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.