SHOWS THAT THERE ARE NO EFFECTS WITHOUT ADEQUATE CAUSES.

There were not a few surprising and unexpected meetings that day on Ramsgate pier.  Foremost among the hundreds who pressed forward to shake the lifeboat-men by the hand, and to sympathise with and congratulate the wrecked and rescued people, was Mr George Durant.  It mattered nothing to that stout enthusiast that his hat had been swept away into hopeless destruction during his frantic efforts to get to the front, leaving his polished head exposed to the still considerable fury of the blast and the intermittent violence of the sun; and it mattered, if possible, still less that the wreck turned out to be one of his own vessels; but it was a matter of the greatest interest and amazement to him to find that the first man he should meet in the crowd and seize in a hearty embrace, was his young friend, Stanley Hall.

“What, Stanney!” he exclaimed in unmitigated surprise; “is it ­can it be?  Prodigious sight!”

The old gentleman could say no more, but continued for a few seconds to wring the hands of his young friend, gaze in his face, and vent himself in gusts of surprise and bursts of tearful laughter, to the great interest and amusement of the bystanders.

Mr Durant’s inconsistent conduct may be partly accounted for and excused by the fact that Stanley had stepped on the pier with no other garments on than a pair of trousers and a shirt, the former having a large rent on the right knee, and the latter being torn open at the breast, in consequence of the violent removal of all the buttons when its owner was dragged into the lifeboat.  As, in addition to this, the young man’s dishevelled hair did duty for a cap, and his face and hands were smeared with oil and tar from the flare-lights which he had assisted to keep up so energetically, it is not surprising that the first sight of him had a powerful effect on Mr Durant.

“Why, Stanney,” he said at length, “you look as if you were some strange sea-monster just broke loose from Neptune’s menagerie!”

Perhaps this idea had been suggested by the rope round Stanley’s waist, the cut end of which still dangled at his side, for Mr Durant took hold of it inquiringly.

“Ay, sir,” put in the coxswain, who chanced to be near him, “that bit of rope is a scarf of honour.  He saved the life of a soldier’s widow with it.”

There was a tendency to cheer on the part of the bystanders who heard this.

“God bless you, Stanney, my boy!  Come and get dressed,” said the old gentleman, suddenly seizing his friend’s arm and pushing his way through the crowd, “come along; oh, don’t talk to me of the ship.  I know that it’s lost; no matter ­you are saved.  And do you come along with us Wel ­Wel ­what’s the name of ?  Ah!  Welton ­come; my daughter is here somewhere.  I left her near the parapet.  Never mind, she knows her way home.”

Katie certainly was there, and when, over the heads of the people ­for she had mounted with characteristic energy on the parapet, assisted by Queeker and accompanied by Fanny Hennings ­she beheld Stanley Hall in such a plight, she felt a disposition to laugh and cry and faint all at once.  She resisted the tendency, however, although the expression of her face and her rapid change of colour induced Queeker with anxious haste to throw out his arms to catch her.

“Ha!” exclaimed Queeker, “I knew it!”

What Queeker knew he never explained.  It may have had reference to certain suspicions entertained in regard to the impression made by the young student on Katie the night of their first meeting; we cannot tell, but we know that he followed up the exclamation with the muttered remark, “It was fortunate that I pulled up in time.”

Herein Queeker exhibited the innate tendency of the human heart to deceive itself.  That furious little poetical fox-hunter had, by his own confession, felt the pangs of a guilty conscience in turning, just because he could not help it, from Katie to Fanny, yet here he was now basely and coolly taking credit to himself for having “pulled up in time!”

“Oh, look at the dear little children!” exclaimed Fanny, pointing towards a part of the crowd where several seamen were carrying the rescued and still terrified little ones in their strong arms, while others assisted the women along, and wrapped dry shawls round them.

“How dreadful to think,” said Katie, making a hard struggle to suppress her agitation, “that all these would have been lost but for the lifeboat; and how wonderful to think that some of our own friends should be among them!”

“Ay, there be many more besides these saved last night, miss,” remarked a sturdy old boatman who chanced to be standing beside her.  “All along the east coast the lifeboats has bin out, miss, you may be sure; and they don’t often shove off without bringin’ somethin’ back to show for their pains, though they don’t all ’ave steamers for to tug ’em out.  There’s the Broadstairs boat, now; I’ve jist heerd she was out all night an’ saved fifteen lives; an’ the Walmer and Deal boats has fetched in a lot, I believe, though we han’t got particklers yet.”

Besides those whom we have mentioned as gazing with the crowd at the arrival of the lifeboat, Morley Jones, and Nora, and Billy Towler were there.  Jones and Billy had returned from London together the night before the storm, and, like nearly every one else in the town, had turned out to witness the arrival of the lifeboat.

Dick Moy also was there, and that huge lump of good-nature spent the time in making sagacious remarks and wise comments on wind and weather, wrecks and rescues, in a manner that commanded the intense admiration of a knot of visitors who happened to be near him, and who regarded him as a choice specimen ­a sort of type ­of the British son of Neptune.

“This is wot I says,” observed Dick, while the people were landing “so long as there’s ’ope, ’old on.  Never say die, and never give in; them’s my sentiments.  ’Cause why? no one never knows wot may turn up.  If your ship goes down; w’y, wot then?  Strike out, to be sure.  P’r’aps you may be picked up afore long.  If sharks is near, p’r’aps you may be picked down.  You can never tell.  If you gets on a shoal, wot then? w’y, stick to the ship till a lifeboat comes off to ’ee.  Don’t never go for to take to your own boats.  If you do ­capsize, an’ Davy Jones’s locker is the word.  If the lifeboat can’t git alongside; w’y, wait till it can.  If it can’t; w’y, it can only be said that it couldn’t.  No use cryin’ over spilt milk, you know.  Not that I cares for milk.  It don’t keep at sea, d’ye see; an’s only fit for babbys.  If the lifeboat capsizes; w’y, then, owin’ to her parfection o’ build, she rights again, an’ you, ‘avin’ on cork jackets, p’r’aps, gits into ’er by the lifelines, all handy.  If you ’aven’t got no cork jackets on, w’y, them that has’ll pick ’ee up.  If not, it’s like enough you’ll go down.  But no matter, you’ve did yer best, an’ man, woman, or child can do no more.  You can only die once, d’ye see?”

Whether the admiring audience did or did not see the full force of these remarks, they undoubtedly saw enough in the gigantic tar to esteem him a marvel of philosophic wisdom.  Judging by their looks that he was highly appreciated, it is just possible that Dick Moy might have been tempted to extend his discourse, had not a move in the crowd showed a general tendency towards dispersion, the rescued people having been removed, some to the Sailor’s Home, others to the residences of hospitable people in the town.

Now, it must not be imagined that all these characters in our tale have been thus brought together, merely at our pleasure, without rhyme or reason, and in utter disregard of the law of probabilities.  By no means.

Mr Robert Queeker had started for Ramsgate, as the reader knows, on a secret mission, which, as is also well known, was somewhat violently interrupted by the sporting tendencies of that poetical law-clerk; but no sooner did Queeker recover from his wounds than ­with the irresistible ardour of a Wellington, or a Blucher, or a bull-dog, or a boarding-school belle ­he returned to the charge, made out his intended visit, set his traps, baited his lines, fastened his snares, and whatever else appertained to his secret mission, so entirely to the satisfaction of Messrs. Merryheart and Dashope, that these estimable men resolved, some time afterwards, to send him back again to the scene of his labours, to push still further the dark workings of his mission.  Elate with success the earnest Queeker prepared to go.  Oh, what joy if she would only go with him!

“And why not?” cried Queeker, starting up when this thought struck him, as if it had struck him too hard and he were about to retaliate, ­“Why not? That is the question.”

He emphasised that as if all other questions, Hamlet’s included, sank into insignificance by contrast.

“Only last night,” continued Queeker to himself, still standing bolt upright in a frenzy of inspiration, and running his fingers fiercely through his hair, so as to make it stand bolt upright too ­“only last night I heard old Durant say he could not make up his mind where to go to spend the autumn this year.  Why not Ramsgate? why not Ramsgate?

  “Its chalky cliffs, and yellow sand,
  And rides, and walks, and weather,
  Its windows, which a view command
  Of everything together.

  “Its pleasant walks, and pretty shops,
  To fascinate the belles,
  Its foaming waves, like washing-slops,
  To captivate the swells.

  “Its boats and boatmen, brave and true,
  Who lounge upon the jetty,
  And smile upon the girls too ­
  At least when they are pretty.

  “Oh!  Ramsgate, where in all the earth,
  Beside the lovely sea,
  Can any town of note or worth
  Be found to equal thee?

“Nowhere!” said Queeker, bringing his fist down on the table with a force that made the ink leap, when he had finished these verses ­verses, however, which cost him two hours and a profuse perspiration to produce.

It was exactly a quarter to eight p.m. by the Yarmouth custom-house clock, due allowance being made for variation, when this “Nowhere!” was uttered, and it was precisely a quarter past nine p.m. that day week when the Durants drove up to the door of the Fortress Hotel in Ramsgate, and ordered beds and tea, ­so powerful was the influence of a great mind when brought to bear on Fanny Hennings, who exercised irresistible influence over the good-natured Katie, whose power over her indulgent father was absolute!

Not less natural was the presence, in Ramsgate, of Billy Towler.  We have already mentioned that, for peculiarly crooked ends of his own, Morley Jones had changed his abode to Ramsgate ­his country abode, that is.  His headquarters and town department continued as before to flourish in Gravesend, in the form of a public-house, which had once caught fire at a time, strange to say, when the spirit and beer casks were all nearly empty, a curious fact which the proprietor alone was aware of, but thought it advisable not to mention when he went to receive the 200 pounds of insurance which had been effected on the premises a few weeks before!  It will thus be seen that Mr Jones’s assurance, in the matter of dealing with insurance, was considerable.

Having taken up his temporary abode, then, in Ramsgate, and placed his mother and daughter therein as permanent residents, Mr Jones commenced such a close investigation as to the sudden disappearance of his ally Billy, that he wormed out of the unwilling but helpless Nora not only what had become of him, but the name and place of his habitation.  Having accomplished this, he dressed himself in a blue nautical suit with brass buttons, took the morning train to London, and in due course presented himself at the door of the Grotto, where he requested permission to see the boy Towler.

The request being granted, he was shown into a room, and Billy was soon after let in upon him.

“Hallo! young Walleye, why, what ever has come over you?” he exclaimed in great surprise, on observing that Billy’s face was clean, in which condition he had never before seen it, and his hair brushed, an extraordinary novelty; and, most astonishing of all, that he wore unragged garments.

Billy, who, although outwardly much altered, had apparently lost none of his hearty ways and sharp intelligence, stopped short in the middle of the room, thrust both hands deep into his trousers pockets, opened his eyes very wide, and gave vent to a low prolonged whistle.

“What game may you be up to?” he said, at the end of the musical prelude.

“You are greatly improved, Billy,” said Jones, holding out his hand.

“I’m not aweer,” replied the boy, drawing back, “as I’ve got to thank you for it.”

“Come, Billy, this ain’t friendly, is it, after all I’ve done for you?” said Jones, remonstratively; “I only want you to come out an’ ’ave a talk with me about things, an’ I’ll give ‘ee a swig o’ beer or whatever you take a fancy to.  You ain’t goin’ to show the white feather and become a milksop, are you?”

“Now, look here, Mister Jones,” said the boy, with an air of decision that there was no mistaking, as he retreated nearer to the door; “I don’t want for to have nothin’ more to do with you.  I’ve see’d much more than enough of ‘ee.  You knows me pretty well, an’ you knows that wotiver else I may be, I ain’t a hippercrite.  I knows enough o’ your doin’s to make you look pretty blue if I like, but for reasons of my own, wot you’ve got nothink to do with, I don’t mean to peach.  All I ax is, that you goes your way an’ let me alone.  That’s where it is.  The people here seem to ’ave got a notion that I’ve got a soul as well as a body, and that it ain’t ’xactly sitch a worthless thing as to be never thought of, and throw’d away like an old shoe.  They may be wrong, and they may be right, but I’m inclined to agree with ’em.  Let me tell ’ee that you ’ave did more than anybody else to show me the evil of wicked ways, so you needn’t stand there grinnin’ like a rackishoot wi’ the toothache.  I’ve jined the Band of Hope, too, so I don’t want none o’ your beer nor nothin’ else, an’ if you offers to lay hands on me, I’ll yell out like a she-spurtindeel, an’ bring in the guv’nor, wot’s fit to wollop six o’ you any day with his left hand.”

This last part of Billy’s speech was made with additional fire, in consequence of Morley Jones taking a step towards him in anger.

“Well, boy,” he said, sternly, “hypocrite or not, you’ve learned yer lesson pretty pat, so you may do as you please.  It’s little that a chip like you could do to get me convicted on anything you’ve seen or heard as yet, an’ if ye did succeed, it would only serve to give yourself a lift on the way to the gallows.  But it wasn’t to trouble myself about you and your wishes that I came here for (the wily rascal assumed an air and tone of indifference at this point); if you had only waited to hear what I’d got to say, before you began to spit fire, you might have saved your breath.  The fact is that my Nora is very ill ­so ill that I fear she stands a poor chance o’ gittin’ better.  I’m goin’ to send her away on a long sea voyage.  P’r’aps that may do her good; if not, it’s all up with her.  She begged and prayed me so earnestly to come here and take you down to see her before she goes, that I could not refuse her ­ particularly as I happened to have business in London anyhow.  If I’d known how you would take it, I would have saved myself the trouble of comin’.  However, I’ll bid you good-day now.”

“Jones,” said the boy earnestly, “that’s a lie.”

“Very good,” retorted the man, putting on his hat carelessly, “I’ll take back that message with your compliments ­eh?”

“No; but,” said Billy, almost whimpering with anxiety, “is Nora really ill?”

“I don’t wish you to come if you don’t want to,” replied Jones; “you can stop here till doomsday for me.  But do you suppose I’d come here for the mere amusement of hearing you give me the lie?”

“I’ll go!” said Billy, with as much emphasis as he had previously expressed on declining to go.

The matter was soon explained to the manager of the Grotto.  Mr Jones was so plausible, and gave such unexceptionable references, that it is no disparagement to the penetration of the superintendent of that day to say that he was deceived.  The result was, as we have shown, that Billy ere long found his way to Ramsgate.

When Mr Jones introduced him ceremoniously to Nora, he indulged in a prolonged and hearty fit of laughter.  Nora gazed at Billy with a look of intense amazement, and Billy stared at Nora with a very mingled expression of countenance, for he at once saw through the deception that had been practised on him, and fully appreciated the difficulty of his position ­his powers of explanation being hampered by a warning, given him long ago by his friend Jim Welton, that he must be careful how he let Nora into the full knowledge of her father’s wickedness.