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A Message From the Sea. Charles Dickens

Consequently, when they came into Tregarthen′s little garden,—which formed the platform from which the captain had seen Kitty peeping over the wall,—the captain brought to, and stood off and on at the gate, while Kitty hurried to hide her tears in her own room, and Alfred spoke with her father, who was working in the garden. He was a rather infirm man, but could scarcely be called old yet, with an agreeable face and a promising air of making the best of things. The conversation began on his side with great cheerfulness and good humour, but soon became distrustful, and soon angry. That was the captain′s cue for striking both into the conversation and the garden.

"Morning, sir!" said Captain Jorgan. "How do you do?"

"The gentleman I am going away with," said the young fisherman to Tregarthen.

"O!" returned Kitty′s father, surveying the unfortunate captain with a look of extreme disfavour. "I confess that I can′t say I am glad to see you."

"No," said the captain, "and, to admit the truth, that seems to be the general opinion in these parts. But don′t be hasty; you may think better of me by-and-by."

"I hope so," observed Tregarthen.

"Wa′al, _I_ hope so," observed the captain, quite at his ease; "more than that, I believe so,—though you don′t. Now, Mr. Tregarthen, you don′t want to exchange words of mistrust with me; and if you did, you couldn′t, because I wouldn′t. You and I are old enough to know better than to judge against experience from surfaces and appearances; and if you haven′t lived to find out the evil and injustice of such judgments, you are a lucky man."

The other seemed to shrink under this remark, and replied, "Sir, I _have_ lived to feel it deeply."

"Wa′al," said the captain, mollified, "then I′ve made a good cast without knowing it. Now, Tregarthen, there stands the lover of your only child, and here stand I who know his secret. I warrant it a righteous secret, and none of his making, though bound to be of his keeping. I want to help him out with it, and tewwards that end we ask you to favour us with the names of two or three old residents in the village of Lanrean. As I am taking out my pocket-book and pencil to put the names down, I may as well observe to you that this, wrote atop of the first page here, is my name and address: ′Silas Jonas Jorgan, Salem, Massachusetts, United States.′ If ever you take it in your head to run over any morning, I shall be glad to welcome you. Now, what may be the spelling of these said names?"

"There was an elderly man," said Tregarthen, "named David Polreath. He may be dead."

"Wa′al," said the captain, cheerfully, "if Polreath′s dead and buried, and can be made of any service to us, Polreath won′t object to our digging of him up. Polreath′s down, anyhow."

"There was another named Penrewen. I don′t know his Christian name."

"Never mind his Chris′en name," said the captain; "Penrewen, for short."

"There was another named John Tredgear."

"And a pleasant-sounding name, too," said the captain; "John Tredgear′s booked."

"I can recall no other except old Parvis."

"One of old Parvis′s fam′ly I reckon," said the captain, "kept a dry-goods store in New York city, and realised a handsome competency by burning his house to ashes. Same name, anyhow. David Polreath, Unchris′en Penrewen, John Tredgear, and old Arson Parvis."

"I cannot recall any others at the moment.

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