[Illustration:
FRONTISPIECE.
]
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DRIFTED ASHORE
OR,
A CHILD WITHOUT A NAME
BY
EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN
AUTHOR OF “LENORE ANNANDALE,” “THE MISTRESS OF LYDGATE,” “HER
HUSBAND’S HOME,” ETC.
“Thy will be done.”
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_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES WHYMPER_
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BOSTON:
BRADLEY & WOODRUFF
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[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
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CHAPTER I.
PAGE
The Fisherman’s Hut 7
CHAPTER II.
The Squire’s Hall 21
CHAPTER III.
A Little Intruder 34
CHAPTER IV.
Queenie’s Home 48
CHAPTER V.
Sunday 63
CHAPTER VI.
The First Interview 78
CHAPTER VII.
The Fugitive 90
CHAPTER VIII.
Bertie and Phil 107
CHAPTER IX.
Queenie’s Ideas 130
CHAPTER X.
Bertie’s New Friends 144
CHAPTER XI.
Uncle Fred 159
CHAPTER XII.
A Project 171
CHAPTER XIII.
A Picnic 184
CHAPTER XIV.
Autumn Days 198
CHAPTER XV.
The Grave in the 212
Churchyard
CHAPTER XVI.
What Bertie Did 225
CHAPTER XVII.
Christmas-tide 239
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Squire’s Story 253
CHAPTER XIX.
Coming Changes 264
CHAPTER XX.
The Rocky Bay 277
CHAPTER XXI.
The Mother 291
CHAPTER XXII.
The Name Found 307
CHAPTER XXIII.
Conclusion 323
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CHAPTER I.
THE FISHERMAN’S HUT.
THE fitful light of a showery April day was shining upon the level
expanse of pale yellow sand, and upon the heaving plain of the sullen,
angry sea. Great waves came racing in upon the beach, as though nothing
would stay their impetuous course; and yet, as they approached that
invisible limit against which was traced in unseen characters “Thus far
and no farther,” their proud crests fell with a grand crash, and with a
sullen and subdued sound, as of resentment and wrath, they drew back
again into the seething waste of water they had for the moment seemed to
leave behind.
When the dark clouds, heavy with rain, drifted over the sun’s pale disc
and blotted out his watery smile, the face of the ocean looked very grim
and black; but when the driving shower had passed, and the sunlight
shone out clear and bright, turning to powdered gold dust the last of
the retreating raindrops, then it seemed as if the great waves were
laughing and rejoicing in their play; and even the dreary wastes of sand
looked bright and almost beautiful, and the level country beyond, bare
and bleak, and in many places almost treeless, put on an aspect of
quiet, smiling contentment that might almost be taken for beauty.
A little boy had been sitting for many hours beneath the shelter of an
old boat drawn up upon the shore. He was protected from the driving
showers, and seemed quite contented with his position, for it was long
since he had moved. He sat very still, nursing his knees with his
clasped hands and resting his chin upon them, whilst he gazed
unweariedly out over the tossing sea.
[Illustration]
His coarse clothing and sun-browned face and hands proclaimed him a
fisherman’s son. He looked about ten or twelve years old, and had a
gentle, thoughtful, although not an intellectual cast of countenance. He
did not appear very robust, despite his indifference to raindrops and
chilly sea-breezes, and his placid inactivity betrayed a nature more
prone to contemplation than to the toils of the life to which he was
evidently born.
The sun began to set behind the sandhills, whose shadows slowly
lengthened, whilst the thin, coarse grass which grew sparsely upon them
turned golden in the radiance of departing day. The hoarse cries of the
seabirds grew more frequent as they flew hither and thither, as if in
search of their night’s quarters; and the little boy, rousing himself at
last from his reverie, rose slowly from his sitting posture, stretched
his cramped limbs, and began slowly making his way in a diagonal
direction across the sandhills.
He had not proceeded far, before a wreath of pale blue smoke curling up
from a little hollow indicated the presence of some dwelling-place; and
a few more steps brought him to the door of a tiny cabin such as
fisher-folk often inhabit.
The door stood seawards, and was as usual wide open, and upon the
threshold sat the boy’s mother, busily engaged in mending a broken net.
She looked up as the child approached, and smiled. She had a round,
motherly face, and her person, as well as the interior of her diminutive
abode, was far more clean and neat than is usual with the dwellings of
people of her class.
“Well, David,” she said, “where hast thou been all the day, honey?”
“Oh, down by the sea, mother,” he answered; and then, glancing quickly
up into her face, he asked, “Be he woke up yet?”
The woman shook her head.
“Nay, nay, that he has not,” she answered. “Sometimes I be afeared he’ll
never wake no more, for all the doctor says he will.”
A look of distress clouded David’s face.
“Oh, mother, don’t say that! He’s sure to wake up soon—the doctor must
know best. May I go and look at un?”
“Ay, do so, child, if thee wants.”
And David stepped over his mother’s net and went into the inner room of
the little low-roofed cabin.
Upon a low pallet-bed, beneath the little west window, through which the
sun was now pouring a flood of golden light, lay a child about eight
years old, a little boy, with dark soft hair lying in heavy waves across
his forehead, and his white face very set and still, more as if in
unconsciousness than in sleep. A glance at the delicate features of the
child upon the bed, the blue veins showing through the transparent skin,
the short upper lip, broad, intellectual brow, and small, well-shaped
hands, showed plainly enough that he was no relation to the little
brown-faced fisher lad who stood beside him, looking down at him with
such interest.
What then had brought him to that humble abode? Who was he? and how came
it that he lay there so still and motionless, untended save by the hard
though motherly hands of the fisherman’s wife? Where were the boy’s own
friends and kindred, who would be the most eager to be with him at such
a time as this? Where was the mother, who would be first to fly to her
darling, could she but see him lying there, on that hard pallet-bed,
with no luxuries around him, and only strangers to minister to his need?
Where indeed? That was a question that entered many minds; but none gave
voice to it, for all knew how vainly it would be asked. The little
white-faced boy had been cast up by the stormy sea at the good
fisherwife’s feet three days ago now, but not a single clue could be
found by which to identify the child, or even the vessel from which he
had been swept. Probably he was the only survivor of some ill-fated
ship; probably he had been washed ashore alive only because a life-belt
had been tied about him and had floated him to shore. Not a single plank
or fragment of wreckage had been cast ashore with the little waif; and,
unless he awoke to give an account of himself, it seemed likely that he
too would have to lie in a nameless grave, as his companions now did
beneath the waves of the pitiless ocean.
The doctor of the nearest village, who had been every day to see the
boy, was still of the opinion that he would awake to consciousness in
time. He detected traces of a heavy blow upon the head, that was
evidently the cause of this prolonged unconsciousness, some concussion
of the brain having probably taken place; but consciousness would return
in time, and then they would be able to learn who the child was, and
communicate with his friends.
Meantime, as the fisherwife’s “goodman” and big boys were out on a
fishing excursion, there was room in the cabin for the little waif, and
the dame’s motherly heart was filled with compassion for him, and
prompted her to “do for him” as if he had been a child of her own.
Little David had taken from the first an immense interest in the
nameless stranger. He thought he had never in his life seen any face
half so beautiful as that of the white-faced child who lay motionless
upon the bed, and he wove round him the web of romance that always seems
so dear to children, especially when they are of an imaginative turn. He
believed that he would prove to be at the very least a prince, although
what a prince was David had only the vaguest of ideas.
He was never tired of standing beside the bed and looking at the white
face upon the pillow, of watching his mother feed the unconscious child,
and observing the face and movements of the doctor as he made his daily
examination. He would have been pleased to stay all day in the quiet
room, did not his mother insist on his going out for some hours every
day; but the moment he felt at liberty to return he did so, and his
first question was always the same—Had the little boy awoke yet?
And now, as he stood gazing down upon the little white face, suddenly
his heart began to beat more quickly and his breath came thick and fast,
for he saw that the long black lashes resting upon the waxen cheek were
beginning to tremble and to slowly lift themselves up; and the next
moment a pair of large, dark, soft eyes were looking straight into his.
There was no meaning in that gaze, no surprise or inquiry. It was like
the expression in the eyes of a little child just awakened from sleep,
before any consciousness of its surroundings has dawned upon it; but
David uttered a smothered cry that brought his mother hurrying up.
The great dark eyes turned upon her then, and she laid her hand upon
David’s shoulder.
“Run for the doctor, quick, Davie boy!” she cried in an excited whisper.
“Don’t thee linger by the way now. Fetch him as fast as thee can.”
No need to tell David not to linger. He was off like a shot almost
before the words were spoken.
Fortune favored him that day. The doctor, whose experienced eye had that
morning detected an approaching change in his little patient’s state,
had already set out upon a second visit to the fisherman’s cottage, and
David encountered him about a quarter of a mile away from his home.
The boy imparted his news with breathless eagerness. The doctor
quickened his pace, and in a very few minutes he was standing beside the
pallet-bed.
The sick child had turned his face away from the light and had closed
his eyes again; but when the doctor laid a cool, firm hand upon his
head, he started a little, and the dark eyes unclosed once more and
fastened upon the doctor’s face.
“Well, my little friend, and how are you?” was the kindly inquiry; but
the child only looked hard at the speaker and said nothing.
“Can you tell me your name, my boy?” was the next question; but still
there was no reply.
“Perhaps he is a foreigner,” thought Dr. Lighton. “His eyes are dark
enough;” and, summoning up first French and then Italian, he tried if he
could make himself understood.
The child’s dark eyes had never left his face for an instant. Their
glance was curiously intent, expressive of some feeling that it was
impossible to define, full of a wistful perplexity that was akin to
pain, which filled the young doctor with a sort of compassion he did not
altogether understand.
Quite suddenly the child’s lips unclosed, and he said, very distinctly
and softly,—
“I understood you before, thank you; but I can speak French too. Is this
France?”
“No, we are in England, my little man. You are in your own country, and
we will soon find your friends for you. What is your name?”
A look of distress and perplexity clouded the child’s face.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“Don’t know!” repeated Dr. Lighton, kindly. “Well, it will soon come
back to you.”
There was a long silence in the little room. David almost held his
breath, for fear he should disturb the current of the little prince’s
thoughts. His mother shook her head sympathetically and murmured, “Poor
lamb, poor lamb!” whilst the doctor’s eyes were fixed with keen
professional scrutiny upon the child’s face.
The look of bewildered distress had deepened there. The dark eyes began
to burn with strange intensity, and with a sudden little frightened cry
the boy pressed his two hands upon his head.
“I can’t remember—I can’t remember! It’s all gone!”
Dr. Lighton laid his own hand upon those of his little patient.
“Never mind,” he said, in kindly, reassuring tones; “it will all come
back in time. Do not try to think, or you will only hurt yourself. Take
some of this milk, and go to sleep. When you wake up again you will
remember all about it, I dare say.”
The child was docile and obedient, as well as exceedingly weak. He took
what was offered from the doctor’s hands, and fell asleep shortly
afterwards—the sleep of exhausted nature.
“Let him sleep; see that he is not disturbed,” said the doctor to the
fisherman’s wife, as they stood in the outer room together. “He wants
rest more than anything. He must not excite himself by talking.”
“He’ll remember all about hisself by and by, doctor?” questioned the
good woman, compassionately. “I be main anxious to let his poor mother
know he’s safe. She must be fretting sorely.”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” answered the doctor, glancing over the sea, thinking
to himself that the mother might in all probability be sleeping beneath
the waves; “time and rest may work wonders for him; but don’t press him,
don’t try to force his memory. Let it come of itself by degrees. I’ll
look round early to-morrow.”
And with that the doctor took his departure, nodding a kindly adieu, and
muttering, as he walked over the soft sandhills,—
“A curious case, a curious case. I wonder how it will end.”
The opinion of the kindly fisher-folk of the neighboring hamlet was that
the child would be able to give an account of himself, as soon as he had
recovered a little more strength, and grown used to his surroundings;
but day by day passed by, strength and spirit both began to revive, and
still the little boy remained utterly silent as to his past history, and
when the doctor questioned him (he had forbidden any one else to do so)
as to his name, his parentage, his antecedents, a look of bewildered
distress would cross his face, he would press his hands upon his head,
and say,—
“I can’t remember. It’s all gone. Oh, I don’t know anything about it!”
Dr. Lighton never pressed him. He always turned the talk, with a smile
or a kind word; but as day by day passed on, and still no memory
returned, he began to wonder how it would all end, and how long a time
must elapse before the shaken faculties could reassert themselves.
The boy grew better and stronger every day. He played with David
unweariedly for many hours upon the bed, and when he was able to get up
and be dressed in some of the elder boy’s clothes,—he had been washed
ashore in a little nightdress and a rough blue pilot coat,—they wandered
out upon the sandhills together, and enjoyed themselves after a peculiar
fashion of their own.
They were a very quiet pair, but not on that account unhappy. David was
in a state of quiet and ecstatic delight. It was enough for him to be
with the stranger, to watch his every movement, wait upon him, talk to
him, love him as only children can love their own kind, and to bask, as
it were, in the light of his countenance.
The little new boy was very silent and quiet. He answered when he was
spoken to, but seldom volunteered a remark. His eyes were always dreamy,
and wore a look of wistful bewilderment and sorrow that was very
expressive of the confused state of his mind. He would sit for hours
gazing over the sea, with a strangely rapt expression of countenance,
and when David spoke to him he would start and flush as if his thoughts
had been very far away.
He seemed to cling, in an abstract way, to the gentle-faced boy who
watched him with such undivided interest and devotion; but so far the
conversation had been limited to a very few remarks, and even the games
they played together were of a peculiarly silent description.
The boy had a marked preference for the sandhills and the shore, and an
increasing distaste for the low cabin that somewhat distressed David and
his good mother.
This distaste was not expressed in words, but was manifested in a marked
reluctance to come in, in an intense eagerness to get out, and in a
quiet determination not to eat his food until he had carried it into the
purer air without.
The food, too, as soon as he had advanced beyond the “slop stage,”
seemed very unpalatable to him. He was too thoroughly the little
gentleman to complain, but it was plain that he would never thrive on
such coarse fare; and the doctor was once more appealed to.
He looked with a smile at the slight and graceful child, as he sat
beside David on the sandhills, and said,—
“It is plain something must be done, Mrs. Wickham; he cannot go on much
longer like this. You have done your share, and more. I must see to
matters myself, I think.”
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