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down, now that they saw that she was still afloat, got out the oars and attempted to regain her, but in vain—they could not make head against the sea and wind. Further and further did they drift to leeward, notwithstanding their exertions; while the frantic mother extended her arms, imploring and entreating. Captain Ingram, who had stimulated the sailors to the utmost, perceived that further attempts were useless.

      “My child! my child!” screamed Mrs Templemore, standing up, and holding out her arms towards the vessel. At a sign from the captain, the head of the boat was veered round. The bereaved mother knew that all hope was gone, and she fell down in a state of insensibility.

      Chapter Five.

      The Old Maid

      One morning, shortly after the disasters which we have described, Mr Witherington descended to his breakfast-room somewhat earlier than usual, and found his green morocco easy-chair already tenanted by no less a personage than William the footman, who, with his feet on the fender, was so attentively reading the newspaper that he did not hear his master’s entrance. “By my ancestor, who fought on his stumps! but I hope you are quite comfortable, Mr William; nay, I beg I may not disturb you, sir.”

      William, although as impudent as most of his fraternity, was a little taken aback. “I beg your pardon, sir, but Mr Jonathan had not time to look over the paper.”

      “Nor is it required that he should, that I know of, sir.”

      “Mr Jonathan says, sir, that it is always right to look over the deaths, that news of that kind may not shock you.”

      “Very considerate, indeed.”

      “And there is a story there, sir, about a shipwreck.”

      “A shipwreck! where, William? God bless me! where is it?”

      “I am afraid it is the same ship you are so anxious about, sir,—the—I forget the name, sir.”

      Mr Witherington took the newspaper, and his eye soon caught the paragraph in which the rescue of the two negroes and child from the wreck of the Circassian was fully detailed.

      “It is indeed!” exclaimed Mr Witherington. “My poor Cecilia in an open boat! one of the boats was seen to go down,—perhaps she’s dead—merciful God! one boy saved. Mercy on me! where’s Jonathan?”

      “Here, sir,” replied Jonathan, very solemnly, who had just brought in the eggs, and now stood erect as a mute behind his master’s chair, for it was a case of danger, if not of death.

      “I must go to Portsmouth immediately after breakfast—shan’t eat though—appetite all gone.”

      “People seldom do, sir, on these melancholy occasions,” replied Jonathan. “Will you take your own carriage, sir, or a mourning coach?”

      “A mourning coach at fourteen miles an hour, with two pair of horses! Jonathan, you’re crazy.”

      “Will you please to have black silk hatbands and gloves for the coachman and servants who attend you, sir?”

      “Confound your shop! no; this is a resurrection, not a death; it appears that the negro thinks only one of the boats went down.”

      “Mors omnia vincit,” quoth Jonathan, casting up his eyes.

      “Never you mind that; mind your own business. That’s the postman’s knock—see if there are any letters.”

      There were several; and amongst the others there was one from Captain Maxwell, of the Eurydice, detailing the circumstances already known, and informing Mr Witherington that he had despatched the two negroes and the child to his address by that day’s coach, and that one of the officers, who was going to town by the same conveyance, would see them safe to his house.

      Captain Maxwell was an old acquaintance of Mr Witherington—had dined at his house in company with the Templemores, and therefore had extracted quite enough information from the negroes to know where to direct them.

      “By the blood of my ancestors! they’ll be here to night,” cried Mr Witherington; “and I have saved my journey. What is to be done? better tell Mary to get rooms ready: d’ye hear, William? beds for one little boy and two niggers.”

      “Yes, sir,” replied William; “but where are the black people to be put?”

      “Put! I don’t care; one may sleep with cook, the other with Mary.”

      “Very well, sir, I’ll tell them,” replied William, hastening away, delighted at the row which he anticipated in the kitchen.

      “If you please, sir,” observed Jonathan, “one of the negroes is, I believe, a man.”

      “Well, what then?”

      “Only, sir, the maids may object to sleep with him.”

      “By all the plagues of the Witheringtons! this is true; well, you may take him, Jonathan—you like that colour.”

      “Not in the dark, sir,” replied Jonathan with a bow.

      “Well, then, let them sleep together: so that affair is settled.”

      “Are they man and wife, sir?” said the butler.

      “The devil take them both! how should I know? Let me have my breakfast, and we’ll talk over the matter by-and-by.”

      Mr Witherington applied to his eggs, and muffin, eating his breakfast as fast as he could, without knowing why; but the reason was that he was puzzled and perplexed with the anticipated arrival, and longed to think quietly over the dilemma, for it was a dilemma to an old bachelor. As soon as he had swallowed his second cup of tea he put himself into his easy-chair, in an easy attitude, and was very soon soliloquising as follows:—

      “By the blood of the Witheringtons! what am I, an old bachelor, to do with a baby, and a wet-nurse as black as the ace of spades, and another black fellow in the bargain. Send him back again? yes, that’s best: but the child—woke every morning at five o’clock with its squalling—obliged to kiss it three times a-day—pleasant!—and then that nigger of a nurse—thick lips—kissing child all day, and then holding it out to me—ignorant as a cow—if child has the stomach-ache she’ll cram a pepper-pod down its throat—West India fashion—children never without the stomach-ache!—my poor, poor cousin!—what has become of her and the other child, too?—wish they may pick her up, poor dear! and then she will come and take care of her own children—don’t know what to do—great mind to send for sister Moggy—but she’s so fussy—won’t be in a hurry. Think again.”

      Here Mr Witherington was interrupted by two taps at the door.

      “Come in,” said he; and the cook, with her face as red as if she had been dressing a dinner for eighteen, made her appearance without the usual clean apron.

      “If you please, sir,” said she, curtseying, “I will thank you to suit yourself with another cook.”

      “Oh, very well,” replied Mr Witherington, angry at the interruption.

      “And if you please, sir, I should like to go this very day—indeed, sir, I shall not stay.”

      “Go to the devil! if you please,” replied Mr Witherington, angrily; “but first go out and shut the door after you.”

      The cook retired, and Mr Witherington was again alone.

      “Confound the old woman—what a huff she is in! won’t cook for black people, I suppose—yes, that’s it.”

      Here Mr Witherington was again interrupted by a second double tap at the door.

      “Oh! thought better of it, I suppose. Come in.”

      It was not the cook, but Mary, the housemaid, that entered.

      “If you please, sir,” said she, whimpering, “I should wish to leave my situation.”

      “A conspiracy, by heavens! Well, you may go.”

      “To-night, sir, if you please,” answered the woman.

      “This

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