Chapter Twenty Five.
Billy and his Father Return Home
Who can describe the strange mingling of grateful joy with bitter anguish that almost burst the heart of David Bright’s widow on that terrible night!
She was singing one of the “Songs of Zion,” and busy with household cares, preparing for the expected return of her husband and her son, when they carried Billy in.
It might be supposed that she would be anxious on such a stormy night but if the wives of North Sea fishermen were to give way to fears with every gale that blew, they would be filled with overwhelming anxiety nearly all the year round.
When the knock at the door came at last the song ceased, and when the stout fisherman entered with his burden, and a fair curl, escaping from the folds of the ulster, told what that burden was, the colour fled from the poor woman’s cheeks, and a sinking of the heart under a great dread almost overcame her.
“He’s all right, missus,” said the man, quickly.
“Thank God?” gasped Mrs Bright. “Are—are the rest safe?”
“I b’lieve they are. Some of ’em are, I know.”
Obliged to be content, for the moment, with the amount of relief conveyed by these words, she had Billy laid on a bed, and bustled about actively rubbing him dry, wrapping him in blankets, applying hot bottles and otherwise restoring him; for as yet the poor boy showed only slight symptoms of returning vitality.
While thus engaged the door burst open, and Maggie Davidson rushed in.
“Oh, Nell!” she exclaimed, “what has happened—is it true—Billy!—dead? No; thank God for that, but—but—the Evening Star must be wrecked! Are the rest safe? Is Joe—”
The excited young wife stopped and gasped with anxiety.
“The Lord has been merciful in sending me my Billy,” returned Mrs Bright, with forced calmness, “but I know nothing more.”
Turning at once, Maggie rushed wildly from the house intending to make straight for the shore. But she had not gone far when a crowd of men appeared coming towards her. Foremost among these was her own husband!
With a sharp cry of joy she rushed forward and threw herself into his ready arms.
“Oh! praise the Lord,” she said; but as she spoke the appearance of her husband’s face alarmed her. Glancing hastily at the crowd behind, she cast a frightened look up at Joe’s face.
“Who is it?” she asked in a whisper, as four men advanced with slow measured tread bearing between them the form of a man.
“David,” he said, while an irrepressible sob convulsed him.
For one moment the comely face of Maggie wore an expression of horror; then she broke from Joe, ran quickly back, and, seizing Mrs Bright in her arms, attempted in vain to speak.
“What—what’s wrong, Maggie?”
The poor sympathetic young wife could not utter a word. She could only throw her arms round her friend’s neck, and burst into a passion of tears.
But there was no need for words. Mrs Bright knew full well what the tears meant, and her heart stood still while a horror of darkness seemed to sink down upon her. At that moment she heard the tread of those who approached.
Another minute, and all that remained of David Bright was laid on his bed, and his poor wife fell with a low wail upon his inanimate form, while Billy sat up on his couch and gazed in speechless despair.
In that moment of terrible agony God did not leave the widow utterly comfortless, for even in the first keen glance at her dead husband she had noted the Bethel-Flag, which he had shown to her with such pride on his last holiday. Afterwards she found in his pocket the Testament which she had given to him that year, and thus was reminded that the parting was not to be—for ever!
We will not dwell on the painful scene. In the midst of it, Ruth Dotropy glided in like an angel of light, and, kneeling quietly by the widow’s side, sobbed as if the loss had been her own. Poor Ruth! She did not know how to set about comforting one in such overwhelming grief. Perhaps it was as well that she did not “try,” for certainly, in time, she succeeded.
How Ruth came to hear of the wreck and its consequences was not very apparent, but she had a peculiar faculty for discovering the locality of human grief, a sort of instinctive tendency to gravitate towards it, and, like her namesake of old, to cling to the sufferer.
Returning to her own lodging, she found her mother, and told her all that had happened.
“And now, mother,” she said, “I must go at once to London, and tell Captain Bream of my suspicions about Mrs Bright, and get him to come down here, so as to bring them face to face without further delay.”
“My dear child, you will do nothing of the sort,” said Mrs Dotropy, with unwonted decision. “You know well enough that Captain Bream has had a long and severe illness, and could not stand anything in the nature of a shock in his present state.”
“Yes, mother, but they say that joy never kills, and if—”
“Who says?” interrupted Mrs Dotropy; “who are ‘they’ who say so many stupid things that every one seems bound to believe? Joy does kill, sometimes. Besides, what if you turned out to be wrong, and raised hopes that were only destined to be crushed? Don’t you think that the joy of anticipation might—might be neutralised by the expectation,—I mean the sorrow of—of—but it’s of no use arguing. I set my face firmly against anything of the sort.”
“Well, perhaps you are right, mother,” said Ruth, with a little sigh; “indeed, now I think of it I feel sure you are; for it might turn out to be a mistake, as you say, which would be an awful blow to poor Captain Bream in his present weak state. So I must just wait patiently till he is better.”
“Which he will very soon be, my love,” said Mrs Dotropy, “for he is sure to be splendidly nursed, now he has got back to his old quarters with these admirable Miss Seawards. But tell me more about this sad wreck. You say that the fisherman named Joe Davidson is safe?”
“Yes, I know he is, for I have just seen him.”
“I’m glad of that, for I have a great regard for him, and am quite taken with his good little wife. Indeed I feel almost envious of them, they do harmonise and agree so well together—not of course, that your excellent father and I did not agree—far from it. I don’t think that in all the course of our happy wedded life he ever once contradicted me; but somehow, he didn’t seem quite to understand things—even when things were so plain that they might have been seen with a magnifying-glass—I mean a micro—that is—no matter. I fear you would not understand much better, Ruth, darling, for you are not unlike your poor father. But who told you about the wreck?”
“A policeman, mother. He said it was the Evening Star, and the moment I heard that I hurried straight to Mrs Bright, getting the policeman to escort me there and back. He has quite as great an admiration of Joe as you have, mother, and gave me such an interesting account of the change for the better that has come over the fishermen generally since the Mission vessels carried the gospel among them. He said he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw some men whom he had known to be dreadful characters changed into absolute lambs. And you know, mother, that the opinion of policemen is of much weight, for they are by no means a soft or sentimental race of men.”
“True, Ruth,” returned her mother with a laugh. “After the scene enacted in front of our windows the other day, when one of them had so much trouble, and suffered such awful pommelling from the drunken ruffian he took up, I am quite prepared to admit that policemen are neither soft nor sentimental.”
“Now, mother, I cannot rest,” said Ruth, rising, “I will go and try to quiet my feelings by writing an account of the whole affair to the Miss Seawards.”
“But you have not told me, child, who is the young man who behaved so gallantly in rescuing little Billy and others?”
A deep blush overspread the girl’s face as she looked down, and in a low voice said, “It was our old friend Mr Dalton.”
“Ruth!” exclaimed Mrs Dotropy, sharply, with a keen gaze into her daughter’s countenance, “you are in love with Mr Dalton!”
“No, mother, I am not,” replied Ruth, with a decision of tone, and a sudden flash of the mild sweet eyes, that revealed a little of the old spirit of the De Tropys. “Surely I may be permitted to admire a brave man without the charge of being in love with him!”
“Quite true, quite true, my love,” replied the mother, sinking back into her easy-chair. “You had better go now, as you suggest, and calm yourself by writing to your friends.”
Ruth hurried from the room; sought the seclusion of her own chamber; flung herself into a chair, and put the question to herself, “Am I in love with Mr Dalton?”
It was a puzzling question; one that has been put full many a time in this world’s history without receiving a very definite or satisfactory answer. In this particular case it seemed to be not less puzzling than usual, for Ruth repeated it aloud more than once, “Am I in love with Mr Dalton?” without drawing from herself an audible reply.
She remained in the same attitude for a considerable time, with her sweet little head on one side, and her tiny hands clasped loosely on her lap—absorbed in meditation.
From this condition she at last roused herself to sit down before a table with pen, ink, and paper. Then she went to work on a graphic description of the wreck of the Evening Star—in which, of course, Mr Dalton unavoidably played a very prominent part.
Human nature is strangely and swiftly adaptable. Ruth’s heart fluttered with pleasure as she described the heroism of the young man, and next moment it throbbed with deepest sadness as she told of Mrs Bright’s woe, and the paper on which she wrote became blotted with her tears.
Chapter Twenty Six.
The House of Mourning
We have it on the highest authority that it is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting. This fallen world does not readily believe that, but then the world is notoriously slow to believe the truth, and also rather apt to believe what is false. It was long before even the learned world could be got to believe that the world itself moves round the sun. Indeed it is more than probable that more than half the world does not believe that yet. On the other hand, much of it very likely believes still that the world is flat. A savage of the prairie would almost certainly entertain that fallacy, while a savage of the mountains would perhaps laugh him to scorn, yet neither would admit that it was a globe.
So, mankind is very unwilling to accept the truth that it is better to give than to receive, though such is certainly the case if there be truth in holy writ.
John Gunter had been much impressed, and not a little softened, by the recent catastrophe of the shipwreck and of his skipper’s death, but he had not yet been subdued to the point of believing that it would be better to spend an hour with widow Bright than to spend it in the public-house, even though his shipmate Joe Davidson did his best to persuade him of that truth.
“Come,” said Joe, as a last appeal, “come, John, what’ll our shipmates think of ’ee if you never go near the poor thing to offer her a word o’ comfort?”
“I can’t comfort nobody,” replied Gunter with a surly heave of his shoulder.
“Yes, you can,” said Joe, earnestly; “why, the very sight o’ you bein’ there, out o’ respect to David, would do her poor heart good.”
The idea of anybody deriving comfort from a sight of him so tickled Gunter that he only replied with a sarcastic laugh, nevertheless he followed his mate sulkily and, as it were, under protest.
On entering the humble dwelling they found Spivin, Trevor, and Zulu already there. Mrs Bright arose with tearful eyes to welcome the new guests. Billy rose with her. He had scarcely left his mother’s side for more than a few minutes since the dark night of the wreck, though several days had elapsed.
It was a great era in the life of the fisher-boy—a new departure. It had brought him for the first time in his young life into personal contact as it were, with the dark side of life, and had made an indelible impression on his soul. It did not indeed abate the sprightly activity of his mind or body, but it sobered his spirit and, in one day, made him more of a man than several years of ordinary life could have accomplished. The most visible result was a manly consideration of, and a womanly tenderness towards, his mother, which went a long way to calm Mrs Bright’s first outbreak of sorrow.
These rough fishermen—rough only in outward appearance—had their own method of comforting the widow. They did not attempt anything like direct consolation, however, but they sat beside her and chatted in quiet undertones—through which there ran an unmistakable sound of sympathy. Their talk was about incidents and events of a pleasant or cheering kind in their several experiences. And occasionally, though not often, they referred to the absent David when anything particularly favourable to him could be said.
“We’ve got good news, Joe,” said Billy, when the former was seated.
“Ay, Billy, I’m glad o’ that. What may the good news be?”
“Another ‘Evening Star’ has been raised up to us by the Lord,” said Mrs Bright, “but oh! it will never shine like the first one to me!” The poor woman could go no further, so Billy again took up the story.
“You know,” he said, “that our kind friend Miss Ruth Dotropy has been greatly taken up about us since father went—went home, and it seems that she’s bin writin’ to Lun’on about us, tellin’ all about the wreck, an’ about our mistake in goin’ to sea, last trip, without bein’ inspected, which lost us the insurance-money. An’ there’s a rich friend o’ hers as has sent her a thousand pound to buy mother another smack!”
“You don’t say that’s true, Billy!” exclaimed Joe, with a look of surprise.
“That’s just what I do say, Joe. The smack is already bought, and is to be fitted out at once, an’ mother has made you her skipper, Joe, an’ the rest have all agreed to go—Zulu as cook—and Gunter too. Won’t you, John?”
The boy, who was somewhat excited by the news he had to tell, frankly held out his hand to Gunter, and that worthy, grasping it with an unwonted display of frankness on his part growled—“I’m with ’ee, lad.”
“Yes, it’s all arranged,” resumed Billy, “and we’ll not be long o’ being ready for sea, so you won’t be left to starve, mother—”
Up to this point the poor boy had held on with his wonted vivacity, but he stopped suddenly. The corners of his mouth began to twitch, and, laying his head on his mother’s bosom, he sobbed aloud.
It did the widow good to comfort him. The fishermen had an instinctive perception that their wisest course lay in taking no notice, and continuing their low-voiced intercourse.
“Well, now,” said Joe, “I have read in story-books of folk bein’ as lib’ral sometimes as to give a thousand pounds, but I never thought I’d live to see ’em do it.”
“Why, Joe, where have your eyes and ears bin?” said Luke Trevor. “Don’t you know it was a lib’ral gentleman, if not two, or p’raps three, as lent the Ensign, our first gospel-ship, to the Mission?”
“That’s true, Luke; I forgot that when I spoke, an’ there’s more gospel-smacks comin’, I’m told, presented in the same way by lib’ral folk.”
“It’s my belief,” said Luke, with emphasis, at the same time striking his right knee with his hand, “it’s my belief that afore long we’ll have a gospel-ship for every fleet on the North Sea.”
“Right you are, boy,” said Joe, “an’ the sooner the better. Moreover, I’ve heard say that there’s a talk about sellin’ baccy on board of the mission-ships cheaper than what they do aboard o’ the copers. Did any of ’ee hear o’ that?”
“I heard somethin’ about it,” answered Luke, “but it’s too good news to be true. If they do, it’ll drive the copers off the sea.”
“Of course it will. That’s just what they’re a-goin’ to do it for, I suppose.”
Reader, the mode of dealing with the abominable “coper” traffic referred to by these men has at last happily been adopted, and the final blow has been dealt by the simple expedient of underselling the floating grog-shops in the article of tobacco. Very considerable trouble and expense have to be incurred by the mission, however, for the tobacco has to be fetched from a foreign port; but the result amply repays the cost for the men naturally prefer paying only 1 shilling per pound on board the mission-ship, to paying 1 shilling 6 pence on board the “coper.” The smacksman’s advantages in this respect may be better understood when we say that on shore he has to pay 4 shillings per pound for tobacco. But his greatest advantage of all—that for which the plan has been adopted—is his being kept away from the vessel where, while purchasing tobacco, he is tempted to buy poisonous spirits. Of course the anti-smoker is entitled to say “it were better that the smacksman should be saved from tobacco as well as drink!” But of two evils it is wise to choose the less. Tobacco at 1 shilling 6 pence procured in the “coper,” with, to some, its irresistible temptation to get drunk on vile spirits, is a greater evil than the procuring of the same weed at 1 shilling in a vessel all whose surroundings and internal arrangements are conducive to the benefit of soul and body.
“D’ye mind the old Swan, boys?” asked an elderly man—a former friend of David Bright who had dropped in with his mite of genuine sympathy.
“What, the first gospel-ship as was sent afloat some thirty years ago? It would be hard to remember what existed before I was born!”
“Well, you’ve heard of her, anyhow. She was lent by the Admiralty for the work in the year eighteen hundred and something, not to go out like the Ensign to the North Sea fleets, but to cruise about an’ visit in the Thames. I was in the Swan myself for a few months when I was a young fellow, and we had grand times aboard of that wessel. It seemed to me like a sort o’ home to the sailors that they’d make for arter their woyages was over. Once, I reklect, we had a evenin’ service, an’ as several ships had come in from furrin parts that mornin’ we had the Swan chock-full o’ noo hands; but bless you, though they was noo to us they warn’t noo to each other. They had many of ’em met aboard the Swan years before. Some of ’em hadn’t met for seven and ten year, and sich a shakin’ o’ hands there was, an’ recognisin’ of each other!—I thought we’d never get the service begun. Many of ’em was Christian men, and felt like brothers, you see.”
“Did many of the masters an’ mates come to the services in those days?” asked Joe Davidson.
“Ay, a-many of ’em. W’y, I’ve seed lots o’ both masters an’ mates wolunteerin’ to indoose their men to come w’en some of ’em warn’t willin’—takin’ their own boats, too, to the neighbourin’ ships an’ bringin’ off the men as wanted to, w’en the Swan’s bell was a-ringin’ for service. I heard one man say he hadn’t bin to a place o’ worship for ten year, an’ if he’d know’d what the Swan was like he’d ha’ bin to her sooner.
“I mind meetin’ wery unexpected with a friend at that time,” continued the old fisherman, who saw that his audience was interested in his talk, and that the mind of poor Mrs Bright was being drawn from her great sorrow for a little. “I hadn’t met ’im for eight or ten years.
“‘Hallo! Abel,’ says I, ‘is that you?’
“‘That’s me,’ says he, ketchin’ hold o’ my grapnel, an’ givin’ it a shake that a’most unshipped the shoulder. ‘Leastwise it’s all that’s left o’ me.’
“‘What d’ee mean?’ says I.
“‘I mean,’ says he, ‘that I’ve just lost my wessel on the Gunfleet sands, but, thank God, I haven’t lost my life, nor none o’ my men, though it was a close shave.’
“‘How did it happen, Abel?’ says I.
“Says he, ‘It happened pretty much in the usual way. A gale, wi’ sleet that thick we could hardly see the end o’ the jib-boom. The moment we struck I know’d it was all over wi’ the old wessel, but I didn’t see my way to go under without a struggle, so we made a desp’rit attemp’ to git out the boats, but a sea saved us the trouble, for it swept ’em all away before we got at ’em, as if they’d bin on’y chips o’ wood. Then, as if to mock us, another sea pitched us higher on the sands, so as the decks wasn’t washed by every wave quite so bad, but we knew that wouldn’t last for the tide was makin’ fast, so I calls the crew together, an’ says I, “Now, lads, I’ve often prayed with you an’ for you. In a few minutes we’ll have to take to the riggin’, an’ you know what the end o’ that’s likely to be. Before doin’ so, I’ll pray again, for nothin’ is impossible to the Lord, an’ it may be His will to spare us yet a while.” Well, I prayed. Then we took to the riggin’ to wait for death—or rescue. An’ sure enough, after we had bin six hours there, an’ was all but frozen, a fishin’-smack came past and took us off.’”
“Now, mates,” said Joe Davidson, after they had chatted thus in subdued tones for some time, “it do seem to me that as most of us are of one mind here, and we are, so to speak, of one fisher-family, it might do Mrs Bright good if we was to have a bit of the Word together, and a prayer or two.”
As every one agreed to this either heartily or by silence, a Bible was produced, and Joe,—being mate of the late Evening Star, and therefore a sort of natural head of the family—read the portion where God promises to be a Husband to the widow, and a Father to the fatherless.
Then they all knelt while he prayed in simple language for comfort and a blessing to the mourning household. He was followed with a very few but intensely earnest words by Luke. Even John Gunter put up an unpremeditated prayer in the words, “God help us!” uttered in a choking voice, and the old fisherman followed them all with a deep “Amen.”
After that they shook hands tenderly with the widow and Billy, and went out silently from the house of mourning.