old man!"
Here ended my father's story, with a light sigh, a gaze into thebright coals, a kiss of my mother's hand which he held in his, andanother glass of Burgundy.