Twenty years have passed, and we are now on the deck of a whaling schooner called the Heckla, lying off the coast of Greenland. The captain is a strange man, of whom little is known. He is called "Jan the Icelander," and the impression is that he came from Iceland. He is one of that sort of whom sailors say, "They've got neither father nor mother," meaning that there seems to be nobody belonging to them.
But he is as good a whaler as ever threw a dart, and a good man as well. Indeed, he is the recognised referee of that whole whaling fleet. What with the ice and the fog, and the hard work, and the bad shots, the men think they want a drop of "blue ruin" sometimes to keep their spirits going; but if ever there is a rumpus over the drink it's Jan the Icelander who has to settle it; and if ever there's a crime, and blood is spilt, it's Jan who has to be judge and jury.
This man, this saint of that lawless community on the Greenland seas, is Larry Clough. He is now fifty-five years of age, and looks much older. He has never attempted to return home, having been waiting for the message promised by his wife. At first he used to watch for the mailboats which brought letters to the men, but nothing ever came for him. And when an English whaler put up alongside he would be the first to board her, with "How's the old country, shipmates?" and then, "What port, boys?" as if thinking, perhaps, they hailed from the part he came from, but no one ever did. On fine nights, when the work of the day was done, he would lean over the bulwarks and look south over the sea, as if trying to catch sight of his own little country, to which he could return no more.
But that was long ago. Since then he had passed from ship to ship, concealing, and finally losing his identity. He has had luck; the schooner Heckla belongs to him. and he is reputed to be rich.
At length a young Englishman has come out to the whaling. He is called Harry only, for family names count for nothing where families are of no account. He is five-and-twenty years of age, and very bright and affectionate. Jan is greatly drawn to him. The young man tells the old one about his sweetheart, and even shows him some of her love letters. Her name is Lucy, and they are to be married as soon as he returns home. All the tenderness of the old man's starved and hungry heart goes out to the young fellow.
"You speak English as well as an Englishman, Jan. Ever been in our country?" says Harry.
"Once, yes. I was there once."
"Long ago?"
"A—many years ago."
"Ten, fifteen—as much as that?"
"Aye, or more."
"What port was it?"
"Whitby."
"You'd see changes at Whitby since then."
"No doubt."
"The railways, and the telegraph, and—and I don't know what."
"What's the railway, my lad?"
"The railway. How shall I describe it? A sort of steamship that runs on the land."
"How fast does it go—ten knots—fifteen?"
"Yes, and fifty to that, Jan."
"You must be flying like the angels, then, my lad. And what*s the telegraph?"
"An electrical invention for sending messages on a wire. You can speak from London to Edinburgh in less than a minute now."
“Why that's as quick as the lightning, my lad."
"It is the lightning, Jan."
"Wonderful! But I'm too old to get it into my head."
"Wouldn't you like to see it, though?"
"I'm not good enough, my lad."
"Why, what do you mean, Jan?"
"People nowadays, having the powers of angels, of gods—aren't people better than they used to be in my time, my lad?"
"Not that I know of, Jan."
"Nor more happy and contented?"
"Can't say they are. In fact, some folks are always lamenting the loss of the 'good old times,' as they call them."
"But these changes you speak of, are they everywhere in England now?"
"Everywhere."
"Even in the country places?"
"Yes, even in the little country town I came from."
"Where might that be, now?" says Jim.
"Down in one of the south counties."
"What do you call the place?"
"Sixoaks."
"Sixoaks? Do you know I've heard of Sixoaks. Isn't that where there's an old country church, and a little country inn alongside of it?"
"It is; but every country place in England brings forth twins of that sort, you know."
"But there's the statue of some good old man standing between them, isn't there?"
"There is—the statue of good old Father Clough."
"Father Clough? That's the name. I thought I should remember it."
"You seem to know a good deal about my country, Jan."
"Do I, my lad? Well, I ought to, if I don't.
I've had English sailors off and on all my life, you see."
"Some of them from our parts, too?"
"Yes; one."
"Who was that, now?"
"A poor man, who seemed to be in trouble of some sort."
"In trouble?"
"Well, I thought so—there was a kind of mystery about him—he never went back to England that I know of."
"What was his name?"
"He never told me that. We called him the Englishman."
"How long ago is it? Is it twenty years ago?"
"Maybe twenty."
"What was his age—old?—young?"
"If he is living now he will be—well, about my own age, my lad."
"Ever tell you of any friends he had in Sixoaks?"
"Yes; he used to talk of his wife and a young child."
"I know—I think I know. What was his character out here?"
"A quiet, peaceable man, I think."
"But he drank, didn't he?"
"Never a drop while he was here."
"Must be the same, though—must have been Larry Clough."
"You know him, then?"
"I can just remember him; but I was a child when he left our parts."
"Then you would hardly recognise the man if you saw him now?"
"Hardly. Was he long out here?"
"A—many years. When a cruise was over he passed from ship to ship."
"What became of him at last?"
"God knows, my lad! You soon lose sight of a man at the whaling."
"I dare say he's dead by this time."
"Aye, dead enough, no doubt."
"Well, that is the best that could have happened to him."
"Do you think so, now?"
"I do. You're right, Jan. There was a mystery about the man."
"I thought as much, my lad."
"He had committed a crime, a murder—manslaughter, at all events."
"Was it ever found out?"
"Yes; suspicion fastened on him at last, but he had gone before that."
"Then his wife—was she dragged into the mesh, too?"
"She was, poor thing. The dead man and he had a dispute at an auction. Some hours later the old sexton going home late at night heard a cry, and came upon Larry's wife in the darkness, alone, and much agitated. Next morning it was found that Larry had fled."
"Has nothing been heard of him since?"
"Nothing—justice was slow in those days—no telegraphs, no railways, you know."
"So they gave up the search, did they?”
"Well, there was a warrant for his arrest, but Heaven knows if anybody wanted to catch him."
"I suppose the thing has got forgotten at last?"
"Quite forgotten."
"Nobody talks of it now?"
"Nobody."
"Then if my old shipmate were living still and thought of going back—"
"There 'is hardly anybody alive who remembers anything about it." .
I think if I were he—that is to say, if he's still alive—I almost think I should be tempted.
But his poor wife, did she never hear from him?"
"Never that I know of."
"My comrade used to send things though. I've seen him myself—money and things to someone—somewhere. Did nothing ever reach her?"
"No: should have heard of it if it had. Fact, we always thought it strange, he never tried to communicate with her."
"Perhaps he was waiting for a sign from her first to tell him It was safe--that the cloud had blown over—that he might write at all events."
"Well, yes, perhaps. Of course he wasn't going to run his head into a halter."
"Not that he was a man to be afraid of anything, but he couldn't want his wife and child to be disgraced."
"So you think he was that sort of man, do you, Jan?"
"I do—I think I do. But do you know you are the first that ever came from my old friend's country?"
"Am I?" It would have been strange enough, too, if he'd been here still, and I'd been the first to come upon him."
"Wouldn't it? What questions he would have asked you after all these years-about his wife, for instance. She's alive, I suppose, isn't she?"
"Ah, no!"
“No?"
"She's gone, poor soul!"
"Gone?"
"Dead and buried those ten years at least"
"Ten—years—dead—buried!"
"Pined away, seemingly-waiting, waiting-for the word that never came."
They have been sitting in the cabin, and the old man has risen to his feet and then dropped back, and his head has fallen on the table.
"What's this! Fainted? Halloa, there!"
"No, no, my lad; it's nothing! I'm all right. You touched me on a tender place that time, though. You see I lost my own wife, and came to hear of it just as it might be this way. I was on a long cruise, and was thinking of going back when the news reached me. A shipmate came along and told me—like this exactly—as it might be you telling me now—and she was dead and buried."
Then that's why you're not going home this cruise, is it?"
"I've nobody to go to now. Home is home to me no longer."
"And maybe that's why Larry Clough and you became such friends—you had that much in common with the poor, miserable creature, anyhow."
"Just so, just so!"—You say my old comrade left a child behind him in the old country?"
"He did—a girl."
"She is alive, isn't she?"
"Alive, and well and hearty."
"When her mother died she would be quite young, wouldn't she?"
"A girl of fourteen or fifteen, perhaps."
"Then some good soul must have taken care of the child?"
"Yes; her old nurse looked after her."
"They never wanted for anything, did they?"
"No, the father had been in low water, but they had a little left—some legacy from the father's mother."
"She'll be quite a young woman now?"
"Oh, quite—quite."
"Married, perhaps, eh?"
"Not yet—but maybe she will be before long."
The young fellow dives into his pocket and brings out a crumpled letter.
"Look here, Jan. Come by the last mail. Don't mind showing you. You'll not laugh at me, will you? See both sides crossed—just like a woman, isn't it? ' Expecting you home soon ' —the darling!—'such a weary, weary time since you went away'—not half so long as it's been up here, bet my bottom dollar on that."
Jan nervously holds out his hand, and says in a quavering voice, "Might I now—would you let an old fellow—I used to get that sort of thing myself once—just to bring back the memory of old times—eh?"
"Let you look at the letter? Of course I will— There you are," and he puts the letter into the old man's hands.
Jan grasps it in his trembling fingers, and tries to read:—"Come home to me soon, dear.— Lucy," But his eyes are wet and he cannot see.
"So this is your sweetheart's writing, is it? What a beautiful hand!"
"You should see the girl herself, Jan. She's the dearest little woman in the county."
"And her name is Lucy?"
"Yes; and a sweet little name it is, isn't it, Jan?"
"The sweetest name in all the world!"
"Jan, I'll drink your health in a stiff glass of grog before I go."
"Tall, isn't she, my lad? Tall and straight as a standard rose?"
"Exactly! And her hair—"
"Fair, isn't it? Yellow hair, with a golden bloom in it?"
"That's Lucy to the life. You might have known the girl herself, Jan—you've hit her off exactly."
"I was talking of your sweetheart, my lad, but I was thinking of my wife, God rest her!"
The young fellow, in the sweet selfishness of love, feels nothing but his own happiness, and goes on talking of the girl at home—how everybody loves her, and pets her, and "spoils" her.
Jan listens eagerly and his eyes glisten.
"Then her father's crime hasn't overclouded the girl's life as it did her mother's?" he says.
"Nobody has ever thought of remembering it against her."
"But the relatives of the murdered man—I suppose he had relatives?"
The young fellow nods his head.
"They can't forget it, can they?"
"To tell you the truth I am the only relative he left behind him."
"You?" Jan has risen to his feet.
"I'm his son."
"Then the man my old comrade killed—"
“He was my father."
There is silence for a moment, and then the old man says—
"You must forgive me, my lad."
"Why, what have I to forgive you for?"
"For talking of my old friend. It's only natural—you must hate the very name and thought of him."
"No; to tell you the truth, I don't hate him."
"You don't?"
"I can't."
"How so?"
"You've heard me talk of my sweetheart?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's Larry Clough's daughter.
We're going to be married, and that's why I came out here. My father had ships at the whaling, and I came to square up his old business. And now that it's done I'm going home to be married and settle down."
"And you two children intend to forget the cruel old feud?"
"Why not? Love is stronger than hate all the world over. My little girl loves me and I love her, and if there's anything between us—well, we are going to wipe it all out for ever and for ever."
Jan seizes the young man's hand. "God bless you, my lad! God Almighty bless and love you!"