The Young Trawler by R. M. Ballantyne (i read books txt) 📖

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.