the indications of bad weather which had been observed were not misleading, for it not only became what terrence o’connor had termed “durty,” but it went on next day to develop a regular gale, insomuch that every rag of canvas, except storm-sails, had to be taken in and the hatches battened down, thus confining the passengers to the cabins.

these passengers looked at matters from wonderfully different points of view, and felt accordingly. surroundings had undoubtedly far greater influence on some of them than was reasonable. of course we refer to the landsmen only. in the after-cabin, where all was light, cosy, and comfortable, and well fastened, and where a considerable degree of propriety existed, feelings were comparatively serene. most of the ladies sought the retirement of berths, and became invisible, though not necessarily inaudible; a few, who were happily weather-proof, jammed themselves into velvety corners, held on to something fixed, and lost themselves in books. the gentlemen, linking themselves to articles of stability, did the same, or, retiring to an appropriate room, played cards and draughts and enveloped themselves in smoke. few, if any of them, bestowed much thought on the weather. beyond giving them, occasionally, a little involuntary exercise, it did not seriously affect them.

very different was the state of matters in the steerage. there the difference in comfort was not proportioned to the difference in passage-money. there was no velvet, not much light, little space to move about, and nothing soft. in short, discomfort reigned, so that the unfortunate passengers could not easily read, and the falling of tin panikins and plates, the crashing of things that had broken loose, the rough exclamations of men, and the squalling of miserable children, affected the nerves of the timid to such an extent that they naturally took the most gloomy view of the situation.

of course the mere surroundings had no influence whatever on the views held by bob massey and joe slag.

“my dear,” said the latter, in a kindly but vain endeavour to comfort mrs mitford, “rumpusses below ain’t got nothin’ to do wi’ rows overhead—leastways they’re only an effect, not a cause.”

“there! there’s another,” interrupted mrs mitford, with a little scream, as a tremendous crash of crockery burst upon her ear.

“well, my dear,” said slag, in a soothing, fatherly tone, “if all the crockery in the ship was to go in universal smash into the lee scuppers, it couldn’t make the wind blow harder.”

poor mrs mitford failed to derive consolation from this remark. she was still sick enough to be totally and hopelessly wretched, but not sufficiently so to be indifferent to life or death. every superlative howl of the blast she echoed with a sigh, and each excessive plunge of the ship she emphasised with a weak scream.

“i don’t know what you think,” she said, faintly, when two little boys rolled out of their berths and went yelling to leeward with a mass of miscellaneous rubbish, “but it do seem to be as if the end of the world ’ad come. not that the sea could be the end of the world, for if it was, of course it would spill over and then we would be left dry on the bottom—or moist, if not dry. i don’t mean that, you know, but these crashes are so dreadful, an’ my poor ’ead is like to split—which the planks of this ship will do if they go on creakin’ so. i know they will, for ’uman-made things can’t—”

“you make your mind easy, my woman,” said her husband, coming forward at the moment and sitting down to comfort her. “things are lookin’ a little better overhead, so one o’ the men told me, an’ i heard terrence say that we’re goin’ to have lobscouse for dinner to-day, though what that may be i can’t tell—somethin’ good, i suppose.”

“something thick, an’ luke-warm, an’ greasy, i know,” groaned peggy, with a shudder.

there was a bad man on board the ship. there usually is a bad man on board of most ships; sometimes more than one. but this one was unusually bad, and was, unfortunately, an old acquaintance of the mitfords. indeed, he had been a lover of mrs mitford, when she was peggy owen, though her husband knew nothing of that. if peggy had known that this man—ned jarring by name—was to be a passenger, she would have prevailed on her husband to go by another vessel; but she was not aware of it until they met in the fore-cabin the day after leaving port.

being a dark-haired, sallow-complexioned man, he soon became known on board by the name of black ned. like many bad men, jarring was a drunkard, and, when under the influence of liquor, was apt to act incautiously as well as wickedly. on the second day of the gale he entered the fore-cabin with unsteady steps, and looked round with an air of solemn stupidity. besides being dark and swarthy, he was big and strong, and had a good deal of the bully in his nature. observing that mrs mitford was seated alone in a dark corner of the cabin with a still greenish face and an aspect of woe, he staggered towards her, and, sitting down, took her hand affectionately.

“dear peggy,” he began, but he got no further, for the little woman snatched her hand away, sprang up and confronted him with a look of blazing indignation. every trace of her sickness vanished as if by magic. the greenish complexion changed to crimson, and the woebegone tones to those of firm resolution, as she exclaimed—

“ned jarring, if you ever again dare to take liberties with me, i’ll tell my ’usband, i will; an’ as sure as you’re a-sittin’ on that seat ’e’ll twist you up, turn you outside in, an’ fling you overboard!”

little mrs mitford did not wait for a response, but, turning sharply round, left the cabin with a stride which, for a woman of her size and character, was most impressive.

jarring gazed after her with an expression of owlish and unutterable surprise on his swarthy countenance. then he smiled faintly at the unexpected and appalling—not to say curious—fate that awaited him; but reflecting that, although lugubrious and long, mitford was deep-chested, broad-shouldered, and wiry, he became grave again, shook his head, and had the sense to make up his mind never again to arouse the slumbering spirit of peggy mitford.

it was a wild scene that presented itself to the eyes of the passengers in the lapwing when the hatches were at last taken off, and they were permitted once more to go on deck. grey was the prevailing colour. the great seas, which seemed unable to recover from the wild turmoil into which they had been lashed, were of a cold greenish grey, flecked and tipped with white. the sky was steely grey with clouds that verged on black; and both were so mingled together that it seemed as if the little vessel were imbedded in the very heart of a drizzling, heaving, hissing ocean.

the coxswain’s wife stood leaning on her stalwart husband’s arm, by the foremast, gazing over the side.

“it do seem more dreary than i expected,” she said. “i wouldn’t be a sailor, bob, much as i’ve bin used to the sea, an’ like it.”

“ah, nell, that’s ’cause you’ve only bin used to the sea-shore. you haven’t bin long enough on blue water, lass, to know that folks’ opinions change a good deal wi’ their feelin’s. wait till we git to the neighbour’ood o’ the line, wi’ smooth water an’ blue skies an’ sunshine, sharks, and flyin’ fish. you’ll have a different opinion then about the sea.”

“right you are, bob,” said joe slagg, coming up at that moment. “most people change their opinions arter gittin’ to the line, specially when it comes blazin’ hot, fit to bile the sea an’ stew the ship, an’ a dead calm gits a hold of ’e an’ keeps ye swelterin’ in the doldrums for a week or two.”

“but it wasn’t that way we was lookin’ at it, joe,” returned nellie, with a laugh. “bob was explainin’ to me how pleasant a change it would be after the cold grey sea an’ sky we’re havin’ just now.”

“well, it may be so; but whatever way ye may look at it, you’ll change yer mind, more or less, when you cross the line. by the way, that minds me that some of us in the steerage are invited to cross the line to-night—the line that separates us from the cabin—to attend a lectur’ there—an’ you’ll niver guess the subjec’, bob.”

“i know that, joe. i never made a right guess in my life, that i knows on. heave ahead, what is it?”

“a lectur’ on the ‘lifeboat,’ no less! but it aint our lifeboat sarvice: it’s the american one, cause it’s to be given by that fine young fellow, dr hayward, who looks as if suthin’ had damaged his constitootion somehow. i’m told he’s a yankee, though he looks uncommon like an englishman.”

“he’s tall an’ ’andsome enough, anyhow,” remarked massey.

“ay, an’ he’s good enough for anything,” said nellie, with enthusiasm. “you should see the kind way he speaks to poor ian when he comes to see him—which is pretty much every day. he handles him, too, so tenderly—just like his mother; but he won’t give him medicine or advice, for it seems that wouldn’t be thought fair by the ship’s doctor. no more it would, i suppose.”

“d’ee know what’s the matter wi’ him?” asked mitford, who had joined the group.

“not i,” returned massey. “it seems more like gineral weakness than anything else.”

“i can tell you,” said a voice close to them. the voice was that of tomlin, who, although a first-class passenger, was fond of visiting and fraternising with the people of the fore-cabin. “he got himself severely wounded some time ago when protecting a poor slave-girl from her owner, and he’s now slowly recovering. he is taking a long voyage for his health. the girl, it seems, had run away from her owner, and had nearly escaped into canada, where of course, being on british soil, she would be free—”

“god bless the british soil!” interrupted little mrs mitford, in a tone of enthusiasm which caused a laugh all round; but that did not prevent some of the bystanders from responding with a hearty “amen!”

“i agree with you, mrs mitford,” said tomlin; “but the owner of the poor slave did not think as you and i do. the girl was a quadroon—that is, nearly, if not altogether, white. she was also very beautiful. well, the owner—a coarse brute—with two followers, overtook the runaway slave near a lonely roadside tavern—i forget the name of the place—but dr hayward happened to have arrived there just a few minutes before them. his horse was standing at the door, and he was inside, talking with the landlord, when he heard a loud shriek outside. running out, he found the girl struggling wildly in the hands of her captors. of course, he demanded an explanation, though he saw clearly enough how matters stood.

“‘she’s my slave,’ said the owner, haughtily. he would not, perhaps, have condescended even with that much explanation if he had not seen that the landlord sympathised with the doctor.

“this was enough, however, for hayward, who is a man of few words and swift action. he was unarmed, but carried a heavy-handled whip, with this he instantly felled the slave-owner and one of his men to the ground before they had time to wink, but the third man drew a pistol, and, pointing it straight at the doctor’s head, would have blown out his brains if the landlord had not turned the weapon aside and tripped the man up. before he could recover hayward had swung the girl on his horse, leaped into the saddle, and dashed off at full speed. he did not draw rein till he carried her over the frontier into canada, and had placed her beyond the reach of her enemies.”

“brayvo! the doctor,” exclaimed slag, heartily.

“then he found,” continued tomlin, “that he had been wounded in the chest by the ball that was meant for his head, but made light of the wound until it was found to be serious. the ball was still in him, and had to be extracted, after which he recovered slowly. the romantic part of it is, however, that he fell in love with eva—that was the girl’s name—and she with him, and they were married—”

“ah, poor thing,” said mitford; “then she died and he married again?”

“not at all,” returned tomlin, “she did not die, and he did not marry again.”

“how—what then about that splendid wife that he’s got in the after-cabin now?” asked mitford.

“that’s her. that’s eva, the quadroon. she’s not only as white as mrs massey or mrs mitford there, but she’s been educated and brought up as a lady and among ladies, besides having the spirit of a real lady, which many a born one hasn’t got at all.”

there were many fore-cabin passengers who “crossed the line” that night in order to hear the gallant american lecture, but chiefly to see the beautiful lady who had been so romantically rescued from slavery.

“not a drop of black blood in her body!” was mrs mitford’s verdict after the lecture was over.

“an’ what if there was?” demanded slag, in a tone of indignation. “d’ee think that white blood is worth more than black blood in the eyes o’ the almighty as made ’em both?”

the lecture itself was highly appreciated, being on a subject which bob and joe had already made interesting to the steerage passengers. and the lecturer not only treated it well, but was himself such a fine, lion-like, yet soft-voiced fellow that his audience were quite charmed.

soon the lapwing was gliding through the warm waters of the equatorial seas, and those of the passengers who had never visited such regions before were immensely interested by the sight of dolphins, sharks, and especially flying-fish.

“i don’t believe in ’em,” said mrs mitford to mrs massey one day as they stood looking over the side of the ship.

“i do believe in ’em,” said mrs massey, “because my bob says he has seen ’em.”

not long after this double assertion of opinion there was a sudden cry that flying-fish were to be seen alongside, and mrs mitford actually beheld them with her own eyes leap out of the sea, skim over the waves a short distance, and then drop into the water again; still she was incredulous! “flyin’” she exclaimed, “nothin’ of the sort; they only made a long jump out o’ the water, an’ wriggled their tails as they went; at least they wriggled something, for i couldn’t be rightly sure they ’ad tails to wriggle, any more than wings—never ’avin’ seen ’em except in pictures, which is mostly lies. indeed!”

“look-out!” exclaimed slag at the moment, for a couple of fish flew over the bulwarks just then, and fell on deck almost at mrs mitford’s feet. when she saw them there floundering about, wings and all, she felt constrained to give in.

“well, well,” she said, raising her hands and eyes to heaven, as though she addressed her remarks chiefly to celestial ears, “did ever mortal see the likes? fish wi’ wings an’ no feathers! i’ll believe anything after that!”

peggy mitford is not the first, and won’t be the last woman—to say nothing of man—who has thus bounded from the depths of scepticism to the heights of credulity.